DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc. The story and its contents are the creation and property of KarraCaz and is copyright (c) 2004 by KarraCaz. Rated PG13.

Ghost In The Machine

KarraCaz

Chapter 1

If you need a friend,

Or a place where you can hide,

I will always be there,

Even though my hands are tied.

"Okay, you can dress now, Spock," Doctor McCoy stated levelly. "I'm all finished."

The Chief Surgeon turned away, his attention ostensibly fixed on recalibrating the diagnostic equipment as the Vulcan pushed his lean body upright and swung his legs to the floor.

Spock's uniform lay draped tidily over the end of the med-couch and the First Officer reached for the immaculate black trousers, shaking out the garment precisely before he inquired, "Well, Doctor. What is your diagnosis?"

McCoy's hands stilled briefly. However many times it fell to him to break bad news, it never became any the less painful. Whatever their differences in the past, he now bled for the man who coolly awaited his answer. "Spock I--"

He could feel Spock's dark eyes fixed unwaveringly on his back, the hawk-like face impassive. McCoy hesitated, picking his words with care, his voice cautiously neutral as he turned to face the First Officer once more. "I'm afraid, the results aren't good."

Already quite aware of McCoy's dilemma, Spock interrupted, "Doctor, there is little need for equivocation. I assure you that I am quite able to accept the truth."

As if to dispel any lingering traces of sympathy McCoy may have harbored, he went on; "Or are you unable to define my -- condition, perhaps? In which case, allow me to be of assistance. It should be filed under the medical term Acute Zonal Koreoretnal Syndrome, a condition affecting the choroid and sclerotic coats--"

He knew he had struck home base when McCoy abruptly leaned across the med-couch, so close that his breath fanned Spock's cheek. The First Officer drew back slightly as McCoy swore.

"Dammit, you smart-assed Vulcan. If you know what you've contracted, you also know what the eventual outcome will be."

"Yes, Doctor. I know." Spock's tone of voice hardly changed, but for an instant the impassive façade slipped and McCoy thought he glimpsed the vulnerable child within the man, the little boy Spock had once been, shrinking from the demons he imagined waiting in the dark.

McCoy closed his eyes, opened them again, cursing himself for letting Spock provoke him so readily, gathering up his professional composure with an effort.

"You must have been deteriorating for weeks. Godammit Spock, if you'd only come to see me earlier I could have--"

"Done what, Doctor?" Spock asked equably, his voice quite serene. "We are both aware that, as yet, there is no cure for the condition."

Bones could not deny it. With an exasperated sigh, he paced up and down beside the med-couch, his helplessness masquerading as irritation. "I suppose you know that you could have put this whole damn ship in danger? What if--"

Spock's eyes tracked him unmercifully, apparently unaffected by the Chief Surgeon's bluster. "'What ifs' are illogical, Doctor. I have maintained my duties without any loss of efficiency, I believe. Nor has there ever been the possibility of danger to the ship. Now, of course, I can no longer guarantee that."

"And so you waited until the last possible moment before getting your verdict confirmed. Thanks, Mr. Spock."

"I intended no denigration of your healing powers, Doctor McCoy," Spock said mildly, one eyebrow elevating. "Although I have always found it discouraging that you call what you do, 'practice'. Is there not an aphorism assuring Humans that practice makes perfect?"

"Perfection is sometimes a moving target, Mr. Spock."

"Indeed, Doctor. That is also my own experience." The First Officer pulled on his trousers and boots, reached for the blue shirt.

It had slipped onto the floor and McCoy, feeling a twinge of guilt, retrieved it. "Here--"

Head tilted on one side, Spock reached for the softly rustling fabric, his fingers sure and unhurried. "Thank you, Doctor."

"You'll be needing something for the pain," McCoy offered, his blue eyes fixed on Spock's tranquil Mephisto features as the Vulcan negotiated the various openings and finally pulled the shirt over his head.

"Not required at this time, thank you, Doctor. For the moment it is under my control."

Feeling completely useless, McCoy lapsed into silence but he knew that he could not prevaricate for long. "Spock, however much I may want to, you know I can't let this ride. Jim will have to know--"

"Certainly." Spock's eyes hooded, his expression unreadable.

"I could -- speak to him first -- break the news, if that's what you want."

Spock inclined his head. "I appreciate the offer, Doctor McCoy. However, I have already requested that the Captain meet me here."

"You were that sure."

Spock folded his arms across his lean chest, grounding himself with a hip resting against the med-couch. "The evidence is somewhat difficult to refute, Doctor. It is time the Captain kne--"

They both turned as the doors to sickbay slid back and Jim Kirk entered as if on cue.

"Time I knew what, gentlemen?" Captain Kirk's jocular mood faded abruptly as he glanced at each man in turn, noticing the anxiety in McCoy's blue eyes and the uncharacteristic tautness of Spock's narrow shoulders as he straightened. "Surely my senior officers haven't been keeping something important from me?"

McCoy avoided the directness of Kirk's scrutiny. "Let's go through into the office."

Kirk frowned. Over the last few years in his experience as Captain of the Enterprise, the Chief Surgeon's office and serious news frequently went together. He spared a glance at Spock but received little joy there. His First Officer remained unusually stone-faced, not even a suggestion of empathy upon his angular features. What was going on here?

However, he obeyed McCoy's request, following the Chief Medical Officer into the adjoining room, aware of Spock trailing on his heels. He took a seat, leaning back, pretending a relaxation he no longer felt, watching as the Vulcan lowered himself warily into the chair beside his own.

"So," he asked as McCoy busied himself with a couple of glasses and the brandy bottle. "Why all the mystery, Bones? Mr. Spock?"

Spock squared his shoulders, but instead of facing Kirk, continued to stare straight ahead, dark eyes narrowed, winged brows drawn together in a frown. His long fingers, clasped together in his lap, tightened fractionally. "I requested your presence here, Captain, to advise you that as from this moment I intend to resign my commission aboard the Enterprise."

Shocked, Kirk dropped his tranquil pose and sat forward, shooting a puzzled look at McCoy. "Explain?"

McCoy poured a large shot of brandy into Kirk's glass before pushing it across the desk. "Spock's developed an extremely rare medical condition, Jim. I have to recommend that he be relieved of duty. Immediately."

"What sort of condition? You look fit enough to me."

"In all respects but one, I am completely healthy, Captain," Spock explained, his soft baritone firm and without acrimony. He drew in a deep breath; exhaled slowly, as if reluctant to continue. "Sir, as Doctor McCoy will advise you more fully, I have contracted a virus that attacks the cornea of the eye and causes severe visual distortions. There is also intermittent loss of vision and episodic hallucinations. I can no longer fulfil my obligations as either your First Officer or Science Officer on the ship. Therefore, I must resign."

There was a pause as Kirk tried to digest his first officer's statement. He addressed McCoy. "And the treatment is -- what, Bones?"

McCoy took a gulp from the brandy in his glass before replying. "There is no treatment, Jim. Not yet, anyway. I can help control the inevitable pain but Spock's sight is not going to improve. In fact, as time goes on the nerve endings to the brain will only degenerate further. He'll go completely blind in a matter of months, less if he refuses to follow orders."

"Blind?" There was open anguish on Kirk's face as he stared at his First Officer. He shook his head in denial. "There must be something you can do!"

"There isn't." McCoy's voice was suddenly harsh. "I've told you, Jim. There're no drugs, no surgical procedures, no miracle cure. I can't help him. No one can."

"No, I won't believe that, Doctor," Kirk said with stubborn resolve, the muscles in his jaw bunching. "You have to help him. I don't care what it takes. Use every resource this ship possesses, but find a cure. That's an order, Bones."

Chapter 2

There has never been a better time,

There has never been a better place,

For you and I together here,

Alone and face-to-face --

The door buzzer chimed a fleeting burst of sound. Spock ignored it, went on playing his ka'ithirah, an upbeat, distinctly Latin dance tune, his hands swift and accomplished on the strings, eyes closed, concentrating wholly on the music he made.

The buzzer rang again, a longer surge, relentless and inescapable. Spock sighed with open impatience, put aside the ka'ithirah, before leaning over to release the door catch.

"Come."

"Good evening, Mr. Spock." It was Kirk, prominently haloed by the light from the corridor as he peered into the darkened interior of his First Officer's quarters, intently searching for an occupant.

"Captain." Spock automatically rose from the chair, straightening his shoulders, his eyes narrowed against the splintered glare from outside the room.

"I know it's late but I've just finished my duty shift. If I'm intruding, just say so and I'll -- go sling my hook."

"You are not disturbing me, sir." A brisk order to the computer had the lights brightening immediately, softly golden, Terran normal, banishing the shadows and the pulsing, crimson radiance of the asenoi, the beast-like fire pot standing on its plinth within his sleeping area. "How may I be of assistance?"

"This is a social call, Spock." The door slid shut behind Kirk as he stepped over the threshold. "If Mohammed won't call on the mountain, the mountain must -- call on Mohammed. Moreover, unlike Doctor McCoy, I do make house calls. Are you going to offer me a seat?"

Spock's eyebrow elevated both at Kirk's deliberate misquotation and at the pointed reminder that he was being less than gracious. Kirk had seldom visited his quarters and never on a social basis. Although they were friends, Spock's natural reserve and regard for the proper formality between senior and subsidiary officer meant they met either on duty or in the public recreation areas of the ship. Now, he inclined his head acknowledging the implied rebuke. "I was about to prepare some tsa'e, sir. Perhaps you have time to share a pot with me. It is nothing like your Terran coffee but you should find the flavor agreeable."

"Yes, thanks. I'd like that." Kirk took the chair on the other side of the desk. Wood scraped on carpet tiles. There was a soft creak as his weight settled, the fine rustle of synthetic clothing rubbing against the polished timber as he leaned back, a quiet exhalation, possibly of weary relief.

Spock listened, attentive to Kirk's slightest move, knowing that the Captain watched as he prepared the special infusion of herbs required for the tsa'e. Over the ten weeks in which his eye condition had developed, he had evolved several strategies in an effort to adapt to the strange fractured world that now confronted him; memorizing the layout of most areas of the ship he frequented, especially his cabin and the bridge, counting steps between objects, using his other senses to the utmost. The policy had worked so well that no one, not even Kirk, had suspected his increasing disability.

Relying exclusively on his sharp hearing, sense of touch, and Vulcan spatial awareness, he skillfully navigated the sparse furnishings to fetch boiling water from the selector and return to the desk. As he poured the hot liquid into the waiting china pot, gauging the level by sound alone, he heard the Captain's breathing hush. Only when he had safely completed the task did Kirk's breathing resume.

While the tsa'e brewed, Kirk said into the silence, "Your presence has been -- sorely missed -- on the bridge these last few days, Spock. How are you?"

"I am well enough, thank you, Captain."

"Uh-huh. I heard you playing the lyrette. That melody you were performing, it didn't sound Vulcan."

"Quite correct, sir. The music on my world, at least to your ears, would sound inharmonious and dissonant." He looked straight at Kirk; dark eyes alight with the quiet humor that only the initiated could see, his attention fixed on the Captain's face. "It has an -- economic quality, a lack of emotional content. My mother has often remarked that Vulcan compositions remind her of an animal being slowly tortured. I was endeavoring to lighten my -- disposition with a Terran arrangement."

"And did you succeed?"

"Not entirely." He reached for the tsa'e pot, poured a tiny measure into a couple of minuscule bowls, head tilted, hand steady and unhurried. Not a drop overspilled.

"This condition--"

"Acute Zonal Koreoretnal Syndrome."

"Yes. How does it affect you?"

"It varies, Captain."

"How?"

"Has Doctor McCoy not explained, sir?"

"He gave me the medical details. Now I want to hear your appraisal."

Spock gauged Kirk's mood for a moment in silence. Even concealed behind the professional inquiry, he perceived his Captain's anxiety. "My eyes supply an impression of what my brain believes should be there. However, the images are frequently false, constantly distorted, the colors strident and dazzling. On occasion, there are flashes of extreme brightness. My night vision is superior but even that is changing. It can be -- unsettling."

"But you can see me now?" Kirk asked gentling his tone, the disquiet palpable, wanting to know the whole of this grim state of affairs afflicting his First Officer.

"An -- interpretation only, Captain. I see you indistinctly, a contrast of light and shade, surrounded by an intense corona."

"What about the pain?"

"I am able to control it satisfactorily at the moment."

"But it will get worse?"

"Yes, Captain. It will."

Kirk fell silent, mulling the information over, sipping at his tsa'e, inhaling the pleasant aroma, and feeling heat disperse throughout his body as the first swallow hit his stomach. He had hardly slept since Spock had broken the news to him, concerned for his friend, thoughts, and ideas circling repeatedly in his mind as he searched for some resolution to this unexpected and disquieting crisis.

He studied the Vulcan sitting opposite him, watching for any sign of emotion concealed behind the impassive mask. Spock remained tranquil, at least on the surface. Yet, as Kirk knew from experience, the First Officer had grown expert at disguising his true responses.

At last, he said, "I'm not accepting your resignation, Spock. No, hear me out. We have three months left of our present duty tour. I need you, even if it's in a consultative position. We'll find someone else to be your eyes, Chekov possibly. In that time, who knows what sort of cure McCoy might come up with?"

"Even the good doctor may find it impossible to produce a miracle in three months, Captain," Spock murmured sardonically, one eyebrow shooting upwards.

Kirk grinned, rubbing at his red-rimmed, gritty eyes. "I'm not so sure. Bones has always worked better under pressure. He won't let either of us down."

He suppressed a yawn, taking a gulp of the tsa'e. The beverage had an interesting flavor, nutty like almonds, and a little bitter on the tongue. Combined with the temperature of Spock's cabin, it had him breaking out in a hot sweat and he could feel the perspiration beading his hairline, trickling down his sides in fine droplets as his shirt stuck to his backbone. No wonder, Spock declined to drink either coffee or alcohol; neither compared with even one tiny cup of tsa'e.

If the Enterprise ever runs out of dilithium, I'll know what to use as an alternative, he thought as he pulled at his shirt collar, trying to dissipate the sudden heat.

Spock perceived his growing distress with some inner talent that did not rely entirely on vision. "You seem -- ill at ease, sir. Is anything the matter?"

"It must be the tsa'e, or I'm coming down with a fever. What's in this concoction anyway? It's not a Vulcan narcotic by any chance." He caught his breath, tone suspicious. "The equivalent of hashish, or bhang, maybe?"

"Certainly not, Captain," Spock was quick to assure him. "Tsa'e does contain a slight sense stimulant, an aid to concentrating the mind, but the effect on a human should be minimal."

Kirk blinked, drew in a ragged breath, putting the tiny bowl carefully down on the desk; every movement exaggerated as his brain abruptly went to warp ten. Unfortunately, the rest of his body lagged behind at sublight speed. Something had also happened to his muscles; they responded only slowly, refusing to obey his commands. He stood up, knees turning to gelatine as the room swam before his eyes.

"Then, I -- think I -- must -- be allergic," Kirk intoned. He cleared his throat, hearing his own words distorted as time seemed to slow, drawn out syllable by syllable until speech became unintelligible even to his own ears.

"Perhaps I should summon Doctor McCoy, Captain." Spock's voice, quietly pitched, thundered inside his skull.

"No -- I'll be -- all right -- Just tired, I -- guess." The whirling in Kirk's head came hurtling back and he shut his eyes against the wheel of stars, suddenly nauseous. "I'm keeping -- you - -- up."

Spock came from behind the desk, hurriedly supporting Kirk with an arm around his waist, voice wry. "I believe the reverse is true, sir. At the moment, it is I who am keeping you up."

Kirk registered the humor but could not respond as a charge of static electricity, a distinct jolt, surged through him at the Vulcan's touch. The room abruptly broke up into a kaleidoscope of brilliant color, reforming rapidly, only to break apart again. Kirk watched, mesmerized, as fragmented patterns swirled and cascaded about him. His mind reeled and blood roared in his ears.

Could he somehow be seeing what Spock now saw, this mad hallucination, the crazy whirlpool of intense light that defied his ability to sort into any rational order? Had the tsa'e somehow broken down his mental barriers forging the incredible connection?

"I think -- I need to go -- lie -- down--" His voice echoed in his ears from some far distance, and he relied on Spock's strength to stop him from collapsing entirely.

"Perhaps if you rest for a time, sir?" The Vulcan held him lightly, impersonally, as they moved over to the bed surrounded by thick crimson drapes. "Let me assist you, Captain."

He lay back gratefully, felt the tug as Spock removed his boots and draped something very light and soft over him.

"Thank -- you, Spock. I'm -- sorry -- for this--" His mumble trailed off.

"Apologies are not required, Captain. Good night and sleep well, sir."

Moments later, as if from a million light years away, Kirk heard the soft bell-like tones of Spock's lyrette ringing gently, alien music, conjuring up strange vistas, intangible and otherworldly. With a shiver of presentiment, he finally surrendered himself up to the circling stars and plummeted into their scintillating brilliance.

Chapter 3

When you are weary, feeling small,

I am on your side,

Oh, when times get rough

And friends are just not around,

I will comfort you --

He stood above the mists on a ledge of rock, floating in a swirling ocean, a thick white blanket extending from horizon to horizon, a shimmer with foxfire, while ghostly breakers swelled about his feet. As pale as the mists, her strange eyes darkly aglow with some knowledge she did not wish to share, the girl standing beside him gestured toward the east where Wraith's huge sun rose above the vapor making a cerise and ochre spectacle of the dawn sky. The Enterprise, swan-like and mysterious, hung suspended between the dying star and the rolling waves, and he knew that he had to make a choice--

S'kros, cho'nom Ra'el Kirrke quaer I naradzram --

The computer voice, speaking in Vulcan, penetrated Kirk's dream and he woke with a start, confused for an instant at finding himself still in Spock's quarters, realizing that he had spent the whole night in Spock's bed. Embarrassed by the thought he sat up quickly and pushed aside the vaguely oriental throw that covered him before swinging his legs to the floor. He found his boots by the door, exactly where he would have left them in his own quarters. Spock had got to know him entirely too well --

S'kros neh kharos'hin anh'kwet romeh --

Boots in hand, he straightened again, listening to the mechanical female voice of his ship and what she/it was saying. The senceiver implanted in his brain translated the Vulcan words directly. It was a wake up call; one meant especially for him since Spock's internal timepiece required no prompting. So, where was his First Officer?

"Spock?"

There was no answer to his call. Not that he had expected one. Kirk glanced around the austere cabin, the billet of a soldier ready for battle, with few decorations and sparse furnishings, the one touch of individuality being Spock's Vulcan harp, standing where the First Officer had left it on the vacated chair behind the desk.

Kirk touched the strings with a tentative finger, and evoked a melancholy tinkling, a haunting quality of sound perfectly in tune with his present mood, realizing that the Vulcan had left him sleeping off the effects of the tsa'e and gone elsewhere to find the peace he needed to adjust to his disability.

On the other hand, maybe I'm the one who needs to adjust, he concluded, remembering Spock's stoic acceptance of something he could not change.

The thought stayed with him as he stole somewhat furtively out of the door and back to his own quarters, careful that no one should see him exiting from Spock's cabin, boots clasped under his arm. He could well imagine what ships scuttlebutt would make of that news.

Grinning self-consciously, he wondered if Spock had also stumbled upon the rumor circulating that they were, indeed, lovers, his mind's eye providing him with an image of Spock's brow elevating skyward in either disbelief or impatience at the very idea. As for himself, after the initial surprise, he found the possibility strangely tantalizing. His relationship with Spock had grown unusually close over the years they had served together and a warm, professional bond of mutual respect had thrived between them. However, to his knowledge, neither he nor Spock had ever displayed the slightest physical affection, at least not overtly although, apparently, a lot could be read into a concerned glance or a ready smile, or an upraised eyebrow.

Kirk had an open mind about sex in any of its various forms, whether heterosexual, homosexual, or xenogeneic. When the key fitted the lock, so much the better, but he had found that not all species kept their genitals in the same place and resourcefulness had proved helpful on many an occasion when he had not been too sure what went where, or even if it could! However, he felt certain that Spock, while not condemning such nonconformity, might well be more reticent in his own dealings.

He knew, of course, that old saw about Vulcans only being able to mate every seven years, and believed not a word of it. That belonged in the same category, as 'Vulcans could not lie'. Maybe that's true for some, but Spock can sure stretch the truth when it suits him. His First Officer had demonstrated that on several occasions and Jim acknowledged readily enough, that Spock had subtleties to his character that many a 'full blooded' Vulcan lacked.

Once the door shut on his quarters, he undressed and showered quickly, turning the sonics up to the highest setting, letting the vibrations pound against his flesh. He was used to being in control, he was used to acting. He was not used to standing idly by while his best friend went blind. Even without a diagnosis from McCoy, he knew his tension levels were way up high, and stress always made him horny, one reason probably why sex with his First Officer had occurred to him right then.

That he had no way of sublimating the physical craving only added to his pressure. A shipboard romance as usual, remained out of the question. A starship was no place to get involved. Not that he lacked any number of eager candidates, able and very willing to ease his discomfort or scratch the slightest sexual itch. Nevertheless, it was one of his strictest rules to leave emotional entanglements with any of his crew strictly alone. The Enterprise was a small community that functioned only by mutual support and interdependence. They all relied on each other, in the finely tuned, evenly balanced microcosm. A casual flirtation with any of his personnel could upset those scales to such an extent that it might conceivably bring the ship into danger. Kirk relied on his scrupulous self-command to avoid any such situation. In other, similar, situations he had usually suppressed the urge by less damaging bodily activity, playing ferocious games of velocity, occasionally with Bones but mostly with Spock, who proved a vigorous if defensive player. Now, with Spock out of action, even that release was denied him. It was little consolation to know that it must be a hundred times worse for his First Officer.

Deep down, Kirk knew the difficulty he had confronting Spock's blindness was his own terror, the realization that 'there but for the grace of God' … thoughts he normally steered clear of, unwilling to deal with any suggestion of vulnerability, or helplessness. Now, he had no choice but to tackle the situation head-on. The notion of his self-contained, adroit, First Officer reliant on outsiders to lead him around and provide the essential amenities of life, alarmed him more than the thought of Spock actually dying. It came too close to home.

If he had suddenly contracted Koreoretnal Syndrome and gone blind, how would he hack it? No doubt with anger at first, followed by increasing bitterness as he saw his career go down the tubes; there were no blind captains in Starfleet, nor likely to be any, as there were no blind first officers. What would be open to him, a teaching post at Academy, a desk job at Fleet Headquarters, a new career entirely? Would he waste his time chasing a cure or get on with a new life? Spock, of course, was essentially a scientist and not a soldier, though he had adapted skillfully to military life. His father, Sarek of Vulcan, also had diplomatic connections. Would Spock want to go back to Vulcan?

Ordering up a fresh uniform, he pulled it on, his skin still red and smarting a little from the punishing vigor of the sonics. There were too many questions without answers, too many variables. As Spock might well say, even speculation needed adequate data.

I need coffee, a large pot no, an enormous pot of coffee, and some ham and eggs to go with it. Damn the cholesterol for once, he thought with an ironic grin. He would square it with Bones later, even if it meant eating salad for the rest of the month. However, while his body sought the comfort of caffeine and saturated fats, his mood called for company. With that thought uppermost, he abandoned the selector in his cabin and went in search of camaraderie in the crew lounge on the main recreation deck.

Kirk liked the lounge area. He made it a rule to eat breakfast there most days, along with the other senior staff. It was hardly luxurious, though it missed none of the comforts of home. Here he could rub shoulders with the cadets or midshipmen and they with him, without the need for ceremony or the necessary discipline of the bridge.

The beguiling smell of percolating coffee enticed him through the door but he came up short at the threshold when he saw who had pre-empted his arrival. McCoy, seated beside Spock at one of the many bench-style tables, noticed him almost immediately, subjecting him to a lopsided smile before beckoning him over. With his order safely ensconced on a tray, Kirk crossed to the table and sat down.

"Good morning, Bones. Mr. Spock." He poured himself a coffee, added cream, glancing at McCoy to see the reaction.

"Jim." McCoy raised an eyebrow at Kirk's tray but said nothing.

Spock looked at him as if he could still see, head tilted to one side. "Good morning, Captain. You slept well, sir."

A loaded question if ever there was one. "I -- slept very well, with no small thanks to your Vulcan tsa'e I think, Mr. Spock."

"Tsa'e?" McCoy asked wryly. "What in heaven's name made you drink that, Jim?"

Kirk shrugged, forking up a mouthful of his ham and eggs, watching the Vulcan's face, seeing the childlike innocence reflected there as if butter would not melt in his First Officer's mouth. "I'm beginning to think I might have been sabotaged, Bones."

"Sabotaged?" McCoy repeated, looking from Spock to Kirk and back again before the penny finally dropped. "Ah, I see -- prescribing without a license again, huh, Spock?"

"Doctor?" Spock queried his expression entirely virtuous. "I merely offered the Captain some -- Vulcan hospitality. I may have made the tsa'e blend a little stronger than usual, unwittingly. I -- apologize if you were unduly inconvenienced, sir."

"Uh-huh." Kirk took a gulp of his coffee, allowing himself the luxury of imagining for a moment that Spock could really see as he stared straight into the Vulcan's eyes. It was too easy. The First Officer had chosen to break fast with what looked like rice cakes in a rich, yellow sauce. Kirk had noticed on several occasions that the dish appeared to be a current favorite. Spock ate it with Vulcan jom'ir sticks, grace and confidence evident in every gesture, totally at ease with the mechanics of eating and drinking. Kirk had to pay strict attention to realize that he was, indeed, blind.

"You'll be glad to note I slept like a baby, Bones. Ever thought of marketing the stuff, Spock?"

Spock's lips curved in what might have been the briefest of ironic smiles, one eyebrow flicking upwards. "Vulcan already does, Captain."

McCoy grinned. "Tsa'e's a remedial herb, Jim. The Vulcans tend to use it as a meditational support, but among the humanoid species, it seems to alleviate anything from hemorrhoids to menstrual cramps depending on the strength of the mix."

Kirk spluttered into his coffee. "Well -- if I ever suffer from either, I'll certainly know who to consult--"

He changed the subject, his dream of the night before resurfacing. "Spock, what do you know about Wraith?"

"Wraiths, Jim?" McCoy asked puzzled, looking over the rim of his coffee cup at Kirk. "As in apparitions and ghostly portents?"

"No, Doctor McCoy," Spock interrupted. "As in the planet Wraith. At least that is its popular nomenclature. Officially, it is catalogued as Sassandran. A class M planet that has recently been purchased by a private individual who, I believe, has turned it into a vacationers resort."

"Somebody bought a planet?" McCoy asked, agog.

"Indeed. An exceptionally affluent someone, by the name of Hekmatyer Ryhanen, originally from Dha'kaht'chun, Doctor."

"So, how did it come to be called Wraith? By anyone's standards that's a pretty odd name for a planet."

Spock's head tilted, deliberating on his reply. "There is considerable opinion to the effect that the planet is haunted, Doctor McCoy."

"Haunted? So, we are talking about apparitions and ghostly portents! Surely you can't believe that, Spock?"

"Doctor, I merely report the legend, I did not say I accepted it as true," the First Officer stated dryly.

"It's a fascinating peculiarity though, wouldn't you say, Jim?"

Kirk nodded hazel eyes alight with amusement as Spock exhaled lightly at McCoy's emphasis on that particular word. "From what I've heard, that's not the only idiosyncrasy about Sassandran, Bones. Rumor has it that, except for the mountaintops, the world is habitually shrouded in mist."

"Which has added to the superstition, I suspect, Spock added his inquisitiveness obviously piqued. "Moreover Sassandran, although unpopulated now, still has substantial ruins attesting to an earlier occupation by a -- species unknown."

He fixed his unblinking gaze once more on Kirk. "As you are no doubt aware Captain, our present tour includes a stopover at Sassandran at the explicit request of Mr. Ryhanen."

Kirk forked up the last of his breakfast and pushed his plate aside with a contented sigh. He poured himself more coffee and sipped at the rich and creamy beverage. "I am quite aware of that, Mr. Spock. Not only is Mr. Ryhanen extremely wealthy but he also has a great deal of influence with the Federation High Council. His 'request' translates into a direct order from 'Fleet to be sure and go visit."

"Most certainly, Captain."

"Which -- brings me to the matter of your duty assignments, Mr. Spock. Officially, you're on sick leave, of course. However, I don't want you skulking alone for hours in your quarters."

"Skulking, Captain?" Spock protested mildly, winged brows drawing together in dissent at the derogatory term. "I hardly consider--"

"Yes, skulking, Mr. Spock," Kirk affirmed. "You will draw up a schedule with Doctor McCoy so that you get the proper rest. The remainder of your time, until we reach Sassandran will be spent partly on the bridge and partly researching the Koreoretnal condition. Is that understood?"

"Indeed, sir," the First Officer murmured his expression enigmatic. "However, even with Mr. Chekov's help, as you suggested last evening, I -- will be of limited assistance on the bridge and could, quite possibly, be an encumbrance--"

Kirk did not miss Spock's lack of enthusiasm and thought he understood the reason for it. He shook his head and then remembered that Spock could not see the gesture. McCoy merely shrugged as Kirk shot him an uneasy glance.

"I'm not making a request, Mr. Spock." He hardened his tone using his command voice with calculated intent, his regret immediate as he saw the wounded look, concealed almost instantly, on Spock's face. "I know it won't be easy, but I wouldn't ask unless I thought you were up to it."

"Of course not, Captain."

An uncomfortable silence fell that McCoy rushed to fill. "What if we fixed you up with a sensor web, Spock? We could incorporate it into your uniform so that it's not too obvious. Then you'll have no need to rely on Chekov, more than is normal, that is."

"A sensor web, Bones?" Kirk asked. "You mean like the one Doctor Jones wore."

"Exactly, Jim. If we link it up with Spock's senceiver implant I bet he'll even be able to play chess with a little practice."

They both studied the First Officer intently.

"What about it, Spock?" Kirk asked.

Grave, entirely composed, he inclined his head impressed, not for the first time, by McCoy's acuity.

"Thank you, Captain, I accept. Doctor, it is -- an excellent idea."

Chapter 4

Oh, when darkness comes

And pain is all around,

I will take your part,

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will take your part.

Kirk, sitting in the Captain's center seat on the bridge, flexed his back muscles to ease the pressure ache across his shoulders and turned to look at his First Officer. Spock, transceiver placed precisely in one aristocratic satyr's ear, head tilted in absent thought as he listened to the computer dialogue, leaned over his hooded viewer apparently absorbed in the flow of information the ship's sensors imparted, as if oblivious to everything around him. His performance could have won an award for method acting, but Kirk could feel Spock's controlled tension from where he sat, guessed from the stiff way the Vulcan held himself and the deep frown lines between his brows, that the pressure was fast taking its toll. Exhaustion hung over the First Officer like a cloak.

Spock had insisted that his condition remain private, and no one apart from Bones and the Captain knew of it, yet Kirk had discerned the odd worried look mostly from Uhura and Scotty, as they detected an unusual hesitation in the First Officer, Spock's growing indecision when passing on information.

Options, Kirk thought tiredly, what did you do when you ran out of them? He had wanted to keep Spock engaged, stop him brooding alone in his quarters, and show him that the ship still needed his services, but all he had done was to emphasize the Vulcan's predicament.

Unable to forget his friend's pain he faced the main view screen again, the question he had been about to ask Spock left unvoiced. Although McCoy's idea of using a sensor web to help the First Officer 'see' had seemed the answer to their combined problem, it had turned out something of a two edged sword. The strain of sorting and collating both the bizarre images that his eyes provided, along with the sensor information from the mesh embedded into the material of his uniform, had proved an arduous process for Spock.

Kirk had watched the Vulcan deteriorate slowly over the week he had used the device until the lines either side of his mouth and between his eyes had become ever deeper engraved and the time he spent on the bridge became correspondingly shorter day by day.

I have to do something, Kirk thought, loathing his helplessness, refusing to succumb to the wave of compassion that swept over him. I can't let this continue. He leaned forward in his chair, bracing his arms on his knees, attention centered on Chekov.

"What's the estimated time of arrival at Sassandran, Ensign?"

The young Russian answered immediately. "Approximately twenty-one point three five minutes, Kepten."

"That's quite accurate for an approximation, Mr. Chekov," he murmured, getting swiftly to his feet, seeing the quick grin on the boy's face as his compliment registered.

He swivelled to address Uhura where the exotic Bantu woman sat at her boards on the upper aft circle. "Lieutenant, please contact Mr. Ryhanen and advise him a landing party will be beaming down as soon as Enterprise reaches orbit. Have Doctor McCoy report to transporter room three wearing his dress uniform."

With one stride, he ascended the pit steps, his restiveness of the last week finding a sudden focus. "Mr. Sulu, you have the conn. Mr. Spock, come with me."

A chorus of acknowledgments in quick succession followed them both into the turbo lift. The doors shut with a whoosh of sound as Spock came to stand beside him and Kirk gave the order to the computer, twisting the angled control horn. "Deck Five."

The lift came to life, descended rapidly before it slowed again and shifted to a horizontal track, speeding them to their quarters.

"Dress uniform, Captain?" Spock murmured into the silence. "Mr. Ryhanen is honored."

Kirk met his First Officer's dark gaze. "Just greasing the wheels, Mr. Spock."

He did not elaborate, waiting for the Vulcan's curiosity to get the better of him and ask the inevitable question. It came as expected, a moment later.

"You believe Mr. Ryhanen may be helpful to us in some way, sir?"

"Who knows, Mr. Spock? Someday I might need a favor in a hurry. According to that research you did, our Mr. Ryhanen has a finger in any number of prestigious pies."

Spock nodded, musingly. "Indeed, Captain. He does seem to have an industrious nature. Was there a specific 'pie' you had in mind?"

The research, mostly busy-work to keep Spock occupied had, nevertheless, proved exceedingly informative to Kirk. Ryhanen, a true Dha'ka, appeared to attract wealth and prestige like a magnet attracted iron filings. However, Kirk found one fact far more interesting than all the rest of the biographical data put together. It appeared that Ryhanen headed, among half a dozen other concerns, a flourishing pharmacogenetics conglomerate presently researching nanotechnology and cybernetic procedures. Layman that he was, even Kirk could see there might be possibilities in relation to Spock's situation. However, he did not want to raise any false hopes before checking with McCoy.

"I'm open to suggestions, Spock. Perhaps you can think of something during your mid-morning nap."

Though there was little outward sign, Kirk knew his words had exasperated the Vulcan. Spock shifted position, spine stiffening a little as he folded his arms across his lean chest. "Captain, I am gratified by your obvious concern where my health is concerned. However, I assure you I am able to function without a rest every two hours."

"McCoy doesn't seem to agree," Kirk contradicted, secretly amused.

Spock cast Kirk a decidedly probing glance out of arrow-sharp, dark eyes. "If I may say so, the Doctor is being overly protective, Captain."

"You may well say so and you are probably correct, Mr. Spock. What you may not do is flout his recommendations."

"Captain, I must protest--"

"No arguments, Mr. Spock. Doctor McCoy bears the responsibility for the physical condition of every crewmember on this ship. That includes your well-being -- and mine. If he says you rest every two hours that's what you'll do. Understood."

Spock exhaled silently, lips compressed, but even he could not disregard a direct order with impunity. "Understood, sir."

"Good."

The lift came to a stop and Kirk decanted, followed confidently by Spock who matched his stride as they headed down the corridor where their quarters stood next to each other. Spock knew this territory, had charted it minutely. He stopped precisely before his own door and turned once more to face his Captain. "I trust that I will be allowed to accompany you down to the planet, sir?"

Kirk had deliberated on the wisdom of doing exactly that. However, he had finally concluded that Spock needed the change of scene and could only benefit from the challenge of having a new environment to explore. Bones had not concurred, fearful of the dangers inherent in such a move, but Kirk had used his authority to override the doctor's objections.

"Doctor McCoy doesn't think that's wise at this time," he said, watching the Vulcan carefully.

Spock's eyebrows elevated in what Kirk took to be profound chagrin. "And are you of the same opinion, sir?"

"I can't disregard the advice of my Chief Medical Officer, Mr. Spock. Not unless there is a logical reason for doing so, that is." His hazel eyes lit with suppressed amusement as he continued to tease his First Officer. "You do -- have a sound and consistent basis for violating medical opinion, I take it?"

"Apart from frustrating Doctor McCoy's inclination to become a mother hen you mean, Captain?"

"A mother hen with only one chick in the nest, Mr. Spock."

Kirk could almost hear the neurons firing as Spock shifted his weight to stand evenly on both feet, arms folded, and chin leveled. "Captain, if I may be so presumptuous, I am an essential component of the landing party in as much that I have more practical knowledge regarding Sassandran and Mr. Ryhanen than either Doctor McCoy or yourself."

"I wouldn't dispute that, Mr. Spock. Do you consider that explanation will be acceptable to Doctor McCoy?"

Spock tilted his head. Somewhere along the way, or from something evident in Kirk's tone, he had deduced that the Captain had already made his decision. Spock turned the tables on Kirk and did a little subtle jesting of his own. "I do not believe I have to yield to Doctor McCoy's irrational predisposition on the matter, Captain. It is undoubtedly a command decision. Your decision, sir."

Satisfied, Kirk stifled a grin. "Then you have nineteen minutes in which to change and meet us in transporter room three."

"Nineteen point one four minutes, in actual fact, sir."

"Don't be late, First Officer, or we'll go without you."

Spock raised an eyebrow, " Then I will endeavor to be on time, Captain."

* * *

He made it with two seconds to spare, locating the transporter room with little difficulty, his perception polished by the weeks of blindness to a pristine sharpness. He crossed the threshold with a poise only slightly feigned, quietly elegant in the high-collared blue jacket, the Vulcan symbol of kol-ut-shan, infinite combinations in infinite diversity, fastened to his left breast, a tricorder slung across his shoulder.

As the door hissed shut behind him he paused, head tilted, assimilating and processing the data routed through the senceiver in his brain by the sensor net embedded in his clothing. Spock still found it quite fascinating to watch information as if in fast-forward on a screen located within his very mind. It proved simple to locate the Captain and Doctor McCoy standing with Chief Kyle by the transporter console. He could even differentiate between the three if he concentrated hard enough, analyzing specific details of anything from hair color and skin tones to height and weight ratios. It still could not compare with his natural vision, however, which unfortunately continued to deteriorate. All that remained to him now was a distracting glare so intensely bright that it caused him substantial pain.

The only protection against it Spock had found was to use the inner nictitating eyelid, filtering out the dazzle until his environment became a vague, shimmering place of mists and shadows, a familiar landscape made strange that had grown progressively more hostile and intimidating, filled with indistinguishable shapes where a misstep could spell anything from mere embarrassment to severe calamity.

He continued to persevere on the bridge for his Captain's sake but his concerns grew hour by hour that he might blunder at any given moment, misinterpret an important readout, or commit some major error. The trip to Sassandran promised a welcome relief from the persistent strain, a time to evaluate his position and marshal his reasons against Kirk's stubborn refusal to accept his resignation. By no means did he wish to leave the Enterprise but he could not continue as he was and he knew the miracle awaited by the Captain had little chance of materializing. Kaiidth. What was, was. It would be illogical in the extreme to deny the reality of the situation.

Acknowledging both Kirk and McCoy with a brief nod, he crossed the room and stepped boldly up onto the transporter, taking his usual position on one of the pads.

"I think Mr. Spock's ready to beam down, Jim," McCoy murmured sardonically, loud enough for him to hear.

"So I see, Bones," came Kirk's mild reply. "Better not keep him waiting."

Without further ado they took their places either side of him and Spock heard Kyle call out, "Energizing, Captain."

Unlike Doctor McCoy who often complained about the process, Spock always found transporting an invigorating experience, entirely physical, akin to a sonic shower after an enthusiastic game of velocity or a bout of shan'gahza with the Captain, the Andorian martial art that Kirk at present enjoyed. The act of having his matter scrambled and rematerialized at the beam down point had never previously unnerved him.

However, as the effect began and the iridescent sparkle surrounded him, the Vulcan experienced an unexpected disquiet. The normal restrained hum contained an unusual whine that he had never previously noticed. The IDIC medallion turned suddenly hot, burning through jacket and undershirt until it scorched the soft tissue of his chest. The skin everywhere on his body sizzled with a surge of static electricity, the fuzzy hairs that covered his flesh standing on end.

The next instant an abrupt sensation of crackling energy whiplashed through every nerve and vein in his body, wrenching him apart atom by atom in a fraction of a second, a second that lasted for eternity.

He materialized in what he sensed as a large open space with stone beneath his feet and a chilly, rarefied, mountain air upon the exposed skin of his face, throat and hands. The shriek of a large bird came wheeling sharply to his ears. Disorientated, he raised a hand to his throbbing temples staggering dizzily, deserted by the confidence he had learned aboard the Enterprise. Without walls to touch, or bounce back sounds, he lost all previous reference points. He took a hesitant step, the ground unsteady beneath his feet, before he swayed forward, grasping at empty air.

"Spock, what is it?" Kirk's alarmed voice came from beside him. An arm caught him around the waist, stopped him from falling as his knees gave way, and then lowered him gently to the ground, cradling him there. "Spock, what's wrong? Bones, do something."

"Hold on, Jim. Give me a moment." The hum of Doctor McCoy's remote sensor penetrated the First Officer's confusion. He struggled to sit up but a hand on his shoulder restrained him. "Stay put, Mr. Spock. This won't take long."

He did not have the energy to resist. "Doctor, the sensor web is no longer functioning. I -- cannot see--"

Although his eyes remained open, the universe had darkened, consuming the dazzling brightness that had plagued him for so long and for that fact alone, Spock knew only a profound relief. The warble of a communicator came from behind him. He half turned toward the sound, heard the case snap back. Kirk's voice again, sounding worried.

"Kirk here."

"Captain, are ye all right down there?" Scott's voice was distant, anxious.

"Doctor McCoy and I have transported safely but Mr. Spock's -- unwell. What makes you ask, Scotty?"

"It's the transporter, sir. We've got a short in the main couplings, a possible feedback in the energy coils. I canna beam ye back up until it's rectified, Captain."

"Any idea what caused it, Scotty?"

"I canna' say yet, sir. We're working on it."

"Very well. Keep me posted."

Spock started as Kirk closed the communicator, senses whirling as he fought against a wave of vertigo, his forehead pounding in time to his beating heart. "Sir, I believe -- the transporter malfunction may be connected with the -- breakdown of my sensor web. Before -- I dematerialized there was a definite energy overload."

His words slurred as pain resounded within his skull, affecting his ability to think logically, to reason. He shivered, holding the back of his head with trembling fingers, trying to ease the ferocious ache. The ground still continued to lurch beneath him, spinning bizarrely, and he leaned back into Kirk's loose embrace needing something to cling onto, suddenly cold with the dread of falling into the void that had opened at his feet. Kirk's heart thudded strongly against his left ear and he groped blindly for the hand that tensely spanned the flesh across his lower ribs.

"Captain?"

"It's okay, Mr. Spock. I've got you." Reacting to Spock's unease, Kirk clasped his First Officer's hand, returning a light reassuring pressure. "Bones?"

"He could be right, Jim. Spock if I can have your tricorder for a moment." The instrument warbled as McCoy scanned the sensor web and senceiver embedded in Spock's brain. "It certainly appears as if the sensor webs shorted out. The discharge could have affected Spock's senceiver, too."

"How badly is he hurt?"

Spock discerned the renewed anxiety in his Captain's voice.

"There's been some neural damage, I can't tell how much yet. He needs to rest. Somewhere quiet and warm. I'll give him a shot of analgesic just to ease the discomfort."

Even as Kirk agreed, there came the sound of footsteps approaching. Then a powerful voice addressed them all in a deep, aristocratic bass baritone, steady and authoritative, used to command, the tone subtly restrained now as its owner greeted them.

"Meer'tchal, Sers. I am your host, Ryhanen Hekmatyer." The voice held a trace of concern, mixed with perplexity. "I have been remiss in meeting you and now there has been an accident."

"My First Officer is -- ill, Mr. Ryhanen. He needs to rest. If we could be provided with a room--"

"Of course, of course. Let me assist you." And Spock suddenly found himself lifted up into a pair of immensely strong arms as if he weighed no more than a child and hoisted at least six feet off the ground. "If you will come this way--"

"Captain?" he queried uncertainly, but Kirk's reply became lost in the abrupt surge of blood booming in his ears. Pain exploded through his skull, blazing a fiery trail along his central and peripheral nervous systems, until not only sight but also hearing and touch were lost to him. All that remained was the pain, and soon enough even that faded leaving him in a limbo that he could not penetrate.

Chapter 5

Success is failure turned inside out,

A silver tint on the clouds of doubt.

But you never can tell how close you are

It may be near when it seems so far.

You have to stick to the fight

And when things go wrong don't you quit --

The trees he walked amongst grew tall and thin with white bark and pale grey leaves, though color glowed in the parasitical moss that dripped from the overhanging branches in cascades of crimson, jade and amethyst. Low bushes abounded, choked thickly with distorted globular fruits of indigo, wound about with vines and strange climbing plants, all reaching for the translucent light glimmering through the mists.

Strange scents tickled his nostrils, unfamiliar and curiously intoxicating, the fragrances of an alien world. He saw quite clearly, despite the vaporous haze that churned and eddied around him, caressing him with unseen hands, clutching at his feet as he continued to push, unperturbed, through the crowding vegetation.

There was, he realized, someone else in the forest beside himself. Someone or something that remained concealed among the thickets, traveling a parallel course, heading for the tower that he somehow knew lay just up ahead. It played a game of hide and seek with him, a glimmering radiance, appearing just on the edge of sight until he glanced in that direction, only to disappear again in an instant. Unafraid, he paid it little heed, though he recognized that it could mean him mischief. The mist continued to hold him captive, drawing him on, ever deeper into the secret realm of Wraith's interior.

Spock sat up with a gasp, his heart hammering a rapid tattoo against his lower ribs, witness to the sudden spurt of irrational fear. His open eyes stared into stygian blackness and for an instant, he remained confused, unable to understand why he could not see. Then memory returned. The transporter had malfunctioned and he had sustained injuries, further injuries, he amended stoically, recalling that last burst of agonizing pain as the Dha'ka Ryhanen picked him up like a babe in arms and carried him -- presumably to the place he now found himself. No doubt, the quiet area Doctor McCoy had specified. He shifted on the bed, head tilted, listening.

"Captain?" he exclaimed softly. "Doctor McCoy?"

A faint echo returned, giving him the general dimensions of the room, but neither the good doctor nor Captain Kirk answered his call. Apparently, they regarded him well enough to remain alone, at least for a time. That encouraged him and without hesitation, he pushed aside the thick duvets and swung his legs out - only to find himself nearer to the actual floor than he had anticipated. Spock stifled a shocked cry as his left ankle, both knees and an elbow impacted on solid wood. Unbalanced, his momentum carried him forward until he collided with the corner of the nightstand, striking his brow against the wood with a loud thud.

The sound of falling objects resounded through the quiet room. Stunned, he leaned back against the bed; essentially just a wide dais raised a foot or two above the floor and covered with assorted bedding, realizing a little late that lack of sight in this strange environment could prove far more hazardous than aboard the Enterprise. If nothing else, the experience taught him how much he needed to exercise both caution and coordination if he was to survive any additional unpleasant surprises and further, that it was long past time he learned how to be blind. He breathed in deeply, closing his eyes as he steadied himself, discovering an odd sort of peace in the gesture. Although the world was just as dark with eyes open or closed, he found the action focused all his perceptions on those senses still available to him.

Spock pushed himself up onto his bruised knees and from there got slowly to his feet. A quick clap of his hands threw back a faint resonance, enough to tell him that a wall stood nearby. More guarded than before, he shuffled forward, his natural elegance distorted by the awkward stiffness of uncertainty, arms extended at shoulder height intending to circumvent the room by using the perimeter and find his way about without too much inconvenience. Before he did anything else, however, he had to find his clothes, for someone had thoughtfully removed them, leaving him quite naked; McCoy's foolproof way of keeping him from wandering elsewhere no doubt. Fortunately, the doctor had also increased the temperature of the room to an almost comfortable level.

"I can't recall giving you permission to leave that bed, Mr. Spock." McCoy's voice came from across the room, startling Spock who had entered a state of intense concentration and remained oblivious to his entry. "Besides which, it's a sure thing your hands aren't gonna be much use way up there. You're more likely to bump your shins than hit your nose. Try lower down 'bout waist high."

"Thank you, Doctor," Spock murmured, dropping his hands dutifully in response to the logic of McCoy's statement and immediately encountered the back of a low chair. How basic, he thought ruefully. How simple and eminently sensible. Spock would have missed it entirely with his hands held so unnaturally high, cracking his knees or stumbling as a reward for his efforts. "Perhaps you can help me further by describing this room and the rest of its contents."

McCoy stared at the First Officer in sudden absurd affection, though he would rather die than ever admit to the emotion, especially in front of Spock. Whatever life threw at the Vulcan, he managed to rise above it, seemingly without bitterness or anger, indomitable to the last. The Doctor felt his throat constrict and incongruous tears sting his eyes as he watched Spock trying to orientate himself. He wiped them away surreptitiously, clearing his throat before he complied with Spock's request, detailing the room in a clear and concise manner as if describing a tray of surgical instruments set before him, making a special point of mentioning the large but delicate crystal ornament set on a side table, an obvious danger to the blind First Officer.

"You have a distinct talent for observation and description, Doctor," Spock said appreciatively. "Perhaps you should think of changing profession."

"Yeah, as if I need a new career--" McCoy replied without thinking and then cursed himself for being so clumsy. "I'm sorry, Spock."

"Please, do not castigate yourself on my behalf, Doctor McCoy." The First Officer turned from his fingertip inspection of large floor to ceiling windows to stare in McCoy's general direction, his expression enigmatic. "It would be illogical to believe that I could remain on the Enterprise as I am. Vulcans have a propensity for two or even more careers during their lifetime. I have merely reached the turning point sooner than I had expected." He hesitated for an instant before going on, "What continues to perturb me is the Captain's inability to accept my -- disability."

You're right about that, McCoy thought as he crossed the room to join Spock. Jim's an eternal optimist. He won't give up on you without a fight, that's for sure.

James Kirk was in his mid-thirties, the youngest captain in the Fleet, handsome and athletic, while Spock was six years older, tall, and lean, typically Vulcan with an intellectual's wiry physique. Neither man resembled the other either emotionally or physically, yet there existed a likeness in spirit that nobody could miss. Those who knew them both well, and sometimes even casual acquaintances, were more impressed with their similarities than their differences. It was not something you could ever put your finger on exactly. Certainly, you could never mistake one man for the other. However, both had that air of command, a natural authority, so used to being obeyed that they did not have to raise their voices or resort to threats. Jim Kirk and Spock were a matched set. McCoy could understand Jim's reluctance to accept the inescapable; losing Spock would be like having his right arm amputated at the shoulder.

"Spock, there're three things that Starship Captains in general -- but Jim Kirk in particular -- advocate. Women and children first, always go up with the ship, and never forget a friend--"

Spock nodded, eyes hooded in thought. "Agreed, Doctor. However, he must be persuaded to acknowledge the reality of the situation for his own sake."

"Give him time. He'll come round eventually. You know, while you were unconscious he never left your side. It took a hell of a while to convince him you were all right and only when he saw you start to recover did I finally get rid of him. You're an -- important -- part of Jim's life and, naturally enough, he's worried about you."

Spock frowned, folding his arms, his expression impenetrable, knowing McCoy watched him with eagle eyes. "There is no need for his concern."

"No?" McCoy's tone was openly skeptical. It was then he noticed the blood on Spock's face. "Hey, what's all this?"

Spock gingerly touched the cut on his forehead, grateful for the distraction. "A -- miscalculation, Doctor."

"Here, let me take a look. Hmmm, that's a pretty deep miscalculation." McCoy dipped into his medical pouch and came up with a portable tissue regenerator. It was a moment's work to repair the damage. "There, that should do it. Try to be more careful in future. Jim will have my hide if you get hurt again."

"The Captain cannot believe you were responsible for the transporter feedback, Doctor. That would be illogical."

"It was my idea to route the sensor web through your senceiver implant. I should have known better."

"I also sanctioned the procedure. It should not have proved unsafe or deleterious."

"At least the neural damage is already healing. You'll need to take it easy for a few days is all. Lots of bed rest, a few gentle excursions, no tilting at windmills. That sort of thing."

"Tilting at windmills, Doctor?" Spock asked, perplexed, ignoring McCoy's unpalatable statement about `bed rest'.

"Walking into inanimate objects is definitely not allowed, Mr. Spock."

"Ah, I see." Spock's eyebrows rose in unison. He ran a finger over the insignificant new scar on his brow, head on one side, considering. "I will attempt not to do so in future, Doctor McCoy."

The First Officer's lips creased in what could have been a rueful smile as he went back to his exploration of the window, his hands roaming back and forth until he found the release. "Where does this lead?"

"We're in Ryhanen's private castle, really a small town, chiseled out of bedrock, half way up the side of a mountain. The window opens onto a balcony that overlooks the rest of the chain. He calls it Castle Cloud but it's more like Ryhanen's Folly if you ask me."

"Fascinating."

"You can say that again," McCoy retorted. He saw Spock's eyebrow rise again and forestalled the Vulcan's inevitable comment before he had chance to utter it. "But don't, Mr. Spock. And if you're thinkin' of exploring outside, it may be a good idea to put some clothes on. It's mighty chilly out there."

* * *

Kirk, doing some exploring of his own, found a suitable distraction waiting for him on the dining balcony where he, McCoy and Spock had first beamed down. Standing alone by the parapet with her back to him, looking out over the mountains, the girl, dressed in a long robe of some iridescent silver-grey cloth, appeared to be part of the inevitable mist, and intrigued him enough to divert, for a little while at least, some of his ill-omened thoughts.

The ancient sun had started to set, and he realized with some surprise that he had spent almost the whole day sitting beside his First Officer's prone body, willing the Vulcan to recover from the trauma suffered in the transporter malfunction. Only when McCoy finally convinced him that Spock slept naturally and that the neural damage appeared superficial, did he consider leaving his friend's side to get some fresh air and work the kinks out of his spine although, given the choice, he much preferred something more energetic to work off the nervous tension. Like an all-out dogfight amid a whole bunch of enraged Klingons, for instance; or maybe a bare fisted brawl with Finnegan, his old enemy from the Academy. Lacking those alternatives, a roll in the hay with a willing partner might just do it.

Without stopping to consider his motives, he walked up to the parapet and stood beside the young woman.

"I don't think we've met," he said as she turned to look at him, a frisson of excitement shivering along his nerves as his gaze caressed the fragile, strangely androgynous beauty of her face, the ivory skin pale as alabaster against a cloud of ashen hair.

The girl studied him in her turn out of huge obsidian eyes, the lids shadowed with what appeared to be some dark cosmetic or other, on a level with his own. She regarded him as if his presence there had been planned all along and his sudden appearance came as no surprise. Some heavy, intoxicating perfume she wore seemed to fill the air around her like a tantalizing haze and Kirk breathed it in, his lazy smile widening as he relaxed, enjoying himself for the first time in what seemed like weeks.

"No, I do not think we have," she replied in a cool, husky voice that sent shivers of anticipation running down his spine.

His smile deepened as his tensions took an entirely different turn. "Perhaps there's an easy remedy for that. I'm James T. Kirk, Captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise."

"Yes." She continued to stare at him with that startlingly frank, unblinking gaze, holding him mesmerized.

"You've never -- heard of -- the Enterprise, right."

"Should I have?" she asked, those unnerving eyes weighing him up heartlessly, like a cat hunting a particularly tasty mouse, or a spider chasing a bug.

Some cool lady, he admitted to himself, and felt the attraction grow even stronger, relishing the challenge of conquest. His grin vanished as heat coalesced in the pit of his stomach and exploded outwards, incandescent, flaming along his veins, pooling in his groin. "No -- I suppose not."

He swallowed, abruptly, thrown off stride, aware that he was acting like a tongue-tied college boy on his first date. He managed to drag his eyes away from her face, looked out over the balustrade. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

Ryhanen had built his Folly atop the highest summit in the long mountain chain. All the other peaks had surrendered before the slowly rising mist and just one barbed dagger of scarlet rock jabbed into the sky, way off to the north. Kirk stared at the swirling outlier mist tendrils gently exploring his boot. "Is it always like this?"

"Every mistrise and mistfall," the girl replied. She gestured towards the west where Sassandran's sun had started to descend slowly towards the waiting vapors. "As Resyenyhah sinks, Sahasirana rises, conquering the mountains that his radiance held during the day. It is a war, ceaseless and eternal, but Sahasirana has the better of it, for she has the valleys, the plains, and the seacoasts. Resyenyhah keeps only the mountaintops and then only by day."

"You like it here, Miss--? I still don't know your name."

"Names are powerful things, Jaymztikuhkhq." The girl tilted her head to one side, reminding Kirk of Spock's habitual gesture, the cool breeze playing with the silver-blond hair that cascaded down her back almost to the waist, a ghostly mistfall of her own that he yearned to touch. "Do you need to know my name before you make love to me?"

She watched him intently looking for some reaction, the ebony eyes mostly iris and pupil with only a tiny rim of white showing.

Amazed and a little amused by her insight, Kirk floundered for an instant. He decided to stall. "Why should I want to make love to you? We've only just met."

"It is the truth, nonetheless."

"It's hardly surprising." Kirk laughed, deciding to come clean. "You're very beautiful."

Pale, blue veined lids dropped over the striking eyes, hiding her thoughts from him as she inclined her head. "Have you not made love to many beautiful women?"

"None like you," he acknowledged softly. The girl looked at him, her eyes swirling open like dark flowers and he felt an uncomfortable sensation as if she were able to read his every intimate thought.

"I am Tel Shimaan," she conceded unexpectedly as if that explained everything, smiling at his gallantry, and Kirk found himself smiling back, knowing that he had just lost the game they played. She had him hooked like a fish on a line.

"You live here permanently?" he asked.

"This is my home." She turned her profile to him, gazing out over the drop off beyond the balustrade. "It is an insubstantial world, Jaymztikuhkhq, where nothing is ever as it seems. A world of ghosts and mists and clouds, where dreams and reality mix."

"You look substantial enough to me," Kirk murmured, wanting to take her into his arms and crush her to him, flesh against flesh, to kiss the darkly sensual lips until she cried out his name in pleasure.

She smiled, glanced sideways at him then away again as if reading his thought, the look cool, merciless, and predatory, contradicting her fragile beauty. "I sense you are uncomfortable here, Jaymztikuhkhq, so close to the edge. The altitude worries you. Is such a height not meaningless after the cold voids of space?"

Kirk did feel uneasy and found her shrewdness unsettling. "Why don't you call me Jim? I'm not worried, cautious maybe. In space, I have the walls of the Enterprise between the void and me. At least an illusion of safety."

"Illusions, Jimh?" The girl nodded. "Yes, illusions are sometimes important."

"I doubt Spock would agree with you there," Kirk grinned wryly.

"Spokhq?"

"My First Officer. He's a Vulcan. Sees everything in black and white--" Or, at least, he used to. Now all he sees is grey like the mist and shadows down there, an elusive abstraction, robbing him of his life --

However, she was not interested in talking about Spock. Her attention centered now on the drop, on the mists that swirled and twisted. "Do you not see how Sahasirana molds and reforms, ever changing but always the same."

Kirk looked down and saw only that his feet had disappeared, devoured by the rising fog. He frowned, watching the wispy strands, the ghostly tendrils weaving an ethereal web between himself and Tel Shimaan until they appeared to merge into one being. It was an intriguing thought but one he found thoroughly daunting. He raised his head and found her regarding him again, those lustrous eyes like the black empty space between worlds, ready to engulf him as the mists were doing. He shivered, chilled by the icy vapor that swirled about him, conscious that the haze was slowly reaching for his knees--

"Some say that our future can be glimpsed by seeking the patterns in the clouds. We only have to look close enough."

Kirk smiled quickly, nevertheless looking directly where she indicated at the formless swirling all around him. "And you -- believe that?"

"Of course." She smiled as she said it, stepping closer to him, strands of mist leading her advance. "I saw you there."

Her hands delicately touched his chest, moved up to rest either side of his face, her slender fingers cool, describing smooth circles across his brow, down his temples, her thumbs tracing either side of his nose, pausing to brush back and forth along his jaw. Her eyes remained wide open, fixed steadily on his face as if the feather light touch was not enough to hold him.

He flicked nervously at his lips with his tongue just as her fingers wandered to his mouth, and she paused as if analyzing the strangeness of the physical sensation. His eyes remained riveted on her face as she followed the pattern of his mouth with first one finger, then another, then all of them at once. She caught the fullness of his lower lip with a curious pressure of one thumb and Kirk suddenly felt an intense heat, a burst of arousal, and the abrupt need to draw in more air. His lips parted as he sucked in a deep breath. Her touch was incredibly sensuous and yet she seemed to have no idea of the response she was awakening in him.

He knew that he had lost control and it unnerved him. To seize it back he covered her hands with his own, pulling them away from his face, his trembling fingers appearing thick and awkward in contrast to hers. Then he reached for the back of her neck, bringing her closer against his chest, covering her parted lips with his, taking her mouth gently enough but with a rising urgency as she melted into him, caressing and exploring, demanding an equal reaction as he tried to smother the violent throbbing within himself. At first her head pulled back against the unyielding pressure of his hand, then her lips moved beneath his, testing an unfamiliar awareness, unafraid, answering his need.

They parted with reluctance and Tel Shimaan opened her eyes, opaque and incalculable now as she gazed at him.

"You wished to prove something to me." She smiled that half mocking, half sultry smile, her tone soft with pleasure.

"I thought you might like it."

"It is an extraordinary custom," she murmured. "But most agreeable. Why did you stop?"

"I've never kissed a Sassandran before."

"And I have never … kist … a Terranh. It is not our way to touch with the lips as you do. This is our way." Again, she raised her fingers to his face.

The mist followed, cobweb light, brushing his skin delicately, fluttering from brow to chin. Kirk shuddered but he lacked the volition to pull away. He tipped his head back as her fingers moved on, slipping in unison down the smooth slope of his shoulders, pressing lightly against his well-developed biceps that contracted in urgent tension beneath her hands.

His lids dropped like blinds, shading the fervent smoulder of eyes gone abruptly dark, and his lips parted helplessly to pull in another shuddering breath. Her wandering fingers rested for an instant in the center of his chest concentrating his awareness there with an explosion of sensuality. The mist was all about them now, as substantial as her heavy perfume swirling through his senses. He shook his head in an effort to dispel the madness her nearness evoked, his body stubbornly refusing to move away from the electricity of her fingertips.

"Telshimaan--" His ragged breathing made it difficult to speak. His heart thundered and his pulses raced.

Her hands slipped in between their taut bodies, tracing his rigid stomach muscles, the outline of his thighs, the tendrils of mist following her deft fingers, touching him intimately. A startled sound flew from his chest and escaped his lips at the contact.

"Be one with me, Jimh," she whispered softly. "Do not resist. You are for me, Jaymztikuhkhq. You are for me."

* * *

The plexiglas opened with a quiet sigh allowing an influx of cool, mountain air. Spock stepped over the threshold, equally exhilarated and terrified, aware of the great open space before and beyond him, knowing that a false step here could mean his death.

"Your way ahead is clear space except for a few shrubs and trees in pots."

McCoy watched him anxiously but let him find his own way without intruding, just close enough to act if the Vulcan should stumble. Even sightless, Spock had a quiet dignity, an ingenuous poise. Head held high, gaze fixed on some vision only he could see, the First Officer proceeded with almost agonizing slowness out onto the wide balcony, his hands extended from bent elbows in the way McCoy had suggested.

"There's a statue on your left, about twelve feet high. Ryhanen seems to like things big--"

"Dha'kaht'chun are themselves physically imposing, Doctor. At only eight feet in height, Ser Ryhanen is somewhat undersized by comparison to the rest of his race. Does the statue represent anything in particular?"

Appreciative of McCoy's presence, Spock concentrated on his first trip across virgin territory, his ears straining for any and every sound, the sigh of the wind among the crags, the melancholy cry of a bird, his own hesitant footsteps on rough hewn stone, and the doctor's quick, apprehensive breathing at his shoulder.

"A young hominid female, if secondary sexual characteristics are anything to go by, sporting a pair of curving ram's horns from the brow. It looks anatomically correct, the neck's thickened, the shoulders wide and muscular for a woman, but it could be a mythological representation of some sort. She's carrying a weapon, a crossbow, I think it is, and has what appears to be a large animal, vaguely bear-like with prominent tusks, accompanying her. I wouldn't like to meet either of them on a dark night, that's a sure thing. It looks old, too old to have originated at the Folly."

Tendrils of mist brushed Spock's face, delicate fingertips, tentative and exploring as if searching each of his features in turn. The evocative scent of decaying leaves and damp earth pervaded the air, calling to mind his reverie of walking in the forest accompanied by that other, insubstantial as a ghost, cloaked in mystery, yet with an underlying reality that was hard to refute. At the recollection, an eerie silence seemed to descend about him. He stopped, analyzing the sensation, trying to pinpoint its direction.

"Doctor, I believe we are under observation--" He dropped his voice, speaking in an undertone as if afraid that someone would overhear.

"That's not possible, Spock. We're over a thousand feet above the ground. Nothing overlooks this terrace."

"Nevertheless--" Spock's voice trailed off into silence as he stared fixedly towards the waist high stone parapet that encircled the drop off finally locating the source of his concern.

"What is it, Spock?" Puzzled and uneasy, McCoy followed Spock's sightless gaze. The sun had started to descend giving way to the conquering mist tinged now with scarlet light, lapping like ghostly waves upon the shores of the balcony. Already the other mountains in the range had disappeared, swallowed up in the sinuous white ocean. Then the tide seemed to turn and the mists poured over the balcony edge to close in upon Ryhanen's Folly. An intense crimson fog gathered a scant meter distant, in an opaque wall that grew thicker and stronger as the seconds ticked by, dwarfing the two officers as it towered above them. And within the mists, something started to form.

McCoy dragged himself from the stupor that held him transfixed, forced his feet to move, placing himself before the First Officer, a human shield against what he thought now threatened them, his heart thundering inside his chest as he sucked in a lungful of abruptly freezing air.

"Those rumors were true. It's a wraith, Spock--" he hissed over his shoulder, lips suddenly numb, so cold he could hardly form the words. "Get -- back inside -- now."

Without waiting for a response he grabbed Spock by the arm, spun him roughly about and propelled him back towards the open windows by brute force alone. They tumbled across the threshold in a welter of limbs, the wraith-like mist clutching vainly at their ankles as the Chief Surgeon instantly whirled, thumping the window release. It shut fast with a soft exhalation, echoing McCoy as he gasped in breathless relief.

"Doctor?" Spock blinked in bewilderment as if only just awakening from some bizarre dream, head tilted as he stared up at the doctor from his position on the floor where McCoy's dramatic entrance had thrown him. "What has happened?"

Something thumped loudly against the glas with such force the whole frame shivered and a banshee wail keened abruptly into the silence. McCoy launched himself away from the window echoing the fearful cry with one of his own, landing on his knees beside Spock, wondering what would happen if the panes should crack. Unwilling to look in that direction, worried by what he might see, he stayed on his knees, face averted, while something unknown rapped and scraped on the other side of the fragile barrier, trying to get in to them.

It seemed like an eternity before the sounds eventually faded and disappeared. McCoy risked a quick glance at the window. Thick fog writhed and twisted just beyond the panes but some unknown instinct told him it was just condensation, water vapor caused by the evaporation of warm air as night closed in. Whatever had hidden within the masking clouds had now given up and gone away.

At least for the moment, he thought with a shiver. With a weary groan, he got back on his feet, helped the First Officer up, and brushed himself off, trying to control his shaking fingers.

"I don't know 'bout you, Spock but I need a drink. Something large and one hundred per cent proof," he murmured. "Until we get some answers to what just happened, the rest of my exploring is gonna be from out of a glass."

Chapter 6

And in the mirror I glimpse as I pass,

No reflection is revealed in the glass.

Can't you see that the blood in my veins

Is as lifeless as yesterdays rain?

I am nothing but shadow and mist,

And for you I cannot exist.

"And you're sure it meant to harm you?" Kirk asked, glancing involuntarily towards the window, covered now by a draped curtain that McCoy had drawn to shut out the sight of the swirling fog, some obscure memory forcing its way to the surface of his mind before sinking again.

"I'm telling you it attacked us, Jim. Came billowing over the balcony parapet straight for us."

"That is not certain, Doctor McCoy," Spock interrupted softly. "Its intentions, as far as I could sense, were ambivalent. Though assuredly not benign, neither was it malicious."

"You mean it just came to say 'ciao', Spock, or invite us over for dinner, maybe."

"Now you are being facetious, Doctor."

"You can bet your pay on it, Mr. Spock."

Kirk got up from the overstuffed hotel chair and started to pace. "Whether it meant you injury or not, it still doesn't explain what it is or what it's doing on this planet. Could it be native? Is it intelligent? It's a pity you didn't manage to get any tricorder readings, Bones."

McCoy looked abashed, but his concern for Spock had driven any such requirement out of his head.

"Perhaps those questions should be addressed to Ser Ryhanen, Captain," Spock suggested. "The original surveys of Sassandran were carried out by a company under his nominal control. The wraith legend has existed from that time, I believe."

"Agreed, and the ideal opportunity I propose, is the formal dinner our host has arranged for this evening. Think you're up to it, Mr. Spock?"

"Indeed, Captain. It should be most enlightening."

"According to Mr. Ryhanen, the invitation includes all my senior officers. Scotty's still doing the final tests on the transporter but if everything checks out, he'll be beaming down with Uhura and Sulu."

"Sounds like a reunion, Jim," McCoy said, with a grin, cheering up. "Are we expected to be on our best behavior or can we let our hair down at this junket?"

"The usual rules apply, Doctor." Kirk tried to sound stern but failed, his hazel eyes suddenly alight, pushing his qualms about the strangeness of Sassandran back down into his subconscious. "Ryhanen's roped in half of his administrative staff, some of the residents at the Castle, as well as the more prominent colonists presently on Sassandran. Our reputation is on the line. Discretion should be our byword."

"Dha'kaht'chun's have a philosophy of eudemonism, Doctor McCoy. Ser Ryhanen has a reputation for tolerating only the best. I believe even your Lucullan tastes will be effectively gratified," Spock added.

"If that's a fancy way of saying we're going to eat and drink something apart from reconstituted chicken and synthetic coffee, then I'm all for it. A little self-indulgence is better than no indulgence at all in my book," McCoy declared. "Of course as the Enterprise' resident party-pooper, I suppose you'll stick to the usual mixed vegetables, salad, and rice bread, Spock?"

"My dietary needs are simple, Doctor McCoy, I do not pretend otherwise. I see no reason to overeat and disrupt my digestive system. However, if you wish to gorge yourself, please do not let my attendance interfere."

"Why, thank you, Commander. I'm relieved to have your permission to enjoy myself."

"Gentlemen. Gentlemen," Kirk interceded, rolling his eyes ceiling ward. "Shall we declare a cessation of hostilities, if only for this evening? Our strength lies in unity before Mr. Ryhanen, not open warfare."

Spock lifted his face, eyes unseeing but serene. "Of course, Captain."

McCoy harrumphed in grumpy disapproval, still upset by his recent unnerving experience but unwilling to admit that his bad temper originated from that source. "If you say so, Jim. I just hope Ryhanen's not placed us next to each other at dinner, is all. If I'm to get indigestion, I'd like it to stem from the food I eat, not from your First Officer's disapproval of my gluttonous behavior."

However, they had all underestimated the Dha'kaht'chun's desire to accommodate his guests. The main dining area was a haven of cozy warmth and subdued lighting, with the soft strains of a live ensemble playing from the gallery above. A long table, elegant with china and crystal, mixed with arrangements of fresh-cut, exotic-looking, alien flowers and candlelight was the centerpiece of the room. Yet, it was the view through the floor to ceiling transparent shielding out onto the wide balcony that grabbed Kirk and McCoy's immediate attention.

Only a few feet from where they stood the mists surged and pitched in ghostly swells, cloaking everything in a sea of white vapors. Ryhanen's Folly floated alone, a stone galleon upon an insubstantial ocean. An eerie beauty existed in that one startling vista. Looking at it, Kirk felt unexpectedly edgy, understanding very well how Bones had become so easily spooked.

Ryhanen Hekmatyer excused himself from other guests and immediately came to meet them. His was an imposing race indeed; splendidly handsome, his skin emulated the fineness of mahogany, its darkness emphasized by a neatly clipped beard, eyebrows and thick shoulder-length hair of startling white. The Dha'kaht'chun's quicksilver eyes had an intelligent, vital quality and a magnetism that was difficult to overlook. He also topped Kirk by more than two feet, and had the towering build of a grizzly bear. Beside him, the three officers resembled offspring of a much lesser god.

Bowing graciously, he acknowledged them all with the utmost respect, asked after Spock's health and showed them to their places where the other members of the Enterprise' crew awaited them.

There were seventy guests in all, a throng of different races and species, intermingled about the extended table, a glitteringly, smart assembly, sedately noisy, enjoying the luxury and extravagance orchestrated by their magnanimous host. Kirk studied them, his eyes roving nonchalantly as soon as he had seen Spock safely seated on his left. McCoy, despite his earlier protestations in Spock's room, sat on the First Officer's other side. Sulu took the chair on Kirk's right with Scotty and Uhura sitting in the chairs beside him. On the other side of the table Ryhanen, with his Andorian aides, two of his four wives and twin daughters, formed a group of their own. An expectant silence fell as Ryhanen rose to his feet and faced his guests.

"As we are a multicultural assembly this evening, I have taken the liberty of selecting a variety of dishes for your pleasure. Please be reminded however that one man's meat may be another's poison and take suitable care when tasting each other's specialities. I would not wish the occasion to end abruptly for anyone here…"

There came a smattering of wry laughter as Ryhanen regained his seat, followed by the disciplined entrance of a number of attendants and servers carrying various gastronomic delights from numerous worlds. Soon after came the sounds of silverware scraping fine china, the low tones of conversation, and the fragile ring of crystal as glasses were brought together in diverse toasts.

The smokey white wine, made from a native grape, a plump grey thing the size of a lemon, tasted superb and after his first glass, Kirk started to relax. It felt good to sit at a table finely prepared, lulled by the murmurs of contented diners, surrounded by the sounds of a room devoted to elegance and people who appreciated it. He glanced at Spock, noticed the Vulcan's right hand creep unobtrusively to his plate guided by the placement of the silverware, examining the heavy matt tablecloth and the dishes before him with his fingers. The First Officer apparently would not get the chance to eat his mixed vegetables and salad that evening. In front of him steamed freshly baked pri tarmeeli, harageel and yorakar, a heavy crystal goblet nearby containing the finest of Vulcan riman cordials. Without drawing attention to the fact, McCoy quietly informed the First Officer not only what was on his plate but also where the food was placed, receiving a murmured thank you from the Vulcan for his efforts.

Kirk, trading meaningful glances with the Ryhanen women across from him, especially the beautiful twin daughters, suddenly caught the eye of papa Ryhanen and addressed himself to his own meal of thick beef sirloin, deviled potatoes and baby vegetables, the erection he currently sported withering to nothing as the powerful, all seeing, all knowing glance searched his soul and found him wanting. To distract that glowing, quicksilver consideration, he chewed thoughtfully on a chunk of rare beef before indicating the transparent shield holding the swirling mists of Wraith at bay.

"I understand that you own this planet, Mr. Ryhanen. If you don't mind me saying it seems a strange choice for a resort world given the abundance of other, more suitable, locations."

"Hekmatyer, if you please, Captain Kirk. Or may I call you, James?" At Kirk's nod, he smiled graciously, a flash of startling white in that otherwise dark face, but an expression that came easily enough to the patrician features. "Not so strange, surely? Castle Cloud has everything anyone might want, the finest food, entertainments, gambling, good company and all the comforts of home."

"You also have wraiths, sir," McCoy interjected sharply, looking up from his meal of southern fried chicken with green beans, bacon and spoon bread.

"A myth only, I assure you, Doctor McCoy," Ryhanen's subterranean voice rumbled appreciatively. "There have been a number of studies into the wraith legend but nothing conclusive has ever been found."

"Perhaps you dismiss them too easily, Ser Ryhanen." Spock's eyebrow elevated as he stared directly at the Dha'kaht'chun. "There is copious evidence to support the stories, though much of it is, indeed, subjective. Twenty-five disappearances since Sassandran was -- rediscovered, with eyewitness accounts of wraiths by the dozen."

"That is quite true, Commander Spock. The four bodies found had terrible injuries, as for the others -- who knows? However, individual accounts cannot be classed as real evidence. This is a beautiful planet and people come here for many reasons, to climb the mountains, to hunt and fish. It is a wild place and I do not intend to tame it. If some of my guests are unwary and get hunted in their turn by dream-spiders in the forest, the rock daemons, and the fire lizards of the southern plains, among our many other native predators, they are adequately warned before they leave the protection of these walls."

"Surely your duty towards the safety of your visitors extends beyond a mere warning, Mr. -- Hekmatyer."

"James, you must realize that some of my guests disembark here precisely because of the tales told about the wraiths. They are an incongruity in this technological age, a romanticist's dream, and an unsolved mystery. Some individuals are drawn to that. People die on your worlds every day. However, if they die here, apparently, it is because the wraiths lead them astray. No, gentlemen, it is not enough to convince me."

Ryhanen fell silent as the serving staff noiselessly reappeared, cleared away the used tableware, and brought on the next course. Again, Kirk found the food varied and superb. After months of shipboard synthetics, it came near to the sublime. The mistwine too, proved exceptional and he sipped at a second glass, appreciating the mellow, lingering flavor, taking time out to gaze at his fellow diners again, sensing eyes upon him from further down the long table.

His gaze locked immediately with a young woman who continued to stare at him from out of large obsidian colored eyes, a seemingly innocent appraisal, guileless and without implication. He raised his glass in amused salute, watching as she mirrored his toast, her perfect alabaster skin flushing a charming pale aquamarine at his attentiveness. He turned away smiling briefly, his attention centered once more on Ryhanen.

"What about the ruins, sir?" he asked. "I understand they're extensive and quite well preserved."

"They are."

"Would that not add credence to the legends about the wraiths?" Spock inquired with the artless curiosity of one who seeks simply to decipher an intriguing conundrum.

"On my planet, Commander, this part of space and Sassandran in particular, has long been regarded as the place where Dha'kaht'chun first began. Our homeworld, if you will, left long ago when the sun first started to fail. Those ruins are the homes of my ancestors, nothing more." Ryhanen picked up his glass and drank deeply. He dabbed genteelly at his lips with a napkin before continuing, mercurial eyes sweeping over them all. "The mists have a habit of playing tricks with the mind, gentlemen. It is easy to imagine that something inimical hides behind the vapors. Without the mists the wraith saga would have died long ago."

The coffee arrived in carafes of ornate silver accompanied by a pitcher of thick cream and flasks of Saurian and Armagnac brandies.

Ryhanen continued in his deep bass baritone. "All peoples have this need for a mystery, I believe. Did not Terra have its sea monster hiding beneath the waters of a dark lake? Moreover, on Vulcan, are there not tales told of a huge creature that lives beneath the desert sands? It has only rarely been observed, a glimpse here and there, but the conviction remains that it does indeed exist. Cognac, Commander, or iced tea, perhaps? "

Spock, who had eaten sparingly even of the Vulcan dishes, covered the top of his glass with one hand, a winged brow shooting upward as he shook his head.

"Sir, you are exceedingly well informed, and quite correct." He discreetly smoothed the tension lines marring his forehead with the tip of an index finger. "Very little is known about the tcha-besheh, even now. However, our instruments, once we learned how to calibrate them, do suggest that it is real and not a figment of the Vulcan imagination."

McCoy, leaning back in his chair, brandy in hand, snorted cynically. "You surprise me, Spock. I didn't know Vulcans had any imagination."

"In that case I hope you have learned something advantageous, Doctor," Spock retorted quietly, delivering his comment without its usual sting, his face looking wan, rendered into a cat's emotionless mask. McCoy raised an eyebrow, shooting Kirk a meaningful sideways glance.

"Tired, Spock?" Kirk asked gently, picking up on McCoy's silent inquiry. He leaned in towards the Vulcan so that only Spock could hear him.

The First Officer inclined his head; dark eyes heavy lidded, lips narrowed to a thin, pale line. "Somewhat, Captain."

"It's late. Perhaps you should call it a day. Go on, you need to rest. Get to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

Spock did not protest. "Thank you, sir. I believe I will."

Kirk, disturbed by Spock's uncharacteristic acquiescence, glanced at McCoy over the Vulcan's head. "Bones--"

"With your permission, Captain, I do not require Doctor McCoy's assistance. Please allow him to remain and enjoy the rest of the evening." Spock stood up, bowed in Ryhanen's direction. "Ser and Serai Ryhanen. Lieutenant Uhura. Gentlemen. The dinner was greatly pleasing. Thank you."

"Sleep well, Spock," Kirk said affectionate concern clearly warming his voice.

Spock acknowledged him with a succinct dip of the head before turning casually away, his stride deceptively confident. All the same, McCoy, who still watched the Vulcan like a hawk, pushed himself out of his chair and followed a step or two behind until they were out of earshot of the rest of the guests.

"Spock, are you sure you can find your way alone?"

The First Officer halted, half turned to face McCoy. "Perfectly sure, Doctor McCoy. There is no need for anxiety, I assure you. Please, return to the Captain."

McCoy, still worried, persisted. "C'mon, it'll only take five minutes to see you back to your room--"

Spock sighed audibly, eyebrows elevating as he fixed McCoy with a glacial stare. "Doctor, I thought I had left my mother back on Vulcan. I happen to be blind, not incapacitated. I am able to find my room on my own. Grant me some self-respect, if you will."

McCoy reassured by Spock's vehemence, retaliated in kind, his tone sharp and equally sardonic. "And I suppose you can even do it with your eyes closed, huh?"

"Your levity as always is unbecoming, Doctor. However, that is essentially the truth. Now, if you will be so kind as to return to your -- merrymaking. I do not wish to keep you." Spock pivoted around without further ado, his steps faltering slightly as he fumbled for the wall, giving the lie to his self-assurance.

Bones stared after him. "Well, if you happen to fall down a lift shaft and break your goddamned stubborn Vulcan neck, don't come crying to me."

Spock refused to acknowledge the parting shot. His eidetic recall retained the memory of their earlier descent to the dining hall from his room. He surmised all he had to do was reverse the journey in his mind. His initial progress commenced slowly as he counted each step, his pace calculated, deliberate, fingers trailing the wall at waist height, the way McCoy had taught him. He found an elevator readily enough out of the array available in the reception lobby and entered it without any problem despite McCoy's fabricated ill will, sighing in relief as the doors closed behind him. He slumped against the wall, his burning eyes closed, breathing deeply, relaxing for the first time that evening.

A pulse throbbed in his temple, heavy and intense, as pain spiraled across his forehead. He needed to rest. Fatigue dragged at his limbs, his lethargy making it difficult to concentrate. Voice flat with exhaustion, he gave an order to the elevator and it whisked him swiftly upwards with the speed of an accelerating rocket.

Ryhanen's Folly, as McCoy had affirmed was, indeed, a small town. Within the confines of its perimeter walls, it contained a shopping mall, two small, automated factories, a processing plant and a hospital as well as living quarters for Ryhanen's staff and the few colonists who made their homes there. Spock's room was located along with Kirk's and McCoy's, in the hotel complex, which also housed a casino, several restaurants, a professional sized swimming pool, health spa, sports hall, and the latest interactive holography theater.

The elevator accessed onto level eighteen, a broad corridor with a number of doors leading to other guest chambers. Tubs of growing plants stood here and there along either side of the hallway, obstacles that Spock knew of from his earlier outward journey. He stared sightlessly into the distance as he took the first step, his hand brushing against lush foliage as he passed. It took thirty steps to reach the first intersection on his left that he required to reach his room. He moved cautiously down the center of the corridor waiting to feel the tiny draft of cooler air on his cheek that warned of the junction.

It never occurred. Confused, his inner serenity dented, he continued for another five paces before coming to a perplexed halt. Counting steps, he realized belatedly, only worked if the strides were exactly the same distance each time. Disposition, tiredness, or lack of self-assurance could all affect the way of walking. Earlier, Captain Kirk and Doctor McCoy had accompanied him. Spock had felt confident in their presence, aware that he could come to little harm while they were with him. Now, he lacked that certainty, knew only the embarrassment of imprecision and doubt. He had lost his way.

He clenched his hands into fists by his side, the pain throbbing behind his eyes, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he struggled for equanimity. He took another step, his innate spatial sense alerting him to something ambiguous a few steps further on, fighting the sudden flare of irritation and frustration at his continuing lack of ability. Head tilted he reached out, floundering at the vacant air, finding only empty space. He clapped his hands together, listening vigilantly to the returning echoes but still failed to interpret what the signals told him.

It was only the thought of McCoy's 'I told you so,' that finally urged him into movement once more. He had to regain his room, find the calmness that was so obviously absent, and try to come to terms with his loss of sight. Either that or ultimately admit defeat and allow the doctor to smother him in cotton wadding for the reminder of his stay. An untenable idea, one he could never countenance and keep his self-esteem intact.

However, he soon found out that he had to consider far more than the counting of steps and length of his stride. What happened next came as a total surprise. Between one step and the next, the floor disappeared and he toppled forward into empty space.

Prominent and well lit, any sighted being could not have failed to see the stairway, but it caught Spock completely off guard.

Thrown into disarray, his feet slipped out from beneath him and he pitched heavily down the short flight of stairs, striking the base of his spine on the edge of a step before he sprawled with startling force on hands and knees. He heard the ominous crack of his left wrist as it took most of the impact.

Cradling the injured appendage in his other hand, he immediately sat back on his haunches, throat tight, breathing in short, shallow gasps. Delayed reaction had his heart hammering against his side, the nape of his neck damp with sweat as he tried to come to terms with the sudden fear, imagining what a ridiculous sight he must have posed, flailing the air desperately before somersaulting head first so ignominiously down the stairs.

This is illogical; there must be another way, a distressed inner voice cried. These limitations are appalling. How can I continue in this fashion?

Hunched over his knees, embracing the ill-treated and most probably broken wrist against his chest, he battled to contain his rage and humiliation. Finally, he leaned back on his heels, shuddering as he pulled in several deep, purging breaths. Using the wall beside him as a support, he waited an instant longer until his equilibrium returned and he managed to get onto his feet.

Half expecting the floor to part and swallow him whole at any moment, he ascended the stairs somewhat slower than his preceding journey down, tapping the riser of each step with the toe of his boot until he stood on the upper level once more. There was a wretched, frayed dignity in the way he straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin in proud disdain at the pain emanating from his aching spine and rapidly swelling wrist, squashing the residual trembling of his hands as he took a further hesitant step in what he hoped was the correct direction.

Nevertheless, after wandering level eighteen for what seemed an interminable time but which his inner chronometer assured him was only fifteen point five three minutes, he came to the inevitable conclusion that he had blundered even more significantly than he had at first appreciated. He could not locate the intersection he needed because, he deduced finally, it existed on the opposite side of the hotel complex. In his urgency to show Doctor McCoy that he could survive on his own terms, he had patently entered the wrong elevator in the lobby. His obstinate Vulcan pride had without doubt contributed to his present bewildered state.

Spock sighed, concerned by his own intransigence. He knew that Doctor McCoy's anxiety for him went with the territory of chief surgeon and that the doctor's crustiness increased in direct proportion to his apprehension and worry. The First Officer could not deny that Doctor McCoy cared for him just as the Captain did and wanted only to safeguard his health and welfare, yet it had proved impossible so far for the Vulcan to admit that he needed assistance. It felt infinitely more comfortable to continue to provoke the doctor whenever the opportunity arose. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, McCoy's innate gruffness had prevailed over his compassionate soul. If pushed hard enough, the chief surgeon still tended to rise to the bait.

Spock rubbed his intact hand across his aching brow as he retraced his steps once more to the staircase, sagging against the wall at the top of the stairs as a strange prickling sensation unexpectedly started up somewhere inside his head, challenging the pain that thumped just behind his eyes. Spock tensed in surprise, recognizing the unnatural tingling that once more originated from the damaged senceiver implanted within his brain. He winced as his headache abruptly intensified, shuddering as tremors shook his lean frame. Had the senceiver somehow become active again?

He stared into the darkness, clearing his mind of conscious thought, waiting for the implant to create its imagery. An instant later, he perceived a ghostly resonance crying out his name, a voice he might have recognized if not for the pain thundering along his nerves.

Spock! Come for me. Spock, set me free! Spock!

"Who is there?" he cried out, turning on his heel, wheeling around in an 180 degree arc; but the astonishing reverberation lasted only an instant before fading again, leaving him shaken and taken aback. His heart beat fast and thick against his side; he heard as well as felt its demented throb.

Troubled by the incident, he recalled that hallucinations were a symptom of the Koreoretnal condition, and the apprehension at anyone observing him in such a revealing state spurred him into movement once more.

The easiest route to his room would have meant returning to the lobby and the probability of someone catching sight of him. He therefore elected to take the long way round, a trip fraught with unknown danger but which would enable him to remain undiscovered. Before the onset of his illness he had studied, as a matter of course, everything recorded about the planet Sassandran and Ser Ryhanen Hekmatyer, including the plans of the Castle. Now he knew his true location he could find his way. All he needed was to trust in his own ability, the hardest and most important lesson he had to learn.

Yet, after his most recent mishap he could not help believing that he might, indeed, warrant the Captain's and Doctor McCoy's joint anxiety. Could his vanity have blinded his judgment as the Koreoretnal Syndrome had blinded his sight and the disability was, in reality, insurmountable? Must he rely always on the sympathy of others in order to survive? If so, it did not bode well for his future or his pride. He had to recover the middle ground, one where his blindness assumed the proper perspective.

Over the years of his service aboard her, the Enterprise had become more than just a Starfleet vessel to him as Captain Kirk had become far more than his senior officer. The ship was his home and he counted Jim Kirk and Leonard McCoy as two of his closest friends. They accepted him unequivocally, in a way that no one else ever had. He had no desire for that to end; certainly not in this manner, yet he could not deny that his career in Starfleet was over. He had to make a new life for himself.

That new life had to start by knowing what he could achieve by his own endeavors. Finding his own room in this unfamiliar and alien environment was his beginning. There could be no guiding hand on his elbow, no words of direction, no sympathetic presence ready to pick him up when he fell. He had to rely on his own senses, use his own judgement, and realize his own goals. It was not an easy path, but in this, he could not permit himself to founder. Kaiidth. At least he had to try.

Chapter 7

You have to search for the hero inside yourself

Search for the secrets you hide,

Search for the hero inside yourself

Until you find the key to your life.

No, he could not allow himself to fail. That thought was like an echo reverberating from the past, reminding him of his childhood so many years ago, a childhood wracked by uncertainty and confusion, never knowing who he really was or where his true path lay. He remembered distinctly the time around his seventh birthday. Then, as now, he had much to prove to himself.

The kahs-wan, an ancient test of strength and courage undertaken by all seven year old boys, was a rite from the ancient warrior days of Vulkhanir. The aim was to survive for ten days without food, water, or weapons in the Sas-a-shar desert, a task that required determination and steadfastness. Many, without undue shame or humiliation, did not succeed in their first attempt. However, he knew that he did not have the same latitude for failure, as did his peers. Sarek, his father, had made it palpably apparent that if Spock did not return in triumph, many Vulkhanir would brand him a coward.

Even at so young an age, he recognized that among the greatest of those detractors would be Sarek himself. Not overtly, of course. Sarek would defend his youngest son with the maximum allegiance against the most steadfast of critics, but Spock perceived his father's concealed disappointment, the private dissatisfaction with his behavior, aware of the late night discussions between his parents when they thought him asleep.

If even Sarek thought his Human genes a shortcoming, and continually found him an embarrassment, maybe the boys who ridiculed him at school were right; he was just an emotional Tehr'n and could never become a true Vulkhanir.

The First Officer stiffened at the reminiscence, his eidetic memory recalling a typical conversation between Sarek and himself as if it had taken place only a few short days ago instead of thirty-three years before. He had asked simply enough, with a child's innocence, what would happen if he did fail the kahs-wan.

"There is no need to ask that question," his father had avowed. "Thee will not disappoint me. Thee will not disappoint - thyself. Not if thy heart and spirit are Vulkhanir."

Sarek's declaration, uttered in the compelling tones applied, at that time, more often than not as cultural attaché in the service of Vulkhanir, resonated ominously in his seven-year-old mind.

It had seemed to him as a child, that the only way he could prove that he possessed the mentality and character of his father's race, without exposing himself or his family to public ridicule, was to undertake a personal ordeal ahead of the scheduled maturity rite. The outcome, whatever it might be, would then determine the course his future life took.

Dressed in a desert soft suit and boots, he had crept stealthily from the rear of the large old house where he had lived for most of his young life, without a single creak from either stair or floorboard, or door. Even M'aih, a Human early warning system if ever there was one, never heard a thing. When it came to stealth, a lematya could have learned a great deal from Spock. It was late, the house shrouded in silence, the surrounding pedestrian ways quiet and empty of movement. Nonetheless, he took care to close the night screens silently behind him, conscious of the light in the upstairs guest room where Cousin Selek presently rested. Surveying the surrounding area cautiously, he left the concealing shadows before moving out into the open.

He took a couple of steps into the wild garden and froze as a rustling sound came from the sprawling vegetation. An instant later, a large familiar shape lumbered into view - Ee-chiya, his father's pet sehlat, wheezing in the late evening air like an asthmatic old man. Shaking his head in dismay, Spock held out his hand, palm up. The elderly sehlat halted obediently at the hand signal but continued to pant and groan.

"No, Ee-chiya," he whispered when the animal showed no sign of returning to its nest in the shrubbery. "This is my own ordeal. I have to do it alone. Stay here."

For an instant, Ee-Chiya seemed to consider his young master's instruction before coming to a decision in its deliberate and patient way. As Spock headed for the garden gate, the sehlat scampered after him.

ShiKahr was a border city on the edge of the Sas-a-shar desert, a meticulously precise oasis set in the middle of an apparent wasteland aptly named Ah'hrak -- Vulcan's Forge -- surrounded by a buffer zone of lush, landscaped parkland. It was an old city, though modern in appearance, with pleasingly designed, geometric buildings; a logical municipality intended for uncompromisingly logical inhabitants.

At the city gate, Spock experienced an instant of apprehension as the automatic sentry defense systems, created primarily to keep out the fierce desert carnivores, scanned him with unseen radiation and hidden sensors. However, no challenge sounded, no tranquilizing darts phocked out at him, no phasers on stun sought to bar his passage as he walked with steady gait into the desert proper.

Before him stretched desolation, painted in shades of harsh ochre, raw umber, yellow, and brown, the sands patterned only reluctantly here and there by an infrequent sprinkling of amethyst or jade. In the distance, a range of forbidding black mountains clawed at the sky with great ragged talons of granite, basalt and gneiss. In the daytime, still some hours off, the thin atmosphere would inspire a roof of flinty orange-red but the arid land now rested under the cool succor of Vulkhanir's sister world Nevas'ashar, a glimmering copper ball hanging low in the night sky.

It was towards the Arlanga Mountains that Spock decided to head. Under the circumstances and given the task he had set himself, the forbidding peaks seemed as logical a place to demonstrate his merit as any other.

Despite his resoluteness, his unshakeable faith that the enterprise was right, there were places where the shadows took on a form and presence of their own, and sometimes Spock could not avoid those places. Going into them was a test of courage in itself. Who knew what might be lying in wait? Spock had rarely been in the desert during the hours of darkness and never alone. Despite his well- developed night sight, there was no limit to what a fertile imagination could, and did, conjure up from the darkness. Nevertheless, heart in mouth, he plodded on, relieved that Ee-chiya still trailed close upon his heels, his task uppermost in his thoughts, fearful yet determined to trudge through the Gulf of Tartarus itself if that is what it took to succeed in his self- imposed undertaking.

When the sun finally rose over the black mountains, it turned the hard-baked desert floor the color of molten lead. Rapid physical collapse was an early threat of the genuine kahs-wan. That, at least, was one test Spock no longer worried about as he strode along at an even pace. Of course, soon it would grow increasingly hot and the sun would start to pull moisture from him. Even with his Vulkhanir metabolism, he could not hope to survive such unforgiving conditions for long. For some months, mindful of that vital truth, Sarek had been instructing him on endurance techniques in readiness for the trial proper.

Spock's father had made sure he had the basic knowledge essential for survival in the Sas-a-shar, and knew all about the xerothermic plant life, the cactaceae with their waxy skins that stored water in both stems and spines -- and where to find them at need. There were dormant roots to eat, a few small, bitter fruits, as well as seeds and nuts. He could fashion a solar still given time, a crude weapon, shelter, or even protective clothing from what the desert provided. Yet, Sarek had stressed that the most important element in the kahs-wan was mental, not physical. Now, the awareness that he was alone without any other soul knowing, apart from Ee-chiya, where he was in a world parched and giddy with fiery heat, had him feeling indecisive and vulnerable. Should he continue to push on towards his goal or stop and take shelter for the day? And what of the elderly sehlat? To Ee-chiya, the mental aspect was not the most important factor.

The big animal's normal environment was the cool, high woodland of the south. Neither was the sehlat used to such extended hiking. Ee-chiya managed well enough in the deep shade of the garden at home but here, in open country, his thick fur proved a heavy burden. The rising heat was already taking its toll on the beast. Slouched on its belly in the hot sand, the animal panted from the unaccustomed exertion as it tried to catch its breath. Ee-chiya's spirit was willing but the flesh was definitely inadequate for the duty asked of it.

Alarmed by the animal's condition Spock, with hands on hips, admonished his pet, tone gentle but frustrated.

"Ee-chiya, go home. You are too old and too fat for this."

The sehlat examined the statement head tilted and ears cocked. It licked its salivating lips, swallowing the moisture, before putting its great head down on its forepaws, assuming an air of quiet dignity. Spock shook his head determinedly.

"No, Ee-chiya. That is how you get your way with A'nirih but it will not work with me. Go home."

The sehlat took no notice. It seemed quite prepared to spend the rest of its existence on that very spot. It was clear that the only way the beast would return home would be while trailing its master.

Thwarted, Spock sighed, shrugged, and lifted his shoulders in a very Human gesture of defeat. He had a great deal to accomplish before that return journey could take place. Once again, he experienced indecision. If he continued towards the mountains, the big old animal would most likely be at risk, yet he could not give up so soon on his quest. He pondered the quandary before finally making up his mind. He would continue and reassess the situation when he reached the foothills. By that time, the old beast may have decided to return of its own accord.

A light breeze off distant desert plains swept sand and twigs into a miniature dust demon, a threatening manifestation of Vulkhanir's turbulent atmosphere as he set off again at a reduced pace in deference to his pet's condition, his mind troubled by a vague sense of foreboding. Ee-chiya waited only the barest of seconds before he lurched to his feet and shuffled off after his young master.

An hour of steady walking later, the desert ended abruptly in the first rocky fortifications of the Arlanga Mountains. Spock knelt, studying the ground, picking out the recent tracks of some large animal, a lematya, probably returning to its lair among the rocks after hunting game during the night. He eyed the distinctive marks apprehensively. Built like a Terran lion but far larger, the animal, with its leathery mahogany hide, leaned more towards reptilian configuration than mammalian, as did the poison in its claws. Not something Spock wished to confront alone and weaponless.

He pushed himself to his feet, glanced at the glowering, ochreous sky, conscious of the storm that fermented in the west, the slow boil of air as one weather front met another far in the distance. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, an ache throbbing behind his eyes as the negative ions built up in the atmosphere. The slight breeze still blew but the air hung hot and heavy, almost palpable to the touch. If it caught them out in the open, the wind whipped dust would certainly flay every bit of skin and flesh from their bodies. Spock found himself ensnared by another difficult choice. If he stayed where he was or turned back, the storm would take them. If they went in search of a place to hole up, the lematya could possibly wake and attack. He took what he thought was the least dangerous option and started to climb, the morning sun exceeding his rate of assent.

In later boyhood, those self same mountains would become a refuge for him, each handhold and support known intimately, the ways of the desert animals acknowledged and understood. As it was, he might still have enjoyed the scramble were it not for his anguished state of mind as the storm front advanced. Ee-chiya continued to mope along slightly behind, his snuffling and wheezing ever more raucous.

Spock climbed slowly and carefully. The various formations of igneous rock he passed as he moved higher into the foothills took on weird shapes and strange contours, starkly beautiful, fashioned by the primeval forces of Vulkhanir itself. If he looked hard enough, he could make out beast faces in the stone, the forms of creatures long extinct.

He came to an old water course, a channel cut into the naked rock between vast stone buttresses on one of which reared the startling depiction of a rampant d'rachanya, a dragon with outstretched wings and gaping maw. Spock eyed the beast apprehensively. He had a distinct impression that it was only waiting for him to get a littl