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.

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 time 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 memories, 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 wereintimate with her.” Amanda’s eyes flashed cobalt.

Sarek sighed. “T’Rea,” he said. “My first wife.”

“You weremarried? And you didn’ttell 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.

Sarek launched into a fairly composed, concise explanation of the Vulcan mating drive, and how a Vulcan couple in the throes ofpon farr 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 farragain? 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 about it.

 

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 embryonic 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. Worse 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 thebe’joy’ —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 niece?” Kamarag’s order intruded on her thoughts.

Valdyr scowled. She would have tonurse 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, lengthybe’joy’ —while his uncle is forced to watch!”

Valdyr’s 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 comfortingly, giving her a congenial hug, “thattask will be yours as well. A reward for the distasteful work ahead of you—guarding this stinking alien, this blood kin ofva 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 thisreally 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 followyou, 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 isyou 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 isdead!” he reminded her brutally.“I 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 willnot 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.

Valdyr 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 Jav, 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 corridors, he carried in his gauntleted 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 bedead?” 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,Valdyr 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, dehydrated, and inactive for days, this human had managed to have both the strengthand 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 thatlook, that patronizing expression warriors always gave her?It would be shameful for a warrior to fight 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 earsplitting 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 thisHa’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 Klingon 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.

Treegor grumbled at her, “Thishuman is not worthy to be our enemy. He is aparasite, brought down by awoman. He deserves no honorable consideration.”

“Be careful, Treegor,” she warned. “This human broughtyou 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 himhurt —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 breaths, 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 apunch 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 sowarm.

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 lips 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, thankyou.”

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 honor—it was everything to them. But women didn’t get much benefit from the heavily patriarchal system. He started to introduce himself. “My name is—”

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 aperson 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-cadets! “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 againstyour 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.”

She’s 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 protégé.”

“Kruge? I mean, Captain Kruge?” Peter was nonplussed. “But…that was over three years ago!”

“ ‘Revenge, like atarg, 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’sus, 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 Marcus 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 myself!”

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 threateningly. “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 presents!”

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 amfemale! ”

Peter widened his eyes innocently. “Why, Valdyr, such a thought never crossedmy mind. But apparently…it crossed yours.”

Her eyes narrowed as she digested this, then her skin visibly darkened.She’s blushing!

“Of course…it is a potentiallyappealing 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 wasnot in uniform, but wore a longish 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. Sarekwas 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 epithets—his rage was suddenly too all-encompassing to be vented with mere insults. He had been drugged, kidnapped, beaten—and 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 do? 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 bediplomatic.

“Ambassador Kamarag,” 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,be’joy’, 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 doesbe’joy’ mean? I couldn’t translate it. Hey, Valdyr!”

Her head snapped around and she stared at him wild-eyed. “Donot speak to me, human!” she commanded. “Remember your place. You are myenemy. Myprisoner. 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 med 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 theEnterprise. 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 theEnterprise 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 Vulcan 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 onlyyou could have eased my mother’s passing.”

Spock took a deep breath. “The entire time I sat there beside her…twodays …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.

Spock hesitated. “Even her sleep was restless,” he said finally. A muscle twitched in his jawline. “She was not aware of my presence at all.”

Sarek 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.”

Slowly 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.”

At last 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 theEnterprise 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 Romulan moles masquerading as Freelans—a whole damnedplanet of them, apparently, was extremely worrisome. 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 file menu appeared on the screen.

Sarek began to speak, his beautifully modulated tones and measured, precise delivery lending 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 theEnterprise 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? TheVulcans?” Leonard McCoy looked thunderstruck, and then he laughed out loud. “What a load of…uh…” He glanced at Sarek, and altered what he’d been about to say to “That’s absurd!”

“Something happened during my negotiations with Commander 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 mask off,” McCoy suggested. “Serve them right.”

“In the first place, such tactics abrogate diplomatic immunity 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’s 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. McCoy.”

“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 subsequent 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.

Sarek 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 tohim, 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 had 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 that he really did not knowwhy 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 yourvalit 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. “Myvalit was well designed,” he said, with a touch of surprise that Spock would question his expertise with computers. “In the event any tamperingwas detected—which I consider unlikely—there would have been no way to trace the intrusion back to me.”

“But circumstantial evidence might be 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 thevalits 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 days would provide proof positive…

“How close would you have to be to Freelan 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 didnot 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 theEnterprise 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 Vulcans?” 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 me…”

“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, “I’ll let you know. Maybe we can trace its source, and learn something from that.”

“Good idea. If I hear anything, I’ll contact you immediately, 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 thosevalits 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 in?”

“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.”

Enterprisesprang 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 refiningvalit 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.

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 “first” 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 anS.

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 pregnancy 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.

The ambassador was faintly, illogically surprised to discover that his newborn son, who appeared so fragile, so helpless, actually had substance. The baby occupied space, and had mass…he was a warm, squirming, living, breathing entity. Sarek stared down at him, fascinated. Dark eyes regarded him, locked with his own in an unblinking regard.

As he stared into the child’s eyes, all at once the infant becamereal to Sarek, in a way he never had before. For all these months he had watched his wife’s belly grow, touched her delicately to feel the movement beneath her skin, observed the child’s heartbeat on the monitors…but part of him had never truly comprehended that an actual child was forming within Amanda, and that that child was half his.

Reality had not begun to manifest itself until he had grasped Amanda’s hand during labor, had directly experienced the agonizing pain that his wife was enduring. He had been amazed that a human could endure such pain without blacking out—Amanda’s fierce concentration, her comparative silence except during the worst of the birthing contractions had impressed him. His wife had always seemed frail to him, delicate, with her human constitution. His own strength had always been so much greater—and yet, today, he’d found himself admiring her stoicism as she’d endured such intense pain. Amanda was stronger than he’d ever realized. Even the Healer had expressed approval of her fortitude during labor and birthing.

Now the ambassador gazed down at the tiny face with its fuzz of black hair, noting the faint traces of the slanted eyebrows, the delicately pointed ears, the slightly squashed nose.

Looking at his son, Sarek of Vulcan experienced a moment of insight so intense it was nearly painful. Past and future, then and now and tomorrow seemed to swirl around him, blending and coming together in the small body so warm and breathing in his arms. This child was a link to the long-ago, and he would be the future. Someday he would stand up and walk the sands of his homeland, would gaze at The Watcher with wonder, would go to school and learn the logic of his forebears. He would grow to adulthood, tall and strong and handsome, and someday he might hold a son of his own in his arms….

“Our preliminary tests are complete,” the nurse said, breaking into Sarek’s reverie. “They indicate that his intelligence potential is above average, Ambassador. Considerably above average.”

Sarek was not surprised, having gazed into the infant’s eyes for these long seconds, but he felt a surge of pride that he did not trouble to repress.

The rigidity had somehow gone out of his arms. He held the child against his chest, instinctively cradling him close. “I will take him to his mother now,” he said.

The nurse nodded, and Sarek, moving carefully so as not to jostle his son, walked away….

 

Closing the journal, the Vulcan sighed as he recalled his encounter with his son yesterday at Amanda’s memorial service. If his wife knew the things they had said to each other, she would have been terribly distressed. Remembering how she’d begged him to try and understand his son, instead of being judgmental and always finding fault, the ambassador shook his head.

And yet…what could he have done differently? He had only done his duty. Amanda had understood…why couldn’t his son?

 

James T. Kirk sat in the captain’s chair, waiting.

“Captain,” Uhura said, an odd note in her voice, “I’m picking up a subspace transmission, sir. It’s on the frequency reserved for personal communiqués and mail…. ”

Kirk glanced over at her, sitting up straight. “A message?”

“Yes, sir.” She looked over at him, her dark eyes compassionate. She knew, of course, that Peter was missing.

“What does it say?”

“It says, ‘To Captain Kirk. Visit Sector 53.16, at coordinates 39 mark 122, before thirteen hundred hours stardate 9544.6. A certain redhead is waiting, will die if you don’t show. Come alone. Tell no one.’ ”

Kirk drew a deep breath. “Uhura, trace that message back to its point of origin. I don’t care how many substations they routed it through, follow it back all the way. Understood?”

“Aye, Captain,” she said, her lovely features set in lines of determination that matched his own.

“And message Commandant Anderson that we’ve just received the ransom note.”