Dreams of the Raven [030-066-5.0]

By Parimount Pictures

Synopsis

A merchant ship's frantic S.O.S. sends the U.S.S. Enterprise TM speeding

to the rescue! But the starships mission of mercy soon becomes a

desperate struggle for survival against a nightmarish enemy Captain Kirk

can neither identify nor understand, an enemy he must defeat without the

aid of one of his most trusted officers

the Leonard McCoy Kirk knew is gone. In his place stands a stranger--a

man with no memory of his Starfleet career, his family, his friends.. or

the one thing James T. Kirk needs most!

The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you

purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was

reported to the publisher as "unsold and destroyed." Neither the author

nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this "stripped

book."

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

are either the product of the author's imagination or are used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,

living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the

Americas, New York, NY 10020

Copyright 1987 Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster

Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or

portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket

Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN 0-671-743562

First Pocket Books printing June 1987

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

Printed in the U.S.A.

Dedicated to my mother and father

.Prologue.

KYRON GENTAI-HANN, nephew by marriage to the Exalted House of Kotzher,

and captain of the IKF Falchion, was bored and angry. He had been in a

perpetual state of boredom and anger for an entire year, ever since the

Klingon Military Council had -"honored" him with a posting to the

Belennii star system, a worthless holding of the Empire set in a

position of supreme strategic unimportance in a fardistant corner of

undisputed space. That Kyron, a warrior of acknowledged skill and long

years of service to the Empire, should have received such an assignment

was directly attributable to his alliance to the Exalted House of

Kotzher, now exalted in name only. This last year had given Kyron

sufficient leisure in which to regret, with increasing bitterness, his

marriage into a family which had fallen into imperial disfavor. Of his

wife he thought nothing at all, confident that she returned his lack of

interest. Being a Klingon, Kyron did not feel compelled to keep his

growing resentments to himself. On the contrary, the privilege of

bullying the crew of the Falchion was one of the few meagre

compensations still left to him. His subordinates--no less bored Jot

angry, but perhaps even more resentful since they had less scope for bad

temper--had spent the first months of the long voyage to Belennii

engaging in frequent bouts of petty bickering which inevitably

culminated in physical violence. The resulting fatalities reduced the

somewhat crowded conditions of the crew quarters, thus easing the most

unbearable of the tensions. By the end of the first year of their tour

of duty, the remaining crew members had settled into a sullen acceptance

of the tedium of routine patrol over a quadrant of space that contained

one white dwarf; two yellow stars without planets; 4,020 asteroids of

sufficient size to merit a star-chart notation; and a periodic comet

which would reappear in their area in 845 years. On the 451st day of

that patrol, Captain Kyron was expatiating at great length on the

cowardice of the Imperial Ministry in advising the Emperor to accept a

truce with the Federation. Such criticism bordered on treason; however,

if the captain cherished any hopeful fantasies of being recalled to

Klinzhai in order to stand trial, he was greatly deluded. His crew had

long since ceased to hear his words, despite the loud and bellicose

manner in which they were delivered. "Peace is for the soft worms of the

decadent Federation dung-heaps?' screamed the captain from his command

throne. Beads of sweat gathered on his bronze-dark skin; his forked

eyebrows bristled stiffly with rage while his mustache drooped damply

from the exhalations of his oratory. "Peace is the corpse that feeds

their maggot growth!" He had reached a fever pitch of invective against

his own government and was now marching into a denunciation of its

former enemies. As he peered down into the red shadows of the crew pit,

his voice dropped in pitch. "Do not be fooled by their treachery," he

warned his listless navigator. "They are weak, but they are also

cunning..."

"Commander,' called out the communications officer. "I am receiving a

transmission."

"... and should be killed outright like defective newborns." Kyron

paused for breath, and only then did he realize that one of his crew had

spoken. In the last 451 days he had never been interrupted in the midst

of his diatribes; he was unprepared for such a novelty. "It isn't time

for a scheduled communication, Kath," he barked angrily at the offending

officer. Having built up a storm of temper, it made little difference to

him where it was directed. "No, my lord," agreed Kath with proper

subservience. He, too, seemed rather stunned by the occurrence. "But it

is not a message from Command Base; it is from an alien craft." At those

words, a hunched figure in a dim corner of the bridge came to life with

a guttural curse. The sound of frantic, if somewhat belated, computer

activity followed soon after. "Scanners reveal an unregistered scoutship

at 457 kilometers, approaching on an intercept course, rendezvous at

94-mark-12," announced the negligent science officer as calmly as his

anxiety allowed. Kyron gave an exultant howl of glee. "Imbecile! Eye of

a rotting cadaver!" He pulled a disrupter from his belt and stunned his

science officer into unconsciousness. Thus appeased, the captain turned

his attention to the intruding alien. "Raise shields," he ordered with a

spreading grin. "Lock phasers on target." An unregistered craft was fair

game for his battle cruiser. He cared little whether it posed any real

danger; the Falchion was long overdue for battle maneuvers. Almost as an

afterthought, he inquired of Kath, "Who are they?" Kath released the

broadcast from the alien. "... your Imperial Servant, most unworthy of

attention, beseeches most humbly..." came the bleating voice from the

communications translator.

"Gleaners!" spat out Kyron with disgust. He had little use for this race

of scavengers that eked out a subsistence living from the leavings of

the Klingon Empire. "Prepare to fire."

"We bring you great wealth and power," continued the voice from the

scoutship. Kyron stayed his next command. "What trickery does this scum

propose?"

"A wreck, such salvage we have found," whined the Gleaner. "We can offer

information..." The captain of the Falchion ordered Kath to open

communication channels.

"Where?" he demanded of the alien. "Where is this wreckage?"

"Ah, worthy ship chief," answered the Gleaner with humble solicitude.

"We would be only too glad to share this knowledge with you in the

privacy of your vessel..." And for a percentage of the haul, thought

Kyron with a touch of pragmatism. He loosed a savage kick at his stunned

science officer, urging him to regain consciousness with greater haste;

Jaeger was quite adept with the mind-scanner and would be needed soon.

"Very well," Kyron said grudgingly. "I will discuss terms with you.

Prepare to beam aboard." His toothy grin returned. He would have plenty

of opportunity to destroy the Gleaners later, after they had given him

the information he wanted.

Chapter One.

Captain James T. KIrk of the U.S.S. Enterprise stopped dead in his

tracks at the sight of the phaser rifle aimed at his chest. His two

companions followed his example. The weapon was impressive its polished

metal surfaces were studded with jewel-like power settings which pulsed

with a hypnotic rhythm. The face behind the gun was impassive. "We come

in peace," declared the starship captain calmly. He was shorter and

stockier than the men who flanked him, yet he possessed an air of

command that owed more to force of personality than to his gold tunic

and braid. Kirk smiled his most winning smile and turned his hands palm

up in a gesture of friendship, but the sturdy form which stood in their

path showed no signs of giving way. The round face of the riflebearer

twisted into a scowl and his hands gripped the stock more tightly.

Passage through the narrow corridor remained blocked. "Try

"Take us to your leader,'" suggested the first of Kirk's companions, an

older man dressed in science blue. "Hardly original, Bones."

"To old troopers like us, perhaps, but he may never have heard it

before." The second of Kirk's companions tried his own approach. "We

require immediate access to the next area. Let us pass." The Vulcan's

tone was decidedly more emphatic than that of his captain, but just as

ineffectual. More so--the whine of the phaser's power pack grew in

volume. McCoy snorted. "Well done, Spock. Your diplomatic powers are

astounding. If you're not careful, you'll get us shot. And a loose

phaser bolt could pierce the hull and destroy this entire section of the

trading post." The broad wave of his arm included the corridor in which

they stood and a generous amount of the metal structure to which it

belonged. "I, for one, do not want to eat vacuum for breakfast." The

science offic er stared coldly at the doctor. "The illogic of this

situation is not fascinating. It is tedious." He took a step forward.

"Steady, Mr. Spock," cautioned the captain, holding him back. "We

mustn't alarm the native population." He continued smiling down the gun

barrel. "In fact, I'm sure we'll all be friends before too long." This

time Kirk took the step forward. The phaser burst into fire and bright

bolts of red light rained over the bodies of the three officers. "Die,

Klingon pigs!" yelled their assailant. Loosing another salvo from his

gun, he turned and ran down the corridor. "Am I expected to fall to the

floor, wounded and dying?" asked Spock archly as the young boy

disappeared around a corner. "You're no fun at all," complained McCoy.

The three men continued their walk away from the outer docking ring of

the station and headed for its center hub. "See if I ever ask you to

play cops and robbers." The Vulcan could think of no reply to this

reference to traditions of Human childhood. The doctor took advantage of

Spock's silence to turn his attention to Kirk. "Better not let Star

Fleet hear of this fiasco, Jim. It could ruin an otherwise sterling

military career."

"You win some; you lose some," said Kirk philosophically, smiling at the

memory of the freckled face which reminded him of his own nephew, Peter,

at that age. When their corridor reached an intersection with the

station's third ring, Kirk looked to the left and right along the

curving walls, searching for another glimpse of the boy, but the small

form had disappeared amidst the adult crowds. Purple-suited station

personnel--mostly Human and Andorianstrode briskly about their duties;

merchants and traders of various species moved with more leisure,

passing in and out of the small shops that lined the ring. A group of

Tellarites waddled across the path of the two Humans and their Vulcan

friend; a single Crysallid sprinted jerkily ahead of them. "That young

child," said Spock, recovering the conversational initiative, "is a

prime example of the difficulties inherent in implementing a truce with

the' Klingons on a sustained basis."

"You mean to say that you found him hostile to the initiatives of

peace?" asked McCoy solemnly, lifting a rounded eyebrow to match the

cant of Spock's slanted one. Kirk noted that the doctor's impersonation

of the Vulcan was improving. ""Die, Klingon pigs,' does lack a spirit of

reconciliation," said Spock with equal solemnity. If he was aware of

McCoy's mimicry, he chose to ignore it. "That such attitudes are to be

found in one so young presages obstacles to extending amicable relations

with the Klingon Empire through the next generation."

"The truce didn't maintain that we had to like

Klingons, Spock," countered McCoy. "It just said we had to stop killing

them. And, more to the point, that they had to stop killing us." From

long experience, Kirk sensed that his two officers were laying the

groundwork for an extended argument, although the actual terms of their

conflict had not been settled yet. He launched a tactical diversion.

"I've always wanted one of those." Spock and McCoy followed the line of

their captain's outstretched arm and its pointing finger to the window

of a small tradegoods shop which specialized in used equipment for

asteroid-miners. The display held a familiar array of battered

environment suit accessories, solar cookpots, and out-of-date

entertainment tapes. From amidst the clutter, McCoy's eyes picked out

the one small item that had drawn Kirk's attention. "The knife."

"A Tyrellian blade, Bones. Fifth Dynasty." Spock contemplated the long

thin blade and its squat handle. "More likely Fourth."

"Whoa, Jim." McCoy grabbed Kirk's arm and pulled him back. "If that

trader gets one look at your face, he's going to double the price." He

waited until the eagerness in Kirk's eyes was properly subdued. "Okay,

now we can give it a try." As they crossed the threshold of the store,

the doctor looked back over his shoulder at Spock. "And you, don't say a

word." The Vulcan stood silent as his Human companions were greeted by a

short, plump man draped in the flowing robes of the local Trade Alliance

Guild. They exchanged meaningless pleasantries and engaged in the ritual

discussion of merchandise which was of no interest to either side. At

the first mention of the knife, however, the trader quickly pulled the

weapon out of the display window.

"A beautiful artifact, one that I am not often privileged to handle.

Tyrellian blades are prized for..." McCoy cut the speech short. "How

much?" The trader pressed the blade into Kirk's hands. "Feel the weight

and balance of a knife made by a true craftsman. You won't find its like

in the whole sector."

"How much?" insisted the doctor. Kirk was too obviously entranced with

the weapon, The trader paused for a quick assessment of his customer,

then named a price. "Two hundred credits?"

McCoy gave a soft hoot of derision. "Jim, this man heah thinks we're

tourists."

"Gentlemen, please." The trader shook his head forlornly.

"Two hundred credits is a bargain for this item. Planetside, this would

cost close to three hundred. It's your good fortune that this station is

a backwater and demand for antiques is low." Spock reached out to

inspect the blade but McCoy had already taken it from Kirk's hand. The

trader donned a well-practiced expression of sincerity. "Of course, I'm

always willing to give Federation officers a special discount." McCoy

and Kirk smiled back as if they believed him. "Just how much of a

discount are these stripes worth?" Kirk flashed the cuff of his sleeve

over the counter. "For you, Captain, at least twenty-five credits."

Spock opened his mouth, then quickly closed it as McCoy shot him a

warning glance. The doctor turned the knife around and around, peering

critically at its surface. "The handle is cracked."

"It's very old," said the trader, jerking it out of McCoy's hands. "Age

leaves its traces." He profferred it to Kirk again. "One hundred and

fifty credits."

"And the blade's edge is dull," pointed out McCoy. A swift kick to

Kirk's shin cued the captain to lose interest. The man behind the

counter studied the effect of McCoy's comments on his customer. "The

edge is worn because the knife has been used, Captain. This was a

working weapon, not a decorative toy." Kirk's interest appeared to

revive somewhat, but his enthusiasm was not high. The trader's show of

exasperation approached a genuine emotion. "One hundred and twenty-five

credits, and that's my final offer." This time the Vulcan first officer

spoke aloud before McCoy could stop him. "If that price is acceptable,

the item is either a forgery or illegally obtained." At those words, the

trader whisked the knife out of Kirk's grasp and under the counter. "I'm

so sorry. This item is not for sale after all." He removed his smile as

well. "Jim, it wasn't a forgery," declared McCoy as the three of them

left the shop and resumed their walk down the corridor. "No, it wasn't."

Spock could not confirm their judgement since McCoy had not given him an

opportunity to study the weapon. "Doctor, if it was indeed a genuine

Tyrellian blade, then it was certainly smuggled out of the Tyrelli

System."

"We're starship officers, not Interstellar Customs." The Vulcan was

unmoved. "There is little satisfaction to be gained in the possession of

an artifact which has been removed from its planet of origin against the

wishes of its native population."

"No, I suppose not," said Kirk in what he hoped was a convincing tone.

"It would have been one helluva bargain," muttered McCoy with regret.

Kirk saw that the lines of battle were now clearly established, but

there was no time left for McCoy and Spock to indulge themselves in

verbal sparring. The long corridor came to an end in an arched portal.

Beyond the portal lay a large domed area, the center hub for the

wheel-shaped Wagner Trading Post. The eyes of the starship officers were

drawn to the spectacular view provided by the room's construction. Both

the deck and the dome itself were formed of faceted clearsteel which

allowed the rich inky-black texture of space to spread over, around, and

beneath them. Above the dome, gleaming softly like a small moon, the

U.S.S. Enterprise hung motionless on the dark velvet backdrop of space.

Walking across the transparent floor to the railing which marked the

curving wall, Kirk feigned a casual interest in the sight of his ship,

but deep within he felt the same knot of excitement he experienced each

time he saw her from a distance. His eyes eagerly traced the familiar

lines of the diskshaped primary hull and the slim nacelles which powered

it. Spock, too, walked up to the dome's edge, but he looked out, not up,

to inspect the four concentric circles of the space station structure.

"Wagner Post was designed by T'rall of Vulcan, though admittedly in her

youth, before the full scope of her engineering powers was developed."

Kirk beckoned to McCoy to join him, but the doctor stood rooted in the

center of the circular deck, his eyes calculating the distance to the

nearest exit. "I don't mind being in space so long as it keeps a low

profile." He pointed an accusing finger at the invisible surface beneath

his feet. "This is definitely letting it get out of hand." Spock looked

up from his inspection. "True, there is no functional necessity for this

architectural feature. However, it shows evidence of the aesthetic

influence of her Andorian training. Andorians are susceptible to

claustrophobia."

The soft chiming of a chronometer rang through the air, bringing Kirk's

attention back to duty. If he didn't hurry, he would be late for his

meeting with the station manager, a lapse which might be viewed as a

sign of military arrogance. Small space stations such as this one, s o

often ignored by a distant central government, were quick to take

offense when they were noticed. He reluctantly turned his back on the

Enterprise. Motioning to Spock, Kirk returned to the center of the room.

"Why, doctor, you look as green as my first officer."

"I'm not fond of heights," said McCoy irritably. "In the future I'll

know to avoid Andorian architecture. Hortas have the right idea--they

dig tunnels through solid rock."

Spock pointedly ignored the doctor's grumbling criticism. "Captain, we

are due to meet Post Manager Friel in eight point six minutes." He

pointed confidently to one of the eight portals, all seemingly

identical, that opened .into the dome. "That way."

"Coming, doctor?" asked Kirk, his legs straining to match his first

officer's long strides.

"No way," stated McCoy emphatically. He ducked his head as they passed

under three Pegasi hovering gracefully in the air. "I'm off-duty, which

means I can forgo official calls. This is a trading post, and I have

every intention of promoting interstellar commerce to the limits of my

credit line."

"Just stay out of trouble," called out Kirk as the doctor veered off in

another direction.

Led by Spock's unerring sense of direction, the two officers actually

arrived early. Unfortunately, they weren't early enough to suit Manager

Friel. "It's about time you got here," stormed a large, imposing woman

as they walked through the doors of her office.

Kirk suppressed a sigh of exasperation and prepared himself for an hour

or two of tiresome diplomacy. He feigned a smile and cast it in the

manager's direction. However, Friel made it immediately clear that her

impatience was not an expression of temperament, despite the reddish

glints in her hair and the fair Irish features of her face. "We're

receiving a Priority One distress call from an incoming freighter.

Captain claims they were attacked by a Klingon battleship."

Spock's eyebrows flew upwards. The corners of Kirk's mouth flew

downwards. "In Federation space?"

"I don't have the details," said Friel, sweeping a mountain of tape

cassettes and paper printouts from her desk onto the deck in order to

reach her computer terminal. She flicked a combination of switches that

brought forth the image of a slender cobalt-blue Andorian. "Timmo, have

you re-established contact with the Saucy Lady?"

"No," he whispered in the reedy tones of his race. Friel snapped off the

terminal with a moderately good rendition of an especially vile Orion

expletive.

"I couldn't agree more," said Kirk. He ignored Spock's obvious curiosity

concerning the translation. "What have you heard so far?"

"Static mostly. Timmo picked up the distress call fifteen minutes ago.

The priority code was clear enough, but the explanations were too

fragmented to get a full account of what happened. There was definitely

an attack," she insisted angrily, seeing the skepticism lurking in

Kirk's eyes. "Neil's an old spacedog. He's been on the Wagner run for

seven years and he doesn't get hysterical over an occasional sighting of

a Klingon battleship."

"An occasional sighting?" A slow burn worked its way up from Kirk's

collar to his face. "Just how often have Klingons crossed over into this

sector?"

Friel developed a rather unconvincing cough, but the delay was good for

only a few seconds. "Oh, well, now and again."

"When was the last time?"

Her attention was suddenly riveted by the tapes and papers scattered

across the floor. "Eight, maybe nine months ago."

"The truce negotiations were completed only last month," noted Spock.

The station manager addressed her reply to the impassive Vulcan rather

than face Kirk's stony rage directly. "We're all a long way from home

out here.

Klingon, Human, Andorian. After a few years of routine patrol, a crew

gets sick and tired of living on a ship. They need shore leave."

"And they're willing to pay top dollar for new provisions," said Kirk.

Friel shrugged. "I'm not a military post or a military target. I don't

shoot them and they don't shoot me. So what's the harm..." Her defense

was cut short by the bleep of her intercom. The communications tech

appeared back on the screen, his delicate antennae quivering with

agitation.

"Yes, Timmo?"

"Captain Neil on communication band 12," he announced.

Simultaneously, the broadcast from the freighter echoed into the office.

"... they need help in a bad way. One ship blasted--the other badly

crippled and leaking its guts out all over the sector. Need medical

assistance for heavy casualties and techies for engine repair. If it can

be repaired."

"Who needs help?" shouted Friel into the intercom. "Frenni merchant

caravan. Except it's not a caravan anymore. The Verella was destroyed

and the Selessan won't be going anywhere without help." Kirk drew a

sharp breath when he heard the ships named. He moved to the terminal.

"Who attacked them?"

"Klingons." The man's bitterness cut through the crackling of static.

"The caravan had established subspace contact--they were expecting trade

negotiations for ship's stores--but the battlecruiser attacked instead.

No explanation, no warning." The captain whisked out his communicator.

"Kirk to Enterprise," he called in a low voice, still keeping one ear

tuned to the report from the Saucy Lady. "... and we picked up their

distress call ten hours ago. I volunteered to change course and pick up

survivors, but they advised me to leave the sector fast and send back

armed rescue. So I got the hell outta there." Kirk's communicator beeped

in reply to his call. "Enterprise here, Captain."

"Cancel shoreleave, Lt. Uhura," he announced grimly. "Recall all

personnel to the ship and inform Mr. Scott that we'll be warping out of

orbit within the hour."

Chapter Two.

Captain's Log, Stardate 5302.1 Despite a recent truce which has

suspended formal hostilities and military engagements between the Empire

and the Federation, the Enterprise is responding to a report of Klingon

aggression... JIM KIRK BROKE off his narrative at the approach of his

first officer.

"Strictly speaking," said the Vulcan, moving to one side of the command

chair on the bridge, "Frenni space is not Federation territory."

"A civilian ship and its crew have been blasted to smithereens and

you're arguing the subtleties of diplomatic law," snapped McCoy from

Kirk's other side. "The distinction is hardly irrelevant, doctor,"

insisted Spock. "An attack against a neutral ship--in that ship's

territorydoes not constitute an attack against the Federation."

"He's right, Bones," said Kirk, stemming any more of McCoy's comments.

The captain amended his log entry accordingly. "By custom, the ancient

space routes of the Frenni race are invested with the rights of a

planetary system. These corridors of travel tunnel through both

Federation and Klingon space.

The nomadic merchants have 'maintained a strong neutral relationship

with both sides, a relationship based on commerce and trade. Now, for

reasons unknown, a Frenni merchant fleet has been attacked by the

Klingons." He paused to take a breath. "It's crazy," said Lt. Sulu

heatedly. His eyes were riveted to the helm, his slim, muscular frame

tensed with the effort of guiding a starship at faster-thanlight speed.

The captain had ordered maximum warp speed, which made piloting trickier

but more fun. "The Klingons have an import-dependent economy, which

makes it suicide to endanger relations with a primary trade source."

Ensign Chekov brushed ineffectually at the mop of unruly brown hair

which threatened to blind him. "The Klingons don't reason---they're

Cossacks," muttered the young Russian as he double-checked his computed

navigation coordinates for the starship. Kirk raised his voice to

override any more interjections.

"Nevertheless, such an attack raises concern for Federation security in

this part of the .galaxy. As the only starship available within this

quadrant the Enterprise is responding to the distress call from the

Selessan, Merchant Esserass commanding. Estimated time of rendezvous is

1.5 hours." This time when he paused there was an expectant silence from

the bridge crew. Kirk logged the entry with a jab at the panel on his

armrest. "Thank you, gentlemen. You may continue your discussion now."

The junior officers looked abashed, but Spock took the statement at face

value. "Current knowledge would support Mr. Sulu's contention that an

attack on the merchant caravan is indeed detrimental to Klingon

self-interest. Therefore, it is possible that the attack was that of an

individual acting without official approval."

"A rogue warship?" asked McCoy with surprise. "That's a rather fanciful

notion."

"It is merely one hypothesis," said Spock, quick to dispel the idea that

he possessed an over-active imagination. "An alternative hypothesis

would be that the Klingons have gained another source of trade, one

which has severed their reliance on the Frenni."

"That possibility would imply a new, and powerful, alliance for the

Empire," said Kirk uneasily. War. The word seemed to hover in the air,

unspoken yet reverberating. A shift in the balance of power could tempt

the Klingons to shatter the uneasy truce, or at least see how far they

could stretch its boundaries. Lt. Uhura was the first to break the

silence.

She flashed a brilliant smile. "It's so entertaining to be on the

cutting edge of diplomacy." Her exaggerated enthusiasm raised an

appreciative round of laughter from the bridge crew. Kirk grinned

ruefully. "Yes, we do seem to pull more than our share of galactic

quarrels." A small light on his armrest came to life. "And domestic

quarrels, as well," he sighed, flicking a switch. "Yes, Scotty?" he

asked, knowing full well what was on his engineer's mind. "Maximum

warp..." The Scotsman sighed. "Ah, well, I dinna need t' repeat

myselfmyou've heard it all before. Just consider it said again. If

you'll be wantin' me I'm in the main engine room."

"Having a fit," added McCoy. He cast a challenging glance at Spock.

"Really, doctor," said Spock. "Your habit of exaggeration is most

inappropriate. Mr. Scott is not throwing a tantrum--he is simply showing

his professional concern for the proper functioning of this vessel."

"He's spitting tacks," insisted McCoy. This time Spock's face froze in

concentration as he tried to make sense of the unfamiliar idiom. McCoy

was searching for yet another colorful phrase with which to confound the

Vulcan when Kirk returned the conversation to factual matters. "Mr.

Spock, would you please continue the briefing."

"Certainly, Captain." Spock returned to his computer station and

direct'ed the crew's attention to a side viewscreen. Three dim stars

dotted the image; the rest was black. "The Selessan is currently adrift

on the perimeter of the Belennii star system, a small, undistinguished

holding of the Klingon Empire. It is an unstable trinary composed of one

white dwarf and two yellow stars.

Despite its proximity to Federation outposts and minor trade routes, the

system has never supported a Klingon military base. It is too far

removed from the core of the Empire to insure an uninterrupted supply

line. Neither are there targets which would justify the large

expenditure of resources necessary to invade this sector." Spock turned

back to the captain. "There is no logical basis for a single ship to

mount an attack. It is an exceptionally aggressive action with no

readily discernible benefit. One vessel, while capable of easing

considerable disruption of local commerce and transportation, would

still stand little chance of challenging Federation military forces. It

would be a senseless suicide mission."

"It could start an intergalactic war," argued Kirk. "Ships from every

planetary system in the Federation pass through those shipping lanes.

Random attacks could antagonize a sufficient number of voting Council

members to authorize a retaliation on the Empire. The truce would be

destroyed."

"It's barely gotten started," said McCoy. "And you're saying it's

already over?"

"Hardly an unexpected development," said Spock with clinical interest.

"Numerous factions in the military have strongly opposed the truce from

its first proposal. The success of the initiative is due largely to

recent strains in the Klingon alliance with the Romulans; the current

government wishes to avoid a battle on two fronts. However, they lost a

great deal of political favor in the process of accepting the truce

agreements."

"You mean they might not be able to stop a war?" asked McCoy with a

growing sense of horror. "Good Lord! The lives of millions of people

could be put in jeopardy? "It is only a hypothesis," said Spock blandly.

"Why you cold-blooded.." Uhura's voice overrode McCoy's.

"Captain, I'm receiving faint transmissions from the Selessan. We should

be in hailing range shortly."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Kirk forestalled his first officer from

demanding an exact time estimate from the communications officer by

announcing, "I've met Captain Esserass, of the Selessan."

"Indeed, Captain." Spock allowed himself to be deflected from the

reprimand. McCoy was still fuming over the Vulcan's professed

callousness, but he also accepted the change in conversation. "Many

years ago," admitted Kirk, "when I was a lieutenant aboard the U.S.S.

Farragut. Our galley refrigeration units malfunctioned and we were

forced to trade for ship's stores. Unfortunately, all they had were

several tons of Orion demma." Rumors and innuendo about the nature of

demma, both its source and its effect on those who ate it, were common

folklore throughout the galaxy. An accomplished storyteller, Kirk let

his statement hang in the air until the full implications of the

situation were absorbed. A few anticipatory chuckles dotted the room.

McCoy grinned broadly. Even Spock took on a speculative air. "By the

time we arrived at Star Base 7, sick bay had run out of fertility

control ampules and..." The rest of the somewhat raunchy tale was cut

short by a loud burst of static from communications. Uhura dutifully

tuned the frequency. "Pleasss to hurry, we haft much need of

assisstance." Kirk recognized the soft slurring voice of a Frenni.

Casting aside his jovial air, he ordered Uhura to open a channel to the

merchant ship. "Selessan, this is Captain Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise.

We are due to drop out of warp speed in one hour." He waved aside

Spock's attempts to reply with greater precision. "Much gratitude,

Captain. We await your arrival with much happinesss." A long pause

ensued. "Kirrk... Ah, yess, it does recall. Did you enjoy the demma?" To

Kirk's discomfort the memory of that trip turned the tips of his ears

fiery pink. "Yes," he laughed self-consciously. "I did indeed, Captain

Esserass."

"For our rescue I will introduce you to other delicassies. Those that

can be salvaged," sighed the weary merchant. "Good trading, Kirrk." The

contact was severed. Despite his gentle banter, the alien's voice had

been ragged and weak. McCoy scowled in Spock's direction. "Casualties.

That's what war is all about." Spock sighed at the note of challenge in

the doctor's comment. "And in such circumstances your duty post is in

sick bay."

"Don't you dare lecture me on duty!" flared McCoy bitterly. "I'm the one

who has to patch together the living and autopsy the dead." He turned on

his heel and stalked off the bridge.

"He knows you didn't mean it that way," said Kirk to his first officer.

The Vulcan did not reply. He walked back to his computer station and

took his seat before the panel. "We will rendezvous with the Selessan in

1.2 hours." During that time the Enterprise crew prepared for the

forthcoming rescue operations by handing Kirk a staggering number of

data tablets which required his signature. When he wasn't juggling red

tape, he was dealing with Scotty's increasing concern for his engines.

After an hour's silence, a querulous McCoy began calling the bridge with

flimsy excuses in order to check on its activity. And alert status was a

constant reminder to everyone of the possibility of an encounter with

the marauding battlecruiser. "Sensor sweeps reveal no Klingon presence,"

announced the first officer as the starship dropped to sub-warp speed.

"We will reach the Selessan in 23.4 minutes."

"Can we use transporters for the rescue?" asked Kirk anxiously.

"Negative. As I surmised, radiation residue from the Verella's

destruction will render the transporters inoperative. Trace ionized

particles have already begun to affect instrument functions." Kirk

brooded on the risks created by that restriction. Using the shuttlecraft

to evacuate the Frenni crew meant a minimum of several hours with

shields dropped. The operation must be carried out as swiftly as

possible. "Uhura, notify sick bay that paramedic teams should report to

the hangar deck." Together they dispersed orders throughout the ship as

the Enterprise coasted towards its rendezvous. "Approaching the

Selessan, Captain." Sulu's hands danced rapidly over the helm. The faint

outlines of the merchant ship appeared on the main viewscreen. At the

same time navigational deflectors set off a barrage of sparks in the

darkness.

"That is what is left of the Vcrella," explained Spock as the debris in

their path was vaporized. The remaining ship grew larger on the screen,

It was an ungainly agglomeration of oddly-shaped cabins welded together

in a haphazard pattern. Perhaps the single engine nacelle had once

possessed sleeker lines, but now its metal surface was roughened and

scored by phaser fire. Spock huddled in communion with his computers.

"Sensor readings are degenerating. However, the Selcssan registers as

having suffered significant impairment of ship's systems. Life support

systems are barely functional; engines are idle; weapon power is

depleted." "Welcome, Kirrk. Are we not a ssory ssight?" Kirk had to

agree. "We'll have you out of there in no time," he said reassuringly.

He thumbed his intercom switch. "Bones..."

"Paramedic Team C has boarded the Galileo," came McCoy's crisp reply.

"Sick bay surgical teams are on standby." Kirk switched channels.

"Shuttle bay, prepare for launch." Out of the corner of his eye he could

see the launching sequence flicker across the engineering station

computerboard even as Scotty's voice acknowledged the command. Sitting

back in his chair, Kirk frowned at the image of the Selessan on the

viewscreen before him. "No visual from the interior, Lt. Uhura?"

"None, Captain. I can't trace the source of the trouble. Audio

frequencies are working with intermittent static, but the rest of the

signal transmission is dead."

He motioned her to engage ship-to-ship communications again. "Captain

Esserass, we are not receiving a visual signal from your ship."

"Not surprissing. My communicationss operator iss dead. I triess to work

the equipmenss, but there iss much damage."

"Understood." Kirk turned to his first officer and spoke quietly.

"Spock, can you run a bio-check for Klingons on that ship?" Spock

frowned. "The energy debris makes readings unreliable..."

"Do the best you can. I don't want my crew boarding that ship blind."

"Captain Kirk, technical and medical teams boarded. All shuttlecraft

ready for launching."

"On my command." The captain turned to the helm. "Lt. Sulu, prepare to

lower shields." Still he held off his final order. "Well, Mr. Spock?"

"There is considerable distortion, however bioscan readings are

inconsistent with Klingon anatomy and physiology."

"Shields down, Sulu." Kirk returned to the intercom.

"Launch shuttlecraft, Mr. Scott." A red light flashed on the engineering

board, confirmi ng the launch. Kirk followed the action in his mind's

eye. The shuttle bay doors of the secondary hull would yawn open, baring

the hangar deck to the vacuum of space. One by one the shuttlecraft

would lift off the deck. Any moment now they would appear on the main

viewscreen as they headed for the... Spock's voice rang out. "Captain,

bio-scan readings are still fluctuating, but the life-form readings are

also inconsistent with our profiles of the Frenni race." A nasty tingle

crept up the base of Kirk's neck. "Instrument error?"

"Possibly," conceded Spock returning to his board. "I will need more

time to re-check calibrations." Kirk gnawed at his thumbnail. "Not

Klingons, but not Frenni either." Instinct rather than thought moved him

to action. His voice rang out to engineering. "Mr. Scott, recall the

shuttlecraft." He edged forward on his seat. "Sulu, prepare to raise

shields as soon as they hit the deck."

"Kirrk, what hass happened?" came the bewildered voice of the alien as

the shuttlecraft turned back towards the Enterprise. Kirk hesitated.

"Selessan, identify your crew."

"But Capsain, we hass idensified oursselvess," responded the merchant

with an overtone of anger. "Pleasse hurry, we hass injured needssing

medical care." The distinctive sibilant voice was that of a Frenni; the

merchant captain had remembered Kirk from their past encounter. "Spock?"

The Vulcan stood firm. "Systems checks maintain sensors are operational.

The readings are not those of the Frenni race." And the shuttlecraft

were still outside the ship. Kirk kept his voice calm and played for

time. "Esserass, we're experiencing systems malfunctions due to the

radiation debris in this sector. There will be a slight delay..."

"Capsain, why thees gamess with uss? We are friends of the Federasion

and muss be helped We canss do no harm with thiss sship." Kirk turned

to his first officer. "Weapons?"

"Still no functional weaponry detected." Spock's brows quirked in

puzzlement. "But energy output levels in their engine room are

increasing." On the screen, the cruiser began to turn slowly.

The captain of the Enterprise felt the soft snap of a trap springing

shut. "Scotty, get those shuttlecraft landed! We'need to raise shields."

"Five seconds, Captain."

Kirk chanted the count to himself. "Now, Sulu!"

But even as the helmsman moved to obey, the Frenni craft burst into

motion, racing straight toward the ship.

Chapter Three.

McCoy PULLED AWKWARDLY at his surgical gown, the tabs and clips eluding

his fumbling fingers. Only minutes ago his hands had been sure and

steady, nimbly weaving a tangle of severed nerves into a functioning

spinal cord. Now surgery was over after fifteen grueling hours of human

cut and paste, tedious and dangerous work even with the aid of the best

medical technology Star Fleet could offer. Freed from the demands of

operating he felt exhaustion overtake him with numbing rapidity. The

loose gown dangled in his hands, then dropped to the floor. How many

times had he, as chief surgeon, lambasted any doctor or nurse for just

such a lapse?

There's no excuse for messy medical practice. Messy habits have a way of

staying with you.

He still made 'no move to pick the garment up. Instead he slumped down

onto an equipment locker. If it hadn't been there he would probably have

collapsed to the floor, next to his discarded gown.

The surgical washroom was a peaceful eye between the two storms which

had buffeted him relentlessly for nearly two days. Behind him, for the

moment, the operating room was empty, while the sounds of the recovery

ward ahead were muted by closed doors. The only voices were those of the

ship's intercom droning an interminable list of damage reports and

status updates. Scotty was busy with his own particular surgery.

"Doctor."

Nurse Chapel was standing by his side. He realized that she had been

standing there for a while, but the fact of her presence had barely

registered. "Who's next?" he asked automatically. He had started

receiving patients within minutes of the first impact against the hull.

Now, over a day later, he was still at work treating the lesser injuries

that had lost priority to those courting death. Two crewmen were in

bio-stasis, so badly injured that only a starbase, a very modern

starbase, could put them back together in a form resembling the human

body. Sixteen others would never wake up. The ship had not suffered such

heavy casualties in a long time. "That's all, doctor. Your shift is over

for the day." Chapel began to rattle off the duty roster for the medical

personnel in a no-nonsense tone that implied that any objection on his

part would be a professional insult to the capabilities of his

department. Four names were missing from the list; a team of paramedics

had been killed on the hangar deck. He had handpicked each of its

members... McCoy listened wearily, half admitting to himself that his

supervision would be useless even if he stayed. His head was throbbing,

his eyes were unfocused, and his response time was barely beyond

catatonia. Then he stopped short, mentally stifling a groan of

irritation. "I can't leave yet." He leaned forward with effort. "There's

Benson, the chest injury from Engineering. Those lacerations were only

stapled together until he stabilized." Chapel hesitated, then

reluctantly spoke. "That won't be necessary." McCoy's head snapped up.

"Dammit, Christine, don't coddle me! What's happened to Benson?"

She turned coldly matter-of-fact. "He's dead. Vital signs were low but

stable when he entered op-prep, but then..." . A burst of fury propelled

the surgeon to his feet. "Why wasn't I called? Where is he now?" Enough

death, dear God. Please, no more. Chapel blocked his steps bodily,

forcing him to a halt. "Doctor McCoy, crewman Benson is dead. You know

as well as I do that our staff took every possible action to save his

life, but it simply wasn't possible." The spurt of adrenalin gave out,

leaving him drained. "Of course. I'm sorry, I didn't mean... I just..."

He trailed off in confusion. What had he thought he could do--catch the

Angel of Death on his way and wrestle him to the ground? "Thank you,

Nurse Chapel." He looked into her face and saw the fatigue that blurred

the strong lines of her features. "I guess it's time for me to go away."

"Yes, it is." She still looked stern, but her voice had regained an edge

of tolerance. "How the hell do you put up with me?" he muttered as he

stumbled out of the room. Walking down the corridor revived McCoy

somewhat, at least sufficiently to enable him to dodge the scurrying

work crews and skirt the obstacle course of conduits, uncrated spare

parts, and the occasional body haft submerged in the floor or ceiling or

wall. Though it was early morning by Ship's time, the corridors were lit

at daylight intensity to accommodate repairs. The concept of morning and

evening in space was wholly artificial, but he hated such a blatant

reminder of that fact. "Gravity crews t'deck Seven... gravity crews

t'deck Seven. Prepare/or adjustment procedures in 4.5 hours. Repeat..."

, Scotty's voice sounded hoarse even through the filtered intercom.

McCoy idly wondered just how much damage the Enterprise had sustained.

As a doctor he was most concerned with the human wreckage, yet he had

been unusually alarmed by the gyrations of the deck during the attack.

With what little attention he could spare from his medical duties, he

had gathered that the identity of their assailants was still to be

determined. Pieces of the Frenni ship were stored in the shuttle bay;

pieces of strange bodies, salvaged from amidst that space debris, were

in stasis next to Ellison and Takeoka. With luck, the latter might

defrost in slightly better condition than the aliens. McCoy shook his

head as if to dislodge the relentless stream of sick bay concerns that

trailed after him. There wasn't much sense in dwelling on their chances

now--the ship wouldn't reach a sizable starbase for several weeks.

Uhura's voice rang out of the intercom. "Captain Kirk, to the bridge."

Then Scotty's voice sounded out. "Captain Kirk, come to phaser control."

"Kirk here. I'll be there when I get there." McCoy chuckled over the

conflicting demands and wondered how soon it would be before Kirk headed

for sick bay. The frustration in the captain's voice was the first step

to a tension headache. These musings kept the morbid ghosts at bay until

McCoy reached his cabin. Once inside he headed straight for the sonic

shower, stripping off his soiled clothes along the way. Sweat feels like

blood, he thought and shuddered at the persistence of dark thoughts.

Even the blast of cleansing vibrations failed to clear his mind. Out of

the shower, McCoy caught sight of his face in the mirror. It was the

same face he stared at unthinkingly, every morning. This time he studied

it carefully. The broad, regular features implied a stockiness that he

DEAUS OF H RAVEN did not possess. Fatigue accentuated the lines around

his mouth and forehead. The blue of his eyes was dulled to grey, the

whites veined with red. Above them his brown hair had not thinned, but

it was lightly flecked with white. I look more like my father every day.

Pushing away from the mirror, he wrapped himself in -a robe and turned

to survey a room littered with crumpled clothes and towels which he

hadn't bothered to stuff in the cycle bin. His plants looked wilted.

Unread medical tapes lay scattered over his desk, along with a pile of

printouts from the last batch of correspondence that had come with

sub-space communications from Star Fleet. Uhura had a way of wheedling

personal mail deliveries onto every official communications exchange. He

hadn't had time to read any of it yet, but a few more hours' delay would

hardly matter, since the messages had probably ta ken several weeks to

work their way across space channels. The doctor also resisted the

impulse to start cleaning up. He needed sleep desperately, yet had

reached that stage of nervous exhaustion that left him restless and

slightly nauseous. It was a familiar sensation, first encountered during

the grueling routine of a first-year resident. I'm too old for this. He

threw himself down on the bed and tried unsuccessfully to empty his

mind. Twice he sprang up to call sick bay as one question after another

invaded his thoughts. Had he actually entered the new dosages on

Vergalen's chart or only made a mental note that it had to be done? Then

he had a sudden sick feeling that he had failed to alert Dr. Cortejo

about the need for follow-up surgery on Galloway's abdominal wound. No,

Chapel would have passed that information on to the other surgeon

anyway. Dammit, he trusted her wits more than his own at times. Oddly

reassured by this, he finally drifted into sleep. The shrill whistle of

shipboard communications dragged McCoy out of unconsciousness. He awoke

slowly, the tendrils of a nightmare blending with reality, drowning out

the meaning of the words blaring out through the room. His fingers were

actually twitching in response to the dream, in which he had been

knitting together yards of nerves that lay scattered about the command

deck. "... commences in approximately 30 minutes." Blast Montgomery

Scott. Couldn't he fix this ship without creating such a public ruckus?

A glance at the chronometer showed the passage of only four hours, but

McCoy felt no desire to fall asleep again. A return to nightmares wasn't

all that inviting. As long as he was awake he might as well get some

work done. Jim had asked for a report on the alien tissue fragments as

soon as possible, and while the autopsy had been handled by Frazer, the

xenobiologist, it wouldn't hurt to translate the man's obsessive

technical jargon into a language somewhat more accessible to the

captain. Besides, McCoy was curious to see just what kind of life form

had wreaked such havoc in sick bay. He pulled himself out of bed, donned

his last batch of fresh clothes, then stumbled to his desk. Rubbing

bleary eyes into focus, he logged on to the computer system and called

up the autopsy file. ' The report opened with photos of the fragments--a

gory beginning but useful for a sense of the aliens' morphology. The

first two shots were ingless, just chunks of orange pulp that could as

have been anything from vegetable matter to foam insulation. They were

followed by a startling closeup of a massive head covered with

steel-blue skin, its round red eyes open and staring with a look of

almost human malevolence.

A blue-black crest of brushy hair ran from the forehead back over the

skull; a chitinous beak gaped open at the center of its face. McCoy felt

the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. What the hell... He

stared at the image in surprise. Though somewhat grotesque in its

decapitated state, there was nothing inherently frightening about the

alien's appearance, certainly nothing to justify the tingle of

apprehension that was tickling his spine. Yet, he sensed a shroud of

menace in the features of this unidentified being. He continued to stare

at the head for several minutes, but no further chills developed, and

Frazer's technical discourse failed to loose any more impressions. "...

morphological structures evidence no congruency with established

configurations... DNA molecular sequences of amino acids reveal origins

considerably divergent from biochemical evolution of known alien

species." McCoy snorted. "In other words, you've never seen anything

like it and you don't know what it is." Picking his way through a few of

the most convoluted of the xenobiologist's sentences, McCoy amended a

less abstruse version to the explanatory text. He made no mention of his

own reaction to the alien; Spock would flaunt an intolerable

condescension if McCoy reported "vague terror" with no apparent basis to

support his uneasiness. The association, if indeed there was one, would

come in its own time. Still restless, McCoy snapped off the terminal and

turned to rifle through the printouts. Despite Spock's disapproval, the

doctor's professional correspondence was automatically printed by the

computer system. McCoy liked the feel of paper and the rustle of pages

a flat screen filled with type was not a proper manuscript.

The first few packets were journal reprints and an unpublished report

from the ship's surgeon of the U.S.S. Welborne. These were tossed aside

for more careful perusal in the future; a long, limping voyage home had

certain advantages. Then, unexpectedly, he saw the single page of a

letter. Most of his personal correspondence came on tape, from a small

circle of people who were willing to pay the extra cost of transmission.

Here was an exception.

Puzzled, he glanced down at the signature. The name unleashed a sudden

flood of memories that left him weak with the pain of their return.

After the memories, he absorbed the meaning of the words written in the

terse, brief paragraph.

He crumpled the sheet convulsively. After all this time, it shouldn't

matter so much. Hell, it shouldn't matter at all. Yet his hands

trembled. One corner of his mind retained a clinical detachment, noting

that he had entered into a mild state of shock. The rest of him just

felt sick. For a moment, he considered calling Jim Kirk. But no, that

would mean talking, explaining, more remembering. And to what purpose?

He had talked himself out years ago and failed to... Well, he had just

failed.

McCoy stared at the wad of paper resting in his palm and fought against

a tide of bitterness.

God, I'm too old and too tired to start this battle again.

Pulling himself upright, he carded the letter into his bedroom and

placed it in the center of a decorated metal tray that lay on his

dresser. From the drawer beneath, he pulled out a worn travel pouch. His

fingers withdrew a small probe and deftly flicked a switch that lighted

the tip with a pinprick glow. At its touch, a small spot on the paper

began to darken, then smoke. In seconds the paper was engulfed in

flames.

"Alert, alert/There is fire in this room."

"That, my dear shipboard computer, is the smoke of a funeral pyre. It is

definitely against regulations." However, the brief burst on the tray

was over and the computer fell silent.

Sleep was out of the question now, but McCoy was too shaken to do

anything else. If he stayed awake, the recriminations would start

creeping in, a litany of anger and regrets that were almost like old

friends. With unsteady steps the doctor made his way to a small cabinet

and opened its door. Riskelian mescal, should do the trick just fine.

Using both hands to steady the shaking bottle, he soon filled a squat

glass to its rim with a pale red liquid.

"To the waters of Lethe!" Half the drink was quaffed in one gulp. His

body convulsed for a second at the jolt of hot fire that ran down his

throat. The Red Nova brand-label wasn't kidding. Before the remaining

contents could be downed, the door buzzer announced a visitor. Good, the

more distractions the better. "Come in."

Spock entered the room. The first officer's hands were full of memory

chip packs and data tablets. He was wearing the look of self-absorbed

concentration that accompanied every ship refitting. He launched into a

stream of technical jargon without any preamble; at times like these he

tended to forget Human social conventions.

"Hold on there," interrupted McCoy with a wave of his hand. With effort,

he could keep his voice steady. "I didn't hear, much less understand, a

word you said. I was prepared for a "Good morning, how are you?' or at

least a simple "Hello, Doctor'."

Spock did not argue the issue. "Hello, Doctor," he said flatly and began

to repeat his statements. "The electromagnetic pulse dampeners failed to

fully protect the circuit backup for the Medquiz PF-3500 internal

systems file..."

"And I don't want to understand a word," McCoy said emphatically. He

took another, tidier, swallow of his drink. "I'm off duty." The first

officer still could not be sidetracked. "I require your permission for a

systems adjustment to the medical department computers. It will in no

way interfere with patient care."

"Well, why didn't you say so in the first place. I thought you were in a

hurry to get these things done."

McCoy grinned maliciously as the Vulcan's mouth tightened. Baiting Spock

was the best restorative to be found on board the ship. "Sign here." A

data tablet was stiffly proferred. McCoy drained the last of the Red

Nova before putting his glass down. His hand was still shaking as he

reached for the tablet, a fact which did not escape Spock's notice.

"Don't look so disapproving, Mr. Spock." The doctor scrawled a hasty

initial on the form and returned it. "I'm not drunk. At least not yet.

Care to join me for a drink before you disappear into your computerized

briarpatch?" An arched eyebrow flew up. "Your species' preoccupation

with ingesting large quantities of alcoholbased compounds..." Gotcha,

McCoy exulted and poured himself another "... is a constant source of

puzzlement. Despite its known poisonous qualities, you persist in this

custom."

"Not despite, Mr. Spock. Because of its poisonous qualities." He

swallowed another mouthful of the fiery liquid. The first officer

frowned, suddenly aware that once again he had been maneuvered into an

argument that he couldn't win because his logic wasn't part of the game.

"I must attend to my duties." He ignored the smirk on McCoy's face and

turned to leave. "All hands alert. Gravity adjustment in 10 seconds."

"Oh, Spock," called out McCoy, reluctant to let his prey escape so soon.

"I've been meaning to talk to you about that little transaction you

botched for Jim at the trading post..." When the deck tremors began, the

first officer was already braced for the movement but McCoy immediately

lost his balance. Above the whine of the ship's engines came the shatter

of glass hitting a far wall and the crack of bone against metal.

"McCoy!" Spock fell to his hands and knees to crawl across the floor as

it heaved and buckled. By the time he reached the crumpled form there

was already a small pool of blood forming under the head. "Gravity

adjustment complete. Repeat, gravity adjustment complete."

Chapter Four.

Captain's Log, Stardate 5308.5 The Enterprise lies dead in space,

seriously damaged by an attack we still cannot explain... Kirk STARED at

the crumpled pylon of the Enterprise nacelle with a horrified

fascination. Its once elegant lines were twisted and bent, destroying

the parallel symmetry of the ship's profile. Its cracked and pitted

surface was encrusted with dark splotches, like the oozing blood of a

wound, for the impact of the alien craft had fused the Frenni metal into

the very fabric of the pylon even as it destroyed it. Around the deck

the bridge crew had lapsed into silence when the probe camera began

transmission. Scotty's first damage report had detailed the effect of

the alien attack within hours of the encounter, yet no verbal

descriptions could have prepared them for the sight. No miracle slight

of hand by the chief engineer could repair this structural collapse. "If

we hadna been stopped for the rescue, we'd be stardust now. The engines

would have imploded," said Scotty. They stood side by side at the

engineering station on the bridge. Unlike Kirk the chief engineer

avoided looking at the scene framed by the viewscreen. He had already

inspected the damage by shuttlecraft; a far more detailed image was

burned into his mind.

"If we hadn't stopped for the rescue, we wouldn't have been attacked,"

answered the captain bitterly. Yet, no matter how many times he went

over the events, he had to admit that he would have acted in the same

manner. It had been the wrong action, but there was no way he could have

known that. I should have known it anyway... Slowly, the camera panned

down the pylon to the secondary engine hull. Its rounded sides were

dotted with debris, as if a careless cosmic hand had sprinkled them with

grains of pepper. "The last of the breaches are being' sealed now. We

should have restored hull integrity within five hours, but we havna the

resources to repressurize all the decks. Two work crews will stay suited

to staff life support systems and ship's services." Scotty's long face

was grey with fatigue, but even more, with grief. The devastation which

had been wreaked on the Enterprise was weighing heavily upon him. "How

soon before we can get out of here?" Still mesmerized by the panorama

before him, Kirk was amazed that the ship could' travel without

disintegrating. Nevertheless, Scotty reassured him that it was possible

to return to the trading post dockyard. "The nacelle itself is fairly

much intact, but if we tried moving now, even at sub-warp speed, the

strain of the forward momentum would shear it loose. Once most of the

decks are repressurized, maintenance crews can start shoring the

juncture t' the hull. It won't be functional, but at least it'll stay

with us." The chief engineer fought off a slight shiver. The temperature

on the bridge had dropped several degrees as the brittle cold of deep

space gnawed at the ship's weakened energy reserves. "We willna recover

warp drive until we hit dry dock and replace the pylon entirely, but the

impulse engines are sound enough."

The viewscreen filled with the length of the right nacelle, undamaged,

pristine, useless without its twin. The bridge personnel resumed their

duties. A soft chorus of voices blanketed the deck. "Time estimate, Mr.

Scott?" The Scotsman sighed heavily. Kirk always wanted predictions of

the unpredictable. "At least 48 hours, maybe more. Dependin'." He was

too tired to elaborate on the plethora of factors which could further

complicate an already immeasureably messy situation. Kirk let it pass.

"Weapons?"

"Phasers are operational, but power levels are low. We cracked a

dilithium crystal when the deflectors hit the cruiser." Bad timing. The

Frenni cruiser had been crushed between the expanding shields, exploding

into the deadly spray of metal which had hit the Enterprise's engine

hull and propulsion unit with such destructive force. What would have

happened if our shields hadn't stopped them? wondered Kirk. There was no

way to know whether the approaching alien craft had intended to bring

its crew aboard the Enterprise by force or whether it had been bent on

annihilation of the starship. "Deflectors?"

Kirk had saved his worst fear for last. Scotty confirmed his pessimism.

"Like a leaky sieve. A handphaser could drill right through to the

ship's hull."

"At least we're alive," said Kirk, searching for some comfort. "Aye, I

suppose we are." Scotty's weariness was sufficiently deep to dampen his

enthusiasm about the prospect of existence. "Though we're sittin' ducks

for any other ship that feels like takin' a shot at us." Kirk was all

too aware of that fact. "That's my department, Scotty. You worry about

getting us out of here. In fourty-eight hours."

"Aye." The chief engineer looked very worried indeed. The captain

continued his rounds. "Lt. Uhura, are you sure space communications are

operational?"

"Yes, Captain. I'm receiving sector buoy signals on navigation

frequencies and normal static levels on hailing frequencies. We're a

little out of the way of local space broadcasts, but I've picked up some

faint transmissions from the trading post, apparently routine

communications. No more distress calls and no coded signals." Which

could mean the Klingons had left Federation territory. Or maybe not.

Regardless, the Enterprise was maintaining strict communications silence

on the assumption that either Klingons, or hostile aliens, were

somewhere in the sector. In its present state, the starship couldn't

risk betraying its location by using space communications channels. Two

messenger drones had been sent out instead the first warned the trading

post to take precautions against attack, while the second sent a full

report of the incident to Star Fleet Command. Despite its miniaturized

warp drive the unit would take a full two weeks to reach the nearest

Starbase. Kirk gritted his teeth at the memory of his request for

assistance. He disliked asking for help; he hated needing it even more.

Still, given the time and distances involved, the chances were that

there would be no reinforcements available for quite some time. Time

enough to get his ship out of trouble, or beyond help. Uhura continued

her report. "Ship communications are another story altogether, Captain.

Chekov is disrupting the intercom system with his repair work on the

computers. I lose a different deck every hour."

As she talked, Kirk heard the soft sigh of the turbo-lift doors parting,

and felt, rather than saw, the quiet approach of his first officer. "Mr.

Spock, I'll need a status report on sensors..." Kirk's voice trailed off

as he turned around. The dark oil stains on Spock's tunic looked

distressingly like blood, but Human blood, not Vulcan. "Captain, your

presence is required in sick bay."

"Problems with the medical bank computers?" Yet he knew that wasn't the

case. There were subtleties in all of Spock's impassive masks, and this

particular look was grimmer than most. "Dr. McCoy has suffered an

accident. He's in surgery now... Human blood after all.

By the time he reached sick bay, Kirk had prepared himself for the

critical care area. He hated entering it, an aversion that in no way

deterred him from doing so when necessary, but for him this room was a

symbol of failure, his failure to keep his crew alive and well. The

sight of so many quiet forms made him ache inside. If he had detected

the Frenni trap, if he had reacted just a few seconds faster, this room

would be empty. "Captain." Christine Chapel was waiting for him. "Dr.

Cortejo has completed the surgery. Dr. McCoy is still unconscious, but

vital signs are stable." Her professional manner was on full force, a

shield against the emotional toll of her work. Kirk would have felt

better about McCoy's condition if she had betrayed more of her anxiety.

- "I want to see him." The memory of Spock's bloodsoaked shirt was still

too fresh in his mind. The nurse nodded. "He's in the resonance chamber.

Dr. Cortejo can fill you in on the details while they run the scan. Now,

if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my patients."

She's got to get some rest, thought Kirk as Christine Chapel left his

side. But then everyone on board, himself included, could use a good

night's sleep. Which didn't mean they were going to get it any time

soon. The captain worked his way deeper into the labyrinth of medical

sections until he heard the precisely enunciated accents of the man who

was now acting chief medical officer. Eduardo Cortejo Alvarez was not a

popular man on board ship. His somewhat portly figure was held rigidly

upright by an air of arrogance. The impatient disdain with which he

treated nonmedical personnel, especially his patients, was a discordant

contrast to McCoy's warmer style. Since the chief medical officer set

the tone for sick bay, Cortejo's imperious manner was a constant source

of irritation to the medical staff. Only a mutual respect for each

other's surgical talents kept the two surgeons from open warfare. McCoy

wasn't going to like having Cortejo in charge for the next few days.

However, when Kirk turned a corner and came face to face with the

contents of the resonance chamber, he realized fully that his chief

medical officer was in no position to care who was running sick bay.

Even in sleep the human body displays subtle signs of movement, but

McCoy's form was utterly still, devoid of consciousness. His face was

almost white, with the skin stretching tightly over the bones beneath.

Ironically, the head injury was marked only by a small medpatch behind

his right ear. "What's his condition?" demanded Kirk of the two doctors

standing outside the chamber. "He's in a coma, Captain." It was not the

surgeon who answered. Kirk vaguely remembered that the young doctor who

faced him was a Star Fleet resident 'finishing a training tour. He tried

to recall a name but failed; trainees came and went too fast for him to

keep track of them all. "Dr. Dyson, attend to the scan," snapped

Cortejo. "I will not waste my time pushing buttons."

The resident flushed at the reprimand, but with a hastily stifled scowl

that betrayed anger rather than embarassment. She returned to the

control panel. Kirk watched as McCoy's body passed back and forth within

the scanning rings of the resonance chamber. A narrow ,platform moved

him in slow increments through the rays so that the computer could

capture a series of images, atom-thin slices from a phantom dissecting

knife. Dyson's fingers skimmed over the controls transforming this

information into a holographic recreation of his body, a ghostly twin,

which formed outside the chamber. The head area was alive with colors

from the dense accumulation of scan slices. After ordering some

adjustments to the resolution, Cortejo began a monologue. "The injuries

are the result of a number of factors in the fall. The immediate impact

with the edge of the desk created a superficial scalp wound and a linear

skull fracture." His index finger traced a bright purple line on an

orange skull. "Fortunately, the blood loss from the laceration was not

excessive and the occipital bone is intact. There were no bone fragments

to penetrate the brain matter below. Thus, from a surgical point of

view, the damage was minimal and easily repaired. "However, the impact

to the free,moving head caused a rotational movement which resulted in

an acceleration concussion. The effects of this trauma could be serious,

though I'm more inclined to be optimistic from what we've observed so

far. Dr. Dyson is the real expert in neurological examination." The

surgeon relinquished center stage to the slight, darkfeatured woman at

his side.

Though somewhat discomfited by the sudden attention Kirk focused on her,

Dyson spoke concisely. "The major mechanism of primary diffuse brain

injury after blunt head trauma is the mechanical shearing and tearing of

nerve fibers and blood vessels. An examination of Dr. McCoy's brain

scans shows no discernible lesions or shearing of tissue. However,

there's no way we can detect whether the nerve fibers have been

stretched. The only indicator is neurologic function--and that can't be

determined until he wakes up. "As for secondary mechanisms, there was a

brief increase in intra-cranial pressure, but probably not sufficient to

damage the brain. No signs of brain shift, edema, or hemorrhage. It's

fortunate that Mr. Spock was present to summon the medic team.

Complications could have developed if there had been any delay in

entering surgery."

"Speaking of surgery," broke in Cortejo, "I must get back to my work.

This is no longer my field." He gave the captain a grudging nod of

acknowledgement but left without any further notice of the resident.

Kirk began to appreciate the depths of McCoy's exasperation with this

man, but the matter at hand overshadowed Cortejo's shortcomings. "This

stretching of the nerve fibers--what would be the result?" Dyson gave a

frustrated shrug. "Dysfunctions ranging from mild confusion to deficits

of memory, recognition, word association, motor coordination, any of

which could require months or even years of regenerative therapy.

There's no further way to measure the severity of the injury until he's

conscious. Usually, the longer the coma lasts, the greater the

likelihood of neurological impairment, but in this case it's difficult

to judge the source of unconsciousness. Dr. McCoy had just gone off duty

from a rather grueling stint in surgery. Nurse Chapel says he was

exhausted when he left. Also," there was the slightest trace of

hesitation, "his blood alcohol level was elevated. Not to toxic levels,

but certainly combined with the fatigue, and the blood loss, and the

blunt trauma... Well, he's certainly earned a spell of unconsciousness,"

she finished with a wry smile. Irritation at her gallows humor cut

through Kirk's worry. Perhaps that was the point. Beneath the usual

timidity of a junior officer dealing with a commander he caught a

glimpse of a keen medical mind at work. He wondered what McCoy's

professional assessment of Dr. Dyson had been. The scan was over. Two

nurses gently rolled McCoy's still body onto a grav-stretcher and

whisked him away under Dyson's supervision. Kirk could do nothing more.

What a stupid accident, the captain thought as he made his way to a

turbo-lift. After all the wars and murderous aliens and insane careening

about the galaxy, his chief medical officer had been injured during a

gravity adjustment. When McCoy recovered from this Kirk would make sure

he received a ship deckklutz award. The doctor had been only too willing

to pass them out to the parade of crewmen that collected scrapes and

bruises and broken bones by tuning out the general ship communications.

The turbo whined to a halt and disgorged the captain onto the bridge. At

his entrance, the crew looked up expectantly. Somehow, despite his

medical duties, McCoy had become an unofficial member of the bridge

personnel, always lurking on the fringes of its action. "He's

unconscious, but stable," announced Kirk, then turned to Uhura. "Dr.

Dyson will be sending continual reports. Alert me the moment his

condition changes." He circled over to the computer station. "Mr.

Spock." His first officer had practically disappeared into the circuitry

beneath his panel, leaving only two booted feet behind, feet which

flayed about at erratic intervals. A muffled Vulcan phrase seeped its

way up through the metal. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were

swearing."

"Curse words do not exist in the Vulcan language," said Spock somewhat

more distinctly as he heaved himself back out onto the deck. One hand

held a frame of circuit chips. Kirk was relieved to see him wearing a

clean tunic. "Unfavorable circumstances are changed by action, not by

symbolic verbalization of emotion."

"So what action are you taking?" Under better circumstances, Kirk would

have been asking these questions in the comfort of the briefing room,

with his officers grouped around him, answering in turin Spock's fingers

skipped nimbly over the frame, jabbing here and there to dislodge

particular wafers from their place in the frame. He made no attempt to

maintain eye contact with the captain; only his responses indicated he

was even aware of the man's presence. "Pulse dampeners have been

repaired. Damage to computer circuitry was sporadic, but all damaged

systems have been identified." He worked his way down a mental list of

priorities. "Mr. Chekov is leading a work crew in the installation of

back-up memory units in all areas essential to ship's operation or

defense." These last words seemed especially emphasized. Kirk guessed

that the rumor of lost drama tapes was true. Well, no one would have

much time for recreation anyway. "Short-range sensors will be

operational in seven minutes." Spock stopped his poking and began to

snap new chips back into the holes. "Rough calibration will take an

additional hour." No longer blind, but still fuzzy. "What about

longrange sensors?" Spock had already ducked back inside the computer's

entrails, but his acute hearing had discerned the question. Kirk, whose

ears were not so sensitive, was forced to bend down to catch the reply.

"That will take longer since they sustained direct physical damage. Mr.

Scott's repair estimate for the equipment is twelve hours. Calibration

will take another four from that time." Sixteen hours. "Spock, we still

haven't figured out who attacked us, or why. There could be a whole

battalion of those aliens staring us right in the face, and we wouldn't

know it."

"A somewhat disconcerting image, Captain." Above their heads a portion

of the computer station came to life with a series of self-satisfied

clicks and whiffs. "But essentially correct." As he straightened up, the

captain muttered some especially strong emotive symbols under his

breath. Not only had the alien kamikaze attack been completely

unexpected, the reasons behind it were still clouded. Kirk was a master

tactician, but even he needed some knowledge of the nature of his

adversary on which to base strategy. The bodies found in the wreckage

were not of any known Federation race or its allies. Neither were they

any of the Federation's known enemies. Yet, this alien's enmity was

unquestioned Frazer, the xenobiologist, estimated that some twenty

individuals had annihilated themselves in an attempt to cripple the

Enterprise. This latter action held the strong implication of more

forces in the area. Forces which could be lurking just outside scanning

range... "Captain." Spock broke through Kirk's reveries. "Short-range

sensors are about to become operational." The first officer had risen

from the floor and was hunched over his terminal. His fingers flicked a

rapid combination of switches. "Right... now." At his words, yellow

alert sirens began to whoop across the bridge.

Chapter Five.

The slow, steady blink of the bridge's yellow alert was starting to

grate on Kirk's nerves. After ten hours there still wasn't more than a

faint shimmer of matter on the edge of sensor range; just enough

disturbanc e to warrant caution, but not enough for action. Not that

there was much action the Enterprise could take in her present

condition. Then again, there might in fact be no substance to the

shadow; it could be a relic of battle damage to the delicate equipment.

Certainly the viewscreen revealed no alien craft, only the faint glow of

stars. Drawing his eyes away from a futile search of the screen, the

captain slumped in his command chair, fighting the impulse to gather yet

another round of status reports from the bridge crew. If he stayed in

one place much longer his yeoman would load him with a stack of data

tablets needing signatures. Kirk got to his feet. He feigned a

fascination with the unchanging viewscreen, moved closer to study its

image, then veered off. He walked slowly behind the duty stations,

nodding absently at the crewmen as they worked, until he reached

Communications. "No change in audio reception, Captain." Uhura's bright,

hard tone signaled, to those who knew her well, a tightly checked anger.

"Communications sweeps are still negative."

Just as they had been ten minutes ago. Kirk assumed a look of innocence

which did not convince the lieutenant of his good intentions. He eyed

the computer station as his next target, but his courage failed him.

Spock was obviously pained at his inability to provide reliable data

from the impaired sensors and any interruption would only deepen the

Vulcan's chagrin and delay repairs. Perhaps his crew was too good,

reflected Kirk sourly. A less efficient performance would give him a

legitimate reason to harass the officers and thus absorb his

restlessness in overseeing their duties. As it was, everyone on the

bridge was competently engaged in repairs or surveillance, providing him

with no distraction from the nagging desire for some sort of resolution.

What the hell could he do now? As if on cue, Lt. Uhura looked up from

her station and smiled, genuinely, at Kirk. "Captain, Dr. Dyson requests

your presence in sick bay. It seems Dr. McCoy is waking up." The bridge

crew kept working without pause, but an unvoiced cheer ghosted across

the deck. "Thank you, Lieutenant." Kirk breathed a silent sigh of

relief. His one brief glimpse of the doctor, pale and gaunt, had been

unexpectedly unnerving. "Mr. Spock, you have the conn," he announced,

heading for the turbolift. "Yes, Captain." The first officer

straightened up from the circuit panel beneath the science station. The

inevitable litter of discarded chips lay scattered on the floor beneath

him and the desk surface above. "And Captain..." Kirk paused, looking

back at the Vulcan. "Mr. Spock?' "When Dr. McCoy regains consciousness

he should be informed that the medical systems computers are fully

operational."

"Of course, understood." And he did understand.

Spock was incapable of voicing his concern for McCoy across the length

of the bridge, but it existed nevertheless. Enterprise medical personnel

were too professional to betray a personal interest in any one patient

over another, yet coincidentally a large proportion of them discovered

duties that brought them into the vicinity of the intensive care unit.

Kirk marveled at the vigor with which they ignored one particular corner

of the room, yet hovered on its perimeter. Dr. Dyson and Nurse Chapel

were flanking the chief surgeon's body, intently scrutinizing the vital

signs monitor on the wall. In contrast to other panels in the room, this

one was approaching a normal configuration. Kirk might not be a doctor,

but through the years he had become familiar with the medical equipment.

A cautious smile on Chapel's face was a confirmation of his diagnosis.

"He's coming out of the coma, Captain," she explained in a low voice,

her eyes switching rapidly between the panel, Dyson's actions, and the

unconscious form of Dr. McCoy. "What about brain damage?"

"Too early to say yet," muttered Dyson absently. "The brain is a tricky

organ and the monitor hasn't been built yet that can track all its

subtleties." Her head was nodding in concert with the jerky progress of

one particular indicator. "We'll get a rough idea when he wakes up,

which should be soon." She bent down and took hold of McCoy's shoulders.

"Dr. McCoy, can' you hear me? You've been asleep long enough." This was

followed by a very gentle shake. "You must wake up now. Answer me, Dr.

McCoy." The slightest flutter of eyelashes betrayed a response. "Bones,

wake up!"

Kirk tried to make his words an order; they came out more like a plea.

The limp body began to transform with the tension of consciousness.

"Thatta boy," crowed Dyson and began to slap at his cheeks. "Wake up and

give me hell for beating up on a patient." The flutter increased in

intensity, then the lids snapped open. McCoy groaned but his eyes were

clear and focused. "What happened?" His voice was little more than a

croak. "Can you tell me?" asked Dyson. "What do you remember?" Dark

eyebrows furrowed in thought. "I fell. Hit my head. And it hurts," he

added. "I'll bet it does. You gave yourself quite a fracture. Now tell

me who you are." Only the slightest hesitation preceded his answer. "Dr.

Leonard H. McCoy." Already the voice had gained strength. "And where are

you now?" Kirk smiled at her pedantic tone. If McCoy weren't so groggy,

he'd have balked at being put through his paces. Propping himself up on

one elbow, the doctor looked up at the three people grouped around him,

then at the room in which they all stood. "Well, it's got to be a

hospital, but I'll be damned if I've ever seen one like this before. How

far are we from the ranch?"

"Ranch?" Dyson kept her tone neutral, but her body tensed. "Yeah, the

Black Spur. I know breaking horses may not be the safest way to spend a

vacation, but I didn't think this area rated a high-tech ward just to

treat broken bones..." His voice trailed off in confusion as he took in

more details around him. His gaze stopped short at the sight of Kirk's

uniform. "I'm not in Waco, am I?"

"No, you're not," Dr. Dyson said genially. Her eyes flashed a warning at

the captain to remain silent. "Tell me more about the accident." McCoy

lay back down on the bed, gingerly resting his head on the pillow. His

voice took on a slight Southern drawl. "I don't really remember the fall

itself--not unusual for a head injury--but I can't have lost more than a

couple of minutes..." He raised his head for another vague look at the

area around the bed. "Anyway, I was riding this chestnut gelding with a

bad disposition and an iron mouth. We had a slight disagreement about

jumping barbwire fences. He wanted to, and I didn't. Somehow, I'm the

only one that ended up going over." His hand described a lofty are.

"Just as well to forget what that landing must have been like. "Say, I

must have knocked myself silly 'cause I don't remember getting here." An

edge of worry crept into his voice. "How long have I been out?"

"You were unconscious for a few hours," Dyson said easily. "And now it's

time for you to get some more sleep, real sleep."

She looked up at Chapel. "Nurse, prepare a sedative."

"I don't need a sedative!" The querulous tone was fully in character.

"I'm the attending physician here, and I say you do." This was clearly a

non-negotiable issue. She was a small woman in stature, but her strength

of will was a good seven feet tall. "Well, as a sign of professional

courtesy," said McCoy reluctantly, "I'll agree to the treatment." Chapel

placed a hypo against his arm and released the medicine with a soft

hiss. "You're going to be just fine."

"Thank you, nurse." His eyes closed slowly.

After his inspection of the service uniform, McCoy had never looked at

Kirk. Dyson began a soft rapid patter of instructions as she scratched

notes on a data tablet. ,Chris, arrange to get a private room set up,

even if it's just a supply closet. I know it's not going to be easy with

sick bay as crowded as it is, but we can't afford to have the crew

around him when he wakes up. I'll need a monitor but otherwise try to

keep the room as spare as possible--it'll lessen his disorientation when

he starts to take a good look around. And get the shipboard speaker

turned off in there so he doesn't hear any announcements." That's what

got him in trouble in the first place, thought Kirk. "Where's Dr.

Cortejo?" asked Dyson. The nurse paused a moment to check her mental

calendar. "Surgery. He won't be out for at least another hour."

"Mmm.

Well, there's nothing he can do now, but see if you can catch him when

he's out so he knows what's going on. It seems he'll be acting chief for

a while yet." Kirk was impatient with questions but held himself in

check. The effort must have showed on his face. Dyson gave him a quick

glance. "Just a few minutes more, Captain, then we can talk." She

signaled him to follow her out of the ward, still writing as she walked.

By the time they reached her office the data tablet was completely

filled. Dyson pitched her voice for the medical log. "Computer, enter

the following update on patient Leonard McCoy." She inserted the tablet

into a slot on her desk. "Reading." Only then did the woman turn and

face the Captain. "Aside from the memory loss, Dr. McCoy showed no signs

of verbal aphasia or speech disorders. Motor coordination appeared

normal, though there was limited time for observation. We'll have an

exact determination of any subtle disability when we can run some

in-depth performance tests. As for the rest, I won't pretend to be able

to give you any definite information; amnesia is one of the least

understood of brain disorders. It could be temporary--lasting only until

he wakes up again---or it could last for some months. Or he might never

recover his recent memory."

"That's not a very satisfactory answer." Kirk's statement was an

acknowledgement of frustration ra ther than a reproach. "He's obviously

forgotten the last several years of his life. He didn't recognize me or

the ship; I'm not even certain he recognized the Star Fleet uniforms.

Just how far back does this amnesia reach?"

"Well, that's one piece of information we may be able to determine now.

I want to have a good idea of just where in time he thinks he is before

explaining the situation to him. "Computer, pull a complete medical

history on patient Leonard McCoy."

"Acknowledged. Record on visual."

"From his description, that fall may have been serious enough to be in

his records." Dyson peered intently at the screen and began to scroll

the document backwards. Starting at the present, McCoy's life was

unraveled line by line. After what seemed a very long time, the screen

stopped. "This is probably it "Slight concussion and a bruised rib.'

Hospitalized overnight at a clinic in Waco, Texas and released after

routine observations indicated no complications." She looked up at the

captain. "Twenty-five years ago."

Chapter Six.

The odors that permeated the autopsy lab made Kirk's stomach roil in

protest. The sights which the room offered only made his nausea worse.

He didn't mind the chunks of tissue floating in specimen bottles--these

were mangled beyond recognition--but the dismembered body which was

spread out on the slab before him was a definite source of discomfort.

The captain forced himself to concentrate on the scientific interest of

the display. "Of course, this is just a reconstruction of what they look

like," explained Lt. Steven Frazer as he placed the last of the pieces,

a severed foot, onto the table surface. "There were no whole bodies

available." Little wonder. The merchant ship had been reduced to twisted

fragments and molten slag. "But no Frenni or Klingons?" Kirk asked

insistently. "Nope." The xenobiologist was surprisingly colloquial in

his speech. It was only on paper that he became a stupefying bore. A

typical product of the Martian Colony school system, according to McCoy.

At the thought of his chief surgeon, Kirk's stomach gave another ominous

lurch. Steadfastly ignoring his body's traitorous behavior, he moved

closer to the table to better examine its contents. The decapitated head

was the largest, and most intact, piece in the anatomical puzzle. It had

survived the vacuum of space with surprisingly little disruption.

Whereas a humanoid would have shown extensive hemorrhaging of its skin,

this creature's outer surface was protected by a rubbery layer of

steel-blue skin. The large, liquid eyes were shielded by a dear lid.

Frazer believed that their venomous red color was probably natural. The

black fibers of the skullcrest bristled stiffly even in death. The only

concession to mortality was the open, gaping beak. The massive head

implied an equally massive chest, yet there were only a few pieces of

oozing orange tissue arranged haphazardly in the center area. Sections

of limbs were laid out on either side of them to suggest an upright,

bipedal figure with two arms. Only one clawed foot and one taloned hand

were present. "How accurate is this 'reconstruction'?"

"Not very, as far as the internal organs are concerned," admitted

Frazer, cheerfully rearranging the parts in question. He was tall and

attenuated, with ruddy skin and an unruly shock of black hair. "But the

basic shape is right. I haven't missed any extra legs, or the presence

of a tail."

"Mean looking," muttered Kirk. Normally, he could not be tempted into

such a xenophobic reaction, but dammit, these creatures had tried to

destroy his ship. "Mr. Spock entered a provisional taxonomic name into

the computer log," said Frazer, "but the crew has already dubbed them

"Ravens'." The word brought back the sharp scent of Iowa farmland in the

harvest season, and the shadowy memory of a spare, stooped old woman.

Kirk's grandmother had called ravens the harbingers of death, and as a

young child he had felt his pulse quicken at their harsh caws. The trees

near home had often harbored the sleek, blue-black birds whose cunning,

aggressive natures and rapacious appetites brought them into conflict

with farmers. The name was well chosen. Another connection formed in

Kirk's mind. Ravens could also be taught to speak, to mimic sounds.

Before the rescue attempt, Kirk had been convinced he was speaking to

Captain Esserass, and only a very strong faith in the abilities of his

first officer had shaken this certainty. How had they known so much?

Enough to trick him into lowering the ship's shields? "Are these aliens

telepathic?" he asked. Such an ability could account for the accuracy of

the impersonation--the "Raven" could have picked it directly from the

mind of the gentle Frenni merchant, or possibly even from Kirk's mind as

they talked... "Probably not," said Frazer. "Recent studies have

pinpointed the biochemical markers present in most telepathic species. I

didn't find any evidence of those properties in these aliens." Kirk's

cheek twitched in anger. Then Esserass had probably been tortured for

his knowledge. Mindprobers were quite effective, but one of the common

side-effects of the procedure was death. "But they have a fascinating

nervous system," continued the xenobiologist with boyish enthusiasm.

"I've never seen anything like it and Dyson says it has 'journal

article' written all over it." He snatched up the alien head and flipped

it over to reveal the back of the skull. One hand parted the fibers of

the crest. "Look at this!" Swallowing an upsurge of bile, Kirk did as he

was told. Underneath the crest was a deep groove which bisected the

skull neatly in half. "Yes?" he prompted Frazer for the significance of

what he saw. "The skull is divided into two lobes, but I mean really

divided," the lieutenant explained. "Each side is a fully developed

brain, with no neural connections between them. Each side has its own

brain stem as well, but these don't join until this knot on the spinal

cord." His fingers traced a line down the nape of the neck, stopping at

a slight bulge perilously near the point at which the head had left its

torso. "Cases of double-brained development are very rare in higher

species. And even then one brain has marked dominance, while the other

is simply an especially dense cluster of neurons controlling select

functions of the involuntary nervous system."

"A mutant?" suggested Kirk. "No. From what we can make out of the tissue

fragments it seems to have been a common feature of the Ravens." The

young man shrugged. "But we haven't figured out what purpose it serves

to have two brains. Under most evolutionary pressures it would be a

fatal handicap. We'll need a live specimen before we can learn any

more." Kirk winced. "The last thing I want to see right now is a live

version of this." He gestured at the lumps on the table. Frazer grinned.

"Yeah, I guess so. I certainly wouldn't want to face one without a

phaser." He set down the head and reached for the one hand. Grabbing the

limp appendage by the wrist, he waved it in Kirk's direction, oblivious

to the man's pale complexion. "These talons are not only razor-sharp,

they're also poisoned. Here, under each nail, is a venomproducing gland

that packs enough wallop to paralyze a horse."

Kirk felt greatly in need of just such a numbing tonic, but Frazer

seemed immune to the stench arising from the dismembered Raven. "The

venom is composed of various body fluids and a complex organic compound.

The medical department thinks it may have potential as a new anesthetic.

Of course, it won't be much use until we can counteract the effect. Once

the structural analysis of the venom is finished, I'll have a pretty

good chance of developing an antidote."

"Anything else of interest?"

Kirk asked with an attempt at sincerity. He regretted having eaten lunch

before entering this room, and his body threatened to redress that

offense at any moment. "Naw, that's pretty much it," finished Frazer,

letting the hand drop back onto the countertop with a soggy thud. Kirk

made his exit as quickly as dignity would allow. Possibly quicker. By

the time he reached the shuttle bay hangar, Kirk's lungs had cleared

themselves of the obnoxious odors of the autopsy room and his queasy

stomach had settled somewhat. He walked carefully over the uneven deck

and reflected on the significance of the torn and gouged surface. One

shuttlecraft, the one carrying a paramedic team, had been the closest to

the Selessan when the recall order was issued and thus the last to reach

the Enterprise. The pilot had known the starship was defenseless without

shields; she had also known Kirk would not raise shields until the last

shuttlecraft landed. So Prusinowski hit full speed on her return flight.

She won the race to reach the ship but miscalculated the approach

deceleration. All aboard were killed when the shuffle crashed into the

deck. Another two crewmen had been crushed as it skidded across the

length of the hangar and slammed into the back wall. The worst of that

damage had been patched, but the crumpled shell of the craft was still

lodged in its final resting place. Not too far from there was another

high jumbled pile of wreckage. Tractor beams had recovered portions of

the Frenni merchant ship from space; Scotty's repair teams had pried

more from the hull of the Enterprise where the pieces had been imbedded.

For the last five hours, Lt. Sulu had been seamhing the remains for any

insight into the nature of the alien attackers. "What have you found so

far?" asked Kirk as he threaded his way between rows of misshapen

fragments that littered the hangar deck. "I'm still working on the

initial organization, Captain." Sulu waved at the minefield he had

created. "It's a complicated puzzle." Kirk nodded vague approval at

Sulu's vague report, Privately h e suspected that the search was futile,

but he needed more information about the Ravens. Sulu, whose usual duty

as helmsman was rendered irrelevant by the ship's current condition,

could be spared on the off chance that some clue existed. "Carry on, Mr.

Sulu."

"Aye, sir." Sulu gazed intently at the mangled piece of metal in his

hand until the captain was out of sight. Once the coast was clear, he

seriously considered flinging the chunk across the deck, but ultimately

decided there would be no gratification in the gesture. Sulu turned to

his right and carefully laid the piece down in a pile of others just

like it. A groan issued from the depths of the debris, as if the ghosts

of the defeated aliens were mourning their lost ship. "This is useless,"

wailed the phantom. "Well, it was a good idea.., in theory," said Sulu

evenly. Since it had been his idea, he felt constrained from voicing his

regret. "Perhaps." A tousled thatch of brown hair materialized on the

other side of the mountain of space flotsam. "But, in practice it is not

so good an idea." Chekov worked his way around to Sulu's side. "Ve rill

never find any useful information in this junk." The helmsman sighed in

agreement. He pulled a cracked ventplate from the heap and held it up to

the light. It was the most recognizable object he had found so far. The

Frenni ship had been twisted and torn by its impact with the pylon and

partially vaporized by the raising of the shields, a somewhat belated

response which had done little to save the Enterprise from damage and

much to erase any evidence of the attacker's origin. "And now the

captain will expect answers."

Chekov continued his list of grievances against Sulu's proposal to

inspect the wreckage. "Worse, Mr. Spock will expect answers. I do not

like. to disappoint Mr. Spock." A good portion of the ensign's waking

hours were spent in gathering and analyzing data for the science

officer. Chekov viewed the effort as a daily sacrificial offering to

appease a particularly demanding demigod. Sulu turned the ventplate

upside down. "This reminds me of free-form sculpture from Benega IV. My

academy roommate was Benegan and he showed me how to work the metal..."

Chekov drowned out the rest of the explication with an extremely loud

and guttural stream of Russian.

As soon as Kirk stepped out of the turbo-lift Spock rose smoothly from

the captain's chair. The Vulcan was never reluctant to exchange the

duties of command for those of science. "Have you read Frazer's report?"

asked Kirk, settling into the vacated seat. "Yes, Captain. Most

interesting." Spock's tolerance for teasing was high, but Kirk suspected

he had approached his limit in one area--lately Spock tended to avoid

the word "fascinating."

"I suppose you even understood it," sighed Kirk.

Not even McCoy's emendations had rendered the report comprehensible to

him, thus necessitating a personal acquaintanceship with its subject

matter. "It doesn't answer our most pressing question--why were we

attacked? Why were these Ravens trying to destroy this ship? And at the

cost of their own lives." Spock did not challenge Kirk's designation of

the aliens as "Ravens." The term had entrenched itself too quickly among

the science staff. "They do exhibit extremely aggressive tendencies,"

admitted Spock. "Their motivations, unfortunately, are not subject to

autopsy."

"Greed and lust for power are the most common excuses for fighting,"

mused Kirk. The Vulcan offered another.

"Territorial defense is also a frequent basis for warfare."

"Not this time. This wasn't their territory."

"Perhaps they believed it was," argued Spock impartially. "Or they don't

care who it belonged to, they simply want to take it over. Territorial

expansion is another popular attraction for slaughter, right up there

with greed and desire for power." Spock grew impatient with this

undirected speculation. "Alien minds and alien cultures are often

possessed of motives beyond our comprehension." Kirk groaned and laid

his head in his hands. "Do Vulcans suffer from tension headaches, Mr.

Spock?"

"No," said the first officer.

"But my Human half has proved troublesome at times."

"Well, at least the truce is still intact." Kirk kneaded his temples to

ease the pain that was taking root. "That tale of a Klingon attack was

faked--simply a ruse to draw us into their trap." Spock arched an

eyebrow. "That certainly is the most attractive interpretation,

Captain." He registered Kirk's annoyance and relented. "However, even in

the cold light of objectivity, it is also the most probable." Kirk

observed that the pounding in his skull had fallen into sync with the

yellow alert lights which had flashed with monotonous regularity for the

last fifteen hours. Spock followed his gaze. "One hour and twenty-two

minutes until long-range sensors are operational." And what will we find

then? Kirk wondered wearily.

Chapter Seven.

THE SECOND TIME Leonard McCoy awoke he was alone in a small featureless

room of metallic grey walls and a ceiling obscured by deep shadow. The

only light was a faint glow that came from the monitor above him; the

only sound was its soft hum. At first he was content to lie still and

let his thoughts wander idly over landscapes of scrub grass and mesquite

bush, to recall the sting of dust carried by a dry wind and the baking

glare of a summer sun overhead. Inevitably, these thoughts led to the

memory of his fall, which led him back to the bed on which he lay.

Ironically, this vacation had been an attempt to escape as far as

possible from the reminders of daily rounds and night shifts in ER. At

least he wasn't working, but McCoy wasn't sure he liked this side of

hospital life any better. Still, he shouldn't be here long, since only

his head seemed to have suffered from contact with the ground; the rest

of him felt remarkably whole. Starting at his toes and working his way

up, McCoy wiggled and tensed each muscle of his legs, arms, and chest

without experiencing a twinge. No broken bones, no wrenched tendons, no

bruises. This latter fact began to nag at him. He might not have picked

up any bruises from this last fall, but he certainly had the day before

when the gelding had unexpectedly bolted, leaving McCoy hanging in air.

Yet no amount of prodding or pinching could produce the expected tender

spots. This puzzlement served to direct his attention back to the scene

in the hospital ward. As a result his puzzlement deepened. He had the

vague recollection, that the place had not looked like an ordinary

hospital. Yet no one had actually said where he was. They had been full

of questions, not answers. They. There had been the doctor who talked

with him and the nurse who gave him the sedative. But the third, who was

he? The image of the man's uniform was blurred, his face indistinct.

Where am I? wondered McCoy with an edge of annoyance. He sat up in bed

to inspect the monitor. Its basic shape and function were certainly

familiar, but this was the most sophisticated model he had ever

encountered. Numerous indicators were newly configured and their

markings only cryptic letters and numbers. Could they have sent me all

the way to Dallas? The desire to find out where he was grew very strong.

McCoy flipped on a low room light and saw nothing around him that would

yield information. The small space was depressingly functional and

antiseptic. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and stood up,

waited patiently for a wave of nausea and dizziness to pass, which it

did, then took an experimental step forward. Balance and muscular

reflexes undamaged, he noted with satisfaction. Then he took notice of

the black t-shirt and blue robe he was wearing; getting dressed was his

next priority. With increasing confidence he began a search of the room,

only to find no sign of his clothes, indeed no store of any personal

effects. However, tucked in a small shelf by the bed were a pair of

soft-soled shoes and a folded jumpsuit, all of which fit him

comfortably. He headed for the doorway.

The trip was short-lived. Before he had taken more than five steps, the

door swept open to admit the tall, blonde nurse he remembered from the

ward. "You're going in the wrong direction," she said genially, .and

pointed to a back corner of the room. "It's that way." McCoy flushed. "I

was headed for the hallway."

"There's no need. Just use the call button under the monitor and I'll

come in." Somehow McCoy found himself being led back to bed as she

talked on. "My name's Nurse Chapel. I'm here pretty much all of the

time, so don't worry about not being able to reach me. I realize you're

a little too big to need tucking in bed," she said doing just that, "but

if there's anything else you want, just ask."

As if from nowhere she presented him with a small capsule. "I'm sorry

you're having trouble sleeping but this should help you..."

"I want to be awake," replied McCoy warily. "I also want to know just

where I am and how long I've been here. That doctor said I was

unconscious for hours--how many hours?"

"Are you always this energetic at three in the morning?" asked the nurse

in a conversational tone. Despite her plehsant manner, McCoy recognized

the evasiveness of the response and felt his puzzlement turn into

uneasiness. "I'd like to see my medical chart." Chapel considered. "You

were in a coma for twelve hours, Dr. McCoy. Dr. Dyson is concerned that

you not overstress yourself early into recovery. Now you, as a medical

man, should recognize the advisability of getting some more rest. You

can read your medical chart in the morning with your attending

physician, and the two of you can argue treatments together to your

heart's content." With a smile, she again proferred the capsule. Her

performance was convincing, yet somehow the doctor sensed that it was

just that-- a performance--and not the reasonable statement of fact it

appeared to be. "At the risk of being a difficult and demanding patient,

I'd like to see it now." Her pleasant facade held steady. "And I haven't

the authority to give it to you. What would you say to any nurse of

yours who gave a patient their medical chart?" He chuckled despite

himself. "Fine, you win. Just tell me what hospital I'm in and I'll go

to bed like a good little boy."

"Why, it's called Enterprise General." The hesitation had been slight,

almost imperceptible, but Chapel was better at evasion and diversion

than she was at outright lies. She was almost out the door when McCoy

spoke again. "I don't believe a word you've said, Nurse Chapel." He

stared straight into her startled face. "Now why would you lie to me?"

The words drawled out a challenge. Sighing heavily, she punched a button

on the intercom panel. "Dr. Dyson to sick bay." They spent the time

waiting in guarded silence, staring awkwardly about the room. Chapel

welcomed the entrance of the doctor with palpable relief. "Your patient

has some questions. It seems they can't wait until morning."

"Thank you," the woman answered with a sleepy yawn. Her long brown hair

straggled untidily out of a hastily tied bun; her blue science tunic was

rumpled in a manner familiar to all on-call doctors. "You can get back

to the ward now. Don't worry, I'll call You if I need you." Once the

nurse had left, McCoy burst out with impatience. "What's going on here?

I want to know where I am and why I can't get any answers about my

condition." Beneath the anger was fear.

"You'll get answers." Dyson did not make the mistake of adopting a

soothing manner. "But until you hear everything I have to say, you'll

get the answers in the order I choose to give them." She waited until

McCoy gave a reluctant nod before continuing. "As the result of a fall,

you sustained a linear fracture in the occipital region of your skull.

Due to the resulting concussion you were in a coma for just over twelve

hours. Based on informal observation I can say that organic damage does

not seem extensive." She gave him a disgruntled look. "Your verbal

abilities certainly haven't suffered. But you haven't escaped without

effect." She paused to search for the right approach. "Think very

carefully. What do you remember from after your fall at the ranch?"

McCoy's brows furrowed together. "Waking up here, wherever I am." A ball

of tension began to form in his gut. "Well, more than twelve hours have

passed between your vacation and now. The fall you remember, the one

from a horse, is not the accident from which you are recovering. At that

time you received a slight concussion, and a body bruising, but nothing

serious. You've awakened from a coma that was the result of a second,

later, fall. You've lost the memory of the intervening time."

"How much time? Weeks, months?" Then he looked up at the monitor, one he

had never seen before. "Not years?" he asked with disbelief. "Yes,

years," came the reply. "You don't recognize me or Christine Chapel, but

you'll remember us again, probably soon.

Alarming as your state may feel, bear in mind that your recovery has

barely begun." McCoy listened in silence. He recognized the careful

words of a physician trying not to alarm a patient. "Or I might never

recover."

"That is a possibility;" sighed Dyson in reluctant agreement.

"But I wouldn't get my hopes up. Despite the dramatic appeal, extended

amnesia is fairly rare. It's much more likely that you'll start

remembering bits and pieces, until the whole picture, or most of it,

returns."

"Well, I certainly hope I remember you," he said with a spark of humor.

"You have me at a disadvantage." She clearly knew the right tone to

strike with him, one that would deflate his self-pity before it had a

chance to take root. "Now where am I? And how long have I been here?"

"I think we've talked enough for tonight. "Is it that bad?" McCoy asked,

suddenly grim again. "So bad that I need to get my news spoon-fed in

small doses?"

"You've had a shock, more of one than you realize. If you just..."

"You don't give me much credit, do you, Dr. Dyson? Well, I'll have you

know that I'm getting mighty tired of this white-gloves treatment. A

little shock is nothing compared to the holy hell I'm going to raise if

I don't get some answers soon."

"Damn! You're a worse terror as a patient than you are as a doctor."

Dyson weighed the determination in his voice. "All right," she relented,

"you get the whole load of news in one session. At present you are on

board the U.S.S. Enterprise, a Federation starship assigned to

exploratory duty on the edges of mapped space. The man in uniform who

was with us when you woke up is James Kirk, the captain of this ship."

"What!" McCoy's voice held more than disbelief he looked aghast at her

words "But I'm a doctor, not some star-happy spacerat."

"You are indeed a doctor. In fact, you're chief surgeon Of the

Enterprise." ' McCoy snorted "Then the Federation must be pretty hard up

for help. I'm a family doctor, not a surgeon. Hell, I've never been

beyond the Moon and you're asking me to believe..." He ran down and

began to look confused. "Why, reaching that rank would take .. years.

And you did say it had been years." His face paled. "How many?" This

time Dyson answered him. "It's been twenty-five years since you were on

that ranch."

"Sweet Georgia," he said in awe. "That makes me an old man now. Half a

lifetime and I don't remember any of it." He sank back into the bed.

"What have I been doing in all that time?"

"I can't fill you in on the details, Doctor," said Dyson. "But Captain

Kirk knows you well and he'll be able to give you a better idea..." She

was cut off by the blaring of a claxon. An emergency alert was

overriding the room's intercom silence "Red Alert--Red Alert. All hands

to battle stations."

"Not again," Dyson groaned. "Again?" McCoy demanded. "What in hell is

going on?" His words were addressed to her back. The doctor was already

at the door. "Sorry, I've got to go," she yelled over her shoulder.

"We're under attack. Stay here."

"Dammit, where is here?" But she was gone. As the klaxon continued its

wail, the lights dimmed briefly Through the walls came the sounds of

running feet and .shouting voices "Under attack! I must have been insane

to join Star Fleet." The lights went off completely. He waited, but they

did not return. "I resign," he muttered into the darkness, and began a

groping journey to the door.

Chapter Eight.

Arroors OF meaningless sensory gibberish, the input from long-range

scanners sorted itself into coherence. The image which appeared then on

the main viewscreen escalated the yellow alert to red. Of all the

scenarios which had filled Jim Kirk's mind in the last 24 hours, this

was definitely his least favorite to be face to face with a Klingon

warship while the Enterprise had buckled shields and no warp drive. He

settled back into the command chair as if bracing himself for the combat

to come. "Can you get us out of here, Mr. Sulu?" The helmsman shook his

head decisively. "The nacelle is still unsteady. If I try to move the

ship now, we'll go into a spin. And even if it were anchored, we can't

outrun a battlecruiser with impulse engines." His voice was still ragged

from his frantic dash from the hangar deck to the bridge. "Chekov, what

kind of damage can our weapons do?"

"Not much, Keptin." The ensign wiped sweat off his forehead. He had kept

up with Sulu all the way but the run had cost him as well. "Phasers are

at thirty-three percent capacity. Even with a solid hit, that won't break

their shields." Kirk's fist hit a communications switch. "Scotty, I need

power!"

"There's no more t' give," came the frantic voice from the speaker.

"Ship's systems are pared t' the bone, and we've lowered life-support t'

a barely sustainable level. We can't fight, we can't run, we can't

defend ourselves... I need a miracle."

"Then get ready to cut life-support systems completely at my signal.

All power to phasers."

"What?"

"You heard me, Scotty. We can last at least fifteen minutes from

shut-off. If we get through that time, then we can worry about

breathing."

S-".Captain..' Spock's imperturbable voice cut through Scotty's

protests. That may not be necessary Sen gh macae minimal radiant ,,, -

Y... sors vessel--its engines are cold';;" ,mn me lhngon "But it's

moving."

"At an extremely leisurely, decelerating pace, consistent with that of a

drifting ship propelled only by inertia."

"Like our Frenni cruiser," said Kirk bitterly. The ploy had tricked him

once. Now, though forewarned, he had no defense against another attempt.

"And what are the bio-readings this time?"

"None." Spock seemed as surprised as his captain at the answer. "There

are no signs of living beings aboard, Klingon or otherwise."

"That would mean an entire crew dead.

Could the scanners still be dysfunctional?"' "Unlikely. All other

indicators are recording normal conditions." Spock continued his

observations, his tall form hunched over the science station. "At

present rate of drift, the warship will not be within phaser range for

at least five hours."

"My miracle," whispered Kirk to himself. Aloud, he said, "Uhura, secure

from general quarters, but monitor all hailing frequencies. If you hear

the slightest squeak from that ship, I want to know."

"Yes, Captain." As the call went over the ship's intercom, dimmed lights

began to brighten and the bridge air lost its edge of stale mustiness.

Then a beep from her communications panel called Uhura's attention. She

listened intently to the silent message, her hand pressed to the metal

spiral in her ear. "Captain, medical section reports a missing

patient--Dr. McCoy."

"Missing? What do you mean missing?"

"He seems to have wandered away from his room during the alert, and no

one has seen him since. He's nowhere in the medical section."

"Issue a ship-wide call for Dr. McCoy to report to sick bay, then alert

security to begin a deck-bydeck search." As if there weren't enough

problems.

"Mr. Spock, our puzzle seems to be growing more complex. We now have a

battle-damaged Frenni ship, but no Frenni; several unidentified alien

corpses; and a drifting Klingon warship, but no Klingons." Indeed,

Captain. A most intriguing set of variables with which to deal. It

reintroduces the problem of Klingon intrusion into Federation space."

"Yes, it seems our bogus "Merchant Esserass' wasn't lying about Klingon

involvement. But how are they involved? Who attacked the Frenni caravan?

Where did the Ravens come from? Why is the battle cruiser adrift?" Kirk

looked to his first officer. "Answers, Mr. Spock?"

"You have enumerated the questions fairly comprehensively, Captain.

Unfortunately, delineating a problem does not automatically illuminate

the solution. I need more data."

"Keptin, Mr. Spock!" Chekov had finished a series of navigation

calculations and the results were causing him great agitation. "I've

traced back the course of the warship. Its path intercepts that of the

Selessan." Kirk blinked in surprise. "But it's moving toward us, and it

certainly wasn't within sensor range when we first arrived here." Spock

stepped down to the helm and studied the instrument array.

"Interesting," he said evenly. His fingers touched the panel,

transferring a star-chart to the main viewscreen. "According to Chekov's

vector analysis, the Klingon ship and the Frenni caravan were probably

in close proximity at this point." Two ship icons rested side by side on

the map surface. "Ion particle residue indicates this as the site of a

battle, one which destroyed the Verella. Both remaining ships lost

engine power but continued to drift apart from the momentum of their

earlier flight." The icons moved several inches apart. "We encountered

the Selessan here." A starship icon appeared. "While the Klingon cruiser

was still moving out of sensor range. However, as its deceleration

continued, the gravitational forces of the Belennii system exerted

sufficient effect to pull it off course." The solitary icon began to arc

back toward the Enterprise. "Its heading is 83-mark-4, though, so it

will not come closer than 8.5 kilometers," said Chekov.

The map wavered and was replaced by a panorama of untroubled stars

amidst the void. "There's your additional data, Spock. What do you make

of it?" The science officer balked. "At this point, Captain, any

extrapolations of that occurence would more Closely resemble fiction

than reality. I still need..."

"... need more data," echoed Kirk sympathetically "Very Well, Mr.

Spock." It was best not to push Spock too far. Extended speculation

without hard facts tended to leave the Vulcan in a decidedly cranky

mood. The captain turned back to the helm.

"Lt. Sulu, we hardly need a helmsman on duty, since this ship isn't

going anywhere. You'll be more useful preparing a boarding party for

that cruiser."

"Yes, sir!" The young man's face split into an excited grin. Aside from

the lure of a new ship, this assignment would put a quiet end to his

fruitless search through the Frenni ship wreckage. Kirk did not fail to

catch a look of envy on the navigator's face. "You, too, Chekov. I want

every inch of that ship checked out; let's get Mr. Spock that extra data

he needs." Chekov offered a silent prayer to the patron saint of

down-trodden ensigns for this chance to appease the Vulcan.

Surely an intact Klingon battlecruiser would provide a satisfactory

quota of answers. "Captain," called out Uhura, "Security reports no sign

of Dr. McCoy."

"Damn. It can't be that hard to find a dazed and wounded man. How far

can he have gotten?" The doors of the turbo-lift snapped open. With a

muttered curse, McCoy jumped through the portal and glared back at the

doors as they snapped shut. He was far from dazed. "Bones!"

There was no reaction from the doctor. He turned around slowly, eyes

widening in surprise as they wandered over the glittering, humming

instrument panels that lined the bridge. When they reached the

viewscreen he gave a visible start and remained riveted in place. "I'll

be damned," he exclaimed softly. "I really am in space."

Kirk rose from the command chair and crossed over to him. "Dr. McCoy?"

McCoy pulled his attention away from the vision of deep space and found

himself the center of attention on the deck. He flushed. "Sorry to

intrude, but I've been trying to find 'sick bay.' If someone could give

me some directions..."

"Don't worry, I'll have a security guard show you the way." Kirk kept

his voice deliberately matter-offact. Off to his side, Uhura began to

whisper quietly into the intercom. "Thanks very much." McCoy's attention

sharpened on Kirk's face. "I remember you." The look of anticipation on

Kirk's face faded as McCoy continued. "You were there in the hospital

ward when I woke up. You must be Captain Kirk." He held out his hand in

greeting. Solemnly, the captain shook hands with his chief medical

officer. Still conscious of the crew watching him, McCoy glanced

nervously around the room, his gaze sliding quickly over the unfamiliar

faces. "I didn't mean to cause any trouble. Actually, I just got lost

trying to stay out of the way during this red alert commotion." "You

haven't caused any trouble," said Kirk. "We were simply concerned when

you didn't answer the ship's intercom."

"I heard the orders--I just couldn't figure out how to talk back." McCoy

gave another baleful glance at the turbo-lift doors. "Or how to get that

blasted contraption to work." Despite himself, Kirk smiled. "I'll see to

it that you get a thorough orientation to the Enterprise so you don't

get lost again." He watched as McCoy's eyes drifted back to the view

screen, mesmerized by the black velvet surface. "WOULD you care for a

tour of the bridge, doctor?" With all due ceremony the captain led a

curious McCoy to the communications station and introduced him to Lt.

Uhura. "This is the voice that has been ordering you to sick bay."

"Then I came in the right direction after all," said McCoy with a slight

courtly bow as he took her hand. She accepted the compliment with a

gracious smile, and only Kirk could detect the effort in her pretense of

formality. While Uhura held the doctor's attention with an explanation

of the sub-space transmitter, Kirk motioned for Spock to come closer.

Until now the first officer had stayed motionless at his station, but at

the captain's signal he rose quietly and walked towards the small group.

Without words the two officers came to a quick understanding of the

situation the Vulcan's sudden presence might jolt McCoy's memory. When

McCoy turned around there was no doubt that the confrontation was a

shock, but the doctor's reaction revealed only amazement, not

recognition. "This is the ship's first officer, Mr. Spock," said Kirk

easily, though he couldn't stifle an inward stab of disappointment.

McCoy swallowed his surprise. "How do you do?" His hand made an abortive

move upwards, but Spock's stony countenance seemed too alien for such a

Human gesture as a handshake. Somewhat at a loss, McCoy clasped his

hands behind his back and rocked nervously on his toes. "Forgive me any

social blunders, but I've never met a Vulcan before." Spock nodded

impassively. "There is no need for apology. I have learned to

accommodate Human social conventions."

"Oh, really," answered McCoy weakly. He glanced sideways at Kirk, as if

appealing for help, but the captain only smiled. The need for further

conversation was forestalled by Christine Chapel's sudden emergence from

the turbolift. "Uh oh," murmured McCoy under his breath. "I'm in for it

now."

"Hmm. Perhaps we should continue your tour later," said Kirk as a

grim-faced Nurse Chapel swooped towards them. Her worry over the

doctor's disappearance was rapidly transforming into anger. McCoy

stepped forward meekly. "Don't shoot. I'll go peaceably." Her expression

did not lighten, but she came to a halt and showed no inclination to

drag him bodily off the bridge.

"Well, it's been a Pleasure meeting you, Captain." The doctor nodded

affably at Spock, smiled at Uhura, and turned to follow Chapel to the

exit. After several steps he hesitated; a look of confusion crossed his

face. Looking back briefly, he called out, "I guess I'll need to talk to

you later about..." He broke off and walked quickly through the opening

doors. With Chapel handling the recalcitrant turbolift, McCoy was free

to sag weakly against a wall. He closed his eyes and fought against a

wave of nausea. Throughout the duration of the alert he had been filled

with an energizing sense of wonder as he worked his way from corridor to

corridor, dodging the self-absorbed crew. In their wake, sliding doors

revealed quick glimpses of laboratories and offices all dimly

illuminated by the glow of emergency lighting panels. He had pushed

aside Dr. Dyson's disturbing words and concentrated on the novelty of

his surroundings, letting himself be drawn farther and farther away from

his room, until at last he had lost all sense of direction. But finally,

as he was leaving the bridge, the knowledge had caught up to him again,

bringing a wrenching sense of disorientation. I'm supposed to know these

people, this ship. I've been here for years. I'm never going home again.

He felt as if a chasm had opened beneath his feet, and a glimpse of the

depths had left him spinning from vertigo. "You're tired," said Chapel,

not without sympathy. "I'm old," McCoy responded bitterly, though he

still couldn't bring himself to accept that he had aged so much

seemingly overnight. "Fort y-eight is hardly doddering," came the acerbic

reply. The abrupt change of tone opened McCoy's eyes in surprise. Chapel

was studying him with an expression of bemusement. "And you've been

sprinting through the Enterprise at an alarmingly sprightly pace for an

elderly man."

"This isn't funny!" he flared. "What do you care that.

I've lost half a lifetime? What does anybody care on this tinpot rocket?

I don't know you. I've never met you in my life."

Even as the doors of the lift opened, . all lies. I've opened he

continued shouting. It she's, been shanghaied off Earth and I want to go

back." Strong arms were taking hold of him.

"Let me go! Let me out of here?' Blind with fury, McCoy began swinging

his fists and grappling with the bodies which tried to restrain him. The

unseen forces prevailed, pinning him down to the floor. He heard a soft

hiss by his ear and felt a cold spot at the base of his neck. Then he

lost consciousness.

Chapter Nine.

THE WALK THROUGH the interior of the Falchion had a curious dreamlike

quality. Red boarding lights posted at irregular intervals created a dim

trail that wound its way through narrow shadowy corridors and cramped

crew quarters. The basic lines of the ship were familiar, yet form and

function were both oddly distorted for alien bodies and minds. An alien

ship devoid of alien life no Klingons were on board. Spock's summons

had pulled Kirk from a deep sleep, moving him to action and the

appearance of alertness, but fatigue blurred the distinction between the

unconscious realm and his present surroundings. He half-believed himself

to be in a mildly disturbing dream. The Vulcan first officer, however,

was firmly grounded in the reality of the situation. "The sensor scan

readings have been confirmed by a thorough deck search. The boarding

party reports there are no living beings aboard the ship. No bodies,

either. Yet, the lifeslips are all berthed."

"I don't like the feel of this, Spock."

"The feel, Captain?" The obligatory challenge to Human emotions. "This

situation bears an uncomfortable resemblance to the disappearance of the

crew of an Earth ship of the sea, the Marie Celeste She was found adrift

with no sign of her crew. The mystery was never solved." Spock made no

reply to this bit of trivia. "What about the ship's log?" asked Kirk.

"Wiped clean. The complete record of this ship's activities has been

erased from the computer system. Therefore, the immediate history of

this vessel remains unknown. However, Star Fleet intelligence reports

indicate the Falchion had been posted on routine border patrol of the

Belennii system for nearly two solar years. The commander of the ship

was Captain Kryon, a seasoned veteran who should have deserved a better

assignment. However, there have been indications of political upheavals

in the current Imperial line of succession. He may have incurred

political disfavor." "Or he may have been placed there in preparation

for an attack on the Federation," said Kirk thoughtfully. He followed

Spock through a narrow doorway and found himself in the command center

of the warship, the rendezvous point for the boarding party. The

shadowed forms of half a dozen crewmembers, indistingnishable from one

another in the dim red light, were scattered about the cockpit, waving

tricorders in every direction. Here, more than anywhere else, the lack

of power was most evident equipment panels lay dark and silent and the

viewscreen was reduced to a blank wall. "Captain, this is an

unparalleled opportunity to study Klingon technology." The disembodied

voice was that of Lt. Aziz. As one of Scotty's disciples, she was

enchanted by engineering systems. "Sorry you won't have more time to

check it out," answered Kirk, failing to identify her position in the

crowd that milled in the halflight. "That's all right. I've already got

enough information to keep me busy for months, but Sulu's dying to fly a

Klingon warship---he can't be trusted near the controls."

"It's the chance of a lifetime!" the helmsman's voice rang out

excitedly. He too was merged among the crew. "Is it functional?" asked

Kirk in surprise.

"As far as we can determine," said Aziz. Spock picked up the narrative.

"All ship's systems are in working order, though power levels are low

due to engine shutdown. Presumably, with sufficient time, levels could

be restored to normal capacity."

"So where are the Klingons?' It was a rhetorical question, another Human

response which Spock ignored. "It's just like the Marie Celeste," said

Sulu with relish. This time he made himself known by moving toward the

senior officers. "Abandoned at sea in the Bermuda Triangle, crew

vanished into thin air." Spock was pushed to a rebuttal. "I too am

familiar with the myths and legends associated with early shiptravel on

Earth's oceans. However, I see no need to delve into the realms of the

supernatural to explain our current situation. A rational"--he stressed

the word carefully--"explanation would be that the crew has boarded

another vessel."

"Leaving a functional warship behind, adrift in Federation territory?"

Kirk countered. "That may indeed be a rational explanation, Mr. Spock,

but only of very irrational behavior on the part of the Klingons. And

since the Selessan had no Frenni aboard, we are left with two missing

crews to account for. We've faced our share of cosmic mysteries,

encountered the unknown, the unexplained, the fantastic. Now we're

meeting the known acting out of character. I don't like it." Spock gave

no reply; on general principle he politely ignored the captain's more

blatant effusions of emotion.

Kirk's eyes searched the shadow-laden command deck. Where was the shade

of its former captain? Surely it lurked just out of sight... Sleep was

lulling him into fantasy even as he stood. Chekov's voice echoed weakly

over the ship's intercom. "Sir, I've completed an inspection of the

outer hull. There are signs of recent phaser damage." Those words

brought Kirk back to attention. "So the Falchion did attack the Frenni

caravan..."

"But, Captain," interrupted Sulu. "Where do the Ravens fit in?"

"It was probably a joint attack," said Kirk grimly. "Chances are the

Klingon Empire has found a powerful new ally, and together they've

decided to wage war against the Federation."

"And it must have been the Raven ship that carried the Klingon crew off

the Falchion," said Sulu with noticeable disappointment. This solution

was not as appealing as a metaphysical phenomenon. Kirk knew his science

officer was suffering under the weight of this rampant speculation. "Mr.

Spock, every new fact we gather seems to compound our difficulties."

"That is the inevitable risk of any scientific endeavor, Captain,"

.replied the Vulcan without apology. "All theories aside, one fact

remains this ship is functional.

In fact, it's in better shape than the Enterprise." Kirk chuckled

softly. "Lt. Aziz, how long will it take to restore life-support systems

and bring the engines back to full power?" The boarding crew came to a

standstill at his words. "No more than four hours," replied the engineer

promptly. "Sooner, if Linguistics can decipher certain control

designations."

"According to Scotty's last estimate we have another ten hours before

the Enterprise is ready to depart. Sulu, that gives you six hours to

learn how to fly her."

"Yes, sir!" His assent served for all the boarding party. A furious

burst of activity signaled their enthusiasm for the project. "An armed

escort," noted Spock with appreciation. "With fully powered weapons and

shields."

"And a cloaking device which will make the Falchion our ace in the hole.

We'll need that card if there are any Ravens still lurking about this

sector." Kirk sent up a small prayer that those aliens had not learned

how to detect a shielded vessel. The Empire did not hand out such

knowledge freely, not even to its allies. "A small crew should be able

to handle this ship.

Sulu can double as pilot and commander, with Aziz as engineer..."

"I recommend Ensign Chekov as navigator and science officer," added

Spock.

"Since he has already familiarized himself with the ship, it would save

time to use his knowledge." Despite its back-handed delivery, the

suggestion was a definite compliment to the junior officer.

"Recommendation accepted," replied Kirk. The ship's speakers

reverberated with the effusive thanks of the ensign. Kirk suspected his

first officer wished to escape before Chekov lapsed into Russian. "if

you're ready to return to the Enterprise, Mr. Spock?"

"Quite ready, Captain." Kirk pulled out a communicator, activating

contact with the ship. "Mr. Kyle, two to beam aboard." When the shimmer

of the transporter beam finally faded, Kirk found himself swaying

dizzily on the platform. Spock steadied him with a touch. "Sleep is a

biological necessity."

"You're the one who woke me up," accused Kirk. He shook off Spock's grip

and walked down the steps.

"Besides, I suspect you've been awake for the last three "Four point

five to be exact. However, as a Vulcan, I find a short session of

meditation sufficiently energizing to forego extended periods of

complete unconsciousness."

"I get the same lift from a stimulant. If you need me, I'll be in sick

bay." By the time he reached the medical complex Kirk was racked by

yawns, and the presence of so many beds only increased his desire to lie

down in a dark corner and sleep for days. Unfortunately the relief he

sought proved to be more elusive than he had bargained for. "You've had

two stimulant injections within the last forty-eight hours," said Dr.

Cortejo with heavy disapproval. "I can't possibly authorize additional

medication for another twelve hours."

"I'll be comatose by then."

"It takes at least ten to twelve hours for the chemicals to dissipate in

you r system," said the doctor didactically. His thin lips were set quite

firmly. "But I'm the captain," was the only reply Kirk could muster.

""There are times when it is necessary for me to remain awake." When

this produced no reaction, he continued unwillingly. "As chief medical

officer, Dr. McCoy was aware of the need to balance medical judgement

with a sense of perspective. The present tactical situation has priority

over my optimum biochemistry." The doctor's face betrayed his affronted

pride. "Very well, but I take no responsibility for the consequences of

your action." He motioned to Nurse Chapel. "And speaking of chief

medical officers, Captain. You should know that Dr. McCoy was carded

screaming into this ward after his little side trip to the bridge." With

a wave of. his hand, Cortejo dismissed himself from the room. "Another

five minutes with that man and I'd need a sedative to keep me from

breaking his neck," Kirk said to the nurse as she approached him. "You'd

have to stand in line, Captain." She tripped the plunger of the spray

against his arm. Within seconds a hot fire coursed through Kirk's veins;

the creeping fog of unconsciousness receded. "How much truth was there

in what he said?"

"I'm afraid that was a fairly accurate description.

But it was more of a .temper tantrum than the ravings of a lunatic.

Check with Dr. Dyson if you're worried." Chapel pointed him toward

Medical Records. Kirk found the neurologist hunched intently over a

computer terminal. At his approach, she flicked off the screen and began

an unrued update on her patient. "The results we've received so far are

very promising for a rapid physical recovery. But I can't form a final

prognosis until we've finished the full battery of tests."

"What about his.., temper tantrum?" asked Kirk. The description of

McCoy's departure from the bridge had been disconcerting. "The rage was

a good sign." She smiled at the captain's dubious look. "Delayed stress.

I would have been more worried if he had. taken the news calmly. Now

he's ready to absorb information about his past. In fact, it's important

that he get it soon.

The time lapse won't seem real to him until he's learned more about his

missing years." She picked a computer tape off the desktop. "Mr. Spock

pulled his personnel file. I'd rather that he read it with someone who

can fill him in on the personal details."

"That someone being me," agreed Kirk, accepting the tape.

She led the captain to a small alcove where McCoy was running through a

series of motor coordination trials. He stood bare-chested in the middle

of the area, his lean muscles tensed in concentration, as he faced a

panel set into the wall. Flat metal disks dotted the surface of his

skin, monitoring his responses. Dyson's assessment of his mood seemed

accurate. He was alert and apparently calm, despite the somewhat

aggravating task of trying to catch small colored spheres that popped

out of the testing apparatus before him. When the final ball had been

ejected, and missed, McCoy looked back at his audience. "What now, Dr.

Dyson jigsaw puzzles, or skipping rope, perhaps?"

"History lessons.

Captain Kirk has your records and can answer any questions about what

you've been doing for the last two decades." She peeled the sensors off

his back. "Don't try to force a recall of the events he describes;

you're more likely to jog memories if you're relaxed."

"That's easy for you to say."

"That's why I'm the doctor and you're the patient." McCoy yelped as she

plucked a last sensor disk from his ribcage. "Take good care of him,

Captain," she advised before she left. "He's medical property."

"I'm beginning to feel like a lab specimen," muttered McCoy, pulling a

plain tunic over his head and fumbling with the unfamiliar fasteners.

The sleeves were bare of command stripes, a detail that bothered Kirk

more than he cared to admit. "Is there some private place where we can

dissect my life, Captain Kirk? I promise not to get hysterical or throw

fits."

"We'll go to my cabin," suggested Kirk, leading the way out of sick bay.

"A little Saurian brandy should steady your nerves."

"Really? I've never tried the stuff," McCoy said innocently. Kirk

whooped loudly, badly startling a crewman in the corridor. By the time

they reached a turbo-lift his laughter had subsided sufficiently for him

to call out their destination. "Well, your mind may not remember, but

I'll bet your body does. Your bloodstream has a long-standing

acquaintance with Saurian brandy. McCoy accepted the teasing in good

humor. "How many more vices have I picked up?"

"That's the worst of the lot, doctor. You've lived a clean life despite

my best efforts to corrupt you."

"How long have you known me, Captain?" asked McCoy. The seemingly casual

question was edged with wariness. ' "Many years."

Kirk's answer only increased McCoy's tension. The captain moved back to

a less personal topic. "Although the Enterprise is my first starship

command." A brief sketch of the ship's exploratory mission kept McCoy's

attention until they reached the senior officers' deck. The first

minutes inside the captain's quarters were comfortably familiar--Kirk

poured drinks while McCoy wandered about the cabin--but when Kirk

turned, glasses in hand, the resemblance wavered. The man he saw was

subtly different in stance and bearing. Ease and assurance had been

supplanted by a quick nervous energy. Kirk profferred a goblet to his

guest. "The best brandy this side of Rigel. ' Regrettably, his own

tumbler contained nothing stronger than Altair water. Kirk raised his

hand in a toast. ' To your health, doctor. McCoy took a cautious sip of

the oily liquid. Then another. "That's one hell of a vice," he gasped,

but the liquor had little effect on his restlessness. He paced the

length of the room's low shelves, fingering alien artifacts. "You're a

well-traveled man." The inspection of curios moved him into the bedroom

area, but there he caught sight of himself in a mirror and quickly

averted his eyes. "I'm still not used to that face," he said

apologetically, walking back into the study. "It's not a bad face,"

chided Kirk. "Not for an old man." Setting his drink aside, McCoy picked

up the tape on Kirk's desk. "So this is the sum total of my last

twenty-five years. Freezedried. Add water and walk directly into the

future." He peered suspiciously at the computer terminal. "Well, let's

not put this off any longer. How do you work this machine?" Kirk

inserted the tape and flipped the necessary switches to illuminate the

first file page. "Personnel record of Leonard H. McCoy." McCoy settled

himself into the desk chair. He tapped at the scroll key on the

terminal, muttering an impatient commentary as he watched the screen.

"Yes, thank you, I know when I was born and where. No surprises there."

The data unrolled line by line. Suddenly he hit freeze frame. "Next of

kin, Joanna McCoy." His brow creased with confusion. "Who the hell..."

"That's your daughter," interrupted Kirk. "My daughter?" repeated McCoy.

"I have a daughter?"

"Yes. She was only a few years old when you joined Star Fleet, so she's

been raised by your sister Donna, on Centaurus."

"A daughter. But that means she was born during my residency..." The

doctor did some rapid mental calculation. "Twenty-one! She's almost as

old as I am... I mean was..." Kirk sat down across from him. "We've been

on this mission for several years, but I know that before this voyage

you saw her as often as you could. Since then the two of you have kept

in touch through intergalactic communications. Though you once joked

that Joanna's at the age now where she's glad to have a parent a few

hundred light-years away."

"If I've got a daughter, then what about a wife?

That's the usual package deal, isn't it?" McCoy's eyes searched over the

computer screen. He read a name aloud. "Jocelyn? But I don't know this

woman." He fought against a return of the vertigo which had attacked him

on the bridge. "What happened to her?"

"You were divorced." Kirk pushed past his reluctance to talk about

McCoy's marriage. "It didn't last long.., and the parting was..,

bitter."

"I hope I wasn't romantically sloppy about it. Did I sigh and pine for

my lost love, Captain?"

"No," said Kirk tightly. "You never discussed it."

"Well, that's some comfort." He snapped off the computer screen. "I'll

bypass the Star Fleet commendations. I've got quite enough to think

about for the time being."

"Bones..." The captain broke off at the look of inquiry on McCoy's face.

"Sorry, it does sound a bit strange. That was my nickname for you."

""Bones' as in "Sawbones'?" Kirk chuckled. "You often claim you're

really a country doctor at heart." McCoy stiffened at the statement.

"Yes, Captain. It seems that my ideals were a casualty of my marriage

and divorce. I've never cared much for highpowered, technology-dependent

specialists---like surgeons. I had dreams of building a family practice

in a rural area where a good doctor can become a part of his patients'

lives. It never occurred to me that I might not follow through with

those plans."

"Time, and experience, can change a man's perspective." Kirk found

himself groping for words to justify his friend's actions. "You never

regretted your decision to enter the service."

"Well, I regret it now, Captain Kirk." McCoy's blue eyes darkened with

barely concealed anger. "I want to return to Earth as soon as possible."

Kirk choked on his drink. "So do I, doctor, but unfortunately it's not

that easy. This isn't a pleasure cruise. We're on a military ship facing

combat action. I realize you're not familiar with shipboard routine, but

surely you've noticed that we're undergoing battledamage repairs." McCoy

nodded slowly. "The wounded in sick bay.

And all those crewmen ru nning around the corridors. I guess I've been a

bit too self-absorbed to draw the obvious conclusions?' His anger was

replaced by an edge of uneasiness. "It was a serious attack?"

"Extremely. Our shields are badly compromised and phaser power is

dangerously reduced. We'll recover impulse engines in another few hours,

but warp drive is out of commission until we reach dock facilities..."

Kirk stopped his narrative at the look of incomprehension on McCoy's

face. The words meant little to him. He had no damning criticism or

words of encouragement to offer the captain of a crippled starship. Kirk

pared his answer down to the basics. "We aren't going home for quite

awhile."

"Who attacked us?" asked McCoy with growing concern. The captain started

to reply, then gave a tired shrug instead. "It's a complicated

situation. And one you don't need to worry about. Worrying is my job."

McCoy's eyes narrowed at the underlying weariness in Kirk's words. "So

we may be attacked again?"

"That is a distinct possibility, as Mr. Spock would say." Kirk watched

his friend's expression mutate from puzzlement to' annoyance to

amazement. "I could die out here," McCoy protested. "Yes, doctor," said

Kirk grimly. "We all could."

Chapter Ten.

Captain's Log, Stardate 5524.2 The Enterprise is still badly crippled,

but we are proceeding under impulse power to Wagner Trading Post. Our

weapons power is halved, our shields fragile, and a Klingon

battlecruiser is our unlikely escort.

KIRK LEANED BACK into his command chair. Around him, the bridge

presented a satisfying appearance of efficiency. All posts were staffed,

indicator lights flicked on and off with pleasing regularity,

instruments hummed the melodies appropriate to their duties. "Ahead warp

factor two."

"Sir?" came a startled reply 'from the helm. The captain sighed. He

hadn't meant to verbalize the thought; now he had been caught out at

wishful thinking. "Quarter-impulse power, Mr. Leslie."

"Yes, Captain." The helmsman stifled a wry smile of sympathy. His own

thoughts were not so far from his commander's. With some trepidation,

Leslie tripped the sequence to fire the impulse engines of the

Enterprise. The starship began its movement slowly, without strain,

gliding smoothly forward into space. Kirk had half expected a creaking

and groaning of metal. He let loose the breath he had been holding.

"Increase to halfpower."

"Half-power initiated."

"Heading fifty-three mark six," intoned the navigator in turn. The

interplay of the bridge crew fell into its ingrained pattern. "Mr.

Scott," Kirk called out to the chief engineer. "Can we handle full

speed?"

"Aye, Captain. That we ken." Scotty's satisfaction was evident even over

the intercom. "For all the beatin' she's taken, the bonny lass is

hangin' together." His fond tone might have been directed at a

precocious child. "Ahead full impulse power." With this final prod, the

Enterprise attained the limits of her speed. Kirk watched the stately

progression of stars across his viewscreen with dismay. The ship was

crawling. With unnerving prescience, Spock stated, "At our present rate

of speed we will reach Wagner Station in twelve point six days." This

depressing fact was not new to Kirk--he had heard the estimate

beforehowever its implications were just now sinking in. A trip that had

lasted a matter of hours under warp drive was now stretched into weeks,

a humbling reminder of the vastness of space. Kirk had had his fill of

humbling events in the past few days. "Uhura, hail the Falchion." The

lieutenant activated the narrow-band frequency which had been

established for communications with the battlecruiser. "Lt. Sulu to

Captain Kirk. The Falchion is ready for impulse speed. Heading fifty-two

mark seven. We await your command."

"Acknowledged, Commander Sulu." Kirk echoed the young man's formality,

remembering his own nervousness as a junior officer faced with heavy

responsibility. "You may proceed." The viewscreen flickered to a shot of

the Klingon vessel. The bulging forward hull was pockmarked and its

metal wings were scarred with black streaks, but the of its design were

still evident. For several seconds the battlecruiser remained

motionless. A brief shudder rocked its frame, then it jerked forward in

a series of uneven bursts of speed. "Falchion under way, Captain,"

announced Sulu bravely. Within seconds his words carried more weight

the cruiser settled into an even pace matching course with the

Enterprise. Sulu's formality gave way to exuberance. "We're learning

fast. I'll have this crate doing spins in no time." The warship began a

lazy roll onto its side. The lieutenant was an irrepressible stunt

pilot; this quality had saved the Enterprise from certain disaster on

more than one occasion. "Just keep your distance while you practice

battle maneuvers, Sulu. I don't want one of your loop-the-loops crashing

through our hull."

"Aye, sir. Falchion out." Pulling out of the roll, he dipped its wings

in a farewell salute. The viewscreen returned to the panorama of stars

lying ahead. Without warp drive distortion their pinpoint lights shone

steadily. Kirk studied the pattern of stellar bodies. Their positions

would change imperceptibly over the course of the next... "Twelve days?"

"Twelve point six," corrected the first officer pedantically. Impatience

was not a failing to which he would ever admit. "You'll have time for

sleeping now," said Kirk. Spock was not so easily tricked into a

revelation of his Human heritage. He turned the comment back at the

captain. "The effect of your stimulant injection is due to dissipate

within the next quarter-hour. You should remove yourself from the duty

log before your performance is impaired."

"How could anyone tell?" asked Kirk sourly as the science officer

stepped down to the side of the captain's chair. "At this speed I could

command while dead asleep." He duly initialed the tablet handed to him.

"Who's checking on your performance?"

"Dr. Cortejo." To Kirk's ears this unembroidered remark carried a strong

undercurrent of emotion. So Spock's endurance was not limitless after

all. "Yes, I agree. I'd like McCoy back at work, too." Spock raised an

eyebrow in token reproof, but he did not refute Kirk's interpretation.

"Has Dr. Dyson developed a prognosis?" This was the first direct query

Spock had made on McCoy's condition. "She was waiting for the final

results of the neurological testing," answered Kirk. Anyone unfamiliar

with the complexities of the half-Vulcan's character might have mistaken

his reticence for indifference, but Kirk knew the opposite was more

likely. The concern was too deep to voice. He remembered the bloodstains

on Spock's tunic and felt a twinge of sympathy for his first officer.

"I'm going to sick bay now."

Kirk sensed the tension as soon as he crossed the threshold into the

medical research lab. McCoy and Dyson barely acknowledged the captain's

entrance. Their attention was focused on the data that filled the

computer screen before them. The information meant nothing to Kirk, but

its significance to the two doctors was obvious. "Very interesting."

McCoy's gaze locked with the neurologist. "I'm not a fool, Dr. Dyson."

He seemed about to go on, but thought better of it after a glance at the

captain. He doesn't trust me, realized Kirk with surprise. "Anything

that concerns my crew, concerns me," he stated firmly. "And you are my

chief medical officer. You'll have to take my word for it that we also

happen to be friends."

"All right, Captain," said McCoy. "Then you Should know that your chief

medical officer is mentally incompetent.

There's no evidence here to suggest sustained physical injury to the

brain. Clinical indications are that I've entered an hysterical fugue

whose origins are pyschological in nature." He gave a wry grin. "In

laymen's terms, I've cracked."

"Dyson, do you concur with this diagnosis?" After all, McCoy was hardly

in any shape to be practicing medicine. She nodded her agreement.

"That's the most probable conclusion to be drawn from the data.

Posttraumatic amnesia is a prominent feature of closed head injuries,

but the extent of his retrograde amnesia would usually be associated

with substantial brain damage, certainly at measurable levels. Instead,

the response test results are consistent with a very mild

concussion---slight reduction of fine motor coordination and word

association. These symptoms should disappear within a few days." She

paused. "Actually, I suspected this might be the case after the first

session, but I couldn't be sure until I saw these figures." Kirk

considered her statement. "But this means the memory is still there,

undamaged. It can be recovered."

"Yes, that's the good news."

"The bad news," interjected McCoy, "is that we still can't predict when,

if ever, that event will occur." Kirk bit back his next thought, then

reconsidered. McCoy seemed able to discuss the subject objectively. He

released the words. "What if Spock were to..."

"That would be very dangerous." Dyson picked up on the idea immediately.

"For Dr. McCoy definitely, possibly also for Mr. Spock. If the

underlying factor is psychological, there will probably be a very strong

resistance to manipulation. The mind protects itself from pain with an

amazing store of defenses. Amnesia is a reaction to unbearable stress

remove the memory, and the stress is gone. But if memory is restored

before the mind can cope With it, the results could be disastrous."

McCoy pushed down a surge of anger. He was getting tired of not

understanding what was going on around him. "What are you two talking

about?"

"The Vulcan mindmeld."

"Oh," he said, taken aback. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'd rather keep my

psychopathology to myself."

"Isn't there any treatment?" demanded Kirk. "Surely psychiatric

counseling..."

"I'm not the one who needs analysis," said McCoy. "Considering the

circumstances, I feel just fine. It's the McCoy with the stress who

needs help, and he's out to lunch." Dyson ignored his flippan, cy.

"There has been some success with the use of hypnosis and narcoanalysis,

specifically sodium amylobarbitone. However, as a bioneurologist, it's a

procedure that is out of my field. Ironically, Dr. McCoy is probably the

only doctor on board who would be qualified to conduct such a session.

Starship crews rarely need such specialized treatment. "It's basically a

matter of time. Time to reach a starbase, or time for spontaneous

recovery.

Despite this episode, Dr. McCoy's records show that he has a very high

threshold for psychological stress. Somehow he's been pushed over that

edge, but it's not unreasonable to suppose that the lapse is temporary,

a way of bringing rest to the brain while it marshals more acceptable

coping mechanisms."

"An unofficial leave of absence?" McCoy quipped. "I trust it's not a

court-martial offense."

"Dammit, Bones, that's enough." Without thinking, Kirk lashed out at his

senior officer. McCoy pulled back as if slapped. "I'm sorry, Captain

Kirk," came the reply with all the deference and coldness of a stranger.

"I'm not accustomed to dealing with military commanders and military

protocol."

"Bones..." The name did not fit. The man standing before him would not

answer him back in kind with a "Dammit, Jim"; neither could he read the

apology in Kirk's voice.

"The fault is mine, Dr. McCoy. I forget that you don't really know me."

"Of course, Captain," said McCoy with the polite air of a sane man

humoring the mad. Dyson broke into the uncomfortable silence that

ensued. "My official recommendation is for Dr. McCoy to be granted a

medical leave of absence until such time as I can verify a full

restoration of his memory."

"Recommendation accepted, Dr. Dyson." The captain turned to face his

chief medical officer. "Lt. Commander McCoy, you are hereby relieved of

all responsibilities associated with your position as senior ship's

surgeon of the U.S.S. Enterprise." The words tore at Kirk's throat, but

the doctor listened impassively. "You may consider yourself as off-duty

personnel until such time as Dr. Dyson and Dr. Cortejo have certified

that you are fit to return to your post."

"Or until we reach one of those starbases and get me back to Earth,"

said McCoy firmly. Kirk gave a curt bow of his head in assent. He left

sick bay without another word. "I realize that this is a difficult time

for you..." began Dyson once they were alone. "Please, spare me the

lecture on emotional adjustment," McCoy pleaded. "I'll try to take this

whole preposterous situation as seriously as I can, but part of me keeps

looking for the stage exit. "Responsibilities as senior ship's surgeon.'

For crying out loud, I just finished my first-year residency." Dyson

gave him a speculative look. "So how did you do?" He groaned. "I'm lucky

I'm still in medicine. According to Andy Gildstrom, I'm the clumsiest,

most stupid..." He broke off. "What was that look for?"

"What look?" she asked innocently. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "When

I mentioned Gildstrom, you looked.., startled."

"Oh, it's just that I've never heard Dr. Anderson J. Gildstrom called

"Andy'."

"You know him? What airs is he putting on now? He is... was.., the most

insufferable know-itall second-year resident in Atlanta."

"He's Surgeon General of the Argelius System," she replied with a

strangled gasp of laughter. This time McCoy looked startled. "Surgeon

General. Good God, I wouldn't trust Andy to treat a case of the flu,

much less put the medical care of millions in his hands."

"He's probably improved his skills somewhat in the last twenty years,"

suggested Dyson. "Yeah, right." He frowned suddenly, looking around the

room. "Whereas I can't recognize half the equipment in this department.

There are nine patients in intensive care, but I wouldn't trust myself

to go near them. With coaching from Nurse Chapel I just might be able to

handle a few of the outpatient cases. Hell, the paramedics know more

about medicine on this ship than I do. If I ran this facility, that

means I've lost over two decades of medical knowledge and experience."

"Let's just say you misplaced it." Christine Chapel had entered the room

without their notice. "It's going to come back."

"You sound very sure of that, ma'am."

"I am," said the nurse. "But until that time, I'm going to have to work

under the supervision of Acting Chief Cortejo. Dr. McCoy, I'll get you

for that someday. And Diana, if you repeat that statement to anybody,

you'll also live to regret it. Now, the two of you get out of sick bay.

I'm tired of your faces."

"But I live here," protested McCoy. "Not any more," said Chapel,

pointing to the door. "You've been released as of now. You've got your

own quarters on this ship, and it's time you went back to them so I can

reclaim your bed for someone with serious problems. Go." Her mock glower

was directed at McCoy, who remained rooted in place. Dyson tugged gently

at his elbow. "You're not being cast out of the Garden of Eden on your

own. I'll show you the way to your cabin. Come on." She led him through

the bewildering maze of rooms which formed the medical complex,

carefully explaining the design of the ship's layout at each turn. "Are

you listening?" she asked finally. His muttered responses to her

instruction had taken on a distracted quality. McCoy stopped walking and

turned to face her. "Did I become a good doctor?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "One of the best in Star Fleet."

"Thank God." He slouched back against the wall of the corridor, arms

crossed over his chest. "This last year.., well, I was beginning to

wonder if I was cut out for medicine after all. Christ, I felt so stupid

at times. I hung on because I couldn't imagine doing anything else with

my life. I've always wanted to be a doctor--but it had to be a good

doctor." Dyson smiled. "The first year always makes you feel

incompetent. I still do sometimes, when I'm on the receiving end of a

blistering lecture from a senior physician. I've had a few of those

since I've been on the Enterprise."

"My lectures?"

"Sometimes," the neurologist admitted. "But they were always deserved,

and never vicious." He grinned suddenly. "Unlike those from a certain

acting chief surgeon?"

"Hush! Not so loud," she warned him, but her mouth twitched Up at the

edges. "Do you want to get me drummed out of Star Fleet?" She hauled at

his arm, setting him upright once more. "Onward to Deck Five, Dr. McCoy.

I've got rounds in fifteen minutes."

"Forget the guided tour, Dr. Dyson," he said falling into step by her

side. "Just tell me how you wound up here."

"Here, the Enterprise? Or here, Star Fleet?"

"Both. They seem equally improbable to me," he admitted. "I'd never

given much thought to space travel until I woke up on board this ship."

"That's because you're a dirt-walker," she answered without thinking.

She caught his look of annoyance. "Sorry, nothing personal. It's just

that since I've always lived in space, it's the thought of living on a

planet that seems rather exotic to me." They turned a corner into a main

corridor, not far from the turbo-lifts. She shepherded her charge

through the double doors and ordered their destination. "Go on," he

urged several minutes later when they emerged onto the deck of the

officers' quarters.

"Well, I grew up on Lost Acre, a space station not much bigger than the

trading post we're headed for now and just as far out into the fringes

of Federation territory. I wanted to study medicine and I wanted to get

nearer to civilization. Unless you're very rich, Star Fleet service is

the obvious solution. They paid my education expenses in exchange for a

ten-year hitch in the medical branch. I consider it a fair bargain."

"Well, you got into medicine," said McCoy.

"But you're still pretty far removed from civilization."

"Yeah," she admitted ruefully. "Still, the Enterprise has a bigger

library than Lost Acre did, so I'm ahead of the game." She waved him to

a halt. "Your cabin, sir." He read the neatly lettered plaque on the

door

Leonard McCoy M.D. 3F Oddly, this was the most convincing evidence of

his lost memory that he had encountered his name, written on a sign he

had never seen before.

Dyson coded the door open, taking time to show him the procedure, and

led him inside. The layout was similar to that of the captain's cabin

the outer room served as a study, with a desk, chairs and shelves, while

beyond the mesh partitions lay a smaller sleeping area. Unlike Kirk's

room, this one was in fair disorder. The floor was strewn with clothes,

the desk and shelves were cluttered with paper and tapes, numerous

plants were dying. "Am I always such a slob?," asked McCoy viewing the

mess with distaste. "I wouldn't know," Dyson answered with arch

bemusement. "I've never been invited into your cabin before." McCoy

blushed furiously. She, unperturbed, proceeded to demonstrate the

operation of the room lights, the intercom, and the sonic shower

controls. "Do I tip you for room service?" He trailed after her as she

stepped out into the corridor. Dyson gave him a gentle push back into

the cabin. "No, I'll give you a tip get some sleep." The door snapped

shut in his face and she was gone. McCoy sighed and manfully turned back

to face the waiting emptiness. He wandered from one part of the room to

another, playing with the panels Dyson had shown him, but he was soon

bored by the limited repertoire of beeps and colored lights. He watered

the plants, but couldn't bring himself to touch the soiled clothing. He

would have filed the tapes and papers but, having no idea where to put

them, h e settled for making the piles heater. When all possible

activities had been exhausted, he undressed and lay down gingerly on the

unmade bed. Yet, tired as he felt, sleep eluded him. Only sheer force of

will kept him from tossing and turning. Instead of becoming more

relaxed, he could feel his muscles tighten. He grew uneasy without

knowing why. Finally he identified the feeling. It was a sense of

waiting--waiting for the real occupant of this room to return. The

feeling wouldn't go away. Each faintly heard sound of footsteps seemed

headed straight for the threshold of this room and each creak of metal

was the opening of the cabin door. After two hours of lying on another

man's bed, McCoy jumped up and put his clothes back on. In the end,

there was only one answer. Of all the ship's areas, sick bay was still

the least uncomfortable for him. If Nurse Chapel's given my bed away,

I'll sleep on the hospital floor. With a growing urgency, he escaped

from the cabin and paced quickly through the night-dimmed corridors to

the turbo-lift. He entered the parted doors to an empty compartment.

"Sick bay," he called out self-consciously. Damn silly way to run a

ship. "But his confidence grew as the machinery obeyed his order. When

he reached the ship's medical complex he gave a sigh of relief. Despite

its bewildering technological advances, the basic smells and sounds of

medicine were reassuringly familiar. McCoy strolled through the wards,

unchallenged by the night duty staff, until he found the small supply

room which had been cleared out for his use. The bed was still there. He

threw himself down on its surface. Taut muscles loosened in the

impersonal surroundings and fatigue quickly pulled him down into a deep

sleep. Hours later his body twitched in a vain attempt to escape the

torments of a nightmare, but he did not wake up.

Chapter Eleven.

"FEELS like swimming through borscht," exclaimed Chekov with disgust.

"The Falchion's navigation panel displayed a swirling cloud of fuzzy

magenta particles. In the center of the screen one especially dense

clump of particles marked the presence of the Enterprise. "This is an

early model cloaking system." Unlike Chekov, Aziz did not take the

distortion of the ship's sensors as a personal affront, largely because

the engineering section was unaffected. "Probably installed during the

first technology exchange with the Romulans."

"Then the Klingons got the short end of the bargain," observed Sulu with

amusement. "Da, and now so do ye." The ensign rubbed his eyes. "Maybe

eet is broken after all."

"There's nothing wrong with the cloaking device or the sensors," said

Aziz sharply. The unspoken corollary to her statement brought a flush of

anger to Chekov's face. "You are just as new at this as I am. Perhaps

the power distribution is not properly adjusted." The accusation was a

deliberate red flag. Sulu uttered a silent groan at the impending

quarrel. A direct order to stop arguing would only let their resentments

fester. So this was how Kirk felt when Spock and McCoy... The helmsman

smiled. He , had often noticed the captain's ability to distract his

senior officers with a sudden jump from one topic to another. The tactic

might work here--with some revision. "Gentlemen, our mission must not

fail," announced Sulu gravely. Chekov and Aziz broke off their exchange

in confusion. "The fate of this ship and its crew, the fate of the

entire universe, depends on us." He turned to Chekov. "You're my science

officer. I don't care how you do it, but make the sensors work!" Sulu

set his jaw in a line familiar to them all. Understanding dawned. "As

you wish, Captain," said Chekov, coming to attention. He wiped his round

face clean of expression. "Incidentally, the solution will require an

increase in ship's power consumption that seriously compromises the

safety of this ship and the lives of its crew." He tried, and failed, to

raise one eyebrow, Aziz leapt to her feet, hands beating her chest. "No,

no! Not me bairns! Let the crew die but dinna hurt me bairns!" Sulu

opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head and dropped out of

character. "We need someone to be McCoy. I can't do my next lines until

McCoy gives his 'save the crew' speech." Chekov nodded in agreement.

"Dyson does the best McCoy impersonation. ,,Perhaps ve could develop a

medical emergency... "Under the circumstances, it would be in rather

poor taste to ask her," said Aziz. She picked up a data tablet and'

resumed her monitoring of the unwavering engine indicators. The two men

sighed and returned to the controls of the Falchion. "Prepare to

disengage cloaking device," ordered Sulu as a chronometer blinked

through the last seconds of the test period. "Cloaking device

disengaged." Chekov watched as the dancing snowflakes on his sensor

screen melted into a flat, featureless sheet of black. Uhura's voice

echoed through the cockpit. "Enterprise to Falchion. You are back on

visual. Maintain present course and speed to Wagner Post."

"Falchion to Enterprise. Acknowledged." The commander and crew of the

battlecruiser stared dutifully at the instrument panels of their

respective stations. The equipment, oblivious to the concentrated

attention lavished in its direction, operated with unceasing

dependability. A half-hour passed before Chekov spoke. "Somehow, I

thought having our own ship would be different, but it's just as..." He

stopped. "Boring," said Aziz in a flat voice. Sulu's jaw tightened, but

he could not suppress his own feelings, even if he was the ship's

commander. "Sub-warp is always boring." They lapsed into silence again.

McCoy re-checked the story listing in the entertainment logbook;

according to the brief description, he was watching a comedy. A row of

stars by the title seemed to indicate that it was quite popular. He

looked back to the D-stage in the corner of the rec room. It was bigger

than any three-dimensional imager he had ever seen, creating almost

life-size human figures. A man and a woman were standing on the

projection platform, talking to each other in low voices. The image

resolution was so exact that McCoy had mistaken the couple for off-duty

crewmembers until he had tried to ask them a question. Luckily, no real

crewmembers had been in the room at the time, thus sparing him certain

humiliation. The couple continued their desultory conversation. Most of

the words they used were familiar, but it must have been the ones McCoy

didn't understand that carried the punchlines. He found the dialogue

incredibly dull, but continued listening for lack of anything better to

do. The empty time felt unnatural compared to his frantic schedule in

the Atlanta emergency room. His first impulse was to eat. There was free

food at the crew cafeteria--a ticket to paradise for a povertystricken

young doctor---but his body was quite happily residing in the present

and it rejected the need for a meal. His next thought was that he should

sleep while he could .. but again his body rang a dissenting note. McCoy

finally lost patience with the program. He tried to call up some

familiar titles--they were lumped in the classics section--but the

computer informed him they were unavailable due to a "backlog in systems

adjustments.' Resisting the impulse to apologize to the man and woman,

McCoy wandered out of the room. Without making any conscious decision to

do so, he found himself headed toward sick bay. Though he had no

official reason for being there, at least the staff never questioned his

presence. Once on Deck 5, McCoy allowed himself to get lost in the

tangled layout of the medical complex. He passed idly through unfamiliar

corridors, one looking very much like another, until he spied two

cylinders of smoked glass, stretching from deck to ceiling, which stood

like sentinels outside a lab door. Curious, he peered into the interior

of the units, where blue liquid cycled endlessly through a tangled web

of coils. What's that stuff?. As if outraged at his ignorance, the

cylinders erupted with a sudden harsh bleeping. McCoy jumped at the

sound; his hands flew to the control panel on the wall, fingers pushing

here and there on its buttons. The insistent call was stilled; the

cylinder's cycling action slowed.

Seconds later a lab technician bolted out of an adjacent room. He drew

an involuntary breath at the sight of McCoy. "Sorry, sir," he cried. "It

won't happen again, honest." McCoy was too startled to make any comment,

but his silence only increased the crewman's discomposure. "It never

would have happened this time except we're running double shifts and I'm

covering for Tajiri..." Too late, he realized his betrayal of another

technician's negligence. "It's all right." McCoy tried to muster an

illusion of authority over a man not much older than himself... than he

had been. "We're all overworked. Just do the best you can."

"Yes, sir," said the young man with surprised relief. "Thank you, sir."

He bolted back into the lab room. "Any time." McCoy's sarcasm went

unheard. He turned at the sound of clattering footsteps coming towards

him. A disheveled woman in science blue was running down the corridor.

One hand held a cluster of data cassettes while the other pulled a comb

through her tangled hair. She looked up just in time to avoid a

collision. "Oh, damn."

"Tajiri, you're late," said McCoy sternly. "Get to work."

"Ye.s, Dr. McCoy!" With this single earnest cry, Tajiri disappeared

through the same door used by the first lab tech. McCoy was alone in the

corridor once again, listening wistfully to the muffled sound of voices

behind the closed door. He knew that if he entered the room the voices

would grow still and quiet. The cylinder gurgled its sympathy. McCoy

looked back at the mysterious blue liquid. Only then did he realize that

his hands had worked the control panel... A nur se's page over the

intercom sent Dyson running to the non-critical care ward. The room was

empty except for McCoy, but he was doing his best to fill its space as

he paced up and down its length. She quickly assessed McCoy's physical

symptoms pale skin, physical agitation, increased respiration; no

obvious injury. "What's wrong?" she demanded. "I'm starting to remember.

At least, I think.., but, I still don't know how..." Dyson took his

announcement calmly.

"Don't push --you'll only confuse yourself. I'll get a sedative..." His

pacing stopped abruptly, as she had known it would at the first mention

of medication. "Now, what do you remember?"

"That's just it," he said, throwing up his arms in exasperation. His

hands took over now that his legs had stopped. "There's this tall

cylinder near one of the research labs..." He sketched a vague wave

toward the rear wall of the ward. "The stokaline processor?" McCoy

shrugged. "I don't know what it is, but when it beeped, I reset the

controls."

"Ah." Dyson's voice registered disappointment. She remained silent for a

moment. "What does this machine do?" She pointed to a gleaming metal box

nestled in a corner of the ward room. He shook his head. "Damned if I

know."

"It's a portable regen unit. Can you initiate a tissue regeneration

run?"

"Of course not."

"Try it anyway." She urged him to approach the control panel. "Go on." ,

McCoy edged up to the unit. "If I break this thing, Nurse Chapel will

throw me out of sick bay for good." He stared at the tidy rows of

switches that covered its side. "Now what?"

"Flip the first switch on the second row." He followed her order, but

then his fingers kept moving, changing the configuration of the entire

row. The machine came to life. He snatched his hand back as if it had

been burned. "What the hell.., is that right?"

"Yes," she answered. "But it doesn't mean you're recovering your

memory."

"You'll have to explain that statement, Dr. Dyson." McCoy's voice was

edged with bitterness. "My medical education is too outdated to make

sense of what you just said." She ignored his anger, trusting that it

would disappear as his understanding grew.

"Knowledge is stored in different ways and in different sites of the

brain. Right now, your conscious mind is blocking declarative

memory---the intellectual understanding of a particular task. But you

also possess a skill memory. Even without conscious control, your brain

can recreate a set of familiar physical motions, actions that have been

repeated over and over again. Your body remembers, even if your mind

doesn't."

"A false alarm," sighed McCoy. "So how will it happen, how will I

remember what I've forgotten?"

"I can't predict 'how' any better than I can predict 'when.' If your

memory comes back unassisted..."

"You mean before any Star Fleet psych technicians start poking around

inside my head." She didn't let him sidetrack her explication. "Some

very trivial incident could serve as a trigger. An object, or place,

even a few words could start the return of past memories. At first you

may recall only fragments of scenes, faces, conversations, then these

isolated incidents gradually will start to link together."

"That sounds like a rather lengthy recovery."

"Possibly," she acknowledged. "Or it could happen in a flash, like a

door opening. The time in between is often lost. You just pick up where

you left off when the head injury occurred."

"So what happens to me while I wait for that door to open?" asked McCoy.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, a prelude to more pacing.

"Captain Kirk said this ship is going to be out in space for a long

time.' Dyson looked thoughtfully at the blinking lights of the tissue

regenerator. "You could assume light duties as a paramedic."

"Me?

A doctor out of the dark ages?"

"You still have the ability to operate current medical equipment. The

medical computer provides a training course that would explain what

you're doing." She caught his hesitation.

"On the other hand, you have a perfectly good excuse to, just relax,

read novels, hang out in the rec room... "When do I start?"

"I can set up the course now," she answered, carefully repressing her

smile. "After that, it's up to you to set the pace." At his insistence,

Dyson took McCoy to the Medical Library and showed him the proper log-on

for the training program. "Welcome back to duty, sir."

"No way," said McCoy vehemently. "I consider myself more in the nature

of a civilian volunteer." He was well into the first lesson before Dyson

had left the room.

The sound and feel of the engine room was all wrong. Kirk walked through

the cavernous room listening to the uneven breathing and high whine of

the Enterprise's lament. The almost imperceptible shiver of the deck

that ordinarily signaled impulse power was now magnified and distorted.

It tickled the soles of his feet with the intensity of warp-drive speed.

Even the familiar contours of the room were transformed by piles of

repair materials awaiting installation. The discarded debris from the

damaged sections was shoved aside into any unused space, where it would

remain until the ship hit docking facilities. Kirk hardly noticed the

sharp smell of burned insulation and wiring; it had permeated every deck

of the ship and the entire crew was used to it by now. "Becker, where's

Scotty?" The assistant engineer looked up from the circuit diagram laid

out on the panel before him. Dark eyes stared blankly into the captain's

face; his dark face was slack and without expression. "Becker?' Forget

Scotty, where are you? "Yes, Captain?" Kirk repeated his question,

talking slowly and carefully.

"He's on Deck 17, sir." Becker's answer was slurred and his hands were

trembling. He returned the glazed stare to his diagram. "Uh, that's not

exactly correct." Kirk turned around to find the source of the second

voice. A tangle of dark hair and two moss-green eyes peered up at him

from behind a teetering stack of flat boxes. Kirk grabbed at the top of

the pile before it went crashing to the deck, and uncovered a young

woman in engineering red. "Mr. Scott hasn't been on Deck 17 since

yesterday," she said, shifting the remainder of her load to maintain its

balance. "I'm delivering these cable connectors to him in Auxiliary

Control." Becker was oblivious to this correction. In fact, Becker

seemed oblivious to just about everything. "Don't worry, sir. He's not

on duty right now. I'm not even sure he's awake." She led Kirk away,

stepping carefully over the obstacle course of pipes and tools and

repair workers. As she had predicted, they found Scotty in Auxiliary

Control.

He was reclining on a massive coil of fiber cables. His head had dropped

forward on his chest and he showed no signs of life when Kirk and the

young woman dropped the load of boxes by his side. He was unbothered by

the clamor made by three crewmen working around and over him. The length

of cable which served as his bed was rapidly disappearing into a hole in

the deck. This had no effect on him either. Kirk thought back to

Becker's exhaustion and couldn't bring himself to disturb Scotty's

sleep. He pitched his voice low. "Lt. Kraft, perhaps you'd better give

me the current status report."

"Yes, sir." She didn't share his concern for the fragility of her

superiors slumber. Her lengthy report was delivered at a volume that was

guaranteed to override the noise of the repair team. Scotty didn't

twitch a single muscle. She reached the end of her recitation with "And

the oscillator frequency monitor has been re. calibrated...' "Nay,

lassie, we're still four hours away from finishing the calibration."

Kirk looked down at the sturdy form of the chief engineer. Scotty's eyes

were closed, but it had been his voice which corrected the lieutenant.

"I thought you were asleep."

"Go on with yet report, Kraft," Scotty ordered, still unmoving and

unseeing. "But tell the truth. The captain won't thank ye for making him

feel better if there's nae basis for Lt." Kraft finished the report

without any more reprimands, or reactions of any kind, from the

engineer. With a silent wave, Kirk sent her on her way.

"Aye?" The voice was alert enough. "I came by to issue an invitation to

my quarters. I'm having an informal gathering later today.". The

engineer's eyes blinked open in surprise. "Begging yer pardon, Captain,

but there's nae much time in my repair schedule for social events."

"It's for Dr. McCoy. I'd like to... introduce him to my senior

officers." Scotty roused himself to a stand. The last loops of the

coiled cable slithered away between his feet. "So it's true he's lost

his memory. I'd heard the stories, but I didn't credit them that far.

Introduction, is it. Well, I'll be there."

True to his word, Scotty was the first to arrive at Kirk's cabin; Spock

followed immediately after. Only the guest of honor was missing.

"Despite the amnesia, certain of the doctor's personality traits remain

consistent," observed Spock as the time set for the gathering came and

went without McCoy's arrival. The science officer sat down at the desk

computer and quickly immersed himself in a discussion with the central

data bank. Scotty simply stared into space. All he needed was a blank

wall and his mind's eye could trace the critical circuitry of the warp

engines in preparation for the next stage of repair work. Both men were

oblivious to Kirk's growing irritation. Ten minutes later the doors slid

open and McCoy stumbled into the room, obviously propelled forward by a

hand planted firmly in his back. The hand quickly withdrew, the doors

snapped shut, and he stood unmoving at the portal. Facing the three

officers, his body shifted into a posture which bore a vague resemblance

to command attention. "At ease," said Kirk, half in jest. McCoy's bac k

lapsed into a more typical slouch, but his unsmiling face did not relax.

For the first time, Kirk realized just how damnably awkward McCoy must

be feeling.

"I'm sorry I'm late," mumbled the doctor, but he gave no reason for his

delay. Kirk moved forward to greet him, all former irritation fading,

and pulled McCoy into the room. "You've already met First Officer

Spock..." McCoy self-consciously kept his arm by his side as he

exchanged nods with the Vulcan. "And this is Chief Engineer Scott."

McCoy turned to the second man and found himself unprepared for Scotty's

outstretched hand. "How do you do, sir."

"Don't ye be callin' me 'sir'," said Scotty sternly. "We've shared too

many nights over a bottle of scotch t' stand on formalities, amnesia or

no amnesia."

"Anything you say, Mr. Scott." The chief engineer frowned again.

"Scotty."

"Sir?" asked McCoy. Scotty shook his head sadly. "Ah, never mind." Once

the introductions were over, all conversation bogged down. Scotty was

still too preoccupied with his interrupted repair work to maintain

polite chatter. Spock's social manners were just this side of rudeness

even at the best of times; at the moment he was positively glacial.

McCoy remained steadfastly mute. Ordinarily, he would have punctured the

uncomfortable silence with an outrageous attack on Spock's dignity or

prodded the amiable Scotty into laughter. He had never been speechless

and sullen. Kirk tried to draw the doctor out, to determine how he was

adjusting to life aboard a starship, but the effect was more like that

of a prosecuting attorney dealing with a hostile witness. McCoy answered

each question with a simple yes or no and glared furiously down at his

feet.

Kirk took pity on his officers and signaled an end to their ordeal. The

alacrity with which both Scotty and McCoy took their leave was proof of

how great a disaster the gathering had been. "Spock." Kirk's call kept

the first officer from leaving with the other two men. Spock waited

politely for Kirk to speak again. "If McCoy were.., himself, I think he

would understand why I'm telling you this." After a moment's hesitation,

Kirk briefly outlined Dr. Dyson's explanation for McCoy's amnesia. "We

need to find out what he's trying to escape--to find a way to bring him

back out of it--before we reach a starbase." The Vulcan took a moment to

consider the issue. "Captain, logic may be of limited use in this

situation."

"I'm not asking for logic," said Kirk. "I'm asking for friendship."

Chapter Twelve.

"Am I boring you, ma'am?" Uhura's dark eyes widened into the semblance

of a waking stare. "Not at all, Dr. McCoy. I heard every word you said."

"Lt. Uhura, I haven't said anything for at least five minutes. I've been

waiting for you to topple over into your soup." He smiled at her

discomposure. "You'd better finish eating before it gets cold." He took

a bite out of his own sandwich. They were alone in their corner of the

mess; scattered groups of crewmembers, all wearily subdued, were sitting

at other tables. McCoy watched Uhura's head begin to droop downwards

again. "Doesn't anybody on this ship get a chance to sleep?"

"Not lately," said Uhura, planting an elbow on the table and resting her

cheek against her hand. "Not since the attack."

"About this war you're fighting..." wondered McCoy. "Oh, it's not really

a war." Uhura yawned hugely. "At least, not yet. We're still trying

to..." A sudden high whine erupted out of an intercom speaker and

reverberated throughout the room. Scattered curses and dispirited

grumbles from the crew were drowned out by its growing volume. After

several uncomfortable seconds the noise stopped just as abruptly as it

began. There was a moment of silence, then the low murmur of

conversations returned. "What are they doing now?" groaned Uhura, eyes

cast upward as if searching through the deck levels. "Every time I get

my equipment working the repaff teams mess me up all over again. The

Captain will have my hide if I don't clear up shipboard communications

systems, but I could be twins and still not have enough time for all my

work."

"Then you shouldn't be wasting your off-duty hours baby-sitting me,"

said McCoy. "For god's sake, go get some sleep instead." The lieutenant

shook her head. "I promised Diana I'd keep an eye..."

"Those blood-shot eyes can't see anything." McCoy waved a hand in front

of her face. "How many fingers do you see?"

"Seven," said Uhura laughing. "Just as I thought advanced narcoleptic

hallucinations. A very serious condition if not corrected immediately. I

recommend plenty of rest in the isolation of your own room." She still

hesitated. "I really shouldn't leave you on your own."

McCoy's face reddened. "I promise not to wander into new territory

again." That morning he had stepped off the turbo-lift onto a strange

deck and taken a short stroll to look around, only to fall down an

engineering chute. Anti-grav safety fields had kept him from being

injured, but he had remained suspended for nearly an hour before a

passing crewmember heard his cries for help. "Besides, I can hardly get

into any trouble just sitting here eating a sandwich. If it makes you

feel better, I'll call for an armed guard to escort me back to sick

bay."

"That won't be necessary," said a clipped voice from behind him. "I'll

assume responsibility for the doctor's welfare." To McCoy's surprise, it

was the Vulcan first officer who had approached them. "Thank you, sir,"

said Uhura gratefully. With a parting smile at McCoy, she gathered up

her tray and rose from the table. Spock, carrying a mountain of green

salad, took her place. "Good day, Mr. Spock. Or should I use a military

title?" The officer's upright bearing made McCoy feel that a salute was

also in order. "My posting on the Enterprise is that of both first

officer and science officer. I am by rank a commander," continued Spock

with an air of gravity that increased McCoy's discomfiture. "And have

been addressed by that title on occasion, but such usage is usually

restricted to impressionable junior officers or to senior officers in a

situation of acknowledged formality." The doctor's face expressed a

faint look of apprehension.

"Mr. Spock is quite appropriate," concluded Spock. The doctor relaxed

somewhat. "I'm having a hard enough time remembering names---the fewer

titles the better. This morning I promoted some lowly crewmem her to a

lieutenant." McCoy paused, amazed at the quantity and diversity of

vegetable matter which was rapidly disappearing from Spock's plate.

"Actually, I'm going through a bit of culture shock on board this

Enterprise of yours. My knowledge of Star Fleet is minimal.., or at

least it was twenty-five years ago... Spock answered evenly. "Indeed.

Star Fleet is a world unto itself; it can be bewildering to the

uninitiated. I found it so myself upon leaving Vulcan." As the level of

greenery on his plate subsided, a squat glass revealed its presence on

the tray. Spock took a sip of the muddy orange liquid inside. "Carrot

juice?" hazarded McCoy. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry." He hastily

retracted the question in the face of Spock's momentary silence. "As I

said before, I do not take offense at human social discourse." Spock

lifted the glass as if it were a specimen under analysis. "Beta-carotene

is only one of the components in this formula." He detailed a long list

of organic vitamin compounds, not all of which were familiar to the

doctor. "I am actually half Human and haft Vulcan; this mixture is a

necessary supplement to my shipboard diet, since my particular

biochemistry is unique in its nutritional requirements." McCoy accepted

this revelation with polite interest. Spock continued. "We developed

this drink soon after your posting to the Enterprise. You dubbed it

'orange sludge' and advised that I drink it at least once a week."

"Oh.

Well, I hope it tastes better than it looks," said McCoy

sympathetically. "You considered it a noxious substance, nevertheless

after some initial experimentation you achieved a blend that I find

quite acceptable." He downed the remainder of the liquid. McCoy frowned

at the remains of his sandwich. "I didn't seem to be as concerned about

my own health." His brittle tone raised Spock's eyebrows. "According to

my medical records, I ingested a fair amount of another type of 'noxious

substance' just before cracking my skull." He looked across the table.

"You were there when it happened. I was dead drunk; that's why I fell."

Spock's gaze flickered away. "Yes, you were drinking." He cast his mind

back to the scene in McCoy's cabin. "But there was more," he said after

a moment's reflection. Slowly he searched through his memories, working

past the fog of preoccupation and irritation which had clouded his own

perceptions that day.

"Physical exhaustion.., and a tension." Spock's sensitivity to emotional

atmosphere was more pronounced than he cared to admit out loud, but

McCoy accepted his observations without pointed jibes. "You were upset,"

Spock stated firmly. "That, more than the alcohol, contributed to your

inattention. Humans are subject to such emotional distractions; it is

endemic in the species."

"Upset enough to misplace an odd twenty years of my life?" asked McCoy

ruefully. Spock appeared puzzled by the question. "I guess you haven't

heard. My amnesia is psychological in origin. No damaged brain tissue,

just a psyche that's too weak to handle stress. The head injury was

simply an escape trigger." Spock stopped his attack on his food. "An

escape from what?"

"Life, I guess. According to Nurse Chapel I was exhausted from long

hours in surgery and depressed over the high casualties."

"That is hardly sufficient justification for such an extreme reaction."

Spock brought his hands together, fingers lightly touching. "I know you r

mind quite well, Dr. McCoy, and it would not give way to such routine

anxieties. Something out of the ordinary must have affected you.' "There

wasn't time. As far as we can tell, I stumbled out of sick bay and went

directly to my room."

"Where, by all logical considerations, you should have been sleeping.

Instead, when I entered your cabin, you had been awake for some time,"

said Spock. "The answer to what happened may lie there in your cabin."

Shoving a remaining green leaf into his mouth, the first officer rose

from the table and carried his tray to a disposal slot in the wall.

McCoy followed suit, then scrambled to match the first officer's brisk

pace out of the dining hall, down a corridor and into a turbolift. "Deck

Five," said Spock. They stood side by side in silence until the lift

came to a stop. "I don't even know what to look for," said McCoy as they

headed toward his quarters. "Neither do I, doctor. But even your

admittedly emotional behavior is based on a personal logic of cause and

effect. We know the effect; a reconstruction of your actions at that

time may reveal the cause." Spock came to a halt at the doctor's cabin

door. On the third attempt McCoy entered the correct security code. The

room was just as he had left it before. "I haven't cleaned up," he

muttered apologetically. Hell, it's not even my mess. "That is just as

well," said the Vulcan approvingly. "You might have removed valuable

clues." He remained at the doorway, studying the room before him. "You

make this sound like a murder mystery, Mr. Spock. Only I'm the corpse."

"A very talkative corpse," observed Spock. He stepped forward, carefully

avoiding a heap of clothing on the floor. "Surgical tunic. You usually

change in sick bay, but you were probably too tired to do so. After an

especially long surgery session, your first action would be to shower.

You would then change into clean clothes." ' "What color, Mr. Holmes?"

asked McCoy under his breath. "Grey," answered Spock. He stared

impassively at McCoy's look of astonishment, then continued. "At least,

that was the color you were wearing when I entered. I was standing

here." He paced his steps until he stood in the center of the outer

room. He looked toward the bedroom section of the cabin. "The bed was

unmade and the sheets were still crushed, so you had been sleeping for

part of the day, but upon my arrival you-were standing by the desk," he

waved McCoy into position, "with a drink in hand." The Vulcan closed his

eyes and stood in contemplation. "There was the smell of alcohol.., and

of smoke." His eyelids snapped open. "Yes, smoke.

Curious. This deck did not suffer from fire damage in the att ack." 'q

saw some ashes in the bedroom," recalled McCoy and led the way to a

metal tray by the bed. "Definitely against regulations," said Spock

sternly as they inspected the black smudges on its surface. "Don't look

at me," protested McCoy. "I don't live here." The first officer rubbed

the fine ash between two fingers. "Probably data paper. No more than a

single sheet." He strode back to the desk and rifled through the

manuscripts on its surface. "Despite your illogical insistence on

hard-copy printouts, you are normally quite orderly in dealing with your

paperwork. You clear your desk often. Therefore, these materials

probably represent a recent work session." McCoy picked up a manuscript

and scanned its first page. "They look pretty innocuous to me." Spock

nodded agreement. "They are also intact."

"Well, I seem to have burned my bridges," sighed McCoy. "We may never

know what was on that page."

"Not necessarily, Doctor." Spock sat down at the computer. When the

screen came to life he bypassed the menu lists and Swiftly entered into

the operating .system. A stream of cryptic symbols responded to his

promptings. "Fortunately, computer files leave evidence of their

activity. According to these records, your most recent computer activity

involved Lt. Frazers's autopsy reports on our attackers. However, there

was no printout from that session." His fingers tapped another sequence

of keys. "Your most recent printouts were from the last communications

contact with Star Base 11."

"And the paper I burned was in that delivery?"

"Possibly," hedged Spock. "Computer, access correspondence files for Dr.

Leonard McCoy. Screen all documents from the latest transmission,

Stardate 5289.1. Authorization Code 23.10.B" He looked up at McCoy.

"Since you have no memory of your computer code, I have taken the

liberty of entering it for you. However, ethically I cannot examine the

contents of your file.' "You've got my permission," said McCoy.

"After all, you know me better than I do."

"Under the circumstances, I'm not convinced that your permission is

valid," countered Spock. He crossed his arms across his chest. "You are

not in full possession of your mental faculties."

"But I may never recover those faculties unless we find the cause of my

fugue."

"An interesting philosophical quandary," said Spock reflectively. For a

moment, McCoy feared the Vulcan would continue to ponder the intricacies

of this dilemma indefinitely, but the first officer turned back to the

computer screen. "Unfortunately, my service experience has seriously

eroded my ethical standards. In the interest of expediency, I will

accept your authorization." With McCoy hanging over his shoulder, Spock

quickly ran through the file. The single correspondence page, when it

appeared, drew their immediate attention. "Well, Mr. Spock," said McCoy

after reading the message. "You were right about unusual events. This is

a letter from my ex-wife--announcing her remarriage.'

Chapter Thirteen.

McCoy Tried TO remember the source of the buzzing sound which he had

just heard. It was either the cabin door or the intercom. He reached a

hand out to the controls of the intercom and flicked a switch. He was

rewarded by the crackle of an open channel. "Hydroponics."

"This is Dr. McCoy," he said selfconsciously. "Yes, sir, Nelson here.'

The soft buzz repeated again. "Never mind, Nelson," McCoy severed the

contact. "Come in!" The door slid aside for Diana Dyson. The neurologist

crossed the threshold, allowing the door to close behind her, then

stopped. "It's clean in here," she exclaimed, looking around the cabin.

No sign of the room's previous disorder remained, and the dead plants

had been removed.

Even the desk where McCoy sat was bare of its clutter. A single opened

book lay on its surface. "You don't have to sound so surprised,"

grumbled McCoy. "I take no responsibility for the messy former occupant.

I happen to be a very tidy person."

"You're also a busy person," observed Dyson. The book was a medical

text; his desk terminal displayed an anatomical illustration. "I'll come

back later." She turned to leave.

"No, wait. Please." McCoy flipped off the computer screen and shut the

textbook. He stretched in place. "I've been at this long enough for one

evening--my brain will fry soon. Besides, I've just about finished my

paramedic course. Surely that deserves some sort of celebration." He was

smiling, but his voice held an edge of bitterness. "Dr. McCoy..." He

didn't let her finish. "Please, could you call me Len, or even Leonard?

I'm getting mighty tired of all of this bowing and scraping that goes on

whenever I'm around."

"What?" Dyson asked in disbelief. "Well, it's true," he declared with an

exaggerated frown of disgust. "And you're a prime example of a ship-wide

syndrome. There you stand, practically at attention, ready to escape my

presence just as soon as decently possible, and all because Dr. McCoy is

a senior officer. Either that or you just plain don't like me."

"You lead a hard life," she teased back.

"I do indeed. Sit down and join me for a drink while I tell you the sad

tale of a senior officer's life as seen through the eyes of a most

junior civilian." Despite his light tone there was a genuine appeal in

his eyes. "Very well... Leonard." She plopped down on a chair. He, in

turn, rose from the desk and bowed low. "And what will be my lady's

pleasure from the bar?"

"Wine," she ordered with an airy wave of the hand. "The best bottle in

the house."

"Not only the best," he said making his way to the wall cabinet. "But,

the only bottle. I haven't had many occasions to entertain in my cabin.

As I said, high command is a lonely place."

"You didn't say that."

"Well, I was going to say it in a few minutes." He picked up the bottle

and inspected the label. "I don't happen to remember this particular

year, but then most of the ones I do remember are now vintage brews." He

set about pulling the cork and pouring the wine. "The elder McCoy's

tastes seem to have run more to hard liquor to judge from the contents

of this shelf. Perhaps they were for medicinal purposes. I'll give him

the benefit of the doubt." McCoy balanced two full glasses on a small

tray and carried it deftly over to his guest.

"You keep referring to yourself as if to a third person," remarked Dyson

as she took a goblet from his hand. He nodded and sat down across from

her. "When I refer to myself, I'm speaking for Leonard McCoy, first-year

medical resident, twenty-three years of age. Due to an unfortunate twist

in the space/time continuum, I was catapulted through the future to an

unknown place, never to return to the home I love. As for the McCoy who

is commissioned in Star Fleet as a surgeon, well, I'm beginning to think

of him fondly as a close family member, a favorite uncle." He lifted his

glass in a toast. "To Uncle "Bones' McCoy, may he rest in peace. "Damn,"

he swore seeing a look of pain cross Dyson's face. "No wonder no one

wants to keep me company. Really, I wasn't trying to be morbid. In some

ways I think this memory loss is harder on other people than it is on

me. I feel fine , it's just the world around me that's changed, whereas

you keep seeing the difference in me. So, please excuse my attempts at

humor--they were in bad taste."

"No apologies necessary." She pulled the tag ends of a smile together.

"Except for the wine. It's abysmal." She viewed the contents of her

glass with distaste. McCoy grinned. "Dr. Dyson, you..." She didn't let

him finish. "If I have to call you Leonard, then you can't call me Dr.

Dyson. It makes me feel like an old lady. My name is Diana." To her

surprise, McCoy flushed. "You are most assuredly not an old lady." He

covered his momentary discomposure by whisking away the wine.

"Definitely a bad year. Just as well that I missed it." He opened a

drawer near the store of liquor bottles. "I'm not sure what any of this

stuff is." He pulled out a silvery pouch and puzzled over the alien

characters embossed on its surface. "That's stiegel," said Dyson. "A

delicacy from Brellian IV." McCoy tipped open the seal and peered at the

crumbly white crackers. He passed one to Dyson, then took another for

himself. "Much as I'd like to believe that you came by simply for the

pleasure of my company, I suspect it's actually official medical

business." He eyed his cracker warily. "More like unofficial medical

business." She crunched on hers without hesitation. "Your physical

condition is excellent, which removes you from my active patient list.

As for the amnesia, I'm not a psychologist so I don't know that I can be

of much use, but Captain Kirk thinks I have a better bedside manner than

Dr. Cortejo."

"Did he actually say that?" asked McCoy, nibbling tentatively at the

edge of the wafer. Dyson grinned. "Not in so many words. After all, it

wouldn't be politic to impugn the abilities of the ship's acting chief

medical officer."

"Not so different from hospital politics," he sighed. "That's one reason

I wanted to get away to my own practice. Bureaucracy brings out the

worst in my temper. My supervisor called it 'lack of respect for

authority.' I called it... Well, never mind what I called it, but it

didn't improve our working relationship." He glanced at the

neurologist's bemused expression. "I didn't get any better about that

over the years, did I?"

"No." She licked the crumbs of stiegel from her fingers. "You're one of

the few people on this ship who isn't in awe of Captain Kirk. You scream

and holler when you don't agree with him. You even scream and holler at

Mr. Spock, which nobody else does." McCoy stopped in mid-crunch. "You

can't be serious?"

"Your fights have assumed mythic proportions on the Enterprise," she

said mischievously.

"The crew keeps a running list of the insults you've thrown at him over

the years. No one else would dare use them, but sometimes just reading

them can make the science department feel better. Chekov swears by it."

"Chekov?" Dyson's gaiety faded away. "You still haven't remembered

anything, have you?"

"No," he answered evenly, popping the last piece of his stiegel into his

mouth. "When Mr. Spock and I found that letter, I stood there

thinking--"This is it. It'll all come back now.'--but nothing changed."

He reached for another wafer. "Say, these are good.

What are they made of?" The doctor shook her head. "Don't askme; you'll

enjoy them better that way." McCoy hastily dropped the wafer back into

its pouch. He left his chair and rummaged once again inside the drawer.

Dyson pulled his attention back to their discussion. "Still, the news of

your wife's remarriage must have been a shock."

"Not really." McCoy found another package and sniffed warily at the

seal. "In fact, I don't feel much of anything..I' don't know her."

"You seem quite unconcerned about what was obviously very disturbing

news."

"Disturbing to your McCoy, but not to me. I can't regret a marriage that

I don't even remember. Even if that news was the trigger for my fugue,

it certainly wasn't the key to bring me back out." He shook his head in

disbelief.

"That woman's name meant nothing to me the first time I saw it; her

remarriage means just as little. Seems strange that it caused so much

trouble." Empty-handed, he dropped back down onto the chair by the desk.

"Look, as far as I'm concerned, I've spent the last year eating,

drinking, and sleeping medicine at Atlanta General Hospital."

"So what were you doing in Texas?" Dyson asked. McCoy's face broke into

a wide grin. "That trip was my first vacation in years--for two whole

weeks I did nothing but ride horses and muck out stables. I had two more

days left, but I could have stayed there..." He stopped short.

"Forever?"

Dyson finished the sentence for him. "But it didn't last forever. You

got thrown off a horse and spent the night in a local clinic. Then you

went back to Georgia and..." She prompted him to continue. McCoy shook

his head stubbornly. "I woke up here. On the Enterprise."

"Still on vacation," taunted Dyson. "It's a hell of a vacation," shouted

back McCoy, but he didn't let his anger build. He took a deep breath

instead.

"And I know exactly what you're doing, Diana Dyson." The sarcasm dropped

out of her voice. "I never claimed to be a psychiatrist, Leonard, but

I'm doing my best. God knows, it's not easy trying to turn you into a

patient."

"Okay, okay, I won't fight it." He leaned back in his chair, stretching

his long legs across the floor, folding his arms across his chest. "But,

really, I don't remember anything after that fall."

"You could try some simple extrapolation," she suggested, deliberately

leaning forward to close the distance he had created. "What should have

happened after you woke up in the Waco clinic?"

"Well, I must have returned to Atlanta. Back to the emergency room, and

morning rounds, and 36-hour days.., the usual grind."

"Yet according to your personnel records, you were married within a few

months of your return."

"That soon?" he asked sharply. "I thought you went over your records

with Captain Kirk?"

"Not the details... I didn't really want to know." He shrugged. "After

all, what's the point?"

"Perhaps if you were to learn more now..."

"No." He sat up straight, hands clenched. "It doesn't have anything to

do with me." Dyson persisted. "It must have been a whirlwind courtship."

"With all too predictable results," said McCoy grimly. He slumped down

into the chair. "Reading my file was like meeting a stranger..." Dyson

let his silence continue. After several moments, he spoke again,

haltingly.

"I can't imagine doing the things this "Bones' McCoy did. What a mess he

made of my life. A bad marriage, a bitter divorce, this damn-fool leap

into Star Fleet .. ."

"Oood came of it also. A daughter, for one."

"Some father he was," said McCoy scornfully. "Leaving his own kid for

years on end. I've played some of their correspondence; she's a nice

young woman.

But hell, after listening in on those tapes I probably know her about as

well as he did, and I've never laid eyes on her. I wouldn't do that; I

wouldn't slink off and leave my family." His voice hoarsened with anger.

"I wouldn't.., yet, I did."

"You can't pass judgement without knowing the circumstances," argued

Dyson. "I wonder. Your Dr. McCoy seems to have given up his life without

much of a struggle." His dark brows knitted together in thought.

"Perhaps he agreed with me. That would certainly explain this

fugue--it's an escape from failure." Dyson's response was cut off by the

sound of the door chime. "I'm a popular man today," observed McCoy with

a shaky laugh. Their rapport was shattered.

"Come in!" When Kirk ended his Shift on the bridge, he had intended to

go straight to his own quarters. Instead, he had found himself following

the familiar route .to McCoy's cabin. As soon as he walked through the

door he realized that his old habit had led to bad results. "Good

evening, Dr. Dyson." He greeted the neurologist cheerfully, but fully

understood her icy glare and civil nod. He had just interrupted a

session with her patient, a session that he had ordered. McCoy jumped to

his feet, unsure as to proper protocol between junior and senior

officers, and even more unsure of the responsibilities of his own rank.

Dyson took charge of the situation. "Thank you for your hospitality, Dr.

McCoy." She, too, rose from her chair. "What? Oh, of course, Dr. Dyson,"

said McCoy, reluctantly escorting her to the door. Kirk bowed aside to

let her pass and winced at the polite smile that masked her anger.

Watching the two doctors exchange their formal goodbyes, he recognized a

charade acted out for his benefit. Neither was he fooled when McCoy

turned from the door to entertain his new guest. With the ingrained

manners of a Southern gentleman, McCoy gave no sign that he preferred

the company of Dr. Dyson to that of the captain. Moving to the desk

littered with glasses and opened food pouches, the doctor assumed his

duties as host. "Some stiegel, Captain?"

"No, thanks," said Kirk, restraining a grimace. "I know what it's made

of." McCoy shoved the package into the flush chute.

Now that he was here, Kirk wasn't sure why he had come. "Bones..."

"I'd rather you called me Leonard, Captain Kirk."

"Alright, Leonard. My name is Jim." McCoy nodded noncommitally. A good

host never contradicted his guest's wishes. An awkward silence

threatened to engulf them. Kirk plunged directly into the topic

uppermost in his mind. "I heard about Jocelyn's letter. I'm sorry..."

"It doesn't really concern me,,' said McCoy. After a moment's pause, he

added, "But I'm sure "Bones' would appreciate your sympathy." The

captain fought against a surge of emotion that dangerously resembled

jealousy. Obviously, Dr. Dyson had been able to draw McCoy out, whereas

Kirk could barely talk to the man. He searched for a way to break

through the uneasy silence which stretched o ut between them. Before he

could speak, the silence was ended for them.

"Red alert, red alert, all hands to battle stations," the call rang out.

A flash of scarlet bathed the room. "Captain Kirk to the bridge."

Chapter Fourteen.

THE CAPTAIN WAS still in the turbo lift when the first phaser burst hit

the Enterprise. The deck trembled beneath his feet and the turbo ground

to a halt. Pounding his fists against the closed doors, Kirk shouted out

a series of blistering oaths. As if in response, the compartment moved

again and seconds later he tumbled out of the doors onto the bridge. His

eyes flew immediately to the main viewscreen. The normally static view

of dimly glowing stars scattered on black was now a backdrop for

frenetic battle action. In the distance, a pack of small sleek ships was

whizzing around the Falchion, like flies around a dog. Much closer, more

silver shapes streaked across the viewscreen as they raced around the

Enterprise's hull. One vessel suddenly darted forward to deliver a blow,

then flitted away. The Enterprise shuddered, nearly throwing Kirk to the

deck. "Fire Number Two phasers." Spock issued the order calmly from his

position in the command chair. A wide pattern of glowing rays shot

forward, scattering the agile ships without scoring a single hit. Kirk

took advantage of the momentary lull to take command. "Report, Mr.

Spock."

"At least fifteen Class Five fighters, constructed for a crew complement

of two," said Spock as they exchanged places. "They approached in

single-file formation behind an asteroid, eluding our sensors until they

were practically upon us." The science officer hastened back to his

computer station and began a rapid patter of briefing data. "Enterprise

phaser power at fortythree percent capacity.

Shields are holding, but given our previous damage, we are vulnerable to

their lowcharged phaser fire." As if to prove his point, another of the

fighters dived straight toward them. "Fire phasers," shouted Kirk. A

full two seconds elapsed before the energy bolts were released, then the

attacking ship blossomed into a fireball that filled the screen with a

blinding glare. Before the explosion had faded another attacker ducked

beneath the starship, firing a jolting blast into the Enterprise's

midsection. "Evasive action, Mr. Depaul." The helmsman obeyed instantly,

but the starship was sluggish, moving far more slowly than the small

fighters. "They can run rings around us, sir." Kirk slammed a fist down

on the arm of his chair. His eyes flickered over the frantic motion on

the viewscreen. "Benus, lay down random phaser fire at tensecond

intervals."

"Aye, sir." A scattered stream of light beams spat forward into the

frame of the viewscreen. The twins evaded the phaser fire easily, but

did not attempt another direct attack. Spock looked up from his sensors.

"Captain, this tactic may keep them at bay for now, but it will

seriously deplete our energy levels." Kirk ignored him. "Uhura, open a

scrambled channel to the Falchion." Sulu's voice rang out almost

immediately. "They're all over us, Captain... They outmaneuver us at

impulse speed. Our shields are holding, but they've moved in so closely

that we can't hit them back..."

"Warp out of range, Sulu," ordered Kirk flatly. "But, Captain..."

"Warp out of range," overrode Kirk, then continued his plan. "Engage the

cloaking device, then return." Sulu fell silent as the implications of

Kirk's idea took hold. "The entire fighter pack will close in on us,

leaving themselves vulnerable to your sudden reappearance and attack."

"But we can't fire. on them without hitting the Enterprise."

"That's right," admitted Kirk grimly. "But we'll pull full power to

shields. If you fire a wide beam, it may disable the fighters without

penetrating the Enterprise hull."

"Aye, Captain." The prospect of firing on the Enterprise did not enthuse

the lieutenant, but he accepted Kirk's orders without argument. Kirk

swiveled his chair around to face his first officer. "Spock, compute the

time logistics for the Falchion's departure and return." The Vulcan

complied with his usual composure, but Kirk detected approval of his

plan. If only his chief engineer would react as calmly... A flash of

exploding light from the viewscreen interrupted his train of thought.

"Got another one!" yelled the ensign at the weapons console. "Yeah, only

thirteen more to go," snapped Depaul, ruthlessly squelching the young

woman's excitement. - Kirk opened a channel to the engineering section

and quickly outlined his plan to Scotty. "If that lad's nae got a soft

touch, those Klingon phasers will slice through us like butter," warned

the engineer. The ship rocked again as a fighter slipped through the

phaser barrage and fired into the primary hull's underbelly. "But we

canna take much more o' this poundin' so I reckon we havna any choice."

"Ready, Captain," announced Spock. "The Falchion has been briefed."

Uhura touched a series of switches on her panel. "Frequency open, sir."

"Go, Sulu," ordered Kirk. The Falchion executed a fancy roll to pull

free of the fighters for just an instant, then shot forward. Its solid

shape transformed into a stream of light, then vanished. Five small

ships hung in space, cheated of their prey. Kirk's face twisted into a

feral smile. "Fire phasers." Three of those ships exploded into fiery

fragments, but at the same time four of the eight fighters circling the

Enterprise sprang forward to deliver their own sting. As the starship

bucked under the multiple blows, the remaining two ships which had

dogged the Falchion promptly joined the main pack. "Maintain random

pattern!" shouted Kirk, arms straining to keep him from being thrown to

the deck. "Keep them back!"

"Captain, if we take another of those attacks, we'll not have any

shields left that can stand up to the Falchion's phasers."

"Understood, Mr. Scott." Kirk wiped his brow.

"Benus, don't lock on targets. That's an order." He underscored his

command. The ensign's instinct was to try to score hits; so was Kirk's.

He had yielded to that temptation in order to destroy three ships, and

the Enterprise was still reeling from the results of that action.

"Falchion due in six point seven minutes," Spock announced without

inflection. They were very long minutes for the captain and his crew.

The ten fighters swarmed around and over them, dodging phaser fire, but

drawing closer and closer. Ship's lights grew dim and the soft hum of

life support systems faded to a ragged whisper as Scotty channeled more

and more power into the deflector shields. "One minute," announced Spock

after an eternity. "Mr. Scott, prepare to divert all remaining power to

port shields," Kirk warned. "Ready, Captain."

"Thirty seconds."

"Go, Scotty." The lights of the bridge flickered. The helm lost control

of the ship's movement. Phaser fire died. Kirk stopped breathing as the

fighter ships hesitated, then dived forward en masse. "Now," said Spock.

The fabric of space rippled and swam and the Falchion erupted from the

center of the disturbance. It loosed bolts of flame that raked across

the bow of the Enterprise. Kirk had no time to count how many of the

attacking ships exploded before the Falchion rolled under the starship

and surged upwards. "Starboard shields, Scotty," shouted Kirk into the

intercom, as the heaving of the deck flung him from side to side. A

second fan of fire swept across the far side of the Enterprise. This

time Kirk lost his hold and was flung to the deck. The air was thick

with smoke, choking his lungs and fogging his eyes. Spock, who had clung

to his science station with amazing tenacity, continued to read his

sensors. "Two fighters remain, Captain." Kirk grasped the side of his

command chair and pulled himself upright. Through the haze on the

viewscreen showed two bright silver ing away into space. A dark shadow

the frame the Falchion was closing in c ships.

"Sulu!" yelled Kirk. Uhura was already back at her station, opening the

channel for him. "I want those fighter pilots alive..." Even as Kirk

spoke, the two ships flamed into a shower of metal fragments. "Sorry,

Captain. They self-destructed," answered Sulu. "Damn." Kirk appealed to

his first officer. "Mr. Spock?" The Vulcan re-checked his instruments.

"Shortrange sensor scan reveals .no other space vessels in the immediate

vicinity." The recent malfunctions tad left him wary of the accuracy of

his science data. He was monitoring the readouts with greater attention

than usual. "Long-range scans show the ghost of... gone. Whatever it

might have been, we are moving away from it." Kirk shrugged

philosophically. "Good work, Lt. Sulu." He waved a hand in front of his

face. The smoke had not cleared from the bridge.. "Secure from general

quarters." The flash of the alert lights slowed in tempo then faded.

Kirk's fingers flipped a switch on the arm of his command chair.

"Engineering, restore power to ship's systems. Scotty, damage report."

His call was met with silence. "Scotty, report!"

"Intercom to Engineering is dead, Captain," said Uhura, frantically

punching circuits on her communications panel. The malfunctions in

shipboard communications had returned. Checking a curse, Kirk went to

general broadcast channels. "Engineer Scott, damage report to the

bridge."

Lights brightened and clean air began to circulate, but there was still

no answer from the engineer. Spock's voice began a soft drone of lower

deck reports. Uhura relayed a sick bay report of ten casualties and one

fatality, then continued her battle with the communications board. "...

bloody intercom... Aye, Captain, Scott here. We had a momentary hull

breach due t'.. ." Silence again. "... decks seven through ten suffered

minor damage," continued Spock. Then a second voice. "Paramedic Dorf

here, Captain. Mr. Scott is going to sick bay." The faint protests in

the background implied that the engineer's departure was not entirely

voluntary. "Acknowledged, Engineering. I'll meet you there." Kirk walked

to the science, station. "Who attacked us? Ravens or Klingons?" Spock

came very close to frowning. "Unknown at present. Detailed sensor

readings were impossible under the circumstances." The captain heaved a

frustrated sigh, then tempered it with a wan smile. "Send a shuttlecraft

crew to sift through the fighter wreckage. Let's give Frazer some more

bodies to work on." The Vulcan nodded. Kirk took a final look around the

bridge. "You have the conn."

When Kirk reached sick bay, Scotty was still blustering at the two

paramedics who had carried him in. "Why would ye drag me away for a

scratch like this one? I've got work t' do." His environment suit was

ripped from knee to mid-thigh and the edges of the fabric were stained

deep pink. At the captain's entrance, Scott struggled to a stand,

effectively preventing McCoy from tending to the bleeding gash. "Mr.

Scott, sit back down. You're not going anywhere until I get your

report," ordered Kirk, thus distracting Scotty sufficiently for the

medical aid to continue. "Captain, we've lost deflector shields in half

a dozen sections and an equal number are barely holdin'. One of the aft

shields for the primary saucer collapsed completely under Sulu's phaser

blast. The force of that Klingon beam drilled a hole through the hull

plates and stopped just short of the impulse engines themselves." He

broke off to scold McCoy, who was cutting the fabric away from his

wound. "Have a care, mom Yet ruinin' a perfectly good suit."

"Is the breach sealed?" Kirk insisted. "Oh, aye, Captain, but there were

a few moments of nastiness," admitted Scotty. His injury was proof of

that.

"How long to effect repairs?"

"At least fifteen hours, Captain. That's assumin' I can stop wastin' my

time down here..." But by this time Scotty's limb had been fully

uncovered. The engineer's cavalier attitude turned to concerned

selfinterest at the glimpse of bone beneath the bleeding tissue. "McCoy,

what are ye waiting for? A mon could bleed to death in the time it's

taking ye t' move."

"I'm working as fast as I can," said the doctor patiently as he ran a

sterilizer over the wound.

Kirk found himself distracted from the damage report he had been prying

out of Scotty. "Bones?' "No, just me, Leonard McCoy," answered the

doctor. "Nurse Chapel has certified me for paramedical work." With

quick, practiced motions he sealed the edges of Scotty's wound into a

single jagged weal. He looked up to see a look of apprehension on the

engineer's face. "Don't worry, sir. Basic emergency ward treatments

haven't changed that much since I learned them." McCoy aimed the beam of

a portable regen unit onto the engineer's injury. Kirk pulled his

thoughts back to the Enterprise.

"Scotty, I need the ship's shields back as soon as possible. Class Five

fighters never travel alone and we can't afford to meet their escort

without defenses."

"Even if I get shields up in twelve hours, they'll not hold up t' much

of a poundin'," warned Scotty. "We've been through two battles already

with hardly time t' pull ourselves together. A third attack could punch

holes through the ship that I can't patch."

"Not to mention that you're going to run out of room in here," said

McCoy, looking around the crowded confines of sick bay. He turned back

to the captain. "Just who are these aliens?"

"That's what I'd..." Kirk stopped short at the sound of Spock's voice

ringing out over the intercom.

"Bridge to Captain Kirk." The captain stepped over to the wall unit.

"Kirk here."

"Report from the hangar deck, Captain. The shuttlecraft crew has

identified the fighter vessels as Tennet Fives. One alien body was

recovered from the wreckage." A slight pause was Kirk's only warning of

the bad news to follow. "It appears to be that of a second alien

species."

Chapter Fifteen.

Captain's Log, Stardate 5539.4 Enterprise shields are operational again

after nine hours of repair work. We are still on course for Wagner Post,

traveling at impulse speed through a sector swarming with crazed aliens,

all bent on destroying my ship and my crew. And if I don't figure out

why, they may well succeed.

The ODOROUS commm of the autopsy room were filled to capacity. It.

Frazer, as the official expert on xenobiology, held the position of

authority at the head of the examining table; Spock and Dyson, his

research colleagues, flanked either side; Kirk, observer and layman,

stood at the foot. They all studied the prone figure laid out between

them. The slight figure on the slab was green in color; its eyes were

pale pink and its head was covered with downy white wisps of hair.

"Well, it's related to the Ravens," said Frazer wearily, "but I haven't

figured out just how related it is." The xenobiologist's normally

ebullient spirits were noticeably depressed by physical exhaustion. Kirk

was in no better mood--he wasn't as tired as the xenobiologist, but he

was infinitely more worried by the specimen which now occupied the

autopsy slab. His nausea was equal to that he'd felt during the last

session in the lab, but he listened intently as Frazer detailed the

similarities between the two species.

"Despite the superficial color differences, the skeletal and muscular

frames are built along the same lines. This particular specimen is

smaller and less developed than the blue-skinned Ravens, but I can't

tell if that's typical of the green species or simply a matter of

individual variation within the species. Same beak, same claws..."

"Same venom," said Dyson, speaking up for the first time. "It affects

the central nervous system almost instantaneously, paralyzing motor

functions and blocking pain receptors. I'm still exploring the exact

chain of chemical action."

"What about an antidote?" asked Kirk. Frazer waved a hand toward a small

beaker on another table. It was filled with a pale rose liquid. "I

synthesized a promising batch this morning. Would you like a

demonstration, Captain?" He grabbed the alien's hand and laid his wrist

bare to its raking claws. "No, that won't be necessary." The

lieutenant's disappointment was obvious but his mercurial temperament

soon found distraction in the alien's peculiar anatomy. "And of course

they've both got this crazy double-brained skull."

"So they come from the same planet." Frazer was about to nod agreement

but thought better of it as Spock corrected the captain's hasty

conclusion. "Morphological similarities are not sufficient proof of

common origin; equivalent environmental pressures may be conducive to

parallel evolutionary development. However, given the duplication in

basic amino acid sequences, probabilities are high that they share the

same planet of origin." If Spock felt any physical discomfort in the

autopsy room, it was well masked, but he was definitely pained by

Frazer's lack of verbal precision. "However, the extensive morphological

differences may indicate a separate species--or possibly even

genus--classification." He motioned to the young lieutenant and they

rolled the corpse over. The xenobiologist pointed to a large bulbous sac

bulging from the back of the neck, near the base of the skull. "We still

haven't figured out what this is, but it's probably related to the

nervous system functions. A series of ducts leads up to the left brain

chamber. There are traces of a similar organ in the Ravens, but it seems

to have atrophied."

"Of course, the differences could be exaggerated sexual dimorphism,"

noted Dyson speculatively. "Possible, but unlikely," said Spock.

"Cellular analysis reveals considerable biochemical dissimilarities."

"Besides," added Frazer. "I still haven't found any evidence that either

species has a sex." He poked a line down the rubbery green body. "Heart,

lung, stomach, all have a roughly analogous organ, but so far, no

obvious reproductive tract."

"Not a promising candidate for asexual budding," Dyson mused. "Not like

the soggy Oozers." Frazer's red complexion deepened in hue. "Hey, watch

it! Some of my best friends are Oosians."

"I was using the term descriptively."

"Their minds are far from soggy."

Spock's comment was carefully neutral. "In fact, their language is

admirably suited for expressing the basic precepts of the Unified Field

Theory." Kirk--who had never met an Oosian--indulged himself in a

display of temper. "I don't give a damn about anything but this alien,"

he shouted at the three scientists. "And I want to know more about this

alien just as soon as humanly possible." The captain looked over at

Spock; his voice dropped back to normal. "No offense intended, Mr.

Spock."

"None taken, Captain," said the Vulcan. His somber eyes lit up with a

glint of amusement. "However, I have no intention of limiting myself to

human standards of performance." The look of despair which passed

between Dyson and Frazer implied that the science officer applied his

own exacting standards to his subordinates as well, regardless of their

fully human heritage. At the science officer's signal, the junior

officers began preparing the alien for the painstaking dissection which

would provide more tissue specimens for the science staff. The clinging

vapors of bio-stasis fluid trailed after Kirk and Spock, reluctantly

losing their hold in the fresh air of the corridor outside the autopsy

lab. The captain drew a deep breath to clear his lungs. "I've broken

radio silence." Spock immediately abandoned his review of the data

tablet he had carried out of the lab. He focused his attention on Kirk,

noting the grim set of the captain's jaw. Kirk continued. "I ordered

Uhura to fire a communications burst to Wagner Post requesting a log of

registered flight itineraries. I need to know where those attack

fighters came from." Spock nodded thoughtfully. "Agreed. The knowledge

may well be worth the risk of detection." The first officer's comment

did nothing to allay Kirk's own uneasiness. "If it's not, I may have set

us up for another attack. I've been rolling snake eyes on every round so

far."

"The rules which govern craps are not generally applicable to reality."

Spock strongly resisted the concept of luck. Not even Kirk's legendary

reliance on favorable random factors could shake the Vulcan's firm

belief in the laws of probability. "Well, there won't be an answer from

Manager Friel for at least a few hours," said Kirk with studied calm.

"I'll be in my cabin." Spock headed in the opposite direction but

stopped abruptly when he detected the light steps of a man coming up

behind him. He pivoted around and marched back to face the acting chief

medical officer. "Dr. Cortejo, I had requested your presence at the

autopsy report."

"Ah, yes.

Unfortunately, I was detained elsewhere." The doctor turned away, only

to be jerked back by Spock's swift retort. "Perhaps you find your new

duties too demanding." The Vulcan's face displayed a deadly calm. "If

that is the case, I can arrange for you to resume your former position."

Cortejo's mouth settled into a grim line. "My time is reserved for the

living. I have no interest in rotting meat."

"Your personal preferences are irrelevant. They are also misguided. If

we do not concentrate sufficient attention on the aliens, this entire

ship's crew may be reduced to 'rotting meat.'" Spock rammed a data

tablet into Cortejo's hands. "For that reason, I am requesting a

temporary reassignment of these members of your medical staff to the

alien research project."

"This is a third of my department!" exclaimed Cortejo in amazement as he

scanned the list. "Twenty-seven percent to be exact."

"But..."

"You have the option to refuse my request," said the Vulcan, with a

steely edge to his voice. When the doctor did not respond, Spock offered

him a writing stylus. Ignoring the gesture, Cortejo produced one of his

own. He scrawled a signature on the tablet before tossing it back to the

science officer. His look of loathing was more obviously displayed than

Spock's disdain. They parted without another word. Seconds later, the

door to the autopsy room slid open, releasing another strong whiff of

stasis fluid. Dyson peered out into the passage and watched Spock cross

the threshold of the research library two doors down. Cortejo had

disappeared. "All clear," she called back to Frazer. 'i'lL see you

later." Before she had gone more than ten feet, McCoy stepped out of the

shadows of a cross-corridor. He grabbed Dyson's elbow and steered her

into an alcove. "We have a dinner date, remember?" She shook her head.

"Sorry, Len. I can't get away."

"Diana, you haven't eaten all day," protested McCoy. She shrugged. "I'm

up to my ears in autopsy reports.

Spock has both the science and medical departments working overtime."

McCoy gave a sudden grin. "Wait a minute. Aren't you part of my

department? As chief medical officer I could order you..."

"Don't try to pull rank around here," scolded Dyson. "Dr. Cortejo has

your authority now." She smiled wickedly. "But unlike you, he doesn't

have the guts to cross Spock." She bit her lip and made another quick

check of the corridor. To her relief, it was empty. "They absolutely

despise each other," she confided happily in a low voice. "Spock cuts

the man's ego into tiny pieces every chance he gets."

"Yeah," said McCoy. "I overheard him do just that a few minutes ago." He

thought back to the exchange between the two senior officers. "I'd just

as soon stay on that Vulcan's good side."

"So would I," said Dyson emphatically. "Which means I have to get back

to work." McCoy sighed and released his hold on her arm.

"Damn those aliens--they're mining my social circle. Say, can I look

over your shoulder while you run through those tests?" he

wheedled,,wistfully. "I could take notes or wash beakers or... "No,"

said Dyson emphatically. "I wouldn't get anything done with you

breathing down my neck." She choked at McCoy's mock leer. "Go away!" Her

eyes searched for a wall chronometer. She read the numbers on its face

and uttered a gasp of dismay. "Oh, hell! Spock will fry me in oil..."

"Okay, okay, I'll take a rain check," said McCoy, admitting defeat. He

laughed at her blank look. "Dirtwalker saying. I'll see you later," he

called out after her as she dashed towards the Research section. "If I

happen to have a free moment in my busy schedule," he muttered. He could

kill another hour by going to the mess hall alone, but his hunger had

ceased abruptly at Dyson's departure. He was weary of the confines of

his cabin, and the rec rooms were abandoned. More out of habit than

desire, he opted for a study session with current medical texts. Walking

a few steps down the corridor, McCoy peered into the research library.

Spock occupied the carrel nearest the door, his alien form hunched

intently over the computer terminal. Anxious not to disturb the first

officer's concentration, the doctor edged quietly into the room, but the

Vulcan's hearing Was sharper than he had realized. McCoy stopped,

impaled by two dark eyes. "Excuse me, sir. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You have not done so. My literature search is finished." Spock turned

back to the screen with an upraised brow. "As it happens, I have been

consulting your opinion on this matter."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The xenobiological index referred me to one of your journal articles."

"One of my articles?" asked McCoy. "How many do I have?" Spock punched a

rapid series of keys and beckoned the doctor to the terminal. To McCoy's

surprise, his name ran down the length of the left column and

disappeared off the screen. The majority of the visible publication

dates fell within the last three years. "I wrote all of these? Aboard

this ship?" asked McCoy. "Thanks to Star Fleet resources the Enterprise

research laboratories are equipped with technological equipment that is

more sophisticated than that generally available in civilian facilities.

And due to the nature of our mission, the exploration of new areas of

space, we have encountered many phenomena that offered excellent

research opportunities. It is only logical that we should avail

ourselves of the data." McCoy scanned the array of titles. "Well, they

certainly look impressive, but then I can't tell if they're worth the

chips they're written on." He dismissed the listing with a shrug.

Spock's impassive face hardened at this show of indifference. "Your work

is that of a professional always competent, frequently inspired, and on

occasion brilliant. You have achieved a widespread reputation as a

physician and a scientist on the basis of these studies."

"Thank you, but it's not my work you're talking about. I'm a small-town

boy who was on his way to being a family doctor. The Leonard McCoy who

wrote these," he waved his hand at the terminal, "doesn't exist anymore.

Maybe he never will again."

"An emotional reaction to traumatic injury is certainly understandable

in your species." Spock steepled his fingers in contemplation of Human

frailties. "However, you should not let these emotions cloud your

perceptions too far. Whether you recover your memory or not, the fact

remains that you are Leonard McCoy.

These publications are yours."

"I beg to differ, Mr. Spock." McCoy stopped short of his next statement;

he thought back to the scene in the corridor. "Perhaps I've said enough.

I'm in imminent danger of contradicting a superior officer." Spock

looked somewhat taken aback by this deferral. "I assure you that such

considerations have never intrud themselves on any of our previous

discussions." After a moment's hesitation, he offered, "I have always

valued the free exchange of our ideas." McCoy looked dubious, but he

perched on the edge of the desk and continued talking. "Then maybe you

can hear me out with Vulcan objectivity. You're free from any personal

interest in the ship's surgeon. "You say that I'm the same Leonard McCoy

who joined Star Fleet twenty years ago. Well, you're partly right." He

tapped his chest. "This body is certainly that of an old man. I guess

it's not in bad working order, but it feels stiff and sluggish to me.

Yet identity is more than corporeal existence. Personality accounts for

a great deal of our perception of a human being as a particular

individual, and personality is shaped by the accumulation of memory and

experience. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Spock?" The first officer nodded,

but said nothing. "Well, then it follows that while my body has

maintained a continuous existence throughout the last forty eight years,

my mind has jumped the track. When I first awoke on board this ship I

had the personality of the young man who would eventually become "Bones'

McCoy, but within seconds of my awakening, I began to accumulate a

radically different set of experiences. We may share a common past, but

I've missed the incidents that shaped his final character, replaced them

with other events. I'm becoming a different person."

"Very logically argued." Spock leaned' back in his chair, arms crossed

over his chest. "But what happens when the lost memory, the personality

if you will, returns?"

"When?" challenged the doctor. "You mean 'if,' don't you?" He jumped up

and paced restlessly across the deck. "According to Dr. Dyson, recall

might occur gradually, with bits and pieces of his.., my... past

appearing sporadically, in which case the two personalities will

eventually assimilate into one." The line between his brows deepened.

"But in some cases the response is a sudden total recall, with the

intervening time lost in its turn. "

"That eventuality seems to displease you," observed the science officer.

McCoy stopped short. With a faint look of surprise, he nodded agreement.

"It means my death."

"Conversely, if your memory loss is never recovered, it would mean the

death of... the other Dr. McCoy."

"The perfect murder, Mr. Holmes," said McCoy with a humorless laugh. "No

messy body to dispose of, just a non-corporeal psyche that won't be

missed!" Spock's eyebrows jerked upwards. "There you are wrong.

Dr. McCoy is much respected and esteemed by the crew of the Enterprise;

Captain Kirk feels his absence most keenly."

"So your captain loses a drinking partner," said McCoy defensively.

"When you think about it, that's a small price to pay for getting my

life back in order. I'm a lucky man really. A lifetime of mistakes have

been wiped clean off my slate."

"As have the maturity and wisdom you gained from those mistakes."

Spock's voice was colored by an uncharacteristic intensity"Mistakes that

you will inevitably repeat."

,, McCoy shook his head. "Not this me, he insisted.

"I'll be happy this time around. I realize that such a human goal may

seem irrelevant to you, but I have a feeling it meant a lot to "Bones'

McCoy. Enough for him to let go."

"Let go of what?" asked Spock sharply.

"All of this," said McCoy with a wave that took in the whole ship.

"After all, we found the trigger for the amnesia, but it didn't restore

my memory. The only reason for a continued amnesia is a personal desire

for escape."

He reached over and flicked off the computer screen.

"I think Bones is gone for good."

Chapter Sixteen.

"WAGNER POST REPORTS no authorization records for either planetary or

Federation military transport in this sector." Spock stood at attention

in the captain's cabin, calmly announcing the bad news to the man seated

before him. "Damn." Kirk's fist clenched tightly around a white rook.

The chess game, started several weeks ago, had not progressed since the

first Raven attack. In his darkest moods he wondered if it would ever be

finished. The first officer approached the desk and eyed the arrangement

of carved figures on their crystal tiers. "Yet Tennet Five fighters are

short-distance vessels, incapable of penetrating into deep space under

their own power."

"So, record or no record, there's probably a subwarp carrier somewhere

nearby. That ghost you caught on the sensor scan..."

Kirk set the rook down on another level of the board, ousting a black

knight from the game. "And thanks to my communications broadcast, it

knows we survived the fighter attack." Abandoning the game to Spock's

inspection, Kirk moved into. his sleeping quarters, perched on the edge

of his bed, and tugged a boot off his foot. Spock stared intently at a

black bishop which was now in danger. "The fighters' maximum flight

distance would carry just beyond the range of a fully functional ,

sensor scan, but our sensors are operating far below normal levels. This

impairment, coupled with our reduced speed, means a carrier could easily

escape our detection."

"I hope that carrier's trying to escape us, Spock."

Bootless, Kirk stood up and stripped off his shirt.

"Under the circumstances, I'm more worried about overtaking that ship

than losing it."

The science officer considered this statement. "Phaser cannons,

triple-field defense shields-, photon disrupter buoys ."

"Which wouldn't mean a damn thing if we had warp speed," said Kirk, now

fully unclothed, as he ducked into the sonic shower.

"However, at impulse speed we are less than evenly matched. Spock

weighed the strengths of the two sides as if 'evaluating another chess

game. "Our phasers would be hard pressed to penetrate its defenses. Our

shields could not withstand more than one direct hit.

The Falchion will be at a similar disadvantage. Our combined forces may

not be sufficient to counter an attack."

"And these aliens do seem determined to pick a fight," yelled Kirk from

inside the cubicle.

"Agreed," said Spock. His fingers lightly touched the bishop, but did

not change its position. He stud ied the board yet again and slowly

withdrew his hand. " Kirk stepped back into the room.

"It's cold in here, he complained, quickly pulling on a clean set of

clothes. Scott is conyes, replied the Vulcan. "And Mr. templating

another five-degree drop to conserve power expenditure."

"Maybe we should meet in your cabin. I promise not to complain about the

heat."

"In deference to our weakened power reserves, I have altered my

temperature controls to conform with the rest of the ship," explained

Spock. "Ship's stores has issued me extra thermal blankets. A primitive

but effective device for conserving heat." Kirk smiled in sympathy, but

his thoughts quickly returned to the ship's danger. "I need to know

where those fighters came from."

"They are definitely of Federation origin. The Tennet Five design is

commonly used in planetary defense systems on the frontier, though

strict measures are taken to insure that sales are to Federation planets

only."

"The black market in military equipment is very resourceful," said Kirk.

He sat down again to pull on his boots. "Tennet Fives have been around

for a long time, long enough to change hands several times over until

the Federation loses track of them; sales records can be forged, too, so

that's no real mystery. What I don't understand is what direction they

came from. They didn't follow established travel routes, or Wagner Post

would have detected their presence or received notice of their passage

from other Federation outposts." He stood up and stamped his feet for a

final snug fit. "That leaves Klingon territory or uncharted space."

Spock's eyebrows rose high on his forehead. "Both of which are equally

unlikely points of origin for a sub-warp vessel."

"Nothing in this mess makes any sense," said Kirk wearily. "Aliens

popping out of nowhere. Klingons and Frenni disappearing just as

suddenly." He pounded a fist into the open palm of his other hand. "We

go over and over the details and yet we still can't form a picture.

There's a missing element somewhere." He looked at his first officer.

"Logic doesn't seem to be getting us anywhere, Spock." Spock bowed his

head in silent acknowledgement of the captain's frustration. Kirk paced

nervously from the bedroom into the outer study. The quick shower had

done nothing to relax the knotted tension in his shoulders. "Dammit,

there has to be 'an explanation for these attacks. We've got to find it

so we know who we're fighting and why. I can't defend this ship, this

crew without..." The soft clink of bottle against glass stopped him in

mid-sentence. "I believe this is your usual drink, Captain," said Spock,

handing Kirk a goblet of dark brandy. "Why, Bones," laughed Kirk in

astonishment. "You've grown pointed ears." Spock did not allow himself

to smile. "Have you spoken to Dr. McCoy lately?" he asked the captain.

Kirk frowned and took a swallow of his drink before answering. "Not

really. Not since the last attack." With some reluctance, he admitted,

"We don't seem to have much to say to each other."

"Indeed," said Spock neutrally. "I, on the other hand, have just

finished a most fascinating conversation with the doctor. We discussed

the concept of discontinuous personality formation in a continuous

corporeal entity." Kirk stared blankly at his science officer. "What the

hell are you talking about?"

"Dr. McCoy can elucidate," said Spock. "I highly recommend it as a topic

of discussion, Captain."

"But..."

"You will have to excuse me," said Spock with a note of formal apology.

"I'm due on the bridge in two minutes." He left the room without further

comment, leaving Kirk to puzzle out his words.

McCoy's cabin had changed. Kirk felt the difference as soon as he

crossed over the threshold. His eyes swept over walls that were bare of

their usual art hangings.

Medical books and tapes were rearranged, spread over the shelves, taking

the place of McCoy's collection of personal effects. Kirk walked through

to the back section of the cabin. The doctor was in bed, struggling to a

sitting position, still half-asleep though he had released the cabin

lock to let Kirk into the room.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"I'm just as glad you did. Crazy nightmare.., gone now," McCoy muttered,

rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He looked up at the captain. "Let me

guess--Mr. Spock sent you."

"Not exactly." Kirk spotted a jumble of stone and wood objects shoved

'onto a corner shelf of the bed room. "He simply mentioned that the two

of you had had a 'fascinating' discussion."

"And that sent you running here?" McCoy stretched lazily and swung his

feet off the bed. He was wearing standard issue service pants, but his

worn brown Sweater dated back to civilian days. He groped on the deck

for his boots.

. "He was worried about you." Kirk had no doubt that his first officer

had been conveying a new concern for McCoy's wellbeing.

"Worried?" asked McCoy. "What are you talking about? He's a Vulcan."

"He's also half Human." Kirk said out loud what neither of his two

friends would ever voice themselves. "That Human side is quite fond of

you, although the Vulcan haft never lets him admit it."

"I guess that speaks well for "Bones' McCoy," said McCoy grudgingly as

he rose to face the captain. "Not that it matters much anymore." Kirk's

eyes strayed over the altered cabin. The source of Spock's unease btcame

clearer to him. He strolled over to the discarded pile of artifacts and

hefted a carved stone head. "This was a gift from the High Teer Akaar of

Capella IV. You lived for several months among his people. The present

Teer is "Leonard James Akaar'--named after the both of us. You delivered

him, saved his life and that of his mother."

He proffered the figure to McCoy for inspection. When the doctor made no

move to accept it, Kirk carefully restored the statue to its usual

prominence on a higher shelf. The next item he picked up was a small

rough rock. "Not much of a souvenir, but then Vulcan doesn't court the

tourist trade." He held the dull red stone up to the light. "You saved

my life on Vulcan. Not for the first time, either." He flipped the rock

into the air. Surprised into action, McCoy caught it before it fell to

the deck. Almost as quickly, he tossed it back. "Look, Captain. I didn't

ask for this." McCoy tapped lightly at his temple."

"Bones' made the choice to leave and he doesn't show any signs of coming

back."

"I don't believe that," said Kirk shaking his head. "I know you,

McCoy.."

"Then tell me why I chose to forget you and this ship," said McCoy

defiantly.

"I Kirk shrugged his hands in helplessness, can't answer that." He

looked into the face of the man standing before him. A familiar face,

yet now that of a stranger. "But your memory will return. You wouldn't

choose to stay away."

"There's no place for me here," insisted McCoy.

"This boy is going home to Georgia.."

"Dammit, McCoy, you can't leave the service. You can't leave the

Enterprise." You can't leave me. McCoy angrily shook his head. "Captain,

once I get off of this ship, I'm never coming back." The scream of the

alert siren drowned out Kirk's retort.

Red pulsing lights invaded the room. Uhura's voice cut through the

wailing alarms. "Red alert, red alert. Captain Kirk to the bridge."

McCoy looked up in amazement. "Again? Don't you get tired of this?"

"Yes," said Kirk sourly, leaving the room at a dead run.

The image on the bridge viewscreen was deceptively untroubled. However,

the long-range sensors were more sensitive. They detected a presence

that could not be seen in the empty reaches of space. "Our ghost has

reappeared," explained Spock, vacating the command chair. He stood by

its side as the captain sat down. Kirk's face was still flushed with

anger at being caught off the bridge a second time. "The Tennet Five

battlecarrier?"

"Possibly," said Spock. "It is just inside sensor range, moving at a

speed consistent with a subwarp carrier. Its mass is also equivalent to

such a vessel. Visual contact in twenty minutes; course intersection in

one hour, twelve minutes."

"And we canna outrun it," said Scotty, stepping down from the

engineering station. "Not with our power reserves so low."

"Then we fight," said Kirk. He checked the reactions of his two officers

and sighed. "Any suggestions as to how we can win?"

"We do have the added resources of the Falchion."

Spock did not search for the warship on the viewscreen. Within seconds

of the red alert signal, the Klingon ship had vanished behind its

cloaking shield. "Aye," agreed Scotty. "An' if we had a third ship, it

might be an even match."

"If we can't beat them in a fair fight, we'll have to trick them." Kirk

smiled broadly. "We'll give them a taste of their own medicine."

"What dose did ye have in mind?" asked Scotty. Kirk leaned forward,

studying the viewscreen before him, but his mind's eye was reviewing

events of the past. "The Ravens in the Frenni ship could have attacked

us at once, as soon as we lowered our shields, but they waited. They

waited until we suspected a trap and recalled the shuttlecraft. If we

hadn't suspected a trap, what would they have done?"

He didn't wait for his officers to answer. "They would have taken over

the shuttlecraft and tried to board us. The Ravens didn't want to

destroy the Enterprise--they wanted to control her. So, perhaps the

carrier crew can be lured into boarding our ship, instead of attacking

it." Scotty looked appalled at the suggestion, but Spock showed no

surprise. Through long practice, Spock nimbly followed the quick twists

of Kirk's mind. "And in order to board us, they would have to drop their

shields."

"Aye! That they would!" The chief engineer began to smile just as

broadly as Kirk. Spock, however, withheld his approval and slipped

easily into the role of devil's advocate. "If the Tennet Five crews

consisted of only the second alien species, their motivations could be

different." Kirk gnawed at his thumb, then shook his head. "No, I don't

think so." He looked up at the Vulcan. "I can't prove it, but I'm sure

both Raven species are allied in the same cause. Another gamble, Mr.

Spock."

"Then I hope our cards come up aces," said Scotty. "A dice roll of

seven, Mr. Scott." Spock quirked an eyebrow at the engineer's confusion.

"Our current metaphor is craps."

"Whatever the game, Mr. Spock, 'this is a risky play."

"Mayday, ?,a, Mayday. This is the U.S.S. Enterprise. Ship in distress.

Uhura repeated the call over and over again, carefully edging her voice

with an anxiety that was not entirely feigned. Kirk concentrated on the

crackle of static from the broadcast receiver. His eyes were riveted on

the red, bullet-shaped carrier that grew like a blood stain on the

vewscreen. If there was no answer soon, the bait would be taken without

springing the trap. The Enterprise, adrift in space, was truly

vulnerable. Her engines were shut down, leaving the weapons systems and

deflectors without operating power. "Its hull emblems are those of an

Orion mercenary army," whispered Spock in his ear. "More allies?" asked

Kirk, wiping the sweat off his brow. Orion neutrality was more dependent

on selfinterest than good will. Spock shrugged. "Or more victims of a

Raven/ Klingon alliance."

"Either way, that's the battle carrier for the Tennet Fives," said

Scotty fiercely. "Look at all the empty fighter berths." A burst of

noise cut through the static, halting Uhura,s repetitious call. She

instantly tuned the frequency. "Enterprise, this , Captain Aeloran of

the Stellar Storm. We read you. The words which echoed over the speaker

were spoken in Federation Basic with a strong Orion accent. With a wave

of his hand, Kirk signaled a ragged cheer from the bridge crew and

raised his own voice to answer the call. "Stellar Storm, this is Captain

Kirk. Are we glad to see you!" He stepped down from his chair,

channeling his tension into movement, keeping his voice balanced between

a semblance of relief and weariness. "What happened, Captain Kirk? Your

ship looks dead in space."

We may be soon. "We were attacked by Klingons, a small fighter force

crossed over from their territory in the Belennii star system. We

destroyed them, but not before they damn near killed us. Our engines are

out of commission. No power left in weapons; our shields are gone." He

waved a hand over the darkened bridge, entering into his part fully.

"We're running life support systems from batteries."

"What can we do to help?'; asked the disembodied voice. Kirk laughed.

"You'll be sorry you asked that. I've got a list a foot long of spare

parts and supplies that we need to get going again./ and all I can offer

in payment is a Star Fleet credit voucher."

"I don't mind," answered the Orion captain cheerfully. "Federation

credit is as good as gold." Kirk hesitated. This voice sounded genuine

enough to create doubt where there had been certainty. The same'doubt

had delayed his reaction to the Frenni merchant impostor by a fatal few

seconds. "Uhura?" The lieutenant cut off ship-to-ship communications to

answer him. "They are accepting our visual transmission but only

returning audio." Just like the Serella.

More evidence that the Ravens were controlling the Stellar Storm, but

still not absolute proof. Uhura restored the ship-to-ship connection at

Kirk's thumbs-up sign.

"I lied," announced Kirk to the Stellar Storm's commander. "I do have

one item on board that's good for trade---Saurian brandy. If you'd care

to beam aboard, I'll open a bottle while I go over our requisition

list."

"That's the best offer I've had since I left home.!" crowed the voice.

"Give me your coordinates, and I'll be right there." There was a

momentary silence, then the voice returned. "In fact, I'll bring some of

my crew with me."

"You do that," said Kirk. "We'll be waiting." Uhura snapped off radio

contact. "Battle stations." Kirk's soft voice contrasted with the harsh

meaning of the words. "Spock, prepare to run a sensor scan as soon as

their shields drop." The first officer turned from his science station.

"Captain, if they detect the scanning..."

"They'll smell a trap and destroy this ship," said Kirk grimly. "Uhura,

transmit transporter coordinates, then open a channel to the Falchion."

"Aye, captain." She followed his order without hesitation. Scotty

monitored the results. "Their shields are dropping." The bridge fell

silent. The only sounds came from the computers at the science station.

The Vulcan officer's motions were controlled and deliberate and very,

very fast. Scotty looked up anxiously from the engineering panel.

"Transporter room reports grid activation... Captain, if they succeed in

beaming aboard..." Kirk kept his eyes trained on his first officer while

time stretched to the breaking point. Then Spock uttered the vital word.

"Ravens."

"Now, Sulu!" shouted Kirk. The Falchion rippled into existence,

Enterprise's views but providing the protection of its own deflectors.

Simultaneously, the Klingon warship loosed a bright stream of phaser

fire that cut through the metal hull covering the battle-carrier's

impulse engines. Seconds later the Stellar Storm no longer existed.

Chapter Seventeen.

"SENSORS DO not detect organic remains, Captain." Kirk stared past his

science officer, eyes fixed on the computer station indicators. Their

color confirmed the verbal report. "Run the check again, Mr. Spock." The

Vulcan's hesitation was slight, a brief betrayal of conflicting trains

of thought. A second search was unnecessary an d would waste ship's

energy; logic dictated that he bring this fact to his captain's

attention. Experience counseled that Kirk was in no mood to listen to

logic. Spock tripped a switch for another sensor sweep. Kirk stepped

down from the duty station and stood by the side of his command chair.

The helmsman and navigator toyed impatiently with the ship controls,

eager to resume their course. Uhura was turned to her communications

station, too intent on her radio monitoring to notice that Spock had

initiated another, redundant, probe from his station. The main

viewscreen presented an empty, untroubled sector of space. No sign of

the Stellar Storm remained; the explosion of its impulse engines had

annihilated the entire ship. And its Raven crew. Which meant Kirk was no

closer to finding an answer now than he had been after the first attack.

His own orders had destroyed any possibility of learning more about the

aliens.

The computer chattered its soft report. Kirk tensed for the translation.

"Negative, Captain. No organic remains."

"Very well, Mr. Spock." Kirk's voice was equally impassive. "Helm,

prepare for impulse power."

"Aye, aye, Captain." Depaul and Benus sat up straight in their seats,

hands poised over the controls. They had calculated and entered the

course coordinates for Wagner Post several times over while Kirk

lingered at the site of the Stellar Storm's destruction. "Falchion

standing by."

Uhura relayed the report from Sulu aboard the Klingon battlecruiser.

Kirk heard the too-quick responses from every duty station on the

bridge. His officers had found the waiting tedious and were anxious to

move on. "Full impulse power." The crew fell into motion and the

Enterprise shuddered into flight. Kirk shuddered, too. It's too damn

cold in here. His mind shied away from another explanation for the

chills. "Long range sensor scan, Spock?"

"Negative. No signs of activity within this sector."

"Confirmed by communications monitor," added Uhura.

"Let's hope it stays that way," said Kirk wearily. "We're still several

days away from the trading post." Uneventful days, he prayed. Time

enough for the one event which could not be postponed any longer. He

rose from the command chair. "Mr. Spock, I'll meet you in my cabin in an

hour." Kirk spent the hour staring at the contents of a small leather

case. Command of a starship was a challenging and demanding calling; it

could also be a highstakes game of chance. Every mission required

decisions that affected the lives of the ship's crew and of countless

other beings. Most of the time, Kirk !mew the answer, the necessary

course of action. Every once in a while he had to guess. When he guessed

right, he got a medal. Kirk had many medals. He treasured them not as

symbols of glory but as markers for having made the right choice. How

many risks could he take, how many chances, before he guessed wrong? At

the rescue of the Serella, his momentary hesitation had led to the

crippling of the Enterprise. Despite that, Kirk had risked the

Enterprise once again when facing the Stellar Storm. If the sensor scan

had taken seconds longer, if it had been detected, the Ravens would have

attacked again. This time they might have won. A low whistle sounded

over the intercom, a dirgelike tone which would reach every corner of

the ship. The captain pulled his thoughts out of the past. He snapped

the case shut and placed it back in a niche in the wall by his bed. A

metal door slid over the opening, hiding the case from view. The

uncertainties remained. He pushed them aside and concentrated on

changing his clothes. When the door chime rang, Kirk was ready. Spock

entered the cabin with the air of formality which always accompanied his

visits to Kirk's private quarters. He was past considering his presence

an intrusion, but he still managed to convey a subtle sense of Vulcan

ritual when he crossed the threshold. Now that formality was

considerably heightened by the blue dress uniform he wore. Kirk tugged

at the sleeves of his own commandgold dress uniform. He had grown to

loathe the suit because of its association with tiresome diplomatic

affairs and Star Fleet courts-martial. And funerals. "Lt. Uhura confirms

that the chapel is prepared for the service," said Spock with

appropriate solemnity, but then he would use the same somber voice to

announce a wedding. "Ship's intercom will broadcast your address to the

crewmembers on duty." Kirk nodded absently at this recital of details,

his mind still caught in a tangle of doubt and confusion. Neither

officer had discussed Kirk's actions against the Serella or the Stellar

Storm. Spock, the first officer, would not question a command decision

unless asked for an opinion; Spock, the Vulcan, would probably see

little value in debating a past action. Certainly Kirk had no desire to

bring his doubts into the open. To give voice to his fears would give

them more substance. Only one man would have pressed the issue, before

and after. What would McCoy have made of Kirk's actions? Would he have

urged caution before firing or railed against the certain danger to the

Enterprise?"

"I knew there were Ravens on that ship, even without the scan." Kirk was

talking out loud before he could stop himself. "But I let them trick me

once again. I should have destroyed them as soon as possible." The

captain's outburst did not surprise Spock. He spoke quickly, as if his

response had been prepared before and held in check for just this

moment. "At the risk of destroying an innocent Orion crew?"

"Instead, I risked my own crew." Spock said nothing. There was nothing a

Vulcan could say to refute Kirk's --If-accusation. If he searched for

the words a friend might use, he took too long to find them. Kirk had

already left the room.

Diana Dyson could think of at least three good reasons why she should

stop by McCoy's cabin. What disturbed her was the apparent need to

justify that action to herself. Her tentative and reluctant

introspection came to an abrupt halt inside the cabin. As she had

expected, McCoy was immersed in his medical studies; most unexpectedly,

he was still in civilian dress. Dyson stared in dismay at McCoy's

rumpled sweater. "Why aren't you ready?" McCoy pulled his attention away

from the computer screen. "Ready for what?"

"The memorial service. It starts in ten minutes." McCoy's eyes dropped

back to the screen. "Oh, yeah, I heard something about it this morning.

I don't have to go, do I?"

"For god's sake, you're a senior officer!" She sprinted past his desk

into the bedroom and threw open the door to the closet. "Not to mention

the man who signed a death certificate for every crewmember who was

killed in the first attack." Her hands rummaged frantically inside the

compartment. "Oh." McCoy flicked off the power switch on the computer.

"I guess that means I have to go." Dyson emerged from the back room. She

held out a shirt made of a soft, shiny blue fabric edged with gold.

"Here, put this on." McCoy looked as if she was offering him the body of

a dead animal. "And hurry!" He rose to his feet, slowly unbending his

lanky frame, then giving his spine a backward stretch.

"Too .bad my back doesn't think it's 23 years old." Dyson's lips pursed

with obvious impatience. McCoy sighed heavily at her unspoken proddings,

but he stripped off his sweater and threw it aside."Dammn," it's cold in

here." Giving an exaggerated shiver, he took the uniform shirt from her

hands and tried to pull it over his head. "No, not that way." Dyson

tugged it off him and unfastened the front seam. She shoved the garment

back at him. "I hate funerals." McCoy put his arms through the sleeves

one at a time, then laboriously started to reseal the shirt edges.

"Never could see the point in deliberately choosing to be depressed and

unhappy for near onto an hour. Two hours if you get an enthusiastic

preacher." When he reached the neckline, his fingers fumbled clumsily

with the seal. "Dann collar. Are you sure this is my size?"

"Oh, will you please shut up!" McCoy was startled by the sudden attack.

"My roommate was one of the first casualties. This funeral is more than

just a formality for me."

"Sorry." He was still fumbling with the last fastener. "No, you're not

the least bit sorry. You're barely being polite." She swatted his hands

away from the shirt and roughly fastened the collar for him. "Well, four

of the casualties were paramedics from your department." Dyson stepped

back to survey his appearance. "And you chose each one of those people.

Hoffman, Russell, Wallace, Clark.

Remember those names when the captain reads them. Be glad you can't

mourn for them, because the man who was ship's surgeon nearly cried when

he heard they were dead." The stricken expression on McCoy's face

stopped her tirade. She stamped down on a pang of guilt. "Come on or

we'll be late." He followed her without protest. The chapel was little

more than an empty hall with a nominal stage and podium at one end.

Since Star Fleet did not wish to offend any creed or religion--and Star

Fleet members were affiliated with an amazing variety of belief

systems--the ship's designers had provided a bland, featureless room

that appealed to no creed or religion. Only on those few occasions when

the ship's crew filled the room to capacity did the unadorned walls

reflect dignity and serenity. Kirk stood erect behind the podium,

waiting for the late arrivals to find a place in the crowd. No spaces

were left on the long low benches arranged in the center of the room;

most of the crew was standing along the perimeters, against the wall.

Despite the large attendance, there was little noise beyond the rustle

of moving bodies.

As captain, his duty was to speak out into that heavy silence, to find

words of comfort and reassurance for the friends and co mpanions of those

who had died. Captains were not allowed stage fright. Kirk smoothed flat

the list of names he had to read, wiping the moisture from his palms

onto the thin sheet of paper. The memorial service had been postponed

twice due to battle action and each time the list had grown longer.

Kirk's glance traveled idly over the room while his mind wrestled with

the wording of the approaching service. He saw a tightly huddled group

of engineering crewmembers step apart to !et Montgomery Scott into their

midst. They pushed him down onto a bench and closed ranks around him.

Bowed over with fatigue, his long face lined with sorrow, Scotty was

unaware of the fiercely protective spirit which he inspired. In

contrast, the members of Spock's science division were scattered

throughout the crowd. The loyalty of his department was not as obvious,

but ran as deep as that of engineering. The Vulcan challenged the minds

and the intellect of the scientists---their emotions were strictly an

off-duty concern. Yet, Spock was here, showing honor to the dead. He

stood tall and austere, in the midst of humans, but not of them. The

quality of silence in the room altered, signaling a concensus that the

service should begin. Kirk opened his mouth and words emerged. He

couldn't hear them but the men and women seated before him listened

intently. Even as one part of his mind found expression for the grief

they were feeling and spoke it aloud, another part was silently

observing the faces turned to his. Some, like Uhura, were easily moved

to tears, declaring an open and unashamed testament to the love they

bore for the fallen. Others released the tears grudgingly, with obvious

effort, coaxed by his voice to share a common pain. The words, sounding

so faint and distant in his ears, did not stop here. They were carried

out, beyond the confines of the room, to every corner of the ship, to

everyone who had to stay at a duty post. Were those unseen faces

transfigured as well? Kirk stood alone on the dais, unable to take in

the comfort of his own speech. The voice stopped. Have Ifinished?

wondered Kirk. He looked down to the podium's tabletop and slowly read

the list. A few of the names he uttered aloud wrung a stifled

exclamation from someone who was just now hearing of the death. At the

end of that too-long roll call, Kirk allowed a time for personal

meditation. He bowed his own head in silent prayer and tried to remember

the dead, to conjure up the faces of those who were gone, but he found

himself praying for the ones who were here now, that they might continue

living.

Chapter Eighteen.

Captain's Log, Stardate 5321.12 We are less than a day away from Wagner

Post, but even as we approach the haven of its dockyards, I am still

unable to explain the attacks which have crippled my ship.

A PANORAMA OF stars stretched across the horizon. Their soft light

illuminated the ground below, casting shadows from the trees, smoothing

the grass into a blanket of furred velvet. A soft breeze rustled through

the leaves with a gentle rhythm. McCoy lay flat on his back, hands under

his head, admiring his carefully calculated view. Ground shrubs hid the

bottom rim of the viewport frame; the !owlying branches of a willow

obscured the top edge. Deep space was magically transformed into a night

sky. All he needed now was a blade of grass to chew on. He resisted the

impulse to pluck a stalk of greenery. "Now if only the stars would stop

moving, I could almost believe this garden is in Georgia." Dyson,

sitting on a bench by the tree trunk, gave a small shudder. "Stars are

supposed to move," she declared. "If they aren't moving, it means the

station power supply has blown." McCoy heaved a deep sigh, his fragile

illusion shattered. He sat up to face her. "Humans were never meant to

live in space---it destroys the soul."

"My soul is doing just fine, Doctor, said Dyson with a hint of asperity.

He shook his head. "This is no replacement for Earth." McCoy waved his

arm at the lush greenery. "Synthetic breezes and recycled water. And not

a single insect in the whole damn lot."

"You miss insects?" she asked skeptically. "That's not the point,

sidestepped McCoy. "It's not real. ' ' Dyson shrugged her indifference.

"You mean it's not Earth. No hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes, floods,

drought..." She stopped before his exasperation turned to anger. "It

sounds like a very dangerous place to live."

"It's also very beautiful." McCoy scrambled to his feet, absently

brushing non-existent dirt from his sweater and pants. "With a wild

beauty that you won't find in carefully manicured plots of grass. Here,

life has to be nurtured and protected, coddled into growth. On Earth,

life simply explodes from every square millimeter of air and ground."

The muted whistle of the ship's intercom effectively destroyed the last

tatters of pastoral ambiance, turning the garden back into a section of

the recreation deck. "Spock to Dr. Dyson." McCoy reached for her hand,

pulling the woman to her feet. "You need a better union. "Right. You

tell Mr. Spock I've gone on strike." Brushing aside a feathery branch,

Dyson revealed the intercom set neatly into a hollow of the willow

trunk. She thumbed the answer switch. "Dyson here." Shelve science

officer's crisply enunciated words echoed out. "Cellular imaging scans

on neurological tissue sample 21-Alpha will be completed in ten point

two minutes. We will examine the results in Medical Lab 5A." He cut the

connection without awaiting her reply.

"What happens after you finish sample 21-Alpha?" asked McCoy, still

holding her hand as they walked up the path leading to the turbolift.

She pulled out of his grasp. "Oh, then we analyze samples 21-Beta

through Gamma."

"It all sounds deadly dull." They turned a final corner of the molded

brick walkway. Bushes, trees, and rocky outcroppings gave way to the

familiar lines and colors of the ship's deck and walls. The turbo-lift

doors, flamed by an incongruous trellis of ivy, snapped open.

"Just what is it you're looking for?"

"Peace and quiet," answered Uhura, stepping out into the room as the two

doctor's took her place in the turbo-lift. "If you see Captain Kirk,

tell him I'm on Deck Twentyeight."

McCoy puzzled over the lieutenant's words as they sped toward the upper

levels. Dyson obviously found them humorous. "What's on Deck

Twentyeight?" Dyson's smile faded at his question. "There is no Deck

Twenty-eight, Len."

"Oh. Well, how was I to know that?" he grumbled, turning aside to escape

her searching look. "I've got amnesia, Dr. Dyson. I'm not supposed to

remember details like that."

"You're not even trying, are you?" The turbo doors swooshed open at Deck

Seven, cutting short her accusation. They walked in silence to the

medical lab. It was empty and dark, but as they crossed the threshold,

ceiling lights came to life and cast a dim glow over the long low

counters which filled the center of the room. McCoy was the first to

speak. "Did the captain order you to spend your off-duty hours probing

my psyche? Or are you bucking for a promotion?" Dyson flinched away from

his brittle sarcasm. Moving down an aisle, she snapped on the power for

the equipment around her and trained her eyes on the fluttering sequence

of colored lights that played across the control panels. "This is a

medical matter involving a member of this ship's crew and I'm a ship's

doctor.

What do you expect me to do?"

"I expect you to help me get off this ship!" he shouted after her. She

turned back around to face him. "Len, you can't give up like

this---you've got to fight this block."

"The hell I do!" He clenched his jaw, fought down his anger. When he

spoke again his voice was softened. "Diana, I've got my life to live

over again -- to do it right this time." He stepped closer, pleading his

case. "With a Star Fleet pension I can go back to Earth and set up a

general practice at home, just as I've always planned. Somewhere along

the way old Doc McCoy lost that dream, lost his family. I'm not going to

let that happen to me."

"You can't pull yourself into separate pieces and stay sane," cried

Dyson. "You're one individual, not two. And that person is a good man

and a brilliant surgeon. Every man and woman on this ship would trust

you with their lives. You may have joined Star Fleet to escape your

mistakes, but you've become as much a part of the Enterprise as Captain

Kirk and Mr. Spock. You mustn't throw all that away. You won't be

allowed to throw it all away."

"So I'm just a temporary aberration, like some damaged clone cells.

Wasn't it 'fascinating' to study young Len McCoy, but now it's time to

stick him back where he came from; let him rot in the faded memory

ingrams of your sainted chief surgeon." He grabbed her by the shoulders.

His eyes locked with hers. "Is that what you really want?" She dropped

her gaze, breaking their contact. "Yes!

It's got to be yes." Her fists pushed against his chest, but he wouldn't

release his hold on her. "Let me go, Len," she pleaded. "I'm losing all

my objectivity as a doctor..."

"Doctor be damned! I'm fed up with being your patient. Is that all I am

to you?" he demanded. "An interesting medical case?"

"You know very well that's not true," Diana shot back angrily. This time

it was her gaze that held his. "You may be young, but you're not that

much of an innocent."

"No," he answered in a husky voice. "No, I'm not." His hands loosened

their grip but did not leave her shoulders. She closed her eyes, as if

to ward off his approach, but she didn't pull away when he bent his face

over hers. "Which McCoy was that for?" he asked when the kiss had ended.

"The young one or the old one?"

"I'm not sure." Her fingers traced the edge of his cheek. "I just know

I've wanted to do that for a very long time."

" So the old man still had some charm left?" McCoy laughed gently. "But

he never tried to kiss you, did he?" Her body tensed once again and

jerked out of his embrace.

"No," she answered stiffly. "And when your memory returns, you'll

Probably be quite embarassed by this whole episode. Or you won't

remember it even happened. Yet it's my professional responsibility to

try to restore that memory. Even if I don't succeed, someone else will."

"Diana..." He tried to pull her back to him. She stepped away from his

reach. "So you see," she continued with a trace of bitterness. "Keeping

my distance is not only an ethical issue, it's also a matter of personal

survival. Some day, probably soon, your memory will come back, and when

it does there won't be a place for me in your life."

"That's not true." Dyson shook her head. "You see me as another

resident, just like yourself. To Chief Surgeon McCoy I'm first and

foremost a member of his medical department; strictly a professional

associate. Not to mention that I'm several ranks below him and years

younger in experience--two decades younger. We'll never be anything more

than colleagues." He searched for a way to deny what she said, but the

words wouldn't come. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, not half as sorry as I am, Dr. McCoy."

Spock walked into the silence that stretched between them. One swift

glance over the room raised a furrow on the science officer's brow. "Dr.

Dyson, readjust the calibration on the holographic microscanner." Dyson

quickly turned her flushed face towards the offending machinery and

busied herself with its controls. If the procedure took longer than

usual, Spock appeared too absorbed in his own equipment preparations to

notice. Erratic bursts of electronic noise were gradually transformed

into a rhythmic chorus under his direction. Indicator lights settled

into endlessly repeating patterns. Satisfied with the result, he spared

a glance in McCoy's direction. The doctor had edged into a corner of the

room, far away from the door. Despite his best efforts, he had not yet

become invisible. Spock did not challenge McCoy's presence, he simply

ignored it. He handed Dyson a holographic chip. "The dissection of the

brain tissue samples from the second alien species has provided a new

avenue of investigation." The image which appeared on her scanner

brought a low whistle from the neurologist. "Very intriguing," she

agreed. "The density of neural cells in the tissues of the left

chamber's brain-lobe is significantly higher than that of the right

lobe." McCoy leaned over a counter, craning his head for a glimpse, but

he could see nothing except a faintly luminous cloud hovering on the

scanner stage. His curiosity was further frustrated as Dyson and Spock

lapsed into the technical jargon of molecular neurobiology. As the

intensity of their discussion increased, so did his restlessness.

Reasonably sure that the two scientists were too absorbed in their

research to notice him, McCoy prowled quietly along the perimeter of the

room. Sheets of flat film were tacked to the darkened surfaces of

translucent wall panels. He idly scanned the row of dim images until one

photo drew him closer. A flick of a switch brought the light panel to

life, illuminating a shot of a decapitated head. McCoy studied the frame

with great interest and a trace of amusement, but he waited for a

prolonged lull in the exchange between the two officers before voicing

his question. "Are these the aliens that attacked the ship?"

"Yes," answered Spock distractedly. "Well, no wonder we're in such bad

shape--they're pretty vicious creatures. Back in Atlanta, I used to have

some pretty lively nightmares about them. I've even had a few bad dreams

since I've been here." Spock and Dyson turned to stare at him. Confused

by their sudden attention, McCoy stammered an apology. "I'm sorry, I

didn't mean to interrupt."

"What do you know of these aliens?" asked Spock, his tightly controlled

mask revealing no more than mild curiosity. McCoy shrugged. "Well,

nothing in the way of scientific information. I heard about them from

one of Ds of 'm Rven the patients in the Atlanta psych ward. I spent

hours listening to an old spacedog ranting on about his capture by

hideous aliens." He waved at the photos. "These aliens." He still had

Spock's undivided attention, so he continued. "Sager was pulled from the

wreck of a cargo freighter, half-starved and hysterical--the rest of the

crew was missing. He explained their absence by a tale that seemed too

outlandish to be true. The more likely explanation seemed to be that he

had survived by resorting to cannibalism, and the guilt had driven him

mad. McCoy smiled wryly in acknowledgement of the irony of the

situation. "The medical staff assumed that he had imagined the aliens to

relieve his guilt, and so did I, but his tales were so vivid that they

stuck in my mind even after I left his case. Poor devil--I wonder how

long it was before they realized he was sane." Spock arched a brow.

,"Unfortunately, he may still be in that psych ward" He reached for the

intercom switch on the wall. "Captain Kirk to Medical Lab 3A." Then,

Picking up a voice coder from the desk, the Vulcan beckoned McCoy to

come closer. "Dr. McCoy, tell me what you remember of your patient's

discourse.' '

Chapter Nineteen.

"... The ALIEN parallyzes its victim with just a scratch from its claws.

Then it cracks the top of the skull open with its beak and plucks out

the living brain, swallowing it whole, like picking a kernel from its

shell. The body serves as food..." Spock stopped the tape at that point,

aware that the human occupants of the briefing room were reacting rather

emotionally to the narration. Engineer Scott was a shade paler than

usual; Uhura's dark eyes had widened with alarm. Even Frazer and Dr.

Dyson were subdued by the description. Captain Kirk, presiding at the

head of the conference table, had listened impassively until the break.

"McCoy, you said this man was insane..."

"I said we thought he was insane," corrected McCoy. "But that was

because he described an alien species nobody had ever seen before.

However, since the aliens do exist, he could have been telling the

truth." Kirk nodded reluctantly. He didn't like what he had heard so

far. "So which of the two alien species did he "There is only one

alien," said Spock evenly. He started the tape again.

"Once an alien has swallowed a brain, it begins to metamorphose, like a

caterpillar without a cocoon. Its skin changes color from green to blue,

its head crest darkens. When the transformation is complete, it begins

to speak in the voice of its victim."

"I dinna believe it," cried out Scotty. "The man was probably space

happy."

"No, it's theoretically possible," said Frazer excitedly. His scientific

curiosity rapidly overcame his initial reaction of horror. "The

physiological changes described imply a vast biochemical upheaval in the

organism's system. The green Ravens--the larval stage--possess an organ

at the base of the skull which is a powerhouse of amino acids. Their

release could signal an organic processing of the structural RNA of the

victim's brain. They could literally cut apart the old brain, while

recording the connections."

Dyson shared his excitement. "The unusual concentration of neurons in

the left chamber of the brain could serve as a blank template, awaiting

the information. Once a pattern is set, the brain tissue gradually

resumes a normal cell density."

"The result is two separate brains."

Frazer jumped back into the explanation. "Normally, this would be

dysfunctional, but not if the alien retains control over its secondary

memories. There's a cluster of neurons at the branching of the brain

stems that probably acts as a switching center between the two lobes."

Kirk listened to the theory without comment--three years in space had

taught him a healthy respect for the fantastic---but he looked to his

first officer for confirmation. Spock added his consensus to the idea.

"This process could account for many of the events which we have

encountered. Granted, this is only supposition..."

"Go on, Spock," ordered Kirk impatiently. The Vulcan could not be

hurried. He settled into the physical posture which accompanied his

theorizing--eyebrows drawn together, elbows propped on the table,

[)REAMS OF THE ]oa, VEN hands steepled before him. "The Klingon crew of

the Falchion, patrolling an especially isolated sector of space, may

well have fallen victim to the Ravens. If the theory of brain absorption

is correct, the aliens would then have had the knowledge to maneuver the

commandeered battlecruiser into Frenni space.., from Where they

exchanged a very conspicuous warship' for a neutral merchant liner

waiting unobserved. Waiting for the next passing ship to fall into their

trap," said Kirk. "Just like a hermit crab." The captain swiveled his

chair around in surprise. "What was that, Lt. Uhura?"

"The hermit crab moves from one seashell to another as it grows, always

looking for a larger home," explained Uhura. Spock's eyebrows raised in

appreciative consideration. "An interesting analogy, with disturbing

implications if this continual search for a larger ship also implies

growth."

"But the first attack on the Enterprise failed." Scotty puzzled over

this added information. "And the aliens were all killed. So where did

the battlecruiser and its fighters come from?"

"And how did they know we were here?" Kirk tried to pinpoint the source

of a growing unease... "Damn!" His fist 'thumped down on the conference

table. "The Saucy Lady.

We only received an audio channel transmission from the freighter which

passed on the Frenni distress call. The captain said his ship didn't go

near the caravan, but if he was lying, if his ship went to the aid of

the Selessan...' , "Then we were actually speaking to Captain Nell's

Raveta persona, and the crew of his ship may have taken over Wagner Post

by now," finished Spock. He turned to the engineer. "In all likelihood

that is the origin of the sub-warp carrier and its fighters."

"Aye, and that's where we're headed now," Scotty pointed out. "We've got

to fight them," said Kirk decisively. "Every ship that docks at that

station will be vulnerable to attack. The Ravens could spread throughout

this sector." His gaze traveled over the officers seated around the

table. A plan began to form in his mind. "When the carrier crew fails to

send back a report, the station Ravens will be prepared for the arrival

of the Enterprise, but they won't be expecting the Falchion, and thanks

to the Klingons cloaking device they won't see it either. That's our

key. The Enterprise will be the bait, drawing their firepower and their

attention away from the Falchion's approach. A landing party will beam

aboard the station to take control of communications and docking

facilities." Even as he spoke, Kirk was selecting crew members for the

foray. "And if the landing party fails in that attempt?" asked Spock ...

"Then the Falchion must destroy the station, said Kirk without

hesitation. Spock nodded his agreement and understanding. If he

experienced regret at the proposed annihilation of T'rall's

construction, he did not reveal it. "Captain, "Yes, Mr. Spock," said

Kirk. "You were my first choice for the landing party." He then looked

to his communications officer. "I'm only accepting volunteers for this

mission." Uhura met his grim look with a wide smile. Her throaty voice

answered him without hesitation "I've been looking forward to shore

leave, Captain."

"Aye, 'tis a welcome chance t' stretch our legs," agreed Scotty

amiably.. , "Not you, Mr. Scott." Kirk overrode the engineer s protests.

"The Enterprise engines will need your supervision. As will the bridge."

Spock's lean frame stiffened. "Captain, on our last Star Base docking,

Admiral Bolles was most emphatic about ending your participation in

landing party forays."

"Yes, well, if I survive she can't fault me and if I'm killed her

censure can't hurt me." Kirk's grin had no effect on the Vulcan's stony

features. "Jim, you mustn't go. More than your death is at stake. If our

theory on the nature'of these aliens is correct, we cannot risk the

chance of your capture. The enemy would gain the expertise of a

Federation starship captain."

"And what of my first officer?" demanded Kirk. "There are certain

techniques of Vulcan mental discipline which would effectively disable

my mind." The clash of will between the two officers was fought without,

words and was over in seconds. With the briefest flicker of his eyes,

Kirk acknowledged the truth of Spock's argument. "You'll also need a

security force. Keep it small to lower the chances of detection. Stealth

will do you more good than phaser power." McCoy spoke up for the first

time since his voicetape recording had ended. "Captain, there's a strong

possibility that there are still people alive at the trading post.

Station personnel would be killed for their knowledge, but civilians

were probably paralysed and stored for .. future use. They'll be in need

of medical aid and the paralysis antidote which Lieutenant Frazer

synthesized."

"Good point, Bones," said Kirk absently. He did a double-take. The

concern was typical of his chief medical officer, and for a moment he

had hoped... but McCoy winced at the nickname. "Thank you, Dr. DRS of m

Rvn McCoy, I'll ask for volunteers among the medical team."

"That won't be necessary, Captain." The doctor's tongue flicked over dry

lips. "I'm volunteering to go as a paramedic."

"Len!" cried Dyson. "You can't be serious. You've never set foot on a

space colony before." She turned to the captain. "I'd be a much more

suitable choice. I know the workings of a space station and..." McCoy

gave a stubborn shake of his head. "At the moment I'm your resident

expert on the Ravens--you can't leave me here. Besides, it's not that

much safer on the Enterprise. If this attempt doesn't succeed, the

aliens will destroy your ship next."

Spock entered the fray on Dyson's side. "I have a complete record of

your knowledge in this matter, Dr. McCoy. Your presence is not

required."

"You have a complete record of what I've remembered so far," countered

McCoy. "But there's no telling what I might recall later. You can't take

the risk of missing any details about their behavior." He turned to

Kirk. "And any critter that eats my brain would probably have my

amnesia, too, so you don't have to worry about my giving away Federation

secrets."

"Do you agree with that, Dr. Dyson?" Kirk demanded.

Dyson remained silent for a moment, then gave a grudging answer, can't

say for certain but, it's possible." Spock was less reluctant. "Under

those circumstances, Dr. McCoy would be a logical choice for the landing

party. At present he is probably the most technically ignorant member of

the crew." Kirk automatically braced himself for McCoy s outburst. It

never came. This man accepted Spock's evaluation without comment. Once

again Kirk missed his friend, with a stabbing pain that surprised him in

its intensity. He shoved the feeling aside. "Dr. McCoy, you'll accompany

the landing party." Standing up from the conference table, Kirk brought

the meeting to a close. "We reach Wagner Post in twelve hours. To your

stations."

McCoy hefted the neatly assembled medical kit which Nurse Chapel had

handed him. "How did you know..."

"Let's just say I had a hunch." She slid the frosted door of the wall

cabinet to a close. "Based on long experience with doctors in general,

and you in particular."

"But I didn't expect to volunteer for this mission," protested McCoy.

Chapel and Dyson exchanged a knowing look that only increased his

chagrin.

"Since when does Star Fleet hire doctors with an instinct for

self-annihilation?" He opened the kit and sorted through its contents.

"No wonder I became chief medical officer. Promotion due to a high rate

of casualties."

"Not true," corrected Chapel as she headed out of the office. "You

replaced Dr. Boyce, who is quite happily retired."

"Now that's a man with a good sense of timing," McCoy called after the

nurse.

Finished with his kit inspection, he snapped the bundle shut. "It was

your choice to go." Dyson leaned back on the edge of the office desk,

watching him clip and unclip the heavy pouch to his belt, searching for

the proper point of balance for its weight. McCoy nodded. "Yeah, but

aren't you going to try to talk me out of it?"

"Would it do any good?" she asked. His eyes narrowed at her show of

detachment. "No, probably not, but I still wish someone would try." The

door to the chief surgeon's office whisked open again. Dr. Cortejo

walked into the room and stopped short at the sight of its unexpected

occupants. His irritation at their presence was obvious and he made only

a token effort to hide it. "Dr. Dyson, since you have been transferred

to the Science department, there is no need for you to report to sick

bay." She jumped off the desk. "No, sir. I was..." Cortejo did not wait

for an explanation. "And since you are no longer on the active duty

list, Dr. McCoy, your presence here is also unnecessary." McCoy's brows

arched at the brusque dismissal. A flush of anger warmed his face. "On

the contrary, Dr. Cortejo." The precise voice of First Officer Spock

rang out from behind the acting chief medical officer. "It is your

presence which is unnecessary." Spock walked into the room and placed a

stack of tape cassettes on the desk. "Dr. McCoy and I have a great deal

of work to do before our departure and his office will suit our purpose

admirably." He leaned over the intercom. "Lt. Uhura and security team A

report to Dr. McCoy's office for briefing." When the Vulcan looked

around again, both Cortejo and Dyson were gone.

Six hours later Spock handed McCoy a communicator. "You have become

separated from the landing party. What communications channel would you

use to contact them?"

"I wouldn't," answered McCoy wearily. The security team had left the

office two hours before and he felt like a slow student kept after

school. "The exchange would give away both our positions." The doctor

flipped open the cover with a flick of the wrist.

"But I'd activate the communicator grid so that I could be traced by the

landing party."

"Assuming all landing party members except yourself are dead, what would

be your next action?"

"Other than prayer?" Lt. Uhura smiled at the doctor's dismay over the

proposed scenario, but it was obvious that Spock expected an answer.

McCoy frowned in thought. "Well, I could head for the connecting spoke

that carries the ventilation pipes. Once I worked my way in deep enough

to hold off my capture for a few minutes, I'd try to contact the

Falchion." He twirled a dial on the face of the communicator and showed

Spock the setting. "With luck, Mr. Sulu would beam me aboard before the

Ravens ate me for supper." Spock nodded his approval. "And if you were

captured nevertheless?" McCoy tossed the communicator back onto the

table between them. "I'm a doctor, Mr. Spock. The next step would be

easy for me." The Vulcan's eyebrows traveled upwards. "A drastic

measure."

"I have a good imagination, sir.

After hearing Sager's stories, I'd prefer a quick escape." Uhura shook

her head in disagreement. "You say that now, but when you're actually

faced with danger, you'll find that it's not that easy to give up." She

glanced aside at Spock, expecting the first officer to interject a

comment concerning the illogic of Human emotion. Instead, he nodded in

agreement. Discomfited by Uhura's bemused expression, Spock brought the

examination to an end. "Ther e is much more you should know, but there is

not sufficient time to conduct a thorough orientation. Humans possess a

limited capacity for absorbing new information."

"Amen to that," agreed McCoy, rubbing his reddened eyes. His head was

whirling with the details Spock had force-fed him for the last few

hours.

Spock inserted a tape into the computer terminal. "You and Lt. Uhura are

dismissed until 0700 hours. I suggest you use the time to sleep." He

turned back to the computer screen and was immediately absorbed in its

data.

McCoy waited until he and the lieutenant had reached the safety of an

outside corridor before speaking. "Diana must have been pulling my leg

about fighting with Spock. I'd rather wrassle a Bengal tiger than cross

that man."

Uhura answered him with a velvety laugh that echoed softly down the

dimmed passageway. "It was an even match, Dr. McCoy." She laughed again

at the confused mixture of emotions on his face. "Take it as a

compliment."

They parted company on Deck Five, but McCoy walked past his quarters and

did not stop until he reached a cabin on Deck Six. He tapped lightly on

the door, a quiet sound that would only be heard if the room's occupant

were still awake.

The door opened and he stepped inside.

Diana Dyson walked out of the back section of the cabin. She was wrapped

in the warm folds of a long, thick robe; her hair fell loosely over her

shoulders. Her face showed signs of fatigue, but her eyes were bright

with controlled tension. "Len, you should be asleep by now."

"So should you."

"No, I can't sleep." Dyson tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"Nervous about tomorrow?"

"Who, me?" McCoy wiped his palms on his trousers. "I'm scared silly. My

heart's beating so loudly I can hardly hear myself think."

"Have you changed your mind?"

McCoy considered the question for a moment. "No. I've got to go. Bits

and pieces of what Sager talked about keep surfacing Words and phrases

that didn't make much sense--they still don't--but they could be

useful."

Her softly-spoken concern was replaced by a clinical crispness. "Len,

you must realize that this knowledge was .part of the trigger for the

fugue. You weren't just running away from your wife's remarriage--you

were trying to recover information that was vital to the safety of this

ship."

"All right." He crossed his arms. "Maybe that was the case, but I still

have the amnesia."

Dyson burrowed deeper into her robe. "This mission isn't over yet."'

"Yeah, and when it is over the whole matter may be academic. My muddled

brains will be walking around inside some blue-skinned...,, He stopped

when Dyson turned away. "Sorry."

She shrugged but still did not face him.

McCoy's eyes traced the curve of her back. The soft cabin lights edged

her dark brown hair with a golden aura. "I'd better leave," he said

abruptly.

"Please, don't." She turned around. "Not just yet. I could use the

company, too." She waved her hand around the empty quarters. "I'm still

not used to being alone here."

McCoy gave a shaky laugh. "Diana, you'll have a lot more company than

you bargained for if I stay here much longer."

"Oh." A pale pink touched her cheeks. "And I thought you were a

gentleman."

C)REAMS OF THE "That's why I offered to leave." She didn't so he spoke

again. "I'll go now. if you want me When her silence continued, he

turned away from the doorway and took her into his arms. After the long

kiss, he pulled back but did not let go of her. One hand caressed her

upturned face. "Diana, "No, please." She laid a finger against his lips

to still the words. "Don't say anything not until you come back." She

smiled, to take the edge off her words. "We'll have .plenty of time for

talking then." He bent down to kiss her again.

Chapter Twenty.

"You put human beings in that unholy device?" McCoy came to a dead stop

at the threshold of the transporter room. The platform which had held

Uhura was now empty. She, and a stack of cargo containers, had dissolved

in a glittering cloud. McCoy turned a look of horror on the chief

engineer who had effected their departure. "Dinna look at me as if I'm

Jack the Ripper," said Scotty indignantly. "We've got the best safety

record this side of Star Base 5." The engineer reset the levers of the

control panel and three more crewmen stepped forward to take their place

on the circular grids. McCoy edged back a step as the high hum of the

transporter beams emptied the chamber once more. Spock, data tablet in

hand, checked three names off his crew list and double-checked his

equipment list. Then, and only then, did he look up. McCoy had not moved

from the doorway. "It is your turn to board the Falchion. Take your

position on the transporter platform." This latter statement took on a

strong declarative tone in view of McCoy's mutinous reluctance to move

any further into the room. The doctor marched forward at Spock's

command, but only for a few steps. "Are you sure this thing is safe?"

asked McCoy. "Yes," said Spock impatiently, but he stopped at the last

moment. The intended retort was never uttered. "The last twenty years

have brought about a high degree of sophistication and reliability in

matter transportation. Malfunctions are rare." McCoy followed the Vulcan

up the low steps of the transporter platform. "Maybe, but you can't tell

me I ever willingly went through that mattermixer." Scotty responded to

the doctor's words with a deep chortle. "You did in fact use the

transporter," said Spock as they assumed their positions on the circular

grids. "Though no one could ever have accused you of being enthusiastic

about the process."

"Glad to know I didn't lose all common sense in my old age," muttered

McCoy before he dissolved in a shower of particle beams. Lt. Palmer

touched hand to ear. "Captain, Mr. Scott reports that the last of the

landing party has beamed aboard the Falchion."

Kirk waved an acknowledgement to the communications officer. "That's it,

Sulu. We begin radio silence from this point on."

"Yes, sir."

a Klingon battlecruiser on the bridge's viewscreen faded into

nonexistence. Lt. Kyle checked the instruments on the science station

panel. "All sensor readings on the Falchion are gone, sir. Cloaking

device operational."

"Maintain course, Mr. Leslie. Full impulse power," ordered Kirk. "Aye,

Captm , answered the helmsman. Ensign Benus scanned the navigation

coordinates. "We'll reach Wagner Post in one hour and thirteen minutes."

Kirk's fingers drummed uneasily on the side of the command chair. Bridge

duty had always rotated among a hand-picked group of crewmembers, so

none of the voices or faces at the duty stations was unknown to him, but

the Falchion had carried away the best and most familiar of that select

crew all at once. He glanced to his left and right and frowned at the

empty space around him. McCoy and Spock often acted as if each side of

his chair was an official post they should fill. Their absence

exacerbated the changes on the bridge. "Frazer, come over here."

"Sir?"

The Martian scientist looked up from the bioscience station. "I still

have some questions about the Ravens." Kirk motioned Frazer to stand to

the left of the command chair.

"Eets like swimming through borscht," explained Chekov, having found a

useful metaphor for describing the shortcomings of the navigation screen

while under the effects of the cloaking device. "That is hardly a

scientific assessment," said Spock as he leaned over the ensign's

shoulder. "Whatever," answered Chekov recklessly. Time away from the

Enterprise, and Spock's repressing influence, had seriously undermined

his habitual struggle to maintain the dignity and solemn demeanor

appropriate to a starship officer. "It makes my job very difficult. The

cloaking device needs much improvement."

"Ensign, are you suggesting that you would approve of greater

technological advancement for the Klingons?" Spock judged that he could

spare sufficient time to instill a renewed sense of discipline in the

ensign. "No, sir! Certainly not."

Sulu and Aziz let Chekov flounder on his own. Older, and wiser, they had

snapped back to shipboard demeanor as soon as the landing party boarded

the Falchion. "I was simply... that is to say, I..." Spock continued.

"Intelligence reports, and our own experience in conflicts with the

Empire, have indicated that Klingon crews can operate a battlecruiser

with considerable efficiency while cloaked."

"Yes, Mr. Spock." Chekov tried to salvage the situation with an about

face. "Eet was only difficult at first, when I was new to the Falchion.

Now I am quite good at reading the sensors." Too late, he realized that

his words were a rather arrogant boast. "We shall see, Ensign." The dry

retort confirmed Chekov's worst fears. Now he would be held accountable

to an impossibly high standard. The ensign lapsed into a worried

silence, his concentration focused on the snowy navigation panel. The

Vulcan decided that this exchange had resulted in the desired effect and

turned his attention to Sulu. "Coordinates set for Wagner Post," said

the helmsman.

"Ahead warp factor four, Mr. Sulu."

"Aye, Mr. Spock." Sulu kept his comments to a safe minimum as he eased

the Klingon ship into warp drive.

"Just don't bump Scotty's tail end," cautioned a muffled voice from

behind them. Juan Cruz's head was enmeshed in the folds of his red

security shirt. His flailing elbows brought grunts of protest from

Archer and Rivera, who had already exchanged their ship's uniforms for

copies of the purple jumpsuits worn by the Wagner Post maintenance

crews. Uhura stepped up onto the captain's throne, out of the crowded

cockpit, and took a deep breath. "Forget a better cloaking device, the

Klingons need a bigger bridge." She leaned over the edge of the platform

to hand the first officer a neatly folded change of clothing. "Purple is

definitely not your color, Mr. Spock, but purple is all I've got." Spock

accepted the bundle without comment. Over the years, the Vulcan had

learned to recognize, if not completely understand, the role humor

played in releasing tension among his Human companions. He allowed the

banter of the crew to flow around him unimpeded. "Since we're

maintenance workers, these must be our wrenches." Archer began unpacking

pistol phasers from a cargo box and handing them out to the other

members of the landing party. He was left with one extra. "Dr. McCoy?"

McCoy eyed the weapon with distaste. He made no move to take it. "I'm

not a gunslinger." Uhura jumped back down into the crew pit. "You'll be

a corpse if you aren't properly armed." Taking the phaser from Archer,

she hung it onto the doctor's utility belt. "Ma'am, if my life depends

on firing that thing, you might as well bury me now. I couldn't hit the

broad side of a barn."

"Why would you wish to?" asked Spock. "Sir?"

"That was a Vulcan joke, Dr. McCoy," Uhura explained. Spock corrected

her immediately. "Lieutenant, Vulcans do not recognize the concept of

humor." Uhura's smile only confused McCoy more. "Mr. Spock, we're

entering the trading post scanning range." Sulu's words silenced the

room.

The clearsteel dome of Wagner Post glittered like a jewel dropped into a

black pond. Its four rings were golden ripples, spreading away from the

faceted center. Sparkling droplets marked the presence of ships moored

to its outermost docking ring. T'rall's creation appeared calm and

peaceful. "Sensor data?" asked Kirk as he studied the trading post image

on the bridge viewscreen.

"Indeterminate life forms, Captain," answered Lt. Kyle. "We're still too

far away to identi specific biological profiles." He adjusted controls

on the science station panel and heaved an audible sigh. "Even if we get

closer, I can't do much better. The patchwork repairs on the computer

systems are affecting all my readings."

"I can't attack this station on a hunch." Kirk's fist hammered an

insistent rhythm on the arm of his chair. "I've got to know that the

Ravens have taken over."

"Captain, I've established contact with the Wagner Post communications

officer," announced Lt. Palmer from her station. "Hailing frequencies

open."

"Welcome, Captain Kirk." came Timmo's soft, whispering greeting. "Stand

by for Post Manager Friel."

"For god's sake, Kirk, your ship is a wreck," boomed the station

commander. "I only hope the Klingons are in worse shape."

"The Klingons are dead," answered Kirk. Strictly speaking, it was the

truth, even though it was not his doing; but then Friel probably knew

that 'already. However, the Enterprise damage report Kirk gave her was

an exaggeration, although not nearly as much of one as he would have

liked. "Then you'll be laid up in our dockyards for weeks," said Friel

with the calculating tone of a woman whose profit margin was dependent

on ship repairs. "I'll clear anchor space for you right now." Kirk

lowered his voice. "Well, Frazer?"

The lieutenant shook his head. "I Can't tell from the voice. The Ravens

are perfect mimics, right down to the character quirks of their

victims." The captain looked back over his shoulder. "Palmer, request

visual contact with the communications center." Their refusal would

serve as confirmation of the takeover. "Enterprise, prepare for docking

instructions." The view of deep space was exchanged for the visage of

the cobalt-blue Andorian Kirk had seen on his last visit to the station.

Kirk stared in amazement at the technician. "Good God, I was ready to

fire on that station..."

"It's a trap," declared Frazer emphatically. "He's being coerced, or

possibly drugged."

"How can you tell?" Kirk saw nothing out of the ordinary in the alien's

stolid demeanor. "The set of the antennae," explained Frazer. His finger

traced the cant of the delicate appendages. "They're tilted back along

the skull, a position reserved for exchanges between family members.

With outsiders the antennae are held uptight to optimize heating."

"Captain, the pilot droids are approaching," warned Leslie. "Yellow

Alert," ordered Kirk. "Benus, lock phasers on droids."

"Phasers locked." At the captain's command she fired. "All droids

destroyed."

"Visual contact with Wagner Post has been severed," announced Palmer as

the main screen filled with meaningless squiggles. Kyle raised his

voice. "Engine activity increasing in all dockyard vessels..."

"Well, that's the diversion I wanted," said Kirk. He signaled the helm.

"180 degrees about and full impulse power. Let's get the hell out of

here."

The landing party materialized in the center of the crystal dome.

Chekov had declared the area empty after a hasty sensor scan and, as

he'd predicted, there was no one present to witness their sudden

appearance. As soon as the transporter beam faded, Spock activated his

tricorder, sweeping the unit across the darkened portals encircling

them. "No Ravens in the immediate vicinity." He checked another

indicator. "The communications center lies there." His index finger

pointed in one direction, then abruptly shifted several degrees to the

right. "But we shall approach from connecting shaft Delta."

Uhura silently motioned the three security guards forward to the

designated corridor, one of eight spokes in the wheel-shaped station

structure.

"Doctor," said Spock very softly. "There is indeed a solid floor beneath

your feet."

"Yes, I know that," replied McCoy calmly, though his eyes remained shut.

"I can feel it."

"Then I suggest you accept the evidence of your tactile senses.

Otherwise, I shall be forced to leave you here."

"No, that won't be necessary, sir." McCoy opened his eyes and gulped

audibly. By carefully keeping his line of sight centered on the back of

Spock's head, McCoy walked over the transparent deck, over the limitless

reaches of space yawning beneath his feet. He breathed a silent prayer

of thanks when he finally reached a surface that was solid to the eyes

as well as the feet.

Moving in single file, the landing party stalked quietly through the

long corridor. The translucent lighting panels set flush into the

ceiling were dimmed, limiting vision, but the passage appeared deserted.

At the juncture with the first station ring, the team members gathered

into a bunch. Spock crouched by the corner, phaser drawn, listening

intently. He peered around the edge to check out the wider passageway

which crossed the spoke, then turned back to Uhura. "The crew quarters

are located on this ring," he observed. The section was obviously

deserted.

"Looks like the Ravens have gobbled the crew up," muttered McCoy.

Rivera reached a hand toward his tricorder, but the Vulcan stopped him

from activating its sensors. "We shall have to rely on our own senses.

Continued operation of the tricorder will give away our position."

Lieutenant Uhura nodded. "Besides, the captain's diversion seems to have

worked. They're probably all chasing after the Enterprise."

She kept the lead as the landing party resumed its single-file

progression toward the next ring intersection; McCoy trailed last. His

initial fear had been subsumed by the effort of moving quietly and

quickly through a claustrophobic world of cold hard metal. The weapon in

his hand was heavy and uncomfortable and, if he wasn't attentive, it

displayed a disconcerting tendency to aim itself at Spock's back. The

soft echo of his own boots hitting the deck only increased McCoy's

disorientation... He turned to look behind.

"Spock!"

The Vulcan whirled about. He took immediate aim at the Raven as its

weapon sprayed red beams of light over McCoy and continued sweeping

across the corridor. Yet, even as the rays arced towards him, Spock did

not return fire. He delayed an extra fraction of a second, changing the

setting of his phaser before pulling its trigger. The two opposing beams

crossed paths, flared into brightness, then faded. The Raven dropped.

Spock remained standing. He rushed to where the doctor slumped against a

wall.

"Dr. McCoy, are you injured?" After a moment's silence, McCoy took a

shuddering breath and stood upright. "No, Mr.. Spock/' He rubbed the

side of his temple. "I just.., felt a little dizzy, but it's passed." He

met the science officer's piercing gaze. "Really, sir, I'm okay now."

"You did not fire your phaser." McCoy looked blankly at the weapon in

his hand. "No, I guess I froze." He winced again. "I told you I make a

lousy soldier." Spock studied the blue-skinned alien, its heavy body

sprawled face down, stunned into unconsciousness. The shattered remains

of its toy rifle, crushed by the fall of the massive chest, littered the

deck. "Your hesitation was not unreasonable. I'll explain later." He

grabbed McCoy's elbow and propelled him along the corridor to catch up

with the rest of the landing party. At their approach, Uhura ducked her

head back from an inspection of the juncture of the corridor and the

second station ring. "All clear, Mr. Spock. The communications center is

to our right, three doors down." Spock snapped his phaser to firing

position. "Proceed with extreme caution." The landing party stepped into

the empty passageway of the ring, moving along its gently curving wall.

Spock's acute hearing gave him only a splitsecond warning of the trap.

It was not enough time in which to react. Doors on either side of them

sprang open. Blue forms jumped out from the shadowed portals, moving

quickly to block both ends of the passage, cutting off any retreat. The

Enterprise crew was surrounded by armed Ravens. One tall, strongly

muscled alien strutted forward from the others. It was dressed in the

tattered remains of a Klingon uniform. "We have been expecting you,

Earthling worms."

Chapter Twenty-one.

THE RAVEN COMMANDER spat onto the deck. "So, Esserass and Aeloran failed

to capture the Enterprise. Typical Federation incompetence. If the Queen

had allowed me to leave, I would have led the attack myself, ensuring

victory. Instead, your ship has limped from battle to battle until this

foolish attempt to infiltrate the home nest." It thumped a fist against

its chest. Its black crest bristled. "I'm a Klingon warrior--your

shallow tricks cannot fool me." At their leader's signal, several of the

blueskinned aliens stepped forward to relieve the landing party of its

weapons. Gently, gently,' it urged. Do not scratch them just yet." The

blood-red eyes of the Raven commander ran over the Humans, studying

their faces. "I see only followers here." It stopped briefly before the

Vulcan, but shrugged away in disgust. "Second in command, but not the

leader. So, your captain lacks the courage to carry through his own

knavery. It matters little in the long run. Even now, my forces are

pursuing the Enterprise. Your captain will be killed in battle and his

ship taken from him."

"Commander Kyron!" With a scrabble of clawed feet against the metal

deck, a Raven messenger ran up to the group. It spoke with the

breathless voice of a young Andorian. "Report from Manager Friel.

Sensors can't locate the enemy vessel which activated the transporter

beams."

"Incompetents!" Kyron's persona took a halfhearted swipe at the bearer

of the news. "They didn't materialize out of thin air." It turned to

Spock. "Where is the craft which brought you here?" It did not expect an

answer and none was given. "Your silence is admirable, but it will not

last long. Very soon, you will tell me all your secrets, all I need to

know to conquer this entire sector. Just as Esserass knew how to lure

Captain Nell to his doom; just' as Nell knew how to trick Manager

Friel." A wave of its arm set the landing party into a forced march out

of the communications area and back into the connecting corridor. They

were pushed and prodded past the darkened third ring where tradingstore

display windows had been shattered and their goods plundered. In

contrast, the larger fourth ring was alive with light and activity.

Ravens walked purposefully through the curving passageways, dutifully

following the maintenance routine of their victims. The first larval

form of the Raven did not appear until the group had traveled nearly a

quarter mile through the docking ring. The green-skinned alien was

burdened with an odd assortment of cartons containing sealed food

pouches, vitamin supplement capsules, and boxed liquids. It carried the

supplies through a wide doorway ahead. "The Queen grows hungry,"

commented Kyron. "She has been producing many green hatchlings." The

commander paused briefly when they reached the open portal of the cargo

bay. Deep in the shadows, a massive blue-black form lay quivering on the

deck, dwarfing the shuttlecraft beside it. The round slug-like body of

the alien bore no head or limbs. It rested mute and immobile as

greenskinned Ravens scurried about the distended bulk, stroking and

petting its surface. The mass shifted at the approach of the hatchling

carrying its load of goods. A gaping pink orifice took form at the near

end of the shapeless creature; a soft sucking cry issued forth. One by

one, the green Raven tossed each of the packaged items into the mouth.

"Our Queen," announced Kyron's persona. "Quite a vision of regal

splendor. I long to introduce her to certain members of the Imperial

High Council." The Raven fixed Spock with its round eyes; its rough

Klingon voice took on an air of arrogance. "The Queen impels us to

conquest, but I have planned the details of our victories. She is linked

to our minds and controls our will, yet she has no real intelligence.

Not so different from those I once served." With a roar of laughter the

Klingon commander resumed the march along the docking ring. Its soft

chuckling continued until the group reached a cargo storage room. The

security doors were unlocked, opened wide to allow easy access to the

interior. The deck had been cleared of shipping crates; in their place,

the bodies of over a dozen paralyzed humanoids had been flung into a

careless pile. The commander kicked one of the unmoving forms. "These

civilians have no technical knowledge to offer us. They await their

proper use as food for the Queen. Fortunately, the hatchlings can live

for years before their transformation, waiting for a proper victim." It

looked over the landing party members. "But now we have many brains to

offer our young. The hatchlings will not have to wait." Kyron walked

over to Archer. "Who shall be first? You, perhaps?" It scraped the man's

neck with its claws, marking four lines of oozing blood. Archer fell to

the deck. "But do not worry that you will be ignored," the Raven assured

Rivera and Cruz.

"Eventually, you two will also join the ranks of the Queen's defenders."

It spread its arms out to embrace the two security guards, sinking the

needle-sharp tips of its talons into their shoulders. Like Archer, they

collapsed. The commander did not bother to taunt Uhura. "To think the

Emperor made peace with an army of women and children." It pointed to

the still bodies of the civilians. "Stand away, so there will be no

danger that you are chosen for our purposes. You will serve for food

when we grow hungry, but we want no part of your inferior spirit." It

approached McCoy next. One long finger stabbed at the doctor's medical

pouch. "What do you carry there?" The alien trailed the claw up the

front of McCoy's jumpsuit until it reached the neckline. The scaled hand

curled; its claws tickled McCoy's chin, but did not break the skin.

"Hmmm?" The doctor held his head very still. "Medical supplies." The

alien hissed. "A doctor?" McCoy could not nod, but he blinked his eyes

in assent. The clawed hand dropped away. "Typical Federation corruption.

We will not sully our fighting force with one who panders to the

weaknesses of mind and body." It pointed to where Uhura stood. "Go,

there, with the woman." Finally, it turned to Spock. "You, however, are

not weak." A hand lashed out, leaving a fine line of green across the

Vulcan's cheek. Spock remained standing. "I appear to be immune to the

paralyzing effects of your venom." He did not mention that the scratch

had numbed the right side of his face and that a deeper cut would

probably have the desired effect.

The alien hissed again. "Very well, you shall watch. And if you are

chosen, the hatchling shall feed on you without the pain-killing effects

of these." It fluttered its claws in Spock's face. "You shall feel your

skull cracked open." It pointed to one of the armed Ravens. "Jaeger,

bring a hatchling here, so that it may feed on the knowledge of our

prisoners."

"Yes, my lord." The Raven executed a Klingon martial salute and left the

room. It soon returned accompanied by a green alien. The tips of the

hatchling's beak rasped together as it caught sight of the motionless

bodies on the floor. With a low clucking sound it bent down and grabbed

one of the security guards. Oblivious to McCoy and Uhura's horrified

cries, it brought the head of its victim up to its powerful beak. The

sharp tips took hold at the top of the man's forehead and at the base of

the neck, piercing the skin. The pressure increased. Kyron's persona

listened appreciatively to the loud snap of cracking bone. "It must be

done quickly, while the body is still living, because the memory traces

deteriorate quickly." The crown of the skull split open, revealing the

soft tissue of the brain inside. With a swift thrust of its beak, the

Raven plucked the organ from the skeletal shell and swallowed it whole.

The body slithered from its grasp onto the deck.

Juan Cruz was dead. Smears of blood and clear liquid trickled from the

empty cavity above his forehead. The hatchling let loose a high-pitched

cry as its limbs first trembled then locked into rigidity. The bulging

sac on its neck swelled in size, growing like an inflated balloon that

threatened to engulf the alien's head. A brilliant blue color transfused

the distended skin, then spread quickly over the hatchling's body. The

limp pale down on its head bristled upright and darkened to black. The

swelling subsided gradually, but even before it had disappeared

entirely, the newly transformed Raven began to move again. Its eyes

widened. Its beak opened and closed. It stared unblinkingly at the

captive landing party. Then the voice of the dead Cruz issued from its

throat. "Commander, the cloaked Falchion beamed us aboard the station

while the Enterprise created a diversion." It pointed to Spock. "The

crew is waiting for his instructions."

"The Falchion? My ship?" roared the former Klingon warrior. "They found

my battlecruiser?" The Cruz persona continued its revelations. "The

Enterprise is leading the station ships into a trap. Captain Kirk

planned to lie about the damage to his ship---he still has enough power

to wipe out our forces."

"This treachery shall be avenged!" raged the alien commander. "Jaeger,

take these soldiers to the dockyards. Kath will need reinforcements in

his combat against the Enterprise. Go!" Kyron pulled one of the

commandeered phasers off its belt and handed it to the alien Cruz. The

transformed Raven trained the weapon on its former superior officer

without hesitation while the Kyron persona confronted Spock. "You shall

be next--your signal can recall the Falchion and your Vulcan brain will

ensure the defeat of this Federation starship."

"You will never have the.use of it," said Spock. "I can send my mind

into itself, beyond recovery." Silently, he began the first steps of

that process. The alien watched the Vulcan's skin turn pale in response

to his bio-control.

"Enough! You are a dishonorable race, but a truthful one. In this event,

I will kill you outright. Not such a great loss---your brain would

probably taste vile." The Raven aimed its disrupter at Spock's chest. A

talon curled around the trigger. Uhura's scream was precisely timed. The

alien's weapon jerked in her direction, but the cutting beam went wild

as McCoy's weight landed on its back. The hiss of a hypospray was lost

amidst the bellowing yell of the commander. One sweep of its powerful

arm dislodged the doctor and flung him across the room and against a

wall. Yet even as McCoy fell to the deck, Kyron crumpled as well. In the

same instant, Spock aimed a series of rapid karate chops at the Cruz

persona by his side. One blow loosened the alien's hold on its weapon;

subsequent punches had minimal effect on the alien's rocksolid physique,

but they served to distract its attention from Uhura. The lieutenant

picked up the discarded phaser. One blast on heavy stun stopped "Cruz"

from ripping out Spock's neck. The second blast rendered the Raven

unconscious. Spock gave the spreading green bruises on his hands a

cursory glance, then dismissed both them and the accompanying pain from

his mind. "Thank you, Lt. Uhura."

"Any time, Mr. Spock." She stood guard over the aliens while the Vulcan

moved quickly to where McCoy had landed. "McCoy?" - ... The doctor

haulled himself upright with a groan, HPMOVED again and winced. "Well,

I've been better."

"My commendations," said Spock, helping McCoy to his feet. "You

succeeded in stunning the alien."

"Oh, I think I did better than that," McCoy boasted.

One hand touched the nape of his own neck. "One night Sager grabbed me

and laid a plastic butter knife against the back of my neck. "Cut them

free right here,' he said, then laughed and let me go. Evidently, he had

used a knife to cut that portion of an alien's spinal cord." Spock

quickly grasped the effects of McCoy's action. "How long will the alien

nervous system be inoperative?"

"Damned if I know," the doctor answered. "That neural paralyzer is meant

for use on Humans." Spock raised one brow. "We shall have to rely on

your injection. I do not think the commander would welcome a knife wound

at our hands." He pointed to the Raven commander who was crawling

groggily to its knees.

Uhura dropped into a crouch, her phaser aimed at the rising alien. Only

Spock's signal stayed her fire. The Raven shook itself. Clawed hands

reached up to its beaked face. A stream of glutteral Klingon oaths

issued forth from its throat. "Vipers that dare take my ship! My crew! I

shall rend them until they are unfit to feed ship mites!" Spock

approached the alien. "Commander Kyron, we shall endeavor to help you to

that end."

"I need no help from weakling Humans to avenge this insult," roared

Kyron's mind, freed from its alien control. It staggered to its feet. "I

am a Vulcan," corrected Spock testily. "And I assure you I can be of

assistance."

"Mr. Spock," called out Uhura. Her phaser had switched its aim to the

Raven who had consumed Cruz's brain. The prone body was beginning to

twitch. "This one is also regaining consciousness."

"Uhura, set another stun...' "Kill it!" demanded Kyron looking down at

the guard. "Once awake, its agitation will disturb the Queen." When

Uhura did not obey the order immediately, the commander reached for its

disrupter. "No, wait," called out McCoy. "We can save his mind, too." He

pulled another hypo from his medkit and knelt by the Raven's body. The

tip of the slim metal chamber made contact with the right branch of the

divided spinal cord and hissed as its contents were ejected. The Raven

gave a low moan. Its blood-red eyes blinked; one hand reached up to

touch the bristling crest atop its head, then moved down to the beak on

its face. The beak opened and Cruz began to scream. Kyron stepped

forward. One savage blow of its fist stilled the cries. "Human scum.

Only Klingons have the true spirit of a conquering race." Spock's firm

grip on McCoy's shoulder kept the doctor from lunging at the commander.

"Dr. McCoy, attend to the welfare 'of the landing party and the

civilians. Lt. Uhura will assist you in reviving them." McCoy scowled,

but he reset the dials on the hypo and pulled ampules of the paralysis

antidote out of his medkit. While he and Uhura brought Archer and Rivera

back to consciousness, Spock and Kyron discussed strategy. "We have

little time in which to act," warned Kyron. "Soon the Queen will sense

my defection and her forces will organize against us." Spock pulled a

communicator out of a pocket. "Fortunately, we have the resources of the

Falchion..."

"We?" cried Kyron. Its taloned hand grasped the front of Spock's

jumpsuit and shook him fiercely. "My ship." Abruptly, Kyron released its

hold. "Even the Queen's influence could not make me destroy it. Now it

has become a hidden dagger with which to strike her down." The alien

threw back its beaked head and laughed. Spock tugged his suit back into

order. "We must devise a plan..."

"Silence?' roared Kyron. "I know what must be done." It snatched the

communicator out of Spock's hand. "I will go to the Queen's chamber and

transmit my coordinates to the Falchion. Your crew will beam a photon

mine to my location. The explosion will destroy the Queen who impels

these monsters. Then even you and your weaklling Human companions can

deal with her minions."

"There will be little time for you to escape," observed Spock. "There

will be no time for an escape," said Kyron scornfully. "What does that

matter if I destroy these walking excretions? Far better to die in the

glory of battle than to live in this blasphemous shell." It thumped its

blue-skinned chest. Spock nodded gravely. "Very well. I will arrange the

attack. However, the explosion will destroy the outer ring of the

station. Since We cannot beam aboard the Falchion without giving away

its existence, we must relocate to another section." McCoy was kneeling

by the side of a man still limp from the numbing effects of the Raven

poison. "I need more time! These people can't be moved yet." He waved a

hand at the eight civilians who were slowly regaining their

coordination. Uhura and Rivera had helped most of them into sitting

positions against the wall. Archer was administering stimulants, but

they were still weak and disoriented. "Why save defective refuse?" spat

Kyron. "Each moment we delay increases our risk of detection. Call your

crew, Vulcan. I go now." Pushing Spock aside with a sweep of its arm,

Kyron marched out of the room.

"We must leave before the explosion," announced Spock to the landing

party crew. "As soon as this ring loses pressure the damaged area will

be sealed off from the rest of the structure." Uhura and the security

guards began urging their charges to their feet.

Spock yanked a communicator from McCoy's belt. He flipped the top back

and set the frequency. His exchange with the Falchion crew was terse and

brief, giving Sulu no chance for questions or arguments and the Ravens

no chance to trace the origin of the transmission. As soon as the

contact was severed, Spock checked the progress of the evacuation. The

room was clear except for McCoy and a half dozen unmoving bodies. "We

must leave now, doctor, or we shall all be killed."

The doctor ran his scanner over the robed form of a Tellarite merchant.

"The other five are dead, but I'm getting a weak pulse from this one."

He administered a hasty injection.

Spock grabbed the Tellarite's arms and pulled him up, hoisting the bulky

body onto his shoulder. "Run," the Vulcan instructed McCoy, and set the

pace for their escape out of the room.

McCoy and Spock caught up with the others as they headed for the nearest

corridor leading off the docking ring. The civilians were moving more

quickly now. After an initial confusion they had absorbed a sense of

urgency from the landing party. Spock's furry burden was recovered

sufficiently to walk on his own feet, though he mumbled groggy oaths at

having been awakened from his sleep.

Archer was the first to reach the safety of the corridor. He inspected

the controls of the vacuum safety doors of the portal as Uhura and

Rivera herded the civilians across its threshold. McCoy and Spock,

covering the tail end of the procession, were still several yards away

when the communicator on the first officer's belt gave a warning beep.

"Kyron has reached the Queen's chamber--45 seconds until detonation,"

announced Spock calmly. He prodded the Tellarite merchant into a faster

waddle. "What's your hurry, Mr.' Spock?"

The first officer whirled around at the mocking words. A blue-skinned

Raven stood in the middle of the passageway. It held a phaser.

Spock froze in place. "Good evening, Manager Friel."

"The Queen will be most unhappy if you leave us so soon." The Raven

glanced at the small group standing behind the Vulcan. "All of you will

return now."

"The Queen wants me unharmed, for the information I possess. I will come

peaceably if you let the others go," offered Spock.

"You aren't in any position to bargain," laughed Friel's persona.

"Is this the way you treat your paying customers?" Spock nodded towards

the Tellarite merchant. "It seems a poor way of doing business."

When the Raven hesitated, Spock continued. "The Queen doesn't understand

the essentials of good management, as you do." Spock casually waved

McCoy and the Tellarite toward the entrance to the corridor. "Why

disturb business clients with the internal concerns of the station's

operation?"

The alien did not answer, but it made no move to stop the escape of the

doctor and the merchant as they ducked past the corridor portal. Spock

was left standing alone in the ring passageway.

The Raven beckoned him forward with a wave of the phaser. "No more

delays, Mr. Spo ck." A searing white light blossomed behind the alien,

etching a fiery halo around its body.

"You will come with..."

The words were lost in the roar of heated air that blew through the

length of the fourth ring. An explosive wind jerked the Raven high off

the deck; a rain of sharp-edged metal sliced through its body. Spock,

lifted by the same driving force--writhed in midair, striving to turn

his back to the fire and the cutting fragments.

He felt the jolt of shrapnel burying into his chest, the shock of his

body slamming against a wall. He blacked out before he felt the pain.

Chapter Twenty-Two.

"SURRENDER YOUR SHIP or die!"

"No reply, Lt. Palmer." Kirk leaned forward in the bridge command chair,

studying the viewscreen and the ships massed upon it. At half impulse

power, the Enterprise was just staying ahead of the motley assortment of

trading vessels, passenger liners, and scoutships. "The Vegan tradeship

is probably the most powerful," said Lt. Kyle, pointing to the source of

the radio transmission. "It's a renovated assault craft, but the basic

arsenal seems intact. Combined with the two Andorian scouts, it could do

some damage."

"We can't take any damage," warned Scotty, looking up from the

engineering station. "What's the maximum speed for an assault craft?"

asked Kirk. "Three-quarter impulse power," said Kyle, consulting the

computer. "The scouts are a bit slower."

"And what about the rest of the.., fleet?" Kirk knew his disdain for the

trading post forces could be dangerous. In its weakened state, the

Enterprise was no match for the rag-tag band if they attacked all at

once. Kyle took a minute to evaluate the capabilities of the remaining

ships. "Most are going to do little better than half impulse power."

"Then we can outrun the bunch of them," snorted Scotty. He was making no

attempt to hide his contempt. "If we outrun them," said Kirk

thoughtfully, "they'll just return to the station. We need to destroy

them. The trick will be getting the forces to spread out so we can take

them one at a time."

"This is Lord Kath, Captain Kirk.

Spare yourself and your crew an agonizing death--submit now to my

authority!"

"No reply, Captain?" inquired Palmer. "No reply." Kirk swiveled to face

the science station. "Kyle, run an intelligence check on this Lord Kath.

What do we know about him?" The captain waited impatiently for the

answer. Spock's ability to directly interpret computer language had made

his responses almost immediate. "There is no Lord Kath," said Kyle at

last. "Not on the Falchion and not anywhere in the Klingon military.

However, there is a record of a communications officer named Kath." The

news was met with scattered laughter from around the bridge. Kirk

grinned broadly. "So we're fighting a crewmember with delusions of

grandeur." And little tactical skill. "Lt. Palmer, open ship-to-ship."

"Hailing frequencies open, sir."

"Hear me, "Lord' Kath." Kirk dripped scorn on the title. "This is

Captain James T. Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise. I won't surrender my

ship to the dregs from a Klingon cockpit. I wait to hear from a true

Klingon warrior... The roar of outrage from the communications officer

baffled the translators. On the main viewscreen, the image of the Vegan

assault craft pulled ahead of the Wagner forces. "That was even easier

than I expected," mused Kirk.

"Mr. Leslie, increase Speed to three-quarter impulse power. Keep that

Vegan ship on our tail, but make it work to stay there." Within minutes

the attack force had lost the tight structure of a single formation.

Instead, the Vegan flagship headed a long string of vessels, each moving

according to its maximum speed.-Kirk studied the line until he judged

the distance between ships to be sufficient. "Let's give the over-eager

Kath just what he's been waiting for. Cut speed, Mr. Leslie," he ordered

the helm. The Enterprise came to a dead halt in space. "Not yet, Benus,"

Kirk cautioned the ensign against firing phasers prematurely. "Let the

lead ship get closer.., closer..." Palmer's fingers touched the metal

spiral in her ear. "Another transmission from "Lord' Kath." The guttural

Klingon voiee,,,its anger barely under control, resumed its warnings.

You are a fool, Captain Kirk..We know your shields are gone and your

weapon power is depleted. Now your engines have failed."

"Take careful aim," ordered Kirk. "We can't afford to waste any phaser

power."

"Locked on target, captain. One blast should do it"

"Fire!" The bridge lights dimmed as ship's Power surged to the weapons.

"I shall return to see your brain torn from..." The threat was never

completed. A single beam of phaser fire reduced the assault craft to

blazing rubble. Seconds later the flames flickered out in the cold

vacuum of space. A cheer rang out from the bridge crew. EVEN Kirk could

not resist a fierce smile at the victory. He preferred a fair fight to

trickery of this kind, but in the final analysis he preferred to win.

"Well done, Benus." He allowed the crew an extra minute of rowdiness,

then pulled them back to order. "This war isn't over yet. Helm, one

hundred and eighty degrees about. Full impulse power." The Enterprise

swung around in a graceful arc, gaining speed as she faced her

attackers, overtaking them one by one, and dealing well-placed phaser

blasts. "Enterprise 8, Ravens 0," crowed Leslie as the ensign pick, ed

off another passenger liner. "Four more to go.. "Captain!" Lt. Kyle's

anxious voice cut throughthe air. "Sensor scans show another attack

force coming from the trading post. Tight V-formation, four Class Two

scouts led by a Tellarite escort."

"Damn."

Kirk knew the power of an escort vessel. The Tellarites used the heavily

shielded ships to guard their mining operations, especially the illegal

ventures. "The Ravens know I lied. Somehow they've been warned that the

Enterprise is strong enough to offer resistance." Which meant that the

landing party had been captured. "Open hailing frequencies." If the

tactic worked once Palmer shook her head. ,,They are not accepting radio

transmissions, Captain." So this commander was not to be tricked into

spreading his forces too thin. "Scotty ."

"Ye 'can have shields or ye can have phasers, but ye can't have both.

An' if we crack another dilithium crystal, ye won't have either." Fight

and be killed--or turn tail and run. Kirk had never run from a fight

before. "Kyle, what's our best time to reach the nearest Federation

outpost."

"On impulse power, over four months." The second attack force was now

close enough to appear on the viewscreen. Kirk studied the growing

image. Using the trading post as their center of operations, the Ravens

could do a lot of damage in four months. They could spread throughout

the entire sector, follow trade routes to a dozen colonized planets.

"Cut engines, Mr. Leslie. Let them come to us. All. power to phasers,

Mr. Scott." The starship phasers began firing as soon as the Raven ships

were in range.

"Three scouts destroyed, one crippled," counted out Kyle. "But the

escort is getting close enough to return fire..."

"Phaser power drained." Benus pushed futilely at the weapons control

panel. "Recharge in two minutes." ' The Enterprise rocked under the

impact of an energy bolt. "Shields buckling, Captain!" cried Scotty.

"The next one will blast right through us." Kirk tensed for the next,

and final, attack. It never came. The Tellarite ship hung in space,

unmoving. "Ship to ship, Palmer."

"Still no response from the Ravens," answered Palmer. "Phasers

recharged, Captain." Benus's fingers hovered over the weapons control

panel. "Target still in range."

"Hold your fire, ensign." Kirk turned to the science station. "What do

you make of it, Mr. Kyle?"

"Long-range sensor scans indicate an explosion at the trading post.

Given the strength of the energy reading, the station has experienced

substantial damage."

"He's done it!" exulted Kirk. "Spock found a way to hit them hard." Even

as he spoke, the Tellarite ship began to retreat. Leslie monitored its

direction. "The escort flight coordinates are for Tellarite space, not

Wagner Trading Post."

"Let them go," said Kirk. "At impulse speed, they'll be in deep space

for months. We can pick them up later. Right now the landing party will

need reinforcements. Helm, plot a course back to the trading post.

Scotty, what's our best speed for getting there?" The query moved Scotty

to an immediate concern for his engines. "You're asking' for speed when

it's all I can do t' keep the ship from fallin' apart? This last battle

round with the Ravens has probably ripped all my patches t' shreds. By

rights, we shouldna move from this spot for at least five hours."

"Five hours." Kirk looked askance at his chief engineer, yet before he

could challenge the estimate he was interrupted by Lt. Palmer. "Captain,

I'm receiving sub-space radio transmissions from a Federation starship.

The U.S.S. Lexington has entered this sector."

"Just. after the nick o' time," snorted Scotty. Kirk turned back to the

disgruntled engineer. "On the contrary, Mr, Scott. I'm sure the

Lexington will be glad to take us in tow to Wagner Post."

"Nay, Captain," cried Scotty indignantly. "We'll be movin' before

they're near us."

"I'm sure we will, Mr. Scott," said Kirk with a straight face. The main

viewscreen flickered to reveal the solid figure of Commodore. Robert

Wesley. "Enterprise, Star Base 10 received your message drone. We are

ready to provide all necessary assistance."

Kirk settled back in the command chair and assumed a look of

nonchalance. "Sorry, Bob. The excitement is all over."

"Then I missed quite a show," said the captain of the Lexington as he

surveyed the damaged Enterprise on his own viewscreen. "Jim, you do get

yourself into the biggest messes..."

"But I also get myself out of them," insisted Kirk. On my own. "Stand by

for transmission of my ship's log--it will fill you in on our current

tactical situation. We can still use some back-up at our destination."

The two commanders established a rendezvous time at the Wagner station.

With an operative warp drive, the Lexington would travel half the length

of the sector in the time it took the Enterprise to limp its way back to

the trading post. Lt. Kyle looked up from his sensors as communications

between the ships came to an end.

"Captain, I'm getting a reading for another ship, approaching from the

direction of the trading post."

"It's the Falchion," announced Palmer as,she play.ed the controls of her

communications board. Transmtssions are erratic.., too much interference

from ion debris in the area of the explosion." She strained to listen.

"Just one word, Captain--casualties.,, Chapter Twenty-Three.

Medical Log Update Landing party reports death of Security Chief Juan

Cruz and critical injuries to Commander Spock--prognosis unavailable at

this time. However, Enterprise crew has sustained minimal casualties in

last battle action.. Dt. Coxo's LOO entry was drowned out by the rumble

of running footsteps and shouting voices. He stepped out of the chief

surgeon's office in time to observe McCoy and two paramedics race into

sick bay, propelling a suspension stretcher ahead of them. The waiting

emergency staff burst into action. A doctor snatched the medical field

scanner out of McCoy's hand and shouted out its readings while Nurse

Chapel issued a stream of instructions to her nurses. The overlay of

voices appeared chaotic, but Cortejo unraveled the strands without

difficulty. With calm, unhurried motions he began preparing for surgery.

Dyson came up from behind McCoy and cast a quick look at the muddy

patches which spread across the front of his jumpsuit. "Is any of that

blood yours?" she asked as the paramedics lifted Spock's body off the

stretcher onto a diagnostic bed. McCoy shook his head. "No, just his."

The Vulcan's face and hands were smeared with black smudges and streaks

of bright green; his chest was soaked with blood, staining his suit to

the same dark colors splattered on McCoy's clothing. "Glad to hear it,"

she said crisply.

"Now get out of the way." McCoy stepped back from the bed to allow Dyson

to take his place, stepped back again to allow the paramedics to leave,

then was shoved even farther aside by a nurse wheeling in medical

equipment. By the time Captain Kirk barreled into sick bay, the doctor

was standing in a far corner of the room, towel in hand, methodically

wiping himself clean of Vulcan blood. Kirk automatically headed toward

McCoy. "Sulu filled me in on the tactical details of the attack on the

aliens. What happened to Spock?"

"He was standing in the docking ring when the mine detonated," explained

McCoy, dabbing ineffectually at his ruined clothing. "It's pure luck

he's still alive. An alien body shielded him from the direct effects of

the explosion and the force of the blast threw him into our corridor

just before the airlock doors snapped shut. He's badly injured--burns,

shrapnel wounds, several bone fractures and internal bleeding of the

major organs." Kirk scowled at the recital. "But he'll live." McCoy

recognized Kirk's adamant statement as a question. The doctor averted

his eyes. "I'm sorry, Captain, I really couldn't say. I'm not familiar

with Vulcan physiology." He finished wiping his hands and laid the

bloodied towel aside. "The civilians at the trading post still need

medical care. I'd like to return there with the security force..."

"The hell you will!" A passing nurse was startled by the savage

exclamation; McCoy's face turned stony.

Kirk quickly dropped his voice, but it was still tight with repressed

anger. "Dr. McCoy, your place is here in sick bay..."

"I'll go, Captain." Dr. Dyson had threaded her way out of the crowd

hovering around the medical bed which held the first officer. "My work

here is done." She followed Kirk's glance back to the diagnostic panel

which monitored Spock's readings. "Dr. Cortejo will operate as soon as

Mr. Spock's vital signs stabilize." Kirk gained control over his temper.

He spoke calmly. "What is his condition?" Unlike McCoy, Dyson faced the

captain squarely. "Not very good. The internal injuries are quite severe

and he's lost large quantities of blood. He'll lose even more during the

surgery. Since there's no match for Mr. Spock's bloodtype on board,

we're limited to the accumulated stock of his own donations. The crucial

issue will be repairing the torn tissue before the supply is exhausted.

However, if Dr. Cortejo can..."

"Thank you, Dr. Dyson." Kirk grimaced at the mention of the surgeon's

name, turning his face away from McCoy.

"You'd better hurry if you're going to the trading post. The first

security team has already beamed aboard the Falchion." Kirk abruptly

walked away from the two doctors. He circled the knot of people still

grouped around Spock, but did not stop there. Instead, he followed Nurse

Chapel as she rushed out of the emergency room. When Kirk crossed the

threshold of the hematology lab, Chapel was standing by an open storage

unit inspecting its contents. All but one of its racks held sacks of

bright red liquid; the last one displayed packets of emerald green. "Can

he do it?" Kirk demanded. Chapel looked up in surprise. "Sir?"

"Cortejo.

Can he do the surgery on Spock?"

"He's an excellent surgeon." The nurse dropped her eyes down to her data

tablet. "He seems to feel that..."

"I don't give a damn what he thinks," snapped Kirk. "I'm asking for your

opinion." She met his gaze with difficulty. "No, I don't think he's

qualified. He's never operated on a Vulcan before."

"Neither had McCoy when he performed heart surgery on Ambassador Sarek."

"Mr. Spock's injuries are more extensive this time."Chapel's voice

quavered briefly.

"And Dr. Cortejo hasn't studied Vulcan anatomy as thoroughly as Dr.

McCoy...', She shook her head, unwilling to go on. "Thank you, Nurse

Chapel." She returned to her inventory with an expression of fixed

concentration.

"That one," instructed Dyson, pointing to the top of .the small alcove

in which she and McCoy were standing. The field expedition supplies were

stored on shelves that stretched from the deck to the ceiling, forming a

partial buffer from the noise and commotion of the sick bay emergency

ward.

McCoy reached up and pulled down the metal caseshe had chosen "I don't

see why I have to stay here," he complained as she took the case from

him.

"I'll only get in the way of doctors who know what they're doing. At

least I can be of some use as a paramedic at the trading post." Dyson

popped open the locks of the medical pack and began an inspection of its

contents. "You're wasting your breath, Len. An order is an order." He

was not deterred from his protests. "I didn't enlist. That other McCoy

joined this outfit, so why should I have to follow orders?"

"Just try leaving this ship. Captain Kirk will have 'that other' Dr.

McCoy thrown in the brig, but you'll be the one who gets the leg irons

and the court martial."

"I'll plead diminished capacity. You can be the star witness and testify

that I haven't got the brains to be a ship's doctor." McCoy frowned when

he realized that Dyson had stopped listening to him. "I might not see

you again for days."

That brought her attention back. The corners of her mouth twitched.

"You've seen quite enough of me already."

McCoy flushed a bright red but he affected a look of wide-eyed innocence

even as his gaze flickered down from her face. "I'm the ship's chief

medical officer. It's my duty to keep a close watch on the crew."

Dyson choked down her laughter. "Oh, suddenly you're back in Star Fleet.

Well, listen here Lt. Com mander McCoy ."

The rest of her reply was cut short by Kirk's sudden appearance. "I'm on

my way, Captain." She hastily locked the field case and tugged it off

the table.

"I'd better help..." McCoy moved forward to accompany her, but Kirk's

hand shot out. Its iron grip on the doctor's arm stopped him from

leaving. ,, "We have some business to discuss in your office, said Kirk

as a sober-faced Dyson escaped from the alcove.

"It's not my office, Captain." McCoy yanked his arm free of the

captain's hold, but Dyson had already left the room. "Let me rephrase

that statement," said Kirk in a low voice. "You can walk into that room,

or I can drag you there myself." McCoy stared back at Kirk in surprise.

Whatever emotion he read in the captain's face muted his own response to

a quiet, Yes, sir. He remained silent until they reached the privacy of

the chief surgeon's office and Kirk issued his next order.

"You've got to operate on Spock."

"What?" exclaimed McCoy, half-laughing. "Are you out of your mind? I

don't have the surgical skill to operate on a Human, much less a Vulcan.

I'm barely qualified to assist Cortejo..."

"That's not true." The stiff posture of a starship commander melted

away. Kirk stepped closer, arms raised to urge his appeal. "You've got

the knowledge, McCoy--somewhere. Reach for it, use it." McCoy shook his

head. "You don't know what you're asking of me, Captain."

"I don't care," said Kirk fiercely. "It's your duty as a doctor, as my

ship's surgeon..."

"No!" McCoy pulled back in horror. "You can't just order me to cut open

a living being. I've never done that before."

"You've done it a hundred times," Kirk thundered. "God damnit, Bones,

Spock is dying!" The words had no effect on the man standing before him.

McCoy shrugged impassively. "I'm not your "Bones.' I can't remember and

I can't help him."

"Can't?" asked the captain bitterly.

"No, I think you won't remember. You're quite happy to forget the last

twenty-five years. They frighten you because they weren't tidy and

predictable--they were messy and full of nasty surprises. You're still a

boy--a boy who wants to go through life without making mistakes, the bad

mistakes that can't be set right again. To admit the mistakes means

facing your own weaknesses..."

"Stop it!" shouted McCoy. "... and finding your strengths." Kirk's tone

turned flat and harsh. "Listen to me, Leonard McCoy. You may not care

what happens to Spock, but somewhere inside of you is a man who would

stop at nothing to save his friend's life, to save any life, no matter

what the personal cost. It was that quality that made him the best

medical officer in Star Fleet. If you don't have that same passion for

the value of life, you'll never be half the doctor he was. Or half the

man." Kirk fixed his eyes on the doctor's pale face. "Can you really let

Spock die so easily?" McCoy flinched away from Kirk's gaze, then slowly

shook his head. "The first time I lost a patient, I kicked a hole

through a wardroom door.., cost me a week's salary to pay for the

repairs. The other doctors told me I'd get used to it."

"You stopped kicking doors," said Kirk, "but you never got used to

death." McCoy stood silent for a moment, staring past the captain at a

private vision. Then his eyes blinked as if to clear it away. "That's as

good an epitaph as any doctor could ask for." McCoy took a deep breath

and squared 'his shoulders. "I can't promise anything, Captain Kirk

---except that I'll try." Kirk's surge of relief was chilled by McCoy's

next words. "You'll have to show me the way to surgery."

When the captain stormed onto the bridge, his yeoman waved a data tablet

in his direction as a token gesture only. The past two weeks of battle

action had created a staggering backload of damage and repair reports

which Kirk had persistently pushed aside with contempt. To her surprise,

this time he seized the offering as if it were a lifeline. He scanned

the report with a deepening frown, then scrawled his initials on the

form. "This requisition is twelve days old, Yeoman," Kirk observed with

grave displeasure. "Why haven't I gotten it before?" He didn't wait for

an answer. "Bring me the updates," he ordered curtly. "Bring me

everything you've got."

He settled down into the command chair and began a determined attack on

the reports.

When Cortejo cracked open Spock's shattered chest, McCoy fought the urge

to race out of surgery. He just managed to keep from getting sick.

Pale-faced and sweating lightly, he watched Cortejo and Nurse Chapel

engage the bio-support system, lacing its lines and tubes around the

major organs inside the exposed body cavity. Over the course of his

first year at Atlanta General Hospital, McCoy had established an uneasy

mastery over the horror of seeing a body so brutally violated. Emergency

room cases were generous with blood and gore and demanded immediate

action; queasiness was a luxury that could cost a patient's life.

Walking into this room behind Spock's stretcher, he had mentally

prepared himself for the coming scene, but without making allowances for

the alien nature of the patient. McCoy's composure disintegrated under a

barrage of colors and shapes and smells that were all wrong. "Don't feel

compelled to watch," said Cortejo acidly. "Captain Kirk may feel better

having you in this room, but I have no intention of allowing you to

assist during this operation." McCoy took a deep breath and moved two

steps closer to the surgical table. "As a doctor, I welcome the chance

to observe new medical procedures." He forced himself to gaze past the

blue light of the sterile field. The interior of the Vulcan's chest was

awash with a -muddy green liquid. McCoy swallowed, yet did not look

away. "But I know my limitations. I'm here to learn, not practice."

"This is not a teaching hospital.. "

"Bio-support engaged," murmured Chapel as she started the unit's

controls.

"... so don't expect a medical school lecture." The surgeon plunged his

hands into the body cavity. The fingertips disappeared into the pool of

blood, feeling their way across the tissues beneath. They stopped

suddenly. "Suction here." Chapel directed a dear length of tubing to the

site. The transparent tubing turned green and within seconds a severed

blood vessel was exposed as the liquid it pumped out was drained away at

a slightly faster rate. Silently, without instructions, the nurse

slipped the necessary clamps into place. Cortejo's scalpel beam sprang

to life, trimming off the jagged edges of the vessel. A suture beam

rejoined the ends. When the clamps were released, the vessel remained

whole. Yet the sea of blood still did not recede. A high-pitched bleep

from the support equipment brought a frown to Chapel's face. "Blood

volume has dropped to 68."

"Maintain present transfusion rate."

"What is a Vulcan's loss capacity?" asked McCoy. "Theoretically, a

Vulcan should be able to tolerate another 10 loss."

"But Mr. Spock is not a full Vulcan," added Chapel, quietly but

distinctly. She addressed this statement to McCoy, but she uttered it

for Cortejo's benefit. "He probably can't withstand more than another

seven or eight percent loss of blood volume." Cortejo did not

acknowledge her comment, but the nurse knew he had heard and noted the

information. Without slowing his hand movements, the surgeon launched

into a lecture. "Given the expected duration of the surgical session,

our constricting parameter is the limited blood supply. Increasing the

transfusion rate while the patient is still hemorrhaging will rapidly

deplete the supply. Furthermore, until I can repair more of the bleeding

sites, the added volume will just get in my way." He exchanged the

suture gun for a scalpel with a dextrous sleight of hand that almost

escaped detection. McCoy followed Cortejo's surgical technique with

increasing fascination. The man's hands moved with a steady assurance,

wielding the scalpel to pare away dying tissue, then deftly sealing the

wounds with the suture beam.

Though the form and function of this body was foreign to him, McCoy

could still discern the pattern of the surgeon's movements, and

appreciate the rapid mental judgements which balanced the severity of

one damaged site against another without pausing for deliberation. The

return of the high-pitched alarm pulled McCoy's attention back to the

bio-support unit and the two empty blood packets now stacked by its

side. "Volume down to 62," announced Chapel grimly. "Prepare to

increase transfusion rate." Cortejo continued his unhurried conversation

while his fingers flew even faster. "I've always enjoyed the challenge

of truly demanding surgery. Dr. McCoy, this is an excellent opportunity

for you to observe just such a situation."

"Wagner Post to Enterprise. Come in, Enterprise." Uhura's voice crackled

over the loudspeaker, barely fighting its way through the static of the

dissipating ion clouds. Palmer's best efforts did little to clear the

channel. "Uhura, can you provide me with visual contact?" asked Kirk as

he gazed uneasily at the blank screen above the communications post.

"Sorry, Captain, but the video transmitter was blown away, along with

about a third of the docking ring. It's taken me hours just to get audio

channels functional. '

Kirk accepted her statement with a resigned sigh, but he suspected it

would be a long time before his confidence in radio contact would be

completely re stored. He leaned closer to the panel, as if his proximity

to the board would increase its efficiency. "What's your status on the

station?"

"All clear. The hatchlings were destroyed with the Queen and the

surviving Ravens have been placed under sedation.' "I "Sedation?" cried

Kirk. I want those aliens under confinement! With a 24-hour guard."

"I agree, Captain." Dr. Dyson's voice answered him. "But for medical

reasons rather than security. Once the Queen was destroyed, the

'borrowed' persona of each Raven's victim gained dominance, and the

resulting emotional trauma was fairly severe. Most of them were having

hysterics, so I've placed them under heavy sedation to prevent a mass

suicide."

"Most?"

"One... man--a Captain Neil--doesn't seem to care what he looks like so

long as his ship is okay. He may be useful in helping the others learn

to adjust to their situation, but for the moment, I've got my hands full

just trying to keep them under while I treat the civilian survivors. I

could use some help. Make that a lot of help."

"That won't be a problem, Dr. Dyson. The Lexington will arrive at Wagner

Post in a little over three hours."

"Well, it's about time."

"My sentiments exactly," said Kirk with a weary smile. His smile faded

at her next words. "Captain, what is Mr. Spock's condition?"

"I don't know yet. Cortejo and McCoy have been in surgery for over five

hours."

Uhura's repair work must have come apart, because the communications

link with Dyson was abruptly severed.

"This is our last packet of T-Negative." Chapel slipped the green pouch

into the bio-support system without interrupting the flow of blood

through the web of tubing. "Drainage 'recovery?" asked Cortejo as he

carefully explored the exposed organs for an injury still highlighted on

the surgical monitor. "Levels have dropped to 3 of infused volume."

"And what is the significance of that fact, Dr. McCoy?" The surgeon

gently worked his fingers around the edges of the left lung. A small rip

in the spongy tissue was easily repaired with a regen probe. Another

light died on the life systems panel. "The patient's condition is

improving," answered McCoy. As he spoke, he studied Cortejo's subtle

wrist motion in wielding the surgical tools. Every movement was

precisely calculated, and sheared of time-wasting excess. "His system is

retaining the administer ed transfusion, which indicates the internal

bleeding is under control." The surgeon nodded. "We must be ready to

close soon. This blood unit will just be sufficient for replenishing the

patient's minimum blood volume." He pulled his hands out of the open

chest and exchanged his probe for a newly recharged scalpel resting on

McCoy's palm. "There is only one more cut..." Cortejo aimed the

instrument tip at a blackened Patch of tissue and released a final burst

of the thin cutting beam. A thick orange fluid welled up from the site

and a new light flared into life on the surgical monitor. For the first

time in five hours, Cortejo's hand faltered.

McCoy looked across the sterile field at Chapel. "Nurse, have you got

any idea what..."

"I'm in charge of this operation," snapped Cortejo.

"What is it, then? What happened?" McCoy asked. "I don't know. It's not

Human...' The fluid continued to ooze from the wound. "Suture," the

surgeon demanded, throwing the scalpel aside. He razed the site with the

new beam but it did not staunch the flow. "Vital signs dropping,"

announced Chapel tersely. "Blood packet at 50 of unit volume." Cortejo

repeated his suture work, but the second pass had no effect. The life

system indicators continued their descent. McCoy stared first at the

open wound, then at Cortejo, whose hands had stopped moving. Spock was

dying.

Kirk was pacing the sick bay deck when the two doctors emerged from

surgery. A grim-faced Cortejo walked away without speaking. McCoy leaned

wearily against the wall, ignoring the captain's barrage of questions.

He peeled off his surgical gloves with maddening deliberation. He

unfastened the clasps of his gown and tugged at its neckline. He

stretched. Only then did McCoy speak. "He's out of immediate danger."

"What does that mean?" demanded Kirk as relief and worry clashed. "It

means that barring post-operative complications, Spock is doing just

dandy." McCoy rubbed the back of his neck. "Damn crazy-quilt physiology!

Vulcan this and Human that, plus elements his genetic code dreamed up

out of thin air. Every time I take him apart, I wonder if I can put him

back together again." A moment passed before the full impact of the

words hit the captain. "Bones?" he whispered, then grabbed the surgeon's

shoulders and shook him." ,, Bones! "Lay off, Jim," said McCoy

irritably. "I told you I can't be more specific than that. Have some

consideration for a tired man--I've been in surgery for days..." His

face contracted as if in pain.

"What happened in there?" demanded Kirk.

Passing a hand over his eyes, McCoy frowned in thought. After a few

seconds he looked up into Kirk's face, confusion deepening the lines of

his brow. "How did Spock get hurt, Jim? He wasn't wounded in the

attack..." McCoy's gaze turned inward--he contin ued as if talking to

himself. "And he was in my room, talking a blue streak about memory

circuits and back up chips, while I knocked down some absolutely vile

Red Nova.'

"What do you remember after that?" urged Kirk.

"In surgery... I thought we'd lose Spock when his liver ruptured." McCoy

was talking with some effort.

"I had to do some fancy suture work to patch the tissue together."

"So you finished the surgery," said Kirk softly.

"But why was Cortejo operating?" demanded McCoy with renewed alarm. "He

may be a good surgeon, but he hasn't had enough experience with Vulcans

to handle an operation that complicated--this was no time to start."

The doctor shook his head as if clearing away a distracting fog. "I

don't even remember entering sick bay..." McCoy suddenly looked

horrorstricken.

"Jim, I can't have gone into surgery drunk. Nothing would excuse that,

not even..." He stopped short.

"Nothing," he reiterated grimly.

"Don't worry, Bones." Kirk savored the sound of the name. "You weren't

drunk, just sleepwalking." He smiled at McCoy's incomprehension. "I'll

fill you in on the details over a glass of that Red Nova. We can drink

to Spock's health." And to the memory of one Leonard McCoy, civilian,

who gave up his life in the line of duty.

Epilogue "Bones..."

"Yeah, Jim," answered McCoy absently as he scanned the over-long

requisition list displayed on his desk computer. An alarming number of

medical report tapes were stacked by its side. Acting chief Cortejo had

exhibited little interest in the more mundane duties accompanying his

temporary promotion. "Have you ever given any thought to quitting the

service?" asked Kirk with forced nonchalance as he inspected the wrapped

parcel with his name written on the front. A startled McCoy looked up

from the terminal screen. "Is that a not-so-subtle hint that your chief

medical officer should retire?"

"No, not at all." Kirk's fingers broke the seal and began peeling away

the paper. "I just thought maybe you preferred the idea of a practice

back home, in a small town..." ' "But I've got my practice right here,

Jim," said McCoy with a puzzled smile. "With this starship crew.

Besides, I'm a surgeon--a damn good one--and I wouldn't get much chance

for surgery in the boondocks. Not to mention the use of a better

research lab than you'll find anywhere in Georgia."

"Just checking." Kirk ripped through the last layer of wrapping. He

stared down at the contents of the package. "Bones!" The doctor grinned

broadly at his friend's reaction. "I meant to give it to you sooner, but

what with one thing and another ." Kirk raised the Tyrellian knife up to

the light, delighting in the glints of the blue and green that flashed

off the blade. "You went back for it." A sudden thought pulled his

attention back to the doctor. "How much did you have to pay?"

"None of your business," said McCoy firmly. "I'll settle for the

difference with Spock,' he added under his breath. The knife spun into

the air, hung suspended for an instant, then tumbled back downwards. The

handle landed in Kirk's palm with a satisfying slap.

"Just don't cut yourself," grumbled McCoy as he calculated the amount of

unfinished business still ahead of him. "I've got enough work to do as

it is."

"That reminds me. You're due for a ship deckklutz award. Injury due to

inattention to ship-wide .' "I knew it! I'm never going to live this

down."

"Just wait until Spock gets ahold of you." The captain laughed to see

McCoy wince. The Vulcan could be quite caustic when given a chance. Kirk

carefully wrapped the antique weapon again and tucked the bundle under

his arm. "Drop by my cabin when you're done."

"You can expect me next month," sighed McCoy as Kirk strolled out of the

office.

Seconds later the door whisked open again for Christine Chapel. Her

hands were filled with even more record tapes. Ignoring McCoy's warning

growl, she detailed each cassette as it was added to the existing pile.

"Personnel duty log. Surgical operations summary. Walkin patient log.

Critical-care patient updates..."

"Didn't Cortejo handle any of this?"

McCoy cried out as the stack teetered dangerously. Chapel began a second

stack. "Patient discharge log. Case review tape one. Case review tape

two." She handed this last cassette to him directly--"You're in that

one"--then continued as before. "Case review tape three. Medical lab

supply inventory. Medical equipment maintenance log." A resounding click

heralded the end of her load. "Welcome back, Dr. McCoy."

"I wish I'd never left." He eyed the record tape in his hand. "Speaking

of amnesia, where the hell is Dr. Dyson? I've been trying to reach her

all morning."

"Oh, somewhere in the Research section," murmured Chapel vaguely. "She's

been working with Frazer on the final report on the Raven research

project."

"I'm gone for two weeks and this place falls to pieces." McCoy jammed

the cassette into his terminal. "Spock steals half my staff for his

science department, Gonzalo spoils an entire batch of stokaline..." When

he looked up again, Chapel had reached the door.

"Find Dr. Dyson and send her in here," he yelled after the nurse. Nearly

two hours passed before the buzzer to his office announced a visitor.

"Come in," he called out absently. . A woman in science blue stepped

across the threshold. "You wanted to see me, sir?" McCoy beckoned her

inside, but kept his eyes fixed on the terminal. "No wonder Gonzalo

botched that synthesis; he's been covering for Tajiri on the duty log.

Good thing that boy is in Star Fleet--he'd make a lousy forger as a

civilian." He snapped off the screen image and turned his attention to

the neurologist. "Have a seat, Dr. Dyson."

"Thank you," she said without moving. "But I haven't got much time,

sir." McCoy cocked an eyebrow at her impatience. "Mr. Spock will be in

sick bay for another few days. If I were you, I'd take advantage of the

lull to take it easy."

"Yes, sir."

"That wasn't a suggestion, it was an order," he said gruffly. "I'm not a

soft touch, like Cortejo." He was rewarded by Dyson's involuntary smile.

Now if she would only relax. "Nurse Chapel informs me that you were a

great help during my 'extended leave.' Unfortunately, I can't thank you

for any specifics..."

"That's quite all right, Dr. McCoy. You proved to be a rather

interesting case." Her brittle smile resurfaced briefly.

"Just be glad I'm not doing a journal article on you." He grinned

ruefully. "I feel like I've woken up from a night on the town. The kind

where you figure you had a good time because you can't remember what

happened." After a pause, he continued with some embarrassment. "And if

I did anything foolish, nobody would tell me." She shrugged. "Your drawl

was a bit thicker, but mostly you kept to your studies--you made it up

to the third year in current medical school curriculum."

"Good Lord," McCoy groaned. "My first vacation in years and I spend it

trudging through medical textbooks. What a waste."

Dyson stole a glance at the door. "If you'll excuse me, Dr. McCoy, I've

got a lot of work..."

"All right, Dyson. You're dismissed."

"Thank you, sir," she said, wheeling away. McCoy noted her hasty

departure with bemusement. Still a bit green, but promising medical

material. He turned back to his work.

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