by

SHIRLEY MAIEWSKI

ANNA MARY HALL

DAPHNE HAMILTON

& VIRGINIA TILLEY

NOTE: Alternate Universe 4 was written in collaboration. Each of us is particularly responsible for the writing and development of our own sections, but no section was written independently. "The Debt" is a joint effort from first to last. The "author-in-chief" of each section is indicated by initials.

Chapter

1. Above All Others S.M

2. The Gift of Sorrow A.M.H.

3. Of Comfort Let No Man Speak D.H.

4. The Slow Death of Peace A.M.H. & V.T

5. A Time of War A.M.H.

6. The Killing V.T.

7. A Plan for Death A.M.H.

8. Debt from the Past A.M.H. & V.T.

9. Gagarin V.T.

10. A Time to Heal V.T

11. Chelacrev V.T.

12. The Final Battle V.T

13. Epilog

In a confrontation with an immensely powerful alien, Captain James Kirk made a fatal mistake, and the Stanless star system and its billions of inhabitants were destroyed. The Enterprise destroyed the alien invader, but the damage was done; Kirk was court-martialed on charges of culpable negligence, and "forbidden to ever again set foot on a Starbase installation."

Crushed by his own conviction of his guilt, Kirk traveled to the fringes of the Federation where he worked on an interplanetary freight line for a non-humanoid race. Plagued by nightmares, he buried himself in his work, avoiding responsibility as much as possible. After nearly a year he met the Federation trader Gogleona, and at Gogleona's invitation he gathered his still-shaken courage and joined the interstellar Federation freight line for which Gogleona worked.

Gogleona, unlike the other humans on the freight line, had recognized Kirk at once. He himself was a member of an independent organization called the Light Fleet, a massive network of ships and agents which, unknown to the Federation or to the other space powers, struggled to preserve peace in the Galaxy. Now Gogleona sent word to Lightfleet that the long-missing Kirk was alive and in his care, and kept the secret of Kirk's identity from his Federation shipmates.

Gogleona and Kirk went alone on a trip to Logum, a planet inhabited by an intelligent reptilian race, to solve a trading problem that had developed there. On the return trip their shuttle malfunctioned and they crashed on a dry, hopelessly out-of-the-way planet, which had not been on their planned course. With no other chance of rescue, Gogleona told Kirk of the existence of Lightfleet, describing its function and the history of its founding race, the Velonians. Kirk was doubtful but was eventually persuaded to join Lightfleet, and they were picked up by a Lightfleet cruiser and taken to Lightfleet's home planet of Indel.

On Indel Kirk received intensive training in many skills. With the support of the half-Vulcan agent and commander T'Ares Malon, he entered a special program for advanced agents, and during the next four years his initiative and confidence were gradually restored. Eventually he was sent on an emergency mission to the Rigel IV Starbase, where he was able to enter a top security archive and copy some tapes holding evidence of Lightfleet's existence. He tripped an alarm during his escape, and was captured but not recognized by special security guards from the orbiting Starship the Enterprise.

Kirk was beamed up to the starship as a prisoner, but Spock and McCoy recognized him immediately and could not allow him to be turned over to Starfleet Command. They managed to be alone with him, and after a brief, tender reunion they agreed to a plan; Kirk lightly stunned them both with McCoy's phaser, and was beamed away by the Lightship Alianti.

Later, on the Alianti, Kirk reviewed the history of the Enterprise, and for the first time learned that Uhura was also a Lightfleet agent. He learned too that Spock's command had been a successful one, and that the Enterprise was in safe hands. It was the final knowledge he needed to restore, at last, his sense of peace.

ABOVE ALL OTHERS

I

Commander Malon had warned him it would be like this; no matter how much training you had, no matter how successful some missions were, there would come a time when it wouldn't matter; something would still go wrong. Death would always be a step away, as it was now. All his training, both Starfleet and Lightfleet, was of no help. Now it was just him, Jim Kirk, and Death face to face.

The Lightship Durnea was coming, at flank speed, but she'd never make it in time. He'd be dead, his body swinging in the wind, his neck broken if he were lucky. Or with his breath choked off by the rough rope that was being tightened around his throat, if he weren't.

His hands were bound securely behind him, with cords that cut into his wrists. His legs tightened automatically around the animal beneath him as it moved uneasily, frightened by the crowd and the ugly emotions it could sense around it. He could feel its sweat through the rough material of his disguise the disguise that had failed so miserably.

He looked at the crowd around him, their faces twisted with anticipation and excitement at the spectacle they awaited. They pushed and shoved for a clearer view. He saw small children being held up so they could see, and he was sickened even through his own awareness of imminent death at the thought that people could want their children to see and know death in such a horrible form.

He looked away from the faces, up at the sky - blue here, even as on Earth the sky which held the stars he loved so much and which he would never see again...

It wouldn't be long now; the rope was tight around his neck. It ran over the limb of a tree, then back out of his sight, probably tied to some other part of the tree. It didn't matter. He was going to die, right here right now! Some of the men were pushing the crowd back to make room for the animal to run. From a corner of his eye, he could see a whip raised by a strong arm; the animal could see it, too, and sank beneath him, gathering its muscles to jump.

The end. All the years in Starfleet... the court-martial... the terrible years that followed... his rebirth in Lightfleet... even this mission, successfully completed except for his escape. It all meant nothing now...

He hoped it would be quick. He had thought of how death might come many times by phaser; a flash, then nothing; by space accident; many ways but this? Hanging for witchcraft! He almost smiled at the thought, but the arm was falling. He heard the swish of the whip over the shouts of the crowd, the snick of its blow on the beast's trembling haunches felt the galvanized jerk of the animal's muscles as it leaped forward, out from between his clutching legs felt the agonizingly constricting pull of the rope around his throat - his neck hadn't broken; he was going to choke to death! His legs thrashed without his conscious effort. There was a hum building in his ears a familiar hum what? where? The hum became a roar and blackness engulfed him, his last conscious thought: "I didn't break, Malon..."

II

"He's regaining consciousness, Doctor," a voice said a voice he knew, a woman's voice from out of the darkness, from out of the past... then another voice, calling his name "Jim! Jim!"

He gathered his strength and forced his eyes open. Sight came slowly; light, a figure bending over him no features, face a blur, dark hair, blue shirt... He strained to focus. Again the voice: "Jim!"

He knew that voice; that form... "Bones?" he whispered incredulously, trying to rise.

"Yes, Jim, Bones. Lie still; don't try to move. You're safe now." He felt a gentle hand pressing against his chest, pushing him back onto the pillow. He sank back at the familiar touch. The effort to move had made him cough; pain tore at his lungs and throat, his vision wouldn't clear. "I won't say I told you so, but next time maybe you'll listen to your kindly of family doctor?" He felt a light pressure on his arm, heard a hiss a warm, good feeling spread instantly throughout his system. This time when he coughed, it didn't hurt as much. He blinked; his eyes began to clear. Once more the figure bent over him. A face a face he'd known so well swam into focus, a face split with a huge grin.

"Bones! What... Where...?"

"You're on the Enterprise, Jim. You're all right we got there just in time!"

"We?"

McCoy nodded and gestured toward the other side of the bed.

Kirk turned his head to follow the motion. His heart lurched. Spock stood there, hands clasped behind him, exactly as he had stood so many other times. Only the command gold of his shirt made the scene different from those "other times."

"Spock!" Kirk's voice was stronger now. "I might have known! But how...?" He looked around. He was in bed in Sickbay the Enterprise's Sickbay. He saw Christine Chapel standing just beyond McCoy, her face lit by a radiant smile.

"Christine, I thought I knew that voice," he said, returning her smile.

"Yes, Captain..." she paused, her smile fading.

"Just Jim, Christine. Old friends don't need titles," and once more her smile grew and she nodded. "Jim."

Kirk lay back, savoring the moment. He was alive! That was the first miracle; he was on the Enterprise, the second. McCoy had said, We got there just in time. That needed explanation!

"Explain!" The old captain's request for information came easily.

He saw McCoy glance at Spock, then saw the twinkle grow in the blue eyes, and knew McCoy was enjoying prolonging the mystery.

"Explain yourself, Jim Kirk!" McCoy said. "What happened down there? Did they catch you rustling their cattle?"

"You might say so, Bones. I'm sorry, I can't tell you..." How he wished he could!

McCoy's teasing mood gave way to seriousness. "I understand, Jim." He glanced quickly at Spock, then said, "You tell him, Spock."

The tall Vulcan nodded. "We have been in this sector for three point four solar days, Jim, monitoring the energy output of the Ansper planets. We were attempting to ascertain whether the natives here have developed a higher degree of technology since the system was last visited twenty-five solar years ago. The civilization of the third planet is quite primitive, but as you obviously know of the lifestyle of the inhabitants, I will not attempt to describe it to you." Spock indicated the clothing Kirk was still wearing - that of a native of the planet.

Kirk nodded. "I know."

Spock continued, "We had finished our survey and were moving away when Lieutenant Uhura intercepted a message on a Starfleet frequency, calling for any ship in the area to attempt the rescue of a Federation citizen about to be executed on false charges of being a supernatural being. We arrived just in time. Our sudden appearance has probably added to their superstition."

Kirk nodded again and gave a brief laugh. "Yes, I'm sure it did." His hand moved to his swollen throat, feeling the painful roughness of a rope burn. He looked closely at Spock, but the Vulcan's control allowed no expression to show. Kirk wondered what he was thinking, but knew he would never learn from Spock's face.

"The message... you say Uhura picked it up on a Starfleet frequency?" He knew Uhura monitored Lightfleet transmissions as part of her duties as a Lightfleet agent, but he was sure she would not call attention to Lightfleet by reporting one of their messages, even if she knew that he was the "Federation citizen" involved.

"Yes, Jim," Spock said. "We have no idea who sent the call, but it was on the Starfleet band." He looked into Kirk's eyes. "Do you know who sent it?"

Kirk shrugged and grinned. "Beats me. I must have a friend I don't know about." Inwardly he was thinking it must have been Zhen Lonean, captain of the Durnea; he must have been aware of the Enterprise's proximity to the Ansper System, and when he couldn't make it in time... Kirk wondered why he had taken the chance of revealing the Durnea's presence by his action. He'd have to give that some serious thought, and, in time, ask Zhen about it. But they were all looking at him now, waiting...

"Well," he said brightly, "what now?"

"Now?" McCoy asked, puzzled. "What do you mean? You're all right, we'll take you to the nearest Starbase..."

"Bones," Kirk said gently, "remember the terms of my court-martial? 'Not to set foot on any Starbase installation'?"

McCoy's face fell. "Oh, yes. I... I'd forgotten. I'm sorry, Jim."

Kirk's heart twisted at his friend's expression and he looked away, back to Spock. "What are your plans for me, Captain?" he asked. This wasn't like the other time the last time he'd been aboard he had escaped by phaser-stunning Spock and McCoy. Escape would not be as easy this time. Spock could not allow it to be.

"I have not reached a decision," Spock said. "For now you will remain here in sickbay. We will talk when you are stronger."

"I'm strong enough now," Kirk said, starting to get up.

Spock raised his hand in a gesture designed to stop him. "No, you are not. You will remain here." He turned to McCoy. "That is an order, Doctor." His voice had a snap of authority that left no question as to his meaning. Kirk was, in effect, a prisoner, and he knew it. He lay back.

"Yes, Captain, I understand."

Spock nodded. "Very well," he said, and strode quickly from the room.

Kirk had seen the look of surprise on McCoy's face swiftly replaced by anger. "It's all right, Bones," he said softly.

"Damn it, Jim, it's not all right! He's making it seem as though you're a prisoner. Why? You didn't come aboard on your own, you're not breaking any rules, there's no reason..."

"Bones, let it go! He has to do it this way. I would have, if the situation were reversed. You know that."

"I suppose so," McCoy admitted grudgingly. "Just the same..."

"Let it go." Kirk smiled fleetingly and had the satisfaction of seeing McCoy relax a little, though he still looked upset.

"Well, at least I'm going to see that you're comfortable. How do you feel?" McCoy's eyes turned to the readings on the medical panel above the bed readings he should have known by heart, having treated this man so many times in the past. An eyebrow went up; he checked the calibration of the mediscanner, then ran his hand scanner over Kirk and checked its readings. An uneasy expression crossed his face.

Kirk had been watching his reactions and hastened to say, "I'm fine, Bones, fine considering the situation. It isn't every day a man gets hanged and lives to tell about it." He laughed, then sobered quickly. "How close was it, Bones?"

"Too close, Jim. Another few seconds and it would have been too late." McCoy shuddered and looked away, then continued firmly, "But as it is, there's no lasting damage. Your neck will be sore for a few hours..." He seemed slightly preoccupied, and made no further comment.

Kirk knew something was bothering the doctor, and had a pretty good idea of what it was: those readings the ones McCoy had known so well they were probably different now. But he said nothing about that, just said, "It's feeling better already. There is one thing though..." McCoy looked concerned. "Hanging does give a man an appetite. I'm hungry. Is the food as good as always around here?" Kirk grinned at McCoy and was pleased to see an answering smile return to the craggy features he remembered so well.

It wasn't long before Kirk was eating heartily, McCoy sitting across from him enjoying a cup of coffee. Full at last, Kirk leaned back in his chair. He was out of bed, but still in Sickbay. Christine had left after bringing the food, and Kirk and McCoy were alone, for the first time in almost eight years. Kirk knew McCoy was dying to question him; so far they had talked only about who was still on board the Enterprise and other Federation news safe, impersonal topics. McCoy told him about the new First Officer, an Andorian named Thelin.

"Why not Scotty?"

"He refused it, Jim, said it would take too much time away from his engines."

Kirk grinned. "That sounds like Scotty. I'm not surprised. How do you get along with the Andorian, Bones?"

"Fine, fine. I guess after Spock any alien is easy to adjust to. Thelin's a lot like Spock in some ways. The crew respects him..."

The conversation ran down into an uncomfortable pause. McCoy sat looking into his cup, seemingly lost in thought. Kirk was silent, until at last McCoy looked up at him.

"Where have you been all this time, Jim?"

"To Hell and back, Bones," Kirk said grimly. "Literally. There were two years the first two that I have little memory of, except as you remember a horrible nightmare." He went on then, telling McCoy of those terrible years. It was a relief to be able to talk about them at last, to share with his old friend the struggle and horror of those long days and interminable nights. McCoy listened quietly, asking a pertinent question now and then but not really pressing; his compassion and sympathy at his friend's anguish an almost tangible thing, soothing the old pain with a healing silence.

"...so, without Spock's help, I think I would surely have gone mad, or been dead long ago, Bones," Kirk finished. "You'll never know how much I owe him."

"I think I do, Jim, both from what you've told me and from what I know of him now. We're close now, Spock and I, almost as close as you and he once were. We're still obeying your last order, remember?"

"I remember." They shared a reminiscent smile.

"Oh, we still have our differences, of course, but we've learned to understand them and each other better. We've been through a lot..."

"I know," Kirk mused. "You've had some close ones, like at Renus II..." He broke off, realizing what he had said as McCoy's head snapped up.

"How did you know about that?" McCoy asked sharply. "That was a classified operation!"

"I can't tell you, McCoy, I'm... sorry."

McCoy's face had settled into grim lines. "Jim, I didn't tell Spock I haven't told anyone or recorded it but I know there's something something implanted in your jaw. I didn't touch it," as Kirk's hand went involuntarily to his face, "It's still there. What is it, Jim? What are you doing now? Why were you on Ansper? You've only told me things that happened up to three or four years ago. You said you had a job with a freight line then what?"

"Trust me, Bones, please!" Kirk said urgently.

"I want to, Jim, you know that. I'd trust you with my life, and more. I don't want to hurt you, but if you're arrested, if Spock has to turn you over to a Starbase, there's nothing I can do. They are sure to find it unless..." McCoy hesitated.

"Unless you remove it now? No, Bones, I can't let you do that." Kirk's voice was hard. The subcom must not be analyzed by Starfleet. McCoy would be obligated to report what he had found, or, if he destroyed the device, he would be breaking his oath to Starfleet. They were both caught between a rock and a hard place, but McCoy's position was worse than his own. Kirk couldn't permit either of McCoy's alternatives, even if it meant destructing the subcom himself an extremely painful procedure, but one he was sworn to accomplish if necessary. He should have done it before he was "hanged," but he had held off, hoping the Durnea would reach him in time, until it was suddenly too late. Not that it would have mattered on Ansper, they hadn't the technology to discover the subcom's existence, but aboard the Enterprise... Now it really was too late. McCoy knew. Still, what did he know? Only that there was something under Kirk's jawbone not what it was.

Kirk raised his coffee cup and drank deeply, during which motion he activated the subcom, using that particular twist of muscles that had been one of the first things he had learned in Lightfleet. Immediately he heard the Durnea calling him a sound unheard outside his inner ear. Now, when he spoke, they would hear, too.

"Doctor McCoy," he said rather stiffly, conscious now of who else was listening, "Spock knows nothing about it, is that right?"

"About the thing in your jaw, Jim? No, I told you, I'm the only one who knows. I also didn't tell him what else I found."

Kirk eyed him narrowly, then asked, "Which was...?"

"You're in better physical condition now than when I last examined you here on the Enterprise eight years ago very much better, Jim. Your muscles are stronger, your heart is stronger lungs, everything. In fact, I'd say you have the physique of a man twenty years younger than your chronological age. This is no coincidence, Jim; from what you told me about your first two years after leaving here, it's phenomenal! You can't fool your old family doctor, Jim Kirk; you've had some extensive training, some unusual conditioning, and some interesting surgery! That old scar back of your knee the one that always bothered you when you were over-tired it's gone. The knee is perfect."

"Bones," Kirk broke in, "you'd better call Spock. It isn't right for you to take the sole responsibility for this knowledge on yourself. I'm not going to explain to you; I'm not going to tell him either, but he should know what you've found." Kirk stood up and moved away from McCoy.

McCoy didn't move. He sat looking up at Kirk a strained expression on his face. Finally he spoke. "Jim, I can't do it. No matter what you are, what you may have done, you're still my friend. I won't I can't tell Spock, I owe you that at least. So why can't you tell me? Maybe I can help we could think of something. It won't go beyond this room; a doctor cannot be forced to divulge..."

"Neither of us believes that, Bones. I don't doubt your intention or your sincerity, but it wouldn't be regarded as medical information; it would be espionage, and we both know that if Starfleet wanted that information badly enough, you'd have no choice. They would use a truth serum to get it from you." The shocked comprehension in McCoy's face at the brutal words wrenched at him. "Bones, please. It's impossible for both our sakes. Don't ask me any more. I cannot answer. I am committed..."

"Watch it, Kirk!" sounded in his ear like the voice of conscience. It was the voice of High-Captain Zhen Lonean, and it could not be ignored.

"Committed to what, Jim?" McCoy asked quickly. "To whom?" But Kirk turned away without answering.

The silence stretched painfully between them. McCoy never took his eyes off Kirk, as if by looking he could read his thoughts. "Jim," he said at last.

Kirk swung around, his eyes hard as they met McCoy's blue ones, which were so full of conflict, and he allowed himself a brief return to the old commanding manner. "Your duty, Doctor," he said sternly, "is to Spock and to Starfleet, not to me. If you still feel duty to our friendship, then follow it by protecting Spock and yourself. You have to report what you've found. Go ahead and do it." Then more gently, "Please, Bones, do it for me."

"That's the trouble, Jim! What about you?" McCoy insisted. "I can't just turn you over to Starfleet Command as a... as an enemy agent."

Kirk hesitated, actually unsure of what he would have to do, but before he could make up some evasive reply, Zhen's disembodied voice spoke in his ear. "Escape Code Nine, Jim."

He blanched. "No," he murmured.

McCoy stepped toward him and caught his arm, alarmed. "What is it, Jim? Are you in pain?"

"No, Bones, I'm all right. I..." He groped for words that would have meaning for Zhen yet not betray his "presence" to McCoy. "I just had an idea, but I've decided against it."

McCoy pushed for more, unsatisfied, but his voice was only an echo under Zhen's words. "I'm sorry, Jim. There's no choice. Escape Code Nine, before you reach Starbase 11. That's an order, our security is at stake."

Kirk stood stunned, dizzy with shock. No, not that! He couldn't do that to McCoy, or to Spock. But Zhen had made it an order...

He suddenly became aware that McCoy had his analyzer out and was scanning him. On impulse he grabbed his friend's shoulders and gazed into the worried blue eyes.

"Bones, listen to me. I'll be okay. No matter what happens, remember that. I'll be okay."

McCoy was bewildered. "What..."

"Be careful, Kirk!" Zhen cautioned in his ear. "I understand your feelings, but you can't ruin the Code Nine. He must really believe it!"

He must believe... Kirk straightened, stepped back. "Go tell Spock, Bones," His voice was firm and quiet. "Tell him everything. He'll know what to do."

McCoy still hesitated. From somewhere Kirk produced a slight, reassuring smile, and McCoy relaxed a little and nodded.

"Okay, Jim. I'll let you know what he says."

The door hissed shut behind the doctor. Kirk stood motionless, a detached part of him planning his next move, and a much closer part in agony.

He steeled himself, then signaled with the subcom a certain motion of the jaw that let his listener know he was alone. At once he heard the understanding, yet commanding, voice of Zhen Lonean.

"I'm sorry, Jim, truly sorry. You did not ask to be rescued by the Enterprise. I had assumed that they would let you off at their first port of call, but now McCoy knows something, and Spock is already putting two and two together, linking you with what he knows of Lightfleet. Not that he knows our name, as yet, but he has contacted Starfleet Command, asking for further information on any unknown power in his sector. Since the Rigel IV affair, Starfleet has been making a great effort to confirm the information included on those tapes. Spock has been questioned at length about the agent who escaped, but he has never admitted more than you already know.

"Still, he is a Starfleet captain. Others know you are aboard the Enterprise. Agent Uhura reports that the grapevine has already spread the word all over the ship. Spock cannot let you escape again. We could easily beam you out of there, but we dare not take the risk of the Enterprise's sensors picking up the energy surge.

Zhen paused for a moment, then his voice continued much less commanding than before, a friend's voice, not a commander's: "Jim, I know this may sound trite at a time like this, but there is an old Velonian poem that may help you. It goes:

"In every life there comes a time,

When one must choose

As I must now.

Above all others, to these

I must hold true.

Though old ties call,

My choice is made

I must go on...

"It goes on from there, Jim, but that section may apply, and I hope, help you.

"Code Nine, Jim; it is the only way."

III

Spock entered the conference room and paused just inside the door, looking inquiringly at McCoy, who neither rose from his chair nor looked up at him.

"Yes, Doctor?" he prompted. "I presume your request to see me concerns Jim?"

"Yes. Yes it does, Captain," McCoy answered in a low voice. He glanced up at the composed Vulcan features that over the years he had learned to read as well as anyone could. "Spock, he's twice as healthy as he was when he left us."

The implication hit Spock immediately. He moved forward, his features set. "Specify."

McCoy recited formally; "Heart strength up 25%, lung power up 40%, internal organs working at nearly 100% efficiency, muscle tone improved 50%, all tissue damage healed, all perceptive senses heightened on an average of 30%." He looked up at Spock. "What do you make of that?"

Spock's eyebrow; was raised. "Evidently the result of some extensive training..."

McCoy interrupted, "As well as some surgical work far beyond Federation capacities."

Spock mused for a moment, a complex pattern of lines forming on his forehead. "Have you informed Jim of your discoveries?"

"Yes."

"His response?"

"He told me to tell you. Said you'd know what to do, and that whatever happened, he'd be okay."

The lines dropped into a genuine frown. "Did he explain that last statement?"

McCoy sank back in his chair, doubtful and uncertain. "No, he didn't. I wish he had. He seemed distracted, somehow."

"Was there anything else?" Spock asked stiffly.

McCoy hesitated for a long moment, then spoke quietly. "Two small flaws in his jaw and middle ear; artificially created."

Spock gazed an unspoken question.

"I don't know?" The words exploded from McCoy, who was on his feet, pacing restlessly in irregular circles. "Could be an artificial device, could be where one was removed. I detected no mechanism, but that doesn't mean anything. Isn't it more important that Jim is involved with some highly advanced group that... that could be an enemy of the Federation?"

"Why do you say that, Doctor?" Spock's voice was deceptively quiet.

"Oh, come off it, Spock? Don't try to play games with me? You see it as well as I do? That business at Rigel IV, the medical evidence, and..."

"And?" Spock's eyes were locked on his, compelling the full truth. McCoy felt a sudden surge of irrational anger. Damn it, it wasn't fair? He was being left with no alternatives, no room to maneuver; even silence offered no hope. Tell him everything, Bones. They both gave him no choice.

"Jim mentioned our Renus II mission." The voice was so low the words were scarcely audible even to Vulcan ears. "A slip... he didn't say anything, but he obviously knew all about it. And ... he said he was committed."

"Nothing more?"

"What the hell more do you want?" McCoy shouted. "Answers? He won't give them? He's already said too much... We can't let him into the Starbase's hands in this condition, they'd compare the medical files and there'd be no end to the interrogations. We can't take him to Starbase 11, Spock?"

"I am afraid we have no choice, Doctor," the Vulcan said grimly.

McCoy stared. "What do you mean,'no choice'?"

"The distress call we picked up calling for Jim's rescue was also received by several other Federation ships. I have just received instructions to deliver the Federation citizen directly into Starfleet hands for an investigation into his presence on Ansper III. It is a closed planet; Jim was there illegally by Federation law."

"Yes, but..."

"There is one thing more, Doctor," Spock continued. "The question of who sent the distress call that took us to Ansper. The technology there includes no radio capability at all. Someone knew Jim was there, someone knew of his danger and called us!"

McCoy was tense, searching Spock's brooding features for any trace of hope. "Can we pretend an escape, like last time?"

"No. Two such escapes from the Enterprise would provoke an inquiry. Everything would be revealed to the Board, including the truth about our involvement in Jim's escape from Rigel IV."

McCoy's fist crashed down on the table. "Goddamnit, Spock! We're talking about Jim's life, not about our damned records!"

Patiently. "Doctor, I repeat. We have no choice. I am under direct orders from Starfleet Command, and I cannot ignore them." He paused, then added quietly, "Jim would not permit me to ignore them."

It was true and McCoy knew it. "But he doesn't have to know." He was grasping at straws. "We could let him off, then tell..."

"McCoy." Spock's furrowed brow and penetrating gaze communicated a wealth of compassion and sorrow to the doctor. "I am sorry. I had thought he would have a chance of escaping detection, but I have no choice, even though..." he hesitated, then finished grimly, "even though I now fear that the medical evidence will ruin him."

Stricken, McCoy stared at the floor. There was no way out. In former times he would have berated Spock, insisted on a solution, damned his logic. But he knew Spock better now, and he understood the thought and effort and the pain that had led to this conclusion. He knew Spock would die for Kirk under other conditions, and that very fact meant that the Vulcan had abandoned all other possibilities only because they were hopeless.

A tremor shook him, then he straightened and looked at Spock. "All right," he said at last. "Should you tell him, or shall I?"

"Perhaps both of us would be best."

It was a gesture of understanding, and McCoy appreciated it.

They told him. Together. Kirk only nodded when Spock told him they had orders to take him to Starbase 11 for questioning about his presence on Ansper III. He shook his head and turned away when McCoy pleaded with him to tell them the reason. He stood staring at the wall until they finally left, only turning at the sound of the door closing behind them, to whisper, "Why them?"

To which there came no answer.

IV

It was a full day later before the Enterprise reached Starbase 11. Kirk lay on his bed in Sickbay, staring at the ceiling. He had stayed there to avoid the visual exposure of a brig cell, and a Starfleet reprimand of Spock for not interrogating him; he was still listed officially as convalescent.

The Durnea was pacing the Enterprise, carefully shielded, its scanner locked on Kirk with a constant tie-in to its transporter. Zhen had talked with Kirk for hours, assuring him of the necessity of a Code Nine, encouraging him, being alternately stern and sympathetic, and making it easier for Kirk to maintain his resolve. Not that he would have considered disobeying the order, but Zhen seemed to care how he felt about it a depth of compassion that surprised him, and in other circumstances might have honored him. But now, here on the Enterprise with his old friends, the ones who would have to suffer... No, he could only obey the order, he couldn't believe in it.

He had slept little, if at all; and finally, exhausted by the strain, fell into a light doze. A hand falling on his shoulder brought him awake, and instinctively into a defensive position.

"Hold on now, laddie. It's only me," a familiar voice said, and he looked up into the worried brown eyes of Montgomery Scott.

Instantly Kirk relaxed. "Scotty!"

"Aye, Captain."

"Scotty, I'm not a captain anymore," Kirk said quietly.

"Aye, that may be, but ye'll always be Captain Kirk to me," Scott said firmly, the strong Gaelic music of his voice as marked as ever. "I'll not call ye other."

Kirk inclined his head in acceptance, not so much of the title, as of the loyalty and friendship it expressed. Then with an attempt at cheerfulness, "How are you, Scotty? Stubborn as ever, I can see that!" he chuckled. "But really, how are you?"

"Fine, fine, Captain. Oh, the leg troubles me now and again, but..."

"The leg? What's wrong?" Instinctively Kirk glanced down at Scotty's legs. They seemed as straight and sturdy as ever.

"I guess ye didna' know... I shouldna hae mentioned it," Scott said reluctantly.

"What's wrong, Scotty?"

"I lost one, sir the left." Scott thumped his thigh. "But this one is as good as ever usually."

Kirk stared hard into Scott's eyes. "When did it happen?"

"Durin ah, what does it matter? A while back."

"When, Scotty?" Kirk urged sharply. He thought he knew he had to be sure.

"When the berserker hit us, Captain," Scott said. "When you left us."

"I... I didn't know," Kirk whispered. "I didn't know, Scotty. I'm sorry..."

"Sir! Dinna be sorry! There's nothing you could ha' done. I'd've gi'en more than ma leg if only you hadna'... if you werena'..." Scott paused. "We miss ye, Captain."

"And I you, Scotty; it's been a long time."

For a moment neither spoke. Scott pulled up a chair and sat by Kirk's bed. Finally Kirk broke the silence. "Well, Scotty, how's the ship behaving?"

"Fine, sir, fine!" Scott smiled happily and began a long hymn of praise to his beloved engines. Kirk smiled at the old familiar enthusiasm. How he wished Scotty could see some of the beautiful Lightships with their fine equipment. He could picture the Scotsman reveling in the Lightfleet technology. He wished there were some way... But there was no way, of course. He saw how Scott had aged, it had been eight years, and Scott hadn't been that young when he left. The hair was quite grey, lines were deeper on the well-remembered face. Scotty wouldn't have too many more years in Starfleet; Kirk hoped he would be happy in retirement, when, and if, it came. He prayed silently that Scotty would make it.

They talked for some time. Kirk found himself relaxing a little, as the thought of the upcoming Code Nine receded somewhat from his immediate attention. Now and then Zhen's voice came to him through the subcom, updating him on messages Spock was sending and receiving from the Starbase, now close at hand.

"It won't be long now, Jim," he heard finally. "ETA in five minutes."

Kirk tensed. He wished Scotty would leave, but he'd been told the engineer was off duty. He was trying to think of an excuse to ask Scott to go when he heard the door hiss open.

"Jim?"

It was Spook's voice, rich and calm as always. Kirk turned his head and saw the tall, slender Vulcan standing a little distance from him, flanked by McCoy and two brawny Security guards. Spook appeared as cool as always, but Kirk could tell he was holding himself tightly under control. McCoy also seemed composed but his eyes were unnaturally bright as they met Kirk's gaze, probably from a last-minute stimulant. He was sure McCoy had not slept since his arrival, and he knew his friend was both worn out and distraught.

"It's time, Jim," McCoy said unevenly.

Kirk swung off the bed and stood facing them, as Scott also rose and moved away. The older man seemed confused as he approached the group by the doorway.

"Here now, what is this, Mr. Spock?" he asked.

Spock glanced at him once, then turned his attention back to Kirk, who stood silently across from him.

"James Kirk, you are under arrest. You have been certified by Dr. McCoy as being well enough to leave Sickbay. You will be beamed down to the security section of Starbase 11, accompanied by these guards."

Montgomery Scott charged toward Spock, stopping only when McCoy caught his arm. "Mr. Spock! What are ye sayin'?"

Spook turned toward him. "Mr. Scott, I gave you permission to talk to Mr. Kirk on the condition that you would not interfere with ship's discipline. You gave me your word."

"Aye, sir, but..."

"Please, Scotty," McCoy hissed in his ear. "This is hard enough for all of us. Don't make it any worse."

Scott took a look at McCoy's haggard features, nodded and stood back, his own face contorted with worry and anguish. "Aye, I see. I'll make no trouble."

Spock again turned to face Kirk, who had not moved from his place beside the bed. "You will accompany these guards, Jim," he said again.

"On what charge, Captain?" Kirk asked evenly. He sized up the guards quickly and unobtrusively; they were both armed with Phaser Two, and both weapons were on their belts. Yes, he could handle them.

Spock's deep, quiet voice came to him in answer to his question: "On the charge of espionage. Specifically, that you are an agent working for powers unfriendly to the United Federation of Planets."

"He knows, Jim!" Zhen Lonean's voice came quickly. "Now!"

He used the word as a signal. Surging forward, he attacked the guards. One was unconscious before the other could draw his phaser. Almost in the same motion, he sent the second crashing into Scott, who instinctively caught him. The impact sent them both crashing to the floor, the guard unconscious and Scott pinned down by his weight, unable to rise immediately. Kirk swept up the guard's fallen phaser and attained a safe distance from Spock, who had not moved, and who now stood above his fallen Security guards.

McCoy's anguish was twisting his face. "Jim! Don't! Whatever you've done, it can't be that bad. We'll help you..."

"You can't help me now, Bones. No one can."

"You cannot escape, Jim," Spock said levelly. "The ship is already on Security Alert, the transporter is well guarded." He started toward Kirk, hand outstretched. "Give me the phaser."

"No!" Kirk said sharply, swinging the weapon to center on Spock's chest, so agonizingly close. "Move back, Spock!"

"Jim!" Spock urged. "You cannot succeed. You are ruining any chance you might have."

"No, Spock," Kirk said sadly. "This is my only chance." And with a quick gesture, he set the phaser to kill.

Spock took a step back, more to tell Kirk he needn't fire than to express his own fear.

"No." It was a whisper from McCoy, a whisper of realization as the doctor took a step forward.

Kirk turned the phaser on himself and was startled by McCoy's cry. "No! No, Jim!" McCoy lunged forward, Spock caught him and pulled him back, his own shout of "Jim" lost in McCoy's cry of "Oh, my God NO, JIM!" and the ringing shrill of the phaser drowned out everything. There was a blue flash and Kirk was staring at the cool colors and crisp lines of the Durnea's transporter room, a dead phaser in his hand. The Code Nine was complete.

He staggered. The phaser dropped from his numb fingers, to clatter noisily on the floor. An overwhelming need to scream tore his throat. "NO! Not them!" he shouted hysterically. "Damn you, Zhen, not them!"

He leaped at the Velonian captain who stood before him, his fingers reaching for his throat.

Zhen easily parried Kirk's attack, throwing him back, off balance.

"Control yourself, Jim," he snapped.

Now Kirk was panting brokenly, and Zhen was shocked at the despair in Kirk's eyes. Kirk buried his face in his hands. The look of horror on McCoy's face was seared into his memory and he knew he'd see it to his dying day. His dying day ! Something between a laugh and a sob, but unutterably bitter, racked him. He felt a hand touch his arm and turned from it, but the grip tightened and he couldn't escape.

"Jim." Zhen's voice was gentle. "It was necessary."

Kirk's hands dropped slowly from his face and he turned to look at Zhen. A shudder shook him his voice broke as he asked, "Why? Why was it necessary?"

Zhen looked at the human before him, saw his expression and understood. "I know," he said softly, "they are your friends. But they had their own duty, even as you do. Would you rather they had had the agony of seeing you under full interrogation procedure and knowing that it was they who had put you there? Isn't it better that they think you dead?"

Kirk looked into the eyes of the solemn man before him. Once more his body shook, then he straightened to attention.

"Yes, sir. Request permission to file my report."

Once more Zhen was shocked, more so at Kirk's rigid stance and unaccustomed formality than he had been at the man's physical attack earlier. Lightfleet personnel did not brace to attention or "request permission" before a senior officer. But the Velonian captain was quick to understand that Kirk was holding himself together by force of will that he had temporarily reverted to his old Starfleet ways in sheer desperation.

Zhen wished he could help the tormented man, but this was not the time; he was not the one to do it. Kirk needed specially trained help, if he was to overcome the trauma that held him. Now all Zhen could do was respond to Kirk's words in kind. "Of course, Telas," he said, using Kirk's Velonian name to soften his words. "You may use the Agent's Quarters on B Deck,"

"Thank you, sir," Kirk said stiffly and as stiffly turned on his heel and walked from the room, his body tense, his fists clenched.

Zhen watched him go. His order for the Code Nine had done this to Kirk had he been wrong to give it? Was Lightfleet's security really this important?

"Forgive us, Telas," he whispered, then slowly followed Kirk from the room.

THE GIFT OF SORROW

I

The great fountain towered 20 meters, a mountain of white foam. The water fell in a vast, unceasing roar, arching out and down over the layers and curves of white crystal in its cascading descent to the swirling pools in its broad basin.

The fountain stood in the center of the great circular court in the center of Indel, surrounded by six more fountains like it in size and complexity, but of different patterns. Together the seven filled the court with mist and shook the air with the rumble of falling water.

It was on the crystal edge of the center fountain that Malon found Kirk. He sat staring into the torrent which would have crushed him in an instant had he for any reason slipped forward. His hair, wet from the mist, clung to his face, but Malon saw only his expression, tired and withdrawn as he studied the falling water. She put her knee on the crystal ledge and leaned toward him.

"Jim?" she called over the roar. Her voice was almost lost, but Kirk glanced at her, and nodded greeting, his expression unchanged as his eyes slipped back to the water.

She couldn't keep shouting over the colossal roar. She called his name once more, and retreated from the ledge, her hand outstretched as he turned toward her.

Kirk studied the outstretched hand, and the determined face beyond it. Malon would stand there as long as she had to. For a moment more he sat looking at the water, then got slowly to his feet and jumped down from the ledge. They walked together out of the court. Even when the roaring was dulled and the mists no longer reached them they kept walking, strolling at a leisurely pace for which they seldom had time.

"I heard about the Code Nine. It was bad, wasn't it?" Malon asked quietly in English, knowing Kirk's mastery of Velonian was inadequate to such a conversation.

He nodded.

"Who were its victims?"

He reflected grimly that "victims" was a very appropriate word, and answered in a low tone. "Spock, Scotty and McCoy. Everyone who mattered, everyone who would care."

Malon studied him. "Well, not everyone who would care, Jim."

He looked at her, and his eyes softened. "Thanks, Malon."

"Jim, I know what it's like to be torn between Lightfleet duty and old loyalties. It's the kind of problem that often doesn't have a solution. It just has to be lived with."

He spoke bitterly. "I don't relish living with this one."

"I'm sure you don't, but you must." She studied his expression for a few steps. "You can work it out on your own as you plan to, but I think you should take advantage of the Mental Health services."

"I'd rather not," he said shortly.

She had anticipated this response and spoke gently. "That's misplaced pride, Jim. They've helped me and everyone else I know, many times. There's a Velonian named Iscala whom I think you would like. He's had experience with this kind of problem. You might, at least, talk to him."

Kirk hesitated, then spoke resignedly. "All right, I'll see him."

They walked in silence, Kirk busy with his own thoughts, Malon quietly studying him. At last she smiled, and said, "I hear the Velonians have started calling you 'Telas.' The name was well chosen, if only because of your silences."

"Then tell me why," Kirk demanded. "I haven't figured out why they think I'm a leaf."

"You are vitally alive, like a leaf, and move close to those around you. But despite your bond to us, you are separate and alone, also like a leaf, and your silence and independence isn't bridged even by your closest friends."

"So that's what it means." Kirk considered it for a few steps, then announced, "I think you deserve that name as much as I do."

Malon returned his gaze, her dark eyes enigmatic. "Perhaps, but they called me 'Malon' meaning 'vision,' and you must make of that what you will."

Kirk often wondered if he would ever understand this half-Vulcan ship commander. She was an expert fighter and agent, but her reserved manner concealed so much sensitivity and compassion. He had never been able to explain even to himself why he had always found her name so appropriate, but as he pondered her last words a new thought struck him, and he spoke gravely. "One meaning I'll give it," he said. "The ability to see into the minds of your friends, and perceive their needs. Thanks, Malon."

II

The sea birds dipped and soared, playing in the wind. Their chuckling cries came faintly to the two men on the golden sand like an echo of distant laughter.

James Kirk was lying on his back watching the birds, turning their random curves into intricate patterns. Soothed by the warmth of the sun and the gently lapping waves he was falling asleep when the dark-haired Velonian sitting cross-legged on the sand beside him flipped a small shell onto his chest.

"We didn't come here for you to sleep," Iscala reminded him. "You're supposed to talk, Telas."

Kirk yawned, but obediently opened his eyes. "I don't have anything to say."

The Velonian psychologist raised a skeptical eyebrow and allowed his tenuous contact with Kirk's mind to strengthen. The overpowering grief, the anger, the subconscious urge to rebel, to strike out at Lightfleet, at the organization that had made him cause anguish to his friends, that he had touched on his first contact with Kirk's mind was gone. Kirk had accepted, emotionally and logically, the necessity of the Code Nine. But there was still something... "Yes, you do have something to say," Iscala reported.

"You're poking around in my mind again," Kirk said, but there was no heat in the accusation. He had known from the beginning of the therapy that the Velonian would employ all of his abilities; it was the main reason he had been reluctant to ask for help. At first he had resented the telepathic invasions of his mind even while admitting they gave Iscala direct access to the problem. But Iscala had turned the therapy into an exchange, unhesitatingly answering Kirk's questions and sharing his own experiences, easing the resentment. And, Kirk suddenly realized, the stories had not been a necessary part of the treatment, but the true sharing of a friend.

Iscala smiled, having followed Kirk's thought. "You're not a bad psychologist yourself, Telas."

"McCoy always claimed I missed my calling when I chose command training," Kirk remarked steadily.

"He knew you well," Iscala agreed. They were nearing whatever it was Kirk needed to discuss, for McCoy was the crux of his continuing grief. "Why do you worry more about him than about Captain Spock and Engineer Scott?"

The calls of the birds came clearly for several minutes, then Kirk said, "Scotty doesn't have guilt to contend with, and he'll wear away his grief with hard work. Spock has changed grown since I left the Enterprise. He will examine the incident logically and understand that I made a decision. That I had found something I was willing to die to protect, and he will manage to find comfort in that fact."

Kirk dug his fingers into the warm sand, and gathered his thoughts carefully. "But Bones had fought death all his life. To believe that he drove me to choose it, rather than face living, because of actions he had a part in... I just don't know how he handled it." He covered his eyes with an arm and thought back to the hours he had spent with McCoy before the Code Nine. "But at least he doesn't have to face it alone. Spock will find some way to help him."

"As I am supposed to help you," Iscala said. "What is this matter you want and don't want to discuss?"

Kirk sat up and faced Iscala, studying him in the bright sunlight, The Velonian was almost smiling, but there was a persistent sorrow deep in his dark eyes. "Tell me about sorrow. Help me learn to accept it, since I can't seem to escape it," Kirk asked.

His face sobering, Iscala considered the request, then with a sigh he began. "Telas, sorrow is a normal part of life that comes to all intelligent beings. Oh, the causes may vary from race to race, but if you care about anything, you will feel sorrow." Iscala looked beyond Kirk to the rolling waves and the dim horizon where sea met sky. "I've worked with Agents from many races, and it's surprising how many different ways they meet sorrow. They try to deny its existence; they honor it; they try to wipe it out by seeking vengeance; they wallow in it, prolonging it deliberately; they refuse to accept it; they display it as a banner; they hide it as a dark secret. And so few of them ever stop and analyze it."

Kirk looked up from his study of the sand before him, a question in his eyes. Iscala smiled, a quick gleam of sunlight. "Yes, the Vulcans have studied it. They understand sorrow better than most. They know, as we do, that sorrow isn't a thing separate, apart from the rest of life."

"There should be a way to avoid such pain," Kirk muttered.

"There is," Iscala confirmed distantly, "but few choose to follow such a path. All you must do is forswear all those things that lead to sorrow: love, friendship, allegiances to beliefs or ideals. Be a machine and you'll never again have to feel sorrow."

Kirk wrapped his arms around his knees and laid his head on them, hiding his eyes from the sun as he pictured the bleakness Iscala had described. He had tried to live that way after Stanless, without friends, or love, or beliefs, and a life such as that was not worth living. He could never choose such a path, so there would always be sorrow in the offing.

Sorrow: only the other side of joy. It wasn't as bad when you looked at the whole, traced the sorrow to its beginning in joy. Kirk lifted his head, regarding Iscala in a new light. This man, a stranger only a few weeks ago, was now a friend, a source of joy, a source of sorrow, another tie to life.

Iscala nodded. "Yes. As you are to me."

Kirk smiled. "How did you Velonians gain such wisdom?"

No answering smile appeared on Iscala's face. "We had to learn to live with sorrow if we wished to survive. Shall I tell you of our sorrow? Of how we lost, how we destroyed Shev, our home?"

The grin faded from Kirk's face. Everyone in Lightfleet knew of Shev's destruction, but the tapes and lectures always spoke of it matter-of-factly. Iscala's voice hinted at the stark tragedy the event had been. It would be a painful story both for Iscala to tell, and for him to hear. But the offer would not have been made without reason. Kirk nodded once in mute acceptance.

In a voice that held a lilt and intonation that Kirk had heard before on tapes left by Velonians who had lived before Lightfleet's inception, Iscala began the story.

"It was 12,080 years ago that the first of our ships traveled into the Forbidden Zone of Tirachas beyond the Chysladi arm of our Empire. In this way was the first contact made with the Enemy.

"The new ones were space-goers, moving through the vacuum as swiftly as could our fastest ships. Drawn by the evidence of easy prey, they followed our ship's trail back into the Chysladi, and, there, laid waste ten star systems before defense ships could arrive. But all of those ships' great powers proved futile. The enemy was incorporate, possessing not even those stirrings in space that would mean energy. They were cores of thought, and were stupid, with no more responsibility for their actions than a child. Of the first of the Imperial phalanxes, only one being escaped, and that an Organian not bonded to its flesh as were its companions who were lost. From this sole survivor did Shev learn of the doom approaching up the Chysladi, that threw planets into their suns and took away the suns' very fire, that destroyed for the sake of destruction itself, stopping neither to consider nor to listen to the calls of a million xenopaths.

"It took scarcely half a Shevian year for the Enemy to sweep through the Chysladi and enter into the central body of the Empire, known as the Shasturi. By the time of that entrance it had been learned that there could be no successful resistance; that the only chance for a system's preservation lay in distracting the Enemy from its location until the main horde had swept by. With that chance so small, most of the Shasturi races fled into the remote Chevelanti arm of the Empire, where there was no further chance of escape but hope of anonymity, while the Shasturi was laid waste behind them. And yet a few stars were saved, and from Shev we could look into the sky and see a few hopeful glimmers in the growing bank of dust; the dust that once had been that sweep of burning stars that had hung over the lives of Shev since the first of our ancestors looked up from the surface of our ancient seas.

"It had been learned that a unification of millions of powerful minds could project a shield of telepathic denial which would delay the Enemy from their destruction. There was some hope among us, not shared by the Prince nor by our leading telepaths, that the power of Shev could repel the Enemy long enough for the battle front to pass by and leave us unscathed. But our hope was bitterly false. The Enemy showed unwonted perception, seeing that Shev was indeed the heart of the Empire and the key to conquest. Thousands of the Enemy remained around Shev, holding us fast and preventing our retreat while some of the Enemy stormed down the Chevelanti, destroying at random the helpless star systems to which the refugees had fled.

"All that long year we held them at bay, each Shevian from the Prince to the youngest who had come of age expending all its energy to the defense. There was no song or dance on Shev all that year: no planting, no harvest, no tending of the trees, no running through free fields, ancient forest or lofty mountain, no Chena Don. Only the defense, the throwing of the minds of Shev out into space, day after day, season after season, while the great ships were made ready.

"It was late in the year, the time when in any other year the harvests would be in and families would be preparing for the first Dance of Winter, that we left the peaks, plains and forests that had cherished our race for a hundred millennia, and boarded the starships. We rose into space, until the green and blue jewel that was Shev was only a point of light dwarfed by its golden star. The Enemy pressed as close to us as they dared, having felt the Prince's power when they ventured too close. Then on the given signal we removed our minds at last from the defense, leaving ourselves helpless before our Enemy's malice. But even as they lashed forth, the strength of our race was shifted to bear upon our golden sun, that sun to which our minds had so often been raised in joy in the years of peace. It shimmered with a radiance of a thousand colors, reaching out in shimmering rays as the Enemy halted and for the first time felt confusion. And then the radiance was dimmed into insignificance by our sun's explosion. It swept out in a titanic blast, ripping the grass and forests and seas from Shev and leaving it burnt and sterile, but destroying what had almost destroyed its children, and burning space clean.

"It was only then, with our sun a nova and our home a cinder, that we reached the level of rage that permitted us to destroy the remnants of the Enemy, leaving us alone in the great destruction that spread around us, darkness for hundreds of light years through what had once been a realm of shining beauty.

"The phalanx of our ships was like a tiny galaxy as we swept over the remains of our ancient home and headed for the distant bank of virgin stars in untouched space, and our sorrow was such as never to be relieved, nor forgotten."

The lilting voice fell silent with a sob, and once more the sounds of the sighing waves and laughing birds ruled the beach. Kirk shivered and looked up, surprised to discover that Indel's sun had not dimmed. He took a deep breath, feeling as if it were the first he'd taken since the story began. Twelve thousand years ago Shev had died, and Iscala could describe it as though he had seen it. It must be engraved in the mind of every Velonian even more than Stanless's death was in his.

And the Velonians lived with this sorrow all the time, but did not let it rule their lives. Like his own problem, it was an ache that could be, had to be borne. Life could continue.

Iscala carefully tucked the memory of Shev's death into the corner of his mind where it was usually confined, then met Kirk's concerned gaze.

"Shev aer lo," Kirk muttered. "Peace with you. It seems a hopeless search sometimes."

"Difficult, painful, slow," Iscala corrected, "but not hopeless, not while millions of beings are willing to devote their lives to the search."

"But it seems that for every step forward we slide back two," Kirk protested.

"There are years when it seems that is true." Iscala had to think for a moment before guessing the probably cause of Kirk's pessimism. "Imperial Prince Korenkar?"

"Imperial Prince Korenkar," Kirk agreed, then wearily returned to his personal concerns. "How much longer before I can go back on active duty?"

Iscala studied Kirk's face, reading the eagerness for action, the still present need to keep busy so he would not think too much. Then as Kirk stiffened, but made no attempt to evade or conceal, Iscala studied his mind with the same care. "Your medical clearance will be logged as soon as I return to the city."

"Thank you," Kirk said simply. "I'd better get back."

"Take the flyer," Iscala suggested. "I want to stay here a little longer. I'll run back." He turned to face the sea. This was the moment he reached each time he worked with an Action Agent. You healed their minds, reaffirmed their faith in Light Fleet and its goals, then sent them back to duty, to face death and war once more in the struggle to bring peace. He buried his face in his hands and searched his own mind for peace.

OF COMFORT LET NO MAN SPEAK

The flame flickered broadly as its fuel burned low, bringing Spock out of his contemplation. He frowned slightly as he extinguished the lamp, realizing that he had been using the meditation as an excuse to defer his visit to McCoy.

The corridors were, thankfully, deserted as he walked slowly toward the doctor's quarters, reviewing the situation, his decision, and the probable reaction.

Spock was at a loss to comprehend McCoy's condition; both he and Scott were adjusting, with difficulty it was true, to the burden of shock and grief at Kirk's suicide, but McCoy... he paused as he searched for the right expression. McCoy seemed to be living with the moment, rather than its aftermath, and the moment Spock carefully controlled the memory of that shattering blast of emotion he had felt when he caught hold of McCoy. And then, unexpectedly, the near-catatonic withdrawal rather than the open grief they had expected, the disintegration that had shocked the whole crew. They had watched him age in front of them.

After a few initial attempts to express sympathy or to divert him, the crew had begun to avoid him, steering wide around his table in the mess hall or rec room, and only going near sickbay in dire emergencies. Only his closest friends, Scotty, Uhura, Christine, M'Benga, had kept trying, frantic with worry for him; but even they were unable to penetrate the shield of grief behind which McCoy had retreated. Scott had tried to draw him out with a few of their old friendly drinking bouts, but McCoy drank the way he did everything else silently, with no apparent interest, pleasure or effect; the night he had drunk Scott under the table, nobody had even had the heart to make any jokes about it. The silent man with the haunted eyes and the air of stark tragedy about him had become more alien than Spock or Thelin a stranger with a familiar face. Some vital spark, some innate quality, had failed...

The situation had become critical for everyone, Spock reflected, recalling the latest dispatches. Despite his concern or because of it he could delay no longer. He tapped on McCoy's door. After several moments he tapped again and at last a reluctant voice said, "Come."

Spock stepped inside the dimly lit room. "Doctor McCoy? Are you all right?"

"If you mean am I sober, yes, Captain. I haven't been drunk for nearly two weeks. It didn't help. 'The trouble with drinking to forget,'" he was speaking more to himself than to Spock, "'is that you can forget everything but what you're drinking to forget.'"

"That was not what I meant."

"Then the question must have been rhetorical; I thought you didn't indulge in small talk."

"It was not idle conversation, Doctor. I genuinely wish to know. You have avoided me so successfully that I hoped my concern was founded more on misunderstanding than on fact."

"Getting a little emotional, aren't we, Spock?"

"McCoy." Spook's voice was gentle, with a tone of sorrow and reproach that cut through McCoy's defensiveness. He turned his head slightly to look at the Vulcan for the first time, and Spock noted the air of gauntness about the finely drawn features.

"I'm sorry, Spock. It's just that I don't feel like talking."

"You have spoken very little since it happened. Perhaps it is time you did." Already Spock knew that his concern was well founded. The emotional atmosphere of this room the agony of grief was like a dull pain, even with his limited Vulcan perceptions. This could be much more difficult than he had anticipated. "We have all been concerned."

"Yes, I know." McCoy was speaking again in that dull, lifeless tone that was so unnatural to him. "I've seen it, and I'm grateful for it, but it doesn't help. Nothing does. I can't stop thinking about Jim. God knows I want to, but I can't!"

"It is not the kind of thing one can ever forget, Doctor," Spock said quietly, "but it cannot be changed. Somehow we must all learn to live with the pain of our memories. This has been true of all peoples in all times; even your ancient Greek historian, Thucydides, said as much of his era: 'Having done what men could, they suffered what men must.'"

McCoy roused slightly, swung his feet over to sit on the edge of the bed. "Damn it, Spock, it didn't have to happen! There must have been something we could have done, some way..."

"Doctor, if there was anything else we could have done, there was no time to find it. Given the circumstances, there was no other way. You must accept that." Spook's voice was persuasive, but inside he was taut with apprehension. He had fought with this himself until at last his reason had exhausted all possible arguments and he had understood that it was true. Somehow he must make McCoy understand it, too. The grief was a burden great enough; McCoy must not torture himself with the idea of alternatives. "Do you think I have not wondered, not searched, not feared that we could have done otherwise, that there was another answer that might have saved Jim and spared us what we now suffer? I have done all this, and I know that there were no other answers, no other choices than the ones we made. Our true choices were made a long time ago, when we joined Starfleet; Jim's when he joined whomever he chose to serve, and at the last when he chose death. You did not force that choice upon him, nor did I. He had an alternative."

"An alternative?" Bitterly. "Can you honestly call it that? My God, Spock, I can almost take what happened better than the thought of what we'd have been responsible for if he'd been turned over to the Starbase. You know what would've happened?"

"Even there, Doctor, he would have had a choice."

"You know better than that, Spock. Not Jim. Not when he really believed in something. And if he believed in what he was doing that much..." McCoy's voice became suddenly intense. "Spock, we both know what he was like? Maybe he was right... we don't know..."

"McCoy?" Spook's voice was sharp, worried.

"Was what Jim was doing treason, Spock? I've noticed that treason is usually more a matter of politics, than of truth. And we don't know the truth, not Jim's truth anyway. Can we make a judgment, a choice without that? And if we do, how can we know that it's the right choice? Is what Jim was doing wrong because we don't know what it was, didn't understand it? In that case we must be wrong because we're concealing ourselves from all those closed planets? It won't wash, Spock. We don't know, we just don't know."

Spock was disturbed by the trend McCoy's thoughts were taking, but he made another effort. "Doctor, all this speculation resolves nothing. We can only reason from what we know, and base our choices on that."

"Maybe reason is enough for you, Spock, but not for me. I have to base my life on what I believe in, too. What do you do, Spock, when you destroy something you believe in, when you betray everything you've lived by? What's left then? What are you?" His voice broke and he buried his face in his hands. "What am I? Oh, God, God, God!"

Spock stood frozen for an instant, then swiftly stepped forward and grasped McCoy's shuddering shoulders. "McCoy, no. You've done nothing to think that, to make anyone think that. Jim's suicide..."

McCoy threw him back; he was on his feet now, eyes blazing. "Murder, Spock? Why don't you give it its right name? We killed him me, you, and Starfleet! We backed him into a corner and put a phaser in his hand, and he killed himself, but we murdered him! How do we live with that? Tell me how we rationalize that, damn you? Tell me?"

"No, Bones!" The old nickname and suppressed anguish in Spock's voice reached McCoy even through his rage and hysteria. The Vulcan was shocked, appalled by what was happening. This was what none of them had suspected or understood, why they had not been able to help. "Don't do this to yourself! You're wrong, you have done nothing..."

"Haven't I, Spock?" The desolation and self-loathing in McCoy's voice was searing. "I've always believed that human beings come before rules, and this time I stood by the rules. I trusted Jim, and I disregarded that trust. I believe in friendship, and I betrayed it. It was my medical knowledge that forced him into that corner, left him no way out; you said yourself that it would ruin him, and it destroyed him. I'm a doctor, I'm supposed to save lives, and I killed the finest man either of us will ever know. I've betrayed Jim, and I've betrayed myself, isn't that enough? What's left, Spock?" Once again his voice was dull and hollow.

Spock was silent. In all his concern and fear for the doctor, he had never imagined this. McCoy was shattered beyond any help he could give beyond what anyone on the ship could give, he suspected. Never had be felt so completely helpless, and yet, paradoxically, he knew that the decision, which had brought him here tonight, had been the right one, the only thing he could do that might offer any chance of help to his friend.

Stepping forward, he laid a hand gently on McCoy's shoulder. "I grieve with thee," he said with the somehow tender formality of High Vulcan expression. "I grieve for thee, for I see that thy mind and soul are deeply wounded." McCoy did not look around, but his head nodded fractionally in acknowledgment. Spock continued after a moment in the same soft voice, "I think there is no help for you here. The only things that can help you are deep in your own heart and mind, and it may take time to find them. Here you are only reminded of the event and the pain, and wounds kept raw cannot heal. I am prepared to grant you a leave of absence..."

"Indefinite," came the quiet voice.

"Indefinite leave of absence," Spock amended, with a chill of apprehension, "and I hereby relieve you of your duties as Chief Medical Officer of this vessel. You will report to Doctor M'Benga for physical and psychological tests tomorrow morning, after which you will be free to leave. If there is any place you especially wish to go, we will try to get you there, or as close as orders permit."

"Orders? What orders?" McCoy took up on the word. "Is something going on?"

After a slight hesitation Spock said, "There has been an increase in skirmishes and raids by the Klingons. Federation vessels are being concentrated to counter any possible aggression."

"War," McCoy murmured softly. "Nobody will say it but that's what they're thinking. If the Organians haven't stopped it by now, then they mean to let it happen." He looked at Spock, and said with painful realization, "And I can't help."

"No," Spock confirmed. "I will need all personnel at peak efficiency; it would help neither you nor us for you to remain." He looked at the thin figure of his friend. It would be strange not to have McCoy there to rely on in the imminent crisis; his strength and humor, as well as his skill, were so much a part of the life of the ship. But now McCoy faced his own crisis, and the first two of those qualities had been swallowed up by it; pray the gods they had not been destroyed by it. His eyes caught McCoy's tormented gaze and held it for a moment in sympathy and compassion. "Find peace and healing, and return to us soon. You are needed, my friend." The door swished open and closed.

McCoy sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands again. "Oh, God," he whispered, "must I fail everyone?"

THE SLOW DEATH OF PEACE

I

Lt. James T. Kirk looked at the beings who had chosen to attend his class today and saw with wry amusement that the crowd was even larger than yesterday's. There was only a sparse scattering of Klingons, and representatives of the various races that made up the Federation. After growing up with the Klingon-Federation conflict, using it as a major topic of casual conversation, and dealing with it and its effects in their daily work, they didn't need formal instruction on the subject, after they adjusted to the Lightfleet view of the enmity.

The rest of the crowd could have arrived straight from a xenopath's nightmare. There seemed to be beings from every race that served in Lightfleet, including several he had seen only in pictures. Most of them would play no part in the conflict; their work on their own particular problems would continue no matter what this sector of the galaxy did. But they wished to understand Lightfleet's current major problem. With a sigh, Kirk admitted that he would be happier if he knew less about it.

Noting a few more faces peering in hopefully at the door Kirk touched a switch and opened two more circles of seats. With the class already swollen far beyond its usual seminar-discussion group size he had switched to a lecture format, and another dozen listeners would make no difference. The late arrivals crowded in quickly as he consulted the chronometer, then hit the "In Session" button. The number of new faces meant he would spend half his time answering questions if he gave the lecture originally planned.

His fingers were moving over the room controls even as he made his decisions. A star map brightened on the ceiling as the room darkened. The seats (though that word hardly fit some of the constructions in the room; the lion-like Anvysos telepath was lying on her back with all four paws sticking up in the air) adjusted to reclining positions

"Welcome to today's lecture in the series 'Federation-Klingon Conflicts'," Kirk said smoothly. "Today's title is simply 'Current Status,' but we will begin with a brief review."

The star map acquired patches of color. "The yellow designates the home planets of the major races that now constitute the political entity known as the United Federation of Planets. The green shows Shabas, home planet of the Klingon Empire. The time, the dawn of the space age on these worlds." The colors began to spread, slowly at first, then with greater speed just after the first patches of yellow had merged. "Warp drive has been discovered."

The soft ping of a question bell sounded, and the map froze as Kirk inquired, "What is your question?"

In a soft trill that was almost a whistle a voice announced, "I be Lieutenant Rrurrwas. Strange it is that at same time all these races make discovery."

"They were all doing research that they hoped would lead to a warp drive," Kirk explained. "As soon as the first breakthrough was made, Lightfleet helped the other races make it also. There are extensive Agents' reports on the subject available."

The two colors reached toward each other. They touched, and a red spark appeared. "Legend, on both sides, says the first Federation-Klingon conflict took place the first time their ships met our ships. The definition of 'theirs' and 'ours' depends on the speaker, but the legends agree. 'Their' ship started the trouble."

Kirk winced at the ragged chorus of pings. He had feared they wouldn't pass this section without questions. He selected a lighted button at random. "Question?"

"Does Lightfleet know who started the trouble?" The questioner was a Gorn, and the harsh voice conveyed his race's habitual search for definite facts.

"No," Kirk said firmly. "There was no Lightfleet ship present, no Lightfleet agent on either ship, and neither side has complete tapes of what occurred."

The harsh voice came again. "You are human; your race was involved. Who do you think started it?"

Kirk frowned. That was an odd question to come from a member of Lightfleet. "Identify yourself, please."

"Cadet Ssluon, in training two months."

"Thank you, Cadet," Kirk stalled. The Gorn deserved an answer, and it was a question every Federate and Klingon in Lightfleet had been asking themselves since the latest trouble began. "I am human," Kirk admitted, remembering how easy this question would have been to answer during his Starfleet days, "but I do not know who began the conflict. I would feel less guilty if I could say with assurance that the Klingons fired the first shot," his voice gained strength, "but I cannot. My race can be as violent, as narrow-minded as can the Klingons. Either, or more likely, both of them could have been responsible.

"The alternate teacher for this class is a Klingon. If Krell were here today he could answer the question no better than I. When someone from the Federation or the Empire enters Lightfleet, they must forever lose the conviction that 'their' side had the right."

The colors resumed their spread, each meeting of yellow and green resulting in a red spark. Some of the sparks maintained a steady glow, others faded to pink. A few disappeared entirely, showing that a solution had been reached and the area was no longer a source of trouble.

When the map once more froze, the interface was highly visible, a blaze of red across the cooler colors. Kirk's voice was determinedly impersonal as he explained, "This is the situation as it was in LF5185. At that time war began and the two fleets met to do battle in the space around a minor planet called Organia. The Organians are members of the Council of Ancients. They are immensely powerful beings of pure energy. They, like the other members of the Council, are extremely reluctant to have any contact with the young races, be it overt or covert. They have seen too often the evil that develops when a race allows itself to be deemed 'gods' by a more primitive race, or when the older race exercises such control that it begins to believe it has god-like powers. Despite this aversion the Velonians persuaded the Organians to halt the war, to use the power necessary to awe the Klingons and the Federation into accepting the Organian Peace Treaty. They have reluctantly enforced the treaty these last ten years, holding the situation relatively static. Both sides have continued to explore along their mutual border. There have been some minor skirmishes, and a few cases of limited cooperation."

Kirk paused for a sip of water to moisten a suddenly dry throat. "The attendance today reflects Lightfleet's awareness that the situation is no longer static. There has been a recent critical change within the Klingon Empire. Kamar, the present Emperor, is old. His health is failing, and his sons and daughters have gradually taken over the actual work of governing the Empire. Loyalty is still given to his name, but much of the power is in the hands of his children. No one of them has been able to seize all the power because Kamar, despite the pleas of his heirs, and the advice of his most trusted advisors, has not yet chosen his successor.

"Until a few months ago the leading contenders were Prince Kahar and Prince Korenkar. Kahar was a brilliant man, well versed in the sciences, a controlling force in the Klingonese scientific hierarchy. In his opinion the imposed peace was an opportunity to improve life within the Empire free from the need to prepare for another war. Korenkar is equally brilliant, but his expertise is in military matters, and his ties are with the Klingon Imperial Fleet. He has spent his time fighting for a larger fleet and trying to find a loophole in the peace treaty.

"A few months ago Kahar was killed..." His voice was drowned out by the pings. "A Lightfleet Action Agent was present and we are certain of the facts; Korenkar had nothing to do with the death of his brother, but he was quick to take advantage of it." Kirk paused, but he had answered the questions. "Before his siblings could organize to prevent it, Korenkar moved to fill the vacuum left by Kahar's death. He succeeded and his power is still growing. Under his orders new warships are being built, and he intends to use them against the Federation."

Kirk had not fully accepted the reasons for the decisions he was about to outline, and his voice was bleak as he continued. "The Organian Peace Treaty was never meant to be more than a stop-gap measure. Under these new circumstances it cannot be enforced any longer. The Treaty is ended; war is upon us."

A full-throated roar from the Anvysos practically under his feet drowned out the sounds of surprise and protest from the rest of the crowd. Kirk waited patiently for the noise to abate. Being chosen to make the first general announcement of the policy change was an honor he could have done without.

"Why? Why must it be this way?" The first coherent question came from a slender, graceful figure clad only in her own sleek gray fur. "Why do they allow war?"

"There doesn't seem to be a choice," Kirk said sorrowfully. "Every course of action that Lightfleet has considered leads to fighting. The Organians and Lightfleet do not kill, so to stop the Klingon-Federation war they would have to neutralize the Klingon warships, three-fourths of all the ships in their territory. The Federation would then not be attacked, but the Empire would crumble as the subject worlds revolted when they discovered there was no longer a fleet to back up the soldiers based on them. War would break out on a hundred worlds that are slowly accepting their place in the Empire.

"And the Federation would not escape unscathed. It is doubtful that they could resist intruding into the then undefended Klingon space. If they did so intrude the Organians would be forced to stop them. Even if the Federation resisted the temptation, the dominant culture would be left with an unhealthy self-righteousness, a sense of being 'chosen ones' that would lead them to destroy with the best of intentions many weaker cultures."

Kirk waited for the mutters of protest to die. "Lightfleet's long-range goal for the Federation and the Empire is their peaceful unification, but it must be a unification of equals, and it must be by their own choice. If there must be destruction and at the time there seems to be no alternative it must fall on them equally in a form they can both survive. War. Lightfleet can do nothing, but work to keep the war as short, and the casualties as light, as possible."

II

Kirk threaded his way across one of Indel's great avenues through crowds that were heavier and quieter than usual. Normally there was much calling back and forth as hurrying friends exchanged shouted greetings, but now the beings thronging the streets were nearly silent.

Ahead of him, held motionless by a swirl of traffic, he saw a familiar figure. He almost called out, then hesitated to break the silence with a shout. By being only very slightly rude he managed to increase his speed and entered the Training Center almost on her heels. "Malon! I didn't know you were back on Indel."

"Kirk!"

If there hadn't been so much pleasure in her voice he would have sworn Malon had suppressed a guilty start. "I thought the Comscin was out on the Federation-Klingon border."

"She is," Malon said quietly.

Kirk clamped his lips tight on the questions he longed to ask. Malon must be preparing for a mission, and you didn't ask about another agent's job. They volunteered the information, or you remained in ignorance.

They walked together to one of the gyms in a silence that would have been uncomfortable had they known each other less well.

Malon was thinking rapidly. She had intended to find Kirk as soon as she had arrived on Indel. In addition to being a friend, he was the ideal source of firsthand information she needed for her mission to Starbase 16. But there had still been a medical hold beside his name when she checked the computer for his location. When she called Iscala he had advised her to seek another source for her data, but the man striding confidently at her side seemed to be back to normal.

"Kirk, what's your duty status?"

"Active, waiting for assignment," he said simply. Correctly identifying the surprise on her face he added, "As of two days ago."

Malon came to a sudden halt,which Kirk matched one step later. He turned back to face her. "If you're back on active status you can help me prepare for my mission. There's no room for error on this one; I'll be going into Starbase 16 to pick up the Federation Battle Plans."

Kirk whistled softly. "They give you all the easy ones, don't they? How can I help?"

"I've been going over the plans of the base, and the security arrangements, but there are some points I'd like to have clarified. The computer briefings just aren't as complete as talking to someone who's been there."

Kirk nodded. "I should be able to help. When and where?"

Malon glanced ruefully around the gym. "I've been promising myself a workout for two days now, but this is more important. Let's go now, to my quarters; I have an hour before the evening briefings begin."

"A whole hour free?" Kirk grinned as they turned and headed back toward the street. "This must be one of your slow days."

"That's more true than you know. She shook her head morosely. "I sometimes think briefings are the nastiest part of war. Starbase 16 will almost be a relief."

III

Malon was not in a particularly good mood as she stumbled across her dark bedroom, still half-asleep, to answer the insistent chiming of her vidi-com. She was even less pleased when she pressed the receiving button and found herself listening to an anonymous, impersonal voice asking her to come at once, please, to the High Council chambers on a Priority I matter. She dressed quickly, muttering imprecations, and five minutes later was trotting down the long Indel avenues, reviewing old plans to live out her life minding a bookstore on Vulcan, and finding them tempting.

She reached the Central Control Building, ran up the broad steps three at a time, and a minute later was stepping out of a turbo-lift into the untidy main chamber of the High Council.

"This had better be a catastrophe," she said grimly as the five haggard Councilors turned toward her. But then she saw the looks on their faces, and her resentment was already vanishing before Fonder spoke.

"Please sit down, Malon. We have a mission for you to consider."

She remained standing. "What kind of mission? I already have a mission, coming in just two days; the defense plans at Starbase..."

Fonder's face was worn and paler, his lustrous Velonian eyes looking strained. He spoke slowly, the weariness of weeks of overwork dragging at every word. "Malon, we need you for an assassination mission."

For a long moment she thought she hadn't heard correctly, and stood staring at him. "What?" she said blankly, at last.

"An assassination mission," he repeated.

She saw he was serious. "Have you gone mad? Lightfleet doesn't kill!"

Fonder, sitting on a desk, stared at the carpet. The quiet, rich voice of High Councilor Tenir spoke instead.

"It has killed, in the past. There have been times when it was deemed necessary. The last time was, I believe, a little over 900 years ago. We do not choose this course lightly now."

Her eyes blazed. "And you want me to do the killing?"

"You are the agent best qualified," Fonder said quietly.

She spoke chillingly. "I am not a killer."

"None of us are." Tenir's voice was firm, deliberate, but edged with the desperation off one who is trying to convince himself as well. "None of us want to be! But assassinating the Klingon Prince Korenkar is the only way we have been able to find to stop the war. We've resisted it for weeks, hating the very thought of it, but time is running out." He drew a breath, his eyes rich with sorrow. "The Federation colony Regerda has been annihilated by a Klingon attack."

She stiffened realizing that meant open war had already begun. She looked from Tenir to Fonder, quickly scanned the other three faces, saw misery and guilt. "I'm sorry," she said. She spoke with habitual reserve and poise, but the quaver in her voice was audible to everyone in the room. "But I must know all the reasons for this. Why must Korenkar be killed? There must be another solution."

Tenir spoke wearily, weighed down by weeks of struggle and doubt. "If there is, it is beyond our abilities to find it. At first we approached the problem as we always do; by trying to create a situation which would cause the people in power to decide themselves to change their plans. We tried altering the engine diagrams for the new Klingon warships to make them unserviceable; Elkoric Lord of the Military, Korenkar's key supporter killed the Imperial engineers and got new ones who circumvented the problem. We sent Korenkar false information that the Federation had a new battle fleet of its own; he ignored it. We even tried providing the other members of the Imperial Family with information about some of Korenkar's cruelties to his own people; when they confronted him, he threatened them, indirectly, with death. We have tried a hundred things, but Korenkar and Elkoric have terrorized their own Empire into submission, and they will not back down."

He paused, breathed deeply, trying to ease the crushing tension that gripped him whenever he thought of Korenkar. He wanted desperately to escape this room, this city, this life of decision and pressure that offended every part of his life and heritage. He longed to run over the great Velonian plains and be free of the responsibility he'd held for almost 30 years. Shev! Thirty years of this! And now this Klingon Prince was throwing this sprawling, fragmented, uneasy Galaxy into war yet again, and he must ask T'Ares Malon to kill that Prince to prevent a carnage... He whirled and moved swiftly around the room, stopping before the window, his strong stride frustrated by the confining space. He stared out the window with unseeing eyes, fighting the desperation that would possess him the moment his will faltered. His low words barely reached the people waiting silently behind him.

"Korenkar has ignored all Klingon tradition and battle caution to pursue this war. He ignored the Organian Peace Treaty, the will of the Imperial Family, and the needs of his people. His confidence and arrogance and those of Elkoric are beyond my understanding. I'm sure we are lacking crucial facts, but we have no more time to seek them, not with open war under way."

He turned and looked into Malon's eyes, saw the fear and bewilderment behind her direct gaze. We are all afraid, he thought; we are like children in a storm. He explained as gently as he could. "A week ago Korenkar declared the War to be a Koreskavek; an Imperial Directive that can't be opposed without opposing the Empire itself. Resistance is now equivalent to treason; no one, even the Emperor, can oppose it without losing his life and the honor of his family and faction. We have learned by our repeated failures that Korenkar will not give up his plans voluntarily, and the only other way to release the Klingon people from their obligation to obey him is by his death."

By his death... She turned away, cold and sick inside. Yes, Korenkar must die. It was clear to her now, as it had not been before. She felt no need to question the decision further; she knew the Council had already considered every course of action that was within Lightfleet's capabilities.

"Do you think I'm capable of this?" she said at last.

"We think you are one of the very few agents who can survive it," said Tenir gravely.

"I didn't mean that. I'm sure my training will permit my survival." She couldn't keep the bitterness from her voice. "It's as though all my years of training had gone to prepare me for this. No doubt I'm the perfect choice." She looked at Fonder, who knew her psyche better than anyone else. "I mean, do you think I will be capable of killing, when the moment comes?"

Fonder didn't look up, and hesitated for a long time. There were tears in his eyes, as though he grieved already for what she would face on Shabas, and the pain it would cause her. "I don't know, Malon. I think you will do what you feel is necessary. I've expressed my fears to the Council that you may find it hard to live with your decision, whether it is to kill or not to kill. You should be prepared for that."

It was hardly an answer at all, but she knew he could say no more. She felt suddenly small and tired, and sank into a chair, avoiding everyone's gaze, struggling to preserve the self-possession that was rapidly failing her.

Bea Litel had been curled in a chair in a far corner of the room, but now, without moving, she spoke for the first time. Like most of the Councilors she had in her time been both a Command Officer and an Agent, and now she tried to give Malon something to hold on to, some facts and plans to give this nightmare some measure of reality. "If you accept the mission, Malon, you will go to the Imperial Palace on Shabas, under the assumed name of Mera. There you will become Korenkar's bodyguard, with the help of some falsified documents and a Lightfleet-arranged assassination attempt on Korenkar, which you will courageously and conspicuously foil. You will be at his side constantly, and will determine the best way to... manage his death. His death must implicate Elkoric, but no other Imperial faction, especially not the Princess Malvara's, who is his natural successor and who secretly opposes the war. When..." She stopped as Malon looked up.

"What if I discover that he should not be killed?"

"There is a chance of that," Tenir said evenly. "We will trust your judgment. You can contact us in an emergency; we'll arrange a direct channel to this chamber."

Malon rose, turned away. The whole situation seemed macabre. Suddenly she laughed a little in a way that brought Fonder's eyes sharply up to study her. "You know," she said softly, "I don't know which is the greater depredation: to be thought capable of completing this mission, or to be capable of it."

"Malon..." Fonder began, worried, but he fell silent as Malon glanced quickly at him in apology.

It had been an unfair statement; she knew the Velonians felt as wretched about the situation as she did. They had never been a violent people; violence was alien to them, though they had learned to master it in some forms at need. She knew that these five people would suffer guilt and pain over the plan they had made; there was no need to make them and herself feel worse. She managed a trace of crispness as she said, "Who will you get to take my Starbase mission?"

"We thought you might have some suggestions," said Tenir.

She nodded. "James Kirk. He can handle it; he's helped me prepare for it, and he already knows most of the details."

Fonder could stand this unnatural reserve no longer; he moved suddenly to stand before her, took her hands. His voice was thick as he looked into her eyes. "I wish this weren't necessary, Malon. It hurts you even now. When..."

"No, Fonder," she whispered. She couldn't accept this open emotion now; her own feelings were too raw and shaken. She realized with something like dread that her only hope of completing this mission lay in Vulcan dispassion, the control techniques she hadn't used in years. She gently withdrew her hands from his, saw his troubled look that indicated not only a friend's, but a psychologist's concern. "When I return," she said, just a little unsteadily, "there will be time for friends to meet, and share their feelings."

He bowed his head in agreement, turned away.

Tenir spoke now, gently, sadly. "Anything we can do for you will be done, Malon. And when it is over, anything-"

"What could I possibly want? A medal?" she said bitterly. She turned toward the door, but as she stepped into the turbo-lift she turned back briefly. "My husband, and my son. I'd like them here when I return."

Her husband was Staav Morel, a commander on one of the Lightfleet cruisers on the Klingon border. Tenyer hesitated before nodding. "I'll do my best."

She pressed the signal for the door to close, and seconds later was walking across the main hall and outside. She paused for a moment, looking at the great fountains in the court before her.

"Shev!" she whispered. "I am to kill."

IV

Malon's call had roused Kirk from deep sleep, but he was relishing the early rising by the time he trotted down the avenue. The rays of the rising sun cast his solitary shadow far in front of him. The air was clean and crisp, and even with war a reality, it was a morning that made one believe in life. Some answer would be found; death and destruction would not spread across the galaxy.

The Center for Officers of Command loomed before him, golden in the early light. He traveled through silent corridors that were a reminder of war. The officers that normally thronged these halls were on the Klingon-Federation border.

As he announced himself, he tried for the third time to decide what point he and Malon had not covered in their discussion the night before. The time had been brief, but Malon had known what she needed, and he had been able to answer all her questions.

"Come."

Kirk stepped through the door, and a stranger turned to face him. Not one detail of Malon's appearance had changed, but had he met her on the street he knew he would not have recognized her. For the first time she looked Vulcan. She reminded him of Spock, or even more strongly of T'Pring. She had the same precise, icy beauty, shielded from emotional involvement in the events around her by an unshakable wall of logic.

Malon studied Kirk's startled face for a moment before speaking. "Plans have been changed, Jim. The Council has given me a new mission. There is to be an assassination."

Assassination! Kirk moved blindly toward the window through which the morning sun was streaming, though it seemed to have lost its ability to warm. Lightfleet had found a way to shorten the war, but the knowledge brought a sense of loss, rather than the elation he had expected. Malon hadn't mentioned the target, but that was easy enough to guess. Korenkar, Prince of the Klingon Empire, would never live to see the Empire expand "over the flaming ruins of the Federation" as he had recently boasted. Kirk felt a moment of pity for Korenkar. He was trying to return to the days of Kahless the Tyrant at a time when the galaxy could not afford a tyrant. Then as he reached the window the full meaning of Malon's frozen calm hit him. She was to be the assassin. "No," he said with growing horror as he swung to face her, "they can't ask that of you. Lightfleet doesn't..."

The cold voice stopped him. "It is necessary. Everything else has been tried. It is his life, or millions of lives."

"But why you?" Kirk asked, knowing that her selection for the task somehow made it even more horrible. The full details of Talon's early life were known to only a few of her oldest friends. The few facts he had heard had been bad enough that he had never attempted to learn the full story. But he did know that she had been thrown on her own at an early age, and had received no Vulcan training until she was an adult. Her Lightfleet career had been a constant struggle to overcome the violent reflexes that had once been necessary to keep her alive. Now the Council was asking her to use those reflexes to kill.

"The Council matched the required skills against the available agents, and chose the most qualified. My skills fit the task. They judge that I will be an efficient killer." She answered his rhetorical question with Vulcan literal-mindedness; each word was exact, inflectionless, but Kirk could sense the desolation behind her control. "I was raised in violence and all my attempts to change have deceived no one."

"Silence!" There was a snap of command in Kirk's voice and Malon obeyed it. He chose his words carefully, but there was so little that could be said. "Everyone who knows you knows of your hatred of violence." He studied the motionless woman before him, knowing that nothing he could say would cause her to alter her decision. In fact, a cold part of his mind that he had once known too well approved of the Council's choice. She was the perfect agent for the job. Her life, her happiness against the multitudes she could save... "Is there any way I can help?"

It was like watching a statue come briefly to life as she moved to the table where they had worked the night before and picked up a familiar stack of tapes. "You can replace me on the mission to Starbase 16."

"That isn't what I meant by helping," Kirk said softly as he accepted the tapes.

"I am due for cosmetic surgery in twenty minutes. When I finish there when I look Klingonese, and the transmitters to mask my body chemistry are implanted my time is completely scheduled until I leave for Shabas." Then, for an instant, the familiar Malon slipped out. "I will have need of my friends, if I survive. Shev aer lo, Jim."

Kirk accepted his dismissal, but with what she was facing, with what the Velonians were sending her to face, the Velonian wish for peace seemed hypocritical. He could not say it to her. "Live long and prosper, Malon." Did the Velonians know what they were doing to the woman they had named "Vision"?

A TIME OF WAR

I

The Alianti skittered nervously through the pattern of ships above Federation Starbase 16. Eleesa, the slender red-head at the helm, muttered unhappily to herself, then gave a sigh of relief as she snuggled the Lightfleet courier ship in between an enormous cargo ship and the Starship Hood. "We can hold this position as long as they hold theirs," she announced without looking away from the sensors. Being completely undetectable carried its own hazard; no one ever tried to dodge you. A sudden movement of either of the large ships could crush the tiny Alianti.

"Transporter's ready," Gogleona said. "And the Hood's just begun beaming down her load of refugees. We can put you down right beside them. The Hood's beam will keep anyone from detecting ours."

James Kirk, dressed in a red Starfleet uniform with the stripe-and-a-half of a lieutenant commander, stepped silently onto the patterned surface. There were no last minute details to arrange; he and Gogleona had dissected the plan on the trip from Indel. Gogleona waited for Kirk's nod, then activated the transporter. He watched his sensors until Kirk melted into the crowd of humans he had materialized beside nothing to distinguish his reading except the communicator in his jaw then settled down to the most difficult part of his job; waiting while a friend prowled a hostile installation.

II

"Sara, keep hold of Jody's hand!" The ten-year-old grabbed for her brother's hand, but the warning had come too late. As Kirk watched, the small boy twisted behind a pile of luggage and darted into the crowd.

Jody should serve his purposes nicely. Kirk took three quick steps, which put him in Jody's path. The boy caromed off his leg and fell. Kirk squatted down and helped Jody back to his feet, then straightened, keeping one large hand on Jody's shoulder until Sara arrived.

"Thank you..." Sara paused uncertainly. She had learned a little about Starfleet ranks on the Hood, but she was not certain of this one, and something about the stranger made her reluctant to display her ignorance.

"Dumas, Lieutenant Commander," the man supplied as formally as though she were an adult. "Can you direct me to the head of this group?"

"My mother is our administrator," she said as she took Jody's hand in a practiced grip. Then with a well-drilled formality she continued, "If you will follow me..."

Another six people materialized in the beamdown area, one of them a lieutenant wearing a Hood insignia. "That's the last batch, Mrs. Fredricks."

The short, plump woman with the clipboard ticked off five more names and nodded in agreement. "And you're not sorry to see the last of us, Ivan," she said. "We've been a gloomy, quarrelsome bunch to have aboard."

"We understood. Being dragged away from your homes..." Ivan didn't finish the half-apology. "Uh-oh. Jody's in trouble again," he guessed as he saw the trio approaching, "and you've got some brass to deal with." He handed Mrs. Fredricks a small case. "Here are the identity and medical tapes for your people. Good luck." He stepped back a pace, muttered into his communicator, and dissolved into sparkles.

Mrs. Fredricks turned to see Jody make another attempt to escape supervision. The man in one easy movement swung the boy up to ride on his shoulders. Jody clenched his hands in the thick brown hair for an instant, then caught his balance and relaxed happily. From this vantage point he could at last see his new surroundings.

"Mother, this is Lieutenant Commander Dumas. Commander, this is Nancy Fredricks." Sara rushed through the introduction, then yielded to the same curiosity that had sent Jody darting through the crowd. "May I be excused, Mom? I'll stay with the group." Mrs. Fredricks turned to the officer who had temporary custody of her four-year-old son and raised an inquiring eyebrow. The answering smile assured her he was happy with his burden, and she released Sara.

"What may I do for you, Commander Dumas?"

"I'm here to help you and your people get settled in the refugee center, Mrs. Fredricks." Kirk noted how her face tightened at the words "refugee center." These were the people being hurt by Korenkar's war. "Your personnel tapes go to the base computer, and it handles the details of allocating quarters and rations." Over Mrs. Fredrick's shoulder he saw another red uniform approaching, and realized he had gotten established barely in time. Now for the next step. "There should be someone here to show you... There she is. Lieutenant!"

Lt. Orton caught the note of command in the voice cutting through the general babble of the crowd, then spotted the red of the uniform. Thankfully she headed for the familiar sight.

Kirk read the woman's name on the tag she was wearing for the benefit of the civilians and introduced her, managing to leave Mrs. Fredricks with the impression he knew her, while Orton decided the commander must have been on the Hood. "Sara!" Kirk's shout brought the girl at top speed. "You'll have to take Jody back. I have to report to the Starbase." He took one step in that direction, then turned back. "Orton, since I'm going there anyway, would you like me to take their tapes and see to processing them?"

Orton thought of the three other groups expected in later in the day. "It would be a big help, if you don't mind, sir."

"I don't mind at all," Kirk admitted.

Choosing a moment when no one was near Kirk reported to the Alianti, "Stage one complete. I'm on my way into the computer center with a legitimate errand."

The barrier field that separated Starbase 16 from its environs was activated, and all traffic in and out was being funneled through guarded "gates" in the barrier. Kirk chose a gate with a short line, avoiding both a long wait, and the attention he would attract if he was the only entrant. As the line moved forward Kirk studied the Security Guard manning the gate. The guard was talking, laughing, and joking with the people entering the base, and subjecting each identity tape to a thorough study.

Kirk's figure developed a tired slump, and he yawned sleepily as he handed his tape to the guard. He leaned against the invisible barrier, his eyes almost closed as the guard studied the picture, then looked back at Kirk. The guard hesitated. He'd been considering feeding this tape to the computer for verification, a random spot check he had been running all afternoon, but the lieutenant commander looked as though he'd go to sleep if he stood still very long. "You're clear, sir. Have a good sleep."

Muffling another yawn Kirk smiled his thanks. Once inside the main building he took to the side corridors, avoiding the heavy traffic of the main passages. The complex path he wove, could have been followed only by someone with intimate knowledge of the base. The few people he met took no notice of him. The figure that had been so commanding among the refugees now attracted no attention. The red shirt still fit well over a muscular torso, the stripe-and-a-half told of rank attained, but something in the set of the shoulders, the failure of the eyes to meet anyone else's told even stronger of some lack that had prevented real success. They spoke of lost dreams, spoiled plans, of petty failures that had become a way of life.

The computer center was busy. It was several minutes before the gray-haired commander allotting computer time noticed the man patiently standing near her. Vaguely conscious that she had kept him waiting, she softened the snap she longed to put in her voice in an attempt to straighten his shoulders. "Yes, Commander, what do you need?"

"I have the identity and medical tapes for the refugees the Hood brought in."

"Use carrel five. Sharl should be finished in ten minutes." She turned to the next person, already forgetting Kirk.

Sharl finished in the estimated ten minutes and Kirk slid gratefully into the booth. Now all he had to do was steal the plans with an entire roomful of people looking on. He breathed deeply, stilling the tendency of his fingers to tremble as he fed the tapes to the computer. When the last one was processed and back in the case he drew out his own identity tape. The computer should have a record of Dumas, Paul, Lt. Cdr., if the Lightfleet agent had been able to plant it in the memory banks. If not, this maneuver was going to set off every alarm in the building.

He switched the computer outlet to vocal control, inserted his tape, and allowed it to run. "Identity check. Lieutenant Commander, Paul Dumas. Verify."

"Working. Verified."

"Current assignment, Tactical Command, Starbase 16. Verify."

"Verified."

"Security clearance for Top Secret tapes. Verify."

"Verified."

Kirk wiped the light film of sweat from his brow. Now came the critical exchange. "Reproduce tape of the most recent version of Federation Battle Plans. Authorization Code: Z, K, Z, Attack." He held his breath as the computer whirred softly to itself, then sighed with relief as the brief chatter indicated that the tape was being made.

He tucked the tape into his belt, and turned to see the commander heading toward him. He scooped up the case containing the refugees tapes and went to meet her.

"Commander, are these tapes supposed to go into storage, or back to the refugees?"

Calmly, betraying her feelings only by a slight defensive tightening of her face, the commander said, "They go back. If the base takes a direct hit, the computer records might be destroyed." Kirk shifted his feet nervously; the picture of a man who had two places to go and was unable to choose between them. The commander observed his indecisiveness with irritation. How some of these people ever got their ranks "There are dozens of ensigns standing around doing nothing. Have one of them deliver the tapes." Kirk looked around helplessly, and she closed her eyes to conceal the sight. Gathering all of her patience, and maintaining a pleasant tone of voice, she offered, "I can take charge of them, if you wish."

"Thank you. It would be a great help," Kirk said in a sudden show of decisiveness. He didn't want to irritate her so much that she would remember him.

He strolled out of the computer center, carefully staying in character, being as inconspicuous as possible. Now that he had something to conceal he chose the crowded corridors, matching his speed to that of the traffic flow.

Kirk joined a crowd waiting for a turbo-lift and looked anxiously around, glad that, for once, he had a cover that allowed him to look nervous. For the first time he studied the crowd around him and found it to be silent, thoughtful, with traces of worry or anger on some of the faces. Starbase 16 had taken the transition to war status calmly, even though they were on the front line.

War! He mouthed the word only recently uttered in official Federation dispatches. They had clung to "increasing raids", "hostile activity," or "border skirmish" to describe what was happening until the Hegerda raid.

A slender lieutenant wormed her way through the crowd and joined a friend just in front of Kirk. "Sorry I couldn't make it for lunch, Jo. This is the busiest day we've ever had in communications."

"Can you repeat any of it?"

Faces turned toward the two women as the polite fiction of not listening collapsed under the pressure of curiosity. The communications officer glanced around, then nodded slightly. "Some of it wasn't classified. Let's see..." She sorted through her memory for interesting bits that were safe to repeat. "The Intrepid II took up her assigned station today. The Fealaion, the new Andorian ship, cut her shakedown cruise short, and will reach the border in less than a week."

"And the Hood, Excalibur, Enterprise and Farragut are already on the border." The anonymous voice from the crowd sounded pleased.

Kirk held his face expressionless, wondering what they would feel if they knew the total concentration of ships along the border. The Klingon Imperial Fleet had a full attack fleet, 15 ships, headed by the flagship Kezak, stretched across the area. And Lightfleet had six full cruisers: the Comscin, the Shareda, the Occelon, the Farinian, the Aevafen and the Durnea, plus eighty-odd Security Ships, or mini-cruisers. There was a Lightfleet Security Ship tailing each starship and battlecruiser, orbiting every starbase and outpost, and patrolling every light year of the border.

The crowd surged forward into the lift, and Kirk moved with it. Traffic was lighter on the level where he emerged, and his pace quickened. This had taken longer than he had planned. He chose an exit far from the one where he had entered, and observed the routine before approaching. People were not being searched as they left. That had been his last worry. Once outside the barrier he ducked out of sight at the first opportunity. A quick scan to be certain he wasn't being observed, then he whispered, "Kirk to Alianti. Beam me up." There was the normal instant transition and he was standing on the Alianti's transporter pattern.

Gogleona's face relaxed into a smile. "I was beginning to worry," he admitted, as he shut down the controls.

They walked side by side into the control room. Eleesa, her lips tight with strain, reacted instantly as Gogleona ordered, "Get us out of here."

Kirk thought of the hours he had been out of touch. "Any news?"

"Nothing good," Gogleona said patiently. He had been dealing with this identical reaction for the last several weeks in all the agents they had been transporting. After being out of touch they asked eagerly for news, as though the whole mess might have evaporated while they weren't watching. "More raids along the border by the Klingons. They wiped out the settlement on Alpha Lexis III," he mentioned grimly, knowing Kirk had been aware of the race going on. The Farragut arrived an hour too late."

Kirk gazed blindly at the viewscreen, wishing there was something he could hit, something at which to rage. He spared a moment's sympathy for the crew of the Security Ship who had had to sit by and watch the raid. There was nothing Lightfleet could do for a completely undefended colony like Alpha Lexis III without betraying their presence, which would cause more problems than it solved, but it was hard to hear of the deaths and still maintain the necessary detachment. For long minutes he watched the screen seeing only pleading faces, then once more he could see the stars, and the patterns they formed were wrong. "Where are we going?"

Gogleona looked up from his deep study of yesterday's very ordinary dispatches. "Things are happening too fast for the Council to direct Lightfleet responses from Indel, so Captain Chenen's been given the responsibility. We're delivering you, and the tapes, to her ship, the Shareda."

III

The Shareda's First Officer Taena Cristen escorted Kirk from the transporter to the Control Center, then left him with the quiet order, "Wait here until the captain is finished."

Kirk nodded, and stood where Thia would see him when she looked up. The bridge was seething with activity. All the posts on both levels, even the usually unmanned auxiliaries, were busy. He studied the patterns of exchange until he had sorted out normal ship's business from the extra work being caused by the selection of the Shareda as the command ship.

Finally he allowed his eyes to drift back to the focus of all this activity, Captain Dolitha Chenen. At 135 she was the oldest, most experienced captain in Lightfleet, but since she was lanelized she retained the appearance of a woman in her early 30's. She was wearing a brown flightsuit today; a matching band held her reddish-blond hair away from her face. As he watched she finished studying the report on the screen, issued a detailed order to whoever was on the other end, and switched off.

Kirk had a moment to study Thia's face before she became aware of him. The face was calm, but the large green eyes reflected some of the horrors her job forced her to contemplate. "Telas," she said softly as she looked up and saw him, an expression of pleasure brightening her face. There was more to the expression than simple pleasure, a "so you are still alive" relief about it that tightened Kirk's lips as he wondered whose death had her on edge.

"Captain." He bowed slightly in response to his Velonian nickname and handed her the tape.

Thia juggled it in her hand, but did not slide it in the viewer. "Anything new on it?"

A pitiless smile touched Kirk's lips briefly as he nodded. "Korenkar may get an unpleasant surprise. The Federation isn't planning to fool around once they're certain all-out war is unavoidable. The plans call for a direct attack on Shabas."

Thia's face was as ruthless as Kirk's as she remembered the Klingonese friends she had lost to Korenkar's reign of terror. "No, Korenkar wouldn't like that," she purred like a hunting cat that has sighted its prey. Then she shivered and the expression was gone. "I've dealt with them too closely, for too long a time," she whispered. "I begin to think like them." She would never have survived her recent 6-week stay on Shabas without that ability, but here on the Shareda, in the midst of a war, it could not be allowed.

She ran her fingers around the tape as though she could discern its contents that way. "I'll have to study the plans, but if the war progresses to that stage, I don't think we could allow an attack on Shabas."

"How would you stop it?"

"Oh, that would be simple." She held up the tape. "I'd just arrange for your excellent piece of burglary to be discovered. The Federation would be certain the Klingons were responsible and would change their plans to keep from running into a trap." The sparkle abruptly died from her eyes and she glanced at the scattered stars visible on the Shareda's central viewscreen. "But hopefully the war won't go that far; Malon will end it for us."

The misery on Thia's face drew a question from Kirk that he had not intended to ask in so public a place. "Have you heard from Malon?"

"I'm a privileged character," she said bitterly. "I receive all the reports about the war. Malon's messages to me contain the same Code One information as the ones she sends the Command Council." The look of horror crept back into Thia's eyes. "But since I'm a... a friend, she puts more details into mine. She tells me how she feels about what they've sent her to do." She shuddered and turned away from Kirk. "Taena."

"Yes, Captain?" The First Officer looked up from the sensor she had been watching over the operator's shoulder, her mobile face for once expressionless.

"We'll be in my quarters if you need me."

"Yes, Thia." Taena slid into the chair as Thia left it, then turned it to look after her captain. "You should eat," Taena commented quietly. "You haven't had any food yet today." Her tone allowed no room for excuses about lack of time, or the queasy feeling left by the latest report of Klingon raids.

Thia inclined her head in acceptance of the gentle rebuke. I'll eat. Come along, Telas."

The Velonian ran easily down wide corridors designed for that very activity. Kirk also welcomed the release of motion and sprinted in a vain attempt to keep up. Thia looked at him apologetically when they reached her door. "That wasn't polite of me, but I haven't been able to make time for proper exercise."

Kirk leaned panting against the wall. "All right," he gasped. "Just another hazard of Lightfleet duty that Gogleona didn't mention in the recruitment speech."

Thia gestured Kirk into her quarters, and watched as the woodland glade these rooms seemed to be began their soothing magic on his nerves. In this restful green wood it seemed impossible that war boiled around them. Leaving Kirk to enjoy her illusion Thia selected a tray of nuts, fruits, and cheeses large enough for two and placed it on a low table, then sank down cross-legged beside it and began to eat. At her wave of invitation Kirk sat across from her and took a handful of zamlee nuts. Thia ate steadily, consciously fortifying her body against the coming stresses.

She ate enough to sustain her, then leaned against a mossy tree bole and considered the problem sitting across from her. He, too, was a friend of Malon's, and was sincerely concerned about her well-being. But Malon's messages were both classified and highly personal, revealing a depth of anguish she seldom permitted anyone to see. How much would she want Kirk to know?

"The last time I saw Malon, she had wrapped herself in Vulcan control and accepted the logic of the assignment," Kirk said softly, correctly guessing the cause of the abstract expression on Thia's face. "If you can't tell me anything else, just knowing she's still alive is some help."

"She would want you to know more than that." Thia concentrated on the personal parts of the messages and made her decision; Kirk would get all of the truth she could tell. "Malon is stalking the halls of the Imperial Palace like a harbinger of death. She is appalled at the ease with which she has adjusted to the climate of brutality that hangs over Shabas since Korenkar is in power." The next words were muffled as Thia buried her face in her hands. "She is doing the damned job, as she was asked to."

And what is it costing us? wondered Thia. She knew her own feelings of guilt would be shared by most of the Velonians in Lightfleet. Death came to all creatures; no Child-of-the-Wind would ever try to deny that, but the idea of sending out an Agent whose only purpose was to kill, to deliberately end a life, sickened her. She tried to imagine committing a murder touching an intelligent mind and feeling its death, knowing her hands were responsible.

She jerked her hands away from her face, staring at them in horror. How could one ever dare touch a child, a loved one, again? And yet, that contact would be one way of dimming the memory, making it endurable.

Kirk's voice brought her back to the present as he dipped into his own bitter knowledge of the difficulties of living with some actions. "Will she leave herself a way out?"

"Yes," Thia said softly, but surely. "She has Morel and her son waiting for her. She won't die, unless... unless there is no other way to accomplish her mission."

A soft chime wiped the concern from Thia's face, changing her instantly from worried friend to lightship captain. "Yes, what is it?" she asked the wall beside her.

"The Lightfleet Security Ship Irdan reports that the Klingon Battlecruiser Kolender has changed course to a heading of 67 mark 4, direct for the Toltect System," Taena's voice was crisp and clear, with an underlying note of anticipation.

Thia touched a hidden control and the vista of trees vanished to reveal a viewscreen. "Let me see the system." Instantly three planets huddled around a small red star.

"The inner planet is Class M," Taena said.

"A Federation mining colony, with enough attendant farmers to feed them," Kirk muttered. "At least that's what was there thirteen years ago, when the Enterprise was assigned to this sector."

"It's still the same," Taena said grimly. "The colony is too large to evacuate under these circumstances. Starfleet provided them with the equipment to shield the main settlement."

"Will the shield hold?" Thia asked skeptically as Taena's image replaced the map.

Taena shrugged. "It might hold. If they have it assembled, it will hold as long as their power lasts."

"Is the colony armed?"

"Yes," Kirk answered. "They'll have some planetary-based lasers. They use them in their mining operations, but they can be adjusted to use against spaceships. Clumsy, but effective if they score a hit."

"Alert the nearest Lightfleet cruiser to move in and monitor the situation," Thia ordered.

"We are the nearest cruiser," Taena said smoothly, aware that the entire bridge crew was listening for the captain's answer.

Thia nodded. "We'll take it. Adjust speed and course to reach Toltect I before the Kolender. I'll be right up." She moved the tray of food to a shelf, then stood quietly in the center of the room for a moment, gazing at the walls as though the woods were real, soaking in the peace and serenity they represented. When she was ready to face her job again she turned to the man sitting motionless by the table. "Telas, do you want to come back to the Control Center with me?"

Did he want to watch Lightfleet's most experienced captain handle a Klingon Battlecruiser, and an armed Federation colony? Restraining himself mightily Kirk nodded. "Yes, Captain, I do."

They strolled back through the wide corridors with their frequent plant-filled alcoves. Kirk entered the Control Center on Thia's heels and stationed himself beside and slightly behind her chair, realizing, with a pang, that this was the same position McCoy had so often managed to occupy during tense moments on the Enterprise. He shoved thoughts of McCoy out of his mind and concentrated on the activity around him.

Thia stood in front of her console from which she could, if necessary, control the entire ship. The cool green and blue lights on the panels assured her that all was well with the Shareda. A glance at the viewscreen showed her they were traveling rapidly. She felt no need to inquire about speed or course. Taena would have made the proper decisions.

She stepped over to Slaton, her communications officer, and laid her hand on his shoulder after courteously shielding all her emotions. The Vulcan looked around, his face relaxed in his nearest approach to a smile. "Yes, Thia?"

"Contact the Lightfleet Security Ship in the Toltect System. I want the Federation colony alerted before the Klingon ship arrives. If the Security Ship lowers all its shields and makes a couple of passes at extreme sensor range the Federates ought to be ready for trouble. And I want to know if the Federates call Starfleet for assistance."

Slaton nodded and swung back to his instruments as she returned to her command chair. After a busy few minutes he stepped over to her side. "Your orders are being carried out, Captain. Do you want to see the messages we have received during the last two hours?"

Thia raised one eyebrow. "Do I need to?"

"Not it my opinion," Slaton admitted, "but you are commanding all the Lightfleet ships in this area."

"Your opinion is still good enough for me," Thia declared. "We'll handle communications as we always do. I only want to see the important messages."

Rising from her chair Thia made a slow circuit of the Control Center, peering over shoulders, or speaking a word or two to the being on duty. She paused in front of Taena's navigation console. "Let's see Toltect's position in relation to the border and the nearest Starbase." Thia studied the resulting picture closely, a growing puzzlement visible on her face. She made another restless circle of the Control Center, stopping beside the library computer. "Check and see if Kreless is still captain of the Kolender." Without waiting for the information she turned to Kirk. "Tell me about the settlement on Toltect."

Kirk started to ask her to be more specific in her request, then guessed that she couldn't. If he was any judge, she was trying to pin down a hunch, and didn't know what information she needed.

"The colony's been there twenty years. They're mining pergium, and picking up substantial amounts of the other ores associated with it. The system is far enough from the border that they have never had any trouble with the..."

"That's it!" Thia exclaimed. "All the other raids have been directed at planets that figured in earlier disputes." She turned to the screen where an image of a Klingon Battlecruiser floated, a picture of the Kolender relayed by the Security Ship shadowing her. "Why is she attacking an armed settlement, far from the border, that is within a few hours of a Starbase, whose valuable mining equipment will be destroyed in a successful raid and have to be replaced if the planet is taken later?"

"It doesn't make much sense," Kirk agreed with a frown.

Taena asked quietly. "Could those lasers destroy a ship that was unaware of their presence, that thought it was attacking the usual unarmed settlement?"

"Yes, easily."

The Andorian at the computer slid his datum into the silence. "Kreless is still captain."

Thia bit her lip. "That may be it." She gradually became aware of the total lack of comprehension on the faces around her. "Kreless was a very good friend of Imperial Prince Kahar. He shared Kahar's moderate views. Kahar's friends have been having an amazing run of bad luck since his death. They have 'accidents' that are always fatal, or they simply disappear. Kreless must be one of the few Kahar supporters still in a position of power."

She turned to Slaton. "Call the Irdan and find out if the Kolender received orders to make this attack, and whose name is on the orders." Her eyes were deep green pools of horror as she stared at the ship on the screen. "Would Elkoric order a battlecruiser to its destruction just to rid himself of one man?" Her mind returned to some of the data in Malon's messages, and she answered her own question. "Yes, he would."

Two hours later, a red star was glowing on the viewscreen, gradually to be eclipsed by its innermost planet. An old star, an old planet where intelligent life had never developed. Only now becoming home to thinking beings, only now becoming a battlefield.

"They're alert." The captain of the Security Ship stationed in the system laughed. "We nearly got our tails singed on that second unshielded pass."

"They shot at you? I hope you analyzed the beam."

"Of course. Data being fed to you now. That beam's hot. The Klingon ship better be careful."

"That's just what I'm afraid he won't be," Thia admitted. "We're going to have to make sure his shields are up when he comes in range. We'll move in behind the Kolender and about fifteen seconds before the settlement opens fire we'll let our shields flicker enough for the Klingons to detect the Shareda."

IV

Kreless sat in stony silence as the Kolender approached the planet. He had given his orders and would not need to repeat them.

"One minute to firing position."

He did not acknowledge his helmsman's report. Attacking defenseless settlements was not a proper way to conduct a war, and Lord Commander Elkoric knew of his feelings on the matter. No doubt that was why Elkoric had sent a direct order to attack this settlement. He had left no way out but direct obedience, and while Kreless had considered that choice, he had decided against it for the most practical of reasons. If he disobeyed, Elkoric would order his death, and there were enough of Elkoric's followers aboard to carry out the order.

"Captain? There's a ship behind us?"

"Course 27 mark 4, Warp 3? Swiftly?" If there was relief in Kreless' voice it was masked too quickly for anyone to note.

As the ship groaned under the stress of the sudden speed and directional change the bridge was bathed in brilliant light as a bolt of energy from the planetary lasers crackled beside them. The Kolender shuddered like a living beast as the bolt touched the hull, but continued to swing away from the planet.

Kreless directed the search for the ship that had shown momentarily on their sensors, leaving his engineer to deal with the damage two decks holed, one depressurized, the other holding on emergency bulkheads. After spending half an hour on a fruitless search the Kolender cautiously approached the planet once more, all deflectors, all shields on maximum.

A furious, though largely ineffectual, duel began. Outlying sections of the settlement were reduced to smoldering ruins. The Kolender suffered no further damage though her shields were severely strained, and extra cooling units had to be rigged.

When the U.S.S. Farragut came within sensor range Kreless thankfully ordered a withdrawal into Klingon space. Only then did he voice his rage. "Unarmed settlement? Betrayal? If we ever get back to Shabas, I'll cut Elkoric's black heart out! I swear it!"

V

Thia leaned back in her chair, fully relaxed for the first time in hours. She closed her eyes and sipped the warm stimulating drink that had been distributed to the personnel in the control center. That problem was settled for the moment. Without opening her eyes she inquired, "Is the Farragut still following the Kolender?"

"Yes, Captain."

She finished her drink in one swallow and straightened up. "Let's tail them for a while. If the Farragut goes too far, she'll need rescuing. Slaton, let me see that tape from Starbase 16 now."

Kirk smiled ruefully as he left the Control Center. Old habits had surfaced as he stood beside Captain Chenen, and he had tried matching her decisions. It had been a sobering experience.

Thia had accomplished the original objective of saving the Federation colony, and had also detected and thwarted the trap set for Kreless. Her use of minimal force and least possible interference conformed exactly to Lightfleet ideals. His own decisions would have required more force, more intervention, and would have left evidence to back up the suspicions they would have raised.

He would have to return to the Control Center and arrange for passage back to Indel, but that could wait until he had eaten. The handful of nuts he'd eaten in Thia's quarters had worn off. He would... Kirk's face went blank with amazement as he stopped. The few times he'd been aboard a cruiser he had dined with friends, and now he didn't know where to go to eat. He knew there was no mess hall and his cursory study of the cruisers hadn't extended to such small details as the location of food dispensers.

"That's not very safe."

The voice from just behind him startled Kirk. He turned to face a tall man human wearing coveralls. Obviously a member of the Shareda's crew, but one he'd never met.

"I wasn't joking," Chief Engineer O'Brian warned. "Standing in a corridor on a ship full of Velonians is just asking to be run down." They resumed walking, and O'Brian glanced at the stranger. An agent according to his crescent-star, but why was he creating a traffic hazard in the Shareda's corridors? "You were looking rather lost, Lieutenant. Anything I can help with?"

"I'm hungry, and I suddenly realized I don't know where to obtain food."

O'Brian frowned. An Action Agent who knew nothing about cruisers? He stroked the corridor wall, apologizing to the Shareda for the clod's ignorance. Not all humans shared his love for well-designed machinery, and it wasn't fair to condemn them for it. The call from engineering hadn't sounded too urgent; they wouldn't miss him for a few minutes.

"Thia wouldn't want a guest to starve."

Stepping into the next large alcove O'Brian pointed out the inconspicuous food dispensers. "You can eat your meal here among the plants, or carry it back to your quarters. Good eating." O'Brian plucked a small orange globe from a nearby bush, waved casually to the agent, and headed for engineering, nibbling the fruit.

Kirk stared after him for a moment. The man hadn't known him, a definite change from his early days in Lightfleet. And the action on the bridge closer to his life on the Enterprise than anything he'd faced since Stanless had not hurt. Perhaps, someday, he would want to serve on a ship again.

THE KILLING

Such a veil of mystery and fear hung around the Klingon Empire that even the little that the other powers knew about it had been forgotten in a morass of mystification and superstition. To their neighbors, the Klingons were crazed, ruthless, wild, beastlike, planning to destroy everything, hating everyone, and caring nothing for anyone's life, including their own. The rumors flew and grew in the flying. It is always nice to see your enemy as totally evil; it makes killing him conveniently ethical.

But behind the cloak of ignorance and hatred, reality had a different look. The Empire was not a great section cut out of space in which the Klingons teemed like raging ants. Although it pressed against the Federation in a solid front, it spread out in other directions in thin, spidery arms, following the narrow trails of habitable planets, driven by need and hunger. The planets on which it found footholds were mostly grim, harsh and demanding, and the Klingons who settled on them were also grim, harsh and demanding, forcing life out of their unfriendly corner of the Galaxy with the matter-of-fact desperation of those who have never known an easy life, and who never expect to.

They didn't know that their Empire extended into the remains of the Ancient Shevien Empire, and that this was one of the reasons for their planets' poverty. The Enemy had destroyed the most prosperous and rich of the area's suns, the ones to which the refugees of the Great War had fled, The Klingons didn't know, nor would they have cared if they had. They were concerned with survival, and survival is a matter of the present and the future, not of the past.

Out of this sparse and difficult ground they had wrung the metals, technology and genius to piece together a civilization, and the heart and focus of this civilization was Shabas. It was a small world just a few dozen light years from the Federation border, and was more affluent than most, one of the few places in the Empire where art and even a degree of luxury could be maintained. Both the art and the luxury were simple and harsh by Federation standards, but the Klingons didn't care about Federation standards; they viewed Shabas with pride and even awe, for it was a living testament to the future, to what every world in the Empire could be, given adequate supplies and energy.

Shabas was crowded now, its space thickly sprinkled with ships, its cities hectic and its officials sleepless, for it was the home of the Imperial Family, the home of the war itself. Draped over a hill in a network of levels and gardens, the Imperial Palace looked out on all sides over the greatest city in the Klingon Empire, the city that controlled the Empire itself. It was more a fortress than a palace; its outer walls were thick and strong and now; in the days of Korenkar's terrorism, they shimmered with force fields. Inside the place was a maze of halls and corridors and chambers, well lit and decorated with flat things like tapestries and murals that could conceal spying devices, but not assassins. At more normal times one could feel a measure of security in the Palace, and the halls and chambers were filled with clumps of uniforms, while the high ceilings echoed to rounds of argument and laughter and striding feet.

But now it was silent. The murals looked down on empty rooms, hushed with fear. The bright Shabas sun sent dusty beams through the great windows to illuminate the stillness, and the echoes spoke faintly of hurried guards and the brief murmur of passwords. In the silence the furtive footsteps ricocheted off walls and ceilings until they faded into a constant shivering background that penetrated to every corner of the Palace. Guards stood at every junction and listened, listened, listened to the soft whispered tales of motion that touched them from all sides, and their hands gripped their weapons as their eyes searched the empty halls for motion.

It was late in the evening, when the sun's rays had faded into red and vanished and the echoes were dim and thin, that a woman in guard uniform emerged from a Royal chamber and strode alone down the fear-choked halls. It was not that her fear was less, for never had she been in an environment so oppressively dangerous, but the part she played allowed for no timidity. She walked quickly, her hand near but not touching her weapon, alert to every detail of her path, her own quiet steps ringing in her ears, while all over the Palace guards stirred and looked at each other as the strange echo of solitary footsteps reached them.

She was tired, she realized. The heavy Klingon phaser dragged at her hip, the Guard boots felt stiff and cumbersome, the bright lights of the hall hurt her eyes. Without slowing stride she ran quickly through a mental check of her condition; found herself strained and tense to the point of trembling. She must get some rest tonight, she thought. Despite the danger, she would have to risk sleeping.

She reached a branching in the hall, nodded to the two Palace Guards who straightened to attention. It was ironic that she, who had sought all her life to avoid killing, should be treated with such caution and fear by these casual killers. Without shedding a drop of blood, Korenkar's new bodyguard had built a ruthless reputation for herself, and a few carefully circulated stories had helped establish her image as that of a fighter best left alone.

She could almost wish the image were true; it would make her real job much more simple. For after nearly two weeks at Korenkar's side, she still hadn't been able to find the means or the courage to kill him. But she had, she reflected grimly, learned to hate him.

She had never expected to hate Korenkar, though she had known of his cruelties and ambition. But both Korenkar and Elkoric exceeded the limits of her tolerance; they were warped, ruthless beyond belief, more like the stereotyped Klingons found in Federation children's literature than the courageous, honorable, dignified people she knew their race to be. This hatred was strange to her, but she allowed it, hoping it would make it easier to kill Korenkar, and at any rate it would have been hard to repress; she had never known two men more deserving of hatred. It was fortunate, she thought, that they had been unable to fill their ships with people like themselves, though during the past decade Elkoric had certainly tried.

She reached her room and entered, locking the door behind her. The room was typical of the Imperial Palace: replete with brocade hangings and mirrors and very little furniture. She came here only to send messages to Lightfleet; it was, due to a careful, daily check with her Lightfleet scanner, one of the very few rooms in the Palace that were free of active spying devices. But it reeked of Korenkar's love of opulence, and of the urgent need for safety that made it windowless and tomb-like, and the mirrors reflecting her own, dark, Klingonese face back at her from every side made her even more tense and uncomfortable.

There were many things to consider; the plight of Korenkar's political prisoners whose fate she'd been unable to learn, the events of the day, the plans for tomorrow. But even with time passing, with prisoners vanishing and the war raging on the borders, she couldn't go on without sleep. She paused only long enough to take off her heavy phaser and boots, and threw herself down on her small bed in full uniform. With a skill born of determination and long training, she banished all thought and nervousness from her mind, and was asleep within seconds.

She awoke in a blaze of fear to find herself already on her feet with her back to a wall, crouched for battle, staring into the dazzling light of her bedroom's open doorway. A voice reached her through the haze of pounding adrenaline.

"Such reaction time," it said calmly, "is the difference between death and survival, Elkoric. With it, the smallest weapon becomes lethal."

Malon recognized the voice and the two tall silhouettes, and tried to collect her shattered nerves. "My Lord Prince, my Lord Commander," she said in the slow tones she affected as part of her disguise. "I would rather you had called me, than to so honor me with a visit."

"I don't doubt it," said Korenkar with a smile as he stepped into the room. "But this method offered diversion. Surely you do not protest, Mera, if I amuse myself at your expense?"

Malon was regaining her senses. It was well after midnight, and she knew Korenkar and Elkoric must have a very specific and probably urgent reason for being here. "Of course not, my lord," she said carefully. "I am your servant in all things." She pulled her rumpled uniform into shape, cleared her throat. "How may I serve you, my lords?"

Elkoric was now inside as well, and as the door slid shut he pressed the lever to lock it again, and raised the lights. These men had never come here before; she knew of no reason why they should come now. She wondered if her identity was suspected, and, without moving, tested the weight of the dagger on her leg, located the Guard phaser on the small table and planned the motions it would take to reach it.

"So these are your quarters?" Korenkar said lightly, lowering himself gracefully into a chair beside the rumpled bed. "Not much, are they?"

"I have no need of more, my lord."

Elkoric spoke in a slow, low murmur, all the more chilling for its placid tones. "I distrust people who claim they 'have no need of more.' I have found that such people usually seek more power than I would want them to have. What say you to that?"

Malon studied him, seeing the harsh, flat features that could curve so swiftly and easily into lines of cruelty, and spoke with careful subservience, and just a trace of coldness. "I need only say, my lord, that Prince Korenkar has already given me his trust, or he would not have made me his bodyguard, and that it is he, not you, whom I serve."

Korenkar chuckled. "Well answered. But you underestimate Elkoric, Mera. He shares your ease in killing, and he would kill you for insolence as soon as not."

Malon lowered her eyes, in keeping with her obedient front, but kept careful track of Elkoric's every gesture. Korenkar was wrong; she hadn't underestimated him. She knew him as well as anyone did; not only by reputation, but by the slick smoothness of his motions, the deceptively casual gleam in his sharp eyes, the cold dispassion in his voice that told any experienced agent that here was a man capable of any cruelty, any torture, any atrocity. "Sadist" was too cool a term for Elkoric; in a harsh, violent world his name alone was a hint of death. It was really he, not Korenkar, who was holding the Palace and all of Shabas in a grip of fear. Korenkar was cruel, but Elkoric was, in a very real sense, insane, and one of the most dangerous people she'd ever seen.

"I kill only at your orders, my lord Prince," she said simply. "And for your protection."

"As do I," said Elkoric in the same placid tone. "But we waste time, Prince."

"Quite so," said Korenkar smoothly. "Mera, we have a difficulty, and we need your cooperation."

"Anything, my lord."

Again Korenkar chuckled. He was a handsome man, tall and well built, with a gentility of features that was the mark of the Royal Family, but which covered a cold, ruthless, reckless ambition that was sending three empires to war. He was a man easily admired, and easily hated... as she had learned. "See that, Elkoric? The psychology of a guard. She justifies her existence through mine, and all her talent and limited intelligence goes only to serve me. Should I be honored, I wonder?" It was not a question, and he continued without pausing.

"The difficulty, Mera, lies in you. You see, you attend all my conferences, see every record and know more of my plans than anyone, except Elkoric. All this is necessary to the successful performance of your job, helping you see to my protection. But it puts you in the unique position of knowing my plans without sharing in their profits. Since you have survived as my bodyguard for two weeks I'm prepared to believe you are capable of continuing to do so. But I must put you in a position where I can trust you. Mind-Control is an inadequate safeguard; our conditioning is efficient, but it can be avoided."

That was true enough, thought Malon. She had avoided it herself, with more ease than Korenkar could have imagined. But the trend of his words was ominous, and she stood ready for action as she spoke in an aggrieved tone. "Surely you cannot think me disloyal, my lord Prince?"

"It isn't a question of what I think. It's a question of what must be considered, for my own security. I have no particular reason to trust you, and I can't increase your Mind-Control without impairing your efficiency. Killing you would solve the problem but would leave me without a bodyguard. Fortunately, Elkoric has come up with a solution, a surprisingly subtle solution considering his usually brutal methods. Show her, Elkoric."

Elkoric, who had been lounging against the wall by the door, now straightened and moved forward to the small table. He removed his belt, laying his phaser next to hers within easy reach, then removed several items from hidden compartments in the belt and spread them out on the table. Malon saw a small sterilizer, a vial holding perhaps an ounce of pale yellow liquid, and a hypo. Elkoric looked up at her and studied her for a moment before saying, "Do you know what this is?"

Pale yellow? "No," she said honestly.

He grinned. On his cruel face the expression was an obscenity. "Horzellon," he said softly.

She stared at the yellow vial in amazement. Horzellon? Could it be possible? It had originated in the Klingon Empire, but it was thought no longer to exist. It had been the most sought-after drug in the galaxy; it acted on the mind, increasing intelligence ten-fold, opening up the secrets of the galaxy for a few miraculous hours of rapture. The fact that it was also instantly, and permanently, addictive had made it outlawed several decades ago. That, and the fact that it could only be made from substances found in infinitesimal quantities in intelligent brains. If this was indeed Horzellon, there was enough of it in that small vial to buy all of Shabas and more and to account for several thousand sacrificed victims. She was looking, she realized, at the secret of Korenkar's brilliance, and his confidence.

"Where did it come from?" she said, not bothering to conceal her awe.

"Ah!" said Korenkar. "That, too, is to Elkoric's credit. There are perhaps a half-dozen people left in the Empire who still know how to make Horzellon; he found one of them. And with my help, he found a source of raw materials."

Malon guessed at that source with a sudden chill of horror. "You've been using the brains of the political prisoners."

"Very quick of you," Korenkar approved coolly. "The political prisoners were a perfect source. They were under my control, and no one dared to inquire what happened to them once they disappeared. It is, however, not the sort of practice that should be allowed to be generally known." He smoothed the front of his uniform, smiled. "Moral outrage, and all that."

"Until this moment there were only six people alive who knew what is being done," said Elkoric, in a voice so smooth it was almost a purr. "The Prince, myself, and the four scientists who extract the materials and make the final solution. All those six are users."

And now, with a stab of fear, she realized what they meant. She knew now why Elkoric was here; they did not mean her to leave this room before she had taken an injection of Horzellon, and committed her mind, and her life, forever to Korenkar, to his supremacy and his war, and the consequent continued vivisection of thousands upon thousands of prisoners to maintain the supply. And as her mind raced on, she realized that Elkoric and Korenkar, being addicted, were both permanently committed to their plans for conquest. If they failed at them they would die; there could be no compromise, no truce. It would not be enough to kill Korenkar and discredit Elkoric; if it were necessary, Elkoric would seize control by force, and even if he were overthrown the carnage would be massive.

Korenkar was speaking again, but she hardly heard him. What faced her now was far more important than this play of words and power. If they had not come here tonight, with the Horzellon, she would not have known, and the galaxy would have known a far worse tyrant in Elkoric than it ever would have known in Korenkar. But she did know; if her mission was to have the effect it was meant to have if there was to be peace two men must die.

She knew she could not pause to ponder this discovery; she couldn't risk the hesitation that emotional rebellion would cause. She scanned the situation quickly. Korenkar was sitting relaxed in his chair, and Elkoric was filling the hypo with Horzellon. They had assumed she would take the drug gladly; they could not be more unprepared than they were now.

Her leap took even Elkoric completely by surprise. He threw himself backward against the wall, trying to save the precious vial in his hand, as she landed on the table, seizing her own phaser, and sweeping his across the room. The stun beam lanced by his chest to catch Korenkar full in the stomach as the Prince lunged from his chair. Korenkar fell sprawling on his face and lay still.

Elkoric didn't hesitate. He had had plenty of experience with assassinations, and while this attempt was coming from a totally unexpected quarter, he had always known that Korenkar was a prime target. He knew the phaser had been set on stun; all Palace phasers were locked on stun against just such an occurrence as this. He had yet time to save the situation. Before Malon could re-aim, he dashed forward and knocked the phaser from her hand and across the room with one well-placed kick. He followed it with a lightening blow at her neck, but his hand struck empty air; she stood balanced for an attack five feet beyond his reach, a dagger in her hand.

"It is over, Elkoric," she said, and he frowned at the clear, harsh tone in her voice and studied the unmasked intelligence in her face.

"So?" he said softly. "Perhaps I face a worthy opponent after all. It was a splendid deception, Mera. I assume I am addressing one of the agents of that dead fool, Kahar."

It was a logical guess, and she acknowledged it with silence. It might make him overconfident, and that would be some small advantage. She knew he was a master of combat, never needing bodyguards, an opponent she'd never intended to face in battle.

But it was caution that governed him now. His own knife was in his hand, but he had little wish for a knife fight with an opponent whose talent was unmeasured. It wasn't that he doubted his ability to win such a struggle, but a wound would be inconvenient. He needed a trick, and a weapon. Without warning, he plunged left, away from her, toward his phaser that lay by the wall on the floor.

Malon had anticipated this motion and intercepted him with a flying tackle before he had gone half the distance. He twisted to meet her, and blade screamed against blade as the two fighters fell with a crash to the floor.

Time slowed down for Malon, in keeping with her training. The mad scramble of blades and arms and legs that followed went for her in slow motion, as though they were under water, and through the strain and effort ran a thread of detached, clear thought. She did not want to kill him. She had never wanted to kill him; he was a living being, and killing him was incomprehensible, even now while his blade sought her life. She knew a dozen ways to end this battle with a technical victory, but this was not a practice duel. This time the dagger must not stop at the skin; it must go into his flesh, and she couldn't face that necessity. She tried to think of her hatred for this man, but it only frightened and revolted her, further dragging at her will. Again and again the chances slipped by as she tried frantically to rally her determination, until at last Elkoric found his opening, and took it. In three simultaneous gestures he pinned her leg to the floor, jerked her knife wrist into a painful twist behind her back and brought his own knife against her throat.

She froze, twisted on her side in the painful position she had half allowed, breathing quickly and unsteadily, the knife blade cutting her skin, a half-inch from her life. Elkoric froze over her, and for several long moments the room was breathlessly still.

Then he smiled, broadly. "A good try, woman. But foolish, very foolish. After I have drained your mind of its knowledge, you will contribute your life to my Horzellon supply. Now, release your dagger."

The words echoed cavernously in her mind, and she obeyed. Elkoric could learn nothing from her resistance to mind-sifter was a routine Lightfleet talent but she knew her life would soon end. Strangely, the thought brought not fear but a new clarity of mind. Memories raced through her thoughts; her husband Morel, laughing with her son... the stars of space on the screens of her ship... a green field and friends running over it. The thought flashed suddenly more clearly and intensely than ever before: "I want to live!" Other ideas came too; the awareness of what failure would mean, to the war, to the prisoners, to Lightfleet, all flying through her mind in a second. Now, pinned, vanquished, she felt a singleness of purpose that she had until now not known, and she relaxed into the state of hyper-alertness, waiting for the opening that she knew now, would probably never come.

But Elkoric felt that relaxation and, misinterpreting it as an acceptance of her defeat, made his fatal mistake. He released her knife wrist and reached for her fallen weapon.

She moved with shocking speed, throwing him to the floor and leaping clear. The force of it alarmed Elkoric, and for the first time in many years he felt fear. His courage had been based on the absolute knowledge of his supremacy; now it crumbled, and he made a wild leap forward toward the phaser by the wall.

Malon came down on him feet first, her heel stamping hard on the wrist of the hand grasping the phaser. But Elkoric had not lost all his nerve; he not only kept his grip on the phaser but turned as she came down and met her left leg with his knife. The blade tore her leg open from ankle to knee, and a rush of blood burst down over her leg, and the floor, as she stumbled and went down. He heaved upward, her knife wrist again securely in his grip, using her own momentum to force her around and under him, knowing the battle would be, in another second, over, as soon as his phaser was aimed

An explosion erupted in his chest, an explosion of fire and ice, and strangely little pain. Everything seemed to stop of itself. He looked at her face; saw grim calculation in her eyes where he had thought to see terror. He looked down at his body, and saw surging blood, in its center, the hilt of his own knife held firmly in her hand. As the details of the world faded into shocked focus on that rushing, glistening color, he realized dimly that she had planned it all; the stumble, the apparent loss of control, all had covered the knife switch and the deadly placement of her arm. It was very surprising. He was still surprised as he rolled over on his back, probing the wound with cautious interest. And he was even more surprised when the pain came, and the world whited out forever.

Malon got slowly to her feet, her wounded leg almost paralyzed beneath her, her heart pounding, gasping long, regular breaths. The one great effort had worked; those long years of training had paid off. It was over. Elkoric was dead. Elkoric was

She sat down abruptly on the edge of the table, gripped its edge with both hands, closed her eyes. "Oh, my god," she murmured hoarsely. "Oh my god."

She sat there for nearly two minutes before she trusted herself to move. She was shaking uncontrollably, and her wound, still bleeding freely and covering her foot with blood, made her faint. That had been a bad miscalculation on her part, running into that blade. It wasn't too serious, no critical arterial damage and not much pain yet but her leg couldn't support her weight. She half limped, half hopped over to Elkoric and drew his phaser from his dead hand. She turned and looked down at Korenkar, then knelt at his side.

She hadn't anticipated this. She had never expected to use a phaser, or to use direct violence at all; she had planned to make his death appear to be Elkoric's doing. But the situation had changed and the phaser had been set on stun. Korenkar was still alive; his chest rose and fell evenly with his breathing, his face held its healthy color. Another death was yet to come.

She turned him over on his back. His handsome features were relaxed, almost peaceful, as though he were asleep. One strong hand rested limp on the rich brocade of his tunic. She clenched her hands together in front of her, and tried to steady her trembling. She had to do this thing. Time was pressing.

She reached out with both hands, felt slowly along his neck for the right point. She wished she could use Tal Shaya, but that would leave evidence that a Vulcan had been present, and could not be allowed. Clumsier Klingon techniques would have to do, but it had been so long since she had practiced them. Elkoric's blood on her left arm smudged Korenkar's shoulder, her hand stained the skin of his neck. She found herself mesmerized by the stain and the way it contrasted against his dark hair. This was a life under her hands; she could feel its pulse and warmth, could sense its vitality and strength and vast complexity. A being, a mind...

She steeled herself, blocking out her own thoughts, and made an effort, but her hands refused to move. She closed her eyes and sought her accustomed control. But still she couldn't move, remaining frozen over her victim like some wartime memorial. She opened her eyes, looked around the room desperately, and, by chance, her eyes fell on the small vial of Horzellon lying on the floor. She looked down at the Prince once more, and murmured in a voice that broke with every word, "Had you done less, this would not be." Her shaking hands tensed suddenly, and there was a sharp crack.

Where before there had been a man, a Prince, the heart and soul of a great political effort, there was only a flaccid lump of flesh, jerking awkwardly in its death throes. She looked at it for a single moment, then turned away and was violently sick.

She felt dizzy when she finally pushed herself to her feet; dizzy, dazed and powerless. She adjusted the phaser to its heaviest setting and fired several times, burning away all traces of her Vulcan blood and vomit from the floor and Elkoric's clothing, then looked around. There was nothing more to do here. The bodies would be discovered; there would be an outcry, and an investigation. The Horzellon would be found; all the right conclusions would be drawn. Malvara would be in power within hours.

And as for her own absence? She hesitated, then set the phaser to overload. Code Nine, she thought, like Jim; the residual ions from the detonation would indicated that Kahar's agent had committed a very honorable suicide.

She dropped the phaser and flexed her jaw. "Charisma," she said faintly. "Beam me aboard."

From a light year away, the graceful yacht, that had waited silently and patiently for this command for two weeks, obeyed. The rising scream of the phaser and the slaughter and reek of blood vanished; she stood facing her ship's control room. She hardly saw it. She limped slowly out of the transporter chamber and paused, disoriented, by her command chair.

"Computer?" she said at last, hazily. "Yes, Commander?"

"Return the ship to Indel, and inform the Council that my... my mission is... successfully completed. I'm unwell, and will not pilot."

"Acknowledged, and executing." It paused for a split second as it scanned her. "Should I include a call for medical assistance?"

"No, I'll take care of my injury myself."

The control panels swept into a blaze of shifting lights, and the stars on the screen began to move. She must bandage her leg, she thought. Probably perform a blood transfusion, too. And there were reports to send, and Indel would be calling... She turned and managed three more steps before her leg collapsed beneath her and she fell heavily to the floor. She didn't care. She pressed her face against her arm, and began to sob.

A PLAN FOR DEATH

Kerova, Captain of the Klingon Battle Cruiser Keveri, stared at the blank viewscreen, rage darkening his face. Aware that his bridge crew had frozen into immobility like frightened herbivores under the eyes of a bird of prey, he forced himself to relax, partially masking his rage as he rose from his chair and made a slow, glowering circuit of the bridge. The finest warship in the Klingon Imperial Fleet, the ship that had wiped out the Federate colony on Regerda, and that pair of craven, spineless alarmists dared tell him he could not use her, that the war had been canceled. The stylus in his fingers snapped, and for a moment he imagined doing the same thing to the neck of the Imperial Princess, Malvara.

Flinging the pieces of the stylus in the general direction of the communications officer he growled, "Replay the message."

The screen glowed with the rich greens and blues of the Imperial audience chamber. Princess Malvara occupied the throne, her older brother, Kolfarin, at her side. The princess spoke, her voice strong and clear, reflecting none of the sentiments she mentioned. "We regret to announce the death of our beloved brother, Imperial Prince Korenkar, and that of the most loyal Lord Commander, Elkoric. Their deaths lessen the Empire, robbing it of two brilliant military minds at a time when they are sorely needed. Theirs were the guiding minds behind the attacks on the United Federation of Planets. Without them we do not deem ourselves capable of carrying out their plans." The dark eyes of the Imperial princess seemed to glow with satisfaction as she ordered, "The Koreskavek is ended. All attack units are to withdraw to defensive positions within the Empire. The Federation did not want this war. They may accept their losses and allow it to end. If they seek to retaliate, defend our territory. These orders are given by Malvara, speaking for Kamar, Emperor."

"Sir, shall I acknowledge the message?"

"Yes." The assent was given absently. Kerova had accepted the situation and was busy assessing the future his future. He had held no affection for Korenkar and Elkoric, but their goal expansion into the planet-rich territory now claimed but barely used by the Federation was one which he shared. He had supported them, and they had given him the Keveri. Malvara would not leave him in command; the ship would be turned over to one of her supporters as soon as it returned to Shabas.

And his fate? Kerova's lips moved. The expression might have been called a smile, but it more nearly resembled the bared teeth of a cornered animal. He had no reason to return to Shabas. His family was dead, their land already claimed by others. Malvara might not order his death, but as he faced the prospect of years spent in some unimportant office he reached his decision. He would not return to Shabas; he would die in space.

He turned to speak the words that would leave the Keveri in another's hands, then his training caught up with him. A warrior should never die alone, unaccompanied by enemies. Who were his enemies? Malvara and Kolfarin, or the sniveling milksops of the Federation?

Malvara would take his ship, and possibly his life, but she spoke for the Emperor to whom he had pledged his loyalty. He could not name her enemy.

The Federation then, reluctant warriors who would rather talk than fight. Not that the Federates couldn't fight if forced to it. He remembered a brief skirmish with a scout ship that had made a valiant effort to ram the Keveri when its pilot had realized escape was impossible.

Orders came from the fleet commander and Kerova saw that they were carried out. The Keveri slipped back into the Empire and took up her defensive position. Kerova demanded and received the most exposed section, the post of honor, though it was access to the border, not honor, that he sought. In the privacy of his quarters he studied the planets it would be possible to reach. His target must have no strategic value the High Command could then deny ordering the attack and be believed and yet underline the reason he fought. Gagarin, that flagrant symbol of the Federation's wealth of habitable planets, was the perfect choice. A fertile planet used as a mere playground while Klingon families his family died of famine on their rocky worlds.

The time to strike? Not now, not yet. The Federates were alert, on guard. He would wait, 15 days, 20, and their alertness would begin to lessen. Then he would strike! He would die, and the Keveri would die, but with Gagarin a lifeless ruin his name, and the reason he fought, would long be remembered, on both sides of the border.

DEBT FROM THE PAST

I

Enterprise Communications Officer Uhura stepped out of the transporter focus slightly shaken, as always, by the experience. Her upset was mental, not physical, a product of her ability to understand the distance she had just traveled. If McCoy thought Federation transporters were unsettling he should try one of Lightfleet's 1000-lightyear fixed-focus ones. The thought of McCoy steadied her. It was for his sake that this trip had been made.

She summoned a smile for the transporter operator, and waited while he found a Field Agent's brass and yellow crescent-star to pin beside her Enterprise insignia. Pausing at the entrance of the Transporter Dome she studied the swirling, joyous throng that blocked her path to the Central Control Building. Of course. Here on Indel, the war was over. What did they know of the uncertainty, the fear still alive in the Federation? Which of them had faced a man to tell him that his family had died, along with one fourth of the Hood's crew?

A tentacle of the crowd swept near and laughing faces urged her to join them. Her resentment died as she studied the faces. These were cadets who had seen no part of the war, lucky beings who still thought a war was over when the fighting stopped. Scanning the people near her she could see no one in a ship uniform, though she knew some of the Security Ships had already been withdrawn from the border. The people who had participated in the war were not yet celebrating.

Skirting the crowd she moved slowly down the avenue toward the central court and the building she sought. The underground ways would have been faster, but she found that the sound and sight of truly happy beings filled a need deep inside her. They brought to life a goal she had forgotten during the last weeks on the border. Someday this happiness would not be confined to one planet. Someday war would end for all planets, and a celebration that would last for years would sweep the galaxy. She chuckled. Perhaps her granddaughter twelve times removed would see true friendship between the Federation and the Klingon Empire. That party-to-end-all-parties was beyond her vision but not impossible, she reminded herself, not impossible.

The Central Control Building loomed before her on the opposite side of the crowded avenue. Carefully picking her moment, Uhura became one of a number of twirling dancers who had been granted an open space to express their joy. Her graceful movements carried her across the avenue to merge with the watchers there. Another step brought her to an entrance and she slipped into the relative calm of the building. Here the joy was muted; here the faces carried the weight of problems yet to be solved.

The face of a passerby suddenly stood out. A face... Oh, Great God Who loves us all, James Kirk's face! Plans that represented hours of thought spun in her mind for an instant and assumed new patterns, which included Kirk. Two swift steps put her at the end of the side corridor.

"Hailing frequencies open, sir!"

She felt a stab of poignant regret for the past as he staggered at the sound of her voice, but only pleasure showed on her face as he turned with a whispered, "Uhura?"

"Hi, Jim," were the only words she had time for. She was caught tight to his chest, held breathless for a few moments that allowed her time to wonder why their mutual respect had never deepened into love, then moved off to arm's length to be looked at. With a half-smile she watched him find the differences wrought by the years. The longer hair was dismissed as the mere surface change it was, but her expression sobered as he studied her face. Her Lightfleet training and years of striving to emulate the control of her captain had developed an almost Vulcan control. It had banked her spontaneity, added poise and maturity.

His face held no surprises for her. Though she had not visited him while he was on the Enterprise, she had viewed the tricorder tape of his rescue. He seemed to have reached a calm acceptance of the Code Nine, but she realized that her news would shatter what peace he had achieved.

His fingers touched the stripe-and-a-half of her new rank of lieutenant commander, then moved to the crescent-star that proclaimed her dual allegiance. "Don't they ever conflict, Uhura?"

"They seem to sometimes," she said thoughtfully, "but there is always a way to resolve the problem."

"Where is the Enterprise?" Kirk asked, his eyes narrowing in sudden worry. "How are..."

Hurriedly cutting off the last question, one she was not ready to answer at this time, Uhura said, "The ship is where she belongs, hard at work along the border, trying to figure out what devious trick the Klingons are pulling now. But this is not the place," she gestured at the traffic politely flowing around them, "nor the time. I must check in. Seventh floor, Field Agent Division. Then, we can talk."

They moved into the main concourse, and Uhura paused for her usual look around. Her visits to Indel were infrequent, and she always took a moment to admire the Velonian method of decorating the interior of buildings. The tree-lined brook that gurgled down the center of the concourse, the flower-covered balconies that climbed in a triple spiral to the ceiling eight stories above them brought a breath of the forest and plains even to the heart of Base Indel.

Kirk's firm grip on her hand did not loosen until they stepped into the turbo-lift. Uhura turned to face him. "I didn't expect to see you on Indel. I thought you'd be working somewhere in the Federation."

"I have been," Kirk admitted. "I returned from Starbase 16 a week ago, and was preparing to go out again, but the Klingon withdrawal makes it unnecessary. How did you...?" The influx of passengers as the doors opened cut off his question.

Uhura sped through the brief formalities necessary, dropped off two tapes in the proper sections, and returned to Kirk's side with a sigh of relief. "We need to talk, Jim. Do you know a good place?"

"How much time do you have?" he asked, thinking of some of his favorite retreats.

"Very little for what has to be done."

Kirk regarded her quizzically, but nodded agreement. "There is a grove of conifers out the north avenue that should be cool and shady this time of day."

II

"The Enterprise?" Uhura was surprised at his question, then reconsidered. Kirk had spent his time aboard the Enterprise in sickbay, talking only to McCoy, Chapel, Scott and Spock. This wasn't a question he'd have asked any of them. He wanted a dispassionate appraisal, and Uhura found she could give him one. "She is Spock's ship. There are only one or two of the crew who would even hesitate between you; they are Spock's men and women."

"Thank God," Kirk murmured. "I was afraid... I knew Spock could, but..." A nagging worry died. A reluctant captain would never have gotten the endorsement Uhura had just given Spock. He had not been forced into a job he didn't want.

Turning back to Uhura he asked another question that had been bothering him since they met. "How did you get a leave in the middle of a war? The Federation doesn't know that Princess Malvara has ordered all Klingon ships back to their side of the border."

Uhura straightened. Now they came to the bad part. "I'm on medical leave. I collapsed on the bridge from overwork. We were beaming some refugees down to Volga, a planet with strong defenses, and were planning to return with a second load in less than a day, so the doctor ordered me down to the planet to rest until the Enterprise returned."

Kirk studied her silently. She did look tired, but with her training she knew her own strength too well to work to the point of collapse, accidentally. And the planet they were orbiting when she collapsed just happened to have a hidden Lightfleet Base with a long distance transporter. "I'm surprised you managed to fool McCoy."

"I didn't have to," Uhura said steadily. "He isn't on the Enterprise." She watched Kirk age before her eyes. "He took your death very hard, Jim. The Captain finally had to relieve him of duty. McCoy tried to resign from Starfleet, but Spock said he couldn't accept the resignation until McCoy had medical clearance, and M'Benga wouldn't give the clearance. McCoy left the ship and is now on Gagarin. I'm here to ask for medical treatment for him. With both of us working on it, the request should go through more quickly." The hopeful note in Uhura's voice was forced. Even in her brief time on Indel she had seen how busy Lightfleet was. The war and its aftermath were still occupying all Lightfleet's available personnel.

Kirk shivered, remembering his last glimpse of McCoy's face. His fault. Lightfleet's fault. "Why did you wait this long to ask for help?"

"He left the ship. I hoped he could work it out by himself." Uhura shrugged. "Then the war started. McCoy tried to get back to the ship, but only made it as far as Gagarin. He did get a message through to us, but the accompanying medical report from the Gagarin Starbase showed he wasn't in any better shape than when he left." She looked up at Kirk. "I wanted to make the request in person and this is the first chance I've had to get away from the Enterprise."

Kirk pushed his grief anger he wasn't certain what he was feeling aside, and set out to learn everything Uhura knew about McCoy's condition.

"I brought copies of the reports Dr. M'Benga and Captain Spock made at the time McCoy was relieved of duty, and the one from Gagarin. You can view..." Uhura reached for her Federation communicator, only realizing when she saw Kirk's face how seldom one sounded on this planet. "Uhura here."

"This is Cameron at Transporter Control. The Enterprise is returning to Volga ahead of schedule. If we don't get you back soon, they'll be close enough to detect the transporter beam." Field Agent Uhura slumped fractionally there went the hours she had hoped to spend with Kirk updating their friendship, and her part in gaining help for McCoy then straightened, having accepted the need for haste. "I'll be right there, Cameron." She slipped the communicator back on her belt and removed three tapes. "You'll need these, Jim. Please, get to McCoy as fast as you can."

"I'll see that he gets the help he needs, Uhura."

Thinking of all she had wanted to say to Kirk Uhura put as much of it as possible into a smile. "It was good to see you again. Find happiness." She stepped into another hug that seemed to be trying to expression as many emotions as her smile, then trotted down the path toward the avenue and the transporter. Her mind was already moving back toward the Enterprise as she unpinned the crescent-star.

Kirk watched her until she was out of sight, then turned his mind to his new task. Lightfleet would not ignore the request, but with everyone so busy it might be a month, or even two, before help was on its way to McCoy. Too long, his instinct and his fear said, far too long.

There must be some way to get permission more quickly. By the time he reached his apartment he had a list of people in mind who might be able to help him. Turning to the computer he began checking to see if any of them were on Indel.

III

Captain Thia Chenen paced smoothly around the circumference of the sparsely populated upper lobby of the Center for Officers of Command. This was a poor substitute for the run in the woods she had hoped to take, but it was exercise. She had returned to Indel to participate in the postwar councils and had been too busy to get such exercise. She had spent her free time the day before listening to Kirk's story, and now she was delaying her return to her ship to meet an old friend, and possibly find Kirk the help he needed.

There was a stir by the turbo-lift, cries of welcome and congratulations; then Malon came through the scattering of people. Swarthy skin, bifurcated eyebrows, dark hair piled high to show rounded ears, but still unmistakably Malon. She was limping slightly, which meant a wound she hadn't reported. More important to Thia's discerning eyes were the tiny signs that told her Malon was holding herself under rigid control. She looked brittle, as though an incautious movement or a sudden noise could shatter her like a piece of fine crystal.

The trip from Shabas to Indel must have been one long, agonizing search for another way to have ended her mission. With a fleeting hope that the search had been a fruitless one, Thia marshaled her control. She and Kirk had decided that she would tell Malon of the assistance Kirk needed, only if Malon was mentally fit to give the help. "Malon."

Thia's voice reached Malon, breaking through the automatic responses she had been making to the greetings and congratulations. Her peers melted away before her with no effort on her part as she moved toward Thia. The Velonian's composure reached out to envelop her, creating a privacy that no being on Indel would violate.

Thia put her hands on Malon's arms, wishing she could hug her as she would another Velonian, but doubting that Malon would welcome the gesture. Searching Malon's eyes she read there the feelings Malon had spoken of in her messages distrust, disillusionment, anger, fear and wondered if the damage done to her would ever heal. "It is finished, Malon."

"But not forgotten." Thia could hear the bitterness in Malon's voice, but did not loosen her grip.

"I mourn for you," Thia could feel tears slipping down her cheeks and wondered if Malon had allowed herself any. "But I have seen the death and destruction of the war, and I cannot yet regret the deaths that ended it, only what it cost you to destroy them."

Thia could see no outward response to her words, but when Malon spoke, her voice, though flat, was no longer bitter. "Captain, your messages helped," she said softly. "You were honest with me. You never claimed the mission was right, only that it had to be done, and you reminded me I wasn't the only one fighting. It helped me endure." Malon tried to turn away, away from the pain of her memories. "I must go; Morel..."

Thia's grip tightened. She knew Malon: her strengths, her weaknesses, her dependence on Morel. She knew as surely as if it had been said that Malon's thoughts had not gone beyond the security of Morel's presence. Striving to keep her voice level, she said, "Malon, Morel isn't waiting for you. He couldn't leave the Occelon."

Malon stared at her, and her muscles tensed under Thia's hands as her anger rose like a storm. "They promised!" she said icily. "Anything I wanted, they said, and Morel was all I asked for."

Quickly, using both mind and voice to insure Malon's understanding, Thia explained. "Captain Dival Raithan is on medical leave preparing for Chelacrev. With his captain absent, Morel must remain to command the Occelon."

Chelacrev was perhaps the greatest long-term physical stress that the lanelized Velonians experienced. Thia could feel the swift ebb of Malon's anger as she accepted the excuse. "What am I to do, Thia?" Malon whispered.

For a moment Thia hesitated, then gently touched Malon's mind, finding there reserves of strength Malon had not yet drawn on. "Talk to a psychologist, as you would after any difficult mission." Then, in sudden inspiration, "Go to Dival; he would want to help, especially since he's the reason Morel can't be here. Let him give what help he can, but keep busy. You shouldn't stay on Indel brooding." She felt Malon stiffen between her hands at the thought of another mission. "You have a chance to help someone, Malon. Telas is waiting in the lower lobby to tell you about it. Listen to him." She released Malon, watched her push away the thought of rest and love, gather her strength, her courage to meet another challenge. "Shev aer lo."

"I'll listen," Malon said tonelessly. She started to turn away, then paused and looked at Thia's damp cheeks. "Shev aer lo, Captain." She turned toward the turbo-lift, and the waiting Kirk.

IV

Kirk stood by the wall of the lower lobby, near the turbo-lift, away from the crowd. With so many Command Officers returning from special war duty this usually quiet place was teeming with people coming and going with messages and business, laughing, singing, shouting to each other across the large space. Kirk watched them, his grim face a sharp contrast to their cheer. He was too tense, both about McCoy and about the idea of meeting Malon, to muster so much as a smile. He had already decided for the third time to contact Thia and call off the plan, when a smattering of calls and cheers rose from the crowd, and he felt chilled as he looked around and saw Malon coming toward him.

It wasn't the dark Klingonese disguise; he could read through that. What froze him was the way she seemed to huddle into herself, as though trying to ward off the calls of welcome that were now rising from all over the lobby. There was a deep, ill-masked fear in her eyes, which in turn frightened him, and there was a force to her slightly limping stride that spoke of pain being ruthlessly ignored. He felt like shrinking back at her approach, but he steadied himself as he realized what such a reaction would do to Malon.

"Malon," he said in a low tone as she came up, "I don't want to bother you now..."

She cut him off. "It's all right, but I've got to get out of here." More and more of the crowd was recognizing her, and she was almost flinching. "We'll go to my apartment."

Kirk spoke swiftly, now fully aware of Malon's state of mind. "No, I'll wait, and..."

She took his arm and drew him with her toward the turbo-lift. It was only after the lift's doors had closed, shutting out the crowd and its smiles, that she closed her eyes and managed to relax a little. She forced herself to speak for Kirk's benefit. "I'm all right, Jim," she said. "Don't hold back. Tell me what's wrong."

The lift door opened, and they stepped out into her apartment. Malon paused only long enough to put away her equipment before throwing herself in a chair to listen. There was a roughness in her manner that made Kirk uneasy, but he settled on the edge of a chair and outlined what Uhura and the medical tapes had told him about McCoy's condition. When he finished he noticed that some of the hardness had left her eyes.

"Tell me everything," she said, more gently than before. "Don't spare any details; if I'm to help you, I'll need to know them."

Kirk tried to be concise, but with Malon asking questions every other minute the "details" took nearly an hour to tell. They ate an early dinner and settled in the living room with drinks, and the buildings outside the large view window were glowing under the dark, late evening sky by the time he finished.

Malon, now thoroughly tired but more relaxed after the meal and the non-Shabas conversation, sat back in her chair and regarded him thoughtfully. "So what do you intend to do?"

"I want to get the best Lightfleet psychologist available, go to Gagarin and see what can be done. I want to go along because I know McCoy and can help the psychologist..."

"...and because you want to see your friend again."

He eyed her askance. "Okay, that, too."

"And what kind of help can I provide?"

Kirk phrased his words carefully. "If I proposed this mission myself to the Command Council now, while Indel is still so busy, there might be a delay, which is just what McCoy doesn't need. On the other hand, if you proposed it, it would be given top priority. I think..." He hesitated. He knew he had helped her forget her mission to Shabas, and was reluctant to remind her of it. But she was waiting expectantly for him to continue, and he plunged ahead. "I think the Council feels it owes you a favor, and it does."

Malon stared at him, her tension returning to grip her like a sickness. "Special privileges," she whispered.

"What?"

There was a yellow light growing in her eyes, a danger signal Kirk recognized with apprehension. "Do you think I want favors done for me?" The words were hard, charged with an anger not directed toward Kirk but toward the Council, the City, the entire Galaxy. "Do you think I want praise, or thanks? Lightfleet may be grateful for what I did on Shabas, but I'm revolted by it!"

"I know," he said quietly.

She looked away, resenting the complex fate that had shattered her life. "Some of them understand," she said in a low voice. "Some of the ones with more experience, some of the agents, many of the Velonians. I saw it in their faces; their relief and joy vanished when they saw me, and..." She faltered, and stopped.

"Perhaps you can share a little of their joy," he suggested tentatively. "You did end the war..."

Her gaze flashed back to rest on him, penetrating, searching, and the words died in his mouth. She held his faltering gaze for several seconds, then rose from her chair, and turned away.

There was a silence. Malon paced slowly around the big living area, the pain in her leg forgotten. Kirk waited, watching the dark Klingon features so changed, and yet so much the same. He wished there were something he could say, or do, to relieve her, and yet he was at a loss for any word or gesture that would be anything but futile. False or empty comfort was not what Malon wanted or needed, and he sensed that if she did find solutions to her conflict they would come slowly, and from a greater wisdom than his own. He was just considering leaving her alone, when she spoke distractedly, returning abruptly to the original topic.

"You'll need a psychologist willing to make the trip to Gagarin, cover identities for both of you, a Federation shuttle, probably some Federation equipment, and standard Lightfleet devices that will have to be camouflaged. And you'll want them by when?"

"As soon as possible."

"Your main problem will be to find a psychologist willing to go on short notice. It's only five days travel to Gagarin by standard flitter, and the psychologist will have to complete his preparations during the trip."

"I know who I want."

"Who?"

"Captain Dival Raithan of the Medical Cruiser Occelon."

Dival Raithan, whose Chelacrev had forced Morel from Indel to command the Occelon, was one of the best empathic diagnosticians and tele-therapists in the Fleet. Malon smiled briefly, bitterly. "Dival isn't available for mission duty; he's preparing for Chelacrev."

"I know, but his Chelacrev is weeks away, and he might take the mission if you told him the situation." He could no longer conceal the urgency he felt. "Please, Malon."

She turned away, hesitated. She was too tired to think clearly; too many things were tearing at her Kirk's urgency, her husband's absence, and always, always the memories of Shabas. "We'll go see Dival tomorrow, Jim. Even if he doesn't accept the mission, he'll be able to recommend someone who will. I'm sorry, I can't manage it tonight."

Despite his impatience, Kirk felt Malon's turmoil and rose to his feet. "Of course, Malon," he said gently. "Try to get some rest."

In a moment, he was gone. Malon turned and looked out the window at the city, hardly seeing it. Her need for Morel and her son was like a pain inside her, a pain that only by an effort of will she kept bearable. She became aware of the stillness of the large apartment, of its shadowed rooms and empty doorways, of its silence ringing in her ears. She was suddenly afraid to be alone. She moved to the vidicom beside the couch, and after a moment's hesitation touched three buttons.

The screen lit up, and a pair of gray, slanted Velonian eyes gazed into hers. "Malon..." The surprise and relief changed swiftly to concern, as he seemed to read her feelings even over the sterile barrier of the vidicom. "Shev aer lo, astan," he said gently.

It took some effort to find the strength to speak. "Can I come see you, Dival? Right now?"

The psychologist banished his plans for the evening in an instant. "Of course. I have the whole night free."

She nodded, and cut off the channel.

V

"Lanel energy," said the computer, "was developed in the year 5120 by a Physics team composed of..."

"Skip the history," said Kirk to the computer, his mouth full of breakfast. "Go directly to its present use by Velonians."

"This historical record is important for full understanding of the nature of lanelization," said the computer primly.

"I already know the history. I want to review its effect on Velonian metabolisms."

"Lanel energy," said the computer with apparent reluctance, "when applied in the amount of 100 nodes to a Velonian body, serves to artificially reproduce the telepathic and physical powers that were held by Velonians in the days of Shev. Control of the energy is partly instinctive but requires extensive training. The few Velonians capable of its control hold all of Lightfleet's Wing-Captaincies, Time Traveler Captaincies..."

Kirk interrupted. "Review the powers held by lanelized Velonians."

The computer paused, then proceeded determinedly. "Lanel energy gives its holders the following powers: one, increased telepathic power; two, increased physical strength and stamina; three, empathic sensitivity varying in degree with the individual; four, indefinite life spans; five, asexual reproduction, known as Creation or Chelacrev; six..."

The list continued. Kirk, cradling his coffee cup in his hands, sat forward in his chair and listened through them all, though he had heard them a hundred times before. Of all the miracles he had discovered in Lightfleet, lanelization was still the most incredible to him.

It was an energy, as dangerous and powerful as the energy used to power this computer, but far more refined. A small minority of Velonians a select few, those with metabolisms closest to the Ancient form could be charged with it, as this computer was charged. But it was far more complicated than that, because in the Velonians the energy was metabolized, changing from an alien force into a vital essence that gave them the strength and skill necessary to carry the responsibilities of ship captaincies and other crucial positions that kept Lightfleet functioning. It was the same strength, in fact, that they had had naturally 12,000 years ago, that had held their Empire together, and that over the slow millennia they had lost.

"Review the nature of Chelacrev," he ordered, when the list was over.

"Chelacrev, or Creation," said the computer, with an unmistakable air of enthusiasm, "is an involuntary physical process in a lanelized Velonian occurring at intervals ranging from five to ten years. It is marked by an eight-week rise in the lanel power level from the normal 100 nodes to as high as 250 nodes, causing fever, disorientation and/or faintness. At its culmination the Velonian Parent, using telepathy and the surplus energy in the body, materializes a new being, called a Lanel Child. The Child is formed from the Parent's instinctive concepts of form and mind, and is physically and emotionally mature, though intellectually naive, mentally corresponding to a natural Velonian age of..."

The computer went on and Kirk listened soberly, but he had never really been able to accept Chelacrev for the natural process it was. Creation of an intelligent being from nothing? Well, of course it wasn't actually from "nothing"; the Formation was done with energy instead of biological matter, and it could be seen as a lanel counterpart to a natural biological process. But to Kirk, and to many, it seemed more like a fantasy, even while he studied the visual records on the computer's screen and watched the Lanel Children take form.

The vidicom on his desk chimed and he spoke automatically without taking his attention from the computer screen. "Yes?"

"Malon here. I'm with Dival, in his apartment. Can you come?"

"I'll be right there!"

VI

Malon turned off the vidicom. Dival watched her from his couch, waiting for her to speak, but she only stood motionless by the desk, looking down at the blank screen, her hand still resting on the controls.

At last he said, "Malon, you should get some sleep."

She shook her head and remained silent, standing as still as the plants that filled the room and which shadowed her unevenly from the morning light. What can I do for her? he thought, finding himself close to despair. What can I possibly do?

She had refused to allow telepathy. That alone had rendered him almost helpless, struggling in ignorance with no way of knowing what had happened to her on Shabas. She didn't seem to want him to know, and yet she was here, had been here almost all night, her very silence crying to him for help... "I'm helpless..." He hadn't meant to speak aloud, but her head turned toward him and there was a tremor in his voice as he continued. "It's been years since you trusted me so little."

She looked away, and the words came quietly. "It's been years since I've trusted myself so little."

He gazed at her through tear-blurred eyes. He had known Malon for over fifteen years, since that first time she had come to him; a tense young physicist with guarded green eyes, working compulsively at computer research and trying to release her pent-up energies by teaching advanced combat on the side. He had seen her tension ease through the years, had come to know her joys and gentleness and to cherish her friendship. But not for years had he seen her so alone. There was, indeed, nothing he could do for her now she knew that as well as he except to give her the company she needed, and to show her that he cared, which she already knew. "Shev, I wish I..." he began huskily, then stopped. He wished too many things to put into words.

The silence that followed was ended by the door chime. Dival took the time for one deep breath. He had never met Kirk before, and first meetings required more energy that he felt he had. He willed tense muscles to relax, and said, "Come."

Kirk entered, bringing with him a gust of energy and enthusiasm that faded and vanished as he saw their faces. He slowed to a stop at the edge of the entrance dais as Dival rose from his chair and spoke in English.

"Come in, Telas. I am Dival Raithan."

Kirk was gazing at Malon, at the flight suit unaltered from the day before, at the wounded leg still booted but carrying no weight, at the unmoving face, shadowed by dark hair that was hanging loose for the first time in his memory. He looked quickly at Dival and saw the drawn, pale features, the sunken weariness in the gentle gray eyes. "I'll come back later," he said in a low tone. "This, obviously, isn't the time."

"No, come sit down," Dival urged gently. "Malon and I have already spoken together; for McCoy's sake, we now need to discuss plans."

Kirk stepped slowly down into the main part of the room and took the indicated seat across from Dival, who settled back on his couch. Malon remained where she was, looking down at the desk without expression.

"I have known of Leonard McCoy for years," Dival began. "He has fame in Starfleet, and consequently in Lightfleet medical circles as well. I heard of his present condition a few days ago, and while Malon gave me some details I hadn't heard, it was already a matter of concern to me."

"Is someone already considering a mission to help him, then?"

"Not that I know of, but I think the Council would be receptive to such a proposal." Dival paused, aware that the superficial, formal nature of his own words, and of Kirk's, was already seriously limiting the conversation. The normal solution would be to form a friendship with Kirk over a natural span of time, but they hadn't that time. There were other ways, ways he usually spurned as "tricks of the trade," but now, reluctantly, he turned to them in an effort to put Kirk and himself at ease.

Within ten minutes Kirk found himself talking freely about his innermost thoughts and feelings, and describing his life on the Enterprise more honestly than ever before. He knew his own sudden candor was largely Dival's doing, but he didn't care; it was a relief to both of them. He faltered only once, and then not from caution but from his honest inability to describe McCoy.

"It's hard to say..." he fumbled. "Bones was always something of a mystery to me, as much as Spock was. He was deeply emotional, deeply caring, and not many people can maintain that kind of sensitivity on a Starship; it simply makes things too rough. But Bones never seemed afraid of his own feelings the way-" he glanced up, smiled wryly, "-the way I am. Or the way most of us are." He heard a stir from Malon, but carefully didn't look around at her. "His understanding gave him a... a courage I've never seen matched. He could face anything... anything. He was..." he groped for the Velonian word, " 'teldanin,' compassionate. In fact, underneath his crusty surface, he was the most compassionate man I've ever known."

Dival was staring down at nothing. "I find myself already prepared to take the mission, Telas. I'm not even sure why; some things defy analysis. It is because of what I know of you, partly. Your hesitations tell more than your words; I can feel from you that McCoy is... enta simalza o alerasan..." He smiled. "Some languages are not designed to speak of such things, and in English it often means more if someone can't be described, than if he can be."

Malon's voice came for the first time. "You are approaching Chelacrev, Dival. Shouldn't you find someone else who could go?"

He searched her face, saw her genuine concern, and spoke gently. "There are others who can go, but in cases like this those go who feel a good chance of success. I feel such a chance." He paused, feeling torn. He wanted to help McCoy, but he felt urgently needed by Malon, and though he hadn't mentioned it, he also had felt hidden tension from Kirk. He didn't yet know the tension's source, but he had heard of Iscala's work with Kirk and could guess that Kirk's acceptance of the Code Nine was shaken by the knowledge of McCoy's condition.

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling strained and tired. Malon, McCoy and Kirk; their lives beat in on him, calling up emotions, effort, analysis and compassion, all that he could give, and which he would never hesitate to give, until the time soon to come when he must turn all his strength toward one end; the Creation of the Lanel Child. Even now he could feel the first hint of fever... but it was slight and he kept it to himself. He opened his eyes, met Kirk's gaze, and smiled. "I'll come with you, Telas. I'll do my best for McCoy, and I hope I won't fail your trust."

Kirk's hands slipped over his own and gripped them tightly.

But Malon had served for years with Velonian captains, and understood better than Kirk how they could be relied upon to ignore their own welfare whenever a situation or a person needed their skills. She had also weathered several of Captain Sharna Colbon's Chelacrevs, and even Kirk's joy couldn't keep her silent. "Dival," she said gently, "it's too serious a risk. If Jim knew what this meant to you, he would never ask it."

Dival rose from his couch and went to her, took her hands and looked straight into her eyes. "Malon," he said in Velonian, "my friend of many years, trust me now. You need to get away from Indel, from Lightfleet itself. Come to Gagarin with us. There is peace there it's a gentle world and you can be with us who care for you, or alone to think, as you will. My coming Chelacrev has taken Morel from Indel; there's nothing to hold you here."

It was like a flinch of physical pain on her face before she averted her eyes, and he could only guess it was at the thought of Morel. She remained still for a moment, looking away into an unfathomable distance. Then she met his gaze, and her control melted into a small smile that gave his joy tears. "I'll come, Dival. We can take my ship, the Charisma."

VII

It took another hour to plan the specific details of the trip. The Charisma's great speed would cut two days off the travel time, which was a relief to Kirk. They could obtain cover identities from Personnel, and Dival's Velonian medical readings could be easily masked, as Malon's had been on Shabas, by internal, camouflaging transmitters.

But before anything could be done, they had to clear the mission with the Command Council. Malon, who would technically be the top-ranking officer since Dival was on medical leave, made the call.

Tenir agreed to the mission with surprisingly few questions, most of them oriented around Dival's welfare. Kirk had been right about the Council's feeling that it owed Malon a favor, and Dival's presence secured final approval. Tenir even agreed readily to Kirk's going along, though he did insist on speaking to him personally to say, "You are not to be seen by McCoy, nor are you to contact him in any way, Telas. The Code Nine must be maintained."

It was noon of the next day when the Charisma lifted off from the Indel landing field. Malon guided it up in the steep take-off pattern, circled over the southern pole and tangented out on the route to Gagarin. Soon Indel's sun was a point of light behind them, and they were going warp 25 with the controls on automatic. Malon left the Control Room to try to get some sleep, and Dival settled in the lounge with McCoy's medical records.

But Kirk remained in the Control Room, watching the stars rush by, and thinking of times many years ago, when to reach McCoy he had only to walk down a corridor and into the familiar Enterprise sickbay.

GAGARIN

I

The Gagarin star sector was a sparse one, with few stars and poor planets, but a wealth of rubble; free atoms, pebbles, and ship-sized chunks of rock. The fact that it bordered the Klingon Empire gave it strategic importance, but sensors were nearly useless either for strategy or defense, so it had seen little action. Ships crept in cautiously for briefings, rendezvous, to transfer supplies and personnel, and for war-weary personnel to take much needed leaves.

Gagarin, the planet from which the sector took its name, was a verdant planet during peace time it was valued as a vacation spot and could offer grass, trees and a blue sky to people who had seen only space ship bulkheads for months on end. And the night sky, with its continual shower of meteors, was known throughout the Federation.

To Kirk, seeing it from space on the viewscreen of the tiny, Federation-designed Mystic, it had a warm, welcoming look. He had known Gagarin well in the old days, and had spent many rest leaves there with Spock, Scotty and McCoy, finding much needed comfort in the lush landscapes and the solid beauty of the unprefabricated stone buildings not to mention a few choice taverns and bars that made him smile, even now as he thought of them, and the times he had had in them with his friends.

They had left the Charisma in space a light year behind them they could hardly have set the glowing, dark-blue Lightfleet yacht down on Gagarin's landing field where they had rendezvoused with the Mystic. The Mystic itself carried some instruments that would baffle a Starfleet technician, but they were camouflaged; it looked, and, essentially was, a trim, commonplace shuttle. Kirk had taken its controls with a pleasant sense of nostalgia, and they had approached Gagarin openly, at a modest warp two.

Now the Starbase was calling them, asking for identification. Dival answered; Dr. Dival Raymond and his assistants T'Peva and Samuel Rybeck requesting permission to land at the Residence Center. The Starbase confirmed their identities and schedule (information which a Lightfleet agent had inserted in their reference computer) and sent them a landing pattern. Within five minutes of the initial hail, Kirk moved the controls that sent the shuttle gliding down toward the Starbase City.

"I suppose we are all aware," he said distractedly as the city grew on his viewscreen, "that from now on we can't go anywhere without full appearance and voice control. We'd best get ready for the strain."

"Of course," said Dival in crisp, unaccented English behind him, and Kirk, glancing back, grinned. The Velonians were masters of body control, and Dival's talent easily included the delicate and complicated art of changing his features through subtle muscular manipulation. In the space of a second Dival had changed from a Velonian to a rather exotic, bronze-skinned human, his eyes already masked by contacts, and looking strangely small.

A cold, precise voice spoke beside him. "I am aware of my duty, Mr. Rybeck, and am prepared to present myself as my heritage demands." He looked up at Malon just in time to see her rigid, frosty mask dissolve back into her normal relaxation. "But what about you, Jim?" she added.

He looked into the small mirror to the left of his control panel, and went through the regimen. His face was already different from what it had been in his Starfleet days; now, narrow his nostrils, put more hollow in his cheeks, carefully twist some key muscles around his eyes, and pull up some muscles under his lower lip, and... A hard, lean face with a worried, preoccupied expression, and eyes tense with impatient boredom. This face, under what was now long hair swept back in the Velonian style should be unrecognizable, at least on the Starbase.

"It's an effective change," said Malon, eyeing the effect critically. "But you'd better accentuate those changes with makeup. And you'll have to watch your posture and gesture patterns, too."

Chagrined, Kirk relaxed his face back to normal. "It's going to be a hell of a mission," he muttered.

And so it was that on a clear, dry night, the Mystic took its place among the other small crafts dotting the Residence Center's landing field, and three Lightfleet agents signed into a four-room suite on the lake-side wing of the great, sprawling complex of courtyards and living modules.

II

Kirk opened his eyes and was bewildered to find it morning. He thought he had closed his eyes for only a moment, but a glance at the chronometer told him that that "moment" had lasted nearly nine hours. He dressed hurriedly, carefully applied the touches of makeup that would complete his disguise, and entered the living room to find Malon sprawled in a big chair, making adjustments on what Kirk recognized as a partly dismantled Starfleet mediscanner.

"Good morning," she said, glancing briefly at him before returning to her work. "For someone who wasn't tired, you certainly slept with enthusiasm."

He shot her a black look. "I'll suppress my answer to that solely out of respect for your rank."

One of her eyebrows twisted upwards. "Don't let that stop you."

He rubbed the rest of the sleep from the back of his neck. "Where's Dival?"

"McCoy is eating breakfast in the Residence restaurant, and Dival has gone there to run long-range telepathic probes on him."

"In the restaurant?"

"Don't you trust him? Or didn't you know who you were getting when you chose him? Dival knows what he's doing."

Kirk accepted this reluctantly, remembering how tired the captain had seemed the night before. "And what are you doing?" he said, staring at the little mediscanner and thinking that whatever she was doing, only Malon could do it sitting sprawled in a chair.

For the first time, she looked at him steadily. "Dival called me about a quarter hour ago and asked me to rig the mediscanner to register his ankle as twisted. And he didn't tell me why."

Dival's ankle as twisted? "Have you had breakfast?" he asked suddenly.

She put down her work and got to her feet. "Been waiting for you."

The restaurant wasn't very crowded, the normal breakfast time being nearly over, and they spotted Dival almost at once. Malon started immediately toward his table, but Kirk stood frozen by the door, for he had seen McCoy.

The doctor was at a table by the window, lingering over a last cup of coffee. He was looking out the window at the view of the lake, and anyone else would have interpreted his expression as peaceful.

But Kirk saw the haggard lines, the tension, the weariness, the age in McCoy's face so clearly, that he realized in a split second, the depth of McCoy's pain and sorrow. For a moment he forgot everything except how much he cared for this old friend, and he had actually taken a step toward him when he remembered the other part of his world, the part that ruled him: Lightfleet, and the Council's orders.

He couldn't go to McCoy, not even while everything in him cried to.

He looked around in confusion. Malon had turned only a few yards away and was gazing back at him, tense but expressionless. From his table across the room Dival, too, was watching him, aware even from that distance of his emotions. Kirk got his tray, and went to Dival's table, not daring to look again at McCoy, not wanting to look at either of the Lightfleet officers or feel their concern. He sat down across from Dival with his back to McCoy, and no word was said until Malon, too, was seated. Then Dival spoke quietly.

"I know well how hard it is to see a friend who needs you, and to have to turn away. But we are here to help him, Telas, and your care for him will reach him and help him, even without his knowledge."

The words were well meant, but for Kirk they were cold comfort, and though Malon and Dival waited for him to speak, he said nothing.

"What have you learned, Dival?" said Malon, after an uncomfortable silence.

"Little. But enough for me to know that McCoy's condition is as serious as we had believed. He is well shielded from himself, and therefore from me, but I can estimate his general condition."

"Well?" said Kirk grimly, "What is his condition?"

"Basically," Dival said slowly, looking thoughtfully into his empty water glass, "his problem is one of self-image."

"I don't understand," said Kirk.

Dival was silent for a moment, seeking words in a language not created to deal with such subjects. Then he spoke slowly, almost haltingly. "Humans try hard to fulfill their own ideas of who they should be, even if those ideas are unrealistic, as they usually are. You, Telas, nearly killed yourself to be the 'perfect starship captain' a position requiring more brilliance, luck and stamina than you could have accumulated in a hundred years and when that image failed, you were left you thought with nothing. McCoy's goals were rather different, but he could no more be a perfect humanitarian, than you could be a perfect captain. He didn't come through for you the way he thinks he should have; he was doubtful and afraid, and you 'died.' He hates himself for that failure; he sees his cherished humanism as false and hollow, a facade that crumbled when it was most needed." Dival looked down at his crumb-strewn plate, forcing down the rising grief that he could not express here. "It is a hard blow to take; to feel you have betrayed a friend, and with that friend everything you hold sacred."

Kirk was staring at him in horror. Gentle, compassionate Bones, hating himself for... Kirk looked blindly around the table, crushing his napkin in his fist. "What can be done?" he whispered.

Dival straightened. "He must accept what he had always thought he did accept; that he is human. Not inadequate, but simply more complicated than the ideals he believes in. But that is hard to accept, and frightening. Humans fear nothing so much as the prospect of being human. For all McCoy's understanding and compassion for others and their difficulties, he still has much to learn about compassion for himself."

Again Dival looked down at his plate, and continued wearily. "McCoy is holding all this inside himself; his turmoil is very great. Strong emotions can be frightening, especially self-loathing, and McCoy is very much afraid. He can neither forget his pain, nor fully face it, and until he does face it, normal life will be impossible for him."

Malon had listened to this explanation with an increasingly rigid expression. Dival was talking about McCoy, but his words could have been meant for her. She, too, was afraid; afraid of her own feelings about herself, afraid to live with what she had done. For thirty years she had dedicated herself to peace, yet now she had killed. "A facade that crumbled..." It was McCoy's fear, and her own. Yet most of all she was afraid of letting go, of letting everything out of the locked cages of her mind to explode with unimaginable effects on her consciousness. No, that she could face. She took a deep breath to restore her calm, and felt Dival's and Kirk's eyes on her.

"What would happen," she said, returning Dival's gaze evenly, "if he didn't get help?"

Dival knew, without probing her, what she was thinking, but he would not push it now. He looked across the restaurant to where McCoy was sitting. "It's hard to say. McCoy is strong, and his knowledge of the human mind gives him a unique control over his own. It's conceivable that he could pull out of this by himself, but it's not likely. I think it more probable that his pain will grow until he can no longer 'function' in society at all. Federation response to such a breakdown would be extensive psychotherapy, by our standards very clumsy and only partly successful. I don't want to allow such a situation to come about, though, without help, McCoy could reach that point very soon."

He paused, and Kirk became aware that behind him McCoy had risen and was walking across the large room toward the door. It seemed ironic that they should be sitting here discussing Bones, and have the doctor pass by just a few yards away, anguished over Kirk's supposed death. No, he thought, it wasn't ironic; it was cruel. He sat stiff in bitterness and tried to listen to the continuing conversation.

"What is the mediscanner for?" Malon was saying.

"I need physical contact to complete the diagnosis," Dival said, "and in this environment the only way I can arrange that is to put myself in the position of needing physical support. He can scan me with our mediscanner and confirm my claim to a hurt ankle the most likely minor leg injury for a human, I believe."

"Bones carries his own scanner," said Kirk briefly. "He's never without it, and he'll have to be before he'll use yours."

Dival for answer glanced at Malon, who nodded. "That can be arranged," she said quietly. "When?"

"Perhaps tonight," said Dival. "I learned during the probes that he takes walks in the evening, on the beach, and I can use the time between now and then, to study him further. I must be going; I should know where he goes from here. I'll meet you both in our rooms after dinner."

They said little after he left, eating their food in near silence. Kirk was feeling wretched, and knew that Malon knew it. He ate quickly, and was finished before she was half through, but when he rose, she stopped him with a glance.

"I'd appreciate knowing where you'll be," she said.

Kirk looked at her carefully, but saw none of the subtle firmness in her expression that would make her request a demand. In a way, that made it easier to give her an answer. "I'm going to the City," he said, bracing himself for cautions and advice. "I haven't been here in years."

She held his gaze for a long moment, and something in her face cut through his defensiveness, and he fumbled for words. "I'm sorry, Malon, It's just hard to accept this analytical view of McCoy, when I feel so much for him. Give me more time."

She couldn't show her feelings in this public place, but he saw the understanding in her eyes, and he felt better for it as he walked away.

The Gagarin Starbase had changed considerably since Kirk had last been there, and he no longer felt at home. It had grown, for one thing, and seemed overcrowded and noisy, and the activity of the war which as far as Starfleet knew was still going on made it seem even hectic. He wondered how much of this impression was due to his years of experience with quiet Indel, and guessed that the influence was considerable, but this only made him feel more pensive. Most of his favorite haunts were gone, and even those that remained seemed to have lost their atmosphere, and had become garish and alienating.

But one thing remained unchanged, and that was the spirit of the Starfleet personnel that surrounded him on all sides. Their voices, their jokes, their uniforms and especially their subjects of conversation, all were the same. Again the old complaints about short leaves, the speculation about the Klingons' plans, the talk of recently discovered worlds and areas yet to be explored, the proud and sometimes the disgusted references to their officers. He wandered at will, up and down the streets, and in and out of bars, feeling that at any moment he could enter into the old banter and become one of them once again.

And yet he suspected that, if he tried to join them, the differences between them would become evident to him; now he knew what lay in those "unexplored" regions, could answer their questions about technological problems, and was serving beside the woman who had brought peace to the Klingon Empire, a peace of which Starfleet didn't yet know.

Still, on the whole it was a good day, this time among his former associates, and he returned to the Residence Center that night satisfied and tired. But when he entered the suite, he saw at once that something was wrong.

Dival was sitting on his couch, noticeably pale and tired. Malon was sitting on a low table near him, and their expressions as they looked up at him were serious.

"What's happened?" he said tensely.

"Nothing has happened," said Dival in a firm tone that temporarily silenced Kirk's questions. "Come sit down, Telas; I need to know some things."

Kirk sat down in a chair and answered a dozen penetrating questions about McCoy before his patience ended. "What is this all about?" he demanded finally. "Is McCoy...?"

"Nothing has happened to McCoy," said Dival. "It is just that his condition is such that I would normally want a good deal of time to work with him; several months, at least."

"But we have only four weeks before you have to return to Indel for Chelacrev."

"We have less. It's impossible to describe, but my... well, my impression is that I should leave for Indel within another two weeks. I think my Chelacrev is only a little over that time away." Kirk stared at him in shock, and the psychologist continued gently.

"I'll do my best, Telas. I'll try using conversation and mild psycho-telepathic suggestions to get McCoy to a point where he can recover on his own. But if I can't, and two weeks if very little time, then I may have to try a Radical Possessive Meld. It would involve telepathic manipulation of his mind; it would, in essence, cause his fear to lessen. He would never be aware of the telepathic catalyst, only of the resulting rush of feeling, which I will of course set in an appropriate setting to make the rush seem spontaneous. But under Velonian telepathic codes, such manipulation without the subject's full understanding and consent even as simple as this Meld is..." He looked down at his hands, locked together. "It doesn't translate," he said awkwardly. "'Unethical,' perhaps? It would be... difficult for me. It is a drastic step."

"Why must you take it, then? Can't you return here when your Chelacrev is over and use slower therapy?"

Dival spoke very gently. "I don't think McCoy could wait that long. The Meld would be traumatic for him, as is any massive release of feeling, but he would run no risk. Even if it were only partly successful it would relieve his immediate condition. I may accept it as the only recourse, but I won't use it if you veto the idea."

Kirk felt numb. He knew he couldn't blame Dival for having miscalculated his Chelacrev; it wasn't that much in Dival's control. And yet to have to crowd several months work into two weeks... And this "Radical Possessive Meld" sounded drastic. He guessed that it was an emergency measure, which caused Dival as much discomfort to propose as it did for himself to consider. And he had been give the right to veto it...

"Do what you can in the next two weeks," he said finally, harshly, "and if it becomes clear that the Meld is the only way... We'll talk about it then."

"I'll know much more after tonight," said Dival, rubbing his forehead wearily. "If I can get just one good impression..."

"Are you sure you're feeling well enough?" said Malon quietly. "You're feverish."

Dival smiled. "You worry too much, Malon."

"It's what I'm here for," she returned. "But you give me reason. At least take a little time to rest. McCoy hasn't even started his walk yet."

"Yes he has," said Kirk in a low voice. He had moved to the big window and was looking out. "He's walking by the lake, and he's alone."

Dival came to his side and looked out at the sloping lawn, the line of trees and the dark water glistening under the bright night lights. There were other people walking on the narrow beach, but by following Kirk's gaze he singled out the thin figure with the slouched shoulders that was moving slowly along the water's edge.

"I'll go now," said Dival, and taking up the mediscanner he went to the door. "Malon?"

"I'll be right there," said Malon. Dival nodded and left.

Kirk was gripping the edge of the window, looking out at the seemingly frail silhouette of his old friend whose anguish seemed to show in every step. "I wish I could speak with him," he said to himself. "Just for a moment, just a few words."

Malon had come silently to his side, and she, too, looked out at McCoy as she put on a loose jacket. "You were told not to, Jim."

His jaw was set. "I won't forget it."

She heard his tone and understood. For a moment she looked at his rigid expression, then she heard herself saying, "No, you won't forget it, but will you obey it?"

He dragged his eyes from the window to look at her. "I must."

"Unless you decide not to. It is a possibility."

He felt suddenly angry, and in his anger switched to icy formality. "Is this some kind of test, Commander?"

"I guess it is," she said quietly. "But not of my making."

She went out the door, leaving him alone at the window, and a few moments later he saw her walking along the beach. She passed by McCoy, and though he saw nothing and knew that McCoy had felt nothing, he knew that Bones mediscanner was now on her belt as she continued down the beach toward his room, where she would master his door's lock and leave the device on his desk.

What had she meant by those strange words? How could he "decide not to" obey Lightfleet High Council orders? Had she meant those words as a warning... or as a suggestion? If they were a suggestion...

He shook his head. Council orders were the final word_, absolutely binding, and certainly not subject to "decision" by an Agent Lieutenant. The best thing he could do would be to give up these false hopes as quickly and completely as possible, and make it easier on himself. He would never speak to McCoy again. McCoy would never know he was alive. The nearest he would ever get to Bones would be like this, seeing his distant figure from behind some window, separated by orders and loyalties, and the rigid rules of a Code Nine. He had, he told himself, already accepted all this as inevitable.

And yet something inside him kept crying out in rebellion.

III

McCoy had walked out far beyond the range of the night lights, and could hardly see where he was going. But the beach was smooth and the solitude was restful, and the gently moving water shone slightly under the faint night stars and the periodic glow of meteors. He kept walking, looking at the lake, and listening to the wind in the trees and the strange, barking call of a Gagarin animal, and tried not to think.

He knew that if he thought about Spock, or the Enterprise, he would feel anxious about not being there, now when they needed him most, and guilt for the burden he had put on Spock by being unable to handle the pain that had faced both of them. And, he knew that if he thought about Jim, the cause of that pain, he would feel agony. And since one of those three subjects lay at the end of every train of thought, and since he wanted above anything else to feel nothing for a few blessed hours, he tried not to think at all.

It made him feel hollow and twisted inside.

He was a good enough psychologist to know he was in trouble. Perhaps that's the problem, he thought abstractly. Perhaps if I understood less about myself, I'd be unable to hold in the sorrow. But I keep trying to control it, to pretend I'm independent of it, and as long as I do that I'll never get over it. I remember Jim used to do the same...

Damn. He'd slipped, and thought, and it had led to Jim.

He tried to distract himself by estimating how far he'd come, and realized, with some surprise, that he'd walked nearly two miles beyond the lighted area by the Residence Center. He had just decided to turn back when he heard something in the darkness ahead, like something falling on the sand.

"Anybody there?" he said cautiously, hoping there wasn't.

For answer there was a muttered curse, and what sounded like a grunt of pain. McCoy moved forward slowly, and called again. "Yes!" came a voice a few yards ahead. "I'm here! Who's there?"

"Leonard McCoy. I'm a doctor; are you all right?"

There was a short silence, and another curse. "I've done something to my ankle."

McCoy fumbled forward, unable to see. "Where are you?"

"Here," said the voice, and suddenly a small light shone in a hand only a few feet away, showing the dim form of a man sitting on the sand. "I feel like a damned fool."

McCoy went down on one knee beside him and groped for his mediscanner, but to his surprise he found it gone. "Seem to have left my scanner in my room," he said.

"Here, use this one," said the man, fumbling at his belt and holding out a mediscanner of his own.

"You a doctor?" said McCoy, accepting it and focusing it on the proffered foot.

"Psychologist. My name's Dival Raymond." Dival held out his hand and McCoy shook it. "I carry that thing for metabolism checks psycho-systematic readings, you know but I don't know much about ankles."

"It's okay," said McCoy, consulting the readings. "No sprain, just a bad twist. You should be able to walk on it."

"Can you give me a hand?"

McCoy gave back the analyzer, took Dival's arm and helped him to his feet. This was the moment Dival had been waiting for, and he opened his empathic sensitivity to McCoy's mental state as fully as he could. McCoy suddenly felt him lurch, and grabbed him just in time to keep him from falling. For a moment he had all of Dival's weight in his arms.

"What the... Here, let's get you down!"

"No, it's okay." Dival's voice sounded shaken, but he had his legs under him again. "Just dizzy for a moment. Must have been the fall."

McCoy remained doubtful. "Can you walk all right?"

"Yes, I think so." He began limping along the beach, back toward the city, and McCoy fell into step beside him, still very much concerned.

For a while they talked of general subjects introducing themselves, discussing the present Klingon crisis, admiring the beauty of the night but all the while Dival was gently probing McCoy's thoughts, and the emotions and pain beneath them. At last he thought he was ready. Ever so delicately, he exerted a gentle mental pressure on McCoy's defenses.

"What brings you out here at this hour?" he said.

"Just walking. And you?"

"The same." He increased the pressure a tiny fraction. "But I started out this morning and misjudged the distance back. You came from the city, you meant to be out here in pitch darkness."

Much to his own surprise, McCoy found himself wanting to talk to this man the way he hadn't wanted to talk to anyone for weeks. Even though he knew the feeling had no basis, he found himself saying, "I'm feeling a little sad, I guess. A friend of mine died."

"That's too bad," said Dival quietly. "I'm sorry. Were you close to him?"

"Several years ago, yes." McCoy swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. "His name was Jim K... Uh, his name was Jim. He was the finest man I've ever known."

"When did he die?"

"Almost two months ago. I was there when it happened... it was..."

"Yes?" prompted Dival, gently.

Grief surged, but McCoy's rising sorrow was choked off by a sudden suspicion. This ready emotion wasn't right, wasn't... natural. He tested his world, his impressions, and found the mental "whiff" that he had learned to recognize but had never learned not to fear. He looked sharply at Dival, and the psychologist felt defenses drop over McCoy's mind like layers of steel. "You said you were a psychologist," McCoy said coldly. "You didn't mention you were also a telepath."

Dival had never experienced such a sudden, devastating failure. He found himself stammering in an effort to save the situation. "I'm sorry, I'm very sorry. I wasn't really aware... I don't always have control over it."

There was a short silence. Then McCoy said, in a quieter tone, "Have you studied on Vulcan?"

Dival began to relax, cautiously. "No, with the Carinae Betans, I always believed I should study on Vulcan, but so far my occasional lapses of control haven't been enough to take me there."

The tension was over; McCoy believed his fabricated story and sympathized, and they returned to general topics until they were again under the beach lights by the Residence Center.

Dival was afraid to try any further "suggestions" at all, but by being desperately delicate he managed to persuade McCoy to accompany him on an excursion to the Southern the next day. They made the final arrangements, and he watched the doctor walk away.

"I hope my strength is enough for you," he thought. "And I have so little time."

IV

Kirk rose from his chair as Dival entered. "Well?" he said, tensely.

Dival sat down wearily on the couch. "He's strong. Very strong."

Kirk smiled slightly, despite his worry. "I told you not to underestimate him."

Malon sat down next to Dival, took the mediscanner from his hand and focused it on him. "You're not just tired, you're seriously weak. What happened?"

The Lightfleet captain drew a deep breath and sank down in his seat. "I started badly. I didn't accurately anticipate the degree of his emotion, and I don't believe you did either, Telas." Kirk stood rigid as Dival continued. "I opened myself to him totally, and... and the grief, the guilt..." The words faded, and, for a few moments, Dival sat in silence, huddled on his couch, remembering what he had felt of McCoy's pain.

He had long ago learned, for his own sake, to shield himself against the intense emotions of the people he tried to help, but he hadn't used those shields for McCoy. He already cared too deeply for the man. Malon and Kirk watched silently while he sank back into the black despair he had felt from McCoy, and allowed that misery to overwhelm him. It was some time before he swallowed and continued unsteadily.

"I'm still shaken. That may have been part of the reason I fumbled the telepathic suggestion. McCoy detected the probe in less than a minute; I can't imagine him doing that without some error on my part, though I thought I was handling it well." He shook his head, puzzled, worried. "It must have been a slip in my control due to Chelacrev, but even so..."

"He's always hated to have his mind tampered with," said Kirk grimly. "Since the time he was probed by the Crirash Universe Spock, he's learned to detect probes as well as a non-telepath can."

Dival's eyes were fixed on Kirk. "A probe when he was in Crirash? I hadn't heard of this."

Kirk heard the tension in his tone, and understood. Crirash that savage, alternate universe which Kirk, Uhura, McCoy and Scott had once accidentally entered was an exact replica of this one, with the exception that its Velonians had not survived the destruction of Shev, and no Lightfleet had tempered its growth. Crirash was sharp, shocking evidence of the tiny margin by which the Velonians had survived, and a constant reminder of the consequences of Lightfleet failure. Lightships could enter it at will, though they rarely did so, and the Velonians had learned enough of it to see it as a symbol of disaster.

Now Kirk briefly described the circumstances that had led to McCoy's being alone with that harsh, alternate Spock, and to the ruthless telepathic ransacking of McCoy's defenseless mind. When he finished, Dival's face was rigid and pale.

"Shev aer os," he murmured. "No wonder. Then telepathy will continue to be dangerous. I wish I had more time, and could forfeit the telepathy altogether, but therapy can't be done through conversation alone in only two weeks. I'm fairly sure now that the Meld will be the only way, outside of calling in another Lightfleet psychologist, and after sensing McCoy's strength I think a lanelized mind may be the only kind powerful enough to do what must be done."

"And just what exactly has to be done? Can you be specific?"

Dival glanced up at Kirk and smiled a little. "It's far too complicated for specifics at this point, Telas. McCoy must face his feelings, and himself. It is in a way very little, but it is everything."

"But can he be made to do that? Isn't it...?"

Malon touched his shoulder with her hand, and with a gesture cautioned him to silence. Dival was resting his face in his hand, and she signaled quickly, "He is exhausted. Let him rest."

Kirk looked at Dival, nodded, and turned away reluctantly. He had so many questions, so many worries. But Dival's welfare was as important as McCoy's, and the captain urgently needed rest.

He wished he could have greater faith in Dival. He stared out the window and mentally reviewed all the reasons for having confidence in him. But Bones was strong, was experienced, and would very likely give Dival, in these all-too-short weeks, the challenge of his career. Kirk wished he knew Dival better, wished he had a better understanding of the Velonians themselves that could help him trust Dival's talents and power.

Even after years of experience with the Velonians he still found them a mystery. They were humanoid, they had an objective and expressive language, they related to him in a friendly and direct way, but on some deeper level he sensed that they were ultimately alien to him in ways too great to overcome. Their priorities and values were different from his. They had no career ambition; no money, no wealth, no ruling class, none of the goals that determined the course of growth in all the other space-going races Kirk knew. They sang songs to their land, they danced to every emotion they had or dreamed of, they turned their running into mystical experiences, they had words for every shade of feeling and sensation they knew. And while they had founded Lightfleet, sustained and organized it and given much of their energies toward its goals, Kirk knew that none of them liked it, or its militarism, or the sterility and strain of its ships and lifestyles, even while they accepted all these things as necessary. Even Dival, accomplished psychologist and captain that he was, actively disliked ship command, and considered the raising of children, and the tending of trees more important than the pursuit of any Lightfleet career. Kirk had tried, but he couldn't understand them, or their culture, or their basic needs and desires, or their reasons for what they did; he had no real feeling for their way of thought, though he knew others like Malon did have some grasp of it.

Yet, he must depend on a Velonian to save McCoy...

He rubbed his eyes. Some part of him was deeply tired, but he was sure sleep was impossible. He felt a sudden need to get away, to go for a walk somewhere alone, perhaps along the cool beach. Dival had already stretched out on his couch and was breathing in the slow, steady rhythms of sleep, but when Kirk looked over at Malon he found her watching him.

"You want to be alone, don't you?" she said quietly.

He nodded. "You're not going to sleep tonight?"

"I hadn't planned on it. But you should. It's been a long day for you."

He had been expecting this, but instead of arguing he merely gazed at her, openly studying the fatigue in her own face, the drawn lines and dark weariness in her eyes. She understood his unspoken comment and looked away, and the fatigue in her face deepened as some of her control fell away.

"Yes, I know. But until I've worked out some questions in my mind I won't be able to sleep, even if I want to."

Kirk watched her for a moment, suddenly aware that in all his concern about McCoy he had almost forgotten about her mission and the stress she was still trying to handle. He realized this was largely her doing. She had her own special kind of Vulcan reserve, a silence that went deeper than words spoken or unspoken, so instinctive and basic as to keep her true self hidden from those around her, despite her expressive surface. Yet what she had said about working out questions before she could sleep was an openness which transcended that silence, and which confused him. Who was Malon? How was he to deal with someone who seemed to be Human, Vulcan and Velonian simultaneously? He wondered if she knew how to deal with herself. He felt a surge of compassion for her, and the emotion showed in his tone as he said, "Is there any way I can help you?"

She looked at him, questioning, probing. "The desire to help is help in itself, Jim. But we are too alike, you and I. We can give each other no answers, for as yet we have none to give ourselves. I think for me the answers will come from my Chylan, or they won't come at all."

From her Family? Yes, Malon did have a kind of Family of her own her husband and son, and some close friends such as Thia and Dival to whom she could turn. But Kirk realized suddenly that he had no one, no one at all. With a growing sense of desolation, he murmured, "Perhaps there aren't any answers."

There was a long silence before she said in a low tone, "Perhaps there aren't."

A TIME TO HEAL

I

The next week was very hard, on Kirk and Malon, largely because they had little to do except watch Dival grow more tense and feverish with his approaching Chelacrev, and listen to his periodic reports about McCoy, which, while not exactly pessimistic, were certainly not encouraging.

At first Dival relied heavily on Kirk for opinions and personal history about McCoy. But gradually, with the help of some further careful "suggestions" but also through a natural affinity between the two of them, he formed a fairly close friendship with McCoy. Soon he knew the doctor better than Kirk did, and the long conversations, which had been Kirk's one assurance that he was helping his friend, came to an end. Kirk and Malon were left almost entirely to themselves.

The only time they could talk to Dival in depth about McCoy was during breakfast, which the doctor preferred to eat alone. It was during one of these breakfasts that Kirk asked Dival how his Chelacrev was affecting him.

The Captain's eyes were now bright with fever, but he spoke as calmly as ever. "It is a controllable distraction. I can ignore it at will. In another few days, however, it will become dominant, affecting even my sight and hearing. By the time that happens, I must be on Indel."

"The tapes say it is a very pleasant experience."

Dival laughed. "'Pleasant' is not a suitable word. Chelacrev cannot be described any more than love can be described; it must be experienced." He thought for a moment and made an effort. "There is a euphoria," he said slowly, "and sometimes hallucinations. In one of my previous Chelacrevs, I thought I was in a Velonian forest when actually I was in a room on Indel. It is like a unity with the Universe itself. There is song, and words, and the spirit of the Child takes form from the song, the words and the unity. All this is not 'pleasant,' it is... it is 'ecstasy,' it is 'exultation'... Your language has no words for it. But then the Child must be Formed, and that is exhausting. My very life flows out of me into the Child. But I see you don't understand. As I said, it cannot be described."

Kirk, indeed, did not understand, but he appreciated Dival's trying. "Does it come on gradually with you? I've heard it varies."

"Yes. I know with Zhen Lonean it can come on within a few minutes. With me, it usually takes several hours. I will have warning, I expect no surprises."

A few minutes later he was gone. Kirk found himself facing yet another day of anxious boredom, and announced irritably that he was again going to the city.

Malon finished her breakfast alone. She, too, had had more than enough tedium, but the strain of maintaining her Vulcan image in the city was more than she wanted to endure. It was hard enough here, in the more rural atmosphere of the Residence Center where she could at least find solitude if not peace.

She spent the day as she had spent all the days before; walking on the beach, exploring the nearby woods and seeking out lonely, little-used paths in an attempt to escape the crowds of the Residence Center area. It was a beautiful day and she tried to appreciate it, but her search for peace failed, for yet another day. She was tired, so tired of her own tension, and of the thoughts and images that whirled relentlessly in her mind, but she could fine no release from them, no way to escape them. And, she kept thinking about Kirk, and the anguish she saw, in his eyes whenever he looked at McCoy. The day dragged by, and she remained as wracked with conflict and as far from finding answers as ever before.

It was late afternoon when she returned, tired and discouraged, to the apartment. When she reached it she found Dival there.

"I thought you were out with McCoy," she said in surprise.

"We're going to the Western Shore for the evening," said Dival. "McCoy is packing some food. He'll be here when he's ready to leave; it shouldn't be long."

She accepted this in silence, relieved that she would soon have the apartment to herself. She walked across the room to her equipment case, and stood beside it indecisively. Dival watched her for a moment. He knew she was upset and strained, but also knew she would hide it unless she were caught off-guard. He, too, was tired but he had some time (too little, he thought, always too little) and spoke with a careful lack of seriousness.

"You're worried about Telas, aren't you?"

She hesitated, then spoke without looking at him. "Yes. He resents both you and me, and hates the situation he's in. He's holding it all inside himself; the trust is gone. I think he may be considering something drastic."

"What do you think that 'something' is?"

"I'm not sure," she said slowly.

"Malon, Telas isn't the only one lacking in trust. You've been speaking only half your mind ever since you returned from Shabas. Now what you wanted to say was that you're afraid Telas will reveal himself to McCoy."

She met his gaze reluctantly. "Yes, that's right."

"And I can guess, from your expression, that you share my hope that he will."

She stared at him. "We agree on this?"

He smiled. "Do you think that if James Kirk rationally decided to disobey Lightfleet orders to bring certain happiness to a loved friend especially such a man as McCoy, who deserves all the respect Telas or you or I could give him - that anyone in the Fleet would blame him? High Councilor Tenir himself would accept such a decision."

"I would have believed that if Tenir hadn't directly told Jim not to alter the Code Nine; that puts the situation on a much stricter level."

"Tenir did what he felt was necessary. That Code Nine is critical, and it would be, by far, best for Lightfleet if Telas honored it. But everyone in Lightfleet trusts Telas; he is one of us. He has risked his life for us, and has proved his good judgment a hundred times over. He knows the consequences of his behavior; he will do nothing hastily. Don't you trust him?" he asked suddenly.

"Of course," she said, startled. "It's just that... that..." The words failed.

He spoke very gently. "Its Lightfleet itself you don't trust, isn't it?"

There was a long silence. Malon stared out the window at the lake, trying to find the truth within herself. "I suppose so," she said at last, almost inaudibly. "I always felt as though I were part of the Fleet, as though we all cared for each other the way people don't in most other places. The militarism seemed necessary for doing an unpleasant job; all the orders and rules and ranks were secondary to the real unity, trust and care beneath." Her hands tightened suddenly over the tricorder. "But when Korenkar..." She stopped, paused, then spoke without expression. "We were talking about Jim."

Dival could feel her pain as an almost tangible force, but he avoided a direct comment. "Lightfleet exerts an unusual kind of pressure on its members. There are no careers to lose, no punishments for disobedience, no real rewards for achievement besides gratitude. The pressure we endure comes not from orders and ambition but from our own understanding of the need for haste and success, and of the consequences of failure. Telas feels this, but he doesn't understand it clearly, and he needs to be told. He still thinks of orders as the rigid edicts they are in Starfleet. He doesn't yet understand that Lightfleet feels as much responsibility to him, and his needs, as he feels to it, and its needs."

"I tried to suggest that to him, the first day we were here. But he didn't believe me or didn't understand. What do you think he will do?"

He shook his head, genuinely worried. "I can't say. He knows that if he reveals himself, the only answer would be to recruit McCoy into Lightfleet, and recruitment of a top-ranking Starfleet officer has never before even been tried. But if in the face of the danger, and knowing Lightfleet's need, he chooses McCoy's happiness, I'll gladly accept his decision, and support it." He continued carefully. "It's the same with you; if you, at the final moment, had refused to kill Korenkar and Elkoric..."

"No." She seemed outwardly composed, but he could feel her trembling. "I must think it was necessary, Dival. If I felt I had a choice, that it didn't have to happen..."

"You can't reject the authority you were given," he said gravely, though he was tense with worry at this unwonted illogic. "You knew it was in your power to choose whether you would kill, but given the circumstances your choice was quickly made. Telas was in the same situation, and he, too, had to choose..."

"It was not the same. I took lives, Dival!"

"For you, that was worse. For Telas, what he did was worse. I know what you went through..."

The words lashed out. "You have no comprehension!"

For a flashing instant, she ripped her control away and her memories burst into Dival's unsuspectingly open mind. In a vertigo of blood and death, he reeled back a step before his vision cleared and reality ended his low cry. He stared at her, shocked and sickened by the sudden vision. "Malon..."

"I was a very fine killer, wasn't I?" she said icily. "I doubt anyone could have handled the two murders better. My training stood me in good stead; all that work in the gyms, all the sparring and running and practice that was to enable me to fight with no danger to my opponents, the ultimate achievement in combat. Do you realize what an instrument of destruction I could become, Dival? A veritable killing-machine..."

"But..."

"Let me finish!" Her eyes were blazing, her features set and hard. "We have all been taught and have believed that no being deserves death for being what it is, for being a product of its culture and background. However much harm they might be doing to their people or to themselves, our perspective is too limited to determine their right to life, or their lack of it. Through all the years of my training, I knew that no matter how good I became, I would never be asked to kill. But when the time came, when they could find no other solution, they accepted the need to kill, and they came directly to me. We have spoken of trust; my trust was betrayed!"

"You didn't have to take the mission," said Dival, still shaken from the images of the deaths, but rallying his strength for Malon's sake. "You could have refused."

"No, I couldn't. There was no one else close to me in talent, the chances of success would have plummeted if I hadn't."

"Exactly."

She faltered. "What?"

He wanted so much to reach out to her, to express somehow his compassion and understanding. But she was on guard and defensive, afraid to give way to free emotion that could overwhelm her. He spoke tenderly, in Velonian. "The loyalty you felt for the Fleet and its need, and the love you felt for the peoples you saved; these governed you in the final moment. You gave yourself, your integrity, for them. Can you really feel that was wrong?"

She was bewildered by the suggestion, but then her face hardened. "You make it sound so noble, and it was not. I could feel quite self-righteous about Korenkar. But I don't dare. I can't afford the luxury."

"That's right. None of us can afford the luxury. I don't think any of us should even try to think that the killing was a good thing, for it wasn't. But not killing would have been worse. For your own sake, you must accept neither choice as 'good.' Don't be afraid to feel bad about what you did; it's better, by far, than to feel good about it. But accept the fact that it was necessary, and that you chose the better of two painful paths. Not all peace is good, not all guilt is evil, and not all answers should be taken for the sake of solace."

She looked up at him, her eyes troubled and tired. "Dark words, Dival."

"No, not dark. Think about them, Malon. They don't speak of despair. They..."

A buzz interrupted him. He hesitated, but there was no way to delay. "Come," he said, turning to the door.

The door slid aside and McCoy stood there, dark against the bright sky behind him.

"I'm ready," Dival smiled. "Come in; this is my assistant, T'Peva."

McCoy stepped inside a little self-consciously, not really wanting a social exchange with a stranger. He located T'Peva where she stood motionless by a table, and forced a smile. "Glad to meet you, ma'am."

The Vulcan nodded slightly. "I am honored, Doctor."

McCoy's smile faded. These days any reminder of Spock was painful, but there was something especially disturbing about T'Peva. Something in the timbre of her voice, in the intensity of her gaze that indicated equally intense feelings behind it, kept tightly in control.

"We'll be back in a few hours, T'Peva," Dival said, and gestured to the door.

McCoy turned and went out the door in silence. Dival joined him and paused to arrange his pack over his shoulders. McCoy's smile returned as he watched the brief struggle. T'Peva had reminded him acutely of Spock, but Dival reminded him of no one he had ever known before. At once confidant and shy, wise and innocent, prone to odd silences and to long, searching stares that often ended in strange smiles... No, those things were puzzling but secondary. McCoy frowned briefly, unable to define what made Dival unique. For a moment as Dival stood looking up at the tall trees that dotted the lawn, McCoy caught a glimpse of the elusive quality in his face. Then Dival flashed a smile at him, and the moment was over. McCoy thought perhaps he would never understand, but it didn't bother him; the warm contentment he felt just being with Dival was enough.

Malon stood at the window and watched them as they crossed the lawn already deep in conversation, McCoy walking in his customary slouch and Dival shortening his stride to match but not quite able to conceal his unhuman grace. She watched them until they had vanished in the direction of the public transport station, her mind whirling.

She tried to sort out her thoughts, but Dival's words were already clear. It was true. There was no "answer" to her conflict, no way to rationalize the contradiction in her values. She must live with her memories, and her guilt, for the rest of her life, yet somehow that was a consolation. For now she knew she would not have to give up a part of herself, the part that rejected violence and death, in order to live with what she had done.

Something surged inside her, her grief buried itself in her throat and with a blessed sense of relief, she let herself cry. It felt wonderful to cry, wonderful to know that she could let her feelings out and that life would go on. She kept forgetting, in the pressures and responsibilities of her life, that it was all right to cry, that it was all right to have no answers and to be afraid and unsure, that this was a fate shared by all. It was shared by Kirk and McCoy, with their tortured friendship, by the dead on the Klingon border, by Lightfleet itself and its immense burden which it knew it could not meet and yet would never stop trying, by the whole, struggling Galaxy.

The door open and closed. Kirk's low, worried voice reached her. "Malon!"

She looked at him through swimming eyes and shook her head, unable to speak.

Kirk had never seen Malon cry. It seemed like a basic contradiction: like a bird under water. He moved forward slowly until he could reach out and gently almost gingerly touch her shoulders, and his expression said what words could not.

She swallowed, and found her voice. "I'm all right, Jim," she said rustily. "Perhaps for the first time in a long while."

An hour later Kirk still had not discovered what was going on. He asked tentative questions, while, with growing energy, she washed her face, programmed herself a dinner and ate it with unprecedented appetite, but her answers, though seemingly direct, bewildered him.

"What do you mean, the answer is that there aren't any answers?" he demanded finally. "What do you mean you gave up your honor for your honor? I don't understand any of this!"

She grinned and leaned back in her chair. Her tension was gone; she felt tired and yet strangely fresh, and was reluctant to spend any more time over explanations. "Don't worry, Jim. Command officers break down regularly; it has to do with the moons."

"The moons Okay, I believe it. It makes as much sense as anything else." He studied her amused smile and her relaxed sprawl, and his tone softened. "You can tell me when you're ready. Right now I'm just glad to see you happy, for once."

Malon shook her head. "We've made a fine, melancholy pair, we two. A good team to help Dival work with McCoy; cheerful, confident, strong..."

"Will you answer a question for me?"

Malon looked at him, was surprised by his suddenly thoughtful expression. "If I can."

He hesitated, seeking the right words. "Would you break your word to save your own life?"

She paused, startled by the question, then answered levelly. "Probably not. Under some conditions my honor might be less important than my life, especially if other lives depended on it. But I rarely give my word, and I haven't broken it yet."

"Then, you'd break your word to save someone else's life?"

"I haven't the right to place my honor over another's life, but again it might depend on circumstances. What is the point of these questions?"

He was silent for a while, then sighed. "I'm not even sure. I've been trying to understand the Velonian concept of 'honor,' but it seems to be very complicated."

She nodded. "You're thinking of the opposing demands on your honor made by Lightfleet and McCoy."

"Yes." Again he had to search for words. "I don't see how I could disobey Lightfleet; that would mean betraying a trust I hold sacred. But... Well, my loyalty to Bones is just as real, and I can't believe that what I did to him was right, no matter what honor demanded."

Malon's eyes fell. Kirk was laboring under the same confusion that had trapped her, but he was less familiar with Velonian philosophy than she and would have more trouble grasping the concept of losing honor for honor's sake. Yet she knew that he needed to have it within his grasp. But how to explain what even to her was more felt than reasoned... Reason...

Malon normally had a slight but definite Vulcan accent, but now as she began to speak it was so strong that Kirk was reminded sharply of T'Pau, and he frowned as he watched her and listened to her slow words.

"I remember a time on Vulcan, when I was a student there... There was a man in one of my kelafantim you would call it, perhaps, a philosophy seminar. We discussed a question of honor, and it was concluded that if one directed one's life correctly, then one's honor would never conflict with the needs of the greater good. But I spoke to this man afterwards, guessing that he was as unsatisfied as was I with this conclusion. It is hard to translate, but what he said comes to this:

'There are many calls on one's honor, and most are direct and easily answered. But there are times when the most honorable act might be the sacrifice of one's word or even one's morality for the sake of a greater good. The word might be useless thenceforth, and the morality hollow, but true honor might not allow otherwise. There are times when honor demands its own destruction.'

"When I was faced with the necessity of killing Korenkar and Elkoric, those words attained new meaning. Had I kept my morality and refused to kill, there would still be war among the Empires; would I truly have retained my honor by such a decision? Is honor a matter of rules and promises, or is it something deeper, coming from each person's experience and perspective on what is best and right?

"I knew that man; I know of no one who cared for his honor more deeply. But the last thing he said to me that day was, 'It may be better to live with one's oaths broken, and word useless, than to hold them more important than all other things. From such inflexibility and self-interest has great evil come in past days, and will always come until we all are much more wise than we are now.

She looked up into his sober gaze. "I am not counseling you to betray your loyalty to Lightfleet Jim. But do not let promises and rules be your only guides, for they are too rigid to be infallible and universal, and no one in Lightfleet believes otherwise."

Kirk opened his mouth, but the words were a long time coming."I can't believe you're saying this. You, of all people, I should have thought would stand by Council orders to the end."

"But Council orders simply aren't as important as..." She stopped, frustrated by her inability to explain. "Everyone in Lightfleet has a dual allegiance," she resumed slowly. "We come from cultures all over the Galaxy. We left behind many things heritage, friends, family that we cared for and that shaped our growth. How could we deny our bond with them? To do so would be to deny who we are. We would become creatures of Lightfleet instead of individuals, political agents instead of people, and Lightfleet would become a nightmare.

"We all know that Lightfleet as an organization probably has more capacity for evil than any other organization in this galaxy. No amount of rules and regulations can guard against its misuse; only the people who comprise it can do that. We trust Lightfleet because we trust each other, and that mutual trust based on observation and instincts too subtle to be named is the foundation of our loyalty. Jim, your first duty is always to yourself. Whatever you decide to do about McCoy, we all will assume you did what you think is right, and therefore what you had to do. Whatever comes of it, you will not be blamed."

He stared at her. "That's even worse! Such responsibility..."

"...yes, to those who trust you. It is far greater than the responsibility to rules and regulations, and much harder to bear." Again she looked thoughtful. "Another thing that man said..."

"Who the hell was this 'man' of yours? I thought you had no friends on Vulcan."

"I didn't." She studied him with a strange smile. "Should I tell you, I wonder? I've often wondered what thousand questions you would ask if you knew that I knew Spock when he was young."

His mouth fell open and stayed that way. "Spock!?" he exploded finally. "You... You mangy half-Vulcan, why didn't you tell me before?"

"You never asked me. I haven't seen him in... Shev, it's been twenty-seven years, and I know a good deal less about him than you do."

"How did you know him? And where? Were you close?"

She laughed. "I knew him because we were students at the Vulcan Science Academy and were both emphasizing space physics. Since he and I were among the top students we were in some of the same projects, but we were not 'close' in any sense of the word. Many people knew Spock; in fact, it was hard not to know him. It was hard not to know me, either, for rather different reasons, and, both being half-human, I think we kept a surreptitious eye on each other. But that was the limit of it. I was recruited into Lightfleet and he believes me dead, as does all of Vulcan."

"There was no... er, no... intimate...?"

Her eyes gleamed dangerously. "There was nothing of the kind, and get that hopeful look off your face."

"Tell me all about him."

She sighed, heavily. "Do you realize that if I hadn't mentioned his name we would still be talking about something much more important? For the last time, there is nothing more to tell."

"He believes you dead?"

"All Vulcan believes me dead. Like you, my recruitment was camouflaged by an apparent space accident, though my crash was Lightfleet planned. That is why..."

The door chimed. Kirk sat up, and they exchanged glances. It couldn't be McCoy, and they knew no one else here. Kirk surged off the couch, and vanished into the nearest bedroom. He opened the emergency subcom channel to the Charisma, just in case they had to make a sudden departure via its transporter, then stood listening by the door.

Malon rose to her feet, gathering her poise. "Come."

The door opened, and a Vulcan man stepped in to face her. He was tall, his dark hair streaked with silver, his gray tunic overlaid with the blue and white geometric patterns that proclaimed him a Master Logician. He raised his hand in the Vulcan salute, his expression as unreadable as his voice. "Live long and prosper, T'Peva. I am Serav."

She returned the salute automatically. "Peace and long life, Serav. Your name is known to me." This was an understatement; she could hardly have been more startled if T'Pau herself had walked in. Serav was a key figure in Federation politics, though his influence was better known by Lightfleet members, than by the general Federation population.

"Forgive me for coming unannounced, but I have a pressure of time upon me in my need to speak with you."

Her face showed no sign of her tension as she nodded. "It is well. How may I be of service?"

"There has been a cessation of Klingon attacks along the Federation border during the past seventeen days. As yet the Federation has received no reliable information as to the reason for this change of tactics. It is vital that we learn the Klingons intentions, so that we may adequately prepare for defense, offense or negotiations."

She nodded. She could have told him exactly what was going on: the Princess Malvara was waiting until the Klingon Fleet had withdrawn and was fully in her control before contacting the Federation with news of the change in power, and her intentions for peace. But she tried to look properly interested as he continued.

"I have been asked to organize an Anafeela so that we may advise the Federation with the most accurate logical conclusions that can be drawn."

Again she nodded. "The Network of Thought, and the Focused Circle." Lightfleet used them frequently in its decision-making, but she was finding this proposal almost farcical; she, who had killed Korenkar and Elkoric, was being asked to help determine why the attacks had stopped... "You wish me to participate? I am honored. When is it to be held?"

"I regret that it will begin in 47.2 minutes, in my chambers. I did not know you were on Gagarin until today, when by special privilege, I was allowed to check the personnel records."

She feigned a moment of doubt. "That is little time to prepare, but I understand that such short notice was unavoidable. I will come now, if you will wait while I leave a message for Doctor Raymond."

He nodded agreement, making clear by the subtlest signs that he would appreciate it if she didn't take her time.

Kirk was less calm. "What is this 'Anafeela?' And why does Serav want you?"

She was attaching a small recorder to her belt. "T'Peva is supposed to be a Class I Logician with a side-specialty in politics and a high security rating. An Anafeela is a kind of Vulcan council, where specialists in the chosen topic pool their knowledge and debate it until all the logical progressions are established. Then, we pool our intelligence telepathically, which creates a kind of mass mind, and hopefully we come up with some answers. It's done only during crises. I'd already heard of this one: the best Vulcan minds in the quadrant have been assembling for it for the past week, and a lot of important people are waiting for its results."

"Why should you go? You already know the answers."

She slipped her phaser, which she rarely went without, into the medikit on her belt. "It's an invaluable chance to learn how the Federation is experiencing what's going on. And the results of this council will be very influential in determining Starfleet military policies." She slipped her wrist scanner up her arm under her sleeve, and paused by the door. "It should take all night; I'll be back in the morning. When Dival comes back, tell him he may want to come eavesdrop telepathically, if he's not too tired."

He felt apprehensive about the whole idea, but his fears were too vague for argument. "Don't take any wooden nickels," he said gloomily.

"Wooden what?"

"Never mind. Just be careful."

The door hissed open and closed, and she was gone.

II

McCoy paused, stopping on the sand and staring off over the smooth dark water of the lake. "Tragic," he said to himself.

Dival, several steps behind, almost didn't catch the word. "Tragic? What is tragic?"

For a long time McCoy didn't answer. Dival waited, watching the man's haggard profile, black against the lingering red of the dying sunset.

"Jim was tragic," said McCoy at last. "I've been trying to describe what impressed me most when I saw him last. It was an air of tragedy, tragedy in the classical sense. Of knowing his flaws and his fatal imperfections, and having to live with them. I don't think I've ever known a man so tragic."

The words faded away. Dival sighed silently.

All through this long day Dival had tried with every bit of skill and compassion he had, sparing none of his strength, to bring McCoy's feelings to the surface, to help him release, at last, the pain and grief he was holding so tightly inside him. But McCoy had spent too many years controlling his emotional needs to relax his defenses now; even under the pressures Dival was skillfully placing on him. Even from here, several yards away, Dival could feel McCoy's grief like an entity in itself, pushing against Dival's fevered mind in threatening chaos. And, still, McCoy was intellectualizing. Tragic...

"What does that mean to you?" said Dival, knowing he wouldn't receive a direct answer.

McCoy looked at him evenly. "Have you ever known loss, Dival?"

"Yes, Why?"

"What did it mean to you?"

The Velonian spoke very quietly, finding the Velonian concept hard to express in English. "It meant... loss. It meant the same then as it does now, and the same now as it will all my life. The loss is there, it is enduring, it is a part of me, and always will be. As such, I respect and cherish it; the memories it holds, and the changes it made in me. The moment of the loss, with its shock and grief, is over and gone, but the loss is eternal, as it should be."

"I don't understand."

"Don't you? Think back on your other times of loss. Loss is one of the many things that bring wisdom."

McCoy's voice was bitter. "I don't believe in the value of wisdom through grief."

Dival explained patiently. "I didn't say grief brings wisdom. It is the thought the overview following the grief that allows wisdom. But you know this; you're a doctor." He moved to McCoy and lightly touched his shoulder, projecting his compassion and sympathy with everything he had. "Feel your grief, Len. Accept it, and all it implies. Don't be afraid of yourself."

The urgency of Dival's emotions broke through some of McCoy's defenses. For a moment McCoy trembled as his own emotions pressed toward the surface, and a thought came wildly, "I could let it all out... it's not so terrible... I could go ahead and..." But the moment passed, and the thought was gone. McCoy turned and looked into Dival's eyes, saw the anxiety and desperate appeal, and felt a wrench of grief that he couldn't relieve this man who felt things so deeply. "I'm sorry, Dival," he whispered. There seemed nothing more to say. He turned away and continued down the path, and the compassion he felt for Dival was now an added pain.

Dival looked after him with a sinking feeling, then wearily followed. It was too much, he thought. McCoy's grief and guilt were too much for either of them to bear. These days had proved that. Tomorrow he would take the long-resisted step of the Possessive Meld, and do what he could to release the inhibitions that were plaguing the doctor.

It was something of a relief to have made the decision, but he felt no peace. To seize this man's mind and force it into the proper channels... It was a violence he could never fully accept, even while he steeled himself to it for McCoy's sake. It seemed almost like rape. His stomach heaved as he remembered what McCoy had been subjected to in Crirash. To repeat that kind of violation even with gentleness and care, and with the purpose of helping McCoy resolve his torment was alien to his wishes, to his nature, to his very soul. It was a violation of telepathic ethics over 25,000 years old, dating back to the very birth of telepathic therapy, in the days of Shev.

Shev...

He sighed. He had spoken only a partial truth to McCoy. Yes, he had known loss, and yes, it was and would always be a part of him. But he had said that the grief itself had passed, and that was untrue. No member of his race was without the loss or the grief, for the loss was the loss of Shev, and the grief was for his dying people.

He glanced up at the sky. The stars of Gagarin were faint and few compared to Indel's skies, not to mention Velona's, but they were stars, and the old thought flashed once again through his mind; "Where in all that vastness is Shev?" The Ancient Planet, the home of his race. He found himself wishing, as he had not wished since he was a child, that he could see its silver-green fields, the enormous trees of its ancient forests, the shining peaks of its vast mountain chains as they were still remembered in song and in dance. And, he had dared to deny his grief to McCoy? His grief was as great as the doctor's, and with much less chance of recovery. For life could go on after any number of deaths, but with Shev lost forever the Velonians very spirit was dying.

Unbidden, an old song came to his mind:

"Voreni, Creveli o Lianti

Shev yloreni assaer

Simalza o astana

Ethavavlorien..."

"What's that, Dival?" said McCoy, pausing ahead. "I don't recognize the language."

Dival felt chilled; had he been singing the Velonian words aloud? "I... I don't know," he fabricated quickly. "I can't even remember where I learned it."

McCoy frowned, puzzled by Dival's hasty, nervous words. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Of course." He managed to put strength and enthusiasm into his voice.

McCoy turned and continued along the path. Dival followed, feeling shaken. His fever must be getting out of hand; never before had he committed such a blunder as to speak Velonian words aloud among strangers. His people's language, which once had been known throughout the galaxy, was a matter of strictest secrecy. Everything was secret; their home, their appearance, their language, their songs, all were forced into hiding. He found his eyes dimming with tears, and wondered at them. It had been years since the exile of his race had brought him to tears, but to have to lie to McCoy, hide his true self from him and from the whole galaxy through the years, the centuries, the millennia...

The tears clouded his vision, and impatiently he removed the disguising contacts. He paused as he tried to remember why he was wearing them, but it was such a relief to have full vision again that they only seemed ridiculous, and he threw them away.

He drew a deep breath, and looked again at the sky. Somehow this time the dim stars seemed brighter, larger, nearer. He was puzzled, wondering where he had seen those constellations before. Again the song crept into his thoughts:

"Mena hund Ezas

Mena hund Tom

Seranta eno Isvelan..."

He forgot the stars as he realized he was again singing aloud. What was wrong with him? It seemed that he should know, but it all seemed so vague... He puzzled over it for some time, but his thoughts had turned back to Shev by the time he again happened to look at the sky.

He stopped still, forgetting everything else in staring at the stars. They glowed in blazing constellations like burning jewels; torches that swept the darkness away. The hills and trees around him glistened with color. Now, too late, as he stared up at the pageant, he realized that this was illusion, the euphoria of the Chelacrev.

"Shev ano cori!" he whispered. "It's beginning!"

It was coming early, days too early, but now that it had been started, it could not be stopped. Had he not been concentrating so hard on others all day Malon and McCoy he could have recognized the earliest signs and arrested the process. But now... He tried to calculate; did he have time to reach the city? Did he even have time to speak? Already he was losing touch with reality.

"What is it, Dival?" McCoy was standing before him, peering through the darkness, trying to see his face. "You aren't well!"

"Len," said Dival urgently, "I must leave you here. You mustn't follow me, do you understand?" He studied McCoy's worried face, now bright in the strangely illuminated world that glimmered around him. "I must be alone for a while."

"What's wrong?" McCoy insisted.

"I'll be all right. But I must be alone!" He was finding it hard to speak, even to remember what he was trying to say. "Go back to the city, and tell... T'Peva. She'll understand."

"But I can't leave you alone here!"

Dival groped for words as language left him. "Please, Len... Tell Central... es entala... es embradela lomleni-lo..." The words slipped from him, and the world with them. He felt only relief as the great forests of Shev rose to shine around him. He stood free, flooded with the power of his ancestors, under the blazing Shevian stars. "Ema a ela Ratha ena," he breathed in joy. Music throbbed through the earth and swept into the air, and words of soul-tearing truth shuddered through him. In the center of a Song, of Words, of the Universe, he reached out and began to form the soul of a new being, made of song itself, and of his love and his longing for Ancient Shev.

"I don't understand!" McCoy said. "Dival, I think you should..."

But he fell suddenly silent, for he realized that Dival was no longer hearing him. He activated his hand light, and found himself staring into great, dark, wise eyes that seemed to be looking into his own, and yet were sightless, or rather seemed to be seeing something else. Hesitantly, he took Dival's shoulders and gave him a slight shake. "Dival?" But the man didn't respond.

It was some kind of trance, McCoy realized. And since Dival was apparently of some alien race (though he suddenly couldn't remember Dival ever having claimed he was human) perhaps it wasn't even pathological. He groped for his mediscanner and focused it on the still man before him.

Dival's camouflaging medical transmitters had been overloaded and neutralized by the lanel power of his Chelacrev; there was nothing to keep the truth from McCoy. And what the doctor read in the first three seconds sent him backing ten feet away in the greatest bewilderment and shock of his professional life.

CHELACREV

I

Malon sat in her chair with the proper degree of poise, her expression set in the correct attitude of thoughtful attention, and kept her silence. There was little else she could do. The debate around her carried on in formal High Vulcan, which, being out of practice, she was having some difficulty following was an intelligent one, but on so much lower an informational level that she could think of no way of participating without revealing that she was holding something back. And, in this group, that would never do.

Serav was a sharp, penetrating questioner, and under his leadership the best ideas of each member were being drawn out and examined in depth. The discussion benefited enormously from the presence of a leading political scientist, Soran of Vulcan, and Starfleet Lieutenant-Commander Stas, who had spent the past eight years patrolling the Klingon border in a Federation espionage ship. The discussion would have benefited far more from the revelation that Malon had killed the Klingon Prince and the Lord of the Military, but of course she could say neither of these things, and the answers in the debate remained far from the truth.

They had been debating for hours when the door chimed. It was now very late, and a surprised silence fell. Serav rose without a word and went to the door, and they heard him speaking to someone outside. Then he returned, the newcomer behind him.

"I am pleased to announce that due to a change of patrol scheduling, the Enterprise is in orbit around Gagarin. We have the honor of welcoming Captain Spock to our company."

The group rose in unison and murmured greeting, formality covering their excitement at the addition of this well-known logician and captain to their debate. But Malon felt a rush of tension, replaced by the hyper-alertness that kept her ready for instant action.

Spock! How had he come here? Why had she not been warned? Then with a sick feeling she realized it had been a full 36 hours since she had last checked on the military status of the Gagarin sector. She would pay for that carelessness now; if he recognized her, it would be disastrous.

Serav was making introductions, and the Vulcans were exchanging formal greetings. She would just have to take the chance that 27 years had been too long a time. She nodded her head as her name was mentioned. "Spock," she said crisply.

Spock looked at her, and for a moment he said nothing. Then, smoothly, "T'Peva, I am honored."

The introductions continued. Malon drew a long, silent breath, not yet daring to relax. Spock hadn't recognized her... or had he? Or was he uncertain, and only waiting for more time? She had changed much in 27 years, and he had believed her dead all that time...

They sat down, and the discussion resumed, Serav summarizing the basic issues of the debate for Spock. Spock listened attentively, finding it all as interesting as he had expected. But he found it hard to immerse himself in the debate, as he'd planned. Where had he seen that woman before? He had the distinct feeling that he had once known her, and a less distinct feeling that she shouldn't be here, but he couldn't pinpoint the reasons. He glanced at her across the room, realized she had been watching him but was now looking studiously at Serav.

"...the right to reject any opportunity for peace?" Serav was saying. "It is a complex question, this one of defense and possibly survival versus alliance. For if we decide to forfeit a chance for peace, then our survival is of doubtful value, for what kind of beings will such a decision make us? And yet if we forfeit our defenses and are destroyed, then life itself will be gone and peace will no longer even be a question. Is that a worse evil?"

And suddenly, Spock remembered. He had heard this same question presented before, in another debate, 28 years ago on Vulcan, by the woman now sitting across the room. And as that scene came clear in his memory, so did she, as she had been then, before all the years of experience and knowledge had chiselled her face into these strong, serious lines.

Malon glanced again at Spock, and found him looking straight at her. She held his gaze just long enough to determine that her cover was blown, then rose to her feet.

"Thy pardon," she said to Serav, keeping her voice cool with a maximum effort. "I am reminded of a duty to which I must immediately attend."

There was a surprised, disapproving silence, but the very vagueness of her statement was, for the Vulcans, a social convention for indicating something personal and serious.

"Return if thee can, T'Peva; we will miss thy strength in the Focused Circle," said Serav. "Live long, and prosper."

She had taken ten rapid steps down the hall when she heard a voice speak behind her. "T'Ares."

The old name chilled her. It took her a second to consider and abandon the idea of risking everything in a mad dash. Instead she did the only thing she could do; she turned around. "Spock," she said evenly. "Thee will be missed inside."

"Explain, T'Ares," he said, moving toward her. "How came thee here?"

"Do not approach me, Spock," she said quickly. "I say this as a warning, and not as a threat."

He stopped. "Thee were not one to avoid direct questions."

"Nor were thee one to press them, once denied."

His gaze hardened. "I have suspicions of thee, T'Ares. Why hast thee not made thy existence known to Vulcan, which to this moment has believed thee dead? I can conceive of no legitimate reason for such deception. I know of no offense thee committed on Vulcan, therefore I must suspect thee are living counter to the laws of the Federation. I cannot ignore this in time of war."

"Yet thee did not expose me to the Anafeela." She searched his features, trying to read his thoughts. "Thee were always one to respect another's privacy, and to reserve judgment where others would judge. Will thee respect my privacy now? Would thee exchange thy silence for my word that I do no harm to the Federation?"

Spock paused for a long moment, remembering T'Ares, as she had been then; grim, cautious, struggling through her classes as one might wage combat, yet displaying, in halting Vulcan, flashes of a keen intelligence that had won the grudging respect of the Science Academy. He had admired that intelligence and had sensed her integrity, but he had never understood the mystery that surrounded her. "I would rather thee withheld thy word," he said at last, "than to hold me to such a bargain."

"Then, I can say nothing."

She was prepared for action and he saw it, and he recognized that her logic had been swifter than his own. She must be an outlaw there could be no other explanation and his doubt ended.

"I regret that duty leaves me no alternative," he said quietly, and he reached for his communicator to call his ship.

He never touched it. Malon had guessed at both his answer and his action, and had planned her rush forward, knowing that whether he reached for his phaser of his communicator she would be in immediate danger of capture. But as his hand started to move and she began her planned attack, she had a sudden image of another place, a small, lavish bedroom dark with blood. Simultaneously she heard her own words to Dival; "Do you realize what an instrument of destruction I could become..."

The rush forward was aborted so suddenly that she stumbled to her knees.

Spock left the communicator on his belt and moved forward, startled by her suddenly pale face and what seemed, to him, to be a collapse. "T'Ares, thee are in pain?"

She looked at him, shocked by her own position, still more shocked that she was remaining here, so vulnerably close to him. "I do not wish to harm thee, Spock," she said at last, and heard her voice tremble.

"Thee seems hardly in a position to do so," he said gravely. "I doubt thee are well enough to stand."

From where she was she knew four quick methods of putting him flat on his back, but she didn't move. "Leave me, Spock," she pleaded. "Do not force violence from me."

He had no reason to believe she could harm him and every indication that she couldn't. He reached for his communicator. "We will go to the Starbase Security..."

The earth rocked, and Spock was thrown violently against the wall of the corridor. Malon lost her balance and fell, but in another instant was on her feet as the trembling diminished. The communicator bleeped at her feet and she swept it up, flipped it open automatically even as Spock regained his feet.

"Captain!" the com barked. "A Klingon warship is attacking the Starbase! They have some kind of cloaking screen; we can't scan them well enough to fight them. They've taken half our shields and we must withdraw; beaming you up now!"

Malon threw the communicator to Spock, turned and ran. She heard him call but didn't stop, and an instant later heard the sound of a Starfleet transportation. She had little time, she knew; she had a very good idea of where the next barrage would land.

II

It was just after midnight when the Keveri's first barrage hit the Starbase city. The first shot destroyed the Communication Center and its surrounding grounds, shook the land for miles around, and brought Kirk out of bed in one adrenaline-charged scramble to find himself alone.

"Jim!" said a voice in his ear.

He activated his subcom. "Malon? What happened?"

"We're under Klingon attack, we've got to get out into space! Get the cases and go to the landing field; I'll meet you there."

He raced through the rooms collecting the three Lightfleet equipment cases that held their belongings, hurried out of the room, and ran through the indoor gardens toward the landing field exit. He got as far as the central courtyard and had completed one worried thought about McCoy when the second barrage hit the Residence Center. The shock sent him flying through the air amid the crumbling stone of the walls around him, and everything went black.

When he opened his eyes he wasn't sure he had; he lay in total darkness. He tried cautiously to move, but he was pressed on all sides by rock and his left leg was pinned. His left arm was pinned, too, up to the shoulder; rough stone grated painfully across his neck as he moved, and he forced himself to lie still. He groped with his right hand and found all three case handles; at least he still had those. He stared up into the blackness, raised his hand exploratively and found massive stone only a few inches above his face. The fraction by which he had escaped death suddenly was clear to him; his heart pounded, he breathed faster, and in so doing realized that the air was growing stale. Again he forced himself to calm, put his hand back down, concentrated methodically on relaxing adrenaline-charged muscles.

"Kirk to Malon," he whispered, his throat too dry to talk normally.

The answer came immediately, reassuringly clear, if a little breathless. "Malon here. Are you all right?"

His whisper shook. "I'm pinned under rock. I can't get out."

"Don't try to move," she ordered. "This place is a shambles, but I have my scanner and I'm on my way to you. Relax, and wait."

He tried to obey, tried to still the panic that threatened to explode from inside him and erupt into futile screaming, tried to trust in Malon. The rock pinned his leg so tightly against a mound of rubble that he had lost circulation below the knee, and there was a sharp pain in his left arm that suggested a broken bone. He felt out into the open area on his right, found a blood-soaked hand that did not respond to his touch, felt up a sleeve only a few inches before solid rock replaced what should have been the rest of an arm. He drew his hand back, closed his eyes, fought nausea.

It seemed an eternity before he heard the rock above him move, a slow, ponderous scraping. Then there was silence, and then Malon's voice clear in his ear.

"My phaser's antigrav tractor setting is too weak for this slab, Jim. I'm going to have to dematerialize it with a straight beam. Can you cover your eyes?"

"Yes." He forced his arm past the awkwardly binding rock and pressed his hand over his eyes. He might die yet, if Malon's phaser control were a fraction less accurate than usual. But the glow came and went, and he looked up into moonlit clouds of dust, Malon's dark figure standing above him, her command phaser gleaming dully in the dim light.

She surveyed the situation, fired twice more. Kirk lay free, amid rubble, and Malon scrambled down, picked up the cases in one hand and helped him to his feet with the other. He clung to her, his left leg rubbery and regaining sensation with a burning fizz of prickles, as she helped him limp out of the rubble.

"You all right?" she said.

He forced his leg to support him, looked back at the massive stone pile from which he had emerged, and managed to control his trembling. "I may have cracked my left arm. What about you?"

"Bruised shoulder, nothing bad. But where is Dival?" she urged tensely.

"I haven't seen him since morning. I went out during the evening and left him your message. I thought he was with you."

"I thought he was with you."

Standing there in the ruin of masonry, dust and darkness, the two officers stared at each other in dread.

"He never came back, then," said Kirk, hoarse now with fear.

"He must still be out with McCoy, on the Western Shore, and he wouldn't have stayed out through the night unless..."

"Oh, Shev!" Malon said in agony.

They raced through the maze of destruction and ruin. The earth was still trembling as the barrage continued in other parts of the city, but aside from some further minor rock falls they proceeded in safety. The groans and screams from other residents trapped in the rubble reached them distantly, but they never stopped until they had run across the open parking area to the tiny Mystic.

"Go to the northwestern shore and scan for their ship," Malon ordered as the Mystic's door flew open, and Kirk jumped inside.

He turned back anxiously. "Where will you be?"

"I called the Charisma after the first barrage; it'll be here soon. I'll start along the southern shore and move up the western until I meet you."

Even as she spoke, the big yacht, shining black in the moonlight, flashed overhead and dropped to settle delicately in an open space nearby. Malon ran toward it, and its doors slid open to meet her.

Then Kirk was in the control chair, guiding the Mystic in the fastest take-off she had ever made, arcing up into the darkness and racing out over the great shining lake. The sky behind him was shuddering with light from the phaser barrages and the Starbase's defense beams, but the Lightfleet-shielded Mystic was safe from detection. He had barely set his course before the Charisma rushed past him in a gleaming blur, veering toward the distant southern shore.

He chafed at his own relatively slow progress, although it was scarcely five minutes before he was circling over the northwestern banks. The limited Federation sensors were another frustration, and he had to use all he knew about self-control to remain patient enough to use them effectively.

An attack on Gagarin! How was it possible, when Malvara was on the throne and a cessation of hostilities had been ordered? And how, if the Starbase was still on war alert, had the Klingons managed to surprise it? And where was Lightfleet? Surely there must be at least two Security Ships up there, so why had the attack been allowed to take place? He flexed his jaw and tied in on the Lightfleet general-broadcast war frequency, intending to send out a call of inquiry.

But instantly he was flooded with calls and fragments of messages, coming, he guessed immediately, from what seemed to be a host of small Lightfleet Security Ships in space.

"...the Klingon Warship Keveri, repeat, the Keveri. One of the ships of the new battalion... New shields. They have new shields. We can't affect their weaponry... We need a cruiser! Where is the Occelon?... It's on its way, ETA ninety minutes... Reports from the Enterprise indicate only partial return of shields two through four, shields one, five and six still down..."

"James Kirk to Security Fleet!" Kirk snapped. "What's going on up there?"

A computer answered; the Security Ships had no personnel to spare for answering general inquiries, "Fleet to Kirk. Warship Keveri making full-scale attack on Gagarin. Seven Lightfleet Security Ships partially shielding the city, but unable to control the Keveri. Have called the nearest Lightfleet cruiser, the Occelon, ETA ninety..."

"What is the Enterprise doing up there?"

"Enterprise on classified border patrol, orbiting Gagarin at time of attack. Now disabled with half shields, withdrawn to a distance of .6 light year, bearing 5142 mark 1 from the Keveri, beyond range of Klingon fire."

He cursed, then forced himself to change the subject, "Inform Security Fleet that Captain Dival Raithan is on Gagarin and possibly in Chelacrev."

"Already so informed by Command Malon, and relayed to the Occelon."

Kirk signed off. There was nothing else to do, he told himself, and he needed all his attention for the sensors. He would have to trust the powerful Occelon to master the situation when it arrived, and, somehow, he would have to trust Spock to keep the Enterprise safe... But Spock didn't know the Lightships were there... He tied in again.

"Tell the Security Fleet that it's my opinion Spock will attack the Keveri even with damaged shields in order to save Gagarin."

"Received."

He cut the channel sharply, frustrated that he couldn't be up there, and returned to his scanning with frantic determination.

He tried to remember the main dangers of Chelacrev. Sometimes the parent tended to confuse his identity with that of the Child, and he guessed that for empathic Dival, this might be a serious threat. At other times, the effort of the Formation drained so much strength from the parent that the Parent would die without Lightfleet help. Kirk knew that on Indel the finest lanel specialists and the most powerful telepaths would have assembled to aid Dival, but now the Velonian was alone, accompanied only by a Federation doctor who had heard neither of Velonians nor of lanel energy. And there was danger, too, for McCoy. The power unleashed during Chelacrev was a danger in itself though he couldn't remember quite how and there were also the disastrous consequences if his old friend witnessed Chelacrev, and recognized it for what it was: a great power unknown to the Federation, held by a man who was certainly not who he claimed to be. Leonard McCoy would then know far too much.

Kirk worked his way along the shoreline westward, hoping against hope that Dival was not in Chelacrev, or at least that, if he were, McCoy was not with him. But his hopes were soon dashed. Soaring over the crest of a steep hill he found himself hovering above them, and, in the darkness, the faint glow from Dival was like a beacon.

He felt sick. After a moment's hesitation he brought the Mystic down over the next hill and walked silently back to the rise overlooking the small scene. Dival stood poised, breathlessly still, near the center of the hollow, and McCoy sat on the grass nearby, his medical analyzer in his hand and focused on Dival. The eastern sky was still shuddering with light from the battle in the distant city, and McCoy's attention seemed to be torn between the obvious signs of battle, and the motionless form before him.

Kirk sat down on a rock where he could see all that was happening, and flexed his jaw. "Malon? They're here. I'm near them. Trace my signal."

"What's the status?" came her tense voice immediately.

"They don't know I'm here. Dival is deep in Chelacrev but hasn't started Formation. McCoy is with him, so far, just watching."

"So far he's wise," said Malon grimly. "I'll bring the Charisma close enough to include them in my scanner shields, but I'll keep out of sight and walk in."

"What difference does it make?" said Kirk bitterly. "Bones is watching Chelacrev; he already knows too much. It doesn't matter what he sees now."

Malon spoke gently, understanding Kirk's tone. "It's not for McCoy but for Dival that we must be careful now. He mustn't be distracted at this stage. He's forming the mind of the Child." She paused. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

Kirk looked down at the two men below him. The wonder of what was happening to Dival was not lost on him, but now he looked only at McCoy, who was sitting hunched over his analyzer, studying Dival with the same concern and compassion Kirk had known so well in earlier years. Those years seemed an age ago now, almost like a dream, or something heard in a story. But fresh and clear in his mind, was that moment on the Enterprise when he had turned the phaser on himself and McCoy's face had shown such horror. It seemed like an unpardonable crime that anyone should bring this man, who was so full of love for life and people, such a great degree of misery.

Now a strange silence settled over the area, a feeling of hushed stillness, and he realized that the Charisma must have arrived, and embraced the hollow in its scanner shields. McCoy noticed the change, too, and looked around, then seemed to accept it. Shielded, they were all relatively safe; Kirk slowly allowed himself to relax.

He tried to think back to what his relationship with McCoy had been like before all the trauma and separation. It wasn't easy; it seemed as though all his life he had looked back on the Enterprise as a fond memory. Compared to his years in Lightfleet, those had been years of innocence, of freedom and excitement. McCoy had been part of them, as had Spock, and Scotty, and Sulu, and so many others. And there had been love as well, a very real love between all of them, that somehow had survived the long separation, and now lay as a tortured weight in his chest as he sat on the cold hilltop surrounded by darkness and war, looking down at McCoy. It was a love that no loss of innocence, no change of loyalty or level of knowledge, could deny.

So, finally, Kirk asked himself the ultimate question: what really was his duty? Was it to the rules and regulations of Lightfleet and the reasons for them, which he understood and accepted? Or did it lie with that man in the hollow, whose pain was so small in the over-all scope of things but which Kirk himself had created and could feel so keenly? His loyalty to McCoy had formed years before he had even heard of Lightfleet... but how could he reject the massively complex, desperately important organization, which had trusted him to obey it? "Above all others" the poem had said, but could a people as sensitive as the Velonians really expect everyone to hold Lightfleet rules over all other considerations? Did their rules truly leave no room for McCoy gentle, compassionate McCoy?

And, at last, the answer came; for him, honor that true, meaningful honor that Malon had explained, that she and the Velonians lived by and which Spock, too, lived by pushed orders and security aside, for McCoy's sake; they were less important to him than was McCoy's life. Once decided, the answer seemed so clear and simple that he knew it was the right thing to do, and that no matter what happened he would never regret it.

With a silent apology to Tenir for his broken word, he rose to his feet and steeled his courage. But even as he started to walk down the slope toward his old friend, he saw McCoy scramble suddenly to his feet, looking some distance away from Dival. Kirk followed his gaze, and what he saw there brought him to a paralyzed halt.

The glimmer was faint, ethereal, shifting, but it was there. With a sudden deep shock Kirk realized the thrilling nature of the process he had been ignoring. That shifting glimmer was the first existence of the lanel Child.

For the first time, Dival moved. He was now looking at the glimmer floating some twenty feet in front of him, and his arms raised as though by reaching out he could form the energy into the shape he desired. In response, the glimmer flashed into greater brilliance. For a split second Kirk thought he saw a humanoid form, translucent and ephemeral, standing on the grass, and then it was gone, leaving again the shifting glimmer.

McCoy moved slowly toward Dival, staring from him to the glimmer, and then to Kirk's horror he reached out his hand to take Dival's arm.

His words rang out. "Don't touch him, Bones!"

McCoy whirled, staring up into the darkness of the hilltop. His voice was a whisper. "What..."

Kirk bounded down the steep slope toward McCoy, but McCoy stared at him so wildly that his relief turned to apprehension and he came to a stop several feet away. He saw the confusion and terror in McCoy's eyes and he silently cursed himself that he had not foreseen this possibility. Appalled at what he might have done, he spoke in what he could only hope was a steady, reassuring voice.

"Bones? Bones, it's all right; you're not imagining me. I'm here..." He broke off to catch McCoy as the doctor collapsed against him. Kirk held him close, as he would have held a child awakened from a nightmare, feeling McCoy's body shake with sobs as all the depth of his long grief and guilt found release at last. The tears were pouring down Kirk's own face, and when at last he found his voice, it had not even a pretense of being steady.

"Bones, I'm sorry. I'm so damned sorry! I didn't want to leave you like that but I had to. There was no other way. But when I knew... I couldn't do it to you, Bones, not to you! I had to tell you, let you know I was alive. You had to know, Bones!"

"I don't care, Jim. I don't need to know anything. Just as long as you're alive."

Yes, that was all McCoy would care about; that he was alive. There would be no questions, no reproach for all the weeks of pain and guilt nothing but this open, undemanding joy. Kirk's throat constricted again past the point of speech, and the two men stood holding each other tight for an ageless moment of silence.

Then McCoy's hands found Kirk's shoulders, held him back for a long, steady look, and Kirk's heart leaped as he saw the peace, the radiant joy in McCoy's eyes and smile. This was what he had been praying for, what they had worked for. They... Dival...

McCoy's eyes flickered away, and Kirk knew that his attention too was torn by the mystery he had watched for so long even now, in the moment neither of them would have dared believe could happen...

Kirk looked over at the glimmering beginnings of the Child, and again he felt a deep thrill. McCoy's voice was an uncertain whisper of awe as he asked, "What is it, Jim? What's going on?"

"It is... Creation." The word that he had used so casually, for so long, now came out in a breath of wonder. He realized now why he had had no real understanding of who and what the Velonians were. This Creation had been taking place for thousands of years, while his own species was scrambling for power and wealth and prestige and domination. The Velonians had no interest in such things; now, for the first time, he began to understand part of the reason why.

"He's filled with power, Jim. I don't know how he's surviving."

"I don't fully understand this myself but..." He stiffened.

"What is it?"

"I... I thought I saw something." He didn't understand it. He looked at Dival, and the Velonian was still standing motionless. The lanel Child was still just a brush of light in the air, and McCoy still stood at Kirk's side. But all around him, vanishing whenever he looked at them, were colors, bright colors, and scraps of form. And just beyond his hearing was... was it music? Or was it something deeper, coming from the earth itself, from the glimpses of... what?

McCoy, too, was staring about him. "What are they?" he said in awe. "I think I can almost see... It's like glimpses of another place."

Of another place... Kirk turned suddenly to stare at Dival as he realized for the first time that Dival was not seeing the Gagarin night, but a wholly different world. "It's from Dival," he breathed. "We're starting to see what he sees."

A shade of the old caution returned to McCoy's face. "Telepathy?"

"No. Something more subtle. Empathy, perhaps... Listen, can you hear it?"

McCoy tried to reach out with whatever part of his mind was experiencing the deep, infinite sound, tried to grasp it, to find some way of labelling it, and expressing it. But it remained elusive, too profound for words or even for thought. "It's growing stronger."

"Stronger" was a completely inadequate word. It was reaching for them, moving into them, transforming them, opening them to its own meaning. Kirk realized he was trembling, but at the same time he felt an unbearable joy rising inside him. He felt he could give way either to his fear, or his joy, and for some time he vacillated between the two, afraid of both. For while he knew that the fear would give him the dark, cold hollow in the Gagarin hills that was safe reality, the joy was alien and unknown, leading to a world that had nothing to do with anything in his life. But somehow he knew that the choice, once made, would, in some ultimate way, be a permanent one, that there would be no second chance. Later he would wonder what it was that made him decide, for the decision was made so suddenly that he never remembered how he had rebelled against sterile reality and reached for something greater, pushing his fear away.

III

He was on the edge of a forest clearing; soft, smooth turf spread out before him in a broad, even circle. The trees around its edge were huge, with bases two to three meters thick, towering up in ancient, colossal majesty, their leaves flickering silver and muted green in their own shadows, rising in plumed tiers high above the cool, sun-dappled lawn on which he stood. Everything was fresh and bright, all the colors rich and outlines sharp; it was morning in this majestic forest. But straight up, in the space created by the clearing, bordered by the distant tops of the shimmering trees, was a sky almost black, but for the faintest hint of deep blue, in which huge stars blazed like silver crystals.

He saw all this in seconds, realizing with awe and bewilderment, but no longer with fear, that this was Shev or Dival's image of Shev. He didn't linger over the question of its authenticity. He was overcome with its beauty, thrilled, entranced, losing himself for the first time in his life to something completely outside himself and completely divorced from the life he had known. None of the usual questions or even thoughts seemed worthwhile. He could only be; watching, feeling, breathing the cool, fresh air of this world that was both new and ancient, and trying to understand what it was he was hearing. Was it music? But what was its source? What could be the source of such sound?

He lowered his eyes to search the space before him, and now saw a single, graceful figure moving through the lights and shadows of the clearing. It was Dival, not still and silent as he was in the Gagarin hills, but in motion, turning, leaping, surging over the earth in a floating, effortless, unceasing cadence. It was from Dival that the music came, whirling through the air and resonating through the earth, and Kirk realized that he was at last experiencing something which had existence in both worlds; a Velonian dance. This was Dival as he would be on Velona: free of the weight and limits of his duty, free of walls and the pressures of time, free to rise and fall in this flowing beauty, to live and breath through dance the magnificent beauty of the forest and stars and grass, and to create from that dance this music which seemed not to be about them, but to actually be the unification of them all.

Yet there was something more here, something else of which the music spoke but which Kirk still couldn't see. It was in the air above him around him... in the music itself, he realized suddenly, like a hint of laughter, feelings and thoughts that were not Dival's. And it was growing stronger, brighter, more clear by the minute. Without understanding it, he longed for it, and clumsily, blindly he called to it, adding his own small, mental voice to the throbbing orchestra that was Dival's intense effort toward the same end. There was no answer or was there? He felt a shade of something pass around him, and he called again, and again. His efforts found a place in Dival's pattern, and by that small amount was Dival's strength increased.

How long he stood under the trees, calling to something he could not even perceive, he didn't know; it seemed forever, yet at the same time it passed far too quickly. Then, suddenly, he was looking at four dancing figures, then six, then ten. He fell silent as the lawn was transformed; no longer a spacious glade where one man moved alone like a disembodied spirit, but a magical setting filled with the curving, arcing symmetry of twelve powerful, ethereal people, twelve Velonians moving in perfect unity in a great circle, untiring, unfaltering, seeming to touch the earth only incidentally as though they could ignore it at will. He knew somehow that the new ones were not an illusion, but he didn't think to wonder where they had come from. The music that came from their dance, that was their dance as it was the forest and the stars, tore through him with such intense power that he thought he could not survive it. He pressed his hands to his forehead, his mind almost swept away by the force, by the very beauty of that power, but though by an effort of will he could erase it all and stand safe once more in the Gagarin night, he didn't consider it. He kept watching the Velonian dancers turn and leap in their sweeping circle, until he thought he was going to experience a death more wonderful than life.

The starlight and sunrays shafting through the trees shifted over the dancers in all the colors of the forest, and the power of the dancers grew still more. United in Dival's pattern, their gestures and music reached inward toward the Child as Dival poured his life into the Child's creation. Without actually hearing or seeing, Kirk knew the freedom of free forest running, the age-long tending of the trees, the songs of dusk and dawn, the poised wildness of the forest herds, the generations of Velonians growing, singing, dancing their love of the forest in their unending cycle of birth, death, life and joy.

Over the throbbing music rose a clear tone, a new, strong, laughing note of joy that rippled over and through the dance in unstructured freedom. In the center of the dancers' circle, where the starlight and sunlight both shone on the lawn, a form began to appear hesitantly and ephemerally. Now a shoulder, now the smooth line of a thigh, and then, first faintly and then more vividly, a face, a face of wisdom and beauty, looking out of a shimmering column of color, holding the innocence of an infant and the understanding of the Ancients. The Child, Kirk thought suddenly. He had seen such faces only on old record tapes, but the features and the look of infinite perspective were unmistakeable; the Child was not Velonian but Shevian.

"So this is what Dival seeks," he thought in wonder. "Shev, give him the strength to bring it through to reality."

Now the form of the Child was clear: a man, bronze hair swept back, the slender figure of a forest runner, and the dark, slanted eyes of the Children of Wind that even now, immaterial as they were, seemed to turn and focus on the dancers and speak silently to them through their very eloquence. For a few minutes the form wavered, as though seen through water, and then, like a veil drawn away, reality swept over the Child and he stood alive, fresh and breathing the cool morning air, on the soft, dappled lawn.

There was a moment when the music was greater than ever, when the trees seemed to glow and everything except the Child rushed together in a mass of color and beauty, before darkness swept in. Kirk found himself standing under the faint, sparse stars of Gagarin, in a hollow that seemed strangely crowded. Only one thing remained constant: the Child, poised as alert and graceful on the short grass as he had stood in the Shevian forest, looking with the same wise innocence at the silent, awestruck people around him.

The earth seemed to whirl. Kirk closed his eyes, lost all sense of direction, and struggled to open them again. He saw only twisting shadows. He heard a question at his side, and from somewhere he found the words, "I'm all right." An arm slipped around his shoulders, and through some lingering empathy he realized it belonged to Malon. "I'm all right," he repeated blindly as he felt himself being lowered to the ground. He heard her speaking quiet words, and his last conscious thought was a vague resentment that she didn't seem to believe him.

IV

McCoy heard Kirk speak, and was aware, through his own vertigo, of Kirk's sinking to the ground, and of someone speaking low words over him. He fought off the dizziness, and, by force of will, found the earth. He was on his hands and knees, he realized slowly, and as the vertigo cleared further he managed to push himself back on his heels and sit up.

"Jim?" he said unclearly to the still-swirling shadows. There was a stir in the darkness, and he felt two hands rest on his shoulders. "Jim?" he said again, but the voice that answered was unfamiliar; low, firm, female, strangely accented.

"You are McCoy," it said slowly, almost chanting. "This is Gagarin. You are yourself, and not Dival. You are of your own world. Reach for your own world, McCoy."

The words swept the last of the vertigo away. He was staring at slanted features lit obliquely by the silvery starlight, dark eyes glinting as they studied him. "T'Peva," he murmured. "How did you...? Where's Jim?"

She smiled. It seemed so natural to her that he didn't even wonder at it. "Right here," she said. "Just to your left."

Jim was lying on his back, hands resting on his chest, eyes closed, and face peaceful. McCoy crawled to his side and focused his mediscanner on him, but found nothing wrong beyond a few bruises, which had nothing to do with his present condition.

"He'll rest for a while and be fine," said Malon, anticipating his question. "Like you, he was linked so deeply with Dival that when Dival collapsed he, too, was drawn..."

"Dival collapsed?" McCoy was fully alert now. He looked quickly around the hollow. There seemed to be a great many people there, but the silence was almost complete. "Where is he?"

Malon gestured, and McCoy saw several of the unknown people kneeling around something he couldn't see. He rose to his feet to join them, but Malon laid a detaining hand on his arm.

"There is nothing you can do," she said. "These people are telepaths, friends of Dival. They came during Formation to help him; they know best what he needs now, and they have taken the Child to safety. Take a moment for yourself."

There was a note of respect in her last words that distracted him from his potential patients. He studied her, and this time he noticed more: the hair in disarray, the torn clothing, the tired way she stood and smiled at him. Her smile began to register. "Who are you, T'Peva?" he asked bluntly. "How did you get here?"

Malon hesitated. McCoy would need some explanation eventually, and was already looking well enough to understand one, but the truth would inspire more new questions than it would answer. Kirk was still lying motionless on the ground, but Dival... "Come with me, McCoy."

With a last worried glance at Kirk, McCoy followed Malon across the grass to the group of strangers kneeling in a circle. She spoke a word, and they looked up at her, and several moved aside so that McCoy and Malon could kneel on the damp ground and look down at Dival.

He, too, was lying on his back, as limp and comfortable as if he were asleep in a bed. His eyes had been closed, but now he opened them, recognized McCoy and Malon, and smiled. His eyes were calm now; the fever, the anxiety and strain were gone. They were soft and infinite and assured. He reached out and touched McCoy's hand. "I felt your coming," he said softly. "It took courage for you to join, my Chelacrev; I was pleased."

McCoy gripped his hand. "Are you well?" It didn't occur to him to use his mediscanner; he felt from Dival an echo of what he had felt in Chelacrev, and found himself awed.

"My strength is returning to me. But you need much..." The words faded.

There was no warning, no easy transition, but neither was there any fear. McCoy found himself joined with Dival, and the love and care he felt from Dival transcended any apprehension or doubt. He glimpsed many things unclearly: great trees; people laughing as they ran through a forest, shimmering lights of control panels, a great city of trees and crystal, faces, ships, brief scenes from a hundred worlds. Then clearly, swiftly, came a coherent story: Jim's "suicide," Uhura's visit to Indel, Jim's search for help, the meeting in Dival's apartment, the journey to Gagarin and the days that followed. It all passed in a few seconds, yet all was detailed and vivid, carrying with it knowledge of the Velonians, of Lightfleet, of the nature of their patrol. Then finally, Chelacrev, and Dival's reaching for the two men, for whom he cared so much, to bring them into a treasured unity.

The bond faded, the night returned, and McCoy remembered to breathe. He found himself trembling, not from fear, but from the revelations. He looked around at the silent people watching him these people whom he now knew as individuals then back at Dival. "I... I understand now, but what am I to do?"

There was a respectful murmur from the onlookers, and Dival smiled. "You see things clearly, Len, and quickly. There is indeed a problem, now that you know Jim is alive, now that you know the truth. We are prepared to take you with us, but that must be by your willing consent."

McCoy considered the possibility of joining the life he had glimpsed in Dival's thoughts that beautiful city, the brotherhood, the wondrous technology and came to an answer immediately. "My life is on the Enterprise, Dival. I won't leave it. There must be some other way."

There was a silence. McCoy began to sense the absence of alternatives, but held off fear with the knowledge that these people truly cared about him and his desires. He understood that he couldn't take his new knowledge back to the Enterprise, but there had to be some way...

His expression changed suddenly. Dival saw it and said anxiously, "What's wrong, Len?"

McCoy rose without answering, turned and pushed his way out of the ring of people until he could stand, alone. Never before had he come voluntarily to such a conclusion; how could he possibly face it now? He felt chilled at the very thought.

"Len!"

He turned to see Dival approaching, pushing away the steadying hands of the other Velonians, but still, obviously, shaken and weak. McCoy reached out to help him, and Dival held on to his arms and spoke anxiously.

"I know what you're thinking, Len. Don't take this course out of desperation. For you, especially, it's too extreme a step."

Kirk's voice spoke from beside them. "What's too extreme a step?"

McCoy couldn't help smiling. It was so wonderful to see Kirk again, with his familiar look of worry and the old determination to push weakness aside. "Jim..." such a warm feeling at being able to say that name again! "Jim, I know everything about... Lightfleet, and about why you're here. I know what has to be done." His voice shook. "My memories must be changed."

"No, Len!" Dival's distress was so strong that it shook McCoy with an almost physical strength. "I can feel what it's costing you..."

"Bones." Kirk's voice was close to a whisper as he stared incredulously at McCoy. "You can't mean this. You don't have to have memory work; you can come with us..."

"And leave the Enterprise? Leave Spock? What would it be like for him to lose both of us, to think we're both dead?" McCoy shook his head, his voice finally firm. "I'm needed there, Jim. We both know that. I can't go back there with what I know, so memory work... Is it such a great price to pay for knowing you're alive?" He looked at Dival. "That's my only condition. I don't care how I remember it happening, but I must know Jim is alive, and be able to tell Spock about it."

"Len," Dival said wearily, "for you to go back knowing Jim is alive would be disastrous. From that fact alone, too many conclusions could be drawn."

"It wouldn't go past Spock and me. You have my word. If that's not assurance enough..."

"It's enough, Bones," said Kirk. His smile was shaky, but real. McCoy's decision was drastic, but in a way it was a relief. McCoy belonged on the Enterprise, not in Lightfleet. No one in Lightfleet would ever have suggested memory work, but Bones himself could make that decision to preserve his own happiness and others'. "If you're sure this is what you want to do."

"I'm sure."

Dival searched McCoy's face for traces of doubt, and found none. He bowed his head. "Then it will be done. I fear," he added, "that it must be done soon. The Occelon has come, and the battle will soon be over. We must leave here within another hour."

Kirk looked at McCoy, and his smile was warmer. "At least that gives us time to talk."

The time passed all too quickly. Kirk and McCoy sat on the grass a little distance from the others and talked steadily and freely, as they had not since the dark days of the court- martial. It was a conversation both beautiful and surreal, for McCoy would have no memory of it, but neither of them spoke of that. They cherished the time for the joy it gave them, and the simple existence of such openness between them was enough.

It seemed only a few minutes before Dival came toward them, another Velonian and Malon at his side, and knelt on the grass beside them.

"It's time," Dival said gently.

McCoy could see him clearly now; the sky was rosy with the coming dawn, the hills starling to gain color, and Dival's face showed both long weariness and an alert calm as his grey eyes seemed to penetrate McCoy's blue ones to search his soul. "I'm ready, Dival." He drew a deep breath. "What do I do?"

"Trust me." He gestured to the Velonian at his side. "This is Simalza; she'll help me maintain my strength."

McCoy felt apprehensive of the newcomer, but Simalza touched his hand, and for an instant McCoy felt her gentleness, care and respect. His fear eased, but the greatest force of will couldn't keep a tremor from his voice. "Let's get on with it."

Dival took his hand. "Relax," he said softly. "Be assured. Trust in me. It will be like falling asleep, but you will not remember waking. Your world will be changed, but the knowledge you treasure most, will remain yours to treasure. Trust me. Trust me."

Kirk took McCoy's hand and held it tight. "Goodbye, Bones," he whispered.

McCoy closed his eyes, beginning to feel dizzy again as he had after Chelacrev. Images: Dival's great eyes, searching his own, Simalza looking down at nothing, providing strength without intrusion, Malon silent, intense, trembling in sympathy for what she saw, Kirk's anxious eyes fastened on him; streaks of darkness stretching, spreading...

Through the darkness words came from Dival, distant but clear, both heard and felt, reaching into him to remain a part of him, independent of time or memory:

"My brother, we part now

And if the time comes when we may meet again

You will not remember, but I shall.

The time that has been is precious to me

Though bought with pain.

I count the cost to me but little

If the Worlds again shall know you,

For they have need of you.

Go then,

In love and sorrow,

In pain and joy

For tomorrow dawns, and the Worlds are waiting.

Peace, my brother."

Dival touched McCoy's forehead, and spoke so softly that he was hardly heard. "I name you Teldanan: compassion."

And, the silence was complete.

THE FINAL BATTLE

I

Swift and silent and unnoticed, the Lightfleet Cruiser Occelon entered the Gagarin star system. There was no need for scanning, examination or deliberation; its crew had been studying the information sent by the seven Lightfleet Security Ships for nearly six hours. The plans had already been made, the equipment readied, the personnel posted, and now everyone on board was staring at the nearest viewscreen, on which the Keveri floated, seeming almost absurdly small compared to the destruction it had caused on the planet below. Around it, like scavengers around a feeding shark, was a constellation of tiny, desperate Security Ships, each barely a tenth its size.

No one had been ready for such an emergency, at least not mentally. The alarm chime had rung through a totally relaxed ship, and people had come scrambling out of gardens, and fumbling out of bedrooms, to face reams of data on a battle in a war they knew to be over. The Occelon was essentially a medical ship, and not the best ship for the job, but the Comscin and the Aevafen had already left the border area, and the Shareda, the Durnea and the Farinian were too far away. The fact that Dival was not aboard was a further demoralization, and when the news came that he was in Chelacrev a tension settled over the ship which had nothing to do with the Gagarin battle.

In the Occelon's Control Center, Commander Staav Morel sat in the command chair and brooded. He was watching the Keveri on one of the main view screens and the Enterprise on another, and was considering the 2,537 pieces of hastily digested information he'd received in the past six hours. Unlike Thia Chenen, his talent did not lie in this type of interference; he was a neurosurgeon and a scientist, with a great deal of talent for ship command but no liking for it. If there was a theme to his thoughts, it was: "I don't want to be here."

His communications officer turned toward him. Ragra's ears had been back since the Kzinti had first come sprinting into the Control Room, and his temper hadn't improved under the strain of handling the seven Security Ships' messages and the Starbase, Enterprise and Keveri communication taps simultaneously. "Report from the Security Ship Murian: They say the Enterprise, has effected temporary repairs preparatory to attack, and ask if they should arrange for further delays."

"Tell them to let her go. Veltan?"

A sleek, darkly-furred head across the room turned to look at him over its panel, raised its muzzle in inquiry.

"This shield work is crucial; are you sure you don't want assistance?"

The muzzle swung rapidly from side to side, and a dark paw was raised in reassurance.

For a moment he resisted repeating what had become a classic question, but his resistance didn't last long. "Is there any further word about Dival?"

Ragra flicked a switch and listened for a moment. His ears suddenly swung forward and he hissed, an unusual combination that brought Morel out of his slump. "Malon reports that Formation has begun."

Morel allowed himself a curse. Everything was coming down at once. "Send down the Chelacrev telepaths. We're close enough now to keep them under scanner surveillance."

The eleven specialists had been chosen within minutes of the Occelon's receiving the news that Dival was in Chelacrev, and had been waiting impatiently to transport down. There was a moment of silence following Morel's words, as the whole ship paused to envy them.

Morel made a quick visual check of the Control Center stations, then returned his gaze to the viewscreens. He had had so little experience with military crises such as this. His captain had been in space for fifty years; he had only been in space for twelve, and in a command position for seven. He felt the difference keenly at times like this.

"Call Uhura on the Enterprise," he said, "and tell her I want a direct one-way tie-in to the Enterprise bridge and Engineering, as soon as she can manage it."

Ever since he had received Jim Kirk's message about Spock, he had had a good idea of the kind of determination and self-sacrificing honor he was up against. Now he looked at the image of the Enterprise apprehensively. He knew he couldn't be even a second behind Spock's decisions; if he were, it would be the Enterprise that would pay.

II

Spock, at that moment, was studying the view of the Keveri with a calculating eye. He was prepared to do what was necessary to disable or destroy it, but he had estimated a 1 in 1,755 chance of the Enterprise surviving what he was planning, and he didn't intend to worsen those odds by unnecessary error.

"Report, Mr. Scott," he ordered.

Scotty's voice came from the chair arm, high-pitched and anxious. "The jury-riggin' is holdin', Captain, but I canna give ye a guarantee on its lastin'. These engines have been givin' me a devil of a time."

"Shields?"

Thelin turned toward him, calm and self-possessed, having anticipated, and accepted, coming destruction hours before. "Shields two, three and four up to full strength. Shields five and six half-strength, shield one, gone."

That meant roughly one-half of the ship was fully shielded. With such sketchy defenses, an assault on the Keveri and its unmeasured power would be suicidal. Everyone on the ship had accepted that fact. No one expected to survive what was to come, but if they were lucky, the Keveri wouldn't survive, either.

"Ahead warp one, Mr. Sulu."

The order was no surprise; it was simply the signal that the end had begun. Sulu's hands moved deliberately, carefully, and the big cruiser moved forward. Behind him, Uhura, expressionless with the surrealism of being caught between two levels of awareness, silently opened the channels to the Occelon, and was fractionally reassured by its swift acknowledgement.

"Keep our starboard side forward, Mr. Sulu."

"Aye, sir."

The Keveri grew slowly on the screen, a solitary, silver menace, suspended in space. Spock studied it for the hundredth time. The basic warship design was the same as that of conventional warships, but the few minor external differences were critical. The customary target points were gone, the weaknesses eliminated. Unlike its predecessors, the Keveri could not be destroyed with a few well-placed torpedoes, as the Enterprise had learned at the cost of twelve lives and half its shields.

"Bring all weapons to bear on the Klingon vessel."

"Aye, sir."

The words floated in the silence, clear and still like drops of water. There was a sense of waiting, of listening. They were up against an unknown that wanted to kill them and which had the power to do it; they didn't even know how many seconds they had left to count.

On the Keveri, the sensors officer looked nervously at his captain. "Sir, the Enterprise is approaching."

Kerova, already in a foul mood because of Gagarin's unwonted shield strength and the consequent prolongation of the battle, jumped to his feet with a wolfish grin. "Let her come! Turn to face her! We'll blow her out of space, and deprive the Federation of its famous Enterprise." The idea of destroying something at a single blow was intoxicating, after the hours of barraging Gagarin while it tenaciously refused to die.

The great warship swung around, its secondary phasers shifting to meet its hated enemy.

On the Enterprise, Thelin reported quietly from his sensors. "The Klingon is turning to meet us."

They were still out of their own phaser range when the Keveri opened fire. It was a massive beam, broad and red and deadly, and shook the starship, as a terrier might shake a rat.

"Shields holding but weakened, sir," said Thelin, hunched over his sensors with a firm grip on the edge of his console.

"Maintain speed and starboard approach."

"Aye, sir."

The Enterprise was coming toward the Keveri half sideways, like a man running to ram his shoulder against a locked door. It was a maneuver that had Sulu's hands cramping over his controls, and which had Scott's stomach in knots as he nursed his jury-rigging down in Engineering.

Kerova cursed at the strange view. "Fire!"

Again the Keveri's beam swept through space, and this time the bridge crew lost their seats. Sulu's hands remained on the controls even while his body was half under the navigation console, and they remained there while he got up, kicked his chair back into place and settled into it.

Thelin had regained his position over the viewer. "Shields weak but still holding, sir." He didn't look up and so missed Spock's puzzled glance. "Coming into phaser range."

"Fire main phasers, Mr. Sulu."

"Aye, sir."

The Enterprise phaser beams lanced out and hit the Keveri dead center, at that distance a true testament to Sulu's skill. But Thelin's report came relentlessly. "Negligible effect."

Spock wasn't surprised. He was using the phasers only to make the Starship's approach look like a normal attack; he had no illusions about the strength of the Klingon ship's shields. "Maintain fire at half-minute intervals. Mr.Scott, engine status."

"Still holdin'," came the tense voice from the intercom. "An' don't ask me how."

The engines were holding, the shields were holding, and Spock found both facts unusual. But he had no time to ponder over it; by some strange suspension of probabilities, his plan was being given a chance to work.

"Now, Sulu, Maneuver A."

Sulu's hands made a sudden position change, and the Enterprise sprang forward at a 30 angle to its former course, heading to the left of the Keveri, and accelerating to warp 6. It was moving straight on its own axis now, but because of the angle of its course its shielded side was still toward its enemy.

Kerova's grin, already faltering at the sight of the starship's relentless approach, faded entirely. "What are they doing? Have they lost control of their navigation?"

"I don't think so, sir," said his sensors officer. "It seems to be deliberate."

"Then, what are they doing?" he roared.

The only response was a frightened silence. The Enterprise had a reputation for surviving against heavy odds, and now she had sustained two heavy phaser bursts with only half shields, and was still coming, behaving strangely, her intentions unknown. Something very like superstition was growing in his crew's mind. And, they were afraid of their own captain as well, of his fell mood and suicidal orders. They didn't mind dying for the glory of the Empire, but they didn't want to die to satisfy Kerova's anger.

Kerova made up his own mind. "It's some stupid diversion. Fire!"

"Firing, sir."

Spock dragged himself off the floor with the help of his command chair, picked Sulu up by one shoulder, and got him to the helm.

"Shields wavering but still holding," came Thelin's unsteady voice.

Spock took a fraction of a second to think this over. He considered the possibility that Thelin's eyes had been damaged, that the Keveri was for some reason using a lighter beam, that they had been blasted into another universe with different physical laws... "Position?"

Uhura answered. Navigator Cheterton was out cold on the floor, and she had taken over his station without waiting for orders. "Closing on optimum range, Captain. Countdown; six, five, four, three..."

Spock studied the viewscreen, now filled with the Keveri's silver image. "Fire photon mass, Sulu."

This was their gamble, their ace, the purpose of the whole long charge. Four photon torpedoes cannibalized and reassembled as one massive charge, fired at the Klingon ship as the Enterprise tore by at less than a thousand-kilometer distance. Even as Kerova, realizing too late, the nature of the coup, screamed out orders to go into warp and as the Keveri fired a last blast, the photon quadrotorpedo hit the Klingon ship's starboard warp engine pylon...

III

Everything was dark. In the glow of the panel controls, Spock groped for handholds and eventually found them, climbed up a chair, got his feet under him and stumbled over steps and bodies until he reached communications. He was conscious of the shaken sound of his own voice as he hit a control and said, "Medics to Bridge." He paused to take a few calming breaths before adding, "Damage reports, all decks."

There was no answer, but people were stirring around him, and reports would be coming in soon. He abandoned communications for the time being, and went to the library computer. Thelin was still a dark heap on the floor. Spock checked to make sure he was only stunned, then stepped carefully over him, and bent over the viewer.

The Keveri, was still there, drifting in space, powerless. Its starboard warp pylon was gone, and cables and debris hung from and around the gaping hole that was left. Spock read massive internal damage and radiation, but somehow the forward bulb, which held most of the crew, remained habitable.

For those few seconds before the lights came on, before people got to their feet and began talking, before the medics arrived, the damage reports came in, the Starbase called and the congratulations began, Spock stood alone in the darkness over the viewer and looked at what it told him, and came to a conclusion which he would not reveal because it made no sense, even to him.

What had happened in the battle, and to both ships, was impossible.

...AND THE MERGING OF DREAM AND REALITY...

The shuttle pod slowed, shuddered, slowed some more, and drifted to a stop as its internal lights dimmed and died. There was a moment of silence, then Dival's voice came ruefully, through the darkness.

"Well, at least it got us this far."

McCoy found the manual controls to the pod's door, and in another minute they were climbing up an access ladder out of the tunnel, and out an emergency door. They found themselves at the edge of the woods, looking over the lake.

"Could be worse," said Dival, adjusting his pack on his shoulders. "We have food and water, and it can't be more than ten miles to the city."

It was more like fifteen. They rested twice and ate the remainder of their supplies, but they were footsore and hungry by the time the woods thinned and they could see ahead to the Residence Center. And when they did see, they stopped dead, staring in mingled fascination and horror. They had expected the battle to have caused destruction, but they hadn't imagined this.

The carved stone, the small spires and terraces, the whole vast complex of apartments and courtyards that had been the Residence Center, all had been levelled. It was a crumbled mass of wreckage, over which the dwarfed figures of people were crawling and clambering with scanners, portable tractor-beam generators and anti-grav stretchers, searching for survivors and for bodies. The sun was beating down on the ruin and on the beach, which was now a mass of stretchers and makeshift tents and countless wounded. The trees that had shaded the area had been blasted out of existence; the vista was dusty and bright and seemed unreal but it was real.

Dival was the first to shake off the shock; he clasped McCoy's hand, spoke a word of goodbye, and strode toward the crowded beach. McCoy took another few seconds. Where should he start? So many were dying, so many were waiting for the treatment that would save their lives...

A sparkle at the edge of his vision brought his head around.

Six forms were materializing, their bright, clean uniforms of blue, red and gold shocking in the dusty surroundings. They spread out rapidly as they headed into the crowd, and McCoy saw that they were carrying containers of medical supplies. Then the insignia registered, and he realized they were from the Enterprise: Security Guards, two of his nurses, and Lt. Sulu. He drew a breath to shout, then realized there was no hurry. He had his work in front of him; they, too, had jobs to do. There would be time for reunions later.

He started forward, slipping off his pack and pulling out his medikit, but turned at the sound of a cry behind him. Several rescuers were coming from the woods at a jog, pushing two stretchers through the air between them. McCoy took out his mediscanner and waved it as a signal. The stretcher-bearers, seeing it, stopped the stretchers beside him.

It took him five seconds to learn that both victims were beyond the help of his limited medikit. "Internal hemorrhage. Take them on in, fast!" he ordered. "We're close to losing both of them."

The bearers sprinted forward with renewed energy, and McCoy followed at a run. He had gone only a few strides when a hand fell on his arm. He looked around into the face of James Kirk.

His strength drained from him and he would have fallen if Kirk hadn't grabbed him and held him up. He stared at Kirk's dusty face, wondering if his mind was finally going... "Jim?" he whispered.

"Bones." Kirk's voice was as shaky as his own. "I didn't know you were here, but I had to stop you when I saw you..."

McCoy's mind was beginning to climb out of its shock. There was danger here, danger for Kirk, if he were seen. There was a tent nearby and he pulled Kirk into it. In that flimsy privacy among bandages and other supplies, he gripped Kirk's arms with shaking hands. "Jim, all this time... I thought..." The words choked off.

Kirk's eyes were brimming. "Bones, I had to fake that suicide; there was no other way. But I've hated myself... You don't know..."

"I know." And McCoy did know what it must have cost Kirk, all these weeks. He could sense the guilt and agony that Kirk had borne; could see the desperate appeal for forgiveness in Kirk's dust-rimmed eyes. "You're alive, and you're safe. God, I can't believe it, how... Where did you go?"

"There's so much to tell, Bones..."

A voice calling outside the tent interrupted them, freezing them both. "Didn't they say they wanted these medical supplies put in this tent?"

"It's Sulu." McCoy felt a stab of fear. "You've got to get out of here, Jim! Here, out this side. There's a chance he won't see you."

There was a slit where the sides of the tent joined, and Kirk jumped for it, but paused and turned before going through. "Tell Spock you saw me," he said quickly. "Don't keep it from him."

McCoy nodded. "It won't go past him and me, Jim."

Kirk smiled and was gone. McCoy stood rigid for one long, breathless minute, but there was no outcry or commotion. At length he dared to breathe again, to rub the tears off his face, to steady his trembling, and go out again to meet the world. It seemed brighter and dustier than before, but the turmoil was now welcome, providing anonymity for himself and for the man he followed in his thoughts.

He headed again into the crowd; there were lives at stake here, which he couldn't ignore. He would work for hours under the hot sun to save them, but for now he treasured only one thought: "Jim is alive... alive..."

I

The lawn was a soft, rich green; a smooth expanse, perfectly circular. It lay nestled on top of the broad, silver hull of the Occelon, shielded from the vacuum of space by a transparent energy dome. The two dancers on the lawn moved over the velvety turf in perfect unity, a unity that went beyond the eurythmy of their motions, reaching down to encompass the great ship below them, and out to the passing Galaxy around them; Dival and the Child, exploring the universe together through their dance, each with eyes bright with wonder as he learned from the other.

Kirk sat at the edge of the lawn with his back set comfortably against the invisible dome, and watched with a sense of deep peace. He had been watching for over three hours, ever since they had beamed up to the ship, and Dival had taken his hand and led him here. He had never known cruisers had places like this line diagrams labelled "dancing lawns" had conveyed little to him and he had not believed, even after Chelacrev, that Velonians could, in reality, dance like this. They seemed to transcend their own natures, as though they had become the essence of the stars and nebulae above them; powerful and tender, turning, shifting, rising and falling without hesitation or fatigue as they cherished each other through dance.

Kirk was sinking gradually into a contented doze. McCoy was safe thank God! and the Child was alive and strong, and Malon... He smiled, remembering again the tall, brown-haired man with the joyous brown eyes, waiting anxiously in the transporter room and springing forward as she materialized to hold her close; and the small child who had come pelting down the corridor to throw himself in her arms as she dropped to one knee to receive him. Now Kirk dragged his gaze from the two Velonians and looked over at her. She was sitting a few yards away on his right, Reladan now a sleepy bundle in her lap, Morel sitting close at her side, her expression soft and a little sleepy as she watched Dival and the Child. Kirk had promised himself he would get to know Morel and Reladan, but he returned his attention to the dance, and settled down a little more comfortably for now he would leave her in her peace... and enjoy his own.

The music of the dance was telepathic, but Kirk was hearing it through the half-unconscious humming and singing from the Velonians who were among the spectators. The chorus was not what Dival and the Child were hearing, but it was rich, warm, beautiful and moving, and for Kirk, it was perfect. It had many interweaving melodies, and a voice near Kirk was singing one of them in a soft, clear voice that had held his attention from the beginning. It seemed to reach into him, speaking without words, of journeys and loss and growth, and sometimes, disturbingly yet happily, it made him tremble. Now, at last, his sleepy gaze wandered to his left in search of its source.

She was sitting only a few feet away. She sat very straight, her long Velonian legs tucked under her, dressed in the soft, close folds of a Velonian running suit that, strangely, bore no star-crescent. She was alert and very much awake, following each movement of the dance with an intensity Kirk could no longer manage. Her face held joy and awe, but also something else that roused his interest. As he studied her, wondering about it, she turned her head, and looked at him.

Immediately she smiled, still singing, and searched his face. "What are your thoughts?" she seemed to be saying. "Can you perceive this delightful mystery? Is it not intriguing?"

He didn't understand that one of the myriad themes in Dival's music was an expression of all Dival had felt from or thought about Kirk. She had been aware of him sitting there and out of interest had followed that theme and had been singing it for some time. He didn't know that the song was about himself, and that she was learning about him through it; didn't understand her interested smile, or the amusement that now showed in her eyes as she saw his confusion. He only knew that he was suddenly wide awake, and that he suddenly had very many questions.

She gestured quickly and he swallowed his words. No one had so much as sighed here since he had come; any sound other than the music of the dancers would be unthinkably disruptive. He sat and watched her for a while she had resumed her study of the dance, and had never faltered in her singing but finally he, too, looked back at the dancers, and, was again aware of her, only through her voice.

Gradually his drowsiness returned. He knew he was falling asleep, and that he would sleep for hours. He was losing all awareness of her and everything else... but on the Occelon no one could go far. There would still be time, later...

* * * * *

THE END

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