Shadows on the Sun

a star trek novel

by Michael Jan Freedman

published in 1993 by pocket books and copyright by Paramount pictures.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

When I was young, I really detested the idea of becoming a doctor. My
mom and dad would of course suggest it from time to time, as was their
sworn duty as Jewish parents. But the medical profession never appealed
to me, never beckoned, never caught my eye. Looking back, my parents say
it was probably because they wanted me to become a doctor that made me
so dead set against it.

In any case, as an eleven-year-old sitting cross-legged in front of the
television set, I always felt a lot closer to the character of Captain
Kirk than to that of Leonard McCoy. After all, McCoy was just a
physician. Nothing much heroic about that. He didn't get into fistfights
very often, he almost never got the girl, and-well, he just didn't seem
very happy, did he?

Spock was kind of cool and aloof. Scotty got to tinker with things. Sulu
was an expert swordsman. But McCoy?

All he got to do was practice medicine. And medicine was the stuff I
hated.

It wasn't until I got older that I realized the mark DeForest Kelley and
his character had left on my psyche.

Not because McCoy was a doctor necessarily, but because he was a human
being in the finest sense of the word.

Fallible, ill-tempered on occasion, contrary, and far too vulnerable,
but also devoted, tenacious, and courageous in a way that means more to
me now than any Kirk-style derring-do.

I see these qualities in the best people I know-people who stubbornly
hold on to their ideals, people who remain true to a higher principle
when they could get away with a lot less. Funny enough, some of them are
doctors.

For instance, Dr. Keith Ditkowsky of New York's Long Island Jewish
Medical Center and Dr. Seth Asser of the University of California at San
Diego, who have long been my sources of information regarding things
medical. Also Dr. Michael Ziegelbaum of Greak Neck, who officially
joined the brain trust when he helped me develop the concept of
bloodfire.

As always, I owe thanks to a lot of other people as well.

Dave Stern, for caring enough about this manuscript to put me through
the ringer. Kevin Ryan, for his patience when I called to gripe about
how depressed I was getting while writing the darn thing. Bob
Greenberger, for giving me so many good excuses to goof off when the
task seemed intolerable. And Paula Block, for her trust and cooperation.

To my son, Brett, who just the other day told me he wanted to be a
writer, of all things, making my fatherly heart swell with pride. (Of
course, I think he should be a first baseman, but that's another story
entirely.)

To my mom and dad, of course. To Lorraine, Carol and What's-his-name,
Lois and Cliff, Lori and Lee, Patti and Marc, and all the little ones
Fara, Eric, Amy, Craig, Matthew, and Jared.

To the Guys, for giving me a chance to let off steam without inhibition.
To my Friday night card game, for being good enough to relieve me of my
royalties about as quickly as I receive them. And to Roseann Caputo, for
giving me the opportunity to contribute to as worthy a cause as
Make-A-Wish.

Finally (I've saved the best for last, of course), I want to thank my
wife, Joan, for her understanding and forbearance during that month and
a half of husbandless late nights and weekends. If you don't know how I
feel about Joan now, I trust you will by the time you've finished this
book. She and Jocelyn have a lot in common, you see, and in many cases
the feelings I ascribe to McCoy are my own.

So in many more ways than one, this book couldn't have been written
without her.

Port Washington, New York April 1993 HISTORIAN'S NOTE

This story begins shortly after the events that took place in Star Trek
VI.- The Undiscovered Country.

Book One

On the Federation member-planet Ssan, there is a drop of blood.

It quivers for a moment in the breeze from an open window and then falls
into the large, white, quarry-tile basin below it. Disturbing the blood
and water that have already mingled there, the drop creates a series of
concentric circles that radiate to the limits of the basin's walls and
then shiver into nothingness.

A meter or so above the basin, there is a man-sized bench seat, also
made of white quarry tiles. Laid on its back across the length of the
bench seat, there is a male corpse in a bathrobe of the palest blue,
illuminated by the morning light from the open window. The robe is made
of Ssan silk, woven by worms in the mountains of the southernmost
continent. The corpse's skin, all that is visible of it, is almost as
pale as the robe,- its tiny, indigo eyes have rolled up beneath the body
brows of its hairless head, which is tilted back over the edge of the
platform.

A slender thread of blood, as red as a perfect ruby, runs from the
corner of the corpse's open mouth. It traces a languorous, loving trail
across a clean-shaven cheek to the bottom of a long, bulbous earlobe-a
physical characteristic typical of the Ssana. There, the trickle of
blood collects and forms yet another drop.

Before it became an empty vessel, this body housed the spirit of Thur
Cambralos, master governor of Pitur, Ssan's largest city-state. Until a
very short time ago, he was the single most powerful political figure on
the planet. He will continue to be thought of that way for another few
minutes, until his lifeless flesh is discovered by a servant.

Except for the thin trickle of blood, there is no mark of violence on
the corpse, no outward sign of the death that overtook it. But then, one
would not expect there to be.

On the Federation member-planet Ssan, assassination is an art unto
itself Retirement.

Leonard McCoy, chief medical officer of the Enterprise, mulled the word
over as he stared at the featureless ceiling of his bedroom. It was so
heavy, so final. Like the clash of a wooden gavel in some old-fashioned
courtroom.

Boom.

I hereby sentence you to the rest of your life. And may God have mercy
on your soul.

Frowning, he pulled away his bedcovers, then sat up and swung his feet
around in a single movement. Across the floor, standing against the far
wall, was his nemesis a metallic gray storage container, identical to
the one every officer on the ship had been given for his or her personal
effects.

He'd put off dealing with the container for days now.

Once, not so long ago, he had been looking forward to retirement. But
that was before his dealings with the Klingon called Chang. In opposing
the traitor and his plot, the doctor had been forcibly reminded of how
exciting and satisfying life on a starship could be.

On the other hand, it also left one open to experiences like the one
he'd had on Rura Penthe, the Klingon asteroid archipelago. McCoy
shivered just thinking about the place, with its murderous cold and its
flesh-carving winds.

But that wasn't the reason he'd decided to go ahead with his retirement
after all. He just couldn't picture himself serving on another vessel or
taking orders from some whippersnapper of a captain. He just couldn't
contemplate starting all over again.

If he'd had some better options, he certainly would have considered
them-but he didn't. So, getting to his feet, he padded across the floor
and faced the storage container like a man.

The thing was empty-painfully empty, he might have said, except it would
be more painful to him when it was full. Looking around, he found a
shelf full of medical monograph tapes that he'd accumulated over the
years.

Most of the tapes were written by people he'd never met. Maybe now that
he'd have nothing else to do, he could visit with some of them-talk some
shop, get to see how planet bound physicians spend their time.

He shook his head. Who was he kidding? At this point in his life, he
had about as much in common with a planet bound doctor as a Romulan had
in common with an inchworm. Come to think of it, maybe less. Not that he
wasn't interested in the science behind the monographs -on the contrary.
But when the scientific talk was over, he'd be longing for a view of the
stars streaming by at warp three, not a tour of some old geezer's
research lab.

McCoy sighed. Come on, he told himself. A journey of a thousand miles
begins with a single step.

Slowly, deliberately, he went over to the shelf and picked up a few
tapes in either hand. Then he returned to the storage container and
placed the tapes inside.

There, he thought. It's a beginning. Hell, maybe someday I'll look back
and wonder why I didn't retire earlier.

Yeah, he thought. Maybe someday. About the same time pigs learn to fly.

At the house ofkimm Dathrabin, master governor of the Ssani city-state
Tanul, there is a knock at the door.

" Yes?" a servant says, opening the door and peering at the visitor,
whom he does not know.

"My name is Ham Baraffin, " the visitor tells him. "I come with news
from Pel Sarennos, second governor of Pitur. Is Master Governor
Dathrabin at home?"

"He is, " says the servant, "but he is occupied.

"This is urgent, " Baraffin interjects. "It concerns Master Governor
Cambralos. " Then, glancing about and speaking in a quieter, more
confidential tone "The master governor has been assassinated."

The servant considers this information. The very reason his master
decided not to see visitors was to protect himself from assassination.
But if Cambralos has been killed, he would surely wish to hear the
details of it.

"Very well," the servant says, motioning the emissary inside. "Come with
me."

Careful to lock the door behind him, he guides the visitor through the
large foyer, past the pair of armed bodyguards, and up the broad,
winding stairs to the house's second floor. Making his way past a set Of
celebrated tapestries de picting the development of the McCoy rule of law
in Tanul, the servant shows his charge to the very door of the master
governor's suite, where two more armed guards stand.

"It is all right, " the servant tells the guards. "He is an emissary
from Pitur, with news."

The guards eye the visitor suspiciously. One of them produces a flat,
plastic stick with what looks like a square piece of sponge at the end.
The sponge has been treated to react to the presence of certain
chemicals.

"Spit, " says the guard.

The emissary works up a drop of spittle and allows it to fall on the
piece of sponge. The guard holds the stick up to the light. There is no
change in the color of the sponge.

He nods to the servant. "You may go in, " he says.

Without further discussion, the servant opens the door and escorts the
visitor inside. The walls of the suite are adorned with a different kind
of tapestry, the subject matter more entertaining than edifying. A
thousand years earlier, they were the property of a slavemaster who
specialized in imaginative young concubines.

Even under the present circumstances, the emissary cannot help but gaze
at the tapestries. Grunting softly but derisively, the servant advances
to the other side of the room, where he knocks softly on an arched door.

"Yes?" comes the master governor's reply.

"There is someone to see you, " the servant says. "From Pitur- with news
of Master Governor Cambralos."

Seconds later, the door opens and the master governor's bulk fills the
space. He looks past the servant and finds the emissary at the other end
of the room. Then he glances back at his servant. "He has been
screened?"

The servant nods. "He has."

Looking more confident, the master governor crosses the room. "You have
news for me?" he asks.

"Master Governor Cambralos has been assassinated in his bathing room, "
the emissary replies.

Dathrabin curses beneath his breath. "When?" he asks.

"Last night. Shortly after dark, it is believed.

"Then Sarennos is in charge?"

"That is correct. He hired me to bring the news to you.

"I see. We will have to meet soon, then, Sarennos and I.

There were a number of... understandings between Cambralos and myself
Trivial things, mostly, but. . . "He clears his throat, remembering the
company in which he is thinking out loud. "In any case, you must tell
him to get in touch with me."

"I will tell him, Master Governor, " the emissary replies.

"Will that be all?"

"Yes-unless you can suggest a way to rid us of Shil Andrachis and his
ruffians."

The servant takes that as his cue. Indicating the door, he ushers the
visitor in the proper direction. But just as they reach it, the Pitura
stops and looks back.

"Master Governor?" the emissary says. "There was one more thing."

"And that is?" Dathrabin asks.

"This, " the visitor tells him. And before the servant can draw another
breath, much less intervene, the Pitura moves across the room, faster
than the servant would have believed possible, and leaps, driving his
heel into the center of the master governor's forehead. For a moment,
Dathrabin staggers. Then he falls backward, like a great tree cut at its
base. There is no doubt that the blow was fatal,- assassins do not make
mistakes.

The servant is stunned. He finds that he is frozen in place, unable to
move.

"I will not kill you, " the assassin whispers. "Unless you make it
necessary."

The servant agrees. Remaining still, he watches the
assassin step over his victim to avoid Holarnis's shadow.

Then, bending down, the Ssana uses his knuckles to rap the master
governor in four places- the forehead, the center of his chest and the
heel of either foot.

As the servant knows, they are the residence-places of the soul. The
assassin is driving off the remnants ofholarnis's earthly spirit.

Then, apparently satisfied, the Ssana rises and advances to the window,
shrugging off his robes as he goes. Underneath, he is wearing a less
ornate set of clothes-more appropriate for slipping down the side of the
building and through the streets without drawing attention.

The servant knows that there are two guards out there, but they will be
no match for the assassin, particularly since they do not expect an
attack from above. He could scream and improve their chances, but he is
not a courageous man.

The assassin turns back and glances at him. "Don't you want to know?" he
asks.

The servant shakes his head. "Know?" he croaks.

"Why the guard's test did not expose me, " the assassin says. Taking the
servant's silence for an affirmative response, he removes a tiny bladder
from his mouth and squeezes the contents out. He watches the servant's
reaction as it drips slowly to the floor.

"Cambralos's own saliva. It was the High Assassin's idea. Rather
appropriate, don't you think?"

He chuckles and then, without hesitation, turns and leaps through the
open window.

Captain James T. Kirk stared at the rather austere, dark-haired image on
the forward viewscreen and leaned forward in his command chair. His
mouth had gone inexplicably dry.

"Would you repeat that, Commodore?" he asked.

On the viewscreen, Commodore Montoya, a petite woman with strong
cheekbones and braided raven-black hair, nodded. "You're to meet me here
at Starbase Twelve, Captain. Upon your arrival, I'll brief you on the
details of your mission."

Kirk grunted. "That's what I thought you said."

At the navigation console, Pavel Chekov turned away from his controls
and shot the captain a querulous look.

At the helm, Ensign Joe Christiano darted a glance at Kirk as well. The
captain didn't have to see Uhura to know she was just as surprised as
the rest of them.

Montoya must have noticed the reaction on the bridge.

"I can understand your confusion," she told Kirk. "Your last orders were
to report to Earth, to be decommissioned as scheduled. Basically, that
hasn't changed. But since neither you nor any of your officers are
scheduled to retire for another couple of weeks, Starfleet wants you to
make a little detour along the way."

The captain nodded. "Acknowledged, Commodore."

He felt the roil of conflicting emotions as he turned to Chekov. "Set a
course for Starbase Twelve, Commander."

"Aye-aye, sair," said the Russian, putting aside the curiosity that must
have been consuming him as he swiveled around again to perform his task.

Kirk fixed his gaze on Montoya again. "Is it permitted to ask where
you'll be sending us?" he queried.

"You'll be serving as a diplomatic envoy to Alpha Gederix Four, a planet
the natives call Ssan," she said.

The captain shrugged. He'd never heard of the place, though the computer
could certainly give him its location and some historical background.

"In any case," said the woman on the screen, "I'll see you shortly.
Montoya out."

No sooner had the commodore's image faded than a McCoy buzz permeated
the atmosphere of the bridge. Kirk looked around at his officers, who
discontinued their muttered conversations.

"I don't know why we've suddenly been taken out of mothballs," he told
them, answering the question in all I their minds. "But for those of you
who were disappointed at our decommissioning, I wouldn't get my hopes
up. As the Commodore said, this is only a short detour."

The captain felt a pang as he said that-the same kind of pang he'd
experienced three months ago, when Uhura had notified them of the
decision to scrap the Enterprise in the first place. Since that time,
he'd come to accept their fate. He'd even come to look forward to his
well earned retirement-an endless series of long, lazy days with his
once and present lover, Carol Marcus.

But the thought of another mission, another chance to see places and
people he'd never seen before ... coming so unexpectedly, at the
eleventh hour ... it had a kind of poetic justice to it. As if fate were
rewarding an old warhorse for services faithfully rendered.

Even if it was only as a diplomatic envoy.

Suddenly, Kirk felt compelled to share the news. "Mr. Chekov," he
announced, "you have the conn."

And before Chekov could even begin to signal his assent, the captain was
heading for the turbolift.

"So it has come to this, " Zar Holarnis says, his voice strangely flat.
"Merciful deity. How could we let another High Assassin come to power?"

Holarnis, the blade-thin master governor of the city-state Larol, is in
his Hall of Governance, surrounded by his second and third governors,
his advisers, and his security officer. All know his question is largely
rhetorical, and so they do not answer.

"Four master governors in the space of one day, Holarnis continues.
"Cambralos, Dathrabin, Lefarnus

... and now Kinshaian."

"They will strike here next, " says his security officer.

"Merciful deity, " Holarnis repeats.

Again, no one speaks-not even his second governor, who is normally full
of ideas. The great hall whispers something, but it is unintelligible.

"We must strengthen our defenses, " the security officer begins
hesitantly. "More men-and not just in the building but in the
surrounding streets."

Holarnis snorts and looks up at him. "Do you think Cambralos didn't have
guards? Or Lafarnus?" He shakes his head. "No amount of security will
keep Andrachis's murderers out."

The security officer frowns. "Then what do you propose?

Surrender?"

The master governor glares at him. "Of course not, "says Holarnis. "But
sitting around here would be worse than surrender. I have to go
somewhere else-somewhere they will not find me."

The security officer grunts. "Now? When they will be watching the Hall
of Governance?"

"Tithranus is right," an adviser says of the security officer. "If they
see you leaving, they will follow. And then you will have no chance at
all."

"Perhaps, " responds the master governor, "if I leave alone. But what if
I send out six or seven hovercars-all well guarded, all with polarized
windows? How will Andrachis know which one is mine?"

they look from one to the other, all around the table.

The third governor nods. Before long they are all nodding, all except
the security chief But even he seems satisfied with the strategy up to a
point.

McCoy

"A good plan, " confirms the second governor.

"I will make the arrangements, " pledges the security chief

"But do you have a destination?" asks an adviser.

"I do, of course, " replies Holarnis. "But I will share that only with
Tithranus."

There is some squirming around the table. Suspicions flicker in the eyes
of those assembled.

"But, Master Governor, "says the third governor. "Surely we can all be
trusted with such information. If we should need you. . ."

"Then you may inform me, and I will apprise the master, " responds the
security chief

"That is correct, " agrees Holarnis. "If you need me, Tithranus will
know where to find me. " He sighs. "Mind you, it is not that I lack
trust in any of you. But I must leave as few chinks in my armor as
possible."

"Do not be concerned about us, " the second governor assures him. "Our
egos will heal The only matter of any importance is your survival,
Master Governor.

For the first time since the beginning of this meeting, Holarnis allows
himself a shadow of a smile. "Thank you, Penarthil. With any luck, I
will not need to take such precautions.for long."

The vecond governor respectfully inclines his head.

"With any luck," he echoes, but, at least to the master governor's ears,
he does not sound altogether optimistic.

McCoy sat down on his anteroom couch and contemplated the matched set of
phornicia shells that he had removed from their place on the wall.

The shells, pink, intricate and undeniably beautiful, symbolized the
healing arts on Magistor Seven as the caduceus did on Earth. The
Magistori said that if you put a phornicia shell to your ear, you could
hear the voices of all those whose lives had been saved by their
physicians.

Abruptly, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of chimes. "Come on
in," he said.

As the doors shooshed open, they revealed the familiar figure of Jim
Kirk. Smiling congenially, the captain stepped inside.

The doctor smiled too, but only halfheartedly. As his friend crossed the
room, he held up the shells.

"Nice, aren't they?" he remarked.

Kirk considered them and nodded. "As nice as the ones you lost on the
first Enterprise."

McCoy sighed and looked down-past the shells this time. On the floor
near his feet lay the ominous gray storage container. The thing already
contained a few monograph tapes, not to mention a prized bottle of
Saurian brandy. He placed the phornicia shells in the container, then
shook his head. "Always did hate to pack," he muttered.

"Bones?" said Kirk.

The doctor looked up. There was unmistakable excitement evident in the
captain's expression-puzzling, given the fact that they'd soon be saying
good-bye not only to the ship but to each other.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Listen to this," said Kirk. He licked his lips. "We've got ourselves a
mission."

As far as McCoy was concerned, his friend might as well have just spoken
perfect Klingon. "What ... ?"

Kirk smiled again. "A mission, Bones. We're not through yet. They want
us to help out one last time."

"Who does?" asked McCoy, getting to his feet.

"Commodore Montoya at Starbase Twelve."

"the(,Cov The doctor absorbed the information-or tried to.

Somehow it just didn't want to sink in.

"But ... why in blazes us, Jim? Not that I'm looking a gift horse in
the mouth, mind you. I mean, I could stand one last hurrah-provided it
doesn't lead to Rura Penthe the way the last one did."

"But Starfleet has any number of ships in this sector," agreed the
captain. "So why pick on a ship that's already been put out to pasture?"

McCoy grunted. "They didn't tell you anything about this mission?
Anything that might have given you a clue?"

Kirk shook his head. "Not yet. Only that we're to serve as a diplomatic
envoy to a place called Alpha Gederix Four. Of course, its inhabitants
call it ... Bones, is something wrong?"

McCoy could feel the color drain from his face. He could feel his Adam's
apple crawl the length of his throat and then come down again like the
hammer of doom.

"Ssan," he said, in a voice suddenly full of bitterness.

"They call it Ssan."

Kirk's brow creased. "You've been there before."

"I certainly have," the doctor replied. He suddenly saw how all the
pieces fit together, and he was less than pleased with the picture they
made.

"I think I know now why they picked us for this mission, Jim. Because
they wanted someone who'd had some extended experience with the Ssana
... and was still wearing a Starfleet uniform. And I'm one of the few
officers in the Federation who fits that description."

"I see," responded the captain. "So, we owe this mission to you," he
concluded, obviously trying to inject a little levity into what was
gradually turning into an unexpectedly grim situation.

"Seems that way," the doctor agreed.

He took a breath, then let it out, as images he'd done his best to
forget came flitting back to him. He swallowed a second time as the
memories began to come back to him.

"But before it's over," McCoy said, "you might not be so all-fired
grateful about it."

In the capital of the city-state Larol, the Ssana called ShilAndrachis
stands in an open-air market, pretending to study a water-filled tray of
sprouts. But he is really considering the building across the street.

The building is the Hall of Governance, the residence of Master Governor
Holarnis. By now, Holarnis will have heard of the assassination of his
fellow master governors in other city-states. He will have begun to make
plans that will enable him to survive as his peers did not.

It is Andrachis's job to make sure that Holarnis's plans come to
nothing. He vows that he will not fail in this task.

After all, Holarnis is just a master governor. And Andrachis is the High
Assassin.

TWO

"Poor bastard," rasped McCoy.

He grimaced at the charred and twisted wreckage of Master Governor
Holarnis's hovercar, as depicted on the undersized monitor in the center
of the briefing room table. Leaning closer, he saw a splash of red blood
on the jagged shards of a shattered window but no other sign that
anything alive had ever been inside the mass of blackened metal.

"He never had a chance," McCoy added.

"As you know, Doctor," said Commodore Montoya, "that was the whole
point. These assassins are quite thorough."

Montoya sat on the far side of the table, behind the single-screen
monitor. There was no need for her to see these pictures anymore; no
doubt she'd already had a bellyful of them.

On McCoy's immediate right, Jim Kirk grunted in assent. "Thorough, all
right. And you say all seven of the hovercars that went out that day
suffered the same fate?"

Montoya nodded. "All seven, Captain. Holarnis thought he was confusing
them, since they usually work alone. He didn't anticipate the assassins'
ability to adjust to the situation."

Her gaze moved from Kirk's face to Spock's, who from McCoy's
perspective-sat beyond the captain along the curve of the table. Like
his longtime companions, the Vulcan was intent on the image of death and
destruction but, unlike them, he displayed no outward sign of sympathy
for the hovercars' occupants.

"At the time of his death," the Commodore continued, "Holarnis was the
highest-ranking government official on Ssan. That honor has now fallen
to Meladion, the master governor of Orthun. Of course, subspace
communications aren't as quick as we'd like them to be. By now Meladion
may have been assassinated as well."

On McCoy's left, Scotty shook his head and swore softly. "Nice bunch o'
folks," he said, his voice dripping with irony.

Spock, however, took in the information with perfect equanimity, the
same equanimity he'd shown years ago when he realized that an entire
shipload of his people on the U.S.S. Intrepid had perished all at once.

"Unfortunate," was all the response the Vulcan could muster.

"Unfortunate?" the doctor echoed. He shook his head in mock amazement.
"Don't get all teary-eyed on us, Spock. I mean, we're talking about
people dying, for god's sake-not the cake at my granddaughter's birthday
party."

"I beg your pardon, Doctor?" said Montoya. She McCoy probably didn't
know what else to say. After all, she hadn't served with Spock for the
last twenty years. She didn't know how he'd react to the verbal jab.

"It's all right," McCoy assured her, settling back into his seat. "It's
an old story, and one that'll probably never have a satisfactory
ending."

"In other words," Kirk told her, placing a hand on the doctor's arm,
"you may proceed with the briefing-with my apologies for the
interruption."

"Actually," said the Commodore, "it's I who should apologize, Captain,
for forcing you to postpone your retirements for this mission. But
considering Dr. McCoy's measure of experience with the Ssana, and your
own record of success in resolving violent conflicts . . ."

"No problem at all," replied Kirk. "I don't think any of us has quite
come to accept the decision to decommission the Enterprise, so taking
her out one last time won't be too great a hardship."

Montoya smiled thinly. "Good." She tapped a panel in a small control
console built into the table, and the image on the screen shifted.

"Alpha Gederix Four," said the Commodore, pointing to the fertile,
cloud-swathed world on the monitor.

"Known to its inhabitants as Ssan. A planet with a long and time-honored
tradition of legal assassination."

Spock frowned. "Institutionalized m urder. A means of political control,
I assume?"

McCoy shook his head and opened his mouth to answer. But Montoya beat
him to it.

"The assassins wouldn't call it murder, Mr. Spock. To their way of
thinking, when they kill, they're performing a religious act."

Spock raised an eyebrow.

"A religious act?" Kirk asked.

"Think of them as a cult, Jim," McCoy said. "They have a specific
function to fulfill in society, with ceremonies to observe, even
initiation rites to undergo."

Montoya nodded. "Becoming an assassin involves subjecting oneself to
physical, biochemical changes. When those changes are finished, the
person isn't Ssani anymore but ... something else."

McCoy shuddered, remembering. Montoya was right.

Assassins weren't like other Ssani. They weren't like any other race
he'd ever met.

"It makes no sense to me," Scotty interrupted. "How something like that
develops-"

"The institution's been around forever," McCoy answered. "It evolved out
of the Ssani tendency toward multiple births-twins is the norm there,
and triplets aren't uncommon at all-and as a way of combating wild
population growth."

"Survival of the fittest," Kirk said.

Montoya nodded. "Assassins have always been held in the highest regard
on Ssan. Up until about forty years ago, when a wave of new-age thinkers
started convincing the people to break with tradition. Not only would
they begin to practice birth control, a heretofore unheard of idea
though the technology had long been available-but they would begin to
phase out the institution of assassination."

A pause. "The institution fought back."

Again, Montoya tapped at her controls. And again, the image changed.

Now they were looking at a picture of a Ssana. Like all his planet's
people, he had long, bulbous earlobes and tiny, indigo eyes set deep
beneath bony brows-eyes that stared in that glassy way McCoy had come to
associate with the dead.

But then, even without that clue, the doctor would have McCoy known the
Ssana was deceased. After all, he recognized the individual and knew
that no one had ever taken a picture of him while he lived.

"This," said Montoya, "is-or rather was-Li Moboron. As Ssan's High
Assassin, he took exception to the new, progressive government, which
was considering, among other things, an invitation to join the United
Federation of Planets."

"Exception?" McCoy chuckled bitterly. "It was a blasted holy war."

"As the doctor says," Montoya amended without blinking, "it was a holy
war-a wave of wholesale assassinations. To combat it, the government
hired a small army of counter assassins. After a long and bloody
conflict, in which the Federation sometimes helped out with disaster
control, the government emerged victorious and instituted its reforms.
Birth control became widespread. And assassination was outlawed."

"Outlawed?" echoed Kirk. "How did the government break that news to its
hired guns?"

"Not very well," said McCoy.

Montoya shot him a glance this time, like a warning volley across his
bow. A reminder that she was the one providing the briefing and that
unless he had any relevant questions, he'd best keep his mouth shut.

Normally the doctor would have taken that as a challenge. But he had to
concede that the woman had a point.

The situation on Ssan was no laughing matter; best to be as businesslike
as possible.

Montoya cleared her throat. "At first, there were surprisingly few
repercussions. But as time went by, the surviving assassins-on both
sides-formed a series of secret cults, and it was these cults that
preserved the concept of the assassin in Ssani society. Of course, they
had their differences. Without government sanction, each group had to
create its own definition of what an assassin should be. Some were
naturally more militant than others."

"They lacked a leader," observed Spock, "someone who could unite the
cults."

"Exactly," said the Commodore.

Once more she hit her control panel. This time the sight that greeted
them was that of a flat metal disk with a symbol rendered on its face in
red.

"That cross you see is a stylized dagger," explained Montoya. "The
circle represents Alpha Gederix, the sun.

It's the emblem of the High Assassin. We found this at the wreck that
contained the master governor's body."

McCoy straightened and cursed beneath his breath. He hadn't grasped the
magnitude of this. He hadn't grasped it at all.

When Montoya had shown them Holarnis's hovercar, he'd thought it was the
work of an individual cult-and Lord knew, that would have been bad
enough. But if someone had gotten himself named High Assassin ...

"That suggests two things," said the Commodore.

"First, that the assassins had somehow determined which of the cars
Holarnis was in and destroyed the others simply as a warning against
those who'd try to protect assassin targets."

"And second," McCoy snarled, "that there's a new Li Moboron around."

Montoya turned her attention to the doctor again, but if she harbored
any resentment, it evaporated quickly before the horror that must have
been etched into his face.

"He calls himself Shil Andrachis," she told them. "A protdg6 of the last
High Assassin, if his propaganda can be McCoy believed. His goal? To
roll back the reforms-all of them-and to restore the assassins'
tradition to Ssan."

"And that's why Holarnis-and the others-were murdered?" asked Kirk.
"Because they wouldn't do as he asked?"

The Commodore nodded. "Today's master governors were probably teenagers
when Moboron and his movement were demolished. After four decades, the
Ssana may have forgotten how ruthless these people could be. In any
case, they don't have the option of fighting fire with fire this time-or
more accurately, assassin with assassin. All the assassins are working
for Andrachis."

"Which is where we come in," Scotty noted. "And this time, to supply
more than just disaster control."

"True," said Montoya. "You're to find the assassin leadership and
negotiate a peaceful settlement with Andrachis-before these isolated
assassinations evolve into mass slaughters, as they did forty years
ago."

McCoy shook his head. "Forget it."

The others looked at him as if he'd committed a murder himself. Spock
cocked an eyebrow. Kirk just frowned.

"Bones," said the captain, "a year ago, I wouldn't have bet a plugged
nickel that we'd see a ddtente between the Federation and the
godforsaken Klingons in our lifetime.

But we did, didn't we?"

Jim didn't get it. But then, he had never been on Ssan.

He hadn't seen the things McCoy had.

"The Klingons," insisted the doctor, "are children compared to these
assassins. Li Moboron would sooner have fallen on his blade than
negotiated. And if this Andrachis character is his prot6g6, he won't
negotiate either. Not with the government, not with us, not with
anybody.

The Commodore leaned back in her chair and fixed the chief medical
officer with her gaze. "Doctor McCoy is right, gentlemen. It would be a
mistake to underestimate the difficulty of what the Federation is asking
of you."

"However?" suggested Kirk.

"However," said Montoya, "we are still asking. I will apprise Admiral
Jovanovich of the doctor's concerns, but the mission goes on. Any other
questions?"

Before McCoy could answer, Kirk said, "None, Commodore. I think we've
heard all we need to hear."

By the time they returned to the starbase's transporter room, McCoy's
scowl had deepened considerably though even a half hour ago, Kirk
wouldn't have believed that possible. Hell, the doctor wasn't even
complaining about having to let someone "shoot his atoms halfway across
the galaxy."

"Good luck," said the Commodore, who'd graciously volunteered to see
them off.

"Men make their own luck," commented the captain, eliciting a crinkling
at the corners of Montoya's mouth that he took for a smile.

Brave words, he told himself. But it was difficult feeling brave while
his chief medical officer was in such a funk.

But hell ... they'd faced tough situations before, hadn't they? And
McCoy had never been as gloomy as he was now, not by half. Was it just
that Bones was feeling older and less prepared for something like this?
Had their close brush on that Klingon penal asteroid taken more out of
him than he'd admitted?

Or was there something else? Something about Ssan that he still hadn't
let out of the bag? As Montoya's transporter chief whisked them to
their ship, Kirk wondered about that.

McCoy Strange that in twenty-seven years of serving shoulder to
shoulder, McCoy hadn't described Ssan to the captain in any detail
before. Especially since his stay there was his first real mission in
space.

After all they'd been through together on the Enterprise -both the
original and now Enterprise-A-Kirk would have thought he knew everything
there was to know about his friend Bones. It seemed there were still
some stories left untold between them ... some secrets left unspoken.

Perhaps it was time to dredge up some of those secrets, for the doctor's
sake. As a friend, it was the captain's duty to help him get them off
his chest. Of course, McCoy might tell him it was none of his business.
But that wasn't going to stop him from giving it a try.

A moment later, the transport was complete. The captain's companions
began to step down from the Enterprise's transporter platform.

"Uh ... Spock?"

The Vulcan turned to him. "Yes, Captain?"

"I'd like you to take the conn," Kirk told him. "I'm going to"-he
glanced in McCoy's direction-"relax for a while."

The first officer inclined his head. "As you wish, sir."

Having made that arrangement, the captain caught up with McCoy, who was
already halfway out of the room.

"Bones," he said, "wait up."

The doctor glanced over his shoulder. "What now?" he asked.

"How about a drink?" Kirk suggested.

McCoy looked at him, emotions flitting behind his pale blue eyes like
some kind of exotic, alien insects. "A drink?" He shook his head.
"Sorry, Jim. Not right now. I don't feel much like being
bartender-slash-psychiatrist."

The captain smiled. "You misunderstand. I'm volunteering to be the
bartender this time." A pause. "You look like you could use one."

The doctor considered the offer for a moment. "Sure," he said at last.
"Why the blazes not?"

As they emerged into the corridor together, Kirk planted a hand on
McCoy's shoulder. "As I recall," he said, "you like your brandy at room
temperature, right?"

"Two degrees above," the doctor reminded him dourly.

"Two degrees above. That's what I meant to say," the captain assured
him.

McCoy swallowed, felt the fire of the brandy warm his insides, and
looked over the rim of his glass at Kirk. His friend was watching to see
if the liquor had taken the edge off his frustration. And maybe it had
at that.

"Well?" asked the captain, breaking a long silence.

Bones shrugged, feeling too ornery to be diplomatic.

"It's not Saurian."

Kirk's gaze darkened. "How chivalrous of you to say so, Doctor. And just
when I was starting to feel like a good host."

Stung by the remark, McCoy snorted. "I guess it's not that bad. Aw, hell
... it's not bad at all." He swirled the remnants of the liquid around
in his glass. "The mood I'm in, even the Saurian chancellor's private
stock wouldn't impress me."

"You're in a mood?" The captain shrugged. "I guess I hadn't noticed."

The doctor glared at him. "You know what?" he said.

"You're a lousy bartender and a lousy psychiatrist. You don't bait your
patients, for god's sake. You bring them out slowly. Gently."

The captain held a hand up. "You're absolutely right, Bones. I stand
corrected." He leaned forward, meeting his McCoy companion's gaze. "Now
why don't you tell me, slowly, and gently, what the blazes is on your
mind."

McCoy sighed and looked away. He really didn't want to talk about this
now. Or ever, for that matter.

"It's about Ssan," the captain prompted.

"I already told you about Ssan," said the doctor, putting on an air of
annoyance, though he knew it would do him no good. Kirk wasn't about to
give up.

"You didn't tell me everything," the captain pressed.

"Not by a long shot. I want to hear the rest of it."

McCoy thought a moment.

"All right," he said finally. "It's true, I suppose. I didn't tell you
everything about that place." He found a spot on the wall behind Kirk to
stare at. "Hell, there isn't that much more to tell.

Just that it was a bad time for me. And I made a lot of bad choices I've
had to live with the rest of my life."

"What kind of choices?" asked Kirk.

McCoy glared at him. "You're relentless, aren't you?"

"It's in my job description," the captain advised him.

The doctor harrumphed. "How about some more of that mediocre brandy you
were serving?"

Kirk reached for the carafe on the table at his side and leaned forward.
Bones held out his glass and watched the captain refill it.

"What kind of choices McCoy echoed reflectively.

What kind indeed.

He tossed back the brandy, letting it sink into all his crevices. Then
he looked at his friend again, no longer feeling quite so cornered.

"The kind that get people killed," he said evenly.

Kirk shook his head, still not understanding. "You mean you made a
mistake?"

The doctor ran the fingers of one hand through his thick gray hair.
"Good question," he said. "I wish I had a good answer." He thought for a
moment, allowing the memories, good and bad, to well up inside him. "I
guess," he went on, "some people might say it was a mistake. Me?"

He thought some more. "I'm still not sure."

The captain sat back in his chair. "It's a little difficult to discuss
something without knowing what it is you're discussing. Some details
might help."

McCoy nodded. "You want details? Okay. Picture yourself at the tender
age of twenty-six. Fresh out of medical school, a trainee on his first
mission. And one of your best-"

The intercom buzzer went off before the doctor could finish his
sentence. The captain walked over to the intercom panel.

"Kirk here," he replied. "Is that you, Spock?"

There was a pause on the other end. "It is indeed, Captain."

Kirk smiled faintly in appreciation of his own sixth sense. "What can I
do for you?"

"We have just communicated with Commodore Montoya . . ." the Vulcan
began.

The captain exchanged looks with his chief medical officer. "But we only
left the starbase a few minutes ago," he said.

"Quite true," Spock agreed. "However, she had enough time to reflect on
Dr. McCoy's remarks to decide that we needed help in our efforts at
diplomacy. As luck would have it-her words, not mine-one of the
preeminent diplomatic teams in the Federation happens to be in this
sector, awaiting a new assignment. The Commodore took it upon herself to
engage their services on our behalf."

"Diplomatic team . . ." muttered the doctor. As far as he was concerned,
diplomats were somewhere on the evolutionary scale between a slug ...
and another slug.

McCoy And here it had been his own comments that had prompted Montoya to
provide them with diplomatic assistance. Talk about your bitter ironies,
he mused.

"Did the Commodore say which team it would be?"

asked the captain. There were several, after all, and some were better
than others.

"She did," confirmed Spock. "The name she gave was Treadway. Clay and
Jocelyn Treadway."

Treadway, McCoy repeated inwardly. Suddenly he found himself smiling.

But it wasn't out of happiness. It was the kind of smile that comes when
a person can't quite take it anymore, when he finds it somehow easier to
laugh than to cry.

Kirk looked at him, no doubt wondering what had prompted his friend's
sudden change in demeanor.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"I beg your pardon?" said Spock.

"We'll go over this later," Kirk told his first officer.

Applying pressure to the panel a second time, he broke the connection.

McCoy felt his stomach muscles contract painfully, as if something had
grabbed him from inside and wouldn't let go. Treadway, he repeated
inwardly. Treadway.

Still grinning like a crazy person, the doctor set down his glass and
lowered his face into his hands. "Of all the blasted diplomats in the
galaxy, why did it have to be them?"

Kirk's eyes narrowed. "You know them, Bones?"

Raising his head, the doctor leveled a blistering glare at him. "You're
damned right I know them." He could feel his mouth twist with undiluted
hatred. "Jocelyn Treadway is my ex-wife, Jim. And Clay Treadway is the
man who married her."

The captain swallowed involuntarily. "Jocelyn," he muttered. "Of course.
But it's been so long since . . ." He paused awkwardly.

"My godforsaken ex-wife," McCoy repeated. He was overcome with genuine
misery-the kind he'd experienced in their worst moments on Rura Penthe.
"Damn it, Jim, if this isn't the mission from hell, I don't know what
THREE

is."

"I knew this was going to happen someday," said McCoy.

"I just knew it." He looked up at Kirk. "If I stayed in Starfleet long
enough, if they kept on mediating from planet to planet, the chances of
our running into one another would get greater and greater and . . ."

"You knew?" asked the captain. "You knew Jocelyn had remarried, that she
was in the diplomatic corps?"

"Damned right I knew," he said softly. "Joanna told me. Not on purpose,
mind you. She wouldn't have done that to me." He picked up his glass
again and took another sip of brandy. It wasn't Saurian, that was for
sure.

But right now, he didn't mind the feel of the liquor burning in his
throat. He wiped his lips and set the glass down.

"One shore leave, it just leaked out. We were all sitting around carving
up the turkey and Joanna was talking to Conner, my grandson-"

"I know who Conner is," Kirk reminded him gently.

The doctor harrumphed. "Yes. Of course you do.

Anyway, he couldn't have been more than two at the time.

He asked where his grandmother was, and Joanna told him she was off on
Chadric Seven, helping the Chadricans see eye-to-eye." He half-smiled.
"Eye-to-eye-get it?"

The captain nodded. "I get it, Bones."

The Chadricans were cyclopean, like a half-dozen other sentient species
in the known galaxy. It was the kind of joke only someone like Joanna,
who'd been out in space, could have made.

"I guess," Bones went on, "she must have forgotten for a moment that I
was sitting there. When she realized what she'd said, she turned three
shades of purple. But it was too late. The cat was out of the bag.
That's when I asked her what in heaven's name had possessed her mother
to join the diplomatic corps."

"And she told you about Clay Treadway?"

McCoy shook his head. "No. She refused. She knew what a wreck it would
have made me." He paused. "But Conner wasn't so merciful, bless his
pointy little head. He came right out and told me that Grandma had
married Mr. Treadway, and they'd gone off into space together."

The captain frowned. "Lord, Bones. Conner's twelve now. That means
you've known about this for a decade."

"And I didn't tell you. I know." He grew angry suddenly. "Well, I don't
have to tell you everything, " he snapped.

But as soon as he'd let the words escape, he was sorry for them. He
winced at his own volatility.

"It's okay," Kirk told him. "You're right. You don't have to tell me
everything."

McCoy sighed. "I couldn't, Jim. It hurt even to think about Jocelyn
remarrying. But to say it out loud ... even McCoy to you . . ." He
sighed again, a little louder. "I just wasn't strong enough for that."

Kirk leaned forward and clapped his longtime comrade on the shoulder.
"No apologies necessar y, Bones. We've all got a few skeletons in the
closet."

"Thanks," he said sheepishly. And then "Jim? Would it ... I mean ...
?"

Kirk appeared to know what his chief medical officer was trying to say.
"Would it be all right," he finished, "if you didn't have to be there to
greet the Treadways when they beam on board?"

Scowling, McCoy nodded. "Yes," he said. "That."

Kirk smiled.

"Spock and I can lay out the welcome mat by ourselves," he assured the
doctor. "In fact, we'll deal with the Treadways every step of the way.
You don't have to get involved with them at all, if that's the way you
prefer it."

McCoy sighed and averted his eyes. "I'd appreciate that," he mumbled.
Then he remembered "Wait a minute. I'm supposed to be the expert on
Ssan around here.

How can I-?"

"Don't give it a second thought," Kirk interrupted. "If the Treadways
are as good as Montoya says, we may not need you at all. And if I have a
question, I can always ask.

Anyway, I've survived without you on several occasions. I think I can
pull it off just one more time."

The captain smiled. McCoy supposed he should smile back. But he
couldn't. His senses were gradually drifting to another place and time.
To a town in Georgia and a certain hot summer afternoon.

Suddenly the doctor felt the need to stand up, to shrug off the past.
Kirk looked at him with a measure of concern.

McCoy said, "I think I'd better be going. You're going to want to make
arrangements for our guests and all."

Truth to tell, there wasn't very much to do. They both knew that. But he
wanted to be alone right now-and Jim knew him well enough not to stand
in his way.

Hell, Jim had had more than his share of loss over the years, what with
the deaths of his son and his brother ... and Miramanee . . . and so
many others he probably couldn't count them all. He knew what it was
like to need some solitude, some time to put things in perspective.

Putting down his brandy, McCoy managed a bit of a smile. "I'll see you
later," he told Kirk.

"Ya know where to find me," the captain said.

And, feeling more than a little out of kilter, McCoy beat a hasty
retreat from his friend's quarters.

Jocelyn Treadway bit her lip nervously. When Commodore Montoya had asked
her and her husband to undertake this mission, she'd thought about
declining. After all, it was more than a little awkward.

However, Clay had insisted that they go. He'd reminded her that they'd
joined the diplomatic service to do a job, and that the situation on
Ssan fairly cried out for someone with their talents at mediation.

It had struck her as strange that her husband would be so adamant about
it. But then, Clay had developed a very strong sense of duty over the
years; it wouldn't have been the first time he'd put an assignment
before his own welfare.

So in the end, she'd gone along with it. But now, as she waited
alongside her husband on the transporter pad of the Potemkin, she began
to wonder if she'd made the right decision.

McCoy

"You'll like working with Jim Kirk," said Captain Gladstone, as her
bearded transporter operator exchanged coordinates with his counterpart
on the Enterprise. Gladstone was a tall, well-built blonde, whose good
humor seemed as irrepressible as the ample curves beneath the surface of
her uniform.

"So I've heard," replied Clay, gracing the captain with a flash of his
perfect teeth. "Best in the business and all that-present company
excepted, of course." His mustache, reddish gold and neatly trimmed,
widened to accentuate his smile. Unconsciously, he ran his fingers
through his thick, dark hair.

Her husband didn't mean to flirt, Jocelyn knew. It was a reflex,
something he'd been doing practically since birth. Nor did it make her
the least bit hot under the collar. Jealousy was for fillies.

Not that she had much reason to be jealous, Jocelyn remarked inwardly.
True, her hair had gone mostly gray and she'd acquired a few wrinkles
here and there, but her dark blue eyes still turned men's heads. Some
men's, anyway.

Abruptly, the transporter operator looked up. "Looks like we're all
ready," he told Gladstone.

The captain nodded. "Thanks, Jonesy." Turning back to the Treadways-but
mostly to Clay, Jocelyn thought Gladstone inclined her head in a sort of
salute. "Good hunting," she wished them.

It's not a hunt, Jocelyn mused. It's a mediation. The two activities
couldn't possibly be farther apart.

But then she caught herself. Be fair, she thought. The woman didn't mean
anything by the remark. Gladstone's no more trigger-happy than any other
commanding officer in Starfleet. You're just on edge.

Because of where you're going. And who you're going to see there.

And maybe, she conceded, despite her protestations to the contrary, just
a mite jealous as well.

As if he'd read her thought, Clay turned his smile on her. And if it had
been flirtatious before, it was full of something a whole lot more
intimate now, more devoted.

Jocelyn sighed. Her husband's little flirtations never went anywhere. He
was as faithful as the planets in their orbits-that, at least, had never
been a problem.

She looked around. Where in hell was that transporter effect already?

She'd barely finished asking her silent question when she realized she
was no longer in the transporter room of the Potemkin. Her surroundings
were virtually identical, but Gladstone and the man she called Jonesy
had disappeared and been replaced by a new set of faces. Fortunately,
none of them were his.

Not that she wouldn't have to see him eventually, Jocelyn knew. But if
she had her druthers, she preferred that it be later rather than sooner.

She and her husband descended from the platform together. Funny, she
mused. No matter how many times she transported, it always made her feel
a little uncomfortable. Of course, she wouldn't tell anyone that.

Jim Kirk stepped forward and held out his hand to Clay, who was closer
to him. "Ambassador Treadway," he said. "Welcome aboard."

"Captain Kirk. The pleasure's all mine." Clay turned to indicate
Jocelyn. "And you know my wife, I take it."

The captain nodded, greeting Jocelyn in turn. "Nice to see you again."

Kirk was no longer the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed youngster Jocelyn
remembered. If the years hadn't exactly been McCoy unkind to him, they'd
still left some subtle signs of their passing a few lines in his face,
a few streaks of gray in his hair.

But he hadn't become a very good liar. He wasn't glad to see her at all,
she knew-no gladder than he'd been thirty years ago. Jim Kirk had seen
the pain she'd inflicted on his friend he couldn't remember that and be
genuinely pleased at her presence on the ship.

Not that she'd gotten any enjoyment out of seeing her ex-husband beaten
down that way. Lord knew, the last thing she wanted in the world was to
hurt someone she'd loved the way she'd loved him.

"Nice to see you again, too," she told the captain.

Unfortunately, she found, she didn't mean it any more than he did.

Kirk gestured to introduce them to another uniformed figure, who'd been
standing in the shadows near the transporter console up until then.
"This is Mr. Spock," he said. "My first officer."

A Vulcan, Jocelyn noted. Good. It always made their Job a good deal
easier when there was a Vulcan aboard.

That way, they wouldn't have to be the voice of reason all by
themselves.

She didn't expect Spock to shake hands with them, the way the captain
had. He didn't. "I trust your efforts on Risa were successful?" he
asked, taking in both Jocelyn and her husband at a single glance.

"Very successful," Clay assured him. "Fifty years from now, no one'll
ever know there was a war there."

"In fact," said Jocelyn, "there's talk of making it a vacation planet.
Might not be a bad idea either, now that the natives have quit killing
each other for a while."

The Vulcan turned to Kirk. "The Risans were involved in a nearly
continuous round of armed conflicts for the last decade. Twice before,
the Federation had failed to bring the two sides to the bargaining
table."

The captain nodded, doing his best to look impressed, but Jocelyn could
tell that he had other things on his mind-like the mess on Ssan, for
instance.

"I'd like to hear more," he told Spock, "but I'll bet our guests would
like to freshen up before immersing themselves in work again." Turning
to the negotiators, he said "We've set aside a class-one suite for you,
if that's all right."

Clay cleared his throat. Jocelyn could feel the blood rushing to her
face.

"Actually," she told the captain, "we would prefer two suites."

That plainly took Kirk by surprise. "Two?" he repeated.

"Yes," said Jocelyn. "My husband and I ... require separate quarters,
Captain. The quartermaster on the Potemkin was to have apprised you of
that."

Now it was Kirk's turn to redden. "I apologize for the oversight," he
replied. "I'll see to it that you're assigned individual suites
immediately."

"Adjoining suites will be fine," said Clay, trying his best to cover his
embarrassment. He glanced at Jocelyn to make sure she had no objection.

Not that she could object, without making a bigger scene than was
necessary. Nodding, she gave the idea her blessing-though truth to tell,
it would have been kinder for her to take something on the other end of
the ship.

Kindness and cruelty, she thought. Why had she always been so much
better at the latter than the former?

"Adjoining suites it is," the captain confirmed. Without looking at the
Vulcan, he asked, "Would you see to it, Mr. Spock?"

McCoy The first officer nodded. Returning his attention to the
Treadways, he said, "Would You come with me, please?"

"Absolutely," responded Clay, rapidly rebuilding his facade of
confidence and casual authority. "We're with you, Mr. Spoc k."

Studiously avoiding Kirk's eyes, lest she find something she didn't want
to see there, Jocelyn fell into step beside her husband and followed the
Vulcan out of the transporter room.

Uhura was having lunch with Pavel Chekov in one of the Enterprise's rec
lounges. As he got up to get them some coffee, she couldn't help but
overhear the banter at the next table.

"Attractive?" echoed Joe Christiano, the ensign who had only recently
been assigned to the bridge. "You bet. I mean, for an older woman, of
course."

"She's attractive for a woman of any age," argued Dennehy, one of
Scotty's fledgling engineers.

Wouldn't it be nice, thought Uhura, if they were talking about me? I
don't even think I'd mind the "older woman" disclaimer.

"And those eyes," commented Christiano. "What color is that?"

"Sort of a ... blue-gray," decided Dennehy. "A really nice blue-gray."

Oh well, Uhura mused, I guess they're talking about someone else.

"You know what I heard?" said the ensign.

"No," replied Dennehy. "What?"

Chekov chose that moment to arrive with their coffees.

As he set them down on the table, he shook his head from side to side.

"You know," he sighed, "I never thought I would miss this tasteless
sludge the food units spit out. But when I thought ve had all served on
our last mission together, even this coffee suddenly seemed-"

"Ssh," hissed Uhura. She tilted her head meaningfully toward the side of
the room where Christiano and Dennehy were sitting.

Chekov just looked at her, obviously puzzled. "What's the matter?" he
asked.

"Nothing," she told him. "Just sit down and be quiet."

And again, she tilted her head to indicate the two young men.

The security chief followed her gesture but couldn't quite see what she
was up to. Nonetheless, he did as he was told. He'd known Uhura too long
to question her reasons for doing things.

"The doctor's wife?" exclaimed Dennehy, barely suppressing his surprise.

"Ex-wife," corrected Christiano. "Apparently, they were divorced a long
time ago. A very long time, in fact-maybe forty years."

"You're kidding me," accused the engineer.

"No, I'm not," said Christiano. "The captain and Mr. Spock were talking
about it on the bridge. You know, when they didn't think anyone was
listening."

Dennehy shook his head. "Dr. McCoy and Jocelyn Treadway. Hard to believe
the old coot could ever have interested her, you know? Or that . .

Uhura never heard the rest of the engineer's comment, because Chekov
didn't let her. Pushing his chair out from under the table, he got up
and walked across the room to where Dennehy and Christiano were seated.

It took a moment for the objects of his attention to McCoy realize that
the security chief was headed their way. But as soon as they did, they
clammed up.

Planting the heels of his palms on the table between the ensign and the
engineer, Chekov leaned forward and fixed them with his gaze. Even from
her vantage point on the other side of the lounge, Uhura could see how
the two had paled.

"Let's get a few thinks straight," said Pavel, his voice a harsh rasp.
His head swiveled toward the ensign. "First of all, Mr. Christiano, what
is discussed on the bridge stays on the bridge-whether it's classified
information or the time of day. Is thet understood?"

The ensign's head bobbed up and down. "Yes, sir."

Chekov then turned to Dennehy. "And as for your description of Dr. McCoy
as an 'old coot," I do not care for it. I do not care for it at all."

The engineer nodded earnestly. "Acknowledged, sir."

"Doctor McCoy was saving lives even before your parents vere born,"
Chekov reminded them. "He is the most decorated medical officer in the
fleet. If I'vere you, I would remember that next time I vas tempted to
refer to him in less than flattering terms."

Dennehy nodded even faster. "Absolutely, sir."

The security chief looked from one to the other of them.

"If I ever hear such an outrageous, debasing conversation between the
two of you again, I vill see to it thet your next assignment is the
supply run to Gollardh Seven. Am I making myself clear?"

Christiano's Adam's apple traveled up and down his throat. "Very clear,
sir."

Apparently satisfied, Chekov straightened, tugged down dramatically on
his tunic, and returned to Uhura's table. She felt an impulse to applaud
his performance but restrained herself.

"There," he said, as he sat down. "Thet should put a lid on any
embarrassing gossip about Dr. McCoy and his ex-wife." Chekov glanced at
the two young men appraisingly. "At least, I hope it vill."

Uhura smiled. "You know something, Pavel? You're the best friend a
ship's doctor-or for that matter, a ship's communications officer-could
have."

Chekov smiled back and lifted his coffee mug in salute.

"As usual, Uhura, you are absolutely right."

For what had to have been the fiftieth time, McCoy removed a shiny, new
medical tricorder from one of sickbay's specially built supply drawers.
Mechanically, he put the device through a rigorous self-diagnostic
process and, like each and every one of its shiny, new predecessors, the
unit checked out just fine.

The chief medical officer knew full well how unnecessary this all was.
After all, he'd had his staff check all the equipment from tricorders to
bio-beds just a couple of weeks ago, strictly to satisfy Starfleet
regulations. And it was so rare for even the most hellish contraption to
go on the blink these days, even that had seemed a bit frivolous to him.

Yet the alternative, going out into the ship's corridors and turbolifts,
its bridge and its rec lounges and its botanical gardens-in short,
taking part in the public life of the Enterprise-had been so terrifying,
he'd preferred to sequester himself in sickbay every waking hour of the
last two days.

Because somewhere on this vessel was Jocelyn. Not a memory but the real
thing. The thought unnerved him as no Klingon disrupter ever could.
Damn, all a disrupter could do was kill him; Jocelyn could do far worse,
as McCoy could testify at length.

McCoy Wasn't that why he'd gone out into space in the first place? To
get away from her? To escape the very notion of her? And here she'd
followed him to what he'd thought was his ultimate refuge, invading his
privacy, shattering the fragile cocoon of calm and certainty he'd spent
years constructing so carefully about himself.

Anger flashed through the doctor like a bolt of electricity. What right
did she have? Hadn't she done enough to him?

Without meaning to, he slammed his fist down on the unyielding metal
surface of the supply cabinet. It was the sharp report of colliding
surfaces more than the impact itself that reminded him of the tricorder
still in his hand.

Cursing aloud, he checked the thing's readout and saw nothing but
digital gibberish. Obviously he'd damaged its delicate internals.

"Great," he muttered. "Keep it up and you won't have to check the
equipment. You'll know it's broken."

It was time to get out of here, he told himself. This was no way for a
man to live. He had to find himself some sentient company or go berserk.
Tossing the broken tricorder into one of the repair bins, he stripped
off his lab coat, hung it on an empty hook, and headed purposefully for
the exit doors.

He was already well out into the corridor before he even thought about
where he was going. Certainly not in the direction of the library; it
was the first place one would look for a diplomat, given their love of
information on comparative civilizations. And not toward any of the
conference rooms, either; the only thing those people liked better than
reading about alien cultures was talking about them.

He snapped his fingers as inspiration gripped him. I know, he thought.
The engine room. There's always someone down there, and it's almost
always Scotty. Here on the Enterprise-A, he's got a lot less to worry
about than he used to. I can probably shoot the bull with him for as
long as I want.

And it would take his mind off Jocelyn, as his tricorder diagnostics had
failed to do. Yup, that's what he'd do all right. He'd visit Scotty.

As luck would have it, the first turbolift he encountered was ready and
waiting for him. His approach triggered the sensor built into the
bulkhead and the lift doors slid aside for him.

"Engineering," he commanded.

The doors slid closed again. Massaging a crick at the base of his
neck-one he'd no doubt developed scrutinizing all those blasted
tricorders-McCoy tried to imagine his journey down through the bowels of
the ship. And across as well, he reminded himself. Sickbay was quite a
way forward of engineering, after all.

Moments later, he reached his destination the corridor right outside
Mr. Scott's domain. Stepping out of the lift compartment, he focused on
the doors that led into that arcane and wondrous place.

At long last, the doctor felt safe. Nothing down here except the engines
and an extra gymnasium with which some bright young ship designer had no
doubt filled an otherwise useless space. No chance that he'd run
into"Leonard?"

McCoy froze at the sound. A trickle of ice water made its horribly cold
and deliberate journey down the middle of his back. And even before he
turned to look over his shoulder and identify the source, he knew who it
was.

"Jocelyn," he said, his voice surprisingly clear and steady.

Giving in to an undeniable curiosity, he saw that she McCoy was just as
he remembered her. Well, maybe not quite.

Her hair, once a dark, unadulterated brown that had reminded him of
fine, ground coffee, was shot through with waves of silver-gray. And
there were wrinkles at the corners of her mouth, at the bridge of her
finely sculpted nose and around her eyes.

But it was still Jocelyn, the slim, compact girl he'd once seen across a
high school dance floor and marveled at.

The same girl he'd fallen head over hard-rubber heels in love with.

It wasn't until the first moment of shock and wonderment passed that he
realized she was wearing a formfitting scarlet exercise outfit. Or that
there was a fine sheen of perspiration on her face, accumulating in
beads at her hairline.

"Been to the gym, I see," he told her. As before, his voice was strong
and even, strangely not even hinting at the trembling in his soul.

Returning the scrutiny, she nodded. "That's right," she said absently.
"And you?"

The doctor swallowed. This was absurd. They were exchanging banalities
as if they hardly knew each other ... as if they hadn't shared a
marriage bed or given birth to a child once upon a time. As if she
hadn't ripped his heart out one fateful day and changed both their lives
forever.

Nonetheless, he couldn't get himself off the established course.
"Engineering," he replied. "To see Mr. Scott."

To try to take my mind off you, he remarked. But only silently, only to
himself.

Her forehead puckered ever so slightly. "How ... how are you?" she
asked, her voice faltering a bit-though that could certainly have been
the result of her exertions in the gym.

McCoy shrugged. How was he? "Not bad," he said, "for a man
significantly past his prime. For someone who obviously hasn't taken
care of himself the way you have."

Jocelyn seemed taken aback by the comment. "You seem to have taken care
of yourself just fine," she observed. And she wasn't just being polite,
he realized with a start. She really meant it.

"Thanks," he told her, meaning it just as much.

"Don't mention it." A pause, as her expression changed to one of
concern. "Leonard, you haven't been ... hiding from me, have you?"

"Hiding?" he echoed, as if it were the most ridiculous thing he'd ever
heard.

"Because I don't want that," she went on, not falling for his act in the
least. "This is your ship, your home. I'm an invader here. I know that."

"You're nothing of the sort," he assured her, lying through his teeth.
"You're here because you've got a job to do. And this place is no more
mine than it is the Klingon emperor's. It belongs to Starfleet."

"No," she insisted, the ripple in her brow becoming more pronounced. "I
mean it. I didn't come here to make you uncomfortable. I don't want you
to think you have to avoid me." Her lips went taut. "I wish there were
some way I could-"

"Could what?" asked a deep, masculine voice.

Both of them turned, to see Clay Treadway standing a little way down the
corridor. He was smiling generously, making light of the situation, but
his stance was unmistakable, at least to McCoy.

It said This is my woman, stay away from her or face the consequences.
Anyone who thought mankind had evolved much in the last several million
years might have

,VlcCoy changed their mind if they could have seen the look in the man's
eye.

The doctor didn't budge, though. The blood rushed to his face, but he
stayed right where he was. Maybe with someone else, it would have been
out of sheer orneriness.

But with Clay Treadway, it was something that ran much deeper. Something
like out-and-out, blind, rampaging hatred-and for a damned good reason.

"Clay," declared Jocelyn, as if to break the tension. But if that was
her intent, it didn't work. Had the two men been elk, they would have
locked antlers and gone at it right there in the corridor.

As it was, the newcomer didn't give even a hint of lowering his head and
charging. He merely inclined his head in a friendly sort of way and
uttered a single word "Leonard."

Of course, the way he said it, it came out more like a dismissal, the
way one would address an inferior. But then, that was nothing new. Clay
had been talking to him that way since they were boys back in Georgia.

McCoy's teeth ground together. They hadn't seen each other in more than
forty years, but they were picking up right where they left off. Except
for the irreducible fact that Clay had already won the contest-won it
hands down, in fact-and that no matter what the doctor did now, he
couldn't alter that fact.

"You haven't changed a bit," McCoy noted. It wasn't a compliment.

But the other man seemed not to know that. Or if he did, he chose to
ignore the information, because his smile only broadened.

"Why, thanks," he told the doctor. "Kind of you to say so, Leonard."
Then, turning to Jocelyn, he said, "I was waiting for you up in the
library. I thought we'd made plans to go over those Ssani protocols."

Jocelyn made a small, strangled sound of frustration.

"You're absolutely right. I'm sorry, Clay. I just lost track of the
time."

"It's my fault," offered McCoy, addressing his ex-wife.

The last blasted thing he'd ever do was apologize to Clay.

"I'm afraid I've held you up."

"That's okay," said the other man, as if the apology had been directed
at him after all. "No harm done." He looked at Jocelyn again. "I just
asked around until I found someone who'd seen you headed this way in
your gym togs. Now shall we go?"

There was something strange in Clay's voice-strange and unfamiliar.
After a moment, the doctor thought he knew what it was.

His suggestion that they go wasn't a suggestion at all, was it? It was
a plea for cooperation. Maybe it didn't show in the man's face or his
demeanor, but he wasn't entirely certain that his wife would come along.

No. That's ridiculous, McCoy mused. Clay's had Jocelyn wrapped around
his finger for years. Then again, wasn't it possible that things had
changed? That the shoe was on the other foot now?

The very idea made the doctor want to laugh out loud.

But of course, he was probably misreading the situation.

He wasn't a very good judge of these things and never had been.

More than likely, he'd just heard that tone in Clay's voice because he
wanted to hear it. Because, more than anything, he wanted the bastard to
suffer the way he had suffered.

Frowning slightly, Jocelyn nodded in response to her husband's
invitation. "I suppose," she said.

McCoy But not enthusiastically, McCoy noticed. She was going, but she
didn't really want to go. What she really wanted was to stay and talk.
To him. Not to Clay. To him.

Abruptly, something stiffened in the vicinity of the doctor's backbone.
What am I doing? he asked himself.

What am I thinking? That after all these years, I'm going to win
Jocelyn back?

It was preposterous. Worse, it was dangerous. It had taken him nearly
half a century to get over her. There was nothing in the galaxy that
could make him risk opening those old wounds again.

And yet, he thought, gazing at her still-lovely face and form. And yet
...

Jocelyn smiled a small, tight smile. "Nice seeing you, Leonard. Perhaps
we'll run into each other again sometime."

There-in her eyes. A flicker of emotion. A hint of what he used to see
there in the old days, in the golden afternoons and the velvet nights.

Clay must have noticed it too, because he took Jocelyn by the arm and
gently but firmly aimed her toward the turbolift. And with a last, brief
look of apology-or was it regret?-she let her husband guide her into the
compartment.

As the doors hissed closed behind them, McCoy could feel his heart start
to hammer against his ribs harder and harder, until he got so
lighthearted he thought he might faint. Reaching out to the nearest
bulkhead for support, the doctor waited for the sensation to pass.

But it didn't, not entirely. Even though the hammering stopped, there
was still an ache there. And he knew that there was only one thing in
the universe that could cure it.

The question was, did he really want this? Even if he hadn't imagined
the look in her eyes, even if he could have her back as he imagined, did
he want to leave himself open to the pain of losing her again? Hell, it
hadn't worked for them the first time. What made him think it would work
any better now?

McCoy stood there for a long time, seeking answers.

But by the time he stirred himself and went up to his FOUR cabin, he
still didn't have any good ones.

Kirk had hardly taken a single step into McCoy's quarters before he had
a pretty good idea of why the doctor had called him here. After all,
he'd seen his friend in good times and bad, but he'd never seen him
quite like this.

McCoy was standing at his bar, drinking from the same bottle of brandy
that he'd packed away before the news came of their mission to Ssan.
From the look of his complexion, he'd started on the bottle some time
ago.

The captain allowed the doors to close behind him before he offered his
sage bit of advice. "Getting drunk's not going to solve anything,
Bones."

The doctor turned to him and quirked an unexpected smile. "No," he
agreed, slurring his words just a bit, "it's not. But hell, it sure
makes it a lot easier to forget the problem."

Kirk frowned. "You're the psychiatrist. What would you tell me if our
positions were reversed?"

McCoy grunted. "That she's just a woman. That you'll get over it."

"And you'd be right," the captain asserted.

The doctor shook his head. "Nope. I'd be lying like a rug. But don't let
that stop you from saying it, if it makes you feel better."

Moving to McCoy's side, Kirk reached for his friend's glass and wrested
it from his grip. "The idea," he said, "is to make you feel better."

The doctor hadn't offered any resistance, but he glared at the captain
now with bloodshot eyes. "Where are you going with that blasted brandy?"

Spilling the contents into the sink, Kirk set the glass down on the
counter. "Me, Bones? I'm not going anywhere. At least until you tell me
what set you off this way."

McCoy ran his fingers through his hair and stared into space. For a
moment, he said nothing, and then "I saw her, Jim. I saw her in the
corri dor outside engineering."

The captain sat down next to his chief medical officer.

"Go on."

McCoy chuckled. "Funny. I went there because it was the last place I
thought I'd run into her, and there she was." His forehead ridged over
with the memory. "Looking as beautiful as the day I married her-sap that
I am."

Kirk sighed. He could only imagine what the other man was going through.
"Did you talk?"

The doctor nodded. "For the first time in thirty years.

Not that we said a whole lot." A pause. "She asked if I was avoiding
her."

The captain winced. "Pretty blunt, huh?"

"Yup. She told me I shouldn't be hiding from her. That she was the
invader here and she knew it. And then . .

"And then what?"

McCoy

"Then Clay showed up, and a strange thing happened."

McCoy licked his lips. "I got the distinct feeling that she was more
eager for my company than his." He turned to Kirk. "That is pretty
strange, isn't it?"

The captain knew better than to answer a rhetorical question, but he had
to agree. It was pretty strange. That is, if the doctor was reporting a
fact and not just some wishful thinking.

Then he remembered that the Treadways had asked for separate quarters.
Kirk swallowed. What if McCoy's perceptions were on the money? What if
Jocelyn really had desired the doctor's company more than her husband
's?

if that were the case, Bones deserved to know about the rift between
Jocelyn and her husband. And the captain wasn't prohibited from sharing
the information, since it hadn't been told to him in confidence. Hell,
all McCoy or anyone else would have to do is check with the computer and
they could find out for themselves.

That wasn't what made him hesitate. It was the certain knowledge that
he'd be spurring his friend on to pursue affections. And he wasn't sure
he wanted to his ex-wife's do that, given the way things had turned out
last time.

In the end, however, he decided he couldn't keep the information to
himself. Bones was a big boy. All Kirk could do was give him all the
tools he needed to make his decision and then hope he'd make the right
one.

"Bones, there's something you should know," he said at last.

"Oh yeah?" replied the doctor. "What's that? The assassins have blown
up Ssan and we're supposed to go home after all?"

The captain shook his head. "No, nothing like that. The other day, when
the Treadways arrived in the transporter room, they asked for separate
accommodations. Separate quarters."

As the import of the statement sunk in, McCoy's eyes slowly widened. He
sank into his chair. "You're not joshing me, are you, Jim?"

"Not when it comes to something like this," Kirk assured him.

The doctor's brow furrowed and he raised a knuckle to his lips.
"Separate quarters," he muttered pensively, as if the phrase held all
the secrets of the universe. But then, for him, maybe it did. "Separate
damned quarters," he muttered again.

"But not divorced," the captain added. "She's still his wife, Bones." He
went on-because he had to, because he couldn't let his friend go into
this with blinders on. "This may be a glitch in their relationship,
nothing more. A brief moment of dissatisfaction in an otherwise enduring
marriage."

"And when the moment's over," McCoy continued, "I'll be the odd man out.
Again. That's what you're saying, right?"

"It's a possibility," Kirk maintained.

The doctor took a breath, let it out. "In other words," he said, "if you
were me, you'd run for the hills."

The captain shrugged. "I can't say. I'm not Leonard McCoy. And as much
as I'd like to help, I can't make this choice for him."

His friend harrumphed. "I'm a grandfather, for god's sake. At my age, I
should be playing it safe, not putting my soul on the line like this. I
should be sipping iced tea on a damned veranda, enjoying my retirement."
His eyes narrowed suddenly. "The problem is, I can't help but feel that
Jocelyn should be sitting beside me, sipping an iced tea of her own."

McCoy Kirk let some time pass before he asked, "What are you going to
do, Bones?"

McCoy thought for a moment, choices flickering before his eyes like
stars shooting by at warp speed. Finally, he said, "I don't know, Jim. I
just don't know."

"Mr. Scott?"

The sound of his name, spoken by the captain's familiar voice, cut
through the noise of the warp engines. Taking just a moment to finish
the task at hand, Scotty replaced the panel over the naked transfer
electronics in the bulkhead.

Then he turned and saw that Kirk had brought a couple of visitors down
to engineering with him. Scott didn't know their faces, but he was able
to guess their identities.

Getting up off his knees, he wiped his hands on the front of his
Starfleet-issue coveralls-not that one could get all that dirty
repairing an optical data conduit, but old habits die hard-and held one
out to the aristocratic looking man with the dark hair and reddish
mustache.

"Montgomery Scott, at yer service."

The man gripped the engineer's hand warmly. "Clay Treadway, at yours."
He gestured to the woman standing beside him. "And this is my wife-"

"Jocelyn Treadway," the woman interjected, holding out a hand of her
own. Scotty grasped it, smiling ever so slightly at her spunk.

So this was McCoy's one-time spouse. He didn't have to look far to know
what the doctor had seen in her.

"Good to meet you," she said. "As you're no doubt aware, Mr. Scott,
we've been assigned to handle the situation on Ssan. And to that end, we
have a request to make of you."

"Request away, lass. Whatever it is, I'm sure I've done it before-or
something like it. Ye dinnae spend yer entire life on a starship without
learnin' a few tricks, now do ye?"

Kirk chuckled. "No, Mr. Scott, you don't. However, what we're asking for
is a good deal more straightforward than some of the requests made of
you in the past. In fact, it's the kind of thing Spock would normally
have taken care of if he wasn't already beaming down with me."

"I see," said the engineer. His eyes narrowed; he still had three more
data conduits to go over, and he wasn't getting any younger. "And what
exactly is it ye'd have me do, sir?"

"Well," said Kirk, "you know from our briefing that we're supposed to
negotiate a peaceful settlement with the assassins. But before we can
even attempt it, we have to find them. And given their talents at
concealment, that's easier said than done."

"Fortunately," Treadway offered, "there is a way to pick them out from
the general population. These assassins are different from other Ssani.
They carry something in their blood that allows them to make more
efficient use of their physical resources-and therefore makes them
better at their chosen profession. The colloquial name for it is
'bloodfire."'

Scotty was beginning to see where this was going. "I dinnae suppose this
bloodfire can be picked up by, oh ... say, a sensor scan? Especially
when it's concentrated over a relatively small area, as would be the
case at the assassins' stronghold?"

"You're catching on," Treadway remarked approvingly.

There was something about his manner that Scotty didn't like. Something
oily, he thought. Or was it just the fact that he was married to a
friend's ex-wife?

"Providing, of course," the engineer amended, "that ye McCoy can find
some loyal soul willing to sit by a console and look for it."

"In fact," replied Jocelyn, "ship's computer can do most of the work
analyzing the sensor results, which would leave our hypothetical loyal
soul free to tackle anything else that required his attention. All he'd
have to do is check the data every now and then."

Scott grunted good-naturedly. "I see why ye're in the diplomatic corps,
lass." Then, turning to the captain, he said, "I'd be glad to help out,
sir. Just show me what to look for before we make orbit."

Kirk nodded. "Much obliged, Scotty."

"Yes, Scotty," echoed the diplomat. "Much obliged."

The engineer cast Treadway a withering look. He didn't let just anyone
call him Scotty. That was a privilege one had to earn.

"Aye," was all the response he cared to make. And without another word,
he went back to his work. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the
captain ushering the diplomats out of engineering.

It was only after they were out of earshot that Scotty snorted
indignantly. "Much obliged indeed, " he muttered.

Captain's Personal Log, Stardate 9587.2

We're not more than half an hour away from Alpha Gederix Four. In a
little while, I'll meet Spock, Uhura, and the Treadways in the
transporter room, where we'll beam down to meet with the Ssani heads of
state.

As for my friend Dr. McCoy, he hasn't been seen outside of sickbay for
the last couple of days. If anything, he's avoiding his ex-wife even
more studiously than before.

Though he hasn't actually come out and told me so, nor have I asked,
it's fairly obvious that he's decided to avoid temptation - and to let
any possibility of a rapprochement with Jocelyn fall by the wayside.

Perhaps it's better this way. After all, it took McCoy several long,
painful years to get over his breakup with her the first time. In some
ways, I'd say, he still hasn't gotten over it.

At any rate, I'm going to do everything I can to respect his solitude.
As I know only too well, there are times when a man needs his friends
around him - but in the case of Leonard McCoy, I don't think this is one
of those times.

Nem Antronic, master governor of Tanul for seven whole days now in the
wake of Kimm Dathrabin's demise, looked up at his Federation visitors
and wondered if any of them really appreciated the difficulty of what he
and his fellow master governors were asking of them.

"We've helped handle crises as difficult as this one before, I assure
you," said the human called Clay Treadway.

"You have," Antronic echoed, somewhat less than enthusiastically.

"We have," the human repeated. "And we haven't lost a patient yet. So
let's just get down to business, shall we?"

The one called James Kirk frowned. Did that mean he was evincing
disapproval of Clay Treadway's promises?

Antronic hoped so. All this inordinate confidence was unsettling. It
made him feel as if they were talking about some other situation on some
other world entirely.

"You've told the Federation that the assassins want McCoy only one
thing," ventured the other Treadway-the female, Jocelyn. "And that's the
restoration of assassination as a viable institution on Ssan."

Pel Sarennos, who had replaced Thur Cambralos as master governor of
Pitur, nodded vigorously. "That is their goal. And they will stop at
nothing to achieve it," he added.

"Are you sure?" asked Jocelyn Treadway.

Antronic and Sarennos looked at one another, then at their colleague Dur
Manarba of Orthun. "We are as sure as we can be," Sarennos answered. "Do
you have information to the contrary?"

"No," said Clay Treadway. "But terrorists like Shil Andrachis usually
have some sort of fallback position. A compromise, in other words, which
they'll consider if push comes to shove."

Antronic sighed-quietly, so that none of their visitors would notice his
mounting despair. But the Vulcan, the one called Spock, noticed anyway.

"That may be true of other situations," he interjected, glancing
pointedly at Clay Treadway. "However, I wonder if that is true of the
situation at hand."

"It is not, " Sarennos stated emphatically. "There is no fallback
position. There is only the return of the assassin to our society."

The male Treadway stroked the peculiarly human growth of hair beneath
his nose. "Very well then. Let's talk about their tactics. As I
understand it, twelve master governors have been killed since this reign
of terror began. Now-"

"Thirteen," corrected Antronic. "The master governor of Festur was
killed less than an hour ago."

"Thirteen," the human conceded. "The point is, this Shil Andrachis has
so far restricted his actions to individual murders, the kind of
activity assassins used to engage in before those activities were
outlawed."

"That is correct," Manarba told him, perhaps a bit impatiently. "What is
your point, Mr. Treadway?"

The human continued to stroke his growth of hair.

"Didn't Li Moboron, who is said to be Andrachis's mentor, begin his
assassin war in a similar way?"

Antronic winced. It was extremely impolite to answer a question with a
question. Apparently Clay Treadway did not know this. Or was he, for
some reason, trying to insult Master Governor Manarba?

To Manarba's credit, he did not return the affront in kind. "Li Moboron
did exactly the same thing-at first.

Then, when his demands were still not met, he turned to mass
executions."

"He bombed public buildings," expanded Jocelyn Treadway, "in the hope
that Ssani society would grind to a halt."

Antronic agreed that this was so. "But I still do not see the point of
your argument," he admitted.

Clay Treadway leaned forward across the table around which they were
seated. "What I'm saying is that, so far, Andrachis's tactics are
identical to Moboron's. But does that mean that they necessarily have to
remain identical?"

The master governors exchanged glances. The answer was obviously a
negative one. But so what?

Without waiting for an actual reply, the human forged on. "What if Shil
Andrachis has no intention of waging his war the way his predecessor
did? Remember, Ssan is a different world today-a world that has learned
to live without the concept of assassination. Will the population McCoy
come to fear Shil Andrachis so much that they'll embrace a patently
outmoded institution?"

"Or," said Jocelyn Treadway, picking up where her mate left off, "will
they reject the institution all the more?

And knowing this-because if we can figure this out, surely he can
too-why would Andrachis pick the general population as a target for his
violence?"

"Perhaps he will not," Manarba conceded.

Clay Treadway smiled. "Exactly. My guess is that he'll never escalate
this conflict to the point where there's wholesale slaughter, as in the
old days. Rather, he'll continue to target government figures. His
motive? To force you to change the laws and legally condone
assassination again."

Sarennos grunted. "That is all very well reasoned," he judged. "All very
logical. Nonetheless, you are quite wrong."

The human looked at him as if he'd just turned into a ripe piece of
exotic fruit. "Wrong?" he repeated. "In what way?"

"How many ways are there?" asked Sarennos. "You have made the mistake of
imputing to the assassins an expectation that is altogether
inappropriate."

Manarba nodded. "They do not kill our colleagues and perhaps us as well,
in time-because they hope to be accepted in any real sense. Mind you,
they would not balk if Ssan were to renew its approval of assassination
as a viable institution. But they do not seriously anticipate it."

James Kirk, who had only been listening for the last several minutes,
chose that moment to pose a question.

"Yet you said they wish to see the role of assassin restored to Ssani
society. That they would stop at nothing to achieve that."

"That is true," agreed Manarba. "But not through anyone's acceptance.
Shil Andrachis and his people seek to reinstitute the killing art by
performing it. In their minds, the act itself is a worthwhile goal."

The woman called Uhura grunted. "Then they kill simply to assert their
right to do so. And even if it doesn't force you to change any laws,
they'll have accomplished their purpose. They'll have defied the reforms
the master governors put in place forty years ago."

Her Vulcan companion nodded. "And there is no way to predict what course
of action Shil Andrachis will follow. If he considers change unlikely,
he need not worry about public opinion-so incidents of mass murder may
take place after all. Or he may recognize the killing of government
figures as a more pure form of assassination and simply continue to kill
them until he is stopped."

"The most dangerous sort of enemy," James Kirk observed. "One who
doesn't mind losing as long as he takes his adversary down with him."

Antronic breathed a sigh of relief. At least a couple of these off
worlders understood their problem. Now maybe they could do something
about it.

But Clay Treadway was shaking his head from side to side. "No," he
insisted. "With all due respect, Master Governors, I believe you're
mistaken."

Sarennos shot Antronic a look of indignation. It was clear he did not
take kindly to the human's display of arrogance.

However, the diplomat seemed not to notice. "You may believe that the
assassins have no real goals-that they are simply making a political
statement of some kind. But all such statements have at their root a
desire for change.

What we must discover is an alternate path to the change McCoy Andrachis
desires." Treadway attempted a small smile. "I assure you, this
situation is not as black and white as it may seem to you."

"You are certain of this," said Sarennos, who was starting to lose his
temper. His voice trembled slightly as he spoke. "Even though you are
from another world, another civilization. You understand our assassins
better than we do."

This time, Clay Treadway appeared to comprehend the extent to which he
was insulting the master governors.

Inclining his head to demonstrate the appropriate degree of humility, he
seemed ready to apologize.

But what he said was "It appears that we are again at an impasse. Under
the circumstances, I think we should simply move on to another topic-one
on which we're less likely to be at odds."

In other words, Antronic mused, the human was not admitting that he had
been wrong about anything or that the master governors had been right.
He was merely proceeding as if their conversation had not taken place.

"For instance," Clay Treadway asked them, "how much solidarity are we
likely to find among the assassins? Are they all unshakably loyal to
Andrachis? Or are there some schisms we can take advantage of?"

It was a better question than the first two, Antronic had to admit. But
by now the human had lost the confidence of the master governors. Nor
was he likely to regain it without a full and elaborate apology.

Stifling his feelings as best he could, Antronic prepared to give the
human diplomat an answer. However, he was interrupted by Manarba.

"We were told that there would be someone named McCoy among you-one who
had had experience with Ssan in the past." The master governor of Orthun
looked from one of their visitors to another. "Where is this McCoy?"

While Antronic could not be sure, having never seen a human before
today, it seemed to him that Clay Treadwell's face turned a different
color.

"The one called McCoy," replied the diplomat, "is otherwise engaged. In
any case, his experience would not help us here in our discussions. He
has no formal training in interaction with alien cultures."

Rejecting Clay Treadwell's answer, Manarba turned to James Kirk.
"Sometimes formal training is not as good as experience," he pointed
out.

"Sometimes," the human echoed-apparently in agreement. "However," he
added, "as Mr. Treadway indicated, Leonard McCoy's presence is neither
necessary nor obtainable. I'm sorry."

Manarba frowned, expressing the reaction of his colleagues as well. "So
am 1, James Kirk. So am I."

FIVE

As the captain found himself in the familiar surroundings of the
Enterprise's transporter room, alongside Spock, Uhura, and the
diplomatic team, he nodded to Scotty, who'd executed the transport
himself. Knowing the chief engineer had some advantages, Kirk remarked
inwardly.

"Welcome back," said the Scot. "How did it go?"

Before Kirk could tell him, Clay Treadway supplied the answer. "Not too
badly, Mr. Scott. Things were a little shaky at the beginning there, but
the meeting eventually became a productive one."

As the man descended from the transporter platform, his wife lagged
behind him by a step. Judging from the expression the captain glimpsed
on her face, he gathered that she didn't entirely agree with Treadway's
assessment of the situation but was too professional to mention it in
public.

On the other hand, Kirk mused, he had no doubt she'd discuss it with him
in private. Jocelyn had never seemed to him to be the type to keep her
frustrations bottled up inside her.

"If you have no objection, sir," said Spock, "I would like to spend some
time in the ship's library. It appears that I did not understand the
Ssana's problem as well as I thought."

The captain nodded. "Whatever you deem necessary," he told his first
officer. "We're all going to have to understand the Ssana a little
better from here on in, I'm afraid."

"Amen to that," remarked Uhura, frowning as she watched the Treadways
depart through the exit doors. "In fact, I'd like to accompany you, Mr.
Spock, assuming that's all right."

The Vulcan cocked an eyebrow. "I cannot see any reason why it would not
be all right," he assured her.

It was the closest Spock had ever come to chivalry, in Kirk's memory. He
and Uhura smiled at the same time.

Was it possible that his pointed-eared friend was starting to mellow
after all these years?

A moment later the doors swooshed open and then closed again behind
Spock and Uhura. That left the captain all alone with his chief
engineer.

Crossing the floor to where Scotty stood, dutifully maintaining his
post, Kirk asked the question that was in the back of all returning
captains' minds "And how are things going up here?"

"A lot better, I think, then they went down there," replied the
engineer. He screwed up his face in an expression of disgust. "Mr.
Treadway's comments notwithstanding."

"Better?" the captain echoed.

"That's right, sir." Scott's expression changed. "I think McCoy we
may've located the assassins' lair," he announced with some pride. "Of
course, I'll want to check and recheck the results, but our initial scan
looks promising."

Kirk clapped him on the shoulder. "Excellent, Scotty.

I'm glad something went right today. If you need me, I'll be in my
quarters, taking a nice, hot shower."

"Er, actually, sir . . ." the engineer began.

The captain paused. "Yes, Scotty?"

The man frowned. "Dr. McCoy asked me to tell ye he'd like to see ye when
ye got back. It sounded like it was pretty important-at least to him,
sir."

Kirk smiled and nodded. "Thanks, Mr. Scott. I suppose my shower can
wait."

And wondering what McCoy might have on his mind, the captain exited the
transporter room to find out.

Jocelyn waited until she and her husband were both safely inside the
turbolift compartment to shoot him an angry glance. As the doors closed
behind them, he looked back with the innocence of a newborn colt.

It was a look she'd seen before, a look that had worked its magic and
disarmed her in the past. But it wasn't going to do that now.

"What the hell did you think you were doing down there?" she demanded.

Clay shrugged. "My job, of course. What do you think I was doing?"

She shook her head. "Damned if I know. Those Ssana were ready to get up
and walk out on you. You couldn't have alienated them any more if you'd
spit on their ancestral burial grounds."

Her husband looked at her askance. "You don't think you might be
exaggerating a bit, Joc? The only things I said were those that needed
saying. What's worse-to be polite and mess up the mediation effort
because we don't know who we're dealing with? Or to be a little brusque
and accomplish something for these people?"

Clay had always had a way of making stinkweed sound like sugarcane. That
was part of what made him so good at mediation. Once he had both parties
in the same room together, he could generally sweet-talk them into
seeing eye-to-eye.

But Jocelyn could usually see through him when he was applying his
powers of persuasion. And as far as she could tell, he was being sincere
about this. On the other hand, sincere didn't necessarily mean right.

"You didn't listen to them," she insisted. "You didn't even give the
appearance of listening to them."

"You're right," he told her. "If you disagree with someone, it's better
to let them know it right off the bat.

That's what I did-I let them know it." He paused to brush a strand of
hair off her forehead. "Come to think of it, you let them know it pretty
good yourself."

She pulled her head back, allowing the strand to fall loose again.
Frowning, she tucked it behind her ear. "The only reason I said what I
did is to back you up-to maintain a united front. I didn't want to risk
losing their confidence altogether."

"Was that the reason?" Clay asked her, his eyes searching hers. "The
only reason?"

Jocelyn could feel her eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"

Her husband shrugged. "I don't know. For a little while there, I got the
feeling you were simply standing by your man."

A strange thing happened then. Even though she knew Clay was referring
to himself, Jocelyn saw someone else McCoy flash before her mind's eye.
And the someone she saw was Leonard McCoy.

She recalled their meeting in the corridor the other day.

She recalled the way he looked-all brave and awkward at once-when she
told him not to play the hermit on her account.

At the time, that look had brought back the memory of a sweet summer
night and a shy young man with big blue eyes. And as she recalled her
meeting with Leonard outside engineering, memory redoubled on itself,
and she saw and smelled and felt that summer evening all over again.

She would have liked to stay and talk, but Clay had interrupted. And
then Leonard had done exactly what she'd asked him not to-he'd gone and
hidden himself away again. And seeing that, she had taken the hint. She
had". . . old Leonard, eh?"

Startled out of her reverie, Jocelyn blurted, "What?"

Clay looked at her wonderingly. "I said it was funny to hear the Ssana
ask for old Leonard-as if he were going to be of any real use to them."
His look intensified. "Or weren't you listening?"

Feeling her cheeks grow hot with embarrassment, Jocelyn took the
offensive. "Don't try to change the subject," she told her husband.
"Next time we meet with the Ssana, I want you to be more deferential.
More respectful."

That was all they needed, she assured herself. They were basically on
the right path when it came to the Ssana; a little mutual trust was all
that was lacking.

He thought about it. "Fine," he replied at last. "For you. After all,"
he reminded her, "we are a team, aren't we?"

Turning away from him, she let the question go unanswered. Fortunately,
the lift doors opened a second later, letting them out into the corridor
just outside their accommodations.

Wishing to avoid any further conversation, Jocelyn headed straight for
her quarters. But she didn't get halfway before she heard Clay call out
her name.

Still flushed, she turned to face him again. "Yes?"

He gazed at her as if he knew she'd donned a veil and he was trying his
best to pierce it. But after a while, he seemed to give up.

"Nothing," he said at last.

Tapping the security plate outside her door, she let herself into her
suite. At last her thoughts were her own.

And she could remember whatever she wished to remember.

As Kirk entered sickbay, he couldn't help but remark to himself on the
place's air of organization and efficiency. If McCoy's mind was in a
state of turmoil and disarray, one certainly couldn't tell by the
surroundings in which he worked.

The first person the captain encountered there, however, wasn't McCoy.
It was a pretty, redheaded nurse, the kind that, at one time in Kirk's
life, would certainly have given rise to the idea of a cozy, candlelight
dinner. As it was, however, he was quite happy with the thought of Carol
Marcus's company at the end of this final mission, and he forcibly
submerged his natural inclinations.

"Is the doctor in?" he asked.

The nurse turned and smiled at him. "Yes, sir." She tilted her head to
indicate the laboratory portion of the facility. "He's in there, with
Dr. DeLeon. They're probably discussing some monograph or something."

McCoy As Kirk made his way to the lab area he heard voices all right,
and one of them was definitely McCoy's. As was often the case when it
came to medical conversations, he had little or no idea what the devil
they were talking about.

"It didn't look like a virus," Bones was saying. "But Lord knows, it
sure spread like a virus. So I had to assume it was a virus."

"Then what?" asked the younger doctor, a slender, fine-boned man with
jet black hair and a thick mustache.

"I went through every damned record in the place," McCoy explained.
"Actually, we all went through them, trying to learn as much as we could
about the thing. Not that that was easy, mind you, what with those kids
running around and the blotches on my face getting bigger by the
minute."

Abruptly, Kirk realized which malady Bones was referring to. The years
seemed to fall away like so much dust and he saw himself on Miri's world
again, watching helplessly as Bones searched for a cure to whatever
hideous malady Miri's forebears had invented in their search for
immortality.

"Finally," said McCoy, "I isolated the bug. Mean looking son of a gun,
too. Unfortunately, there was no time to-"

Suddenly he noticed the captain standing there in the entrance to the
lab alcove. Smiling self-consciously, he turned back to DeLeon and
jerked a thumb over his sh oulder.

"Maybe I ought to let him tell it," he jibed.

Kirk shook his head. "Not me, Doctor. I was in a haze from the time you
started talking about antidotes until someone pressed a hypospray
against my arm."

Bones chuckled dryly. "Sure you were. As I recall, we never would have
had the chance to use any hyposprays if you hadn't won those kids over."

"With Miri's help," Kirk amended.

McCoy shrugged. "Whatever." Then he leaned closer to DeLeon. "The truth
is," he remarked in a stage whisper, "I would've perished a hundred
times over if not for that elderly gentleman in the captain's uniform.
But I don't let him know that. I'm afraid it'll give him a swelled
head."

The younger doctor turned to Kirk and chuckled. He'd better, thought the
captain. Elderly gentleman indeed.

Turning to Bones, he said "You called?"

His eyes losing a little of their mischievous glitter, McCoy nodded.
Placing an avuncular hand on DeLeon's shoulder, he promised "We'll
continue this some other time. Ship's business, you understand."

DeLeon nodded. "Of course. I'll see you later, Doctor Both Kirk and
Bones watched him go. Then the captain confronted his friend. "Ship's
business?" he echoed.

McCoy shrugged. "Not exactly, though I've been on this ship so long, it
feels like my business and her business are inextricably intertwined."

Kirk smiled good-naturedly. "Poetry, Doctor? From you?"

Bones frowned. "Cut it out, Jim. I didn't ask you here to have you make
fun of me. Lord knows, I've been on enough of an emotional roller
coaster these days without my best friend taking shots at me, too."

The captain held his hands up, as if to show McCoy that they were empty
of weapons. "Sorry," he said. "I come in peace. What can I do for you,
Bones?"

His chief medical officer looked away and cleared his throat. "So how
did you folks do? Down on Ssan, I mean?"

McCoy Kirk couldn't quite suppress a sigh. "It could have gone worse,"
he reported. "And then again, it could've gone better."

McCoy's eyes sought his. "In other words, our friends the Treadways
didn't understand the Ssana as well as you'd hoped."

The captain nodded judiciously. "I'd say that about sums it up. Clay, in
particular, seemed to have his own ideas. And when the Ssana disagreed
with them, he chalked it up to their limited perspective."

The doctor cursed beneath his breath. "Isn't that just like him, too?
Always thinking he knows more than anyone else, even when we were in
high school." He paused. "Did I tell you I knew him back that far?"

Kirk shook his head. "Not in so many words, no. But I gathered that
you'd known him for some time before he married Jocelyn."

McCoy's bright blue eyes glazed over for a moment.

Then he nodded. "For some time, all right. For a long some time."

"Anyway," the captain resumed, "we seemed to iron things out before we
left. I think it'll go pretty well from here on in."

The doctor looked at him. "There's something you're not telling me," he
decided. "What is it? Come on now, Jim, I want to know."

Kirk grunted. "Well, at one point, after Treadway had thoroughly
insulted their intelligence, one of the master governors asked for you.
He seemed to think you might have a better handle on the
situation-particularly in regard to the assassins' motivations."

McCoy's frown deepened. "You know," he said, "this May surprise you, but
I was thinking the very same thing.

I was thinking about how foreign the Ssani sensibility can be to anyone
who hasn't experienced it before. And I was feeling guilty for not
putting my personal hangups aside and doing what Starfleet meant me to
do when they gave me this uniform."

The captain didn't respond at first. He didn't want to push his friend
in either direction-toward Ssan and Jocelyn or away from them. Then,
finally, he found the right words.

"The choice is yours, Bones. It's been yours all along' McCoy
harrumphed. "Just this once," he balked, "couldn't you make the damned
decision for me? You are the captain, you know."

"I'm aware of that," Kirk replied.

"You could order me to go."

"I'm aware of that, too." But he wouldn't give that order, and Bones
knew it.

Suddenly they were interrupted by a piping from the intercom unit on the
nearest bulkhead. Getting up to answer it, the doctor placed his hand
over the touch sensitive plate and said, "McCoy here."

"Actually, I vas looking for the captain, sir." It was Chekov's voice,
of course. Kirk would have recognized it even in a sandstorm on Rigel
XII. "It seems Mr. Treadvay has called a meeting exactly one hour from
now to discuss Commander Scott's findings."

"Findings?" repeated the doctor.

The captain nodded. "Scotty thinks he's located the assassins'
lair-though he wanted some time to be sure.

Apparently, our friend the diplomat has decided not to wait until then
to plan our next move." Crossing to the intercom, he said,
"Acknowledged, Commander. You can tell Mr. Treadway that all appropriate
personnel will be present."

McCoy

"Aye, sair. Thank you, sair. Chekov out."

Turning away from the intercom mechanism, Kirk smiled apologetically at
McCoy. "Looks like I've got a meeting to convene," he remarked. "I guess
I'd better go round up the troops."

But there was a question left unanswered. It hung in the air between
them, allowing neither of them to ignore it.

Was McCoy going to be one of those troops? Or was Kirk going to have to
plod on without him?

In the flickering light of a cooking fire, amid the crackle of sizzling
uterra fat and the sharp smell of leathery flesh and the occasional pop
of bursting bones, High Assassin Shil Andrachis inspects the faces of
his followers.

He has to comb them carefully to find an assassin who fought in the
wars-either with Li Moboron or against him. Those who follow Andrachis
in his holy effort are mostly children, the youngest of them barely
eighteen summers old. But then, he reminds himself, he was a child
himself when he answered Li Moboron's call all those long, empty years
ago.

Unlike him, however, these eager young Ssana will never have to hide
their art-will never have to repress it in the face of a society that
has discarded its most ancient traditions. The way of the assassin is
emerging from the filth that has been heaped on it, thanks to Andrachis
and others like him, who would not or could not give up the glory of
their fathers. And like it or not, society will be forced to remember
them.

As he watches, a blade glows a feverish red in the tumultuous firelight.
But the reflection is too strong, the surface too polished. And rachis
frowns at the indiscretion.

"Cor, " he says simply.

The youth's eyes rise to meet his leader's. "Yes, tirAndrachis?" It is
plain he has no idea what he has done.

The older Ssana casts his gaze in the direction of the knife. "Your
weapon, Assassin. In days past, your ancestors used it to kill the most
powerful men of their time. Is it to he used now to skin the gristle off
uterra bones?"

Lakandir's mouth hangs open. A curt, barking laugh comes from one of the
few veterans within earshot and echoes under the cavern's low roof But
the rest of them, like the one who had committed the impropriety, look
puzzled.

"How is it, 11 asks the young man with what appears to be genuine
ignorance, "that our knives may cut uterra flesh when the beasts are on
the wing, emblazoned against the sky-and not resting in our cooking
fire?"

Again, the veteran laughs, though this time, not at Lakandir. This time
he is amused by the sharply honed common sense behind the question.

But of course, there can be only one answer. And common sense has
nothing to do with it.

"Because, " Andrachis says, "that is the way it has always been done. An
assassin's blade is for killing, and killing only. Its sole duty is to
dispatch its victims'souls."

The young man takes the admonition in stride, showing not the least bit
of embarrassment. His small, dark eyes remain steady, unperturbed. But
then, Cor Lakandir is cut from a different cloth than that of his
comrades.

He joined them less than a year ago. Not like all the other
youngfirebrands, who were drawn to the den in small packs, complete with
their own, self-chosen leaders, until Andrachis found it necessary to
teach them that a den could have only one master.

No, Lakandir came by himself the way the old-timers McCoy
arrived-sniffing out the scent of rebellion and adventure and honor,
searching for a completeness they could barely remember.

In Andrachis's eyes, that in itself marked Lakandir as someone to watch.
That and the fact that the youth reminded him of someone. It was only
after he had gotten to know Lakandir better that he realized the someone
was himself More than once, Andrachis has thought about the future of
his movement, where it might go if it went anywhere at all. And he has
recognized the need for a successor, someone who can take over when he
is killed or has simply grown too old to lead.

He has come to believe that Cor Lakandir is as good a choice as any. Not
now, of course, not before he has learned more of people and how to gain
their loyalty-but someday. That is why it bothers him so much that the
youth should be so ignorant of tradition. And even worse, that he should
question it even after being apprised of it.

Andrachis tells himself he has not dragged the assassins' art out of
obscurity into light to see it survive only in a corrupted form. That
would dishonor the memory of Li Moboron and all the other master
assassins this world has known down through the ages. Before he will see
their heritage become something mundane and unrecognizable, he will
destroy it himself

"Are you sure you want to be part of this?" asked Kirk.

McCoy nodded, matching his captain's gait step for step as they
n egotiated the long, straight corridor between the turbolift and the
main conference room. Their footfalls echoed from bulkhead to bulkhead.

"I'm positive, Jim. In fact, I've never been more positive of anything
in my life. It's time for me to stop acting like a whipped puppy and
start pulling my weight again."

He frowned, steeling himself for what was ahead. It wouldn't be easy,
but then, who'd ever told him it was supposed to be?

"After all," the doctor went on, "I am the expert on Ssan around here.
That's why they gave us this godforsaken mission in the first place,
isn't it?"

Kirk smiled an encouraging smile. "I believe so, yes." A pause. "Good to
have you aboard again, Bones."

McCoy harrumphed, doing his best to act like the professional he was
cracked up to be. "Don't make a big deal of it," he instructed. "I'm
just getting involved in something I should've been involved in all
along. It's not like I've come up with a cure for Russhton syndrome or
anything like that."

Suddenly the conference room doors were directly in front of them. The
captain stopped short, giving his friend one last chance to back out of
the deal.

But McCoy wasn't going to take any more charity.

Taking a deep breath, he forged ahead, through the instantly parting
doors and into the room.

For a moment he took in the glances and expressions that met his
appearance. Looks of happiness from Scotty, Chekov, and Uhura and one of
seeming indifference from Spock, though the doctor knew better. Clay was
good at concealing things, but not so good that he didn't give away a
touch of annoyance and maybe of jealousy as well.

As for Jocelyn, it was hard to tell what was in her mind.

Surprise? Probably. Admiration? Less probably. Passion?

He wouldn't even venture a guess.

"Well then," said Kirk. "If we're all here, let's get McCoy started." As
he took his place at the head of the table, he turned to his chief
engineer. "Scotty, why don't you tell us what you've found."

"Aye, sir," replied the Scot. He addressed the group as a whole.
"Apparently, the data's sound; our little vigil's paid off. It turns out
there's a concentration of biochemically altered Ssana in a mountainous
area in the northernmost reaches of the largest continents good two
hundred kilometers from the nearest major population center."

Activating the hologram projector in the center of the table, he brought
up a miniature of Ssan. There was a red dot in the northern hemisphere
to indicate the site where the assassins were holed up.

"Two hundred kilometers," Spock repeated thoughtfully. "Close enough to
inject themselves into the mainstream of Ssani civilization when
necessary. But far enough away so that no one is likely to stumble onto
their whereabouts." He nodded. "Admirable."

"Be that as it may," Scotty continued, "now that we know where they are,
we can direct a message to them and begin the mediation process."

The captain turned to Uhura. "Any problems with sending a narrow cast
comm beam to the location Mr. Scott has described?"

The communications officer shook her head. "It's a rocky place," she
said, "and the Ssana are reporting some storms in the vicinity. But I've
gotten around worse."

Kirk nodded. "Excellent, Lieutenant." He focused on the Treadways next.
"We'll need to formulate a message, something the assassin leadership
will respond to. And let's make it short, in case Lieutenant Uhura has
more trouble getting through than she anticipates."

Clay Treadway gazed appraisingly at the holographic representation of
Ssan and shook his head. "I don't think so," he said.

The captain looked at him. "I beg your pardon?"

The diplomat took in the room with one sweeping glance-a practiced
gesture that included not only the captain but all his officers as well.
He seemed as sure of himself as a man could be.

"It won't work," Clay elaborated.

Chekov leaned forward. "And why not, if I may ask?"

The diplomat was completely unflustered. "Because," he said, "Ssani
assassins respect two things courage and cleverness. That's pretty
obvious in the literature we studied enroute. And the approach Captain
Kirk is espousing doesn't particularly smack of either quality."

McCoy could see the muscles working in Kirk's jaw.

But as always, he kept his emotions in check.

"You'd like to propose an alternative?" the captain suggested.

"Indeed I would," said Clay. "It seems to me that the only way to begin
any kind of meaningful peace negotiations with these people is in
person."

The doctor was shaking his head before he knew it.

"That's insane," he muttered.

Clay didn't even do him the courtesy of acknowledging him. But McCoy's
wasn't the only opposition to his comment.

"In other vords," Chekov paraphrased, "beam down and meet with them face
to face?" He sent a sour look in Kirk's direction. "Is that vise, sir?
These people have more than adequately demonstrated their affinity for
cold-blooded murder. why would they not carve us up the way they carved
up their own governors?"

"There's always that chance," Jocelyn interjected. "But McCoy then, we
in the diplomatic corps often have to accept an element of risk in our
work. Sometimes it's the difference between success and failure."

Bones couldn't believe she was siding with Clay on this.

Was her devotion to duty clouding her judgment? Or was it some renewed
devotion to her husband that was responsible for it?

"There is no question," said Spock, who'd remained silent up to that
point, "that risk is a valuable tool in theory. The question is whether
it will gain us any advantage in the instance at hand."

"I believe it will," Clay maintained. "However, I will not ask anyone to
join us if they believe otherwise."

"Us?" asked McCoy.

The diplomat finally turned to him. "Yes," he answered. "My wife and
myself." When Jocelyn made no move to disagree, Clay directed his
attention to Kirk again. "You and Captain Spock are welcome to come
along if you wish-with or without security personnel.

However, there's no amount of security that will be sufficient to
protect us, I assure you."

"You've got that right," the doctor barked. Suddenly he was on his feet,
leaning over the table until he was less than a meter away from Clay
Treadway's face. "What you're talking about is suicide, damn it!"

"Bones!" The captain's admonishment cut through the tension-filled air
like a phaser beam through butter.

"That's enough!"

But McCoy wasn't going to be shut up so easily. "It's not nearly
enough," he insisted, still glaring at his rival.

"You can't just beam down into a blasted assassins' den.

You'll be cold meat before you even get a chance to tell them why you're
there."

"Perhaps," said the diplomat, unflinchingly stubborn.

"Or could it be you're selling us short, Doctor? You know, this isn't
the first time my wife and I have ventured into a dangerous situation
and defused it."

My wife. Not yours-mine. McCoy wanted to take the man's too handsome
face and tear it apart.

C'You just don't get it," he snarled. "You've never been on Ssan. You
don't know what these assassins are like."

He jabbed at his own chest. "But I do. I've seen their handiwork up
close and personal. And believe me, you don't want to get within fifty
feet of them."

"Bones . . ."

This time Kirk's tone was a little softer, a little more understanding.
And the doctor responded to it, though his gaze remained riveted to
Clay's. Unclenching his teeth, he took a deep breath.

"Sorry, Jim. But I'd be derelict in my duty if I didn't speak up." He
turned to Jocelyn, hoping that she, at least, would see the sense in
what he was saying. "Anyone who thinks he's going to visit a bunch of
assassins in their lair and come out alive is the worst kind of fool."

His ex-wife didn't say a thing. Apparently she was every bit as bent on
getting herself killed as her damned husband was.

"You've made your case, Bones," the captain stated flatly. "Now take
your seat or so help me, I'll have you escorted out of here."

McCoy glanced in Kirk's direction and saw that he meant it. Scowling, he
did as he was told. With decorum restored, the captain cleared his
throat and announced his decision.

"I have no choice," he said, "but to give considerable weight to Dr.
McCoy's input. After all, as he so aptly points out, he's the only one
of us who's ever been to Ssan; he knows Shil Andrachis's people better
than anyone else McCoy on this ship, and if he says it's too dangerous,
it no doubt is." A beat. "But even without Dr. McCoy, I would recognize
the problems involved in beaming down to the assassins' stronghold. And
in my opinion, the risks outweigh the potential for successful
mediation."

The diplomat took a sudden interest in his fingernails.

"I see," he responded. "And that's your final word on the subject?"

"It is," Kirk told him.

Clay looked up. "In that case, I'm forced to take command of this
mission by virtue of Starfleet Order Nine-five-seven. I assume you're
familiar with it, Captain?"

Kirk frowned. "Naturally," he said softly. "But it's not a wise course,
Mr. Treadway. If you've been reading your monographs, you know that
diplomatic envoys who do what you're doing usually end up regretting
it."

"Usually," Clay agreed. "In fact, you were involved in many of those
case histories yourself, as I recall. However, my wife and I are not the
usual breed of diplomats. I'm betting we'll have less occasion for
regret than you think."

The captain looked as if he'd liked to have argued the point further,
but he knew it wouldn't get him anywhere.

McCoy knew it too. This wasn't the first time he'd dealt with Clay
Treadway. The man was as stubborn as they came and always had been.

Kirk turned to Scotty. "Arrange an early morning beam-down," he said
r eluctantly. "For the Treadways, myself, Captain Spock, and a couple of
security officers whom Mr. Chekov will select."

Just as reluctantly, Scotty nodded. "Aye, sir. Whatever ye say."

"This is the craziest thing I've ever heard," McCoy blurted.

"I doubt it," the diplomat returned. "Even I've heard crazier, and
you've been in space a lot longer than I have."

The doctor absorbed the humiliation with which Clay had loaded the
remark. He had to keep his head, he told himself. For Jocelyn's sake.

"All right," he said. "Then at least let me come along.

I've had experience with the Ssana. Maybe I can help."

He licked his lips. "Starfleet thought so."

Clay regarded him for a moment, as if he was considering it. But when he
was done, he shook his head.

"I don't think so," he told McCoy. "I know what Starfleet thought, but I
disagree. This is no mission for a doctor."

Bones shot a glance at the captain, an appeal for help.

But Kirk's expression said that he had no help to give.

The doctor turned to Clay again. "Damn it," he snapped, "it's not just
your life, Treadway. It's your wife's life too, and those of four other
good people."

"I'm well aware of that," the diplomat replied, getting to his feet.

McCoy felt his anger surging again. He stood too, his hands balling into
fists. "You can't do this!" he growled.

Clay's smile seemed to come easily to him. It was undeniably polite,
with just the tiniest hint of triumphant spite in it. "I believe I just
have," he said reasonably.

And left.

Jocelyn hesitated for a moment, her eyes locked on McCoy-but only for a
moment. Then she followed her husband out of the conference room.

By degrees the doctor's anger cooled, became something manageable.
Gradually he regained his equilibrium and remembered that he wasn't
alone. Looking around, he saw his friends gazing up at him from around
the table with varying degrees of sympathy.

McCoy McCoy tried to smile, but it didn't work out very well.

"I . . ." He shook his head. What was the point of trying to explain?
These people knew him better than he knew himself. If they didn't
already understand what had just happened here, they never would.

"Bones-" began the captain.

The doctor held up a hand. "Don't," he said peremptorily. And pulling
together what shreds of dignity he had left, he made his somber exit.

six Shil Andrachis is peering into the long, dancing flames of the
assassins'still burning fire. It warms his face, his knees, his hands.

As is their custom, he and his followers have remained in a circle about
the fire for some time after the completion of their meal, to talk, to
share ambitions, to give honor to their predecessors in the form of
stories.

He has just begun telling one such story, about an assassin who was
given the order to kill his own aged parents. The assassin's name was
Hordin Mandris, or so Andrachis heard long ago in the camp of Li
Moboron.

"The one who gave the order, " the High Assassin relates, "was a master
governor of Orthun and the worst type of administrator. He had sold out
his city-state's prosperity in order to increase his personal wealth.
When Hordin Mandris's parents took him to task for it, calling for his
McCoy overthrow, he knew he had to act quickly. And Mandris himself was
the best assassin in the district.

"As one loyal to his calling, the assassin had no choice but to carry
out the task for which he had been retained.

Even though his mother and father cried out for mercy even though his
heartfelt as if it would break in two- he rewarded those who had given
him life with a bloody death.

"Of course, to an assassin's way of thinking, Mandris had done his
parents a favor. He had removed them from the lands of the living. He
had cleansed their souls in the waters of honor. Still, he could not
help but see the greed that had motivated the master governor and
continued to motivate him. Nor could he ignore the fact that he had
paved the, way for further crimes against the city-state of Orthun.

"So, after he had dispatched his mother and father, Mandris went
straightaway to the house of the master governor. And with the same
blood-slick knife he had used to bring honor to his parents, he brought
honor to the administrator as well "

There are smiles around the fire. The story, Andrachis notes with some
satisfaction, has been well received.

Afterward, there is silence for a time, as the assassins consider the
story from the various ethical angles it presents. This gives Andrachis
a certain degree of satisfaction as well.

"Tir-Andrachis?" says a voice.

The High Assassin shrugs off the fetters of thought and eyes the one who
spoke. It is Ars Rondorrin, the oldest Ssana here-a man who claims to
have served Li Moboron's predecessor, the legendary Dal Biminoth.

It was Rondorrin who killed Thur Cambralos, master governor of Pitur.
Given a most difficult assignment, he accomplished it with great skill
and efficiency. Biminoth would have approved.

"Yes, A rs? Speak, old dagger."

The assassin casts a gnawed wingbone into the fire. A small cloud of
sparks rises in angry reply and scatters into oblivion.

"By now, " observes Rondorrin, "the master governors must have called
their precious Federation. And it will not be long before the off
worlders answer their call. " A pause, during which Andrachis imagines
he can hear the flapping of uterra wings outside their den. "We should
have a plan to deal with them, should we not?"

The High Assassin nods. "You speak sensibly, brother.

Last time the off worlders came, during the wars, they were restricted
to providing medical assistance. This time, Ssan is a member of their
Federation; there is no such restriction."

"I have heard that they have weapons of their own," notes Lakandir. He
looks around at the other young Ssana.

"Powerful weapons, which can destroy a man in the blink of an eye."

Andrachis shrugs, making a face to show that he is less than impressed.
It is important that he keep up his followers'confidence. Early in his
training, his father told him that no one could beat an assassin except
himself And like all his father's bits of wisdom, he has taken it to
heart.

"A weapon is only as dangerous as the one who wields it, " he comments.
"And the Federation off worlders are not a dangerous people."

"Not dangerous?" echoes one of the younger Ssana.

Andrachis shakes his head slowly from side to side, so ,hat his earlobes
barely brush the sides of his neck. It was Precisely the way Li Moboron
had done it-the result of long practice before a thousand mirrors.

McCoy

"In fact, " he goes on, "I can say from firsthand experience that they
are weaklings, hardly fit to bathe an assassin's feet. " He pauses,
remembering. "With one or two exceptions. But they are just
that-exceptions. The majority of these people are no more o a threat to
us than the master governors' security forces.

"And we know how ineffectual they are!" one of the veterans chimes in.
It is a Ssana who fought on the other side in the wars.

For all Andrachis knew, it was he who gave the man the scar that runs
from above one eyebrow to his chin. But they are all on the same side
now.

Making eye contact with the veteran, Andrachis acknowledges the support.
The assassin smiles in reply.

Then Cor Lakandir speaks up. It was inevitable, the High Assassin told
himself The youth never shies away from a topic of importance.

"I understand they have more than just weapons, " he notes, addressing
the group as a whole. "They have advanced detection technologies. Ways
of finding people who don't want to be found. " A beat, for effect.
"Like us, for instance."

There is murmuring and an exchange of glances among the young ones.
Andrachis knows it is his obligation to quell the storm before it gets
out of control. Certainly that is what Li Moboron would have done.

But not with words, the High Assassin muses, recalling something he saw
only a few moments earlier. His predecessor always achieved more with a
gesture. And so will he.

Spotting a thick shankbone that has not yet completely charred over, he
reaches into the flames with his bare hand and takes hold of it. The
scorching heat sears his skin. The pain makes his eyes sting and his
gorge rise. But he maintains control of himself and, with the utmost
dignity, removes the bone from the fire.

Even rescued from the blaze, the thing burns like an instrument of
torture, such as those feudal lords used on their enemies in ancient
times. But Andrachis holds on to it, making a point not to look at it-or
he might lose heart at the sight of his singed flesh.

"The off worlders may find us, " he says to all assembled there, to all
the indigo eyes that glint in the firelight. "They may track us to our
lair. But when they get here. . ."

Grasping the uterra bone in both hands, he breaks it in half with a
sharp, resounding crack. It echoes throughout the cavern as he hoped it
would. Then he casts the pieces back into the flames, sending up a
mighty swarm of orange sparks that writhe for a moment and are gone.

"We will break them like the slenderest uterra bone and send them back
to the star-shot nothingness that spawned them.

Captain Kirk was staring at the forward viewscreen, with its dramatic
sweep of brown-and-white Ssani real estate. But his mind was on the
advisement he'd just received from his chief engineer.

"A problem, Scotty? What kind of problem?"

"Well, sir, I've run a profile of the terrain in the vicinity of the
assassins' hideaway, and it's chock-full of maldinium."

Kirk thought for a moment. "Maldinium? The stuff that caused all those
transport glitches back on Gamma Caius Seven?"

"The very same," Scotty confirmed. "And it looks like we're going to
have the very same kinds of glitche s if we try to beam a landing party
directly into the caverns."

McCoy

"Actually," said the captain, "that's not a problem at all, Mr. Scott.
The last thing I want to do is make a sudden appearance in the
assassins' midst. It's not wise to surprise someone who prides himself
on his prowess with several varieties of deadly weapons."

Then again, it wasn't wise to visit the assassins at all.

But he'd been around that block already, and it was clear that the
Treadways weren't about to give an inch.

"What I can do," Scotty offered, "is beam ye down to a point just
outside the hideaway-perhaps a thousand meters from what appears to be
the main entrance. Then ye can make as gradual an approach as ye like."

Kirk nodded, even though Mr. Scott couldn't see it.

"Perfect," he replied. "That way we won't be encouraging anyone to
mistake our intentions."

"And if our diplomatic colleagues complain that our approach is nae as
courageous as they'd like?" asked the engineer.

The captain smiled. "You'll advise them about the maldinium," he
answered. "Just as you advised me."

"Aye, sir," Scotty agreed. Kirk imagined that he was smiling too. "Have
a pleasant evening, sir. And a good night's sleep."

"You too, Mr. Scott. Kirk out."

McCoy couldn't sleep. For the last few hours he'd been tossing in his
bed like a catfish that someone had caught and decided to keep for
dinner.

But it wasn't he who'd swallowed the damned hook. It was Jim. And Spock.

And Jocelyn.

In a fit of frustration, he tore away his covers and swung his legs out
of bed. It was no use, he thought, as his bare feet touched down on the
carpeted floor. As long as he knew that his friends were beaming down
into what could be terrible danger, he wasn't going to get any rest.

If only he'd been able to convince that blasted Clay Treadway to let him
tag along. If only he hadn't made such a scene in the conference
room-the kind that made him look like more of a liability than a help.

if only this, if only that. His life was full of such stuff. If his
marriage hadn't failed as it had, if the cure for his father's
pyrrhoneuritis hadn't come a heartbreaking few months too late, if there
had been a way to save Edith Keeler's life without throwing history into
a bloody turmoil ...

And so on and so forth. But there was no sense crying over spilt lives.
Things were what they were, you couldn't go back and make them any
different. You might as well. Suddenly he heard chimes ringing. For a
moment he wondered if he was imagining it. Then he realized that there
was someone outside his door, setting off the built-in sensor beam.

"Of all the crazy . .

Why would someone be standing out there at this hour?

If there was a medical emergency, why hadn't they just called him on
ship's intercom?

Crossing to his closet, he pulled out his robe, wrapped it around
himself, and went out into the anteroom. The chimes were still ringing,
undaunted.

"All right, all right," he rasped. "Come in, damn it."

The doors opened. And what the doctor saw took his breath away.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," said his visitors "It's just
that I couldn't sleep. And I had a feeling you couldn't either."

It took him a second or two to find his voice. "You were McCoy right,"
he confirmed. "I couldn't." Feeling awkward, he indicated his quarters
with a sweep of his arm. "Won't you, er, come in?"

"Thanks," she told him. And with a strange expression on her face,
Jocelyn entered, the folds of her low-cut, powder blue shift whispering
around her. The doors closed behind her with a soft shoosh.

"It's not much-" the doctor began.

"Don't," she said, cutting him off, no doubt more abruptly than she'd
meant to. She smiled at him politely.

"Sorry. All I meant was, it's a lot more than not much. It's you. It's
everything you've become since-"

She stopped herself. But he finished the thought for her.

Hell, someone had to.

"Since you drove me out into space."

Jocelyn nodded. "Yes. Since I did that." She frowned, obviously feeling
guilty about that. And why not? She damned well deserved to feel
guilty, thought McCoy.

But what he said was, "Can I get you anything? A drink, maybe?"

She looked grateful. "Sure. I don't suppose you've got any wine?"

McCoy shook his head. "Brandy?" he offered.

"Brandy would be fine," she assured him.

As the doctor moved to the bar to secure a bottle something a little
less fierce than the Saurian variety. Jocelyn sat down on one of his
stools and resumed her exploration of the place. She had pulled her hair
back on one side, he noticed, just the way she wore it the first time he
met her.

He tried not to stare at her, tried not to examine her the way she was
examining her surroundings. But it wasn't easy. First off, there was the
dress. And second, there was Jocelyn herself.

What was she doing here, at this hour, dressed like that?

Didn't she know what would be going through his mind?

Or hadn't she thought about that in her craving for late-night company?

Whoa, he thought. Get a grip, McCoy. The woman's got a tough mission
ahead of her. And barring her husband, with whom she's no longer sharing
quarters, she doesn't really know anybody here.

Sure, he told himself. That's it. She just wants to talk.

This is the twenty-third century, for god's sake. The fact that a
woman's come to visit a man late at night doesn't mean it's time for a
hormone upheaval. Particularly when the man and the woman have shared
the kind of history we've shared.

Suddenly Jocelyn turned to him, surprising him. He almost dropped the
bottle of brandy.

"Leonard'?"

Her eyes were aglimmer with light from somewhere in the room, but her
tone was matter-of-fact, almost businesslike.

"Mm?" he replied, gratefully turning his attention to finding a couple
of glasses. He expected her to ask about the phornicia shells or some
other such memento of his travels.

She didn't.

"Would you hold me?" she asked, in that same casual voice.

McCoy looked up from behind the bar. He could feel his pulse starting to
pound the way it had the other day in the corridor outside engineering.

"Please?" she added, smiling a needful smile.

In the deep and overwhelming silence that followed, the doctor heard a
dull thud, followed by a gurgling sound.

McCoy Numbly looking down, he saw-as if from a great height -that he'd
dropped the brandy bottle after all, and its contents were forming an
ever-expanding pool on the tightly woven carpet.

"Oh God," exclaimed Jocelyn.

In a blur of motion, she circumnavigated the bar, bent down, and
snatched the bottle off the floor. A moment later, McCoy found himself
kneeling as well, reaching inside the bar to grab a sponge.

His hand found the sponge about the same time Jocelyn's fingertips found
his chin. Slowly but firmly, she turned his face toward hers. And kissed
him, warmly and deeply, as if none of the bad things that had happened
to them had ever come to pass.

But they had, he reminded himself forcibly. They had.

He would always feel the sharp, cutting edge of that pain, that
resentment. He would always ache with the memory of that fateful day.

Yes, countered part of him-and so what? Was that a reason to prolong
the agony? To nurture it like an ugly, hateful pet? Was that a reason
to deny himself a second chance, to deny her one?

Jocelyn's hair smelled like the jonquils in her father's backyard,
sugar-sweet and lazy. Her hands felt like the season's first cotton on
his shoulders, on his face. And they were stronger arguments than any of
the ones inside his head.

Returning her kiss, McCoy found himself being swept out on a raging
current, the point of no return looming up ahead. A moment later, he was
even with it.

And then, suddenly, he pulled away from her.

"What's wrong?" asked Jocelyn, her disappointment showing in her eyes.

"I can't do this," he said. More than anything else in the galaxy, more
than life itself, he wanted her back. But not this way.

Her brow creased. "Why not?"

He looked at her. "Because it's wrong," he told her.

"You're not my wife." And then, though it cut him to the bone to say it
"You're his."

Jocelyn shook her head. "No, Leonard. Not anymore.

Not in any real sense of the word."

"I can't," he insisted, caught up in the throes of an almost physical
suffering, nightmare images assaulting him one after the other until his
eyes started burning in their sockets. "It would be too much like ...
like . . ."

Before he knew it, there was a cool forefinger against his lips. It was
hers.

"Don't say it," she begged him. "There's no need." A long sigh. "You're
right. We can't do this. Not now, not this way."

He wanted her as he'd never wanted anyone. He wanted to fall with her to
the floor, spilling over like the brandy.

But it couldn't happen. It just couldn't.

Kissing him on the cheek, Jocelyn laid her forehead against it. Then she
got to her feet, replaced the bottle on the bar, and-with one last look
of regret-left his quarters.

McCoy cursed. His face fell into his hands.

He should have known better than to let it go so far, he told himself.
He should have known.

Clay Treadway couldn't understand it. He'd been standing in front of
Jocelyn's door for what had to be five or six minutes now, waiting for
her to at least acknowledge his presence out here.

There were a few things he wanted to go over with her McCoy before their
transport the next morning. A few details he wanted to nail down before
they undertook to confront the assassins on their home ground.

He waited a little longer, but there was no answer from within. And
Jocelyn had to be inside. At this hour, there was nowhere else she could
have been.

Clay grunted. Obviously he wasn't getting anywhere by being patient . He
had to figure out what was wrong and set it straight. Frowning, he took
stock of the situation.

Was it possible that the sensor in the bulkhead hadn't detected his
presence? Or that, having detected it, the mechanism that made the
chiming sound had failed to announce him?

Certainly it was possible. But he had never, in all the ten years or so
he'd been traveling on starships, experienced a malfunction of this
sort. So what did that leave him with? Had Jocelyn simply fallen into a
sleep too deep for the chimes to wake her from?

Or maybe something had happened to her. Maybe she'd had a medical
problem overnight and was lying there in her bed, hanging onto life by a
thread ...

No. He got a firm hold on his runaway imagination.

Jocelyn was in perfect health. There was nothing wrong with her on that
count.

And as far as this problem they were having with their marriage ... that
would pass. Eventually, in the fullness of time, she would come to her
senses and wonder what in the world could have made her want her freedom
after all they'd had together.

That was one of the reasons he'd wanted to get her aboard the
Enterprise. To remind Jocelyn of what she used to have and show her how
much better she'd done since then. To put things into perspective for
her.

But that brought him back to square one. If she wasn't in trouble, if
the sensor wasn't on the blink, then where was she? Feeling stupid and
hoping no one was watching, Clay rapped on the door's duranium hide with
his knuckles.

He wasn't sure it would even be audible inside Jocelyn's quarters, but
he had to do something, didn't he? He couldn't just wait out here
forever.

Abruptly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of someone
coming this way from one end of the corridor-a woman, he thought. He was
too embarrassed to turn and see who it was, so he just rubbed his hands
together and waited for the person to go away.

The newcomer was less than five meters away before Clay sensed something
familiar about her. It was only then that he ventured a glance And saw
that it was Jocelyn.

She looked at him with something strange in her eyes, something he had
never seen there before. It was a mixture of carelessness and guilt,
happiness and sorrow, hope and regret. And it jarred Clay like a
physical blow.

"Where've you been?" he asked her in a hollow voice.

But he suspected he already knew the answer. Somehow, he feared, he'd
miscalculated-and badly.

"If you're here to talk about our mission," she said, sidestepping the
question entirely, "I'm all ears. Otherwise, we should both get some
sleep."

Clay bit his lip. It took him a moment or two to regain his composure.

"There are a few details . . ." he replied woodenly.

Jocelyn nodded. "Good. Come on in."

And without any further discussion of where she'd been, or with whom,
she entered her quarters; the security mechanism, preset to recognize
her, opened the doors a McCoy fraction of a second before she would have
walked into them.

Still numb with hurt and anger, Clay followed her inside.

Kirk muttered a rather elaborate curse that he'd picked up as a young
officer on Tierenios Four. It described the fate of certain farm produce
during the worst part of the rainy season.

Spock, who was standing beside him in full cold weather gear on the
transporter platform, cocked an eyebrow, as if he'd observed a
phenomenon of true cultural interest. It was a distinctly Vulcan form of
sarcasm.

On the other side of the room, Scotty frowned at the chronometer on his
console. As his eyes rose, they met the captain's.

"I know," Kirk commented. He was starting to feel uncomfortably warm in
his thermal jacket. "They're late."

"They are human," his first officer reminded him.

"I'm human, too," Kirk pointed out. He indicated the two security
officers behind them with a tilt of his head.

"So are Peterson and Diaz. Are we late? No." He sighed.

"It's nice to be in the diplomatic corps. Remind me to consider it in my
next incarnation."

As deadpan as ever, Spock said, "I will."

Still not as well versed on the nuances of Vulcan mysticism as he would
have liked, the captain was about to ask his friend what he meant by
that remark. But he was interrupted by the sound of the transporter room
doors sliding aside.

A moment later, Clay and Jocelyn Treadway entered from the corridor and
strode across the breadth of the facility as one. Without a word of
apology or even a recognition of their tardiness, they took the two
empty places on the platform and assumed postures of readiness.

Kirk glanced at Spock. Ever so slightly, Spock shrugged. He sensed the
air of tension between the diplomats as well, but he had no more
explanation for it than the captain did.

Something must have happened the night before, Kirk mused, or perhaps
even that morning. But he had no idea what it was, nor for that matter
was it any of his affair.

After all, what took place between the Treadways was the Treadways'
business-until it began to compromise their effectiveness in carrying
out this mission.

So far they'd just been late for beam-down. He would let it pass, but he
would also be damned sure to keep an eye on them.

"Energize," he told Scotty.

"Aye, sir," replied the engineer.

Working his controls with inspired ease, he activated the transporter
mechanism. The unit hummed almost imperceptibly as energy accumulated in
all the right places.

Then, before Kirk knew it, they were standing on a rocky shelf
overlooking a long, snaking valley choked with snow. His breath froze
and hung for a while on the windless air in front of him. The sky was a
flawless blue thinning to mint green at the horizon.

"guess were not in Kansas anymore, he mused.

"Which way is the assassins' hideout?" asked Treadway, probably
remembering that he'd taken charge of this effort the day before.

Peterson, a slim, clean-shaven man who had reportedly impressed Chekov
with his easygoing attitude, shaded his eyes and pointed to a spot
directly below the bright orange disc of Alpha Gederix.

"That way," he replied. "If we stay on this shelf, it'll be about-"

"A thousand meters," Treadway interjected. "Think you, crewman."

ri I Peterson's jaw muscles rippled, but he took the snub in stride. "No
problem, sir."

Diaz, stockier and darker than his fellow security officer, was
consulting his tricorder in the meantime. He looked up at the captain.

"Mr. Scott was right," he reported. "There's a lot of maidinium around.
That means they can sneak up on us and we'd never know it."

Kirk smiled. "That's why you're here, Mr. Diaz. To make sure our friends
the assassins don't get the drop on U.S."

The security man frowned ever so slightly. "Right," he answered.

Right, the captain echoed inwardly. But just to make sure, he patted the
phaser in his lower-right-side jacket pocket, before setting off in the
direction of the assassins' lair.

Spock fell into step right beside him as he made his way along the
shelf. Peterson and Diaz fanned out on either side of them. The
Treadways, who had apparently fallen silent again, brought up the rear.

As Kirk walked, he took in the craggy gran deurofthe scenery. Plenty of
good rock climbing around here, he noted. Maybe someday, after the
assassin problem had been cleared up, he would come back and put his old
bones to the test.

"This is not El Capitan," observed Spock. He looked around. "It is much
colder here." A sideways glance at the captain. "And there would be no
one around to rescue you when you fell."

Kirk chuckled; it sounded louder than he'd expected in the taut, chilly
air. His first officer was making a reference to a time some years back,
just before their run-in with Spock's brother Sybok. The captain had
been free climbing a sheer mountain face in the old Yosemite National
Park when he'd lost his footing and plunged to his death.

Or certainly would have, had it not been for his Vulcan companion, who'd
had the foresight to literally hang around in a pair of levitation
boots. Spock had caught his friend and commanding officer by the ankle
mere inches from the ground.

"You know me too well, Spock," remarked Kirk.

"Perhaps you are right," the Vulcan agreed amiably.

"And vice versa. However, it is too late to alter that situation now."

"I suppose you're right," ' said the captain. "Short of-"

Suddenly he heard the sound of someone gagging.

Grabbing Spock's arm with one hand, he pulled his phaser out with the
other. He didn't think about it, he just moved instinctively.

In the next second, however, he traced the gagging sound to its source.
Off on their left flank, Diaz was staggering in the snow, his hands
clutching his neck as if he were trying to strangle himself.

"What in the name of sanity is going on here?" cried Treadway.

Kirk already had an inkling. Whirling, he started to close the dozen or
so paces between him and the bewildered diplomats, but Spock beat him to
the punch. Taking advantage of his superior reflexes, the Vulcan
launched McCoy himself through the air and took both Treadways down at
once.

By then Diaz had sunk to his knees, and the snow in front of him was
flecked with bright, hot drops of blood.

As his hands lost their strength, they fell to his sides, revealing the
hilt of the knife that had lodged in the vicinity of his Adam's apple.
Then he fell forward and was still.

Swearing sharply, the captain drew his phaser and hunkered down. In less
time than it took to blink, he had scanned the rocky shelf and the
snow-covered slope just above it. Diaz had been nearest to the slope;
the knife had to have been thrown from there. Sure enough, there were
several footprints in the snow to show the approach of the security
officer's killer but not a sign of the killer him self. Obviously, Kirk
told himself, they weren't dealing with any amateurs here.

In his younger days the captain might have tried to make it over to the
security man's body, just to make sure there was no hope for him. But he
was older and wiser now; he knew a corpse when he saw one.

Instead he turned to look back over his shoulder at Spock and the
Treadways. Like Kirk, the Vulcan had armed himself and was doing his
best to shield the diplomats from their unseen antagonists. What's more,
they were all too willing to be shielded.

"Spock," rasped the captain. He asked a silent question with his eyes
Where?

The Vulcan shook his head. He didn't have the answer either.

Nor did Peterson, Kirk learned with a glance. Crouched below them on the
valley side, he gripped his phaser tightly, his mouth a thin, hard line.
When his darting eyes met the captain's, there was an understandable
amount of fear in them.

No reason to wait another second, Kirk decided. Removing his
communicator from his jacket, he flipped it open with a practiced snap
of his wrist.

"Kirk to transporter room," he whispered, his mouth touching the
device's hard, synthetic mouthpiece. Still no sign of the enemy, he
noted. But then, there had been no warning before they cut down Diaz,
either.

"Scott here, sir," came the reply. "Is everything all right'?"

Unfortunately, there was no time to give the engineer all the details.
"Beam us back up," hissed the captain.

"Now."

But he never heard Scotty's reply. It was drowned out by a deep-throated
cry from Peterson, who had suddenly sprouted a short, gray metal bolt
between his spine and his shoulder blade.

A moment later, their stony ledge was rife with white garbed figures,
all moving with incredible speed and precision. Kirk whirled just in the
nick of time to see an assassin coming at the back of his neck with a
sickle-type weapon.

He didn't have a chance to really take aim. He just raised his phaser in
the Ssana's general direction and fired. Luckily, the captain hit his
mark, sending the assassin flying backward in a burst of red light.

Kirk turned to Spock again just as the Vulcan pressed the trigger on his
own weapon. The phased-light beam blazed a lurid trail through the
frigid air; a pair of Ssana grunted, twisted in midair, and fell face
first on the coarse surface of the ledge.

IL

McCoy Another ghostly white form came at Spock from behind, but he was
already aiming his phaser elsewhere and wouldn't see the assassin before
it was too late. A second time the captain fired, and the Vulcan's
would-be killer fell victim to the beam's stunning force.

Still, there was no way they could cut them all down.

There were far too many of them and they were moving much too quickly,
weaving an invisible web that would ultimately catch the off worlders in
its strands.

Trying to track a couple of the Ssana as they slithered and spun, Kirk
released his weapon's stored energy a third time and a fourth, but
missed with both shots. And before he could get off a fifth, he felt
something hit him with bone-crushing force in the side of the head.

The whole world lurched sickeningly. As blood filled his mouth, the
captain felt something cold against his cheek and realized it was the
ledge. He attempted to raise his head but it was shoved back down
against the rock again.

Steeling himself against the pain, Kirk lashed out with one booted foot
and hit something solid. He turned and peered through a thick, red haze,
saw a hooded figure roll away from him-and past the figure, on the far
side of the shelf, Spock was spinning like a dervish, still bravely
defending the diplomats.

Good for you, he thought, cheering the Vulcan as he pulled the threads
of consciousness back together. Good for you, Spock.

Then, before the captain's horrified eyes, something big and white came
hurtling toward his first officer and hit him square in the center of
his back, catapulting him forward, almost making him drop his phaser.
Before the Vulcan could recover, another assassin snapped his head back
with a high, whirling kick. And a third toppled him with a sweep at his
ankle.

That left the unarmed Treadways unprotected. As one assassin grabbed
Jocelyn by her arm and pulled her away, her husband tried to intervene.
But a moment later, another Ssana slammed into Clay from the side,
sending him sprawling toward Spock.

Abruptly, Kirk realized why they were being toyed with this way. The
assassins meant to take some prisoners, though he couldn't think quite
clearly enough to figure out why. Planting the heels of his gloved hands
against the rock, he tried to get up to give Jocelyn some help if no one
else could.

To his surprise, no one stopped him. Staggering to his feet, he sighted
on the captive woman and lurched across the shelf, weaponless and
weak-kneed, not certain what in blazes he would do when he got to her.

Probably get yourself hammered into the ground, he mused. Probably get
them so angry at you that they decide to take one less hostage.

That's when he saw something in the corner of his eye-a radiance, a
shimmer that he recognized all too slowly but recognized nonetheless.
Following the effect to its source, he saw a cylinder of corruscating,
electric blue energy build around his first officer and Clay Treadway.

Before the assassins could reach out for them, before they even knew
what was happening, Spock and his companion and the energy cylinder all
were gone. Scotty had finally pulled them out of this bloody mess.

The captain smiled with relief, knowing his own escape couldn't be far
behind. He waited for the wintry shelf and its squad of assassins to
vanish, to yield to the warm, familiar surroundings of the Enterprise's
transporter room. But a second went by, and another, and still it hadn't
happened.

He turned around, trying to determine what had gone wrong. Through a
network of snow white antagonists, Kirk saw only one familiar face,
Jocelyn's, reflecting his confusion. Her eyes were wide with horror.

They'd been left behind.

Book Two

Ssan

"Sorry," said McCoy, his insistent, twenty-six-year-old voice echoing in
the near-enpty rec room of the U.S.S.

Republic. "I don't buy it. Not for a minute."

He gazed across the dusky red tabletop at Merlin Carver, the
brown-skinned man who'd become the closest friend he had in space, and
shook his head.

"Murder is murder is murder, Merlin. End of story."

Carver waved away the suggestion. "Not on Ssan.

Assassination is a cultural imperative. And Moboron sees himself as an
agent of that imperative."

McCoy snorted. "And that makes it all right? As long as he raises the
flag of cultural imperative, he can do anything he wants?"

Carver leaned forward in his chair. "Listen, I'm every bit as repulsed
by his reign of terror as you are. I'd have to be made of stone not to
be. But I'm not Ssani, I'm human.

And as such, I'm in no position to judge him."

McCoy swore beneath his breath. "Merlin, that's the biggest load of
hooey I ever heard. I don't have to be a brick to know a nice old
building when I see one. And I don't have to be a Ssana to know that
what Moboron's doing is a crime against nature."

"Against whose nature?"

"Against anyone's nature."

Carver grunted scornfully, his nostrils flaring. "Come on, Leonard, you
can't expect other races to behave the way we do. They don't eat what we
eat. They don't wear what we wear. Some of them don't even procreate the
way we procreate. So why should they be obliged to fit into our
parochial notions of morality?"

"Parochial?" McCoy rasped, leaning forward as well.

"What's parochial about defending a person's right to exist?"

As he posed the question, he saw the doors to the rec room slide open
and admit the other three members of their deepspace training
unit-Warren Huang, Paco jiminez, and Janice Taylor. Noticing McCoy and
Carver, they headed for their table.

"Nothing," responded Carver, his voice rising in volume-as yet unaware
that they were expecting company. "As long as he or she cares to
exercise that right. But people have been known to waive it for what
they perceive as the greater good. I'm sure you can find examples of
that in any civilization you care to take a look at, Earth's being no
exception. In fact-"

"Arguing philosophy again?" asked Taylor, stopping Carver in midstream
and causing his head to snap around. "It seems that's all you boys do
lately."

Jiminez smiled, showing off his perfect teeth. "Yeah.

What are we, the five most promising young doctors in Starfleet or a
debating society?"

Ssan

"What's the flap about this time?" pursued Taylor.

"How many angels can dance on the edge of a dilithium crystal?"

"No," said McCoy. "It's about Ssan."

Huang nodded, looking cherubic despite himself. "Oh.

That."

McCoy harrumphed. "Merlin here thinks that their little assassination
games are perfectly all right."

"By their standards," Carver added. "And Leonard is telling me that they
shouldn't be able to do whatever they want to do, even if it is their
planet."

"That's right," McCoy confirmed, feeling his cheeks start to heat up.
"They shouldn't be able to kill one another. Life is sacred, on Ssan or
anywhere else."

"Why?" asked Carver. "Because we say it is? Don't the Ssana get a vote?
Or maybe their opinions don't count?"

"Right and wrong isn't a matter of opinion," McCoy told him, starting to
get exasperated. "It's an absolute.

And killing people is wrong."

"But isn't that philosophy at odds with the Prime Directive?" asked
Huang. "According to that, we're supposed to resist the temptation to
impose our ideas of morality on anyone outside the Federation even if
they're committing what we think are the worst atrocities imaginable."

McCoy scowled at the Asi an, who, to his credit, barely flinched. When
they'd begun their deepspace training together, Huang had often seemed
to wither under the intensity of McCoy's stare.

"You're confusing morality with law, Warren. The law says we can't
interfere with another culture. But that doesn't mean we have to condone
everything that happens in that culture. Or say that it's right."

"McCoy's got a point," decided Jiminez, pulling out a chair and
straddling it. "Take the postatomic era on Earth. Remember what the
courts were like back then?

The kind of justice they doled out?"

"Those courts were an aberration," commented Taylor, her green eyes
narrowing. "You can't use that as an example."

"Why not?" pressed McCoy. He could feel his anger increasing by the
second. "Who are we to say what's an aberration and what's not?
According to Merlin, we're not even qualified to hold up a yardstick."

"That's not what I meant," responded Carver.

"That's what you said," Jiminez reminded him. "Either our opinions about
morality count for something or they don't. You can't have it both
ways."

"Damned right," McCoy chimed in.

Huang turned to Carver. "I think he's got you there, Merlin."

Carver shot a glance at Huang, his eyes blazing. "Stuff it, Warren."

The Asian smiled. "I reserve my right to reject that advice," he
quipped. "Regardless of whether it is based on an absolute standard or
not."

That broke the tension. It got a chuckle out of Carver, not to mention
McCoy himself, pretty much defusing the whole situation.

"Good point, Warren," said Carver, pushing a chair in Huang's direction.
"But I still think you should stuff it."

He turned to McCoy. "And you too, Leonard. Just on general principles."

McCoy put on his best mad-scientist look. "You know, Merlin. I don't
normally do lobotomies. But in your case, I might make an exception."

"Charming," observed Taylor, pulling out her own chair. "Just charming."

Ssan For a moment or two there was silence. An easy and companionable
silence, in which McCoy remembered how much he liked all of them,
especially Carver. When they weren't arguing philosophy, that is.

"So," said Jiminez evenly. "Is anyone else as scared out of his wits as
I am?"

Carver's mouth curled into an ironic grin. "You mean about beaming down
into that bloodbath in Pitur?"

Jiminez looked at him as if in disbelief. "Forget the bloodbath, my
friend. That's just part of the job. I mean about serving under Vinnie
Bando."

McCoy held out his hands. "What about him?"

His fellow trainees turned to him as one. McCoy felt himself shifting
uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

"You haven't heard?" said Taylor. "Vincent Bando's the toughest chief
medical officer this side of Alpha Centauri. He'd just as soon eat your
liver as look at you."

"All in all, an interesting dietary practice," noted Huang.

"Come on," said McCoy. "How bad could he really be?"

No one answered. But Taylor patted his hand as if he was her patient and
she was about to tell him he only had a few days left.

McCoy sighed. "That bad, huh?"

"Worse," commented Jiminez. "A friend of my brother's served under Bando
on the Constellation. Said it was the sorriest year of his life-and he
was only there for a couple of months."

"Bando's mean enough under normal circumstances," added Huang. "But
saddled with a massive disaster control effort like the one in Pitur . .
." He winced dramatically. "And to think I could have been an engineer."

McCoy realized that his mouth was hanging open and closed it. A Southern
gentleman did not gape; his father had taught him that, though the
lesson had obviously not taken as well as it should have.

"Well," he said finally, "I came out here to take my mind off my sack of
troubles. It looks like this Doctor Bando will provide all the
distractions a man could ask for."

There were a couple of murmured responses, but no one in the room really
knew what to say to that. They never did, not even Merlin, who knew a
bit more than any of the others about McCoy's reasons for fleeing Earth.

On one hand, McCoy regretted throwing a wet blanket on the conversation.
But he also couldn't help taking a perverse pleasure in their
discomfort.

Hell, why deny it? He liked playing martyr. It made him feel as if he'd
achieved a higher rung on the ladder of experience, as if the scars he
carried from his failed marriage had graced him with some sort of moral
superiority.

Not that he wouldn't have gladly traded his martyrdom for the way things
used to be ... for the kind of life that once stretched out before him
like a well-paved street lined with big, white houses and fragrant, old
peach trees.

But unfortunately, that wasn't an option anymore.

Jocelyn had seen to that.

Usually it was Carver who broke the ice after one of McCoy's little "bon
mots." This time, he didn't get the chance. The ship's intercom beat him
to it.

"This is Captain Hillios," said the commanding officer of the Republic
in a voice somehow both melodic and authoritative. "Medical trainees
McCoy, Carver, Taylor, Huang, and Jiminez are to report to Transporter
Room Ssan One in thirty minutes. Repeat thirty minutes. We're in
shouting distance of Ssan."

McCoy watched Carver's Adam's apple climb the inside of his throat. Then
he looked around at the others, confirming the bond that had developed
among them-a bond that seemed a great deal more important now that Ssan
was no longer just an abstract concept.

"Thirty minutes," echoed Huang. "Barely enough time to put on some clean
underwear."

But the man's voice came out flat and listless, McCoy thought. Like a
mint julep left sitting too long in the sun.

By the time they reached the transporter room, Jiminez had come up with
a name for their group.

"The Ssanitation Detail," he said, smirking. "What do you think?"

McCoy nodded. "I like it."

"Me too," agreed Huang. "It's got just the right mixture of bravado and
morbid fascination."

Taylor glanced at him. "You sound like a theater critic," she observed.

Huang shrugged. "I told you I missed my calling."

As they approached the transporter platform, McCoy stole a glance at the
transporter operator on duty. To his dismay, he saw that it was
Sorenson, ajunior officer who'd joined the Republic about the same time
as the medical trainees.

"What's the matter?" asked Carver.

"Nothing's the matter," McCoy assured him.

"Come on," said his friend. "This is Merlin you're talking to. You look
like you just lost two pints of blood."

McCoy frowned. "I don't like transporters," he mumbled, so the others
wouldn't overhear.

IL

"Excuse me?" replied Carver, leaning closer.

"I said I don't like transporters, " McCoy repeated.

The other man looked at him, a smile playing at the corners of his
mouth. "Don't tell me you're afraid you'll get your atoms scrambled."

McCoy's frown deepened. "That's exactly what I'm-"

The doors to the transporter room opened abruptly, and Captain Hillios
walked in, surveying the medical trainees from beneath her sweep of
copper-colored hair.

Instinctively, McCoy stood up a little straighter on the platform.

The captain's gaze fell on each of them in turn. "Well," she said, "at
least you all showed up. In my last batch of medical trainees, I had
someone who couldn't stand the thought of beaming off the ship-if you
can imagine such a thing in this day and age."

McCoy felt Carver's elbow poking him in the ribs.

Fortunately, they were in the second row and not immediately visible to
Hillios. With his own elbow, he moved Carver's aside.

"In any case," said the captain, "I wish you all luck.

From the reports I've seen, it's no picnic down there."

Turning to the transporter operator, she nodded. "Prepare to transport,
Mr. Sorenson."

"Aye-aye, Captain," said Sorenson.

As he fiddled with his control board, McCoy could feel his muscles
tighten painfully. It wasn't just that he hated transporters. He hated
all machines on which men's lives depended. The transporter just
happened to fit into that category.

"Energize," Hillios commanded.

McCoy shut his eyes tight. The hum of the transporter mechanism rose in
pitch, though after a while he could barely hear it over the grinding of
his teeth.

Ssan A moment later, he imagined he could feel the indescribable cold of
space thrilling through his bones, sinking a thousand tiny claws into
his flesh. No, not cold, he realized. Heat. Terrible heat.

"My God," said Carver, standing beside him.

McCoy opened his eyes and saw a spectacle of devastation the likes of
which he'd never seen before and hoped never to see again.

"My God," someone else said, echoing Carver's words.

It took a moment before McCoy realized that someone was he.

From the looks of the beam-down site, it had once been the city-state
Pitur's c3uncil chamber, made of rich, marbled stones selected for their
pink and pale blue hues, draped with deep purple tapestries and carpeted
in thick, white Ssani cloud moss. It had once been a stage for Ssani
lawmakers as they paced back and forth, reshaping their society with
new, progressive laws.

Once ...

Now it was a bloody, flaming shambles. A charnel house filled to the
rafters with the dead and the dying. A bedlam of sorrow and pain and
surrender.

Whatever had happened here had torn up the slabs that comprised the
walls, leaving them scarred and even crumbled in some places. The
windows had shattered into a thousand tiny shards, the tapestries hung
in fiery tatters, and the mossy carpet underfoot had turned crimson with
the blood of its masters.

Up until now, "disaster control" had merely been a phrase, a concept.
Now its meaning came home with mind-numbing force.

There were medical personnel, but not enough. Not nearly enough. This
chamber must have b een crowded wall-to-wall when disaster struck.

McCoy just stared. It didn't seem possible that there could be so much
suffering in one place. So many people crying out for help ...

"Watch out"'

McCoy whirled reflexively at the sound, just in time to see someone
dressed in the blue and black of a CMO come crashing into him, knocking
him backward. For a moment, he tried to stop himself from falling, but
it was no use. The weight of the other man was just too much for him to
bear.

As the trainee fell, smashing the back of his head against a marble
fragment, he caught a glimpse of something bright and terrible. It was a
flag-a heavy, blazing flag-and it landed on the floor in exactly the
spot where he'd been standing.

Before McCoy could comprehend the full import of what had happened, he
felt fingers digging into the fabric of his medical tunic. Taking hold,
they lifted him to his feet.

And he found himself locked eye-to-eye with the man who had knocked him
down. He got a vague impression of blunt, squared-off features, a
close-cropped brush of iron gray hair and a hard, thin-lipped mouth.

Then the man thrust him away. "You've got to keep your eyes open,
Doctor. I'm a little too busy these days to be your nursemaid."

Bando, a voice whispered in McCoy's brain. Vincent Bando. It had to be.
He was the only CMO assigned to Ssan, wasn't he?

"Yessir," muttered McCoy, still stunned from the blow to the back of his
head.

Scowling, the stocky CMO pointed to a clot of wounded Ssana clustered
around a cascade of fallen stones. "Over AL

Ssan there," he growled. The expression on his face said that he was
used to being obeyed.

McCoy followed the gesture, swallowed. But somehow he couldn't get his
feet to move. He couldn't get his body to accept where it was or what it
had to do there.

"Yessir," he said again, even more lamely than before, wide-eyed,
blinking at the smoke that stung his eyes.

Bando's scowl deepened as he leaned in close. "What's the matter,
Doctor? Haven't you ever been in Hell before?" His mouth twisted into
something like a savage grin. "Now get a move on!"

The last few words, shouted in McCoy's face, did the trick. They were
like a physical blow. Clenching his teeth against the acrid smell of
charred skin, the trainee made his way through the wreckage of the
council chamber.

Behind him, the CMO was rousting the others as he'd rousted McCoy. But
that was just background noise. As McCoy approached the group of victims
to which Bando had gestured, he could feel his training coming to the
fore.

He could feel himself starting to think like a doctor.

There were five of the Ssana. Two were obviously dead and a third was
well on his way. But the other two looked as if there was a chance they
might be saved.

As McCoy knelt beside the nearest Ssana, he swallowed. Up close, the
stench of the man's ruined flesh was almost overpowering. Gagging,
fighting down his lunch, he opened his shoulder bag and took out his
tricorder.

It confirmed his initial assessment burns over thirty percent of the
Ssana's body, broken bones, shallow shrapnel wounds. But vital signs
were good. And the patient was young, even younger than McCoy himself.
With some help, he'd pull through.

As the doctor put his tricorder down and reached for his hypospray, the
Ssana's tiny eyes opened and fixed on him. They were a dark shade of
indigo, almost black, beneath a thick brow that was creased and furrowed
with pain.

Noting the hypospray, the Ssana shook his head as much as he could,
which wasn't much at all. "No," he breathed. "No . . ."

"It's all right," said McCoy. "I'm here to help you."

The Ssana shook his head again. "Leave me," he rasped, his voice cutting
through the noise all around them. It had taken a great and agonizing
effort for him to speak with such authority.

But why? Why didn't he want to be helped? Was he just dazed, not
thinking straight? Or was it something else?

"Leave me," he repeated in a pleading tone, his oversize earlobes
shuddering with the intensity of his helplessness.

McCoy swallowed. "I can't," he insisted. "I'm a doctor."

The Ssana raised his hand toward McCoy's face, but the appendage never
made it all the way. And when it fell, it came to rest on the body
beside him.

It was that of the other survivor, a woman who was hurt nearly as badly
as he was. McCoy wondered if the woman meant something to him or if he
was simply being chivalrous, even under such horrific circumstances.

From a medical standpoint, it really didn't matter which patient he
started out with. They were in roughly the same sort of shape. And there
was time enough to save both of them, barring any unforeseen
complications.

So, despite the Ssana's harsh and tortured protests, he set his hypo for
colerium, the anesthesia that worked best on these people, and injected
it into the man's arm. As he realized what McCoy was doing, the Ssana
grabbed his Ssan wrist, but it was too late. The effects of the drug
were nearly instantaneous.

Even so, his grip on McCoy didn't relax one bit.

Marveling at his patient's force of will, the doctor broke the Ssana's
grip and turned his attention to the female. As it turned out, her
injuries weren't quite as bad as he'd thought at first glance. Allowing
for her lesser body weight, he administered a slightly smaller dose of
colerium.

Then he set to work placing dermaplast patches over the worst of their
wounds. In a matter of minutes, he'd stopped the bleeding, such as it
was. Now it was just a matter of getting them to a medical facility.

Leaning back, McCoy found that his eyes were full of soot. He used his
sleeve to try to wipe some of it away, but it made the situation even
worse; a moment later, his eyes were stinging with acid tears.

So when he heard the sound of a distant rumble, he had only his ears to
tell him where it was coming from at first.

Blinking desperately, he cleared his vision enough to see the direction
in which everyone's head had turned.

Through one of the ruined window openings in the chamber walls, McCoy
could see a distant tower half in flames. And he was certain that it
hadn't been in flames a few minutes ago.

That was the moment, he'd recall later, when he got his first real taste
of what it was like to serve on the planet Ssan in the time of the
Assassin Wars. It was one thing to work under adverse conditions, even
to risk one's life in the process. But it was quite another to see
another beacon of death being lit before you'd put out the flames in the
last one.

Bando rounded on them. "All right," he said, his eyes a startling red,
his voice hoarse from breathing in smoke for who knew how long. "Let's
stop gawking and finish up here. Looks like Moboron's making sure we
don't get bored today."

McCoy didn't have to be told twice. Removing his communicator from his
belt, he flipped it open. "McCoy to Federation Medical Facility One. Two
to beam over."

He got a response a couple of seconds later. "Acknowledged, McCoy. Bet
you're thrilled you got this assignment."

The trainee frowned at the black humor. He had a feeling he'd be hearing
plenty of it before he left this world.

As he waited for the transport to take place, he heard one of his
patients murmur something. Looking down, he saw that the woman was still
asleep. But the man had somehow managed to open his eyes again.

The hatred in them was as big a shock to McCoy as anything he'd seen so
far. The Ssana looked as if he'd have liked to rip the human's throat
out with his bare teeth.

He must be delirious, the trainee told himself. Why else would he be
looking that way at someone who'd just saved his life?

And more importantly, how could he still be conscious?

Did I somehow screw up the colerium dosage?

Fortunately, he didn't have to wonder for very long. A moment later, the
transporter effect created an aura around both survivors, and in the
space of another heartbeat, they were gone.

TWO

McCoy sat on his haunches, his back resting against a stone wall in
Pitur's benighted government square, and peered through the confluence
of gray smoke that had collected overhead. The complex's four abandoned
towers were barely visible against the darkened sky, except where they
were outlined by dying, orange embers.

There were no longer any living Ssana in the area.

Those who had escaped injury had been evacuated; the wounded had been
beamed away by Federation transporters. Most of the dead had been
carried down as well, although it wouldn't be until morning, which was
still an hour or so away, that the authorities would send teams to
search through the rubble for the rest of the bodies.

At this point, the blue-and-black-suited figures that milled around in
the square were all off worlders, Starfleet doctors and medical trainees
in various stages of physical and mental fatigue. To McCoy's smoke-stung
eyes, they looked like ghouls lingering at the scene of mortal disaster
long after the last drop of blood had dried up.

"What do you think?" asked Carver.

McCoy turned at the sound of his name, wincing at the crick he'd
developed in his neck, and scanned the face of his friend, who was
squatting beside him. Merlin looked like he'd pulled a week's worth of
all-nighters.

"About what?" asked McCoy. His voice was flat, passionless. It sounded
to him as if someone else were speaking.

"About how long the man's going to keep us here," said Carver, a little
impatiently, as if it should have been obvious what he was talking
about.

McCoy shrugged. "I don't know." He thought for a moment. "Bando said he
wanted us ready just in case Moboron wasn't quite finished. But it's
been a while since we beamed over the last of the casualties."

His friend nodded. "That's what I'm saying. I mean, we've b een going
for-what? Seventeen hours now? Pretty soon we'll be no good to
anybody." He sighed. "We've got to get some sleep. We can't wait forever
for Moboron to make his move."

McCoy grunted. "Funny," he said. "Seems like years since we had that
discussion about assassin philosophy. Carver squinted at him, perhaps
waiting for the other man to begin the discussion anew, now that they'd
had a chance to see the fruits of that philosophy firsthand. But McCoy
refrained. He was just too damned tired.

They heard the clatter of footfalls on the paving stones nearby and
turned their heads at the same time. It was Taylor, Huang, and Jiminez,
who'd been pumping some of the veteran doctors for an idea of how long
they'd have to remain here.

Ssan

"Well?" asked Carver, as his fellow trainees hunkered down in front of
them.

Jiminez shook his head. "No way to tell, they say. It seems it's not
just a matter of saving lives. Bando takes this business personally."

"That's right," said Taylor. "It's like it's him versus Li Moboron. A
game of one-on-one. And from what his doctors say, he hates like hell to
lose."

Huang smiled tautly. "Lovely fellow, that Bando.

Everything we'd heard and more." He raised his bloodshot eyes to the
smoke-clotted heavens. "I wonder what the sunrises are like around here.
I have a feeling we'll be seeing a lot of them."

Carver chuckled humorlessly. "What do you know?

Even Warren Huang has a dark side."

"Wait a minute," said McCoy. He blinked, not exactly sure of what he'd
seen. Then he saw it again and pointed to the center of the square.
"They're beaming out."

The others followed his gesture. "You're right," said Taylor. "Well, at
least some of us are leaving."

"But where are they going?" asked Carver. "To the dormitories? Or
another disaster site?"

"Beats the hell out of me," said Jiminez. "Maybe we ought to-"

He stopped in mid-sentence, and McCoy saw why.

Suddenly they weren't in the square anymore. They were in a huge,
sterile-looking, softly lit ward full of biobeds.

The biobeds were occupied by the Ssana whose lives they'd been saving
since mid-afternoon.

"Oh Lord," said Carver. "What now?"

One of Bando's veterans approached them. The woman looked as tired as
they felt, but somehow she seemed to be bearing up under it better than
they were.

"I know," she said. "You've had it. You want to take a hot shower and go
to bed. So do 1, but this is Ssan. You've got to help check the
survivors first. Bando's orders "Bando's orders," Jiminez repeated
numbly.

"That's right," the woman assured him. She indicated the far left hand
corner of the hall. "You've all got assignments down there. You'll find
your names logged in beside the vital signs. From now on those patients
are your responsibility and no one else's."

"No one else's," muttered Jiminez.

The woman sized the trainee up. "We're understaffed here, Mister. We
make do." She smiled wanly. "But don't worry. Once you get started,
it'll go quicker than you think."

As she turned on her heel and left them standing there, Carver scanned
the hall and swallowed. "I haven't got the strength for this now," he
told the others.

"Maybe next time, we shouldn't save quite so many," quipped Jiminez.

"Maybe we shouldn't save any at all," Taylor grumbled softly, obviously
not appreciating her colleague's remark.

"Then we can keep more regular hours."

Jiminez frowned, turning to face her. "It's a joke, Janice. You remember
what a joke is, don't you?"

Taylor flushed at the remark. She was about to answer when Huang stepped
between them.

"Easy, Doctor," he told Taylor. "Haven't we had enough casualties for
one night?"

McCoy put a hand on Jiminez's shoulder. "Warren's right," he said, "as
much as I hate to admit it. We're all bushed. We can barely think
straight. And Jiminez couldn't think straight even before this."

Jiminez leveled a narrow-eyed look at his fellow Ssan trainee. "I'd take
offense at that," he rumbled in mock anger, "if I could remember what it
was you just said."

"We'd better get started," Carver reminded them, far from eagerly. But
it did the trick. Taking the lead, he guided them through the army of
biobeds to the area the woman had pointed out to them.

As they made their way through the ranks of the wounded, who were
cocooned like dormant insects in their metallic-fiber blankets, McCoy
found himself feeling more at home. After all, his father was a doctor
back in Georgia. He'd been trekking up and down hospital corridors
before he was old enough to talk, helping to cheer the patients with his
devilish smile and confound the nurses with his antics.

Tired as he was, he told himself, he could handle this. It was the kind
of doctoring he was used to, the kind he'd seen his father practice for
as long as he could remember one-on-one, physician and patient, in a
setting conducive to compassion and contemplation.

Not the insanity of exploding towers and the screams of the dying. Not
the horror of splintered bones and blood spattered on smooth, cold
stones.

This was healing. This was medicine. This he could do, he knew, even
with his eyes closed ... although it wouldn't hurt to keep them open.

Approaching the first of the beds that had his name included in its
biosigns display, he forgot about his friends for the moment and leaned
in to get a better look at his first patient. It was a woman, the very
first one he'd treated on his arrival here.

The Ssana was still unconscious. No surprise there; colerium was famous
for the long-lasting nature of its effects, and he'd given her a healthy
dose. But her color was good, the shards of debris in her wounds had
been removed, the new dermaplast patches were holding nicely, and the
readout above showed that all her vital signs were stable.

Not a bad job, he told himself, if I do say so myself.

Brushing a loose lock of hair off her forehead, he smiled and programmed
the biobed to take a blood sample, just to make certain there were no
complications. Then he went on down the line.

His next patient was the one he'd found lying next to the woman. He too
was well on the road to recovery, his biosigns steady, his color
restored, his patches showing not the slightest sign of rejection.

And unlike the last time McCoy had seen him, he was blissfully
unconscious. Apparently the colerium he'd administered had taken effect
after all, if a little more slowly than he'd expected. Maybe the
hypohead was faulty, he mused. Arranging for a blood sample, he started
to move to the next bed.

"Doctor?"

It took McCoy a moment to realize that he was the physician being
addressed. He turned and saw a thin male nurse with hair the color of
straw approaching.

"Yes?" said the trainee.

The nurse indicated the Ssana with a jerk of his head.

"It's him, sir. He's been ... well, he's been growling."

McCoy looked at the man askance. "I beg your pardon?" he replied.

The nurse frowned. "Growling, sir. Not constantly, of course, but from
time to time-enough to get me worried. And once, I think his eyes
opened." He peered at McCoy. "I have to admit, I haven't been here very
long.

But this is the first time I've ever seen anybody take a shot of
colerium and show signs of coming out of it."

Ssan The trainee cast a glance at the Ssana and bit his lip.

First the man takes too long to succumb. Then he resists the drug enough
to make guttural noises. Could it be that it wasn't the fault of the
hypohead after all? Or for that matter the size of the dose?

"Thanks for letting me know," he told the nurse. C'You did the right
thing."

The burly man nodded. "So what do you think it could be?" he asked. "I
mean, what's different about him?"

McCoy snorted. "I don't know the answer," he told the nurse. "Maybe
something will turn up in his blood-chemistry results." He clapped the
man on the shoulder.

"Right now, however, we're both needed elsewhere."

The nurse grunted and went about his business, though he was still
plainly curious. And for his part, McCoy proceeded to the next biobed
assigned to him. But for the next half hour or so, which is how long it
took him to make his rounds, he was still plagued by the question of how
his patient had defied the effects of a drug as powerful as colerium.

Standing in the Federation-outfitted lab just down the hall from the
convalescent ward, McCoy peered at the screen of his bioscanner, checked
his blood-chemistry results for the third time, and sighed. He'd hoped
to come out of this endeavor with some answers. But all he'd succeeded
in doing was generating more questions.

None of this was making sense, he told himself. Maybe there was
something wrong with the bioscanner itself.

After all, the device wasn't exactly state of the art.

Initiating a diagnostic cycle, he waited for a few seconds. Then the
results materialized on the monitor, where bright green graphics
overlaid a blackness as impenetrable as space itself.

No detectable malfunctions. Everything was in working order. So there
really was an anomaly in the patient's blood sample that he'd n 9ever
seen before. And somehow it was linked to the Ssana s ability to fight
the effects of the colerium.

For a moment McCoy caught a glimpse of himself on the screen. The
expression reflected there was one of discomfort-the kind one might see
on a boy sweating in his stiff-collared Sunday best when he'd rather be
splashing in a cool, granite swimmin' hole.

I do hate it when things don't go according to plan, he mused. Always
have, always will. That's one of the things that make me so hard to live
with.

Or so Jocelyn had told him. But that was long ago and far away.

Looking back over his shoulder, he scanned the lab.

Together with the ward itself and the medical team's dormitories, it
to ok up an entire floor of what was still one of Pitur's most prominent
hospitals.

At first the Ssani doctors in the facility had balked at making room for
the off worlders. But then they'd seen the Federation's level of
technology and its ability to save lives, and the complaints had
abruptly stopped.

Unfortunately, even Federation technology couldn't tell McCoy what he
wanted to know right now. No-what he needed to know.

Carver and Huang, his partners on this late-afternoon shift, were just
across the way, intent on their own bioscanners. There were other
doctors present as well, but none quite so close to him.

McCoy grunted. Asking for help was another thing he hated. But in the
present case, he didn't seem to have much of a choice.

Ssan

"Merlin? Warren?"

His fellow trainees turned away from their respective scanners. They
looked surprised and maybe a little pleased at the interruption. After
all, blood analysis was normally pretty boring work.

Leave it to me to find some excitement in it, McCoy mused.

"What's up?" asked Carver.

"C'mere for a minute," said McCoy, "and I'll show you.

As they approached, he stepped away from h;s monitor and gestured for
them to take a look. They complied first Carver, then Huang. Each of
them came away with a puzzled expression.

Merlin stroked his chin. "It doesn't make sense. With a virus that
widespread in his system, there should be some kind of response-some
white blood cell movement, something." He stroked his chin some more.
"It's as if the virus has found a way to become accepted."

"A symbiote?" suggested Huang. "There's some precedent for that, on
Delanath Four, though that was in an invertebrate. Still . .

"To complicate the matter even more," said McCoy, "the patient seems to
have a resistance to colerium. In fact, that was my main agenda in
looking at his blood results-to try to explain that resistance." He
paused.

"Interesting, huh?"

"Very interesting," agreed Huang. "You've put the machine through a
diagnostic mode?"

McCoy scowled at him. No other answer was needed.

"Of course you did," said Huang. "I feel worthless for even asking."

"So what've we got here?" asked Carver. "A Ssana with a marked
resistance to colerium and a virus that his body doesn't seem to
recognize. On the face of it, I'd say the virus is counteracting the
drug, absorbing or attacking it."

"That's the simplest explanation," noted Huang. "But to these humble
ears, it sounds too simple. More likely, the virus is-"

"What's going on here?"

Their heads all snapped around at the same time. In the short time
they'd been here, they'd all come to react instinctively to the voice of
their commanding officer.

McCoy saw the way Bando was looking at them and swallowed, though not as
loudly as Huang. Carver was the first to recover.

"We seem to have isolated an anomaly," said the trainee. "A virus . . ."

Bando's brow creased and he stepped forward to scan McCoy's monitor.
Carver and Huang got out of his way with admirable quickness.

"Damn," said the CMO. He straightened and looked at them. "You know what
you've got here?"

McCoy shook his head, wondering if even that was too much of a response
to what was obviously a rhetorical question. But Carver actually went so
far as to say something.

"What, sir?"

The muscles in Bando's face went taut. "A blasted assassin, that's what.
A coldblooded, murdering assassin."

McCoy didn't understand. His expression must have communicated that fact
eloquently, because the CMO provided an explanation.

"The natives call it bloodfire-not as an indication of the host's
discomfort but as a description of the way one reacts under its
influence. In instances of physical stress, N

Ssan it stimulates the adrenal medulla, or what passes for an adrenal
medulla in a Ssana. The result?" Bando looked like he'd just eaten
something that had gone bad a couple of days ago. "Supernormal increases
in the speed and force of the heartbeat; dilation of the airways to
facilitate an incredible rate of breathing and oxygenation; a widening
of the vessels supplying blood to the skeletal muscles.

In short, the individual becomes a superman."

McCoy saw where the CMO was going with this. So did Huang, apparently.

"The assassins take it to enhance their physical powers," said the
Asian. "To become-"

"Killing machines," Bando finished for him. "For the last twelve hundred
years, they've celebrated their first kill by exposing themselves to the
virus. And if there are any long-term ill effects, they usually don't
live long enough to experience them."

For a moment, the muscles in the CMO's jaw worked.

Then he slowly turned to face McCoy, fixing him with a stare that could
have cracked a dilithium crystal.

"Congratulations," he told the trainee. "You saved the life of the Ssana
who destroyed that council chamber and most of the people in it."

Outside, it was dark. McCoy could see that through the occasional
rectangular windows. But inside, overhead lights defied the
star-shrouded gloom, giving each doctor all the illumination he needed
to make his rounds of the patients assigned to him.

The first time he had done this, at the end of that seemingly
interminable night, McCoy had treated each Ssana with sympathy, with
compassion. And why not?

None of them had deserved their injuries. They were victims.

Or so he thought. But now, when it came to at least one of his patients,
he knew better. And in case he was tempted to forget, all he had to do
was take a look at the Ssani guard who stood in the corridor just
outside the ward, visible through the transparent plastic of the north
facing door.

Bando had actually requested two guards, and that they be assassins
themselves. However, the authorities had pointed to their need to deploy
their resources-and especially their assassins- in the ongoing struggle
with Li Moboron. In the end, they had sent over only one guard, and a
normal one at that. Bando hadn't liked it, but he had called it "better
than nothing."

McCoy felt a stiffening of his spine as he approached the Ssana with the
virus known as bloodfire in his veins. It took an effort of will for him
to mask his disgust ... his outright revulsion ... at this being who
could contemplate murder as easily as someone else might admire a
sunset.

As if he knew he was being watched, the assassin's eyelids fluttered
open. At first the indigo orbs were glassy, out of focus. But with
startling alacrity, they found McCoy and fastened on the sight of him.

The human peered into the unfathomable depths of the Ssana's personal
darkness. He couldn't help but feel that if he stared hard enough, long
enough, he'd find an explanation there, an understanding of what could
compel one sentient being to destroy another sentient being.

Despite the colerium, the assassin's lips moved. He seemed to be trying
to say something, to communicate.

Out of curiosity as much as duty, McCoy bent closer to hear.

But it wasn't a word the Ssana had been attempting to get out. Suddenly
the writhing lips puckered and, with Ssan unexpected force, blew warm
spittle into the human's face.

Anger exploded in McCoy's brain. For a moment he didn't see a patient,
someone who needed his help. All he could make out through a haze of
throbbing, white-hot fury was an antagonist-an enemy-whose windpipe he
would have liked to crush with his bare hands.

There was no fear in the Ssana's eyes. In fact, there was something like
humor, like pleasure. And maybe even a hint of relief.

In the end, that's what tamed the raging, twisting thing in McCoy's gut
the recognition that he was playing right into the bastard's hands.

Not the oath he'd taken to heal the sick and preserve life wherever
possible. Not the precept of do unto others taught to him by his mother
and father back on Earth, though later he would tell himself that those
things would have curbed him as well.

Perhaps the details didn't matter. The fact was, he stopped short of
doing violence to the ssana. Trembling, cursing, he wiped the spittle
off his face with his sleeve and did his best to take charge of himself.

It wasn't easy. What's more, the Ssana knew it. And to let McCoy know he
knew, he grinned at him.

But the human wasn't about to be tempted a second time. Glancing at the
biobed's life-sign monitor to make sure nothing was amiss, he turned his
back on his patient.

But he could feel the wounded man's eyes boring into the back of his
neck as he retreated.

McCoy took a deep breath, let it out. Damn, he thought, still shuddering
with spent emotion. For a moment he'd been reduced to the predator that
still lurked in his civilized psyche. He'd been lowered to the level of
a killer.

How could one sentient being destroy another sentient being? Perhaps
his patient was intent on teaching him the answer.

In any case, if he'd had any doubts that Bando had been right about the
Ssana's identity, he had none now. The assassin had dispelled them with
remarkable efficiency.

THREE

"A counter strike?" echoed McCoy, trying to rub the sleep out of his
eyes. His bare feet were cold on the bare metal of the floor.

Bud Glavin, a narrow, sharp-edged doctor with sad brown eyes and
thinning red hair, nodded to confirm that the trainee had heard
correctly. "That's the way this war goes , my friend. Moboron hits the
government, the government hits Moboron. And we get the privilege of
cleaning up the mess."

His voice echoed in the dormitory room. Crammed as it was with metal
beds for all the male doctors under Bando's command, it still somehow
managed to sound like a big, empty shuttle hangar.

"Where did they find them?" asked Jiminez, from his perch atop a
second-level bunk. His long, dark hair was in almost comical disarray.

"In an aban doned farm building out in the country," said Glavin. "It was
a relic-barely able to stand on its own-but that didn't keep Moboron's
people from using it as an explosives warehouse. When the government's
assassins surprised them, they were getting ready for their next round
of attacks."

"Casualties?" asked Carver, sitting cross-legged on his bed.

Glavin shook his head. "None that we have to worry about this time.
Apparently the government's bunch came out without a scratch. And there
weren't any survivors among the enemy." He scowled, deepening the lines
in the skin around his mouth. "I guess that's why they call them
assassins."

McCoy cursed beneath his breath. The others just frowned.

"Anyway," Glavin told them, "the reason I woke you is to put you on
alert. According to Bando, our friend Moboron isn't going to take this
lying down. He'll retaliate sometime in the next twelve hours or so."

"That's Bando's estimate?" asked Carver.

"And my own," replied Glavin. "I've been here as long as anyone. And I
can tell you, Li Moboron doesn't waste any time when it comes to killing
people."

Huang was standing at the foot of his bunk, his arms wrapped around
himself against the chill. He looked sleepier than any of them. "Thanks
for the good tidings," he muttered.

The older man looked at him and cracked a lopsided smile. "Don't mention
it, rookie." And, having discharged his responsibility, he made for the
exit.

The trainees looked at one another. "In other words," said Jiminez, "get
ready for another damned bloodbath."

"I think that was the gist of it all right," agreed Carver.

Ssan

"Wait a minute," said Huang, scanning the other trainees' faces with a
disturbed expression on his own. He looked wide awake suddenly, as if
he'd just remembered something important. "I thought the assassins were
the bad guys."

McCoy leaned back into his pillows, shook his head, and sighed. "Didn't
you read the historical data file, Warren?"

Huang's cheeks turned ruddy. "I must have overlooked it in my
concentration on Ssani biology. A grievous error, I see, which I can
only hope you will feel inclined to correct.

McCoy grunted. "In a nutshell, Li Moboron's assassins are the bad guys.
The government's assassins are the good guys." He paused, darting a
glance at his friend Merlin.

"Of course, You could argue that an assassin is a bad guy no matter
which side he's on . . ."

"But that's another discussion entirely," said Carver.

"As we know from sad experience. Right?"

McCoy bit the inside of his lip. His ego still stung from the
humiliation he'd suffered at the hands of his "favorite" patient. If he
wasn't inclined to detest assassins before, he certainly had reason
enough now.

But he refrained from venting his anger. Merlin was right. They weren't
going to solve anything by reviving their conversation. And besides,
they were talking about politics now, not philosophy.

"You see," explained Jiminez, dropping his chin over the edge of his
top-bunk mattress, "assassins haven't historically acted as a
revolutionary army. They were individuals available for hire to the
highest bidder-freelance contractors, really. And since there were no
laws against assassination, they were usually successful contractors."

"That's right," said Carver. "Then the current government came in and
threatened to change the laws, and all hell broke loose. A bunch of the
more traditional assassins banded together to create havoc in an effort
to convince the government that what it was doing was wrong."

"And that," Jiminez added, "is when the government decided to fight fire
with fire."

Huang thought for a moment. "That doesn't make sense," he decided. "If
the government wins, doesn't that put all assassins out of business,
including the ones now fighting on the government's side?"

"It certainly does," McCoy responded. "But since the institution of
legalized murder started on Ssan, no assassin has ever been forced to
think about the implications of his mission. In fact, they're not
allowed to think about them. Their only responsibility is to do the job
assigned to them. And that's what the assassins fighting on the
government's behalf are doing now-the best job they can. No more, no
less."

"Exactly," remarked Jiminez. "And if it's their fellow assassins they're
supposed to kill, that's all right as far as they're concerned.
Assassins have been hired to kill each other before."

"But they're thwarting their own best interests," Huang insisted.

"Maybe," Carver told him. "But they've got no choice.

Assassins aren't permitted to turn down an assignment, no matter who it
is they're supposed to kill. Even if it means they may never kill
again."

"An honest day's work for an honest day's pay," said Jiminez, giving the
phrase an ironic twist. "At least from their point of view."

Huang's forehead wrinkled. "I will never neglect to Ssan read a
historical data file again. Not when there is so much one can miss."

Jiminez stretched out his arms. "Well," he said, half yawning, "I don't
think we can stay in bed any longer, much as I'd like to." He swung his
legs over the side of his bunk with an air of resignation. "Okay now.
Sick people, here I come."

Not a very appealing prospect, McCoy thought. And even less so when one
of those sick people happened to be scum.

As Jiminez dropped to the floor, McCoy cast a glance at Carver. His
friend noticed the look and shrugged.

"Hey, now," he said straight-faced, "don't look at me, Leonard old
buddy. It wasn't Merlin Carver who told you to pick an assassin for a
patient."

McCoy snorted. "True," he said, tucking his head under the top bunk as
he got to his feet. "But you didn't tell me not to, either."

All told, McCoy had nine patients to look after. Six of them had
suffered wounds less severe than those of the nameless assassin. Four of
the six would be discharged in the next couple of days. Two of the four
were probably well enough to go home immediately and no doubt would have
if their beds were needed by worse cases.

Yet McCoy looked after all the rest of his charges before he got around
to the assassin. He couldn't help it; the idea of treating the man just
made his skin crawl. And even when he finally got around to it, he found
he couldn't look the Ssana in the face without anger bubbling up inside
him again.

So he concentrated on the biosigns monitor above the bed and wordlessly,
as objectively as possible, did his job.

"You hate me," said the assassin.

It took the trainee by surprise. Not just the words themselves but the
clarity and strength of the man's voice-no doubt a result of the
parasitical bloodfire that flowed through his veins.

Nonetheless, McCoy managed to keep his eyes off the assassin's face.
Saying nothing, he went about his business, fastidiously checking each
biolevel and logging it in for future reference.

The Ssana grunted, apparently seeing through the human's indifference.
"You are right to hate me," he said. "I am your enemy. And not just
because we are on different sides of a political conflict."

McCoy frowned, trying to focus on his patient's heart rate and remember
what the norms were for this race.

Hell, he'd known them last night, hadn't he? How could he have
forgotten?

This would be a lot easier, he thought, if the bastard hadn't suddenly
developed an appetite for conversation.

But no matter. He'd grit his teeth and get through it-as If he had a
choice.

"We are enemies," the Ssana went on, his tone as reasonable as all
get-out, "the way certain species in nature are enemies, the survival of
one inimical to the survival of the other. Enemies by virtue of
instinct.

Enemies in the blood."

McCoy pressed his lips together. He wouldn't get suckered into a
discussion of divergent philosophies. He wouldn't.

This wasn't Merl Carver lying beside him. This was an inhuman killer, a
madman, a fanatic. By answering the Ssana, he knew, he would be reducing
a heinous crime to a matter of personal preference.

"You would like to see me dead," the Ssana told him, in Ssan an
unexpectedly inviting way. "In fact, there is nothing you would like
better."

It was a strange thing to say, and an even stranger way to say it. But
McCoy still resisted the idea of conversation with this slime devil.

"So ... why not do it, human? Why not kill me?" The Ssana whispered in
words so precise they seemed to insinuate themselves directly into the
trainee's brain.

That's when McCoy looked away from the monitor and peered into the
assassin's face. The expression he saw there was very different from
what the Ssana's tone had suggested.

It was like looking into the eyes of some jungle predator as it closed
in on its kill. Except the kill was ... itself'?

"What?" was all he could say.

"Kill me," the assassin snarled. "End my worthless life."

Strangely numb, McCoy shook his head. "No," he replied.

The man's mouth twisted cruelly. "But why not? Do I not deserve to die?
Have I failed to kill enough Ssana for your taste? Or do you wish to
see me whole again, so I may strive to kill some more?"

The human found himself smiling, of all things. "Are you out of your
mind? Why do you want me to kill you?"

Suddenly he felt the Ssana's fingers close around his wrist, just as
they had back in the council chamber. But this time the assassin's grip
was even tighter, even more painful.

It made McCoy glance at the sedative readout, expecting to find that the
Ssana hadn't been getting his prescribed dosage. But the readout showed
that everything was in order. And then, cursing himself for a fool,
McCoy remembered the bloodfire.

Checking the other readouts, he confirmed it. The Ssana's heart and
respiratory levels were up, considerably higher than they should have
been, given the presence of the colerium.

Looking back at his patient, McCoy tore his wrist free.

The Ssana's expression didn't change. It was still a mask of cruelty, as
if cold fires raged just underneath the veneer of his burned and
lacerated flesh.

"Why do I want you to kill me?" the assassin repeated.

"Because you have wronged me. You have shamed me by preserving my life.
And the only way you can make amends-to me, to yourself, to the ruling
principle of nature-is to destroy the life you saved."

For all its intensity, the Ssana's appeal was almost hypnotic. McCoy
found himself being lulled by it, trapped in it ...

He shook himself free. "No," he insisted. He could feel beads of cold
sweat standing out on his forehead. He wiped them away with the back of
his hand. "I won't kill you. I won't even consider it."

"You lie," said the Ssana. "You are considering it right now."

"That's absurd," McCoy told him. The sweat was building up on his
forehead again. "I'm a doctor. I don't kill people. I help them."

"Even if they don't want to be helped? Even if it makes them want to
rend their flesh from their bones to know that an off worlder had a hand
in their salvation?"

Ah. So that was it. It wasn't just the idea of being saved that the
Ssana found so onerous. It was the idea of an off worlder being
responsible for it.

Somehow that bias made the human mad. It gave him strength. Steeling
himself, he met the assassin's gaze and returned it measure for measure.

Ssan

"Look here," McCoy said, surprising himself with the ring of authority
in his voice. "I understand your shame. I understand what drives you to
convince me to kill you.

But to be honest with you, I don't give a damn."

The Ssana's indigo eyes narrowed. Apparently he hadn't expected that.

"You see," the human went on, "as a physician, I've got my own kind of
shame to worry about. And I'd be shamed from top to bottom if I let
somebody die just because he wanted to."

The assassin didn't answer. He just stared at him.

McCoy straightened up. "Now, after you walk out of here, I wash my hands
of you. What you do at that point is your own business-or rather, yours
and the government's. But until then, I'm going to do everything in my
power to see to it that you survive. Got it?"

For a moment the assassin seemed to be weighing the resolve behind the
human's words. Then he simply turned away, as if further conversation
was beneath him, though he couldn't disguise the volcanic flame that
burned in the depths of his Ssani soul.

Something in McCoy derived satisfaction from that small, subtle victory.
And not just because he was standing up for what he believed in but
because, ultimately, the Ssana had been right.

Deep down, McCoy did hate him-for the lives he'd taken as well as the
callousness with which he'd done it.

And if it made the assassin's blood boil to see his life saved by an off
worlder ... well, that was just a little bonus they hadn't mentioned in
medical school.

Noting the last of his patient's biodata, McCoy got up and turned his
back on the assassin. After all, he had reports to file. And from what
he understood, Bando was pretty strict about such things getting in on
time.

Not that that was any surprise. The chief medical officer was pretty
strict about almost every"McCoy!" came a guttural cry, slicing through
the carefully controlled atmosphere of the ward. The trainee traced it
to its source and saw Bando himself standing at the entrance way,
staring at him. The man's expression was unreadable, but that didn't
give McCoy any solace.

Had Bando been watching him? For how long? Had he seen McCoy avoid the
assassin? Had he seen him almost fall prey to the Ssana's hypnotic
snare?

McCoy had a fleeting vision from his boyhood back in Georgia one of the
wildly colored butterflies in the collection of his friend Skippy Man
waring, pinned to a piece of smooth, white cardboard. He'd been
fascinated by the thing, by the idea of something being skewered by a
huge pin, with no hope of redemption, not ever.

But try as he might, he couldn't ever quite imagine himself as that
butterfly. At least, not until now.

As he cleared his throat, McCoy was preternaturally aware that everyone
in the place was looking at him. Not only the doctors, but most of the
patients as well. But the pair of eyes that bothered him the most were
the CMO'S.

"Yes, sir?" he replied at last. His voice sounded meek compared to his
commanding officer's.

With a single finger, Bando beckoned to him. Impaled on the man's gaze,
McCoy crossed the ward and followed Bando into the corridor beyond.

Bando wasn't one to mince words. But then, McCoy thought, maybe that was
good. He wouldn't have to wonder for long what he'd done wrong.

"You know," said the gray-haired man, "I didn't like you from the first
time I laid eyes on you. And the fact Ssan that you pulled an assassin
out of that tower didn't make me like you any better."

McCoy swallowed. This sounded worse than he'd imagined, and his career
rested squarely in the CMO's hands.

One word from Bando and he'd be plying his trade on a Mars-orbit tug.

And Mars was too close to Earth for McCoy's tastes. A good many
light-years too close.

"Of course," Bando continued, "first impressions can be deceiving.
Sometimes the biggest wimp turns out to be the best doctor in the long
run." His eyes narrowed. "So I give everybody a chance. And I mean
everybody."

There was a long pause. McCoy writhed inwardly under the man's scrutiny,
but he kept his mouth shut. Trying to fashion an answer, any answer,
seemed like the wrong move right now.

"Even so," said Bando, "you didn't do anything to change my mind about
you. And if I were a betting man, I'd have bet heavily that you weren't
going to."

Suddenly, Bando's face seemed to lose its tension ... to crease in
unexpected places. My God, thought McCoy. I think the old buzzard's
smiling at me.

"Until today," Bando told him. "I saw you with that murdering bastard of
an assassin, McCoy. I saw him try to bait you, try to draw you in so he
could sell you on his damned philosophy. Am I right?"

Numbly, the trainee nodded. "You're right," he confirmed.

"But you stood your ground. And better than that, you told him off. I
saw the look in his face, McCoy. You don't see that look on an assassin
very often. It means"-he savored the thought-"that they've lost. And
they detest the thought of losing anything."

The trainee shook his head. "You mean you ... like what happened?"

Bando nodded slowly, the muscles in his temples working. "I like it a
lot, McCoy. And you know why?

Because it takes more than compassion to make a good doctor. It takes
anger too, and plenty of it. Anger at the circumstances that create the
misery you've got to deal with. Anger at the people who create those
circumstances.

Anger at the whole damned cosmos, for giving birth to the kind of beings
who could be so miserable in the first place.

They don't tell you that in med school, I know, but, hell in a
handbasket, they should."

The older man's eyes glinted in the overhead lighting. If McCoy didn't
know better, he would have sworn that the glints were sparks.

"I'm happy to say I was wrong about you," said Bando.

"You're going to make it here on Ssan, Doctor. You're going to make it,
period."

Well, how about that, McCoy thought. I'm not going to be serving on that
Mars-orbit tug after all.

"Thank you, sir," he told Bando. "It's good to hear that."

"It's good to be able to say it," the CMO insisted.

"Carry on, Dr. McCoy." Clapping the trainee on the shoulder, he
continued on down the corridor, his footfalls resounding from wall to
wall.

McCoy grinned like a kid. Merlin wouldn't believe this in a million
years.

"Bando said what?"

Merl's face was a mirror of his disbelief. Nor did the other trainees in
the lab look any more credulous than their colleague.

"What he said," McCoy told them all, "was that he Ssan liked the way I
stood up to that assassin. He said he liked it a lot. And that it wasn't
only natural to get angry, it was good. In fact, it made me a better
doctor."

Taylor shook her head. "Son of a gun. There's a human side to Bando
after all."

"And he smiled?" asked Huang. "He really smiled?"

McCoy shrugged. "I'm no expert, mind you, but it looked like a smile to
me."

"Hey," said Jiminez, "maybe we could ask him to do it again. You know,
so we can decide for ourselves."

"Yeah," said Taylor. "Right."

"So you're the CMO's fair-haired boy now," observed Huang with mock
craftiness. "Does that mean you get two desserts?"

McCoy frowned, but without rancor. "At least. You don't expect me to get
angry at my patients on an empty stomach, do you?"

"Nah," said Jiminez. "That would be inhumane, wouldn't it?"

"Inhumane all right," echoed Carver. But he wasn't laughing with the
rest of them.

McCoy looked at him. "What's eating you?"

Merl hesitated a moment before answering. "I don't get it is all," he
said finally.

"Get what?" prodded McCoy.

"How you could be so proud of yourself. I mean, being angry makes you a
better doctor? Give me a break."

"Uh-oh," said Jiminez. "I smell another philosophy seminar."

"Me too," said Huang, "and speaking of breaks, I think I'm due for one."
He glanced meaningfully at Taylor and Jiminez. "Anybody care to join
me?"

Taylor cleared her throat. "Sure, why not? You've seen one microbe,
you've seen them all."

And as McCoy withstood his friend Carver's scrutiny, their fellow
trainees filed out of the lab. "See what you've done?" he jibed. "And
just when I was starting to feel popular."

Merlin muttered a curse. "You know," he said, "I never would have
thought a little praise could turn your head so far around."

McCoy bristled. "And what's th at supposed to mean?

That I should have given in to that assassin and killed him?"

"Of course not," Carver retorted, his voice rising a notch in volume.
"But the fact that you didn't isn't exactly justification for a medal. I
mean, what's the big deal? You stood up to someone who wasn't even
standing up i'm with you."

"An assassin," McCoy reminded him.

"But a helpless one," Merlin added. "And a patient, for god's sake.
Someone you're supposed to be healing, not locking antlers with."

"Locking ... ?" McCoy couldn't believe he was hearing this, even from
Carver. And then he realized why his friend was acting this way. "You're
jealous, aren't you?"

"Of what?" asked Merl, his voice going up another notch.
"Congratulations from a man who's lost sight of what he's doing here?
You've heard what they say about him, Leonard. Bando thinks he's one of
the principals in this war. He thinks Li Moboron's on one side and he's
on the other. The healing part, the compassion part, that's all become
incidental to him."

"He's up to his elbows in blood," McCoy countered, his voice getting
louder along with his friend's. "What do you expect?"

Carver's eyes widened. "You're defending him now?"

Ssan

"No," McCoy insisted-though he was defending him, wasn't he? "I'm just
setting the record straight is all."

"How about setting the record straight on your patient ... Doctor?"

That stung. "In what way?" McCoy asked.

"You think it's some kind of laughing matter when your patient asks you
to kill him?" Merlin took a step toward him. "You think that's something
to snicker about with your friends?"

McCoy could feel the blood rushing to his face. Enough was enough.

"I wasn't snickering at anybody," he snarled. "I was just-"

"Just what? Just ridiculing some local customs?"

Suddenly McCoy saw what was happening, and he said so. "That's what this
is all about, isn't it? We're back to the same old argument."

Carver pounded his fist on the metal lab table beside him. "No. This
isn't just about philosophy anymore, Leonard. This is about you-and what
kind of doctor you want to be. My kind, or his kind. Because if it's his
kind, I don't want any part of it."

McCoy swallowed. "Is this some kind of ultimatum, Merl?"

"It's what I said it is," Carver insisted. "A choice. Your choice."

That's when McCoy's anger got the better of him. After all, who was
Merlin Carver to preach to him? What had he been through to earn that
right?

A wrecked marriage? No way. A daughter who'd probably never know him?
Not even close.

"Go to hell," he told his friend.

For a moment Merlin's mouth went taut. Then, with agonizing slowness, he
shook his head. "No," he told McCoy. "You go to hell."

And as if he didn't trust himself to stick around, the man turned and
stalked out of the laboratory, leaving McCoy with the taste of ashes in
his mouth.

"Well," he said to no one in particular, his voice swallowed up in the
sudden emptiness of the lab, "I guess FOUR I told him off, didn't I?"

Bud Glavin had been right about Li Moboron's counter strike. Less than
eleven hours after his assassins' nest was destroyed, the rebel leader
returned the favor.

With a vengeance.

This time his target was the sprawling, single-story barracks of the
city police force. The government-aligned assassins, who knew the
tactics and abilities of their adversaries better than anyone, had
declined to congregate in a public place. But the police, in their pride
and naivet6 about how far the dissidents would go, had opted to sleep
where they always slept.

It proved their undoing.

As soon as McCoy beamed down, his senses were assaulted-by the din of
Ssani voices raised in a tremulous wail of pain, by the garish sight of
blood spattered liberally on a broad sea of broken rafters. But he
didn't freeze. He'd already had his fiery baptism in the realities of
this war.

"All right!" Bando shouted over the din, as a second wave transported
down, including the rest of the trainees.

"Spread out, and use your tricorders! We may have to do some digging
this time!"

Even before the CMO had finished, McCoy was wading through the debris,
shading his eyes from the sunlight that came through the ruined roof in
slanting, golden shafts.

Inside of five steps, he found a man who was still alive and knelt
beside him.

"Bastards," the Ssana hissed, clenching his teeth against the pain of a
shattered leg. "Never even saw them coming."

"Quiet," barked McCoy. "Save your strength." He scowled at the level of
cell damage registered on the tiny tricorder readout. "Looks like you're
going to need it."

"Bastards," the man muttered again-and then screamed as the trainee
applied a hypo to his injured leg.

Pounding his fist against a chunk of seared wood, he screwed up his
indigo eyes and squeezed tears from them.

It took only a moment for the colerium to take hold.

Satisfied that his patient was in no immediate danger, McCoy stood up
again and looked around.

He didn't like what he saw. Of the twenty doctors that had beamed down,
only two-thirds of them were hard at work on newly acquired patients.
The others were standing around, looking disgustedly at their tricorders
or at piles of dead Ssana, crushed beneath fallen beams and masonry.

If the job Moboron did on the government buildings had been horrible,
his work on these barracks was positively staggering. Back at the
government plaza, Moboron Ssan had permitted a fair number of survivors;
here, he'd made no such concession.

"Damn it," spat Taylor, not more than a few meters from McCoy. She was
standing astride a Ssana who was well past her help. "Damn it to hell."

It was terrible to have to transport into something like this. But it
was worse when there was hardly anything here for one to do.

And no one was taking it harder than Vinnie Bando. He was shoving aside
splintered pieces of wood, kicking at rubble, and cursing volubly,
looking for all the world like a lion who'd come home to find his den
destroyed and his family hacked to pieces.

He's lost this one, McCoy told himself. Moboron had been too thorough;
he'd carried the battle before Bando could even take the field.

"This stinks," the CMO roared. "You hear me?" He took in the whole place
with one sweeping glare. "This stinks! Next time we get here faster,
understand? Next time we beat those murdering bastards!"

It wasn't the anguished cry of a healer, McCoy knew. It was the
bellicose cry of a warrior, a man whose pride had been stung and who
would tolerate no more of it. Removing his communicator from his belt,
the trainee prepared to use it.

Then he realized he wasn't the only one watching the CMO's tirade. On
the far side of Bando, almost hidden by his bulk, Merlin Carver was
staring at him too.

No-not staring at him, McCoy realized. Staring past him. At his fellow
medical trainee, Leonard McCoy. And the look on his face wasn't one of
horror. It was one of accusation.

Merlin had told him that Vinnie Bando was a lost soul, someone who had
forgotten why he was here. And the CMO was doing his best, it seemed, to
prove Merlin right.

Forcing himself to avert his eyes, McCoy flipped open his communicator.
"McCoy to Fed Med One." He'd lapsed into the abbreviated language used
around the.

facility without even thinking about it. "Just one this time," he added.

"Acknowledged," came the reply. "And locked on.

Better luck next time, trainee."

As McCoy watched the transporter effect claim his patient, he scowled.
He hadn't been here long, but he had a feeling next time wasn't going to
be any better than this time.

Halfway from the medical facility's transporter room to the patient
ward, McCoy bumped into another of the nurses, a big, muscular specimen
with arms as thick as the trainee's waist. He'd run into the man once or
twice before.

What was his name again? Cauley? No, Curley. Burly Curley, McCoy
mused. He smiled at his little private joke.

It felt good, too, after the horror of what he'd just been trudging
through.

The nurse smiled back. "Headed for the ward?" he asked.

"Yup," said McCoy. "You?"

Curley shrugged. "Where else?" His smile faded.

"Bando let you off early?"

"Mm," McCoy replied. Their footfalls echoed in the austerity of the
corridor. "That is, if you call six hours early."

"Six hours is nothing," said the nurse. His pale blue eyes asked a
silent question, which he soon after trans Ssan lated into something
audible. "What's the matter? Did you get sick?"

The trainee shook his head. "Nope. There just wasn't any point in
hanging around any longer. Everybody's coming back."

Curley's brow creased over. "Everybody? After only six hours?"

"Uh-huh," McCoy confirmed. "I'm just the first, because I dug out the
first survivor, I guess."

As they came out onto the ward, he found himself feeling a little
incomplete. He was supposed to have brought more of the living home with
him. Unfortunately, it hadn't worked out that way.

"Our assassin friends were more meticulous than usual," McCoy went on.
"There just weren't many live bodies to go around."

The nurse swallowed. "You mean the patients we've gotten so far-that's
it? That's all of them?"

McCoy frowned. "That's it, all right."

"Damn," said Curley, taking the lead as they made their way among the
biobeds. And then "Must have been a slaughterhouse."

"It was," the trainee agreed. Not that one could describe it in a single
word, but slaughterhouse probably came as close as any.

"Your patients are over here," said the nurse, "right?"

"Right," responded McCoy.

He let Curley continue to lead the way. It meant one less thing he had
to think about. Funny. He felt as emotionally drained now as he had his
first time on the ward, even though he'd been out at the disast er site
more than twice as long the last time. Frustration took a lot out of a
person, he decided.

"By the way," asked McCoy, "the patient I sent in before . . . ?"

The nurse tilted his head to one side. "Over here," he said, making a
turn at the next intersection. "With all your others."

A moment later, the trainee found himself confronted by the sight of his
newest charge. The colerium-sedated Ssana was tucked away beneath his
metallic blanket, neat as you please, insulated from the pain within as
much as from airborne germs without. The only way his wounded leg could
become infected was if something attacked his whole body, and the
biosigns display would warn them of that well before it became serious.

"Thanks," McCoy told Burly Curley.

The man waved back at the trainee without looking at him and homed in on
a patient who had kicked loose her covers. With one expert motion,
Curley tucked them back into place and went on.

Turning back to his own patient, McCoy looked up at the Ssana's vital
signs readout. Everything was where it should be, he noted. Respiration,
pulse, neural activity, all at optimum levels.

Of course, with all that damage to the Ssana's leg, the trainee would
have to watch him carefully. Bone cells were a little more ornery than
soft-tissue cells; they didn't t, always regenerate in the proper
formation. But for now, the situation was as good as McCoy could hope
for.

Glancing over his shoulder to get his bearings, his eyes met those of
the wounded man's immediate neighbor, and he felt a sudden surge of
anger. It figures, McCoy remarked inwardly. The nurses had deposited the
newcomer in the nearest empty bed-right next to the bloody assassin.

Ssan But if that came as a surprise to McCoy, the look on the killer's
face was an even bigger surprise. Far from the haughty sneer he'd come
to associate with the man, what McCoy saw now was an expression of
concern. Of sympathy, he might have said, if he didn't know better.

Frowning, he turned his back on the assassin again.

Even though he'd won their last little sortie, he didn't care to look at
the man any more than he absolutely had to.

"Doctor?"

McCoy clenched his teeth. Unfortunately, he couldn't just ignore the
Ssana. As Merlin had pointed out, he was still a patient.

Turning slowly, he met the assassin's gaze. "Yes?"

The Ssana tilted his head to indicate his new neighbor.

"He is a police officer, is he not?"

"I don't see what business that is of yours," said the human.

The assassin looked at him for a moment, then nodded.

"I thought so. Moboron must have destroyed the city barracks." A pause.
"My grandfather was a police officer.

Poorly paid, ill-respected by his wealthy employers in the government.
Yet he did his job; he was as dedicated to it as I am to mine." Another
pause. "He would not have been glad to see his fellow officers and their
sleeping places destroyed."

McCoy saw his patient wince a little. At the image of destruction? He
didn't think so, given what the assassin had done. Then at what?
Memories of his police officer grandfather? At how he'd been looked
down on by his superiors?

The doctor could identify with that. His own grandfather had been a
low-level technician at a medical technology company. Never very good at
what he did, he was always on the verge of getting fired and therefore
always kowtowing to his superiors in the hope that they'd keep him on.

That's why he'd wanted his sons, McCoy's father and uncle, to be medical
men, the kind of people who used the instruments his company
manufactured. It was a way of finally getting some respect.

But even if he and his patient had something in common in their
backgrounds, it didn't make McCoy feel any more sympathy for him. The
Ssana was still a killer, still a monster as far as the human was
concerned.

"The city barracks," mused the assassin. "That was one of the targets
Moboron preferred to leave for last." He pondered the implications of
his deduction. "Then he must have been retaliating for something.
Perhaps the discovery of one of our strongholds? And its subsequent
devastation?"

McCoy's ears perked up as he listened. A couple of the nurses could have
discussed all that within earshot of the Ssana. But if he'd really
figured it out from nothing more than the sight of the injured police
officer ...

Then he knew his organization pretty well. Knew Moboron pretty well,
too.

If that was so, it might not be a bad idea to get better acquainted with
him, despite McCoy's revulsion for the man. After all, what were his
personal feelings compared with an opportunity to dig up strategic
information that might end up saving some Ssani lives?

Turning to his neighbor again, the assassin's brow puckered. "We do not
like doing this," he said. "We do not like it at all." An angry sigh.
"Explosive devices are for the weak, the untutored. Their use brings
dishonor to the user."

"Then why do it?" asked McCoy.

Ssan The Ssana fixed him with his tiny indigo eyes. "Because we have no
other choice," he replied evenly. "The government wishes to make us
extinct." He gazed at the human appraisingly. "Tell me, Doctor, what
would you do if someone tried to make you extinct? What lengths might
you go to in order to ensure the survival of your kind?"

McCoy shook his head. "That's different," he pointed out. "Your
assassins aren't an entire race. They're a cult, a tiny fraction of the
population."

The Ssana smiled thinly. "I see. Then it is the size of the group that
determines its right to survive."

The trainee could feel his temples working. This assassin really knew
how to push his buttons, didn't he? But if McCoy were to have any
chance of extracting anything important from the man, he'd have to keep
his emotions in check.

"Numbers aren't the issue here," he insisted-but calmly. "I don't think
anyone would bother to outlaw your practices, to deprive you of what you
see as your rights, if they didn't abrogate the rights of others."

"Of others?" echoed the Ssana.

McCoy nodded. "Your people want to live free of the fear that they'll be
assassinated. Is that so difficult to understand?"

The Ssana shook his head. "No, it is not difficult at all.

The question is whether or not that condition should be granted to
them."

"It seems pretty straightforward to me," said the human.

"But you are not a Ssana," his patient pointed out.

"Perhaps in your Federation, our institution of assassination is frowned
on."

"It is," McCoy assured him.

"I gathered as much. But in the context of Ssani civilization, Ssani
history, assassination is not a thing that deprives one of his or her
rights. It is a right, perhaps the most essential and valuable and
sacred of all rights."

The trainee shook his head. "The right to die?"

The Ssana shrugged. "In a very specific sense, yes. The right to die
according to tradition. With honor. With the sort of dignity that can
only accrue to the victim of a ritual assassination."

McCoy grunted derisively-though not too derisively, he hoped. He didn't
want to put the assassin off completely. But he also didn't want to
appear too nice all of a sudden, or the Ssana would suspect he was up to
something.

Just keep the conversation going, he told himself. And hope that the
bastard slips up somewhere along the line.

"Let me get this straight," he said. "You're telling me that it's a
privilege to be the victim of an assassination?"

"That is correct," agreed his patient.

"And what if the victims don't see it that way?" McCoy argued. "What if
that's a privilege they can do without?"

The Ssana smiled that thin-lipped smile again. "No one on Ssan asked
that question until your Federation meddled in our affairs. You have
infected us with your presence, with your ideas."

"Not true," the human told him. "The Federation doesn't meddle. It
offers."

"Different words, but they describe the same thing."

His patient's eyes took on a harder cast. "Nonetheless, assassination is
a right. A victim may not look forward to it. A victim may even try to
avoid it. But it is the right of the victim to be a victim."

McCoy looked at him askance. "That's absurd."

"By your standards," amended the assassin. "Not by ours."

Ssan He sounded like Merlin, thought the trainee. As if right and wrong
were a local phenomenon, something that changed with the temperature or
the altitude or the color of the sky.

"You have heard this before?" asked the Ssana, a little surprised. Damn,
thought McCoy. He's not too perceptive, is he?

"Look," said the human, ignoring his patient's observation, "I just
don't buy it. How could something be a natural right if it's rejected by
the individual it's supposed to benefit?"

The assassin thought for a moment. "Knowing so little of your society,
it is difficult for me to answer that question." Then his eyes widened
noticeably. "Wait.

What does your homeworld government think of suicide?"

"It frowns on it," McCoy replied.

"Merely frowns?" prodded the Ssana.

The trainee scowled. "All right. Not just frowns. Prohibits. So what?"

"Does a person not have a right to die by their own hand?"

McCoy swallowed. He thought he saw now where his patient was going with
this. "No," he conceded. "Not according to the law he doesn't."

"So the government is enforcing his right to live," the assassin
concluded. "Even if it is contrary to his wishes.

Even if it is a right he does not choose to exercise."

The human had to admit that that was the case. And also that his patient
was one hell of a lawyer. He'd have made old Judge Bernhard back in
Georgia sit up and take notice.

"I believe," said the Ssana, "that I have opened your eyes-at least a
bit." He glanced uneasily at the wounded man on the next biobed. "Not
that it wil l make any difference, in the long run. But at least one of
you will know what it is you are helping to destroy."

McCoy tried to think of a response and couldn't. He just stood there,
albeit reluctantly, sharing some of his patient's frustration. He knew
he wasn't wrong about this.

it couldn't be right to kill people, especially when they didn't want to
be killed. And yet ...

Unexpectedly, the Ssana looked up at him. "Will you speak with me
again?" he asked. "Later, perhaps? Or tomorrow?"

McCoy had intended to speak with him again. But he hadn't anticipated
such willingness on the part of the assassin. He nodded.

"Yes," he assured the Ssana. "We'll speak again." And with a last glance
at the newcomer's biodata-just to be sure-he made his weary way to the
dormitory.

FIVE

Vincent Bando didn't spend much time in his office. It was obvious not
only from the very thin layer of dust that covered the furniture here,
but from the way he sat in his chair. He didn't look comfortable, McCoy
observed. He didn't look right.

"As you know, I get right to the point," said the CMO, cracking his
knuckles purposefully as he gazed at the trainee across his old, metal
desk, a relic left over from the previous generation of Ssani
administrators. "I saw you talking with that assassin again. At length.
I want to know why."

There was no rancor in Bando's voice, no suspicion.

Apparently McCoy had earned the benefit of the doubt with his earlier
stunt. On the other hand, the trainee knew, the man across the desk was
the what-have-you done-for-me-lately type. The trainee wasn't going to
get by for long on the basis of one good performance.

Clearing his throat, he replied, "The right to live. The right to die."

The CMO's brow furrowed. "What?"

"It doesn't matter," McCoy assured him. "Not really.

The only reason I was talking to him at all was to see if I could get
any information out of him." He leaned forward, meeting Bando's rapier
scrutiny undaunted. "You see, he knows Li Moboron-how he thinks, what
he's liable to do next. And our man is bored lying in that bed all day.
He's starved for conversation."

"For something to get his blood pumping a little," Bando remarked.

" Exactly. If I can satisfy that need in him-"

"He may inadvertently tell you something that'll help in the fight
against Moboron," the older man finished.

"That's right," said McCoy. "I mean, there's no guarantee, but I thought
it was worth a shot. And anyway, what have I got to lose?"

Bando took a breath and let it out as he pondered the question. For a
second or two, his eyes looked strangely vacant. Then they hardened
again. "Nothing," he decided. "Nothing at all."

That night at dinner, McCoy ate with Jiminez. Carver, Huang, and Taylor
sat on the other side of the room.

"This is ridiculous," said McCoy. "No, scratch ridiculous. It's plain
stupid."

Jiminez shrugged. "What can I say? Merlin's not exactly your biggest
fan right now."

"But just because he and I have a problem doesn't mean the rest of you
have to suffer for it."

Jiminez shook his head as he took in a mouthful of Ssani legumes. "I'm
not suffering," he mumbled around his food. "Do I look like I'm
suffering?

Ssan

"You know what I mean," McCoy told him. "We all went to school together.
We all shipped out together. We should all be eating together."

"Try telling that to Carver," said Jiminez. He kept his eyes on his
plate. "And ... well, Taylor too."

McCoy looked at him. "Taylor too?" He gazed across the room at her.
"What in blazes does she have against me?"

His fellow trainee sighed. "Seems she's decided ol' Merlin's got a point
about your bedside manner. if you ask me, she's just upset about the
scarcity of survivors the last time out and the prospect that we'll see
more of that in the near future, and she's taking out her frustrations
on the most convenient target. But the upshot is that you're a barbarian
in her book as well."

"Great," said McCoy. "Just great. As if I was responsible for what
happened in those blasted barracks."

"Maybe not," responded Jiminez. "But the old supply and demand principle
is at work here."

"Supply and demand?" echoed McCoy.

Jiminez nodded. "An economic theory that was popular about three hundred
years ago. The idea was that, everything else being equal, rareties were
more valuable than things in plentiful supply. That's how it is with the
patients around this ward, I think. If we had a lot more of them, your
treatment of the assassin wouldn't stand out like such a sore thumb. But
because survivors may be few and far between from now on, every patient
seems that much more precious. And it becomes that much more important
that we deal with them according to the book, even if one of them is a
murdering assassin."

Still watching Taylor, McCoy considered the theory.

"Interesting," he replied. "But I still wish Taylor had told me about
her feelings to my face."

"I recommended that," said Jiminez. "But as I said, she was a little
upset. Maybe in a day or two she'll feel otherwise." He smiled, with a
bit of an effort. "Now can we eat in some semblance of peace? You
haven't touched your greens, you know. And hell, they're almost edible."

But McCoy wasn't thinking about greens. "I suppose Huang doesn't approve
of me anymore either," he remarked, ignoring the other man's attempt to
distract him.

Jiminez frowned at McCoy's stubbornness. "Actually, Warren hasn't said
anything one way or the other. But when I told him I was going to join
you for dinner, he just sort of looked away." A pause. "I guess you can
draw your own conclusions."

McCoy's eyes narrowed. "Then why is it you're not shunning me the way
they are?"

The other trainee grunted. "Let's just say my standards aren't very high
and leave it at that, shall we? Now, as I recall, we were eating
dinner. That's a custom that usually involves looking at one another
while we talk."

McCoy tore his eyes away from Carver's table. "Sorry," he said. "So how
are things going on your end of the ward?"

Jiminez poked his fork into a mound of flaked meat.

"About as well as can be expected. I'll be discharging two patients
tomorrow, right on schedule. I was hoping for three, but the woman with
the broken wrist seems to have suffered some nerve damage the biobed
didn't pick up.

I'm going to have to do some microsurgery before she leaves." He raised
the meat to his mouth, trying to work up some enthusiasm for it. "And on
your end?"

"Just ducky," McCoy replied. He was still stinging a little from his
rejection at the hands of Taylor and Huang.

"Like you, I've got a couple of patients ready to go home.

Ssan And the others aren't throwing me any curves I can't handle."

Jiminez chewed away for a little while. Then he asked, "How's your
assassin? Last time I looked, he'd mellowed out a bit. He was, you
know, less feisty than before."

"I suppose," said McCoy. He considered the other man for a moment. "Can
you keep a secret?" he asked.

Jiminez tilted his head to one side. "That depends," he said honestly,
"on what it is. I mean, if you're going to join the assassin brotherhood
or something, then you should probably keep it under your hat."

McCoy smiled cynically. "Don't worry, it's nothing like that, though it
is about assassins." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial murmur.
"But more than that, it's about saving lives."

"I'm always interested in doing that," Jiminez told him, lowering his
voice as well.

"Of course, this isn't the kind of life-saving they taught us about back
in school. This is the kind where you use information instead of a
tricorder and a hypospray."

The other man's brows knit. "Information," he repeated.

"Damned right."

"And where do you get this information?"

"Where else? From my friend the assassin. He seems to be pretty well
tuned in to Li Moboron's strategy, Paco.

I've already begun to lay some groundwork to get him to trust me. If I
can keep it up, who knows? Maybe he'll tell me something that'll end
this assassins' war a little sooner."

Jiminez regarded him. "So this assassin is a tool. A means to an end."

McCoy didn't like the sound of that and said so.

"Nonetheless," said Jiminez, "that's what he is, at least, from your
point of view. A tool, like a neuroscalpel.

Except he's also your patient."

McCoy felt the blood rushing to his face. "Now just a minute here,
Paco-"

The other man's eyes flashed dark fire. "No," he interrupted, his voice
unexpectedly sharp and biting.

"You wait a minute, Leonard. Don't you see what you're doing? You're
betraying the oath you took when you graduated from med school. Your
first duty is to the patient-not some abstract idea of the societal
good."

"Abstract?" McCoy felt himself choking on his own anger. "My God, Paco,
you've seen those people. Those bodies. If we can keep any more of them
from getting hurt, from getting killed, isn't that worth a little
subterfuge?"

Jiminez shook his head. C'You just don't get it, do you?

You're not a politician, Leonard. You're not a general.

You're a doctor. And doctors are supposed to worry about healing-period.
When we start worrying about something else, we stop being healers."

"Semantics," McCoy hissed.

"Maybe I'm not as good as Carver at arguing philosophy," Jiminez
conceded. "But I can tell you this there are reasons that doctors
aren't supposed to meddle in the kinds of things you're meddling in." He
stood up and looked down sadly at his fellow trainee. "If that's your
secret, maybe you'd better keep it to yourself, all right?"

As McCoy watched open-mouthed, Jiminez picked up his tray and took it to
the other side of the room. At first, it seemed he was going to sit down
with Carver and the others, but he didn't. He walked right past them and
dumped the remainder of his meal in the disposal unit.

Then he exited through the sliding doors of the cafeteria.

Ssan Despite the lack of commotion, however, Jiminez's gesture was
noticed. By Carver. By Taylor and Huang.

And by some of the veteran doctors. One by one, they all turned to
glance at McCoy.

Cursing beneath his breath, the trainee shut them out.

He didn't need or want their approval. The chief medical officer had
told him he was doing the right thing. What other endorsement did he
need?

Grimacing at the slightly acrid smell of the Ssani greens he'd been
avoiding up until now, he lifted a forkful to his mouth. And with forced
composure, he ate them. They tasted the way he felt bitter.

At least I don't do anything halfway, McCoy mused.

Now I've managed to alienate everybody.

Sometime during the night, McCoy woke in a cold sweat. His breathing was
loud in his ears, so loud it should have woken everyone in the
dormitory.

But no one else seemed to be awake. As he looked around, he confirmed
it everyone was sleeping the sleep of the just.

Everyone except him. He shrugged off the implications of that
observation and tried to remember what his dream had been about. After
all, there had to have been a dream, right? You didn't bolt out of a
dead sleep unless you'd been dreaming something pretty bad.

But for the life of him, he couldn't remember it. He closed his eyes and
tried to conjure an image out of the enforced darkness. Nothing
happened.

Sighing, he lowered himself back into bed. Go to sleep, he insisted
silently. You've got another long day ahead of you. And if there's
another attack, you might not get any rest for a long time. So go to
sleep, damn it.

Unfortunately, whatever had woken him was still flitting around in his
system, turning on all the lights and inviting the neighbors over. And
McCoy knew from long experience that when he felt this way, there was no
strategy that would do him any good.

He was up for the night. Mumbling a curse, he swung his legs out of bed
and massaged his bloodshot eyes.

Then, reaching for his uniform on the clothes tree beside him, he stood
up and slipped it on. His boots came last, the sturdy, leatherlike
material lending him a sense of stability.

Finally, he stood and made his way out of the dorm.

Down the corridor, past Bando's unlit office and the cafeteria, toward
the dimly lit egress at the end of it, and finally into the ward full of
wounded Ssana.

As always, there was a Ssani guard just inside the entrance, but not the
one McCoy was used to seeing during the day. The guard's eyes were the
only thing that moved as the trainee walked in. Satisfied that he wasn't
an assassin, the Ssana resumed his silent vigil.

On the other side of the ward, one of the veteran physicians scanned a
readout above one of the newer patients. Noticing McCoy out of the
corner of his eye, the man turned to look at him. His eyebrows shot up
in a silent question What are you doing here at this hour?

The trainee didn't have a good answer. All he could do was hold his
hands up in a gesture of helplessness and mouth the words Can't sleep.

The veteran smiled benignly and went back to what he was doing. No doubt
he'd seen this kind of thing before.

McCoy couldn't have been the first young doctor who'd walked the night
after a few days of this place.

Then he thought he felt a third set of eyes on him-not the guard's, not
the doctor's, but those of someone else.

Ssan The trainee looked around, but he had a hard time locating them. In
fact, he was ready to chalk it up to his imagination.

That's when he happened to glance down the aisle where the assassin's
bed was located and saw a glint of light reflecting from two small,
indigo orbs. Of course, McCoy told himself. Who else?

Negotiating a path among the rows of sleeping Ssana, he finally reached
the assassin's side. The man was wide awake.

"What's the matter?" asked the human. "Trouble sleeping?"

"No more than you," said his patient. "But then, assassins need less
sleep than other Ssana to begin with. I hope the same is true of
physicians."

McCoy snorted softly. "No such luck," he said.

The assassin nodded. His eyes seemed to look right into him.

"You know, Doctor, I have been thinking about the things we said. About
how I could best explain our position to you."

"Is that what's been keeping you up?" asked McCoy.

The Ssana smiled thinly. "Perhaps." A pause. "Tell me, what do you know
of Li Moboron?"

McCoy took the time to choose his words carefully.

"That he's the leader of your group. That he hates the idea of
assassination being outlawed, as you do. And that, judging from the
bloody results I've seen, he's pretty damned good at what he does."

"All true, of course," his patient replied. "But did you also know that
Li Moboron is a poet? A man of remarkable sensitivity and bountiful
expression?"

The human looked at him. "I find that hard to believe,"

he admitted with all honesty. "Murderous intent and heartfelt compassion
don't seem to fit into the same package."

"Even on Ssan," said the assassin. "Nonetheless, Li Moboron is one
package into which both qualities do fit.

Perhaps that is why he is our leader-because he has managed to combine
and reconcile those two disparate traits into a single, superior
intellect."

McCoy frowned, seeing that the Ssana needed a little prodding. "Your
point?"

"That to comprehend things Ssani, you must listen with the heart as well
as the mind. That you must know the assassin in all his aspects before
you can presume to pass judgment on him."

The trainee's heart leapt a little. Now they were getting somewhere.
"All right," he responded. "I'm listening."

His patient closed his indigo eyes and recited a verse its holy light,
its perfection. To take a life is to allow the heavenly glory to shine
that much brighter."

A pretty ghastly thought, McCoy remarked inwardly.

And he didn't care much for the level of artistry either, although to a
Ssana's ear, it might have sounded a lot better.

The assassin opened his eyes. "Do you understand?"

The human sighed. "Not as well as you'd like me to, I'll bet. I mean, I
can grasp the image and everything. It's just that in my experience, it
doesn't have much validity."

Now it was the Ssana's turn to frown. "You cannot conceive of the sun as
a symbol of a higher spiritual reality? At least on a figurative
basis?"

"It's not that," McCoy told him. "It's the idea of life marring that
reality in some way. It seems to me that without people to believe in
it, to lend it significance, Ssan there is no spiritual plane. So every
person deleted from the equation would, to use your imagery, make the
sun shine less brightly."

The assassin pondered that for a moment. "It seems our cultures are
further apart than I thought."

"Seems like it," McCoy agreed, as disappointed as his patient. So far,
he'd come away with nothing even vaguely useful in the war against
Moboron. "So is that why you became an assassin in the first place?
Because this philosophy appealed to you?"

His patient shrugged. "My father was an assassin. I saw what he did and
I respected it, perhaps because I respected him. It was only later,
after I had made my first kill and experienced my bloodfire dream, that
I realized the beauty and complexity of the doctrines I had embraced."

"Bloodfire ... dream?" the trainee repeated.

"Yes. After one is infected with the holy virus, there is a period of
fever, of brief but powerful visions. Occasionally one does not survive
this time. But those who do carry with them the vitality of their
visions for the rest of their lives."

"Interesting," said the human. "And what kind of things did you see?"

The Ssana's eyes lost their focus and his mouth pulled up a bit at the
corners. "I was on a plateau in the northern mountains, spread-eagled on
my back, my wrists and ankles tied with leather thongs to stakes driven
into cracks in the stone. A uterra-one of the predatory flyers that
infest the mountains-swooped down at me with hunger in his eyes,
intending to eat my insides. But at the last moment, he stopped.

"Then, far from rending my flesh from my bones, he gnawed his own leg
off. And taking it up in his beak, he fed it to me as if I were one of
his young. He was making a sacrifice of himself, you see. He had
recognized that, of the two of us, I was the better killer. And he gave
of his flesh to make sure I survived my ordeal."

The corners of his mouth pulled up a little more. "It was a strong
vision-perhaps the strongest my father had ever heard of. The uterra is
an excellent hunter, Doctor.

When one visits an assassin in his dream, it is an omen of great things
to come. And when a uterra sacrifices himself that an assassin may live,
it is a sign of . .

His voice trailed off and the almost-smile faded. Suddenly, his eyes
fixed on the human with renewed intensity. "Why are you here, Doctor?"

That caught McCoy a little off-guard. "You mean in a spiritual sense?"

The assassin shook his head. "I mean on Ssan. In your Starfleet. In
space. Why did you leave your world in the first place?"

The trainee cleared his throat self-consciously. He really didn't want
to get into all that. But on the other hand, he didn't want to lose his
peephole into the mind of Li Moboron.

"That's a personal question," he said at last.

"So it is," the Ssana confirmed. "But I have discussed my bloodfire
dream with you. Nothing is more personal than that."

"What happened to our discussion of your leader's poetry?"

"I no longer think that is a road worth traveling. I wish to know about
you.

McCoy swallowed. "There's not much to tell. I wanted to be a physician,
so here I am."

"But could you not have practiced your medicine on Ssan you r homeworld?
What I am asking is, why did you come out here to do it?"

Why indeed. That was something the trainee hadn't discussed in detail
with anyone-not even Carver, when they'd still been on speaking terms.

Oh, he'd mentioned that his marriage had broken up, of course. But he
hadn't told anybody why. Nor had he planned to-until now.

McCoy looked around to see who else might be listening. There weren't
any other doctors around, trainee level or otherwise. No one to
eavesdrop on a private conversation.

Certainly, he could have fabricated a lie. But he was afraid that the
assassin would see through it and stop trusting him. And besides, he
realized he wanted to tell someone what had happened. He'd wanted to for
some time now.

Here was a chance to tell someone who'd be leaving in a couple of days,
someone he'd never have to face again.

McCoy licked his lips.

"I left Earth," he said very slowly, "because I had to.

Because I had no other choice in the matter."

His patient's brow creased. "You had to? Were you fleeing the law?"

McCoy shook his head. "No. Not the law. Something far worse, where I
come from."

And in the next few minutes, he described what had happened. It was
difficult to say the words that brought the memory back to mind but not
as difficult as he'd thought it would be. And in the end, it actually
felt good.

Throughout, the Ssana had only listened. He hadn't commented. He hadn't
judged. He had only absorbed McCoy's tale with a look of compassion, the
same kind of look he'd bestowed on his neighbor from the police
barracks.

"So there you have it," said the human. "Not a pretty picture."

"No," the assassin agreed. "And that is what propelled you into space?
The desire to forget what you saw that day?"

"That was it," McCoy confirmed.

His patient's nostrils flared wide. "Had it been me," he said, "I do not
think I would have taken it half as well as you did."

"What would you have done differently?" the human asked.

The Ssana thought for a long moment, blinking as the scene unfolded
before his mind's eye. Then he focused on McCoy again.

"Nothing you would approve of," he answered at last.

six The next morning, McCoy was bleary-eyed and a little lighthearted
from his late-night foray, but he still had patients to see. As before,
he saved his examination of the assassin for last.

But this time it was for an entirely different reason.

This time he was actually looking forward to their conversation.

It surprised McCoy that this should be so. The Ssana was still a killer,
still someone who stood in opposition to everything the trainee believed
in. And it was true that he had only begun talking to the assassin in
the first place in order to gain information about Li Moboron.

Yet somewhere along the line, without meaning to, he had developed a
rapport with the Ssana, maybe even a rudimentary respect. The two of
them had bridged a chasm McCoy would have once called too wide and deep.

And even if their perspectives could never be reconciled, there was
something undeniably satisfying about the opportunity to air them.

"You look tired," observed the assassin, as the trainee approached.

"I am," McCoy conceded. "Very."

"But you do not shirk your duties as a result. That is good."

The human shrugged. "Would you?"

His patient shook his head. "Most assuredly, I would not."

This seemed like as good a time as any to try to pump the Ssana for some
information. Trying not to show his eagerness, McCoy scanned the biosign
readout for a moment or two. Then he said "What would you be doing now
if you weren't lying there in that bed? I mean, what does an assassin
do when he's not plying his trade?"

The Ssana smiled his customary, thin-lipped smile.

"An assassin is always plying his trade," he replied. "That is, if he
hopes to be a good assassin. But as for your question . . ." He grunted.
"If I were with Li Moboron, I would probably be mapping out the site of
our next strike.

Or perhaps the strike after that."

"He plans that far ahead?" asked McCoy, pulling aside the metallic
blanket to check again on how his patient's wounds were healing.

The burns were coming along quite well, though the shrapnel wounds were
a bit behind the pace he had expected. But only a bit, nothing to be
concerned about.

"He is Li Moboron," the Ssana replied simply. "As the chief assassin of
all Ssan, he-more than anyone-would know that assassination is all in
the planning. Anyone can kill, but to do so quickly and efficiently, and
with a minimum of danger, one must be an expert planner."

"Do tell," said the trainee, pretending to listen with only one ear as
he put the blanket back where he found it.

"Then Moboron knew in advance that he was going to destroy the police
barracks?"

"it was one of his options," the assassin amended.

"Which option he elects to exercise depends on the situation. If the
government's people had not found and wiped out ours, Li Moboron would
more than likely have moved in another, less devastating direction. But
you left him no choice."

"Uh-huh," McCoy responded. He was making progress, he supposed, but it
was awfully slow. Did he dare make his inquiries more pointed, at the
risk of unveiling his purpose and maybe blowing the whole game?

He pondered the question for several long, tense moments. And in the
meantime, his patient asked a question of his own.

"Tell me, Doctor, do you remember my request early on ... that you kill
me?"

He referred to it so matter-of-factly, he might have been talking about
whether or not it was likely to rain that evening. Or what some old
codger had gotten his wife for their golden wedding anniversary.

"Yes," said McCoy. "I do."

"Yet you have not heard me repeat it. And you have not asked me why.

"All right," the human remarked. "I'll bite. Why haven't you asked me to
kill you since then?"

"Because it would not change the loathsome fact that you preserved my
life. Whatever dishonor I have suffered is irrevocable; my death would
not mitigate it. Given that set of circumstances, it is preferable for
me to survive and, even in my shame, to continue to further the
assassins' cause."

McCoy looked at him askance. "Further the assassins'

cause?" he repeated. "Does that mean you plan to escape?"

The Ssana nodded. "Of course. If not from here, then from whatever
facility they bring me to. It is only a matter of time."

The trainee swallowed as he heard the certainty in his patient's voice.
The assassin believed every word of it.

And McCoy wasn't entirely sure he didn't believe it as well.

"Really," he said, for lack of a better response.

"Really," the Ssana assured him.

"Really," said Bando.

McCoy nodded. "That's what he said. Sooner or later, he'd escape from
whatever facility the government placed him in." He paused. "Of course,
you'd expect him to say something like that. He's an assassin."

The CMO frowned, emphasizing the deep, carved lines around his mouth.
"What about the information you were going to dig up on Li Moboron? Any
progress there?"

There was a note of surliness in Bando's tone that caught the trainee a
little off-guard. After all, the man had been so encouraging in their
previous conversations.

But then, Bando's attitude probably had nothing to do with McCoy. Maybe
the man was just starting to show some cracks. After all, with a job
like his-constantly waiting for some bloody massacre, never knowing when
it would come-it was a wonder he wasn't bowling at the Ssani moon on a
regular basis.

"None to speak of," the trainee replied. "He did tell me that Moboron
plans his strikes well in advance and then decides which place to hit
depending on the circum IL

Ssan stances. But I haven't been able to get an inkling yet of which
places those might be."

Bando grunted. "And when do you think you might be able to do that?"

McCoy felt his face grow hot. "I ... I don't know. I mean, I could try
to be more direct with him, but I don't want to-"

"Then be more direct," said the CMO. He squirmed in his chair. "The
government just found another of Moboron's hiding places. It was a clean
sweep, not a single rebel left standing." A beat. "I guess you've been
here long enough to know what comes next."

The trainee recalled Taylor's face back at the police barracks, as she
took in the slaughter and cursed her helplessness. He remembered the
splashes of blood on the splintered beams. He nodded.

"Unfortunately," said McCoy, "I just saw all my patients. And he-the
assassin, I mean-knows I'm not due for another visit until this
evening."

Bando leaned forward over his old, metal desk. "If we're going to get
anything from that patient of yours, we've got to get it while it still
does us some good. This evening might be too late. You understand?"

"I understand," said McCoy.

He waited a little more than an hour so his visit wouldn't seem too
suspicious. Then, tricorder in hand McCoy entered the critical care ward
and started going through the pantomime he'd devised in Bando's office.

To avoid diverging from established practice, he went to the assassin's
bed only after he'd checked all the others.

Playing his tricorder over the Ssana, he glanced at the biosigns
displayed on the screen above the patient.

"Something wrong?" asked the assassin.

McCoy turned his gaze on his tiny tricorder readout and then looked to
the bed's display again. He shook his head appraisingly from side to
side.

"Doesn't appear to be," he remarked. Then, putting the tricorder away,
he smiled in a perfunctory sort of way.

"Just a routine check is all. These biobeds don't always hold up as well
as we'd like."

"And this one?" prodded the Ssana. He didn't seem particularly
concerned, just curious.

"Still h umming along just fine," McCoy told him. "I get the exact same
readings on my tricorder. The bad news is you're no better off than I
thought you were. The good news is you're no worse, either."

His patient looked around the ward at the other doctors. To give McCoy's
ploy some additional credibility, Bando had recruited Carver and Huang
to go through the same motions as their fellow trainee. They'd started a
little bit later, so they still had a couple of beds to go.

Noticing McCoy's scrutiny, Carver shot him a deadpan look. There was no
way the assassin could glean its meaning, but McCoy understood
perfectly. Merlin had made it clear he didn't approve of doctors'
deceiving patients. And to be part of that deception was anathema to
him.

On the other hand, he wasn't going to disobey Bando's orders and foul up
McCoy's little subterfuge. Carver had too much respect for the chain of
command to do anything like that-too much respect for the laws of
Starfleet, regardless of who had been empowered to carry them out.

"Incidentally," McCoy interjected, taking on a more sober demeanor,
"I've heard a rumor. Some bad news for your side, if it's true."

Ssan

"And what is this rumor?" the Ssana inquired, his voice slow and even.

"That assassins attacked a government armory on the other side of the
capitol and were stopped before they could do any damage. Apparently
none of your people escaped."

McCoy's patient shook his head. "Do not place any faith in the verity of
this story. Li Moboron has not included any armories among his targets.
Nor would he."

"How can you be so sure?" asked the human. "You haven't been with him
for several days now. He could have changed his mind."

"No," the Ssana insisted. "Li Moboron would know that there is no point
in attacking an armory. It is a place of things; for a price, things can
be replaced. Flesh and blood cannot. It is only with flesh and blood
that one may fashion a convincing argument."

"I see," said McCoy. He had the feeling he was finally getting
somewhere. "Then maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it was some other place."

"The air-shuttle terminal?" suggested the assassin.

McCoy felt his heart leap. He was definitely getting somewhere.

"Maybe that was it," he agreed.

"Or the history museum? There is an exhibit there on stone-age
cultures. It will be crowded-dense with targets for our assassins."

The human was starting to feel giddy. It was as if he'd hit the mother
lode.

"Or perhaps the library? Thousands of Ssana use it each day, do they
not? Li Moboron could not help but consider it."

Suddenly McCoy got a bad feeling. A feeling that he was being played for
a fool.

"You're mocking me," he told his patient.

The Ssana shook his head. "Mocking is too harsh a word, Doctor. I am
merely telling you that I see through your tactic. And that it will not
work." He smiled grimly.

"You must remember, I am an assassin. Trickery is second nature to me.
And there is nothing more difficult than tricking a trickster."

McCoy could feel himself betrayed by the blood that suffused his cheeks.
He searched for words and couldn't find any. But it didn't really matter
anymore, did it? The jig was up.

Finally finding his voice, he said, "You're right. I was trying to
deceive you. But only to save lives-Ssani lives."

He indicated the patient in the next biobed. "When he came in, you
seemed concerned. You seemed sorry for him." He licked his lips. "There
are going to be a lot more like him soon."

The assassin's eyes narrowed. "You are telling me that another of our
dens was discovered?"

The human nodded. "And wiped out. My superior expects your superior to
follow up with a massacre to end all massacres. That is, unless you help
me out."

"Help you out," the Ssana echoed. "You mean tell you where Li Moboron
will strike. Betray my comrades. My cause."

McCoy could feel the anger come rushing up into his throat, threatening
to choke him. "Damn it," he snarled, "we're talking about lives here!
We're talking about people like you and me who can be saved if we act
now!"

The assassin looked at him. His expression was one of empathy, as if he
could feel the human's pain. And seeing that, McCoy thought for a moment
that his patient would answer his heartfelt plea.

Ssan But he had spent a fair amount of time with this Ssana.

He should have known better.

"I believe," said the assassin, "we have had this conversation before."
He shook his head, obviously unhappy at his inability to give McCoy the
answer he wanted. "I cannot help you, Doctor."

"Can't?" McCoy spat. "Or just won't?"

His patient met his angry gaze. "Cannot," he insisted.

"Or have you failed to hear what I have been telling you these last few
days? About my beliefs? About my people's beliefs?"

The human could feel his teeth grinding together. His temper was a
molten flood, a river of lava that obliterated any outcropping of
rational thought in its path.

"I've been listening, all right," he growled. "I've been listening to
claptrap and double-talk, in the hope that I could learn something
useful, some small bit of information that would help put an end to this
senseless, stupid bloodshed. But I can see now that I was wasting my
time."

The assassin's brows knit over his tiny indigo orbs. "In other words,"
he concluded, "our conversations were merely ploys? Not genuine
discussions of right and wrong but attempts to maneuver me into a
betrayal of all I hold sacred?"

The way he said it made McCoy feel ashamed of himself. As if he was the
one at fault here. As if he was the murderer and not the other way
around.

Obviously his eyes said as much, because his patient's expression
changed. The sympathy, the compassion were gone. They had been replaced
with a hard mask of resentment.

"How enlightening," the Ssana commented, in carefully measured tones.
"Here I thought I could not easily be I tricked. And yet, you tricked me
after all." He glared at the physician. "You have earned my respect, off
worlder, though not, I think, with regard to the qualities you would be
respected for.

As McCoy began to frame an answer, he suddenly remembered that he and
the assassin weren't alone.

Looking up, he realized that some of his other patients were looking at
him.

And not only his patients. Across the ward, Carver was staring at him
too. And Huang as well, though he tried not to show it.

"I burn with humiliation for you, Doctor," said the assassin. "I
believed I had found someone like me someone who believed in a principle
so strongly he was willing to die for it. But I see that you are someone
else-someone willing to bend his oath to fit the circumstances." His
temples worked . You brought dishonor to me when you would not let me
die. But it is nothing compared to the dishonor you have brought down on
yourself."

McCoy wanted to lash out at the Ssana. He wanted to call him a
bloody-handed murderer who had no business judging others. And he might
have-except for the fact that the bastard was right.

Merlin had been right also. And so had Taylor and Jiminez and Huang. He
had forgotten that he was a doctor and tried to be something else, and
now all he had to show for it was a raw, red conscience that felt like
it had been dipped in saltwater.

And if it had worked? If he had gotten the information he'd wanted and
saved some Ssani lives in the process?

Would he be feeling better now or worse9 Would the gain have made it all
right or, in some way he couldn't quite fit words to, would it have made
it even more wrong?

Ssan He didn't know. He didn't care. All he could see right w were the
accusing eyes of his colleagues. And, of no course, those of the
assassin. More than anything, he wanted to be free of them.

With that one thought firmly in mind, McCoy turned and walked toward the
exit, and he didn't slow down until he was well past it and into the
corridor beyond, leaving the Ssani guard staring after him.

He couldn't face Bando right away. He couldn't. Not with his thoughts
all confused and jumbled like this. He had to get control of himself. He
had to remember who he was and why he was here.

Picking his head up from the sink, where he'd been running it under a
torrent of cold water, McCoy brushed away a lock of wet hair and looked
at himself in the mirror. He didn't like what he saw.

A man for whom the end justified the means. A man who'd traded ethics
for unforgiving logic and honor for expediency, to whom the individual
had become merely a number in an equation, and a very small number at
that.

It had taken a murdering marauder to set him straight, but he saw it
now. Saw how little he belonged out here in space, far from the peaceful
valleys of his Georgian home, where someone weak of character could be
tempted to forget all he'd learned and become a piece on the chessboard
of war.

Bando had encouraged him, certainly. But the choice had been his. And
despite the advice of his friends, he'd made the wrong one.

But it wasn't too late , was it9 He could still redeem himself, set the
record straight. He could still embrace the oath that he'd once taken so
much to heart, in the evergreen days before ...

His eyes narrowed. Never mind all that. Never mind her.

He had a report to make to the CMO, and there was no time like the
present. Wiping the water from his face, McCoy stalked out of the
lavatory and into the corridor beyond. The stretch ahead of him, usually
busy, was empty right now. His footfalls echoed sharply, like tiny
cracks of thunder, until he pulled up in front of Bando's office.

The door was open. The CMO looked up from his computer monitor and met
the trainee's gaze squarely.

"Have you got something?" he asked.

"He saw right through me," McCoy said flatly.

The older man cursed. "How?"

"I p ushed too hard," the trainee explained. "He saw what I was doing and
refused to reveal anything useful.

And when I tried to appeal to his nobler instincts, he told me I should
be ashamed of myself, that I had violated my trust as a doctor by trying
to deceive him."

Bando grunted derisively. "That's rich. He goes around killing innocent
people and then lectures you about morality."

McCoy looked at his superior. "And you know what?"

he said. "He was right."

The CMO's brow creased down the middle. He leaned forward, as if
uncertain that he'd heard correctly.

"What?" he got out at last.

"I said he was right. I was violating my trust. But I'm not going to do
it anymore. Not even if the assassins burn all of Ssan down around us.
I'm a doctor, not a spy, sir.

And from now on, a doctor is all I want to be."

Bando glared at him. "You know," he rumbled, "I didn't ask you to do
this, McCoy. It wasn't my initiative.

Sure, when you came to me with it, I thought you were on Ssan to
something. But it was your idea." He paused, his jaw muscles working
frantically. "Now you mope in here and tell me your damned plan didn't
work. And because you're not man enough to take the blame yourself,
you're trying to pin it on me."

The trainee shook his head. That wasn't at all what he'd intended. "No,"
he insisted. "This isn't about blame. It's about-"

He never finished his sentence. It was drowned out by the roar of a huge
explosion, felt in his bones as much as heard. And then another.

"My God." Bando looked up at the ceiling, his eyes fairly popping out of
his head. "They're here."

Stunned as he was, it took McCoy a moment or two to realize what the CMO
was talking about. Then it hit him.

This building was the target of the assassins' next attack. And the next
attack was now.

SEVEN

At first McCoy thought the disaster survivors' ward-his ward-was the one
under attack. Then, just before he and his colleagues were beamed to the
attack point, he learned the location of the assassins' true target.

The knowledge made his blood freeze. No being, no matter how cruel,
could do what Moboron's assassins were said to be doing. It just wasn't
possible.

Then McCoy beamed down to the attack point alongside Bando and a couple
of his veterans, and he saw how naive he had been. It didn't matter how
much horror one had witnessed, he realized. There was always a worse
horror beyond that.

What met his eyes had until minutes ago been a children's ward. A place
for society's innocents to heal from injuries, from illness, from
surgical procedures. But Li Moboron had performed his own brand of
surgery on Ssan the place, and now the immature throats of the dying
filled the debris-clotted air with thin, high-pitched walls.

Kneeling, the trainee placed his fingertips against the neck of a girl
no older than his own daughter, half-buried in the rubble of a collapsed
wall. She was beautiful in a fragile sort of way, more slender than she
should have been. Perhaps it was an illness that had made her so thin;
perhaps that was what had brought her here.

She would no longer have to worry about any illnesses, he told himself.
She would no longer have to worry about anything. Closing her eyes, he
got up and made his way farther into the heart of the disaster.

The cries grew louder, but all McCoy could see before him were corpses.
A boy here, a girl there. Just beyond them, an infant. He could feel a
pounding in his temples that seemed to grow fiercer with every step he
took. But there were no living Ssana, no one he could help.

Then, suddenly, something came flying at him out of the flames and the
billowing smoke. Unprepared for it, he fell over backward trying to
absorb its momentum, tumbled while clutching the projectile to him.

It sobbed with its whole body. As McCoy righted himself, he looked down
into its Ssani face and saw that it was a boy. The youngster was
bleeding from a deep cut in his ridged brow, his indigo eyes wide with
fear and shock, his breathing labored and ragged. Just as the human
decided there might be internal damage, the Ssana coughed up a gout of
blood.

"It's all right," McCoy found himself saying. Running his tricorder over
the boy as quickly as he could, he pinpointed the trouble a lung had
been punctured by a fragment of a broken rib.

Grabbing his communicator, he flipped it open and barked, "McCoy to Fed
Med One. Beam this kid up, damn it."

There was no reply from their facility upstairs. A moment later,
however, the child was embraced by the transporter effect, and a moment
after that he was gone.

Standing, McCoy forged ahead again, part of a line of doctors and
trainees poring through the rubble for survivors, trying to follow the
cries of pain to their sources with smoke-stung eyes. But for every
living Ssana they found, there were half a dozen others who had perished
in the explosion.

There were no words, no curses, no dirges that could adequately lament
the blood that had been spilled in this place, the lives that had been
cut short. There was only the impossible burden of outrage and despair
and disbelief, and the mounting need to strike out at those who were
responsible.

Abruptly, they were given that chance. As they swept across the vast
ward, McCoy thought he could see white robed forms moving through
pockets of fire and ruin.

With grim certainty, he knew that some of the assassins who had visited
this plague of plagues were still here.

But why? Why wouldn't they have fled before the bomb went ofF? Unless
...

The human swallowed. Unless they had left and come back-to finish what
they'd started.

"Watch out!" he cried. The words had barely escaped his throat before
something sizzled by the side of his head, close enough for him to feel
the accompanying rush of air. "It's the assassins!" he snarled.

As if they'd rehearsed it, the line of doctors dropped to their knees.
All except one, who stood his ground as if daring the assassins to
skewer him on one of their blades.

And that one, McCoy saw, was Vinnie Bando.

Ssan He held a child in his arms, an adolescent by the look of her.
Unfortunately, she would never have the chance to grow into an adult.
Her throat had been laid open I in the explosion and gaped now like a
bloody second mouth.

"Get down!" someone hissed. Through the smoke, McCoy recognized Bud
Glavin by his shock of red hair.

"Get down, damn it!"

But Bando wasn't listening. He was just standing there, his broad
shoulders heaving, tears running down his face as he peered into the
face of the murdered child.

"Come on," he bawled at the vague forms of the assassins. "You want to
kill someone? Kill me, for god's sake! Kill me!" It was the cry of
someone not altogether sane.

But strangely enough, the assassins didn't take him up on his
invitation. They didn't even make an attempt.

Their only response came in the form of a single figure who stepped out
from behind a barrier of smoking rubble-a tall, blunt-featured Ssana
with a red cross in a red circle stitched onto a spot over his left
chest.

Someone muttered a single word "Moboron." And McCoy felt a surge of awe
mixed with hatred. The rebel leader, the author of all the destruction
he had seen since his arrival on Ssan ...

Moboron.

"We do not kill off worlders," snapped the High Assassin. "Go back to
your Federation, intruder. Leave Ssan to us.

Something seemed to snap in Bando then. With a I strangled snarl that
was more feral than human, he dropped his burden of dead flesh and
charged the assassin like a maddened bull. At first Moboron didn't move.

Then, as the CMO came within a meter of him, he spun like a dervish and
lashed out with his foot. There was a dull thud, and Bando stopped dead
in his tracks.

For a full second he wavered there, head lolling, a thin rivulet of
blood emerging from the corner of his mouth.

Then he sank in a heap at the High Assassin's feet.

"Vinnie!" bellowed Glavin. "No!"

Without thinking, he raced out to the CMO's side.

Moboron just watched. He obviously knew the red-haired man wasn't a
threat.

"Thank God," Glavin whispered. "He's alive."

"I say it again," rasped the assassin. "We do not kill off worlders."

Then he retreated to where his comrades were waiting for him. And a
second or two later, they had all vanished, as if absorbed by the
spreading smoke.

Creeping forward, leery of the assassins' return, McCoy joined Glavin at
Bando's side. But by then, the CMO was already shoving away anyone who
wanted to help him.

"I'm all right," he muttered. "I'm all right."

McCoy watched as Carver and the other trainees moved forward into the
smoke, answering a renewed chorus of childish cries for help. He grunted
and surveyed Bando's tortured features, wondering at the man's courage.

With his foolhardiness, he had stopped Moboron from killing the rest of
the young survivors. By putting his own life on the line, the CMO had
achieved some semblance of the victory he'd been looking for.

But it was evident Bando didn't look at it that way.

Wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, the man
dropped his head into his hands and cursed himself in a bizarre,
singsong rhythm.

He was still cursing when the government-aligned assassins arrived, and
when the last living child was Ssan removed from the ward. Only after
the doctors had done all they could there did the CMO allow himself to
be beamed back up to his office.

The couple of days that followed were remarkably orderly, remarkably
calm. Li Moboron launched no new attacks, so there were no new
casualties. The government's assassins were quiet as well, so there was
no prospect of a bloody counter strike. It was as if both sides had
pulled back to lick their wounds for a while.

McCoy didn't see much of Vinnie Bando in the corridors. The CMO spent a
lot of time in his office, apparently in an attempt to come to grips
with what he'd seen and experienced in the children's ward.

Back in Georgia, McCoy's father had told him that the toughest person
for a doctor to heal is himself. The trainee saw the wisdom of that
statement now.

Truth to tell, he had some healing of his own to do.

They all did, veterans and newcomers alike. Anyone who had beamed down
into that vision of mind-numbing horror would be a long time forgetting
it. A very long time.

Many of the Ssana in the convalescent ward were transferred elsewhere in
the building or to one of Pitur's other standard-care facilities. The
only ones still ensconced in their metallic blankets on Federation
biobeds were those whose injuries had been the most severe to begin with
and, of course, the children rescued so recently from the High
Assassin's wrath.

Unexpectedly, despite everything he had endured, McCoy slept well the
first two nights after the attack. But the third night, he woke again in
a cold sweat, his heart thumping so hard he thought his ribs would
break.

He had dreamed that his daughter, Joanna, was lying in the rubble of the
children's ward. Her hair was dark with gore and matted across her face,
her soft, little girl's cheeks drained of color until they looked like
candle wax.

Thinking she might still have been alive, he ran his tricorder over her.
But there was no sign of life in her frail, battered form. There wasn't
a thing he could do for her.

Helpless, enraged, he bent his head over her and cried hot tears.

Suddenly her eyes opened. But like the rest of her, they were dead.
Staring at him accusingly, Joanna said in a dry, wavering voice "You
killed me, Daddy. You killed me."

Following her gaze, he looked at his hands and saw how bloody they were,
how tattered the skin of his knuckles had become. Had he beaten her to
death? Was that what she was talking about?

And then he knew, with a certainty found only in dreams, that he had
killed her. Not the assassins, but he.

And that's when he awoke.

McCoy had taken psychology courses in med school.

He had learned a bit about interpreting dreams. So what did this one
mean?

That he had killed whatever love his daughter had held for him when he
left Earth? That he had betrayed her by running off into space?

Or was it himself he had betrayed, by valuing the end over the means in
his dealings with the assassin whose care he'd been charged with? Was
the shattered innocence he held in his arms his own?

It was as good an answer as any. Cold, still shuddering from the shock
of seeing Joanna's corpse, McCoy pulled out his uniform and his boots as
he had the other night and made his way down the darkened corridor
toward the ward.

Ssan Why? Because that was where he felt most at home these days. With
no fellow trainees and no commanding officer to talk to, he could at
least commune with the biomonitors. It wasn't much, but it was
something.

Strangely, there was no guard at the entrance to the ward. Had the Ssana
been forced to answer nature's call?

Or had the CMO's distractions afforded the authorities an excuse to
deploy the guard elsewhere-perhaps in the children's ward?

It was of no real consequence to the trainee. He had never quite
approved of having an armed Ssana there in the first place. There was
something about lethal weapons and convalescing patients that, in his
mind at least, didn't mix.

Walking out onto the ward, McCoy instinctively looked for the doctor on
duty. He didn't know who it would be, but the man or woman would be easy
to spot in a medical blue tunic.

After a moment, he found the shadowy figure he was looking for-in his
own area of responsibility, as luck would have it. Heading that way, the
trainee noticed that the doctor, whoever it might be, was scrutinizing
the biosigns of the assassin.

As McCoy came closer, he was surprised to observe that the physician was
Vinnie Bando. The man was standing by the Ssana's bed, looking down at
his sleeping face as if it held some mystery he just couldn't fathom.

Odd, thought the trainee. He had never seen the CMO come out into the
ward before. But then, the assassin was a rather special case, wasn't
he? And one that Bando wasn't likely to see again for a long time.

Reluctant to intrude on Bando's reverie, McCoy cleared his throat. It
was enough to alert the CMO that he had company. A moment later their
eyes met across the darkened floor, and the trainee nodded.

Bando smiled-a little sadly, McCoy thought. In any case, the older man
didn't seem to be holding a grudge about the words they'd exchanged
earlier.

"What brings you out at this hour?" asked the CMO.

McCoy shrugged. "It's getting to be a habit," he replied. "And you?"

Bando grunted. "I wasn't always the chief medical officer, you know.
Once I was a trainee, just like you. In a ward just like this one,
except the patients had black skin and silver eyes and necks as long as
your forearm."

"Kasserites?" the younger man guessed.

"Kasserites," his companion confirmed.

McCoy swallowed. "I ... er, hope you're not too angry about those things
I said. Before the attack, I mean."

"Not too angry," the CMO confirmed.

The trainee grinned. "Good. I have a lot of respect for you, sir. It's
just that I couldn't go on with what I was doing and still be faithful
to what I believed in. I was trained to be a doctor and from now on,
that's all I want to be. A simple country doctor."

Bando gazed at him appraisingly. "Then be a good one," he told McCoy.
"Tell you what. Let's continue this conversation in my office. I've got
a bottle of Romulan ale that'll knock the back of your skull off. You're
not likely to find a better cure for insomnia than that."

The trainee found himself frowning. "What if we've got to get up early?"
he asked.

The CMO put an arm around his shoulder. "Listen, even a doctor has to
unwind a little now and then. It's part of the Hippocratic Oath. In the
fine print, at the bottom."

McCoy chuckled. "All right, you're on. Just let me check up on my
patient here for a moment."

Ssan Bando pulled him away. "Come on, I just checked him.

He's never been better."

The younger man almost allowed himself to be herded toward the door.
Hell, a drink sounded pretty good right now, and he wasn't going to find
anything the CMO wouldn't have found already.

But something in Bando's voice gave him pause. That and a sense that
things weren't quite right when a CMO invited a trainee to share a
bottle of Romulan ale with him.

"Maybe I'd better go over his biosigns myself," McCoy insisted. Tearing
himself away, he glanced at the display above the assassin's bed.

That glance was all it took. The Ssana's signs were off-all of them. Not
so far as to constitute a reason for panic. But no doctor worth his salt
could have mistaken them for normal levels, which meant ...

"What did you do to him?" McCoy demanded.

Bando's features suddenly turned to stone. "You weren't supposed to come
by at this time of night," he said. "You weren't supposed to see this
until it was too late."

"Blast it, what did you do?" the younger man asked again. He turned to
the display and scanned the assassin's signs a second time. But they
gave him no clue as to what the CMO might have injected him with.
Injected. Bando would still have the hypospray on him.

And it would still be set to whatever compound he'd used to poison
McCoy's patient.

"Don't you see?" the CMO argued. "I had to do it. He's an assassin. He's
just like the murdering bastards that killed those children."

"He's also my patient," the trainee insisted. "And I need to know what
you shot him up with."

Bando shook his head, his eyes wild with determination. "Over my dead
body," he snarled. "He deserves to die. They all do."

"What he deserves," McCoy shouted back, "is justice.

Ssani justice, not the kind you or I dispense. Now I'm not going to ask
again. I want to know-"

"What's going on here?" thundered a voice from the other side of the
ward.

Turning, the trainee squinted through the darkness. It was a moment or
two before he recognized the square, shadowy form as that of Burly
Curley.

"I asked what's going on here," the nurse repeated, this time a little
more loudly.

"It's Bando!" cried McCoy. "He's poisoned one of my patients!"

Curley didn't need to hear any more. With surprising speed he negotiated
a path between the biobeds, his ultimate goal to confront the CMO before
he could get away.

Unfortunately, Bando had a trump card up his sleeve or to be more
precise, a phaser pistol concealed beneath his medical tunic, something
he might have taken off a corpse at one of the disaster sites. Pulling
it out, he pointed it at the onrushing nurse.

"Watch out!" McCoy bellowed, grabbing for the weapon. "He's got a
phaser!"

But before the trainee could seize the pistol or even deflect the CMO's
aim, Bando fired off a seething red stream of phased energy. It hit the
nurse square in the sternum and drove him back a good thirty feet. He
came up hard against the base of a biobed, his chest a bloody, smoking
ruin.

Horrified, McCoy turned to the CMO at the same time the CMO turned to
him. There was a hot, murderous Ssan madness in Bando's eyes the likes
of which the younger man had never seen before.

Suddenly Bando hauled off and backhanded the trainee across the face.
McCoy's head snapped back with the impact. Sprawling over his patient,
he fell onto the hard floor beyond.

As he gathered himself up, his mouth filled with the warm, faintly
metallic taste of blood, he saw the CMO train his weapon on a second
target the unconscious assassin. Without thinking, McCoy grabbed the
phaser and twisted with all his st rength.

The beam of ruby red light that emerged from it missed his fingers by a
fraction of an inch and kept on going until it burned a hole in the
ceiling. Bando pulled at the weapon to regain control of it, but the
younger man wasn't letting go, not even when the CMO dragged him back
over his patient's inert form and wrestled him to the ground.

McCoy struggled to get his arms and legs between him and his adversary,
but it wasn't easy. The CMO might have been older, but he was also a lot
more powerful. For a moment McCoy saw the muzzle of the phaser fill his
field of vision. Then, uncoiling his legs with one mighty thrust, he
sent Bando flying backward into a space between two of the biobeds.

He scrambled forward onto his feet again, his mind racing. What had
happened to the guard? The doctor on duty? The CMO must have dismissed
them for this shift so he could go about his crazed revenge scheme
unhindered .

Soon some of the other patients would wake up, if they hadn't already.
But the only ones left were hurt too badly to help.

So there was no one to aid him in his fight against Bando's bull-like
strength. McCoy was all that stood between his drugged patient and a
lunatic who wanted him to pay for his people's crimes.

Before the older man could get up or aim his weapon again, the trainee
launched himself through the air and was on top of him. They rolled one
way, then the other, but McCoy hung on. That is, until Bando jarred him
with a blow to his chin that made him see stars.

Damn it, thought the trainee, I'm not going to give in.

I'm not going to let him kill that Ssana.

Abruptly, a sizzling phaser beam lanced up alongside McCoy's head, near
enough to cut the very edge of his earlobe. Ignoring the pain, he
battled to turn the damned thing away from him. The beam moved only
incrementally, slicing into the biosigns display on the nearest bed.

The display erupted in a shower of sparks. The trainee could feel them
on the back of his neck and on his hands, searing him. His adversary
must have felt them too, because he uttered a strangled cry and swept at
his face w with his free hand.

Seeing his chance, McCoy took advantage of it. Drawing his fist back, he
drove it into Bando's jaw as hard as he could. Again. And again.

However, it only seemed to make the other man madder. With a roar of
rage, he grabbed McCoy around his windpipe and squeezed. Gasping for
air, the trainee tried desperately to break Bando's grip, but it was
like trying to bend duranium.

With a quick, savage motion, the CMO flopped McCoy over onto his back
and planted a knee in his chest. Lips drawn back over clenched teeth,
veins standing out in his neck like cords, Bando increased the pressure.

The younger man tried to kick himself free, to pummel away at his
antagonist's arms and shoulders, but it was no Ssan use. His face was
swelling with blood like some kind of exotic fruit, his strength ebbing
with each flailing effort.

As the vice around his throat got tighter and tighter, McCoy thought his
head was going to burst. He croaked, grunted, did everything he could to
cry out, but Bando wasn't going to let him call for help a second time.

The world, which included little more than his adversary's face and a
phaser barrel, started going black around the edges. Then the edges
began working their way inward. The trainee struggled for all he was
worth, but it wasn't enough, not nearly. Little by little, he felt his
life slipping away.

He'd known that there were dangers in space. He'd even been prepared to
die in the service of Starfleet. But this was one scenario he hadn't
quite envisioned to be choked to death by an insane chief medical
officer ...

EIGHT

Out of nowhere, McCoy felt a jolt, and suddenly the pressure on his
windpipe was gone. With an urgency that sent shoots of agony through his
chest, he drew in one greedy gulp of air after another, unable to fill
his lungs fast enough to suit his weak and shuddering body.

But he had the presence of mind to look up and see what had happened to
give him a respite from death. To his surprise, he spotted a familiar
face. No, not one but three.

Carver and Jiminez and Huang. And they were all struggling with Bando,
Paco wrestling him for the phaser while the other two tried to pin him
against an empty biobed.

As McCoy sucked in huge, life-giving draughts, he tried to join the
fray. But he couldn't. All he could do was watch as his fellow trainees
strove with the CMO for possession of the phaser.

Ssan Come on, he cheered silently. Don't let him work his bloody
revenge. Don't let the bastard kill my patient.

Abruptly, Jiminez tore the weapon free. And as Bando turned toward him
to try to get it back, Carver slugged the unsuspecting madman, putting
all his weight behind the blow. The crack of fist against bone
reverberated throughout the ward.

For a second or two the CMO blinked as if he wasn't seeing quite right.
Then he dropped to his knees, taking Huang with him, and finally sank to
the floor, unconscious.

With almost comical haste, Warren scurried out from underneath Bando's
bulk, no doubt uncertain as to how long the man was going to stay
knocked out. But it didn't matter anymore, because Jiminez was holding
the phaser now.

That's when McCoy remembered what this battle had been about in the
first place. Crawling toward the CMO on wobbly limbs, he croaked "The
hypo."

Carver came over and knelt beside his fellow trainee.

He was massaging his bleeding knuckles. "Leonard, are you all right?" he
asked.

McCoy shook his head. They could talk about him later. Right now, with
no way of knowing how long ago Bando had injected the assassin, there
were more urgent matters to take care of.

"The hypo," he rasped again, this time a little louder.

"In his pockets. The blasted hypo."

Merlin obviously had no idea what he was talking about, but he followed
McCoy's instructions anyway. A moment later, he drew a hypospray out of
one of Bando's tunic pockets.

"Is that what you were looking for?" he inquired.

Snatching the device out of his friend's hands, McCoy checked its
setting, noting the components of the compound the CMO had used on his
victim. A moment later, he saw the full scope of Bando's plan.

He had injected the assassin with the bloodfire virus the same stuff
that made the Ssana a superman in times of need. But this wasn't the
strain that existed in the Ssana already. This was a variant, which, not
content to coexist with its host, would procreate at a vastly increased
rate, gradually building a biological time bomb.

Over the short term, the variant's presence would only work to raise
such indicators as pulse and respiration incrementally. But in a matter
of hours, there would be so much of it that the slightest stress would
flood the assassin with the Ssani equivalent of adrenaline. The result?

Instantaneous and irreversible cardiac arrest.

And the beauty of it was that no one would ever be blamed for the
Ssana's death. Unless one took pains to look closely, the variant strain
would appear identical to the existing virus, and the incident would
have been attributed to "natural causes."

Fortunately, the variant strain could be eliminated killed-provided it
hadn't been in the assassin's system for more than a few minutes. McCoy
hoped to heaven they'd caught it in time.

"What is it?" asked Merlin. "What's wrong?"

There was no time to explain. Taking hold of his friend's shoulder, he
hauled himself to his feet. "Get me to the assassin's bed," he said.
"Now."

Carver, who'd been watching him with narrowed eyes, seemed to put two
and two together. Wrapping an arm around McCoy's middle, he half-carried
him over to where the assassin lay dead to the world.

The first thing the trainee did was check the biosigns display. Sure
enough, the Ssana's heartbeat and respiration were up even higher than
when he'd seen them a few moments ago. The variant strain was making its
presence felt.

Frowning, focusing on the hypo, McCoy forgot about the damage Bando had
inflicted on him, which he was only now starting to feel. What was the
antidote to the virus again? He had read about it only a couple of days
earlier.

Damn it, he told himself. Think. You've got a brain, haven't you? Show
that it's good for something besides getting you into trouble.

And then he remembered. Making the necessary adjustments in the selector
mechanism, he said a silent prayer to Hippocrates and pressed the hypo
against the assassin's arm. Instantly, the antiviral medication was
injected into the man's bloodstream.

Again, McCoy looked up at the display. If he'd come up with the antidote
in time, the biolevels would start to descend in a minute or less. If
he'd taken too long, or selected the wrong antidote ...

"What's going on?" asked Jiminez, who had come up behind them.

"Quiet," urged Merlin.

"What are we looking at?" inquired Huang, who had joined them as well.
And then "Wait a minute. Those levels are too high, aren't they?"

"They are too high," agreed Jiminez. "Even for a Ssana."

But they were beginning to drop, McCoy observed with a great deal of
relief. Not a lot, not fast, but they were beginning to come down.

He'd caught the thing in time. He'd saved his patient's life. But then
again, wasn't that what doctors were supposed to do?

"Whatever you did," remarked Merlin, "it worked."

"Yeah. It worked," McCoy added hoarsely. He glanced at Merlin and found
himself wondering about something.

"What in blazes were you all doing out here anyway?"

Carver turned to him. Slowly, a rueful smile spread across his face. "I
saw you get up in the middle of the night-again. You looked like you
could use a friend."

McCoy scrutinized him. "But all three of you?"

"You looked like you coul d use three friends," responded Huang.

"Hell," said Jiminez. "You know we're all joined at the hip. One trainee
gets up, we all get up."

Merlin nodded. "Especially when one of us has been in exile long enough.
If it's all right with you, Leonard, I'd like to bury the hatchet."

McCoy found he suddenly had the urge to smile-an urge he couldn't resist
altogether. "Oh yeah?" he retorted.

"And just where would you like to bury it?"

Without breaking stride, Carver replied, "Down the middle of your head
might be nice." He glanced at Huang. "Or better yet, down the middle of
Warren's head.

Let's do his hundreds of prospective patients a favor."

By way of a response, Huang jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Speaking
of burying the hatchet, we'd better il tend to our leader there. He
looks like he's starting to come around."

Fortunately, they had company by then-lots of it, in the form of all the
doctors who had been woken up by the commotion. It took awhile to
explain what had happened, and even longer to make them believe it, but
in the end a couple of Ssani guards showed up and took a seething,
swearing Vinnie Bando away.

Ssan A month later, Captain Hillios and the Republic arrived with a
fresh load of trainees. Hillios's orders were to collect the five
neophytes she had dropped off on Ssan and bring them to their next
assignment, on Beta Aurelon Three, where a mysterious plague was
decimating the population.

By then, of course, things at the medical facility had changed
considerably. Chief Medical Officer Vincent Bando was long gone. He had
been picked up by the Enterprise, commanded by a captain named Pike, to
stand trial for murder.

Bud Glavin was serving as chief medical officer in Bando's stead and
doing a damned fine job of it. And McCoy's assassin-patient had
recovered well enough to be sent to the medical arm of a Ssani penal
facility, never knowing that his doctor had saved his life a second
time.

Also, they had beamed into three more disaster sites.

But none of them was as bad as the scene they had encountered in the
children's ward. It almost seemed that Li Moboron's people were losing
their enthusiasm.

Another thing had changed as well. McCoy and Carver were somehow
managing to see eye-to-eye a lot more, much to the amazement and
consternation of their fellow trainees.

McCoy looked around the breakfast table at his fellow trainees. "I know
we've been pretending otherwise, but this Ssani food is for the birds,"
he announced.

Merlin nodded. "It's bad. Really bad."

"It's terrible," said McCoy, pushing his plate away.

"The worst," noted his friend, emulating the gesture.

McCoy grunted. "I'm not going to miss it," he remarked, "I can tell you
that. Though with our luck, the food on Beta Aurelon Three won't be any
better."

That evoked a wavelet of laughter from the others.

Underneath it was the easy camaraderie of people who had been to hell
and back together, and lived to tell of it.

Jiminez sighed. "So. Beta Aurelon Three," he mused out loud. "From the
frying pan into the fire, eh?"

Huang rolled his eyes morosely. "No rest for the weary.

It's a good thing I'm so dedicated, or I might go back to Earth and open
a private practice."

"Could be worse," McCoy told him. "My father's got one back home and he
wouldn't trade it for the world. Any world."

"What would you say," asked Taylor, "if I told you I wasn't going with
you to Beta Aurelon?"

McCoy looked at her, scarcely able to believe his ears.

"What are you talking about?"

She shrugged. "I'm talking about staying. You know, seeing this through
to the end."

"But we've been assigned somewhere else," said Jiminez. "You can't just
decide not to go."

"I can if I get the commanding officer's permission," Taylor insisted.
"I've already spoken to Glavin and he's given me his blessing."

McCoy shook his head. "You'd break up the team?" he asked, only
half-seriously.

His fellow trainee smiled sadly. "I'm afraid so," she confessed. "It's
important to me. You all understand that, don't you? Well, don't you?"

Huang spoke for all of them. "Of course we understand.

We don't like it, mind you, but we understand."

"I'll catch up with you," she assured them. "if not at Beta Aurelon,
then somewhere else. It's a long haul. We're bound to bump into each
other, right?"

"Right," said McCoy, not believing it for a second.

AL

Ssan

"Right," confirmed Jiminez. He grinned. "Definitely."

She took them all in with a glance. "Make no mistake about it, I'll miss
you guys."

Carver shook his head. "Not me, you won't."

Taylor looked sympathetic. "Don't say that, Merlin. Of course I'll miss
you."

"No, you won't," he maintained stubbornly. He cleared his throat.
"Because I'm not leaving either."

McCoy shot him an accusing look. "What is this, an epidemic? You never
mentioned anything about wanting to stay here."

"You're just jealous that Janice is getting all the attention," decided
Huang. "That's it, isn't it?"

Merlin shook his head again. "I'm afraid not, Warren."

He turned to McCoy. "And the reason I didn't mention it is because I
wasn't sure until just this moment."

"So you haven't gotten permission yet?" asked Jiminez hopefully.

"No," Carver admitted. "But if Janice got it, I think I can get it too.
In fact, I'm sure I can."

"But this is ridiculous," McCoy argued. "You're needed on Beta Aurelon
as much as you're needed here."

"You're probably right," Merlin agreed. "But Ssan's in my blood now. I
think I have an understanding of this place, its people, its
philosophies. I want to be around long enough to see them to the end of
their troubles, to see them prosper."

McCoy scowled. "You can see the Beta Aurelonites prosper. Won't that
do?"

Merlin grinned. "You can see the Beta Aurelonites prosper. And then you
can tell me all about it."

McCoy sat back in his chair and forced himself to accept the situation.
"That's a promise," he said.

"Like I'd give you any choice in the matter." Merlin smiled. "Remember
to be one hell of a good doctor, Leonard. The kind you were meant to
be."

"I will," returned McCoy. "You can bet on it."

By harvest season on Beta Aurelon Three, the plague was finally under
control, thanks to a vaccine developed by the Federation's medical team.
McCoy had just beamed back from a remote island, the last pocket of
Aurelonese culture to be vaccinated, when the long-faced doctor in
charge of the transport area handed him a subspace message disk.

,For me?" asked the trainee.

"Says so," the man pointed out. He was perusing a portable computer pad
in anticipation of some supply transport. "That's probably a clue."

Ignoring the sarcasm, McCoy glanced at the handwritten notations on the
outside of the cassette. "It's from Ssan," he said out loud.

The doctor glanced at him. "That's where you were stationed last, isn't
it?"

As deadpan as the other man, McCoy shrugged. "Says so. I guess that's a
clue."

Frowning, the doctor harrumphed. "Smart aleck," he muttered and went
back to his supply list.

With a skip in his step, the trainee made his way out of the transport
area and down the hall that led to his dormitory room. But even though
the layout of this place was a great deal like the one on Ssan, the
atmosphere was much different.

They'd caught the plague in time to prevent all but a very few
casualties. There was a sense of accomplishment about the medical
facility, a feeling of having worked hard IL

Ssan and won. He had no regrets about leaving Ssan, no regrets at all.

Swinging into the dorm, McCoy headed straight for the disk reader and
popped it in. Immediately the particulars came up on the dark green
screen in gold letters.

Subspace communique Standard Earth Date 8.3.2254 To Doctor Leonard
McCoy Monfarra City, Monfarran Union, Beta Aurelon Three From Dr.
Janice Taylor Pitur, Southern Continent, Alpha Gederix Four The trainee
smiled. It would be good to hear from his friends after all this time.
He would have liked to share the message with Huang and Jiminez, his
fellow expatriates from the Ssanitation Detail, but they were still
collecting data on one of the other islands and weren't expected back
for another couple of days.

That's all right, he told himself. Whatever's on the cassette, it'll
still be news when they return-not that I have any intention of waiting
that long.

Tapping the button that would bring up the message itself, he sat back
in his chair and read.

Dear Leonard, I have some bad news. Unfortunately, I'm still too upset
by what happened to think clearly, so if this message is jumbled, please
forgive me.

As you may have heard, the Assassin Wars are all but over here. Several
days ago, Li Moboron was killed in a raid on a rebel facility, and the
government has been on the verge of claiming victory ever since.

Merlin and I and a couple of the newer trainees went out to one of the
local watering holes to celebrate. While you and Paco and Warren were
here, they never let us out for fear we'd be attacked by the assassins.
But after Moboron was found dead, they loosened those restrictions quite
a bit.

Anyway, we were sitting around and talking over a bottle of brandy. One
of the new people asked how it felt to see the end of the conflict after
we'd been here for six long months.

Merlin said it felt fine and raised his glass to toast all the
Federation doctors who had served on Ssaneven Vinnie Bando. Then his
eyes went all round and white, as if he saw something reflected in his
glass.

The next thing I knew, he was flying toward me and we were crashing to
the ground in a jumble of arms and legs. A second later-at least I think
it was later-there was a terrible, loud sound.

By the time I got my wits about me, I saw a half-dozen assassins
standin g at the other end of the square. Five were running away. But one
was just standing there, glaring at me. And this is the horrible thing,
Leonard I recognized him.

It was the Ssana you treated, the assassin Bando tried to kill that
night in the ward. I've asked myself if I could have imagined his face
in all the confusion, but I didn't. It was him.

The bastard did what he promised, though I don't know how. He escaped
from the authorities and went back to doing Moboron's dirty work.

Merlin died in the explosion. We tried to help him, but it was too late.
Too much trauma, too much loss of blood. If he hadn't flung himself in
my direction when he did, I probably would've been dead too.

Ssan I know how much it's going to hurt you to read this. You were his
best friend. You were the only one he would always forgive, no matter
what was said or done between you.

I can tell you he was proud of what we accomplished in our stay on Ssan.
Damned proud. But especially of you-of what you did and what you
learned. He said that you'd look back someday and know that rescuing
that assassin from Bando was the most important thing you'd ever done in
your life.

And he'd still say that, that you were right to save the assassin's
life, regardless of what came of it, because that's what a doctor does.
He saves lives no matter whose they are.

See you around.

Janice For a long time McCoy just sat there, staring at the screen. He
could hear the sound that Taylor had described. He could see Merlin
flying across the table to shield her.

And he could see the face of the Ssana, the one whose life he'd saved,
standing on the other side of the plaza, indigo eyes narrowed,
inspecting his handiwork with grim satisfaction. And why not? He'd
murdered another innocent, hadn't he?

McCoy knew he'd never forget that face as long as he lived.

Book Three

JOCELYN

McCoy had long ago run out of activities to occupy his time in sickbay.
There wasn't a single device that hadn't been checked and rechecked, a
single supply item that hadn't been accounted for two or three times.

So he paced. And paced some more. Up and down the length of the
facility, until Choi and Frederickson, the two nurses on duty, couldn't
ignore it anymore and started casting doubtful looks at each other.

The doctor didn't care. His nurses hadn't been offered a chance-albeit a
slim one-to renew their claim to life, to happiness. They hadn't just
rediscovered the person they loved and had always loved, only to have
that someone snatched away again and dropped into the jaws of the local
Hell.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts, so racked with concern for
Jocelyn-not to mention Kirk and Spock that he almost didn't notice when
the double doors began AL

to slide away, opening the way to the corridor outside.

Then he heard the sound of voices, so rife with anxiety that they made
his head snap around and drained all the blood from his face.

"My God," he rasped, seeing the two bloody figures laid out on antigrav
stretchers. Spock and Clay were helping a couple of security officers
guide the things into the operating room.

The doctor converged with them at the entrance to the facility and
helped haul the stretchers inside to a space between two operating
tables. Without asking, his nurses directed Spock and the other
nonmedical personnel to set the patients down on the tables and then
ushered them outside.

As the Vulcan left, however, McCoy called out, "Where are the others?"

Spock didn't have time to answer before he was shoved out the door, but
the look on his face told the doctor everything he needed to know. For
some reason the captain and Jocelyn had been left behind.

It was just as McCoy had feared. The assassins had slaughtered them.

Putting his feelings about Kirk and his ex-wife aside, the doctor forced
himself to concentrate his attention on his patients. He recognized
them Peterson and Diaz.

Security officers. Good men.

One was now a good dead man. Frowning at the biosigns display above
Diaz's operating table, he swore beneath his breath and exchanged
glances with Nurse Frederickson, as if to say He's past our help. Then
he scanned Peterson's readout and cursed again.

The gray metal bolt protruding from his back had done a lot of damage.
The security officer was bleeding inside like nobody's business, and
with every passing second he Jocelyn was slipping deeper into shock. Of
course, on the positive side of the ledger, the bolt hadn't hit the
spine or any important organs.

"Ten cee-cees of penthorbaline," he told Nurse Choi.

The woman had placed the hypospray in his hand almost before the words
were out of his mouth. With a hiss, he emptied its contents into
Peterson's arm.

It would be a moment before the drug could take effect.

Come on, come on, McCoy exhorted it. I can't do anything until the boy's
stable, damn it.

Though it made him wait for what seemed like an eternity, the
penthorbaline finally did its job. Despite the terribly invasive object
in Peterson's body, his vital signs had come down within normal
parameters, and the nerve ends in the vicinity had been thoroughly
deadened. Now McCoy could see to getting that invasive object the hell
out of there.

Punching the appropriate buttons in the base of the table, he called up
overhead and cross-section views of the bolt. It didn't look like there
was any head on it, just a shaft with a sharpened point. In fact, it
probably would have gone right through its victim if one of Peterson's
ribs hadn't gotten in the way.

That fit with what the doctor knew about the assassins.

They were purveyors of a quick, clean death, not torturers who wanted
their weapons to inflict as much damage as possible if and when they
were removed.

The next step, however, was to get rid of the security man's padded
scarlet jacket. "Scalpel," he ordered, extending his hand again palm up.

This time it was Frederickson who was one step ahead of him. Setting the
scalpel for a shallow cut, McCoy trained it on the fabric to one side of
the bolt and activated the tiny beam.

In moments he'd sliced away a circle about a hand's breadth in diameter,
exposing the torn, blood-soaked shirt beneath. The doctor frowned at the
sight of the dark, tormented flesh around the wound.

He glanced at Choi. "We're taking it out," he warned her. "You hold him,
I'll pull."

The nurse nodded. Coming around to the other side of the table, she took
hold of the patient, using the space between the thumb and forefinger of
each hand to form a hole around the bolt.

"Ready," she announced.

"All right," said McCoy. "Here goes."

The bolt slipped out more easily than he'd hoped.

Frederickson was waiting with a plastic bag; slipping it inside, he
turned to the wound again.

Choi had placed a temporary patch over it to keep the bleeding to a
minimum. The doctor looked up at the displays of the wound. According to
the device's built-in sensor array, the bolt had come out in one piece.
There were no metal splinters to worry about.

It always made McCoy a little nervous to rely on a machine this way. But
at least this machine was one he'd overhauled only the day before, when
he was still trying to keep his mind off ...

He stopped himself in midthought. No, he insisted. No time for that. I'm
not done yet, I've still got to close up.

And close up he did, with some help from Choi and Frederickson. It was
just a matter of inserting a tiny shunt to drain away the blood that had
collected inside Peterson's chest cavity, trimming the wound's raw edges
and pulpy tatters, and applying the dermaplast patch that would serve as
a skin wall until new flesh could be coerced into growing underneath.

At last, his surgery complete, the doctor glanced again Jocelyn at his
patient's biosigns. Still stable, he observed with some satisfaction,
and a little stronger than when he'd started. All the man really needed
now was rest.

Leaning close to Peterson's waxy-skinned face, McCoy promised "You're
going to be fine now, son." He knew the security officer probably
couldn't hear him, but he said it anyway. Then, leaving Peterson in the
capable hands of Choi and Frederickson, the doctor made for the exit.

Spock and Clay, along with their helpers from security, were still
waiting outside, just as McCoy had hoped. As he emerged from the
operating room, they all turned to him.

"Are they ... ?" began one of the security people. He seemed to have an
inkling that he might be asking for bad news.

"Diaz is dead," the doctor reported flatly. "Peterson will live." But he
was no longer looking at the officer who had posed the question. He was
homing in on the diplomat, who stood with his back resting against the
bulkhead and his face cupped in his large, well-manicured hands.

"Treadway!" snarled McCoy.

Clay looked up. His eyes widened as he saw the fury reflected in the
doctor's, and he very nearly raised his arm in time to ward off McCoy's
blow. But he wasn't quite quick enough. As Bones followed through,
putting all his weight into it, the diplomat's head snapped back and he
went sprawling over a hard, plastic counter. He landed on the other side
of it with a loud thunk.

The doctor rushed around the counter to get at Clay again. Grabbing the
stunned diplomat by the front of his tunic, McCoy raised his
raw-knuckled fist a second time, but someone grabbed him by the wrist
and wouldn't let go no matter how hard he struggled.

It was Spock; it had to be. No one else present had that kind of
strength.

"Let me go," he growled, tightening his grip on Clay's tunic. "Let me
give this weasel what he deserves, damn it!"

"I cannot," the Vulcan informed him. "Please, Doctor.

Release Mr. Treadway."

McCoy had no intention of complying with that request. It took the
combined efforts of Spock, the two security officers, and Clay himself
to work his fingers finally free of the tunic's fabric.

"You're insane," the diplomat hissed as he got to his feet, touching his
fingers to the mottled swelling on his jaw where the doctor had
connected.

"I'm insane?" raged the doctor. "I'm not the one who insisted on beaming
down into the assassins' den. You're the one responsible for that little
demonstration of genius!"

Clay's face grew dark with anger. "I did what I had to do," he argued.
"What the mission demanded!"

"You got Jim and Jocelyn killed is what you did," McCoy spat. He tried
to get at the diplomat again, but Spock held him back. "You wouldn't
listen to anyone but yourself and now you've murdered the two people I
love most in the world!"

"I loved her too," countered Clay, his handsome features contorting into
something primal and ugly. "I'm her husband, for God's sake!"

The doctor shook his head. "Not anymore you aren't.

You've lost her-or didn't you know that?"

Apparently that was about all Clay could take. With a guttural cry from
deep down in his throat, he launched himself at McCoy. The doctor didn't
see the fist that smashed into the side of his brow until it was too
late.

Jocelyn

"Mr. Treadway!" bellowed one of the security men.

As Bones recovered, he saw that both of the officers had wrapped
themselves around the sputtering, cursing diplomat. "I loved her too,"
Clay grunted through clenched teeth. "I would never have hurt her, not
for anything."

McCoy wiped at the blood he could feel meandering down the side of his
face. "Really?" he remarked. "You had a damned funny way of showing it."

Suddenly, he realized that they were talking in the past tense. Talking
about Jocelyn that way. Swallowing hard, he turned to Spock.

"She's dead," he stated. "Isn't she?"

Seeing that the doctor had expended all the violence he had inside him,
the first officer released him and shook his head. "I do not know," he
confessed. "The last I saw of her, she was alive. Both she and the
captain."

McCoy was confused. He said so. "If they were alive, why weren't they
beamed up? Why in blazes are they still down there?"

Spock sighed. "I cannot say for certain, but I would guess it was the
maldinium in the area. It may have prevented Mr. Scott from getting a
lock on them."

"Maldinium," the doctor muttered. He eyed the Vulcan. "In other words,
you and our diplomat friend had the good fortune to be clear for
transport but Jim and Jocelyn didn't."

"I am only speculating," Spock reminded him. "But I cannot think of a
more likely explanation."

"I want to know for sure," barked Treadway, slithering out of the
security officers' grasp. "I want to know what happened and what we can
do to get her back. And I want to know now.

The Vulcan frowned ever so subtly. "I will do my best to determine what
happened to both the captain and your wife," he assured the diplomat.
"And then we will formulate a plan of action."

"You're damned right we'll formulate a plan of action," Treadway
promised. And with a final, withering glance at McCoy, he stormed out of
sickbay.

Bones turned to the first officer. "When you find out, Spock . . ."

The Vulcan nodded. "I will notify you as well, Doctor. I had no
intention of doing otherwise."

With a look of sympathy, insofar as he was able of such a thing, the
Vulcan led the security officers out of the medical facility. In their
wake, there was silence, a grim, torturous silence which proved more
difficult for the doctor to endure than even the most hideous certainty.

Spock reminded himself that he was a Vulcan and that, as such, he did
not engage in shouting matches. Otherwise he would have been sorely
tempted to return Clay Treadway's remarks decibel for decibel.

"What do you mean I'm no longer in charge?" the human demanded. He'd
been on his feet ever since the meeting convened a little more than a
minute ago, at which time he'd been apprised of his unexpected fall from
power.

No doubt Treadway had expected that since he had initiated the
proceedings, he would also be the one to preside over them. But that was
not the Vulcan's intention at all.

"I meant precisely what I said," Spock replied. "This is no longer a
straightforward diplomatic mission. Therefore, I am reassuming control
of it on behalf of the ship's command structure under Starfleet Order
Nine-five-eight, article three, paragraphs seven and eight."

Out of the corner of his eye, the Vulcan saw that his Jocel.vn move was
meeting with approval from Mr. Scott, Lieutenant Uhura, and Mr. Chekov.
the other officers Treadway had seen fit to include in these
proceedings. The chief engineer even went so far as to wink at him in a
conspiratorial way.

"That's absurd," Treadway snapped. "It's ridiculous.

Order Nine-five-eight pertains only to situations in which the
diplomatic envoy has been killed or incapacitated."

"Which may be the case," Spock rejoined grimly, "at least insofar as
your wife is concerned."

The human's eyes narrowed dangerously. "My wife?

What about me? I'm not dead or incapacitated."

The Vulcan shrugged-an economical gesture which barely required any
movement at all. "Perhaps not, Mr. Treadway. However, as far as I can
tell, you are only half of the diplomatic team assigned to this
endeavor. And the absence of the other half suggests-at least to me-an
impaired ability to carry out your diplomatic duties."

The human shook his head. "You're flirting with a court-martial here,
Spock. And you know it."

"I know no such thing," Spock countered. "However, if you insist on
pressing your point, that is certainly your privilege. You may voice
your objection with Starfleet Command any time after I have given the
order to lift subspace radio silence."

Treadway's face darkened. "Radio silence?" he echoed, his voice thick
with irony.

"That is correct," the Vulcan confirmed. "It is possible that the
assassins are monitoring our communications. I would not want to
encourage them by letting on that there is even a hint of dissent in our
ranks."

Treadway's nostrils flared above his dashing, neatly trimmed mustache.
He seemed to be mulling his options and rejecting them one by one. When
he finally spoke again, it was with the voice of a man who had resigned
himself to defeat.

"I'm being railroaded here, Mr. Spock."

The first officer arched an eyebrow. "I do not see how," he commented.
"I am merely abiding by the same set of regulations to which you
yourself referred in taking command. I regret," he added, not regretting
it at all, "that you do not agree with my interpretation of them."

Treadway didn't answer. It was clear to him, as the Vulcan had intended,
that he wasn't going to make any headway with his protest. With
calculated dignity, the diplomat lowered himself into his seat.

"All right then, it's your game, Spock," he declared pointedly. "How are
you going to play it?"

Before the first officer could answer, the doors slid aside and Dr.
McCoy walked in. With an angry glance at the diplomat, he said "Were
you going to leave me out of your little get-together, Clay?"

The other man responded without emotion. "Was there a reason to invite
you?" he asked.

"You're damned right there was a reason," snarled McCoy. "I still know
more about Ssan than you'll ever learn in the ship's library. With
Jocelyn's life at stake here, I'd have expected you'd put what's between
us aside and let me lend whatever help I can." He shook his head.

"I didn't think even you would stoop this low."

Unmoved, Treadway smiled coldly. "No lower than you," he replied.

Spock had no idea what the diplomat was talking about. However, he
thought it best to haul their discussion out of the muck before it
degenerated any further.

"Gentlemen," he interjected, "we have a very serious Jocelyn matter
before us. I suggest we put our differences aside and address it. Dr.
McCoy? Mr. Treadway?"

"Fine with me," remarked the doctor, pulling up a chair at the end of
the table opposite his adversary.

The diplomat nodded. "I have no problem with that," he alleged, though
his frozen smile stated otherwise.

"Very well then," said the Vulcan. He turned to the engineer. "Mr.
Scott, what were your findings regarding your inability to recover the
captain and Jocelyn Treadway?"

Scotty scowled. Inability was not one of his favorite words.

"It was as ye suspected, sir. We were confounded by the maldinium in the
area. In retrospect, it's a wonder we got the rest of ye out."

Spock nodded. "And were you able to pick up Captain Kirk's coordinates
at any time after you beamed us aboard?"

"We were nae," he confessed. "The maldinium's playing havoc with our
sensors as well. Of course-"

"So we don't even know if they're dead or alive?"

asked Treadway, his voice taut with barely contained dread.

"We dinnae," the engineer told him. "But as I was startin' to say, we
can recalibrate our instruments, and in time, that'll enable us to
discern the captain and Ms.

Treadway from their captors."

"If they're still alive," McCoy amended. "If the assassins haven't
killed them by now for their trouble."

"How long will it take?" asked Spock, maintaining eye contact with Scott
and ignoring the doctor's pessimism.

The engineer shrugged. "Two, maybe three hours."

The doctor leaned forward like a snake uncoiling for battle. "By then,"
he observed harshly, "they may be past any help we could give them."

"Ve could send down a rescue party," noted Chekov.

"Perhaps a half-dozen security officers trained to vork in mountainous
terrain."

"You'll need a communications specialist," Uhura pointed out. "Someone
who can find a way to maintain contact with the ship, maldinium or no
maldinium."

The Vulcan shook his head. "We will need neither security officers nor
communications specialists at this juncture. We will not be beaming down
until we know for certain whether Captain Kirk and Miss Treadway are
still alive."

"What?" sputtered McCoy. "I don't believe what I'm hearing, Spock! Jim
is your friend, for god's sake!"

The first officer met the criticism head-on. "That is certainly true,
Doctor. However, the captain would be the first to caution us against
risking the lives of our comrades for what is at best an uncertain
gain."

But McCoy was only warming up. Glaring at Spock, he said, "He went after
you, damn it. Against regulations, against the odds, against reason
itself, he went after you on that blasted Genesis planet. And he brought
you back."

The Vulcan felt the sting he was intended to feel. After all these
years, the chief medical officer knew how to get to him as few others
could.

Thrusting his chin out, he replied "I do not need to be reminded of
what Jim Kirk has done for me, Dr. McCoy.

It is forever etched into my soul, as you well know.

However, that does not change anything. I must still pursue logic in
making my decision. And logic dictates Jocelyn that I refrain from
spilling more blood than is ... than is absolutely necessary."

"Than is absolutely necessary?" Uhura echoed.

It was not for nothing that she had been the ship's preeminent authority
on communications for most of the last twenty-five years. She had
detected the change in the Vulcan's position even before he could
recognize it himself.

For Spock had changed his position, hadn't he? Somewhere between
McCoy's swipe at him and his reflexive response, he had weighed the
evidence anew and realized it could be seen in another light-and all
without its invading his conscious mind until Uhura had brought it into
the open.

To be sure, Spock was still a Vulcan through and through. He had
dedicated his entire life to that ideal. He had worked hard to embrace
it.

But he had also learned a great deal since the crash of the ill-fated
Galileo shuttlecraft more than a quarter century earlier. He had learned
that he could be wrong.

And he had learned that humans, for all their illogic, could sometimes
embrace a wisdom he could not.

Life-and-death decisions were not always reducible to mathematical
equations. The welfare of the one was sometimes all that mattered.

"Yes," the Vulcan confirmed, remembering to answer Uhura's question. He
took a breath, let it out. "Perhaps I was ... somewhat hasty in
rejecting the notion of a rescue party."

"Somebody pinch me," muttered McCoy, in what seemed like genuine awe.
"You actually changed that steel-trap mind of yours. It's a miracle."

"However," Spock went on, undaunted, "I maintain that security and
communications personnel are inappropriate. In fact, no amount of
security will protect anyone who beams down into the assassins'
territory. Nor will we be able to communicate, I believe, unless they
wish us to."

He turned again to McCoy, making a promise to him that far transcended
the spoken language he was about to employ. "I will beam down alone," he
said. "And if it is possible, I will bring them back-both the captain
and Jocelyn Treadway."

"No."

The word had come from Clay Treadway. His eyes as hard as duranium, he
shook his head.

"I will not sit here," he announced, "while Jocelyn's in danger of
losing her life to those assassins." He looked around the table, at each
face in turn-McCoy's included, the Vulcan's last of all. "I'm her
husband.

One way or the other, I will be part of the rescue attempt."

"That's crazy," the doctor told him. "You don't know the first thing
about clandestine operations. You'll just get yourself killed and screw
up the mission to boot."

"I'm in shape," Treadway argued, matching McCoy's intensity. "I can rock
climb with the best of them. It's in my file, if you care to look. And
I'm a fair shot with a phaser. That's in my file as well."

The doctor dismissed his adversary's contentions with a wave of his hand
and turned to the first officer. "You don't need a rock climber, Spock.
You need someone who can tell you what those damned assassins are
thinking.

Someone like me."

"You?" The diplomat made a face. "You're a doctor.

ien agendas? Alien points of What do you know about alview?"

McCoy got to his feet. "I knew enough to tell you not to Jocelyn beam
into the assassins' front yard, didn't I? I knew enough to predict that
your little foray would turn into a bloody disaster!"

Treadway leaned forward to address the Vulcan again.

"You need me, Spock. What if there's an opportunity to pursue our
original purpose and bring these assassins to the mediation table? If
there's a chance for peace, even a slim one, you'll want me there to
identify it and take advantage of it."

"That's a pipe dream," the doctor jibed. "I said it before and I'll say
it again; in the real world, those assassins are never going to
negotiate. Never. And if you believe otherwise, that's just your ego
getting in the-"

I 'Gentlemen, " interrupted the Vulcan. Both the diplomat and McCoy
turned to him as one, their eyes still full of the rancor they harbored
for one another. "There is no need to debate this any further. If you
believe your presence will be an asset, you may both come along."

McCoy's eyes screwed up. "Both?" he repeated.

Spock nodded in response. "You, Doctor, are correct in pointing out that
no one else on this ship has any experience with the Ssana. Also, the
captain and Miss Treadway may turn out to be in need of medical
assistance. However," he continued, addressing the diplomat now, "Mr.
Treadway has a point as well. There may yet be an opportunity to achieve
peace, and he is better trained in such matters than any of us. What is
more, I may need someone besides myself to carry a phaser and, as he
indicates, his le does describe him as a good shot."

Treadway glanced at McCoy with undisguised contempt. But he didn't
complain about Spock's decision.

He'd gotten what he wanted, after all, and, being a member of the
diplomatic corps, he knew enough to quit while he was ahead.

"Of course," the Vulcan went on, "this presupposes that you both
understand from the beginning who is in charge of this effort and agree
to follow my orders, regardless of your feelings about one another.
Otherwise, assure you, I am still quite willing to go by myself."

The doctor scowled. "I think I can put my personal judgments aside long
enough to drag Jim and Jocelyn out of there. Count me in."

"I accept your kind invitation," said Treadway, suddenly the picture of
southern gentility once again. "You may rely on me as well."

"I should also tell you," Spock added, "that if we are lost, there will
be no further rescue attempts. I will leave orders to that effect."

"Understood," the diplomat responded.

McCoy harrumphed. "I never expected anything else."

Spock eyed them appraisingly. "Good," he concluded.

"We will beam down in twenty minutes, after I have consulted with
Commander Scott and Lieutenant Uhura.

Mr. Chekov, you may return to the conn."

The Russian nodded. "Aye-aye, sair." He rose and turned smartly toward
the exit.

Treadway followed a moment later and McCoy a moment after that. As the
doors slid closed behind them, the Vulcan looked to the chief engineer
and the communications officer. They were alert, ready for his
instructions.

"I will need a data map of the assassins' lair," he told Scotty, "with
references to those spots where the maldinium deposits are the most
troublesome."

"Ye've got it, sir," Scott promised.

" You'll also need communicators set to a frequency the Ssana aren't
likely to monitor," Uhura noted. "And amplification inserts, just in
case you need to contact us while you're still inside the caverns."

Jocelyn Spock grunted softly. "You anticipate me, Lieutenant.

But at least you anticipate me accurately. I will indeed require the
devices to which you refer."

"I'll get right on it," the lieutenant told him.

But as she and Scotty got up, she seemed less than eager to leave.
Noticing her hesitation, the engineer hesitated too.

"Is there something else?" the Vulcan inquired of them.

Uhura frowned. "Mr. Spock ... I don't think you were entirely honest
with us. About your reasons for allowing Dr. McCoy and Mr. Treadway to
accompany you."

The first officer cocked an eyebrow. "Really," he observed. "And what
were my true reasons?"

"I believe," Uhura contended, "that you saw two men willing to sacrifice
their lives for someone they loved. And out of respect for that, you let
them."

Spock pretended to consider the possibility. "Fascinating," he commented
at last. "I wish we had more time to discuss this theory, Lieutenant.
However, as Dr. McCoy said, it is urgent that we get this mission under
way as soon as possible."

Uhura gazed at him a moment longer. A smile came over her face. "Of
course, sir," she responded. "I'll bring the communicators to the
transporter room."

"That will be satisfactory," he informed her and watched as Uhura and
Scott took their leave of him.

Alone in the conference room, the Vulcan leaned back in his chair. Uhura
had been right, he mused, though he would never admit it.

He had given in not only on the question of whether to stage a rescue at
all but also on the point of whether or not to bring the doctor and the
diplomat for company. His father would not have approved of his
less-than-logical approach to the situation.

But then, Sarek had not been wrested from the Genesis planet by a group
of humans who had had no chance to retrieve him-and retrieved him
anyway. Had brought him back from death, in fact.

For all his wisdom, Sarek had no grasp of the power of love.

TWO

As they made their way along the corridor to the transporter room,
Scotty did his best to keep up with the Vulcan's long strides. When
Spock had his eyes fixed on a goal, the engineer mused, it was difficult
to slow him down.

"So ye see," Scott went on, "there's really no place on that bloody
shelf where ye can beam down and keep from being spotted."

"That is unfortunate," the first officer commented. "Is there an
alternative?"

"Aye," said the human, "but nae an easy one." Punching the buttons on
the tricorder he'd brought along, he held it up so Spock could see its
tiny screen. "If ye look closely, sir, ye can make out a slope just
above the place we've designated as their main entrance. It's a pretty
steep incline and it does nae appear to offer a great many handor
footholds. What's more, it's a rather long slope, one that'll take
several hours to descend. But by the same token, I dinnae think it'll be
watched very closely."

The Vulcan peered at the tricorder screen and nodded.

"We will be of little help to the captain and Jocelyn Treadway if we are
discovered by the assassins. I agree with your assessment, Mr. Scott. We
will make our approach via the slope."

"Very good, sir," the engineer acknowledged. "The slope it is. In that
case, ye'll need this tricorder. It's got all the maidinium data ye
requested and a profile of the best descent route as well."

Spock looked at him. "Thank you," he said to Scotty. "That is most
thorough-though, to be honest, I expected no less." Accepting the
tricorder, the Vulcan tucked it away into one of the pockets of his cold
weather jacket.

Abruptly, the entrance to the transporter room loomed ahead. And a good
thing, too. Scott didn't know how much longer he could keep up this
pace.

As the doors slid aside, they could see that Uhura was already inside,
waiting for them. She had the communicators that Spock had requested
cradled in one arm. Apparently she'd been able to make the necessary
adjustments in the devices on time and without any trouble.

Fariss, Scott's most experienced transporter operator, was also present.
Her sleek, black hair drawn back into a tight ponytail, she looked to be
all business, ready for anything.

Not that the chief engineer would let anyone but himself beam down the
rescue party. But he couldn't create a maldinium map, profile the
descent route, and prepare the transporter unit all at the same
time-albeit in a younger day, he would certainly have tried.

As the doors started to close, Scotty heard the sound of Jocelyn
footfalls in the corridor he and Spock had just vacated.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Dr. McCoy and Clay Treadway marching
toward them, their jaws set in grim determination not only to recover
Captain Kirk and the diplomat's wife but apparently to do it without
talking to one another.

With the approach of the two men, the doors reversed their course and
slid fully open again. Treadway made a beeline for the transporter
platform, where he came to a halt beside a stack of climbing ropes and
duranium wedges and appeared to - gather himself for the effort ahead.
The doctor, on the other hand, joined his fellow officers in the center
of the room.

Uhura smiled. "Your communicators," she said, offering them to Spock and
McCoy.

Bones took one. The Vulcan took two-one for the diplomat and one for
himself. Then they joined Treadway and the pile of climbing gear on the
platform.

That was Scotty's cue to assume command of the transporter console.
Fariss moved to one side, not the least bit miffed. She knew how
important this was to her superior; if there were any mistakes made, he
didn't want to have anyone to blame but himself.

The chief engineer glanced at the controls, just to be certain Fariss
had done her job. With some satisfaction, he saw that she had. Now it
was all up to him. He looked up at Spock, awaiting the word.

The first officer gazed across the room with hooded eyes. His intellect
was focused to a fine point, as only a Vulcan could focus. Scott had
seen that look before and was heartened by it. No matter how good the
assassins were down there, they had never dealt with the relentless
resourcefulness of the being named Spock.

Without actually meeting the engineer's gaze, the Vulcan
said,"Energize."

Scotty did as he was told. The tightly controlled energies inherent in
the transporter process took hold of and enveloped the three figures on
the platform. And then, in the time it took to blink, they were gone.

Good luck, the engineer wished them. Back safe.

He noticed that Uhura was looking at him. She smiled, knowing exactly
what he'd been thinking. He smiled back, knowing she'd been thinking it
too.

"Well," Scott exhaled, "I guess that's that." Turning to Fariss, he
said, "It's all yours, Lieutenant." And with Uhura alongside him, he
departed the transporter room, anticipating the long minutes and perhaps
hours ahead.

After all, the worst part of serving as an officer on a starship was
waiting helplessly for a landing party to come home. And Scotty had
seldom felt so helpless as he did now.

"Captain?"

He was lying in a field, peering up at a dark blue sky framed by the
corn stalks that rose about him on every side. Flies buzzed lazily near
his feet; his sunburned face stung where perspiration touched it in its
slow, meandering travels. From a distance the breeze carried the pungent
smell of fertilizer.

And he wasn't a captain, no matter who had decided it might be fun to
call him that, though, if dreams could come true, he might get to be a
captain some day.

"Captain Kirk?"

The sky and the cornstalks gave way to the arched, copper-colored
ceiling of one of the gyms at Starfleet Academy. His back hurt and his
cheeks were suffused with a terrible heat. As he lay there, a face
loomed above Jocelyn him and a hand reached down for him, and they
belonged to an upperclassman named Finnegan who was offering him two
falls out of three.

He still wasn't a captain-not by a long shot. And if Finnegan threw him
a couple more times as hard as that first time, he wouldn't live long
enough to become one.

"Captain Kirk? For god's sake . .

The gym melted around him and he was in the open again. It was night and
the sky was full of stars. There was someone standing nearby, a man with
a thick yellow mane and what looked like a tiny jewel set into his
forehead, just above the bridge of his nose. The man's name was Tyree.
They were friends, and Tyree had taken the first lookout this night,
while Jim and the rest of his Federation survey team slept.

And he wasn't a captain yet, though he was well on his way. If all his
assignments went as well as this one, he'd have his own ship
before"Captain Kirk, wake up!"

Spurred by the tone of urgency, Kirk bolted upright and felt his head
bob in a sea of sickening pain. Bringing a hand up to his temple, he
touched the source of that pain-a hot, throbbing knot at the corner of
his brow.

"Are you all right?" asked the voice.

Opening his eyes, the captain saw who had posed the question. It was
Jocelyn Treadway, her face half in shadow and half awash with the light
of a candle that she held in her hand.

"I've felt worse," he told her truthfully.

He looked around and saw that they were in a lowceilinged cave. The
candlelight didn't reach far enough to tell him how big the floor was,
only that there was a supply of fresh air, because the tiny flame
guttered in a faint breeze.

"Where are we?" he asked.

Jocelyn sighed. "In the assassins' lair. The very place we were hoping
to get into." She glanced at something off in the darkness beyond their
circle of illumination. "They brought us here after the others beamed
up."

After they ... beamed up? Kirk's head hurt too much for him to think
clearly, but it came to him that he'd seen Spock and Clay Treadway
vanish in the transporter effect.

And that he'd expected to pull the same kind of disappearing act a
moment later. Except he hadn't. And neither had Jocelyn.

"What went wrong?" asked the captain. "Why didn't we get beamed up along
with them?" But even before he finished his question, he had the answer.
"The maldinium."

Jocelyn nodded. "Of course. We must have been too near a deposit for Mr.
Scott to get a lock on us." She bit her lip. "Some luck."

Kirk saw her eyes move as she pondered the injustice of it. But he
didn't see a whole lot of resentment there. Or for that matter, a whole
lot of fear, considering the fact that they were at the mercy of a
violent cult.

"Well," she said, focusing on him again, "at least the others got away.
I suppose that's something to be grateful for."

"I suppose it is," the captain agreed. And then it occurred to him that
his companion might have injuries as well-injuries that were just less
obvious than his.

"They haven't hurt you?" he asked hopefully.

Jocelyn smiled a little and shook her head. "No. They said as long as I
didn't offer them any resistance, I wouldn't be harmed. At least," she
added ominously, "for the time being."

Kirk frowned. Just a threat, to keep them in line? Or LL

Jocelyn genuine notice of the assassins' intentions? He had no way of
knowing.

"Of course," he said out loud, "the fact that they bothered to bring us
in here at all is a good sign. If they didn't kill us right off the bat,
it probably means they want something from us. Information, hostage
value, something."

Or maybe they're just not sure yet, he mused. Maybe they're still
mulling it over. But he didn't tell Jocelyn that.

The woman's eyes shone in the meager yellow light.

"Will Mr. Spock try to get us out of here?" she wondered.

The captain shook his head-and winced at the pain it cost him. Reaching
out blindly, he found an outcropping he could hang onto until the wave
of nausea and vertigo passed.

"I don't know," he told her. "It depends on a lot of things; first of
all, whether they think we're dead or alive.

If the maldinium configurations in these caves prevent them from
obtaining a reliable sensor scan, Spock might not want to put anyone
else's life on the line."

Jocelyn didn't look happy about that, but she didn't break down in tears
either. She was one tough cookie, Kirk noted.

"And if they can find us?" she asked. "If they can determine beyond a
shadow of a doubt that we're still alive?"

"Still no guarantees," the captain warned her. "Those same maldinium
configurations might prevent them from beaming down with any certainty
of survival. And Spock's too good a commanding officer to take that kind
of risk."

His companion nodded. "I had a feeling you'd say something like that."
She glanced into the darkness again.

"So very possibly, we're on our own. And if we get out of here, it'll be
either by the grace of God or through our own devices."

Kirk couldn't have put it better himself. He said so.

Absorbing the information, Jocelyn regarded him appraisingly. Then she
turned away and chuckled softly to herself.

"What?" the captain prompted.

Looking up again, the diplomat suppressed a smile. "I was just weighing
what I knew about the assassins-their physiology, their training, their
psychological makeup against the physical skills of two over-the-hill
specimens like you and me."

"And?" he asked.

Jocelyn's expression turned apologetic. "I wouldn't bet the family farm
on our side, if you know what I mean."

Kirk grunted. "You wound me, madam."

"Too late for that," she quipped dryly. "Someone beat me to it."

Before the captain could return the volley, he heard something move
beyond their circle of light. Putting his index finger to his lips in a
request for silence, he heard the distinct scrape of boots against a
hard, coarse surface.

One set, he remarked to himself. They slowed down at what must have been
the entrance to their cave. There were voices-two at least-engaged in a
conversation too quiet to overhear. Then the footfalls sped up again and
faded into the distance.

Jocelyn inquired with her eyes whether it was all right to speak again.
Kirk nodded to show her that it was.

"I hear that every so often," she told him. "The changing of the guard."

"Any idea how often?" the captain asked.

lm Jocelyn The woman thought for a moment. "Not really," she decided.
"Maybe every hour, maybe every two hours. I've heard them do it five or
six times since they put us in here." She paused. "It's amazing how
quickly you can lose track of time in this place."

"And the number of guards?" he pressed. "Just one or more than one?"
Though he'd heard one set of footfalls approach and one set leave, there
could have been several of them out there on a staggered schedule.

Jocelyn shrugged. "There were quite a few of the assassins with us when
they brought us in-ten or twelve, I'd say. But as to how many are still
out there . . . She shrugged a second time. "Sorry. I just don't know."

"That's all right," he told her. "We'll figure it out."

But despite his encouraging words, he had a bad feeling about this. A
very bad feeling. Even if Spock knew they were alive, even if he could
get in here to rescue them, their captors were trained killers who knew
these caverns a lot better than any Enterprise security officer.

Kirk had been in more than his share of tight spots, the most recent of
them no less hopeless a place than the Klingon work camp on Rura Penthe.
But even in that frozen purgatory, he'd never quite let his doubts get
the best of him. He'd always known, deep down inside, that someday he
and McCoy would again warm their hands by a friendly fire.

And despite everything, he had turned out to be right.

They eventually escaped Rura Penthe, as they had escaped so many other
places in the past. They beat the odds, came out on the winning end of
the equation, triumphed over every difficulty their enemies could throw
at them.

Given his track record, his penchant for bluffing and improvising and
clawing his way around every obstacle, the captain should have harbored
a certain amount of confidence that he could cheat death yet again.

Instead, there was a nagging fear that this small, dark cavern in the
northern mountains of Ssan was where his luck would finally run out.

"The off worlders must die," said Cor Lakandir, his eyes glittering in
the light of the fire. "What other option is there?"

There were murmurs of assent from the other young assassins. Andrachis
noted this. The prevailing sentiment was not at all to his liking, and
sentiments had a way of lurching out of control unless someone put a
stop to them early on. He would have to be that someone.

"There is another option," he countered. "There is always another
option. Particularly when tradition frowns on the taking of such lives."

"In what way does it frown?" asked Lakandir.

Andrachis met his challenge squarely. "It is dishonorable," he
explained, "to shed blood that has never flowed through Ssani veins. I
learned that before I made my first kill. Assassination is a right, a
privilege-not to be bestowed on off worlders."

There was a time, he recalled, when he diverged from that principle.
However, that was a long time ago, when he was very young, and he
regretted it now as he regretted little else.

"We have already killed," one of the other young ones reminded them. "At
least one of the Federation people is dead, and perhaps a second."

To the Ssana who offered the information, it was an argument for going
ahead with Lakandir's proposal. To Andrachis it was quite the contrary.

"This is true," he conceded. "We have already carved Jocelyn off worlder
flesh. But is that a reason to do so again? Does an assassin build
shame upon shame? Or does he learn from his mistakes and seek to
rectify them?"

Lakandir grunted softly. "You call it shame to defend ourselves,
Master?"

"I call it shame to break with tradition," Andrachis told him, "no
matter the provocation. I assure you, Li Moboron would have slit his own
throat and those of all his comrades before staining his blade with an
off worlder's blood." He paused for effect, taking the opportunity to
eye half a dozen of Lakandir's contemporaries.

"It was not necessary to kill out there on the shelf. Had I been there,
I would have found a way to prevent it."

"But you promised we would break the off worlders," said Lakandir.

The master assassin shook his head. "Break them, but not kill them. Send
them away, but not to join the souls of their ancestors."

"What's done is done," commented another Ssana, neither youth nor
grizzled veteran. "The question before us is what to do with our
captives."

"We cannot let them go," counseled Lakandir. "They have seen our lair.
They will return to their ship and use their knowledge to purge us from
this place."

An older assassin nodded. "They have the power to do that. To do it
easily, in fact, as someone recently pointed out."

It was Lakandir, of course, who had made mention of the off worlders'
weapons. If the older Ssana didn't remember that, the master did. He
remembered everything.

Andrachis shook his head derisively, but not too derisively. After all,
he did not wish to alienate his followers, only instruct them.

"Has it not occurred to you," he asked, "that the off worlders know the
location of our lair already thanks to their advanced-technology
detection devices, which someone mentioned recently as well? Or does
one of us here think it is a coincidence that the Federation people
happened to be walking around in these mountains?"

Silence, except for the spitting of the fire.

Good, he thought. His remark had found its target. He was not as skilled
an orator as Li Moboron, but it seemed he was skilled enough.

"Then why were they walking around?" wondered Lakandir, breaking the
spell. "Perhaps their instruments could not tell them everything.
Perhaps there was something else they needed to know before they could
attack us.

"Yes," said another youth. "And our assault kept them from gaining that
knowledge. But if we were to send the captives back to them . .

Another challenge that had to be suppressed before it got out of hand.
Andrachis threw himself at it the way he had thrown himself at countless
adversaries during the Assassin Wars.

"Think," he exclaimed, his voice cracking like a whip in the still air
of the cavern. "Have the Federation people ever attacked us? Have they
displayed a desire to attack us?" He spat into the flames to demonstrate
his disdain for the whole idea. "That is not their way," he pressed,
"just as I told you earlier. They talk. They cajole. But they do not use
force except when all else fails."

"How can you be so sure of this?" asked Marn Silariot, one of Lakandir's
allies.

"As I told you," he related, "I had firsthand experience with them. It
was during the wars. I came to know them better than some of them know
themselves. And I tell you that this expedition did not approach us with
violence in Jocelyn mind. They came to speak to us on behalf of the city
states, to counsel peace."

"It is true," noted one of the young ones, "that they did not kill any
of us with their weapons. We were knocked backward, stunned, but no
assassin lost his life out there."

"But if they are so naive, so harmless, why not just turn them loose?"
Ars Rondorrin posed the question not so much because he wanted to know
the answer but to give Andrachis a chance to expand on the ground he had
gained.

"Because," the master answered dutifully, "they may prove valuable to
us. Even if the Federation people do not attack us in our lair, the
master governors will not be so reluctant. Eventually they will attempt
to organize a strike. But if we have a couple of their human allies in
our midst, they will be limited as to the types of weapons they may use.
In the end, they may not storm us at all, for fear of losing the
friendship of the off worlders."

Lakandir eyed him across the cooking fire. "You speak of our traditions,
Master. But holding prisoners is hardly the function of an assassin."

Andrachis nodded. "You are correct. But neither is there any lore to
relegate against it. Do not mistake me, Cor. I too see the need for us
to adapt to our situation, to respond to a set of exigencies that Li
Moboron and his predecessors never envisioned. I only ask that we remain
true to the spirit of our laws, that we show respect for those Ssana who
walked the assassin's path before us."

It would be difficult to argue with his stance after he had clothed it
in such a way. Andrachis knew that. And apparently Lakandir knew it too,
because he refrained from posing yet another challenge.

"The captives will remain alive," said the High Assassin, so there would
be no confusion in the matter. "For now, that is all we need decide
about them."

This time Andrachis had faced the challenge and surmounted it. But he
knew it was not the last challenge he would face from Cor Lakandir.

His breath freezing on the thin air, McCoy looked around. He and his
companions had materialized on a large, snowy plateau. On two sides, the
mountain offered easy, gradual descents, distinguished by other, smaller
plateaus at intervals. On a third side it displayed a rocky, gray flank,
which climbed to even greater heights.

But it was the fourth side with which they would concern themselves, for
that way lay the slope of which Scotty had spoken-the steep, almost
vertical slope that would eventually deposit them at a point over the
entrance to the assassins' lair.

"This way?" asked the doctor.

Spock nodded. "Yes."

McCoy scowled. He couldn't help it.

Clay said nothing, obviously preferring to guard his motions. But that
was fine with Bones. Better for them both to be silent than to be at
each other's throats.

Approaching the collection of ropes and wedges that Scotty had beamed
down alongside them, the Vulcan hoisted some gear onto his shoulder.
Following his example, McCoy and the diplomat did the same.

As the doctor watched, Spock walked to the edge of the plateau, knelt on
the cold stone surface, and, using one wedge as a hammer, drove another
one into a small fissure in the cliff. The impact made the air sing, but
not so loudly that it could be heard below.

It would no doubt be the first of many wedges that the Vulcan would
drive that day. McCoy recognized that fact Jocelyn as Spock hit it a
second time, and a third. Then he attached his rope to it and let it
slink down the almost featureless slope, a first step toward their
ultimate destination.

Finally, he looked up at the doctor. With a raised brow, he made a
wordless inquiry. After all, Spock was well aware of McCoy's fear of
heights. The doctor had mentioned it some years ago, when he had seen
Jim Kirk climb El Capitan. And even if the Vulcan hadn't heard it from
McCoy's own lips, he would certainly have known it from the look in his
eyes.

But Bones wasn't shrinking from this descent-not when it might make the
difference between Jocelyn living and dying. As wordlessly as Spock had
framed his question, he communicated his answer You're blasted right
I'm still with you.

Satisfied, Spock took hold of the rope and lowered himself down over the
brink of the plateau. McCoy swallowed. He only hoped these damn-fool
heroics would eventually be rewarded.

Kirk knew there was no point in trying to be discreet as he headed for
the way out of their cavern. As he had told Jocelyn before taking
possession of their single candle, a Ssani assassin would hear him no
matter how quiet he was. And if the Ssana thought one of the humans was
trying to sneak up on him, he might decide to strike first and ask
questions later.

Of course, this was all assuming there was one guard and one only. It
was entirely possible there was more than one, in which case it would
have been twice as foolhardy to go skulking around the cave opening.

So he did just the opposite. He came toward the opening candle in hand,
whistling softly to himself, alerting whoever was out there that there
was a captive approaching.

As the exit began to define itself in the meager yellow light, Kirk
heard the shuffle of feet out in the stone passageway beyond. Even then,
however, he couldn't tell if it was one assassin out there or more than
one.

So, clenching his teeth, he put one foot in front of the other and kept
on whistling. And he wouldn't stop, he vowed, until he had found out
what he needed to know.

Abruptly, a white-robed figure stood in his path, filling most of the
opening with his bulk. Kirk hadn't seen the Ssana move into place. It
was as if he had just appeared out of the thin, cold air.

"Where are you going?" the assassin asked.

The captain frowned. "Even animals don't mess their dens," he pointed
out.

"No," the Ssana agreed. "But you will. That is, if you know what is good
for you."

As he spoke, two other assassins moved into position behind him. They
probably didn't expect an unarmed human to be any real threat, but they
weren't taking any chances.

More importantly, it told Kirk that there were at least three guards out
there. Three armed guards, he noted, his eyes drawn to the knifelike
weapons inserted into their belts.

Given the frequency with which they were replaced by fresh personnel,
they weren't likely to doze off. And if they weren't providing their
captives with simple amenities, it wasn't likely they would respond to
the old sudden-sickness ploy either.

Not good news, the captain mused. Not good news at all.

Jocelyn

"Thanks for the hospitality," he said, smiling thinly at the Ssana who
had confronted him. "I guess I'll be going now."

The assassin didn't reply. He just stood there and watched as Kirk made
his way back into the recesses of the cave. It wasn't until the captain
had retraced about half his steps that he heard the Ssana move away from
the opening.

A moment later Jocelyn's image swam back into the range of the candle's
illumination. "Any luck?" she asked.

Kirk grunted. "I got what I set out for," he told her.

'And?"

He shook his head. "You don't want to know."

"More than one?" she pressed.

"More than two," he reported.

Jocelyn's spirits seemed to flag. "Oh," she commented.

Joining her, the captain sat down with his back against a more or less
vertical plane of rock. "Sorry I couldn't have been the bearer of better
news," he added.

She looked at him. "That's all right," she said. "It's not your fault
we're in this position." A pause. "It's mine.

Mine and my husband's."

"Spilt milk," he remarked. "And you know what they say about that."

Jocelyn smiled a little. "Yes, I do. So now what? We just wait for
something to happen?"

Kirk thought about it. What indeed? There was still a chance that they
could get out of here, of course. There was always a chance.

But he didn't believe they could do it on their own.

Some sort of opportunity would have to present itself, and when it did,
they had better be ready for it.

"I don't see that we've got any choice," he responded at last. "At least
for the time being."

His companion accepted that conclusion in silence. It wasn't an easy
thing to accept, this helplessness. But she was giving it her best shot.

Abruptly, she said, "You've known Leonard for ...

what? Almost thirty years?"

"Twenty-seven," he told her. "Ever since he signed on with the
Enterprise."

"Almost half his adult life," Jocelyn mused.

"I guess that's right," the captain confirmed. Where was she going with
this? He tried to divine the answer in the set of her eyes.

"What is he like?" she asked suddenly.

Kirk looked at her. "What do you mean?"

Jocelyn frowned a little. "I mean, what kind of person is he? What
kinds of food does he like? Has he got any hobbies?"

The captain had to smile. "Hobbies?" he echoed.

"Bones?" It was difficult to picture his friend building a Rigellian
terrarium or playing one of those zero-grav games that enjoyed a
comeback a few years earlier.

"No," he told her. "No hobbies. But as for the rest of it . . ." He
pondered the question for a moment. "Well, come to think of it," Kirk
said at last, "he's not exactly a gourmet either. We've had the chance
to sample some pretty interesting meals in the course of our travels
together, but I can't remember him really liking any of them. Bones has
always been more partial to home cooking. In fact, unless I miss my
guess, his favorite dish is chicken-fried steak."

"You're joking," she replied, her eyes widening.

The captain shook his head. "No. Why?"

"I used to make chicken-fried steak when we were married," Jocelyn
explained. "And he hated it. Absolutely wouldn't touch the stuff."

Jocelyn Kirk grunted, appreciating the irony. "Maybe you made it too
well," he suggested. "Not greasy enough."

She looked grateful. "Maybe. What else can you tell me about him?"

The captain leaned back against the cavern wall. "Let's see. He's one
hell of a good doctor. Really cares about his patients."

"That doesn't surprise me," Jocelyn commented. Was there just a hint of
pique in her voice? A subtle note of resentment?

"He loves his family." Kirk could feel himself blushing as he realized
the implications of that statement. "I mean-"

"You mean Joanna's family," she amended, saving him the trouble of
trying to get his foot out of his mouth.

"Don't be concerned. I didn't expect to be included in that description.
Not in the last several decades, anyway."

Clearing his throat, he went o n. "Bones hates machines.

All kinds, I suppose, but transporters in particular. He's told me over
and over how he can't stand getting his atoms scrambled and shot through
space."

His companion seemed intrigued by the information.

"How about that?" she declared. "I don't like getting transported much
myself." A beat. "You mean we actually turn out to have something in
common?"

The captain didn't know what to say to that. Fortunately, Jocelyn got
him off the hook a moment later.

"Sorry," she told him with obvious sincerity. "I didn't mean to get all
sarcastic. It just comes naturally, I'm afraid. Please, continue."

Kirk scratched at his jaw. "Well, he keeps a pretty well-stocked bar.
Always has, as long as I've known him.

He's got a taste for brandy, Saurian in particular. And he doesn't like
to drink alone."

Jocelyn nodded. Her gaze had lost focus. "I do believe," she said after
a while, "that I knew that."

The captain ignored the comment. He had a feeling it was none of his
business. "And beyond that," he stated, "I'm not sure there's a whole
lot to tell."

His companion seemed disappointed. "But you've been his friend for so
long," she insisted. "Surely there must be something else."

"He's a man of simple tastes," Kirk pointed out.

"Outside of his family, his friends, and his profession, there isn't
much in life that really grabs him."

Jocelyn pondered his observation. "Well, then, who are his friends?
Aside from you, of course. Mr. Spock?"

The captain couldn't help but smile. "In a way," he replied. "Mind you,
they don't exactly go around slapping each other on the back. To listen
to them, you'd probably think they were bitter enemies. But when push
comes to shove-and believe me, it has-there's a bond of affection
between Spock and McCoy that even I can't quite fathom. Nor do I try."

He could have said more, about how the doctor carried the Vulcan's katra
in him for a time, or how Spock had given up a life of bliss with
Zarabeth to return Bones to his rightful time and place. But that was
between the two of them and no one else.

"I see," noted Jocelyn, perhaps sensing that Kirk was leaving something
out but declining to press her luck.

"How about Mr. Scott? Chekov? Uhura?"

"Old comrades," the captain answered. "They'd give their lives for him.
And vice versa. I'd include Captain Sulu in that group as well. And
Christine Chapel, who served as his nurse."

McCoy's ex-wife took it all in. "And ... lady friends?"

she asked. "There must have been some of those, right?"

Jocelyn Kirk smiled. He should have seen this coming. "I don't feel
right," he said, "talking about a friend's romantic liaisons. Almost
anything else, but not that."

Jocelyn harrumphed. "Listen," she countered, "I know about Leonard's
relationship with Nancy Crater, or whatever her name was when she was
single. It was all in your ship's logs."

Nancy Crater was a woman the captain and Bones had encountered on one of
their first missions together. Sometime after she and her husband
established an archaeological site on planet M-1 13, Nancy was killed
and replaced by a shape-changing, salt-sucking creature indigenous to
that world, though Kirk didn't find that out until after several of his
crewmen were killed by the thing.

"I know about Natira as well," Jocelyn continued.

"About how Leonard was dying of xenopolycythem'a and decided to stay
with her on her doomed asteroid. What was it called? Yonada? And how
he changed his mind once he discovered both a cure for his medical
problem and a way to save Natira's world." A pause. "I'm just asking if
there was anyone else-anyone not mentioned in your logs."

"There were a few," the captain told her, careful not to tread on any
confidences. "But no one he loved the way he loved Natira." Or the way
he loved you, he added silently.

"Was she beautiful?" Jocelyn asked.

Kirk nodded. "Yes. She was."

His companion shook her head. "Leonard should have stayed on Yonada. He
probably would have been happy there with his high priestess."

The captain shrugged. "At the time, he said his life on the Enterprise
was more important to him. And I don't think he's ever regretted the
decision."

She regarded him frankly. "I'very nearly made him regret it."

Kirk wasn't sure what she was talking about. "Jocelyn," he said, "if
this is something that should remain private-"

"Nonsense," she said. "You're Leonard's best friend. If he didn't tell
you, it's only because he didn't get a chance." She looked wistful in
the flickering candlelight.

"You see, we almost had a little tryst last night, he and 1.

Almost, but not quite."

Suddenly all the pieces fell into place. The air of tension between the
Treadways that he'd noticed back in the transporter room. His
observation that something had happened the night before. Now he knew
what that something was. And he knew also why it had driven a wedge
between them.

"Captain?"

"Mm?"

"You're gaping," Jocelyn told him.

Self-consciously, the captain closed his mouth. "Sorry," he muttered.

"It's all right," she replied. "It's my fault. I just didn't think you'd
be all that surprised."

Kirk swallowed. This wasn't right. He shouldn't be hearing this, not
from her. Not from anyone. There were some things that weren't meant for
public consumption.

"Look," he said, "whatever happened last night was between you and
Bones. If I'm ever going to face him again, I don't want to-"

"You're not," Jocelyn interrupted. "Going to face him again," she
expanded. She spoke unflinchingly, her voice steady, her eyes
unblinking.

The captain frowned. "Don't sound so certain of it."

Jocelyn

"You haven't given me any reason to sound otherwise," she reminded him.

"We're going to get out of here," he said more assertively. "We're going
to make it. How do I sound now?"

"Like a much better liar," his companion answered.

"But a liar nonetheless. And if you're not going to see him again ... if
neither of us is ... there are some things I want to say. No-have to
say."

Kirk understood. "Confessions, you mean."

"They say it's good for the soul," she returned.

He grunted. "I'm probably not the person you should be confessing to."

Jocelyn's eyes suddenly grew shiny in the soft light.

"Captain," she told him, her voice a bit huskier than usual, "you're the
only one here."

That much was certainly true. He took a breath, let it out. "All right,"
he said. "I'll listen."

THREE

"Have you ever been to a high school social?" asked Jocelyn.

Kirk thought for a moment. "Yes, I guess I have," he recalled. "Though
to be honest, I don't remember it very well. Just that there was a girl
named Cindy Mellon and that she was a much better dancer than I was."

His companion nodded. "That's usually all you do remember, I think. Whom
you danced with. And whom you didn't dance with." She paused. "At this
one particular social-I'd just turned seventeen, if I recall correctly-I
was dancing with the most popular boy in town. The best athlete, the
best-looking, the best everything. That was Clay Treadway, of course."

The captain looked at her askance. "You knew him all the way back then?"

Jocelyn sighed. "Guilty as charged. Come to think of it, he wasn't very
different from the way he is now. Hand Jocelyn some. Polite. And jealous
as hell. But in those days, I really didn't mind the jealous part. After
all, it meant that he cared for me."

"This was before Bones?" Kirk ventured.

"Yes," she confirmed. "But only just before. Clay and I had been an item
for at least a year, I suppose, by this time. In a way, though, we'd
been matched up much longer than that. Our families, the Darnells and
the Treadways, were kind of the town aristocracy, you see, and our
parents had practically had us betrothed since we were infants. It was
like some kind of ancient society, where people arranged marriages and
the parties involved didn't have the least bit of say in it."

"Sounds delightful," the captain noted.

"Funny thing was, I kind of liked it. I liked it a lot, in fact. Of
course, if I'd been paired with someone other than Clay, I might not
have. But I was." Jocelyn smiled.

"So there I was, tripping the light fantastic with old Clay, and this
other girl comes along. I forget her name now, but she was prettier than
I was. And taller. And when she smiled at a boy, it was a sure bet he'd
smile back."

"She smiled at Clay?" Kirk guessed.

"Sure as blazes," she said. "And not thinking I was looking, he grinned
like a raccoon with his nose in a picnic basket. But I was looking. And
let me tell you, I didn't appreciate it very much."

"You stormed off" the captain suggested.

"In the proverbial huff," she expanded. "Naturally, Clay came after me,
protesting that I hadn't seen what I thought I'd seen, and even if I had
it was probably just a tic. But I wasn't buying it. I was mad. And when
a Darnell got mad in those days, people knew to watch out."

"What did you do?" asked Kirk, genuinely curious by now.

"What I did," Jocelyn told him, "is head for where the wallflowers
always congregated, under the chronometer. I take it you had wallflowers
where you came from?"

"A few," the captain reported. Hell, he'd even been one, once upon a
time. But this wasn't his story, so he let it go at that.

"Well," said Jocelyn, "we had more than our share.

Nice boys too, just a little shy is all. Anyway, I marched right over to
the lot of them and grabbed the nearest one."

"Could that have been Bones?" Kirk inquired.

"It could have been," she agreed. "But the fact is, it wasn't. He was
the second boy I grabbed, after the first one fainted dead away. And
judging by the way your friend was looking at me, all wide-eyed and
waxy-pale and all, I had a feeling he was going to swoon too."

"But he didn't?"

"No," Jocelyn reported. "Thankfully, he stayed on his feet and let me
lead him onto the dance floor. And in front of Clay and everyone else, I
danced with him. It was a slow song too, but I didn't care. I was making
a statement, for god's sake. I was asserting my independence-and boy,
did it feel good."

"What about Bones?" the captain wondered.

She thought about it for a moment. "I think it felt pretty good to him
too." Reflecting for a moment more, she said, "No, I'm sure of it. He
wasn't smiling or anything, probably because he was so intent on
avoiding my feet. But I knew he liked it all right, because when the
song was over, he asked me to stay on the dance floor with him."

Kirk smiled, caught up in the innocent, awkward emotions that were woven
through the story. "Don't tell me you said no," he entreated.

Jocelyn shook her head. "I said yes. And not because I Jocelyn wanted to
make Clay jealous, though that had certainly been foremost on my mind in
the beginning. It was because of the expression on Leonard's face, sort
of sweet and trusting and hopeful all at once. And, of course, the color
of his eyes. Even today, I don't believe I've ever seen a more beautiful
shade of blue."

"And Clay," the captain noted, "was no doubt getting angrier by the
minute."

"By the second," she corrected. "He was trying to keep it from showing,
trying to make it seem like he didn't care that I was dancing with
someone else, particularly one of the wallflowers. But if I didn't know
better, I would've sworn there was steam coming out of his ears.

"Anyway, I asked my dance partner what his name was, and he told me it
was Leonard McCoy. He said he and his family were new in town, so I
probably hadn't heard of him. He was right; I hadn't. On the other hand,
he knew my name. In fact, he confessed, he'd seen me around school. But
he never expected he'd get the chance to dance with me, much less be
asked to do so."

Kirk thought he knew what came next. A long walk in the shadow of some
peach trees, an exchange of heartfelt secrets, a moonlit idyll. He was
dead wrong.

"That's when Clay spun him around, hauled off, and punched him right in
the nose," said Jocelyn. Her forehead creased with the memory. "I don't
know who was more shocked, Leonard or myself. All I remember is Clay
grabbing my hand and pulling me away, muttering something about me
coming to my senses. I tried to get free, but Clay was strong, and he
had had just about enough of my antics. Oh, I suppose he would have let
go if I'd screamed or something, but I wasn't about to make a scene that
my parents would hear about."

The captain shook his head. "But then, you and Bones ... ?"

"I'll get to that in a second," his companion promised.

"So there I was, being dragged away like some cave woman. And there was
Clay, fit to be tied over what he perceived as a punishment he didn't
deserve. In our anger with each other, we'd both pretty much forgotten
about the boy I was dancing with. But Leonard hadn't forgotten about us.

"There was a sound like a branch cracking in a windstorm and suddenly
Clay was sitting on his rump, holding his hand to his mouth. And my
dance partner was standing over him, eyes blazing, nose and knuckles
bleeding, ready to go at my antagonist again if need be. My antagonist,
not his. Leonard didn't even seem to notice that his nose was swelling
up like a great big old cherry blossom. All he cared about was that
someone had offended his lady fair. He was like some noble knight, come
to defend my honor."

Kirk couldn't help but be reminded of the amusementpark planet in the
Omicron Delta region and the Black Knight McCoy had encountered there.
He cringed at the thought of the doctor lying on the greensward, dealt
an apparently lethal blow by the Black Knight's lance.

"I know," said Jocelyn, mistaking his expression for a reaction to her
story. "I know. It still makes me shudder a little to think about it."
She took a breath, let it out.

"Perhaps needless to say, I was enchanted by the whole scene. When
you're a young woman, having two men fighting over you the way Leonard
and Clay were fighting was the height of ego gratification. And besides,
Clay was in need of a comeuppance after the way he'd behaved."

The captain looked at her. "You mean you let them continue to go at it?"

Jocelyn Her eyes widened. "Are you crazy? Of course not. Clay would
have killed him. So I'very quickly stepped between them and made it
clear I wasn't moving until they withdrew to opposite ends of the room."

"A wise course," Kirk observed.

"I thought so, too. And by then we were the focus of attention, so I had
some help from the other kids in separating the combatants. Clay and
Leonard went off to lick their respective wounds, though they didn't
stop glaring at one another. Or glancing at me, to see what I would do
next.

"It was only then that I realized I had a choice to make, and a big one.
Should I go home with Clay as expected, considering he was the one who
brought me to the dance in the first place? Or should I throw the town
gossipmongers for a loop and take the arm of the awkward-looking boy
who'd defended my honor at the risk of a serious pummeling?"

"I'm betting you chose the latter," said the captain.

"You're betting right," Jocelyn confirmed. "I went home with Leonard,
much to poor Clay's dismay and chagrin and the consternation of not only
the Treadways but the Darnells."

"Your family didn't like McCoy?" asked the captain.

Jocelyn shook her head. "Not in the least. You have to understand the
way it was when I was a girl. In many ways, the South hadn't changed
since before the Civil War. There was still an aristocracy in towns like
ours, a caste of kinship groups who had been living there for what
seemed like forever and liked it that way. And those people preferred
that their children marry their friends' children, the way they always
had and-unless the Earth fell to some kind of alien invasion-always
would."

"A closed society," Kirk observed. "I've seen plenty of them on other
worlds. I just didn't know they still existed on Earth."

His companion grunted. "Not so much anymore," she said. "But they exist,
all right. A family like the McCoys, nice as they were and as
well-to-do, weren't good enough for the Darnells or the Treadways or any
of the others who traveled in their social circles. They were outsiders,
inferior somehow. And here I was, going out with one of them. it didn't
sit well with my parents or a lot of other people.

"But that didn't stop me. In some ways, I guess, it spurred me on. I
kept on seeing Leonard. Mind you, Clay tried to change my mind, tried
constantly. It seemed like he'd never give up, and I guess some part of
me was flattered by that. But I never led him on. As far as I was
concerned, I was Leonard McCoy's girl and that was that.

"It went on that way all through high school. Then came college. By that
time Leonard had decided he wanted to be a doctor like his father, and
Lord knew he had the grades for it. He was the brightest young man I
knew. The only question was whether he'd go away to school or stay close
to home.

"Dr. McCoy-his father, I mean-told him to go away. He said that with the
affinity he'd demonstrated for medicine, Leonard could have his pick of
any school on Earth. I wasn't telling him anything. In my head, I knew
that his father was probably right. But in my heart, I was afraid that
if he went away, he would find someone else and never come back."

"But he didn't go away," the captain noted. "He stuck around."

"He stuck around, all right. For me. Because he was just as afraid as I
was-but not that he'd be the one to lose interest, of course. He was
afraid that if he left me alone Jocelyn with Clay, I'd eventually give
in to his charms and go back to him."

Jocelyn paused for a moment, lost in some private thought, too private
even for a confession, perhaps. Then, with a deep breath, she plunged
on.

"Funny," she said. "The way it worked out, he might as well have been
away. With all the studying he did, I hardly saw him anyway. 'There were
nights when I had to go to the library and physically drag him out just
to shove a little food down his throat." A pause. "I was going to
college too, but I didn't take it as seriously as he did. I can't even
remember anymore what it was I was studying, except it was easy to get a
degree in it. In those days I didn't want to be anything more than some
wonderful man's wife, and that wasn't something you could learn about in
school.

"Anyway, one night when I went to haul him out of the library, he wasn't
at his usual table. I looked for him everywhere, asked people who knew
him, even called his parents' house. But no Leonard. Confused and more
than a little worried, I finally went home. And as I went up the steps
in front of the house, I almost tripped over him in the dark." Her eyes
shone with sudden sentiment. "The goon had gone out and gotten me an
engagement ring," she explained. "When my parents told him I wasn't
around, he'd decided to wait for me, and he'd been waiting for the last
couple of hours."

For a little while, Jocelyn was silent. Kirk respected that and did
nothing to mar the stillness.

"I accepted," she added at last. "As you may have guessed. A couple of
months later, we were married."

Cor Lakandir had grown up on a crowded sea coast where the sun was
always hot and a boy's biggest concern was finding some shade. He wasn't
used to places like this, cold places where the wind rasped at one's
face with frigid fury.

Of course, the northern mountains had their good points, too. They
offered the kind of sprawling, blue-white vistas that Cor could only
have imagined a couple of years earlier. And they scoured the mind along
with the skin , creating a clarity that suited his assassin's
temperament.

"Andrachis is wrong," said Cor's friend and fellow sentry, a youth named
Marn Silariot. "The captives should be killed like our other enemies."

Cor shrugged. "The High Assassin represents tradition.

And tradition dictates that we allow the off worlders to remain alive."

Marn made a sound of disgust. "Andrachis and his friends are still
living in the time of the wars. They think they know the Federation, but
what they know is forty years old. Who knows how the off worlders may
have changed in that span?"

"I have asked that question myself," Cor admitted.

"Not in public, of course. And I have not come up with a satisfactory
answer." He scanned the shelf that stretched for kilometers from the
entrance to their lair. "On the other hand, their behavior during the
encounter supports the master's assessment of them. Even when one of
them fell dead, they did not retaliate with killing force. Their weapons
only dazed us."

"It could be that their weapons were not capable of doing more," Marn
suggested. "Or perhaps they had no time to change the setting to
something lethal."

Cor grunted. "Then that says something about them too, does it not? That
they would bring weapons capable only of stunning their enemies? Or if
their weapons could kill, that they would not employ a killing setting
to begin Jocelyn with?" He shook his head. "In this respect, I believe
Andrachis was correct."

The other Ssana smiled. "In this respect?" he echoed.

Cor nodded. "Perhaps in this respect only." He turned to his companion.
"Since when do assassins kill only the strong? Or those bent on lethal
violence? We kill because that is our nature, because it is our place
in life to do so."

"Then you agree that the captives should die?" asked Marn. "Despite the
High Assassin's arguments to the contrary?"

The wind blew down the Mountainside, bringing with it granular snow that
shone in the sunshine like tiny jewels.

Cor could feel the snow prick his face like a thousand tiny knives.

Off in the distance, a couple of dark V-shapes appeared against the sky.
Uterra, he mused, seeking their daily prey.

Cor frowned. "Yes," he said at last. "I agree that they should die."

Marn clapped him on the shoulder. "I thought so. So, what will we do
about it? Sit around the fire and talk ourselves breathless or act on
our convictions?"

Indeed, what would they do? Cor knew where this conversation was
headed. But was he ready to take that step? To oppose Andrachis in such
a manner that their ranks would be split by it? And to risk substantial
bloodshed by doing so?

On the other hand, could he stand by and watch while the High Assassin
led them in the direction of weakness?

Was it not their duty to wrest the reins of leadership from Andrachis,
to guide the movement in the direction of strength and courage?

When Cor first came to these mountains, one of the earliest to do so,
his allegiance to the master had been unshakable. But times had changed.
He had grown upas an assassin and as a Ssana.

"Well?" Marn searched his eyes for an answer.

Cor gave him one. "We act," he said.

As if in response, the wind whistled ominously down the Mountainside.
But whether it approved or disapproved of his decision Cor could not
tell.

"I liked being married to Leonard McCoy," said Jocelyn. "And I liked it
even better when Joanna arrived.

Of course, we were only twenty-one at the time. We hadn't planned on her
and we didn't know the first thing about being parents. But somehow or
other we learned."

For a moment, Kirk thought about his own son, lost at the hands of the
Klingons back on the Genesis planet. He wished he had been there to
raise David, to watch him grow. But that chance was long past, and no
amount of regret would ever restore it to him.

Unaware of the captain's ruminations, his companion went on. "That was
the happiest time of my life," she confessed. "The three of us had our
own little world, insulated from everyday realities. Who cared about a
major swing in our world's politics when Joanna was starting to turn
over on her belly? Who gave a damn about a first encounter with some
alien race when our daughter was about to cut her first tooth?"

Jocelyn leaned back against the cavern wall and smiled wistfully. "The
happiest time," she echoed. "Too bad it didn't last all that long. Two
years, maybe three. Then Leonard started immersing himself in his
studies again.

He said that it was getting harder and harder to keep up.

They were getting into exophysiology, exoimmunology, exothis and
exothat. It all sounded very exotic, very Jocelyn difficult. I had no
trouble believing it was hard work to comprehend it all.

"But that wasn't much consolation when Joanna and I would look at one
another across the dinner table and wonder when Leonard was going to
come home that night. Actually, she handled it better than I did. When
her father finally did stagger in the door, she was gladder to see him
than if he'd been around all day. Absence makes the heart grow fonder,
they say. In my case, however, it as often as not made the heart grow
cold."

"It couldn't have been easy," observed Kirk. "I've seen plenty of
relationships fall by the wayside because one or both parties involved
couldn't tear themselves away from their work." He paused. "In fact, I
was in such a relationship."

Except that he and Carol had at long last put aside their careers and
turned their attentions to one another.

Had fate allowed them to do that, only to pluck the captain away at the
last minute? Could even fate be that cruel?

"Then perhaps you have some idea of what it was like," Jocelyn went on.
"The loneliness. The feeling that you have to raise a child all by
yourself. The resentment when you finally do get hold of some time
together, and all he wants to talk about is his work and all the good
he'll do when med school is over. Not about the vacations he's going to
take with his family or the evenings he's going to spend with his wife
but the career he's got planned." She sighed. "Fortunately, I had little
Joanna around to keep me company. It kept me from finding out how
miserable I truly was."

Jocelyn frowned, as if grappling with something.

"That's when Clay came back into the picture," she said.

"He'd moved out of town for a while, to go to some fancy northern
college-not that he'd ever had much interest in learning, but the
Treadways had gone to that school for several generations, and he wasn't
going to be the first to break with tradition.

"Anyway, I hadn't seen him since my wedding day. But one afternoon, I
was taking Joanna for a walk in the park.

We were going to feed the ducks and she was carrying a little bag full
of old, crusty bread she'd saved up. But as we passed the tennis courts,
she dropped the bag and the bread fell out on the grass.

"Before we knew it, a flock of pigeons had descended and were pecking
away at the grass, eating all of Joanna's bread. She started to cry as
loud and hard as can be, and I didn't know whether to try to shoo the
pigeons or comfort her or pull my hair out of my head in clumps.
Suddenly the birds took off as quickly as they'd arrived, frightened by
something that had come up behind us. As I turned around, I saw this
tanned, handsome man in tennis whites standing over us with his racket
in his hand."

It wasn't hard to guess the identity of Jocelyn's savior.

"Clay," said Kirk.

"Clay," his companion confirmed. "Bigger than life and twice as
unexpected. He smiled at me, then at Joanna, then at me again. And he
knelt down there on the grass while his tennis partner waited less than
patiently, and he helped us collect all the bread the pigeons hadn't
gotten to."

"Nice of him," remarked the captain.

"Very nice," Jocelyn agreed. "He asked me how Leonard and I were doing,
and I told him we were doing fine.

But Clay knew me well enough to hear the discontent in my voice. He was
too much like me to believe I could be happy sitting home all the time
while my husband pored over medical texts in some library.

Jocelyn

"On the surface, though, he didn't take issue with anything I said. He
just patted Joanna on the shoulder, told me it was pleasant to see me
again, and returned to his tennis game. He couldn't have been any more
of a gentleman if his life had depended on it."

Kirk felt a queasiness in his gut. But he let his companion go on
without interruption.

"It was fine to see Clay again after all that time. Like a breath of
fresh air to someone who had had the windows closed too long. I almost
felt guilty for thinking about him that way. So guilty, in fact, that
meeting Clay was the first thing I told Leonard about when he walked in
the door that evening. But he barely seemed to hear me. In his mind, I
think, he was off on another planet, performing an emergency
appendectomy on some strange but sentient life form. One thing was for
sure, he wasn't in that kitchen with me.

"A few days later, I got a call from Clay in the middle of the day. He
wanted to know if I could get away to play some tennis with him. I told
him I couldn't, of course. My parents were out of town and there was no
one to watch Joanna. Seeing the reason in that, he said he'd try again
some other time.

"Weeks went by, however, and he didn't call. I was beginning to wish I'd
found a way to take him up on that first invitation. After all, it would
have been a lot more fun than playing jacks with a five-year-old. Or
listening to your husband mutter medical inanities into your ear instead
of sweet nothings.

Finally, when summer was all but over, Clay tried again. And this time I
was ready. I grabbed my racket, packed Joanna off to my parents' house,
and made a beeline for the park. When I go t to the tennis courts, Clay
was there waiting for me, tall and dark, and grinning with those perfect
teeth of his. He made me feel so young, as if we were kids playing hooky
from school."

The feeling in the captain's gut was getting more and more unpleasant.
But he managed to keep his mouth shut, to let Jocelyn go on.

"I've got no proof that he let me beat him that day, but I'm pretty sure
of it nonetheless. After all, I hadn't played the game in a couple of
years, and that had been with Leonard, who wasn't much for games of
physical prowess.

In any case, I took two out of three sets, and it felt great.

Not just to win, but to sweat, to feel the sunshine on my skin, to have
somebody pay attention to me for once.

"Clay wanted to take me out for a late lunch to show he wasn't a sore
loser, but I didn't think that would be such a good idea. People might
see us and start to talk, and that wouldn't do at all. So I asked him to
just take me home, if he didn't mind. He didn't, of course.

"It felt funny to have Clay dropping me off at the door.

Just like back in high school. But we weren't kids anymore. It didn't
seem right for me to just send him off without so much as a glass of
iced tea. And besides, I was hungry for adult company. I didn't want the
afternoon to end quite yet. So I invited him in."

Kirk squirmed. He could see where this was leading, and he desperately
didn't want it to go there. But he had no choice. He was just along for
the ride.

"For the last forty years," Jocelyn told him, "I've tried to remember
who made the first move, who initiated what came afterward. And I can't.
Maybe it doesn't matter. But Clay's visit didn't end with a glass of
iced tea. It became much more than that. I didn't plan it, at least I
think I didn't. But it happened anyway, Lord help me. It happened
anyway."

The muscles in the captain's stomach knotted painfully. It was almost as
if it wasn't Bones she had cheated on, but him. And there was more. He
could see it in her eyes as the candlelight searched out the truth in
them.

"Unfortunately," she went on, "it was that afternoon that Leonard
decided to come home early and surprise me with a bouquet of flowers. I
was surprised all right."

Her hand came up to her mouth as she relived the memory. "We both were.
No-make that all three of us."

McCoy looked up at Clay and Spock, who were working their way along the
ropes above him, their breath coming in frozen puffs. The descent was
going more slowly than they had hoped. The three of them were still
quite a distance from their destination and the day was beginning to
wear thin.

No matter what, they didn't dare remain out here after nightfall. It
would be too difficult to find hand- and footholds in the rock and too
cold to take advantage of the ones they could find. Nor could they use
any kind of artificial light source, as it would be too easily spotted
by the inevitable sentries at the base of the slope.

The doctor's reverie was shattered by a dark blur in the corner of his
eye and the sound of something big and leathery flapping in the wind. He
turned just in time to catch a glimpse of a long, open beak and several
sharp rows of carnivorous teeth before the thing was on top of him.

Uterra, he thought. The pterodactyl-headed, winged predator of the
northern mountains. Until now he'd only seen the things at a distance;
he wished that were still the case.

Lashing out as hard as he could, he backhanded the flyer across the side
of its head. It screamed so loud McCoy thought his ears would burst, but
it didn't give up.

Before he could gain his balance for a second blow, it had sunk its
claws into the thick fabric of his jacket.

The thing tugged at him, trying to drag him away from the slope. It was
big, as big as he was, with a wingspan twice his height. The uterra was
strong, too, stronger than anything the doctor had ever wished to
encounter at this FOUR

height with only a single wedge separating him from a crushing death on
the rocks below.

Just above, he could hear the shrill cry of its mate, plucking at one of
his companions. Unfortunately, McCoy had his hands too full to offer
them any help. He found himself gagging on the creature's fetid breath,
rank with the smell of raw meat as it opened its jaws wide.

McCoy kicked out at the uterra's ravening beak and clung desperately to
the rope in his thermo-gauntleted grip. The thing squawked and tried
another angle. The doctor kicked again, buying himself another second or
two.

He used that time to see how the others were doing.

A little farther up the slope, Clay was hanging by one hand, groping for
the phaser inside his Starfleet jacket with the other. He didn't seem
half as agitated as McCoy, though.

Of course not, thought the doctor. The man didn't have any good reason
to hurry. What did it matter to Clay Treadway if McCoy became some
leathery predator's dinner? It would only make his life that much
simpler.

"Get away from me, blast you!" he snarled at the winged carnivore. "Go
find something else to peck at!"

But the thing wouldn't listen. With frantic intensity, it clawed at him,
ripping the outside layer of his cold stunning blow, the creature seemed
not even to notice.

weather garb to shreds. And for all his efforts to deal it a Finally, it
accomplished what it had been trying to do all along it got a firm 2 .
rip on his jacket. Flapping fiercely with its huge, batlike wings, it
did its best to tug him away from the smooth rock surface.

McCoy didn't want to let go. He didn't want to be dropped from a
dizzying height, the way a seagull might drop a big old clam, so some
Ssani bird could pick his bones clean at its leisure. But he could only
hold on for so long using his hands alone. They were already starting to
cramp, to lose their grip....

Abruptly, there was a flash of something narrow and bright red,
something that hit the uterra with sledgehammer force. The flyer writhed
under the impact and made the air shiver with the violence of its
scream. More important, the doctor was free again.

Looking up as he gratefully entangled his le in his rope, McCoy saw that
Clay had found his phaser pistol and was trying to keep it trained on
the darting predator. But the uterra was too fast, too unpredictable in
its flight, and the diplomat couldn't seem to adjust quickly enough.

Without warning the thing took a right turn and slammed direct] '

Y into Clay, flattening him against the slope and sending his phaser
flying out of his gras . He clutched at it, but it was too late. And
while he was stunned, off-balance, the Creature came at him a second
time.

With a cry of pain, the diplomat hit the rocky surface and seemed to
bounce off, his grip on the rope negated by the savagery of the uterra's
attack. And before McCoy knew it, Clay was plummeting past him to his
death.

The doctor didn't think. He just reached out and Jocelyn grabbed. As
luck would have it, his gloved fingers closed on man's wrist.

the other Unfortunately, Clay was a big man, heavier than most, and
McCoy had never had the impulse to build up his muscles. As it was, the
shock of bearing the diplomat's weight nearly ripped the doctor's arm
off at the shoulder.

" My God!" groaned McCoy, enduring agony worse than anything he'd
encountered on Rura Penthe. His bicep screamed with pain, as if it had
been torn to shreds and was tearing still. He gritted his teeth, shut
his eyes tight, and saw streaks of red lightning carve a path across the
inside of his eyelids.

For a moment he thought he would pass out. He could hear his blood
banging like a hammer in his ears, feel a wave of ice water trying to
separate him from consciousness. But somehow, despite it all, he held
on.

"Don't let go!" bellowed Clay. "Dammit, McCoy, don't you dare let go!"

He sounded far away, well beyond the tightly focused universe in which
the doctor strove against unbelievable torment. McCoy was sorely tempted
to release his burden and end the punishment, but he couldn't do that.
He couldn't let a man die-any man-if it was within his power to prevent
it. "Much as I want to," McCoy gritted his teeth and rasped, "I'm not
going to drop you, Clay.

Don't worry."

But the panic in Treadway's eyes didn't subside one iota.

And then his fingers began to slip. Not the ones that held Clay, but the
ones wrapped around the rope that supported them both. Cursing, the
doctor tried to tighten his grip, but it was no use. Slowly, inexorably,
they slid down the slope, the diplomat's weight doing its best to be the
death of them.

"Hang on," McCoy grunted. "Hang on, damn it."

But no matter how much he chastised himself, the rope continued to snake
through his fingers. Another couple of feet and they'd be at the end of
it. And after that ... a cruel and grisly doom.

Unless the doctor lightened his load. Wasn't that the only sane thing to
do? To let go of Clay and save himself Why should they both die when
one of them could live?

Yet there were times when two minus one didn't leave one. It left
something less-some fraction that couldn't live with itself, not after
the oath McCoy had taken all those years ago. He would rather die, he
thought, than give in to that kind of arithmetic. No matter what, he
wasn't letting go.

Not even when the rope continued to slide through his fingers. Not even
when he felt something pop in the shoulder that was supporting Clay,
firing up spasms of red-hot anguish. Not even when he started to see
death as something welcome, a relief from his insupportable suffering.

Down below, the diplomat's face was caught in a rictus of fear. He must
have known what his rival was going through to keep him from falling,
but he obviously thought it was preferable to the alternative.

Through eyes that could ba rely see for the tears in them, the doctor
watched the rope continue to run through his trembling fingers until
there was barely anything left of it.

Another hand's breadth and it would slither out of his grasp altogether.

And then he noticed something else, something big and dark and leathery
looking. The uterra, he thought. It's coming back for another shot at
us.

Thing is, it could save itself the effort. In a second or Jocelyn two
we'll be easy pickings at the bottom of the slope anyway.

But just as he told himself that, a thin, red phaser beam slammed the
creature full in the chest. With a strangled cry, it half-swooped and
half-plummeted away from the slope.

McCoy looked up and saw the source of the intervention. It was Spock. Of
course. Who else but the Vulcan had that kind of timing?

Too bad, the doctor mused. Spock could have saved himself the effort as
well. He heard a scraping above him, a twanging of the rope against the
rocky surface. And then, despite his best efforts, the last of his
lifeline wriggled out of his cramped and clawlike hand.

For a split second, he and Clay seemed to hug the slope, to be suspended
in a limbo of neither here nor there. Then gravity seemed to remember
they existed and exerted its pull on them, dragging them down to their
ultimate destruction.

But before they could go very far, McCoy felt something grab him by the
wrist of his still outstretched hand.

It was a very strong something, and in some ways a very familiar
something.

There was a jolt in both the doctor's shoulders as Clay's weight pulled
his arms taut. Gritting his teeth against the pain, McCoy looked up to
see if his suspicions were correct.

They were.

"Spock," he gasped.

"Do not speak," the Vulcan advised him. "Save your strength."

Hanging on to the rope with his left hand and He was the doctor's wrist
with his right, his arms outstretched as McCoy's had been. But instead
of supporting one person, he was supporting two. How long even Spock
could keep that up, the human had no idea.

Before he could wonder for very long, the Vulcan began to shift his
position. Wrapping his leg around the rope, he let go with his left hand
and used his right hand to pluck a wedge from one of his jacket pockets.

Finding a tiny fissure in the slope, Spock drove the wedge in as hard as
he could. Not nearly hard enough to make it dependable, of course, but
it was a start. Rummaging in his jacket again, the Vulcan removed a
second wedge and hammered at the first one, forcing it deeper into the
fissure. Again. And again.

Then, his facial muscles showing the toll all this was taking on him,
Spock reached into a third pocket and produced a coil of rope. Tying it
around the wedge with one hand, he tugged on it as a test. It held.

Only then did the Vulcan let the line trail down the face of the slope,
where not only McCoy could grab hold of it but Clay as well. Seconds
later the doctor felt the diplomat's weight taken off his tormented arm.
His shoulder still hurt, but at least it wasn't threatening to tear
loose of its moorings any longer.

Swinging his arm around as best he could, McCoy wrapped his numbed and
bloodless fingers around the rope. Then, without even waiting for Spock
to let go of his wrist, he latched on with his other hand as well.

Pressing his face against the slope, the doctor took a deep, tremulous
breath. "You're a damn miracle worker, ya know that, Spock?" McCoy was
halfway between laughter and tears.

"Please, Doctor," the Vulcan said, clearly embarrassed by McCoy's show
of emotion.

The doctor didn't care, really. Even the cliffs rocky surface felt good
against his hot, sweaty cheek.

Jocelyn He was safe. Safe. He wasn't going to die-at least not yet. And,
thanks to his unrelenting will, he thought as he glanced downslope,
neither was Clay Treadwell.

There were three candles burning in the long, narrow alcove Andrachis
had claimed for himself as a sleeping place. Set into niches in the
rock, the candles had been placed at the disparate heights required by
tradition the lowest to signify the death that preceded life, the
middle to signify life itself, and the highest to signify the death that
came after life.

As Ars Rondorrin entered the alcove, Andrachis noted with satisfaction
how the older man inclined his head toward the highest candle. After
all, the death that came after life was the birthright of every Ssana.
It was from this vine that all assassin ideology hung, like a cluster of
sweet, deadly fruit.

"Well met, old dagger," said the master.

Rondorrin smiled grimly. "Well met, tir-Andrachis."

He used the title of respect, though he alone, of all the assassins
gathered in the caverns, could have avoided it if he had wished. It was
an indication that he had come on serious business.

"What is on your mind?" asked Andrachis.

The other Ssana glanced over his shoulder, to make sure no one was
within earshot. Then he turned again to the master.

"I have heard a great many stories in my life," he replied. "Some have
been to my liking. Others have not."

His indigo eyes narrowed meaningfully. "The ones I hear now I like
perhaps least of all."

Andrachis sighed. Stories could only mean rumors, the kind that would
not be repeated in the presence of the assassins' leader, though someone
like Rondorrin might have access to them. And if Rondorrin had not liked
them, the master had a feeling he would not like them

'I either.

"What sort of stories?" he inquired pointedly.

His visitor grunted. "Tales of death," he answered.

It "The demise of a great leader, before his time."

The master assassin frowned. He knew what Rondorrin was talking about,
and he was not altogether surprised.

He had not expected their patched-together movement to hold forever;
nonetheless, it was infuriating. More than that, it was ridiculous. For
all his hard work, Andrachis was to be cast aside like a worn-out
sheath.

No, he told himself. Not if I can help it.

"Who desires this?" he demanded.

Rondorrin chewed the name for a moment, as if it were the marrow of a
uterra bone. Then he spat it out "Lakandir. The firebrand."

Lakandir, thought Andrachis. Of course. Who else would have had the
courage, the ability to gather others around him? Who but Lakandir
would have dared?

It was a pity such fine traits were matched with such an unwise purpose.
A great pity, the master mused. For now he would have to seek another to
train as his successor.

"I regret having to bring you this news," Rondorrin said. "I know in
what esteem you held him."

Andrachis shrugged. "Assassins come, assassins go, eh, old blade? As
good as Lakandir was, there will be one better. All I need do is wait."

But he did not sound confident, even to himself. For all he knew, all
those who would ever flock to him had already done so. And even if their
ranks swelled tenfold, he might never find a prodigy with the potential
of a Cor Lakandir.

Unfortunately, he did not have the option of sparing Jocelyn the youth.
Rebellion was dealt with swiftly and surely.

That was another of the assassins' unwritten laws-a tradition, like all
the others, that only the most foolish Ssana would fail to follow.

They have a plan," Rondorrin informed him. "One that is to be carried
out in the morning, just before your accustomed time of waking. There
will be eight of them, as far as I can tell. And when it is over,
Lakandir will be the new master."

"Unless," Andrachis amended, "I am ready for them with some allies of my
own." He thought about it, then nodded. "Gather ten Ssana you can trust.
And when my young friend comes calling tomorrow, I will do him the honor
of killing him before any of his accomplices."

Rondorrin inclined his head. "As you wish, Master."

And with a gesture of respect to the highest candle, he disappeared into
the darkness.

"Don't judge me too harshly," said Jocelyn.

Kirk grunted. "To be honest, that's a little difficult, considering I
know the people you're talking about. And Bones in particular."

She frowned. "I'm not trying to deflect any responsibility for what I
did. Lord knows, I was wrong. Horribly wrong. But I won't take all the
blame for the circumstances that led up to it. Leonard has to accept his
role in them as well."

The captain nodded. His companion was right about that. Infidelity
usually didn't just happen. It was the culmination of a lot of things. A
lot of imposed loneliness, a lot of miscommunication, a lot of
forgetting the reasons two people came together in the first place. And
it sounded like Bones was guilty of at least some of that.

"In any case," she continued, "the rest is sort of a blur.

I remember Leonard turning white as a cotton ball, his mouth making
words without sounds. I remember him dropping the flowers he'd brought
me and staggering out of the room. And I remember feeling as if someone
had taken hold of my heart and was squeezing as hard as he could.

"I threw something on and ran after him. I didn't know what I was going
to say, what I could say, but I ran. Of course, I wasn't fast enough. By
the time I got to the front door, he was pulling away, leaving a cloud
of dust in the driveway. Somehow I knew he wouldn't be coming back.

Not ever."

Kirk watched as tears stood out in Jocelyn's eyes and began to run down
her face. He must have moved to take her hand, to comfort her, because
she held up a hand to stop him.

"It's all right," she told him. "I just need a moment to co Ilect
myself."

A moment later, she shuddered and was herself again.

Wiping away some of the tears, she took a deep breath.

"Lord," said Jocelyn. "I've had that on my conscience for forty years.
It sure felt good to tell someone about it."

The captain winced. To carry something like that around for s o long ...
he didn't envy the woman. But for that matter, he didn't envy Bones
either. He'd been carrying something around just as long, hadn't he? And
he was carrying it still.

"That was when he joined Starfleet," his companion explained. "Blinded
by the pain I'd inflicted on him, crushed beneath its terrible weight,
he wanted to get as far away as he could. At least, I guess he did. I
never actually knew the details."

Kirk did. But this was her confession, not his. Even now he was
reluctant to betray any confidences.

Jocelyn Maybe Jocelyn perceived this, because she didn't press him for
any information. She just went on with her story.

"The hardest part for him must have been leaving Joanna. He loved that
little girl like the Georgia sun loves its red-clay soil. But he knew
that he and I weren't going to be together anymore, and it wouldn't have
been good for her to see us struggle for control of her. So he just let
me have her, no questions asked."

She muttered a curse beneath her breath, swearing not at McCoy but at
herself. "And I had to explain to her why her daddy was gone. Not just
for the day or the evening, but maybe for a very long time, and how it
wasn't his fault he hadn't said good-bye. I did my best to make it seem
like a brave and noble thing he had done, a thing Joanna could only be
proud of. And if she suspected that it was something else that had sent
him out to the stars, she put on a pretty good act.

"From that point on, my life turned upside-down. My husband was out in
deep space somewhere. I was a single parent now in fact as well as in
theory. We were all right financially, because Leonard had Starfleet
send us most of his salary. But Joanna and I were easy prey for the
wolves."

The captain shook his head. "The wolves?"

Jocelyn nodded. "My family. The Darnells. They'd always thought Leonard
was no good, and now they had proof of it. He'd run away to chase his
selfish dreams and left his family to fend for itself. Or at least,
that's what they gathered, and I didn't have the nerve to tell them the
truth. My parents insisted that Joanna and I move in with them, and
after a while, no longer being the iron-willed specimen I was in my
youth, I agreed.

"It was a while before Clay dared show his face again.

What had happened between us would have been the biggest scandal our
town had seen in years, and he was too much of a gentleman to drag my
name through the mud if he could at all help it. So he'd laid low for a
while, waiting for things to settle down. Then, one day, he came
knocking at my parents' door.

"It was almost as if we were back in high school and he was taking me to
some silly dance. Except we were both older and wiser, and I had Joanna
to think about now.

Clay and I went on walks together, met for lunch, took in a play every
now and then. It was all very genteel, very restrained. And then, one
afternoon at the zoo, he told me he wanted more."

Jocelyn's features seemed to soften with the memory.

"By then," she said, "so did 1. And it didn't seem right to continue
masquerading as Leonard McCoy's wife when nothing could be farther from
the truth. So I sent a message to my husband that I wanted a divorce.
His consent came a week later, by subspace packet. And the next day, it
was official. Our marriage had been stricken from the record, as if it
had never existed in the first place."

She scowled. "It must have hurt Leonard a great deal to give his consent
to that. Hell, I had to have known it would hurt him when I asked. But
it didn't matter to me when I compared it to my own loneliness, my own
sense of incompleteness. I was the only one that really mattered, wasn't
I? It had always been that way, ever since I was a child." She chuckled
bitterly. "That was the trouble with our southern brand of chivalry. It
turned women into useless objects of desire, and I was the prime
example.

"But when I received notice that our divorce had come through, something
about it stopped me in my tracks.

Maybe it was the finality of it, I don't know. But it made Jocelyn me
very, very sad. And I vowed then and there that I wouldn't become
involved with anyone-Clay included -until I had come to grips with the
flaws in my character that had led me to destroy my marriage."

"A wise move," Kirk remarked.

"A wise move indeed," agreed Jocelyn. "Naturally, Clay wasn't too happy
about it. He told me I was making a mistake, that I was throwing out a
second chance for happiness. But I stuck to my guns, and it was the best
decision I ever made. The first thing I did to celebrate was move out of
my parents' house. Then I went back to school and enrolled in courses.
And this time, I really Studied, mostly at night so I could spend time
with Joanna. And I made something of myself."

She had, too. The captain recalled it vividly.

"You know the rest," she told him. "How, after Joanna grew up a little,
Leonard came back to remind her she had a father. How he and I almost
had a rapprochement Shortly after that but couldn't make it work. And
how another thirty years or so went by without our saying so much as a
word to each other." Jocelyn shook her head.

"All that time, Clay kept courting me. He wouldn't take no for an
answer, no matter how many times I turned him down. But I couldn't marry
him. He was vain, shallow, selfish-all the things I had been before I
decided to change. Then9 about twelve years ago, he decided to go into
the diplomatic corps."

"Just like that?" Kirk asked. "Seems like a strange choice for a man who
hadn't been out in space before."

"I'd agree with you," she told him, except Clay had diplomacy in his
blood. His grandfather, his father, and two of his aunts had been in the
corps. All they had to do was pull a few strings to get Clay a shot at
it too."

"So he was a natural?" the captain surmised.

"Not exactly," Jocelyn replied. "In the beginning, he was just all
right. He didn't make any mistakes, but he didn't notch any big
successes either. Then Clay asked me to accompany him on a mission to
Yarnos Seven, where he was mediating a civilized but rather intricate
dispute among three separate factions. I only came along because I
thought it sounded interesting, but before I knew it I was sitting next
to him at the bargaining table. And much to my amazement, it was one of
my suggestions that broke the impasse."

"So you got the bug," Kirk said.

"I did at that. With Clay's help, I joined the corps. And once we were
working together, and doing such a damned fine job of it, it only seemed
to make sense that we should be partners in other respects as well. So
we went back to Georgia and got married, just as our families always
thought we should. I had finally pleased both the Treadways and the
Darnells."

The comment was dripping with sarcasm. "Hadn't you pleased yourself as
well?" the captain asked.

Jocelyn met his gaze. "I've come to the conclusion," she informed him,
"that I'm not the marrying kind. For a number of years, we were
reasonably happy. Then I started getting antsy, just as I had with
Leonard forty years earlier. Except this time, I didn't have an
inattentive husband to blame for my restlessness, or a less than
stimulating intellectual life. I was doing interesting work, I was
loved, I had everything anyone could ask for. And yet I still wasn't
content. There was something missing."

"And that was?"

She shrugged. "I still don't know to this day. But after what happened
up on the ship, I can guess." She licked her lips. "I think I never
stopped loving Leonard or feeling guilty about what I had done to him.
And until I Jocelyn had resolved those feelings, I just wasn't going to
le+, myself be happy."

Kirk thought about it. "An interesting theory," he concluded.

Jocelyn nodded. "Clay tried to convince me that it was just a phase I
was going through, and that I'd come to my senses before long. But the
feeling of restlessness didn't go away. It lasted for a year, two years,
three. Finally, just a few months ago, I couldn't deny it any longer. I
asked Clay for a separation. He said it was out of the question.

We were a team. How could he go on with his work without me at his side?

"The work we were doing was important. I knew that.

So we compromised. I agreed not to break up the diplomatic team. And he
agreed that we would sleep in separate quarters. And until we got to the
Enterprise, that arrangement seemed to work. Then . . ." His companion
shrugged. "Then it stopped working."

She peered at the captain across the candlelit space.

"Now you know everything," she told him.

It was a great deal more than he had ever wanted to know. More than he
had a right to know, he mused. But like it or not, he had heard
Jocelyn's confession from beginning to end.

And now, he knew, she wanted him to give her some kind of absolution for
what she had done. For the crime of inflicting pain on those she was
supposed to have loved not only McCoy but Clay Treadway as well.

It wasn't an easy thing to do. Bones was his friend, one of the two men
he trusted most in all the galaxy. To tell Jocelyn that what she'd done
was understandable, was only human, would be to condone the agony and
humiliation Leonard McCoy had carried with him for nearly all his adult
life.

And yet his friend had considered loving this woman all over again.
Despite the horror she'd put him through, despite the long, lonely years
spent contemplating his disappointment and his failure. Somehow he had
found it in his heart to forgive her.

If Bones were here, he would relieve Jocelyn of her burden of guilt.
Could Kirk could do any less in the doctor's place?

He picked his words carefully. "I'm no judge," the captain told her. "No
jury. I don't take any satisfaction in assigning blame." He licked his
lips. "Things happen sometimes, things that drive people apart. But it's
our nature as human beings to remove those things if we can. I think,
given time and the right circumstances, that's what my friend would have
done-he would have put the past behind him. Because the bigger tragedy
would have been to go on hurting and feeling guilty, never knowing that
you could still love another."

Jocelyn looked at him. On one hand, he sensed, she knew he was trying to
find a way to be kind to her. But on the other hand, she seemed to want
to believe every word he said. Which part of her would ultimately win?
He couldn't say.

"Thank you," Jocelyn said, in a controlled voice. "That means a lot to
me."

FIVE

As it turned out, it was dark already by the time McCoy and his
companions reached the icy ledge that hung just over the entrance to the
assassins' lair. They couldn't see the inevitable sentries standing
guard over the place, but that was good, because the sentries couldn't
see them either.

Of course, thought McCoy, as he nursed his painful and pretty much
useless arm, it was possible that they had been seen, or maybe even
heard, despite their efforts to make their descent as quiet as possible.
Also, there was the matter of Clay's phaser, which he'd dropped when the
uterra dropped him.

But they couldn't worry about any of that now' They could only proceed
on the assumption that their appearance would come as a surprise to the
Ssana.

The Vulcan had been the last one down. As he divested himself of a coil
of rope and the wedges they no longer had need of, something in the snow
seemed to catch his attention. Leave it to Spock, the doctor mused, to
find something "fascinating" even in a place like this.

But a moment later, he understood the first officer's interest. What
Spock had discovered was Clay's phaser-a little ice-encrusted but none
the worse for wear. Apparently the snow had cushioned the sound of its
fall.

His arm hot and throbbing, McCoy hadn't expected to get involved in the
assault on the assassins' guards. He wasn't the least bit disappointed
in that expectation.

Without a second thought, the Vulcan returned Clay's weapon to him and
jerked his head to indicate the ledge's forward limits. Hefting the
phaser, the diplomat nodded to show he understood.

As Spock approached the brink, he lowered himself to all fours. Clay did
the same. At a signal from the Vulcan, both of them took a peek at what
was down below. Then they pulled their heads up again.

Spock looked back at the doctor, probably more as a courtesy than
anything else. After all, he was still part of the team, even if he
wasn't carrying a weapon. The first officer held up two gloved fingers.

Two sentinels blocking their way. Apparently they were unaware of the
trio's proximity. It was probably the best situation they could have
hoped for.

Turning again to Clay, Spock held up all five fingers now. One by one,
he folded them over-a trick only a Vulcan could easily perform. When
he'd folded over the last digit. both men peeked past the end of the
ledge again and fired' their bright red beams.

McCoy heard a moan, then two soft thuds. Judging by the satisfied
expression on the diplomat's face, he and Spock had taken the Ssana out
with their first shots.

Jocelyn Beckoning for the doctor to follow, the first officer slipped
over the snowy brink and temporarily out of sight.

Clay waited, however, to see if McCoy and his damaged arm needed help
getting down. Frowning at the thought of needing the other man's help,
the doctor advanced to the edge and jumped.

Unfortunately, it was a lot more slippery down below than he'd expected.
If Spock hadn't reached out and steadied him, he would have fallen flat
on his face. As Clay descended behind them, McCoy turned his attention
to the fallen assassins.

They were stretched out before a small, triangular shaped opening in the
rock, their white robes blending in with the white snow. The doctor
knelt between them to get a better look, then grunted his approval. No
bruises in evidence, but then, there seldom were when you set your
phaser on stun. More important, the Ssana would be out for a while.

Without waiting for further comment, the Vulcan led the way into the
cave. Clay was right behind him. McCoy brought up the rear.

It was dark inside but not much darker than the moonless night through
which they'd descended the last part of the slope. Around a bend was a
soft, yellow glow.

Moving forward, the trio discovered it to be the light of a single
candle, resting in a concavity that seemed almost to have been designed
for the purpose.

Clinging to the opposite wall lest they cast discernible shadows, Spock
led them into the bowels of the mountain.

As it happened, they had no choices to make, since there was only one
tunnel that led inward from the cavern mouth. But that also made it more
likely that they'd run into someone else coming from the other
direction.

Following the passage, concentrating on listening for the sound of
assassin footfalls, the doctor weighed their chances of accomplishing
this mission. With the maldinium data Scotty had encoded into Spock's
tricorder and their communicators, it might not be all that hard to
execute the second part of the plan-the return to the ship. But the
first part-determining where in these caverns the assassins were likely
to have hidden their captives-was going to be plenty difficult.

Of course, there was always the possibility that they'd arrived too
late, that Jim and Jocelyn had already been killed by the Ssana and the
best McCoy and his comrades could hope for would be to recover their
bodies.

He recalled Li Moboron's words, spoken so long ago in that nightmare of
a children's ward, about how assassins didn't kill off worlders. But Li
Moboron's philosophy had apparently died when he did or the doctor's
friend Merlin Carver might have been alive even today.

Up ahead was another glow. Another candle. Just beyond it, the tunnel
widened considerably but remained unbranched. Still, for consistency's
sake, the first officer continued to lead them along the same wall.

It almost proved their undoing. One moment Spock was making steady
progress, the next he seemed to be losing his balance, grabbing at the
almost featureless rock.

When Clay reached out and pulled him back a step, the Vulcan seemed to
recover.

McCoy didn't dare inquire about the incident out loud.

But as he peered around the diplomat, he saw the answer with his own
eyes.

There was a hole in front of them, a crevasse that began here at the
cavern wall, widened until it consumed nearly the entire width of the
passage, and then tapered again at the far end. It had no visible
bottom, either, which meant it could have been seven feet deep or
seventy. In either Jot-elyn case, not the kind of opening Spock would
have been eager to stumble into.

Frowning slightly at his close call, the first officer scrutinized the
outline of the crevasse as carefully as he could. Then he set out again,
skirting it by half a meter or so, and the humans fell in behind him.

Shortly after they passed the hole, the passage narrowed again into
something even smaller than before. And just a couple of meters after
that, it split into two entirely different corridors, each illuminated
by a distant candle.

Which way? Their choice might make the difference between success and
failure. Nor was there any real information to help them decide.

In the dim light, the doctor saw Spock cock an eyebrow.

This was going to take a gut reaction, McCoy thought, and that was one
activity Vulcans normally didn't excel at.

A moment later, the choice was taken out of Spock's hands. The sound of
voices came to them from the passageway on the right, voices that seemed
to be getting closer with each passing fraction of a second.

Turning to his companions, the Vulcan motioned for them to proceed into
the tunnel on the left. Neither the doctor nor Clay wasted any time in
complying. Then they waited, holding their respective breaths, phasers
at the ready.

The voices grew louder. There was barking laughter. In the corridor the
Federation team had just left, shadows appeared and lengthened as the
Ssana passed one of the candles McCoy had glimpsed a moment earlier.

More than likely, these were replacements for the pair they'd left
stunned at the entrance way. That was good news and bad, all in one
package. Good, because they would pass the branching corridor by and
keep on going.

And bad, because they would eventually find the unconscious sentries and
sound the alarm.

Needless to say, the doctor mused, Spock wouldn't allow that. A moment
later, two assassins went by in their white robes, unaware of the
intruders' presence in the adjoining passageway, and McCoy's thoughts
proved prophetic.

Without warning, the Vulcan fired his phaser. Its ruby red beam slammed
one of the assassins against the far wall with stupefying force. As he
sank to his knees, the other Ssana whirled, reaching into his robes for
whatever weapon he'd concealed there.

But as he drew it out, Clay discharged his own weapon.

The spear of phaser energy caught the assassin in the shoulder and spun
him around, sending something decidedly sharp and dangerous-looking
flying out of his hand.

Still, it didn't have quite the desired effect, because a split second
later the Ssana was hurdling his comrade's stunned body and heading back
down the passage the way he'd come. If he got away, McCoy knew, their
chances of recovering Jim and Jocelyn would be nil.

Fortunately, Spock was nearly as fast as the assassin.

Springing after the Ssana, he took aim and fired. As the doctor followed
in his wake, he saw that his companion's shot had had the desired
effect. The white-robed figure wa s sprawled face first in the middle of
the corridor.

McCoy darted a glance down each of the passageways that radiated from
this juncture. There were no signs of any other assassins. He listened.
No telltale sound of approaching footsteps.

With luck, the incident would go unnoticed-for a while, anyway. And by
then, the doctor hoped, he and his fellow rescuers would have come and
gone.

Jocelyn But first things first. Without waiting for the Vulcan to ask,
McCoy bent and took hold of the ankle of the nearer Ssana and dragged
him toward the left hand corridor.

Having served with him all these years, the doctor had a pretty good
idea of the way Spock's mind worked, Lord help him. He was sure the
first officer would take them down the corridor from which the assassins
had emerged now that it had been proven there were signs of life at the
other end of it.

Signs of life probably meant captives as well. People like these
assassins were likely to have kept Jim and Jocelyn in their midst, where
they could keep a close eye on them.

And if those signs also held deadly danger for them ... so what? They
knew the job was dangerous when they took it.

In the large cavern that served as sleeping quarters for many of the
young assassins, Cor Lakandir sat with his knees clasped to his chest.
Soon it would be time.

His blade, close at hand, reflected just the slightest glimmer of
distant candlelight. It was the same blade that Andrachis had said was
not for cutting meat but only for separating Ssana from their souls.
When he used it to separate the High Assassin from his, there would be
no one to tell him he could not use his weapon as he liked.

In a way, that was a pity. It was good to have someone to tell them of
the laws, the traditions, even if they did not necessarily wish to
embrace them. Surely Cor himself could not do that. He would have to
defer to Ars Rondorrin or one of the other old-timers in such matters.

That is, if they would follow him. More than likely, they would not.
They would leave, perhaps form their own cult, possibly even oppose
Cor's position as High Assassin by naming one of their own.

There could be a war like the one that took down Li Moboron forty years
earlier. Except this time, there were fewer assassins to begin with;
their movement could be destroyed utterly.

But that was only a possibility, a chance they would have to take. There
was just as good a possibility that, under his young and vigorous
leadership, their brotherhood would become stronger than ever.

Besides, what choice did he have? They could not go on following a
master whose philosophy had withered and become weak with the passage of
time. They needed a leader who would show no pity, give no quarter,
whether their enemy was Ssana or not.

At any rate, thought Cor, he had already made his decision. He had given
Marn his word. In a little while he would honor Andrachis with a quick
and well-deserved death.

Thud.

Kirk turned at the sound, which seemed to have come from the passageway
outside their prison cavern. Until now, the only sounds he'd heard were
the murmured conversations of their guards and the scrape of footfalls
when one of them was relieved by a newcomer.

Thud. Thud.

There it was again. The captain took a couple of steps toward the
entrance to listen more closely.

Jocelyn, who'd been staring into the dwindling candle flame, turned to
him. "Did you hear something?" she asked.

He nodded. "Two somethings, a second or two apart."

His companion suddenly looked worried, maybe be Jocelyn cause Kirk
looked worried himself. "What do you suppose it could be?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. But I'm going to do my best to find out."

Jocelyn got to her feet and caught up with him. He sighed.

"What do you think you're doing?" the captain inquired.

"I'm coming with you," she told him.

"I'm not so sure that's a good idea," he replied.

"Why?" she asked. "Because if the guards decide to get rough, you're
more durable than I am?"

Actually, that was his rationale exactly. But if Jocelyn wanted to put
her life on the line, who was he to stop her?

Hell, what was he saying? Her life was on the line already and had been
for some time now.

"Come on," he conceded. "Just follow my lead, all right?"

She smiled ironically. "Naturally."

Ignoring the sarcasm, Kirk approached the entrance cautiously. Something
was definitely going on out there.

There were urgent whispers, the sound of rapid footsteps.

He wasn't sure what it all meant, but if it was a distraction, they
might be able to take advantage of it and escape. They'd better, he
mused. The longer they remained in this cave, the more time their
captors would have to realize how useless they were and destroy them.

Abruptly, the whispers and the footfalls died. There was silence in the
corridor outside. The captain bit his lip.

It was now or never.

Taking his fellow captive's hand, he took a step out of their prison
cell, only to be blinded by something bright and red and close. A reflex
told him what it was long before his brain figured it out.

Releasing Jocelyn's hand, he flung himself sideways before the phaser
blast could catch him full in the chest.

As it was, it smashed into his hip, flipping him around and sending him
skidding along the rocky floor of the passage until he came up against a
barrier.

As Kirk struggled to recover, to get to his feet despite the numbness in
his hip, he saw three forms backlit by the light of a distant candle.
They weren't wearing white robes, oddly enough. And they had a
phaser-certainly not the assassins' weapon of choice.

All of that added up to a situation the captain hadn't even dared hope
for. Squinting in the gloom, he tried to make out any details that would
confirm his suspicions.

"Damn," said one of the silhouettes. "It's Jim!"

Kirk would have known that voice anywhere. "Bones?"

"My God," said one of the figures, separating himself from the others.
"We finally find them and what do we do? We try to take their heads off
with a phaser beam."

Suddenly the figure stopped, in mid-stride, as if something had caught
his eye. Or someone, the captain remarked inwardly.

"Leonard?" ventured Jocelyn. "Leonard, is that you?"

She emerged from the cavern as if drawn to McCoy by some inexorable
force, the way an iron filing is drawn to a magnet. Kirk could see her
fling her arms about him as she melted into his silhouette, becoming one
with it.

"Ouch!" he rasped.

Jocelyn withdrew a bit, looked up at him. "What's the matter?"

"My shoulder," he explained. "I tore it up a bit getting Jocelyn here."
He drew her to him again. "But it was worth it. It was all worth it."

Brushing past McCoy and his ex-wife, another of the figures approached
the captain. Even before he grasped his commanding officer by the
shoulder, Kirk knew it had to be Spock. No one else could have led a
team this far into the assassins' lair.

"Jim, are you all right?" the Vulcan asked, his voice uncommonly laden
with concern.

"I'm fine," the captain breathed. "Or at least I was, before you hit me
with that phaser blast. How did you find us?"

"We found your guards first," explained Spock. "Since we could think of
no other reason for a trio of assassins to be standing out here in the
passageway, we surmised that they were here to prevent your escape."

For the first time since he'd emerged from the cave, Kirk looked around
for their jailers, and not seeing the three white-robed forms lying on
the cold stone a little way down the corridor behind him.

They were very definitely unconscious, no doubt as the result of the
kind of phaser blast the captain himself had just avoided. Hence, the
thuds he'd heard a few moments earlier.

The first officer reached into his pocket, took out a phaser, and handed
it to Kirk. Hefting it, the captain nodded to signify his gratitude.

"We've got to get out of here," said their third rescuer.

"Before they find some of the bodies we've been leaving around."

The voice wasn't as familiar to Kirk as the first two. It took him a
moment to realize that it belonged to Clay Treadway.

The captain's heart sank in sympathy. The diplomat had risked his life
to save his wife's, only to find out her heart belonged to someone else
now. He could only imagine how the man felt.

Jocelyn turned to Clay in the near-darkness and murmured, "I'm sorry."

Her husband didn't seem to have a ready response. He just averted his
eyes. For a moment, there was complete and utter silence. Then Kirk
shattered it, because someone had to.

"Treadway's right," said the captain. "If you've been leaving a trail of
bodies, they're going to trace them to us sooner or later."

The Vulcan tilted his head to indicate the direction from which he and
his companions had come. "This way," he urged. "The nearest
maldinium-free area is back along our original route."

As he started down the passage, the others fell into line behind him.
Kirk took one last look at the fallen assassins before he hastened to
join them.

The candles in Andrachis's sleeping alcove had burned so low that they
hardly gave off any light at all. In the normal course of events, he
would not have noticed this.

He would simply have woken up in the morning, seen that the candles had
expired, and replaced them with new ones.

However, this was not the normal course of events. This was the night
the master assassin was scheduled to die, at least as far as Cor
Lakandir and his comrades were concerned. That was why Andrachis was
neither asleep nor alone.

He searched the recesses of the alcove and saw a host of tiny lights
glittering back at him, the dark eyes of Ars Rondorrin and the ten
assassins he had trusted enough to Jocelyn recruit for this ambush.
Their blades, however , did not glitter in the least; they were careful
to keep them out of sight until the time came to use them.

Andrachis himself had hidden his knife under his blanket. He pretended
to sleep, knowing the conspirators would never try to kill him if he was
awake and could yell for help. But the pretense was a difficult one to
effect, considering the bloodfire that raged in his veins like an
enraged beast.

It had been some time since the master had felt that particular madness.
After all, the assassinations of the master governors had been carried
out by his followers.

He himself had been too busy planning to actually take part in them.

Andrachis missed the chase, the confrontation, the kill.

He yearned for the look on his victim's face, the sound of death in his
throat.

But his anticipation was dulled by the knowledge that it was an assassin
he'd be slaying. And not just any assassin but the movement's best hope
for the future.

Where were they already? What were they waiting for?

His fingers caressed the handle of his knife, the only outward sign of
his impatience. Had Lakandir and his friends lost their courage? Had
they changed their minds?

Suddenly he heard the scrape of footfalls on the stone outside his
sleeping space. Not loud enough to wake him if he'd really been asleep,
but more than loud enough to be heard by someone listening as intently
as he was.

Tightening his grasp on his weapon, he tensed for action.

The next sound he expected to hear was that of his antagonists' shallow
breathing as they entered the alcove.

He wasn't disappointed, either. Except the group was smaller than the
eight he had expected. Much smaller.

In fact, it sounded almost as if it were a conspiracy of one. But how
could that be? Why would the young ones send a lone assassin when so
many desired the master's death?

"Tir-Andrachis?" said a voice. Lakandir's voice.

It was all the master could do to keep his brow from wrinkling and
giving him away. Since when did assassins, even young ones, announce
themselves on arrival? Unprepared for such insanity, his mind raced,
seeking understanding. What in blazes was going on?

"Tir-Andrachis?" the voice repeated. "Are you awake yet, Master?"

Still puzzled, still off-balance, Andrachis opened his eyes and saw
Lakaidir standing at the entrance to the alcove. The young one was
alone. And as far as the master could tell, he was also unarmed.

"Cor?" he muttered, still clinging to the pretense that he had been
asleep. "Is that you?" he asked.

Lakandir nodded. "Yes, Master. It is 1. I apologize for the hour, but I
needed to speak with you as soon as possible."

Slowly, without revealing the knife in his hand, Andrachis sat up on his
sleeping mat and squinted at his visitor. "What would you speak about?"
he inquired.

Even in the meager light, he could see the muscles working in the
younger assassin's jaw. "About your death," he replied calmly.

"My death?" the master repeated, as if he was still fuzzy in the head.
"What in Moboron's name are you talking about?"

"The death you were to have met this morning," Lakandir explained. "The
death I and others had planned for you."

"You had planned?" Andrachis echoed.

Jocelyn He wasn't convinced that the scheme was no longer in effect. He
looked past the young one and listened, but he couldn't detect the
presence of any others.

"What happened to this plan of yours?"

"We gave it up," Lakandir told him. "At my urging."

The master grunted. "And what is it you would have killed me over?"

"Your adherence to tradition," said the young one.

"That is what we would have killed you over." Lakandir paused, searching
for words. "You see, tir-Andrachis, there are those of us who do not see
wisdom in the old ways as you do. There are those of us who feel the
bloodfire burning us up from within, urging us to kill the off worlder
captives and every other adversary who crosses our path."

The master eyed him. "Then why did you not back up nts with the edges of
your blades?"

your argume Lakandir licked his lips. "Because as I lay awake pondering
your death, it came to me that the perpetuation of our movement is more
important than any individual opinion, no matter how valid that opinion
may be. I realized that, in the end, it does not matter whether we
follow tradition or some new slate of ideas, as long as we follow it
together. As assassins. As brothers."

Andrachis loosened his hold on his knife. "I trusted you, Cor. And you
would have betrayed me with rebellion."

"I would have," Lakandir admitted. "But I did not. I could not. Nor
could I let this morning pass without confessing my intention to you."

The master weighed the young one's words. They had the ring of sincerity
to them and, no less important, the slightest courage. Lakandir could
have quelled the rebellion and let it go at that. But, at considerable
risk to his own life, he had informed Andrachis of his intended
treachery.

Even Li Moboron would have been impressed with such a gesture. How could
his disciple fail to be impressed as well?

" I forgive you," he told the younger man.

Lakandir's eyes narrowed. "Forgive me?" he repeated numbly.

Andrachis nodded. "Yes. For your honesty. For your unremarkable valor.
But most of all, for having the good sense to keep your disaffection
from turning into treason."

For the first time since he had entered Andrachis's alcove, Lakandir
seemed to relax. "I .

I do not know what to say," he muttered.

The High Assassin smiled. "Say nothing. Simply remember what transpired
this night and how close you came to a mistake that might have torn this
movement asunder. That will be all the response I-"

Suddenly a couple of younger assassins burst into Andrachis's alcove
behind Lakandir. At the same time, Rondorrin and the master's other
self-appointed bodyguards sprang out of concealment, knives at the
ready, uncertain whether the newcomers intended violence against the
High Assassin or not.

The master was on his feet as well, knife in hand. He hadn't thought
about it; his body had simply reacted that way. Lakandir had reached for
his weapon as well but, being unarmed, he had come up empty.

There was a moment of high tension, when anything seemed possible. And
in the middle of it all stood Andrachis and Lakandir, who firmly
established with an exchange of glances that they were both surprised by
the Jocelyn young ones' entrance. There was no treachery here, only
coincidence.

Turning to his unexpected guests, the master said, "Speak."

Obviously taken aback by the presence of Rondorrin and his comrades, the
newcomers nevertheless did as they were told. Or rather, one of them
spoke for both.

"An enemy has penetrated this place," he barked.

"Several of our brother assassins, including those who watched the
entrance way, have been found unconscious.

And the prisoners have escaped."

Andrachis could barely control his fury-but control it he did. After
all, a High Assassin could not give in to the passions that others
could.

"Cut them off," he ordered. He took in Lakandir, Rondorrin, and most
everyone else with a seething glance. "They will not elude us."

And shoving his knife into his belt, Andrachis himself led the rush to
carry out his command.

McCoy knew they were still a long way from finishing what they'd
started. If they failed to reach the beam-up site Spock had in mind,
they didn't have much of a hope of getting out of here alive, an outcome
that didn't appeal to the doctor in the least.

At first they met with no opposition. In fact, they saw no assassins at
all except the ones they'd already knocked out in their search for the
captives.

in the meantime, it felt good to hold Jocelyn's hand in his, to know
that she was beside him again once and for all. This was the way it was
meant to be, he told himself, the way it would have been if he hadn't
been so damned blind when he was young.

And if they did escape this infernal rabbit warren full of indigo-eyed
killers, he would make sure he never made the same mistake again. He'd
shower her with so much attention she'd have to pry him loose with a
crowbar.

All of a sudden, as if by magic, the tunnel just ahead was full of
ghostly forms. With a start, McCoy recognized them as the fluttering
robes of the white-garbed assassins, pouring out from around the next
bend.

But why would they come hurtling at them this way, knives dancing in
their hands, bellows of rage tearing from their lips, unless they knew
in advance that there were intruders about? And perhaps that their
captives had been set free by them as well?

As all this flashed through his mind, the doctor drove Jocelyn sideways
against the left hand wall of the passage and covered her with his body
as thoroughly as possible.

At the same time, he saw the assassins' white garments illuminated by
the crimson gleam of a couple of phaser beams.

The foremost pair of Ssana went flying backward into the others, stunned
by the force of the phased energy blasts. A moment later, a third beam
laced into the mass of assassins as the captain fired past McCoy and his
ex-wife.

Something whizzed by within an inch of the doctor's ear. He turned
instinctively to see if it might have hit Kirk. However, the captain had
protected himself by flattening against the wall opposite McCoy's.

The doctor thought he heard another knife go by as several more phaser
beams lanced through the damp, cold air of the tunnel. Then, as quickly
as they had appeared, the assassins seemed to have disappeared.

But as McCoy stood to get a better view, he realized that they hadn't
disappeared at all. They'd only fallen to the ground, the victims of his
companions' phasers.

Jocelyn

"Damn," breathed Kirk, stepping forward to survey the carnage. "Looks
like they're onto us, Spock." A beat.

"How much longer until we reach the beam-up site?"

The Vulcan thought for a moment. "Not more than a couple of minutes."

The captain sighed. "Let's go," he commanded.

McCoy looked down at Jocelyn, saw the lack of fear in her eyes, and drew
strength from it. Helping her up, he took her by the hand again and
followed Spock down the corridor.

There must have been ten or twelve of the assassins cluttering the floor
of the narrow space, but they managed to pick their way past them. Then
it was clear sailing for a while. The doctor began to wonder if they'd
gotten past the worst of the opposition when the passageway began to
widen.

He knew where they were now. They were approaching the cavern that
contained the crevasse the Vulcan had almost fallen into. Apparently
Spock and Clay realized that as well, because they slowed down to signal
everyone over to the right hand side of the tunnel.

"Bones, what is it?" hissed Kirk.

"There's a drop up ahead," McCoy tossed back. "Just follow me and you'll
steer clear of it."

Then he heard something else-not from the captain but from far behind
him. A cacophony of voices from deep within the caverns. Nor was there
any mistaking their murderous intent.

All the more reason to reach the beam-up site as quickly as possible,
the doctor thought. All the more reason to get the hell out of here.

The two figures ahead of him stopped abruptly. The doctor bit his lip.
Had they reached their destination already? Was it just a question now
of opening their communicators, giving Scotty the word, and closing
their eyes while the transporter did the rest?

He would have loved to believe that. But something was wrong. He could
tell by Spock's posture, by the way he held his phaser in front of him,
by the way his head moved from side to side.

It was as if he sensed the presence of something dangerous up
ahead-something he couldn't see but nevertheless knew was there. As
McCoy peered into the same darkness, it seemed to him there was
something there, and it was breathing softly like a huge, subterranean
beast.

"Drop your weapons," snarled a distinctively Ssani voice. "Do it now, or
you will become sheaths for a thousand knives."

The voice had barely finished speaking before the cavern suddenly
erupted with a half-dozen flares of light.

And as the flares stabilized into candle flames, McCoy and his
companions finally saw what they were up against.

"My God," whispered Jocelyn, as awed by the sight as the doctor was.

On the other side of the crevasse were at least a hundred Ssana blocking
their way, all dressed in their white robes, all armed with something
sharp and deadly looking. Their indigo eyes smoldered beneath thick,
overhanging brows, expressing their hatred for the off worlders who had
polluted Ssan with their ideas. And their shadows, looming large on the
cavern wall behind them, were like the souls of all the assassins who
had gone before them, hungry for blood even in death.

six

"Drop your weapons," one of the assassins repeated, in the voice that
had spoken to them from the darkness. "I will not say it again."

He stood in front of all the others, an older Ssana whose face spoke of
dignity and purpose-whose robe bore an emblem of a red cross inside a
red circle just below his left collarbone. Instantly McCoy recognized
the symbol.

This was the High Assassin, he realized. This was Shil Andrachis.

But that wasn't all the doctor recognized. As he stared at the dignified
visage of the High Assassin, he realized that he had seen it before.

Amid the ruins of a government tower in Pitur. And later, in a
Federation biobed. And still later, in nightmares where Merlin Carver
lost his life over and over again to the blast from a killer's bomb.

It was the young Ssana whose life McCoy had saved all those years ago.
He was the High Assassin. He was Shil Andrachis, the one behind the
latest wave of killing and death.

Suddenly, McCoy's fear was gone, replaced by a boiling, blistering
malice. Without thinking about it, he stepped forward, ignoring
Jocelyn's attempt to hold him back, ignoring the prospect of death at
the hands of the assembled assassins.

"You bastard!" he bellowed. "You coldhearted, murdering bastard!"

The High Assassin leveled a molten look at the human.

But recognition must have dawned in him too, because his eyes narrowed
and his mouth shaped the doctor's name.

"McCoy?" he muttered. The word carried in the vastness of the cavern.

Behind him, the white-robed assassins looked at one another. Obviously
they didn't know what to make of this.

"You're still kicking," the doctor spat, eyeing his adversary. "Why
shouldn't I be kicking too?"

At some point the captain had come up beside him.

"Bones ... you know this man?"

McCoy nodded. "Remember that friend I started to tell you about? He
killed him in cold blood, when the wars were almost over."

Overhearing them, the Ssana shook his head. "I killed no off worlders.
There is no honor in such a deed."

I couldn't agree more," the doctor growled. Raising his voice
accusingly, he said, "But another of my comrades saw you. It was at a
public house. You were with four others. One of you threw a bomb ... and
my friend died in the explosion."

Andrachis's brow creased as if he were trying to re Jocelyn in ember. "I
was young then," he replied at last. "And angry. It is difficult to
remember some of the things that happened in those days." He dismissed
the subject with a quick sweep of his hand. "But we are no longer living
in the days of Li Moboron's wars."

Suddenly McCoy saw an opportunity and, stifling his anger, grasped at
it.

"Part of me," argued McCoy, "will always live in those days. I can't
forget all that took place back then, High Assassin. Can you?"

Of everyone assembled there, only Andrachis would understand what he
meant by that. Only Andrachis would recall the way the human had saved
his life, bringing him the sort of dishonor that time and accomplishment
couldn't erase.

That gave McCoy a certain amount of power over him.

Because if he told the other assassins that tale, the master would be
disgraced, and they would have to seek another leader.

On the other hand, a well-thrown knife would eliminate that threat.
After all, the Ssana had helped to kill Merlin Carver forty years ago;
why not kill McCoy now?

If it were only Shil Andrachis he was dealing with, he could predict the
ultimate outcome-and it wouldn't be a good one. But the man was no
longer merely Shil Andrachis. He was the High Assassin, sworn to uphold
his predecessor's principles. And Li Moboron had stated plainly that his
kind did not kill off worlders.

That was why they hadn't simply been cut down in the darkness, wasn't
it? Because Andrachis couldn't kill a bunch of off worlders and still
call himself a master in the mold of Li Moboron.

"In the spirit of those days," McCoy said, loudly and clearly, "I ask
you to let us go. We have no quarrel with you. We came only to see if we
could resolve your conflict with the city-states."

"Silence," hissed another of the Ssana, a younger man.

"We do not care why you came. Your methods and objectives are of no
interest to us."

You hurt us simply by being here," bellowed another.

"By exposing Ssan to your alien notions of life and death."

The doctor ignored them. After all, Andrachis was the one who wielded
the power. His word was the only one that really mattered.

"But surely," McCoy went on, "among civilized people -and I know you are
civilized people-there's no just cause for imprisonment. No reason to
keep people in cages as if they were animals. That brings no more honor
to the jailer than the jailed."

The other assassins turned to Andrachis to see what he would say. For a
time he mulled the human's words. Then he opened his mouth to answer
them.

But before he could get a word out, one of his followers provided
another kind of answer. There was a whisper of metal on the air and a
glimmer of reflected candlelight and a single, angry cry

"Marn, no!"

Fortunately the knife missed them, clattering against the lip of the
crevasse at McCoy's feet. With such a clear shot, a veteran assassin
wouldn't have missed-so it had to have been a youngster who'd thrown the
thing.

Which meant there was still a chance to contain the potential for
violence. As long as they stayed in control and no one fired back ...

But someone did. Clay's phaser erupted with blood-red fury before anyone
could move to stop him. As the doctor Jocelyn watched, horrified, the
beam crossed the crevasse and struck Andrachis himself, sending him
spinning out of control at the very brink of the pit.

One of the assassins at his side reached for the master, but it was too
late. With a roar of pain and anger, Andrachis plunged into the yawning
fissure.

But not before he gained a measure of retribution. For even as he fell,
the High Assassin produced a knife from his robes and pitched it in his
assailant's direction.

Unfortunately the Ssana's aim was spoiled by his fall.

Missing Clay, the blade came whirling at McCoy instead.

The doctor had no time to avoid it, only to brace himself for its lethal
impact.

But somehow it found another target enroute another body with the speed
and agility to slip in front of Bones and absorb the knife's
breastbone-shattering force.

It was a moment before McCoy realized which of his companions had saved
his life.

And by then, Jocelyn was already teetering over the edge, clutching at
the blade that protruded from the base of her throat. Eyes wide,
knuckles white with her effort to pull out the weapon, she plummeted
into the crevasse just as the High Assassin had a moment before.

"Jocelyn!" he cried, as the rea lization of what had happened sank in.
Like a madman, he tried to leap in after her.

"Bones, no!" bellowed the captain. He took hold of the doctor's right
arm even as Spock grabbed the sleeve of his left. "You don't know what's
down there!"

It was true, he didn't. But he didn't care. Tearing free of both Kirk
and the Vulcan, he jumped away from the edge of the fissure and felt a
cold breath of air engulf him as he dropped into nothingness.

Abruptly, much sooner than he had expected, something hard and
unyielding rushed up to meet him. It jarred him, awoke spasms of agony
in the arm he'd injured earlier.

As he recovered, he could hear a moaning in the darkness. Assassins
didn't moan, even in mortal pain. It had to be Jocelyn.

As Kirk watched McCoy vanish into the sea of darkness that stretched
between himself and the assassins, his first impulse was to jump in
after him. But he resisted, reminding himself that he had more immediate
concerns.

Paramount among them was to make sure there was no more violence-no more
phasers, no more knives. To that end, but with a certain amount of
satisfaction as well, he belted Clay Treadway square in the jaw.

The diplomat staggered backward with the force of the blow, right into
Spock's waiting arms. The Vulcan caught Treadway with one hand and
grabbed his weapon with the other. Then, before the human could even
think about getting it back, Spock placed him at arm's length.

Instantly the diplomat rounded on the captain, hands balled into fists,
eyes burning with the desire to pound Kirk into the ground. But to his
credit, he held himself back.

"That's right," said the captain. "You don't want to hit me. You don't
want to do anything that will tempt our friends to send a shower of
knives our way."

Treadway glowered at him, but that was the extent of it.

Little by little, he unclenched his fists and came out of his hostile
crouch. Finally he tore his gaze away from Kirk and peered into the
blackness at their feet.

"My god," he whispered hoarsely. "Jocelyn . .

The captain turned to the assassins gathered on the Jocelyn other side
of the fissure. They were watching the intruders, poised for any
eventuality. But they weren't flinging any of their weapons this way.
Not yet, anyway.

That in itself was something to be grateful for. Obviously there were
some cooler heads among the white-robed killers, despite their
reputation to the contrary. Or was it just that they were confused
without Andrachis to guide them?

After all, the High Assassin might still be alive. And if he was, it was
still his right to determine the off worlders' lot.

Either way, Kirk couldn't trust fate alone, he had to establish a
dialogue. And he had to do it before one of the assassins decided to
change his mind.

"My comrade made a mistake in firing at your master," he called across
the crevasse. "He will not fire at you again. None of us will."

The Ssana eyed him warily. Finally one of them came forward to answer
him. He was young, but his voice had a ring of authority to it.

"I hope you are right," he said. "For your sake. We have practiced
forbearance because that is the High Assassin's way. But if we find out
you are trying to deceive us-

"We're not," the captain assured him. "All we want now is to find out
what happened to our people-and your master. If you could shed some of
your candlelight into the depths of this crack. . ."

The Ssana regarded him for a moment or two. Then he turned to the
nearest candle-holding assassin and nodded.

Following the sound of her moaning, McCoy felt along the floor of the
crevasse for Jocelyn. Before long, he came up against something soft,
something that trembled with fear and sadness. It was her hand, turned
palm up as if in supplication.

Immediately her fingers closed around his, albeit weakly. With his free
hand he groped for the knife that had lodged so hideously at the top of
her sternum. It was still there, still hard and unspeakably ugly to his
touch.

His first inclination was to pull it out, to rid her of the evil that
had invaded her. But he didn't, because the resulting torrent of blood
would only hasten her death.

Swallowing against the ache in his throat, he could hear the sound of
urgent voices above, the hiss of protests and the crack of commands. But
that was none of his concern. All he cared about was the woman who lay
dying on the cold rock floor, the woman who had borne his child and
broken his heart and, at long last, restored it to him.

"Leonard?" Her voice was little more than a burbling whisper.

"Hush," he told her, gritting his teeth lest he break down and become
useless to her.

Slipping his tricorder out of his jacket, he worked the controls by
rote. As the tiny monitor lit up, automatically compensating for the
darkness, he played the device along Jocelyn's body. Numbers flashed on
the screen, which to a layman would have meant nothing. But to him they
meant a great deal.

It confirmed his initial fears. Jocelyn was dying, quickly and
painfully, and it was beyond his power to save her. All he could do was
ease her suffering.

McCoy set his tricorder down on the ground. By the light of its monitor,
and little light it was, he removed a hypospray from another pocket.
Working quickly, for he didn't know how many more breaths she had in
her, he punched in the formula for a painkiller that would Jocelyn
mitigate the torment but still leave Jocelyn lucid. Then he injected her
with it.

It took effect immediately. In the blue light from the tricorder screen,
his ex-wife's eyes met his. They looked as clear and beautiful as the
evening he'd met her, when he was too young to guess what life might
have in store for them. Now, as then, he would have done anything for
her-but unfortunately, he'd already done all it was possible for him to
do.

"Leonard," she said, even more softly than before. She seemed to take
pleasure in saying it, as if it were an incantation against the
darkness.

"I'm here," he told her, grasping her hand more tightly.

He didn't know what else to say.

She took in a ragged breath. "I'm sorry," she said. "For everything."

McCoy shook his head. "There's nothing to be sorry about. Not anymore."

Jocelyn smiled at that, or at least tried to. "I don't want to leave
you," she sobbed. "Not now. Not after we-"

Suddenly her eyes opened wide, as if she were seeing some truth she had
never seen before. And they simply didn't close again.

"Jocelyn?" he ventured. And then again "Jocelyn?"

But there was no answer. No answer at all.

Heaving with emotion, McCoy buried his face in her still-fragrant cheek
and, shamelessly, he bawled like a newborn baby.

Sometime later he remembered they weren't alone at the bottom of the
crevasse. There was another presence there, another living being, who
hadn't uttered a word.

Andrachis.

The man who had killed not only Merlin Carver but now Jocelyn as well.
The single individual who had caused McCoy more grief than any other.

Through his pain, McCoy listened, and he heard a shallow wheezing in the
otherwise perfect silence. He crept toward it and the sound grew louder.
Finally, his eyes better adjusted to the lightlessness, he made out a
vague outline that could only be Andrachis.

"Come no closer!" the Ssana snapped. But his voice didn't have the
strength it should have. There was something wrong with him.

Knowing better than to ignore the High Assassin's warning, the doctor
stopped just shy of Andrachis's reach.

Then, ignoring the ache in his throat, he ran his tricorder the length
of the Ssana's body and read the results.

It was as he had suspected. Andrachis had broken several ribs. One of
them had punctured a lung. The assassin's pain must be incredible.

"You're bleeding to death," McCoy said aloud, eyeing Andrachis's
silhouette where he figured the Ssana's face was.

"I know that," Andrachis rasped. "It is my time, Doctor. Let me die."

"Your time?" Suddenly McCoy was furious. "Like it was hers?" he
demanded. "Like it was Merlin's?"

Andrachis gasped in pain, and rolled away from the doctor. On his
tricorder, McCoy saw the assassin's vital signs dip even lower.

"Leave me now," the High Assassin said. "As you should have left me
then."

The words struck McCoy like a physical blow. He should have left
Andrachis to die in the wreckage of the Pitur council chamber long ago,
or let Bando kill the Ssana that night in the infirmary. He should have.
If he had, Merlin would still be alive.

Jocelyn And so would Jocelyn.

And now, he could make up for that. He could even the scales. All he had
to do was let the Ssana perish. It was so simple. How many Ssani lives
would he save that way? A hundred? A thousand? Without its leader,
the assassins' movement might even die out completely. At the very
least, it would be severely weakened.

All he had to do was let Andrachis die.

Next to him, the assassin cried out involuntarily.

And McCoy felt tears well up in his eyes.

"Damn it," he said hoarsely. He looked over at Jocelyn.

"Damn it, I'm a doctor, not a blasted politician."

If Andrachis wanted, he could take his own life later on.

Right now, right here, McCoy wasn't going to let him perish.

Punching new instructions into his hypospray, he drew closer to the
assassin. Despite his infirmity, Andrachis lashed out at him, catching
his wrist in a steely grip.

"Let me die!" the assassin repeated.

"You can go to hell," McCoy told him, "on your own time." With his free
hand, he injected a stabilizing agent into Andrachis's arm.

It was significantly more effective than the drugs he'd used on the
Ssana the last time; Federation medicine had come a long way in forty
years. Andrachis's hold on his other hand grew stronger as the
medication took effect.

" No!" the Ssana gasped. "You must let me-"

"Shut up!" snarled McCoy, sounding more like an animal than a man.
"Break my wrist if you want, but you're not going to keep me from doing
my work."

Abruptly, the darkness lurched and parted, as he and Andrachis were
caught in a wave of flickering candlelight from above. Looking up for a
moment, he saw faces peering down at him from either side of the abyss.

Jim Kirk, Spock, and Clay Treadway were arrayed along one edge, the
assembled assassins along the other.

Their expressions contained varying proportions of surprise, horror,
relief, and repugnance.

"Jocelyn!" cried the diplomat. "Jocelyn, answer me!"

"Bones, are you all right?" called the captain.

"I'm fine," the doctor snapped, forcing himself to concentrate on the
task at hand. Resetting his hypo, he injected the Ssana with an
antibacterial compound.

"What are you doing?" bellowed one of the assassins.

"I'm trying to keep him alive!" McCoy barked.

"Jocelyn!" Clay called again, refusing to believe the evidence of his
own eyes. "She's not dead, she can't be dead!"

"Stop," insisted Andrachis, too weak to enforce the directive. "It is
wrong for you to save my life. You know that."

"I know no such thing," countered the doctor. He saw the Ssana's cursed
visage through the prism of his own tears. "Life is precious. I won't be
a party to your wasting it."

The assassin grimaced at the indignity being heaped on him. "I will cut
your heart out," he threatened, "and feed it to you on a stick. I will
shred your flesh and grind your bones to dust."

"No," said McCoy just as venomously. "You won't.

Because that would bring you dishonor too, wouldn't it?

I'm an off worlder, remember?"

"The human is attempting to heal Andrachis!"

"He cannot! It is sacrilege for such as he to preserve the master's
life!"

Jocelyn The hell with them, McCoy thought, setting the hypospray a third
time. What's the worst they can do? Kill me?

I feel dead already, he told himself. When he'd obtained the medication
he was looking for, he injected the Ssana yet again.

"Damn it, what is he doing down there?"

Clay again, noted the doctor, through a haze of misery.

"That's the one who killed my wife. Doesn't he know that? Why is he
helping the bastard when he murdered Jocelyn?"

Because I'm a doctor, McCoy thought, swallowing back his sorrow. Because
that's what a doctor's supposed to do.

"Stop it!" blared the diplomat. "Let him die for what he did, you fool!"

But McCoy didn't. Not for Clay, not for the assassins.

Not even for Jocelyn. Instead, he reached for his communicator to
arrange an emergency transport.

Cor Lakandir's heart was racing so fast he could barely make sense of
his own thoughts. He couldn't allow the human to save the master's life.
It would dishonor not only Andrachis himself but all those present who
allowed it to happen.

And yet, if the High Assassin did not survive, the movement would be
without a seasoned leader, without someone to guide it through this time
of adversity. Marn Silariot had thought Cor himself could be their
leader, but he knew now how absurd that was. He was no master; he was
barely an assassin at all.

For a long moment he stood there, not knowing what to do, aware that all
the younger assassins were looking to him for a decision. But his
dilemma was like a puzzle with no solution. Try as he might, he couldn't
see a way out.

Perhaps, he thought, there is no way out. Perhaps the choice is only
between one form of disaster and another.

Until now the High Assassin had been glaring at the off worlder. Now he
looked up, fixing his eyes on Lakandir. He said something, but it was
too low for the young one to hear, what with the whispering of his
brethren and all the commotion the intruders were making on the other
side of the pit.

Still, Lakandir didn't have to hear the master's words to understand his
plea. He could see it in his expression.

Frowning, bloodfire scalding his veins like acid, he raised his knife to
the level of his ear. And with a quick, deadly motion, he flung it end
over end toward the flesh that awaited it below.

McCoy looked up too late to avoid the blade that came whizzing toward
him. But as it turned out, it wasn't meant for him at all. Missing his
head by the width of a finger, it plunged point first into Andrachis's
chest.

The assassin grimaced with the impact, but only for a fraction of a
second. Then he was past expression, past feeling, past everything.

Looking up, the doctor found the Ssana who had hurled the knife. He
wasn't difficult to spot. His hands were empty, his eyes were narrowed
with sadness, and he was the object of every other assassin's scrutiny.

Taking a deep, desolate breath, McCoy let it out and looked down at
Andrachis again. The Ssana would be happy, he mused. There was one less
shadow on the sun.

But the human who had tried to save his hateful life would never be
happy again.

Slowly, methodically, McCoy put his tools away. What now? he wondered,
feeling scoured out inside. With Jocelyn Andrachis dead, would someone
else take his place?

Someone who would want the off worlders killed for what they'd done?

Not that he gave a damn. There was nothing left for him to give a damn
about. With his jacket pockets full again, he got up, walked over to
Jocelyn, and knelt down beside her.

Her skin was heartbreakingly pale in the dance of candlelight, her lips
heartrendingly still. Brushing her cheek with the backs of his fingers,
McCoy found she was cold to the touch.

Why was that so hard to acknowledge, so difficult to accept? He'd seen
corpses before. Every doctor had. In the larger scheme of things, how
could one more make any difference?

But it did, didn't it? It made all the difference in the universe.

"Go," he heard someone call out, in a voice tinged with bitterness. "If
it were up to me alone, I would take your lives in exchange for his. But
the master would not have had it that way. He would have let you live,
out of deference to tradition. So be gone from this place, and quickly."

By way of a reply, someone flipped open his communicator. "Kirk to
Enterprise, " said the captain.

There was an answer, surprisingly clear and intelligible, and obviously
eager to receive word. "Enterprise here.

What are your orders, sir?"

A pause. "Five to beam up, Lieutenant, including one fatality. You'll
find her beside Dr. McCoy."

A corresponding pause, as the implications of Kirk's command sank in.
"Aye-aye, sir," came Uhura's emotion tinged response.

The doctor shook his head. He'd beamed down here to get Jocelyn out of
this place. And he was doing that, wasn't he? Only not the way he would
have liked.

Just as he thought that, he saw the figures of the captain, Spock, and
Clay Treadway begin to shimmer with the first telltale signs of the
transporter effect. A moment later the EPILOGUE crevasse was gone,
replaced by more familiar surroundings.

Captain's Log, Stardate 9582. 1

The assassination cult on Ssan is crumbling.

Without Andrachis's experience and charisma to keep it unified, the
organization appears to be splitting up into individual factions, each
with a different interpretation of assassin traditions and objectives.

The Ssani city-states believe they can deal with these factions much
more easily than they could with the High Assassin's acknowledged
genius. In fact, they have already had some notable successes in finding
and incarcerating Andrachis's followers.

Sometimes the death of a leader can galvanize a movement - even more
than the leader's presence ever did while he was alive.

Fortunately, that is not the case in the present instance. To a people
who believe death is something to be desired, there is no such thing as
martyrdom.

In short, the crisis has been averted, though certainly not the way we
originally intended. For the foreseeable future, there is no reason for
additional Federation involvement on Ssan.

On a more personal note, I would like to commend the courage and the
spirit of Jocelyn Treadway, diplomatic liaison. It is an indication of
her devotion to the principles of peace and justice that she gave her
life to see our effort on Ssan succeed. We are saddened but also proud
to convey her body back to Earth for burial.

Kirk had barely completed his log entry when his quarters echoed with
the sound of chimes, signifying the presence of someone outside his
door. Disconnecting his link to the ship's computer with the flick of a
toggle switch, he stood and turned to confront whoever was out there.

"Come in," he said.

The doors slid open to reveal Mr. Spock. With the slightest nod, he
walked into the anteroom and let the doors shut again behind him.

There was no need for amenities between them; they knew each other too
well for all that. The captain gestured to a chair, but he had a feeling
his friend would decline it.

As it turned out, he was right.

"I will not stay long," Spock explained. "I only came to tell you that
Dr. McCoy's behavior has not changed. He continues to view his ex-wife's
body in its stasis receptacle." He paused. "I have attempted to speak
with him, to help him accept his loss ... but to no avail. He is
inconsolable."

Kirk sighed. "It's frustrating, I know. I've tried to help him get over
this as well, with no more luck than you Epilogue had." He shook his
head. "On occasions like these, words are often inadequate. I think ...
I think he just needs time. When he's ready to be part of us again,
he'll let us know."

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. "I will defer to your assessment of the
situation," he remarked. "As you know, I have always had difficulty
understanding human emotions."

The captain didn't miss the irony in Spock's voice. "Of course you
have, " he told his first officer, playing the game out of habit. "I
wouldn't expect anything else from such an impeccable Vulcan."

Spock's brow climbed just a tad higher in response.

McCoy stood in one of the ship's lounges and looked around him. The
place was empty, as he'd expected. He wouldn't have come if he'd thought
otherwise.

Instinctively, he knew that he had to be among people again eventually.
He knew that he had to put Jocelyn's death behind him and rejoin the
human race or wither away like a tree denied its ration of sunlight. And
Jocelyn wouldn't have wanted that to happen to him.

Hell, even when they were kids, she'd managed to get him to embrace life
the way she did. It would be a brilliant Saturday afternoon and he'd
locked himself away to study for some test or something, but Jocelyn
would show up at his window and drag him out to feel the sunshine on his
face. And inevitably, he'd join her in her almost holy fervor.

So he couldn't become a hermit now. That wasn't the way to honor the
memory of someone who would climb a hill just to smell a particular
flower.

Except ... he wasn't ready to emerge from his shell.

Not even for Jim and Spock, who had tried time and again to get a word
out of him over the last several days.

Not for Scotty or Uhura or any of the other friends he'd made over the
years.

He just wasn't ready.

The doctor was about to leave the lounge, to return to Jocelyn's side,
when out of the corner of his eye he saw someone standing in the open
doorway.

McCoy turned and saw that it was Clay.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked. He hadn't meant the
question to reek of bitterness, but it did.

Across the room, the other man flinched.

Go ahead, the doctor told himself. Lash out. Never mind that he hurts as
much as you do. Never mind that his loss was every bit as great as
yours, and maybe even greater.

"I thought you might like some company," replied Clay, his voice empty
of rancor. "I know I would."

McCoy frowned. "Sure," he said. "Come on in."

The other man took a seat near the doctor's and fixed his gaze on the
brilliant rush of stars. "I never thanked you," he remarked. "For saving
my life, I mean. That wasn't very polite of me."

McCoy shrugged. "We had other things on our minds."

Clay turned to him and smiled crookedly. "We still do, don't we?" He
swallowed. "We still have her on our minds, for god's sake."

The doctor took a breath, let it out. "I suppose we do.

And we no doubt will for the rest of our lives."

"You know," Clay confessed, "I hated you when we were young. For
knocking me down at the social. For being smarter than I was. And, of
course, for taking Jocelyn away from me."

McCoy grunted. "I hated you too. For being tall and good-looking and
having a way with women. And for Epilogue what happened ... that day I
came home early from school."

The diplomat nodded. "I guess we both know how that feels now. One might
say we were even on that count.

That is, if one were tempted to keep score."

The doctor eyed his longtime rival. To his surprise, he felt nothing but
sympathy for him.

"There's no score anymore," he said softly. "The game's over-and we're
both losers. We lost the person we held dearest in all the universe."

Clay's forehead creased with the weight of that realization. He turned
away to look at the stars again, finding some solace there.

For a long while, they sat in companionable silence, more like old
friends than old enemies. Then Clay sighed and got up to leave.

"What now?" asked McCoy. "Back to Earth?"

The other man shook his head. "No. I'm staying in the diplomatic corps.
It'll keep me distracted. And you?"

The doctor smiled wistfully. "Retirement. They're putting this ship in
mothballs, you know. And I really don't feel like putting out on another
one."

"Well, then," said Clay. He held out his hand. "See you around."

McCoy took the other man's hand and squeezed. "I guess so," he replied.

Lips stretched taut against a flood of emotion, the diplomat started
across the lounge. Then, as if he'd forgotten something, he stopped and
turned around.

The doctor looked at him, wondering what else there was to say. Clay
wasn't long in telling him.

"Score or no score, Leonard, there's something that has to be resolved."
Clay's eyes grew hard with determination. "Jocelyn only really ever
loved one of us. Sure, she went back and forth, confused about what she
really wanted out of life. But when you dug deep, there was only one
true love in her life." He lifted his chin slightly. "And that love, I'm
very sorry to say, was yours."

Without waiting for a response, the diplomat turned again and made his
exit, leaving McCoy to ponder his words in private.

Kirk sat in his command chair and watched a familiar sight loom before
him on the forward viewscreen.

"Entering Sol system," announced Chekov.

The captain nodded. "Slow to impulse," he said.

"Slowing to impulse," Christiano confirmed.

Leaning back, Kirk frowned and tapped his fingers on his armrest. It
wasn't right, he thought. It just wasn't right.

This was the last leg of their last voyage. They should all have been on
the bridge together, all the fine, self sacrificing officers who had
served him so long and so well over his many years in space.

Of course, most of them were. Spock was at the science station, intent
on some esoteric bit of Ssani physiology, the glow of his monitors
turning his face as green as his blood. Uhura was at her communications
board, monitoring subspace traffic for anything pertinent to their
situation, her brow creased ever so slightly in concentration.

Scotty was at the engineering console, looking for all the world like a
big kid as he admired the workings of his precious warp engines from
afar, trying not to think about the moment he'd have to say good-bye to
them. And Chekov, still as full of wonder as when he'd first stepped
aboard the old Enterprise, was keeping an eye on navigation with
characteristic vigilance.

Epilogue Only one was missing McCoy. But he could hardly be blamed for
his absence.

The doctor had lost someone he dearly loved, someone who had only
recently been restored to him. He needed to come to grips with that
fact. He needed to absorb the injustice of it, cry his bitter tears and
find some meaning in what he had left.

Of all of them, the captain knew how long and difficult a road that
could be. Like McCoy, he had cheated death more than he had a right to.
But death, in its inimitable style, always seemed to have a way of
evening the score.

Fortunately for the doctor, he still had a lot to be grateful for.
Joanna and her children were waiting for him back on Earth, and while
they would have their own load of grief to deal with, at least they
could deal with it together. That was what families were all about.

Still and all, Kirk mused, it would have been nice to have McCoy
standing at one shoulder and Spock at the other as they pulled into
Earth orbit for the last time. It just didn't look as if it was going to
turn out that way.

The thought had barely crossed his mind when he heard the turbolift open
and the sound of footsteps on the deck.

Of course, it could have been anyone coming up to the bridge. A
half-dozen officers and functionaries had arrived already in the course
of the captain's hour-old shift, seeking to fulfill one duty or another.
Odds were it was more of the same.

But some sixth sense told Kirk otherwise. Turning in his chair, the
captain saw his friend Bones standing in front of the lift, its doors
sliding closed in his wake. He looked a little disoriented, as if he was
seeing the bridge and all its personnel for the very first time.

Slowly, perhaps even hesitantly, the doctor negotiated a path to the
command chair. No one said anything. They just watched, Kirk among them.
When McCoy finally reached his destination, he gazed at the forward
viewscreen, where the stars swept by in pristine splendor.

"Are you all right?" the captain asked him, in a voice so low only the
two of them were likely to hear it.

His friend didn't take his eyes off the screen. "I'm fine," he said. His
forehead wrinkled momentarily. "Or anyway, I will be."

That would have to do. Kirk started to swivel around to face forward
again when he saw his first officer move away from his post at the
science station. Deadpan as ever, Spock crossed to the captain's chair
as well and took up a position at Kirk's other shoulder.

For the briefest moment, the Vulcan and Bones looked at one another.
There were no words, no overt gestures, just an exchange of glances.

The captain had heard these two engage in bitter conflicts, playful
dialogues, and deep, philosophical debates. What passed between them now
was none of these things. It was something at once more basic and more
profound.

Something akin to I share your pain.

McCoy's mouth twisted into something of a smile.

Then he turned again to the viewscreen, his soul just a shade less
burdened than before.

Kirk smiled too. Their careers might be over, but it was just possible
that life's adventure was only beginning for all of them.