is now off on the Enterprise, then I spent twenty minutes going at it hammer and

tongs with Matt.”

“The commodore?” Rosenhaus asked, surprised, as he fetched an analgesic from the

cabinet.

“No,” Takeshewada snapped, “Matt the quartermaster. Of course the commodore.”

She sighed. “Damned stubborn ass of a man, he is.”

He handed her the pills. “What was the argument about?”

“Martial law, pros and cons. Thank you,” she added as she took the pills. She

swallowed them quickly. “I understand the rationale behind it, but I’ve always

been leery of outside authorities waltzing in and taking over. Besides, Kirk

lived on Tarsus IV.”

Takeshewada spoke as if that planet should mean something, but Rosenhaus hadn’t

a clue to its significance. “Okay,” he said, hoping not to sound too foolish.

Chuckling, Takeshewada said, “I keep forgetting how young you are.” Quickly, the

first officer told a story about a colony world, a poisoned food supply, and an

insane governor.

“My God,” Rosenhaus said. He had had no idea that something like that could even

happen in the Federation. “And Kirk was there for that?”

“As a teenager, yes. And he was the one who suggested declaring martial law

today. According to Matt, he wants to ‘do it right,’ so to speak. Still, I can’t

help but think of the old saying about abused children growing up to become

abusers.” She took a very deep breath.

“Well, wouldn’t the commodore keep him in line?”

Takeshewada pursed her lips. Rosenhaus didn’t like the expression it formed on

her face. It was a bizarre combination of frightened and concerned. “Between you

and me, Doc? The problem with Matt Decker is that he’s impulsive. Once he gets

an idea in his head, he tends to jump into it feet first and figure out the

consequences later. He’s made it work for him so far through a combination of

stubbornness and dumb luck. I just hope today isn’t the day his luck runs out.”

Grinning, Rosenhaus said, “Not likely. After all, I’m on the job, and I think

I’ve got us something.”

Eyes widening, Takeshewada said, “Oh?”

“I’ve got the lab synthesizing a serum based on a project I was involved with at

Starfleet Medical. Computer sims show that it should work. Dr. McCoy sent up a

volunteer from the surface, so as soon as it’s ready, I can test it on her.”

Smiling a small smile, the commander said, “Best news I’ve heard all day, Doc.

Hell, wish you’d told me sooner, it probably would’ve taken the headache away

and saved you a couple of pills.”

“Lab to Rosenhaus. Your magic potion is ready, L.R.”

Thumbing the intercom, Rosenhaus said, “Thank you, Shickele,” in what he hoped

wasn’t a cranky voice. “I’ll be right there.”

Now Takeshewada’s smile was wider. “‘L.R.’?”

“Don’t ask.” Rosenhaus shuddered. The last thing he wanted to do was get into

the sickbay politics he’d been dropped into the middle of. Then again, she is

the first officer… “Or rather, don’t ask now. I’d actually like to sit down with

you and talk about some—issues I have regarding sickbay.”

“Fine by me,” she said with a nod. “We’ll set something up—after you perform

your miracle.”

Rosenhaus’s Miracle. I like that. “That’s fine, Commander.”

Heading for the door, she said, “Thanks for the pills—and keep me posted.”

“I will.”

With a spring in his step, Rosenhaus headed back to the lab. Even the dark look

Shickele gave him couldn’t spoil his mood.

“Can I get back to the kerylene now, L.R.?”

He considered telling her not to bother—the serum was bound to work—but one

didn’t wish to take chances. “Yes, please do.”

“You’re the doctor.”

Damn right I am, he thought triumphantly as he took the hypo that Shickele had

prepared, and went to Braker’s bedside. He checked to make sure the dosage on

the hypo was set properly, took a deep breath, and applied the hypo to Braker’s

neck.

Then he let out the breath he was holding.

Over the course of the next hour, he and Jazayerli monitored Braker’s progress,

watching as the virus’s attempts to produce epi and norepi were frustrated by

the serum. Yes! he thought triumphantly. Where sedation simply put the virus to

“sleep” in the same way it retarded all other bodily functions, this serum

actively inhibited the virus without doing any damage to the patient.

It works!

The doors opened to Dr. McCoy. “What’s this I hear about a cure?”

Rosenhaus blinked. “How’d you find out? I only just tested it an hour ago.” He

indicated the medical scanner. “Take a look.”

“The transporter chief mentioned it when I came on board,” McCoy said as he

approached the scanner.

Sighing, Rosenhaus made a mental note to keep his damn mouth shut next time he

talked to George Howard.

Peering at the readout, McCoy said, “Seems to be working. What’d you use?”

“It’s a serum that was developed at Starfleet HQ about five years ago to treat

an Andorian who was sufferi—”

McCoy looked up sharply. “What!? Dr. Derubbio’s treatment? On a human?”

“Yes,” Rosenhaus said with a smile. “I interned under him when—”

“Doctor!” Jazayerli said in a voice of warning.

Just after the nurse spoke, an alarm went off on the biobed scanner. Rosenhaus

looked up to see that Braker was going into cardiac arrest.

“What the hell—? That shouldn’t be happening!” Rosenhaus said.

Then both he and McCoy cried, “Cordrazine, two milliliters!” in perfect unison.

Well, Rosenhaus thought dryly, at least we agree on something.

Jazayerli prepared a hypo and, to Rosenhaus’s annoyance, handed it to McCoy, who

applied it to Braker’s neck.

Within a moment, her heart started up again. “We’ve got to flush this damn serum

out of her system, now!” McCoy said.

“We don’t know that the serum is causing this,” Rosenhaus said. “It could be—”

McCoy interrupted. “Nurse, get me eighty CC’s of dicloripin.” Then he turned to

Rosenhaus. “Dave Derubbio’s serum is fatal to humans—when it interacts with

human blood, it creates xelaxine.”

Rosenhaus’s face fell. “What?” Xelaxine was toxic to humans. For that matter, it

was toxic to Andorians, but it didn’t—

Then he thought about the differences between Andorian and human blood, and saw

the possible connections.

“Here you go, Doctor,” Jazayerli said, handing McCoy the hypo.

As he applied the hypo to Braker, McCoy said, “Didn’t you run one of those

damned computer simulations you were going on about before?”

“Of course I did.” Rosenhaus was offended that McCoy would even consider the

possibility that he didn’t do so. “I tested it on the virus and the gland and it

showed—”

McCoy looked up. “Just the virus and the gland?”

“What do you mean?” Rosenhaus asked, looking up to see that Braker’s vitals were

returning to normal.

“They may call ’em artificial intelligence, son, but trust me, they ain’t that

bright. You tell ’em to test the virus and the gland, that’s all they’ll check!

You didn’t check how this might affect the blood cells or any of the organs it

came into contact with!”

Rosenhaus closed his eyes. “You’re right. I didn’t—I mean, I—” He sighed. “I’m

sorry, Doctor, I—”

“You don’t need to apologize to me, you need to apologize to this woman here,”

he said, pointing to Braker. “Assuming she lives through this.” He sighed.

“Assuming we all do, and don’t go off half-cocked.” McCoy took one last look at

Braker’s vitals, then ran a Feinberger over her. “Times like this, Doctor, we

have to be extra careful—both with what we do and who we say it to. Ships’re

like small towns. Word spreads like wildfire.” He looked up. “And another

thing—you don’t need to prove anything. You said before that I should treat you

with the respect you deserve, and that’s fine, but you gotta earn the respect.”

Turning the Feinberger off, he picked up Braker’s chart and handed it to

Jazayerli. “The virus is still in the gland. Update the chart, please, Nurse.”

“Of course, sir.”

Rosenhaus sighed. That was the first time he’d ever heard Jazayerli use the word

“sir” to refer to a doctor.

“Now then,” McCoy said, “let’s take a look at this serum. Obviously it made some

headway—we just have to figure out how to make it work without killing the

patient.”

Stunned, Rosenhaus said, “Uh, right.”

“Something wrong, Doctor?”

“You’re being nice to me. I just almost killed a woman. You spent half the day

chewing my head off when I didn’t do anything, but now—when you actually have

cause to scream at me—you’re being calm and reasonable.”

Smiling, McCoy said, “Son, all the titles in the world don’t mean a damn thing.

Yeah, we’re both chief medical officers, but at heart, we’re just human. Me, I’m

an old country doctor who let his temper get the better of him. You, you’re a

young kid who made a mistake. Luckily, that mistake wasn’t fatal.” He put an

encouraging hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “So let’s see what we can do to

make the mistake work for us, all right?”

Rosenhuas nodded. “Let’s get to work, Doctor.”

Chapter Five

“C OMMODORE , you’re not being reasonable.”

Matt Decker rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger in a

futile attempt to stave off the pounding headache he was developing. Normally,

he’d call sickbay for a remedy, but his own sickbay staff was presently occupied

with the search for a cure, and the local hospitals and dispensaries had much

bigger problems right now.

Dealing with the infinite demands of running a colony under siege by disease and

terror, however, was combining with his lack of sleep to create a phaser on

overload in his sinuses.

Now, topping it all off, he had to deal with a tiresome bureaucrat.

He stared at that bureaucrat’s face on the small viewscreen embedded in the desk

he’d taken over. It sat opposite another like desk, which Kirk had taken over,

in the small office in the Government Center. The office normally belonged to

some government functionary or other. Neither Decker nor the young captain had

felt comfortable taking over the office of the late Chief Representative.

Besides, they could do the job as easily from here as anywhere else. Indeed,

they could have adminstered from orbit, but both of them saw that as precisely

the wrong kind of symbolism. They needed to be among the Proximan people if this

was to work.

“Mr. Malruse,” Decker said, “I’m under no obligation to be reasonable. Proxima

is currently in a state of martial law. That means what I say goes. It also

gives me broad discretionary powers as to who to say it to and where to put them

when they don’t do what I say. Am I making myself clear?”

The face on the viewscreen in front of Decker scrunched into a frown.

“Commodore, I have several contracts I need to fulfill. While the current

situation is regrettable, I can’t just—”

Decker leaned forward and put on his intimidating look, the one he’d used to

good effect on subordinates and his son alike. “I see I’m not making myself

clear. As of now, you don’t have any contracts to fulfill. You don’t have a

business. All you’ve got is a mandate from the person running things to take

over the supervision of food distribution to the counties of Arafel, New Punjab,

and Rivershore. What you’ve also got is my promise that your not fulfilling this

mandate would be a bad career move. Now am I making myself clear?”

Malruse’s frown somehow grew deeper, something Decker wouldn’t have credited it

capable of. “I don’t appreciate threats, Commodore.”

“Oh, this isn’t a threat. It’s an explanation. So what’s it going to be, Mr.

Malruse?”

Decker watched as Malruse’s face flashed several facial expressions over the

course of about three seconds, ranging from anger to annoyance and finally to

resignation. “Very well, Commodore. My people will start taking charge of the

food distribution within the hour.”

“Glad to hear it. The person you’ll be coordinating with is Ensign Litwack—she’s

my assistant chief of security. She’ll be there to make sure everything goes

smoothly.” Decker assumed the implication was obvious.

“Of course, Commodore,” Malruse said with a sigh, then signed off.

As soon as the screen went dark, the phaser in his sinuses did go on overload.

If I had known that this was going to entail forcing private-sector nincompoops

to do public-works projects, I’d’ve told Kirk to go hang himself.

That wasn’t entirely fair, Decker knew. Most of the slack of public jobs had

been taken up by private enterprise with remarkable ease. In some cases, the

work was more efficient. But, given the situation, Decker or Kirk had to deal

with it only if something went wrong, so he was hyperaware of the few problems

and needed to remind himself of how much was actually going smoothly.

He was about to get some coffee when his communicator beeped twice. Oh great,

now what? He pulled it out of his belt as he headed for the food slot embedded

in the wall. “Decker here.”

“Takeshewada here. A ship’s just pulled into orbit and you need to talk to the

pilot.”

“Uh, why ca—?”

“I tried to handle it,” Takeshewada said, as usual anticipating him. “I

explained about the quarantine and the dangers and the fact that every second

she spends in orbit she risks contracting a fatal disease that we don’t have a

cure for. I told her about the martial law. I, in fact, went on at great length

on the subject of why she needs to beat a hasty retreat out of orbit, if not out

of the entire star system. You know what her reply was? ‘Let me speak to

whoever’s in charge.’”

Decker sighed as he entered the command for coffee into the food slot’s panel.

“That’s me, isn’t it?”

“Unless you want to fob this off on Kirk.”

“Fob what off on Kirk?” came a voice from the doorway. It was Kirk, returning

from his latest state-of-the-colony address to the people. They had agreed early

on that Kirk—younger, better looking, and generally less intimidating than

Decker—would be the voice of the temporary government to the people of Proxima,

and he had been giving those every couple of hours or so. Decker had admired the

strategy. It reassured the Proximans that there was somebody in

charge—especially since Kirk had made an effort to put substance in the

addresses, specifying what was being done.

To answer the question, Decker said, “Someone in orbit who won’t take ‘get the

hell out of here’ for an answer.” Back to the communicator, he said, “Have

Howard pipe it down here, Number One.”

“Have fun.”

Decker could picture Takeshewada’s not-quite-a-smile in his mind’s eye. I get

the feeling I’m in for another fun conversation, he thought with a sigh.

He went back to his desk, coffee in hand. Kirk came around to stand behind him.

Decker was silently grateful for Kirk’s presence, as the younger man would

likely be a calming influence. Kirk had a certain charisma about him that he

used to good effect on people he dealt with. Takeshewada had a similar

quality—Decker himself had never had the patience for such things.

The screen lit up to show the face of the most beautiful woman Matt Decker had

ever seen in his life.

“You must be Commodore Decker,” she said in a voice that sounded like the songs

of angels.

“Yes,” Kirk said before Decker could reply, “and I’m James T. Kirk. How can we

help you?”

“I’m Aidulac, captain of the Sun ,” she said with a bright smile that seemed to

light up the viewscreen. “I have this problem that I’m sure you two could easily

solve.”

“We’ll be happy to do anything at all that we can to help you,” Kirk said, again

cutting Decker off before he could say anything. Not that he minded that much—he

was just happy to be looking into Aidulac’s beautiful black eyes.

“I have this cargo that needs to be brought down immediately. That commander on

the Constellation gave me some song and dance about a virus, but I—”

“It’s not a song and dance, I’m afraid,” Decker said.

“The virus is quite real, and very dangerous. Honestly, you should probably

leave orbit as soon as you can for your own safety.” He spoke in an urgent tone,

as he was actually frightened of the possibility that Aidulac might be harmed by

the virus. “Surely your cargo—”

“The items are perishable,” Aidulac said, and she pouted in a manner that melted

Decker’s heart. “Surely you can at least let me land one shuttle?”

Kirk asked, “Why not transport it down?”

“It can’t be transported. So can you help me, please?”

Decker pried his eyes away from the vision of gloriousness on the screen and

turned to look at Kirk. “What do you say, Captain, can we—”

Then he blinked. He realized that he suddenly couldn’t recall what Aidulac

looked like, even though he’d been looking at her for the past minute. More to

the point, his head cleared and he realized just what he’d been thinking during

that minute. And then he remembered the Constellation’ 'strip to Pegasus Major.

“Computer, disengage video transmission, now!”

Kirk was aghast as the screen went dark. “Commodore, why did you do that? That

poor woman needs our help.”

“Commodore, I don’t understand, why have you—”

“Don’t even think about it, Captain Aidulac. You are hereby instructed to leave

orbit, or I will order the Constellation to fire on you. Do I make myself

clear?”

Kirk grabbed Decker’s shoulder. “Commodore, what are you doing? This woman has a

simple—”

“‘This woman,’ Kirk, is a Siren.”

A blank expression came over Kirk’s face. “A what?”

“Can I assume,” Decker said, addressing himself to the darkened viewscreen,

“that the Sun’ 'sregistry is to the Peladon Affiliation, Captain Aidulac?”

The silence that met the question spoke volumes.

“As I expected. Captain Kirk, maybe you’re familiar with the world of Pegasus

Major IV. A humanoid race evolved there known as the Peladons, who eventually

founded an Affiliation that encompasses the entire solar system. On that planet,

there’s a sect of specially trained women who can exert great influence on the

male of the species—as well as the males of several other species. Vulcan men

have proven to be able to overcome it, and Andorians are immune for some reason,

but every other species they’ve encountered that has men in it have succumbed.

The first Federation captain to deal with one called them ‘Sirens.’”

“Commodore, you’re being horribly unfair. I just want—”

“Still there, Aidulac? I’d have thought you’d have obeyed my instructions by

now.” He took out his communicator. “Decker to Constellation. Has the Sun left

orbit yet?”

“Takeshewada here. Not yet. Orders?”

“Give her two more minutes, Number One, then blast her out of the sky.”

Aidulac’s voice—now sounding rather petulant, though Decker suspected it was the

same tone of voice she used when pouting earlier, he simply was interpreting it

differently now—came through the desk’s speakers. “There’ll be no need for

violence, Commodore. But I can assure you, I have friends at Starfleet—”

“All men, I’m sure,” Decker muttered.

“—and they’re going to hear about this. Trust me, these aren’t men you want to

have as enemies.”

“They’ll have to get in line, Captain,” Decker said with a snort, thinking back

on all the people he’d pissed off in his decades of service. “Proxima out.”

As he cut off the connection, Takeshewada said, “She’s leaving orbit now,

Commodore. She was a Siren, wasn’t she?”

Decker blinked. “You knew?”

“It was a guess. I wasn’t entirely sure. Best way to be sure was to gauge your

response. If you gave in, I’d know for sure.”

Sighing, Decker said, “Remind me to yell at you for that later.”

“Of course, sir.” Again, Decker could envision his first officer’s not-a-smile.

“Constellation out.”

Closing his communicator and directing several unkind thoughts in Takeshewada’s

direction, Decker turned to look at Kirk. The captain had an angry look on his

face.

“I’m sorry, Commodore. I can’t believe I fell for such a—a cheap parlor trick.”

“Easy, Kirk, it’s no parlor trick. The Peladons have been breeding and training

Sirens for centuries. Hell, I knew about ’em, and I almost gave in.”

Kirk shook his head. “Still, it’s not a weakness a commanding officer can

afford.”

Shrugging, Decker said, “Maybe. But the good COs figure out how to pay it off

anyhow.” Decker leaned back in his chair. “So, how’d the address go?”

“Well enough,” Kirk said after a hesitation. The captain obviously didn’t want

to change the subject, but Decker had always thought of recriminations as being

generally useless, self-recrimination even more so. His mindset was more toward

solving the problem than apportioning blame.

Before Kirk could elaborate, Decker’s communicator beeped.

Sighing, Decker muttered, “Does it ever end?”

“Never soon enough,” Kirk replied with a smile.

With a snort, Decker opened the communicator. “Decker here.”

A cacophany of noise erupted from the communicator—people shouting, mostly, and

the occasional sound of soft impacts. “Vascogne here, Commodore,” said Decker’s

security chief. “We’ve got a situation.”

“You still at SCMC?”

“Yes, sir.” Vascogne had just reported everything being quiet at the Sierra City

Medical Center a mere hour earlier.

What have they done this time? Decker wondered. “What kind of situation?”

“Somebody started a rumor that they found a cure up on the Constellation. Now

everyone’s trying to get into the hospital to get it. Request permission to

pacify the crowd, Commodore.”

Decker’s eyes grew wide. Vascogne wouldn’t have made the request if he thought

there was a better alternative. For a security chief, the middle-aged lieutenant

was remarkably nonaggressive. “Is that your recommendation, Lieutenant?”

There was a pause, and an “oof” sound could be heard through the speaker amidst

the growing crowd noise. “It’s my opinion, sir, that no other option is viable.”

 

“Commodore, wait,” Kirk said before Decker could give the order. “I’d like to

try something else.”

 

I really hate my job, Lieutenant Etienne Vascogne thought as he pulled the large

Proximan off his leg.

“Keep these people back!” he screamed at his people, who were mixed in with some

local police.

Should’ve joined the police force back home on Gammac like Uncle Claude wanted

me to, he thought as he awaited the arrival of his commanding officer.

Vascogne was glad that Captain Kirk had apparently come up with some kind of

alternative to shooting these poor people down. He hadn’t been able to come up

with a better plan of his own, and stunning a large crowd was infinitely

preferable, to his mind, to said large crowd stomping all over him. The people

were pressing up against the cordon with such force, Vascogne couldn’t tell

whether it was his own sweat he smelled or that of the person shouting epithets

into his face.

Most of the cries of the people in that crowd were so much white noise, but

certain phrases kept cropping up: “We want the cure!” “Give us the cure!” “Stop

holding out on us!” “Cure now!” Some held signs with similar sentiments. Despite

himself, Vascogne was impressed with how quickly the signs had been put

together, given that the rumors had started less than an hour earlier.

Suddenly, an amplified voice blared out over the crowd. “Please, ladies and

gentlemen, there is no cure!”

Vascogne allowed himself an instant to turn around, and he saw both Decker and

Captain Kirk standing at the hospital entrance. He wondered briefly how the hell

they got there, and then realized that they must have transported. That’s quite

the loud crowd, he thought, if they can drown out a transporter. Either that or

I’m just getting old…

The crowd noise abated slightly at Kirk’s utterance, but not much. “Don’t gimme

that!” “We know there’s a cure!” “They told us you had it!” “We need it!”

“I can assure you that people are working around the clock to find a cure for

this plague—but whatever you’ve heard, it’s just not true!” Kirk raised his

hands as if he were trying to push the crowd back. “Now please, return to your

homes—your families. I promise you, the minute we find a cure, we will be

distributing it to everyone as fast as we can, but until then—”

“Liar!” “We want it now!” “You’re never gonna give it to us!”

“If you want, I can have the doctors working on the problem give you an update

themselves. But right now they’re working diligently—both the medical staffs of

the Enterprise and the Constellation, and the acting surgeon general of

Proxima.”

“You want to kill us all!” “I bet you’re not even working on it!” “Liar!”

Kirk looked directly at the person who called him a liar. “I’m not lying to you!

I have no reason to lie to you! All I have to do is give one simple order, and

these security guards and Proximan police will fire their weapons and leave you

all lying stunned in the street. Or one of our ships can do the same thing from

orbit. But I don’t want to do that to you—because you don’t deserve that. You

deserve the truth—you deserve to not have to live in fear that you may be the

next one to contract the disease—you deserve not to be treated like criminals in

your own home. That’s why we’ve been keeping you all updated—so you know that

we’re doing everything we can to help you! We will get through this crisis—I

know we will. All it will take is patience on your part. Give us a chance to

prove ourselves.”

He looked out over the crowd, seeming as if he was trying to look each person in

the eye, even though that wasn’t really possible. Despite himself, Vascogne

admired the rhetorical technique. Guess they’re teaching public speaking at

Captain School these days, he thought wryly.

“Whoever’s doing this to you wants this. Whoever’s doing this wants you all at

each other’s throats—fighting each other like animals, rioting like maniacs.

This virus is being used as a weapon of terror—and the best way for you to fight

back is not to let it change anything! The best way to fight this battle is to

let us do our jobs —and to go on doing yours. Show whoever’s attacking you that

you won’t let this stop you— won’t let their cowardly attack turn you into

savages.”

Now he seemed to be looking at all of them. There was a pleading look in his

eyes—and, at the same time, a very tired one.

“Please—go home. We will inform you the minute there’s a cure.”

As Kirk’s speech had gone on, the crowd had slowly quieted down, and had just as

slowly calmed. Shouters had shut up; people gesturing and holding up signs had

let their arms fall, the signs lowered or dropped to the ground; those rushing

the cordon of security and police had ceased their forward motion.

Then what had been a furious, amorphous blob of humanity gradually became a

group of individuals slumping their dispirited way home. The captain’s words had

broken the mob spirit.

Vascogne just hoped it was replaced with something—well, calmer. His cynical

side was quite sure that said replacement would not be permanent unless a cure

was found, and damn soon.

As his people and the Proximan police kept an eye on the erstwhile mob and

guided them away from the SCMC, Vascogne approached the captain, standing next

to Decker. “Nice speech.”

Kirk blew out a sharp breath. “Thank you.”

Smiling, Decker said, “I especially liked all the dramatic pauses.”

“Just fumbling for words, Commodore,” Kirk said with a smile.

“I gotta say,” Vascogne said, running a hand over his bald head, “I didn’t think

anything short of phaser fire would stop that crowd.”

“It was certainly my first choice,” Decker said.

Kirk took a breath. “No offense, Commodore, but—well, weapons fire is what Kodos

would have done. For years I thought of martial law as inherently evil because

of what Kodos did. But don’t you see?” He clenched his fists. “This is our

chance to show that it can be a source of good if it’s used properly.”

“Yeah, well, from your mouth to these people’s ears,” Vascogne muttered. “What I

want to know is how that rumor got started in the first place.”

Decker shook his head. “Situation like this, rumors are flying all over the damn

place. I’m sure half the people on the planet are convinced that Starfleet made

this up so we could declare martial law and take over.”

Taking out his communicator, Kirk said, “We’ll just have to prove them wrong,

won’t we, Commodore? Kirk to Constellation.”

“ Constellation here.”

“Put me through to Dr. McCoy, please.”

After a moment, another voice came through the communicator’s tinny speaker.

“McCoy here. What is it, Jim?”

“Progress report, Doctor. How goes the search for a cure?”

“Slower the more I talk to you.”

“Sorry, Bones,” Kirk said with a small smile. “I’m going to need one of you to

give an address to the people down here—fill them in on your progress.”

“I don’t have time to be giving press conferences. Besides, that’s how rumors

get started, and we’ve got enough of that going on here.”

Frowning, Kirk asked, “What do you mean?”

“Ah, it’s nothing. Rosenhaus thought he found a cure and made the mistake of

telling someone before he tested it.”

Vascogne almost groaned out loud. He knew how fast the rumor mill on the

Constellation could function. Within two-and-a-half seconds of Rosenhaus saying

he found the cure—and knowing the young doctor, he probably sounded supremely

confident as he said it—the whole ship probably knew about it. That could just

as easily have spread to the planet through one of Vascogne’s own people.

“Bones, does that mean—?”

“It means we’re on a track, Jim, but I don’t have any idea whether it’s the

right track, or how far we have to go on it. I’ll keep you posted. McCoy out.”

Decker regarded Kirk with a quizzical look. “Kirk, I can’t help noticing that

that doctor of yours didn’t actually agree to give a statement.”

“He thinks it’ll distract from his work. All things considered, it’s probably

best to let him proceed as he sees fit. Perhaps your Dr. Rosenhaus can speak at

our next state-of-the-planet address?”

Vascogne rolled his eyes. “Like the doc needs a reason to feed his ego.”

Chuckling, Decker said, “Don’t worry, Vascogne, I’m sure we’ll all work to make

sure he doesn’t live it down.”

Chapter Six

GUILLERMOMASADA blinked as he entered the sensor room and saw Lt. Commander

Spock sitting at one of the consoles. “What’re you doing here?”

Spock’s right eyebrow climbed up his forehead. “I assume that is a rhetorical

outburst and not an actual request for information?”

Chuckling, Masada said, “Yeah, something like that. Sorry, but when I said we

should take a break for twenty minutes, I thought that meant that you’d, y’know,

be out of the room for twenty minutes.”

Turning back to the readings he was getting from the sensors, Spock said, “Your

exact words, Lieutenant, were an expression of exhaustion, followed by the

words, ‘I could use a break. What do you say, Spock, twenty minutes?’”

Smiling as he sat at the console next to Spock, Masada said, “Yeah, well, when

you agreed and left with me, I thought that meant you were going to take the

full twenty.”

“Your assumption was made on a faulty premise. I don’t require large amounts of

‘break-time.’”

“Really?” Masada said with a smile. “And that’s because you’re a Vulcan.”

“Correct.”

“Except you’re not—entirely. You’re half-human.” He grinned. “That explains two

things, actually. One, you’re half-human, so you only needed half the break

time.”

The eyebrow shot up again. “Oh?”

Masada turned to face Spock directly. “I do love that trick. Ensign Sontor does

it, too.”

“Trick?”

“The eyebrow thing. My theory is that’s the Vulcans’ secret for repressing their

emotions—they channel them all into that one eyebrow. That’s why you guys raise

them so often—it’s the focal point of all those emotions you’re suppressing.”

Spock turned back to the sensor display. “Your reasoning could charitably be

referred to as ‘specious,’ Lieutenant. Barring the unlikely happenstance that

you have scientific data to back it up, it is a hypothesis, not a theory. In

addition, it’s equivalent to hypothesizing that you cull information from your

hair.”

Masada frowned. “Excuse me?”

“The small gathering of hair at the back of your head. You have a tendency to

grab it before providing information.”

Straightening in his chair, Masada said, “I do not!”

Again, the eyebrow shot up.

“Fine, whatever. And it’s called a ponytail.”

“A misnomer, given that ponies actually have much longer tails.”

Masada laughed. “That’s the second thing that you being half-human explains.

You, Commander Spock, are a laugh riot.”

To Masada’s great joy, that earned him a sharp look from the Enterprise first

officer. “I fail to see how my conversations are akin to the behavior of the

people on Proxima.”

“No, no, not that kind of riot. It’s an old expression—it just means you’re

funny. One of my staff is a Vulcan—that Ensign Sontor I mentioned. I’ve worked

with a bunch of other Vulcans, and you’re the only one of ’em that’s cracked me

up.”

“Fascinating,” Spock said dryly as he turned back to the console. “However, I

can assure you that any humor you might perceive is solely a construct of your

own interpretation.”

Masada said, “Don’t you see, though, that’s exactly what makes it funny? The

literal-mindedness, that dry tone of yours—by being so serious, you become

humorous.”

“That is a contradiction in terms, Mr. Masada. If one is serious, one cannot be

humorous.”

“Sure you can. It’s the inherent contradiction of human existence. The

difference between the interpreter and the interpreted, the—” He cut himself

off. “Sorry, I guess I’m still tired. I only get philosophical when I’m tired.

Feel free to ignore me.”

“I had already decided on just such a course of action,” Spock said.

Laughing, Masada said, “See? There you go again. You just crack me up.”

Turning his gaze back to Masada, Spock said, “I do not discern any ruptures in

your skin, Lieutenant.”

“It’s another expression,” Masada said with a sigh.

“Another contradiction of human existence?”

“Sort of. More like a metaphor. You make me laugh so hard, I’m in danger—well,

metaphorical danger, anyhow—of shaking myself to pieces. Hence, ‘crack me up.’”

“That is less a metaphor than a simile, Lieutenant, and it is also rather

imprecise. It would be better if—should something amuse you in the future—to

simply say that it amuses you. It would save you from having to make lengthy

explanations of things you find to be patently obvious.”

Again, Masada laughed. “You’re too much, Commander.”

“Too much what?”

He started to answer, then said, “Never mind.” Turning to his console, which

showed him the lateral sensor array—presently detecting many things, with the

irritating exception of the precise location of the Malkus Artifact—Masada then

asked, “How’s our search coming?”

“Thus far, sensors have been unable to localize the energy signature.” Spock,

Masada noticed, had no difficulty changing the subject back to business.

They had started their search on the bridge, but soon realized that they would

need the more widespread capabilities of the sensor room to work with. Masada

had dismissed Soo and most of the rest of the science staff, telling them to

work on collating the data from the neutron star. There was no chance they’d get

back to it anytime soon—even if they solved the problem here in Alpha Proxima

within the next hour, there was no way they’d be able to return to Beta Proxima

to do any significant work on the star before they’d have to go off to that

silly conference at Crellis.

And at the rate we’re going, he thought, it’s gonna take a helluva lot longer

than an hour to find that damn artifact. Plus, the Constellation was probably

going to stick around for at least another day after the crisis was past— if the

crisis came to a satisfying conclusion, which was, of course, no guarantee.

Masada had therefore resigned himself to the fact that they’d done all they

could with the star, so there was no reason not to have Soo and the others start

on the final report.

The only member of the science staff he held back was Sontor, who was presently

monitoring the data upload from Vulcan with everything they had on the Zalkat

Union in general and the Malkus Artifacts in particular. Masada assumed that the

Vulcan records were more complete than the Starfleet ones, which didn’t have

much beyond the existence of the energy signature. But then, Beta Aurigae was

first explored by an Earth ship, pre-Federation, and prior to the duotronic

revolution in computer storage. Not every record survived that particular

transition. Thank God that old ship had a Vulcan observer on board to take good

notes.

Masada ran his hand over his head, then tugged on his ponytail. My God, he

thought, I do tug my ponytail! Gotta watch that… He looked over their

records—which he’d been looking at steadily for many hours—and for the first

time realized that the pattern they were using was a bit of a time waster. Funny

how you don’t notice something until you’ve stepped away from it for twenty

minutes.

“Why don’t we narrow the field to the northern hemisphere—better yet, to just

where there are sentient lifesigns? I mean, those are the only places where

there are people, so the artifact has to be there.”

“It is unlikely that the Zalkatians took human comfort into consideration when

hiding the artifact.”

“Yeah, but there’s an intelligence behind this. You yourself pointed out that

this has to be directed by a person or persons with malice aforethought.”

Spock made an adjustment to the console as he spoke. “That does not require that

the artifact be where there is sentient life. Whoever is controlling the

artifact could easily have access to a transporter, and could leave the artifact

anywhere on the planet.”

Stopping himself from reaching back to pull on his ponytail again, Masada said,

“Oh come on, that’s taking possibilities to an extreme. Besides, we’ve got a

deadline here—we’ve got to narrow the search. Logically, we should eliminate

less likely avenues of exploration.”

For several seconds, Spock didn’t move. Masada was about to ask if something was

wrong, when he finally spoke. “Your point is well taken. I will narrow the

search.”

Just then, Sontor entered the sensor room. “Sirs, the download from the Vulcan

archaeological database is complete.”

“About time,” Masada said, blowing out a breath. “Anything interesting?”

Sontor’s right eyebrow was far thicker than Spock’s, but it crawled up his

forehead in a disturbingly similar way. “I would be willing to debate at some

length that all of it is interesting, Lieutenant. However, I assume that you are

referring to data relevant to our current search.”

“See what I mean?” Masada said, turning to Spock. “He’s nowhere near as funny as

you.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Sontor asked, both his tone and his eyebrow arched.

Spock added, “I detect no significant difference in timbre, pitch, or verbal

delivery between Ensign Sontor and myself to account for your perceptions,

Lieutenant.” Before Masada could reply to that, Spock said, “Then again, as you

yourself pointed out, your fatigue may be having an effect on your perceptions.”

Masada started to say something to Spock, stopped, started again, stopped again,

then finally said, “Never mind.” He turned back to Sontor. “What’d you find?”

Sontor leaned down into one of the consoles and punched up a record. “According

to T’Ramir, who has been the primary specialist in Zalkatian matters for the

last ninety-seven years and seven months, the Malkus Artifacts might be more

easily traced by using a lowband sensor sweep. The lower bands are closer to

what is believed to be the primary form of electronic detection during Malkus’s

reign. Logically, the artifact’s distinctive emissions would be more readily

found with a method similar to that used by the creators of said artifact.”

“Unnecessarily complicatedly put, Sontor.” As was that sentence, Masada rebuked

himself, but didn’t say aloud. I really am tired. “But that follows. Changing

bandwith of main sensor array.” He suited action to words as his fingers played

about the console.

“Unfortunately,” Sontor said, “the lower band means that the readings will take

considerably longer to obtain. A full sweep will take up to four-point-two-three

hours.”

“Give or take point-three hours,” Masada said with a small smile.

“Negative. ‘Give,’ perhaps, as the search may take a shorter interval due to the

possibility of finding the artifact before the search is complete, but it will

not take any longer than that.”

Pointing at Sontor but looking at Spock, Masada said, “See, now if you’d said

that, it would’ve been much funnier.”

Spock, however, was looking at the sensor readouts. In fact, he looked to Masada

as if he were studiously ignoring both Masada and Sontor.

Grinning, Masada said, “Let’s start the scan at Sierra City and work our way

outwards.”

“Logical,” Spock said.

“Glad you approve.”

Sontor said, “A Vulcan would always approve of a logical course of action.”

“Naturally,” Spock said. “To do otherwise would be foolish.”

Save me from all this self-congratulating, Masada thought with a wry smile.

 

“I think we’ve got something, Leonard,” Lewis Rosenhaus said with a smile.

They had been working for hours, trying to find some way to modify Dr.

Derubbio’s serum so that it wouldn’t produce xelaxine. Thus far, all the methods

for doing so also eliminated the serum’s effectiveness in actually removing the

virus.

Still, for whatever reason, McCoy had become easier to work with. Instead of

snapping at him, McCoy listened to all his questions and suggestions and had

intelligent comments to make. He didn’t denigrate, and his criticisms were

bereft of the ire they had had earlier. I never would’ve thought I could bond

with a fellow doctor over almost killing a patient, he thought with a happy

smile.

McCoy rubbed his eyes as he came over to where Rosenhaus was sitting. “What’ve

you got, Lew?”

That was the other good thing: Rosenhaus really liked the sound of McCoy calling

him “Lew” instead of “boy” or “son.” He hadn’t even liked it when his own father

called him “son,” much less someone he’d only just met.

Rosenhaus looked at McCoy’s lined face. The older man’s blue eyes were

bloodshot, and they had goodsized bags under them. “You should probably take a

break, Leonard—or take a stimulant.”

“I’m fine,” McCoy said, waving him off. “Answer the damn question.”

Great, he’s getting crotchety again. “I was checking the pH readings. Xelaxine

is basic. If we lower the pH value, make it neutral, it’ll go inert. Now,

Derubbio’s serum is neutral, and the acidity is irrelevant to its effectiveness.

What if we try adding an acid compound to the serum?”

“You want to introduce an acid into the human bloodstream?”

Rosenhaus sighed. “It was just a thought. If we can find an acid that’s

relatively harmless—ascorbic, maybe, or citric.”

McCoy looked at the computer model Rosenhaus had called up, and shook his head.

“Won’t work. The only acid strong enough to bring xelaxine’s pH down to seven

would have to be a lot nastier than the human body can take. It’d eat the blood

vessels alive.”

“Dammit.” Rosenhaus pounded a fist on the table.

Putting a hand on Rosenhaus’s shoulder, McCoy said, “Easy, Lew, we’re not out of

the woods yet. There’s something—”

“What?” he asked, looking up at the older doctor.

“Computer, call up the molecular structure of Andronesian encephalitis.”

Rosenhaus frowned. “What does—?”

“You ever heard of Capellan acid?”

“Uh, no.”

“Not surprised. I was stationed on Capella IV for a few months before I reported

here. The Capellans are warrior types—they had no interest in medicine or

hospitals.”

Rosenhaus blinked, then blinked again. “Okay, at this point I’m completely

lost.”

McCoy smiled. “Bear with me, Lew. Computer, call up molecular structure of

Capellan acid.”

As soon as Rosenhaus saw the second image pop up on the screen, he winced.

“That’s a naturally occurring acid on Capella? What do they use it for, sieges

of the castle? You could do wonders pouring this over the battlements—wipe out

your enemies in a microsecond.”

“Believe it or not, it’s in their drinking water,” McCoy said with a smile.

“They build ’em tough on Capella, but not that tough. One of the things I

noticed when I was there was that they didn’t suffer from Andronesian

encephalitis, even though the conditions on the planet are ideal for it. Turns

out, they did have it, and they also had this corrosive acid in their water.”

Rosenhaus put it together and snapped his fingers. “The acid neutralizes the

encephalitis.”

“For starters, yes. It still leaves acid in the system, though, just nothing as

nasty as the acid’s raw form. The question is if it’s enough to also neutralize

the xelaxine.”

“Only one way to find out.”

McCoy nodded. “Computer, call up molecular structure of xelaxine.” After it did

so: “All right, now project what would happen if all three were combined in the

human bloodstream.”

Rosenhaus watched as the molecules rotated toward each other on the screen.

Atoms shifted, bonds broke and re-formed, shapes changed—first the xelaxine and

the encephalitis each broke apart, then the Capellan acid did likewise, and then

they all started to come together in new combinations. Finally, when they

settled down, there were five molecules. One was a single oxygen atom bonded

with two hydrogen atoms; three were carbon bonded with two oxygen atoms; the

last was six carbon atoms, eight hydrogen atoms, and six oxygen atoms.

“Water, carbon dioxide, and ascorbic acid,” Rosenhaus said. “I don’t believe

it.” He laughed. “They go from dying of a nasty virus to the functional

equivalent of eating a grapefruit.”

Chuckling, McCoy said, “That and holding their breath too long. We’ll have to

monitor their CO2levels—probably need to flush it out of most people’s systems

before they can be safely discharged—and of course they’ll all need to be

re-inoculated for encephalitis.”

Rosenhaus nodded. “We’ll have to make sure everyone is inoculated first. If they

haven’t been, we’ll have to give it to them.”

“I want to run a few more tests before we try this on Ms. Braker over there, but

I think we’re on the right track here.” He turned to Rosenhaus and smiled. “Nice

work, Doctor.”

“What nice work? I made a dumbass suggestion. You’re the one who turned it into

something workable.”

Chuckling, McCoy said, “I tell you, I never thought anything good would come out

of those months I spent on Capella.”

Nurse Jazayerli—whose presence in the lab area Rosenhaus hadn’t even

registered—said, “I hate to interrupt this mutual admiration society, Doctors,

but I have checked on Ms. Braker, and she has indeed received an inoculation

against Andronesian encephalitis.”

McCoy nodded. “Thank you, Nurse. C’mon, Lew, let’s get to work.”

 

Matt Decker swore he would never complain about the difficulties of running a

starship ever again. As bad as it could sometimes get, it couldn’t possibly be

worse than co-running a planetary government for a day.

He and Kirk had been at it for almost twenty-four straight hours—and that was on

top of a full day of neutron-stargazing. Decker was about as exhausted as he

ever intended to be when there wasn’t an actual war on.

Then again, he thought, for all intents and purposes, we are fighting a war.

We’re just waiting on Guillermo and Spock to find the enemy for us.

However, all the tasks that needed to be performed had been, and any others that

were pending could wait until morning. There hadn’t been any new outbursts of

the virus since the Enterprise was targeted. Masada, Spock, McCoy, and Rosenhaus

had all reported that they were making progress, but had nothing new to report.

Bronstein had said that all had been quiet since Kirk’s little speech at the

SCMC. As the sun started setting on Proxima, things seemd to have quieted down.

Right now, Commodore Matthew Decker needed a good night’s sleep more than

anything.

Idly, he wondered how anyone on this planet did sleep. Proxima had a thirty-hour

day. With the colony primarily in the northern hemisphere, at this time of year

the sun was up for about twenty-six of those hours. He remembered Will’s

childhood joke about how it was always night in space—on Proxima, it was never

night, it seemed.

Kirk had just gotten a couple hours’ sleep—and he had also gotten some sleep

prior to the mission, since his ship’s time was at early morning rather than

late night when they arrived at Proxima. The idea was that he would then stay up

during the rest of the night in case of an emergency, leaving Decker to catch up

on his desperately needed rest.

As he hauled himself up from his chair to head for the door, he said to Kirk,

“So where are we supposed to sack out, anyhow?”

Before an irritatingly fresh-faced Kirk could answer, Decker’s communicator

beeped.

Shaking his head, he took it out of his belt. “I knew I should have phasered

this thing when I had the chance. Could’ve just said the rioters did it.” He

opened the communicator. “Decker here.”

“Wow, Commodore, you sound like hell,” Takeshewada said.

“Number One, I’m going to sound like the ninth circle of hell if you don’t give

me a very good reason why you called me when I was on the way to bed.”

“As it happens, I do, and it’s good news, twice over. Our two doctors think

they’ve nailed the virus. It’s notwithout small risks, but nothing as

life-threatening as the virus itself.”

Kirk stepped up. “How soon can they adminster it?”

If Takeshewada was bothered by being queried by a different CO, she didn’t show

it, and Decker himself was too tired to care. “They have to verify that people

have a particular inoculation—some kind of elephantitis or somesuch. Lew said it

was a common vaccination, so it shouldn’t be an issue. But they figure to have

mass-produced the serum by morning.”

Decker smiled a happy smile for the first time since arriving at Proxima.

“That’s the best news I’ve heard since my son made commander, Number One. What’s

the other good news?”

“It’s even better. Guillermo and Spock have localized the emissions from the

artifact. Unfortunately, we can’t get a transporter lock within fifty meters of

the emissions—apparently this thing interferes with the beams.”

“So much for pulling the beam-out-the-suspect trick,” Decker mutterred.

“Mhm. And we can’t get any decent sensor readings in there. Best we can tell is

that there may be some human lifesigns, possibly. Our only real option is to go

in person. Permission to beam down and lead the security detail to apprehend the

suspect.”

“Denied. I’ll take Bronstein, and—”

“Matt, with all due respect, you’re exhausted. So’s Bronstein. I’ve actually

slept recently, and if we’re dealing with the type of psychopath that would

infect an entire colony and a starship, you need a fresh hand on deck, not a

stubborn old commodore who’s falling asleep on his phaser.”

Decker sighed. Takeshewada had said all that without even taking a breath—she

had obviously rehearsed it ahead of time, knowing full well that he would insist

on leading the party himself.

“I’d like to go also, Commodore,” Kirk said. “With all due respect to the

abilities of your first officer, I think we owe it to the Proximans for one of

the two of us to be present when the person responsible for this nightmare is

taken in. And the commander’s right—you’re in no shape to lead it. It should be

me.”

“I’m perfectly capable of commanding the mission, Captain,” Takeshewada said in

her most clipped tone.

“And I think I’ve earned it after sitting on my rear end since we got here.”

Decker sighed, as he feared he was going to have to navigate some minefields

here. He did not want to have his first officer in a pissy mood.

“I’m not impugning your skills, Commander Takeshewada,” Kirk said tightly, “it’s

just that—”

“Both of you simmer down,” Decker interrupted. “Hiromi, you’re right, I’m in no

shape to deal with this. But Kirk’s right in that he should be in charge. He

knows the terrain better, and he’s been the face of the government all day—I

think the Proximans will appreciate his presence when we apprehend whoever the

hell this is. Where is this location, anyhow?”

“A house in a residential section just outside Sierra City.” She read off a

series of coordinates. Decker checked the wall map and saw that it was the

Karsay’s Point neighborhood, about half a kilometer outside the city.

Takeshewada continued, “We’re still waiting on a profile of the occupant of that

house. I’ve already talked to both ships’ security chiefs. I’ve got a team of

twenty set to meet up at Posada Circle.”

Kirk looked at the map. “I can be there in ten minutes.”

“Fine,” Takeshewada said, once again utilizing her

we’re-going-to-talk-about-this-later tone. “Takeshewada out.”

Decker closed his communicator. At this rate, he thought, Hiromi and I’ll be

talking for hours when this is done.

“Don’t worry, Commodore,” Kirk said as he grabbed his phaser from out of the

drawer of the desk where he’d been keeping it, “we’ll have this taken care of by

the time you wake up.”

“Like there’s a chance in hell I’m gonna be able to sleep,” Decker said with a

snort. “Hey, Jim.”

Kirk stopped midway between the desk and the door and gave the commodore an

expectant look.

“We don’t know what we’re dealing with—for all we know, there’s an army down

there. Even if it’s just one nutcase, it’s someone who’s attempted mass murder.

Be careful.”

For one second, Jim Kirk looked just like Will did the day he got his

commission—sober, calm, yet obviously ready to face whatever was coming.

“Thanks, Matt. And don’t worry.”

As soon as he left, Decker let out a long breath that sounded more like a snort.

“Don’t worry, he says. What’m I supposed to do, sleep?”

He fell more than sat into the chair behind his desk and called up a report from

one of Bronstein’s people. May as well get some work done…

 

Hiromi Takeshewada took a moment to lean back against the statue of Captain

Bernabe Posada, look up, and let the setting sun shine on her face. It’s been

too damn long, she thought.

Growing up in Tokyo on Earth and moving around to various cities all over the

Sol system, Takeshewada had always considered herself a city person, never one

for “the great outdoors.” A career in Starfleet was a natural for her after

living in tall buildings in the midst of cities.

But after spending so long indoors—whether on planets or in starships—she had

grown to truly appreciate breathing fresh air, feeling the light of the sun on

her face, and the unique tactile experience of standing on real ground. In her

younger days, serving as an ensign aboard the U.S.S. Mandela, she never really

appreciated what it was like to feel a planet under her feet instead of a

constructed floor. Now, though, with age came wisdom, and she knew to appreciate

when she stepped on a planet.

She never knew when it might be her last chance.

The Mandela had been destroyed less than a month after Takeshewada had

transferred off the ship to take a post as a lieutenant aboard the Potemkin. She

had lost a lot of good friends there. Right before she left, she had passed up

the opportunity for shore leave on Starbase 13, which orbited a lush world. But

she had had paperwork to catch up on, so she didn’t bother, figuring she’d do so

the next time.

If her promotion hadn’t come through, there wouldn’t have been a next time.

So she stood now in Posada Circle—like the statue that was its centerpiece, the

circular road was in honor of the captain of the colony ship S.S. Esperanza, and

also the first Chief Representative of Proxima’s government—surrounded by a

detail of Constellation and Enterprise security. As she waited for Kirk and

Vascogne to arrive, she made sure she took a moment to bask in the sunlight.

Because the Constellation could be destroyed tomorrow—or the next day—or next

year. And if it does happen, I will have done this. And it feels good.

Then a government aircar landed six meters from the statue of Captain Posada,

and Kirk stepped out of it. As the young captain walked toward Takeshewada, she

noted that he was shorter than she had been expecting, though he was still

taller than she was. Most people were, to her great irritation.

Kirk carried himself with a confident air. Takeshewada might almost have called

it smug, though she admitted that she may have been overlaying her own annoyance

at the way Kirk had muscled into this operation. Takeshewada had always been a

hands-on type. She had bristled at spending so much of this mission on the

bridge, and was looking forward to leading this party herself.

Rationally, of course, she knew that Kirk’s reasons for being here made perfect

sense. He had indeed been the “face of the government” to the Proximans in these

hard times, and putting him at the forefront of what they hoped was the arrest

of the person responsible was good politics.

Takeshewada hated politics. She was good at playing the game—a blessing when

serving as XO to Matt Decker, who was as anti-political as they came—but she

still hated having to do it.

“Are we ready to move, Commander?” Kirk asked.

“We’re just waiting on Vascogne. He’s supposed to have the information on our

suspect. Right now, we just know that her name is Tomasina Laubenthal. I’ve

already had our people clear the streets between here and her house.”

Just as Kirk nodded in acknowledgment, Takeshewada heard the whine of a

transporter. Several of the security guards turned sharply, and one or two put

their hands to their phaser holsters, just in case.

However, the two forms that coalesced in the beam were familiar ones: the bald

head and compact form of Etienne Vascogne, and the taller, blonder, and slimmer

form of his assistant chief of security, Helga Litwack.

“Sorry to beam in like this, Hiromi, but I was running late,” Vascogne said as

the transporter whine faded. “Captain!” he said upon sighting Kirk. “Didn’t

realize you were joining the party, sir. Or are you here to give another

speech?”

“This time I’m hoping to commit some actions to speak louder than my words,

Lieutenant,” Kirk said with a disarming smile. Takeshewada hated to admit it,

but it was a damn good smile. No wonder he was the one doing the broadcasts. I

love Matt, but he comes across as the irritating old uncle you could never

stand. Kirk is much more personable.

“What’ve you got, Etienne?” Takeshewada asked.

“A doozy,” Vascogne replied, running a hand over his smooth head as he looked

down at his notes. “Our Ms. Laubenthal is a single caucasian female, fifty-three

years old, born and raised here on Proxima. Graduated with a degree in political

science from Yasmini University in ’34, she’s worked a variety of civil-service

jobs since then, and then went into politics six years ago. Until about two

months ago, she was the deputy assistant to the Proximan secretary of the

interior.”

Kirk frowned. “What happened two months ago?”

“The secretary’s an appointed position,” Vascogne said, glancing up from his

notes. “When the old secretary retired, rather than promote from within, the

Chief Representative decided to give it to someone new from outside. That new

person also brought her own people in—Laubenthal was let go. According to some

people Litwack and I talked to, she had been expecting to get promoted to

assistant, with the assistant becoming secretary. Instead, they were both

dismissed.”

“Chikushou.” Takeshewada muttered the curse.

With a wry smile, Vascogne said, “Yeah, I was thinking that sounded kind of

motive-like.”

“But why wait two months?” Kirk asked.

“That’s the real fun part—she took a vacation to Pirenne’s Peak. It’s in a

mountain range about a hundred kilometers south of here. It only recently became

a popular spot because the weather’s gotten milder in that area over the last

five years or so. Once I saw that, I got Litwack here to help me question some

people about her. That’s why we were late. Most of the people she worked with

are under sedation or dead, but we found a friend of hers named Alvaro Santana

who confirmed that she was bitter after being dismissed. He’d been bugging her

to take the vacation, and she only did so recently—Santana said he was

half-convinced she only went to shut him up about it.” He looked at Takeshewada

with a grave expression. “Nobody’s seen her since she got back. And, according

to the tourist bureau, she spent her entire time on the peak alone and

unescorted— and she left sooner than planned. So if she did find the artifact…”

“I think we have a suspect,” Kirk said dryly. “Time we apprehended her.”

Unholstering a phaser of his own, Kirk signalled to the security people. “Let’s

go!”

As a unit, they moved toward Laubenthal’s house. Within minutes, they arrived at

a nondescript three-story white house with a small lawn area in front. The first

level was taken up with an aircar garage, with white stairs leading up to a door

on the second level. The architecture was your basic prefabricated colonial

standard—Takeshewada mused that it probably dated back to the colony’s founding

over seventy-five years earlier. Where most of the colony had, over time,

developed its own architecture—varying from neighborhood to neighborhood—some

still stuck with the functional original structures.

A sense of the practical outweighing the aesthetic, Takeshewada thought. She

wasn’t sure what it meant, really, but she noted it anyhow.

One of the Enterprise guards—a woman named Leskanich—set up a comm system on

Laubenthal’s lawn. Vascogne handed Kirk an amplifier, which the captain attached

to his uniform shirt. The rest of the guards moved into formation, surrounding

the house, covering all the possible exits (the garage door, the front door, and

a back door) and windows. Takeshewada tried to get a tricorder reading inside

the house, but couldn’t. Something was interfering with the scan—presumably the

Malkus Artifact.

“Attention, Ms. Tomasina Laubenthal,” Kirk said, his voice now loud enough to be

heard for blocks around, “this is Captain James T. Kirk. I’m about to contact

you directly—please answer.” He then gave Leskanich an expectant look.

For her part, Leskanich had brushed aside a lock of curly brown hair to place an

earpiece in. She seemed to be staring at nothing while her fingers played across

the controls of her portable comm unit. Then she looked up and nodded just as

Kirk’s communicator beeped.

Kirk turned off his amplifier and flipped open his communicator. “This is Kirk.

Am I speaking to Ms. Laubenthal?”

“I’ve got a hostage!”

For a second time, Takeshewada muttered, “Chikushou.” This was a complication

they didn’t need.

Muting his communicator, Kirk asked Takeshewada, “Can you verify that?”

Takeshewada shook her head. “I can’t even verify that she’s in there right now.”

Kirk set his jaw, then de-muted the communicator. “Ms. Laubenthal, I need you to

listen to me. We don’t want to hurt you. Please, let the hostage go, and we can

talk thi—”

“There’s nothing to ‘talk’ about, Kirk! They took it all away from me, don’t you

understand? Soon they’ll all be dead and this will be over. Them and you and

your precious starships.”

“Ms. Laubenthal, you don’t need to do this.”

“Oh, I don’t, don’t I? What do you know about it, anyhow?”

“I know that you feel you were cheated out of your job, and I—”

“I feel ?! You don’t have the slightest idea how I feel, Kirk! They took

everything from me! That job was mine, they had no business taking it away from

me!”

Takeshewada sighed. She whispered to Vascogne, “She’s hysterical. I don’t think

reasoning with her’s gonna cut it.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Vascogne said with a shrug. “We can’t do anything else as

long as she has a hostage. Besides, I’ve seen the captain in action before.

Stopped a mob in its tracks. Damndest thing I ever saw. Give him a shot.”

“I’d rather give Laubenthal a shot.”

Vascogne grinned. “Well, we’re working on that.” He opened his communicator,

which was set on a separate frequency from the one Kirk had Laubenthal on.

“Talk to me, people.”

Each member of the team reported in, but nobody could see anyone through the

windows of the house.

Shaking his head, Vascogne said, “I can’t believe this—how’m I supposed to work

without tricorders? Who depends on line of sight, anyhow? It’s like firing

blindfolded.”

“Life’s full of little frustrations for you,” Takeshewada said with a small

smile.

Kirk, meanwhile, was continuing to try to talk Laubenthal down. “Ms. Laubenthal,

I don’t pretend to understand what you’re going through—but I do know that we

can work this out.”

“Really?” Laubenthal let out a rather disturbing laugh. “Why should I believe

you? You really think anyone here is going to work anything out with me?”

“You forget—Commodore Decker and I are in charge of the planet now. I can

guarantee that you won’t be harmed if you free the hostage and turn yourself and

the artifact in now—before anyone else is hurt or killed.”

“No—I can’t take that chance! It won’t be over until everyone is dead!”

“And then what?” Kirk said quickly. “Once everyone’s dead, what will you do

then? You’ll be left with nothing but an empty planet. Starfleet knows what’s

happening here. When no one replies to any of their calls, they’ll send someone

else.”

“Then I’ll kill them, too. I’ll kill everyone, if I have to!”

“Don’t you understand, they’ll keep coming —until they’ve stopped you, once and

for all. In force if they have to, but they will come. If you end this now, we

can keep the damage to a minimum. Please, Ms. Laubenthal, end this now— before

it gets beyond your control or mine.”

Takeshewada heard only heavy breathing through the communicator for several

seconds. I don’t like this, she thought as she opened her own communicator,

tuning it to the frequency the security guards were using. “Does anyone have a

shot?”

Several choruses of “Negative” met her query.

Laubenthal’s breaths got progressively slower. Takeshewada tried to convince

herself that it was a good sign, but found herself unable to do so. The number

of instances of psychotic episodes were many fewer than they were even fifty

years ago, but Takeshewada had been present for one of them—when they

established a mining outpost on Beta Argola six months ago. One of the miners

had an episode and nearly killed both Vascogne and Takeshewada. After that she

read up on the phenomenon.

Right now what she remembered most was that oftentimes psychotics were quite

calm when they committed their most hideous acts.

“Maybe—maybe you’re right.”

Takeshewada held her breath. Laubenthal sounded much too calm for comfort.

“I am right, Ms. Laubenthal,” Kirk said in a honeyed voice. “Please— let the

hostage go.”

“Maybe you’re right, Captain,” Laubenthal repeated in an even calmer voice.

“Maybe this does need to end. Maybe it needs to end now. Right now.”

Then they heard a phaser blast, followed by a scream.

Takeshewada didn’t hesitate as she screamed into her communicator, “Move in!

Everyone, move in!” I can’t believe she shot the hostage, she thought angrily.

As fast as the commander and the security detail reacted, Kirk reacted even

faster. The second the phaser blast sounded, Kirk was running full tilt toward

the staircase that lead to the front door. By the time he reached the top of the

stairs, his phaser was out. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, Kirk

had tried and failed to get the door open. As Takeshewada was wondering if

Vascogne had brought a P-38 with him, Kirk aimed his phaser at the door

mechanism and fired.

The door opened a second later.

“Nothing like the direct approach,” Takeshewada muttered as she and Kirk ran in,

past the smoking remains of the door mechanism. She could hear Vascogne and

several security guards running up the stairs behind them.

Dimly, Takeshewada registered the décor of the house’s interior—several pictures

of a woman at varying ages. A few trophies—a quick glance showed that they were

for sports, and all dated from her time at Yasmini University. Several of the

pictures of her in her younger days had her in climbing or hiking gear, which

fit the profile of someone who’d take a vacation on a mountain.

Oddly enough, there were no pictures of anyone else. No family, no significant

others, nothing. Just Laubenthal herself.

The furniture was fairly ugly to Takeshewada’s eye—and she was no interior

decorator—but the place definitely felt lived in. The gaudy flower-print couch

was piled with readers, and there were more on the shelves. Most of it was

fiction, with titles Takeshewada didn’t recognize.

The commander followed Kirk through a hallway and a sitting room—then he stopped

short at a doorway. Kirk was, of course, taller than Takeshewada, so she

couldn’t see past him to determine what the room was, nor why he stopped.

“What is it?” she prompted.

That had the desired effect, and he moved out of the way, his head lowered.

What the hell—?

As Kirk walked back into the sitting room and Litwack and two others came into

the room, Takeshewada looked into what turned out to be the dining room.

A white plastiform table sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by white

plastiform chairs. A comm unit sat on the table.

Takeshewada registered that in her subconscious. Her conscious mind was taken up

with the dead human female body on the floor next to the table with the very

large hole in her chest.

The face on the body matched that of all the pictures.

Vascogne stuck his bald head into the room. “There’s no one else in the house.”

“Well, I was right,” Takeshewada said with a heavy sigh. “She did shoot the

hostage.”

Chapter Seven

MATTDECKER found Jim Kirk sitting on the bench next to the statue in Posada

Circle. It had been almost eighteen hours since Tomasina Laubenthal had killed

herself. Decker, who had indeed been unable to sleep, had dealt with everything

since then, as Kirk had left the scene and wandered back to this bronze likeness

of Captain Bernabe Posada.

“You plan on spending the rest of your life here, Jim?”

Kirk looked up, his eyes bloodshot. “If you’re here to reprimand me, Commodore—”

“What the hell would I want to do that for?”

“I failed,” Kirk said, sounding surprised that Decker would ask such a foolish

question. “I was supposed to take Laubenthal into custody, and I didn’t do it.”

Decker held up a small handheld computer. “Know what this is?”

Kirk shook his head.

“Laubenthal’s diary. Vascogne found it when he and Bronstein went through her

house. Most of it’s pretty dry—until she lost her job. After that, she

completely lost it. Jim, the woman was several crystals short of a warp

core—there was nothing you could have said. She was completely insane. Those

people you talked to at the SCMC were just scared, normal people. Words work on

rational people. Crazy people, though, that’s a no-win situation.”

“I’ve never believed in the no-win situation.”

Decker snorted. “Yeah, well, I don’t like to lose, either. Doesn’t mean it isn’t

gonna happen.”

Kirk said nothing in response to that.

“Vascogne also recovered the Malkus Artifact. For all the trouble that thing

caused, it’s pretty dull. Just a square piece of metal with a slight green glow,

and this weird marking on it. It can’t be transported, so the Enterprise is

sending a shuttle down.”

That got Kirk’s attention, and he looked up at Decker. “The Enterprise?”

Decker smiled. The last Kirk knew, his entire ship was under sedation. “That’s

right, Jim. You’ve got your ship back. Whatever Rosenhaus and McCoy came up with

worked. They’ve been administering the antidote on your ship, and the hospitals

have been handling it down here. It’s not an instant cure, but your people

should be ship-shape again in a few hours.”

Kirk let out a long breath. “That’s good news, Matt. Thanks.”

“Not only that, but you and I can finally get out of here. The minister of state

is going to be Acting Chief Representative until they can hold another election

in a month or two. Once she’s released by the hospital, she’ll take over, and we

can revoke martial law.”

At last, Kirk smiled. “That’s even better news.” The smile then fell. “What was

the final death toll?”

“Four hundred and fifty-six. Well, technically, four hundred and fifty-eight, if

you count Laubenthal herself and that other wrongful death Bronstein has had to

deal with that was unrelated.”

“That’s more than the crew of either of our ships,” Kirk said in a quiet voice.

“True,” Decker said as he sat down next to the younger man on the bench. “On the

other hand, over four hundred thousand were infected. That’s a point-one-percent

fatality rate.” He sighed. “That doesn’t change how much it stinks, but it

could’ve been a lot worse.”

Kirk stared straight ahead. “It could’ve been a lot better, too.”

“Look, Jim, I know this wasn’t easy. You sit in that chair on that bridge, and

you know that everyone’s relying on you—and when you don’t come through, it’s

rough. But don’t go beating yourself up over it. You did some damn good work

here. Look what you did at the SCMC—hell, Vascogne and I were all set to stun

’em and sort it out later. Instead, you talked ’em out of it. That’s a rare gift

you’ve got there, my friend. All right, so it didn’t work on Laubenthal—but

trust me, she was so far gone, I doubt that the entire Federation Diplomatic

Corps could have talked her down.”

Letting out a very long breath, Kirk said, “You’re right, Matt—I know you’re

right in my head. But I’ve still got this sense of—of failure.”

Decker stood up and put an encouraging hand on Kirk’s shoulder. “Keep that sense

of failure, Jim. But don’t let it overwhelm you. Just make sure you try to do

better next time. That’s what separates the good captains from the great ones.”

Kirk stood up and chuckled. “I’m hardly a ‘great’ anything, Commodore.”

“Maybe not yet. Give it time. So, you done sulking? You’ve got a planet and a

ship waiting for you.”

“That I do, Commodore. Let’s go.”

As they walked toward the aircar Decker had arrived in, Kirk asked, “So what’s

next on the Constellation’ 'sagenda?”

“Well, we have to spend the next few hours getting everything together for

handing power back over. And there’s a memorial service tonight that I think you

and I should attend.”

“Agreed.”

“So, by the time that’s all finished, we’ll have just enough time to get to the

Crellis Cluster.”

“The diplomatic conference?” Kirk asked, wincing. “I was wondering who got

saddled with that.”

Decker shuddered. “Yeah, lucky us. Hiromi’s handling most of it, but I still

need to at least be visible.

I’m barely gonna have time to shave,” he added with a rueful rub of his

stubble-filled cheek. “As it is, I haven’t slept in two days.”

“Actually, Matt, I’ve found that half-asleep is the best way to deal with

diplomats.”

Decker considered that. “Good point. Have to remember that.” As he climbed into

the aircar, he asked, “Don’t believe in no-win situations, huh? You must’ve just

loved the Kobayashi Maru test back at the Academy.”

“Oh, it was a challenge,” Kirk deadpanned.

Frowning, Decker asked, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The night before, I reprogrammed the simulation so I could rescue the Maru and

got away from the Klingons.” He smiled. “You’re not the only one who doesn’t

like to lose, Matt.”

Decker didn’t know whether to be outraged or amused. The bark of laughter that

exploded from his mouth settled the debate. “You’re a piece of work, you know

that?” he said as the aircar took off.

“That’s what the instructor said when she gave me the commendation for original

thinking.”

“You got off easy—and I’ll bet that wasn’t all she said, either.” Decker shook

his head, then offered his hand. “It’s been a pleasure ruling the world with

you, Captain Kirk.”

Kirk returned the handshake. “Likewise, Commodore Decker, likewise.”

 

“So this is it, huh?”

Guillermo Masada stood outside the Shuttlecraft Galileo with Spock and Leonard

McCoy. They were preparing to bring the Malkus Artifact—currently cradled in

Masada’s arms—into orbit. The Enterprise’ 'snext port of call was Starbase 10,

whereas the Constellation was going straight to the Crellis Cluster, so the

former ship would drop the artifact off at the starbase, for its ultimate

transfer to the Rector Institute on Earth. Spock and Masada had contacted the

institute directly, and the director was champing at the bit to get his hands on

it, as was a team of human and Vulcan anthropologists. T’Ramir herself was

catching the next shuttle from Vulcan to Earth.

Meanwhile, a day and a half after Tomasina Laubenthal took her own life, most of

the infected population had been given the serum to cure them of the virus, the

senior staffs of both ships had attended a general memorial service led by Chief

Bronstein and the new Acting Chief Representative, and life on Proxima was

starting to return to a semblance of normal.

And all this because of a ninety-thousand-year-old artifact. Masada wondered if

the folks at the Rector Institute would react the same way McCoy did upon seeing

the thing.

The doctor continued: “It’s just a box.”

Spock did his eyebrow thing again. “I believe, Dr. McCoy, that there is a human

saying about judging a book by its cover. Sometimes the outer form gives no

indication of inner capabilities.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Mr. Spock. Looking at you, one would expect a cold,

emotionless Vulcan—and they’d be absolutely right.”

“And looking at you, they would see an overly emotional human,” Spock said,

“which is why I used the adverb ‘sometimes.’”

Masada chuckled. “There you go again. You really do crack me up.”

Before either Enterprise officer could reply to that, the artifact—which had

been glowing a slightly greenish color—suddenly let loose a quick burst of

bright green light.

So surprised by this action was Masada, that he dropped the box—right onto his

right foot. “Yeow!” he screamed as the metal corner of the artifact slammed into

his boot.

As he pulled his foot out from under it, he noticed that the artifact’s green

glow had disappeared altogether.

Both Masada and Spock took out their tricorders. To Masada’s surprise, he was

now getting a reading from the thing—whatever interference it had been running

before was gone—though the reading he got was, in essence, nothing.

“The artifact has gone inert,” Spock said, his words matching what Masada’s own

tricorder was telling him. “Fascinating.”

“Maybe it’s shutting down,” Masada said. “According to the records, it was

attuned to Malkus. If it became similarly attuned to that Laubenthal woman, her

death may have caused it to go inactive again.”

McCoy said, “She died almost two days ago.” He had taken out his Feinberger, and

was now running it over the three of them.

Masada shrugged. “So it’s not a perfect hypothesis.”

“Well,” McCoy said, “that discharge doesn’t seem to’ve done any harm. Low-level

radiation, only about half a rad. No damage to any of us that I can find.” He

smiled. “Well, except for that foot.”

“The artifact was a tool of an absolute monarch,” Spock said. “It is logical to

assume that any displays it is programmed for would be ostentatious—much like

the lieutenant’s histrionics.”

“Histrionics?” Masada asked angrily as he knelt down to massage his hurt foot.

“Yes. Although, I do admire your continued quest for knowledge. Having already

exhausted the possibilities inherent in deconstructing Vulcan speech patterns in

order to extract a nonexistant humorous intent, you have now moved on to the

much simpler examination of the form of humor known as slapstick.”

Having satisfied himself that nothing was broken, Masada stood up. “I have not

been studying slapstick, all I did was drop the artifact when it surprised me.

For that matter, I haven’t ‘exhausted’ anything, I was just pointing out what I

observed and you know all of this already, don’t you?” He shook his head, and

also noticed that McCoy was trying, and failing, to keep a straight face.

“You’ve been pulling my leg all along, haven’t you?” “I can assure you,

Lieutenant,” Spock said gravely,

“that I would never assume such an undignified position. I leave that to you, as

you have just proven yourself quite adept at it.”

McCoy abandoned all pretense of the straight face, and was now grinning. Holding

up his hands, Masada joined McCoy in his grin and said, “Fine, fine, I

surrender.” He indicated the artifact. “Anyhow, that thing’s all yours. I need

to head back up to the Constellation. Commander Spock, it was a pleasure working

with you.” He held his hand up in the Vulcan salute. “Peace and long life.”

If Spock was surprised at Masada’s knowledge of Vulcan ritual greetings, he

didn’t show it. Instead, he simply returned the gesture and said, “Live long and

prosper, Lieutenant Masada.”

To McCoy, he offered his hand. “And Doctor, congratulations on surviving the

experience of working with Lew. I don’t know whether to offer condolences on

having to work with him or give you a medal for not killing him.”

“Ah, he’s not that bad,” McCoy said, returning the handshake. “He’s got good

instincts, he just needs a little more experience. Give him a couple years,

he’ll make a damn good physician.”

“Tell you what, in two years, I’ll let you know if he’s gotten tolerable.”

“Fair enough,” McCoy said with a smile. “For now, I’d just settle for him

slowing down a little. When we were on the Enterprise, he jostled my arm while

we were preparing some of the antidote. Spilled some Capellan acid on my lab

table. I’ll never get that damn spot out.”

“Really?” Masada grinned. Rosenhaus had twice been involved in incidents in the

mess hall that resulted in food and drink on the floor—once with a particularly

aggressive Tellarite security guard. Vascogne and Takeshewada had managed to

defuse both situations, but they had quickly become part of the Constellation’

'sgossip network. Masada was looking forward to adding this to it, as well.

The two Enterprise officers boarded the shuttle, Spock now carrying the

artifact. Masada took out his communicator. “Masada to Constellation. One to

beam up.”

As the transporter returned him to his ship, he wondered if he’d get a chance to

work with them again.

He hoped so. If ever anyone needed a practical joke played on him, it was

Lieutenant Commander Spock…

 

The third planet in the Narendra system was Class-M. Located in territory

proximate to Klingon space, the empire had been eyeing the planet as a possible

base for some time.

Buried deep under the ground of the smallest of Narendra III’s twelve landmasses

lay a metal box, emblazoned with the name of its former owner on one side. The

slight green glow it gave off was lost in the rock and dirt that encased it.

Within the box, a telepathic voice screamed. Unencumbered by the limitations of

a larynx, it had continued this scream for over ninety thousand years. That mind

had lived alone in the box for all that time.

The first chance for freedom had finally come after so long—but she turned out

to be weak and foolish. A nobody with insignificant dreams of a pointless

vengeance.

Suddenly, and only for a moment, the artifact glowed brighter. When the glow

dimmed back to normal, three brain patterns had imprinted themselves on the box.

 

Now the telepathic voice had company, after a fashion. Three minds that could be

controlled.

When the time was right, in any case…

First Interlude

Captain’s personal log, U.S.S. Enterprise, Captain James T. Kirk, Stardate

4208.5.

In my official log, I noted that Matt Decker died in the line of duty when he

piloted the Enterprise shuttlecraft into the so-called planet-killer. Though his

actions were tragic, it did lead us to the solution to stopping the

planet-killer before it reached the Rigel Colonies.

In this personal log I wish only to add that I regret that the commodore was

unable to take the advice he had given me on Proxima over a year ago: not to let

my sense of failure overwhelm me. Ultimately, Matt was unable to get past the

deaths of the crew of the Constellation, whom he had beamed down to the third

planet of System L-374 only to watch helplessly as that world was destroyed.

I also wish to express my regret for the loss of the Constellation

crew—Commander Takeshewada, Lieutenant Masada, Dr. Rosenhaus, Lieutenant

Vascogne, and the rest of the men and women who served on that fine vessel. I

only hope that the Enterprise can live up to their example of courage and

bravery.

 

Part 2: The Second Artifact

2370

This portion of the story takes place shortly before the Star Trek: Deep Space

Nine second-season episode “The Jem’Hadar.”

Chapter Eight

“WELCOME TO THE O DYSSEY , Commander Sisko. I’m Joseph Shabalala, first

officer.”

Joe Shabalala offered his right hand to Benjamin Sisko as he stepped off the

transporter platform. The U.S.S. Odyssey had just arrived at Station Deep Space

9, a Bajoran station administrated by Starfleet and commanded by Sisko.

Shabalala knew of the tall man—as tall as Shabalala himself, in fact, not a

common occurrence—only by reputation, mainly due to the sudden prominence both

Bajor and DS9 had gained almost two years earlier when Sisko had discovered a

stable wormhole in the Denorios Belt. That wormhole linked the Alpha Quadrant to

the Gamma Quadrant and turned the station from an insignificant backwater to the

most important port of call in the sector.

The handshake Sisko gave in return was firm, the smile that accompanied it

friendly. “A pleasure to meet you, Commander. I was sorry to hear about Captain

Simon.”

Shabalala blinked in surprise. “You knew the captain?”

“She was two years ahead of me at the Academy—and,” Sisko added with a grin,

“captain of the wrestling team when I joined.”

Chuckling, Shabalala said, “Ah yes, what she called her ‘misspent youth.’”

Sisko looked around the transporter room. “You seem to have done well for

yourself. First officer of a Galaxy -class ship.”

Thinking about the disastrous final mission of the U.S.S. Fearless at Patnira,

Shabalala said gravely, “Perhaps. But I’d rather have the captain back. We’d

been together on three different ships, you know—going back to when she was a

full lieutenant and I was an ensign on the Bonaventure. And then she chose me to

be her first on the Fearless when they gave it to her. It’s—very odd to be

serving under someone else.” Banishing thoughts of the past out of his head, he

forced a smile onto his face and indicated the door to the transporter room.

“Speaking of which, we shouldn’t keep Captain Keogh waiting. Shall we?”

“After you, Commander.”

They walked in companionable silence to the captain’s quarters. Sisko suddenly

seemed a bit skittish. As they approached Keogh’s quarters on deck nine,

Shabalala asked, “Is everything all right, Commander?”

Sisko shook his head as if trying to shoo away a fly. “It’s nothing. Just—some

odd memories of my last trip aboard a Galaxy -class ship.”

Nothing more was forthcoming, so Shabalala shrugged it off and touched the

doorchime for Keogh’s quarters. “Come,” came the captain’s deep voice from

behind the doors, and they obligingly opened.

Keogh was standing near his desk, ramrod straight, his hands behind his back, as

if he were conducting an inspection. When he had first reported to the Odyssey

three months earlier, Shabalala had thought that Keogh was just an on-duty pain,

but he’d since seen the older man in a variety of situations, both on and off

duty, ranging from a meeting with the admiralty to drinks in Ten-Forward to a

pitched fistfight against members of his own crew that had been mutated by

spores. No matter what, he always stood perfectly straight, always maintained a

hard, cold expression on his face, and—if at all possible—had his hands behind

his back. It had been a difficult style for Shabalala to get used to after so

many years of Captain Simon’s easygoing manner.

Still, he’d lasted three months—he was halfway to tying the Odyssey’ 'srecord

for tenure by a first officer. The ship had left Utopia Planitia’s shipyards

five years previous and had never had a first officer last more than half a

year. One only lasted a week.

“Greetings, Commander Sisko,” Keogh said with as small a smile as it was

possible for his face to engage in and still be recognizable as such. “I’m

Declan Keogh. Welcome to my ship.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Walking toward the replicator, Keogh asked, “Can I get you a drink?”

“A raktajino would be nice,” Sisko said after a moment’s consideration.

Keogh looked expectantly at Shabalala, who shook his head. He could have asked

for what he wanted—a syntheholic Saurian brandy. But if he did, he would have

had to endure yet another tirade about how he should try a real drink like

whiskey, not “this Saurian swill.” It had only taken the first officer a week to

determine that sharing drinks with the captain wasn’t worth the trouble. As it

is, he thought, Sisko’s probably going to get an earful about his choice of

beverage.

“A raktajino and a black coffee,” Keogh instructed the computer, which

obligingly provided two mugs with same. As he handed the former to Sisko, Keogh

said, “Klingon coffee, eh? Can’t abide the stuff. Never could see how a human

could handle it. Like drinking an oil slick.”

Unable to resist, Shabalala added, “Only without the tangy aftertaste.”

Sisko laughed. Keogh didn’t. Shabalala shrugged, having expected precisely that

reaction.

“Curzon Dax introduced me to it when I served under him as an ensign. I’m afraid

it’s become something of an addiction.” Sisko took a seat on the couch against

the outer bulkhead of the quarters.

Through the window over Sisko’s head, Shabalala could see the spires of Deep

Space 9 from the Odyssey’ 'svantage point at one of the station’s upper pylons.

Looking like a hollowed-out crab, the station had the aesthetic sense that

Shabalala would have expected from the Cardassian Union, who built it as the

seat of their occupation of Bajor decades before: hideous. Shabalala preferred

the sleeker, rounded designs of Starfleet.

“You knew Dax?” Keogh said, taking a seat on the chair perpendicular to the

couch. “Good lord, I haven’t heard from the old man in years. How is he doing?”

“He isn’t—exactly,” Sisko said with a smile. “Curzon died three years ago. Dax

is now in Jadzia, a lieutenant in Starfleet, and my chief science officer.”

“Jadzia? You mean to say that Curzon Dax is a woman now?”

Sisko nodded.

“Some would call that ironic. Others would call it poetic justice.”

Again, Sisko smiled. “I call it lucky enough to get a damn fine science

officer.”

Diplomatically put, Shabalala thought, but was wise enough not to say aloud.

Keogh tilted his head. “Perhaps. In any event, Commander, we didn’t come to your

station to talk about mutual acquaintances. What’s this assignment you need my

ship for?”

Sisko took a sip of raktajino, then set the mug down on the coffee table and

leaned back on the sofa. “It’s several assignments, actually, Captain. Admiral

Todd-man said you’d be detached to the Bajoran sector for the next two weeks.”

Shabalala smiled. “Those are the precise words he used with us. They were also

the only words he used.”

“We were told you would elaborate,” Keogh added.

“Bajor is still trying to rebuild after the Occupation. Unfortunately,

Cardassian mining operations have ruined some of their most arable lands. My

first officer, Major Kira, has come up with a plan to convert a part of Bajor’s

second moon to farmland. She and Lieutenant Dax wrote a proposal that both the

provisional government and Starfleet approved.”

Keogh nodded. “And you want the Odyssey to set up the farm?”

“Eventually, yes,” Sisko said with a small smile. “There’s something you need to

do first.”

“Oh?”

Shabalala had to stop himself from grinning. Keogh only said “Oh?” like that

when he expected to hear something he wouldn’t like.

“Well, what’s a farm without farmers? You need to pick up a group that has

volunteered to toil in the fields. They’re presently in the Valo system on the

Cardassian border—specifically on the ninth planet. The Enterprise relocated

them there two years ago.”

This rings a bell, Shabalala thought. “Isn’t that where many Bajorans set up

resettlement camps?”

Nodding, Sisko added, “And also the base for some of their offworld terrorist

activity against the Cardassians. One terrorist in particular has stayed away

from Bajor even as all the other refugees were welcomed home after the

withdrawal.”

Keogh’s eyes smoldered. “You’re talking about Orta, aren’t you?”

“That’s the one,” Sisko said with a grin.

Standing, Keogh said, “Commander, you can’t possibly be serious. Orta’s a

terrorist of the worst kind. He was never interested in Bajor’s freedom, he just

wanted revenge against the Cardassians for maiming him.”

“I see you’re familiar with Orta’s file,” Sisko said dryly.

“I’ve had my share of run-ins with the Cardassians over the years, Commander

Sisko. I’ve made it my business to know as much as I can about them—and their

enemies. In any case, assuming Orta’s desire to come home and be a farmer is

genuine—which I very much doubt—why on Earth do you need my ship to get him

back?”

“Orta refused to be escorted by a Bajoran ship. He asked for the Enterprise, but

they’re unavailable, so he said another Starfleet ship would do. Since you’re in

the area…” Sisko shrugged.

“Wonderful,” Keogh said, sitting back down. “I’ve been reduced to Picard’s

understudy.”

Shabalala kept his best poker face on and asked, “After we’ve delivered Orta and

his followers to their new home, Commander, what then?”

“Then,” Sisko said, picking up his raktajino, “it’s a matter of getting the

farming colony started. There’s some material you’ll need that’s on Bajor right

now, plus part of the plan calls for use of a starship’s phasers to change the

composition of the land.”

Keogh actually looked intrigued by that. “Really?”

“The moon’s surface is primarily rock, but the top layers are cooled lava. Dax

has come up with a way to use a ship’s phasers to convert that to soil. We’ll

provide you with all the specifics,” Sisko added quickly as Keogh opened his

mouth to ask another question. Again, Shabalala kept his poker face intact.

Sisko went on: “Once that’s done, we’ll have some supplies for the New Bajor

colony that you’ll need to bring through the wormhole to them, and then Admiral

Toddman wants you to patrol the Cardassian border for a few days. Things have

been a bit tense in the DMZ lately, and Starfleet wants a top-of-the-line ship

to do border patrol—remind the Cardassians that we’re taking things seriously.”

“And perhaps remind our own people of what we stand for,” Keogh said irritably.

On this, Shabalala could get behind his captain. Many Starfleet personnel had

been joining the Maquis lately. A recent treaty ceded several Federation

colonies near the Cardassian border to the Cardassian Union and vice versa, and

also declared a Demilitarized Zone between Cardassian and Federation space. It

probably seemed reasonable to the politicians who negotiated it, secure in the

knowledge that it would have no direct bearing on their lives.

Meanwhile, Federation citizens who refused to give up their homes, even though

those homes were no longer in Federation space, found themselves harassed by the

Cardassian military. The situation deteriorated quickly, and a group of

terrorists formed, naming themselves after the Maquis, resistance fighters from

a twentieth-century war on Earth. Indeed, one of the Maquis founders was a

former Starfleet lieutenant commander named Cal Hudson, and several Starfleet

personnel had “defected” to the Maquis since then.

Keogh stared at Sisko. “Orta’s really interested in becoming a farmer?”

“I’ve spoken with Major Kira on the subject. She knows Orta better than anyone

else on the station, though she’s only met him once. From the sounds of it, he

doesn’t want to fight anymore, but he doesn’t trust the provisional government,

either—and he has no interest in setting foot on Bajor again.”

“Why not?” Shabalala asked, confused.

“He was tortured on Bajor,” Sisko said quietly. “It’s not always easy to put

aside those associations.”

Shabalala thought about how he would react if he ever had to return to Patnira.

“I see your point.”

Again, Keogh stood up. “Well, if that’s what Starfleet wants us to do, it’s what

we’ll do. But I don’t see any good reason to like it. Mark my words,

Commander—Orta is a killer. I’ve studied many freedom fighters in my time,

including your own Major Kira, and he does not fit the bill. He’s a killer who

happened to find a semi-legitimate outlet for his need for vengeance. Bringing

him to Bajor in anything other than a prison transport is a mistake. I just hope

we all live to regret it.”

Sisko and Shabalala also stood up, Sisko finishing his raktajino as he did so.

“I hope so, too, Captain. I’ll have Lieutenant Dax forward the specifications of

the farm’s setup to you so you can study it on your way to Valo.”

Again, the just-barely-a-smile. “Thank you, Commander. Mr. Shabalala will show

you to the transporter room.”

“We’ll see you back here tomorrow, then.”

“Barring complications, yes.” Keogh shook the tall commander’s hand. The captain

looked even more sour than usual as he looked at Sisko’s smiling face. He was

definitely expecting those complications.

After they left, Sisko said to Shabalala, “You were awfully quiet in there.”

“Had nothing to say.”

Sisko shot him a look.

Smiling, Shabalala added, “Well, nothing that was worth trying to get a word in

to say, anyhow. I’ve found that Captain Keogh’s monologues are best left

uninterrupted. He always finishes them anyhow; it just takes longer if he has to

start over.”

Sisko laughed at that, and Shabalala joined in the laugh.

As they entered the turbolift, Sisko said, “Keogh may be right about one

thing—Orta’s record isn’t exactly spotless. He’s not the only former resistance

member who’s stayed away from Bajor, but he is the most vocal.”

“I know, I’ve seen some of his speeches.” At Sisko’s surprised look, Shabalala

shrugged. “Captain Keogh isn’t the only one who’s studied Cardassia’s enemies.

Orta’s a borderline anarchist. He makes those Kohn-Ma fellows you put down last

year look positively calm by comparison. I just don’t see him as the farming

type.”

The turbolift stopped and its doors opened. As Shabalala led Sisko out, the

latter said, “I tend to agree, but this is what the chamber of ministers

wanted—and they wouldn’t approve the farming plan if Orta wasn’t part of it.”

“I thought Bajor needed this farm. Why would they jeopardize it just to please

someone like Orta?”

Sisko smiled. “They’re politicians.”

Snorting, Shabalala said, “An excellent point.”

“Seriously, they need to pull all the old factions in. If Bajor’s going to get

back on its feet, it needs all of Bajor—even the anarchists. They can’t afford

another internal squabble like that mess earlier this year.”

“The Circle?” Shabalala remembered reading about the Alliance for Global

Unity—or, simply, the Circle—that had attempted a coup d’état, leading to

Starfleet temporarily abandoning Bajor and Deep Space 9. Sisko and his crew had

exposed the Circle as being supplied by Cardassia—something even the Circle

themselves did not know—and the coup died aborning. But that kind of unrest was

not uncommon on Bajor even now, and Shabalala saw the wisdom in the provisional

government attempting to unify the factions in order to avoid another such civil

conflict.

“We’ll keep you apprised of our progress, Commander,” Shabalala said as they

entered the transporter room.

Nodding as he stepped onto the platform, Sisko said, “Energize.”

 

It had all been going too smoothly—Orta knew that now. Not a single military

ship had even come close, despite their going through one of the more densely

populated shipping lines, and when they landed on the planetoid, they had met no

resistance until they reached the rendezvous in the caves.

Cardassians loved their theatrical trials, after all, and it would be a much

better show if they had footage of Orta actually purchasing the weapons from the

Yridian.

Once the transaction was completed, it was as if the Cardassian soldiers grew

out of the rock. It was ironic, since Orta himself had been the one to insist on

meeting in the caves. Orta had always preferred dark spaces far underground.

Sensors didn’t work as well underground, and the darkness was better for Orta’s

guerilla tactics than Central Command’s more overt ones.

But this time they used that predilection against him. They got the Yridian to

make the deal, and made the weapons—stolen Starfleet phaser rifles—impossible

for Orta to resist. It was the perfect setup, and Orta fell for it.

They brought him to Bajor, of course. It was the first time he’d set foot on his

homeworld since he stowed away in the cargo hold of a Ferengi trader at the age

of ten. His foster parents—Orta had been orphaned as an infant—had just died.

They were collaborators who had made the mistake of betraying the Cardassians to

help a group of Bajoran refugees. They tried to play both ends, and wound up

disintegrated for their trouble.

Orta had no great love for his foster parents, but he had less for the

Cardassians who rewarded their compassion with death. He swore he would show

them death.

He showed them plenty. For twenty years, “Orta”went from being the name of a

forgotten runaway orphan to that of the scourge of the Cardassians. He made

dozens of strikes against Bajor’s oppressors, gaining a deserved reputation for

brutality. It got to the point where every off-Bajor terrorist act was credited

to Orta whether he was involved or not.

And now they had captured him. He had brought only one compatriot to the

rendezvous, and she had died in the firefight. Central Command knew he had

dozens of followers. The trial would be much more effective if it ended with a

score of executions instead of one. But Orta would not yield, not to the glinn

who ruined his face on the transport, nor to the Obsidian Order agent who carved

out his vocal cords on Bajor.

When even the vaunted Obsidian Order proved unable to pry the information out of

Orta, they—in a rare show of cooperation with Central Command—agreed to transfer

Orta to a gul named Madred. Orta knew of many who had been sent to Madred. None

returned unbroken.

That was when he struck back.

The Cardassians’mistake was in thinking that burning off half his face and

allowing him to speak only through the benefit of an electronic vocoder attached

to his neck had softened him up, with Madred prepared to deliver the killing

blow.

It only increased his determination.

Orta never found out the name of the Obsidian Order agent who ruined his larynx.

But as Orta carved the man to pieces with the very kitchen knife the agent had

used to cut his food while eating in front of a starving Orta for days on end,

the Bajoran pretended that it was his foster mother he was killing, that it was

his foster father who screamed in agony, that it was the Cardassian who’d killed

them who begged for his life.

His people rescued him at great risk to themselves. A team of fifteen had

mounted the rescue mission, and only four of them—counting Orta himself—made it

back to the Valo system.

Within an hour of his return, he had already planned an assault on Central

Command’s listening post at Chin’toka.

Each Cardassian he killed was that Obsidian Order agent, that glinn, Madred, his

foster parents—it didn’t matter. None of it mattered, as long as Cardassians

continued to die. It would never end.

Orta woke up suddenly. He did not scream—he could not even if he felt the urge

to. His vocoder lay on the ground next to his pallet. Without it, he could not

utter any sounds. With it, he spoke clearly and eloquently, albeit with a slight

artificial timbre. With the damage done to his face, his mouth could not

properly form words in any case. In many ways, the Obsidian Order agent had done

him a favor. Had he left his vocal cords intact, Orta’s speaking voice would

have been slurred, distorted, foolish. Forced to rely on technology, he could

still rally his people to his cause with the same eloquence he’d had before his

temporary capture.

At least for a while. After a time, the terrorists’ equipment started breaking

down. Weapons ceased to function, warp drives went inert, and Orta’s reputation

had grown to such epic proportions that everyone was scared to even do business

with him. The Cardassians made it clear that anyone caught dealing with Orta

would receive the strictest punishment possible. His activities became

curtailed, limited to strikes on the border at the Valo system. It got to the

point that the Cardassians’ attempt to frame Orta for the attack on the

Federation colony at Solarion IV failed because the terrorist’s own resources

had dwindled to the point that such an attack was no longer physically possible

for him to achieve.

Two years ago came the final insult: the cause no longer existed. The

Cardassians had withdrawn from Bajor. His homeworld was free. Orta had thought

it too good to be true—a trick to lull the refugees, the terrorists, the freedom

fighters out of hiding and then have them all killed.

Instead, he soon realized, the Cardassians had played the ultimate joke on

Bajor: they now had to govern them-selves. They proved as inept as Orta had

feared. A “provisional” government formed. At the first opportunity, they begged

the cowards of the Federation for help; they fell victim to internecine politics

and attempted coups. The only leader on the planet worth a damn was Kai Opaka,

and she died within months of the withdrawal.

Bajor was still helpless. Orta had been helpless twice in his life. He saw no

good reason to repeat the experience.

So he had resisted all attempts to bring him “home.” The caves of Valo IX were

more of a home than Bajor ever would be, as long as Bajorans remained weak and

foolish.

But his followers grew restless. The Cardassians had gone, and they were left

with nothing. Without the Cardassians to rally against, they lost their fire,

their motivation. In truth, so had Orta. True, he would always desire vengeance

against the people who had destroyed his homeworld, destroyed his family,

destroyed him—but that could only go so far with the others.

Then he found the prophecy.

Orta’s gift had always been the ability to form plans in an instant. He had not

been in Valo five minutes after being rescued from weeks of torture before he

had come up with the scheme to destroy the base at Chin’toka. Likewise, as soon

as he came across the prophecy in a derelict civilian vessel that his people had

salvaged after it drifted into Valo, a new plan formed. He just needed to wait

for the right moment—a moment that came when the provisional government came to

him with an offer to go to Bajor’s second moon.

“Ready to go through with it?”

Orta looked up to see Tova Syed, his most loyal lieutenant. They had first met

as children on the refugee camp at Valo II. They had grown up together, suffered

together, fought together. She had been the one to spearhead his rescue from the

Cardassians, and she was one of the other three who survived the mission.

However, in the last two years, she had also been the one urging him most

strongly to return to Bajor. Like Orta, she did not trust Bajor’s provisional

government, nor the Federation—but she did believe that the time for violence

was over. When the enemy was Cardassia, they had to fight. This war, though,

needed to be fought in other, more peaceful ways.

But she also always deferred to Orta in the end.

After affixing the vocoder to his neck, Orta said, “No, I’m not ready. I don’t

think I’ll ever truly be ready to become a farmer.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said with a smirk that made the scar over her nose ridge

curve in an odd manner. “I think after twenty years of destruction, working to

create something will be a nice change. In any case, the Odyssey’ 'shere to take

us to the moon.”

“How wonderful.” Orta had been disappointed in Starfleet’s choice of escort. He

had no love for the Federation, but he had liked Jean-Luc Picard—mainly because

the Enterprise captain had made his Federation superiors look like the fools

they were for falling for the Cardassians’ frame of Orta—and had been looking

forward to seeing him again.

“Turns out that the Odyssey is of the same class as the Enterprise.”