CORONA

By Greg Bear

Synopsis

"just a small-planet girl" may hold the key to the future of the
Universe! Join the crew of the Enterprise as they struggle against
weird aliens, the fourth estate, and Star Fleet monotirs as they once
again try to save the Universe!

Spock controlled his writhing and opened his eyes... "I need help," he
said.

Mason backed away, hands clutching her throat.

"I am about to be controlled by Corona," Spock said. "I only have a few
minutes of resistance left. I can feel it in my mind. I can hear its
thoughts... It does not respect us. We are here only for its use...

And it is about to destroy... everything!" His eyes widened.

He's afraid, Mason realized. He's seen something and it terrifies him.t

POCKET BOOKS London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any 'resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the
Americas, New York, NY 10020

Copyright 1984 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved

STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

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ISBN 0-671-74353-8

First Pocket Books printing April 1984

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

Printed in the U.S.A.

For the Saloon

Acknowledgments

My wife, Astrid, and friends Karen Schnaubelt Turner and Kelly Turner
were particularly helpful. Always useful for reference and authority was
Bjo Trimble's and Dorothy Jones Heydt's Star Trek Concordance, which,
incidentally, I helped illustrate in its original publication. Does
that mean I'm a trekkie?

You bet.

Alan Brennert has always been helpful, especially when we bearded the
producers of Star Trek's abortive second TV series in their dens during
story conferences. The idea for Corona arose during one such session.

The glaring errors--if any remain--are my own. More subtle differences
from the canon are probably matters of interpretation.

Prologue

From horizon to horizon, the sky was filled with a dark purple glow,
broken by wisps of milky white and luminous green. T'Prylla felt the
crunch of ages-old pebbles beneath her boots, the only sound besides
that of her breathing and the space-suit's instrumentation. She had
left the station to be by herself for a while, and to watch the rise of
the new suns, suns barely a year old.

Station One sat on a planetoid on the outer edges of the Black Box
Nebula. The station's crew consisted of T'Prylla, her husband Grake,
their two children and two research assistants, Anauk and T'Kosa. In
reservemthat is, in the cold storage of suspended animation, to save
limited resources--were thirty volunteers, whose expertise ranged from
astrophysics to space medicine. T'Prylla herself had once been the most
renowned physicist on Vulcan, quite a rarity for her youthful sixty
years; but she had run afoul of the Vulcan Science Academy by using
unorthodox methods of logical analysis--methods which had brought
charges of heresy--and had imposed this kind of self-exile on herself
and her family to avoid an even more painful confrontation.

Ultimately, then, she was the one to blame for all that had happened.
Discoveries had been made---but not in time to save the thirty in
cold-storage, who were as good as dead. She had learned more about
Ybakra radiation than any previous scholar--but at what a cost! And she
had learned other things she might never be able to tell.

Forty-eight hours earlier, Grake had broadcast the normal-space message
they had prepared together. They had deliberately concealed their action
from the children. Day by day, the children grew stronger, more
willful, directed by a force neither she nor Grake understood; the power
the children had over their parents and the station crew was disturbing,
to say the least. Had she been human, she might have been near panic.

But there was nothing more they could do. In ten years, the message
would reach a Federation buoy far beyond the nebula's outpouring of
radiation. The buoy would re-broadcast Grake's words and the science
report by the faster medium of sub-space radio. Shortly thereafter,
perhaps...

But it was too much to hope for. She thought briefly of her distant
relative, Spock, a science officer aboard a Federation starship. What
would Spock do in a situation like this? She had never had the chance
to know Spock well. Despite his human ancestry, he had always been held
up to her as an example of what a Vulcan could be, could achieve.

The glow on the horizon brightened. The asteroid was turning inexorably
toward the source of their new knowledge, the source of their
difficulties--the infant stars.

One by one they appeared, huge oblate reddish blobs of light, their
edges diffuse and irregular. They were triplets, collapsed from the
nebular dust and gases. Gravity had drawn them into mutual orbits,

their own growing mass finally cooking off the fusion of hydrogen deep
within the stellar envelopes.

The final stages of their birth-4he final collapse into true
protostars--had taken less than a month, catching the researchers by
surprise. Theory had predicted a much longer period; the discovery of
huge sub-spacial mass anomalies in the region of the triple stars had
come late, and the intensity of Ybakra radiation had not been foreseen.
The resulting interference completely ruled out sub-space communications
and all but the most concentrated

tight-beam radio signals.

"Mother."

T'Prylla turned as quickly as her suit and the low gravity allowed,
facing her son, Radak. He was live years old, too young even for the
most basic ritual of Vulcan maturity, ka nifoor. His expression was
peaceful, contented.

"Mother, we know what Father has done."

He motioned for her to follow, and they returned to Black Box Nebula
Station One. There would be no further messages.

And no answers, for at least ten years.

Chapter One

Rowena Mason stood transfixed at the window of the personnel transport.
She had spent her entire life on the small, yellow-orange planet Yalbo,
more known for its spacedock facilities and mining colonies than its
natural beauty. Yet now Yalbo, rotating slowly below, was the most
beautiful thing she had ever seen. Banks of dusty yellow clouds drifted
over the tan and pink Erling Mineral Massif, casting umber shadows
across the rills and valleys where her family had labored for three
generations. She had never been off-world before, and pictures could
not compare with reality.

The personnel transport rolled to face the huge orbiting spacedock, a
spider-web-delicate framework of thin cylindrical supports laced
together by lateral beams. Huge banks of work-lights were being
switched off and spacedock work crews were withdrawing from the U.S.S.
Enterprise. Mason had researched the Enterprise thoroughly after
receiving her assignment the first Constitution-class ship to be
equipped with warp drive, on a continuing mission

of research and exploration, she was easily the most famous ship in
human history.

The quarterdeck of the Enterprise seemed to be the only peaceful
location on the ship. Officers and crew had already boarded, but stores
were still being loaded through the shuttle bay, and preparations were
being made for casting off. Rowena Mason stepped off the transport,
uncertain, as she walked through the passageway, exactly at what moment
she boarded the Enterprise.

She was greeted by the Officer of the Deck in Spacedock, a shiny-faced
junior lieutenant who, to Mason's relief, was quite human. Starfleet
tended to group humanoid oxygen breathers together as crews to avoid
expensive ship refitting; non-humanoid types were grouped in various
other categories, aboard ships appropriate to their needs. She could
not have met, say, a Medusan (she had had nightmares about them as a
child), but she was none too sure what she would do when she encountered
a Vulcan or Andorran, both reputedly stationed aboard the Enterprise.
She was glad for a brief reprieve.

She presented her credentials to the OD, who smiled with formal courtesy
and passed them through the security device mounted on one side of his
podium. "Permission to come aboard?" she asked, unsure of the
procedure.

"Permission anted, Mister Mason. Welcome to the Enterprise.

That was another thing she'd have to get used to. By calling her
"mister," they were extending her a courtesy sually reserved for
officers, both male and female.

"Thank you. I'd like my arrival announced to the Federation News
Service as soon as possible. And when do I meet the quartermaster?"

"Uh... quartermaster? I'm sorry. You must mean Army usage. There is
no 'quartermaster' aboard the Enterprise. All quarters are allotted by

the ship's computer. Your escort will meet you in a few minutes. You're
a bit late." "I know," Mason said. Only six hours before, she had been
happily at work on her history of twenty-second century approaches to
quantum electrodynamics, her major at the very small Yalbo University
of Humanities. She had managed a fairly stiff curriculum despite her
work as an FNS reporter. Mason's parents had disapproved of her
academic pursuits, preferring that she immediately join her father in
the Union Rare Earths C ompany as a filial apprentice; her decision to
continue at the university had resulted in their cutting off all
support. She had gone to work as a stringer for the Federation News
Service to keep off the despised Student's Dole, and had gradually
worked her way up to a staff position, one of only two in Yalbo's FNS
Bureau. The other was held by her boss, a crusty ex-demolisher and
closet philosopher named Evanric. Yalbo supplemented its mining income
(and kept its chronically idled mining engineers employed) by serving
the Federation as a repair and outfitting station. It was no small
story when the Enterprise was ordered to put into spacedock around Yallo
for new equipment installations. Mason had covered what aspects of the
story she could from planetside. When FNS had asked Evanric to release
her for an off*planet assignment, she could have refused, but she had
been sitting around, calm and happy, for entirely too long... and she
was, after all, a reporter. Reporters were supposed to be in the thick
of things, not puttering on academic projects in the middle of nowhere.
If FNS thought her small-planet articles were good enough to merit such
an assignment---and if she happened to be the only reporter in the
vicinity other than Evanric, who adjudged himself too old and set in his
ways--who was she to refuse? "There may be some confusion at first,
Mister Mason," the OD said. "We've just spent twenty days undergoing
repairs and refit. New installations." "That's why I'm here," she said.
"To catch us while we're vulnerable?" Ah, the military mind resenting
the intrusion of the press, she thought. "No. To report on the new
monitors, observe the reaction of the crew. How the Enterprise
behaves." She smiled. The junior lieutenant returned her smile. Such
discipline, she thought sarcastically. He didn't exhibit a trace of
masculine interest in this new addition to the ship's female population.
Correct and polite in every particular---except, of course, for that
brief probe of her intentions. "Mister Mason?" a woman asked. It took
her a second to recognize her own name. She wondered if she would always
assume someone was asking for her father. She turned and saw a
dismayingly beautiful woman in a red regulation uniform standing in the
quarterdeck elevator. "I'm Lieutenant Uhura," she said, stepping
forward and offering her hand. "Communications officer. Star-fleet
thought since we'd be working together off and on, we might as well
share quarters." Mason blinked. No wonder the OD hadn't shown any
interest in her. Were all Starfleet women so depressingly, exotically
gorgeous? "Lieutenant Uhura is your escort, Mister Mason," the OD
explained. "Yes, I understand, thank you." She shook the communications
officer's hand and followed her into the elevator. "My luggage--" "It's
coming through the shuttle bay," the OD said behind them. "It's all
taken care of." "It better be," she said, half under her breath. "There
are two FNS mobile recorders, and if they're damaged it'll take me four
years to pay for them." As the elevator door closed, Uhura looked Mason
over quickly. Her smile seemed quite genuine,

something of a contrast with the OD. "You're going' to do a story on
the Enterprise's new monitors?"

"Partly. I'm also interested in the new medical equipment."

"Looks like we'll have quite a shakedown ahead of us. If we ever get to
the shakedown... Starfleet keeps us very busy, you know. Most of our
training and shakedown cruises have turned into the real thing. I don't
see any reason this time should be different."

"I'm not sure I'm ready for a real adventure," Mason admitted. She
could look forward to a nice, safe bit of investigative reporting---but
life among mining engineers had taught her that adventure was a
euphemism for serious injury or death. "If an emergency comes up, will
I be put off at an outpost or starbase?"

"Not on your life. The captain will make sure you're with us every step
of the way. If Starfleet wants monitors, and the Federation wants press
coverage, they'll have both, and he won't blink an eye or complain
once... or let them off the hook. You'll see. You could write a whole
book just about Captain Kirk."

"You seem to admire him."

"Seem? Honey, he's the captain. I don't think there's a man or woman
on board who wouldn't

follow him down the mouth of a naked singularity." "And how does he feel
about the press?"

"I don't think the question's ever come up. At any rate, l'rn happy to
see you. They've upped my quarters allowance and lowered my mess bill,
just to show you around, duty permitting. And I've already worked my
way up to the best quarters in junior officers' country. Plenty of room
for two. Privacy, even."

"Sounds like a luxury cruise."

Uhura shook her head. "Like I said, Mister Mason--"

"Rowena, please."


"Rowena. Like I said, I don't think there'll be much time for luxury."

"Ship's quarters, junior officers' sector," the elevator announced. The
doors opened with a wheep, revealing a stark .white and gray corridor
with impressively massive bulkheads outlined in red.

"Welcome home, honey," Uhura said, leading the way.

Chapter Two

"Jim, I swear, if I'd wanted to be a lawyer, I'd have gone to Tharsis
University and transferred to Star-fleet Internal Affairs." Dr. Leonard
McCoy pulled all the homey lines of his face into an exaggerated scowl
and shook his head. "Ten thousand new rules and regulations." "It's
just a watchdog, Bones." "I feel more out of my element every year.
First they change my tools, then they tell me the computers can run
surgery betterwand what's that make me, an electrician?--and now they
say that a starship medical center has--" he assumed an air of great
dignity and self-importance, "has a 'potential for social disruption.""
His eyes protruded slightly as he stared at Captain James T. Kirk,
demanding a response. Kirk's look of sudden humor and mildness was
almost equally exaggerated. "It's all part of the new Federaticm
monitors. They just don't want you to become a god, Bones."

McCoy's explosion of breath showed he didn't appreciate his friend's
humor. Kirk walked between the banks of equipment in the rebuilt medical
center. Starfleet had shipped the Transporter Emergency Recovery unit
to Yalbo's spacedock months before the Enterprise had finished her last
mission--along with the command and medical monitors. "If I'm going to
have a Federation-programmed watchdog system breathing down my neck, why
should you get off--with our chief engineer's pardon--Scot free?" He
stopped, turned to look at McCoy, and gestured at a man-sized
cylindrical vat filled with transparent green fluid. "If it's any
comfort to you, I find it all a bit much, myself. This... this..." He
shook his head. "In my day, the TEREC would have been called a miracle.
But now, if there's a transporter accident, you--you, Bones! Good o1'
country doctor--you can direct the last memory bank impression of a
transporter passenger into this machine, and a virtually exact duplicate
can be recreated. No more transporter deaths, Bones." "It could be a
damned nightmare." "Yes, indeed. A mad doctor could ransack the memory
banks for impressions of passengers, combine them, run them through the
TEREC... create entirely new people. So we have the medical monitors,
and the new regs." Kirk knew all too well that McCoy was simply blowing
off steam. McCoy's pretended distaste for new medical equipment, new
techniques for saving lives and preventing misery, was a front, behind
which the doctor carefully adjusted all his past medical experience.
Kirk played along with the theatrics, but not without having some fun of
his own. "Why, without the new regs, you could make your own nurse,
Bones. She would "Sexist," McCoy accused. "She," Kirk reiterated,
"would be about five feet ten, an excellent physical specimen, brainy
and 'as obedient as a Tau Cetian fawnbird. And when you were done
creating her, you'd promptly marry her, and Starfleet would lose its
best ship's doctor."

McCoy seemed about to either laugh, become apoplectic or prepare a
lengthy defense whefi the corn chimed and Kirk answered. "Quarterdeck
to Captain Kirk. Wellman, Captain. Mister Mason is aboard and all her
equipment is stowed."

"Why should that concern you, Jim?" McCoy asked, puzzled.

"Thank you, Mister Wellman," Kirk replied to the OD. "You may secure
the quarterdeck and resume your space duties." Kirk drew up the right
corner of his mouth ruefully. "We have a member of the fourth estate
aboard the Enterprise, Bones. We are now under surveillance. Watch
your language."

"I'm a Southern gallant from way back," McCoy said.

"She's here to see how we react to the monitors, and I understand she
wants to do a story on the new sickbay."

"I have nothing to hide," McCoy said, making a magnanimous sweep with
his arm. "Except my doubts."

Kirk toggled the intercom switch. "Lieutenant Uhura's quarters," he
instructed the unit. "Leave a message. I request the company of Mister
Mason .. no, make that Miss Mason... at the captain's table in the
officer's mess this evening for dinner. Extend my compliments."

"Quite the gallant yourself, eh, Jim?" McCoy's grin was almost
indetectable.


Chapter Three

The Enterprise's crew facilities were clean, comfortable and slightly
worn-looking. Past refittings had concentrated on updating equipment
and not redecoration.

Lieutenant Uhura's quarters were a notable exception. They were richly,
tastefully decorated with hanging fabrics, a non-regulation assortment
of pillow-couches and a chair made especially for the extremely
sensitive skin of a Deltan--a chair which was sheer heaven for a human.
Sculptures ranging in size from a few centimeters to one meter betray ed
Uhura's particular obsession, collecting surrealistic and totemistic
modem African ebony carvings.

Mason had settled into Uhura's cabin, looked over the diagrams of the
ship Uhura brought up on the room's video display, and received the invi
laugh, become apoplectic or prepare a lengthy defense whefi the corn
chimed and Kirk answered. "Quarterdeck to Captain Kirk. Wellman,
Captain. Mister Mason is aboard and all her equipment is stowed."

"Why should that concern you, Jim?" McCoy asked, puzzled.

"Thank you, Mister Wellman," Kirk replied to the OD. "You may secure
the quarterdeck and resume your space duties." Kirk drew up the right
corner of his mouth ruefully. "We have a member of the fourth estate
aboard the Enterprise, Bones. We are now under surveillance. Watch
your language."

"I'm a Southern gallant from way back," McCoy said.

"She's here to see how we react to the monitors, and I understand she
wants to do a story on the new sickbay."

"I have nothing to hide," McCoy said, making a magnanimous sweep with
his arm. "Except my doubts."

Kirk toggled the intercom switch. "Lieutenant Uhura's quarters," he
instructed the unit. "Leave a message. I request the company of Mister
Mason .. no, make that Miss Mason... at the captain's table in the
officer's mess this evening for dinner. Extend my compliments."

"Quite the gallant yourself, eh, Jim?" McCoy's grin was almost
indetectable.


Chapter Three

The Enterprise's crew facilities were clean, comfortable and slightly
worn-looking. Past refittings had concentrated on updating equipment
and not redecoration.

Lieutenant Uhura's quarters were a notable exception. They were richly,
tastefully decorated with hanging fabrics, a non-regulation assortment
of pillow-couches and a chair made especially for the extremely
sensitive skin of a Deltan--a chair which was sheer heaven for a human.
Sculptures ranging in size from a few centimeters to one meter betrayed
Uhura's particular obsession, collecting surrealistic and totemistic
modem African ebony carvings.

Mason had settled into Uhura's cabin, looked over the diagrams of the
ship Uhura brought up on the room's video display, and received the
invitation to the captain's table for dinner. There was little time for
anything beyond a quick cleanup.

She greatly appreciated the Enterprise's lavatory facilities. They were
perhaps ten years more modem than the general run of bathrooms on Yalbo.
She

wondered how she'd adjust when they returned her to her home. Perhaps...
and it was just an idle fantasy... perhaps this story would be her
ticket to better things. In the officer's mess, she seated herself at
the end of the six-place table, where her name was illuminated in
ghostly green beside a setting of ship's stainless and a dimpled plastic
plate. It wasn't her style to be early, but she had miscalculated the
time it would take her to get to the mess. The elevatormalso called a
"turbolift," she reminded herself--was very fast. A few minutes later,
officers began to come in. From the pictures Uhura had shown her, she
recognized the chief engineer, Scott; the chief helmsman, Sulu; the
science and first officer, Spock, and the computer officer in charge of
the monitors, Veblen. Seated at another table was an Andorran
lieutenant, an expert in navigation, like many of his race. The sight
of the Andorran and Spock made her stiffen. There were no aliens on
Yalbo, only humans--no indigenous life forms, no visitors or advisors or
tourists. She had heard stories from her mother and father about aliens
carrying strange diseases, preaching strange and perverse
philosophies... and while she had rejected much of that during her years
in school, enough of it had taken to make her uneasy. There was, first
and foremost, Spock's severe handsomeness and his ears. The color of
his skin---a warm, light brownish-green---was disconcerting, but not
that unusual. She had met humans from other star systems who hadn't
looked much different. But she knew. He was half human... half
Vulcan. And he was seating himself at the same table, in the seat next
to Kirk's on the right, directly across from her. While she examined
Spock, Scott sat on her left. To Spock's right was a stocky,
boyish-looking lieutenant who introduced himself as Jan Veblen. Next
came Dr. Leonard McCoy. McCoy sat at the end opposite Kirk's place,
greeting her with a nod and a warm smile. "Welcome aboard," he said.
She took to McCoy right away. He reminded her of her father--or rather,
of her father on one of his better days. "I hope. you're finding
everything to your satisfaction." "I haven't been aboard very long," she
said. "It seems fine." "The food here is quite tasty," McCoy said. "But
I wouldn't order whatever Mr. Spock is having." Spock surveyed Mason
coolly. "Dr. McCoy is well aware I take my meals in my quarters. I am
here purely for the social aspects of dinner with one's fellow
officers." "Spock is a very social fellow," McCoy added. Spock raised
one eyebrow but said nothing more until the arrival of the captain. As
Kirk approached the table, everyone in the mess rose. She slowly
followed suit. Kirk approached her and held out his hand. "On behalf
of the officers and crew, may I extend a formal welcome aboard the
Enterprise?" "My pleasure," she said. Kirk was roguishly handsome,
perhaps forty-five or slightly older. He seemed fit and looked perhaps
eight years younger. He took a seat at the head of the table. The rest
of the officers resumed their seats and a mechanical steward began
carrying a column of stacked plates from table to table, starting with
theirs. "Tonight," McCoy said, "we have the boon of the ship's best New
Orleans chicken gumbo. One of my favorites, if I must choose." "We
regret not having the time to visit your planet or allow any sort of
liberty," Kirk said. "We've been quite pressed. Our last mission was a
difficult one, and we'd have enjoyed the time off." "Well, there's
really not that much on Yaibo," she said. She so hated that name. As a
girl, she had called it Yellow, which at least had the virtue of being
descriptive. "For tourists or visitors, I mean." "Just very fine
engineers and excellent drydock facilities," Scott said
enthusiastically.

"Yes, well, we're just about the only spacedock for a hundred parsecs. I
imagine that's why you were instructed to come here."

Kirk nodded. "How long have you been a reporter?"

"Three years. On staff, that is. I'm also finishing my doctorate at
Yalbo University of the Humanities." That sounds so provincial, she
thought.

"The only FNS reporter on Yalbo?" McCoy ventured.

"There's my boss," she said. "His name's Evan-tic. He used to be..."
She hesitated. "He's a very good reporter. He used to be a
demolisher... ran a B and B machine... uh, Boring and Blasting. He's
my taskmaster here. I mean, on Yalbo. He taught me most of what I
know."

"We plan to spend a week on shakedown," Kirk said. "Though I imagine
Mr. Scott would rather we spend a month."

"A week should do it this time, Captain," Scott said, taking a spoonful
of the savory soup. "They didn't tear the guts out of her and make us
stuff them back in. Only minor modifications."

"Minor if you stayed out of sickbay for three weeks," McCoy said.

"I assume you were briefed on what's happened to the Enterprise," Kirk
said.

"I was given an outline. I'm here to fill in the rest."

"Perhaps Mister Veblen could help," Spock said. Before him on the table
was carafe of cloudy water. He poured a glassful and sipped it
reflectively.

"Certainly," Veblen said. He was a short, chunky man with blond hair
cut shorter than regulation length, a bulbous nose, and penetrating,
elfishly-upslanted green eyes. He had come aboard the Enterprise the
year before to coordinate the upcoming monitor installation, serving
first as Spock's assistant and chief computer officer. Though Veblen
didn't look like the most representative Starfleet

Academy graduate, Kirk had come to respect him---grudgingly, and with a
healthy list of reservations. "The Enterprise is now outfitted with a
Federation monitoring system. The Federation has been worried for years
about the power of Starfleet vessels, and the possibilities of gross
misuse, and not without justification... even within the captain's
experience, as I've learned. There have been safeguards in the past,
but nothing like these. The monitors are planned to eventually oversee
all of ship operations. For this voyage, there are two basic
systems--command, the largest, and medical, to oversee the new TEREC."

"Terec?" Mason asked.

"Transporter Emergency RECovery unit," McCoy explained.

"If and when the monitors decide that a Starfleet vessel is operating in
a manner not beneficial to the Federation's interests," Veblen
continued, "they will take over until the situation has been normalized,
or until the Enterprise has withdrawn from her difficulties. The command
monitors contain the experience memories of six past Starfleet
commanders whom the Federation regarded as superior in all categories.
These surrogates are now machine combinatoriai personalities, checking
and rechecking with each other--"

"Bridge to Captain Kirk. Uhura here, Captain. We have an urgent message
from Starfleet."

"Is there any other kind?" McCoy grumbled. "They request an immediate
answer."

"I'll be right up, Lieutenant." He pushed his chair back from the table.
"Excuse the interruption. Please proceed."

Mason felt a little shiver of anticipation. "They can't leave us alone
even for the space of a good meal," McCoy said, shaking his head.

Chapter Four

In the time it took Kirk to reach the bridge--less than two
minutes--Uhura had a heads-up projector ready, aimed at the captain's
chair, an d scrambled channels on subspace open for his reply. Kirk took
his seat. In less than a second, he was deep into the dispatch. The
heads-up display projected an image into his eyes alone, and
bone-resonance speakers in his neck brace fed him audio.

BuUnexTerr HighPri Message, Relay Starbase 19, Capt. James T. Kirk
ONLY. "Kirk."

He recognized the voice of Admiral Hiram Kawa-kami, in charge of
Starfleet's Bureau of Unexplored Territory.

"Captain, we've received a status geometry message from Octant 7, Black
Box Nebula Station One. It took ten years for that message to reach the
nearest Federation automatic relay buoy."

"I thought the Black Box station had been written off years ago," Kirk
muttered.

"The message is partly visual. Here it is, Jim."


A strong-featured Vulcan face, with the deeper greenish-tan caste common
to a purebred member of one of the old families, appeared before him,
surrounded by what looked like an orderly communications center aboard a
slightly under-funded research station. The display identified the
Vulcan in bright red letters as Grake, a physicist, husband to T'Prylla.
T'Prylla was well known, one of the finest Vulcan physicists and, Jim
believed, related in some way to his own science officer--though
precisely how, he couldn't remember. Vulcan family ties could be very
complicated.

Grake was speaking High Vulcan, which the language implant at the base
of Kirk's skull translated, matching Grake's intonations perfectly.

"Had we not a strong suspicion of something amiss, we would not be
sending this preliminary message. With three protostars entering the
main sequence within the Black Box Nebula, all subspace communication
has been disrupted. Nevertheless--" The signal faded and Kawakami's
voice returned. "We have high-speed equipment transmission, along with
the interrupted visual. Science channel on that MC is very interesting.
We now have a great deal more information on which to base our opinion
of the ultimate fate of the Black Box station. Switch to high-speed
ingest, Captain."

Kirk mentally adjusted his implant. His mind was immediately flooded
with information. He cringed slightly; in some ways he was more afraid
of technology than McCoy, especially technology which messed with the
inside of his head. The ache left by high-speed information absorption
didn't endear the process to him. Nevertheless, in a few seconds he was
able to sort out the key facts.

The conversion of the Black Box Nebula from a dark cloud to a starwomb
had not been sufficiently violent to destroy the research station. The
sudden silencing of the station, and the fusion ignition of the

infant stars, had inevitably been associated. Failure to re-establish
contact had led Starfleet to send an unmanned rescue vessel to the
nebula. When it disappeared without a trace, Starfleet deemed it
inadvisable to mount a full-scale rescue mission---a decision Kirk
personally had disagreed with. Still, he disliked second-guessing his
superiors.

Grake's message was incomplete, but from his tone and manner, it seemed
reasonable to assume that most of the station personnel-4f not all--had
survived. Still, there were unexplained problems. After the protostar
ignition had run its course, the station should have been able to use
sub-space. While there was a reference to high levels of Ybakra
radiation in the science data, that couldn't interfere with sub-space
unless there were previously uncharted sub-spacial mass anomalies in the
area. It appeared the science data was incomplete, as well.

"Captain, most of the personnel aboard the station were kept in deep
freeze. Our physicists say there's a strong possibility that Ybakra
radiation from the vicinity of the collapsed protostars has degraded the
myelin sheathing on the nerves of all frozen "sleepers"... and the
Enterprise is the only starship presently equipped to deal with such a
medical emergency."

Emergency! Not much of an emergency after ten years, Kirk thought.
Still, if the sleepers hadn't been revived...

"Your orders are to proceed to the Black Box at maximum warp, relieve
survivors--if any-nd do a complete procedural and scientific
investigation. All

prior assignments are postponed. The Romulans and Kshatriyans have
given permission for Enterprise to

cross neutral zones in their vicinity, up to star date 4386.5, after
which time Enterprise will be regarded as hostile and fired upon."

Cutting it close, Kirk thought. Even at Warp eleven, maximum without
giving Scotty severe angina
, it would take them two weeks to cross the galaxy into octant 7.

"Representatives from the Vulcan Spyorna have made their concern quite
clear. T'Prylla is an extremely valuable Vulcan, Jim, even if something
of a renegade."

The Admiral gave his formal sign-off as Kirk ordered all senior watch
officers to the briefing room. He suggested Mason should be present.
"Mr. Sulu to the bridge," he concluded, "and rig for prolonged warp
maximum."

Mason took a seat in the corner of the room, watching the officers file
in and making notes about their physical appearance and apparent mental
states. One of the two FNS mobile recorders assigned to her for the
story floated beside her, sensors and lenses extended. The recorder was
an older model, a flat rectangular prism about fifty centimeters long
and twenty wide.

When the senior watch officers had absorbed the information from the
transmission, they sat attentively around the consoles and briefing
table. Spock had lifted one eyebrow, seemingly for good, and intently
examined a science display. McCoy made notes on his electronic
scratchpad, while Scotty--much as Kirk had expected---shook his head and
muttered.

"Any comments, gentlemen?" Kirk asked. "Captain," Scott began.

"I am aware of condition of engineering, Mr. Scott," Kirk said. Then,
softening, "But... I would appreciate an update."

"I was not expecting a prolonged warp maximum, Captain. E'en with our
time in spacedock, we need at least a day at warp two for a Jeffries
refit, or we could blow an entire bus in bottle seven. I've been
nursing that one along until we could log travel time--it cannot be done
stationary."

"Thank you, Mr. Scott. Where will we be when the refit becomes
necessary?" Scott looked distinctly uncomfortable. "We are seventeen
days from the Black Box at maximum warp. If we go all out for the first
part of our trip--" "Which we will," Kirk said. "Then we'll be right in
the middle of the Kshatdyan neutral zone." "Do what you can now. I'll
give you four hours at warp two. We won't have the luxury later." Scott
knew better than to offer further argument. He nodded and stared darkly
at his work forms. McCoy was next. "The crew has been ridden hard, Jim.
Our last mission was no piece of cake. Even with a month in drydock, we
haven't had opportunity for liberty." "So what can we do about it,
Bones?" McCoy shrugged. "Keep a stiff upper lip, as

"Can we handle it?" "Of course we can. But--" "That's what I need to
know. Mr. Spock, you're looking pensive." Spock glanced up, eyebrow
still raised. "The captain must be aware that I am a blood relative of
T'Prylla." "Yes. I'd like that clarified, Spock." "She is my father's
second brothefts daughter by his fourth trilya marriage. She is married
to a former pupil of my first discipline master. This situation
presents an interesting dilemma, Captain. By now, both T'Prylla and
Grake have been ceremonially interred and their social positions
refilled. If they are alive, they will have to compete for a new social
position--" "Were they mourned, Spock?" McCoy asked sarcastically. Spock
raised his other eyebrow. "That is not the dilemma. Why should the
Spyorna have any further

interest in a Vulcan they have officially decreed to be akspra---the
follower of an inadequate philosophy? It is my guess the Spyorna is
about to recognize T'Prylla's kind of logic as useful. This could be
very important to Vulcaus, Captain; moreso if she is still alive and can
guide us in our progress." "That's very interesting, Spock, but I'm
really interested in your assessment of the difficulties involved in
reaching the station." Spock assented with a nod to one side. "The
Black Box Nebula is one of seven hundred collapsing nebulae accessible
to us, Captain. It is by far the largest and most complex, principally
because of the extreme turbidity within the nebula proper. The three
newly created stars are likely to become hot, middle-size B-class stars.
If, as surmised, there are sub-spacial mass anomalies nearby, in their
early years they will have released a tremendous amount of Ybakra
radiation. Such radiation operates in a fractional space and is not
dangerous to normal carbon-based life forms--unless they are in a frozen
state associated with suspended animation. Bodily defenses are then
incapable of making the minute but constant repairs necessary to the
myelin sheaths which act as insulation in both human and Vulcan nerves."
"Which is where I come in," McCoy said. "If the sleepers haven't been
revived, the new equipment in the sick bay might be able to save them.
But there's a problem, Jim--" "Was that all, Spock?" Mason sat quietly
in her corner, noting the style of the meeting, and the often informal
give-and-take between Kirk and his officers. "No, Captain," Spock said,
unperturbed. "We know very little about protostar formations of this
sort, and with the silencing of the station in the Black Box, there have
been no updates until now. The information relayed by the buoy is
incomplete

and highly inadequate. In short, the Enterprise will' be entering
unknown conditions, with unknown consequences."

"Yet again," McCoy said. "How cheering." "You mentioned a problem,
Doctor?"

"The equipment. It's easy enough to operate, even within the guidelines
of those damned... excuse me, the guidelines of the monitors. It
practically runs itself. But I don't think Starfleet has taken the
monitors into account in evaluating this situation. The best way I can
figure out to save the sleepers is to beam them up frozen, rescue their
transient form-memories from the transporter and feed them into the vat,
two by two. Mr. Veblen here will tell you the difficulties involved
with computer storage of transient form-memories."

"Enormous difficulties, Captain," Lieutenant Veblen said.

"Such as, Mr. Veblen?"

"Transient form-memoties are stored by a kind of quantum trick, Captain.
There are well over a hundred and fifty million gigabytes of information
needed to restore one human body after beaming. All of that is kept in
fraction space storage for less than five minutes. It then
deteriorates. Any attempt to re-beam from a deteriorated form-memory is
disastrous. Until now, there were no facilities to provide a medical
back-up for restoration with the failure of a transporter."

Kirk tapped his fingers on the table. Veblen saw, and swallowed back
his expanding explanation. "Sir, we can store the memory of six
transporter malfunction victims but we only have facilities to rebuild
two at a time. To store any more, we'll have to use ship's computer
memory, which operates on a different process entirely. If there are
thirty sleepers on the station, we could put two of them per week into
the

TEREC. That would take--"

"Fifteen weeks."

"Which means we'd have to stay in orbit around


the planetoid for at least the time necessary to retrieve all the
sleepers. Or we could dump the entire Enterprise library to store the
form memo-ties."

"Against regulations, Mr. Veblen." "Precisely."

"Why-not beam them up frozen, then beam each into the unit as his time
comes?"

"There's the rub, Jim," McCoy said. "With radiation damage, we can only
risk transporting them once. The second time, they're dead."

"Was that the problem with regs you mentioned?" "No. Even if we do get
them up here, we'll have to program changes into the vats to restore
their myelin sheaths. The best way I can figure out to save the
sleepers is to beam them up frozen, rescue their transient form-memories
from the transporter and feed them into the vat, two by two. Mr. Veblen
here will tell you the difficulties involved with computer storage of
transient form-memories."

"Enormous difficulties, Captain," Lieutenant Veblen said.

"Such as, Mr. Veblen?"

"Transient form-memoties are stored by a kind of quantum trick, Captain.
There are well over a hundred and fifty million gigabytes of information
needed to restore one human body after beaming. All of that is kept in
fraction space storage for less than five minutes. It then
deteriorates. Any attempt to re-beam from a deteriorated form-memory is
disastrous. Until now, there were no facilities to provide a medical
back-up for restoration with the failure of a transporter."

Kirk tapped his fingers on the table. Veblen saw, and swallowed back
his expanding explanation. "Sir, we can store the memory of six
transporter malfunction victims but we only have facilities to rebuild
two at a time. To store any more, we'll have to use ship's computer
memory, which operates on a different process entirely. If there are
thirty sleepers on the station, we could put two of them per week into
the

TEREC. That would take--"

"Fifteen weeks."

"Which means we'd have to stay in orbit around


the planetoid for at least the time necessary to retrieve all the
sleepers. Or we could dump the entire Enterprise library to store the
form memo-ties."

"Against regulations, Mr. Veblen." "Precisely."

"Why-not beam them up frozen, then beam each into the unit as his time
comes?"

"There's the rub, Jim," McCoy said. "With radiation damage, we can only
risk transporting them once. The second time, they're dead."

"Was that the problem with regs you mentioned?" "No. Even if we do get
them up here, we'll have to program changes into the vats to restore
their myelin sheaths. The monitors may not let me do that. I told you
I wasn't sure the regs made much sense."

"You told me you didn't want to be a lawyer. Is there any reason why we
can't ferry the sleepers up in the shuttlecraft?"

"There could be risks," McCoy said. "Hibernacu-la require very stable
power sources, and constant low temperatures. We may have to take the
chance, but I wish we had other choices."

"Gentlemen, is there anything further I should know before we begin our
rescue mission?"

"Very likely, Captain, there are a great many things you should know,"
Spock said. "None of which we are able to tell you."

Mason made a note of that, as well, and underlined it twice. "Captain,"
she said as the officers stood to return to their duties. "Since this
is such an unusual mission, am I to be dropped off on my planet before
you depart?"

Kirk hardly looked at her as he passed. "Not unless you directly
request it."

She watched him follow Spock out of the briefing room door, mentally
kicking herself. She couldn't back down now. The man was so arrogant!
Why couldn't he have made it easier on her, instead of

throwing the ball in her court? She'd show herself to be a complete
coward, and if she did come back to Yalbo, word would get around... and
she would be accused of shaming them all. In front of non-humans, too.

She gripped her notepad tightly, chewing on her lower lip and trying to
still the nagging voice in the back of her mind, a voice saying she was
too young, too inexperienced; saying that FNS had made a bad mistake
sending her to the Enterprise.


Chapter Five

Kirk was eternally fascinated by the procedures for making the
Enterprise ship-shape for a long voyage. He was as familiar with every
action as a man watching his wife dress in the morning, and yet... it
had that same sort of fascination, of responsibility mixed with a
perverse and impossible kind of ownership. No individual could own a
starship, any more than a man could actually own his wife. Still, the
Enterprise was his. He wondered what the day would be like when he had
to give her up, and whether, if any of his Starfleet colleagues assumed
her command, they could possibly remain friends.

From the captain's chair, he watched preparations on the various
displays accessible to him, the largest being the forward viewing
screen. At the touch of his fingers--resting on buttons set into his
chair arms--and at the sound of his voice, he could make the Enterprise
come alive. Stroking...

He put such errant nonsense from his thoughts

(and a good thing neither Spock nor McCoy could' read minds at a
distance) and concentrated on a report from Scott. The preventive
maintenance procedures had been completed in record time, though they
would still need four hours at warp two for the Jeffries refit.

Scott had suggested that three of his engineering crew receive notes of
commendation. Kirk composed the notes on his command console and
directed they be entered into the ship's record and individual crew
files; Scott's recommendations were as good as gold, as far as he was
concerned.

The Andorran, Lieutenant Yimasa, came on the bridge and took his
position in the navigator's chair.

"The Enterprise is responsive, Captain," Sulu said, turning to grin at
Kirk.

"Yes, indeed," Kirk said. His crew should have been on the edge,
exhausted, ready for at least a month of shoreleave--yet here they were,
seemingly eager, almost chipper. He felt a flood of warmth behind his
eyes and blinked the emotion back.

"Fix your bearings, Mr. Sulu, Mr. Yimasa. Await

my command to exit spacedock."

"Bearings fixed, Captain."

McCoy stepped up behind Kirk's chair and laid his hand on his shoulder.
"Jim," he said softly. "I want

to talk to you about the Mason girl."

"What about her?"

"Are you sure it's best--"

"Bones, she's a professional. Besides, Starfleet ordered that we should
cooperate with the FNS."

"Jim, she's an outposter. She wouldn't know her way around a small
town, much less the Enterprise, much less the Enterprise on an emergency
rescue mission."

"I don't foresee any danger. Do you, Bones?"

"Every time we go someplace there's that potential."

"True enough. What makes you think she can't handle herself?."

"Instinct. I may be wrong, but she just doesn't look comfortable. Have
you seen the way she looks at Spock and Yimasa?"

"There are no non-humans on Yalbo. They may be the first she's ever
seen."

"I suspect the FNS picked her because she was the only one they could
slip on the Enterprise before the shakedown. So I'm making my
suggestion for two reasons---"

"What suggestion?"

"That we put her down on Yalbo now. Two reasons, Jim. She's not up to
it, and I'm not sure I'd want the responsibility if I were you."

"I left it up to her. If I put her planetside now, both FNS and
Starfleet would pin my ears back. She's FNS's choice. I must assume
they know what they're doing."

"Hmph." McCoy looked highly dubious. "Did you happen to read the last
story FNS did on a Starfleet vessel?"

"No. I'm not much for the dailies, Bones."

"A correspondent from Mars spent two days aboard a heavy duty freighter.
By the time he was through, he'd unveiled rampant corruption, the
possible existence of an unknown space plague and the general
incompetence of the captain. None of which charges, I might add, was
regarded seriously by a special review board."

Kirk sighed. "Bones, she doesn't want to leave. ! can't make her go.
She has a job to do."

"Oh, she wants to leave; you just didn't give her any easy way out."
McCoy's eyes widened. "Jim, you' d like her to stay, wouldn't you?"

Kirk regarded MCoy with a level stare. "Doctor, I have a ship to take
out of spacedock. We can discuss this later, if you... haven't caught
on by then." He turned his chair forward. McCoy straightened, shook his
head and backed away a few steps. It was the doctor's policy to be on
the bridge for the first hour or so of any voyage, whenever possible.

Nurse Chapel was in control of the sickbay, so he could indulge his
little quirk. "Engineering," Kirk said. "Scott here, Captain."
"Outfitted and ready to sail, Mr. Scott?" "Boilers at superheat, sir."
"Strain your gaskets, Mr. Scott." "Aye, sir. Gaskets already
strained." Kirk smiled. "Dead slow, Mr. Sulu. Lieutenant Uhura, send
our sincere thanks to the spacedock crew, and our compliments to the
orbital advisory committee on Yalbo." Mason came on the bridge, looking
apprehensive. Her recorder followed at a discreet distance. She fixed
her eyes on the forward screen and stood beside McCoy. "Are we
leaving?" she asked. "Yes, ma'am." "How long before we use warp drive?"
"Not long at all." "Impulse power, Mr. Sulu," Kirk said. "All ahead
full." "Aye, Captain." The Enterprise, heir to three thousand years of
human and Vulcan experience on sea, sand and in space, had exited the
spacedock with majestic slowness. Now she gently stretched the
gravitational bonds of Yalbo and spiraled outward, lining up with the
corkscrew magnetic fields of Yalbo's small yellow sun. Kirk could feel
the vibration of the impulse engines, smooth enough but always coarse
when compared with the steady power of the warp drive. "Aligned for
solar system exit, sir," Yimasa said. "Very well. Warp one, Mr. Sulu."
Kirk felt his chest strain at the sensation of the Enterprise's sudden
ignorance of gravitational bonds. She was now at the beck and call of a
higher geometry, one which propelled her at just above the speed of
light away from the tiny ochre planet of Yalbo, and away from her yellow
star. Kirk briefly called up a virtual display of the outside view. The

entire universe seemed compressed to a coruscating band of light,
rotated and bent away from the direction of the view cameras. "Warp two
and hold until Mr. Scott okays us for final warp sequencing," he said.
"Aye, Captain." He- switched the virtual display off. The forward
screen now showed a computer simulated display of the stellar system and
distant stars. When the Enterprise reached warp four, some of the
closer stars themselves would appear to move on the display. Kirk
glanced at Mason, wondering if she was feeling what he felt. Like a
tune in his bones, the warp drive sang, a beautiful siren pushing the
ship faster in relation to status geometry--the home universesyet
retarding its speed in relation to the higher spaces they now traversed.
The secret of the warp drive, in fact, was that it did not allow the
Enterprise to reach an infinite speed in alien geometries, which would
turn them all into a single tiny, very dead black hole. "Welcome to warp
drive, Mister Mason." "Thank you, Captain. It's quite an experience."
She wondered if she was going to be ill. And where was the science
officer, the Vulcan? Wasn't he supposed to be on the bridge at a time
like this? As if in psychic response, the elevator door opened and
Spock stepped out, walking to his station at the computer console.
Lieutenant Veblen followed, smiling at her in passing. "At this speed,
we'll exit your system in two hours," Kirk said. "I venture you've
never traveled that fast before." "I've never been off Yalbo until now.
I'm just a country bumpkin, Captain." She was embarrassed by her own
tone. "I hope to get sophisticated fast." "Don't rush it, Mister
Mason," Kirk said. "First experiences are to be savored." "I'll savor
them in my off-duty hours, Captain. And please call me Rowena."

"Certainly, Rowena. I see you've requested an interview with me in the
ship's computer bay. Will 1600 hours be okay? If Scotty... Mr. Scott
gets his refit done in time, we should be at warp maximum by then, and I
can spare about fifteen minutes."

"I'll be there." She swallowed and decided she needed a place to sit
down. Since there was no seat on the bridge not already taken, she
returned to the elevator. As the doors closed, McCoy frowned and tapped
his finger on the railing.

"Captain, Scott in engineering..We've finished the refit. She should
take warp maximum without too many problems."

"What, no complete certainty?" Kirk asked. "Nothing will go wrong that
we won't be able to take care of," Scott said. "And if something does
go wrong, you'll be the first to know. After us, Captain."

"Ready, Mr. Scott?"

"As we'll ever be."

"Good. Mr. Yimasa, final adjustment to bearings."

"Yes, sir. We'll exit the galactic arm in two hours ten seconds of
ship's time. Catchary curve through four selected geometries as soon as
we hit warp seven."

"Sequence us through warp five, Mr. Sulu." "Sequencing."

The tune in his bones quickened its tempo. "Three, Captam. Four. And...
five." "Sequence through warp eleven, Mr. Sulu. Mr. Yimasa, compute
our entry point into Romulan neutral zone as soon as you can and put it
on my console display."

"Warp six. Seven."

Kirk's eyes narrowed. "Eight," Sulu continued. "Nine. Ten. Maximum
warp eleven, Captain."

Warp eleven was a special treat for James Kirk. The tune in his bones
became a symphony. Secretly, he relished the thought of evading status
geometry for seventeen days--even if the course did take them through
contested territory. If they were lucky, they would spend less than an
hour in the neutral zones...

That is, if they were not interfered with. He knew some of the Romulan
and Kshatriyan commanders who patrolled those regions. Good officers,
good commanders--and very anxious to test their abilities and their
ships against his.

Ah, peace, he thought. Like seduction. Sometimes much more exciting
than the act itself...

He made a mental note to set the sonic shower for a very cold cleansing
before his next sleep period.

"What can you tell me about T'Prylla, Spock?" Spock sat stolidly on his
immaculate stone meditation plank, eyes closed, deep in the mathematical
exercises he had taken up lately, conditional to his entry into the
third stage of Vulcan life at age seventy-nine. Kirk knew he wasn't
interrupting his friend; Vulcans had the remarkable ability to devote
their attention to several things at once.

"She is a most extraordinary Vulcan, Captain. I regret not knowing her
better. She has pioneered new ways of logic, ways heretofore regarded
as unacceptable by the Spyorna. She mated outside of family
pre-arrangements--"

"A tradition you've had difficulties with, if I recall," Kirk
saidruefully.

Spock nodded his head to one side. "In my case, the contamination of
human blood could be brought to account. But T'Prylla is pure Vulcan,
and in many ways her approach harks back to a very famous Vulcan
Strovadorz--a philosopher--named Skaren, who recommended the prevalence
of inductive over deductive reasoning. Inductive reasoning is
essential, but not a Vulcan's favorite."

"You're saying she uses feminine intuition?" "A statement worthy of Dr.
McCoy, Captain."


"Yes. My apologies. At the very least, she's been regarded as
wayward."

"And quite brilliant. For Grake and T'Prylla not to have foreseen and
prepared for the dangers of their research is highly unlikely. I must
assume that something completely outside Vulcan and human experience has
occurred in the Black Box Nebula.

We must ready ourselves accordingly."

"How will we do that?"

"I have been studying Mr. Veblen's texts on the new computer systems.
The principle of stochastic algorithm is quite intriguing. To set up a
portion of the ship's computer which simply models possibility after
pbssibility, always throwing in some unlikely variable, until it
produces a situation which matches our own, could be quite helpful."

Kirk regarded the Vulcan for several minutes, thinking. In some .ways,
this was shaping up to be a routine rescue msson. But Spock's
statements bothered him. They could certainly do worse than let Veblen
loose----within limits. Kirk wasn't sure he trusted Veblen completely;
he deviated from the Starfleet norm in much the same way Spock said
T'Prylla deviated from the Vulcan norm. But setting aside a stochastic
modeling program seemed reasonable enough.

"I'll get him working on it right away," Kirk said. He stood up. "We'll
cross the Romulan neutral zone tomorrow at 1536 hours."

"1536 point 42," Spock said.

"Of course. Forgive my interruption."

"Krawkra," Spock said, a complex Vulcan term roughly equivalent to the
Spanish de nada.

Chapter Six

The computer bay was a small room barely ten feet on a side, located
several decks beneath the bridge in the Enterprise's saucer. The ship's
main computer was lodged in the walls, which were little more than an
inch thick. The room was empty save for a pedestal in the middle and a
metal mesh pathway leading to the pedestal. Mason stood on the pathway,
notepad in hand, bemused by the complete silence. Here, even the
ineffable sensation of being in warp drive was missing. Kirk stood by
the pedestal, waiting patiently for her next question. They were ten
minutes into the interview and thus far Kirk had given only a precis of
his career, which she had duly recorded, knowing she would have to go
elsewhere to flesh it out. "I suppose we should get down to the
inevitable."

"What might that be?" Kirk asked warily. "How does a starship Captain
feel, knowing that his every decision is going to be second-guessed by a
machine?"

Kirk hated being diplomatic to the point of misleading, but this was
clearly a time when evasion w as necessary. "Starfleet has the interests
of the Federation in mind. If a starship captain engages in erratic
behavior, the monitors will act as a safeguard. They'll take away the
captain's command. It's my duty not to be... erratic." "Surely
Starfleet is very careful in choosing its captains. Isn't it impossible
for a man or woman who's passed all the tests to be a bad apple?" Again
she was leading him into delicate matters. Kirk knew of fellow officers
who had "gone bad." They were rare, and the unfortunate results had
never extended beyond damage to Starfleet vessels --and crew deaths--but
there was always the possibility... "It's never impossible for a human
being to make a mistake. The monitors have been installed to catch
me--us... if a mistake is made." "But what if it's a difference of
opinion, a judgment call, and you're not allowed to follow your own
judgment?" "That hasn't happened yet." "The system hasn't been tried,
Captain." "True. But I dislike speculation. By the end of this
mission, we should have enough experience to know whether modifications
are necessary." "Do you expect them to be?" Kirk smiled. "No." I
certainly hope not, he thought. "The monitors really consist of the
experiences of six of our finest starship captains. It's much as if
they were staring over my shoulder, offering friendly advice. I don't
really expect to ever disagree with six of Starfleet's finest." "Yes,
but I'm sure no captain enjoys having his commands questioned by even
the most brilliant of his peers. Isn't a captain supposed to be
autonomous, the ruler of all the surveys?" "A starship captain is part
of a chain of command. He is never his own man." And how often had he
strained that dictum past the breaking point?

"Sometimes the romance of command is overblown, wouldn't you say? I'm
always aCCountable for my actions. In fact, I'm accountable for the
actions of the Enterprise and all aboard her. If the monitors can help
me in my work, I welcome them. Perhaps you should speak to Lieutenant
Veblen. He can describe'the technical details, those that aren't
classified." "That would be very useful. Is he available now?" If he
isn't, Kirk thought, I'll make him available. He motioned her out of the
computer bay and called the computer control center, where Veblen was
likely to be engaged in his endless checking and re-checking of the
monitors' peripherals. "I'll need Mr. Veblen on the bridge with me in
forty-five minutes," he told Mason. "Please don't keep him any longer
than that." "I won't," Mason said. She watched Kirk enter the elevator.
She had learned nothing important --nothing she could substantiate, at
any rate---and he had only given her thirteen minutes. But one thing
was perfectly obvious to her, perhaps moreso than it was to Kirk
himself. The captain of the Enterprise loathed the thought of being
second-guessed.

Everything was running smoothly on the bridge. Kirk took his chair and
paused before beginning an entry in the ship's log. Was it
possible--barely possible--that the Enterprise could run herself better
without him? He put the doubt aside almost before he had a chance to
notice it, and made a routine status entry on the compact chair arm
keypad. Veblen came on the bridge a moment later. "Good day, Mr.
Veblen," Kirk said. "I trust you had a pleasant interview with Mister
Mason." "Yes, indeed," Veblen said, smiling. "She's a very pleasant
person. May I listen in on the monitors' communications with the
command console, Captain?"

Kirk looked at him, vaguely irritated. "Yes. of course." Veblen made
the necessary patches through the science console and plugged in an
earphone. His face assumed an air of blissful atten-tivehess as he
listened to computer voices discoursing with each other in various
machine languages. "Mr. Veblen," Kirk said a few minutes later. "Yes,
Captain?" Veblen had plugged a diagnostic tricotder into the science
console. The display on the console screens was spectacularly complex.

"Mr. Spock recommends that the Enterprise be prepared for any exigency,
and I concur. We'll need--"

"Sir, I've already initiated a stochastic algorithm ilable. He motioned
her out of the computer bay and called the computer control center,
where Veblen was likely to be engaged in his endless checking and
re-checking of the monitors' peripherals. "I'll need Mr. Veblen on the
bridge with me in forty-five minutes," he told Mason. "Please don't
keep him any longer than that." "I won't," Mason said. She watched Kirk
enter the elevator. She had learned nothing important --nothing she
could substantiate, at any rate---and he had only given her thirteen
minutes. But one thing was perfectly obvious to her, perhaps moreso
than it was to Kirk himself. The captain of the Enterprise loathed the
thought of being second-guessed.

Everything was running smoothly on the bridge. Kirk took his chair and
paused before beginning an entry in the ship's log. Was it
possible--barely possible--that the Enterprise could run herself better
without him? He put the doubt aside almost before he had a chance to
notice it, and made a routine status entry on the compact chair arm
keypad. Veblen came on the bridge a moment later. "Good day, Mr.
Veblen," Kirk said. "I trust you had a pleasant interview with Mister
Mason." "Yes, indeed," Veblen said, smiling. "She's a very pleasant
person. May I listen in on the monitors' communications with the
command console, Captain?"

Kirk looked at him, vaguely irritated. "Yes. of course." Veblen made
the necessary patches through the science console and plugged in an
earphone. His face assumed an air of blissful atten-tivehess as he
listened to computer voices discoursing with each other in various
machine languages. "Mr. Veblen," Kirk said a few minutes later. "Yes,
Captain?" Veblen had plugged a diagnostic tricotder into the science
console. The display on the console screens was spectacularly complex.

"Mr. Spock recommends that the Enterprise be prepared for any exigency,
and I concur. We'll need--"

"Sir, I've already initiated a stochastic algorithm in the strategy and
forecasting centers."

"Of course," Kirk said. He bit his lip. "Precisely. Any results yet?"

"It's only been running for an hour, sir." Veblen smiled almost
gleefully. "Last I checked, it was running a model on the development
of Hoyle

clouds under protostar conditions."

"Hoyle clouds, Mister Veblen?"

"Large sentient masses of interstellar gas, Captain. Named after a
twentieth-century astronomer."

"Yes. The Enterprise has encountered similar creatures several times.
Why should that be amusing, Mr. Veblen?"

"By itself, no reason, sir. But the algorithm was speculating on the
possibility they were chess masters." His smile widened, as if he were
filled with some hidden joke he couldn't possibly explain.

"I assume that is in the nature of the algorithm, Mr. Veblen, and we
shouldn't be alarmed?"

"Quite unnecessary, Captain. The program does not expect to be
interrupted while preparing its required list of nonsense situations. It
will select useful scenarios on its own."

"Thank you," Kirk said. Somehow his sense of humor faded when he was in
the presence of the young computer officer. Perhaps it was Veblen's


seeming inability to wear a uniform properly... "Please disengage the
command console now, Mr.. Veblen."

"Yes, sir." Velen withdrew his tricotder and patches and returned the
privacy of his chair to Kirk.

McCoy came on the bridge, looking mildly jubilant. He stood to one side
of Kirk, smiled, and shook his head. "Captain, I think I've got the
hang of working with the watchdogs. I'm learning to reason with them,
God help me. We shouldn't expect too much trouble." He lowered his
voice. "Unless we run into anything just the tiniest bit unusual." He
cast a meaningful glance at Veblen.

"Glad to hear it, Doctor. When you've mastered them, perhaps you'll
inform me how to deal with Mr. Veblen's command override."

"That's simple, Jim," McCoy said. "Just don't screw up. Use your own
judgment, but for God's sake don't make any decisions."

Kirk laughed. "Status report on your weapons tests, Mr. Chekov."

Chekov swiveled his chair. "We are ready for almost anything, Captain."

Captain's Log, Stardate 4380.4.

I'm going back through my tapes and trying to find all the information
on hand about Kshatriyan Vice Commodore Uligbar Dar Zotz-chen. VC Dar
Zotzchen is the last confirmed commander of the Kshatriyan stretch of
the neutral zone. As anticipated, the Romulans gave us no trouble
during our brief passage; the Kshatriyans, however, are not likely to be
so cooperative, even with the acquiescence of their Federation
representatives.

I last had dealings with Dar Zotzchen when I was a very green exec
aboard the Bonne Hornme Richard, escorting treaty software to the
presiding regent Dom Hauk. My impression was that VC Dar Zotzchen is a
devious


son of a bitch, and nobody to trust when you're' in a hurry-

INTERRUPT / INTERRUPT / INTERRUPT / INTERRUPT / INTER

Kirk was on the bridge in less than a minute. Vebten smoothly disengaged
the command override, which thankfully had done nothing in the meantime,
and Uhura played back the message.

Kirk listened intently. Yes, indeed, the voice--even in
translation--was that of Dar Zotzchen. Unforgettable.

"Defender of the Kshatriyan God's Endowment, Prime Commodore Uligbar Dar
Zotzchen to the inept commander of the easily recognizable Federation
starship Enterprise. Your course will take you across Kshatriyan
neutral territory. That is regarded as an act of war. Are you prepared
to violate all that our treaties stand for?"

"Greetings," Kirk said, "to the Righteous Defender Dar Zotzchen.
Congratulations on your pro motion, and all proper respect to the
Presiding Regent." Kirk deliberately left out the regent's name, in case
there had been reshuffling in the royal house. "The Prime Commodore's
servant officers must be lax in their duties, not to inform His
Vigilance that we have already sought and received permission to cross.
We are on a rescue mission."

Uhura listened closely, then swung her chair around to face Kirk. "There
is no reply, Captain."

"Sir," Veblen said, "the monitors suggest the Kshatriyan will probably
broadcast a conciliatory reply on an obscure channel to"

"Lieutenant Uhura and I are quite aware of that, Mister," Kirk said,
perhaps too sharply. "Lieutenant, repeat my signal, and add the
substance of the message from the Kshatriyans granting Starfleet
permission."

Spock came on the bridge, took his position at the science center, and
surreptitiously checked on Veb len's points of access to the computers.
Kirk noticed this and smiled his appreciation. He didn't like being in
a conspiracy against one of his own officers, but in a possible
emergency, it was best to know everything in advancemincluding whether
the new systems would allow him a full range of actions.

Mason came on the bridge a moment later. Her expression was more
harried than scared, but this changed to stiff-faced control as she
caught on to the situation.

"Still no reply, Captain," Uhura said, glancing back at her new
roommate.

"Distance to the neutral zone, Mr. Yimasa." "Three light hours and
closing rapidly, Captain." "Maintain warp maximum. Ensign Chekov, load
torpedo bays with decoy targets and prepare to launch. Shields on
maximum."

"Reply coming in now, Captain."

"Let's hear it."

"Captain Kirk, is it not?" The Kshatriyan had altered his tone to take
advantage of human inflections. "Our records are not so precise, but I
remember a young officer with a voice very much like your own. I assume
you have achieved your own command, and my congratulations. I measured
you as a worthy adversary then, despite your inexperience. Our machines
are even now searching for such a message. Until then, please reduce to
impulse power and skirt the neutral zone."

Kirk grimaced. "Reply, Lieutenant Unable to reduce to sub-lightspeed.
Repeat, we are on a rescue mission and time is of the essence. We have
already broadcast your own government's response, complete with uniquely
coded identifiers. Please allow us to pass. Your hostility could be
considered the first step toward a very undesirable situation."

Uhura listened for a few minutes. The bridge was silent, except for
Mason's somewhat uneven breathing. Kirk looked at Veblen and saw flushed
excitement on his face, but no fear. Mason was beginning


to show her distress in various twitches and nerVOus motions. "No reply,
Captain." "Maintain warp maximum, Mr. Sulu. Mr. Chekov, clear the bays
of two decoys and load two photon torpedos. Do we have the Kshatriyan
ships, Mr. Yimasa?" "They are still out of range and hiding, sir."
"Sir--" Veblen said. "No interruptions, please, Mr. Veblen." "But this
could be important, sir--" For God's sake, Mason wanted to scream,
listen to him! "Please!" Kirk shot an angry glance at the computer
officer, who nodded and backed away a step. "Distance, Mr. Yimasa."
"Two light hours from neutral zone buoy eighty-one, the closest, sir."
"Yellow alert, gentlemen." The sirens began on all decks. "General
quarters." There was a piercing whistle, and a mechanical echo of his
command. On his console, a display ticked off the stations reporting
fully manned and ready. The bridge screen showed a reconstructed image
of the stars immediately ahead, and postulated positions of the
Kshatriyan battle fleet. "We have them, Captain," Chekov said. Yimasa
concurred. "They are in the classic Warp-E formation. They look very
combative." Kirk nodded. The green postulated positions of the fleet on
the forward screen were replaced by red confirmeds. In the Warp-E, the
outlying lines of ships would be in warp drive, traveling between warp
minimum and warp three, while a rear line and center piercing line were
on impulse power. If the Enterprise were caught in that formation, no
matter what tactic she used, she would be confronting fully prepared
ships. Kirk saw that McCoy had come on the bridge. He stood near
Mason, hands gripping a

railing, wearing his tailored expression of overbearing interest. "Mr.
Sulu," Kirk said. He paused. Sulu turned, waiting. "Maintain course,
steady as she goes." "Sir, we will pass within range of their
formation," Yimasa said. I assumed as much, Mr. Yimasa. Any signals,
Uhura?" "None, Captain." "Steady, then. Steady." He sounded as if he
were reassuring a horse, Mason thought. Kirk patted the chair arms and
stared intently at the forward screen. Veblen stood to one side, trying
to look chastened and not entirely succeeding. It was at a time like
this that Kirk felt he was almost in telepathic communication with
Spock. The science officer's mere presence was enough to make Kirk
believe that, somehow, he was doing what Spock would suggest.
"Fifty-seven light minutes." "Status report." "All stations manned and
ready, Captain." "Conditional red alert." Again the sirens, and the
ticking off of acknowledgements on his command console. Always the rush
of adrenaline, which the caveman had used to prepare for the wolf or
cave bear... and which Kirk was now using to prepare himself for a fleet
of high-technology battle cruisers, deep between the stars, between
dimensions. Veblen swallowed audibly. His first time, Kirk thought.
Good for him. Mason hadn't moved. She kept glancing between Kirk,
Spock and McCoy. "No reply, Captain," Uhura repeated. "Spock, are we
tapping their ship-to-ship?" "Yes, Captain. They do not appear to be in
a state of great alarm. Other than that, I cannot read the signals
clearly. They may be false." If that Kshatriyan son of a bitch was
making him

put his crew through a conditional red, just to get his jollies... "Two
light-minutes," Yimasa said. "Within range." "Warp-E shearing and
closing," Chekov said. "Full red alert," Kirk ordered. "Impulse ships
going to warp minimum," Chekov said. "Formation closing on us, sir,"
Sulu reported. "Prepare for combat, damage alert imminent." "Captain!"
Uhura held her hand to her ear. "A message from the Prime Commodore. He
wishes us the best of Creator's luck, and acknowledges receipt of our
permission to pass through the neutral zone... Kirk, McCoy and Mason let
out their breaths at almost the same time. Kirk looked at the computer
officer with a wry grin. "Well, Mr. Veblen?" "Captain?" "What did the
monitors suggest?" "That we shouldn't worry, sir. The Kshatriyans are
unable to engage in a full-scale war at this time, have no need to do so
and are renowned for enjoying testing their adversaries. The monitors
concurred down the line with your actions, sir." "Very glad to hear
that, Mr. Veblen. Why was the message so urgent, then?" "Why, sir, I
felt there was no need for tension, if all was to go well. Wasted
energy." "Quite, Mr. Veblen," Kirk said, glancing at Mason. "Quite."


Chapter Seven

When Mason entered Uhura's quarters, the communications officer had just
come off duty and was changing into a flowing orange and red robe,
decorated with a fringe of leopards stalking through jungle grass. Uhura
smiled at her and offered a glass of wine from the cabin autochef. "That
was really something," Mason said, sitting on the edge of her bunk. "I'm
not sure I've ever been more scared." "It was a bluff," Uhura said. "I
think most of us were aware of that. I'm sorry there wasn't more time
to prepare you." "The captain didn't behave like it was a bluff." Uhura
laughed. "Poker face." "And everybody seemed relieved when it was
over." "Well, you can never tell what a Kshatriyan might do. Do you
know much about them?" Mason shook her head. "Only what I've read in my
schoolbooks and picked up from the subspace bulletins. The dailies."

"They're quite an admirable race, actually. Very tough, very
defensive... and well they should be. They remind me of the Zulu.
They're an old race, surrounded by the Romulans and the Federation,
threatened by the Klingons... and still they hold their own, even
against better technologies."

"They're the same basic stock as Commander Spock, aren't they?"

"They're part of the third octant Dakhrian migrations, if that's what
you mean. The Vulcans, Romulans, Klingons and Kshatriyans are all
related if you go back far enough."

"And Spock doesn't feel funny, siding with humans against his own
blood?"

"I'm afraid the ties go too far back for any of them to feel much
kinship. Besides, who knows what Spock feels?"

"I don't understand."

Uhura gathered up her gown and pulled a chair near to Mason's bed. "He's
a Vulcan. They have very rigid codes governing emotions."

"Yes, I know that." She felt slightly irritated. "We're not that
isolated on Yalbo. But doesn't he hold opinions?"

"Not unless there's a lot of evidence behind them. Personal opinions are
anathema to a Vulcan. In fact, anything having to do' with petty
personal traits is subdued during Vulcan education. But enough talk
about Spock. I'd like to learn more about you."

Mason shrugged. "I'm a reporter. I come from a very small, isolated
planet. What else is there to say? Besides, I'm not important. Only
the story."

"I'm sorry none of us could get down to Yalbo," Uhura said. "I like to
visit all sorts of planets, even small ones."

"It started out as a mining colony," Mason said, one hand stroking the
back of the other. She looked down at her hands and clasped them. "Full
of metals, rare earths... We can't drink the groundwater. It would
poison us. The atmosphere is fi lled


with nitric acid vapor. When we go outside the compounds, we have to
wear full body suits. It's not what you call a paradise."

"Still, I bet you like it." Uhura leaned forward, her dark eyes
glittering. Mason grinned and shook her head.

"We all like something about where we grow up." "The people, maybe?"

"Sure. There are good people on Yalbo." "You're proud of Yalbo. Admit
it."

Mason considered. "Of course. We've done some really remarkable things
there. Like, we stayed alive until the Federation chose us for an
outpost. That wasn't easy. Yalbo became productive just when there was
a metals glut in the second octant. We'd have had to ship our output a
thousand parsecs to even begin to be competitive. Those were hard
times."

"How old were you?"

"Oh, I hadn't even been born then. But my parents told me all about
them. Some people would have starved if it hadn't been for Starfleet
rescue ships."

"My father served on a rescue ship," Uhura said. "Maybe he came to
Yalbo."

"Accepting charity was hard. My people were Hippies, you know. They
wanted to be self-sufficient, to get away from the Galactic government
and set up their own commune. Most came from the Martian mining towns
originally. They needed the rescue ships, but they weren't glad to see
them. We never have approved of military venturing."

"I thought Hippies were from the 20th century." "Communes on Mars
started them up again. People on Yalbo changed a lot of things. We're
Humanists. We believe that everything in the Galaxy centers on human
beings, and that all other species are subordinate."

Uhura made a face. "Doesn't sound like a very useful philosophy."

"It works well enough on a planet where there aren't any other species.
And you have to admit, somebody like Spock takes a little getting used
to."

Uhura stood and folded her arms. "Rowena, I don't suggest you try to
apply Yalbo philosophies on a starship. We've been too many places,
seen too many things. If you really want to know what we're all about,
you might spend some time going through the ship's open log." She
paused, then bent over the reporter. "I've met non-humans who make us
look like worms. We crawl into their sight, and crawl out again, and
the only reason they don't step on us is they aren't at all like us.
Humans aren't the center of anything."

"I'm sorry," Mason said. "I don't have anything against other species,
but I do believe humans are important."

"Important, yes. More important, no. Now let me get down off my
soapbox and fix us some dinner. What would you like?"

They ate quietly, a little wary of each other. When the sleep period
was over, Uhura rose and sprayed on her uniform in the cabin sonic
shower. She stood by the door as Mason dressed. "I have the bridge
watch until 1800 hours. Come by just before then and I'll show you what
I do. Then we can catch dinner in the mess and watch some
entertainments in the wardroom."

"Uhura," Mason said as the lieutenant was about to leave.

"Yes?"

"Do you have trouble sleeping during warp?" "Heavens, no. Why?"

"Just wondering." Perhaps it was being away from Yalbo, away from the
smells and company of the compounds. She felt so alone, so very much
among strangers. If she let it, her isolation could easily depress her
and begin to affect her work, and she would never stand for that.

And she was angry. Uhura was human; whatever

her experiences, surely she felt more allegiance for humans than for
other species! How would any species survive if it didn't feel more
allegiance for its own kind? Did everyone on the Enterprise think
Humanists were backwater reactionaries?

She checked over her equipment. Perhaps it wasn't a bad idea to do some
research in the ship's open log. She had fifteen more days before the
Enterprise reached the Black Box, time in which to steep herself in the
lore of Starfleet, in the history of the Enterprise--time in which to
find a chink in all that serf-righteous military armor.

Chapter Eight

WARNING! YOU ARE ENCROACHING UPON SECURITY SECTOR/ UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY
MAY RESULT IN PROSECUTION--

Spock sat before the monitors console in the computer control center and
regarded the message on the screen with mild distaste. As far as he and
Veblen had been able to tell, there was nothing against Starfleet
regulations---or even against the monitors' codes--in what he was about
to do. Still, the human designers had studded every aspect of the
monitors' programming with warnings and ambiguous threats. He knew a
way around the warning--a path was charted in the system instructions
themselves--so he erased the screen and proceeded into the heart of the
system, the memory banks which contained the experience memories of six
Starfleet commanders. Of the six, four were now dead and two had retired
from active duty. One of the dead was a Vulcan, the only Vulcan to ever
reach command rank in Starfleet, Admiral Harauk. Spock was very
interested in Harauk's thoughts on certain matters, and from what he
could tell, the monitors were perfectly capable of replicating Harauk to
a certain degree. So long as Spock did not attempt to change the memory
or tamper with the system in any way which would affect its function,
the worst he was doing was affronting the monitors' sense of
dignity--which was how he characterized the intent behind the messages.
(Machines as complex as the monitors were often best dealt with in terms
of quirks and personalities, especially when they had been designed by
human beings.)

WARNING! MONITORS NOT DESIGNED TO OPERATE WITH INPUT OF ONE
EXPERIENCE-MEMORY ALONE. MAY RESULT IN

Spock cleared the screen again and placed the direct com earphones over
his head. He heard a distant hissing noise--not interference but the
carrier signal for the memory frequencies of Admiral Harauk. At this
point, there was no need for a machine language interface. Spock
pressed a button actuating voice communication and said, "Live long and
prosper, Admiral Harauk. I am Spock, son of Sarek of Vulcan and Amanda
Grayson of Earth. I am science and firstnitors console in the computer
control center and regarded the message on the screen with mild
distaste. As far as he and Veblen had been able to tell, there was
nothing against Starfleet regulations---or even against the monitors'
codes--in what he was about to do. Still, the human designers had
studded every aspect of the monitors' programming with warnings and
ambiguous threats. He knew a way around the warning--a path was charted
in the system instructions themselves--so he erased the screen and
proceeded into the heart of the system, the memory banks which contained
the experience memories of six Starfleet commanders. Of the six, four
were now dead and two had retired from active duty. One of the dead was
a Vulcan, the only Vulcan to ever reach command rank in Starfleet,
Admiral Harauk. Spock was very interested in Harauk's thoughts on
certain matters, and from what he could tell, the monitors were
perfectly capable of replicating Harauk to a certain degree. So long as
Spock did not attempt to change the memory or tamper with the system in
any way which would affect its function, the worst he was doing was
affronting the monitors' sense of dignity--which was how he
characterized the intent behind the messages. (Machines as complex as
the monitors were often best dealt with in terms of quirks and
personalities, especially when they had been designed by human beings.)

WARNING! MONITORS NOT DESIGNED TO OPERATE WITH INPUT OF ONE
EXPERIENCE-MEMORY ALONE. MAY RESULT IN

Spock cleared the screen again and placed the direct com earphones over
his head. He heard a distant hissing noise--not interference but the
carrier signal for the memory frequencies of Admiral Harauk. At this
point, there was no need for a machine language interface. Spock
pressed a button actuating voice communication and said, "Live long and
prosper, Admiral Harauk. I am Spock, son of Sarek of Vulcan and Amanda
Grayson of Earth. I am science and first officer aboard the U.S.S.
Enterprise." "Live long and prosper, Spock," came the reply. Harauk's
voice was steady and even, though a little tinny. "Have the monitors
been activated?" "No, sir, they have not. I am asking questions of my
own initiative." "To what end, Spock?" "The Admiral is well aware that
the first concern of a Vulcan is his duty. My commanding officer is a
human, Captain James T. Kirk. The humans have created and installed
the monitors aboard Starfleet vessels, but I am not convinced they have
used the greatest wisdom in doing so."

"Still, it is your duty to follow Starfleet regulations, as I do."

"And I will. But I also have a duty to my captain, a duty to discover
whether or not the monitors will hinder his performance. And... I am
interested in a Vulcan's response to the monitors."

"I cannot communicate to you as Vulcan to Vulcan, Spock. I am not alive
in this system, I am merely an advisory program."

"It is advice that I have come for."

"Humans have been known for erratic behavior. At their best, they are
less disciplined than even an inadequate Vulcan. They have created the
monitors to circumvent possible difficulties with their own kind. I see
nothing wrong with the idea in principle."

"But in execution?"

"I am not aware of the actual functioning of the system. Vulcans were
involved in its creation, and the very best human designers worked hard
on it for years. Still, it must be obvious that I approve of the idea
in principle, since I agreed to be part of the system."

"And if a situation should arise which is outside the experience of the
monitors--outside of the experience of the advisory programs?"

"That possibility has surely been taken into account . It is obvious that
a starship commander will encounter unfamiliar situations."

Spock thought for a moment. "I am worried. The system has never proven
itself in actual use, and I do not believe we are going into an ideal
situation for such a test."

"Then there is only one thing for you to do." "Yes?"

"Your duty is foremost."

"I am well aware of that, Admiral."


"Your duty is foremost."

No matter how Spock phrased and rephrased his questions, that was the
only answer Harauk's experience memories could give This was far from
reassuring. Which duty was Harauk referring to--duty to captain, ship,
Starfleet? Duty to obey the monitors?"

No Vulcan supported a creed that bound him to self-destruction without
purpose, or the destruction of others for the sake of duty alone.
Obviously, Harauk's experience memory was trying to impress upon him the
necessity of a hierarchy of duties. Among Vulcans, such a hierarchy was
seldom necessary. But among humans, in this situation-

WARNING/ THE CORRECT USE OF THE

MONITORS DEPENDS UPON THE INTERACTION OF THE SIX EXPERIENCE MEMORIES

CONTAINED WITHIN THE SYSTEM.

Spock returned the monitors to their normal mode and removed the direct
com headphones. The door to the computer control center beeped and
Veblen entered with a notepad in hand, busily making calculations. "Mr.
Spock! You might be able to answer a question--"

"And you, Mr. Veblen, might be able to answer one as well."

Veblen stopped and stared at Spock, obviously

nonplused. "Anything you wish, Mr. Spock." "Your question first."

"Oh, it'll wait." Veblen was intrigued by the very possibility that the
science officer would have a question to ask of him.

"I have not yet had an opportunity to study the monitors' failsafe
operations. If they should malfunction, in the estimation of the
officers and crew of a vessel, can they be disengaged?"

"Such a failure is highly unlikely, sir."

"That does not answer my question."

"I... don't know myself, sir."

"Then it is time we studied the failsafes in more detail, wouldn't you
say?"

Veblen regarded Spock shrewdly. "Sir, if I may ask another question
entirely--what is it you expect us to find in the Black Box?"

"I am like the Federation Interstellar Scouts, Mr. Veblen. I believe it
is necessary to be prepared."

Mason had spent her life in the compounds of Yaibo, and did not find the
corridors and spaces of the Enterprise completely unfamiliar. Still,
there was something about the size of an enclosed, self-contained ship
like the Enterprise which was awesome. There were few areas of the ship
off-limits to her, and even fewer reaches where she was not allowed to
go for reasons of safety, at least with an escort, so exploring became
one of her favorite past-times.

Even as a child, she had been fascinated by the recesses of the
compounds, places where unused equipment was stored, or where the
automated processing plants hummed and chugged in lonely efficiency.
When Ensign Chekov procured a plastic map of the ship for her, she
looked forward to days of walking, crawling, climbing. With the story
foremost in her mind, however, she visited the sickbay first.

Nurse Christine Chapel--an efficient, somewhat spinsterish woman still
firmly holding on to her classic beauty--showed her the diagnostic beds,
both older and newer models, and explained the organ farm. The organ
farm---official name, the Genotype Conservancy Center--was a large bank
of shiny gray cabinets at the rear of the sickbay. "It's the forerunner
to the TEREC unit," Chapel explained. "We have genetic records on hand
for every member of the crew. In case of injury, we can grow a new
replacement for any body part--except, of

course, those which are deeply personalized, like the brain. We can
grow a brain, but it will be quite blank. The major advancement in the
TEREC is that we can replicate the present individual. And while you're
here, you might as well make your contribution..."

With her fear of needles, it took some self-control not to protest when
Chapel brought out a biopsy tomer. The nurse deftly and painlessly
removed a section of cells from the inside of her cheek and closed the
tiny gap with an electronic suture.

"We'll put this in the organ farm, and---heaven forbid!--if anything
unfortunate happens, you'll have some insurance on file."

Chapel thought it would be best if McCoy gave her a tour of the TEREC
itself, and McCoy was busy "playing poker with the monitors," as Chapel
described it. "He's like a cardshark with a new victim. He should be
human again in a few days."

Is it possible the Enterprise personnel are taking delight in .finding
ways to circumvent the monitors? Mason wrote in her notepad.

On some of her sojourns, she brought along the FNS recorder and made
short documentaries of various ship activities. She expended an entire
fifteen minutes of recorder file time on games played by the crew in the
gym. Highly competitive, she noted, the Enterprise crewmembers take
delight in testing each other, and exhibiting their own prowess. While
there is little braggadocio, per se, there is a firm' commitment to
doing one's best in all circumstances. In team activity, the degree of
cooperation is impressive. Teams can be reshuffled at will, and yet the
players mesh instantly and seamlessly, as if they have been mates all
their lives--as indeed they have, where shipboard lives are concerned.

Chief Engineer Scott was only too glad to show off the engineering
decks. During an hour off duty, he took her on a single-minded
"spelunking expedition" (his term) through the access tubes and
maintenance corridors of the ship's impulse power plant." She held her
hand, at his insistence, on the outer shield of one of the huge, oblate
"bottles" where matter and antimatter were precisely mixed, and felt the
indescribable tingle of controlled total destruction. She
recorded--though she knew it would never pass FNS muster--his technical
description of power plant theory, but was more interested in his
Summing up. "We could travel from one end of the universe to the other,
if we could only fine tune our understanding of what we already have..."
He shook his head and smiled. "She's a lovely engine, but I've seen
engines on alien ships which make her look like a bicycle chain, and I'm
the monkey pedaling. What I wouldna ha' gi'en just to peek at the
manuals o' one of those!" When McCoy finally got around to showing her
the TEREC, she was somewhat disappointed. The d doctor explained the
basic operation of the unit, and touched briefly on how it was
integrated with the monitors, but smiled when Mason asked if he believed
the monitors would cause him difficulties. "I'm working on it." he said,
and would say no more. While Spock and MCoy tried to understand the
function of the monitors, and while Mason toured and took notes, the
starship Enterprise rode a shock-wave of warped spacetime above and
through ribbons of stars and interstellar gas clouds, across galactic
arms and obscured abysses, at speeds too great to be entirely real.
Through the mysteries of advanced physics, she shed her natural
tardiness in scattered, dissipating ghosts and sleeked across realms
incomprehensible to the minds of most of those inside her hull. Within
two weeks, sensors could easily reconstruct the looming shape of the
Black Box Nebula, no longer entirely dark. Mason, looking at the nebula
on the screen in Uhura's cabin, thought she detected a sinister
resemblance in the nebula's new aspect. Where the light of the
protostars shined through, it outlined three distinct, clawed talons. As
the Enterprise approached, hour by hour the talons seemed to spread
wider. Then 'the reaches of the nebula closed around them, and the
Enterprise and her crew were drawn back to genesis itself.

Chapter Nine

Station One was now embedded in a twisted strand of gas and dust at the
nebula's perimeter. The Enterprise advanced through the clouds at less
than one quarter lightspeed; any faster, and the buffering of the
diffuse nebula material would be dangerous. Uhura attempted to contact
the station numerous times, without result. The nebula's brilliant
shapes and patterns, seen from several dozen light years out, were now
reduced to a constant transparent glow which bathed the Enterprise in
dreamlike purple light.

Kirk examined the readouts on the forward screen, not at all happy with
what he saw. Spock stood at his side. The Enterprise was on alert and
the bridge was fully crewed. Mason stood near the elevator, recorder
hovering nearby. "It looks like we've come here for nothing," Kirk
said. Spock did not disagree. Graphs laid over the display of the tiny
planetoid which had once held Station One showed no signs of life
whatsoever, and the Enterprise had scanned the world from all sides.


"Unless there was a failure in the life support systems of the station
itself," Spock said, "the condition of the planetoid gives us no reason
to

suspect any further harm could have come to them." "Then maybe they're
shy," McCoy said. "Serious suggestions are what I need now, Bones." He
glanced at Mason and was annoyed to find her noting his words on her
pad. He was annoyed, in fact, that he was being recorded at all, but as
McCoy had said often since their journey began, he alone was to blame
for Mason's presence. He could have defied Starfleet; it probably would
have resulted in a fracas, hard words here and there, but he would have
prevailed. No; he strongly suspected that he had an ulterior motive for
wanting her aboard. If the monitors failed miserably, an objective
observer would record the failure.

And if he failed miserablyw

McCoy was in the middle of a sentence when Kirk resumed listening. "--so
I concur with Spock. There's no evidence the environment in the nebula
was any harsher after the ignition than during."

"Mr. Veblen," Kirk said. The computer officer stepped forward smartly.
"What do our computers say?"

"If you're asking for the results of the stochastic

algorithm--"

"I am."

"I haven't had much time to enter these findings, sir. I can do so, and
the algorithm can be re-selected."

"I'm curious to know what the algorithm came up with before we arrived."

"Sir, three possibilities were presented. Two were

clearly in error--"

"Oh? Spock?"

"Mr. Veblen is referring to deviants which the computers themselves
later rejected as unlikely. One referred to the take-over of the
station by an outside force. The other considered the madness and
suicide


of all the station members. Neither of these possibiii-ties were taken
seriously in the final selection."

"The third scenario is quite interesting, Captain," Veblen said. "One
or more of the Vulcan researchers aboard the station has been affected
by the Ybakra radiation--"

"Vulcans are less capable of adapting to heavy doses of Ybakra," Spock
said, "just as they are not as well suited to cold as humans are. Still,
the differences are minor."

"---and has suffered a mental breakdown. The scenario diverges at this
point. Either the other members of the team have been imprisoned,
or--and this could be more likely, if we adjust the algorithm to the new
findings--they have been murdered."

Kirk frowned. "I'm not sure ! like your algorithm, Mr. Veblen. Spock,
let's sweep the planetold again. After that, a boarding party will
assemble with full environmental gear and portable shields in the main
transporter room."

"May I go down with you?" Mason asked. Kirk looked at her sharply.

"No," he said. "I'm not going down with the first team. Starfleet
frowns on its commanders taking unnecessary risks. You may instruct one
of the party in the use of your recorder, but we will not be responsible
if it is lost or damaged."

Mason nodded, somewhat relieved.

With the failure of the final sweep to locate any signs of life, Kirk
met the boarding party in the transporter preparation area. The party
consisted of six crewmembers, headed by the chief of security,
Lieutenant O!aus. Mason's recorder followed Olaus rather like a puppy;
Olaus regarded the device with amused embarrassment as Mason tuned and
adjusted it for its new task.

"This is to be a quick reconnaissance," Kirk said. "Mr. Devereaux will
take tricorder readings and Mr. Mason's recorder will back up our
observations. You will be down for less than two minutes; after that,
you will automatically be returned to ship. Any one of you can signal
for immediate return. You will be preceded by a transporter test
device, as usual. Mr. Shallert, release the TTD. Mr. Oiaus, assemble
your team in the transporter."

The TTD was beamed down first and reported that the interior of the
station was environmentally normal, and that the area appeared deserted.
"Temperature is twenty-nine degrees celsius, Captain," Shallert reported
from the transporter controls. "Oxygen level twenty-three percent, all
other gases as expected for an operating life support system."

Spock advanced to Kirk's side. "The higher temperature is quite
comfortable for Vulcans, Captain." "Yes. Mr. Shallert, beam them
down."

The transporter wrapped the shapes of the party members in pulsing lines
of disintegration, mapping and disassembling their bodies. Gradually,
the lines shrank and the shapes were reduced to nothing. Shallert
checked the stored form-memories, then pulled the sliding switch which
beamed them across five hundred kilometers to the interior of Station
One.

"Could the station still be operating if all the researchers are dead?"
Mason asked Kirk.

"It's conceivable," he said. "But not likely." "Then why haven't you
picked up any life signs?"

"We'll know a lot more in just a few minutes," Kirk said. "Patience is
a virtue. Right, Spock?"

Spock stared stoically at the transporter control displays. "Arrival
signal has been sent," he said. "They are in the station."


Chapter Ten

A warm breeze pushed quietly through the empty corridor. After ten
years, the station was immaculate, everything in order, as if waiting
for its guests to arrive. And arrive they did, in six beautiful columns
of structured fire, lighting up the utilitarian gray walls and adding a
faint electric smell to the clean, dry air. "Fan out," Olaus ordered.
The team spread rapidly up and down the corridor, Ensign Devereaux
aiming his tricorder in the prescribed patterns. Mason's recorder
stayed close to Olaus, humming faintly. Olaus flipped open his
communicator. "Landing party to Enterprise, Olaus reporting. Station
appears to be in good shape. No signs of damage. Devereaux scanning.
One minute thirty until return." He closed the communicator and inserted
it into his belt. "Let's move!" The six ran in two groups of three to
each end of the corridor. At one end, where Olaus stood at ready, was a
door leading into a storage chamber. The door was secured but not
locked. At the opposite end, the corridor branched into a T, each
subsequent hallway ending in a bulkhead with an airtight hatch.
Devereaux advanced quickly to the left end of the T and punched a
standard code into the hatch controls. The hatch sighed and slid open.
He aimed his tricorder into the space beyond- And narrowly missed the
head of a young Vulcan boy. "Hello," Radak said in perfect Federation
English. Devereaux stared at him in astonishment. "Lieutenant!" he
called out, stepping back. "Lieutenant Olaus!" Radak held out his hands
in greeting, but the transporter effect had already begun. Their time
was up; again, they were transformed into pillars of fire and pulled
back aboard the Enterprise, as if they had been attached by a flexible
string. The transporter grouped them together as they had left, but
Deve-reaux was hunched slightly, tricorder held out, and Olaus had been
caught in mid-run. He bounded from the platform and into Mason before
he could recover. As he apologized, Mason's recorder switched its
allegiance and returned to its former master, still humming. "There's a
Vulcan child in the station!" Devereaux said. "He speaks English--or,
at least he said hello." Spock gently removed Devereaux's tricorder from
his hands and played back the science data. "Your device shows no
Vulcan, child or otherwise," Spock said. "Who else saw the child?" "I
saw someone standing beyond Devereaux," said another member of the
party. "But I couldn't see him clearly." Spock adjusted the tricorder
and still came up with negative results. "Mister Devereaux, please
describe this Vulcan child." "I'm no expert, Mr. Spock, but he seemed
about twelve Earth years old, dark purple eyes, wearing a

green uniform of some sort. He looked a bit like you." Spock lifted an
eyebrow and glanced at Kirk. "The tricorder shows no life other than
the landing party. I cannot presume Mr. Devereaux was halluci-hating,
Captain, because T'Prylla's son, Radak, would be about fifteen Earth
years old, and has dark purple unusual for a pure Vulcan. The landing
eyeSi'ssued no specific descriptions of station party was

Mason scanned the contents of the recorder's immediate memory. "It was
with the wrong guy," she said. "It should have been with Devereaux.
There's nothing on visual and if anybody said anything besides the
landing party, I can't hear it. I might be able to pull it out after
enhancement---" "No need," Spock said. "The tricorder picked up no
sound waves except those from the landing party. Nor was there any extra
infrared or microwave radiation in the corridor, as might be expected if
an actual living body had presented itself to Ensign Devereaux." "So I
was seeing things?" Devereanx asked, chagrined. "Not necessarily," Kirk
said. "I'll expect your reports in fifteen minutes in my quarters
annex. Mr. Spock, I'll want you and Doctor McCoy... and Mr. Veblen...
there in fifteen minutes, also." He turned to Maspologized, Mason's
recorder switched its allegiance and returned to its former master,
still humming. "There's a Vulcan child in the station!" Devereaux said.
"He speaks English--or, at least he said hello." Spock gently removed
Devereaux's tricorder from his hands and played back the science data.
"Your device shows no Vulcan, child or otherwise," Spock said. "Who
else saw the child?" "I saw someone standing beyond Devereaux," said
another member of the party. "But I couldn't see him clearly." Spock
adjusted the tricorder and still came up with negative results. "Mister
Devereaux, please describe this Vulcan child." "I'm no expert, Mr.
Spock, but he seemed about twelve Earth years old, dark purple eyes,
wearing a

green uniform of some sort. He looked a bit like you." Spock lifted an
eyebrow and glanced at Kirk. "The tricorder shows no life other than
the landing party. I cannot presume Mr. Devereaux was halluci-hating,
Captain, because T'Prylla's son, Radak, would be about fifteen Earth
years old, and has dark purple unusual for a pure Vulcan. The landing
eyeSi'ssued no specific descriptions of station party was

Mason scanned the contents of the recorder's immediate memory. "It was
with the wrong guy," she said. "It should have been with Devereaux.
There's nothing on visual and if anybody said anything besides the
landing party, I can't hear it. I might be able to pull it out after
enhancement---" "No need," Spock said. "The tricorder picked up no
sound waves except those from the landing party. Nor was there any extra
infrared or microwave radiation in the corridor, as might be expected if
an actual living body had presented itself to Ensign Devereaux." "So I
was seeing things?" Devereanx as ked, chagrined. "Not necessarily," Kirk
said. "I'll expect your reports in fifteen minutes in my quarters
annex. Mr. Spock, I'll want you and Doctor McCoy... and Mr. Veblen...
there in fifteen minutes, also." He turned to Mason. "You're welcome to
come, needless to say." "I wouldn't miss it," Mason said. "A haunted
station... wouldn't miss it for a lifetime supply of filters."

For the first time in nine years, Grake became aware of a separate
existence. He looked down at his body and stretched out his arms, then
brought his hands closer to his face. Oh, yes, there were memories...
but the memories weren't his, alone. "Grake." He turned and saw T'PryHa.
He extended one hand and they touched fingers with what, for Vulcans,
amounted to deep passion. "We haven't been apart," T'Prylla said, some
confusion evident. "Yet we have been separated. Where are the children?
And where are Anauk and T'Kosa?" "I- remember them. We were all
together." "Yet... not." They stood in the middle of the research dome,
surrounded by jumbled mounds of reassembled equipment. The devices they
had used to chart the birth of the protostars had been inactive for nine
years, most of their parts scavenged and used to create the engineer's
nightmare which filled the dome. "What is your last memory... your own
memory?" "Radak and T'Raus, together..." Grake hesitated. "Telling us we
were not going to be hurt, just--" "Adapted," T'Prylla finished. "And
so we have been. How much time has passed? Why call us back?" Grake
gestured at the massed machinery. "We must destroy thisimmediately!"
Radak appeared out of nothing in front of them. "Honored parents," he
said. "It is necessary to return the station to normal operations." "My
son," Grake said. "What we have been doing is maut akspra. It must
stop, now!" Grake held out his hand to Radak. The boy looked at his
father's outstretched fingers, blinked slowly, then turned away. "Much
has been accomplished," he said. ,'We are grateful to you. But we have
guests now. Those that you summoned, ten years ago, have finally
arrived." "There is a ship?" T'Prylla asked. "A large and well-armed
ship," Radak said. "A group of humans appeared in the reshek corridor."
The station's sections were named according to the symbols of the Vulcan
alphabet, of which reshek was the third.

"Where are they?" T'Prylla asked. "They returned before I could do more
than greet them. Why were no Vulcans among them, Mother?" T'Prylla
approached her son--or the image of her son, she did not know
which---and slowly reached for his shoulders with her hands. She
grasped solid flesh, covered with perfectly tangible green clotIv--the
same children's uniform Radak had worn for a decade, but altered to fit
his growing body. "There isn't much time," she said. "These are our
rescuers. We sent them a distress signal. They will not leave until
they have discovered what happened, and corrected the situation. Or
until they have taken us all away." Radak's eyes widened with alarm,
"That would be horrible," he said. "We must stay." "Why?" Grake asked.
"It is not for you to know, yet," Radak said. "But they have seen you.
They know we are here" "They have seen me, but they know nothing else.
They do not know anybody else is alive on the station. We have masked
everything, and we have not replied to their messages--" "Why so
devious?" Grake asked. "They are here for our good." "Not so. The good
is realized by our staying here, by continuing our work... not by
leaving. We do not need to be rescued." "Who are you?" T'Prylla asked
suddenly. Radak focused his eyes on her coldly. There was no hint of
affection, only a curious kind of heightened interest. "I am your son,"
he said. "Where is T'Raus?" "She is involved in work. You must
cooperate with us" "And the others?" "They are well. They work with us,
just as you have." "We cannot cooperate," Grake said slowly, circling
his son. The boy followed him from the corners of his eyes, his body
betraying no sign of tension. "You hold us prisoner. You allow us no
freedom, no true participation. You make us your slaves, and you tell
us nothing This cannot be tolerated. You are not behaving as a son
should--" "Because I have higher duties now," Radak said. "You do not
choose to cooperate?" "No," T'Prylla said. There was no use lying. They
could hide nothing from this form of Radak, whatever he was. "Then we
have no choice but to adapt you again. There is no harm---" Grake's arm
shot out for his son's shoulder, fingers and thumb configured to pinch a
sensitive nerve and render the boy unconscious. But Radak vanished even
as the fingers closed. His voice whispered in the air around them. "I
am sorry, my parents." T'Prylla watched in horror as Grake's face grew
rigid, then softened. All resistance vanished in her husband's
features. Then her own will seemed to melt, and she was returned to the
undifferentiated state in which they had both spent the past nine years.
Deep inside, however---below all the carefully nurtured, civilized
levels, in the regions of her personality that emulated the violent
Vulcan figures of the past--T'Prylla hated, and fought, and screamed
with rage...

"Mr. Veblen, I have to say I don't place much trust in your stochastic
algorithm. Still, since nothing else seems to make much sense, what do
the new versions tell us?" Kirk sat in his favorite chair, a worn
manually-operated Delkin he had purchased while on shore leave some
years before. On the cabin's more modern conference chairs sat Spock,
Veblen, McCoy, Ensign Devereaux, Lieutenant Olaus and Mason, who carried
a simple voice recorder.

"Sir," Veblen began, swallowing. "The computers suggest the algorithms
are not appropriate at this point. We are close to having information
we can use to find out what really happened--" "Oh? How close are we?"
Kirk turned to Spock. "Are the enhancements any help?" "Whatever Ensign
Devereaux saw in the station corridor, it does not register on the
tricorder. And Mister Mason's opinion to the contrary, we are fortunate
the tricorder was present, and not her own press equipment; the
tricorder is far more diversified and sensitive." "Mr. Devereaux?" "The
picture of the boy--he was only three years old at the time the record
was made. I can't be positive. But it does resemble the older boy I
saw in the station." "Spock, any chance there would be other Vulcan
children on the station by now?" "Not of that age, Captain." "Of course.
So how does Radak become so disembodied that he doesn't show up on a
tricorder?" "There is only one way to find out, Captain. We must send
down another landing party." "Spock, I've been known to take risks, but
I'm not sure that's one I want to take right now--" Uhura's voice broke
in over the com. "Captain, a signal from Station One has just come in."
Kirk sat up. "Relay, Lieutenant." "With visual, Captain." Kirk reached
over and activated his cabin screen. The image was hazy at first, but
quickly sharpened. Kirk recognized Grake immediately; the Vulcan looked
tired, but sounded as enthusiastic as possible for a Vulcan. "This is
researcher Grake on Black Box Nebula Station One. I wish to speak to
the captain of the Federation starship Enterprise." "I'm Captain James
T. Kirk. We're relieved to see you alive and well, Grake. We've had
some alarming moments in your station."

"Yes, my son informed me. I apologize for the confusion. We have been
rather isolated here, and all of our communications equipment has been
deactivated to transfer power to other projects. We are all indeed
well; Captain--with the exception, unfortunately, of our colleagues in
suspended animation." "Tell him we have to come down soon," McCoy said.
"Request permission to enter your station and carry out our orders,"
Kirk said. "We are acting on your distress call, Grahe." c"Yes, of
course. It has been a very long time, aptain, even for Vulcans. Much
has changed... and some of the changes may be startling. May I suggest
that only essential personnel be sent down first?" "Of course. Spock,
myself and Dr. McCoy will be in ,t, he second landing party." Yes, how
marvelous. T'Pry!la and I will be very pleased to see Spock again. And
of course, all of you. have been long awaited." Kirk glanced at Spock,
who was out of range of the console cameras. His first officer's
expression was troubled, verging on a frown. "Please give us proper
coordinates, Grake," Kirk said, "so we won't interfere with any of
your... ah... projects." Grake read them transporter coordinates and
repeated his gladness at seeing them, then signed off. "Spock?" Kirk
asked when the screen had gone da,r,k,. "Something wrong?" I cannot be
sure, Captain. I knew Grake only briefly, and that more than twenty
years ago." "And?" "I must inspect the situation more closely before I
voice any hypothesis," Spock said. His look said, in a way that Kirk
was quite capable of interpreting, that a Vulcan could maintain a record
for accurate observations only if not pressed at a premature moment.
"Very well. Thank you, Ensign, Mr. Oiaus.

Rowena, you'll be allowed on the planetoid as soon as we decide it is
safe. The second party will transport as soon as Dr. McCoy has
assembled his equipment."

"I'll be ready in ten minutes, Captain," McCoy said. "I'll want Nurse
Chapel with me."

"Fine." When he was alone in his quarters, Kirk played back the message
and searched Grake's face closely, trying to find what Spock had
found... something so vague and uncertain the Vulcan couldn't yet
express it. Kirk sensed something, too...

Something very disturbing.


McCoy was in a fever of activity. He ordered the nurses about sharply,
efficiently, his southern drawl becoming so pronounced that occasionally
he had to repeat his or ders to be understood, which exasperated him no
end. The TEREC analyzer--a box about a foot on each side--waited on its
floating pallet as other medical supplies were added, including the
TEREC remote probe, a diagnostics tricorder and McCoy's "little black
bag," a customized Ieneral practice unit now equipped for the Vulcan
inhabitants of Station One. Mason watched and recorded and did her best
to stay out of his way, not that McCoy would have said a harsh word to
her. Already, she felt a very father-daughter relationship blossoming
between them, though few words had been said. She wondered if it was
her gamine personality that attracted McCoy, but suspected it was her
small-planet-girl handicap.

The pallet, full to overflowing, was rushed by a harried ensign to the
elevator. McCoy followed,

Chapel in tow, as both donned pocket-studded medical field jackets. "He
handles that pallet like it was a mule," McCoy undertoned, passing
Mason. Mason grinned and fell in behind.

In the transporter room, Kirk and Spock were strapping on their security
belts and phasers as McCoy and Chapel entered and positioned the pallet
over its disk on the platform.

Shallert stood ready at the controls. When Kirk and Spock were in
position, they were joined by Chekov, who doubled as part of Olaus's
security team. Shallert switched on the transporter. McCoy muttered
something beneath his breath until his eye caught Mason's, and he
flashed a brave and utterly false smile.

"Let's go, Mr. Shalleft," Kirk said. Shalleft initiated beaming.

While in the transporter beam, there is no sensation of time or event.
At the most, one feels a slight tickle at the base of the neck (Dr.
McCoy cannot explain this, but the sensation is experienced at least
once by anyone who has ever been transported.) Rumors of spiritual
experiences, of the feeling that one has died and returned to life, or
seen what lies beyond death--or even more pervasive rumors of those who
have the talent to see the future while being transported--have never
been substantiated. And yet...

Spock, the least likely to put any credence into such rumors, feels a
touch, the merest feathery whisper of inquiry, as if the scattered
particles that will reassemble as himself are being individually
examined... "Spock. Spock!"

They stood in the broad equipment storage dome of Station One, clustered
around Spock, who lay flat on his back, not moving. Kirk bent over his
first officer, while McCoy checked the Vulcan's pulse at his armpit.
Spock's eyes fluttered and he turned his head. The first face he saw
was that of Radak, watching him with curious interest from behind the
larger forms of Grake and T'Prylla.


"Jim, I want that transporter torn apart top to bottom," McCoy said
softly. "I've never liked that thing, and so help me, I'll shut it
down--"

','Done. Spock, are you okay?"

'I do not seem to be injured," Spock said, getting to his feet with
McCoy's help. The dome interior was empty, the flat gray aggregate
floorin[ marked by pressure and skid marks where supplies had once
rested.

Kirk flipped open his communicator and ordered a

thorough maintenance check on the transporter. "Am I the only one
affected?" Spock asked. "I'm fine," Chapel said, aiming the diagnostic
tricorder at Spock's chest. Chekov agreed that he, too, felt no ill
effects. Kirk turned to the group awaiting them.

"I apologize for a very clumsy arrival," he said. "But it appears to be
a minor problem. I'd like to introduce the ship's doctor and his
assistant, Dr. Leonard McCoy and Lieutenant Christine Chapel. I'm
Captain James Kirk, this is Ensign Chekov, and this... as I'm sure you
are aware," he said to T'Prylla, "is my first officer and the science
officer of the Enterprise, Commander Spock."

"Welcome to the Black Box Nebula, Captain," T'Prylla said, extending her
hand. Her grip on Kirk's hand was firm and dry, warmer even than
Spock's. "If it is possible for the members of such a small team to
welcome anyone to such a vast territory. My husband has already
extended his appreciation, and I wish to reiterate. I am T'Prylla. This
is our assistant astrophysicist, Artauk." The Vulcan male divided the
fingers of one hand in the traditional greeting. "This is his
clan-mate, T'Kosa. And our son, Radak, whom some of your crew have
already met. Our daughter, T'Raus, is involved in a project at this
time."

"Our first priority is to give all of you a thorough medical exam,"
McCoy said.

"That will not be necessary," Grake said, nodding


graciously at McCoy. "We have an excellent medical center here. I am
afraid those who most need your help, are quite beyond it." "If you're
referring to the sleepers," McCoy said, "we may be able to save them.
And as for your health, Starfleet regulations require that I make my own
judgment." "Dr. McCoy is right," Kirk said. "And while he and Nurse
Chapel are doing that, I'd like to begin the debriefing." "Of course,"
T'Prylla said. "Anything we can do to oblige our rescuers. Though we
must warn you, the situation is not nearly as desperate as it seemed
when we issued our distress signal." McCoy asked to be taken to their
medical facilities. Grake led the way, and Kirk turned to Spock and
Chekov. "I want you to keep an eye on Radak," he said when the others
were out of hearing. "Is there anything wrong with the boy?" Chekov
asked, puzzled. "He isn't a ghost. Just watch him." "Yes, sir." Kirk
took a deep breath and motioned for Spock and Chekov to come along.
Spock was interested in Kirk's tone of voice. As usual, Kirk was
attuned to the same incongruities as his first officer, though he
reacted quite differently--with an irritated, almost angry brusquehess.
"Spock," he said. "I seem to recall that this dome was supposed to be
full of emergency supplies." "It is so described in the inventory of
Station One," Spock said. "Then where is all of it? Would they have
used it all by now?" "It is conceivable, Captain, though not if damage
was as low as we're being led to believe." They walked to the hatch
leading out of the storage dome and into the reshek corridor. "What
does your tricorder say about Radak?"

Spock held up the instrument and showed Kirk the readout. "He is a
quite normal fifteen-year-old Vulcan boy. His data are very distinct."
Kirk nodded and increased his walking speed. Chekov broke into a short
run to catch up.

The station medical center had been altered drastically. McCoy looked
around in dismay at the barely concealed evidence of tampering,
rebuilding of equipment, removal of furniture and diagnostic machines.
"This place is a shambles," he said to Chapel. "What in God's name
happened here?" Grake stepped forward and removed an unfamiliar chromium
sphere from a plain black metal box. "T'Kosa has made important
advances. This is the only device we use for medical attention now. The
rest of the equipment, wherever possible, has been converted to help us
with our research." He handed McCoy the chromium sphere. It weighed at
most a pound, and had no visible surface features. "It is quite easy to
use. I highly recommend it." "How..." McCoy began. "If there is a
medical problem, the device diagnoses the problem and cures it upon
request. It responds to Vulcan now, but it would only take a moment's
effort to have it respond to Federation English." "I'm more familiar
with my own equipment," McCoy said. "Thanks, but I'll stick with that
for the time being." He gestured at the pallet of medical supplies.
"I'll examine the children first. Could you bring T'Raus in here? And
while we're waiting for her..." He smiled and crooked a finger at Radak.
The boy stepped forward and submitted to Chapel's quick pass of the
diagnostic tricorder over him. Grake went to a wall-mounted comm
terminal and spoke a few words of Vulcan into it. McCoy dug into the
contents of his bag and

brought out the subcutane, loading it with a vial of nutrients and
vitamins. Radak pulled away from Chapel as McCoy wielded the automatic
syringe over the boy's arm. "No!" Radak protested. McCoy put on his
most soothing expression.

"It's quite painless. Just a warm pressure--"

"My son is saying that supplements or any other medications are
unnecessary."

"And I'm saying that it's my dutyt"

"Never mind, Bones," Kirk said, entering the medical center. A step
behind him was a slender young Vulcan girl, perhaps two years junior to
Radak, walking hand-in-hand with Spock. Chekov maneuvered through the
door around them.

"Jim, there are regulations I have to follow if we're going to interact
with personnelt"

"I have T'Raus's guarantee that the staff of Station One is healthy."

McCoy regarded Kirk with pained confusion. The girl, her straight and
flawless black llair cut shoulder-length, let go of Spock's hand and
stood beside T'Kosa. "We have done remarkable thins here," the girl
said, "and you may require a little time to get used to them. Until
then, please do not force your regulations upon us. You may examine us,
as you wish, but we are quite capable of treating ourselves."

McCoy recovered his decorum almost immediately. "Then, if I'm allowed,
I'd better see to the people in cold storage. That is, unless I'm
preempted there, too..."

"We do not object to your efforts," T'Kosa said. "For us, they have been
dead ten years."

"That's what I was afraid you'd say," McCoy muttered. As T'Kosa made a
move to come with McCoy and Chapel, the doctor stopped her by holding up
his hand. "The captain needs you here more than I do. If nothing's
been changed, we should do just fine by ourselves."

"Then we will begin formal debriefing right


away," T'Prylla said. "There is so much to tell, and so many records to
show..."

Even as they gather in the room where meals are shared, T Prylla
struggles to find her own memory of the past ten years. She cannot
control her speech or her actions but perhaps she can recall all that
has happened, as she witnessed it...

But it is confused. There was thotested. McCoy put on his most
soothing expression.

"It's quite painless. Just a warm pressure--"

"My son is saying that supplements or any other medications are
unnecessary."

"And I'm saying that it's my dutyt"

"Never mind, Bones," Kirk said, entering the medical center. A step
behind him was a slender young Vulcan girl, perhaps two years junior to
Radak, walking hand-in-hand with Spock. Chekov maneuvered through the
door around them.

"Jim, there are regulations I have to follow if we're going to interact
with personnelt"

"I have T'Raus's guarantee that the staff of Station One is healthy."

McCoy regarded Kirk with pained confusion. The girl, her straight and
flawless black llair cut shoulder-length, let go of Spock's hand and
stood beside T'Kosa. "We have done remarkable thins here," the girl
said, "and you may require a little time to get used to them. Until
then, please do not force your regulations upon us. You may examine us,
as you wish, but we are quite capable of treating ourselves."

McCoy recovered his decorum almost immediately. "Then, if I'm allowed,
I'd better see to the people in cold storage. That is, unless I'm
preempted there, too..."

"We do not object to your efforts," T'Kosa said. "For us, they have been
dead ten years."

"That's what I was afraid you'd say," McCoy muttered. As T'Kosa made a
move to come with McCoy and Chapel, the doctor stopped her by holding up
his hand. "The captain needs you here more than I do. If nothing's
been changed, we should do just fine by ourselves."

"Then we will begin formal debriefing right


away," T'Prylla said. "There is so much to tell, and so many records to
show..."

Even as they gather in the room where meals are shared, T Prylla
struggles to find her own memory of the past ten years. She cannot
control her speech or her actions but perhaps she can recall all that
has happened, as she witnessed it...

But it is confused. There was the construction of the Transformer,
completed without the aid of any of the adults, using equipment in the
storage dome... And the memories of that are mixed, not hers alone.
Although she does recall the wonder and terror of her realization that
her own small children had accomplished something beyond the ability of
the most brilliant Vulcan engineers. Will the rescuers be told of the
Transformer? Or of the Eye-to-Stars?

McCoy and Chapel stood in the cylindrical cold room, wearing environment
packs that projected a curtain of warmth around them. The helium
atmosphere outside the shimmering curtains was a brisk -260Celsius; the
temperature within the hibernac-ula suspended around the chamber was
only a few degrees above absolute zero.

McCoy had examined the freezing and revival equipment, and everything
seemed to be in order. Chapel went from hibemaculum to hibemaculum,
taking detailed tricorder readings. McCoy checked the last available
medical records of the individuals suspended in the cold room and
compared them with Chapel's findings. As he expected, the individuals
had aged perhaps one hour in ten years... and yet all were clinically
dead. The myelin sheathing on virtually all of their nerves had broken
down under unprecedented levels of Ybakra radiation.

McCoy had a bizarre vision of what would happen if they were revived
now...

The hiberuacula would open on cue, and the people within would try to
move. Each would experience a horrible, agonizing convulsion, but
within seconds they would be isolated from their misery and from life
itself. "I thought I had them licked, but those damned medical monitors
are going to fight us every step of the way," McCoy said. "Or I'm back
on the farm playing OB-GYN to the chickens." Chapel suppressed a smile
by looking at the cold, frozen face of one of the thirty suspended
team-members. "These people are technically dead, and I'm not going to
be allowed to play God by bringing them back to life." "Yes, but they're
not physically dead," Chapel said. "Not yet..." "Hell, they've been
dead for ten years. Total nerve damage, through and through... that's
one of the definitions of irreversible death fed into the monitors. It
hardly matters that they're very well-preserved." "But... can we save
them? I mean, is it possible?" McCoy shook his head. "Only if I play
Clarence Darrow to a robot with a tin ear for rhetoric."

According to Orake, the station had been swept for months by intense and
intermittent storms of radiation. The planetoid had been propelled a
few degrees from its former position by fierce particle bombardment.
Fortunately, the station had been in the planetoid's shadow for most of
the violent buffeting, and they had spent the first two months in a
shelter proofed against all harmful radiation but Ybakra. Sensors on
the other side of the planetoid had fed the researchers the data they
required to determine the position and spectral type of the new stars.
Initially, there had been eighteen possible protostar clouds in their
section of the nebula, but at least seven of them---those most likely to
begin fusion--had been disrupted and destroyed by their precocious
siblings. "That was just as well," Grake said, though with

some hint of regret in his voice. "We could have used more data on
other starbirths, but our time in the shelter was running out, and the
particle bombardment would probably have killed ns." When the'situation
had stabilized and the stars had settled on their path to the main
sequence, the researchers had emerged from the shelter to discover that
their comrades in cold storage had been severely injured. "The
hibernacula are heavily shielded against most forms of radiation,"
T'Kosa explained. "We were not prepared for so much Ybakra, and
believed that proximity to the planetoid would keep levels down. There
is no other way to shield against Ybakra... we could have done nothing
more, anyway." Spock intercepted Kirk's glance but said nothing, and
Kirk likewise kept his counsel. "We were able to repair most of the
damage to the station, and to resume our work," Grake said. "We
realized we could never use sub-space radio to communicate with the
Federation, since in the presence of the mass anomalies the Ybakra would
totally block all fraction-space transmissions, so I set about creating
a very powerful tight-beam radio signal transmitter. I knew the
location of a Federation buoy beyond the boundaries of the Black Box,
but only approximately, since our position had been changed and our view
of other stars was obscured by the expanding nebula gas clouds. Still,
I was able to send the signal..." Radak looked up from the table at
Spock. "We assume the message was only partially intercepted." "Yes,"
Spock said. "We received a fair amount of science data, but very little
of Grake's audio-visual transmission." "That, too, is for the best. We
were pessimistic about our chances, and the message may have caused
undue alarm. As it is, we have done quite well. And we have made
significant advances in our understanding--not only about stellar
processes, but about physics in general. We will soon be able to show
you our new research center, perhaps after Dr. McCoy has finished with
the sleepers."

"We may have problems rescuing your people quickly," Kirk said. "We
were not prepared to take on such a large job. It could take weeks."

"There is also some doubt that the nebula has stabilized," Spock said.
"We strongly recommend you all come aboard the Enterprise, and return
with us to the nearest starbase as soon as we've transported the
sleepers."

Radak shook his head once, firmly, and Grake did likewise. "That is
impossible, Spock," T'Prylla said. "There can be no interruptions in our
work. We do not require rescuing, as you can plainly see. And if the
nebula should be agitated again... we have survived once. We are much
more prepared now. You will better comprehend how safe we are when
you've seen the research dome."

"Do not misunderstand," Radak said.

"We have been here, out of touch with everyone, doing our work,"
T'Prylla continued, as if on cue from her son. "To have fellow beings
with us, to compare our findings with the work of other scientists--with
what has been happening in the Federation in the last ten years---is
marvelous." She looked at Spock with an expression that on a human face
would have been interpreted as stern. Spock lifted an eyebrow and
withdrew a data pack from his belt pouch.

"I anticipated such a need," he said, handing the pack to T'Prylla.
"Here you will find all the research results published in your fields of
interest. There has been considerable progress in understanding
subspacial mass anomalies." He paused. "And there has been much change
in the Spyorna on Vulcan."

T'Prylla did not react to Spock's last bit of information. She took the
proferred pack and passed it to Grake. "In return, we have prepared a
report on our protostar and Ybakra studies." Severely edited

.. "How quickly can the sleepers be moved to the Enterprise?"

"For the moment, we can only beam up six at a time," Kirk said, "and
reconstruct two a week. We're investigating rigging the shuttlecraft to
ferry the hibernacula, but even that would take time and present some
risks." And for that reason, he thought, we could certainly use a little
more cooperation...


Chapter Twelve

The TEREC analyzer, at McCoy's request, sent its remote probe around the
cold storage chamber for a second time before returning a final answer.
McCoy and Chapel waited outside the cylindrical cold chamber, watching
through t he glass port as the probe floated from hibernaculum to
hibernaculum, calculating the mass and complexity of each of the thirty
frozen researchers. The remote probe acted as a scan-only transporter,
with neither the power nor the equipment to actually disintegrate and
reintegrate anything. It fed its results to the analyzer, which
considered the situation and decided what the TEREC was capable of
doing, practically and legally. McCoy had few doubts what the answer
would be.

"Slow as molasses," he grumbled, pulling up a seat and squatting with
the back pulled to his chest, legs straddled on either side. Chapel
stood by the port, arms crossed, with her hands gripping her shoulders.

"Just looking in there makes me feel frozen," she said. "Ten years in
cold storage..."

"Yes, and even without Ybakra, I don't think there's been such a
prolonged freeze in a century. They were only supposed to be in there
two or three years, until the preliminary work had been done by T'Prylla
and her people."

"I wonder what it would be like to work with Vulcans... I mean, almost
everybody being Vulcan but you." There were four humans in cold storage;
all the rest were Vulcans.

"They were volunteers. I suppose they knew what they were getting into.
From what Spock says, T'Pryila isn't exactly your straight-forward
Vulcan.

She's even odder than Spock, not that you'd notice." "Analysis
completed," said the analyzer. "Well, let's have it," McCoy urged
impatiently. "These individuals have all suffered severe nerve damage in
cold storage. They are legally dead. The TEREC unit is forbidden by
its monitors from reviving beings who are dead by the definition

established for each category of being." "Damn," McCoy said.

"There would be practical difficulties, as well. Since the bodies can
only be transported once, without suffering even more severe damage due
to the dangers of transporting deep-frozen specimens, and since
therefore they must be fed directly into the TEREC, only six may be
transported at a time. The TEREC can hold two form-memories for
restructuring, and four in auxiliary banks."

. "Yes, yes, we knew all that. If we have to, we can bring them all up
on the shuttle... though Scotty alone knows how we'll rig the power
supplies and safeguards. Show me a profile on the typical case for
Vulcans and humans." The analyzer displayed a multi-dimensional chart in
three separations, giving the scanning results for a Vulcan and a human.
The doctor stared at the results for a moment, repeated

the display, and frowned. "Something isn't right here. The bodies have
been tampered with, or I'm greatly mistaken. But that doesn't make
sense. Maybe the probe needs adjusting." McCoy shut off the analyzer and
rested his chin on his crossed wrists.

In the station mess, Kirk was not encouraged by McCoy's expression when
the doctor and Chapel returned.

"If the transporters are working properly, we can move up the first six
patients now. The rest we may be able to transport in the shuttle.
Either way, it'll take us fifteen weeks to reconstruct the people in
cold storage. The major problem is whether we can work our way around
the monitors."

"They're going to block it?" Kirk asked.

McCoy pursed his lips and lifted his hand. "Hold on a minute. We're
not out yet, just down. We have to return to the ship and discuss
strategy. Since these people are all in prime physical condition and
don't seem to need us right away, I presume that's allowed?"

"We have completed our first debriefing," Spock said. "I believe it
would be useful to return to the Enterprise. We can be replaced by a
security team."

Radak protested. "We have no need for protection."

"It's part of the regulations," Kirk said. The boy irritated him.
"Station One is now in extended status. There has to be a team in the
station at all times." He flipped open his communicator. "Kirk to
Enterprise."

"Enterprise, Uhura here, Captain."

"How does the transporter check out?"

Uhura brought Scott on the line. "Captain, there's not a thing wrong
with it. It's in prime condition."

"Any explanation for what happened to Mr. Spock?"

"No, sir. But I cannot blame the machines. My crews have been over
them four times."


"Will he guarantee my atoms won't be spread over known space?" McCoy
asked.

"Aye, Doctor," Scott said. "That I will, or throw out my engineering
degrees and become a brewmaster."

"Not a fair exchange," McCoy said under his breath.

"We'll need a security team to replace us. Transport all of us but
Chekov, and send down two replacements for the next watch period. Kirk
out." He turned to Chekov. "Brief your replacements and stay with them
until the change of watch. Then I

want you back within four hours."

"Yes, sir."

Spock, Kirk, McCoy and Chapel began to transport seconds later. When
they were gone, Chekov smiled nervously at the Vulcans and stood stiffly
by the door of the mess. "I hope the presence of my men won't inhibit
you," he said.

"They are most welcome," Radak said, passing him to leave. Grake,
T'Prylla and T'Kosa followed. Anauk ordered Vulcan food from the
autochef, then followed his comrades out the door to eat in privacy.

"I'm sure we all have questions," Kirk said as they stepped down from
the transporter stage.

"And I'm sure you know what my question is," McCoy said, guiding the
medical pallet.

"In my quarters. We need to talk. Let our hair down." He looked at
Spock. "Most of us, anyway."

McCoy left the pallet in Chapel's charge and followed Kirk and Spock to
the elevator. Just as the doors closed, two ensigns began beaming down
to the station.

Kirk walked through the doors to his cabin and ran his hands through his
hair. "God help us," he said. "There's something--"

"Why did you usurp my authority as ship's doctor?" McCoy asked sharply,
confronting him. "Because they were clearly reluctant to be treated,"
Kirk said. "And T'Raus hinted they would refuse if the issue was
pressed. Regulations are regulations, Bones, but can we actually force
them to submit?" McCoy backed off, hands on hips. He had no immediate
answer, but his anger still hadn't subsided. "Spock, why shouldn't we
tell them about Ybakra shields?" Kirk asked. "I cannot answer that
question at the moment, Jim. But there is something clearly amiss on
Station One, and we should come to grips with it right away." "I'll tell
you one thing that's wrong," McCoy said. "The TEREC analyzer picked up
some anomalous data. It had no immediate bearing on the case, but it
doesn't make sense." "And what's that?" "Jim, the people in cold storage
have been interfered with. I couldn't figure out the analyzer displays
until a few minutes ago, but I'd swear something has been tapping them,
drawing information from their brains, or storing information there. Now
while we're talking about regulations, may I point out how illegal that
is?" "Jim," Spock said, "T'Prylla evinced not the slightest interest
when I mentioned that the Spyorna had undergone change. That is not
characteristic. Nor, I must say, is the behavior of their son and
daughter. A Vulcan youth is not allowed to guide the conversation of
his elders, certainly not past the age of ka nifoor." "So what does it
all add up to?" "There's trouble in River City," McCoy said. "I beg your
pardon, Doctor?" Spock said, genuinely puzzled. "Never mind. Jim, we
should clear them all out and comb that station centimeter by
centimeter. I don't trust any of them."

"For once, Doctor, we are in agreement," Spock said. "Though I am
reluctant to detail all of my misgivings, there is something definitely
wrong on Station One." "Okay, we're agreed on that. Now for the next
problem. The monitors aren't going to let us revive the sleepers."
"That just confirms our worst fears," Kirk said. "Yes, and I'm not
totally unprepared. I'm going to go up against the monitors. I'm going
to fool them, Jim, and to do that, I'll need--" "Bones---" "I'll need
both of you to help me." "Bones, if we mess with the monitors, it means
my command. Worse, it means all of us will face court-martial." "They
sent us here to rescue the people on Station One, and we can't do it
because of a prissy computer with prissy laws built in! My job is to
save lives, Jim, whether regulations allow it or not!" "Clearly,
technology has outstripped Federation laws," Spock said. "I, too, have
investigated the possibility of failings within the monitors." McCoy
stared goggle-eyed at Spock, then smiled. "By God," he said. "I'm
beginning to like this tall green--blooded fellow." Kirk sat down
heavily on his couch and !aid both palms on the low table before him.
"It would take two weeks for a subspace message to go out to Starfleet
and come back. I've taken risks in my career, and I've stretched the
regulations often enough that you should know I'm not squeamish. But I
do worse than disobey Starfleet if we circumvent the monitors. I
disobey my oath to serve the Federation. Every one of us owes our
allegiance to the Federation, the civilian branches of government."
"Jim, I don't ask that we shut the monitors down. Only that we tickle
them a bit."

"And how do you suggest we do that, Doctor?"; Spock asked.

Kirk glanced between them. "I never thought I'd see the day when you
two would be in cahoots."

"Why, Spock, seeing that you're so sympathetic, I was hoping you might
be able to suggest something."

Chapter Thirteen

Mason stepped up to the door of the computer control center and braced
herself. The door opened, and she was vastly relieved to find Veblen
inside; Spock was not present. "The captain says I can find all the
debriefing materials in the open log."

Veblen looked at her blankly, then leaned his head back and opened his
mouth in an O. " You can access the open log through your quarters
terminal. You don't have to come down here."

"I do," she said, "if I want to find out what's really going on Is
there anything not being put in the open log?"

Veblen smiled and shook his head. "I'm not the one to ask, Miss Mason."

She sat down in the console chair across from him and sighed deeply.
"Thank God for someone who's willing to call me Miss instead of Mister.
The captain did it once, but I'm sure he was being tactical. Why
shouldn't I ask you?"

Veblen looked away, still smiling. "No comment to the press. But it
should be obvious."


"I shouldn't come to you just because you're the odd man out, that's
what you're saying?" He nodded. "It's only natural. I bring the bad
news. Since I'm staff instead of line, I don't get to do much else but
bring bad news. And the bad news this time is in the open log; the
captain put it there himself." "Save me the trouble. I have to file a
dispatch soon and I can't afford the luxury of deep research." "The
monitors are refusing to revive the frozen station personnel." "In God's
name, why?" "Because they are legally dead." "That's nonsense. If they
can be revived, they aren't dead!" "I only bring the news, I don't
justify it." Mason leaned forward. "Are the monitors questioning Kirk's
abihty to command?" This took Veblen aback. "Not at all," he said. "The
captain has satisfieu the monitors completely."

"And Dr. McCoy?" "Dr. McCoy hasn't done anything but ask the monitors
to make a judgment." "There's no possibility Dr. McCoy is doing
something wrong, and the monitors are balking because of that?" "No
possibility at all," Veblen said. He finished typing a series of
commands into his console and pushed his chair back. "I think we should
go... what's the phrase... off the record now."

"Certainly," Mason said. The door opened and Spock entered. Mason sat
straight up in the chair and avoided Spock's eyes. "Thank you, Mr.
Veblen," she said, her voice higher pitched than before. "We'll talk
later." After she had left, Veblen prepared the screen for Spock's file
work. "I don't think she's used to you, Mr. Spock," Veblen said. Spock
did noand shook his head. "I'm not the one to ask, Miss Mason."

She sat down in the console chair across from him and sighed deeply.
"Thank God for someone who's willing to call me Miss instead of Mister.
The captain did it once, but I'm sure he was being tactical. Why
shouldn't I ask you?"

Veblen looked away, still smiling. "No comment to the press. But it
should be obvious."


"I shouldn't come to you just because you're the odd man out, that's
what you're saying?" He nodded. "It's only natural. I bring the bad
news. Since I'm staff instead of line, I don't get to do much else but
bring bad news. And the bad news this time is in the open log; the
captain put it there himself." "Save me the trouble. I have to file a
dispatch soon and I can't afford the luxury of deep research." "The
monitors are refusing to revive the frozen station personnel." "In God's
name, why?" "Because they are legally dead." "That's nonsense. If they
can be revived, they aren't dead!" "I only bring the news, I don't
justify it." Mason leaned forward. "Are the monitors questioning Kirk's
abihty to command?" This took Veblen aback. "Not at all," he said. "The
captain has satisfieu the monitors completely."

"And Dr. McCoy?" "Dr. McCoy hasn't done anything but ask the monitors
to make a judgment." "There's no possibility Dr. McCoy is doing
something wrong, and the monitors are balking because of that?" "No
possibility at all," Veblen said. He finished typing a series of
commands into his console and pushed his chair back. "I think we should
go... what's the phrase... off the record now."

"Certainly," Mason said. The door opened and Spock entered. Mason sat
straight up in the chair and avoided Spock's eyes. "Thank you, Mr.
Veblen," she said, her voice higher pitched than before. "We'll talk
later." After she had left, Veblen prepared the screen for Spock's file
work. "I don't think she's used to you, Mr. Spock," Veblen said. Spock
did not react. "Mr. Veblen, Dr. McCoy

requests a list of the monitors' medical reference files." "Yes, sir.
I've finished processing the station data on Ybakra. As soon as I've
made a hard copy for the doctor, I'!1 take a rest, unless you have
further need of me." "Thank you, Mr. Veblen, no." Veblen caught up with
Mason at a crew reference terminal outside the non-commissioned
officers' lounge. "Could we talk for a moment?" he asked. "Off the
record, or on?" "Off. About you, and about what I said just a few
minutes ago." "Sure." They took the elevator to Area 39, the all-crew
recreation room, and found a seat at an empty games table in an isolated
corner. "First," Veblen said, "I don't appreciate your coming to me as
if I were the weak point in the Enterprise crew." "That wasn't my
intention at all" "Second, I think you're on the wrong track, and I
think you have some problems of your own to solve." "Where do you get
off---" "Wait a minute. You said you'd hear me out." He stared at her
with an intensity which cut off any further protest. "I'll tell you why
I'm angry all of a sudden. Sure, I wear my uniforms a little out of
regulation, and I'm not in the best shape compared to the rest of the
crew. And I'm staff, the only staff officer aboard this ship. But I am
no weak point, and my work proceeds no matter what anyone else's
attitude to me is." "It wasn't my intention--I mean, I've never thought
of you as a weak point." "Good. Then maybe my next shot will be more on
target. I'm in charge of maintaining and testing the monitors.
Incidentally, I work with Mr. Spock on all the ship's computers, because
the monitors interface

with virtually every system on the Enterprise. And I work with the
captain because the monitors are very complex, and no command officer
should be expected to be completely familiar with such a new and
difficult system." "Yes," Mason said, watching Veblen closely. "If you
think there's a story in the captain's problems adjusting to the
monitors, that's fine. We may be uncomfortable with that kind of
coverage, but that's the way things are; it's a legitimate story. But if
you think you're going to find material proving that Captain Kirk is
trying to frustrate the monitors, to somehow get around them, I'm here
to tell you that's a dead end. I've had the captain question me, even
harangue me, about some point or other, but not once has he suggested I
was at fault, or that I am not a part of the Enterprise. Any alienation
you see is largely due to me, not to the captain or the crew." "I have
to follow my instincts, Mr. Veblen." "We're in a very tough situation
here. Even tougher than you know." Veblen looked down at the table.
"I'm sorry if I've been angry with you. What I say next has to be
doubly confidential..." To Mason, it was obvious that despite everything
he had just said, Veblen needed to let his hair down with someone.
"We've been off the record. I keep my word." "The monitors---aren't
perfect. They're only as good as the people who programmed them, and
the laws they follow are not perfect. Dr. McCoy is up against a brick
wall. I'm not going to say why, just yet, but I want you to understand.
I want somebody to understand. They're going to have to do something,
and if worse comes to worse, they're going to have to find a way around
the monitors. And I am going to have to oppose them. I don't want to,
but I will." Mason regarded him with new understanding and respect.
Veblen was deeply troubled; Why, she

thought, he's probably as enamored of Captain Kirk as the rest of the
crew! "So maybe that's where your story should be. If the Federation
wants to keep track of every little thing a starship does, perhaps we
should find ways to monitor those who make the laws and expect us to
carry.them out. It should work both ways." "What's the doctor going to
do?" "I don't know. I don't want to know. What I don't know won't hurt
me, right?" She nodded. "So we're both outcasts here," she said. "By
occupation, if nothing else." "I hope you'll excuse me," Veblen said,
flushing now. "But I believe you're having some problems, tOO." "Oh?"
"Yes. I beYseve you're having difficulty facing up to Mr. Spock,
perhaps even to Mr. Yimasa." "What gives you that impression?" It was
Mason's turn to redden. "When I joined Starfleet, I came from an all-
human enclave on Titan." "Where's that?" "Saturn's largest moon. My
folks were among the terraformers. They were great people, but they fed
me a lot of nonsense about Vulcans and Andorrans and all the others--not
those who don't have human shape; we hadn't even met any--but humanoids.
I had a lot of garbage in my head to overcome. From the way you avoid
Mr. Spock, ands" He paused. "Well, I've read parts of the file FNS sent
up from Yalbo." "My file?" He nodded. "I think you have some of the
same garbage to throw out. If it proves to be a problem, perhaps I can
help." "Thank you for the offer," Mason said, standing. "And I hope I've
helped by being a sounding board."

Veblen shrugged. "But from here on in, I think I'll want our interviews
on the record. I have to get down to the station. I can't file reports
when I haven't even been on the scene." She nodded curtly at him and
left Area 39.

Chekov briefed his replacements, ensigns Pauli and Wah Ching, then
called the Enterprise to be beamed back on board. As the transporter
effect began, he saw Radak watching from the storage dome hatch.
Parallel red lines crossed his vision as the beam disassembled his
visual cortex; there was nothing unusual in that. But the expected
reverse effect, and the appearance of the transporter room on the
Enterprise, did not follow. Instead, Ensign Pavel Chekov found himself
in a very dark, very lonely place, filled with a multitude of precisely
phrased questions...

"Transporter interrupt?" Shallert punched the engineering alert button
and immediately brought the backup systems on line. The transporter
hummed a deep bass tone, which began to rise in frequency until it was a
sweet, high whistle. Then the bass tone repeated. "What is it, Mr.
Shallert?" Scotty asked from the main engineering control deck. "There's
a delay in Ensign Chekov's assembly," Shallert said. "I have the
backups,--" "Is he in form memory?" Scotty asked. "I don't know, sir.
The transporter isn't reporting anything." "I'm on my way." Just as
Scott left the corn, a single transporter effect began on the assigned
disk. Shallert watched in amazement as Ensign Chekov assembled on the
transporter deck--precisely forty seconds after he had been
disintegrated on Station One.


"There's nothing wrong with the equipment," Scott repeated. He stood
between McCoy and Kirk in the transporter room, his short black hair
hanging in strands across his forehead, his uniform smudged and his
hands clutching a pair of engineering diagnostic tricorders. "Well,
until you find out what is wrong," McCoy said, "I'm decertifying that
monster." Scott turned to Kirk, his face betraying the most extreme
anguish. "Sir, if there had been ennathin wrong, Chekov wouldna' ha'
come back at all!" "Scotty, there was a delay. He wasn't beaming
through solid steel, he was coming up through vacuum. There has to be
some explanation. I believe the transporter is operating correctly, but
I must go along with Dr. McCoy. Until we find out what caused the
anomalies, we will take the shuttle and avoid transporting personnel."
Scotty agreed with a nod, but his shoulders slumped. 'TII take enna
suggestions you have, gentlemen."

Chekov surveyed his quarters with wide-eyed interest. He picked up the
glass artifact he had purchased from an Andorran crewmember two years
before; it scintillated in his hands, appearing as spiky as a
sea-urchin, but feeling like a smooth sphere to the touch. "Glass with
the same index of refraction as air," he said to himself, in his own
voice, though he did not do the talking. He turned to the screen and
touched the keyboard beneath hesitantly. "Perhaps I should speak to the
ceptain," he said. "This does not feel right. I should not feel like
this." He forced himself to reach out to the wall comm, but his hand
slowly withdrew before touching the button. Sweat broke out on his
forehead. "I only wish to be left alone, and to feel well," he said.
The

presence interfering with his actions, and using his voice, did not
respond.

Mason finished composing her dispatch and handed the data pack to Uhura
on the bridge. Uhura plugged it into her console and asked, "Are we
making the grade?"

"It's a very tame report, if that's what you mean," Mason said. "I
can't get close enough to the action."

Kirk and Spock came on the bridge. "Rowena, we're taking a shuttle to
the station," Kirk said. She stared at him expectantly.

"Dr. McCoy doesn't like the idea, but you're invited." "I'll go," she
said firmly. "I'll go, and thank you."


Chapter Fourteen

Very early in his life, McCoy had learned to disguise his deepest
emotions. He had reached the conclusion that most other people did not
feel as he did, or hid themselves even more effectively; either way, it
was best not to demonstrate the extremes he often felt. The best
disguise, he had discovered, was camouflage--hence, the brusque exterior
he showed to even his oldest friends.

He was deeply romantic, even chivalrous, constantly feeling the urge to
protect the "fair sex"; yet one couldn't treat female coworkers with
such deference. The solution? Be brusque. And when his passionate
respect for all living things became too painful to bear, he even hid
from himself. In centuries past, he knew, he probably would have become
an alcoholic; the stresses and strains would have produced an unbearable
hormonal mix, and he would have turned to drink. Now, by tightly
controlling his diet, taking adjustment drugs and engaging in various
meditative therapies, he managed to keep the most destructive parts of
himself under control.

He ragged Spock so unmercifully because he found himself dismayingly
similar to the Vulcan. McCoy's colleagues and friends--and one was very
seldom not the other---soon came to accept the contradictions, and
intuit the reasons behind them. They did not tender advice; it would
have been useless. And, as Kirk well knew, however distressing McCoy's
characteristics were to himself they .resulted in a damned fine doctor.
What McCoy lacked in heady brilliance, he more than made up for in
insight and compassion. Even Spock respected the doctor's courtly
bedside manner, since it was so effective, and not just on his human
patients. Spock well remembered the healing of the silicon-based Horta,
years before, accomplished by tenderness and the application of methods
better Suited to the building trades than formal medicine. Now, McCoy
faced a dilemma which put more than usual strain upon him. He had
thirty patients which he had the technical means to save from living
death, and yet he was being prevented from doing so. To circumvent
those barriers, he had already hinted to Kirk, one of his finest
friends, that they would have to bend or break the law. ("Shatter"
would probably describe it best.) For Kirk to do so could mean the end
of his career. And of course, it could mean the end of McCoy's career
as well. While McCoy focused on this problem, he could not avoid the
other problems they were facing the erratic functioning of the
transporter, the peculiar situation on Station One, and the presence of
a civilian journalist ready and waiting to record it all for public
posterity. McCoy sat in the shadowy darkness of his quarters, making
notes on a piece of paper with an antique fountain pen beneath the
concentrated beam of a small lamp. "With the transporter decommissioned
until further testing, all the patients on Station One will have to be
ferried to the Enterprise by shuttle. The shuttle is being outfitted
for this job right now, but I'm not happy with the arrangements. Moving
people in cold storage is risky business. The usual vibrations
associated with travel in a small vehicle could be hazardous to those in
deep cold. Even with special field suspension on each hibernac-ulum,
there's risk. And rigging the shuttle with the special equipment means
we can only carry two hibernacula at a time. Spock says the conditions
in the nebula cloud are not ideal for small craft; the shuttle can't
produce as stro,n,g a shield against radiation as the Enterprise... He
rubbed his face with both hands and decided to put off his worries about
the transfer. "How to get around the monitors..." He began his list of
choices, none of which he was sure would work. "I've been considering
some crazy scheme to rig a false message from the Federation, conveying
new rule changes... a new definition of death. To that end, I've had a
hard copy made of all the medical references in the monitors. But I'm
certain Jim would veto any such scheme. And if Veblen found out about
it... not good form to antagonize shipmates. Similar objections to
finding a way to temporarily deactivate the medical monitoring
functions. But now Spock--" He lifted his fountain pen and stared off at
a hologram of the salt marshes of Chincoteague Island. "Good old Spock,"
he resumed. "Spock has been laying hints all around about a way to get
even deeper into the monitors, legitimately. The command monitors
contain the experience-memories of six command-rank Starfleet officers.
And in the medical monitors, there are six more--all ship's doctors..."
What was Spock's motivation in passing clues to McCoy? The doctor knew
the answer immediately. As a Vulcan, Spock was primarily obedient to his
duty, then to his commander, then to the mission. Spock's motivation was
to eliminate a dilemma

which could wreck not only their mission, but' his commanding officer as
well. Vulcan duty required no great respect for laws, especially human
laws, that were self-defeating. Trust a Vulcan to find a legitimate way
to get around human inadequacies. McCoy smiled. If all else failed,
Spock would arrange for him to have a direct dialogue with the
experience-memories in the medical monitors. There were no guarantees...
"But it's smarter to avoid taking the bull by the horns, when you can
lead him around by the tail." He put the paper away in his loose-leaf
diary and screwed the pen back into its cap. Before he could proceed
with Spock's help, he had to make sure they had the means to shuttle the
hibernacula in the first place. He had long since learned to tackle
problem. in order of increasing difficulty; that way, if an problem was
insoluble, no time was wasted on th, next, tougher step.

Chekov jack-knifed abruptly in his bed and stared around the cabin,
wide-eyed as if from some nightmare. Then, slowly, his eyes narrowed and
he sank back onto the pillow. "Time," he requested. "1207 hours," the
console replied. In twenty minutes, he would be returning to the
planetoid on the shuttle. He had slept very poorly, trying to resist
the growing insanity--or so he interpreted the feelings of loss of will
and unmotivated activity. He had tried to resist going to the console
and doing what the new Voice requested, and had so far succeeded. But
now it was too insistent. He knew he would stand up-- --He stood. And
go to the console. --He went to the console. He would call up a chart
with the interior of the Enterprise laid out in graphic detail.

--He typed on the keyboard, trying to make mistakes and fai ling. He
would ask questions of the library computerm questions pertaining to
specific details of the ship's engines, the matter-antimatter drives,
with which he was not familiar. --He typed more instructions. He made a
hard copy of all the information he had called up. He inserted the copy
card into his pouch. Then he went to the lavatory and made himself look
presentable, ready for duty, though he could not eliminate the shadows
around his eyes. Thank you, said the Voice. You are not in the least
welcome, Chekov replied.

Chekov smiled and held out his arm, ushering Mason into the interior of
the shuttle. Kirk and Spock were already inside, along with Chapel and
McCoy. McCoy was carefully inspecting all the equipment newly installed
to ferry the hibernacula. Chapel checked off items on her notepad as
McCoy ran through all the crucial points. He stood up, pushing on his
knees With his hands, and nodded to Kirk. "They're as good as they'll
ever be," he said. "Who's going planetside with us?" "Spock and
presumably Rowena," Kirk said. "I'd like to stay down there and file my
reports from the station," Mason said. "We'll need as much room as we
can get on the return trip," McCoy said. "I'd like to bring up two
hibernacula each trip." Kirk looked around the group, then nodded.
"Prepare for shuttle launch," he said. They took their seats--which had
been rearranged around the area the hibernacula would occupy--and
strapped themselves in. Mason turned around to watch the shuttle cargo
doors being sealed, then attached the recorder to an equipment grip
overhead, making sure the visual scanner could see out her port.

Chekov, seated next to her, observed closely but said nothing.

Outside the shuttle walls, the roar of air being evacuated from the
shuttle hangar gradually reduced to a whisper, then a faint hiss. The
deep grumble of the hangar doors opening was commuuicated to the shuttle
through its landing supports, and ceased abruptly as the shuttle lifted
off.

They exited the hangar on a reverse tractor beam, then switched on the
impulse engines and descended to the planetoid.

T'Raus and T'Prylla dematerialized and crossed the space between the
station and the Eye-to-Stars. It felt a bit like flying; unlike the
transporter beam, their particular form of travel involved sensation and
memory. T'Pry!la enjoyed the journey much less than T'Raus; she could
never quite be sure where they were going, or what would happen when
they arrived.

The Voice she had heard so often inside her headassociated with the
outburst of Ybakra from the triple stars--was familiar enough for her to
give it a name Pau, or in Federation English, "Corona." Corona never
explained; all she had learned in the past nine years, she had deduced.
She suspected her children were more privy to Corona's secrets.

They stood on the airless surface of the planetoid without suits,
surrounded by a faint green envelope. T'Raus stretched out her hand and
touched a meteoroid-searred rock. Overhead, the constant purple glow of
the nebula--very bright on the night side of the planetoid---seemed to
bubble and distort. Gradually the distortion became perfectly round, and
the Eye-to-Stars opened like a great black disk. T'Raus smiled and
clapped her hands once. T'Prylla held out the astronomy tricorder, as
she was willed to do, and let it record what the Eye-to-Stars saw.

When they were done--when the curiosity of Corona had been
satisfied---T'Raus took the

tricotder and played its information back. "This is very fine," she
said. "Soon the work will be done." Then she frowned. "We cannot
return to the precise position from which we left. There are more
visitors. It is very orniaga."

T'Prylla had to think hard to remember what the Vulcan. word T'Raus had
used meant. It meant "irritated." She hadn't' heard the word for
decades; it was virtually never used in polite Vulcan conversation. She
said nothing; she had no power to say anything. Her opinion was not
wanted; only her scientific abilities, and her labor.

Her arm itched abominably, and she could not even scratch it...


Chapter Fifteen

The shutt station and the Eye-to-Stars. It felt a bit like flying;
unlike the transporter beam, their particular form of travel involved
sensation and memory. T'Pry!la enjoyed the journey much less than
T'Raus; she could never quite be sure where they were going, or what
would happen when they arrived.

The Voice she had heard so often inside her headassociated with the
outburst of Ybakra from the triple stars--was familiar enough for her to
give it a name Pau, or in Federation English, "Corona." Corona never
explained; all she had learned in the past nine years, she had deduced.
She suspected her children were more privy to Corona's secrets.

They stood on the airless surface of the planetoid without suits,
surrounded by a faint green envelope. T'Raus stretched out her hand and
touched a meteoroid-searred rock. Overhead, the constant purple glow of
the nebula--very bright on the night side of the planetoid---seemed to
bubble and distort. Gradually the distortion became perfectly round, and
the Eye-to-Stars opened like a great black disk. T'Raus smiled and
clapped her hands once. T'Prylla held out the astronomy tricorder, as
she was willed to do, and let it record what the Eye-to-Stars saw.

When they were done--when the curiosity of Corona had been
satisfied---T'Raus took the

tricotder and played its information back. "This is very fine," she
said. "Soon the work will be done." Then she frowned. "We cannot
return to the precise position from which we left. There are more
visitors. It is very orniaga."

T'Prylla had to think hard to remember what the Vulcan. word T'Raus had
used meant. It meant "irritated." She hadn't' heard the word for
decades; it was virtually never used in polite Vulcan conversation. She
said nothing; she had no power to say anything. Her opinion was not
wanted; only her scientific abilities, and her labor.

Her arm itched abominably, and she could not even scratch it...


Chapter Fifteen

The shuttle landed at the cargo lock of the storage dome, its landing
fields disturbing years of microme-teoroid dust and ejecting it in
straight rays from the pad. A boarding tube automatically stretched
from the lock to the shuttle's rear cargo doors and connected with a
sigh of equalizing pressures. Mason's ears popped. She reached up to
release the recorder.

As the Enterprise party left the storage dome, Chekov broke away from
the main group and encountered T'Raus in a side corridor near the
research dome. Part of Chekov stared curiously at the closed hatches.
No one had yet seen the station's rebuilt science areas. T'Raus held
out her hand, and he gave her the hard copy of the Enterprise charts and
specifications. She nodded, and without a word exchanged, he hurried to
catch up with his shipmates before his absence was noticed.

The group passed by Wah Ching and Pauli, standing the current watch.
Chekov relieved them and told them to return to the shuttle and wait for
the rest of the group to join them. "Nothing to report?" he asked,
wondering if they, too, were being controlled. The burst of hidden
anguish he felt was so intense that tears came to his eyes.

"Nothing unusual," said Pauli. "It's a bit chilly down here,
society-wise, but I suppose that's not unusual." He grinned. The
understood words were, "for Vulcans." Chekov watched them return to the
storage dome.

McCoy and Spock went to the hibernaculum chamber, escorted by Anauk and
T'Kosa. They turned on their environment fields and entered the chamber
lock. The lock doors closed behind them, and they stood in the cold and
silence. Outside, T'Kosa and Anauk waited to take them to the medical
center for the scheduled meeting with Grake and T'Prylla.

Spock scanned the hibernacula with his science tri-cotder while McCoy
took final measurements. The doctor bent down beside the hibernaculum
closest to the inner chamber lock door and examined the connections on
the power supply cables. "We'll have to move them quickly," he said.
"The pallets can keep them cold for about five minutes. Then we'll hook
them to the shuttle power supply."

Spock motioned for McCoy to examine the display on the science
tricorder. "Your suspicions are correct," Spock said. "There is no
further damage, but they have been tampered with."

"Why? What would the others gain?"

"As you suspected, the sleepers seem to have been utilized for
information storage."

"That seems highly irregular, Spock. Besides, they're too cold for
their brains to have any chemical activity."

"At their current temperature, their brains would have superconducting
properties. No chemical activity would be needed; they could store
enormous amounts of information without benefit of normal memory
operations."

"If that's the case, thawing them would destroy'

the information... erase it."

Spock nodded.

"So what do you think the others will say?"

"if we are finished here, we can only go to the medical center and find
out."

"Spock, you've been tight-lipped since before we arrived. You behave
like a cat who knows where a whole cageful of canaries is hidden.
Sometimes I get the willies just looking at you."

"I would assume that is a normal state of affairs, Doctor."

McCoy handed the tricorder back to him and shook his head. "Jim thinks
we're conspiring on something. Maybe we are. If so, don't you think
co-conspirators should share all their secrets?"

"Perhaps later," Spock said. McCoy knew better than to press him any
further. They exited the cold lock and accompanied T'Kosa and Anauk to
the meeting.

"We cannot allow removal of the sleepers," Grake said. He stood before
the Enterprise visitors in the stat ion medical center, hands gripping
the edge of a stripped-down diagnostics table. "There is too much
risk." T'Prylla, the children, T'Kosa and Anauk regarded the visitors
with a calm isolation which, to Kirk, seemed like contempt.

"I've evaluated the risk," McCoy said. "There is some, but it's
minimal." Kirk glanced at Spock to gauge his reaction to this turn of
events. Spock stared intently at Grake, who refused to meet the first
officer's eyes.

"While we respect Dr. McCoy's expertise, we have learned much about
Ybakra radiation in the past ten years. We are constantly bathed in it,
but at a level which cannot cause any more damage to the sleepers. The
Ybakra is considerably reduced by proximity to our planetoid. In the
shuttle, however,

that protection is taken away. More damage may result."

McCoy stood and pointed a finger at Grake. "Your sleepers are as good as
dead now. What can you do for them here?"

"We can protect them until a way is found to transport them to the
Enterprise safely. Or until we devise a means of treating them
ourselves."

"The Enterprise can't stay here indefinitely," Kirk said. "Frankly, I'm
puzzled by the level of resistance we've met here. We are your
rescuers, not your enemies." His voice was level, ominously so. "I
stand by Dr. McCoy's decision to move the sleepers to the sickbay of
the Enterprise."

T'Kosa stepped close to Grake. "I believe it is time we convince our
visitors of how well we have done here, without their help."

Grake nodded. "There have been many delays, Captain, but now would seem
to be a very appropriate time to show you the research dome."

"We're avoiding the issue," McCoy said, exasperated. "Jim, we're wasting
time if we don't move the sleepers and begin reconstruction now!"

Kirk felt at a loss what to do. It was obvious that Spock still did not
wish to reveal the existence of Ybakra shields, but mention of the
technique now would save a great deal of trouble and argument. (Or would
it? Would they find another excuse? And why didn't they know about
Ybakra shields themselves? Their research on Ybakra had been
comprehensive... ) He disliked making decisions which would further
antagonize McCoy, but he couldn't think of a way around it. "I think
there's time enough to take a brief tour before we make our decision."
He hoped McCoy could sense what was going on. The doctor looked even
more exasperated, but did not protest further.

"Good," Grake said. "As I said before, I believe we have many surprises
in store for you..."

Veblen finished checking the form-memory and experience-memory units of
the transporter and shook his head. Scott waited anxiously a step
behind him.

"I have to agree," Veblen said. "There's nothing wrong with the
circuitry."

"Then it must be outside interference. Perhaps the radiation... ?"

"Ybakra operates in a different layer of fraction space than the
transient memories," Veblen said, frowning. He took a data pack from
his belt and hefted it, thinking. He had neglected to feed the new
information from the station's researches on Ybakra radiation into the
stochastic algorithm. "I don't think it would have any effect. However
."

"I'm at my wits end," Scott said. "I've checked every aspect of
transporter functioning, from power supplies to the memory coordinators.
There is nothing wrong with the transporters." He put on a look of
defiance. "It is not my machinery that's at fault! And I've never heard
of a delay in transporter assembly."

"It's a puzzle," Veblen admitted. "I'll back your report as much as my
expertise allows."

"Thank you," Scott said, relieved. Veblen left the transporter room and
took the turbolift to the computer command center. He plugged the new
information into the algorithnr--which had been sPpecilaced on temporary
hold--and then asked for a tic level of inquiry. Is there any chance,
he

typed on the console, that personnel aboard the station have learned to
manipulate Ybakra, and are using that knowledge to cause anomalous
events aboard the Enterprise? He restarred the algorithm and leaned
back in his chair, biting a tingemail and waiting for any coherent
result.

Mason tugged the recorder closer to her and

walked behind Radak. She felt completely out of


place, and yet she had a strong sensation of something very important
about to happen. Grake led the way to the research chambers, followed
by T'Prylla and Spock. The others squeezed through the open hatchway
after them, and all stood in a loose grouping to one side of the
station's largest dome.

It was easy to see now where all the equipment in storage had been put
to use. The dome was crowded with every conceivable combination of
hardware, electronics and computers jury-rigged together in' large
piles, without much apparent regard for placement or visual order. To
Mason, it looked like a child's playroom--a Vulcan child's playroom,
perhaps, the child having been given anything he wished for. She
glanced at Radak and T'Raus and met the girl's eyes. For a moment they
stared directly at each other. Mason shuddered--and not just because
the girl was Vulcan. She thought she was getting used to being around
Vulcans. For all his quirks and strange appearance, Spock was certainly
no ogre. But T'Raus...

There was a cold appraisal in her eyes that went beyond the constrained
emotions of a Vulcan.

"Very impressive," Kirk said diplomatically. Grake walked them around
the perimeter of the dome until they came to a raised platform, on which
was mounted a small control panel. The FNS recorder positioned itself
near the edge of the platform, motors within whining softly as its
lenses followed Grake up the steps.

"It is a preliminary construction," Grake said, motioning for T'Prylla
to join him. Radak followed his mother. "But what it does is much more
impressive than its appearance suggests." Radak stood at the control
panel. Grake seemed to hesitate before continuing his explanation.
"With the Transformer, we are in control of all forms of matter, energy,
space and time within the vicinity of the station. Our researches have
given us mastery of the very foundation of the universe, from which all
creation arose. Our work is tentative, but we have accomplished a greMat
deal."

ason saw McCoy's lips move. He seemed to be

saying something about madness.

"My son will prepare a demonstration."

Radak reached out to the dimly lighted switches on the panel and touched
a few with the conservative grace born of long experience. He knows the
system better than his father, Mason thought, wondering why Grake
himself didn't perform the demonstration. The machinery in the dome made
itself felt with a sensation beneath sound, a reminder of the presence
of great power.

Then, very slowly, Radak faded. It took the visitors some seconds to
realize what was happening.g. Chekov, even tightly controlled, jumped m
startlement as the boy simply vanished. Mason believed she saw a
flicker in the spot where the boy had stood, but it could have been a
trick of her eyes. Spock observed the dematerialization without
reaction.

While Radak's exit was quite interesting, Spock had noticed something
very peculiar while walking around the dome's perimeter. Some of the
equipment had been scavenged from a Starfleet unmanned rescue vessel--no
doubt, the one that had been sent out years before, never to return.

Some of the puzzle, for him at least, was starting to fall into place.

Shalleft was standing the watch in the main transporter room, duty which
did not require constant vigilance, so he spent much of the time
studying updated equipment manuals.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something move on the
transporter platform. He looked up. A smiling Vulcan youth stood on
the reference disk. Shalleft blinked, and the boy was gone. Mouth
open, he checked the transporter console. It was not turned on; besides,
there had been none of the characteristic sound or transporter effect.

He hesitated; then called for security on the corn. "Olans here," came
the reply.

"Edward, Jonathan here. Clear out the padded cell in the brig. Are you
registering an intruder?"

"No," O!aus said. "What's up? Wait a minute... there's a warm body in
quadrant 2, deck 7... nobody was there a second ago."

On deck 7 of the saucer, or primary hull, in a corridor just outside
engineering and the. impulse power plant, Radak walked alone, staring
at this and that, marveling at the construction of the metal ship. He
stretched his hand out to touch the door to engineering. It was locked,
but that did not matter to Radak. It opened and he peered into the
multi-level chamber. Engineering was almost empty; only one junior
watch officer stood on the second level, facing the grid which divided
engineering from the impulse engines. The impulse engines were shut
down; very little orbital adjustment was required by the Enterprise at
the moment, and that could be handled by the docking and positioning
engines mounted at various places around the outside of the ship's
engineering and primary hulls. Very quietly, very boldly, Radak
strolled by the control panels without attracting the officer's notice,
and quickly realized that this was not the Enterprise's main power
plant. He visualized the outboard nacelles housing the main propulsion
units, but decided against touring them for the moment. He had been
gone for thirty seconds, and it would be best to return...

"We're rather used to that sort of coming and going," Kirk said as soon
as he had recovered. "We do it often ourselves." He was aware of the
difference between transporting and what Radak had just

done, but he wasn't about to reveal his astonishmentr to (rake.

"The boy has not been dematerial ized and assembled by a transporter,"
T'Prylla said, stepping on to the platform. "He has had his body
exactly replicated at another point in space-time, balancing the event
with a complete transformation of his past structure. In essence, the
individual disturbances of all his atoms have been unwound and rewound
at different coordinates. Some would call it controlled coincidence. We
can now master synchronicity itself, Captain."

Radak reappeared next to his mother, reached to the console, and touched
another series of switches. T'Prylla stared at Spock as if searching for
understanding.

"I assume," Spock said, "that the apparent identity of certain subatomic
particles with like particles, wherever and whenever they may be in the
universe, has been taken advantage of. What is the range of your
ability to transform coordinates?"

"Under the present circumstances, two hundred kilometers," Radak said.
"I was in the process of just such a transform when I encountered your
first landing party."

"That would explain the anomalous tricorder readings," Chapel said.

"Would it, Spock?" Kirk asked.

"I would assume so, Captain."

"We're doing a lot of assuming here," McCoy

said. "We could take advantage of this to move the

" id sleepers to the, Enterprise. assumtng, he sa

emphatically, that your technique has none of the disadvantages of the
transporter."

Grake shook his head. "No, Doctor. Theoretically, it is possible, but
not now. At the moment, our equipment can only handle masses not much
larger than my son. Not even I can be transformed, though my wife fails
just within the Funits. We could not

transform hibernaculum and sleeper at the same time But we are not
through with our demonstration. T'Raus has been working on her own
special project." He held his hand out to help his daughter onto the
platform.

"At the scale of the very smallmwhat Vulcans call numosma and humans
call the Planck-Wheeler length--space breaks down into a maze of
singularities," T'Raus said, standing at the edge of the platform with
her hands clasped in front of her.

"She looks like a student about to give a piano recital," Chapel
whispered to Mason. Mason thought she looked a lot more self-confident
than that.

"Until now, we have had no way of studying these extremely small
regions, and have had to deal with them in theory alone. Yet we know
that it is at these levels that the nature of matter and energy is
determined. Now, through the transformer, we can create virtual
simulations of small regions of space and time--and of very large
regions as well, up to the size of a universe. These simulations are
correct in every detail but one--they are not themselves 'real." Soon,
we may in fact be able to recreate regions of space-time with that final
touch of reality, and our work will near completion."

She was almost offhand in the way she pronounced her next words. "Our
goal must be quite obvious, of course. We intend to create a new
universe, on a scale where we can control and study its development.
When we can do that, we will be close to understanding the most
interesting period of our own universe--the first few minutes after
creation. Everything after that interval has been decay and decline."

"Not quite that bad, I hope," McCoy said. "Fascinating," Spock said.

Mason was more confused than fascinated. Kirk hardly blinked an eye.

T'Raus lifted an arm and touched several but'-tons on the console with
the same easy, familiar grace of her brother. "Please watch the
transparent chamber to the right of the platform. It is there that our
demonstration of the very small will begin."


Chapter Sixteen

The glass sphere, mounted on a single silver rod, filled with what
looked like the shadows of trees. The shadows began to-whirl together,
drawing dark bands around the sphere's perimeter. The bands smeared and
merged until the sphere's interior was a uniform neutral gray.

"Our eyes can only perceive things they are familiar with," T'Raus said.
"For that reason, most of the simulation will be lost to us. And again,
because our eyes rely on light to carry information to them, what we
perceive will not be totally accurate. Still, the simulation contains
all the information necessary for a thorough understanding of the
foundations of space-time. What we have difficulty perceiving, our
machines can interpret for us." The sphere was now filled with elusive
colors, rising from the neutral gray and being absorbed back into it.

Mason felt as if she were being hypnotized. Even at a distance of five
or six meters, the display soon filled her field of vision. For an
instant she thought

she saw the sphere fill with snakes, but the snakes became clouds of
floating balls. In turn, the clouds became twisting sheets of
rubber--sheets soon rid-died with holes which flexed inward and touched
other holes. Then the sheets disappeared, leaving only the holes, which
pulsed and seemed to both grow and shrink at once, following some
outlandish rhythm both regular and chaotic. Next, the sphere was a
haven for nested tunnels. The tunnels shrank and became strands of
spaghetti. The spaghetti turned a wondrous blue-gray and danced so
vigorously the entire dome seemed to spin around her. Kirk saw something
completely different. He was reminded of the propellers on
old-fashioned airplanes--thousands and thousands spinning, varying in
pitch, the blades lengthening and joining until all were connected, yet
still spinning individually. Chekov felt a kinship with what was in the
sphere. He recognized it---or rather, what was controlling him
recognized it, with the same bizarre nostalgia one might hold for the
burned-out wreck of an old home. It made no sense to Chekov but he
participated nevertheless. Chapel saw an infinity of bizarre flowers,
their petals linking and unlinking. Spock made an effort to see only
what was there. He could not. There was nothing real in the sphere,
nothing on to which he could hook the rigid logic of his race. He was
instantly and uncomfortably aware of the limits of his con to them, what
we perceive will not be totally accurate. Still, the simulation
contains all the information necessary for a thorough understanding of
the foundations of space-time. What we have difficulty perceiving, our
machines can interpret for us." The sphere was now filled with elusive
colors, rising from the neutral gray and being absorbed back into it.

Mason felt as if she were being hypnotized. Even at a distance of five
or six meters, the display soon filled her field of vision. For an
instant she thought

she saw the sphere fill with snakes, but the snakes became clouds of
floating balls. In turn, the clouds became twisting sheets of
rubber--sheets soon rid-died with holes which flexed inward and touched
other holes. Then the sheets disappeared, leaving only the holes, which
pulsed and seemed to both grow and shrink at once, following some
outlandish rhythm both regular and chaotic. Next, the sphere was a
haven for nested tunnels. The tunnels shrank and became strands of
spaghetti. The spaghetti turned a wondrous blue-gray and danced so
vigorously the entire dome seemed to spin around her. Kirk saw something
completely different. He was reminded of the propellers on
old-fashioned airplanes--thousands and thousands spinning, varying in
pitch, the blades lengthening and joining until all were connected, yet
still spinning individually. Chekov felt a kinship with what was in the
sphere. He recognized it---or rather, what was controlling him
recognized it, with the same bizarre nostalgia one might hold for the
burned-out wreck of an old home. It made no sense to Chekov but he
participated nevertheless. Chapel saw an infinity of bizarre flowers,
their petals linking and unlinking. Spock made an effort to see only
what was there. He could not. There was nothing real in the sphere,
nothing on to which he could hook the rigid logic of his race. He was
instantly and uncomfortably aware of the limits of his conditioning;
Vulcans sought total logic in a universe built on controlled chaos. The
effort ultimately had to be futile. The display saddened him,
depressed him, aroused his human haft... And he suddenly became aware of
the paradox. Vulcans had done this research, ostensibly; created these
displays. T'Prylla, for all her unorthodox methods of logic, was still
as constrained as he was, perhaps moreso. Such researches should have
been

extremely difficult, perhaps impossible for her, for any Vulcan. Then
who, or what, had performed the research? The human physicists who
might have aided the researchers and shared such insights were all in
cold storage. Spock turned away from the sphere, unwilling to. tolerate
much more. McCoy turned away also, for similar reasons. For him the
sphere was filled with faces, and the faces were turning into skulls,
the eye-sockets of the skulls elongating into infinite corridors of
death and misery, the teeth glinting and flashing. The insight that
forced him to turn away was that all the stars in the universe were
simply reflections from the teeth of skulls. The sphere showed him how
he could go mad, if he ever lost control. T'Raus touched the buttons
lightly, and the sphere once again became a vacant ball of glass.
Throughout the demonstration the observers had been completely silent,
and the silence lingered. Kirk spoke first. "I'm not sure I'm capable
of judging your ac.omplishment," he said, touching his hand to his
forehead. "Breakthrough or not, I also fail to see what all this has to
do with our immediate problem." Radak stood near Kirk. He turned slowly
toward the captain, his face betraying very un-Vulcan signs of
agitation. "In a year, our mastery will be so complete that we can
duplicate the bodies of our sleepers without the apparatus on your ship,
without any machinery at all. All this will be discarded, and with our
minds alone we can travel wherever we wish, transform anything." He
stared fixedly at Kirk. "We will no longer be confined to our planetoid,
nor will we require Federation starships." That is not the truth!
T'Prylla agonized, struggling to break through to Spock, anybody. Corona
would finish its work long before such things could be accomplished.

Kirk turned to Grake. "Does your son speak for all of you?" Grake and
T'Prylla nodded simultaneously. "I can appreciate the magnitude of
your... future accomplishment," Kirk continued. "But I have to deal
with present realities. And Federation law dictates that I do
everything in my power to save its citizens from harm. The sleepers are
in danger. We must do as our medical expert says. I... I can guarantee
that your fears for their safety are unwarranted. They will not be
injured during their journey to the Enterprise." McCoy nodded with
satisfaction. "There are several more things which must be done to our
shuttle to make travel completely safe for the sleepers," Spcok said.
"We will return to the Enterprise, perform the final installations, and
ferry the sleepers as soon as possible." "Very well," T'Prylla said,
acquiescing with a nod. That, Mason thought, was entirely too quick and
easy after all the objections they had made...

Chekov returned to the storage dome first. Wah Ching and Pauli stood
outside the boarding tube. He conferred with them briefly, then walked
down the tube and closed the shuttle hatch. Inside the small craft, he
looked around with drugged slowness and walked forward through the
passenger cabin to the pilot's seat and control panel. With a service
hex wrench, he unfastened the top cover and peered at the maze of glass
cables and power beam guides. He took his phaser and set the beam for
minimum width, shallow penetration. At low power, the phaser would
spall insulation off the beam guides. The shuttle self-diagnosing
system would detect a fault, but since there were no sensors directly
attached to the insulation, the shuttle computer would not be able to
explain the trouble, only to locate it. It would be difficult to notice
any difference just by looking... The shuttle would be disabled.

He fought every step of the way, until his body ran rivers of sweat...
but to no avail. He belted the phaser, mopped his forehead with his
sleeve, and opened the hatch. He put on an angry face and stormed back
through the tube. "Who's been in here?" The guards looked at him, .as.
to. nished. "The panel cover is open," he said. Kirk, Spock, McCoy,
Chapel and Mason walked .across the decking. Chekov approached them,
wishing he could simply die and get the misery over with. "Mr. Spock..."
he began.

Spock emerged from the shuttle and shook his head. "I suspect sabotage,
Captain." McCoy swore under his breath. "I feel like we're wading
through glue, Jim. They're thwarting everything we do." Kirk glanced
across the storage dome. "Spock, run a tricorder check for listening
devices or... anything else suspicious. Chekov, keep a guard on the
dome entrance." Spock ran his check and announced there were no
detectable listening devices. "But I cannot guarantee we will speak in
privacy." "Then we'll take the risk. Spock, what in hell is going on
here?" ".Something is seriously wrong, Jim. I have seen eqmpment in the
research dome which I am certain was removed from the unmanned rescue
probe. Apparently, at the time of the probe's arrival, Station One was
reluctant to be rescued, but in need of all available instrumentation
and raw material. Furthermore, the station personnel are not behaving as
Vulcans should behave. They are not even behaving like insane Vulcans.
The excuses they offer are weak and contradictory. The children appear
to be more in control than Grake and T'Prylla, and that is totally
uncharacteristic." "Couldn't that be explained by the isolation?" Mason
asked.

"No," Spock said. "There is a pattern to their behavior, but it does
not match any pattern for my people. It is the pattern of a controlling
presence, with goals dissimilar to our own." "But there's no life here,"
McCoy said. "We know protostar clouds are completely sterile. Oh,
there are the usual organic molecules--" "I do not believe they are
being controlled by. a? organic life form," Spock said. "The ewdence
po?.ts to something very knowledgable, very interestea tn the processes
the researchers claim to have mastered." "Any ideas what that might be?"
"I suggest we contact the Enterprise and see how Mr. Scott is doing
with the transporter. I doubt that he has found anything wrong. If my
hypothesis is correct, the transporter is in perfect working order, but
the beam itself is being tampered with. That could explain my clumsy
arrival in the station, and it could also explain Ensign Chekov's
difficulties." "Then what the hell are we going to do?" McCoy asked. "We
are going to play our hidden ace, Dr. McCoy. We are going to request
materials be sent down to repair the shuttle."

Veblen looked at the algorithm models, biting his lower lip. Half on
impulse, he typed on the keyboard. Are you serious? These are the best
models the stochastic algorithm can currently produce, the computer
replied on the screen. Veblen had shut the voice off; he much preferred
working with displays. It was so much easier to track programming
errors. "Mr. Veblen to the bridge," Uhura called over the com. Veblen
transferred the model data to his portable notepad and ran for the
turbolift. Scott was on the bridge, talking to Kirk in the station. "I
find Mr. Spock's conclusions a great relief," he said.

"We don't," Kirk said laconically. "Is Veblen there?" "Present,
Captain," Veblen said. "Mr. Veblen, Spock has a special request for
shuttle repair parts." Veblen and Scott looked at each other; Veblen was
certainly not the man to handle parts replacement. "Mr. Veblen," Spock
said, "the Galileo II requires the following kits." Spock recited
twenty-six separate kit numbers, apparently from memory. Veblen took
them down quickly, then handed them to Scott. Scott looked them over.
Only five had anything to do with the shuttle, and none, surprisingly,
with the hibernacula. "I am also interested in how the algorithms are
adjusting to the new data. Has there been an advancement of model C in
probability?" Veblen's eyes widened. "There has indeed, Mr. Spock.
Model C is now the prime model, with enhancements. The Ybakra--" "Thank
you, Mr. Veblen. Please expedite the delivery of the parts. Until the
shuttle is repaired, we are confined to the station." Spock signed off
and Scott shook his head. "What are they requesting, Mr. Scott?" Veblen
asked. "Some of the kits will replace beam guide insulators in the
shuttle instrument panels. That makes sense. But these other
kits--they go together to create an Ybakra isolation field." "For the
sleepers?" "I don't think so," Scott said. "Or Dr. McCoy would have
mentioned field dimensions. I don't believe these will create a large
enough field for two hibernacula." Veblen hefted his notepad
thoughtfully. "Model C, I belteve, has been confirmed."

T'Prylla experienced the irritation at one remove, but Corona's
indecision was more immediately distressing. She was jerked back and
forth, sent first t do this, then that. She had never felt Corona so
confused and uncertain. She worked for a time adding more machinery to
the equipment in the research dome. Briefly, she saw Grake doing similar
work. T'Kosa and Anauk, she sensed, were waiting outside the storage
dome. T;Raus and Radak were nowhere to be seen.

The Vulcan children stood beneath the purple nebula sky, watching a
horizon-to-horizon ribbon of green unwrap at zenith. It was nothing
significant, simply the unveiling of a deeper region of gas, but it
served for a moment to distract Corona. Of all the things in this
strange, ancient realm, the clouds of dust and gas in the nebula were
most pleasing. Their abstraction reminded it of...

But there was no conclusion to the thought. T'Raus touched the rock
again and opened the Eye-to-Stars. Its goal was so close, but time was
growing short. Where would the next appearance be?

The Eye-to-Stars was more than a telescope. It searched across probable
universes, as well as the distances of space and time. The only
probable universe it could not scan was on the line of present reaFty;
Corona could not know the exact outcome of its work.

In the early years, Corona had sought out young, amorphous galaxies
buried in hot clouds of gasbut had not found any. Instead, it had found
evidence of its own handiwork, its own halting experiments and
mistakes---buried in the ancient past, barely visible across the
light-cons. After nine years of patient search, feeling a growing
frustration and awareness of its limits, it had found the region where
it would be most likely to make its next appearance, if it should fail
in the Black Box Nebula.

In the beginning, it had had an easier time of things. Conditions had
been hostile, but not nearly

as hostile as they were now. Now, Corona had to rely on yet another
unlikely conjunction of sub-spacial masses and collapsing protostars.
Just such a region had been found by the Eye-to-Stars.

But it knew the opportunities there were unlikely to be as satisfying as
those in the Black Box. In fact, nothing in all its strange travels
could compare. The novelty of the situation lay not in the nebula
itself---a rather typical starwomb--but in the Vulcan visitors, in
living and intelligent beings made of matter. Corona had never
encountered such before. It had no idea how widespread organic
intelligence would b e in the future, on the next leg of its journey. So
getting the work done now was extremely important.

And all it needed was a few more hours, unhindered, a miniscule length
of the bizarre dimension that time had become in this old corpse of a
universe.

But how would it continue its work in the dome, and deal with the new,
troublesome visitors?

It was this indecision which affected T'Prylla worst of all. Finally,
Corona made a choice. The visitors were much too dangerous. They could
destroy some of the most useful information it had gathered if they
removed the sleepers. If they managed to repair the shuttle, the
transfer would begin...

Corona had learned too late that humans resisted its intrusions even
more than adult Vulcans. Only by slightly rearranging his qualities in
the transporter beam had it been able to gain control of the one called
Chekov, and that by a stroke of luck. The new half-Vulcan combined the
worst properties of Vulcans and humans; the first few times in the beam
had been insufficient to control Spock.

But Corona had learned from failures. If Spock used the transporter
just one more time ..

Scott had trouble controlling the direction of the beam. It veered
wildly first one direction, then another. Veblen watched the chief
engineer swearing and adjusting the control slideshere Was nothing in
the beam but a test device; the kits Spock had requested were stacked on
two floating pallets near the transporter platform. "Is there any
transporter effect?" Veblen asked Kirk. "None yet," the captain replied.
"Wait a minute just a trace." "Aligning the beam," Scott said grimly.
"It whips about like a snake. The probe should be assembling "Here it
comes," Kirk said. "It's intact!" "Bringing it back," Scott said. When
the probe had returned, he motioned for Shallert to position the pallets
over the reference and number two disks. "We're preparing to send the
kits now," Veblen said. He checked the display on his portable
terminal, hooked up to the ship's computers. The erratic beam behavior
was being analyzed in detail to provide more data to confirm and expand
on Model C. "Whatever's mucking with the beam must be operating a field
as wide as the planetoid itself," Scott said. Veblen's display indicated
the field was much wider than that, perhaps as much as a hundred
thousand kilometers in diameter. The picture he was constructing of it
showed a complex structure on several levels, operating in both status
geometry, subspace and at least three fraction-space geodesics. The
Enterprise's sensors were now alert to certain clues, sweeping deep into
the Black Box, toward the murky triplet of infant stars. "Sending now,"
Scott said. "And I'm glad it's not people I'm sending." "Effect
beginning," Kirk said. "We're getting two assembly patterns... they're
forming. Down and intact!" Scott cut the transporter beam and stretched
his arms out to relieve muscle tension. He groaned and smiled at
Veblen. "Like taking a boat through a storm," he said. "A very
interesting storm, too," Veblen said. "I'd certainly like to talk with
Mr. Spock about it, but nobody seems willing to engage in a straight
conversation down there." The sensors had traced the origin of the
field. Wrapped in an intense oblate spheroid of Ybakra radiation, the
three young stars--orbiting each other across distances of hundreds of
millions of miles--were themselves the source.


Chapter Seventeen

Kirk and Spock assembled the Ybakra cage within the shuttle's cargo
compartment, without comment or any clue as to what they were planning.
Indeed, to a great extent Kirk himself didn't know. When they were
through, Chekov and McCoy inspected the device---Chekov paying
particular attention. The shield was a cubic cage about two meters on a
side, made of black pipe with smaller red cubes at each of the eight
corners.

Mason sat on a fold-down chair opposite the cargo doors, watching the
proceedings disconsolately. She had never felt so useless and
out-of-place. They were obviously in trouble, but she wasn't a part of
the team; they couldn't confide in her, or give her something to do. She
was excess baggage. Chapel gave her a reassuring smile, but for all her
sincerity it only deepened her distress.

"Now for a test," Kirk said. "We'll need somebody inside holding a
tricorder. Bones?"

"Not me," McCoy said. "I outrank Chekov. Let him stand inside."


Chekov's face paled noticeably. Spock held the tricorder out to him,
but he backed off a step, hands raised.

"There's no danger," Kirk said, eyes narrowing. "It's just to protect
the hibernacula."

FoThere was no way out of it without raising a scene.

r the first time, Chekov knew that the alien will

within him was unable to control things completely. It contemplated
creating a commotion in the dome, but decided the risks were too small
to get upset about. It forced Chekov to smile.

He accepted the tricorder and stepped into the cage. "Switch on," Kirk
said. Spock flipped a switch on the top of an upper cube. There was no
sound or any other effect; the cube was simply cut off from exposure to
Ybakra.

Chekov collapsed. McCoy instinctively made a move to enter the cube but
Kirk restrained him. "Jim, he's--"

"Wait a moment, just a moment," Kirk said. "Spock?"

"I believe my hypothesis is correct, Jim. Ybakra radiation carries the
controlling messages. Chekov has not been himself the past few hours."
Spock stepped through the shield and knelt next to Chekov. The ensign's
eyelids fluttered and opened and he stared at Spock with an expression
of blissful relief. "Mr. Spock... bad, so very awful and horrible..."

Spock motioned for McCoy to join them. McCoy ran his tricotder over
Chekov and pronounced him fit, but exhausted from severe nervous strain.
"I've

been fighting," Chekov said softly.

"Fighting what?" Kirk asked.

"Taking me over. Making me... I sabotaged, it sabotaged the
shuttle..."

"We know," Kirk said. "Spock had switched the security recorders on.
You were caught in the act. What does... it... feel like? What is
it?"

"I don't know," Chekov said. "Deliberate, very

large... angry, searching. I don't know." His eyes closed. "He should
be in the sickbay," McCoy said. "He cannot be moved from the shield, or
he will be controlled again," Spock said. "When did it take him over?"
Kirk asked. "I believe I felt its presence just before I collapsed after
transporting," Spock said. "I assume it was able to take command of Mr.
Chekov in the transporter beam. That would explain the delay before his
assembly on the Enterprise." "Why didn't it take over all of us, then?"
Kirk asked. His quick glance at Mason made her straighten in her seat.
She was about to protest, but Spock cut her off. "Perhaps it was
adjusting to humans. So far, it has only controlled Vulcans. Much as I
dislike the idea, it may have an easier time assuming control of Vulcans
than humans... though why I was spared, I don't know." "Your human
blood, no doubt," McCoy said. "Does this mean everyone in the station is
possessed?" He injected a nutritive restorer solution into Chekov's arm
and stood up. "That's what we have to assume," Kirk said. "By whom, or
what... or to what end, is anybody's guess." "We do know some things
about the influence," Spock said. "It uses Ybakra radiation, which we
have always thought to have a negligible effect on human nervous
systems, and a relatively minor effect on Vulcans unless, of course,
high exposure occurs under cold storage conditions. Apparently the
effect can be more profound. I have already notified Mr. Veblen that
Model C has increased in probability--" "What in the devil is 'Model
C'?" McCoy asked. "Mr. Veblen's stochastic algorithms produced some
rather far-fetched models, which we originally rejected. Model C
postulated that the inhabitants of the station had been taken over by
some outside agency. The algorithm returned to the model when we fed it
more information about Ybakra radiation and the behavlike? What is it?"

"I don't know," Chekov said. "Deliberate, very

large... angry, searching. I don't know." His eyes closed. "He should
be in the sickbay," McCoy said. "He cannot be moved from the shield, or
he will be controlled again," Spock said. "When did it take him over?"
Kirk asked. "I believe I felt its presence just before I collapsed after
transporting," Spock said. "I assume it was able to take command of Mr.
Chekov in the transporter beam. That would explain the delay before his
assembly on the Enterprise." "Why didn't it take over all of us, then?"
Kirk asked. His quick glance at Mason made her straighten in her seat.
She was about to protest, but Spock cut her off. "Perhaps it was
adjusting to humans. So far, it has only controlled Vulcans. Much as I
dislike the idea, it may have an easier time assuming control of Vulcans
than humans... though why I was spared, I don't know." "Your human
blood, no doubt," McCoy said. "Does this mean everyone in the station is
possessed?" He injected a nutritive restorer solution into Chekov's arm
and stood up. "That's what we have to assume," Kirk said. "By whom, or
what... or to what end, is anybody's guess." "We do know some things
about the influence," Spock said. "It uses Ybakra radiation, which we
have always thought to have a negligible effect on human nervous
systems, and a relatively minor effect on Vulcans unless, of course,
high exposure occurs under cold storage conditions. Apparently the
effect can be more profound. I have already notified Mr. Veblen that
Model C has increased in probability--" "What in the devil is 'Model
C'?" McCoy asked. "Mr. Veblen's stochastic algorithms produced some
rather far-fetched models, which we originally rejected. Model C
postulated that the inhabitants of the station had been taken over by
some outside agency. The algorithm returned to the model when we fed it
more information about Ybakra radiation and the behavior of station
personnel. The model, I believe, is now confirmed." "At least the ship
is aware something's going on," Kirk said. "Do we dare tell them
everything?" Spock nodded. "It may already be too late to disguise our
awareness. What we must do is take advantage of any confusion the being
might be feeling, with the loss of its sole human puppet. We must bring
one of the Vulcans here, by force if necessary. I would suggest
T'Prylla." "Any suggestions as to how?" McCoy asked. "By gentle
persuasion, if at all possible. If it still has doubts, we must play on
them." "How can I help?" Mason asked. Kirk turned and shook his head.
"By maintaining your objectivity," he said sharply. "You're an observer.
Observe." "Jim..." McCoy said, but Kirk waved his hand. "We're in very
deep trouble, Bones," he said. "I'll tender any apologies later."

In orbit around the planetoid, the Enterprise once again passed over the
station within the two hundred kilometer limit. Radak appeared briefly
in several of the ship's cabins and corridors, found them occupied, and
finally materialized in a narrow, deserted service corridor below the
ship's computer, between decks 8 and 9. Light cables and beam guides
clustered thickly on the walls and ceiling. There was no artificial
gravitation in the service corridor, so the boy floated for a moment
while deciding what to do next. Suddenly, as if a finger had been lopped
off, Corona lost one of its extensions. The human called Chekov was no
longer under its control. Corona had focused too much of its attention
on Radak. Things were happening on the station. Yet it

could not just withdraw Radak from the Enterprise, not when there was
such an opportunity to learn. If there was a way to control the ship
itself, its problems would be over. It would be allowed to finish its
work. But now the humans were approaching T'Prylla, and it could sense
the Vulcan female was about to make her move.

'Radak had been under the control of Corona for so long that it was
possible to release the young Vulcan for hours at a stretch, to carry
out commands already given. In a sense, Radak, T'Raus and Corona had
developed together, and their relationship was fixed; without the young
Vulcans, Corona would not have had a sense of place and time, not in the
way these organic beings had. They acted as conduits through which it
could perceive and interpret what the other Vulcans and humans did.
Radak would be left aboard the ship to finish his task; Corona shifted
its full attention to the station, but not in time to prevent further
disaster.

"There is no need for me to inspect your work," T'Prylla said in the
reshek corridor. Kirk and Spock stood on each side of her. McCoy and
Mason stood behind them.

"We wish to demonstrate how safe the sleepers will be in the shuttle,"
Spock said.

"That is more for T'Kosa to determine," T'Pry!la said. She looked at
Spock, and for the briefest moment, Spock saw a glimmer of rebellious
awareness, a personality behind the mask. T'Prylla's lips moved, saying
"Force me," silently in Vulcan. The mask returned almost immediately.

"Nurse Chapel, take her left arm," Spock said. Chapel grabbed the arm
and held it tightly. "Doctor, the right."

McCoy held the right and Spock reached for her shoulder. T'Pryila's
body gave a sudden jerk and she slammed McCoy and Chapel against a
bulkhead.


Chapel fell back, stunned, and Kirk moved in to take her place. Mason
jumped to one side as the recorder deftly maneuvered out of everybody's
way. Spock grabbed T'Prylla's shoulder and pinched it sharply. Her
upper body contorted but she did not collapse. McCoy brought out his
subcutane and tried to place. it against her arm. She whipped around
violently, her breath ragged, her face darkening to brown. McCoy found
his opening and the subcutane connected, injecting its tranquilizer.
Kirk and McCoy released her and stepped back. She leaned against the
bulkhead, chest heaving. She tried to stand straight but couldn't. It
was awful to see her struggling, especially for Mason, who was reminded
of an injured animal resisting the ministrations of its keepers. Then
T'Pfylla seemed to wilt. Nine years of almost constant possession could
not prevent the action of McCoy's drug. Spock and McCoy caught her as
she slumped.

"So much for subtle persuasion," McCoy said. "We must get her to the
shuttle immediately," Spock said. Kirk drew his phaser and set it for
stun.

With his other hand, he opened his communicator. "Kirk to Enterprise."

"Enterprise. Uhura here, Captain."

"Move the ship out to a synchronous orbit. Now." "Yes, sir."

"And tell Scott--"

The communicator crackled. He adjusted it, but to no avail.
"Interference," he said. On a hunch, he turned the phaser on a bulkhead
and tried to fire it. The button produced no effect whatsoever.

"It is indeed a master of energy," Spock said. Kirk belted the useless
weapon. He reached out to help Spock and McCoy lift T'Prylla; Mason
lent her shoulder to Chapel.

Olaus had passed word to Scott; they still had a track on the intruder.
Veblen came on the bridge


with Shallert and they watched the forward screen as the ship's internal
scanners displayed the unsecured sector.

"He's in the service corridor under the ship's computer," Scott said
tersely. "Recognize him?"

"He's the one I saw in the transporter room," Shallert said. "Thought I
was going crazy . . . until now. How did he get there?"

"I don't know," Scott said. "Mr. Olaus and I aren't quite sure what we
should do with him."

"Tell security to stay away from him," Veblen said.

Scott looked at the staff officer with a dubious expression. "He's in
the middle of the ship's most delicate equipment."

"They should at least stay out of sight. We're tracking him; we can
stop him before he does anything disastrous, if that's what he's here
for. We need to know more about him---or whatever's controlling him.
What they want to do."

"I canna' accept that risk," Scott said. "Scott to security team A.
Move into the corridor and attempt capture."

The service corridor formed a circle around and beneath the computer.
Devereaux and his men had pressed themselves against the equipment
insulation plates around the curve from where Radak floated. Now they
gripped the guide ropes and pulled themselves swiftly and silently
along.

Radak was aware there was trouble on the station, but he had been
temporarily left to himself. He knew what he was looking for, and what
he had to do when he found it--Corona could rely on Radak. He peered
behind the beam guides for the ship's central data conduit, not yet
aware of the security men approaching from behind.

When Kirk's abrupt transmission was received, Scott acted on the orders
immediately. The Enterprise accelerated and pushed herself into a
higher orbit, maneuvering until she was in synchronous

movement with the station four thousand kilometers below. The whole
action took less than five minutes, and in that time- Radak twisted
around, stared at the guards, and tried to transform back to the
station. He could not transform by himself, however, and Corona had not
yet returned. The guards floated toward him, phasers drawn. 'He tried
to deactivate the phasers, but he could not. He backed away, feeling
his weakness acutely. Then he realized the ship was moving, that he was
already too far from the station to be transformed even if Corona did
return.

"He's not doing anything," Scott said.

"Maybe we have him," Veblen said.

Devereaux backed the boy up against the end of the corridor. "We'renot
going to hurt you," he said. "How in hell did you get here in the first
place?"

For the first time in ten years, Radak felt completely lost. His
instructions said nothing about how to behave if he was captured.


Chapter Eighteen

They lay T'Prylla in the cage next to Chekov. McCoy changed the ampule
in the subcutane and injected her with an antidote to the tranquilizer.
"She'll come around in a few minutes," he said. "But she'll be weak for
an hour or so."

"I wonder if any Vulcan can ever be weak," Chapel said, massaging her
shoulder.

"Ceptain, I do not think she is the center of the being," Chekov said.
"I think it concentrates on the children."

T'Prylla's eyes opened. She stared intently at Spock. "Nine years,
three months, two days and twelve hours," she said. "That is how long
we have been slaves. My gratitude, Spock." She tried to sit up but her
arms collapsed under her. Mason held her shoulders as she fell back.

"I have many questions," Spock said, "and not much time to obtain
answers."

"Then the questions must wait. For all that time, I have been
considering ways to overcome Corona."

"Corona?" Kirk asked.


"Yes. It manifests as a huge corona of Ybakra radiation emanating from
the infant stars. It has a specific purpose---to create a new
universe--and we must not allow it to succeed. Spock, Radak was the
first to be taken over. T'Raus was next. Through the children, it
extended its control to the rest of us. You must touch minds with
Radak. You must communicate directly with Corona force it to listen--or
it will never understand."

"How do you force an all-powerful, hostile intelligence to listen?"
McCoy asked.

"It is neither all-powerful, nor hostile," T'Prylla said. "It is merely
dedicated. It is the last of its kind, and there will be no more like
it unless it succeeds. It is quite weak--it is not accustomed to a
realm of matter, and only' through us can it manipulate small amounts of
matter."

"Yet it is a master of energy, of space and time," Spock said.

"You have deduced that much. We could never have come so far in our
researches without its help--yet I can hardly say the new machines
belong to us, or fulfill our work. Spock! You must find

Radak, and you must administer ka nifoor." "What's that?" Kirk asked.

"He was just a child when he was taken over," Spock said. "Neither he
nor T'Raus have undergone the discipline of Vulcan adulthood. If I can
administer ka nifoor, it is possible the being's influence will wane."

"It controls all of us through them," T'Prylla said. Spock looked
troubled. "Well, Spock?" Kirk asked.

"There is also the possibility the being will occupy my mind," Spock
said. "I have resisted so far, though I am not certain whyre"

"You just won't admit it," McCoy said.

"Doctor, Chekov is totally human, and it possessed him quite
effectively?"

"In the beam of the transporter," T'Prylla said.


"Which is why we aren't going to use the transporter," Kirk said.
Outside the shuttle, there was a high-pitched whining sound, followed by
a sharp, loud crack. "What in hell was that?" Wah Ching ran down the
boarding tube, phaser drawn. "Captain, they're all in the storage
dome--all but the boy. They're heading this way!" "Get Pauli inside the
shuttle," Kirk said. "Spock, we're going back." "Yes, sir." Spock went
forward to the shuttle controls. T'Prylla was now strong enough to sit
up on her own, and Mason released her, instinctively wiping her hands on
her pants. Pauli rolled into the ship just as the boarding tube seal
separated. The shuttle was filled with roaring as air exploded through
the crack. Mason screamed in silence, holding her ears with both hands
and keeping her eyes tightly shut. Pauli rebounded from a bulkhead and
reached up to slap the hatch lever down. Air screamed into the cabin
from emergency repressurization valves, and Mason felt the horrible,
straining emptiness in her lungs fill until she could breathe normally.
"They tried to kill us!" Pauli shouted hoarsely. The shuttle's landing
lifters pushed them a few meters off the station platform. McCoy quickly
looped cargo cables across the deck and over Chekov and T'Prylla. "Get
into a seat!" he shouted at Mason and Chapel. "And secure that damned
machine!" Mason pulled the recorder forward and slammed it against a
magnetic grip. She buckled herself in just in time to avoid a lurch
which propelled McCoy across the cargo compartment. The Ybakra cage
creaked ominously. Kirk grabbed hold of the navigator's chair and
steadied himself. "They're not going to let us go without a fight."
Spock struggled with the controls. Warning buzzers sounded and alert
lights came on across the instrument panel.

"Didn't we fix it?" McCoy called from the passenger cabin as he fell
into a seat. Kirk's communicator beeped. He strapped himself in and
flipped the device open. "Kirk here." "Captain! We've been trying to
get through for hours---" "Scotty! Lock a tractor on to the shuttle!
Pull us in!" "We canna', not at this angle through the planetoid,
Captain. What's happening?" Kirk glanced at Spock for an explanation.
"Our engines are being neutralized," Spock said grimly. "We will not be
able to lift off. It does not wish to let T'Prylla go." "Scotty," Kirk
said. "This may be a mistake, but can you get a transporter fix on us?"
"Aye, that I can. But--" "Risk it, Scotty! Get everyone in the shuttle
aboard the Enterprisemand the Ybakra shield, as well!" Kirk met Spock's
questioning glance and shrugged. "Either way, Spock... let's just hope
Corona doesn't have its mind on the transporter." As the transporter
effect started, Mason began to pray, gripping the chair arms tightly.
She closed her eyes. Across the aisle, McCoy let out a long and
expressive string of expletives... The shuttle fell from an altitude of
two hundred meters and crashed onto the scarred gray surface of the
planetoid.

"We have them all," Shallert announced from the transporter room. "But
the goddamned thing's interfering again!" "Isolate each form-memory,"
Scott said grimly from the elevator. Veblen rode beside him. "They're
isolated. We're racking up delay time .. thirty seconds." "Triage,"
Veblen said. "How's that, Mr. Veblen?" Scott demanded. The elevator
doors opened and the engineer leaped to

the transporter controls. Shallert transferred the controls and Scott
began to play them like the keys of a piano. Veblen stayed to one side,
watching the fitful sparklings above the assigned disks.

"I've already dumped the radiation cage," Shalleft explained. "Even
so..."

"We only have a firm grip on seven," Scott said, looking as if he were
about to cry. "It's wrestling us for them!" The transporter whined and
groaned alternately. The air became thick with the sweet electric smell
of unrealized transporter ghosts, and a special ventilator switched on.
"Ye canna' ha' them, damn ye!" Scott screamed, pulling all the slides
down at once and switching for emergency power. The transporter room
floor hummed and one of the unassigned disks began to smoke.

One by one, the assigned disks displayed transporter effects, until
seven were occupied. The remaining two showed clear shafts of white
light, signifying lost signals. Even before the effects were well
formed, Scott redirected the two stray people. "I'm sending 'em to the
station," he said. "They canna' return to the shuttle. I'm sending 'em
back and God help them get there in one piece."

Corona gave up its attempt to control all the form-memories in the
transporter beam. The task was simply too much without the help of
Radak and T'Prylla; Corona felt their loss keenly. Even though it
realized T'Prylla was one of those in the beam, her data was confused
with the form-memory of the cage, and Corona could not differentiate
them in so little time.

By the time the cage was cut from the beam, Corona had already
concentrated on two others in the beam, separating them. The
half-Vulcan, half-human science officer, Spock, and the only other
female in the group, Mason, began to assemble in the storage dome, where
Scott had redirected them.

Corona reached deep into the form-memory of Spock, and exulted...

Kirk, McCoy, Chapel, T'Prylla, Chekov and the two guards lay fully
formed on the transporter platform. Kirk got up on his knees and looked
at the other disks. "Spock? The girl? Where are they?"

Scott's expression was pitiful. "I couldna' hold them, Captain. There
was too much interference."

Kirk cringed and held his head in his hands. He looked up almost
immediately and asked where the cage was.

"Dropped from the beam," Shalleft said.

"We'll need another. A large one--and some portable shields, too." He
stood above Chekov and T'Prylla on adjacent disks, looking down on them
suspiciously. McCOY helped T'Prylla to her feet while Kirk and Shalleft
saw to Chekov and the two guards.

"Get stretchers up here," McCoy said, looking around for someone to take
his orders and fixing on Veblen. "And get sickbay ready!" Veblen nodded
and went to the wall corn to relay the commands.

Kirk opened and closed his hands helplessly, then bounded on still-shaky
legs for the elevator. Veblen followed, reaching out to steady him as
he wobbled. The doors closed. "Bridge," Kirk said.

"Captain, we've captured the Vulcan boy, Radak. Somehow he reached the
Enterprise and was found in the service corridor below the computer
center. And as for Ybakra shieldsthe boy is in one right now. We've
shielded an entire brig cell."

"Then we have two of Corona's main extensions," Kirk said. "And Radak
was the one T'Prylla wanted Spock to touch minds with..." He shook his
head fiercely. "We may be in worse trouble than we think, Mr. Veblen.
T'Prylla said something down there that scares me, especially after what
we saw."

"Captain, I'll need as much information as possible to feed the
algorithms."


Kirk looked at Veblen from the corner of his eye, prepared to tell the
computer officer to go to hell, and take his algorithms with him. But
he controlled his anger and worry and nodded. "On the bridge," he said.
"I'll put as much as I can into the log while we're deciding what to do
next."

Spock rolled onto his back, his eyes tightly shut. Mason had assembled
on her feet, and she looked around with no real comprehension of what
had happened. Where was the transporter room, where was the Enterprise?
She was in the storage dome--and the dome was empty. Then she saw Spock
struggling near her feet, moaning. Oh my God, she thought. Now was the
time to panic. She was alone in the station, alone with Vulcans...
Spock controlled his writhing and opened his eyes. He rose to his knees
and shook his head, then braced a hand on the floor and pushed himself
upright. He looked dazed, preoccupied. His lips worked and he closed
his eyes again. "I need help," he said. Mason backed away, hands
clutching her throat. "I am about to be controlled by Corona," he said.
"I only have a few minutes of resistance left. You must... help..." He
swiveled and held out a tense, half-closed hand. "Please," Mason said.
"I can feel it in my mind. I can hear its thoughts. It does not know
how to listen... It does not respect us. We are here only for its use.
And it is about to destroy... everything." His eyes widened. He's
afraid, Mason realized. He's seen something and it terrifiies him.
Whatever reserves of pragmatism and toughness remained in her,
evaporated. She was a little girl again, listening to scary stories
about incredible off-world monstrosities, alien horrors, unseen inhuman
demons. Standing before her was living proof of all the stories--an
alien, strange and

repugnant, himself taken over by a demon. The storytellers on Yalbo had
told t he truth! "I cannot hold it back. I must enter a trance state.
But I cannot do that..." Spock's expression was pleading. "You' must
take part of me within you." He twisted in agony, ahell, and take his
algorithms with him. But he controlled his anger and worry and nodded.
"On the bridge," he said. "I'll put as much as I can into the log while
we're deciding what to do next."

Spock rolled onto his back, his eyes tightly shut. Mason had assembled
on her feet, and she looked around with no real comprehension of what
had happened. Where was the transporter room, where was the Enterprise?
She was in the storage dome--and the dome was empty. Then she saw Spock
struggling near her feet, moaning. Oh my God, she thought. Now was the
time to panic. She was alone in the station, alone with Vulcans...
Spock controlled his writhing and opened his eyes. He rose to his knees
and shook his head, then braced a hand on the floor and pushed himself
upright. He looked dazed, preoccupied. His lips worked and he closed
his eyes again. "I need help," he said. Mason backed away, hands
clutching her throat. "I am about to be controlled by Corona," he said.
"I only have a few minutes of resistance left. You must... help..." He
swiveled and held out a tense, half-closed hand. "Please," Mason said.
"I can feel it in my mind. I can hear its thoughts. It does not know
how to listen... It does not respect us. We are here only for its use.
And it is about to destroy... everything." His eyes widened. He's
afraid, Mason realized. He's seen something and it terrifiies him.
Whatever reserves of pragmatism and toughness remained in her,
evaporated. She was a little girl again, listening to scary stories
about incredible off-world monstrosities, alien horrors, unseen inhuman
demons. Standing before her was living proof of all the stories--an
alien, strange and

repugnant, himself taken over by a demon. The storytellers on Yalbo had
told the truth! "I cannot hold it back. I must enter a trance state.
But I cannot do that..." Spock's expression was pleading. "You' must
take part of me within you." He twisted in agony, arms held up in the
air, and shouted a string of Vulcan words. She backed away two more
steps, horrified--and fascinated. "I must pass on the ritual. It is
not aware... it is blind inside me while I resist... I can pass
everything on to you, give you instructions, a temporary part of my
mind--" "NO!" But she did not back away any farther. Spock shuddered and
appeared to draw himself together. "I am aware of your prejudices. I
am aware of your fear. You must overcome them. Your life, your
existence... perhaps the existence of our entire universe... are at
stake. We are not enemies. I need your courage!" He reached both hands
out to her. All right, a voice said away from all her repulsion and
horror. Time to cut the crap and get down to business, don't you think?
You can either live the rest of your life--however short that may
be--slipping and sliding on all the muck your fellow Yalbans laid down
for you, or you can rise above it. You can help the nasty, alien
Vulcan, whom you've come to know and respect, underneath all your stupid
bigotry, or you can let everything go to hell. Your one chance,
Small-Planet Girl. She took a step forward, her stomach contracting to a
tiny ball. Everything was elongated and strange. She grasped Spock's
warm, dry hands and guided them to her temples. He lowered one hand and
clasped the base of her neck. He said something in Vulcan and there was
a fire in her brain, writing very tiny letters over every available
centimeter of darkness... And then she understood his Vulcan words "You
have the courage and grace of an ahkor," he

had said, and through Spock she remembered the most beautiful, the
largest, the brightest bird she had ever seen, its feathers copper and
gold and chrome, its eye red as the sun, flying over the sand and
jagged, smoking mountains of Vulcan. Part of the Vulcan was inside her.
He lay on the floor, limp, his face peaceful. He was locked in trance,
useless to Corona. But, along with Spock, she could feel another touch,
weak but still present. Corona--or some part of it--had also made the
transition. She was now not one, but three...


Chapter Nineteen

The guard cleared the brig field from his path and Kirk entered the
cell. T'Prylla sat with Radak in one corner, on furniture transferred
from the rec room; Chekov sat in the opposite corner, still debriefing
onto a ship's log notepad. A makeshift curtain had been arranged across
the diagonal for some privacy; it wasn't much for luxury, however, and
Kirk felt called upon to apologize. "We understand perfectly," T'Prylla
said. She touched her son's shoulder. "You have returned Radak to me.
That is luxury enough for the time being. What has happened at the
station?" "Spock and Mason didn't make it back with us. We assume they
are in the storage dome, but we simply don't know. Uh... Corona is
blocking all transmissions and jamming all sensor readings." His face
was pale and lined with worry; he hadn't even changed uniforms after the
narrow escape. "We are all in very great danger," T'Prylla said calmly.
She looked at Radak. "I know the broad outlines of Corona's plans, but
my son is much

better informed. He will not tell us, however." Radak regarded Kirk
with icy contempt. "Corona apparently gave him some measure of
autonomy, and he is waiting for his contact to resume. It is all he has
known for ten years."

"I'm worried about two things," Kirk said. "Most immediately, the fate
of Mason and Spock. And this attempt of Corona's to create another
universe I don't like the sound of that."

"Nor do I, Captain," T'Prylla said. "I assume that it means Corona
would like to re-create conditions he is more familiar with."

"And what might those be?"

"Corona is a fugitive, Captain. And a kind of scientist. His world
ended fifteen billion years ago

.. when it gave birth to our own."

It was all well and good to be brave in the abstract. She had always
been impulsive. But there were parts of her mind not nearly as noble
and flexible as her conscious self, and right now they were twisting her
thoughts into knots. Spock's distinctive voice spoke within her, trying
to reassure.

--Do not be afraid. I have abstracted knowledge from Corona---stolen
it, if you will. That is what you feel.

---(confusion, panic) You are in my mind!

--You are in control. I am only knowledge, not Spock. I can only
suggest, and answer questions. I am like the monitors aboard the
Enterprise, except that I cannot even veto your actions. Spock is in a
trance. I am only part, a very small part, of him, within you.

Mason stood unsteadily, feeling worse than if she had discovered maggots
erupting from her skin. How much of her memory was available to
him--details of her life, her intimate moments, her embarrassments and
shames?

--What do you know about me?

--Nothing. It is not important that I know. But we must do several
things...

--I... don't... think... I... can... take

..this...

--There is very little time. Grake, T'Raus and the others will return
soon, and we must be prepared. You are temporarily safe from Corona's
intrusion. It cannot take you over now, and it will not try. Here is
what we must do first- --Vulcan.t Get out of my mind.t Suddenly, there
was nothing. Just herself, and silence. She couldn't even feel the
wisp of complete unfamiliarity that had been Corona's trace within her.
Across the dome, she heard footsteps. T'Raus and T'Kosa materialized on
each side of her. Grake and Anauk entered the dome through the
hatchway.

Mason glanced between the two females, her jaw muscles clenched to still
a scream. Moaning sounds came from her throat. Her fingers dug into
the fabric of her pants and the flesh beneath.

Grake and Anauk picked up Spock's limp form and carried him toward the
hatchway. T'Raus touched Mason's elbow.

"Come with us," she said.

Mason didn't move.

"We mean you no harm."

It was an effort to push one foot forward. Something was rising behind
the fear, howevert something even more irrational and stubborn. What
would Vulcans think if she acted like a coward? What would the Spock
within her think? T'Kosa took her by the arm and she shrugged the hand
away. "Leave me alone!" she growled.

"You cannot stay here," T'Kosa said calmly. "The boarding tube
emergency seal is defective. Air is leaking out. We must close off
this dome." Mason turned and saw the hatch to the landing pad tube. A
small crack in one corner was rimed with white; the hissing was quite
loud.

Then Spock's voice returned--gentle, unobtru2 sire.

--You must touch T'Raus. She must be given the disciphne of ka nifoor.

"All right! All right!" Mason said. --All right...

T'Pry!la took Radak by the shoulders and lifted him to his feet. She
was neither rough nor gentle; she simply handled her defiant son in the
most efficient manner possible. Radak did not resist. She spoke to him
in Vulcan. The boy did not answer.

McCoy entered the cell and was about to speak when Kirk held up a hand.
T'Prylla pulled the boy forward and grasped him just under his left ear.
"Grake was to have administered ka nifoor to his son when he turned
twelve," T'Prylla said in Federation English. "He could not. Now he is
not here, nor is Spock, so I must do it myself. That is irregular, but
not unheard of." She had not taken her eyes from Radak's face.

"Pstha na sochya olojhica, sfisth inoor Gracka?" she asked. "Are you
not blood of my blood, searching for the peace of maturity?"

Radak tried to turn his head away, but she grabbed his chin with her
other hand and held him steady. Otherwise, he did not resist.

"Ages past , Vulcans bore the mark of heat, the scar of blowing sand and
burning sun. The ground opened to eat us, the wind danced on our crops
and leveled our cities. We wept for the pain, and we fought--"

Quick as a snake, Mason struck T'Kosa between her shoulders with knurled
knuckles, instructed by the Spock within. T'Kosa went down as hard as
the planetoid's light gravity allowed. Mason spun on the balls of her
feet and administered a similar blow to T'Raus, who was not much better
prepared to receive it. Then, she bent over the prone gift and placed
her hand under her left ear. T'Raus was

aware, but paralyzed temporarily. Mason suddenly found herself speaking
Vulcan

"Pstha na sochya olojhica, sftsth noor numkwa Gracka?" She listened to
herself, fascinated. T'Raus's eyes widened. Mason wondered if the girl
would suddenly just disappear. In the corridor ahead, here was the
sound of scuffling. "None of your blood may administer, but are you not
ready for the peace of maturity?"

--The question, Spock explained, may not be ignored by any Vulcan who
knows how to speak our language. It is the signal for the activation of
years of prior training, begun just after birth.

Mason began to intone more Vulcan words. "Ages past, Vulcans bore the
mark of heat, the scar of blowing sand and burning sun. The ground
opened to eat us---"

It took less than a minute. Radak's resistance seemed to melt as his
mother progressed through the ritual. For a moment, Kirk thought the
boy was going to cry-or scream with anguishbut T'Prylla continued,
invoking all the ingrained responses subtly built in by Vulcan
upbringing, eliminating--with the tacit consent of the child--the last
vestiges of childish attitudes.

When she was done, she released Radak. The boy took a step backward,
faltering, then sat down in his chair and rubbed his temples. "All that
allowed Corona to move into you with such ease--all that is now gone,"
T'Prylla said. "There is very little time. What is it Corona plans to
do, and how can we stop it?"

Kirk motioned for McCoy to turn on the translator recorder. Radak's
eyes were the eyes of a very young Vulcan now, but with something more
in them--the experience of ten years of Corona's presence. He seemed
confused for a moment, but as T'Prylla sat across from him, he stammered
and began to speak. He used Vulcan, but not a child's Vulcan. Kirk

thought he sounded very much like Spock, though he hesitated now and
then and scowled at the difficulty of expressing some of the concepts.

"Corona's universe was at nearly perfect thermal equilibrium," Radak
began "and in that respect, it was very similar to the interior of a
star. All was light and energy, extremely dense, and time was not as we
know it today. Corona has a way to make this galaxy, at least---and
perhaps the universe itself--as it was in the past, by altering local
geometry. He wishes to shrink all matter down to where it will return
to energy, and to re-create the monobloc--the fireball at the beginning.
Then his kind can arise again, and the universe will become a place of
life and activity, rather than the empty deadhess of cold matter and
stretched radiation."

"What's he talking about?" McCoy asked softly. It took a moment for the
meaning to sink in to Kirk. "He's describing the creation," Kirk said.
"Corona wants to make our universe like it was in the first few minutes
of creation."

"But what's he mean by 'empty deadhess?"" Radak heard and turned to
McCoy and Kirk. "In the first three minutes of creation, there were
more events, more complexity, than in the entire fifteen billion years
since. Corona was a being of those times, and to its kind, the first
three minutes seemed like an eternity. But the eternity came to an end,
and they had to struggle to survive. The fireball cooled as it
expanded, particles began to form into atoms, and all of Corona's kind
perished. Only Corona remained, for it had discovered a way to 'echo'
itself into existence wherever conditions were favorable. For the first
few billion years after creation, Corona was able to appear frequently.
The average temperature of the universe was much hotter than now, and
the galaxies were forming. He was able to perform many experiments,
some taking millions of years, and not succeeding.

"When the galaxies had formed and the universe


had cooled, Corona appeared much less frequently. Where mass anomalies
in subspace disturbed the formations of young stars, it could resume its
experiments. But only when it located our station did it find a way to
work reliably with matter itself. Through us, it built machines to alter
the structure of space-time, to expand the qualities of the very small
into the very large.

"What will happen to us if he succeeds?" McCoy asked.

T'Prylla answered. "We are products of the 'dead' universe. We are
like germs in a corpse. If the corpse comes back to life, the germs
will be destroyed. We cannot survive in the world of Corona. The
experiments which failed in the distant past---and which Corona tracked
down with the Eye-to-Stars---involved the destruction of entire young
galaxies. The results are quite familiar to us, though still mysterious.

"We call them quasars."

Mason wasn't sure what she had done, but she sat on an unresisting
T'Raus. T'Kosa stood to one side like a mannequin. The sounds of
struggle between Spock, Anauk and Grake had stopped. She got to her
feet, uncertain what to do next.

--The ritual is finished. Now T'Raus must choose .. Corona cannot
impose its will on her.

Spock himself came down the corridor toward them. His face was bruised,
and there was a cut over his right eye, but otherwise he was unhurt. As
soon as she saw him, the Spock within her melted away like a flake of
snow landing on a fingertip.

"You have administered ka nifoor?" he asked, bending over T'Raus.

"You have," she said. Spock touched the young female's face and she
turned toward him.

"Is Corona within you?" Spock asked. The girl shook her head. "It was a
bad thing," she said. "It trapped mother

and father." She touched Spock's hand and Spock nodded his
understanding.

"T'Raus isonce again a young Vulcan," he said to Mason. "She does not
have the experience, though she is mature. Corona must have
concentrated on Radak, working first through him, then through his
sister, then through his parents and Anauk and T'Kosa." He helped T'Raus
to her feet. "Captain Kirk will have to make a decision. We must
communicate with him soon, or we may not survive."

Mason felt a calm numbness. "Why?" she asked. "Corona isn't in charge
now--" And suddenly she knew why. The "stolen" part of Corona was still
inside her, and what it wanted to do became clear almost as soon as she
asked. She didn't know whether to be awed or horrified.

"The process has already begun," Spock said. "The machinery in the
research dome will soon begin altering the local structure of our
universe. We must find a way to stop it, and to communicate with the
Enterprise, before Kirk has to destroy the machinery., the station,
perhaps the entire planetoid."


Chapter Twenty

Kirk sat in his chair on the bridge and ordered Sulu to bring the
Enterprise to a new heading. "Ready phasers, full power. Load photon
torpedoes."

Uhura repeatedly tried to contact the station, but received no reply.
Kirk looked at her hopefully, but she had to shake her head. Veblen and
McCoy came onto the bridge and without a word Veblen sat at the computer
station. He checked the monitors and found them vigilant; Kirk had
already fed them Radak's information. McCoy stood near the railing,
knowing better than to say anything; knowing the decision Kirk now had
to make.

Kirk leaned forward in his chair, watching the displays on the forward
screen. The planetoid rotated slowly beneath them, a dead gray stretch
of agglomerated rock. "Full mag on the station," he said. The screen
image shifted several times in rapid succession and the Enterprise
sensors tracked the station on multiple frequencies, displaying visible
light. The two domes---research and storage- showed up dearly. He
could even make out the wreckage of the Galileo H on the landing
platform. "Mr. Veblen, are there bodies in the shuttlecraft?"

Veblen swiveled his chair to the science console and keyed certain
questions to the computers interpreting sensor data. "No, sir," he
said.

"How many people within the station?"

"We can't scan the station interior, sir. Too much interference."

"Any idea what's happening inside the research dome?" Kirk asked,
knowing the question was futile.

"No, sir," Veblen replied.

Kirk tapped his fingers on the chair arm edge. "Lieutenant Uhura,
maintain open channels on all frequencies Spock might use to contact us.
Mr. Veblen, what can we do about Corona itself?"

Veblen pursed his lips and shook his head. "The only manifestation is
the radiation field and its extension around the planetoid, Captain. We
cannot hope to shield anywhere near the area required to cut off its
contact with the station."

"How about photon torpedoes applied along the extension of the field?"

"They would have no effect, sir. Photon torpedoes

are not destructive on the level of fraction spaces." "Then what in hell
can we do?"

Veblen did not answer; the question was obviously rhetorical. The
monitors knew what had to be done, however.

Kirk resumed tapping his fingers. He could not believe Spock was dead;
somehow, he still sensed the reassuring presence of the Vulcan. He was
certain Spock was alive and doing everything he could from within the
station. Corona simply wasn't allowing them to communicate.

Communication--that was what was needed, and not just between the
Enterprise and the station.

They had to find some way to communicate again with Corona. "Release
T'Prylla and Radak and


bring them to the bridge, Devereaux," Kirk said. "Under guard."

"Without the Ybakra shield, sir?"

"Without the shield."

The security guard, standing at his station to the right of the elevator
door, nodded and left the bridge.

Corona felt blind and deaf. After contact with the material
intelligences, and so many years spent in their scale of time, observing
through their sense organs, it took a while for Corona to adjust. There
were still machines whose functioning it could monitor; but it had not
planned for the loss of its Vulcan extensions, and so it could not
immediately change what the machines were already doing.

This did not disturb Corona. The machines were working smoothly,
expanding the foamlike space of the extreme basement of this dead
universe. Corona felt as if it existed among the bones of its old
universe, seeing hints of the distant past, but little more. It would
be glad to have all things collapse through the expanded wormholes and
singularities the machines would soon create; there would be a kind of
joy in witnessing the sudden shrinking of the galaxy, from the viewpoint
of Corona's fraction-space consciousness. And if the machines did
succeed in creating a self-replicating singularity, weaving through all
dimensions and subdimensions, Corona would gladly accept its own
destruction. There would always be the final satisfaction of knowing
that the universe had been rejuvenated.

And yet... there was a touch of regret. Strange as they were, the
material intelligences had been quite interesting. Corona had never
expected to find such complex beings in the bones of the old universe.
If it was impossible to regard them with the same respect and affection
Corona would have felt for its own kind, at least it acknowledged their
usefulness. And they had shown remarkable flexibility in fighting back,
ultimately wresting themselves from its control. That, too, was
interesting.

But they would not survive if Corona succeeded. Nothing remotely like
them would survive.

Tentativd, sir?"

"Without the shield."

The security guard, standing at his station to the right of the elevator
door, nodded and left the bridge.

Corona felt blind and deaf. After contact with the material
intelligences, and so many years spent in their scale of time, observing
through their sense organs, it took a while for Corona to adjust. There
were still machines whose functioning it could monitor; but it had not
planned for the loss of its Vulcan extensions, and so it could not
immediately change what the machines were already doing.

This did not disturb Corona. The machines were working smoothly,
expanding the foamlike space of the extreme basement of this dead
universe. Corona felt as if it existed among the bones of its old
universe, seeing hints of the distant past, but little more. It would
be glad to have all things collapse through the expanded wormholes and
singularities the machines would soon create; there would be a kind of
joy in witnessing the sudden shrinking of the galaxy, from the viewpoint
of Corona's fraction-space consciousness. And if the machines did
succeed in creating a self-replicating singularity, weaving through all
dimensions and subdimensions, Corona would gladly accept its own
destruction. There would always be the final satisfaction of knowing
that the universe had been rejuvenated.

And yet... there was a touch of regret. Strange as they were, the
material intelligences had been quite interesting. Corona had never
expected to find such complex beings in the bones of the old universe.
If it was impossible to regard them with the same respect and affection
Corona would have felt for its own kind, at least it acknowledged their
usefulness. And they had shown remarkable flexibility in fighting back,
ultimately wresting themselves from its control. That, too, was
interesting.

But they would not survive if Corona succeeded. Nothing remotely like
them would survive.

Tentatively, almost nostalgically, Corona extended tendrils of radiation
to see if any of the Vulcans or the human had been made available to its
touch again. And, somewhat to its surprise, it found Radak and T'Raus
waiting.

It sensed a trap, but could not conceive of any way the material
intelligences could harm it. They only had minutes, on their time
scale, to prevent the machinery from completing its work.

"Corona is here," Radak announced. The boy looked to T'Prylla for
guidance.

"Allow it in, give it a voice, but do not let it

control you. You can resist it now." "roWelcome," Radak said.

Corona did not reply, staring through the boy's eyes at the bridge of
the Enterprise, at the human called Kirk and his companions.
Simultaneously, on the planetoid, it touched T'Raus. She could not be
controlled, either. To Corona, then, conversation was merely a matter
of amusement until the final transform began.

"Mother," Radak said. "I can feel T'Raus. Corona links us."

"Who's with them?" Kirk asked.

"Our colleagues, your science officer and the human woman Mason."

"I need to speak with Corona," Kirk said. "And to know what is
happening on the planetoid."

Radak reached out to touch T'Prylla. T'Prylla felt Corona's presence
again, and steeled herself for the flood of undesired emotionsmfear,
resentment, hatred--but they did not come. Corona was undemanding,
relaxed. Then, through Corona, she joined with T'Raus and saw through
her eyes. "I am T'Raus," T'Prylla said.


"Spock!" Kirk demanded. "I need to speak with my science officer.
Corona must stop the interference with our communications."

Radak spoke slowly and precisely--the voice of Corona. "I no longer
interfere with your communications. There is disruption at the smallest
levels of space-time between your ship and the planetoid. This I cannot
stop."

In the background, Veblen checked the ship's most sensitive scientific
equipment and ran diagnostics that could tell him more. He was
particularly interested in certain peculiarities in the spectrum of
excited hydrogen atoms; such a test was part of the warp drive
diagnostics built into the ship's engines.

"Spock wishes to speak," T'Raus/T'Prylla said. "He will also accept
Corona's touch now." T'Prylla's voice altered. "Captain, Spock here.
Corona has succeeded. We cannot communicate because the machinery in
the research dome has already begun altering the local continuum."

"Confirmed, Captain," Veblen said. "Ship's instrumentation is being
affected."

"We must convince Corona of our worth," pock said. "We have only
minutes to spare, and there is nothing I can do here to stop the
process."

A bright red light flashed on Kirk's command console-the monitors'
warning signal. "What's that, Mr. Veblen?"

"The monitors are about to take over, Captain. You haven't acted quickly
enough to destroy the station."

"Hold them off, Mr. Veblen!" He turned to Radak. "Corona! You must
listen to me. We have the means to destroy everything you've tried to
accomplish here. I won't be able to hold back the destruction for long.
We must... come to an understanding. If we don't..." His face was
anguished. "Good people will die. Friends, fellow workers, brilliant
scientists. Do you know the meaning of friends?"

"All of my... friends... are eons dead," Corona/Radak said. "The
universe is dead, and I will bring it back to life."

"No!" Kirk said. "The universe is not dead. We are here... and
millions of other types of beings, occupying planets around the stars of
this galaxy, and presumably all the other galaxies. There are even
beings like yourself, not made of matter--beings like gods in comparison
to Vulcans and humans. We have seen so little of what you call this
dead universe, but we have seen enough to know .. it is filled with
life! With thought, and action, and hope... with the potential to
grow, and develop. Your time is past... but ours has just barely begun
To try and bring back the past--"

"Captain!" Veblen cried out. The red light on Kirk's command console
glowed steadily. "The monitors---"

Had taken over. "Mr. Sulu, bring the ship into firing position," their
distinctive voice ordered. Sulu glanced at his captain, and in that
moment of hesitation, the monitors assumed control of his post and the
weapons console.

"No!" Kirk shouted, standing before his chair, holding out his arms.

The weapons console beeped, and below the bridge, the distant,
shuddering bellow of emptying photon torpedo bays announced the
Enterprise's final course of action.

The torpedoes rushed toward the planetoid, their casings already
dissolving in a fiery plasma of heavy bosons. Corona regarded them with
interest; they tended to mimic the plasmas of the monobloc, though in a
very crude way. A few seconds later, and Corona wouldn't have bothered
with them, but they would impact before the machinery in the station was
finished. Corona reached out and touched the torpedoes; they were not
unlike the toys of its infancy, and there was a simple trick that could
be

worked on them. Corona disrupted their local parity. The torpedoes
struck the planetoid and began

their work of tearing it apart from a subatomic level.

Then, abruptly, all the residual energy in the torpedoes was poured
into a time-reversal. What little

destruction they had accomplished was meticulously

stitched back together in millionths of a second. The

casings reformed and flew back toward the Enter prise, empty and
harmless The Enter rise's shields . rejected them and sent them gliding
off into space.

For Corona, that had been amusing. But the

infantile magic had disrupted .the delicate machinery

within the research d ome, which was now automatically resetting itself
before picking up where it had

left off..

On board the Enterprise, the monitors ordered

the ship to fire its phasers at the station, and

maneuver for more photon torpedoes. Kirk sat

helpless in his chair, and Veblen looked on with a

fascinated kind of horror as the sensors once again

showed a rapid decay in local reality.


Chapter Twenty-one

For Mason the sense of urgency was reduced by a kind of calm. She had
little idea of what was actually happening. The Vulcans around her
seemed to be steeling themselves for some cataclysm. Even Spock stood
tall, hands folded behind his back, lips set grimly. There was nothing
anybody could do; Corona was going to destroy them all. And why? As
near as Mason could figure out, searching through the fragments of its
memory within her, because Corona felt they were all bits of flotsam in
a dead universe. Corona did not grasp what the new universe was really
like. Mason stared from face to face for seconds, then walked across to
the control platform where T'Raus and T'Kosa stood. She kept her eyes
away from the demonstration sphere, which was filled with nonsense even
more disturbing than what they had been subjected to before.

I am a writer, she thought. It's my job to communicate. As often as
not, I simply act as a chaperone for the recorders, jockeying them here
and there so they can record everything. Then I sit down and edit and

maybe try to make some sense out of it; not always, the machines are
pretty good at that, too. But now and then, even on Yalbo, I get a
chance to write--to communicate. God knows I'm not much of a talent,
and I have all sorts of parochial views--hell, I'm bigoted--but...

-Sometimes, I know it, I can feel itml can communicate. I can put my
views across, perhaps better than anybody else. I can explain things.
And I think I'd better start explaining, right now--nobody else seems to
be getting the job done.

She reached inward, probing deeper into Corona's memories, and recoiled
at their alienness. With an effort, she put away her revulsion and
removed the last barriers separating Corona's memories and her own.

She looked up into T'Raus's eyes, now turned toward her, conveying her
image to Corona.

"It's obvious you don't understand," Mason said. "If all these brilliant
people can't explain it to you, I don't know how I will. But I hope you
listen, anyway. I hope there's time.

"You see, we're all very young. Not nearly as old as you. And our
world is very different." She mounted the platform and reached out for
T'Raus's face, clenching her jaw hard and laying the tips of her fingers
under T'Raus's temple. T'Raus reciprocated, and Mason was able to pass
what she was thinking directly to Corona.

When Corona's memories mixed with her own, a specific image was cast up
from her childhood--Yalbo's great billowing orange clouds, filled with
nitric acid, deadly to breathe, absolutely marvelous to watch at sunset.
From the broad viewports of the school, or the smaller windows of her
home module, she had thought Yalbo's sky the most beautiful in the
entire universe, with its oranges and greens and reds and yellows and
warm mud colors. In the clouds she had built great floating palaces,
magnificent curving highways; she had imagined creatures of all shapes

and sizes. When the wind blew the clouds along so briskly they crossed
the sky from horizon to horizon in seconds, she could not imagine
anything more lovely and free.

And then she had found tapes of Earth in the school library, and played
them back.

"It was a shock," she said. "The skies of Earth seemed even more
beautiful. You didn't need a suit to stand out under them. You could
walk up mountains and touch clouds--or let them touch you. Right on
your skin."

She felt Corona shudder at the thought of a constraining skin. She
reached for an analogy, and found one. "Skin is like an event horizon
in your world," she said. "In the earliest times, your people had to
wait for the universe to grow broad enough that you could communicate
with each other directly. You were all in little bubbles of space-time,
unable to reach out. There was always Ybakra--you could talk, but you
couldn't be with each other. Our skin sort of does that. We have to
touch, talk, communicate so many ways because we cannot cross the
barrier of our skins."

"Tell me more about clouds," T'Raus/Corona instructed.

Mason expanded on the topic. The clouds of matter in the early
universe--created thousands of years after Corona's kind had diedmhad
drifted in expanding space-time, slowly starting to clump and separate.
"Then they lost their character, gave it up," she said, "to let other
kinds of existence begin." That seemed confused, but she let it stand.
"What would become clusters of galaxies formed out of the clouds, and
then galaxies themselves. At first the galaxies were huge fuzzy
spheres, but as they grew older, they flattened out. Then stars
condensed from the clouds of gas in the young galaxies--"

I destroyed many of those young galaxies, Corona confided. My failed
experiments.


Mason tried not to appear nonplussed. "Don't you see? They all had to
share. Now, I can't be sure, but don't you suppose it's possible that
the first clouds of matter were once capable of thought--and the
clusters of galaxies, and the galaxies themselves? But as things
changed, they died--they had to make way for new forms--"

Corona reacted in a way she could only describe as skeptical.

"Suppose they did," Mason continued. She was getting in way over her
head. "And suppose that at some point, a galaxy rebelled---refused to
change. And discovered that by doing so, it was dooming millions of new,
smaller forms of intelligence to extinction. Wouldn't it be a..."

She had difficulty finding another analogy; she kept wondering how many
seconds until they were all dead. She frowned in concentration. What
was there in Corona's experience that could compare with what Corona was
about to do now... "In your time, certain of your fellows refused to
expand beyond their youthful event horizons. They wrapped themselves in
very tight bubbles of space-time, because they were afraid of change. At
first, they were tolerated, but as more and more individual realms
joined, and as the universe grew larger, these hold-outs became
dangerous. They could actually destroy others. They were murderers,
not out of viciousness, but because they refused to change. Eventually
they had to be hunted down and destroyed, in order to allow others to
live. That's what the Enterprise is doing now--protecting itself
against you."

She had kept her eyes closed as she spoke and thought all these things,
but now she opened them. T'Raus was still regarding her steadily. "We
all have to change," Mason said. "We all have to die, to make way for
the new. If we try to live forever, we get in somebody's way, we stop
something from

happening... someone from being born... and who knows, maybe the new
will be an improvement on the old. Does that make sense?" T'Raus did
not convey an answer. She lifted her hand away from Mason's face, and
Mason backed off a step, biting her lower lip. She felt very strange,
all her thoughts caught somewhere between Corona's "memories" in her
brain and her own childhood ruminations about clouds. "I'm sorry," she
said, holding back a sensation of horror and sudden panic, believing she
had wasted their last chance, when somebody else--perhaps Spock--could
have been more effective. "I'm sorry!"

Despite the usefulness of the material intelligences, Corona had been
convinced they were little more than peculiarities of the universe's
decline. After all, they contributed nothing overall to the local
universe but entropy; that is, they used energy but did not reduce the
tendency to disorder which so characterized a dead continuum. In
Corona's time, entropy had been the rule also, but the decline had
barely been noticeable; the second law of thermodynamics had seemed a
distant and unimportant possibility. To Corona's way of thinking, the
only significant intelligence would be one which at least hoped to
rejuvenate its world... Through T'Raus, Corona had listened to the human
woman. Her words and thoughts served to occupy the long minutes before
the continuum altered. But they did more than that. Particularly
effective was her concern with "clouds," which suggested (again,
crudely) the beauties of Corona's time, when solid things had been
impossible, and all was beautiful flux. Among the Vulcans, Corona had
never encountered the concept of "freedom"; the Vulcans were more
concerned with adhering to a rigid code and following strict principles
of logic, which rather puzzled Corona. So now it contemplated "freedom"
as applied to the random motions of "clouds" and the behavior of
material intelligences. Freedom to move, to think, to accomplish;
freedom to follow the dictates of one's needs. To exist. Freedom was a
very tricky concept Too much could result in imposition on the freedom
of another being; freedom could be contradictory. When the human woman
pointed out that Corona was imposing on her own kind---and on many other
material life-formsby trying to end local reality, the image in her mind
had been of clouds blown apart by a harsh, hot wind... And that was
something with which Corona could empathize. Thousands of years after
the last generations of his kind, during his first reappearance, the
universe had suddenly become transparent to the irritating little
wavicles known as photons, light; instead of being bounced from particle
to particle, the photons had streamed through the universe, conveying
energy from place to place, blowing like a hot wind through the space s
that had once contained free and intelligent beings. The photon wind
had dispersed the final remnants of Corona's kind. By today's measure of
time, the existence of Corona's people their "eternity"mhad spanned only
a few minutes. They had survived many changes, but their end had
finally come. Only Corona had found the means to travel the seemingly
endless reaches of time, reappearing under certain conditions to
reconstruct its Ybakra field. These material beings knew what freedom
was, then. And responsible freedom--as Corona construed it--meant a
fight against entropy.

The phaser blasts had no effect, and all further torpedoes simply ceased
to function, dissipating harmlessly against the planetoid. On the
bridge of the Enterprise, the air seemed misty and electronic controls
no longer functioned reliably. The ship's

computers, to Veblen's fascinated dismay, became little more than random
number generators. The monitors struggled valiantly to maintain their
control, but could not. They relied more on quantum subtleties than
organic minds did; consequently, while the crew continued to function
with only minor effects (so far), the monitors had no choice but to shut
themselves down. It made little difference.

Kirk felt giddy. The sensation was not unlike the rush of exhilaration
he felt when first entering warp drive--but tinged with a numbing sense
of failure. The bridge seemed to be underwater; everything rippled in a
way that was both nauseating and entrancing.

Veblen passed on his interpretations of data from the few instruments
still functioning, those diagnostics built to survive warp engine
stresses. Kirk listened as closely as he could; he was thinking of what
he had seen in the demonstration sphere, when Corona had first tipped
its "hand" about what it was up to. Would everything dissolve into the
hypnotic chaos of the very small? Where would the Enterprise be in such
a maelstrom? Where would Kirk be?

McCoy had never been more terrified. If everything came unwound, he was
convinced he knew what lay on the other side--and that was nothing less
than Hell. No ministrations possible, no healing, only endless lack of
control, giving in to the tortures imposed by those inner forces which
he could not face. "I pity poor Spock," he thought, feeling a rush of
cameraderie for the Vulcan he had pestered so mercilessly over the
years... and had felt so much respect for.

Spock, however, still stood in a sea of comparative calm. The machines
in the research dome had created a tiny, unaffected bubble about
themselves to keep working properly until they had finished their task.
Spock had listened to Mason's words, had Croked up on some of the
thoughts passed through na, and had been puzzled and intrigued by this


extraordinary and irrational approach. Pleading a case was alien to all
of Vulcan culture; either a thing was, or it was not. Persuasion and
opinion had little role in Vulcan life.

Grake, T'Kosa, Anauk, Spock--and on the Enterprise T'Pryllaall had made
their final peace with existence.


Chapter Twenty-two

From horizon to horizon, the sky was filled with a dark purple glow,
broken by wisps of milky white and luminous green. Mason felt the
crunch of ages-old pebbles beneath her shoes, the only sound besides her
breathing. The new suns were coming into view beyond the irregular edge
of the planetoid, swathed in the dusty, gassy yoke of their recent
birth. She reached out her hand, uncertain why she was here, or how she
was surviving. The faint greenish iridescence of the envelope
surrounding her, flashed briefly as if in answer to one question, and
then, overhead, the Eye-to-Stars unfolded and threw a brilliant
spotlight beam on her. She looked up and shielded her eyes with her
hand. "Behind you, please," a voice said. She turned and jumped back in
surprise. An indistinct orange cloud was in the envelope with her,
roiling and .spading under the influence of unfelt winds. "This Is a
shape you have taught me, which I find very pleasing. I am what
T'Prylla calls Corations possible, no healing, only endless lack of
control, giving in to the tortures imposed by those inner forces which
he could not face. "I pity poor Spock," he thought, feeling a rush of
cameraderie for the Vulcan he had pestered so mercilessly over the
years... and had felt so much respect for.

Spock, however, still stood in a sea of comparative calm. The machines
in the research dome had created a tiny, unaffected bubble about
themselves to keep working properly until they had finished their task.
Spock had listened to Mason's words, had Croked up on some of the
thoughts passed through na, and had been puzzled and intrigued by this


extraordinary and irrational approach. Pleading a case was alien to all
of Vulcan culture; either a thing was, or it was not. Persuasion and
opinion had little role in Vulcan life.

Grake, T'Kosa, Anauk, Spock--and on the Enterprise T'Pryllaall had made
their final peace with existence.


Chapter Twenty-two

From horizon to horizon, the sky was filled with a dark purple glow,
broken by wisps of milky white and luminous green. Mason felt the
crunch of ages-old pebbles beneath her shoes, the only sound besides her
breathing. The new suns were coming into view beyond the irregular edge
of the planetoid, swathed in the dusty, gassy yoke of their recent
birth. She reached out her hand, uncertain why she was here, or how she
was surviving. The faint greenish iridescence of the envelope
surrounding her, flashed briefly as if in answer to one question, and
then, overhead, the Eye-to-Stars unfolded and threw a brilliant
spotlight beam on her. She looked up and shielded her eyes with her
hand. "Behind you, please," a voice said. She turned and jumped back in
surprise. An indistinct orange cloud was in the envelope with her,
roiling and .spading under the influence of unfelt winds. "This Is a
shape you have taught me, which I find very pleasing. I am what
T'Prylla calls Corona."

Mason didn't know what to say, so she said nothing. "Where are you
from?" She stammered, caught herself, and tried to answer smoothly
"From a planet called Yalbo." This is a dream, she thought. I'm almost
dead and I'm dreaming. "It must be a very beautiful place," Corona said.
"Is it?" "That you see so much beauty in it. That formations in its...
atmosphere can convey the notion of freedom to you, and through you, to
me." The cloud darkened as if passing beyond sunset. "Or perhaps it is
that you are beautiful, to find Such beauty wherever you may be."
"I'm... I'm very frightened," Mason said. "You are the strangest
thing--being--I've ever known." "And yet, you have some of my memories
within you, conveyed by the Vulcan-human Spock. Your kind is strange to
me, as well. Perhaps we can overcome our unfamiliarity if we exchange."
"Exchange?" "There has been much teaching in the past few ... hours...
but not nearly enough. I have an imperfect understanding of your mode
of being, your human kind. Even after ten years, it is now apparent I
understand little about your fellows, the Vulcans. I request an
exchange of experiences. I will complete the memories within you, as
much as you wish to have, and you will share your experiences with me. I
will take them with me... to the region you see now, in the
Eye-to-Stars." "Where is that? A new stellar system?" There was silence
for a moment. "It does not exist in your here-now. It is a distant
possibility. Much time must pass. All the stars and galaxies will grow
old and fade, the universe will be filled with black holes, the black
holes will return their mass to the emptiness and become naked
singularities. Time itself will grow old, come to a stop. What happens

after is difficult to understand-emptiness, even more desolation than
now."

"That doesn't look very empty," Mason said, shielding her eyes.

"You have given me a notion of alternatives... other means of achieving
my goal than destroying this universe. What the Eye-to-Stars shows is
an alternative, if I survive beyond the emptiness and darkness. When
all else has come to a stop, and the universe seems completely dead, I
will be a focus. There will be nothing but the radiation of fraction
spaces---what you call Ybakra. I will channel that radiation and fill
the void once again. There will be no need for machinery, matter,
anything extra... only myselt"

She had a wild hope that perhaps she wasn't dreaming.

"Is this what you wished?" Corona asked. "That your reality be spared,
so that you might all pursue a course to freedom?"

"Are we being spared?" she asked.

"Yes. The machines are reversing themselves now. I have returned the
others in the station to the Enterprise, all but the frozen ones. I
await instructions on their disposition."

Of all the things to occur to her next, Mason had to resort to her
reporter's suspicious nature and ask, "But I thought you couldn't
transform anything much larger than a child."

"While the machinery was absorbing so much energy, no," Corona said.

"Why did you stop your machines?"

"Because you made me aware that in ages to come, we may share the same
goal. Perhaps your kind will succeed in controlling entropy," Corona
said. "In which case, the universe will not die... at least not in the
way that seems most likely. And I will not be needed. Still, you could
fail. You are youngeven those mentioned by the human Kirk, those who
seem god-like to you. You have a long


time in which to grow, and prepare yourselves, and you could make
mistakes. You could fail. If you do not succeed, then perhaps I will."

"You mean, my descendants could save the universe?"

"Your kind. You are kin to all beings made of matter, or which arose
from matter. In my eyes, yo u are all very much the same. Any
differences are minor."

Mason stared straight into the middle of the cloud, so very like the
clouds she had seen and wondered about as a child. So very like the
clouds that had haunted her dreams. "Yes," she said, swallowing hard.

"You will trade full memories with me?"

She nodded. "As many as I can."

Chapter Twenty-three

"Dr. McCoy."

The voice interrupted his reverie. He had been contemplating
death--more death than he had ever before conceived of, the death
perhaps of everything ---on the bridge of the Enterprise. There had
been a moment of disorientation, an unpleasant sensation of travel, and
now- He saw T'Kosa standing before him. "What in the name of--"

"Mason tells us you are the one to speak to." McCoy glanced around. They
stood outside the cold storage cylinder on the station. His amazement
would have been comical to a human, but not to the Vulcan female. "About
what?"

"Where the sleepers should be transformed." "I... I don't understand."

"There is not much time. Corona's remaining time here is less than
three minutes. The shuttle is destroyed, arid the personnel cannot be
quickly brought up to the ship by transporter. Only Corona


can move them now." T'Kosa watched him closely, obviously interested in
his reaction-time and flexibility. And McCoy--whatever the
situation--was not about to let her find him inadequate.

"Of course," he said, pulling himself together. "Space has been cleared
in the sickbay, battle casualties section. Each hibernaculum has a
power hookup, and the... transform will have to be smooth enough so
that there's no fluctuation in their temperature."

"Very well," T'Kosa said. "We will accompany them."

"Nowait!"

But it was too late. As far as McCoy was concerned, transforming was
far worse than transporting. This time, he was fully aware every step of
the way.

Chapel stood at one end of the battle casualty ward, mouth open. The
medical slate dropped from her hand as, one by one, thirty hibernacula
appeared in their assigned positions. Energy conduits whined at the
increased power load. The sickbay lights dimmed briefly, then returned
to normal.

In security, Olaus registered an invasion of the Enterprise's hull by an
extraordinary amount of mas--at least thirty metric tons.

In engineering, the assistant watch officer made note of an extra power
load.

On the bridge, McCoy reappeared in his accustomed position behind the
railing. Uhura witnessed his materialization, but was too stunned by
the chain of events in the past few minutes to react. Then, beside him,
Spock and four other Vulcans materialized, just as Kirk swiveled in the
captain's chair. "Bones--"

"Don't ask," McCoy said. "There isn't time. I have to get down to
sickbay." He entered the elevator.


',',ISp of what has happened,

am completely unaware Captain. Where is MasOn?" Kirk gaped. "How the
hell should I know? And what in God's name is going on?" Veblen
finished his sensor sweep and turned to Kirk. "Captain, the local
continuum has returned to normal. Ship's instruments are functioning
properly." "We're not dead," Sulu said, and that seemed to sum it all up
very well. All eyes were on Kirk when Mason materialized next to his
chair. They stared at each other and Mason smiled--almost smugly.
"Corona suggests the Enterprise retreat to a distance of at least a
billion kilometers," she said crisply. "Corona's presence in this
nebula is waning, and it can no longer vouch for the stability of the
machines in the research station." "Helmsman--" Kirk began. "Course laid
in," Sulu said. "Executing." The Enterprise's impulse engines cut in
and vibrated every deck in the saucer with their sudden burst of power.
The ship spiraled away from the planetoid, flattening the orbital curve
to very nearly a straight line as Kirk ordered maximum acceleration.
Mason continued to stand near the captain's chair, but she was hardly
aware of the activity. She was receiving the last of Corona's Ybakra
signals. Deep below the measures of status geometry, the subspace mass
anomalies were separating and breaking up on several geodesics
impossible for the human mind to visualize. The conditions which had
allowed Corona to manifest in the nebula were now ending--perhaps not to
be duplicated for billions of years. And Mason knew that even if the
conditions did arise again, Corona would not return. Only at the very
last--if all else failed, if all their descendants in the new universe
of emptiness and free-traveling photons and matter could not halt
entropy's triumph

--only when there was nothingness and death and no freedom-- Only then
would Corona return, to fulfill a promise made at the beginning of
time. One more favor, she asked. What might that be? came the weakening
response. There is still a minor problem... And she specified the
problem. Can you solve it? The reply was almost too weak to make out,
but she thought it was an affirmative. Then she said, "Good-bye," but
no reply came. The contact had already been severed. Spock stood next
to Veblen, watching the sensors as the Enterprise sped away. "Captain,
the planetoid is breaking up," he said. He switched on computer
graphics to interpret what then occurred. Mason watched the forward
screen, feeling Corona's past within her, almost as real as her own. On
a small scale, the screen showed what Corona had planned for an
incomprehensibly larger region of space-time. The planetoid slowly and
smoothly turned inside out, revealing all of its amorphous interior as
if through a distorting lens. Behind it, two elongated darknesses
yawned, drawing the planetoid out into an ellipse, then a cylinder,
flaring the ends, swallowing them... and stretching what remained into
a fine thread, which vanished below the limits of resolution. For a
half million kilometers around, the nebula's gases were sucked into the
space-time chasm. At the center of the invisible thread, a tiny and
incomplete new universe blossomed. At first it was only a few
centimeters in diameter, releasing very little light and appearing dull
brown in color. Then, as all the matter within the half-million
kilometer slice of the nebula rushed back into normal space, transformed
into pure energy, the orb expanded and turned a mottled, brilliant
orange. The orange be-

came green, and the green became a blue so intense the sensors shut
themselves down. The forward screen went black. The brilliance faded
quickly. The new universe was not stable, and all the potential within
it could not compete with the established stresses of status geometry.
Its energy was squandered. All that remained was a tiny sun, joining
its slightly older companions, a weak and inconstant sibling. It did not
last long. By the time the Enterprise had reached its position of
safety, the glow had vanished completely, and there was nothing to
distinguish the Black Box Nebula from any of the other emission nebulas
dotting the spiral arms of the Galaxy.

Chapter Twenty-four

McCoy wasted no time thinking about what had just happened to him. He
walked through the battle casualties section of the sickbay, medical
tricotder in hand. The hibernacula were in place and the sleepers had
not been damaged any further. Theoretically, their reconstruction could
begin at any time. And yet after all that had happened, the medical
monitors still blocked the way. Chapel stood beside him when he was
finished. "Mr. Spock is waiting in the computer control center," she
said. "I'm tired," he said abruptly, closing his eyes. "Is this any
time to ask me to argue with a bunch of computerized ghosts?" Chapel
tried to appear sympathetic. "Mr. Spock--" "Yes, yes, I know," McCoy
grumbled. "Time's awastin'." He stood for a moment longer, his muscles
aching with tension, peering down the two rows of hibernacula. "God
knows why any of us is still alive."

In the computer control center, Spock waited' by the monitors'console.
Veblen sat nearby, hands folded tightly in his lap. Only because of
Spock's assurances that they were not about to do anything illegal had
Veblen given them access. Even so, the unorthodox approach bothered
him. Like McCoy, the stress of the past few hours pierced his stomach
and muscles like dull leaden needles. The last thing he wanted was a
fight over the monitors. He had come to hate them, both for their
inadequacies and for the duties they forced upon him. Still, he would
not relent. McCoy sat down at the console. Spock called up the first of
the experience memories within the medical monitors, and arranged for
vocal communication. "Whom am I talking to?" McCoy asked him. "And is he
or she alive or dead?" "Dead now, I believe," Spock said. "You will
speak to the memories of Commodore of the Medical Corps Elias R.
Rostovtzev." "Hell, Spock, he was my professor at Starfleet Medical
Academy!" "I realize that, Doctor. He is the only one you have had
prior acquaintance with." "He damned near flunked me." Spock raised 'an
eyebrow. "I can call up another experience memory if you wish." "No,
no... he'll do. How much of a personality is left in there, Spock?"
"Only patterns, Doctor. For this function, the monitors provide basic
reasoning and question-and-answer abiYties. The Commodore is not alive
in the system, if that is what you are asking." Still, Spock had his
doubts that was a completely accurate assessment. Admiral Hatauk had
been rather more active in the system than he had expected---active, and
independent. "Okay. I'm ready." There was nothing for McCoy to look
at--only the console display, blanked for vocal communication.

Carrier frequency hiss filled the speakers, and a

sensation of someone waiting... a definite and

very spooky presence.

"Commodore Rostovtzev?"'

s. the vince was tinny but r gn' "Who's speaking?"

-eeo zable. McCoy, Do(tor Rostovtzev. Leonard McCoy" Lieutenant JG
Leonard McCoy?"

' "Lieutenant Commander now, Doctor. Medical

officer of the U.S.S. Enterprise."

"Why haven't you made commander, Leonard?

Been s-lacking again?"

McCoy flushed. "No, sir. I'm not quite sure where

to begin . . ."

"At the beginning, Leonard," the voice said patiently.

"There's a decision you'll be called upon to

make--" McCoy began. Veblen rose from his seat to

protest---this was coming much too close to tampering with the
monitors--but Spock stopped

him. Veblen sat down reluctantly, poised to interrupt.

"Yes. There are six of us here, Leonard, if I

remember correctly. Not that any of us are actually

here, you understand."

"It's rather a fine distinction, sir."

"Be that as it may. Continue."

"You're to administer laws regarding the TEREC

system aboard the Enterprise--"

'.Ah, yes," Rostovtze said. "The thirty

subjected to Ybakra. I believe this probleg has

presented to us already."

"Yes, sir. I was hoping to discuss the case with you

in more detail."

"Why? The monitors have given their go-ahead.

We won't stand in the way of reconstruction."

McCoy's and Veblen's jaws dropped simultaneously. "But sir--"

"Get busy, man! I'm---we're--very interested in

the procedures. Surely you're anxious to proceed."

"Yes, sir!" He stood, glanced at Veblen and Spock, and shrugged. "I'll
get right on it." Veblen sat at the console as soon as McCoy was out of
the room. He checked all program codes and safeguards. None had been
tampered with. The monitors were intact. "Mr. Spock, this is
impossible..." "Clearly not, Mr. Veblen. It has happened." Spock left
the control center. Veblen ran his checks several more times, without
finding any hint of why the ruling had changed. On his last sweep,
however, he played back the laws governing the use of the TEREC. He
specifically called up the law regarding resuscitation of inanimate
beings, and set his search for embedded definitions of "inanimate." The
definition ran on for several paragraphs of text. As he read through
the paragraphs, he sensed a subtle shift in tone, nothing he could quite
pin down... until he scanned the last line. His eyes widened. It
read "There shall not be any attempt to stand in the way of that which
could further the cause of life, freedom or the war against entropy, no
matter what laws may read, or duty may require." This was followed by an
equation which had no place in medical definitions. He puzzled out the
equation for several minutes, and then realized what it was. The
equation precisely described certain active states of fraction space
radiation--Ybakra, to be precise. It was a signature. Veblen began to
laugh, and then to cry, and laugh again, burying his head in his arms on
the console keyboard.


Chapler Twenty-five

The Enterprise began its return voyage, with two stops scheduled between
the Black Box Nebula and Starbase 19. First, they would return Mason to
Yalbo. She was not particularly upset by the thought of becoming a
small-planet girl once again. Because of what she now was---what she
held within--wherever she spent her time would be an exotic place.
Corona had provided her with an unfailing sense of the new and
unexpected. The Enterprise would then make a long loop to the stellar
system of Epsilon Eridani, where they would drop off the Vulcans of
Station One on their home world. Grake and T'Prylla received Spock in
their quarters with old-family Vulcan ritual, offering him first a
favorite aphorism engraved on an expended dilithium crystal, then a
brief session of meditation, followed by a formal Vulcan supper. No
apologies were offered for what had happened; obviously, none were
necessary. They behaved as if the Black Box incident had been some
far-off dramatic performance, fascinating and puzzling, but hardly
worthy of recriminations. After the supper utensils had been cleansed by
the entire group, Radak and T'Raus performed the honor of wiping their
visitor's hands. T'Prylla then spoke. "Spock, there was mention of a
change in the Science Academy. What sort of change?"

Spock returned his cleansed hands to the sleeves of his robe. "I
believe there is interest in accepting your logical methods as
alternative paths to the Way. Perhaps, in the past few days, we have
seen the inadequacies of a too-rigid approach to the teachings of Surak.
Only through the mind of a human did Corona begin to understand the
inadvisability of its actions. How are we to understand this failure on
our part?"

"If my alternatives had been of value, surely Corona would have realized
error while occupying our minds. My family and colleagues are all
well-versed in my methods."

"Then there is room for debate and progress all around." Spock bowed
from his seated position as Anauk and T'Kosa entered.

"We have been aiding McCoy with the TEREC," T'Kosa said. "I must revise
my estimates of human behavior. He seems to harbor no ill-will toward
us."

"Humans, unlike Vulcans, are hardly predictable," Spock said. Among the
Vulcans, this truism aroused the equivalent of a humored response; they
lifted the last three fingers of their left hands in appreciation.

Mason revealed what she could about her role in the affair before Spock,
Kirk and McCoy in a senior officer's closed-door meeting in Kirk's
quarters. When Spock questioned her about Corona, she replied, quite
truthfully, "I know very little about it... not much more than you left
in my mind, Mr. Spock." But she was learning every day. "I do know that
the medical monitors have been tampered with.

I requested it, and I will take responsibility." "You... requested it?"
Kirk asked.

"Yes. If you military types can't get your act together, then it's up
to us civilians to help you out." Kirk was about to protest when he saw
the twinkle in her eye--and that now-common touch-of-smugnk and T'Raus
performed the honor of wiping their visitor's hands. T'Prylla then
spoke. "Spock, there was mention of a change in the Science Academy.
What sort of change?"

Spock returned his cleansed hands to the sleeves of his robe. "I
believe there is interest in accepting your logical methods as
alternative paths to the Way. Perhaps, in the past few days, we have
seen the inadequacies of a too-rigid approach to the teachings of Surak.
Only through the mind of a human did Corona begin to understand the
inadvisability of its actions. How are we to understand this failure on
our part?"

"If my alternatives had been of value, surely Corona would have realized
error while occupying our minds. My family and colleagues are all
well-versed in my methods."

"Then there is room for debate and progress all around." Spock bowed
from his seated position as Anauk and T'Kosa entered.

"We have been aiding McCoy with the TEREC," T'Kosa said. "I must revise
my estimates of human behavior. He seems to harbor no ill-will toward
us."

"Humans, unlike Vulcans, are hardly predictable," Spock said. Among the
Vulcans, this truism aroused the equivalent of a humored response; they
lifted the last three fingers of their left hands in appreciation.

Mason revealed what she could about her role in the affair before Spock,
Kirk and McCoy in a senior officer's closed-door meeting in Kirk's
quarters. When Spock questioned her about Corona, she replied, quite
truthfully, "I know very little about it... not much more than you left
in my mind, Mr. Spock." But she was learning every day. "I do know that
the medical monitors have been tampered with.

I requested it, and I will take responsibility." "You... requested it?"
Kirk asked.

"Yes. If you military types can't get your act together, then it's up
to us civilians to help you out." Kirk was about to protest when he saw
the twinkle in her eye--and that now-common touch-of-smugness grin.

She did not reveal any more than she had to about Corona. That was a
private thing, and if someday it had to be made public--as she
acknowledged it almost certainly would--well, she would be better
prepared, more mature. Less bigoted. Corona was her ticket to inner
peace.

Spock--who probably knew there was much she wasn't saying--did not press
her, and she was grateful.

The next morning, another meeting was held--more formal and more
somber--in the main conference room.

"Gentlemen, this inquiry is hereby called to order. Captain James T.
Kirk presiding." Kirk banged the ceremonial gavel, feeling slightly
grand and very foolish as he always did in such circumstances. "Our duty
is to judge the efficacy of the monitors aboard the Enterprise,
especially in relation to our recent mission. Dr. McCoy, I believe you
have an opening comment to make."

McCoy stood and glanced around the table at Kirk, Spock, Scott, Veblen,
Olaus and Mason. Mason's replacement recorder floated near her
shoulder. "I'm not much of a legal wizard," he admitted. "I don't know
how we will overcome further difficulties with the medical monitors." He
glanced at

Mason, then at Veblen.

Veblen said nothing.

"I'm just grateful we've solved our present problems. The reconstruction
is well under way, and in


four days we'll have the first two healthy and in need of temporary
living quarters. Mr. Veblen, however good an idea the medical monitors
were in Federation chambers, out here, they don't work. The Enterprise
was sent on this mission specifically because we had the new equipment,
but our mission came very close to being hamstrung from the beginning.
Too close. I dislike relying on miracles." "Thank you, Dr. McCoy. Mr.
Spock, your analysis of the monitors' role in the Corona incident?"
"Captain." Spock stood, looking at nob ody in particular. "The command
monitors backed up your decisions until the very last moment, when they
decided you were not acting quickly enough to stop the threat. On
examining the monitors' internal records, Mr. Veblen and I have found
that all six of the experience-memories of Starfleet command-rank
officers agreed unanimously that you did not act soon enough. Yet the
outcome may not have been affected by the monitors' takeovermindicating
your judgment may not have been faulty. Further analysis is necessary."
Spock sat down and Kirk nodded at Veblen. The computer officer stood,
his eyes meeting Mason's on the other side of the table. "The monitors
functioned exactly as intended. In that sense, they are successes.
However..." He pulled a datapack from his belt. "I believe the monitors
have some severe drawbacks, not the least of them being... they can be
tampered with. That is, they can be affected by... quantum
instabilities. The medical monitors have clearly been shown to be
inadequate. I sympathize with Dr. McCoy's frustration. I believe we
will have no difficulty convincing the Federation that certain
strictures should be lifted, and certain advancements in medical science
be taken into account." He glanced at Mason as if looking for an
explanation. She returned his look with a pleasant smile.

"With regard to the 'command monitors... Personally, I believe Captain
Kirk should not have been overridden, that he was conducting himself in
the best manner possible, and that his action, or inaction, did not
jeapordize the Enterprise, the mission or..." He had almost said "the
universe," but that sounded comically grandiose. "Or anything else. I
will recommend adjustments in the command monitors as well." There was
no further testimony. Kirk adjourned the meeting, and after the room
was cleared, walked alone to his quarters. Halfway there, he was hailed
by Mason. "May I speak with you, Captain?" "Certainly." She walked
abreast of him, looking down at the deck. "What do you think of the
monitors, Captain? Personally, I mean." "Finishing your story?" "I don't
know," Mason said. "Perhaps. I don't feel much like a reporter now. I
don't know what I am, exactly. I've... become very involved in the
story. I'm no longer objective." They arrived at the door to his
quarters. "Personally, I'll tell you. But only off the record." "All
right." "Off the record," he reiterated, "I think the monitors were
correct. I have a hunch that firing at the station gave us a few extra
seconds, maybe minutes. I don't know how, but that's what I feel. I
hesitated, because I was concerned about Spock, the Vulcans, you... I
was too concerned." He opened the door and stepped inside. "Will you
request that the monitors be removed?" Mason asked. He shrugged. "You
know, there's another aspect..." "Still off the record?" "Yes. If the
monitors hadn't been there--if I hadn't sensed they would take over, and
remove the

responsibility from my shoulderswould I have fired on the station?"
"Would you have?" "I don't know. It's a question I'll have to live
with." He shut the door and went to his desk to make an entry in his
personal log, but it was several hours before he could bring himself to
begin.

Mason joined Veblen in the officer's lounge. "Share a table with me?"
Veblen asked. She agreed and they picked up their trays of food from
the autochef. "I suppose you know what the ship's scuttlebutt is,"
Veblen said. "Word's gotten around about your debriefing." "I wasn't
the only one. I wasn't even the only human. There was Chekov, Spock
and the six Vulcans from the station." "But you were the only one who
could testify about Corona's motivation. That's the scuttlebutt,
anyway. Is it true?" She shook her head in dismay. "I'm supposed to be
a reporter. I'm not supposed to be the center of a story." Veblen urged
her to continue. When she refused, he reminded her of an earlier
conversation. "As one outcast to another," he said. "How do you know
about Corona's motivations?" "You're so very curious," Mason responded.
Her grin was thoroughly wicked. "I have my reasons," Veblen said. "I
thought you might be able to clear up some mysteries." "Why don't you
ask Corona yourself?. Through me, if you believe that's possible." "You
mean... "Eat your lunch. We've all got problems." In the next sleep
period, in Uhura's quarters, she listened to the communications officer
singing old

African lullabies. There 'was a song about children harnessing the
clouds of a very old mountain, and riding them from sleep to dawn.
Within Mason, there was a reaction not entirely her own... a feeling of
the deepest pleasure, and nostalgia. It did not alarm her. It was, in
fact, something of a comfort. "You know," she said when the song was
over, "that Mr. Spock is quite a fellow..." Uhura laughed and reached
out for Mason's hand. "That a girl," she said, squeezing her fingers.

Captain's Log, Stardate 4997.54. While I wrestle with some very
troubling thoughts, I look back over what's happened ... and a
sensation of the deepest astonishment overcomes me.- My crew,
myself--we're all fallible, capable of many different kinds of failure.
The Vulcans are... I was about to say "only human," but I mean in the
sense they, too, are limited. Now I look back over Mason's confidential
testimony... and though I suspect she has hardly told us everything, I
marvel. What other group of human beings has ever experienced a life as
broad, as surprising, as full as the crew of this ship? We have seen
things, been places, accomplished missions almost beyond imagining... at
least for a staid, romantic fellow like myself. Sometimes, however, I
think I would have been just as content to pilot some system craft
between planets. At least then, I wouldn't have to live with this ache,
this fear that I am not fitted for my task... that if I had been left
to my own devices, perhaps the Galaxy... the universe! Dear God...
would no longer

exist. Can anyone face such a test, such a judgment?

What an incredibly strange universe this is, that a cry from its very
infancy can echo across all eternity... and pose such challenges for
me, for us all.

Coming in September...

Q IN LAW

by Peter David

During an important wedding ceremony that will determine the future of
two great families from an aiien race called the Tizarin, Captain Picard
must play host to two surprise guests the all-powerful Q and the Deanna
Troi's Betazoid mother Lwaxana. Suddenly, the festivities are in
turmoil, the Tizarin are on the verge of war, and Lwaxana Troi is
determined to teach Q a lesson in love that he will never forget...