Spock nodded, a shadow in his eyes mirroring the sadness in his

 

father's. "Sybok," he said. "I saw him influence minds from a

 

considerable distance. His mental powers were ... unusual, however. But

 

the ability to influence minds more subtly ... I possess that capacity

 

myself."

 

 

This time it was the ambassador's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Really? I

 

did not know that."

 

 

"I have done so several times," Spock admitted. "Though never to effect

 

any lasting mental impression or change in the subject's mind. But I did

 

it on Eminiar Seven, and again on Omega Four." He paused. "And I am only

 

half-Vulcan.

 

 

Thus I find the possibility of Vulcan offspring who possess the mental

 

abilities, without the ethical constraints we are taught, entirely

 

plausible. And ... disquieting."

 

 

Spock was silent for a moment; then he asked, "Did you ever discuss with

 

Darov what happened that day you went into pon farr? You said that you

 

were friends ... "

 

 

"I might have," the ambassador said. "Except for the fact that I never

 

saw Darov again. I never discovered what had become of him. I suspect he

 

was executed for helping me that day. Darov was replaced by Taryn. My

 

impression of him is that he is considerably younger than Darov ...

 

though I cannot be certain, of course, since I never knew Darov's age.

 

He is a far different individual. Much colder ... and possessing, I

 

believe, a formidable intellect.

 

 

We have never discussed politics, but I am certain that Taryn is far

 

from the moderate Darov was." Sarek paused, thinking. "I have gained the

 

impression, over the decades, that the liaison is ... patriotic.

 

Possibly a zealot."

 

 

Spock raised an eyebrow as he considered the ambassador's words. "If he

 

is indeed a wing commander, that would not be surprising. Many

 

high-ranking Romulan officers favor all-out war with the Federation."

 

 

The Starfleet officer rose from the bench to pace beside his father

 

along the garden paths. "My final question is, why?

 

 

Obviously, all of this ... the Freelan base, the captured Vulcans, the

 

KEHL--this entire plan took years ... decades ... to set into motion.

 

What do the Romulans hope to gain?"

 

 

Sarek did not answer directly. Instead he asked, "What are the goals of

 

the KEHL?"

 

 

"As I understand them ... to remove all nonterrestrials from Earth

 

itself. Especially Vulcans."

 

 

"Not just from Earth," Sarek said. "From the Federation

 

 

itself. I have researched the KEHL, also. The organization is adamantly

 

opposed to the continued presence of Vulcan as a member of the

 

Federation." Spock nodded slowly. "That does not surprise me." His

 

features tightened. "If the Romulans are successful in driving a wedge

 

between Earth and Vulcan, to the point where Vulcan either secedes or is

 

expelled from the Federation, then Earth will have lost its most

 

powerful ally."

 

 

"Yes," Sarek said. "A Federation without Vulcan would be weakened in

 

many ways. Also consider What is the current situation with the

 

Klingons?"

 

 

"Extremely unstable. When I left the Enterprise, we were orbiting a

 

planet whose colony had been devastated by a Klingon attack. Chancellor

 

Azetbur assured us that the raiders were renegades, and that she was

 

attempting to capture them and bring them to justice. I believe her, but

 

many others will not. The entire Federation/Klingon situation is

 

unstable. James Kirk referred to it last week as 'a powder keg waiting

 

for a spark.'"

 

 

"An essentially correct, if somewhat dramatic way of putting it," Sarek

 

said, dryly.

 

 

"Instability in the Federation could well provide such a spark," Sarek

 

continued. "Azetbur's government is struggling to stay in power. She has

 

popular support, but many of the older, high-ranking families object to

 

having a woman as chancellor. A number of high-ranking officers have

 

turned renegade, deserting the fleet and using their vessels to commit

 

acts of piracy."

 

 

"Actions which only fuel the xenophobia the KEHL is fostering."

 

 

"Precisely." Bathed in T'Rukh's garish light, Spock's features were

 

drawn so tightly they appeared fleshless, skull-like. "It is also

 

possible that the Freelans are using their trained Vulcans to influence

 

high-ranking Kling-Ohs ... fomenting dissent, inciting the Empire into

 

civil upheaval, and then war with the Federation. The humans have an

 

ancient phrase for such strategy"Divide and conquer.'"

 

 

"Indeed," Sarek agreed. He sighed wearily, feeling himself relax for the

 

first time in ... how long? He could not tell ... "My son, it is a ...

 

relief ... to speak of this all, after holding silent so long," the

 

ambassador said, sinking down onto another bench. "I have discussed my

 

conspiracy theory with only two people before you--Soran, just recently,

 

and your mother. It is difficult to know who to trust. Any high-ranking

 

official could now be under Freelan influence." Spock shook his head

 

slightly as he considered that. "A situation that might justifiably

 

induce paranoia," he concurred.

 

 

"Last year, when I first began to suspect that the Freelans were using

 

telepathy to influence people, I advised all members of Vulcan's

 

diplomatic corps to work on strengthening their mental disciplines, so

 

they could not only detect, but shield against, any attempt at mental

 

influence. I traveled to Gol nearly every day for months, training with

 

one of the high-ranking Acolytes."

 

 

"I learned similar techniques while I was at Gol," Spock was quick to

 

assure his father. "My shielding is better than average."

 

 

"Good." Sarek gazed around him at the garden in T'Rukh's waning light.

 

"All indications are that the Romulan plan is reaching fruition. I

 

hypothesize that we may have only months ... perhaps less ... to act

 

to stop them."

 

 

"What is your recommendation?"

 

 

"First, we must gain concrete proof of the Freelans' true identity and

 

purpose in order to expose them. Your skills with computers equal my

 

own. It is my hope that, working together, we can break into the Freelan

 

system more successfully than I was able to that first time. Then we can

 

download their memory banks."

 

 

"That would constitute indisputable proof," Spock agreed. "We must

 

present that proof in open session of the Federation Security Council."

 

 

"I agree."

 

 

"We do have time," Spock said. "The KEHL is still a long way from

 

influencing Earth to expel Vulcan from the Federation."

 

 

"Do not be too sure. Elections will be held in two months, and the KEHL

 

is sponsoring many candidates ... some openly, others with secret

 

affiliations. Some of these candidates are vying for offices at very

 

high levels in Earth's government."

 

 

Sarek rubbed his forehead as fatigue washed over him so strongly it

 

seemed to gnaw at his bones; he felt every one of his 128 years.

 

"Something else to consider, Spock If the KEHL keeps growing, Vulcan

 

will not struggle to remain a member of the Federation. Our people do

 

not react well to being ... insulted."

 

 

Spock nodded grimly. "I suggest that we discuss the matter with James

 

Kirk and ask his help in gaining positive proof, and in bringing all of

 

this before the Federation Security Council and the president."

 

 

"I agree," Sarek said.

 

 

It was full night now, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. The

 

younger Vulcan glanced around him at the eerily lit garden and repressed

 

a shiver. "It is late. We should go in."

 

 

"Yes. Your mother will be waking soon."

 

 

"So, you're Jim Kirk's nephew!" Commander Gordon Twelvetrees exclaimed,

 

holding out his hand.

 

 

Standing stiffly at attention, Peter accepted the warm handshake from

 

the tall, stately Lakota Indian who was Admiral Idota's aide. The

 

admiral was one of Uncle Jim's friends, and while Peter hadn't really

 

expected to find anyone in at such a late hour, he'd hoped to leave a

 

message for Idota with the desk clerk. He was pleasantly surprised to

 

find the admiral's aide still at work.

 

 

"Oh, at ease, son," the commander said, waving him to the couch in his

 

office. He poured a cup of fresh, fragrant coffee into the fine

 

Starfleet china that every admiral's office had, and handed it to the

 

cadet.

 

 

Peter nodded his thanks, and took a sip. It wasn't anything like the

 

brew at the cadet's commissary. This was a hearty, robust

 

blend--Jamaican, probably. He relished the taste.

 

 

"You got lucky finding me here tonight," the commander said. "Usually I

 

keep the same bankers' hours as the admiral."

 

 

The young Kirk smiled thankfully at his superior. "I'm glad you could

 

see me. Why the late hours?"

 

 

"I was here waiting for a communiqu6 from the Neutral Zone. Something

 

the admiral's been expecting. When they told me Jim Kirk's nephew had a

 

problem ..."

 

 

For once Peter didn't flinch at the reference to his relative.

 

 

At times like this, being Uncle Jim's nephew came in handy.

 

 

"Thank you, sir. I'm most grateful for your time." He tugged his cadet's

 

uniform into place, glad he'd taken the time to change and freshen up.

 

He hesitated, trying to find the right place to begin, then finally

 

started from the top, telling Twelvetrees about trying to meet Sarek for

 

lunch, the demonstration, the riot and his involvement, and how he found

 

himself at the local KEHL headquarters.

 

 

The story didn't take very long, and Twelvetrees never interrupted,

 

listening to every word with complete attention.

 

 

As he neared the end of his tale, Peter withdrew the three tapes with

 

the pilfered information and showed them to the commander.

 

 

"I know it was probably a foolish thing for me to do, sir, to pretend to

 

be a member of KEHL, but I felt it was a unique opportunity I couldn't

 

pass up, in spite of the risks.

 

 

And I think it's paid off. These tapes hold the entire files of their

 

membership rolls, their agenda, and the stolen information they obt ained

 

from the Vulcan consulate. I think they're enough to discredit this

 

organization for once and all. They're really getting dangerous, sir,

 

and they're no longer willing to work within the law. Their violation of

 

Vulcan communications alone is proof of that."

 

 

Commander Twelvetrees took the computer tapes almost reverently, staring

 

at the innocuous bits of flat plastic as he

 

 

turned them around in his big hands. "You certainly are a Kirk, son.

 

That's the same thing Jim would've done in that very circumstance. He

 

must be proud of you."

 

 

Peter was about to say that his Uncle Jim didn't know anything about

 

this, when a troubling realization began gnawing at his gut. Despite the

 

commander's words, he realized that the aide wasn't taking him

 

seriously. Not at all.

 

 

Twelvetrees sat back against the couch, and pocketed the cassettes. "I

 

want to thank you for the effort you took to obtain this information,

 

Peter. Most people--working to complete their finals, cramming day and

 

nightmwould only have their own personal problems in mind, and would've

 

turned their back on this. You've got the kind of heart, the kind of

 

backbone Starfleet needs to bring us successfully into the future. I

 

won't forget what you've tried to do here.

 

 

However ..."

 

 

Peter felt as if ice crystals were forming in his stomach.

 

 

" ... I have to tell you that Starfleet has had the KEHL under

 

surveillance for quite some time. We've even had several people

 

infiltrate the ranks. I can understand your alarm, but the truth is the

 

KEHL is just a fringe-element, disorganized group. They've been gaining

 

popularity due to the media exposure, and, unfortunately, we were

 

under-staffed at the consulate the day of the demonstration. But the

 

KEHL is no threat to anyone, Peter."

 

 

"But ... those tapes ..." Kirk protested.

 

 

"Oh, don't worry, Peter ... I'll take a look at these before I hand

 

them over to Starfleet Security--just in case there's something in there

 

we can use. They'll probably decide to warn the Vulcans about the breach

 

in their security. But don't forget, none of the KEHL's plans have ever

 

come to anything. And we both know there's no such thing as a Vulcan

 

conspiracy." He stood, indicating the interview was at an end. "You have

 

your navigational final tomorrow morning, don't you?"

 

 

"Yes, sir," Peter responded desultorily, as the commander walked him to

 

the office door.

 

 

"You focus on that, son. I barely made it through that one myself. Don't

 

you worry about these tapes, the KEHL, or

 

 

anything but your exam. I'll make sure this information gets the

 

attention it deserves, and if we find anything of any importance, I'll

 

let you know." The commander extended his hand again as his doors

 

whooshecl open, practically demanding Peter's exit.

 

 

The young Kirk took the hand offered him. "Thank you, sir. And believe

 

me, if you really look at that information, I think you'll be surprised

 

... and concerned."

 

 

"Don't you worry, Peter," the commander assured him, his deep voice

 

calming and sincere. "Starfleet Security has the situation well in hand.

 

Thanks again for your concern."

 

 

Peter watched the doors slide closed behind him and slumped against the

 

wall, despondently. He hadn't been born yesterday; he knew a kiss-off

 

when he saw one. Despite the commander's promise, Peter couldn't shake

 

the feeling that the officer was probably going to toss his tapes in the

 

nearest recycler.

 

 

The cadet shrugged.

 

 

He could still get in a few good hours of studying if he hurried. The

 

commander was right about one thing. If he was going to ace the

 

navigational final, he'd need to be sharp, focused. Peter straightened

 

up and squared his shoulders.

 

 

He'd get focused, all right. As soon as he tended to one more thing.

 

 

Minutes later, young Kirk strode briskly up to the communications center

 

that sat in the center of the massive Starfleet Security headquarters.

 

 

"Can I help you, sir?" the young man manning the desk asked.

 

 

"Yes. I want to send a message to a Federation starship." Peter realized

 

that he had no idea where his uncle was right now.

 

 

"And what ship is that, sir?" the operator asked casually.

 

 

"The Enterprise. I want to send a message to Captain James T. Kirk."

 

 

The communications clerk glanced up, faintly surprised.

 

 

"Well ... that ship is currently on assignment. A message could take a

 

long time to ..."

 

 

"Send it Priority One. I am Captain Kirk's nephew. It's regarding a

 

family emergency."

 

 

"Of course, sir," the operator agreed, all business. He handed Peter a

 

message pad and stylus. "If you'll encode your message here it will be

 

sent on the private-messages channel, Priority One."

 

 

Peter picked up the pad, and, stylus poised, stood pondering just

 

exactly what to say.

 

 

Spock stood waiting outside the door of his parents' room, forcing

 

himself to remain still, hands clasped behind his back, his expression

 

controlled, remote. Inwardly, however, the Vulcan wanted nothing more

 

than to pace restlessly.

 

 

Movement would have aided him in dispelling some of his disquiet.

 

 

This morning, the Enterprise had entered the Vulcan spacedock, and, in

 

response to Spock's request that he evaluate Amanda's condition, Leonard

 

McCoy had beamed down to the villa.

 

 

The doctor was currently in Amanda's room, examining his mother.

 

 

Spock's sensitive hearing picked up the swish of the pressure curtain

 

moving aside, so he was prepared when the door opened, framing McCoy.

 

The doctor's expression was somber as he walked out into the corridor.

 

 

In silence, the two officers went into Sarek's office. When the

 

ambassador saw them, he rose from his desk and the three walked out to

 

the living room. McCoy sank down on the couch and glanced around. "You

 

have a lovely home, Ambassador Sarek."

 

 

The elder Vulcan inclined his head. "My wife's doing, for the most

 

part," he said.

 

 

"The view outside is magnificent, too. I never saw anything like the

 

Forge on any world I've visited."

 

 

"It is a relatively unique configuration," Sarek agreed.

 

 

Spock, who was sitting beside the medical officer on the couch, shifted

 

impatiently. "Doctor ... what did your examination indicate?"

 

 

McCoy shook his head. "I'm sorry, Spock. The Healers

 

 

are correct. The Reyerson's is, for the moment, in remission.

 

 

But I'm afraid that when I speak to Dr. T'Mal, I'm going to recommend

 

that she halt your mother's treatments."

 

 

The first officer glanced quickly at his father, then back at the human.

 

"Why, Doctor?"

 

 

"Because they're causing a tremendous strain on your mother's already

 

frail system. While I was examining her, she suffered a small

 

stroke--and my findings indicate that wasn't the first one."

 

 

"A stroke?" Spock half-rose from the couch.

 

 

"It was a good thing I was there. I was able to arrest it, and prevent

 

any significant damage. My sensor readings indicate that she's had at

 

least two others within the past week or so.

 

 

Minor ones, but they take their toll."

 

 

"What is your prognosis, Dr. McCoy?" Sarek spoke for the first time in

 

minutes.

 

 

"Well, I can't really say definitively. These things differ with

 

individuals ..." the human began, evasively.

 

 

Sarek stared levelly at the Starfleet medical officer. "With all due

 

respect, I must remind you that you are not speaking to a human family,

 

Doctor. Please do not dissemble."

 

 

McCoy took a deep breath. "All right." He stared levelly at the

 

ambassador. "The Healer was, if anything, optimistic.

 

 

I would say it's a matter of a few weeks ... possibly only days."

 

 

Spock drew in a soft breath as the doctor's words struck him like a

 

blow. It wasn't until that moment that the Vulcan realized, bitterly,

 

that he'd hoped his old friend would be able to work some kind of

 

miracle. Illogical the Vulcan part of his mind whispered. Illogical if

 

not irrational ... hope is a human emotion.

 

 

All at once he was acutely conscious of the automatic time sense marking

 

off the hours, minutes, and seconds in his brain. Usually, the Vulcan

 

never thought about it, unless he needed to, but suddenly, it was as

 

pervasive as the ticking of some huge, old-fashioned Terran clock.

 

 

Time ... Amanda's time was running out. '

 

 

Without a word to the others, he rose from his seat and beaded for his

 

room. Fingers numb, he pulled on rough, outdoor clothing and desert

 

boots. He was not thinking, he was simply obeying a strong, almost

 

instinctive need to move, to be outside, to walk the rough soil and

 

climb the jagged stone of his homeworld.

 

 

The heat struck him as he headed into the hills, but Spock ignored it.

 

He was too conscious of the seconds ticking away inexorably in his head

 

...

 

 

"Ambassador?." Sarek looked up at the sound of Soran's voice. The

 

ambassador was sitting by Amanda's bedside, her hand in his, so he would

 

be there when she awakened.

 

 

On McCoy's advice, he had engaged a Healer's aide to monitor his wife's

 

condition, but he and Spock had been taking turns remaining with her

 

during most of their waking hours, ever since Dr. McCoy's revelation two

 

days ago.

 

 

Now, seeing the concern in his young aide's eyes, the Vulcan hastily

 

left the bedroom and stepped into the hallway. "What is it, Soran?"

 

 

"Ambassador, a priority call just came in for you from President

 

Ra-ghoratrei," he said. "The president wishes to speak with you. He says

 

it is urgent."

 

 

Sarek nodded a quick acknowledgment as he headed for his office. Moments

 

later, he was seated before his comm link. A presidential aide

 

recognized him, nodded briefly; then the image wavered and was replaced

 

with that of the Deltan Federation president. Ra-ghoratrei nodded a

 

somber greeting to the Vulcan.

 

 

"Ambassador Sarek. Your aide told me of your wife's illness. I regret

 

having to call upon you at such a time, but I have no choice."

 

 

"What is it, Mr. President?"

 

 

"A band of Klingon renegades has captured an Orion colony--the planet

 

Kadur amand they are holding several thousand colonists hostage. The

 

Klingon leader is threatening to kill the hostages unless the Federation

 

agrees to negotiate a release and monetary settlement with him." The

 

president took a deep breath. "Ambassador ... a great

 

 

many lives hang in the balance. For this mission we need our best

 

negotiator--and that is you. The meeting will take place on Deneb Four."

 

 

Sarek briefly reviewed what he knew of the conference center on Deneb

 

IV. It was at least three days' journey at maximum warp. A week to go

 

there and return, as well as whatever time the negotiations would

 

require ... he would probably be away from home for at least two weeks,

 

possibly three ...

 

 

The ambassador knew without consulting T'Mal or McCoy that, given her

 

present condition, Amanda would probably not survive long enough for him

 

to travel to the neutral site, handle the negotiations, and return. If

 

he left his wife now, it was unlikely that he would ever see her alive

 

again.

 

 

Nevertheless, there was only one logical course of action.

 

 

The Vulcan took a deep breath. It is my duty. I cannot risk so many

 

lives. The needs of the many ... "I will go, Mr. President," he said,

 

steadily.

 

 

Ra-ghoratrei breathed a sigh of relief. "The Federation thanks you,

 

Ambassador. The hostages will now have the best chance to keep their

 

lives and regain their freedom."

 

 

"I will need a complete report on the Klingon Commander," Sarek said. "I

 

will depart this afternoon, provided my pilot can ready my transport.

 

Send the information about this Klingon via subspace message, if you

 

will."

 

 

"I will direct Admiral Burton, the head of Starfleet Security, to do

 

so," the president promised.

 

 

"Very well. Sarek out."

 

 

"Thank you again, Ambassador. Out."

 

 

Rising from his seat, Sarek quickly gave Soran instructions to prepare

 

for the journey. Then, knowing it was for the last time, he went to bid

 

farewell to his wife.

 

 

"Amanda." The voice reached her in the darkness, pulling her back to

 

light and awareness. The voice was familiar, known, beloved. An

 

authoritative, precise voice with a faint resonance. Pleasantly deep,

 

extremely cultured. The voice of her husband.

 

 

Amanda opened her eyes. Strong fingers grasped her hand gently but

 

firmly. Sarek's fingers.

 

 

"Sarek," she murmured, gazing up into the face she had known and loved

 

for so many years. "Have I been asleep long.*"

 

 

"Several hours. My wife, I regret having to wake you, but I must speak

 

with you ... before I take my leave."

 

 

Amanda's eyes opened wider. "Leave?" she asked faintly, too weak to

 

conceal the dismay his words caused her. "Why?

 

 

Where are you going?"

 

 

"There is an emergency on the planet Kadura," Sarek said. "I just

 

finished speaking to President Ra-ghoratrei. He asked me to negotiate

 

the release of a Federation colony that has been seized by Klingon

 

renegades. There are thousands of colonists whose lives are in jeopardy.

 

I must go, Amanda.

 

 

It is my duty."

 

 

Her heart contracted at his words. "How ... how long will it take?" she

 

asked, her words scarcely audible above the faint hum of the medical

 

monitors. "Must you go?"

 

 

"Yes. I must take ship for Deneb Four within the hour. It is difficult

 

to say how long I will be gone. Ten days, at the minimum. If the

 

negotiations proceed slowly ..." He trailed off and his fingers

 

tightened slightly on hers.

 

 

"I see," Amanda whispered. "Very well, Sarek. I understand."

 

 

Her husband regarded her, his dark eyes shadowed with grief. Gently, he

 

reached out and touched her hair, her cheek. "Amanda ... if I could, I

 

would stay here with you.

 

 

You know that, do you not?"

 

 

Silently, she nodded, fighting to hold back tears. His dear, familiar

 

face began to swim in her vision. No! she thought, blinking fiercely. I

 

will not cry. I will not let tears steal my last sight of you. I will

 

not let weeping mar our last farewell.

 

 

"Sarek ..." she whispered, turning her fingers so her hand grasped his,

 

returning the pressure. "I will miss you, my husband. I wish you did not

 

have to go."

 

 

"I will return as soon as possible, Amanda," he promised, his eyes never

 

leaving hers. "The instant Kadura is free, I will come home."

 

 

But you will almost certainly be too late, and we both know it, Amanda

 

thought, her eyes never leaving his face for a moment. She hated even to

 

blink. In a few minutes her husband would be gone, and she would never

 

see him again ... at least, not in this life.

 

 

"I want you to remember something," she said, struggling to keep her

 

voice even.

 

 

"What, Amanda?"

 

 

"Never forget that I love you, my husband. Always." She gazed at him

 

intently, holding his eyes with her own. "You will need to remember

 

that, Sarek, very soon now. Promise me you won't forget."

 

 

"My memory is typical for a Vulcan," he said, quietly. "I forget very

 

little, my wife."

 

 

"I know. But remembering my words in your head, and remembering them

 

here," freeing her hand, she gently laid it on his side, where his heart

 

lay, "are two different things.

 

 

Promise me."

 

 

"You have my word, Amanda," he said, his dark eyes filled with profound

 

sorrow.

 

 

I know that you love me, she thought, gazing up at him.

 

 

But I will not embarrass you by telling you so ... "Spock will be here

 

with you," Sarek said. "Do not forget that, my wife."

 

 

"His presence will be a great comfort," she said, softly.

 

 

Her gaze moved over his face, tracing the angular lines.

 

 

Putting her hand up, she touched his cheek, his eyes, his lips, thinking

 

of the many times she had kissed him there.

 

 

"Sarek, hold me. I want to feel your arms around me. Hold me."

 

 

Gently, he reached forward, scooped her up, and cradled her against him.

 

Amanda slid her arms around him and laid her head on his chest with a

 

long sigh. Briefly, she abandoned herself to the moment ... her soul

 

was content.

 

 

Finally she raised her head. "Sarek, I want you to promise me one more

 

thing."

 

 

He had difficulty meeting her eyes ... Amanda could tell through their

 

bond that he was profoundly moved. "What is it, Amanda?"

 

 

"I want you to read my journals ... afterward. Take the first one with

 

you now, my husband. Promise me you'll read all of them. Please?"

 

 

Sarek nodded; then, with infinite gentleness, he helped settle her back

 

onto the bed. Going into her sitting room, he returned with a slim,

 

red-covered volume. On the spine was affed the number 1. "This one?" he

 

asked, holding it up.

 

 

"Yes, that one," Amanda said, regarding him steadily as she lay propped

 

up on her pillows. "Read it. And when you've finished that one, go on

 

and read the next ... until you've read them all."

 

 

"I will do so, Amanda."

 

 

"I know you will," she said, and holding out her hand, two fingers

 

extended, she smiled at him. Somewhere deep inside herself, she was

 

crying, but she refused to let him see.

 

 

Let him remember me smiling, she thought.

 

 

Her husband held out his hand, brushed two fingers against hers, and

 

they remained that way for many seconds.

 

 

Then, with a last, grave nod, Sarek walked away, pushing through the

 

pressure curtain without looking back.

 

 

Spock saw the pressure curtain move; then his father appeared. The

 

ambassador's eyes widened slightly as he realized that his son must have

 

been listening to him as he bade farewell to his wife; then they

 

narrowed with anger.

 

 

Before his father could speak, the first officer signaled curtly for

 

silence and beckoned the ambassador out into the hall.

 

 

Only when the tekla wood door was firmly closed did Spock turn to regard

 

his father.

 

 

"Eavesdropping is discourteous, my son," Sarek said, and Spock could

 

tell he was irritated, though his voice was carefully neutral.

 

 

Spoek ignored the mild rebuke. He held his father's eyes with his own,

 

and his own voice was cold. "Soran told me that the president called,

 

and why. He also told me that you have ordered your transport prepared.

 

You intend to go to Deneb Four?"

 

 

"Yes," Sarek said, eyeing his son with a touch of wariness.

 

 

"I have just taken my leave of your mother."

 

 

"So I heard." Spock's voice cut like a shard of obsidian. "I must admit

 

that I found it difficult to believe. You actually intend to leave her?

 

In her present condition?"

 

 

"I must," Sarek said, quietly. "The needs of the many outweigh the

 

needs--"

 

 

"To quote an appropriate human phrase, "To hell with that,'" Spock broke

 

in, his voice rough with anger and grief.

 

 

"You cannot leave her like this."

 

 

"I recall a time," Sarek said, "when you chose to remain at your post,

 

when only you could save my life."

 

 

Spock paused. "Yes," he said, after a moment, "but I have grown since

 

then. It is a pity that you have not."

 

 

Sarek's eyebrow rose at his son's words and the unconcealed emotion.

 

"Spock, we all have our duties to consider. The situation at Kadura is

 

critical."

 

 

"So is my mother," the first officer said flatly. "She will not survive

 

long enough for you to return, and you know it.

 

 

Your leaving in itself will very likely hasten her end." He regarded his

 

father unwaveringly.

 

 

The ambassador paused, and Spock knew that the thought of his leaving

 

actually harming Amanda had not occurred to him until now. "You will be

 

here with her," he said, finally. "She will not be alone."

 

 

"She needs her family with her," Spock said obdurately.

 

 

"You are her bondmate--her husband. Your loyalty should be to her. There

 

are other diplomats on Vulcan. Senkar has handled situations of this

 

nature before. Let him negotiate for Kadura's release."

 

 

"The president requested that I handle the negotiations personally,"

 

Sarek said.

 

 

"He cannot order you." Spock's gaze never wavered as he held his

 

father's eyes. "Refuse ... under the circumstances, no one will

 

question your actions."

 

 

Sarek straightened his shoulders. "Spock, I have no more time to discuss

 

this. I must leave now."

 

 

"You mean that you wish to leave," Spock said, his voice cold and flat.

 

"You do not have the courage to stay and see her through this."

 

 

Answering anger sparked in Sarek's eyes. "I will not

 

 

remain to hear such acrimonious--and illogical--out-pourings, Spock. I

 

suggest that you meditate and attempt to regain your control." He drew a

 

deep breath, and added, in a tone that was intended to be conciliatory,

 

"Remember, my son, you are Vulcan."

 

 

"At the moment, if you are any example, being Vulcan is hardly a

 

condition to be desired," Spock snapped. Without another word, he

 

brushed past his father and headed down the corridor. Behind him he

 

could hear the ambassador's footsteps receding.

 

 

When Spock regained control, he gently opened the door to his mother's

 

room, and entered, parting the pressure curtain with both hands.

 

 

Amanda was awake. Spock noted the unmistakable signs that she had been

 

crying, but there were no tears present when she smiled at him wanly and

 

held out her hand. "I was just about to eat my lunch," she said, nodding

 

at a tray placed across her lap by the Healer's aide. "Would you like to

 

join me, Spock?"

 

 

The Vulcan nodded and drew a chair up beside her bed.

 

 

Amanda was making a valiant effort, he could tell, but she had to force

 

herself to swallow several small mouthfuls. She smiled at him. "Do you

 

know what I dreamt of last night?" she asked. "It was so strange ...

 

after all these years on Vulcan, being a vegetarian ..."

 

 

"What, Mother?"

 

 

"I dreamt that I was eating an old-fashioned hamburger.

 

 

It tasted wonderful--nice and rare, with cheese and lettuce and tomato

 

... "She smiled, shaking her head.

 

 

"If you would like one," her son said, "I will contact my ship and ask

 

them to beam one down immediately."

 

 

"Oh, no, don't," Amanda said. "I'm sure that eating meat after all these

 

years would make me quite ill. And the real thing could never match how

 

good it tasted in my dream ... "She chuckled slightly. "But it was odd

 

to dream about that after what ... sixty years?"

 

 

"Indeed," Spock said, cautiously. He sensed that his mother was

 

chattering on as a way of working herself up to

 

 

what was really on her mind. Sarek, he thought, was probably aboard his

 

transport and leaving orbit by now.

 

 

"Spock," Amanda said, softly, putting down her spoon and gazing at him

 

directly, "what is death like?"

 

 

Spock stared at her for a long moment. How many times had he been asked

 

this same question in the past three and a half years? Never before had

 

he attempted an answer, but this time ... he cleared his throat.

 

"Mother, I cannot tell you what death is like. In a way, since my katra

 

departed to reside in Dr. McCoy when my physical body expired, I was not

 

truly dead, as humans understand the term."

 

 

"Oh," she murmured, disappointed. "I'm sorry if that question was ...

 

disquieting. My curiosity got the better of me ... under the

 

circumstances."

 

 

Spock forbore to comment on her reference to her "circumstances."

 

Instead he said, gently, "I cannot tell you what death is ... but I

 

remember dying. I know what it is to die."

 

 

Amanda sat up a little straighter against her pillows, pushing her tray

 

aside. Her blue eyes never left his. "Really?

 

 

Tell me if you can, Spock."

 

 

"It was painful," Spock admitted, and if he had been human, he would

 

have shuddered. "I had been exposed to enough radiation to literally

 

burn me. In addition, my mind, while clear in some ways, was affected,

 

and thus I could not control the pain. I suffered, but I knew before I

 

even entered the chamber that I would not survive, so I also knew that I

 

would not have to endure for long ... "

 

 

Amanda's eyes filled with tears. Spock knew that imagining her son

 

burned, poisoned, and dying of massive radiation exposure was upsetting

 

her. He hesitated, watching her.

 

 

"Mother ... if this is too painful for you, I will ..."

 

 

"No," she said, fiercely. "It's a relief to talk about death, Spock. I

 

couldn't, not with your father. It would have distressed him too much.

 

But you ... you, of all people, you can understand."

 

 

"I do," he said, quietly. His hand slid across the coverlet and grasped

 

hers, holding it tightly, reassuringly. "As my body shut down, the pain

 

stopped, and I experienced relief when that happened. All the while I

 

knew that I was dying, but as soon as the pain ceased, I realized with

 

some surprise that I was not frightened, or distressed. It was more as

 

if what was occurring was simply a further, entirely natural step in the

 

order of things. I found myself at peace ... such peace as I have never

 

felt."

 

 

"Peace," Amanda whispered. "No fear?"

 

 

"Fear," Spock reminded her, "is a human emotion. No, Mother, there was

 

neither fear nor pain. Do not forget that I had established a link

 

between myself and McCoy, so I knew that my katra would ... continue."

 

 

"No fear, no pain ..." she mused, plainly attempting to envision such a

 

state. "What was there, then?"

 

 

"For a moment, I had a sense that knowledge was waiting for me, infinite

 

knowledge. It was a heady sensation, and lasted only for a moment--then

 

my consciousness blanked out, and I did not return to awareness until I

 

awakened on that pallet with T'Lar standing over me."

 

 

"Did you have a sense of an afterlife?"

 

 

"No, there was none of that. However, my leaira was residing within Dr.

 

McCoy, so I cannot categorically state that there is no afterlife."

 

 

"Do you believe in an afterlife?" his mother asked slowly.

 

 

"I do not know. I have no objective data to allow me to draw a

 

conclusion."

 

 

Amanda smiled dryly. "Spoken like a true Vulcan, Spock."

 

 

Attempting to lighten the moment, the first officer bowed slightly.

 

"Mother ... you honor me."

 

 

"Oh, stop it," she said, chuckling despite everything.

 

 

"You and your father ... when you do that, I want to throw something at

 

you!" She grasped one of the pillows, but her strength was not

 

sufficient for her to make good on the implied threat ... instead she

 

sank back against her pillows, gasping.

 

 

Amanda's mention of his father caused all of Spock's anger to return

 

full force. His mother did not miss the change in his expression, slight

 

as it was. "Spock," she said, putting out a hand toward him, "try not to

 

be angry with

 

 

your father. Sarek is simply doing what he has to do, being who and what

 

he is." Pride surfaced for a moment on her features. "And he is the

 

best, Spock. Never forget that.

 

 

Those people on Kadura could not have a better champion than your

 

father."

 

 

"Senkar is also an experienced diplomat who has handled situations of

 

this kind before. My father could have allowed him to negotiate with

 

this Klingon renegade."

 

 

"You're really angry with him, aren't you?" Amanda's eyes were huge and

 

full of distress. "Oh, Spock ... long ago I begged Sarek to try and

 

understand you, instead of simply judging you and finding you wanting.

 

Now I ask you the same thing ... try to understand your father! Forgive

 

him ... I know I do."

 

 

"Mother, I cannot," Spock said flatly. "You are his wife.

 

 

His place is by your side."

 

 

Visibly upset, his mother closed her eyes, shaking her head as she lay

 

liraply against her pillows. "Oh, Spock ... don't be so hard on him. We

 

all make mistakes."

 

 

The Vulcan regarded her with concern, realizing that she was fighting

 

back tears. He'd never meant to distress her ...

 

 

Spock put out a hand, closed it comfortingly over his mother's. "Very

 

well, Mother. I will attempt to be more ... understanding."

 

 

Amanda nodded weakly, her eyelids drooping. "Thank you, Spock ... "

 

 

The Healer's aide suddenly appeared from out of the shadows in the

 

sitting room, where the monitor screens were placed. Motioning to Spock

 

to go, she whispered, "She will sleep now, Captain Spock. I suggest you

 

leave and return later."

 

 

The Vulcan nodded quietly, and left the chill room and the slight,

 

silent form of his mother.

 

 

Peter Kirk unfastened the front of his uniform jacket even before the

 

door to his apartment opened. His garments seemed to have absorbed some

 

of the sticky fatigue that he felt must be seeping out of every pore.

 

Stepping inside, he

 

 

yanked the collar of his shirt open, feeling as if he were about to

 

strangle.

 

 

He was so tired he wasn't even sure how well he did on his navigation

 

exam. Oh, he was sure he'd passed, but this was one test he might not

 

have aced. To know he might've dropped a grade because of the time he'd

 

spent with the KEHL made him feel like a fool.

 

 

He tossed the tired uniform into the recycler. And as he did so, his

 

comm link sounded, signaling an incoming call.

 

 

Fearing it might be Lisa, Peter braced himself and accepted the call. He

 

blinked in surprise when he found himself staring at his uncle. He'd

 

only sent Jim that message early this morning, and the elder Kirk was

 

the last person he'd expected to hear from. Uncle Jim couldn't possibly

 

have gotten his message yet ... could he?

 

 

"Hello, Peter," Kirk's image said, though he didn't smile.

 

 

"Uncle Jim!" the younger man exclaimed. "This is a surprise! I thought

 

you were out near the Neutral Zone someplace?"

 

 

"I'm here in San Francisco," his uncle said, his words sounding clipped,

 

as though he were rushed, or angry. He was wearing full uniform, but

 

Peter couldn't tell where he was calling from ... his uncle's image

 

filled nearly the entire screen.

 

 

"You are? Well, that's great!"

 

 

"I'm at my apartment," Kirk said, solemnly. "I need to see you, Peter.

 

Can you come over?"

 

 

The younger Kirk felt his spirits rise. If anyone would know how to deal

 

with the KEHL, how to get around the skepticism of Commander

 

Twelvetrees, it would be James T. Kirk.

 

 

"I need to see you, Peter," Jim repeated. "Can you come over here

 

immediately?"

 

 

"Well ... sure," Peter said, glancing at the chrono with an inward

 

groan. He desperately needed about six hours' sleep. But if Jim needed

 

him ... " I'll be there as soon as I can. About half an hour."

 

 

"Good," Kirk said, and the comm link went dark.

 

 

Peter stared at the screen for a moment, puzzled. Some thing about the

 

call seemed odd, but Peter decided his brief association with the KEHL

 

was making him paranoid. Oh, well. He'd find out what was going on when

 

he got there.

 

 

After a brisk sonic shower, he wearily dragged on the first clothes that

 

came to hand--a pair of loose exercise pants and a baggy white shirt.

 

Glancing at his chrono as he hastily ran a comb through his hair, he saw

 

that it was a few minutes after midnight; Peter groaned inwardly.

 

Another night's sleep ruined--and tomorrow he was supposed to work with

 

Lisa again, bright and early. Not to mention that there were only a few

 

days left before his Kobayashi Maru test!

 

 

I've got to slow down, or I'll drop in my tracks, he thought, as he left

 

his apartment and hurried down the corridor toward the elevator.

 

 

He decided to walk; his uncle's apartment was only ten minutes away, and

 

the brisk fall air would wake him up. It was a weekday, so there were

 

few people out this late. The cool breeze nipped at him, and Peter

 

wished belatedly that he'd thought to put on a jacket.

 

 

As he strode quickly down the sidewalk, not allowing his steps to lag,

 

something moved in an alley to his left. In the glow of the streetlight,

 

he caught a flash of silver. Peter checked, peering into the darkness,

 

and a voice reached his ears. "Peter?"

 

 

The voice, though choked and breathless-sounding, was familiar. The

 

cadet frowned and started toward the alley.

 

 

"Lisa?" he called softly. "Is that you?"

 

 

A moment later, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness away from the

 

streetlight, he saw her. She was walking toward him, obviously

 

distressed. "Peter!"

 

 

"What is it, Lisa?" he asked, concerned. Much as he detested her bigoted

 

views, he had grown attached to Lisa the woman. "Is something wrong?"

 

 

"Yes," she whispered, moving toward him. "It's ... it's Induna. He

 

needs us, Peter, he needs us terribly. I need you to come with me!"

 

 

"Well, I--"

 

 

The cadet caught a flash of movement out of the corner of

 

 

his eye, felt a rush of air on his cheek, and, in accordance with all of

 

Starfieet's training, ducked. As he moved to the side, a blow caught him

 

across his upper arm with numbing force. Lisa gasped and frantically

 

scuttled back, toward the mouth of the alley.

 

 

"Get help!" Peter yelled at her, as his assailants closed in.

 

 

Two men, one tall, the other short, both burly, both obviously

 

experienced street fighters. Peter lashed out with a side kick toward

 

the shorter one's chest, but the man was too fast, and he hadn't struck

 

hard enough. Accustomed to pulling blows in class, he did not connect

 

with enough force to disable his opponent. Before he could follow up

 

with a front punch, the taller man's fist smashed against his cheekbone

 

with head-spinning force.

 

 

Training stood him in good stead as he reacted without thought, grabbing

 

the man's shirtfront and turning his fall into a back roll. As he went

 

down with the man atop him, Peter brought his knee up into the other's

 

stomach, hearing the breath whoosh from his attacker's lungs.

 

 

Letting his opponent sail on over his head, Peter regained his feet in

 

time to meet a rush from the shorter man. He struck at the man's neck,

 

but again this one was too quick to allow the blow to land full-on.

 

 

Peter leaped at him, his body twisting in midair, his foot coming up in

 

a tornado kick. This time he had the satisfaction of feeling his instep

 

connect solidly with the side of the man's head. Shorty went down, and

 

stayed down.

 

 

Whirling, hands and feet at the ready, Peter was just in time to block a

 

blow from the tall man, but seconds later he took a smashing kick to his

 

rib cage. Gasping for air, he aimed a back punch at the man's chest, and

 

followed it up with a quick foot sweep.

 

 

Two down. Panting from the stabbing pain in his ribs, Peter spun,

 

half-staggering, half-running as he headed for the mouth of the alley.

 

He glimpsed Lisa's silver coat just ahead of him. "Run, Lisa!" he tried

 

to shout, but his breath was too short for much sound to emerge.

 

 

As young Kirk raced toward the mouth of the alley and the comparative

 

safety of the well-lit street, Lisa stepped out to bar his path. The

 

cadet had only one shocked instant to realize that the faintly shining

 

object she held in her hand, pointed straight at him, was a phaser.

 

 

No! he thought, frantically. She set me up! It was a trap!

 

 

"Stop right there, Peter," she commanded, in a voice he'd never heard

 

her use before.

 

 

Peter had been trained how to deal with an armed opponent. Hit her, hit

 

her, his brain screamed, but for a critical instant he hesitated.

 

 

Damn! he thought bleakly. What would Uncle Jim do?

 

 

But he had no time to ponder the question, for, without further ado,

 

Lisa Tennant gave him a brilliant smile, aimed carefully, and triggered

 

the phaser.

 

 

Peter heard the whine, glimpsed a flash of energy, and then there was

 

only blackness ...

 

 

Sarek sat at a comm link located in his private suite in the conference

 

center on Deneb IV. Before him, on the screen, Chancellor Azetbur's

 

three-dimensional image gazed out at him. "Ambassador Sarek ..." she

 

said, inclifting her head slightly, one equal to another.

 

 

"Madame Chancellor," the Vulcan returned the greeting.

 

 

"I gather that you have been briefed regarding the situation on Kadurat'

 

 

"I have," she said. "I regret what has happened, Ambassador Sarek."

 

 

"I understand, Madame Chancellor," Sarek said. "I discussed the matter

 

with President Ra-ghoratrei upon my arrival last evening, and he

 

informed me that you had spoken together regarding this crisis."

 

 

Azetbur's exotic features were tight with tension, and the mantle of

 

leadership was clearly taking its toll on her. Sarek was vividly

 

reminded that she had lost both husband and father barely a month ago.

 

"This entire incident is unfortunate," she said. "Commander Keraz ... I

 

must admit that when I heard that he had initiated this raid, I was

 

surprised.

 

 

I have known the commander for years, and, while he can be ...

 

headstrong ... he has always been loyal. Keraz is--was--a warrior who

 

served the Empire with distinction, in the most honorable manner."

 

 

"I see ..." Sarek said. "I have yet to meet the commander.

 

 

Our first session begins in a few minutes. May I ask why you called,

 

Madame Chancellor?"

 

 

"I want the renegades extradited, Ambassador Sarek.

 

 

Have the Federation take Keraz and his men, and hand them over to me, so

 

that I may make an example of them ... an example that will speak

 

vividly to any others who may be contemplating such treason against my

 

government."

 

 

Sarek took a deep breath. Azetbur was many things, but "soft" or

 

"merciful" was not one of them. "I regret, Madame Chancellor, that I

 

cannot do that. I have no authorization from the president to do so ...

 

and my priority in this unfortunate situation must be the safety of the

 

citizens of Kadura. I must decline your request."

 

 

"I see." Azetbur stared at him, her jaw muscles tight.

 

 

Sarek had been prepared for her demand--Ra-ghoratrei had warned him last

 

night of what the Empire wanted. "Do you propose, then, to simply let

 

them go free?"

 

 

"If that is the agreement I negotiate, then that is what I must do,"

 

Sarek said. "However ..." He paused for a moment in feigned

 

deliberation." ... what happens to Keraz after he leaves the planet is

 

not my affair."

 

 

"We will catch him, Ambassador. Of that you can be sure.

 

 

The honor of my people depends on these traitors being captured and

 

dealt with."

 

 

Sarek nodded.

 

 

Azetbur's expression thawed still more, and she actually chuckled aloud.

 

"Ambassador Sarek," she said, "I understand for the first time the

 

strength of your people. You excel at making others decide that what you

 

want is what they, also, desire most."

 

 

The Vulcan inclined his head. "You are most gracious, Madame

 

Chancellor."

 

 

After both parties signed off, Sarek stood at the window, gazing out at

 

the lush wilderness that lay beyond.

 

 

Sarek approved of Deneb IV, also called Kidta, precisely because of its

 

extreme isolation. The strictest security was being maintained only a

 

skeleton staff was allowed at the

 

 

conference center, and Sarek, Soran, and the Vulcan ambassador to Orion,

 

Stavel, were the only Vulcans. If Sarek had to negotiate with Klingons,

 

he wanted to make sure he was dealing with Klingons acting on their own,

 

under no duress from an outside influence. As nearly as he had been able

 

to discover (and he had run extensive checks), there wasn't a single

 

Freelan in this sector, much less on this world, or at the conference

 

center.

 

 

Which was the way Sarek wanted it.

 

 

Any moment now, his aide would call him to the table to begin

 

negotiations with Commander Keraz and his captains.

 

 

Sarek had already braced himself to endure the presence of Klingons.

 

Their emotions were primal and close to the surface, worse even than

 

human emotions, and most Vulcans could sense them without being in

 

physical contact.

 

 

Sarek had no reason to suppose that Keraz would be different.

 

 

He was still puzzling over the Klingon renegade's request for

 

negotiation as a solution to this crisis. It was out of character for

 

Klingons to sit down and talk their way out of a problem, rather than

 

just blasting everything around.

 

 

"Ambassador," someone said quietly, from behind him.

 

 

Sarek turned to see Soran.

 

 

"Are we ready to begin?" he asked, and the young Vulcan nodded.

 

 

Sarek straightened his formal robe, making sure the heavy, bejeweled

 

folds hung properly, then followed Soran down the hall, into the

 

conference room. It was a medium-sized room, with neutral-colored walls,

 

two of which could be made transparent to show a view of the forest. A

 

long table occupied the center of the room, an d chairs suitable for

 

humanoids surrounded it. There were two doors, one at each end of the

 

room. From the door on Sarek's left, Admiral Smillie and an aide

 

emerged, and from the other, four Klingons. One of the Klingons held a

 

green-skinned Orion woman by the arm, marching her along peremptorily,

 

but without any intentional cruelty.

 

 

Sarek raised his hand in the Vulcan salute to the Klingon in the lead.

 

"Commander Keraz, I presume?"

 

 

The short, rather stocky Klingon nodded sharply. "Ambassador," he said.

 

His voice was much more mellow than most Klingons'. His skin was very

 

dark, the color of antique leather.

 

 

The representatives seated themselves around the big middle table. Sarek

 

eyed the Orion woman and was relieved to see that, aside from stress and

 

fatigue, she did not seem to have been harmed. She stared back at him

 

levelly out of eyes the color of onyx. When the round of introductions

 

reached her, she said quietly, "s'kara. I represent the people of

 

Kadura."

 

 

Sarek nodded, then looked over at Keraz. The Klingon seemed nervous,

 

fingering his sash, picking at his belt as though he could not believe

 

there were no weapons hanging there. Feeling Sarek's glance, the leader

 

looked up, then burst out, "We desire an honorable settlement to this

 

situation, Ambassador. My ships and crews have not damaged the planet or

 

its inhabitants"--at this, s'kara's eyes flashed indignantly, but she

 

did not interrupt--"and, frankly, I have no interest in occupying a

 

colony world composed mostly of ... farmers." His mouth twisted with

 

distaste.

 

 

"We are warriors, not colonists. We have no wish to become

 

planetbound--Kadura is no fit place for warriors."

 

 

Sarek inclined his head, noting that, beneath Keraz's deliberately gruff

 

exterior, the Klingon seemed genuinely eager to negotiate. "That is

 

promising to hear," Sarek said solemnly. "What are your terms,

 

Commander?"

 

 

"We are prepared to withdraw ... for the right price," Keraz said. "We

 

must be allowed to take our payment and leave Kadura unmolested by any

 

Starfleet vessel."

 

 

Sarek stared at the Klingon. Only a lifetime of habitual Vulcan control

 

kept him from revealing his surprise. For Keraz to offer to withdraw at

 

the beginning of the negotiations was the last thing he'd expected.

 

Smoothly, giving no hint of his inner thoughts, Sarek said, "I am sure

 

that, under the circumstances, something can be arranged."

 

 

For a moment Sarek thought about his discussion with Azetbur. If Keraz

 

thought he could successfully leave Fed eration space and find refuge

 

across the Neutral Zone, he was sadly mistaken.

 

 

Studying Keraz's face, as the Klingon began outlining his position,

 

Sarek wondered with part of his mind what had induced the commander to

 

turn renegade. Was it disagreement with his government's new, peaceful

 

overtures to the Federation? Was it greed? Had Keraz snapped under pres

 

sure, and suffered some temporary madness?

 

 

Or ... was it something else?

 

 

With stern resolve, Sarek concentrated all his logic, all his

 

experience, on bringing the Kadura situation to a peaceful, swift, and

 

satisfactory resolution. Amanda was still alive Perhaps he could fulfill

 

his duty and still return home in time. Perhaps ..

 

 

Considering the circumstances, Peter Kirk decided, it would be better if

 

he just didn't wake up.

 

 

His most recent attempts to swim toward consciousness had been so

 

unpleasant, he'd come to the conclusion that it simply wasn't worth it.

 

He'd much rather stay in this dark, muzzy netherworld, not asleep, but

 

not awake, where he could keep his various aches and pains at bay and

 

insist to himself that they weren't real. That none of this was real.

 

 

He'd just lie here, thank you, and think about the Kobayashi Maru.

 

Pondering that dreaded event was infinitely preferable to opening his

 

eyes and facing what had happened to him. Peter had a feeling that no

 

simulation, no matter how real-seeming, could possibly equal the mess

 

he'd somehow gotten himself into.

 

 

He groaned. Here he was. Peter Kirk, nephew of the Federation hero James

 

T. Kirk--a Starfleet cadet so clever, so bold, that he'd allowed himself

 

to be duped and kidnapped by a bunch of reactionary bigots too

 

disorganized to run a successful demonstration No. It was worse than

 

that.

 

 

He'd allowed his confused feelings for a woman he barely knew to cause

 

him a critical moment of hesitation.

 

 

Why didn't you just surrender, mister, and save everyone the trouble?

 

Would Uncle Jim have hesitated to slug a woman if the fate of the

 

Enterprise was at stake? Hell, no.

 

 

Peter couldn't deny reality anymore; his conscience wouldn't let him. He

 

was indisputably awake. Groaning aloud, he opened his eyes. His head

 

throbbed as he struggled to focus on his surroundings. Squinting at the

 

ceiling, he thought it seemed too high, and the wrong color. Wrong color

 

for what? he wondered foggily, but couldn't remember.

 

 

Peter moved slowly, as painful awareness of his battle in the alley grew

 

sharper, more persistent with every passing second. His arm and head

 

hurt. His right side throbbed with every breath.

 

 

Cautiously, he turned his head, his gaze traveling across the small,

 

narrow enclosure with its dingy, gray bulkheads.

 

 

Reality. He swallowed, as fear finally set in. Where the hell am I?

 

 

Biting his lip, Peter gingerly pushed himself up until he was sitting on

 

the edge of the standard bunk, his head in his hands. And what is that

 

smell?

 

 

Sighing, he turned his attention to the plain room. It was small, barely

 

four meters by three, and, except for the bunk, which folded out of the

 

wall, nearly featureless.

 

 

There were a few indentations that might indicate servo panels concealed

 

in the walls, but no windows. Peter shuddered, swallowing a sudden surge

 

of claustrophobia.

 

 

He felt light-headed and nauseated from the stun shot, and his knees

 

were weak. Sitting silently on the bunk, he paused, just listening.

 

 

There was no sound, no sound at all.

 

 

Or was there?

 

 

After a moment's intense concentration, Peter began to sense something.

 

Was it a faint noise? A vibration? Or just a sixth sense that told him

 

he was no longer in normal space-time? Suddenly, he knew.

 

 

His engineering instructor had said you could sense the spacewarp, even

 

if you couldn't see it.

 

 

He was aboard a spaceship, traveling at warp speed, destination unknown.

 

This wasn't a room, it was a cabin.

 

 

Peter's mouth went so dry that he couldn't even swallow.

 

 

Wanting to give himself something constructive to do be sides panicking,

 

Kirk rose and systematically began to explore the cabin's flat, drab

 

walls.

 

 

The whole place had a well-worn, grimy patina that testified to

 

extensive use, and the panels that made up the walls were uniform and

 

interchangeable, allowing the dimensions of the cabin to be altered

 

according to need. The only door was heavy, with no viewing ports. While

 

he could see where the mechanism for manual overrides probably lay,

 

there was no way he could get through it--even if he could figure out

 

the system--to force the doors to open. He searched for a surveillance

 

system and couldn't find one--but that didn't mean there wasn't one

 

trained on him at all times.

 

 

Methodically, the cadet pressed one of the innocuous indentations on the

 

wall, and a tiny water dispenser revealed itself. He stared, mesmerized

 

by clear, fresh-smelling fluid, but in spite of his parched mouth,

 

passed it by. The water, he suspected, would probably be drugged. It

 

would be the most logical way to keep a prisoner under control. He went

 

about examining the other wall indentations and discovered an odd hole

 

in the floor. By its smell, he decided, it could only be a head--but the

 

style was unfamiliar to him.

 

 

When was the last time this thing was cleaned? he wondered, realizing

 

that this was the source of some of the smell.

 

 

Water and a toilet, he mused. But no food. His eyes strayed back toward

 

the water fountain. So, how long do you think you can last without

 

water? The memory of the cool-looking fluid was working on him already.

 

 

Just then a soft machinery sound hummed, breaking into his thoughts. He

 

whirled, crouching, his instincts on override, but it was just a serving

 

panel extruding from a niche in the wall. There was a tray on the panel,

 

as colorless as the panel itself. Whoever had designed this starship had

 

been really fond of monochromatic schemes. Peter approached the tray.

 

 

Piled in a small, equally colorless bowl were dry ration pellets. They

 

didn't resemble the rations he was used to, but they had that same

 

processed-food-for-space-travel look

 

 

about them--a soft gray green in color, tubular, about two centimeters

 

in length, and maybe halfa centimeter in width.

 

 

He sniffed. The mealy-looking pellets had a pungent, fishy smell. They

 

were entirely too reminiscent of the prepared food Grandma Winona used

 

to feed her parrot.

 

 

Except this stuff is probably full of drugs, he suspected. He could see

 

the packaging now-- UNT SYLVIA'S KIDNAPPER

 

 

CHOW. REDUCES STRESS. INCREASES COOPERATION. Yes, there'd be something

 

in there to keep him quiet, calm ... cooperative. He frowned at the

 

food. It wouldn't be long before even its unappealing scent would make

 

his mouth water. While he could last without food a lot longer than he

 

could without water, that didn't mean that he could afford to waste

 

these.

 

 

He spilled the pellets onto the tray and started lining them up in rows

 

until he'd spelled out, in English words, "Who are you?" Then he

 

carefully pushed the tray back into the wall. Of course, the "leftovers"

 

might be jettisoned directly into the recycler, but somehow, he didn't

 

think so. They'd want to weigh how much he'd eaten, know how much drug

 

he might absorb ... to determine just how much trouble he was going to

 

be when they arrived.

 

 

Arrived where? he wondered, frustrated. It could be anywhere.

 

 

He didn't even know how long they'd been traveling.

 

 

If they'd stunned him repeatedly (and his headache argued that they

 

probably had), he might have been unconscious for days.

 

 

Peter walked back to the bunk and sat down. Why in the world would the

 

KEHL kidnap him, then ship him offworld? That was the part that really

 

had his head spinning.

 

 

Or was that the safest way they could think of to deal with him, once

 

they'd figured out who he really was?

 

 

Had he been sold to the highest bidder? There were still slave traders

 

in the galaxy, though Starfleet had mostly shut them down. But would the

 

KEHL have handed him over to aliens? That thought was the hardest to

 

swallow, but there was little about this room that suggested a

 

human-designed ship. Aliens would explain the smell, too. It was an

 

alien odor, the smell of body chemistries that were not human in

 

 

origin. Every species had its own distinct smell, Peter knew, some more

 

pleasant than others. While the soiled head's contribution was

 

significant, the underlying scent was simply that of a, different

 

species mone he'd never encountered before. Not Tellarite, or Orion, or

 

Andorian or Horta or Vulcan ... unfamiliar. Alien.

 

 

Peter could understand the KEHL wanting to get rid of him. But why not

 

simply kill him? Why hand him over to aliens? Why go to all this trouble

 

to get him off-world?

 

 

It had to be more than just the KEHL involved. Somebody had paid Lisa

 

Tennant and her goons to set him up and hand him over ... but why?

 

 

Why in the name of the Seven Tellarite Hells would anyone want to kidnap

 

him? He was only a cadet ... he had no access to restricted data. He

 

had no rank, and he wasn't rich. Uncle Jim made a respectable living, he

 

supposed. But enough to make the risk of abducting his nephew

 

profitable?

 

 

Highly unlikely.

 

 

It didn't make sense. No rank, no riches, no enemies ... Wait a minute.

 

Peter straightened suddenly. He didn't have any enemies, as far as he

 

knew ... but he knew someone who did. Someone who'd led an adventurous

 

life, taken plenty of risks, trodden on numerous toes. Someone who had

 

certainly made enemies over the years ... more

 

 

enemies than you could shake a stick at ...

 

 

James T. Kirk.

 

 

Somebody intended to use him to get to Uncle Jim.

 

 

As for Peter, he expected to take his oath and become a Starfleet

 

officer in a month. Did whoever was behind all this honestly think he

 

would just sit here and allow his uncle's enemies to use him like that?

 

 

A prisoner's first responsibility was to escape. Right now, it didn't

 

seem as if he had many options while trapped in this cabin. That meant

 

he'd have to play a prepared hand when this ship finally stopped moving

 

and those doors eventually opened. He'd have to overwhelm whoever was

 

coming for him, steal this ship, and pilot it back home. He was a fair

 

pilot, and a good navigator. That part wouldn't be difficult--it was the

 

first part that could be trouble. How

 

 

many would there be? And what species? There were numerous aliens that

 

Peter knew he could easily fight his way through, but there were also

 

many others whose strength was far greater than the average human's.

 

 

And thatgyou, mister--average. Maybe, in strength. But, he'd been

 

studying self-defense and martial arts since he was in his teens. By the

 

time he'd gotten to the Academy, he was already pretty good, and

 

Starfleet put on the final polish. He could hold his ownmwhen he was

 

thinking clearly. Unbidden, the image of him falling prey to Lisa

 

Tennant's stun gun burned in his mind.

 

 

Peter wished he could exercise, keep up his skills, his physical

 

strength, but that wouldn't be possible. He must be under surveillance,

 

so that meant he'd have to portray himself as passive, maybe even

 

sickly. He'd have to sleep a lot, or pretend to, and act slow and weak.

 

If he did that, the less on their guard they might be when they came for

 

him.

 

 

And that might be his only advantage. He really would be weak from lack

 

of food, and reduced water, so he'd have to rely on surprise, if he was

 

to have any hope at all.

 

 

Yes, his kidnappers would do what they could to keep him cooperative,

 

compliant. But Peter had already decided just how much trouble he would

 

be. As much as humanly possible, mister.

 

 

He was a Kirk, after all. And he would not be surprised again. Not if

 

they threw the most beautiful, most interesting, most desirable females

 

of every species in the galaxy at him.

 

 

He would get out of here, or die in the attempt. And ifi don't make it,

 

he thought, smiling to himself, at least I won't have to take the

 

Kobayashi Maru.

 

 

Sarek sat at the negotiation table, listening as the Orion

 

representative bickered with Admiral Smillie about Federation

 

restitution for the attack on Kadura. To his right, the Orion woman,

 

s'kara, stared expressionlessly at the Orion male, but Sarek sensed her

 

distrust, her revulsion ... perfectly logical, under the circumstances.

 

 

Finally, he raised a hand, and as soon as Smillie and Buta, the Orion,

 

noticed him, they fell silent. "These matters can

 

 

be resolved later," Sarek said. "For the moment, I request that we

 

finalize the agreement with Commander Keraz concerning their terms for

 

withdrawing from Kadura. As you will recall, the commander said that he

 

..."

 

 

Sarek continued, going over all the points agreed upon so far. They had

 

come a long way in just a few days ... but not quickly enough for him.

 

The speedy Vulcan courier ship was standing by, ready to take him home

 

at warp eight, but Sarek doubted he could ever get home in time to

 

comfort his wife.

 

 

Wearily, Sarek finished outlining Keraz's demands, received a confirming

 

nod from the Ktingon. Smillie made a counteroffer to one part of Keraz's

 

plan, wherein the renegades would be provided with dilithium as a ransom

 

for the safe release of Kadura. Keraz countered, lowering his demand

 

fractionally. Sarek listened with part of his mind as they came closer

 

and closer to an agreement. If they could reach agreement, then perhaps

 

he could be finished today ...

 

 

The wrangling continued for the next two hours, with Sarek mediating

 

between them, attempting to find compromises that would work.

 

 

Finally, he realized a refreshment break was long overdue, so he

 

dismissed the factions. The room emptied rapidly as the occupants left

 

in search of food, lavatories, or comm links. Finally, only Sarek,

 

Soran, Keraz, and his second-in-command, Wurfi, were left.

 

 

The Vulcan wislxed once again that he could arrange to speak to Keraz

 

alone. The commander's demeanor at the negotiation table during the past

 

days was not what one would logically expect of a Klingon renegade.

 

Keraz was entirely too eager to negotiate, to give ground. It was almost

 

as though he regretted having taken Kadura, and would like nothing

 

better than to wash his hands of the whole business ...

 

 

Barely noticing his surroundings, occupied with his thoughts, Sarek

 

walked slowly toward the door. Soran and Keraz were ahead of him. The

 

Vulcan looked up, wondering where the Klingon's aide was.

 

Movement--there was movement behind him--

 

 

a bloodcurdling battle yell filled the air as the Klingon officer,

 

Wurrl, leaped at the Vulcan ambassador. Sarek flung up an arm, glimpsed

 

a flash of metal, even as something sharp sank deeply into his left

 

bicep. He grappled with the Klingon, managing to hold him off despite

 

his injured arm, grateful for superior Vulcan strength.

 

 

The ambassador groped for a neck pinch, but his fingers could not

 

penetrate the heavy leather and metal of the Klingon's armor. He changed

 

tactics, struck Wurrl sharply on the bridge of the nose, and saw the

 

assailant's eyes cloud over. Contact with the would-be assassin's bare

 

flesh told him that he was dealing with another case like Induna's.

 

 

Tal-shaya? Sarek wondered whether he would have to kill the Klingon

 

outright in self-preservation. Would it work on a Klingon?

 

 

Locked together in a grisly parody of an embrace, the ambassador and the

 

Klingon careered across the room, slamming into the conference table,

 

scattering chairs. Suddenly Keraz was there, bellowing Klingon

 

obscenities and threats at his aide, as he slammed a knife-hand blow

 

into Wurfi's throat. The treacherous aide staggered, his grip on the

 

ambassador loosening. Wurrl's breath rattled in his throat, even as

 

steely hands grasped him and lifted, hoisting him clean off his feet.

 

Soran swung the Klingon in an are, then sent him crashing against the

 

wall. Wurfi slid down it, and lay there, unconscious.

 

 

"Ambassador! Ambassador, you are wounded!" Keraz sounded thoroughly

 

shaken. Sarek grasped his bicep, applying external pressure, even as he

 

sought within himself for his training in biocontrol. A moment later, he

 

felt the bleeding slow to a trickle, then stop. Automatically, he

 

controlled the pain.

 

 

"I am not seriously injured," Sarek said. "Where did he get that

 

dagger?" All participants in the conference were screened automatically

 

each time they walked through the door.

 

 

Keraz went over to the downed Wurd, and, bending over and using the tip

 

of his metal-reinforced gauntlet, he picked up the green-smeared dagger.

 

"Assembled," he growled, holding it out. "See? Pieces of trim from his

 

uniform, altered so they would slide together and form a weapon. He must

 

have put it together under the table while we met today."

 

 

Sarek raised his voice. "Security, please report to the conference

 

chamber," he said.

 

 

His verbal request was not necessary. Barely a second later, the doors

 

burst open, admitting four guards and Admiral Smillie. Quick questions

 

and answers followed.

 

 

Smillie, Sarek saw, was all for taking Keraz into custody along with the

 

seriously injured Wurrl. The Vulcan raised his hand, forestailing the

 

Starfleet admiral. "Commander Keraz was not responsible for this

 

incident," he said. "I am certain of that."

 

 

As Sarek spoke, he c aught a quick glance from Keraz, saw the flash of

 

gratitude in the Klingon's eyes. "Commander," Sarek said, gesturing to

 

the open door, "let us leave security to its job. I would like to speak

 

with you privately."

 

 

Sotart stepped forward to protest, and so did Smillie, but both gave way

 

before the ambassador's determination.

 

 

Keraz nodded, and together the two left the wrecked conference chamber.

 

 

As they walked down the corridor, Sarek said, blandly,

 

 

"Commander ... I know that you are not responsible for that attack just

 

now. I have some idea, at least generally, who is, though. Could you

 

answer a few questions, please?"

 

 

"What kind of questions?" Keraz growled.

 

 

"In the first place, after days of discussion, I still do not have a

 

clear idea of what you hoped to gain by your occupation of Kadura.

 

Perhaps you might enlighten me as to your reasons?"

 

 

When Keraz only stared stonily, the ambassador added,

 

 

"The greater my understanding of what you hoped to gain, the more

 

smoothly I will be able to conclude matters. I understand the Federation

 

mind-set on this matter ... but I am still uncertain as to yours."

 

 

The Klingon commander hesitated; then he walked out into a courtyard and

 

sat down by a tinkling fountain. Sarek, understanding that he thus hoped

 

to foil any listening devices, sat down with his knees almost touching

 

the Klingon's. "What did I hope to gain?" Keraz's effort to keep his

 

tones low only accentuated the mellowness of his baritone. "Ambassador,

 

at one time my actions seemed as clear as a Darlavian crystal to me, but

 

... no more."

 

 

"What do you mean?"

 

 

"I cannot explain!" Keraz said, his voice lowering to a growl. "I have

 

thrown away my warrior's honor, and my life will likely be forfeit,

 

along with the lives of my crew ... " He glared at Sarek. "Do not by

 

any chance think, Vulcan, that I am unaware that my government stands

 

ready to capture me and punish me as a traitor without honor. If I have

 

any hope in conducting these negotiations, it is that all of the

 

responsibility for my actions will be focused on me, not on my crew."

 

 

"You are speaking as though you regret your actions since you ... broke

 

with your Empire," the Vulcan observed, his heart quickening. He'd never

 

heard a Klingon speak like this before.

 

 

"I do regret them," Keraz said simply. "I did not agree with the

 

Empire's new, craven policies toward the Federation, and I told anyone

 

who cared to listen that. But turn renegade? Traitor? Pah!" He spat on

 

the flagstones at his feet.

 

 

"But your actions recently have gone against orders," Sarek pointed out.

 

 

"I know!" Keraz's voice was a muted howl of frustration.

 

 

"My loyalty to the Empire was complete, until ... until one day I

 

realized that I was being a fool, that there were riches waiting for me,

 

and glory ... and I realized that I could wage war on the Federation

 

whether or not my government had the courage and the honor."

 

 

The Klingon scowled, his corrugated brow even more wrinkled than usual.

 

"My path seemed clear, until, two days after Kadura was mine ... I

 

awoke one morning, realizing exactly what I had done. How my government

 

would regard

 

 

me. I knew that I would soon be surrounded by half the Federation's

 

starships." He gave a short, hitter growl of laughter. "And you ask me

 

why, Vulcan? That is your answer--that I have no answer! I do not know

 

why!"

 

 

"But I do," Sarek said. "Or, at least, I believe that I know, Commander.

 

Recently, I have encountered two individuals who became violent as a

 

result of outside mental influence ... telepathic influence. One was a

 

human, on Terra. The other was ... your aide, Wurrl. Just now."

 

 

"Wurrl?" Keraz stared at the ambassador incredulously.

 

 

"What are you saying, Vulcan? That I have also been influenced? That

 

some telepath made me take Kadura?"

 

 

"I do not believe they can control actions," Sarek clarified.

 

 

"But they can influence, provide mental catalysts, as it were. Yes, I do

 

believe that, Commander."

 

 

The Klingon had paled as they spoke. Not surprisingly, he found the idea

 

of not being his own master repugnant, revolting. "How can you tell?" he

 

whispered hoarsely.

 

 

"How did you know about Wurrl?"

 

 

"I touched him," Sarek said.

 

 

"Could you tell with me?"

 

 

Sarek nodded silently. Keraz took a deep breath, then, sitting stiffly,

 

rigidly, nodded. "Do it," he commanded.

 

 

Slowly, the ambassador raised his hand and brushed it across the

 

Klingon's high, bony forehead. He found what he had expected to find,

 

and Keraz read the truth without Sarek having to say it aloud. The

 

commander threw back his head and voiced a wordless bellow of rage and

 

frustration, then cursed vividly in at least six different languages.

 

 

Finally, Keraz subsided, panting, and sat glowering in silence for

 

several moments. "Kamarag," he said. "This is his doing. That cursed,

 

dishonorable slime devil has stolen my honor. For this I will rip out

 

his gizzard and feed it to my targ!"

 

 

"What do you mean, he stole your honor?"

 

 

"He was trying to persuade us all to turn renegade, and ever since that

 

meeting most of the warriors there have committed honorless raids on

 

noncombatants--just as I did."

 

 

"What meeting?" Sarek asked.

 

 

With a savage glare that the Vulcan knew wasn't directed at him, Keraz

 

explained about Kamarag's clandestine conclave.

 

 

"Fascinating," the ambassador murmured, trying to picture Kamarag in

 

that setting.

 

 

"Kamarag has no honor, Vulcan," Keraz said bitterly.

 

 

"But you ... you are different. You have courage, as well as honor. A

 

coward would not have been willing to be alone with me after Wurrl's

 

attack."

 

 

"You possess a warrior's honor," Sarek said, honestly. "I knew you would

 

not attack me."

 

 

Keraz gave him a sideways glance. "I heard that your woman is ...

 

gravely ill," he said, gruffly. "You have also shown honor in remaining

 

here in performance of your duty. I respect such honor, Ambassador."

 

 

"Is that why you agreed to speak frankly with me?" Sarek asked.

 

 

"Yes," Keraz said. "Such a demonstration of honor is admirable, no

 

matter what species displays it."

 

 

The Vulcan inclined his head in recognition of Keraz's words. "Perhaps

 

we may conclude the negotiations quickly," he said.

 

 

"I will keep that in mind," the Klingon replied. With a curt nod, he

 

rose and left Sarek alone beside the fountain.

 

 

Spock sat alone in the small courtyard of the med center.

 

 

This area was designed to be a peaceful refuge where friends and

 

relatives of patients could meditate and wait in peace.

 

 

The walls were pale yellow, the floor was red-ocher tiles.

 

 

Benches stood ranged around the central water sculpture, facing the

 

shining spray within its protective field. Spock gazed at the water

 

sculpture without really seeing it.

 

 

The Vulcan was attempting to make his mind a blank, preparatory to

 

meditating, but every time he thought he'd succeeded, thoughts, like

 

thieves in the night, tiptoed into his consciousness.

 

 

His mother was much worse. Last night she'd had another stroke, a major

 

one. T'Mal had ordered her beamed directly to a hospital room in the med

 

center.

 

 

Hearing footsteps, the Vulcan glanced up to see Leonard McCoy enter the

 

solahum. As he took in the expression on the doctor's face, the Vulcan

 

rose slowly to his feet.

 

 

"How is she?" Spock demanded, hearing his voice ring hollowly in the

 

silence.

 

 

Silently, the doctor shook his head. "Not good. She's still alive ...

 

but she can't last for long, Spock. Vital systems are just ... closing

 

down." Spock stared at his friend, speechlessly. He'd thought he was

 

braced against any eventuality, but now shock held him silent.

 

 

McCoy sat down on a bench opposite his. The doctor's face was drawn and

 

haggard with mingled fatigue and sorrow. "We've managed to stabilize her

 

again, but her body is just worn out. The strokes have caused metabolic

 

irabal-ances and neural damage, despite everything the Healers and I

 

could do to prevent that. Now her kidneys are shutting down ... and her

 

heart is compromised. I'm afraid it's just a matter of time."

 

 

"How long?" Spock asked, forcing the words past the tightness in his

 

throat.

 

 

"Not long. Days ... possibly only hours." Spock rose to his feet, paced

 

back and forth, his boot heels echoing on the tiles. McCoy's blue eyes

 

followed his movements.

 

 

"Spock," the doctor said after a moment. "If there's anything I can do

 

... if you want someone to talk to, I'm here. Jim should be beaming

 

down any minute."

 

 

"I must make a call," Spock said, turning abruptly. "Wait here for me. I

 

will not be long." Minutes later he sat at the nearest public corem

 

link, facing Sarek's aide, Soran. "Greetings," he said, curtly, in his

 

native language. "I would speak with Sarek. it is urgent." The young

 

Vulcan's forehead creased, ever so slightly.

 

 

"That will be difficult. The ambassador is in the midst of the

 

afternoon's negotiations. May I relay a message?"

 

 

"No," Spock said flatly. "I must speak with my father personally. Be so

 

kind as to summon him at once." Soran hesitated for a long moment, then,

 

after studying Spock's face, nodded. "I will inform him immediately,

 

Captain Spock. Please wait." Several more minutes passed, while Spock

 

sat rigidly, words running through his mind. Finally a figure moved

 

before the screen in a flash of formal ambassadorial robes, and then he

 

was looking at Sarek. "Greetings, my son. You required a conversation

 

with me?" Spock nodded stiffly. "Yes, sir. Mother has suffered another

 

stroke. Dr. McCoy says that her time is very short."

 

 

"It will not be possible for me to leave," Sarek said, his voice

 

betraying no emotion whal[soever. Had Spock seen something flicker

 

behind his eyes? There was no way to be sure.

 

 

"You said the negotiations were proceeding smoothly.

 

 

Cannot Ambassador Stayel take over?"

 

 

"That is not an option," Sarek said firmly. "I must han dle this

 

personally. There is more at stake here than I realized." Spock drew a

 

deep breath. "I ask that you reconsider," he said, tightly. "My presence

 

does not comfort her. She is calling for you." Sarek's eyes closed, and

 

this time the pain on his features was not masked to someone who knew

 

him well. "Spock I cannot." His face smoothed out, became impassive once

 

more. "Farewell, Spock. I must return to the negotiation table now." The

 

connection was abruptly broken. Numbly, Spock rose from his seat and

 

returned to the solarium. There he found Kirk and McCoy waiting for him.

 

McCoy checked the tricorder he was holding. "The monitors say she's

 

sleeping, Spock," he said. "Tll know the instant she wakes up. Sit down

 

for a minute. You look done in." As the Vulcan obeyed, Kirk glanced at M

 

Coy. "How is she?" Quickly, the doctor summarized Amanda's condition.

 

 

"Is Sarek coming home?" Kirk asked Spock.

 

 

The Vulcan's eyes narrowed. "No. The negotiations take precedence."

 

Kirk's hazel gaze widened slightly as the captain evidently realized

 

he'd touched on a sensitive subject.

 

 

McCoy shook his head grimly. "Lousy timing. That Klingon commander was

 

out of his mind to pull a stunt like this. He couldn't possibly have

 

thought he'd get away with it!"

 

 

"Having seen Klingon 'justice' close up, I'm surprised that any amount

 

of greed could induce a commander to commit treason against the Empire,"

 

Kirk agreed.

 

 

Spock stared at his captain for a long moment. "Interesting that you

 

should employ that particular word, Jim.

 

 

Perhaps that is indeed the case ... that Keraz was induced to invade

 

Kadura."

 

 

Kirk's hazel eyes were bright with curiosity. "What do you mean, Spock?"

 

 

The Vulcan hesitated, then said, "I had hoped to broach this subject

 

when Sarek was here, so he could relate events firsthand, but ... there

 

is no way of knowing when my father will return to Vulcan." His voice

 

was hard and flat in his own ears, and Spock saw Kirk and McCoy exchange

 

quick glances.

 

 

"What do you mean? What's going on?" the captain asked.

 

 

Spock reached out and took McCoy's medical tricorder, propped it where

 

they could all see Amanda's monitors displayed. "If she wakes, I will

 

have to stop," he warned the others. "Sarek told me the entire story

 

only a few days ago ... "The Vulcan continued, summarizing Sarek's

 

findings about the Freelans and the KEHL.

 

 

When the first officer finished, the captain and chief surgeon exchanged

 

glances; then both officers shook their heads dazedly. "I swear, Spock,

 

if this were anyone but you tellin' me this," McCoy said, "I'd say he

 

wasn't firm' on all thrusters. Romulans walking around the Federation

 

without a by-your-leave? It sounds like the worst kind of paranoid

 

delusion!"

 

 

"If it were anyone but a Vulcan saying this, I'd agree, Bones," Kirk

 

said. "But Sarek is definitely sane ... and if he's right about all

 

this, he's right that this poses a serious threat to Federation

 

security."

 

 

McCoy, catching sight of a change in the monitor, pointed wordlessly.

 

Amanda was awake.

 

 

Quietly, the three officers entered the sick woman's room.

 

 

Spock sat by Amanda's bedside, and his friends sat in the back of the

 

room, their silent presence offering quiet support.

 

 

Even though Amanda was conscious, she seemed unaware of their presence.

 

Occasionally she would call "Sarek?" in a questioning tone, then pause,

 

plainly listening for a reply.

 

 

Spock's murmured "I am here, Mother, it is Spock" made no difference.

 

Amanda remained unresponsive to the voice of her son.

 

 

After a half-hour had passed, the Vulcan rose and motioned his friends

 

to join him in the corridor so he could speak freely.

 

 

"I will stay with her," he said. "I appreciate your presence, but I know

 

you have duties aboard ship."

 

 

McCoy nodded, understanding the Vulcan's unspoken plea for privacy.

 

 

Kirk cleared his throat. "If you would like some company, Spock ..."

 

 

The Vulcan nodded. "Your offer is appreciated, Jim, but at the moment

 

... I would prefer to be alone with her."

 

 

"I understand completely. If you change your mind ..." Spock was wearing

 

civilian clothing, a Vulcan robe, but he reached into the pocket and

 

removed his communicator and held it up.

 

 

"Okay," Kirk said.

 

 

McCoy put a hand on Spock's arm. "The same goes for me, Spock. She could

 

go on like this for some time. Don't forget to eat something today,

 

okay?"

 

 

The Vulcan nodded. "Is she in pain?"

 

 

"No, I don't believe so," McCoy said. "And, Spock?" He cleared his

 

throat awkwardly. "It's common for stroke victims to fixate on one

 

person or one thing. Sometimes the person can be sitting right there,

 

but the patient won't recognize them, so ... there's not much you can

 

do about it. Even if your father were here, she might not realize it."

 

 

"I understand, Doctor."

 

 

Spock gazed at his two friends, knowing there was nothing more to say.

 

Both Kirk and McCoy hesitated, then nodded, and silently turned away.

 

 

Sarek paced slowly down the corridor toward yet another negotiating

 

session. It was morning on Kidta, but the new day brought no lightening

 

of his spirits. The Vulcan wondered whether he should attempt to contact

 

Spock and inquire about his wife's condition. Sarek knew, only too well,

 

how angry Spock was over his failure to return home.

 

 

He knew that, under most circumstances, his son was as logical as any

 

Vulcan ... but he also knew how deeply Spock cared for his mother. As

 

he himself had once said to T'Lar, when it came to questions about the

 

welfare of a family member, one's logic became ... uncertain.

 

 

As the ambassador hesitated in the corridor of the conference center,

 

wanting to contact Spock, he was strangely reluctant. Sarek found

 

himself concentrating on Amanda, trying to feel her presence, sense her

 

mind through their bond. He closed his eyes, concentrating ...

 

concentrating ...

 

 

A thread, so faint ... he traced it, followed it, opening his mind,

 

sensing it. Amanda ... she was there, in his mind, but her mental

 

thread was weak ... was weakening, even as he touched it. Sarek's

 

breath caught in his throat as he realized that he was too late ... too

 

late. As he stood here in this hallway, his wife was dying.

 

 

Amanda/It was a mental cry of anguish that resonated within his mind.

 

Grief struck him like a blow, grief' and regret so agonizing that he

 

swayed as he stood.

 

 

Quickly, realizing he needed solitude, Sarek turned to a small, empty

 

conference chamber and entered it, not activating the lights. In the

 

darkness, with nothing to distract him, perhaps he could find her, could

 

reach her mind, even across space. It had been done before, by stronger

 

telepaths than he ... although he'd never been able to accomplish it.

 

 

But he had to try ...

 

 

Spock sat by his mother's bedside, holding her small, cold, wasted hand

 

in both his own, as though he could somehow transfer some of his own

 

strength to her by so doing. Amanda's blue eyes were open at the moment;

 

she had been semiconscious all afternoon.

 

 

The room was bathed in sunlight, and the monitoring devices were

 

subdued, nonintrusive.

 

 

As Spock watched her, wondering whether she would take a sip of water if

 

he offered it to her, Amanda's lips parted, and she spoke. Barely more

 

than a breath escaped--a breath that was a name.

 

 

"Sarek ..."

 

 

She had been calling him for hours, and the sound of it wrenched her

 

son's heart as nothing in his life ever had.

 

 

Spock leaned over and said, softly but distinctly, "I am here, Mother, I

 

am here. Spock ... I'm here with you, Mother."

 

 

She opened her eyes again, stared vacantly at him.

 

 

Fretfully, she tugged her hand away from his. "Sarek?" she murmured,

 

turning her head on the pillow, seeking someone who wasn't there.

 

 

"Mother?" Spock called softly. Amanda turned her head to gaze at him,

 

and for a moment he thought he saw a flash of warmth and recognition in

 

her eyes; then it faded. Her eyes moved again, and she stirred

 

restlessly.

 

 

"Sarek?"

 

 

Spock sighed. A few minutes later he coaxed her to take a sip of water

 

from a straw; then she seemed to slip off into a doze.

 

 

An hour later Amanda's right hand moved restlessly, plucking at the

 

coverlet. The Vulcan reached over to hold it.

 

 

This seemed to calm her for a few minutes, and she dropped off again.

 

 

Spock fell into a doze himself; he'd scarcely slept since this had

 

begun, and even his Vulcan constitution was wearing down. He jerked

 

awake an hour and thirty-two point nine minutes later, hearing his

 

mother call, "Sarek?" Her voice held such sadness, such utter desolation

 

that his throat tightened.

 

 

Glancing up at the monitors, he saw that the levels were

 

 

dropping ... she was fading, fading away. Healer T'Mal came in, checked

 

her patient, and when Spock, with a glance, whispered, "How long?," the

 

physician simply shook her head.

 

 

"Sarek?" Amanda's voice cracked on the word. Spock attempted to give her

 

some water, but she turned her head away, fretfully.

 

 

"Mother, it is Spock. I am here," he said aloud, seeing that her eyes

 

were wide open, and she was staring straight at him.

 

 

"Sarek?" she called.

 

 

This is unbearable. Spock got to his feet and paced restlessly around

 

the room. There is almost no possibility that Sarek will arrive in time.

 

But ... unless he is here, she will have no peace. I must find a way to

 

help her achieve tranquility, serenity ... but how?

 

 

Suddenly, an idea occurred to him. But was Amanda strong enough to

 

withstand what he had in mind?

 

 

Sarek sat alone in the dark, his head bowed in his hands, struggling to

 

reach his wife. With all his being he wanted to be with her at the end,

 

wanted to give her a sense of his presence along the tenuous pathway of

 

their bond. Sarek pressed his hands to his eyes, shutting out all light,

 

and proceeded to systematically blank out everything except the sense of

 

Amanda's presence in his mind. Am anda, I am here. My wife, I am with

 

you. Amanda ... I am with you ... hear me, know it is I. Amanda, my

 

wife, I am with you ...

 

 

Over and over he repeated his message, casting his mind along that

 

fragile link, not knowing whether he was succeeding His sense of her

 

presence grew, eclipsing everything else; his entire existence was

 

centered on the mental link he shared with her. Memories flashed through

 

his mind, memories of times past--their wedding night, Spock's birth,

 

his Times with her, the heat of the passion between them seeming to fill

 

the whole world--and for a moment he thought he sensed that she was

 

sharing those memories with him. But he could not be certain ... could

 

not even be sure that she was aware of him. If she was unconscious, he

 

might be touching some last dream, instead of her thinking, conscious

 

mind.

 

 

Amanda ... my wife, I am with you. You have made my life better in so

 

many ways, and I thank you ... Amanda, feel my presence. I am with you

 

... Spock glanced reflexively at the monitors, and what he saw there

 

made him cross the room in one long stride. Am I too late? Spock's

 

fingers went to her head, brushing aside Amanda's hair, seeking the

 

proper contact points.

 

 

The Vulcan sent his mind out, searching, seeking his mother's

 

consciousness. She was almost gone ... Dimly he sensed her

 

personality, the last sparks of life and consciousness, and sent his

 

mind surging toward hers, seeking for contact. Desperately, he tried to

 

locate and link with that last, faint spark of life. He was determined

 

to give her peace, give her what she wanted so badly--her husband's

 

presence.

 

 

He would call up a memory of Sarek so vividly that she would believe his

 

father was actually present.

 

 

As he struggled to establish contact, time seemed to stretch, as though

 

some uncanny relativistic space-time pocket had taken over the

 

room--even though Spock's inner chrono told him that less than a minute

 

had passed.

 

 

He was failing ... the spark that was her life, her consciousness, was

 

falling away in the dark, fading like a burnt-out cinder. Spock tried,

 

but he could not touch her mind, could not capture that dying spark.

 

Beneath his fingers, Amanda twitched, then gasped reflexively, once,

 

twice--

 

 

Spock summoned all his mental strength for one last attempt, sending his

 

mind hurtling after that fading life-spark ... My mind to yours ...

 

our minds are one ...

 

 

But it was no good. She eluded him, fading out, falling away, going too

 

deep for him to catch and still live. Mother.t Spock whispered silently,

 

and knew she did not hear him ... was not aware of him ...

 

 

Amanda was aware, faintly, of the presence trying to touch her mind, but

 

she had gone too far to turn back ... From where?

 

 

She had no idea where she was, where she was going. All around her was

 

darkness, shot with strange colors, hues that even Vulcans had no names

 

for ... She regarded the colors with passing interest, but continued

 

to move. Was she walking? Floating? She did not know. All she knew was

 

that she was moving.

 

 

Spock ... she realized, recognizing the presence that was questing

 

after the tiny spark that remained of Amanda Grayson. She felt a rush of

 

love and warmth for her son, but she could not halt and let him catch up

 

to her ... she knew only that she must keep moving, that she had no

 

choice.

 

 

For a moment she wondered where she was going, but rational thought did

 

not seem important to her anymore.

 

 

Only the need to quest, to seek ... to move ... Seek? she wondered,

 

vaguely. Yes, she was seeking something ... or was it someone. And that

 

someone was ...

 

 

Sarek. She wanted Sarek. He was here, somewhere, he had to be. Her

 

husband had been part of her mind, part of her universe for so long ...

 

he must be here, somewhere.

 

 

Was she m6ving toward Sarek?

 

 

She must be, Amanda thought. Spock's presence was far behind her now,

 

and she did not let him distract her any more. She could not turn back,

 

she knew that instinctively.

 

 

Sarek? she thought.

 

 

Amanda had a vague impression that she was moving faster. For a fleeting

 

moment, it occurred to her to wonder just where she was going, but that

 

did not seem important, either. Only one thing still linked her to her

 

Self, the essence of Amanda Grayson ... and that was Sarek. He had to

 

be here, somewhere ...

 

 

Sarek?

 

 

Something was near her. What? She had no fear of it, whatever it was. It

 

loomed closer, closer ... Suddenly, as she sped along, another presence

 

was with

 

 

her, enveloping her with its essence. Joyfully, Amanda recognized it.

 

 

Sarek!

 

 

He was with her, beside her, around her, within her ... he surrounded

 

and pervaded her with the sense of his presence. Sarek ... she thought,

 

happy that they were together. My husband ...

 

 

But she was still moving ... Sarek was not the destination.

 

 

He could accompany her only partway, for a short while. With a faint

 

pang of regret, Amanda felt him drop behind her. She was moving too fast

 

for him ...

 

 

Moving ... rushing, now. Hurtling. Where did not matter.

 

 

There was no fear, no pain, no weariness. There was ... peace. Peace

 

and movement ...

 

 

Peace ... and nothingness ...

 

 

The last spark of individual identity that had been Amanda Grayson Sarek

 

surrendered to the peace, losing herself, expanding beyond Self, beyond

 

... everything ...

 

 

"Sarek?"

 

 

Spock's eyes snapped open in amazement at his mother's whisper. She

 

sounded suddenly younger, almost girlish. As he watched, her cracked

 

lips parted in a loving smile, as though she saw something he could not.

 

"My husband ..." The words were barely discernible ... a final, soft

 

exhalation.

 

 

Amanda gasped sharply ... then her chest did not rise again.

 

 

I failed, Spock thought desolately, as his eyes automatically went to

 

the monitors; there he read what he already knew.

 

 

It was difficult to believe that his mother was dead. He let his fingers

 

slide down her temples to her throat ... nothing.

 

 

No pulse.

 

 

Spock stood there for a long moment, trying to assimilate what had

 

happened. It seemed inconceivable that Amanda would never open her eyes

 

again, never smile, or speak.

 

 

Never ... the word had an awful sound. Something struggled inside him

 

to break loose, to achieve expression, but he repressed it sternly. He

 

was a Vulcan.

 

 

Gently, Spock placed her limp hands on her breast atop the coverlet. His