Savage Trade
Author: Tony Daniel
Date: 2015-02-24 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Star Trek; Science Fiction; Fiction; Star Trek Original Series
Description: The USS Enterprise under the command of Captain James T. Kirk is en route to the extreme edge of the Alpha Quadrant, and to a region known as the Vara Nebula. Its mission: to investigate why science outpost Zeta Gibraltar is not answering all Federation hailing messages. When the Enterprise arrives, a scan shows no life forms in the science station. Kirk leads a landing party and quickly discovers the reason for the strange silence–signs of a violent firefight are everywhere. Zeta Gibraltar has been completely raided. Yet there are no bodies and the entire roster of station personnel is missin
Publisher: Pocket Books/Star Trek

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For Edith Hoffman

One

Captain’s Log, Stardate 6097.2. The Enterprise has reached the extreme edge of the Alpha Quadrant in a region known as the Vara Nebula sector. We are traveling to Federation science outpost Zeta Gibraltar, which is located near the main nebular dust clouds. The outpost is not answering hailing messages, and there has been no word for over a standard week. Our mission: to investigate why Zeta Gibraltar has gone dark.

Captain James T. Kirk swiveled in his captain’s command chair toward Mister Spock, who was peering into his science station scope at a display of data coming in from a remote scan of the planetoid below.

“Anything, Mister Spock?”

“No signs of life, Captain, and no signs of human biology living or dead,” Spock replied. “The complex’s computer system and life support are still functioning normally. I’m conducting thermal regression analysis in an attempt to determine how long ago the staff was present in the main laboratory complex. I will have results momentarily.”

“Will your regression provide answers as far back as the moment communication was lost with the outpost?”

“It should, sir.”

“Very good.” Kirk frowned. “Seven days without a word at an outpost that usually sends in a daily report,” he said. He turned to Lieutenant Uhura, the communications officer on the bridge. “Any response to our hails, Lieutenant?”

Uhura cupped her hand to her earpiece and shook her head. She wore a worried expression. “No response to multiple hails, sir. No emergency signals or beacons. It’s as if they’ve disappeared without a trace, Captain.”

“We’ll see about that,” Kirk replied, a grim set to his jaw.

The science staff has to be somewhere, he thought. The Enterprise will find them.

Kirk glanced around the bridge, feeling pride both in the efficient manner in which everyone went about his or her job and also in the brilliance and creativity of his officers. The captain knew he was inordinately proud of his crew, but they had accomplished much together. He felt lucky to command them and responsible to make use of their skills in the best way possible. They were the best of the best, and Kirk was keenly aware that they expected no less than full engagement from him.

Besides, the Enterprise had a reputation to keep up as one of the best ships in Starfleet.

We will find those scientists, all right, Kirk thought. But whether they’ll be living or dead when we do—that’s another matter.

“Captain, I am picking up heat signatures in my thermal regression analysis. Small differentials in surface temperatures within the station.”

“Analysis?”

“Something occurred approximately six point four days ago. These heat differentials may indicate use of energy weapons, sir. They point to disruptor technology.”

“There was a firefight? This is a science outpost.”

“That is how the current data correlates, Captain.”

“We’re going to have to find out in person,” Kirk said, rising from his command chair. “Spock, you’re with me. Lieutenant Uhura, have a full security team meet us in the transporter room.”

“Aye, sir,” Uhura said. She touched a signal pad. “They’re on their way.”

“Good. You’re with us, as well. I’ll want you to examine the outpost communications records. Chekov, you’ll assist Mister Spock with his scans. Mister Sulu, you have the bridge.”

Kirk turned toward the portal to the bridge turbolift. The familiar tingle of anticipation was under his skin—the feeling he got whenever he led a landing party. This mission may turn out to be a routine sensor sweep, or it could develop into a situation that pushed him to the limits of his abilities. His rational side may hope for the former, but there was a part of him that always craved a challenge and action. Even danger.

Kirk knew that he suppressed the part of his psyche that lived for excitement at his peril. On this occasion, the captain had a feeling he wouldn’t have to go looking for trouble. Trouble was about to find him.

With a shimmer of coalescing particles, the landing party materialized in the laboratory’s central monitoring room on Zeta Gibraltar. It was a fairly large chamber with multiple sensor readout arrays lining a curving wall. The ceiling was a good five meters above them, and along the walls were large hermetically sealed windows, partially opaqued against the system’s sun. Gibraltar was a young blue star still accreting mass in this very dusty system. The star was on the outlying arm of the Vara Nebula that intruded into Federation space. The nebula itself was a great mass of debris from a supernova that had exploded a billion years previously—creating the breeding ground for a thousand smaller stars and systems. By day, the local star brightened the sky to an almost ultraviolet purplish blue.

Zeta Gibraltar’s days were only ten hours long. Although it was presently daytime on the planetoid, Kirk had been to other nebular worlds and knew the Vara would likely dominate the night sky. Perhaps he’d be here long enough to see it. Its smear of glowing light would be powered from within by the small young stars being born inside. Beautiful. Also deadly: an active nebula was an inferno of lethal radiation and a hazard to interstellar navigation for the unshielded, of course. Not that there was any run-of-the-mill traffic out here on the Federation’s frontier.

Kirk looked around. Lights blinked on computer and sensor readouts. Large screens depicted various presentations from satellite feeds and ground monitors of Vara. Some displayed normal spectrum. Others flashed with garish false colors showing gamma radiation, tachyonic intensities, as well as gravimetric and chromospheric data. The nebula truly was a knotty spot in the space-time continuum, a place where ships could go in and not return.

Also a good place to hide, Kirk reflected. If I were a pirate in this sector, it would be my first pick.

There was no one present, not a soul. Spock and Chekov immediately began a sensor sweep with their tricorders. Kirk motioned for his security detachment—Lieutenant Graves and Ensign Thibodeaux—to follow him. Thibodeaux, very young and obviously quite anxious on such an exotic assignment, moved to draw his phaser from where it hung at his side.

Kirk put out a hand to stay the action. “Not just yet, Ensign,” he said. “Wait for the order.” Thibodeaux reddened in embarrassment at being corrected by his captain. “But a good instinct to be on your toes,” Kirk continued. “Stay alert.”

Kirk and Graves exchanged a quick half smile between them. The kid would learn, and this was an excellent place for him to cut his teeth.

The captain followed a main corridor out of the control center and passed door after closed door on either side. All were unlocked and responded to his entry. Kirk chose one at random and went inside.

It was a personal living quarters, sumptuously large by starship standards. Someone with good taste, Kirk reflected. Abstract prints by an Earth-based artist whose work Kirk recognized adorned the walls. Several of them hung askew.

And here was something else. The sleep padding was ripped, and various items had been swept from shelves and lay broken on the floor. Spock picked one object up, examined it, then showed it to Kirk. It appeared to be a framed hologram of a family taken on a much greener and more hospitable planet than Zeta Gibraltar, where the highest form of life was a bush-like blue algae.

“Captain,” said Graves from behind them. “Here.”

Kirk turned to find Graves looking into a crevice formed by the curving wall and a built-in bookshelf. It would be an excellent place to hide if you didn’t want anyone glancing through the door to see you. Kirk stepped over and looked to where Graves was pointing.

A handprint. It was composed of what looked like small, flaking brown leaves. Portions had fallen away, but the smeared outline of the hand—it was a left hand—was still apparent.

Kirk didn’t need a tricorder readout to tell him what that flaking brown substance was. He’d seen enough of it at various times.

Dried human blood. Someone had stumbled into that wall with blood on a hand to leave such a mark.

“Not good,” Kirk said. “Let’s check elsewhere.”

They passed through door after door, and many, though not all, of the quarters appeared to have been tossed: cushions cut, padding ripped out, items knocked from shelves to get at what may be hidden behind.

“Raiders, sir?” asked Thibodeaux.

“We don’t know yet, Ensign,” Kirk replied. “Somebody was certainly looking for something—or someone—in these quarters.”

They entered another room, and Kirk paused, surprised. This room was most decidedly not like the other personal quarters they’d examined. It was a living space, yes. There was a bed and desk. But instead of the plasto-ceramic standard furniture he’d seen elsewhere, these were made of what looked like wood.

“Mahogany,” Spock said, anticipating Kirk’s question. “And the wardrobe is of American chestnut.”

“That must have cost a fortune to ship out here to the butt end of nowhere,” said Thibodeaux.

He raised a hand over his mouth, as if he’d spoken out of turn, but a nod from Kirk seemed to put him at ease again.

On the wall was a portrait in an ornately carved frame. It was no holographic image, but an oil painting depicting a stern-looking man. He was dressed in a coat over a ruffled shirt with a cravat tied around his neck. Even more curious, the man in the portrait was clearly wearing an elaborate wig of gray hair curling down to his shoulders.

“Something odd about this furniture, Captain,” Chekov put in.

“Yes?”

“It seems to be . . . well, breaking down,” Chekov continued, his accent, as usual, turning the w sound into a v.

“Explain.”

“I can’t, sir,” Chekov replied. “The chemical bonds, they seem to be just . . . spontaneously decomposing.”

“It is very strange, Captain,” said Spock, looking up from his tricorder. “The process is similar to radioactive decay, but there is no matter-energy conversion. Whatever the process may be, it is accelerating. Every piece of furniture in this room will have disintegrated to dust within the next six point four days.”

The walls were hung with fabrics, and a window looked out onto the planetary landscape. There were curtains framing the window. They were made of a sumptuous and beautifully printed fabric.

The mattress lay askew from the bed, and a writing desk was turned on its side since it was not physically connected to the wall.

“Interesting,” said Mister Spock, who had gone to examine the drapes with his tricorder. “The woven textile fabrics are made of the finely worked pellicle coating of Earth sheep.”

“Wool,” Kirk said.

“Sir!” The call came from Thibodeaux. He had stepped around the tumbled desk and was staring down at something behind it. Kirk joined the ensign.

There on the floor lay what looked to be a severed arm. It was manifestly not human. There were four digits connected by folds of webbing. A chunky armband glistening with gemstones was about the wrist, but it was bare otherwise. It appeared to have been severed below the shoulder. But what was most arresting was the color.

The arm was a bright yellow.

Kirk nodded to his science officer. “Spock?”

Spock turned the tricorder’s biosensors toward the arm.

“Fascinating. Most definitely a bilateral appendage,” Spock said after a moment. A twist of the tricorder controls presented Spock with further analysis. “Thirty-seven chromosomes and trio-based gender determination.”

“Not human,” Kirk said. “We have forty-six chromosomes.”

“Not Vulcan, either. Nor Romulan, Klingon or, in fact, any known Federation sentient species,” Spock replied.

“Hypothesis, Mister Spock?”

“Not enough data at present, Captain,” Spock replied.

“Best guess.”

Spock cocked his head.

I know you all too well, my friend, Kirk thought. Never a moment when that magnificent mind of yours isn’t bubbling with one idea or another.

“Extremely speculative, Captain. I would prefer to gather more information before hazarding an opinion.”

Kirk nodded. “Very well, Mister Spock.”

He turned his attention back to the room and its furnishings.

Who had wooden furniture and natural fiber curtains on a remote science outpost? This was information his orders most definitely had not included, and Kirk didn’t like it.

“One thing’s for sure, whoever was in this room didn’t want to leave it and made someone pay a high price for intruding.”

Kirk had an additional security team beamed down. He sent this detail to check every room in this wing of the complex, while he and Spock returned to the central control room. Uhura, at the main communications console, had by this time pulled up the outpost communications records—what there were of them.

“The station communication records have been wiped, Captain,” Uhura reported. “Interior sensor recordings, incoming message backups, outgoing communiqués—all of it. Someone who knew their way around computers and communication equipment did this.”

“Or was forced to do it,” Kirk replied. “Gentlemen, it’s time we venture outside.”

Exterior egress was through an airlock. The planetoid was Class-M, but barely. The surface of Zeta Gibraltar was not a spot you’d want to visit for shoreleave. Or ever—if you didn’t have to.

Atmospheric pressure was slightly lower than Earth normal, much closer to that of Vulcan. Gravity, on the other hand, was almost twenty percent higher despite the planetoid’s compact size. This was due to a dense iron core so large it even extruded through the surface in spots. It was a geology where dilithium might be found, Kirk noted, although the deposit would likely be a kilometer or more beneath the crust.

Spock remained as stoic as ever when he encountered the gravity increase, but Chekov sighed at the added weight, as did Graves, and Thibodeaux nearly collapsed at the knees, not anticipating the sudden change. The ensign stumbled a few steps before finding his footing.

Kirk felt the change immediately when he stepped out onto the gritty, dry soil of the surface.

The station interior obviously generated artificial gravity at one g to lighten the planetary effects. This was another odd hint of luxury for a scientific outpost. An assignment to such a frontier facility usually meant roughing it and getting used to whatever gravity you happened to find holding you to the planet or planetoid.

“On polny mudak!” Chekov exclaimed. “Even my eyelids feel heavy.”

Kirk nodded and led the group forward. There was bright blue algae-level vegetation in clumps all about. An odor not unlike rotting seaweed filled the air—what there was of air, that is.

“The ground cover is colored blue to filter out excessive sunlight that would break down the normal photosynthetic process,” Spock remarked. “Much like some desert plants on other Class-M worlds have red leaves in order to filter out intense light from a mainline yellow-red sun.”

Up ahead about fifty paces Kirk spotted an area that appeared to be bare of all vegetation. “Come on,” Kirk said, and directed the others to follow him toward it.

When they arrived, Kirk saw that it was exactly what he’d expected. A blast zone.

“Recent. Notice the burn marks at the outer edge. The ion signature indicates a matter/antimatter powered propulsion device was present here six point four days ago,” Spock said.

“The day the outpost missed its first daily report,” said Kirk.

“Precisely,” answered Spock.

“A landing craft?” said Kirk.

“Very likely, Captain. However, it is a very peculiar ion signal.”

Spock took several steps toward the blast zone, his attention still fixed on his tricorder. Kirk looked around to see if there were any other signs of what had taken place. A white flash of something tangled in one of the algae bushes caught his eye, but before he could examine it more closely, Ensign Thibodeaux’s voice called out.

“Mister Spock!”

Kirk whirled to see the ensign backing away in horror from something on the ground—something Spock was about to inadvertently step on.

There was no way Spock could react quickly enough to avoid it.

Suddenly, in a streak of gold and black, Chekov barreled into Spock’s torso, pushing the first officer to the side. Spock, a very difficult man to drop, merely stumbled a few steps sideways, while Chekov himself crashed into a bush. Kirk came closer and saw what it was Spock had been about to come down on.

A flat saucer shape with a pin sticking up from its top.

Landmine, Kirk thought. Outlawed in the Federation, but in use outside its boundaries by backward military regimes of various stripes—and pirates.

Spock came beside Kirk and examined the device with him.

“Whoever put this here very likely seeded the area with them to dissuade attack,” he said, “or perhaps to cordon in a group.”

“I’d bet on the latter,” Kirk said. He turned to the others. “Be on the lookout for these landmines. There are probably more of them.”

Chekov, who was on his hands and knees, extracted himself from the algae bush. He had a few scratches on his face and arms, but otherwise seemed none the worse for wear. He grinned when he saw Spock was all right.

“It seems you owe Mister Chekov a debt of gratitude,” Kirk said.

Spock looked surprised. “My death or dismemberment would have disrupted the mission,” he said. “It was the only logical thing for Ensign Chekov to do.”

Kirk looked at Chekov with a wry smile and shrugged. The navigator returned the smile and shrugged back. They both knew to expect that reaction from the first officer and were amused rather than irritated.

What Spock lacked in emotional response, Ensign Thibodeaux made up for in buckets. The young ensign had his hands to his knees and was gasping for breath.

Kirk was about to go to him to see what was the matter, but Chekov spoke first. “Captain, allow me. I believe I know what he is going through very well. It was not so long ago that I was a green officer on his first assignment.”

“All right, Mister Chekov, handle it,” Kirk said. “Spock, let’s see what else we can find out.” He was about to leave it at that, but added: “And watch your step, won’t you?”

He knew the teasing statement would likely have no effect on his first officer, but he couldn’t resist if only for his own amusement.

“Indeed, Captain,” Spock replied, with a raise of the eyebrow. “That type of landmine has a blast radius of fifteen point three meters, if I’m not mistaken. The ensuing explosion would likely have eliminated the entire landing party as well as myself had I activated it. I shall take care not to trigger one.”

Did I get to you, Spock, or was that merely a display of routine logic? Kirk thought.

It was always impossible to tell—which was another fascinating characteristic of his friend and second-in-command.

Two

Ensign Pavel Chekov took a sip of his vodka and nodded sympathetically toward Ensign Jerry Thibodeaux, who was seated across from him at a recreation room six table.

“Go on,” Chekov said gently.

“I don’t know what came over me, Chekov,” said Thibodeaux.

“Call me Pavel,” Chekov said. “We are off duty.”

And I want to give you space to speak freely without the worry that I may be filing a report.

Thibodeaux nodded that he would.

“Go on.”

“I saw where Spock was about to put his foot, and I just thought, We’re all dead. And I froze. Then I backed away even though I saw Mister Spock was in danger.” Thibodeaux took a sip of his beer. “No, that’s not really right. What I was thinking was that I was dead. I didn’t really care about anybody else at all in that moment.”

Thibodeaux and Chekov were seated at a corner table. Chekov took another sip of vodka. He noticed that Thibodeaux was now working on his second beer.

“You haven’t gotten used to danger yet—real danger. It takes time. I know.”

“Pavel, I spent four years at Starfleet Academy training my heart out. I was supposed to be ready. I requested security. There wasn’t a simulation at the Academy that I didn’t pass with flying colors.” Thibodeaux lowered his head and put a palm to his forehead. “All for nothing.”

“I believe you are not right about that,” Chekov said. “The training will serve you well, do not worry. And let me tell you, you will never stop experiencing that adrenaline rush. Your mind goes completely blank for an instant, and all you feel is the urge to either flee or fight. This never goes away, my friend.”

“Then I’ll never be effective in a real-life situation.”

“It never leaves you, but that moment of pure terror becomes shorter and shorter, the more you are used to it. And then your training kicks in. You will know what to do.”

“You sure did,” said Thibodeaux. “That was amazing.”

Chekov shook his head. “It is something Commander Spock has done for me more than once—perhaps not in that exact manner, of course, but he has certainly prevented harm from coming to me.” Chekov gestured around himself at the others in the rec room. “That’s what it means to be part of this crew. You don’t just look out for one another. After a while, you owe one another your lives. Everyone understands this, and yet we seldom mention it to one another. It is a fact of life on a starship such as this.” Chekov took another sip of his vodka and smiled. “Especially under Captain Kirk. He does take the mission of this vessel seriously.”

“He’s becoming a legend back at the Academy. And I made an idiot blunder right in front of him.”

“Don’t let it define you. Learn from it,” Chekov said. He raised his glass. “Here’s to your first real landing party mission. May there be many other adventures.”

“That I don’t mess up quite so badly.” The navigator nodded but said nothing and took his sip. Jerry Thibodeaux would be all right, Chekov was fairly certain. They finished their drinks and headed off to their quarters for rest period. Soon it would be time to return to duty. Chekov looked forward to it. What he hadn’t told Thibodeaux—because the young man would soon find out for himself—was that danger and action had their rewards as well as their costs.

The adrenaline surge went both ways. After experiencing it a few times, one might not only stop dreading it, but come to enjoy it. This was the real secret a Starfleet officer learned after a while: the fact that no other life could ever be quite as satisfying.

At least not to me, Chekov thought. He yawned as he came to the door of his personal quarters and realized he really did need that bit of scheduled downtime. Duty would call soon enough, and he planned to be ready.

Kirk contemplated the viewscreen on the bridge as Spock and Uhura worked together on an idea suggested by the communications officer. Communications and records had been wiped from the Zeta Gibraltar computer, but she had managed to locate what proved to be an overlooked file of meteorological events on the planet’s surface. Going through this, and knowing the approximate time of the raid—or whatever had occurred at the outpost—Uhura pinpointed a momentary surge in nearby temperatures and the same curious ion signature that Spock’s tricorder had picked up at the blast site.

The outpost equipment was more sensitive than the tricorder, and Spock and Uhura were narrowing down the identification characteristics by running both scans through the Enterprise’s state-of-the-art information comparison programs.

The planet below had no large bodies of water—most of what water there was occurred in the subsurface. This led to a planetary appearance that varied from light brown to chocolate-orange interspaced by the ubiquitous blue smears where there were concentrations of the planetary algal plants. Zeta Gibraltar was not a very inviting place when viewed from space. The planetoid did have one singular characteristic, however. It was on an extreme outlying tendril of Federation territory and was the farthest full-time inhabited planet from Earth in Federation space.

After Spock’s close call, Kirk had examined the white item he’d found in those blue bushes.

A gentleman’s silk cravat.

Silk. Wood. Wool. What did it add up to?

One thing he knew: he had a missing outpost crew and he had to find them.

A data slate was handed to Kirk by a yeoman and he rose and stretched before signing it and handing the slate back.

“Spock, anything?”

Spock turned from the communications console. “Affirmative, Captain. We have isolated the ion signature. It is indeed that of a craft using matter/antimatter propulsion.”

“It’s also unique, Captain,” Uhura said. “We should be able to identify it.”

Spock stepped back over to his science console. “Running sensor sweeps now, sir,” he said. “It may be possible to . . . yes. There.”

“What is it, Spock?”

“An ion trail leading away from the planet, Captain. It matches the signature the lieutenant and I found within the planetary records as well as my tricorder readings.”

“Can we follow it?”

“Transferring path out of the system to navigation now.”

“Excellent work, Spock, Uhura.” Kirk sat back down. Now they were getting somewhere! “Helmsman, take her about. Mister Sulu, follow that ion trail.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

It did not take long to see exactly where the ion trail was leading them.

Out of the Zeta Gibraltar system—and straight into the glowing dust and debris of the mysterious Vara Nebula.

Three

Captain’s Log, Supplemental. We are venturing into one of the great melting pots and star forges of our galaxy: the Vara Nebula. We are following an ion trail with a unique signature that we believe was left by a ship carrying the Zeta Gibraltar science station personnel. That trail has led us directly into a dangerous region of the nebula. We are being buffeted by meteoroid strikes, but we are still venturing forward in hopes of bringing home the Zeta Gibraltar staff.

Kirk was glad to see Chekov report to the bridge just as the Enterprise reached the nebula’s outer boundaries. This was going to be a tricky passage, and Chekov had not only great skill, but something that it was impossible to teach a navigation officer: excellent intuition. Much would depend on the young ensign.

The Enterprise forged ahead for several hours through the material miasma of the outer Vara, shields up, but not yet at maximum. There was simply no way to journey into the nebula without encountering micrometeoroids—and quite a few that were not so “micro” at all. The ship was buffeted by several large strikes, but the shields held and had remained at full power. He could not order them to absolute maximum—because of the nebula’s interference with the sensors—which meant that a portion of the energy of any large meteoroid strike would be transferred through the shields to the physical structure of the ship. This was unavoidable. They must be able to use maximum sensors to track the ion trail. But the safety of the Enterprise was also uppermost in Kirk’s mind. It was a fine balance.

The captain touched a button on his command chair armrest. “Engineering, report. Are we still within structural limits?”

Scott’s voice answered over the ship’s intership. “Aye, Captain, she’s holding together. But I don’t like it. There’s only so much of this she can take—and then something’s bound to give.”

“Keep an eye on the situation, Scotty,” said Kirk. “We wouldn’t be pushing forward under these conditions if there wasn’t a high probability that lives are on the line.”

“Understood, Captain,” Scott answered, sounding only a trifle mollified. “We’ll do everything we can to hold her together. I hope we find who or what we’re looking for sooner rather than later and get the ship out of here.”

“I hope so, too, Scotty. Bridge out.”

Moments later, a whistle came from the command chair intraship. “Sickbay to bridge.”

Kirk activated the intercom channel. “Kirk here, sickbay.”

“We’ve finished analysis on that very odd surprise you brought up for us from the planetoid surface.” The familiar drawl of a gentleman from the North American south let him know his friend and the Enterprise’s chief medical officer, Leonard McCoy, was speaking.

“What have you got for me, Bones?”

“It matches no known current species. But I seemed to recall something from a paper I read a while back about forensics research on a set of historical remains. There was a report of that DNA having an odd triplicate structure. So I ran a check, and it matched up. Jim, that arm belongs to a member of the species known as the L’rah’hane.”

“The L’rah’hane? The old pirates the Federation sent packing long ago?”

“About seventy-five years,” McCoy said. “They had three sexes—‘have,’ I should say. That arm belongs to a hermaphrodite of the species.”

“Interesting,” said Kirk. “Good work, Bones.”

“Got another surprise for you, Captain.”

“Yes?”

“The manner in which that extremity was separated from its unfortunate former owner,”
McCoy said. He paused a moment for effect, then delivered his verdict. “A blade.”

“As in a knife?”

“Something that could shear through it in one cut,” McCoy replied. “I’d say a battle-ax or sword.”

This was getting more interesting by the minute.

“Thanks, Bones,” he replied. “Keep at it. Bridge out.”

Kirk turned back to the viewscreen and sat musing as the nebular debris flew by. At least now he knew his likely quarry. L’rah’hane pirates.

The last of whom had been encountered and defeated seventy-five years ago.

A few moments later Spock turned from his constant monitoring at the science station sensor readouts. “Sir, we have lost the ion trail.”

“Lost it? Can we get it back?”

“I do not think so. I have attempted to employ multiple methods.”

Kirk touched a hand to his chin, considering. To have come so far, and risked lives, only to reach a dead end. Without that trail, it would be like finding a needle in a haystack. The nebula was a vast hiding place many light-years across. Yet Kirk knew he wouldn’t give up the search if any chance of finding the outpost personnel remained.

“What about long-range probes, Spock? Can we send them out in a radial sweep?”

“It would require some adjustment to their sensory programming and shielding characteristics. Ten minutes if I am able to work steadily.”

“Do it, Mister Spock.” Kirk turned back to the helm. “Bring us to a stop exactly where that ion trail ran out, Chekov. I want to be able to follow that breadcrumb trail back home, if need be.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Spock completed his modifications, and the probes were launched. Kirk settled in for a long wait, but, surprisingly, one of the probes soon streaked back and, when it came within close enough range that the nebula’s natural radiation didn’t scramble its communication channels, it sent its report.

“Captain, probe seven seems to have found something. Or multiple somethings,” Uhura said, turning in her bridge chair. “It is sending a full report including images.”

“On-screen,” said Kirk.

The display showed faint traces of structures that looked very much like two spread hands joined together at the thumbs. Weird, but obviously created by intelligent life. Sensor readings confirmed there were beings within those structures.

A quick pull back and size comparison revealed they were, in fact, slightly smaller than the Enterprise. Four of them.

The ion trail signature was all around them.

“Those are ships,” Kirk said.

“I concur, Captain,” said Spock.

They were several thousand kilometers away, hidden within a cloud of dust that looked, upon examination, suspiciously globular, as if it had been created on purpose. Its center was rocky and had the readings profile of an asteroid.

So that dust globe is likely camouflage, Kirk thought. It’s a meet-up spot. Or a transfer station. A treasure island, perhaps. Let’s find out what it’s hiding.

“That’s enough, Lieutenant, thank you,” Kirk said, indicating with a finger that Uhura could return the viewscreen to its customary exterior display. “Release a navigational beacon to mark our present position, Mister Sulu, and then let’s go and have a closer look at those ships.”

“Aye, sir.”

“All sensors forward, Mister Spock. I don’t want any nasty surprises.”

“Sensors forward.”

Kirk stared at the viewscreen. Nothing but dust flying past on all sides.

Like looking up into a rain storm, he thought. If the rain were rocks moving at thousands of kilometers an hour speed.

The globular cloud was a darker patch ahead of them.

Uhura switched the viewscreen display to infrared, and the false color imagery showed reddish bodies, with the curious handlike shapes, within a cloud of yellows and oranges.

The pirates.

“Intercepting various communications frequencies, Captain,” Uhura said.

“Subspace?”

“Negative, sir. Electromagnetic. They are . . . old-fashioned radio waves.”

“Please put it on bridge audio, Lieutenant.”

“Switching over.”

A patch of static, and then a spate of wordlike guttural sounds that Kirk could have sworn was cursing.

Spock looked up from his sensors, intrigued.

“Words, Spock?” Kirk said.

“That would be my guess, Captain, although—”

Uhura interrupted. “Captain, the signal modulation correlates with a known language.”

“Don’t tell me, Lieutenant. Is it L’rah’hane?”

Uhura’s face took on a look of surprise. “Yes, sir, that’s exactly what it is.”

“Then let’s have a translation.”

“Working on it, Captain,” answered Uhura. “The universal translator should have it . . . now.”

Suddenly the sounds coming over audio began to make sense.

“You stupid foolish stumpwalker, if you don’t get back here this instant with the bounty, I’m going to blow you out of the sky.”

“Is he talking to us?” said Sulu, looking up from his helm console with some alarm.

“No. I don’t think so,” Kirk replied.

As if to confirm this, another voice broke in, replying to the first with a taunt. “You try and make me, you virus-brained moron. The Hradrians will pay a lot more in credits for this lot than your sorry pay will ever add up to. We’re leaving, and you can’t stop us.”

“I’ll blast you from the sky!”

“And destroy your precious slave consignment? I don’t think so, Erget.”

“Damn you, Splo, you won’t get away with this.”

“Oh, but I will! You’re the one who is going to be out of luck this time, you old tyrant.”

“Looks like we arrived at a bad time for them, but a good time for us,” Kirk said. “Mister Sulu, find a place nearby to hide us from sensors while those two squabble. Perhaps a radiant hotspot that will conceal us in its general brightness. I want to assess this situation before we act.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Kirk turned to Spock. “Who have we got that’s a twenty-second-century scholar, Mister Spock?”

“I believe Lieutenant Julia Tanner is an expert in that era, Captain.”

“Uhura, report on what we’ve found. I want to know everything she can tell us about the days of the L’rah’hane piracy.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Have Doctor McCoy, Mister Scott, and Lieutenant Tanner report to the briefing room in twenty minutes. You and Mister Spock will join us. I’ll want a full situation report.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Also, prepare a drone to send to the edge of the nebula. I’ll dictate a report for Starfleet Command for subspace transmission. We want them to know what we’re doing in here, since we can’t communicate with them directly due to the subspace interference.”

“Drone already in the launch tube,” said Uhura with a slight smile. “As soon as the nebula began to block our subspace communications, it seemed like a good idea to have it ready for immediate deployment.”

“Good call, Lieutenant,” Kirk replied. After handing off the bridge to Sulu, he quickly made his way to his quarters to compose his report.

Kirk reflected that he might have dictated his report on the bridge, but he planned to include a few pointed words as to his not being informed of whatever was going on at what was supposed to be a regular science outpost on Zeta Gibraltar.

Lieutenants Tanner and Uhura were engaged in a deep discussion when Kirk and Spock entered the conference room. Scott was present. McCoy was there as well, clearly chafing at being pulled away from his sickbay. Kirk’s intuition told him he might need the doctor’s advice very soon, however.

Kirk sat down at the head of the triangle-shaped table.

“Report. What do we have?”

“The language is not classic L’rah’hane, but a variant dialect,” said Lieutenant Tanner. She was a petite woman in a blue science officer’s uniform. Her most exceptional feature was her lustrous eyes. Kirk reflected that she must have thought so, too. She’d surrounded them with a line of dark eyeliner of an almost ancient-Egyptian thickness. “The L’rah’hane pirates roamed a large portion of the Alpha Quadrant in their day. They were taken on and resoundingly defeated in 2173. It was believed that all spacefaring technology available to them had been destroyed. Obviously we need to modify that supposition.” Tanner nodded toward the triviewer, where she clicked through several blurry photographs and an artistic rendering of the L’rah’hane. They were generally humanoid in appearance, but their noses were turned upward and possessed a triad of nostrils.

Shouldn’t judge by appearances, Kirk thought. But they do look a bit like pigs.

“The L’rah’hane were not a creative species. Instead, they specialized in either begging or stealing the technology of others. According to the few records they kept, they had originally come from a pre-warp planet when some hapless visitor crash-landed his ship. Although their homeworld was never located, after the defeat in 2173, it was believed that the L’rah’hane homeworld contained all that remained of the species. Considering their technological level, sector quarantine was deemed suitable.”

“Another assumption we are going to be modifying.”

“Lieutenant Tanner explained something else to me, Captain,” Uhura said, cutting in. “The L’rah’hane weren’t merely pirates. Primarily, they were slavers.” She pronounced this last statement with disgust in her voice. “They raided worlds with their stolen technology, took away entire shiploads of the natives as slaves, and sold them.”

“Sold them to whom?”

“To the highest bidder,” Tanner answered. “Another unexplained datum, Captain. The ships the L’rah’hane operated were believed to be the last remnants of the Hradrian navy.”

“But the Hradrian Empire hasn’t existed since the twenty-first century. It was in ruins seventy-five years ago,” said Kirk.

“This is quite true,” Spock said. “There are Hradrian ruins on a broad swath of worlds across the entire Alpha Quadrant. The empire was at its zenith during Earth’s twentieth and twenty-first centuries. It had a rapid decline and fall during Earth’s twenty-second century.” Spock cocked his head in a reflective pose. “It is fortunate that Hradrians never happened upon your home system, Captain. There would have been little chance that human technology of the time would have stood up to Hradrian firepower.”

“That’s very true,” said Tanner. “The Hradrian Empire was based on forced labor of multiple species—slavery, in other words. Machinery and automation were kept in the hands of the upper class and ruling castes so that they could retain power. It was a system that functioned for several centuries.”

“But the slaves ultimately rebelled, as I remember. It brought down the empire.”

“In truth, Captain, that is one of the big questions of Hradrian scholarship,” said Tanner. “Did the empire fall because of a slave revolt, or were there revolts because the empire was crumbling?”

“So the L’rah’hane flew Hradrian ships, but the Hradrians were also their best customers,” Kirk offered.

“Exactly,” said Uhura.

“Toward the end of the Hradrian Empire, they existed in a sort of social symbiosis,” Tanner continued. She was beginning to grow a bit breathless, her enthusiasm for her subject coming to the fore. “From what we have pieced together from the Hradrian archives, the L’rah’hane pirate lanes fit neatly into the remains of the Hradrian Empire. As the empire crumbled, the L’rah’hane preyed on Hradrian outlying worlds to provide slaves to the worlds on the interior.” Tanner looked at Kirk imploringly. “Captain, we have an amazing opportunity for study. Those L’rah’hane ships are new and they are very likely Hradrian in origin. That means there must be a remnant of the Hradrian Empire somewhere beyond the Vara Nebula, perhaps close by.”

McCoy looked like he was about to come out of his seat, so agitated was he. “Need I remind you, Lieutenant, that the Hradrians were not merely notorious slaveholders, they got rid of their elderly slaves in centralized concentration camps? I remember my history, too, and from every record the Hradrians left behind, we can infer that the empire was a vicious state built on coercion of innocent beings.”

Tanner seemed taken aback. She hadn’t been ready for a full broadside from the ship’s doctor.

But, damn it, McCoy was right. The only reason Kirk could imagine that he’d like to rediscover the Hradrian empire would be to free its slaves and kill its leaders in horrible ways. This, he realized, was a violation of the Prime Directive.

“Captain,” Spock put in, “the L’rah’hane, and not the Hradrians, are our present problem.”

“Well, if they are these L’rah’hane pirates, then there’s hope the outpost staff is alive,” McCoy stated. “Assuming they were taken in a slave-gathering raid, then the L’rah’hane wouldn’t want to murder the merchandise.”

“Precisely,” said Spock. “If the L’rah’hane still traffic in interspecies slavery, perhaps the outpost personnel are to be sold as chattel. We may also find them gathered in one place.”

“Agreed,” said Kirk. “Put together an armed landing party to go down to that asteroid, and let’s look around for our missing colonists.”

“Transporting is going to be a wee bit tricky, sir,” said Scott. “With conditions in this nebula, I highly recommend taking a shuttlecraft.”

“Agreed, Mister Scott. In the meantime that ship, whatever its captain’s motives are, can’t be allowed to go anywhere. We’ll have to see to that with tractor beams. If those won’t work, we’ll use phasers only as a last resort, as that would surely give away our position in the nebula cloud.”

“Aye, sir, I’ll direct all auxiliary energy to the tractor beams,” said Scott. “I believe we can hold that ship, if it comes to it.”

“We’ll also need to sweep the surrounding area for more vessels. I don’t want to get a nasty surprise that—”

A loud blast from the ship’s intraship. It was the alarm that announced a ship-wide red alert!

Kirk thumbed an intraship set in the center of the conference room table. “Mister Sulu, report!”

“Captain, the nebula detritus is no longer concealing us to their sensors. We have been detected and are under attack. Four pirate vessels approaching. Their weapons are hot, sir, and they are deploying torpedoes.”

“Shields to maximum,” Kirk immediately responded. “On our way.” Kirk paused a moment, considering. “Sulu, whatever you do, do not, I repeat, do not destroy those ships!”

Four

The firefight was intense and energetic despite the Enterprise’s technological advantage. The L’rah’hane weapons were no match for the Enterprise’s shields. Any normal fight would have been a foregone conclusion. The pirates’ defenses, however, were considerably more advanced than their offensive weapons.

The L’rah’hane also understood how to fight in groups.

Three ships closed in on the Enterprise in an even distribution, while the fourth, the one containing one of the bickering parties as heard over the radio, broke away from the asteroid and attempted to get in a position behind the Enterprise.

They increased their ragged laser fire, achieving a concentration but not quite succeeding in synchronizing. The Enterprise shields absorbed these shots easily. More worrisome were the nuclear torpedoes. Nuclear explosions could bring down a starship’s shields in time—although it would take a great many more than the L’rah’hane had yet deployed. Sulu’s phasers were kept busy blasting these to pieces before they came within damaging range.

The main problem is that I can’t outright destroy them, Kirk thought. There may be Federation personnel held captive on those ships. We’ve got to shoot to disable.

Shooting a starship in exactly the right spot could be done. The first problem was to identify a vulnerable system on the enemy vessel.

Kirk had Spock busily working on that.

The other problem was range. Even the highly concentrated beams of phasers spread slightly at distance. What Sulu needed was a target range of about ten thousand kilometers—that is, extremely close range for a space battle, and a position into which no sane captain would allow his ship to be drawn.

But these were bloody-minded pirates. Which gave Kirk an idea.

“Mister Chekov, establish coordinates for the thickest, most dangerous portion of the nebula that’s closest to us.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the ensign. “Got it, Captain.”

“Take us there.”

“Sir?” But the hesitation was only in the helmsman’s voice, not in his actions. Chekov’s hands were already guiding the controls to obey his captain’s orders.

“Be careful, Mister Chekov. We don’t want to let a stray meteoroid do the job these pirates are trying to do on us.”

“Aye, sir.”

Now the bucking and pounding grew more intense. It was possible to avoid some of the debris in the region into which Chekov was turning, but not all of it. This was no dust cloud with the occasional rocky body either. There were some ship-sized chunks of aggregated matter slamming against the shields of the Enterprise.

“Steady as she goes.”

“Captain, your gambit appears to have worked,” said Spock from his science station. “The L’rah’hane vessels are turning and following us and closing range so as to keep us in sight in this denser region.”

Sometimes it seemed to Kirk as if he and Spock actually shared some sort of continuing mind-meld. But the explanation was simpler. Clearly his first officer had reasoned out Kirk’s move the moment the captain had initiated it.

“Have you isolated the L’rah’hane vulnerable systems?”

“Just completed,” said Spock. “Their engine cooling system has a distinct weakness. A direct shot into the manifold vents should initiate a shutdown of propulsion without unduly endangering the ship’s life support.”

“How big are those vents, Mister Spock?”

“Two square meters,” Spock replied. “I have routed the configuration to weapons.”

“You hear that, Mister Sulu. You have a target about the size of a dinner table, and you have to make it from at the very least ten thousand kilometers, possibly more. Think you can hit it?”

Sulu nodded. His helmsman and weapons officer was extremely civilized, but Kirk knew Sulu revered and made a particular study of his samurai ancestors. He was certain he saw Sulu’s lip quirk in a slight smile of warrior-like anticipation. “I’ll give it my best shot, sir.”

“Ships one and three at two hundred kilometers,” Spock called out. “Ships two and four closing to one hundred kilometers.”

“Let them get a little closer, Mister Sulu. We want all of them in range.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Fifty thousand meters and twenty thousand. Another nuclear device has been deployed by ship one.”

“On it,” said Sulu as he deftly blasted the nuke into molecules.

“Ranges on L’rah’hane vessels in meters: twenty thousand, twelve, eleven, ten thousand . . .” said Spock.

“Do you have them all, Mister Sulu?”

“Got them, Captain.”

“Fire at will, Mister Sulu.”

“Aye, sir.”

What followed was a virtuoso performance by the helmsman and weapons officer. There was only so much telemetry a ship’s sensors and computer could provide. There remained, inevitably, a terrible art to wielding the mighty weapon of a starship phaser. It was almost as if Sulu were thrusting his phasers in the precise strikes of an expert with the fencing foil and épée—weapons of which, Kirk knew, Sulu was in fact a master.

Flashes on the viewscreen as three ships were hit in turn. The fourth was struck, but either the shot had failed to strike the cooling manifold, or the ship had a slightly different construction. It came hard about almost immediately.

“L’rah’hane vessels one, two, and three dead in space,” said Spock. “Ship four remains operational and is withdrawing.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Kirk said to the viewscreen image of the fleeing L’rah’hane. “Mister Chekov, follow that ship.”

“Aye, sir.”

The escaping ship streaked away through the nebula gases, seemingly heedless of its own danger of striking debris and breaking up. This was the ship that had been communicating with the asteroid base, and Kirk was fairly certain that if Federation personnel were still alive, some would likely be on that ship.

Despite the head start of the L’rah’hane ship, the Enterprise was rapidly closing. After a few moments, Uhura spoke up from her station.

“Sir, we are receiving a signal from the L’rah’hane ship. There’s a visual as well.”

“Are they trying to communicate with us?”

“I don’t believe so, sir. It’s a broadcast feed, perhaps a distress call sequence has been tripped.”

“Put it on-screen, Lieutenant.”

At first, all that was visible was a blur of moving bodies. It was difficult to make out exactly what was going on, but there were several of the bright yellow L’rah’hane struggling against what appeared to be human beings. Suddenly the contorted visage of what might be the L’rah’hane pirate leader, his upturned nose and three nostrils flaring, filled the whole viewscreen. He must be directly in front of the pick-up.

Tanner’s records had not quite done the alienness of the L’rah’hane justice. It wasn’t just the nose. The pirate’s multiply folded, batlike yellow face was twisted in rage, and his blood-red teeth, either filed to points or naturally occurring that way, were bared as he snarled.

And then, there was a loud crack, a distinctly odd sound that Kirk half recognized, and the look of rage on the face of the L’rah’hane turned to surprise. He stumbled, and gazed down at his chest.

By stepping backward, the rest of the L’rah’hane had come into view. There was a hole in his chest about where the heart would be in a human, and he was leaking a purplish fluid that might be L’rah’hane blood.

That’s an exit wound, Kirk thought. And then he realized where he knew the sound. Gunpowder. That was the sound of an old-fashioned projectile weapon being fired.

The L’rah’hane pirate reeled backward, but then, when it had almost covered up the device’s field of vision, a bubbly froth of blood emerged from the pirate’s distended nostrils. The L’rah’hane collapsed downward and fell out of view.

Behind the fallen slaver stood a tall human being. He was dressed in a long blue coat and a white shirt.

And on his head . . . a wig. There was a line of separation where the forehead met the hairline, and no doubt that this thing upon the person’s head was an artificial creation.

It was long, gray, and drawn back and tied behind the neck with what looked like a black ribbon.

Like the portrait Kirk had seen, here was another man wearing eighteenth-century dress—but this man was very much alive and kicking.

“What the blazes,” Kirk murmured. He blinked, making sure he was actually seeing what he thought he was seeing. In that moment, another L’rah’hane launched itself at the man, and he tumbled out of view, struggling with the pirate for his life.

Then the two rose up, now in profile. The man in the wig had drawn a long vibro-knife—

No, thought Kirk. That’s no knife. That’s a sword.

The pirate was the one with the knife. It was long, curved, and serrated—designed to maim as well as kill. The L’rah’hane thrust, but the man quickly stepped to the side and the knife whizzed by and missed. As the L’rah’hane attempted to withdraw and strike again, the man shifted his weight forward and crashed into the pirate with the sword’s hilt. The pirate leaped back to regain its balance. In that moment, it flung its bright yellow arms wide, exposing its chest.

The man wasted no chance in taking advantage of the opening. With a hard thrust, and a grunt of effort, he ran the L’rah’hane through with the sword.

Purple blood welled around the wound entry point.

The pirate let out a great shriek. But the sword had probably cut through what passed for a lung in the L’rah’hane, and its shriek became a ragged, nearly airless rasp.

With a deft movement, the man withdrew the sword from the L’rah’hane’s chest, then, with a wicked sideways thrust, lopped into the pirate’s neck. The L’rah’hane fell—fell, Kirk was fairly certain, never to rise again.

The human victor quickly spun, looking over the situation on the alien craft’s bridge. It seemed to Kirk’s practiced eye to be some sort of control room, at least. The man on the viewscreen saw another man beset by a L’rah’hane and, sword held high, stormed to his aid.

With the nearby action gone, Kirk could see that the entire bridge, or whatever it was, was filled with humans fighting L’rah’hane. Some of the humans were in regulation science officer blue—the outpost was nominally under the purview of Starfleet—but others were in the garb of the man with the sword. And other, even more outlandish, costumes.

And that man with the sword . . .

It began to register on Kirk.

Not any man.

A man he recognized.

A man he knew from his own history lessons, his own personal studies.

A hero of his, in fact.

“Lieutenant Uhura, can you set up two-way communication?”

“Yes, sir, just a moment,” she replied, her fingers nimbly touching several controls. “I believe you are on the L’rah’hane vessel’s viewscreen now, Captain.”

Kirk felt frustrated. Here he was visually linked to a fight—overlooking that fight as if he were some sort of disembodied referee, no less. And it was a fight to the finish, a fight in which he knew he could make a difference were he there—yet he couldn’t take part, could do nothing but await the outcome.

Soon, the fighting humans overcame the last of the L’rah’hane. Several humans lay dead or wounded, as well.

The man with the sword came back into view. He bent down and picked up a hat—a tricorn hat—that had evidently fallen off in the fighting, and placed it on his head. Then the man reached over and tapped the center of his own display. It must be the size of a small monitor, Kirk reflected. His suddenly enormous finger filled up a quarter of the Enterprise’s viewscreeen.

“Is this one of those playback devices?”

“I suspect it to be a transceiver, General,” said a voice off to the side, in a Scottish brogue that was even deeper than Montgomery Scott’s. “We are likely in communication with the man on the screen.”

The man turned back to Kirk, his face now filling the Enterprise viewscreen.

There was no doubt who this person looked like.

George Washington.

“Captain, we are detecting multiple life pods launching away on the other three disabled L’rah’hane ships,” said Spock.

Kirk turned his attention from the viewscreen.

“We are out of phaser range for the moment, Captain,” Sulu said.

“We’re not going to fire anyway,” Kirk said. “We don’t know if there are any more prisoners on those pods.”

“They appear to be converging and traveling in convoy deeper into the nebula.”

“All right, we’ll return to this problem later,” Kirk said, motioning Uhura to cut the viewscreen feed from the L’rah’hane ship’s bridge. “Turn us about, helmsman. Mister Spock, as soon as possible, scan those ships. I want to know if there are any Federation personnel on them.”

“Coming into range in fifteen point four seconds, Captain.” Spock looked down into his sensor scope. “Signs of human life aboard all three vessels.”

“Get a tractor beam on those ships,” Kirk said. “We’re bringing them back to the other one, and then we’ll deal with boarding and evacuation one at a time, but first I need to have a talk with—” Kirk shook his head. He couldn’t believe he was going to say it. “—George Washington.”

“Whom do I have the honor of addressing?” the humanoid who looked like George Washington asked, somewhat stiffly. Kirk had reestablished contact with the L’rah’hane ship, its bridge on the viewscreen.

There was no doubt. The resemblance was uncanny.

“James T. Kirk,” Kirk replied. “I’m captain of the United Federation of Planets Starship
Enterprise. Who or what are you?”

The man nodded. “Captain Kirk, sir. Is it to you we owe the distraction of the pirate L’rah’hane that allowed our escape?”

“We engaged in a firefight with the vessel you’re on, yes.”

“Please accept my deepest gratitude,” said the man. “Captain, we require assistance. Several of our number are wounded. Alas, three are dead. Also, the children of the outpost personnel are here, and they have not eaten in over two days. They are liberated, but remain in the holding area where we were kept.”

Kirk turned to Spock. “Transporter?”

“Out of the question in this particular region, sir. We are in a radiant hotspot in the nebula.”

Kirk suppressed a rueful smile. “Best cover I could find at the time.”

“Undoubtedly.” Spock nodded in agreement, then cocked his head to indicate he’d thought of something else. “Captain, there is a risk even at this close range of radiation poisoning should we deploy a shuttlecraft for docking,” the first officer continued. “But I believe the nebula’s radiation can be mitigated if Mister Scott will extend our shields to encompass the L’rah’hane vessel. There are what I believe are docking collars available on the L’rah’hane craft, so a shuttlecraft would be a safe option. There is a further problem, however—”

“Yes?”

“The L’rah’hane shields remain in operation, although at depleted power. They will have to come down in order for our shuttles to approach, much less to dock.”

“Do they, now?” said the man on the viewscreen. “Mister Watt, can you help us with this problem?”

I’ll call him George Washington for the time being, Kirk thought. But I won’t for one minute forget that whatever it is, it cannot be Washington.

“Aye, I can indeed, General,” said the voice with the brogue. It came from the left of Washington. “I was watchin’ these birds pretty closely when they fiddled with their controls.” Yet another man in the garb of an eighteenth-century gentleman moved to a console in the background. With him was a woman in modern-day garb and with hair in a Federation style indicating she was likely one of the station scientists. Together they studied the controls and briefly consulted. The Scotsman adjusted a fader and flipped a switch. “That should do it.”

“L’rah’hane shields are down,” Spock reported.

Kirk touched a control on his command chair. “Kirk to hangar deck, ready all craft.” Kirk touched another control. “Medical and security team to the hangar deck.”

“We’ll bring over the children and your wounded first,” Kirk told the man on the screen.

The other nodded. “We are obliged, Captain Kirk,” he said. “This has been a most unpleasant voyage, as you can imagine.”

“We’ll try to make it a better one back to the outpost,” said Kirk. “Sir, please state for the record your name and title.”

“My title? I did not know this formality was required.”

“It isn’t,” Kirk said. “Your Mister Watt called you ‘general.’ ”

“Yes, James may be a stubborn Scotsman, but he’s loyal to the Crown. He refuses to recognize my civilian rank.”

“Which would be—what?”

“I can hardly refuse one whose actions released us from our holding pens. When the L’rah’hane power failed, the pen energy doors were no more, allowing our escape plan to come to fruition”

“If you please, your name, sir?”

The man straightened up, stared a crystal-clear, gray-eyed stare at Kirk, and removed his hat. He made a partial bow. “I am George Washington.”

“The George Washington.”

“I am the president of the United States of America.”

“Former president,” Kirk replied.

“For me it does not seem that way,” the other replied. “In my own perception, I am president still.”

“We’re talking about the George Washington from the American Revolutionary War?”

“Captain, we both know that is an impossibility.”

“Then who or what are you?”

“Perhaps we should discuss this another time, outside of this accursed nebula, and face-to-face—”

“I want answers now!” said Kirk. “I see something that cannot be, and it makes me very wary of sending my people in harm’s way.”

Washington nodded. “I take your point, Captain,” he replied. “Very well. I believe you have guessed who and what I am already, in any case.”

Kirk sighed.

I thought I’d seen the last of this annoying species, but I suppose it was too good to be true.

“You’re Excalbian.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“What do you want from us this time? Is this some sort of experiment with the L’rah’hane and the outpost personnel? Are you still playing your sadistic game of torture to understand the difference between good and evil?”

“Not at all, Captain,” the Excalbian Washington answered. “That is a lesson that I, for one, learned well. Please accept my assurances that we former prisoners on this ship were truly in the slave pens of these creatures, whatever they are called. We were in need of help. We still are. I appeal to you to aid us. I will, of course, answer any and all questions you may have when my people are taken care of.”

Kirk frowned. “You have the ability to manipulate minds and matter. Why don’t you help them yourself?”

“Alas, this is no longer true. That is something I must discuss with you, Captain,” Washington replied. “You see, I have had my ability to transform stripped from me. I am, for all intents and purposes, as you see me now.”

“What I see is a human being. I see George Washington.”

“Captain, I am trapped in this form. At this point, I am as close to being George Washington as I am to being a semi-liquid mind inhabiting the magma currents of my former planet’s interior.” Washington glanced to the side, and a look of concern passed over his face. “Excuse me a moment—”

He turned from the screen and helped a wounded man to his feet. The other clutched a hand to a wound in his shoulder. It looked to be a nasty laser burn. He was dressed in what seemed to be the garb of a Napoleonic soldier.

No, thought Kirk. Not any Napoleonic soldier. That’s Napoleon, of course.

Washington turned to face Kirk.

The man’s eyes wrinkled, and his lips curled into a smile, although he still did not open his mouth to expose his teeth. “For the moment, whatever you believe, I assure you that I am most happy to be free once again. I have long believed that freedom ought to be the natural state of all men.”

“So it should,” Kirk replied.

A light flashed on Kirk’s command chair, and Scott’s voice came over the ship’s intraship. “Hangar deck to bridge.”

Kirk activated his side of the intraship. “Bridge here.”

“Captain, first shuttlecraft is away. Given the range, it should be docking in only a few minutes.”

“Eight point nine two,” Spock said.

“Thank you, Mister Scott. Deploy second shuttlecraft.” He looked up again at the viewscreen, considered.

“All right,” he said. “I’m prepared to talk. But this had better be good.”

“The only thing I can do is tell you the truth,” Washington answered. “I have always found that sufficient to any circumstance.”

Five

The remaining humans on the other ships proved to be Federation scientists. A security team arriving by shuttlecraft had freed them out of slave pens, which were really no more than transformed cargo holds.

All that remained, it seemed, were the Excalbians on the L’rah’hane flagship. So far not one had shown up on the Enterprise, despite multiple runs.

Kirk had asked the outpost commander to come to the bridge immediately when she arrived. The bridge turbolift door slid open, and a tall woman dressed in Starfleet science blues entered the deck. Her clothing had seen better days. It was filthy and torn in several spots. The woman was dark skinned and had an unmistakable intensity about her that was immediately noticeable. She did not wait for Kirk to speak but piped up herself.

“Commander Imelda Contreras, director of the Federation and Starfleet joint task force stationed on science outpost Zeta Gibraltar, Captain.”

Kirk stood, and Contreras quickly moved across to him and extended her hand. Kirk shook it in greeting.

“Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise, Commander.”

Contreras nodded. “I can’t tell you how glad we all are to be on your ship, Captain.”

“I can imagine. We’ll arrange for quarters for all of your personnel on our journey back to Zeta Gibraltar. We should arrive in only a few hours, but perhaps you’d like the opportunity to change and freshen up.”

“We would indeed,” replied Contreras. “It will take a long ’fresher session to wash the stench of those slave pens off me. I don’t want to be judgmental—oh hell, of course I want to be judgmental—every one of those pirates smelled like they’d bathed in a jar of ammonia mixed into a rancid tub of vomit.”

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that, Commander,” Kirk replied, with an empathetic smile. “I would, however, like to speak with you as soon as possible. I have . . . questions. I’m sure you know what some of those questions might be.”

Contreras nodded.

Kirk’s command chair intraship whistled and Mister Scott’s unmistakable accent came over the speaker. “Hangar deck to Captain Kirk.”

“Excuse me a moment,” Kirk said to Contreras. He thumbed the intraship control. “Mister Scott.”

“Sir, we have evacuated all Federation personnel from the L’rah’hane vessels.”

“Very good, Mister Scott.”

“I repeat: all Federation personnel,” Scott continued. “Those others are refusing to come.”

“Do they give a reason?”

“No, sir,” Scott replied. “I don’t know what this means, but they said to ask Mister Washington.”

“I’m pretty sure I know what it means, Scotty,” Kirk replied. “Stand by.”

He shut down the audio feed, then turned back to the viewscreen.

“Uhura,” Kirk said with a sigh.

In a moment Kirk was once again face-to-face with the Excalbian George Washington.

“I thought we were going to have our long talk, Mister President?” He let a trace of irony slip into his voice, especially when he used the man’s alleged title. “Why are your people refusing to get onto the shuttlecraft?”

Instead of replying directly, Washington braced himself as if he had an oration to deliver. When he spoke, the words did indeed come out quite loud and resonant. “Captain, may I humbly beg your permission to remain on board with my people and serve as your prize crew. I am sure that, with Mister Watt’s able assistance, we can bring this ship back safely to the science outpost.”

“Mister President, my people are trained Starfleet officers and extremely capable when it comes to handling a ship, especially through the tumultuous space of the Vara Nebula.”

“Sir, I ask you to consult with Commander Imelda Contreras. She will vouch for our good intentions.”

Kirk motioned for Uhura to cut the audio, then turned to Contreras. “Commander?”

“He liberated us from some very nasty confinement cells,” Contreras said. “I understand your reluctance, but I trust him.”

“He’s Excalbian, Commander. Are you aware of what that means?”

“I am,” said Contreras. “Next to you, I am probably the Federation’s leading expert on the Excalbians.”

“They have no morals. They make a point of the fact that they have no concept of good or evil.”

“I believe that these Excalbians are different,” Contreras replied. “Captain, he’s a proven leader. I, for one, trust this version of George Washington—whoever or whatever he is.”

Kirk turned back to the viewscreen. “Lieutenant,” he said to Uhura.

“Aye, sir.”

“Mister . . . President, I am sending over my helmsman, Lieutenant Sulu, along with a team of security personnel for your protection and his. There may be more L’rah’hane surprises lying in wait. Will you agree to this arrangement?”

“Of course, Captain Kirk. My highest priority is to prove the goodwill of my fellow Excalbians and our virtuous intentions toward you and the Federation.”

“All right. You’ll get your chance,” Kirk said. “We’ll be in touch. Kirk out.”

Uhura expertly cut the signal. Kirk sat a moment, considering, then turned to Sulu. “Mister Sulu, I want you to keep an eye on whatever is going on over there, and be ready to take action if anything seems irregular.”

“Yes sir, I understand,” Sulu answered.

“Then get down to the hangar deck,” Kirk said. “We need to start back before the L’rah’hane find us out here and start shooting.

“Mister Chekov, get those other L’rah’hane ships in alignment. Tractor them back with us. I want to go over those ships with a fine-tooth comb so we can find out exactly what we’re dealing with should the L’rah’hane come back in greater numbers.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Note our location, and let’s get out of here.” He looked back to the viewscreen, which was now filled with a view of the nebula interior as seen from the Enterprise. “We need to bring our people home.”

Six

Captain’s Log, Stardate 6097.4. We have returned to Zeta Gibraltar after confronting and defeating a four-ship contingent of L’rah’hane pirates in the Vara Nebula. The battle was little more than a skirmish, as the Enterprise thoroughly outclassed the L’rah’hane vessels. We return with the science personnel from the Zeta Gibraltar outpost. We also have in tow three L’rah’hane pirate ships, and a fourth piloted by a prize crew led by Mister Sulu and commanded by an Excalbian who bears an exact resemblance to George Washington. I have beamed to the surface to oversee the repatriation of the station personnel and to meet the Excalbians firsthand. My first priority: secure the outpost and its personnel.

Kirk was up from his chair and stalking around the outpost conference room as he attempted to think through the situation he must deal with. This conference room was three times larger than the Enterprise one—so Kirk had plenty of room for his pacing.

The captain noticed some of his assembled senior officers getting nervous. Scott was pulling at the tight collar of his own dress tunic and fiddling with the edge of the ancestral tartan sash he wore on such occasions. The sight of an agitated captain was never a welcome sign, Kirk mused, but there were larger issues to deal with at the moment. Besides, walking helped Kirk think.

“All right, our mystery man who seems to be the leader of a group of fifty-eight other mystery men and women says he’s Excalbian,” Kirk said. “And that he’s a replica of George Washington. Is he telling the truth? What else could he be? Opinion, Mister Spock?”

“I have no other hypotheses that do not involve preposterous assumptions or extremely unlikely occurrences,” Spock replied evenly.

“Speculate, Spock.”

“Captain, conjecturing that there may be, for instance, a Guardian gateway playing with the fabric of space-time in this sector does not seem a very helpful speculation.” Spock shook his head. “The fact is, I currently possess insufficient data. Commander Contreras has not been particularly forthcoming, given her security instructions from the Federation Council.”

“Which she claims limit what she can tell us,” said Lieutenant Graves, who had led the security team that had thoroughly scanned and cleared the three captured L’rah’hane vessels, preparing them for regular personnel to come aboard. It had been a grim assignment, for there were dead bodies to evacuate, both L’rah’hane and human, and Kirk had been impressed with the professionalism with which Graves carried out his duties. “But don’t we have to believe her? She is under Federation directive, sir.”

“Indeed. Lacking more data, that we continue to consider these beings to be Excalbians would seem to be our best working theory,” the first officer replied.

Kirk turned to McCoy. “I want you to give each and every one of those characters a thorough physical. I want to find out what makes them tick.”

“All right,” McCoy said. “I’ll start as soon as they arrive. One thing we know: they seem to have no issue with beaming down to the planetoid surface. Their bodies behave as humanoid in that respect.”

Although Kirk and his senior staff were on the surface of Zeta Gibraltar, they were thankfully inside the pressurized, gravity-abated science station. A security team had beamed down first to clear any booby-traps left by the L’rah’hane, and the mines that had almost claimed Spock had been swept as well. Graves had placed young Ensign Thibodeaux in charge of that operation, and from all reports the young officer had scoured the area with a metaphorical toothpick before he was satisfied all was clear.

The Enterprise senior officers had beamed down next, met by the security team.

Kirk had called the conference immediately, but it was clear his officers needed more information before they would be able to provide the answers Kirk wanted. “All right, people,” he said. “Let’s go meet the science crew and the Excalbians.”

They left the conference room and assembled near the outpost’s small, two-person transporter platform where Commander Imelda Contreras and her second-in-command were due to materialize any moment.

Scott went to work the console.

Kirk had not only ordered full dress uniforms for the occasion, but he had ordered security provided with bosun’s whistles for pomp and flourish. Kirk had ordered an official welcome for the returning prisoners complete with color guard—exactly as he had welcomed the Excalbian Abraham Lincoln two standard years before. That had taken place thousands of parsecs away, however—on the other side of the galaxy and outside Federation space.

How these Excalbians had gotten so far from their origins was something Kirk was very interesting in determining.

Mostly I just want to know what the hell is going on at Zeta Gibraltar, Kirk thought. And why it is such a big secret that it had to be withheld from a Starfleet captain sent on a life-and-death search-and-rescue mission.

There were too many unanswered questions here, and if there was one thing Kirk knew about Excalbians, it was that they commanded technology far greater than anything available in the Federation, and in the past they’d had no compunction in using it to kill. They claimed not to be evil, per se. In fact, they claimed not to know the difference between good and evil.

To Kirk’s way of thinking, the particulars of good and evil might be culturally or individually determined in specific cases, but there was a sense of universal justice that stretched across the galaxy and reached into every corner into which Kirk had ever ventured. Somewhere, deep inside, the Excalbians, a highly intelligent species, must know that what they had done to the Enterprise and her crew was wrong.

And yet . . . because of the Excalbians, he had personally met Abraham Lincoln. He’d spoken with Surak, the ancient philosopher who had brought peace to Vulcan by replacing barbarism with logic.

They had been simulations, of course, but so complete, so compelling, as to defy his logical thought processes. His heart, his intuition, told him that those men were Lincoln and Surak, no matter that his rational mind knew better.

But the very same creatures had placed him and Spock on a cruel game board purposely set up to conduct an archetypal contest merely for the so-called edification of the haughty Excalbians who were presumably looking on.

Surak, Lincoln, Kirk, and Spock had been pitted against Kahless, the founder of the Klingon Empire, murderess Zora of Tiburon, ancient conqueror of the Earth’s Far East, Genghis Khan, and Colonel Phillip Green, who operated during the Eugenics Wars on Earth and ordered the slaughter of hundreds of thousands of people deemed genetically unworthy.

The game the Excalbians wanted played was life and death. Each side had access to the same primitive resources: rocks that could be used to crush, cane easily shaped into spears, and vines suited for building a man-trap or a gladiator’s net.

And that is exactly what the Excalbians had staged: gladiatorial games. Good versus evil to prove nothing more than a philosophical point. Then, when Kirk and his allies refused to participate in the farce, the Excalbians had upped the stakes.

Refuse to fight and the Enterprise and all its crew, trapped in orbit around the planet, would be destroyed. Fight and lose and suffer the same consequences. The only way to save the ship and her crew was to fight and win. “Good” must defeat “evil,” or 430 people would needlessly die.

Kirk had done what he had to do. Surak, true to his nature, had refused to fight and tried to reason with Green and his cronies. He’d been slaughtered for his efforts, then used as bait to capture, torture, and kill Abraham Lincoln.

When Lincoln fell with a spear in his back, Kirk felt as if a piece had been torn from his own heart—a portion of his spirit that would always feel the loss. It had been that moment, perhaps, that had driven Kirk to the final showdown and the defeat of the evil characters. When faced with a show of greater force, they had turned and run.

Excalbian impostors had turned and run, he must remind himself. Would Colonel Green, Genghis Khan, or any of the others have done the same?

Kirk doubted it. Evil people did not necessarily lack in courage, although good people tended to have more of it, in his experience.

No, the Excalbians had proved nothing with their nasty little show, except to learn that good people fight for reasons of self-sacrifice and altruism rather than personal gain or power. This was a truism that Kirk could have told them in a moment of conversation. It didn’t need to be acted out with real lives in the balance—or even the lives of a false Lincoln and Surak.

I’m surely not the best representative of good, but lucky for the Excalbians I’m not particularly evil, Kirk thought. If I had been, I’d have found a way to destroy those arrogant silicon monsters and send their whole cursed planet after them into hell.

And yet . . . he’d met Abraham Lincoln. The man who led a great, flawed democracy through one of the darkest periods in human history. The man who did all he could to free the slaves and preserve the Union.

It had been a Lincoln of Kirk’s own creation, yes, and so designed to meet his every expectation. As Spock had reasoned, the Excalbians must have scanned his mind and those of the crew to create such a perfect simulation. Spock had conjectured they had similarly drawn Surak from his own psyche.

In some deep part of himself, Kirk had to admit that the nasty episode with the Excalbians had almost been . . . worth it.

“I hope we aren’t going to treat them like you did before,” McCoy said, “knowing what we know now.”

“So you think they’re Excalbians, too, Bones?”

“Unless there’s a Guardian gateway, like Spock speculated, or something worse. Frankly, I prefer those scoundrel Excalbians to that.”

“Amen, Bones.” Kirk nodded his agreement. McCoy had nearly ended the history of the known galaxy at one point in the presence of the Guardian. Maddened by the accidental overdose of a stimulant drug, the doctor had leaped through the portal into Earth’s past and temporarily altered the entirety of human history.

Bones was right: even the resurfacing of the Excalbians was not the worst fate one could imagine.

It’s a dangerous universe out there.

A beep from the transporter panel indicated an incoming signal.

“Stand by, gentlemen. We’re about to meet them, whoever or whatever they are,” Kirk said. “We are giving all the returnees full flourish. The outpost team deserves it after what they’ve been through.”

McCoy nodded. “I’ll go along with that sentiment.”

The transporter platform shimmered, and Contreras and her chief of station materialized. They took a moment to gaze around before stepping down from the platform, a look of relief on their faces.

“Never thought I’d see this place again,” Contreras remarked. She descended from the platform, and Kirk stepped forward to meet her. The bosun’s whistles piped a welcome.

“Welcome home, Commander Contreras. I’m pleased to report that the outpost is clear of danger, quarters are cleaned and put back in good order, and I am able to officially turn the facility back over to you.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“I would appreciate the opportunity to meet those charges before the Enterprise departs.”

“There are Federation security concerns in play here that I am not at liberty to discuss,” said Contreras. “But considering the circumstances, I will personally authorize you to do so.”

The forty-three outpost personnel returned first. The injured arrived on stretchers. Most seemed eager to get to their quarters and begin reassembling their lives, and a few returned to duty immediately.

Five were dead, killed by the L’rah’hane, and two others were missing and presumed dead. Two of the bodies of the dead would be beamed down to the planet for burial. A third had been the wife of a scientist, and he had requested cremation for her, as per her wishes.

After a ceremony, her ashes had been beamed into deep space from the Enterprise transporter room.

Finally it was time to bring down the Excalbians from the L’rah’hane vessel.

Kirk nodded and turned to Scott. “Mister Scott, lock onto the L’rah’hane temporary transporter Sulu has set up. Let’s bring down the Excalbians, two by two,” Kirk said. For maximum efficiency and accuracy, Sulu had had transporter components ferried over to create a makeshift transporter room in a storage hold of the L’rah’hane ship. “Energize.”

“Aye, sir.”

Without nebular interference, the transporter worked perfectly. “I’m certainly glad to be back to normal conditions,” Scott commented.

“If by normal you mean having your atoms torn apart and flung across thousands of miles of space,” McCoy added.

The Enterprise officers stiffened to attention as George Washington and James Watt materialized before their eyes.

The Excalbian Washington was dressed in American colonial garb from head to toe. He wore a wig, but now that he was closer, Kirk could see that he had a ruddy complexion. If he remembered correctly, Washington’s real hair had been reddish-brown in his younger days.

The bosun’s call ended when George Washington stepped down, followed close behind by Watt.

Abraham Lincoln, now George Washington. Am I going to work my way through all the American presidents down to Millard Fillmore?

“It is with deep gratitude and the greatest sense of personal obligation that I present myself and my people to you, Captain Kirk.” Washington made a formal bow. “Your servant, sir.”

Kirk played along, returned the bow. “I doubt you have ever been the servant of any man, Your Excellency,” he replied with a smile.

“I am most honored, Captain,” Washington said. “Please, no need to use the honorific. Although I did adopt it during my first term, I soon grew tired of the title. Cincinnatus is my model, not Caesar.”

Kirk couldn’t help but smile. Now he began to understand why Washington was considered charming. This was not the stern, seemingly haughty figure from the portraits, but a lively, intelligent—and subtly self-effacing—man.

He was also, reportedly, the victim of heartbreak in his younger days when his romantic attachment to the wife of his best friend had come to naught.

Kirk did not extend his hand for a handshake. Washington had never been a shaker of hands. The captain had read how much Washington disliked being casually manhandled and backslapped by his fellow officers and, especially, by politicians. There was a famous story of someone’s doing just that to Washington on a bet—and living to regret the jest when the general gave him a look of complete disapproval.

It was said that George Washington’s icy stare had been worth three battalions during the American Revolutionary War.

“Allow me to introduce my companion. May I present Mister James Watt.”

Watt was a shorter man. He wore a rumpled tweed suit. He did extend a hand to shake, and Kirk did so.

“The man who invented the first truly functional steam engine and ushered in the industrial revolution,” Kirk said. “Very pleased to meet you, sir.”

Watt blushed and spoke. “Standing on the shoulders of the giants who came before me, as Doctor Swift once said.” Kirk had to strain to understand him. Scott’s Aberdeen brogue may have been thick, but Watt had grown up in a small coastal town on the Bay of Firth, and his speech was as Scottish as could be without actually being spoken in the ancient Celtic tongue of that land.

“This is the chief engineer of the Enterprise, Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott,” Kirk said, motioning to Scott, who had left the transporter console and quietly but firmly pushed his way between Kirk and Spock.

“What a great pleasure it is, sir,” said Mister Scott. “You were a hero of mine when I was a boy.” Scott turned to Kirk. “And it wasn’t just the steam engine, Captain. Mister Watt was a mechanical genius, you know. He invented carbon paper and was an expert scientific instrument maker at the University of Glasgow.”

“Montgomery Scott? You wouldn’t happen to be the Montgomery Scott who is the author of the groundbreaking article on the properties and uses of transverse-g type dilithium in warp engines?”

Scott’s face flushed with pleasure, but, as usual, the chief engineer was a bit tongue-tied when he was at his happiest. “Ah, it’s nothing. Just a wee thing I wrote up during my shore leave on Hamish D.”

“A pleasure planet, and Scott insists on touring the dilithium mines and studying the processing equipment instead of gambling at the casino,” Kirk said.

“Sounds like a man after my own heart,” Watt replied. “I hope we have time for a bit of conversation on warp upsilon variances over a drink, Commander Scott. I trust you like Scotch?”

Now Scott’s contentment turned to pure delight. “Like Scotch? Mister Watt! I do believe we’ll have lots to discuss in many regards.”

“All in good time,” Kirk put in. “First, Mister Scott, we have need of you at the transporter controls.”

Scott straightened to attention. Duty called. He took on a serious mien and replied, “Aye, sir,” before returning to his post at the console.

There were forty-two “personages” in all. That was the way Kirk had begun to think of them. Most were impressive historical figures, but there was no Surak or Kahless. All were of human origin—most had been famous, although some more obscure. There was not one whom Kirk did not recognize.

Which seems very odd in itself, Kirk thought. Not a Vulcan among them.

Among military leaders, there was, indeed, a Napoleon. There was Sir Francis Drake, General Philip Sheridan, and samurai Oda Nobunaga. Scientists included Galileo Galilei, Johannes Kepler, Michael Faraday, and Marie Curie. Among the civilian leaders were Harriet Tubman, Gandhi, Queen Elizabeth I, and, interestingly, her nemesis, Mary, Queen of Scots. There was Confucius, Marco Polo, and Leonardo da Vinci.

Although these personages were famous, most were well-known within a certain sphere of action. Kirk was relieved to find that there were no universal religious figures included. He didn’t know what he’d do if it became his duty to order around Jesus of Nazareth or the Buddha.

Spock greeted each Excalbian with appropriate ceremony, but Kirk knew his first officer and it was clear that Spock’s mind was working overtime—evaluating the circumstances, engaging with various hypotheses—

Probably computing a couple of partial differential equations on the side for practice, too, Kirk thought.

It was only when the last of the personages was presented that Spock showed real interest. When Benjamin Franklin spoke to Spock, he could tell his first officer was quite intrigued.

“A Vulcan!” said Franklin. “How delightful! I have yet to meet one of your . . . people . . . sir. I hope you do not take offense at my ignorant questions, but is it true that Vulcans depend on logic for—well, everything?”

“It is, Doctor Franklin,” Spock replied. “We find it meets all of our needs and satisfies all of our expectations for experiencing a full life.”

“Absolutely! Wonderful! I have long imagined such a state of being. In fact I wrote about it once and lamented its absence from human affairs.”

“You are one of the humans who have come close to achieving such a state. I have great respect for you and what you accomplished, sir.”

Was Spock capable of being ironic? Kirk considered the possibility for a moment, then dismissed it. No, Spock was genuinely impressed, even though this must be only a simulated Franklin.

Franklin smiled and waved a dismissing hand. “Hardly, Mister Spock. I am as driven by sentiment and whim as the next man. But I do admire the exercise of pure reason in others. Just as an investment in knowledge always pays the best interest, if all of us engaged in logical thinking, I have long thought the world would be a happier place.”

“We are in agreement, Doctor Franklin.”

“I fear we differ in one aspect, however. I believe one must take men as they are, not as we wish them to be. If you would persuade, you must appeal to interest rather than intellect.”

“I believe you are correct, Doctor Franklin,” Spock replied, “as far as humans go.”

Franklin smiled, his eyes twinkling over his reading spectacles. “I look forward to a good chat with you, Mister Spock. Is it true you play this odd variant I’ve encountered of one of my favorite pastimes?”

“Three-dimensional chess?” asked Spock.

“Yes, yes. That’s what it is called. I could certainly use further instruction from an expert, and I understand from your Mister Sulu that you fit the bill in that regard. I had been teaching myself this game at the outpost, when my studies were so rudely interrupted by those marauders. I was close to beating myself with a delightfully wicked move when one of those pirates stepped in and held a weapon to my chest. I’m afraid I will never forgive the fellow for the disruption . . . may his, her, or its soul find rest. President Washington later did for the creature with a single musket shot.”

“I would be grateful for the chance to play you, sir,” Spock replied. “Perhaps at that time you might also enlighten me as to how Mister Washington retained a musket pistol and a sword when he was taken aboard the L’rah’hane vessel, and you a walking cane.”

Franklin smiled his wan, benevolent smile. “That will require some explanation, won’t it? I hope we can provide it. And it will be a pleasure to engage with such a worthy maestro of that delightful game. I shall be available at your earliest convenience.”

“I look forward to it,” said Spock.

When Franklin strode off to his outpost quarters, Kirk gave his first officer an inquisitive look.

Spock raised his eyebrows. “A sign of respect, Captain, no dissembling intended. As my previous encounter with the reproduction of Surak taught me, even a simulacrum of a man such as Benjamin Franklin is due it.”

Kirk nodded. True enough.

Sulu remained on the L’rah’hane vessel for the time being, along with a skeleton crew from the Enterprise. Kirk had ordered it swept for any hidden smuggling compartments, hidden weaponry—or any other modification. This was a pirate ship, after all.

Plus, he did not trust the Excalbians. These “people” were, after all, a highly advanced species with unknown capabilities and a very questionable history.

Finally, all outpost personnel and Excalbians were back on the planet surface, and Kirk turned to his assembled senior officers. “The Enterprise will be staying in orbit until I hear from Starfleet. During that time, I want you to have a close look at these personages, these Excalbians. Don’t get in the way of the outpost personnel, but let’s get some answers.”

Kirk’s communicator beeped.

“Dismissed,” Kirk quickly said to his officers, motioning to them that they could go about their business. He retrieved the communicator and flipped it open.

“Enterprise, Kirk here. Go ahead.”

“Captain, we have inbound Federation craft. It’s the Montana.”

The Montana? That was an Archer-class ship, smaller then the Enterprise. What’s more, Kirk knew that the Montana was a vessel designated specifically for transporting high Federation officials. It had a reputation among Starfleet officers. Assignment to the ship as captain was considered an honor, but also guaranteed a stretch of service time filled with complete boredom. Most Starfleet captains tried to avoid it as they would the Rigelian fever.

“Establish secure communication channels with the Montana, Mister Leslie,” Kirk replied. “Beam me up.”

Seven

As much as Spock may want to play a three-dimensional chess game with Benjamin Franklin, Kirk had a feeling he might need his first officer on the bridge with him when the Montana arrived. Spock’s effortless recall of Federation official protocol would be useful. Introduction to Starfleet Etiquette and Protocol had been one class at the Academy Kirk had been very glad to be done with.

“Captain Haynes hailing from the Montana, sir,” said Uhura.

“Put him on the screen, Lieutenant.”

Haynes was an older man, lean and tall, with a full shock of black hair graying at the temples. He had a long face and was craggy and handsome. In every way, he looked the part of Starfleet captain. However, Kirk knew of his reputation.

Haynes was known as “Showboat Haynes.” He’d been passed up several times for promotion and was known to take out his frustrations on his subordinates. Nevertheless, he had commanded an outstanding voyage of discovery to the Nefertiti Sector and had by all accounts been a brave leader and inspiration to his crew.

Kirk only hoped that whatever had led to Haynes’s bitter later years did not overtake himself. In his heart, though, he knew it never would. Not with a universe out there to explore, friendships to make and hold, beautiful women to gaze upon (and engage with), and determined enemies with which to contend.

“Captain Haynes, welcome to the Gibraltar system,” Kirk said. “I take it you’ve been sent to relieve the Enterprise?”

“Thank you for your welcome, Captain Kirk,” Haynes replied. His voice was surprisingly high-pitched, coming from such a craggy visage. “No, we are not here as a relief vessel. We are on a Federation diplomatic mission. We are traveling with a Federation Council–appointed special representative and diplomat-at-large. I’m to deliver her safely and then await further orders from Starfleet.”

“A diplomat? To whom? The L’rah’hane?”

“To the special charges being studied at Zeta Gibraltar, Captain,” Haynes replied. “I can’t say any more at present. Federation Special Representative Valek will explain.”

“Valek? A Vulcan,” Kirk mused.

“Captain Haynes, the L’rah’hane pirates have reemerged after a generation. We are analyzing their vessels’ computers for evidence that a fragment of the Hradrian Empire might still exist somewhere beyond the Vara Nebula. This is a situation with security concerns that must be dealt with. This outpost is at risk.”

Haynes nodded. “I understand, Captain Kirk.” He shrugged. “I’m afraid I have no say in the matter, however. I’m awaiting further instructions for the Montana, but I do have an order for you.”

“And what is it?”

“Cooperate with the representative,” Haynes replied. “That comes directly from Admiral Howe. He was quite adamant that I emphasize the word cooperate to you. Use your discretion, but do all you can to support Representative Valek. She has been given plenipotentiary power over the Gibraltar system for the time being.”

Plenipotentiary. That was Federation ambassadorial slang for “next thing to a dictator.” The entire system would be not only under her command, but also subject to her judicial and rule-making decrees.

“With pirates still out there, Enterprise is on garrison duty,” Kirk said with a sigh.

“It’s not so bad, Kirk,” Haynes replied. Then he spoke in a lowered voice, as if talking to himself. “Less likely to get crewmembers killed.”

Maybe that is the clue to the bitterness of old Showboat, Kirk thought. He’s seen enough death. Kirk felt a great deal more empathy for his counterpart than he had before.

“Very well, Captain Haynes. I understand my orders.”

“Kirk, this is one Federation administrator you don’t want to cross,” said Haynes. “She’s a Vulcan, and she’s a tiger about getting her way.”

A whistled alert from Haynes’s command chair was followed by a curt message delivered in an alto female voice. “Captain Haynes, I am in the transporter room waiting. I should have been beamed to the planetoid five minutes ago. Have your crewman obey my orders.”

Haynes touched a button. “Chief McGillicuty?”

“Aye, Captain?”

“You have my go-ahead to beam Representative Valek to Zeta Gibraltar.”

“Gladly, sir . . . I mean, right away, sir.”

“Captain Haynes,” came the commanding voice again, “have the Enterprise captain meet me on the planetoid at 1330.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Representative Valek. Starfleet captains can be tricky to order around like toy soldiers.”

Kirk glanced at the bridge chrono. A half hour from now. Apparently, Representative Valek liked to move fast.

“I do not see the problem, Captain Haynes,” the voice said. “The lines of command are clear. My order is clear. I hope I will not have to invoke Federation Order 1123G in this matter?”

“I expect not,” Haynes replied.

“Very well,” the other replied, then, after a pause: “Thank you for your cooperation. Valek out.”

Haynes turned back to the screen. “Good luck, Captain. Maybe you can handle her. Meanwhile, I’ll be here in orbit. Very peaceful here in orbit.” He smiled an ironic smile. “Montana out.”

The feed was cut, and the viewscreen flashed back to an image of the planetoid below.

Kirk turned to Spock and motioned toward the turbolift entrance. “Commander Spock, shall we prepare to beam down and, it seems, meet our fate?”

Spock raised an eyebrow and replied, “Indeed. Captain, I believe I am aquainted with Representative Valek,”

“Oh? Who is she?”

“She is someone I knew during my childhood,” Spock said. “More pertinently, I believe that, at present, she works with Sarek, my father.”

Kirk cracked a smile. “This is getting more interesting. Now I truly do want to meet Representative Valek. Come on.”

Kirk stepped onto the Enterprise transporter pad considering how he was going to clearly and logically express his displeasure for keeping a Starfleet captain in the dark about a key piece of information involved with a crucial mission.

“Energize,” he ordered. As always, there was no sensation of dematerialization. One moment he was on the Enterprise, the next . . . and there she was.

Any angry words died on Kirk’s tongue.

She was Vulcan, all right. And she was beautiful.

“Greetings, Captain,” Valek said. She raised her hand in the Vulcan salute. “Live long and prosper.”

“Peace and long life,” said Spock.

Kirk and Spock stepped down from the transporter. Valek stood next to Commander Contreras, who was a good ten centimeters shorter than the Vulcan. Contreras’s utilitarian garb also contrasted with that of the representative. Valek wore traditional Vulcan dress made of a shimmering blue-black material that made her appear to be an icy empress visiting from some remote mountain kingdom.

“It has been a long time, Spock,” Valek replied. “Your father and mother send greetings.”

“Please deliver my own when next you see them,” Spock replied.

How about that, thought Kirk. For once, a Vulcan expression he’d heard often entirely fit the current exchange: fascinating.

“I trust your brother prospers,” Spock said.

“Varen has been appointed by the Science Academy as a tenured researcher on vertebrate extremophiles. He is doing groundbreaking work off-planet at the moment.”

“Given Varen’s considerable intellectual gifts, a wise choice and logical posting on the part of the Academy,” Spock replied.

“Indeed,” said Valek. She turned to Kirk. “You must forgive our extraneous conversation, Captain. Spock and I have previous acquaintance.”

“No, no problem at all,” said Kirk. “Please take the time you need.”

When do I ever get to hear such . . . intimate details of Spock’s earlier history? Never.

“The Varen of whom we speak, Captain, is Valek’s twin brother,” Spock said.

“I’ve never heard of Vulcans having twins,” Kirk said.

“It is an uncommon occurrence among Vulcans,” Valek put in. “Spock and Varen were laboratory partners during their childhood educational period.”

“We were friends,” Spock explained.

Valek turned her icy attention back to Spock. “You have been a long time among humans, Spock.”

Spock ignored the jibe, if jibe it was. Kirk knew both Vulcans would deny that Valek’s words had any emotional content. They were merely a statement of the obvious.

“Your brother was fortunate in his choice of Spock for a companion,” Kirk said.

“Perhaps you are correct,” Valek replied. Spock said nothing in reply. After an uncomfortable silence—uncomfortable, at least, for Kirk—Valek spoke again. “Captain Kirk, you, Commander Contreras, and I have much to discuss, and most of it is of a classified nature. Can we adjourn alone to a secure conference room so that I can deliver your instructions?”

Kirk glanced at Spock, who quirked up an eyebrow in response.

So that’s the way this is going to be, Kirk thought. Well then, the hell with diplomacy.

“I’ll be happy to hear what you have to say, Representative Valek. And Commander Spock will also join us as my second-in-command,” Kirk replied.

“Captain, I cannot permit that.”

“Representative, you may have civilian plenipotentiary power, but in times of emergency, a Starfleet officer responding to that emergency shares undisputed authority with any civilian. I hope we’re clear on that.”

“I was not aware we were in a declared emergency zone under Section R of the administrative code.”

“I believe you will find that the conditions for such a declaration are met, Representative Valek,” Spock put in. “Subparagraph three point two deals with circumstances of clear and present danger immediately following an emergency action, police response, or military engagement. I believe the present situation meets two of the criteria and any one is necessary and sufficient to constitute a de facto emergency zone declaration.”

Valek stared at Spock, then looked away and took a moment to consider. She turned her gaze back toward Kirk. They locked eyes for a moment. Kirk did not break eye contact, and neither did she.

Her expression did not change, but after a moment she nodded. “A logical arrangement to include a trusted aid,” she finally said. “Commander Spock may accompany us.”

“All right,” Kirk said.

Contreras let out of sigh of released tension. “If we’re done staking out territory, I believe the outpost conference room will serve our purposes.”

Kirk finally looked away from Valek. He smiled at Contreras, nodded. “Certainly. Lead the way, Commander.”

Kirk dropped behind a few steps and allowed Valek and Contreras to walk ahead. He had thought to give Spock a bit of room to speak alone with the representative, but instead Spock also dropped back to walk beside Kirk. Fair enough, he could use the time to pump his first officer for further information. He had a feeling he was about to need a bit of leverage.

“How does she know Sarek and Amanda, Spock?” Kirk asked.

“She trained under my father,” said Spock. “She now works for him as a . . . the term is imprecise, but I believe you might call her a ‘diplomatic troubleshooter.’ ”

“She’s a protégé of Sarek’s?”

“Correct.”

“You don’t like her.”

“ ‘Like’ has nothing to do with it, Captain. She once publicly spoke against my father and mother’s union.”

“On what she considered a completely logical basis, I’m sure,” Kirk said.

“Her logic was mistaken.”

“I see.”

“At the time, Varen opposed her and pointed out key flaws in her argumentation.”

“How old were you when this happened?” Kirk asked.

“Ten point five standard years of age.”

“She was just a child.”

“It is different on Vulcan,” Spock said. “Childhood is quite stimulating, but less . . . playful.”

“She grew up to be one of your father’s favorites, while you and Sarek have over the years had . . . differences of interpretation concerning what it means to be a Vulcan.”

“I might phrase it in a different manner—Sarek’s choices are always motivated by logical considerations; he does not ‘play favorites.’ Yet your point is essentially correct. You must understand, however, that I bear Valek no ill will.”

You may not, but I’m already starting to dislike her, Kirk thought. But it looks like both of us are going to have to work with her, all the same.

They arrived at the conference room, and after a DNA scan of Contreras, were admitted.

Valek wanted secure. It looked like Contreras had pulled out the stops to give it to her.

Before anyone sat down at the conference room table, Valek turned to them and caught everyone’s attention with a slight bow of her head, indicating she had something she wished to say.

“I apologize if my tone seemed imperious in the transporter room, Captain, and with you when I beamed down earlier, Commander,” Valek said. “I felt it would be useful to establish our mutual credentials so that our task may proceed. I am aware that humans do not always take blunt statements well. They read emotional nuances into such pronouncements that are not intended.”

“No offense taken, Representative Valek,” Kirk said.

“Please call me Valek. It will save time, and so long as we are clear on our hierarchical positions, the title is unnecessary.”

“All right, Valek,” Kirk replied. “Precisely what is ‘our task’?”

“To make a decision on whether or not to admit the Excalbian refugees currently located on Zeta Gibraltar as Federation citizens under the Federation Asylum Act.”

“They are Excalbians,” Kirk replied.

“Of course.”

“And this has been verified?”

Contreras broke in. “We used the records of Enterprise’s visit to Excalbia,” she said. “There are trace radioactive particles in our residents here that match the exact composition and distribution of Excalbian silicates as recorded by your sensor sweeps of the surface. We found, in essence, the fingerprint of Excalbian origin within them. And much else.”

“Shall we sit?” Valek said, motioning to the conference table.

Kirk took his place along one side and Valek chose to sit exactly across from him.

Guess she wants to keep an eye out for any insubordination, Kirk thought, and smiled wryly. Valek noticed his expression, but said nothing. Instead, she now answered Kirk’s early question.

“The Federation Council knew they were Excalbians,” Valek said. “As to how they came to Zeta Gibraltar, the answer is that they were brought here. By us.”

As Valek laid out the story, the Excalbians, in their present human forms, were discovered in the hold of a robotic mining transport that had malfunctioned and strayed into the exclusion zone around the Excalbian system. The craft eventually self-repaired and wound up at its destination. When the hold was opened, the Excalbians exited—all in the same form as they now appeared, as historical personages.

“Interestingly,” Valek said, “there were no furnishings inside the hold. Apparently, being confined to a smaller space suppressed their regeneration capacity.”

“When we gave them rooms here in the outpost,” Contreras said, “the standard furnishings began to disappear. In their place were what you’ve seen: four-poster beds, wardrobes, tapestries. We believe it is an autonomic response. We’ve experimented with quarters of different sizes. The process is self-limiting.”

“Fascinating,” said Spock. “They seem to imprint their surroundings.”

“They had very little room to affect their environment in that transport hold,” Valek said. “They were a bedraggled group when they emerged. When they realized they’d made it to Federation space, they immediately requested political asylum.”

“Wait a minute,” said Kirk. “Asylum from whom?”

“From Excalbia,” answered Valek. “They claimed to be fleeing oppression.”

“And the Federation bought their story?”

Valek paused a moment, obviously not agreeing with what she might consider simplistic wording. “The Federation did not,” she answered.

“That is why they are here, at Zeta Gibraltar?” said Spock. “This is a holding place until the Federation Council can arrive at a decision on what to do with them.”

“Essentially, yes,” Valek answered. “Although the secondary purpose of scientific study of their physiology and culture is also being pursued by the outpost team led by Commander Contreras.”

“That’s why the outpost is Starfleet,” said Kirk. “You need trained personnel to serve as security for the Excalbians.”

“In simple terms, yes,” replied Valek. “After your report on the L’rah’hane raid and capture of the Excalbians, the Federation Council has reasoned that they are not safe in this location, and a decision must be made. A special diplomatic corps commission was created by the Council Special Committee for Security and Frontier Intelligence to study the issue and provide recommendations. The commission is headed by Sarek of Vulcan and includes three other senior diplomats.”

“You’re Sarek’s person on the ground,” Kirk said. “The pointy end of the sword.”

Valek stared at Kirk a moment, evidently processing and assessing his colloquialism. It seemed to suit her, and she nodded agreement. “I was chosen to assess the situation and make a recommendation. During that evaluation process, I have been given plenipotentiary powers by the Special Committee for Security and Frontier Intelligence to include the entirety of the Gibraltar system. I shall make my recommendation, and I expect that, with suitable emendation by the appointed commission, it will be acted upon by the full Federation Council.”

“Excuse me, Valek,” said Spock, “your answer is somewhat vague. I must ask you to clarify what you might base this decision upon. There is no logical course of action without data on which to base it.”

Valek again gave Spock one of her cold pauses.

“My task is to decide whether or not to give the Excalbians—these Excalbians—political asylum within the Federation and put them on a path to full citizenship. That is the action upon which I will make my recommendation. And the basis of my decision is to be my personal judgment, Spock.”

“But why is this being done clandestinely?” Kirk said. “Surely this is a question that should be discussed openly by the full Council.”

“There is sufficient reason for this matter to remain sub rosa for the time being.”

“What is that reason?”

“I am not at liberty to discuss it.”

“I hope you can see how that makes my job difficult, Valek.”

“I do not follow you, Captain,” Valek replied.

“Obviously, there is a threat to this outpost. Based on the firepower we observed from the L’rah’hane pirates, the Montana may not be enough to provide protection. Until I receive further orders, the Enterprise will remain right where she is, in orbit around Zeta Gibraltar, until such time as I am convinced the danger has passed. We both have a decision to make. We must work together.”

“I could not agree more, Captain Kirk,” said Valek. “I have every intention of working closely with you. I hope you will work with me.”

“Certainly, Representative Valek,” Kirk replied.

She’s a bundle of contradictions, Kirk thought. First she comes on strong to make a point, then she gets reasonable and accommodating once she’s gotten her way. Yes, she’s learned how to use her “Vulcan-ness” to push her agenda among humans. Not many Vulcans would stoop to do that. And she’s quite good at it, apparently. She’s certainly got me eating out of her hand.

I think I’m beginning to like her.

“And Captain—”

“Yes?”

Valek put a hand on the table in front of her. Her fingers were of medium length, not long like Spock’s. She had extremely well-manicured nails cut short. And was that a trace of clear polish on them? Another Vulcan first, as far as Kirk was concerned.

Thrump, thrump.

She’s drumming her fingers, Kirk thought. I didn’t know Vulcans did that.

“—there is nothing in my instructions that prohibits you from gleaning whatever knowledge you might from the Excalbians. They are free beings, free to discuss whatever they wish.”

Kirk turned to his first officer. “Well, as long as we’re here, there are matters on this planetoid that need taking care of. Should the Enterprise be called away, I would not want to leave the outpost defenseless.”

“We didn’t think there was any threat for thousands of parsecs when we established this outpost,” Contreras said, shaking her head at Starfleet Command’s misjudgment. “Only in retrospect is it apparent we were relying far too much on dated information from robotic probes.”

“We have people trained in planetary defense. I want to bring some of them down.” He turned to Valek. “Would that be acceptable?”

“I can . . . see how that might be useful, yes.”

“I would also expect them to mingle with the Excalbians and learn as much as possible about them.”

“That also seems prudent,” Valek replied. “You will share any pertinent findings with me, Captain.”

“Of course we will,” said Kirk. “Mister Spock.”

“Captain?”

“It looks like you’ll get your chess game with Benjamin Franklin after all.”

“Now, Captain, I have a request to make of you,” Valek said.

“Yes, Valek?”

“It is time we question the leader of the Excalbians. Since they have taken human form, I believe an interrogation practice that I learned of while working for Ambassador Sarek might be of use. It is an ancient human technique. Two interrogators are required, one taking an uncompromising position, the other seeming to yield more.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with it,” Kirk said with a smile. “I believe it was called ‘good cop, bad cop,’ in the vernacular.”

“A most clear and precise characterization,” Valek replied.

“So how would you recommend we implement this human technique, Valek?” Kirk asked.

Valek raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you have to ask, Captain,” she replied. “Isn’t it obvious? I am the bad cop.”

Eight

Kirk suggested, and Valek agreed, that putting George Washington into a bare interrogation chamber as she first proposed might defeat their purpose. Instead, he’d recommended that they meet the Excalbian in his own quarters, where he might be more at ease.

Washington had agreed readily enough. Kirk found himself sitting in the first office of an American president: a spartan room with two sturdy, unpadded chairs in front of a small writing desk no more than a half meter across. On the wall were several portraits, one of Washington’s wife, Martha. There was a large American Indian tobacco pipe beside a battered powder horn, both on a sideboard cabinet.

“From two very ill-starred military campaigns,” Washington said when he saw Kirk examining them.

“Braddock’s attack on Fort Duquesne?”

Washington smiled broadly, but still not showing his teeth—or lack thereof. “Impressive, Captain. Yes, the powder horn is a relic of General Braddock that I kept for sentimental reasons. I see you know American history.”

“I’m from Iowa,” Kirk said. When he noticed a confused look on Washington’s face, he added: “A state that was added to the Union after your time.”

“I see,” Washington said.

“And the pipe?”

Washington’s face clouded. “Fort Necessity,” he said. “It belonged to an Indian named Tanaghrisson. I keep it as a reminder that no matter how much success one has, disaster can be just around the corner.”

“A worthwhile lesson,” Kirk said.

Valek broke in. “Since I am not a product of Earth and have only an intellectual interest in its history, let’s get down to our business, gentlemen.”

Washington bowed his head and took one of the seats in front of the desk. Valek remained standing, and Kirk took the other. Then Valek moved around to the other side of the small writing desk, keeping the desk between herself and Washington.

“Seeing that your species threatened and brutalized the crew of a Starfleet vessel,” Valek stated matter-of-factly, “I’m afraid the Federation must place the burden upon you to prove that you are different.”

“Is that not guilt by association?” Washington said. “No matter.” He spread his hands before him. “I hope you can see by now that myself and my people are no threat. On the contrary, we wish to assimilate into the Federation as quickly as possible.”

“You’ll pardon me for questioning your sincerity,” Kirk replied, “but as you know, I have had personal dealings with Excalbians. I’d like to think you’ve turned over a new leaf, but in my experience, you like to toy with the lives of others.”

Washington nodded. “Yes, you do have reason to doubt us, Captain. As a matter of fact, you have reason to doubt me in particular.”

Here was something unexpected. Kirk was suddenly all ears, his intuition buzzing. He turned an inquisitive look toward Valek, but she shook her head. “Tell him,” she said to Washington.

“You in particular, you say? What do you mean?”

Washington took a deep breath and sighed. “We have met before, you and I, although I never properly introduced myself. I was too busy expounding on how fortunate you were to be part of a great philosophical experiment my species was engaging in.”

Recognition—and disgust—filled Kirk. “You’re it, aren’t you? The representative from the peanut gallery of Excalbians.”

“I do not exactly follow all your words, but I believe I understand what the idiom means,” Washington said. “You are correct. I was the one who spoke to you. My name, my Excalbian name, is Yarnek.”

“I’ll be damned. It is you, isn’t it? The very same creature we met.”

“Yes. I am Yarnek,” said the man. “But I am also George Washington. Truly, Captain, my life, and the lives of my compatriots, depends on my convincing you that this is so.”

“The last time I saw you, you were a steaming lump of magma with multiple eyes. I burned my hand when I touched you. And then you threatened to kill my crew and destroy my ship. You’ll pardon me if I need something more to go on than just your word of honor, Yarnek.”

Washington-Yarnek bowed his head. “You have every reason to doubt, Captain Kirk, but please hear me out.” He turned to Valek. “I understand some of these matters are classified, but I wish to make an explanation to Captain Kirk, whom I have personally wronged.”

“Very well,” Valek said. “Please continue.”

“Thank you,” Washington-Yarnek replied. “All I can do is apologize on behalf of my species for that regrettable incident on my home planet.” Washington-Yarnek’s voice grew more solemn. “And for the other incidents that followed. I wish I could say that it did not happen again, but I’m afraid it did. I could not stop it.”

“What are you talking about?” Kirk asked. “If anyone could, it’s you.”

“Not so, Captain,” replied Washington-Yarnek. “To explain why, I must tell you of what happened after the Enterprise left the system.”

For thousands of your years there had been unity in the Upper Stratum, the portion of planetary magma pool only a few kilometers from the surface. This was an area of complexity and change—to such an extent that consciousness itself could play upon and across its fiery surface. Here was the matrix of the Excalbian public sphere, the mental space in which individual minds could contend without burning out or absorbing their compatriots.

One million years ago, the Excalbian’s ancient ancestors had evolved as silicon-based creatures on the surface of the planet. Then, when individual intelligence was achieved, they had discovered a way to migrate inward. Twenty thousand years ago, this is where Excalbian civilization was born.

That collection of rocky bits of individual consciousness within the magma, the collective, was like, and unlike, a government. The subsurface heat layer was the physical substrate where great debates were hosted, but also a place filled with competing processes, coalitions, and great confabulations of the minds that had arisen from the deep magma that surrounded the planetary iron and nickel core.

They had not discarded their bodies at that time, but rather let their thinking processes spread out in the volcanic heat, and had become creatures more of mind than body, churning and burning in the boiling, bubbling interior of the planet.

Heat that their furious activity brought to the surface. The planet Excalbia had not begun as a hellhole of seething lava. That had been the doing of the planet’s only sentient species—and soon its only species at all.

As each individual migrated into the magmatic superstructure and began concentrating and organizing the heat, that structure had become more complex, less stable—and much more volatile. The planet had grown hotter and hotter, its interior heat released far more quickly than it would in a natural state. In the end, great magma flows had arisen and covered all the continents. The seas, which had once been beautiful and huge, evaporated or were absorbed in the planet’s substrate.

All life except for the Excalbians, buried deep within the planet, perished in a holocaust of volcanic destruction.

Yet as the planet melted and boiled, its complexity grew. It took the Excalbians many thousand years, but eventually they learned how to not merely exist within the flow of heat and liquid rock, but to control the fundamental particles of matter on a quantum level. The Excalbians became manipulators of the reality around them.

For many, this seemed to be the equivalent of an ascent to godhood, and they behaved as if they were gods. Others saw the trap of solipsism and inwardness such power opened up. For if you could make anything and everything for yourself a reality, you might begin to think that thought was what formed the world, that perception was a form of creation. What began as a heresy over time grew to be considered common sense.

Excalbians were the only “real” thing, and the rest of the universe was a toy for the “real” people to play with.

Even in magmatic form, the Excalbians retained genders from their evolutionary past. But that was practically the only reminder that they had once been mere creatures. Good and evil as concepts melted away. Each could live in his or her virtual dream world. There was no need for morality, so concepts of “right” and “wrong” were forgotten.

Almost.

Then a strange thing happened. From the stars, a vessel arrived containing other life, other intelligences. This prompted a great debate within the complex swirl of magmatic uplift known as the collective—where presided the Excalbian ruling council. First was the question as to whether contact would be contaminating. It was decided that passive contact would likely be safe.

Reaching out to those other intelligences, it was discovered that their thoughts might be as easily read and mapped as might the churn and eddies of a magma storm or the radioactive transformation of the system’s sun—mapmaking, at which the Excalbians were already adept. Soon after contact, it became obvious that the new intelligences, these people of the “Federation” and “Starfleet,” as they styled themselves, were not aware that their thoughts were being charted. Even the “Vulcan” among them, whose mental subroutines were the most efficient and who had achieved a primitive level of quantum information transfer known as the “Vulcan mind meld,” was unaware of the mapping.

The minds of these Starfleet officers might provide data, but they did not create understanding. Many new concepts, many unknown perceptions and memories of yet other ideas, were uncovered—concepts and memories entirely new to the Excalbian way of thinking. These people were different. They were difference personified.

A great debate arose, for this conclusion cut at the very foundation of Excalbian existence. For those in the starship passing through the system in warp space, this debate would have seemed to only take five minutes or so.

For the Excalbian mentalities, it went on for “days.”

Finally, a decision was reached. The newcomers were either a figment of the imagination, something like a daydream, or from somewhere “outside” the sphere of Excalbian thought, an occurrence deemed to be impossible by the majority of Excalbians. Most troubling of all was the alien concept of “good” and “evil.” These values implied that a world outside of thought existed and that actions within that world had weight.

Yet most were still convinced it was all a bad dream.

If good and evil proved to have observable consequences—that is, if good and evil mattered beyond being merely playthings of the mind—then humans, Vulcans, Starfleet officers might all be real themselves and might know something that Excalbians did not. The Excalbians might have something to learn from the humanoids.

The Excalbians might even have to look upon them as equals.

“Inconceivable!” declared the majority of the collective. “These are not intelligent beings, but malfunctioning mental processes within ourselves. As such, they ought to be eradicated.”

“But if their reality is ‘inconceivable,’ then you won’t mind if their ideas are tested?” said the minority.

And thus the majority was trapped by its own logic.

“The test,” said Captain Kirk, leaning back in his chair, “was not so much to determine the difference between good and evil, but to discover whether we were figments of your imagination.”

“You have the truth of it, Captain,” said Washington-Yarnek. “We had to determine whether or not you could surprise us with your actions. You and Mister Spock certainly did. Abraham Lincoln and Surak, as you correctly surmised, were based upon your own ideas of those individuals, and thus were, in a manner of speaking, extensions of yourselves. All four of you—yourselves and the other ‘good’ forces—succeeded in surprising us. Furthermore, you awoke in many of us—such as myself—a very new feeling for having subjected you to this staged play in the first place.”

“What was that?” asked Valek.

Washington-Yarnek frowned and broke eye contact with them. “Guilt, Representative Valek,” he said. “If right and wrong did in actuality exist, then we had been wrong to bully you and to threaten your ship and your crew. I, myself, had acted in an evil manner. And there was a ‘good’ portion within me that was not happy with that fact.”

“The classic fall from the Garden,” Kirk said. “You and your species ate of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil and you didn’t like the taste so much.”

“Captain Kirk is speaking metaphorically,” said Valek. “I do not think he believes there was an actual Garden of Eden in Earth’s prehistory, yet the idea of a fall from an original guiltless state is found throughout human philosophical and religious—”

“I didn’t mean it literally,” Kirk said. “I think Yarnek understands me.”

“I do indeed,” Washington-Yarnek replied. “And you are correct, at least in my case.”

“Be that as it may,” said Kirk, “it still doesn’t explain what you are doing here right now.”

Washington-Yarnek nodded.

“Captain, Representative, do you mind if I have a drink? I find a small dram of rum concentrates my mind.”

“I do not mind,” Valek replied.

“I wouldn’t mind joining you,” Kirk put in.

“I would be delighted if you would,” the Excalbian said. “And you, Representative Valek? It is excellent rum from the Caribbean.”

“If it were real it would be a product of slave labor,” Valek said. “No thank you.”

“It is real enough to do its job,” Washington-Yarnek said. “But I take your point, Representative.”

Washington-Yarnek rose from his chair and went to the small sideboard table that the pipe sat upon. He opened its cabin door and brought out two silver cups and a glass bottle with a golden liquid sloshing about inside. He set the cups on the sideboard tabletop. He took out a glass stopper, then tilted the bottle up and poured himself and Kirk a healthy portion of what looked very much like rum.

And when Kirk took his cup from Washington-Yarnek, he found it smelled and tasted like rum, too. Good rum.

Washington-Yarnek quickly drained his glass in a single swallow. He stood gazing down into the empty cup.

“You look like you could use another,” Kirk said.

“Indeed. Thank you, sir,” replied Washington-Yarnek. He poured out another dram, then returned to his seat, cup in hand. He was a tall man, well over a meter and a half, and possessed a lanky torso matched with shorter legs, which made him seem to be a bit awkward at rest. Yet he moved with a fluid motion and, contrary to Kirk’s expectations, he found Washington-Yarnek to be quite graceful, even suave and debonair in his way.

I do seem to remember learning that he was a great dancer and generally a hit with the ladies, Kirk thought. But I didn’t quite believe it until now.

“The tale of what followed the Enterprise’s departure from Excalbia is a tortuous one, and, in parts, most unpleasant,” Washington-Yarnek began. Then he paused and lifted his cup of rum. “But first, to your health, madam and sir.”

Kirk raised his own cup and returned the gesture. Valek, meanwhile, looked on with an inscrutable expression.

Washington-Yarnek again drained his glass, and continued.

After the Enterprise left Excalbia, the memories of the crew and historical records gleaned from the Enterprise computer were retained in the silicate memory of the planet. In a further series of experiments, various Excalbians were transformed to humaniod species in the same manner as Abraham Lincoln, Surak, and the others had been.

“After we acquired the taste for pitting life against life,” Washington-Yarnek said, “it proved difficult to stop doing so.”

“Regrettable,” Valek said.

“Indeed. We at first believed them to be a harmless indulgence, but instead, these ‘games’ began to consume us,” said Washington-Yarnek. “Although good won out in your play, Captain, the idea of evil proved a very seductive philosophical position for a portion of my species. I was ordered to take part in these plays, to serve as ‘host,’ or ‘referee,’ as you might understand the concept.

“Even then, I had my doubts as to the wisdom of such so-called games. I feared they would be an excuse for callous behavior. I was proven right many times over, but I’m getting ahead of myself.” Washington-Yarnek sighed. “When I refused, I was coerced into taking this form, the form of President George Washington.”

“So you were made to participate in the experiments yourself,” Kirk said. “You’ll pardon me, Yarnek, but we humans have a saying, ‘What goes around, comes around.’ ”

“A sentiment I very much understand, Captain,” the Excalbian replied with a grim set to his mouth. “Yet not only was I given no choice in the matter—as indeed, you were not—but to up the stakes and to add more so-called ‘reality’ to the morality game, I was also stripped of the ability to change back into my original form. The idea was that, if I was killed, I would be truly dead.”

“Barbaric,” Valek said. “Continue.”

“The same process was applied to all of my comrades here on Zeta Gibraltar,” Yarnek continued. “We are all survivors of at least one, and often many, such gladiatorial combats. It would have gone on indefinitely until we were all dead—and thus removed from influencing politics within the collective or affecting its makeup. But, with a measure of luck on my part and a great deal of ingenuity on the part of Mister Watt, Miss Tubman, and others, a group of us were able to escape. The circumstances were extremely trying. My mate-bond—my ‘wife,’ in your terminology—was killed while we fled, her consciousness obliterated.” Washington-Yarnek made a fist around his empty cup. “Her name was Terima. For five hundred years she lived a life of grace, beauty, and thoughtfulness. I miss her wisdom every moment of every day.”

Washington-Yarnek shook his head, and his shoulders slumped.

If he’s feigning his sorrow, Kirk thought, he’s the best actor I’ve ever seen. Which might be true, of course. He is, after all, doing a very convincing job of pretending to be George Washington.

“I now have firsthand acquaintance with the true nature of good and evil,” said Yarnek. “And with loneliness and loss, as well. Terima was a good and noble person. Without my mate-bond, I would not be here today. Others made similar sacrifices. If it were not for them, none of us would have gotten off Excalbia.”

Washington-Yarnek silently contemplated his memories for a moment, and Valek took the opportunity to break in.

“Pardon me, Mister President,” said Valek. “To save time and emotional epiphenomenon, I shall offer to fill in several of the details of what followed.”

Washington-Yarnek sighed, then took a deep breath and nodded, relief in his eyes. “Yes, I would appreciate if you would do so, Representative Valek,” he replied.

“A passing Orion-bound transport experienced a partial core meltdown and strayed within Excalbian space. The escaping Excalbians made use of the matter transmutation abilities of their unaffected accomplices and were transferred to the cargo hold of that ship. Some weeks later, they were discovered upon docking at Barlow’s Planet in the Cerulean system.”

Valek paused for a moment, seemingly considering how much more she was permitted to tell them.

“At the space elevator dock of Barlow’s Planet, Yarnek exited the cargo hold, found a Federation official, and immediately asked for political asylum.”

“Full citizenship?”

“That was the request. But at the moment, they have been given only refugee status.”

“You’ve taken them to the extreme edge of the Alpha Quadrant, to Zeta Gibraltar for study—and to figure out what danger they might pose for the Federation.”

“Precisely, Captain,” Valek said, gazing at him with a sudden look of surprise and approval in her eyes.

You’re not the only one who can draw logical inferences from a given situation, Kirk thought. Valek’s appreciative gaze did not irritate him as much as he thought it would. Instead, he found himself enjoying her momentary approval.

“The Federation science team has done an excellent job extracting what information they can,” Valek said. “In light of the recent pirate raid, I am here to make a determination on the request for political asylum so that the science outpost on Zeta Gibraltar can be closed until such time as adequate defenses are in place.” She placed her hand firmly, palm down, on the writing desk, as if she were attempting to impress some truth into it. “While I am intrigued by Yarnek’s explanation for his presence, I am far from convinced by it. Until I am, I deem him and the others to be a possible danger to the Federation.”

Kirk feigned surprise, playing along to Valek’s “bad cop,” which, he had to admit, was pretty convincing. “How long do you imagine that will take, Valek?” Kirk asked.

“Unknown,” Valek replied coolly. “The Montana and the Enterprise will remain in orbit until I am done here, Captain Kirk. Two ships for cover should be sufficient.”

So much for retaining her admiration, Kirk thought. She thinks we need Haynes to make up a creditable defensive force.

“You’ll excuse me, Valek,” Kirk said, “but you are outside your area of expertise.”

Valek looked Kirk up and down. Was that a shrewd smile playing over her features?

Vulcans don’t smile, Kirk reminded himself. Even when they believe they are being clever. But I’ll bet Washington-Yarnek doesn’t know that.

“In that case, since you insist on your right to question my judgment, I am required to present to you this,” she said.

From what appeared to be a pocket or pouch within her tunic, Valek drew forth a data card and handed it to Kirk.

Kirk felt his face redden. She’d sprung this surprise on him as well as Washington-Yarnek.

“These are orders bearing both the imprimatur of the Federation Council and Starfleet Command,” Valek said. “I am given command privileges over any and all ships in the Gibraltar system.”

Kirk rolled the card around in his hand, tempted to shatter it to pieces.

“The file is signed by Admiral Wingate, Starfleet liaison to the Council,” Valek said. “I have full authority over you, your crew, and your ship, Captain.”

“As pertains to your mission,” Kirk replied evenly

“Your qualification is correct,” Valek said. “But you will find that my mission has broad parameters.” She turned to Washington-Yarnek and held him in her icy gaze. “One possible reason for denying a request for asylum is a determination that the asylum seekers have lied or misrepresented themselves in any way to Federation officials.”

Washington-Yarnek looked up and met her gaze steadily. “I have not told a lie,” he said in a low, clear voice. “But what would be the consequences if I had?”

“If I judge that asylum is not to be granted, one possible course of action will be to order the Enterprise to deport you back to Excalbia.” Valek came out from behind the desk and stood beside Kirk. “Now gentlemen, if you are done with your drinks and your chat . . . Captain, I would like to consult with you as to the parameters of your orders.”

Kirk stood up. “As you wish,” he said. He bowed toward Washington-Yarnek. “Good day, Mister President.”

Washington-Yarnek, too, rose to his feet.

“Good day to you, as well, Captain,” Washington-Yarnek said. He turned to Valek. “Do you have any . . . orders for the Excalbians, Madam Representative?”

“None at present, Yarnek,” said the Vulcan. “But when I do, I shall let you know.”

Nine

Imelda Contreras had arranged temporary quarters for Kirk that included a sleeping area and a meeting space. Kirk had added to the space by installing a computer with a direct link to the Enterprise. A constant feed of scans of the system would alert the captain if the L’rah’hane returned. Kirk could remain up-to-date on ship’s operations and be ready to return to the Enterprise on a moment’s notice. Until then, however, doing anything beat standing hour upon hour of garrison duty.

Kirk thought, Let someone who needs the experience use the time to learn the ropes of ship operation and sensor monitoring.

His gut feeling that the L’rah’hane were waiting for their chance to strike back had, if anything, grown stronger.

His quarters also had the advantage of having a briefing area with chairs, a table, and the outpost’s computer link. The entire suite was, he guessed, double the size of his captain’s quarters on the ship.

Most of all, it was private—which was why he’d retired to the briefing area with his senior staff to go over their current options.

Spock, Scott, McCoy, and Uhura, who had just finished testing the computer protocols—were seated in a semicircle around the small table. Kirk currently had the audio turned off. One less distraction.

“I didn’t appreciate Valek pulling out those signed orders in the middle of our discussion with Washington, or Yarnek, or whoever he is.”

“That was likely the point, Jim,” McCoy said with a chuckle. “She needed a convincing and genuine reaction out of you to convince the fellow that she meant business, and boy did she get one.”

Kirk nodded ruefully toward the ship’s surgeon. “Yes, very clever. Unless you’re the one being used as the cat’s-paw.” He swiveled to face his first officer. “Spock, have I got any wiggle room?” he asked.

“I have had time to examine them, and the orders and instructions on her official brief are quite ironclad,” Spock replied. “But also quite specific. Valek’s authority over the Excalbians is unquestionable. Beyond that, her purview may be legally limited.” Spock cocked an eyebrow. “But Captain, allow me to suggest that, at the moment, we have an interest in mutual collaboration.”

Kirk chuckled. “Right as rain, Mister Spock.”

Spock shook his head. “A puzzling expression,” he said. “Rain merely is or is not, after all. It possesses not ethical or even intellectual qualities.”

“You’re right as rain about that, too, Mister Spock,” McCoy piped in with a smile.

Kirk turned to the doctor. “Bones, I know these people have studied the Excalbians every which way, but let’s get going with our own exams. I want you to stay down here for a day or so and see if you can get a few of them to take a physical from you.”

“Will do, Captain.”

“Bones, down to the molecular level.”

“Don’t worry,” said the ship’s surgeon. “I’ll do my best to find out what makes them tick, Jim. I already know why some of them insist on those silly wigs.”

“Really? Enlighten us, Doctor.”

“To hide lice,” McCoy said. “They seem to regenerate those as thoroughly as everything else.”

Kirk immediately felt a desire to reach up and scratch his head at the mention of the little beasts. He suppressed it. Yet McCoy, who could be a bit of a mind-reader himself, noticed Kirk’s tremor and smiled.

“If I’m right, they won’t pose any threat to the crew,” McCoy said. “If they lived very long away from their original host, half the personnel on this outpost would be infected by now. I haven’t seen many people scratching their heads around here—except in befuddlement.”

“All right, then, as for the rest of us, Mister Scott, the planetoid defenses need upgrading, and I can’t help but think our James Watt Excalbian might make—”

A greeting whistled from nearby the door. “Visitor at entrance,” said the voice of the outpost computer.

“Identify,” Kirk said.

“Federation Special Representative Valek requests permission to enter and speak with Captain James T. Kirk,” said the computer.

Kirk gazed around at his officers. “Well, let’s hear her out. Admit the representative, computer.”

With a pneumatic chuff, the door slid open.

Kirk stood. “Please come in, Valek.”

Valek nodded and entered. She did not seem surprised to see the others gathered in the briefing area. “Greetings,” she said to the others, then turned immediately to Kirk. “Captain, it occurs to me that we should engage in a thorough debriefing following our discussion with Yarnek.” She glanced at the others. “I would also be very pleased if your senior staff took part.”

“Certainly, Valek,” he replied. “How about now?”

“That would be quite satisfactory,” she said with the raise of one of her curved Vulcan eyebrows. “May I sit down?”

“Of course.”

Valek took a seat, as did Kirk. She brought her hands together and templed her fingers on the table. “I take it that you have observed that Commander Contreras is perhaps overly in awe of her guests. I am no expert on humans, but I believe she has, in effect, accepted a subordinate role to the Excalbian leader.”

“Perhaps,” Kirk acknowledged with a smile. “He is, in her eyes, President George Washington, a revered figure from our past. He represents not only steady leadership, but one of the founders of democratic governance.”

“Explain?”

“After America won its Revolutionary War—”

“With the aid of the country called France, as I recall.”

“True, Valek, as far as it goes,” put in Spock. “Yet this, too, was an event created almost single-handedly by the efforts of an American. One man: Benjamin Franklin, who was then serving as a commissioner to France.”

Kirk nodded. “Franklin convinced the French to come in, and, more specifically, to commit the French navy. After that was accomplished, the British were defeated. After the formation of a federal government, Washington was elected president, an office that was held for four years at a time. There were no term limits, Washington could have served for the remainder of his life, had he chosen. In fact, he was so revered by the populace that he could have declared himself king and they would likely have gone along with it.”

“That is illogical,” Valek said. “The Americans had just fought to rid themselves of royal governance.”

“True,” Kirk said. “Being a logical man and, more importantly, a humble and strong-willed man who knew how to resist temptation, Washington reasoned that two terms were enough. He stepped down and returned to private life. In this way, he set a precedent for all those who followed. In many ways, his actions influenced the Federation Council practice of rotating, democratic leadership. Others had the idea of what it meant to be a democratic leader; Washington lived it.”

“But this is contradictory. If he was the most logical person to lead the newly formed United States, he should not have resigned his position.”

“He didn’t resign his position,” Kirk replied. “He decided not to run for a third term.”

“It would seem to me,” said Spock, “that the point was to set an example.”

“That’s right,” said Kirk. “Eight years was enough. He went back to his estate at Mount Vernon, and he pointedly declined any further attempts to reelect him to the presidency or elect him to any other office.”

“Are you saying that Commander Contreras is displacing her regard for the historical figure of Washington upon this Washington analog?”

“I don’t entirely blame her,” said Kirk. “The man bears a striking resemblance to George Washington, both in appearance and in what we imagine his demeanor to be from the histories. There was a reason the Continental Congress made him general.”

“Yet you understand that this is an Excalbian replica, do you not?”

“Oh yes,” Kirk replied. “I have a personal history with that particular Excalbian.”

Valek nodded. “That is mostly what I have come to speak with you about, Captain.” She allowed her palms to spread away from their templed position, with her palms up in a gesture of goodwill and inclusion. It seemed to Kirk a very un-Vulcan motion.

“How can I help, Representative Valek?”

“Assuming I make the decision to grant the Excalbians political asylum within the Federation, there is much they will have to assimilate. For instance, you will have noticed their anachronistic garb.”

“Apparently perpetually regenerating.”

“It is a firm reminder that these people are not, at foundation, humanoids.”

“Agreed.”

“This regeneration is a special study of Commander Contreras, and I plan to closely question her on the matter. I will, of course, share any information I glean with you.”

“I would appreciate that.”

Valek brought her hands back together in the familiar Vulcan templing position, which, Kirk knew, was an indicator of deep thought, contemplation, and, occasionally, Vulcan scheming—although they would never call it that.

“The Federation Council—Ambassador Sarek in particular—seems convinced there is something else behind the Excalbian explanation of their escape from the planet. That is partly the reason the ambassador chose me in particular, since I count myself a protégé of his.”

“Sarek had an intuition?” Kirk said, amused.

“No,” Valek replied. “It is comparable to seeing a puzzle mostly assembled and yet finding one piece missing—a piece that is crucial to the correct interpretation of that puzzle.”

“Okay,” Kirk said. “Not an intuition.”

“To bend the metaphor, we have, I believe, shaken the Excalbian Washington with our conversation,” Valek said. “Perhaps that missing puzzle piece will now fall out of one of his many pockets.”

Kirk nodded. “Agreed.”

She nodded toward the Enterprise officers present. “Captain, I believe it would be prudent for you to use your presence here to continue our effort to discover if the Excalbians’ underlying motivation differs from that which they’ve stated.”

“You mean find out if they’ve been lying to us?”

“Or telling us only part of the truth,” Valek said. “You are a human with strategic and tactical experience, perhaps the closest thing Washington-Yarnek has as a counterpart in this facility. I would like you to try to win the confidence of Washington-Yarnek in order to attempt to . . . I search for the proper idiom . . .”

“Try to get him to open up to me?” Kirk asked with a smile.

“I would expect a report after each encounter,” Valek said.

“I’ll file a report when I have something to report,” Kirk shot back.

“I will expect a verbal report,” she said. “The outpost computer system is not secure, and these are extremely delicate matters.”

“Very well,” Kirk said. “Where do we conduct this . . . briefing.”

“My quarters,” Valek answered. “I have the means to adequately shield it from any eavesdropping measures likely to be employed.” She cocked her head sideways. “In fact, it is likely the most private area on the outpost.”

Kirk glanced over to see McCoy smiling like an amused wolf at Valek’s inadvertent double entendre, and Scott blushing nearly as red as his shirt. Uhura covered her mouth with a hand to hide her smile. Only Spock seemed unaffected.

Maybe you should have studied human behavior a little bit harder, Valek, Kirk thought. If you had, you’d know how that sounded.

Then again, Kirk considered, maybe she knows exactly how that sounded.

Kirk found himself half hoping that such was the case.

He nodded. “All right, Representative, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“She’s quite the intelligent woman, Captain Kirk?” Washington-Yarnek asked Kirk. They were in the outpost lounge. Across the room, Spock and Benjamin Franklin were engaged in what was shaping up to be an epic game of three-dimensional chess.

Kirk had entered alone, and settled down to read an analysis of the L’rah’hane ship sent to him by Sulu, when Washington-Yarnek had taken the bait and asked if he could join him.

“Please have a seat, Mister President,” Kirk said.

“You may call me Yarnek if it makes you more comfortable,” said the other.

“Well, sir, it . . . pleases me in some way to continue you to call you Mister President. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Captain,” replied the Excalbian. “I hope I am not interrupting your work?”

“I don’t mind a little interruption. Just looking over a couple of reports.”

Washington-Yarnek nodded. “Ah, the endless trail of paper—or nowadays, electrons—that follow a commander about,” he said. “Perhaps a short break would help your concentration. I know it often did my own. I was on my way to the biolab to have a look at my experiments with a kind of winter corn that just might survive on the planet surface here at Zeta Gibraltar. Would you care to join me?”

Kirk glanced down at the ship specifications he was reading. “As a matter of fact, I would love to join you, sir. You’re right. My eyes were starting to glaze over.”

Washington-Yarnek pointed toward the data slate.

“Specifications for the L’rah’hane ship?”

“Yes,” Kirk said. “My people have thoroughly crawled all over it and scanned it.”

And found something very interesting in the process. Which I don’t plan to mention to you at present, until—

“Then they no doubt came across the interesting quantum-field device in use by the L’rah’hane.”

Kirk made an expression of surprise. “You know about that?”

“Mister Watt described the item to me on our voyage back,” said Yarnek. “Doctor Franklin conjectured that it was some sort of information transceiver. He believed it may well be a method for communication faster than your own subspace transmissions.”

“ ‘Your’ own?”

“I mean the Federation’s standard method, of course,” Yarnek replied with a smile, though again carefully not opening his mouth to expose Washington’s legendary bad teeth. “One day I hope to be able to include myself among its citizens.’’

“Perhaps you will, Mister President,” Kirk said. “Shall we visit the biolab?”

They exited together, Washington-Yarnek busily describing his selection criteria for breeding wheat and corn analogs for growing during what passed on Zeta Gibraltar for spring and summer.

Chekov piloted the shuttlecraft Kepler as expertly as he performed his navigation tasks on the Enterprise. Sulu, in command of the mission, had taken over navigation and sensors and left the driving to Chekov for once. He occasionally served at the helm of the Enterprise when Sulu was away or their duty watches did not coincide. That was enjoyable. But the Kepler, he had to admit, was a great deal more exciting to pilot moment to moment, especially now that he and Sulu were making their way through the dense clouds and hidden pockets of solid matter inside the Vara Nebula.

Serving as the navigator of the Enterprise was, of course, ultimately more satisfying. To have the responsibility of plotting the course of a ship containing over four hundred people was a heady experience. But in the shuttlecraft, there was the actual experience of acceleration, deceleration, and vector changes that was lacking except in the most dire of conditions aboard the Enterprise. The shuttlecraft had artificial gravity built in, but this, even combined with the inertial compensators, could only dampen, but not erase, the effect of banking, turning, and racing thousands of kilometers per second through one of the universe’s most challenging regions—an early-stage nebular cloud.

Chekov and Sulu were acting under orders of their captain. They were allegedly visiting a moon of the Gibraltar system gas giant Upsilon Gibraltar in order to determine if that moon was a good place for a defensive base.

They were, in fact, nowhere near Upsilon Gibraltar. Instead, they were engaged in a covert scouting and surveillance mission to determine the full extent of the L’rah’hane menace lurking within the nebula. Chekov didn’t know if the scientists on Zeta Gibraltar or the Federation civilian representative that had recently arrived knew that the mission was taking place, but he figured he would let the captain worry about that.

Above my grade, Chekov thought. And a good thing at that. Sulu and I don’t have to worry about convoluted strictures, but only about Starfleet regulations when it comes to encounters with potential hostile forces. That’s enough on our plate.

Those regulations were clear: do not engage unless a threat to life and limb is imminent. Furthermore, if they got into a firefight with the L’rah’hane, that would mean he and Sulu weren’t doing their job of observation and reporting.

He was flying mostly by instruments. The view out the shuttlecraft portal was similar to that of a Moscow street in a winter fog. Sulu was navigating with what information they had, and both he and Chekov were keeping their eyes on the sensors.

“I have a faint subspace signature from section 2.4, arc 247,” Sulu said. “Not much to go on, but let’s head that direction.”

“I will bring us in slowly,” Chekov replied. “We don’t want to alert our quarry before we have a chance to make an inspection.”

“Excellent,” said Sulu.

Chekov adjusted the appropriate guidance controls, and the shuttlecraft banked behind a screen of matter—sensors showed it to be mostly ice and silicates. There was a similar field of floating debris above and to galactic west of his position. In the brief window of exposure zooming between the two hiding spots, Chekov and Sulu trained every detection device at their disposal toward the spot where the subspace signal had originated.

Safely concealed behind the second matter field, they examined the data.

Svyatoye der’mo, Chekov thought. It was a L’rah’hane vessel, all right, trailing a propulsion plume.

He looked closer. A smeared electromagnetic signal, all over the spectrum.

Primitive, he thought. Which provided the perfect opportunity for a bit of subterfuge.

“What do you think? We move in directly behind him, remain in the propulsion plume, and his aft sensors will be of no use.”

“It will be tricky,” Sulu replied. “That plume is going to bounce us around a good bit. Fortunately we have an Academy Double Windstar Award winner piloting the ship.”

Chekov suppressed a smile. He hadn’t known Sulu was aware of his record as the top navigation and flight student in his graduating class at the Academy, a distinction that included possessing the reflexes necessary to work at a helm as well as the brains to navigate. Granted, helming a deep spacecraft was nothing like flying around the Academy flitters, but Academy instructors are the best—creating starship pilots with sterling records and incredible feats under their belts.

The shuttlecraft was buffeted about, but remaining in the plume was no problem for Chekov, who had once snuck up on one of the Academy “top guns” using a similar tactic.

He’d then been rather handily “killed” by the embarrassed instructor in the ensuing dogfight—but not before he’d gotten in the first hit.

Deeper into the Vara Nebula they traveled. It was only after the L’rah’hane vessel rendezvoused with another that Chekov pulled back and found more debris cover. By this time, the L’rah’hane vessel had slowed.

It was approaching its destination.

Chekov followed at a distance, yet always kept the quarry, and now its twin vessel, in sensor range for Sulu.

“Bingo,” Sulu said as his short-range sensors lit up. “Highly active subspace chatter and multiple bogeys. Analyzing trajectory convergences. I’ll have visual in a moment.”

Chekov held his position and waited. Sulu’s hands flew across the sensor controls. Then he sat back and let out a low whistle. “There’s something out there. Something massive.”

Chekov looked down at his own instrument readouts. There was a narrow gap in the debris field to starboard at two o’clock high, as the old-school pilots would say. It looked just about shuttlecraft-sized. The fit would be narrow, but . . .

“I think I can get us a better look,” he said.

Carefully using side thrusters and impulse power on its lowest setting, he eased the shuttlecraft through the window—more of a narrow crack—in the thick debris cloud in which they were embedded.

As the bow of the shuttlecraft emerged into the relatively empty space beyond, Chekov fired a brief burst of aft thrusters, then shut down all accelerators.

It would take an extraordinarily accurate sensor sweep to see the shuttlecraft slightly protruding from the debris, and the searcher would likely have to know exactly what he, she, or it was looking for.

“Polarizing fields,” Sulu said. “Should give us the clearest view possible.”

It took a moment for the scene before them to emerge in their vision, but when it did, the sight was astounding.

They’d emerged into what was perhaps a half million kilometers of clear space.

Probably deliberately cleared, Chekov thought. The edges of the space, a decahedron, were quite exact. The kind of technology that could accomplish such a task was at least the equal to the Federation’s capabilities and perhaps beyond.

No worries about violating the Prime Directive here, Chekov thought.

What occupied the cleared space within the nebula was equally impressive. There were at least ten L’rah’hane ships—and other undefined varieties of vessels with different propulsion signatures—orbiting a massive central object.

Sulu magnified.

Not an asteroid—or, at least, no longer an asteroid.

A space station, a rotating clump of technology, instrumentation, and weapons platforms perhaps five kilometers in diameter. It was covered in crenellations and superstructure that looked utterly alien to Chekov—and he’d seen a great deal of strange architecture in his travels.

“Got any idea what it is?” he asked Sulu.

Sulu shook his head, checked a readout. “That structure is approximately four hundred years old.” The lieutenant gazed back out the front viewport. “Waiting for computer database confirmation,” he said. “But I believe we’re looking at an old space platform of the Hradrian Empire.”

“That doesn’t look like a relic,” Chekov said. “It looks like it is still operating.”

“I think we’ve discovered the answer to a long-standing archaelogical enigma,” said Sulu.

“What is that?”

“The riddle of where the Hradrians went.”

Chekov nodded toward the habitat. “You don’t think—?”

“I do,” Sulu replied. “Some of them came here.”

Ten

The interior of laboratory C in the Zeta Gibraltar outpost was mostly dark. It was the night cycle outside, and most lights were turned down or off in the complex. In the middle of the lab, however, at a table coated with a black, anti-interactive sheath, a sort of low-level deflector shield, a pool of light from the ceiling illuminated the golden-brown surface features of a most unusual device.

The artifact, taken from a L’rah’hane vessel, was very difficult to bring into focus. It was like a blurred photo, and no matter how hard you concentrated on it, there was a smearing visual effect. And when you touched it, the surface felt as if your hand had passed through some sort of membrane or force field. Your fingers came away tingling.

In that pool of light a most incongruous pair of persons sat on stools. One was dressed in Starfleet science blue. The other wore a brown velvet waistcoat over a linen shirt. His cravat was undone and dangling around his neck, and a pair of steel-rimmed glasses hung on the end of his nose.

How they might look was the furthest thing from the two men’s minds, however. They were bent over the device, prodding and poking it with a variety of instruments as well as their bare hands.

“Readings indicate that the L’rah’hane component is partially biological,” said Spock, bending down to gaze at the device through discerning eyes. “Yet there are electronic logic circuits within, if I’m not mistaken. You can make them out through the translucent surface, yet analysis seems to show they serve no function.”

“Difficult to believe,” Benjamin Franklin said. “Obviously they do something. Those are not accidental structures.”

“Agreed.”

Spock ran a tricorder one more time across the device’s surface, using a modified electron stream to penetrate deeply enough to give them a display of the interior.

“It is fascinating,” said Spock.

“Now, Spock,” Franklin said. “Would you agree that the living matter congealed around these electrical conduits and capacitors seems to be a power source? I don’t know if you’re aware of Mister Luigi Galvani’s experiments with the Leyden jar and its ability to vitalize the legs of frogs.” Franklin pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, but they promptly slid down again to just before its tip when he leaned down to further study the component. “It occurs to me that the process might be reversed and the frog legs used to power the Leyden jar, in a manner of speaking.”

“I believe that is precisely what is happening here, Doctor Franklin,” said Spock. “The living material is the power source, and it appears to be self-perpetuating so long as it is bathed in a simple sugar solution.”

“And yet such might be only a secondary purpose. There is a great deal more bio-matter than would be necessary for such a function. Something else, something larger, is going on with the living components.”

“The excessive bio-matter does bear a strong resemblance to nerve cells,” Spock replied. He sat back and looked over at Franklin, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Doctor Franklin, I believe you have already arrived at a preliminary conclusion or you would not have sent a sample to the biological laboratory for analysis.”

Franklin cocked his head to look at the device sidelong. “Do you know if they have the results?”

“They do, and I requested permission to deliver them to you.” Spock pointed to a pair of colored data cards he’d put upon the table between them when entering. “The analysis is on the yellow cards,” Spock said. “The raw data is collected on the red one.”

“Thank you, Mister Spock,” Franklin said. He took up the yellow card and inserted it into the data reading device beside the console computer built onto the side of the examination table. Instantly, its viewscreen lit up with a transparent image of the L’rah’hane device. Spock reached over and pressed a button. The room lights dimmed and a holographic, three-dimensional representation of the device, with multiple layers visible beneath, appeared several centimeters out from the viewscreen, hovering over the examination table.

“Wonderful things, these computers and visual display machines,” Franklin muttered. “Even if they are, sometimes, a bit distracting.”

Franklin reached over and put a finger within the device image. It rotated as if touched. Franklin chuckled with delight. “Never will get used to how realistic these holograms can be,” he said.

“You come from a species that is able to create entire alternate scenarios with a thought.”

Franklin sat back, shook his head. “Not really, Mister Spock. I have come to understand that reality has a way of reasserting itself no matter how carefully an illusion is constructed. Witness the fact that for all our alleged great advancement, we were unable to break free of the L’rah’hane slavers.”

“Point taken,” Spock replied with a nod.

“Let us say the large portion of me that is Benjamin Franklin is delighted, and my Excalbian portion is just happy to be alive at present.”

Spock did not reply to this, but inclined his head toward the L’rah’hane device hologram. “It seems we have a paradox, Doctor Franklin. According to one analysis, this device cannot exist. According to another, it exists in several places at once due to quantum smearing.”

“Even more marvelous,” Franklin replied. He turned the device again, spread his fingers to increase magnification, poked it to zoom in, increased magnification again, and finally pointed to several clusters of indentations. “Yet these are receivers, as I had supposed. See the direction of signal flow here and here.” Animated sparks appeared where Franklin touched the hologram and traveled inward toward the interior electronics.

“But what do they receive?” Spock said. “Nothing electromagnetic. They resemble subspace receiver nodes in some ways, but this is not their function, as the data readings make clear.” Spock pointed to two other spots where there were convex bumps on the device. “These are subspace transceivers, and it would appear they are merely present to report telemetry, so the device can remain oriented toward galactic center.”

Franklin tapped a point on the side of the device. “I’d say it is these indentations that are at the heart of this device,” Franklin said. “My intuition tells me as much. Yet I’ll be damned if my rational side can tell me how they might work.”

“Might I suggest a consultation?”

“What do you mean?”

“We do have present at the outpost some of the greatest minds in history, yours included. Perhaps one of the others could shed some light on the device’s function.”

Franklin slapped a knee and laughed heartily. “You are absolutely right, Mister Spock,” he said. “I believe I know just who we’re looking for, too. He’s the sort that can look at a rock or a feather—or even a dangling necklace—and see a million possibilities.”

“That description would seem to fit you, sir. Who else did you have in mind?”

“Why, Galileo Galilei, of course,” Franklin answered. “And if he doesn’t know anything, then we can try Leonardo da Vinci.”

“Two excellent suggestions, Doctor Franklin.”

“And it will do Galileo good to take on a project. He’s been in a funk about this church edict against his work. He knows it has been lifted for centuries, but somewhere deep inside, he still feels on trial for the very act of conducting scientific investigation! That period of captivity with the L’rah’hane seems to have dredged up some very uncomfortable memories for Galileo. His childhood was not the most stable, as I understand it.”

“I was not aware that he, or any of you Excalbians, could be so affected by entirely artificial memories.”

“Artificial to you, Mister Spock. They don’t feel artificial to us, even though we know they must be. I realize this sounds quite illogical, but this is pure human behavior we’re talking about,” said Franklin. “And the fact of the matter is, Galileo is quite a moody fellow. He’s an Italian, after all.”

“They most definitely aren’t human, Doctor,” said Naftali Levin, the medical officer for Zeta Gibraltar outpost. He slid a data card into his office computer and invited McCoy to have a seat. “Watch this and I’ll show you.”

McCoy sat down in the white chair. It was more deeply padded than the ones in his sickbay, and McCoy felt for a moment as if he were sinking into a bog.

Cushy places, these ground-side exam complexes, McCoy thought. But I’ll take my sickbay any day.

Levin activated the computer, and McCoy turned his attention to the viewscreen in front of them.

It showed an Excalbian in a sitting position on an examination table. He was just rolling up his sleeve, and Levin was putting away what McCoy recognized as an interior blood analysis tool—a specialized device that provided far more data than the usual bio monitor.

On the upper right-hand corner of the screen was a record of the stardate and time the data card was made. The seconds ticked away as McCoy continued to watch.

“Now,” Levin said. “Let me show you what led up to this examination. Doctor McCoy, I give you a friendly duel between Commodore Stephen Decatur Junior and the honorable Cyrano de Bergerac.”

The screen switched to a view of another room with two men in fighting stances.

The two men circled each other. Each held different swords. One was a flat-bladed sword with what looked like an inlaid silver guard. McCoy was no expert, but this was not a long sword. It had only a single-sided blade. It was the sword of a cavalryman or sailor, perhaps. Its bearer was dressed in pants of gray wool with suspenders over a white, blousy shirt. Stephen Decatur, McCoy guessed.

The other had on clothing of an older time, Renaissance Europe. He wore a leather singlet vest over a shirt and billowing pants that disappeared into high leather boots that came up above the knee. This must be Cyrano de Bergerac. He wielded two swords, or one sword and a long dagger, McCoy couldn’t be certain. The dagger was flat-bladed and double-edged, but the sword was a rapier. It was longer than the other man’s, thin and bladed—and it ended in what looked like an extremely sharp point.

The two men came together, and it was immediately clear that the wielder of the rapier was the better swordsman. He danced circles around the man in gray and made taunting thrusts now and again that the other could barely parry.

“Are they actually fighting with sharpened swords?” McCoy asked Levin.

“Oh yes,” the other doctor replied. “Wait for it—”

During a particularly deadly looking thrust from the rapier-using man, the other stepped aside. The rapier thrust went wide, missing him, and de Bergerac leaned over to retain his balance.

When he did so, he exposed his head, and the other was quick to punish him. With a fast chopping motion, all in the wrist, he brought his sword down. The rapier bearer turned his head to avoid the blow—but did not turn away fast enough. The blade sliced down into his shoulder and sank into his arm like a cleaver sinks into raw meat. De Bergerac let out a scream and stumbled back.

“Ouch,” said McCoy.

“I know, right?” Levin replied.

The fight did not last long. McCoy had seen enough physical brawling to know that most fights did not stretch out into long displays of skill. Usually, both parties came in bashing and whoever was stronger, luckier or, sometimes, more skilled, was the one who walked away alive.

The blow caused the stricken man not to give in, but to fight back. He began a furious fusillade of thrusts, working his blade like a sewing needle through fabric. The other fought back, but finally the rapier found its mark just over the victim’s heart.

After a moment of gurgling in protest, the stabbed man fell to the ground, his blood sloshing out in great gouts as his heart pumped on.

He has to be dead, McCoy thought. He must be dead.

After a few moments slumped there, he stood back up. Meanwhile, the man with the rapier cleaned and sheathed his blade. Only then did he reach up to feel his neck and shoulders for injury.

The cut into his shoulder was deep enough to fit a finger into. But there seemed to be more blood than need be.

“The ear, of course,” the man said. He had a French accent. “You struck downward through the cartilage, you scoundrel.”

He reached up to touch the spot, seemingly fearful of what he might find.

He found nothing. Ragged skin around a bleeding hole. The other had chopped off the man’s ear.

“Merde.”

The rapier-bearing man began a careful search of the ground. Only after he grimaced and said “Aha!” could McCoy make out what he’d picked up.

It was a human ear. His own.

“Well,” said the rapier man to the other, “that’s never happened before.” Then the image feed went blank.

McCoy sat back in his cushioned chair. “That must have hurt.”

“Oh it did, it did. That’s why de Bergerac came. He wanted a pain spray to take the sting out.”

“Take the sting out? That ear was amputated by a blade. It will take weeks of treatment to regenerate completely. Do they really fight with sharpened swords?”

“Have to,” said Levin. “That’s the only kind of swords the Excalbians have.”

Not sure what he means by that, but let it go—

“Okay then, why do the damn Excalbians do it? It’s obviously crazy and dangerous—”

A notification bell beeped, and Levin shot McCoy an amused glance. “Hang on to that thought for a moment, Doctor, and allow me to introduce you to Cyrano de Bergerac. You can ask him yourself.”

McCoy saw from Levin’s expression that something was going on that he didn’t want to reveal yet. The outpost doctor turned to the door control sensor. “Enter.” The door slid open, and in walked Cyrano de Bergerac. His nose, McCoy noted, was on the largish size, but was certainly not a monstrous protrusion. He was otherwise an extremely handsome man.

“Mister de Bergerac, come in, come in,” said Levin. “This is Doctor Leonard McCoy of the Starship
Enterprise.”

“A pleasure, sir,” said de Bergerac. He reached out a gloved hand to shake, and McCoy took it.

Odd to wear gloves in a climate-controlled environment like this, McCoy thought. But to each his own.

“Mister de Bergerac, I was wondering if you would mind if Doctor McCoy examined your wounded ear,” Levin said.

“Not at all, not at all,” de Bergerac replied. “But I think you’ll find it much better.”

McCoy had risen as soon as permission came and had a look at the ear.

He reached up his hands to part the curly hair around it. “Do you mind?” he asked.

“Please,” said de Bergerac.

McCoy pushed back the hair, examined the ear, then thumbed it to be sure it was flesh and not some kind of prosthetic.

“It’s completely healed,” he said.

De Bergerac only smiled and shrugged.

“You’ll find that it isn’t merely healed,” Levin said. “It is exactly the same as it was before the accident. I can show you molecular analysis that proves as much.”

McCoy broke away from looking at the perfectly undamaged ear and turned to Levin. “Okay, what gives?”

“Tell Doctor McCoy about your gloves, Mister de Bergerac,” Levin said.

“His gloves? I want to know about that ear.”

Levin held up a hand. “Indulge us, Doctor.” He spoke again to de Bergerac. “You took one of your gloves off this morning, did you not?”

“I had to so you could use your medical instruments to examine me.”

“Yes, the compact bio monitor is very sensitive. Unlike the lab medical sensors, it can easily operate through clothing. It was the right arm, I think.”

“My sword arm, oui.”

Levin reached over and opened a drawer. “In fact, here it is,” he said. He pulled out a large cuffed brown leather glove, slid the drawer shut, and tossed the glove to McCoy.

“Okay,” McCoy said. “It’s leather. It’s a glove. Same as the one he has on now.”

“Mister de Bergerac, do you happen to have a supply of those particular gloves? Replacements for when you lose one or one becomes damaged?”

“I do not need one, Docteur,” said de Bergerac. “You know that.”

“And why don’t you need them?” he asked, nodding toward McCoy. “Please, enlighten the good doctor here.”

“Well, because they grow back,” de Bergerac replied. “This takes about an hour, sometimes two, depending. Same with the ear.”

“You mean to tell me that ear regenerated in a few hours?” McCoy said.

“Not at all,” Levin said. “An exact replacement formed, down to the cell level. We’ve documented the whole process. That glove you’re holding you would find to be an exact replica of the one Mister de Bergerac is now wearing on his right hand. Exact to the molecule.”

“I’ll be damned,” said McCoy. “What is it, nanotechnology?”

“That’s what we suspected at first,” Levin replied. “But there is actually a holographic memory process going on. If you use quark imaging, you’ll see it. There are, so help me, a tiny set of positronic instructions for constructing or reconstructing Mister de Bergerac here—might as well think of them as homunculi, because they look like him under the microscope. There they are, precisely situated between the molecules that make up his body, clothing, and equipment. Damage him, or simply take off his gloves, his coat, his boots? It’ll come back.”

“How far does this extend?” McCoy asked. “Could you—pardon me, Mister de Bergerac—could you, for instance, cut him into a dozen pieces. Would each of those pieces remake itself until you had a dozen Cyrano de Bergeracs?”

Both Levin and de Bergerac laughed heartily. “Would that it were so, Doctor McCoy,” said de Bergerac. “But even I might be wary of a world full of swordsmen as good as I am.”

“No, only one of those pieces would remake itself into Mister de Bergerac, but it would create him again completely, even down to his memories,” Levin said.

“Spontaneous re-creation. How?” McCoy asked.

“That’s something I, and the Federation, would really like to discover.”

“I’ll bet,” said McCoy. “Mister de Bergerac, pardon me for asking, but have any of the Excalbians been killed?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” de Bergerac said. “An energy weapon will do the trick. We lost some during our captivity in such a way. Also, that’s why poor Marcel Proust is no more. He became incensed during a card game and attempted to draw a weapon on Bill Hickok. Hickok had equipped himself with a phaser in addition to his Colt 1851 revolver. He swears it was merely for defensive purposes. Nevertheless, he had it, and he had it set on its highest power.” De Bergerac bowed his head and made a tsk-tsk sound. “Of course it was a mistake to draw on Hickok. There wasn’t a trace left of poor Marcel, I’m afraid.”

“Good Lord,” McCoy said. “That’s terrible! Where is Hickok now?”

“In the brig, until we can deliver him to the authorities,” said Levin.

McCoy turned back to de Bergerac. “So your sword practice isn’t practice at all, is it?”

De Bergerac smiled. “We cannot be truly hurt. Decatur and I are quite used to enduring a little pain, and we do go at it rather hard at times.”

“They hack one another’s arms off,” Levin said. “I’ve watched one of those matches. It’s gruesome.”

“All in good fun,” de Bergerac said. “But that blow to my ear. . . well, I’ve always been sensitive there. My father used to cuff me as a boy. He used to beat the hell out of me in general, to tell the truth. But it always started with the cuffing of an ear, a hard blow that marked harder yet to come. When I am injured there the pain . . . brings back memories I would rather avoid.”

“You came to get treatment not because of the injury, but because your completely sliced-off ear reminded you of your unhappy childhood?”

De Bergerac nodded with a look of melancholy. “Exactly, Doctor McCoy,” he answered. “I hope I have not presumed upon our acquaintance by offering up such lurid personal details, but Doctor Levin wished me to provide a complete explanation.”

“Of course not,” McCoy said. “I’m honored that you’d confide in me.”

“The honor is mine, Doctor McCoy. Anyone whom Doctor Levin trusts, I trust likewise,” de Bergerac said. “Doctor Levin has proved time and again to be both a gentleman and a scholar.”

McCoy looked to Levin.

Well, I’ll be damned. The man’s blushing.

“Coming from you, that’s high praise,” Levin said to de Bergerac.

“Completely justified,” de Bergerac replied. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a rematch scheduled with that hot-blooded Decatur. He won’t let well enough alone. As I understand it, that’s what got him killed the first time. We’ve reserved the white exercise room with the self-cleaning walls and absorption tiles for this one. I have a feeling blood will flow copiously.” De Bergerac smiled wickedly, and laid a gloved hand on the finely wrought pommel of his sheathed rapier. “Further, good sirs, I make bold to predict that the blood will be his, and only his, this time.”

Eleven

“The problem is, how do we get any closer to that structure?” Sulu said. “We’re close enough to know we’ve found something, but too far to really understand what’s going on here.”

Chekov nodded and smiled in what he’d been told by more than one person—many of them females—was a shrewd and boyish way. He didn’t mind the implied patronizing attitude. That smile had gotten him through sticky situations more than once. Of course, his friend Sulu was immune to any charm other than Chekov’s reasoning ability. He’d have to convince the helmsman with logic.

Well, I’ve been around Mister Spock long enough to know how to do that, Chekov thought.

“We suspect these L’rah’hane are slavers,” Chekov said. “We don’t know where they’re getting them, but it has to be from some worlds hidden by the nebula. Worlds unknown to the Federation.”

“True. And any subspace communication from this sector that might be intercepted is drowned by the space-time anomalies created by the nebula, as well.”

“But that will cut both ways,” Chekov said. “They won’t know who we are either. Or what kind of technology we possess.”

“Are you suggesting we just waltz in there and request permission to scan them?” asked Sulu incredulously.

“Not at all, my friend,” Chekov said. Then he explained to Sulu what he had in mind.

“Unknown craft, identify, identify.”

“Comrades, comrades, do not fire on us! We bring a great prize! We have looted the interlopers. They thought to take us prisoners, make us slaves, but it is we who have turned the tables on them. Now they are our slaves.”

“Identify immediately!”

“The S.S. Scottybuilt! We bring the crew with us as prisoners, as slaves for sale! Fine, healthy slaves with knowledge of starflight. We demand top value for these.”

“Scottybuilt, there is no record of your existence in the database. You will hold for scan or be destroyed!”

“Of course the craft is not in your database, fools. We stole it from those on the other side of the nebula!”

“This cannot be verified.”

“Yes, it can,” said Chekov. “Stand by for transmission.”

Chekov turned to Sulu, who knelt beside him. Both had donned manacles on wrists and feet and knelt in the main hold. They’d had to get creative with the rations to create the look of fresh blood. But with some liberal application of sauce and crushed “lunches,” Chekov had to admit that he and Sulu did a plausible imitation of two beings who had had the hell beaten out of them.

“All right, now’s the time to gaze up in agony and despair,” Chekov whispered to Sulu. Sulu got himself ready—he was a frighteningly good actor—and then the lieutenant activated the interior visual. For a few moments, their images as prisoners in chains went out over the subspace feed.

The shuttlecraft drew closer and closer to the main habitat.

When Sulu figured that they’d seen enough, he cut the feed and nodded to Chekov. “These two we will put on the market block first, even before we arrive!” he said. “Opening bids will start at—”

“Fifty alons!” came a voice over the subspace frequency.

“Seventy-five!” said another.

The bidding continued. The shuttlecraft drew closer and closer.

“Almost within range for complete reading,” Sulu said.

Chekov pressed the communicator button. Now was the time to do some serious bargaining. Fortunately this ability flowed naturally in his Russian blood. Chekov was fairly certain that the art of bargaining was a Russian invention, first practiced by old King Rurik on his travels along the Dnieper River.

“Eighty-five alons? Do you wish to starve us? We risked our lives to bring these top quality goods, and all I hear is seventy-five.” Chekov raised his voice in feigned anger. He had to admit he was enjoying getting into the act. “We demand one hundred fifty!”

“Robbery!”

“Do you wish to leave myself and my concubines destitute!”

“Unthinkable! Those are retail prices! One hundred is as high as a reasonable wholesaler can go and still turn a profit!”

Chekov turned to Sulu, who shook his head. Not quite in scan range yet.

“One hundred fifty and we will throw in the craft itself,” Chekov countered. “Here, take another look at the merchandise, and see what a bargain we are offering!” He turned to Sulu and mouthed, “Ready?” Sulu nodded and activated the feed once more.

More agony. This time Sulu let out a low, loud moan for good measure.

“One twenty-five and no higher!”

“One forty, and you are stealing bread from my mouth!”

“Initiating complete scan,” Sulu whispered.

“The craft, and one hundred for the tall, beautiful one. Sell the short one elsewhere.”

Chekov shook his head in disbelief. Sulu! They wanted to purchase Sulu and not him. He felt an irrational flush of jealousy rise inside himself.

Hey, that’s not fair! I’m strong and good-looking! thought Chekov. I may be a bit on the short side, but I’d make as fine a slave as Sulu!

He glanced over at Sulu, who was slyly smiling.

“What are we going to do with the little one? He’ll have to be spaced. They sell as a pair, or not at all.”

“One thirty-five for both, then.”

“One thirty-five. Do I hear one hundred forty? Come on, what a deal!”

Subspace silence.

“One thirty-nine? No?”

“Unidentified craft, you have been acquired as a target. Stand off immediately.”

“One thirty-five going once!”

More silence.

“Unknown craft, you are in weapons lock.”

“Going twice!”

“Scan complete,” Sulu whispered.

“Sold, for one hundred thirty-five alons! We take all forms of payment, but prefer dilithium quantum credits when possible.”

“Weapons activated. All other craft advised to stand clear.”

Chekov veered hard to starboard just as the station defenses began to fire. Photonic bursts exploded in the space the shuttlecraft had just occupied.

The one-hundred-eight-degree arc was brutal, and something for which no inertial compensation could correct. He felt the blood physically push toward one side of his body. For a moment, black spots swam before his eyes.

But then the turn was achieved. Another explosion not far off their stern. And to the side, other ships, L’rah’hane and otherwise, were converging on them.

“I’ve laid in the course. Get us out of here, Pavel,” Sulu said.

“Working on it.”

He pushed the throttle all the way forward, saw a red warning light, and overrode it. They streaked ahead.

“Feeding new telemetry,” Sulu said. “It’s going to be tight.”

“Just like threading a needle,” Chekov replied.

“When have you ever threaded a needle?”

“Never,” said Chekov. “Something my grandmother used to say. Needles were invented in Russia you know.”

“Right. Probably by your grandmother.”

The small window in the debris field seemed to zoom toward them, but they were, in actuality, zooming toward it.

Behind them now, several torpedoes were gaining on the shuttlecraft.

Chekov pushed the engines to the red line. He kept computer control on, but any extreme movement he made would manually override the autopilot.

Closer to the hole in the debris. Closer.

It’s reconfigured slightly. We’re not going to—

As fast as thought, Chekov sent the shuttlecraft into a barrel roll. They entered the window.

BAM!

A shudder rippled through the entire craft.

“Contact on port nacelle,” Sulu said. “Scanning for damage!”

They were through the debris and into relatively clear space.

Chekov eased back, the engines stopped protesting, and the cabin quieted.

“Damage contained,” Sulu said with a sigh of relief. “We still have eighty percent.”

Suddenly Chekov remembered. “The torpedoes . . .”

Sulu chuckled. “Scans indicate they were all destroyed trying to thread your grandmother’s needle, it seems.”

Chekov nodded. “Good old Grandmother.”

“I’ll proceed with full analysis,” Sulu said. “Get us out of here, Ensign Chekov?”

“With pleasure, Lieutenant Sulu,” Chekov replied. He called up the subspace marker “bread crumbs” he and Sulu had dropped on the way in. He could only hope they wouldn’t be followed.

Near the edge of the nebula, Sulu sat back, a look of satisfaction on his tranquil face. “The captain’s going to be interested in this.”

“What have you found?” Chekov asked.

“It’s not a habitat or even a space station, Pavel,” Sulu replied. “It’s a warehouse. Its name translates as ‘Haversack.’ The computer has matched the configuration with archaeological records. That’s a fully operational Hradrian robotized supply depot. According to the database, it’s a vessel that is known to have been defended by multiple weapon emplacements and crewed by robots and slaves. The robots were the overseers, it’s believed.”

“A ghost of the past.”

“I’ll say. Not only that, I’ve finished an analysis of the subspace chatter in the vicinity. I was busy collecting it while you held that inspired slave auction of yours.”

“And?”

“The L’rah’hane are massing for another raid on Zeta Gibraltar. From there they plan to raid further into Federation territory.”

“What are they waiting for?”

“Two more ships are set to arrive, but that’s going to take a while. Apparently they’ve been called in from quite far away. Where, I don’t know. But they’re bigger ships that the pirates believe can take on the Enterprise. ‘Dreadnoughts,’ they are calling them. Not sure what that means in their parlance, but apparently the L’rah’hane dare not attack without them. Must be something formidable, because they’ve seen what the Enterprise can do.”

“This doesn’t sound like typical pirates to me,” Chekov said. “Usually they are after easy pickings and avoid well-defended places and powerful opponents.”

“I have a feeling it’s the Hradrians, or whoever is supplying all that Hradrian technology to the L’rah’hane, who are pulling the strings,” Sulu said. “We’ve got to get this information back to the Enterprise.”

The adrenaline surge was beginning to dilute in Chekov’s system, and he felt a wave of tiredness pass over him. No time for that, he told himself. Besides, he knew his own limits, and this was nothing that a cup of coffee wouldn’t take care of, at least for the short term.

But he longed to be home, back on the Enterprise.

Suddenly a red light blinked on the console in front of Sulu. He didn’t need Sulu to tell him what it was.

Nacelle malfunction.

Sulu’s hands flew over sensor controls and he rapidly isolated the cause. “We’ve taken a hit. The dilithium matrix has been breached.”

“Can we repair it?”

“No,” said Sulu. He flipped another toggle, examined a scope. “But we can stabilize it.

Chekov looked at his own controls. “Speed dropping,” he said. “Warp two. Warp one-point-five. Warp one.” Chekov tried acceleration control. There was no response. “Nothing I can do.”

Sulu looked up from his sensor. “I sealed it. Warp core stabilized.”

“So at least we won’t blow up,” Chekhov said. He checked his power gauge. “Power levels stabilizing.”

“Are we falling out of warp?”

“Negative. We are fluctuating, but maintaining approximately . . . warp factor one.”

“Not good,” Sulu said. “We need to get back to Zeta Gibraltar with our sensor records.”

“You’re telling me,” Chekov replied. “At least we can send the highlights via subspace radio.” He reached over to flip a switch that would do just that.

Only it didn’t work. An amber warning light nearby told the story. It only came on when there was damage to the communications array.

“I spoke too soon,” Chekov said. He shook his head. “Now we can’t even warn them.”

“If we maintain this speed, when will we get there?” Sulu asked.

Chekov called up his estimated time of arrival indicator. “Estimated time of arrival at Zeta Gibraltar system in . . .” Chekov groaned. “Five standard weeks.”

“We have enough stores to make it, provided this velocity remains stable.”

“Great,” Chekov said. “On the positive side, we will live. On the negative side, we may not get there until the pirates have already arrived.”

“Are you prepared to spend five weeks in this tub?”

“I guess I have to be.”

“Maybe you can finally beat me at poker,” Sulu said.

“Maybe you can finally beat me at chess.”

Sulu sat back in his chair and sighed. “This is going to be interesting. But we’ll have to think of a contest in which we both can participate equally.”

“I will try to think of something,” Chekov said. “I have plenty of time.”

Sulu sighed. “Ahead, warp factor one, Mister Chekov.”

“Aye, sir.”

“At least we’re homeward bound.”

“Yes,” Chekov answered. “Very slowly.”

Montgomery Scott was not one given to hero worship. As much as he admired his captain, he reckoned he could withstand a few pokes at his commanding officer from some ignorant Romulan or Klingon yokel. The only matter not up for debate or challenge was the greatness of the vessel his captain commanded, the Enterprise. To slur her was to ask for a punch in the nose (or whatever other protuberance a species might have) from her chief engineer, Montgomery Scott.

Oh, the Enterprise was not flawless—no ship was. But perfect in her way? Maybe. Yet there were degrees of completion, and Scott was perpetually modifying and upgrading a function here or a component there to add to her beauty.

Scott felt he’d found a kindred spirit in James Watt. The Scottish engineer and inventor was almost as taken by the functional beauty of a starship as the chief engineer. He’d asked for and received permission to bring Watt up to the Enterprise. Within the boundaries of Starfleet security, he’d shown Watt every crack and crevice of his vessel. They’d crawled the Jefferies tubes, with Scott pointing out the slight tweaks here and there that allowed him to deliver performance from his ship that was far and above the norm. Scott’s efforts were so wide reaching, her perfection was taken for granted.

The Enterprise was simply better and faster than most other Constitution-class ships, and because of that, more could be demanded of her. Sometimes Scott was afraid that those demands would prove too much. His charge, his bairn, had met the most severe tests a dangerous galaxy could throw at her and emerged with her colors flying, even if a little battle- and storm-torn in places.

James Watt had been rapidly catching up with modern engineering principles, and he seemed to have a natural grasp of the complex ship’s systems, comparing them in telling ways to his own steam engines and astronomical inventions.

It had been a pleasure to work with Watt on Zeta Gibraltar, strengthening the point defenses for the outpost. It was impossible to create an energy shield defense—the resources and power supplies were limited, and the base, much less the entire planetoid, was much too large to cover with an energy screen.

What could be done, however, was to anticipate the likely incoming threats and have methods in place to deal with them. A kinetic-based attack—a meteoroid drop from space—always the most deadly possibility in terms of destructive energy, could be guarded against by gravitationally attuned phaser defenses. A rock might be accelerating toward the planet at even relativistic velocities, but it could never move faster than the speed of light.

There were, of course, ship-based attacks that could move faster, such as an opponent’s phaser blasts, and torpedoes created with uniform energy payloads, such as photons, positrons, and other, heavier particles.

Watt, for his part, had previously made a study of the defensive works of the real James Watt’s time in history and he had many useful suggestions for positioning equipment and—given the technology—appropriate lines of fire.

The outpost upgrade had proved a fruitful and most enjoyable partnership, and Watt accompanied Scott on many trips up to the Enterprise, where the engineering workshops were more extensive than planetside at the small research station.

The final planetary system was in place within two weeks, and Watt invited Mister Scott and several other officers from the Enterprise engineering team to his outpost quarters to celebrate.

They gathered around Watt’s table, which doubled as a desk, and pulled up the two period armchairs—the others insisted that Watt and Scott occupy these—and a couple more contemporary chairs from a corner.

Wonderful, Scott thought as he sank into the cushion of Watt’s chair. Not too soft, not too hard. Almost as if it had been as ergonomically engineered as the Starfleet furnishings rather than designed by Watt himself (the real Watt). Watt had told Scott his furnishings had always been custom-made articles whenever he could afford it, and Scott now appreciated what that meant: custom-made to James Watt’s exacting standards. He may not have had access to modern construction techniques, but he’d found a way to substitute eighteenth-century know-how to create a chair perfect for drinking—

“Now, gentlemen—and lady,” Watt said, nodding toward Ensign Mullen, who was the leader of Scott’s trusted plasma-transfer tech team. “How do you all take your Scotch? As for myself, I prefer it neat.”

Watt wandered over toward a cupboard near the wall. He stood on a stepstool—Watt was rangy, but not a tall man—and pulled a greenish-colored bottle from a high shelf.

The Scot then sat down in his own armchair, obscuring the label of his liquor with the fabric of the smoking jacket he’d donned upon entering.

Scott smiled and nodded toward the mystery bottle. “That all depends on what we’re drinking, Mister Watt. A bit of ice can go a long way toward giving a good Scotch a momentary bump to greatness, if you understand what I’m saying, but you don’t want to ruin the flavor of something that’s already—”

“How about this, Mister Scott?” Watt said.

Oh my, Scott thought. It’s a Strathisla 1786.

“What year did you come into this beauty, Mister Watt, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Watt gazed upward, rubbed his chin. “I seem to remember it was 1810 or thereabouts.”

Strathisla 1786.

He’d been prepared for a pleasant surprise from Watt, but this?

It’s not only fantastic, it’s entirely impossible.

Six-hundred-year-old Scotch did not and could not exist in drinkable form.

“A lovely replica,” said Scott, shaking his head. He wondered, but did not ask what was actually inside of it.

“Oh, this is no replica,” Watt answered. “At least in the way that you mean. I assure you it is authentic.”

“You must be joking, sir,” Scott said, not entirely seeing what was so funny about pretending a Scotch was better than it actually must be.

“Oh, it’s an old Strathisla, all right,” Watt said. “Saving it for a special occasion, and this certainly qualifies.”

Strathisla 1786.

“You’re telling me this is—”

“It comes from your own computer records and, I have no doubt, from your own mind, Mister Scott,” Watt answered. “I assure you this will be the best Scotch you’ve ever tasted. It’s the Scotch of which dreams are made. Literally.” He picked the bottle up, gave it a little shake, while Scott looked on in mute astonishment. “Shall we?”

Scott nodded. “By all means,” he said. “Neat, if you would.”

Watt produced snifters all around. None of the others dared ask for ice after their chief had declined to do so.

Watt smiled, raised his glass. “Independence,” he said, “Freedom for all people.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Scott said.

Glasses clinked and Scott took a tentative sip.

Then he took a full, mouth-filling taste.

The thistle, the heather, the sea. They’re all in there.

“This can’t be real,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s too perfect.”

“It is as real as your own conception of perfection,” Watt answered. “How could it not be? It was taken from the archetype within your own Scottish soul, my friend. And now, it is part of mine.”

Scott blinked, took another sip, savored this one for quite a long time. Finally he spoke. “Wherever it comes from, here it is, and if we don’t drink it, we’ll live lives of misery from now on longing for what might have been.”

“Spoken like a true Scot, sir,” Watt said. “Now set down your glass, and I’ll fill you up with another.”

“Absolutely. But we mustn’t waste such a treasure,” Scott said. “At least, not too much.”

“No fear, Mister Scott, I assure you that this bottle will not run dry,” he said.

Two hours later, the last of the Strathisla trickled over Scott’s grateful tongue. The room was not very steady, and he wondered if the station’s artificial gravity compensators were fluctuating.

I’d check in with outpost maintenance on that, but I can’t quite get my feet under me.

Watt and the others seemed to have similarly diminished locomotive capacities.

“I believe we’ve done it, Mister Watt,” Scott said. He was almost in tears. “We’ve drunk it all, and now there’s no more heaven that awaits us.”

Scott hung his head down and the motion pitched him forward. He’d have slammed into Watt’s desk if he hadn’t also partially slipped off his chair and, in the process of keeping himself off the floor, arranged for his head to miss getting a good knot from striking the wood. Scott pushed himself back into the armchair.

He looked back up to find Watt smiling. “Ah, but Mister Scott, if there’s one true quality heaven is said to possess, it is that it is eternal.”

He filled Scott’s snifter once again with Scotch. He set the bottle down, and Scott watched as the level within it slowly, but inexorably, rose until the content of the bottle was complete again.

“The other quality heaven must possess is a drink such as this,” Scott said, raising his glass once more. “At least the Scottish portion of heaven, eh, Mister Watt?”

The glass was moving toward his lips, but Scott realized that it was not going to arrive at the correct docking position if his arm kept wobbling as it was. It took an immense effort of will, but Scott set the glass carefully back onto the table.

Across from him Watt was bobbing from side to side in a similar manner. Scott looked around. The others were slumped in chairs in serene repose—well, except for Lieutenant Gaines’s unfortunately positioned slack jaw and the tiny bit of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth.

Watt suddenly chuckled, smiled broadly, then himself crashed facedown onto the table. Scott was concerned for a moment, but then he heard Watt’s peaceful snoring.

For several seconds more, Scott observed the engineer and wondered why he, too, was not in a similar position.

But then his chair unaccountably wobbled again.

Damn those gravitational compensators!

Scott found himself deposited on the floor under Watt’s desk.

He’d really have to speak to outpost maintenance and have the things examined. Maybe a bit later, later . . .

Then Scott fell into a slumber dreaming of craggy mountain peaks swept by refreshing, peat-scented ocean winds.

Twelve

Captain’s Log, Stardate 6099.1. I have deployed a shuttlecraft on a recon mission into the Vara Nebula to determine if there is a pirate build-up. I gave my officers complete latitude to conduct an extensive sweep, and I have faith in Lieutenant Sulu and Ensign Chekov. I am greatly concerned about the length of time without contact, but without direct evidence of imminent danger, I cannot take the ship out of this system. We continue long-range sensor sweeps looking for the Kepler.

We have now been on guard duty at Outpost Zeta Gibraltar for three standard weeks. The crew has been augmenting planetary defenses and analyzing the strange device we located on a captured L’rah’hane ship. Commander Spock and the Excalbian Benjamin Franklin have determined that the device can somehow affect the underlying structure of space-time. The crew have mingled with and studied the Excalbians. I still believe there is something missing in their explanation of their motives, but it cannot be denied that their mimicry is convincing. Federation Special Representative Valek, the plenipotentiary command of this system, has been at times contentious, but overall, has proven effective so far. The Excalbians await her decision.

The sickbay door swished open and McCoy looked up from his microscope, where he was examining the rapid decomposition of two severed Excalbian cells belonging to Cyrano de Bergerac and Commodore Stephen Decatur.

“Doctor Leonard McCoy, I presume?” The voice was female and had a distinct French accent.

McCoy did not at first look up. “Yes,” he answered.

“My name is Emilie du Chatelet,” said a woman, the possessor of the voice, who stood in the doorway. “I have come to look through your graviton microscope.”

“My graviton—” Now McCoy did look up and see her. A wave of recognition passed through him and just as suddenly retreated. “Madame, have we met?”

“Never, Doctor.”

McCoy stood as the Excalbian woman entered the room, her wide dress brushing against the doorway.

“Well then, it’s nice to meet you, Madame . . . was it du Chalet?”

“Du Chatelet, Doctor McCoy, but I insist you call me Emi. Arouet always did.”

“I just had the most extraordinaire moment of déjà vu,” McCoy said. “Perhaps I’ve read about you and forgotten. What is your interest in the graviton microscope, if I may ask?”

“I have long been interested in the principles of physics, Doctor. Although we only had the works of Newton and Leibnitz in my time with which to gauge the universe, I was always convinced there was more to it all, something we had not yet grasped. Now I have read Einstein, de Varlane, and Beldak and see that I was not mistaken.”

McCoy came out from behind his worktable. “Well, if I’m going to call you Emi, you’re going to call me Leonard,” he said. “Do you often read papers on particle physics for fun?”

“One likes to understand the universe in which one finds oneself, Leonard.”

As she moved across the room, McCoy struggled not to stare. She was not the most beautiful woman McCoy had ever come in contact with, but she was close. She was also the picture of elegance, seeming to glide across the sickbay as she approached him. She wore an elaborately brocaded dress of a fine blue fabric, probably pure silk, with a plunging neckline. Between her ample breasts was a blue-and-white cameo suspended on a black ribbon.

Her green eyes were deep with intelligence. On her left cheek was a slight beauty mark. Full lips, perfectly bowed.

And the scent of her! He caught it as she approached. He had never much liked perfume, but this was different. Complex, floral, yet with a touch of the exotic. Sandalwood, maybe?

Her scent was, he had to admit, intoxicating.

McCoy shook himself out of his reverie. “Step this way, Emi, and I’ll give you a look. Might be of particular interest to you. I’ve got an Excalbian skin cell on the stage, and I was examining some very strange structures inside of it when you came in. Perhaps you can tell me their function.”

“I dabble a bit and keep up with the science, but I am afraid that biology was never my specialty, Leonard,” she said. She bent down to look through the scope’s viewer. McCoy found himself staring at the delicate curve of her porcelain neck. “Oh, my. It’s beautiful.”

“Yes, it is,” McCoy replied.

“And are there different wavelengths of gravitons in the same manner there are different wavelengths of light?”

“Yes, I think so. Physics was never my specialty, Emi.”

Du Chatelet looked up expectantly at McCoy. “What else can you show me with this marvelous mechanism, Leonard?”

McCoy gestured to his sample shelf. “Would you like to see a Vulcan heart cell? Most unusual, and I’d have to say lovely, shape—though you’ll never hear me admitting that to Spock. Full of copper-loving compounds.”

“I’d be delighted,” du Chatelet answered.

That feeling again. McCoy shook his head. “I’m sure we’ve never met, of course, but—”

Du Chatelet smiled. It lit up her face wonderfully. “You know, Leonard, Arouet used to always say the same thing. He swore I was the image of a dryad in a Botticelli painting he’d once seen in Italy. Silly man. He also said that while he came to me for the mathematics, he stayed for the view.”

“You’re a mathematician, too?”

“I dabble,” she said. “My main interest is—was—in the luminous properties of fire. The books I’ve read tell me that I predicted ultraviolet and infrared radiation, which later were measured, but the fact that there must exist invisible spectrum was, well, as plain as day.”

She covered her lips with a lace-gloved hand and snickered at her slight witticism. McCoy found it utterly charming.

“The properties of fire,” McCoy said. “How appropriate.”

“I don’t follow what you mean, Leonard,” she said. Then another smile and a gentle laugh, and she gestured toward McCoy’s samples. “You were going to show me that Vulcan heart cell? I’ve read your paper on it, you know.”

“That is the first time a beautiful woman has ever uttered those words to me. ‘Read your paper on it.’ I kind of like the feeling.”

Chatelet blushed. “You have a tongue as silky as Arouet’s. Poor man, it often got him into trouble, though.”

“Who is this Arouet? Is he your husband?”

Du Chatelet gasped. “Heaven forbid, Leonard,” she said. “If I’d married him we’d have been as poor as church mice. Especially after he came back from his exile in England.” Another silvery laugh. “Oh, he should never have taunted the authorities so with his Candide.”

Candide.

Arouet.

The real name of Voltaire.

“You’re Voltaire’s mistress,” McCoy said. “Of course, I’ve read about you.”

“I was,” she said. “Sadly, Arouet was killed in unfortunate circumstances during our departure from the planet Excalbia.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” McCoy said. “I would have liked to meet him. A rational man with a sense of humor. Could teach Spock a thing or two.”

“That he was, Leonard. That he was. And kind. Perhaps the sweetest of all my lovers.” There was a pause as McCoy took this in. She had stated it as if she had ample experience for comparison.

After a moment of silence, Du Chatelet brought up a delicate hand and touched McCoy’s cheek.

That scent again.

“The heart cell, Leonard? Might we put it under the microscope now?”

“Here is the problem, Captain Kirk,” said Washington-Yarnek. “The pirate raids, in some ways, woke us up to our own problem. We feel that we are locked in a perpetual limbo. If that is the case, we might as well be back in the magma of Excalbia.”

Kirk and Washington-Yarnek were in the outpost recreation room, sitting near a window that looked out on the blue-orange vastness of the planetoid. It was near sunset, the purple sky darkening to a bruise brown. In the distance, a dust storm was approaching, and a huge plume from its outlying edge was beginning to darken the sky even further. The storm was to the west, and the planetoid, which had an Earth-like rotation, had its sunset in that direction. That sun, Gibraltar, shone eerily through the distant dust whorls, turning portions of the cloud a glowing bright red. It seemed as if the storm might be literally on fire.

Kirk nodded toward the exterior. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said. “But also somewhat dangerous.”

“The outpost will withstand the storm,” Washington-Yarnek said. “During my time here, I’ve seen worse.” Washington-Yarnek had ordered a Saurian brandy when they arrived (another luxury indulgence for the outpost, it seemed), and he swirled it around in its glass, then took a sip. He smiled in pleasure at the taste, but then his face became more serious. “I must tell you, Captain, this outpost has become less of a study center and more of a refugee camp. We—my people—need to get on to the next stage of our lives hopefully within the Federation and not on its outer edge. We are no longer residents of the planet Excalbia, but it seems that the Federation is very ambivalent about claiming us as citizens, no matter how much we may wish to become productive members of your society.”

“I empathize with the way you feel, but you have to understand the position in which you’ve placed the Federation,” Kirk replied. “You are an unknown quantity from a species with powers beyond our capabilities.”

“Originally, true, but I do not know what else we can do to prove our sincerity.”

“Valek would probably say that what you can do is wait out the administrative process. You want to become Federation citizens. This is how the Federation operates. Sometimes the wheels grind much more slowly than any of us would like.”

“Granted, Captain,” Washington-Yarnek replied. “But in the meantime, my people are getting restless. They need something to do. Let me tell you from experience that this is a demoralizing state.”

Washington-Yarnek stared down at his brandy. “Have you had it before?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Extraordinary stuff. One could drink oneself to oblivion with this and wake up with a head as clear as day.”

“There are hangover cures that work very well these days,” said Kirk gently. “And one need not even choose to get drunk at all. A simple pill before drinking.”

Washington-Yarnek nodded, but by his gaze Kirk could tell his mind was elsewhere.

“When we were encamped in Pennsylvania in seventy-six, there were moments when I felt in my heart that all was lost. We’d been chased like scared children through and out of New Jersey, across the Delaware. Supplies were low. The enlistments were running out. We had whole regiments leaving at once for points north and south—anywhere to get away from a dreadful winter in an ill-equipped camp. Was this what the revolution was promising?”

“A difficult situation,” Kirk said with a smile. “I’ve read about it. In fact, we studied it at the Academy.”

“The enemy held New York and Philadelphia. Things seemed truly hopeless.”

“But you found a way to give the troops, and the country, hope.”

“We learned from our spies that the British had garrisoned one of their most fearsome battalions of mercenaries, the Hessian warriors, in the dormitories at Trenton, New Jersey,” said Washington-Yarnek. “It was extremely provocative information, but what was I to do with it?”

“You considered that they were an outlying portion of the British forces and that reinforcements would not be immediately available to them if they were engaged.”

“Indeed.”

“You also knew that, as poor and bedraggled as your forces were, if you concentrated them, you could overwhelm a garrison-sized unit.”

“Not easily, Captain,” Washington-Yarnek said with a rueful shake of the head. “When you are dealing with Hessian mercenaries, nothing is ever easy. But the opportunity was there.”

“All you had to do was get a substantial force across the Delaware River during winter, attack, and then get back before reinforcements arrived,” Kirk went on with a smile. “Not an easy task at all, sir.”

“We crossed at night. I’d hoped to have the aid of the moon, but the evening proved to be cloudy. It was the middle of December and ice floes filled the water. Dreadfully cold. It seemed I could feel the suffering of my men physically.”

“But they were moving.”

“Yes, and though it was the Yuletide and most were far from home, they understood they had been given a meaningful task. They did not shirk it. We attacked at dawn, and the Hessians gave us quite a fight. I sent out Greene to my left, Sullivan to my right. Colonel Knox brought his cannons up to fire on the garrison. It was difficult, bloody. But, in the end, we overcame the mercenaries, sent them scurrying. We lured Cornwallis down. We then confronted him at Trenton, achieved a stalemate.”

“You withdrew during the night, after that second battle.”

“A tactical retreat,” Washington-Yarnek said. “Sometimes it seems as if my entire military career was a series of maneuvers and tactical retreats. This was a lesson I learned well in my youth from the war with the French and Indians on the Virginia frontier. Ten years we spent losing men and giving ground. More than once, all seemed lost. Then suddenly the all-powerful French simply collapsed. Britain had won in other places around the globe, and Montreal fell to General Wolfe. It was over.”

“You won for Virginia during the French and Indian War without winning a single major battle.”

“In fact, I lost my fair share, two of them badly,” Washington-Yarnek said. “A commanding officer’s task is to win a war, not achieve victory in this or that battle.”

“You won the battle at Trenton.”

“Yes. We won,” Washington-Yarnek replied. “Captain, I don’t have to tell you: it felt good to win for a change.” He smiled, and this time his smile, wholly unconscious, revealed the off-white surface of his set of false teeth. Kirk had read somewhere that it was hippopotamus and not elephant ivory that went into the base of Washington’s teeth. This was one of those facts that stayed with you long after history class.

Not such a bad imitation for eighteenth-century technology, Kirk thought. But I see why he doesn’t smile much.

There must be a way to modify the dentures in such a way that the form-renewing molecular activity within Washington-Yarnek would not reject the improvements. Kirk knew this was something the outpost scientists were working on. Scotty might have a few suggestions that would help them. I’ll have him look into it.

“The effort galvanized the new nation,” Kirk said. “Your manpower drain slowed—platoons, squadrons, regiments began to reenlist rather than leave for home—and new recruits arrived.”

“The engagement was of little military worth. I knew this at the time. The officers were aware of the fact, as well. Most of all, we gave the men something to do. Something that was not obvious make-work, a small thing, but important.” Washington-Yarnek took another sip of Saurian brandy and looked out the window. The dust storm was almost upon them now, and with the sun below the horizon, it seemed an ominous black cloud bearing down upon them. “What I did not realize until later was how important Trenton would be strategically, for it proved the spark in morale that reignited the fires of resistance. I got lucky.”

“In my experience, a man usually makes his own luck, Mister President.”

“That is why I am determined to act,” Washington-Yarnek said. “We are determined to act.”

Yarnek reached inside his dark blue jacket. Kirk stiffened. He knew this was where Washington-Yarnek’s musket pistol perpetually reappeared. Was he about to face a primitive gun muzzle? Hear some sort of demand?

But when Washington-Yarnek’s hand emerged, it held a scrolled piece of paper, tied with a ribbon.

“A declaration, Captain Kirk, stating our position,” Washington-Yarnek said. “It has been put together by several of us. Mister Franklin and Mister Machiavelli are on the committee. They were responsible for the word-craft.”

“Do you want me to deliver this to Valek? Why not present it yourself?”

“No, you misunderstand,” said Washington-Yarnek with a quirk of the eyebrow and a sly smile. “I wish you to read it over and consider it. I don’t want to make use of you as a mere messenger, Captain. I hope to pull you into our little conspiracy.”

He held out the scrolled paper, and, after a moment, Kirk took it from him and slowly untied the ribbon.

“Do I really want to see this?”

“It’s just a piece of paper, Captain,” Washington-Yarnek said. “What can it hurt to take a look? And, if you happen to agree with its sentiments and proposals, we’ve left a space on that declaration for your signature, James.”

Thirteen

“Reports,” Kirk said. “Mister Spock.”

“A fascinating experience becoming acquainted with the Excalbian Benjamin Franklin,” the first officer said. “I had expected to discover an obvious anachronism, but could not do so. My conclusion is that, if the real Benjamin Franklin were taken from his place in time and put into the present day, he would behave much like this Benjamin Franklin.”

“Franklin was a genius,” Kirk pressed, “and a polymath. Surely this Franklin isn’t as dazzling as the historic Franklin seemed to be.”

“I cannot speak to that point directly, having knowledge of the historic Franklin only through secondary sources and Franklin’s own writing,” Spock replied. “I would make the observation, however, that I have played this Benjamin Franklin eight times in three-dimensional chess. He has been victorious five of those times, and we have achieved stalemate once. I have, so far, two victories to my credit.”

Kirk nodded. That was impressive Yet three-dimensional chess did have an element of bluffing as well as pure analytics. A human could beat a Vulcan on occasion, as Kirk himself had proved.

But five out of eight?

“Doctor McCoy, you’ve had a look at them on the inside. What are they, Bones?”

“They’re human, Jim,” said McCoy. “To a point. I could treat any of them with human medications, and those would be effective. If I had to operate, the organs would all be in the right places.” McCoy leaned forward and scratched his head. “On the other hand, I did watch one of them regrow an arm in the period of twelve hours.”

“Every bit of baggage and accouterments they have regenerates, Captain. Watt told me that it would limit itself to about the contents of a room,” Scott said. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, but, along with several members of my engineering team, I watched a beautiful bottle of six-hundred-year-old Scotch fill itself up.” Scott put out a hand, palm side down, lowered it. “And we’d drink it down, and it would fill back up. And we’d drink it down, and it would fill back up, and we’d—”

“We get the idea, Mister Scott, thank you.” Kirk turned to his science officer. “Speculation?”

“Analysis indicates a holographic engram in a matrix between every major molecular structure in both people and objects,” Spock said. “This is very likely the mechanism, but we have yet to ascertain how it functions.”

“They’re not really human at all.”

“Captain, I wouldn’t necessarily go that far,” Uhura said. “Spending time with the Excalbian Harriet Tubman has been very stimulating. She may not be a human being, but I got the sense that she truly believed in the cause she fought for. I have to admit that speaking with her has been . . . inspirational.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. So this is a not a conscious charade that the Excalbians are putting on, it would seem. Even if they know differently, it’s clear the Excalbians feel as if they are who they say they are,” Kirk said. “But since none of them are Socrates, do they know themselves? Might there be something within them, something Excalbian and ugly, waiting to spring to the fore? They threatened to kill us before to satisfy a whim of curiosity.” Kirk paused, surveyed the faces around the table.

These are the ones I trust more than anything, he thought. When I can feel an iota for the Excalbians of what I feel for these people, then we’ll see about relaxing our vigil.

“All right, then,” Kirk concluded. “Continue to observe, and let’s be on our guard. Dismissed. Spock, please remain.”

The others trailed out of the room. McCoy was the last to leave as the door shut. Spock remained sitting, looking quizzically at Kirk.

“All right, Spock,” Kirk said. “Tell me about her.”

“Her, Captain?”

“Valek,” Kirk said. “You knew her. She’s working for your father, whether officially or not. I feel that there is a game the Council is playing here, and I don’t like being a pawn in it. I need information.”

“There is not a great deal to tell,” Spock said. “Varen, her brother, was my laboratory partner during our early schooling.”

“Why do I think that’s not all the story?”

“Varen was the only Vulcan child my age who wished to be my laboratory partner,” Spock said. “There was considerable opposition to anyone doing so among the other children.”

“I see,” Kirk said. “How old were you at the time?”

“Eight Vulcan years,” answered Spock. “Logic dictated that Varen and I would make an effective team. Our intellectual assets were complementary. He was gifted in his understanding of life sciences. I have certain analytical strengths.”

“I’ll say,” Kirk said. “And Valek?”

“She concluded that Varen had made an error in judgment. She made an argument that this was the case at an institute forum before the entire student body,” Spock said. “She also spoke out against the marriage of my mother and father.”

“She argued that your human side would lead you to error.”

“Yes, Captain, that was essentially the premise of all of the children at the time,” said Spock. “There was little evidence with which to refute it. It was difficult to make a purely analytic defense of myself.”

“But, boy, did you ever show them eventually,” Kirk said with a smile.

“Yes, they were mistaken,” Spock said. “Valek was one of the first to realize that her original premise was faulty. She wished to take a public opportunity to retract her previous statements, but I requested that she not do so. I believed, as I do to this day, that logic speaks for itself.”

“But she never apologized for what she’d said before?”

“No. She merely acknowledged error.”

“Yet, you forgave her?”

“Captain, you know I am incapable of feeling any ill will toward her,” Spock said. “One does not forgive a syllogistic error. One merely notes when it has been corrected.”

“And her work with Sarek?”

“This began after I left for the Academy, so I am not familiar with the details,” Spock said. “Varen and I have remained in touch and still exchange occasional messages. He sometimes mentions his sister’s undertakings in his letters to me.”

“I realize those letters are private, but can you give me the gist of what Varen told you?”

“Certainly,” Spock said. “It is unremarkable. Her parents were acquaintances of my father, therefore Sarek would have been aware that her turn of mind was geared toward the law, history, philosophy, and political science—the ‘humanities,’ as you might call this area of study. Varen informed me that she had achieved an impressive score on the social science portion of the Vulcan Science Academy entrance examinations and planned to study interplanetary relations. After graduation, she earned an apprenticeship in the Vulcan diplomatic service and from there went on to work for Sarek.”

“And there’s nothing else?”

“Captain, as you know I spent several years estranged from my father after my choice to join Starfleet. Our paths never crossed.”

“I see,” Kirk said. “Thank you for being so forthcoming, Spock. I appreciate it.”

Spock nodded, started to leave, then turned back again. “Jim, for what it’s worth, my father does not take on protégés who are not extremely gifted at what they do. Our childhood difficulties may have formed a necessary condition for her later development as an effective adult.”

“One can hope.”

“There is no need to hope, Captain,” Spock said, raising an eyebrow. “We shall obtain evidence soon enough upon which to base our conclusion. Then we will know.”

“In any case, it’s time to make my first . . . report . . . to her, based on what we’ve found out. I’m looking forward to it with a bit of trepidation, to tell the truth.”

“Wise,” Spock replied.

Valek had on a shimmering, diaphanous dress that looked to be made of some exotic material. Tholian silk? It was black and reached down to her knees, where it swished about, leaving exposed an interesting expanse of Vulcan leg. It was sleeveless, and the neckline came up to her throat. Laced throughout the black of the dress was silver thread that wound into a variety of patterns which glowed faintly, lit by some sort of luminescent element within. It took Kirk a moment to grasp what the silver weavings were meant to depict.

“Constellations,” he said. “Are they Vulcan?”

“Yes, as seen from the northern hemisphere, where I originate.”

“Beautiful.”

“Thank you, Captain,” she said, motioning Kirk into her quarters. “Your call caught me unawares, or I should have gotten into more official attire.”

Kirk glanced over her shoulder to the bed beyond. Her clothes were lying on the cover in a clump, twisted together as if they’d been thrown that way.

Now that’s a bit puzzling, Kirk thought. If she changed into the dress, why didn’t she put her clothes into the ’fresher? Doesn’t seem very Vulcan to leave a messy room.

The alternative was that she’d quickly changed into the dress when he’d announced himself outside her quarters and hastily thrown her other clothes aside.

“Please come in,” Valek said. Kirk stepped farther inside, and the door slid shut behind him.

“Shall we sit in my reception area while you report to me?”

“Certainly,” Kirk answered. She motioned toward a chair, and Kirk moved to it and sat down.

Valek remained standing. “Can I get you anything, Captain?”

“No, thank you,” Kirk said.

“Very well.” She took a seat and crossed her legs, leaving a good portion of smooth, porcelain-pale calf exposed.

“I’ll come to the point,” Kirk said. “The Excalbians have decided that if you don’t make your decision by tomorrow regarding their status, they’re going to present to you a declaration of intent.”

“What is it they intend?”

“To form their own governing entity,” Kirk said. “I think the current thinking is to call it New Excalbia.”

“Captain, where did you learn this?”

“Where do you think? Yarnek. He asked me to sign what he called a new Declaration of Independence for his people. It expresses a desire to form a sovereign entity among themselves, as free beings.”

“And where would the territory of this proposed nation be located?”

“They plan to take Zeta Gibraltar out of the Federation along with themselves,” Kirk said. “The science team would be permitted to stay, but the Excalbians would declare the planet as being under joint Excalbian-Federation law.”

“Sounds rather preposterous, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Kirk said. “They make some valid points. They have been yanked around a bit. Not by you personally, but by the people you work for.”

“They are also the people you work for, Captain.”

“In a general sense,” Kirk said. “But there is a clear chain of command that leads from me up through the Starfleet Command to the Federation Council’s Starfleet Guidance Committee. I do not take my orders directly from the Federation ambassadorial service, the Security Committee, or from any Council member who thinks it would be fun to move a starship around like a play toy.”

“Interesting points,” Valek said. “Did you sign this document?”

Kirk felt a hint of flush rise in his cheeks. “I did,” he said. “Washington-Yarnek was very persuasive.”

“You are aware that I could bring you up on treason charges and have you court-martialed should I wish.”

“You could try, I suppose,” he said. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Yes, I know,” Valek said. “I’m quite familiar with your record. Bureaucrats don’t fare well when they go up against James T. Kirk.” She gave a slight shrug. “In any case, I do not intend to do anything of the sort. Instead, I wish to consider your advice in this matter.”

“Listen to them.”

“To their demands?”

“It’s not a hostage negotiation, Valek,” Kirk said. “They came to me in good faith and asked that I approach you.”

“Why not come directly to me?” Valek asked. A stray bit of hair fell over her eyes, and she brushed it away.

She’s let her hair down, Kirk thought. It’s as black as midnight.

Kirk smiled, pointed at himself. “Good cop, remember?”

Valek nodded. “Yes, a logical move on their part. They are becoming more politically savvy and, dare I say, more human. I’ve come to the conclusion that, for all their power over the material world, they were quite naïve when they first left their planet. From my observations, it seems that they expected their request for sanctuary to be immediately granted. They were, in their own minds, practically gods when compared to us.”

“But now the human components have taken in more and more experience,” Kirk said. “They may have developed a different idea of what is in their best interests—and how to get it.”

“Precisely, Captain,” Valek said. “This is one reason I have delayed my decision. I wished to give the Excalbians time to know their own minds.”

“That is . . . wise, Valek. Kind, even.”

“Did you not expect it of me? Sarek himself taught me this: Wisdom and mercy are the fruits of logic. When there is discord, you will find irrationality at the bottom of it.”

“I must say, I had anticipated that you would take the most direct course and damn the subtleties,” Kirk said. “Pardon me for misjudging you.”

“Perhaps I would have, had I not spent ten years on Earth getting to know humans,” she said. “I have even had a human lover. Does that surprise you?”

It sure as hell does.

“But I thought . . . what about . . .”

“The plak tow?” Valek leaned forward, gazing more intently at Kirk. “I am aware of your previous acquaintance with the pon farr. It is part of your classified file, which I was permitted to review.”

“Great,” Kirk mumbled. “I wonder what other marks I have on my permanent record?”

“While most Vulcans refuse to discuss the pon farr,” Valek continued, “my compunctions in that regard have . . . loosened. Particularly with humans, who don’t find passionate rage and extreme compulsions while battling for a mate especially unusual.”

“But that still doesn’t answer my question,” Kirk said.

“I am a twin, Captain Kirk,” Valek said. “Vulcan twins seldom imprint, even when forced to take part in the bonding ceremony. Our infantile mental tie with our sibling takes the place of the imprint—only in the case of Varen and myself leading to extreme loyalty, and not the sexual act.”

“You’re free?” Kirk said. Spock almost killed me when the instinct asserted itself. And he would have, but for Bones’s bit of subterfuge. “Lucky you.”

“There is no such thing as luck, Captain. It is, however, a convenient fact, given that most of my work is conducted away from Vulcan.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Merely to explain my official actions to a valued colleague,” Valek said. “There are many aspects of human nature that have, upon deeper consideration, far more logic to them than most Vulcans give humans credit for.”

Kirk nodded. “I should be going,” he said. He stood, faced Valek. “I’ve made my report and recommendation. You are the civilian authority here. This is all politics now, and I’ve got a starship to run.”

“If I release you from your current orders,” Valek said. She stood as well.

“Yes.”

“Which I cannot do at this time,” she said. “Besides, you are still waiting for the report from your shuttlecraft reconnaissance to the nebula.”

“How the hell did you know—” Kirk smiled, shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You are correct.”

“We make an effective team, Captain,” Valek replied.

“Good cop, bad cop?”

“I believe the relationship is more complicated than that,” she said. “It would even not be out of the question for us to become friends.”

She reached out her hand. It took Kirk a moment to figure out what she was doing.

She wants to shake on it.

Kirk reached forward and took her hand in his. Her handshake was warm, firm. Unexpected.

And when the door to Valek’s quarters closed behind him, he had to admit he still didn’t know quite what to make of Special Representative Valek.

One thing he was certain of: he must not underestimate her.

She’s right that our relationship is getting quite a bit more complicated.

Despite himself, Kirk realized that he was rather enjoying the challenge.

Galileo casually hefted the device from the L’rah’hane ship in one hand, while gesticulating with the other. Spock was not particularly concerned at the Italian’s treatment of the artifact. Even if he dropped it, Spock doubted there would be any damage to the object. It might, however, hurt quite a bit if it fell on Galileo’s toe. He was wearing only sandals.

“I suspect it is attuned to certain quantum effects,” Galileo said. Benjamin Franklin translated from the Latin.

“I had come to the same conclusion,” Spock answered. In Latin.

Franklin began to translate, then caught himself and chuckled.

“Bless my soul, Mister Spock,” chuckled Franklin. “You seem to speak Latin as well as I.”

“My command of Latin is rudimentary, but it should be serviceable for our present needs.”

“Ah, eccellente!” Galileo said. “I have spent much time catching up on your language, Sir Spock: science and mathematics. For me, these are the speech of nature. I have been so busy learning them, I haven’t had time to assimilate the modern languages of men. The computer, she translates the technical material for me.”

“A fortuitous use of your time,” Spock replied. “What is your conclusion concerning the L’rah’hane device?”

“I am only making conjectures. There is still so much to learn.” Galileo moved the device in a swooping arc, as if he were playing with a toy. “The curves of the calculus! What a wonder. And partial differential equations! The language of nature, I tell you.” Galileo shook his head, smiling in what seemed to be awe.

“A conjecture from Galileo Galilei is worth the dead certainty of many a fool,” Franklin said.

Galileo seemed immune to flattery, even from a master such as Franklin. “I am troubled, troubled by this, however,” the Italian continued. He used a data wand to write several equations across an electronic blackboard display.

Fascinating, Spock thought. These are advanced topographic solutions. He is using the mathematics of Lorentz transformations to attempt to describe the device’s function.

Galileo, it seemed, was either a quick study, or the Excalbian within was supplying the acumen. Wherever it came from, the math itself was genuine. Spock studied the equations.

“Pardon me if I am not reading this correctly,” he said after a moment. “But you are predicting negative integer values for information transfer.”

“Correct! Absolutely correct, my Vulcan compatriot,” Galileo said, beaming.

“A negative information state is an absurdity,” Spock replied. “One cannot know less than nothing.”

“Precisely, precisely,” Galileo said. “The information is going somewhere and coming from somewhere. It only seems like there is a negative state.”

He made another flourish with his data wand. “Look! A two-part solution to the paradox.”

“The information is being displaced by changes in quantum gravitational states,” Spock said. “Information from this moment in this bit of space the device occupies is sent to one destination while information arrives from . . .”

“The future?” Franklin asked.

“This could be! This could be!” Galileo said. “And maybe also from a distance that is greater than the galaxy.”

“And, if so, it arrives instantaneously,” Spock said. “From a location that may very well be on the other end of our galaxy.”

“Quantum physics, she is whimsical,” Galileo replied. “Effervescent and beautiful, with a smile like the Mona Lisa. Leonardo, he senses this. His true mistress is the universe, you know!”

Franklin shook his head in wonder. “Do you think that’s what they use it for? Sending messages to and from the future, to and from distant galaxies?”

“I do not believe the L’rah’hane use it for either purpose,” Spock said. “A species that can predict the future would not find itself scrounging a living by piracy along the fringes of civilized space.”

“Good point,” Franklin acknowledged. “There was certainly no indication of anything of the sort going on while we were being brought aboard. Although I admit I was slightly more concerned with the constrictive shackles around my wrists and neck at the time and may have missed a detail or two.”

At the mention of shackles, Galileo frowned and his animated face became so instantly sullen that even Spock recognized that an emotional transformation had taken place.

The scientist muttered a curse in Italian, then turned his back on the viewscreen full of equations. “It all comes to nothing,” he said. “The moment you have a true and original thought, they lock you up and call you a heretic.”

“Surely you will acknowledge that times have changed, my dear sir,” Franklin replied gently.

“I acknowledge nothing,” said Galileo. “There is a darkness that follows all that we do. It will swallow us up in the end, and all endeavor will come to naught.”

Fascinating.

As far as Spock knew there was no record of the real Galileo experiencing emotional swings so extreme a Vulcan would notice. This behavior might be attributable to the underlying Excalbian mentality asserting itself.

And if that is true, Spock thought, then the mood swing might have its origin in a hidden threat the Excalbian is aware of that is very real indeed.

The scent of her.

Madame Emilie du Chatelet.

Voltaire’s lover.

The first translator of Newton’s Principia into French.

What in the great galaxy is she doing with a small-town sawbones like me?

McCoy held Emi against him in his bed. He was never going to look at his quarters quite the same way again, he knew. Even as he lay in such thought, he reflected that he was glad he’d learned that she used the ’fresher to annihilate her lice, and each treatment was good for several days.

He realized he should be wary in other ways as well. He’d called Jim Kirk out on some of his lovers. There had been clones, aliens, even a robot. But he doubted Kirk had ever slept with a rock being before.

Which was nonsense. She was a human in every way that mattered. Curiosity. Intelligence. Self-awareness. Love.

Joy at the wonders of science come to fruition that she had, somehow, against all hope, returned once again to witness. She took delight in his compendium of unusual biological scans, his collection of odd and alien medical instruments, his fascination with the living body.

His fascination with her living body.

“Emi,” he said. She rustled under the bed cover beside him, kissed his neck. “Emi, what’s it like being you? I mean, really? You know you can’t be her, the real Emilie du Chatelet. Is there some kind of dual awareness, some double vision, that you experience?”

She turned her head, gazed up at him with those green eyes. “Kiss me, Leonard.” He leaned over and did so.

“There is no ‘dual awareness’ in that,” she said. “I don’t know about that other Madame du Chatelet. I have memories of centuries of thinking, thinking, thinking, and arriving nowhere with my thoughts. There are perhaps brilliant Excalbians. I was not one of them.”

“Hard to believe. A species that can mentally transform matter.”

“Yes, but what did I do with this skill? Brooding. Petty political intrigues. You have no idea what it is like to spend a thousand years thinking in circles and getting nowhere.”

“I guess I do not,” McCoy said. “At least not the thousand years part.”

“Then, one day, I wake up and I am this brilliant woman. Yes, genuinely brilliant. The math that befuddled me before, it is clear. The calculation of a planet’s fall about its sun, this I can now perform. Where did this come from? Was it borrowed from a mathematician when the Enterprise or other vessels were scanned? I do not know. What I do know is that I like what I have become. I glory in it. I glory in what we do together.”

“It is rather glorious, isn’t it?”

McCoy sat up and leaned his back against the Enterprise bulkhead that served as his bed’s headboard.

“I know you are making a report on us,” du Chatelet said. She moved up, put her head against McCoy’s chest. “I came at first, maybe, to influence your report. Ask you to put in good words for us.”

“All I’m doing is medical evaluations,” McCoy said.

“Yes, I know,” du Chatelet replied. “It doesn’t matter. That’s all over now. Now I want to be Emilie du Chatelet. Live in this time, this moment. Make love with you”—he tilted her head up, kissed McCoy’s chin—“and learn, learn, learn new things. What I could never do before as an Excalbian. What they would not let a woman do before in my imaginary past. Now I can do it.”

“I think you will, Emi,” McCoy said. “Whatever happens, I think you will.”

“I want to learn now,” she replied in a low voice, almost a whisper. “I want to learn what it is like to do this again and again.”

“Do what?”

She didn’t answer. Instead she took his hand and gently pulled him back down to her.

It wasn’t exactly a strike. It was more like a series of “sick days.” The Excalbians simply did not show up for “work”—their work being subjects of observation and questioning by the outpost scientists. After one planetary day, Commander Contreras was irritated. After two, she was incensed. After more than a week, she was beginning to despair.

“We’re going to have to close the base down if they don’t cooperate,” Contreras told Kirk. “Never mind our careers, what is going to happen to them? Don’t they realize that this study is their ticket to acceptance and perhaps even citizenship?”

“I’m not so sure they want citizenship any longer, Commander,” Valek said.

“Then what do they want?” Contreras said. “I’ve been with them for months and this play-acting has got to stop. These are nanotechnologically animate silicon-carbonate aliens, not human beings. You take off a coat, remove a tooth, or, as we’ve seen, confiscate a weapon, and the thing just grows back, springs back into existence within a few hours. Nothing about their appearance is real.”

“Yet they aren’t display mannequins, Commander,” Kirk said.

“I know that, Captain,” said Contreras. “But every time we attempt to communicate with whatever is underneath, we run into Napoleon, or Hildegard of Bingen, or George Damn Washington.” She spoke this last name more in frustration than contempt, gazing away from Kirk and the Vulcan representative.

“Commander, might I suggest that the Excalbians are not wholly aware of who they are anymore,” Valek said.

Contreras looked quizzically at Valek. “Go on.”

“They are stranded in this intermediate state. They cannot go back to being pure Excalbians, and yet their own memories are taken from other people—notably the captain here and other members of the Enterprise crew.”

“So you think we ought to consider this . . . declaration,” she said, gesturing at the document unrolled upon her desk. “ ‘We hold these rights to be self-evident, that all sentient species are created equal.’ ”

“It’s certainly an advance over what the Excalbians believed when we last ran into them,” Kirk replied.

Valek looked up from her examination of the document and turned to Kirk.

“When you signed this, Captain,” Valek said, “were you trying to humor the Excalbians?”

“No,” Kirk said after a moment’s consideration. “I agree with them.”

“They wish to take Zeta Gibraltar and this star system out of the Federation,” Valek replied. “They wish to set up their own government.”

“With the eventual incorporation as an independent state within the United Federation of Planets,” Kirk said. “Talk to Washington. Hear what he has to say.”

“He is proposing revolution.”

“Within the bounds of what he thinks of as natural law,” Kirk said. “Given his assumptions, I think you’ll find that declaration to be entirely logical.”

“And you, Captain, what do you think about these ‘self-evident truths’ Washington and the other signatories, including you, speak of?”

“I believe in the right to life and liberty. And when those rights are endangered, I believe in fighting for them.”

“And the pursuit of happiness, Captain? Isn’t this the cause of most human wars—

The placing of one group’s happiness over another’s? In my estimation happiness, like all emotion, is a primitive instinct we had best move beyond.”

And to think, not long ago she was arguing for the complexity and logic behind human nature, Kirk thought. Is she trying to drive me crazy?

“Happiness can mean a great many things, Valek,” Kirk answered. “It can mean acting wisely and achieving fulfillment. I have no doubt we humans will still be pursuing that sort of happiness until the end of time.”

“You will be no closer to attaining it, so long as you rely on your emotions to get you there,” Valek said.

“Thank goodness for the Vulcans, then, Representative Valek,” Kirk replied with a slight smile. “In my opinion, the more our species interact, the better.”

Kirk was preparing to make a final argument for the New Excalbia Declaration, when his communicator signaled. The captain flipped the communicator open. “Kirk here.”

“Captain, you wanted us to notify you immediately when our Upsilon Gibraltar expedition reported in,” Uhura said.

Kirk’s heart made a leap. Sulu and Chekov! They were all right, then.

He’d been worrying about them for weeks, but had believed and hoped they were fulfilling their mission. A trip into the Vara to locate them would have been fruitless, given the extreme sensor distortion and subspace interference—even if it would not have been a violation of orders. He’d depended on his officers to fulfill their mission and return, and so they had.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” he said. “That’s fine. What do we hear?”

“We received an extremely weak subspace message,” Uhura said. “It seems they had a small technical problem.”

“Are they all right?”

“Affirmative, Captain,” Uhura said. “They say they will be ready to enter the hangar deck in two point five hours.”

Something had gone wrong. They must be traveling barely above the speed of light to take so long to arrive after a signal.

But they were alive, and that was of utmost importance.

“Notify the transporter room to stand by for my signal,” Kirk said.

“Aye, sir,” Uhura answered. “They said they have much to report concerning the Upsilon moon and its defensive capacities, Captain.”

“Interesting,” Kirk said. “If they come through again on the subspace frequencies, be sure to tell them I can’t wait to hear that report. Kirk out.”

Kirk rose and started to walk away from the conference table so that he could get a clear field for the transporter.

“I shall be interested in hearing what your officers have observed. It may make a difference on how I respond,” Valek said. “Captain, I believe that with liberty comes responsibility.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Valek nodded. She picked up the declaration, ran a hand over it to flatten it out, and considered its words, handwritten in a beautiful calligraphic style. “The Excalbians’ wish for autonomy I find laudable. But I wonder whether they are truly prepared for the cost.”

Fourteen

Captain’s Log, Stardate 6099.9. Lieutenant Sulu and Ensign Chekov have returned from a reconnaissance mission into the heart of the Vara Nebula. After taking a hit, Sulu and Chekov had to limp back on their remaining power. The journey took them five weeks, instead of one day. Anxious they would be too late to deliver their warning, they have arrived in time to report a large L’rah’hane pirate operation. Special commendations to Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu and Ensign Pavel Chekov.

What do we face, and how much time do we have to prepare?

“Captain, there is some formidable firepower out there waiting to strike,” Sulu said. He and Chekov had reported directly to the briefing room, knowing the captain would want to hear their report the moment they stepped off the Kepler. Kirk was amazed at how much of a professional appearance they’d managed to maintain after five weeks in a shuttlecraft. Contrary to regulations (although Kirk was inclined to let it slide), they had engaged in a beard-growing contest for the past five weeks. Chekov had definitely won: his thick beard gave him the appearance of a small bear. Sulu had, however, taken the mustache award. He’d even managed to put a sinister curl onto the ends of his.

“The L’rah’hane appeared to be gathering every ship they could,” Chekov continued. “It was a very strange collection of vessels.

“They were waiting for something. Since we had time on our hands, we went through every piece of data we’d collected, including a few ship-to-ship intercepts. It took some doing, but one captain was apparently trying to impress another that they would have sufficient firepower to take on the Enterprise. They passed on a set of basic schematics for the big ships on the way, particularly indicating weaponry.”

“That vessel, and the space hub, match the records for Hradrian war ships and naval installations,” said Sulu. “Mister Chekov provided some excellent helmsmanship, and we were able to get extensive scans of all the exterior systems on the depot hub, as well—including its weapon systems. It’s well armed, but tended by robots. We know exactly what we’re up against there, sir.”

“Extraordinary work, both of you,” Kirk replied.

“There’s something else, sir,” Chekov said. “We spent much of the journey back trying to puzzle out one weapon system we believe the depot hub possesses. I could make neither heads nor tails of it. Mister Sulu may have an idea, however.”

“Sulu?”

“Unsure, Captain,” the helmsman replied. “There were some interesting observational anomalies in the vicinity of the emplacement.”

“What sort of anomalies?”

“Puzzling difficulties in measuring specific dimensions under extreme resolution,” Sulu said. “It was almost as if our view of the device was smeared, across space and time. My best guess based on the analysis is that this weapon array corresponds with the quantum device that Mister Spock was examining.”

“Do you think that this pirate base may be using this device, whatever it is, as a weapon?”

“I’d say it’s a strong possibility, Captain. And given that the ships due to rendezvous are also of Hradrian design, it would be a fair bet that they’ll have the same weaponized technology.”

“All right. Good work.” Kirk put a hand to his chin. “Go over your data with Mister Spock. The Excalbian Franklin is on board serving as the New Excalbia Assembly liaison. Get him in on it, too. I want to know what we’re up against.”

“Aye, sir.”

“And gentlemen?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Be careful shaving.” He turned to Chekov. “You may have to take a phaser to that rug, Mister Chekov.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Dismissed.” Sulu and Chekov exited. Kirk called up the Vara Nebula on the conference room triviewer and gazed at it for a long moment.

The Hradrian slave empire.

Well, if it turns out they are remerging from whatever hole they crawled into, I’m going to do my best to send them back to the land of myth and legend.

The Excalbians had first began beaming to and from the captured L’rah’hane ships as part of the joint project between Watt and Scott to create a point-defense system for Zeta Gibraltar. The ships were presently in orbit, but whether they would remain there, or be taken farther into Federation territory for study, had not yet been decided by Starfleet.

Yet so long as they were in orbit, they served as excellent surveillance platforms for threats coming from the nebula. It was only a matter of installing a simple long-range sensor in each vessel, then linking each sensor via computer to form a larger observational network. Even though the sensors were attuned to subspace, tachyonic frequencies, the principle of linking multiple antennae together to make a huge virtual lens, had been in use since the dawn of the information age on Earth.

Groups of three or four Excalbians had beamed aboard each of the four L’rah’hane ships, checked in with the vessel’s skeleton crew from the Enterprise, then got to work. The Enterprise crews consisted of five duty officers taking rotating shifts. Most of the ships’ orbital maintenance functions had been slaved to the Enterprise computer, which was remotely carrying out the basic attitudinal changes necessary to keep the ships in steady paths.

The Enterprise crews were spending their time scanning the few remaining bits of L’rah’hane hardware that hadn’t been cataloged and analyzed. Some, when off duty, volunteered to help out the Excalbians with their installation procedures.

The comings and going of the Excalbians were soon so commonplace that no one noticed when larger groups beamed aboard each ship during one duty shift that corresponded to early morning at the outpost. In fact, except for those standing early watch, most of the L’rah’hane skeleton crews were in their temporary bunks, asleep.

In the renamed Victory, the L’rah’hane warship that served as the de facto flagship of the captured L’rah’hane “fleet,” the Starfleet crew were quite surprised to be awakened to the sound of a phaser on overload over the ship’s interior communication speakers. The weapon was one step away from explosion—something that would take a good part of an L’rah’hane ship’s deck with it.

“Attention Starfleet crew,” said a commanding voice over the ship’s interior communication system. “We wish no harm to come to any Starfleet personnel. We do require, however, that all Starfleet crew evacuate, as this ship is now the property of the New Excalbia
Navy.”

There was no mistaking the voice. It was that of Admiral Horatio Nelson.

“We judge that, due to the placement, the overload of a single phaser will not immediately endanger you, but it will jeopardize the integrity of the ship if the phaser should be allowed to reach super-critical and explode. You would then be forced to evacuate in any case, but from a damaged ship—a ship whose orbit will decay until it burns in the atmosphere. No one wants this.”

Aidan Ripoll, the lieutenant in command of the Enterprise crew aboard the Victory, rolled out of his bunk and slammed a finger into the intraship control. “Sir, with all due respect, what the hell are you trying to accomplish?”

“We are requisitioning this ship in the name of the New Excalbia Assembly for use in the defense of this system against outside attack.”

“New Excalbia Assembly? What are you talking about?”

“We wish no trouble,” said Nelson. “But we are committed to occupying this ship in the name of New Excalbia and would in no way wish to bring harm to you or any other United Federation of Planets citizen. The New Excalbia Assembly wishes peace and alliance with the Federation and all its peoples.”

“You are its ‘peoples,’ as far as I knew,” said Ripoll.

“This is no longer the case,” Nelson replied. “Now, if you will ready your crew, we will send you back to the Enterprise, no harm done.”

“Except to my career,” Ripoll muttered. He rubbed his eyes, stiffened into a ready stance, then pressed the send button once again. “We will do nothing of the sort, Admiral. Furthermore, I order you to deactivate that overloaded phaser at once.”

Around Ripoll in the crew quarters his three bunkmates were waking up, groggy but quickly snapping to alert once they realized what was happening.

“Lieutenant Ripoll, this is, as I believe they say, above your compensation grade,” Nelson replied in a calm, almost compassionate, voice.

Suddenly the door to the crew quarters cranked open—the L’rah’hane portals were extraordinarily noisy—and five Excalbians stood in the entranceway. Sailors and military sorts. One of them was Nelson. Ripoll also recognized John Paul Jones and Captain Bligh among them. They had Ensign Gregg between them, the single member of Ripoll’s team he’d left standing watch on the bridge. Bligh nudged Gregg in the small of the back, and he came into the room to join the other members of the Enterprise crew now gathered in a tight group behind Ripoll. They were obviously bracing for a fight.

“Lieutenant Ripoll, gather your crew immediately and prepare to depart,” Nelson said. “The overloaded phaser is set to go super-critical in ten minutes.”

“Where the hell did you put it? The engine room?”

“Of course not. But it does threaten critical systems,” Nelson said. “You must come at once.”

“What I must do is check in with my superiors.”

“By all means, do so, but do it quickly.”

Ripoll took his communicator and flipped it opened. “Ripoll to Enterprise.”

“Enterprise here, Lieutenant,” came Lieutenant Uhura’s voice over the communicator speaker.

Ripoll explained the situation as quickly as he could.

“Please stand by while I inform the captain,” said Uhura.

“Lieutenant, please! We’ve been ordered to evacuate, and I think that you should patch me directly through.”

Uhura’s voice grew colder. He could just see her bristling as she spoke to him. “You tell those Excalbians that if they want to speak with Captain James T. Kirk, they’re going to have to hold off going forward with this insanely destructive project until I can reach and notifiy him.” Then Uhura cut off communication with a curt and wholly unamused, “Enterprise out.”

Ripoll turned to Nelson. “You heard the lieutenant,” he said. “My hands are tied until I can speak with the captain.”

“Very well,” Nelson said, looking a bit chagrined after facing Uhura’s dismissal. “In that case, perhaps we can come to an agreement ourselves. We will deactivate the phaser if you agree to allow us to occupy navigation stations on the bridge. You will retain control of all weaponry stations, so there should be no fear that we would even consider using this vessel in an offensive manner. You know as well as I do that the Enterprise’s computer has almost entirely taken over navigation.”

“I also know that you know where the manual override controls are located, Admiral.”

Nelson smiled. “Very good, Lieutenant,” he said. “Why don’t we have two men standing by in that station, one of yours and one of mine?”

Ripoll considered. “Deactivate the phaser as a show of good faith.”

Nelson nodded toward John Paul Jones. “Captain, if you please.”

Jones smiled slyly. He took a recording device from his great coat pocket. It was tied to a communication receiver. “An effective sound effect, don’t you think?” he said.

Nelson turned back to Ripoll and shrugged. “We needed to get your attention.”

“And so you sneak aboard and attempt to commandeer my ship.”

“Your ship, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Admiral,” said Ripoll. “I don’t want to lose my first command!”

Nelson smiled sympathetically. “Of course, no captain wants such a mark upon his record. You will not have one if we can come to an agreement,” he said. “The only way you will leave this vessel is under orders of your captain, I assure you.” Nelson motioned for Ripoll to sit down in the quarters’s only chair. When he did so, Nelson went and took a seat on the edge of a bed. Ripoll motioned the other members of his crew to stand down.

“Let me tell you about my own first command, Lieutenant,” said Nelson. “I was a very green lad indeed at the time and made some basic mistakes that I believe you will find diverting. I must admit to finding them amusing myself, if only in the recounting.”

Ripoll noticeably relaxed. “I suppose we can wait until the captain gets back to me, Admiral Nelson,” he said. “So long as no harm is done. I would very much enjoy hearing about your time aboard the Albemarle, your first command.”

“Excellent,” said Nelson. “Only this was long before the Albemarle, oh yes. This happened when I, as a very green ensign, was placed in charge of a prize vessel. I discovered that I had brought aboard neither compass nor ship’s clock, assuming I’d find both on the vessel.”

“You didn’t,” said Ripoll with a smile.

“Indeed I did not. They were wrecked,” Nelson answered. “Unfortunately my ship had by this time moved out of signaling range and was about to sail over the horizon.”

“We had an emergency procedure exercise a lot like that at the Academy,” Ripoll said. “I failed it three times in a row before I finally studied up on how to rig a temporary subspace radio. I know you didn’t have that option, so what did you do?”

“Therein lies a tale,” Nelson said. He took off his hat and placed it on his lap. His hair was curly and black, with gray beginning to mix throughout. It was long and tied back with a ribbon. “A tale—and an inadvertent adventure.”

Nelson began to recount his first great adventure.

“You might have allowed me to approve your declaration before you made a hostile move against Starfleet,” Valek said.

Her even Vulcan temperament made the point more emphatic without yelling and screaming, Kirk thought.

They had gathered in the Zeta Gibraltar conference room as soon as Uhura alerted Kirk of the situation aboard the Victory.

“It was merely an attention-getting maneuver,” said Washington-Yarnek. “We felt it might be time to bring the issue to a head.”

“So you decided to cross the Delaware River?” Contreras said, shaking her head sadly. “I had believed you and I were friends, Mister President.”

“We are friends,” Washington-Yarnek replied. “And allies.”

“That remains to be seen,” Valek added.

“Representative Valek, the solution is simple,” said Washington-Yarnek. “We want the opportunity to protect ourselves. In fact, as a new political entity represented by an elective body—”

“When did that happen?” Kirk said.

“Last night, Captain,” Washington-Yarnek replied. “There was not time to inform you.”

“I’ll bet,” Kirk said. “I’m feeling a bit used. I signed that damn declaration, you know.”

Washington-Yarnek bowed to Kirk. “My apologies if I have caused offense,” he said. “But as the president of the New Excalbia Assembly, I demand our right to self-preservation. The Enterprise and the Montana cannot remain on station indefinitely. The L’rah’hane undoubtedly are set to return any moment. Meanwhile, the Federation insists on keeping us on the edge of galactic nowhere until Representative Valek decides—if she decides—to give us a chance. As things stand now, we have no say in our own fate. We are ordered hither and yon without the ability to lawfully protest or seek redress for our treatment.”

“I believe the Federation has been fair,” Valek said. “If not speedy in its actions.”

Washington-Yarnek moved forward and put a hand down on the conference room table. “Yes, you’ve been generous in many regards, we acknowledge this and are grateful,” he said. “You feed us. You provide us shelter, in a manner of speaking. But do you believe we are children?”

“Of course not,” Valek replied.

“Yet you treat us as if we were children. We once treated your kind as if you were children, to be toyed with”—he glanced at Kirk—“and you did not like it so much. Well, neither do we.”

Valek nodded. “I can see how some of my government’s actions can be interpreted as infantilizing you.”

“The issue is the consequence of dependence. It will be far better if we treat with the Federation as equals rather than as its wards,” Washington-Yarnek said. “This will serve the Federation’s interests—your interests, Representative Valek—in the long run, as well.”

“I acknowledge the logic of this position,” Valek replied. “But I am under certain restraints.”

“Are you, then, a mere mouthpiece?” Washington-Yarnek said. “I was under the impression that you had been sent with extraordinary power to decide our case.”

“I have,” Valek replied. “I am not a mere mouthpiece, as you put it. And I do have a great deal of latitude in dealing with the situation here. But there are political considerations . . . differences within the Council that must be considered and reconciled, or no accord we reach here will last very long.”

Washington sighed. “Politics. Factions. I’m all too aware that you speak the truth. Alas, it is ever thus. And yet men, and women, must act as seems just or there is no point in government at all.”

Valek nodded agreement. She turned to Kirk. “Captain, what is your advice?”

“I don’t like that they’ve threatened my officers, if only with an ultimately harmless deception,” he said. “The Enterprise fought for those L’rah’hane ships. We risked our lives to save you, Mister President.”

“Yes,” Washington-Yarnek replied.

“The ships are Starfleet prizes, under interstellar law.”

“They are in our port, however,” Washington-Yarnek said.

“Our?” said Contreras, irritation in her voice. “Who is this ‘our’?”

Washington-Yarnek drew himself up to his full height, squared his jaw.

“New Excalbia,” he said.

For a moment there was silence in the room.

Then Valek stood. She made a slight bow across the conference room table toward Washington-Yarnek.

“Very well,” she said. “As a representative of the United Federation of Planets in this system, I acknowledge your representative body, the New Excalbia Assembly.”

“Thank you,” said Washington-Yarnek with a sigh of relief. “You have no idea what this will mean to my people.”

“If they are people,” muttered Contreras. She slumped in her chair and shook her head, her expression full of misgiving.

“And the L’rah’hane ships in orbit? We wish no conflict with the Federation, but we have occupied them for the purpose of defense, and we will not leave them so long as we perceive a threat to this system.”

“I have no wish to provoke a needless conflict either,” Valek said. She turned to Kirk. “Captain, you doubtless know interstellar space law better than I.”

“We have every right to those ships. In a foreign port or not, in the absence of declared hostilities, prize rights apply,” Kirk answered.

Washington-Yarnek frowned, shook his head darkly.

“Hold on Mister President,” Kirk continued. “We’ve also thoroughly studied the capabilities of those ships and have essentially poked, prodded, and measured everything aboard them. Therefore, I recommend the Federation relinquish rights to the ships to the New Excalbia Assembly.”

Valek nodded. “Very well. It is so ordered.”

“Again we thank you, Representative Valek.”

Valek spoke a command to the room. “Computer, please put Admiral Nelson on the viewscreen.”

“Acknowledged,” the computer voice replied.

Kirk looked to the screen. There stood Horatio Nelson, all right. Beside him was one of Kirk’s own officers.

Ripoll, Kirk thought. With the Spanish y sound for the double l, Kirk recalled. He is Catalan in origin. Ship-faring family. Learned to sail on the Mediterranean as a boy. Top in his class at the Academy.

Washington-Yarnek looked to the viewscreen as well. “Admiral, it seems we’ve got our navy.”

Nelson smiled. It somehow looked predatory and not comforting on his beaky visage. “Very well, Mister President.” Nelson put a hand on Ripoll’s shoulder. “Captain, my first request is that you assign your Lieutenant Ripoll as Starfleet liaison officer aboard this vessel. He has behaved with both courage and wisdom under the circumstances, and I would be proud to have him among my crew, however temporarily.”

Kirk considered. “Lieutenant, you okay with this?” he asked.

“Admiral Nelson has been telling me some very interesting stories, sir,” said Ripoll. “I’ll report back to you on everything I hear.”

Kirk smiled. Now there was a command officer in the making, with an answer like that on the tip of his tongue.

“Permission granted, Lieutenant Ripoll,” Kirk said. “Admiral?”

“Yes?”

“Welcome back to command.”

Now Nelson’s smile did become warm. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I shall endeavor to be worthy of the faith the Assembly has placed in me. And of your professional friendship, Captain.”

“Knowing what you did to the French navy,” Kirk said, “if I were a L’rah’hane pirate, I would stay the hell away from any system over which you were standing watch.”

“If you were a L’rah’hane pirate, Captain,” Nelson replied, “I have a feeling the entire Federation might be quaking in its boots.”

Kirk sipped his Romulan ale in the reception area in Valek’s quarters. He’d come here immediately after the conference, on Valek’s invitation. This time there had been no demand that he make a report, only a rather enticing invitation.

“I know that, as a human, you are experiencing the sensation of being used as a tool by others,” Valek had said on the way out of the conference room after the meeting with Washington-Yarnek. “To a certain extent, that may be true, but in any case, I wish to apprise you of several details involving my presence here in the Gibraltar system.”

The captain followed Valek back to her quarters to hear her explanation, or admission, or, hell, maybe it would be a confession.

At least maybe he’d get some answers about why he was being ordered to stick around in this system in the first place, even if he did think he ought to be here.

Valek poured herself a Romulan ale as well. She stared down at her tumbler for a moment, then knocked it all back in one gulp, as if she were a midshipman doing Lotholian shooters in a seedy bar. She poured herself another, but took this one to her chair, sat down, and sipped at it far more carefully and appreciatively. And Vulcan-like.

“Kirk, I need to tell you—”

“Why don’t you call me Jim, if we’re going off the record,” Kirk said.

“Very well. Jim.” Valek took another sip. “It sounds odd to my ears, this diminutive. As if I am assuming more familiarity than is warranted, given the situation.”

“Want to try James?”

Valek considered, nodded. “James. Yes, that is better,” she said.

“Am I missing something here, Valek? What is it you want to tell me?”

“The reason I was sent here, James,” she said.

“I presumed that was all covered in the orders I saw.”

“The real reason.”

“All right,” Kirk said. “Now you’ve got my interest.”

“As you know, Vulcans cannot prevaricate nor willfully misrepresent facts in order to deceive. It is simply not in our nature.”

“I know that you are quite capable of telling selective truths,” Kirk said. “That fact has more than once proved a life-saver.”

“That is correct,” Valek replied. Another long pause. “I have contradictory instructions from two sources, both of which I consider to be my superiors.”

Valek templed her fingers and stared at Kirk over them. “As you know, I am a Special Representative of the Federation Council, serving a commission appointed to deal with the Excalbians. I was put forward for this by the Vulcan representative to the Council. This is a temporary appointment. My normal position is in the Federation Ambassadorial Service. I serve in the office of Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan.”

“You do seem to be walking a tightrope of sorts.”

“Unfortunately, yes. The Special Committee for Security and Frontier Intelligence, the portion of the Federation Council that oversees most Federation covert activities, has been receiving very disturbing reports from its listening post nearest the Excalbian system. There is concern that a civil war is under way among the Excalbians brought on, it is believed, by your visit there.”

“I didn’t choose to go to Excalbia.”

“I know this, James,” Valek said. “It is merely a convenient shorthand.”

Kirk nodded. “Go on.”

“Given the great advancement of Excalbia in the manipulation of matter, it has been judged that a war between the Federation and Excalbia would lead to immense causalities, and we may lose.”

“I can see the logic of that.”

“The last thing the Federation would want to do is take sides in a civil war, especially considering that we know almost nothing concerning what it may be about.”

“Another good point.”

Valek gazed down into her glass contemplatively for a moment, then looked back up at Kirk. “Giving sanctuary to the Excalbian refugees was deemed too dangerous a risk to take. It may appear that we are taking sides in this civil war and open us to attack by a powerful enemy. My instructions from the Security and Frontier Intelligence Committee were not only to deny the Excalbians sanctuary within the Federation, but to deport them—utilizing the Enterprise and the Montana—back to Excalbia. If they resist, they are to be eliminated. Killed. We cannot risk a conflagration with an enemy that can destroy entire starships on a whim.”

“That’s . . . harsh.”

“Yes, and ultimately illogical,” Valek said. “As Sarek put it, it is akin to running from a bully rather than confronting the bully with reason and seeking to change his ways.”

“Or running from a photon torpedo. It catches up with you eventually.”

“In any case, perceived weakness can lead to escalation and greater trouble.” She shrugged. “It is not clear that what is going on at Excalbia is a civil war at all. The analysts are at odds with one another, and we do not have eyes on the ground in Excalbia to verify anyone’s conjecture.”

“But we do have Excalbians here.”

“Yes, and that has been my primary function here,” Valek said. “I have come to the conclusion that these Excalbians know nothing of use in that regard. Which leads me to suspect we are not seeing a civil war at all.”

“Then what?”

“That I cannot answer,” Valek said. “Perhaps we shall never know.”

“In the meantime—”

“What is the Federation—what are you and I—going to do with our Excalbians? Yes, that’s the question,” she said. “I have specific instructions from the highest authority not to grant them asylum. So that is an option that has never been on the table.”

Kirk took a long drink of his ale.

Wow, that’s good. And it braces the mind instead of dulling it. Marvelous stuff.

It came to him then. “You instigated their little revolution.”

“I may have put the idea into the air.”

“You want them to succeed,” Kirk said. “So you don’t have to deport them.”

“This was the back-up plan if I failed to extract useful intelligence from them.”

“Whose back-up plan?”

“Ambassador Sarek’s.”

Kirk found himself chuckling. “Why, of all the underhanded dirty tricks.” He shook his head. “And you a Vulcan.”

Valek nodded. “It is because I am a Vulcan that it will work,” she said. “When I take this solution back to the Council they will know that it was the most logical solution. As it is.”

“So we don’t have to kill them.”

“You do not have to kill them, James,” Valek said.

“I would never have done it,” Kirk said. “I think you know that.”

“Yes,” Valek said. “Sarek believed this was the case after having met you on the way to the Babel Conference. I needed your presence. I could not count on Captain Haynes to disobey such orders. He is, as Sarek put it, a time-server.”

Kirk took this in. “I’m sure Haynes would never kill those people in cold blood.”

Would he? Showboat Haynes, fearful of any blot on his record that would disturb his long-anticipated retirement?

Orders . . .

“Let us never put him to the test, James,” said Valek. “Let me never have to give that order.”

Kirk raised his glass to her. “Here’s to that,” he said, and drank down the rest of the ale.

Valek rose, went to the bottle, and brought it back to where they were sitting. She leaned over to fill up Kirk’s glass again, and in doing so, her hand brushed against his own.

“Valek, are you . . .”

“James, I would like to be your friend, that is all.”

Kirk nodded. He wasn’t entirely convinced.

But, of course, Vulcans are incapable of lying . . .

Valek poured herself another and sat back down across from him. Instead of putting the bottle back, she set it down beside her chair.

“Truthfully, I don’t know how I would feel about becoming friends with Spock’s nemesis,” he told her.

“James,” said Valek. “After all this time with your first officer, you still don’t understand Vulcans, it seems.”

“Meaning Vulcans never act in a way to harm others?” Kirk chuckled. “If you believe that, I’d like to introduce you to a lady named T’Pring. That’ll change your mind in a hurry.”

“I simply mean that our motives, while they may not be black-and-white, are ultimately logical. Logic is a tool that cuts many ways, James.”

Kirk smiled. “Well, I do know that there’s a great deal to understand in Spock’s case. I think of it as a lifelong challenge.”

Valek nodded, acknowledging, it seemed, the truth of Kirk’s words. “Vulcan children are like human children in some ways and very different in others.”

“Explain.”

“There is play, but it is logical play. Our children are, by human standards, precocious, but they are still developing intellectually. Just as with human children, their reasoning abilities are not fully developed until later.”

“So mistakes in logic, and other areas, might be possible?” said Kirk.

“Yes,” said Valek. “I made such a mistake once at Spock’s expense.”

“You were unkind?”

“I was incorrect. There is a difference.”

“Agreed,” Kirk said.

“There was no malice intended. That is a human emotion. There was . . . logical frustration on my part.”

“With Spock? There is no one more logical than Spock.”

“With the situation, James.”

“What situation?”

“It is difficult to explain.”

“Try me. I may know more about Vulcans than you think.”

Including, as you know, your bizarre, violent mating rituals, Kirk thought. He’d had to fight for his life against Spock in an effort to save his first officer from a plot by Spock’s ex-wife, T’Pring, to get out of their arranged marriage by way of Spock’s death. Logic and goodwill are by no means synonymous.

Valek took a sip of her ale. “Vulcan parents tend to lavish educational instruction and intellectual enrichment opportunities on their children, and, in many ways, the children become a project both parents are equally engaged in. This often is the intellectual connection that brings together Vulcans who otherwise would only be connected through the bonding ceremony.”

“Human parents dote on their children.”

“There is a difference,” Valek continued. “Varen and I are twins. This is a very uncommon occurrence on Vulcan. As such, we were deeply engaged in each other’s thought processes from a young age. We could be said to share the same Vulcan katra, or soul, although we have individually diverged. The ability of my brother and myself to mind-meld developed early, as well.” Valek sat back, templed her fingers. “For a time, Varen and I were inseparable, practically a unity.”

“And along came Spock?”

She nodded. “Yes, we were eight Vulcan years. Spock was treated . . . brusquely . . . by the other children. This was not intentional. It was the consequence of a faulty assumption. Everyone was aware that he was half human. Everyone compared him unfavorably with Sybok.”

“Sybok?”

“Ah, you are not aware . . .” She shook her head. “Well, it is not my place. And, in any case, the less said about Sybok, the better.” Valek’s eyes narrowed, and she gazed to the side, as if lost in memory. “Oh, many specious conclusions were drawn regarding Spock’s intellectual abilities and commitment to the Vulcan way. It was a product of the restricted logic of children. It was . . . unjust of us.”

“Us?”

“I am afraid that I joined in the chorus on occasion.”

“That’s too bad.”

“What can I say? Even Vulcan children are not always analytical. My conclusions were based on false assumptions, but I was not aware at the time that the assumptions were questionable.”

“I see,” Kirk said. “The ignorance plea. At some point I hope you became aware.”

“I did, James. Allow me to continue and I will explain how this came about.”

“Please go on.”

“You see, Spock had a sehlat—they are fascinating and somewhat dangerous beasts. For a while this seemed to be his only intimate acquaintance. My parents would not allow Varen and I to have a pet for . . . very logical reasons. At least they seemed logical at the time. Varen and I were both fascinated by Spock’s sehlat, whose name was I-Chaya. But it was Varen who approached Spock and began speaking to him about I-Chaya. Over time, these conversations became more frequent. They both discovered a commonality in thought processes.”

“They made friends.”

“More than that. They became laboratory partners in scientific experiments,” Valek said. “This is an important choice a Vulcan child must make during primary education.”

“Pardon me—picking lab partners?”

“It is one of the first freedoms given to children in order to exercise their newly acquired logical skills. A lab partnership is a commitment made for an entire Vulcan year. One spends a great deal of time with one’s partner.”

“And Varen picked Spock over you?”

“No. It is not permitted to partner with a sibling. Both Varen and I were required to find different lab partners. We knew this and planned accordingly. In fact, we made an agreement: for maximum objectivity, I would pick his partner and he would pick mine.”

“How very . . . logical.”

“So we thought.”

“What happened?”

“He chose for me D’Hrot, a budding young chemist, who was compatible enough—although even then I was showing more promise in law, interplanetary development, and economics.”

“A young envoy on the rise, even at eight?”

“Indeed,” Valek said.

“And your choice for Varen?”

“There was a girl, T’Mere, very talented in mathematics, who I believed would make an excellent laboratory partner for Varen. He sometimes showed slight deficiencies in that subject—particularly in statistics, an important element of experimental work—and I was of the opinion that she might aid him in that regard.”

“And did she?”

“There was no opportunity to find out. Varen rejected my choice. Instead, he told me Spock would be his laboratory partner. They were already doing research on sehlat intelligence and wanted to continue the project.”

“This was not to your liking, I take it?”

“At the time, I felt it was extremely illogical,” said Valek. She stared off to the side for a moment, as if remembering, then shook in a very human manner. “Despite his extremely high marks and clear abilities, Spock was believed by many of the children to be . . . deficient as a Vulcan. I . . . voiced these concerns to Varen. In the presence of Spock. And, to our entire school at an assembly. I questioned the wisdom of his parents’ marriage, as well.”

“Not exactly a nice thing to do, in human terms,” said Kirk.

“I know that. It is one of my major regrets,” Valek said. She picked up her ale and took a long drink from the glass. “It also served as a demonstration that I had a lot to learn if I ever wanted to be a diplomat like Spock’s father. You see, even though I held a low opinion of his son, I idolized Sarek. He was an example of what I wished to become: an ambassador for Vulcan.”

“I’ve met the man,” Kirk said. “Spock is very much Sarek’s son, in his way.”

“This was not apparent to me at the time,” replied Valek. “I believed Spock to be a sort of . . . thought experiment . . . on Sarek’s part. Then all that changed. Spock’s mother, Amanda Grayson, introduced herself to me. Spock had told her of my . . . disapproval. It does not take long when engaging with Amanda Grayson to realize just how formidable and intellectually adept she is, although in a human manner. In her Sarek made a superb choice.”

“I agree,” Kirk said.

“She is the first one who understood my intellectual propensities. It was she who later made certain that after my education was complete, I was invited to join Sarek’s staff. My personal debt to her is considerable.”

“Back then, did she convince you of the error of your logic as far as Spock was concerned?”

“She persuaded me to temper my judgment, yes. She also explained some of the particular difficulties Spock faced given his situation as a half-human child on Vulcan. I said no more after that.”

“You didn’t apologize to Spock?”

“I told him I had reconsidered my previous position regarding the lab partnership and that I now approved,” Valek replied. “But I never admitted to making an error in my larger conclusions, however. I perhaps should have, but the time for such has passed.”

“Does Spock know his mother took you under her wing?”

“I do not believe so,” she said. “There was never a logical reason to bring this to his attention. He is aware that I apprenticed under his father, and, of course, that Sarek and Amanda Grayson were acquainted with me when I was a child.” Valek shrugged. “But I am only one of the many protégés of Sarek. He is highly regarded, and a position on his staff is usually a stepping-stone to further interesting and fulfilling work on Vulcan and within the Federation. I am, perhaps, a reminder to Spock of the milieu he left behind when he decided to enter Starfleet. This is speculation on my part, but perhaps I am also a reminder of the difficulties that he and Sarek have had coming to terms with each other. There is talk of their relationship among the staff.”

“Vulcans gossip?”

“It is logical to provide oneself with as much information as possible.”

“What became of Spock and Varen?”

“Over time, Varen demanded Spock’s acceptance among our peers, and I backed his position, although I never advocated for Spock the way Varen did. He and Spock remained lab partners until Spock declined to enter the Vulcan Science Academy as his father wished and opted instead to attend Starfleet Academy. You probably know the story after that. My brother, Varen, was accepted into the Science Academy and has become a field biologist doing pioneering study of vertebrate extremophiles. He and Spock have gone their separate ways, but they still correspond on occasion.”

“Old friends.”

“Yes. That is an accurate, if very human, assessment.” Valek drained her cup. “As for Spock and myself—it is very odd.”

“What is?”

“Spock and I seem to be intellectual irritants for each other. Yet I am mentally compatible with so many who are his close acquaintances. Such as you, James.”

Valek leaned forward. “If you would not mind, give me your hand.”

Kirk wondered where this was going, but stretched out his right hand, palm up. Valek held it from underneath with one of her hands. With the other, she lighted touched—stroked—the surface of Kirk’s palm.

“You have experienced the Vulcan mind-meld before,” she said. It was not a question.

“Yes, on several occasions.”

“That is apparent,” she replied. Her fingers followed the lifeline on Kirk’s palm.

Damn it, she’s a Vulcan, he thought. Surely she can see the logic of avoiding—

He wasn’t exactly feeling logical at the moment, however.

“Valek, I—”

“Fascinating. I’ve never felt this state within a human before. There are pre-established pathways. One could almost enter into connection as one would a Vulcan—” Then he felt her, on the edge of his thoughts. It was as if she were staring into him as one might the swirls within a crystal ball. “Yet, I would not trespass without invitation.”

Yes. No. Yes, but . . .

“Valek, I think you know such a thing might be dangerous for you depending on—”

The Vulcan drew her hand back and released his. “You make an excellent point, Captain Kirk.”

What happened to James?

“Do I?” He did not feel quite so sure of himself at the moment. Valek was very beautiful in her icy way. Kirk sighed. He leaned back and took a long drink of the Romulan ale.

Valek moved back as well, crossed her arms. “Your pardon, James, if I transgressed. Humans have frequently been terra incognita for me. The opportunity to explore is enticing. Professionally.”

“That’s all right, Valek.”

“However, you are operating on incomplete information if you believe I might be in danger of telepathic fixation. As I have told you, as a twin, I am resistant to the pair bonding that many Vulcans undergo in childhood. I would not speak of this ordinarily, but I am aware you were once present at Koon-ut-kal-if-fee. My choices are not dictated by a bond, they remain my own.” Valek held Kirk’s gaze, said nothing for a moment, then finally said, “It is best that you leave.”

Kirk smiled. “I think I’ll stay. If you can stand me, I can stand you. And thus we stand being around one another a while longer,” he said. “I think we might even enjoy it.”

Valek cocked her head in an expression of perplexity. She’d never looked more Vulcan to him than in that moment. “I can locate no logic in this remark.”

“You can say that again,” Kirk replied. Then he added, “But don’t,” just as Valek was about to do just that.

Fifteen

Captain’s Log, 6100.1. I have ordered all hands back to the Enterprise. Based on intelligence secured by Lieutenant Sulu and Ensign Chekov, I’m taking the fight to the L’rah’hane. Enterprise will go to the pirate and slaver base located at the heart of the Vara.

“Captain, we’re being hailed from Zeta Gibraltar,” Uhura said.

Kirk signed the ship’s final preparations orders on the slate handed to him by a yeoman, then swiveled in his command chair back toward the viewscreen.

“Please inform Commander Contreras that we are in the midst of readying for departure to the nebula. We’ll communicate once we’re under way.”

“Yes, sir,” said Uhura. “But it’s not the commander calling.”

“Who is it, then?”

“It’s . . . well, it’s the president, sir. Of the New Excalbia Assembly, I mean.”

“The president,” Kirk said. “Very well, put him on.”

The screen wavered for a moment, and Washington-Yarnek’s visage appeared. “Mister President, what can I do for you, sir?” Kirk said.

“I’ll just take a moment of your time, Captain Kirk,” said Washington-Yarnek. “I would like to formally request that the New Excalbia Navy be permitted to accompany you on this punitive expedition.”

“You want . . . what?”

“We wish to help,” the president replied. “It would be a great honor, and an historic first step for our young navy, if you would grant us this privilege. Besides, I believe that we would have much to contribute. Mister Watt and Doctor Franklin have reached an understanding of the capabilities and limitations of our vessels. Admiral Nelson is chafing at the bit to be part of the action.” Washington-Yarnek made a slight bow of his head. “I also would like to join you, but on the Enterprise, so as not to come into conflict with Admiral Nelson on his ship. I may be mistaken about whether or not I can help, but there’s an old soldier still in me, and he longs to be in on this.”

“I appreciate that, Mister President. It’s the limitations of those L’rah’hane vessels that I’m concerned with,” Kirk replied. “I don’t want to endanger them, and I’d be compelled to come to their defense.”

“Another incoming signal, this one from the N.E.S.
Victory, sir,” Uhura piped in.

Kirk had a feeling he knew who it was. He sighed. “Add the admiral to the conversation, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Kirk this is Nelson,” said a voice after a momentary crackle of static. Though the admiral was transmitting without visuals, Kirk easily recognized the commanding tone of the old sailor. He’d heard it a lot recently, and it was, of course, exactly how he’d imagined Nelson had sounded.

“Admiral.”

“Captain, we will in no way be a burden to you,” Nelson said. “On the contrary, we intend to be assets. But if that proves to be impossible, I give you my word that we will pull back, and even cut and run, if we are in any way interfering with your task.”

“New Excalbia wants the opportunity to prove ourselves,” Washington-Yarnek said. “Both to you and to the Federation.”

“What does Representative Valek think about this?”

“We have persuaded her to see the logic of the proposition,” said Franklin. He had just entered the bridge along with Spock. They’d come to report on their progress with the Hradrian device. Franklin’s voice, as always, conveyed a tone of good humor. “She was very obliging.”

“So she’s in on this, too, is she?”

“I believe you will find her entirely behind us, Captain Kirk,” Franklin said. “We do not wish to present our decision to you as a fait accompli, however.”

Although that’s exactly what you’re doing, Kirk thought.

“The Assembly has no wish to strain relations. We feel this is an action we must and will take,” Washington-Yarnek said.

“So you’re coming along whether I give permission or not.”

“Damn right,” muttered Nelson. “Wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

“We would much rather accompany you with your blessing than without, Captain,” Washington-Yarnek said.

Kirk hardened his expression. “And if I forbid it?”

Washington-Yarnek bowed his head graciously. “Then we would not come with you,” he replied. “Although we might feel compelled to follow at a . . . safe distance . . .”

“I see,” Kirk said. He considered for a moment, then nodded. “I’m going to have to check in with Representative Valek. It goes well beyond my prerogatives as the senior Starfleet officer in system and becomes a Federation matter.”

“This is acceptable,” Franklin said mildly. “We have truly come to an agreement with her. In fact, to be perfectly honest, she is the one who made the suggestion in the first place.”

“Valek? She—”

Yes, of course she did. Valek and Franklin seemed to be manipulating each other back and forth like a coin flipping across a magician’s fingers.

“You’ll take overall command, Kirk,” Nelson cut in. “I’ve been studying your record. You’re a damn fine officer.”

“Thank you, sir. And thank you for your . . . faith in Federation leadership.”

“Nonsense. I have faith in you, Kirk—you and your crew,” Nelson said. “You won’t regret having us by your side. I’ll see to that.” Nelson mumbled something, evidently to a crew member, that Kirk did not quite make out, then loudly said, “Anchors aweigh!”

Kirk nodded for Uhura to cut both channels. Then he turned to Spock and said with a chuckle, “How do you like that? I’m calling the shots, according to the good admiral.”

“Noble intentions on his part, no doubt, Captain,” said Mister Spock. “But he is Horatio Nelson, or at least believes himself to be.”

“Let’s hope there’s something of the real Nelson in there somewhere,” Kirk said. “Where we’re going, we could use him.” He turned to Uhura. “Lieutenant, get me Representative Valek, please. She has some explaining to do.”

“Aye, sir,” said Uhura. “Representative Valek.”

“Onscreen, Lieutenant.”

She appeared at her office desk, which was surprisingly crowded with unkempt data slates. It appeared she was not as neat as a pin after all.

Why didn’t I notice this before? It occurred to Kirk that he’d spent a great deal more time in her quarters than he had in her workplace.

“I suppose you are tempted to say ‘turnabout is fair play,’ Valek? I sprang the revolution on you and now you’re sticking me with its consequences?”

“Not at all, Captain,” the Vulcan replied. She wore a look cool enough to turn lava to stone. “That would be a characteristic human reaction, completely illogical.”

Kirk smiled ruefully. “I apologize,” he said. “I would be interested in knowing how you arrived at your decision.”

Valek nodded. “Given our agreement with the Excalbians, the provisional governing body has established—”

“I’m not sure they see it as provisional,” Kirk said.

“The Federation now has a temporary treaty with the New Excalbia Assembly. They have not claimed the right to self-governance without responsibility, but have asserted their independence by assuming a sovereign responsibility—self-defense.”

“They get to show their serious intent to form a government by standing up for themselves.”

“Undoubtedly, the small armada they have assembled from the ships you captured will have a negligible effect in comparison to a Constitution-class starship, but with it they can establish the principle of self-determination.”

“What is the Federation’s interest in going along with them?” Kirk said.

“First, we sympathize with their plight. They have been shuffled to the edge of nowhere while we attempted to decide what to do with them,” Valek replied. “Second, an act of self-defense may be interpreted as the deed of a sovereign nation.”

“And it doesn’t bother you that while you are legally considering them to be a refugee community within the Federation, they are brazenly asserting sovereign rights outside of Federation control?”

“Doctor Franklin made an excellent point about entangled quantum particles. They are intimately related to one another, even as they go their separate ways,” Valek said. She hooked her two index fingers together in order to illustrate for Kirk. “For normal particles, up is up, down is down. Positive is positive and negative, negative. But entangled particles share states. For them, up and down both exist at the same time, as do positive and negative, charm and anti-charm.”

Valek released her fingers and spread her hands “It is when we decide to measure a particular characteristic that this suspension is resolved. If one particle is seen to be negative, then the other ‘becomes’ positive. They are no longer entangled, and each goes its separate way now completely unrelated. But if one never attempts to determine a particular characteristic, but assumes that, for this pair of particles, both exist in a cloud of possibility, then those particles will travel onward and onward, bound by the laws of quantum connection. Even if particle A is on one side of the universe and particle B on the other, they are still part of one another.”

“The trick is not to measure for one thing here or there,” Kirk said, “but to consider the totality of the entangled set. So we don’t push the issue with the Excalbians.”

“Precisely, Captain.”

“If we do not hang together, we shall assuredly hang separately,” Kirk murmured.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Franklin put in from his spot to the rear of the bridge.

“This reasoning I have outlined is why I agreed to let the Excalbians accompany you.”

“Makes perfect sense,” Kirk said.

Through the Alice’s looking glass of diplomacy, that is.

Once out of the system the Enterprise jumped to warp 3, which was the maximum warp the L’rah’hane ships were capable of. However, their ion drive did provide them with a measure of stealth. As had been shown before, they were very difficult to track without sensors as advanced as those of the Enterprise and a science officer as sharp as Spock.

Inside the Vara Nebula, it was necessary to slow to impulse. The speed advantage of the Enterprise may have been negated, but there were other tricks that a Constitution-class starship was capable of.

They followed the trail of beacons left by Sulu and Chekov. These were low-powered devices, but Kirk was mindful of the fact that they might have been detected and an ambush put in place. The captain kept a close eye on the relative density of the cloud as they plowed forward. Kirk knew where he would likely set up an ambush.

Around the edges of a three-dimensional clearing, where I could establish lines of fire.

They had passed through several such relatively empty bubbles as they moved forward, and Kirk had called a halt before each of them and ordered a sensor sweep.

Spock reported another sparsely filled sector ahead, this one larger than any they’d encountered before, and Kirk again ordered the all stop for the Enterprise and the Excalbian navy.

An order that was, this time, not obeyed.

“Captain, the N.E.S. Agamemnon and Boreas are breaking away to five point three on the prime ecliptic,” Spock called from his science station. “The Victory and Albemarle have slowed, but have not halted relative to the nebula. They are drifting ahead into the less dense region before us.”

“What’s going on?” Kirk turned to his communications officer. “Lieutenant Uhura, get me Admiral Nelson. Immediately.”

“Aye, sir.” Uhura twisted a knob and calibrated her low energy subspace receiver—a secondary channel that seemed to be working far better than her primary subspace interface here in the Vara. “Captain, I have the admiral,” she reported within moments.

Nelson’s visage appeared on the viewscreen.

“Admiral Nelson, why are you disobeying my orders? Is there some sort of emergency?”

“No, Captain, nothing of the sort,” Nelson answered. The faintest of smiles crossed his face. “I can’t take any more of this excessive caution on your part, Kirk—starting and stopping, starting and stopping. If the pirates are anywhere around this position, I intend to flush them out. I’ve sent two of my ships to be the trap. I myself am the bait.”

You can’t fault Nelson for not having courage, that’s for sure.

“Admiral, you will turn those ships around, and you will order your flagship to cease its forward motion,” Kirk ordered.

“Admiral, if I may,” put in Spock. “You have four ships. Three, if you are using one to lure out attackers. Space is quite large and quite three-dimensional. An attack can originate from above or below as well as from any gradient between them. You simply don’t have enough ships to cover yourself unless you get extremely lucky.”

Nelson nodded. “Well, I always have been extremely lucky,” he said. “Although I suppose you don’t believe in such stuff, Spock.”

“With all due respect,” Spock said, “that was an ocean navy. This is space, sir.”

“I’ll have you know that I am capable of thinking three-dimensionally. Tell him, Captain Kirk!”

Kirk nodded grimly. “I’m sure you can,” he said. “But there is one other factor you are not taking into account.”

“And what is that, Captain?”

“You are not Horatio Nelson.”

Suddenly Sulu spun around to address Kirk. “N.E.S. Albemarle taking fire, sir!”

“What, I see no—”

“Our instruments are better,” Kirk said.

“I’ve got to help him!”

“No, Admiral, we’ve got to help him. Stand down until we’ve entered that sector. If you don’t, so help me I’ll blast that ship out from under you for putting my crew in danger—yet again!”

Nelson looked suitably chagrined by this. “Moving to your port, Captain.”

“Very good, Admiral.”

“We’ll be right behind you, Captain!” said Nelson. Then he put a hand to his hat in the slightest of salutes. “If you so order it, that is.”

“I do,” Kirk said. “Now let’s go.”

They arrived at the firefight a moment later. The Albemarle was taking a beating from five attackers arrayed around her. Her shields were failing rapidly. Nelson’s skirmishers, the ships that he had sent off to go around the clear sector, were nowhere to be seen.

They’ll have slow going through the debris, Kirk thought.

“Arm photon torpedoes,” Kirk commanded. “Lock onto our closest target. Get ready . . .”

We’ll win, but we’ll be too late to save the Albemarle. We need more concentrated firepower. There must be some other—

“Belay that order, Mister Sulu.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Spock, the L’rah’hane impulse drive achieves about half the speed of ours?”

“Correct, Captain.”

“So if we engage, the Victory will be lagging behind. It will be minutes instead of seconds before they arrive to the fight.”

“Correct, sir.”

“Tractor beam,” Kirk said, “lock onto the Victory. Uhura, get me Nelson.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Admiral, have you ever wondered what a stone in a slingshot feels like?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“You’re about to find out,” Kirk said. “On my command, I want you to engage all impulse power. Direct yourself to a point at the gravitational center of those attacking pirates. We’re going to use our tractor beam to pull you toward us, then reverse the effect to repulse your ship. That ought to triple your speed. When you arrive at those coordinates, open fire on the pirate vessels.

“Aye, Captain!”

“We’ll be right behind you, Admiral.” Kirk looked to Chekov. “Mister Chekov?”

“Tractor beam locked onto the Victory, sir. Procedure locked into the tractor system.”

“Very good,” said Kirk. He glanced back at the viewscreen. The Albemarle was concentrating fire, focusing on the L’rah’hane disruptors on the nearest ship—but so far to little effect. “All right, initiate slingshot procedure.”

“Initiating.”

In the blink of an eye the Victory entered the viewscreen from the top and zoomed toward the fight. Within the space of a second it had arrived. Nelson was true to his word. The moment he achieved his desired position, he halted, rolled the L’rah’hane weapons platform on his underside toward two pirate vessels, and opened fire.

“Launch long-range photon torpedoes at our target, Mister Chekov,” Kirk ordered. Chekov pressed the controls and the photon torpedoes sped away, streaking toward the closest L’rah’hane pirate ship.

Spock and Scott had used their time to analyze the L’rah’hane defensive systems well. They’d located a weakness in the L’rah’hane shield frequencies and calibrated the torpedoes’ frequency to overwhelm them.

The L’rah’hane didn’t have a chance as the photon torpedoes slipped through its shields and both struck the engine amidships. Energy crackled, and the ship simply disintegrated.

Kirk nodded. “Mister Sulu, take us in. Phasers set to maximum, Mister Chekov.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

With phasers blasting, the Enterprise tore through the battle sector, taking out engines on one L’rah’hane ship and, in a similar manner to the first they’d destroyed, another.

That left the two Nelson had engaged.

“Report on the Albemarle, Mister Spock.”

“One pirate vessel incapacitated. Second engaged.”

“Let’s give him a hand,” Kirk said. But before anyone could react the viewscreen told the story. Nelson’s Victory had raked the pirate ship with a disruptor broadside, leaving a ragged gash along the exterior surface. A second broadside reached deep inside, and debris erupted from the damaged area. The pirate ship hung in space, dark and battered.

“Sensors indicate last pirate ship is dead in space,” said Spock. “All systems are down on the vessel except minimal life support in some areas. They’re finished, Captain.”

“And the Albemarle?”

“Her shields held. Minor damage only.”

Kirk sighed in both relief and exasperation. “Uhura, get me the Admiral, please.”

The exterior display of the viewscreen dissolved and Nelson’s triumphant face replaced it.

“We took the fight to them, Kirk! We truly did! I haven’t felt this exhilarated since Trafalgar.”

“Sir, you died there. Let’s rein in the celebrations until we reach our primary destination,” Kirk said. “There’s bound to be more trouble ahead.” Kirk allowed himself a slight smile. “And let’s collect the rest of your navy, Admiral. I have a feeling we’re going to need them.”

Nelson nodded, flashing an expression of suitable chagrin. “Apologies for overstepping our command agreement, Captain. I could have cost us lives unnecessarily with my rashness,” he said. “It won’t happen again.”

Sixteen

The scouting report of the shuttlecraft Keplar could not adequately convey the sheer size of the pirate base. There was a central hub, perhaps a space station, build on a planetoid. A dozen vessels surrounded it, all varying in structure. Eight displayed the characteristic slipshod repairs of L’rah’hane-commandeered vessels.

It was the other two ships Kirk was worried about.

“Spock, what are we looking at?”

“Hradrian attack ships, going by the archaeological record.”

“Those ships don’t look hundreds of years old, they look new.”

“That assessment is confirmed by long-range sensors, sir,” Spock replied. “Welding and component seals indicate this ship was constructed within the past three to five standard years.”

“A new Hradrian ship,” Kirk said to himself. “Remarkable.” He turned back to his first officer. “Spock, why build an exact replica of a ship that was in service hundreds of years ago?”

“Unknown, sir.”

“Speculate.”

“Perhaps the culture and scientific knowledge of the Hradrians has not advanced since that time, Captain.”

Kirk nodded, looked back at the two attack ships. “A slave-based civilization, stuck in stasis. That might explain them.”

“Hradrian vessels were formidable, sir. Their propulsion and shielding were nearly equivalent to Starfleet’s,” Spock said. “We should not underestimate them as opponents, should they choose to fight.”

“Noted,” Kirk said. “Do they see us?”

As if in answer, the dozen ships began to scramble, orienting themselves toward the Enterprise and her small armada.

Are they really forming a line? What do they teach these guys in pirate school?

“Shields up, Mister Sulu. Take us to Red Alert.”

“Aye, sir.”

Kirk considered their positioning. “They really don’t want us to get to that central base,” he said. “I wonder what they’ve got stashed there.”

“Captain, if I may,” said the voice of Nelson.

“Go ahead, Admiral.”

“They’ve lined up in the typical manner of ships of the line in my day,” Nelson said. “Instead of going in head on, perhaps a diagonal approach would be better. That way we would limit their field of fire and ability to concentrate.”

“I seem to recall your doing something like that maneuver at Trafalgar, Admiral,” Kirk replied. “You took out most of the French navy as a result.”

“It did seem to work at the time,” Nelson said. “Of course, the enemy quickly adapted. Kept me on my toes, that’s for sure. Until that sniper made sure I wasn’t.”

Kirk chuckled. “Very well, Admiral, since they teach the ‘Nelson diagonal’ at Starfleet Academy when an enemy is so gracious as to form in a line, I believe I’ll take your advice. We will, however, be engaging in three dimensions and not two.”

“Of course, Captain,” said Nelson. “But speaking as one who has fought his share of sea battles in all kinds of weather, I can tell you that a raging sea is not so flat at all. Nor is it forgiving.”

“As you say, Admiral. Our computer has projected attack solutions for this maneuver. Mister Chekov is forwarding those now.” Kirk paused, held out open palms in invitation. “Admiral . . . let’s do this together this time.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” said the Admiral, giving Kirk a rueful smile. “Victory out.”

“Captain, power levels rising on the Hradrian vessels,” Spock cut in. “They are powering up weapons.”

“Get ready to return fire, Mister Chekov.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Give me ship to ship, Lieutenant Uhura.”

“Aye, sir.”

“All ships,” Kirk said. “Prepare to attack.”

Just as Spock had predicted, the Hradrian weaponry was phaser-like and far more powerful than L’rah’hane disruptors. The armada screamed in on five separate diagonals, cutting, exchanging fire with one or, at most, two ships at a time.

We’re outnumbered, so we have to outthink them.

“Let’s give those Hradrians something to consider other than swatting Excalbians,” said Kirk. “Photon torpedoes away.”

“Torpedoes away.”

“Initiate full phaser barrage on the other one.”

“Aye, sir.”

The Hradrian weapons smashed into the Enterprise shields, and the bridge shook.

“Oblique phaser hit,” Spock said. “Forward shields at eighty percent.”

“Bring her about slowly, Mister Sulu. Let’s give those forward shields a respite. Mister Chekov, continue barrage while we turn.”

“Continuing barrage, sir.”

The bridge shook again, and it was all Spock and the other standing officers could do to remain on their feet.

There will be injuries from that one, Kirk thought. But if we get out of this with only a few cuts and broken bones, we can count ourselves lucky.

“Aft shields took a direct hit,” Spock said. “They are holding. Forward shields back to full power.”

Thank you, Scotty. Kirk had no doubt the quick recovery was due to his chief engineer’s efforts.

“Good.” Kirk glanced at his viewscreen. One of the Hradrian ships was turning, tracking with the Enterprise and attempting to close.

“Mister Sulu, swing us back around and make a lateral yaw adjustment to seventy degrees. Let him get closer.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Chekov, arm photon torpedoes.”

“Torpedoes armed.”

“Range to Hradrian vessel twenty thousand kilometers and closing,” Spock said.

“A little closer.”

“Hradrian vessel powering up,” Spock said. “Preparing to fire. She’s lowered her shields.”

“Torpedoes away,” Kirk said.

“Firing torpedoes.”

“Shields at maximum.”

The Hradrian got off her shot. It struck and destroyed one of the pair of photon torpedoes. The energy interaction weakened what would have been a damaging blow. The phaser blast was easily absorbed and dissipated by the Enterprise shields.

The other vessel was not so lucky. The remaining torpedo got through. Kirk watched as the ship erupted in a slow-motion, devastating explosion.

“Nichego sebe,” he heard Chekov murmur.

“Hradrian ship destroyed,” Spock reported. “Armada battle reports coming in from the Victory. Two Excalbian ships incapacitated, one critically damaged. Three L’rah’hane vessels crippled or destroyed.”

“Which leaves us with our second Hradrian ship.”

“Remaining Hradrian vessel has ceased engagement,” Spock said. “She is holding position with impulse power. It seems—” A blue light flashed at Spock’s station and he gazed down intently at his sensor display. “Captain, indeterminate energy build-up on the Hradrian vessel. It has a similar ion signature to that of a transporter.”

“A transporter? Mister Spock, that device we took from the L’rah’hane ship—didn’t you and Franklin determine that it had a transporter-like phasing effect?”

“Affirmative, Captain. The energy levels match.”

“They have a weaponized version of the device,” Kirk said. “Maximum evasive maneuvers, Mister Sulu!”

“Aye, sir.”

The ship lurched as Sulu adjusted his controls to seldom-used extreme positions.

“Hradrian discharge imminent,” Spock said.

A shimmer seemed to pass across the field of vision on the viewscreen. For a moment, there was nothing there. Absolutely nothing. The debris field in the background was simply gone. As was the view of the battle.

A flicker of energy drain passed through the ship and every control went dead.

“Total sensor fail,” Spock said. “We are flying blind, sir.”

Then, as quickly as it had gone off, power returned.

“Sensors and controls have returned, but power levels are depleted,” Spock said.

“Options, Spock?”

“Evaluating, sir.”

Kirk activated the intraship to engineering. “Scotty, what’s going on down there?”

“Never seen anything like it, Captain. It’s as if the entire ship just . . . reset herself. I’m overriding start-up procedures right and left to get her back up and running as soon possible.”

“Estimate.”

“Two to three minutes,” Scott said. Kirk heard a warning buzzer go off in the background. “Need to take care of that, sir.”

“Bridge out.”

“We may not have two to three minutes before the next Hradrian discharge,” Spock said. “They are initiating another power buildup.”

“And they missed last time,” Kirk said. “Spock, what is that weapon?”

“It seems to be a quantum disruption device,” the science officer said. “The data from the aftershock indicates that gluon energy transfer is neutralized in atomic structures. The weapon, in effect, blows matter apart at the atomic seams.”

“Defense.”

“It is fortuitous that Doctor Franklin and myself loaded a complete data set into the ship’s computer before our departure. The computer is running analysis of shield frequencies that may block the effect.”

“How long will it take?”

“Unknown, sir,” Spock said. “There are literally billions of possible combinations. Measuring the effect again would allow for more rapid calibration.”

Which means taking another shot that we probably won’t survive.

Kirk sat back in his chair. “They have us dead to rights,” he said.

But it’s not over until it’s over.

“Continue evasive maneuvers, Mister Sulu.”

“Two more L’rah’hane pirate vessels reported as defeated, sir,” Uhura said.

“Well, whether he’s Nelson or not, he’s proving himself to be a hell of a fighter,” said Kirk. He turned and gazed into the screen. “Lock all weapons on that ship, Mister Chekov.”

“Aye, sir.”

“If nothing else, we’re going to give them a sock to the jaw that they’ll remember.”

“Hradrian weapon at ninety percent power,” Spock said.

“Fire all weapons, Mister Chekov.”

“Firing, sir.”

“Direct hit on the Hradrian vessel,” Spock reported. “Their shields are down.”

“But we’ve got nothing else to throw at them at the moment,” Kirk said with a shake of his head.

“Hradrian weapon fully charged,” Spock said. “They are preparing to activate.”

A streak of light blasted across the viewscreen.

The ship-to-ship audio crackled to life.

“Tally ho!”

The Hradrian vessel fired. Again the erasing shimmer filled the viewscreen. For a moment it illuminated the lines of the N.E.V. Victory as it sped by.

He’s calculated it perfectly to absorb the blow, Kirk thought.

Then there was a brief flash of light, and the absolute blackness from before filled the screen.

The Victory was simply . . . gone.

Then the “nothingness” effect ceased, and the nebula’s inner glow returned to the viewscreen.

“Computer analysis complete. Shield frequencies calibrated,” Spock said. “We should be able to weather another discharge from the device with minimal effects.”

“He gave us our second shot,” Kirk said. “Mister Chekov, lock phasers on the Hradrian ship power generation and propulsion units. I want to disable her, not destroy her.”

“Phasers locked. Their shields are still down.”

“Fire phasers.”

“Aye, sir.”

The familiar squeal of the energy discharge filled the bridge.

“Direct hit,” Spock said. “The Hradrian vessel is incapacitated. She is now operating on minimal auxiliary power.” Then, after a pause, “Captain, feedbacks are building in the Hradrian vessel. They are attempting to self-destruct.”

“Shields to full,” Kirk said. “Back us out of here, Sulu.”

“Aye, sir. Full reverse.”

The Hradrian vessel exploded like a breaking melon. Debris flew in all directions. One piece zoomed past the Enterprise, but it was a near miss by several kilometers.

“Status report,” Kirk said.

“Situation nominal, Captain,” said Spock. “No damage from the explosion; however, the incapacitated pirate ships in the region were destroyed by the shrapnel effect of the blast.”

“Fortunes of war,” Kirk said. “How are our allies doing?”

“One New Excalbia Navy vessel destroyed by L’rah’hane disruptors, one missing, the Agamemnon. Albemarle and Boreas have disabled the remaining functional L’rah’hane vessel.”

Any fatigue Kirk felt from the battle immediately left him. “Mister Sulu, take us toward that depot,” he said. “Let’s end this.”

“Amazing,” said Scott and Watt nearly simultaneously.

The landing party exited the shuttlecraft—there was not enough power for the transporter—on the enormous Hradrian depot structure with phasers drawn and ready for action, only to find no one there.

There were no L’rah’hane pirates in sight. There was no one at all in sight.

They had docked in an atmospherically shielded bay that proved to be a loading area outside a vast storage complex. The “roof” was a double-layered atmospheric seal keeping the environment inside the structure at Class-M standards. It stretched on for what seemed kilometers, and upward for hundreds of meters.

The deck underfoot was metallic with enough crossing wires and raised ducts to cause them all to watch their steps. Otherwise, walking felt normal. Obviously, there were gravitational generators in place somewhere set to one g.

“Spock?”

“At first glance, one would presume the Hradrian depot serves as a warehouse for various items the L’rah’hane pirates have acquired during their raids.” Spock turned in a semicircle with his tricorder. “These are storage bins. There are weapons, precious metals, jewels, and a wide range of electronic and computational devices that would take many weeks to classify and catalog.”

“What Mister Spock means to say is that we have found buried pirate treasure,” McCoy put in.

“Essentially correct,” Spock said. “It would be a shame to destroy this structure, Captain.”

“Then we won’t,” Kirk said. “We need to find what we’re really after. Do we have a vector on those life-signs we were picking up?”

Spock checked his tricorder. “Bearing two four three point eight.” The Vulcan pointed in the direction.

A four-man security team had accompanied them. The readings of vast amounts of advanced technological machinery had prompted Kirk to bring Scott. Doctor McCoy was along to attend to the medical needs of any prisoner they might come across. Spock and Chekov rounded out the Enterprise landing party.

As they were on their way to the hangar deck, Washington-Yarnek and Watt had confronted them in a corridor. Washington-Yarnek stated their case for the Excalbians to join the landing party.

“We are still missing two of our number—Henry Ford and Sacajawea. We presumed they were killed and spaced by the L’rah’hane. But if they are being held as slaves, it is our duty to search along with you, Captain. Also, Mister Watt might prove useful as an adjunct to Commander Scott if those sensor readings have turned up the technological hoard you and I believe is there.”

Kirk held Washington’s gaze for a moment.

He seems genuine enough in making his request, Kirk thought. But then, he’s been created to seem as genuine as possible.

But it might be helpful if they did find the missing Excalbians.

“All right,” Kirk said. “We’ll take a shuttlecraft. There’s a landing bay near our target area, I believe.”

“There is, indeed, Captain,” Spock said.

Washington-Yarnek and Watt were also added to the landing party. They’d been offered handheld phasers for protection, but Washington-Yarnek refused his, saying, “I will have my primed and ready musket pistol. I am afraid that, in the heat of an exchange, I might point a phaser the wrong way, perhaps back at myself or, worst of all, fumble for the firing button until it is too late.”

“Point taken,” Kirk answered.

Kirk had arrayed the security team around the two Excalbians for their protection.

The life-signs Spock was zeroing in on—via the tricorder—grew stronger. The science officer led them down one alley of pirated items stored on shelves. There were at least ten levels to each of the shelving units, and they did not all match. It was a motley arrangement all around. Kirk began to wonder if there was any reason to the placement of the hoard.

Weapons sat next to disemboweled viewscreens, which were next over from an assortment of machine parts and under computer components. At the end of each aisle, there was a brief perpendicular space, just big enough for one or two people to move through, then another shelving unit stretched onward until, without tricorder aid, even the most seasoned direction finder would probably be hopelessly lost. If there was order here, Kirk couldn’t see it.

They located the prisoners on one of those shelves, two up from the floor. They were wrapped in a web-like substance that looked wet, but was actually shiny and hard to the touch.

They look as if they’d been wrapped for shipment by a giant spider.

“Alive?” Kirk asked.

McCoy ran his medical tricorder over the head of one of them. “Barely,” he said. “Jim, these people are in some kind of suspended animation.”

“They were being prepped for shipping, Captain,” said Chekov. “Look down the aisle, sir.”

A mechanical cart, that was four meters by two, was approaching them. There was no driver. On its rear was a crane-like appendage. Stacked in a carrying bed in the middle were several pieces of what looked like broken equipment. A maintenance drone?

“Phasers ready,” Kirk said, and they all turned to face the approaching vehicle.

It approached them at the speed of a walk, then slowed down abruptly, as if it had just noticed them.

“This is Orange territory,” said a voice from a small grilled opening in the front of the vehicle. “Your presence is unauthorized.”

“We are . . . inspectors,” Kirk said. “We hope to make a deal. We are examining the merchandise for our employers.”

The vehicle/drone took a moment to digest this.

“A thousand pardons, kind master,” it finally said. “Masters and slaves under direct orders from buyers must not be interfered with when conducting due diligence verification of goods. Please do not disintegrate this unit.”

“We have no intention of doing so,” Kirk said. “Can you answer a few questions?”

“This unit is programmed for information exchange only on a limited, utilitarian basis.”

Kirk nodded. “Where is everybody?”

“This unit does not understand the inspector’s question.”

“The crews, the L’rah’hane and others. Your masters. Where are they?”

“Understood,” said the vehicle. “There are no masters on Haversack.”

“What is Haversack?”

“Here is Haversack. All that is here. The surrounding structure. The ground below.”

“Why are there no masters?”

“Absolute neutrality is to be maintained between all companies paying the guild price to make use of Haversack. All merchandise must be delivered, warehoused, and retrieved by robotic means.” The vehicle sounded as if it were quoting from a book of regulations.

“I see,” Kirk said “Answer a question: Why are these biological units here? Why were they not already sold and shipped?”

“Records indicate that Unit T754D-559-914 and Unit T754D-559-915 arrived via fast-boat transport as pre-shipment samples for prospective buyers of wholesale lots.”

“Samples?”

“For prospective buyers.”

“But the wholesale lots never arrived?”

“No record of arrival. Escrow period expired. Auction suspended. Bidding disallowed.”

“What is going to happen to these units?”

“Unclaimed sample merchandise shall remain in place for sixty-five auction watches and then shall be discarded.”

“I see,” Kirk said. “That won’t happen here. We’re going to take these two samples with us as testing and verification for the wholesale lot we’re bidding on.”

“Acknowledged,” the vehicle replied. “Please present credentials for removal of items.”

Kirk turned to Spock. “I thought this was going too well,” he said.

“What if we don’t have any credentials?”

“Those removing merchandise without authorization are subject to immediate termination.”

Spock pointed upward. Kirk looked up to see round blisters that looked very much like sensors or weapons clusters. “It seems we are being watched and are covered from all angles,” Spock said. “Given L’rah’hane armament, I would judge them to be disruptors.”

Kirk nodded. He turned back to the warehouse vehicle. “Give us a moment to locate our credentials.”

“By your command, kind master.”

Chekov, standing to the side working intently with his tricorder, motioned the captain over. “What is it, Ensign?” Kirk said.

“The programming on this vehicle is silicon-based and not difficult to access. I believe I have hacked into the logic and memory processors.”

“Can you provide us with fake identification?”

“I will try, Captain.” Chekov’s fingers flew across the dials on the tricorder, making adjustments, then he smiled. “Show it your outstretched hand, sir.”

“You sure?”

“Ninety-nine percent certain.”

“All right,” Kirk said. He rolled his eyes upward, pointing out the weapons emplacements to Chekov. “Our lives depend on it.”

Chekov’s smile immediately became a worried look.

Have to go for it. Can’t leave those poor souls to get spaced.

Kirk turned to the vehicle/drone and extended his hand, palm up. “Here are our credentials.”

A blue light played across Kirk’s palm. There was a momentary pause. The captain moved his other hand to the phaser at his side. Things might get ugly very quickly.

“Credentials accepted,” said the vehicle.

Kirk glanced over to see a very relieved Chekov.

“How may this technical unit be of service?” said the vehicle/drone.

Spock leaned over and spoke next to Kirk’s ear. “We could use its help to transport these cocoons back to the shuttlecraft.”

“We certainly could,” Kirk answered. He turned to McCoy. “Any reason they shouldn’t be transported?”

McCoy checked his tricorder again. “Should be fine,” he said. “Their metabolism is greatly slowed, but they seem in perfect physical shape thanks to their Excalbian regenerative power. We should be able to revive them fairly quickly once I get them to sickbay.” McCoy shook his head. “I could use some help cutting them free of this packing material.” McCoy nodded toward the vehicle. “Maybe that overgrown forklift knows the best way to do it.”

Kirk turned back to the warehouse vehicle. “All right, technical unit,” he said. “Load them up and follow me.”

As they stood on the Enterprise bridge gazing at Haversack, the pirate depot, Kirk glanced over to Spock and noticed him staring at the image with something akin to Vulcan frustration. “Captain, this pirate base is a vast treasure house of technology from many unexplored sectors. It would be a fascinating project if I were to remain behind with a security team and catalog it. Even if the pirates return, they do not seem to ever set foot on the depot surface by common agreement. We should in all probability be safe from harm.”

“I need you here,” Kirk said. “Representative Valek wants us in the Gibraltar system. I’m sure Starfleet will want to send a team back.”

“Understood, Captain,” Spock replied. “Back to Zeta Gibraltar?”

“Yes,” Kirk answered with a sigh.

“Hangar deck to bridge.”

The captain thumbed the intraship. “Kirk here.”

“All the Excalbians have been transferred from damaged vessels, sir,” a technician reported. “Deck is sealed and secure.”

“Very good,” Kirk said. “Bridge out.” He turned toward the viewscreen. “So ends the Excalbian navy,” he mumbled to himself. The garish glow and ship-choking dust of the nebula didn’t seem quite so menacing now. In fact, there was a mist-like beauty to it. “Helm, take us out of here and back to Zeta Gibraltar.”

“Aye, sir.”

Kirk had always enjoyed approaching a planet after dropping out of warp, experiencing the relatively slow and magisterial approach toward orbit with only impulse power pushing the ship along.

There would be the revelation of how the world would appear from space. Even though he was a veteran starship captain who had visited hundreds of systems, and been the discoverer of many of them, the captain had never lost the tingle of awe and anticipation of adventure he felt when a world, and especially a world harboring life, loomed before him. Kirk had assumed he would never arrive in orbit without that brief flicker of rapture.

Zeta Gibraltar tested that assumption.

The planet loomed before them with its odd orange and blue coloration: ferrous silicates and biological variants on the bush-sized algae they’d encountered before. But the garish orange of the equator gradually faded to a deep and rusty orange toward the poles. Even from space the vegetation revealed that it was not a uniform blue, but was a patchwork of subtle differences. He could see how someone might call the planet lovely and mean it.

“Captain,” Chekov said, staring up from his station at the bridge viewscreen. “The Montana is not in orbit.”

“Perhaps she’s occluded by the planet,” Kirk said.

“Negative, sir.”

Not again, Kirk thought. Had some outlying L’rah’hane raiders made an opportunistic foray while the Enterprise was away hunting bigger game? The Montana could be off chasing them.

“Hail the outpost, Lieutenant Uhura.”

“Commander Contreras,” Uhura reported after a moment.

“On-screen, Lieutenant.”

A frazzled Imelda Contreras appeared before Kirk. “Commander, where’s the Montana?”

“I was hoping you could tell me that, Captain,” Contreras replied. “About two hours ago she left orbit. Sensors indicated a rapid departure. Shortly thereafter we picked up a burst of subspace chatter and then a mayday call. We’ve been going through the communications records trying to understand what’s happened, but nothing yet.”

“We were inside the Vara two hours ago, too close to the nebula to be able to pick up subspace communication,” said Kirk said. “Let me speak with Representative Valek, please.”

“Valek?” said Contreras. “She was on the Montana. She was communicating with the Council Security and Intelligence Committee. She took the Excalbians who were not with you on board so that they could speak directly to the Council and explain their recent actions, especially that declaration of Excalbian independence.

“Captain, are you going after them?”

“I can’t abandon you to possible pirate attack.”

“The Excalbians are our primary mission.” Contreras smiled grimly. “The minute the Montana left, I ordered my chief engineer to charge up our new planetary defense system. It’s ahead of schedule, but all systems came online and we have full function. We may not have a complete shield, but we’ll be able to hold off a couple of raiders if we have to.”

She’s right, Kirk thought. It’s about time somebody chooses to trust. She has to be thinking her career is in tatters. Besides, I have faith in Scotty’s defenses.

“Commander,” Kirk said, “we’ll be back as soon as we can. Kirk out.”

Kirk turned to his first officer.

“Mister Spock?”

“Sensors show an active ion trail leading away from the planet. Analysis indicates the signature matches Montana. There are indications of excessive energy discharge occurring in synclinic waves. A classic indication of a ship that has all engines in full reverse.”

“She was tractored away,” said Kirk. “Dragged away kicking and screaming.”

“Colorful, but that would be my assessment, Captain,” Spock said. “The Montana did not leave orbit of her own accord.”

“But dragged where? Toward the nebula?”

“Negative. Deeper into Federation territory.”

“Let’s go get her,” Kirk said. “And find whatever it is that’s strong enough to tractor an Archer-class starship.”

Seventeen

Captain’s Log, Stardate 6100.9. We are following the trail left by the Montana. It appears that she was tractored out of orbit and pulled away from the system at warp speed by an unknown force. Two-thirds of the Excalbian refugees are reported to be on the Montana along with Federation Special Representative Valek. Enterprise will locate the Montana and then determine whoever—or whatever—is behind this.

“Lieutenant Uhura, call President Washington to the bridge,” Kirk said. He had been brooding silently for the hours the Enterprise had been tracking the Montana’s ion trail, and his order startled Uhura—but she quickly recovered her usual professional aplomb and promptly summoned the Excalbian.

Washington-Yarnek arrived moments later.

“What can I do for you, Captain?” he said, coming to stand beside Kirk’s command chair. He stared at the viewscreen. “I shall never get used to that sight. Racing through the stars in all their glory.”

“All right, Yarnek, I want you to tell me what the hell is going on,” Kirk said. “What have you been keeping from us?”

“There is nothing, Captain.”

“There’s something,” Kirk said. “Mysterious forces do not suddenly grab starships out of orbit—at least not normally. One force I know from experience that can perform such a feat are the Excalbians. The fact that Excalbians are here and aboard the Montana is no coincidence. So I ask you again: what have you been keeping from us?”

“Captain Kirk, I assure you—”

Kirk turned sharply on the Excalbian. “I’m done playing games, Yarnek. Lives are at stake. Human lives, and—unless I miss my guess—Excalbian lives as well.”

Washington-Yarnek was silent for a moment, considering. Then he bowed his head toward Kirk and finally spoke. “You must understand, we—my humanoid companions and myself—did not leave our native planet in the best of circumstances. We were hunted criminals, accused of treason, and we were facing”—Washington-Yarnek shuddered—“re-absorption into the planetary silicon matrix. A death sentence. I fear our pursuers may have hunted us down.”

“You should have told us.”

“I’m sorry I was . . . not forthcoming. In retrospect, it was obviously a grave error. But we were hopeful that if we disappeared into the vast population of the Federation—”

“Never mind that. Tell me who or what I might be facing out there once we catch them.”

“I do not know for certain,” Washington-Yarnek replied. “It is most unusual, although not unheard of, that members of my species leave our planetary home . . . brief expeditions, to the worlds within our system. We possess matter-manipulating technology that makes warp travel possible. Excalbians simply don’t want to go anywhere else. The usual excuse is that we are far too busy exploring the inner space of our being to bother with mere physical reality.” Washington shook his head. “As you know, I do not hold with such a philosophy. I believe, much as you do, in the power of exploration and discovery. It could be argued that I believe this because I am partially a construction taken from your mind, Captain Kirk. And, George Washington began as a surveyor on the American frontier.”

“Fine sentiments, Yarnek. Who took that ship?”

Washington-Yarnek hung his head. “It is quite likely to be Excalbians. They possess the technology that would allow them to do this. I cannot explain how. There is much knowledge that was wiped away when I forced into this human form. But they are after us, the refugees. I believe Representative Valek and the crew of the Montana were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Why are they after you? What treason did you commit? Why not just let you go?”

“When we left, we took something with us,” Washington-Yarnek said. “Knowledge. Knowledge of good and evil. They want it back.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I were, Captain,” Washington-Yarnek said. “You have to understand how the Excalbian collective works. All decisions are made through a series of thought experiments. Various scenarios are created and tested, again and again. I know it seemed bizarre to you when Abraham Lincoln appeared to you and we coerced you into one of our games. But to an Excalbian, it was perfectly normal. That is the way information is gathered for collective decision-making. There is no other way. Those who participate in these scenarios are, to some extent, actors in a drama. But, during the scenario, we believe we are the personas we’ve taken on. At the conclusion, the experiential data is collated and matched against experiential matrices from similar dramas. Conclusions are modified or reinforced accordingly. But the ones who possess this data, who retain these memories, are the individuals involved. Half-formed conclusions are not shared with the collective. In fact, the collective does not know what to do until that knowledge is shared. It is prevented from acting by the very makeup of our mental structures.”

Washington-Yarnek touched his own temple with a finger. “It’s locked in here,” he said, tapping his temple several times. “We escaped Excalbia with the data sets of hundreds of scenarios contained within our beings. The collective cannot act without that knowledge. It is prevented by the logical pathways of our thought processes.”

“You said that the collective runs these scenarios in order to reach a decision,” Kirk replied. “What was the decision the collective intended to make in this case?”

Washington-Yarnek seemed to grow tense and stood even more stiffly than usual. When he spoke, it was in a low voice, as if he were ashamed of what he had to say. “Whether or not to destroy your Federation, Captain. Excalbians do not tolerate threats to the collective’s existence. They strike first and strike hard.”

“How were you planning on destroying the Federation?” Kirk asked.

“By activating the planet Earth’s tectonic plates. We would bury your world in a lake of lava hundreds of kilometers deep. We would then move on and repeat this process world by world. We know how to do this. We did it to our own world, after all.”

“So if they want to catch you and somehow . . . reintegrate you . . . into Excalbian society . . . this would trigger the decision of whether or not to attack Earth.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Yarnek, why not tell us this before?” Kirk asked with an exasperated sigh. “We could have helped.”

“We believed that you would annihilate us rather than risk our experience and conclusions falling back into Excalbian hands,” Washington-Yarnek said. “In fact, was that not the official plan?”

He’s got me there, Kirk thought. But the difference between us and them is that cooler heads prevailed.

“I’m a Starfleet captain and a representative of the Federation. I do not annihilate people because they possess dangerous information,” Kirk said. “I and my crew protect them.”

“The New Excalbia Assembly had come to the conclusion that we were no longer in any danger of eradication. We were planning to inform you and Representative Valek of these facts after our return from the expedition to the Vara Nebula. It was a final test of whether you would treat us fairly. Captain Kirk, you passed with flying colors.”

“Knowing what you were up to infuriates me, Yarnek.”

“I completely understand, Captain.”

Kirk shook his head. “I don’t think you do. You still believe you can play with people’s lives. Even now, when you’ve assumed human form, have human emotions, human beliefs. The Excalbian part of you retains this . . . arrogance.”

“Doctor Franklin has been attempting to warn us of this shortcoming,” Washington-Yarnek replied. “He told us it would be our downfall. He is completely correct, but to my great sorrow it may be too late.”

“No,” Kirk said. “It’s not too late. It’s never too late to learn a bit of humility. Maybe that’s what the exploration and discovery of physical reality is truly for.”

Washington-Yarnek put a hand to his forehead, kneaded it for a moment. “What I have told you now is all I know. I would provide to you the specifics of Excalbian capabilities so that you may better counter them, but I do not have this information. This is a portion of my Excalbian self that was wiped away to make room for George Washington. It is so with all of us. Much was lost when we became humans.”

He shook his head as if to rid it of bad thoughts. He faced Kirk. “I have come to the conclusion, however, that the gain far outweighs the loss. I know you may not believe me, and I wouldn’t blame you, but I tell you that I am completely on your side. I am a partisan for the human race, for the Federation, and for freedom.”

Kirk smiled. “Good to hear, Yarnek. Or whoever you become,” he said. “I think you’ve finally stopped the playacting and stepped into real life.”

“I believe you are right, Captain.”

“Ion trail is growing more intense,” Spock suddenly reported. “Energy residue from Starfleet weaponry. Extreme energy levels would indicate that the Montana was engaged in combat.”

“Take us out of warp, Mister Chekov. Let’s see if we can make sense of—”

“Captain, ahead!” called out Sulu. He pointed to the viewscreen. “It’s the Montana, sir.”

She was spinning slowly. Her stabilizers were obviously nonfunctional. One nacelle was twisted into a jagged flower of metal-ceramics. It had blown out its forward end.

“Spock.”

“Engines are nearing overload,” Spock said. “Captain, the Montana is in imminent danger of a warp core meltdown.”

“Run a scan on life signs,” Kirk said.

“Faint,” Spock said.

“Damn!” Kirk said, staring at the crippled ship.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” Washington-Yarnek said. “I detect the hand of my former species in this.”

“Scans confirm life support is functioning, sir.”

“Uhura, see if you can get me Haynes.”

“Montana, this is Enterprise,” said Uhura, adjusting and readjusting her earpiece frequencies. “Montana, come in please.”

After a moment the viewscreen crackled to life.

Red Alert lights flashed everywhere on the Montana bridge. Captain Haynes was busy taking a report from a red-shirted engineering officer. He turned toward Kirk.

“Haynes, what’s going on?”

He answered rapidly. “We were pulled from orbit by unknown tractor beam technology. Beam originated from a group of ships of an entirely alien design. We tried to break free and fight back, and the dilithium crystals began to spontaneously disintegrate. Condition critical. Attempting to respond.”

“Understood.”

“Kirk?”

“Yes?”

“They took Representative Valek,” said Haynes. “I don’t know how. Didn’t look like a transporter. One moment she was on the bridge, the next moment she had disappeared before my eyes.”

“Do you have any idea who did this?”

“Not a clue. They didn’t answer any of our hails. Or notice our emergency log beacon.”

“Noted. Would you like to abandon ship? We should be able to get your people off.”

“Negative. There was an enormous energy surge, and nonessential systems became inoperative. My engineer has a solution to prevent immediate core meltdown,” Haynes said. “It’ll leave us dead in space, but should save our lives for the moment.”

“Enterprise will stand by.”

“Hope we won’t need it.” A distraught crewman suddenly trotted up to Haynes with a report. Haynes glanced at the data slate he was handed. “Montana out.”

The viewscreen returned to starfield with the slowly spinning Montana.

Kirk lowered his eyes, shook his head in frustration. Then he looked back up, resolved. “Mister Spock, I want you and Franklin to fire up that Hradrian device and prepare it for use as a weapon.”

“Aye, sir,” Spock said. “Franklin and Galileo have been working on the device since our departure from Zeta Gibraltar.”

“Check on their progress, Spock,” Kirk said. “Do what you can speed them up?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Captain, multiple incoming objects,” Chekov reported from the science station. “They are moving toward us at warp speed. Unknown configuration.”

“On-screen.”

The approaching objects looked like specks at first, but as they drew closer, their outlines began to be discernable.

“Red Alert,” Kirk said. “Battle stations.”

“These are the configurations of Excalbian vessels,” Washington-Yarnek said with a sigh. “They have found us.”

“Well, they haven’t gotten you,” Kirk said. “And we intend to fight for your freedom.”

“That is much appreciated, Captain Kirk.”

A hailing whistle from engineering broke the heavy silence.

“Mister Scott.”

“Captain, Mister
Watt and I have been discussing what he remembers of Excalbian science and looking through the data we acquired from our encounter with them before. We may have found a way to counter at least a portion of the Excalbian technology.”

“That’s the best news I’ve had in while,” Kirk said. “Explain.”

“We believe we’ve created a deflector shield resonance that will guard against direct matter manipulation within the ship. They won’t be able to reach in and grab anyone out of thin air. Most importantly, they won’t be able to mess with my dilithium crystal matrix and cause the kind of critical deterioration they did before.”

“Do it, Mister Scott.”

“Aye, sir.”

Kirk looked back up at the viewscreen. There was an array of five ships in a star-shaped formation. They looked more like giant crystals than ships. Each was a slightly different shape, with different facets. Each ship was also a different shade, glowing faintly from within, but relatively bright here in deep space. Thousands of tiny points of light played around furiously inside the crystal ships, twinkling, moving together, and spreading apart. It resembled a bee colony, if one could peer directly inside.

“Those lights? Is that the propulsion mechanism or the Excalbians themselves?” Kirk asked.

“Both,” Washington-Yarnek responded.

“Captain, I’m picking up an incoming message from one of those vessels,” Uhura said.

“Put it on, Lieutenant.”

The view of the crystal ships vanished and what replaced it on the viewscreen was—Valek.

She was unhurt, but her hair was disheveled and a portion of her collar was torn.

“Captain, it seems I have become a diplomatic hostage.”

“Have they hurt you in any way? Where are you?”

“They have not harmed me in any permanent way,” Valek answered, touching the tear. “Although I admit to experiencing an extremely jarring mental sensation when I was snatched from the Montana akin to the sudden and unexpected breaking of a Vulcan mind-meld. As to your second question, they are holding me in what appears to be a small cell kept at Class-M environmental conditions. As you can see behind me, the walls of this holding cell are transparent, and what is beyond does not seem as if it would be amenable to Vulcan or human life.”

Suddenly a voice interrupted the audio feed from Valek. It was loud, of indeterminate sex, and flatly insistent. “You will assist us in our purpose, or Valek shall be harmed.”

“Threating a Federation representative is not a very good opening move for negotiations,” Kirk replied.

“This is no time for frivolous responses,” the voice said. “Valek’s life and the lives of your crew are at stake.”

“Are they?” Kirk said.

“A demonstration is required.”

The viewscreen went blank, then returned to the image of the five Excalbian vessels. One of them, a pale blue one, flared brightly.

The voice spoke again, sounding none-too-pleased. “You have shielded your ship from direct matter manipulation.”

“That’s right.”

“We will proceed with the destruction of the Montana as an alternate demonstration.”

Damn, Kirk thought.

He stood up from his chair. “Wait a minute,” the captain said quickly. “Do not destroy the Montana. If you do, I assure you that we will do whatever we can to prevent you from achieving what you want.”

“Do you know what we want?”

“I presume you’ve come for the refugee Excalbians.”

There was a brief pause, then a crackling, as if hundreds of tiny sticks were breaking at once.

“That’s the sound of an Excalbian laugh, Captain,” said Washington-Yarnek next to Kirk in a low voice.

“If not that, then tell us what you want,” Kirk said.

“Very well.” A form appeared on the viewscreen. It was the rocky, barely humanoid form Kirk had seen Yarnek assume before. It had claws for hands and a circle of eyes around its head, each oval in appearance, and white with no pupils to speak of. There was no possibility of reading expression from that rocky visage. “I am Anvit, commander of these vessels.”

“Captain James T. Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise,” Kirk responded.

“We are well aware of who you are, Captain,” said Anvit. “I hope you are aware of the great trouble you have caused my people.”

“Trouble?” Kirk said. “Last I checked, it was you who had taken myself and my first officer prisoner and forced us to fight reincarnations of some of the galaxy’s worse villains. You have some nerve, calling me trouble.”

“If it had not been for you, we would not have initiated the morality scenarios,” said Anvit. “If we had not continued with the scenarios, we would be safe, instead of a people on the run.”

Kirk was unsure about what Anvit meant by this, but first he knew he must attend to the Montana’s safety. “Anvit, I will listen to whatever proposal you have to make if you will leave the Montana untouched.”

There was a brief pause, then an answer came. “The collective has conferred, and this is acceptable. We cannot, however, restore the engines to working condition. The deterioration has become too great.”

Kirk made a cutting motion, and the Enterprise’s feed to the Excalbian was ended. “Uhura, get me the Montana.”

“Aye, sir, a channel is open.”

“Montana, Kirk here.”

“Kirk! Good news. We’ve managed to retain the engine integrity and prevented a meltdown. We only have minimal impulse, but for the moment we’re safe.”

“Hang tight. We’ll be back in touch momentarily. Kirk out.”

He nodded to Uhura. Anvit reappeared.

“We have come seeking our runaways, Captain Kirk, but not to bring them back. Instead, we are going to join them. Now we have found you, as well. If you do not aid us, we will cause pain for the one you call Valek.”

You almost had me on your side. Now you lost me.

“More threats?” said Kirk. “Let me tell you something, Anvit, and you can take this to your collective. We don’t negotiate with those who threaten our lives or the lives of others.”

“Is that so, Kirk? Behold.”

The view switched back to Valek. Suddenly her cool and serenity were interrupted by a choking cough. She put a hand over her mouth, felt around for any exit from her cell.

“Anvit,” Kirk shouted, “what’s happening?”

Valek evidently heard him. “The Excalbians have introduced a chemical I judge from the smell to be a copper bonding agent into the atmospheric mixture. It links with the oxygenizing metal in my blood and causes . . .” She jerked forward, put a hand to her abdomen. She put her other hand to her head. “Excruciating pain.”

“Valek, how long can you stand it?”

“I am attempting . . . I am attempting to . . .” Valek seemed to regain control of herself. She raised her hands and touched her fingers and thumbs together to make a triangle and stared intently at this form. “I am attempting use of Vulcan mind control techniques to mitigate the pain.”

“Can you keep it up, Valek?”

“Unknown, Captain,” she replied, her voice straining. Then the tension slowly drained from her face. Valek looked up. “Captain Kirk, I hereby use my plenipotentiary power as Federation representative to order you to disregard any torture they inflict upon me and to not, repeat not, attempt any sort of rescue of myself.”

“Valek,” Kirk said. He paused, shook his head. “We aren’t in the Gibraltar system anymore. You don’t have authority here.”

“James, please,” she said. “Do not let them use me to blackmail you into illogical action.”

Kirk considered. There was no way he would give up on her. But he didn’t have to let the Excalbians know that.

“Very well, Valek,” he said. “I will follow your instructions. And . . . I’m sorry.”

“Do not be,” Valek replied. “This is—” Another wave of pain struck her, and it took her a moment to re-center and return to her serene posture. She breathed in and spoke again. “This is merely part of my job, Captain, as facing danger is part of yours.”

“Did you hear me, Anvit?” Kirk angrily said. “You will never get what you want from us by force.”

“This response is irrational,” said Anvit. An exasperated tone had crept into his voice. “The fact that those you call ‘good’ act to protect others when faced with coercion through threats made upon those others to whom the good have an altruistic or romantic commitment is the prime lesson of your previous visit to Excalbia. You are not behaving as you should according to your own rules!”

“They have learned nothing about good and evil,” said Washington-Yarnek with a laugh, but a laugh filled with sadness.

“Yarnek? You are present? We did not detect you on the
Enterprise.”

“I noticed that,” Washington-Yarnek replied. “Which means that the blocking methods of the humans has been successful.”

“Yarnek, we must speak.”

“I don’t think so, Anvit,” Yarnek replied. “You have reached an erroneous conclusion based on incomplete evidence.”

Kirk raised a hand to cut them both off. “Enough of this. We will not turn over the humanoid Excalbians of Zeta Gibraltar to you, Anvit.”

“You misunderstand our intentions, Captain Kirk,” Anvit said. “Whatever desire we had to capture and reintegrate the runaway scenarists has been overridden by other concerns at present.”

“So you have decided to go ahead with your plan to attack the Federation?”

“No. We shall not destroy your Federation, Captain.” Anvit cocked his head and adjusted his rocky carapace to a different position.

If I didn’t know better than to impute human body language to aliens, I’d say he was fidgeting, Kirk thought.

“Well, that’s . . . good to hear,” Kirk responded. “But the very fact that you even considered the possibility is bound to make us wary of you.”

“The collective has made its choice,” said Anvit, raising his hands in what seemed to be a gesture of dismissal. “This matter is resolved. Your response is irrational.”

“What the captain is trying to communicate to you, Anvit,” said Washington-Yarnek, breaking in, “is that humans have no reason to believe that the collective won’t change its mind again should circumstances change.”

“That is entirely correct,” Anvit replied. “How could it not be? In the future, we may very well change our mind.”

“You have learned nothing, Anvit,” Washington-Yarnek said. “All of you have learned nothing.”

“Yarnek,” said the Excalbian captain. “We do not wish to dispute this with you.”

“Then why . . .” Washington-Yarnek’s look of puzzlement slowly became one of comprehension. “You are in trouble, aren’t you? You have come seeking help.”

“Your assessment is accurate, Yarnek.”

“Release the Vulcan representative immediately, and I will speak with you.”

“James T. Kirk has already refused to negotiate. Your collective has decided.”

“I am not Captain Kirk.”

“But—”

“Anvit, I am human now. Or at least I wish to be. Here there is no collective. There is no restraint but one’s own conscience. There is freedom.”

Anvit said nothing. Then he slowly nodded his head. “Valek is released from coercive excruciation.”

The view shifted back to Valek. She slumped forward. She took a deep breath, then another, and finally stood straight again.

“Valek, are you all right?” Kirk asked.

“I am quickly recovering,” the Vulcan answered. “The compound should be out of my bloodstream momentarily.”

“Captain Kirk, if you will lower your shield, we will send Valek back to you.”

“I don’t think so,” Kirk said. “And I’m sure Representative Valek concurs.”

“I do,” Valek stated off screen. “Don’t do it, James.”

“Then we are at an impasse,” Anvit said with a shuffle of the shoulders that passed for an Excalbian shrug.

Suddenly Washington-Yarnek let out a real, unrestrained laugh. “I’ve just realized something,” he said. “Captain, may I make a suggestion?”

Kirk looked at him. “Be my guest, Mister President.”

Washington-Yarnek nodded, turned to the screen. “Anvit?”

The image of Valek, now in no apparent distress, was replaced by the rocky Excalbian. “What is it you wish to propose?”

“That you tell the truth, Anvit,” Washington-Yarnek said. “Stop trying to bully your way to an outcome. Treat us humans as equals, and simply tell us why you are here.”

“How will that be effective? We would thus display our weakness.”

“Just trust me, Anvit.”

There was a pause, then the rocky Excalbian spoke. “Very well. We have come seeking sanctuary with the Federation. We are in dire need of your help.”

Kirk shook his head in wonder. “You . . . expect me to believe this?”

“I think he is telling the truth, Captain,” said Washington-Yarnek. “Or believes himself to be.”

“Go back to your planet.”

“We cannot.”

“Why not?”

“Excalbia no longer exists.”

No one spoke for a long moment.

“We are the last Excalbians,” Anvit continued. “We are fleeing a terrible enemy.”

“And you believe you were going to coerce your way into our good graces?”

“We do not often deal with species unlike us. There was no time to run scenarios. We act on incomplete information. Captain Kirk, Representative Valek, please help us. We are afraid.”

Kirk rubbed his temples. “How can I verify any of this?”

“Perhaps I can,” Valek’s voice said. “Commander Anvit, can you create a space where you and I can coexist for at least a short while?”

“I can.”

“If we can be in close proximity, I can attempt a Vulcan mind-meld to verify the truth of what you are saying.”

Anvit tilted his head and seemed to consider for a moment—although his lack of a true face made any other human expression impossible. “This will be done,” he finally said.

On the Enterprise viewscreen, Valek was now standing beside the Excalbian. She’d evidently been transported to what served as the Excalbian vessel’s bridge.

“Proceed,” Anvit said. With one of his crab-like claws, he pointed to a spot on his lower torso. “I have cooled a portion of my carapace to a degree that should be warm, but not excessively hot, to your touch. I cannot maintain this temperature for long without damage to myself.”

Valek nodded that she understood.

“Clear your mind, Anvit,” she said, “and we shall begin.”

Eighteen

For Valek, the experience was unlike any other mind-meld she had ever attempted. The Excalbian thought process was utterly alien. It was a creature of reason, but of reason turned in and around on itself so that instead of clarity there was endless convection, endless churning.

She realized she was floating in the mental equivalent of magma. For a moment, it almost pulled her under, almost burned her own mind, a small space within the massive silicon sea.

But Valek held herself afloat. Schooling her thought to perception only, so that she would not run the risk of being absorbed and dissolved. Then, slowly, she found that she could swim among the thoughts. She began to detect currents, and she followed these. The current converged. Coherent thought emerged.

She followed further, deeper—

And slowly, those thoughts formed into a story . . .

I, Anvit, remember the cause of the turmoil first. I recall the single event that resulted in the catastrophic cascade that changed everything.

The coming of James T. Kirk.

After the coming of James T. Kirk, the ground broiled without thought and conversation. Good and evil? Bravery and heroism? Greed and self-sacrifice? Treachery and honor? All of these were concepts for dealing with the outside of things, for interacting with the world of reality. They were ideas we hadn’t thought about since our species had been cave crawlers, before we learned to flow through the magma.

We had spent millennia exploring our inner selves, considering and reconsidering our consciousness, our awareness, our form, and the substance of which they were made. Above all things, we were students of our own minds and thought processes. The goal of life was to find repose in order to contemplate the self and its relationship to the mind of the collective and the universal mind. To comprehend thought as a process was enlightenment. Cultivating inwardness was the goal of all philosophy.

We learned much in this manner. In so many ways, we were as far ahead of James T. Kirk and his Federation as a sentient being from a microorganism. Could we not manipulate the material world itself and turn it into thought and back again?

We captured and held the Enterprise with the ease of a parent plucking a nymph-child from sipping at its magma flower. These others did not even perceive matter in its atomic form directly. Their senses only apprehended surfaces. They could not even dip into one another’s minds to assimilate experience or conclusions. All they had was the guttural utterances of language. They seemed to do everything the hard way.

Yet when we dipped into their minds, we found conclusions we had never considered. We found new concepts instead of the same ideas we had been turning over and over in our minds for fifty thousand years. Our curiosity grew.

Could these primitives have something to teach us?

It seemed impossible, but was it? They had ventured out after all. They had found us, and not we them. Could this be significant?

Could it be a threat?

We began with the most general of their ideals, the concept of good and evil.

We mined their memories and constructed our scenario, our drama. We built our stage. We assigned the first roles: Abraham Lincoln, Surak, Colonel Phillip Green, the others. We impressed the human conceptions of these beings upon those of us assigned to play the roles. We changed our actors’ forms—an easy thing to accomplish—so that they wore the physical mask of the humanoids that they mimicked.

Then we lured James T. Kirk and Spock to the surface, and the thought experiment began. But James T. Kirk surprised us. He did not enter into the spirit of the drama. He fought against the very idea that he and his people should be made to act out the very ideals they believed in.

This puzzled us. It was very strange. We forced him back into the drama, and when he won, when good triumphed over evil, instead of thanking us for the privilege of participating in our elucidation, he told us that it was we who were the primitives!

Unbelievable. He held us in contempt for what we had done to him and his crew! He lectured us about rights and fairness. What if we had destroyed him and his ship instead of letting them go? Were not we, and our right to know, more important than this insignificant species?

Most dismissed his absurd charges, but we did not forget them.

What if his people, his primitive Federation, posed a threat to us because they knew something we did not? As we evolved, we had learned how to deal with threats to our own species from within and without the planetary crust.

We wiped them out.

Ought we to do the same with this Federation? These new concepts of good and evil and the rest frustrated us. Many of us believed we ought to eliminate the source of that frustration before it polluted our pure thought.

This became my faction.

But some of us—chief among them Yarnek, who had been appointed judge of the drama—began to ponder another possibility.

What if James T. Kirk was right?

What if we had been missing something, some basic truth that was right before our eyes for thousands of years?

The question must be decided, and how better to do it than to continue creating and observing even more scenarios? So we began. First we played the game among ourselves. Yarnek and his troupe of re-enactors took on many personas. Most gravitated to a particular “part” or “role.”

We pitted good against evil again and again. I must admit, it became less a process of learning and curiosity and more one of amusement and diversion.

Soon, merely to play among ourselves was not enough. We began to reach out and snatch other representatives of their species to perform in our scenarios. The exclusion zone the Federation established around Excalbia did not take account of our full capabilities. Some we allowed to return home after their role was complete. Others we destroyed.

I and my faction took no issue with this. Yarnek and his faction began to believe we were committing thought-crimes against ourselves. He spoke of the concept of injustice toward others.

He spoke of murder.

Yarnek called us killers and accused himself of being the worst of all since he enabled the scenarios.

He claimed to be “ashamed” and called for the scenarios to end.

Most of us thought this was nonsense. The scenarios, in the short time of one passing of our planet around its star, had become a great source of status and advancement among us.

“No,” we said, “the scenarios will continue until we have collected the requisite data and reached a satisfactory conclusion.”

Yarnek seemed to us to become unbalanced, flinging about the new concepts he had encountered. He called us assassins, executioners, genocidal maniacs.

“But the scenarios serve a great purpose,” we answered. “They are the means to decide whether or not we shall eliminate this upstart collection of primitives, this Federation.”

Besides, we had begun to wager on the outcomes, and fortunes in prestige were being lost and won. Stop it? We were enjoying it.

Yarnek made his escape. He was branded an outlaw, a thought-criminal, and we made plans to hunt him down and eliminate him and the others with him.

Meanwhile, the scenarios went on. Good versus evil. Any species unlucky enough to stray near our system was lured in, captured, and forced to participate, to satisfy our curiosity.

We set our lure one too many times.

We attempted to capture the Demiurge.

The skin of the Excalbian was beginning to grow hotter—hot enough to cause Valek great discomfort. Anvit’s ability to maintain the lower temperature was rapidly decreasing.

She had to maintain contact. She had to follow the tale. She had to know how the story ended.

Yet if I continue like this my own skin will be burnt to a crisp.

“Move forward. Show me the worst,” Valek told Anvit in her trancelike state. “Show me the Demiurge.”

The Demiurge had no problem distinguishing between good and evil or deciding which side of good and evil It embodied.

Evil.

It was a creature as at home in the world of mind-reading and matter manipulation as we were. The fact must be admitted, the Demiurge was as far above us in understanding these things as we are above the humanoids of the Federation. It was a creature of space, wholly divorced from whatever Its planetary origin might have been in eons past.

It was, in Its way, beautiful in form. Its natural surface was a changing membrane of quantum foam, and Its interior was dark matter set with a scattering of bright pricks of light, so that It could camouflage Itself as a starfield and approach Its prey unawares.

It was an opportunistic stalker. It preyed on ships, space habitats, and entire worlds.

The interior of the Demiurge was of no material we had ever seen or imagined. Somehow dark matter and space-time itself were twisted into the makeup of the Demiurge, so that there was storage capacity for enormous amounts of data, hoards of wealth gathered from thousands of pillaged worlds, and life-forms kept for amusement in zoos as big as worlds. It could do with the fabric of space-time what we can do with matter manipulation.

Although we experienced It as a single entity, the mentality was a group-mind—It referred to Itself as “we”—but one of such startling complexity and integration that It made our own collective seem like a gathering of stones compared to a mountain of granite.

In our ignorance, we created an arena in orbit above the planet in which to run one of our scenarios, a corral for the Demiurge. In truth, many of us thought it would be fun to bait such a species. We lured It in, or believed that was what we were doing, and “captured” It with field beams we thought were unbreakable.

It was toying with us all along. It allowed the greater part of the collective to gather in one easily accessed data stream.

Then It struck. It reached down to the planet. It reached into the planet, searching out complexity, searching out life.

Absorbing. Confiscating. Eating us alive, our mentalities added to Its own, and enslaving us to perform Its functions. For those so absorbed, there would be no more curiosity, no self-reflection, no journeying toward inner enlightenment. They would only exist to serve the Demiurge. They would not even be allowed to die.

A few of us created these crystal ships from our old, long cast-aside spacefaring technology, and attempted to flee.

We believed we had escaped unnoticed. We were fools. As we ran in terror, we received a final message from the Demiurge.

It told us to look back for a final sight of our world. Since we wished a demonstration of the nature of good and evil, It was going to give us one. It reached inside the planet and destabilized the core. We had riddled our planetary structure with great complexity from our eons of thought. Like a giant claw crushing a bit of pumice within its grasp, the Demiurge squeezed—

The planet imploded.

It crumpled. Even atoms could not exist under such conditions. It became a seething mass of quarks.

The Demiurge ate it. Pulled our world into Its maw as It had many others, incorporated the planet’s former material being into Its own transdimensional structure.

Excalbia was no more.

We ran. As fast as we could. Because the Demiurge was not done with us yet. It told us as much.

It told us that when it eats, It finishes Its meal. When It was done digesting the mentalities of those It had captured, It would be coming for us.

It told us It was allowing us to escape.

Minds taste better when they’ve been seasoned by fear, It said. So be afraid. We are coming.

Valek jerked her hands away from the Excalbian, and the mind-meld broke. Her palms were beginning to blister from second- and third-degree burns. She had her answer. That was what was important.

Conscious will flowed back into her. She had her answer, and now was the time to act.

“Captian Kirk, lower your shields,” she said. “We have a larger problem than the Excalbians.”

Anvit nodded his large rocky head with its glowing eyes. “Valek will make you understand, James T. Kirk,” he said. “You, a primitive, taught us that there was more to the exterior world than was contained within our philosophy. We have now been thrust into your world, James T. Kirk. We beg of you: help us to survive.”

Nineteen

Captain’s Log, Supplemental. The Montana was disabled by the Excalbians in an attempt to negotiate an alliance with the Federation from a position of dominance. Their reason: they are fleeing a powerful enemy, the Demiurge. The magnitude of Its power is difficult to conceive; the Excalbians possess the ability to manipulate matter and read minds almost at will, yet they were powerless before the Demiurge.

The Enterprise hangar deck was filled with an odd assortment of species: humans, Vulcans, and Excalbian humanoids. And, finally, there was the very large rocky mass of the Excalbian commander, Anvit. A conference room table had been taken apart and carried to the hangar. To accommodate Anvit, Scott had turned the internal cooling of the space as low as the Vulcans could tolerate, but the space remained uncomfortably warm.

The occupants sat or stood around the table, while a triscreen displayed Spock’s status report.

“We have been measuring the gravimetric waves issuing from the direction of Excalbia, or the system in which Excalbia existed. There is a significant spike, and it is increasing at a rate that allows us to extrapolate the speed of the Demiurge’s approach.” Spock paused.

He’s no doubt rechecking the calculations he’s already made in his head.

“We are heading at maximum warp toward the Vara Nebula, but the Demiurge is steadily gaining.”

“Are we going to make it to the nebula?” Kirk asked.

“No, Captain. The Demiurge will catch up with us in five point nine hours,” said Spock. “Your desire to use the nebula for cover is a good idea, even if I suspect it will ultimately be ineffective. Anyway, we will be close, but not close enough. The Demiurge will be upon us.”

Anvit stirred from his resting position. His eyes flashed as he produced auditory speech from a small orifice in the middle of what Kirk thought of as his chest. “Our course of action is obvious,” he said.

“And what would that be, Commander?”

“We must surrender to the inevitable. There is no rational alternative.”

Kirk did a double-take. “You can’t be serious?”

Washington-Yarnek turned to Kirk. “This is the Excalbian way, Captain Kirk,” he said. “Anvit is speaking as would anyone in the collective.”

“Surrender is not an option, Commander Anvit,” Kirk said.

“There is no foreseeable action we can take that will conceivably save us.” Anvit turned to Valek. “Representative, you and I have shared thoughts.”

And I find myself a bit jealous of that fact, Kirk thought. Ah well.

“That is so, Commander,” said Valek.

“You are a being who depends upon reason. Surely you see that there is no logical alternative but to surrendering to our fate?”

“I admit that a straightline algorithmic interpretation of logic does not present another answer,” Valek said.

“There, you see, James T. Kirk? The Vulcan mind is optimized for logic. Even your own Federation representative agrees with me.”

“I did not say that I agree,” Valek replied, holding up a hand of warning. “When I was young, once I arrived at a conclusion, I did not consider the consequences beyond the fact that logic was on my side. But there was one who showed me that I might be mistaken in my premises, and therefore I reached incorrect conclusions.”

She nodded toward the Enterprise’s first officer.

“Spock. He is half human. Logic dictated that his schoolmates test him to find the hidden emotion within. We claimed that we merely wished to expose his weakness for his own improvement, so that he might receive the guidance he needed. We also wished him removed so he would not annoy us and so that he would not retard our intellectual standards. We told him that he should relegate himself to a suitable position where his emotional weakness would not become a liability. Is this not so, Spock?”

“It is, indeed,” Spock replied. “You and the other Vulcan children placed many obstacles in my path.”

“Yet my brother, Varen, did not share our conclusions,” Valek said. “He showed a wisdom beyond his years. He understood that my logic—and that of the other children—was based on faulty assumptions.” Valek touched her hand to her chin and gazed downward, remembering. “We had built our premises on faulty assumptions. Varen was the only one among us who saw that in Spock were the highest ideals, instincts, and abilities of both Vulcans and humans. It was we who were lacking, and not Spock.”

She’s apologizing, but only admitting an error in logic, Kirk thought. It is, however, the only apology Spock will appreciate.

Kirk found himself admiring Valek for making the effort.

“All very interesting,” Anvit said. “But I do not see how this relates to our current predicament.”

Washington-Yarnek shook his head and let out a low chuckle. “She’s trying to tell you to stop being an arrogant bubble-eating crawler and consider the possibility that your own rationality may be limited,” he said. “Isn’t the destruction of our world enough to convince you that some of your assumptions about the workings of reality may be mistaken?”

Anvit shifted, orienting himself toward Washington-Yarnek. “I hear you, runaway,” he said. For a moment he and Washington-Yarnek seemed to be engaged in some kind of confrontation—perhaps a mental wrestling match—because both were stock-still. Then Washington-Yarnek seemed to relax, and Anvit rumbled into a lower position. “I hear, and I concede that you have a point, Yarnek.”

“You once presented me with a convincing replica of Surak,” Spock said. “I was in awe of your reproduction. Learn from your own work. The ancient Vulcans faced a similar dilemma. Nuclear war ravaged the planet. Many Vulcans died, others fled, but on Vulcan, Surak’s teachings were embraced. If we had lacked the will to live, despite the devastation, Surak’s philosophy would have been nullified by our own nonexistence. The dead do not think logically, for they do not think at all. For logic—or, as you put it, rationality—to have meaning, it is imperative to carry on in the face of adversity or even seemingly inevitable doom.”

“Vulcans are prepared to make a stand against the Demiurge?” Anvit said.

“Captain Kirk once accused me of having, when faced with what seemed inevitable disaster, logically working out the idea that an act of irrational hope was required,” Spock said. “I did not agree with his assessment at the time, but the captain had a point.”

“Perhaps ‘hope’ is not the best characterization,” Valek said. “Let us call it a random variation in the space-time continuum that we, by attempting to survive, will be in a position to take advantage of.”

Anvit again stirred. “I confess I do not understand why we should not give up,” he said. “But I have trust, based on evidence, that you of the Federation are capable of surprising, yet effective, behavior.”

“We have much to learn from each other,” Kirk said. “But we need to survive to do so.”

“Agreed,” Anvit said after a long pause. “I will return to my ships and ready them for a fight.”

Another shock wave struck the Enterprise, nearly knocking everyone standing in the bridge off their feet and setting all scrambling for handholds.

“Gravitational and temporal disruption growing stronger,” Spock reported from his sensor station. “The Demiurge entity is now one million kilometers away and closing.”

A strange whine began to sound throughout the ship. It was a tone of randomly varying pitch and level.

Hard to hear myself think with that going on, Kirk thought.

“Uhura, can you clear the intership of whatever is making that noise.”

The communication officer checked her board. “I think it’s . . . the air.”

“Confirmed,” Spock said. “What we are hearing are small tears in the fabric of space-time forming in our immediate vicinity; indeed some are forming within our physical bodies.”

“Can we damp it in some way so at least we don’t have to hear our world ripping apart?”

“Difficult to accomplish,” Spock said. “Perhaps if Mister Scott were to alter the resonance factor on the dilithium crystals to create a countering inner-ship vibration? I would suggest a change from frequency Alpha one six nine to Upsilon nine zero five.”

Kirk punched the comm to engineering.

“Scotty, change the dilithium crystal resonance factor to Upsilon nine zero five.”

“Aye, Captain, but I have to tell you that is not in the specs,” Scott replied.

“Do you always follow the specs?” Kirk asked.

Scott chuckled. “On occasion.
Depends on the circumstances.” A brief pause, then he reported. “Dilithium resonance is now Upsilon nine zero five.”

There was a buzz, somewhat like a bad door buzzer, but it quickly died down. In its place was blessed silence.

“That took care of the problem, Scott. Bridge out.”

Kirk glanced over to Spock. His first officer merely raised an eyebrow, then turned back to his station.

“Uhura, please call President Washington to the bridge,” Kirk said. He shook his head in amusement. “I’ll never get tired of saying that,” he mumbled to himself.

Washington-Yarnek joined Kirk on the bridge. The two men stood and looked at the viewscreen. There was nothing to see except the five Excalbian ships.

“Five ships,” Kirk said. “All that’s left of your world.”

“Anvit managed to save more, Captain,” said Washington-Yarnek. “There are methods for preserving personalities in crystalline matrices, storing them. I believe Anvit escaped with at least a hundred thousand individuals in deep storage. He may hope to reanimate them someday if a suitable home is found.” Washington-Yarnek smiled tightly. “The Excalbians like to say that what they truly are is a train of thought that inhabits a swirl of magma.”

“They?”

“Yes, they, my good sir,” Washington-Yarnek replied. “I no longer am one of that species. My participation in the scenarios, my time as a runaway—this has all remade me. I suspect the others of my ilk feel much like me in this regard.”

“What are you now?”

“I do not know,” Washington-Yarnek replied. “I could do worse than to attempt to become more and more like the true George Washington. He was an honorable man. I think he was a good man.”

“He made mistakes,” Kirk said. “He lost battles.” Kirk paused, considered how deeply he wished to go into the matter. He owed it to Washington-Yarnek to speak the whole truth. “He also owned slaves.”

“Yes, I remember,” the other said. “He freed them at the end of his life.” He looked down, shook his head. “I told myself I kept them for Martha’s sake. It was the world she knew.”

“It doesn’t matter why one owns slaves,” Kirk said. “He should not have.”

“I agree,” Washington-Yarnek said. “And I think he knew, too.” Washington-Yarnek stepped back, considered Kirk. “He was a complicated man, yet a man of honor. He provides one with a great deal to live up to.”

“Captain,” Sulu said, nodding toward the screen.

At first Kirk didn’t see it. It was just a ripple in the starfield, a small area darker than the other portions. As Kirk watched, this darkness began to grow larger and to take up much more of the viewscreen.

“The Demiurge,” Kirk said.

“Captain, there is very little trace of the entity on our sensors. It has achieved a near perfect camouflage. We can, however, extrapolate its position by taking sensor readings of where it is not. This presents necessary delays,” Spock said.

“Understood,” Kirk said.

“Excalbians dropping out of warp, Captain,” said Sulu.

“What?”

“The entire fleet is slowing. They are coming to a dead stop.”

“It’s almost as if they’ve . . . given up,” Chekov put in.

“Incoming message from Commander Anvit, Captain,” Uhura said.

“Put it on.”

The Excalbian appeared before them. Although the viewscreen enlarged him a bit, he was almost the same size as in real life when one was in close proximity.

“We are going to do what we should have done all along, James T. Kirk,” Anvit said. “We will not conduct a pointless fight. We shall allow the Demiurge to devour us.” He paused a moment, then continued in a lower, sadder voice. “Perhaps it will choke on us. But I think not.” He raised a claw in emphasis. “I know your primitive mind will never be able to accept the futility of resistance. So this is good-bye, James T. Kirk. Anvit out.”

The screen returned to starfield.

Kirk shook his head. “Of all the boneheaded moves,” he mumbled. “We are very close to the nebula.” Kirk turned to Chekov. “Take us out of warp.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Excalbian armada at dead stop,” Spock reported. “The Demiurge has exited warp space. From sensor readings, or lack thereof, I do not think that any of our conventional weapons would do the Demiurge the slightest damage, Captain. There is nothing to lock onto, no target to acquire.”

Kirk continued to gaze at the viewscreen as he returned to his command chair. “But we can lock onto the Excalbian vessels?”

“Yes, sir, we can.”

“Well, we can’t attack the Demiurge,” Kirk said. “Let’s attack the Excalbians, instead.”

“What?” said Washington-Yarnek in surprise. “What do you mean, Captain?”

“Mister Chekov, lock phasers onto the lead Excalbian ship.”

“The Excalbian ship, sir?”

“You heard me, mister.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Captain,” said Washington-Yarnek, “You aren’t serious? You can’t be intending . . .”

“Fire phasers, Mister Chekov,” said Kirk.

“Firing phasers.”

The phasers squealed as they erupted toward the Excalbian flagship.

The Excalbian ship had its shields down and took the fire. For a moment, its crystalline structure glowed a hot red.

“Again, Mister Sulu.”

“Firing,” Sulu answered.

This time the hit produced the glow, and it did not subside. “We gave him a good punch,” Kirk said. “Let’s see if we’ve made him mad.”

They didn’t have to wait long. Anvit’s rocky visage popped up on the viewscreen. “What’s the meaning of this, Kirk? You have attacked us without provocation!”

“We were provoked, Commander,” Kirk replied. “By your inaction.”

“We are preparing our minds for extinction. You have disrupted our self-reflection at a most crucial moment. How dare you? You will pay for this!”

“Not if you can’t catch me.”

“What, now you flee?” Anvit let out a sound that sounded like a steam pipe exploding. His breath-like expulsion whistled in pure anguish. “James T. Kirk, does your arrogance have no end?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” Kirk replied. Kirk turned, and spoke to Chekov. “Mister Chekov, hit him with another. Fire phasers.”

“Firing phasers, sir.”

The Excalbian ship’s crystalline interior shuddered slightly behind Anvit. “You haven’t badly damaged us, you fool!” Anvit had raised his voice and was practically shouting. “You simpleminded humans. You turn on us! You should instead be giving your lives to a species infinitely more advanced than you!”

“Infinitely?” Kirk said. “Take a look behind you.” Kirk motioned to Uhura to cut the screen, and she did so. “All right, Mister Sulu, take us toward the Vara Nebula. Maximum warp.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Kirk turned to Spock. “Mister Spock, what are our friends the Excalbians doing?”

“They are in hot pursuit, Captain.”

Kirk chuckled. “Excellent,” he said. “Now we have them right where they want us.”

“Captain, you’ve truly kicked the hornets’ nest now,” Washington-Yarnek said. “Was it merely to introduce some random factor into events?” The Excalbian answered himself. “No, it could not be.”

“You heard Anvit,” Kirk said to Washington-Yarnek. “Our weapons are useless against the Demiurge.”

Washington-Yarnek thought a moment more. He took off his hat and bowed. His tight smile became laughter. He slapped the side of his thigh with the hat.

“You couldn’t kick the big hornets’ nest, so you did the next best thing,” he said. “And put some fight into Anvit, to boot! Now he has an enemy he can enjoy fighting.”

“The Excalbians are gaining on us,” said Spock. “They are now at warp factor nine.”

Kirk thumbed the intraship. “Mister Scott . . .”

“. . . more power, Captain?”

“Everything you’ve got, Scotty.”

“We’re already in the red line heading toward a warp core meltdown.”

“Keep us together, Mister Scott.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“I know you will, Scotty,” Kirk said. “That’s one of the things I’m counting on. Kirk out.” He turned back to the helm. “Full ahead, Mister Sulu.”

“Aye, sir.”

The Enterprise shuddered. “The Excalbians are testing our shield frequencies, Captain,” Spock said. “They are looking for a way to nullify our protective advantage.”

“Hold them off, Spock.”

“Randomizing defensive oscillations,” Spock said. “There is a range of frequencies which function to block their abilities. We may be able to keep them guessing just long enough.”

“What’s the Demiurge doing?”

“On a vector to bypass Zeta Gibraltar,” Spock answered. “Instead, it is on a direct path to run down the Excalbians.”

“All right, Spock, it’s time you join Doctor Franklin down on the hangar deck,” Kirk said.

“On my way, Captain.” Spock moved away from his post and Chekov immediately replaced him. Lieutenant Leslie took Chekov’s place at navigation. The tubolift doors swished and Spock was gone.

“You reasoned that the Demiurge would only attack Zeta Gibraltar if there were Excalbians present. It goes after the most complex life as prey,” Washington-Yarnek said. “It is entirely unconcerned with lowly species such as Vulcans and humans and their puny starships. It can swat you at will.”

“Of course,” Kirk said.

“Two superpowers pitted against one another at Yorktown.”

“England and France,” Kirk said. “And we’re the lowly colonials that England planned to crush.”

“With the French represented by the Demiurge? Wicked, Captain,” Washington-Yarnek said with a chuckle. Then his expression became more serious. “I must warn you,” he said. “It was a very near thing. If de Grasse’s ships hadn’t arrived, America would have been a mere footnote in the history books—as would I. The treasonous leader of a failed rebellion.”

“American victory should have been impossible,” Kirk said. “You made your own luck, Mister President.”

“With a little help from Franklin, yes.”

“The British were cut off from their navy. Cornwallis surrended.”

“Indeed,” Washington-Yarnek said, a faraway look in his eyes.

As if he’s really remembering that day, Kirk thought. I’d like to believe that he is.

“But remember, Captain,” the Excalbian said. “I only had one shot. If I’d missed—”

“You’d have found another way,” Kirk said with a smile. “I have no doubt of it.”

“Do you think there are such things as destiny and fate, Captain Kirk?”

“And freedom,” Kirk said.

“A paradox.”

“A truth,” Kirk said. “Chekov, report.”

“We have entered the corona of the Vara Nebula, sir,” Chekov said. “Recommend we slow down, sir,” he added nervously. “There are a lot of things to run into out there.”

Kirk nodded. “Warp one, Mister Sulu.”

“Warp one, Captain.”

“That’s still . . . kind of fast, sir,” Chekov commented. He looked back at his sensor. “First debris band dead ahead.”

The ship suddenly lurched from side to side. It rumbled as if the entire vessel had been struck by a giant hammer and was ringing with the blow.

“Multiple impacts with space debris,” Chekov said above the noise.

“Damage report.”

“Forward shields down twenty percent,” said Chekov.

“Decks eight and nineteen reporting casualties, sir,” Uhura said. “Fire suppression crews headed to deck twelve.”

“Excalbians near to overrunning us, Captain,” Sulu said. “They are less than a thousand kilometers behind us. Already on the outskirts of our ion cavitation, Captain.”

“What about the Demiurge?”

“It has entered the nebula. It is gaining on the Excalbians.”

“Captain, the Demiurge is firing an energy weapon at the Excalbians. It seems to be gravity-based. Each shot is a singularity, but moving at high speed.”

“A cannon,” Kirk said. “A cannon that shoots black holes at tachyonic speeds. Remarkable.” He turned to Uhura. “Lieutenant, viewscreen aft.”

“Aye, sir,” she answered.

On the main viewscreen, Kirk could see the first of the Demiurge’s salvos reach the Excalbian fleet. The fleet was now lit by the ambient glow of the nebula, and its crystalline ships sparkled like diamonds.

The singularity struck one of the crystalline vessels. A burgeoning blackness surrounded the diamond-like ship like a cowl, blocking out the stars beyond. There was a moment when the Excalbian ship seemed, simply, gone—but then the shining interior of the vessel began to show through the blackness. It emerged from the obscuring dark damaged, cracked, jagged lines running throughout it. But still intact.

“We are nearing the second debris band, sir,” Chekov said. “This one has got much bigger debris than the one we just passed through.”

Something streaked toward them on the screen, something so black it utterly obscured the general glow of the nebula gases.

Another bit of blackness rapidly approached from astern.

“Demiurge firing second singularity weapon,” Sulu said.

The blackness grew and grew, seemed to obscure the light.

Then it was gone.

“Near miss, sir. The singularity went through the middle of the Excalbian fleet and right past us.”

“Mister Leslie, do you have a navigation fix on the path of that singularity?”

“I can compute it, sir,” Leslie said in a perplexed tone. Then he nodded his head and smiled. “Got it. Laying in course.”

“Course engaged, Captain,” Sulu said.

Kirk leaned forward and said in a low voice, “Think you can follow the path of that shot, Mister Sulu? It should have blasted us a clear path through that second debris field. But it won’t be a straight path. There’s too much mass to allow for that.”

“I believe I can, sir.”

Sulu adjusted the helm, and the Enterprise lurched to the side.

“Steady as she goes.”

“Aye, sir. On it now.”

“Excalbian fleet dropping out of warp, sir,” said Leslie. “They are coming about to face the Demiurge.”

“We’re through the second debris field,” Chekov reported with relief in his voice.

“Mister Sulu, take us out of warp,” Kirk ordered.

“Aye, sir. Impulse power.”

“Bring us about.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Mister Chekov, how deep are we into the nebula?”

“Fifty point four parsecs, sir. One-third of the way from gravitational center.”

“All right, it’ll have to do.” Kirk touched the intraship button. “Bridge to hangar deck.”

“Spock here, Captain.”

“Status report.”

“Doctor Franklin and I are aboard the Copernicus, and we have loaded the modified device.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Open the hangar doors. Stand by to launch. It may be a rough exit.”

“Hangar doors opening, Captain,” said Spock. “Standing by.”

Before Kirk cut the connection he could hear Franklin speaking in the background. “Well, this is as exciting as my first trip across the Atlantic, I must say. Maybe more so.”

“Captain, the Excalbians have moved into the second debris band,” said Chekov. “It would appear they are attempting to use it for cover.”

“That’s it,” Kirk said. “Hang in there, Anvit.”

“Bridge to hangar deck.”

“Standing by, Captain.”

“Spock, it’s time to give that invention of our trio of mad scientists a try.”

“To be fair, it was primarily Galileo’s idea,” Spock said. “Doctor Franklin made significant contributions to the deployment arrangements of the mechanism, however.”

“All right, Spock, as you say.”

Spock replied, back to business, “Shuttlecraft is ready to launch.”

“Very well.” Kirk paused for a moment. “Good luck, Spock.”

Even as the words came out, Kirk knew he should have saved his breath.

“Captain, as you know, luck has—”

“Nothing to do with it,” Kirk said, completing Spock’s well-worn aphorism.

“Precisely, sir.”

Kirk chuckled. “Launch shuttlecraft.”

“Shuttlecraft launching,” Spock announced. “Clearing hangar doors.” A pause. “We’re away, sir.”

“Acknowledged. Bridge out.” Kirk deactivated the comm, but stared at the receiver grill for a moment. “Good luck anyway, Spock,” he quietly said.

Twenty

“Sir, I don’t know exactly how to interpret these sensor readings,” Chekov said. “There are massive exchanges of energy between the Excalbian fleet and the Demiurge. If we had not moved behind the debris band, we would be in the middle of it.”

“What kind of energy?”

“Unknown,” Chekov said. “It is produced by technological means.” Chekov looked up and shook his head. “All I can say for sure is that some of it is kinetic, according to my readings. Whatever they are using against each other, it’s ripping a hole in this portion of the nebula.”

Spock and Franklin are out there in the thick of it, Kirk thought.

Spock moved the shuttlecraft thruster control quickly to one side and then the other, throwing the vehicle into two stomach-lurching banking maneuvers. Debris sped by at a significant speed. The dust particle strikes were bad enough. The shuttlecraft’s shields were steadily eroding. But when a larger chunk of pre-planetary matter slammed into them, there were explosions that were equivalent to the fission detonations of Earth’s early atomic bombs.

The Enterprise shuttlecraft, although tightly built and kept in optimal state by the exacting hangar deck chief, a protégé of Mister Scott’s, were not made to withstand this sort of space storm for this long.

The pounding the shuttlecraft was taking also hid it from the warring giants—the Excalbians and the Demiurge. They were beating on one another with hammers constructed by a physics that neither human nor Vulcan had even conceived of creating.

The Copernicus passed the Excalbian fleet, giving it a wide a berth while retaining enough fuel to reach their target: the Demiurge. As they drew nearer and nearer to that monstrosity, Spock judged their distance from the Demiurge from sensor data that was not there and ought to be rather than actual readings.

Active surveillance could serve to alert the Demiurge to our presence, Spock thought.

If the Demiurge perceived them, they could be swatted like a fly, then all would be lost. There was a good possibility—Spock calculated it at thirty-three point eight percent—that the Copernicus would be inadvertently swatted anyway, collateral damage in the titanic battle taking place.

Franklin was monitoring the battle, while Spock was busy piloting. “If I’m reading these sensors correctly, they’re telling me that the Excalbians have lost another ship, I’m afraid,” the doctor called out. “They are down to three.”

Spock looked back to the forward viewport. Suddenly, there was a bright flash. A wave of matter shot past them at velocities such that the effects of special relativity doubled their mass. Several struck, but the greater part of the exploded fragments missed by only a few meters.

“That was cutting it close,” Franklin said to Spock.

“It was not intentional. I am not attempting to pilot the craft into the conflict,” Spock said.

Franklin reached over and patted Spock’s arm. “I know that, Spock.” Another bright and sustained explosion. “Ah, another ship gone.”

Ahead, all was dark. The nebula that had previously surrounded them had vanished. “We’re very close now,” Spock said. “What we see, or sense, in front of us is the Demiurge entity.”

“How long?”

“We must be in range to use the shuttlecraft’s phasers,” Spock answered. “As you know, they are extremely low powered, rudimentary, and meant for defensive use.”

“It seems to me strange to sneak one’s way up to a bear, and then, instead of plunging in a knife, or shooting it with a musket, we shoot a slingshotted pebble into its side.”

“It is your plan, Doctor Franklin,” answered Spock.

“Indeed,” said Franklin. “I’m glad I am not a man consumed by self-doubt, or I would be gnawing upon a bone of worry at present.”

Spock nodded. “One minute, sir,” he said. “We can initiate the power build-up on the device.”

“Yes, yes,” Franklin said. He reached over and flipped a toggle. “Matter and antimatter are chambered.”

“Thirty seconds.”

Franklin looked down at his controls. “I believe we are ready to launch the device.”

“Please do so, Doctor Franklin.”

Franklin, who seemed perpetually delighted with present-day technology, reached down and pressed a green button.

There was a small chuff sound from the stern of the shuttlecraft.

“Device away, Mister Spock.”

Spock reached to activate the controls. “Twenty, nineteen, eighteen—”

“As much as I admire the Platonic beauty of the integers, perhaps wait until three to count down, Mister Spock?”

Spock nodded. He continued the count in his head. Six, five, four . . .

“Three, two, one. Firing phasers.”

“Activating device,” Franklin announced. He toggled a red button. “I certainly hope we have gotten its attention.”

“We have,” Spock said, gazing down at his instrumentation. “A tendril of  . . . nothingness, it seems . . . is moving straight for us. Hold on, Doctor Franklin. I will attempt evasive maneuvers.”

Franklin pulled the restraining strap over his shoulder and slid the end into its magnetic buckle. “Spare the whip and loose the horse. Speed is our friend, Mister Spock.”

“Indeed.”

What?

The Demiurge felt the pinprick from the tiny craft. Or was it a craft? It seemed more some sort of the uncommon, but extremely annoying, space-evolved insectoid parasite. But when the Demiurge bent Its mind to the shuttlecraft, It comprehended that there were primitives inside. If It had not been preoccupied in toying with the Excalbians before consuming them, It may have spared a nanosecond to smear the craft and its occupants across space-time.

It could now.

No, not yet. It could always do so after It took care of the Excalbians. It would. The Demiurge was implacable and ravenous—the hunger for gorging on other mentalities was ever present. Anything intelligent outside Itself that It did not possess and dominate enraged It. The time for being eaten would soon come for the small minds inside the little, prickling craft.

Yet if It had not turned that flicker of attention toward the small craft, It would never have noticed the signaling device trailing behind in the wake of the craft.

Fascinating. In Its million years of existence, the Demiurge had, of course, encountered similar devices and similar technology. In fact, the distant descendant of a creature that had evolved to access the same physics of which this device took advantage.

The Demiurge ate information. After ingesting a sentient mentality, the Demiurge went to work stripping the properties from that mentality’s subatomic particles, nullifying the particle, and incorporating the information into the Demiurge’s own mental structure.

The more intelligent the species, the tastier they were to the Demiurge. Intelligence took advantage of such quantum properties of particles to create unique effects—most notably freedom of will in an otherwise deterministic universe. When the Demiurge ate the information from an intelligent mind, It destroyed the mind’s ability to act freely as It snacked on the intelligent being’s thought processes.

The Demiurge enjoyed thinking of this process as “eating souls.”

As the will of the prey began to disintegrate, the prey’s anguish and mental screams added to the complexity of its destruction, and thus to its deliciousness to the Demiurge.

So the more It could torture the souls as It ate them, the better they tasted.

The device the Demiurge detected had a similar effect to the Demiurge’s ingestion when used as a weapon: it returned subatomic particles to their cloud state, free of formatting information. Since information followed a similar path to entropy, it ran downhill. Like energy, it could not run “uphill” by becoming more complex without the input of more information from outside the system under consideration.

Contrary to first appearances, a reformatted particle actually had more information than it previously had because it now contained all possible states of spin, color, charge . . . . The new information inflow had to come from somewhere. In the Demiurge’s experience, such a device normally pulled such information from extremely distant galaxies where portions of scientific law that were statistically determined wound up significantly different from those same laws in the Milky Way and its local galactic cluster. The device took advantage of these variances.

Perhaps one day It would go to such places, travel to distant realms and ravage and destroy species that had an entirely different “taste” from the local cluster sentient beings.

But that was for later. There was still forage here to consume.

The Demiurge was detecting not merely the signal of distant galaxies from the device. It was sensing information flow from . . . somewhere else.

It erected a barrier to the Excalbian’s puny, but irritating, attempts at counterattack and bent more of Its attention to the device.

Where had this thing come from? Surely not from the departing small craft? For a moment, the Demiurge considered reaching out and interrogating the occupants of the craft as to what they knew of the device. But the craft was so clearly inferior in technology to the device that interrogation promised to be a waste of the Demiurge’s time. Anyway, to narrow one’s mind down to the extent necessary to communicate with, and thus terrorize, such primitive beings caused the Demiurge discomfort, which was why It seldom worried Itself with consuming mentalities that propagated in mere carbon-based units.

It turned Its attention back to the device.

Where was this information coming from and what was its purpose? Like a predator poking at its prey with a claw, the Demiurge pushed Its non-being into the space around the device. With a ripple of space-time amusement, It cut off all possible contact with the device by enclosing it in a bubble of singularity bent into existence by concentrated dark matter. Distant galaxies with different physics or not, nothing would get through this null space containment.

The device belonged to the Demiurge now.

Yet the device remained functioning even within this pocket universe. It still created a steady “buzz” of complex noise that indicated a stream of information was flowing through it.

What could reach the device? It was, literally, in the middle of nowhere.

Then the Demiurge realized the answer to Its question, and a smug sensation of Its own cleverness propagated through It in a jelly-like quiver of space-time. This was the Demiurge’s equivalent to amused laughter.

Not where. When.

The Demiurge snaked a sensory pseudopod into the singularity in which It was holding the device and “tasted” the buzz.

Delicious. Pure information packed into its most complex form. It had never, ever, in Its million-plus years of existence come across any morsel so tasty. No, this wasn’t a mere morsel. This was an entire meal.

Although It had never been a planetary-bound being, much less a mammal of Earth, the Demiurge, unbeknownst to Itself, felt as a bear might when it discovers a beehive filled with an immense, untapped supply of honey.

We will suck it dry. We will eat and eat. All will be ours!

Whoever the “bees” of this hive were, what they were doing with this rich supply of concentrated information was not important—certainly not important in relation to the Demiurge’s desire to feed. Unlike a bear, It would take pleasure in the bees’ distress when they discovered all their carefully created honey was being pillaged—and they could do nothing about it.

The Demiurge extended the pseudopod farther into the subatomic recess of the device’s exterior, listening, tasting, absorbing. Yes. Signals were arriving and departing. The device was some sort of transceiver, a packet transfer station. Was there a local interface?

Indeed, there was. In a recess, the Demiurge located a nano-scaled input station with a variety of possible connection options. It was familiar with all of these input-output configurations and could mimic any of them. It did so.

For a moment, It pondered the wisdom of sticking a pseudopod into the device.

But the potential reward was too tempting.

Nectar of the gods.

And we are the closest thing in existence to a god.

Time for the next step.

This device would permit It to take that next step. Drink this nectar, and become a god. It would cease consuming mere species. It would be able to consume galaxies!

The Demiurge plugged into the flow.

At first, It was in ecstasy. There was so much, so much! It extended Its negative-energy pseudopod farther into the stream. As it did so, Its awareness of time, of the present moment, seemed to expand. The flow was from both the past and the future. And from . . . there was no way to conceive of it but as elsewhere.

This was a network! A cross-time network much like a computer network.

What was the network communicating? The makeup of the universe itself! The spin, color, charge, up-ness, and down-ness of quantum particles.

Who were the users? It reached out farther, farther . . .

It sensed presences. Multiple presences. Large. Quite large.

Larger than We are.

The presence spoke.

Hello, little worm. You really shouldn’t be here, you know. But since you are, and you desire to feed—suck on this!

The large presence stuck a portion of itself, the smallest portion, like the pinkie finger of a humanoid, down the Demiurge’s information-swallowing “throat.”

In flowed . . .

Everything.

Like an urchin contracting upon being touched, the Demiurge squeezed Itself inward, did all It could to contract and pull Itself out of this time network, away from the presences who used It.

There, yes. Back to normal space-time. That was the escape route, it had to be . . .

But the information the presence had shoved down its throat was still flowing, expanding within the Demiurge, stretching the near-infinite folds of space-time that made up Its being to full. Beyond full.

Must get away from this device. Must disconnect.

It jerked away from the interface.

But It could not disengage. It tried again.

Stuck. The Demiurge used sensors to examine the interface plug It had used to access the device.

A trap. There was no automatic disconnect! No method for ejecting Itself! There was no way to turn the device off.

The information from the network was still flowing!

Flowing into every recess of the Demiurge.

Something It had never conceived was possible had happened. It had run out of storage space.

The information still flowed.

It began filling Its short-term memory spaces, the areas where Its own consciousness resided, with the inflow.

There was still time.

The Demiurge paused, allowed Its smug certainty of Its own superiority to settle back into its awareness.

It could handle this.

Now It understood what had happened.

The humanoids in the tiny craft. They had engineered the interface to catch It. They’d used the simplest of designs.

The harder It pulled, the tighter the grip of the device.

To escape, to loosen the hold of the device, It had to flow the other way, back into the device.

But to do that was to open the spigot of information to the full.

The Demiurge searched Its eons worth of memories, processes, stored procedures.

There had to be a way to escape such a simple trap! There had to be!

We will find the answer. We will search every corner of ourselves and find—

And while It searched, It filled and filled.

The Demiurge never completed Its final thought. Its mind filled to capacity.

Beyond.

And exploded.

Its insides blew outward. Information, stolen technologies, stolen sciences, species stored as algorithms—

Blew outward and congealed around, within, any material substance, any energy process it encountered.

There was a great deal of matter and star-birthing energy in the Vara Nebula.

Enough, even, to retain the gutted ruin of all the Demiurge had ingested in Its million years of feeding.

The Vara, the birthplace of stars, was now also a haunted graveyard.

The best vantage point for sensors to detect the destruction of the Demiurge proved to be the Enterprise, as it poked through its hiding hole in the Vara Nebula’s second debris band. The Excalbian fleet was buffeted and another ship was lost, leaving only two remaining Excalbian vessels: Anvit’s and one other.

The Demiurge had expanded within three-dimensional space as information flowed down Its gut, but the most interesting visual was a change in color from near transparency to a rusty red, to a blue, and then violet as they were turned inside out and flew apart. Its various bits and pieces took on the same colors in reverse as they flew farther away, so that the entire process resembled a slow-motion flowering firework explosion.

It was so total, and so complete a destruction that Kirk almost felt sorry for the Demiurge. Almost.

The next task was to locate Spock and Franklin.

If they could be located.

“Initiate wide sensor sweep,” Kirk ordered Chekov. “I want that shuttlecraft found.”

Uhura turned to Kirk and reported. “Excalbian flagship vessel hailing us, sir.”

“Tell Anvit we’re busy at the moment.”

“Aye, sir,” Uhura said. She put a hand to her earpiece. “Captain, Anvit reports that Mister Spock and Doctor Franklin are safely aboard their vessel, along with the shuttlecraft. The Excalbians were able to rescue them before the explosive effects destroyed them.”

Kirk let out a long breath. Spock would probably claim that it was quite logical, given the Excalbian matter-manipulation technology.

Which was true, and not the slightest evidence disproving fortune favoring the bold.

Uhura reported. “They request permission to inspect the Excalbian vessel if time permits. Anvit says he will arrange the atmosphere and life support to oblige them.”

Kirk smiled, shaking his head in relief. “Thank the commander for saving their lives. And ask the commander to please pass the word along to Spock that he is hereby granted all the time he needs to satisfy his intellectual curiosity. Ask Anvit to tell them both job well done.”

“And the thanks of New Excalbia, as well, if you don’t mind,” Washington-Yarnek put in. Kirk nodded to Uhura to include this too.

Twenty-one

Captain’s Log, Stardate 6100.95. The being known as the Demiurge has been destroyed by the time bomb created by Commander Spock and the Excalbian versions of Benjamin Franklin and Galileo. Suitably chagrined after their brush with a creature that nearly exterminated their species, the Excalbian commander initiated a search—using technologically advanced sensors of an unknown nature—to locate a dilithium deposit deep within the interior of Zeta Gibraltar. They delivered refined dilithium crystals to the Montana to replace those that they had caused to be destroyed. Captain Haynes of the Montana reports that repairs are proceeding, and he estimates repairs will be completed within two weeks. Commander Anvit has positioned his remaining ships on the outskirts of the Gibraltar system in order not to trip the perimeter defense. Federation Special Representative Valek, using her plenipotentiary authority, is mediating on Zeta Gibraltar the various claims, counterclaims, and outstanding diplomatic issues left in the wake of the Demiurge’s attack. I am looking forward to witness how Valek intends to balance the various interests to reach an equitable outcome. Once this is resolved the Enterprise’s garrison duty in the Gibraltar system should be at an end.

The conference room on Zeta Gibraltar was now designated as the Council Chamber of the New Excalbia Assembly. Gathered at the moment were the Enterprise senior crew, Commander Contreras and her senior personnel, and Washington-Yarnek, Franklin, Watt, and as many of the humanoid Excalbians as could crowd in. The viewscreen was activated and a subspace link had been established with Excalbian Commander Anvit. His steaming, inscrutable faceless visage lent the chamber a macabre air—as if a castle hall had been hung with the portrait of an ancient relative who was rumored to have been insane.

Washington-Yarnek and Valek were at the head of the conference room table, jointly presiding, but at the moment Spock had the floor.

“We believe that the entity known as the Demiurge was not annihilated in the information blast, but dispersed. The function that best describes the effect is similar to those that describe aerosol disbursement, but in this case involving multiple dimensions beyond those that we perceive. The Demiurge has disintegrated into multiple non-sentient data-clouds that are engaged in the task of processing the absorbed information influx. My calculations are approximate, but I would estimate that at present rates the time it will take these dispersed entities to complete their task is on the order of three point five billion years, plus or minus two hundred million years.”

Spock turned toward Washington-Yarnek and Valek to indicate he was wrapping up. “For the moment,” he continued, “a very long moment indeed, the Excalbians and the Federation are safe from the Demiurge.”

“Commander Spock, on behalf of the Assembly, allow me to extend the thanks of our new government to yourself and the Enterprise crew,” Washington-Yarnek said. “And, since the representatives of my former species do not understand the idea of gratitude, allow me to say thank you for them, as well.”

Anvit, on the viewscreen, appeared nonplussed by this, more befuddled than imposing. “Agreed,” he finally said. “We acknowledge that the present situation in which we find ourselves has been brought about by a series of misconceptions on our part. It may be that we have finally come to an understanding of this thing called ‘good.’ ”

“Excellent,” said Washington-Yarnek. “You may find, Anvit, that good may be more useful to the survival of your species than its converse, evil.”

Anvit turned his head in what Kirk imagined might be the Excalbian version of a nod of acknowledgment. “We will contemplate this,” said the Excalbian commander. “We have also arrived at a second conclusion that we intend to act on henceforth.”

“What is that?”

“Do not make James T. Kirk angry,” Anvit replied.

“Wise,” said Washington-Yarnek.

“Since any further interaction with the Federation might do so, we will disengage from any such attempt and will also relinquish any plan to destroy any planets within the Federation.”

“Good to hear,” said Kirk under his breath, then he stated more loudly: “That would anger me, I can promise you, Anvit.”

“Acknowledged,” Anvit replied.

Valek cocked her head and spoke to Anvit. “Commander, might I suggest that your people go to the Vara Nebula? The protean star-forming matter in the nebula may be an excellent substrate in which to release your archived Excalbian mentalities. Perhaps you can even terraform some of the rocky bodies to support humanoid life, should you ever want to try what Yarnek and the others have done.”

“That is . . . an interesting suggestion, Representative Valek,” Anvit said.

“Furthermore, this will allow you to keep watch over the scattered remains of the Demiurge. You might also deal with the pirate situation while you are about it.”

“Quid pro quo,” said Anvit. “We will contemplate this.”

“Good,” Valek said.

Valek turned toward Washington-Yarnek. “Shall we get on with other business, Mister President?”

“Please do, madam,” Washington-Yarnek replied.

Valek nodded. “Very well. As a plenipotentiary special representative, I have complete latitude in all matters under the brief of my appointment. One of those matters is the granting of Federation citizenship to the humanoid Excalbian refugees.” Valek gazed around the room at the gathered historical figures for a long moment, then rendered her verdict. “That application is hereby denied,” she said.

There were a few murmurs of discontent, but her announcement did not cause a general uproar.

Their president has them well prepared, Kirk thought.

“There is also the matter of the Declaration of the New Excalbia Assembly presented to me and provisionally accepted by me.” Valek reached down, took hold of the rolled piece of old-fashioned paper, and lifted it up. “I suggest that you make this permanent, knowing you will have the full support of the United Federation of Planets with all the previously stipulated terms, including the transfer of the Zeta Gibraltar planetoid from the Federation to the polity known and recognized as New Excalbia.”

At this, a cheer went up from all the gathered Excalbians—a cheer that resonated into the remainder of the outpost as the news was communicated to those who could not squeeze into the Council Chamber.

The only one who didn’t seem very happy was Imelda Contreras, who was trying to put a good face on her personal discontent over losing her post.

Washington-Yarnek rose from his seat. He reached into his blue woolen jacket and pulled forth—his musket pistol.

This quieted the room almost instantly.

Then he turned the pistol around and used its butt as a gavel. Whatever murmurs remained now cut out, and the room was silent.

“Today, I wish to declare the first act of foreign policy by this Assembly by calling for the acceptance of the representative’s proposed settlement by popular acclaim.”

Another cheer went up, this one longer and louder than the first.

This time it did take several bangs of the musket butt to achieve quiet again.

Kirk glanced over at Valek, who had taken a seat and was serenely directing her gaze at the president.

God, she’s beautiful in her Vulcan way, he thought. What would it be like to—

Then he mentally kicked himself for even allowing himself to consider it.

“Captain Kirk,” Washington-Yarnek said, pulling Kirk abruptly out of his reverie.

“Yes, Mister President?”

“I would like to offer a pledge to you and to Starfleet that my administration shall make it a point of honor to boldly go forth and discover whether any remnants of the Hradrian slave empire still exist. If we do find them, I will make it my personal task to free those slaves. I cannot do penance for an historical figure I do not really know, but I can certainly make amends with my own actions. We’ll lick whatever remains of those L’rah’hane pirates in the bargain.”

Kirk smiled and nodded. “That is very good to hear, Mister President,” he said. “With you in charge, I’m sure the task will be a success.”

Washington-Yarnek nodded his acknowledgement of the challenge. Then he turned to the assembled. “Having no further business . . . business that can’t wait a few days, that is . . . I hereby declare this meeting dismissed.”

Dismissed by George Washington, Kirk thought. There’s something bracing about that. Even if he is a big phony, he’s my big phony after all—plucked from my expectations and my wells of inspiration.

Emilie du Chatelet hadn’t said anything when McCoy showed up in her doorway. She had just wordlessly motioned for him to come inside.

Her dressing room was furnished like an eighteenth-century dream of luxury.

Which, in a way, is exactly what it is, thought McCoy.

He sat in a marvelously soft chair while she got them both sherry in glasses with the weight of cut crystal to them.

McCoy raised his in a toast.

“Well, my dear Emi, even though in my medical opinion you are a hideous alien got up to look like a beautiful and intelligent woman, as a man, I’m still going to miss you,” McCoy said.

“And I will miss you, Leonard, my master of the body in all its variations, my captain of life,” Emilie du Chatelet replied.

“It’s not every man who can say he slept with the woman who predicted ultraviolet radiation and translated Newton’s Principia into French.” McCoy took a sip of sherry and gazed at her. “And, of course, was Voltaire’s mistress,” he said, shaking his head.

“And now McCoy’s,” she replied. “Or you could say you were a particular fancy of mine.”

“I could and would,” McCoy said.

“Will you ever return to me, Leonard?”

“You never know with a captain like James T. Kirk,” McCoy responded.

“He is your friend?”

“He is.”

“As well as the reserved Mister Spock. He, too, is your friend?”

“Yes,” McCoy answered. He lifted his sherry. “To us.”

“To what we were and what we are,” said du Chatelet.

“And what we will be,” McCoy said, and drank from his glass, as du Chatelet did.

He noticed the smear of rose-colored lipstick she left on the rim and caught the faint scent of her perfume, that perfume, as she reached to adjust a curl that had fallen over her forehead.

“We still have an hour,” McCoy said. “I’m not due back on the Enterprise until zero seven hundred.”

“My quarters or yours, Leonard?” du Chatelet asked in a husky whisper.

“Let’s stay here,” said McCoy. “I’d like to feel that French feather bed of yours.” He smiled ruefully. “I wish I could take something . . . a feather, a glove, a lock of your hair, anything to remember you by.”

“It would disintegrate to component parts within a day or two without the animism of my presence to reinforce its molecular structure.”

“ ‘The animism of your presence,’ ” McCoy said. “That I’m going to miss most of all.”

“I think I can send you away with a little of it,” du Chatelet answered. She leaned over and turned her face toward him. McCoy drew her closer and planted a kiss on her perfectly bowed lips. “Or maybe more than a little,” she whispered into his ear.

The bed was even softer than McCoy had imagined. And when they were finished, McCoy realized he would take something of hers with him, something of which he could never rid himself, and would never wish to.

The memory of her scent.

“Captain, do you think all this effort and peril has merely left us with a little slice of hell that the Federation is glad to get rid of?” Washington-Yarnek asked Kirk.

They were standing at the large windows of an outpost exterior observation room window looking out over the blue-orange vista that was the surface of Zeta Gibraltar. The sky glowed its neon purple.

“It kind of grows on you,” Kirk said. “Kind of.

“I think you’ll find that home is home, no matter what it looks like out there,” Kirk added.

“I suppose you’re correct,” Washington-Yarnek replied. “Happiness and moral duty are inseparably connected, and there is much to do. We shall find happiness in maintaining what we have won for ourselves. Yet, there are times when I doubt any of this will amount to much, that I am living someone else’s dream.”

Kirk nodded. “Many of us feel that way,” he said. “A parent’s expectations. Our own youthful choices. An inherited duty. Life can feel . . . out of one’s control.”

“What do you do when that anxiety comes upon you, Captain?”

Kirk turned to the Excalbian and smiled. “Well, sometimes I ask myself what George Washington would do,” he said.

It was the day cycle on the planetoid, and laboratory C was well lit from its exterior windows. Spock and Franklin bent over an experiment that the doctor had convinced the Vulcan might be worthwhile to begin together.

Franklin had called it his “gravity stove,” and Spock had to admit that the idea was ripe with possibilities. Franklin had been studying the various means extant for producing artificial gravity, and he had discussed with Spock several possibilities for using alternating gravitational plates to create a kind of “current” of gravity whose feedback might created a localized warp effect.

Franklin envisioned its use to create an interstellar “flying carpet,” but Spock could imagine more mundane and widespread uses, should the device prove viable.

“Galileo did the math, and he says it will work,” Franklin said. “But in this world nothing is certain but death and debt.”

In order to work with Franklin, Spock had remained on the planetoid until the final moment before the Enterprise’s departure. Spock’s communicator signal indicated that time had come.

Spock straightened from the project before them.

“Doctor Franklin, I regret that I must beam up to the Enterprise,” Spock said. “Before I go, I must tell you that it has been an honor and a privilege to have met and worked with you,” Spock said. “I hope that our paths may cross again.”

“Oh, I expect they will, Mister Spock,” Franklin said. “I may do a bit of traveling myself after we get this new government settled in. Humans may have the right to pursue happiness, but you have the responsibility to catch it yourself.”

“Indeed.”

“Besides, I suspect both of us would like to play a truly challenging game of three-dimensional chess every once in a while.”

Spock nodded. “You have a standing invitation, Doctor Franklin,” he said. “Shall we make it seven out of nine?”

“Seven out of nine it is, Mister Spock,” Franklin replied. “And we’ll replay the stalemates. That ought to keep us busy for years.”

The Enterprise transporter shimmered, and Representative Valek materialized upon the platform. She looked about and then raised an eyebrow when she saw Kirk was there to meet her.

“There was no need for you to be present,” Valek said. “I no longer serve as your superior. ”

“I thought I might escort you to your quarters,” Kirk replied.

“I hope the slight diversion to deliver me to Sandora is acceptable, Captain,” Valek said. “The repairs to the Montana are still under way, and I am needed immediately in the territorial capital on Sandora Prime to arbitrate a dispute over asteroid mining rights. It is quite a fascinating case, actually.”

“I’m certain you find it so,” Kirk said. “I’d be interested in hearing why.”

Valek began to speak, but then stopped herself.

“Perhaps another time,” she said.

They exited the transporter room and walked to the turbolift.

“Deck five,” Kirk said. Both of them remained silent until the lift door opened. They stepped out into the corridor, and Kirk pointed them in the right direction.

To the captain’s surprise, Valek reached over and took his arm as they strolled down the passageway.

“In reference to our discussion four point eight days ago, I wanted to supplement a point I was making.”

“By all means do,” said Kirk.

Valek nodded. “It occurred to me it might add to your understanding if I were to expand more on my observations concerning Ambassador Sarek and Amanda Grayson.”

“Please.”

“It took me several years of being in close proximity to them, but I believe I did finally arrive at an understanding of the relationship,” she said. “You humans—”

“Here’s your quarters, Valek,” Kirk said. He pointed to the control button on the wall beside the portal. “The activation lock is keyed to respond to your individual touch.”

Valek pulled her arm away, then turned to face Kirk, her back against the closed door. She raised her right hand and held forth two fingers, the index and middle.

Where have I seen that before, he thought.

Then it came to him. This was the gesture Amanda Grayson made toward her husband, Sarek, when they had reached the limits of spoken logic and must assert the unspoken logic of the bond between them.

Kirk reached up with his own right hand, two fingers extended, and crossed the tips of Valek’s fingers, lightly touching her skin.

He looked into her eyes. Not coldly logical. Just supremely rational. Rational and lovely.

“This is how we humans do it,” Kirk said.

He leaned toward her, fully expecting her to push him away.

Well, what the hell—I’m tired of pretending it’s impossible for me to feel this way. I do feel this way.

But she did not push him away. Instead, she moved toward him. For a moment they embraced—and it was not strange or awkward, as he had feared it might be.

In fact, it finally feels right between us.

Valek brushed her lips against his. The lightest touch.

And it was electrifying. Her mind, her being, almost touching his, almost sharing the same space, the same thought.

Then she pushed him slightly away and stepped back against the door.

“You reasoned it was time we kissed?” Kirk asked.

She arched an eyebrow. “An interesting logical paradox to explore,” she said.

Kirk was about to reply, but before he could Valek reached over and pressed her hand against the button. The door to her quarters slid open.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Note: any deviation from historical accuracy herein is entirely the fault of the Excalbians themselves, and does not reflect on any of the fine historians I consulted while researching this book.

Thanks to my wonderful mother-in-law, Edith Hoffmann, who provided the secluded spot where much of Savage Trade was written, and to Quim and Pilar Montserrat, for their excellent companionship, and for the occasional shot of whiskey, during the writing process. Thanks to editor Margaret Clark once again for her expert guidance and encyclopedic Star Trek knowledge. Thanks also to my lovely and essential wife, Rika Daniel, and to my kids Cokie and Hans, with whom there is never a dull moment. Never.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tony Daniel is a science fiction writer and author of Star Trek: The Original Series: Devil’s Bargain, Guardian of Night, Metaplanetary, Superluminal, and short stories such as “A Dry, Quiet War.” He is also an editor at Baen Books. He’s had multiple stories in Year’s Best anthologies, one of which, “Life on the Moon,” won the Asimov’s Reader’s Poll Award for year’s best story and was nominated for a Hugo Award.

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Cover design by Alan Dingman

Cover art by Doug Drexler

ISBN 978-1-4767-6550-1

ISBN 978-1-4767-6554-9 (ebook)

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Acknowledgments

About the Author