KIN OF THE SAME WOMB BORN by Rosalie Blazej

PART TWO

See Part One for Disclaimer

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Leonard McCoy stood quietly in the center of the main dome. It was early morning and thin shafts of light jabbed through the transparent covering, projecting shadows of undulating plants and flying insects into the room. McCoy watched the dark shapes as they shifted silently on the floor. Nothing remained the same, he thought -- not the thing, nor the shadows that it cast.

McCoy reached absently behind his neck and began kneading out knots of corded muscles. He hadn't slept well this night, or any other since the transfer. It was not that he questioned their action. What they had done was necessary, a chance at life when there was no other. But he did wonder about future uses of the mechanism.

S'Halt had believed that the Alpha Pleiadians had destroyed themselves fighting over its use. Would they be any wiser? McCoy fervently hoped so; there was great benefit to be gained if they were. But with peace talks at such a critical point...

And McCoy wondered about his friend whose body lay inert in a stasis field in the infirmary. A new life had been created, and more than anything, wondering about what would become of that life had kept the doctor awake these past three nights.

He rolled the back of his head against his hand. He should rest. The Enterprise would return in fourteen hours, and he would have to face her captain. The doctor wanted to be alert when he confronted Kirk. McCoy started from the room.

The familiar smell of ozone made him then turn around. In the center of the room Captain Kirk and five Enterprise crew members materialized. As soon as the transporter effect released them, the captain began issuing rapid fire orders, and the landing party dispersed. Kirk strode toward McCoy.

"Jim! What...!"

"We have to get the Federation contingent out of here."

Kirk started for the main exit. McCoy matched his stride. "You weren't supposed to be back till tonight. What happened?"

"The conference site's been destroyed."

McCoy stopped. "What?!"

Kirk turned. "Bones, we don't have time. I've got two Romulan ships on my tail. Hernandez and the rest of those diplomats are madder than a pack of Minervian slinkrats because I decided to come." The captain once more started for the exit. "Subspace communication is still out, so they'll just have to wait to make their complaints."

Kirk reached the exit and began to walk down the passage that led to the main communications dome. McCoy hurried after him.

The passage was narrow, too narrow for two people to walk comfortably beside each other. McCoy trailed the captain. He had to strain to hear as their boots clattered against the metal flooring.

"The ion storm held us up," Kirk said. "When we got to the site nothing was left -- just fused metal and fine ash. Something big did that, but there wasn't any other starship in the immediate vicinity. We picked up our Romulan friends on the way out."

"Do you think they were responsible?" McCoy asked.

"Maybe. I'll tell you one thing -- if they weren't, they certainly think we were."

"A set-up?"

"That's also possible. All I know is that we've got to get out of here and fast."

They reached the communications area. One of the landing party was already there, using a console to locate Federation members. Kirk walked over and studied the screen. "Where's Spock?" he asked McCoy without turning around.

McCoy stopped short. He said nothing.

Kirk turned. "Where's Spock?" he asked again.

McCoy started to say something, then reconsidered. "He's not here," he finally managed.

Kirk lifted one hand in frustration. "That I can see. But where is he?"

The doctor stepped forward and reached for Kirk's arm. "Jim, there's something you need to know, but..."

The captain drew back. "What's going on?" he demanded.

McCoy dropped his hand. "Jim," he began again. "I..."

"Sir." A young ensign came running through one of the connecting passages and skidded to a halt in front of the captain. "Sir -- in the infirmary -- there's a stasis unit in operation. It's marked for Mr. Spock."

The young man stopped for a breath. He followed the captain's gaze to the doctor and then his eyes went back to Kirk. The ensign's shoulders slumped as if he suddenly realized there were better places to be, and better ways to say what he had just said. "I'm sorry," he added softly.

Kirk stared at McCoy.

"Jim, listen -- it's not--"

Kirk turned brusquely. "Lead the way, Ensign."

"Jim!" McCoy reached for Kirk's arm. The captain brushed it aside angrily.

McCoy got to the infirmary a dozen steps behind Kirk. The ensign stood in the doorway, not knowing what to do.

"Resume your duties, Ensign," McCoy said as he walked past.

The young man nodded gratefully. "Yes, sir."

Kirk stood by the unit. He released the lock and slid back the protective shell before McCoy could stop him.

The field generated by the unit kept everything within its boundaries inert by halting all molecular activity. The field was invisible, and anything within it looked precisely as it had before being placed there.

Captain Kirk stared at the contents of the unit. Even McCoy, who knew what to expect, felt his stomach lurch at the sight.

"My God," breathed the captain. "What happened?"

"Jim..." McCoy took Kirk by the shoulders. The captain whirled on him.

"Damn it! Will you answer me? Is that Spock?"

McCoy took a breath. "Yes, that's Spock. But, Jim, that's not the whole story."

"What the hell do you mean 'not the whole story'? Either that is or is not Spock!"

McCoy closed his eyes briefly. Kirk had the right to know, but it wasn't his story to tell. More importantly, time was short. McCoy didn't know where the imminent outbreak of war left Spock, or S'Halt, but what had happened, and what would happen, were things that would have to be discussed quickly.

"Wait," McCoy said as he walked past the captain. "You'll have your answer. You'll understand."

Kirk watched, but said nothing as the doctor pushed back the covering of the stasis unit and went to the desk intercom.

McCoy bent over and punched in the code to S'Halt's quarters. A blue and red sequence flashed, indicating a privacy lock in place. Damn. McCoy glared at the lights and tried to remember the correct override procedure. He pushed what he hoped were the correct buttons in the correct order. The desk unit squawked in protest. He tried another and the same thing happened. He stared at the machine. If he couldn't get through to Spock, then they would have to go to him.

McCoy looked up at Kirk. The captain's face was pale, almost without color. There was a tightly controlled rigidity to his stance that the doctor liked even less.

McCoy walked towards Kirk. "Come with me, Jim," he said. "You'll have your answer."

The captain didn't move. "I'm not leaving this room until I know what's going on," he said. "You're going to tell me what's happened, Doctor. That's an order!"

McCoy stopped. He looked from Kirk to the unit containing Spock's body and back to Kirk. "Please, Jim. Trust me. For a little while longer, trust me. If you won't come with me, then wait here. I promise you'll understand."

Kirk studied his CMO, his friend. The captain nodded. "All right, Bones. I'll wait. For a little while.

* * *

Christine uncurled and stretched the full length of the bed. Spock was no longer beside her. Even half awake, she was aware of his absence.

She lay still and let sleep clear from her mind. Spock had gotten up last night, after they had made love, and had resumed his investigation at the computer terminal. Christine kept her eyes closed as she remembered last night, the totally alien, yet totally familiar sharing that was both physical and mental. She had never felt so -- content -- and yet so infused with life. And then, with a touch that imparted peace and rest, Spock had gone back to the terminal.

Christine rolled over and opened her eyes, propping her head on her hand, she could see beyond the divider.

The figure that sat at the desk with his back to her could easily have been Spock. His hair was almost as black and, from this distance, the cut looked nearly the same. Yet Christine knew it was not Spock, at least not in body. And with that realization came a dull ache.

It was foolish, she told herself, to mourn body when the essence still lived, but the sense of loss rose within her nonetheless, until she was filled with it.

She remembered Spock as he was three days ago and how he looked on Athetis, and before on the Enterprise. She remembered his hands, his musician's hands, spare and lean, and how she had watched them so many times as they played across the access keys of his science station. And how warm they had felt on her shoulders only a few days before.

She remembered his voice, deep and resonant with the hint of mirth that sometimes sparkled at its edges. Nurse Chapel, he had called her at first and then, as benefitted her newly acquired degree, Dr. Chapel. And then Christine.

Christine. Her eyes filled with tears and her arm slipped. She fell back onto the bed. She heard a chair move and footsteps approach.

Spock came towards her. She tried to smile and found that the tears only flowed more freely.

"This is stupid," she said as Spock sat down on the bed. "I was remembering what you looked like and how that's gone forever."

She brushed her hand ineffectively across her cheek. Spock took her hand in his.

"No," he said, "it is not foolish to mourn that which is lost. Not for you, nor for me."

Christine blinked and cleared her eyes. Last night he had boldly proclaimed that in every way that was important, he was Spock. And she had shared that conviction. But she had known even then that he was different, that there was no way that he could not be. Yet, she had to believe that the elemental essence of the person she had known remained unchanged.

She disengaged her hand and sat up. "I love you," she said for the first time since so long ago, when a virus had broken down the emotional inhibitions of almost the entire crew. "I love you for what I have always seen in you."

Spock started to speak. She touched his face. "No," she said, "don't say anything. Just remember that I love you."

Spock pulled her close and Christine felt herself once more encircled by a sense of utter peace. It must be wonderful, she thought, to be a telepath and speak so eloquently without words.

//Indeed.// The word floated at the edge of her understanding and Christine smiled.

The door signal sounded and Christine pushed back. "What...?"

She looked beyond Spock to the clock on the wall. Only a thin sliver of orange glowed on the crystal shaft.

"It's just past dawn," she said.

"I placed a lock on incoming calls," Spock said. "The message must be important to be delivered in person."

Christine nodded. "Okay. Just give me a minute." She swung her legs over the side of the bed and bent to pick up her clothes. They weren't there. Then she saw them, neatly folded on a chair. Now when...? She looked back at Spock, but he was nearly to the door. She grabbed the pile and disappeared into the washroom.

Spock waited until he heard the bath door click shut and then released the main lock. Dr. McCoy strode in.

"What is it, Leonard?"

McCoy waited until the door closed behind him. "The Enterprise," he said. "It's here. The conference site's been destroyed."

Spock considered a long moment. "And Jim?" he asked finally.

"Here. Spock, he's in the infirmary with the body. I'm sorry. Some young ensign made the discovery and... Jim wouldn't come with me. I asked him to wait. He doesn't know."

Spock nodded. "I see. I'll be there shortly."

McCoy turned to leave. He stopped at Christine's voice.

"Leonard, wait a minute, please."

McCoy watched as she came closer. He had drawn his own conclusions as to why Spock would engage a privacy lock. Her presence confirmed his suspicions. At another time he would have celebrated.

"If the conference has been destroyed," said Christine, "then S'Halt was right about a Romulan conspiracy."

"If we assume it was the Romulans," McCoy said.

"What other explanation can there be? Certainly you don't think the Federation was responsible."

Spock stepped toward Christine. "He is right. We must not discount any possibility. However, the greatest likelihood is of a well organized Romulan group dedicated to subverting peace."

"Then that will have to be proven."

"Yes."

Christine nodded. She knew what he would have to do -- return to Romulus as S'Halt and try to uncover who was responsible for the destruction, who it was that wanted war.

"If you go back," she said, "you'll need help."

"J'Mir has indicated that she would welcome the prospect of making me truly Romulan. It appears she will now have that chance."

Christine nodded again. That she also knew. In this there was no place for her. She stepped back, not saying anything because she didn't trust herself to speak.

Spock reached out and touched her arm. Then he went to the desk and released the imprint coded lock. He withdrew the transfer mechanism and laid it flat on the desk top. McCoy came forward and watched as Spock removed the center rod. The rod continued to glow with a golden radiance. The rest of the mechanism, however, now looked cold and lifeless.

"That's the power source for the whole device," McCoy said. "Without it the mechanism won't work."

Spock looked up. He put the rod in his pocket. "War," he said, "or at least the great possibility of war, and an instrument which could prove to be the deciding factor. Neither side must have it intact."

Spock returned the lifeless portion to his desk and walked past McCoy. The doctor reached out his hand.

"You're taking an awful lot on yourself, aren't you?" he asked.

"Yes, Leonard, I am."

Spock continued to where Christine stood. He slipped one hand alongside her cheek. Suddenly, without the gentle ease she had come to expect, her mind exploded.

//Never question what you mean to me. Never doubt what we have shared.//

The words faded. In their place bloomed a l'timar flower, its five starred petals growing more beautiful and more intricate as she watched. Then just as suddenly, the room returned. She felt hands gripping her shoulders. She looked up and saw McCoy.

Christine tried to say something and found she could not. Leonard pulled her closer and she buried her head in his shoulder.

* * *

James Kirk ran his fingers over the plastic name plate on the stasis unit: Spock, Commander, Starfleet. He didn't open the unit; he didn't want to look again at what was inside. He'd rather remember Spock as he knew him. And yet McCoy had said there was more. What other explanation could there be? Spock was dead. Spock was dead, and he should not be standing here waiting for the doctor to return. Kirk turned to leave, but something stopped him. He couldn't believe that it was really Spock lying there in the unit -- didn't want to believe it. The captain shook his head. McCoy's explanation and his own grief would have to wait until they reached the ship. He started once more for the door. The Romulan director walked in.

"S'Halt," said Kirk, striding towards the Romulan. "What happened here? What happened to my first officer?"

Spock looked at the captain. Jim Kirk was the one person he knew he could trust, and the one person in whom he wanted to confide. But Spock remembered the frustrated rage and deep sense of violation the captain continued to experience even after Kirk had been returned to his own body and Janice Lester to hers. Spock did not wish to cause his friend anguish, and he knew that his own state and Jim's reawakened memories would do just that.

Then Spock looked beyond Kirk to the stasis unit that contained his body. He had avoided coming here, and now he understood why. He could never go back. And although he had understood that intellectually before, that fact was never as vividly clear as it was now. Spock closed his eyes, and the room lurched in response.

"S'Halt?"

Spock opened his eyes to see the captain come toward him, hand outstretched.

"Jim," he said softly.

Kirk stopped and frowned. He cocked his head sideways, as though unsure of what he had heard.

"Jim," said the other again. "We must talk, but not here."

Kirk studied the Romulan, then turned slowly to look at the stasis unit. Spock's body was in there. The tag said so; McCoy said so. And yet, there was something more. Kirk looked at S'Halt again. He nodded and both left the room.

"Sir." They were stopped by the same ensign who had brought news of the body. He looked miserable. Kirk briefly considered the possibility of an unofficial hierarchy in the landing party that assigned unpleasant tasks to one individual.

"Yes, Ensign?"

"All the Federation scientists have been alerted, sir, but they want an explanation. Some are refusing to leave."

"Tell them to be in the main room in fifteen minutes. Anyone not there will be dragged in screaming if necessary." Kirk started to walk. The ensign didn't move.

"Sir?"

The captain stopped and looked back. "Yes, Ensign? Is there something else?"

The young man glanced uneasily at S'Halt. "Yes, sir. It's the Romulans. They're also demanding an explanation. What should we tell them?"

"Please ask them to join their Federation colleagues in fifteen minutes," S'Halt said. Then he turned to Kirk. "These people have worked together for a long time, and they share a common goal. What has happened affects us all."

Kirk studied the strange face. How did he know what had happened -- unless McCoy had told him... "See to it, Ensign."

S'Halt and Kirk continued down the hall in silence. Finally they arrived at a small room partitioned off one side of the dome. S'Halt activated the door and waved Kirk in.

The first true light of day sparked off the flowers, throwing prisms of color throughout the room. A rainbow washed over Kirk as he entered. He didn't notice it. Kirk turned. "Okay, what happened to my first officer?"

The other occupant motioned towards a low couch. "Sit down, please."

"I'll stand. What happened?"

Spock studied Kirk. There was so little time. "A mechanism for identity transfer has been discovered here. It has been put to use."

"What?!"

"Identity transfer. But, Jim -- perhaps -- did you not already suspect?"

Kirk's eyes narrowed. He stared and didn't answer. Abruptly he turned and walked to the edge of the room. Spock sank wearily onto the couch, waiting.

Suspect? Suspect what? That the stranger who greeted him in the infirmary was really the man in the stasis unit? That the Romulan in this room was the same person Kirk had known so well for so long? It was absurd. Yet, Kirk knew that it was not. Identity transfer was possible. His own ugly, still raw experience with the phenomenon proved it was possible. Yes, it was possible.

James Kirk raised his hands, palms out and leaned against the invisible barrier. He knew he would not fall into the sulfur-drenched jungle. Some things were taken for granted. And same things transcended the physical. Spock was wrong; he more than suspected -- he knew. From the first, when Spock called him by name, Kirk had known.

He squeezed his eyes shut, closing out the alien jungle, closing out this time and this place and this stranger. It would be better if Spock were dead. He remembered the infirmary and standing there, running his finger over and over the tag. Dear God, how could he wish Spock dead? Anything was better than that, even this. Kirk pushed himself back and walked to where Spock sat. He looked at him, long and deliberately, then sat down beside him, eyes forward.

"How did it happen?"

Spock glanced sideways at his friend, at the man he called brother. Kirk met his gaze and their eyes held for a long minute. In that moment they exchanged a trust, an affirmation of friendship that spanned space and the cultural chain of two dissimilar races, a trust that would defy even this. Spock drew a breath and leaned forward, fingers steepled. Swiftly, because there was so little time, and because it was easier that way, Spock recounted the events of the past five days. Kirk remained silent throughout.

"And now?" Kirk asked.

Spock drew back his hands and straightened "Now I go back to Romulus to find those responsible for the destruction of the conference. I go back to stop a war that may destroy our galaxy."

"You alone? You'll be discovered. You're not even Romulan!"

Spock quirked an eyebrow. "Indeed? What would you say that I am?"

Kirk shook his head. "You know what I mean. Even if you speak the language and are familiar with some of the customs, you can't help but trip up!"

"I won't be alone."

"J'Mir?"

"Yes."

Kirk considered what Spock proposed. His communicator beeped before he could respond. He flipped it open. "Kirk here."

"Uhura, sir. Long range sensors show Romulan vessels approaching. At present speed they will arrive in twelve minutes."

"Thank you, Commander." Kirk flipped the communicator closed. "Damn." He got up. Spock reached into a pocket and withdrew the rod he had earlier removed from the transfer mechanism. He walked over to Kirk and held the rod out to him.

"Without this," Spock said, "the transfer device will not operate. Keep it safe, Jim. In war the temptation for misuse is too great. On both sides."

Kirk stared at the tiny metal object that radiated a faint golden halo. It almost seemed alive. Reluctantly, he took it.

"Spock..."

"One more thing, Jim. The odds are great that I will never return. There are those who will mourn. There are those who will..."

Spock paused. He looked away a moment, considering before returning his gaze to Kirk. "Christine will deny; she will not allow herself to grieve. She will see it as strength and not welcome interference. But you must make her see. If I do not return, you must make her understand that I am dead. You must be with her when I am not."

Kirk felt the warmth of the object in his hand. He concentrated on that warmth and did not answer. For all their openness and trust, of this they had never spoken. Why? Respect for that great Vulcan need for privacy? Perhaps. He wasn't really sure. There had always been tomorrow. But no longer. That thought tore at him.

"I will, Spock." The captain held out both hands and Spock grasped them. Kirk studied this new face. "Take care, my friend."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Life support had been discontinued from those rendered mindless by the plants of Alpha Pleiades. The sustaining field would not have operated through transport and no one would remain to monitor the instruments. Their bodies would be returned to the Enterprise and kept in stasis until claimed.

Dr. Chapel stood in the main dome next to Dr. McCoy. Along with the eight remaining Federation infirmary patients, they would be the first to beam aboard. All the patients were ambulatory and any further stay in the Enterprise's sickbay would be precautionary, a time to rest and perhaps reflect. They had very nearly died. If it had not been for Spock, they would probably be dead. Christine closed her eyes and drew a steadying breath. They would return, safe and whole; Spock would not. Leonard moved closer. Christine felt his arm brush hers. She smiled lightly and opened her eyes, acknowledging the gesture and the friendship.

Knots of scientists continued to enter the room. Federation and Romulan, walking and talking together. S'Halt came in with J'Mir. He stopped and scanned the room until he found Christine. Their eyes met, and in her mind flickered the l'timar bloom.

Christine gathered the image and held it close. Then she looked to the captain who was addressing the gathering. He told them what had happened and why the Enterprise had come. He told them that Romulan vessels were also on their way.

The group began to move apart, to separate silently once again into friend and foe. S'Halt was the focus of the Romulan group. He drew them around him and spoke to them in low and steady command tones. He spoke in Romulan. Christine had never heard Spock speak that language. She wished she did not have to hear it now, but she knew that to deny this would only be a deception. Spock was also S'Halt. If he were to have any chance of success, for now he could be only S'Halt.

J'Mir walked over and placed her hand on S'Halt's arm, then looked to where Christine stood. Christine met her gaze directly. J'Mir drew S'Halt closer. Christine's eyes did not waver. She remembered the l'timar flower and did not flinch.

* * *

Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott stood by the transporter controls, personally presiding over the transport of Dr. McCoy and Dr. Chapel, the Federation scientists and now the landing party.

The journey through the ion storm and the race to get to Alpha Pleiades before the Romulans did had strained the Enterprise almost to its limit. Only one transporter remained operational, and that one showed disturbing energy fluctuations. Engineer Scott would trust the controls to no one but himself.

Only the captain and Mr. Spock were still on the planet -- they, and the bodies of those who had died there. Scott would allow a subordinate to transport those. His interest was with the living and with his engines, which also required his attention.

Scott shook his head. Something was wrong, something that went even deeper than the threat of impending war. He saw it in the doctors' faces, and in the landing party's, and he heard it in McCoy's reply when he asked how many bodies there would be. "Too many, Scotty," the doctor had said and left.

Mr. Scott didn't like mysteries or cryptic remarks, but there were too many things to do and he had little time to question what might lie behind the words or the dour expressions. Again he shook his head. Only the captain and Mr. Spock remained to be retrieved; then he could get down to his engines.

He set the coordinates and activated the beam. Captain Kirk strode from the platform towards the transporter console.

"Status, Mr. Scott?" he asked.

Only the captain? Scott checked the gauges. They were right; the mass was for only one. He looked up.

"The landing party and all Federation scientists are aboard, Captain. Romulan vessels are coming within visual range."

He looked again at the empty platform, then to the captain. Something was definitely wrong. Captain Kirk had never looked so -- empty. And where was the first officer? Scott felt a tightness start in his throat and spread to his stomach. He squared his shoulders.

"Where is Mr. Spock, sir?" he asked.

Kirk looked at Scott. He could tell what his engineer was thinking. The captain wanted to tell Scott that it was all right; that Mr. Spock was not really dead, that he lived in the body of someone else, but that he lived. Kirk knew that he could not. The transfer was known only to a very few, and if Spock was to have any chance of succeeding, then that was the way it would have to remain. Kirk reached out and touched Scott's arm.

"Mr. Spock's body is among those on the surface, Scotty," he said softly. Then the captain drew back. "I'll be on the bridge. We'll break orbit as soon as you are finished."

Scott watched the captain leave, then redirected his attention to the transporter console and carefully repositioned his hands over the controls. He would not, after all, be consigning this final task to a subordinate. With great dignity and care, Montgomery Scott performed the last service he could for his Vulcan superior officer.

* * *

"Ambassador Hernandez, I see that you're still here." Captain Kirk walked past the diplomat to the command chair.

Pascal Hernandez stepped aside to allow Kirk to pass. The ambassador was a big man, both in stature and presence. He took his position and responsibilities very seriously. He was also a man who did not like to lose.

"Regulations permit me to remains as long as I do not interfere with the operation of the ship, Captain. I am not interfering; I am merely observing," he said.

Kirk did not reply. He continued forward without breaking stride. At his approach, Mr. Sulu relinquished the command chair.

"Report, Commander," ordered the captain. Sulu moved to the side of the chair and Kirk sat down.

"Romulan vessels have achieved synchronous orbit over the archeological site. We have altered our orbit so that the planet is between us and them. It's possible that they have not seen us."

"But not very likely." Kirk opened a channel to engineering. "Is everything secure, Mr. Scott?"

"Aye, sir."

"Good, then let's get out of here. Prepare for warp speed." The captain closed the channel. "Helm, at my command..."

"Sir!" called Lt. Hunan at tactical. "One Romulan vessel is leaving orbit on a parabolic towards us!"

"On screen," ordered Kirk.

The view of the cloud shrouded planet below was replaced by a schematic in rotation showing the relative position of the three ships around Alpha Pleiades. One ship was headed straight towards the Enterprise.

"Now, Commander," said Kirk. "Warp 5."

The Enterprise didn't move. Kirk hit the intercom. "Scotty! What's going on down there! We need warp power now!"

"I don't know, sir! The ion storm damaged the engines and now... I've sent a crew in to check. We'll know in a few minutes!"

"We don't have a few minutes, Scotty !" Kirk heard the ambassador move down the steps into the command well. The captain did not turn. "Hurry, Scotty. Helm, maneuvering speed. Hard about ninety degrees. Visuals on screen. Uhura, sound red alert. Ambassador, you will leave the bridge immediately."

"If we had not returned, Captain," answered Ambassador Hernandez, standing behind the command chair and not moving, "we would not find ourselves in the position we are in. The Romulans, if they themselves are not responsible for the destruction of the peace site, believe we are. Open confrontation must be avoided at all costs. This is a case for diplomats, not military men, to decide."

Kirk whirled in his chair. "What you believe should have happened is irrelevant, Ambassador. The fact is that the situation we find ourselves in is one of military confrontation. You will leave now or I will have you removed."

Hernandez stepped back. "We should have returned immediately to Federation space, Captain. My report will reflect my opinion."

"You report anything you wish, Ambassador." Kirk turned to the screen again as Hernandez left the bridge.

"Captain," called Sulu, "second Romulan vessel changing its orbit. It's coming towards us."

"Evasive procedure, Commander; let's not give them a stationary target."

The captain thumbed open the communication line. "Scotty?"

"We found the problem, Captain, but it'll take at least thirty minutes to repair!"

Kirk snapped the intercom closed without acknowledging. Mr. Scott would do what he had to in the shortest time possible.

"Uhura, are communications still jammed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Broadcast on the loudest possible gain the fact that we are here on a rescue mission and that we have no wish to initiate conflict."

The communications officer turned to the captain. "But sir, the ion level..." She focused her attention once more on the communications board. "I'll try, sir."

Kirk watched the main viewer. The second ship had yet to appear. The first one was just visible at the edge of the screen. Even at this distance, the distinct Romulan design was evident. A great painted bird of prey, echoing each movement of the Enterprise in precise detail.

"Tactical, what is the relative position of the second ship?"

"Approaching from the dark side. We'll be caught between then, with our back to the planet. We can't outrun them."

Kirk studied the viewer another moment, then rose and went to the small tactical screen. "Arm photon torpedoes. Helm, steady as she goes."

"Sir?"

"Hold your position, Mr. Sulu. Let's see what they do."

Kirk bent over the small screen. Then he straightened and watched the larger one.

Lt. Shinitsu at the science station continued monitoring energy emissions from the alien ships, waiting to catch any fluctuations on their defensive screen or an energy build-up that might indicate an impending attack. She wondered why she had not been relieved. She would have felt a lot better if Mr. Spock had resumed his station. She was sure the others felt the same way.

The second ship appeared, its underbelly painted green with lines of magenta describing the shape of a large winged creature. It was different from the other ship, more intricate in design and coloration. Set against the vast black of space, it appeared almost fragile. But there was nothing frail about the ship or the warrior race who directed it.

"Photon torpedoes armed."

The captain looked over to Mr. Chekov's station. The armament officer sat with his finger poised over the firing button. With one command that button would be pushed and all hope for peace would be lost. Without that command they would lose the advantage of first strike against an enemy. Kirk turned to the tactical screen. The Romulan ships came within torpedo range. He waited. Spock was on one of those ships. Captain Kirk pushed aside the thought. He would not allow personal considerations to affect his actions. Still he waited, watching for some sign of what the Romulans would do. He looked at the main viewer, both ships hovered just within firing range. He could feel the tension of the bridge crew as they concentrated on their stations. He could hear them breathing -- deep, calming breaths. He could feel them waiting and watching, just as he waited and watched.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Commander D'Gar slowly slipped the Imperial ship Rao closer to the Enterprise. There was an elegance to the maneuvers executed with its sister ship, the O'Tor. It was almost dance. D'Gar leaned forward and studied the screen, his lean body shifting with measured efficiency. In an earlier time he might have found exhilaration in the dance, but not today. Today he had no appetite for it. Too many had died and after this, many more would die. In the background he heard the muted whistle of jammed communications. D'Gar could not make out the words, but he knew the message that was being attempted. "If war erupts, let it not be here; let it not be by our hands."

Was the captain of the Federation ship a fool? Did he not know that years of mistrust could not be ignored? D'Gar remembered the blasted conference site. Silently, he called out the names of those he knew who had died there. To each name he affixed a face and told himself that it was for them that he would kill today, that it was for their spirits that he sought revenge.

But the faces wavered and did not give him the strength he sought.

Where was S'Halt? He was aboard, but not on the bridge. It was a paradox. D'Gar did not wish to have his command overridden, but now he looked for the one person who could do so.

The Enterprise loomed larger on the screen. D'Gar raised his hand to signal the release of the torpedo banks. The doors to the bridge opened.

"Ulothix."

It was the command D'Gar had hoped for and feared. He slowly lowered his hand.

"Ulothix Caria."

That he had not expected. D'Gar rose to face S'Halt.

"Reverse course, Commander," said S'Halt. "We return to Romulus on my authority."

D'Gar touched his hand to his chest, then gave the order to break formation. The Rao veered off and the O'Tor followed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

First one ship, then the other turned about and left. The bridge crew exhaled a collective sigh of relief. The captain signaled engineering. "How's it going, Scotty?"

"Just a few more minutes, Captain. You'll have to give me a little more time!"

The captain threw the switch that canceled red alert. "It's all right, Scotty; take all the time you need. Inform the bridge when repairs are complete." He walked back to the command chair and sat down. One thing more needed to be done.

Kirk looked around the bridge and saw Sulu, Uhura -- people who had known Spock as long as he had. He saw the faces of those who had known the Vulcan officer only a short time. What could he tell them to make the truth less painful?

The Captain drew a breath and fixed on a spot at the center of the viewscreen. "Miss Uhura, please open ship-wide communications."

The communications officer eyed him with concern. She bent and complied with the order without shifting her gaze.

"Ship-wide open, sir."

"Thank you, Commander." Kirk held his hand over the access switch a moment, then deliberately opened the channel.

"This is the captain," he said. "As many of you know, the Enterprise was diverted to Alpha Pleiades to provide needed medical and technical assistance. While there, Commander Spock succumbed to the same malady which had afflicted the survey team. The Enterprise has lost its first officer. No words can express our sorrow at such a loss. Memorial services will be held at 0830 hours tomorrow."

The captain closed the channel. Silence fell on the bridge. No one moved; no one spoke. Everyone waited for the captain to explain, to say something more. For a long minute he did nothing. Then he rose and went to Sulu.

"You have the con, Commander. I'll be in my quarters."

He walked to the turbolift. The doors opened and Captain Kirk silently left the bridge.

Lt. Shinitsu dropped her hands from the science station control board and drew back in her chair. There was no one she respected more than Mr. Spock. Someday she hoped to command the same respect. She had spent many hours working to earn that right and was proud of her accomplishments and her station. Now she drew back. She didn't even want to touch his board.

* * *

The doors to his cabin closed silently behind James Kirk. He leaned against them. They'd had a reprieve. He was sure Spock had something to do with it, though he had no idea how. Now it was his turn to see that that reprieve was not wasted. Peace would be preserved. No matter how thin the thread, he would not let it break. He slipped his hand into his pocket and rolled the slender rod between his fingers. Then he pushed away from the door, walked to his desk and sat down. He called up on his terminal the records made of the destroyed conference site and of the events just before and just after the destruction. He began to study them. The buzzer sounded.

"Come."

Dr. McCoy walked in carrying a small beaker and glass.

Kirk looked at the liquid. "Little early to be drinking, isn't it, Bones?" he asked.

McCoy shrugged and smiled. "That depends. Here on the Enterprise it's seven-fifteen in the morning; somewhere else it's eleven o'clock at night. That's based on twenty-four hours, of course. Now, if you move away from your basic Terran day, why, the possibilities are endless."

He continued to the desk, poured some of the liquid into the glass and set it in front of the captain. The doctor's smile faded.

"Seriously, I want you to drink this, Jim. You look like hell."

Kirk turned his attention once more to the terminal. "Thanks." He didn't touch the doctor's offering.

"I could arrange to have it dripped in."

Kirk looked up and saw the doctor meant it. He downed the potion in one gulp and set the glass back with a grimace. "God, Bones, that was terrible. What was in it?"

The doctor poured some more and handed it back. "Consider it breakfast, fortified with some things you need."

Kirk drank the liquid, then got up to get some water. The aftertaste was even worse. McCoy pulled up a chair and waited for the captain's return.

"Do I really look that bad?" asked Kirk as he walked back sipping the water.

"Worse. The bridge crew is concerned. Uhura called down to me. They can't understand why you didn't say anything else after you announced Spock's death."

Kirk eased into his seat. "What was I supposed to tell them? That it was all a lie? That Spock's really alive? You know as well as I do that that information can't get beyond the three of us on this ship. If the truth gets out, Spock really will be dead."

"Spock is dead."

Kirk stared at McCoy far a long moment, then turned his attention again to his work. "I don't have time for this conversation, Doctor," he said.

"Spock is dead," McCoy repeated. "The Spock we knew and remember is dead. Someone else lives, and part of him is Spock, but he isn't Spock."

Kirk leaned forward. "And what do you know of it, Doctor?" he asked angrily. "You never went through it; I did. When Janice Lester transferred into my body and put me into hers, I was still me. That was me in another body. Just as it is Spock."

McCoy shook his head. "You're wrong. That's what you needed to think. You weren't confronted with the situation long enough to be forced to face the truth. Spock will be. If he is successful and returns, the person he comes back as will be very different from the person we knew. At the memorial service tomorrow, the person we'll be consigning to space will be Spock."

Kirk stared at McCoy again, then he swivelled in his chair away from the doctor. He locked his hands and bent his head over them. For a long while he was quiet.

"I can't do this now, Bones," he said finally. "There are a lot more important things at stake than my peace of mind."

McCoy got up and walked in front of the captain. Kirk looked up at him. "I know," McCoy said gently. "I guess it's just the doctor in me." He nodded toward the terminal viewer. "Come up with anything?"

Kirk smiled slightly, knowing it was much more than medical concern that motivated his friend. He turned back to the viewer.

"Maybe. Here is the scan of the area right after we got to the conference site. The energy release needed to cause such complete destruction is right in the range of a starship. We didn't do it, so we looked around for another similar ship. And found the Romulans. If what S'Halt said about a conspiracy is right, then that was exactly what we were meant to find. Meanwhile the Romulans were coming to the same conclusion. We didn't find anything else because we really weren't looking, and besides, we were right at the fringe of the ion storm and our readings were not very reliable."

McCoy leaned over and looked at the viewer. The screen was divided in half with the left showing a visual of the space being scanned and the right carrying the readouts of various instruments. It made very little sense to the doctor.

Kirk picked up a stylus and pointed to a series of numbers. "These are off, just a little, but enough to maybe be a trail of something much smaller than a starship that came into the area and never left.

McCoy looked up. "A suicide ship?"

"Maybe. Something that expended all its energy in destroying the site and never intended to return."

"You said the ion storm made readings unreliable. Couldn't it just be that?"

"It could be, but then maybe it isn't. From this short segment there's no way to be sure, or any way of finding out where it leads if it is a trail."

McCoy shook his head. "Even if it is, Jim, by the time we bring these diplomats to Starbase Sixteen, go through debriefing, and get approval to return, anything that was there will have dissipated."

Kirk got up and walked to the other side of the room. McCoy followed. The doctor had seen this stance before. He held out his hand and stopped the captain.

"You can't go off on your own, Jim," he said. "It's more than your career that's at stake. We were lucky. For whatever reason, the Romulans didn't blast us to atoms last time. If we remain, we may very well not be so lucky next time. You have a responsibility to this ship, to whatever chance of peace still remains. Get out. Go back to Federation space and let the diplomats handle it."

Kirk shook his head. "I know this is right, Bones. I'm going to have to chance it. It won't take long for our sensors to confirm or refute my theory. After that... We'll see."

McCoy stared at Kirk. You're taking an awful lot on yourself, aren't you? echoed in the doctor's mind, but this time he didn't say it out loud. It hadn't done any good last time, and it wouldn't now.

The intercom buzzed. The captain returned to the desk and answered the call. "Engineering reports all engines back on line, Captain."

"Thank you. Instruct navigation to plot return course -- 378.5 mark 8. Implement immediately."

CHAPTER THIRTY

Ulothix: Fealty awed.

Ulothix Caria: Fealty owed and all consequences assumed.

Spock walled to his cabin and reflected on what had just occurred. When had he read those words? Long ago, he decided, on the Enterprise, in what was rapidly receding into another life. He had read the words and noted them with scholarly interest. The roots were similar to certain pre-Reform Vulcan words, and they had called to mind his ancient warrior heritage. Ulothix Caria. Words spoken in battle by one who claimed the right to assume command based on lineage or past deed. He never thought he would say the words -- or that he would have the right.

The corridor curved steadily left so that it formed an almost circular passage with short halls intersecting at regular intervals. Because of the tight curve, only a short length of hall could be seen at any one time, and the far wall was always visible. Spock had been on only one other Romulan ship. It had been bland in color and neutral in decoration. Not so the Rao. Here the walls were bright green. Along their length ran a continuous frieze in intense primary colors. As he walked, Spock concentrated on the images as they appeared on the far wall. Were they random decoration only, or did they have a deeper meaning? There was great deal Spock didn't know about Romulan culture. The just concluded incident was evidence of that.

Had it not been for J'Mir, he would not have known the extent of his authority, nor the correct manner in which to execute it. J'Mir was vital to his success. She had made it clear that her help would not be free.

Spock came to their cabin and stopped. The confrontation with J'Mir would have to be soon; he wanted to be sure of the exact manner in which she expected payment. There was little doubt in his mind what her answer would be, but he would make her say it. That act alone would reinforce his position that he was not S'Halt.

Spock touched the door and released the lock. He stepped into the darkened room. The door slid closed behind him.

"J'Mir," he called. There was no answer.

That was odd, he thought. Not that J'Mir was not here, but that the room had remained dark. On the Enterprise, his presence would have been sensed and the room lit while he was still outside the door. Spock waved his hand over where he believed the environmental central panel should be. Nothing happened. He tried to remember if J'Mir had done anything before to activate the lights from the hall, but he could recall nothing. It was ludicrous. If he did not understand the small ways of Romulans, how could he possibly succeed in his deception? Spock turned to the door. He would have to find J'Mir. The door remained closed.

Fool! At the thought he spun around.

He understood now why the room had remained dark, why the door would not open. S'Halt could not be allowed to return alive to Romulus. Spock backed cautiously towards the blocked exit and felt with his outstretched hand until he touched the door. Then he stopped, drew both hands in front of him and shifted his weight to the balls of his feet in anticipation of the attack he knew would come.

In his mind Spock drew a picture of the room. It was a stark image of bold lines and simple furnishings; a single, low bed, side table, desk and chair -- little place to hide, for an assailant or for him.

He listened for any movement that might reveal the direction of attack. Were Romulan ears as sensitive as Vulcan? Yes. From the right, slow breathing, then a flurry of activity, then a blinding light.

Spock threw one arm in front of his eyes and in the same motion whirled aside. He was not fast enough. The tip of a knife sliced through his flesh and lodged between his ribs. Spock reached with his mind to control the pain. But the pain did not stop. He felt hot blood gush from the wound and was not able to stop that either. Spock staggered backward and slumped against the door.

The light grew more intense. He could see nothing but the white, clawing brilliance. Spock heard his attacker move in. He waited until he judged him to be less than a meter away. Then Spock lashed out with his feet. A surprised yell, then a fall, then the light beam arched through the air. Finally, the beam came to rest facing the wall and the whole cabin glowed dimly in reflected light.

The attacker rolled to his side and came easily to his feet. Spock jammed his good side against the door, pushed one leg under him and tried to stand. It was useless. His body would not respond to his commands. He hung his head and panted, trying to control the pain and the nausea.

His assailant came toward hin, his hands raised in a stylized, almost ritual post. Spock shook his head, trying to clear his mind. There was something vaguely familiar about the motion, but he couldn't place it. He couldn't even focus his eyes.

"Yes, it is better this way." There was satisfaction in the deep voice. "If I had been successful on Alpha Pleiades, you would never have known who I was. Before you die, S'Halt-Ot-Fator, you will know who we are."

In a last desperate lunge, Spock propelled himself away from the door toward his attacker. The door opened and the glare from the hall flooded the room. Spock turned his head and saw D'Gar. The Romulan commander scanned the room, then drew his weapon. He barked a command, but Spock's mind refused to interpret the words.

With the one thought that he had failed, Spock lost consciousness.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

"Are you sure, Lieutenant?" asked Captain Kirk.

Lt. Shinitzu turned in her chair, pulling herself up straight. "Yes, sir. I'm sure."

"Why wasn't this noted before?"

"Sir, this type of engine has not been used in over a hundred-and-fifty years. Compared to modern warp drives it is very inefficient The power curve, especially in the range of..."

Kirk waved her off. "Are you sure that's what we have here?"

"Yes, sir." The science officer once more turned to her board. She pointed to the readout of several gauges. "A definite trail from Romulus made by an old 'C' type engine. One way only."

Captain Kirk bent and studied the gauges. "How recent is the trail?" he asked.

Lt. Shinitzu pursed her lips. "It's hard to tell exactly. Because of the ion storm and the explosion on the planet, the area's been disturbed. But it's at least thirty-six hours old. No more than forty-eight."

"Then whatever it was got here before the site was destroyed?"

"Yes, definitely."

"But not much?"

"No, sir."

"Could a vessel with such engines be capable of delivering enough energy to so completely destroy the site?"

The science officer paused before answering. It was important that her response be correct.

"If all power were drained into the assault, and the engines themselves rigged to explode over the site after the ship had entered the atmosphere, then they could do it. It would look like the attack had been delivered by a much larger ship. The smaller ship would, of course, be destroyed, but by waiting until it had entered the atmosphere to explode, there would be little evidence of an explosion. It would appear to be part of the original attack."

Kirk turned from the science station and looked at the main viewer. "Pax" they had simply named the place of peace negotiations. There was nothing peaceful about the site now. Even at this distance, the destruction was an angry scar on an otherwise verdant planet. The planet had been chosen because of its location at the edge of the Neutral Zone and because of what it was -- an uninhabited paradise. At least at this time of year it was a paradise. It was spring now, period of eight Terran months. The other seasons were much less hospitable. Kirk turned from the viewer.

"Are there any other trails?" he asked.

"Only very old and faint ones, sir. Those and ours, of course."

Kirk nodded. "Have your findings been recorded in the main and auxiliary computer banks?"

Shinitzu drew back her shoulders. "Yes, sir," she said. The "of course" hung unsaid in the air.

Kirk looked again at the main viewer. He wanted to take a shuttle and go down there, and then keep the shuttle and go to Romulus. But he knew that he wouldn't find anything more than the first landing party had, only dissimilar matter that had fused into a homogenized mass and was now covered with a fine organic ash. And he knew that no matter how much he wanted to be with Spock, he could not go to Romulus. McCoy was right; he had a responsibility to this ship and to the people aboard her. He had a responsibility to peace, to safeguard the information they had just gathered and bring it back as proof of the Federation's innocence.

And in the end, James Kirk knew that this time he could not even help his friend, that his presence would only jeopardize Spock's position. The captain reached into his pocket for the small rod he carried there. It was his touchstone, a reminder that there might yet be a lasting peace.

"Helm, lay in a course for Starbase Sixteen," ordered the captain before leaving the bridge.

* * *

It was five-thirty in the morning. In three hours James Kirk would preside over Spock's funeral. As he walked to his cabin, the captain remembered his aborted conversation with Dr. McCoy. Three hours from now, what would James Kirk say? What did he believe? That Spock was as Spock had always been, that when this was all over nothing would be changed? Not likely.

He continued walking. To the left were Dr. Chapel's quarters. He stopped. Things had changed even before Alpha Pleiades, he realized. And he had not acknowledged those changes either. It was very early, but he knew that Christine was not asleep. He pressed the buzzer, and the door opened immediately to admit him.

Dr. Chapel was sitting on one of the lounges with a remote computer access board on her lap and stacks of records beside her on the cushion. She was dressed as she had been when they beamed up from Alpha Pleiades. On the table in front of her was an empty coffee cup.

"Doesn't look like you've slept at all," he said.

Christine smiled slightly, moved the board and got up. She took her cup and walked toward a side table.

"No," she said as she poured herself more coffee from an old-fashioned coffee pot. She turned and held up another mug. "Want some?" she offered. "It's real."

Kirk walked over to her. "Yes, I'd love some."

"Black?" she asked. "I'm afraid the cream and sugar are not real."

"Black is fine."

He took the cup and stared at it for a minute. Then he looked up. Christine was sipping her coffee, watching him. "You're not surprised to see me, are you?" he asked.

Christine shrugged. "After this past week, I think I'm beyond being surprised by anything." She turned and went back to the couch. Kirk followed.

He put his coffee down and helped Christine clear the cushions. "What is all this?" he asked.

"Mostly raw material from what we learned on Alpha Pleiades," she answered, stacking the last file on the table. "I didn't get a chance to write any of this up while we were down there, and it's best done while the material is still fresh in my mind."

"And you couldn't sleep anyway?" he suggested.

She looked up and nodded ruefully. "And I couldn't sleep anyway."

Christine waved to the couch. They both sat down.

"I understand that we're headed back to Pax," she said. "What is it you hope to find?"

"We have found," Kirk corrected. "We're already on our way to Starbase Sixteen."

Christine looked at her wrist. It was much later than she'd thought. She leaned forward and picked up her cup. "There's less than three hours to go," she said quietly

Kirk watched her motions. "Yes," he answered.

Christine took a sip of coffee, then holding the cup in both hands, tucked one leg under the other. She settled into the cushions and faced the captain.

"What did you find?"

Kirk leaned back. "Something very strange. Another ship came into the area from the Romulan system right before the destruction. It never left. That much we expected. What we didn't expect was that the ship was at least a hundred-and-fifty years old."

Christine frowned. "I don't understand. I take it it wasn't a standard Romulan vessel."

Kirk reached for his cup. "At least not Romulan military state-of-the-art. It indicates that the attack was probably not an overt Romulan military act. And the presence of another ship proves that the Enterprise is not alone in being suspect."

"Do you think that will be enough to keep both sides from going to war?"

The captain took a sip of coffee and sat back. "It has to be; it's the only thing we've got so far."

He thought of Spock and why he had come here. Thinking back on it, he realized how much Christine had changed since their first five-year mission. She had a greater depth and self-assurance now. In many ways she was really a different person.

He looked at Christine. She was absently tracing one finger around the rim of her cup and staring into it.

"I think he'll be all right," he said.

"Do you?" she asked without looking up. "I don't."

Christine continued running her finger around the edge in an endless circle. Suddenly she got up and went to the server. She put her coffee down and stood for a long moment with her back to the captain. Then she turned.

"I've been thinking about it," she said. "There's no way he can survive. He can't survive because he's not S'Halt, and he can't survive because he is S'Halt. Whoever tried to kill S'Halt thinks he's failed. He'll try again, and Spock won't have the memories or the experience that have kept S'Halt alive until now."

Christine raised her hands and drew them together, pushing palm against palm, trying to compose herself. Suddenly she turned and slammed one hand on the counter. Her cup bounced off the edge and shattered on the floor.

"I should have let him die on Alpha Pleiades! I should never have suggested the identity transfer. It would have been cleaner and simpler and a lot more humane. This is a perversion!"

Christine's head slumped. Kirk could see her shoulders heave as she struggled not to cry. He put his cup down and went to her. What could he say or do? Spock's words sounded in his mind: 'You must be with her when I am not.' Kirk put his hands on Christine's shoulders and gently turned her around.

"I don't know if Spock is alive or dead," he said. "And I don't know if we have the right to do what you did. I do know that Spock wanted it also. Nothing stays the same. I came here tonight to acknowledge something I haven't before. I'm glad you and Spock shared whatever it is that you've had together, and don't discount the very real possibility that that may be only the beginning."

Christine remained silent, unmoving. Then she crossed her arms and placed her hands atop Kirk's.

"I want Spock back," she said. "I want him back the way he was a week ago, the way he was three months ago on Athetis. And if I can't have him that way, I want him whatever way he is.

"Sometimes I think that what happened was my fault. I found the connection between the insects and plants, but I didn't carry it far enough." She paused and shrugged. "That's not fair, I know, but I keep thinking there must have been something I could have done. And now there's nothing I can do. Spock is wherever he is, and there's nothing I can do to help."

Kirk nodded. He turned his hands up and caught hers. "I know."

He stepped back, dropped his hands and put an arm around Christine's waist. "Come on, Doctor," he said quietly. "Let's get something to eat. I don't want to be subjected again to McCoy's idea of breakfast."

Christine smiled. Together they left the room.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

He could place the strong, sterile odors, but the sounds were wrong and the words were unintelligible. Spock strained to understand the words. Romulan. Yes, now he remembered. He opened his eyes.

"He is awake."

A face loomed over his and then retreated.

Movement to his right caught his attention. Spock shifted in the infirmary bed and tried to turn in its direction. Pain lashed through his body and he stopped. Yes, he remembered well.

"S'Halt," D'Gar asked, "do you wish to retain command?"

The Romulan commander stood rigidly at attention by his bedside. There was a ritual element to his stance and question. Spock forced his eyes to focus on the man.

"Do you wish to retain command?" D'Gar asked again.

If there was a prescribed response, Spock could not recall it.

"Yes, Commander," he said.

Spock tried to project conviction and strength in his answer. All he was able to accomplish was a low whisper.

D'Gar turned to leave. Spock held out a feeble hand to stop him. "Wait," he said. "You opened the door to my cabin. How did you know to come? Who was my attacker?"

D'Gar stopped and faced Spock. "Your attacker," he said, "was one who wished you dead. As to why I came, S'Halt, do not be deceived. My concern is with my ship. Murder will not be done here." He turned once more to leave. "You have seventeen hours, S'Halt."

Spock watched him go. D'Gar had answered neither question and had only raised more, but Spock didn't have the strength to interrogate him further.

The first person moved in again. "It was unwise," he said, "to attempt to retain command. You will not survive a challenge."

A hypo hissed against his arm before Spock could respond. The room faded as he once more lost consciousness.

* * *

D'Gar stepped into his cabin and locked the door behind him. Starting with the chest on the left, he swept his gaze slowly across the room. Nothing. Not that he had expected anything, but this habitual search had saved his life on more than one occasion.

Satisfied that the room was safe, D'Gar relaxed and more casually surveyed his private sanctuary. Against the clean military furnishings was displayed the whole history of his life.

On the second shelf of the bookcase lay the craaw, the ancient iron piton given to him by his father upon the completion of his passage rite. The metal spike was no longer used in scaling the rugged mountains of Romulus. The craaw was symbolic only, a reminder of earlier, harsher times. To D'Gar, the craaw held even deeper meaning. It was a symbol of his slow climb through the ranks, carefully, one step at a time.

D'Gar smiled, remembering his trial. He had stood in triumph on the last pinnacle of Al'Palmor and spread his arms, letting the wind whip around him. He watched the great tmbrea, tiny now from his vantage, sweep and glide on the shifting thermals rising from the valley floor. He had felt at one with the great birds, free and soaring. D'Gar's smile faded. It had been a foolish thing to do; he had very nearly lost his footing.

On the bed lay an intricately woven blanket. He had taken it as his first tribute when he was hardly more than a daem old, choosing it over the gaudy trinkets favored by his fellow initiates. He had wanted something which spoke of the people he had helped suppress. The fine craft and caring detail did indeed reveal much of those simple people. It had been a long time since D'Gar had thought of that campaign.

There were other things in the room which also spoke of D'Gar's journey through adolescence to command of his own starship. A display of Tellitian weapons, a box of rare Summa ornaments, Katian spinner's web, all marked D'Gar's passage through the stars.

One grouping of objects caught D'Gar's attention -- casting stones and the miki bag that had once hung about the oracle's neck. 'You will forsake your father's house and rebuke the teachings of your kin,' the old man had said before D'Gar snatched the stones and their carrying case from the seer.

Prophesies were but foolish lies spoken by old men. They held no sway over him. D'Gar picked up the stones and juggled them in one hand. He looked once more about the room, at the wall hangings, colored the deep wine-red of his mother's people. D'Gar continued to juggle the stones, then flung them against the wall.

Why did S'Anib have to carry his pledge to the Rao? What gods were responsible for sending him here, to this ship? D'Gar shook his head. He had done what he had to. S'Anib was dead, and he had killed him.

D'Gar bent and started to pick up the stones. What prophesy, he wondered, would be told from this casting?

* * *

J'Mir looked down at the unconscious figure on the bed. In the harsh light of sickbay, his features had appeared gaunt and pale. Here, in the subdued light of their cabin, his face seemed almost peaceful.

S'Halt, or at least the person everyone would take for S'Halt. Once more she held his life in her hands.

J'Mir rolled the vial of the powerful drug between her fingers. With it she could greatly accelerate his metabolism and healing process. The drug was illegal and dangerous. It was also expensive. J'Mir smiled thinly, remembering what she had pledged as payment.

Without it, S'Halt stood no chance of surviving the challenge. He would not even be able to meet it. D'Gar would have no choice but to kill him where he lay, ritualistically choking the life out of him with a cord made of ironweed. Even with the drug, S'Halt's chances of emerging victor were very slim.

Ignorant fool. If only he had yielded command back to D'Gar. It was unlikely that the commander would have taken S'Halt's life, as was his option. There was a softness to D'Gar that she had recognized from her years with S'Halt. No, D'Gar would not have taken his life then, but now he had little choice.

J'Mir walked to the other side of the bed. She stopped and ran her finger down the side of S'Halt's face. She could almost feel any gentleness acquired from her years with this man flowing from her, moving like a current through her finger and out of her. Even if S'Halt lost, and she was relegated once more to the status of an unnamed female, then everything she had done would still be worthwhile. For once it was she who was in control. And that made everything worthwhile.

J'Mir bent and administered the drug.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The memorial service for Spock had ended half an hour ago. The Enterprise had slowed to impulse power, and Spock's body had been ejected into a decaying orbit about the star of a still forming solar system. Once the capsule containing his remains reached the corona of the young star, it would be consumed in fire and its elemental particles spun back into space by the solar winds.

The Enterprise was now back on course for Starbase Sixteen, traveling at warp seven. Christine sat in the observation deck, watching the stars wheel by at dizzy, mind-wrenching speeds. She heard footsteps approach from behind and turned.

"Uhura, come join me," she called softly, suddenly glad not to be alone.

Uhura hesitated a moment before taking the offered seat. She nodded to the port. "It's been a long time since I've seen the stars at warp speed."

"I know," Christine said. "It's almost impossible to watch." She reached for the controls.

"You don't have to change it for me," Uhura said.

Christine shook her head and completed her motion. "I'm ready for something more restful."

The wall turned opaque, then lit again with an image of space as it would appear at sub-light speed. The darts of piercing lights were gone and in their place floated the Cygnus veil nebula. Magenta and blue, it drifted past them, sparkling in reflected starshine.

"Now that's beautiful," Uhura said.

"Yes." Christine slid back and rested her head against the bolster. "You know, I was twelve before I ever saw the stars. I'd studied them, of course, but the background haze from the city made observation impossible." She motioned to the glittering spectacle through the viewport. "And it wasn't till I got to space that I really believed they'd come in colors."

For a while they sat in companionable silence, watching the stars. Then Christine turned to the other woman. She was glad that Uhura had come, to confirm their friendship by her presence and to share her grief. But Christine knew that Uhura also grieved. To Uhura, Spock was dead, and she knew her friend felt his death as a personal loss. Perhaps by now Spock really was dead. Christine felt she should say something about their shared pain.

"You know," she said, "he's not really dead, no matter what. Nothing is ever destroyed, it only changes."

Uhura considered her a long moment. "Chris..."

"No, really." She nodded to the nebula, which had once been a star, and which would one day form new stars. To Christine, who had thrashed out her beliefs against a backdrop of conflicting ideas and value systems, religion had always been a private matter. But she felt strongly about this. "I only mean that we're all made of the same matter, the same stuff of the stars. Someday we all will be reduced back to those most elemental parts. No matter what, we'll always remain part of that cycle. If I believe in an afterlife, it has to be that."

"Stardust?" Uhura considered, then smiled. "I never thought of it that way. I know one thing -- if you're right, there's a lot more stardust in some of us than in others."

Christine returned the smile. "Yes, of course." She got up. "I'm going to see Jim and Leonard. Walk with me?"

Uhura stood up. "Whatever I can do. I mean it."

Christine smiled. "I know. Thanks."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Spock came back to consciousness with a jolt. His heart idled and his breaths came in short, quick gasps. His gaze darted around the room. He was no longer in the infirmary. He tried to move and found he could not.

J'Mir walked toward him. "A necessary side effect of the drug," she said. "Your metabolism has been greatly accelerated, and you are immobilized to prevent further injury."

His lips felt as though they were plated with tirinium, and his tongue clogged his throat. He forced them to move. "Why?" he asked.

J'Mir raised an eyebrow in question.

"Why are you doing this?" The words were barely audible.

J'Mir came closer. She drew back the covers and examined the wound on his chest. She could almost see the edges knitting together beneath the transparent dressing. She looked up.

"Because you were a fool," she answered, "and now you must answer for your error. If D'Gar values his own station, even his own life, he will have no choice but to challenge your ability to command. And if you wish to remain alive, you must defeat him." J'Mir pulled back the covers. "Whether or not you will be able to do that, I don't know. You have a little over four hours before you are expected on the bridge."

J'Mir paused. Then she smiled and drew her fingernails across his forehead. "Do not fear. You will repay me." She smiled again and left.

Spock watched her until she vanished from his field of vision. Then he closed his eyes.

There was no pain, but he recognized even that freedom as drug induced. No drug should be necessary; he should be able to control his healing and the pain without drugs. Yet he knew he could not. He truly had been a fool to expect that he could simply take over S'Halt's body. Spock almost wished he had let the madness claim him, that he had not insisted on this existence. Almost, but not quite. He would survive. He would succeed in preventing the war that would mean the end of both their worlds. And somehow he would pay J'Mir's price.

Spock concentrated on blocking the sound of his blood as it rushed through his head. D'Gar had known his attacker; he had addressed him. Spock put all his effort into recalling those words, but he could remember nothing.

* * *

D'Gar returned to the bridge of the Rao. He had been with his chief surgeon discussing S'Halt's condition. There was little chance that S'Halt would be sufficiently recovered to maintain command, that he would survive a challenge, even with the illegal drug the doctor had implied J'Mir might have.

D'Gar walked past the weapons control station and took his place, standing at the command post. He could feel the excitement rising as the crew waited for the hour to arrive when he would challenge S'Halt for command. It almost felt like High-Daem, as though the Games were about to commence.

D'Gar activated the main viewscreen and studied the stars, picking out the familiar landmark constellations as they drew closer to Romulus.

Perhaps the analogy was not far from the truth, he reflected. High-Daem celebrated the victory of the Great One over the Small One, when the interloper sun was once more on the wane and conditions returned to what they were before. But things would never again be as they were, even if he did regain command. The peace conference was destroyed, and S'Anib was dead.

S'Anib -- mades'os'min -- kin of the same womb born. The words weren't even Romulan. Since lineage was only recorded through the father's house, by Romulan law they were not related. Yet to them the term once had meaning. He pulled back his shoulders. That was over now.

"Course?" asked D'Gar without turning.

"978.2 mark 42. Direct heading for Romulus."

"Any further sign of the Federation ship?"

"None. We have lost them on our long range sensors."

D'Gar noted the disappointment in his navigator's voice. Aggression and the need for revenge were traits which lay close to the surface of their race.

D'Gar turned and surveyed his officers. They were young, very young, but they were all warriors. They had survived the physical and mental rigors of their passage rite, achieving the highest ranks in all categories. And they had succeeded in the even more demanding training required of a warrior.

D'Gar's gaze settled on L'Trol, his weapons officer of the watch, and the only woman among his crew. No, he decided, he must stop thinking of her as a woman, for she was not one, not by decree, not by tradition.

He had often wondered what it must be like for her -- a daughter, first-born, allowed to attempt the rite because her father had no sons. That she had succeeded -- and magnificently -- was obvious from the fact that she was here, in the capacity that she held. But what must it be like for her? In exchanges, both public and private, she was considered a man. And yet it was a woman's body that one saw. D'Gar was sure that the prohibition against physically altering the appearance of these women was part of the punishment imposed on them for having dared attempt the trial. Yet, there were tales of such warriors who had accomplished great feats, who had taken women as lovers and who had, in all ways, succeeded as men. Perhaps L'Trol would be one such. D'Gar wished that for her.

D'Gar turned once more to the stars. Only two hours remained before he challenged S'Halt.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The door to the captain's office slid open and Christine walked in. In the center of the room stood Kirk and McCoy, quietly talking over cups of coffee. McCoy had changed from his formal uniform, just as she had. The captain, however, still wore the gold and braid of dress attire. Christine had always admired the uniform, feeling that Kirk looked rather resplendent and imposing in it. Right now she wished he had also decided to change. The uniform reminded her of the memorial service.

Walking toward them, she realized just how much she felt like a conspirator, and how badly she wanted that situation to end.

"Coffee?" Kirk asked, indicating a third cup on the server.

"Thanks, no." Christine sank into a lounge behind them.

Kirk and McCoy joined her on either side. "How long before we reach base?" she asked.

'Nineteen hours," Kirk answered.

"Is communication possible yet?"

Kirk took a sip of coffee and shook his head. "Most of it is still out. We've been able to alert Starfleet about our situation, but that's all."

Christine sank deeper into the cushions. She hadn't slept at all last night, and very little the night before.

"Debriefing can't come too soon for me," McCoy said, echoing Christine's sentiments. "Much as I hate those damned meetings, these past few days I've felt like I've been carrying the weight of the galaxy on my shoulders. I'll be happy when I can lay the responsibility in someone else's lap." McCoy set his coffee aside and settled back.

The captain leaned forward, cradling his cup between his hands. "I'm not sure we can do that, Bones. At least not yet."

McCoy frowned. "I don't understand. Are you suggesting we not tell Starfleet about the transfer?"

Kirk was silent a moment. Then he pushed himself up and walked to the far wall. He exchanged his coffee mug for a chess figure from the shelf, a third-level knight, whose role in three dimensional chess was to protect all levels from attack, even at the cost of his own position. Kirk carefully replaced the knight and turned around.

"The fact of the transfer," he said, "has no direct bearing on the destruction of the conference, or on whatever conspiracy exists to subvert peace. What's important is that an attempt was made on S'Halt's life. That attempt apparently failed."

Kirk paused and then walked toward them. He looked from McCoy to Chapel. "I can't order you to do this. I don't even have the right to ask it. But the more time we give Spock, the greater chance he'll have to succeed. And the fewer people who know about the transfer, the less likely it is that he'll be discovered."

McCoy shook his head. "Jim, this isn't question of loyalty, or being afraid to stick our necks out because we're sure they'll get chopped off. What was found on Alpha Pleiades, and what happened to Spock are things we simply can't keep to ourselves."

McCoy got up and walked to the captain. "You're right, Spock needs time, but he may need more than that. We're talking about preventing galactic war. You know how I feel about Starfleet, and the asinine way they go about a lot of things, but for once I think we're going to have to trust them. This is bigger than all of us."

Kirk frowned. He turned and walked slowly away from McCoy. Then suddenly he spun around.

"Do you have any idea what it's going to be like at those meetings?" he asked. "By now the Romulans have probably lodged an official protest. The decision whether or not to go to war won't wait for a formal council meeting. It's going to be made there. The base is going to be crawling with diplomats. We'll be lucky even to be debriefed first by Starfleet. There'll be so much jockeying for position and blustering that it'll make a Maagan Rume rut look like a mud puddle fight. And into that you want to casually toss the discovery that a means for identity transfer has been found -- and implemented? Just how long do you think that information will remain on Starbase Sixteen? The Romulans are going to find out, and at the very least the Federation will be accused of espionage, and Spock taken as a spy."

"Jim." Christine got up and walked toward the two men. She faced the captain. "I don't think Leonard is suggesting that we tell the first person who asks. I agree with him; we can't keep this to ourselves. I know don't want to."

Kirk looked unbelievingly at her and then at McCoy. "I don't understand why the two of you have taken this stand. If Spock fails, nothing will matter. We'll probably be blown to bits before we have time to consider the moral implications of our actions. But if Spock succeeds, then it won't matter either. Nobody's going to care how war was prevented; all they'll care about is that we've managed once more not to kill each other off!"

Christine raised her hand slowly, as though it held a great weight. She let it fall again. "We're not the only ones who know about the transfer," she said finally. "J'Mir knows too."

Kirk turned away from her and looked at the far wall and the chess set. "I haven't forgotten about J'Mir. We'll have to hope that, for whatever reasons she agreed to the transfer in the first place. J'Mir will keep Spock's identity secret."

McCoy stepped in front of Kirk, demanding his attention. "Jim, you're treating this as though it were simply a case of espionage, that when Spock gets back he'll shed the persona of S'Halt and everything will be as it used to be. It won't, you know."

Kirk glared at McCoy. "Yes, damn it, I know that!" He gestured broadly at the bulkhead and the vacuum beyond the ship's boundaries. "I just consigned Spock's body to space. I just presided over his funeral. I know damned well that if Spock makes it back, it won't be as the person we knew. But I have a lot more faith in him, and his ability to get to the bottom of this, than I do in this shipload of diplomats, or in nine-tenths of the bureaucrats in Starfleet!"

"What about the other one-tenth?"

Kirk turned to Christine. "What?"

"The other one-tenth. Jim, there has to be someone we can trust, someone we can request to conduct an investigation. We're not going to be able to keep this secret forever. We have to be able to trust someone. At least I know I do." Christine pressed the bridge of her nose between her forefingers distractedly. "You might be able to take on the responsibility for the galaxy, but I can't. I'm too tired." She turned and walked back to the lounge where she sank down wearily.

Kirk watched her walk away, then turned to McCoy. "I still don't agree that anything will be gained by alerting Starfleet right now, but maybe you're right." The captain paused. He pressed his lips together and shook his head before continuing. "Being out here -- having to make those kinds of decisions -- sometimes you forget there are other ways. Yes, there's someone we can trust -- Ahmid Cordova, Chief of Security. It will have to be in person, and it will take him some time to get to the base, but he'll come" Kirk smiled slightly, remembering the colorful admiral who was far too brilliant for Starfleet to dismiss, but who was also too much of a thorn to be kept anywhere but far away. "Come? Hell, Ahmid will probably blaze a trail through the Desolation Waste to get here." He turned to McCoy. "Does that meet with your approval, Doctor?"

McCoy straightened. "Yes, Captain. And Jim, I didn't mean to dispute your..."

Kirk shrugged off the explanation. "I've always invited open discussion. Sometimes I even listen." He looked over to Christine who sat with her eyes closed. "I think we all can do with some rest."

McCoy smiled. "Now you're sounding like me. Excellent medical advice, Doctor." He walked over to Christine and offered his hand. She took it and rose. Before they left, McCoy glanced back at Kirk, who was already calling up information on his desk terminal.

The captain looked up. "Don't worry; I'll take a nap. Right after I get done with these reports."

McCoy shook his head but said nothing.

Once outside, McCoy fished in his pockets and removed a small, clear packet containing two tiny silver colored balls. He pressed the pouch into Christine's hand.

Christine looked at the packet and then at McCoy. "A couple of Sweet Dreams?" she asked, abandoning the pharmacological name in favor of the common one for the mind-molding drug. "I don't--"

"--know of anyone who needs them more," McCoy furnished He started down the hall. Christine hastened to catch up. "You should feel honored," he said, "I hardly ever dispense those."

McCoy smiled, thinking of a crew of 430 happily encased in their most treasured recollections. The smile faded. "Seriously, Christine, sometimes it's -- logical -- to retreat. If something comes up and we need you, I can always call you back."

Christine started to protest again. McCoy closed her hand around the pills. "Take them. You may find you want them."

Later, in her darkened cabin, Christine tried to sleep, but she couldn't make her mind relax. She kept thinking of what had happened, and of what might yet happen. She reached over and took McCoy's packet from the bedstand and slipped the silver balls under her tongue. In the moisture of her mouth, they burst open.

The room and the Enterprise and today slipped away. The rich smell of wild mustard and rye grass rose to surround her. The air was warm and filled with the sound of insects, and the night sky sparkled with a thousand stars. Christine lay back and wove patterns through the stars, naming each constellation anew. She was twelve and it was the first time she had seen the stars.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

There was little time left. Anticipation spread throughout the Rao. Wagers were placed not only on who would win the contest -- for those odds were too heavily tipped in favor of D'Gar -- but also on what form the challenge would take.

If they were on Romulus, there would be no question. The battle would be fought high above the valley floor as the combatants dueled with whips of razorgrass until one glider, its wings shredded, plummeted to the ground.

But this was not Romulus, and the possibilities were many.

D'Gar stood rigid at the command post, hands clasped behind his back, considering his choice.

He would be swift. A clean cut to the apex of S'Halt's neck and shoulder would lay open the mezidex artery and insure a quick, if not painless, death.

D'Gar shifted slightly, bringing his arms forward. He could almost feel the solid heft of the short palister sword in his hand as his fingers curved around its molded shaft.

D'Gar had become quite proficient in the use of the ancient weapon. It was not always so. He remembered the first time he tried to wield the sword He had missed his mark so many times that he finally had to use the wedged side of the tempered blade to bludgeon the old man to death.

The Romulan commander shifted again, uneasily this time, as the memories of that day drew into sharp focus.

He was young, and it was the first time he had killed. He had expected to feel -- what? Exhilarated? Infused with a sense of his own might? The old man's death had left him feeling nothing but ill. D'Gar has used the water from his drinking pouch to wash the blood from his arms and hands. He had watched as the river of green seeped slowly into the ground. He thought the river would never end, that he would never be rid of the blood. It did end, but the killing did not. Killing was something which was expected of one in his position, and his position was very important to D'Gar.

Something clattered loudly to the floor, and D'Gar swung sharply around.

"Your pardon, Commander. I..."

"Yes. See to it quickly."

"Yes, Commander." The young warrior stooped and swiftly retrieved the tablet and light pen.

D'Gar turned back to the viewscreen and took a long steadying breath. The tension was so thick that it was almost a visible thing, snapping and dancing from one person to the next.

Soon it would end. Soon he would wash S'Halt's blood from his hands. D'Gar would return to Romulus, commander of the Rao. Yes, but to what would he return? D'Gar straightened. Would war already be declared? Or would peace simply be so subverted that war was inevitable? More blood would be shed. Green Romulan and Vulcan blood. Red human blood. Blood from a dozen races running as thick as the sap from a timbat tree. So much blood that it would never wash away.

The doors to the bridge opened and S'Halt entered. He was moments early and he walked with a deliberate stride. Perhaps, thought D'Gar, he had been too hasty in his estimation of his opponent's recuperative powers. But then, walking past the weapons station, S'Halt missed his footing. One knee gave way and he almost fell. The action was so slight, and the recovery so quick, that it was almost unnoticeable. But no one on the bridge missed it, or its significance. All eyes turned to D'Gar, each person abandoning even the pretext of attending to his station.

D'Gar swept his gaze angrily over his officers.

"No one has been dismissed from his post," he said. "Any dereliction of duty will be dealt with severely."

As the crew turned back to their tasks, D'Gar faced S'Halt.

D'Gar did not agree with S'Halt's philosophy of peace. It was too simplistic, a product of S'Halt's lineage and sheltered tutelage. No one who had struggled as hard as D'Gar to achieve his position could believe that the ways worn deep by millennia of use could so easily be discarded. But it was precisely that struggle that had proven to D'Gar that change was necessary. It took wealth and position to change those ways even slightly. Very few had that power. Perhaps no one except S'Halt had enough power.

D'Gar felt blood on his hands again, and this time it was his own. If there were going to be changes, S'Halt must live. And for that life D'Gar would pay with his career, his own life. D'Gar cursed S'Anib for what he stood for and for what he had done, and he cursed S'Halt for what he would make him do.

D'Gar stepped slowly aside. He touched his fingertips briefly to opposite shoulders. "Your orders?" he asked.

His eyes met S'Halt's and held. Then S'Halt nodded. No one else on the bridge moved or spoke. S'Halt took D'Gar's vacated place at the command station and moved his hand to the board for verification. A light blinked red, indicating confirmation of identity.

"Our position, Commander?" S'Halt asked.

"On course for Romulus."

S'Halt nodded. "Very well. Continue on course. I will be in my quarters." He stepped aside and walked steadily to the elevator.

D'Gar resumed his previous position. He straightened. Each muscle grew rigid as he silently dared anyone to question his actions.

"D'Gar," a feminine voice called. "S'Halt is not fit to command. You were remiss not to challenge him."

D'Gar spun around and glared at L'Trol. "And do you now challenge me?" he asked. "I will break your bones like hollow reeds. Do not tempt me, or fate, Woman."

She glanced at him briefly, then returned her attention to her post. D'Gar turned back to the viewer and stared at the stars.

* * *

Spock eased against the elevator railing and closed his eyes. There was no mistaking the significance of D'Gar's actions, but Spock had no idea why he had taken them.

Spock concentrated on breathing slowly and deeply. J'Mir's drug had worn off, leaving him more mobile and more whole than he would have thought possible, but the pain was also back now. It was there, flaming anew with each breath.

The elevator stopped. Spock opened his eyes, pushed himself erect and walked out.

J'Mir was waiting for him in their quarters. She sat at the edge of the bed, her legs crossed and tucked back, her hands folded serenely in her lap. At Spock's entrance she looked up but said nothing.

"What are the consequences to D'Gar for not challenging me?" he asked.

"So, he did not challenge. That is interesting." J'Mir looked away and was quiet. Then she returned her attention to Spock. "He will be required to account for his actions. Anyone may bring the charge of cowardice against him. If he is found guilty -- and Romulans are quick to find guilt -- he will be stripped of rank and punished, perhaps executed. At D'Gar's conviction, his accuser will find his own position enhanced." J'Mir shrugged. "Of course, if D'Gar is not found guilty, his accuser will suffer the same fate D'Gar would have received."

J'Mir uncrossed her legs and pushed herself lightly from the bed. "What does it matter? D'Gar must have thought you fully recovered or else he would have challenged." J'Mir walked over to Spock and ran her finger slowly down his chest. "Perhaps he was right; perhaps you are well..."

"I am not. I nearly collapsed on the bridge. It was obvious to everyone that I was not fit."

J'Mir shrugged again. "Still, it does not matter. You are here. You are alive."

Spock turned away and walled to the desk terminal, leaving J'Mir with her hand held in mid-air.

"D'Gar chose not to challenge me; he did so for a reason," Spock said as he began calling up the roster of Romulan survey members and their present location on the Rao.

J'Mir came closer. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"D'Gar knew my assailant. It should be a simple matter to deduce who that was."

"That won't be necessary. I know who it was."

Spock swivelled around in his chair.

"As you said, it is a simple matter. There is only one person missing. His name is S'Anib, and his House is given as T'Icron. That, however, is untrue."

J'Mir smiled at Spock's confusion. "The house is Romulan," she elaborated, "and S'Anib was not born on Romulus. There was a provincial aspect to his speech which he was not quite able to disguise. It is possible that he spent part of his life on Romulus, but he was not born there."

"How long have you known this?"

"Since I met S'Abnib. It is quite common. Advancement is easier for someone who is born on Romulus. For a few reffa, an obliging official can easily change a birthplace. I thought nothing of it."

Spock considered her words and then another possibility -- that he would be similarly detected. He had thought his mastery of the Romulan language was almost perfect. Studying the language tapes aboard the Enterprise and matching his tone and inflection to the voice simulator had almost become a game -- and a retreat. Spock remembered how easily his tongue had formed the clear-edged sounds of the Romulan language. After speaking Standard all day, it was almost as though he were speaking Vulcan again. How he wondered if his diction was actually that good or whether he would be discovered because of it.

"Can Romulans so easily detect a foreigner?" he asked.

J'Mir laughed and stepped closer. With one hand she reached beneath her braids and stroked the sebaceous glands at the base of her scalp. Then she slowly ran her fingers down the side of Spock's face. "I recognized S'Anib because am a linguist," she said. "No one will question you. You are a Romulan; you are S'Halt."

Spock could smell the faint, musky sweet odor of her body. Where her fingers passed, the scent lingered. She bent down and the odor enveloped him.

Spock stood up and deliberately moved away. He could still smell her odor on his cheek.

"Do you have any idea where S'Anib was born?"

"It could have been any number of places. I am not that well-versed in provincial dialects."

"I see." Spock stood still. He knew he should question her further, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate.

J'Mir walked slowly toward him. With each step her hips glided back and forth, up and down. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, and the scent of her body grew stronger. A distant part of his brain identified the odor as chemically enhanced pheromones he had encountered when he first met J'Mir in the infirmary on Alpha Pleiades, but the odor was different then. No, he decided ruefully, it was not the odor, but I who was different then.

J'Mir stopped in front of him. He could feel his body reacting to her presence. His heart began to beat more rapidly, and his skin grew warm with anticipation. The pain that he had experienced since awakening was almost unnoticeable now, pushed aside under the onslaught of more insistent demands.

"There is much you still don't know about Romulans," she said. "And much that I can teach you." She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body close to his. "I think you would find my lessons most pleasant."

Spock closed his eyes. The smell of her hair was nearly overwhelming. He drew a deep breath and held it, letting the fragrance work into his very being. His whole body throbbed now, waiting and wanting. Spock remembered his last night on Alpha Pleiades with Christine. He remembered her laughter and the coolness of her body against his and the way it moved in response to his touch. Those memories were precious to him, and thinking of them now made his present unwanted and uncontrolled reaction to J'Mir that much more abhorrent. With an effort, Spock let out his breath and pushed away from J'Mir.

"No!" he said. "I am Vulcan; I control."

J'Mir laughed. With one finger she traced the midline of his body until her hand came to rest on the bulge at his groin. "No, you are not Vulcan. And you do not control. You are Romulan now. Listen to your body. Submit to its demands."

Spock shook his head slowly. "I am Vulcan."

J'Mir dropped her hand. "I have heard it said that Vulcans feel desire for only brief periods in their lives. If that is true, then it is surely something which separates us from them." J'Mir paused, then smiled. "Or is it simply that you prefer soft, human flesh?"

Spock said nothing. He stared at her for a long while. Finally he spoke. "I am not Romulan, and I am not S'Halt. I do not want you. Leave now while you are still able."

J'Mir looked at him steadily for a moment, then she whirled and left.

Spock stood in the center of the room, staring at the closed doors. Finally he turned and walked to the bath where he stripped bare and washed the last of J'Mir's scent from his face. As he reached to place the used chem-towel into the disposer, Spock paused and looked at his face in the mirror. He studied each line and plane, each hair and pore and then, with one blow, he smashed his fist into the mirror. Spock watched the reflective metal bow and buckle and distort into a hundred different angles, exact in every detail but forming no recognizable whole. For a while longer Spock studied the distorted image and then he threw away the soiled towel, dressed and went to summon D'Gar.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

J'Mir strode down the corridor. She had nowhere to go, but she needed to walk, to physically vent her rage. She had been so sure of herself and her grand plans. Where was she now? She had merely traded masters. She would be forever bound to the wishes of this person whom she had allowed to live, forever subject to his desire -- or lack of desire -- bending to his every wish, existing only because he allowed it.

J'Mir's gaze drifted to the wall. Along its length the deeds of the Rao and all the ships before which bore the same name were chronicled. Of those crews, how many were women, she wondered. A handful at most. The very, very few who had succeeded in a society that had little use for women. J'Mir knew she could never be one of them. It was only because of S'Halt that she lived at all.

The Female -- the Small One -- the bringer of Chaos, the bringer of Change, the bringer of -- Nothing. Forever driven away and vanquished by the Great One. She was part of that cycle. Forever. J'Mir stopped. No, she was not. He owed her that much at least -- a chance to start anew, some place else where she could direct her own life.

J'Mir remembered the dreams of her girlhood, her dreams of freedom. They had become only dim memories. Now they were fresh once more. She would run in the ribiscus covered hill and owe to no one.

* * *

Spock raised his hand to activate the intercom, paused and opened the desk instead. From it he removed the transfer mechanism and laid it out flat.

Spock studied the device, turning it slowly in a circle. A new person, born at the moment of joining, he had speculated, carrying the obligations of both and owing to none. Neither and both. Spock pulled back in his seat. No, not both, only neither. Yet the obligation remained. He could not simply dismiss J'Mir, or wash her away.

Spock reached for the mechanism. He would speak with J'Mir after he confronted D'Gar. The door opened as he closed the object and replaced it in the drawer.

J'Mir walked into the room and stopped. In the moment before Spock returned the device, she had seen it in his hand. Somehow it was different, changed. Then she understood. The center, controlling rod was missing.

J'Mir looked at Spock. He had understood the price which could be demanded for use of the alien tool. Now he had defused its power.

Suddenly the faces of girls she had known in childhood appeared before her eyes. Young girls, infants, those who were almost women each arose, melted and reshaped into another face. All of them were dead.

"The dark flyer," the old women would whisper with a quiet, backward glance, the dark flyer who waited to carry off any girl who misbehaved. But J'Mir had soon learned that obedience was no guarantee against the night.

Only first-born females were assured the chance to grow to adulthood. The others were subject to the whims of their fathers, to live or die as their male providers chose.

J'Mir had come here to demand her due. She almost laughed. She had been short-sighted again. She would never have to demand, to beg, or seduce again. She had no need of Spock or S'Halt. She had no need of anyone.

Spock had removed the rod to protect against its use, but there were only a very few people to whom he could have given it, and J'Mir knew how to get it back.

"J'Mir." Spock rose and walked slowly toward her.

J'Mir quickly extended her arms, crossed in submission, and bowed her head.

"I beg forgiveness for my offense."

Spock glanced at J'Mir's hands, then with the side of his hand, tipped up her head. J'Mir dropped her hands.

"I have taken no offense," he said. "Instead, ask your indulgence. The situation in which we find ourselves is without precedent. I owe you a great deal -- my life and continued existence, command of this ship. And I owe you an additional debt through S'Halt, to provide for you as he would. I will not forsake that obligation."

J'Mir looked at Spock. It would be so easy to allow herself to be taken care of, to reap the rewards of his guilt and gratitude. Until now it was what she had wanted.

J'Mir inclined her head again and touched her fingers to opposite shoulders. "I wish only to do your bidding. It is what I have been bred to do."

Head still bowed, J'Mir left.

"J'Mir..."

She heard her name and ignored it.

Once in the corridor, J'Mir leaned back against the wall and let the cold seep through her clothes into her body. There were so many variables, so many ways in which she could fail. J'Mir smiled. She would take those chances; she would delight in them. She had lied when she said she did not know where S'Anib was born.

J'Mir looked up at the frieze on the wall. She would write her own history in colors as vibrant and clear.

* * *

D'Gar stead rigidly in front of Spock's desk, one arm still crossed at his shoulder.

"By your leave."

Spock nodded acknowledgment of the salute, then indicated a vacant chair. D'Gar remained standing.

"I require that you sit."

The pain that had so fleetingly departed now returned with renewed force. Spock had no desire to match D'Gar's stance; indeed, he was not sure that he was able to.

D'Gar took the seat, holding himself as erect in that position as when he was standing.

"You were aware that I was unfit fur duty, yet you did not challenge me. Why?"

"You are mistaken. I saw no indication that you were not fully recovered."

Spock leaned forward. "Do not take me for a fool, D'Gar. I would not have survived. That was obvious to you -- and to the rest of the bridge. You have placed your position, your life, in grave danger. I will know why."

D'Gar said nothing but stared straight ahead, looking beyond his commanding officer.

Spock took a deep breath and felt the fire in his chest blaze in response. This was all such a waste of time.

"You addressed my attacker by title. Who was S'Anib to you?"

D'Gar turned his attention sharply to Spock, then immediately away again.

"What does it matter? You have your life. I accept the consequences of my actions."

Spock got up, steadying himself against the desk.

"Your motives are of great importance. By your actions you have made a statement -- in support of me, and in support of peace. That commitment has been made. You cannot simply deny it now."

With an effort Spock straightened. D'Gar looked up to face him.

"At Alpha Pleiades," Spock said, "when you had the Federation ship within range, I -- sensed -- even then your reluctance to fire. Perhaps we are not so different. Death does not come easily to you either, does it, D'Gar?"

D'Gar glared at Spock. "No," he said in slow voice, "death does not come easily to me. I also -- feel -- perhaps too much. With each death it is as though I die a little myself. But if you think we are alike, you are mistaken."

Spock shook his head. "It is not... It does not make sense for one to save without cause the life of another whom he hates. I will know why you did not take my life, D'Gar."

"Because--" D'Gar spat out the word. He looked away and began again in more moderate tones. "Because, while some of us may wish for change, only a very few have the resources to bring it about." He turned to Spock. "You have no concept of what it is to live a life without those resources. Even at Ettrais you were able to retire your command. No one dared bring the charge of cowardice against you. Your wealth and your father's House protected you even then. I will have no such protection."

Spock sat down wearily. "No, you will not; you will forfeit your life for your actions today. And if you do not tell me who S'Anib was, your sacrifice will be an incredible waste."

Spock clasped his hands together on the desk and considered D'Gar carefully before continuing.

"I am convinced that S'Anib's attack upon me, here, and on Alpha Pleiades, was part of a larger plan to see that peace is not achieved. I do not believe the Federation was responsible for the destruction of the conference site; however, I lack proof to substantiate my claim.

"I too must answer for my actions, and while my resources may be great, they are not without end, and my strength certainly has its limits. If you wish to see the changes you say you desire, you must give me the information I need to convince the Council of Holding that our actions were justified and that war must not be declared."

Spock paused again. Truth drugs and verifier scans might force the information from D'Gar. Spock did not want to consider them. He would much rather have D'Gar as an ally.

"D'Gar," he said. "Who was S'Anib?"

D'Gar continued to sit rigid and silent. Then suddenly he slumped back in the chair, as if, in that instant, his bones became unable to hold him upright. When he spoke it was with resignation.

"S'Anib and I were born of the same woman. As children we were closer than most, perhaps because the ways of the one who bore us set us apart. She had come from Kriis when S'Anib was a small child and had no sponsors on Romulus other than my father. When S'Anib returned to us for the last time after his father had taken him to prepare for his trial -- he was changed. He was crazy with the conviction that only through war and conquest could Romulus realize its true destiny. He believed it with a religious zeal. I did not see him again until he came onto the Rao."

"Until you saw him here, in my quarters?"

D'Gar turned his hand over and stared intently at his outstretched fingers. It was his left hand, the hand that had fired on S'Anib. D'Gar looked up.

"No, I had seen S'Anib when he first came on board. I was surprised to see him with a scientific expedition. I was sure that he had passed his trial with highest marks, and, given his beliefs, would be a warrior. When he wasn't in his assigned cabin, another possibility presented itself: that he had been planted on the survey to disrupt it. I came to warn you and found S'Anib already here."

"For which I will always be in your debt."

"As I said, I would not allow murder on this ship, in any case."

"Yes." Spock unclasped his hands and moved back in the chair. "What do you know of S'Anib's people?"

"Nothing other than what I have told you, and what is generally known. Kriis was settled almost a lifetime ago; since then its inhabitants have kept to themselves, except for those interactions required by law."

Spock nodded. "And your mother, why did she leave?"

D'Gar suddenly tensed. "My mother did not speak of her reasons for leaving. I did not ask."

Spock noted his error. "I did not wish to suggest otherwise. It is important that my understanding of S'Anib and those whom he followed be as complete as possible."

"I know nothing more."

Spock remained silent, considering, then rose as a sign of dismissal.

"You will accompany me to the Council. You will tell them what you have told me."

D'Gar stood and touched his hands to his shoulders. "By your leave." He turned to go.

"D'Gar."

The commander stopped and glanced back.

"Our cause is the same," said Spock. "There is no need for us to be adversaries."

D'Gar turned to face Spock. "We are not adversaries. But we are who we are born. Nothing can change that."

"If you believe that, D'Gar, then you have risked your life for a cause you cannot believe will succeed."

"That change must come is obvious to me. But it is for Romulus and our future that I hope, and not for me."

D'Gar turned once more to leave. Then he paused.

"You asked me what I called S'Anib. I called him 'brother'," said D'Gar, employing the Romulan word indicating paternal lineage. "He was my only brother. My father sold himself into servitude for five raar to pay for my training. How many sons did your father have? Twenty? Thirty?"

The question was insubordinate. There was no reason for Spock to answer, yet he did, and without hesitation.

"My father had thirty-four sons. But we are each only one. If change is possible on the grand scale, then it is also possible on the personal."

D'Gar nodded. "As you say." He saluted and left.

Spock sat down again. He thought back to the attack and to S'Anib's words and actions. There was something vaguely familiar about both, but he could bring neither into focus. D'Gar had said he had called S'Anib 'brother', yet Spock could not remember him using that word. Spock shook his head The whole event seemed shrouded and unreal as though covered by a mantle he could not remove.

Spock leaned forward to activate the desk terminal. If the Rao was like the Enterprise, he would be able to tap into the main library and get the information he needed on Kriis: He paused as his hand passed into his field of vision. S'Halt's hand, his hand. My father had thirty-four sons. Did he? Or did he have only one, who was now dead?

Spock closed his eyes, then reopened them and deliberately completed his motion.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

"Aye, but like criminals?"

Commander Scott stood by the transporter console, his hands poised above the gauges. He shook his head slowly.

Captain Kirk was the last to beam down to Starbase Sixteen. The Federation delegates the Enterprise had been transporting, and the scientists they had picked up from Alpha Pleiades, were already on the artificial satellite, as were McCoy and Chapel.

The captain reached over and completed one final adjustment to the instrument panel. "Not like criminals, Scotty. I haven't been accused of anything. Christine and Leonard certainly haven't."

"Then why must you be confined to the base while the Enterprise is sent off? It's Hernandez' doing; I'll wager you that!"

The captain straightened and stepped back. "All ships are being brought on line. The Enterprise is too valuable to be kept in orbit waiting for us to complete our depositions."

The engineer shook his head again. "Aye, but..."

Captain Kirk stepped up on the transporter pad. "Take good care of her for me, Scotty."

Mr. Scott smiled thinly and nodded. "That I will, sir."

The captain paused, looking around the transporter room before giving the order to energize. He could feel the warmth of the controlling rod Spock had given him as it lay in his pocket. If they failed, and war broke out, he might never see the Enterprise again. The captain mentally shook himself. Nothing would be gained by idle speculation. He nodded curtly to his engineer and the energy field enveloped him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Spock stood at the command station of the Rao, searching the viewscreen for the sole satellite of Romulus' secondary sun, the planet Kriis. The starship had just dropped from warp space into sublight speed on its approach to Romulus. Soon the screen would darken in response to the growing brilliance of the primary sun, a K5 star.

Spock shifted his stance slightly and brought his hands forward to grip the edge of the stand for balance. D'Gar had said that little was known of S'Anib's people, and several hours of library research had proven him correct. Much, however, was recorded about the planet. All of it pointed to a world that was inhospitable in the extreme.

Kriis was so barren that it was best described by what it lacked -- adequate available water, sufficient free oxygen, and enough naturally occurring material to construct shelter against the onslaught of daytime heat and nightly temperatures that plunged below zero. What few forms of life had evolved on Kriis existed only because of their ingenious, and often fierce, adaptations to their deadly environment. Had it not been for the ore contained in its equatorial mountain range, Kriis would probably never have been colonized. As it was, those minerals made its governing House of Z'Itor very wealthy.

"Commander," the communications officer called, drawing his attention, "we are receiving a message from Romulus. Councilman Sitel demands to speak with you in private."

Sitel. The name meant nothing to him. Did he dare speak with the councilman, or did he dare refuse? Jim Kirk had taught him how to play poker and how to bluff. Spock looked straight ahead. Yes, Jim Kirk. There had not even been time for a proper farewell.

"I will speak with no one until I have addressed the full Council of Holding," declared the Romulan commander as the starfield faded slowly into darkness.

* * *

Fator-a-Kira, S'Halt's ancestral home, jutted out of the craggy rock like a great tmbrea caught at the edge of flight. Massive ironwood supports swept forward, away from the cliff face, like outspread wings. Banners of blue and gold and deep violet whipped back and forth from the balconies, buffeted in the upswelling thermals. Only a granite foundation kept Fator a-Kira from flying into the screeching wind.

It was almost dark when S'Halt and J'Mir transported directly into the main hall. The Great One had long since set and the shadows cast by the Small One were long and broad. The hall itself, however, was brightly lit. Clusters of lum-rods grew in profusion along the curved walls, and overhead thousands of tiny glowstones sparkled in null gravity spheres.

The light glinted off the polished stone floors and soaked into the richly textured tapestries. It snaked around boldly carved chairs and long, sharp-edged tables until finally it filtered out the thick paned windows to cast shadows of its own into the descending dark.

An old man came toward them. With each step he twisted his torso, throwing his shoulders forward as he dragged a whithered and clubbed foot. He held his hands outstretched and cupped.

"See, Master," he said as he edged toward them. "I have cared for it well. It will sing for you as it did when you left."

J'Mir stepped forward. "Your master is ill and tired, Bakor. He has no time for pets. Go prepare a bath of hot ash and ground stone."

The old man glanced at his hands, then lowered then slowly. He studied S'Halt through squinted eyes, his whole face folding into a series of wrinkles like the rippled hide of a tree toad.

"Yes, yes, of course."

He turned and shuffled toward the door.

"Wait."

Bakor stopped and held his hands out to S'Halt.

"See," he said quickly. "Just as you asked. Each morning I have fed it nectar of starfire."

Spock nodded and cupped his hands next to Bakor's. A little ball of incandescent feathers hopped on one leg from one set of hands to the other. With one hand Spock brushed back shimmering tufts of down from the almost totally obscured head. A tiny mouth opened, iris like, growing larger and larger as the whole body puffed to four times its original size.

Music filled the hall, ebbing and swelling in a multitude of sound and intonation. It seemed impossible that such a small creature could produce such volume or depth of harmony.

Spock cupped his hand over the small bird, and the room was once more quiet. "You have done well, Bakor," he said.

The old man nodded excitedly. "Yes, yes. Thank you." He reached out and reclaimed the silent creature. "Thank you," he said again, smiling proudly. Bakor brought his hands to his face and peered between them with one eye. He cooed softly and rocked his hands gently. Then he looked up.

"I will make the bath for you now. White ash. From the Flame Mountains of the north. Very hot. You will feel better. Much better." Then, executing a series of short bows, Bakor left.

Spock watched him go, then turned to J'Mir.

"His affliction is easily remedied," he said. "Surely Romulans are aware of the technique."

J'Mir laughed wryly. She walked over to table piled high at the center with a wide variety of fruit. She looked over the display before choosing a piece which was long and purple with a bulbous protrusion at one end. J'Mir bit off the tapered end and spit it into her hand.

"Romulans have their own techniques," she said as she squeezed gently on the swollen end. "The Passage Rite is very demanding. No one who is not physically fit can survive it."

Spock frowned. "Yet Bakor..."

"Bakor is a testimony to your father s wealth and position. Kareel arranged for Bakor to survive, and he has been in the service of your house hold ever since."

"That still does not explain why corrective surgery was not performed afterwards."

Bright pink pulp squirted into J'Mir's hand. She licked the sticky substance from her fingers and placed the expended fruit aside.

"Romulans see what they wish to see. Bakor is crippled and simple-minded, but since there are no such adult males, Bakor's deformities must not exist." J'Mir paused, considering another choice of fruit. "There are those who say that Bakor is Kareel's first born, that his mother placed a curse on her child before he was delivered rather than produce a healthy son for the person who'd destroyed her father's House." She shrugged. "Of course that is only a story." J'Mir picked up a cluster of quivi and began plucking scarlet balls from the short magenta stems. "If I were you, I would be mindful of my actions around Bakor. He may be slow, but he has known you since you were an infant, and his simple nature may lead him to question where others would not dare."

Spock nodded. "Your council is appreciated. I will heed it."

He looked from J'Mir to the fruit which now lay in disarray across the table. He picked up one piece experimentally. Romulan fruit was so different from that which grew on Vulcan. There, even those produced under controlled conditions retained characteristics of their desert origins. They were thick skinned and often covered with spikes or other growths to discourage predators. Everything here looked thin-skinned and soft, tantalizing the eye as well as the palate.

J'Mir pointed to a green-blue globe that seemed to be made of six distinct parts fused together. "The yerba has always been your favorite. Once you had a whole shipment sent in out of season."

Spock raised one eyebrow, but said nothing. J'Mir continued to pull apart the quivi.

"The bird that Bakor brought is called a prool. The eggs are taken from the wild and artificially incubated. When the prool hatches it imprints on the first living thing it sees. It will never sing for another." J'Mir put aside the plucked magenta stems and wiped moisture from her lips with one finger. "So, you see, your identity is well established."

Spock remained silent. He didn't even look at J'Mir. Instead he continued to examine the brilliant cornucopia before settling on the yerba. As J'Mir predicted, the flavor was delightful, sweet with just an edge of tartness.

* * *

Bakor scrubbed the palms of his hands against the rough fabric of his apron as he surveyed his work. It was important that the bath be just right -- only enough water to make a thick poultice and hot enough to draw out poisons without scalding. Bakor pressed his lips together, considering. Then he picked up a heavy paddle and stirred, using wide sweeps to move the volcanic ash mixture from the side of the oblong tub to the center. Just a little more water and he could add the azurelium.

Bakor put down the paddle and shuffled to the water spigot, carrying a pitcher in one hand. He shook his head as he thought about his master. S'Halt did not look well. There was pain and weariness in his face, and something else that Bakor could not name.

Bakor pulled down on one of the decorative double headed serpents, and steaming water poured into his pitcher. He set the container on the edge of the sink and took a vial from the shelf above it. The scent of sea moss and salt filled the room as he poured the essence into the water. Bakor smiled. S'Halt would be pleased he remembered.

* * *

J'Mir stepped carefully over the loose rocks, hitching up her cloak with one hand as she went. In her free hand she carried a lightwand which she directed at the rubble strewn path in front of her. She had not been here since shortly after S'Halt had brought her to Romulus. Since that time many seasons had passed and many small landslides had almost hidden the twisting path.

A fork opened in the trail and J'Mir looked up, unsure of which direction to take. She played the light beam against a rocky outcropping until she found her landmark, an old rimhold tree whose spindly roots held captured a huge granite boulder. The lower limbs pointed up and east, toward the flat table rock she sought.

* * *

"Samor is doing well. He's at the fifth level and his rite is more than a raar away, T'Orin is a problem. His mother says he is too young to start, but he's already a full daem old." Bakor fell silent and stopped what he was doing. "I think she's afraid he will not make it," he said after long consideration.

Spock closed his eyes against the chatter and sank deeper into the hot, damp ash. Names he should know but did not. S'Halt's sons. His sons. Spock dismissed the thought. There were more important considerations, such as what he would do tomorrow at the council meeting.

Spock turned his head sideways and opened his eyes. Bakor was stirring more ash and water, turning the mixture blue with azurelium. The heat felt pleasant as it penetrated deeply into his body. He could almost sense it healing his wounds and restoring his strength. The odor of the ash was strange, but oddly pleasant.

"You have scented the bath well, Bakor," he said as he eased his head back against the wooden rest. "It is almost refreshing."

Bakor laid his paddle quickly aside and hurried to the tub. "See! See! I did not forget. Did you think that I would? Sea moss and salt you said before you left. I did not forget. I bought it from a trader who was making one last trip before High Daem. Sea moss and salt. I did not forget."

Spock almost smiled. Such a little thing.

"No, Bakor, I did not think you would forget. It is only that I have been very ill. My mind is not as clear as it should be. You must forgive me if I seem thoughtless or absent-minded."

Bakor smiled broadly and nodded. "Yes, Master. I will make you well."

The old man retreated and came back with a bucket of azurelium stained ash which he added to the tub, using his hands to swirl blue patterns into the white. Spock raised his hand and let great gobs of the blue mixture fall from his arms with dull thuds. On another world everything had been blue. But that was another life, one to which he doubted he would ever return.

CHAPTER FORTY

J'Mir drew a circle on the flat rock with her lightwand. Where the beam passed, the stone phosphoresced a brilliant green. She stepped into the ring and walked counter-clockwise, echoing the path of the Small One as it traveled around the Great One. When she came to the easternmost point, she stopped and faced west, where the last rays of the weaker sun still lit a thin sliver of sky. She stretched out her arms, reaching, but no fingertips touched hers. There was no one to set the circle with her. So in her mind J'Mir called all the women she could remember -- the young, the old, those dead and those who still lived, cowering in the shadow of the Great One.

The ring expanded until it was larger than the world, larger than the Small One, until it was finally as big as the Great One. J'Mir held the image in her mind as she chanted, throwing her voice out against the wind:

"Goddess Sun, Sister,

We call you;

Let us taste of your power

To swell the oceans and drive the wind.

Spark of solar flame,

Anoint us with your burning light;

Cast out the darkness

And stay with us forever."

And then she waited, letting the energy of the circle drain into her until she was full.

J'Mir dropped her hands and stepped outside the ring. The figure drawn on the stone faded away until all that remained was the flat, dark rock and the night. With a final backward glance to where the Small One had just set behind the jagged line of mountains, J'Mir stooped and caught the hem of her cloak with one hand, turned and walked back to Fator-a-Kira.

* * *

Spock sat back and pressed two fingers against the corner of his eyes. The fabric of his robe felt warm against his skin, and the room was quiet except for the hypnotic whine of the wind as it raced through the outside corridor. It would be so easy to sleep, he thought. He knew that he could not. As it was, he had little time to prepare for the upcoming council meeting.

Spock dropped his hand and stared down at the desk, at the stack of papers and neat rows of writing implements laid out by the terminal in precise order, like a field of pre'quel ready for harvest. Everything in the room, from the polished greystone bench that ran the length of one windowed wall, to the brightly painted designs that decorated the other, reflected the same order and attention to detail. These were S'Halt's private quarters and, although they were very different from anything Spock had known, either on the Enterprise or on Vulcan, he felt oddly at ease in his present surroundings. Spock shook his head as he placed his hands over the keyboard. It was ironic; even at another time he and S'Halt would have found much to share.

Several hours of study later, Spock sat back again. Using the access code J'Mir had provided, he had called up all the official and personal information available on each councilman as well as a detailed description of the operating procedures of the High Council. Now at least he had the basis on which to begin formulating his arguments against war.

Spock pushed gently against the edge of the desk and his chair slid against the black stone floor. Even S'Halt's extensive library contained little useful information on the House of Z'Itor, under whose stewardship the colony of Kriis was governed. Of Kriis itself, or its people, he had learned nothing new.

Spock stood up and walked to the window. Night. There was something universal about the blackness, something which flattened everything to the same monochromatic hue. He drew back his shoulders, willing the stiffness and weariness away. The night was simply the night, an astronomical event, which on this planet would grow shorter and shorter until the orbit of the secondary sun brought the captured rogue in line with Romulus. Then for three revolutions there would be no night at all as the primary sun lit one half of the planet, and the secondary sun lit the other. High Daem. That time was fast approaching.

High Daem. The time of chaos and change, of war. He had been so sure that he could expose S'Halt's attackers and identify the true destroyers of Pax. Now he was not nearly so positive. The political workings of the Romulan government were much more complicated than he had imagined. He had just barely begun to unravel the intricate pattern of alliances between the twenty-three ruling houses, and those were only the most obvious. Even with D'Gar's supporting evidence, Spock was not at all sure he would be able to plead his case successfully. And if he didn't, there almost certainly would be war.

Spock walked back to his desk. His own fate was uncertain, especially in the event of war. What then would become of the ancient device he kept locked in the drawer? More than ever, Spock knew that his decision to give part to Kirk had been correct, but would that be sufficient? At his death, the section he had kept would be found. What would happen to it then?

Spock palmed open the drawer and removed the ovoid object lying there. He considered it a long moment, turning it over in his hand. He could destroy it, but his scientific mind balked at the thought. He still believed that, employed under strictly controlled conditions, in the spirit of peaceful cooperation, the device could be used for good. But in war...

Spock closed the drawer and placed the object on his desk. Then he leaned over and opened a line to Bakor. The old man was loyal to S'Halt and would follow his orders without question. Spock regretted what he had to ask of him.

* * *

J'Mir turned off the comm unit, stood up and smiled; everything was happening as she had planned. Like the movements of an ancient water wheel, one cog was turning the other. Soon she would have what she wanted.

J'Mir glanced down her robe. The hem of the long white cloak was stained red with dust, and the threads were pulled where it had snagged on branches. She ran one finger down the center of her bodice. Soon she would have to change into something softer. For now she enjoyed the rough texture of her robe and the sense of power it instilled in her.

* * *

Bakor shuffled quickly into the room. S'Halt rarely called him so late in the evening. Something must be wrong. As he came closer the old servant scrutinized his master's features. Yes, the lines of fatigue were still there, marking his face like drying-cracks left on the shore after the sea's retreat. The bath had done no good. Yes, that must be it. S'Halt was displeased with his efforts. But he would do better. Now, if S'Halt would allow it. Black ash from the Triktar Mountains. It was said that the brittle flakes could draw out poisons that affected the spirit as well as the body. He was stupid not to have thought about it before.

Bakor brought his hands crossed to his shoulders and bowed his head as he came to a stumbling halt in front of the desk.

"Master, please forgive me. I have not served you well. I should be beaten and left naked in the wind."

Spock leaned forward, resting his hands an the desktop. "I would not beat you, Bakor, or send you into the wind. You have served our house well for many years. It is for this reason that I have called you. I must ask you to do something which is very important, but which may also be very dangerous. There is no one I can trust as I trust you. You must listen, and follow my instructions very carefully. Do you understand, Bakor?"

The old man pulled himself as straight as he was able. He had always done the best that he could, but often he had known that it was not good enough. Others were faster than he was. They understood things he could not. Only S'Halt had ever asked him to do anything really important.

"Yes. Master. I understand I will not fail you."

Bakor watched intently as Spock nodded slowly, then reached for the strange object on his desk.

"No, Bakor, I know that you will not. We must keep this safe. No one knows Fator-a-Kira better than you. Do you know where we can hide it so no one will find it?"

Bakor studied the egg-like object his master held. How could something so small be so important? Again he did not understand. "There are special places under the house that only I know about, tunnels that were made when Fator-a-Kira was built. I used to go there and play when I was little." Bakor looked up shyly. "I sometimes still go down there. No one knows about them but me."

Spock nodded. "That would be a good place." He handed the object to Bakor who took it carefully.

"I will keep it safe, Master," he said. The thing was much heavier than he thought, like the egg of a firebird, only filled with stone. Bakor turned it over slowly, looking at it very closely.

"And if I should die, Bakor, you must destroy it."

Bakor looked up quickly. He had often wished for death himself. Then his spirit would soar with tmbrea. He would be free and whole. But S'Halt had no reason to want his life to end. Why should he talk of death?

"But, Master, you will not..."

"If I should die," Spock continued, speaking slowly and deliberately, "you must take what I have given you and crush it between two stones, then throw the pieces from the highest balcony. While I am alive you must let no one have it except for me. You must protect it, even with your life. Do you understand, Bakor?"

The old servant nodded. He did not understand why S'Halt should ask this of him, but he would do as he was told. He held the strange object carefully in both hands. "I understand, Master."

Spock drew his hands back and straightened in his chair. Bakor would protect the device with his life, if necessary. It was as safe as he could make it for now. One more thing needed to be resolved. He pushed back the chair and rose carefully. "Go now, Bakor, and do as you have been told, and after you have found a safe hiding place, send J'Mir to me."

Bakor nodded again. Then holding the thing that S'Halt had given him tightly in his hands, he turned and walked slowly toward the door, moving his body so that the drag of his crippled leg was almost unnoticeable.

END OF PART TWO

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