DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc. This story was written for the enjoyment of the author and no infringement of any existing copyright is intended nor is any profit realized or expected. The story contents are the creation and property of Rosalie Blazej and are copyright (c) 1984 by Rosalie Blazej. Originally published by Spin Dizzie Press.

Kin of the Same Womb Born

Rosalie Blazej

CHAPTER ONE

Leonard McCoy picked up his coffee and walked through the almost deserted Enterprise officers' lounge toward the captain and the first officer. A spectacular panorama of stars made up one wall of the room, yet rarely did any of the occupants pay it much attention. Strange, thought McCoy as he wound his way around couches and tables, how easily humans take things for granted. The extraordinary becomes as commonplace and familiar as the face of an old friend.

"All set?" Kirk asked as the doctor approached.

McCoy moved a chair closer and sank into it. He nodded a greeting to Spock, then turned to answer the captain.

"Pretty much. Chris is getting the last of the supplies together now." He took a sip of coffee and put down the cup. "I appreciate you assigning her to this, Jim. Christine's turned out to be a damn good doctor -- and very intuitive. I think I'm going to need all the help I can get."

"Still have no idea what you'll be dealing with then?"

"Oh, I have lots of ideas. None of them make much sense, that's all."

"At least you know it's something in the air."

The doctor shook his head. "Don't even know that. Not for sure. It could just be coincidence. The onset of symptoms wasn't immediate. Maybe they were sick before they ever went into the dome. Besides, there's nothing on Alpha Pleiades that should make anyone that sick. Nothing in the air at least. What passes for rain is another story. That I wouldn't recommend taking a stroll in."

"A mutation then, Doctor," Spock suggested. "Or an indigenous disease that has adapted to alien life forms."

McCoy looked over at Spock. The Vulcan held a small, smooth, black cup that was incised at the rim with two parallel rows of, what were to the doctor, alien symbols. McCoy caught only a glimpse of its contents as Spock drew the cup to his lips. Whatever the cup contained looked vile.

"It could be almost anything, Spock," he said. "We won't know till we get there."

Spock sipped slowly. "Yes, there is much which is yet unexplained."

"Like why the force field that protected the filtration system failed in the first place?" the captain supplied.

Spock nodded. "Indeed, a most interesting question."

Kirk slid back in his chair. The salmon cushions enfolded him gently. "Well, I'm glad it's you two and Chapel who are going. This Romulan/Federation experiment in cooperation is too important to fail. I'm just sorry I'm not going with you." He looked up. "I suppose that's the price of being captain. When the Federation wants a shipload of diplomats delivered to the site of Federation/Romulan peace talks, they want it done with a personal touch."

McCoy raised his cup in mock salute. "Don't know a better babysitter myself."

Kirk groaned audibly and nestled deeper into the warm embrace of the chair.

Spock said nothing. He sat silently, his eyes focused on some distant point. He curled his lean fingers around the bowl of his cup and held it motionless in mid-air. A thin grey vapor rose from its deep purple contents. McCoy watched the first officer, and he watched the swirling mist.

"What is that, anyway?" he asked.

Spock brought his attention back to the doctor. "This?" He took a long, deliberate drink.

"Yes, that."

"Quintberry juice."

"Hot?"

"Very hot."

McCoy made a face. "Well, I guess it could be worse."

"It is," said the captain. "He didn't tell you what else is in there."

McCoy looked again at the cup and then at Spock. He held up his hand. "Spare me, I don't think my stomach could take it."

Spock cocked an eyebrow. "You did ask."

"I know. Just habit."

McCoy reached for his cup and settled back into the quiet company. There was habit in much of what transpired among the three of them, he thought, gentle rituals built on years of caring.

McCoy sipped his coffee and looked out at the stars. He thought of the subtle changes that had come over Spock since Athetis. He wasn't sure exactly what had happened there, but he had a good idea. McCoy took a final sip of coffee and set it down. He turned to Kirk.

"Think anything will come of this peace initiative?" he asked.

The captain stirred the contents of his cup and stared intently into the resulting whirlpool.

"I don't know. It's hard to say. Somehow I put more faith in joint scientific surveys like the one on Alpha Pleiades than I do in actual peace talks."

"Hernandez giving you trouble?" asked McCoy.

The captain looked up and smiled wryly. "Ambassadors always give me trouble." Then he continued straight-faced. "Hernandez isn't that bad -- not that I won't be damned glad when I've delivered this cargo of diplomats. It's just that one hundred years of truce is a long time. There's a lot of mistrust on both sides. When this is all over, I won't be surprised if we're back to square one."

"If in fact there is a 'square one'."

Both Kirk and McCoy turned to Spock.

"There are alternatives," Spock elaborated, "to the Federation/Romulan truce which has been in effect since the Romulan Wars. Not all of them are pleasant."

"All out war?" asked the captain.

"Perhaps."

"But why? What purpose would it serve?"

At first Spock did not answer. Then he put his cup aside, leaned forward and steepled his fingers. His voice took on that peculiar, pedantic cadence with which Spock always seemed so comfortable.

"There is still much we do not know about Romulan culture," he said, "but from what we do know we can infer a society which has been honed for war over millennia. The past hundred years of truce may well have placed strain on that framework. A lasting and enduring peace would be of advantage to many. But I am sure there are those who do not wish peace, who preach a return to the old ways. Romulans are a Vulcanoid race, possessing all the strength and fury that implies. If peace fails today, I would not wish to contemplate the repercussions far the entire galaxy."

The captain studied his first officer and friend. He knew that Spock had devoured all information available on Romulans, that he had gone as far as learning the language. Spock's interest was obviously more than a passing concern. Kirk wondered exactly how far that concern went.

"But it was the Romulans who initiated the peace talks," Kirk said. "That must indicate a substantial shift toward peace."

"Perhaps, but a desire for peace on the part of some may not be sufficient. Romulus stands as Vulcan did five thousand years ago -- on the brink of peace or of destruction. For Romulus, though, there is no Surak, no one with the strength to break the clutch of many thousands of years of violence."

"Then someone else, Spock. One or more who will assume that role. It did work for Vulcan. Peace did come."

Spock turned to Kirk. "Yes, it did come, but at a price you cannot imagine. Many were killed. Surak himself was killed. Peace did not come easily to Vulcan, nor did it come to all. Even after the wisdom of Surak was acknowledged, there were those who could not accept it. They lived and died in exile, never giving up their belief that only through violence could Vulcan realize its true destiny.

"The changes which were required are beyond your understanding. I do not believe your race would have been able to make them. They would not have been possible at all for us without Surak. Rarely is a person born with such vision, or the ability to convey that vision."

"Then maybe it's time again," said McCoy.

"Perhaps, Doctor. It would be well for us all if it were."

Spock picked up his cup in two hands and sipped slowly. He looked at the stars. There was a symmetry and beauty in the vast, unnamed reaches that he cherished. Spock wondered if even that order would survive galactic war.

CHAPTER TWO

Nothing was where it was supposed to be. Supplies that were recorded on the medical terminal simply did not exist in their appointed place. It was a cataloging error, and Dr. Christine Chapel knew who the offending technician was. This time his slipshod method had caused a potentially dangerous situation, and this time she was going to call him on it. If only she could find the time.

Christine looked up, suddenly aware of someone else in the room.

"Uhura! Didn't hear you come in."

The communications officer smiled and walked over to the desk.

"Just dropped by to say good-bye."

"At two in the morning?"

Uhura shrugged. "Thought I might miss you when you left tomorrow."

Christine looked at her friend a moment longer, then resumed her task. "Thanks."

Christine's fingers flew across the key display, pausing only long enough to heat activate one figure before continuing on to the next. The quick tempoed flight was interrupted occasionally by a low muttered expletive and well-executed blow to the erase mode.

"Trouble?" asked Uhura.

"A pain I don't need right now. Someone has screwed up royally on the supply list. Everything is there; it's just a matter of finding it!" One of Christine's hands left the terminal and gestured vaguely in frustration.

"Hear you're going to stop an outbreak of some strange disease on Alpha Pleiades," continued Uhura conversationally.

Christine spared her a quick glance. "The official line is that we are delivering medical supplies to the archeological survey team and are remaining to instruct in their use."

"I see."

Uhura got up and walked behind the desk. She bent over and watched medical codes flash across the viewer.

"How long will you be gone?"

Christine squinted at the screen, decided that was not what she wanted, and cleared it.

"Six days. After we're dropped off, the Enterprise will continue on and deliver the diplomatic team to the peace conference. We'll be picked up on the way back."

"That's pretty long. I understand Alpha Pleiades is rather beautiful." Uhura's voice took on a wistful tone as she painted a picture in the air with one hand. "Rain forest, lush vegetation, tropical birds."

"The rain is sulfuric acid. The flowers bite. And those aren't birds -- they're insects."

Christine's fingers executed a particularly intricate turn, and she was rewarded with a display of uncovered cache.

"Insects?" Uhura dropped her hand.

"Insects. Six legs and trisectioned bodies."

"With one-and-a-half meter wingspans?"

"Big insects." Christine's fingers continued racing.

"Well, at least Spock will be there."

Christine stopped and turned around. She scrutinized her friend closely before speaking.

"Uhura, Spock is also on this ship. The same ship you and I are on."

"Yes, but you don't see him every day."

"Almost every day. He is the executive officer."

"You know what I mean."

"What you mean is that this is the first time since Athetis that Spock and I will be working together. And what you really mean is that you'd like to know what happened an Athetis."

The retort came out sharper than she had intended. Christine drew a hand across her forehead.

"I'm sorry, Uhura. This mess has me off balance."

Uhura smiled. "I know." She reached down and squeezed the other woman's shoulder. "Just calm down and relax a minute."

Christine sat silent. Then she nodded and closed her eyes. In her mind formed the image that was never far from her conscious thought.

Athetis. She preferred the name given by the sociology survey -- Blauesvelt. Sometimes it seemed as though the planet knew no other color than blue. Even in the incessant rain, the sky was blue, a deep, ugly indigo. What little plant life remained was blue. And the children. Christine closed her eyes tighter, trying to block out the sight, but she could not. They swam in her mind, singly and in crowds. Children -- their bloated bellies marked and tinted blue with tura, as though painted symbols could somehow replace food. Christine shuddered and opened her eyes.

Uhura regarded her gravely. "I said relax."

Christine shook her head. "Can't." Then she smiled. "Thanks for coming."

Uhura dropped her hand and walked to the front of the desk.

"Remember, it could be very romantic down there."

"If you can see past the sulfuric acid."

"Chris!"

"I know -- I'm getting just like Spock." She smiled again. "I mean it -- thanks for coming."

"Any time."

CHAPTER THREE

At just past dawn, the three Enterprise officers and a complete, well-ordered consignment of medical supplies materialized in the center of a clear dome which was at least eighty square meters in area, and more than seven meters high.

All around the room was evidence of the archeological dig. Slender columns of null gravity held suspended tiny bits and fragments of the long dead civilization of Alpha Pleiades. Tools for measuring and cataloging lay at work stations throughout the dome. Boxes and cartons were everywhere.

Several passages led out of the dome. One, conspicuously marked with warnings, was an airlock. What dominated the dome, however, was what lay outside.

Enormous flowers with hundreds of petals swayed on slender stalks. Some were long and thin with waxy needles that radiated in an almost perfect sphere. Others were broad and flat. All of them moved, bobbing in an ocean of ever changing shape and color. Pistils and stamen undulated in a languid, beckoning dance. Petals furled and unfurled, slowly, sensuously. In almost every way the scene was alien, but its hypnotic effect was unmistakable.

McCoy managed to pull his attention away long enough to survey the room. Except for the three of them, it was empty.

"I thought you said we were expected, Spock."

"We are. I believe a staff meeting is now in progress. Dr. S'Halt should be here momentarily."

Overhead, giant winged creatures darted among the flowers, probing with their long proboscises for nectar. Suddenly, several darted directly at the dome. McCoy caught their movement out of the corner of his eye and flinched.

"You sure that thing works?" he asked, sweeping his hand toward the heavens as he looked up.

Both Spock and Christine followed his gaze.

"A computer-generated force field above the actual dome repels the insects and prevents the flora from attaching itself," Spock answered. "The field also protects various delicate monitoring devices and the atmosphere filtration system. The dome itself is impervious to the outside environment."

Christine's attention stayed focused on the flowers after the others had looked away. It seemed impossible that such extraordinary and commanding beauty could flourish in the environment of Alpha Pleiades. Unprotected, a person would be burned beyond recognition in a matter of moments.

The sound of approaching footsteps and voices drew her attention inside.

A group of ten survey members filed into the dome through one of the narrow ports. Among them were representatives of several worlds -- three humans, an Andorian, a Hamin, aand others who might have been Vulcan or Romulan. One of the new arrivals walked directly to the Enterprise officers.

There was little to physically distinguish him. He was average in build and only slightly taller than most Romulans. His hair and eyes were dark, as was usual, and although his face lacked the chiseled severity common to his race, his brows swept upward in predictable fashion and his ears were Vulcanoid pointed. Only a faded scar, which ran from the corner of his left eye to the hinge of his jaw, gave any true definition to his face. He wore a plain white jumpsuit with no distinguishing insignia or emblems.

There was little doubt, however, that this was the Romulan director they were to meet. His rank and command were evident in his stride, in the way he carried himself, in the set of his shoulders.

"I must apologize for the delay," he said when he reached them. "The events of the past days have caused us all great concern. There was much to be discussed." He paused. "I am S'Halt."

Spock inclined his head. "I am Spock. Dr. McCoy. Dr. Chapel."

S'Halt returned Spock's nod and extended his hand to McCoy and Chapel.

"Your supplies will be taken care of, if you follow me, I will first take you to the infirmary."

Spock looked around the now occupied dome. No one else had approached them. Everyone seemed engrossed in his work, yet the ambience of the room was more somber than attentive.

"The survey has been in operation eight standard months, has it not?" Spock asked S'Halt.

"Yes, almost one full planet year."

"Would you consider it a success?"

S'Halt followed Spock's gaze across the work stations.

"Mr. Spock, you must understand. We are a vanguard. We have worked together as a group for many months, often with only the tacit approval of our governments. We have barely begun to understand the workings of a very alien society. Much work remains ahead of us. Now it appears that we may not be able to complete our task. If we fail -- for any reason -- there will be those who say that cooperation among our peoples is impossible. We will then have failed twice. In addition, there is the personal aspect of our dilemma. The sudden and unexplained illness of our colleagues has shocked and saddened us all."

"Of course," Spock answered with a nod. "That is why we are here."

The smell of ozone and antiseptic greeted them as they entered a small, brightly lit, transparent dome.

"Our infirmary," said S'Halt. "I'm afraid you will find it less well-equipped than you are used to. However, until now it has served us adequately."

The room was small but well ordered, with a spare efficiency that spoke of careful and resourceful planning. McCoy looked around quickly.

"Where are the patients?" he asked.

"In isolation." S'Halt stepped behind a vacant desk and activated an intercom. He spoke into it in the sharp, guttural clip of the Romulan language and then rejoined the group.

"Someone will be here shortly to show you the way." He turned to Spock. "Commander, if you will follow me, I will attempt to acquaint you with our computer system."

Spock hesitated, addressing McCoy. "Please inform me when you have completed your initial examination," he said. "I wish to speak with Dr. Durant."

McCoy nodded. "I'll let you know when we're done."

S'Halt looked from McCoy to Spock. "Surely I will be able to answer any questions you might have."

"I did not wish to imply otherwise," Spock answered. "However, it is important that my understanding of the project be as complete as possible. Since Dr. Durant is the Federation co-director, and among those taken ill, I would be remiss if I did not interview him."

S'Halt considered Spock a moment longer. "As you wish." They turned to leave.

From around a far partition appeared a tall figure still wrapped in the shimmering folds of an isolation suit. S'Halt stopped. "J'Mir," he said.

"A moment."

Although it was difficult to affix gender to the protectively garbed figure, the voice which filtered through the ribbed facepiece was definitely feminine.

J'Mir loosened the outer fastenings and let her suit slip in one piece from her shoulders. She removed the head covering and shook her hair. It toppled in a dozen dark ropes to her waist. She took off her gloves and picked up the heap of discarded coverings and deposited them all in a nearby chute. As she walked towards them, a faintly musky odor preceded her.

On some level the scent was recognized by all present as enhanced pheromones, but the effect on each was different, as it was calculated to be.

"My wife,"S'Halt said, using the Standard word for which there was no Romulan equivalent. Then he introduced each of the others to J'Mir.

Christine stepped forward. "Are you a doctor?" she asked. "Our reports said that the only physician was taken ill."

J'Mir let her gaze slide from one to the other before settling on Christine. "I have training in medicine," she said. "However, I am a doctor of linguistics only. With only thirty-six of us, each must often assume more than one role."

"Yes, I'm sure that's true. Has there been any change since the last brainscans were transmitted?" she asked.

"None that we can detect. However, we must leave it to you to confirm."

"Yes."

Their eyes locked and held for what seemed a very long time.

Christine held degrees in biology as well as medicine. In her years aboard the Enterprise, she had encountered many alien races. She knew that her reaction to J'Mir was largely a matter of her own hormonal system responding to the stimulation of chemical sensitizers being emitted by the Romulan's body. She tried to see beyond her dislike of the woman but couldn't.

"Shall we proceed, Dr. Chapel?"

Christine turned quickly. "Of course, Dr. McCoy."

CHAPTER FOUR

The rhythmic sighs of a small mechanical drone caught Spock's attention as he and S'Halt passed through the active dig site on their way to the computer center.

At each quarter turn the almost spherical mechanism puffed gently, and a few more cubic millimeters of dirt slid from the side of the excavation.

Spock watched as more and more of the full grey wall was exposed. Puff-turn. Puff-turn. The drone rotated a quarter turn, then stopped and moved again. Like a crab caught in a trap, Spock thought.

S'Halt came over and joined Spock.

"That wall is made of a boron composite," he said. "We have not yet determined its exact molecular structure, but its base is boron."

Spock stepped closer, stopping just at the guard rail. "Interesting."

"And it is three million Standard years old."

Spock turned. The long outer sweep of one eyebrow disappeared into the dark fringe of his hair.

S'Halt smiled slightly. "Yes, Mr. Spock. While our ancestors were grubbing in the dirt, a civilization on Alpha Pleiades was erecting cities of boron and tritillian."

Spock nodded. "Indeed? That information would be of much interest to the greater scientific community. I am, of course, curious as to why it has not been made available."

S'Halt looked away, across the dome. The surface of the site had been phasered clear of vegetation and a layer of polyhydrocarbon sprayed on the bare surface to prevent regrowth. Sometimes the spray formed small balls, leaving the floor peppered with lavender spheres. S'Halt bent and picked up one of the balls. He held it in one hand and squeezed, then passed it to the other. He concentrated on the movement as he spoke.

"This is the first site in which we have found anything larger than a millimeter intact."

Spock frowned. "Boron composites are among the strongest our science has developed. It would not simply decay, not even in the atmospheric conditions of Alpha Pleiades. Not even in three million years."

S'Halt looked up. "It did not decay. The civilization destroyed itself in a mass revolt that left almost nothing behind."

Spock considered S'Halt's words before speaking. "Self-destruction to the point of annihilation has never been documented. The conditions that would precipitate such an action would indeed be extraordinary."

S'Halt opened his hand, and the ball fell to the ground. It hit a ridge and careened erratically away, its vagrant bounces creating a counterpoint to the drone's steady puff-turn, puff-turn.

"Who knows the workings of an alien mind?" he said.

Spock studied S'Halt closely. "Or the workings of any mind."

S'Halt met his gaze levelly. "Or the workings of any mind, Mr. Spock."

They left the mechanical drone and the lavender landscape and walked to the computer center.

CHAPTER FIVE

It was only an illusion, of course. Her hands were not really sweating. The osmotic fibers of the isolation suit were designed to carry moisture away from the skin and evaporate it instantly. It was one of the features of the suit; with no feeling of discomfort, the wearer would be less tempted to prematurely remove the protective covering.

Yet, to Christine Chapel, her hands felt wet and slippery. The medical scanner she was holding slid in the non-existent perspiration, and only a quick grab with the other hand prevented the instrument from clattering to the infirmary floor.

McCoy saw the abrupt motion.

"Break?" he asked.

Christine nodded gratefully and carefully replaced her instruments on the bedside stand.

She walked through the sterilizing field, pulled off her mask and gloves and collapsed into a nearby chair. Not quite the striptease J'Mir had accomplished, she decided.

McCoy joined her, opting as she had to remove only gloves and mask. He pulled a chair close and sat down.

"You all right?" he asked.

"I'm fine. It's just -- I don't know. Everything points to a viral infection, but it just doesn't feel right."

"'Feel right', Doctor? You'd better not let Spock hear you say that."

Christine looked up sharply. Maybe it was her mood, Or, maybe statements like McCoy's were really beginning to wear thin on her. She let his words pass unacknowledged and continued.

"The brainscans show fluctuations you'd expect to see in something like optichromenitis, but we haven't been able to isolate a causative agent, and that should be relatively easy if it is OCE. The symptoms certainly suggest cerebral inflammation, but the hallucinations are unlike any I've seen. I just don't know."

McCoy leaned forward. "How long have you been a doctor?" he asked.

"Almost four years. You know that."

"And before that, how long were you a nurse?"

"Nine years."

McCoy settled his elbows on his knees and loosely clasped his hands. "I've been a doctor for twenty-eight years," he said. "Nineteen of then have been in space. On Sigmus Delta I saw a plague carried on a mold that became mobile once every eighty-seven years. On Hunter's World a shift in the wind brought radiation that killed almost half the population. It wasn't supposed to be there, but it was.

"We're doctors, but sometimes we're more like quick change artists -- mother, detective, visionary, tinker -- always juggling to keep five hats in the air. At the same time, we're doing this little two-step, trying to keep ahead of whatever it is out there that doesn't want us here.

"It's not easy, and we don't always win. Maybe we won't this time. All we can do is try our damnedest and hope we get lucky."

Christine considered him a moment, then smiled thinly. "You forgot one hat," she said.

McCoy eyed her quizzically.

"Evangelist."

"Ha!"

McCoy straightened and appeared ready to leave. Christine reached out to stop him.

"Seriously, Leonard -- you're a friend and a mentor. I value both." She smiled again, warmly and sincerely. "Shall we go juggle?"

McCoy got up. "In a few minutes. You rest while I get us something quick to eat."

Christine watched him leave, then slid forward in the chair and tilted her head back. The chair molded itself to the new contour, the soft cushions filling the gap made by the bridge of her shoulders and hips. The support was gentle, giving and rebounding with each breath. The effect was almost one of weightlessness. It was a welcomed sensation. Without anything to disturb her, Christine was drawn into the flamboyant world of dancing luminescence that arced above her.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Christine started. She hadn't even heard S'Halt come in.

"Yes, and captivating. The holograms we saw hardly do it justice. It doesn't even seem like the same scene."

S'Halt looked up. "You may be right. Since the holograms were taken, there has been an increase in color and activity." He looked back at her and smiled. "Alpha Pleiades is putting on her best show for you."

Christine returned the smile. There was a self-assured ease about S'Halt that she found compelling. If all the Romulans at the peace talks were this engaging, then perhaps peace was not so far away. She gestured to McCoy's vacant seat, but S'Halt remained standing.

"I'm afraid I have only a moment. Have you been able to make a diagnosis yet?"

"Not yet. We are running tests and computer searches now."

"Do you have any idea how long that will take?"

"That depends on what further work needs to be done."

S'Halt nodded. He looked away from Dr. Chapel, across the dome to where the transparent covering met the jungle floor. Even here the insect activity was intense and the plant growth thick and vibrant.

"All the patients are stable," Dr. Chapel added. "There is every reason to believe we'll have an answer before long."

S'Halt refocused his attention on the woman. "Yes, I'm sure you will. Thank you." He turned and left.

Dr. McCoy came in. In one hand he carried two small foil pouches and in the other, a glass of water.

"Was that S'Halt?' he asked as he handed Christine the glass and one of the silver squares.

"Yes He wanted to know how things were going. I'm afraid I couldn't tell him much."

McCoy resumed his seat. "We should know pretty soon. If we don't, it means we're up against something totally new. I don't much like that idea."

She glanced towards the infirmary, then back to McCoy. "I don't either."

Christine put aside the water and released the seal on the pouch. The package sprang into a shallow bowl with part of the rim flattened into a lip. In the bottom of the bowl lay a mottled grey, granular substance. She looked over at McCoy who was pouring the contents of his package into the cupped palm of his other hand.

"You're not reconstituting yours?" she asked.

McCoy brought his hand to his mouth and swallowed.

"At least the stuff doesn't have any taste when it's dry."

Christine considered the unappetizing grains in her container and decided to follow McCoy's example. Almost immediately, her hand shot out in a wild swipe for the water as the gritty granules stuck in her throat.

"How can you do that?" she asked between coughs.

"Practice. I told you I've been in space nineteen years. One thing they haven't improved in all that time. You sure you're all right?"

"I was until now." Christine muffled a final cough and wiped her eyes. "You're right. Dry you can't taste anything."

She got up. "Shall we?"

McCoy nodded. "When this is all over, I'm going to treat you to a real dinner. Fruit. Fresh vegetables. Real meat."

"Salad?"

"With vine-ripened tomatoes."

Christine bent and picked up her gloves and head covering.

"Doctor, you have a date."

CHAPTER SIX

Spock looked up and squinted, trying to see beyond the covering of undulating color. Who would have thought that this sun would exhibit such erratic bursts of energy, or that this planet would, at perihelion, experience such vast fluxes in its magnetic field because of it? Certainly not the geophysics team that had visited Alpha Pleiades eight months ago, nor the programmers who had devised the computer-generated shield to protect the domes.

The collapse of the shields had been an error -- an error on the part of the living entities who had programmed the defense, because they had not made great enough allowance for variations on Alpha Pleiades' magnetic field; and a computer error because it was not able to compensate for the shortsightedness.

Spock directed his attention to the console in front of him. More than a mechanical construct, the cybernetic unit was almost a living being. Its electric interchange existed on a molecular level, and information sped through its myriad passages with the speed and complexity of synapse-charged chemical codes. All functions of daily operation fed through its central core. All archives, records and data storage banks fell under its domain. Quite literally, it was the brain behind the great body that comprised the first Federation/Romulan joint scientific survey.

Spock passed his hand twice over the control board, thus releasing the computer from the quiescence to which he had recently consigned it. He entered the revised instructions that would insure against a reoccurrence of accidental shield failure and then sat back and again considered Alpha Pleiades' sun.

The star was 2.4 solar masses, only slightly smaller than his own. Spock frowned. Sol was the standard against which all stellar masses were measured. To make comparisons beyond that served no scientific purpose. Yet when Spock considered this sun, the image it evoked was not of Sol, but of the 40 Eridani system.

Vulcan had been on his mind much of late, he realized. Its presence manifested itself in many small and almost unnoticed ways -- in forsaken rituals he again quietly observed, a choice of food, of drink, a memory, a phrase.

It had been a long time since he had left his home in youthful rebellion. He did not regret those intervening years. They were a period of growth, of learning and friendship. But now he felt drawn back to the place of his birth, to reclaim his rightful place in Vulcan society. Spock looked out, past the dome, his eyes unfocused. He knew when this insistent demand had begun -- on Athetis, with a woman he thought he knew, but found he didn't.

For a while Spock let the remembrance wash over him, then he set it aside. The shielding failure had been an accident, but there were still too many unanswered questions, and there was a defensiveness on S'Halt's part that had no apparent explanation.

He passed his hand once more over the display board and requested a schematic that showed the location of all key personnel. S'Halt was not difficult to find. The cursor on the screen danced over a stationary spot in the matrix, identifying the Romulan director's quarters. It blinked alternately red and blue, indicating a full privacy lock in force. Spock watched the flickering light. With emergency override, he could break the lock. He decided not to. There was someone else who might hold the answers he was looking for. It was time he spoke with Dr. Durant.

CHAPTER SEVEN

S'Halt palmed open the lock on his desk and removed a small ovoid object. In his hand the object felt cold and massive, despite the soft golden glow that rose from it, giving the visual appearance of warmth. The thing was, in fact, barely fifteen centimeters from one elongated end to the other and weighed less than one kilogram.

Incised in rows that radiated spoke-like from the center of the gently curved surface were a series of markings, circles and segments of circles that were nestled tightly together. Between the rows were lines, razor cuts of darker amber. S'Halt pressed the spot where all lines converged and the whole rounded surface fell open and flat to form a petal configuration.

He carefully slid the apparatus from his hand to the desk top and studied the coils and loops that snaked up from each section. He could almost feel the energy flowing from the gleaming center rod. S'Halt tried to imagine the beings that had created such an exquisite and awesome device. So little was known of them; so little had survived. How many more of them had there been, he wondered, and what had sparked the rebellion that had led to almost total destruction. He didn't know, and in a practical sense, it didn't matter. What mattered now was what became of the instrument.

S'Halt absently ran his finger up and down the jagged line that split the side of his face. It was an old scar, and an old habit. Romulans wore scars with pride, as testaments to bravery and sacrifice. This was the only scar S'Halt had acquired in his many years of active service, but it wasn't for pride that he had not had it removed. Every time he looked in a mirror, every time he traced its ragged edge, he remembered Ettrais and the slaughter he had presided over.

His fingers stopped their idle movement. He had made the right decision, there on his last battlefield. There was a better way. Peace would be given a chance -- peace and trust. S'Halt reached far the alien mechanism and, in one swift motion, closed it and put it back into the drawer.

CHAPTER EIGHT

McCoy looked up front his patient. "What are you doing here, Spock?"

Even with the almost totally concealing isolation suit, there was no mistaking those eyebrows, or that stance.

"I need to speak with Dr. Durant."

McCoy selected an instrument from the tray in front of him and resumed his work.

"We haven't finished yet. You can't talk to him until we do."

"I believe it is important that I interview him now."

Dr. Chapel walked in. She paused when she saw Spock. In the twelve hours they'd been there, she hadn't spoken two words to him. So much for Uhura's vision of a romantic interlude, even if she had wanted one. She nodded a greeting and continued over to McCoy.

"Wu is stable," she said as she reached the other side of the bed. "The hallucinations have stopped for now."

McCoy concentrated all his instrument. He made an adjustment, considered and recalibrated again.

"Were the episodes the same as the last time?" he asked.

"Yes. They all seem to follow the same pattern -- an obsession with a particular color, then the driving need to get up and go outside. With Wu, it's red. Chandler sees everything in yellow. They're both calm now."

McCoy nodded. "Good." He gestured to a scanner similar to the one he held. "Check these readings, Christine. I don't trust what I'm seeing."

Spock moved to the foot of the diagnostic bed.

"What do you get from the occipital lobe?" asked McCoy.

Dr. Chapel began reading figures, stopped, reversed the numbers and stopped again. She put down the instrument and looked over at McCoy. "The readings are all over the board. That shouldn't be, not with the amount of sedation we're pumping."

"I know. Tat's why I asked for your verification."

Christine frowned. "If the sedation isn't working, then the only thing left is cryogenic suspension."

"Unless you can think of something else."

"No."

"We might as well start now."

Christine nodded. She replaced the scanner and started mentally planning the steps needed to put eleven patients into a suspension of life so close to death that only the most sophisticated equipment could tell the difference. She walked from the bed, past Spock. She supposed she should say something to him, but this was no place for small talk, and she had no time for a lengthy discussion of why he was here. She continued without further acknowledging his presence.

Dr. McCoy gave the instrument tray a slight shove, and the whole thing slid into a recess in the wall where it would wait under sterile and controlled atmospheric conditions until called again.

McCoy walked over to Spock. "How important is it that you speak with Durant?"

"I believe it is very important."

"Did you find out why the shields failed?"

"Yes. A miscalculation that did not adequately take into account the fluctuations in the planetary magnetic field at perihelion."

"So, it was an accident?"

"Yes."

"Then why do you have to talk to Durant?"

"Because there are other things that are not so easily explained."

McCoy waited for Spock to continue. Then he waited some more. Spock said nothing. McCoy let out an exasperated sigh.

"Spock, you're impossible. What kinds of things are not so easily explained?"

Spock ignored the doctor's outburst. "Aspects of the survey have not been thoroughly reported, S'Halt believes that the civilization they are investigating destroyed itself, yet he claims to have no knowledge as to possible motives. I do not believe that is the whole truth."

'Why don't you confront S'Halt?"

"I intend to, but I must also interview Dr. Durant."

McCoy locked his hands behind his back and glanced across the room to the row of occupied beds.

"I don't even know if you can get anything coherent out of him. For some reason, Durant seems more affected than the others."

"Once he is in cryogenic suspension, I will no longer have even that chance."

"No, I guess not. All right, but take it easy. The periods of hallucination are increasing, and with each incident the variance from normal brain patterns is more pronounced. To tell you the truth, I don't know what we're dealing with, but I certainly don't want to see it accelerate."

McCoy led Spock to a bed by the far wall. In it lay a man who, if he were healthy, would have been a striking figure, but now looked all the more frail for his great height. A dense thatch of grey hair covered his head, and thick, bushy eyebrows stuck out from his high cheek-boned face. His skin was pale, almost white, so that his hair and face presented a monochromatic palate. His lips were pulled tight into a sharp edged line, and beneath his lids, his eyes moved in a constant, darting motion.

McCoy made an adjustment in the infusion unit strapped to Durant's wrist and stepped back.

"Remember, not too long, and be gentle."

Durant's eyes flickered open. Their erratic back and forth motion continued until he saw Spock. Spock stepped forward and bent low. Garbled words spilled from Durant's mouth, but they were lost in the background haze of infirmary noises.

Durant reached up and grabbed Spock's wrist. "S'Halt -- the device -- is it safe? The three of us, we must keep it safe."

Spock bent lower. "I am not S'Halt."

Durant squinted his eyes. "Not S'Halt?"

"No. I am Spock. I am one of a group from the starship Enterprise. We have come to find the cause of your malady."

"The Enterprise? Then you are not Romulan."

"I am Vulcan."

Durant looked furtively at his hand which was still wrapped around Spock's wrists. "Vulcans are telepaths. If you touch me, you know my thoughts."

"I would not so invade your mind. Your thoughts are your own."

"No. It's better. If I die, only S'Halt and J'Mir will know. It's better that you know."

"Know what, Dr. Durant?"

"That..."

Suddenly Durant dropped Spock's hand and pointed to the jungle above him. "See? Look -- all red. The flowers... See how beautiful they are? All red."

Spock took Durant by the shoulders and leaned over him, forcing the director to look at him. "Dr. Durant, what do only S'Halt and J'Mir know?"

Durant shook his head, struggling to free his minn.. "In the tunnel.... A device.... It...." He stopped. "I can't... I..." He took Spock's hands, deliberately pulling them towards his face. "So important that you know. Please.... You must."

Spock stood up. He rubbed the fingers of one gloved hand slowly against the other while he considered the grey form on the bed. Then he pulled the protective covering from his hands and bent down. McCoy gripped his shoulder.

"Just what do you think you're doing?!"

Spock was already slipping into that detached state of consciousness required of the Vulcan mind meld. He spoke without turning. "It is obvious Dr. Durant has information he wishes to impart. There is only one way to obtain that information."

McCoy held firm. "I can't let you touch him. If Durant's condition is contagious, I don't know how it's spread. I can't allow you to take the chance."

Spock straightened and turned. "Leonard, this is important, perhaps vitally so. Physical contact is necessary."

McCoy still held his hand in mid-air. He lowered it slowly. Spock rarely called him by his first name. When he did, it was an appeal to an unspoken friendship and understanding that existed between them. It was an appeal McCoy could not refuse.

"Then let me coat your hands with an antiseptic. That won't interfere, will it?"

"That will cause no interference."

McCoy left and returned with a gelatin capsule. He held it beneath Spock's outstretched hands and broke it in two. A green mist erupted from the fractured pieces and formed a cloud around Spock's hands. As Spock turned and flexed his fingers in the antiseptic droplets, McCoy eyed him with concern.

"There's madness in Durant's mind," he said. "You won't be able to avoid it."

"I have encountered madness before."

"Once it almost killed you."

Spock remembered the Medusan, and the horror from which he had fled. "This time I shall be prepared."

The mist dissipated, and Spock once more drew into himself, mentally preparing for whatever thoughts Durant's mind night hold.

McCoy stepped back and watched as Spock carefully positioned his hands on Durant's face. Over the ten odd years he had known the Vulcan, McCoy had seen Spock establish the mystical psychic link with several dozen beings of every conceivable origin. More than once it had been his mind that Spock had joined. Whether as an observer or active participant, McCoy never felt comfortable with the Vulcan mind meld. Never did Spock seem so alien, so removed from McCoy's understanding, as when he stood transfixed in that mind-linking trance.

Few races were telepathic, and even fewer displayed the rare Vulcan ability to merge consciousnesses. Even the Romulans, who were so like their Vulcan cousins, were said to be psi-null. Many observers speculated that it was this difference which had led to the emergence of Surak and peace on Vulcan, while Romulans had embarked on an era of aggressive colonization. Remembering Spock's pain at the death of the Intrepid and her Vulcan crew, McCoy could understand why Vulcan chose peace and tranquility as a means of self-preservation.

"My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts..."

Spock's breathing slowed and became more shallow as he matched Durant's tone. His skin paled as the rhythm of his body became one with the human's.

McCoy stepped cautiously forward. Dr. Chapel returned. McCoy motioned her to silence, but she seemed not to see hint. She walked to the side of the bed opposite Spock and stood silent but poised.

Spock slipped easily into Durant's receptive mind. The madness was there, growing like grotesque vines, rampant and uncontrolled mutations that threatened to choke all other thoughts. He sliced through the ensnaring tangles and reached for that part of Durant's mind which remained unaffected. He moved cautiously and respectfully through the inner chambers of Durant's being. He saw a boy, gangly and alone, mature into a sensitive and respected scientist. He saw the inception of the Alpha Pleiades survey and shared with Durant the joy and hope the project offered. He struggled, as Durant had, to understand the destruction of the civilization. He walked and climbed and crawled the dig sites alone at night, searching for the answer. Then he saw it, in a recently opened a section -- a wall, intact, and behind the wall, a chamber, also intact. In the center of the room, on a dais, lay an object that looked like an oversized egg. There was writing on the wall, but it was like nothing he had ever seen. He took the egg-like object and slid it into the chest pouch of jumpsuit. Then he left, carefully concealing the chamber and its entrance.

Something was wrong. While Durant had returned to his laboratory, Spock found that he could not leave. Madness filled the dome. A sickly sweet smell overwhelmed him and choked him.

Hands gripped his shoulders and dragged him back, through the throbbing mass of formless color. He gasped for air, and murky foulness clogged his throat.

"Spock! Spock!" McCoy spun him around and slapped him hard, twice. Spock's eyes snapped open.

"Are you all right?"

"I am..." Spock took a tentative step and collapsed.

McCoy caught Spock and lowered him to the floor, then reached for a scanner from the tray that slid out at his command. The doctor made adjustments for Vulcan physiology and passed the instrument over Spock's inert body. When would Spock learn, he wondered. Dr. Chapel rushed from the other side of the bed. She felt for a pulse at the base of Spock's skull and pressed the back of her hand against his cheek. McCoy looked at Christine and noticed another person standing behind her. His gaze traced up the shimmering sterile suit until he met S'Halt's eyes.

"Will Mr. Spock be all right?" S'Halt asked.

"I don't know. I'm not sure what he did to himself," McCoy answered.

"Mr. Spock should recover within two hours," Dr. Chapel said.

"Then perhaps you will all meet me in my office at that time. I have something to tell you. Mr. Spock, I believe, already knows part of the story."

Without waiting for confirmation, S'Halt walked out of the room.

McCoy called for a med-tech, then turned to Dr. Chapel .

"You don't live with someone for three months and not learn some things about him," she answered before McCoy could frame his question. She stood up and turned to leave.

McCoy reached out his hand to stop her. "That's not good enough, Christine..."

Christine stopped. McCoy dropped his hand.

"Being a telepath was Spock's entree into that part of Athetian society that provided our best hope of finding evidence of prior cultural interference. While we were there, he took part in many ceremonial meldings. They took their toll."

"You mean you've seen this reaction before?"

"Yes, several times."

"Nothing was mentioned in his report, or in your medical log."

"Anything pertaining to the Vulcan mind meld is protected under cultural privacy statutes. Since the incidents had no bearing on what we did or did not find, Spock chose not to report them. I chose to honor that derision."

Once more Christine turned, and this time she left. Walking out of the room, she silently cursed herself for making Athetis a living thing that again stalked her waking hours. But the curses were no more effective now than they had been the last time, or the time before. She pushed them aside and concentrated on the work ahead. Spock would approve of her control. Christine forced a small laugh at the thought.

CHAPTER NINE

The decision was made, and S'Halt felt better for it. He walked through the maze of catacombs that connected the domes to his quarters. One other person would have to be informed of the meeting he had just called. He was not sure what J'Mir's reaction would be. In theory, it did not matter. By Romulan law and tradition, her voice was silent beside his, but he had dedicated the past decade to molding a new order, and her opinion did matter.

S'Halt pressed his hand against the pale plate, and the door slid open. The room was dim, with the only light coming from the forest of crystal lum-rods growing from the granite slabs on either side of the bed. J'Mir perched at the edge of the bed. She still wore the standard white jumpsuit, but even that relatively shapeless garment seemed to hug each curve of her body. Her skin was as clear and as fresh as it had been almost a daem ago when he had claimed J'Mir from her father as spoil after Ettrais. In the soft white light, her hair looked even blacker.

That was another decision he did not regret. S'Halt smiled, remembering his impulsive act. He had lived almost four daem by then, and he had fathered -- he stopped to count -- fifteen children, some of them when he was no more than a boy himself. Until then, he had never had the desire to form more than a biological relationship with any woman. Maybe it was because Ettrais was such a turning point in his life. Maybe it was because he knew J'Mir's father would kill her before he took his own life. Or maybe it was because of the fire he saw burning in J'Mir's eyes. Whatever the reason, he had taken her that day with the blood still oozing from the wound on his face. He had taken her, but he knew J'Mir would never really belong to him. She was her own person. She was also a Romulan woman, bred and reared to command all the seductive wiles of someone whose life depended on such an ability. And that also he did not regret.

J'Mir came toward him, arms outstretched and crossed. He moved forward, took her hands and uncrossed them.

"Your will?" she asked formally.

S'Halt smiled and pressed her hands between his. "To see you happy. To see the Two rise in peace over our home."

"It is said there can never be peace, here or in the heavens, that the Great One must always watch for the Small One. If he is not careful, she will sneak up and devour him."

"Wasn't it you who said that the coming of the Small One was simply a time of change and nothing to be feared?"

J'Mir dropped her hands and turned away. "Myths. Old stories women tell the children when they ask why the days are getting hotter and the nights shorter."

S'Halt walked around to face her. "Of course they're only stories. But you are right. This is the time of change, of peace."

J'Mir inclined her head in ritual respectfulness. S'Halt tilted it up. "No, it's important that you understand. What was found here has already destroyed one civilization. We can't let that happen again."

J'Mir looked at him quizzically. They had discussed this many times before. "That was why Durant was so insistent that only the three of us know about it."

"I think Durant is wrong. It's foolish to think a discovery such as this can remain hidden for long. We can't go on deceiving our own colleagues, and the outside community is becoming increasingly curious about our findings."

"You plan to make a general announcement? In the time we've been here, there've been three attempts on your life. You may want peace, but others obviously do not. You know how dangerous this information can be in the wrong hands."

"I won't make a general announcement, but I believe the three from the Enterprise should know. Spock was with Durant. If he does not know the entire story, he at least knows enough to ask questions I'd rather answer honestly."

J'Mir walked over to the lum-rods. She made a circle of her thumb and forefinger and passed it over and down one of the crystals. Where her fingers passed, the rod grew brighter.

"If Durant dies," she said, "the full information will be known only to the two of us."

S'Halt joined J'Mir by the rods. As she bent over, the light fell harsh and glaring on her face; where it didn't fall, her features were etched in cold shadows.

"And what would we do with that information?" he asked.

J'Mir looked up. "Keep it safe. How much safer can it be than with only the two of us as guardians?"

S'Halt shook his head. "No. My argument still stands. It will be impossible to keep this secret forever, and it must not fall into the wrong hands."

"We could do it."

"No."

J'Mir whirled around. "Without me, you'd know nothing! Durant came to you with an object he'd found. He had no idea what it was. If I hadn't done the translation, you'd still have no idea. Doesn't that give me some say in what becomes of it?"

"My decision is made. We will meet in two hours."

J'Mir opened her mouth to speak, then closed it without saying anything. She turned back to the lum-rods. In the end, she knew there was nothing she could say.

* * *

The golden ovoid lay on S'Halt's desk. He reached out and nudged it toward the three Enterprise officers who sat opposite him. J'Mir stood behind him, one hand on the back of his chair.

"Truly, immortality?" asked Spock.

"Yes," answered S'Halt. "The opportunity to change bodies at will, to discard the old and broken for the young and healthy. Identity transfer -- complete and permanent."

"And the destruction of the civilization was a result of fighting over possession?" Christine asked.

S'Halt nodded. "The Alpha Pleiadians ritualized the process and made it available only to their theocratic rulers. Those who were transformed were considered gods. Eventually, the desire to become an immortal must have become too great. In the ensuing civil upheaval, an entire civilization was lost."

"Everything except for the chamber where Dr. Durant found that," McCoy added.

"Yes, though why only a single chamber and this one mechanism should remain, I don't know."

Spock took the object from S'Halt's desk and turned it over in his hand. As simply an artifact, it was beautiful. "Is this one operational?" he asked.

J'Mir came around to the front of the desk. She had changed from the plain jumpsuit into a soft, nu-suede caftan. As she walked, the richly embroidered hem rippled just above the ground.

"The descriptions of the devices are couched in religious terms," she said. "The instructions in their use, however, are explicit and clear. This one is intact. The glow indicates that its power source is not depleted."

Spock put the object back. "Have you put it to a test?"

"If you mean," S'Halt answered, "have we experimented on any subject -- no. We have run through the steps a number of times. The procedure is quite simple."

Spock continued to consider the device. This was not the first time a tool of identity transfer had been discovered, but the instrument they had found on Camus II had proven to provide only temporary results, and its operation depended on close and continued contact with the mechanism of transfer. If, as S'Halt had said, this procedure required a single joining and produced lasting change, then the implications of its use were far reaching.

"Who else, besides you, J'Mir, and Larry Durant knows of its existence?" Christine asked.

"No one -- except, of course, the three of you now. Dr. Durant had work diverted from that area and the dome sealed immediately after he made his discovery."

"Why the need for secrecy?" McCoy asked. "I can see how something like this could destroy a civilization built around its use, but we don't have that situation."

'No," S'Halt answered, "but neither do we have a situation that is stable enough to insure that only beneficial applications of such a discovery are pursued There are many in the Romulan Empire who do not wish to establish a binding peace with the Federation. Contention over who has the right to claim discovery could be all the excuse they need to abandon peace talks. And if there is war, Dr. McCoy..."

"If there is war," Spock continued, "then consider the payment immortality could demand from certain individuals in key positions."

McCoy hadn't thought of it that way, but Spock was right. There were at least five unaligned worlds whose leaders were unscrupulous and desperate enough to sell their planets in exchange for several more decades of life. If he worked at it a little longer, McCoy was sure he could come up with at least ten more. And if you added to that individuals in strategic positions who might be vulnerable on the part of a friend or relative... "I guess you're right. Still, you just can't keep it to yourself."

"No, we can't. That is why we have told you about it. I believe our best hope is to make a joint presentation at the peace conference. I understand the Enterprise is bringing the last of the Federation representatives to the conference now."

"That is correct," Spock said, "but any subspace communication will have to wait. An ion storm of great intensity has effectively knocked out communications across a wide area, including this planet and the conference site. I had occasion to plot its course as part of my examination of solar impact on this planet."

"I see. Do you have any idea how long this disturbance will last?"

"It is impossible to say. Several days at minimum."

S'Halt nodded, considering. He looked at Spock. "There is something else I wish to discuss with you. Are you sure the dome failure was the result of an accident?"

"As I explained, the failure was the result of a miscalculation in the original design. Why do you ask?"

S'Halt looked to J'Mir, then back to the group. "Several attempts have been made on my life since I have been here. The last one included J'Mir. All of them appear to have been accidents, but I am sure they are not. I was originally scheduled to be with Dr. Durant's party when the dome was breached."

Dr. Chapel leaned forward. "Even if someone had deliberately sabotaged the shielding," she said, "how could they have known that contact with the outside air would cause illness? We've been searching for the cause and haven't been able to isolate anything."

S'Halt was silent. Then he pushed back his chair and stood up. "No, of course, they wouldn't have known about the atmosphere." He smiled. "Perhaps what I fear is nothing more than the half-formed shapes of night." He turned to Spock who had stood along with McCoy and Chapel. "I would appreciate it if you informed me as soon as communications are possible."

"I will keep you advised. One thing further. If it is at all possible, I would like to view the chamber where the device was found."

S'Halt nodded. "Of course. Will first thing tomorrow be convenient?"

"That will be most convenient. Thank you."

CHAPTER 10

She couldn't sleep. The day's events kept racing around in her mind in tight little circles. Christine got up, slipped into a uniform and went to the infirmary. When she had satisfied herself that there was nothing more she could do there, she left and went to one of the laboratories. Something S'Halt had said about the increase of floral color and insect activity had piqued her scientific curiosity but until now, she had had no time to pursue it.

At night the scene outside the dome was one of eerie plant phosphorescence punctuated at irregular intervals by twin points of darting insect eyes. For awhile, Christine watched the interplay of plant and insect. With the laboratory darkened, it was easier to make out the various performers in that strange play, but the moonless sky gave no light, and in the dim glow generated by the plants themselves, it was easy to imagine almost anything. Christine waved up the lights and sat down in front of a computer terminal. She called up all available information on the native flora and fauna. Then with a final glance towards the heavens, Christine settled into a long night of study.

A pattern began to emerge, one that suggested a correlation between the insects' erratic behavior and her patients' hallucinations and their compulsions to get out of the dome. Large pieces of the puzzle were missing, and without supporting evidence, little could be documented. That evidence would have to wait until daylight, when live specimens could be brought in from outside. But Dr. Chapel was sure she had hit upon the beginnings of the answers to the strange malady affecting eleven members of the survey. She entered her findings into the main core computer and programmed a parallel search, hoping to uncover any further clues or corroborating information. Then she settled back to wait.

The interaction of the planet's living members was, from a scientific viewpoint, rich and immensely interesting. And she did find it that, but there was more. Christine found that the sensuousness of the plants' slow movement, the insects' quick probing dives, evoked in her a similar sensual response. She'd been aware of her reaction since they had arrived, but had had no time to dwell on it. Now, sitting here in the dark, that smoldering fire was being fanned. She could feel it, creeping slowly through her body, seeking her most sensitive parts. Christine suddenly got up. In another situation, in another time, she would have welcomed the sensation and the anticipated gratification, but not here, not now.

There was a noise. She spun around and found herself facing Spock. If there was one person she didn't want to meet now, it was he.

"What are you doing here?" she snapped. He looked like hell. She shook her head. He'd done nothing to earn her wrath. "I'm sorry, but you should be in bed. Your reaction to the mind meld was the most severe I've seen."

Spock arched an eyebrow. "Unnecessary, and useless in any case."

Christine nodded ruefully. "I suppose I should know that by now."

"You were quite adamant the first few times," Spock said.

"And it got me nowhere, didn't it?"

"You were acting as your training had taught. I would have expected no less."

Christine smiled. She motioned to the terminal. "Look, I've found some interesting things."

"About the disease?"

"Maybe it's not really a disease. Here." Christine played back the tapes until she found the section she wanted. "The insects fall into six major groups. Each has some important distinguishing features, but all have one thing in common -- that section of the brain that perceives color is very highly developed. That's not unusual, considering the stimuli. I did some more investigating and found that the level of insect activity was higher when the initial survey came than when they left. Alpha Pleiades' year is nine Standard months, so the survey had come a month after the last perihelion. And look at this--" She pointed to a graph of brain activity. "--this is a record of the waves of one of the insects at the height of frenzy. These spikes correspond almost exactly to those I recorded on Wu earlier today."

Spock looked over her shoulder at the display. "Have you any specific idea what is present at perihelion to cause this reaction?"

"A biological agent most likely. We haven't found anything unusual in any of our patients, but then I don't know what I'm looking for. It might be something that concentrates in the brain tissue that is inaccessible to us. Physical examination of the insects should give us a better idea. There's little in the original survey's cataloguing that's much help; they weren't looking for anything specific. As soon as it gets light I'll have specimens brought in."

Spock bent down and increased the magnification of one section of the diagram, considered it a moment, then abandoned it for another. Christine knit her brows and tried to follow the logic of his choices.

"Have you told McCoy of this?" he asked.

"No. I'm running my findings through one more time to see if I missed anything. I didn't want to wake him until I had all my data. What time is it, anyway?"

Spock erased the image on the screen and drew up another. "0340 hours," he said.

Christine turned around and watched Spock as he continued to search the files. His innate and unfailing time sense was something she had always found intriguing. It was one of the subtle things that distinguished him as an alien. She studied his face. She'd known him so many years that his features were almost as familiar as her own. How had he looked when they'd first met? She couldn't remember. He had changed. So had she.

Spock keyed a code into the terminal, turned off the screen and straightened. "Your theory holds possibilities," he said. "On Turner's Planet, it has been found that certain animal forms undergo a cyclical change in brain structure. It has long been speculated that the catalyst for that change is a biological agent present in the atmosphere at certain times of the year. I have requested further information to augment your search."

Christine settled back in her chair. "I'm eager to see what the computer comes up with. If it is something in the air, we should be on our way to finding a cure. And that better be fast. I don't like what I saw today." She sat quietly a long minute, considering what properties this elusive agent might have, and what ultimate course its infestation might run. They should have a better idea in a little while. For now all she could do was wait. She turned her attention to Spock.

"You never answered my question," she said. "Why did you come here?"

Spock clasped his hands behind his back and looked directly at Christine. "We need to discuss Athetis."

Christine tensed. The small muscles at the base of her neck and spine grew rigid. "Everything that needs to be said about Athetis has been said."

"No, much has been left unsaid."

"We failed. What more is there to say?"

"We did not fail."

Christine pushed herself up and out of the chair. She walked a few steps and stopped, her back to Spock.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You're right. We didn't fail. Because of the concepts we were allowed to introduce, the Athetians may, in say five generations, come to realize it isn't a sacrilege to store food for periods of famine; that all painting their bodies blue does is produce a chronic, low level toxic reaction; and that they do, after all, have some control over their lives. In five generations -- if they survive that long."

Spock walked over to stand facing Christine. "The dictates of the Prime Directive must be adhered to even when they seem most harsh. I believe we were able to exert a beneficial influence within the framework of the Athetian culture. In the absence of prior contamination, it was all we could do."

Christine started to walk away.

"That, however, is not what I came to discuss."

Christine stopped and faced him again. Overhead and unseen, the insects continued their frantic flight. Across the room, the computer terminal kept silently feeding information into the main core. On the rest of the site, there was little movement, and in this room, there was none. Finally, Christine shook her head and looked away.

"No," she said.

"Christine." It was a command. Her head snapped up. "Christine," he continued in a softer voice, "since we returned from Athetis you have avoided me." He took a step toward her. "I know your mind, Christine. What secrets do you think you hold from me?"

"I..." Her gaze darted away momentarily, then returned. She focused her eyes directly on Spock. "I lied. Did you know that? On our last report to the Enterprise, I told McCoy that we were all right. That was a lie, and I knew it. My temperature had been elevated for three days, and the cramps had already started. I wanted to stay on Athetis, Spock. Do you know why?"

"Perhaps you should tell me."

She couldn't keep looking at him like that, not and think about Athetis at the same time. She turned and walked slowly to the other side of the room. When she got there, she laid her hands flat on the cold stone surface of one of the work tables.

"What do you want me to say? That I wanted to stay to try one last time to find some evidence that would allow us to do something of real value?"

"Is that not the truth?"

Christine picked up one of the instruments that lay in a shiny row at the center of the table. She studied it as if she'd never seen its like before.

"Of course I wanted to stay and do something worthwhile. Do you think I'll ever forget those children?" She slammed the instrument down and spun around. "But do you know why I really wanted to stay? Because I knew you wouldn't let me die. I knew you'd use the mind-link to keep me alive. And I wanted that. I wanted the intimacy. It was my fantasy and I got it. Did you see that in my mind also, Mr. Spock?"

"Yes."

Her fury spent, Christine stared at him. Of course he'd known. How could she have thought he wouldn't? It was the reason she had avoided him since then, why her mouth had gone dry every time she had seen him. Christine sank back against the counter and held onto the edge with both hands. What else must he know about her? Literally every thing, she imagined. For almost two weeks he had been in her mind, soothing her thoughts, keeping her sane while the fever raged and her body convulsed with pain. She had wanted that closeness, and she had gotten it. She still did not regret it.

Spock walked over to her. They stood less than a meter apart.

"Why?" she asked. "Why are you telling me this now?"

Spock pressed his lips into a thin line and looked beyond Christine, mentally framing his answer. "Do you remember the focus I put in your mind?" he asked.

Christine nodded. "A flower. A five petaled flower."

"The l'timar flower. On Vulcan it is rare and treasured. The plant grows only in the high valley of the Nitar Range in soil and climatic conditions that are very harsh. As it grows, it changes. Each day it grows more complex and more beautiful. Some special individuals are like the l'timar flower. In the time we were together, I found out things about you I had never known. In your mind, I saw things I had never imagined." Spock reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Christine's face. His fingers lingered on her cheek as he spoke. "Christine, it was you, not I, who asked that the link be severed."

His fingers were hot and dry against her cheek. In the three months they had been on Athetis, he had not once touched her except in the strict dictates of duty. Now his fingers burned against her cheek. She laid her own hand across his, pressing his hand to her face.

"Some patterns are hard to break," she said. "I was afraid you'd hate me."

He shook his head slowly. "I do not hate you, Christine."

She smiled softly. "You know, it's not fair. You know a lot more about me than I do about you."

"The link was one directional. It had to be. But there are other ways." The corners of his mouth almost eased into a smile. "I think you will find some of them interesting."

Christine thought of the flowers outside the dome and her reaction to them. There were things she could show him also. "Ionis is said to be lovely and private."

"I have heard that also."

Christine's face broke into a grin, a smile of pure delight. She brought her free hand to his face and began to trace the lines of his chin, the curve of his mouth. Nothing had ever seemed so right. She had never wanted anything as she wanted him now. Her fingers slowed their caressing movement. Her smile faded.

"I still don't understand. Why are you telling me this here, now? Why not last week or next when we're back on the Enterprise?"

Spock took both her hands in his and lowered them. "Time has become precious. I fear events will move too quickly, that what we accept now will no longer be. It is important to me that you understand what has transpired between us, that whatever happens, you understand that."

It was as if the room had suddenly turned cold. Christine shivered. She felt Spock tighten his grip on her hand, but it wasn't enough to offset the encroaching dread.

"Because of the device for identity transfer?" she asked.

"Perhaps. There are many who want war."

"Precognition? I didn't know Vulcans... No race has ever demonstrated the ability to foretell the future."

"Not precognition. The mind works on many levels. It synthesizes information, experiences, nuances. From that base it forms predictions, Jim has often referred to it as a hunch or a feeling. I prefer other terms, but the product is the same."

Anything that would drive Spock to seek her out at three o'clock in the morning when there were so many other concerns must indeed be compelling. Call it a synthesizing of information, or a hunch, or a feeling, Christine would trust his predictions over almost anything in the universe. But she was not about to surrender so easily. Out of this she would not be cheated.

"There'll be time for us," she said.

Spock studied the alien woman before him. He had seen her strengths, and he knew her weaknesses. The face she now presented was composed and confident, but through her hands he felt fear spark. There were Vulcan ceremonies to formalize, to solemnize the understanding that had passed between them, and though he would find comfort in them, he knew Christine would not. Human gestures would have far more meaning to her, and he was familiar with them also. Spock thought fleetingly of his parents and wondered if Sarek had ever made such concessions to the human woman he had taken as wife. He doubted it. Spock smiled lightly. It was Sarek's loss. There were things even a Vulcan could learn from others.

Spock dropped Christine's hands. He slipped his arm around her waist and drew her closer.

"There will be time," he said.

With his free hand, he tilted back her head. The computer signal sounded, a shrill beep, beep, beep, that shattered the quiet and demanded attention.

Christine dropped her head to Spock's chest. She closed her eyes. "Damn," she said softly.

"Indeed," he answered quietly. Then he put his hand under her chin and raised it. "There will be time."

Christine nodded. "Yes." They moved apart. "Shall we see what we've got?"

The computer bore out Christine's theory and indicated a high probability of an organic agent as the cause of the infestation. Based on the information Spock had requested, it offered suggestions as to the nature and probable site of infection, but actual source of the substance could not be determined.

Christine ordered a hard copy of the results and opened a channel to McCoy. He said he'd be there right away. She closed the channel and walked to the center of the room.

Dawn was still a couple of hours away. Christine looked up and tried to see beyond the transparent dome. With the lights up full, it was difficult to see much besides the insects diving towards the dome. A sudden flurry of winged creatures swooped down and were repelled by the force field. Christine thought about the planet and the beings that had populated it. She thought about the extraordinary mechanism they had developed.

"What would an identity transfer be like?" she asked, still looking up. "A person is more than the sum of his brain wave patterns, more than collection of engrams. Identity transfer can not simply be seen as the ultimate in organ transfer Who would this new person be?"

Spock came to stand behind her. She could feel his presence, warm and close.

"A soul?" he asked.

"No, not in the traditional sense, though maybe I shouldn't dismiss that so lightly. No, what I mean is that a person is more than a disembodied spirit cloaked in any convenient form. What a person is, what he can or can not do, how others see him, is at least in part determined by what he looks like. When you transfer one identity into another body, what do you have? Who is this new person? The one he remembers himself to be, or the one everyone else sees? Where do his obligations lie?"

Christine felt Spock's hands touch lightly to her shoulders and rest there. "An interesting question. I would think he is neither and both -- a new person born at the moment of joining, carrying the obligations of both and owing to none."

"It seems a complicated and solitary existence at best," Christine responded, her gaze still focused above her but her awareness centered on warmth at her shoulders.

"It is an existence when no other is possible and even a solitary existence is preferable to none -- though a life shared holds the promise of far greater riches." He did not move, did not even increase the pressure of his hands, but his meaning was clear.

At that moment, McCoy walked into the room. He stopped. Their backs were toward his, and Spock's hands still lay on Christine's shoulders. With any other two people the pose simply would have indicated friendship, and McCoy would have taken no notice. But with Spock...

McCoy felt like an intruder. He wished he could just leave in the hope they hadn't noticed his presence. He couldn't, of course. McCoy remembered the almost palpable intimacy that existed between Spock and Christine when they had returned from Athetis. Standing in the transporter room after they had beamed up, McCoy had shot Kirk a look of surprise and had been greeted with a similar look on the captain's face. After that, something had happened to dissolve the closeness, but neither Spock nor Christine ever mentioned anything. Now that it was back in full force. McCoy felt he should say something, but he couldn't think of anything appropriate.

"Doctor, your presence is welcome."

McCoy started. Spock had spoken without turning. Was Spock referring to his needed medical expertise, or was the Vulcan trying to put him at ease? Again McCoy was at a loss for words. He resorted to the practical.

"I understand you've found a lead to what we're up against," he said.

An hour later McCoy had been brought up to date and the first light of day was softening the night. He turned to Christine. "Okay, Chris. We're ready to start the tests on the insects as soon as the first are brought in. Why don't you go lie down until then?"

Christine referred to a diagram an the screen in front of her. "I'm not tired. I doubt I could sleep even if I were." She brought up another schematic.

"You'll be worse than useless if you're not alert later when you're really needed. I still outrank you, please don't make me order you to rest."

Spock walked over and silently flicked off the viewer. "He is correct, Christine. It will be several hours before work can begin on identifying a cure. You must rest."

Dr. Chapel moved her hand to reactivate the screen, reconsidered and ran her fingers across her forehead instead. "All right, but wake me when the first specimens arrive."

"I will be with S'Halt. However, I will have someone wake you."

"S'Halt?" Then she remembered. "The chamber where the mechanism was found."

"Yes. There is little I can do until after your examination of the creatures is complete."

Christine pushed her chair back and stood, holding onto the edge of the desk with one hand. "Okay," she said in a voice that was suddenly weary. "I'll rest."

McCoy eyed her with concern. He walked over to Spock and spoke in a low voice. "Spock..."

Spock nodded. "Yes, Leonard, I will walk her."

McCoy stepped back and watched them leave. He clasped his hands behind his back and smiled to himself. The only thing wrong with Spock's recent behavior, he decided, was that Jim Kirk was not here to witness it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

S'Halt was waiting for Spock at the entrance to the sealed dome.

"The first specimens will be brought in shortly," Spock answered S'Halt's unasked question. "Once the common agent is found, work can begin on neutralizing its structure."

"Then we should have a cure soon."

"Perhaps. When working with the unknown, there is always the element of uncertainty."

"Of course."

S'Halt handed Spock one of two flat packages he was carrying. Spock examined the markings identifying the contents as an air filtration mask and raised an eyebrow in question.

"A Romulan learns early to be cautious. If someone were trying to kill me, consider what an inviting target the two of us would present."

Spock slipped the package into the pocket of the jumpsuit into which he had changed. "You are still certain that attempts have been made on your life?"

S'Halt keyed an admit sequence into the airlock, using his personal access to gain control. Inside the dome, atmospheric conditions were monitored and adjusted. Power surged back to normal.

"Suspicion," he said, "is the companion of caution. They live with us together."

Controls on the lock panel indicated that everything was in order. S'Halt entered the final sequence and the door slid open.

"Do you have a suspect?" Spock asked as he walked through the lock.

"Everyone here has passed the most rigid security and is, supposedly, dedicated to the success of the project. Therefore, all must be equally suspect. I have no reason to distrust one over the others."

S'Halt followed Spock into the dome and secured the door behind them.

The area looked like the other dig sites they had passed. The same lavender coating covered the barren floor, and the same railing guarded the entrance to pits that all looked alike. Here, however, the only sound was the muffled padding of their boots striking the soft ground as they walked across the enclosure.

S'Halt led Spock to one of the round openings In the floor. He removed a section of the guard rail and began to descend the ladder. "Be careful not to touch the sides," he cautioned. "A residue of acid remains in the ground."

Spock waited until S'Halt safely reached the bottom, then followed him down. At the base of the well a low, dug out passage led to another, larger vaulted one. Here, and in the earthen passage, the illumination came from above. In the hall beyond, the light was more diffuse, more golden. Spock studied the light. It was not as though the passage were dimly lit; rather, it seemed as though only a portion of the full spectrum was registering on his eyes.

"I take it that passage is the one Dr. Durant uncovered," he said, indicating the far hallway.

"Yes. It leads to a chamber not far beyond. A wall closed off the opening. Dr. Durant removed it before he sealed the dome."

"And the illumination?"

"Part of the alloy itself."

"Indeed."

Spock stepped through the first passage into the second. He cupped one hand against a wall. The radiance increased beneath it. Shards of the alloy sparkled brightly on the ground near where the tunnels met.

"The energy comes directly from the walls and floors themselves, S'Halt said, "in more than visible light."

Spock pulled back his hand and let the light play off the flat of his open palm.

"In more, at least, than is visible to us," Spock said.

"Yes. In any case, the unseen spectrum is not harmful."

S'Halt continued past Spock, down the hall. Spock held back a moment longer. He spread his hand and watched the patterns made by the light as it seeped around his fingers. He had seen this glow before -- in the center rod of the transfer mechanism, and in Durant's mind.

* * *

Although the passageway more or less accommodated humanoid scale, the chamber it led to was obviously built to serve beings of different proportions. There were no walls per se; rather, the ceilings and floor curved to meet at an edge which formed an ellipse. Across its greatest length, the room was ten meters wide, and across its lesser, five. Only at the center could S'Halt and Spock stand, and then only if they crouched.

Inscribed across the inverted bowl of ceiling walls were rows of the same nestled circles and semicircles that were on the outside of the apparatus that had been found there. In the center of the chamber was a column that rose half-way to the ceiling. Into the flat surface of the top was carved a smooth, half-egg shaped depression. Along the base of the column spiraled more of the crescent marks. S'Halt pointed to the symbols and began to read:

"To the Keepers of the Holy, to the Guardians of Truth -- Life Eternal. To the Ancient and the Wise -- Life Everlasting. Rivers of Knowledge, Never Ending, Always Flowing."

S'Halt hunched down lower so that he was almost kneeling. He waved his hand at the shapes on the wall.

"These chronicle the actual occurrences of transference. As close as we ran translate, the ceremony occurred every twenty rears at the 'Time of Growth.' What we've just learned about the affects of perihelion would fit in here. At that time, a young person was chosen from the general population to be the new vessel of accumulated memory. The previous host was ritualistically killed. After several centuries or millennia, the store of knowledge and experience embodied in one person must have been amazing.

"There were other chambers like this and apparently many 'Ancients'. We have little clue as who these people were. Perhaps they were even an advanced race that came here to use the native population to extend their own lives. We have no evidence of that, however."

Spock ran a finger over the symbols by his head. He could feel the crisp incision of each shape. The chamber was hundreds of thousands, millions of years old, yet it was as if it had been vacated yesterday. The beings that produced it must have been remarkable.

"You say there were more chambers, yet this is the only one that has been found. How can you be sure there are no more in existence?"

"This is the last; it was never completed." S'Halt pointed to a gap in the rows of writing. "Only one chamber was used at a time, and each ceremony was recorded. When all the surfaces were covered with writing, the chamber was closed and another one built. A new transfer device was constructed and the old one sealed in the finished chamber. The history here begins by locating the old chambers. Nothing remains of those sites, not even rubble; just organic dust to indicate something was once there."

Spock lowered himself to one knee and looked around the room. It felt like being in a womb, or an egg. Undoubtedly that was the intended effect. He thought of S'Halt's theory of the origin of these beings and the tensions that must have existed here so long ago. Did an alien race subjugate and use the native population? Did the original inhabitants find out and revolt? Or was it, as S'Halt had also suggested, that they wanted to become gods themselves?

Suddenly Spock straightened. A warning registered at the outer limits of his perception. A change in the ambient energy field. A surge, a flux. Something.

"The masks!"

Simultaneously, they ripped open the packages and watched as the contents silently disintegrated into a fine white powder. Irradiation, thought Spock, just the precise exposure to cause the molecules to break down when exposed to air. It was an interesting process, and the mathematics required were something he would naturally have found fascinating. Now he flung the useless container away and ran for the ladder. Their exit would be blocked by a sealed airlock. He was sure of it, but he raced upward anyway.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Larry Durant lay on the bed; at least what had been Larry Durant. It was impossible for anyone to come out of a cryogenic suspension, yet the director had done so. When he was finally restrained and dragged back to bed, the director had collapsed. Durant's encephalographic readings were now flat-line, although the structure of his brain remained unimpaired. By interplanetary law, his body would be kept alive until released by his next of kin.

McCoy made a final adjustment to the life support system and stepped back. He swore silently at the waste of life and his own inability to prevent it. Then he left the room. The first analysis of the insects was coming in, and he had not yet roused Christine. She'd raise hell at not being awakened sooner, but McCoy knew she needed sleep, and there was nothing more she could have done for Durant.

As McCoy walked down the hall he wondered what was keeping Spock. They needed his help more than ever now.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The open control panel spread before him, beautiful in its intricacy -- beautiful and dead. Overhead, opaque blotches already mottled the transparent dome. With the force field gone, there was nothing to repel the acid. It would slowly etch into the slick surface until the entire dome was darkened.

Spock turned to S'Halt. "The lock is frozen shut," he said. "We have no power and no communication."

S'Halt nodded slowly. He looked up, then back to Spock. "I am sorry. You should not have been caught with me."

"The fault is not yours, and though I am curious as to why you are a particular target, that discussion will have to wait."

Spock walked over to one of the roped off pits and peered down. "Where do these wells lead?" he asked.

"To other passages. There are a maze of underground tunnels here. All of them are blocked with rubble. There is no way to get through."

"What about the machinery used to excavate the site?"

"Everything was removed when the area was sealed off."

Spock shifted his position so that he could see more clearly. The only light entering the dome now came from outside, and that was quickly fading. Spock crouched lower. A faint glow seemed to rise from the open pit.

"Are all the passages made of the same alloy as the one we were just in?" he asked.

"Yes, but I don't..."

Spock removed part of the guardrail. "The material radiates its own energy. Particles of it introduced to the control circuits should produce a low level reaction to the board."

"Enough to activate the door?"

"No, but enough to cause a disturbance and set off all alarm."

"An alarm will have already sounded. The system is constantly monitored."

"Unlikely. Whoever engineered this sabotage undoubtedly took that into consideration. Power was completely frozen. It is as if this area does not exist."

Spock started down the ladder. S'Halt bent on one knee and leaned forward. He took hold of Spock's shoulder.

"It doesn't matter," S'Halt said. "It's too late. Whatever is in the air is in us already."

"Perhaps."

The Vulcan's muscles grew rigid under S'Halt's grip, and he let go. Spock continued down. After a moment, S'Halt followed.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Wu was next, then Ginter. The cryogenic suspension was deepened, and the eight remaining patients lay quiet, hovering at the brink of death.

Dr. McCoy watched the complex molecular structure rotate slowly in three dimension.

"That's it," he said to Christine who sat beside him. "Whatever that is."

She studied the interlocking chains. Amino acid based, but very complicated. "What about an antibody?"

"I've programmed a search for the most obvious breakdowns first, but I suspect it won't be that easy." McCoy glared at the holographic projection as though it were personally responsible for their problems.

"There's no need for the two of us to stay," Dr. Chapel said. "I'll monitor the simulations."

McCoy nodded. "I'll be in the infirmary. Anything new will be fed directly into your terminal."

She watched him leave and continued to look at the door after it closed. McCoy would check each patient individually. He didn't like machines and always trusted his hands and healer's instincts more. She knew there was still much for her to learn from him.

Dr. Chapel turned back to the computer and the tedious task that lay ahead.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Spock stood before the control panel, making the last of his adjustments. He had burned his left hand on the damp ground and now favored it as he worked. S'Halt was behind him, waiting silently in the growing darkness, unable to help. Every so often the Romulan looked up and watched as the areas of opacity spread to cover more and more of the dome.

Spock stopped working as if he had finished. Then he started again. It was getting darker and almost impossible to see. S'Halt watched Spock for a long time. Finally, he spoke.

"On Romulus, when the Small One approaches, the polar caps melt and flood the low lying areas between the great land masses. Often men are trapped on small knolls with icy water rising all around -- traders eager to make a last sale before the storms of High Daem halt trade for many months, soldiers on a final show of strength. All waiting for the rescue they know won't come. All waiting for the death they know will."

A shard of glowing alloy slipped from Spock's injured hand. He watched it come to rest beyond his reach.

"Many are prepared for such an ending," continued S'Halt. "They have pledged their spirit to the four winged tmbrea that soar in high valleys. At the point when the water chokes the last breath from them, their souls fly free, forever embodied in the great birds."

Spock turned sharply. "And you, S'Halt, will you also soar from here when you are driven mad?" He stopped suddenly, startled by his words and tone.

It had started. The grotesque, encroaching vines of madness he had seen in Durant's mind were now growing in him also. He shook his head slowly. "Your pardon," he said. "I meant no disrespect."

"None was taken. I meant only..." S'Halt paused and motioned to the control panel. "There comes a time when one must accept what will be. You can do no more. We must both wait for what will come."

Spock looked at S'Halt, then at the remaining golden slivers in his hand. It was true. He had done all he could. It was better to rest now and conserve his strength. Much work still lay ahead of him after they got out. Spock turned his hand and tiny pieces of glittering chips cascaded to the floor, a brief shower of light in the enclosing darkness.

S'Halt watched the last fragments settle in a pool at Spock's feet. "My chosen name is not that of the tmbrea," he said, "but the el'korva, a two headed sea serpent that legend says can see both the past and the future."

"Doesn't Romulan legend also say," asked Spock, "that while the el'korva may see what has gone before, and what will yet be, that it is often blind to the present?"

S'Halt smiled slightly and inclined his head. "You have studied us well."

"It is also said that Romulans and Vulcans are brothers, born of the same seed, planted by a common ancestor. It is a subject that interests me."

"It is an area of interest to me also. Let us hope that we both have time to pursue it."

* * *

A warning light flickered across the grid and came to rest above the spot designating Dome 11. The young Federation technician stared at it. It was hardly there and then it was gone. Maybe it wasn't really there; maybe it was a ghost, an echo. Dome 11 was where the director and the Starfleet officer were. The technician called up a complete readout on the dome. That was odd. There were no figures for it at all. His hand reached out for the emergency alert key. He never made it. An aura of immobilizing pain engulfed him. It closed in on him, striking first his skin and then inward to crush his vital organs. He tried to scream and couldn't even move his lips.

A tall, husky figure stepped forward from the back of the room. He walked past the dead technician to the console. Once more the warning blinked over Dome 11. The figure watched the faint light and smiled. It was the Vulcan's doing; he was sure of it. He would have expected no less.

He eliminated all reference to Dome 11 and left.

* * *

It was dark now, completely dark except for the pits whose gaping mouths glowed faintly with an internal light, as though they were entrances to the underworld itself.

Spock sat cross-legged near S'Halt, not far from the airlock. He had reviewed in his mind all information that might lead to finding a cure, an answer to what it was in the atmosphere that caused madness. He had gone over each chart, each diagram, and tried to recall any other account that might be useful. The task was becoming increasingly difficult. The irrational compulsions were growing in him. He could feel the madness slithering in his mind, filling each secret place, commanding his will. He wanted to run, to scream, but he didn't. He closed his eyes and saw only red. He opened them and a red haze remained.

S'Halt had not spoken since they had sat down together. In the dark, Spock could not see the Romulan's features, but he knew that S'Halt was waging a battle similar to his own. That the Romulan had not yet succumbed was something Spock found surprising. It indicated how little he really knew of Romulans in general, and this person in particular.

Spock looked toward the airlock, squinting as if trying to see beyond it. By now McCoy and Chapel should have isolated the responsible agent. He should be there, working with them, now while he was still able. His calculations had been correct. Why had no one responded to his distress signal?

Spock absently flexed his injured hand. The burns were annoying but of little consequence. He did not wish to divert any energy toward their healing.

"How is your hand?"

Spock stopped. He doubted that S'Halt had seen his movement; perhaps he had heard it.

"The injury is slight. In any case, it does not matter."

"No, I suppose not."

There was silence again, except for the sound of two separate breaths. Then S'Halt spoke.

"You said you wanted to know why I was a particular target. Is that still your desire?"

Spock laid his burned hand more comfortably to his side. Yes, he wanted to know. More than that, he was curious as to why S'Halt wanted to tell him. But perhaps that was not so surprising. No being lives in isolation, and he suspected the two of them were really not so different. Whatever cultural barriers existed between them were rapidly being dissolved by their shared predicament.

"I would like to know."

"Good. I feel it is important you understand."

S'Halt shifted his position as if trying to get more comfortable with what he was going to explain. When he spoke, his voice was tight.

"Romulans are warriors. It is difficult, to change in one hundred years of truce the traditions and institutions of thousands of years of war.

"My father was one of the original movers behind establishing the cease fire that ended the Federation Wars. As head of one of the ruling Houses, he was able to gather influential support. Very few of those original advocates of peace are still alive. The recent talks are a desperate attempt of those who remain to establish a lasting peace."

Spock waited for S'Halt to continue. "Are there none of the present generation who want peace?" he asked.

"Yes, but they are mostly merchants, scholars, and others who would profit from increased trade and exchange. They command little power in the Council. The heads of the controlling Houses are much more likely to listen to the Imperial High Commanders who would like nothing more than to return to the days of conquest and the glory of the old ways."

S'Halt moved. Spock heard him get up, take a few steps forward and stop.

"My father had thirty-four sons, and it was I whom he chose as his successor. It is said that my father and I are very much alike; that our appearance and mannerisms are the same. He chose me, and everyone expected me to follow. I did not wish my life's path chosen for me, and so I chose another." He turned to Spock. "Can you understand that?"

"Yes, I understand it well."

S'Halt nodded and retraced his steps. "I rose quickly in the Imperial Fleet. With the truce denying us new conquests, there was no tribute to support the great army. Heavier and heavier taxes were demanded of the colonies. Some revolted. They paid for their brief freedom with their lives. Brothers killing brothers. And I was greatest among them. Until Ettrais. It was then that I saw the blood, and it was on my hands. I was awash with it. That day I started on a new path, the one my father had prepared.

"Since then I have argued for peace before the council and have become a symbol for those striving for a new way."

S'Halt stopped pacing and looked up. He balled his hands into fists and pressed them against his thighs.

"None of that matters now. We're both dead men."

Spock got up and walked towards S'Halt. "A cure will be found," he said. "There is time."

S'Halt whirled around. "No! Don't you see? They killed my father, and now they've killed me! Even in this, I am like my father!"

Spock took hold of S'Halt's arms. "S'Halt," he said slowly and deliberately "Listen to me. We are not dead. We are not!"

S'Halt stared up at the dome. His breath came in ragged gasps. "Everything's gone. All the visions, the dreams. Everything. Wasted. Blown away." S'Halt jerked his head to one side. The corners of his mouth twitched uncontrollably. "Yes, blown away -- like banners. Everything -- gold."

S'Halt snapped his arms out, breaking Spock's grip. He ran for the airlock.

"Have to get out. Have to! Gold." He tore at the lock, ripping his hands. "Don't you see? Everything's gold!"

Spock grabbed S'Halt and pulled him away. The Romulan swung at him with frenzied strength.

"No! Now! I must go!"

Spock closed his hand on the juncture of S'Halt's neck and shoulder, and the Romulan slumped to the floor. Spock sank down beside him. He straightened S'Halt's limbs and laid a hand across the Romulan's forehead. He could feel S'Halt's mind clamoring in wild disharmony. At least the director still lived.

Spock removed his hand and leaned back against the sloping walls of the dome. He closed his eyes. The red haze was brighter now and more compelling. Soon he would be like S'Halt. Spock banished the thought and methodically slowed his breathing, placing himself into a self-imposed trance.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Spock! Spock!"

He thought it was S'Halt. He flung out his hand toward where he had laid the Romulan, but S'Halt was not there.

"Spock, can you get up?"

The voice sounded garbled and distant. He couldn't place it.

"Spock!"

Now he knew. McCoy. "Yes, I can get up."

McCoy held out a fully contained environmental suit. Spock shrugged into it, but when his fingers came to the fastenings, his injured hand would not respond. He fumbled with the closures until McCoy brushed his hand away.

"Stop it! Just stand still!" McCoy sealed the last snap. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

He took Spock's arm, but Spock needed no assistance. They followed the stretcher that carried S'Halt out.

* * *

"Let me see that hand," ordered McCoy.

Spock sat at the edge of one of two infirmary beds in the small cubicle. On the other bed lay S'Halt, still unconscious. Dr. Chapel was examining him. Every once in a while she looked up from her instruments and glanced at Spock. Both doctors wore the standard isolation suits.

Spock held out his hand.

"We lost Durant and two others," McCoy said as he turned Spock's hand over. "Physically they're alive, but their minds are gone -- dead."

McCoy reached for a spray vial from the instrument tray. "I'm going to put you and S'Halt in suspension, Spock. Now, while it might still do some good."

"Have you isolated the causative agent?"

"Yes, but..."

"Then you will need my help in unlocking its structure."

McCoy put down the vial and looked directly at Spock. "I can't allow it. Whatever this thing is, it's growing in you also. The only hope we have of arresting its development is cryogenic suspension. It's the only thing that will buy us time."

"Were not Durant and the others in such a suspension, and did they not break out of it?"

"Yes, but maybe we were too late. Maybe now, before you experience any symptoms..."

"I am already experiencing symptoms. I suffer front sensory distortions, and I am finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate. If I am to be useful, it must be now. It is my mind, my life, that is at stake. I can control."

Once before Spock had been infected by an unknown agent, and he had remained true to his promise of control. They had needed him then, and they needed his now. Still... "I don't know. I don't even know how you'd work. You can't leave isolation. We still don't know how this is spread."

Dr. Chapel came over. She touched McCoy on the shoulder but looked at Spock as she spoke. "There's a small dome off this one. It's empty. A medical terminal could be set up there."

McCoy looked from one to the other and then directly at Spock. "Are you sure you know what you're doing? Can you be sure?"

"I am sure."

"All right. I'll have it set up. But if you experience any increase in symptoms, any time you feel you might lose control, you are to tell one of us immediately. Is that understood?"

"Yes."

"All right," McCoy said again. He looked over at Dr. Chapel.

"I'll finish the dressing, Leonard," she said.

McCoy stood still a moment longer. Then he nodded and left.

Dr. Chapel picked up the vial Dr. McCoy had put down. She took Spock's hand and coated both sides with the cooling antiseptic, then covered the area with a coating of pseudoskin.

"How did you know to come for us?" he asked.

"We were concerned when you didn't return. Leonard went to the dome. When he couldn't get in and the intercom didn't work, he went to the main control room. The technician was dead."

Spock drew his lips into a tight line. "I see. Our actions were anticipated. We transmitted a distress signal," he elaborated. "How was the technician killed?"

Dr. Chapel finished the dressing. "Some sort of extremely heavy stun. It wasn't a phaser."

"A Romulan weapon?"

She turned to replace the vial. "I don't know."

"Federation?"

The vial slipped from her hand. "I don't know!"

She bent to pick it up. Spock touched her shoulder and she rose to face him. He took both her hands in his and was silent a minute. "I can't read your emotions," he said. "Your gloves are a barrier."

She laughed softly, touched by his concern. She freed one of her hands and ran a gloved finger across his brow. "I'm worried, she said. "And angry. And I wish we'd never come here. I'm all right." She dropped her hand. "What can I do for you?"

"Stay with me, if you can," he said. "Work with me."

Christine closed her eyes. Her lids never felt so hot. She opened her eyes and looked at Spock. "I'll stay with you."

* * *

Spock stared at the molecular schematic on the screen in front of him and shook his head, as if simply to clear his vision.

Christine watched him over her own terminal, which had been set up nearby. She said nothing. She could ask him if he was all right only so many times. If he were in real trouble, he would say something. Or she would know. She returned her attention to the simulated chemical breakdown she had programmed and began to interpret the results.

Spock merged Christine's results with his own. The process was exacting. Normally he would have found beauty in the precise and logical progression of atomic uncoupling and restructuring, but now he found the task tortuous. No longer was his mind able to race along the paths of insight and discovery. Each new iota of information was won with a massive effort of will.

He had seen the compulsive madness in Durant's mind, had experienced it with the now mindless director. He knew what to expect and he knew how very close to that end he now was. Spock considered allowing McCoy to have his way. Maybe the doctor was right; maybe he should be in suspension. Spock pushed aside the idea. He was close to an answer. He could almost see it, somewhere at the edge of his vision, a solution so simple and obvious that once discovered, they would all wonder why they had not known it immediately.

Spock keyed in another sequence and was rewarded this time by some success. One third of the molecular chain unraveled and sheered off from the rest, falling like ripe flesh from the core of a nimbad fruit. Spock looked up and saw Christine glance momentarily at him and nod. He was pleased she was here and glad that he had asked her to stay with him. Technically, there was no reason for her presence. Their terminals would communicate as easily over kilometers as they could over meters. But he was glad she was here. He took comfort in her closeness, a very Vulcan sense of completion, of things in their place, as they should be. And he took a very non-Vulcan pleasure in that satisfaction. If that was a contradiction, then so be it.

The intercom by Christine flashed an incoming call. "Christine," said McCoy, "we have an emergency. It's S'Halt."

Christine glanced quickly at Spock who nodded, signifying that he had heard. "I'm on my way," she said.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The fine silver webbing of the cryogenic wrap stretched taut over S'Halt's thrashing body. On either side of the bed leaned McCoy and J'Mir, trying to contain his frantic movements.

S'Halt was screaming the same phrase over and over in Romulan. The only word Christine recognized was "out", but she didn't need to understand anything else. The pattern was the same as she had seen in Wu and Ginter. He would fight to get outside until he was subdued, and then he would collapse. After that, their very precise and uncompromising instruments would show a mind that was no more.

J'Mir was speaking to S'Halt in Romulan, repeating the same words again and again, saying them slowly as a counterpoint to his hysteria. If she was having any success, Christine couldn't see it.

Christine went to the side where McCoy was. "Dyphenylhydrate?" she asked, reaching for a hypo from the instrument tray.

McCoy nodded. "One cc."

The dosage was low. Even in a less agitated patient, at that level the sedative would have little effect. But Christine knew what McCoy was doing; they couldn't afford to shock S'Halt into a stupor from which he night never recover

She administered the drug and watched the diagnostic panel over S'Halt's head. There was no drop in the surging metabolic indicators. None at all.

"One more cc," McCoy ordered.

Again nothing.

McCoy studied the panel. "Damn," he swore silently. He turned to Christine. "Take over here," he said as he moved so that she could position her hands before he released his.

Christine placed her hands on S'Halt's shoulder and upper arm and leaned inward, pinning his to the bed. Even through her gloves, Christine could feel the stinging bite of cold as the silver filaments drew heat from her body. Lorica lace, they used to call the web in medical school, naming it for that frost-bound planet where an entire civilization had been found, frozen in place, as if the cold had fallen suddenly, catching them unaware.

Not only was the web designed to reduce body temperature, but the filaments were woven so that they conformed to the patient's body, forming an immobilizing cocoon from which escape should have been impossible. What was happening to S'Halt simply should not have happened.

"Chemical sedatives aren't working," McCoy said as he tightened restraining straps around S'Halt. "We're going to need a more direct approach."

"A delta wave amplifier?" asked Christine.

McCoy secured the fastening across S'Halt's chest and Christine let go.

"Yes," he said. "Hold his head while I attach the leads."

Christine held S'Halt's head still and looked at J'Mir. The Romulan had claimed to have some medical knowledge and training. Christine wondered if she understood the danger of McCoy's proposed procedure.

J'Mir caught Christine's glance. "Isn't he already throwing off too many delta waves?"

So much for wondering, thought Christine. "Yes, but they are the ones most easily controlled. If we can make them dominate, then maybe we can bring everything down."

McCoy slipped an electrode onto S'Halt's left temple. Christine moved her hand so that he would have room to work. McCoy attached the right lead and activated the amplifier.

S'Halt thrashed his head from side to side. The indicators over his head fluctuated wildly. McCoy adjusted the delta enhancer, keeping his eyes fixed all the time on the diagnostic panel. Finally the scales came to rest at acceptable levels, and McCoy stepped back, expelling a small sigh of relief as he did so.

Suddenly all the medical indicators plummeted. An alarm sounded, signaling an absolute flat-line brain wave reading. It happened so abruptly that for a moment no one did anything. That uncertainty lasted only a fraction of a second as McCoy and Chapel rushed to set up the life support unit which would now take over S'Halt's autonomic functions.

J'Mir said nothing. She stepped back and allowed the physicians to complete their tasks. Every so often she glanced at the diagnostic board where life levels now read zero.

The alarm ceased. Air once more flowed in and out of S'Halt's lungs. His six-chambered heart once more beat in acceptable rhythm. The chemical balance of his copper-based blood assumed its correct level, and the indicators over the director's bed moved to show a healthy Romulan at rest. The brain wave pattern still read flat.

The decision to engage the unit was not so much choice as it was instinct. Now that it was operating, McCoy and Chapel stepped back and, for the first thee, looked at J'Mir. She had not stopped them, but neither had they asked her permission. There was, of course, no time for lengthy discussion. If the life support unit was to function, it had to be engaged quickly.

No one said or did anything. Then J'Mir crossed her arms in front of her, touched her hands to the opposite shoulders and bowed her head. "In life his deeds were many," she said. "The recalling will be long."

J'Mir dropped her hands and raised her head. "You could have done no more," she said, addressing them both. "No shame shall follow you because of his death."

J'Mir touched the now still form on the bed. "I'd like to stay a while. There are certain rituals I'd like to perform. After that you may discontinue life support."

McCoy nodded. "Of course. Take all the time you need."

He removed the electrodes and covered S'Halt to the neck with a fresh sheet.

Christine walked over to J'Mir. She remembered her initial negative reaction to the Romulan. That didn't seem to matter now. "Is there anything we can do for you?"

J'Mir turned from watching McCoy's actions. "Yes," she said. "Is there any reason anyone else should know what has happened? I do not wish S'Halt's murderer to know that he has succeeded."

McCoy came to stand by Christine. "No, there's no reason why anyone has to know."

J'Mir touched her hands briefly to her shoulders. "Thank you."

As McCoy and Chapel left the room, Christine paused. "Let us know if you need anything more," she said softly.

J'Mir nodded but said nothing. Whatever rites there were, J'Mir had already begun them.

Once outside the room, Christine slumped against one of the dividing units. "Why S'Halt?" she asked McCoy. "Why him? He was affected for a shorter period than the others."

McCoy shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe it was just him. Maybe he couldn't fight it as well."

Christine stared ahead of her, past McCoy toward the complex. "It's not right," she said through clenched teeth. "It's such a waste. Such a damned, ugly waste." She pressed her lips together. She was trying to find justice and morality in a situation that plainly had none. Such a futile endeavor was an indulgence she could not afford. Christine pushed herself away from the wall. "I've got to get back. The last sequence Spock keyed was partially successful."

McCoy nodded. "I've been monitoring your progress. There are a few things I need to take care of here first, then I'll relieve you and you can take over the ward."

"Okay."

Not for the first time that day, Christine wished for the resources of the Enterprise with her full complement of laboratories, doctors, medical technicians and assistants. The two of them, three counting Spock, were trying to do the work of five times their number. She didn't know how they could hope to succeed. Christine squeezed her eyes tight and took a breath. Such thoughts, also, were a luxury she could not afford now.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Christine walked back to where she and Spock were working. Spock was standing in the middle of the partitioned space with his back to her.

"We've lost S'Halt," she said without preamble. "His mind went -- just like the others."

Spock turned slowly and smiled at her, a grinning aberration that changed his features into something she could hardly recognize. Christine stopped where she was. Warning klaxons started going off in her head. Her mouth went dry and she felt sweat trickle down her side. Stop it, she thought fiercely to herself. Don't panic. Not now.

Christine walked slowly past Spock to the desk intercom. "You shouldn't be up," she said softly, in what she hoped were soothing tones. "You should be resting."

Spock reached out and caught her playfully at the waist. "Look!" he said, spinning her around and pointing overhead. "See that insect -- the one with the silver wings? Watch how it goes only to the red flowers." He locked his hands across her midsection and drew her closer. "See, Chris, it only goes to the ones with the ruby-red centers."

Christine reached for his hands and tried to pry them open. They were closed like a vice. "Please," she pleaded. "You shouldn't be up."

He laughed. "I'm not tired. I'm just watching. Watching the flowers and the insects."

He laughed as though nothing ever had been so delightful.

"Watch them, Chris," he said, pulling her closer. "The red ones, see how they sway -- back and forth, back and forth."

His voice took on a hypnotic cadence as he began to shift slowly from one foot to the other. With each step, more of his body flowed into rhythm with the undulating flowers.

Christine stiffened, trying to counterbalance Spock's movement. She pushed hard against his hands. They refused to open.

"The leaves of the sentinel trees on Regee Prime are red," he said. "In the wind they sing."

"Let me go!" Christine shouted. Spock's hands loosened momentarily. She broke free and ran for the intercom. Spock caught her again and pulled her back to face him. With one hand he pressed her cheek to his chest.

"I'll take you to Regee Prime," he said gently, as he caressed her hair with his cheek. "On the Night of the Four Moons, we'll listen to the trees."

Christine strained against him, shoving her fists into his midriff. He only held her closer.

She closed her eyes and tried to calm her thoughts. She could feel his pulse racing through his hands. She could hear the faint beat of his heart. It was all much, much too fast. She had to get to the intercom. Or the door. She had to get help.

Christine pounded her balled hands against his chest, his arms. She reached blindly for his face. She struck out with her feet against his shins. He only laughed and swayed and held her in an ever closer embrace.

"Look at the flowers," he kept saying. "See how beautiful they are."

Christine ceased her ineffectual blows. She slumped against him and allowed herself to be pulled from side to side.

"Dear God, no," she said quietly. It was a prayer, a desperate appeal to something she thought she'd forsaken long ago "Please, God, no."

But Spock didn't stop. His laughter slammed against the floor and ceiling and reverberated back in a mocking multitude of sound. Suddenly he dropped his hands.

"Watching isn't enough," he said. "I have to go outside." Spock started for the airlock.

Christine ran after him. "Spock, no! You can't go out there! You'll be killed!"

She grabbed his arm and Spock turned. When he did, Christine saw in his eyes a fierce determination that was not his own. For a moment, he faltered and the alien presence cleared. Christine caught him and held him by the shoulders. He shook his head. "Christine, I..."

Then the unnatural presence claimed him again. He straightened and shoved her aside. "Leave me alone! I must go out!"

Christine knew she was no match for him. She also knew she couldn't let him go. She ran in front of him and placed her body between him and the airlock. If he was going to go through the lock, he would have to go through her first. She slapped open the door intercom.

"Emergency! Airlock 4! Emergency!"

Spock did not hesitate. With one great backhand sweep, he brushed her aside and walked through the lock.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The medical technology did not exist to repair what had become of him. There were no surgical techniques advanced enough to undo the massive damage wreaked by the corrosive rain. No amount of tissue regeneration could possibly restore function to limbs so utterly destroyed.

Yet Spock lived. And brain wave monitors indicated that his mind was whole.

McCoy supervised Spock's transfer to the submersion bath of oxygenated fluorochemical. The medium would supply nutrients and medication. Oxygen would be absorbed directly from the fluid. Spock's body would live, suspended in an inorganic liquid, encased in a manufactured womb from which there could be no birth.

The doctor ran his fingers down the side of the tank, pausing at metabolic indicators and checking the chemical infusions. Then he did it again. It was the only thing he could do.

The medication McCoy had programmed would keep Spock just below the threshold of consciousness. It was a state that could not be maintained indefinitely, but the alternative was a consciousness deprived of any sensory input other than pain. That pain would eventually lead to mindlessness.

It was an irony of the most macabre that Spock should find the cure that would save the others and yet himself be condemned to another form of mental destruction.

The solution to the madness of Alpha Pleiades was simple. The offending organism was merely an aspect of a symbiotic relationship between the insects and the flowers. At perihelion, magnetic surges triggered release of organic particles from the flowers into the air. These particles took up residence in the insect's brain, growing until the insect was driven back to the plant. Thus drawn, the insects burrowed into the flower and drank its nectar. The nectar provided food for the insects, and the insects pollinated the plants. The nectar contained something else -- a substance to break down the original controlling organism. The process repeated itself throughout the growing season. As long as the cycle was completed, it was harmless. Interrupted before completion, the unfulfilled compulsion led to mindlessness.

Spock had found the answer just before his control snapped. They found it neatly cataloged in his terminal.

McCoy stepped back and looked at the transparent tank. The liquid in it was milky white. In the artificially augmented light of early evening, it had an almost opalescent quality. The being that floated in the fluid had been his friend.

The doctor thought back over the years he had known Spock. He thought of their petty bickering and their growing friendship. He thought of how Spock had changed over those years, especially after Athetis.

McCoy was, perhaps, the only person aboard the Enterprise who had had the temerity to question Spock about what had happened on Athetis. Jim Kirk might have asked, but he was the captain, and it was his right to question. McCoy had no such right, but that didn't stop him. He had received no answer, but then McCoy had not really expected one. He had asked because he wanted Spock to know of his concern. That was the first time Spock had addressed McCoy by his given name. "Thank you, Leonard," he had said simply.

Others called him Leonard. Or Len. Most of his colleagues and assorted relatives called him that. Probably the only ones who didn't were Jim Kirk, who had attached his own moniker, and Spock, whose Vulcan reserve had confined him to the formal mode of address. Until that day.

McCoy took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He was being maudlin, and such sentiments did not honor his friend.

McCoy turned away from the tank and walked to the door. There he arced his hand in a slow, downward curve over the light control panel, and the room dimmed. The level of illumination did not matter to Spock; he could no longer perceive light. McCoy dimmed them anyway. He dimmed them in tribute to a proud and brilliant scientist. He dimmed them in honor of his friend.

* * *

Christine groped up through layers of unconsciousness, shedding the numbness as a snake sheds its skin.

She opened her eyes and then quickly shut them against the glaring light. She turned her head and cautiously squinted between closed lids. McCoy was standing beside her bed.

"What happened'" she asked The words thundered in her head. "I feel like I've been sat on by a Luranian sprat."

"You have a concussion."

Christine touched her fingertips gingerly to her head and looked at McCoy. She had never seen Leonard look so old and so worn. The lines on his face had never seemed so deeply etched, nor his eyes so pale. She tried to remember what had happened. Suddenly she did. She pushed up with one hand against the bed. "Where's Spock?!"

McCoy took her shoulders and eased her flat.

She grabbed his arms. "Where's Spock?!" she insisted.

"Lie still!" he commanded.

It was obvious McCoy wasn't going to answer until she complied. Christine let go of his arms and dropped her hands to the bed.

"He went out," McCoy said softly. He paused, then continued. "Spock found the cure. A substance in the nectar neutralizes the organisms. I've synthesized an antidote already."

"What about Spock?"

McCoy didn't answer.

"Leonard, please." She reached for his arm again. "Is he dead?"

McCoy shook his head slowly. "No. Spock's not dead."

Christine knew what the acid would do, even after only a few minutes. "Oh, gods." She struggled to get up.

McCoy tried to make her lie down again. She brusquely shrugged off his hands. He grabbed her and held her firmly.

"Damn it, Leonard!" she shouted. "Let me go! I have the right. If nothing else, I have the right because I'm a doctor!"

He held her tight. "If you're a doctor, then you know you can't make it four steps. You'll pass out before you reach the door!"

He was right. Her medical training told her he was right. The pounding in her head and twinned images in front of her eyes told her he was right. She relaxed and let herself be pushed gently back against the bed

"Then in an autochair," she said. "Or flat on my back. I don't care. I have to see him."

"I know." McCoy laid his hand on her shoulder. "In a chair. I'll be back in a minute. You relax until then."

Christine closed her eyes and tried to think of nothing -- not of what had been, or might have been, and especially not of what would be.

* * *

McCoy directed the chair carrying Christine past the small room where S'Halt lay and where J'Mir still held her vigil, to the next cubicle, where Spock was. He paused before activating the door and walked in front of the chair.

"Are you sure you want to see this?" he asked. "There's nothing you can do, and this will only make you feel worse."

Christine looked up. Her head pounded when she moved. "Yes, I'm sure."

McCoy finally nodded, then walked behind her again and steered the chair through the opening doors.

The light was dim, and for a fleeting second Christine hoped McCoy would leave it that way. But that would only delay the inevitable. He moved his hand in an ascending are on the control panel and the room shone with a cold brilliance

Christine knew what to expect, but she was not prepared for what she saw. What floated in the nutrient soup was not Spock; it was a grotesque parody of life, something that could not be alive. Christine felt her stomach heave. Damn it! she swore silently to herself. You're a doctor. Remember that! She looked at the medical indicators. The brain wave monitors shows a slow rise to consciousness. McCoy noticed it also.

"Damn," he said and went to make the proper adjustments.

"Don't, Leonard," she said softly.

"But, Chris..."

She looked away from the panel to McCoy. "He'd want to know. We can't keep him under forever."

McCoy hesitated, then dropped his hand. "No, we can't." He walked over to Christine, and both watched Spock's steady return to awareness displayed on the monitors.

The rise was gradual, and at first the readings were unremarkable -- low peaks and shallow valleys. Suddenly the pattern changed. Jagged spires interspersed with sharp dips slashed across the screen.

Christine's composure broke. Witnessing this visual display of Spock's agony was too much for her. She buried her head in her hands. "Leonard, please, take me out of here."

McCoy continued to watch the screen. He put his hand on Christine's shoulder. "Wait," he said. "The tracings are too controlled and deliberate. This isn't just a reaction to pain."

Christine looked up and saw what McCoy meant. Two spikes and a valley. Two highs and a low. It was a definite pattern, as if Spock were trying to communicate in the only way left to him.

It seemed forever that they watched the screen, trying to figure out what Spock was saying, wondering if it wasn't simply their imagination. Then, suddenly, McCoy slammed the back of one hand Into the palm of the other.

"Pike!" he cried. "Christopher Pike! He's saying yes just like Pike." He pounded his hands together again. "But to what?"

Christine kept watching the display. "To an identity transfer," she said softly, but without hesitation.

McCoy turned to stare at her. "What?"

"An identity transfer." Christine looked sideways at McCoy. "We talked about it last night. Spock said that a combined existence was preferable to none."

McCoy walked in front of Christine. "You can't be sure that's what he means."

"I'm sure."

"Are you? In this case, Doctor, you are hardly objective."

Christine straightened. She drew her shoulders back and looked directly at McCoy. "In this case, Doctor..." She slumped back, put her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. "No, of course I'm not objective, but I know." She opened her eyes and put her hand down. "And you know it too."

McCoy didn't move. "And if we're wrong?"

"We're not wrong. But if we are--" She leaned sideways and motioned around McCoy to the tank. "--is that better? Is that what Spock would want? To exist like that for a few more months or even worse, years? He'll go mad -- and he'll know he's going mad. We'll watch him and know there's nothing we can do! But we can do something now. S'Halt's body is whole, and you have the antidote for the plant organism. J'Mir knows how to operate the transfer mechanism." Abruptly, Christine fell back into the chair. The color drained from her face and sweat began to bead across her forehead. She reached up to wipe it away but didn't have the strength.

McCoy took one look at her before straightening and going over to the tank infusion control. He entered the necessary chemical balance to return Spock to unconsciousness, then came back to Christine.

"We'll talk about this," he said, "but not here. I want you lying down."

Christine closed her eyes in agreement because it hurt too much to argue or even nod. The image of Spock as he had looked last night when he had come searching for her began to form in her mind. She snapped her eyes open, using the glaring lights to wash away the image. None of that mattered now. All that mattered was that Spock have this chance at life, in whatever form, in whatever reality.

CHAPTER TWENTY

"And the sum of his years was five daem and three raar. He brought only honor to his House and glory to the Empire. His name shall be legend among his people and his memory revered in his father's home."

Normally the words would have been spoken out loud, but there was no assembly of friends and honorable enemies to hear them, so J'Mir spoke them only in her mind.

She sat in the traditional pose of a Recaller, with her legs crossed and drawn back beneath her chair. Her arms were bent into a right angle and pressed tightly against her body She held both hands straight out and turned upwards. The fingers of her right hand curved gently into a large, open cup symbol of the greater and masculine of the two Romulan suns. J'Mir's left hand was squeezed into a tight fist. It represented the smaller, and in Romulan mythology, feminine sun -- a captured rogue that orbited the primary every 11.5 Standard years, a period reckoned by Romulans as one daem.

She listed all of S'Halt's many important deeds, being careful to miss none. Tradition demanded this be done so that his spirit could assume its rightful place in the form he had chosen.

When she was finished, J'Mir uncrossed her legs and relaxed her arms. She got up and bent over S'Halt. One last ritual needed to be completed. She moistened the tips of her index and middle fingers and touched them to his closed eyelids. Then she withdrew her hand and blew gently across his eyes as the endless wind blows across the Rayar Pass. Thus she released S'Halt's spirit to the all-seeing el'korva where it would now reside. And then, because she owed him more than honor, she added her own blessing.

"May the light of the Small One guide you to a new day."

Tradition satisfied, J'Mir stepped back and watched the gentle rise and fall of S'Halt's chest. It was almost as though he slept and would soon awaken. J'Mir knew he would not.

It had been nearly one full daem since he had taken her after Ettrais. She shifted her gaze to the scar on S'Halt's face. He had seen his act as a rescue. He knew she did not have the protection of being a first born daughter. But J'Mir was sure she would have escaped her father regardless. She would have hidden in the rebiscus covered hills with her sisters and others who also saw the Small One as the symbol, not of chaos, as was commonly believed because of the violent weather changes its approach brought to Romulus, but rather as the bringer of a new order. J'Mir laughed a short, bitter laugh. She looked away from S'Halt. It had only been a dream. Without S'Halt she would have been dead a daem ago. He had taken her and allowed her an education. He had named her. She could expect no more.

J'Mir passed her fingers once more over S'Halt's closed eyes before leaving to give McCoy her consent to discontinue life support.

* * *

McCoy paced the short distance from the foot of Christine's bed to the opposite wall.

"We don't know anything about this device," he said. He held his left hand in a fist. With each objection he raised one finger. "We don't know who developed it or why. We don't know what effects such a transfer would have, either physically or psychologically. We have no idea how it works. We're not even sure that it does work!"

McCoy ran out of fingers. He dropped his hand and stopped pacing. He put both hands on the bed and leaned forward. "There are just too many unanswered questions!"

Christine lay still with her eyes closed. If life support to S'Halt were discontinued without their authorization, an alarm would sound. She kept waiting to hear it.

"Christine, listen to me!"

Her eyes snapped open. "I am listening to you. And I've heard the same thing three times. And none of it matters. You know as well as I do that we have no choice. This is Spock's only chance. You know it is!"

McCoy walked around to the side of the bed. "No, I don't know that. We may be able to keep Spock alive for years. Research is always going on. We keep finding ways to overcome obstacles we thought were insurmountable only yesterday. New ways of--"

"What new ways?" she cried. "And when!" Her head hurt badly, and she was sure she was going to be sick. "How much longer do you think Spock has? How many days or hours will it be before he's driven mad? Then all your wonderful research won't be worth a heap of dreg. Nothing will matter. Can't you see that?"

Christine closed her eyes again. She pressed the flat of her hands against her face and tried to breath evenly. McCoy stood silently watching her. When he spoke again his voice was low and carefully controlled.

"If we fail, we'll kill Spock," he said.

Christine dropped her hands and looked at McCoy. "He's already dead!"

"No, he s not. Not clinically, not legally."

"You can't believe that body we're keeping alive is Spock!"

"I believe that Commander Spock has suffered a major trauma that we are presently able to treat with only limited success."

She stared at him. She couldn't believe he meant what he was saying. "Why are you doing this?" she asked. "You're acting like..."

"I'm acting like a physician and Starfleet officer. Something that you are also."

His eyes were cold, as cold and sharp as the razor edge of fused beryllium. Christine refused to hide from them.

"No," she said, "I will not let you badger or humiliate me into changing my mind. I know what Spock wants. What's more, you know it too."

"Have you considered," he asked quietly, "why you are so sure you are right?"

"Yes. I've considered it."

"You know," he continued, "that if we are successful, that if by some miracle, everything works, the person who is created will not be Spock?"

"I know that."

McCoy leaned forward and held onto the edge of the bed. "The Spock we know will be dead. Do you know that, Christine?"

"Yes, I know that!" She turned aside and pressed her lips into a hard line. "Damn you, McCoy," she said softly. "Don't you think I know that?"

McCoy straightened. He put one hand gently on Christine's shoulder and she turned towards him.

"I agree with you," he said quietly. "It's what Spock wants, and it's what we'll have to try. J'Mir is still a problem."

Christine let out a long breath and reached for his hand. "I know, but the transfer is the only way. S'Halt can live too. I think that may be enough to make her agree."

McCoy nodded. He squeezed Christine's shoulder, then went to the intercom. Before he could complete his motion, the door opened to admit J'Mir.

"I was told you were here," she said. "You have my authorization to discontinue life support to S'Halt." She turned to leave.

"There's another possibility," said McCoy.

"S'Halt is dead. I do not wish to preserve his body." She stepped forward. Another few centimeters and the door would sense her presence and open.

"Wait," called Christine softly. "You don't understand. A transfer -- between S.Halt and Spock."

J'Mir stopped. She knew what had happened to Spock; she had been told when she came looking for them. Yet the idea of a transfer had not occurred to her. She wondered why. It was the obvious solution.

She turned slowly and studied the two humans. They needed her. Without her they would not know how to operate the device. Without her permission, they would not have S Halt's body. That realization infused her with a sense of power she had never felt before.

J'Mir looked from one to the other. Her gaze settled on Christine. Without S'Halt, J'Mir had no rights. She had no money or land. She had no status. Yet, if she agreed to cooperate, and they were successful, could she be assured of anything more? Would not this other woman also have a personal interest in the new person who was created?

J'Mir smiled slightly. She had the ability to bring into existence a new being. The power was hers and the payment would be hers. The life she had known and enjoyed as S'Halt's woman would continue.

"I agree," she said, her eyes still focused on Christine. "S'Halt shall live. Everything shall be as it was."

McCoy stepped forward. "You don't understand. Things will not be the same."

Christine's eyes didn't waver from J.Mir. "She understands, Leonard."

With that J'Mir nodded curtly and left the room.

* * *

McCoy had gone with J'Mir to prepare for the transfer. Only the two of them and Christine would know that the procedure had been performed. To anyone else it would simply seem as though S'Halt had recovered and Spock had died.

Christine was not with them. She had done all she could. She had argued and pleaded with McCoy for the transfer, and now she had agreed to pay J'Mir's price.

If by some miracle, as McCoy had said, they were successful, then Christine didn't know who the person they created would be. But she did know she would have no claim on him.

Christine smiled ruefully, remembering McCoy's confusion. There was no doubt in her mind that the contract that had passed between her and J'Mir was as real and as binding as any locked in codiform and sealed with retina scar verification. Yet McCoy was unaware that it even existed.

Christine tried to summon her anger at J'Mir. References to the Romulan's probable ancestry and sexual proclivities began to form in her mind, culling their references from a dozen civilizations and in as many languages. But Christine found she had no strength for them.

Spock would live. Someway, somehow. What happened from now on was beyond Christine's control. All she wanted to do was to sleep, to sink into comforting, numbing nothingness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"Christine, wake up!"

The words, if only, if only, kept tumbling in her dreams.

If only Spock had held out an hour longer.

If only he had made his discovery an hour earlier.

If only she had not left him alone.

If only...

"Christine, wake up!"

She heard the words, crying like seaskitters in a purple Aurion fog -- muffled and far away.

"Christine!"

She felt an arm shaking hers.

"Leave me alone," she said, pulling away.

"It's time."

The voice was McCoy's. She opened her eyes and turned towards it.

"I don't care. Leave me alone."

"It has to be now!" he said.

She turned away, on her side, and curved her back. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.

"Go away!" she said.

If McCoy said anything else, Christine didn't hear it

* * *

S'Halt lay naked and uncovered on the bed. In his open hand J'Mir had placed the odd egg-like device.

Next to the bed was the tank that contained Spock. McCoy kept watching it. The plaintive spikes were less frequent now. Erratic and aberrant brain waves dominated the pattern.

We've heard you, my friend, thought McCoy. It won't be long now. McCoy tried to project that thought, as though the he had suddenly acquired telepathic powers and Spock could, indeed, hear him.

J'Mir adjusted the mechanism and replaced it in S'Halt's hand. Then she stepped back. The golden glow emanating from the center rod grew brighter until it overflowed the perimeter of the device and spilled onto S'Halt's hand.

The glow was no longer a light; it was a living thing that slid up S'Halt's arm, moving faster and faster, until all of the Romulan's body was covered with its shimmering, dancing essence.

McCoy watched in fascination as licks of color spun from the inert body. He could no longer make out S'Halt's features. It was difficult to see anything because the light was so bright. McCoy and J'Mir edged back, shielding their eyes from the brilliance.

Suddenly a great tongue of cold fire exploded from S'Halt and arched in a bridge to where Spock was. The room was so bright now that they could see nothing at all. From the side of the room where Spock was came the sounds of thrashing, of liquid slapping violently against the sides of container.

"Stop it!" cried McCoy, but he didn't know to whom he said it, or even if he had said it aloud.

Then just as suddenly as it had come, the light retreated, pulling back into the center core. All that remained was a faint halo that completely encased S'Halt.

McCoy bounded forward. J'Mir caught his arm.

"Don't touch him," she said. "The process is not yet complete. There is still a period of integration."

McCoy stopped, staring at S Halt. The Romulan's chest rose and fell in easy rhythm. His face was flushed with healthy color, and under his lids, his eyes darted in REM sleep. The monitors over his bed indicated that life support had been discontinued. It was no longer necessary.

McCoy turned from S'Halt to the tank that held Spock. Oxygen no longer bubbled in the milky fluid. All indicators showed a flat, dead line.

The doctor looked back to S Halt, who now stirred gently. "Good lord, McCoy said softly, "what have we done?"

* * *

McCoy sat in a chair beside S Halt's bed. Against the wall, hidden by a screen, was the fluorocherical bath that contained Spock's body. Once the transfer process was complete and the device could be secreted away, McCoy would have Spock's body removed to a stasis unit. Until then, it remained in the room, a constant reminder of what had transpired.

McCoy watched the sleeping form on the bed. He would have to stop thinking of that person as S'Halt. No, he shook his head ruefully, he didn't know that. Maybe it was S'Halt. Maybe what had happened was that the remainder Spock's life energy had been transferred to S'Halt. Maybe the procedure was simply a catalyst, an infusion that would resurrect S'Halt, whole and complete.

What was "identity" anyway? Where did it reside? In what organ? In the brain? If so, in what part? McCoy shook his head again and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He was reconstructing arguments best left to philosophers and theologians, those who dedicated their lives to the search for a soul.

The doctor slid down in the chair and stretched his legs. He couldn't remember how long he had been here, or how long it had been since he had slept. J Mir had left right after the conclusion of the initial process, and he had stayed alone. He wished Christine were with him to share the vigil and be there when -- whoever -- awoke. Her reluctance to accompany him bothered McCoy. Soon he would have to confront her. But it wasn't something he wanted to consider now. He was too tired.

McCoy drifted into a fitful sleep. For the first time in a long while, he thought of the Enterprise. The ship floated in a dream in which he told Kirk that Spock was dead. The dream was a nightmare.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The pain was gone. In its place Spock felt a detached numbness.

He had been conscious for some time, but he had not opened his eyes. At first, it seemed that he could not, that the physical effort and concentration demanded by so simple an act was beyond his ability. But honesty demanded he face a greater truth; he did not wish to open them.

Spock lay still. He had been successful; he had communicated his desire, and he had been understood. The body he now occupied was not his own. He did not need visual verification to know that that was true.

Everything was subtly out of phase. The taste of his saliva was too sweet. The odors that surrounded him were of an infirmary, but there was a harsh, metallic edge that had not been there before, and his skin -- his skin felt cold, colder than he normally would have been able to tolerate easily. Now, though he was sure he was naked and without covering, he felt no discomfort.

Spock tried to move. It was like pushing through a dense layer of hydrofoam. He had to concentrate on contracting and releasing each muscle group. The effort was exhausting, and he stopped.

He remembered nothing of the transfer except for a brief flash of intense light, and now, his dawning awareness.

The sound of breathing told him that he was not alone in the room. The slow, even rhythm and occasional stirring indicated that the person was human and asleep. Spock decided it was most likely McCoy, though he could not be sure; he could no more trust his hearing than he could his other senses.

The stirring became more agitated, and Spock became concerned.

"Dr. McCoy?" he called in a voice that was not his own.

There was no answer.

With great deliberation, Spock turned toward the sound and opened his eyes. He had been right; the other person was McCoy, and it was no wonder the doctor moved so fitfully.

McCoy was hunched over sideways in the chair. He held one leg stretched out at an impossible angle and the other bent under him. One hand clutched the top of the chair and supported his head, which kept slipping.

The doctor was obviously in no danger, only uncomfortable, but McCoy's vulnerable position evoked in Spock a sensation he could not describe. Suddenly, Spock did not wish to be alone.

"Dr. McCoy," he called again.

No answer.

"Leonard," he said more softly. "Leonard, wake up."

McCoy shifted. He dropped his hand and snapped his head up. He shook his head once and stared at the man on the bed. The doctor didn't move. Then slowly, without shifting his eyes, McCoy pushed himself out of his chair and walked to the bed, stopping just shy of the edge, as though afraid to come closer.

"Spock?" he asked softly.

"Yes, Leonard, it is I."

McCoy dropped his head and closed his eyes. "Dear God," he whispered. He took a deep breath and raised his eyes. "How do you feel?"

"I am well, though moving is difficult and I am fatigued."

McCoy nodded. "J'Mir said there was a period of integration following the transfer. I don't think that process is complete yet."

For the first time, Spock looked at his body, at S'Halt's body. He was covered all over with faint golden incandescence that seemed to rise about one millimeter above his skin. In his hand he still held the open transfer mechanism.

McCoy waved in Spock's direction. "The glow was brighter before. When it dims completely, I think the process will be complete."

Spock nodded. Then he smiled. He almost laughed.

McCoy looked at him sharply. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Spock held up one hand and gazed at it intently. "Colors," he said. "They are the same. Everything else is different -- taste, smell, hearing -- yet I perceive the same colors."<

A look that McCoy had once dubbed "affronted Vulcan logic" came over the Romulan face. The doctor had never seen those features move in just that way; still the expression was unmistakably Spock's.

"That should not be," continued Spock. "The odds that two individuals would possess precisely the same formation of cones and..."

McCoy held up a weary hand. "Mr. Spock," he said. "I know what the odds are." Then the doctor smiled, started to say something more, faltered and stopped. "Rest," he said finally. "Rest and we'll talk later."

Spock dropped his hand. His face and body relaxed. Then he nodded once, closed his eyes and slept.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

McCoy walked into Christine's room. "He wants to see you," he said.

Christine turned her head aside. "Not now. I'm not up to it."

McCoy strode to the bed. "That worked yesterday and the day before; it won't work today. There's no reason why you can't get out of that bed and go to him except that you don't want to."

Christine turned to the other side and shut her eyes.

"No, I'm not going to leave until I find out why you insist on lying there like some--" McCoy shrugged in frustration. "--some Baten tree slug."

Christine opened her eyes but didn't move. "What difference does it make? Why can't you just leave me alone?"

McCoy leaned forward. "Because I care. About you and about him. And I don't understand."

Christine whirled towards him so quickly that McCoy jumped back.

"And who is 'he'?" asked Christine. "Spock? You haven't once called him by name."

McCoy nodded, acknowledging the truth of her reprimand. "Yes, Spock," he said. "Spock wants to see you. He needs you, Christine. More than ever, Spock needs you."

"No, he doesn't. It..." She threw back her head and stared above her. The cubicle was completely enclosed, but Christine stared at the ceiling as if she could see beyond it to the flowers outside the dome. "He's got J'Mir," she said finally.

"And is that what you want?" McCoy asked quietly. "She'll play on that overblown Vulcan sense of honor and duty until he feels obligated to go back with her to Romulus. The Enterprise returns tomorrow. Do you want him to leave with us or go with her?"

"What I want isn't going to change what has to be."

McCoy shook his head. "But that's just it. We don't know what has to be. S'Halt wanted to reveal the transfer mechanism to the joint peace conference. That still can be done. It's even more appropriate now. After that anything is possible. Spock doesn't have to go back to Romulus."

"You're forgetting about J'Mir," Christine said.

"No, I'm not. But J'Mir is only one part of a very complicated and unique situation. And she's not the most important part."

"Without her the transfer would not have been possible."

McCoy considered the obvious statement and the underlying implications that Christine seemed to be applying. "And you think that gives J'Mir some special say over what happens to Spock's life from now on? Sort of ... a payment?"

"J'Mir wasn't giving us her cooperation for free. That was clear. At least to me."

McCoy grabbed the edge of the bed with two hands. "Has it ever occurred to you," he asked sharply, "that you are presuming one hell of a lot? What do you think Spock is? Some sort of prize that the two of you can make deals over? A commodity to be exchanged back and forth? He's a person, and right now he needs you. Spock needs you."

"Spock's dead."

"What?!"

Christine turned to him. Her eyes were cold, like grey chips of flint. "Spock's dead. You said so yourself."

"I said that Spock, as we know him, would be dead. No matter what I'd like to think, or what you, or even he'd like to think, Spock can't be the same person. That doesn't mean that that part of him that we know as Spock is dead."

McCoy straightened and studied Christine with concern. "You know that."

The grey of her eyes clouded and became a heavy fog. "It doesn't matter," she said again. "It doesn't matter."

McCoy continued to gaze intently at her. Christine covered her face and turned away from his scrutiny.

"Or is it something else?" he asked quietly. "Spock is different, but if he leaves, everything will be the same for you. You can spend the nights alone again in your cabin, fantasizing about someone you can't have. You'll tell yourself how noble you were to sacrifice yourself for him. You'll grow old telling yourself the lie, because it is a lie. You're hiding here, away from Spock, away from whoever he is or will become. You're hiding, not because you're noble or self-sacrificing, but because you're afraid to face him and you're afraid to face yourself. Isn't that really it, Christine?"

Christine didn't move; she lay with one arm flung across her face. "Go away," she said after a long time. "Go away and leave me alone."

"All right," McCoy said after a moment. "I'll leave you alone. But somehow I expected more from you, and I know damned well Spock deserves more."

He spun and left. The door slid closed behind him. Christine lay there, not moving, listening to the silence.

* * *

A killer was loose, one who believed incorrectly that he had failed.

Spock ran through the figures in his mind. Of the original thirty-six survey members, three were dead and eight more were in cryogenic suspension at the time of the sabotage. The murdered technician and S'Halt were not responsible. That left twenty-three suspects. What of J'Mir? S'Halt had clearly trusted her. He had told her of the transfer mechanism. He felt that she was also a target. Moreover, without her cooperation, the transfer between S'Halt and himself would not have been possible. Certainly such an action would not have benefitted her had she wanted S'Halt dead. Still, Spock did not remove her from the list.

Twenty-three suspects...

The figure wavered in his mind. The light in the room was too bright. Spock closed his eyes and pressed the flat of his hands against them. A pain throbbed somewhere deep inside his skull. Dr. McCoy had assured him that he was physically sound and that the sensitivity would probably pass. But the pain was there now and the fact that it refused to yield to his efforts at controlling it was an even greater annoyance.

Spock opened his eyes and reached for the illumination controls on his desk. He stopped in mid-motion and held his hand in front of him. He turned it over slowly, intently studying the unfamiliar lines and bone structure. It felt so strange, as though the hand was not part of him at all, but instead was some newly discovered and totally independent entity.

Spock shook his head. Physically the integration was complete, but it would take many hours of uninterrupted meditation before he could truly accept this new body. And he had no time for that now. Spock brought his hand down on the recessed light panel, and the room dimmed.

Twenty-three suspects...

Perhaps more than one person was responsible for the sabotage. Perhaps the act was part of a greater conspiracy. If the drive to subvert peace was an organized effort, then S'Halt's death might well be only one part of that attempt. But Spock had no idea what the other manifestations of the greater plot might be. With sub-space communication still impossible, anything could have happened and they would have no news of it.

Spock touched his palm to a lock on the desk and a drawer slid out. From it he removed the closed and softly glowing transfer device. He ran his finger down one side and turned it over in his hand. In the past two days Spock had gone over every millimeter of the alien tool, had memorized each incised symbol and line. It was so small, yet it had such great potential, for good or evil use. Spock shifted the golden ovoid to the other hand. At least there was no indication that anyone else knew of its existence.

Twenty-three suspects...

And each one had an alibi. Spock replaced the alien device and closed the drawer. He passed his hand over a series of controls and a portion of his desk rose to form a viewing screen. He had reviewed the personnel files of every survey member once to acquaint himself with the material. Now he would go over each in detail to try to discover some discrepancy, anything that was not as it should be.

Twenty-three suspects...

Spock's gaze slid from the terminal screen and passed slowly around the room. S'Halt's quarters contained both living and work areas. Beyond the modular divider was the sleeping alcove. Spock's eyes stopped when he reached that area. Since McCoy had released him from the infirmary, J'Mir had been his almost constant companion. For two nights now, Spock had pleaded fatigue and the need to sleep alone. He knew he could not depend on that excuse forever. J'Mir had made plain what her desires were and what she believed he owed her. Was she completely wrong? He didn't know. He planned to make the announcement of the discovery of the transfer mechanism to the joint assembly of the peace conference as S'Halt had wanted, and after that... Spock shook his head. There were more immediate concerns.

Twenty-three suspects...

Spock called up the first file. Lynda Brokow, Federation xenobiologist, native of the Terran colony of Eo. A list of impressive credentials began to march steadily across his monitor: BS from the University of New Wales, MS from the Joint... The symbols continued their advance across the screen -- an assemblage of curves and angles, dots and lines that slowly lost all meaning. Spock started. He had missed fully one minute of the presentation. He reached out to reactivate the file, paused and shut down the terminal instead. It was useless trying to concentrate.

Perhaps what perplexed him most was Christine's refusal to see him. McCoy had said it was she who had interpreted his wishes and had argued for the transfer, yet now she was unwilling to confront him.

Spock brought his fingertips together and looked beyond them. This was not the first time Christine had chosen to avoid him rather than face a difficult situation. After Athetis Christine had systematically, and with remarkable thoroughness, managed to stay as far from him as their respective duties allowed. Spock found her actions, then and now, wasteful and uncharacteristic of the strength he had come to expect from her.

Expect? Spock raised one eyebrow. He had no right to expect anything of her.

The solution was simple, he realized. He would confront her, just as he had finally done after Athetis. Only this time he would not wait months. He would see her tonight, after his work here was complete.

Spock dropped his hands and moved to raise the viewscreen. The door buzzer sounded and he reached instead for the lock release.

The door slid open and Christine walked in.

It was so dark she could hardly see anything. The figure behind the desk could have been anyone.

"Christine, come in, please."

The voice was S'Halt's. Fear slithered up Christine's spine and held her immobile. McCoy was right. She didn't want to face this. It would have been so much easier to think of Spock as alive somewhere and to suppose that she had in some way contributed to that life. She didn't want to face this person.

Christine took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and walked forward.

"I came to see how you were," she said carefully.

"I am well. And you?"

"I'm fine. Just a mild concussion."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It wasn't your fault."

Christine stopped short. She shook her head. "I'm sorry. That's not what I meant."

Spock got up and walked toward her. "I know what you meant," he said.

Now that her eyes had adjusted to the light, Christine could see that the features of the person in front of her were not Spock's. She turned aside.

"Christine, look at me," he commanded softly.

Christine looked up and carefully studied each line and curve, each unfamiliar aspect of his face.

"I was afraid I would not know you," she said finally.

"Christine..." Spock paused a long moment, considering her, concentrating on the emotions he felt radiating from her. "Christine," he began again. "I am who I have always been. That is my certainty."

"I know. I--" She covered her face with her hands and shook her head. "I want so much to be strong to lend you my strength, to be there for you. And all I feel is fear and uncertainty." She dropped her hands and looked up. "Leonard was right; you deserve better."

"Indeed?" Spock brushed the back of his fingers across her cheek. "How would Dr. McCoy know what I deserve? Or want? Christine, there are memories that only you and I share, things of which S'Halt would have no knowledge. Relive with me now. Let me prove to you who I am."

Christine didn't move. She barely breathed. Spock's fingers rested against her face, warm and patient. She wanted and needed this proof. Perhaps he did also.

Slowly and deliberately, Christine nodded her head. She felt Spock's fingers shift, finding the familiar pressure points. This was the first time since Athetis that Spock had drawn her into a mind meld. Christine found herself anticipating the experience with a heightened sensory perception that left her body tingling with a million tiny pricks of fear and pleasure.

The room tilted and slipped out of existence and in its place rose Athetis. Snatches of conversations, fragments of remembered thoughts, feelings and sensations flowed together, recreating events that had occurred months ago.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Christine hunched by the sputtering fire as water trickled from her hair and slid down her back, falling like silver night crawlers on the damp earthen floor.

Spock lay still in exhausted sleep on one of the mats in the corner. Sparks of fire reflected off the medallion that hung tight around his neck. Carved from a perfect crystal of blue quartz and caught with a rope of twisted silver, the medallion symbolized that he was a healer on this world. If he had truly been an Athetian, the ornament would have been slipped over his head as a child and his instruction begun when it could no longer be removed.

Christine focused her eyes on the deep blue disk. The play of dark against dark was almost hypnotic. Did she resent him, she wondered. No, she envied his ability to touch minds and ease suffering, but she certainly didn't resent it.

The fire coughed black smoke, and Christine turned to stoke it back to life. She struck angrily at the logs No, she didn't resent him, but there was a lot about their assignment that she did resent.

"Ki'iva: So it has been; so it must be." A whole civilization built on that single phrase. To suggest that there might be a better way was to risk offending whatever gods presided over this wretched world.

If she and Spock were successful in uncovering evidence that ancient starfaring Vulcans had colonized Athetis, then a plan would be implemented to gradually lift the society out of its fatalism, to break the cycle of famine, disease and death. But if they didn't find that proof...

The Prime Directive. The first and greatest law. No interference with a developing world unless prior contact could be confirmed. Christine understood the need and had sworn to uphold its tenets. That did not mean she resented any less the restraints it placed on her.

Christine put back the poker and walked to the the side of the dark hut. She pulled aside the woven reed mat that served as a door and stared out into the rain. There hadn't been a single day since they arrived when it hadn't rained. The rain was everywhere, in everything -- in the black mold that grew a centimeter thick an walls and mats, in fields choked with mud and decaying plants, in the swollen bellies of starving children and the shuttering gasps of those dying of the wasting sickness.

Great globs of blue clay splattered against the wall of the opposite hut. A child had died there this afternoon.

Christine closed her eyes and let her body slump down into itself. "Pogo" she had nicknamed the child, explaining to a confused Spock that the boy, who moved constantly, reminded her of a toy she'd played with as a child. Now Pogo was dead.

Christine took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and then took another. Ki'iva. The Prime Directive. The Federation also had its gods.

"You may find this of benefit."

Christine whirled around. Spock held out a mug of tea. She took it carefully.

'I thought you were asleep," she said.

"Merely resting."

Christine sipped the liquid. It had the bitter taste of sagwa roots, calming, but mildly soporific. She didn't want to sleep. Christine handed back the drink.

"It would be better if you rested."

"I can't."

Christine turned to the wall, her hands pressed hard together.

"Why should it matter?" she asked. "What difference does it make if this god-forsaken place was visited --or even colonized -- by Vulcans thousands of years ago?" She spun around. "It's only a technicality!"

"That technicality, and Vulcan's interest, may be all that stands between these people and extinction."

"And if we find nothing?"

Spock did not answer.

"He's dead," she said. "How many more will die?"

Spock walked to her. He held out the cup. "I grieve with thee," he said formally.

After a moment Christine took the cup. "Yes," she said, "I believe you do."

* * *

Christine crouched in the corner, trying to undo the clasp on the medical supply case, trying to control her shaking body.

Her fingers slipped from the lock. She stared at them, as though they were independently responsible for the traitorous act.

"Fool," she breathed softly. She would die now. She was sure of it.

"You are ill." The words were an accusation. She heard them softly, as though from a great distance.

Christine tried to stand. The room careened at an impossible angle. She pitched forward and fell, face down on the earthen floor.

* * *

"Humans!" Spock swore silently as he stood facing the fire, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He didn't need to ask why she had deliberately lied to McCoy; he already knew. A more pertinent question was how he knew.

A healer's touch was all that was required, superficial meld just deep enough to direct Christine's own defenses against the invading organisms. But it wasn't a healer's meld that he had used.

Why? he asked himself now as he watched the damp wood smolder. It was true that as a Starfleet officer he was responsible for those under his command. Christine and he had been unsuccessful in uncovering the evidence they sought. For one of them to die now would only underscore the failure of their mission.

Spock pulled back his shoulders and stared ahead. He would not deceive himself so. The truth was that he did not want Christine to die; that the thought of her dying chilled him beyond reason. And he acknowledge something else: he had struck deeper into Christine's mind than was necessary, had established a link that was more profound and stronger than the medical situation required, because he wanted it.

Spock shifted, his body easing with the remembrance.

Once before he had shared consciousness with Christine. The discordant reverberations of those conflicting emotions still clamored in his memory. This time, instead of chaos, he had found order -- neatly planted fields ready to give birth to unknown wealth. Here was the strength he knew he would find. Intrigued, he had lingered, gently uncovering the seeds of sprouting life, marveling at the newness.

A deep sense of contentment filled him. Christine had maneuvered and jeopardized her life for the opportunity to join minds with him. She could not know how much he wanted it also.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Christine concentrated on focusing her eyes as the present reasserted itself. Spock's hands were on her shoulders. She felt them tighten in concern.

"I'm all right," she said. Slowly the images slid together into solid form. "I'm all right."

Spock nodded and dropped his hands.

Christine looked at him. Her mind was still a whirl of conflicting emotions. It would take a long, long time to sort it all out. But for now the primary question had been answered. This was Spock; as much as the being who answered to another's name and wore another's clothes on Athetis was Spock, so this person who wore another's body was also Spock.

Christine smiled softly. Then she frowned. Somewhere, in the back of her mind was a -- presence -- that she hadn't felt since those last weeks on Athetis. Had what had just passed between them re-established that link? Christine looked quizzically at Spock, forming the question silently in her mind.

Spock shook his head. "An echo only. A place that is prepared yet not occupied."

But he had understood her.

"Will you now stop running from me?" he asked.

Christine started. "Wha...?" Then she took a breath and let it out in a sigh. "You're right. I'm sorry. I will never run from you again. No matter what happens, I will not run from you."

Spock nodded solemnly. "Good," he said. "That is well."

Then, before Christine could react with a response appropriate to their rigid stance and Spock's formal phrasing, Spock stooped down and caught her with one arm behind her neck and the other beneath her knees. He straightened, lifting her as though she weighed no more than one of the gossamer-sailors that soar an the winds of Altair IV.

"Spock...!"

Christine threw her arms around his neck as much to keep from falling as in an embrace.

"There is," he said, "a conversation that we were unable to complete. I do not believe the computer will interrupt us this time."

Spock carried her past the divider that separated the working and sleeping quarters. The lumrods glowed softly, casting gentle shadows that eased the harsh edges of austere Romulan furnishings. Spock walked to the bed and lightly deposited Christine in its center. He sat down on its edge and looked at her a long while, as if systematically committing her image to memory. Finally he reached out with two fingers extended and touched her face in ritual embrace.

"I do not know what tomorrow holds," he said, "or where I will be. There is tonight. Beyond that I am sure of nothing."

Christine enfolded his hand in hers. Here it was, what she had dreaded most. The decision that must be made. When the Enterprise returned, would he leave with them or would he stay? 'A new person, born at the moment of joining, carrying the obligations of both and owing to none,' he had said. But they hadn't expected to put that concept to the test.

Christine studied the features that masked the man she loved. There was something more. An involuntary shudder swept up her body. "You don't think S'Halt's death was the end, do you?" she asked.

Spock turned his hand so that it clasped hers. "I do not know," he said. "It would be well if it were, but I do not know."

"What else could happen?"

"That also I do not know."

"Have you found anything? Do you have any idea who was responsible for the sabotage?"

Spock shook his head. "The personnel files contain nothing of use. No one is without an alibi. When subspace communication is once more possible, or when the Enterprise returns and we have use of its facilities, then perhaps we will know more."

Perhaps. Christine remembered their conversation before the sabotage. Spock had been all too accurate in his prediction of disaster. She didn't want to think of what might lie ahead.

She shuddered again and Spock drew her close, enfolding her in an aura of warmth and safety.

"There is tonight," he repeated.

Christine curled in closer, letting his presence encircle her completely. She reached up and pulled him down with her to the bed.

Spock drew her to him and held her tightly to his body. She closed her eyes and the flowers of Alpha Pleiades swayed once more before her. She saw the petals unfurl slowly, like mouths opening in hungry expectation. In the center of those mouths, stamen and pistils moved like tongues, pressing themselves against each other, twining and parting again.

Spock slipped the tunic from her shoulder and curved his fingers around her naked breast. Christine drew in a sharp breath as she felt herself respond to his caresses.

She became more aware of her body than she had ever been, more aware than she even imagined possible. Layer upon layer of sensation tugged at her, demanding release. There was never a time, she thought, when she didn't need him, and never a night she'd wanted him more. Christine laughed in delight and heard his laughter echo silently in her mind.

END OF PART ONE. CLICK THE "BACK" KEY AND GO TO PART TWO.