Star Trek - Sarek A C Crispin

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SAREK [066-118-4.7]

By A.C. CRISPIN

Synopsis

Sunset on Vulcan.

In the west, 40 Eridani A--Nevasa--was setting, staining the magenta sky

with swaths of deep amethyst, gold, and coral. But the tall figure

silhouetted against the sunset was blind to the glory behind him; Sarek

of Vulcan faced east, watching his world's sister world, T'Rukh, at full

phase. The giant planet orbited a mere 149,895.3579 Federation Standard

kilometers from her companion world--and filled thirty degrees of sky.

Because the two worlds were tidally locked, Vulcan's sister planet,

T'Rukh, was only visible from this side of Vulcan. Looming perpetually

against the high, jagged horizon, the giant world went through a full

set of phases each day. Only at sunset did the bloated sphere fully

reveal her ravaged visage.

Sarek had chosen this remote location for his mountain villa in part

because of its view of T'Rukh. Here at the edge of the civilized world,

the ambassador never tired of watching T'Rukh poised atop the Forge, an

inhospitable continent-sized plateau seven kilometers higher than the

rest of the planet. Few indeed were the individuals who saw the sister

world's whole face on a regular basis; only the ancient retreat and

shrine of Gol lay farther east than Sarek's villa.

The wind, cooling now that Nevasa had set, plucked at Sarek's

light-colored tunic and loose trousers. As he watched T'Rukh intently,

his lean, long-fingered hands tightened on the balustrade of the terrace

overlooking the eastern gardens. The ambassador was attempting to reach

a decision.

Logic versus ethics... Should the needs of the many outweigh the

conscience and honor of the one? Could he compromise what he knew to be

right, in order to accomplish what was necessary?

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any

resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is

entirely coincidental.

-- POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the

Americas, New York, NY 10020

/ STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of

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Paramount Pictures.

portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket

Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN 0-67179562-7

First Pocket Books paperback printing February 1995

10987654321

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

Printed in the U.S.A.

To Michael Capobianco, with love

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many people helped me produce this book. With the caveat that any errors

are assuredly my own, I wish to thank

Mark Lenard, whose evocative portrayal of the character inspired Sarek.

Mark is a fine actor who is also a gracious and warm human being. He

took a personal interest in this novel from its earliest inception.

For technical information

Michael Capobianco, fellow author and amateur astronomer, for

information on planetary orbits, rings and the like. (Not to mention

driving me to the Fed Ex depot, faxing hunks of the manuscript, fixing

dinner and providing much-needed shoulder rubs and encouragement during

tough times.)

Irene Kress and Judy May, for information on the effects of stroke. ix

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS For STAR TREK brainstorming, viewpoint and lore

John Jobeck and Ellen Marie Konicki, my favorite Klingons

Margaret Wander Bonanno, my favorite Vulcan... well, my favorite female

Vulcan.

Marc Okrand, for inventing words and phrases in Klingonese when I needed

them. Thanks, Marc. Now I know what to say if I ever make love to a

Klingon!

For editorial advice and assistance

Kevin Ryan and John Ordover, the STAR TREK editors at Pocket Books.

And, for just Being There when I needed them

Vonda, Nancy, Merrilee, Liza, Deb and Teresa.

And last, but foremost, I have to thank my longtime friend and co-author

Kathleen O'Malley, who provided valuable editorial insight and

criticism... and much, much more. Without Kathy, I doubt this book would

have made it into print.

PROLOGUE

Sunset on Vulcan.

In the west, 40 Eridani A--Nevasa--was setting, staining the magenta sky

with swaths of deep amethyst, gold, and coral. But the tall figure

silhouetted against the sunset was blind to the glory behind him; Sarek

of Vulcan faced east, watching his world's sister world, T'Rukh, at full

phase. The giant planet orbited a mere 149,895.3579 Federation Standard

kilometers from her companion worldmand filled thirty degrees of sky.

Because the two worlds were tidally locked, Vulcan's sister planet,

T'Rukh, was only visible from this side of Vulcan. Looming perpetually

against the high, jagged horizon, the giant world went through a full

set of phases each day. Only at sunset did the bloated sphere fully

reveal her ravaged visage.

Sarek had chosen this remote location for his mountain villa in part

because of its view of T'Rulda. Here at the edge of the civilized world,

the ambassador never tired of watching T'Rukh poised atop the Forge, an

inhospitable continent-sized plateau seven kilometers higher than the

rest of the planet. Few indeed were the individuals who saw the sister

world's whole face on a regular basis; only the ancient retreat and

shrine of Gol lay farther east than Sarek's villa.

The wind, cooling now that Nevasa had set, plucked at Sarek's

light-colored tunic and loose trousers. As he watched T'Rukh intently,

his lean, long-fingered hands tightened on the balustrade of the terrace

overlooking the eastern gardens. The ambassador was attemptins to reach

a decision.

Logic versus ethics ... Should the needs of the many outweigh the

conscience and honor of the one? Could he compromise what he knew to be

right, in order to accomplish what was necessary?

Sarek gazed across the Plains of Gol, considering. Long ago, he had

studied with several of the Masters there. What would his teachers do if

they were in his place?

The ambassador drew a deep breath of the evening air, then let it out

slowly as he regarded the surrounding mountains. He had chosen this site

for his private retreat decades ago, when he and his second wife had

first been married. These remote hills were cooler, even during the

daylight hours, and thus easier for humans--in particular, one special

human--to endure than the scorching heat of the rest of his world.

Night deepened around Sarek as he watched T'Rukh.

Evening on this hemisphere of Vulcan did not bring darkness, though.

T'Rukh, the huge world humans called Charis, provided forty times the

light of Earth's full moon. At full phase, T'Rukh was a swollen

yellowish half-sphere, a dissipated eye that never blinked, even when

spumes and geysers of fire from her volcano-wracked surface penetrated

her cloud cover. Sarek noted absently that a new volcano had erupted

since yesterday; the large, fire-red dot resembled an inflamed abscess

on the planet's sulfuric countenance.

T'Rukh was only one of The Warchef's names; her name varied according to

the time of the Vulcan year. More than twice as large as Vulcan, T'Rukh

boasted a moon of her own in a low, fast-moving orbit. Tonight

T'Rukhemai (literally,

"Eye of The Watcher") was visible as a dark reddish sphere almost in the

center of the planet--a pupil in a giant eye.

The little worldlet, slightly larger than Earth's moon, or bited The

Watcher so quickly that its motion was almost perceptible to the naked

eye. Sarek watched The Watcher, and she stared back at him balefully.

It was his habit to stand here and watch The Watcher whenever he faced a

difficult decision. And the one he faced now was proving to be one of

the most difficult choices of his career. Logic chains ran through his

mind, presenting pros and cons relentlessly, over and over. Should he

act? The action he was contemplating went against all the rules of

diplomacy and interstellar law. How could he abandon those rules, he who

had devoted his life to upholding the tenets of civilized society?

But ... if he did not act, did not gain proof of the insidious threat

that faced the Federation, millions of innocent lives could well be

lost. Perhaps billions.

Sarek's mouth tightened. Proving his theory would require that he break

the law. How could he himself flout what he had helped engineer? And yet

... this was definitely a case where the needs of the many must be

considered. Could he risk the impending threat of war?

Sarek stared fixedly at The Watcher as he thought. Somewhere in the

distance, a lanka-gar called. The ambassador turned his head, catching

the wheeling shape of the night flier as it swooped after prey on the

slopes below.

Glancing over his shoulder, Sarek noted absently that the garish colors

of sunse t were muted now. In a few minutes they would be entirely gone,

and T'Rukh, though no longer full, would rule the night.

The breeze touched him again, chill against his cheek. By midnight it

would be cool even by human standards.

Even though the ambassador's aquiline features were composed, as usual,

his mind would not be still.

The logic chains flowed, slowed--and the equation crystallized in his

mind. The decision lay before him. In this case, logic and necessity

must outweigh ethical considerations.

Sarek nodded slightly at T'Rukh, bidding the giant planet farewell,

knowing that his decision would require that he journey off-world. The

Watcher would wax and wane without his presence for many nights. He

would leave as soon as possible.

Turning away from the vista before him, the ambassador headed back

toward the house, his strides quick and sure.

For a moment he envisioned Spock's reaction if he were to discover what

his father was planning, and experienced a flicker of amusement. His son

would be surprised, possibly shocked, if he knew that his sire was

logically and rationally planning to commit a crime. The ambassador had

little doubt that, in his place, Spock would choose the same course. But

his son was half-human--he'd long ago learned to dissemble, to

equivocate ... even to lie. Yes, Spock would condone his

decision--which, in a way, made his father's conscience trouble him even

more.

But there was no help for it--his logic was faultless. His course was

clear. He would not turn back.

Reaching the villa, a low, sprawling structure with thick, protective

walls, Sarek entered. The house was decorated for the most part in

typical Vulcan fashion, austere, with only the most essential

furnishings, but its very bareness lent a feeling of spacious comfort.

In the living room, presence of the villa's human occupant was reflected

in the antique desk with its faded petit-point chair, in the matching

coffee table, and in the handwoven hangings that lent soft touches of

rose, turquoise, and sea green to the walls. A water sculpture made a

faint susurration within the protective field that prevented evaporation

of the precious liquid.

Sarek paused in his office and contacted his young aide, Soran,

instructing him to make arrangements for them to travel off-world. The

Ambassador's office was devoid of ornamentation, except for the painting

of an icy world beneath a swollen red sun.

Next door to his office was the bedroom, and through that lay his wife's

sitting room, with its view of the eastern gardens. Sarek already knew

from the bond they shared that Amanda awaited him there. He hesitated

for a moment before the caryen portal leading into their room.

Knowing that his wife had sensed his presence through their bond, Sarek

opened the door and passed through the bedroom to the sitting room.

Amanda occupied her favorite chair as she sat gazing out at The Watcher

and the rocky spires of her garden.

The light from Vulcan's sister world shone on her face, revealing new

lines that had not been there a month ago.

Her bones seemed more prominent, the lines of cheekbones and nose

showing through flesh. He studied her for a moment, noting that Amanda's

flowing garment now clearly outlined the angles of her shoulders and

collarbone; she had never been a large woman, but during the past month

she had clearly lost weight from her already small frame.

"Sarek," she greeted her husband, her mental and audible voice filled

with warmth and welcome as she held out her hand to him.

"Greetings, my wife," the ambassador said, permitting himself the small

smile that he reserved for her alone.

Extending two fingers, he ceremoniously touched them to hers. The

gesture, so simple on a physical level, was, between a bonded couple,

capable of nearly infinite shades of meaning--at times merely a casual

acknowledgment, the mental equivalent of a peck on the cheek, at times

nearly as passionate as anything experienced in the throes ofponfarr.

Sarek's touch conveyed a depth of feeling that the ambassador had never

voiced, for speaking of such things in words, aloud, was not the Vulcan

way.

"Is it cool out tonight?" Amanda asked, gazing out at her garden. She

had planted it shortly after Spock's birth, using unusually shaped and

colored stones to complement the native Vulcan cactuslike trees, as well

as desert plants from a dozen Federation worlds.

"The temperature is normal for the season and time of day," Sarek

replied.

"I thought of joining you on the terrace," Amanda said, glancing out at

the garden, "but I must have fallen asleep. I only awoke when I felt

your presence next door."

Sarek sat down next to her, his gaze traveling over her features, noting

with disquiet how drawn and pale she appeared. And she tired so easily

these days ...

Concerned, the Vulcan raised the light level in the room, then studied

his wife's face intently. Even without The Watcher's eerie illumination,

Amanda appeared drawn and pale. No trace of pink remained in her cheeks,

once so rounded and healthy.

As she grew aware of his fixed regard, her blue eyes, once so direct,

refused to meet his own. She busied herself capping her old-fashioned

pen, then closing her journal and placing it back in the drawer of her

desk.

Sarek leaned closer to her, his eyes never leaving her countenance.

"Amanda," he said quietly, "I noted the other day that you appear to

have lost weight ... have you been feeling unwell, my wife?"

The thin shoulders lifted in a small shrug. "I expect I may have picked

up a cold, Sarek. Please don't worry about me. I will be fine."

The ambassador shook his head. "I want you to contact T'Mal, and arrange

for her to conduct a thorough evaluation of your physical condition."

Amanda glanced at him; then her eyes shifted quickly away. "All I need

is a few days' rest, Sarek. There is no need to visit my physician."

"Please allow the Healer to make such a judgment," Sarek said. "Promise

me that you will arrange to see her as soon as possible, Amanda."

She took a deep breath, and Sarek sensed through their bond that she was

struggling to keep some strong emotion from him. "I have a great deal to

accomplish this week," she demurred. "My editor wants to move up the

publication date for the new book. She told me today that there is a

tremendous amount of interest in having the writings of Surak's

followers translated."

"Indeed?"

"Yes," Amanda said, clearly warming to her subject, "and when I told her

about--"

"Amanda," Sarek interrupted, raising one hand, "you are changing the

subject deliberately. Do not think that I did not notice."

His wife opened her mouth to protest, then closed it abruptly and stared

fixedly at her hands. Sarek's concern sharpened. Amanda seemed to have

aged a decade in a matter of a few weeks.

"I regret that I must leave you, tomorrow morning," Sarek said. "I must

go to Earth to consult with the Vulcan consulate and arrange to meet

with the Federation president.

It will aid me in concentrating on my work if I know that T'Mal will be

monitoring your health while I must be away."

"You have to leave?" Amanda repeated, and something darkened her eyes.

Sarek tried to catch her emotion, but she had been studying Vulcan

mental disciplines as well as the Vulcan language for decades, and he

was unsuccessful.

"How ... how long will you be gone?"

"A week, possibly two," the ambassador said. "If I could postpone this,

I would, given your apparent ill health, but I cannot. The situation on

Earth regarding the KEHL has worsened considerably in the past weeks."

"I know," Amanda admitted. "It makes me ashamed of my whole planet--the

Keep Earth Human League used to be just a haven for ineffectual

crackpots and ignorant fools.

But today's news said there had been demonstrations in Paris in front of

the Vulcan consulate! It makes me furious!" For a moment her eyes

flashed sapphire with indignation, and she almost appeared her old self.

"Those idiots are trying to convince the entire planet that Vulcan is

responsible for every disaster from the Probe's devastation to the

Klingon raids along the Neutral Zone!"

"The KEHL does appear to be set on fomenting discord between my people

and yours," Sarek said. "I have not heard any reports of incidents at

the Andorian or Tellarite consulates."

"Do you believe that the KEHL's sudden renaissance is due to Valeris's

involvement with that secret cabal?" Amanda asked.

"The Terran news agencies certainly highlighted the Vulcan, Klingon, and

Romulan conspirators far more than they did the activities of Admiral

Cartwright or Colonel West when Chancellor Gorkon was assassinated and

the Khitomer Conference disrupted," Sarek conceded. "Which, under the

circumstances, is unfortunate, but not surprising."

His wife gazed at him intently. "Sarek ... does this resurgence of the

Keep Earth Human League have any connection with your current project?"

Sarek sat back in his seat and glanced out the window at T'Rukh, its

upper limb now shadowed. The ambassador was silent for nearly a minute

before he spoke. "I have reached a number of conclusions of late,

Amanda," he said. "I have a number of suspicions. However, I have no

evidence to support my theory that is not statistical, circumstantial,

or purely inferential. I need concrete proof before I can bring my

findings before the Federation officials and the president."

"And that's why you are going to Earth? To get some kind of proof?."

"Yes." After a moment, the ambassador amended, "If possible."

"I see." Amanda's mouth tightened, but she did not pursue her line of

questioning--which, almost more than the physical changes he had noted,

alarmed the ambassador.

If his wife had been feeling like herself, she would never have given up

so e asily. She would have kept after him until she'd satisfied her

curiosity. But now she leaned her head back against her chair, gazing

out at The Watcher in silence, her eyes half-closed with weariness.

Sarek's breath caught in his throat as he regarded her, and he

identified the feeling that had been growing within him ever since he

had entered the room.

Fear.

"Amanda," he said, keeping his voice from betraying any shade of

emotion, "I insist that you call the Healer and arrange to see her. If

you will not promise, I will postpone my trip a day and do so myself."

She gazed at him, and he sensed deep emotion through their bond.

Sorrow--but not for herself. Amanda's grief was for him. "Very well,

Sarek," she agreed, at long last.

"You have my word that I will make an appointment this week."

"You will call tomorrow?"

"Yes."

The ambassador drew a deep breath, somewhat relieved, but still

disquieted. "Perhaps I should call someone to stay with you while I am

gone," he said. "One of your friends, perhaps ..." Swiftly, he reviewed

options, and realized that most of his wife's human contemporaries had

died within the past several years. "Another possibility is our son.

Perhaps he could take leave, return home for a visit if I contacted--"

"No!" Amanda's voice was sharp and final. "I don't want you worrying our

son. There have been Klingon renegades raiding all along the Neutral

Zone, and I'm sure the Enterprise is one of the ships patrolling out

there."

"If Spock knew that you were feeling unwell--"

"Absolutely not," she said, in a quieter but even more positive tone. "I

expect you to respect my wishes in this, my husband," she added,

sternly.

Sarek hesitated. Amanda fixed him with a look. "My promise for yours,

Sarek. Do we have a bargain?"

The ambassador nodded. "Very well, Amanda. You will contact the Healer,

and I will not contact our son."

She nodded at him, her blue eyes softening until they were the color of

her homeworld's skies. "I wish you a safe journey, Sarek," she said, and

then added, with a faint, tender smile, "Whatever you're planning ... be

careful.

Never forget that I love you ... illogically and madly.

Remember that ... always."

The Vulcan gazed back at her, his eyes never leaving hers.

Slowly, formally, he held out two fingers. "I will be careful, my wife."

In response to his gesture, his wife's fingers brushed, then settled

against his own. The warmth of their bond enfolded them, eliminating the

need for spoken words.

Sarek of Vulcan stood at the window of the Vulcan consulate in San

Francisco, gazing out with growing disquiet. Today's demonstration by

the Keep Earth Human League had begun with only a few picketers, some

carrying homemade placards, others more sophisticated holosigns, but,

even in the short time he'd been standing there, the crowd had grown

rapidly.

Now a full score of shouting humans milled before the gateway. Sarek's

Vulcan hearing could easily make out what they were chanting "KEEP

EARTH HU-MAN! KEEP EARTH HU-MAN!" interspersed with occasional, strident

shouts of "VULCANS GO HOME!"

"Illogical," murmured a voice from beside him, and the Vulcan ambassador

glanced sideways to see his young aide, Soran, standing beside him, his

dark eyes troubled. "Last year, the Keep Earth Human League was

considered a refuge for weak-minded racists. I examined the records ...

there were no more than forty or fifty members on this entire planet.

But now, Federation Security estimates their numbers to be in the

thousands. Why this sudden growth, Ambassador?"

Sarek hesitated, on the verge of giving a vague answer, but instead

shook his head slightly, warningly.

"Ambassador Sarek?"

The two Vulcans turned as one of the young diplomatic attaches, Surev,

approached. A few minutes ago, the young Vulcan had asked the ambassador

if he could spare a moment to be introduced to a human friend of his,

and Sarek had graciously agreed. Now, however, Surev's unlined features

were even more somber than usual. "Ambassador, I believe we must cancel

the meeting I mentioned."

"Why?"

"I just received a communiqu6 from the Federation Security Office," he

announced. "The security chief, Watkins, asks that we stay inside the

building until they can dispatch sufficient officers to control the

crowd. It is not safe to go outside, and they say that under no

circumstances should you agree to meet with the KEHL leader,

Ambassador."

Sarek raised an inquiring eyebrow. "Has such a meeting been requested by

the leadership?"

Soran cleared his throat slightly. "As a matter of fact, it has, sir,"

he said. "A message arrived a few minutes ago from the demonstrators."

"Why was I not informed?" the ambassador demanded, turning to face

Soran. His aide was obviously taken aback by the question.

"Ambassador, I never considered that you might wish to accede to their

demand for a meeting--that would be most unwise. Possibly dangerous."

Soran sounded faintly aggrieved, and Sarek could not blame him. But his

aide, as yet, knew nothing of the ambassador's hidden agenda. He would

have to take Soran into his confidence today, Sarek decided.

He would need help when he made his next trip. And the youth was good

with computers--almost as talented as his own son. Those skills would

prove useful.

"Who requested the meeting?" Sarek asked.

"The planetary leader of the KEHL," Surev said. "His name--or, at least,

the name he goes by in the organization is Induna. He is from the

African nation of Kenya."

Sarek looked out the window again. Surev pointed to a human who stood

nearly a head above the others. "That is Induna," he said.

The Vulcan ambassador studied the imposing figure of a dark-skinned

human, who wore a silk robe brilliantly patterned in black and red. "I

will speak to him," he said, reaching a sudden decision. He needed more

information about the KEHL, and firsthand observation would not be

amiss.

"Ambassador--you must not! It is not safe, sir!" Soran half-barred the

doorway, struggling to maintain his composure in the face of what must

seem extremely anomalous behavior on the part of the senior diplomat.

Sarek merely looked at him for a long second. Soran hesitated, then

stepped silently out of the way. Surev half-bowed. "May I at least

accompany you as far as the gates, sir?"

Sarek nodded graciously. "Certainly, Surev."

Leaving the domed building and walking down the ramp, Sarek heard the

crowd as it caught sight of him, flanked by Surev and Soran. Insults

were hurled at the Vulcans, many of them personally directed toward the

ambassador himself.

The sight of Federation security officers around the fringes of the

crowd was reassuring.

The Vulcan approached the demonstrators, seeing that someone had closed

the gates to the consulate, which had always stood open before this.

Shouts and epithets filled the air

"They want to take over Earth! Spawn of the devil!"

"Dirty aliens, think they're so smart!"

"Go back to Vulcan!"

"Vulcans go home!"

Approaching the gateway, Sarek raised his voice to be heard. "I am

Ambassador Sarek," he called out. "I understand that Induna wishes to

speak with me. Which of you is Induna?"

In response, the crowd (which now numbered forty or fifty people)

parted, and the KEHL leader stepped forth. "t am Induna," he announced.

His voice was a deep, bass rumble.

"Greetings, Induna," Sarek said, raising his hand in the Vulcan salute.

"I wish you peace and long life."

"I accept no good wishes from Earth's enemy," Induna said coldly.

"I assure you that I wish only good relations between our worlds," Sarek

said. "I invite you to enter the gates, so we may speak together."

The man drew himself up, clearly antagonistic. "I have nothing to say to

you, Ambassador, that cannot be said within hearing of those who follow

me. And I refuse to speak with a being so cowardly that he hides behind

gates."

"I am not hiding, nor do I have anything to hide," Sarek corrected him,

his tones civil but firm. The ambassador heard shouts from the crowd,

but Induna appeared to be able to control his followers. "Very well,

then, I will come to you, so we may speak together like civilized

beings." Before either of his companions could remonstrate with him,

Sarek reached out and opened the gate. Head high, still flanked by the

young diplomats, he strode forward into the crowd, straight for Induna.

The moment he stepped into their midst, brushing against the

demonstrators, Sarek was nearly sickened by the miasma of hatred that he

sensed from the humans in the crowd.

His planet and this world had been allies and friends for over a

century. How could such a thing be happening now?

The KEHL leader was clearly taken aback as the ambassador approached

him, but recovered his aplomb quickly.

Turning to the crowd, he motioned for quiet--but instead

the shouting intensified.

"Vulcans go home!"

"Sarek sold out Earth to the Klingons!"

Induna gestured again, more peremptorily. "Let me speak to this Vulcan,

my friends and comrades," he ordered. "If I can make him see that he and

his kind have no place on our world, then he will leave Earth! We do not

want war, we want peace--they can keep to their planet, as we shall keep

to ours!"

The protesters closest to their leader obeyed, but others, farther back

in the crowd, continued to hurl abuse.

"Go back to Vulcan?

"Vulcans go home! Vulcans go home!"

The crowd surged wildly, and then someone threw a clod of dirt. Other

refuse followed. Sarek smelled rotting vegetables.

"Stop!" Induna shouted, and the missiles halted--but the crowd was

clearly getting out of control. "Quiet down!" the leader commanded. The

noise abated slightly.

"We have no designs on your world," Sarek cried, raising his voice to be

heard above the demonstrators. "Our species have been allies for

decades. We--"

"Go back to Vulcan, damn you!"

The angry shriek cut through Sarek's voice like a knife.

The crowd swelled and heaved like a storm-tossed sea.

"She's right! Go home!" screamed another protester. "Devil's spawn!"

yelled yet another.

"Quiet!" Induna roared. "Let us speak--"

But the leader's words were lost as the crowd surged forward. Missiles

filled the air. An egg spattered against Soran's robe. "Filthy aliens!"

screamed an old woman.

The missiles grew harder, more dangerous. A rock struck Sarek on the arm

with force enough to bruise. He flinched back, realized that Induna was

still yelling for the crowd to quiet down, and knew the KEHL leader had

lost all control of the mob--for mob it now was.

Federation security officers moved in with crowd-control stunners and

forcefields. Sarek was shoved, hit hard on the back; he turned and

grappled momentarily with his attacker.

With a quick thrust, he shoved the woman aside.

As the mob surged, shrieking and yelling, the Vulcan and Induna were

thrust almost into each other's arms. Sarek struggled to free himself,

felt the KEHL leader flail at him, whether out of fear or anger, he

couldn't tell. It no longer mattered. Sarek's hand came up, searching

for the correct location at the juncture of the human's neck and

shoulder.

Steely-hard fingers grasped, then squeezed--Induna sagged forward

bonelessly.

But Sarek did not release his grip on the leader's shoulder.

He fell to his knees, half-supporting the big human, his breath catching

in his throat. He, like most Vulcans, was a touch-telepath, and the

moment his fingers closed on Induna's flesh, Sarek had received flashes

of the human's mental state--

flashes that literally staggered him.

Induna was not acting entirely of his own volition, Sarek realized,

stunned by his discovery. The KEHL leader was under the influence of a

trained telepathic presence. Using expert mental techniques, the unknown

telepath had inflamed this man's tiny core of xenophobia into a raging

firestorm of hatred and bigotry.

On his own, Induna would never have been more than mildly distrustful of

Vulcans and other extraterrestrials.

Someone had exploited his incipient xenophobia, someone expert enough to

enter his thoughts and influence them so gradually, so patiently, that

the subject came to believe that everything in his mind had originated

there.

Someone had molded and influenced and delicately reshaped this human's

innermost desires and fears into all-out species bigotry--

and that someone was Vulcan.

Sarek could scarcely believe the evidence of his own senses. Such mental

influence was contrary to every ethical and moral tenet his people had

developed over millennia of civilized existence.

But he could not have been mistaken about the mental "signature" the

telepath had left on Induna's mind. Sarek came back to the here-and-now,

blinking, and realized that he was crouched in the center of a fighting,

trampling mob.

Induna still sagged against him. The ambassador struggled back to his

feet, heaving the KEHL leader up with him, lest his unconscious body be

crushed in the frenzy.

Even as he gained his feet, he was nearly knocked down again by the

panicked rush of retreating demonstrators.

Federation Security was routing the mob, stunning many and taking them

into custody. Others were running away at full speed. In only seconds,

it seemed, he was left alone, still supporting the KEHL leader's

unconscious form. Soran and Surer were still on their feet, nearby. Both

young Vulcans had obviously been in the thick of the fray--their robes

and hair were disheveled, and Soran was bleeding from a cut over his

eye.

"We're terribly sorry about this, Ambassador Sarek!" exclaimed the head

of the Federation security force, as he was hastening toward the

Vulcans. "But we warned the consulate against having any contact with

the demonstrators!"

"Your warning was received," Sarek said. "I chose to attempt to speak

with the protesters personally. The decision was mine alone. I take full

responsibility."

The human glanced sharply at the unconscious KEHL leader. "Is that

lnduna?"

Sarek nodded.

"We'll take him into custody, Ambassador," the officer said, reaching

for the leader's limp figure. Sarek surrendered him to the authorities.

"I wish to state for the record," the ambassador said,

"that this man did not order the mob to attack us. In fact, he ordered

them to desist, but they did not obey."

"Okay, Ambassador," the officer said, beckoning to a subordinate with a

stretcher, "I'll be sure to put that in my report."

Sarek stood for a second longer, watching as Induna was placed in one of

the emergency vehicles. Then he turned back to the two young Vulcans.

"Let us go back inside," he said.

Safe once more behind the closed and electronically locked gates, Sarek

dismissed young Surev to his duties, then turned to Soran. "As the

humans would say, "One more piece has been added to the puzzle.'"

The young Vulcan raised an eyebrow inquiringly. "Indeed, Ambassador? To

what puzzle are you referring?"

"The puzzle that has occupied me for over a year now," Sarek said.

"There is a great deal to tell you, Soran. Let us walk in the garden,

and talk. The weather is pleasant, today."

The young Vulcan seemed surprised. "You do not wish to go inside,

Ambassador?"

Sarek shook his head. "I will be able to speak more ... freely ... in

the garden, near the water sculpture," he said.

The youth stared at him for a moment; then his eyes widened

fractionally. "You suspect listening devices, sir?"

"Under the circumstances," the ambassador said, gravely,

"I would prefer to take no chances that what I am about to impart to you

will be overheard."

Together, they walked around the curving path that circled the

consulate, and were soon in a stone garden modeled on those on Vulcan.

Sarek was reminded vividly of Amanda's garden, and wondered, briefly,

what her visit to the Healer might have revealed. "What do you know of

the Freelans, Soran?" Sarek asked.

The youth cleared his throat slightly. "Freelan ... an isolated world

located in the middle of the Romulan Neutral Zone. Perhaps surprisingly,

the Romulans have never laid claim to the planet, possibly because it is

so inhospitable and remote. Freelan exists in the grip of an extensive

ice age, with only the equatorial regions supporting life and

agriculture.

The technological level of the inhabitants is high, especially in the

cryogenic sciences and related products, but Freelan is resource-poor."

"Correct," Sarek said. "For someone who has only been my aide for

forty-seven point six Standard days, you are well informed, Soran."

"You have been the diplomatic liaison between Freelan and the Federation

for seventy-two point seven Standard years, Ambassador. It is my

responsibility to be familiar with all your duties," the aide responded.

Sarek nodded approvingly.

"Freelan," Sarek said quietly, "is, as you probably also know, something

of an enigma."

Sarek was deliberately understating the situation. Freelan was unique in

the explored galaxy. The Freelans did not possess space travel of their

own, but their contacts with the Federation had, for decades, led to

their world being included as a regular stop on local trade routes. The

planet had never affiliated itself with any political or diplomatic

alliance.

Freelan was not a member of the Federation, though it did send delegates

to many trade, scientific, and diplomatic conferences. Its delegates,

however, remained scrupulously neutral in all their dealings and

contacts with other planets.

Cultural exchanges between Freelan and other worlds were virtually

nonexistent, due to the Freelan taboo--religious or cultural, no one

knew which--that prohibited Freelans from revealing their faces or

bodies. When the natives had any contact with anyone not of their world,

they shrouded themselves in concealing garments. Their muffling cloaks,

hoods, and masks were made from material impregnated with selonite,

which prevented them from being scanned by tricorders or medical

sensors.

Those wishing to meet with a Freelan on business or diplomatic matters

had to travel to the mysterious world, where the Freelans maintained a

space station to accommodate "guests." The station was fully automated,

and all meetings were conducted via comm link with the surface below.

Other than that concession to outside contact, Freelan remained a closed

world. No off-worlder had ever landed on Freelan.

All that was known of the reclusive race that lived there was that they

were bipedal, and roughly humanoid-shaped, with two arms. All else was

conjecture.

"I had never encountered a Freelan personally," Soran said, "until I

attended the conference at Camp Khitomer last month."

"Did you actually speak to the Freelan envoy?" Sarek asked.

"No, sir. As you 'know, the Freelans are not noted for mingling with

people from other worlds. I did, however, meet the envoy's aide, a young

Vulcan woman who introduced herself as Savel. During the evening break,

we passed time by playing a game of chess."

The ambassador raised an eyebrow. "Indeed? It is common for Freelans to

employ young Vulcans as aides. So you played chess with this Savel? Who

won?"

Soran cleared his throat. "I did, sir. However, I found her a ...

challenging ... opponent."

"I see," Sarek remarked, mildly, noting, with amusement, that his young

aide was not meeting his eyes. "I have, for years, played chess with the

diplomatic liaison from Freelan.

Taryn is a formidable opponent. This ... Savel ... I believe I recall

her. Short hair? Slender figure? Wearing a silver tunic and trousers?"

"Yes, Ambassador," Soran said, shifting sligh tly on the bench. The young

Vulcan was clearly uncomfortable under Sarek's regard.

The elder Vulcan raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. I am not surprised that you

... enjoyed your game. You are unbonded, are you not, Soran?"

The young Vulcan nodded. "Yes, Ambassador. My family does not ascribe to

the ancient tradition of bonding while children. My parents chose each

other as adults."

"I assume from her name that Savel was also unbonded?" Sarek inquired,

blandly. Most young Vulcan women altered their names with the T' prefix

when they became betrothed.

"That is what I gathered from our time together," Soran said, somewhat

puzzled by the ambassador's continuing interest in his brief encounter.

"I found the information that she was unbonded ... to be of interest."

He cleared his throat again. "Of interest to me personally, that is."

Sarek nodded encouragingly. "I do not find that fact surprising. Savel

appeared ... quite intelligent."

"Yes," Soran agreed. "However, Ambassador, there was something ... odd

about her."

Sarek was not surprised to discover this. Under the circumstances, he

had been expecting as much. "What was that?" he inquired.

"I ... enjoyed ... the time I spent with Savel," Soran admitted. "I

wished to encounter her again, but I realized, when the conference

ended, that I had no way to contact her. Freelans curtail their

interactions with the outside world, as you know. So, when we returned

home, I made inquiries, intending to discover Savel's family, in the

event they would consent to forward a message from me."

Sarek leaned forward, suddenly intent. "And what did you discover?"

The youth took a deep breath and met the ambassador's eyes squarely.

"Sir, there was no record of a"Sayel' being born on Vulcan within the

last thirty years. According to Vulcan records--and you know how

complete they are--no such person exists."

Sarek nodded, his suspicion confirmed. "Soran ... what I have to tell

you now must remain strictly between us."

"Understood."

"For some time I have become increasingly suspicious of the Freelans. I

believe they are ... not what they seem.

During the last year of studying them and their system, I have come to

believe that Freelan presents a serious threat to the peace that

currently exists in the galaxy."

"The Freelans, sir?" Soran did not succeed in concealing his surprise.

"How could that be?"

"I do not wish to prejudice you any more than is necessary to gain your

help, Soran. I would prefer that you draw your own conclusions, as a

check on my own logic," Sarek said. "Suffice it to say that I believe

the Freelans constitute a threat to the Federation, and I intend to gain

proof of that threat before I can present my findings to President

Ra-ghoratrei." Sarek paused. "When I first arrived, I had thought to

speak with the Federation president of my suspicions ... but he is

currently off-world, and will not return for nearly a week. By the time

he returns, I anticipate having the proof I need."

"But surely you could speak to the undersecretary, or Madame Chairman of

the Security Council," Soran asked,

"if this threat is as grave as you believe?"

Sarek hesitated, then took a deep breath. "Soran ... today I gained

proof--not demonstrable proof, except to a telepath, unfortunately--that

undue mental influence may be at work on this world ... and possibly

others. As a matter of fact ..." Sarek stared intently into the other's

face. "If you will permit me?" He raised his hand in a meaningful

gesture.

Soran, catching his intention, nodded permission. Sarek gently touched

the side of his face for a moment, then nodded. "Your thoughts are

entirely your own," he confirmed.-

Soran nodded. "So you intend to gain proof while the president is

off-world, then present it to him upon his return?"

"If possible. I will require your help, Soran," the ambassador said. As

the youth started to speak, he held up a warning hand. "I must caution

you, before you agree too quickly ... gaining the proof I seek will

require that we travel to Freelan and infiltrate the memory banks of

their planetary computer system."

Soran's eyes widened. "Espionage? You intend to commit espionage,

Ambassador? But that is ..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"An interstellar crime, as well as a violation of every law of

diplomacy. I know," Sarek said, heavily. "Nevertheless, I have

determined it is necessary in this instance. Will you help me? If you

say no, I will understand, and ask only that you say nothing of this to

anyone."

The youth took a deep breath, and his eyes never left the ambassador's.

"Serving as your aide is an honor I have aspired to for years, sir. If

you have determined that your intended course of action is necessary to

preserve the safety of the Federation, then it will be my privilege to

assist you in gaining your proof."

Sarek nodded at the youth, genuinely touched by his loyalty. "Thank you,

Soran. I will contact Liaison Taryn and arrange a meeting to review the

current trade policies between Freelan and Vulcan. If he agrees to the

meeting--and there is no reason why he should not--I wish to embark for

the Freelan space station tomorrow."

"I will make the necessary arrangements, Ambassador." Sarek nodded, and

remained sitting in the garden as his aide left, moving quickly. Slowly,

the ambassador climbed to his feet, and walked back around the consulate

to stare thoughtfully at the area outside the gates. Discarded holosigns

and placards still littered the area, but all the demonstrators were

gone ... where?

Sarek, remembering the shock of touching Induna's altered mind,

repressed a shiver. The sun had vanished behind clouds, and the breeze

was now chilly ...

Peter James Kirk rifled through the selection of clothes available to

him and swore impatiently. This is ridiculous, he told himself, and

reached for a clean uniform. You don't spend this much time dressing for

a date!Or did he? It'd been long enough since his last real date that it

was hard to remember. Running a hand through his sandy-red hair, he

sighed disgustedly. Well, maybe you do. Who cares? Make a decision, and

let get out of here. He'd be late if he didn't hurry.

Your big chance to finally meet Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan, he thought,

feeling a flare of nervous excitement, followed by chagrin. Yeah, and

won't he be impressed if you're late?

He'd first become acquainted with Sarek through the Vulcan's writings

and speeches, some of which were mandatory reading at Starfleet Academy,

where Peter was currently a senior cadet. Then, when he'd attended a

talk the diplomat gave at the Academy two years ago, Peter had found

Sarek's approach to diplomacy so interesting, he'd studied the

ambassador's eminent career during his spare time. Having met the

ambassador's son many times gave his interest a personal aspect.

It was ironic, really. His uncle, Jim Kirk, had spent years working

beside Sarek's son, Captain Spock. If things had worked out right, no

doubt Spock, whom he'd met many times during his uncle's sporadic

visits, would've been happy--or the Vulcan equivalent--to have

introduced Peter to his father. If things had worked out right ...

Well, Peter mused, things had worked out well enough for someone who'd

lost his parents tragically at the age of seven.

He glanced at their picture, taken on Deneva just months before their

deaths. George Samuel and Aurelan Kirk were laughing, their hands on

their gangly son's shoulder. Their twenty-five-year-old mementos still

traveled everywhere with him, and thanks to family albums and vid

records,

Peter had a clear recall of his mother's voice, his father's sense of

humor, although his actual rearing had been entrusted to his late

grandmother, Winona Kirk.

Peter was nearly halfa head taller than his uncle, and built on slender,

rather than stocky, lines. His hair, which as a boy had been a deep

auburn, had lightened over the years to a sandy red. Much to his relief,

his freckles had also faded, though any exposure to the sun brought out

a rash of them across his nose and cheeks. His eyes were a bright, clear

blue, like Earth's sky at midday. Until his mid-twenties, he'd been

gangling and awkward, but the years--and Starfleet's self-defense

training--had solved most of that.

These days Peter moved confidently, even, at times, gracefully.

He'd inherited his looks from his mother, but the rest of the Kirk

legacy that sometimes sat too heavily on his shoulders came straight

from Uncle Jim. Staring at the cadet's uniform he was holding, Peter

wondered if that was why, at the age of thirty-two, he was still in

school.

Peter Kirk hadn't decided on a career in Starfleet until he was in his

mid-twenties--almost a decade after most cadets entered the Academy.

He'd spent that decade attending the best colleges, gaining degrees in

xenolinguistics and xenocultural interfaces with minors in

Terran/xenopolitical interaction, before deciding that he would finally

follow the family tradition and join Starfleet. While Uncle Jim had

always encouraged his varied interests, and never tried to influence his

choice of careers, everyone else had automatically assumed he'd pursue

Command track. He'd done so, though Peter was sure that he'd never

possess his uncle's calm air of command.

We'll find out soon enough if you're a real Kirk, Peter told himself

mockingly. After all the degrees, all the varied quests for knowledge,

and these last few years in Starfleet Academy, Peter was, at last, in

the final stretch. The past two weeks had been one grueling exam after

another--most of which he'd aced. Just like a real Kirk. He'd had one

just this morning, and that, too, he'd completed successfully.

Now there were only two more to go. One tomorrow, and the last a week

from Friday. Then, three d ays after that, the final. The big one. The

Kobayashi Maru.

He realized he was crushing the clean uniform in his hands and put it

back. Why did he have to think about that now?

Because you can't ignore it anymore, it's just a few days away. They've

completely reprogrammed the simulation.

There's a whole new situation, a whole new setup--and nobody knows

anything about it. But that hasn't stopped them from taking bets as to

whether or not you'll be the second Kirk to beat the no-win scenario. He

rubbed his face tiredly. He had to stop worrying about it. It was just

another test. Wasn't it?

The odds are twenty to one against you. Just being a Kirk isn't any

guarantee of success, mister.

He shook his head, trying to shed his pessimistic musings.

The chrono chimed softly, yanking him back to his immediate problem. He

had to get ready for lunch. He was meeting Surev, a young Vulcan he'd

befriended while researching Sarek's work. Surev had invited him to have

a meal at the Vulcan consulate because Sarek might be there, having

arrived yesterday. Surev was distantly related to Sarek's aide, and

while he was careful not to make a commitment, the young Vulcan thought

he might be able to arrange an introduction. Peter was really looking

forward to shaking hands (or rather, offering the Vulcan salute) to the

diplomat he so admired. Lunch at the Vulcan consulate would provide a

welcome respite from the drudgery of studying and finals. Maybe, for

just an hour, he could forget about that damned Kobayashi Maru.

That2 what you need to do, just forget about it, Peter decided. Forget

about the Academy, Uncle Jim, ancient history, the whole thing. Reaching

into his closet, he grabbed a stylish suit, a piece of "civilian" garb

he hadn't worn in months. He wanted to seem totally professional in ease

he was introduced to Sarek. Peter wasn't normally self-conscious about

being an older cadet, but today he didn't want to risk being prejudged.

He didn't want to be Peter Kirk, Jim Kirk's nephew who's only now

graduating Starfleet Academy. He just wanted to be another Terran who

could discuss some of Sarek's ideas with him knowledgeably.

Donning the suit quickly, he smiled. The colors made his eyes bluer.

Hey, who knows? he thought wryly. You can meet a lot of interesting

people at the Vulcan consulate. I've seen some really nice-looking

female attachds going in and out ... Of course, that was an area where

he and Uncle Jim differed. Unlike the elder Kirk, Peter's luck with

women was less than fabulous. Maybe that's something that comes with

age.

As he adjusted the suit so that it hung right, then quickly combed his

hair, he turned on the vid link to catch a glimpse of the news. Sarek

might be featured on the noon report.

Instructing the link to search for any reports about Vulcans, Peter

tensed when the headline EMBASSY PROTEST flashed on the link.

As Peter watched, images of San Francisco's Vulcan consulate--his

current destination--filled the screen.

"The Vulcan presence on Earth," a fair-haired, attractive female

reporter said solemnly, "has rarely generated controversy, but the peace

that normally surrounds this quiet enclave was shattered today as the

Keep Earth Human League announced their intentions to surround the

consulate day and night."

Peter stood transfixed as the view of the front entrance of the stately

domed building came on-screen. A group of humans were clustered before

the elegant gates, at least three dozen men and women, more than a few

holding small children. Some carried traditional placards mounted on

poles, while the rest brandished the more common holosigns. The image

focused on one nondescript bearded man who had a holosign hovering over

him that read, EARTH

BELONGS TO HUMANS--LET'S KEEP IT THAT WAY! Another sign came into view

that said, JOIN THE KEEP EARTH HUMAN LEAGUE TODAY!--SAVE EARTH FOR YOUR

CHILDREN!

Peter stared in consternation, although this wasn't the first time he'd

heard of the KEHL. But he'd had no idea that this fringe-lement movement

had been able to lure in enough members to mount such a large

demonstration.

The reporter approached an attractive young woman in a shiny silver coat

whose holosign read, VULCAS Trunk Tmy'RE

O SMART--AREN'T YOU SICK OF BEING PATRONIZED? Beside her stood a young

boy with a hand-lettered sandwich board that simply demanded, VULCANS

C,O HOME!

"Excuse me, Lisa Termant," the reporter asked the woman respectfully.

"You're one of the leaders of the San Francisco branch of KEHL. Tell our

viewers why your organization is staging this vigil in front of the

Vulcan consulate."

"Members of the Keep Earth Human League are Terrans who have finally

come to their senses," the woman told the journalist earnestly. She was

of medium height, a little stocky, with dark skin and big black eyes.

Her features were chiseled and delicate, except for a rather square

chin, and she moved with confidence, as though she knew exactly what she

was doing in life and how to go about it.

"Our president, Induna," the demonstrator continued,

"has called for a show of our support, so we have assembled." She

indicated a tall, very dark-skinned man, probably African, who was

standing near the consulate gates, lecturing to the crowd. "Vulcans are

trying to take over our Federation, and make humans into second-class

citizens," Termant continued. "We won't stand for it any longer!"

"But, Ms. Tennant," the journalist continued reasonably,

"most Terrans consider Vulcans our loyal friends, our closest allies.

Many of Earth's politicians have been quoted as saying that we need

them, that they're the most civilized people in the galaxy."

"I doubt seriously," the woman retorted coolly, "that we need friends

the likes of Lieutenant Valeris. It's clear to us that she was the

ringleader of the terrible plot against Earth, that she was working for

the renegade Klingon general, Chang."

Peter shook his head. The Romulan ambassador, Nanclus, and the two

Starfleet officers, Admiral Cartwright and Colonel West, had also

conspired with General Chang to assassinate the Klingon chancellor,

Gorkon. Uncle Jim and his medical officer, Leonard McCoy, had been

falsely accused and convicted of the crime, then sentenced to hard labor

on the prison planet, Rura Penthe. It was strange, Peter thought, that,

although the crime had only happened a month or so ago, the public's

memory of those events appeared to be altering. Lately, even the media

had a tendency to downplay the roles played by the humans and the

Romulan, making it seem that General Chang and Lieutenant Valeris were

solely responsible.

"Lieutenant Valeris," the KEHL leader continued, "is merely an example

of the kind of subtle espionage Vulcans have been guilty of for years.

But now the KEHL is on to them. There are chapters of the KEHL springing

up all over--even on some of the Terran colonies. And we know exactly

what we're dealing with!"

"What do you mean?" the journalist pressed.

"Everyone knows," Termant elaborated, "that Vulcans are telepaths.

Lately, it's becoming increasingly obvious that they're using their

abilities to influence minds, and make susceptible humans do things

against their own kind!

Those politicians that are so quick to defend Vulcans are, no doubt,

their unwitting victims. After all, everyone knows how easy it is to

influence a politician's mind!"

Hard to argue with that, Peter admitted grudgingly. But the notion that

Vulcans would use their telepathy in such an unethical way outraged him.

"The Keep Earth Human League is gaining new members every day," Termant

told the reporter smugly. "We are funding our own candidates to run in

local elections, people who are not so easily influenced. It's only a

matter of time before the Vulcan conspiracy is completely exposed. Our

vigil here is to let them know their days on Earth are numberedt"

The woman's self-assurance shocked Peter. She didn't have that wild-eyed

look of lunacy he usually associated with the off-kilter KEHL.

An old woman suddenly stepped in front of the reporter, demanding the

journalist's attention. "Vulcans are the spawn of the devil," she hissed

viciously. "Satan marked 'em as his own, anyone can see that. Don't you

have eyes, woman?"

Now, that had to be a founding member, Peter thought.

He realized his jaw ached from clenching his teeth. Didn't these people

realize how crazy they sounded? What was wrong with them?

The crowd rallied around the Tennant woman. "Keep Earth Hu-man! Keep

Earth Hu-man!" they chanted. Angrily, Peter slapped the vid off switch.

Why did those nuts have to picket the consulate today, when Sarek would

be there?

Good thing the Federation provided security to all off-world embassies

and consulates. He felt confident that Security had the situation well

under control. Yet, even though the vid link was now silent, Peter

imagined that he could still hear that hate-filled mantra.

As the cadet left his room to head for the consulate, he found himself

mulling over the news report. The KEHL had been around for centuries,

ever since Zefram Cochrane invented the warp drive, and humans made it

into space and met the Vulcans for the first time. It was nothing more

than a small group of hard-line xenophobes. But lately, the KEHL was

another story altogether. He wondered if Starfleet Security was mounting

an investigation of their recent activities. If the KEHL kept gamering

members and publicity at the same rate in the coming months, they could

turn out to be a real problem.

Peter moved quickly out of his apartment and onto the streets that

surrounded the Academy. If he hustled, he could still arrive in time to

meet Surev.

As young Kirk turned the corner to approach the familiar consulate, he

was shocked to find that the crowd of protesters he 'd watched on the

noon report had grown even larger.

While some of the people massing around the curving, neutral-colored

compound must have been simply curious onlookers, there were now so many

holosigns that the floating messages were blending all together into a

huge mass of gibberish.

Peter slowed as he neared the gates, watching the Starfleet Security

forces as they worked to keep the crowd from getting too close to the

entrance. Was the mob actually going to rush the gates? Near the

sculptured metal portal Peter spied Surev, but the Vulcan wasn't looking

toward him, so he didn't bother to wave. Surev's attention was turned in

the opposite direction, and Peter peered to see what he was looking at.

He squinted. Was that ... could that possibly be ... Sarek himself?.

Peter realized it was the ambassador himself standing safely behind the

gates, with his aide, Soran. Surev had arranged it! He was actually

about to meet Sarek!

As Peter tried to skirt the fringes of the throng, a tall figure pushed

his way through the opening crowd. Peter recognized the president of the

KEHL.

Now Sarek and the KEHL president were face-to-face.

Starfleet Security drew closer to the crowd. Shouts filled the air.

"GO BACK TO VULCAN[ STOP SELLING OUT EARTH FOR VULCAN INTERESTS!" three

KEHL members shouted in unison.

"Back to Vulcan! Back to Vulcan!" the crowd chanted, surging forward

threateningly.

Sarek was the picture of composure as he stood straight and tall in his

Vulcan robes, his face the epitome of Vulcan control. Both Surev and

Soran were young men, and their control was not nearly as perfect as the

elder Vulcan's. Even from this distance, Peter could see the two younger

Vulcans conferring with each other behind the ambassador's back, concern

plain to read on their faces. Sarek merely nodded serenely. Then, to

Peter's dismay, the ambassador opened the gate and calmly strode out

into the crowd.

Dimly, he heard the KEHL leader telling the crowd to quiet down, but it

was no use. A minute later, the mob completely broke ranks. They surged

forward wildly, screaming, throwing things, overwhelming the outnumbered

security forces. Within seconds the protesters had completely enveloped

both Sarek and the two younger Vulcans.

"NO!" Peter shouted frantically, and flung himself unheedingly into the

thick of the mob. Furious and sickened, he charged his way bodily

through the crowd, shoving, pushing, not caring whether he crushed feet,

or sent the bigots staggering. He had to do something to help Ambassador

Sarek!

For a brief instant he found himself tantalizingly close to his goal. He

glimpsed the ambassador's formal brown and gold robes only a meter or

two away. By now the crowd was in a frenzy, hurling refuse and rotting

vegetables at the beleaguered Vulcans. As a man beside Peter took aim

with a fist-sized rock, the young Kirk managed to surge forward and

knock his arm so that the rock landed on another KEHL member instead.

Sarek's young assistants were defending themselves ably, and even the

ambassador sent an attacker flying.

Almost at the same instant, Peter heard the whine of transporter beams,

and knew that the Federation security forces must have beamed in

reinforcements. The officers were busily using crowd-control stunners

and forcefields, careful not to catch the struggling Vulcans in the

beams.

Suddenly, Peter saw Sarek grappling with the KEHL president. To the

young Kirk's relief, the Vulcan handled the tall human easily, rendering

him helpless with a quick neck pinch. For just a second, Peter thought

he saw a flicker of surprise pass over the ambassador's normally calm

expression; then both attacker and Vulcan were lost to sight in the

press of the crowd.

Three KEHL members next to Peter suddenly collapsed, unconscious, and

the cadet realized that he might be next.

He was wearing civilian clothes instead of his uniform, so there was no

way anyone could differentiate him from these lunatics! In fact, there

was a very good chance he was about to be arrested, if not stunned,

mistaken for a KEHL member. He searched for Surer, desperately wanting

to get his attention. The Vulcan could vouch for him ...

Out of the corner of his eye he spied a security officer taking dead aim

at him.

"Hurry! Come with me, now.t" a female voice shouted in his ear, at the

same time a strong hand grasped his suit sleeve and hauled him back. Two

people in front of him collapsed in the path of the stun ray. "We've got

to go now!" the woman insisted, tugging at him and another woman near

her.

He then recognized Lisa Termant, the KEHL's second-in-command.

"Come on!" she urged, pulling him behind her.

"We can't let them get all of us! Let's go. Follow me!"

Did this lunatic woman think he was part of her nutcase organization?

Peter was infuriated by her assumption. Then four people directly in

front of him collapsed under the minimized stun rays. If she hadn't

pulled him out of the way ...

The security forces weren't asking questions, they were assuming the

same thing about everyone in this crowd that she was. If he didn't get

out of here, lunch wouldn't be the only thing he'd be missing. The next

time Tennant yanked on his arm, he cooperated.

After a moment's pushing and shoving, they broke free.

Peter found himself running pell-mell down the streets, away from the

screaming, hysterical demonstrators. Had Sarek made it through all

right? he wondered, even as his legs moved automatically, running,

running, as he followed the woman to safety.

They were on a side street now, Federation Security aircars following

them, trying to round up all the demonstrators.

The cadet realized that if he didn't get out of this quickly, he was

going to be spending the night in jail. He might even have to contact

his Uncle Jim for a character reference! What would that look

likemcaptain Kirk's nephew incarcerated for supporting a violent KEHL

demonstration?

Envisioning his own face on the next news vid, he sprinted faster.

Tennant led her small crowd down a narrow street, then into an alley.

There was a door, which opened as if by magic as they approached. The

small group raced in, Peter entering right behind the dark-haired woman.

When the door slid shut behind them, the group half-collapsed, heaving

and panting for breath. Peter tensed as he listened to the sirens of the

aircars that were still searching--searching for me, Peter realized

disgustedly. What a mess!

"Everybody okay?" Tennant asked the group. "Anyone hurt?"

There were murmurs from the group of a half-dozen men and women,

assurances that everyone was all right. Peter looked around at the

ragtag group he'd found himself a part of.

A man came up to Termant, someone new--the person who must've been here,

ready to open the door for them in just such an emergency. "Do you know

all these people, Lisa?" he asked quietly.

Peter's heart thundered in his ears. If they discovered who he was ...

"No, Jay," she said, looking over the group. "No, I'm sorry. Everything

fell apart. There were massive arrests. I think one of the Vulcans

might've killed Induna. These people were near me, fighting side by side

with me. I couldn't leave them behind."

"Of course," Jay said, as he looked over the group.

"I'm Mark Beckwith," one of the men said by way of introduction as he

caught his breath. Peter recognized him as the rock thrower. "I'm

president of the Peoria branch."

Lisa shook his hand. "Of course, I've spoken to you many times."

To Peter's relief, the rest of the group were just average members, or

people who'd seen the demonstration on the vid and "believed in the

cause."

"I'm Peter ... Church," he finally said, when it was his turn. "I'm ...

a data-recovery technician. I work nearby.

I've ... always been interested in the KEHL," he lied glibly, "and when

I saw that you were calling for support, I came on down."

"Thank you," the woman said sincerely, then repeated it to the others.

"Thanks to all of you. What you did today was courageous and ambitious.

Your personal involvement will make it easier for the millions who

silently agree with our cause to come forward and join us. Thank you all

so much."

Crazy, Peter thought, slumping tiredly. Would he ever be able to get out

of here and back to reality?

"I think the security forces are gone," Jay announced, after checking

with a computerized sensor. "It should be safe for you all to leave now,

if you go out one by one."

Tennant thanked them all again, reminding them all of the next

gathering. The demonstration at the consulate, she told them, wouldn't

be able to continue until the arrested demonstrators had been freed from

jail and the current permits renewed. Each person assured her before

leaving that they would be at the consulate as soon as word reached them

that it was time to assemble. Their faces were filled with a hatred and

a commitment that made Peter's stomach lurch.

Peter plastered an appropriate expression of sympathy on his own face as

Lisa finally turned her attention to him. She suddenly peered at him

intently, and he found himself grateful that he didn't resemble his

famous uncle more closely.

"I hope you weren't injured," she said quietly, her eyes never leaving

his face. "You came awfully close to being stunned."

He blinked, gathering his wits about him. Coum she be interested in me?

Peter wondered, taken aback. It figured, in a perverse way. His Uncle

Jim seemed to be able to attract any woman in the universe with nothing

more than a little-boy grin and a twinkle in his eye--an ability that,

if it was an inherited trait, seemed to have skipped Peter. But every

now and then the "Kirk charm," as the captain called it, did seem to

shine on Peter--but only at the wrong moments. Like now. He gazed at the

KE HL leader, his mind racing.

"I'm fine," he assured her. "Really. You ... saved me back there. I

should be thanking you."

She smiled warmly at him. "I'm so glad you're all right.

That is ... there are so few of us ... true believers. We can't afford

to lose ... even one."

She was attracted to him! Peter began to wonder if Federation Security

had any real idea, before today's violent demonstration, how dangerous

this group was becoming.

Whatever information they had on the KEHL couldn't have been very

accurate, or the security forces would've never been caught so

shorthanded at the demonstration.

Tennant thought he was a member, a "true believer." Could he string her

along long enough to gain critical inside information--information he

could relay to Starfleet?

"Listen, Peter," Lisa said, guiding him to the door, "my assistant,

Rosa, was one of the people stunned today. I'm going to be lost without

her, and I know what it's like to be stunned. She won't be feeling well

for a day or two. I need to make a lot of calls, arrange hearings, bail,

tons of stuff. That means that my real work won't get done. So ... I

was wondering ... you're used to manipulating data. Rosa was working on

cross-referencing the membership lists with some special information

we've received lately about ... a clandestine Vulcan operation. I

really need to get this project completed. Do you think you could help

me?"

How would Uncle Jim handle this? Peter wondered, but of course he

already knew. James T. Kirk would simply lay on the charm, the famous

Kirk charm, and within hours she'd be putty in his hands. Forget it.

That won't work for you!

As he hesitated, she offered, "You'd be working with me directly ...

but, I'll understand if you're not interested.

What happened today was enough to make anyone think twice about

supporting the group ... "

"Oh, I'm interested!" he assured her. "I, uh, didn't realize ... we'd

be working together. I'd like that, Ms.

Tennant. Uh ... working with you, I mean." Smooth, mister, real smooth.

A Tellarite would've managed a classier delivery ...

She opened the door for him and touched his arm. "Call me Lisa, Peter.

I'm glad you're willing to help me. I really

need an expert's assistance. How about ... Saturday?

Around noon? Can you find your way back here?"

"Sure," he said, managing not to stammer this time. "I'll see you then."

His gesture of farewell included both Lisa and Jay. "Saturday, noon.

I'll be here."

"It'll just be you and me, Peter," Lisa assured him warmly, following

him a few steps into the alley.

"Jay ... will be busy with something else. I'll see you then."

He managed a credible grin despite his uneasiness.

"Great. Till Saturday." She stepped back and the door slid shut, leaving

him alone.

Peter walked out onto the main street, then began a circuitous route

back toward the Academy, suddenly nervously aware of every figure

passing him on the street.

Whatever had possessed him to play Mata Hari with the KEHL's leader?

These people were definitely more dangerous than Federation Security

realized. What should he do now? If he went to the security offices at

the Academy, or to the officer of the day, and related this wild story,

they'd no doubt tell him to stay out of it. His advisor, a grizzled old

Tellarite lieutenant commander, would forbid him to have anything more

to do with this group. She'd be right, too. He had exams to complete.

And the Kobayashi Maru.

I don't have time for this. ! have to stay focused. I've got a career to

worry about.

But ... through sheer happenstance he'd managed to find himself on the

inside. He had an opportunity to discover what was really going on with

this radical group of dangerous xenophobes. Would Uncle Jim walk away

from this opportunity? The hell he would! Captain Kirk would play the

cards dealt him.

Can I do any less?

Peter scowled down at his feet as the moved along the sidewalk. What

harm could there be in keeping his Saturday date? He'd just spend time

with Lisa Tennant, work on her reports.

She said I'd get to work on the membership lists ... That would be a

unique opportunity, one he doubted Security could manage. And, by

talking to her, he could draw her out, discover something about this

silly Vulcan "conspiracy" she purported to have discovered. Maybe he

could find out other things, too. More serious inside information.

And, when he had that information, he'd take that to Starfleet. They

couldn't ignore him then, not if he had information about how the KEHL

had suddenly gained so many new members.

If his plan worked out, it certainly wouldn't hurt his career any. And

... it was something a real Kirk would do.

Something Uncle Jim would do in a heartbeat. Of that, Peter was very

sure.

Sarek sat at the comm link in his assigned quarters aboard the Freelan

space station, facing the cowled figure of a Freelan. Although there was

no way to be sure, owing to the concealing cloak and mechanical-sounding

voice interface, he thought he recognized the other as Taryn, the

Freelan liaison he'd been dealing with for nearly seventy Standard

years.

"Greetings, Taryn," he said aloud.

The cowled and muffled figure was suddenly very still.

"Greetings, Ambassador Sarek," the flat, mechanical voice said. "You

recognized me?"

Sarek shook his head and dissembled, diplomatically, "I made a logical

deduction as to your identity, Liaison. After all, during my meetings

aboard this space station, you have been my contact during negotiations

eightysix-point-three percent of the time."

The shrouded figure seemed to relax again. "I suppose I have. We have

known each other a long time, Sarek of Vulcan."

"Indeed we have, Taryn of Freelan," the ambassador agreed solemnly.

"This time, you did not come alone," Taryn said.

Sarek beckoned, and Soran stepped forward from the back of the room and

seated himself beside the ambassador.

"You are correct, Liaison. I brought my new aide, Soran, so he could

begin familiarizing himself with Freelan/Vulcan trade agreements."

"Why?" the other asked, bluntly.

"My health is not what it once was since my heart trouble twenty-seven

years ago," Sarek said, smoothly, having anticipated this question. His

response was accurate, if deliberately misleading. Actually, his health

was now better than it had been for decades. "Someday," the ambassador

continued,

"perhaps in the not-too-distant future, I will retire. I cannot continue

to be the sole contact between our worlds. I wish my aide to become

familiar with our negotiations."

"I see," Taryn said slowly. "Very well. Greetings, Soran."

"Greetings, Liaison Taryn," the young Vulcan said, raising a hand in

salute. "May you live long and prosper."

"Only if I can induce Vulcan to reduce their import tariffs!" the

Freelan shot back. "It is difficult to prosper under the crushing weight

of unfair tariffs!"

"As a matter of fact, tariffs were one subject I wished to explore

today," Sarek put in, smoothly. "May we begin?"

The cowled figure inclined his head. "Assuredly, Ambassador."

Soran observed, for the most part in silence, as the two diplomats went

over the trade agreements in question.

Sarek's mind was only partly on the subject at hand--with another

portion of his mind, he was going over his plans for later that

station-designated "night."

The two diplomats finished their discussion of tariffs, and went on to

discuss modifications to a long-standing trade agreement.

Taryn seemed slightly suspicious of Sarek's motives in bringing up that

particular agreement. "I must admit that I am surprised to hear you

reopen this topic," he said. "I had thought that the agreement we forged

regarding those cryo-memory inserts actually favored Vulcan. I fail to

see why you would wish to alter or revise it ... "

"The modifications I have in mind are minor, Liaison," Sarek said. "They

should not take long to discuss. Perhaps, after our talk, we could ...

have a game?"

"As you know, I am extremely busy," Taryn said, but then he hesitated.

"However, I must admit that you are one of the few players that I find

... stimulating. Very well, then. A game. When we are finished."

Sarek went ahead with his list of proposed changes to the trade

agreement. They were, as he said, minor, most of them points that they

had haggled over when the original agreement was forged, three years

ago. He actually found himself losing some ground in the negotiations,

partially because the was not devoting his full attention to the problem

at hand.

Finally, they were finished. Soran excused himself as both diplomats

keyed their terminals to produce a 3-D chess board. "Standard time limit

per move?" Sarek asked, after graciously accepting white at Taryn's

insistence.

"Of course."

The Vulcan studied the boards, planning his opening.

"I must warn you, Sarek," Taryn said, "our discussion has sharpened my

wits. Prepare to lose, Ambassador."

Sarek inclined his head in a half-bow. "I am prepared, Liaison." After a

moment's consideration, he moved a pawn. Taryn leaned forward, studying

his representation of the board, then made his own move. "You know," the

Freelan said, and the Vulcan gained the impression that he was confiding

something highly personal, "I truly do find our games ... stimulating."

"You mean 'challenging,'" Sarek said dryly.

"As I recall"--Taryn's mechanical tones did not vary, but the ambassador

thought he detected an edge in the quickness of the Freelan's retort--"I

won, the last time we played."

"Yes, so you did," Sarek said, evenly. "My game was definitely off that

day." He could not resist needling the liaison just a little. Taryn

could, at times, be induced to play recklessly. The Freelan hated to

lose, and Sarek had learned preci sely what it took to bait him until he

made a fatal mistake.

Sarek moved his knight onto the queen's level, then sat back to study

his opponent's reaction.

Taryn's answering move caused the Vulcan to raise an eyebrow.

"Stimulating indeed," he murmured, his mind running through moves and

their consequences with lightning speed, even as part of his brain

counted off the seconds remaining for him to reply to Taryn's bold

strategy.

"Perhaps ... challenging." With a swift, decisive movement he

transferred a rook to the king's level.

Taryn regarded the board, and Sarek thought he detected skepticism in

the mechanical voice. "Jobeck's gambit?" His cowl moved slightly, as

though he had shaken his head ruefully. "A human move ... and not a

particularly inventive one, at that. I will taste victory today." He

paused, his mitt hovering over the board as he considered his next move.

"A human gambit ... a surprising move for one of your kind to make,

Ambassador."

"My wife is Terran," Sarek said, "and I have spent many years on Earth.

I learned that gambit there. Humans may not possess Vulcan logic ... but

they can demonstrate surprisingly intricate strategy, at times."

"For myself, I have never had cause to respect their intelligence,"

Taryn commented, his mitt still hovering over the board. "Take this new

organization that has sprung up, for instance. The Keep Earth Human

League. From all reports, it consists of a collection of bigoted misfits

with stunted intellects. They detest all nonhumans ... even your

people, Ambassador."

Sarek had to guard against a betraying start of surprise. It was Taryn's

turn to needle him--almost as though the liaison knew why the ambassador

was here, hoping to gain proof for his theory about a Freelan conspiracy

...

"These fringe groups come and go," the Vulcan conceded blandly. "They

hardly pose a concern to the long-standing amity between Earth and

Vulcan."

"Of course not," Taryn said, sitting back in his seat, his shrouded head

level, as though he were staring directly into Sarek's face, searching

for any betraying emotions he might find there. "No one could hope to

alter such a close alliance."

Sarek raised an eyebrow. "Really, Liaison, you surprise me. If this is a

strategy on your part, I should think you could be more creative than to

attempt something so ... antiquated."

The Freclan's cowl jerked slightly, as if he had stiffened.

"Antiquated? What ... what do you mean?"

Sarek gestured at the board. "Why, engaging me in conversation while you

exceed your time limit for a move.

Or ... had you forgotten that it is your move?"

"My move ... oh, yes. Of course I had not forgotten." Taryn hastily

moved his bishop.

As the game progressed, Sarek tried with all his diplomatic skills to

gain information from his longtime contact.

Taryn, who had recovered his aplomb, fenced back at him, seemingly

enjoying their verbal sparring.

It was a very hard-fought game, but, to his own surprise, Sarek won once

again. Typically, Taryn was not a particularly good sport about his

defeat. The moment endgame was in sight, he signaled his board to topple

his king, then, with barely a civil word of leavetaking, broke the

connection.

After dinner, the two Vulcans retired to the adjoining rooms in their

suite. Sarek set himself to doze until the middle of "night" aboard the

station.

Hours later, the ambassador opened his eyes, then rose quietly from his

bed to pull on a dark tunic and trousers, and soft-soled desert boots he

had brought with him for this occasion. With his minuscule Vulcan

tricorder in hand, he seated himself before the Freelan comm link. The

ambassador had been planning for this day for months, and had prepared

programs to cover all of the most probable contingencies.

Sarek's first task was to disarm the alarms on the station's secured

maintenance area. He studied the sleek, horizontal console for only a

moment. "Manual input, please. Standard Federation interface." The

manual control board slid out of a concealed opening, and he swiftly

enabled the external data link. That was the easy part. Now came the

challenging task of causing a calculated "malfunction" in the system

that would camouflage his efforts to access the main data banks.

The Vulcan ambassador quickly set his trioorder to run through the

standard external data conventions, sending handshake messages at

various wavelengths. When the tricorder's screen indicated success, the

Vulcan's lips tightened.

Not Federation standard. Working efficiently, he called up the most

likely communications protocol and linked his tricorder into the Freelan

comm link, then was gratified to see the connection established. The

twenty-five-year-old espionage done by his son aboard a Romulan vessel

would suffice to accomplish his goal.

Confident now of the specifics of this particular computer system, he

downloaded the first of several valit programs and instructed the

low-level operating system to execute. A valit was a small Vulcan

creature that could burrow its way through the hardest soil, capable of

adapting its complex mandibles to numerous functions. Unless the

operating system was massively dissimilar to what Spock had reported,

the valit program would be able to adapt and invade, opening up the

secure portions of the software. And, by returning countless error

messages to the central processors, this first valit program would

effectively disguise his efforts to intrude further.

Although Sarek did not actually have to enter the central maintenance

area to gain further access to the no-longer-secure data, he wanted to

see the Freelan computer with his own eyes. The comm link in his

quarters was encased in a shell that differed little from those found on

any Federation world. In a sense, he had proven nothing so far. The

Freelans could have purchased their comm units and software from the

Romulans. The ambassador had to see the central computer itself, because

he knew that the Romulan cloaking system depended on the massive

processing capabilities of these machines; the Romulans would never

willingly part with this technology to outsiders for mere profit.

Before leaving his quarters, Sarek tapped softly on Soran's door.

Moments later, his aide emerged, also clad in dark clothes, with soft

footwear. "The security alarms?" he whispered.

"Disabled," Sarek replied.

The ambassador had visited the Freelan station many times, and knew

precisely where to go. When they reached the doors that were labeled

MAINTENANCE--NO ADMITRANCE in several languages, including Vulcan, Sarek

stopped, mo-tioning Soran to stay back. He tapped on the entry pad, and

the portals shot apart.

Sarek stepped into the maintenance area, Soran at his side. The young

Vulcan halted suddenly at the sight of a surveillance vid unit, but the

ambassador shook his head reassuringly. The valit was overloading the

condition-recognition software to the point where it would not be

on-line for the time of their visit.

"We must move quickly," Sarek said softly. (Even though there was no one

in the area, the urge for silence remained, illogical though it was.)

"The valit will not delay the security system indefinitely." He led the

way past a transporter room and into the nerve center of the station.

The enormous room contained a gigantic computer system, black metal

without decoration, identical to the one Spock had seen a generation

before. Apparently the Romulans were conservative about changes in a

technology that worked. Sarek nodded grimly. It was as he had

conjectured.

"Ambassador, you must know what you are looking for," Soran said.

"Otherwise you would not have been able to devise a valit program."

"Logical," Sarek said, approvingly, seating himself before the closest

comm link and taking out his tricorder. "You have deduced admirably. If

my theory about the Freelans is correct, then you shall soon see their

true identity for yourself."

"This system bears no resemblance to any in the Federation," Soran said,

watching as Sarek's experienced hands flew over the tricorder controls,

feeding in another valit program, this one designed to follow on the

heels of the first valit. It would make all areas of the memory

accessible to external control, and display on the visual monitors

whatever was accessed.

As the two Vulcans watched, random areas of memory began to appear on

the screens. Soran's eyes widened as he made out the characters. "That

script ..." he breathed.

"Romulan!"

"Indeed," Sarek said. "As I expected. But I must capture more than

random kitchen requisitions to justify our suspicions." He held up the

tricorder's photo chip to the screen.

"So the Freelans are Romulans?" Soran said slowly, obviously taken

aback. At Sarek's quick glance, the young Vulcan hastily composed his

features.

"Yes," Sarek said. "They are Romulans. I have suspected it for a long

time, but gaining proof has been difficult.

Ah ... personnel data banks. We are in." Raw information began to flash

across the screen--words in Romulan script, operating-system symbols,

and numbers, all in a jumbled disarray. Hundreds of screens of data,

most of it garbled, appeared in quick succession. Suddenly Sarek leaned

forward and signaled the tricorder to backtrack through the images. A

quick tap froze the output. Intently, he studied the scrambled data.

"What is it?" Soran asked.

"A name--one of the few Freelan names I would recognize.

Do you read Romulan, Soran?"

"No, sir. I will remedy the deficiency as soon as feasible," the young

aide promised. "What does it say?" Sarek indicated a name in flowing

Romulan script.

"Taryn," he said, simply. "This is a list of Romulan officers, along

with their ranks. Taryn is listed, if I am reading this correctly, as a

wing commander." The e lder Vulcan raised an eyebrow. "A high-ranked

Romulan officer indeed." He continued recording data, studying it.

Slowly, he made sense of the scrambled information. He generated a

decoding algorithm in his mind, and mentally overlaid it on the jumble,

seeing order amid chaos.

Minutes later, he was reading it swiftly. Sarek scanned the shipping

data first, noting with grim satisfaction that it, too, proved his

theory. Military vessels from Romulus and Remus made regular voyages to

Freelan, and Freelans voyaged to the Romulan worlds. Romulan officers

were logged as being "detailed" to Freelan.

Freelan also had a small fleet of birds-of-prey located in

probe-shielded hangars that were camouflaged by the simple expedient of

placing them beneath massive ice shelves, with roofs impregnated with

scionitc.

The communications logs listed hundreds of subspace messages between the

Romulan worlds and Freelan. Government communiqus listed Freelans on

"missions" to various worlds, particularly Earth--and, nearly always,

the Freelan merchant, diplomat, or scientist was accompanied by an aide

with a Vulcan name.

Sarek automatically memorized those names, knowing however, that further

checks would reveal that they--like Savel--were not Vulcan citizens.

None of the evidence Sarek uncovered was a direct link between the KEHL

activity and the Freelans--or Romulans but the ambassador found the

circumstantial evidence damning.

Without warning, a sudden, familiar sound made him freeze.

Soran heard it, too. "Ambassador--a transporter beam!"

"Attempt to distract the newcomers, while I disengage the valits," Sarek

commanded, his fingers flying. Without a thought he abandoned his hope

of copying further Romulan data banks. If he and Soran were caught here,

spying, the Romulans would be within their rights to summarily execute

them for espionage.

Quickly, he injected the last of the valits, the one designed to

eradicate all evidence of his tampering. He could hear footsteps

approaching from the direction of the transporter room as he leaped up,

tricorder in hand, looking for a place to eliminate the evidence of his

spying. Without the tricorder as evidence, he might be able to pretend

to have awakened in the night, ill, and to have been searching for the

station's automated med center. There was little chance that he would be

believed, but, without hard evidence, the Freelans might hesitate to

take him into custody. Seeing a disposal unit, Sarek dropped the

tricorder in and cycled it, not without a pang at the loss of his proof.

Logic dictated, however, that he save himself.

Glancing around him, the ambassador realized that the computer room was

singularly devoid of hiding places.

Silently, he resigned himself to being caught, and having to feign

illness, when a loud crash sounded next door, in one of the engineering

chambers that held banks of automated equipment.

The approaching Freelans exclaimed--in Romulan!--and went to

investigate. Peering out of the computer area, Sarek warily scanned the

hallway; then he made a swift, soundless retreat back to the entrance.

The ambassador knew that his young aide must have caused the crash that

had distracted whomever had come to investigate the "malfunction." Would

Soran be able to escape, also?

A second later Soran, soundless on his soft-soled shoes, hurried up

beside him. Quickly, the two Vulcans left the maintenance area and

returned to their quarters.

Later, as he relaxed in the narrow bunk, the ambassador allowed himself

a faint, ironic smile in the concealing darkness. It is not endgame yet,

Taryn, he thought. Today you may have had me in check, but mate is still

a long way off.

The next day, Sarek waited tensely for some indication that his

late-night foray had been discovered, but apparently the last valit had

been successful. Taryn displayed no indication of suspicion during the

morning's negotiating session.

The ambassador was just beginning the afternoon's session when Soran

approached, a guarded expression on his normally calm features.

"Ambassador? There are two messages coming in from Vulcan. They are ...

important."

Hastily, Sarek excused himself and went to his quarters to view them in

private. The first was a written message from his wife that read,

simply, "Come home if possible, please.

Amanda."

Staring at it, the Vulcan experienced a rush of unease.

Never, in over sixty years of marriage, had his wife ever interrupted

him in the midst of a mission to ask him to return home. What could be

wrong?

His silent question was swiftly answered by the second message,

prerecorded by his wife's physician, T'Mal. The graying Healer stared

straight into the screen, as though she could see him. Her expression

was calm, as usual, but the ambassador could discern a hint of sorrow in

her eyes.

"Ambassador Sarek, you must return home immediately.

Your wife is gravely ill. I do not expect her to live more than another

month ... possibly less. I regret having to impart such news in this

manner, but I have no choice. Return home immediately."

The ancient, stone-walled room was buried deep in the foundations of the

huge fortress-manor on Qo'nos, the Klingon homeworld. Outside those

age-darkened stone walls lay nothing but soil. The room had been tested,

retested, and verified to be free of all recording or surveillance

devices, which was why such a dank, dark room had been chosen for this

particular meeting.

Valdyr sat in one of the modern chairs that had been brought into the

room, feeling the chill pluck at her body, even as the words she was

hearing chilled her mind and soul.

Hesitantly, she glanced up at her uncle, the esteemed Klingon

ambassador, Kamarag, as he spoke forcefully to the officers assembled in

the room, around the venerable, dagger-scarred table that had

undoubtedly been here for hundreds of years.

He is perilously close to treason, she thought, struggling to keep the

shock she was feeling from showing on her face.

The officers watched the speaker with varying degrees of enthusiasm. The

soft lights from the lamps glimmered off oiled black leather and

polished studs.

"Warriors," Kamarag was saying, his trained voice carrying such

conviction that it was nearly hypnotic, "we have all seen what is

happening to our Empire in the past months, since Praxis was destroyed.

The foundations of our exis tence are being eaten away! If this

continues, soon there will be no place for our race in this galaxy! The

Romulans will overrun us, for we will have grown soft, and weak as

females!"

Valdyr, the only female present, glanced up at him, but was careful to

conceal the resentment his words caused. Her uncle was the head of her

family. When her father had been killed attempting to board and conquer

the Federation starship Enterprise, Kamarag had taken his widow and four

children under his protection, providing for them, even sending Valdyr

and her brothers to school.

And last month, when her mother and eldest brother had been killed

during one of the devastating meteor showers that had bombarded Qo'nos

ever since the destruction of Praxis, Kamarag had taken Valdyr and her

brothers to live with him in the ancestral home.

Her uncle was the head of her family, and she owed him everything. If

not for Kamarag, her brothers would never have been able to go to school

and learn the skills necessary to serve aboard starships. They would all

have been relegated to a backwater existence in some hamlet, grubbing

for sustenance on land that was increasingly hostile to agriculture.

Valdyr owed Kamarag unquestioning loyalty. Still, his sneering reference

to her entire sex made her grind her back teeth. Her fingers clenched

against her own armor. At the mention of the word "females," one of the

captains, Karg, east Valdyr a leering glance.

"Females have their place--but what should that place be? Remember who

now sits in the chancellor's seat of our government, my brothers! A

woman.t Gorkon's daughter, to be sure, but she is not Gorkon, as she has

proved many times in the past days. Azetbur demands our loyalty, even as

she opens her arms to Federation influence--influence which may well

lead to Federation control. Who among us, brothers, wishes to live under

the heel of the Federation?"

A concerted growl from the officers present was his only reply.

Azetbur's ascension to the chancellorship had given Valdyr the courage

to continue her schooling past the age when most Klingons of her sex

were relegated to the home, their only power whatever they could obtain

by influencing the males in their lives. Valdyr respected Azetbur for

attempting to forge a true and lasting peace between the Federation and

the Klingon Empire.

To hear her revered uncle denouncing the new chancellor secretly enraged

the young woman. She glanced up at him as he spoke. Kamarag had been a

formidable warrior in his youth, and his stance as he addressed these

officers was that of a combatant throwing down a formal challenge.

"Consider, my brothers!" he was continuing. "Consider what me must do,

each and every one of us, to uphold our honor as warriors! Each of us

must search his own heart to discover the best way to serve our

Empire--even, should it prove necessary, by serving outside the

strictures of official government policy. We must have the courage, the

honor, the valor to serve our Empire as warriors, as leaders--not merely

as those who blindly follow orders given by our nominal superiors!"

Valdyr's eyes widened. Her uncle was skirting the boundary of advocating

sedition ... outright treason! Such talk was dishonorable! How could he

speak so? Glancing over the faces of the assembled starship commanders,

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