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and came down on his backside on the deck. The lieutenant was thrown sideways into Scott’s chair and nearly fell on top of him, but regained his balance in time.

Scott stayed where he was, waiting for the next strike for one second, for two. For three, and as he sat, the shaking gradually eased, and the ship was still.

Scott rose slowly to his feet, watching as Demora scrambled back to her station and peered at the helm readout; a broad grin spread over her features. “We’re clear.”

Harriman was miraculously still at the conn. For a moment he stared at the screen, clearly amazed to find himself still alive, then punched a control on the arm of his chair. “You did it, Kirk!” He swiveled toward Demora. “Damage report, Ensign.”

Demora’s smile had already faded; with the efficiency of a seasoned officer, she studied her console. Afine lass, Scott thought; next time he saw her father, he’d be sure to tell Sulu how well she performed in the crisis. “There’s some buckling on the starboard nacelle,” Demora reported. She frowned abruptly and glanced up at Harriman. “We’ve also got a hull breach in the engineering section. Emergency forcefields are in place and holding.”

Scott could not have explained then how he knew. Engineering covered a very large area of the ship, and dozens of areas could have been damaged without coming anywhere near the deflector room. Yet at the instant Demora said, We’ve got a hull breach, he went cold. For a moment he could not speak; when he did, he could manage no more than a single, hoarse question.

“Where?”

Demora looked at him. His expression and eyes must have betrayed him, for at the sight of his face, she seemed to realize what he was asking. Her face went slack; her dark eyes narrowed with concern. As she stared down at the console again, Harriman rose from his chair, as if he, too, suddenly shared Scott’s ominous conviction.

Let me be wrong, Scott prayed, but as he watched Demora’s eyes widen, then narrow again at the sight on her board, he knew he was not.

“Sections twenty through twenty-eight,” Demora read dully, “on decks thirteen, fourteen…” She gazed up at Scott. “… and fifteen.”

Numbly, Scott returned to the aft console and pressed the comm control. “Bridge to Captain Kirk.” He paused, waited an agony of seconds, then repeated, “Captain Kirk… please respond.”

An eternity of silence. Scott could not meet the gazes of all those focused on him; he bowed his head and briefly closed his eyes.

When he had gathered himself enough to speak again, he turned to Demora. “Have Chekov meet me on deck fifteen.”

He headed for the turbolift, only distantly aware that Harriman followed close behind.

In sickbay, Chekov continued to help the survivors. Other than their mental disorientation, the worst wound—a facial cut, from a bulkhead fragment— belonged to the pale man who had attacked the reporter, and now lay sedated under restraints. The two journal-52 53

ists made fairly efficient orderlies, and it seemed the situation would soon be under control.

As he worked, he found it easier to maintain his balance, and gradually came to realize that the ship’s shaking had eased. He smiled over at his two impromptu assistants, who were busily scanning patients.

“You see?” he called. “The people on the bridge can be trusted to take care of things.”

The two grinned with relief. “Thank goodness,” said the woman. “I was beginning to think I’d never get the chance to file a great—”

Chekov never heard the rest. The world suddenly heaved to one side, hurling him against a diagnostic bed. When the rocking subsided, he found himself on the deck atop the dark-skinned woman with the intriguing eyes. He scrambled to his feet. “Are you all right?”

She did not reply, but pushed herself to a sitting position. Her purple cap had fallen off; Chekov retrieved it and helped her on with it. She stared at him blankly as he offered her a hand, then pulled her to her feet and guided her back to the biobed.

All the while she stared, as though looking through him at another, more distant sight. And then suddenly she blinked, and seemed to see him—really see him— and gazed intently up into his eyes.

“He’s gone there, now.” She said it so matter-of- factly, addressing Chekov with such lucid directness that he could not help responding. “Who’s gone? Gone where?”

“To the other side.” Her face grew somber with compassion. “He’s gone.” Chekov glanced up as the female reporter called

jubilantly, “The shaking! It’s stopped!” But only for an instant; the El Aurian woman’s gaze compelled him to finish the conversation.

He was being foolish, of course, to think her words had any meaning. She had suffered a serious neural shock; she was raving. He tried to imagine how Dr. McCoy would handle this: Now, ma’am, you just lie back and relax ….

He smiled again and patted her hand. “Don’t talk any more. You need to rest.” Reluctantly, he turned away.

“Your friend,” she said, with such conviction that he looked back. But he shook off the strange current of fear her words evoked, smiling palely at his own irrationality, and began once more to move away.

“Your friend, Jim,” she said, and Chekov wheeled to face her.

“Commander Chekov.” Demora’s voice filtered through the intercom. Her tone seemed strained, oddly formal. “Captain Scott requests that you meet him on level fifteen, near engineering.”

Still staring at the El Aurian woman’s inscrutable expression, Chekov made his way through the cluster of seated survivors to the nearest comm panel. “Demora, what is it? Is something wrong?”

But she had already terminated the link.

He left the remaining patients in the reporters’ care and ran to the nearest turbolift. Demora’s terse message had filled him with profound uneasiness, verging on panic; even so, he did not permit himself to think, to suspect what he would find on level fifteen outside engineering until he arrived.

And saw Scott and Harriman, standing on the last few