mother's eyes were half-open, and, automatically, he reached out and

 

closed them. His hand lingered for a moment on Amanda's cheek; then,

 

resolutely, he stood up. Healer T'Mal, he thought, would be here any

 

moment, having seen Amanda's readings from the monitoring station in the

 

med center.

 

 

The Vulcan debated whether he should draw the sheet up over his mother's

 

face, but decided not to ... she appeared very peaceful the way she

 

was. Her face even bore traces of that last, faint smile.

 

 

Spock turned and walked to the door, hesitated, glanced back. There

 

seemed no reason to stay any longer, but he could not decide what he

 

should do. Healers, aides, and patients passed him in the corridor, and

 

it seemed incredible and somehow unconscionable that everyone and

 

everything should go on so normally, when there had been such a loss ...

 

 

Spock realized with one part of his mind that he was not reacting

 

logically, but, for once, that did not seem important.

 

 

T'Mal came toward him, halted. She was a small, graying Vulcan, who wore

 

a blue-green medical tunic and trousers.

 

 

"Captain Spock," she said, in the most ancient and formal of Vulcan

 

dialects, "I grieve with thee on the death of try mother."

 

 

Spock nodded, wondering whether his expression betrayed any of his inner

 

turmoil, but apparently it did not, for T'Mal's face did not alter as

 

she gazed at him. The Vulcan nodded, then said, matching her formality,

 

"We grieve together, Healer T'Mal. I thank thee for thy care of my

 

mother these many days."

 

 

T'Mal gazed up at him, and some of her formality vanished. "Go home,

 

Captain Spock. Rest. We will place her in stasis, until your father

 

returns, so he may see her if he wishes. Tomorrow will be soon enough to

 

arrange for the memorial service."

 

 

Spock nodded. "Thank you, T'Mal. I will contact you ... later." Turning

 

away, he headed for the med center's transporter unit.

 

 

Alone in the small room on Deneb IV, Sarek of Vulcan struggled, sending

 

his mind out, striving to reach his wife, never knowing whether he had

 

succeeded. And then ... he felt Amanda die.

 

 

One moment her presence was there, a warm spark in the back of his mind,

 

a tenuous link stretching between them--and then the link snapped ...

 

the warmth was gone, leaving an aching void.

 

 

Sarek leaned his head in his hands, feeling grief engulf him past any

 

ability of his to control it. Amanda ... Amanda ... he thought, as

 

though her name were some kind of litany or spell that could call her

 

back. But no ... she was gone, truly gone, and he would be forever

 

poorer for her loss. Amanda ...

 

 

Alone, in the dark, Sarek of Vulcan silently mourned. His world seemed

 

to have tilted out of alignment, losing its focus and color. Amanda,

 

dead? For the first time, the Vulcan realized how much of his strength,

 

his legendary calm and wisdom had come from his wife's presence in his

 

mind. And now ... gone ...

 

 

Forever.

 

 

The word was too large, too all-encompassing for even a Vulcan mind to

 

grasp. Sarek rejected the idea. Logic might dictate that his time with

 

Amanda was ended, but ... one's logic was uncertain at times, when

 

family was concerned.

 

 

Someday, somehow, he would touch the essence of his wife again. Sarek

 

knew it.

 

 

But ... what was he to do until then?

 

 

The answer to his question returned him swiftly. He would do his job ...

 

his duty. He would gain freedom for the people of Kadura. He would

 

complete these negotiations.

 

 

And then, he would do what h e must about the Freelan threat. He would do

 

his duty, as he had always done.

 

 

Amanda would expect that of him, as he expected it of himself.

 

 

Rising from the table, the ambassador straightened his formal robes, and

 

his shoulders. Then, his expression calm, remote, he walked slowly back

 

to join the others around the conference table.

 

 

Spock materialized inside the mountain villa. He could have gone to the

 

house in Shikahr, which was within walking distance of the med center,

 

but there he would have had to take calls, talk to people, accept

 

expressions of condolence and inquiries about the time of the memorial

 

service. Here, his solitude, should he wish it, could be complete.

 

 

Spock wandered through the empty house, noting that someone had made his

 

parents' bed. The Healer's aide, probably. The Vulcan's fingers trailed

 

across one of Amanda's woven hangings, and he pictured her weaving it,

 

as he'd seen her at her loom as a child.

 

 

Remembering something, he took out his communicator.

 

 

"Spock to Enterprise sickbay," he said.

 

 

"Sickbay," replied Leonard McCoy's voice. "McCoy here."

 

 

"Doctor ... she is gone," the Vulcan said steadily.

 

 

"Spock, I'm sorry," McCoy's voice came back.

 

 

"Please inform the captain of my mother's ..." He searched for a human

 

euphemism." ... passing, and tell him that I will speak with him soon.

 

There will be a brief memorial service when ... when my father returns.

 

I will inform you as soon as a time is determined."

 

 

McCoy hesitated, then said, "I understand, Spock. Do you want me or Jim

 

to beam down?"

 

 

"No, Doctor. At the moment, I would prefer to be alone."

 

 

"I understand," McCoy said. "Spock ... I grieve with thee."

 

 

McCoy's High Vulcan was very weak, but Spock appreciated the gesture.

 

"Thank you, Doctor," the Vulcan replied.

 

 

"Spock out."

 

 

Some random impulse drove him out of the house. It was the middle of the

 

night here, on this side of the planet, and Amanda's garden was quiet

 

and serene. Spock sat on the

 

 

bench, facing The Watcher, gazing around him at the beauty Amanda had

 

created. The well-ordered paths, the graceful desert trees and shrubs

 

from a dozen worlds, all complemented the natural stone formations that

 

had been there when the villa had first been built. She had done this,

 

much of it with her own hands ...

 

 

Spock remembered working in this garden with her as a small child,

 

carrying colored rocks that she would arrange in swirling designs,

 

remembered helping her rake sand into graceful patterns ...

 

 

Something inside the Vulcan loosened, relaxed, and this time he allowed

 

it to surface for a brief moment. Spock leaned forward on the bench,

 

arms crossed over his belly, as the pain of her passing filled him,

 

engulfed him. Hot tears welled in his eyes as he sat there, but only one

 

broke free ... and fell, to splash the soil in his mother's garden.

 

 

Journal in hand, Sarek seated himself at the desk in his cabin aboard

 

the transport vessel. The negotiations had been completed yesterday;

 

Kadura was, at last, free, and he was headed home for Vulcan.

 

 

Alone in his cabin, he placed the journal on the desk and, opening it,

 

located the place where he had left off the night before. His wife's

 

handwriting, symmetrical, flowing, and refined--a schoolteacher's

 

elegant cursive--traveled over the white pages, bringing back memories,

 

almost as though she were here, speaking directly to him. Yesterday he'd

 

read her account of their first meeting and their courtship, up until

 

the point where they had left Earth together. Now, seeing the date at

 

the top of the next page, the ambassador braced himself for another

 

onslaught of bittersweet memory.

 

 

September 16,2229

 

 

Within the hour we will be in orbit around Vulcan--my new home. It

 

hardly seems possible that so much has happened in such a short time!

 

 

I am alone in my cabin, as I have been throughout the trip ... even

 

though I am a married woman, by every law on Earth. But my husband

 

follows traditional Vulcan ways, and insists that we wait until after

 

the

 

 

Vulcan ceremony before consummating our marriage.

 

 

In the four months since that first walk on the beach, the first time he

 

kissed me, Sarek has allowed me to see deeper into his mind and heart

 

than I could ever have imagined. Not that he has been exactly ...

 

forthcoming.

 

 

But I have learned to read even the tiniest change of expression on his

 

face, learned to recognize every faint alteration of tone and inflection

 

... learned to interpret meaning from what he doesn't say as much as

 

from what he actually says.

 

 

And today, in anticipation of the Vulcan ceremony this evening, there

 

was the Bonding.

 

 

How can mere human words describe what no one on my homeworld has ever

 

experienced? Physically, it was simple, undramatic. Sarek gravely

 

invited me into his cabin (for the first time in our week-long journey),

 

and solemnly poured a glass of some dark, heady-smelling brew into a cup

 

carved from a single crimson stone veined with dull gold. He added

 

several pinches of herbs, then gestured me to a seat, all without

 

speaking a single word ... Sarek watched his betrothed sit down on the

 

low couch in his cabin, arranging her long, pale turquoise skirts

 

carefully.

 

 

When they had taken ship for Vulcan, Amanda had adopted the traditional

 

garb of his homeworld for the first time, commenting that they would

 

take some getting used to after the short skirts and trousers she was

 

accustomed to.

 

 

With a grave, formal gesture, the diplomat passed her the cup. "Here,

 

Amanda. Drink."

 

 

Gazing up at him over the ornate rim, she took a hesitant sip. "Oh ..."

 

she breathed, staring mystified at the contents.

 

 

"That feels like liquid fire ... but it's not liquor, is it?"

 

 

"No, it is not ethanol," Sarek said. "The drink does have a relaxing

 

effect, but not an intoxicating one." He paused, watching her sip again,

 

then continued. "Amanda, you know that, on my world, husbands and wives

 

are bound by more than law and custom."

 

 

"Yes, Sarek," she replied. "They are linked telepathically."

 

 

"We call it 'bonding,'" Sarek said. "No marriage would be complete

 

without it. This evening my world, my people, will witness the ceremony

 

that will make us, as your people express it, 'one flesh." By tonight we

 

shall be married, under the laws and customs of both our worlds. But

 

first ... first there must come the bonding. That is something done in

 

private, between the betrothed pair--either when they are children, or

 

before the marriage ceremony."

 

 

Amanda hesitated in her turn, then said, "Is it difficult?

 

 

Can we do it now?"

 

 

Sarek gazed at her, intent, profoundly serious. "It is not difficult for

 

Vulcans," he said finally. "But it has never been attempted with a

 

human."

 

 

"I am not telepathic," she reminded him. "You know that."

 

 

"I know. But I do not believe that is necessary. Our bond will not be

 

the same as that shared by a Vulcan couple, but I believe it will be as

 

lasting, as deep, in its own way." The Vulcan raised his hand slowly,

 

ceremoniously. "Will you let me try, my wife-to-be?"

 

 

"Yes," Amanda said, evenly, though he could see her pulse jump in her

 

throat. She took a deep, final draft of the cup, then set it aside.

 

 

Sarek gave her the faint smile that he reserved for her alone, pleased

 

by her courage. "It will seem strange to you," he warned. "My mind will

 

merge with yours, in a very deep meld. It may feel ... invasive. But I

 

would never harm you, Amanda, remember that."

 

 

"I will," she said, her voice still calm--but she licked her lips, as

 

though her mouth had gone dry.

 

 

Holding out two fingers, Sarek extended his hand toward his wife-to-be.

 

Slowly, steadily, she raised her hand to meet his.

 

 

Sarek sent his consciousness questing outward, and felt his mind brush

 

Amanda's. He shared her awareness of him, of the first stages of the

 

meld; the heat of his touch against her hand ... the seeking tendrils

 

of his mind touching the outer fringes of her thoughts.

 

 

He went deeper, cautiously, carefully, anxious lest he cause her pain.

 

Her love and trust surrounded him. She opened to him, like some alien

 

flower spreading its petals to the sun. Slowly ... very slowly ... he

 

eased deeper, strengthening the meld.

 

 

Raising his other hand, he spread it against the contact points on her

 

face, feeling her cool flesh against the warmth of his. Deeper ...

 

deeper ...

 

 

Amanda was now aware of him stirring in her mind, coming to life, the

 

fibers of his being joining to hers, linking, bonding, melding her mind

 

was becoming sealed to his in a joining so profound that it could only

 

be broken by a High Master--or death.

 

 

Sarek could feel her instinctive need to pull back, away--and could feel

 

her fighting it, forcing calmness and acceptance.

 

 

He send a wordless reassurance that she would not lose her individuality

 

by this bonding, then felt her relax. He felt a wave of pride; she was

 

brave, this woman he had chosen. Such a deep meld was enough to make

 

even a Vulcan resist ... but she strove for wholehearted joining.

 

 

Surrounded now by her mind, Sarek experienced Amanda's goodness, her

 

intelligence--and her heartfelt love for him. The awareness moved him as

 

nothing ever had. The bond he had shared with T'Rea had been a pale

 

shadow compared to this, a travesty of intimacy.

 

 

Now he was completely within her, and the sharing they experienced was

 

more intimate than anything either of them had ever known. He felt the

 

last of her fear melt away, experienced her joy in their union. Amanda

 

had longed to be one with him--and now, after so many months, she was.

 

 

Her happiness suffused him, bathing him in unaccustomed emotion--but

 

Sarek did not retreat from that emotion, here in the privacy of their

 

joined minds. It was appropriate for a bonded couple to share such

 

closeness ...

 

 

Their mental sharing was so complete, so total, that by the tim e Sarek

 

withdrew his mind, his fingers encountered

 

 

moisture. Tears streaked Amanda's face, and she grasped his hand tightly

 

when he moved it away. "Oh, Sarek ..." she whispered. "That was ...

 

wonderful. Will it be this way from now on?"

 

 

He nodded. "It will," he promised. "We will always be conscious of one

 

another. We will be together as long as we both live."

 

 

Raising his hand to her lips, she kissed him gently.

 

 

"Thank you," she said, softly. "I wanted to be part of you ... and now

 

I am ...

 

 

She shook her head, put her hands up to her temples. "So many images,"

 

she murmured. "Things I never saw before are now in my mind. Those are

 

your merv, ories, aren't they?"

 

 

"Yes. The infusion may be ... chaotic ... at first, but it will sort

 

itself out, given time."

 

 

"Faces ... conversations.. so much to absorb ..." she whispered softly;

 

then her expression tightened. "Wait a minute." She sat up straight.

 

"There's an image ... Sarek, who is she?" she demanded, in a tone that

 

brooked no opposition.

 

 

The Vulcan had an uncomfortable notion that he knew what she was talking

 

about, but he said only, "To whom are you referring, Amanda?"

 

 

"This woman. The one in your mind. Lovely, delicate features, masses of

 

black hair. You ... desired ... her. It's in your mind. You ... you

 

..." She groped for a word.

 

 

"You were intimate with her." Amanda's eyes flashed cobalt.

 

 

Sarek sighed. "T'Rea," he said. "My first wife."

 

 

"You were married? And you didn't tell me?" She sat bolt upright,

 

furious. "How could you?"

 

 

Sarek regretted his lapse. Amanda's temper was not one to be trifled

 

with. "Yes, I was married to T'Rea. Briefly. But she divorced me."

 

 

"Why didn't you tell me?"

 

 

"Because, to explain how she became my wife, I would have to reveal

 

something so private to Vulcans that it is never spoken of to

 

outworlders. But you are my wife-to-be,

 

 

so I must tell you. I had intended to wait until after the marriage

 

ceremony, however "He spread his hands upward.

 

 

"Explain, then," Amanda said, waiting. launched into a fairly composed,

 

concise explanation of the Vulcan mating drive, and how a Vulcan couple

 

in the throes of pon fart could mate, and yet have little interaction in

 

each other's lives. He concluded, hesitantly, "Amanda, there is one

 

final thing you must know. I never ... shared ... with her, what I

 

experience with you. Understand that.

 

 

My marriage to T'Rea was not a marriage in terms of what you and I will

 

experience as a married couple. We have agreed to share our lives

 

together, which is far different than the brief encounter I experienced

 

with T'Rea when my Time came."

 

 

"I see," she said, finally, thoughtfully. "And will you experience this

 

... pon farr again? When?"

 

 

"I cannot tell," Sarek said, honestly. "But I believe that I will, and

 

that it will be soon. My Time with T'Rea was almost seven years ago,

 

now."

 

 

"What a honeymoon," she murmured, shaking her head. "Oh, Sarek, I wish

 

you had told me all this before!"

 

 

"I explained--I could not speak of it to anyone except my wife. No

 

outworlder must know."

 

 

"I understand," she said, finally.

 

 

Just then, the ship's intercom chimed, informing them that they were

 

about to enter Vulcan orbit. Amanda jumped up from the couch, clearly

 

flustered. "Oh, dear. I have barely an hour to make myself presentable

 

for the wedding!"

 

 

"You should assume the traditional garb," Sarek said. "But your

 

appearance is ... everything that could be desired, Amanda."

 

 

Meeting his eyes, she flushed. "What a lovely compliment," she said.

 

"Now I know why you're such a successful diplomat. But my hair ..." She

 

peered at the mirror in his cabin. "I must run," she said. "I will see

 

you in an hour."

 

 

"In an hour," he promised ...

 

 

Remembering his wedding, Sarek turned the page to see what Amanda had

 

written aloout it.

 

 

September 16, LATER l am so tired, and yet before l allow myself to

 

close my eyes, I must note down my thoughts, my feelings, lest they slip

 

away by morning's light.

 

 

I am sitting here at a small table in the corner of the bedchamber.

 

Vulcan beds are hard, barely yielding, but I suppose I will become

 

accustomed to that with time. I am writing by the light of my pen, clad

 

only in my lightest nightgown--because, despite Sarek's having

 

air-conditioning installed specially for me, it is hot. By midnight,

 

Sarek assures me, the temperature will have dropped, as it does in

 

desert climates.

 

 

My husband is asleep. I can hear him breathing, lightly, slowly. I

 

wonder if any Vulcans snore? Thank all the gods that ever were, Sarek

 

does not/

 

 

The ceremony went well, all things considered. It was held in a

 

stone-pillared and rock-walled sort of natural amphitheater that Sarek

 

told me was the traditional marriage site for his people for many, many

 

generations.

 

 

It reminded me of Stonehenge. 40 Eridani hovered just above the horizon

 

as we spoke our vows, staining the red stone even redder. I managed to

 

follow Sarek's cues without any horrible gaffes, and though the few

 

words of Vulcan I managed to speak probably sounded like nothing ever

 

heard before on the planet, no one reacted.

 

 

The marriage rite was presided over by two Vulcan women--T'Kar, the

 

oldest female in the family, a wizened old creature who seemed to be

 

halfasleep during the entire ceremony, and the person who actually

 

oiciated, named T'Pau.

 

 

I don't quite understand T'Pau's exact relationship to Sarek--Vulcan

 

kinships are complicated, and somewhat differently structured than

 

humanfamilies--she is something on the order of his eldest great-aunt, I

 

believe.

 

 

T'Pau is some kind of matriarch, either by right of

 

 

blood, or natural authority. Her word is, apparently, law. I suspect

 

she's not exactly thrilled at having a human join her family ... but

 

she could teach Emily Post a thing or two about tradition and

 

cutting-edge etiquette!

 

 

Fortunately, the ceremony only took about fifteen minutes--if it had

 

been any longer, I'd have dropped from the heat, I'm sure. We then

 

boarded ground transport and returned to the ancient family enclave,

 

where the reception was held.

 

 

I gather that many receptions are held outside, in the gardens, but this

 

one, in deference to my human constitution, was held in the central

 

hall. The temperature controls had been adjusted downward a few degrees.

 

All the Vulcans were wearing jackets and shawls, while I could hardly

 

wait to shed my outer robe, light and gauzy as it was/)

 

 

Earth's ambassador, Eleanor Jordan, was the only other human present.

 

She offered a typical human toast to the wedded pair, which all the

 

Vulcans courteously drank.

 

 

As soon as was decently possible, Sarek touched my arm, and we slipped

 

out. He led me through stone corridors opening onto chambers filled with

 

ancient furnishings, down a winding staircase to a transporter pad

 

installed in the basement of the building--it looked so anachronistic

 

set into that millennia-old red stone floor!

 

 

Sarek's house is located in Shikahr, and is quite nice.

 

 

Sparsely but impeccably furnished. It was long past sunset when we

 

beamed here, so I received only a hazy impression of the outside. Sarek

 

says there are gardens, which pleases me immensely. I brought some

 

desert plant seedlings with me, in the hopes I can coax them to grow and

 

thus have some touches of Earth here on my new home.

 

 

Even while he is asleep, I can sense Sarek mind brushing mine.

 

 

Today, before the ceremony, Sarek enlightened me

 

 

about Vulcan sexual drives. Very different from a human's libido! It

 

seems that Vulcans undergo something he called pon farr ... much like

 

the heat cycles experienced by some Terran creatures. Vulcans are

 

capable of mating and conceiving at other times, but, during pon farr

 

they must mate--if they don't, they can diet Sarek, my husband ... I

 

can scarcely believe it, even after tonight. It seems too wonderful to

 

be true, that we can now share the same bed, and that I will wake up

 

next to him tomorrow, and tomorrow, and for all the tomorrows we will

 

have together ...

 

 

Sarek closed the journal with a sigh, unable to read any more. Resting

 

his head in his hands, he strove to mealirate, but images of Amanda

 

intruded, filling his mind. Amanda, he thought, feeling grief fill him

 

anew. Amanda ... that was the happiest night of my life, too.

 

 

Valdyr watched Karg salute her uncle, then exit, leaving them alone on

 

the cloaked warbird's small bridge. The last thing Karg did before the

 

doors slid shut behind him was give her a long, promising leer.

 

 

I can wait for our wedding night, his expression said, for my wait will

 

not be long.

 

 

Valdyr glowered at him, touching the hilt of her dagger, and her gesture

 

was just as suggestive. His very presence sent her blood boiling with

 

passion--but not the passion he wanted. You will wait, Karg, she thought

 

with murderous hatred, until Qo'nos's polar caps melt. Unfortunately,

 

with the destruction of Praxis and the subsequent environmental problems

 

the Klingon homeworld was facing, that might not be very long indeed.

 

 

If she could only talk her uncle out of this disastrous plan of his! She

 

turned to face the ambassador, who was absorbed, watching the

 

surveillance screens.

 

 

"Uncle," she said with a firmness she did not feel, "we must talk."

 

 

He glanced at her, then went back to watching the image on the screen. A

 

lone human male lay curled in an embryon ic position on the narrow,

 

shelflike bunk. "Niece, come see your charge."

 

 

Valdyr moved closer to him, staring at the silent, unmoving human. She

 

could detect no movement, not even breathing. Was the prisoner still

 

alive?

 

 

"He will be your responsibility," Kamarag reminded her.

 

 

"The warbird's crew tells me that young Kirk has eaten nothing in the

 

five days since his capture. He only uses his food to ask questions, and

 

spell out his name, rank, and some meaningless number. Wo rse than that,

 

he has drunk only a small amount of water. For the last day, they said,

 

he has not moved at all."

 

 

How grotesque, Valdyr thought, to just curl up and surrender.

 

 

This is what her uncle thought was an honorable prisoner?

 

 

"Typical," Kamarag remarked, studying the prisoner and shaking his head.

 

"Most humans, it has been my experience, are a weak, spineless lot. I

 

regret that this one will probably not afford you much amusement,

 

niece."

 

 

In Klingon society, guarding prisoners of war was traditionally women's

 

work. And, for the most hated prisoners and humans certainly qualified

 

for that category), the female jailers took delight in administering the

 

be /oy '--the ritualized "torture-by-women."

 

 

In a world controlled by Klingon warriors, a woman could release much of

 

the frustration engendered by the male-dominated society on a strong,

 

healthy prisoner.

 

 

"It is critically important that this man live and be healthy, do you

 

understand, my ' ?"

 

 

intruded on her thoughts. niece. Kamarag's order Valdyr scowled. She

 

would have to nurse this feeble weakling? Klingon prisoners were not

 

usually coddled. A touch of hope glimmered in her breast. Was her uncle

 

finally realizing the magnitude of his actions? Was this his way of

 

softening the offense? Yes, that had to be it. He would strengthen the

 

dying human so as to have a healthy hostage to return in exchange for

 

Captain Kirk. It could, perhaps, salvage some honor in the end.

 

 

"He must be strong, so that when Kirk comes to claim

 

 

him," Kamarag explained in his most rational, ambassadorial voice, "this

 

sniveling weakling can endure a good, lengthy bejoy'--while his uncle is

 

forced to watch!"

 

 

aldyffs color deepened and her eyes widened against her will. Where was

 

the honor in that? There was no craft in this plan, no politics, just

 

duplicity and cruelty. The shame of it made her glower at the

 

deckplates.

 

 

"Don't worry, my dear niece," Kamarag said comforting ly, giving her a

 

congenial hug, "that task will be yours as well. A reward for the

 

distasteful work ahead of you--guarding this stinking alien, this blood

 

kin of va Kirk! His torture will be my wedding gift to you--something to

 

whet your appetites and insure a passionate night with your new

 

husband?"

 

 

Valdyr had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from erupting into

 

gales of hysterical laughter. Had all she learned at her father's side

 

of honor, battle, and glory been lies? Was this really the way Klingons

 

conducted themselves by betraying their leaders, lying, cheating, and

 

abusing the helpless? Her father would have killed this man for what he

 

was about to do.

 

 

"Now, what is it you wished to speak to me about?" The young woman

 

blinked, having nearly forgotten. She swallowed, knowing already how

 

futile this would be.

 

 

"I ... I wish to speak once more ... of my plans. The plans I made for

 

my life, while my father was still alive."

 

 

Kamarag drew away from her, his face taking on his more "official" look.

 

 

"My father, as you must know, encouraged my learning," she reminded him.

 

"He trained me himself, along with my four brothers, in all the

 

warriors' arts."

 

 

Kamarag nodded. "You were your father's favorite, of that, I'm well

 

aware. Training you was his way of proving your worth, since he made the

 

healers work so hard to save you in infancy."

 

 

She nodded, lowering her eyes. In many families, a weak, small, sickly

 

baby as she had been would have been allowed to die. But her father

 

would not permit it and demanded the

 

 

healers save her. Perhaps it was because she was his only daughter. Her

 

mother liked to tell her that he'd bellowed at the doctors that Valdyr's

 

will to live was proof that she carried a man's share of noble warrior's

 

blood. And he'd trained her as stringently as her stronger brothers.

 

She'd loved him for that.

 

 

"My father," she reminded Kamarag, "felt my mind was as strong as my

 

skills, as strong as my will to live. He wanted me to continue my

 

schooling. He knew I was not strong enough to serve as a warrior ... but

 

hoped I might have other skills almost as valuable to offer the Empire.

 

He hoped--and I shared his dream--that I might follow you, Uncle, into

 

diplomacy."

 

 

Kamarag raised his head in surprise. It was a compliment, and she could

 

see he was taking it as such.

 

 

She continued quickly, before he could stop her. "At the time, it was a

 

dream, a fantasy, but now ... with Azetbur holding such an important

 

political role, it would not be thought so unusual if I ..."

 

 

The ambassador glowered. "Azetbur! The role she has usurped is a

 

travesty! If she were a decent female she would have married again!

 

Then, she could hand her seat over to her husband, as it should be!"

 

 

Valdyr yearned to remind her uncle that Azetbur's husband had been

 

killed in the same attack that had killed the chancellor's father--but

 

that it had been Azetbur herself that Gorkon had wanted to succeed him.

 

 

"And it is this depraved female you would model yourself after?"

 

 

"Oh, no, Uncle, it is you I would ..."

 

 

"Do not flatter me, niece! I have been a politician since long before

 

you were born!" He was furious now, and Valdyr had no idea how to

 

placate him.

 

 

"But ... my father--"

 

 

"Your father is dead. t" he reminded her brutally. '7 am the head of

 

this family, and you will follow the life I prepare for you! You will

 

marry Karg, and be a faithful wife, and bear him as many male children

 

as your body can grow. Your

 

 

glory will be in the success of your husband and male children. You will

 

not live a life of perversion and depravity as that damnable Azetbur

 

has. Do you understand me?" Valdyr was stunned by her uncle's reaction.

 

Stunned and heartsick. But she showed not a trace of it on her face. She

 

would not shame her father's memory by displaying weakness.

 

 

"Yes, my uncle. I understand clearly."

 

 

"Then, let us be family," he said quietly, "and never speak of this

 

again." He turned back to regard the surveillance screens. aldyr

 

struggled to control her disappointment. She'd hoped that her uncle

 

would listen to reason ... but he would not.

 

 

While she and her uncle had had their brief discussion, she'd been

 

peripherally aware of the screens that displayed Karg's progress through

 

the warbird. His lieutenant, Treegor, accompanied him. The two officers

 

had picked up Peter Kirk from a rendezvous point on the edge of explored

 

space, from the tramp freighter/contraband runner that had smuggled him

 

off Earth.

 

 

Now, after landing on Qo'nos, at Tengchah Jay, the spaceport closest to

 

Du'hurgh, Kamarag's huge estate, it was time, at last, to remove the

 

prisoner from his cell. As Karg stalked through the corridom, he carried

 

in his gaunt-leted hand an electronic key that was the only means of

 

opening the door to the security cell.

 

 

Through all of this, the figure on the bunk had never stirred, never

 

twitched. Yes, Karg, Valdyr thought bitterly, bring my uncle his dead

 

prize.

 

 

Finally, Karg and his lieutenant reached the prisoner's cabin. Karg

 

inserted the key and left it in, so that the doors would remain open.

 

Both men were relaxed, talking and laughing with each other, confident

 

that the human, even in health, could be no match for them.

 

 

Karg leaned over the prisoner and shook the man's shoulder. There was no

 

response; the captive's arm swung limply, then hung, flaccid.

 

 

"He ... cannot be dead?" her uncle muttered, as if contemplating that

 

possibility for the first time. "If he is dead ..." You have nothing,

 

Valdyr thought, nothing but shame. "No, he lives!" Kamarag muttered as

 

Karg and his assistant lifted the limp form by the arms, slapping him

 

lightly. The man seemed almost boneless, his head lolling back and

 

forth, his eyes shut, his mouth sagging open.

 

 

He had to be alive, or his body would have stiffened with the death

 

rictus. Karg slapped the human's face again, harder, but there was no

 

response.

 

 

Suddenly, the prisoner groaned piteously and sagged even more. Karg and

 

his lieutenant bowed over his form to prevent him from collapsing to the

 

deck, and for a moment the human was lost to view, blocked by the

 

warriors' broad backs.

 

 

Then, in the next instant, the two Klingons lurched toward each other,

 

their heads meeting with a resounding crack. They fell backward,

 

staggering. The human had suddenly awakened, grabbed the warriors and

 

forced them together.

 

 

The human was upright now, his entire demeanor changed dramatically.

 

Spinning on one foot, he lashed out with his other, catching Treegor on

 

the chin. The warrior crashed to the deck, unconscious. Karg was up now,

 

and in a murderous rage, blood trickling from a head-plate cut. With a

 

roar, he charged the human, who moved low and struck the warrior with

 

his fists hard, once, twice, three times just below the breastplate, in

 

a warrior's most vulnerable place.

 

 

The air rushed out of Karg's lungs, and all he could do was swing

 

wildly. He managed to strike the human on the shoulder, but the man took

 

the blow well, and punched Karg twice, in his right eye.

 

 

This human knows us, aldyr realized. He'd wasted no energy attacking the

 

places where warriors would feel little pain. Her gaze sharpened with

 

interest. She had not realized that humans could fight so well--or be so

 

clever!

 

 

Karg lunged after the human, meaning to snatch him up and throw him into

 

the nearest wall, but the smaller male held his place until the last

 

second, then dodged the attack.

 

 

Grabbing Karg by his armor, he shoved the big warrior hard, and Karg's

 

forward momentum ran him right into the bulkhead. His head struck with

 

stunning force, and he slid down the wall, dazed.

 

 

Without a wasted moment, young Kirk raced out of his cell, grabbing the

 

electronic key on his way out. Karg struggled to his feet to pursue his

 

escaping quarry, but the doors slid shut in front of him, locking him

 

inside. Valdyr stifled her laughter as she took in Karg's stupefied

 

expression.

 

 

"Hu'tegh!" Kamarag cursed, slapping his palm on the alarm button. The

 

raucous sound of the blaring klaxon instantly filled the air.

 

 

They watched the human on the surveillance screens as he raced down the

 

corridors. Kamarag's hands flew over the control panel, and on another

 

screen the two warriors Karg had gotten the key from suddenly appeared.

 

They were in the mess hall, eating. They looked up in response to the

 

alarm.

 

 

"Hurry!" Kamarag yelled through the intercom. "The human is loose in the

 

ship!" As the warriors abandoned their meals and ran out, the ambassador

 

secured all airlocks.

 

 

Valdyr headed for the bridge doors.

 

 

"And where are you going?" Kamarag demanded as the doors slid open

 

before her.

 

 

"I'm going to recapture my prisoner," she informed him matter-of-factly.

 

He seemed about to protest, but Karg's shouting as he hammered against

 

his prison door quickly distracted him. She was in the hall before he

 

had another second to think about it.

 

 

The human will head for the bridge, she decided. It would be the only

 

way he could effect a genuine escape. Leaving the ship would merely

 

strand him on a planet where he would be the only one of his kind, and

 

entirely too easy to find. No, he'd need to get to the bridge,

 

commandeer it. No doubt he'd figure out where it was in a matter of

 

minutes. He was clever, this human.

 

 

Those of us that are not as strong must develop our minds

 

 

all the more, she thought, grinning with the excitement of the pursuit.

 

She was eager to go against this man. This warrior, she thought,

 

shocking herself. And what else should he be called? Starved,

 

alehydrated, and inactive for days, this human had managed to have both

 

the strength and the cunning to overcome two of Kamarag's best warriors.

 

 

Valdyr raced down the corridor, heading toward the prisoner's cabin. She

 

realized then that she had no weapon but her knife, and her fighting

 

skills. She could not stun the man; she would have to fight him

 

barehanded. She frowned.

 

 

Would he fight her? Or would he give her that look, that patronizing

 

expression warriors always gave her? It would be shameful for a warrior

 

tojight a woman, she was always told.

 

 

And she always responded, No, it is only shameful to fight her ... and

 

lose. Gritting her teeth, she slid to a halt behind a juncture of

 

corridors. This was the path to the bridge. To reach it, he would have

 

to come through her.

 

 

Valdyr heard the thudding of feet on deckplates, then a Klingon

 

warrior's guttural shout. She peered around the corner , her body hidden

 

by the angled wall. The human, who'd been headed her way, spun around to

 

face a Klingon racing toward him from the rear. Young Kirk waited until

 

the warrior was nearly on top of him, then with an earsplit-ting yell of

 

his own, leaped high in the air, smashing both feet into the warrior's

 

face. The Klingon hit the deckplates so hard they shuddered. Kirk landed

 

badly himself, pulling himself up with an effort. Panting for breath, he

 

moved steadily toward her.

 

 

The Klingon woman stepped into his path from behind the curve and he

 

stopped short. Chest heaving, he gulped for air. It had cost him, this

 

fight, and she could see he was near the end of his strength.

 

 

"It is over," she said clearly in English. "You have fought well. Be

 

proud. Now yield, and come with me." Kirk was clearly surprised to hear

 

her use his language.

 

 

His shoulders sagged, as if in defeat, but she didn't trust him and went

 

into a defensive stance. His gaze moved over her, taking in her posture,

 

and his expression hardened with determination. "In a pig's eye!" Kirk

 

answered.

 

 

She blinked, unable to translate the idiom. "You will yield!" she

 

ordered, and launched herself at him.

 

 

Valdyr felt ashamed of her advantage. She doubted he would use the same

 

force on her as he'd been willing to use on the Klingon males. His

 

unwillingness to do that would allow her to conquer him, but she

 

wouldn't enjoy it. She was still thinking that when his fist hit her

 

cheek with stunning force.

 

 

Her head snapped back harshly, and she growled as blood poured from the

 

corner of her lip. Drawing back, she landed a powerful right to his jaw,

 

and he staggered. She moved to follow it through with a left, but he

 

blocked the blow. Kirk brought his hand down in a hard chop at her neck,

 

but she dodged and it landed ineffectively on her leather shoulder pad.

 

Bringing the heel of her hand up under his chin, she snapped his head

 

back with the force of the blow. Kirk grunted and went down.

 

 

Before he'd even finished landing, however, he'd scissored his legs

 

between hers and knocked her to the deck. He landed on her roughly,

 

struggling to get a grip on her hair and slam her head against the

 

deckplates. Swinging her legs up, she flipped both of them end over end,

 

then straddled him. "Yield, human!" she bellowed, and struck him hard in

 

the face. His head cracked against the floor, he gave a sigh, and his

 

eyes rolled up.

 

 

Valdyr eased off her prisoner carefully, fully aware that he might be

 

feigning unconsciousness. Klingon boots thundered down the hall, and

 

when she looked up, Karg, Treegor, the two crewmen, and her uncle were

 

there, their eyes moving between the unconscious human on the floor and

 

her. She was panting and sweating over him, the blood from her lip

 

dripping puce droplets onto her armor.

 

 

Raging, Karg snarled, "Let me kill this Ha'dlbah now!" and lunged for

 

the helpless body.

 

 

"You will not!" Valdyr heard herself shout as she thrust herself between

 

them, shoving the warrior back roughly.

 

 

He moved on her, but by then her dagger was out of its sheath and in

 

front of his face. He paused. Valdyr's warrior blood was coursing

 

through her now. "Is this how a Kiingon

 

 

warrior kills his enemy?" she taunted her betrothed. "Waits until he's

 

helpless and kills him in his sleep? Is that your path to honor, Karg?"

 

 

No one in the corridor moved. Karg's face flamed with shame. Valdyr was

 

surprised when her uncle said nothing, merely stared at her

 

reflectively.

 

 

Treegot grumbled at her, "This human is not worthy to be our enemy. He

 

is a parasite, brought down by a woman. He deserves no honorable

 

consideration."

 

 

"Be careful, Treegor," she warned. "This human brought you down with one

 

blow, and outfought and outwitted the rest of you. He did that after a

 

long fast and in a weakened state. He has earned the respect due a

 

warrior."

 

 

Without another word, she sheathed her dagger. Then, reaching down, she

 

grabbed the unconscious human by the wrists, hauled him up, and slung

 

him over her shoulder.

 

 

Valdyr struggled not to stagger; Kirk was heavier than he looked, but

 

she could not afford to show weakness in front of this group now.

 

 

"Valdyr," said Kamarag quietly, "where are you taking him?"

 

 

"To the prison cell you have prepared for him," she said, managing to

 

speak clearly in spite of her burden. "I will take him in the aircar we

 

brought. He is my prisoner, is he not?

 

 

He needs medical attention, and possibly force-feeding.

 

 

Your orders on the matter of his care were very clear."

 

 

"Do ... you not wish help?" Kamarag asked.

 

 

"Do you think I need it?" she challenged, meeting his eyes.

 

 

He raised his head as if insulted, but when Karg attempted to speak, he

 

held up his hand to silence the warrior.

 

 

Karg looked outraged. "No," Kamarag said quietly. "I do not think you

 

need help." And with a gesture that was almost a salute, he permitted

 

her to leave.

 

 

As Valdyr stumped toward the airlock with her heavy burden, she heard

 

Karg say angrily to her uncle, "I will not tolerate such insolence when

 

we are wed.* I will beat that smugness out of her the first night!"

 

 

To her pleasure she heard Kamarag reply, "I do not

 

 

believe a warrior's heart is so easily conquered, Karg. You may have to

 

rethink your approach."

 

 

See, Peter told himself, you were right the first time. You should've

 

never woken up! He lay perfectly still on the unyielding surface where

 

he'd been tossed. The truth was, he was afraid to move. Every single

 

part of him hurt--not just a little, but with a bone-jarring,

 

muscle-deep, migraine-type pain the likes of which he'd never known.

 

 

Well, what did you expect, mister? You took on the whole damned Klingon

 

army.

 

 

Klingons! He'd been kidnapped by Klingons. Well, everything he'd ever

 

read about them was true. They could fight like mountain gorillas, and

 

they seemed about as strong. His aching body testified to that.

 

 

But why would Klingons want to kidnap him in the first place? Ever since

 

Jim Kirk and his crew had saved Chancellor Azetbur, his uncle had become

 

a favored person among the Klingon populace.

 

 

But not every Klingon, he knew, supported Azetbur's rule.

 

 

He tried to recall the two soldiers who'd come for him.

 

 

Their garb had been military--black and dark gray leather studded with

 

metal, spiked boots and gloves--but the official insignia of the Klingon

 

Empire was not pinned on their left sleeves. Instead, there'd been

 

another insignia stitched on the leather, intertwined with what must

 

have been the sigil of a high-ranking house.

 

 

He tried to gauge the gravity of this place by the weight of his body as

 

it lay still. It was hard to say without moving. He was heavier than he

 

was on Earth, just a fraction, perhaps, but there was a difference. Of

 

course, some of that could be due to swollen muscle tissue! He wondered

 

if he was on one of the Klingon worlds, or on Qo'nos itself. And he

 

wondered if he'd ever find a way out of this mess. Despair washed over

 

him like a bucket of ice water.

 

 

Klingons rarely kept prisoners, but when they did ... there was plenty

 

of speculation about what happened to those unfortunates. Would they

 

kill him? Torture him?

 

 

Tales of the infamous Klingon mind-sifter ran through his memory.

 

Determinedly, Peter took deep breat hs, in through his nose, out through

 

his mouth, until he felt calmer.

 

 

"I know you are awake, human," a highly accented feminine voice growled

 

at him.

 

 

He knew that voice. He'd heard it at least once before.

 

 

Yes. Before its owner whipped the tar out of him. He allowed one eyelid

 

to creep open.

 

 

There she was, all right, the woman of his nightmares. She loomed over

 

him, but carefully remained out of reach. As if he had enough energy

 

even to lift his head, never mind take her on again. What a punch she

 

had!

 

 

"You are dehydrated, human," she told him. "You need water and food. I

 

am prepared to force-feed you if you will not cooperate with me. The

 

choice is yours."

 

 

Her English was amazingly good, if oddly accented, Peter realized. He

 

opened the other eye.

 

 

She was small, barely tall enough to reach Peter's shoulder, and

 

slenderly built. Her long dark hair, braided into a rope as thick as

 

Peter's wrist, hung over her shoulder and fell to her thighs. The

 

Klingon woman's skin was the color of warm honey, her features delicate

 

and feminine. Even the ridges on her forehead were elegant--sharply

 

defined, but not as massive as those of the male Klingons. The effect

 

was almost charming. Like the lovely head of the cobra, Peter thought

 

wryly.

 

 

She wore the same military-like garb that the males had, with the same

 

insignia on it. As Peter's eyes met hers, she lifted her chin and stared

 

back at him levelly.

 

 

"You will sit up, or I will pull you into a sitting position," she

 

ordered him.

 

 

The last thing he wanted was for this Amazon to handle him again. He

 

rolled onto his side and struggled to sit up without groaning. Easing

 

his legs over the ledge of whatever he was lying on, he settled into the

 

ordered position, only to sag back against a wall.

 

 

"I know you now, human," the female Klingon informed him, "so do not

 

attempt to deceive me. I defeated you once and will happily do so

 

again."

 

 

Holding up his hands, Peter tried futilely to moisten his mouth and

 

speak. He craved water as he'd never craved anything before; he didn't

 

even care if it was drugged. In fact, he wished it was. It might

 

alleviate some of this pain.

 

 

"Here, drink this," she ordered him, holding a squeeze bottle out to

 

him.

 

 

He clutched at it, his hands covering hers, as the fluid streamed into

 

his mouth. It was clear, clean, pure water, and tasted more wonderful

 

than anything he'd ever consumed.

 

 

Cruelly, she pulled the bottle away before he'd had more than a few

 

swallows.

 

 

"Slowly!" she snapped. "You have been weakened by your battle. Too much

 

fluid too soon will only make you ill. Here, swallow these, and you may

 

have more water to wash them down."

 

 

He stared uncomprehendingly at some tiny pills in her palm.

 

 

"They are human medication. They are for pain. Take them ... or no more

 

water."

 

 

He took them willingly and again clutched her hands as she allowed him

 

more water from the squeeze bottle. Her skin was so warm.

 

 

This time, when she took the bottle away, her face seemed to soften a

 

little. He released his grip on her reluctantly, wondering when she'd

 

offer the water again.

 

 

"There is warm broth in this bottle," she told him, showing it to him.

 

"It is Klingon, but it is specially made for injured warriors. It is

 

food and medicine all in one. I have consulted with the information we

 

have on human physiology and I assure you it will bring you no harm. You

 

will drink it ... or I will feed it to you like an infant."

 

 

Peter nodded at her. He'd drink it ... the water had awakened an echo

 

of hunger. He moistened his Flps again and asked, "Why do you care?" His

 

voice was little more than a croak.

 

 

She frowned, confused.

 

 

"Why should you care if I eat or not? Whether I drink too much water and

 

get sick? Why do you care?"

 

 

"My uncle has assigned me to see to your welfare," she explained, her

 

tone curt, but no longer fierce. She handed him the bottle of broth. "I

 

am to restore your health."

 

 

He nodded. Her job. That explained everything, and nothing. He sipped

 

the warm brew gingerly, no longer interested in the politics of

 

hunger-striking. Surprisingly, the liquid was savory and satisfying. As

 

its warmth traveled through him, he found his spirits improving. Peter

 

wondered how long it would be before the pills took effect. He was tired

 

of pain following every faint movement.

 

 

Taking another sip of the broth, he looked around his new environment.

 

All his great battle had done was earn him more scars and a new cell.

 

This one was not much larger than his prison aboard the ship, but he

 

knew very well that he was no longer in space.

 

 

The windowless walls were closely fitted blocks of stone that had been

 

cemented over, not altogether successfully, because patches of the

 

ancient brownish gray stonework showed through. He was perched on a

 

sleeping platform consisting of a slab of stone with some kind of woven

 

blanket thrown atop it.

 

 

On his left was a hole in the ground, what he now recognized as the

 

Klingon version of a no-frills head. This one didn't appear to have been

 

used within the last century.

 

 

The door was ancient wood reinforced with metal, but the locks holding

 

it closed were modern--incongruous against the old wood. Beside the door

 

was a clear observation panel with a speaker set beneath it. A

 

four-legged stool was placed near it.

 

 

The walls around him seemed as tough as neutronium. He thought of a book

 

his uncle had brought him once--The Count of Monte Cristo.

 

 

Sure, he thought. Give me a spoon, and I'll be out of here in a mere

 

fourteen years ...

 

 

This was definitely not the Klingon Hilton.

 

 

Peter took a deep breath, trying to take stock of his situation. What

 

would Jim Kirk do? he wondered; then,

 

 

glancing at the young Klingon woman's slender but attractive figure, he

 

repressed a grim smile. Yeah, right. I know just what Uncle Jim would

 

do! Even with a Klingon, if she was as nicely built as this one ... too

 

bad I don't have his luck.

 

 

Taking a few more healthy swallows of the broth, he savored the taste.

 

It was spicy, burning his tongue, but he'd always won the chili

 

cook-offs in school. He loved hot food.

 

 

He looked at the bottle, surprised to be feeling some of his aches

 

easing up already. "This is very good broth." She cocked her head at him

 

suspiciously. "I had always heard that humans were too weak to tolerate

 

our food." He shrugged cautiously. "I'll make you chili some day and we

 

can discuss it. I like this well enough. And I'm feeling better. Thank

 

you." She seemed wary, then uncomfortable, but finally said,

 

 

"I, too, thank you." He stared at her, at a loss. "What for?"

 

 

"For fighting me. For treating me as an honorable opponent.

 

 

It was a good battle! I believe ... that if you were well ... you

 

might have won!" Peter sat up straighter, forcing his brain into

 

alertness.

 

 

Klingons put a lot of store in honormr was everything to them. But women

 

didn't get much benefit from the heavily patriarchal system. He started

 

to introduce himself. "My She cut him off abruptly. "I know who you

 

are." He raised an eyebrow. Of course she knew who he was.

 

 

She'd helped kidnap him, hadn't she? "And ... my honorable opponent is

 

... ?" he prodded. The ploy was deliberate.

 

 

It would become harder to think of him as her victim if he started

 

becoming a person to her.

 

 

She hesitated, and he wondered if she knew that. Finally, she said

 

quietly, "I am Valdyr." He nodded. Interesting name. He wondered if it

 

meant anything. Yeah. She- who - mops - the -floor- with - Starfleet

 

-cadetst "Valdyr, have I earned the right to know why I'm here.*" He was

 

pushing it, he knew, but what could she do, besides refuse? And beat the

 

hell out of you again?

 

 

She seemed suddenly troubled, and glanced around the cell. He didn't

 

speak, just took a few more sips of broth and waited patiently. Finally,

 

she spoke. "My uncle has declared a blood feud against your uncle. The

 

government no longer wants vengeance against James Kirk, since he saved

 

the life of Chancellor Azetbur. So, to regain his honor, my uncle must

 

act on his own. James Kirk will be sent a message to come alone to a

 

certain place in space. There my uncle's guards will take him, and bring

 

him here. Once he is here," she paused, staring at him for a long

 

moment, then finally continued, "you will be released." Sheg lying,

 

Peter thought, but decided not to pursue it.

 

 

He didn't have the strength to face his possible future as a Klingon

 

prisoner. "What will happen to my uncle once Kamarag has him?" Peter

 

asked, even though he already knew.

 

 

Valdyr refused to meet his eyes. "My uncle has a debt of honor to settle

 

with him. If you know what that is, you know what will happen." Torture

 

and, eventually, execution, Peter thought grimly.

 

 

"Why the blood feud, Valdyr? I know my uncle has fought your people

 

throughout his career, but our peoples are working toward peace, now."

 

 

"Your uncle left a Klingon to perish on an exploding world," Valdyr said

 

quietly. "That warrior was my uncle's closest friend and prot6g."

 

 

"Kruge? I mean, Captain Kruge?" Peter was nonplussed.

 

 

"But ... that was over three years ago!"

 

 

"'Revenge, like a targ, rouses hungry after a sleep,'" she said,

 

obviously quoting an old proverb.

 

 

"Wait a minute. Captain Kruge ordered my cousin David's death," Peter

 

argued. "Kruge's men murdered him in cold blood. If anyone has an old

 

score to settle, it's us, not you." Valdyr frowned. "What is this, 'cold

 

blood'?"

 

 

"Uhhh ... that means that Kruge thought about David's murder, then

 

ordered it and was obeyed. He didn't kill him during a fight, or kill

 

him by striking out blindly during an argument."

 

 

"That is not true!" Valdyr defended hotly. "David Mar cus was a prisoner

 

of war, who was executed while attacking a guard."

 

 

Peter glared at her. "That's not the way I heard it."

 

 

"My uncle told me," she said, matching his intensity.

 

 

They glowered at each other for a moment; then Peter relaxed. This was

 

crazy, he decided. They were acting like the Hatfields and the McCoys.

 

"Neither one of us was there, so we'll never know for sure. It's been my

 

experience that the truth usually lies somewhere in the middle."

 

 

Valdyr gave him a surprised glance, then nodded slowly.

 

 

"That has been my experience, too, Peter Kirk." The way she said his

 

name made it sound like "Pityr."

 

 

She moved toward the heavy wooden door, but never turned her back. She

 

wasn't going to be as easy to outwit as the goons they'd sent into his

 

last cell, he realized. "I have brought you clean clothes." She nodded,

 

indicating a pile of fabric that sat perched on the end of the stone

 

bunk. "There are cloths in there ... you would say for washing, for

 

drying. There is soap. I will be bringing a basin for washing when you

 

are no longer so thirsty and are ready to bathe.

 

 

Your odor is too strong! If you do not willingly bathe, I will be forced

 

to wash you myselfi"

 

 

He couldn't help it. The mental image of this lovely but alien woman

 

forcibly stripping him and lathering his naked body forced a smile onto

 

Peter's bruised mouth. He winced even as he did it.

 

 

Her face darkened, and she advanced on him threatening-ly.

 

 

"What is funny?"

 

 

He held up his hands placatingly. "Come on, Valdyr!

 

 

Think about it. Don't Klingons have a sense of humor?

 

 

Have you ever given a grown man a forced bath out of a basin before?

 

What a ... fascinating ... image that idea presentsl"

 

 

She scowled, but slowly her expression thawed, as if against her will.

 

"Do not imagine that having me strip you and bathe you would be a

 

pleasurable experience, Kirk, just because I am female!"

 

 

Peter widened his eyes innocently. "Why, Valdyr, such a

 

 

thought never crossed my mind. But apparently ... it crossed yours."

 

 

Her eyes narrowed as she digested this, then her skin visibly darkened.

 

She g blushing!

 

 

"Of course ... it is a potentially appealing scenario!" he continued,

 

giving her a sidelong glance. "I don't believe humans and Klingons have

 

ever had such ... an intimate interaction. Truly an interstellar

 

first!"

 

 

Valdyr's mouth dropped open, just slightly; then she whirled, opened the

 

door, and slammed it shut almost before he realized what she was doing.

 

Peter heard the locks on the other side activating in rhythmic

 

succession. His jailer appeared on the other side of the observation

 

port, glaring at him balefully.

 

 

Keep pushing your luck, mister. With a little more provocation, she just

 

might beat you to death! He leaned forward and said quietly, "No

 

disrespect intended to my most honorable opponent." He prayed his voice

 

would carry through the port.

 

 

She seemed to relax at that, and her fierce expression lightened. Then,

 

suddenly, a male Klingon appeared at her side, surprising both of them.

 

 

Oh, no, Peter thought, stunned as the man came into view.

 

 

This was her uncle? Could it really be? He recognized Kamarag

 

instantly--the Klingon who had declared so publicly that there would be

 

no peace while James T. Kirk lived.

 

 

Peter swallowed. Things were becoming entirely too clear.

 

 

Kamarag was big, his long dark hair and thick beard shot with gray, with

 

heavy, jowly features that appeared never to have smiled. He glared at

 

the young Kirk, and Peter could feel his hatred, as palpable as a

 

clenched fist. The ambassador was not in uniform, but wore a 1ongish

 

oyster-white tunic over dark gray trousers, with a dark cape slung over

 

one shoulder. An intricately carved leather strap held it in place. The

 

strap bore the same insignia as the other Klingons wore--the insignia,

 

no doubt, of the house of Kamarag.

 

 

The cadet stared at the ambassador. Ambassador? he

 

 

thought. What a joke. Sarek was an ambassador, a diplomat, a man of

 

peace ... this jerk was nothing but a warmonger, a kidnapper, a pompous

 

ass, a ... Peter ran out of silent epithets4his rage was suddenly too

 

all-encompassing to be vented with mere insults. He had been drugged,

 

kidnapped, beatenmand it was this man's fault. Trembling with fury, he

 

glared at Kamarag, feeling a tirade on the verge of erupting.

 

 

Slowly, the impulse faded. What good would cursing and insulting Kamarag

 

do7 He needed to keep his wits about him, Peter realized. Jim Kirk might

 

lose his temper at an enemy, but Sarek never would. And right now, he,

 

Peter Kirk, needed to be diplomatic.

 

 

"Ambassador Karostag," he said, and nodded politely to the older male.

 

 

But the Klingon ignored his greeting as he leaned forward and stared at

 

the human. Slowly, his thick lips parted, and a terrible smile

 

transformed his features. Peter felt every hair on his body rise. Then

 

the Klingon turned to his niece. In Klingonese, he said, clearly, "He

 

ate and drank?"

 

 

She nodded.

 

 

"Good," he continued, still in his native tongue. "I am depending on

 

you, niece. Do not fail me. Make your prisoner strong and healthy. Treat

 

him well." He patted the woman fondly on the shoulder. "He must be able

 

to withstand your ..."

 

 

Peter couldn't translate the last word, and searched his mind for its

 

meaning, but came up blank. He'd caught the word for women, or female,

 

in there, but as for the rest ... he'd be willing to bet it wasn't a

 

trip to the local equivalent of an amusement park that Kamarag was

 

referring to. Ordeal? Trial? He had no way of knowing.

 

 

Kamarag was still conferring with Valdyr, smiling solicitously.

 

 

When the older man turned back to stare at his prisoner once more, Peter

 

found that the look the ambassador gave him chilled his blood. Then the

 

elder Klingon stalked away. Peter turned back to Valdyr to ask her about

 

what that term, be9oy; meant, and found, to his surprise,

 

 

that her rich amber color had paled into a sickly yellow. Her eyes were

 

wide as she watched her uncle stride away.

 

 

"Valdyr?" Peter asked softly, trying to get her attention.

 

 

"What does be.Toy' mean? I couldn't translate it. Hey, Valdyr!"

 

 

Her head snapped around and she stared at him wild-eyed.

 

 

"Do not speak to me, human!" she commanded.

 

 

"Remember your place. You are my enemy. My prisoner.

 

 

And I am a Klingon!"

 

 

He was stunned to see her eyes filled with frustration and genuine

 

grief; then she turned and stormed away, leaving him alone in his stone

 

cell.

 

 

Sarek materialized on the windswept plateau high in the steppes above

 

Shikahr only minutes before sunset. Before him lay the steps leading to

 

the top of Mount Seleya, where the ancient temple and amphitheater were

 

located. The ambassador's robes flowed around him as he strode forward

 

and began climbing. The stairs were steep and long; the Vulcan's heart

 

was pounding by the time he reached the top, but he did not pause to

 

catch his breath. Instead he detoured around the ancient,

 

cylinder-shaped temple, heading for the small amphitheater.

 

 

The Vulcan was surprised by the number of people on the steps and ranged

 

around the old temple. Glancing ahead, he could see that the

 

amphitheater, reached by a narrow stone walkway that hung precariously

 

over a thousand-meter gulf, was even more crowded.

 

 

Many people, it seemed, wished to pay last respects to the memory of his

 

wife.

 

 

The ambassador had arrived on his homeworld only thirty minutes ago.

 

First he had gone to the reed center, where, after spending a few

 

minutes with the physical shell that had housed his wife's spirit, Sarek

 

authorized the cremation.

 

 

Now he was at the temple, barely in time for the memorial service. The

 

ceremony would be brief ... his son had asked T'Lar, the High Master of

 

Gol, to preside, and she had agreed.

 

 

As Sarek moved toward the small, shallow amphitheater, the crowd parted

 

before him. The ambassador's gaze touched many familiar faces from his

 

homeworld ... diplomatic personnel and their families, as well as

 

high-ranking government officials whom Sarek and Amanda had entertained

 

during official functions. Members of his family whom he had not seen in

 

years were there, heads respectfully bowed as they murmured the

 

traditional words, "I grieve with thee." Amanda would be gratified that

 

so many of those who initially disapproved of our marriage have come to

 

honor her memory, the ambassador thought, as he moved through the crowd.

 

 

As he crossed the narrow bridge, he saw that the highest-ranking

 

officials and closest family members were awaiting him in the

 

amphitheater--and there was his son, wearing a formal dark robe with

 

ancient symbols embroidered in silver on the breast. Spock was standing

 

with his crewmates from the Enterprise. As Sarek walked toward him,

 

Spock glanced up, recognized his father, then, deliberately, looked

 

away.

 

 

Sarek had not spoken to his son except for the brief, stilted words they

 

had exchanged when Spock had called to inform his father of Amanda's

 

passing. By the time Spock called him, the ambassador had known for

 

nearly six hours that his wife was dead. When Sarek had attempted to

 

speak about her, Spock had cut him off, then curtly informed his father

 

that the final repairs to his ship would be completed within forty-eight

 

Standard hours, and that he would be leaving Vulcan with his vessel.

 

 

As Sarek walked to the forefront of the gathering, Spock, still avoiding

 

his father's gaze, silently took his place beside the ambassador.

 

Together, they walked up to stand before the two huge, smooth pillars on

 

the raised platform. From the side of one of the pillars, there was

 

movement; then T'Lar, accompanied by two Acolytes, stepped forth. The

 

High Master wore a dark brown robe with a pale gold overtunic.

 

 

As Sarek and Spock stood there, T'Lar began to speak "Today we honor

 

the memory of Amanda Grayson Sarek," she began, speaking Standard

 

English in deference to the humans present. "She was a human who honored

 

us with her presence on our world.

 

 

"From Amanda Grayson Sarek, we learned that our people and humans could

 

live together in peace ... that they could be allies, friends, and

 

bondmates. Amanda Grayson Sarek possessed great strength, fortitude, and

 

courage the strength to survive a world that poses great hardships for

 

outworlders; the fortitude to endure the suspicion and distrust in which

 

humans were frequently held; and the courage to forever alter the way

 

Vulcans view the people of Terra. She changed us, not through strident

 

protest, but by quietly prevailing, becoming over the years a living

 

testament.

 

 

"Today we honor her ... we honor the wife, we honor the mother, we

 

honor the teacher, we honor the person of Amanda Grayson Sarek. Her life

 

is one to be held in highest regard and esteem." T'Lar delivered her

 

words in measured tones, raising her voice only to be heard above the

 

wind, for the large crowd stood in complete, respectful silence.

 

 

After the High Master had finished, by tradition the spouse was supposed

 

to speak. Sarek hesitated for a long moment after the last echo of

 

T'Lar's voice had faded into silence, then said "As a diplomat, I use

 

words as a builder would use tools. But words will not serve me today.

 

Grieve with me, for, with Amanda's passing, we have all lost someone

 

very ... rare. I can say no more." Spock glanced at his father in

 

surprise; then his expression hardened and he deliberately looked the

 

other way.

 

 

Sarek waited a moment to see whether his son wished to say anything,

 

then he raised a hand in salute to the waiting crowd. "My family, my

 

friends ... I wish you peace and long life."

 

 

"Live long and prosper," T'Lar said aloud, speaking for the crowd. Many

 

of the watchers held up their hands in the Vulcan salute, heads

 

respectfully bowed.

 

 

The ceremony was over.

 

 

Unlike human funerals, etiquette following a Vulcan memorial service

 

demanded that the family of the deceased be left in private. Sarek

 

watched as James Kirk came up to his son and said something quietly to

 

him; then the group of Starfleet officers silently took their leave.

 

 

"What did Kirk say?" Sarek asked, when he and Spock were alone, standing

 

amid the stark peaks surrounding Mount Seleya.

 

 

"He asked if we could both meet with him tomorrow at nine hundred hours

 

aboard the Enterprise to discuss the Freelan situation. I gave the

 

captain a brief overview while you were gone." Spock still did not look

 

at his father as he spoke. Instead his eyes remained fastened on the

 

mountain peaks, scarlet from the reflection of Nevasa's sunset.

 

 

"Good," Sarek said. "I was going to request such a meeting with Kirk

 

upon my return. I have new information to add to what I have already

 

told you." The Vul can hesitated. "Spock," he said finally, "about your

 

mother ... I would have returned home if it had been

 

 

possible. I--"

 

 

"She called for you," Spock interrupted, staring straight ahead. His

 

features seemed carved from the same rock that surrounded them.

 

"Whenever she was conscious, she called for you. Her decline was rapid,

 

after you left."

 

 

"The situation with Kadura was grave," Sarek said.

 

 

"Lives were in jeopardy Amanda told me that she understood."

 

 

"She understood very well." Spock's voice held a bitter edge.

 

 

"But the fact that she understood and forgave you does not make your

 

actions correct. Any competent diplomat could have negotiated a

 

settlement for Kadura's freedom.

 

 

But only you could have eased my mother's passing."

 

 

took a deep breath. "The entire time I sat there beside her ... two

 

days.. there was only one thing in the world that she wanted--you. And

 

you were not there. Without your presence, there was no solace for her

 

... no tranquility.

 

 

She called for you, and would not be comforted."

 

 

"Her ending was not ... peaceful?" the ambassador

 

 

asked, his voice a hollow whisper. Pain that was nearly physical in its

 

intensity struck him like a blow.

 

 

hesitated. "Even her sleep was restless," he said finally.

 

 

A muscle twitched in his jawline. "She was not aware of my presence at

 

all." closed his eyes, struggling for control. He experienced a brief

 

impulse to tell Spock how he had attempted to reach Amanda, but that was

 

a private thing ... not to be spoken of. Grief washed over him anew. So

 

... I did not reach her, there at the end. I thought I might have ... I

 

thought perhaps she could detect my presence ... but it was not so,

 

evidently ... "You were not there to ease her passing," Spock went on,

 

inexorably.

 

 

"Despite my presence, she died alone."

 

 

the elder Vulcan drew himself up, gazing impassively at Spock, his face

 

a cold mask. "These highly emotional recriminations are both illogical

 

and distasteful, Spock.

 

 

Your logic has failed you, my son ... which is regrettable, but

 

understandable, under the circumstances. You are, after all, Amanda's

 

child as well as mine. You are half-human ... and it is your human half

 

I am facing, now."

 

 

Spock turned his head and met his father's eyes. Their gazes locked. The

 

younger Vulcan's mouth tightened ... his gaze was as scorching as the

 

desert that lay around them.

 

 

But his voice, when he finally spoke, was icy. "In that case, I will

 

take my distasteful human half and depart ... sir. I bid you farewell."

 

Spock swung around and walked away, his pace light, even. His control

 

was perfect; his movements betrayed nothing of the anger Sarek had

 

sensed. The elder Vulcan hesitated, wanting to call him back, but he had

 

been perfectly logical--and right. One did not apologize for being

 

logical or correct ... As the ambassador watched, his son crossed the

 

narrow bridge, then strode away into the gathering darkness, leaving his

 

father alone.

 

 

James T. Kirk sat in his conference room at 0855 hours, awaiting Sarek

 

and his first officer. Spock had returned to his cabin aboard the

 

Enterprise to spend the night, instead of remaining with his father. In

 

Kirk's estimation, that did not bode well ... he'd seen his friend's

 

reaction when he spoke of Sarek's leaving when Amanda was dying. Kirk

 

had known Spock for many years, but had never seen him like this. If he

 

had to label it, he would call it anger.

 

 

Spock's brief revelation three days ago concerning Romu-lan moles

 

masquerading as Freelansma whole damned planet of them, apparently, was

 

extremely wordsome.

 

 

James T. Kirk had had many run-ins with both Romulans and Klingons in

 

his career, and, while it could not be denied that Klingons were fierce

 

warriors and made awesome enemies, Kirk had decided long ago that he

 

would rather confront Klingons in a knock-down, drag-out rather than

 

Romulans.

 

 

There was something about Romulans ... a subtlety, a canniness ... It

 

was the idea of Vulcan intellect without Vulcan ethics that Kirk found

 

frightening.

 

 

And now ... the Romulans were planning something big, if Sarek was

 

right. That did not bode well for the Federation.

 

 

Kirk recalled the moments after he had saved President Ra-ghoratrei at

 

Camp Khitomer. The delegates and envoys had milled around,

 

congratulating the Starfleet officers, everyone exclaiming over the fact

 

that the supposed Klingon assassin had actually proved to be Colonel

 

West, a human.

 

 

While Kirk was standing there, being congratulated and thanked by

 

President Ra-ghoratrei and Chancellor Azetbur, he'd noticed the Freelan

 

envoy, shrouded in his or her muffling robes, facing Ambassador Nanclus,

 

the Romulan who had plotted with General Chang and Admiral Cartwright to

 

bring about war between the Federation and the Klingon Empire. Beside

 

the Freelan had stood a young Vulcan woman, lovely and serene, her short

 

black hair cropped to reveal her elegant ears.

 

 

Kirk shook his head, slowly, his mind churning with questions and

 

speculations. If someone had ripped the Freelan's robes away, what would

 

they all have seen? If Sarek was correct in his reasoning ... and

 

Vulcans were, after all, noted for their reasoning abilities ... then

 

they would have all seen a Romulan face beneath that muffling cowl and

 

mask.

 

 

If that was true, then what did the Romulans want out of all this? Was

 

Sarek correct in his deductions? Was the Freelan goal to cause war

 

between the Federation and the Klingon Empire?

 

 

The door slid open and Ambassador Sarek entered. He was wearing his

 

formal robes of state, but even their bejeweled elegance could not

 

disguise the Vulcan's fatigue, the deeply shadowed eyes, the hair that

 

had turned nearly white. Sarek's expression was positively grim as he

 

nodded to Kirk. "Captain."

 

 

Kirk, who had stood respectfully when the senior diplomat entered,

 

nodded back. "Ambassador ... thank you for coming. And ..." He

 

struggled to form the Vulcan words this ship's computer had told him

 

were proper. "I grieve with thee ... "He took a deep breath, returned

 

to Standard English. "Mrs. Sarek was a wonderful woman, sir. We all

 

respected and admired her deeply."

 

 

"Thank you, Captain," Sarek said, and for a moment the grimness relaxed

 

fractionally, allowing just a bare glimpse of sadness to slip through.

 

 

The door slid open again, and Spock, back in uniform, entered, followed

 

by Dr. McCoy. The Vulcan ignored his father as he nodded a quick

 

greeting to Kirk.

 

 

Uh-oh, the captain thought. Will they be able to work together at all?

 

 

McCoy and Sarek exchanged greetings and the doctor expressed his

 

condolences to the ambassador. When the formalities were finished, Kirk

 

waved them all to seats.

 

 

"Ambassador Sarek," he began, "Spock has given us a brief summary of

 

your concerns about the Freelans. But I would like to hear the whole

 

story from your own lips, if you don't mind. And I'd like to see the

 

data you've compiled."

 

 

"I have already transferred it to the ship's computer, Captain," Spock

 

said, keying in a code word on the comm link. A fde menu appeared on the

 

screen.

 

 

Sarek began to speak, his beautifully modulated tones and measured,

 

precise delivery le nding credence to what would otherwise have sounded

 

like wild nonsense and rampant speculation, coming from anyone but a

 

Vulcan of his reputation. Kirk listened intently, interrupting every so

 

often to ask a question or request that the ambassador amplify a point.

 

 

Grimly, he and McCoy studied the charts and data the ambassador had

 

accumulated over years of study and research, and with every moment that

 

passed, Kirk's certainty that Sarek was correct in his reasoning grew.

 

The very idea of Freelan being a Romulan world had been outrageous at

 

first ... now, the more Kirk thought about it, the more the whole

 

scheme seemed like very typical Romulan reasoning ... clever, devious,

 

audacious ... and, unfortunately, it seemed that it might actually

 

work.

 

 

When Sarek finally finished his account, the captain of the Enterprise

 

shook his head grimly. "This stuff about the KEHL ... you're right

 

about how it's growing. Two days ago I got a priority message from my

 

nephew, Peter, telling me that he managed to gain access to the KEHL's

 

computer systems, but that Starfleet Security hadn't paid any attention

 

to the data he managed to get. He was asking my help in getting a full

 

investigation of the group started."

 

 

"What kind of data did Peter have?" Spock asked.

 

 

"Membership rolls, propaganda films ... things like that.

 

 

I also gather that the KEHL has breached security at the consulate,

 

Ambassador, and copied Vulcan data that they claimed would prove their

 

case that your world has a master plan to take over Earth."

 

 

"Take over Earth? The Vulcans?" Leonard McCoy looked thunderstruck, and

 

then he laughed out loud. "What a load of ... uh.. 2' He glanced at

 

Sarek, and altered what he'd been about to say to "That's absurd!"

 

 

"Something happened during my negotiations with Com mander Keraz that

 

lends more credence to my theory," Sarek said.

 

 

"What was that, Ambassador?" Kirk asked.

 

 

"One of Keraz's aides, Wurrl, attempted to assassinate me. Both he and

 

Keraz, I discovered, had been subjected to telepathic influence."

 

 

Hearing that his father had been attacked, Spock stole a quick look at

 

the elder Vulcan, as if checking him for injury.

 

 

"Maybe what we ought to do is just grab some Freelan at a conference and

 

rip his ask off, McCoy suggested. "Serve them right."

 

 

"In the first place, such tactics abrogate diplomatic munity as well as

 

civil law," Sarek pointed out evenly. "And if we engaged in such ...

 

peremptory ... behavior, we would lose the goodwill of many delegates,

 

no matter how exemplary our motives for doing so."

 

 

"Yeah, well," McCoy grumbled, "who knows what damage they've been

 

causing, poking around in other people's minds? I'll bet the Freelans

 

had a hand in Chang's conspiracy, too."

 

 

"I suspect you would win that wager, Doctor," Sarek said, steepling his

 

hands before him on the table. So that where Spock learned that ... Jim

 

thought. "During the recent crisis, President Ra-ghoratrei summoned me,

 

Ambassador Kamarag, and Ambassador Nanclus to discuss the Klingon demand

 

for your extradition after the assassination of Chancellor Gorkon. Just

 

after Kamarag left, Admiral Smillie, Admiral Cartwright, and Colonel

 

West entered the office. The Starfleet officers had prepared a military

 

plan of action designed to rescue you and Dr. McCo ."

 

 

"I never knew that, Jim? the doctor exclaimed, eyes widening with

 

surprise. "I thought Starfleet just decided to throw us to the wolves."

 

 

"Admiral Smillie told me about it at Khitomer," Kirk admitted. "But he

 

said Ra-ghoratrei wouldn't go along with it."

 

 

"That is true," Sarek affirmed. "But what is significant to us now is

 

that, during this discussion, Ambassador Nanclus

 

 

pointed out to the president that the Klingons were vulnerable.. and

 

that there would never be a better time to begin a full-scale military

 

action against them. He was quite ... emphatic."

 

 

"Nanclus was openly advocating war between the Federation and the

 

Klingon Empire?" Even in the light of subse quent events, Kirk was

 

surprised that the Romulan would be so overt.

 

 

"I heard him myself," Sarek said simply.

 

 

"But Nanclus was working with General Chang and Admiral Cartwright to

 

start a war. He wasn't giving the official Romulan position "Kirk's

 

voice faded out. waited a beat, then lifted one elegant eyebrow. "Wasn't

 

he?" he asked softly. "How do you know? Subsequent events made it seem

 

that Nanclus was working in concert with Chang and Cartwright ... but

 

who really started the plot?" The captain drew a deep breath. "During

 

his court-martial, Cartwright claimed under oath that Nanclus came to

 

him, and that both of them then presented the idea to Chang--who was

 

only too happy to take over. But if the whole thing was really Nanclus's

 

idea ..."

 

 

"Precisely," Sarek said.

 

 

"Was the Klingon assassin's attack on you a result of telepathic

 

influence, Ambassador?" Spock asked, his tone cool and formal. Kirk

 

realized it was the first time he'd addressed the elder Vulcan.

 

 

"Yes, I believe so.

 

 

I only gained a brief impression of Wurrl's mind during the struggle,"

 

Sarek replied. "The Klingon suffered a fractured skull during the fight,

 

and lapsed into a coma.

 

 

I have no idea whether he is still alive. Starfleet took him into

 

custody." Sarek was looking at Spock, but, Kirk noticed, the Vulcan's

 

return gaze was remote.

 

 

"And Commander Keraz also been subjected to undue mental influence?"

 

Spock pursued the topic, still in that cool, toneless fashion.

 

 

"In what way?"

 

 

"When I asked the Klingon commander why he had chosen to take such an

 

action in seizing a Federation colony, he informed me

 

 

really did not know why he had done it. It was strictly an impulsive

 

decision, one that puzzled him in its aftermath.

 

 

When I told him what I had discovered about Wurrl, he asked me to

 

determine whether he, too, had been affected.

 

 

I touched him ... and knew that he had."

 

 

"Oho," McCoy said.

 

 

"You think some Freelan and his trained Vulcan pup compelled Wurrl to

 

try and murder you, and Keraz to turn renegade and invade Kadura?"

 

 

"I would say that 'compelled' is too strong a term," Sarek said.

 

"'Influenced' is more apt, I believe. But as to the Freelans being

 

involved ... of that, I have no doubt."

 

 

"Ambassador," Kirk said, as an idea occurred to him, "is it possible

 

that Kadura was a setup to lure you off Vulcan, so that you could be

 

gotten out of the way? Is there any possibility that the Freelans know

 

that you suspect them?" Sarek blinked. Obviously, Kirk's idea was a new

 

one to him. "Possible, I suppose," he murmured. "Taryn did seem

 

suspicious the last time I visited their station."

 

 

"Is there any possibility that your valit program did not completely

 

cover your entrance into the Romulan data banks?" Spock asked. "Could

 

they have discovered some evidence after you left Freelan orbit?" The

 

elder Vulcan raised an eyebrow. "My valit was well designed," he said,

 

with a touch of surprise that Spock would question his expertise with

 

computers. "In the event any tampering was detected--which I consider

 

unlikely--there would have been no way to trace the intrusion back to

 

me."

 

 

"But circumstantial evidence might enough to arouse Taryn to take action

 

against you," Spock said. "Possible," Sarek conceded.

 

 

"I think we should go to the president immediately with all of this,"

 

Kirk said.

 

 

"And to Starfleet Security, Vice-Admiral Burton." The captain looked at

 

Sarek, was surprised to see the Vulcan shake his head in negation.

 

 

"No, Kirk," he said. "Not yet. Not until I have incontrovertible proof."

 

 

"Just the fact that you're suspicious will be enough!"

 

 

McCoy burst out. "A man of your reputation, Ambassador of course the

 

president will pay attention."

 

 

"I must speak to the president about this only in person," Sarek said.

 

"Otherwise, I cannot be certain that his mind has not been influenced.

 

The same applies to your Vice-Admiral Burton. Also, we must guard

 

against any of these speculations becoming public knowledge. The

 

consequences, should that happen, would be grave."

 

 

"What consequences?" McCoy asked, taken aback.

 

 

"The fragile peace with the Klingon Empire, for one," Spock said, before

 

the ambassador could reply. "It might appear to Azetbur that the

 

Federation is attempting to stir up trouble between the Romulans and the

 

Klingon Empire ... by accusing the Romulans of influencing the Klingons

 

to turn renegade. Also, do not forget the KEHL.

 

 

Most of the followers are undoubtedly hapless dupes ... innocent of

 

everything except being easily led. Charges that they are Romulan pawns

 

could lead to witch-hunts."

 

 

"What kind of proof do you propose to get, Ambassador Sarek? If the

 

Romulans suspect that you know, they will undoubtedly recall all their

 

Freelan personnel, and escalate their efforts to cause war between the

 

Federation and the Klingon Empire."

 

 

"Indeed. We must be cautious, and not move until we are ready," Sarek

 

agreed. "I would still like to access the Freelan data banks and copy

 

their contents. If it is done properly, we could gain proof, without

 

alerting the Romulans that we know of their plans."

 

 

"Can you do it again? And get away with copies, this time?"

 

 

"I believe that I can," Sarek said, glancing at his son. "If Spock will

 

assist me."

 

 

Spock sat in silence for a moment, then nodded. "I will do my best," he

 

said. "I will need to study the valits you used before, to attempt to

 

refine them so they will work more smoothly."

 

 

For a moment Kirk sensed a flash of indignation from the ambassador,

 

even though the Vulcan's calm expression

 

 

never varied. "Very well," he said. "I will provide them to you."

 

 

Kirk looked from father to son, thinking that if anyone could break past

 

Romulan security, it would be these two.

 

 

Still, he was hesitant about not going straight to Starfleet Security

 

with news of this plot. But if delaying a few da ys would provide proof

 

positive ...

 

 

"How close would you have to be to Ereelan to tap into the data banks?"

 

Kirk asked.

 

 

"Given the resources of a starship's computer system, anywhere within

 

the boundaries of the system should suffice," Sarek said. "I was

 

dependent, remember, on a small tricorder. Kirk, how long would it take

 

to reach Freelan aboard this vessel?"

 

 

"Two days, at warp six."

 

 

"Excellent," Sarek said. "That should be sufficient time for me to

 

acquaint Spock with my plan for accessing the Freelan system." The

 

ambassador nodded approvingly at Kirk. "I thank you for your

 

cooperation, Captain."

 

 

"It's my duty to investigate a threat to Federation security," Kirk said

 

simply. "When can you be ready to leave Vulcan?"

 

 

"I anticipated that I would be leaving with your ship, Kirk. I came

 

prepared to do so."

 

 

"Scotty said the final paint job would be completed--" Kirk, who was

 

already reaching for the intercom, broke off as it beeped. Impatiently,

 

he opened the channel. "Kirk here. I thought I gave orders that I was

 

not to be dis--"

 

 

"Captain," Commander Uhura's voice interrupted, "I have a Priority One

 

personal message for you, sir, from the commandant of Starfleet

 

Academy."

 

 

"The commandant?" Kirk was nonplussed. What could Commandant Anderson be

 

wanting with him? "Relay it, Commander."

 

 

"Yes, sir ... "She paused for a moment. "Captain ... Commandant

 

Anderson reports that your nephew Peter has disappeared. Their

 

investigation leads them to believe he did not leave of his own free

 

will. Sir ... the commandant reports that he suspects foul play."

 

 

Kirk swallowed. Peter was the only close relative he had.

 

 

If anything had happened to him ... "Commander," he said tightly,

 

"inform the bridge crew to begin preparations to depart drydock on my

 

command." He clicked to a different channel. "Set course for Sector

 

53.16 ... the Freelan system. Mr. Scott?"

 

 

"Scott here, sir," replied the familiar burr promptly.

 

 

"How soon can we cast off moorings and get out of here?"

 

 

"We'll be ready in another twenty minutes, Captain."

 

 

"You've got ten," Kirk snapped.

 

 

"Aye, sir," came the engineer's casual reply. "We'll be ready."

 

 

"Good, Scotty. Ten minutes. Kirk out."

 

 

Snapping off the intercom, the captain looked at the others grimly. "It

 

never rains but it pours," he said.

 

 

"Murphy's Law."

 

 

The ambassador raised an eyebrow. "Murphy's Law?"

 

 

"A human aphorism that states, "Whatever can go wrong, will,'" Spock

 

explained.

 

 

"Yeah, and at the worst possible time," McCoy added.

 

 

"Jim ... what could have happened to Peter?"

 

 

"I don't know, Bones," Kirk said. "The temptation is to think that,

 

because he was investigating the KEHL, they're responsible for this. But

 

that might not be true." Opening a channel to the bridge, he said,

 

"Commander Uhura, please contact Commandant Anderson for me."

 

 

"Yes, Captain. I'll put through a call immediately, sir." Kirk

 

hesitated, thinking furiously. Should he turn command of the Enterprise

 

over to Spock, and take a transport for Earth? He couldn't abandon

 

Peter! And yet ... duty came before personal concerns. "Ambassador,"

 

he said,

 

 

"assuming you have your proof in a few days, what are you going to

 

suggest that the Federation do about this situation with the Romulans?"

 

 

"Some elements in Starfleet would advise a preemptive strike," Spock

 

said. "I can visualize Admiral Smillie approving such a tactic, given

 

sufficient provocation."

 

 

"War? All-out war?" McCoy was aghast. "There must be

 

 

some way to prevent that!" He glanced at Kirk. "Isn't there, Jim?"

 

 

"I don't know," Kirk said, forcing himself to put Peter out of his mind

 

and concentrate on the subject at hand. "It could be that the Romulans

 

would back off if they knew they'd lost the element of surprise, and

 

that they couldn't push the Federation and the Klingons into

 

hostilities."

 

 

"It is possible," Sarek pointed out, "that they might evacuate the

 

Freelan colony and deny everything. Taryn, I believe, is ruthless enough

 

for such an action."

 

 

"In that event, what would happen to the second-generation Vulcanst'

 

Spock wondered. "Technically, they are hostages. We are under a moral

 

imperative to free them."

 

 

"If these Vulcan kids have grown up brainwashed by the Romulans, they

 

may think of themselves as Romulans, rather than as Vulcans," McCoy

 

pointed out. "They may not want to be rescued." He turned to Sarek. "Do

 

you have any idea how many there are?"

 

 

The Vulcan shook his head. "From the numbers of Vulcans who were

 

abducted, I can speculate that there may be as many as one hundred ...

 

perhaps two hundred. No fewer than fifty, certainly."

 

 

Kirk's hazel eyes were bleak as he held the Vulcans' gazes.

 

 

"Knowing the Romulans, they're perfectly capable of simply eradicating

 

the hostages, rather than taking any chances of them being used as an

 

excuse for a military rescue by Federation forces."

 

 

Father and son nodded silently, grimly.

 

 

"I think we should--" Kirk began, only to be interrupted by the

 

intercom. "Kirk here," he said.

 

 

"Sir," Uhura said, "Commandant Anderson is standing by."

 

 

"Put him through," Jim ordered.

 

 

A moment later, Kyle Anderson's features coalesced on the small screen.

 

He was a distinguished looking black man, balding, with a heavy,

 

iron-gray beard. "Captain Kirk," he said. "You received my message?"

 

 

"Just a few minutes ago," Kirk said. "What's happened to Peter?"

 

 

"He's vanished without a trace, Captain. Our security people have

 

determined that he disappeared shortly after midnight on Wednesday

 

evening of last week. But we're having finals here, so nobody realized

 

he was missing until the day before yesterday. It took us a day to track

 

down your ship ... I'm sorry for the delay."

 

 

Kirk drew a deep breath. "But.. he's been gone for days! And you still

 

don't know where he went?"

 

 

"No. He's disappeared so thoroughly that we now suspect he was taken

 

off-world. We're in the process of tracing all ships that departed from

 

Earth or Earth orbit that night," Anderson said. "But, as you can

 

imagine, that's a tall order."

 

 

Kirk nodded wordless agreement. "What makes you suspect foul play?" he

 

asked.

 

 

"We managed to retrieve the last message that came in for him at his

 

apartment. It had been automatically scrambled after playing.. but they

 

unscrambled it just this morning." He pressed a button. "Here it is."

 

 

Kirk watched with growing horror as his own features replaced Anderson's

 

on-screen. He listened to himself demanding that Peter come over

 

immediately. Then the screen flickered, and Anderson's dark features

 

were back. "I never sent that message," Kirk said bleakly. "But it's no

 

wonder he fell for it ... he was expecting to hear from "We know that,

 

Captain. We have a record of Peter encoding a Priority One message for

 

you. May we have your permission to decode it? It might give us a clue

 

to his whereabouts."

 

 

Kirk hesitated. They'd agreed to keep their suspicions of the KEHL being

 

linked with the Romulans secret. "We'll investigate on our end," he

 

said, finally. "I'll let you see the message as soon as I clear it with

 

Starfleet Security. Can you please transmit everything you've got on

 

that message to my communications chief, Commander Uhura? There's nobody

 

better at tracing transmissions."

 

 

"Certainly, Captain," Anderson said. "We'll do that."

 

 

"I'll get back to you as soon as I get that clearance," Kirk said,

 

crossing his fingers underneath the table.

 

 

"My people suspect they were waiting for him on the street," Anderson

 

said. "And that they grabbed him there."

 

 

"So you're thinking kidnapping, rather than ..." Kirk swallowed." ...

 

murder?"

 

 

"We just don't know, Captain. But if somebody simply wanted your nephew

 

dead, why the elaborate hoax with the faked message?"

 

 

"Logical," murmured Spock and Sarek at the same moment.

 

 

"Abduction ... possibly kidnapping?" Kirk's mind was racing. "Has there

 

been any kind of message? Any demands for ransom?"

 

 

"Not so far."

 

 

"If any message comes through," Kirk said, "TII let you know. Maybe we

 

can trace its source, and learn something from that."

 

 

"Good idea. If I hear anything, I'll contact you immedi lately,

 

Captain," Anderson promised in his turn.

 

 

"Thank you, Commandant."

 

 

"Rest assured, we're doing everything we can," the man said, before

 

cutting the connection.

 

 

Kirk turned to the others sitting around the table. "If Scotty is as

 

good as his word, we should be casting off moorings by now. Ambassador

 

... you and Spock should begin working on those valits you mentioned.

 

I'll have Uhura get to work on tracing that message. I've got a hunch

 

this is all going to wind up connected, somehow."

 

 

Minutes later, Kirk was on the bridge, ensconced in his command seat.

 

With a glint in his eye, he surveyed the cavernous interior of the

 

Vulcan drydock through the viewscreen. "Status, s'bysh?" he asked his

 

helmsman.

 

 

"All moorings cleared, Captain. Docking bay doors will open in two

 

minutes, thirty-five point six seconds," she reported, crisply.

 

 

"Lay in a course for Freelan, Lieutenant." Kirk settled back in his

 

seat, his eyes level, jaw set. He watched s'bysh's

 

 

green fingers fly. "Ready, Lieutenant?" he asked, scarcely more than a

 

minute later. "Course laid in7"

 

 

"Aye, sir." Counting seconds down in his head, Kirk reached thirty-four.

 

 

"Ahead one-half impulse power, Lieutenant," he ordered, and thought he

 

heard Chekov mutter, "Not again?

 

 

"One-half impulse, aye, sir." Enterprise sprang forward like a cheetah

 

sighting prey.

 

 

The ship closed on the parting bay doors with a terrifying rush of

 

speed, blasted through them with only a few hundred meters to spare on

 

either side, and then they were out, into free space. Chekov's sigh of

 

relief was audible all over the bridge, and Commander Uhura chuckled

 

softly when she heard it.

 

 

"Ahead warp six," Kirk ordered grimly.

 

 

"Warp six, aye, Captain." Kirk settled back in his seat. No matter what

 

speed Mr. Scott managed to coax out of the warp engines, it was going to

 

be a long trip ...

 

 

After a long day spent refining valit programs, Sarek was weary, but

 

sleep eluded him. Remembering his promise, he extracted Amanda's

 

journal, and opened it, noting the date at the top of the page.

 

 

November 12,2231 It is the middle of the night, and quiet. I am tired

 

... but I am also too excited to sleep. I cannot neglect my journal

 

tonight of all nights!

 

 

I have a son.

 

 

Sarek and I have a son. He was born in the early hours of this morning.

 

Never having been through labor before, I worried that it mightprove too

 

much for me to bear (no pun intended) without shaming myself before the

 

Healers, but I believe I did well ... And our son is perfect. Even

 

though the Healers reassured me that all their tests showed that the

 

baby was normal, still I worried. After all, I had to be treated before

 

I could conceive, then monitored carefully throughout the pregnancy to

 

allow me to carry to term--nearly a full month more than the human norm!

 

 

Carrying a child for almost ten Earth months is not fun, and that is the

 

understatement of the century. I was so big yesterday that I felt as

 

though my sides would split open. I spent hours staring in wonderment at

 

my belly, unable to believe the size of it. I could barely waddle to the

 

bathroom unassisted! When I felt that dull ache in my back sharpen into

 

an actual contraction, I could have jumped for joy. What a relief it is

 

to return to something like my normal size!

 

 

For a while the Healers were afraid I would not be able to deliver

 

normally ... my son is very large for a human infant, though not

 

particularly so for a Vulcan baby. If it had not been for the

 

Healer-midwife coaching, I might have given up in despair. But she was

 

amazingly supportive for someone who must have been wincing inwardly

 

every time I betrayed what I was feeling.

 

 

My labor was intense, and seemed to take forever. I was surprised that I

 

was able to handle the pain as well as I did. It hurt, yes ... by all

 

the gods that ever were, it felt as though some diabolical presence were

 

trying to hammer a spike into the base of my spine, while simultaneously

 

squeezing my belly in a vise. But, unlike hangnails, stubbed toes,

 

barked shins, and sprained ankles, this was pain with a purpose. As long

 

as I could focus on that purpose, the pain did not ... could not

 

overwhelm me. I vaguely remember the midwife encouraging me, reminding

 

that my suffering was for a purpose, and that helped me to focus on the

 

results, not the pain.

 

 

Sarek was there for most of the time, holding my hand and thus sharing

 

what I felt. In a way, that seemed to lessen the agony. Perhaps he used

 

a meld to mind-block some of the worst of the pangs ... or perhaps it

 

was simply the quiet strength he projects that gave me courage.

 

 

I wish I could have my child with me tonight, but they have taken him to

 

the science academy, to run tests and keep him under close observation.

 

ds I held him in my arms after his first feeding, I beheld a tiny face

 

that was so Vulcan that I wondered if there was anything of me in him.

 

But just as I thought there was nothing human in him at all, my son

 

opened his mouth and began to wailresounding just like a human baby. I

 

saw somethingcould it have been disappointment?--fiicker across my

 

husbandg face as he heard those infant squalls.

 

 

Vulcan babies cry only for a reason--hunger or discomfort. And our son

 

was dry and fed ... and thus had little or no reason to wail.

 

 

Which proves that he is partly mine, after all.

 

 

Was Sarek disappointed? I suppose I will never know.

 

 

I love our son too much to ask--and risk "yes"for an answer ... The

 

newborn infant squirmed in his tiny, heated cocoon as his father watched

 

every movement, enthralled by the new life that he had helped create. My

 

son ... he thought, noting the tiny veins that pulsed greenish blue

 

just beneath the thin, delicate skin. My son ... what will we name you?

 

 

Your Name Day will not arrive for nearly a month, so we have some time

 

to choose a suitable appellation. Your mother will not even be able to

 

pronounce your 'rst" name ... Vulcan first names were always a

 

combination of syllables in Old Vulcan that denoted lineage and birth

 

order. But Sarek's son would be called by his last name, even as his

 

father was. Traditionally, in honor of Surak, the name would begin with

 

an S. The infant moved restlessly again, then opened his mouth, uttering

 

a faint squeak. His eyes opened, moved aimlessly for a moment, then

 

fastened on his father's face.

 

 

The birthing puffiness had lessened; the child's eyes were now far less

 

slitted, and Sarek could easily discern their color. Dark, like his own,

 

not blue, as his mother's were. Not surprising. All the Healers' tests

 

during Amanda's pregnan cy had indicated that Vulcan genes would prove

 

dominant in a human/Vulcan pairing.

 

 

The nursery attendant, noting that the child had roused from the

 

readings on her monitors, approached Sarek and his son. "He is awake,"

 

he announced unnecessarily.

 

 

"He is," she agreed. "Soon he will be hungry. I will give him his

 

supplement now. Do you wish to take him to your wife for his feeding,

 

Ambassador?" Sarek hesitated. His son was very small ... his own hands

 

could nearly span that tiny body lengthwise. He had never held an infant

 

before ... "If you would prefer," the nurse said, "I will do it." Sarek

 

watched as she quickly, efficiently, lifted the baby and administered

 

the oral supplement that would provide him with the nutrients that

 

Amanda's human milk did not contain. But before she could turn away, he

 

held out his arms. "I will take him," he said, firmly.

 

 

Obediently, the nurse placed the small, warm bundle into his arms. The

 

Vulcan stood rigid, his arms stiff, as she settled the baby into place,

 

making sure his head was properly supported.