CHAPTER 2

This was just the sort of meeting that usually put Leonard McCoy to sleep.

In fact, he’d nearly dozed off on two occasions in the past hour alone. Fortunately—or not so fortunately, McCoy groused silently—he’d been able to gut it out each time and remain alert enough to follow the conversation.

At the moment, he was listening to the Starfleet cultural anthropologist who sat across the table from him in the Zapata’s conference room. Gibbs, the man’s name was.

“In many ways,” said the anthropologist, stroking his brown brush of a chin beard, “the Stugg are a people of contradictions. They showed openness when they originally invited Starfleet to visit their world seventy-five years ago, leading to Admiral McCoy’s encounter with them. On the other hand, they have since asked all Federation personnel to leave their world temporarily on four occasions—with no explanation.

Drake, the tall, red-haired captain of the Zapata, nodded sagely. “Of course, none of the other periods of isolation lasted more than a standard month. Until now.”

Admiral McCoy hadn’t grown particularly fond of Drake. While the other four attending the conference— besides Drake and McCoy himself—were a collection of diplomats and Federation cultural contact “experts,” the captain was at least reputedly a man of action. Yet he’d allowed the meeting on his ship to drone on in no particular direction.

“That’s true,” agreed Carmen, a painfully thin, dark-haired woman who’d made a career out of conflict mediation. “There is no precedent for an isolationist period of this duration in our experience with the Stugg.”

Megipanthos, the director of the Federation’s scientific exchange program, took a deep, noisy breath. Obviously, thought McCoy, the man had trouble with his sinuses. That, and he could stand to lose some weight.

“However,” Megipanthos began—giving the impression that he was going to contribute something really important—”as we discussed, we have seen other unexplainable behavior in our dealings with the Stugg.”

McCoy sighed, not bothering to hide it. In his day, he had watched starship captains size up a problem in an instant and spend whatever time they had—which usually was precious little—executing a brilliant and effective course of action.

And then there was this.

“How does the Prime Directive apply here?” Gibbs asked.

“Actually,” replied Gildenstern, the woman from Federation legal affairs, “it doesn’t. It’s just not an issue. We have had contact with the Stugg for many years.” She frowned suddenly. “Of course, they could invoke the Prime Directive …”

“Perhaps, in a sense,” said Gibbs, “they have invoked the Prime Directive.” He seemed downright excited by the idea. “Perhaps their silence is their way of invoking it.”

The admiral silently groaned.

Carmen considered Gibbs’s comment for a moment— a long moment, McCoy noted—before responding. “Well,” she replied, “Federation law broadly defines how a culture may invoke Prime Directive protection. So it is possible.”

“But not certain,” Captain Drake added, with a certain ominousness.

That was the last straw. McCoy would not let this charade go on for another minute. He had wanted to— hell, he’d insisted on participating in this mission to get away from the drudgery of Starfleet command. And here he’d run smack-dab into the same old mind-set dozens of light-years away.

“I know,” he said. “Why don’t we just go to the Stugg capitol, beam down, and damned well ask them?”

An embarrassed silence descended over the room. When Drake broke it, he spoke to McCoy in the same tone he might have used in reasoning with a recalcitrant child.

“An interesting idea, Admiral.” Drake leaned back in his chair. “Has your direct experience with the Stugg provided any insight into why that might be successful?”

The admiral made no effort to match the captain’s soft, polite tone. “My direct experience as a Starfleet officer for over one hundred years has been that one should never overlook the obvious.”

Drake turned to the anthropologist. “What do you think, Mr. Gibbs?”

The man shrugged. “Well,” he replied, stroking his beard again, “with respect to Stugg interpersonal relationships, in certain social situations it is imperative for an individual to initiate contact even when anticipating resistance. In these situations, to fail to do so is considered worse than rude.”

McCoy harrumphed in satisfaction.

“Of course,” Gibbs continued, “in other situations, initiating interpersonal contact breaks a strong taboo and has serious social repercussions.”

McCoy cursed under his breath, realizing where the conversation would soon be going. Megipanthos was the first to speak.

“We could develop a computer program,” the director suggested. “Then try to extrapolate from our existing data base of Stugg interpersonal social conventions.”

“Allowing us to project possible outcomes of initiating contact,” Carmen added.

“Exactly,” Megipanthos told her. “Of course, the findings would not be conclusive, but they would give us a clearly defined set of options—something to talk about, at least.”

Just what we need, thought McCoy. Something to talk about.

This time he groaned out loud. How much more of this could he take? How much, in fact, could anyone take?

The next twenty minutes of the meeting focused on how to formulate the computer program, with a digression into the issue of whether the creation of the Stugg cultural data base would constitute a breach of the Stugg’s privacy—considering that they may or may not have invoked the Prime Directive. Everyone at the meeting finally agreed that privacy was probably not an issue, but the legal affairs and cultural anthropology people agreed to assign staff to research the issue anyway.

McCoy couldn’t be sure where the conversation went from there, because when steep threatened to take him a third time, he didn’t fight it. He embraced it with open arms.

A light tap was all that was required to rouse the admiral from his nap. When he opened his eyes, he saw Captain Drake’s slightly embarrassed face hovering over him.

McCoy was used to the look, but didn’t feel any embarrassment himself. If he needed or wanted to sleep, he’d damned well do it. At his age, he had learned to listen carefully to his body’s whims.

“Admiral,” said Drake, “there’s a Priority One message for you from Starfleet Command.”

McCoy felt a chill. Someone’s died, he thought.

“You can take it in my ready room,” Drake offered.

“Thanks,” McCoy grunted automatically.

As he got up, he noticed for the first time how painfully silent the room had become. No one was talking—they were too busy looking at him.

“As you were,” he told them. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Exiting the conference room, the admiral couldn’t shake his sense of dread. One of the few regrets he had on reaching 145 was that he’d lived to see so many friends kick the bucket.

Through the years, he’d received “the call” more times than he wanted to remember. He had developed a peculiar sixth sense about it—an ability to recognize it with uncanny accuracy.

Now, as he crossed the bridge escorted by Captain Drake, he didn’t permit himself to think about who it might be. Still, the feeling of horror was stronger than it had been in the past.

Whatever the message was about, he didn’t want to hear it. Yet, at the same time, he couldn’t turn away.

Entering the captain’s ready room, he allowed himself to be guided around Drake’s desk.

“Please sit down, Admiral,” the captain said softly.

“No,” McCoy said simply. “Thanks,” he added as an afterthought. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stand.”

Drake nodded. “If you need me, I’ll be on the bridge,” he said. Then he left the room.

McCoy paused only for a moment to put his hands down on the desk in front of him. He could feel the familiar tremor in his arms as they helped to support his weight.

“Computer,” he said, “please relay message for McCoy, Leonard H., Admiral, to this station.”

Without delay, the small screen in front of him produced an image of Admiral Keaton. Keaton was highly placed in Starfleet security and posted to Command headquarters on Earth. The fact that she was relaying the information personally told McCoy that whatever the message was, it was important,

“Admiral McCoy,” she said curtly.

McCoy responded with a nod. “Admiral Keaton.”

Her expression changed. “I have some bad news,” she told him. “It relates to Federation security, but it’s of direct interest to you personally.” A pause. “It appears your former colleague and friend, Ambassador Spock—”

“Has been killed,” McCoy finished for her, realizing he’d been right all along. Ice water trickled down his spine. “How?” he asked.

The admiral shot him a quizzical look before she spoke again. “No, Admiral McCoy. You misunderstand. To the best of our knowledge, Ambassador Spock is still alive. That is why we have a security problem.”

Keaton gave him a second, even more quizzical look.

“Why did you think he was dead?” she asked.

McCoy could feel the tightness in his chest release a notch. He took a breath, let it out.

“Doctor’s intuition,” he replied. “So … what’s Spock done to make himself a security problem?”

She frowned. “What I’m about to tell you is highly classified, Admiral. Only people with Priority One clearance are privy to this information, and even then it’s released strictly on a need-to-know basis.”

“I understand,” McCoy replied.

But he was thinking: I was wrong about “the call.” That had never happened before.

It figured that Spock would give him a scare like that over nothing. Despite his annoyance with his old comrade, he couldn’t help but feel a tide of relief wash over him.

Apparently, that pig-headed Vulcan had gotten himself into some kind of hot water. That was all right. McCoy had seen Spock overcome the odds before.

Too stubborn to die, the admiral thought. Like me.

“Ambassador Spock,” Keaton explained, “has been involved in a private, covert operation on the planet Romulus for the last few years. He’s working with a small group of Romulan insurgents called unificationists, who—”

“—are seeking a reconciliation and reunification with the planet Vulcan,” McCoy remarked. “I’ve heard of them. But I’m surprised that Spock would get himself mixed up with a bunch of pie-in-the-sky idealists.”

McCoy made a note to put that question to Spock when next he saw the Vulcan.

“I will assume he had a logical reason,” Keaton responded. “In any case, Spock was among a group of unificationists who were recently taken prisoner on one of the Romulan Empire’s outer worlds. A place called Constanthus.”

McCoy leaned forward. “Taken prisoner?”

Damn that Spock. His feeling of relief died aborning.

“Do the Romulans know who they’ve got?” he asked.

Keaton shook her head. “No. The communications we’ve been able to intercept show they’re so far unaware of it. However, if and when they do find out, we’re facing a security breach that could be a most serious threat to the Federation.”

The implications of Spock’s capture were very clear to McCoy. As an admiral, he had learned more about Federation security than he had wanted to know.

He knew that if the wrong person fell into hostile hands it could be disastrous. Unfortunately, Spock was very much the wrong person. His Vulcan mind was like a steel trap, full of secrets the Federation couldn’t afford to see exposed.

“What’s the plan to get him out?” McCoy asked.

Though he would later decide that he must have been mistaken, for a moment McCoy was sure that Keaton had squirmed at the question. And he had never seen her squirm before.

“We’re dispatching a Galaxy-class vessel to the Romulan neutral zone,” she told him. “We would like you to join them, as an expert on Ambassador Spock. No one alive knows him better than you do.”

McCoy was surprised. But the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. After all, he did know Spock better than anyone.

“Of course,” he responded. “I’ll be glad to help however I can.”

She nodded. “Good. The coordinates have already been forwarded to Captain Drake. You will rendezvous with the Galaxy-class ship I spoke of. Only you and the senior officers on board will know that Spock is in the custody of the Romulan Empire. This briefing and the one being given to those officers are being sent with the most sophisticated coding available to Starfleet today. I expect everyone involved to take all possible precautions.”

Admiral Keaton eyed McCoy intensely.

“Let me remind you once again that secrecy is our greatest weapon here, Admiral. It must be maintained at all costs.”

McCoy bristled at that. He hadn’t reached his rank and age without a clear understanding of security.

“Thank you,” he told her. “I know what a Priority One classification means. After all, I had that rating when you were still a plebe at the Academy.”

McCoy made no effort to soften his tone, letting his displeasure show. Technically speaking, he didn’t outrank Keaton, but he had certainly lived a damned sight longer than she had.

His words and tone had their desired effect. Keaton looked contrite. Or anyway, as contrite as McCoy expected she had ever looked.

“Of course,” she said. “I didn’t mean to suggest—”

“Fine, fine,” McCoy cut her off. “Now, what’s the name of the ship that I’m meeting?”

Keaton paused for a moment, as if she were delivering important news.

“It’s the U.S.S. Enterprise.”

***

Montgomery Scott was sleeping when the call came, and he was still groggy when he reached the computer console. He had spent a long night reconfiguring the warp engines of his shuttlecraft.

The net result of his work was only a minimal increase in engine efficiency. Still, he had taken pleasure in getting any increase at all, after the computer had told him the system could not be improved even marginally—and definitely not, the computer pointed out, using the configuration Scotty had planned for it.

He activated the computer screen with a tap of his controls—and straightened when he saw why the computer had flagged him. It was a Priority One communication, heavily encrypted. Holding his breath, the engineer waited to see if the computer would be able to decode it.

It had been a simple matter to program his computer to scan subspace messages and news services for information that interested him. Among the subjects it was programmed to flag were a select group of names.

Doctor—nay, Admiral—McCoy was on that list. So was Captain Spock—or Ambassador Spock, as he was known these days. Of course, most of the information Scotty’s computer scanned was on open public and Starfleet channels.

Coded messages were more difficult—he was no Uhura when it came to deciphering such things. However, Scotty knew that a number of the codes Starfleet used were based on engineering protocols.

As a result, he’d designed and added circuits to the communications system that looked for codes based on these same principles and then interpreted them based on Scotty’s personal data base. The Priority One code that contained this particular message was based on the shifting harmonics of warp field physics.

After a long moment, the message finally came through, allowing him to eavesdrop on it. He smiled at the sight of Doctor McCoy, though he didn’t know the woman on the other end.

Then Scotty heard the news Keaton was bringing, and his smile faded. He leaned back heavily into his padded chair.

Spock was in danger. Grave danger.

Even if the Romulans never found out the Vulcan’s true identity, Romulan justice was swift and sure. And in the Romulan Empire, there was only one punishment for treason.

Scotty knew that the Federation was in a difficult position. It couldn’t launch a full-scale attack to retrieve one man.

And even if such a thing were possible, it wouldn’t work. Spock would be tried, convicted, and punished long before forces could be mobilized.

A smaller-scale rescue would have a little better chance, but a Starfleet vessel would never get very far into the Romulan Empire. This time, it seemed to Scotty, Spock would not escape death or have anyone there to help him cheat it.

The thought left him cold. Scotty felt he was listening to the death knell of someone he’d once believed was indestructible.

That, of course, was at a time when he was young— when they all were young. When they firmly believed their adventures would go on forever.

In those days, Scotty had been known as a miracle worker—though in truth, the engineer and his friends had accomplished their miracles together. Still, he’d believed that anything was possible.

Maybe in those days something could have been done for Spock. But Montgomery Scott had lived too long and seen too much to believe that anymore. In any case, he was alone now, and there was certainly nothing he could do by himself.

Scotty shook his head sadly. This time, there was no hope. None at all.

Unless…

No.

It would never work…

Absolutely not.

… even if there was time.

And then Scotty felt that rush of ideas that never seemed to come on call, but always managed to appear when absolutely necessary.

Checking the navigational computer, he saw that he could cover the distance in a reasonable time—possibly even quickly enough to save Spock.

But there were too many variables. Too many things the engineer didn’t know and couldn’t plan for.

Scotty quit that line of thinking, deeming it unproductive. He wouldn’t bother to calculate the odds; he could guess that they would be very high. And, in any case, the decision was already made.

He reset the shuttle’s course. Starbase 178 and what he needed were twelve hours away, and he had a lot of work to do before he arrived.

Captain Jean-Luc Picard sat down behind the sleek, dark desk in his ready room and tapped the padd on his control panel.

The monitor in front of him displayed the long,weather-worn face of a Starfleet commodore. Picard didn’t normally hear from such a person unless the circumstances were grim.

“There’s no easy way to say this, Captain.” Commodore Edrich frowned, emphasizing the deep lines already in his face. “It’s Ambassador Spock. He’s been captured with a group of unificationists on one of the Romulan Empire’s outer worlds. A place called Constanthus— literally, Crossover, for its position halfway between Romulus and the Neutral Zone.”

Picard’s mouth went dry. Spock …

“Do they know who he is?” he asked.

Edrich shook his head. “Not yet—so time is of the essence. That’s why we’re dispatching a consultant to help you. Someone who knows Spock like the back of his hand.”

Picard shifted uneasily in his chair. “A consultant,” he echoed.

The commodore nodded. “His name is McCoy. Admiral Leonard McCoy. He and Spock—”

“I know who he is,” Picard interrupted. “And I know his relationship to Spock.” Better than anyone could possibly guess, Picard mused.

“Then our business is finished. I am forwarding the rendezvous coordinates and formal orders to your ship,” Edrich said. “Good luck, Captain.”

Picard nodded. “Thank you,” he replied.

With that, Edrich disappeared from the monitor.

The captain turned away from the blank screen to consider the stars outside his ready-room windows.

Time is a path from the past to the future and back again. The present is the crossroads of both. He wondered at the simplicity and wisdom of Surak’s words.

In the past, he had traveled into the Romulan Empire to find Spock and to determine the ambassador’s reason for being there. Then, as now, Federation security had been at stake. Picard’s orders had been to determine whether Ambassador Spock had turned to the Romulan side.

Undercover on Romulus, Picard had found Spock and discovered the Vulcan’s work in the reunification movement. In the course of events, Picard had been able to help Spock—though truthfully, they had helped each other.

But that was in the past, when the Vulcan was living freely, if secretly, on the Romulan homeworlds. Now the ambassador was a prisoner of the Empire—a different matter entirely.

Picard felt his past and future with Spock merging into the same moment—the crossroads that Surak had identified as the present. In his mind, Picard despaired for the future of Ambassador Spock, the man who had helped shape the Federation’s destiny and who had touched Picard’s mind as well as his life.

Knowing that his options and the time to act would be severely limited, Picard could only resolve to honor the man and—whatever happened—to do his duty.