THE DISINHERITED

Chapter One

"Today is the last day of the rest of your life."
Jak Eisman grinned lopsidedly at the
man who had just spoken. He stabbed a finger at
him and said, "You, Delacort, are jealous."
Delacort took a step back, miming having
been shot in the heart. Delacort was several
decades Jak's senior, but that didn't stop
him from engaging in behavior that belied his years.
He shook his white-maned head and gravely
placed a hand on Jak's shoulder. "I worked with
you, trained you," he intoned. "Tried to instill
all the good values that have so guided me through my
life. And what happens? You're going to go and
get married anyway."
Jak shook his head and tapped the computer
screen in front of Delacort. "Don't you
think," he observed, "that maybe you'd better
get to work? There's a full schedule packed for
today." Jak's blue eyes snapped in
amusement. His long red hair was tied back in a
ponytail that he had only recently started
sporting; it had garnered quite a few comments from the
other members of the Gamma Xaridian colony
research team, but he had ignored them all. Because
the only thing that mattered was that L'rita liked it.
She had told him that, combined with his rather large jaw,
it made him look quite heroic, very much the
swashbuckler. He liked the sound of that. Jak
Eisman, swashbuckling aide to the
administrative head of the Gamma Xaridian
colony. It had a bit of zip to it.
Delacort, with a sigh like a stray zephyr,
plopped down behind his desk. His office was not
only the largest in the building, it was the largest
on the planet. The glorious Gamma
Xaridian sun was just coming up over the horizon,
its rays cutting through the window and illuminating the
vast variety of glass and crystal
knickknacks that Delacort had been so fond
of collecting. They lined many of his shelves, and the
early mornings in Delacort's office were
usually very impressive. Rainbows glimmered off
all of the white reflective surfaces. While
Jak detested having to rise so early to meet his
duties as Delacort's right-hand man, there was
some aesthetic value to it.
Delacort scanned his duties for that
day. "The same as yesterday," he said gravely.
"And the same as the day before that--debates,
discussions. I swear to Kolker, we have--what is
it?--seven committee meetings scheduled for today?"
"Eight," Jak corrected.
"Eight. How many scientific committees
does this colony support, anyway?"
Jak knew quite well that Delacort knew the
answer, but he said it anyway.
"Eighty-three."
"Eighty-three." Delacort shook his head
incredulously. "Eighty-three," he repeated.
"You know"--and he waggled a meaty finger at Jak
--?when I first started this colony ..."
"Back in the old days," Jak said with
extreme seriousness. "Back in the days before
space travel, when you had to walk here from earth.
Ninety million miles, in the snow. Uphill
all the way."
"That's right," Delacort said gravely. "With
dinosaurs nipping at our heels the entire
time." He smiled briefly, and then continued.
"No, seriously, Jak. When we first started
things up here, there was exactly one committee. It
was headed up by yours truly. And it was called the
Committee to Get Things Done. And I swore
that we weren't going to fall into the old trap of
parceling out every damned responsibility. And you
know what happened?"
"We did," said Jak.
"We did," affirmed Delacort. He
waved his hands vaguely. "Well, Kolker
take it. In three months I'm retiring off this
rock and it's going to be all yours. Yours and your
lovely bride's."
"Right. Sure you're going to retire," said
Jak. "You said that last year and the year before that."
Delacort affected an air of being stricken.
"What are you, disappointed that you're not rid of
me?"
Jak made a dismissive gesture, and then there
was a buzz at the door. "Come," Delacort
called.
The doors hissed open and L'rita peeked
in. She knew in what high regard Jak really
held Delacort, and although Jak covered it with
good-natured banter, L'rita was too open an
individual to cover her feelings in that manner.
So she always acted a bit shy around Delacort.
"Is this a bad time?" she asked
tentatively.
Delacort gestured for her to come in. "Not at
all," he said. "I was just chatting with your victim
here."
"Victim?" She blinked, not entirely
getting it. L'rita was the absolute top of the
heap when discussing quantum astrophysics, but
subtleties such as humor and gentle sarcasm
went right past her. "You mean my fianc@e?"
Delacort shrugged. "Is there a difference?"
"Ignore him, honey," said Jak. He
gestured for L'rita to come to him, and when she did
he ran his fingers affectionately over her bald
pate. He felt the slightest hint of fuzz and
knew that meant she'd be shaving her head again quite
soon. "What's up?"
"We just have a few last-minute things to go over
for the wedding reception tonight."
"Last-minute?" said Delacort. "I'll
say last-minute. If you waited any longer, you
wouldn't be discussing them until after you were"--he
shuddered slightly--?married. And to think that I, as
head of the colony, have to perform the ceremony."
She tilted her head slightly, her pupilless
black eyes studying Delacort carefully.
"You react so negatively to the notion of
marriage, Mr. Delacort," she said
curiously. "Why?"
"An unnatural state of affairs, my
dear," he boomed. "Do you know what the difference
is between marriage and death?"
L'rita looked from Delacort to Jak. Not
wanting to let it dangle, Jak sighed and said,
"We don't know. What's the difference, boss?"
"I don't know either," replied Delacort.
"But until I've got it figured out, I'm not
ready to commit myself prematurely to either one."
That was when the sirens went off.
L'rita gasped, instinctively moving closer
to Jak, pressing herself against him. She looked
around in confusion. "Jak?"
The air of camaraderie, of gentle banter,
had evaporated in an instant. Delacort was
immediately behind his computer screen once more, shouting,
"Computer! Damn it, clear the screen! Give
me a perimeter report!"
Jak had moved to the comm unit on the wall and
was already demanding updates. At that moment the
doors whooshed open without preamble, and scientists
were pouring into Delacort's office like
lemmings. The air was filled with the babble of
voices shouting either updates of the unexpected
situation or demands to know what was going on.
In the courtyard far below Delacort's
office, the Klaxon continued to scream its alert,
and various colonists, in assorted states of
dishevelment, were staggering out into the main areas,
pulling on clothes or robes to cover their
nightclothes. Only crazy people like Delacort and
his immediate staff were insane enough to be up and around at this
hour.
Delacort was waving and shouting in irritation,
"Shut up! All of you, shut up!" He was
unable to hear the computer report, and he had
to bellow, "Computer, repeat!"
"Six vessels have dropped out of warp space
within the planet perimeter and are approaching the
surface at accelerated speeds," said the computer
voice in its deep baritone. "Preliminary
sensor scans indicate their weapons are armed and
ready. The general size and configurations of the
vessels indicate a ninety-three percent
likelihood they are the same vessels that
attacked the Alpha and Beta Xaridian
systems within the past four months."
"Nearest planetary defense system?" he
asked.
"Bravo station."
"Direct communication link now. Now!" he
added, as if the additional shouting would somehow speed
up the computer's instantaneous communications
capabilities.
A moment later a calm drawl came over the
intercom. "This is Sloan at Bravo station,"
they heard. "You ringing me up to tell me we're
having company, chief?"
Delacort drew an arm across the sweat that
seemed to have materialized on his upper lip. He
breathed a silent prayer of thanks to the
protective spirit of Kolker. Sloan was the most
experienced man they had in a planetary defense
position. If they had to be under attack, they
couldn't be in a better situation. "Yeah,
Sloan. What've you got?"
"I'm tracking them," said Sloan. "Fast
puppies ... but nothing I can't handle. Phaser
cannons are locking on. We'll have target
confirmation in about four seconds."
Delacort nodded and cast a quick glance at the
people crowding his office. His people. Their faces
were a uniformly pasty color. He imagined that his
was as well. He didn't see Jak, and he
raised his voice slightly as he called out,
"Jak! Get an emergency broadcast off
to Starfleet! Tell them--"
"Just did it," said Jak. "Figured I should
take care of it, just in--" He glanced at
L'rita, whose arm was around his waist. She was
trembling against him. "Just in case things get too
confused later."
It was not, of course, what he was originally
going to say. Delacort knew it all too
well, and the unspoken completion hung there--..j in
case we don't make it.
But that wasn't going to happen.
"Talk to me, Sloan," said Delacort.
There was a long moment in which Delacort saw his
life passing before him, and then Sloan's comforting
voice sounded through the office. "Targets
acquired," he said. "We have positive firing
signatures."
Delacort's response was succinct. With
what had already happened to Alpha and Beta
Xaridian, no chances could be taken. No
presumptions made. If the intruders even
seemed to smell hostile, the only thing to do was
proceed on the assumption that they .were hostile.
He licked his lips once and said, "Blow them
to hell."
"Look!"
One of the committee heads was pointing out
Delacort's large bay window. Far, far to the
east, they could see small balls of fire
lighting up the sky. The g round phaser cannons
were unleashing their armament on the incoming hostiles.
Moments later the sight of the cannonfire was
accompanied by the sounds, but they were coming over the comm
link that the computer had established. The
high-pitched whine of the ground-based phaser
defenses had always given Delacort a
headache. Now, though, they were the sweetest sounds
he'd ever heard.
And then he heard something not so sweet.
"God damn!" came Sloan's angry
voice. "They're fast little buggers, I'll
give 'em that! Stoner! Dini! Reacquire
targets, damn it! Get them before--"
And suddenly, there at the horizon line where
Bravo station was firing at the incoming vessels,
a ball of fire leaped into existence and
arced upward, as if trying to reach for the sky and
caress it with fingers of sizzling heat. There was no
sound except for a sudden burst of static that came
over the comm link.
"Communications ended," the computer said with
dispassionate calm.
At first there was no sound, and then Delacort
managed to get out a question "Reason for end of
communication?"
"Bravo station has been destroyed."
There was barely time for the people in the office to digest
that bit of information, and then they saw them--the
attackers--seeming to dive straight out of the sun
that was now rising. It was as if they were being spit
straight out of a gateway to hell.
From toward the back, Jak spoke, in a
voice that was barely above a whisper. "Del ...
what do we do?"
When Delacort replied, he felt as if it
were someone else's voice. As if he were speaking
from a million miles away.
"Jak--send on all frequencies, so those
bastards can hear us."
"You're on, boss."
Delacort raised his voice slightly and
said, "This is Administrator Delacort.
Break off your attack immediately. Starfleet has
been informed of your hostile activities. You do
not have a chance. Reply, please."
He waited for a reply--something, anything. A
boast. A threat. A demand. Something.
What he got was the screaming of air as the
vessels descended. They made a low pass that
shook the walls, caused the still morning air to thunder
around them. The floor beneath Delacort's feet
shook, and his glass and crystal pieces toppled
off their mountings. The room was filled with the sound of
shattering fragile things--things like sculptures,
Delacort thought, and dreams.
The vessels came around, and this time, when they
made their pass, they opened fire. Delacort
closed his eyes, but was unable to shut his ears as the
sounds of ray blasts filled the courtyard
outside. From below him came the screams of his
people--p whom he had been unable to protect. His
office, too, was filled with screams and shouts, the
thundering of feet and the stink of sweat and death. He
heard buildings crack and crumble beneath the
assault and went to his window, pressing himself
against it as if to present the greatest
possible target.
Below him the colony was in flames. He saw
mothers clutching the broken bodies of their children, and
then buildings collapsing forward upon them. He
saw decades of his life going up in blazing
ruins. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks, and
when he turned he saw that his office was empty
except for Jak and L'rita. Her face was
buried in Jak's chest, her back shaking from
racking sobs. Jak was chewing his lower lip,
running his hands across her head and trying to tell her
that everything, everything, was going to be all right.
Delacort stared at them.
And once again, in a voice that seemed to be coming
from someone else, Delacort was speaking. "Do you,
Jak, take L'rita ... to be your lawfully
wedded wife, to have and to hold till death do you
part?"
They looked up at him, as if he'd lost his
mind. Incredibly, he was smiling. "Well?"
"Del ... are you--"
"I don't think we have much time," Delacort
said, prodding gently.
"He does," L'rita said quickly. "And I
do, too."
Jak looked down at her and a second later
was kissing her hungrily, desperately, drowning
in her.
"Then by the power vested in me--" said
Delacort.
The window blew inward, the air frying around
them. The explosion drove Delacort forward, and
he wondered about the distant stinging pain in his chest.
He looked down and saw the huge shard of glass
projecting outward and stared at it in stupefaction
before falling.
Jak took a step toward him, and then the
building was hit again. This time it was no near
miss. This time the ceiling exploded, and debris
rained down upon him. L'rita screamed his name
once and leaped into his embrace as the ceiling
fell in on them completely. Then the floor under
them collapsed, plunging to the ground five
stories below.
For another five minutes the raiding vessels
continued pounding the research colony. They made
pass after pass, until they were satisfied that no
life remained beneath them.
And then ...
Then they took ...
Nothing.
Instead the raiders circled around, their sleek
triangular vessels glinting in the morning light
that Delacort had so loved. They arced away
toward the rising sun, leaving behind them death and
destruction and no reason whatsoever for their
massacre.
The emergency signal, of course, had already
gone out to Starfleet. But the raiders did not
particularly care about that.
They had their own concerns.
And, surrounded by death, they did part.

Chapter Two

The Comm Unit on Uhura's wall beeped
once. She walked over to it and tapped it with the
side of her hand. "Lieutenant Uhura here,"
she said.
"Lieutenant, a moment of your time in my
quarters, to go over the final details of your
mission."
"Yes, Captain," she said. "Right away."
"Take your time, Lieutenant. We don't
rendezvous with the Lexington for another five
hours."
"Yes, sir."
Walking out into the corridor, she headed for the
captain's quarters, no.ing or smiling to crewmen
as she passed them. She had a way about her that
caused people to relax almost immediately.
Abruptly she frowned as she heard something that
was rather unusual in the corridors of the
Enterprise--the sound of running feet. For a
brief, giddy moment she thought that perhaps the ship was
on red alert and somehow she'd simply been
oblivious to the signals. But no, others passing
her by heard the footsteps, too, and exchanged
slightly confused glances with her.
And then, around the corner, his arms pumping
furiously, sped an ensign. It was only at the
last moment that he realized he was on a direct
collision course with Uhura, and he pinwheeled his
arms and backpedaled quickly, without allowing for his
momentum. The result was that his feet shot out from
under him and he hit the floor, landing bone-jarringly
on his rump.
Uhura stood over him, her arms folded and
her lips slightly puckered. Her instinct was
to reach down and help haul him to his
feet, but she intuited--correctly--t he would
simply be further mortified if she aided him.
He rose quickly, hurriedly brushing himself off and
murmuring abject apologies.
"Are you all right?" she asked, trying to fight
down her amusement.
He blinked in surprise, as if his own
physical condition was of such little significance as
to be completely irrelevant. "Oh. Oh,
yes. Never better."
His feet were shuffling slightly, and he was
clearly anxious to keep moving to wherever he was
heading. But protocol required that he now stand
there until the superior officer--who had
acknowledged his presence--made it clear that she was
done with him.
"Ensign Chekov," she said, one eyebrow
slightly raised in a mannerism she'd picked
up from Spock. "You're in a great hurry,
Ensign. Accidents can be caused that way."
"Yes, Lieutenant," he said, bobbing his
head nervously.
"Where were you off to in such a hurry?"
"The bridge, ma'am. To my post."
"Were you under the impression that you were going
to miss the bridge somehow?" she asked. "That it was
going to leave without you?"
"Oh, no, ma'am," he said in a very serious
tone. "I did not think that at all. But I was
... am ... late reporting for duty."
"How late?"
"Forty-five seconds, ma'am," he said, and
then amended, "Well ... now a minute
forty-five."
"Yes, well, you'd be even later if you
broke a leg or sprained an ankle en
route, Ensign," she said, fighting to keep the
corners of her mouth from twitching. "Take it a
bit more slowly next time."
"Yes, ma'am. I did not want the keptin
to notice that--"
"The captain is in his quarters, waiting for
me," said Uhura. "So he doesn't know about
your ... indiscretion."
Chekov looked at her apprehensively, and
she added, "He won't hear it from me, if that's
what you're thinking."
He nodded gratefully. "Thank you,
ma'am."
They stared at each other for a moment, and
then Uhura inclined her head slightly
to indicate that Chekov should go on his way.
Immediately Chekov was off, starting to dash, and then
braking himself before Uhura could say anything. He
walked quickly, his hands balled into fists, his feet
just bordering on a run. It was clearly all he
could do to contain himself. Indeed, it was the same for
Uhura, who barely was able to wait until young
Chekov was gone from view before bursting into laughter.
Just as quickly as she felt cheered, she became
saddened again. The casual encounter had simply
underscored for her that she was about to go off and be a
stranger on another ship. No matter how
crowded a starship was, it could be extremely
painful if it was filled with 429 strangers.

Kirk did not look up from his work when he
heard the buzzer at his cabin. "Come," he said
simply.
The door hissed open. He did not even have
to bother to raise his gaze. There was a distinctive
scent of perfume, and the slight tinkling of that
particular pair of large earrings t hat his
communications officer occasionally favored. Kirk
usually had to look up to confirm the identity of a
male who entered his cabin, but for females he had
almost a sixth sense. "Sit down,
Lieutenant," he said. "Be right with you."
Uhura, for her part, was surprised at the
casual manner in which her captain was able
to identify her without looking up at her.
She sat down obediently, momentarily
unsure of what to do with her hands before finally resting
them in her lap.
Kirk shut off the computer screen and turned
to look at her. "Nervous?" he asked.
She let out a soft sigh. "A bit,
Captain," she said. "Being away from home ..."
"You don't think of Earth as home?" he
asked.
She shrugged slightly. "Not for some time," she
admitted. "And you, sir?"
He pursed his lips. "Not even when I was
living there," he said candidly. He rose from behind
his desk. "But you don't have to worry,
Lieutenant. I've known Commodore Wesley
for years. A good man. I might go so far as
to say he's the second best starship commander in the
fleet."
"Second best?" asked Uhura.
"And the first ...?"
Kirk smiled. "What's life without mystery,
Lieutenant? Take your own guess." Then the
gently bantering tone evaporated, and Kirk was
speaking in all seriousness. "The Lexington is
a damned fine ship. I wouldn't be sending one of
my officers there if I thought otherwise."
"With all due respect, Captain ...
you're sending me because of Starfleet orders."
Kirk shrugged slightly. "There are orders and
then there are orders, Lieutenant. A captain
has a certain degree of leeway when it comes
to requests for personnel to be moved around. If
he feels that a move is going to be contrary to the
best interests of the personnel involved, he can in
various official and polite ways tell
Starfleet precisely what they can do with their
request. With this Lexington business, however,
I would be hard-pressed to fault either the
reassignment or the reasons for requesting it."
He walked around the desk and sat on the edge
of it. "Look, Lieutenant ... nine times out
of ten, your duties on Enterprise tap only
the barest fraction of your true abilities. But
these diplomatic meetings with the Rithrim that
Lexington is involved with ... they are really
going to push you. The mixture of verbal and sign
language that constitutes the Rithramen tongue
is difficult for even the most accomplished
diplomats to master. You, however, are one of
Starfleet's premiere linguists. It's about time
you had a chance to show that ability off."
"Yes, sir," she said, bobbing her head
slightly. "Have we gotten any further ^w on
what precisely it is the Rithrim want us
for?"
Kirk shook his head. "No," he confessed.
"Starfleet would like to build an installation for
deep-space observation in Rithramen space,
to replace the one that the Gorn destroyed not too
long ago. Partly for observation of deep-space
phenomena and partly--and no one makes any bones
about this--ffkeep an eye on the Gorn, since the
Rithrim border is so close to Gorn space.
And the Rithrim, in turn, say that they're willing
to talk--providing we aid them in averting some
sort of danger that threatens their population. But
they have yet to clarify just precisely what that
danger is."
"Could that be due to the difficulty in
communicating with them?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Either that or they're just being
cagey. That's one of the things you're going to have
to determine, Lieutenant. And since part of your
pre-.Enterprise experience involved dealing with
cultures and languages similar to those
employed on Rithra, Starfleet felt that you
would be well suited to the job."
She didn't say anything at first, but Kirk
knew something was on her mind. "Lieutenant?"
he gently prodded her.
"Well, if they were so anxious to have me as part
of this mission, Captain, I don't see why they
didn't just assign the Enterprise to handle the
entire thing."
"Yes, you do, Lieutenant."
She sighed. "Because Rithra is in
Lexington's sector, yes, sir. I know."
He looked at her, not unsympathetically.
"What's really on your mind, Lieutenant?"
She looked up at him, with an air that
projected strictly business. "I'm only
concerned about the effect on Enterprise that my
absence might have, Captain," she said.
"Communications will be understaffed. I have good people under
me, but they don't carry a great deal of
experience. I wish Starfleet had given me more
notice. I dislike the idea of just leaving you in the
lurch, as it were."
"As it were." Kirk nodded. "Lieutenant,
I think you're underestimating your own ability
to train people. They'll do a fine job in your
temporary absence."
"Temporary."
The way she said that ^w was more than enough to confirm
Kirk's suspicions about the true nature of
her concern. "Lieutenant," he said, assuming that
slightly bigger-than-life air he put on when
he was speaking in a tongue-in-cheek manner,
"I get the distinct feeling that you think we're
going to rent out your quarters while you're gone."
She didn't understand. "Sir?"
Kirk folded his arms across his chest. "Bob
Wesley likes to refer to himself as--and I quote
here--a good judge of horseflesh, unquote.
Meaning that he is able to recognize some of the best
and brightest officers in the fleet, and he will
occasionally do what he can to wangle them onto his
ship on a permanent basis. That is part of what
makes the Lexington such an excellent
vessel."
"I see."
"On the other hand," Kirk continued, "part of
what makes the Enterprise the talk of the
fleet-- You do know we're the talk of the fleet,
do you not, Lieutenant?"
"Oh, subspace chatter is just burning up
about us, Captain," she affirmed gravely.
"Yes. And what contributes to that is the
uncanny ability of the Enterprise captain to do
the exact same thing as Commodore Wesley.
Meaning, Lieutenant, that as far as I'm
concerned, this is only a temporary assignment.
Your place, for as long as you want it, will always be
here."
She nodded gratefully. "Thank you, sir."
"We'll keep a candle burning for you in the
window, Lieutenant."
"I'll be looking for it, Captain."

Upon returning to her cabin, Uhura logged on
to her desktop computer and quickly scanned her
personal section for messages, looking only for
those she would have to answer before leaving the
Enterprise.
To her surprise, there was a congratulatory
note from Lieutenant Palmer, her number
two. She sighed briefly; never a secret on
this starship. Nothing else seemed urgent, and she
quickly filed the messages into a buffer for
retrieval after her mission.
Quickly surveying her quarters, Uhura
mentally prepared her packing list, not wanting
to leave anything behind. A touch of a stud on the
side of her bed opened a small panel, and she
deftly grabbed her Starfleet-issue
carryall. Then she turned around and began opening
drawers in her dresser, trying to think through the
necessities for a diplomatic mission.
Class-A uniform. Dress uniform. Her
favorite tricorder. A handful of her music
discs. Her ... but the thought was stopped when her
door beeped.
"Come," she said, thinking it was Captain Kirk
with more information.
Her look of concern was quickly replaced by a
smile as Lieutenant Sulu sauntered in.
Making himself at home, the helmsman plopped
himself on top of her neat bed next to her growing
pile of belongings. He looked around the
room, admiring the cultural artifacts
decorating the walls and her dresser.
"Hi," he began. "I just got the ^w down
on the rec deck and thought I'd wish you well.
^w spreads pretty quickly around here, you know."
She laughed and waved an arm to move him
aside. After opening the carryall, she began
folding her uniforms and placing them inside it.
"Of course. Isn't that what our computer
bulletin board is for? Besides, you couldn't keep
a secret if your life depended on it. After
all, who spilled the beans about Riley's
surprise party? We all know about you, Mr.
Sulu."
He smiled ruefully. "Guilty as charged.
So, what's the deal with the Lexington?"
"A diplomatic mission, and they need me.
I'm pretty flattered. The captain told me
in person instead of having Mr. Spock do it.
Must be important to the Federation."
Uhura smiled as Sulu started folding her
dress uniform.
"I think the captain just wanted to protect his
communications officer. Commodore Wesley has
two reputations One, he's a stern commander.
Two, he'll move mountains of paper through
Starfleet to get a crew member he likes.
That's how we nearly lost Styles and Dr.
Noel, you know."
"Mere rumor," she replied, although her tone
said otherwise. Walking into her other room,
Uhura called out, "Would you mind grabbing my
extra boots? They're under the bed."
No.ing, he placed the dress uniform gingerly
inside the carryall. Sulu then reached under her
bed and pulled out the extra pair of boots.
Absently he began polishing them with a
shirtsleeve, although they were shiny enough to begin with.
Uhura returned from the other room, her arms
filled with final items for her bag. She placed
those belongings in the carryall and then stared
into space, quickly reviewing her mental packing
list. Satisfied that all was ready, she closed
the bag and placed a security code on the
lock.
"When do we rendezvous?" she asked.
"Another few hours. Chekov was heading up
to the bridge early to double-check the course."
"He seems like a good kid," she said, sitting
beside Sulu on the bed. "Kind of nervous
at times, but he certainly knows that board."
"He'll do fine. Being under the captain's
scrutiny can be pretty intimidating at times."
"Then you have to loosen the boy up," she said with a
smile. "After all, you'll be sitting right there with
him. And just think--w ithout me around, you can start in on
him."
Sulu slowly smiled at the comment. "And just
what does that mean?"
"Fencing. I'm tired of being your main sparring
partner. He's younger and more impressionable than I
am, so you can easily get him down to the gym.
He might even think of it as an order from a
senior officer."
"Thank you for your support," he said with a
smile. "We'll see which one of us is more limber
in our dotage. Come on, shift's going
to change."
They stood together, ready to leave for the bridge.
Both of them were always eager to get up there. Not
only was it the hub of all activity on the ship,
and a special place for both officers, but it
allowed them an opportunity to be part of the
decision-making process, part of the action.
For Uhura, the bridge was the beginning and end of
every assignment. She was privy to Kirk's log
entries and was certainly aware of who got--or
didn't get--messages from loved ones. Even
though there were 429 people aboard the ship, she could always
sense who needed a little moral support or who
should get a pat on the back.
As for Sulu, he was always the first to catch sight
of the unexpected, and he could treat himself to a
particularly good view of each cosmic event.
He truly felt challenged guiding the massive
starship through the heavens and from star to star. It was he
who steered them away from trouble or toward something
new and exciting.
That feeling of finding the unknown, he'd told
her often enough, was what had led him to Starfleet and
kept him tied to the helm after a brief stint in
astrophysics. Nor would he have traded his
current assignment for anything else.
Out in the corridor they walked along, no.ing
to the fellow crew members they knew. The pace
was leisurely for Sulu, steady for Uhura.
He always paced himself so as not to force her to hurry.
She, in turn, always teased him about walking like
an old-fashioned Earther and about needing to ease
up on himself. But by now she knew it was a
lost battle. Sulu was too irrepressible,
too full of energy, to work at any speed slower
than fast.
Still, she enjoyed being challenged by him and learning
about new things. While Uhura had her music and
her communications computers, he had so many other
interests. There was botany for about a year and then
theater, and he never stopped exercising, citing
fencing as the best way to keep the reflexes sharp.
The sport had its challenges, Uhura had
agreed early on, though she preferred swimming for
building up her muscles and endurance.
"I heard that Ensign Berganza and
Lieutenant Pittarese broke up," Uhura
mentioned as they stood before the turbolift doors.
While it usually took less than a minute
to get a lift, it always seemed to be a long
wait for her.
"Too bad," Sulu noted. "I thought they were
a cute couple. But you know the old saying Never
mix biophysics and astronomy." The doors
swished open, revealing an empty cab.
"I never heard that before," she said as they entered
the lift. She gripped the handle, turned it
slightly and commanded, "Bridge."
"Of course not. You hear the best sayings down
in the gym."
"Don't start with me, mister."
"Aye-aye." There was a pause; when Sulu
spoke again, it was in a quieter, deeper voice.
"You'll be okay out there, won't you?"
"Of course. I'm excited about the contact and
about getting a juicy landing-party assignment. It
doesn't sound as if there's going to be trouble."
He smiled. "Fine. Just come back. Don't
let Wesley's charms lure you away."
She smiled back, appreciating his friendship.
They made a good pair, but neither truly
entertained romantic thoughts about the other. Sometimes
a straightforward friendship was more rewarding, and
Uhura cherished this one.
"I like it fine right here," she assured him.
"But thanks. It's always nice to be
appreciated."
"All part of the service," Sulu told her.

The doors snapped open with a soft swoosh,
allowing Sulu to step out with Uhura beside him. He
quickly checked the personnel, noting that it was
business as usual. Spock was in the
center seat, awaiting Captain Kirk's
arrival; Chekov remained at navigation,
hunched over his readouts; Lieutenant Leslie
was over the engineering and environmental displays, and a
yeoman was taking down data from the library
computer.
The helmsman tapped Chekov on the shoulder
as he slid himself into his seat. The ensign's
head bobbed up and he smiled.
"Hello, Mr. Sulu. Ve're steady at
varp two, and I've made the final course
adjustments."
"Good." Sulu studied his own readouts and was
satisfied that things were normal. "Another dry
run to Gamma Two after this ... and then more
mapping. Should be boring--m so without Uhura
to keep things enchanting in the rec rooms."
"She does have an excellent voice,"
Chekov agreed. He then fell silent,
worrying over his board.
"The readouts won't change anytime soon,"
Sulu said. "Relax a bit. We're how far
from the Lexington?"
Chekov looked down at the astrogator.
"Two hours, twenty-seven minutes."
"So they won't be in sensor range for a
while. Enjoy the view." Sulu turned back
to his board, checking some of his own settings.
Chekov wrung his hands to flex them and then
leaned back--j a bit. Relaxing was obviously
not something that came easily to him. The ensign was still
very much a newcomer on board the Enterprise,
someone who felt he had much to prove. Relaxing
between ports of call was something he still had to learn,
and something Sulu was determined to teach him.
The navigator looked over his shoulder and
watched as Uhura settled into her seat and
scanned the latest flow of information. Although
messages directed just to the Enterprise took
priority, the starship computers received and recorded
hundreds of messages a day. Some were
Starfleet news updates for the senior staff.
Others were the steady stream of chatter coming from ships
in the quadrant, personal messages for crew,
and stray signals picked up by the sensor array.
Uhura's staff was quite good at sorting things out,
Sulu knew, and they always kept an eye out for a
juicy tidbit picked up from the strays. These were
the kinds of facts that wouldn't be needed for formal
reports but found their way onto the
ship's bulletin boards, an area run by the rec
director but aided and abetted by the communications
staff.
Uhura caught him watching and smiled.
"Anything good in the ether?" Sulu asked.
"Seems quiet," she replied. "Some more
border skirmishes with Klingon ships. The
Vulcans have some new discovery that Mr. Spock
will no doubt find "fascinating."' And I think
Angela Martine will be disappointed to learn her
Meteors lost the championship magno-ball
game to the Pipers."
Sulu nodded and then returned his attention to the
systems checks he liked to run at the start of
each shift. Finally, satisfied that his board was in
order, he toggled his communicator and called
down to the phaser room. Specialist Angela
Martine responded cheerfully and they did a quick
run-through on weapons status.
"We're showing green on the board," Martine
responded at the end.
"Good." Sulu snapped off the communicator
and gave some thought to Martine. She was an
experienced officer who had suffered a deep blow
when her fianc@e, Tomlinson, died during a
skirmish with the Romulans. The first contact with the
Romulans in a century, Sulu mused, and
Tomlinson was the only casualty. He shook
his head.
Fortunately Martine had handled the situation
pretty well, recovering as quickly as could be
expected. She was once again one of the top
weapons specialists in the fleet. But her
loss had left her a little stiff in social
situations.
Recently Sulu had tried to get her
to loosen up with his fledgling musical theater group
--but it turned out she couldn't carry a tune.
Maybe he could get her to help him with his
botany garden. With Yeoman Rand no longer
aboard, he needed help with the temperamental
plant-form he'd named Beauregard. Yes,
maybe a little relaxing botany would be good for
Martine, he thought.
Unfortunately it would be a long time between thought
and action.



Chapter Three

"Sir, we are being hailed by the Lexington."
Despite their talk, Uhura still sounded the
slightest bit apprehensive. Kirk smiled
at her as he said, "On screen,
Lieutenant."
The image of the Lexington vanished from the
viewscreen and was replaced by the visage of
Commodore Wesley.
Kirk had never forgotten his first encounter with
Robert Wesley--it was when Kirk was being
considered for command of the Enterprise. Wesley had
been on the review board and had been the most
vocal in stating that James t. Kirk was too
young to receive such an important assignment.
"Despite all the education that Starfleet
Academy can provide," Wesley had stated,
"the greatest single teacher that our officers can learn
from is experience. And in that respect James
Tiberius Kirk is sorely deficient."
But Wesley had been outvoted--he had, in
fact, been the lone holdout--z the rest of
Wesley's associates had been mightily
impressed by all that Kirk had accomplished in his
relatively short time as a Starfleet officer.
His performance at the Academy had been
faultless; the recommendations from such luminaries as
Matt Decker, who had had dealings with Kirk
since the would-be captain's days as an
Academy plebe, and Kirk's subsequent
commanding officers; the knack for original thinking that
such already legendary maneuvers as Kirk's
performance on the Kobayashi Maru test had already
proven--all had been factored into the decision
to give Kirk the Enterprise command.
And it was Wesley who had delivered the news
to him. Hell, the commodore had insisted on it.
For Wesley, who had fought the assignment,
wanted to make it clear to the novice captain
that--now that the decision had been made--Wesley
had every intention of honoring and supporting it, and
dealing with Kirk just as he did with any other
starship captain.
"We are a fraternity, Kirk," he had
said. "A brotherhood. Brothers can disagree with
each other, but the bottom line is that we have
to support each other. We have to trust each other.
Because trust is something that Starfleet runs on, and
if we don't have that, then pretty damned soon
we don't have a fleet. Follow?"
Kirk had nodded and shaken Wesley's hand and
found that the towering commodore's firm opinions were
backed up by an even firmer handshake. So
firm, in fact, that Kirk fancied he could
feel the bones cracking in his fingers.
That had been only a few years ago, and yet
when Wesley nodded at him on the viewscreen,
it seemed an eternity ago. "Captain
Kirk," said Wesley.
"Commodore," replied Kirk with a brief
inclination of his head.
"Is Lieutenant Uhura prepared to come
aboard the best starship in the fleet?" Wesley
asked.
"No, Commodore," replied Kirk evenly.
"She's prepared to leave it."
A grin split Wesley's face.
"Touch@e, Captain."
"The commodore's reputation precedes him,"
Kirk said, interlacing his fingers. "Actually,
Bob, I'm amazed you're out this far. Usually you
can be found hanging around the exit door of the
Academy saying, "I'll take that one, that
one, and that one."'"
"Now, now, Jim," Wesley replied,
waggling a scolding finger. "A few good people still
slipped through my net. I've heard good things about
Riley."
"One of my more colorful junior officers,"
Kirk deadpanned. Although Kirk had been
generous enough to keep the details of his various
officers' behavior during the recent Psi
2000 incident out of the official log, he still
couldn't think of Riley without remembering endless
choruses of "I'll Take You Home Again,
Kathleen," piped over the ship's intercom. It
wouldn't have been so bad if Riley had sung on
key.
Wesley was ticking off names on his fingers.
"And Kyle is a top transporter man. And
M'Benga ... well, from what I understand, they
refer to him as the new McCoy."
"I'm sure that will come as news to the real
McCoy," said Kirk, turning an amused
glance at Spock. The Vulcan,
unsurprisingly, made no comment.
Wesley seemed to squint slightly. "Who's
that stalwart-looking fellow over there?"
He was indicating the Enterprise bridge
tactical station. A square-jawed man
with dark gray hair looked up in surprise,
then glanced at Kirk.
"That's Security Chief Giotto," said
Kirk.
"I like the cut of his jib," Wesley told
him. "Put him on the list, too."
"Bob, are you giving me your Christmas wish
list here?"
"Just admiring your people, Captain."
"Admire them from afar, if you don't mind,
Commodore."
The tongue-in-cheek banter was abruptly
interrupted when Uhura suddenly turned
to Kirk. "Captain," she said. "Receiveg a
communication from Starfleet. We--" She
interrupted herself and said, "You are to report to the
Xaridian systems. Details to follow."
"Xaridian," Wesley said, all hints of
joking immediately dropped. "It's where they're having
that problem with raiders, isn't it?"
"That's my understanding," Kirk affirmed.
"Be damned careful, Jim," said Wesley.
"From what I hear, those raiders are pretty
nasty customers." He paused a moment, seeming
to consider possibilities. "We're going to be
practically breathing on the Gorn's scales
once we get to Rithra. If there's going to be
a nasty reception, we should know about it. What are
the odds that these Xaridian raiders are with the
Gorn?"
Kirk swiveled in his chair to face Spock.
The Vulcan science officer needed no further
prodding. "Ever since the difficulties began,
we have been studying the methods of the raiders'
attacks. They do not fit the profiles of the
Gorn ... or, for that matter, those of the Klingons
or Romulans. It would appear that they are not
individuals with whom we've had much contact."
"And from that we can surmise ...?" asked
Kirk.
Spock cocked his head slightly. "Not a
great deal at this time."
"Once you have the full particulars from
Starfleet, please send us the information on a
coded frequency," said Wesley. "I'd like
to be kept apprised of the situation."
"What are you thinking, Bob?" Kirk asked
slowly. "That somehow the Rithra business is
connected with the raiders?"
"I don't know," Wesley
admitted. "There's no rational reason to assume
that."
"None whatsoever. The two systems are nowhere
near each other. And the Rithrim haven't
reported any raids."
"Nonetheless," said Wesley, allowing some of his
frustration to show through, "the Rithrim have been so
damned vague about everything, their request could be
about almost anything."
"In that event, you be certain to keep us
apprised," Kirk said. "And I'm sure I can
trust you to do so, Commodore. After all, you'll have
the best communications officer in the fleet on your
ship."
"Ah, yes. Lieutenant Uhura."
Wesley inclined his head slightly in her
direction. "It will be a pleasure to have you working with
us."
"The pleasure is mine, Commodore," she
said, rising from her station.
"Uhura ... you'd better be on your way,"
said Kirk, hoping he didn't sound
peremptory. They were wasting too much time on
social niceties.
"Just a few last-minute things, Captain,"
Uhura said.
"Anything Lieutenant Palmer can't handle?"
Uhura looked at the blond woman who had
already arrived on the bridge. She had been on
alert to report there as soon as the Lexington
came within range. Palmer raised her
eyebrows, as if curious whether there was something
Uhura thought she could not deal with.
"No, sir," said Uhura.
"All right, then," said Kirk. "Good luck,
Lieutenant. We'll be seeing you back here
soon."
"Aye, sir."
Kirk turned back to Wesley as Uhura
exited into the turbolift. "The lieutenant is
on her way, Bob. She should be aboard within
three minutes."
"Good. We both have other business to attend
to."
"Commodore--"
"Yes, Captain?"
Kirk regarded Wesley with a tolerant
look. "None of the formidable Commodore Wesley
charm. You can be a very pleasant taskmaster."
"I'll take that as a compliment," said
Wesley.
"Whatever you wish," Kirk said agreeably.
"But I'd like Lieutenant Uhura back, if
you don't mind."
"Well"--and Wesley smiled broadly--?t
will be up to the lieutenant, now, won't it?
Lexington out."
Wesley's image vanished as the Lexington
reappeared. The ship waited only long enough
to confirm the beaming over of Uhura before pivoting and
shooting into warp space. Kirk watched them go as
Sulu turned in his chair.
"Captain," he said, his curiosity piqued,
"do you think there's a chance that Lieutenant
Uhura will choose to remain on Lexington?"
Kirk stared at Sulu for a moment and then made
a sweeping gesture that encompassed the entirety
of the bridge.
"And give up all this?" he asked
incredulously.

Uhura and Commodore Wesley materialized
side by side on the Lexington's main
transporter platform. She was holding her
duffel bag in one hand, despite the commodore's
gallant offer to carry it for her.
She looked around--at the room itself and at the
woman behind the transporter console. There was
something disconcerting about seeing someone other than
Kyle or Scotty there, but she took it in
stride.
You're not on the Enterprise now, she
reminded herself. And you're not reporting to Captain
Kirk. There are bound to be a few differences.
Just as she and Wesley stepped down from the
platform, the doors whispered open and a couple of
blue-shirted officers came through them. One was
muscular and athletic-looking, with dark hair and a
reddish-brown beard. The other was tall and bony,
with pale skin and hair the color of straw.
"Ah," said Wesley dryly. "Better
late than never."
The bearded man regarded him. "Sorry,
sir. A last-minute course correction.
Seems there's a series of comets in Beta
Ganymede." Turning to Uhura, he grinned through
his beard and held out his hand. "Good to have you aboard,
Lieutenant. The name's Samuels--Wynn
Samuels."
"Mr. Samuels is my first
officer," Wesley noted. "And a damned good one
at that." He indicated the tall man. "I'd
also like you to meet Peder Coss, my ship's
surgeon."
Coss trained his piercing blue eyes on the
newcomer. "Welcome to the Lexington," he
said, his voice deep and a little harsh-sounding, though his
smile seemed warm enough.
"Thank you," Uhura told him, returning the
smile. "I look forward to working with both of you
gentlemen."
"Good," said Wesley. "Now that that's
settled, I'm sure Lieutenant Uhura would
like to unpack. Mr. Samuels, I'd
appreciate it if you'd see the lieutenant
to her quarters. The doctor and I have some business
to conduct in sickbay."
The first officer's brows came together in what
seemed like genuine concern. "Business, sir?
Anything I should be aware of?"
Wesley sighed. "A physical," he
replied, so softly Uhura could barely hear
him.
Samuels's eyes crinkled ever so slightly
at the corners. "I'm sorry, Commodore, I
didn't quite catch that. Did you say a
physical?"
Wesley frowned. "You know I did, Mr.
Samuels. And I don't appreciate the
sarcasm." But his voice told Uhura he
didn't mind it a whole lot, either.
Coss placed a hand on the commodore's
shoulder. "Tell me," he asked Uhura. "Have
you ever seen a commanding officer who so absolutely
refuses to look after his health?"
Uhura suppressed a grin for Wesley's
sake. "As a matter of fact, Doctor, it's
not an entirely foreign concept to me."
The commodore turned to Coss. "You see?"
he remarked. "Kirk's probably even harder
to corral than I am."
The communications officer nodded. "I wo uldn't be
surprised, sir."
Wesley regarded her warmly. "You know," he
said, "you haven't been here two minutes,
Lieutenant, and you've already helped me more than
you know. This could be the beginning of a beautiful working
relationship."
Uhura inclined her head slightly. "Glad
to be of service, sir."
The commodore grunted appreciatively and
followed the doctor out of the transporter room.
Uhura turned to Samuels; he returned the
scrutiny with a sunny cheerfulness to which she couldn't
help but respond.
"I hope we haven't offended your sense of
decorum," said the first officer. "We just like to have a
little fun around here. It makes the time go faster."
Uhura shook her head. "You haven't offended
me at all," she assured him. "In fact, it
makes me feel right at home. Speaking of which
..."
"I hear you," he said. "Follow me."
And without any further ado, he led the way
to her quarters.

In the conference room, Sulu dropped down
into the seat next to McCoy and was unable to avert his
glance as he saw McCoy studying records off
a medical tricorder. The name on the file
surprised him.
"Chekov?" he asked. "Does Mr.
Chekov have a medical problem, Doctor?"
McCoy glanced at Sulu, clearly
hesitating a moment as to whether he should reprimand
the helmsman for prying, however unintentionally, into the
private circumstances of others. But then he
considered how closely Sulu was working with the young
navigator--the helmsman and the navigator had
to work as much in harmony as did a doctor and a
nurse during surgery. If anyone had a vested
interest in the Russian, it was Sulu. Mentally
and physically, McCoy shrugged.
"Nothing major," he said. "Just his routine
preliminary physical. If anything, he's
unduly nervous."
"Nervous?" Sulu frowned. "About something one
of us said or did?"
Of course, McCoy realized what Sulu was
really saying "Was it something I did?" The
ship's surgeon shook his head. "Not
necessarily. Chekov is just driven to succeed.
He wants to impress everyone immediately, and he
keeps trying to come up with ways to do it. But he's
not sure precisely how to go about it, and gets that
much jumpier because he doesn't have any guaranteed
methods."
Coming in on the tail end of the conversation were
Scotty and Security Chief Giotto.
Scotty glanced from McCoy to Sulu.
"Who's jumpy? Who're we talking about?"
"We are not talking about anyone," McCoy
said stiffly.
"Ensign Chekov," Sulu told them.
McCoy rolled his eyes. "Why don't we
just broadcast it all over the damned ship?"
"Are ye sure that would be wise, Doctor?"
Scotty deadpanned. "Ye think it's
everybody's business?"
"No, I don't think it's everybody's
business!" McCoy said in exasperation. "I
don't think it's anybody's business!"
"Well, Doctor, ye were the one suggesting we
broadcast it."
"I wasn't suggesting that!"
"I beg your pardon, Doctor," said
Giotto, "but I heard you. We all did."
Heads all around the table nodded in agreement as
McCoy's head sagged into his hands. At that
moment Kirk and Spock entered.
Kirk looked at the bobbing heads around the
table. "It's nice to see you all in agreement
on something. Anyone care to tell me what that
might be?"
Sulu spoke up helpfully. "That Dr.
McCoy shouldn't broadcast to the ship that Ensign
Chekov is jumpy."
For a fleeting moment McCoy looked as if
he wanted to slug him.
Kirk looked at McCoy, appalled.
"Were you going to do that, Bones?"
"ationo!"
"Aye, we talked him out of it," Scotty
said proudly.
"What does Chekov have to be jumpy about?"
Kirk asked.
McCoy huffed, "Maybe he's worried
he'll become an officer and lose his mind, like
most of the men at this table."
Spock appeared to consider this. "If Ensign
Chekov is worried about his psychological
stability, he should seek out the chief medical
officer for assistance. Then again ... perhaps he is
worried, Doctor, that you might broadcast his
concerns throughout the ship."
"That would make me jumpy," Giotto
affirmed.
"I'm going to kill somebody," McCoy said.
"Precisely the kind of declaration any crew
member wishes to hear from a ship's chief
medical officer," Spock observed.
McCoy shot him a lethal stare.
"Gentlemen," said Kirk, "before we further
examine the undoubtedly vital question of Mr.
Chekov's jumpiness, I think we'd best
address the reason for this conference the attacks on
the Xaridian system. Mr. Spock?"
Spock immediately brought up on the computer
screen the Starfleet dossier on the attacks.
Not that he truly needed it; he had already committed
the information to his formidable memory. But the
Vulcan was efficient enough to want to have all the
information handy in the unlikely event of his memory
becoming faulty.
"The attack on the Gamma Xaridian
colony was the most recent of three attacks on
the Xaridian systems," Spock said. "The first
was on Alpha Xaridian Two several weeks
ago, and Beta Xaridian Six was next,
barely a week later."
"Alpha, Beta, Gamma," said McCoy.
"Am I the only one here noticing a pattern?"
"I think it is somewhat self-evident,
Doctor," Spock said dryly. "All of the
inhabited planets in the Xaridian systems are
colony worlds. The attacks in the Alpha and
Beta systems left a handful of survivors.
The attack on Gamma Xaridian Three did
not; the patrol ship Viking has already inspected
that site, and the crew found no survivors."
"The bastards are getting more efficient," said
Giotto.
"Crudely put, Mr. Giotto," said
Spock, "but accurate. Local authorities
and small ships such as the Viking are
insufficient for the job at hand."
"Which is where we come in," said Kirk.
"Descriptions of the raiders, Mr. Spock?"
"Reports vary. Some survivors sighted
four ships; others saw seven," said Spock.
"These ships were extremely maneuverable,
extremely deadly; they appeared to fire with
impunity on their targets, and none of the raiders
has ever been captured or, to the best of our knowledge,
so much as inconvenienced by conventional ground
defenses. The scant details in the single
broadcast from Gamma Xaridian were consistent with
other reports."
"Can we take them?" asked Kirk.
Scotty snorted in disbelief that the
subject would even be broached. "They're
cowards," he said disdainfully. "Hit-and-run
techniques and guerrilla tactics. They
won't last five minutes against a real
opponent like the Enterprise."
"A foe with ships described as maneuverable
and deadly, Mr. Scott, is not one whom I
would hold in such open contempt," Spock said.
"These raiders can dodge phaser fire and
photon torpedoes, and they can batter our
shields. Ultimately the Enterprise could be
as vulnerable as any of the colonies."
Scotty said nothing, but his expression clearly
showed that he disagreed with Spock's assessment of the
situation.
"Contact Viking," Kirk said. "Make
certain that they relay their findings to us. Mr.
Sulu, which colony will we encounter first, given our
present heading?"
"Alpha Xaridian Two, sir. The
colony that was attacked first."
"Very well. Go to warp five, and inform the
colonists that we'll be arriving in ...?"
Sulu didn't even pause. "Eleven
hours."
Kirk nodded. Sulu's ability to predict
ETA at any given point, at any given
speed, was nothing short of amazing. "Eleven
hours. Mr. Spock, I want a list of
colonies that have yet to be visited by these
raiders. Determine, if possible, which of them
faces the greatest likelihood of being the next
target.
"Mr. Scott, check the sensor arrays and
tricorders. Expand the normal search radius
to include some of the unusual ranges in
electromagnetic and subspace spectra.
If there's any unusual signature to these
ships, I want to know about it.
"Mr. Sulu, we're not on yellow alert,
but if the raiders show up while we're around, I
want this ship to switch to a defensive posture in
no time at all."
Kirk quickly scanned the room. "Do we all
understand our assignments, gentlemen?"
There were nods around the table. And then Kirk
fixed McCoy with a stare. There was just the barest
hint of amusement in his eyes as he added, "And,
Bones ... try not to broadcast any of this,
okay?"
McCoy turned and looked at Sulu, who
had started the whole thing. "I am never going
to discuss a medical situation with you again--and that
includes your own." He stood up and added, "And
you can broadcast that!"

As Uhura entered the cabin assigned to her,
she did a double take. Looking around, she saw
a space much larger than she'd expected,
furnished with alt too much furniture.
These were VIP quarters, not crew
accommodations. Obviously somebody had goofed.
And she hadn't picked it up when she'd gotten
her room assignment because the residential
corridors of every starship were set up a little
differently.
With a sigh, Uhura dropped her duffel on the
floor and crossed to the intercom grid on the
bulkhead. After tapping the appropriate stud,
she called up to the first officer's station on the
bridge.
"Samuels," came the response.
"Mr. Samuels, this is Lieutenant
Uhura. I think there's been a mistake.
I've been assigned a guest suite."
There was a brief pause as the first officer
traced the source of her communication, brought up the
cabin assignment listing on his monitor, and
compared the two.
"No," he said finally. "No mistake. In
fact, the commodore assigned you those quarters
personally."
Uhura shook her head. "I don't get
it."
Samuels grunted. "It's his way of trying
to make you feel comfortable, Uhura. At home,
you might say."
"Ah," she said. "ationow I get it.
Thanks, Samuels."
"Don't mention it," he told her, and ended the
communication.
Uhura couldn't help but smile a little.
Wesley had promised Captain Kirk he
wouldn't try to steal her away--but it seemed the
commodore's definition of "stealing" left room
for a wide range of interpretations.
Not that she had any objection to being romanced this
way. What woman would? But no amount of
flattery would induce her to leave the
Enterprise, and that was that.
She picked up her duffel and brought it back
to the sleeping area in the rear of the cabin. Then, after
swinging it up onto a synthetic wood cabinet,
she began to unpack. Uhura had filled two
of the three drawers before she realized the wood
wasn't synthetic at all.
It was real. Delighted, she ran her fingers
over its grained surface. It was unexpectedly
sensual.
Maybe there .were some advantages to serving under
a commodore.
Abruptly she heard a soft, almost musical
beeping. Even the door alarm sounded better in
here, she noted. Emerging from behind the mesh barrier that
defined her sleeping area, she said "Come on
in."
The door slid aside, revealing a tall,
slender man with skin the same color as hers. His
eyes were hard and black, like pieces of
obsidian, and his prominent cheekbones gave his
face a certain ... what? Nobility? Or
hauteur?
Inclining his head slightly, he introduced
himself. "Jerome Baila. I'm the communications
officer."
Uhura had heard more enthusiasm from Mr.
Spock. She inclined her head in turn.
"Uhura. I'm with the Enterprise."
He nodded. "Yes. I know." And then
"Uhura means "freedomea"' doesn't it?"
"Why, yes. How did you--" She came up
with the answer to her own question. "You're Bantu."
Baila shrugged. "More or less."
Uhura started to inquire further--and then
stopped herself. The man's response hadn't
exactly invited further conversation on that point.
Baila took in the accommodations. "Not half
bad," he judged. "Looks like Wesley's
rolling out the red carpet for you."
Suddenly she realized how all this might look
to him. Uhura felt the blood rush to her face.
"Lieutenant," she said, "I wasn't brought
here to replace you, if that's what you're thinking.
This is just an ad hoc assignment. When it's
over, I'm history--bblieve me."
Baila smiled humorlessly. "Really," he
responded.
"Really."
"That may be your take on it--but I don't
think it's Commodore Wesley's." A
beat. "You see, the commodore and I haven't
seen eye to eye lately. I wouldn't put it
past him to do a little recruiting."
There was an undercurrent of resentment--of
bitterness--in Baila's voice. And though she
didn't know him well enough to be sure, Uhura
had a feeling it went beyond his apparent feud with
Wesley.
"Well," she said, "I can't speak for the
commodore, but as far as I'm concerned, I've
already got a job--on the Enterprise."
That seemed to take some of the edge off Baila's
hostility. He nodded. "Fine. In any case,
we should talk about the Rithrim." Looking past
her to her sleeping area and her half-full
duffel, he frowned. "That is, when you're
ready."
"I'm ready now," she assured him. "Though
I'd prefer to have this discussion in"--she searched
for the right ^ws, found them--?less controversial
surroundings. All right with you?"
He shrugged. "Whatever you say ...
Lieutenant."

Chekov was thankful that the captain had given the
bridge crew a fifteen-minute break so that they
could eat something in the mess hall before resuming their
duties. After all, if things got tense, no
one was going to eat anything for a while, and without
food some people might be distracted.
Wiping sandwich crumbs from his hands, Chekov
sat back in his chair and surveyed the room.
Everyone seemed to be speculating about the current
mission. He certainly had his ideas, but he
didn't feel comfortable offering them to crew members
he barely knew.
Uhura had assured him more than once that
he'd meet everyone before long. That gave him
cold comfort now, since he didn't see anyone
he really knew in the room. Well, he
corrected himself, he did know Sulu and
Lieutenant Palmer, the relief communications
officer. But he'd just finished a stint on the
bridge with them and didn't want them to think he was
a leech.
He watched as Sulu silently caught the
eye of Lieutenant Peterson, a new officer
assigned to the shuttle deck. The
auburn-haired woman smiled back and gave
him a small wave. It occurred
to Chekov that Sulu had met Lieutenant
Peterson only once or twice before, but here
he was having a grand old time flirting while a
dangerous mission was shaping up.
Such self-confidence, he thought; it was something he
lacked. He became aware of the tension that pervaded
his body and willed himself to relax. If he tensed
up during a stupid meal, what could he expect
during a red alert? Muscle cramps?
Apoplexy?
After finishing his drink, Chekov disposed of his
dishes and walked out of the mess room as casually
as he could. He proceeded slowly toward the
turbolift; a moment later he found him being
whisked up to the bridge.
Once there, however, he started. Somehow,
Sulu had managed to beat him back to their post.
"Welcome back, Pavel," Sulu said
brightly.
"Thanks," Chekov acknowledged, with no little
surprise in his voice. He restrained himself from
asking how the helmsman had managed that trick.
Seating himself at the navigation console, he
quickly called for a standard systems diagnostic.
The green telltale flashed within seconds and he
nodded slightly, pleased that nothing was wrong.
Next to Chekov, Sulu worked hard on his own
system checks. Neither had spoken a ^w since
returning to work. Not unusual, as the crew
prepared for potential problems. Chekov found
himself running his diagnostics repeatedly, keeping
his head bowed.
"Something wrong, Chekov?" Sulu asked.
The Russian shook his head. "I just vant
to make sure. After all, ve have no idea vhat
ve're going to find."
"Probably nothing, at this point. If your
board meets with your satisfaction, then let it
be."
"Are you sure there's nothing out there now?"
Chekov took his hands off the controls, but his
eyes kept scanning the displays.
"You can see for yourself that long-range sensors
show nothing unusual." There was a pause. Then,
quietly, Sulu asked, "Are you worried about
something?"
"Not vorried, exactly. It's just that ve
might find the raiders who destroyed the
colonies, and ve know nothing about them. Just how
powerful are they? Vhat are they after? Can
ve stop them?"
"Good questions, Ensign." Chekov spun in his
chair and saw Captain Kirk standing in front
of the turbolift surveying the crew.

Satisfied with what he saw, Kirk moved
down to his chair. "In fact, Mr. Chekov,
they're very good questions." He turned to Spock.
"Status?"
"Sensors show no signs of disturbance," the
Vulcan replied. He moved from his station to the
captain's chair just as a yeoman brought Kirk
the fuel-consumption report.
Kirk looked at the data pad, signed it,
and returned it to the young yeoman. Turning
to Spock, he sighed. "Why do I always get the
fuel-consumption report before we go into action?
If there was a problem, Scotty would be crying about
his "bairns"' by now."
"Given the nature of the matter and antimatter
supplies and the dilithium crystals, it would be
logical to review our fuel status prior
to entering into anything beyond the normal."
Kirk looked at Spock and realized
rhetorical questions still went over the Vulcan's
head. Figuratively biting his tongue, he just
nodded and looked at the viewscreen. The stars
streaked by in warp space, and there was a peaceful
look to them. Once more into the unknown, he mused,
and decided it was time to prepare not only himself but the
bridge crew as well.
Looking at the personnel, Kirk realized that
he had been in few tense situations with Chekov,
who seemed so young, or with Lieutenant Palmer,
despite her being ranked number two at
communications.
And Chekov was right. There were a lot of
unanswered questions--too many for the captain's liking.
"Let's review what we know about these
raiders we're after," he said in a louder than
usual voice. This made the crew pause at
their stations, giving Kirk their immediate attention.
"We know that the attacks appear to be random,"
Spock replied. "Also, we know that the raiders
will not hesitate to take lives."
The captain nodded. "Fortunately our
shields are a lot stronger than the
colonies'."
Sulu spoke up. "Sir, is it possible that
the raiders--whoever they are--h a
justifiable reason for their actions?"
Kirk shrugged. "It's always possible,
Lieutenant. Andof course we'll hear them out.
But we will not let them endanger any more lives."
He looked around the bridge, but no one seemed
to have anything else to contribute.
Finally his gaze settled on Chekov.
"Ensign, your opinion of the situation."
The young Russian turned in his seat. He
seemed pale as he replied. "With all due
respect, sir, I don't think we can
accomplish anything by speculating. We von't
really learn anything until we find the ships."
Kirk didn't comment on the ensign's reply.
He merely turned to the communications station--and was
mildly surprised to see Palmer there instead of
Uhura.
Damn. Not having Uhura was going to take some
getting used to.
"Lieutenant Palmer," he said, "did the
colonies attempt to communicate with the
raiders?"
Palmer quickly lowered her earpiece and looked
at the captain with bright eyes. "All reports
from the colonies show their universal
translators were operational. Apparently the
attackers weren't much for conversation."

Chapter Four

Kirk, Spock, Chekov, and McCoy
beamed down into the middle of the ruined colony and,
apparently, the middle of a loud argument.
The second thing that Kirk noticed was the
smell of something burning. He turned in a slow
circle, surveying the site of Alpha
Xaridia n II.
At present there was nothing burning at all.
But there hung in the air a sort of omnipresent
blackness, a charnel stench that had not yet
dissipated. It took Kirk a few moments
to realize that the smell resulted partly from the
fact that the raiders had managed to hit power
plants, and the resultant conflagration had left
the air so severely fouled that the odor remained
even after the fires had been extinguished. That stench
had blended with the gag-inducing smell of burned
human flesh.
He looked at McCoy. The doctor had
been present at any number of scenes
of devastation, and he had naturally managed, like
any accomplished physician, to assume an
air of detachment. But McCoy was such a lover
of humanity andof life that Kirk could see that such
a mind-set continued to be a struggle for him.
Spock, naturally, was impassive. Kirk
noticed that Chekov appeared to be the most shaken
of all. That was to be expected. He made no
comment on it, but instead said simply, "Mr.
Chekov ... you're with Mr. Spock. Check the
ruins out for what you can find."
Spock nodded. He flipped open his
tricorder and, without a ^w, headed toward a
section of ruins to begin his inspection. Chekov
joined him and then, following Spock's order,
moved toward a separate section of the rubble to begin
his investigation.
There was no shortage of ruins to choose from.
There was, in fact, almost nothing but ruins. All
over were charred and shattered buildings, smashed
vehicles. Over to Kirk's right, a sign had
come through unscathed that read Botanical
Gardens. Affixed to the sign was a small
hand-made award cut out of blue paper. On it
someone had written "1/ Prize" in a childish
scrawl. Kirk wondered about the story behind that
award and about the quality of the gardens that had
inspired some child to carefully craft the citation.
Of the gardens, nothing remained except a few
stumps of trees that might have stretched hundreds
of feet in the air. There was charred wood and
scorched ground everywhere he looked. Off to one
side were the remains of a bush, which appeared to be
all that was left of a very complex topiary. What
its full shape had been in its prime, Kirk
hadn't a clue.
Some of the buildings had been cleared away, and the
skeletons of replacements were being erected. But
the work was far from finished.
The loud argument going on nearby, Kirk
realized, was part of some sort of town meeting. The
captain looked at McCoy and inclined his head
slightly in that direction. McCoy hesitated.
"Didn't they know we were coming down?" he asked.
The Enterprise doctor had grown accustomed
to getting some sort of reception upon arriving
planetside. Being totally ignored in favor
of a loud and boisterous argument was a new experience
for him.
"We told them," Kirk confirmed.
"Their administrator--a fellow named Jeff
Gelb--sd, in essence, "Come down if you
want to. We're busy. Don't expect us
to make time for you."'"
"Looks like he meant it."
They made their way toward the edge of the gathering,
which numbered about twenty. Everyone was shouting at the
same time. One man was calling for silence and not
getting it. Kirk noted that he was lean and
haunted-looking, with a scraggly brown beard.
Kirk and McCoy exchanged glances. Then
Kirk filled his lungs with air and, utilizing
all his inherent powers of command, bellowed,
"Quiet!"
Whether it was the abrupt introduction of a new
voice or the authority that Kirk projected or
the fact that he was simply louder than everyone
else ... it worked. The bickering ceased immediately,
to be replaced by a very soft and confused buzz as the
colonists sought and found the source of the order.
The bearded man looked at Kirk with a
degree of grudging gratitude. "Captain
Kirk?"
"Mr. Gelb?" Kirk replied.
Gelb nodded briskly.
"This is our ship's doctor, Leonard
McCoy. First things first--d you require
medical assistance?"
"We require Starfleet to do something other
than just come in after we've had the crap kicked out
of us!" shouted someone in the crowd.
Kirk didn't even look in the direction of the
protester. He knew it was important, in a
situation like this, to deal only with the acknowledged head
of the group. Otherwise the entire scene could quickly
deteriorate into chaos. "Mr. Gelb," he said
again, very slowly, "do you require medical
assistance?"
"No, Captain," said Gelb. He had
stepped up onto a pile of rubble, and now he
took a step down. "We've treated those who could
be treated and buried the rest. And although I would not
have expressed it so rudely"--he stressed the
last ^w and paused a moment before continuing--?we are
truly in need of Starfleet's help."
"We need to get off this planet and out of this
system is what we need!" someone shouted.
"This is our home!" came a reply. "Are
we going to be chased out of our home
by terrorists?"
"This isn't home! It's a burned-out
shell!"
"We can reclaim it!"
"We should move someplace safer!"
"There is no safe place."
The last statement came not from any of the
colonists but from Kirk. "Nowhere is safe,"
he said again, more quietly but with no less
conviction.
One of the colonists--a short,
belligerent-looking man--stepped forward.
"Starfleet is supposed to make it safe!" he
said.
"Starfleet makes it safer," said Kirk.
"But to live is to face hazards every day. If you
want utter safety, climb into a sensory
deprivation capsule and live your life cut off
from humanity--and even then, a building could fall
on you or a groundquake could open up under you and
swallow you. Or an undetected blood clot
could cause you to drop dead on the spot, with no
warning, at any time. The only safety in life
is death."
The colonists looked at one another,
puzzled. Gelb cleared his throat. "Captain
... is that somehow intended to make us feel
better?"
"It's intended to let you know that colonists are
the hardiest, most defiant breed there is," said
Kirk. "The type who not only aren't afraid
of life but are willing to challenge it directly
and meet whatever challenges it might throw at
them."
There was silence for a moment, and then the short man
gestured toward the ruined colony and said, "This
isn't difficulties. This is cold-blooded
murder. They came flying in here and slaughtered
us. Women, children--all died screaming. The work of
years--destroyed in seconds. And I want
to know what in bloody hell you are going to d about
it."
Kirk looked at the faces surrounding him,
full of anguish, full of fear, wanting
to believe that something would happen for them, but afraid
of what further might happen to them. They had
fearlessly taken on the challenges that a strange
planet could throw at them, but this ... this
devastation, this wanton and murderous violence ...
Kirk's jaw twitched and his eyes narrowed.
When he met the gaze of the colonists
again, there was an angry fire in his eyes.
"We're going to nail those bastards to the
wall," he said.
McCoy blinked in surprise, but said nothing.
"We're counting on you, Captain," Gelb
said after a long moment of silence.
Kirk nodded once and then turned and walked
off toward Spock. McCoy followed close
on his heels and said in a low voice as Kirk
took quick strides, "That's a tall order,
Jim. We can't be everywhere. If the raiders show
up here while we're elsewhere, the colonists
will--"
"Die cursing my name," Kirk said. He
looked once again at McCoy. "We're going
to get them, Bones. This ... brutality is not
going to happen in my sector. I will not permit
it. I will not."
McCoy said nothing. Somehow he felt that that was
the only thing he could say.
Spock was crouched over one severely
carbon-scored area, studying his tricorder
readings and making adjustments. Kirk came up
behind him and said tersely, "Report, Mr.
Spock."
If Spock noticed the edge in his captain's
voice, he gave no indication of it.
"Curious, Captain. Preliminary tricorder
readings indicate atypical residual
radiation." He rose, straightening his shirt
slightly. "It would seem to indicate a weapons
technology unfamiliar to our science."
"How will it do against our shields?"
"I am unable to determine that at this time. Are
you anticipating battle, Captain?"
Kirk looked at Spock coldly.
"I'm counting on it," he said.

Stalking through one of the colony's burned-out
buildings, Chekov scanned the place with his
tricorder. The air was thick with smoke and dust,
and a number of small fires added to the black
haze that hid the sky. As he approached a
cabinet, his tricorder showed him something unusual
and he stopped suddenly. Crouching, he reached for the
cabinet door, grabbed the handle, and swung it
open.
Despite the tricorder reading that had tipped
him off, he was shocked to find a boy inside--a
boy who had sought refuge in the cabinet.
The grimace on his face told Chekov that the
youth had been asphyxiated.
Chekov took a ragged breath and lifted the
body out of its hiding place. After gently
stretching it out on the floor, he turned away and
bit back the tears.
Damn. So much destruction, so much waste.
Images of what they'd found at the other
colonies flooded his mind unbidden. He shook
his head.
None of his training missions had prepared him for
anything like this. In fact, the only scenes of
devastation he had seen were in historical
briefings on the old Federation-Romulan wars
or the classic Russian Revolution of
1917. It had just never occurred to him that this would be
a part of his Starfleet experience.
He wanted to travel among the stars, sure
enough--but there was definitely a downside
to exploration, and this was it. Stepping cautiously
around the rubble, he couldn't help but glance back
at the boy.
People weren't supposed to be blasted by beings from
space--t was the stuff of old Earth stories.
Who would want to make that gruesome fiction a
reality? Part of him wanted to grasp a phaser,
just to feel secure that this kind of attack would not
happen to him.
Instead, Chekov raised his tricorder, forcing
himself to recalibrate its sensor pickup to find
more examples of the radiation Spock had detected
earlier. The best samples were to be gathered and
beamed up to the Enterprise for forensic inspection.
His fingers, slick with sweat, slipped twice before
he finally got the adjustments right.
Bending low, Chekov waved the tricorder in
front of a burned-out gray street lamp. The
reading was too low to be useful. This is good, he
thought. This is making me concentrate. Chekov
liked puzzles, and this kind of work was good for him;
it kept him interested in minutiae and how everything
formed a larger picture.
He walked several meters away and then bent
again, this time aiming the tricorder at a small
storage building. The radiation and
spectrographic readings were within the range
specified by Spock. The source of the radiation was
a small portable computer that had apparently been
near a direct hit. Perhaps the memory was still
intact, Chekov mused.
The ensign knelt to study the device more
closely and gave some thought to the kind of beings who
would slaughter an entire population so far inside
Federation boundaries. Surely they must have realized
this would bring about some sort of Starfleet action.
What could the stakes be? So far no one, not even
Captain Kirk, had a theory.
Unfortunately the computer's memory had been
wiped clean. Chekov rose and started back
toward the beaming site.
As he walked among the blackened shells of
buildings, his mind turned back a few months
to his graduation from Starfleet Academy. With his
high grades in just about everything, it had been a
certainty he'd find a berth aboard a starship,
but he had not known which one.
He would have settled for any one of the twelve
Constitution-class vessels currently
commissioned, although his preference was definitely the
Enterprise. It had a unique legacy,
stretching back through the heroic captaincy of
Christopher Pike to the command of the legendary
Captain Robert April.
Even more impressive, however--at least
to Chekov--was the ship's current captain,
James t. Kirk. Skippers like Commodore
Decker on the Constellation and Bob Wesley
on the Lexington were older men with great
accomplishments in their record. But it was the young
Captain James t. Kirk who had fired
Chekov's imagination.
At thirty-four, Kirk had done more and seen
more than Chekov imagined possible. It was Kirk
who had helped draw up the Organian Peace
Treaty, Kirk again who had gone head-to-head
with the Romulans and actually return unscathed.
The Enterprise was the first ship to discover the
First Federation and to make that critical first contact
with the heretofore unknown Gorn, who were near this
system. So much adventure. Chekov had been so
certain he wanted to be a part of it.
But now there was a nagging doubt in the back of his
mind. Was he really up to serving on this ship? He
was no longer sure he had what it took to serve
under Kirk.
He recalled vividly how, during his first
shift on the bridge, he'd nearly navigated
the ship in the wrong direction. Sulu had helped
cover up the mistake, and the two had become
friends, but Chekov kept comparing himself to those
other navigators who were paired with the always cheerful
lieutenant.
Chekov started when he heard a noise coming from
within a collapsed building--but it turned out to be
some lab rats scurrying with newfound freedom.
Chekov's thoughts settled again. He sighed.
Even when he beamed down as part of a landing party,
he never quite felt he was giving it his best. It
always seemed to him he could do something more or something
better, despite the fact that most of the time the
landing parties were surveying lifeless worlds.
It was doubly distressing to know that Captain
Kirk was taking note of his every shortcoming.
Kirk was his idol, his standard. The man was a
living legend, even though he never acted like one--
not even the time they were on Beta Damoron Very and
found themselves in the middle of a revolution.
Trying to measure up to someone of Kirk's
stature was a discouraging task at best--one that
made him nervous on some occasions and depressed
on others. On the other hand, if he was going
to become a captain himself one day, he'd have
to measure up.
All this thinking had Chekov walking blindly, not
even listening for warning sounds from the tricorder.
He trudged through the debris, glancing now and again
at his tricorder for signs of something that might be
of value.
At one point he rounded a corner of a burned
husk of a building and tripped on a chunk of
plastisteel. When he tried to get up, he found
himself face-to-face with another corpse.
This time he wasn't sure if it was a man or
a woman because the skin had been charred and all
traces of hair were gone. The face was a mask
of terror, the mouth forever caught in a rictus of a
scream. Chekov could almost hear the corpse's
voice crying out as death staked its claim.
Breath came raggedly to the Russian as he
scrambled to his feet. The sweat that had begun
to bead on his forehead now seemed like a torrent; his
shirt stuck uncomfortably to his back.
Swallowing hard, Chekov began to walk away
from his close encounter. He gulped air a few
times, trying to steady himself as he resumed his
search.
What brought him back to attention was a resounding
crunch. Looking down, Chekov saw a pile of
data tapes under his boot. He stopped to look
around and realized he was in a research
center that had been pretty much leveled. Husks
that might have been dead scientists lay under desks
or in metal closets.
After bending to wave his tricorder over the
debris, Chekov tried to see if any of the
data on the tapes could be retrieved. No
way, he concluded after a moment or two. He'd
destroyed them when he stepped on them. They were now
as useless as the computer he'd found earlier. He
prepared to redouble his efforts at being vigilant--
He sensed the presence of someone behind him.
Whirling, he was startled to see that he was right.
But it was only Captain Kirk, standing there with
his hands on his hips, looking none too pleased.
The ensign's hands fumbled with the tricorder, which
would have hit the ground had it not been for the safety
strap slung over his shoulder. As he quickly
scrambled to attention, a fresh torrent of sweat
covered his body, and Chekov cringed at what he
knew was to come.
"Ensign, have you any idea what just happened?"
"Yes, sir. I accidentally stepped on these
computer tapes, ruining the information encoded on
them."
Kirk stepped closer to Chekov, narrowing his
gaze. The ensign, for his part, actually thought he
could feel his pores opening up, letting sweat
roll over his body.
"Those tapes may have contained information recorded
during the attack."
"Aye, sir. I know, sir."
"In fact, we may have lost a chance to discover
who the raiders are ... thanks to this haphazard
approach you have decided to take on a landing-party
assignment. Just what are they teaching cadets these
days?"
"I don't know, sir."
"No, I suppose you don't. You're not a
cadet anymore, mister, and I expect my
crewmen to perform better than cadets. Better
than any other crew members in the fleet, in
fact. Am I making myself clear?"
"Yes, sir. It von't happen again, sir."
Chekov felt his accent growing thicker as his brain
threatened to freeze up on him.
There was a long pause, and then Kirk seemed
to change tactics. "Of course, we don't know
what was on those tapes. They may have contained
something as useless as fuel-consumption reports.
"But"--and now Kirk began to circle
the ensign--?now we'll never know. I dislike not
knowing things, Ensign. I do not want any more
mistakes on this mission. You understand that?"
"Yes, Keptin. Perfectly."
"Good. Now let's salvage what we can.
Dismissed."
Ensign Chekov did as he was told. For the
rest of the day he tried not to allow himself to become
distracted. When Spock informed him it was time
to return to the ship, he glumly joined the rest
of the landing party. His last thought before beaming up was an
idle one How did one avoid beaming back
aboard a starship?

The Lexington's main rec room was a lot
like that of the Enterprise, not only in appearance but
in tone as well. Though the faces were unfamiliar
to her, the hum of conversation was easy and subdued,
and the occasional riff of laughter sounded hearty and
sincere. The only thing that was missing, Uhura
told herself, was someone playing a Vulcan harp--
or crooning an old African ballad.
Then again, she told herself, it was just as well that
the place was relatively quiet. Otherwise
she and Baila would have had to sequester themselves
someplace stuffyou, like the ship's library.
"As I understand it," her fellow communications
officer was saying, "the Rithrim have a rather rigid
caste system."
"That's right. The population is divided
into governors, builders, gatherers, and
procreators. There is a strict division of
responsibilities."
"Like a Terran insect hive."
She nodded. "Good analogy."
"And we don't know what they want of us?"
Uhura shook her head. "We haven't got
a clue."
Baila looked at her, his finely shaped
nostrils flaring. "Of course, you're going to find
out."
She recognized the remark for the jab it was,
but that didn't make it sting any less.
"We're going to find out," she reminded him.
"I will do my part--and you will do yours."
He cocked his head to one side. "Come on,
Lieutenant. You're the e xpert on nonverbal
communication. I'm just window dressing, so the
Rithrim can see we're taking them seriously."
His voice was calm, smooth. But it
didn't disguise the tinge of animosity in his
hard, black eyes.
Uhura sighed. "First," she told him, "I
am not an expert. I am merely more knowledgeable
about nonverbal communication than other available
personnel. Second, I'm going to need all the
help I can get. Understand?"
"Sure," he replied. "I understand." He
looked away from her, as if suddenly interested in
something else. "Wouldn't I be an idiot not
to? I mean, without me, there's no way this
mission could succeed."
Uhura shook her head. "You know," she said,
"you're not making this easy, Mr. Baila." She
sat back in her chair. "I've already told you
I'm not after your job. What more do you want of
me?"
He started to answer, then bit back whatever
he was about to say. Finally he told her "You're
right. This isn't very professional of me. I'm
sorry. Whatever problems I've got are my
own."
When he met her gaze again, the fire was gone
from Baila's eyes. In its place there was a
hollowness. Almost a ... sadness.
Uhura's heart went out to him. Inwardly she
cursed herself for being too soft.
In the few moments she'd spent with this man,
he'd been either cold or downright insulting. She
didn't owe him anything--least of all her pity.
"Look," he said, "maybe we ought to continue
this discussion later." He stood. "I'm afraid
I'm not very good company right now."
And without another ^w he left her there in the
rec cabin.
A few crewmen looked up to watch Baila
go. After the doors had slid closed behind him, they
turned to Uhura.
She smiled self-consciously. They smiled
back, or shrugged, and then returned to their own
conversations.
Uhura bit her lip. This was certainly going
to be an interesting assignment.

It was some hours later before hunger won out and
Chekov left his cabin. He walked to the nearest
mess room, hoping not to be seen by too many people
along the way. Even though Kirk had dressed
down Chekov in private, he was certain ^w had
somehow leaked out. All eyes would be on
him.
But when he entered the mess, he was relieved
to see just a few people relaxing, finishing meals, or
chatting over coffee. He walked over to the food
slots and picked up the data tapes with the day's
menu. Just holding them made Chekov think of his
mistake, and he was tempted to return to his
quarters. The rumble from his stomach made him
reconsider. Ah, well, better some food
than no food at all, he decided.
After carrying his tray to the table, Chekov took
the lid off his soup bowl and let the steam soothe
him. A whiff of vegetable-beef was all he
needed. He grabbed his spoon and attacked the
soup eagerly.
"So, how bad was it down there?"
Chekov stopped in mid-slurp, certain he was
in trouble again. Looking up, he saw the smiling
face of Lieutenant Palmer. She took the
seat opposite him and placed her own tray on
the table. Company was the one thing he did not
desire right then, but the ensign realized he was
outranked.
"Bad" was all he felt comfortable saying in
reply. He hoped that would be enough. Palmer ate
a forkful of her chicken salad and nodded. Chekov
debated scalding his mouth in an attempt to rush
through his soup and go back to his cabin.
Before he could settle the argument with himself,
Palmer looked over and said, "You know, in all
my time on the ship, I've never been on a landing
party. And here you are, an ensign aboard for just a
few months, and you've been to what, six or
seven worlds?"
"Four."
"Four. That's four more than me. Not that I'm
really complaining, but it would be nice to actually
meet some of these people I deal with by communicator.
It used to be that way aboard the Trudeau. It
was a much smaller ship, so we all took turns
visiting worlds, even though we never left the
Federation."
She paused to eat and Chekov felt
obligated to maintain the conversation. Anyone over
the rank of ensign held sway over his life,
he knew, and at that moment he didn't need any
more people thinking ill of him. Captain Kirk was
enough.
"So why did you transfer to the Enterprise?"
he asked, assuming it was a safe enough question.
She finished a bite and patted her lips, her
eyes wide. "Why? Same reason most people
transfer aboard. This is the ship with the reputation
--the Talosians, the Klingons, the
Romulans. It's the ship on the cutting edge.
"What I didn't count on was being shipbound.
I should've known, though. I don't mind being
number two in communications; I mean, Uhura
is absolutely inspired. I guess I just
want to see a planetary surface other than
during a shore leave. You know, I want to do
something exciting."
Palmer finished her meal and adjusted a stray
blond hair over her ear. "I want to see
other races, learn who else is out here. If
I'd just wanted to play at communications, I could
have stayed at Starfleet Command. No, sir, I
want to be a part of the action. Don't you?"
"Yes ... of course. But don't you worry
about making mistakes? Or being blasted by some
unknown enemy?" He watched her carefully,
checking to see what seasoning did to a crew
member's perspective on those basic questions.
"Everyone makes mistakes, Ensign. But
we're supposed to learn and prosper by the learning.
At least that's what Mr. Spock tells me
whenever I screw up. As for being blasted, I
guess it's a risk I'm prepared to take. Of
course, serving under Captain Kirk gives one
a certain level of security in that regard."
Chekov nodded and thought about her ^ws. She was
right, of course, he told himself. Feeling more
relaxed about his situation, he finally admitted,
"I made a bad mistake today. Worse,
Keptin Kirk saw me do it."
"And?"
"And? I considered resigning my commission right
then and there. The keptin really rode me. He said
he expects the best and I didn't give it."
"So give it next time. Come on. Shift's
about to change, and you look as if you need some
sleep."
Chekov felt tired, all right. He wasn't
surprised that it showed. Standing, he noted that he
hadn't finished his meal; maybe he hadn't been
as hungry as he thought.
Or maybe it wasn't just food he'd been
hungry for. Maybe his conversation with Palmer had
given him the energy he needed.
If she could correct her mistakes,
so could he. Maybe he could even regain favor
with his commanding officer. All he had to do was become
the best navigator one could ask for.
But are you up to it? he asked himself. That nagging
doubt was still there.
With no ready answer, he accompanied
Palmer back to the turbolift and programmed it
for the bridge.

Chapter Five

Spock leaned over his hooded science station,
studying the full spectral analysis the lab was
sending up from the debris gathered on Alpha
Xaridian II. He sensed, rather than saw,
Kirk standing just behind him.
The captain rarely displayed great patience when
he was waiting for information.
"Records indicate," Spock said after a
moment or two more, "that there is some similarity between
the radiation traces left by the raiders' weapons
and those produced by the weaponry used by Landorian
pirates."
"Landorians?" Kirk frowned at that.
"They're a bit far from home."
"Indeed," Spock said. "The concentrated
activities of the raiders suggest two
possibilities either they are fairly local,
or they are, as humans would put it, "f out of
town--"'"
"And they're clustering their activities to make
it look as if they're local," said Kirk.
"If it's the latter, our job will be that much more
difficult. S"--he walked briskly around the
perimeter of the bridge to the viewscreen--?let's
operate on the presumption and hope that it's the
former. Let's check out the neighbors. Put the
entire Alpha Xaridian system up on the
screen. Let's see who else is in the area."
The view screen now displayed a schematic
of the entire system--all five planets that
constituted the worlds orbiting the star of Alpha
Xaridian. Kirk indicated each one, and
Spock, using his flawless memory, recounted the
specifics.
"Alpha Xaridian One, devoid of life.
Alpha Xaridian Two, site of the colony that
was attacked. Alpha Xaridian Three, also
devoid of life. Alpha Xaridian Four,
we believe, was the site of an atomic
war a century ago that ripped away the
atmosphere and obliterated the populace; no
signs of life there. Alpha Xaridian Five
is populated and called by its inhabitants
Parathu'ul, which means, in their language, Our
World."
"Parathu'ul," Kirk said slowly. He
continued to stare at it as he said, "We'll run
sensor sweeps on One, Three, and Four.
If any of the raiders' ships are hiding there,
they'll be that much easier to detect." He paused
again, then repeated thoughtfully, "Parathu'ul."
He tapped it on the screen. "I know that race.
They applied for Federation membership, didn't
they?"
"That is correct," Spock confirmed.
"Three years ago. But it quickly became
apparent to all concerned that their prime motive was
to obtain certain information about Federation technology
that would enable the ruling regime to further its
despotic hold on the populace."
"And the Federation refused them membership," said
Kirk, "stating that the regime would certainly
become even more oppressive if they had access
to advanced technology. Hmm. A
totalitarian regime with an ax to grind and a
hunger for weaponry ... practically neighbors
with a Federation colony that was attacked, and within
striking distance of two other beleaguered star
systems." Andwith no warning, he suddenly turned
to Chekov. "What does that suggest to you, Mr.
Chekov?"
Chekov tried not to act as startled as he was.
"That a wisit to the Parath'aa might be in
order."
"It might indeed. Set course for
Parathu'ul. Let's"--and he sounded almost
jaunty--?stop by and say hello, shall we?"

Because the Enterprise was proceeding slowly, in
order to run sensor scans on the other planets
in the Alpha Xaridian system, it was nearly
an hour before the starship fell into orbit around
Parathu'ul. Within moments after they did so,
however, Palmer looked up from the communications
board. "We're being hailed by the Parath'aa,
Captain," she said.
"Are we, now?" Kirk put on an air of
mild surprise. "Imagine that."
"Shall I put them on, sir?"
"Scan the area, Mr. Spock," Kirk
said, deferring his reply to Palmer. "Any sign
of ships matching the description of the raiders?"
"No sign of any ships in the area aside from
ourselves, Captain."
"And on the surface of Parathu'ul? Could the
Parath'aa be hiding them?"
"Unlike the Enterprise, the raiders have
space-to-ground capabilities," said
Spock. "In fact, Parathu'ul has a
relatively advanced technology, though it is
not on par with that of the Federation. Ships could be very
easily masked on the planet's surface, and
it would be most difficult for our sensors
to detect them. Unless, of course, they give off
a significant energy discharge, and we happen
to be looking in the right place at the time."
"I see." Kirk rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
Palmer spoke up again. "Captain, the
Parath'aa are becoming quite insistent."
"Are they? Very well, Lieutenant ... on
screen."
A moment later one of the Parath'aa came on
the screen. Inwardly Kirk winced, but his
expression never faltered. He had been a
starship captain for far too long to let a little thing
like aesthetics throw him.
And the Parath'aa were, by human standards, among
the least aesthetically pleasing beings in the galaxy.
Their skin was so thin as to be nearly translucent,
and thus shadows and hints of their inner workings were
visible.
The epidermis around their skulls was
particularly tightly drawn. Their eyes seemed
to float in the sockets, and the Parath'aa looked
like a perversely cheerful race, since their teeth
seemed set in a permanent grin. The Parath'aa
had acquired an under-yr-breath nickname in the
Federation the Dead Heads.
"We are hailing the Federation starship in orbit
around us," the Parath'aa said formally.
Kirk inclined his head slightly. "This is
Captain Kirk, in command of the starship
Enterprise."
"You are here about our reapplication to the
Federation?" asked the Parath'aa. He sounded almost
eager.
Kirk covered his surprise quickly. He'd
had no idea that the Parath'aa were once again
lobbying the Federation for membership. This,
however, could quickly be turned to his advantage.
"We are exploring the possibility, yes," said
Kirk neutrally.
"You are coming then to surface of Parathu'ul?"
"If that is acceptable," Kirk said.
"We are in expectation of you, then," said the
Parath'aa. "I am being planetary head
Silva."
"We are being on our way, Silva," Kirk
told him. "Enterprise out." He stood as the
rather difficult image of the Parath'aa blinked off
the screen. "Mr. Spock, ready the
transporter room to beam a landing party to the
surface myself, Dr. McCoy, Mr.
Sulu, and Mr. Giotto."
"I am to continue sensor sweeps of the planet
to see if there is any evidence of the raiding
ships," said Spock.
"Mr. Spock, you read my mind."

The landing party arrived on Parathu'ul a few
minutes later, materializing in the center of
Silva's office. Several other Parath'aa were
standing in a small semicircle, and Silva
introduced each one of them in turn. Their names were
virtually unpronounceable, and Kirk suspected
that Silva's real name was, as well.
Probably he had used a more human-sounding
equivalent for the convenience of the Enterprise
captain and crew. It was a rather considerate
gesture for Silva to make.
And another considerate, or at least somewhat
fortunate, aspect was that the Parath'aa disliked
being touched. Instead, they bowed slightly from the
hip, or the equivalent of the hip. Their bodies
were oddly structured; their waists seemed to be
situated just under the human equivalent of the
armpits.
"Captain Kirk," said Silva softly, "you
honor us with your presence. And you surprise us,
I must admit. It was only several days ago that
we sent our transmission to the UFP regarding
our reapplication for admittance. That you would
arrive so quickly ... I am impressed."
"We happened to be in the area," said Kirk.
"Think of it as one of those serendipitous things."
"You are being also fortunate to catch us on a
pleasant day," he said. "Weather on
Parathu'ul is notoriously unpleasant, yet
here ... look. The sun is shining," and
he gestured to the window of his office. "You are
bringing good climates with you, Captain. A good
omen."
Kirk glanced out the window, and the view was
extremely pleasant. The buildings of the
capital city were tall, gleaming spires. The
streets looked extremely clean. There was a
good deal of bustling about on the main avenue below, but
the crowd was orderly and well mannered.
"Matters have improved on Parathu'ul since
our previous UFP contact," Silva continued.
"Our population is being much more content. Vastly
improved mass transit has improved the
quality of life. Peoples are happier,
wealthier than they have ever been. The air is being
cleared. Unlike the previous regime, we are
being more lenient with those who speak their mind. We are
being"--he paused, searching for the right term, and then his
face brightened--?vacation spot."
"Vacation spot?" Kirk smiled lopsidedly
at that. He looked at the other members of the landing
party for confirmation as he said, "Well ... that would
hardly seem likely, what with the problem with the
raiders."
"Raiders?" Silva seemed genuinely
puzzled.
"The raiders who attacked Alpha
Xaridian Two," Sulu now spoke up.
"Certainly you were aware of it?"
Silva frowned, and one of his advisers leaned
over and whispered in his ear--or at least the
equivalent of his ear. Silva's temples
visibly throbbed. "Oh! Of course. Yes, the
unpleasantness of a short time ago. That is being very
unfortunate." He shook his head. "Very
unfortunate."
"It appears," McCoy said, "that you were
lucky enough to be spared."
"You've had no contact with the raiders at
all?" Giotto asked.
"None," said Silva. "We agree, yes,
we are being lucky. It would seem that the luck of the
Parath'aa is changing, yes? Only short
years ago, UFP wishes to have nothing to do with us.
And now be looking at us. Healthy, prosperous.
No trouble with raiders, with--"
There was a noise from the street below. Kirk
frowned. "What's that?"
"What is being what?" asked Silva. His
mouth was drawn back in that typical
rictus smile.
"That shouting, from the crowd."
Kirk went to the window and looked down.
Approaching the front of the building was a
small band of protesters. They were carrying
placards, waving signs and shaking their fists in
anger. It was clear that they were unhappy about
something. He turned to Silva. "What's the
problem there?"
"H-nots," said Silva.
Kirk and the others exchanged a glance.
"H-nots?" asked Sulu.
Silva patted himself on the chest and indicated
the others as well. "Haves." He pointed out
to the street, toward the protesters. "H-nots.
Always are being, yes? Always being case. Always are
being small, small minority who are unhappy
about being h-nots. But it will not be spoiling lovely
day, yes?"
Now there were the sounds of scuffling, and the noises
of protest were abruptly drowned out by the sounds of
weapons fire. The Enterprise team looked
down at the street in horror as, before their eyes,
the Parath'aa who had been leading the protest were
cut down at close range. The deadly and
efficient Parath'aat blasters were being wielded
by what appeared to be armed security guards who
did their job very efficiently and very brutally.
Bodies were cleaved clean in half, upper
sections falling away from the lower, heads being
severed at the neck. Others in the crowd who had
been shouting agreement with the protesters now quickly
faded into the safety of the mob, getting as far from the
scene of the slaughter as quickly as they could.
Kirk turned toward Silva and made no
attempt to hide his anger and disgust. He pointed
a shaking finger toward the window in disgust as he said,
"You support that ... that hideous display of
oppression ... and you still claim that you're being more
tolerant of those who speak out against you!"
"Not tolerant." Silva corrected him
politely. "Lenient. Our predecessors would
arrest protesters and then torture them publicly
before killing them. We are being"--he mimed a
throat-cutting gesture--?merciful. We are being
lenient, yes? Those who are being publicly
unhappy, openly protesting--they are knowing there will
be no torture. Instead, quick death.
Improvement, yes?" He looked from one man
to the other with almost puppy-dog eagerness.
McCoy could barely get a ^w out, and when he
did, he whispered it, sarcastically "Vast."
Kirk's communicator beeped, and he
flipped it open. He tried to keep his voice
neutral. "Kirk here."
"Captain," came Spock's voice, "the
survey we discussed is completed.
Possibilities of camouflage still exist, but
at present there is no sign."
"Thank you, Mr. Spock. Prepare to beam
us up."
"Is there being problem?"
"No problem, Silva," Kirk assured
him. "None at all."
"You are being recommending of us, then? Tell
UFP of our softening of our stance?"
"I'm sure they'll be interested to hear every
detail," Kirk said.
"About cleanliness and better life here on
Parathu'ul?"
"Absolutely."
"Mass transit. Tell them we are having
trains running on time."
Kirk looked at him ask ance. "Somehow,
Silva, I don't doubt that. Mr. Spock,
four to beam up."
Moments later the landing party vanished in the
shimmer of the Enterprise transporter beams.
Silva turned and grinned the perpetual
Parath'aa grin at his associates.
"We are being in for certain," he said.

Chapter Six

Down in Engineering, lights flickered on the
portable scanner being waved over a vast
collection of junk--all of it remnants of the
Alpha Xaridian II colony. Frowning
over the readouts, Scott tried adjusting the
scanner. There was no change in the readings--a
result that did not improve the engineer's mood.
"I canna understand why someone would want
to destroy a colony," he muttered. Scott's
hand went out for his coffee cup, and he absently
raised it to his lips. Cold. It figured.
Replacing it on the table, he returned his gaze
to the scanner.
While Scott enjoyed ripping mechanical
things apart, he hated seeing someone do it for no
apparent reason. Like the captain,
Scott hated mysteries. He wanted to understand
what had happened in the Xaridian systems, which was
why he'd personally taken over the inspection of the
material that had been beamed up from the ruined
colony.
Another reason, he had to admit, if only
to himself, was that with the ship just moving through space, things
were too normal, too close to the edge of
suspense for him. Instead of pacing back and forth in
his engine room, which he knew like the back of his
hand, Scott preferred studying the debris.
Of course the investigative teams from the
science division had gone through the material under
Spock's scrupulous supervision. But they had
agreed that Scott might have a different point of
view. At his request, some members of the landing
party were assisting him--including Ensign Chekov,
who was taking measurements of some charred, melted
equipment with a tricorder.
Snapping off his sensor, Scott looked about
him and sighed. He had been going after this for two
hours and seemed no closer to a clue than before.
He thought maybe some walking about would clear the
mind.
Scott stretched and began pacing the room,
watching the others at work. He stopped at the
food dispenser and summoned another cup of hot
coffee. Sipping at it carefully, he continued
to watch the others. He noted that Chekov was
readjusting his tricorder, so he walked over
to observe.
Chekov and Scott had not worked much together, but the
engineer considered him a fine young man.
"Something, laddie?" Scott stepped closer as
Chekov finished adjusting the tricorder.
Chekov looked up briefly and then returned
his gaze to the screen. "Maybe, Mr. Scott.
I am trying to boost the lower-range readings. I
think we may have something new."
"Aye. Try using the Feinberger attachment for
more detailed readings," Scott suggested.
Chekov opened a small hatch on the front
of the tricorder, and out popped a small circular
device, which was electronically connected to the main
tricorder. While medical science teams used
the devices more than any other crew members, the
Feinberger scanners had a multitude of
uses. Waving the small, twinkling device within
an inch of the machinery, Chekov looked carefully
at the tiny read-out screen.
"Ah, I think I have something. The spikes on
the lowest electromagnetic column may be an
energy signature. Maybe Mr. Spock can
extrapolate from this and find out just how powerful these
cossacks really are."
Scotty looked at Chekov's tricorder and
took a cautious sip of his coffee. He thought
for a moment and then looked again at the tricorder.
"I don't think so," he said, taking the
Feinberger from the surprised ensign. Scotty
waved it in front of the slagged metal and then
looked at the tricorder for confirmation of his
suspicion.
"What you found here is a signature, all
right--but it's nae from the weaponry. It's
residue from the equipment's own power supply.
See how it follows a very standard pulse
pattern? It's the same on dozens of different
machines. Sorry, laddie, but you've found nothing
new yet." Scott reached out and tried to put a
reassuring hand on Chekov's shoulder, but he
felt the younger man tense.
"Damn!" the ensign exploded through clenched
teeth. The vehemence of his tone took Scott
by surprise. "When am I going to get something
right? I follow the book, I do as I'm told,
and I keep getting it wrong! Tell me, Mr.
Scott, is there some reason I'm always
wrong?" The pained look on the ensign's face
caused Scott some serious concern, and he tried
to defuse the young man's anger.
"Ye're an ensign, laddie. Haven't ye
learned by now that ensigns are never right?" He
grinned. "I dinna do any better when I first
shipped out. Look at it this way if ye start
off perfect, you've got a very dull life ahead
of ye."
Chekov shook his head and sighed loudly.
"I've done what I can here. I'll log my
report--vhat little I have to tell--and return
to the bridge," he said in a monotone. Standing,
he snapped shut his tricorder and restored it to the
cubby near the door.
"Laddie, I could use a hand with this larger
piece," Scotty said quietly. While he
had been reviewing it for hours already, Scott
thought he could at least try to diffuse the ensign's
frustration with work--even though it might double the
frustration the chief engineer felt himself.
Hefting the larger engineering scanner,
with its triangular design, the engineer aimed it
directly at the center of the molten metal.
Chekov slowly walked over to Scott's side
and watched.
"Here now," the engineer said, gesturing to the
remnant. "I'm tryin' the opposite of what
you just did. We'll go to the upper end of the
spectrum, with a more powerful diagnostic tool.
Check my readouts, would ye?"
All right, so maybe it was make-work, but long
ago Scott had learned that if people were to keep
performing and learning, they had to stay busy. Too
much time with their thoughts and they sooner or later
couldn't figure out how to turn on their computer.
Using Scott's own tricorder, Chekov
matched readings with the larger device. Scott
slowly moved the scanner over every millimeter of the
metal. Narrowing his eyes, Chekov appeared
to be absorbed in the activity--looking for something,
anything.
For what seemed like a long time there was nothing out
of the ordinary. The scan bars on Chekov's
tricorder remained flat and steady.
Suddenly there was a color jump into the blue
portion of the spectrum and then a powerful spike
downward. Scott watched Chekov blink and
moved the tricorder closer to his own eyes.
Another blue shift and then a deeper spike
downward. The pattern was repeated with the downward
motions remaining at a constant depth.
"Meester Scott, you found something!" Chekov
exclaimed.
"Aye? What is it, lad?"
"I do not know ... yet. But it is
definitely showing as a radiation reading--and it is
not anything the tricorder recognizes."
"Now, that's something. Let's have a look,"
Scott said, and held out his hand. He read the
tricorder screen more closely, relieved that
Chekov had accomplished something worthwhile. Of
course he should have thought of checking the upper
register earlier, but that was water under the bridge;
this was definitely something to study further.
He resolved not to forget to mention Chekov's
contribution when he made his report. Anything
to help the young man, Scott figured. He
recalled that it was not that long ago he was a
junior engineer on the Enterprise under
Captain Christopher Pike, and there had been
many frustrating moments when he thought his
skills were less than a match for the expectations
of his superior officers.
"Thanks for the assistance, laddie. Now off with
ye, while I finish this up. The briefing is
to start in a little while and I've got that' have this
report ready."
Chekov looked up suddenly. "I did not know
of any briefing."
Scott coughed to cover his surprise. He should
have realized Kirk was going to keep Chekov in the
dark until the ensign regained the captain's
confidence. "It's for senior officers," he
managed to get out.
"That usually means bridge staff. That usually
means ... me," Chekov stammered. He
slumped his shoulders and left the room.
Scott watched with sympathetic eyes. I'll
have to talk with that boy, he thought. But first, we have this
problem to deal with.

As Rithra came up on the main
viewscreen, it became obvious to Uhura that it
was a class-M world. It was somewhat bigger than
Earth, but its gravity, atmosphere, and
meteorological characteristics were well within the
limits of human tolerance.
Of course, class-M status didn't
necessarily mean a world would be aesthetically
pleasing when seen from space. As it happened, this
one was positively breathtaking in its
cloud-wreathed umber-and-aquamarine majesty. And
from her vantage point beside the commodore's command
chair, Uhura certainly had the time
to appreciate the view.
"Approaching the planet," announced
Berriman, Wesley's pretty redheaded
helmsman.
"Slow to half-impulse," the commodore told
her. "Prepare to enter orbit, Mr. Ito."
"Aye, sir," responded Ito, the stocky,
dark-eyed navigator. "All preparations in
place."
Wesley's orders were phrased a little
differently--perh stronger in tone--f the ones
issued by Captain Kirk, Uhura noted. But
then, Kirk and the commodore were different people. And
anyway, it was the results that really counted.
"Open hailing frequencies," Wesley said.
"Hailing frequencies open," Baila
confirmed.
Uhura experienced a twinge; it felt
strange to hear someone else say those ^ws. She
couldn't help but glance back at the communications
station, where Baila was running through the required
protocols. With a small sigh, she turned
back to the screen.
"Something wro ng, Lieutenant?" Wesley
looked up at her, expecting an answer.
Uhura clasped her hands behind her back as she
turned back to the viewscreen. "No, sir.
It's just that I'm not used to ... well ..."
"Approaching a planet without having to open
hailing frequencies?"
She shrugged. "Something like that."
Turning back to the main viewscreen,
Wesley chuckled. "Nothing like a new
perspective to make you remember why you signed
up in the first place--eh, Lieutenant?"
Uhura returned his gaze and finally nodded.
"I suppose so, sir."
For a moment the commodore continued to study her.
Then Baila spoke up.
"I have a response from the Rithrim," he
reported.
Straightening in his seat, Wesley addressed the
viewer. "On screen, Mr. Baila."
A fraction of a second later the image of a
Rithramen governor appeared--though it was
difficult to make out at first, given the amount of
ambient illumination that accompanied it. Uhura
had to squint to compensate, though the brightness didn't
surprise her; she'd learned about the Rithrim's
love of light in her studies.
As her eyes adjusted, she was able to see more of the
governor. Like all Rithrim, he was basically
humanoid, with pinkish orange skin, small
black eyes, and a feathery crest on his head.
Though the viewscreen showed only his head and
shoulders, Uhura knew that his body was tall and
slender--a trait peculiar to the governor
caste.
"Welcome," said the Rithrim. "I am
Endris, present-cycle governor of
Rithra." As he spoke, his hands danced quickly
but gracefully.
Uhura frowned, trying to keep up. She
hadn't expected the Rithrim's hand language
to proceed at such a breakneck speed.
"Lieutenant?" Wesley breathed without
looking up at her.
"He's embellishing the greeting," she
explained, though some of the details had eluded
her. "You're not just welcome, you're very
welcome."
The commodore smiled. "I'm very pleased to have
such a gracious host," he told the governor.
Uhura made the necessary signs for emphasis,
so Wesley's remark would be overlaid with the same
enthusiasm as the Rithrim's.
"I see," observed the governor, "that you have
brought along an interpreter."
The commodore nodded. "As you know, our
translation devices do not supply us with the
complete meaning of your communications. Lieutenant
Uhura is familiar enough with your gestures to give
us the information we lack."
The Rithrim eyed Uhura for a moment. He
said nothing, but his hands pantomimed approval of
her.
"If you would like to beam down now," Endris
suggested, "we can supply the necessary
coordinates." Again his remarks were accompanied
by a series of quick, deft signals.
The more she saw of the governor's hand
language, the easier it was for Uhura to follow.
"Interesting," she said, low enough so only Wesley
could hear it. "He seems impatient. There's a
definite note of urgency in his gestures."
"Any idea why?" asked the commodore, also
speaking sotto voce.
"None," she told him.
Wesley grunted softly. "We would be
happy to beam down now," he informed the Rithrim,
raising his voice again. Uhura reinforced his
statement, to make it clear he had no reservations
whatsoever.
"Receiveg those coordinates, sir," Baila
reported from the communications station. "And relaying
them to the transporter room."
As if that were the cue he'd been waiting for, the
governor inclined his feather-crested head. A
moment later his image vanished from the screen,
to be replaced by the regal aspect of Rithra.
"Thank you, Mr. Baila," said Wesley.
He stood and turned to Uhura. "Let's see
what that urgency's about, shall we?"
"Let's," she agreed.
The commodore cast a sweeping glance over his
bridge. "Berriman, you've got the conn.
Samuels and Baila, you're with me."
Before the ^ws were entirely out of his mouth, he was on
his way to the turbolift.

As Uhura materialized with the others, she was
glad for the precautions Dr. Coss had insisted
they all take to protect their eyes. Even with
her polarized visor, which curved around the top
half of her face, she found the ambient light
too bright for comfort. The viewscreen, with its
automatic compensating filters, had only hinted
at the intensity of this world's natural illumination.
Looking around to get her bearings, she found herself
in a large, ancient-looking courtyard constructed
of a material that looked very much like sandstone. An
abundance of frescoed walls, carved corner
pillars, and freestanding statuary made of the same
material as the basic structure gave the
place a feeling of vigor and enthusiasm--of
teeming, joyful energies yearning for application.
The focal point of the courtyard was a small
pool, a perfect square of still water that
reflected the vibrant blue-green sky
overhead. On either side of the pool was a bench.
And one of the benches was occupied by five tall
figures wearing black robes.
"The governors' council," someone whispered--
Uhura wasn't sure who. She was too busy
watching the nearest robed figure as he rose and
gestured to the bench on the opposite side of the
pool.
The lieutenant recognized him as the
present-cycle governor, Endris.
"Please," he said. "Sit."
"I don't think we need a translation for
that," commented Wesley.
As one, Uhura and the others crossed to the
proferred bench. Only after his guests had made
themselves comfortable did Endris himself sit down.
For a moment each group surveyed the other,
careful not to actually stare. Beside Uhura, the
commodore cleared his throat.
"It is our understanding," he began, "that the
matter which brought us here is an urgent one. If
it's all the same to you, we'd like to dispense with
protocol and hear how we can help."
A little blunt, Uhura reflected, as she
used her hand gestures to soften Wesley's opening
just a bit. But then, as she was learning, the
commodore wasn't one to mince ^ws.
Some of the governors exchanged
glances, though Endris continued to regard Wesley
and his party. "We appreciate your candor," the
Rithrim said. There was no trace of irony or
resentment in his hand motions.
As Uhura waited for more, she saw movement
at the far end of the courtyard. Squinting, she
picked out three figures--Rithrim, like the
governors, but squatter and more powerful-looking.
Also, they were dressed in more functional outfits.
And they were carrying some sort of tools.
Builders, she guessed. That would explain the
physical discrepancies they were of a different
caste than Endris and his companions.
Glancing at the Federation personnel but passing
no comments, the newcomers moved unobtrusively
to a corner of the yard. After putting their tools
down on the ground, they seemed to inspect a
portion of the carvings--a portion that, now that Uhura
took a closer look, appeared to be in need of
repair.
Then she had to forget about them for a while.
Endris was speaking again.
"It is in the spirit of that candor," he went on,
"that I will tell you this there is a place called
Girin Gatha, not more than a few hundred
kilometers south of here. It is the site of an
important Rithramen facility--and it is
threatened by an active heat."
Uhura felt her companions turning to her.
"A heat?" asked Samuels.
"Obviously a ^w that has many different
meanings in this culture," noted Baila. "The
nonverbal modifier will determine its specific
meaning here."
Ignoring the exchange, Uhura focused on
the governor's hand signals--but failed to catch
their meaning. Apparently understanding her difficulty,
Endris repeated himself.
"Ah," she said. "I get it now. A heat,
in this case, is a volcano."
"Lousy planning," muttered Coss, "to put
an important facility next to a volcano."
The commodore shot him a discouraging look, then
turned again to the governor. "If I may ask,
what's the problem? A force-shield should protect
your facility from a ... a heat." He waited for
Uhura to differentiate the ^w from its various other
meanings. "And our data on Rithra indicate that
you developed shield technology some time ago."
"That is correct," Endris
agreed. "What is more, we have successfully
employed this technology at Girin Gatha for
many years. However, the molten minerals produced
by the heat in recent months have been marked by a
certain amount of radioactivity."
"So that's it," said Samuels. "The radiation
is playing havoc with shield integrity. I've
seen that sort of thing before."
The governor signed his agreement. "Our
shields are failing to hold back the molten
flow. And though it advances slowly, it may be
only a matter of weeks before our facility is
destroyed." He paused. "The Federation's
shield technology is more advanced than ours.
It is our hope that you will be able to construct a
shield generator at Girin Gatha that will render
the facility secure again."
The governor--indeed, all the governors--
seemed calm as this information was dispensed. However,
judging by their hand movements, there was a terrific
emotional charge behind that calm. Uhura reported
as much to her commanding officer.
"I see," said Wesley. Then,
to Samuels "How long will it take to rig up a
shield generator for these people?"
The first officer shrugged. "Depends on the
size of the area being shielded, the terrain, and the
nature of the lava flow, of course--xs
volume, its speed, things like that. But I'd be
surprised if we couldn't do it in a few days.
Maybe less, if we really pushed ourselves."
Wesley turned to the Rithrim. "How's that
sound?" Again Uhura softened the edges of his question
with a series of polite, graceful gestures.
Endris signed his exhilaration. "It sounds
most pleasing," he answered. "Most pleasing
indeed."
"Good," said the commodore. "I have to warn you,
though--I don't know about your shield
gener ators, but ours have been known to go down from time
to time. If I were you, I'd plan on relocating
the facility to a safer place."
"We cannot," replied Endris. His hands moved
more quickly, more forcefully, to underscore his
inflexibility on that point.
"Why not?" asked Samuels.
Again the council members exchanged glances.
And again the present-cycle governor remained
steadfast in his attention to the visitors.
"You see," said Endris, his hands
proceeding slowly again, "the facility is one of
our major reproductive centers. It is used
by our procreator caste to produce new generations
of Rithrim. And procreators can perform their
function only in the place where they were born."
"That's right," said Coss. "I remember
reading about that. The Rithrim are like salmon back
on Earth--they have to return to their birthplace
to spawn."
Samuels grunted. "What a complimentary
analogy, Doctor."
Wesley regarded the benchful of governors.
"That answers my question," he assured them.
Endris signed his satisfaction that the
commodore had been accommodated. And there was a
pause as Wesley prepared to broach the second
topic they'd come to discuss with the Rithrim.
Uhura took advantage of the respite
to observe the builders again. They were continuing their
inspection of the carvings, running their fingers over them
and communicating with one another by means of gestures
alone.
As she watched, they seemed to reach a conclusion.
One of them picked up a tool and, as quietly
as possible, began to chip away at one of the
carvings under consideration. No doubt, the
lieutenant mused, a preliminary to repair.
Then her attention was drawn back to the
commodore, who'd finally decided on the right
approach. "There is another matter," he told
Endris and the others, "which is unrelated to the one
we've already discussed. And that is the Federation's
desire to establish an observatory here on
Rithra. I take it you've had time to digest the
detailed plans we sent you?"
Uhura used her hands to emphasize the ^w
"unrelated," making it plain that this was not a quid
pro quo situation. In other ^ws, it wasn't
necessary for the Rithrim to allow the observatory in
order to obtain help in protecting their
procreation center.
When both Wesley and Uhura were done,
Endris replied. "We have indeed had the
opportunity to review your plans. And we see
no reason for work on the observatory not to begin as
soon as possible."
Like Uhura's gestures a moment earlier, the
present-cycle governor's made it clear that the
observatory issue was separate from that of the
procreation center. She couldn't help but
smile. Apparently the Rithrim had decided
to allow the Federation its facility regardless of
what else transpired.
During her tenure on the Enterprise,
Uhura had seen a number of negotiations start
out promisingly and end in frustration or failure.
It was nice to see this one going so well.
"Thank you," said the commodore. "We
appreciate that. And I'd like to pursue the
matter further--.af we secure the procreation
center." Then, looking at his fellow officers,
he added "Unless anyone else has something
to contribute, I suggest we get back to the ship
and organize an engineering team."
Uhura had contributed all she could;
apparently, so had everyone else. When the
commodore stood, they all followed suit. A
moment later the Rithrim stood as well.
"We are indebted to you for your assistance in this
matter," said Endris.
"Think nothing of it," replied Wesley.
Uhura made sure to soften the edges of that
remark, too.
The commodore took out his communicator and
snapped off a command "Beam us up,
Lieutenant."
"Aye, sir," came the response.
It took a couple of seconds before they started
to dematerialize. As she waited, Uhura was
able to concentrate a little more on the builders at the
far end of the courtyard.
They were all chipping away now, though their
actions were still confined to a small area. Momentarily
she had a funny feeling--t they weren't
repairing the carving, but obliterating it.
But that's silly, she told herself. Why would
anyone want to destroy an ancient carving?
Perhaps it had seen better days, but it certainly
didn't present a danger to anyone.
Then the transporter effect claimed her and
she found herself back on the Lexington.

"You've been very fortunate, Miss Jarvis,"
Kirk said.
Sharon Jarvis, the colony administrator of
Beta Xaridian IV, nodded in agreement with the
captain's assessment.
They were walking down the center street of the
colony. Kirk thought there was nothing particularly
impressive about the settlement--
unlike the more elaborate colony in the
neighboring Alpha Xaridian star system, this
outpost on Beta Xaridian IV seemed almost
rough-and-tumble. The colonists that Kirk noticed
going about their business were more of a mix than the
largely human population of Alpha Xaridian
II. The colonists of Beta Xaridian IV
seemed grittier, tougher ... and also, it seemed,
at least two-thirds of them were female.
Administrator Jarvis was typical of the
population. She was not a particularly tall
woman; she was a bit stocky, solidly
built, and muscular, with short hair shot through with
gray.
Montgomery Scott approached them,
accompanied by Giotto. Scotty was
absentmindedly wiping his hands on his uniform
legs, as if to rid himself of some grease that he
might have acquired. That wouldn't have surprised
Kirk in the least. Scotty had a tendency
to get right into the thick of things--bbhavior far
better suited to lower echelon engineering
personnel than to the chief engineer. But Kirk was
certainly not going to be the one to tell Scotty
to change the way he did things.
"Planetary defense systems check out,
Captain," Scotty said approvingly.
"I could have told you that," said Jarvis, taking
a drag on her cheroot. "My people are the best--
no insult intended to your own, of course."
"None taken, Miss Jarvis," said Kirk.
"There's room in the galaxy for several
"bestsea"' I've always thought."
"Captain," Giotto spoke up, "it might
not be a bad idea to evacuate the colonists."
Jarvis looked at Giotto in surprise.
"Now why in hell should we be evacuated?"
"As the captain said," Giotto observed,
"you've been lucky. The raiders who have been
savaging colony worlds in the Xaridian systems
have, thus far, not attacked you. Perhaps it would be
best for you to leave before there is some sort of
unpleasantness."
Jarvis looked him up and down, then turned
to Kirk. "Do you concur with this opinion,
Captain?"
Kirk pursed his lips. "Over on Alpha
Xaridian Two, we came in in the middle of a
fairly heated discussion on that very topic. The
colony had been ravaged, and the
population was debating as to whether they should leave or
not."
"What did you tell them?"
Kirk cleared his throat. "I ... told them
they were brave individuals facing a galaxy
filled with danger."
"And they stayed."
"They stayed, yes," Kirk said. "But so far
the raiders have not attacked any given world more than
once. Relatively speaking, those colonists
are safe where they are. You, on the other hand,
remain a viable target ... and judging from the
destruction over in Gamma Xaridian, the
raiders are getting more, not less, vicious.
Perhaps it might make more sense for you to--"
"Run like hell?" she asked, her eyes
twinkling slightly. "Captain, this wouldn't have
anything to do with the fact that this colony is run by,
and has a high population of, females, would it?
Making you feel a bit more protective?"
"Certainly not, Miss Jarvis," Kirk
said, bristling slightly more than he needed to.
"Because if you were, I'd understand it. I think it
would show a rather charming streak of chivalry in you."
"In that case"--Kirk allowed a small
smile--?there might be some protectiveness at
work here."
"That's what I thought," said Jarvis. "You men
are all alike. This is the twenty-third
century, and you still figure that we women need your
strong arms to protect us."
Kirk was taken aback. "Wait a minute.
You said you thought chivalry was charming."
"I lied."
He stared at her for a moment and then laughed.
After only a moment's hesitation, she joined him.
"Miss Jarvis, I believe you when you say
you can take care of yourselves. Still ... considering the
track record of these raiders, I think my
concern can be chalked up to something other than
misplaced chivalry."
"Understood, Captain," replied Jarvis.
"But the bottom line is, my people and I are not
going to be scared off."
"Perhaps that's the intention of the raiders," Kirk
admitted. "To try to get everyone off the colony
planets. And fear is just as effective a
weapon as anything else."
"More efficient, too," commented Scotty. "You
dinna have to worry about casualties or
expending energy."
"But why do they want us to leave?" said
Jarvis. "Even if the reason for the attacks is
to get people off the worlds ... that can't be the sole
motive. There must be some further incentive.
Territorial gain, maybe. Or maybe there's
something on the planets that they want."
"We're exploring all the possibilities,
Miss Jarvis, I can assure you of th--"
The communicator beeped, and Kirk quickly
answered.
"Captain," came Palmer's voice,
"we're receiveg a distress call from Gamma
Xaridian Eight."
"Another planet in the Gamma system," said
Kirk grimly. "The raiders?"
"It would appear so, sir."
"Beam us up immediately. I want the helm
ready with warp speed the second my foot hits
the transporter pad. Kirk out."
Scotty and Giotto stepped closer to Kirk
as Jarvis stepped back. "God watch over you,
Captain," she said.
"If He will," said Kirk. "And the same
goes for you."
"If She will," replied Jarvis, and she
not ed Kirk's small smile as the
Enterprise officers beamed away.

Please don't let me screw up.
Chekov was certain that his hands were trembling as
he laid in the course that would take them, via the
most direct possible route, to the beleaguered
Gamma Xaridian VIII. He was dimly
aware of Sulu's eyes on him as he worked, but
said nothing. He performed a last-minute check on
his calculations just before he entered them into the computer,
but then his hand stopped in midair above his
instruments. Something was not right. He was overlooking
some detail. And then he realized what it was even
as Sulu said in a low, amused voice, "So you
noticed it, huh?"
He turned to Sulu, feeling the blood drain
from his cheeks as he said, "I was about to make the
correction."
"Good," Sulu said affably. "Following a
course straight through the Gamma Xaridian sun
might not have left us in very good shape to stop the
raiders once we got there."
The turbolift door hissed open,
and Kirk entered quickly. Spock rose from the command
chair as Kirk took his place. "Take us out
of orbit, Mr. Sulu."
"Aye, sir."
"Course plotted and laid in, Keptin,"
said Chekov. He glanced at Sulu, but the
helmsman was busy and didn't spare the young
ensign so much as a glance.
"ETA at warp seven, Mr. Sulu?"
"Twenty-two minutes, Captain."
"Let's hope to God it's fast enough. Warp
seven, helm. Take us out of here."
The Enterprise whipped out of orbit and
launched itself into warp space the moment it was clear
of the planet's atmosphere.
The blare of the red alert signal sounded
everywhere, but it was loudest in Chekov's head. There
was room in it only for the noise andforthe recurring
thought that was almost a mantra Please don't
let me screw up.




Chapter Seven

Like the rest of the Federation team, Uhura had
been briefed by the Rithramen builders whom
Endris had put in touch with them. But no amount of
briefing could have prepared her for what she saw when
she beamed down.
To the west, a volcano of staggering proportions
was discharging a steady tide of lurid liquid
rock. The tide was deflected by the invisible
barrier of the Rithrim's shields some fifty
meters beyond the facility, but that didn't make it
any less frightening.
To the north and south the deflected lava
crawled along the shields and flowed into the blinding
expanse of blue-green sea that surrounded the
procreation center on three sides. Where cool
water and red-hot rock collided along the
shore, massive sizzling clouds of steam rose
up to fatten the clouds overhead.
The facility itself was simple and boxlike--
perhaps fifty meters by fifty meters and two
stories high. Though it was apparently constructed
of the same kind of stone as the governors'
courtyard, the place was much more stark and
modern-looking, like the statuary surrounding
it, which celebrated all four Rithramen castes.
"Damn," breathed Wesley, who'd
accompanied Uhura. He adjusted his visor.
"Ever see a place quite like this one,
Lieutenant?"
"Can't say I have," Uhura muttered, taking
a few steps toward the shield.
She watched the lava roil against it. It was like
a struggle between force and restraint, between order and
chaos. And a small Rithramen building where
babies were conceived and nurtured stood amid this
clash of elemental powers--and survived.
It was remarkable. It was more than remarkable.
"Welcome to Girin Gatha," called a
robust and familiar voice. Turning, Uhura
saw Samuels trekking across the humpbacked
sweep of sandy rock that fronted the facility.
The first officer had been down here for nearly an
hour, helping the Lexington's engineering people
survey the terrain.
He wiped his brow as he approached; his
tunic was marred by dark sweat stains. "Nice
place to visit," Samuels remarked, "but I
wouldn't want to have to procreate here."
Uhura smiled. "Good thing you don't have to,"
she told him.
The man was beginning to grow on her, she
decided. Even if you didn't like his sense of
humor, it was hard to argue with his dedication; no
officer she had seen worked harder than Wynn
Samuels.
Turning to the commodore, he asked, "What
brings you down here, sir?"
Wesley shrugged. "The lieutenant here thought
it might be a good idea for us to see the place."
He cast Uhura a sidewise glance. "If the
subject comes up again, she says, we'll be
better off knowing what we're talking about." A
pause. "And after a moment's reflection I had
to agree with her. So here we are."
"I see," said the first officer. "In that
case, you might want to do your observing from inside
the building. It's a lot more comfortable in there."
He swept a lock of sweat-matted hair out of
his eyes. "Just because I'm nutty enough to be out here
doesn't mean you have to be nutty too."
Wesley looked at Uhura. He indicated
the procreation center with a tilt of his head. "Shall
we?" he asked.
Uhura hesitated. "With all due
respect," she said finally, "I'm not that eager for
comfort, Commodore. I don't mind a little
perspiration if it means being able to see something
I've never seen before. I mean, isn't that the
reason we signed up in the first place?"
Wesley regarded her, remembering where he'd
heard the ^ws before, and from whom. Slowly, a
smile spread across his face. "Right you are,
Lieutenant. And thanks for reminding me." He
turned to Samuels. "You see?" he said. "Now
that's a communications officer."
The first officer cleared his throat, obviously
feeling awkward about participating in any implied
swipe at Baila--particularly in front of
one of Baila's peers.
"I'd best be getting back to the engineering
team," he said. Andwitha nod that was meant for both of
them, he turned and made his way back across the
humpbacked front yard of the building.
As he vanished from sight, the commodore
regarded Uhura. "I didn't mean that to sound like
an indictment of Mr. Baila, Lieutenant--
even though it came out that way."
"It's all right, Commodore. I understand."
Wesley frowned. He seemed to be thinking about
something. Finally he said "Can I ask you something
off the record, Lieutenant?"
That caught her a little off-balance, but she
nodded. "Sure."
The commodore's frown deepened; he actually
looked angry. "You've spoken with Baila a
few times now--and you're obviously a
perceptive woman. Can you tell me what's
made him stop caring?"
Uhura didn't know quite what to say to that.
"Stop caring?" she echoed.
Wesley held up his hands. "Listen, if
I'm intruding on a confidence, or if you just
plain feel uncomfortable talking about a
colleague, I'll back off. It's just that he
used to be a good officer--a very good officer. And
now he's something less than that."
The communications officer swallowed. So
Baila wasn't far off the mark at all. His
job .was in jeopardy.
Unfortunately Uhura couldn't answer
Wesley's question. She said so.
The commodore accepted her response. "Just
thought I'd give it a shot," he told her.
"No harm in trying, eh?"
"No, sir. No harm in that."
Wesley rubbed his hands together. "Well then,
we came down here to look around. Let's look
around, for God's sake. Any idea where you'd like
to start?"
Uhura scanned the area. "Well," she said,
"we've seen the volcano side. Why not take
a look around back?"
"Sounds good to me," he agreed.
As they walked in that direction, the hissing
produced by the meeting of lava and seawater grew
louder. By the time they reached the space between the
procreation center and the sea, the sound was almost
deafening, though the droplets of water in the air
offered them some relief from the heat.
For a while the sputtering clash of molten rock
and lapping tide mesmerized Uhura. Then she
turned to the commodore and saw that he wasn't
looking at the shoreline anymore.
He was staring back at the building itself. And as
she followed his gaze, she saw what had caught
his eye.
There were several gaps in the ring of statuary around
the back of the procreation center--places with
pedestals but no figures. It was as if someone
had vandalized the grounds, cutting down the statues
at their ankles. And yet, all their intelligence
on the Rithrim indicated that there was no crime
on this world.
Wesley grunted. "What do you suppose
happened there?" he asked. "Those statues don't
look old enough to need replacement."
At first the communications officer was at a
loss. Then she remembered the builders back in
the courtyard--and how it had seemed to her, if
only for a moment, that they were defacing the carvings rather
than repairing them.
Was there a connection or was she jumping
to conclusions? And even if she was right, did her
observation have any significance with regard to their
mission?
"Sir," she said finally, "I may be
completely off base, but I think the Rithrim
are making some changes in their public statuary
policy."
He looked at her. "What do you mean?"
"Back in the courtyard, there were some
builders--"
"I remember," he said. "I saw them working
on one of the reliefs."
"That's right," Uhura confirmed. "At first I
thought they were just doing some repairs. Then it
occurred to me that they might be obliterating what was
there. And now, seeing these statues missing, I'm
wondering if there isn't some sweeping change
taking place in Rithramen society--some
philosophical overhaul that requires them
to reject figures they used to honor."
The commodore's brow furrowed. "Makes
sense. And if that's the case, I'd like to know about
it. It may be nothing of concern to us, of course.
But then again, it may be significant--if not
now, then down the line."
Uhura agreed. "Maybe we should ask the
governors," she suggested.
Wesley nodded. "Maybe we should." Taking
out his communicat or, he flipped it open. "Two
to beam up," he instructed the transporter
chief.
But before the order went into effect, Uhura
noticed, he took a last glance at the gaps in
the statuary. Nor could she help but look that way
herself.
"Damnedest thing," said the commodore just before they
left the procreation center behind.

Back in her quarters, Uhura stood in
front of the bathroom mirror and ran a comb through
her hair, grateful for the opportunity that
Wesley had afforded her to shower and change her
clothes. It felt good to be clean again, to be
wearing a freshly laundered uniform and to hear
nothing but the subtle hum of the Lexington's
engines, after the relentless furor of Girin
Gatha.
Fortunately the commodore hadn't deemed the
missing-statuary question so urgent that they had to contact
the governors immediately. The lieutenant grimaced
now at the idea of having to wear her
perspiration-soiled one-piece through an extended
session with Endris and the others.
Considering herself one last time in the mirror, she
put down her brush, smoothed her uniform, and
left the bathroom. The lights, she knew, would
switch off a few moments after the room's
sensors recorded her absence.
Wesley had asked her to be on the bridge in
half an hour; she had ten minutes left. But
with nothing to keep her here, and the answers to her questions
awaiting, Uhura decided to report
early.
She was halfway to the door when she heard the
beeping that signaled the presence of someone
outside. It surprised her. Who could it be?
she wondered.
"Come on in," said the communications officer.
As the doors slid aside, they revealed
Jerome Baila. His expression was as guarded as
ever, Uhura noted. But there was something different
about his eyes--something soft, almost vulnerable, where
before they'd been hard and unyielding.
Taking a step inside, he said "Can I
talk to you?"
She shrugged. "Sure. I'm due on the
bridge soon, but I can spare a few minutes.
Have a seat, won't you?"
Baila crossed to the overstuffed chair in one
corner of the room and sat down on the forward edge
of it. Uhura positioned herself just opposite, on
the chair's twin. There was a free-form glass
table between them, supported by more of that real wood that
had so impressed her when she arrived here.
"What can I do for you?" she asked.
His one hand kneaded the other; the man seemed
full to brimming with nervous energy. "Tell me
about your village," he said. "Your family.
What kind of place you come from."
After he'd kept her at such a distance until
now, these weren't exactly the kinds of questions
Uhura had expected. She was tempted to ask
about the change of tack--but refrained.
"I come from Koyo," she told him. "It's a
small town just west of Mombasa, though not so far
west the ground's not good for farming. My father is a
professor of African history with the
University of Kenya; my mother was a
sculptress. I was their only child." She
paused. "What else would you like to know?"
"Where did you learn sign language?" he
asked.
Uhura smiled as she thought about it. "When I
was ten, my cousin Epala came to stay with us for a
summer. Epala had been deaf since birth; she
spoke with her hands. I remember thinking they were like
flitting birds, and that I would never understand what
she was saying. But she was older than I was by a
year, and very pretty, and I wanted to be just like
her. So I learned the language of the flitting
birds." Her smile grew broader. "In
fact, that's what first got me interested
in communications."
Baila nodded. "And what did they think, this
family of yours, when you decided to go out
into space?"
She shrugged. "They weren't thrilled about it at
first; it meant I'd be gone for long periods at
a time. But they accepted it after a while." She
looked at him. "Why?"
He swallowed. "I just wanted to know." And much
to her surprise, he got up and headed for the
door.
"Whoa--hang on just a moment there!" The ^ws
were out of her mouth before she knew it. And they weren't
the kind she usually spoke. There was a distinct
tinge of anger to them.
Baila stopped, turned. "Yes?" His eyes
were opaque again, arrogant. His very bearing was a
challenge.
For a moment, as Uhura's anger subsided,
she wondered what she was going to say next. Why
was she angry, anyway? What had he done but
ask her some questions?
No, he'd done more than that. He'd asked her
for a part of herself. And in that request had been an
implicit assurance that he would give something of
himself in exchange. Now he was trying to renege
on that promise, but she wasn't going to let him
get away with it.
"You asked," she told him, "and I answered.
Now it's my turn. Sit."
Baila hesitated, but only for an instant.
Then he did as he was told.
Uhura sat down again, too. She looked her
visitor square in the eye and asked "Where are
you from?"
The muscles in his temples worked ever so
slightly. "Potayu. Near Lake Nyasa."
"And your background?" She could see that she was
going to have to drag it out of him.
"My father was a farmer, my mother a farmer as
well. I have six brothers and sisters. And the
ground there was never as good for farming as it was near
Mombasa."
He spoke the last ^ws like a whip, as if it
were her fault his family hadn't had an easy
time of it. Uhura, like any East African, was
familiar with the crop failures that had taken
place a decade ago around Nyasa. She
couldn't help it if she'd lived in a more fertile
area.
"You make it sound as if I was the one who
withheld the rain," she said.
He shrugged. "That wasn't my intention."
Uhura bristled at his insolence, but she still
wanted to understand him. In fact, she wanted
to pierce that attitude of his more than ever now.
What else might she ask him? Then she
remembered the last thing he'd asked her.
"What did your family think of your joining
Starfleet?"
Before she'd gotten the last ^w out, Uhura
saw the look in his eyes. It was relief, she
realized. He'd wanted her to pose that question,
hadn't he? That was what he'd been angling for
all along.
"They disapproved," he told her. "They
disapproved mightily."
Bits and pieces of information Uhura had
heard as a child floated to the surface of her
memory. And suddenly she understood. She
understood everything.
"Potayu was one of the towns that followed
Beccah Talulu, wasn't it?"
"It was," he admitted. "My parents were
among her first and most loyal supporters. They
took up her ways even before I was born."
"So when the crops failed--"
"We starved," he said, finishing the thought for her.
"No one actually died, of course, but a lot of
us came close. And if the rains hadn't finally
come when they did ... I probably wouldn't be
here talking to you now."
Uhura shook her head. It was the
twenty-third century. People weren't supposed
to starve to death, or even come close. But Beccah
Talulu had persuaded entire villages
to give up the techniques of modern science and
embrace the primitive virtues she espoused.
Not that it had been all bad. Civilization
had a way of distancing people from their roots; it was a
good thing to be reminded of one's kinship with
nature. But Talulu, a self-styled
prophetess who claimed to be descended from the
great kings of the region, went too far, it seemed
to Uhura.
"As a child," Baila said, "I wasn't
allowed to read about anything even vaguely
scientific. But I had this curiosity--th
desire to know about things beyond our town and its ways.
So when my parents took me into one of the
larger towns to sell their baskets and their pottery
in the market, I stole from the booksellers and
hid the books in my robes. After a while I
got quite good at it. But the books didn't
satisfy--they only fanned my desire."
His eyes flickered, as if he were reliving
everything he was saying. "Finally, when I was
eleven, I couldn't contain myself anymore. I
ran away to my aunt's house in Quelimane.
My aunt didn't approve of Talulu. She
was more than glad to have me."
Uhura looked at him. "Quelimane is
on the coast. You traveled all the way there from
Potayu--at the age of eleven?"
He grunted. "It was the longest journey I
ever made. Earth to the Klingon Neutral Zone
seems like a short hop by comparison. But I
made it."
"What about your parents?" she asked.
"Didn't they want you back?"
Baila shook his head. "Aunt Kisal
told them why I left. They didn't try
to convince me I was wrong. They just wrote me
off."
Such a thing was incomprehensible to Uhura. She
couldn't imagine parents who would give up their child
without a fight. But then, she hadn't lived in a
Talulu village, had she?
"Thanks to my aunt," he went on, "I had
a proper education. And I fell in love with the
idea of Starfleet--of going out where no one had
gone before. Sometimes I couldn't sleep for thinking
about it. I worked hard. I worked very hard. And on
my second try, I made it into the
Academy."
"Your aunt must have been very proud," Uhura
commented.
He shook his head. "My aunt passed away
before I was accepted." He sighed. "My first year
at the Academy was fascinating, exciting, but very
lonely. No matter how many friends I made, there
was a void in my spirit that cried out for the woman
who'd raised me." He licked his lips. "When
summer break came, all the other cadets went
home to their families. I had no one to go home
to, but I desperately didn't want to stay in
San Francisco all by myself. And then I had
an idea I would go back to Potayu."
"You went?" she asked.
Baila nodded. "I went. But as it
turned out, it wasn't a very good idea. My
parents, my brothers and sisters ... they acted as
if they didn't know me. It was as if I'd never
existed for them. And when I protested tha t I was still
me, I was still Jerome, my mother said that Jerome
was long dead and that the dead don't come back
to life, no matter what I'd been taught in the
great Academy.
"You see," he said, "it was so long since
I'd been there, I'd forgotten what Beccah
Talulu had said about going out to the stars in ships
that it was wrong, that it was an insult to the soil that
gave us birth. My family believed that what
I was doing, what I was planning to do, was an act
against nature." He hung his head, and the
muscles in his temples worked even harder than
before; when he spoke, it was ever so softly. "After
all, Beccah Talulu had said so."
Uhura regarded him. There was no haughtiness
left in him, no arrogance. There was only a man
who had been cut off from his past and his people--a man
who, in gaining what he believed was his heart's
desire, had lost all that was dear to him.
He looked up, his chiseled nostrils flaring.
"So now you know," he told her. "You've heard
a story I didn't dare tell to anyone on this
ship. And make no mistake, if you hadn't come
from Koyo near Mombasa, I wouldn't have told
you, either."
She understood. There was no need to say so.
What was it Commodore Wesley had asked
her, back at the procreation center? "Can you
tell me what's made him stop caring?" he had
said. "He used to be a good officer--a very good
officer. And now he's something less than that."
Uhura knew the answer to the commodore's question
now. Slowly but surely, Baila's dedication
had been undermined by his heartsickness. His
curiosity had been ground down by his family's
disapproval of what he'd become. And over the
long years the loss had made a husk out of him,
a hollowed-out imitation of an officer.
Baila stood. "We're probably overdue
on the bridge," he told her. "We should be
getting up there."
She cursed inwardly. She'd been so
enthralled by Baila's confession, she'd forgotten
all about Wesley's orders. Shooting to her
feet, she headed for the door. But before she got
halfway, she noticed her companion
hadn't moved.
"Something wrong?" she asked.
He held her with his gaze. "What I told
you--it goes no farther than this room. I don't
want anyone else to know."
Uhura frowned. It was a confidence; she
hadn't planned to discuss it with anyone anyway.
"No one else," she agreed.
He nodded. "Thank you."
Then they went out the door and headed for the
turbolift.

The Enterprise dropped out of warp space,
and the first thing Kirk saw were large pieces of
metal floating in front of them. The debris
appeared to be the remains of some sort of ship,
andfora fleeting moment Kirk thought that some starship
had arrived ahead of them, perhaps even dispatched the
raiders before they could engage in their terrorist
activities.
"Spock--"
"Analyzing debris, Captain," Spock
reported, anticipating Kirk's request. It
took only a few moments before he looked up from
the science station. "It would appear to be the remains
of the Viking, Captain."
Kirk cursed to himself. The Viking, the
patrol ship that had come to offer aid to Gamma
Xaridian IV, although it turned out there was none
to be given. What had been the captain's plan,
then? Had the Viking and its crew remained in the
system, perhaps hidden themselves nearby, waiting to see
if the raiders would strike again? Whatever had been
their intention, that act of bravery had been their
last.
Kirk's blood boiled as he said, "Ahead
full."
"Approaching Gamma Xaridian Eight,
Captain," Sulu called out.
And suddenly Chekov was pointing at the screen,
almost jumping to his feet. "There they are!"
"Imprecise but enthusiastic, Mr.
Chekov," said Kirk. "There they are indeed."
The raiders were swarming toward the eighth planet
of the Gamma Xaridian system, and the sensors
quickly determined that their number was an even dozen.
"They appear to be arriving only now," said
Spock. "It would seem that the Viking's
battle tactics were able to slow the raiders down
sufficiently so that the emergency signal
reached us in time."
"Let's make sure that Viking's
sacrifice wasn't in vain," said Kirk
sharply. "Uhu--Palmer, open a channel.
Warn them off from Gamma Xaridian Eight."
"Hailing them on all frequencies,
Captain," said Palmer. "No reply."
And suddenly the raiding ships came together,
angled around, and hurtled directly toward the
Enterprise.
"I think we're about to get their reply," said
Kirk.
The raiders dived toward them in two staggered
rows of six, and then their weapons came alive,
raking the much larger starship with a series of
hammerlike blasts that shook the Enterprise
over and over.
"Repeated hits on the starboard shield!"
Sulu called out.
"All phasers, fire!" called Kirk.
The Enterprise phasers lashed out at the
foremost of the ships--but a split second before there
was contact, the raiders peeled away from one
another, gracefully forming twin arcs, and the phaser
blasts went straight up the middle, passing them
by harmlessly.
"Stay ahead of them, Mr. Sulu," said
Kirk. "Anticipate their moves and fire where
they're going to be."
Chekov looked at Sulu nervously and
whispered, "He wants you to read their minds?"
Sulu made no reply. Instead his fingers
flew over the targeting devices as he watched
carefully the sweeping curves of one set of the
ships. Mentally he counted down, looked to where their
course was going to take them, and fired.
And the half dozen ships, incredibly, suddenly
angled down and away, dodging the phaser blast with
only kilometers to spare.
Meanwhile the other half dozen ships swept
in from port and again fired on the Enterprise,
blasting away and then shooting off into the either before the
starship could return fire.
"Starboard and port shields each down
seventy percent," reported Spock.
Kirk grimaced upon hearing the news. Draining
off power from one shield to supplement the other would
leave them virtually unprotected on one side.
"Status on the raiders?"
"We have yet to hit any of them. The
size of their engines would not indicate warp
capabilities above factor two, but they are
far more maneuverable at impulse than we are.
Their size and speed make it possible for them
to stay extremely close to the ship and increase the
effectiveness of their weapons without suffering
damage from ours. Their fighting style does not
correlate with any known tactics."
"They're coming up behind us!"
"Bring us around!"
"Too late!"
The raiders hammered them from aft. Kirk could
almost hear the screams from the engineering section; the
shield generators were stretched to the breaking point.
"Phaser and photon array, full spread!
Fireffwas
The Enterprise cut loose with all the
armament at its command, andwith speed and maneuvering that
bordered on the supernatural, the raiders danced
in between the bursts from the mighty starship. In the
meantime the ship shook yet again; its defenses were
wearing down quickly.
Damage reports were being screamed to the
bridge from all parts of the ship. "Forward phasers
out!" called Spock. "Starboard shields
buckling. Port shields can sustain only
another hit or two."
"Keptin, the Turnoga defense!" Chekov
suddenly shouted. "In a situation like this--"
"Not now, Mr. Chekovffwas said Kirk.
"But, sir, against multiple enemies, the
Turnoga defense--"
"That's for use against vessels considerably
larger than these, Ensign, and I don't have time
to turn the bridge into an Academy lecture
hall. Bring us around at four-nineteen mark
six. Drop forward shields, prepare for warp
speed."
"What?" Chekov couldn't believe it.
"Captain, even minimal warp will kick us right out
of the system! The colony will be defenseless. Andwith
no shields, we'll be defenseless. They could
fire on us before--"
"Carry out your orders, Ensignffwas
"Yes, sir!" But even as his hands flew over
the controls, he continued. "But I know if we
adapted Turnoga--"
"Ensign, you're relieved," said Kirk
sharply. "Palmer, take over. Mr. Chekov,
get the hell off the bridge. You're
confined to quarters."
Chekov's hands froze, and he felt the
blood pounding through his head. He tried to get ^ws
out, and then Palmer was at his side, shoving on his
shoulder. The Russian staggered to his feet, the
world seeming to swirl around him, and from a distance he
heard Palmer saying, "Course laid in,
sir."
"Bring us ahead, full impulse."
As Chekov moved to the turbolift, he saw
Dr. McCoy standing there. The ensign had been so
focused on the battle, he hadn't even
noticed the CMO arrive on the bridge.
Saying nothing, Chekov shoved past him into the
lift.
But he wasn't getting rid of McCoy so
easily. "Come on," said the doctor. "I'll
escort you to your quarters." And without waiting for a
response, McCoy followed him into the lift.

Putting the incident with Chekov aside,
Kirk focused on the task at hand. The raiding
ships had come together again, and the Enterprise was on
a collision course with the small fleet.
"They aren't firing," Palmer said in
surprise.
"It's because we dropped our shields. They
don't know whether we're surrendering or just
suicidal. On my order I'll want warp
four."
"Direct acceleration, Captain?" Sulu
half turned in his chair. "Sir, the stress
could--" But Kirk's expression prompted
Sulu simply to turn back to his station and
say, "Aye, sir."
They drew closer and closer to the raiders,
until the smaller, hovering ships were filling the
screen.
Kirk punched his direct line to the engine
room. "Scotty!"
"Aye, Captainffwas The chief engineer sounded
even more beleaguered than usual. Not surprising,
considering the circumstances.
"On my order I want you to reroute all
power from the rear deflectors and shore up the
forward."
"We'll hav e our tails hanging out, sir."
"I know that, Mr. Scott. Get ready."
Still the raiders seemed to hesitate, uncertain
of what sort of trick the Enterprise
might have up its sleeve.
"Collision course," said Sulu. "Counting
down, eleven ... ten ... nine ... eight ...
seven ... six ... Raiders are bringing their
weapons on line."
"Now, Scotty! Reroute shields!"
The deflectors to the rear of the Enterprise
faded almost to nonexistence, and the forward shields
powered up. Several experimental blasts from the
raiders bounced harmlessly off the starship's forward
defenses.
Realizing that the Enterprise was now in a
position to ram right through them, the raiders performed the
same maneuver they had used earlier--they split
off, coming in tight on both sides of the starship.
"Sir, they're coming in right on top of us!"
Kirk counted under his breath and then shouted,
"Now, Sulu! Full ahead, warp four!"
The Enterprise leaped forward. The crew
slammed back in their seats, and all around Kirk
were the sounds of the ship's infrastructure creaking
under the sudden acceleration.
"Captain!" Spock shouted over the roar of the
engines. "Seven of the raiders were caught in our
warp field when we accelerated!"
"Excellent!" Kirk bellowed back.
"Sulu, slow us down! Take us out of warp!"
Obediently the mighty engines of the
Enterprise reversed, and warp space began
to break up around the ship. And so, too, did the
ships of the raiders. Pieces flew apart everywhere
as the ships shuddered, trembled, and burst apart.
"They couldn't stand the stress of warp four!" said
Palmer in amazement.
"I surmised as much, since their engines
weren't designed to exceed warp two," said
Kirk briskly. "Because they were staying so close
to our hull, I thought we could drag them along if
we hit fast into warp space. Palmer, plot a
course back to Gamma Xaridian Four."
"Already got it, Captain."
"Good. Mr. Sulu, best possible speed.
Get us there in one piece but quickly. Some of them
managed to slip past us, and we'll still have them
to deal with."
The Enterprise swung around and an instant
later was hurtling back through space. They arrived
on the outskirts of the Gamma Xaridian system
just as the remaining raiders were pulling themselves back
together.
The sight of the returning starship clearly
unnerved the smaller ships; they started to peel off
in all directions, and all of those directions were
away from Gamma Xaridian VIII.
Obviously they had had enough for one day.
Kirk, however, was not quite finished. "Tractor
beams, widest possible field!" he called.
Spreading the tractors that wide would weaken their
overall effect, but the ships were small enough that it
might not take that much to hold them.
And as it turned out, it didn't. One of the
ships was just a hair too slow, and before it could put
enough distance between itself and the Enterprise, it had been
snagged by the tractor beams.
"Got it, Captainffwas Sulu crowed.
"Reel them in, Mr. Sulu. Let's see
if any of their friends come to rescue them."
Such was not to be the case. The other ships
hurtled away, leaving the one captive and at the
mercy of the starship. At the moment Kirk wasn't
feeling particularly merciful. Nevertheless, he
saw his opportunity he could now find out who was
behind these destructive and seemingly random raids
on the Xaridian colonies.
"Open a hailing frequency to--"
And at that moment the trapped raider ship blew
up. It was all the Enterprise's weakened
shields could do to protect the starship from the
surprisingly large blast that the ship generated.
As it was, the overburdened forward shields went
down completely. So all-consuming was the
destruction that there weren't even fragments of the
raider ship left. Within moments space around them
was empty. The other raiders had disappeared in a
variety of directions, and the one that they had
captured had exploded in their face.

Chapter Eight

McCoy stole a glance at Chekov. The
ensign had remained silent for the entirety of the
turbolift ride. Then again, what could he say?
He'd made a mistake, and a big one.
When they reached deck six, where Chekov's
quarters were situated, the ensign turned to him.
"You don't have to keep me company anymore. I
am all right, I assure you."
The doctor shook his head. "Nothing doing. I
said I'd escort you to your quarters, and that's what
I intend to do."
Sighing, the Russian headed for his cabin. The
corridors were very, very quiet, McCoy noted.
The deck was mostly crew quarters, double rooms
for all, but during a red alert, few of the crew were
in their rooms.
It occurred to the doctor that he rarely
visited this deck, since most patients came
to his sickbay. Still, the silence was uncanny.
That would certainly be tough on Chekov, he
mused.
Before long they'd reached the ensign's cabin. The
doors slid aside for them, and they entered.
Once inside, Chekov took a seat by the
desk while McCoy leaned against a dresser, his
arms folded across his chest. The doctor looked
around. He'd forgotten how cramped it could be in a
younger officer's quarters.
Ah, well, he thought, at least it was better
than the hammock and kit bag sailors started
off with centuries ago. He paused,
reconsidering the place. Not by much, though.
"Well, Chekov, what now?"
"Do we maintain a firing squad?" the younger
man asked.
"Of course not. Why?"
"Because the keptin vill vant to assemble one after
ve get out of this."
"Poppycock. You screwed up. Big deal.
We all do it sooner or later; you just did it
at a worse time than others. Something about you
navigators, always going off half-cocked and
getting yourselves into trouble. First Bailey, then
Styles, then Riley, and now you. Is it something
they teach at the Academy?"
"No, Doctor. I ... I just can't
explain it. I vas sure I had the
right maneuver and--"
"And you picked the wrong time to tell Captain
Kirk. Maybe you've been through too few red
alerts to understand. Simulations are close, but never
confuse them with the real thing. There are times and
places for making suggestions to the captain--and when
we're surrounded by marauders isn't one of them."
"I knew that," Chekov began helplessly.
He looked as if he was going to try again, but
instead he slumped into a brooding silence. Staring
at the table top, the ensign ignored the doctor.
McCoy moved around the room for a moment,
trying to find the right tack to take. Chekov was
feeling bad enough, and he did not want to push him
too far one way or another. Still, the
psychiatrist in him didn't want to leave
until he could ease Chekov's pain, even a
little.
"Chekov, the captain had his own options
to consider." He stopped himself when he saw the
ensign's reaction. Though what he'd said was
true, it wasn't the right approach. And then
another one occurred to him. "How did you do on the
Kobayashi Maru test?"
There was a long pause. "I blew up my
ship," Chekov said finally. He hung his head.
"At the time I thought I was being original.
Took the Klingons with me, too."
"You sacrificed yourself and your ship?" McCoy
asked incredulously.
Chekov let out a long sigh and nodded.
"That certainly was unique." McCoy walked
over and leaned forward, making sure he was in
Chekov's peripheral vision. "Son, you'll
learn. And you'll learn quickly. You never would have
made it to deep space if Command didn't think
you were ready. There must be a demon or two you
need to knock out of your head. And then it'll be
clear sailing."
The doctor then sat down right beside Chekov and
leaned over. He lowered his voice to an almost
conspiratorial whisper.
"I'll let you in on a little secret. Do you
remember that Captain Kirk had to take the
same test you did? Face the no-win scenario?"
"Of course," came the soft reply.
"Do you know how the captain did?"
"I guess he lasted a long time and then lost.
Everyone does."
"Oh, no, Ensign," McCoy
said. Andfora moment Chekov's head bobbed up. The
doctor flashed him a happy grin and said, "Oh
sure, he did that the first two times. But he
insisted on a third trial--and you know what he
did then?"
Chekov only shook his head.
"He sneaked in and, with some help,
reprogrammed the computers. He actually beat the
scenario."
"Vhat?" Chekov stared at McCoy as if
the doctor had suddenly sprouted a third arm.
"I'm told no one ever did that before. And they
certainly saw to it that no one would do it again. Now,
can you keep that to yourself?"
"Yes, sir." McCoy could see Chekov
pondering the fact Kirk had beaten the game
by rewriting the rules. Such thinking had probably
never occurred to him.
"Now, you get some rest. If you need me, come
on down. Door's always open." Satisfied
he'd done some good, the doctor knocked on the
desk top twice with his knuckles and walked out
of the cabin.

* * *
Chekov looked up after the door slid closed
with its familiar whoosh, and shook his head. Kirk
had beaten the Kobayashi Maru!
The ensign tried to rerun the standard command test
in his mind. There was the disabled ship in Klingon
territory. When his turn had come, he chose
to send his ship, the Yorktown into the Neutral
Zone to perform a rescue mission. Then all of a
sudden he was surrounded. He remembered gripping
the command chair arms with his hands. The sweat began
to bead on his brow from phantom memory. ...
Engineering reported casualties and coolant
leaks. His medical officer reported radiation
burns and casualties already in double digits.
The Yorktown managed to weaken the shields on
one Klingon ship before his own shields were down
to critical limits.
His voice, calling the self-destruct
sequence, echoed in his mind. He had to shout down
his first officer, Ravi Akbar, who adamantly
refused to give the code authorization. Then the
countdown and the blinding white lights. ...
It was a month before Akbar was civil to him again.
Chekov strained to imagine which part of the computer
program Kirk rewrote to allow him
to win. Was it the number of enemy vessels? The
strength of his own ship? How did Kirk come up
with such thoughts at the tender age of twenty? With much
to ponder, he returned to his bunk, thankful that
his roommate was at Weapons Control and wouldn't
be back for a while.
A long while, thanks to the blunder of a young
navigator named Pavel Chekov.
* * *
As Uhura emerged from the turbolift with
Baila a step behind her, Wesley glanced in their
direction. While casual on the surface, his
scrutiny conveyed the intended meaning. Officers were
not to report late to his bridge--unless they had
a damned good excuse.
However, as she didn't have a good excuse,
Uhura simply made her way to the commodore's
side and stood there silent. She could hear the soft
padding of Baila's boots behind her as he
exchanged places with the communications officer from the
previous shift.
Wesley seemed intent on the viewscreen, with
its sweep of Rithramen landscape. But he
wasn't nearly as intent as he seemed.
"You're a little tardy," he acknowledged, rubbing
it in--though he spoke too softly for anyone but
Uhura to hear him.
"It won't happen again," she assured him,
also sotto voce.
He looked up at her, the beginnings of a
smile softening the line of his mouth. "Good. Then
we can get to the bottom of this statuary question."
Without turning, he addressed his communications
officer, who'd barely had a moment to settle
in. "Raise present-cycle governor
Endris, Mr. Baila."
"Aye, sir," came the response.
It took a while for Endris to appear. Which was
understandable, Uhura mused, given the fact that the
Rithrim weren't expecting a communication right
now. As she waited, she went over the kinds of
signals she might use to convey their curiosity
about the statues.
Abruptly the image on the viewscreen
shifted, and there was Endris. As before, he was
surrounded by the kind of brightness that made Uhura
squint.
"Greetings," said the Rithrim. "I have been
told you wish to speak with me." His hands posed the
question why?
Wesley smiled. "Nothing terribly
important, I think. However, part of the reason
we're here is to gain a better understanding of your people,
and if we're to understand you, we must ask questions."
There was no need for Uhura to do very much; the ^ws
would speak for themselves, even to a Rithrim.
"I agree," Endris assured him. His
gestures underlined the sentiment.
"Good," said the commodore. He cleared his
throat. "Back at the procreation center, I
couldn't help but notice the statuary around the
building. Fine workmanship, too. But it looked
as if some statues had been removed." He
leaned forward slightly in his seat. "Is there a
reason for that?"
This time Uhura had a bigger part to play. She
had to expand on Wesley's praise for the
statues, then make his request as polite as
possible.
Whether it was her doing or not, the Rithrim
seemed unperturbed by the query. "The conditions at
Girin Gatha have not been kind to some of the
statuary," he explained. "We have found it necessary
to repair or replace certain pieces." His
signs invited further inquiries if Wesley
thought they would be productive; Uhura said as
much.
The commodore shook his head. "No. I think
we've got our answer. Thank you for your
patience, Present-cycle Governor." The
lieutenant embellished the expression of
gratitude.
"It was no trouble," Endris told him. His
expression seemed to change subtly;
likewise, Uhura noted, the position of his
hands. "Unfortunately, I must convey some news
you may not find pleasing."
A crease developed in the center of
Wesley's forehead. "Oh?"
The Rithrim clearly didn't know how
to respond to that. Uhura used her signs to turn
it into an appeal for additional information.
"There has been an alteration of plans," said
the governor. "We have decided against providing a
site for your observation facility." He
eloquently indicated his regrets. "I hope
this does not represent a great inconvenience."
Uhura didn't get it. Apparently neither
did the commodore; the crease in his brow grew more
distinct.
"I'm at a loss," said Wesley. "If
I may ask, what happened to change your
minds?"
Even before Endris spoke, Uhura could tell
by his sign language that he was loath to disclose
any more. "I am not at liberty to discuss the
matter further," the Rithrim told them. "Again,
I apologize for the inconvenience."
The commodore took a breath, let it out. "Have
we offended you in some way?"
"In no way have you offended us."
Stymied, Wesley looked up at Uhura.
"Any idea what's going on here?" he asked,
keeping his voice to a whisper.
She shook her head. "I wish I did,
sir."
Wesley turned back to the screen. "How
does this decision affect what we're doing at
Girin Gatha?" Uhura added a question Will we be
allowed to continue our work there?
Endris appeared to hesitate. Finally he
said "We will no longer require your assistance
at the procreation center. I believed I had
made that clear; if not, allow me to make it
clear now."
The commodore held his hands out, as if in a
plea for sanity. "Present-cycle Governor,
we're willing to help you with your problem
regardless of what happens to our observatory.
If you recall, I said those were separate
issues."
Uhura did her best to emphasize the concept
of separateness. It seemed to have no effect.
"I can only repeat our position on this
point," the Rithrim replied. His gestures
made it clear there was no room for debate--a
fact which she conveyed to Wesley.
Nonetheless, the commodore wasn't one to take
no for an answer. Fixing Endris with his gaze,
he chose his ^ws carefully. "While I concede
that this is your world and that it's your right to do what you
want with it, I would be remiss if I didn't
remind you that there are lives at stake here--^th of
your young, no less. If I were in your position,
I would be reluctant indeed to make any
decision that jeopardized those lives." He
paused. "It's been my experience that any
difference can be worked out, any obstacle to cooperation
overcome, if both parties are committed to the
task. I cannot imagine that this instance would
prove an exception."
The Rithrim's signs were firm--unyielding
almost to the point of rudeness. "You may remain in
orbit around our world while you recover your people and
your equipment," he said. "Then you must leave,
albeit with our thanks for your kindness."
"I don't believe this," Wesley muttered.
"They're going to send us away--let innocents
die when we could help them--without even telling us
why. It's absurd."
Uhura felt the same way. But neither she
nor the commodore could do anything about it, because in the
next moment Endris's visage vanished, to be
replaced by the majestic image of Rithra.

The raiders streaked through space and started firing
on the Enterprise, their weapons exploding off
the ship's hull.
"Freeze it."
Obediently the raiders' ships came to a
halt.
In the conference room, Kirk, Spock,
McCoy, Scotty, Sulu, and Giotto sat
around the table, staring at the frozen image on the
central computer screen.
"Would have been a bonny thing if we could have done
that during the battle," said Scotty ruefully.
There was glum no.ing of heads.
"Analysis, gentlemen," said Kirk.
"What are we dealing with here?"
"We've run a thorough analysis on the
types of weapon discharges used during the
battle," said Spock. "Without any question, these
are the same individuals who struck at the
colony at Alpha Xaridian Two and,
presumably, the other colonies as well. The
radiation traces are unmistakable."
"But we still don't have any record of who
uses weaponry of that sort."
Spock shook his head. "Nothing directly.
Furthermore the ship design"--he indicated the
odd angles of the ship--?is unique in Federation
records. Either this is a race that we have never before
encountered or else they have customized their ships in
order to disguise their origins."
"And did they customize their sensor and helm
abilities as well?" Sulu wondered out loud.
"I've never seen maneuvering like that."
"How fast were they going?" asked Kirk. "It
almost seemed as if they were going faster
than impulse power but below sublight--at some
sort of bizarre speed in between."
But Scotty was shaking his head. "No. That's
not it at all. One of the lads ran a graphics
breakdown. Computer File Pavel-One,
please."
The computer screen immediately switched to an
image of one of the raiders, with a blue grid
superimposed on it. The ship was positioned in the
right-hand corner of the screen.
"Run the graphics, please," said
Scotty.
The ship, a frame at a time, made its way
from the upper right to the center of the screen and then veered
off to the lower left. Another raider following
precisely the same trajectory was visible coming
in behind it. A trailing red line that delineated the
ship's course was left behind, and at nine points
along the line there were small boxes with numbers
next to them.
"Now you'll see here"--Scotty indicated the
upper right--?t when we first start tracking the ship,
it's moving at zero-point-eight light speed.
A nice clip, I'll be granting ye that ...
but not warp speed. And the speed remains steady
along all these points, until here"--and he
tapped the center of the screen--?where she suddenly
changes course like a bat out of hell."
"How fast was it going then?" asked Kirk.
He leaned forward and blinked in surprise.
"Zero-p oint-eight? It didn't change
speed?"
"No, sir. Not at any time during its arc."
Giotto whistled. Sulu and McCoy leaned
forward, staring in disbelief. "Can you run that thing at
normal speed?" asked McCoy.
"Computer," said Scotty, "run graphic
at normal speed."
McCoy blinked and almost missed it.
"Incredible."
"The way they were going, I took it for granted
that they were changing speeds," said Sulu. "I was
amazed at the technology they had that enabled them
to accelerate and brake so quickly."
"Well, they dinna have it," said Scotty.
"Incredible skill and precision in maneuvering,
yes, like nothing I've ever seen. But their speed
is constant."
Kirk nodded. Well, at least we're
beginning to have some idea of what we're up
against. Mr. Scott, my compliments to whichever one
of your lads worked up that computer study. That was good
thinking."
"Yes, well,"--Scotty cleared his throat
loudly--?he isn't exactly one of my
lads. He's one of yours, actually. And he had
some time on his hands, what with his being confined
to quarters."
For a moment Kirk frowned, having no idea
what Scotty was talking about. Then the light
dawned. "Chekov."
"Aye."
"Yes, well ..." Kirk harrumphed
slightly and then said, "Good work on his part. I
knew he was in Starfleet for some reason."
Sulu spoke up. "I'll let him know you were
pleased, Captain."
"Yes, Mr. Sulu. You do that."

Chapter Nine

Sitting at his desk, Chekov engaged the
ship's computer in yet another battle
simulation. On the screen a red blip
representing the Enterprise maneuvered against a
series of yellow blips, which stood for the
marauders.
Thinking about the Kobayashi Maru test and
how Kirk reprogrammed the simulation had set the
ensign to thinking. At the Academy he had
studied the use of computer models; it had just never
occurred to him before to actually use them on the
Enterprise.
What was more, he was finding it infinitely
instructive. The first time he ran the program,
Chekov followed Kirk's actions and watched a
near-perfect repeat of what actually happened.
Then he asked the computer to implement his own
maneuver and watched for the results. They were the
same each and every time a victory for the
Enterprise, hands down.
Chekov had been right. And his idol, Captain
Kirk, had been wrong--though it was unlikely the
ensign would ever get any satisfaction from the knowledge.
He was about to store the last simulation when the
door buzzer sounded. Given his level of
concentration, it startled him, but only for a moment.
"Come in," he said, steeling himself.
After all, he expected to see Kirk or
Spock, ready to rake him over the 185
coals for his actions up on the bridge. He was
surprised and relieved to see the smiling face of
Sulu instead.
"Hi there, Ensign. We missed you at the
briefing, and I thought you should know what's going
on."
"You mean they haven't kicked me off the
bridge yet?"
Sulu's smile broadened as he sat down
on the edge of Chekov's bed. "No. But I can
imagine the captain is pretty sore about what
happened. You know, Pavel, he had every right
to discipline you after that stunt you pulled."
"But my plan would have worked. Here--look."
Chekov leaned back in his chair and had the
computer rerun the last computer simulation. As
Sulu watched, the red blip representing the
Enterprise emerged victorious.
"See?" asked the ensign, when it was all
over.
The navigator shook his head. "You don't
get it, do you? You weren't in command, Pavel--the
captain was. It was red alert. Attacking
ships were flying around like butterflies, and you
stopped everything to offer a suggestion."
"Did you really think Captain Kirk would
call a time-out to discuss the merits of your plan--
even if it .was sounder than his?" The
navigator paused to let his ^ws sink in. "As
long as the captain's in command, he's got to call
the shots. You know full well that when there's time,
he'll ask the bridge for suggestions and
opinions. But they must be offered when the time is
right. Understand?"
Chekov thought about it. At last he nodded.
"Yes. I think I do. Thank you. But where do
we go from here?"
"At the briefing the captain decided that
we're going to find those ships again--but this time
we'll be better prepared to deal with them. We
all know they must be stopped before they destroy
another colony.
"In the meantime we're on yellow alert and
Spock is riding the sensor teams real hard,
making sure we scan for every possible emission
trace. We'll find those raiders--it's just a
matter of when."
"Do I still have a job up there?" Chekov
asked, no.ing upward.
"I think you'll be riding the board again 187
before you know it." Sulu smiled once again, and
Chekov was impressed at how such a simple
gesture could transform his mood. He found himself
feeling a bit better.
"I hope so. Othervise I may as vell
start filing for a transfer." He frowned. "If
I've lost Keptin Kirk's confidence, then
there's no place for me here."
Sulu stood and said, "True. But don't
forget he's left you on the duty roster, and he
still hasn't been down to take you to task. Those are
both good signs. Now I'm going to catch some
sleep, just in case. See you back upstairs."
With that, he patted Chekov on the back and left
the cabin.
Chekov glanced at his chronometer and realized
his shift was due to begin in a short while. He
quickly shut off the simulation scenario and called
up the active-duty roster. To his relief he
was still scheduled for a shift on the bridge. A quick
change of uniform, some water to help smooth down
his longish hair, and Pavel Chekov was ready
to report for duty.

Uhura sat on a stool in sickbay and
watched Dr. Coss shake his head. "I don't
get it, Commodore. We're supposed to pack
up and take off, just like that?"
Wesley nodded. "I'm afraid so."
Absently he picked up a medical tricorder
and examined it. "That's what the present-cycle
governor has asked us to do, and we have no choice
but to comply."
Coss sputtered. "That's insane. Those people have
got a serious problem on their hands--one that's
likely to produce a whole slew of birth
defects, not to mention claim some lives--and
they're turning down help it'd cost them nothing
to accept?"
"That's about the size of it," said the commodore.
The doctor turned to Uhura. "Are we
missing something here, Lieutenant? Could we be
misinterpreting their message somehow?"
She shook her head. "It's pretty clear.
They just don't want us on their planet."
"But they wanted us a few hours ago.
What's different now? What's changed?"
Wesley shrugged. "Damned if I know.
It's a mystery, Doctor. And as much as I
hate leaving a mystery unsolved, 189
we've got to--"
"Commodore?" It was Baila's voice coming
over the intercom.
"Yes, Lieutenant?"
"Sir, I'm receiveg a call from the
Rithrim."
Wesley grunted. "From Endris?"
"Maybe they've come to their senses," muttered
Coss.
"No, sir," came Baila's response.
"Not from Endris. In fact, it's not from the
governors at all. It's from a procreator."
The commodore exchanged glances with Uhura.
"Come on, Lieutenant. You're with me."
"And so am I," the doctor insisted. "I
want to know what's going on here."
As they left sickbay and headed for the bridge,
Uhura could feel her pulse accelerate. For a
procreator to want to speak with them directly,
something big had to be in the offing.

When Chekov walked back onto the bridge,
he felt as if all eyes were on him.
Fortunately Scotty had the conn; Kirk and
Spock were off somewhere else; likewise Sulu
and Palmer. Thanking the Fates for small
favors, the ensign briskly crossed the
bridge and took his place behind the navigation
console.
Of course, even there, he wasn't safe from the
scrutiny of others. Everyone on the bridge
knew Chekov had erred badly. And no one
knew that better than Chekov himself.
"Good to see ye back, laddie," Scott said
to break the tension. His voice was calm, even
friendly.
"Thank you, Mr. Scott" was all the ensign
could manage. Chekov ran a quick systems
diagnostic and then studied the course and setting.
"Ye missed the fireworks. The rogues got
away, but we'll engage them again, no doubt."
"Aye, sir."
Time passed. The chronometer moved with aching
slowness. With the starship moving at warp three, there
was little for Chekov to do from his post. He would have
to remain alert, in case sensors discovered the
attackers' ships, but until then, it was business
as usual.
Scott stood up from the center seat and moved
over to the engineering station. As the chief 191
engineer's fingers flew across the console, Chekov
saw Scott scrutinizing the readouts on the
highest screen above him. Looking down at the
console again, the engineer touched two more buttons and
then watched the screen shift color. Harrumphing
a bit, he walked back to the center of the bridge
and stood right near the ensign.
"I still canna figure out the power curve on
those beasties. They move faster than they should and
turn like figure skaters, not hunks of tin.
What do you think of that?"
Chekov realized Scott was trying to help
him. Gratefully he concentrated, running
options through his mind as fast as possible.
And then it came to him. "Ve could use the
sensor readings to program simulations, study
vhat it vas they vere doing," Chekov offered.
"Ah, that we could. Come, give a hand, eh?"
For the next half-hour, the two men worked at
their respective stations, Chekov at the science
post and Scott at engineering. They didn't have
to say much to each other, but Chekov certainly
felt glad to make a contribution.
At last, the study done, Scott walked
over and clapped a hand on Chekov's right
shoulder. "That's the answer , laddie. They can
maneuver far better than we can, making it seem
as if they're more powerful. Tricky but not
invincible."
"Yes, sir," Chekov acknowledged and
smiled. "Thank you for letting me help," he
said in a very quiet voice.
"Say nae more about it. Now, shift's over.
Go get some rest. I'll bring this up at the
staff meeting. The captain's left ye out of it
again, but I'll let 'im know ye helped. Might
make things easier the next time ye're together up
here."
"Thank you, again, Meester Scott. I mean
it." Chekov stood, straightened his gold shirt,
and left the bridge, feeling like a competent
officer for the first time in days.
But no sooner had he entered the turbolift
than his spirits fell again. The captain had left
him out of a key briefing--ag--and might even
replace him on the duty roster with another
navigator.
Left out of the flow, he reasoned, he might just
end his career on the Enterprise. Inexorably
he fell back into his funk. It was 193
getting to be a familiar place, given how much
time he'd spent there of late.

"My name is Dab."
The procreator looked nowhere near as imposing
as Endris had. Her eyes were small and black,
but that was where the resemblance ended. While the
governor was tall and slender, Dab was short and
squat, with exaggerated musculature in the area
of her hips. Where Endris's crest was high and
feathery, the procreator's was short and
stiff-looking, almost spiny.
There was another difference as well the pitch of
Dab's voice. Uhura knew from her studies
that each caste sounded different; the builders had the
deepest voices and the procreators the highest.
"Greetings, Dab. I'm Commodore
Robert Wesley, commanding the Lexington." A
pause, giving Uhura time to complement his speech
with her gestures. "How can I be of service
to you?"
The procreator seemed hesitant. "Before I
answer your question, I must tell you this it is not
customary for those of my caste to speak directly
with those of other races. In fact, it has always
been our right to speak with anyone we pleased, but it
was a right we never exercised, trusting to the
governors to embrace our best interests."
Her signing was not as fluid as Endris's,
nor as eloquent. But Uhura found it easier
to understand.
"We do not feel," Dab went on, "that the
governors are embracing our best interests in the
present instance. The procreation center must be
protected; for our caste, that is of paramount
importance."
Wesley glanced at Uhura.
"Lieutenant?"
Uhura took a deep breath. "She wants
us to remain here, Commodore. That's very clear.
She wants us to stay and help--despite the
decision of the governors."
Wesley considered the Rithrim on the
viewscreen. "Tell me, Dab. How much
authority do you have in this matter?"
"I have sufficient authority," she said.
"An understatement," Uhura noted,
interpreting Dab's hand signals. "She has as
much authority as Endris, though she seldom
uses it." 195
"You mean we can stay on her say-s?" asked
Dr. Coss. "And finish our job at Girin
Gatha?"
Uhura looked at him. "According to Dab,
yes."
"Of course," Wesley told the
procreator, "we'll have to confirm this with the
present-cycle governor. But if he doesn't
object, we'd be only too glad to follow through
on our promise of help."
"That will be appreciated," said Dab. And the
viewscreen went blank.
"Well, I'll be damned," muttered the
commodore. "Mr. Baila, put me in touch with
Mr. Samuels."
The first officer's robust voice seemed
to fill the bridge. "We're almost packed up,
Commodore."
"Well, unpack, Mr. Samuels.
There's been a change of plans."
"Sir?"
"You heard me. We just received ^w from the
procreators--and they want us to stay. I've
still got to clear it with Endris, but I don't
expect any trouble there."
Samuels grunted. "We'll start setting
up again, sir. That'll probably go pretty
quickly, too. You get better at these things with
practice."
The commodore chuckled. "No doubt you do.
Wesley out."
"Sir?" said Uhura.
Wesley turned to her. "Yes,
Lieutenant?"
"I'd still like to know why the governors changed their
minds. And I'd like permission to explore that
issue with the procreators."
The commodore mulled it over. "I don't
see why not," he replied at last. "After all,
they've opened the lines of communication with their
caste. You want to try this alone?"
Uhura found her gaze drawn to the
communications officer. "Perhaps Mr. Baila could
accompany me."
If Wesley was surprised, he concealed it.
"Very well, Lieutenant. You've got my
blessing. But be careful. I don't want the
procreators to change their minds on us the way the
governors did."
"I'll keep that in mind, sir," she 197
assured him.

Kirk lay back on his bunk, his hands behind his
head, staring up at the ceiling. The ceiling, he
noted, never seemed to give him answers
to anything. But that was why human beings commanded
starships.
At the moment, the Enterprise was cruising the
Gamma Xaridian system like a shark, moving from
one end to the other, as if daring the raiders
to return. The crew members might very well have
been wasting their time.
While the Enterprise patrolled Gamma
Xaridian, the raiders might return to Alpha
or Beta ... or anyplace else, for that
matter. But if the Enterprise went to one of the
other systems and the raiders returned to Gamma
...
Kirk rubbed his temples. That was the sort of
second-guessing that could make someone
absolutely crazy.
He was so distracted that at first he didn't
hear the beeping of his door. Finally he looked
up. "Come," he said.
He expected it to be either Spock or
McCoy; anyone, else would have used the
communications system. As the door hissed open,
Kirk smiled at the sight of his first officer.
He liked the idea that he knew his crew so
well.
"Something, Spock?" Kirk prompted.
The Vulcan sat in the chair opposite
Kirk's Spartan desk. In his lap rested a
data padd and stylus, and he looked up with a
gravity that forced Kirk to pay strict attention.
"Yes, sir. It seems that the Xaridian
colonies--"
"The colonies? I thought you were studying the
marauder ships," the captain said with surprise in
his voice.
"I was, yes. But when further study in that
area proved less than fruitful, logic
suggested I turn my attention to the colonies."
He paused. If Kirk hadn't known better,
he'd have said it was for dramatic effect. "When
I got to Alpha Xaridian Two--"
"The first colony we visited," said Kirk.
"Yes, sir. I was going over a list,
supplied to us by the colony, of materials and
machinery that were destroyed ... and 199
presumed destroyed."
The way Spock hung on those last few ^ws
caused Kirk's ears to pick up just slightly.
"Presumed destroyed?"
"Aye, sir." Spock paused. "At first
I was concentrating only on those materials and
machines that were found. But I began to notice that
certain categories of scientific instrumentation
were missing from the debris--all state-of-the-art and
unobtainable outside the Federation."
The captain thought about it. "Are you suggesting that
the attacks were ... distractions, Spock? A
way for the raiders to beam down scavenger crews and
acquire certain technologies?"
The Vulcan nodded. "Perhaps not in all
cases; none of the other colonies have reported
any loss of equipment. On those worlds random
destruction was apparently the raiders' sole
motivation. But on this colony, at least, I
believe you are correct theft was a motive behind
the attack."
Kirk muttered a curse. "Someone killed
thousands for a ... a shopping list?" He shook his
head, feeling the anger build up inside him.
"That is perhaps a simplified description of the
events, sir, but an accurate one nonetheless.
What is more, the missing equipment would allow a
person or persons to construct some of our most
advanced machines."
"Which ones, Spock?"
The first officer picked up the padd, took a
glance at one of his notations, and then placed it
carefully on the edge of Kirk's desk. For
Spock, this act of familiarity was a subtle
sign of his comfort around Kirk, a comfort he
seldom displayed with other humans.
"A complete catalog can be prepared for you,
sir, but dozens of items can be built. If we
knew who the raiders were, we could more
accurately surmise the intent behind the theft of the
machinery."
"All right," Kirk said. He flicked a
switch to clear his computer screen, then swiveled
in his chair. Spock, always brought out his sharpest
thinking, just another of the many reasons Kirk
appreciated the Vulcan so much. "Let's go
about this a different way. The equipment is all
Federation-issue, which means that member worlds are not
now under suspicion. These small ships can't have
much in the way of fuel support, so they 201
have a limited range. Could we use the
Xaridian system as the center of a search pattern
and, from there, make a few educated guesses as
to which worlds might be under suspicion?"
Spock nodded. "Of course, Captain. I
suggest we assign this task to one of our
navigators, since I would like to continue my
research into the raiders' weaponry. It might
make a difference when we encounter them again."
"Of course. Who's at the top of the duty
roster?"
"Ensign Chekov, sir ... unless you wish
him removed."
Kirk paused to consider. He had recently
reread Chekov's file and was giving his newest
ensign a lot of thought.
Spock must have noticed the captain's
hesitation, because he had quietly raised an
eyebrow in lieu of repeating his question.
"He froze on the bridge," Kirk
explained. "He suggested maneuvers rather than
carrying out my order. I don't know if I can
trust him during this mission." The captain paused
and swiveled around in his chair, regarding his first
of ficer eye to eye. "What do you make of
Chekov, Spock?"
Steepling his fingers, the Vulcan looked
pensive. "I find his work quite good, and he is a
most efficient navigator. In fact, compared with
other navigators since you took command of the
Enterprise, he has displayed a range of
skills that is most admirable. He seems
to hold his homeland in high regard." A pause.
"He is, of course, young; his enthusiasm can get
in the way."
Kirk swiveled again and called up Chekov's
file on the desktop computer. He took a
moment to scan it.
"McCoy apparently thinks that Chekov's
love of Mother Russia is a defense
mechanism--a way to handle being thrown in with
older, more experienced people. I can sympathize with
that. The Enterprise can be pretty hard on a
newcomer."
"I agree, sir," Spock said quietly.
Kirk looked up, suddenly aware of the
sensitive area he had casually opened up. "Of
course you do, Spock." Kirk frowned. "Do you
think he can handle the pressure?"
"On his previous landing-party 203
missions, especially Sharikan and Beta
Damoron Five, Chekov served quite well, as
you are no doubt aware," Spock began. "His
natural curiosity has stood him in good stead
at the science station." He shrugged. "I believe
he has shown poise under tension. He may make
a fine officer in the future."
Kirk nodded and looked away. The Vulcan
sat and watched. After nearly a minute of thought,
Kirk turned in his chair and nodded. "Okay,
Spock, let's give him another chance. Have him
research the sector, and let's see what he can
do. But if we go to red alert, I want another
navigator ready in case he does not have what
it takes."
"Understood, sir." Spock stood and
collected his padd. He turned and walked out,
leaving Kirk to study Chekov's file on the
computer once again.

Chekov felt more nervous than ever on the
bridge, although everything was proceeding smoothly.
He had been called back to duty by Spock
himself and given a thorough briefing as to what they
needed to find.
The ensign was surprised, of course; he'd
thought for sure that the captain wouldn't ever trust him
again. But here he was, running astrogation maps
on the colonies and beginning to work with the theoretical
limits of the raiders' ships, as provided
by Mr. Scott.
Sulu sat beside him, as effervescent as always.
Some of his cheerfulness was finally beginning to rub off
on Chekov, who loved working this way.
Spock was in command, but he contented himself with
sitting at the science station and conducting further
studies on the attackers. Crew came and
left; the time seemed to fly by. Finally Chekov
was feeling more like a functional part of the crew again.
"Have you found anything yet, Chekov?" Sulu
asked.
"No, sir. Mr. Scott thought that the ships
would be capable of a four- or five-parsec
range, and that's a lot of space to study. But
I have figured out that, given the colony location,
it is not the Klingons. For that I am grateful."
"Me too," Sulu replied. "We've
dealt with them once too often for my taste."
"Aye. But ... vait a moment. ..."
Chekov trailed off. He ran his 205
fingers over one of his control panels and then
studied the small screen on his left. Once
again his fingers flew, rapidly depressing
switches. The telltales flickered in a
variety of colors. At last, looking over his
right shoulder, he beckoned Mr. Spock.
"What have you found, Ensign?" The first officer
stepped down to Chekov's station and looked at the
screen.
"The attackers may have come from some five or
six populated solar systems that we know about,
Mr. Spock. But that range also includes
Parathu'ul. Didn't they try to gain admission
into the Federation?"
"Indeed." Without another ^w, Spock
returned to his science station and began working with the
library computer.
Chekov looked to Sulu. The helmsman just
shrugged.
A moment later the Russian noted that
Spock's computer had been linked to his own
station. He watched in fascination as the Vulcan
worked the computer like a master chef in his private
kitchen.
"Fascinating." Spock stood and looked out
at the bridge viewscreen. Then he toggled a
switch and called out, "Spock to captain."
Within seconds the screen over the science station
snapped on with Kirk's image. He must have
been resting; his uniform shirt and his hair were a
bit rumpled.
"Yes, Mr. Spock. Have you found something?"
"Actually, Ensign Chekov found something.
He pointed out that one of the worlds the raiders may have
come from is Parathu'ul."
"But we know what their ship configurations are like
... what kind of energy resources they have. You
ruled them out some time back."
"Yes. And I still believe they are not the
raiders. However, when Mr. Chekov reminded
me that they once tried to gain admission to the
Federation, I reviewed their original
application."
As Chekov watched, Spock seemed to bend
closer to the captain's image. "They asked for
some of the very same components that are now missing from the
colony worlds."
"That still doesn't explain--"
"Mercenaries!"
Chekov had blurted out the ^w before he 207
knew it. He half expected a reprimand, but
instead, Spock nodded. "That would be my inference as
well, Ensign." He turned again to the captain.
"And once they gain the stolen equipment, they could
do what they originally intended build advanced
weapons, which they could use to completely
subjugate the rebellious elements in their
society."
"I see," Kirk said. "It would seem,
Mr. Spock--"
"That a visit to Parathu'ul is in order?" the
Vulcan responded.
"Exactly," said the captain. "Kirk out."
No sooner had the captain's voice faded
than Sulu leaned over and smiled broadly.
"I think you're out of the doghouse."
"Why?"
"Didn't you hear the captain?"
"All he said was "I see."' Hardly the
kind of praise that would signify being out of the
doghouse."
"It wasn't what he said," Sulu
explained, "so much as the way he said it."
Chekov shook his head, not taking his eyes off
the screen. "We'll see how much trust he has
in me when we find the raiders."
"You Russians are certainly good at
brooding," Sulu said good-naturedly.
"Ve inwented brooding," the ensign replied
solemnly.

Chapter Ten

Why had the governors changed their minds about
getting involved with the Federation? Wesley leaned
back in his command chair and turned the question around in his
mind, much as a jeweler would inspect a precious
stone.
But it got him no closer to an answer. He
didn't know enough about the workings of the Rithramen mind
to even venture a guess.
Maybe Uhura would have some luck down at
Girin Gatha. She had a good head on her
shoulders, and she seemed to enjoy a rapport with the
natives. If anyone could--
"Commodore?"
Rousing himself from his reverie, Wesley turned
to the junior officer at the communications station.
"Yes, Mr. Ling?"
"Sir, I have a subspace packet 209
from Starfleet Command. A mission report they
thought you should see."
"Unrestricted access?" asked the commodore.
"Aye, sir, unrestricted."
"Then put it on screen, Mr. Ling."
A moment later Jim Kirk appeared on the
forward viewscreen. Wesley smiled at the
surprise. Tempted to say something clever, he
had to remind himself that this was a recording and not the
genuine article.
"This is Captain James t. Kirk of the
Enterprise," the message began. Kirk
looked serious--v serious.
Not going too well, is it, Jim?
"In accordance with my orders, I'm keeping
you abreast of what's happening here in the Xaridian
systems. Naturally you'll want to relay this
to all ships in the vicinity." Kirk paused.
"First off, we've engaged the raiders, but without
satisfactory results. At one point we
managed to separate one of them from the fleet, but it
blew itself up rather than be captured by us." A
pause. "My chief engineer calls them
"warriors born."' It's an apt
description. "Bloody murderers"' would be
another."
The commodore grunted softly. Nasty
customers. But then, they'd expected them to be.
"Unfortunately," Kirk went on, "we
haven't yet found a way to track the raiders,
nor do we have any idea how to beat them if we
do find them. But just recently my staff came
up with a theory as to what their motive may be."
Wesley leaned forward in his chair. This he
wanted to hear.
"Apparently certain materials and machinery were
missing from the Alpha Xaridian Two colony
site. At first we thought they'd just been
destroyed, but now we think otherwise. It turns
out that the list of missing materials matches the
wish list of a race called the Parath'aa, which
applied for Federation membership not so long ago--
unsuccessfully, I might add. You can get more
on them from your ship's computers, but I can tell you
this their civil rights policies would make even
Colonel Green lose his lunch. These people are the
last ones I'd want poring over the pride of
Federation technology."
The Parath'aa? How interesting, the commodore
mused. 211
"Of course, Parathu'ul isn't generally known
for its military prowess. The only logical
conclusion is that its leaders have hired mercenaries
to do their dirty work."
On the screen Kirk's features hardened.
"We're on our way to Parathu'ul now to see
if we can prove its link to the raiders. If
we're lucky, we'll accomplish more than
that--maybe even find a way to stop these killers.
If not"--he shrugged--?we could always pull out the
old Ouija board. Kirk out."
Wesley smiled grimly. Ouija board
indeed. He knew Jim Kirk; quips like that
one were his way of letting off steam. The fact that
he'd included it in a message to Starfleet
Command was an indication of how thoroughly frustrated
he was.
What's more, the commodore didn't blame him.
In Kirk's place, he' d have been pretty
frustrated too. Hell, he was frustrated just from
hearing about it.
As he thought this, the screen reverted to an
image of Rithra. Wesley sighed. Good
luck, Jim, he said silently.
"That's the end of the message," his comm officer
reported.
"Yes, Mr. Ling, I noticed.
Acknowledge our receipt of the packet."
"Aye, sir."
The commodore made a mental note
to apprise Samuels, Uhura, and Baila of the
Enterprise's situation. Especially Uhura.
She'd want to know how her old ship was doing.

"My God," said Baila, peering through his
visor at the flood of red-hot lava on the
other side of the invisible barrier. He glanced
seaward at the clouds of steam. Again "My
God."
Uhura smiled. "I know. It kind of leaves
you speechless, doesn't it?"
He nodded. "Yes. Yes, it does."
On the other side of the humped front lawn
Samuels was directing the reassembly of the
shield generators. But the first officer hadn't
taken note of her and Baila, and Uhura could
think of no reason to disturb him.
Taking Baila's arm, she turned him in the
direction of the procreation center. "Come on.
Let's see if we can't get Dab 213
to talk to us."
He wiped his forehead and turned to her. "Tell
me the truth, Lieutenant. Why did you bring
me along? I mean, it's you who speaks their
language. You're the one they're most likely
to open up to."
She shrugged. "Haven't you heard? Two
heads are better than one."
Baila looked at her through his visor, his
eyes full of suspicion. "That's not the
reason."
"No? Then what is it?"
"I don't know. Trying to build me up,
maybe, in the commodore's eyes?"
"Or maybe in your own?" she returned.
He muttered something and walked past her, headed
for the procreation building. "I wasn't looking for
pity when I confided in you, Lieutenant."
She caught up to him. "Who said anything about
pity? I just want you to see your own worth--ffsee
that you've made yourself into something, despite what your
family may think."
Baila frowned, his black eyes smoldering in
the red light of the lava flow. "Made myself
into what? A failure?"
"A communications officer on a
Constitution-class ship, serving under one of the best
skippers in the fleet. Last I heard, that was
nothing to sneeze at."
"I don't think Wesley would say I'm so
terrific."
"I think Wesley would say you could be--if
you'd stop holding yourself back." She grabbed him
by the shoulder and spun him around. "Damn it,
Baila, your family was wrong to say the things they
did. Terribly wrong. Just because they've given
their souls to Beccah Talulu doesn't mean they
can give her yours!"
He looked at her, not with anger, but like a child.
His brow was beaded with perspiration. "What are you
saying?"
She touched his shoulder again, this time more gently.
"Can't you see, my friend? It's not you who's dead
--x's them. Put them past you now, amuntu.
Be a man."
Baila took a deep breath, expelled it.
"Be a man," he echoed.
Uhura nodded.
Something seemed to rise up within him, as if his
spirit were reawakening, sloughing off the bonds 215
of guilt and self-doubt. It was so obvious a
change that Uhura caught her breath.
Maybe that was all Baila had needed someone
to set him straight.
Of course he had a long road back. But the
Asians weren't the only ones who had a saying
about that first step; the Bantu had philosophers,
too.
Baila shook his head. "Blazes, woman,
you're something--y know that? Now I know why they
call you Freedom."
Uhura smiled.

The doors to the procreation center slid open
at their approach, revealing a foyer that was stark and
unadorned, illuminated by lighting fixtures
set in a double helix pattern in the ceiling. But
as Uhura led Baila inside, what struck her
more than anything else was the quiet.
Not that it was completely soundless; she could hear the
clack of their footfalls on the stone floor and the
distant cacophony of tiny voices that reminded
her the place was a nursery. But compared to what was
going on outside, the procreation center was silence
itself. And that was fine with the Enterprise's
communications officer, who'd had her fill of the
sizzling din during her first visit to Girin
Gatha.
There was no one there to greet them, not that Uhura
had necessarily expected there would be. However,
the corridors that projected from the foyer were bound
to be populated with caregivers for the Rithramen
young.
Baila looked at her. "Think we'll offend
anyone if we go inside?"
Uhura shrugged. "Not if we're discreet about
it."
He pointed to the central corridor. "How
about this one?"
"Looks as promising as any other," she said.
Together they set off down the hallway in search
of a guide. They hadn't gone very far before they
passed a nursery window.
It was set up much like a nursery in a
hospital back on Earth. Uhura almost
expected to see a crowd of parents and
well-wishers crowding around to see the new
arrivals.
Of course the babies inside didn't look
the least bit human. They were too pink, 217
their eyes were too small, and no son of Earth
ever had a crest on his head the way these Rithrim
did.
"Wonder which caste they are," Baila commented.
Uhura listened to their wailing, muted by the
transparent wall between them and the infants.
"Gatherers," she concluded.
Her companion looked at her. "How can you
tell?" And then, before she could reply, he came
up with the answer himself "That's right. By the pitch of
their voices."
Among the Rithrim, pitch was established at
birth, even if other physical characteristics were not.
It was nature's way of ensuring that infants would
be caste-identified and segregated immediately so that
their caste specialty could be honed.
Peering through the nursery window, Baila shook
his head. "Isn't it funny? When you listen
closely, they sound like adults instead of
babies."
"It is funny," she conceded.
"May I help you?" said a voice
directly behind them.
Uhura whirled and saw a procreator with her
hands clasped against her chest. They'd been so
enthralled with the young that they hadn't heard her
approach.
"I hope so," she told the Rithrim, as she
did her best to recover from her surprise.
"We're looking for Dab."
"Dab?" the procreator repeated. And then
"I can lead you to her, but ..."
"Is there a problem?" asked Uhura. "We
just spoke with her a little while ago, when we were up
on our ship."
The Rithrim seemed to think for a moment. Finally
she indicated with her hands that she'd come to a
conclusion, if an uncertain one.
"No," she said. "No problem. Come with me,
please."
They followed the procreator down the
corridor. Before they'd gone fifty paces,
they'd passed two other nurseries one for baby
builders and the other for newborn governors.
There was only one more window between them and the door.
Like all the others, this nursery was full, every berth
filled with a bawling infant.
Just out of curiosity Uhura listened for their
pitch. Judging by the tilt of his head, Baila was
listening, too. 219
But there was something strange here. The babies were
howling at a pitch she didn't recognize.
Stopping, Uhura listened more intently, just to be
sure. However, she'd been right the first time. The
pitch was off--not just in one or two of the babies but
in all of them.
Baila had stopped also. He regarded her.
"You hear it also?"
She nodded. "And I've got a good ear for such
things."
The procreator looked up at them. "Something
is amiss?" she asked.
"Not really," Uhura assured her. "We were
just wondering about these babies. Their voices are
too low-pitched to be governors and too
high-pitched to be gatherers."
The procreator looked at them helplessly.
"I do not understand your question." Her hands were
absolutely silent--a very unusual condition for a
Rithrim. "Perhaps Dab can answer it."
Uhura nodded. "Perhaps."
Obviously eager to get going, the procreator
hurried through the door, barely giving it time
to slide away. Exchanging glances, the
Starfleet officers followed her through.

Silva, the planetary leader of Parathu'ul,
smiled thinly, which of course was the only way he
could smile. He steepled his long, slender
fingers and glanced around the room at his visitors,
who were saying nothing.
"You are being joking with me, yes?" he asked
politely.
"We are being joking with you, no," replied
Kirk. Spock stood next to Kirk, largely
for effect. Kirk had noticed that the mere
presence of the forbidding, inscrutable Vulcan was enough
to unnerve anyone being questioned about a transgression.
Apparently, however, the Parath'aa were able
to suppress their terror. Silva even made a
sound that resembled a soft chuckle. "This is being
quite a surprise, Captain. Here we're being
open and honest about our knowledge of these raiders, which
admittedly is minimal. And now you are being
accusatory of us. Saying that we are somehow not
only aware of their identities, but are
supportive of them, or even their employers."
"The thought had occurred to us," said Kirk.
Silva sighed and shook his head. "Such
disappointment we are feeling now, 221
Captain. Such sadness. Here we are being
hopeful of joining the Federation, and you act in this
manner."
"I find it an interesting coincidence," said
Kirk, "that your petition to join the Federation came
very, very shortly after the raiders started their
attacks in this system. One could argue the
remarkable timing. On the one hand, you could be
pursuing your desire for technology through means of
conquest, while on the other hand you try to throw
suspicion away from yourselves by approaching the
Federation on peaceful terms."
"Intriguing the way in which your mind works,
Captain," said Silva calmly. He rose and
loo ked out his window, gazing across the great square.
"Now as for myself, I would be pointing out that the
presence of the raiders might simply serve
to underscore what a dangerous place the galaxy
can be and how important it is being to have friends and
protection. Is that not as reasonable an
explanation for events as your own? What do you
think, Mr. Spock?"
"It is not unreasonable," Spock said
carefully.
"There!" Silva said triumphantly. "It
is not being unreasonable. Of what higher vindication
can we be hoping than that of a Vulcan."
Kirk shot a look at his first officer, who
merely looked back impassively. "It is not
unreasonable, Captain," Spock said again.
"Besides," Silva added, "there is not being
absolutely conclusive proof that any equipment
or materials is being missing from Alpha
Xaridian Two. In fact, as you have yourselves being
telling us, other attacked worlds have not been robbed
at all. Destruction, yes. Terrible
destruction"--he shuddered slightly in sympathy
--?b not theft. Now, why would raiders being stealing
on one world and not on others? Other worlds have other
technology that we Parath'aa would like. Why are
they not being looted?"
"Yes, I was thinking about that very thing myself," said
Kirk. "I've been giving that a lot of thought.
And you know what I've come up with?"
Silva shook his head politely.
"ABC murders," said Kirk.
At that, Silva looked utterly confused.
He looked to his compatriots for an
explanation, but none was forthcoming. "I'm
sorry?" 223
"It's a method of murdering someone and disguising
your motive," said Kirk. "Let's say that you
want to murder Person A. But you're afraid
that this action will inevitably point to you as the
murderer, since anyone who might want Person
A murdered would doubtless be investigated."
"Oh, doubtless," confirmed Silva, still not
entirely following.
"So you murder Person A, and not too long
afterward, you murder Person B. And then Person
C, D, E, and so on. You do so using some very
obvious pattern that the authorities are certain
to notice. That way they will falsely conclude that
they are dealing with some sort of pattern serial
killer rather than with someone who really wanted only
one person dead but went to great trouble to cover his
tracks."
"I do not fully understand the parallel," said
Silva.
Kirk walked slowly toward him and stopped
barely a foot away. "Oh, I think you do,"
he said. "The attackers get much, if not all,
of what they need on the first colony world they
attack. But they don't want it to be obvious
that they're stealing technology which might be connected
with you. So they attack other colonies, focusing
purely on the devastation so that they'll be percvd
as engines of destruction rather than thieves. And they
continue on this course until they, and you, are
convinced that the trail toward you is ice cold.
Am I making myself clear enough now, Silva?"
Silva's body seemed to tremble for a moment,
and then in a low and deadly voice, he said,
"Captain ... we are being polite hosts. But
you are being rude visitor. We will be asking you
to leave."
Kirk glared at him through narrowed eyes and
waited for the Parath'aa leader to crack.
Unfortunately this technique didn't meet with
much more success than the strategy of bringing a
Vulcan with him. The Parath'aa were,
apparently, unflappable.
His gaze never leaving the Parath'aa, Kirk
flipped open his communicator. "Kirk
to Enterprise Two to beam up." He closed the
device and said quietly, "We'll be keeping
an eye on you, Silva."
"Enjoy the view, Captain Kirk" was
Silva's calm reply.
225
When Kirk and Spock stepped off the
transporter pads, McCoy was waiting for them.
"Well? How did it go?"
"They broke down completely and threw themselves
on our mercy," Kirk informed him.
"Hunh. Didn't admit to a thing, did
they?"
"Not a thing."
The wall communicator sounded, and Palmer's
voice came down. "Bridge to captain."
From the tone of her voice, Kirk already had a
hunch what this call was going to be about. He
walked quickly to the wall unit and punched a
button. "Kirk here. Who's being attacked
now?"
Palmer did not even hesitate despite
Kirk's small display of telepathy. "Beta
Xaridian Four."
"Lay in a course. Inform Engineering I'll
need warp eight. This time there are no ships buying
us additional time. I'm on my way up." He
clicked off and turned to Spock. "It would
appear," he said as they headed out of the
transporter room, "that Administrator
Jarvis and the colonists of Beta Xaridian
Four have just watched their luck run out. I hope
to God we get there in time to restore it."

Chapter Eleven

Dab's office, if it could be called that, was a
large room in which one entire wall was composed of
viewscreens--sixteen of them, each showing a
different nursery.
"I was not informed of your coming," said the head of the
procreator caste.
"Our apologies," Uhura told her. Her
hand movements echoed her ^ws. "I regret any
inconvenience we may have caused."
Dab eyed them. "It is no inconvenience"--
especially in light of the help the Lexington is
giving the procreation center, she added in sign
language.
"As you may have noticed," Baila said, "our
engineers have begun reassembling their shield
projectors."
Dab nodded. "I have indeed noticed." Her
hands asked How long before the shields will start
working?
"They should be up and running in three 227
to four days," said Uhura. "That's what I'm
told by Mr. Samuels, who is in charge of the
operation." She used signs to indicate that four
days would be the maximum.
"That is good." The procreator indicated her
approval. "Some of the offspring we nurture here
have gotten sickly in recent days. Your
assistance has come none too soon."
For a moment there was silence. Uhura considered the
best way of bringing up the governors' sudden
change of heart and finally decided that the direct
approach might be the most useful.
"Procreator Dab," she began, "we've
been unable to fathom the governors' reasons for
changing their minds about our helping you here. We
certainly don't mean to pry into anything that's not
our business, but we believe that the better we
understand Rithrim of all castes, the more helpful
we can be to you."
Dab nodded. "Your request is a reasonable
one. What is more, I have some inkling of the
governors' thinking on the subject, even if I
disagree with it." She paused. "However, I cannot
divulge the information you seek. Only the
governors may provide it."
Uhura didn't like getting stonewalled--but she
didn't say so. What she said was "Thank you for
your honesty, Procreator Dab."
"You are quite welcome." Dab sat back in
her chair. "If our business is concluded here,"
she told them, "various matters await my
attention." Her hands were already bidding her
visitors farewell, figuratively ushering them
out the door.
"Actually," said Baila, "there is one other
thing. Nothing important--j a matter of
curiosity."
"Ask," the procreator instructed him. "I
will answer if I may."
The communications officer licked his lips.
"Outside, in the hallway, we came upon a
caste nursery we had trouble identifying."
"Oh?"
"That's right," Uhura chimed in. "The pitch
of the babies' voices is different from that of any
of the four castes."
Dab shook her head. "You must be mistaken.
There are only four pitches; the pitch in the
nursery you speak of must be one of the four."
Her hands were immobile--j like those of the 229
procreator they'd encountered in the corridor.
Uhura noted the fact and wondered about it.
Baila must have noticed, too, because he
didn't press the issue. He just inclined his
head to the procreator.
"Perhaps we were mistaken," he said. "Thank you
for your indulgence."
"Again, you are welcome." Dab pressed a
button on her desk, and a moment later another
procreator came in--though it didn't seem
to be the one who had led them to this office.
"See to it that our visitors are escorted
out," instructed Dab. Her hand signals made
the order into a request.
"Gladly," said the newcomer. She signed
to the humans. "Come with me."
And so they left Dab's office--albeit with
more questions than they'd had when they entered.

The damage reports were coming in fast and
furiously to the emergency command center where
Administrator Sharon Jarvis and her closest
aides had secured themselves. Bunkers had been
hollowed out below the ground and lined with duranium,
affording the cowering colonists a sizable degree of
protection. Overhead Jarvis could hear the pounding
of the raiders' weapons, the roar of their ships, as
the deadly vessels strafed the surface of the
planet looking for new targets.
One of her aides, Joan Winston, had a
small communicator pressed against her ear. She
called out to Jarvis, "Ground defense crews
are keeping the raiders hopping! Our securing the
crews against mountainsides has given them added
shelter ... at least for the moment."
"Come on, Kirk," breathed Jarvis. "What
are you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Get
your interstellar ass over here."

"Coming up on Beta Xaridian Four,
Captain," Sulu said, as the Enterprise
dropped out of warp speed. "We'll be in range
within two minutes."
"Red alert. Raise shields. All hailing
frequencies," said Kirk, experiencing a
natural feeling of d@ej@a vu. By all
reason, there was no need to go through the pretense that the
raiders were going to be interested in chatting.
The call came up from Engineering. "Captain,
you can't be thinking of taking us into battle 231
again so soon?" came the voice of the chief
engineer, bordering on indignation.
"It had crossed my mind, Mr. Scott.
We'll need everything you 've got."
"Captain," Scotty said in horror,
"I'll need another three hours to fully
restore all systems! As it is, she's being
held together with spit and bailing wire!"
There was one thing to be said for Scotty, the
captain mused the engineer did not waste a great
deal of time recounting technical details. He
had once commented that it wasn't necessary to "waste the
captain's time with such trivia," but Kirk
suspected that Scott simply assumed the
details would be too complicated for Kirk
to understand.
"In that case, Mr. Scott, I suggest you
work up some more spit."
"Aye, sir," Scotty said wearily.
Clearly he was not happy with the way things were working
out.
"Sensors indicate power expenditures near
the planet surface," Spock announced. "It
would appear that the raiders have already begun their
assault. The colonists are defending themselves
adequately, but they cannot hold out forever."
Somewhere below the atmosphere, where the
Enterprise could not go, the brazen attackers were
assaulting the colonists. Kirk felt a cold
fury building in him.
"No response on any channels,"
Palmer announced.
"If we fire down on the raiders with
phasers set on maximum--" Sulu began.
"We risk killing the colonists, and there's
no guarantee that we'll hit any of the
raiders," finished Kirk. "Perhaps wide-range
phaser stun ..."
"That would most certainly stun the colonists, and
they could not protect themselves," said Spock. "And the
shielding of the raiders' ships--alth vulnerable enough
at close range with direct hits--wd seem
to be quite formidable at a distance."
Palmer added ruefully, "The likelihood
is that they wouldn't even be slowed down."
"Quite correct, Lieutenant."
"Send down shuttles?"
"They would be outmaneuvered and outgunned," said
Spock. "It would be suicide."
"We have to bring them to us, damn it!" 233
said Kirk.
Chekov's gaze went from one person to the other
as he followed the rapid conversation with wide-eyed
amazement. He was impressed with the smoothness with which
the crew examined possibilities, analyzing and
discarding them. And it occurred to him that frequently
such analyses went on right inside the captain's
head. Silently he would evaluate and select
strategies, then order them so smoothly and
efficiently that one never suspected the effort that
went into the decision.
And when the captain needed suggestions, the
bridge crew served as extensions of his own mind.
They verbalized the options that he might already be
reviewing, or that had not occurred to him. All of the
discussion centered around the captain, and in turn he
affected every part of the bridge. The steady flow of
information, delivered by trained professionals, was
dazzling and impressive.
Chekov opened his mouth as a fleeting thought
occurred to him. But he still felt abashed and confused
over the earlier business that had cost him--for however
brief a time--his valued position on the
bridge. He did not want to do anything to risk
such a fate befalling him again. So he closed his
mouth without voicing his opinion.
The momentary facial expression, however, was not
lost on Kirk. And Chekov blanched as he
heard Kirk's voice say, "Mr. Chekov
... you have something to contribute?"
"We have to protect the colonists," said
Chekov. "If we protect them, the raiders will
come after us."
"Yes, Mr. Chekov," said Kirk
impatiently. "Any thoughts as to how we can
protect them?"
Chekov glanced desperately at Sulu. The
message in the helmsman's eye was clear If
you have an idea, spit it out.
"The colony is only a few miles long,"
said Chekov. "We could erect shields over it
using our deflectors."
"Defensive shielding only covers the ship,"
Palmer said. "It won't extend all the way
down to a planet's surface!"
"Not those deflectors," said Chekov.
"The--"
And Kirk sat bolt upright, as if someone had
jabbed a cattle prod into his back. "The
navigational deflectors!" 235
"Yes, Captain. Normally they're fully
automated, extending miles in front of the ship,
shoving aside meteors and debris so they won't
strike the ship. But if the navigational
deflectors can be recalibrated--"
"Spock!" Kirk was already turning to the
Vulcan. "Can you do it?"
Spock was moving before Kirk got halfway
through the sentence. In an instant he was standing over
Chekov's navigational computer. Chekov started
to rise in order to give the Vulcan more room, but
Spock gestured him back down with a quick shake of
his head. His fingers were already manipulating the
computer controls.
"I've taken manual control of the
navigational deflectors," Spock said as if
talking from a great distance, "and am rerouting them through
the main deflector dish while I
reconfigure the beam."
The ^w "trivia" went through Kirk's mind,
said with a heavy Scottish burr. "Will it
protect the colonists?"
"It will create a barrier fashioned from
extremely narrow, but extremely effective,
deflector beams spread along the perimeter of the
colony andwitha pinnacle of"--he checked quickly--
"one thousand meters. Sir, the computer instruction
is on line."
"Perfect. However, that is the navigation station.
The navigator, by rights, should handle the finishing
touches. Ensign?"
Chekov nodded as he activated the
recalibrated navigational beam.

On the planet's surface one of the raiders
was diving straight toward the bunker in which Jarvis
and a number of other colonists were secured. The
bunker was squarely in the vessel's sights, and a
quick flip of a trigger would have been enough to rain
destruction down upon them.
The trigger, however, was not flipped, quickly or
otherwise, for the deflector beams materialized
directly in front of the raider, too close for
even the unusually agile ship to avoid. The
raider crashed headlong into beams that had been
designed to brush aside or pulverize floating
space matter. At the speed with which the raider was
moving, the deflector became the immovable
object against the raider's irresistible force. The
object resisted the force without 237
significant difficulty, and the raider
exploded into an extremely impressive
fireball that skipped along the edge of the conical
defensive shield and ended up several miles
away.
The other raiders were able to react quickly enough,
however, and they veered off from the defense screen in
time. They swarmed around it like maddened hornets,
firing in frustration.

"They're trying to batter down the navigational
deflector beams, sir," reported Sulu.
Kirk looked like a Bu.ha. "Let them."
He punched down to Engineering. "Scotty, I
want all power fed into those beams. Reserves.
Everything."
The engineer sounded worried, but said simply,
"Aye, sir."
Chekov turned in his chair. "You wish to leave
us defenseless, Captain?"
"Criticizing, Ensign?"
"Inquiring, Captain."
"Navigational deflectors holding, sir,"
said Sulu. "Our own shields are fading, but the
cone is holding steady on the planet."
Kirk hadn't looked away from Chekov.
"We don't need defenses, do we, Ensign?"
Chekov pondered the question for only a moment.
"No, sir. Not while they're down there and
we're up here."
"Precisely."
"But we can't keep the navigational force
shield in place indefinitely," Chekov
pointed out.
It was Spock who replied. "They do not know
that, Ensign."
"The question will be," said Kirk, "which will have greater
limits our power or their patience."
It didn't take long to learn the answer.
"Attacks on the defensive cone have ceased,"
Spock announced from his hooded station, and then, a
moment later "Raiders approaching at
three-two-two mark nine."
"Captain," said Chekov in a determinedly
neutral voice. "When they attack, we'll have
to shift defenses back to the Enterprise. The
colony will be unprotected. If they should leave
ships behind to continue the assault--"
"They won't," said Kirk.
"But--" 239
"I said," Kirk repeated with confidence, "they
won't."
"Incoming attackers!" called Sulu.
"Seven ... no, eight."
"So that wasn't their entire fleet we
encountered before," said Kirk. "Redirect power
to ship's deflectors. Mr. Sulu, are any
of the raiders still at planet altitude?"
"No, sir, they're all in space."
Kirk smiled. "Mr. Sulu, fire at will.
Phasers and photon torpedoes."
The Enterprise armament lashed out at the
raiders, and once more the ships bobbed and weaved with
alacrity. But Sulu was studying them carefully,
and even as he fired at what was on the screen,
he studied quick replays of their moves across his
helm display.
"I'm starting to notice some patterns," said
Sulu. "I think I can anticipate some of their
moves this time."
"Best guesses, Mr. Sulu. Fireffwas
Sulu quickly tracked two of the ships and fired
off a phaser blast directly into their path while
at the exact same time releasing an array of
photon torpedoes into the direction he was certain
that the ships would steer.
He was rewarded with partial success. Two of the
ships managed to avoid the torpedoes, but two
others were not so fortunate. The torpedoes caromed
directly into them ...
And bounced away. The ships were wobbling and off
kilter, but otherwise seemed unhurt.
Sulu took advantage of their momentary
disorientation to batter them with phaser blasts. But the
main battery of the Enterprise offense seemed
to have as little effect as did the torpedoes--ll
effect physically, that was.
Psychologically, however, it seemed that the
Enterprise had given them more than they wished
to swallow. The raiders suddenly came together,
swept down and around, and shot behind Beta
Xaridian IV. The clever positioning put the
planet between them and the starship; the only way the
Enterprise could fire on them was to shoot
straight through the pl anet. That would have been, to put
it mildly, counterproductive.
The Enterprise whipped around the planet as
fast as the impulse engines would drive it, but by that
time it was too late. The smaller ships had gone
into warp. 241
"Damn," muttered Kirk.
"They were moving slower," said Sulu. "They were
definitely moving slower. Maybe we're wearing
them out."
"Let's hope we have the opportunity to wear
them out even more," said Kirk. "Lieutenant
Palmer, signal Beta Xaridian Four that
all is clear. Mr. Chekov, restore the
navigational deflector to normal usage. And
nice thinking about the use of those navigational
deflectors."
Chekov bobbed his head slightly in
acknowledgment, then screwed his courage to the sticking
place and said, "Captain ... how did you know
they would attack us in full numbers instead of
splitting their forces?"
"They'd lost the element of surprise for the
planet raid," said Kirk. "If our theory
is correct, their goals are more on an z-need
basis than graven in stone. They could afford
to retreat. What they could not afford was to face the
Enterprise at less than full strength. If
they'd sent half their force up here and left the
rest planetside, they would have risked our
defeating the smaller number while the remainder were
stuck below. They had to face us in as large a
number as possible; it was their best chance for
accomplishing anything, including the possible
destruction of this ship."
"And you knew all that for sure?" said Chekov
admiringly.
Kirk sighed. "Mr. Chekov, the first thing they
taught us in command school is that the captain can be
right or the captain can be wrong, but the one thing the
captain cannot be ... is unsure." He paused
and then added, "Even if he doesn't have a
clue."

Chapter Twelve

Wesley leaned back in his chair, surveying
the two communications officers across his conference
room table. "Maybe you .were mistaken," he
suggested.
Uhura shook her head. "No chance, sir.
I've got perfect pitch."
"Dab and her people are lying," insisted Baila.
"There's something about that nursery they don't want
us to know about."
Uhura nodded. "I could tell by their 243
hands--they weren't moving them when they discussed the
nursery. I'll bet it's easier for them to deceive
with the spoken ^w than with their sign language."
Wesley digested the information. "All right.
Let's say for the moment that they're lying. What
does it mean?"
Uhura frowned. What indeed?
"Could it be," Baila suggested, "that there's a
connection between the mystery nursery and the missing
statues?"
That roused the commodore's interest. "Could be,"
he replied. "Care to venture a theory,
Lieutenant?"
Uhura heard the challenge in Wesley's
^ws, even if Baila didn't. The commodore
was daring the man to make a real contribution--
to prove his worth.
Baila thought for a moment. Finally he shook his
head. "No, sir. No th--" Suddenly, his
eyes lit up. "I take that back," he said.
"I have got a theory. And it's a whopper."
Uhura leaned forward. "Well? Don't
leave us in suspense."
"How about this What if there are more than four
castes in Rithramen society? What if there
are five?"
"Five?" Uhura echoed, starting to see the
possibilities even as Baila laid them out.
"That's right, five. But maybe there's something
about the fifth caste that makes the other Rithrim
want to disown them. Something they did--"
"Or maybe something the other Rithrim did
to them," Uhura interjected. "Something the other
Rithrim weren't very proud of."
Baila's temples worked. "Either way, the
fifth caste disappeared somehow. Maybe they were
banished to another world; maybe they died. And now
the governors and the gatherers and the builders and the
procreators are trying to sweep them under the
rug."
Wesley's eyes narrowed. "Then the statuary
they're destroying ..."
"Depicts the fifth caste," Baila finished
for him.
"But of course they can't obliterate the
caste's presence in society alt. It would still be
represented in the gene pool; infants would still be
born with fifth-caste characteristics."
Uhura saw where he was going with this. "It
makes sense," she remarked. "It 245
makes a whole lot of sense." She turned to the
commodore. "The babies in that nursery were
definitely not of any caste we know about."
Wesley looked from one to the other of them. "Now
that I think about it," he said, "we had just asked
Endris about the statuary when he told us we were
to leave Rithra. At the time, I thought nothing of
it; he made it sound as if the decision had already
been made. But now I'm not so sure." He
shook his head. "Could they be so ashamed of this fifth
caste that they'd sacrifice a procreation center
to keep us from the truth?"
"People have sacrificed more for less," Uhura
reminded him.
"Maybe you're right, Lieutenant. But what
could have happened that was so terrible? All the
Rithrim we've met are peaceful to a fault."
"Let's see," said Baila. "Governors.
Gatherers. Procreators. Builders." He
ticked the castes off on his fingers as he named
them. "All the basic functions of a society.
What am I leaving out?"
Uhura thought about it. What was the analogy
Baila had made early on? He'd compared the
Rithrim to ... Terran insects, right? Right.
So what did an insect colony have that
Rithramen society didn't? What--
"Oh, my God," said Uhura, without meaning
to speak out loud. She looked at Wesley and
Baila and saw the stares they were giving her.
"Yes, Lieutenant?" prodded the commodore.
Uhura leaned forward. "I think I've got
it, sir."

"It's not working. I'll never get it to work."
Overhearing the complaint, Scotty walked
outside his office and looked down into the engineering
section. He was never quite sure why the architects
had decided to put the chief engineer's office
atop a ladder, but there it was.
Down below, two engineers huddled over a
circuit board. One, a dark-haired man named
Washburn, was trying to reattach three small
circuits, using tiny tools. The other, a
tall, slender black woman named Masters, was
overseeing the job with a flashlight.
"Cheer up, Washburn," Masters said
gently. "We'll get it fixed. And remember,
this is a redundancy system we're repairing.
It's not like the warp engines depend on it 247
this instant."
Washburn wiped some sweat from his forehead with the
back of his hand. "You're right. I guess I've
just been working too hard." He went back to his
work, getting it right on the next try.
Scotty couldn't help but notice that all the
spirits aboard the Enterprise were flagging. Twice
now they had encountered these mysterious attackers and
twice they had gotten away, but the confrontations
were taking their toll.
Surveying the rest of his domain, Scotty
watched men and women repair minor damage and
reintegrate circuits that had fused. His
pride in his personnel and equipment was second
to none, probably not even to Kirk's pride in
the Enterprise.
"Mr. Scott?"
He followed the voice to its source. "Aye,
Mr. Stanley?"
"Sir, the dilithium chamber checks out just
fine. The power fluctuation you found was from a forward
converter."
"Did you repair the problem?"
"All done, sir."
"Good. Then you and Gabler should go down and check
the impulse integration relays. We may need
to maneuver quickly when we find those beasties again."
Stanley nodded and left the main engine room.
Satisfied that things were going as well as could be
expected, Scott went back into his office and
sat down behind his desk.
Sighing, he took another look at the mission
monitor board, a schematic of the Enterprise
on the rear wall. The controls rested on his
desk, allowing him to override just about all the
ship's main functions.
Scott studied the status of each system.
All signs were green, meaning the ship was ready for
just about anything. He paused to listen to the thrum of the
engines, and a slow smile spread across his face.
"Warp two," he said softly and then looked
at a bridge monitor. Sure enough, they were
moving at warp two.
With all as it should be, Scott turned his
attention to the raiders again. Their design and
maneuverability intrigued him. He accessed the
library computer and tied in with his own files of
ship design--both those dealing with the practical and
those dealing with the theoretical.
While the raiders' exact 249
configuration did not register, Scott noted its
similarities to ships from the Orion worlds. He
shook his head sadly, thinking about how such fine
design was wasted on thieves and slavers.
Scott then asked the computer to display engine
readouts that the sensors had managed to record
during the two confrontations. The screen lit up
to display colorful charts showing engine output.
He was interested to see that the color flow was
steady, quite unlike most Federation ship designs.
The color charts were encoded with notations on
radiation residue, waste, chemical composition,
and other details, almost down to the microscopic
level. After studying the readouts for a moment, he
asked the computer to slow down the playback.
Scott watched intently as the colors slowly
shifted from one hue to another, with the accompanying
data changing accordingly. He flipped two
switches and asked the computer for a closer
detailed analysis of the engine section alone.
As the computer complied, Scott snapped on
an auxiliary console and ran some separate
notations. He could have spoken directly to the
computer and had it run the information, but he needed to do
something with his hands, and it was always good practice
to stay in physical contact with the equipment itself.
The engineering chief ran the information once more.
Wait a second. ...
"Damn!" he exclaimed out loud--and hit the
communications panel. "Engineering to Mr.
Spock."
"Spock here," came the almost instantaneous
reply. Didn't the Vulcan ever sleep?
"I think I've found a way to track the
marauders," Scotty said.
"Indeed. Continue, Mr. Scott."
The engineer licked his lips. "Like all
engines, the raiders' produce trace ions.
But unlike our engines; theirs are negatively
charged."
Spock was silent for a moment. "And we can use
that fact to follow them to their hiding place. Good
work, Mr. Scott. I will inform the captain.
Bridge out."
Scotty sat back in his chair and shook his
head. He'd just turned the whole bloody mission
around--andthe only thing Spock could say was "Good
work."
Ah, well. Another day, another miracle.
251
Spock snapped off the communication channel and
relayed Scott's discovery to the captain, who was
engaged in discussion with Sulu. Kirk's reaction
was as expected.
"Terrific, Spock. Mr. Sulu, tie in
with full sensor sweeps and find the marauders.
As soon as you find something, have Chekov lay in a
course. We may have something here."
"Aye-aye." Sulu's reply was tinged with
excitement.
"You know, Spock," Kirk began, "finding
them is only half the battle. We've still got
to beat them."
"Yes, sir. I am awaiting a final
analysis from Lieutenant Commander Giotto on
tactical maneuvers. He is replaying the
two confrontations and running simulations."
"At least this time we have that luxury," Kirk
said. He looked out at the bridge, noting how
all members of the crew set eagerly about their
tasks. Scott's good news had come at just the
right time.
"Sir?" Spock had taken up a position just
behind and to one side of the captain.
Kirk turned to him. "Yes, Spock?"
The Vulcan spoke in a low voice. "You
are about to begin your third consecutive shift on the
bridge. Is it not time to obtain some rest?"
The captain smiled. Though he hadn't really
thought about it, he realized that he could use a
rest. The last thing he wanted was to have to confront the
raiders without his wits about him.
"You win, Spock." Turning to his
helmsman, he said, "You have the conn, Mr.
Sulu."
"Aye-aye, sir," came the response.
As Kirk got up and headed for the turbolift,
he saw the first officer take his place.
Fortunately Vulcans could go a lot longer
without sleep than humans could.
A moment later he was inside the lift,
watching the doors close--but thinking about anything but
rest. After all, he'd engaged the mystery fleet
twice and barely managed a draw.
What could he do differently the next time? Part
of him wanted to ask Starfleet for a backup
ship. Maybe a second starship would help--and
then again, maybe not. Besides, the nearest vessel was
the Lexington, and Bob Wesley was busy
enough. 253
No, he'd have to handle this one himself, just as he'd
handled other tough missions in the past. He'd
rely on his wits, his officers' skills ...
and a little luck.
* * *
The governors' courtyard was every bit as
imposing now as it had been the first time Uhura had
seen it, and every bit as bright. As before, Uhura
materialized alongside Wesley, Baila,
Samuels, and Dr. Coss; as before, the
governors awaited them on the opposite side
of the small blue-green pool.
Of course there were some differences as well. For
one thing, the builders were no longer in evidence,
apparently having completed their labors. They'd
done a good job, too; the fresco they'd been
working on was as old- and venerable-looking as any
other.
The other difference, and by far the more significant
one, was the presence of Dab. As silent as any
of Endris's companions, the procreator stood
to one side of the governors' bench in a sleeveless
white garment.
The present-cycle governor got to his
feet. "Welcome," he said.
His hands conveyed a somewhat different message
one that was heavy with urgency. After all, the people from the
Enterprise had already been asked to leave,
hadn't they? What was this meeting about, anyway, and
why was it necessary for a procreator, even one as
high-placed as Dab, to be there?
All this Endris said with his hands. But Uhura
didn't translate; she'd made the commodore
aware of the governor's impatience before they beamed
down. Judging from Endris's gestures, she was
surprised he had agreed to this talk at all.
His attitude didn't bode well for the
outcome of this discussion. Wesley had hoped that
once the Rithrim's secret was out in the open,
they'd agree to let the Federation people stay and help
out at Girin Gatha. But Endris's impatience
put that hope in jeopardy.
Hell, maybe exposing the Rithrim's
secret would make the governors that much more
determined to kick them out. One never knew.
"Sit," Endris instructed the visitors.
"Actually," said the commodore, "I'd prefer
to stand. You see, where I come from, no one sits
unless there's a seat for everyone. And I don't
see anywhere for Procreator Dab 255
to sit."
Uhura expanded on the idea for the benefit of the
Rithrim. It was difficult to get across the very
human idea of chivalry, but she managed.
The present-cycle governor hesitated for a
moment. Then he said "There is no slight
intended to Procreator Dab--nor, I assure
you, does she perceive one. Of course, you may
sit or stand as you wish." And he sat.
"Nice start," whispered Coss.
"Thanks for the encouragement," returned
Wesley.
He cleared his throat. "Governors ...
Procreator Dab ... I am probably
overstepping my bounds with what I am about to say.
If I weren't so concerned about the health of your people
at Girin Gatha, I wouldn't even consider it."
He looked around the courtyard as if admiring the
stone-carving work that had gone into it. "This is a
beautiful place. An ancient place. And like
many ancient places, it hides a secret,
doesn't it?"
Uhura looked for the governors'
reactions--in their hands. She wasn't
disappointed. The Rithrim's fingers were clenched in
obvious anxiety. Only Dab seemed
relaxed--alm relieved.
"It seems to us," the commodore went on, "that
not so long ago, there were five castes on this
planet. A caste of governors, a caste of
builders, a caste of gatherers, a caste of
procreators--anda caste of warriors. There's
no crime in Rithramen society now, no
strife, but that couldn't always have been the case. There
had to be soldiers, defenders, police--p who
could bring force to bear in the protection of your
earliest pockets of civilization."
Uhura searched for some sign that they'd guessed
wrong. She saw none.
"Bingo?" muttered Baila.
"Bingo," she confirmed.
"But something happened to that fifth caste," said
Wesley, gathering steam. "Something that made your
society feel ashamed, either of the warrior caste
or of itself. So you decided to obliterate them and the
memory of them." He indicated the walls of the
courtyard with a sweep of his arm. "To wipe out all
trace of them, here and elsewhere."
The commodore eyed the governors again.
"Maybe when you invited us here, you 257
didn't think we'd notice what you were doing. But
we noticed, and we asked about it. And you thought we
were getting too close to your secret, so you asked
us to leave, choosing to sacrifice the lives of many
of your young rather than let us find out what happened
to your warrior caste."
Wesley paused. "Well, I'm here to tell
you I don't give a damn what happened to them.
Sure, I'm curious. But I'm not here
to judge you; that's not what the Federation is all
about. The only thing of any importance to me is
to make sure the procreators and the children are safe
at Girin Gatha."
Silence. For a moment no one moved. Then
Endris made a distinct and deliberate sign of
dismissal.
"You have come to an erroneous conclusion," he said,
perfect calm in his voice. His gestures
emphasized the ^ws. "There has never been a
fifth caste on Rithra. What is more, we
resent your temerity. We were under the impression that
when we asked you to leave, you would do so without
conducting an investigation."
It was painfully obvious to Uhura that Endris
was lying. But there was nothing she could do about it. It was
the Rithrim's planet, not theirs.
But Wesley had one more card to play. He
turned to Dab, who had been quiet all this time.
"Is this what you want, Procreator?"
For what seemed like a long time, Dab
returned the commodore's gaze. Finally she
spoke--but not to Wesley.
Turning to the governors, she said "It is
over; they know that. And I am glad, because there is
no longer any reason to let the little ones die."
If Endris was angry with her, he didn't
show it--not even in his hands. Rather, he signified
acceptance, even resignation.
Regarding the Federation team anew, the
present-cycle governor stood. His
black-robed figure was reflected in the still
waters of the pool. "You are correct," Endris
said. "There is a fifth caste, a warrior
caste. And we are indeed pained by the choices they
have made."
He paused--though his hands kept going,
eloquently expressing the depth of his distress.
"In the old days the warriors were a valued
part of our society. They enforced our laws; they
prevented us from inflicting harm on one 259
another. Then, when our race matured beyond
intraspecific aggression, we turned to the stars,
and the fifth caste found another function the
defense of Rithra against the peoples we
encountered in space.
"As it happened, we encountered few peoples,
and none of them turned out to be a threat. However,
that did not prevent the warriors from being prepared.
Over the years they honed their instellar battle
capabilities to a fine point, becoming
acutely skilled pilots and marksmen. But they
never got a chance to exercise their skills in
battle.
"It was becomin g increasingly obvious," Endris
explained, "that the warriors no longer had a
role on Rithra. Worse, given no other
outlet, they began to turn their aggressive
instincts on one another. For the first time in
centuries there was bloodshed among Rithrim--
internecine conflicts between growing factions of
warriors. Ironically, sadly, the caste
nature had designed to stem violence had become
the cause of it."
As Uhura listened to the governor, something
gnawed at her. An annoyance, she thought at
first, a distraction. She was so intrigued
by Endris's ^ws that she tried to dismiss it, to push
it aside.
But she couldn't. Because as the governor went on,
she realized where he was going with his speech--and that
what seemed to be a distraction was just her mind's
way of putting two and two together.
Nor was she alone in that, apparently. As she
looked at Wesley, Baila, Coss, and
Samuels, each in turn, she saw the first
glimmerings of realization in their eyes.
Baila turned to her. "Uhura ..."
"I know," she said. "I know."
In the meantime Endris went on, his hands
sculpting the bright air of the courtyard. He
seemed oblivious to the humans, oblivious even
to his fellow Rithrim, absorbed as he was in the
memory of his people's grief.
"Compelled by their genetic makeup to fight, but
unable to vent their aggression on or around Rithra,
the warriors decided to leave us. For the first time in
our history a caste planned to split off,
leaving its sister castes behind. What would they do?
Where would they go? We asked these questions.
"The warriors told us there were 261
numerous populations in the galaxy in need of a
proficient fighting force--planetary
civilizations that would welcome them with open arms.
To the other castes, however, the very idea was too
shameful to contemplate. The warriors were part of
us, and we were part of them; the procreators carried
their future generations. How could they hire themselves
out to some other race? It would dishonor us all.
"But the warriors would not listen. In fact, they
said, they had already agreed to serve an alien
government ... on a planet called
Parathu'ul."
"The Parath'aa," repeated Wesley.
"Damn!"
Endris looked up at him, suddenly conscious
of his surroundings again. "Yes, the Parath'aa. You
have heard of them?"
The commodore grunted. "You might say that.
And your warriors are working for them?"
"That is our understanding," the governor agreed.
"Though we have not heard from our fifth caste since
it left Rithra, so we have no way of knowing for
certain."
"The mercenaries in the Xaridian systems
..." Samuels began. "Captain Kirk
called them "warriors born."'"
The commodore nodded. "A bunch of top-notch
fighters, like none we've ever seen before. It
makes sense."
"I do not understand," said Endris.
The commodore frowned. "Not too long ago a
mysterious fleet began raiding some of our
colonies, killing innocent people for no apparent
reason. I've got a sneaking suspicion those
raiders are your warriors."
The governors looked at one another. Their
hands flew in rapid exchanges.
"They're discussing the possibility," Uhura
translated without being asked. "And they're conceding
that Commodore Wesley could be right."
Finally Endris turned to them again, remorse
etched in his face.
"We did not know," he said. "If our sister
caste has stooped to murder on behalf of the
Parath'aa, our shame is deeper now than ever."
He shook his head. "Our dishonor knows no
bounds."
"You could redeem yourselves," Wesley suggested.
"Our ships have been unable to stop your warriors.
Help us--give us some idea of their 263
weaknesses--and we'll be able to put an end to the
slaughter."
The governor regarded him. "Do you know what you
are asking? If we were to divulge our warriors'
weaknesses, and if our revelation led to their blood
being shed ..." He shuddered. "The fifth caste
has abandoned us, but we will not betray them."
"We don't want to kill them," Coss
interjected. "Just to stop them."
Endris's hands cut the air. "And can you
guarantee none of them will perish in the process?
Our warriors do not surrender easily,
Doctor. If we help you, our betrayal of
them will surely lead to their death."
"Sir ..." said Samuels.
The commodore looked at him. "Yes?"
"We already know one of their weaknesses."
It took Uhura a moment to realize what he
was talking about.
Wesley, too, apparently. Then a grim
smile took hold of his features. "So we
do," the commodore responded. "So we do."


Chapter Thirteen

Chekov sighed. Finding the raiders was proving
a lot tougher than anyone had expected.
Sitting beside him, Sulu raised his gaze from his
helm console, turned to the ensign, and said
"Narrow your range by another hundred thousand
kilometers."
The Russian complied. "Aye, Mr.
Sulu." And then "Nothing yet."
"Have you tried increasing the portion of the
spectrum you are scanning for?"
"Of course."
"Okay, then go to long-range sensors and try
heading three-fourteen mark two-four."
A pause. "Still nothing."
"Once again."
Chekov shook his head. Maybe Scotty had
been wrong; maybe the negative ions he'd
found were a red herring. "Still no sign of them," the
ensign commented wearily.
"Don't give up," said Sulu. "Let's
move over to section three-fourteen mark
one-six."
The ensign nodded. "Aye, scanning now.
Nothing." 265
Chekov swiveled in his seat, looking over at
the science console. "Is everything calibrated as
we discussed?"
"Aye-aye," said the officer who'd taken
Spock's place at the science station.
As for the Vulcan himself, he just sat and watched,
the picture of patience and decorum. No doubt
he'd have liked to be at the science station himself, but
with the captain elsewhere, Spock's place was in the
command seat.
Sulu turned back to his monitors and
resumed examining the detailed schematics of the
sector now under the sensors' gaze. A full
array of readings ran across the screen; Chekov
could see them from where he sat.
"Pavel, there's a group of free-floating
asteroids just at the edge of that sector." He
pointed to the quadrant in question. "Try focusing
there."
Chekov depressed three buttons, peered
into the controls, adjusted the round control on the
viewer's side, and then shook his head. "No
luck, sir." He sighed. "It's getting
pretty hopeless, isn't it?"
"Is that any way for the navigator of the
Enterprise to talk?" Sulu made a clucking
sound. "That's not the attitude that got you through the
Maltusian maze back at the Academy."
The Russian looked at him. "You know about
that?"
Sulu nodded. "News travels--y'd be
surprised how far. Even I had trouble with the
maze."
Chekov smiled a little at the memory. "Ah,
well, if you vant me to find your way through the
maze, that's one thing. It's all in how you handle
the third fork on the fifth level. But this--"
"Is nothing different, just a maze in an
unusual configuration," Sulu finished. "Now
try mark two-three before we move on." There was
a pause and then he added, "The fifth level, you
say?"
Chekov chuckled despite himself. Was this the
helmsman's way of bolstering his spirits? If so,
it was working.
"All right. Let's try heading
three-fifteen mark two-six."
"Aye," said Chekov. "Switching sensor
to three-fifteen mark two-six. Wait a moment
... Got it, Suluffwas 267
"Ensign?" came the Vulcan's voice.
The Russian swiveled in his seat. "I found
them, sir. I found the raiders!"
Spock was characteristically calm. "I see."
He turned to Palmer at the communications station.
"Lieutenant, call the captain to the bridge,
please."
Without waiting to be asked, Chekov laid in the
required course. "Heading now three-fifteen
mark two-six," he announced.
"Increase speed to warp four," said Spock.
"Increasing speed to warp four," Sulu
confirmed. As the engines began to whine a little
higher, acknowledging the change in speed, the
intensity of the bridge crew went up a notch as
well.
"Spock to phaser room, go to standby alert,
please."
A telltale on Chekov's board switched
from amber to green. He nodded to himself.
"Okay, Pavel, exactly where are the
raiders?"
"There is a cluster of asteroids in an
elliptical orbit just beyond the Gamma
Xaridian system. I found over a dozen
separate traces leading in that direction."
"Time until arrival?"
"Four hours, seventeen minutes."
"Plenty of time for the captain to map out his plan
... while we're still on shift." Sulu smiled
a wicked grin. "I wouldn't miss this match-up
for a month's worth of shore leave."
Chekov returned the smile, if a little
grimly, and replied, "Nor vould I."

"Look sharp, people."
The Enterprise slowly approached the
meteor swarm at the outer edge of the Gamma
Xaridian system. Ahead of them floated
thousands upon thousands of small chunks of space
debris, ranging from several millimeters
to several miles in diameter. The swarm itself was
miles wide, looking almost endless.
"Mr. Spock?" Kirk didn't even have
to complete the question.
"Difficult to be precise, Captain,"
Spock said. "A number of the asteroids contain
highly ionized ore that is interfering with our
sensor array. If the raiders are indeed hiding
within the asteroid swarm, it will be very 269
difficult to pin them down."
At the moment the Enterprise was still a safe
distance from the swarm, positioned behind the second
moon of Gamma Xaridian XII, the outermost
planet in the system. Kirk leaned forward,
studying the difficulties that lay before them.
"We don't have any choice," said Kirk.
"At least if we're having difficulty
detecting them, they'll have a problem detecting us.
Deflectors on full. Ahead one-quarter
impulse. Take us in, Mr. Sulu."
Sulu took a deep breath. "Ahead
one-quarter impulse," and he eased the starship
forward.
Slowly the Enterprise made its way into the
asteroid swarm. Sulu maneuvered the ship around
the larger obstacles, but it was impossible for a ship
the size of the Enterprise to have an entirely
smooth trip among objects that size. There was
a steady series of thuds as asteroids hit the
deflectors and bounced away.
"Where the devil are they?" said Kirk, trying
not to let his irritation show.
And then the Enterprise shook under the impact
of an explosion against one of the starboard shields.
"I believe we've located them,
Captain," Spock said.
Once again eight highly maneuverable, highly
deadly ships descended upon the Enterprise. This
time, however, their advantage of maneuverability
gave them a remarkable edge; they could hurtle
toward the Enterprise, fire, and then dart away
to hide among the asteroids.
The Enterprise phasers blasted out in every
direction, but it was impossible to target the ships.
The asteroids interfered with every shot as the smaller
vessels continued their deadly game of
duck-and-run. And every assault, along with the
ongoing hammering of the asteroids, was causing further
strain on the starship's shields.
"Sulu!" Kirk shouted over the sounds of
alarm and the reports of damage from throughout the ship.
"Using photon torpedoes, start targeting the
meteors themselves. Ignore the raiders and fire
on the meteors! If we blast them apart, the
additional debris will slow down the raiders!"
He did not bother to add, I hope.
The helmsman did as he was told, bringing the
torpedoes on line, picking some of the larger
asteroids, and firing. The torpedoes 271
hurtled from the ship and, carefully aimed at dead
center of the targets, blew the asteroids
into fragments. Sure enough, the raiders were forced
to slow down to contend with yet more space debris--
debris that the mch-larger Enterprise could
essentially ignore.
The sudden diminishment in the speed of the raiders
gave Sulu the slight edge that he needed, and the
phasers of the Enterprise suddenly started finding
their targets. The raiders lurched under the blasts
of the weaponry, but again Sulu found himself cursing
under his breath. "The raiders' shields are still
holding up against our phasers!" he called out.
The same could not be said of the Enterprise's own
shields. Blast after blast came in, and when the
alarmed call from Scotty came in, Kirk
wasn't the least bit surprised.
"Shields buckling!" shouted the chief engineer,
as the Enterprise bucked once more under blasts from
the raiders. "This jury-rigging isn't going to last
much longer!"
And at that moment Palmer suddenly spun in her
chair and called out, "Captain! Subspace
transmission from the Lexington!"
"Are they within range? Can they lend
assistance?" Kirk demanded.
"No, sir. They're still in orbit around
Rithra."
"Put them on, but it better be important and
it better be fa/!"
The Enterprise shook once more. Sparks
flew from the engineering station and Ensign Cortez
shrieked once and fell backwards.
"Chekov, take over at Engineeringffwas ordered
Kirk. "Palmer, what the hell happened
to Lexington?"
"This is Lexington, Jim," came the
surprisingly calm voice of Commodore
Wesley. He could, of course, afford to be
calm. He wasn't getting shellacked in the
middle of a meteor swarm.

Chekov eased Cortez to one side and slid
into place at the engineering station. The smell of
burning circuitry was thick in his nostrils, and
his eyes began to tear as the smoke stung him.
Cortez moaned softly on the floor as
Chekov tried to make some sense of the instrumentation
that was still functioning. "Shield power barely
holding, Captainffwas he called out. From 273
the station he could monitor the power rerouting that was
taking place, the handiwork of Scotty in
Engineering.
He was drawing reserves from all over the ship,
shutting down or dampening everything that was
nonessential for the purpose of shoring up the
phasers and shields. But he was running out of
options.
"I hope you've got something useful, Bobffwas
shouted Kirk. "We're under attack by the
raiders, and our phasers aren't punching through their
deflectors!"
"They're Rithrim, Jim! A warrior
caste--one we didn't know about!"
"Is knowing that going to be of any use to me within
the next minute or so?"
"One more hit on shield four will destroy it
completely!" Sulu informed him.
Wesley sounded unflappable. "From what
we've learned of Rithramen technology, the
raiders' shields should be vulnerable to radiation at
the higher end of the scale. Try adjusting your
phaser frequencies."
Sulu turned to look at Kirk, who gave
a quick nod. But Sulu couldn't do it alone.
"Chekov! Recalibrate the--"
Chekov turned and shouted, "I heard the
commodore, Captain. Already done. Phasers
recalibrated."
Kirk nodded in approval. "Sulu! Hold
off. If number four shield is that weak,
they'll undoubtedly come around and try to make that the
main target."
Sure enough, the eight agile ships arced around
and approached from the far side, clearly ready
to target and blast the number four defense shield
into nonexistence. They were not being particularly
subtle about it; their growing sense of
invulnerability, coupled with the damage to the
Enterprise, had bolstered their confidence.
"Now, Sulu! Fireffwas
Space was illuminated by the play of the phasers
against the raiders. On the bridge the offense
weaponry sounded different to Kirk--
higher-pitched, angrier, as if the Enterprise
were screaming in fury at such abuse from the upstart
smaller ships.
The phasers pierced the shields of the raiders like
knives cutting through butter. So powerful was the
impact that the lead raider was blasted 275
clean in half, exploding in opposite
directions. Raiders on either side of it were hit
as well, spiraling to get away and only partly
succeeding.
"Sulu! The asteroid at thirty-eight mark
nine!" Kirk was indicating a particularly large
one that had a flat surface. "Bank shot.
Fireffwas
Sulu immediately understood the verbal shorthand,
did rapid-fire calculations in his head that beat
out the computer by half a second, and fired a
pinpoint beam.
The unusual composition of the phaser beam
caused it to ricochet like a neatly placed pool
shot, catching another raider completely
off-guard. A raider from another angle saw it
coming, but it was a hair too slow, and the starboard
engine of the targeted ship was blown clear off.
Hopelessly crippled, the raider immediately
destroyed itself.
By then Kirk was on his feet. "They're going
to try to get away again. But not this time. Sulu,
wide-angle phaser blast. There's a hole in
the asteroid swarm at twenty mark one-one-four.
They'll probably make for that. On my mark,
three, two, one, and ... fire!"
Kirk was dead-on accurate. The
wide-angle phaser burst lashed out just as the
raiders turned into it. As the Rithramen
warriors realized that they'd swung straight into the
phaser blast, the Enterprise pounded their ships.
On such a wide dispersal, the phasers couldn't be
as powerful as they normally were. But they didn't
need to be, because Kirk's intention was not to destroy
but to stun.
In that respect he was completely successful.
In the cramped seats of their ships, the marauders
were hurled back as the vessels flipped end over
end or spiraled out of control. They tried to reach
their controls, tried to get away, even tried
to blow themselves up. But the phaser blasts cut right
through their shielding, and the pounding of the powerful
Enterprise weapons crushed the consciousness out of
their heads.
Four ships now remained in the fleet of
mercenaries, floating helpless and silent in
front of the starship.
Kirk licked his dried lips once and said,
"Mr. Sulu ... stand down from red alert.
Take the raiders' ships in tow. As 277
soon as we're clear of the meteors, I want
the occupants of those ships beamed aboard the
Enterprise. They have a great many questions
to answer."
"Jim?" came the voice of Commodore
Wesley. "Jim? You still there?"
"Right here, Commodore. It seems"--Kirk
studied his nails with an affected air of
relaxation--?theirthe shields were vulnerable to phasers
set at the high end of the scale. How fortunate
that we happened to discover that in time."
There was a pause, and he could almost see the grin
at the other end of the comm channel. "That's why
you're a legend in your own time, Captain. You
always know just what to do."
"True enough, Commodore. Thank you for your
kind ^ws. All of them."
"Since everything is calm there, we have some
business to finish up on Rithra. Can you
survive without us for a little while longer?"
"I don't foresee any problems,
Commodore."
"Good. Lexington out."
McCoy emerged onto the bridge, carrying his
medical bag. "You through getting the crap kicked
out of us?"
"All done, Doctor."
"Good. Chekov called me to ... oh,
okay. Hold still, Cortez." McCoy knelt
next to the injured engineering officer and immediately
applied painkiller to Cortez's scorched hands.
Kirk eyed Chekov. "You took it upon yourself
to summon Dr. McCoy, Ensign? To inform the
ship's doctor, a superior officer, that he should
leave sickbay and tend to wounded up here?"
Chekov suddenly felt as if he'd stepped in
something. "Mr. Cortez was injured. I thought
that--"
"You thought, Ensign?"
"Yes, sir."
Kirk hesitated only a moment and then
nodded. "Take your position at Navigation,
please. You've got a course to set."
Chekov moved immediately to the navigation station. Was
he in hot water again?
He didn't think so. On the other hand, the
damage he'd already done might have been enough to sour
the captain on him for goo d.

Chapter Fourteen 279

Dab stood in front of her procreation center
--at least, she thought of it as hers--and looked out
at the equipment left there by the humans. The
shield generator they had set out to build was
only partly finished.
And the humans who'd swarmed over the area a
few short hours ago were gone. Nor could she
blame them. Taken by a great shadow of mourning,
she shook her head.
Now the children would die--slowly, and in pain. And the
procreators who were tied to this place by ages-old
instinct would eventually die as well, though not before
the increasing radiation made them infertile.
It was the most terrible thing Dab could imagine.
And to think they had been so close to getting the
help they needed. ...
She heaved a sigh. It was the warriors'
fault. If they had not chosen to exercise their
instincts on helpless colonists, the Federation people
would still be here putting their device together.
No--not the fault of the warriors alone. Because
even after the warriors' role in the slaughter had
been discovered, the Rithrim might have remained in
the humans' favor--had it not been for Endris's
refusal to reveal facts that might have aided in the
warriors' apprehension.
Nor could Dab herself escape blame. Because
if Wesley and his people had asked her for the truth,
she could not have said any more than Endris did. It
was not something she could have found in her heart,
despite the consequences to the procreation center,
despite even what the warriors had done. The
fifth caste was part of all of them. How could she have
helped to hurt them?
And yet she had hurt them, hadn't she? The
warrior infants would die along with all the
others. Her head reeled with thinking about it. The
sequence of events was like a circle, a road with
no end and no way off. No matter what her
choice, or Endris's, Rithrim would have died.
The irony was that the humans had found the information
they were looking for; Wesley and the others had
realized it was in the palm of their hands. And the
warriors would be killed anyway, despite
Endris's attempts to protect them.
Dab contemplated the roiling flow of lava beyond
the barrier. She imagined she could feel its
killing rays as she recalled the meeting in the
governors' courtyard. 281
Wesley had said he did not care what had
happened to the fifth caste. He had said he was not
on Rithra to judge, that the only thing of
importance to him was the fate of the Rithrim at
Girin Gatha.
But that was before he learned what the warriors had
done to his people. That was before they gave him reason
to hate them.
It was not fair. The children had committed no
crime. But they would not be spared; no one would be
spared. So sad, so sad ...
Suddenly there was a glimmer of light near the
Federation's machines--barely brighter than the
ambient light of Girin Gatha, but discernible
nonetheless. As Dab watched, the glimmer gave
way to five figures.
Federation people, she realized, even before they had
become quite solid. Of course--who else would it
be? No doubt they'd returned for their
equipment. She bit her lip in despair.
And then she realized, amid all the pity she'd
been feeling for her own kind, that the humans
deserved pity too. After all, hadn't their kin
been killed in the warriors' raids? It would have
been the height of barbarism not to express her
sympathy for their loss.
Gathering herself, she made her way to them over the
humpbacked ground. As she approached, they
regarded her--with what kind of loathing, she could
only imagine.
"Procreator Dab," said one of them--the
female human called Uhura. "I'm glad
you're here."
Glad? Dab wondered if she'd heard
correctly. But Uhura's signs confirmed it.
She was indeed glad.
"Why?" Dab asked simply.
"Because I have to leave," Uhura explained.
She indicated her companions with a gesture.
"We all do."
"I see," replied the procreator, not seeing
at all. With her hands she said she understood the
leaving but not the gladness.
The human looked at her. "The gladness,"
Uhura explained, "is because I have a chance to say
good-bye. And to wish you luck with the procreation
center."
Now Dab was truly confused. "What kind of
luck can we have," she asked, "without your shield
to keep us safe?" 283
Uhura smiled. "Did you think we'd leave
you here without completing the job we started? Of
course you'll have our shield--and anything else you
need, if it's in our power to give it to you."
The procreator signed her bewilderment. "But
the warriors ..."
"Ah," said the human. "Now I see. You
thought we'd hold the warriors' attacks against
all of you." She shook her head. "The warriors
will be held accountable for what they did. But there's
no reason for the rest of you to suffer. All you did
was hang on to your beliefs. There's no crime in
that."
Dab felt giddy with disbelief. "Then before you
depart--"
"Mr. Samuels and his team will make sure the
shield projector is operational. In fact,
it's almost at that point now; they just had to return
to the ship for some parts." Uhura paused. "That
is what you wanted to hear, isn't it?"
Speechless, Dab used her hands to respond in
the affirmative. It was very much what she wanted
to hear.

"Ready, Lieutenant?" asked Samuels.
Uhura cast a last glance at the tortured
vista of Girin Gatha. The place didn't
look any different with the Federation's shield in
place. Lava still boiled and writhed on the other
side of the barrier, and the sea still turned to steam on
the far side of the procreation center.
But there was a difference. The radiation that had
threatened the procreators and their offspring wouldn't
get through anymore. The Rithrim were safe in
their little building.
Turning to the procreation center, she saw Dab
and a couple of others standing at the front door.
She waved; they waved back.
Uhura could still see the gleam in the
procreator's eyes when she realized that
Commodore Wesley wasn't going to abandon them
to their fate after all. She could still feel the warmth
of Dab's gratitude.
Uhura nodded. "Yes, Commander. I'm
ready."
Samuels flipped open his communicator.
"Five to beam up," he said.
It seemed to the communications officer that the
transport took a little longer than usual--but
then, that was to be expected. While the first 285
officer's engineering crew was to remain on the
Lexington, she and Samuels were to be relayed
down to the Rithrim governors' courtyard.
And indeed, that was where they wound up. Adjusting
her visor, Uhura looked around and saw
Wesley, Coss, and Baila standing around their
regular bench, waiting for her and the first officer
to join them. Endris and his fellow governors were
there as well, on the other side of the pool.
Somehow, the place looked more cheerful than the
last time she'd seen it. Of course, the last time
circumstances had been a little different.
As Uhura and Samuels approached the
others, the first officer addressed the commodore.
"Come here often, sir?"
Baila and the doctor chuckled, but Wesley
wasn't laughing.
"It's about time," he told them. "We've
been staring at one another for the last five
minutes, waiting for our translator to arrive.
I was about to break out my holograms of the kids."
"Well," said Uhura, "we're here now. Shall
we get started?"
The commodore grunted. "Don't see any
reason why not." As Uhura and Samuels joined
the others at the bench, he turned to the governors.
"Again," he told them, "we are glad for the
opportunity to speak with you."
Endris, speaking for the others as usual, waved
away the suggestion. "It is we who are glad,"
he said sincerely.
"That may change when they find out about their
warriors," muttered Coss.
Wesley cleared his throat--his way of
demanding quiet from the doctor. Nor did Coss
miss the cue; he pressed his lips together in a
frown.
"No doubt," the commodore began, "you've
already communicated with Procreator Dab at
Girin Gatha. And you must know that the facility there
has been cured with one of our shield
generators."
"It is true," said Endris. "We have
spoken with her."
"That generator will be effective for years,"
Wesley remarked. "You needn't worry about the
procreation center for some time to come."
Uhura embellished the statement with
expressions of confidence, but they weren't really
necessary. The Rithrim trusted that what the 287
commodore had told them was true; she could see it
in their eyes.
"We are grateful," Endris said simply.
His gestures confirmed it. Then his expression
changed. "And what of our fifth caste?" he
asked.
"Here it comes," murmured Coss.
Wesley straightened. Without apology he
said "Our ship Enterprise encountered your
warriors and defeated them in a pitched battle.
Some of the ships were destroyed; many more would have been,
by the warriors' own hands, if the Enterprise
hadn't acted quickly. As it is, the surviving
warriors will stand trial for their crimes in the
Federation courts."
The present-cycle governor showed no anger;
Uhura wasn't even sure he was capable of it.
Instead, he made a single sign.
Not one of hatred, as they had feared. Not one of
resentment. No ...
It was a sign of relief.
"How about that," Uhura whispered.
"What is it, Lieutenant?" asked the
commodore.
"They're not angry," replied Baila.
"They're happy we stopped the warriors."
Wesley turned to his communications officer.
"I didn't know you knew sign language,
Mr. Baila."
Baila glanced at Uhura and shrugged. "It's
amazing what you can do when you put your mind to it."
Apparently, Uhura noted, Mr. Baila
had done his homework. She nodded approvingly and
then turned her attention back to Endris.
"You seem surprised at our reaction," the
governor observed. "Surely you did not think
we wished the slaughter of your kind to go on?"
The commodore smiled. "Of course not. We just
didn't expect your concern for our people to outweigh
your concern for your own."
Endris looked puzzled for a moment. "The
innocent are the innocent," he explained,
"regardless of whether they are Rithrim or
human."
Uhura couldn't help but smile at the
sentiment. What she really wanted to do was
applaud, but that wouldn't have been very
appropriate.
The governor looked to Wesley. "Do you still
wish to establish an observation post in 289
our space?"
"We do," said the commodore.
"Then it will be arranged. What is more, we would
like to have an ongoing dialogue with the Federation. We
are considering the possibility of ... applying for
membership in your organization."
Wesley smiled. "We'd be glad to have you,"
he told the Rithrim. "What kind of
dialogue did you have in mind?"
"Perhaps," said Endris, "a small delegation
of your people could remain here to facilitate an
exchange of information between our race and yours. Also,
they could aid in setting up the observation post."
He turned to Uhura. "This one has impressed
us with her grasp of our language--andwith other
qualities as well. We would be pleased if she
were to lead the delegation."
Uhura realized her mouth was hanging open, and
she shut it. "I ... I don't know what
to say," she sputtered.
The commodore turned a benign eye on her.
"Say what you feel, Lieutenant."
She shrugged. "I'm honored." For a moment
she tried to picture herself here on Rithra for an
extended period of time. It would be a great
opportunity to learn about the Rithrim and their
culture. The chance of a lifetime.
"Honored," she repeated. "However, I must
respectfully decline. I hope you understand,"
she told Endris. "My place is on a
starship. That's what I was trained to do; that's what
I love."
The present-cycle governor nodded. "I
understand very well, Lieutenant. Nor would I
wish to take you from your people against your will."
His hands carved signs in the air. Perhaps, they
said, the delegation wasn't such a good idea after
all. "Perhaps it is wrong to ask someone to live
among strangers," Endris said out loud.
"Not at all," Wesley replied. "The
Federation has specialists in xenology who are
trained to spend long periods of time in cultures
other than their own. I'm sure they--"
"Sir?" Baila interjected. He regarded
his commanding officer. "If you don't mind, I would
like to stay on Rithra."
The commodore returned his gaze. "Are you
sure about this, Lieutenant?"
Baila nodded. "Pretty sure, sir. You
see, when I saw those warrior infants 291
back in the procreation center ... well, I
felt that I was looking at myself, in a way. With the
adult warriors gone, those youngsters are going
to grow up without role models, without a heritage
to draw on. They'll be cut off from something
important. And as Uhura will tell you, getting
cut off from your heritage is one subject in which
I'm an expert." A pause. "I want to be
here to see how they handle it ... and maybe, in some
way, to give them a helping hand."
Wesley took a deep breath, let it out.
"Lieutenant ... this wouldn't have anything to do with
our differences of late, would it? Because as far as
I'm concerned, I'm looking at a new man."
Baila shook his head. "No, sir. My
decision has nothing at all to do with that."
The commodore frowned. "Well, in that case"
--he turned again to Endris and clapped Baila
on the back--?x looks as if we've got
someone to head up that delegation, Present-cycle
Governor."
Endris nodded. "I am delighted.
Welcome, Mr. Baila."
The communications officer inclined his head, then
made a rudimentary sign of gratitude with his
hands. "Thank you, Present-cycle
Governor." He addressed Wesley again.
"Commodore, if it's all the same to you, I'd
like to get started right now. I haven't got that many
friends on the ship anyway and--"
"I understand," Wesley interjected. "We'll
send your things down before we break orbit."
Dr. Coss turned to Baila and offered him his
hand. "I guess this is good-bye--at least for a
while. I'm going to miss you, Lieutenant."
"Same here," said Baila, clasping the
proffered hand. "Hell, I'll miss all of you.
Even you, Mr. Samuels."
The first officer feigned confusion. "Was that a
dig, mister? Don't forget, you're still under my
command until I say so--andthe comm board's long
overdue for a full diagnostic check." He
smiled. "Then again, what isn't? Have a hell
of a good time, Lieutenant."
"I will," Baila assured him.
Finally the communications officer turned
to Uhura. "What can I say?" he asked her.
"Say you'll keep in touch, amuntu."
He nodded. "I'll do that, Uhura. You can
bet your ancestors' teeth on it." 293
Taking her hand in his, he squeezed it. His
grip was as warm as a jungle breeze.
"Come on," said Wesley. "Let's get out
of here before I break down and cry. I don't
think that's the kind of image we want to present
to our new allies."
Reluctantly Baila released Uhura's
hand and took a step back. But she knew it would
be a long time before she forgot the look in those dark,
dark eyes of his.
The commodore turned to Endris and his fellow
governors. "We'll be going now. But you'll be
hearing from the Federation again before long. Andof course,
in the meantime you'll have Mr. Baila to keep you
company."
Endris was silent, but his gestures bade them
luck on their journey. "Perhaps we will meet
again," he said.
"You never know, Present-cycle Governor.
Good luck to you and to your people." Wesley took out his
communicator and addressed his transporter
chief. "Four to beam up, Lieutenant."
"Four, sir?"
"That's right," the commodore confirmed. "Mr.
Baila is staying here with the Rithrim for the time
being."
There was a pause, and then "I understand, sir."
Uhura cast a last glance at Baila. He
winked at her, as if to say, I'll be fine here,
really I will.
A moment later the transporter beam reeled
them in, and she was standing with Wesley, Samuels,
and Coss on the platform. The doctor removed
his visor as if he couldn't wait to get the darn
thing off.
"Remind me," he said, "to send some of these
down to Baila. He's going to need a bunch of
them."
"That he is," agreed the commodore.
"You know," Samuels remarked, "I hope
everything works out down there."
"For Baila?" Uhura responded. "I'm
sure it will."
The first officer shook his head. "Not for
Baila. I'm talking about the shield
generator." Reaching into his shoulder pouch, he
pulled out a machine component and shrugged. "Somehow
we had this piece left over. None of us could
figure out where it went."
"Damn it, Samuels," said 295
Wesley, his eyes darkening, "we can't leave
orbit until that generator is--"
"I'm kidding, I'm kidding," the first officer
assured him, holding up his hands. "It was just a
joke, sir."
Suddenly the commodore grinned. "I knew that.
Do you think after we've served together for as long as
we have that there's a trick in your bag I don't
know?"
And they all had a good laugh--even
Samuels. In fact, Uhura noted, it was the
first officer who laughed the loudest.

Chapter Fifteen

As Kirk rode the turbolift up to the
bridge, he thought about the Rithramen warriors'
code of honor. As distraught as they were over
having been captured rather than killed, they had no
compunction whatsoever about revealing the identity of
their employers--or, for that matter, about providing
the captain with a complete list of the components they'd
obtained.
However, they claimed to have no idea what the
equipment was for. Kirk hoped his officers had
made some headway on that count by themselves.
The doors opened and he stepped out onto the
bridge. A moment later Sulu turned in his
seat to greet him.
"Did your visit pay off, sir?"
"In spades, Mr. Sulu, in spades."
Turning to Chekov, he said "Ensign, lay in
a course back to Parathu'ul."
"Course plotted and laid in, sir."
"Mr. Sulu, engage at warp six."
"Warp six. Aye, sir."
"Very good, gentlemen." Moving to join Spock,
the captain overheard Chekov mutter, "I
feel like a soccer ball, the way we're bouncing
around this quadrant."
He also heard Sulu's reply "But,
Chekov, how else does one become a good
navigator? Practice, practice, and more
practice."
There was an anguished sigh from Chekov.
"Fifth level indeed," Sulu muttered under
his breath.
Rounding the deck, Kirk stopped at
Spock's side. The science officer was deeply
immersed in his study of the information 297
downloaded from the raiders' vessels.
Noting the captain's presence, Spock
straightened and turned off the hooded viewer. "It
is worse than I expected," he said.
Kirk looked at him. "What do you mean?"
The Vulcan frowned. "The Parath'aa now have
the technological components to build a rather
formidable weapon."
"Aye, that they do," Scott added as he
walked over from the engineering station. "Mr.
Spock, your hypothesis checks out with the
technical profiles I've got in me
office."
"Elaborate, gentlemen," Kirk
prompted.
The Vulcan complied. "The Parath'aa appear
to possess the wherewithal to build a plasma
cannon," Spock explained.
The captain whistled. "I remember reading
classicfied reports on that program.
Whatever happened to it?"
Spock shrugged. "Scientists at Starfleet
Command developed the technology up to the point of
manufacture. They even constructed a
small-scale, working model. Its range was quite
limited, but it did cause a great deal of
damage. A full-scale version could level a
world."
Kirk shook his head. "Wonderful."
Scotty nodded. "Aye, sir, it's a
treacherous beastie. The plasma it uses is
essentially ionized gas, with electrons and
positive ions combined in such a way as that'
neutralize the electrical charge and allow it
that' be controlled through magnetic fields. When the
plasma comes into contact with a force shield, the
conflict of energies can be devastating."
He harrumphed. "The weapons experts at
Starfleet could never find a good reason to include
that kind of weaponry aboard a starship. Not only
that, the damned thing would tax the warp engines beyond
safety limits. Personally I'm happy they
never built the full-scale model."
"But now the Parath'aa, under a belligerent
government, possess the ability to build just such
a cannon," Kirk stated.
"But why would they want a cannon if they already
rule their world?" Scott asked.
"Why indeed?" echoed Spock.
Kirk wrestled with the question in his own mind 299
--and came up with a grim possibility.
"Mr. Spock, which populated worlds are
closest to Parathu'ul?"
"You dinna ..." began Scotty.
The captain regarded him. "We can't rule it
out, Mr. Scott. Spock?"
"The Xaridian colonies, sir."
"And the next closest?"
The Vulcan paused to process the information in
his mind. It never ceased to amaze Kirk that
Vulcans could process and retain huge amounts
of raw information. On the other hand, to discipline their
minds, they gave up their capacity for emotion--
something the captain was sure he would never want
to do.
"The next nearest populated system,"
Spock began, "would be outside Federation
boundaries--perh within the Gorn Hegemony. Of
course the Parath'aa are also within reach of
unexplored territory."
"Do you suspect they would use the cannon to go
after the Gorn?" Kirk wondered out loud.
"Doubtful, Captain."
"Captain Kirk," Sulu called from the
helm. "I've picked up movement away from
Parathu'ul. A number of blips on our
long-range sensors."
"Course?" Kirk began swiftly moving
back to his command chair.
"At present heading," replied Chekov,
"they are going directly into unrestricted
space. Ships moving at warp five."
Kirk turned around to watch Spock process
the information from his station. "Are they the marauders,
Spock?"
"Negative," the Vulcan replied. "The
configuration is typical of the Parath'aa. They
are using their standard pentagon flight formation--but
our sensors detect something in the center of the formation
as well. Something held there by a tractor beam."
"My God," Kirk said quietly. "The
cannon!"
"Most likely, sir," confirmed Spock.
"And they have extended their shields to protect it."
Chekov turned to Kirk and added, "Sir, the
wessels are moving toward the Cygni Maxima
system. They will arrive in four hours, fifteen
minutes."
Before Kirk could even ask, he noted that the
Vulcan had already begun calling up 301
charts on Cygni Maxima. He smiled
grimly and waited a few moments for Spock
to issue his report.
As expected, the science officer turned and
said, "Cygni Maxima is a yellow star with
seven planets and two asteroid belts. The
Hood charted it some seventeen years ago; their
report indicated sentient life on the
system's fourth planet. At the time, the
inhabitants were rated several points below our own
society and their planet has been declared
off-limits to all Federation space traffic."
"Why would the Parath'aa want to go all the way
to Cygni Maxima, then?" Sulu wondered
aloud.
Kirk replied without looking at him.
"Conquest, Mr. Sulu. Those pompous
government leaders on Parathu'ul have already
subjugated their own people--and now they have the means
to subjugate other worlds."
"A logical premise, Captain,"
Spock noted dryly from his post.
Kirk was left with a hard choice. He could either
confront the government on Parathu'ul with his
suspicions or he could have the Enterprise
pursue the convoy. If he was right about the
Parath'aa's intentions, the convoy would use the
cannon to destroy a helpless race.
But what if there were other cannons under
construction--maybe on the verge of being launched?
And there was another, more practical question could the
Enterprise stop a weapon that was powerful enough
to tear through her shields?
There was no time to debate, so he chose to go with
his gut.
"Chekov, plot an intercept course.
Sulu, engage at warp six-point-five. Have
Engineering make sure the engines are in top
shape. Palmer, go to red alert."
"Aye, sir," came the crisp reply.
As Kirk took his center seat, the sirens
rang out and the lights flashed red. The captain
leaned back in his chair and allowed himself a moment
for introspection.
Once again, after a relatively short time,
he was asking his crew to go into battle. Sure,
they'd succeeded against the Rithramen mercenaries, but
now they were up against a different kind of threat, a
weapon of amazing power. Kirk needed to think
strategically, to plan his actions in 303
advance, so that little would be left to chance.
"Lieutenant Palmer, let me have
intraship, please," he called out. A beep
acknowledged that the communications system was
activated. Thumbing a button on his armrest,
he said "This is the captain. We are about to enter
politically unaligned space, where we may have
to engage a pack of Parath'aat ships. Please
prepare for combat."
Kirk paused. "I know this is the fourth time
I've asked this of you in the last couple of days.
I wish the circumstances were otherwise, but I
see no choice. All I can ask is that you
give me your best effort. Captain out."
Spock walked down to Kirk and offered, "We
have four hours. Do you require sustenance?"
"No, Spock. I require this to be over.
The Parath'aa are proving to be quite an annoying
race."
Spock nodded. "They have yet to gain the
wisdom to unite their planet with a singular
vision."
"All this fighting ..." Kirk said wearily.
"It's so pointless. Sometimes I'm a
diplomat, sometimes I'm an explorer--and now
I'm forced to be a soldier. And I don't think
there's much reason behind this insanity."
"I understand, sir. You do not seek the
battles; you seek only understanding. It is ...
most commendable."
The captain looked up at him with a small
smile.
"Why, thank you, Spock."
The two friends returned their attentions to the
bridge crew's pre-encounter preparations.
Lieutenant Commander Giotto reported to the
bridge a few minutes later, carrying a
tricorder.
"Captain," he said, "I've studied
Starfleet intelligence reports on the
Parath'aa. Their ships are conventional
warp-capable vessels. They tend to be smaller
than our starships and therefore have smaller crews.
And they prefer to design their ships for specific
functions." A pause. "Apparently the ships
we picked up on sensor scan match the
configuration recorded for defense."
"But now they're using them for offense," Kirk
noted. "Go on."
Giotto frowned. "They use standard 305
phaser arrays and photon torpedoes. I
don't see any reason why we can't outrun or
outgun them if it comes to that."
Kirk nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Giotto."
He turned to his helmsman. "Mr. Sulu,
work with the phaser room. Run simulations on such
attack patterns and see how good we are at
targeting their engines and weapons. I'll take
nothing less than one hundred percent accuracy."
"Aye, sir," Sulu said. He toggled his
communicator for a direct link with the phaser
room.
"Martine here," came the response.
The captain was pleased to see that Martine was on
duty. He always felt safer with her commanding the
phaser crew. She was quick-witted and thoroughly
efficient.
"Specialist Martine," said Sulu, "this is
the bridge. I'm sending down information on our
potential opponents, and we're going to run
simulations. We have about four hours before contact--
plenty of time to get ourselves ready. Agreed?"
"Agreed, Mr. Sulu. We're receiveg the
information now. It looks as if we can run our
routine patterns first, modifying as we go
along."
As always, Kirk noted, Martine was ready
to start with the rule book and then throw it out when things
got imaginative. Her skill had certainly
helped make a difference against the Rithramen
ships.

During the next few hours, Sulu and
Martine ran simulations. The first battle had a
computed accuracy rate of 67 percent. Far
too low for either one to be happy. They had
improved to an 89 percent rate before both
agreed they needed a break.
Meanwhile, as Kirk observed, the other
officers were busy with their own preparations. Chekov
was reviewing the star charts for this sector of
space. He and Spock compared notes on
space phenomena that previous probes had somehow
missed. With time on his hands, the Vulcan had his
science officers make observations of the nebula,
adding the information to the massive library computer.
Yeoman Martha Landon came up to the
bridge with a tray of cups, which she took to the
duty personnel. As usual, Spock eschewed
any drink, but the others thanked her for 307
her thoughtfulness. Landon lingered a moment by the
navigation console, where Chekov was painfully
intent on his readouts.
"How are you holding up, Ensign?" she
asked.
Chekov looked up, a bit startled by the question.
"Oh, ah, yes, yeoman ...?"
"Martha Landon," she replied with a smile.
"Thank you," he replied, apparently
noticing her tightly wound blond hair and bright
eyes for the first time.
Smiling again, this time with even more enthusiasm,
Landon spun on her heel and moved briskly
off the bridge.
Kirk watched the interplay and suppressed a
smile. This probably wasn't the best time
to build relationships, but it was hard to suppress
human nature.
He updated his log and had Palmer send it out
to both Starfleet and the Lexington. This way
Wesley would be as well informed as possible when
they met again near Parathu'ul.
" Captain, sensors have placed us within twenty
minutes of contact with the Parath'aat formation,"
Spock announced.
Kirk nodded. "Palmer, open a channel."
He paused, listening for the familiar beep-beep
announcing that the signal was open. "This is
Captain Kirk of the Enterprise. We know
what you're aiming to do, and we can't allow it. We
trust that you'll be willing to return the stolen
Federation equipment. Please reply."
It took a few moments, but a response
came in--on audio signal only. The
captain immediately recognized the speech patterns
of the Parath'aa.
"We are hearing you Kirk, but we are not
complying. I am claiming this solar system in the
name of the Parath'aa, and I am advising you to be
backing off. We are, after all, being prepared
to deal with hostile intervention."
Those ^ws caught Kirk by surprise, but he
recovered quickly. Leaning forward in his command chair,
he snapped, "The people of Cygni Maxima are in
no position to defend themselves; we will not stand by while
you attack them. This ship is ready to stop you any
way we can. You have been warned."
"Once again, Captain Kirk, we are
warning you. You may have been denying us admission
to your precious interplanetary clique, 309
but you won't be denying us this system. We are
having the means to be doing as we please. Now it
will please us to destroy your ship."
The signal ended; Palmer shrugged at
Kirk. No further communication was likely.
"Red alert," the captain ordered. "Sulu,
have phasers on line at full power. Let's
see what you and Martine have come up with. Shields
at maximum." Hitting his communications
button, Kirk said, "Bridge to Engineering.
Scotty, are we ready for battle?"
"If ye have to fight, she's ready, sir,"
Scott replied. "But I canna guess
what'll happen when they fire the plasma
cannon. I've got damage control teams on
standby, starting with life support and weaponry."
"Very good, Scotty. Sulu, bring us within
phaser range, but be ready to maneuver. Mr.
Chekov, be ready for some quick calculations.
Ultimately I want to position us between the
fleet and the planet."
Both Sulu and Chekov replied in the
affirmative and set about their work. The lights
dimmed to a red glow, and the bridge emptied of
nonessential personnel. Spock hunched over
his viewer while Kirk leaned over Sulu's
shoulder to watch the sensors.
"Captain," said the Vulcan, "I'm reading
a power buildup from the plasma cannon. If
they constructed it according to specifications, it will take
forty-five seconds to build to an initial
charge. After a discharge, it will recycle in
ten-second intervals."
Kirk turned to the helm. "That's your window of
opportunity, Sulu. We'll have that much time
to attack between blasts."
"Target the cannon, sir?" asked the
helmsman.
Kirk shook his head. "No, Lieutenant,"
he said grimly. "Target the Parath'aa
vessels." He grunted. "The question will be whether
we can knock out enough of their ships to loosen their
hold on the cannon--.bbf they knock us out."
"Aye, sir," Sulu acknowledged. "It'll
be tight." His voice always slipped into a deeper
register when the pressure was on.
The Enterprise moved within range, and the five
Parath'aat ships did not slow down. On the
viewscreen, the crew could see the plasma
cannon. It was large and bulky, about 311
half the size of one of the ships. Two boxlike
shapes were attached to either side of the mammoth
barrel; the whole thing was laced with wiring and
support equipment.
Not very elegant, Kirk mused. But then, it
had been built by the Parath'aa to be a weapon and
not an object of beauty.
His musings stopped when he saw that the cannon
--trapped in the center of the convoy by five bright
tractor beams--was beginning to glow at one end.
It was a dangerous, fiery red glow. The crew
watched the glowing end revolve slowly, moving
away from the planet and toward the Enterprise.
With every passing second, the glow increased in
intensity until it seemed like a volcano ready
to erupt.
"Hold on!" Kirk cried out. A moment
later the starship's shields crackled with the
impact of the plasma burst. Such was the power of the
plasma that while it sprayed the shields for only
a fraction of a second, the ship shook for what
seemed like an eternity.
The bridge personnel were buffeted in their
seats, and the red alert lighting blinked off for a
moment. When the ship regained its equilibrium,
Kirk demanded a status report.
"Shields held but are down to seventy-three
percent efficiency," Chekov announced.
"Sulu, fire phasers!" Kirk ordered.
Twin beams of crimson energy lashed out from the
starship and scored two direct hits on the
shields of the lead Parath'aat vessel.
"Three of their screens are down," Spock
observed, without straightening from his post.
"Fire again," Kirk snapped.
The ship's phasers slashed through space and
made direct contact with the Parath'aat ship.
At the same time, two of the Parath'aat ships
fired their own phasers. As the Enterprise's
shields absorbed the attack, the crew felt the
impact, but it was minor compared to that of the plasma
cannon.
Sulu announced, "Lead ship has lost
engine power. Plasma cannon will ignite in
five seconds."
"Sulu, hard to starboard," Kirk called.
"Aye, sir," came the response--j as the
cannon erupted once more. With the ship in motion,
the plasma hit only a portion of the shields, but
it was more than enough to overload a number of 313
ship's systems. The background speakers spit
out a steady stream of status reports and calls
for damage crews.
"We have lost the number six shield. Other
shields being deployed to compensate," Spock
reported. He turned to the captain. "Sir, the
plasma is eating away at shield integrity.
The two forms of energy are most volatile in
combination. We will not last long if we sustain many
more direct hits."
"Fire!" Kirk called out.
Sulu stabbed at the controls; the phaser beams
lanced through the shields of a Parath'aat ship,
hitting the hull. Then, swiveling the targeting
controls, he brought the phasers to bear on another
vessel, one directly before the Enterprise.
After firing again, he watched with satisfaction as the
phasers hit pay dirt a second time.
"We've knocked three ships out of combat,"
Sulu announced with a sly smile. "Plasma
cannon rebuilding its charge. One ship firing
photon torpedo."
Kirk gripped the arms of his chair and ordered
the ship to come about at increased speed. The
maneuver was successful; the torpedo missed by a
good measure.
However, the two remaining Parath'aat ships
managed to turn about and aim the cannon in the
starship's direction. The plasma beam lanced out
and smacked right into the starship.
Leslie was jarred loose from his position near
the engineering console; Chekov nearly lost his seat
as well. Sulu rode out the impact by grabbing the
sides of the helm and then righting himself. Again, lights
flickered, and the increased background noise told
Kirk the damage-control teams were going to be
busy.
He looked about the bridge quickly and then
studied the viewscreen. The cannon crackled
silently in space, like a snake ready to lash out
with its forked tongue.
Sulu looked at his board and said, "Cannon
will be ready in eight seconds."
"Another hit will cause structural
damage," Spock noted calmly.
"Sulu, z plus five thousand meters,
now!" Kirk called out.
Once again the maneuver was successful, and the
cannon fire missed them, but with less room
to spare than Kirk would have liked. 315
"Let's finish this," the captain said.
"Sulu, fire phaser barrage and photon
torpedo spread at the remaining ships.
Overload their shields--I want a good shot
at the cannon."
Sulu acknowledged the order and then spoke
into his communicator grid, "Okay, Martine,
let 'er rip as we practiced!"
Kirk watched the forward viewscreen with interest
as the image brightened with the light show. It became
apparent that their attack was overtaxing some of the
enemy ships' systems--but not so much as he'd
hoped.
Sulu turned in his seat long enough to tell
Kirk, "Both ships still have tractor locks on
the cannon, sir. It'll fire any second."
"Scott to captain. We're losin' system
controls left and right. Some o' the power couplings
are fused. Another plasma hit and we're
sure to go off line with the warp engines."
Gritting his teeth and ignoring the warning,
Kirk barked "Fire again, Sulu! Give 'er
everything you've got!"
Coolly, Sulu nodded, turned, and hit the
firing controls. All officers watched as
phasers and photon torpedoes twinkled in
space en route to their target.
Seconds before they got there, the cannon fired
again. The resulting explosion nearly whited out the
viewer and sent shock waves with enough force to shake the
crew up again.
Kirk hung on to his armrests for dear
life. "Spock," he called, "status!"
The Vulcan took a quick glance at a screen
above his station. "The cannon is no longer under
Parath'aat tractor control. However, they must
have some remote link with the firing mechanism; energy
in the cannon is building up for another discharge
in"--he consulted his monitor--?seven
seconds."
Scotty's voice was frantic as it came in
over the intercom. "Engineering to Captain Kirk!
The hull's been breached, sir! We're sealin'
off decks six and seven." And then "Captain,
we canna take any more o' this!"
Kirk stared at the clearing viewscreen, with its
perspective on the turning cannon. That's all
right, Mr. Scott, he thought. With any luck,
we won't have to.
"Lock phasers on to the cannon," 317
he said out loud. "Prepare photon
torpedoes."
"Phasers locked," Sulu announced
coolly. "Photon torpedoes ready."
"Brace yourselves, everyone. Fireffwas
On the screen the cannon s parkled with each
hit of phaser or photon torpedo. For a moment
nothing happened.
Then, with a massive burst of lethal energies,
it vanished.
Kirk knew what would come next. "Mr.
Sulu, heading two-one-three mark
fifty-four!"
Sulu's hands skittered over his board like
frantic insects, but the Enterprise wasn't
operating at peak efficiency. The ship felt
sluggish as it moved to avoid the imminent shock
wave.
Before it hit, the captain had time to think
Wouldn't that be ironic? To kill the thing and then
get caught in its death throes!
But even hobbled as it was, the Enterprise
proved fast enough. The shock wave hit the ship
almost as hard as the cannon impact, but it
didn't shake the Enterprise apart.
Kirk breathed a sigh of relief as Spock
rose and peered into his viewer. "The cannon is
destroyed, Captain. Shields restored, but still
at only minimal efficiency."
The captain nodded. "Palmer, open a
channel to the Parath'aat flagship."
"Hailing frequencies open, Captain."
"Enterprise to the Parath'aat commander."
This time the response was visual as well as
audible. "This is Commander Chak," said the
typically Parath'aat visage on the screen.
Chak was sweating profusely, and he had a deep
cut over one eye, from which blood was flowing
freely.
"Chak, we have shown that we mean business.
Cygni Maxima is off limits to the
Parath'aa. Your people are guilty of murder,
wanton destruction, and outright theft."
A smile crossed Chak's face "I am
being a warrior, Kirk. I am knowing no life
other than conquest. It has been taking our
faction years to be gaining control of our world. I
will not be going meekly."
Kirk nervously looked at Spock to see
if Chak was initiating any sort of 319
self-destruct mechanism, such as those used by the
Rithrim. Spock checked his equipment and
silently shook his head, indicating that suicide
was not a possibility.
The captain returned his gaze to the screen.
"Tell me, Chak, what did your people hope
to accomplish?"
"What you were denying us, Kirk. Our people were being
united under one rule; we were being ready to deal with the
other worlds in space. We were wanting to be a part
of your all-s-mighty Federation, but you were saying we
were too barbaric, that we were showing no respect for
"the rights of the individual."' Pah. Someone was
fearing us, Kirk, and was seeing to it we could not be
belonging.
"But we were being between the Gorn and the Federation, and
in too strategic a position to be being left
alone for long. We were deciding we would not wait
for someone else to be taking us over and controlling
our destiny. So we were making plans. We were
using some of our wealth to hire Federation scientists
and using them to learn everything your ambassadors would
never be sharing with us. So many skeletons in your
closet, Kirk. Tsk-tsk."
Chak seemed to be enjoying himself despite his
wounds, but behind him Kirk could see repair
crews putting out fires and a medic tending to an
injured crewman. The Parath'aat ship seemed
to have sustained far more damage than the
Enterprise.
"Your scientists," Chak went on, "were
telling us about the one weapon you did not possess
the plasma cannon. They were telling us how to find
the equipment we needed. So all it took was to be
finding a manner in which to be acquiring the necessary
components. Fortunately we were having an earlier
contact with the Rithrim and were knowing their services were
available. It was being mutually beneficial.
Everything was going along quite smoothly."
Chak's expression changed to one of restrained
bitterness. "Excepting for you. We did not be
counting on the Federation to be finding us out so quickly.
We were finding it necessary to be accelerating our
schedule and to be deciding to leave orbit with just one
operational cannon. There are being others, of
course, under construction. We are not being easy
to stop, Kirk."
The captain looked grim and angry when he
chose to respond. "On the contrary, Chak.
We're putting you out of business. Td. 321
Our sensors show that all five of your ships are
crippled and wouldn't make it through another
battle. And as for those other cannons under
construction--Starfleet will be wasto dismantle them and
recover the parts. In short, you're through."
Kirk walked in front of the helm, moving
closer to the viewscreen for dramatic impact.
"Now you can play your bluff to the hilt, or we
can talk about beaming your survivors aboard for
transport back to Parathu'ul. The choice is
yours."
The screen went blank just as surprise
registered on Chak's face. Kirk nodded,
having gotten some satisfaction out of the
confrontation. Then he looked around his bridge.
"Stand down to yellow alert, Mr. Spock.
What's our status?"
"We have sustained damage on four decks and
had one serious hull breach. Repair teams are
already working on the breach. Mr. Scott reports
that we retain limited warp capability."
"Not too bad, Mr. Spock," Kirk said.
He hit a button on his armrest and called
down to sickbay.
"McCoy here, Jim."
"How bad was it?"
"We lost a man in Engineering when systems
shorted out--a freak accident--and five more when the
hull was breached." A pause. "My God,
Jim, did you have to make that battle last so
long?"
Kirk grimaced at the toll. All this for a
few power-hungry despots. "I wish it were
otherwise, Bones. I'll be down soon.
Kirk out." He put his hand on the bridge of his
nose and squeezed. The tension and adrenaline that
had kept him going were gone now. He took a
deep breath and stood up.
"Mr. Chekov, plot us a course back
to Parathu'ul. Sulu, Palmer, please
coordinate with Chak's people and see if they
require any assistance. If not, we'll
follow them back. Let's get to it."
Next he turned to Spock. "You have the
conn," he told the Vulcan.
Spock nodded and moved to the command position even
as Kirk was abdicating it.
Satisfied that things were finally coming to a conclusion,
the captain stepped onto the upper deck and
surveyed his crew. A faint smile 323
crossed his face, and he paused before entering the
turbolift.
"You all performed quite well," he said. Faces
turned toward him. "Mr. Sulu, my compliments
to Specialist Martine and the phaser crew.
Enjoy your rest--it's well earned."
Then he entered the lift and went back to his
quarters, desperate for just a few hours' rest.

Chapter Sixteen

Uhura was packing up her things when she heard
the beep. Turning, she said, "Come on in."
She had a feeling who it would be. When the
door slid aside, it only confirmed her
hunch. Commodore Wesley smiled as he
entered.
"Getting set to go?" he asked rhetorically,
noting the half-full duffel and the odds and ends
spread out on the bed.
Uhura nodded. "I didn't want to leave the
packing for the last minute. It wouldn't do to keep
two starships waiting while I try to find my
toothbrush."
The commodore chuckled. "No. It wouldn't."
A pause. "Uhura, it's been a long time
since I proposed something important to a
beautiful young woman. But ... well, I've
lost Baila--j when I was starting to value his
services again, too. And that leaves me one
communications officer short."
She smiled. "Are you asking me to stay on?"
"I am."
Uhura folded her arms over her chest. "You
must know what my answer's going to be."
Wesley regarded her. "Lieutenant, if
there's one thing that's constant in this galaxy, it's
uncertainty. I don't take anything for
granted." And then, in a more congenial voice
"I'm in a position to offer incentives,
Uhura. Opportunities. A lieutenant
commandership wouldn't be out of the question."
She sighed. "I'm almost tempted to let you go
on. I can see how you get people like Samuels and
Dr. Coss; it's hard to say no when someone
makes you feel this wanted."
He looked rueful. Jilted, she thought. "But
..."
"But my heart's on the Enterprise. Where
she goes, I go." She shrugged. "I 325
guess that sounds pretty corny, doesn't it?"
The commodore shook his head. "No. Not at
all. That kind of loyalty is one of the
qualities I admire in you. I hope Jim
Kirk knows how damned lucky he is to have you on
his bridge."
"Well," Uhura said, "between you and me, it
wouldn't hurt if you were to ask after me now and then.
Just to, you know, remind him."
Wesley laughed. "I'll do that little thing," he
assured her. And then, as an afterthought "If you
change your mind, Lieutenant, let me know."
"If I change my mind," she said, "I
will."

Kirk sat back in his seat and contemplated the
vast sweep of Parathu'ul on the main
viewscreen. The Potemkin was visible as a
gleaming pindot on the horizon. The starship had
arrived only hours after the Enterprise, making
it obvious to Silva and his people that the Federation meant
business.
Tapping the appropriate stud on his armrest,
the Enterprise's commanding officer cleared his
throat. After all, they'd be listening to this back
at Starfleet Command.
"Captain's log, stardate 3034.6. We
have escorted what was left of the Parath'aat
vessels back to their homeworld. What's more, with the
help of Captain Callas and the Potemkin,
we've persuaded the Parath'aat leaders to give
up their dreams of conquest and to relinquish the
Federation equipment they were using to make additional
plasma cannons. Nor will they be able to hold
back any of their ill-gotten gains, thanks
to Mr. Spock's comprehensive list of missing
machinery and components."
Kirk paused. "As for the Federation scientists
who helped them ... we have no extradition
treaty with the Parath'aa. However, with nothing left
for them to do on Parathu'ul, I don't expect
they'll be welcome there much longer. And when they
leave, we'll be there to take them into custody.
We'd better be--un less we want them rubbing
elbows with the Romulans.
"As for the Rithramen raiders--or more
accurately, the survivors among the raiders
--I can't find it in my heart to forgive them, not
after all the bloodshed they caused. But I think
I'm beginning to understand them. I see them 327
staring out at me from their incarceration, and they look
lost--j as lost as I might be if I were
separated from the things that make me what I am.
It's unfortunate that their calling is such a
bloody one--unfortunate for all of us.
"In any case, the Lexington will be here
any moment to accept the Rithrim and take them
to Starbase Eighty-three, where they'll stand
trial for their crimes. At that point, I
expect, I'll also have my communications officer
returned to me."
The captain scowled, inwardly adding I
hope. There was no underestimating Wesley's
powers of persuasion. If he'd had to bet,
Kirk would have bet that Uhura would come back to the
Enterprise. But that was by no means a sure thing.
"End of log entry."
"Captain Kirk?"
He turned at the sound of his name. "Yes,
Palmer?"
"I have the Lexington, sir. Commodore
Wesley."
"Put him through," the captain told her.
A moment later Bob Wesley's image
filled the viewscreen. "Good to see you again,
Jim. I trust your prisoners are ready for
transport?"
"Good to see you too, Commodore. And yes--
they're as ready as they'll ever be."
Kirk could see Uhura behind Wesley, at the
communications post. She looked pretty comfortable
there. Had she fallen for the commodore's wiles after
all?
Only one way to find out. And why drag out the
suspense? "Do you mind if I retrieve my
communications officer before I start beaming over the
Rithrim? That way she won't get lost in the
shuffle--a possibility you're no doubt counting
on."
Uhura stood, and the look on her face made
Kirk's heart sink. "Captain, if it's all
right with you, I'd like to stay on the Lexington--"
Damn, Kirk thought. I should never have let
Wesley get his hooks into her. I should never have
let her out of my sight.
his--fora few hours," Uhura finished. "Just
long enough to see the Rithrim and give them an idea
of what's ahead for them."
Kirk tried to conceal his surprise. "For ...
a few hours?" He shrugged. "Of 329
course, Lieutenant. Whatever you feel you
need."
But his first reaction hadn't escaped the
commodore. "For a second there, Jim, you thought
she was leaving the Enterprise, didn't you? Come
on, admit it."
The captain didn't flinch. "Not even for a
fraction of a second," he replied. "Even
though I knew you'd give her your best shot, and
then some."
Wesley smiled. "Treat her right, Jim,
or I'll be back for her."
"I always have treated her right," Kirk assured
him, glancing at Uhura, "and I always will."
Uhura grinned. Fortunately she was the
modest type; otherwise, he'd have been afraid
this would go to her head.
"You know," said the commodore, "I started this
mission with two senior communications officers, and
now I've got none. Where's the justice in that?"
He shook his head. "Speak with you later,
Jim."
The captain nodded. "Later," he agreed.
And then, before Palmer could break off the link
"Welcome back, Lieutenant."
The communications officer returned his gaze.
"It's nice to be back, sir."

Chapter Seventeen

The final sparkles disappeared and Lieutenant
Uhura stood on the transporter platform.
She beamed happily at Transporter Chief
Kyle, who flashed her a smile in return.
His reassuring demeanor always gave her an immediate
feeling of safety when she returned to the
Enterprise.
"Glad to have you back, Lieutenant," Kyle
said.
"Trust me, Chief, I'm the one who's
glad. See you on the rec dec later?"
"Wouldn't miss it," he replied. With that
covered, she hefted her bag and strolled out of the
transporter room, determined to get right back
into the swing of shipboard life. What she really
missed, she decided, was her own bed. Nice as
the guest quarters were aboard the Lexington, she
mused, nothing could replace her very own bed.
She'd learned that as a little girl back in
Koyo. 331
On her way to the officers' quarters, she
exchanged frequent greetings with crewmen. It
dawned on her just how many of the crew she knew
face-to-face, despite the fact that she spent
most of her duty time on the bridge. Sure,
she could recognize just about everyone's voice on
the comm channels, but faces, personalities,
individual traits--she knew so many of them.
And most were her friends, something people really needed on
extended deep-space duty.
As soon as she entered her cabin, she realized
she wasn't all that tired and decided to grab a
drink in the mess hall, hoping to run into her
colleagues. It was either that or sit in front of the
desktop computer, running the last few days'
worth of bulletin board messages. No contest
--she definitely needed the human touch. With a
smile she spun on her heel and headed right
back into the corridor.
Chekov and Palmer were finishing a meal when
Uhura entered the large mess room. Shifts were
about to change, and people were coming and going at a rapid
pace. Most stopped, though, to welcome Uhura
back in their midst. She went right to her fellow
bridge officers and exchanged brief hugs with
them. Palmer gestured for Uhura to sit while
Chekov went to get her a cup of coffee.
"So, how'd things go, Palmer?" Uhura
inquired.
"You heard about the fireworks, so you know it was
certainly no milk run," the other woman
replied.
"And how did our young navigator do?"
Palmer glanced at Chekov, who was just
removing the cup from the food dispenser. Turning her
attention back to Uhura, she answered, "He
had his rough times, but he came through when things got
tight. Oh, and I think there might be something
developing between him and Yeoman Landon. At
least she seems interested. He's barely
noticed."
She grinned as Uhura's eyes widened a
bit at the gossip. Palmer paused, looked
thoughtful, and added, "Still, he seems preoccupied.
You know, concerned about his performance."
As Chekov returned to the table, Palmer
smiled at him. The ensign returned the friendly
gesture and set the coffee in front of Uhura.
"Hmmm," she said. "Cinnamon. Nice
touch, Pavel. Thanks. How were things 333
for you?"
"Not as bad as they might have been. I'm still in
Starfleet, aren't I?"
Uhura chuckled and asked, "It wasn't that
bad, was it?"
Chekov suppressed a grimace and then
replied, "It felt like it, Lieutenant."
"And what's this I hear about you and Yeoman
Landon?"
Chekov snapped his head up in astonishment.
"What are you talking about?"
Uhura smiled and played with him. "We hear
these things, even on other starships, Ensign."
The Russian cleared his throat, too
embarrassed for ^ws. "Ah, yes, of course."
He stood a bit too quickly, hoping no one
saw the red creep up from his collar. "I'll
let you two talk. Yes, that's right, er, talk.
Me, I'm going to escape before Meester Sulu
vants another fencing partner." With that he rose and
walked slowly from the mess hall.
Uhura watched him go and then turned to Palmer
and commented, "I'm going to have to talk to that boy.
Soon."

Before Chekov could manage to make his way through
the mess hall door, Dr. McCoy walked
in, and Chekov had to pause to let the senior
officer by.
"Ah," said the doctor, "Mr. Chekov.
Well, Ensign, did you survive the ordeal?"
Chekov sighed inwardly. "Yes, Doctor.
I still have my job."
McCoy smiled at the comment. "I see.
Learn much in the process?"
A variety of answers formed in Chekov's
mind, ranging from amusing to acerbic, but the one he
felt most comfortable saying aloud was "Quite a bit."
"Drop by to chat, if you feel like it,"
McCoy said. "Soon. A healthy mind and all
that."
Chekov nodded and excused himself, seeking
safety from well-meaning people. He had not walked more
than ten yards from the room when he was nearly
knocked down by Sulu, attired in a bright teal
blue running suit.
After apologizing, the helmsman straightened
up and said, "I was looking for you, Pavel. Come
on, we're both off shift now. After I finish
this run, I'm going to get Angela 335
Martine into the botany lab to help me. We could
use an extra hand."
"Just vhere do you get all this energy?" Chekov
asked.
"Chocolate. The chocolate gives me the
pep, and the exercise keeps me trim.
Elegant solution, don't you think?"
"I suppose. Actually, Sulu, I vas
going to my cabin while I can still be alone. I
... I guess I still have some things to think about."
Sulu eyed his friend closely and nodded.
"Okay, but don't get mired in too deep.
If you do, call and I'll drag you out into the real
world." Smiling again, he turned and resumed his
jog, finally disappearing around a bend in the
corridor.
Chekov headed straight for the turbolift and
waited a few seconds while the computers routed
a compartment to his position. When the doors opened,
there stood Scotty, his arms full of data
padds. Chekov suppressed a chuckle, seeing
the chief engineer in such a situation.
"Don't laugh, laddie. Damnedest thing I
ever saw. Five yeomen get the same glitch in
their padds at the same time Ye can imagine the
trouble that might cause," Scott said with
exasperation in his voice.
"I suppose so," Chekov replied, entering.
"Deck six."
"What's troublin' ye, Ensign? Things
turned out pretty well for ye, didn't they?"
Chekov turned toward Scott and managed a
smile. "I suppose so."
"You said that already. Well, while I have you, I
do want to thank you for your help in our
investigations. Keep it up and you'll be a senior
officer in no time."
"Thank you, Mr. Scott." Then Chekov
lapsed into silence. Scott was perceptive enough
to take the hint.
Withi n seconds the lift deposited Chekov
on his own deck. With a measured gait he headed
for his cabin. At last, a refuge from
well-meaning officers and friends! Sure, they were
only trying to cheer him up--and he had done
well, finally.
But Chekov knew that if he had goofed
seriously once, he could do so again. As far as the
captain was concerned, he no doubt still had a lot
of proving to do. 337
He had not been to his cabin in a while, and the
sight of the repair crews working on the torn
metal bulkheads surprised him. The ship had
really been severely damaged in spots. What
was more, a number of crewmen had died; there had
been an announcement earlier about memorial
services. Such a waste, he thought, rounding a
corner--and was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he
didn't see the approaching figure of Spock
until it was too late to avoid a collision.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Spock," Chekov
said, feeling a flush color his cheeks.
"No trouble, Ensign." Spock placed his
hands behind his back, signaling Chekov that they were
about to have a discussion, not a casual chat.
"Actually, I am glad I ran into you. Your
performance during the last few days has given me
ample opportunity to monitor your skills.
I find that you are more than a competent
navigator."
Chekov was surprised. Coming from Spock, that was
high praise.
"Nonetheless ..."
The Russian frowned. Why did there have to be
a "nonetheless"his
his... you also display proficiency at the
science station," the Vulcan finished. "I would like
to know if you have considered exploring
opportunities within my department."
Chekov went numb with disbelief. Not just a
compliment, but an invitation to join the science
section? What next?
"I, ah, well, Mr. Spock, I had not
thought about it. And I certainly do like filling in for
you. Yes, sir, I would like that opportunity."
"Indeed," Spock replied. The two men
paused a moment as Spock considered the new
information. "If I may ask, what are your
ultimate ambitions within Starfleet?"
"Command," Chekov said evenly, finally putting
into spoken ^ws his heartfelt desire since
he'd entered the Academy. "I want to work my
way up through the ranks."
"A logical approach, Ensign. I shall
keep this in mind as we evaluate duty rosters
and assignments. Your skills at more than one
station will certainly be taken into consideration. Thank
you for your time."
Understanding that the conversation was over, Chekov nodded
and waited for Spock to move away before 339
continuing back to his quarters. This was certainly
turning into the longest simple walk in his career.
Chekov picked up his pace and hurried to his
room before he ran into someone else wishing to cheer
him up. Everyone meant well, he realized, but
it was becoming overwhelming.
Unfortunately the only one whose praise
really counted was Captain Kirk. After his
outburst on the bridge during a battle
situation, would the captain ever have confidence in his
abilities again?
Chekov was scheduled for the landing party at Gamma
II, their next port of call. Would Kirk
trust him with something even as basic as studying an
automated astrogation station?
Finally reaching his cabin door, the Russian
sighed with relief. The door opened instantly;
at the same time, the automatic lighting system
brought illumination up to a normal setting.
Chekov plopped himself down on his bunk, hand behind
his head, and just let his mind drift.
He found the quiet of the room and the near-silent
thrum of the ship engines comforting. They told him
things were back to normal. There were no more threats from
the Rithramen raiders or the Parath'aa. And
especially no plasma cannon, a device he
had been seriously happy to see Sulu blow
up. The universe did not need any more engines of
destruction.
Just as he was about to drift off into some needed
sleep, Chekov was disturbed by the door buzzer.
Cursing to himself, he invited the visitor in.
He'd expected Sulu or Uhura--but was
caught off-guard when he saw the figure of
Captain Kirk framed in the doorway.
Quickly the ensign scrambled to his feet,
tugging at his shirt, wondering how messy his hair
was.
Kirk held up a hand and gestured for Chekov
to sit. To his credit, the captain also took a
seat in front of the ensign's desk. The captain
surveyed the room for a moment, allowing Chekov a
chance to regroup his wits.
"The double rooms were smaller when I was on the
Farragut," Kirk said quietly. "My first
roommate and I had to compromise on every
decoration. I placed a hologram of my
family over the dresser, and his girl friend's
picture stood right next to it. People thought she
dated both of us." 341
Chekov wasn't sure how to respond--or
even if he should. Kirk was obviously making an
effort to talk to him, not lecture, and he had
to see how this was going to go. Chekov did make
sure he sat up and paid attention. After all, this
was the first time he'd ever heard the captain
reminisce about his previous assignments.
Kirk went on. "It wasn't that long ago
I was an eager ensign, sure I knew something
from my Academy studies that the old man in the
center seat might not have known. The difference was,
Mr. Chekov, that I knew when to keep my
theories to myself.
"I want the best from my people, and I will ask for
opinions when time permits. You know our briefing
room meetings are always open forums for discussion.
B--and here's where you let me down--when I'm on
the bridge, I don't want any discussion. A
surfeit of options can be a distraction from the
matter at hand. Sometimes those few seconds are
critical--look what happened with the plasma
cannon. Ten seconds between charges. That's
precious little time for a debate."
Chekov nodded glumly and was waiting to hear his
impending demotion to auxiliary control.
"You've served me well in the months you've
been aboard this vessel," Kirk continued. "Your
navigational skills are quite good, and I like seeing
the way you and Sulu work together. Our planetside
experiences have certainly proved you a capable
field officer. So tell me, what should I do with
you?" The captain looked steadily at the younger
man.
Chekov pondered the question, looking up briefly
at his commanding officer. He felt so young in
Kirk's presence, though the difference was less a
matter of age than of experience.
Was that what it took to become a legend?
Battle-hardened experience? Was that all he was
missing? Chekov wondered. Or would he never be
the captain that Kirk was?
Abruptly he remembered that Kirk was
waiting for a response.
"I expect some form of discipline" was all he
could think of to say. "I am not proud of vhat I
did on the bridge during our first encounter vith the
raiders."
His voice was flat, monotone. He lowered his
eyes and waited for Kirk's reaction.
"I have been watching you, Ensign. So 343
have your friends. You've been beating yourself up pretty
good since your mistake. I can't think of a
better punishment than that." The captain paused.
"You know, I see something of myself in you, and that may
have clouded my judgment. I may have ridden you
harder at Alpha Xaridian than I needed
to. That may have caused you to overreact on the
bridge. But I also like to think that the experience
contributed to your excellent performance since that
incident."
Kirk stood, walked over to Chekov, and
held out his hand. "You have the potential for a fine
career in Starfleet," he said. "I know this ship
could use you."
The ensign couldn't believe his ears. He
couldn't believe that Kirk was letting him off so
easily.
But wait, he was punishing himself again, wasn't
he? He had to stop that--the captain had said so.
Silently Chekov stood and gripped
Kirk's hand. The two officers shook, and
Kirk gave Chekov his best smile--the one
alien leaders bent under, the one that had a legendary
effect on beautiful women. It was just one of the many
weapons in the captain's arsenal.
"Thank you, sir. You may treat me in
whatever fashion you choose ... just as long as I
can retain your respect."
"Acknowledged, Ensign. Now, with that said and
done, it's time I reported to the bridge."
Kirk turned to leave and then stopped in the opening
doorway. He looked back over his shoulder, a
grin on his face. "Oh, and good luck with
Yeoman Landon."
Chekov blanched. [ there no secrets at
all on this ship?

Kirk excused himself, chuckling at the
astonished expression on Chekov's face.
Things had been far too grim for far too long,
he noted, as he walked back to the turbolift.
The captain was satisfied that Chekov would be
around for a long time on the Enterprise, plotting
course after course. It was only fair that he'd
returned the favor by plotting a course for
Chekov--one that would ultimately enable him
to achieve his goals.
In the meantime there was a capable young officer at
the navigation controls. Andfor today,
that was enough. 345