Mindshadow
Author: J. M. Dillard
Date: 1989-11-15 07:24:54+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; General; Space Opera; Media Tie-In; Science Fiction
Description: The tranquil planet of Aritani has suddenly come under attack by a vicious and unknown enemy. The Enterprise rallies to the scene, only to plunge into a deadly nightmare: Spock is found mysteriously injured, his mental powers crippled and weak, and Kirk uncovers an evil Romulan with a cunning double agent in the middle. As Spock begins to regain his memory, Kirk strives to expose the agent. But only Spock's knowledge can stop the Romulans . . . from controlling the universe!
Publisher: Pocket

Mind Shadow [042 5.0]

by M J dillard.

Synopsis:

To James Kirk, the planet seemed like a
pastoral paradise when he and

Spock first beamed down. But when space
pirates begin ravaging and

Spock is gravely injured -- his mind
seemingly destroyed -- Kirk
realizes that things are not as they seem. The
planet hides a deadly
secret, and the key to that secret is locked in

Spock's brain -- if only

Spock can remember the secret and communicate
it to his Captain!

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This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are
either the product of the author's imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events or locales or
persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.

An Original Publication of POCKET

BOOKS

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon and

Schuster Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York,

NY 10020

Copyright 1986 Paramount Pictures. All

Rights Reserved.

(5": STAR TREK is a Registered

Trademark of

Paramount Pictures.

This book is published by Pocket Books, a
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ISBN: 0-671-70420-6

First Pocket Books printing January 1986

POCKET and colophon are registered
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Simon and Schuster Inc.

Printed in the U.s.a.

Chapter One

IT WAS LATE afternoon. The sun slid below the
mountain
peaks that surrounded the mesas on all sides and
the sky faded slowly to a dustier shade of blue.

Kirk
raised a hand to shield his eyes, not from the fiery
glow
of the setting sun, but from colors so vivid and
intense
that his optic nerves perceived them as almost painful,
like dazzling light: the purple of the mountains, the
brilliant blue of the sky, the incandescent
golden-red
of the vines, which crept up the sharp sides
of the
mountains and tumbled onto the plateaus below.

Kirk stood with his men on the tallest plateau in
the
valley, between the towering mountains and the terrain-four
hundred feet below, a tidy patchwork of
fastidiously tilled fields and trellised
vines stretching
almost to the horizon.

Spock motioned silently with the tricorder, and the
group crossed a thick blue-green carpet of
vegetation,
the humans with their heads tilted back to better
drink
in their surroundings, the Vulcan with his eyes on the
tricorder. They had not gone far at all when

Kirk
stopped to fill his lungs with cool damp air.

"Smell
that, Doctor."

McCoy obeyed the order and turned to smile.

"Well, I'll be... smells like the summer
jasmine we
had back home .... his

"When's the last time you had the chance
to smell
wildflowers, Bones?"

McCoy rolled his eyes even further
heavenward.

"I'd rather not think about it, if it's all the same
to you .... his

"Too long," sighed Scott, his tone
approaching reverence.

He shook his head wi/lly. "I can't believe
that anybody would want to destroy this . . . ach,
if
this place inna a sight for sore eyes .... his

Spock looked up at last from the tricorder;
he had
been studying the readout with such a detached air
that it seemed doubtful he was aware of the breathtaking
landscape surrounding him. "Atmosphere
oxygen-rich,

Captain, slightly more than Terran standard."

He
hesitated for an instant. "Are your eyes
troubling you,

Mr. Scott?" he asked blandly.

Kirk grimaced. It was impossible to tell if
his first
officer was taking Scott's remark with typical

Vulcan literalness, or merely enjoying some odd
private joke.

McCoy responded with disgust before the groaning
engineer could reply. "He's just trying to say that
it's
pretty here, Spock. Of course, I'm sure
that's something
you wouldn't understand. I'm sure you find that
tricorder readout infinitely more exciting."

"I am not incapable of aesthetic appreciation,

Doctor,"

Spock replied mildly, apparently not in the
least
bit insulted. "However, I must admit to finding
certain
data in the readout quite fascinating, particularly the
concentration of mineral elements in the soil--"

"Later, Spock." Kirk silenced him with an
absent-

MINDSHADOW
minded wave of his hand, afraid the spell cast
by the
planet's beauty might be broken. "How long
has it
been since I've been on solid land like this,
near
flowers, animals... his

"Exactly four-point-seven months since our
last
shore leave," Spock volunteered.

"Too long," McCoy muttered to himself.

Scott's voice was plaintive. "We will be
taking
shore leave after we complete this mission, won't
we,
sir?"

"If Star Fleet can't come up with any more last
minute distress calls." Kirk's weak smile
was unconvincing.

"Let's hope for the best, gentlemen."

As the light dimmed, the four came upon a small
well-kept vineyard. Spock reactivated the
tricorder.

"Life form reading ahead, Captain.

Humanoid."

Beyond the field of trellised golden vines stood
a
small hut, nothing more than a mound of dried
gray
twigs, homely and awkward compared to its
glorious
surroundings. But the to one being who stood in front
of
the hut was as striking and deeply colorful as her
planet. Her skin was golden, her eyes as
purple as the
nearby mountains and her brows as sharply
upswept.

Silver hair spilled down her back onto a
cloak the color
of the sky. She was very, very old, and her demeanor
was that of one whose age has brought her to expect a
good deal of respect from her juniors.

As the aliens approached, she rose to her full
height
of four feet and studied them with hooded eyes.

She
spoke slowly, neither smiling nor making any form
of
obeisance. "I am Natahia, the
representative of the
growers of the Aritani."

Kirk inclined his head slightly in what he
hoped
suggested respect. "I am Captain Kirk,
representative
of the United Federation of Planets. First

Officer,

Commander Spock. Chief Medical Officer,

Dr.

Leonard McCoy. Chief Engineer,

Lieutenant Commander

Montgomery Scott."

She did not acknowledge the polite nods
directed
toward her. "What protection does the Federation
offer us? We do not welcome the intervention of
outsiders, but too many of our people have died."

Kirk matched her directness. "We can show you
how to shield your planet using a protective
device
that the raiders' ships cannot penetrate. Mr.

Spock
and Mr. Scott will install it for you and instruct you
in
its operation, and Dr. McCoy is here to help
your
wounded."

Natahia considered this information silently for a
moment; when she spoke again, her eyes were full of

Pride and sorrow. "We are a people who revere the
simplicity of life, Captain. We despise
technology and
its resultant complications, for our ancestors
once
worshipped it, as you do, and so destroyed themselves.

We have learned to let the land provide all we
need. But now we are forced to make use of your
technology to save our people and our land in order to
provide. Please understand that we welcome you with
reluctance." She looked sternly at Kirk.

"What price
does the Federation demand for this service?"

"The Federation asks for nothing. If you wish,

Aritani may ally itself with us."

She lifted an arched brow suspiciously.

"What benefit
is it to us to join you?"

"The Federation represents many planets, with no
favor shown to its stronger members. All
planets are
given a voice. We have banded together because together
we are strong. If Aritani joins, it
would have a
say in Federation matters and would receive the
protection
of the Federation."

"The affairs of the Federation are of little concern to

MINDSHADOW
us," she said coldly. "What is the penalty if
we accept
your protection, but do not join the Federation?"

"There is no penalty. Our protection is
freely offered,
regardless of your decision."

"Aritani then accepts the protection of the

Federation,

Captain Kirk. Talk to us about the glories of
your

Federation when the attacks on my people have
ceased."

Kirk privately congratulated himself for not
matching
her coldness. "Very well," he answered
politely.

"We'll beam down the necessary equipment for
con-structting
the shields. Mr. Scott and Mr.

Spock will
stay here to assemble it for you and show you its
operation."

"And if you can show me to your wounded,
ma'am," McCoy suggested, stepping forward
slightly.

"Only one still survives hhis morning's
attack. The
ships appear so quickly in the sky, as if from
nowhere,
that there is no time for those working in the fields to
hide. Five died this morning, and their fields
are
scorched, useless." She lowered her eyes. "A
terrible
thing, to see land destroyed."

Kirk and McCoy exchanged dark glances.

Spock,
however, appeared not to notice her seemingly greater
concern for her land than for her people.

"Cloaking devices, Captain," he said. "It
would
explain why we detected no vessels in the
immediate
area."

Kirk nodded. "Spock, can you compute the
maximum
amount of time that a small pirate vessel could
operate a cloaking device without refueling?"

"Certainly, Captain. Of course, it
requires an enormous
amount of fuel to operate such a device.

Depending
on the type of ship, I would say no more than
seven-point-four-two hours. That is, of
course, a
rough estimate, based on the types of vessels
currently
used for surface attacks and known to Star

Fleet

Intelligence,--"

"Thank you," Kirk silenced him. "That is
sufficient
for our purposes."

"Sir... do you propose to trap some of the
pirate
vessels beneath the shield?"

Kirk smiled. "That is exactly what I
propose to do,

Mr. Spock."

"What exactly is this shield?" Natahia
demanded.

Spock turned to her. "An electromagnetic
force that
repels any physical object coming in contact
with it.

The pirate ships will be unable to penetrate it and
will
therefore be unable to attack the populace on the
planet surface. It will also prevent those
remaining on
the surface after the installation of the shield from
escaping."

"And of course," Kirk added, "if we can succeed
in
capturing one of the pirates, we can locate their
base.

No doubt it's on a nearby planet or larger
vessel."

"Natahia," asked Spock, "do you have any
idea
why the pirates have chosen to attack your people?"

She tilted her face up at him in a small
gesture of
uncertainty. "The land is full of many
things which are
not important to us. Perhaps the pirates value
some of
these things."

Spock's left eyebrow arched almost
imperceptibly.

"Perhaps."

Natahia looked with concern at the fading sun.

"It
will become dark quickly now. Soon it will be
unsafe
to be outside. Please come inside, gentlemen,
while

Dr. McCoy attends to the injured grower."

She
stretched a short arm toward the hut, the regal
coldness
in her voice melting slightly. "Accept my
hospitality."

There was something about the woman Kirk liked in
spite of himself. He smiled. "Thank you."

MINDSHADOW

Spock turned to him before they crouched down to
enter the low-ceilinged hut. "Captain, I
wonder if I
might examine the mountains for a moment before I
join you. I have found some interesting indications
that I would like to verify." His hand touched the
tricorder.

Kirk turned to Natahia. "Is that
permitted?"

"Provided he does not stay long. When the sun
has
set, the night animals come out--then it is
extremely
dangerous to be alone outside."

"My night vision and my hearing are well
developed
and will alert me to the presence of predators,"

Spock
responded. "And I will not be long."

"Five minutes," Kirk said.

"That should be adequate, Captain." The

Vulcan
turned to leave.

"Don't stay out past your bedtime," McCoy
remarked
with exaggerated paternalism.

Kirk and Scott found themselves unable to repress
grins. Spock frowned and began
to reply, then stopped
himself as though suddenly realizing that the doctor's
statement fell under the context of what humans
labeled
humor and was therefore unworthy of recognition.

"With your permission, Captain." He walked
stiffly toward the now charcoal-colored mountains
along the edge of the plateau.

The sky was indeed darkening rapidly and the
brilliant
colors had faded to shades of gray, but inside

Natahia's hut a large fire fed off the
abundant supply of
oxygen and illuminated the interior with dancing
orange-red
light. Neat, orderly, primitive. The
furnishings
were handmade and crude. Natahia motioned

Kirk and Scott to sit on the floor before the
fire while
she led McCoy behind a loosely woven
tapestry to
examine the wounded man.

Kirk relished the silence as one who never hears

noise he has lived with all his life until
one day it finally
stops. The internal hum of the Enterprise's
engines,
the whine of the turbolift, the flat mechanical
voice of
the computer . . . he'd never noticed how loud his
technologically superior world was, until now,
sitting
in this very quiet place, listening to the crackle and
hiss of Natahia's fire.

Perhaps her people had a point.

"A bloody shame," Scott said into the fire,
his face
glowing from the heat. He too seemed half
hypnotized
by the quiet inside the hut.

"What's that?"

"It's just a bloody shame for anyone to think of
attackin' these people. They mean no one any harm,
and it's such a lovely place."

"I can't remember when I was in a place that was
more beautiful."

Scott sighed. "Being here almost makes
up for shore
leave."

"Almost," Kirk agreed. "Tell you what,

Scotty. If
you and Spock get those shields up and we can be
sure
we've cleaned up all the pirates caught under
it, maybe

I can convince Star Fleet to let us kill two
birds with
one stone and send our people down."

"I'd be all for that, Captain. I just hope that

Natahia
person wouldn't object. She doesn't seem
to be too
keen on outsiders--" He broke off as

Natahia emerged
from behind the curtain.

She gestured toward Kirk. "Your Doctor

McCoy
says that you may ask Grower Mahali some questions
now if you like." She held the tapestry aside for

Kirk
and followed him into the room, where she watched
silently from a corner.

Definitely not one to trust outsiders.

The only light in the room came from a torch that

MINDSHADOW
flickered on the wall. The small form that

McCoy
hovered over was nearly obscured by the shadows;

Kirk could hardly see its wounds, but he
realized with
horror the overpowering smell which filled the room
came from burned flesh, not the wood from the fire.

"Burning phasers," McCoy hissed
furiously.

"I thought those had been outlawed by just about
everybody."

"They have. Renegades must have done this. I
don't even think the Klingons would stoop so low."

McCoy's hypospray hissed, and he
straightened over
the small figure stretched out on a blanket
on the floor.

"He's coming to now, Jim. He's badly burned
and in
shock, but he can answer a few easy questions.

Natahia
says his name is Mahali."

The golden man stirred painfully. Kirk
knelt on the
floor next to him, swallowing his revulsion as the
smell
of charred flesh intensified. "Mahali . . .

when you
were attacked this morning, what did you see?"

Mahali's thin high-pitched voice was cracked
and
tearful. "In the sky, silver triangles . .

. light poured
from them, and heat. It burned our crops."

"How many ships?"

"Two. No time to run..." His voice became
a sob.

"My sons... my sons..."

"Surface fighters," Kirk murmured.

"What are they?" Natahia spoke suddenly from
the
dark corner.

"A type of vessel used by certain of the

Federation's
enemies, and also by some renegade pirate
groups."

Natahia turned to McCoy. "Can you
help him,

Doctor?"

"He'll live, Natahia. But it will be some time
before
he's completely recovered."

She nodded almost gratefully and led Kirk
outside to

Scott and the fire. He was relieved to get
away from
the smell of the Aritanian's burns.

"Grower Mahali had five sons this morning,"

she
said softly. "Now he has none."

Scott stood up in his place in front of the
fire. "It's a
terrible thing that these raiders have done to your
people, ma'am. This is a lovely place and I
kinna
understand why they would want to harm ye or your land .

But you can believe Captain Kirk when he says
that we'll put an end to it."

"I hope that you are right. I cannot understand them
myself. They take nothing from us that I can see. They
kill the growers, then destroy the crops
and the
land. They do not even eat the food. It is a
horrible
waste."

"Have you done anything to try to protect yourselves,
such as banding together?"

"Growers do not band together, Captain, for battle
or any other purpose. Each family takes
care of its
own needs; we value our autonomy. We have
no
weapons, and so we are helpless against the
pirates."

"There is something here, Natahia, which is very
valuable to the pirates, or they would not be
attacking
your people. Even renegades must have a reason for
staying and killing in one area for so long. When

Mr.

Spock returns, perhaps he can tell us what the
pirates
are looking for."

She moved toward the door of the hut and peered
out into what was now inky darkness. "He should
have returned by now. It's very dangerous for
one
alone in the darkness near the mountains. The
animals
prowl, and one can easily lose one's step along
the
edge of the plateau."

Kirk looked beyond her at the moonless night, but
could see nothing. "It's been more than five
minutes,

MINDSHADOW
hasn't it? Spock is very punctual . . .

maybe we'd
better go look for him."

"You must wait until morning. It isn't safe

--"

"We have weapons and light. I'm sure that

Spock
can protect himself, but he's been gone longer than
he
said he would, and that isn't like him. Scotty!"

"Coming, sir."

"Natahia, if we're not back in fifteen
minutes, have

Dr. McCoy call the ship."

Her expression was anxious. "I hope
that you find
your friend, Captain."

"We will," Kirk said confidently.

They found him.

They had searched the area near the mountains
where the plateau broke off abruptly, beginning
again
after a drop of some four hundred feet. Scott
put off suggesting that they turn the handlight on the
plateau
below until they had searched everywhere else.

Reluctantly,

Scott peered down, careful of his own steps
along the edge of the drop. Kirk searched a short
distance away; the height was beginning to make him
dizzy, and his eyes were refusing to focus on the
slender beam of light so far below.

He was calling the Enterprise to tell Chekhov
to
search with the scanners when-he saw Scott stiffen
and
draw his head up quickly, and he knew with
heartsickening
certainty what the engineer saw. He ran
to Scott's side, and, clutching his arm, was
compelled to
look down at what he could not bear to see.

"Dear

God, Spock!"

Spock lay on his left side on a bed of the
tangling red
vines.

McCoy's face was gray as he leaned against the
wall
in sick bay. "He'll make it, Jim."

Kirk closed his eyes and let his body go limp
with
relief. They had not expected Spock
to survive.

"I've reconstructed the damaged part of his
skull,
set the broken bones. One lung was punctured,
but
that'll mend." McCoy paused.

"But?" Kirk stiffened. He knew that tone; it
meant
that the doctor was saving the worst for last.

"There's been a significant amount of damage
to the
left hemisphere of the brain."

Kirk drew a weary hand across his forehead and
stared dully at McCoy. "What are you trying
to tell
me? What will that do to Spock?"

"There are a lot of variables involved, Jim.

We
won't know exactly for a little while yet. I'll
have to do some testing."

Kirk's tone became indignant. "You can do
something
for him, can't you?"

McCoy sighed deeply, and when he spoke again
there was a slightly sharp edge to his words.

"I've
done what I can for him, Captain. We're
treating him
with alpha-dextran for ischemia in those brain
cells that
survived but were cut off from the blood flow--but I
can't reconstruct brain tissue that was
completely
obliterated, and it's too specialized to clone.

It's likely
that at least a few functions have been
impaired--comwh
ones permanently, I don't know yet. What
we
have to hope for is that Spock will retrain the
undamaged
brain cells to take over the functions of those that
were lost.

"And some functions have definitely been affected.

He hasn't gone into the Vulcan healing mode and
he
isn't controlling the pain. I've got him on
medication
for that. From the location of the damage, he probably
has some speech impairment... but then, I'm
guessing.

You see, Vulcans don't have lateralization of
function as we humans do. that is, the left
side of the

MINDSHADOW
brain controlling certain functions and the right others.

The Vulcan brain has an area controlling
speech on
each side of the brain. If one hemisphere is
damaged,
the other can take over. It's sort of an
auxiliary
backup system. They're also ambidextrous.

Since neither
hemisphere is dominant, neither side of the body
is either."

"But Spock's right-handed," Kirk protested.

"That's right. Comes from his mother's side Of the
family. That indicates that certain functions are
probably
located on one side of his brain, just as they are
in
humans. And if he has experienced some
damage to a
function that is not lateralized in both
hemispheres, he
will need some type of therapy so that he can relearn
the function. But he is a unique case. If
he were all

Vulcan or all human, I'd be able to use the
standardized
tests on him and I'd know a little bit more right
now."

"Look, Bones... I didn't mean to sound
hostile for a minute there..."

McCoy nodded, his lips curving slightly in
something
less than a tired smile. "It's all right,

Jim. I'm
just sorry I can't tell you more right now, but I'm
going to have to watch and wait myself. I've already
put in a request for a Vulcan neurologist."

"I wouldn't hold my breath," Kirk said. Star

Fleet
was notoriously slow about such matters.

"I won't. And Jim . . ." His face
darkened again.

"Don't hold yours, either. He'll pull through,
but it'll
be a long time before he's the old Spock again."

He did
not say, if ever.

Kirk looked beyond McCoy into the dimness of the
intensive care unit in sick bay. The light
of the life-function
monitor softly illuminated the figure on the
bed below. Spock lay on his back now, his face
as
peaceful as it had been when Jim and Scott had
first
found him; but this time his damaged left side was
visible. Kirk repressed a shudder. He and

McCoy had
waited by Spock's side in the darkness for the
transporter
to beam them aboard, McCoy insisting that

Spock not be moved except by the medical team
waiting in the transporter room. The real
horror came
in the brightness of the transporter room, where Kirk
could see the extent of Spock's injuries
clearly, when

McCoy and a medic gently turned Spock over
to place
him on the stretcher, revealing for the first time his
crushed left side.

Kirk could not remember ever having been so
terrified
by the sight of anything before.

McCoy had done an excellent job of
reconstructing
the Vulcan's damaged left temple, but in
spite of the
surgery, Spock's pale face was mottled with
dark
green bruises. His left eye was nearly
swollen shut.

"Jim," McCoy said softly, reading the pain in
his
friend's face. "I think you're overdue for some
rest.

When's the last time you got some sleep?"

Kirk murmured something unintelligible.

"Look, let me give you something to help you
sleep--"

"No thanks, Doctor. I'd just as soon
keep busy for a
little while longer..." He looked at McCoy
sharply. was One might ask you the same question."

"I... uh, I'm going to keep an eye on

Spock for just
a little while longer .... his

Kirk closed his eyes and pushed the image of

Spock
in the transporter room firmly from his mind.

"Bones,
call me when he comes to. I'll be on the
bridge. I have
some questions that need to be answered."

Kirk avoided all eyes on the
bridge and headed
straight for the con, his gaze fixed straight ahead
on

MINDSHADOW
the viewscreen where Aritani rotated slowly on
its
axis.

"Captain, Mr. Scott is calling from the
planet surface,"

Uhura said, but there was a hesitation, a kind of
catch in her voice, as though she wanted to ask a
question but did not dare. Kirk turned toward her in
irritation, not understanding until he saw the concern
in her eyes. He did not need to look behind him
to
know the others were watching him with the same
expression. Of course they had heard what
happened
on Aritani below, and after seeing the grim
expression
on their captain's face, they probably
expected the
worst.

"Mr. Spock will be . . . will live," he said
shortly.

Uhura's shoulders relaxed visibly; Kirk
could hear

Chekhov release a sigh behind him.

"On audio, sir," she smiled.

Kirk sat in his chair. "How's it going, Mr.

Scott?"

"The shield is up, Captain, and workin' just
fine. I'd
like to give Ensign Lanz some credit for the fine
job
she did helpin' me."

"Noted."

"How's Mr. Spock?"

"He'll live," Kirk repeated dully.

"Thank God, that was a horrible fall he took

--"

"Did you get a complete tricorder readout
yet on
those mountains?"

"Aye, Captain, and Mr. Spock was right
to suspect
something. The land's full of uritanium and
dilithium,
not to mention other precious metals."

Kirk put a weary hand to his forehead.

"Uritanium
and dilithium--no wonder these people have visitors."

"Aye, sir, anyone with mining equipment could
make more than a credit or two on this
planet."

"Good work, Scotty. We'll start beaming
personnel

down for shore leave in eight hours. In the
meantime,
we'll see if that shield of yours---"

"--and Ensign Lanz..".

"---and Ensign Lanz catches us some
pirates."

"Well, sir, if you ask me, it seems
terribly quiet and
peaceful down here, nary a peep of trouble.

Ensign

Lanz and I could take a little shore leave right
now." Scott wheedled.

"I'm not asking you, Engineer. No one will be
taking shore leave for another eight hours.

Spock said
their fuel could only keep them shielded for seven

a half hours at most, and I'm willing to give
them a
little leeway. In the meantime, I won't risk
having
crewmembers down there if any trapped
pirates decide
on another surprise attack."

Scott sighed tiredly. "Aye, Captain.

We'll be
beamin' up, then."

Captain's Log, Stardate 7003.4:

After being called to Aritani to investigate
pirate
attacks upon the population, we have discovered
that the planet is a veritable storehouse of
precious metals and fuel sources. My
guess is that
the attackers wish to subdue the population in
order to set up some permanent mining operation.

Unfortunately, we have not yet located the
pirate base nor any ships, and we assume
they are
using cloaking devices. Engineer Scott and

Ensign

Lanz have installed a protective
shield
around the planet, which will prevent other ships
from entering Aritani's atmosphere and which will
trap any ships in the atmosphere at the time the
shield was erected. According to Mr. Spock, the
fuel for the type of ship used by the pirates could
last no more than seven and a half hours, assuming
they are using a standard type of cloaking

MINDSHADOW
device. At that time, their shields will no longer
be
operable and our scanners will pick them up. I
expect we will be able to capture and question at
least one of the attackers.

Once the planet surface has been secured,
we
will begin beaming down our personnel for shore
leave.

Commander Spock was seriously injured during
the performance of his duty on the planet surface;

I am hereby submitting his name for commendation.

Kirk yawned and ran a hand across his face as if
to
clear away the gathering cobwebs; it'd
been some time
since he'd last pulled a double shift, and his
body was
no longer accustomed to it. There was still no point in
going to his quarters yet, however; he would be
unable
to slow his mind enough to sleep.

The bridge had been too quiet over the past
several
hours, the only disturbance being a shift change of
personnel. On the viewscreen, Aritani still
turned
lazily, revealing no sign of the destruction that
had
occurred on its surface. But it was the silence from
sick bay that Kirk found the most unbearable.

He snapped a toggle on the arm of the con
decisively.

"Kirk to sick bay."

McCoy's voice sounded as haggard as Kirk
felt.

"McCoy here. What is it, Jim?"

"How's Spock? Any change?"

"Not really..."

The hesitation in McCoy's voice
made Kirk sit up
straight in his chair. "Define "not really,"

Doctor. Is he
conscious?"

"Well, uh, yes and no. He's very groggy from
the
medication---"

"He's conscious, and you didn't call me?"

Kirk's
voice betrayed his anger. "That was an order,

Doctor,
whether you realized it or not."

It was McCoy's turn to sound insulted.

"Wait just a
minute, there, Captain---"

"No, you wait a minute, Doctor, because I'm
on my
way. Kirk out."

He cut off the communication before McCoy could
protest.

McCoy was waiting outside the intensive care
section
of sick bay, his arms folded tightly against his
chest and his chin jutting out in his best defiant
pose.

He began to speak before Kirk had a chance.

"I admit," he said, struggling to keep the
irritability
from his voice, "that neither one of us has had much
sleep and we're walking around like a couple of
exposed
raw nerves. But I am not going to let you walk
in
there before you listen to what I have to say, not for
the sake of my professional pride, but for the
sake of
that patient in there. In my medical judgment, there
was no point in calling you. Spock is only
semiconscious
and unable to respond---"

"My order did not include any leeway for
medical
judgment," Kirk interrupted coldly. "Is
he still
awake?"

"Yes, dammit, but you won't be able to get any
information from him right now--"

"We'll see." Kirk brushed past him;

McCoy followed,
seething.

At the sight of Spock, the coldness left

Kirk's features
instantly. The Vulcan lay in the shadows of the
dimly lit room, his breathing irregular,
labored as Kirk
had never seen it, for Spock was in pain. His dark
eyes
fastened on Jim's face, but they were clouded,
unseeing.

Kirk felt a chill of fear.

MINDSHADOW

"What happened down there, Spock?"

Spock closed his eyes slowly, but when he
opened
them again at Kirk, there was no recognition in
them.

"He can't speak, Captain." McCoy's words
stung.

"And I doubt he even knows you. There's no
point in
agitating him."

Kirk ignored him. "Spock, can you hear me?

Blink
if you can hear me."

Spock hesitated for an awful moment,
then lowered
his eyelids and raised them again.

Kirk shot a triumphant I-told-you-so
glance at McCoy.

"Spock, blink if you know who I am."

There was a long silence filled only with the sound of
tortured breathing as Spock fought the effects of
his
injuries and McCoy's painkillers and struggled
to remember.

"Don't you know me, Spock?"

"Stop it, Jim! That's enough." McCoy moved
toward

Kirk as if to pull him from Spock's side, but
the
look on the captain's face stopped him.

You must know me, Kirk directed the thought toward
the Vulcan desperately. You know me better
than
anyone else; you've touched my mind a hundred
times. How can I touch yours now?

But it was useless; he was no telepath, and even
if
he could touch Spock's mind, he doubted that the

Vulcan would be able to respond. He
began to turn
away.

And then Spock blinked once, slowly, and
closed
his eyes as though the effort had exhausted him.

Kirk
felt a sense of absolute victory.

"When he makes any improvement, or if he
says
anything, contact me," he said to McCoy, but his
eyes
were still on Spock. As he walked toward the door
to

leave, something made him turn and face

McCoy.

"And that's an order."

He left McCoy turning behind him.

Kirk stepped off the turbolift to the sight of

Aritani
on the screen, a sight that was rapidly becoming more
of an affront than a pleasure.

Sulu rose from the con. "Any change?"

Kirk asked.

The helmsman watched as his captain
attempted
unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. At present
the captain
had been on duty for close to twenty-four
hours, and

Sulu seriously doubted his ability to stay
awake in the
comfortable command chair. He toyed with the idea of
suggesting that the captain repair to his quarters for
some rest, but in light of Kirk's recent mood,
decided
it would be best not to mention it. Sulu did not need
to
call sick bay to find out Mr. Spock's
condition; the
look on Kirk's face when he'd first come
back from
sick bay had told Sulu just how serious the first
officer's injuries were.

"No, sir," he replied simply. "All
quiet. We haven't
picked up the first sign of pirates, or any
other vessels, for that matter. Apparently this is
usually a very quiet neighborhood."

Kirk seemed keenly disappointed. "No
pirate vessels?"

"Captain," Uhura called from her station,

"Mr.

Scott just called to let you know it's been eight
hours."

"Eight hours..." Kirk was momentarily lost.

"Oh,
yes. Already? Let me talk to him."

"Yes, sir." Scott's voice came from the
engineering
deck.

"Scotty, what are the chances that one of the pirate
vessels could go longer than eight hours with their
cloaks up?"

"Impossible, sir. Of course, I'm not the
expert.

MINDSHADOW

Spock would be the one to ask--except I guess
he's
not up to answering questions right now."

Kirk did not answer.

"Of course, he did say
seven-point-four-two hours,
sir, and I'm sure his answer would be just
the same
now. You've allowed more than another half hour
to
be on the safe side. There's no ship I've
ever heard of
that could keep a cloakin' device operating that
long."

Kirk sighed. "I'd hoped to catch at least one
of the
ships beneath our shield. It would have made it a lot
easier to locate their base."

"Aye, that it would."

"Guess I'll have to tell the transporter
room to start
beaming down shore parties."

The sound of a muffled hoot came from the other
end of the intercom. Kirk frowned.

"What was that, Engineer?"

"Nothing, sir," Scott replied meekly.

"One of the
men down here overheard you mentioning shore
leave."

Kirk's expression softened. "It has been a
long
time, hasn't it? The crew has
certainly earned a little R
and R."

"You have, too, sir."

Kirk could not disagree with Scott's statement, but
his reaction to being selected by the computer to be in
the first shore party of one hundred to go down to the
surface was something less than gleeful. He
offered to
let Scott take his place, a proposition that

Scott accepted
rather quickly, as Ensign Lanz happened to be
in the first beamdown group.

The door to McCoy's cabin opened quickly in
response
to the buzzer; Kirk had guessed that the doctor,
too, would not be sleeping. Instead, McCoy was
sitting at his desk with a bottle of bourbon and a
shot
glass, pouring himself a drink--and not the first one,
by the looks of things.

His bleary red-rimmed eyes did not look up from
the
glass. "I suppose you came here for an
update on

Spock."

Kirk stood uncertainly in the doorway.

"I've already
checked with sick bay. That's how I knew to
find you here."

McCoy scowled. "I told them I was going on
shore
leave---"

"Christine said you'd probably be here . . . either
sleeping or drinking."

"Remind me to have that woman fired. She's
getting
to know me too damn well. If you've been
to sick bay,
then you've also discovered that Spock is in the
capable
hands of Dr. M'Benga, who has sworn to me
that
he will contact you the instant Spock utters a
peep."

"Bones," Kirk said suddenly. "Bones, I'm
sorry."

McCoy tried at first to shrug off the apology,
but he
sighed and shook his head. "It's not your fault,

Jim.

Do you realize that neither of us has slept for more
than two shifts now? It's no wonder we're
a little
temperamental. Especially after what happened to

Spock--" He lowered his head for an instant;
when he
raised it again, his voice was tinged with exasperation.

"But Jim, you've got to realize that there may be
some
things I just can't fix. I'm a surgeon, damn
it, not a
magician.. 2'

"I know," Kirk soothed. "And I was out of line
today. I'm sorry. You did a fine job on

Spock. Thank
you for saving his life."

"Well," McCoy said, more than mollified.

"You're
under a little stress, Captain. Apology
accepted." He
nodded at the bottle tucked under Kirk's arm.

"I can
see you're using the same prescription I am.

Have a
seat and I'll get you a glass."

MINDSHADOW

Kirk sat gratefully. "Now, Doctor,
tell me how I can
get some sleep."

"What's that you brought--some of that Saurian
stuff?. Drink a sizable portion of that, Jim
boy, and
your old country doctor promises you'll get
to sleep
tonight. In fact, why don't you try some of my
brand?

Kentucky bourbon, aged in the cask and twelve
years
old if it's a day--"

"I'll stick with my usual poison, thanks."

"It's your liver." McCoy handed the glass
to him.

"Look, Jim, when was the last time you took
shore
leave?"

"I dunno. Same time you did."

"Then it's definitely been too damn long.

And with
everything else that's been happening around here
lately, it's no wonder you've felt like blowing
off some
steam. So cheers. Doctor's orders."

McCoy raised his
glass.

"Thanks." Kirk lifted the glass to his
lips and
stopped. "I'm not sure I can remember my
last shore
leave."

McCoy grinned devilishly and leaned across the
desk in his best dirty old man imitation. "I
can. Rigley's planet, remember? That little bar
where they do the most outrageous form of dancing. The
kind that could
knock your eyes right out of your head..."

Kirk snickered, "I remember, of course...

a native
dance, based on an ancient religion--"

McCoy rolled his eyes. "They don't make
religious
dances like that back home. Seems to me you also
succeeded in getting rather friendly with their
dancer, too--what was her name?"

Kirk's teeth were showing. "Lolama.

Lolama.

can't remember her last name."

"Wasn't important anyway. You were doing
fine I recall, until that boyfriend of hers
showedffment

"Thank God for transporters." Kirk
swallowed
more of the brandy and was almost beginning to feel
good. "I'm afraid though, that this time I'll be
spending
my shore leave here."

"As your personal physician, I'd advise
you to
reconsider. You said it yourself. you need to be
someplace
where you can be near animals, trees, birds...

After a while, the insides of this ship can begin
to get
to you."

Kirk's lips tightened. "I'd rather stay here.

Come to
think of it, I don't see you rushing off to enjoy
your
liberty."

McCoy's lascivious grin faded
entirely. "I thought I
might be needed here."

"You mean you don't want to leave Spock.

Maybe
he's why I don't particularly feel like taking
shore
leave down there."

"Because he was injured down there?" McCoy
asked quietly.

Kirk didn't answer.

"That's why we're so angry," McCoy
continued.

"Because it was such a stupid accident... so
unfair,
especially to someone like Spock."

"Explain." Kirk felt the knot in his stomach
beginning
to tighten again.

"To have such an incredibly logical mind... and
to
receive damage to the left hemisphere."

Kirk looked at him vacantly.

"You do remember from your academy days which
functions are controlled by the left hemisphere
of the
brain?"

Anatomy had not been Kirk's favorite
subject.

"Language?"

"Yes, and some memory, mathematics,
analysis...

and logic."

MINDSHADOW

Kirk sat forward quickly. "What exactly are
you
trying to say, Doctor? That he's lost all of
that?"

"I'm saying that he could experience some degree
of impairment in any one of those areas. The left
hemisphere sustained a significant trauma.

The alpha-dextran
can only restore those brain cells that were not
physically destroyed and only starved from lack of
oxygen. Spock will probably recover certain
functions,
but it'll be another day or so before we know the
extent of the permanent damage."

"Then you're telling me that you don't know yet."

"That's one reason I sent for a
specialist."

"God knows how long that could take. What do we
do in the meantime?"

"Wait," said McCoy.

Pain. Helpless pain along his entire left
side, a
hideous nonpain in his head and a dizzying nausea
that
seemed to snatch the bed from under him and send him
falling into the dark void .... They must have given
him something for the pain, something so strong that
he could not think clearly, could not summon the mind
rules to silence the fierce ache in his side. But
why?

Surely they knew how nauseous the medication
made
him ....

Again he struggled to retrieve the mind rules,
looking
deep into his clouded consciousness, searching,
concentrating, and for a moment he felt he might find
them; but they eluded him again, like a cruel parent
who teases a child with a toy, pulling it farther and
farther away as the child moves closer. He sighed

frustration and turned his head to one side; it was a
mistake. He held onto the bed with his right hand
as
another wave of dizziness clutched at him.

And the mind rules were not all that was lost to him;
there were other things hidden in him which he could
not retrieve, words of great consequence which must
be spoken, and quickly, but he could not remember
what he should say nor to whom he should say it.

Someone bent over him, fuzzy, out of focus.

He
closed his eyes gingerly, to avoid offending his
swollen
left eye, and opened them again. It was a man,
wearing
a blue tunic, a man that Spock knew, but
he could not
remember his name.

"Feeling any better?" the man asked
soothingly.

"Sorry that we had to medicate you; you won't be
able to control the pain yourself for a while. Try to
rest."

Spock saw no other alternative at the
moment. He
studied the man in the muted light; dark-skinned,
humanoid. Probably Terran, by the accent.

The blue
tunic had significance. it reminded him of the
other,
the one who had been with him earlier: a doctor.

Then
this one was also a doctor. His urgent message was
not
for them, but for another man rather man in the gold
tunic, the man who had asked the questions. He
grimaced with the strain of remembering, determined
to speak the man's name or to die.

When the name at last came forth, Spock was
flooded with a sense of relief and accomplishment
stronger than any he had ever known.

"Jim," he whispered.

M'Benga was as good as his word. Within minutes,

Kirk and McCoy had arrived in sick bay.

"Sorry to have to wake you both," M'Benga
apologized.

"He's still heavily sedated, but he's fighting
it.

Apparently he feels it's quite urgent that he
speak with
you, Captain."

Kirk felt as though he were fighting the effects of

MI n DSHADOW
heavy sedation himself, after being roused from the
few hours' dreamless sleep induced by the brandy.

"You did the right thing, Doctor, thank you."

Spock appeared to be sleeping, but when the

Captain
entered, his eyes opened and fastened on Kirk
with clear recognition.

"Spock, what did you want to tell me?"

Spock shuddered with the effort to speak, his voice
no more than a halting whisper. "I... must tell
what I

.. saw." He stopped abruptly, his face
clouded with
confusion.

"Take your time," Kirk soothed. "Try
to remember."

Spock gritted his teeth with frustration. "I .

. .

can't."

The three humans looked over Spock's head
at each
other. "We've given you some strong
painkillers,"

McCoy said. "You're going to have a little trouble
remembering things for a while."

"Important." Spock grimaced in a sudden
spasm of
pain. Kirk was forced to look away.

"It's all right, Spock. We know what you
saw:

uritanium, dilithium, just for starters. We
completed
the tricorder analysis. So you see, everything's
taken
care of. You can rest now."

Spock stared at the captain dully, considering
if that
was indeed what he had wanted to tell him. But the
effort of speaking had exhausted him; he closed his
eyes.

Kirk followed McCoy outside and leaned
wearily
against the bulkhead. "He doesn't remember,

Bones.

Is it really the medication?"

McCoy studied the tops of his boots
for a moment
before squaring his shoulders and looking his friend
directly in the eye. "No. No, Jim, it
isn't."

The intercom on the bulkhead next to Kirk
whistled.

He answered it without taking his eyes off

McCoy.

"Kirk here."

Uhura sounded unusually agitated. "An
urgent message
from Mr. Scott on the surface, Captain.

The
pirates have gotten through the shields--they're
attacking
our people!"

Chapter Two

"MY GOD! CRIED McCoy. "There's
over a hundred
crewmen down there Kirk did not answer him, but
his eyes showed how
well aware he was of the fact. "On my way."

A casual observer on the bridge might not have
guessed that an emergency situation
existed; bridge
personnel were too well trained not to function
smoothly under pressure. But Kirk could tell
by the
subtle tautness of their movements, by the way all
eyes fastened on his, awaiting orders, the
moment he
stepped from the turbolift.

Sulu vacated the con and seated himself at the
helm
with graceful swiftness as Kirk approached.

"Uhura,
see if you can raise Mr. Scott for me again.

Mr.

Chekhov, status on the protective shield."

Chekhov moved to Spock's station and peered
down into the viewer, his solemn face bathed in the
pale blue glow. "No change, sir."

Kirk turned his head toward him sharply.

"They're
still up?"

Chekhov made no attempt to hide his
surprise.

"Yes, sir. Completely functional. There is
no indication
of any malfunction. We'll have to lower them if
we
want to beam our personnel aboard."

"That's what I intend to do, Ensign. In the
meantime,

I want you to scan the surface and get a fix
on a pirate vessel. They always lower their

cloaks
before the attack. Sulu, stand by with the tractor

Uhura interrupted. "I have Mr. Scott for
you, Captain.

On audio."

McCoy blessed her silently for having the tact
not to
put Scott on the screen; the sounds of screams
and
blasts of flame that filled the bridge were
terrifying
enough without the picture.

Scott spoke in a hoarse shout. "Scott
here, Captain.

The pirates are right nearby--I'm afraid this
inna very
safe place at the moment."

"Scotty, can you get to the controls for the
shield?

We have to lower it to get you out of there."

"Aye, Captain, I'm not far from the hut. I
think I
can make it."

"Is there any way the shields might have been
lowered, even for an instant?"

"Sir, do ye think I'm completely daft?

I'd never let a
thing like that happen. I checked "em myself not half
an hour ago. I dinna ken how those divvils
got past

'em." The sound of the flame blasts grew
closer,
drowning out Scott's voice. Kirk could hear the
crackle of the fire.

"Speak up, Scotty, I'm having trouble
reading
yOU."

"Captain, I'd best go now. I doubt as
it'll be safe to
stay here much longer. I'll get to the controls."

A thundering roar caused Kirk to put his hands over

MINDSHADOW .

his ears; when the noise cleared, there was silence.

"Scott?" Kirk's voice rose. "Are you
there? Can
you read me?"

For a moment, no one on the bridge dared breathe.

"Aye, Captain, but tell McCoy to have some
medics
waitin" in the transporter room. We've
got some casualties
here."

Kirk was numb. "I'll tell him. Good
luck, Scotty,."

The muscles in Chekhov's back tensed as he
looked
up from the viewer. "Keptin, I've got one of the
ships!"

"Tractor beam, Mr. Sulu..."

Sulu was apologetic. "The shield isn't
down yet,

Captain. I can't hold onto him."

"Stay with him, Mr. Chekhov..."

"With him, sir."

"Shield still up, Captain," Sulu reported.

Chekhov swore softly under his breath. "Lost
him,
sir. He has his cloak up again. It's almost as
if he knew
we were trying to get a tractor on him.."

"Shield down, Captain," Sulu said.

Kirk's jaw twitched. "Don't leave that
spot, Ensign.

I want you to stay there until you get another
fix on
one of those ships. Sulu, stand by with the tractor
beam and make sure whoever is in it gets beamed
up to
this ship. We are going to catch a pirate. Do

I make
myself clear?"

"Aye, sir," the two replied meekly.

"Sulu, you have the con. Get someone up here to
mind the helm. I'll be in sick bay if you
need me."

Chekhov waited for the turbolift doors
to close over
the captain's stern visage.

"I am so stupid," he said sorrowfully. "I
could have
computed his trajectory. I shouldn't have lost him

that."

Sulu comforted him. "You did what you could.

We'll get one next time, Pavel. You'll
see."

The evacuation had proceeded in a calm and
orderly
fashion. One hundred and three crew members
had
been beamed in groups with no one panicking, the
most critically wounded coming up first, the dead last.

Miraculously, only six had been killed and
thirty-eight
wounded.

To Kirk it felt like something less than a
miracle.

The area from the transporter room to sick bay was
a
chamber of horrors; he could smell the burns the
moment the doors to the turbolift opened. Those who
could still stand were crowded together outside sick
bay while medics administered first aid.

McCoy and

M'Benga were already in surgery with the critical
cases.

Scott was one of the lucky ones waiting
for a medic.

He held up his arms like an old-time surgeon
awaiting
sterile gloves; the sleeves of his tunic had
been almost
completely scared away from pulling the red-hot
switch that neutralized the protective shield

--under-neath,
the skin was mottled red and gray. Kirk forced
himself to watch as the medic dressed Scott's
wounds,
first with a coolant spray to stop more cells from
dying, then with a temporary sealant to provide
air-permeable
protection until McCoy had the time to
make more skin synthetic. Kirk looked at the
faces of
the crewmen around them, some of them dazed and
unable to grasp the horror of what had happened
to
them on what was supposed to have been a relaxing
interlude, a brief vacation ....

"Did you get a good look at them, Scotty?"

The pain on Scott's face eased as the
medic's hypo
spray hissed. "Aye, Captain. Romulan
surface

MINDSHADOW
fighters, all right. Maybe six or seven of

"em, but none
of us cared to get close enough to see who was inside.

Did you manage to get hold of one?"

"No. Chekhov's still scanning. And we still
haven't
located their base."

"It can't be too far, sir. They don't have much
fuel
storage capacity."

"Agreed. But what I want to know is what the
hell
they were doing under our shield."

"Like I said, a fighter doesn't have the fuel
capacity
to sit under the shields that long, especially not with a
cloakin" device in operation. If you ask me,
the only
thing that accounts for it is a shield neutralizer."

"Come on, Scotty, the Romulans have been
trying
to develop one for years, but they've never
been
successful."

"Can you be so sure, sir?" Scott seemed to be
swaying slightly.

"It's just as likely they developed a cloaking
device
which doesn't require as much fuel." Kirk
frowned at
him; the Scot was definitely turning paler.

"You know,
you're still officially on leave, Mr. Scott.

I suggest you
go take it easy in your quarters."

Scott began to speak, but Kirk cut him off.

"That's
an order. We'll talk more about this later."

"Then, sir... could you do me a wee favor?"

"Name it."

"Could you find out about Ensign Lanz for me?"

He
nodded toward sick bay. "She's in there, and they
tell
me she was pretty badly hurt. She's an
awfully young l ass... this is her first
assignment."

Kirk smiled in spite of the sinking feeling

Scott's
words caused. "I'll find out, Scotty. I'm
sure McCoy's
taking good care of her. Go on."

"I'll just wait out here for a minute--"

"No, I'll come tell you. Now go." He
shooed Scott
with a playful gesture, but the moment the engineer
turned to shuffle off to his quarters, the smile
fled from

Kirk's face.

The smell inside sick bay was as bad as he
had
imagined; Kirk tried not to look at the wounded
lying
on the makeshift cots that lined the walls. He
was
waiting until he was sure he could no longer
bear the
stench when the door to surgery opened.

McCoy sank shakily into the nearest chair and
wiped the perspiration from his brow. "I'd like to give
those responsible for this a taste of their own
medicine.

What kind of being could do this to innocent
people? I bet you can smell it all the way up to the
bridge." He slumped lower in the chair and
closed his
eyes. "I haven't even had time to have a
hangover."

"How many did we lose, Bones?"

"Eight. Six on the planet, two in
surgery. The burns
were so severe, their bodies just shut down in spite
of
everything we could do. Damn those bastards .... his

A muscle in Kirk's jaw twitched. "I
shouldn't have
let them go down there."

McCoy opened one eye. "Don't do it to yourself,

Jim. And if I had gotten to those two in time,
maybe
they wouldn't have died .... There's nothing to be
gained by playing the if-I-had-only game. You
couldn't
have known."

"I could have at least waited longer--at least a
few
more hours, before I started risking my people--"

"Please explain to me how you could have
anticipated
the impossible? Because it was impossible for
any ships to be down there. Scotty told you
that--hell,
even Spock told you that. How could you have
known?"

"I don't know," Kirk said darkly, but his
eyes did
not surrender their guilt. "Let's change the
subject.

MINDSHADOW

I'm supposed to ask about Ensign Lanz for

Scotty.

How is she?"

The change in McCoy's expression was so quick
and subtle that anyone else might have missed its
meaning, but Kirk had seen the look on the
doctor's
face enough times to know what McCoy was going to
say.

"I'm sorry, Jim. She was one of the two who
didn't
make it."

Scott did not respond to the buzzer, but the
door
was unlocked. It was pitch-black inside the
engineer's
quarters.

"Scotty?"

Kirk heard someone move heavily.

"Captain?" Scott's voice was thick. "I
musta fallen
asleep. They gave me a hypo for the pain . .

." Kirk
heard the Scot struggle to a sitting position on
the bed.

"Ye've come about Ensign Lanz, haven't ye,
sir?"

"Yes," Kirk said softly.

There was a silence. "Is she dead, Captain?"

Kirk was grateful for the darkness. "Yes. I'm
sorry,

Scotty."

For a moment the only sound was Scott's labored
breathing. When at last he spoke, his voice was
rich
with sorrow. "She was a damn good engineer. She was
barely twenty-five years old." He
made a choking noise. "If I get my hands on
one of those pirates...

sir, I swear I'll kill "em! I'll
kill 'em!"

"It won't change things," Kirk said in a low
voice.

"Why would anyone want to hurt her? How can
such people exist?"

"I don't know," Kirk said, "but we're going
to stop
them."

He left Scott alone in the darkness.

A slight smell of scorched skin clung to the
bulkheads
in the corridors outside sick bay and refused
to
be deodorized completely by the ship's air
filtration
system. Many of the personnel who had had occasion
to walk through the corridors by sick bay had
complained
about the nauseating odor, but thanks to the
concentrated efforts of the maintenance crew, it was
now almost completely gone--almost--but its
lingering
trace was still enough to disconcert anyone visiting
sick bay.

Anyone, that is, except X. Nyota

Uhura. A person
of strong will, once she set her mind to do something it
was as good as accomplished. She squared her
shoulders
as she entered sick bay, and although the smell
grew stronger, she had already predetermined that it
would not bother her in the slightest.

The sight of the wounded, however, was another
matter altogether. It was the first time she had actually
seen the cruel burns inflicted by the pirates"

phasers, and she lowered her eyes so that her revulsion
would
not be seen.

But Leonard McCoy must have seen it, for he
pounced on her with an exaggerated cheerfulness she
was certain could not be genuine. McCoy looked
worse than Uhura had ever seen him, and she was
tempted to tell him he belonged in one of the beds
himself.

"Well, Miss Uhura," he called in his
best Southern
gentleman's drawl, "have you come to cast a ray of
sunshine in our den of gloom?"

"How did you know, Doctor?" she replied
sweetly.

"Who's the lucky devil you've come to visit?

Me, I
hope."

"Well, I was coming to see one of the patients, but
you look like you could use a visitor far worse."

MINDSHADOW

"Someone noticed," McCoy beamed wryly.

"Someone cares."

"Actually, I've come to say hello to everyone,
and
to one person in particular. That man over there."

Mohamed Jahma grinned as widely as the
injury to
the side of his face and neck would permit; the dark
olive skin was speckled shiny pink and red under a
thick coat of clear, glossy sealant.

Uhura sat on ,the
side where his burns were less visible.

"Some people get all the breaks," McCoy pouted.

He went back to his rounds.

"Kefhalik? How are you?" Uhura asked in

Arabic.

She and Mohammed were just friends, but their relationship
was marked by a light, teasing humor with more than a
hint of flirtation. She was unsure if Mohamed
meant
for it to evolve into something more serious, but she
enjoyed his friendship too much to worry about it.

They shared the same continent as their birthplace--

Mohammed
was North African--and they were beginning to
share their respective languages with each other.

Uhura had always felt slightly embarrassed that
she
had never learned Arabic, the second most
important
language in the United States of Africa,
and Moh had
never bothered to learn Swahili, since Arabic
was
widely spoken in the north.

"Not too bad, beautiful," he responded in

Swahili,
then switched to English. "Better than most.

I'm just
waiting my turn for a little cosmetic touch-up and

I'll
be good as new. I'm afraid we've really
overworked
these doctors."

"When will you be getting out?"

"Tomorrow, if I stay on good behavior."

"That should be just about impossible for you." She
turned her head for a moment to survey the main
ward, and some acquaintances who were not too weak
or sedated smiled in her direction; she waved
back.

"It's terrible," she said in a low voice. "I
must know
half the people in this room."

"There's two more in intensive care--really
critical
cases."

"Worse than this?" Uhura was aghast; she could
not imagine wounds more terrible than the ones she saw
now.

"I wish my injury was the worst one."

Mohamed's
expression darkened. "We lost two from engineering

--Giorgo

Mikahlis and Rachel Lanz."

"Oh, Moh, not Rachel. She was so young ....

his

They were silent for a moment until Moh nodded
toward intensive care. "They say Commander

Spock's still in there, too."

"How is he? The captain doesn't say
anything about
it."

"No one says much here either. M'Benga and

McCoy
go in there all the time, and they always look
pretty grim when they come out. It doesn't sound
too
good

"I wonder if he's able to have visitors."

"I doubt it. I haven't seen anyone go in there
except
the doctors and the captain."

"Well, I'm going to ask Dr. McCoy about
it. After
all, even Mr. Spock needs cheering up when
he's
sick." She paused. "But first, since I came
to see you,
tell me what I can do for you. Within reason, of
course."

Mohamed smiled again. "Sing me a song. I've
been
dreaming about your singing the whole time I've been
in sick bay."

"Moh, I can't sing here--it'll disturb the
others."

"Doctor," Mohamed called, "can Uhura sing
us a
song?"

McCoy, two beds down, looked up from the
knee he

MINDSHADOW
was patching together with skin synthetic. "As long as
she sings loud enough for the rest of us to hear it. A
song is exactly what these people need. Not to mention
the medical staff. What's good for growing flowers
has got to be good for mending people, in my medical
opinion."

"At least he didn't call us his vegetable
garden,"

said Moh.

Uhura grimaced. "Any special
requests?"

"Something African, of course."

Uhura thought for a moment, then began to sing a
lullaby she'd learned as a child.

Christine Chapel was checking on Spock when

Uhura began to sing. Spock's broken bones were
mending rapidly, but otherwise, his condition
remained
essentially unchanged; he had not spoken a
word since he first talked to the captain. Christine
leaned over to check the monitor, then paused
to gaze
down at his face, which still bore the mottled dark
green marks on the left side.

Impulsively, she reached
a hand toward his face and let it hover above the
bruises as though she longed to smooth them away
with a touch.

His eyes snapped open so quickly that she gasped as
she pulled her hand away, embarrassed.

"Hello, Mr.

Spock," she said, recovering quickly. "How are
you
feeling?"

It was a rhetorical question. Even if a patient
could
not respond, Chapel knew it was good therapy to
assume he understood and to speak to him accordingly. She
did not expect a reply.

"Uhura," he said clearly.

She hesitated for an instant, at first thinking that
he
had mistaken her for the communications officer. The
door to intensive care was shut, but it was not
soundproofed so that a doctor outside could hear the

monitor panel signal a patient in trouble;

Christine
could faintly hear Uhura's voice floating in
the strains
of an ancient melody.

"Why yes," she said, "that is Uhura singing.

She's
out in the main ward. Would you like her to come in
here?"

Spock blinked once.

"I'll get her." Chapel fought to contain her
excitement.

Unlike the main ward, intensive care was quiet
and
dark. Of the three crew members who lay
inside, two
had been badly burned and were molded together with
so much skin synthetic that Uhura did not
recognize
them. The third, Spock, was the only one
conscious.

Externally, his wounds were not nearly as terrible as
his roommates', but there was a look of such searching
loss in his dark eyes that Uhura thought they must
belong to someone else, not to the Spock she knew.

"Hello, sir," she said, uncertain whether he
understood her. "We've all missed you on the
bridge."

"Where my heart is," Spock said suddenly.

Chapel seemed embarrassed for him at the
maudlin
sentiment. "Of course you want to get back to the
bridge, Mr. Spock--"

Uhura almost giggled. "No, Christine... I
understand.

He's asking for a song."

""Beyond Antares," "said Spock.

"Oh," Chapel said stiffly. "Of course."

"It's a song we used to do together. Would you like
me to sing it for you, Mr. Spock?"

Spock blinked once.

"That means "yes," "said Christine.

Spock's eyes closed as Uhura began the
haunting
tune; McCoy heard it out in the main ward and
came
inside to enjoy. "It's a lovely song,

Uhura."

MINDSHADOW

"Thank you. Spock and I used to play it together;
he played the harp and I sang. Right, Spock?"

The Vulcan did not answer; he appeared to be
sleeping.

"We have him on medication," McCoy said. "Of
course, you could soothe anyone to sleep with that
beautiful voice of yours his

"I appreciate the compliment, Doctor, but I
don't
understand why Spock could say some of the song
lyrics, but had to blink instead of saying

"yes.""

"The left side of his brain, which controls
speech,
was damaged. It's the right side that
controls memory
of music, poetry, and so on."

"Yes, Doctor," Chapel said, "but he also
asked for

Uhura by name when he heard her singing out in the
main ward. His speech was very clear, not at all
garbled, the way it was before."

McCoy sighed. "Well, thank God for
small improvements.

Maybe the alpha-dextran's beginning to take
effect ."

"Will he get his speech back?" Uhura asked.

"We hope so, Uhura." Even in the dim
light, McCoy
looked painfully haggard. "Just keep singing
those pretty songs for him. It'll encourage
him."

Uhura smiled. "I think I just thought of something
even better."

Kirk lay on his bunk in the semidarkness. The
reading lamp in the outer office was still lit, but
he'd
been unable to read and now, fidgeting
uncomfortably
on his bed, was unable to sleep. The one thing
he had
been able to do with any success was think, and his
thoughts now were anything but re/l: Ensign Lanz
and seven others.. Spock.. the charred fields
on
the planet below ....

And the ships, the ships below the protective shield
where they could not possibly be. Kirk's mind
rolled
over the only two possible explanations for the
millionth
time that night and rejected both of them. Not
even the Vulcans or the Romulans, for all of
their
superlative skill and inventiveness in the field
of electromagnetic
physics, had yet developed Scotty's
theorized
shield neutralizer; and if they had, Star

Fleet

Intelligence would know about it, just as they would
know of any design improvements in the cloaking
device.

Kirk sighed and threw an arm across his open
eyes.

Try as he might, he could not shake the conviction
that

Spock knew something, something locked away within
his damaged memory, that could explain the appearance
of the ships. Of course, Spock's urgent but
forgotten message could easily be explained: the
tricorder
had shown the uritanium and dilithium deposits
in the mountains, and Spock had realized that

Aritani
was politically valuable real estate.

Kirk could not make himself believe that was all
there was to it.

He had just gotten up to do some unproductive
pacing when the intercom whistled. X. Krelidze
peered, fair-haired and moon-faced, on the
screen.

"Communication from Admiral Komack in
response
to your message, sir." Her watery blue eyes
widened slightly. "In code."

"Relay it here, Lieutenant."

Coded. It meant that Star Fleet suspected that
more
than a group of renegades were involved in
the attacks
on Aritani. Kirk wondered if he should kick
himself for
not coding his own message.

The content of Komack's response, however, was
less than enlightening:

MINDSHADOW

Intelligence reports no information available on
shield neutralizer. Romulans using
improved
cloaking device, but fuel uptake
relatively unchanged.

Enterprise hereby ordered to remain in area and
offer Aritani all possible protection.

Situation currently
under intelligence investigation. You will
be updated as facts are uncovered.

James H. Komack, Admiral.

Kirk's expression hardened as he read the
decoded
message. All possible protection--in other
words,
next to none! He signaled Krelidze on the
bridge.

"Get me the Aritanian representative."

Natahia's face, once stern and regal, was
now forbidding
and cold with anger. Kirk recognized the
scene behind her: what had been her fields, her
warm
quiet home, was now a gaping black wound in the
midst of Aritani's colorful splendor. The
cool breezes
no longer carried the perfume of wildflowers, but
the
stench of things burned that were not meant to burn--
huts,
trellised vines, clothing, hair, and flesh

....

She glared at him, her golden face pale, her
violet
eyes rimmed with red, and Kirk thought she
trembled;
whether with rage or grief, he could not tell.

"Natahia, I wish to express my sorrow at
what has
happened."

Her words were spoken with icy politeness, and

Kirk knew at once that he had lost
her. "We regret that
your people were also harmed, Captain."

"Representative, you must know how impossible it
was for the pirates to have penetrated the shield--"

"It is obvious that you felt so, else you would not
have sent your people down."

"Up to now, the technology has not existed for such
an attack to be possible. Star Fleet is
investigating. In
the meantime, the Enterprise will stay in orbit around
your planet and attempt to capture one of the
pirates
for questioning. They can't remain cloaked forever
and when they lower their shields, we will catch
them."

"No, Captain. There is nothing to be gained by
further intervention from the Federation. There is no
point in your people dying as well."

"If we can capture one of the pirates, we can
find
their base. We can find out who's attacking you, and
why. Don't you want that, Natahia?"

"You will use your devices to try to capture one
of
them. Who can say that you will be successful?

Can
you be sure that more of your people will not die?

"We are a people of strong beliefs, Captain.

Technology
almost destroyed our race; we have chosen a
simpler life. In spite of your weapons and
devices, you
have not saved a single life, and you and the pirates
are
engaged in a battle of wits to see what new
mechanisms
of war you can develop. Who is to say who is
the more civilized?

"It was our decision that brought you here, Captain

Kirk, and on behalf of the growers, I thank you
for
your services. We are sorry it resulted in the
loss of
life. We cannot let you stay and further risk
yourselves.

Your technology has failed us. It is time for
us
to return to the old beliefs. We will protect
ourselves
as best we can without depending on the
devices of
others."

"And if all of your people are killed and your planet
becomes unfit to support life?" Desperation
made Kirk blunt.

She looked at him sharply. "it seems that the
same
might happen if your ship remains. It is the will
of the
growers... it will be as I have said. I will no longer
communicate with you on this device."

5O

MINDSHADOW

The sad, proud image shimmered for a moment
before the screen went black.

Kirk watched for a moment before he called the
bridge. Scott answered.

"Scotty, what the devil are you doing there?"

"Well, sir, seein" as how I'm the senior
command
officer on duty, I--"

"Why aren't you resting in your quarters?"

He could almost hear the indignant look Scott
gave
him over the intercom. "Captain--sir--

I'm feelin' just
fine, thank you. I've been by sick bay and
they've put
some skin on my hands so they're good as new.

Dr.

McCoy has certified me fit for duty.

Sir."

"All right, Scotty," Kirk relented
gently. "Let me
talk to Chekhov."

"He's not here, sir."

"Not there... to was Kirk's voice rose half
an octave.

"I told him not to leave his station."

"He went off shift hours ago, sir. But

Ensign O'Connor
took his place, Captain. Mr. Chekhov
explained to
her that she mustn't leave her station. She knows what
to do, sir."

"Yes, of course," Kirk said quickly. "Just be
sure
that when she goes off duty, she's replaced
instantly. I
don't want that station uncovered for even
a second."

"Understood, sir. And believe me," a
strange, dangerous
undercurrent crept into Scott's tone, "I
want to
get my hands on those pirates as much as you do.

We'll get one, Captain, if it's the last
thing I do. Scott out."

Kirk sat down at his desk and laid his head
on his
arms; he wondered what the first officer's reaction
would be to his decision to stay.

"Captain, you are failing to respect the decision
of
the growers. Are you forgetting the right of a culture
to
self-determination ?"

Yes, he thought, he was failing to respect the
growers' decision. He couldn't bring himself
to respect
the decision to commit cultural suicide. Once
the

Aritanians no longer existed as a race, their
right to
self-determination would be a moot question.

If anyone
was guilty of interference, it was the pirates, not
he, and he would not let them destroy that beautiful
planet, will of the growers be damned.

Kirk lifted his head. Sleep would not come of its
own accord again tonight, and he needed it before he
lost his wits completely. He was beginning to lose
all
sense of time, and could not afford to slip up with
another crew member.

Nor could he afford to let the pirates win again.

He rose and went to find McCoy.

Uhura looked furtively about her; the lights
in sick
bay were dimmed to simulate night, and the patients
in
the main ward all appeared to be sleeping. There was
a
light on in the lab, but no one came out to see
who had
entered. She walked stealthily toward the intensive
care ward.

The door slid open to reveal Commander Spock,
awake and propped up in a half-sitting
position on his
bed. Apparently he was not in sync with sick
bay's
circadian rhythm. Uhura pulled back,
startled and a
little embarrassed that he should be awake now to see
her; she had wanted this to be an anonymous
visit. But
it was too late; his unsettled eyes had
focused on her
and then on the instrument in her arms. She smiled
apologetically and held it out to him.

"Forgive me for taking the liberty, sir," she
whispered,

"but your quarters were unlocked and I
thought you might like to have this."

He took the harp from her with his right hand and
propped it against his stomach. He looked up from the

52 MINDSHADOW
instrument and the unsettled look had been replaced
by one of gratefulness.

Haltingly, he said, "There is no need
to apologize,

Lieutenant. I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

Slowly, softly, so as not to disturb the others, he
sounded each string with the fingers of his right hand.

He was merely testing to see if the harp was still in
tune, but to the two of them it was beautiful music.

McCoy's eyes closed. On the computer
screen before
him was a list of articles that pertained
to left-hemisphere
brain damage in humans, and in Vulcans;
but nowhere had he been able to find any medical
studies done on Vulcan-human hybrids.

Given the
rarity of romantic relations between the two races,
it
was not surprising that no one had been able
to collect
a large enough sample for a study. You could
probably
count the number of Vulcan-human hybrids in
the
universe on your fingers, and of those there was
probably only one suffering from brain damage.

His eyes snapped open with the happy realization
that he'd almost fallen asleep. No doubt the
aridity of
the reading matter had been responsible; at times,
an
article from one of the medical journals worked
better
than a pill. It was time to take advantage of the
soporific effects of the reading matter; he
hated taking
a pill, although insomnia had sorely tempted
him to do
so. Too many people in his profession found it too
easy
to prescribe for themselves plus and keep on
prescribing.

He stood up and was just about to turn off the
reading lamp when the door buzzed--Jim, no
doubt,
desperate at the prospect of another
near-sleepless
night. "Looking for a good night's sleep, eh?"

McCoy
said as the door opened.

"Maybe," said the girl... or was she a
woman? Her
small frame was at first glance misleading as to her
age; she was scarcely five feet tall.

"Dr. McCoy? Emma Saenz." She
extended a warm
delicate hand to him. Somewhat taken aback, he
took
it. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

"Yes?" he asked. Her voice was startling
too, bold
and arresting, not at all congruous with her physical
appearance. It was a far better indicator of her
age
than her stature.

"Star Fleet sent me," she said, as though it
completely
explained her appearance at his door at this late
hour.

"That is obvious," said McCoy, looking at
her blue
medical uniform. She had to be newly assigned
personnel,
but he'd received no notification and the name
was completely unfamiliar. Although he had
to admit
that she certainly filled out the uniform well; he
wondered
how he'd ever mistaken her for a young girl.

She cleared her throat, and he looked up with such

guilty expression that the luminous black eyes
danced.

She tried again. "Doctor Emma Saenz, the
neuropsychologist?

You sent in a request." The eyes narrowed
slightly. "They did inform you I was coming,
didn't
they?"

"Can't say that they did."

She sighed. "Typical."

"Actually," McCoy said gently, certain that
personnel
had made a mistake, "I requested a

Vulcan neurologist."

"Yes?" Her eyes widened, making her look like
a
child again.

"Well, uh . . . how shall I put this
tactfully? I'm
afraid your ears are all wrong for the job."

She laughed so delightfully that McCoy laughed
with her, a little uneasily. "Dr. McCoy,
what was your

MINDSHADOW
request for? A neurologist for

Vulcans or a neurologist
who is a Vulcan?"

"The first, of course," he said, feeling very
foolish
as he realized what she was going to tell him. "I
guess

I just assumed they'd be one and the same."

"I see. Well, I am a Vulcan
neurologist of the first
sort, even if my ears are wrong."

"I guess you got me on that one. Is there
anything I
can do to make it up to you? Help you find your,
quarters or show you to sick bay?"

"No thanks. I'm sorry, I didn't
realize what schedule
you were operating on here; I can see it's late for
you, so I'll take a look at the patient tomorrow.

But
you could tell me where I could find a drink."

"You can get beer or wine in the rec lounge."

She wrinkled her nose. "Nothing better?"

He thought for a moment. "Do you drink bourbon?"

McCoy sat with Emma Saenz in the rec
lounge and
poured shots for the two of them. He knew that he
would regret the loss of sleep the next day, but
there
was something so intriguing about this woman that he
resigned himself to enjoy the situation and catch up
on
his sleep another time.

The universe was in some ways infinitely vast but
at
times could seem amazingly small. McCoy had
just
discovered that Emma had attended the same medical
school as his daughter.

"I was in the class two years ahead of

Joanna. I
can't really say that I knew her very well, but I
did
meet her. Of course," she said with exaggerated
seriousness,

"I was much older than she."

"Very tactful." McCoy smiled and refilled

Emma's
glass. "And are you still much older than Jo?"

Emma grinned and took a sip. "I
guess that's the
way it works. What did she specialize in?"

"Same thing I did--general surgery."

"You must have had a great influence on her."

"Not as much as I would have liked to." McCoy
looked down at his glass, his pride tinged with
guilt.

"Her mother and I were divorced when she was still
quite young. Then I went into the service and I was
unable to share custody. Oh, we visited from time
to
time, but these days we're both so busy we don't
get
much of a chance to see each other. Last time was
three years ago."

"Even so, you were obviously a very important part
of her life. You must be very proud."

"I am."

"And you never remarried?" Her voice seemed
more concerned than prying.

McCoy drained his glass. "I've heard that
there are
some people who have successfully mixed Star Fleet
careers with marriage, but I'll be damned if I
know
how they do it."

"I know what you mean," Emma said darkly.

"Not to try to change a depressing subject, but,
would you like to know anything about your patient?"

Emma brightened. "Yes. I've never worked with
a Vulcan-human hybrid before. I find the
opportunity
to study the lateralization of Spock's brain
fascinating."

"Funny you should put it that way," McCoy
muttered
under his breath, but continued before she could
ask him to repeat what he had said. "After the
accident
on the planet surface, there was obvious severe
trauma to the left hemisphere of the brain. I
treated it
immediately with alpha-dextran, but the patient still
showed signs of severe aphasia and retrograde
amnesia.

MINDSHADOW

Earlier this evening, I got a report that the
patient
spoke clearly--a couple of sentences
with his usual
choice of vocabulary. The aphasia seems
to be improving,
but the improvement seems to come and go. I
questioned him and he spoke very little. I'm not sure
what that indicates."

Emma seemed encouraged. "Actually, that's a
fairly good sign that the aphasia will improve
rapidly.

And the amnesia?"

"No improvement."

"Any other sign of functional impairment?"

"I've done some brain scans, but it's very
difficult
to know if the scanner is properly calibrated for
him;

I'm not even certain what the readings are telling
me.

He may have some impairment of mathematical
ability."

The slight constant smile that Emma had worn
throughout the evening swiftly metamorphosed into a
frown. "I've never really trusted those things. Of
course, I realize that having the proper
equipment is
extremely valuable in testing for damage to brain
function, but I don't like depending on them
entirely
for my diagnosis. God knows they're not
infallible.

The slightest loss of calibration can cause an
incorrect
reading."

"Amen," McCoy agreed fervently. "It's
happened
to me more than once. I need them, I admit, but

I don't
trust "em. And with Spock--"

"I can help you calibrate it for Spock, and

I've
brought a Vulcan scanner that can help us map his
brain function. But to be perfectly honest with you,

I'll
put just as much stock in my own physical
examination
of the patient. I have a pretty wicked medical
intuition."

McCoy was beginning to feel relaxed and slightly
tipsy, more from exhaustion than from the bourbon;
the thought made him chuckle. "Just don't
tell Spock,
will you? He wouldn't be able to stand it if he thought
his diagnosis rested on human intuition."

She smiled at him and pushed the hair from her
face
carelessly. It was coal-colored, the same as her
eyes,
and cut sensibly short. She clearly did not have
the
inclination to bother with it, just as she did not bother
with other cosmetic enhancements. She didn't need
them, McCoy decided, not with those eyes and that
fearless manner of hers. Perhaps at first glance some
would not consider her beautiful, but anyone who took
the time to look again would be able to see how
attractive she really was.

And McCoy was definitely taking the time.

"Then we won't tell him, Leonard," she
said. "Of
course, I don't mean to say that the tests aren't
important. Some of them are critical--
especially those
which let us know what kind of personality changes
to
expect."

Now it was McCoy's turn to frown.

"Personality
changes? But we're talking about a Vulcan here

--"

She became totally serious. "Funny how the
old
prejudices still exist. The fact that Spock
considers
himself a Vulcan and has received emotional training
does not exempt him from the possibility of a
personality
disorder. Changes in the chemical
neurotransmitters
or damage to certain receptors can cause
personality
changes, or emotional illness, or whatever you
want to call it. It's chemical. It has
nothing whatsoever
to do with one's emotional control. Even the

Vulcans,
as logical a people as they are, find it hard
to admit that
mental disease exists among their own people."

"What kind of changes are you talking about?"

"In the case of traumatic injury
to the brain, in both

MINDSHADOW
humans and Vulcans, we must be alert to the
possibility
of tendencies toward depression, irritability-

--in
extreme cases, violent psychosis. Look,

I'm upsetting
you. I'm just talking about possibilities,

Leonard. I
haven't even seen Spock yet."

"You haven't upset me. I appreciate being
informed."

He forced a weak smile. "You know, you
must have driven the Vulcans crazy, with your talk
of
emotional illnesses and your intuition .... his

She took it as a compliment. "I must admit I

. . .

how shall I put it? . . . perplexed them a little.

They
never seemed to appreciate my frankness."

"I'll bet they didn't. But it's something we
certainly
appreciate around here." He smiled warmly and
leaned closer, but Emma was not listening. Something
had distracted her, and she stared at it intently.

McCoy
followed her gaze.

She was watching James Kirk.

McCoy had been right in assuming that Jim was
having another one of his sleepless nights, but you
wouldn't know it from his charming demeanor as he
approached the table.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked.

McCoy felt a surge of irritation. If

Emma hadn't
been here, McCoy would have received little more
than a grunt for a greeting. Sometimes Kirk's
overly
unctuous manners around women got on

McCoy's
nerves, and he had half a mind to tell Jim
about it.

Later, of course.

"We haven't met, have we?" Kirk asked

Emma
with a disarming smile. He almost succeeded in masking
his exhaustion. "I'm Captain

James Kirk."

"Emma Saenz," she said, offering her hand in the

Terran manner.

"Doctor Saenz is here on temporary
assignment
with us," McCoy said coolly. "She's here
to give us
her expert assistance with Mr. Spock. She's
a neuro-psychologist."

"Sit down and have a drink with us, Captain."

Emma returned Jim's smile.

"You mean Star Fleet actually filled your
request?

This soon?" Jim sat next to Emma and fastened
his
hazel eyes on her in a way that made

McCoy fidget.

"I'll sit for just a minute, but I'll skip the
drink if that's
all right. Doctor, we appreciate anything you
can do
for Mr. Spock. Perhaps Dr. McCoy has
told you how
important he is to us."

"Actually, I can probably do very little
for Mr.

Spock," said Emma.

"What do you mean?" Kirk's charming smile
faded.

"I can diagnose him. Dr. McCoy helped
him more
than anyone else by administering the
alpha-dextran in
time, but the rest is up to Spock. He'll have to do
ninety percent of the work. Motivation is the key
to
recovery in cases like this, and will be the deciding
factor in how complete Spock's recovery will
be. But
there is something you can do to help, Captain."

Kirk's expression was intent. "Name it."

"Be his friend. Do everything possible to encourage
him in his recovery. Let him know you need him.

Of
course, Leonard tells me he seems to have some
trauma-related amnesia. It would be very
frustrating
for him to be questioned about events which he has
difficulty remembering."

"I see." Kirk studiously ignored

McCoy's dark
glance. "Have you ever worked with Vulcans before?"

"I spent a year doing research and treating
neurological
and psychological disorders on Vulcan. Before
that, I worked in the same field for six years on

Earth.

I imagine that's why Star Fleet sent me
here."

MINDSHADOW

"Well," said Kirk, "I'm glad Spock
is in such capable
hands." The charming smile crept back. "We
need
him on the bridge and I sorely miss him as
an exercise
partner."

"Captain," McCoy lectured, "if you would just
learn to enjoy some individual sports--jogging,
swimming, gymnastics."

"I know. I wouldn't have to worry about someone
else's schedule and losing weight." Kirk
grimaced:

"Thanks, Doctor, but I prefer the
martial arts."

Emma sat forward eagerly. "Do you need a
partner?"

Kirk hesitated. She was petite, fine-boned

....

"I know what you're thinking, Captain," she said
with a sly half-smile. "Let me work out with you
tomorrow. I need the exercise and you need to change
your opinion of my capabilities."

"All right:" Kirk sounded totally unconvinced.

"What time, then?"

"Oh-seven-hundred?"

"Fine. But before I leave, I'd like some idea of
when I can expect my first officer back."

She turned sideways in order to face Kirk
directly.

"You have requested a replacement, haven't you,
captain. She looked from the surprise on the
captain's face to McCoy, whose eyes were
downcast.

"Perhaps you haven't been told the true extent of

Spock's injuries."

"Are you telling me that Spock will not return to
duty?" Kirk's jaw had tightened so much that it
ached.

Her eyes were sympathetic but unyielding in their
honesty. "That's one possibility. The best we
can
hope for is that it will be months before Spock is

to return to duty again."

Chapter Three

EMMA TURNED SHARPLY to McCoy. "You
did tell him
that, didn't you, Leonard."?"

McCoy shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"I told
him Spock's recovery might take some time."

Kirk had already regained his composure. "I
wasn't
aware... that it would be months, that's all."

"That's if he recovers well enough, Captain.

However,
since I haven't seen Spock yet, I can
only
speculate. But I am experienced in treating this
type of
injury, and recovery is usually quite protracted.

For
the smooth functioning of your crew, I
recommend
getting at least a temporary replacement."

"Yes, of course." Kirk was still expressionless.

"It's the logical thing to do."

Emma leaned back in her chair and took another
sip
of bourbon. "Look, I don't mean to be
insensitive. I'm
just used to speaking my mind freely and I feel
an
obligation to be honest with you about Spock's
condition.

I see no point in trying to soften the truth."

Kirk had found Emma attractive enough at first

MINDSHADOW
glance, but he certainly wouldn't have termed her
pretty . . . until she spoke. There was
something
striking about her directness, her honesty, that was
indeed beautiful.

"I appreciate that very much, Doctor," he
said.

"I promise I'll take a look at

Spock first thing
tomorrow and let you know as soon as I've made my
diagnosis."

"I trust that will be after the oh-seven-hundred
workout."

"Well, yes."

Kirk rose. "If you'll excuse me, I
think I'll be
retiring to my quarters now if I have to be in the
gym
that early." He did not ask McCoy for a
sleeping pill;
not here, in front of a crew member.

"I'll be there." She smiled warmly at him, and
they
exchanged a look that left McCoy feeling
distinctly
uncomfortable.

Emma watched the captain leave. "He's very
worried
about his first officer, isn't he?"

"Yes. They're very close friends."

She turned and raised an eyebrow at

McCoy.

"Close friends? A human and a Vulcan?"

"Does that seem so strange to you after
living for a
year on Vulcan?"

"Especially after living for a year on Vulcan."

The pained look on her face made McCoy
laugh. "I
take it you don't much care for Vulcans."

"It's not that I don't care for them, but that they
found me too exasperating. I decided that it would
be
kinder to them to relocate elsewhere."

"In that case, you're definitely my kind of
person,"

McCoy said warmly. "But it is true--Jim
and Spock
are close, in their own special sort of way.

Spock isn't
the type given to emotional display, and I can't
say
that Jim is the type to broadcast his deepest
feelings,
but each has risked his life for the other dozens of
times. There's a deep sense of loyalty between
them.

And while I can't tolerate any of Spock's
insufferable
logic, I like to think of him as my friend."

"I see." Emma drained her glass. "I
certainly can't
afford to mess up on this one, can I?"

The gym was large and airy, and the overhead
lighting simulated a skylight, giving the
impression of
filtered sunlight. To one side was an

Olympic-sized lap
pool, and over on the well-padded deck, a few
crew-members
were already working out, using the graceful
defense moves taught each cadet at the

Academy.

Martial arts was the old Earth term used to refer
to
them, but over the years the intricate moves had
become a combination of many ancient defense
disciplines
from many different cultures.

Emma was waiting on a far corner of the padded
deck, already dressed in a stiff white toga and
loose-fitting
pants. Her uniform seemed one size too
large
for her, as though the computer had synthesized it
with the idea that she would grow into it. The sash that
circled her waist was black.

She looked so small and vulnerable waiting there
that Kirk immediately regretted accepting her
invitation.

While he did not mind an occasional workout
with a partner of lesser strength, today he needed a
challenge, a match that demanded his total
concentration
and made it impossible for his mind to return to
the worries awaiting him on the bridge. He
felt some
resentment at having to worry about hurting her.

She began stretching on the padded floor while
he
went into one of the cubicles to change. He came
out
wearing a similar uniform, down to the color of the
belt around his waist,

MINDSHADOW

"Did you sleep well, Captain?" Emma
asked cheerfully.

She could not have had more sleep than he'd had
last night--three or four hours at
most--but she
seemed quite animated.

"Yes, thank you," he replied without thinking.

"You're a rather bad liar, Captain. You seem quite
tired."

He made a face. "You really believe in
telling the
truth, don't you?"

"I do. I'm not fond of deceit, even in little
things."

"Then I'll attempt to be perfectly frank
with you in
the future, Doctor," he replied
good-naturedly. "And
did you sleep well?"

"Not really. New assignments can be unsettling,
but

I intend to wear myself out so I'll sleep well
tonight. I
suggest you do the same."

Kirk did not ask her how in the hell she
intended to
wear him out.

"Any particular reason you haven't been getting
much sleep lately?" she continued
casually.

"Ah," said Kirk. "The psychologist part of the
neuropsychologist."

"I don't mean to pry, Captain. It's just that

I
thought you might have a lot of things on your mind.

Dr. McCoy told me that you are good friends with

Spock, and I also know that the situation on

Aritani is
critical."

"I appreciate your concern, but there's not much I
have-to say about Spock. And as far as

Aritani's
concerned, the situation is under investigation by Star

Fleet. I'm afraid I can't discuss it with you
until I
know your security clearance." He intended this last
as a joke.

"It might be higher than you think, Captain,"

she
teased. "We'd better start the workout then, if you

don't feel like talking. I have to be on duty in
an hour."

"We both do," he said, and they bowed
to each
other in the traditional manner.

As they began warming up, pacing around each
other slowly, carefully, Kirk knew that he was
indeed
the stronger. But something strange was happening.

True, he threw her twice, easily, and let
her throw him
once out of politeness; but then she threw him again,
and then a third time, without his cooperation. The
second time she threw him, he realized that he was
not
in as complete control of the situation as he had
thought--far from it. She had let him see that he was
in
fact stronger than she was, and then began
to trick him
into making incorrect guesses about what her next
move would be; more often than not, he wound up on
the deck.

The third time she threw him, he felt a sense
of
relief; he no longer had to be polite and
hold back. He
lashed out with the anger that had consumed him for
the past several days. As he reacted with more of his
strength, so she reacted with more of hers, which Kirk
guessed was twice that for a female her size.

She was
small, but she used it to her advantage, throwing
him

again with no more effort than one might exert doing a
lively dance step. Kirk fell on one shoulder
and rolled
to his feet.

"You didn't learn those moves in medical
school,"

he gasped and they sat, sweating, on the deck.

"You're definitely anything but an amateur.

You've
been studying for years."

"Everyone needs an outlet." She shrugged away
his
compliment.

"Well, you have quite an outlet there, Doctor. You
tricked me into quite a few stupid moves."

"I prefer to call it strategy."

MINDSHADOW

"Call it whatever you like. And you're really quite
strong."

"For a woman my size," she finished for him
good-naturedly.

"Yes, if you insist on total honesty.

Strength like
that is another thing you didn't acquire in
medical
school."

"I lived on Vulcan for a year, Captain.

The heavier
gravity begins to affect muscular size and
strength
after a relatively short time. After I left,

I took care not
to lose my newfound strength."

"You've maintained it very well. Look, I'd like
to
work out with you again sometime, and learn some of
those tricks .... his

"Strategies," she corrected him. "It's
basically just
the art of luring people into false assumptions and then
surprising them."

"You're very good at it."

Her lips curved up slyly at the ends.

"Thank you."

They were dressed in their uniforms and leaving the
gym when Emma asked again about the Aritanians.

"The pirates are still attacking the populace.

They've either found a way to get around the shields
we installed or they've developed a new
cloaking
device."

"What will happen to the Aritanians?"

"That's one of the reasons I haven't gotten much
sleep lately. They've asked us not
to interfere."

Her eyes widened with horror. "Just let the
pirates
wipe them out? You aren't going to leave it at that,
are you?"

Kirk was relieved to see that someone shared his
reaction. "No, I'm not. The Enterprise will
stay in the
area and do what we can."

"Which is?"

"We'll try to catch one of the pirates. It's
a long
shot, but there's not much else we can do to help."

"Do you think you'll catch any fallout
from Star

Fleet about staying against the Aritanians"

wishes?"

"Star Fleet ordered me to do what I can
to protect
the Aritanians. The way I see it, I'm just
following
orders." He lowered his voice. "I can't just
leave
them .... his

Emma's expression darkened, and something in the
black eyes burned. "For the sake of the

Aritanians,

Captain, I hope you capture a pirate...

after what the
pirates have done to them, and to your people."

She leaned forward out of conviction for what she
was saying; her black brows were knitted together
over wide eyes whose intensity nearly overpowered
her delicate features. Kirk made up his
mind that she
was beautiful, all the more so because of her complete
unselfconsciousness.

They both realized at the same time that he was
staring at her, and they lowered their eyes.

Kirk
cleared his throat. "Give me a call when your
diagnosis
is ready, Doctor, and I'll come to sick
bay. I prefer
to discuss it with you in person, if that's all right."

"Certainly, Captain," she replied, her
eyes shyly
fastened on a point just beyond his left shoulder.

"I'll
call you as soon as I've discussed the results
with

Dr. McCoy."

"Thank you, Dr. Saenz," he said formally.

"I'll be waiting."

The testing was completed, and Emma Saenz
dimmed the lights in the intensive care ward again.

A
brightly colored printout of Spock's brain
scan covered
with scribbled notes lay on the empty bed next
to

Spock's; both of the critically burned
crewmembers
had improved and had been moved into the
outer 68

MINDSHADOW
ward. The temperature of the room had been
raised
twenty degrees to accommodate Spock; most
humans
would have found it oppressive, but Emma was not
even perspiring. Out in the main ward, Christine

Chapel was making rounds; McCoy hadn't come
on
duty yet.

Emma Saenz was alone with Spock.

He sat on the bed, propped up, watching
wearily
while she sat on the empty bed to scribble more
notes
on the printout in the dim light. This one was not like
the other humans who had been taking care of him;
he
dreaded the others' touch, for he had lost the
ability to
shield himself from the minds of others, and found
himself being invaded by their thoughts and emotions.

This woman was different. She seemed to sense his
difficulty, for her touch brought nothing,
no chaotic
thoughts, no swirling emotions. Perfect mental
shields, unheard of in humans.

Emma put the printout carefully aside and
stood up.

Even in the shadows, her eyes shone with a strange
light; they sought out Spock's. She moved toward
the
side of his bed with slow, measured steps.

"I ask you to trust me, Spock," she said in a
voice
so low it could be discerned only by Vulcan ears.

Spock did not reply, but met her gaze; he
could not
have looked away had he wanted to.

She was closer now, bent over the bed with her pale
olive face close to his. He watched in
fascination, and
did not flinch; her nearness did not irritate
him, as
other humans' did, for her mental shields were still
up.

Then with a slow, steady hand she reached for his
temple. "You must trust me, Spock." Her
voice was
soothing, hypnotic.

His eyes filled suddenly with horror, and he
raised a
weak hand to stop her. But it was too late, for she
had
both hands fastened on his temples now, and her
strength was greater than his.

"No," she ordered sternly, as Spock fought
to pull
himself from her grasp. "Don't fight it. It will be
worse if you fight me."

He shuddered as he felt her mind reaching for his.

She was free to take what she wished, for he had
lost
the power to hide his thoughts from her. But what she
was doing was hideously obscene, an unpardonable
breach of the most basic decency . . . those who
learned the discipline of the mind meld on Vulcan
were
required to take an oath that they would die before
violating the privacy of another's consciousness
against his will.

He could see nothing but her face above him, now,
and huge black eyes fierce with concentration as they
looked deeply into his; opaque
eyes, unreadable and
so black Spock could not distinguish pupil from
iris.

"My mind to yours, Spock..."

She had to lower her own shields to go deeply, and
as she did so, Spock gasped and tried to pull
away.

"No," she said quickly. "Don't think about me.

It's
not important. Think about Aritani. What do you
remember, Spock? You can fool our instruments,
if
you are clever, but you cannot fool me. I must know
what you remember."

The furrows in her forehead smoothed as she found
what she wanted, but she did not relax her grip
on

Spock.

"You know who I am now," she said as he struggled
weakly in her grasp. "But you will forget that as
well."

As she spoke, Spock's eyes dulled and went
blank
like a light suddenly extinguished.

The sound of the door opening made her
pull away
from him abruptly.

"Sorry if I startled you. Whew, it's hotter
than

7O

MINDSHADOW

Hades in here. Don't know how you stood it all
this
time. And how can you take notes in this dim
light?"

McCoy turned up the lights. "You haven't
finished
yet, have you?"

"I'm afraid you're out of luck, Leonard."

She
smiled and picked up the printout. "I just
completed
the last test."

"Oh." He did not hide his disappointment. "I
was
sort of hoping to learn a thing or two." An
odd
expression came over his face as his eye caught

Spock. The Vulcan was leaning heavily against the
pillows, breathing rapidly, his eyes
glazed as if he were
in shock. "What in blazes has happened
to Spock? Is
he all right?"

"He's fine. But the verbal tests can be
physically
and emotionally exhausting. I think that the kindest
thing we can do for him right now is let him rest in
privacy."

McCoy looked uncertainly at Spock for a
moment.

"Yes, of course, Doctor."

The lab was empty; McCoy closed the door
behind
them. Emma sat at the counter and spread

Spock's
brain scan out in front of her.

"All right--diagnosis first, Leonard. Take
a look.

right hemisphere, left hemisphere. You can see
the
damage to the left cerebrum. The result is as
you
said--retrograde amnesia and nominal
aphasia. The
intellect is unimpaired, with the exception of a
slight
loss of mathematical ability, which should respond
to
tutoring. The aphasia is improving, no doubt
because
of your prompt treatment with the alpha-dextran.

However, there seems to be no improvement of the
amnesia. And there is an interesting result of the
amnesia--he has lost the Vulcan mind
rules."

"All of them?"

"As far as I can tell."

"How permanent is the damage?"

"Amnesia of this type often improves, but there
is
no way to predict how long recovery will
take."

"It could be months

"Or years." Emma looked up at him. "Or
it might
never improve."

McCoy digested this for a moment, then said
quietly,

"So what is your recommendation,

Doctor?"

"Keep him here for a while until he
improves, at
least physically. The aphasia will clear up
rapidly. We
can monitor him to see if the amnesia
improves. Even
if it doesn't, we can get him a tutor
to reteach him the
mind rules."

McCoy nodded. "Even if he doesn't ever
remember
what happened to him on Aritani, he'll still be
able to
function."

She started to say something and stopped.

"Won't he?" asked McCoy. "There's something
else, isn't there?"

"Yes," she said. "The damage also affected
certain loci--neuroreceptors--comhere," she
pointed, "and here.

When these are damaged in a Vulcan, they may
trigger
violent psychotic behavior. He is a
hybrid and it might
be that he won't react in that manner, but the
possibility
exists and you should be aware of it. I recommend
someone keep a constant watch on him. You may
want
to keep him under restraint."

"I'd rather not do that to Spock until absolutely
necessary," McCoy said with sudden vehemence.

"Of course, Leonard, I understand. But you should
also be aware that as a result of losing the mind
rules,
his psionic rating has increased. In humans and
in

Spock, telepathy is a right-brain function and
his is
unimpaired. But without the mind rules, Spock
is
unable to shield his own thoughts from other telepaths,

MINDSHADOW
or to block out the thoughts and emotions of those
around him."

"You mean--comhe can feel the emotions of whoever's
around him? And read their thoughts?"

"Without wanting to or trying. It's a very
unpleasant
experience for a Vulcan. You should take that into
account."

"If Spock--if he does experience
behavioral
changes, is there anything we can do to help?"

"There is a medication we could try, but it's still
experimental. I prefer to wait and see if we
need it."

She leaned forward and rested a hand lightly on his
arm. "You know, Leonard, I've seen some very
bad
cases and considering what could have happened to

Spock, the prognosis is very hopeful. But there
is one
more problem."

He tensed. "What else?"

"I don't know how to make the chief medical
officer
feel better about the situation."

"I do," he answered, surprised at his own
response.

"Have dinner with me tonight."

"To discuss the prognosis?" she teased softly.

"Definitely not."

Kirk had almost stepped onto the turbolift in
response
to Saenz's call when Chekhov called to him
excitedly from Spock's station.

"Keptin! Two uncloaked pirate wessels

--on the surface
below

Kirk raced back to the con, heart pounding, but
he
did not sit down.

"They're hovering, sir." The Russian bent
over the
hooded computer screen. "Near the same area we
beamed you up from."

The area where Spock fell. "Mr. Chekhov,
compute
the trajectory of those ships if we "borrow"

their pilots
for a while."

"The wessels should crash--cominffthe mountains,
sir." He straightened and looked at Kirk.

"It should
present no danger to the population."

Kirk walked toward the helm. "Get a
tractor beam
on those vessels, Mr. Sulu." He leaned
over the
helmsman's shoulder anxiously as though his
presence
might somehow help to keep them from getting away
this time.

"Tractor beam on, sir."

Kirk had to force himself to sit in his chair to call
the
transporter room.

"Lyle here, sir."

"Two to beam up from the planet surface, Mr.

Lyle.

Chekhov will feed you the coordinates."

"Captain," said Sulu. "One of the ships is
tearing
up."

"Did you adjust the beam for the size of the
vessel?"

Kirk was immediately embarrassed at his own
question; Sulu was one of the most competent helmsmen
in the Fleet.

"Yes, sir. He's trying to move the ship off
course."

Kirk punched a toggle on the console.

"Kirk to

Security."

"Tomson here."

"Lieutenant, I need a security team of
four to the
transporter room on the double. We have two
prisoners to escort to the brig."

"Right away, Captain."

Kirk called Lyle back. "Bring them
aboard, Mr.

Lyle."

He could hear the whine of the transporter, and the
sound of Lyle drawing in his breath sharply.

"What's
wrong, Lyle? Are the prisoners aboard?"

"Yes, Captain." Lyle sounded shaken.

"I'm afraid

MINDSHADOW

I'll need to have some medics to pick up one of
them.

He was only half-caught by the beam."

"The other?"

"They're taking him to the brig now, sir."

"Keptin," Chekhov interrupted. "The
ships have
crash-landed near the mountains. One was completely
torn apart by the tractor beam; the other is
damaged
but salvageable."

Kirk almost laughed with exhilaration. They had
done it at last--they had a pirate, and now his
ship. He
called Scott.

"Scotty, I've got a pirate ship on the
surface we
need someone to disassemble and beam up here.

Think you can find some volunteers who'll risk
it?"

"Aye, that we can," Scott said exuberantly.

"Did
we catch a pirate, Captain?"

"That we did, Scotty."

Scott emitted a low rumble in his throat.

"I'm not
responsible for what I might do to him, sir.

What kind
is he?"

"I'll know soon, Scotty. I'm on my
way down to the
brig now. How soon can you get some people down
there?"

"Yesterday, sir."

The Vulcanoid behind the force field was tall,
lean
and aristocratic of bearing, but there the similarity
ended; the expression of open hatred on his face
negated the possibility of his being a native of

Vulcan.

Romulan, then; but he did not fit Kirk's
idea of what a

Romulan should look like, for he did not wear his
hair
in the Romulan style. Thick and wavy, it was
brushed
straight back from the widow's peak on his forehead
and curled onto his shoulders. Nor did he wear
the
sedate Romulan military uniform; his bright
red tunic
fit snugly underneath a long, loose-fitting
vest.

He had apparently not been blessed with the discipline
and courtesy of the Romulan culture, for as

Kirk
approached the brig he spat at him. The
spittle hit the
force field and slid to the floor of the brig without
hitting its target.

It did not surprise Kirk to see a

Romulan dressed as
a pirate. The Praetor's Empire placed
heavy demands
on its subjects; nothing less than excellence
was accepted,
whether one served the Praetor in the military
or as a civilian, and dropouts were not tolerated
within
the society. Those who did not fit into the spartan
way
of life were dispatched, or they escaped to become
outcasts... or pirates.

"Murderous whelp!" The pirate cursed

Kirk.

Kirk answered coolly in his best imitation of his
first
officer. "I've murdered no one. The death of
your
cohort was an accident. You, on the other hand, have
no doubt killed a number of

Aritanians and quite
possibly some of my people as well. What were you
doing under our protective shield?"

The Romulan eyed Kirk as though he were
insane.

"Shield? I encountered no shield."

"Perhaps you used a shield neutralizer." Kirk
watched carefully for a reaction. "Are you working for
the Praetor?"

The Romulan laughed scathingly. "Shield
neutralizer!

You are a stupid human. I work for no one but
myself."

"What were you doing on Aritani?"

"My friend and I were merely flying over the planet
surface when you attacked us--"

"We beamed you aboard," Kirk said calmly.

"Yes, and in your incompetence, you killed my
friend to And you accuse me of killing people--"

Kirk leaned forward, his voice so soft the

Romulan
had to strain to hear it. "I regret that. I would like
to

MINDSHADOW
have two of you, so you could try to corroborate
each other's story. Why wasn't your cloaking
device
on?"

The Romulan's eyes widened. "Such
accusations! I
don't know what you're talking about."

"We'll see. We have your ship."

"I don't believe you." The Romulan's
sneer faded
slightly.

"It really doesn't matter," Kirk continued in
the
same low voice; he clenched his fist as a wave
of
irrational hatred swept over him. The

Romulan
seemed to sense it and pulled back slightly from the
force field. "Why don't you relax now? Our
medical
officer will be down later to talk to you and give you a
little something to help relax you."

"You Federation types are pathetic. What makes
you think you have anything that could make a Romulan
talk? We are impervious to your
interrogation
methods."

Kirk smiled tightly. "You meant to say, the
trained
and disciplined members of the Romulan military
are
impervious . . . to almost anything. But you aren't

Vulcans. We can get information out of you."

"I have nothing to hide." The pirate turned his
face
away.

"We'll see," said Kirk. He left while
he could still
control his impulse to put his hands around the

Romulan's
neck.

Emma and McCoy were in the laboratory looking
at
another brain scan; Emma sat at the counter
with the
printout spread out in front of her while

McCoy leaned
over her shoulder--a little too closely, Kirk
thought,
even for colleagues. They were laughing when
he
came in, but when they saw his face, they stopped
abruptly.

"What's happened, Jim?" McCoy asked.

The captain
was no longer weighed down with fatigue and
concern; his movements were electric, purposeful.

"We got one, Bones," Kirk gloated.

McCoy's face broke into a broad grin.

"What did you catch?" Emma searched Kirk's
face
and then McCoy's until she understood. "A
pirate?"

Kirk nodded. "Romulan."

"Is he really a pirate," asked McCoy,

"or one of the

Praetor's boys?"

"That's what I want to find out. I'm going
to need
you later, Bones. We're bringing up the
wreckage from
one of the ships, and I want to examine it before we
question him, but after that--"

"You'd like me to concoct a little potion to loosen
his tongue."

"Exactly."

Emma looked surprised. "Do you really have a
truth serum effective against Romulans?"

McCoy shrugged. "It sometimes is. A lot
depends
on the individual. With a little perseverance, we can
usually find out what we need to know."

"Would you like to come along with McCoy during
the questioning?" Kirk asked. "Your knowledge of

Vulcan psychology might be useful."

She wheeled on him with such angry indignance that

Kirk drew back, surprised. "Vulcans and

Romulans
are hardly similar when it comes to psychology,

Captain,
although I suppose most humans assume they are
the same since they share a few minor racial
characteristics.

Their cultures and philosophies are
completely
different--"

Kirk held up his hands. "Sorry, Doctor.

I didn't
mean to overgeneralize. It was stupid of me. Still,

have more experience in psychology than either of

MINDSHADOW

"What time?" she said, suddenly cool.

"Leonard
and I were going to have dinner later."

McCoy did not need to look in a mirror to know
his
cheeks were flaming; and he was even more embarrassed
that such a perfectly normal statement would
embarrass him. Everyone else had a love
life; it was
perfectly normal. What did he have to blush
about? He
waited for the captain to make some taunting remark,
to say, "Excuse me, Leonard, I didn't
know"'' but
he did not.

"I don't wish to interfere in Dr. McCoy's
social
life," Kirk said in clipped tones, "but I
am unable to
predict when we'll be finished searching the ship.

I'll
call the minute I know something. But first, Dr.

Saenz,

I'd like to talk to you about those test results on

Spock."

The door to Engineering opened to reveal total
chaos. Pieces of metal had been strewn all
over the
deck; Kirk could recognize pieces of the
debris as
parts from a surface fighter. One of the pieces was
a
small, streamlined cloaking device, and he
picked it
up, marveling at its size--the one he had stolen
from
the Romulans scarcely three years ago had
been
twenty times the size.

Scott wriggled out from under a large piece of
bulkhead on the floor; nearby, a small
engine had been
completely dismantled. Kirk smiled to himself; at
least
part of Scott's thoroughness was not motivated
by his
desire to find the shield neutralizer as much as
by the
chance to tinker with someone else's engines. Scott
brushed dust and ash from his rumpled tunic and
walked over to Kirk, who knew the moment he
saw
the engineer's expression that they had not found
anything yet.

"I dinna understand, Captain." Scott shook his

head. "Ye kin see the little cloakin' device
there, but
that thing's designed to consume a goodly amount of
fuel. They couldna stayed cloaked more than seven
hours with it. They weren't under the shields to begin
with."

"So Spock was right." Kirk turned the device
over
in his hands. "Scotty, there's got to be something
else
here to explain it."

"But sir, we've just about finished checkin'

everything,
and there's not one piece of equipment here to
explain either how they got past the shield or how
they
stayed cloaked more than seven hours."

"Just about finished." Kirk looked up at

Scott.

"That isn't the same as completely finished, is
it,

Engineer?

"Well, no, sir, I suppose not, but the
only thing that
remains is to tear apart every bulkhead and see if
the
device is concealed somewhere--but I can't believe
it
could be small enough for that and still work."

"Keep looking, Scotty. I've got to know
something
before I go in to question the prisoner."

Scott's expression was dangerous. "I wish

I could
go with ye, Captain. I have a few things I'd like
to
clear up with that murderous divvil--"

"I know," Kirk said softly. "But I need you
here.

Keep up the good work, Mr. Scott. Give
me a call
when you've found something."

"We will, sir."

The instant the door to Engineering closed behind
the captain, Scott muttered, "But I
guarantee ye we
won't find a bloody thing." He eyed the
wreckage on
the floor and suddenly gave a piece of it a
disgusted
kick.

Emma was waiting for McCoy in front of his
quarters;
he'd stayed on duty a half-hour longer
to make up

MINDSHADOW
for being late that morning. "Hi," he smiled.

"Hello yourself." She leaned against the wall and
smiled up at him with an expression that could
hardly
be called professional.

"Look, I'm going to be a little late for dinner
tonight.

Why don't you go ahead and we'll take a
raincheck."

"No thanks, I thought I might go
along when the

Romulan is questioned. It sounds fascinating."

McCoy winced. "Did I ever mention that you
remind
me of someone sometimes--no, never mind. I
haven't heard from the captain yet today. It
seems he
has Scotty and half of Engineering going over that
pirate ship with a fine-toothed comb, and he wants
to
wait until they're finished before we question the
prisoner."

"Have they found anything?" Her eyes glistened
with interest.

"Oh, just the usual Romulan pirate
paraphernalia--cloaking
devices and whatnot. I take it dinher's after
the interrogation, then? Let me give Jim a
call and see
how it's going."

McCoy knew that something was urgently wrong
the instant he heard Kirk's voice on the
intercom.

"What is it, Jim?"

"I just got a call from Security,

Bones. It looks like I
won't be needing your help with that prisoner after
all.

He's dead."

Chapter Four

WHEN McCoy aND Emma arrived at the
brig, the
force field which had contained the prisoner was dark;
inside, security personnel were searching for
evidence.

Kirk stood where he had once faced the

Romulan,
but this time he confronted Security Chief

Tomson.

Lieutenant Ingrit Tomson was a colorless,
lanky
woman who stood a good half a head taller
than Kirk
in spite of her tendency to slump. She came from
an
icy colony planet that rarely saw the sun, and
her skin
and hair were so pale that she seemed lashless and
browless; when she blushed, the capillaries were
clearly outlined in red on her white
cheeks. Normally
serene of manner and countenance almost to the point
of apathy, she spoke to Kirk now with what was for
her an alarming degree of agitation. Her
security team
had just made one of the most serious mistakes a
security team can make: they had lost a
prisoner.

Tomson had not been on the Enterprise long, and
she was keenly aware that her promotion to security

MINDSHADOW
chief was recent enough for any miscalculation on her
part to be interpreted as greenhorn incompetence
rather than simple bad luck. She spoke
slowly, choosing
her words with care so that the captain would
understand that the situation had been handled with
complete professionalism. The fact that the
captain
stood listening silently, jaw clenched, with a look
of
barely controlled fury on his face, did not
bolster

Tomson's confidence any.

"The facts are, sir, that Ensign
a!-Baslama was
guarding the entrance to the brig when he was stunned
by a phaser blast coming from someplace outside the
brig. When he came to, he discovered that the
force
field was down and the prisoner and his own phaser
were missing. At first he assumed that the prisoner
had
escaped, and he contacted me. We did an
internal scan
of the ship, but we couldn't locate a Vulcanoid
on
board, other than Mr. Spock in sick bay."

"Any idea how long all-Baslama was
unconscious?"

"By his condition, I would say the phaser was fired
on light stun. He was probably out three or
four
minutes at most. Then we found his phaser on the
deck
of the brig." Tomson handed it to Kirk for
inspection.

"It has the Romulan's fingerprints on it,
sir. I'm taking
it to forensics to see if it was fired.

"After all-Baslama notified me, I immediately
checked with the transporter room and the shuttle
deck. No one has left this ship, Captain.

So right now
we're checking the air in the room to see if we
can pick
up any random molecules."

Kirk's scowl deepened. "Of what?"

"Of someone who was recently vaporized."

"The pirate," Kirk said, understanding.

"Yes, sir."

"But how did the prisoner get the phaser in the
first
place?"

"I had trouble figuring that one out myself, sir.

My
best guess is that someone brought it to him."

"Someone on my ship brought it to him," Kirk's
irritability was increasing, "so that he could kill
himself?.

It doesn't make any sense. If someone was in
collusion with him, why wouldn't they help him
escape?"

"I don't know, sir. But there was no
way he could
have gotten past the force field to take it from

Ensign
all-Baslama himself. This brig was absolutely
secure."

Up to this time Emma and McCoy had been standing
silently nearby; when Emma spoke, Kirk and

Tomson turned quickly to look at her. "If the
pirates
could get through the protective shield on

Aritani, why
should it be impossible for one of them to get past a
small force field?"

"A good question," said Kirk. "But we didn't
find
anything resembling a shield neutralizer on
their
ship."

Tomson took the question as an insult to her
professional
competence. "The prisoner didn't have any
type of device on him when we put him in the
brig,
ma'am. My people are very thorough when it comes to
searching prisoners." Tall and pale,
she stared coldly
down at small, dark Emma; McCoy thought
they
looked for all the worlds like two exact
opposites.

Emma persisted. "But you just said there weren't
any other fingerprints on the phaser except the
guard's
and the prisoner's."

"I don't have to explain to you how easy it is to
avoid getting fingerprints on something, do I,
ma'am?" Tomson's tone was less than
charitable.

Emma almost seemed to enjoy Tomson's
disgruntlement.

"Maybe the prisoner did escape, and planted
the phaser to throw us off."

Tomson's cheeks slowly turned pink. "First
off,

MINDSHADOW

Ensign all-Baslama swears that he was fired
at from the
corridor, not from the brig. Secondly, we've
already
searched this ship, and there aren't any Romulans
aboard. Thirdly, the prisoner didn't leave
via the
transporter or a hijacked shuttlecraft.

Would you like
to suggest just how he managed to get off this ship?"

Emma raised an eyebrow but remained silent.

One of the security men walked over and displayed
a tricorder reading to Tomson. "That confirms
it," she
said, pleased. "Someone was recently vaporized in
this room. Unless you're missing any crewmen,

Captain,
we'll assume it was the prisoner." She smiled
coldly down at Emma. "I'm afraid your

Romulan
didn't escape, ma'am."

"My Romulan?" Emma muttered so that only

McCoy
could hear. "I didn't realize I owned one."

"I'm aware that suicide is a favorite
pastime of
captured Romulans," McCoy said aloud,

"but who on
this ship would attack a security guard
to bring the
prisoner a suicide weapon?"

"Maybe not to bring a suicide weapon,"

Tomson
answered.

"Murder," Kirk said softly.

Tomson nodded. "It's the only good explanation

I
can come up with to fit the facts. Of course,

I'll know
more when I get the results of all the tests."

"But who---" Kirk began, and stopped
abruptly.

McCoy finished for him. "Who on this ship would
have a-motive?"

Tomson looked down at him grimly. "Are you
forgetting,

Doctor, how many of the crew have suffered
at the hands of the pirates? They all have a
motive."

More than enough, Kirk thought, remembering Ensign

Lanz. "I'll be in my quarters," he told

Tomson.

"Notify me when you get the results."

"Come on," said Uhura, "see if you
can play
along." She had just finished singing a song from the
heartland of Africa. Her forehead glistened with
perspiration,
and she thoughtlessly ran the back of her
hand across it. Spock was sorry that he had not
properly adjusted the temperature in his cabin
to accommodate
her; he had thought it should be tolerable
for humans, since it felt chilly to him.

"Come on," she urged, and Spock joined in with his
harp, the instrument blending with Uhura's voice in
an
eerily beautiful harmony.

Uhura nodded, smiling, and Spock nodded
back.

His physical injuries were now almost
unnoticeable
except for a slight limp. At Saenz's
urging, he had
moved back into his quarters. His Speech had
improved
as well, although at times he found himself at a
humiliating loss for a word, a situation that caused
great awkwardness for himself and his visitor.

Even
worse was his almost total loss of recent
memory; he
was unable to converse about anything save the
present and the far-distant past. Kirk, who had
at first
come the most often, now visited him hardly at
all, for
there was little else on Kirk's mind these days besides

Aritani, a word which held no significance for

Spock.

Dr. Saenz, on the other hand, came to see him
almost every day, and her visits did not trouble him
much, but they always left him with a vague sense of
uneasiness and he could never recall the sessions
clearly afterwards. Even so, her controlled thoughts
were a relief after being bombarded with the emotions
of the others.

Especially those of Christine Chapel; her
visits were
most distressing. She came to give him
physical therapy
for his left arm and leg and to encourage him to
speak. The physical contact between them during the
therapy session was almost unbearable for

Spock, a

MIN-DO DSHADOW
touch-telepath. Her emotions were violent and
disconcerting;
the overwhelming one was pity for him, which
shamed him. Her pathetic struggle to hide her
emotional
attachment for him made Spock in turn feel
pity
for her. It also reminded him pointedly of his own
pathetic efforts to deal with his own surging emotions:

frustration, anger, self-pity.

Ironically, it was his human side that now
struggled
to control his emotions, guarding them until his

Vulcan
control could be restored; but it was a tenuous
control,
one which could break easily at the first critical
moment.

The only visitor he did not dread was

Uhura, for he
did not have to speak and be reminded of the words
and incidents he could not remember;
instead, he
could let the music flow from him and forget for a
moment that things were not as they had always been.

"That was great, Spock," Uhura said. The beads
of
sweat on her brow had become small rivulets
and she
tried again to inconspicuously wipe them away.

Spock
laid his harp aside and walked stiffly to the
temperature
control. He'd lowered it already to a temperature
he thought a human should find comfortable, but his
memory was not reliable these days; he turned it
down
another ten degrees.

Uhura sighed gratefully. "Bless you."

At the same time as her sigh, Spock heard a
shuffling
sound outside the door to his cabin.

"What's wrong?" Uhura asked. "I didn't
hear anything.

Come on, let me teach you another song."

The sound of Leonard McCoy emitting a
monstrous
sneeze just outside the door was unmistakable.

Spock rose.

"Someone just passing by," Uhura said quickly, her
soft brown eyes wide.

If someone had told Spock that his expression was
one of affectionate exasperation, he would have denied
it. "Uhura," he said disapprovingly. He could
never seem to remember her rank.

She giggled. "Oh, what the hell," she said, and
went
to open the door.

"Surprise," the crowd in the doorway chorused
weakly.

"Not much of a surprise," Uhura said.

"Really,

Doctor."

,I think I may be coming down with something,"

McCoy ShUffled. "They can transport a
man's molecules
across space, but they can't prevent the common
cold." Standing beside him was the captain, Dr.

Saenz, M'Benga, and Christine Chapel.

Spock regarded them with curiosity as they
trooped
into his cabin. The conflicting thoughts were
reeling;
he couldn't sort them out to interpret the reason for
the mass visit. They stood nervously around the
captain,
who was holding a small square object in his
hand.

He smiled at Spock. "I have a little something for
you from Star Fleet Command, Mr. Spock." He
held
out the small dark box and opened it.

Neatly arranged within the box, the shiny silver
medallion hung from a dark blue ribbon.

Spock held it
up to the light; it was inscribed on the back with his
name and the date of his injury in Vulcan script;
on the
front was the Federation logo, the Roman letters

UFP enclosed in a shield.

He did not remember what the captain said to him
afterwards; nor did he remember thanking the
captain
or watching everyone leave. But after they were gone,

Spock sat in the traditional posture before the
stone
meditation statue in his room. He could
remember the
posture, and the purpose and symbolism of the
small
stone statue with the throbbing flame in its belly, for

MINDSHADOW
his earlier memories, especially those of

Vulcan, had
not been lost--if anything, they had become
stronger.

Yet he was unable to summon the discipline of
meditation;
a part of him was gone, a part without which he
could not function as Spock.

He drew the silver medal from the box--the Award
of Valor, the Federation's highest decoration for the
wounded--comand turned it over in his hand. The date
meant nothing to him; he could not even vaguely
remember the incident for which he had been
decorated.

His hand closed over the medal.

For a long time, he sat before the statue, his eyes
wide and unseeing, and in his mind one word pulsed
like the flame: Remember.

Kirk was back on the bridge when Tomson
called
with the report from forensics.

She sounded quite pleased with herself. "I think
you'll find this interesting, Captain. Ensign
all-Basla-ma's
phaser was fired twice--once on stun and once
to
kill."

"That's what you expected, isn't it?

Also-Baslama
was stunned, then the prisoner--"

"Remember, sir, all-Baslama was not stunned
with
his own phaser. He was wearing it at the time he was
stunned."

"Of course. So it means---"

"It means that all-Baslama was stunned with someone
else's phaser, of course; then that person took
all-Baslama's
phaser and stunned the prisoner with it,
then put the prisoner's fingerprints on it, then-

--"

"Then murdered him." It was not what Kirk had
hoped to hear. "A very good attempt to make it
look
like suicide. Now what?"

"I'm afraid we're going to have to start an
investigation
of our own personnel, sir. I suggest we start
with

those who were wounded down on the planet surface.

Do you have any idea who might have had a
particularly strong motive for killing the

Romulan?"

"No," Kirk lied.

"Well, sir, I'm afraid that leaves me with the
very
unpleasant task of finding out which of our crewmen
is
a murderer."

It was Christine Chapel who found Spock
unconscious
on his bed; his wrists had been slashed with the
ceremonial dagger taken from his wall.

Emma and McCoy hovered over Spock in
sick bay,
but there was nothing more they could do except wait
for Spock's body to heal itself. Slender green
tubing
ran from the crook in Spock's right
elbow to a packet
above his bed; to one side lay Spock's harp--

McCoy
could not remember who had thought to bring it in all
the confusion.

Emma spoke barely above a whisper. "He
seemed
to be doing so well. I should have noticed the warning
symptoms."

"No one can believe it." McCoy's eyes were
fixed
on the life monitor. Spock, as always, would
survive.

That Vulcan had the toughest hide... "I just
don't
understand what prompted him to do it."

"We shouldn't have left him alone in his quarters.

It's my fault. I've seen enough of these cases
to know
better. Rational one moment, psychotic the
next. I
should have insisted he be under constant watch."

McCoy looked at her tenderly. "I thought you
were
a psychologist, Doctor. Are you
really going to try to
take all the blame?"

She smiled at him, a small, unhappy
smile.

"Maybe instead of trying to figure out what we
did
wrong," McCoy said, "we should try to figure
out
what to do right."

MINDSHADOW

"Okay." She straightened and squared her
shoulders.

"Let's put him on that neurotransmitter and
see
if it helps."

"Sounds like a step in the right direction. What's
the
name of the medication?"

"Neodopazine."

His eyebrows flew upwards. "Neodopazine?

That's
very experimental stuff."

"I know. I was one of the first to work with it. I've
used it very successfully with the violent."

"It's never been tested on Vulcans,
has it?"

Emma gazed back down at Spock; the

Vulcan's
breathing was slow and regular. Her voice sounded
very far away.

"Would you prefer Spock try to kill himself again?"

"Of course not, Emma, but I want to know what
other alternatives we have."

"We can send him away. To a star base
hospital if they'd take him--comif he becomes
more violent, to Ebla Two."

Ebla II was a maximum security
sanitorium for the
violently insane. McCoy closed his eyes
briefly and
shuddered.

"Let's start the medication, then."

McCoy had not expected to sleep well that
night,
but the last thing he had counted on was a call from
sick bay rousing him from deep slumber. Spock
had
torn the transfusion tubes from his arms. The
medic
had replaced them at once, noting that
they had not
been out long, and gone about his rounds. Now they
were out again. Did McCoy want the patient
restrained?

Reluctantly, McCoy ordered the
restraints. But he
could not return to sleep after that, and. when the

Vulcan finally awoke, McCoy was watching
by his
bedside as he had been for the past several hours.

The
confusion in Spock's eyes cleared gradually as
he
came to realize where he was, and turned
to irritation
at the sight of the tube in his arm and the restraint.

"Spock?" McCoy spoke gently. "Do you
remember
what happened?"

Spock frowned.

"Nurse Chapel found you in your quarters.

Spock

.. it seems you tried to kill yourself."

Spock tried to sit up, but the restraints held
him
back. "No," he said. "That's impossible."

It was the answer McCoy most wanted to hear; it
was the answer he wanted desperately to believe.

"Then suppose you tell me what happened."

"I don't remember," Spock said
vehemently. "But
it was not I... it was someone else."

"I want to believe, Spock, God knows,
but--"

"Then believe," said Spock, with such conviction
and so much like the old Spock that McCoy
believed.

He leaned over to loosen the Vulcan's
restraints out
of pity. "But who would try to kill you, Spock?"

"Someone's out to get you, Spock?"

McCoy could not recognize the voice--comcold,

Skeptical,
ugly--and turned around to see who spoke.

Emma Saenz stood in the doorway. "He's
generalizing
his paranoia, Doctor," she said loudly.

"He's
managed to convince himself that someone else has
done this to him."

McCoy could not believe that Emma was saying
these things, nor could he keep from losing his temper.

"For God's sake, if you have something to say, say
it
to him. Don't talk about him as if he can't
understand
you!"

Her anger matched his. "I know he understands
me.

And I won't let him deny the truth." She
moved to the
side of Spock's bed. "You attempted
suicide, Spock.

MINDSHADOW

Face it. You're depressed and it must be dealt
with if
you are to get better. Lying about it won't
help."

Spock's eyes flamed. "No," he said
explosively. "I
do not lie."

Emma leaned toward him fiercely. "If you
didn't do
it, Spock, then tell us who did."

"I... don't remember." Spock turned
away from
her.

"I thought so." Her manner became calm.

"Spock,
if you're going to deny the truth, I can't do
anything to
help you. I suggest you think about that, because your
captain and this ship need you to get better," She
turned abruptly to leave, but paused in the
doorway
without turning around. "I suggest you put the
restraints
back on him, Doctor."

The door closed behind her a split second before
the
harp struck it with an angry twang, Spock
slumped
back in the bed, breathing rapidly.

McCoy picked up the instrument gently and
examined
it. One of the strings had snapped, and there was
a small crack in the body. He returned it
to Spock's
bedside without comment, but the Vulcan did
not look
at it--comSpock was fighting an internal battle
now, and
the enemy was his own rage: rage at Emma

Saenz
because she did not believe, rage at himself because he
could not remember, rage at the unspeakably
irrational,
destructive act he had just committed.

A moment passed before Spock replaced his anger
with the cool expression McCoy knew so well,
an
expression the vehemence of his words belied.

"I can no longer remain here. I must go
to Vulcan."

McCoy could not pretend that he did not understand;

Spock, of course, feared the loss of emotional
control far worse than the other infirmities he
faced.

Still, McCoy tried to soothe him.

"Let me discuss it with Dr. Saenz,

Spock."

For a moment he thought Spock's anger might
erupt
again, but the Vulcan contained himself and
faced the
doctor calmly. Vulcans do not beg,

McCoy had to
remind himself, but the look in Spock's eyes was
the
closest thing to a plea that McCoy had ever seen.

"I must go now." Hoarse with desperation, Spock
resorted to a word McCoy could not remember
hearing
him use before. "Please."

McCoy closed the lab door behind him. He was
furious with Emma, so furious that he shouted.

"You'd better have a damn good excuse for what
you did in there. You just called a Vulcan a
liar, and
you, of all people, should know what an insult that is!"

"I know," Emma said quietly. She sat with
her
elbows on the lab counter, her chin resting on one
fist;
the ugliness that she had shown to Spock was gone,
and the anger, too, as though it had been a role
she'd
assumed for a few moments and discarded the instant
she left intensive care.

She was once again the person with whom McCoy
was falling in love.

He scarcely heard her, though, and went back
to
venting his anger while she sat patiently and
waited for
it to subside.

"And how dare you treat him as though he doesn't
exist, talking about him in the third person!

Dammit,
how can you be so insensitive to all he's gone
through?"

"Do you believe it?" Emma asked, watching
intently.

"Do you honestly believe that someone tried to
kill Spock?"

McCoy faltered, losing some of his steam.

"Well"

"If you had believed it, Leonard, you would have
called SecUrity, and reported it. But you
didn't."

MINDSHADOW

"Well, I believe him when he says he
doesn't remember
doing it."

Emma sighed. "I do, too. But that wasn't
all he
said. He's trying to blame someone else for it, and

I
refuse to coddle him by pretending I believe
it."

"Coddle him--" McCoy sputtered. "You were
downright insulting! You called him a liar, the
worst
thing you could call a--"

She lifted up her chin and sat up straight on
the
stool. "Leonard, you are too emotionally
involved
with this patient to do either one of you any good."

"Yes, of course I'm emotionally involved!"

McCoy
exploded. "But that doesn't mean I'm incapable
of
helping Spock. You, on the other hand, seem
to be
totally insensitive to his situation. If you ask
me, you
have something against Vulcans!"

Emma gasped and stood up so quickly that the stool
almost tipped over. "That's the most irrational thing

I've ever heard you say--"

McCoy thrust out his jaw. "Maybe you'd
better
send me to Ebla Two with Spock."

She drew a quick breath as if to reply heatedly,
then
suddenly stopped and sat back down on the stool.

She
closed her eyes and seemed to gather herself; when
she finally spoke, her tone was infinitely
patient.

"Please, Leonard, I can't bear to fight with you
on
this. We're both trying to help Spock. It's
just that we
have different ideas of how to go about it. Let's not
argue."

"Fine." He stood, arms folded tightly, his
eyes still
flashing with anger. He was not about to capitulate.

"Let's discuss it calmly, then."

Emma did not let herself hear the sarcasm in his
voice, but leaned heavily against the
polished black
countertop and sighed. GO-DO, she looked
lovely, McCoy
thought in spite of his anger, and so very sad.

She spoke in such a soft murmur that he had
to lean
very close to hear her. "I truly wish that I could
believe Spock's story. I know you feel the
same way.

Spock's subconscious has invented a way out
of accepting
responsibility for his desperate action. If
we go
along with it, he'll begin to truly believe it, and

Spock
will never deal with the problem. I've always believed
that you don't solve problems by pretending they
don't exist. I was trying to shock him,

Leonard--by
being cruel, I was trying to show him that he can't
run
away from what he has done."

McCoy did not pull his hand away when she
reached
for it; her touch was strangely hot, as
though she burned with fever. His anger melted.

"I'm sorry I upset you," Emma continued,
leaning
still closer. "But I've never been very
diplomatic. I
want to help Spock, but I will not encourage his
fantasies."

"I'm sorry I yelled... but I'm very
worried about
him. I still think you were too hard on him."

She smiled up at him, still holding his hand.

"Maybe I was."

McCoy was close enough for the first time to notice
her disperfume, a strangely familiar sweetness
that he
could not place, until he remembered the
wildflowers
on the planet below.

Clearly, the only logical thing to do was to bend
down and kiss her.

Some time later, Kirk stood indecisively in
front of

McCoy's quarters in the dimly lit
corridor. As much as
he hated resorting to McCoy's
concoctions, he hadn't
had much sleep in the last forty-eight hours and had
long ago finished the last of his brandy supply.

These
days he was becoming too tired even for his workouts
in the gym, and they were his only release of tension.

.96

MINDSHADOW

And he was looking forward to seeing Emma Saenz
again.

Kirk pressed the buzzer with reluctance. It
took
such an uncomfortably long time for McCoy
to respond
that he was convinced the doctor was sleeping
too soundly to hear, and he turned to leave.

He stopped as the door slid open. McCoy
wore a
short robe, and Kirk managed to repress a
sarcastic
whistle as he studied McCoy's pitifully
pale legs ending
in two bare bony feet. He'd never known the
prudish doctor to sleep in the nude before; perhaps
he'd been in the sonic shower. But the
room behind

McCoy was dark.

"Sorry to wake you," Kirk apologized, but

McCoy's
face was not sodden with sleep, nor was his
voice groggy. If anything, he seemed alert

--perhaps
even a little anxious.

"No problem," he said quickly. "What can I do
for
you, Captain?"

",ationo sleep in two days. I give up,

Doctor. Give me
something."

"Okay, Jim--just give me a second.

I'll call sick bay
and tell whoever's on duty what to give you."

He
disappeared into the darkened room, and Kirk began
to follow, but the door slid shut in his face.

He pulled
back, surprised and a little insulted.

He excused the doctor's rude behavior
by deciding
that McCoy was probably suffering from the
cumulative
effects of exhaustion himself when McCoy
appeared
in the doorway again.

"M'Benga's there. He'll give you what you
need,

Jim."

Kirk smiled wanly. "I really appreciate
this, Bones.

You'll never knoww"

A sound emerged from the darkness behind McCoy,
a sound that Kirk recognized as a feminine
yawn. His
first reaction was amusement; his second, as he
placed
the owner of the voice, was a far darker emotion.

It must have shown on his face, for McCoy faced
him with glittering eyes. You have no right, they said.

They were right; Kirk cast his eyes downward.

"Thanks again, Doctor."

"Don't mention it," said McCoy.

Christine Chapel was on duty in the main ward the
next day when McCoy entered, whistling loudly and
tunelessly.

"Whoever told you you could whistle?"

Mercifully, he stopped, but her affectionate
sarcasm
did not dampen his decidedly good spirits. "How are
you this morning, beautiful?" McCoy inspected
her
with paternal solicitousness. "You're looking a
little
tired."

"I am tired," she answered, immediately
suspicious
at his unusually complimentary appellation for her.

Beautiful was somewhat less than accurate; she'd
just
finished an eight-hour shift and knew with bedrock
certainty that she resembled something the cat
dragged in. "More than a little. I was just on my
way out--was

"Have a good rest," McCoy said warmly. "God
knows you deserve it after all the double shifts you've
pulled these past few weeks."

"We've all pulled double shifts the past few
weeks."

Her suspicion deepened; she folded her arms
and
assumed a no-nonsense stance. "All
right, Doctor,
what gives?"

McCoy's watery blue eyes regarded her
innocently.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Ever since Spock's injury and then the pirate
attack, you've been coming in here with a sour expression
on your face, complaining to the heavens like Job

about the unfairness of it all. Not to mention being so
dead on your feet that you hardly knew which end of
the patient you were working on. Now, today, suddenly,
you are filled with a limitless abundance of joie
de vivre--"

"We released the last burn victim yesterday,
and I
got a good night's sleep," he protested, but
he could
not keep from grinning. Chris knew him too
well. They
were comfortable around each other after so many
years, and had built up a trust--enough for her
to tell
him about her feelings for Spock, enough for him to
scold her into admitting the hopelessness of
them, and
enough for her to scold him for the protective barrier
he had kept between himself and the female sex since
his divorce.

He decided to keep her guessing at least a little
while
longer. That is, if she hadn't figured it all
out already.

"Who is she?" Chris asked.

McCoy attempted and failed to keep his grin from
growing ever wider and stupider. "I really don't
know
what you're talking about, Chris." He tried
to sound
briskly professional. "Is Dr. Saenz
on duty yet?"

Chapel smirked. She knew, all right. "In
there."

She directed a thumb at the door of the lab.

McCoy started toward it, muttering loudly so that

Chris could hear. "Man gets a good night's
sleep, and
suddenly his staff starts accusing him of all
sorts of
things..."

Chris called to him on her way out without turning
around. "Whatever you may have gotten last night,

Doctor, it wasn't a good night's sleep."

She disappeared through the door and he laughed
softly, feeling lighter and younger than he had in
years.

He walked into the lab just in time to see Emma
put
two capsules in her mouth and swallow. His grin
faded
instantly. "What's that you're taking?"

She turned around, startled. Her hand moved
instinctively toward the lone bottle on the counter as
if
to hide it. "It's nothing, Leonard. How are you
this
morning?" Her eyes were very bright.

McCoy picked up the bottle and read it.

"Levirol!

My God, do you have any idea what this stuff
does to
you?"

"Do you think I'd take it if I didn't?"

"This stuff can dangerously elevate your blood
pressure,

Emma--"

Her voice was that of a mother's calming an excitable
child. "Leonard. I have chronic pathologically
low blood pressure, and I have been taking

Levirol for
years. I monitor my blood pressure every
day, but
you're free to check it, if you're concerned."

"I am concerned," he said in a way that made her
smile. "You'd better be taking good care of
yourself."

"I am. Now what is it you've come to see me
about?"

"Spock."

"It's still too early to judge his response to the
neodopazine--"

"That's not what I need to talk to you about."

McCoy hesitated, looking for the right words.

"Spock
has asked me to send him to Vulcan."

"Eventually, perhaps---"

"He wants to go immediately. I can tell he
feels very
strongly about it."

"I hope you told him it was
impossible."

"I promised to send him."

"You didn't!" Emma confronted him, hands on
narrow hips, suddenly all sharp angles.

McCoy was
not surprised at the quick display of temper: he
had
recently come to appreciate the fact that this
woman
possessed a passionately volatile,
aggressive nature,
which her outwardly constant good humor belied.

lOO

MINDSHADOW

"You can't send him away now, in this condition. I
don't even know his reaction to the medication yet--"

"They'll take good care of him on Vulcan,"

McCoy
countered evenly.

"Good care!" Emma's laugh was bitter. "Have you
ever been in a Vulcan hospital, attended
by Vulcan
physicians? If you think I'm
unsympathetic... they'll
have no sympathy for what Spock's going
through
emotionally. He'll be reduced to a series of
numbers
on a diagnostic screen."

"I'm not sending him to a hospital," McCoy
said
quietly. "I'm sending him home."

Emma quieted and listened.

"Physically, Spock doesn't need to be in
sick bay.

His parents will keep us informed about his progress
on the neodopazine, and they'll take excellent
care of
him. His mother is human. I've met her, and I
know
that emotionally, she'll be a great source of
encouragement
to him."

"Leonard, you know they can't monitor him
constantly
the way we can here--"

"Maybe so. But he's ashamed, Emma, because
he's
lost the Vulcan mind rules. He can relearn
them on

Vulcan. I think they'll be the greatest help
to his
recovery."

"You talk about shame--you said I shamed Spock
by calling him a liar, but that's nothing compared to
the shame that Spock will experience on Vulcan
because
he is unable to shield his thoughts from other
telepaths."

"How else will he learn to do that? Besides, he'll
be
with his mother most of the time, and she's not a
telepath." McCoy looked at Emma
quizzically. "Why
are you fighting me so hard on this?"

She sighed silently and dropped her hands from her
hips in a conscious attempt to eradicate the
outward
signs of her anger. "I'm angry, because I
can't help
thinking--how will I sleep nights if Spock
hurts himself,
or worse, a member of his family?"

McCoy didn't have a convincing answer for that
one, only a gut feeling that Emma could
not seem to
share. "I just don't think he'll try to hurt
himself
again. I know he would never hurt his family."

"I don't buy that, Leonard. if you send

Spock home
without me to monitor his behavior, then you'd
better
make sure that someone sees that he takes his
medication. Damn sure."

"I will."

Emma stood on tiptoe, trying to put the

Levirol
back on the shelf; McCoy took it from her and
replaced
it easily. She pulled away from him, her
movements
tight with contained anger.

She turned to face him at the lab door. "I
can't take
responsibility for sending Spock home,

Doctor. I
won't sanction it. If anything happens--"

"I take all responsibility," McCoy
said.

He hoped like hell that he was right.

Chapter Five

EMMA SAENZ SAT pensively at the
desk in Spock's
cabin and watched intently as the Vulcan gathered
the
few things needed for his journey: a desert
softsuit,
boots, cassettes to study and, perhaps, to understand.

His blue science officer's uniform was already
carefully
packed away, and he now wore a
camel-colored
tunic of a lightweight material better suited
for Vulcan's
oppressive heat. It occurred to Emma that he
looked far more like a professor on sabbatical
from the

Vulcan Science Academy than a Star

Fleet officer on
leave. She forced her mind quickly to other thoughts,
but it was too late: the painful wave of
homesickness
was too strong to completely eradicate.

Spock picked it up immediately, of
course, and
straightened from his packing to stare at her with
gentle eyes, unable to comprehend what he had
sensed
her feel. Emma's eyes were wet, glistening
black. She
looked away.

He returned silently to his packing, and was still

attempting to interpret the sensation when the buzzer
rang. "Come," he said, before Emma could rise
to
answer it.

James Kirk entered, and stopped abruptly when
he
saw her, making no attempt to hide his
disappointment.

"Oh. Dr. Saenz. I didn't realize you
would be
here..."

"Hello, Captain," she said smoothly.

Surely he
must realize that Spock could no longer be
permitted
to remain alone in his quarters after the
suicide attempt--perhaps
he'd expected to find McCoy here,
under the circumstances. But McCoy was on the
hangar deck, fussing over the shuttlecraft
interior to
make certain that his patient's journey would be a
comfortable one.

Kirk had wanted to avoid the hangar deck
altogether.

"I was hoping to talk to Mr. Spock," he said
to

Emma. He did not say alone.

Emma knew it would be cruel to pretend she did
not
understand; she pushed herself away from the desk
and stood up. "I'll be outside if anyone
needs me."

"Thank you," Kirk said gratefully.

When the door closed behind Dr. Saenz,

Spock
closed the dresser drawer and faced his captain.

It was
not a moment to which either of them had looked
forward, but one that both knew could not be avoided.

Jim smiled, but his eyes were full of
misery. Spock
permitted himself a small sigh; he had
mind-linked
with the captain many times before, and such a telepathic
bond was not easily broken, especially with this
man, to whom he was closer than any other living
soul.

He steadied himself as Jim's despair washed
over him
with an almost physical force; he felt Jim
struggle with
the fear that his first officer would not return.

Spock knew the feeling well; he also knew it
was a
fear that might very well be realized. It was a
possibil-

MINDSHADOW
ity he regretted, for he knew the captain
needed him,
needed the solid Vulcan logic to temper

Jim's bursts of
intuitive insight--logic that Spock could no
longer
provide. It was at the same time both
reassuring and
distinctly painful.

Spock had already decided that there was no sense
in prolonging the pain by trying to say anything; each
knew the other's thoughts too well for speech to be
necessary now. Wordlessly, he offered Jim the

Vulcan
salute, fingers parting and uniting again.

The captain returned it awkwardly. Suddenly,

Spock perceived an impulse Jim had stifled,
aware of
the Vulcan's distaste for physical contact.

Spock decided
it would cause no harm to indulge the wish of his
friend; he extended his hand to the captain.

Jim took the hand, aware that Spock was now
forced to feel what he felt himself; he no longer
tried to
smile.

The whistle of the intercom ensured that the contact
would be brief; Lyle in the transporter room
was
looking for the captain.

"Glad I found you, sir. I thought you'd like to know
that Lieutenant Commander Varth has come
aboard."

"Varth." Kirk tried to remember the
significance
of the name.

"The new first officer, sir."

"Yes, of course," Kirk said shortly.

"Kirk out." He
hit the intercom with more force than was necessary to
terminate the conversation; when he turned back to

Spock, the look on his face was almost more than his
friend could bear.

"Go," the Vulcan said.

Emma Saenz was waiting outside the door when

Kirk came out. He tried to pass her without
speaking,
but she stepped in front of him, an unreadable
expression
on her face.

"He's that important to you," she said slowly.

Her
tone was hesitant, rising, almost a question.

Kirk did not understand what she was talking about;
he could not have answered her even if he had.

Angry
at the intrusion, he pulled blindly
away.

She stood outside in the corridor for a moment,
looking after him.

They were about an hour from Star Base 12 when

Mr. Scott first mentioned the slight malfunction
in the
control panel.

He shook his head. "I checked this vessel out
completely before we boarded her. I know for a fact

I
dinna miss anythin'. She was in perfect
shape."

"What's wrong?" Chapel asked. She was
sitting
behind and to the right of Scott, in the passenger's seat
next to Spock. She hadn't wanted to come
along,
considering the awkwardness of the situation, but

McCoy had insisted. She was the one person he
trusted to see that Spock made it to Vulcan in
one
piece.

"We're three hours out now," Scott
answered, "and
the indicator says we haven't used
any fuel."

Spock's eyebrow rose sharply. The temptation
to
ask the engineer how he had failed to notice the
problem much earlier was almost too great; Chapel,
however, had no such compunctions.

"Why didn't you tell us sooner? You must have
noticed it before---"

"I dinna want to worry ye," Scott
shrugged. "I
thought the indicator might just be stuck
temporarily."

"Stuck?" Spock's monosyllable managed
to convey
volumes of insinuation.

Scott became indignant. "Aye, stuck. It
happens.

All of the sudden, ye'il see half your fuel
gone where it

MINDSHADOW
indicated full charge not a second before. Or do
ye
think I don't know what I'm talkin' about?"

Spock deemed it wisest not to reply.

"Will it cause any problems?" Chapel asked.

"Ach, no, it shouldn't..." Scott began in a
soothing tone, swiveling around in his chair to look at
her.

"... unless, of course, we run out of fuel."

Spock
qualified the engineer's statement.

Aghast, Christine looked at Scott.

"Don't worry, lass," he said in the same
soothing
tone, "I'll notify Star Base Twelve of
our predicament,
and we'll have it fixed when we land."

"You mean if we land," Christine said coldly.

"What if we run out of fuel before we reach Star

Base

Twelve?"

Scott remained determinedly cheerful. "Then
we'll
drift, but we can always radio for help."

"Assuming," Spock began, "we aren't close
enough
to the star base to be affected by its gravitational
pull,
in which case--"

"You don't have to finish," Chapel said firmly.

"I
took physics." She turned away from

Scott, who
looked very much as though he regretted the rapid
improvement in the Vulcan's speech, and pulled
the
medikit from under her seat. "Here, Mr. Spock.

Even
if we are doomed, I don't want it said that

I forgot your
medication." She held out a cupped hand
to Spock.

The capsules resembled small violet ovals
of polished
porcelain. Once in the mouth, they would dissolve
without need of liquid; however, Spock could
not help thinking they looked more like something to
be aesthetically appreciated rather than digested.

He
picked them from Chapel's hand, careful to avoid
physical contact.

While Spock was greatly relieved that McCoy
had
prevented Emma Saenz from
accompanying him, he
had been less than comfortable with the knowledge
that Christine Chapel would be at his side throughout
the entire journey--although he had to admit that thus
far she had comported herself admirably,
exhibiting a
degree of control of which he had not thought her
capable; perhaps Dr. Saenz had warned her of his
increased telepathic vulnerability.

They traveled in silence for a time, the only sound
the soft, hypnotic drone of the Galileo's
engines.

Spock began to feel drowsy, but tried to stay
awake by
focusing his attention on the control panel. If
he were
going to be incinerated in Star Base 12's
atmosphere,
he would prefer to remain conscious for the last hour
of his life.

He started at the sound of Scott radioing for
landing
instructions--comhe had been sleeping, a fact he
found
highly embarrassing; sleep had
previously always been
a conscious act over which he'd had complete
control.

He glanced up to see Chapel studiously not
looking at
him.

Star Base 12 radioed permission for descent.

"How about that." Scott directed a
triumphant grin
at Christine. "Looks like we'll get there in
one piece
after all."

"Why, Mr. Scott," she replied with mock
surprise,

"don't tell me you had any doubts."

"Nooo... of course not."

The planet designated as Star Base 12 was
not
particularly scenic or suitable for shore leave,
although
some Star Fleet unfortunates were compelled
to use it for such. The Federation had claimed the
uninhabited world--since no one else wanted it,
as it
consisted of little more than sterile desert and a
hostile
atmosphere--and built airdomes that contained
hangars, restaurants, and bars, none of which were

MINDSHADOW
particularly enjoyable places to be, but which were
always crowded to capacity with bleary-eyed space
travelers. Star Base 12's popularity was
due not to the
quality of its eating and drinking establishments, but
rather to the fact that it was the one spaceport in this
rather remote sector that offered connecting shuttles
to more civilized parts of the galaxy: Rigel

IV, Earth,

Vulcan.

The Galileo's descent into the atmosphere was
rapid. Relaxed by Scott's good-humored
confidence,

Christine leaned forward to watch the viewscreen:

sleek white edifices covered by transparent
domes
rose gracefully from the lifeless yellow soil.

From the
rapidity with which the size of the buildings was
increasing, Christine guessed that the
craft was gaining
velocity, and turned to Scott to ask if they
shouldn't be
slowing.

She never asked the question. The engineer's eyes
were fixed on the instrument panel; the red warning
light was flashing, despite the fact that the fuel
indicator
blithely insisted that the Galileo's reserves were
full.

"That's it, then," Scott pronounced quietly.

"Oh, God," Christine said in a very small
voice.

She crouched low in her seat, no longer wanting
to
watch as the city loomed toward them ominously.

. Spock was not sitting that close to her, but he
could
feel the depth of her terror, although she
sat-quietly
with her arms clasped about her knees. As for himself,
he felt nothing other than a mild sensation of
relief.

Death could not have come at a more convenient time.

He was no longer useful to his
shipmates, the Service,
or his family, but a burden to them all.

The loss of Scott and Chapel, on the other
hand, was
something to regret. Spock tried to decide on the
most
logical course of action as he watched Scott
desperately try to maneuver the Galileo as she
approached
the hangar. Incineration was no longer a danger--they
were already too far down in the atmosphere--but
impact would be a problem.

The solution came to Spock in a flash, but in
images,
not words, and the power of speech chose that particularly
inopportune moment to desert him once again.

He struggled agonizingly to find the words, to tell

Scott...

But the words did not come in time.

Kirk and Emma Saenz stood arguing outside
sick
bay, still barefoot and wearing their white togas.

"I don't see why you won't let me take a
look at it,"

Emma said, her hands on her hips.

"It could very well
be separated."

Kirk winced as he touched his right shoulder. He
had no doubt that it was, but was just as determined as

Emma about the proper procedure. "It could be just
a
strain. I'll be just fine if I get some rest.

There's no
need to make such a fuss, Doctor."

"I'm not making a fuss. And, if I get
to beat you up
off duty, the least you could do is call me

Emma."

"Fine, Emma. I'll just be going to my quarters
now." He turned gingerly and began moving away.

"You're really something," she flared behind him.

The sudden heat in her voice made him stop and
face
her. "Quit being so ridiculous. We both know
the
shoulder hurts like hell and it's going to keep you
up
all night. It's my fault it happened and I
refuse to let
you lose any sleep because of it."

"It's not your fault," he protested quickly;
perhaps too quickly, because her anger was replaced by a
grin,
as though he had just said something very amusing.

"Is it, . . that you don't want to go into sick
bay

11o

MINDSHADOW
because you're afraid someone might find out that I
hurt you?" The question stung, but she asked it with
such good humor that Kirk could not take offense.

He tried to shrug, forcing himself to grimace again.

"I just fell on it wrong," he said lamely, and
was at
once embarrassed at his answer. Maybe she was
right;
maybe he couldn't admit that she could hurt him.

His
expression became so sheepish that Emma laughed,
and he had to laugh, too.

"Maybe I am embarrassed... a little," he
admitted.

"Even so, I don't like making a big deal out of
such a
little--Ouch!" He shifted the shoulder
awkwardly.

Her smile vanished. "It's not a little deal,

Captain.

If a separated shoulder isn't treated, you could
lose the
use of it. Then you'd have to get the ligaments
regrown
and undergo therapy for a long time. Look, if you
won't go inside sick bay, then at least let
me look at it
in my quarters. Indulge me. I feel very
guilty."

He smiled weakly. "You win, Doctor."

"Emma. Stay right there. Don't move." She
wagged
a commanding finger at him and disappeared into sick
bay.

He waited in the corridor, feeling very
conspicuous,
until Emma reappeared two minutes later
with a medikit.

"Was anyone there?"

"Just M'Benga. Don't worry, I just said that
my
workout partner needed a little emergency
treatment.

I didn't say who." Her eyes sparkled with
amusement.

"Funny, he laughed, too. I don't understand
why
people find it so difficult to believe I can be
dangerous."

"Believe me," Kirk said, gritting his teeth,

"I no
longer find it difficult."

She led him to her cabin and, unlocking the door
with a word, gestured him inside. Kirk entered.

idly, his hand on the offended shoulder, and half-
expected to find McCoy lounging on the bed.

The outer office was the same as the other senior
officers' cabins, but when she turned the light on
in the
bedroom, Kirk blinked in surprise.

"disLike it?" Emma motioned him toward the bed.

The entire room--combare walls, ceiling,
floor, and
every piece of furniture was stark white,
reflecting
the light with such glare that Kirk squinted. In her
white toga, Emma blended perfectly
into her surroundings
as though she were an extension of them,
distinguishable only by the slash of black at the
waist,
black hair and eyes, and the one bit of color in
the
comroom--her glowing olive skin.

"Interesting, but hardly regulation," Kirk said
politely
through clenched teeth.

"disIt's really hurting now, isn't it? Sit."

He balanced carefully on the edge of the bed. I
would think you'd get tired of not seeing any
color."

"White is the presence of all colors,

Captain," she
murmured distractedly as she removed his toga with
the skilled, economical movements of an
examining
physician. She stood back to study the shoulder
and
clicked her tongue with disapproval. "Looks like
more
than just a sprain here. Since you wouldn't
cooperate

With me and let me scan you in sick bay, I'm
going to
have to diagnose by touch." She paused. "If it
is a separation, this will hurt like hell."

"I can take it," Kirk said stoically.

He did not see Emma smile behind him. She
reached
with slender, determined fingers and, upon finding the
precise spot between the tip of the shoulder blade and
the collarbone, pressed firmly.

Kirk swore explosively and almost reared up
off the
bed, but she restrained him.

MINDSHADOW

"I thought so. First degree separation. Lucky for
you, the ligaments are still in place, but we'll need
to
wrap it so the joint is immobilized. Even so,
it's going
to hurt for a couple of days." She opened the
medikit.

Kirk sat on the edge of the bed, still smarting; he
was not feeling particularly lucky at the moment.

"For
a neuropsychologist, you seem to be quite
an authority
on shoulders, Doctor."

"Emma," she corrected him again. "I had four
years of medical school, like every other
physician."

He still could not see her face as she stood behind
him,
but he could hear by her voice that she suddenly
smiled. "Besides, this isn't the first time I've had
to
patch together one Of my workout partners."

"I'll have to remember that the next time I work out
with you, Emma." She had reminded him three times
now to call her by her first name, but still addressed
him by his rank; it was up to Kirk to return the
favor,
but he could not seem to bring himself to. There was
not a female on board with which he was on a first
name basis; making an exception was bound to be
dangerous.

Without warning, Emma emptied a hypospray
into
his shoulder.

"What was that for?" Kirk pulled away
instinctively
as he felt a rush of warmth in his shoulder; the
room
suddenly felt rather close.

"Cortrazide for the inflammation and an
analgesic."

She began ,ffapply the aerosol bandage; it
hardened
instantly.

"Hey, I can't raise my arm very far," Kirk
complained.

"That's because I don't want you to." Emma
stood
back a bit to scrutinize her work. "Not for a
couple of
days, anyway, so it can heal properly. Within a
week, I
promise I'll be injuring other parts of your
anatomy."

Kirk smiled. The ache in the shoulder was receding
rapidly, and he was beginning to relax in spite of
himself. He looked around the room again, this time
with unfeigned interest. "I think I'm beginning
to like
it. Bold and to the point, like its
occupant."

She laughed. "So you've decided it isn't so
bad?"

That's particularly revealing of your personality."

"Are you turning psychiatrist on me again,

Doctor?

Excuse me, Emma."

"Don't forget, I'm the one responsible, so it
reveals
more about me than you."

Kirk's anxiety had evaporated like a
forgotten nightmare.

"Then we must have some traits in common. Go
ahead, I've been analyzed before."

"You can take it, eh?" She teased, and walked
around the bed to face him with a playful expression.

"It means we both like white."

"I'll bet I can guess what a psychiatrist
would say,
even if you won't tell me." Kirk assumed
a mock
clinical air. "White, hmmm... You prefer
life to be
simple, straightforward. You dislike
complications."

"Who doesn't?"

"It's too bad it can't be that way," Kirk
sighed. "What?"

"Life," he intoned dramatically. "Too many
shades
of gray, too many compromises. It'd be
simpler if
everything was black... or white."

"Things never are," she said, taking his statement
with more seriousness than he had meant it. "Sometimes,
one is forced to recruit the forces of evil in
order
to do good." There was still the hint of a smile on her
face, but something about it reminded him of

Natahia,
of his first meeting with the small, sad leader when she
had agreed to use the Federation's weapons to save
her people... "Especially in my business."

MINDSHADOW

"A doctor?" he asked, surprised. "How
does a
doctor "enlist the forces of evil"?"

She laughed at herself and stood in front of him as
though she were waiting for something; with sudden
embarrassment, Kirk realized that she
must be waiting
for him to leave. He rose unsteadily to his
feet.

"Is it just me, or is it warm in here?" The
lack of
sleep must have finally caught up to him; he felt
almost
drunken as he reeled dizzily toward the door.

Emma
caught his elbow.

"Easy, Captain. That hypo must be relaxing you
a
little bit. It will help you to sleep tonight--you need
rest if that shoulder is to heal, and believe me,
there's
no way you'd be able to find a comfortable enough
position to sleep tonight without a sedative." She
put
an arm gently around his waist to steady him.

"I'll
help you to your quarters."

I don't need help, Kirk was going to say, quite
absurdly, until he noticed how close she
was standing
to him; he breathed in her scent, and was
overwhelmed.

Her eyes were open wide and glittered up at him
like
polished onyx. "Let me help you to your
quarters,

Captain," she repeated softly.

But he knew that he did not want to return
to his
quarters now. Buried in a different part of him,
a part
that seemed to be floating far away, was the memory
of McCoy; Kirk's rational mind knew that his
friend
loved this woman, and he tried to feel guilt for
wanting
to touch her.

But at the moment he could not give a damn about

McCoy.

"My name is Jim," he said.

"Jim," she said shyly, and loosened the arm around
his waist. He turned toward her and she reached,

hesitantly, for his face. He did not pull
away; her hand
was hot against his skin.

"Would you like to go to your quarters now, Jim?"

She was so small, so dark and delicate, he could
not
believe that she had hurt him.

"No," he whispered, "I wouldn't." He bent
down
to kiss her, and let the warm, dizzying waves
sweep
over him.

He closed his eyes and saw nothing but white--
bright,
hot white.

McCoy paced aimlessly in his quarters. He
had
keyed up the latest neurology journals, but the
dry,
cumbersome wording of the texts had nearly numbed
him to sleep, and sleep was the last thing he wanted
at
the moment.

Emma should have finished up in the gym two hours
ago.

McCoy argued vehemently with himself; he was
acting like a schoolboy--he should go and have dinner
without her. He was old, far too old
to fall into the
typical lover's trap--comspending all his time
waiting for
her, waiting for fear that she would come by his
quarters and he would be gone, and miss the
opportunity
for a moment alone with her.

He rose, but instead of heading for the door as he
had vowed to himself he would, he went to a small
cupboard recessed in the wall and poured himself a
shot of bourbon. He was still arguing: he was
hungry,
he'd been off duty almost two hours, he should
get himself something to eat. And if Emma missed him

--well,
too bad.

He sat down at the desk with the glass and the
bottle
and cursed himself. Acting like a kid, too old for
all
this foolishness. They were adults, for God's
sake; he

MINDSHADOW
had no right to expect her to come rushing
to him the
minute she finished her workout.

Still, he had hoped that she would.

He held up the bourbon so that it caught the
light
and shimmered golden amber in the glass. One thing
he hadn't done much lately was drink. His
features
involuntarily crinkled at the thought; there simply
hadn't been enough time for it. He and Emma had
been spending every free moment together. Most
nights she stayed in his quarters, and they always
requested the same duty schedule. About the only
time they spent apart was when she went to the gym.

Maybe that was it; they'd been spending too much
time together, and she felt smothered. He needed to let
her know that she could have more time to herself if
she wanted--even though he hoped desperately that
she did not.

He threw back his head suddenly and laughed out
loud at the absurd thought. If Emma wanted
time to
herself, she'd be the first one to mention it; tact was
definitely not on her list of virtues. She'd
be the last
person in the universe to let herself be smothered ....

And he felt anything but smothered himself. The
woman was a breath of fresh air; she made him
feel
young, so young that he'd almost forgotten the age
difference. She made it easy to love her; there was
never the undercurrent of tension that had pervaded
his marriage. If Emma ever had anything on her
mind,
she simply told him so. He was beginning
to remember
why people got married.

It was after almost an hour and the third generous
shot of bourbon that McCoy found himself calling

Emma's quarters without the memory of a conscious
decision to do so.

There was no response.

He called the gym. Sulu answered, sweating,
his
face guard pushed up, a fencing foil still in his
hand.

Yes, Sulu said, Emma had left the gym,
at least two
hours ago with the captain, who appeared to have
injured his shoulder.

There, McCoy thought, relieved and a little ashamed
at himself for checking up on her. A simple
explanation:

she was patching Jim up in sick bay.

M'Benga answered the intercom. "Why yes, she
was here... a couple of hours ago, and picked up
a
medikit. No, she didn't say where she was
going..."

The rational part of McCoy's mind commanded
him to stop, but he no longer could. He tried the
captain's quarters, the rec room, and then the
dining
room.

His face was pale when he called Emma's
quarters
again, but he knew before he tried that there would be
no answer.

He laid his head down on the desk.

Sulu faced his fencing partner once again, but did
not push down his face mask. "We've been at
it long
enough, don't you think?" He was perspiring
freely,
his almond skin flushed.

"Tired?" came the gentle voice from under the
facemask.

"Well . . ." Sulu smiled and winced at the
same
time. "It's been almost two hours. As much as I
appreciate good parrying, I must admit that's a
little
longer than I'm used to."

His partner pushed up his face mask to reveal a
silver complexion punctuated by a flash of
white teeth.

His brow was covered with a light mist, as though he
had barely begun to break a sweat. Millenia
ago, the
planet Radu had been settled by colonists from
the

Klingon system. Unlike their militant
cousins, how-

MINDSHADOW
ever, the Radu were a gentle folk who directed
their
intelligence and curiosity to matters other than
war.

"Don't tell me you're not tired,"

Sulu said. "I
thought Radu was near Ten'an standard gravity, but
you have the stamina of a Vulcan."

"Thanks," said Varth Regev. He lifted the
facemask
off to reveal a shock of coppery hair. "I work
at it.

Shall we repair to the sauna?"

The sauna was so steamy as to obscure any
object
more than a few feet away, but Sulu could make
out

Varth's stocky, muscular form; the Radun
hadn't been
kidding about working at it.

Varth settled himself gingerly on the hot tile
bench
and Sulu did the same. "What was the call
about?" the

Radun asked. "Someone looking for the Captain?"

"Not him this time, although that's usually the
case," Sulu replied, squeezing his eyes
shut and surrendering
to the almost intolerable heat of the steam.

"Dr. McCoy was looking for Dr.

Saenz."

"Business of a medical nature, no doubt,"

Varth
said innocently.

Eyes closed, Sulu smirked, resembling a

Buddha in
meditation. He did not respond.

"For such a small person," Varth continued, "she
seems to have done some real damage."

"She must have had quite a bit of training," Sulu
said without opening his eyes, "to do that to the
captain."

He's pretty good?"

Sulu opened one eye for emphasis and closed it
again. "He usually works out with Mr. Spock--that
is,
he used to. And they weren't that mismatched. Of
course, I understand that Dr. Saenz spent some
time
on Vulcan herself."

"Looks like she learned a few tricks there."

Sulu grunted assent. "From the look on the
captain's face, I think the damage was serious.

I doubt it's
going to do much to improve his mood."

Varth's expression became doleful. "I
guess it
won't."

Sulu squinted at him through the steam and wiped a
rivulet of condensed moisture from his forehead.

"Been riding you pretty hard?"

"He doesn't like me," Varth replied
matter-of-factly.

"I wish I knew why, what I'd done..."

Sulu reached toward him with a reassuring gesture.

"It's not you, Reg, not what you've done. You know
you're good."

"Yes," the Radun agreed, without a trace of
false
modesty.

"It's just that... that the captain was very close to

Mr. Spock. Seeing someone else take

Spock's place is
hard for him. But he's a fair person, Reg.

He'll readjust."

"Let's hope it's soon," Varth said,
sweating.

Kirk rolled slowly from the bed, mumbling
incoherent
curses at the insistent buzzing, and
winced as the
injured shoulder reminded him of its presence. He
opened his eyes with a start, and relaxed again as he
saw that he was in his own quarters. He shook his
head and tried to remember: the injury in the gym,

Emma wrapping it for him... he flushed because he
remembered kissing her, and because he could not
remember anything more. He certainly did not
remember
returning to his quarters, and the awful
thought occurred to him that she might have carried
him.

The buzzing did not stop until he stumbled to the
door and opened it.

Ingrit Tomson stood, poised with mouth open,
ready

MINDSHADOW
to speak, but at the sight of the captain, her
complexion
colored to pale pink. She closed her mouth.

"Yes?" Kirk scowled. He knew he must have
been
something to see: bare-chested, bandaged, in his
baggy white trousers, which no doubt had been
interpreted
as antiquated pajama bottoms. He swayed
slightly in the doorway; the effect of the
sedative had
not yet worn off.

Tomson's surprise at the captain's
awkward appearance
lasted but a moment; she was as excited as Kirk
had ever seen her. The mouth opened again. "Sir,

I'm
sorry to wake you, but you said if I ever--"

"Get to the point, Lieutenant," Kirk said
crossly.

"Sir, we have a lead on a murder suspect."

She
actually smiled. "I preferred to contact you
personally,
sir. We haven't made the arrest yet, and I
didn't
want anyone overhearing our conversation."

"Then come in, Lieutenant."

Tomson stepped just inside the door; it closed
behind
her with a swoosh.

"A crewmember?" Kirk asked, interested but
hardly sharing the enthusiasm of the security
chief.

"Yes, sir. It's just circumstantial
evidence, but sufficient enough in my opinion for an
arrest."

"Who?" Kirk demanded.

"Lieutenant Commander Scott, sir--"

"Scotty? That's impossible, Tomson--"

"Sir, after treatment with truth serum, Ensign
all-Baslama
was able to clearly remember all the incidents
surrounding the disappearance of the prisoner. One of
the things he remembers is that not half an hour
before
he was fired upon, Mr. Scott came down to the
brig.

Also-Baslama said it struck him as very odd--

Mr. Scott
just stood there for several minutes staring at the
prisoner, then muttered something and left."

"That's not enough to arrest a man, Lieutenant.

Question him, yes--"

"Sir, that's not all. Al-Baslama was also
able to
recall that the force field was lowered at
the exact
instant he was fired upon. Star Fleet

Intelligence informs
me that no one has developed a shield
neutralizer.

So if the pirate didn't neutralize the
field, and all-Baslama
didn't let it down, that leaves only one way
the field could have been lowered."

"Engineering," Kirk said shortly.

"Yes, sir. The emergency override
controls."

"Just because Mr. Scott works in Engineering
doesn't mean that he was the one who sabotaged the
override--"

Tomson shook her head. "Sorry, sir. We
questioned
certain crewmembers in Engineering, and a

Midshipman

Dobson reports that at the approximate time
the
shields went down in the brig, Mr. Scott was
servicing
the manual override controls."

The muscle in Kirk's cheek began
to twitch; he
looked down at the floor and studied it for some time
before he looked up at Tomson again.

"I'm afraid, Lieutenant," he said
slowly, "that
you'll have some difficulty in arresting your
suspect."

Tomson looked at him quizzically.

"Mr. Scott is not on board. He's
piloting a shuttle-craft
to Star Base Twelve. Spock and Chapel are
with
him."

She paled. "Then we'd better put out a
bulletin on
him as soon as possible."

Kirk shook his head firmly. "No. He'll
come back,

Lieutenant."

Tomson gasped in disbelief. "Sir, Mr.

Scott could
very well be a murderer, in which case he's been
given
the perfect opportunity to escape. I have
to issue a
warrant--"

MINDSHADOW

"Lieutenant," he said, "Mr. Scott is
due to arrive
back in approximately five hours. You can
question
him then."

"And if he doesn't return, Captain?"

"He'll return. If he's even ten minutes
late, you can
issue a bulletin on him and throw me in the
brig."

"Yes, sir," Tomson said coldly. Kirk
had no doubt
that she fully intended to take him up on the offer.

Chapter Six

THE STAR CALLED Eridani 40 slid
slowly up over

Vulcan's horizon, a reddish-pink ghost of the
blazing
fireball it would become by midday. It eased the
moonless darkness, and slowly colored the desert
from black to gray to red, the sky from indigo to soft
orange; the mountains in the distance
remained coal
black.

Nothing was so quiet, so serene as dawn over the
plain. Even the hellishly hot breezes for which

Vulcan's
deserts were notorious would not stir until

Eridani
climbed higher in the sky. The still cool air
carried
the oddly sweet, piercing warble of silver-birds,
teresh-kah, which sang only at dawn to greet the
sun.

A lone traveler, weary from the night's journey
across the desert, closed his eyes and stopped
to listen
to the song of the teresh-kah. He stood transfixed
until
the first warm gust swept across the plain and drowned
out the ancient melody, then resumed his painfully
slow pace toward his destination, the small desert
township of ShiKahr.

t24

MINDSHADOW

To the east lay the black Arlanga Mountains,
cold
and forbidding in their grandeur. It was there he had
tested himself, at the age of seven, in his own
personal Kahs-wan, the ordeal of maturity. The
fear of failure had led him to the mountains months
before the formal
ritual took place in the Sas-a-shar desert

--the mountains
were far more dangerous than the desert, and he
knew that if he could survive them, he would
easily
survive the desert. Twice that year he had
crossed the
plain of ShiKahr on foot, once heading east
to the
mountains, one west to Sas-a-shar.

Now Spock crossed the plain a third time,
traversing the fifteen kilometers of desert that lay
between the

Vulcan capital of ShanaiKahr and the city
where he
was born.

His hometown of ShiKahr was quite small and
tourism was nonexistent; therefore, one shuttle
ran in
the morning to take locals into the
capital, and one
shuttle ran in the early evening to bring them home
again. Spock arrived in ShanaiKahr shortly
after the
evening shuttle had left. If he had wanted
to wait all
night and another day in the capital, he could have
caught the next shuttle going into ShiKahr.

Conveying this complex information to Chapel
would have been tedious and pointless; Spock
preferred
to cross the desert himself in the cool night, and
courtesy forbade his waking his family to have them
pick him up in the skimmer. Since Chapel would
have
refused to allow him to do so, he let her assume
that he
could easily catch a shuttle so that she could
dispense
with her responsibility toward him. She had
broken
her ankle when they had crash-landed in the soft sand
dunes of Star Base 12, and had refused
to take anything
strong for the pain, as she was obliged
to keep an
alert eye on Spock at all times. The
ankle had begun to
throb so that even with a lightweight emergency cast,
she was unable to put any weight on it, and it was
necessary for Spock to help her off the shuttle when
they arrived on Vulcan. When he went to the
nearest
terminal and purchased a return ticket for the
next
flight back to Star Base 12, where Scott was
repairing
the Galileo, Chapel accepted without even a
mild
protest.

The fierce high-pitched scream of ale matya
brought

Spock's thoughts back to the desert; he continued
grimly, keeping his pace steady. The le matya
might
catch his scent, in which case he would be in grave
danger, but he did not flinch at the thought. He
had far
worse things to fear than ale matya; that, at
least,
would be a clean, quick death.

The fearsome predator had still not attacked when

Spock arrived at the city border, a carefully
sculpted
garden springing out of the desert. He was safe; the
sensors hidden in the greenery surrounding the city
kept out unwanted beasts but permitted the
passage of

Vulcanoids, humanoids, and domesticated
animals.

The dusty streets of ShiKahr were as sparse and
bare as the desert itself; the hot wind stirred up
dancing swirls of sand. Spock passed no one
as he
walked through the town, and at last he arrived at his
father's house. He paused before the garden wall; the
heavy gate was made from a single massive
block of
stone inlaid with ebony wood that had been polished
to
a sheen. A small metal plate hung
slightly below

Spock's eye level. On it was inscribed a
hieroglyph, a
symbol of such ancient origin that its
pronunciation
had been lost millennia ago by all save the
clan for
whose name it stood. It was not written in the modern

Vulcan script, for it was not permitted for any
stranger
to utter the name of one's ancestors, a custom
dating
from before Vulcan's collective memory, from a
time

MINDSHADOW
when one's forbears were worshipped as deities rather
than merely esteemed.

Spock held his hand before the timeworn symbol;
the massive gate sighed and opened before him.

The contrast to the bare sand streets outside would
have startled a stranger, for the garden within the
sterile stone walls was as lush and deep green as
a
tropical rainforest. Spock crossed the stone
pathway
to the front entrance of the house. He passed through
the main room, not bothering to glance around him,
and into the long narrow hallway that led to his
bedroom.

He had reached the point of exhaustion; sleep
was at hand.

The sight of his old bedroom was overwhelmingly
comforting; it was as it had always been, comfortably
familiar, everything in its proper place.

With one notable exception.

He had removed his cloak and was nearing the bed
when the figure of a young female, barely a
woman, sat
bolt upright in his bed, clutching the covers
modestly
to her bosom. Her features were Vulcan, but
strangely
enough she made no effort to stifle the wave of
emotion
that assaulted Spock: terror, followed by a
mixture
of anger and shame.

"Why do you trouble me here?" she hissed in

English, her expression only thinly masking her
turmoil.

"I have promised to do as you requested."

Spock could not have responded at that moment
even-if he had known the answer to her question.

She studied him suspiciously for a
moment before
her expression became completely calm. "Who
are
you?" she demanded in Vulcan.

He was too taken aback to have the presence of
mind not to answer her question. "Spock."

Even in the darkness, the striking elegance of her

features was visible; shining black hair fell in
soft,
thick folds to her waist. She blinked at him as
though
trying to decide if she were dreaming.

A horrible, humiliating thought struck Spock:

he
had entered the wrong house, and had been so stupid
as to give her his name. By tomorrow evening, his
awkward intrusion would be known to all in

ShiKahr.

Logic fled in the face of the situation, and he could
think of nothing to say to the young woman save a
phrase taught him by his mother, an English
expression
that had no counterpart in Vulcan.

"Excuse me." Spock backed out of the
room
swiftly, a flurry of archaic Vulcan
curses chattering in
the back of his mind at the cruel trick his
memory had
played on him. Had he mistakenly read the
hieroglyph
on the front door? And if his perceptions could not
be
trusted, how would he ever find his father's house?

He staggered, numbed by confusion, down the hall
and back toward the front door, but the sight of the
main room stopped him. It, too, was as
unarguably
familiar as his bedroom had been. In one corner
sat his
father's harp--in another, his mother's piano. His
eyes
were drawn to something above the piano: an
old-fashioned
family portrait, painted by a well-known

Terran artist.

A woman sat, erect and gracious, her
honey-colored
hair piled on top of her head in the

Vulcan fashion, the
slightest smile playing at the corners of her
mouth.

Behind and to one side of her chair, not quite close
enough to be touching, stiff and solemn, stood a
ten-year-old
boy. He was small for his age; that fact,
combined with his mixed parentage, made him the
favorite of bullies. Brown-black hair
hung in his eyes

(it always grew too fast, much to the consternation of
his mother) and the ears were ridiculously large for the
narrow, fine-featured face.

MINDSHADOW

Amanda had been right--he had grown into them.

It had always been Spock's contention that the boy
did not resemble his mother in the slightest. However,
studying the portrait now, it seemed that there was
something, perhaps in the eyes...

He sat heavily on the comfortable, overstuffed
sofa.

The girl-woman had been no more than an
illusion, a
trick of his overloaded faculties,
brought on by exhaustion.

Perhaps the trip had been too much for him. It
occurred to him that he should return to his room, to
prove to himself that the girl had been an illusion,
and
to sleep in his own bed, but instead he sank back
into
the comfortingly familiar softness of the couch.

"Spock."

He raised his eyelids at the soft, warm sound,
unsure for a moment where he was.

Amanda stood with her back to the large picture
window that overlooked the garden. The rising sun
outlined her in a halo of dazzling white light;

Spock
could not see her face. He pushed against the
yielding
softness of the sofa, struggling to rise, but she sat
down next to him.

She was older than the woman in the portrait,
now;
the golden hair was mostly silver, and the lines about
her eyes were etched more deeply by the harshness of
life on Vulcan. She reached a hand toward him
in the
ritual embrace: index and middle fingers
extended
tightly together, the thumb folded over the remaining
fingers, a symbol that these two were forever tied by
marriage or by blood. Amanda Grayson had for
so
long suppressed the urge to encircle a loved
one with
her arms that the impulse rarely occurred to her
anymore;
it had taken many years.

The small hint of a smile that curved the corners
of
her mouth upward was still exactly the same. What-
ever anxiety she might have felt for her son was
carefully shielded, a skill acquired from years
of living
with Sarek.

"I thought I heard someone come in last night. I
thought it might be your father coming home early.

Please don't tell me you walked from the
capital."

Very well, thought Spock. "Father is not here?" he
asked in English. He and his father always addressed
her in her native tongue; she did
speak Vulcan, after a
fashion, as she put it--but the sibilants were
impossible
for her to produce, in spite of her training as a
linguist.

"He's at an emergency Council meeting in the
capital.

I expect him back sometime tomorrow evening."

Spock's sense of relief was so deep that he was
almost ashamed of it. His greatest concern upon arriving
home had been the effect that his lack of mental
shields would have upon Sarek; surely his father
would find the chaos of Spock's mental
processes
offensive. About Amanda, he did not worry. Not
being
a telepath, she would never know of his mental
infirmities,
nor judge his actions against the harsh standards
of logic. She would only encourage and try
to understand,
virtues of which Sarek seemed incapable. Perhaps
she was why Spock had never minded working
with humans, why he had volunteered for duty on
the Enterprise.

"I've been in contact with Dr. McCoy," she
continued
gently, "and he tells me that you're taking a
certain medication... if you could give it to me,

I'll
see that you receive it on the proper schedule."

Spock's head turned sharply, but not at

Amanda's
words.

His peripheral vision caught a glimpse of
movement,
a flash of white and black in the hallway. It
was the

MINDSHADOW
apparition, the vision that had appeared in his bed the
night before. He'd had no intention of mentioning it
to

Amanda, so convinced was he that her existence was
illusory...

The vision stood hesitantly in the hallway,
apparently
afraid of intruding. She was clothed, now, in a
simple white dress that fell in a straight
line to her
ankles, and the cascading black hair was now
braided
and pinned securely to the crown of her head. Although
her physical features marked her as a

Vulcan,
there was something slightly incongruous about her
demeanor--an openness, a hint of volatility--
some-thing
that a human would never perceive, something
that a Vulcan could not help but notice. The
fleeting
impression that Spock had formed of her during their
brief encounter was quite accurate: she was very
young, perhaps nineteen, and very beautiful.

From the warmth of Amanda's response to her,

Spock assumed she was a relative of whom he
had
been unaware. "T'Pala," Amanda said.

"Please, come
in. I'd like for you to meet Spock."

There was something about Amanda's tone that
made Spock distinctly uncomfortable; he knew
that he
had heard her use that tone before. He searched his
memory.

The first time she had introduced him to his former
fiance, T'Pring. He rose stiffly.

T'Pala carried herself into the room with effortless
grace and stopped below the portrait. "Your
son," she
said, with a solemn nod to Spock, but did not
succeed
in completely concealing her shy eagerness. "I
recognized
you from your picture. I have heard of your
many accomplishments." She addressed herself to

Amanda. "We have already met--but I did not
extend
the courtesy of introducing myself."

Amanda's eyes were questioning; Spock sensed a
glimmer of amusement from T'Pala. "Last
night," he
said in a low voice.

Amanda must have imagined the circumstances, for
she tactfully did not pursue the subject.

"T'Pala is our
house guest," she said to Spock. "She's
finishing up
her studies at the ShanaiKahr General

Academy."

"Your parents have been most kind," T'Pala
said.

"By offering me their home, they have made it possible
for me to continue my studies without interruption."

Spock harbored no desire to pursue small
talk with
this young creature, but for Amanda's sake he
feigned
polite interest. "Your family is not living in

ShiKahr,
then?" Obviously not, else she would not be staying
here. It was not an uncommon arrangement for
students
attending faraway academies to live with a
family in order to save the cost of staying in the
dormitory.

T'Pala lowered her eyes. "My parents are
deceased.

If you will excuse me, I must hurry to catch the
shuttle. I have two oral exams today at the

Academy."

She was gone before Spock could think of a reply.

"Well?" Amanda asked.

Spock raised an eyebrow in the expression his
mother knew so well. "I scarcely know
her well
enough to make an assessment--"

"But?"

Spock frowned. "Her demeanor is somewhat
inconsistent
with her... physical appearance."

"I knew you'd notice. Her father was an
attache to
the Terran embassy in ShanaiKahr. He
married a

Vulcan while there, and they returned to Earth
shortly
after the child was born. She grew up there."

"Half human," Spock said softly. A
rarity, but more
likely to occur when a member of the diplomatic

MINDSHADOW
service was involved, perhaps because interracial
marriages
required exceptional members of each species
to tolerate the strain imposed by cultural
differences.

"She's been with us a couple of months, since
her
father died. I take it you noticed she's been
staying in your room." It was not in the form of a question and

Spock did not feel the need to respond.

"I hope you don't mind staying in the guest
room"

Amanda continued. "We could have asked her to
move--"

"It would have been highly improper." That was
true; the comfort of house-guests
took precedence over
that of family, regardless of circumstances.

Amanda rose. "I doubt that the couch was very
comfortable last night. Let me help you put your
things in the guest room, and you can try to get some
more sleep."

He let her lead him to the guest room, but he
doubted that he would sleep--he was already thinking
of his first encounter with Sarek . . . and of the
troubling impressions he had received from the
house-guest.

It was early afternoon when Spock emerged again
from the guest room. Amanda was in the main room,
seated on the sofa, next to her small pupil--a
six-year-old

Andorian child, bluish pale and atennaed.

He was
looking up at Amanda with childlike adoration, and
speaking very quickly. Something he said must have
been quite amusing, for Amanda let forth with a burst
of laughter that startled and embarrassed Spock,
who
stood unnoticed in the hallway. He had never
heard
his mother make such a sound. The Andorian child,
however, seemed pleased by it; he chimed in with a
shy, feeble chuckle.

Amanda had been teaching at home ever since her
arrival on Vulcan. Possessing a
doctorate in English
literature and a master's degree in linguistics,
she
tutored both adults and children in English grammar
and literature. It was for this precise reason that
she
had frequented the Vulcan embassy on Earth,
where
she met Sarek. On Vulcan, however, very few
natives
were problem students, and most of Amanda's
tutorials
were children of embassy workers in ShanaiKahr,
some of them from Terra, sent to study their own
culture and literature.

Amanda's love for her profession had led her to
acquire one of the finest collections of Old

Earth
literature in the civilized galaxy. Spock
faced the
shelves of books that lined the hallway; the
unmistakable
smell of old paper brought back pleasant
memories.

He picked out a childhood favorite, a
priceless
volume over four hundred years old, and opened
it to the frontispiece, a lithograph. The paper
pages had
yellowed long before the preservative with which they
were now treated had been developed, and the leather
cover (a barbaric, but valued material in those
times)

was cracked and mended in several places. Spock
closed the book silently and stole to the safety
of the
garden, to await Sarek's return.

Amanda did not notice; she continued with her
lesson, an affectionate hand laid lightly on
the Andorian's
shoulder. -

Eridani was setting when Sarek returned home
from
the capital. Spock was still in the garden, watching
the
sunset, but he sensed his father's presence even before

Sarek came out to greet him.

The meeting was uneventful; Sarek was kind, but
distant. Perhaps the distance was intended to protect
both of them.

"It has been too long since your mother and I
last

MINDSHADOW
saw you. Perhaps you will visit again under more
pleasant circumstances."

"Perhaps," Spock said.

"I have arranged for a tutor... Tela'at

Stalik will
come tomorrow for the first lesson."

Spock did not ask the subject; Stalik was
well
known, a follower of Kohlinahr, the
discipline of total
nonemotion. He had achieved the title of

Tela'at, Elder, and that, along with his greatly
advanced age,
entitled him to much respect. Sarek could have
scarcely chosen a more qualified instructor
to teach

Spock the mind rules. Spock bowed his head
to indicate
his acceptance and appreciation of his father's
choice.

The evening meal proceeded without too much discomfort,
and afterward, as was the custom, the family
sat in the main room. Spock noticed the
conspicuous
absence of the house guest, but restrained his
curiosity.

He sat on the sofa next to Amanda and fingered

Sarek's harp softly. The instrument Was well
over three hundred years old, older than a

Vulcan lifetime,
and its sound was richer and more resonant than that
of Spock's harp. It had belonged to Sarek's
father, and
the wood from which it was hewn was no longer
widely available. Spock thought of his own harp
with
shame, and wondered if the damage could ever be
repaired.

There was the sound of a door opening and closing,
and T'Pala appeared, wearing a black cape
with the
hood thrown back. She spoke breathlessly, as
though
she had been running.

"Forgive me," she said to the three of them. "The

Tela'at's lesson took longer than
anticipated."

Sarek studied her calmly. "Apologies
serve no useful
purpose. They cannot negate the fact that you are
late."

T'Pala bowed her head in submission, quite
clearly
deflated; Spock found the scene a painfully
familiar
one. He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. In
all the
years that Spock had lived in his father's
house, he had
never seen Sarek correct a guest; quite
obviously, this
girl was something more. There was an awkward
silence.

Amanda was the first to break it. "There's still
some food in the kitchen, T'Pala, if you
haven't eaten
yet."

"Thank you," T'Pala said. She nodded to them and
went to her room; when she reemerged, she had shed
the black cloak to reveal the long white dress
underneath.

Sarek seated himself at the three-dimensional
chessboard,
and when T'Pala smoothly took the seat across
from him, Spock realized that he was watching what
had become an evening ritual.

At one time, he had been a participant himself.

He continued to play quietly on Sarek's
harp, but he
kept one eye on the game. It was immediately
apparent
that T'Pala was a novice, since she applied
no
coherent strategy, and that the purpose of this game
was instructional rather than recreational.

"How did you fare on your test?" Sarek asked
her.

"Well, I think." T'Pala studied the board
and made
a move. "Did your Council meeting go
well?"

Sarek sighed. "I am having some difficulty
convincing
the Council of my position. I must admit that

I do
not understand the reasons for it. To deny protection
in this case violates all precedent."

"What do you think the ultimate outcome of the
vote will be?"

"I cannot predict it yet. At present, the
vote is
split--half favor Aritani's protection,
half do not."

Spock stopped playing.

MINDSHADOW

"I am especially interested in the subject,"

T'Pala
said, "as one of my examination questions requested
me to state my position on the matter and to defend
it."

"And what position did you take?" Sarek
smoothly
captured T'Pala's bishop with a knight.

She looked at the board with dismay, displeased by
her error, eager to please Sarek with her
defense. "I
said I was against protection in this particular case,
as
it violates the doctrine of noninterference, one
of the
key principles of the Federation. A culture must
be
free to determine its own path. Also, a
military attack
on the raiders contradicts the Vulcan
principle of
nonviolence. Check." She looked up at him
to gauge
his reaction.

Sarek was expressionless as he studied the threat
posed to his king. "The noninterference directive
refers
to the development of a culture. If a culture
unwittingly follows a path which will lead to its
annihilation
rather than its normal course of development,
are we bound to assist that culture in committing
genocide? If we have the means to protect that
culture,
are we not bound to do so in order that they may live
in
peace and continue their development? Federation
history abounds with precedent favoring protection
and rescue of undeveloped planets from
external
threats--Yonada, Betelgeuse Two,

Halcyon, Capella,

Soyuz Vtoroi. the examples are numerous.

You
forget, T'Pala, or you were not informed, that the
reason Aritani now resists the aid of the

Federation is
that we were incapable of actually protecting them
from the attacks, and they now consider us impotent.

I
believe we should comply with their original request
and supply the aid they so desperately
need."

T'Pala turned to look at Spock. "You were
on

Aritani, Spock. Do you also favor
protection?"

There was a long silence. "I am not qualified
to
comment," he replied stonily.

"But you were there," she persisted.

"I have no memory of it."

He felt rather than saw her flush with
embarrassment
as she turned her eyes back to the board to find
that her opponent had moved.

"Checkmate," said Sarek.

"She's very young," Amanda said after T'Pala
exCused
herself. "She'll be nineteen next month. Her
mother died when she was very young, and when her
father died a few months ago, she came to stay with
us. Her mother's family are distant relatives
of

Sarek's, and Sarek knew her father many years
ago. If
she's accepted into the diplomatic
program, she'll
continue to stay with us."

"The Vulcan Diplomatic Corps?"

Spock asked. He
thought he had succeeded in masking his surprise, but

Sarek looked at him sharply.

"She retained her Vulcan citizenship during
her long
stay on Terra," his father said coldly. "Although
she
has acquired some Terran mannerisms as a
result, she
wishes to serve in the VDC. Her background
makes
her an excellent candidate as an attach to the

Vulcan
embassy on Terra."

Spock noted that Sarek had not said T'Pala
would
make an excellent ambassador, merely an
attache; it
was a highly sought after position available only
to the
most elite in the VDC. Sarek had held the
post for
many years, and had groomed his son carefully for
it,
naming him Spock, meaning the Uniter, the one who
might someday unite Vulcan and Terra into one
great
civilization, to bring together all that was best of the
two worlds.

MINDSHADOW

So this girl was to be Sarek's new protge.

"I have recommended that she be admitted into the

VDC," Sarek continued, "but that is no
guarantee that
she will be accepted. Her grades are good, but not
outstanding." He looked pointedly at Spock.

"She is
not as gifted as some others."

Spock remained silent.

"Of course," Sarek amended, "her strengths are
in
the social sciences, and she has a natural
inclination
toward politics. Thus, it is logical for her
to pursue a
diplomatic career. If her talents
were elsewhere--for
example, the natural sciences--perhaps another
profession
would be more suitable."

"Logical," Spock nodded in serene
agreement.

"Of course, she has other marks against her besides
her grades," Amanda said softly. "Her father was

Gerald Carstairs."

Sarek fixed his disapproving gaze upon her.

"The name is unfamiliar to me," Spock said.

"You
said he was a friend of Father's?"

"An acquaintance," Sarek corrected. "There
is no
point in discussing what is no longer
important, my
wife."

Amanda bowed her head slightly in acquiescence.

Spock knew better than to try to pursue the
subject.

"if you will excuse me, then," Spock said as he
rose.

"Sleep well," said Amanda.

Husband and wife sat alone quietly
for a moment.

"Thank you," Amanda said suddenly.

Sarek lifted an eyebrow at her as if she had
just said
something completely insane.

"For what you said to Spock... about choosing a
profession. And drop that expression. You're as
transparent
as glass."

He let free a small, exasperated sigh,
and for once
did not pretend that he had no idea what she was
talking about.

McCoy responded to the buzzer in spite of his
promises to himself; but it was not Emma who had
pressed it, as he had hoped and feared. Kirk
stood
nervously in the corridor with a
suspicious-looking
bundle under his arm.

"Yes, Captain?" McCoy's tone was cold,
and the
look in his eyes could have turned the Vulcan
desert to
icy tundra. Kirk had already had
occasion to speak to
him earlier on the bridge, and McCoy had
dropped
more than a few hints that he was mad. Damn
mad.

Now here was the captain standing in front of the
door to his quarters with a peace offering, an act
that
served only to confirm the doctor's
suspicions.

"Mind if I come in?" Kirk asked meekly.

McCoy shrugged and retreated into his study. The
captain followed and set the bundle on

McCoy's desk,
pulling the wrapping away.

The unmarked decanter contained a clear liquid
that
could have been water--but it was bootleg ethanol,
fresh from the Enterprise's own still hidden in the
depths of Engineering. White lightning,
moonshine,

McCoy called it. It was as close to pure
ethanol as its
makers could come without igniting Engineering--198
proof. One good shot and you felt no
pain; two, and
you'd never remember the fun you were having.

The captain, of course, was not supposed to be
aware of the still's existence, as it was decidedly
nonregulation. Kirk had had a hell of a time just
trying
to find someone who would admit its existence, much
less procure some of its output for him. Former

Security

Chief O'Shay had been his supplier, but

Tomson
had seemed genuinely shocked at the captain's
sugges-

MINDSHADOW
tion: she'd probably never touched the stuff and
would
no doubt turn in any of her subordinates who
did.

Even Tersarkisov, the rowdiest engineer on
board,
had professed total ignorance until Kirk
had convinced
him that the liquor really was for the captain's
personal
consumption and that no court-martials would
ensue.

Kirk pushed the bottle toward McCoy. "The
drinks
are on me."

McCoy silently produced two glasses and
set them
on the table. Kirk took it as a hopeful sign
and filled
them; usually the moonshine was mixed with something
to lessen its effect and kill the taste, but this was
no time for formalities. Kirk handed a glass
to the
sulking doctor and sat down across from him. "I
think
we need to talk."

"Suit yourself." McCoy played with his glass and
did not look at him.

Kirk took a sip of his drink and shuddered at the
taste. "Why are you angry at me, Doctor?"

"You tell me."

"Bones.. Kirk spread his hands helplessly.

"How's the shoulder this morning, Captain?"

McCoy
said suddenly.

Kirk colored slightly. "Who told you?"

"You mean, besides the fact that you're moving
with all the agility and grace of a
ninety-year-old
arthritic?" McCoy said sarcastically.

"Maybe I'm just
good at putting two and two together."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He could hold his rage no longer. "You can drop
the
innocent act, Jim! I saw her leaving your
quarters
early this morning."

"I see," Kirk said quietly.

"And you've got the gall to come here, as though
you can make everything right by bringing me a bottle-was

For a moment, McCoy seemed to be deciding
whether or not to smash his glass against the bulkhead.

"Doctor," Kirk said in the same calm
voice, "I
realize what it looks like. But I went to her
quarters so
she could treat the shoulder--"

"Get your story straight. She left your
quarters,"

McCoy said from between clenched teeth.

"She gave me a sedative so I could sleep.

I fell
asleep in her quarters. This morning I woke
up in my
own. You figure it out."

McCoy folded his arms tightly and considered the

Captain's words; with a sigh, he closed his eyes
and
tilted his head back. "You're telling me that
nothing
happened between you--"

"I'm not saying that I don't find her
attractive. I
won't lie to you, Bones. I do. And I can't
remember
everything that happened last night, after the medication."

McCoy flailed his arms. "Oh, that makes me
feel
just great. Thanks for the honesty, Jim. Now, am

I
supposed to feel better, knowing that you find her
attractive and you don't remember what
happened?"

Kirk stiffened. "If you can't trust either
one of us,

Doctor, you had better reexamine your
personal relationships.

Would you rather I lied?"

McCoy's anger flared. "I'd rather you left her
the
hell alone."

Kirk stood up so quickly that he spilled some of the
volatile liquid down the front of his tunic
and now
reeked of the stuff but was too angered to care.

"She's
not anybody's property, Bones. You don't have
the
right to say that."

"So now you're concerned about her personal
rights, eh, you, who treats every single female who

MINDSHADOW
comes aboard this ship like they're fair game--comy
think you have to play ladies' man with them all!

Emma deserves better than that to was

"That's not true! I keep my distance from every
female officer on board this ship! You should
talk!

going after a woman half your age. She
could be your
daughter!"

"She's older than Joanna," McCoy
defended himself
pathetically. "But it seems to me you've changed
your hands-off policy toward women crewmembers.

You've been flirting with Emma since she set
foot on
this ship."

Kirk thought for a moment and set his glass down on
the desk. "Then I'll stop."

His words stole the momentum from McCoy's rage.

"Well . . . what am I supposed to think,

Jim?" The
doctor shrugged helplessly. "You're younger than

I
am, handsomer--maybe you felt you needed to prove
that--"

"If you don't believe me," Kirk said
softly, "then
ask Emma--that is, if you trust her any more
than you
do me."

McCoy put his head in his hands. "You don't
know
how I feel about her, Jim. I'm an
old-fashioned Earth
boy. This isn't just some convenient affair--I
love
her."

"I know. That's why I'll stop the workouts in the
gym if you like. I'll avoid all contact with
her..."

"No, there's no point in doing that..."

McCoy's
eyes glittered with pain and alcohol. "She's
attracted
to you, isn't she?"

"You'll have to ask the lady that, Bones. I
don't
speak for her."

"I thought so." McCoy looked at a distant
spot on
the wall. "I guess I'll have to take this up with
her."

"I guess so," said Kirk.

He left the bottle with McCoy.

Kirk was on the bridge, coming to all sorts of
conclusions, none of them pleasant, about
what had
happened to his chief engineering officer. When the
intercom finally buzzed, he nearly jumped out of
his
chair. He prayed it was news of Scott; he
knew it was,
of course, Lieutenant Tomson.

"I don't think I need to remind you of the time,
sir.

Shall I put the bulletin out on Mr. Scott?"

Tomson had
been more than patient, from her point of view--

Scott
was now more than two hours overdue.

"Lieutenant, I'm sure that there's a very good
reason
why he's been held up--"

"Even if he does have a good reason, sir, I
still need
to question him. And he could be trying to escape.

Remember our agreement," Tomson said
firmly.

Kirk listened to himself give the command as though
it were someone else speaking. "I have no intention of
backing down on my promise,

Lieutenant. Go ahead
and issue the bulletin on my authority."

He wondered if she would insist that he put himself
in the brig.

Kirk stood outside the atmosphereless hangar
deck
and watched from behind the protective glass shield
as
the Galileo sailed through the open portal, leaving
behind it the stars and the two Federation police
shuttles that had escorted it back. The portal
closed
silently behind the small craft; Kirk heard the
hiss of
the airlock as pressurization began. The
protective
glass shield slid aside, and Kirk,

Tomson, and Ensign
all-Baslama walked to the door of the
shuttlecraft and
waited.

It seemed to Kirk like a very long time before the

MINDSHADOW
door opened. Scott helped Chapel
out carefully, his
left arm around her waist, her right arm draped
across
his shoulder. She was limping painfully, and neither
one seemed much amused by their present
circumstances.

Scott scowled up at them. "Who can help

Nurse Chapel to sick bay? Her ankle's
broken."

"Also-Baslamah," Kirk nodded to the security
guard.

The tall, formidable-looking male scooped

Christine
up into his muscular arms.

"Well," Chapel said, surprised but not at
all struggling,

"I can certainly think of worse ways
to travel."

Scott waited for the guard to carry her off before he
confronted the captain angrily. "Beggin' your
pardon,
sir, but just what the divvil is going' on?

We'd scarcely
left the star base when those jokers put a
tractor beam
on us and told us we were bein' carried back to the
ship. I told them we were headed this way anyway,
but
they just laughed."

Tomson stepped forward. "You're wanted in
connection
with the murder of the Romulan prisoner, Mr.

Scott."

Scott gazed at her with disbelief, then
directed a
hurt look at the Captain. "Sir--is it
true? Did ye give
the order?"

Kirk tried to meet Scott's eyes, but did
not succeed
for long. He looked down. "I gave the order.

Mr.

Scott, you're six hours late."

"Aye, we're late, all right. We were all
almost killed
when the Galileo crashlanded on Star Base

Twelve. It
took me that long to repair her."

"Is everyone all right?" Kirk thought immediately
of Spock.

"All but Nurse Chapel's ankle.

Captain, someone
deliberately tampered with the fuel indicator. his

"The way you tampered with the brig's force field
using the override control in Engineering?"

Scott looked at Tomson as though she had
lost her
mind. "Are ye jokin', Lieutenant? The
maintenance
panel indicated a problem with the override
controls--that's
why I went to check it out---but the problem had
corrected itself by the time I got there. Just
exactly
what are ye sayin'?"

Tomson's gaze was cool. "That you set the
manual
control so that it would lower the force field at the
precise time you went down to the brig to murder the
prisoner."

Stiff with anger and pride, Scott looked

Tomson
squarely in the eye and took a step toward her.

"I
dinna do it, Lieutenant. Go ahead and
question me.

I've got nothin' to hide. It so happens that
right after I
checked on the override controls I went back
to work
on the lower engineering deck, sortin' through
wreckage
from the pirate ship. At least three other
crew-members
were workin' with me. I can give you their
names."

"And would you be willing to submit to a questioning
under the influence of truth drug?"

"With pleasure, Miss Tomson."

"Then come with me, Mr. Scott."

Before he followed Tomson, Scott turned
to Kirk.

"Ye told them about Ensign Lanz, didn't
ye, Captain?"

His voice was soft and wounded.

Kirk tried to speak, but the engineer would not give
him a chance to reply. Scott shook his head.

wouldna thought ye capable, sir. I wouldna thought ye
capable..."

Head held high, shoulders back, he
walked with

Tomson to the brig.

Chapter Seven

SP-OCKnowledge was UNABL-EVERY to identify what was
happening to
him.

His lessons with the white-haired Tela'at

Stalik were
at best unenlightening exercises in futility.

While Sta-like
was accomplished in the practice of Kohlinahr,
and
in addition had reached the revered age of 265

Terran
standard years, he nevertheless seemed to lack
patience
for Spock's slowness at relearning the mind
disciplines, and did not hesitate to make his
displeasure
known. For Spock, the lessons were frustrating,
and eventually he became convinced that Stalik was
deliberately trying to be enigmatic, unclear,
and to
rush the lessons. Many times Spock
came close to
saying so, but courtesy and the esteemed position a
tela'at held in Vulcan society forbade it.

His powers of concentration seemed to be worsening
rather than improving, his memory becoming more
clouded instead of clearing. His lack of progress
keenly embarrassed him, and he became
increasingly
seclusive, eventually avoiding contact with his
family
as much as possible. He spent his days in
lessons with

Stalik, scouring the bookshelves, and sitting
alone in the garden, unable to meditate.

Spock found himself losing patience with everyone:

with Stalik, with Amanda, with the overeager

T'Pala.

He told himself that no one noticed his increasing
irritability--until one day Amanda increased
his medication
to two capsules a day. She had noticed his
worsening condition and, without telling him, had
consulted McCoy. Inexplicably furious,

Spock had
turned on his heel and sought the serenity
of the
garden to gather himself.

He stepped outside into the soothing arid heat and
went to his favorite spot--a stone bench
half-hidden
beneath a hanging arbor of thick foliage, its
blooms
rustling in the hot afternoon breeze.

He stopped abruptly. T'Pala sat hidden
in the
shadows, eyes closed, face in the perfectly
bland
expression of Vulcan meditation, an expression
of
which Spock lately had been incapable.

He backed away quietly, not wishing to disturb
her,
more for his own sake than for hers. But it was too
late; before he could retreat to the safety of the
house,
she called out to him.

He faced her reluctantly.

She spoke uncertainly, her face still hidden in
the
shadows. "There's something I would like
to discuss
with you. It's something that I would not feel at ease
discussing with anyone else."

She motioned for him to sit next to her, but he
remained standing. She shifted nervously.

"What do you know of my background?" T'Pala
asked.

Spock's manner was brusque; he wanted
only to
return to the serenity of the guest room and Amanda's
books. "I know that you are half-human, and that you
grew up on Terra. Nothing more."

MINDSHADOW

She nodded to indicate that his information was
correct. "As I say, this is a subject
too sensitive to
discuss with anyone else. I... I wanted
to tell you that

I admire your emotional control. I wanted
to ask you
how you accomplished it."

If she had not seemed so ingenuously earnest, he
would have thought she had chosen this particularly
inopportune moment to make fun of him.

He decided
that she was sincere. "I was raised on Vulcan.

I spent
years learning emotional discipline and the Vulcan
mind control techniques."

"I did not," T'Pala replied sadly.

"My mother was

Vulcan, but she died when I was three. I
learned of

Vulcan culture and language at school and
from my
father. There was no one who could teach me all the
ancient disciplines." She leaned forward and he
caught sight of her face, intense, almost...

begging.

"Would you be willing to help me?"

He almost left, sure now that she was making fun
of
him, but something in her voice made him remain.

Perhaps she did not know... perhaps his parents had
not told her of his condition... perhaps even after her
question to him about Aritani, she had not thought it
proper to ask. "You receive lessons from the

Tela'at

Stalik, do you not?"

"Yes, but my progress is very slow. It could
take
years...

"He is far better qualified to teach Vulcan
discipline
than I. I. he almost faltered, then continued
evenly, "I have lost the mind rules. I was
injured in an
accident on Aritani."

"I know," she answered.

His temper flared. "Then why do you make such a
ridiculous request?"

"It's not ridiculous," she responded
swiftly. "You've
lost the mind rules, yet your control is better
than
mine. Being half-human, as I am, you must be
relying
on human methods of control, yet after years of
living
on Vulcan, you know how to act like a Vulcan,
something I don't know. If you could just show me
how..."

"For what purpose?"

"To be accepted. I am a Vulcan
citizen. I want to be
worthy of my heritage. And I want to join the

Vulcan

Diplomatic Corps."

"I see," Spock said stiffly. "Why not the

Terran
diplomatic service?"

The insult failed to register. "I'm no longer
a citizen
of Terra."

"And you believe that learning how to behave as a

Vulcan will increase your chances of entering the

VDC?"

She frowned. "You make it sound as though I'm
doing this for entirely selfish reasons."

"You may reach your own conclusions." He spoke
vehemently. "If you feel yourself to be a

Vulcan,

T'Pala, then you must embrace the Vulcan
path completely.

You cannot choose those aspects of Vulcan life
which appeal to you. Learning emotional control may
indeed take years, but if you truly desire it,
it must
come from inner discipline, not from outer
playacting.

Any Vulcan you meet will know the difference. To
follow the path merely for furthering your own
political
ambitions would be no less than an obscenity."

T'Pala jumped to her feet, her chin quivering.

"I
wish to follow the Vulcan path, and my reasons
are
valid. And you sound like all the others, insisting that
the Vulcan path is the only way, and there is but
one
way to follow it. I see no logic in your blind
loyalty."

"Vulcan loyalty is not blind," Spock
replied hotly.

"Quite the opposite. But I have not come to debate
that with you. As to your question of whether I can

MINDSHADOW
help you enter the VDC, I cannot. What vestige
of
control I now possess is the direct result
of years of
habit."

"I was not asking you to help me get into the

VDC,"

she said. "I have very deep personal reasons for
wanting to join, reasons which I do not care to discuss
with anyone, not even you. But I resent your
implication
that my reasons are not honorable."

"You will get in. My father has recommended you."

He did not say it kindly.

"Even that may not be enough."

"Because you are half-human?"

Her lips twisted bitterly. "That, among other
reasons."

"If you believe that your human behavior
patterns
have cost you admission into the Corps, then clearly,
my help is.of no use to you. I believe that on

Terra you
have an expression: too little, too late."

Her face hardened and became perfectly
expressionless.

"Then you will not help me."

"That is correct," he answered coldly, and
went
into the house.

Emma was waiting for McCoy when he got off
duty. She stood outside the door to his cabin and
smiled at him as though nothing had changed, as
though he had not pointedly avoided her for the past
two days.

He moved past her without acknowledgment, but
she followed him inside.

"I think we need to talk, Leonard. You're
angry at
me."

He went to the cabinet and poured himself three
fingers of moonshine. "Funny, a lot of people
seem to
be saying that to me these days," he muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing. I merely said, how observant of you
to
notice. Drink?"

"No. Please tell me why you're so angry."

"It hasn't seemed to bother you for the past couple
of days. In fact, I was beginning to think you
hadn't
noticed at all. Why don't you see if you can
figure it
out all by yourself?. Cheers.". McCoy
held up his glass
for an instant and looked at Emma through the
volatile
liquid before taking the largest gulp physically
possible.

"Please don't play games with me."

"I'm afraid you have it backwards, my dear.

I'm not
the one who's playing the games. Why do I always
have to tell everyone on this ship things they already
know?"

"But I don't know." Her exasperation seemed
genuine
enough. "All I know is that you've been avoiding
me for the past two days. You wouldn't even speak
to
me in sick bay. At first I thought you were
depressed
or in a bad mood, but I can see now it's more
than
that."

"We!!," he said softly. "At least you're
capable of
making some deductions." He hated himself for the
sarcasm in his voice, but most of all he
hated her--for
the position she had put him in, for the innocence she
feigned so well--hated her, because he still loved
her
and would believe absolutely anything she told
him,
even if she told him Jim had lied and that he,

McCoy,
had jumped to conclusions, had been a fool, a
jealous
old fool ....

But she did not. Emma planted herself firmly in
the
same chair Jim had sat in the night before and
held him
with those clear, guileless eyes. "I'm not leaving
until
you tell me what I've done to offend you."

McCoy sank shakily into the chair opposite
her and

MINDSHADOW
tried to guess what her reaction to his accusation
would be. Denial, most likely, proving her
to be a liar,
she who prided herself so on her honesty. He let
go a
sigh that seemed to come straight from his heart. "The
captain told me that he spent the night in your
cabin
night before last."

"Yes," she said, waiting.

"Are you telling me that nothing happened between
you?"

He watched the subtle changes in her facial
muscles
as she finally understood his implication. There was
surprise first--the lifted brow, widened eyes,
lips
slightly parted-, but following quickly came something
very much like fury. The lips closed and tightened, the
jaw tensed; she contained her anger, but her eyes
blazed.

"For God's sake, Emma," McCoy said
plaintively,

"do you really expect me to react casually to that?

Do
you really expect me not to be jealous?"

Emma took a deep breath and sat back in the
chair.

The anger glimmered for a moment more, then was
extinguished as rapidly as it had first appeared.

"No,"

she said calmly. "No, I don't expect you
not to be
jealous." She knitted her hands together in her lap
and
looked down at them.

"But my reaction is two questions for you. First--is
that what you think of me, Leonard?"

"Emma, are you so naive to think that if a man
sleeps over in your cabin, it's absurd for
anyone to
think he might have made love with you?"

"If you're suspicious, then your first reaction
should be to come to me and ask me what happened,
not to pout for two days, and not to jump to whatever
you may think is a logical conclusion."

"All right," McCoy conceded icily. "What's
the
second question?"

"What the hell business is it of yours anyway?

We
haven't come to any sort of understanding about other
relationships."

McCoy rose and turned away from her, clasping
his
hands behind him as he stared into the darkness of the
inner room. "Maybe it's none of my business
at all,"

he said, the anger in his voice replaced
by sadness. "I
know I have no right to be jealous. But I am.

I'm
jealous because I felt our relationship was
special, I'm
jealous because I have feelings for you that I haven't
felt in a very long time, and I don't want
anyone to
take you away from me."

"No one's going to take me away. If I
leave, it will
be because it's time for me to leave." Emma rose from
her chair and placed a hand lightly on

McCoy's back,
but he did not turn around. "I asked you if that was
what you thought of me because I thought you understood something
about me--I am a loyal person. I
would never do something to hurt you, Leonard, not
unless it absolutely couldn't be
helped. Even if I were
physically attracted to Jim Kirk, I would not
act on
it."

McCoy turned halfway toward her in the
darkness. "Are you attracted to him, Emma?"

Her gaze was steady and sought no pardon. "If

I
said I didn't find him attractive, I would
be a liar."

He turned away instinctively, to hide his
hurt, but
she placed a hand on his face and drew it gently
toward
her. "But I love you. I gave him a hypo and
it put him
to sleep before I could get him out of my cabin.

That's
all there was to it."

"All?" McCoy's eyes searched hers so
hopefully
that she felt pity for him. She took a deep
breath.

"No, not all. He got a little relaxed . . .

and he
kissed me. That was all."

McCoy sighed with relief. So she was telling the

MINDSHADOW
truth, she and Jim... "As you pointed out, we
don't
have an understanding about other relationships.

Would you like to?"

She smiled at the realization that he believed her.

"Of what sort?"

"How does marriage strike you?"

Her smile vanished, replaced by something very
close to panic. "Leonard . . . no, that
wouldn't, be
possible."

"Why not? I admit it's an old-fashioned
idea, but
still a popular one--"

"It's not that I think it's a bad idea--I
love you very
much--but you will remain on the Enterprise and I will
be reassigned somewhere else."

"Well then, just request a permanent assignment
here. You don't have to be reassigned--"

"I do. It's the nature of my job."

"What the devil are you talking about?

Medical
personnel can request permanent assignments,
especially
married medical personnel." His tone became
heated again.

"Please try to understand--comt's the agreement I
have with Star Fleet."

"Well you could change the agreement, then.

Certainly
someone---" he almost said, the captain "---can
pull some strings so you could be assigned here. If
you'd just rather not marry me, please say so."

"It's not that." She closed her eyes at the
hopelessness
of explaining it to him. "Please, there's no point
in talking about it any more. I'll have to be
reassigned
somewhere else soon, and that's the way it is."

He panicked. "How soon?"

"I wish I knew," she said, with a misery that
broke
his heart. "I'd prefer to spend what time I have
with
you, if you'll let me. I do care about you."

He pulled her close to him and kissed
the top of her

head. "I'm going to do everything in my power to keep
you on this ship. In the meantime, I'd like to ask one
favor."

"Anything," she murmured.

A smile played at the corners of his mouth.

"Call
me next time you're going to be two days late for
dinner."

"Your concentration is imperative, Spock,"

Tela'at

Stalik admonished sternly, "if you are to make
any
progress."

Spock directed his gaze away from the window and
back toward the flame statue. Outside, a
light rain fell
upon the water-starved desert, one of those rare gray
days on Vulcan when the sun did not scorch the
sky
orange.

Spock repressed a sigh and attempted once
again to
concentrate. He sat cross-legged beside
the Tela'at as
both regarded the flame statue and Stal'ik
explained the
process of meditation for the twentieth time.

Spock's
mental agitation was increasing daily, along with his
forgetfulness. The lessons with Stalik had become
cruel parodies of the lessons Spock had
taken as a
child; but then, he had retained the information, and
had understood. Now it seemed impossible.

As Stalik droned on in monotone, Spock
became
drowsy staring at the flickering flame. With each
passing
second, his irritation at Stalik increased--the
lessons
all seemed interminably long, and he wanted
more than anything for Stalik to finish and leave.

"Spock," Stalik snapped.

Spock started; he hadn't heard a word Stalik
had
been saying.

The Tela'at's regal serenity seemed
incongruous
with his words. "You are a dreadful student,

Spock.

After weeks of daily lessons, you have not mastered

MINDSHADOW
even the first level of meditation. I am beginning
to
form the opinion that you will never do so."

The muscles in Spock's body tensed, although his
expression did not change and his eyes remained
fixed on the flame. "Perhaps you are right,

Tela'at." He
turned his eyes on his teacher. "Then why do you
continue to instruct me?"

Stalik's tone, unlike his words, was not
insulting,

"It is difficult to believe that an adult

Vulcan could not
master such elementary concepts."

The temptation was great to defend himself by explaining
the extent of his difficulties, but Spock held
his peace; he would not further shame himself by
excusing his weaknesses. Instead he said, "Why
does
the Tela'at waste his time with me?"

"Out of respect for your father."

Stalik's response
was calculated to inspire remorse, but in

Spock's case
it merely served as fuel for his anger.

For the father, not the son. "If the Tela'at does
not
expect me to progress, is not such a waste of
his time
illogical?"

Spock knew full well that his question contained the
ultimate insult to one who had passed through the
rigors of Kohlinahr--the intimation of
illogical, ill-considered
action. Stalik had no trouble interpreting

Spock's intent: he rose stiffly to his
feet.

"This will be the end of my instruction, Spock," he
said. "You are correct. There is no logic in
continuing
the lessons."

Spock remained seated before the statue; he did
not
watch as the Tela'at left.

But Amanda had seen Stalik leave, and went
to tap
lightly on Spock's door. She was not at
all prepared for
the angry stranger who answered.

"Spock is everything all right? Stalik was
scarcely
here ten minutes..."

Spock stared stonily down at her. "I
insulted the

Tela'at. I indicated that further lessons were
illogical."

"Illogical? Spock, I don't understand."

"The lessons were a waste of time, Mother. I do not
wish to discuss it further." He began to retreat
back
inside the room.

She caught him gently by the elbow. "What do you
want me to tell your father, then? How can I tell
him
that?"

The mention of Sarek seemed to infuriate

Spock; he
practically shouted at her. "That is none of my
concern.

You may tell him whatever you wish."

She drew back and dropped the elbow, mouth
open.

"Spock, what's wrong?"

"You know. Must you shame me into saying it?"

"Please... I don't understand."

He turned his face away from her, miserable.

"The
mind rules. I cannot relearn them. I can no
longer
function as a Vulcan--comI apparently cannot
even control
my temper as well as a human. And my
memory is
getting worse."

"Spock." Amanda's voice was soothing.

"You'll
learn, I promise you... it's just that it will take
more
time. You were used to learning so quickly. You must
be patient. It will all come back."

"No." Spock fought despair with anger.

"No. Mother, can't you see... I'm not improving
slowly.

Each day, I'm getting worse, forgetting more and
more . . .

"Then let me call Dr. McCoy. Perhaps we
should
increase the medication."

"The medication hasn't helped," he said dully.

"I
am going to get worse, and that is why I shall leave
here as quickly as possible, before I bring further
shame to my family."

"But where will you go?"

MINDSHADOW

"A star base hospital. Perhaps Star Base

Twelve."

Hot tears gathered behind Amanda's eyes; she
wanted to stamp her foot, to scream, but she had
lived
with Vulcans for too long. "No," she commanded with
a mother's determination. "You will not go there. You
will stay here with us, where you belong."

He shook his head. "I don't belong here,

Mother.

You and father have been shamed enough, especially
after the trouble I have caused with the Tela'at."

"I don't give a damn about Stalik,"

Amanda said,
losing her own temper at last. "I don't care
if he tells
everybody in ShiKahr. And don't you ever, ever
say
that we're ashamed of you. How could you even think
such a thing?"

His jaw twitched in a scarcely visible spasm.

"Are
you forgetting, Mother, that I am a telepath?"

Amanda quickly clapped a hand over her open
mouth, but did not succeed in stifling the first sob.

Perhaps she wept from surprise as much as from
paint Spock had never said anything cruel to her
before, nor accused her of anything untrue. Now
he
was doing both. She disappeared to the safety of her
room before she embarrassed them both any further.

Spock stood frozen with horror at what he
had just
done. Amanda was probably the last person in the
universe whom he would choose to cause pain. But
even though Amanda was hidden in her room on the
other side of the house, Spock could detect the
faint
sound of her weeping. A human would not have
heard
it.

.. An ugly, muffled sound. Spock had heard
it only
once before, when he was four years old, standing
outside the door to Amanda's room; it had taken
him
some time to realize that his mother was responsible
for the wrenching, faraway sound. Spock, the child,
had been terrified. Sarek had come out of the room,
and for an instant the noise had stopped. "Go and
comfort your mother," his father had said, in a voice
gentler than Spock had ever heard before. "You are
her only child."

He had not understood, but he had gone inside.

He could not go to her now.

Instead, he went to the cabinet in the kitchen where

Amanda kept the medication and poured the capsules
into his hand. They really were rather pretty--n
intensely brilliant shade of purple--and quite
useless.

SP-OCK'S hand closed over them in a tight
fist.

Perhaps... not totally useless ....

Chapter Eight Captain's Log,

Stardate 7006.4:

Under orders of Star Fleet Command, the

Enterprise
has left Aritani in order to deliver
delegates
to an emergency meeting of the Federation

Council which is being held on the planet

Vulcan.

The Fidelity, a patrol vessel currently
assigned to
the area, will take the Enterprise's place as
watchdog,
although I frankly doubt that the presence of
any ship will serve as a deterrent to the raiders.

The meeting's purpose is to determine whether
the Federation should continue its involvement
with Aritani given the growers' refusal to accept
further Federation protection. While a case can
be made for abiding by the Aritanians' wishes, the
fact that the planet's mineral wealth makes it
an
attractive target for exploitation by unfrly
powers has led the Federation to consider continuing
protection. Intelligence sources indicate the

Romulan government may already be eyeing
the
planet for use as a mining colony.

The murder of the Romulan prisoner is still
unsolved. The murder charges pending against

Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott have
been dropped on the ground of insufficient
evidence;
three witnesses verified his presence on
the engineering deck at the time of the murder.

Lieutenant Tomson informs me that she has
uncovered
no further evidence in the case.

He awoke with a gasp, heart pounding so hard he
could scarcely catch his breath. He looked about
to
reassure himself that he was in the garden, under the
hanging arbor, and that he had been dreaming--a
nightmare of something intensely purple, something
that filled him with a sense of terror.

Spock straightened and intentionally slowed his
breathing. He had dreamed of the pills, no doubt,
because he had held them in his hand and studied them
for some time, contemplating what might happen if
he
swallowed them all. Some lingering shred of logic
had
saved him, had reminded him that he was uncertain of
the effects of an overdose, had dictated that the
intentional
ending of his life could not be the result of an
emotional decision. He had thrown them with disgust
into the garbage slot on the kitchen wall, knowing that
they would immediately be incinerated.

The hanging vines shielded Spock's eyes from the
intense light of the midday sun; the gray misting
rain of
the day before had at last been burned away.

Spock
had been sitting in the garden for a full day. He
rose
and stretched stiffly, his tunic still damp from the rain
and smelling slightly mildewed, and went to his
room.

The flame in the belly of the statue was still burning,
as he and Stalik had left it the day before. As he
stood
with his eyes fixed on the pulsating red light,

Stalik's
instructions came to his mind with sudden
clarity.

MINDSHADOW

Spock sat in the cross-legged position before it,
his
muscles complaining with their need to be stretched,
but he ignored the discomfort and kept his eyes on
the
flame.

Logic. One must formulate the question first, before
one can arrive at the answer. And Spock had
questions;
he would begin to sift them now, one by one.

Today he would answer at least one of them.

Stalik had said that there were always answers.

It was late afternoon when Spock emerged from his
room into the hallway.

The Andorian child had just completed his lesson; it
must have been his last, for Amanda was presenting
him with a gift: one of the rare paper books, this one
bound in red cloth. It was typical of her,
loaning--sometimes
giving--the priceless volumes to those she
felt would profit from them most. Spock squinted,
but
he could not make out the title.

The Andorian, child though he was, seemed to
appreciate the worth of the gift and the intent of the
giver, for he reverently set the book aside and with
youthful impulse hugged his teacher.

Spock knew he should allow them some privacy,
but
the enormity of his curiosity compelled him to stay.

He wanted to know how his mother would respond.

Amanda was almost knocked off balance by the
child's momentum, but her expression quickly became
one of. pleasure; her arms enfolded the child and
drew
him to her with honest affection.

Spock drew back so that they would not see him as
they walked to the door. When the Andorian had
departed, Spock walked up silently behind

Amanda.

She almost ran into him when she turned around and
drew back, startled. "Spock, you look
terrible. were
you out in the garden all night? In the rain?"

She did not mention the hurt he had caused her the
day before; there was no recrimination in her face,
only concern. Spock permitted himself a
moment's
envy for the Andorian boy.

"Mother, I wish to apologize for the unkind and
untrue remark I made yesterday--"

"Don't." She dismissed his offense with a wave of
her hand. Both she and Spock knew that

Vulcans did
not apologize.

"Let me continue. For whatever reason, I was not
in control of my temper earlier, and my behavior
toward you and toward Tela'at Stalik was
inexcusable.

I regret it deeply. If I could reclaim
the remark--"

"You weren't yourself. I can't hold anything you
might have said against you."

"My thought patterns were most confused and
illogical.

However, I seem to have regained control of
them. I shall go to Stalik's house to apologize and
ask
him to return, although I doubt he will do so."

Amanda's face was hopeful. "Then you think it is
useful to continue the lessons. And you'll stay with

US."

"For the moment, yes."

She studied his face. "You are yourself again, aren't
you? I'm glad. We've been so worried. But

I must ask
you--your medication isn't where I left it. Did
you
take it?"

Spock nodded.

"Good," she said, relieved. "I trust you
to take it,
then. I'm just very grateful for the sudden
improvement...

perhaps the effects are cumulative.

Spock's expression was bland, even agreeable;
there was no reason to alarm her by revealing the fate
of the neodopazine. If his condition worsened, he
would contact McCoy himself.

But his mother's statement about the effects of the

MINDSHADOW
drug aroused a strange emotion in him, one that for
some odd reason was connected in his subconscious
with his accident .... He tried to identify it before
it
passed as quickly as it had descended.

Fear... a feeling of imminent danger.

That night it visited him again as he dreamed of
purple . . . not the porcelain capsules this
time, but
steep purple mountains.

Kirk sat miserably in his command chair, fingering
the stiff collar of the dress uniform. It was no
secret to
the crew that their captain had been in a less than
perfect mood for the last few weeks. Maybe his
dress
uniform was getting too tight and making him
cranky,

Sulu suggested in a low voice to Chekhov. The
helmsman's
eyes darted sideways at the captain, who was
distracted by a yeoman's report requiring his
signature.

The low rumble of laughter quickly faded to
silence as Kirk glared up from the yeoman's
clipboard,
sensing that he was somehow responsible for the
merriment.

"Coming into orbit around Tellar, Captain,"

Sulu
said glibly.

"Visual of the Tellarite delegation," Kirk
said without
enthusiasm.

Uhura's fingers were poised over her console;
she'd
been waiting for the command. "On visual,

Captain."

Stocky, bristle-haired, heavy-browed, the

Tellarite
ambassador was impossible to describe in

Terran
terms as anything other than porcine; certainly,
his
manners served little to disabuse anyone of the
comparison.

He glared at Kirk with small, bilious eyes
set
over a nasal appendage best described as a
snout.

Kirk affected a weak smile of dubious
sincerity.

"This is Captain James T. Kirk of the
starship Enterprise. Is your party ready to beam
aboard?"

"Ambassador Zev. It's about time," the

Tellarite
boomed in a low, hoarse voice, quite unlike the
squeal
one expected from looking at him. "We've been
waiting
almost an hour!"

Kirk's lips tightened. It was a lie, and

Ambassador

Zev knew it. The Enterprise had arrived at
the promised
moment. But a Tellarite never passed up the
opportunity for an argument--tell one that the

Terran
sky was blue, and they would insist it was as orange
as

Vulcan's, and then throw in a few insults at
your
mother for good measure. It was a characteristic of

Tellarite culture for which Kirk was in no
mood.

"Please stand by to beam up." Kirk cut off the
communication abruptly and wondered whose bright
idea it was to let Tellar into the Federation.

Zev's
piggish snout was the last object to fade from the
viewscreen. "Mr. Varth."

The first officer, his expression gracious and
alert,
turned from Spock's console to face the captain.

Like

Kirk, he wore his full-dress uniform, but his
was
science officer's blue, a color that complemented
his
copper hair. "Sir," he replied in his soft
tenor voice.

"Accompany me to the transporter room."

"Yes, sir."

Kirk left, taking his foul mood with him, while

Varth
followed at a polite distance.

Sulu took the con and when the doors to the lift
had
closed, sighed.

"What's been eating him?" Uhura asked in a
low
voice.

Sulu just shook his head.

Kirk maintained a sullen silence
until the lift deposited
them on the level of the transporter room. "Ever
dealt with Tellarites before, Mr. Varth?" he
asked with
the supremely confident voice of experience.

MINDSHADOW

"Yes, sir," Varth replied eagerly. "I
roomed with
one at the Academy."

Kirk looked at him sharply, wanting to ask
what the
hell one had been doing at the Academy, but he
bit his
tongue and held the lecture on how not to lose
one's
temper with Tellarites.

Scott and McCoy were already waiting in the
transporter
room, both in their dress uniforms; they had
been talking but when the captain entered, an
awkward
silence descended. Kirk was certain Scott still
thought he had mentioned Ensign Lanz to Tomson,
thus precipitating Scott's arrest;
he had no idea if

McCoy still blamed him for the incident with Emma.

McCoy cleared his throat and tugged at the
collar of
his uniform. "How many more of these delegations do
we have to pick up? This thing is killing me. They
can
transport a man's atoms through space and
back, but
they can't dress him up and let him be comfortable at
the same time."

"This is the last delegation," Kirk said.

"Thank God," Scott sighed. i'll be glad
when
we're finished with all this pomp and circumstance."

He turned to the young Radun andwitha paternal
air,
said, "Now tell me, Mr. Varth, have ye ever
had the
misfortune to have dealings with Tellarites before?"

"Yes," Kirk said shortly, before Varth could
open
his mouth. "He has."

Varth nodded politely in Kirk's direction and
waited
to be sure the captain was finished speaking. "I was
friends with a Tellarite back at the Academy."

"Friends? With a Tellarite?" Scott's eyes
widened
with horror at the thought. "I dinna think that's
possible.

Ye must have some special diplomatic gift
to make
friends with those piggish little---"

"Mr. Scott," Kirk warned.

"robcastles," Scott finished. "Are ye
sure your
people are related to the Klingons? I can't think of a
more unlikely combination, a Klingon and a

Tellarite."

Varth smiled. "Raduns have a special knack
for
getting along with almost anyone. I've never met
someone I couldn't be friends with." He looked
hesitantly at the captain.

Kirk scowled. "I suppose we have no choice
but to
beam them aboard, Mr. Scott."

"Aye," Scott sighed, "I suppose not."

He went behind the transporter control
console.

Three squat forms shimmered and materialized
into
reality on the transporter pads. The tallest
one spoke.

"I am Ambassador Zev." It sounded more like
a hysterical accusation than an introduction.

"And I am, of course, Captain Kirk. This
is my first
officer, Mr. Varth, Chief Engineer Scott,
and Chief

Medical Officer McCoy."

Zev flared his already wide nostrils. "Is this
why
you made us wait so long before you beamed us up? So
that you could assemble half your crew in this useless
display of pomp?"

Kirk smiled at the thought of the immense pleasure
involved in poking Zev in his oversized snout.

"This is hardly half the crew, Ambassador.

There are over four hundred personnel aboard this
ship. It is our custom to
honor important diplomats such as yourself
by having
our senior officers greet you--"

"A ridiculous waste of time!" Zev waved a
stubby
arm imperiously. "Take us to our quarters now."

"Sir," Varth said in a low voice to Kirk,

"if I
may--"

"He's all yours," Kirk said, his smile
faded.

"What do you mean, we made you wait so long?"

Varth shouted so loud that McCoy jumped. "That's
an
outright lie! You know we were right on time. And

MINDSHADOW
speaking of useless displays of pomp, I notice
you came with an entourage yourself. They're here just for
show, as we are."

Kirk, Scott and McCoy stared at the first
officer as if
he had gone mad, but Varth ignored them, glaring
defiantly at the Tellarites.

Zev made a rasping sound that Kirk was finally

to identify as laughter. "I don't need
to explain my
attaches to you, son of a Klingon."

"And we don't have to explain ourselves to you."

"Maybe not," Zev said with gusto. "But quit
wasting
my time with all this talk. Take us to our
quarters.

And I hope that they're suitable. You humans
always
put us in rooms which suit your ridiculously
oversized
bodies--"

"It's not our fault you're so short," Varth
sneered.

"Mr. Varth--" Kirk broke in, "I'm
sorry to interrupt
the mutual admiration society, but if you would
take them to their quarters..."

"Certainly, sir," the Radun replied
politely. He
gestured to the Tellarites to follow.

Zev chuckled as he and his diminutive entourage
waddled past Kirk. "Captain, I was with former

Ambassador

Gav's delegation when he was on your ship
several years before, and I must say that I
find your
new first officer a vast improvement over the old
one.

This one, at least, has a little personality."

Kirk did not smile at the remark.

The Tellarites fell in behind Varth like baby
ducks
behind their mother; as the door slid closed behind
them, they could hear Varth in the corridor: "I
always
thought that the terms Tellarite and diplomat were
mutually exclusive."

"Did you ever see anything like that before?" McCoy
said with awe.

"I'd "a thought he'd hit Mr Varth for saying
things
were' 69
like that, but it didn't seem to make him any
madder. I
think he liked it," Scott puzzled.

McCoy nodded. "That Varth really knows what
he's
doing."

"Maybe," Kirk said without conviction.

McCoy turned on him. "Give the
man a little credit,
for God's sake, Captain. It's not his fault
he's not

Spock." He brushed past Kirk. "Come
on,. Scotty.

This is the last of the diplomats, and I've got
some
white lightning in my quarters."

"Could I talk to you for a moment first, Mr.

Scott?"

Scott stopped. "I'll be there in a minute,"

he told

McCoy.

Kirk waited for McCoy to leave before he began
to
speak.

Scott stopped him. "Captain, I think I
know what
you want to talk about... and it's all right. You were
just tryin" to do your duty."

"Scotty... I want you to know that I didn't
tell
anyone about Ensign Lanz. I never for a moment
thought you could have done it. Tomson wanted to put
a bulletin out on you immediately, but I
wouldn't, not
until you were late. I'm sorry, Scotty."

Scott lowered his eyes. "I appreciate what
ye tried
to do for me, sir. And I'm sorry for what I
said. No
hard feelings?"

"No hard feelings."

He smiled and straightened his shoulders. "Then,
sir, why don't ye join me and the doctor for a
little
tipple? Ye look like you could use some cheerin'

"Thanks. Maybe later, Scotty."

But Kirk had no intention of going to the doctor's
quarters. He seriously doubted he would be
welcome
there for quite some time.

MINDSHADOW

It was not the most comfortable situation James

Kirk had ever been in, but then it was not the most
uncomfortable either. The reception for the delegates
was in full swing in the rec lounge, and from the
looks
of things, at least half the crew was
present. Kirk
headed toward his first officer, who was having an
earnest discussion with the Radun ambassador;

Varth
had been seriously embarrassed to learn that the

Radun
delegation opposed protection for Aritani. It
looked as if Varth was engaging in a little
diplomacy
himself.

On the other side of the room the Saurian
ambassador
was calling and waving to Kirk so loudly that Kirk
could no longer pretend he did not notice.

Reluctantly,

Kirk went to join his group.

Next to the Saurian stood Emma Saenz and

Leonard McCoy, both wearing identical
medical dress
uniforms of pale blue, although Kirk could not
help
thinking that Emma did hers infinitely more
justice.

The Saurian and Emma were grinning broadly,
oblivious
to anyone's discomfort; Kirk and McCoy nodded,
unsmiling, at each other.

Kirk addressed himself to the Saurian; he had
to
raise his voice to be heard above the rumble of the
crowd. "By the sound of things, Ambassador

Taureng,
everyone here has already enjoyed a substantial
amount of your contribution to our reception."

"Glad to be of service, Captain," Taureng
boomed
gleefully, obviously having also indulged in a
fair
portion of his planet's most lucrative
export. He was
nearly seven feet tall, black-skinned, and
exuding
charm, a welcome contrast to the pygmyish

Tellarite
who stood nearby, arguing quite obnoxiously with the
ambassador from Cygnus V. "Permit me
to get you a
glass."

Kirk started to protest about the impropriety of
ambassadors waiting on the hired
help, but Taureng
did not seem to hear; after all, his own glass was
again
empty and needed filling.

Jim turned back awkwardly to face Emma and

McCoy;
the doctor was studying his Saurian brandy with
furious intensity, apparently in an attempt
to appreciate
the visual and olfactory attributes of the
fiery
amber liquid. Emma leaned forward. She
seemed to be
the only sober person in the room.

"How divided are these delegates on the

Aritanian
question, Captain?" she asked, nodding at the group
next to them, which consisted of Ambassador Zev,
the

Cygnusian with whom he was arguing, and an

Andorian
who was quietly watching the exchange.

"As far as I can tell," Kirk said, loud enough for

Emma and McCoy to hear, but not so loud that he
could be heard over the growl of the

Tellarite or the
silken response of the Cygnusian, "about half
the
diplomats favor protection. The

Tellarites and the

Raduns are against it. The Andorians haven't
committed
themselves, and the Cygnusians are one of the
strongest supporters. that's why the Tellarite's
arguing
with her."

The native of Cygnus V sat on a large
sofa next to
the Andorian ambassador. Indeed, she found it
quite
taxing to stand for long periods of time, since

Cygnus

V's gravity was some ten percent less than

Terran
standard, but there had been no time to arrange more
comfortable travel accommodations and still arrive on

Vulcan in time for the vote. McCoy was giving
her
injections to ease the strain, but even the slightest
movement was tiring. Next to the

Andorian, she
looked like a graceful giantess; she was taller
than a

Saurian, and even seated, was taller than the

Tellarite
who stood before her. Her skin was translucent
white,
and her frail bones were so thin and elongated that a

MINDSHADOW
human child could snap them easily. In fact, she
avoided any quick movements and often went to the
antigrav compartment in the gym, so that she could
move about and exercise without fear of breaking a
fragile limb. She responded to the shouted
accusations
of the Tellarite with a voice that was breathless and
feathery.

"Don't you realize," Zev yelled, "that you

,are
violating one of the Federation's most revered
precepts?

We have no right to interfere when they've
made it clear they want no help. I can't
believe the

Federation is even calling this conference!"

The Cygnusian craned her long neck forward and
directed a sharply angled chin at the

Tellarite. "That is
a common misconception among those who do not
truly understand Federation Code."

Zev sputtered. "What kind of insult--"

"The noninterference directive states that no
representative
of the Federation may interfere with the
sociological or technological development
of a culture,
either by hindering or helping it. By giving Aritani a
second chance to accept our help, we are in no
way
interfering with their cultural development. Quite the
opposite--we are protecting them from interference,
from those who would hinder their development. We
are upholding the noninterference directive, not
violating
it."

"But we are defying their own government's
decision,"

Zev roared.

"We do not defy it." The Cygnusian
shook her
elongated head slowly, carefully. "We are
giving them
the opportunity to reconsider their position. They
would have no such chance if we permitted the pirates
to destroy them."

"They have the right to choose genocide, if they
want to. The whole point of this so-called
second
chance is that the Federation can't bear to see all those
fuel sources go to the Romulans."

"Romulans?" Emma whispered in Kirk's
ear.

"The latest rumor."

"If the Romulans take the planet, then the

Aritanians
have certainly chosen genocide," said the

Cygnusian, "for the Romulans would destroy the
inhabitants
and strip what they wanted from the planet
without concern for its ecosystem. They would
effectively
destroy it. That is their way."

"I still say that's the Aritanians' decision
to make,"

Zev persisted.

She frowned. "Perhaps, Zev, you don't realize
that
when the Aritanians told us to leave, they felt
we
couldn't help them. If we could show them that we can
stop the attacks, they might change their minds."

"And how, pray tell, will we do that now?"

"I'll leave that up to Federation Intelligence."

She
sipped her brandy delicately.

"There's no way we can protect them against a
shield neutralizer!"

The Cygnusian dismissed his remark with a tinkling
laugh; frustrated, Zev turned his attention to the

An-dorian.

"I still say we mustn't interfere! What do you
say, Thelev?"

The Andorian was as delicate and wrinkled as an
old
woman; he pursed his lips at the Tellarite.

"I can say
nothing at this point, Zev. Surely even you can
respect
the fact that my government has ordered
me to hold
my tongue until I cast the vote at the
conference on

Vulcan."

"I can respect the fact that your government is just
too namby-pamby to make up its mind until
it hears
what the other delegates think!"

"Tellarites are most unpleasant when they are

MINDSHADOW
drunk," the gentle Thelev lisped to the

Cygnusian,
completely ignoring Zev's sputters.

"I agree, although I must add that they are almost as
unpleasant when sober," she replied sweetly,
angling
her head from side to side. "This one, though,
makes
me a little homesick."

"How so?"

"He reminds me of a Cygnusian drelu."

Zev bellowed loudly and jumped toward the

Cygnusian's
tender neck with both arms outstretched.

Emma
was closest and got there first, pinning the

Tellarite's
pudgy arms with ease. Zev struggled and roared with
anger.

"How dare you let this woman touch me,

Captain!

If

I am injured, my government will exact
revenge"

Taureng reappeared in the midst of the commotion
with two glasses and a decanter. "What in the
names
of the gods--"

Kirk glared angrily at Zev, who was
struggling pathetically
to break free from Emma's grasp.

"Ambassador

Zev, you will have to leave this reception
if you can't keep from fighting with the other
delegates."

"First get this she-devil off me to was

Varth appeared at Kirk's side. "I think

I can help,

Captain."

Kirk was grateful for once to see his first
officer. He motioned graciously toward the

Tellarite. "Be my
guest, Mister Varth."

Emma released her grip, and Zev padded out of the
room with Varth on his heels, berating him.

Zev stopped in the entrance way and called to the

Cygnusian. "You haven't heard the last of this!

I will
have my revenge!"

The Cygnusian laughed sweetly and waved.

"I don't understand," Emma said. "What's a
drelu ?"

The Cygnusian giggled. "A drelu is a
scavenger
animal. It subsists on the excrement of other
animals."

Kirk addressed himself with relief to the glass of
brandy the Saurian proffered him. "I brought a
bottle
of my own private stock," said Taureng.

"One hundred
twenty Saurian years in the cask. You won't
believe the difference between this and what the others
are drinking."

"Drelu, huh?" McCoy murmured
thoughtfully. "I'll
have to remember that one."

"Thank God Varth was here to take Zev off our
hands," Emma sighed. "Is it always this
difficult,
dealing with diplomats?"

The question was addressed to Kirk, but Taureng
answered first. "Only when the diplomats
involved are

Tellarites."

Kirk nursed his brandy for a good while before he
spoke.

"Let's hope," he said, "that this is as
difficult as it
gets."

It wasn't. Kirk was awakened in the middle of the
night by a call from Tomson. They had found the

Cygnusian ambassador stuffed into a
stairwell, the
bones in her delicate body snapped like
matchsticks.

Chapter Nine

T'PALA SAT UNDER the arbor in the darkness
of the
garden. She did not speak or stir as Spock
approached.

He was glad that his mental shields now afforded
him some protection against the anguish that she could
not hide, even in the moonless night.

"My parents are concerned," Spock said, drawing
his cloak closer against the chill of the night air.

"You
absented the evening meal and have spoken to no one
all day. We did not know if you had returned from

ShanaiKahr. Are you unwell?"

She turned her face away. "You know what I
went
to the capital to find out today. Are you incapable of
making deductions?"

"You were not accepted into the diplomatic
program."

T'Pala faced him in the blackness, eyes
glittering.

For a moment Spock feared she had been crying, but
her cheeks were dry. "I was not."

Spock thought for a moment before he spoke. "You
are very young, T'Pala. It might be that after
another
year of study, the regents would find you mature
enough to enter the program."

She shook her head bitterly. "Maturity has
nothing
to do with the reason I was not accepted. It has to do
with something you can't possibly understand."

"I can't if you don't tell me the reason,"

Spock
countered gently.

She struggled to say it. "My background--"

"T'Pala," he said, "I believe I understand
perfectly."

"Then surely you know the prejudice I face
here,"

she said, unable to completely master her anger.

"Even if they had accepted me, I'm not sure
that I
would be happy here. I don't belong. You were
wise to
leave."

Spock tried to say something, but she stopped him.

"But youmyou were raised on Vulcan. I was not.

I did
not acquire all the disciplines as a child. I even
speak

Vulcan like a Terran."

"T'Pala, I cannot accept that those were the things
that prevented your admittance."

"I know. I know that you were accepted and turned it
down--"

Spock looked at her sharply.

"--s I know that being half-human, although it did
present some difficulty, did not keep me out.

It was
more than that." She looked down at her hands,
folded
together in her lap, and sighed. "I wish Sarek were
my
father."

Spock stiffened. "The reason for my acceptance
was not the fact that Sarek was my father. And he did
endorse you to the committee."

She looked up at him, quick to explain. "I
didn't

MINDSHADOW
mean that it was. I meant that I did not wish
to be the
daughter of Gerald Carstairs. Even Sarek's
endorsement
of me could not change that fact."

Spock lifted an eyebrow questioningly.

"No one told you?"

"I have heard the name. Is the fact somehow
significant?"

"Significant enough to require our family
to leave

Terra, to make no Vulcan male want
to bond with

"I can think of nothing that would cause you to be
an unsuitable mate."

She looked at him gratefully and closed her
eyes.

"My father had access to certain classified
research
information because of the nature of his work. The Vulcans
accused him of selling that information to the

Romulans."

"Did he?"

"The Vulcans never pressed charges, but they
made
him leave. Of course, that was the end of his
diplomatic
career. When he died last year, I returned
to

Vulcan. I feared that I would not be accepted because
of what my father did. Now my fear has been
realized."

Spock sat next to her on the stone bench
to emphasize
the sincerity of what he said. "T'Pala, I still
maintain that although Vulcans, like all sentient
beings,
are not totally immune to prejudice, the
committee would not reject you on the basis that

Gerald

Carstairs was your father."

She pulled away from him, back into the shadows.

"Think what you like, it makes no difference. I will
not
shame myself by offering my loyalty to those who
reject it. I shall be leaving soon."

"Do not leave," Spock said. "Go to the
admissions
committee, and ask them why you were not accepted.

They will tell you. Perhaps it is a flaw that can be
improved."

But she left him in the garden and would not listen.

It was not a good night. Kirk spent the first half
of it
questioning the Tellarite delegation and The Icy, the

Andorian, who had been the last one to see the

Cygnusian
alive. Kirk had managed to exact a small
measure
of revenge: he confined the Tellarites, under

Zev's
very loud protest, to their quarters. Maybe that would
keep them out of trouble for a while--but he doubted
it.

Kirk had just lain down on his bunk and closed his
eyes when the intercom whistled; he swore loudly
as
he hit the control.

At least it was Uhura on the bridge, and not

Tomson
telling him another diplomat had bit the dust.

She smiled at him apologetically. "Sorry
to bother, Captain, but I assumed you would still be up
after all
the excitement .... his

Kirk grunted. "What's the problem,

Lieutenant?"

"Since the murder of the ambassador, sir,

I've been
monitoring all channels--alert standby
procedure. I
just happened to listen in on a very low frequency
band, and... well, it's hard to explain, but I
picked up
something that could either be a shadow or a carefully
hidden signal. I'm not really sure, but it's
definitely
some kind of disturbance. Maybe I'm being
overcautious..."

"I hardly think that's possible, Lieutenant,
considering
our cargo." Kirk remembered the last time he'd
had a ship full of diplomats and wound up being
tailed
by an Orion spy ship. "What's the source?"

"This ship, sir." She did not hide her
surprise. "Dr.

McCoy's quarters."

MINDSHADOW

At first Kirk thought he had heard her wrong.

"Did
you say McCoy's quarters?"

"Yes, sir. No mistake."

"I'll check it out, Uhura. Thank you for
notifying
me."

"Thank you, sir."

Kirk adjusted the sonic pick to the correct
frequency
and stepped back as the door to McCoy's
cabin opened.

Inside, the only light in the cabin came from the
small lamp on the desk, where Emma sat
looking up at
him in silent amazement. Kirk was not surprised
to
find her there, but he had not expected to see what
she
held cupped in her hand.

Sickened, he pointed his phaser at her.

"I'll take
that."

She handed the transmitter to him without a word.

"Bones?" Kirk called hoarsely.

No answer came from the darkened bedroom.

He pushed the phaser at her, forcing back the
panic
that rose in his chest. "By God, if
you've done anything
to himMore"

"I gave him something to put him to sleep. You
won't be able to wake him up," Emma said. Her
voice
betrayed no guilt, no hostility, no anger;
it was flat and
calm. "What were your people doing monitoring this
frequency?"

Kirk's voice shook with rage; he fought
to steady it,
to be as cool as she. "What the hell were you doing
with this on my ship?"

"I need it for my work," she said urgently, and
stood up. Kirk waved the phaser at her.

"Sit down."

Emma sat down. "Captain, before you call

Security-was

"Be quiet." He could not bear to listen to her
speak,
not with that honest, unafraid expression--she was
going to say something sincere, and Kirk did not
trust
himself to disbelieve her. He found it hard enough to
believe what he had just seen.

"Go ahead and fire, but I'm not going to shut up.

Please call Admiral Komack first, and
tell him what's
happened. Please. Before you call Security."

Keeping his phaser leveled at her, Kirk went
to the
intercom.

"I'm on your side," Emma said.

Perhaps because he wanted to believe, he did not
call Security. "Uhura, I'm sending a
message to Admiral

Komack from McCoy's quarters. It will be top
priority. When the reply comes through, I want you
to
relay it here the instant it comes in."

"Thank you," Emma said.

Kirk settled into the chair across from her and
pointed the phaser at her chest. "At this distance,
we
should get a reply before McCoy wakes up.

I've got
plenty of time to wait."

SAENZ, EMMA MARIA. SECURITY

CLEARANCE CONFIDENTIAL. POSSESSION

OF TRANSMIT-TER CLEARED

ON MY AUTHORITY. ADMIRAL KOMACK,

OU.

Kirk put down the phaser and closed his eyes with
grateful relief. Emma was slumped forward in
the
chair with her head on the desk; he reached forward
and put a hand on her shoulder. When she raised
her
head to look at him, he smiled at her.

"Komack?" she yawned.

Kirk nodded. "Sorry. I didn't know."

She sat up straight in the chair and stretched her

MINDSHADOW
arms above her head. "Thank you for not calling

Security. No one must know, not even

Leonard." She
looked at him with somber eyes. "My life
depends on
it."

"No one will know." Kirk rose to leave, but
something
made him hesitate.

"Emma... about what happened between us..."

She raised an eyebrow in an
expression of curiosity
that strikingly resembled Spock's. "Nothing
happened
between us, Captain."

"Uh, huh," he said slowly. "Of course.

Nothing
happened." He moved toward the door and stopped.

"And as far as I'm concerned, nothing ever will."

"If that's the way you want it."

"That's the way I want it." He felt
slightly exasperated
with her; she was not helping him out of this very
gracefully; she almost seemed to be having fun with
him, the way Spock sometimes used to pretend not
to
understand Terran figurative speech.

Until she leaned forward and quite seriously said,

"I
don't want to do anything that would hurt either one of
you. I care very much about you both."

When Kirk saw the look in her eyes, he
left hurriedly
before he kissed her again.

"What the hell--" Kirk was nearly thrown from the
command console as the ship lurched forward.

"Captain!" Sulu called urgently, "we've
lost warp
drive."

"Manual override, Mr. Sulu"

"Not responding, sir."

"Captain to was

The agitation in Uhura's voice made Kirk
swivel
around to face her.

"Engineering reports an explosion, sir . . .

in the
main engine room."

"Get me Scott."

"Captain--" Kirk could hear coughing and confusion
in the background "--th is Scott." The engineer
was struggling to speak.

"What's going on down there, Scotty? Any
casualties?"

"No, sir, but somebody's blasted the warp
drive.

We can't see right now for the smoke to judge the
extent of the damage, but I think manual
override was
also affected. No danger of coolant leakage,
and the
anti-matter pods are undamaged. Nothing
permanent-but
whoever set that blast knew right where to
put it to slow us down." He broke off,
overcome by a
spasm of coughing.

Kirk waited for him to finish. "Estimated
repair
time?"

"All the damage reports aren't in yet, but
my guess
is at least a solar day's work."

"Get your men to sick bay, Mr. Scott.

Sounds like
you're all suffering from smoke inhalation. And that
includes you."

"Aye, sir."

"As soon as McCoy gives you a clean bill
of health,

I want a full report on the damage."

He had scarcely made up his mind to call

Security
next when Tomson came on the intercom.

"Lieutenant Tomson, I was just calling you.

As
soon as the smoke is cleared out of Engineering,

I
want you to get some people down there to investigate.

Scott says the explosion was no accident."

"An explosion in Engineering, too, sir?"

"What do you mean, too, Lieutenant?" Kirk
sat
forward with an angry, sick certainty in the pit
of his
stomach.

The explosion in Taureng's room had sent the

Sau-

MINDSHADOW
rian hurtling outside into the corridor, where he
impacted
with the bulkhead. His aide, who was closer to
the site of the blast, was killed instantly. The
ambassador
had been taken to surgery, condition critical.

Kirk snapped off the intercom, for the second time
faced with the unpleasant task of informing a
government
that their delegation had been the target of a
murderer aboard his ship.

"Someone on this ship," he said to no one
in particular
on the bridge, "does not want us to get
to Vulcan."

Captain's Log, Stardate 7006.9:

Lieutenant Tomson informs me that the blasts
set in Engineering and in Ambassador

Taureng's
quarters were set by someone who is not only an
explosives expert (since no clue, not even
a trace
of the material used, was ever found) but who is
intimately familiar with the ship's layout.

Security has done a thorough check and found
that none of the personnel on board have any
training in the use of explosives. Tomson
therefore
suggests only one possible conclusion.

One of my crewmembers is working for the
other side.

Emma Saenz and Kirk faced each other on the
padded floor of the gym.

- "How's the shoulder?"

Kirk shrugged to show the extent of the improvement.

"Hasn't bothered me at all today. Although I
must say," he added lightly, "it
certainly caused
enough trouble at first."

Emma cast a knowing smile at him as they bowed
ceremonially.

Instead of the slow-paced dance around her to size
her up, Kirk lunged immediately, grasping at his
opponent.

Emma moved directly into the attack, into his
arms,
with enough force to throw him off balance.

It was exactly what he'd hoped. He pulled
her down
to the floor with him, and rolled swiftly so that she
was
pinned beneath him. Emma fought, and almost succeeded
in breaking away, but this time brute strength
triumphed over cleverness. It was one of the few
times
she had to concede.

"You learn fast," she gasped up at him.

"I have an excellent teacher. You're not the only
one good at fooling people."

She' learned fast, too. His initial
surprise attack had
taught her to anticipate similar tricks from
him; the
rest of the match was a draw.

They were on their way to the sauna when Kirk
stopped. There might be others in the sauna, and he
wanted only Emma to hear what he had to say.

He
turned to her, and she looked up at him
expectantly;
she was still glowing from the workout, and the flush
of color in her cheeks and lips had made her
truly
beautiful. So fragile, and so strong...

Kirk instinctively stiffened and assumed a more
formal air. "Doctor, I need your help."

"Of course," she said softly. "Name it."

He swallowed. "I must find the person who
planted
the explosives on my ship. I assume it would
also be
the same person who killed the Romulan and the

Cygnusian ambassador."

She took an indignant step back as though he
had
insulted her. "Aren't you capable of
making any deductions,

Captain?" Her hands flew to her hips. "Did
you think Komack sent me here just to take care of

Spock?"

MINDSHADOW

"No..."

"Anything that happens to those delegates is more
my failure than yours. Rest assured, I'm
working on
it."

If there were any words that could make him feel
better about the current situation, Emma had just
said
them. He sighed and relaxed his posture. "Any
leads
yet?"

"I'd rather not discuss it. For this part of my job,

I
take orders only from Komack."

He flinched internally at that, but aloud said, "I
understand. But certainly you can understand that I
wanted to find out what was going on."

"Certainly you realize that you have a spy on
board," she said. Then as an afterthought she added in
a voice so low he could scarcely hear,

"All right, tWO."

He nodded, sick at the thought.

"When I find out who it is, you'll know," she
said,
and went to change before he could ask her any more
questions.

Lavender deepening to purple deepening to darkest
violet, fading to gray and then black--moving up
and
down, undulating, rolling, rolling into hills,
into mountains.

Gray, black mountains, and he was rolling down
them, gathering speed, faster and faster until he
spun
like a top and the dizziness made him cry out for it
to
stop ....

Spock sat up with a start. The dream came often
now, repeating itself, but each time changing ever so
slightly. Soon, he told himself, soon the
image of the
mountains would no longer be shrouded in mystery.

He glanced up at the chronometer on the ceiling
and
rose to dress himself for the evening meal. His
body
was no longer as thin and fragile as it had been;
for the

past week, he had indulged Amanda's desire
to fatten
him up. He had even begun taking afternoon naps.

He
needed the strength now, for he had a purpose: to
return as quickly as possible to the Enterprise.

Spock was confident that he was once again fit for
duty. His memory had completely returned,
with the
exception of the incident on Aritani, and as the
dreams
grew more vivid, he knew that memory would soon
return as well. Even the mind rules were now
his;
indeed, that very morning he had received his last
instruction from the Tela'at.

"I marvel at the change, Spock," Stalik
had told
him. "In all my years, I have never seen
anyone
master the rules more quickly. This is the
final lesson.

And this time, it is because you no longer have need of
my instruction."

Spock had bowed low to him. "I have indeed been
fortunate to have the Tela'at as a teacher. Your
willingness
to return after my indiscreet behavior speaks
highly of your character. I will not forget this time
what I have learned." He raised his hand in the

Vulcan
greeting. "Live long and prosper, Tela'at

Stalik."

Stalik returned the salute with fingers that
trembled
with age. "I have done both, Spock. May you
also do
likewise."

Spock helped his teacher to the door and watched as
the Tela'at disappeared down the dusty path.

Stalik
had reached an age attained by few Vulcans;
surely he
would soon die, and the wealth of knowledge he had
accumulated during his lifetime would be lost,
except
for that which he had imparted to his students. Spock
had not been merely polite when he had said he was
fortunate to have Stalik as a teacher.

He was still thinking of Stalik as he finished
dressing
and walked from his room into the hallway. A flash
of
black and white startled him.

MINDSHADOW

"T'Pala." He spoke her name almost without
meaning
to; he had not seen her since their meeting in the
garden.

With the exception of her pale face, T'Pala was
completely enshrouded by her black cloak. She
jumped back nervously, as though she had meant
to
slip into her room undetected.

"T'Pala," Spock repeated. "My parents
have been
most concerned about you. They did not know
whether to be alarmed by your disappearance. Will
you be joining us for the evening meal?"

Her eyes, though defiant, could not
meet his. "No. I
am preparing to leave Vulcan."

Spock considered this silently for a moment.

"Where will you go?"

"Terra, I suppose. I haven't decided
yet. But there
is nothing for me here."

"Did you speak to the admission committee about
their decision--"

"There is no point," she said vehemently,
cutting
him off. "The Vulcan path is not for me. The

Vulcans
feel no loyalty toward me, therefore, it is
illogical for
me to feel loyalty toward them."

"T'Pala--"

She held up her hand to silence him. "I will be
gone
before you rise tomorrow. You will not see me again."

Spock sighed; there was clearly no point in
pursuing
the discussion. She had made her decision, just as
he
had once made a decision many, many
years ago, to
leave--comand even Amanda had been unable to dissuade
him. "I, too, will be leaving Vulcan
shortly," Spock
said.

T'Pala's expression changed abruptly; she
looked at
him with concern. "Are you certain you are well
enough?"

Spock nodded. "My father informs me that the

Enterprise will arrive with the delegates to the

Aritanian
conference in approximately
thirty-four-point-seven
standard hours."

T'Pala's eyes had become unreadable. "So
the medication
is working?"

Spock paused. "Actually, I am no longer
taking

She could not restrain herself and interrupted him.

"Spock, do you think that is wise? Have you
consulted
with the doctors about this?"

He continued calmly. "--nevertheless, I
seem to be
improving. The medication was apparently quite

useless."

She persisted. "Not all medications work immediately.

Sometimes it takes time for a medication to
accumulate to a therapeutic level; and if that
is the
case, the positive effects may soon begin
to wear off.

Promise me you will consult the physicians."

She seemed so genuinely distressed that Spock
saw
no reason to refuse. "Very well. Perhaps it would
be
wise to consult Dr. McCoy. You are certain
you will
not join us for the evening meal?" Perhaps Sarek
would find some way to make her reconsider her
decision.

T'Pala shook her head and backed toward the
door
to her room.

"In that case," Spock said in Vulcan,

"live long,
and prosper, T'Pala."

"Good-bye," she whispered in English.

He dreamed again that night of purple, and of the
deepest shades of red, blue and orange. The
colors
shimmered, melted together, and then slowly sorted
themselves into their proper places. Spock could see
the purple mountains, the deep blue sky, the
scarlet
sun, which was setting and fading the sky to gray.

HeMIN

DSHADOW
looked about, absorbed by the planet's beauty and the
heady fragrance of blooming flowers...

"Smell that," Jim Kirk said. Spock was
glad to see
him again, and called the captain's name, but Jim
did
not turn around, did not seem to hear him at all.

He
stood on the plateau and breathed in the scent of the
wildflowers.

Spock looked and saw Montgomery Scott,
and

Leonard McCoy; the four of them were together,
walking in a very beautiful garden--very
beautiful,
and very dangerous. Spock decided to warn them, but
the words that came out were not the ones he intended.

"Are you having trouble with your eyes, Mr.

Scott?" He wanted to tell them to leave,
to return to
the ship, but once again, he could not control his
speech; the old frustration washed over him.

Scott did not appreciate what Spock said;
it was a
beautiful place, he argued, beautiful, and

Spock had to
agree. A beautiful place, Aritani.

Aritani.

The word filled him with joy--comat last, he could
speak
of Aritani, and know where it was that he had been.

His joy turned quickly to terror as he realized that
his friends had disappeared, and that he was alone in
the near-total darkness. He had nothing to fear,
he
reminded himself. His eyes would adjust quickly to the
darkness, his hearing would warn him... The sun had
disappeared and taken with it the brilliant colors,
leaving behind only black and gray. The
tricorder led
him across the plateau to its edge, to the side of the
charcoal-colored mountain; his night vision guided
him safely, his footing was sure.

He would not fall.

Spock crouched by the side of the mountain, and in
the glow of the transporter beam, he saw and knew
that he had been seen. He also knew he had a
choice to
make: a sure, quick death, or an uncertain
fate three hundred feet below.

He jumped.

Spock woke with the sudden start of one who
dreams he is falling. Shaking, he rose from his
bed.

He remembered now what he had wanted to tell
the
captain, and was determined to contact the Enterprise
before they tried again to kill him. He went to the
subspace radio provided in the room for offworld
guests; the Enterprise should be close enough by now
for almost immediate reception.

Spock had no trouble remembering the proper
frequency.

"Enterprise, come in. This is Commander

Spock on the planet Vulcan. Enterprise,
do you read?"

There was no time to listen for a response--a sound
came from the living room, the sound of a struggle,
and of his father's voice, muffled, calling his name--a
plea for help, or perhaps a warning Spock
followed the sound into the main room and
saw the glint of hard polished metal in the
darkness,
and two bodies of apparently evenly matched
strength
struggling; one was hidden in the loose folds of a
desert softsuit.

The other was his father.

Spock rushed to his aid, but not before the
assassin's
dagger slashed out. Sarek slumped backward into

Spock's arms, and as Spock's hands closed
on his
father's chest, he felt something hot, and wet.

He left Sarek on the floor as the assassin
lunged at
him with the dagger. Spock recognized the weapon;
it
had adorned the wall of his old room,
the room that
was T'Pala's now. He leaned back to avoid
the swipe
of the blade, and at the same time grasped the
assailant's
wrist. The assailant fought Spock's hold with

192 MINDSHADOW

Vulcan strength, pulling back until he
freed himself,
but he was forced to drop the dagger.

Both lunged for it; the assassin reached it first and
managed to nick Spock's wrist with it before he
could
leap back. Spock cursed himself for his
clumsiness--the
assassin had taken perfect advantage of the
situation,
for the small nick had perforated a vein, which
was bleeding profusely. Spock would now have to
disarm his opponent quickly before the loss of blood
affected his coordination.

He sprang at the intruder, tangling his legs
to try to
force him down, but to no avail. The intruder forced

Spock back, back until he
stumbled over the unconscious
form of Sarek, and fell.

Dizzy, his strength fading, Spock struggled
against
his attacker as he held Spock's wrist
firmly and with
medical precision began to cut. Spock looked
on with
helpless fury--disonce again, they would try to make
it
look like a ritual suicide. His vision began
to dim and
he ceased struggling; it was a useless waste of his
ebbing energy.

Suddenly, the attacker was engulfed by radiant
light
that intensified until his entire form glowed with
energy
and dissolved into the darkness. The dagger
clattered helplessly to the floor.

In his place stood T'Pala. She clutched a
phaser in
her right hand, her cheeks streaming with tears, but
her face calm, composed--Vulcan.

She knelt down beside Spock and spoke
in a voice
that was measured, steady. "I have summoned aid."

Spock tried to turn his head to determine

Sarek's
condition, but movement was impossible. He heard
his own labored breathing as though it were very far
away.

T'Pala, too, seemed to be moving farther and
farther
away; he strained to hear what she was saying.

"Forgive me. They said I would never be accepted
here. They promised me a glorious career in the
service
of the Praetor, whether I worked for them here in
the Vulcan Diplomatic Corps or
elsewhere. I would
not commit their violence for them, but I told them
when you stopped taking the neodopazine, and I
told
them about your dreams. Don't take it any more--you
will understand when you read the article by Silak.

"Then they asked me to neutralize the security
scanner and the alarm, and I agreed. But when I
saw
the assassin wield his dagger..."

She bowed her head. "I knew I could never
follow
their path. I was foolish. Now I have made a
complete
commitment to the path I was meant to follow."

T'Pala fingered the phaser and cradled it next
to her
bosom. Spock struggled to speak, but could not.

T'Pala spoke to him in Vulcan. "I have
brought
further shame to my mother's family, and to my father's
as well. Logically, there is only one course
to
take.

"Live long, and prosper, Spock."

For a millisecond, Spock's eyes were
dazzled by the
form of T'Pala, blazing more brilliantly than
the Vulcan
sun.

And then there was darkness.

Chapter Ten

Captain's Log, Stardate 7007.3:

Commendations to Mr. Scott, who worked
around the clock to repair the warp drive as
quickly as possible. As it is, the damage will cost
us less than twenty-four hours' delay. We
anticipate
arriving at our destination in approximately-was

The intercom whistled and Kirk turned off the
recorder.

"Kirk here."

"Tomson here, sir."

"Good news this time, I hope?"

Tomson flushed at the slight hint of sarcasm
she
thought she detected in the captain's tone--she was
hardly pleased herself at the total lack of
evidence

Security had turned up in their investigation.

"I'm not
sure if it's good or bad, sir. But it's
something you'd
definitely better take a look at."

"What is it, Lieutenant?"

She hesitated. "I think it'd be better if
we discussed
it in Security, sir."

"On my way." Kirk snapped off the
intercom. "Mr.

Varth, you have the con."

Tomson held up the small black object for

Kirk to
see.

"What is it?" Kirk asked. Its smooth,
polished
surface gave no clue as to its function; in
fact, it looked
capable of doing precisely nothing.

"We don't exactly know yet, Captain. It
seems to be
some type of subspace radio device, although it
isn't
receiving a signal and we can't figure out how to
transmit on it. Whatever it is, it's
definitely not Star

Fleet issue."

"Ah," said Kirk. "I think I know where you
found
this, Tomson."

Her brows knitted together in puzzlement. "You do,
sir?"

"Yes, and I'd appreciate it if you'd just
forget about
finding it." He was going to have to remind Emma to
be more careful.

"If you want me to, Captain." Tomson was
confused.

"Then I suppose you'll want me to cancel the
surveillance on Varth--"

"Varth?" He looked at her, thunderstruck.

"Wait a
minute, where did you find this thing?"

"Varth's quarters, sir. We were conducting a very
thorough search of the ship, sir, and we found it
among
the personal effects in his closet--"

"You've been searching crewmembers' cabins without
my permission, Lieutenant?"

She colored scarlet. "It's the closest thing
to a lead
we've found, sir. I'll discontinue the
search."

"By all means, Tomson. In the meantime--"

Kirk

MINDSHADOW
said gruffly, "--i'll take this." He picked
up the
device.

"Sir, that's the only evidence we've uncovered

--"

Tomson began in dismay.

Kirk ignored her. "And have a couple of people
escort Mr. Varth to the brig for questioning. You'll
find
him in command of this ship."

Emma Saenz was in sick bay, running scans
on a
crewman. Kirk took her by the arm and led her,
protesting, into the laboratory. She was incensed.

"You'd better have a damn good excuse,

Captain,
for interrupting me when I'm with a patient--"

"Later," said Kirk. He held the device in
front of

Emma's nose. She reached for it, but he pulled
it
away.

"Where'd you get that?"

"First tell me what it does."

"It probably deflects subspace radio
waves. It could
also be a transmitter."

"What good is deflecting radio waves?"

"A lot of good, if you want to keep someone from
receiving a message that could blow your cover. Now
tell me where you found it."

"Varth's quarters," Kirk replied softly.

She did not seem very surprised. "Yes . . .

it
makes sense. Radu opposes protection for

Aritani. It
might back the murders of the Cygnusian and the

Saurian."

"Come on, Doctor. The Raduns are
dyed-in-the-wool

Federation. Varth's family has served in Star

Fleet for generations."

She was skeptical. "It makes no difference,

Captain.

There are a lot of people in this business who
would think nothing of betraying all that. Now, if
you'll excuse me, I have to tend a patient."

By the time Kirk finally made it back to the
bridge,

Uhura was breathless. "Sir, I've been trying
to locate
you--"

"I was questioning Varth in the brig." Kirk tried
to
ignore the look of questioning disbelief on Sulu's
face.

"What is it, Uhura?"

"It's Mr. Spock, sir. He just contacted the
ship---"

Kirk fought to contain his excitement. "Are we
close enough to Vulcan for visual contact,

Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir, but Mr. Spock is no longer
transmitting."

"He's not? Was there a message?"

"No message. It was very strange--he had just
established contact when the transmission
stopped.

"Interference?" Kirk immediately thought of the
device found in Varth's cabin.

"No, sir. The channel's still open, as though he
simply walked away from the transmitter."

"Have you tried hailing him again?"

"Several times, Captain. No response."

Her dark
eyes shone with concern.

Kirk acknowledged that concern and shared it
with the lightest touch of his hand on her shoulder.

"Keep the channel open, Lieutenant, and
keep trying
until you get in touch with someone. Just find
him

She smiled gratefully. "Aye, sir."

"Captain?"

Kirk turned to look at Sulu. "Yes?"

"Sir, you said that Mr. Varth was in the brig.

May I
ask what the charges were?"

"Any particular reason you're interested, Mr

Sulu?"

Sulu swallowed. "We're friends, sir."

The expression on the captain's face was
absolutely

MINDSHADOW
enigmatic. "Mr. Varth is now confined
to quarters
under guard. I may or may not decide
to release him
shortly. And no, you may not ask what the charges
are."

"Yes, sir." Stone-faced, Sulu
swiveled in his chair
to once again face the viewscreen. The captain
had to
have his reasons--Sulu himself had told Varth that

Kirk was a fair person, that the captain would not
persecute a person, regardless of how much he
disliked
him ....

But he was left with a very uncomfortable feeling.

"Top priority message from Admiral

Komack, Captain,"

Uhura said. "Scrambled and coded."

"Relay it to my quarters," Kirk said.

"I'll take it
there."

When he returned to the bridge, it was with a rather
smug-looking first officer. But the instant he
stepped
from the turbolift, Kirk knew that something was
wrong. All eyes were fastened on his;

Uhura's eyes
were full of sympathy.

Varth immediately went to his station, but Kirk
remained standing in front of Uhura.

"You've located Mr. Spock,
haven't you, Lieutenant?"

he asked softly. Dear God, don't let her
tell me
he's dead...

"Yes, sir." Her voice was barely audible.

"I kept
the hailing frequency open and finally a Vulcan

Security
officer responded. He said that Mr. Spock
is in

ShanaiKahr Hospital."

"What happened?"

"I contacted the hospital. They say Spock
is in
serious condition, but is expected to recover."

Uhura
paused, unable for a moment to continue or to meet
the captain's gaze.

"Uhura," Kirk pleaded.

She drew a breath and looked up at him. "They
also
say that circumstances indicate he attacked his
father
and then attempted suicide."

Emma Saenz sat on the stool and
shook her head
sadly. "I was afraid something like this would
happen,"

she said, in a voice that conveyed no recrimination,
only regret.

McCoy's jaw was stubbornly set. "Whatever

Spock
has been charged with, I'm sure he's innocent.

I'm
going to try to see him."

"No!" Emma's fist struck the lab counter with
such
force that both Kirk and McCoy jumped.

"Spock
won't want to see you now. The shame would be too
great for him. I know from experience--"

"Doctor Saenz," Kirk said in an
aggrieved tone,

"we are all well aware by this time of your
experience
with Vulcans."

"You may know Vulcans, Emma," McCoy
said with
the old fire, "but I know Spock, and have for many
years, and right now I happen to think that

Spock
needs our help."

Emma shook her head vehemently.

"I know Spock better than anyone here,"

Kirk said,

"and I know that he could never hurt anyone. That's
why I'm going down there to do what I can to clear
him of the charges,"

Emma sprang from her seat, her body tensed with
anger. "I fail to see, gentlemen, why no one
here
seems to give a damn about my medical
opinion. Why
did you request a medical specialist,

Doctor, if you
had no intention of listening to her?"

"Take it easy." McCoy motioned for her
to sit back
down. "I have listened to your medical opinion. I
gave

Spock the neodopazine on your recommendation and

I
sent him to his quarters earlier than I would have
liked
to, again on your recommendation. But here

I draw

MINDSHADOW
the line. Spock is our friend, and we know him
better
than you do."

She sat back down and folded her arms
tightly.

"How can I make you understand that damage to the
brain can change a person, can even make a
person
like Spock violent, regardless of how well you
think
you know him? If you are his friends, don't make it
any more difficult for him than it has to be. Just
let him

Kirk stiffened. "What do you mean, let him go?"

"Spock is not responding to the medication. He's
dangerous to himself, and to others. I'm going to
recommend he be sent to Ebla Two."

McCoy was livid. "You'll never get me
to sign the
papers to send Spock to an asylum for the
criminally
insane!"

"You haven't seen him in over a month," Kirk
pointed out, leaning over her. "Aren't you even
interested
in looking at him before you diagnose him as
incurable and ship him off?."

"I've been in contact with his family," Emma
said
coldly. "As you may recall, I suspected

Spock might
become violent before McCoy sent him
to Vulcan, and
he went there under my protest.

"Gentlemen, if you go to him now, you will accomplish
two things--you will shame Spock, and you will
break your own hearts, seeing him in such a
condition."

Kirk and McCoy looked at each other in
silence for
a moment, each one contemplating the possibility
that

Emma might be right.

"We're still going," Jim told her.

McCoy entered Emma's quarters without
knocking,
and got the briefest impression of a

Vulcan face before
she could snap the viewscreen off.

"Checking up on Spock, are you?" He asked
it
gently, almost teasingly; he had seen her bursts
of
temper before, but they usually blew over quickly.

This was the first time she had ever remained angry
about something, and he was not quite sure how to
approach her. "How is he?"

She did not answer. She did not look up from the
viewscreen.

McCoy shifted uneasily. "I just came
to say that
we're in orbit around Vulcan and we're beaming
down. You're welcome to come with us if you change
your mind."

She turned in the chair to face him, and he could
see
that her eyes were troubled, clouded, an expression
far different from their usual clarity. "I won't
change
my mind."

"Look, Emma, I didn't mean to insult your
medical
judgment. It's just that we have to try to help

Spock if
we can. Please try to understand."

"I think I do." She looked blankly at the
viewscreen
in front of her, but it was clear to McCoy that she
was
thinking, thinking very hard about something. She
continued to stare at the screen as she spoke
thoughtfully.

"You three . . . you care about each other very
much, don't you?"

"Which three?" McCoy was not following her.

"You, Spock, the captain. Spock is very
important
to both of you."

"I told you that the day I met you."

She smiled an odd, tight little smile.

"Yes, you did,
didn't you? I suppose that was before I cared about

. . anyone here ...."

McCoy walked over to the chair and put his hand
on
her shoulder. "Come with us," he said gently.

"Spock
might need you."

202 MINDSHADOW

She rose from the chair, but the woman who stood
before him seemed nothing like the Emma he knew.

She was still smiling tightly, but her lower lip
trembled
almost imperceptibly. With a sudden urgent
tenderness,

McCoy realized that she was trying not to cry,
and he took her in his arms.

She pulled away apologetically, speaking with
an
irony that he did not understand. "Of all people,

Spock needs me least. Besides, I couldn't go with
you if I wanted to."

"Why not?"

"I'm leaving, Leonard. I've been
reassigned. When
you get back, I won't be here."

This time, she let him hold her.

"I am required to search you for weapons." The

Vulcan guard pointed his hand-held scanner at

Kirk.

Kirk scowled, Vulcan Security had already
verified
his and McCoy's identities; he had not
expected to be
submitted to a body search.

"I will take your communicator," the guard said.

"Now wait a minute--" Kirk said hotly.

The guard waited a minute, staring down
humorlessly
at Kirk from his six-foot-five-inch height,
every inch of it lean muscle mass.

"Never mind." Kirk handed him the communicator,
but not without a twinge of exasperation. While he
knew that the Vulcans could not risk Spock's
sudden
transportation from his hospital room to the

Enterprise,
he resented the implication that they did not trust a
starship captain to refrain from doing so.

Although they were probably right not to.

McCoy submitted to the scan without so much as an
insult, handing over his communicator before it was
even asked for. Kirk could not help feeling
disappointed;
he had counted on the doctor's outspoken
disregard for all things Vulcan to add a bit of
humor to
this otherwise unbearably somber occasion. But

McCoy
had not spoken since they beamed down; something
was troubling him, something other than the
prospect of seeing Spock.

The guard was apparently satisfied with the
disresults
of the scan, for he led them to the door of Spock's
room. Beyond the shimmering force field, Spock
lay
pale and barely breathing. Tubes of dark green
led
from his arm to above the bed. Another Vulcan,
apparently the attending physician, was watching

Spock's vital signs on the monitor with
keen interest.

"Your conversation will be monitored," the guard
said. He moved a massive arm and the field
evaporated
just long enough for Kirk and McCoy to cross
the threshhold.

The Vulcan doctor did not bother to turn around
when they entered; she seemed to be timing something
critical.

"How does he look to you, Bones?"

Kirk whispered.

"Pretty good, except he's lost a lot of
blood."

McCoy cleared his throat and addressed the

Vulcan.

"Excuse me, ma'am."

The Vulcan turned her head just enough to fix him
with a cold look.

McCoy turned on the charm. "We're friends of

Mr.

Spock, ma'am, and we're very concerned. That
security
guard out there won't tell us a thing about how he
got here. Can you tell us how it happened?"

She looked back at the monitor. "The
patient's
wrists were slit. He suffered critical blood
loss. He will
recover."

"Why was he arrested?" Kirk asked.

In spite of remaining totally expressionless, the

Vulcan physician managed somehow to convey the

MINDSHADOW
fact that she found the presence of both men to be
terribly annoying. "From the
circumstantial evidence
that was found, it appears that the patient first
attacked
his father with an ahn-vahr and then turned the
weapon on himself."

"Ahn-what?"

"A ceremonial dagger. In ancient times, it was
used
in a ritual form of suicide when the victim
believed he
had brought shame to his family. Vulcan

Security' is
waiting for the patient's father to regain consciousness
to verify if this was what actually happened before the
suspect is actually placed under arrest."

"Then Sarek is expected to recover?" Kirk
asked.

She raised her left eyebrow in an expression
that
made Kirk very homesick for his first officer.

"I believe
that can easily be inferred from what I just
said."

She bent down suddenly to look at Spock, then
peered up again at the monitor. As if
by magic, the
indicator needles rose slightly. It was what
she had
been waiting for; she turned her back to the two
humans, and hoisting a long, thin arm back,
swung it
forward with a force that would have knocked a human
to the floor.

It hit Spock squarely on the jaw.

Kirk lunged at her with a short cry, but

McCoy
grabbed his arms and held him.

"Jim, you fool! That's the nicest thing I've
seen
anyone do in a long time."

Kirk looked at the doctor as though he had
gone
mad.

"Jim," said McCoy, grinning from ear to ear,

"she's
bringing him out of the Vulcan healing mode."

The physician drew her arm back to administer
a
second blow, but Spock's hand reached out and
firmly
grabbed her wrist. "That will be sufficient."

She nodded silently at Spock, and giving the
humans
a final glance that indicated what simpletons
she considered
them to be, she signaled the guard to let her
exit.

Spock propped himself up to a sitting position.

"Spock!" McCoy could contain himself no longer.

"You know the mind rules!"

A familiar eyebrow rose. "Obviously,

Doctor McCoy."

The two humans looked at each other and laughed
with delight. "You've got a hell of a nerve,"

said

McCoy, "getting logical on me at a time
like this.

Admit it, you overgrown elf, you're glad
to see us."

There was a brightness in Spock's eyes that belied
his cool manner. "I believe that "getting
logical" was
what you sent me here for, Doctor, although I do not
deny that I am, as you put it,

"glad" to see you." His
expression became more serious. "Captain, I have
something rather urgent to tell you..."

"Yes, Uhura said you were signaling the ship when
you were cut off."

"As you can see, I was... interrupted."

"What happened?"

"I went to the aid of my father, who was being
attacked." He searched their faces. "Do you know
his
condition?"

"He'll be all right," McCoy volunteered.

Kirk nodded. "They're waiting for him to regain
consciousness so he can tell them what happened."

Spock frowned slightly. "I'm conscious. I
am able
to supply the information."

Kirk and McCoy exchanged embarrassed
glances.

"I think they'd rather hear it from Sarek. You're being
held on suspicion of attempted murder,"

Kirk said
gently. "It looked like you attacked your father and
then tried to kill yourself."

206

MINDSHADOW

"T'Pala," Spock whispered. A shadow
crossed his
face, and disappeared as quickly as it had come.

"Who?" Kirk asked.

"No one. How convenient. I assure you that is
not
the case."

"I believe you, Spock," McCoy
volunteered gallantly.

"I appreciate your vote of confidence, Dr.

McCoy. I
only wish Vulcan Security were as easily
convinced."

"It's a lucky thing both of you survived the
attack,"

Kirk said. "Whoever tried to kill you seemed
to botch
the job. Did you see who it was?"

"I did not know the individual, but I do not
doubt
that he was a Romulan. Vulcans do not, as a
rule,
engage in murder. And the fact that my father and I
survived at all was due to something other
than luck.

We were rescued by a friend."

"Someone else was there? Where is he? He could
clear you."

Spock studied a point in the far distance. "She
was
killed in the incident--vaporized. She and the
attacker."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

Spock was silent for a short time before continuing.

"The message I have for you, Captain, is one that

I
have wanted to remember for some time, but was
unable to."

"Which is?"

,After I left you, Dr. McCoy and Mr.

Scott with the

Aritanian representative, I followed my
tricorder signal
out to the edge of the plateau, near the mountain. It
seems, Captain, that the mountains are quite rich in
uritanium--"

"We already know that, Spock."

"Of course. That, however, is not my message.

As I
was scanning the mountains, two surface fighters
materialized almost directly in front of me.

They were so
close that I could clearly see the pilots
inside, even in
the darkness. They were Romulans."

"But where could they have beamed down from?"

Kirk asked. "There weren't any ships in the
area--if
they had beamed down from a cloaked vessel, they
would have had to let down their cloak to beam the
fighters down, and we would have detected them."

"Captain," said Spock, "you are assuming that
they
beamed down. At the same time the ships
materialized,
my tricorder detected a slight power surge
merely a kilometer beneath the planet surface.

Although the cloaking device currently in use by the

Federation does not permit the simultaneous use of
transporters, there have been reports that the

Romulans
are working on a design which currently affords a
rather imperfect degree of protection during
transporter
use. If the Enterprise scanned the surface,
it
would probably interpret the mild power surge as
a
minor seismic disturbance."

"What are you getting at, Spock?" asked

McCoy.

"I submit, Doctor, that the ships were not beaming
down--rather, they were beaming up."

"That would explain it!" Kirk was exultant.

"Spock, we erected the protective shield,
but the
pirates apparently penetrated it."

"There was no need for them to penetrate the
shield. They were already beneath it, able to come and
go as they pleased to the surface."

"So it wasn't an accident," McCoy said
grimly.

"They pushed you off the edge for what you saw."

"Not at all, Doctor. I jumped."

"You what?"

"It was a choice between rolling off the edge of the
plateau or facing the pirates' burning
phasers."

208

MINDSHADOW

"You made the right decision." Kirk shuddered,
remembering the smell of singed flesh.

McCoy changed the subject. "I must say,

Spock,
that your recovery is quite impressive. I'm going
to
recommend neodopazine to all my
cortex-damaged

Vulcan patients from now on."

"Doctor," Spock asked hesitantly, "just
how familiar
are you with the effects of neodopazine on

Vulcans?"

McCoy shrugged. "Hardly at all. It's very
new, so

I've never used it myself. Dr. Saenz has,
though, and
she recommended it very highly."

"Is there a reader in this room?" Spock craned
his
neck.

"Over here. What do you want to know?"

"A friend suggested I look at a recent
article by

Silak. I wonder if you could key it up for
me."

"Sure." McCoy entered the name, got the
cross
index, and retrieved the article. "It's
recent, all right,
published less than two weeks ago . . ."

His face
registered surprise, and then he smiled.

"Well, how
about that--coma study by Silak, Wreen... and

Saenz."

"Emma?" Kirk asked.

"One and the same. She wasn't kidding about having
worked with the drug. I thought she said it hadn't
been tested on Vulcans, though..." McCoy
furrowed
his brow as he scanned the article.

"Read the conclusion," Spock suggested.

McCoy moved his finger down the reader to the
conclusion of the article and stiffened.

"What is it, Bones?"

He read aloud, unable to believe what he saw
on the
terminal before him. "Our study
indicates that the use
of neodopazine on Vulcans is definitely
contraindicated..."

He skipped over a sentence, "... notable
side
effects include paranoia, loss of concentration,
impairment
of memory, mental confusion, irritability, and
depression . . . The effects of neodopazine
can be
more devastating than the traumatic brain damage
it is
used to treat." His voice broke off as he
looked at the
captain.

"But why?" Kirk could not understand. "Why
would she knowingly use it to treat Spock?"

Spock's tone was gentle but resolute.

"Gentlemen,
several attempts have been made to stop me from
divulging the information I have just given you. To list
a few: the so-called suicide attempt while

I was on the Enterprise, the sabotage of the fuel
indicator on the Galileo, Dr. Saenz's
use of neodopazine to prolong my
amnesia and to trigger psychological disturbances
which conveniently provided an explanation for my
last so-called suicide attempt and attempted
murder of
my father, who I should like to point out is one of the
most outspoken proponents of protection for

Aritani.

It would have been a convenient way for the Romulans
to be rid of both of us."

"He's not the only diplomat the Romulans have
tried to kill," Kirk said darkly.

McCoy was still in shock, but anger began to creep
into his voice. "Are you trying to tell me that

Emma is
the one who's been trying to kill you?"

"She is definitely a suspect, Doctor."

"You're wrong," McCoy lashed out. "You
don't
know Emma--she's not capable of murder. And
she's
a very loyal person who would never sell out to the

Romulans."

Spock was unmoved by McCoy's vehement
denial;
he folded his arms calmly. "It's not
always possible to
predict people or circumstances. Perhaps there might
be some situation in which Dr. Saenz would find it

MINDSHADOW
logical to join forces with the Romulans. However,

I
do not expect you to take my word alone. I
suggest
you consult Dr. Saenz on the matter."

"That's exactly what I intend to do," McCoy
said
hotly, "because I don't believe you."

"Doctor, you read the article yourself. Aren't you
the least bit curious to hear her explanation?"

"Yes, but I'm sure it's not that she's a

Romulan
spy."

"She couldn't be," Kirk said slowly. "She
works
for Admiral Komack."

McCoy and Spock regarded him with disbelief.

"It's true," Kirk insisted. "I heard it from

Komack
himself."

Spock sighed. "Then I suggest,

Captain, that you
notify the Admiral of the possibility that he
has a
double agent working for him. In the meantime, I also
suggest you try to locate Dr. Saenz before she
has a
chance to escape."

"You don't really think she'd try to---"

Kirk began.

"Captain, if she is working for the Romulans,
then
she knows that my memory is close to returning and
that I quit taking the neodopazine a week
ago. I am
sure she did everything in her power to discourage
both of you from coming here, for she cannot risk my
discovering the effects of the medication she prescribed
and divulging that information to you."

"She said she was leaving," McCoy mumbled
inaudibly.

"What?" Kirk asked.

"She said I wouldn't see her when I got
back,
because she was being reassigned." McCoy looked
at
the captain helplessly, his anger replaced
by numbness.

"But I still can't--"

"Captain," Spock interrupted, "in that
case, haste

is essential. It may already be too late
to find her."

"Let me go," McCoy said swiftly. "I
could stop
her."

Spock lifted a skeptical brow.

"Doctor, if it is true
that the lady is a Romulan spy, I doubt that
even your
powers of persuasions"

"Go ahead," Kirk told him. "I'll call

Security."

"If you call Security now," Spock pointed
out, "she
will certainly know that she is being pursued, assuming
she is monitoring ship-to-surface
communication."

Kirk's expression was somber. "Take a
phaser with
you, Bones. That's an order."

"Yes, yes, of course, Captain," McCoy
lied. "And

I'll give Scotty a good excuse for beaming
up, in case
she's listening."

"All I want you to do, Doctor, is
to distract her for a
few minutes, so I can notify Security without
her being
aware of it. After you beam up, I'll give you
ten
minutes to find her before I call them."

"Right, Captain." McCoy anxiously
signaled the
guard to let him out.

When he had gone, Spock looked at his
captain with
eyes Kirk tried to avoid. "Captain, I
hope that you
have not made a mistake in sending Dr. McCoy
to find
her."

"Don't you trust McCoy to turn her in?"

"I trust the good doctor, but I dare
not presume
what his relationship with Dr. Saenz

"He loves her."

"I thought as much. Even so, I trust Dr.

McCoy. Dr.

Saenz, however, is another matter. She has
killed,

Captain, and I do not trust her even in this
circumstance
not to kill again."

Emma was waiting by the transporter console when

McCoy stepped from the platform. My God, he

MINDSHADOW
thought, it's true; she was listening when I asked
to
beam aboard.

But she looked at him, puzzled, and frowned.

"What are you doing here?"

McCoy sighed with silent relief. "I was
hoping to
catch you--before you left, that is. I need to talk
to
you..." He shot a glance at Lyle, who stood
behind
the transporter control, awkwardly pretending not
to
listen.

She shook her head. "This is a mistake,

Leonard.

There's nothing you can say that will convince me to
stay. Please, I'll miss my shuttle--"

"Emma, please."

The desperation in his words must have convinced
her, for she turned to Lyle. "This won't take
long."

McCoy led her down the hall to a nearby
conference
room and they went inside.

"All right, Leonard, what's this all about?"

"Emma, there's something I have to ask you . . .

there's something I must know before you leave." He
took her gently by the shoulders.

"We've been through this before, Leonard--"

"I'm not talking about marriage. This is something
else entirely. Please, answer me
honestly."

Her eyes narrowed. "Do you expect me to do
otherwise?"

McCoy took a deep breath and
searched her eyes;
they were as clear and genuine as they had always
been.. Right now they regarded him with honest
puzzlement.

"In this case, maybe. But I want you to know
that if you answer me truthfully, regardless of
what the
answer is, I won't try to stop you from leaving.

That's
a promise."

"Fair enough," she said. "What's the question?"

"The neodopazine. Emma, why?"

"I can't tell you that, Leonard. Ask me
anything
else." She began to pull away, but he
tightened his grip
on her.

"I'm the chief medical officer on board this
ship.

You work for me, remember? I'm asking you a question.

Why can't you tell me?"

"I don't answer to you in this instance. I don't
have
to explain my actions to you." She pulled harder
to
break free.

A sudden rage kindled within him, and he squeezed
her arms so tightly that she cried out in
surprise. "You
were sent here to kill Spock, weren't you? And you
had to get on good terms with the chief medical
officer,
so that you could manipulate him to do what you
wanted with Spock. That's it, isn't it?" He
shook her. "Isn't it?"

She pushed free with a gasp. When McCoy
approached
her again, he saw the small phaser directed
at his chest.

Her eyes flashed with the heat of her own anger.

"I
don't have to tell you anything, Leonard. I'm not
responsible to you or to anyone else on board this
ship. Who I am or what I am is not
important. I have a
job to do, and no one, not even you, will interfere with
it."

"You used me," McCoy whispered miserably.

"I don't have to tell you anything, but I will tell

this: I love whom I please, not whom I am
ordered to.

Understand?"

"No," said McCoy.

For a moment, he thought she looked at him with
something very much like affection.

"Fool," she murmured. "I have risked myself for
your friend because you loved him. Now everything
may be lost. What more do you want from me?"

McCoy did not have a chance to answer; she aimed
the phaser at him and fired.

Chapter Eleven

EMMA SAENZ SMILED sweetly at

Ensign Lyle. "Sorry
to keep you waiting, Mr. Lyle. A last
minute medical
problem..."

Somewhat abashed, Lyle returned the smile.

He
was not the sort to stick his nose into other people's
business, making it a point to ignore any
rumors
circulated about senior officers, but it would have
been
impossible not to have heard the gossip about the
heated affair between the chief medical officer and the
new specialist.

He was convinced now that it was more than just
gossip. "No problem at all, Doctor."

She stepped onto the transporter pad and
positioned
a small suitcase by her feet. "Ready to beam
down,

Mr. Lyle."

What followed next took place so quickly that

Lyle
was never quite sure what happened.

The door opened and Second Lieutenant

Reems of

Security stood in the doorway, phaser
drawn. When
he saw Dr. Saenz on the platform, he
aimed his
weapon at her and started to speak.

He did not have time to say anything. Emma, still
calm and smiling, produced a phaser of her own
and
fired it at Reems. It surprised Lyle;
he shouted at her
and she turned smoothly toward him and fired again.

Emma ran over to the transporter console and
pushed the slumped form of Lyle aside so that she
could reach the automatic control. He slid to the
floor
with a heavy thud.

"Stop. That's as far as you're going."

Emma stopped and looked over her shoulder.

Ingrit

Tomson stood over Reems in the doorway,
her phaser
pointed at Emma's back. "Drop it."

Emma laid her phaser carefully on the
console.

Tomson motioned toward the door. "Now move."

Obediently, Emma approached Tomson, but as
she
came upon the body of Reems lying in the
doorway,
she stumbled.

Tomson moved in closer with the phaser, and Emma
succeeded in knocking it across the room. Tomson
watched it sail past with a look of dull
surprise.

"Now let's see how far I get,"

Emma said.

They faced each other for battle; Tomson,
tall and
pale, towered over Emma's dark intensity.

"I'm almost
twice your size," Tomson sneered. "You
couldn't hurt me if you wanted to."

Emma's voice was soft and low. "Want to make
a
bet?"

Kirk strode up and down the hospital
corridor,
swearing at his communicator and ignoring the
disapproving
stares of the Vulcans who passed.

"What the hell is going on up there, Mr.

Scott?"

"Mr. Lyle was unconscious, Captain, but
we've got
someone in the transporter room now, and--"

"Unconscious? How long? Never mind, don't
an-

MINDSHADOW
swer that. Have Uhura notify Vulcan

Security Central immediately and tell them that Emma

Saenz is probably on the planet surface."

"Aye, sir."

"Have you found McCoy?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Let me talk to Tomson."

Scott hesitated. "I'm afraid she's
incapacitated,
sir."

"What happened?"

"She and Reems and Lyle were all found
unconscious
in the transporter room. Stunned, it looks
like.

They should be coming to shortly."

"Then tell Tomson's second-in-command---
was

"That would be Reems, sir."

Kirk gritted his teeth. "Dammit, find
someone in

Security who was not incapacitated by Dr.

Saenz and
tell them to cancel the search for Saenz. I want
them to
find McCoy."

"Anything else, Captain?"

"Yes. Get me the hell out of here."

Emma wouldn't hurt McCoy, Kirk kept
repeating to
himself as the hospital hallway shimmered into
nothingness. She wouldn't hurt him, especially if
she
had been merciful enough to only stun Tomson and

Lyle. Still, for a split second he imagined
himself
ordering Security to scan the internal
atmosphere of
the Enterprise for any free-floating
molecules of what
remained of his friend ....

Kirk stepped off the transporter platform
to find

Tomson, Reems and Lyle sitting on the
floor being
examined by a medic. He scowled down at them.

"I take it that you all encountered Emma

Saenz.

Are you going to tell me that the three of you couldn't
stop her?"

Lyle rubbed his head and grimaced.

"She stunned

Reems and me before either of us knew that she had a
phaser, Captain."

Of the three, Tomson seemed to be in the worst
shape; she stared down at the floor
disconsolately,
unable to meet Kirk's gaze. "I disarmed her,
sir, but
she managed to knock my phaser away."

Tomson tried
to touch her left shoulder, but the pain made her
stop
and suck in air between her teeth. "In hand-to-hand
combat, she's excellent. I think my shoulder's
separated."

Kirk's expression became wry; at first

Tomson
thought the captain simply found it amusing that she
could be done in by someone of Saenz's height; but
then he said, "Believe me, I understand,

Lieutenant.

My shoulder and I have also had firsthand experience
with Dr. Saenz's combat abilities."

Tomson leaned painfully against the bulkhead.

"Thank you, sir."

Kirk straightened and went over to the intercom.

"Kirk to Security."

"Security. Kazan here."

"Any word on McCoy?"

"No, sir. We're still looking."

Kirk hit the intercom in frustration, and went in
search of McCoy himself. He had not gotten far
down
the corridor, however, when the door to one of the
conference rooms opened and McCoy leaned out,
staggering.

Kirk managed to catch him before he fell and
supported
him against the wall in a half-sitting position.

"Bones, thank God... are you all right?"

McCoy moaned and cradled his head in his hands.

"She's gone, Jim. God, what a first-class
headache."

"Did she stun you?"

MINDSHADOW

"With more than just the phaser. Spock was right,

Jim... dear God, he was right. Did you catch
her?"

"Not yet. We think she's on

Vulcan." Kirk paused. was I'm sorry,

Bones."

"That makes two of us." McCoy closed his
eyes and
let his head roll back against the bulkhead. "But
the
damn thing is..." his voice faded.

"The... what?" Kirk leaned forward to hear.,

"I can't say I'm sorry she hasn't been
caught."

That makes two of us, Kirk wanted to say, but
instead he put his arm under the doctor's shoulders
and helped him to sick bay.

The room was a hybrid of the best of Vulcan and

Earth, much like the solemn, slightly forlorn child
who
stared down at Kirk from the portrait above the
piano.

The Vulcan influence was clearly the stronger,
reflected
in the stark, powerful lines of the architecture,
the furniture, and the artifacts that decorated the
walls--comthe a
hn-vahr, sabers, and weapons whose
function Kirk dared not guess, the
reminders of long-forsaken
wars. While the Terran influence was subtler,
it was unmistakable: the piano, the portrait of
mother
and son, and most of all the books, shelves upon
shelves of old paper books that lined the far
wall of the
main room and extended into the hallway, and with
them that distinct aroma that reminded Kirk of the last
pleasurable time that he had been in the rare book
section of a library.

Kirk was drawn to the shelves immediately, and
knelt down to peer at the authors' names on the
bindings. The collection was marvelously
eclectic:

Roth, Twain, Zelazny, Dickens,

Dostoevsky, Wisen,

Mcintyre, Oates . . . and that was simply part
of the
small corner representing the nineteenth and
twentieth
centuries. His fingers hovered above the volumes
until
they found what they wanted, and withdrew it from
the shelf.

Behind him, McCoy cleared his throat nervously.

Kirk looked up over his shoulder at him. The
doctor
was still pale, so pale that the chronic dark
circles
under his eyes stood out with greater than usual
emphasis;

McCoy was troubled by more than just the
aftereffects of a phaser stun.

"Come take a look at this, Bones. This is
without a
doubt the most incredible collection of rare books

You'll ever see outside of an archive."

"Uh, huh." McCoy's voice was flat and
faraway,
politely bored. "What's that you're looking
at?"

"An old favorite of mine when I was a kid.

Horatio

Hornblower."

McCoy squinted. "Who?"

Kirk reshelved the book and stood up quickly as

Sarek entered the room. "Tell you later."

Sarek seemed none the worse for the assassin's
attack; in fact, he looked to be in
far better shape than

McCoy. Spock flanked him, dressed once
again in his
blue science officer's uniform. Shoulder
to shoulder,
the resemblance between father and son was unmistakable-

--Spock
was a taller, leaner version of his
father. But there was a slight difference in the face,
some feature that Spock no doubt owed to Amanda's
side of the family, although Kirk could not determine
exactly what it was ....

Sarek gestured for them to sit. "Captain

Kirk, I
appreciate your promptness in responding to my
invitation.

However, I must admit that my motive includes
more than simple hospitality."

Kirk sat on the couch next to McCoy;

Spock sat
across from them, in the chair next to Sarek. Kirk
could not shake the feeling that he was sitting in on a

MINDSHADOW

Vulcan Council meeting. "Would I
be correct in assuming
that this has something to do with Aritani,

Ambassador?"

"You would. As you know, the delegates meet
tomorrow for the vote. In spite of the Romulans'

efforts, it appears that the vote will be in favor of
sending a delegation."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Kirk. "However,

I am
concerned about the safety of the other diplomats after
the attack on you. And perhaps Spock told you that
two ambassadors were attacked on board the

Enterprise. One was killed."

Sarek nodded. "Vulcan Security has been
alerted.

The ambassadors are under its protection."

"But they have as yet found no trace of Dr.

Saenz,"

Spock added. "Apparently she managed to leave

ShanaiKahr, and no doubt the planet, without
detection."

"How can we be so sure that the Romulan
government
is involved?" McCoy asked suddenly. "All
we've seen so far are pirates who
happen to be Romulan."

Sarek looked coolly at him. "True. But
pirates generally
do not engage in concerted intrigue. Intelligence
reports have indicated the involvement of the

Praetor.

Also, my attacker was definitely a

Romulan."

"You're certain he was not a Vulcan?"

"Beside the obvious fact that Vulcans do not commit
murder, the position of the stab wound he inflicted

--one
centimeter above my heart--indicates he
was definitely a Romulan."

"The Romulan heart," Spock said, "sits
two centimeters
higher than the Vulcan."

"You don't need to give me an anatomy
lesson,"

McCoy said huffily. "I remember."

Spock ignored him and quietly addressed the
captain. "The family friend who was killed in the
attack
informed me shortly before her death that the Romulans
had approached her and offered her "a
glorious
career in the service of the Praetor," as she
put it,
should she agree to kill Sarek and myself."

Kirk leaned forward. "What did she tell
them?"

Spock's eyes became hooded. "She
refused, of
course. She was a Vulcan."

"To use one of your expressions, Captain,"

Sarek
said, "the arm of the Romulans is very long. The
young woman in question was studying to enter the

Vulcan diplomatic service. The

Romulans obviously
wanted an informant within the VDC. They are quite
skilled at espionage, and I fear their
influence reaches
as far as the Federation Council.

"But back to the matter at hand. The delegation
sent
to Aritani would consist of the Terran ambassador
and
myself. However, no matter how skilled either of us
are at diplomacy, asking the

Aritanians to consider
joining the Federation under the present circumstances
would be absurd, since there would be absolutely
no benefit to them from so doing. The Federation
must first prove to the Aritanians that it is capable
of stopping the Romulans. Before we can do that, of
course, we will need transportation to Aritani-

--"

"The Enterprise, naturally," Kirk said.

"Naturally, Captain. Star Fleet has already
agreed
that your vessel is the logical choice, but that is
not the
only thing I wish to discuss with you. We need more
than transportation to Aritani. we need a
plan for
stopping the Romulans. Spock and I have such a
plan."

Kirk suddenly felt uncomfortable. "Do you think
it's wise to discuss that here? If the Romulans
were
able to enter your home and attack you, then
certainly-was

MINDSHADOW

"You hardly need worry about the possibility of
our
conversation being monitored here, Captain."

Spock explained. "Because of the sensitive
nature of information discussed in the home of an
ambassador,
this house is equipped with a transmission
scrambling
device. Only authorized transmissions are
not
scrambled. Even if the Romulans had succeeded
in
planting a transmitter here, they would not understand
the messages they received."

"All right, then. My ship is at your disposal.

Now
tell me your plan."

Sarek did not smile, but his eyes brightened. "It
requires your assistance, Captain, and yours,
too,

Doctor, if you are willing .... his

"Scotty, how's the cloaking device working?"

"Like a charm, sir, but it's dra*' the
be-jesus out
o' my poor engines. God help us
all if we have to make
it out of here at warp speed anytime soon."

"Just keep the cloaking device working, Scotty,
and

I personally promise you we won't need the
warp
drive or divine intervention. Kirk out."

Kirk looked up to see Aritani on the
bridge
viewscreen, a swirling globe of blue and
purple, dotted
with occasional wisps of white. He stared for a
moment,
mesmerized.

Sulu broke the spell. "Standard orbit,

Captain?"

"Very good, Lieutenant." Kirk glanced over
at his
first officer.

Spock was watching it, too.

"Beautiful, isn't it, Spock?"

The Vulcan's eyes met Kirk's; he nodded
softly,
then bent over his scanner. "Significant
pirate activity
on the surface below, Captain." He
straightened and
faced Kirk. "They are no longer bothering
to cloak
their vessels."

"Since the Fidelity has left, they think
nobody's
watching." Kirk snapped a toggle on the arm of
his
chair as the intercom whistled.

McCoy's voice was filled with a sense of
urgency.

"Captain, I've got an emergency down here.

I need
you in sick bay immediately."

Uhura and Sulu could not help turning to look
at the
captain. Why in the galaxy should the doctor be
calling
the captain about a medical emergency?

It seemed to make perfect sense to Kirk.

"I'll be
right there, Doctor." He jerked his head at

Spock, who
moved smoothly to take his captain's
place in the
command chair.

As the doors to the turbolift opened, Kirk
narrowly
missed colliding with Varth, who stepped off the
turbolift
as the captain stepped on. Sulu was watching as

Kirk smiled and winked at the Radun; he
turned back
to the navigation console and pinched himself to be
sure he wasn't dreaming.

It was not time for a shift change, and Sulu knew
for
a fact that Kirk had not summoned Varth to the
bridge,
but the Radun went directly to Spock's station
as
though drawn there by some sort of telepathic
instinct.

Sulu was dying to ask him how he knew he was
needed
on the bridge, but dared not as long as Spock was
there.

Sulu was therefore not that surprised when McCoy
called Spock less than an hour
later.

"Dare I presume, Doctor McCoy,"

Spock asked
him, "that this is in regards to another medical
emergency?"

"Spock, get your Vulcan posterior down here
nOW."

Spock raised his eyebrows mildly and
terminated
the communication. "Mr. Varth," he said, "you are
in
command."

MINDSHADOW

Sulu waited until the Vulcan left the
bridge and

Varth had settled down in the captain's chair.

He turned halfway toward Varth. "All right.

What's
going on?"

Varth regarded him coldly. "Is there a
problem,

Lieutenant Sulu?"

"You know what I mean, sir." He hadn't
talked to

Varth since the Radun's brief but unexplained
stay in
the brig. "Something's up--between you and the captain
and Mr. Spock." He decided not to ask why

Varth
and the captain were suddenly buddy-buddy--not
here, on the bridge, since Varth was, after
all, a senior
officer; but Sulu was far too curious not to mention
the
recent events on the bridge. "It's very
unusual for Dr.

McCoy to call the captain and Mr. Spock
to sick bay
like that."

"Yes, it is," Varth agreed. "Anything
else, Mister?"

"No, sir." Sulu sighed and turned back
to his panel,
resigned. Varth was letting him know that he had
overstepped his bounds; maybe they would explain it
to him when it was all over.

He could not see Varth grinning behind him.

Spock hovered outside the door to sick bay.

"How
is he, Doctor?"

McCoy gestured him inside. "Why don't you
come
judge for yourself, Mr. Spock? Your opinion just
might
be useful for once."

Kirk sat on the bed, studying his reflection in
a hand
mirror. When Spock came in, he swung his
legs over
the side and attempted to stand up.

"Not so fast," said McCoy, pushing him back
into a
sitting position. "Give the anesthesia a few
more
seconds to wear off." He stepped back and
viewed his
handiwork with almost paternal pride. "Well,

Spock,
what do you think?"

Spock leaned closer to Kirk and, putting his hand
to
his chin, grunted and slowly circled the bed as he
studied the new alterations to his captain. He
stopped
and remained silent until McCoy could stand it
no
longer.

"Well?"

"Adequate," Spock replied.

"Adequate?" McCoy was highly insulted.

"That's
not adequate, that's a masterpiece."

Kirk smiled, then winced suddenly and gingerly
touched his fingers to the new tips on his ears.

"Hey,

Bones, they pull when I smile. Shouldn't you
fix
that?"

"Where you're going," McCoy said tartly, "you
won't need to smile."

Kirk looked up at Spock and almost smiled
again,
but caught himself in time. "Is that why you Vulcans
avoid smiling, Spock? Because it pulls your
ears?"

Spock was not the least bit intrigued by the thought.

"I really wouldn't know, Captain."

McCoy was still smarting from Spock's remark.

"Spock, how can you call this
adequate? Last time I
did this, it was good enough to fool the Romulans, and

I think I did an even better job this time."

"I did not say that your work would not fool the

Romulans, Doctor, I merely stated that it
was adequate
for its purpose. That is what you wanted to
know, isn't it?"

"Yes, but--"

"However, as far as aesthetics are concerned, I
must admit that there is something rather... that is to
say, the captain does not seem well
suited..."

"I make a lousy Vulcanoid." Kirk
pushed the fretting

McCoy aside and finally stood up. "Is that
what
you're saying, Spock?"

MINDSHADOW

"A colorful term, but rather accurate. Perhaps it's
your coloring..." Spock suggested.

McCoy sniffed. "That can be fixed with a little
makeup. But I think those ears are some of my
finest
work."

"I must agree," Spock said. "They are,
therefore, adequate . . ."

"Why, what's that supposed to mean--" McCoy
began hotly.

"It doesn't matter." Kirk waved his hand
to signal
an end to the discussion. "All that matters is, they
fooled the Romulans once, and they'll
certainly fool
them again."

Scott and McCoy were waiting when Kirk
arrived in
the transporter room, and neither one looked
particularly
pleased. McCoy stood scowling with his arms
folded resolutely; Kirk knew the lecture
would be
forthcoming shortly.

"Where's Spock?" he asked, hoping to forestall

McCoy.

"Probably trying to find a costume that
coordinates
with yours," the doctor replied. "I must say, you
look
rather dashing."

"What, this old thing?" Kirk spread his arms and
looked down at his costume; the computer had
designed
it along the same lines as the one the Romulan
prisoner had worn. "I thought the color of the
vest
was a little loud."

"It's perfect," McCoy answered. "Brings
out the
green in your complexion."

Kirk grimaced wryly and turned to Scott.

"Scotty,

Varth will be calling any minute with those
coordinates."

"Aye, sir," Scott sighed, shaking his head.

"All right, Scotty, out with it."

"Well... Captain, I wish I felt a little
better about
this. I can't help rememberin' what happened to that
last poor divvil we beamed up from his ship--"

"Amen," McCoy nodded. "I had to do the
autopsy,

Jim'."

Kirk assumed his best authoritarian
air. "Gentlemen,
there is nothing more to discuss. That pirate
moved his ship on purpose from its projected
course.

It won't happen this time."

"You mean, you hope it won't happen this time,"

McCoy muttered.

Scott did not seem at all reassured.

"It's a very
delicate operation, puttin' two men
into fast-moving surface vessels."

Kirk put a confident hand on the engineer's
shoulder.

"And I trust you to do it, Mr. Scott. You're
the
best. Subject closed."

The door opened and Spock entered, dressed in
pirate clothes.

"Spock, you certainly look convincing."

"Thank you, Doctor McCoy."

"But I don't understand why you wouldn't let me
pierce one ear. Then you'd really look
authentic."

Spock was not amused. "It is enough that the captain
was forced to submit to your scalpel,

Doctor."

"Which reminds me, what did Sarek think about the
captain's new ears?"

"He said nothing to me about them."

"Nothing?" McCoy was obviously deflated.

Spock kept his expression bland. "My father is
a
diplomat, Doctor. He avoids comment if
he fears it
will offend others."

McCoy was about to respond acidly to Spock's
remark when a beep emanated from the transporter
console. "Ye'd best get on the pads,
gentlemen,"

MINDSHADOW

Scott said. "This is going' to take a fine bit
of timin'."

Kirk felt a sudden rush of exhilaration.

"Ready,

Spock?"

"Ready, Captain."

"For God's sake," McCoy said, "be
careful down
there."

The last thing Kirk saw as he was caught in the
transporter beam was the look of worry on

McCoy's
face.

The ship felt as light as a feather, with controls
as
sensitive as a high-strung thoroughbred. Varth
had
been right--these were not the antique jerry-rigged
fighters used by pirate bands, but the newest,
sleekest
surface fighters outfitted with every device
possible,
compliments no doubt of the Romulan Empire.

The
ship seated one, and it hugged Kirk's body so that
he
could move his arms freely, but not stretch his
legs. He studied the control panel and found the
radio next
to the control for firing the burning phaser.

"Remus, do you read?"

"Affirmative, Romulus. We are not far from
the
beamdown site. If you would follow me,
please."

They flew together in close formation, Spock's
vessel
leading. Kirk looked out and could see that the land
below was scarred and blackened where the pirates
had discharged their phasers, and that the dark brown
soil was turned up in the areas where mining had
begun on the surface. The sight was sickening,
even
more so because he could recognize the area from the
configuration of the plateau. it was the place where

Natahia's fields and hut had once stood,
but its beauty
had been completely stripped away.

Then he saw it.

A plateau edged by a jagged mountain, and the next
plateau down a clean four-hundred-foot
drop, softened
by tangling red and blue vines--the place where they
had found Spock.

Kirk looked gratefully at the reassuring
presence in
the other vessel.

Spock hovered near the edge of the plateau for an
instant, then smoothly set his vessel
down. Kirk
brought his alongside. He knew that Spock would
now
contact the pirates in flawless Romulan with the
beam-down
code supplied by Varth. Within seconds, the
interior of the fighter began to blink and glimmer
until
it disappeared, taking Kirk along with it.

Kirk opened his eyes to absolute darkness, and for
an instant felt panic--they had beamed down
into solid
rock; in less than a second their molecules
would be
crushed out of existence by the tons of sheer
pressure
exerted on their bodies ....

But death did not come. Kirk's lungs filled
easily
with recirculated air, thin but breathable, and his
eyes
adjusted slowly to the blackness. "Remus?"

"Here." Spock swung gracefully from the
belly of
the fighter as though he had been doing it
all his life.

When his feet touched the floor, the cavern filled
with
harsh Pinkish light. Kirk fumbled with the
tophatch
and crawled out stiffly.

The hangar had been carved from rock, and held at
least another hundred of the gleaming silver
fighters.

Kirk and Spock walked past them, their steps
echoing
against the cold stone floor.

A small exit in the far corner of the hangar led
them
to an equally small passageway. Had Kirk
ever entertained
doubts that the Praetor was involved, they were
now completely erased, for the guard who sat staring
at a monitor wore the uniform of a Romulan
centurion.

He looked up just long enough to frown at Kirk and

Spock before turning back to the screen.

MINDSHADOW

They continued down the narrow stone
corridor.

"That was too easy." Kirk's hand
unconsciously
groped for the communicator hidden under his long
tunic.

"Easier than anticipated," Spock agreed.

"Perhaps
the beamdown code is the only security measure
required
to achieve this level of access. Or perhaps the

Federation has friends here."

dis"...Or maybe someone ought to put that centurion on
report."

"Spoken like a true disciplinarian, sir."

Kirk glanced at Spock sharply, but there was no
time to answer. They had come to the end of the
passage; in front of them, a massive stone
wall shuddered
and rose.

The surfaces of the vast interior were not stone, but
slick white metal, and the wide corridors
broken by
hundreds of entranceways seemed to stretch
into infinity.

Dozens of Romulans--some in
military uniforms,
others dressed as pirates--comstrode through the
corridors,
far too involved in the performance of their
duties to be concerned about the two pirates who
hung
back by the entrance, watching.

"Remind you of someplace you've been before?"

Kirk whispered with awe.

"Indeed... the interior of a Romulan
battleship. If

Varth is correct, those should be the officers'

quarters.

I believe we should proceed in . . . that
direction."

Spock inclined his head.

"Lead the way, Remus. You're the one who
memorized
the map."

Kirk was becoming more exhilarated by the success
of their masquerade as each moment that they remained
unnoticed passed. They had taken the
turbolift
down two levels and were proceeding along the
corridor
that Spock assured him would take them to the
cloaking device--and Kirk was just beginning to feel
secure--when Spock suddenly stopped.

The corridor in front of them forked in two
directions.

"What is it, Spock?"

"Sir, the plan of the base that I studied did not
include that." Spock pointed to the corridor that
branched off to the left. It was blocked by a rather
large centurion and a force field. "The plan
showed
only one path to the cloaking device, the
hallway
which is now unguarded."

"Which way do you think we should go."

Spock looked at him directly. "Which one would
you put a cloaking device behind, sir?"

Kirk sighed. "I was afraid you'd say that."

They directed their steps toward the force field.

"As
we approach the centurion, Captain,"

Spock said in a
low voice, "I would appreciate it if you would

--"

"--shut up?"

Spock nodded.

"No lo contendere, Remus. My Romulan
is a little
rusty."

Square of jaw and build, the centurion
regarded
them with small, untrusting eyes. Clearly, this
one
would not be as careless as his comrade. Spock gave
the Romulan salute as he approached, bringing
one fist
to his chest, and then extending the arm.

He spoke rapidly to the centurion in what

Kirk
perceived to be an extremely convincing imitation of

Romulan military style. "Centurion, let
us pass."

The Romulan shook his head and produced a
hand-held
scanner. "You know the rules. Scan first."

"Of course," Spock agreed, and stood still as the
centurion scanned him. The device beeped.

"How stupid of me," Spock said. "My
communica-

232

MINDSHADOW
tions device, of course." He handed it to the

Romulan,
who did a double take.

"Where'd you get this?"

"One of the corpses on the planet surface.

A souvenir.

Here, let me show you." He bent over to assist
the
centurion, who was trying unsuccessfully to open
a
hailing frequency. "The frequency band is
here."

Spock reached over the Romulan's shoulder
to point.

He finished by easing the Romulan to the floor with
a strategically placed hand on his trapezius.

"That was great, Spock," Kirk said
approvingly.

"But how did you explain the communicator?"

"It's hardly important, Captain..."

"Well, whatever you told him, he bought it. I
never
knew you were such a skillful liar, Mr.

Spock. Good
work."

Spock dragged the centurion to one side and
propped him gently against the bulkhead while

Kirk
found the control to deactivate the force field.

"This is
hardly the time for either insults or compliments,

Captain. I suggest we continue our search as
quickly
as possible."

"I couldn't agree with you more."

Spock read the inscription on the bulkhead above
the force field. "This is designated as a
weapons
area."

"But Varth said that the Romulans hadn't completed
the base--that they didn't have attack capacity
yet."

Spock's tone was grim. "Apparently Varth's
information
is somewhat outdated. If it is true that the

Romulans have completed construction of their
weapons,"

Kirk finished for him. "Then we'll have to find a
way to stop them down here. The

Enterprise can't
obliterate the planet surface with photon
torpedoes in
an attempt to destroy an underground base."

"Agreed, sir. Therefore, it is logical that I
remain
behind and--"

Kirk held up his hand. "We'll discuss it when
it
happens, Spock. In any case you won't be
staying
behind."

"Sir--"

"End of discussion, Mister." Kirk looked down
the
seemingly endless row of doors. "I'll take the
ones on
the left, you take the ones on the right, and whoever
locates the cloaking device or the main
weapons room,
contacts the other."

"Yes, sir."

Kirk could not find the cloaking device, but he
located the weapons room on the third try.

Clearly,

Varth was right: the Romulans wanted far more than

Aritani. One wall was lined with defense
computers;
the console was manned for what Kirk assumed were
photon torpedoes and phasers capable of blowing
a
starship from its orbit.

He was reaching for his communicator when the
door slid open. He dropped his hand quickly.

Kirk recognized the ,uniform of a Romulan
subcommander
and saluted quickly, but the small female did
not return the courtesy. Next to her stood a
discouraging-looking
centurion who held a phaser that was not
quite pointed at Kirk; but it was neither the phaser
nor
the subcommander's failure to salute that made

Kirk
distinctly uncomfortable.

"Subcommander Tanirius," she said, with a
voice as
cold as her opaque black eyes.

The upswept eyebrows and delicately pointed
ears
added an exotic beauty to features Kirk had
once
thought of as almost plain. They suited her, as
nature

MINDSHADOW
had intended, but the cloaked eyes and cold manner
hid what had been most beautiful about her--her
openness, her warmth.

Emma, Kirk mouthed, but he did not say it
aloud.

She appeared not to notice. "A centurion was
injured
outside the high security area. I would like to see
your clearance."

"I don't have it with me."

She motioned to the centurion, who directed the
phaser at Kirk's head. "Then you will come with me
for questioning."

"It doesn't look as though I have a choice."

She did not smile. "You don't."

Chapter Twelve

TANIR-IUS ENTERED THE detention cell
alone, holding a
phaser tightly at chest level. When
the door closed
behind her, she lowered her arm and hung the phaser
on her belt. She looked up at Kirk again,
and face,
voice, and posture underwent a subtle
transformation
from cool to warm, from Romulan to human.

She gestured at Kirk's ears.

"Dr. McCoy's work?"

Kirk did not try to disguise the hatred in his
voice.

"And yours, Subcommander?"

He half expected her to tell him to call her

Emma,
but she did not. Her eyes smiled with controlled
amusement. "These are mine. Tell Leonard he
did a
good job."

"I don't see how I can do that,

Subcommander."

The muscle in Kirk's jaw twitched. "It's
my understanding
that I will shortly be executed for espionage.

That is what you Romulans do to spies, isn't
it?"

She answered by holding something out to him--his
communicator, but he stood back from her, stiff
with

MINDSHADOW
anger, and would not touch it. "Things are not always
as they appear, Captain. I told you that I was
on your
side."

"You'd like me to open up a channel to the

Enterprise here, wouldn't you?" He smiled
bitterly. "So
you could trace the transmission and destroy her with
your new weapons. I was gullible to fall for your
charms the first time, but you can't expect me to do it,
again."

She moved toward him, her face taut and
desperate,

Emma and not-Emma. "They are not monitoring us
now. I will try to explain, but there is not much time.

I
ask only that you listen."

Kirk leaned against the bare wall and folded his
arms. "Go ahead. The longer you talk, the longer

I
live. But don't expect me to believe anything
you
say."

"Very well." She lifted her head proudly.

"I am a

Romulan, Captain Kirk, but I do not serve
the Praetor."

"A pirate, then--"

"Let me speak!" Her urgency forced him
to silence;
he closed his mouth and listened. "Not a pirate.

I will
not tell you by what name we call ourselves, lest the
secret somehow reach the Praetor's ears. We
are a
group more than two hundred years old, who
despise
the atrocities of both the pirates and our

Praetor. Our
hope is to throw off the yoke of our military
government
and coexist peacefully with the Federation. Like
our Vulcan brothers, we are weary of constant
warring
and its toll upon our population. We
seek peace.

"Many of us have risen to high positions within the
military. We profess allegiance to the

Praetor, but
serve our group as best we can within our position.

I
was chosen as a young girl to serve in Intelligence.

They sent me away to Earth, to receive medical
training and to infiltrate Star Fleet

Intelligence. Their plan worked so well that, as you
saw, I was trusted by and
took my orders directly from Admiral

Komack. And
the Praetor, of course.

"But my true aim was to serve my brothers and
sisters in the underground . . . by destroying this
military outpost. The government has been working
on this project for years, Captain, and now it
has the
capability to dissolve the Enterprise and any
other

Federation vessel to atoms and spread the

Praetor's
tyranny to every populated planet in this sector.

That
has always been its purpose."

"You speak of peace," Kirk said hotly, "but you
tried to kill Spock--not once, but several
times, just as
you killed the Cygnusian and the pirate, and tried
to
kill the Saurian ambassador. What kind of
people talk
of peace while using murder to achieve their
goals?"

He stopped at the sight of the pain on her face.

"An unhappy people, Captain," Tanirius
answered.

"Do you think I welcome the Praetor's
assignments?

But if I do not carry any of them out, I
endanger my
position and the help I can give my people. I am
forced
to do what I despise."

"You gave Spock the neodopazine--you lied to

McCoy, convinced him it would help--"

"It did. It bought Spock time. The Empire
wanted
him killed immediately. I was here, at the
base, when
they sent me to the Enterprise. I wanted
to remain, to
find a way to stop construction of the base, but I
had
the medical credentials, the appropriate
cover. When I
realized what Spock meant to Leonard... and
to you

..." she lowered her eyes, "I did what I
could. The
medication was the only way to appease the Empire.

If

Spock were incapacitated, could not remember what
he had seen, then that was as good as death." She

MINDSHADOW
looked up again. "Do you think I enjoyed what I
had
to do?"

"Enlisting the forces of evil," Kirk said
slowly,
remembering, "... in order to do good." He shook
his
head. "If it is true, then why
didn't you stay on the Enterprise... explain who
and what you are"

"No, No one could know. The Romulans had to
believe I came back because I had been
uncovered,
not because I feared they had completed their base and
would soon make their move. If they had thought
otherwise--"

"Then it was you." Kirk understood suddenly.

"You were the one who gave Varth the beamdown
code--"

"And the description of the fighter controls and the
layout of the base. I left the scrambling
device in his
cabin so that I could tell the Romulans I
framed a Star

Fleet Intelligence officer. Once the vote
on Vulcan had
been taken, Varth would have told you of the military
base, but Spock recovered his memory sooner
than we
anticipated--"

"But Varth didn't tell us you would be here."

"The arm of the Romulans is very long," she said,
and Kirk started. She smiled, but her
expression darkened
as she continued. "If you had known, and been
caught and questioned--if there had been any hint of
complicity with Star Fleet on my part, I would have
been killed immediately. We couldn't risk it."

"What of McCoy?" Kirk asked softly.

"Were you
merely following orders with him?"

She winced visibly and turned away. "Would you
believe me, Captain, if I said I was not?

And that I was
not following orders when I tried to seduce you, as
well?"

Kirk remained silent.

Tanirius reached for her phaser and motioned with it
toward the door. "Enough. Whether you believe me
or
not doesn't matter. I'm still going to help you."

"Where are you taking me?"

"To the cloaking device."

"It doesn't look like I have a choice."

qanirius grinned, and looked so much like Emma
that Kirk drew in his breath. "You don't."

Spock stood next to the cloaking device and was
preparing to signal the Enterprise when the
door
opened; he froze at the sight of the phaser

Tanirius
held at the captain's back. Kirk could not
see Tanurius's
face, but the look on the Vulcan's was one of
cold recognition.

Tanirius put the phaser on the console and
moved to

Kirk's side. Spock still did not move.

"She tells an interesting story, Mr.

Spock. She
keeps insisting she's on our side."

Spock was unconvinced. "Captain, I
respectfully
submit that the subcommander not be trusted, considering
her actions..."

"Gentlemen," Tanirius said, "the time for
explanations
has passed. I would like to warn Mr. Spock that
the instant he removes the cloaking device from the
console, an alarm will sound."

"I see. And what do you propose we do?"

Spock
asked with as much sarcasm as Kirk had
ever heard
him muster.

Kirk made a sudden move to grab

Tanirius; surprised,
she moved instinctively to defend herself. The
phaser was already in Spock's hand when she turned
toward him.

"Then shoot me, Spock," she said quietly.

"But
then one of you will have to stay behind to see the base
destroyed. Which one of you knows how to do it?"

MINDSHADOW

Spock was silent.

"Your cloaking device is inferior to ours,"

Tanirius
said. "You'll have to lower it in order to beam up. And
when you do, the sensors on this base will locate your
ship and lock in the automatic phasers.

Blanket
beams, wide range--and they won't stop firing
until
they're manually overridden or the sensors pick
up
debris."

She handed Kirk his communicator. "G."

He caught her arm. "You could come with us."

She shook her head. "Someone has to stay and stop
the phasers before the Enterprise is destroyed--and
it's time I completed my mission and destroyed this
base."

Kirk fought to keep the concern from showing in his
voice. "With you on it?"

She almost smiled. "That is most certainly not my
intention." She went to the door and paused. "One
thingm"

Kirk looked at her.

She bit her lip. "Tell Leonard I love
him."

And she was gone.

"Captain," Spock said as Kirk flipped
open his
communicator, "I am not at all sure it's
wise to trust
her."

Kirk looked pointedly at the cloaking device
and
back at his first officer. "Would you prefer I go
back to
the detention cell, Mr. Spock?"

They materialized on the transporter platform
just
in time for the first blast, which swept them off the
platform and against the console. Tanirius had been
telling the truth about the phasers, at least.

Kirk dragged himself to the nearest intercom and
called Engineering. "Scotty, get the
deflector shields
up!"

"I'll do what I can, Captain, but they won't
hold
long," Scott lamented. "That bleedin' cloakin'

device
has just about taken all our power. There's barely
anythin' left for the shields."

"Any chance you could get us out of here?"

"A wee bit of impulse power is all we've
got left, sir,
but nothin' fast enough to pull us out of range of those
phasers before the shields buckle."

"Sorry, Scotty. I guess I was wrong
when I said we
wouldn't be needing the warp drive--or divine
intervention.

Just get those deflectors up. Kirk
out."

The fact that Kirk and Spock appeared on the
bridge
in full pirate regalia, including Kirk's
new ears, failed
to produce even mildly curious stares from the
bridge
crew; under conditions other than red alert, there
might have been more time for double takes. McCoy
moved to the side of Kirk's chair.

"I take it the ears fooled "em."

Kirk knew there was no time for polite
exchanges.

"Bones, I saw her."

"WhO?"

"Emma. She helped us escape. She might be
on our
side--comMr. Varth!"

Varth had already vacated the con to assist Spock
in
scanning the newly revealed Romulan base.

"Sir," the

Radun said excitedly, "beside the network of mining
tunnels beneath the main continent, the military base
itself houses more than five hundred
personnel."

"There isn't time, Varth. I have to know about
her--"

Varth straightened from the scanner abruptly.

"Tanirius."

"Then what she said was true?"

"I'm fairly sure we can trust her to help
us, sir."

"Fairly sure?"

MINDSHADOW

"Nothing's sure, Captain, until those phaser
blasts
stop."

As if on cue, there was the rumbling thunder of an
explosion as the bridge pitched forward and crewmen
went flying. Kirk slid from the con and bounced
off the back of Sulu's chair; the helmsman's
forehead
struck the navigation console with a resounding
thud.

The room slowly righted itself to the background
chatter of damage reports coming from Uhura's
station.

Scott's voice came from the arm of

Kirk's chair;
it had taken on the darkness of a Gaelic
prophet of
doom.

"That's it for the shields, Captain. We nae
kinna
stand another direct hit."

Kirk knew the answer to his question before he
asked it. "Can you get us out of here, Scotty?"

"All we've got is impulse power, sir.

We can't
outrun those phasers."

"In other words," Kirk said grimly, "we're
sitting
ducks."

Spock looked up from his scanner. "I fail
to see how
our situation is comparable to that of an aquatic
waterfowls"

"Oh, shut up," said McCoy.

Spock raised a surprised eyebrow and
returned to
his scanner.

Kirk paid them no attention. "Divert all power
to
the deflectors, Mr. Scott."

"The cloakin" device too, sir?"

"And all the impulse power you've got."

"Sir." Scott was deeply offended by the thought of
his engines motionless, powerless.

"Do it, Scotty. Now."

"The blasts are occurring at approximately
one
minute intervals," Spock offered helpfully.

"I estimate
the next one will arrive in twenty seconds."

"She'll stop it, Jim," McCoy said. "I
know she'll do
everything she can to stop it."

"Let's hope you're right, Bones."

"Fifteen seconds," said Spock.

"She's really a Romulan," Kirk said.

"I'll be damned," McCoy whispered. "That
explains something... the to evirol."

"The what?"

"Eleven seconds," Spock chanted.

"Levirol. It's a drug that elevates
blood pressure
and slows the pulse. Emma was taking it . . .

no
wonder our sensors never showed an extra

Romulan
on board ship."

"She wanted me to give you a message."

Kirk
lowered his voice so that only McCoy could hear.

"She says she loves you."

"Six seconds."

"Damnit, Spock," McCoy yelled, "if
we must all
be blown to kingdom come in the next few seconds,

I
do not want your countdown to be the last thing I
hear."

Spock regarded the doctor with mild
surprise.

"He's right, Spock," Kirk said quietly;
but internally,
he continued the countdown. Four seconds...

Scott came back on the intercom. "I'm
sorry, Captain...

I can't raise enough power to get the deflectors
back up."

There was no point in bracing for the explosion.

They would be vaporized by a direct
hit, or in the case
of an indirect hit, struck by flying debris as
the bridge
shattered, or asphyxiated when the inner hull
tore. But

Kirk braced for the shock in spite of himself, and
prayed that Tanirius had made it to the weapons
room
before she changed her mind...

MINDSHADOW

Spock rose so suddenly from his scanner that

Kirk
almost jumped out of his chair. "Explosion,

Captain,
beneath the planet surface. I believe in the area
of..."

he squinted back at the viewer, "... the
weapons
room. The Romulans have lost attack
capability."

McCoy grabbed the captain's wrist, his face
splitting
with a grin. "She did it, Jim! She did it!"

Kirk released his breath slowly and
smiled weakly
up at McCoy as he reached toward the intercom.

"Scotty."

"Aye, Captain?"

"Forget those deflector shields. Just give us
enough
impulse power to nudge her back into orbit."

"With pleasure, sir."

"Standard orbit, Mr. Sulu. Uhura, open
a hailing
frequency to the Romulans. I want to speak
to whoever's
in charge."

"Captain," Spock interrupted, "six fighter
vessels
beaming up from the hangar area to the surface---"

"Let them go for now."

"Captain," said Uhura, "I have the Romulan
sub-commander."

Kirk caught his breath silently. "Put her
on the
screen, Lieutenant."

The Romulan male was young for his rank, the
equivalent of a starship captain. Tears streamed
down
his soot-smudged face, more from the sting of the thick
smoke than from grief or pain. From behind him
came
the death-cries of his fellows; he glared at

Kirk with
undisguised hatred.

"Captain," Spock said.

"Not now, Spock."

Spock persisted. "An explosion, sir, in the
hangar
area. The vessels that remained have been
destroyed."

Kirk studied the face on the screen for a moment
before speaking. "This is Captain James T.

Kirk of the Enterprise. Are you the commander of the
base?"

"Subcommander Tardus. My superiors are
dead. I
now command."

"Subcommander, we know that you have lost your
cloaking device, your weapons and your vessels.

I
suggest you cooperate with us."

The young Romulan regarded him haughtily.

"In
what manner, Captain?"

"We will assist your surviving personnel
to evacuate."

"To become your prisoners," Tardus said with
utter
disgust.

"To be processed and then released to your
government."

Tardus struggled unsuccessfully to suppress a
cough. "To be used as prisoners to bargain with the

Empire. This is totally unacceptable to us,

Captain.

Surely you know that we will never surrender ourselves."

A painful spasm of coughing overtook him;
afterwards, he glared at Kirk through dull eyes.

"This
is the work of Federation spies, but we shall take them
with us. You shall learn no more about our installation,

Captain Kirk."

"We already know everything about your installation,"

Kirk said quickly. "No purpose would be
served by your death--"

"Captain," Uhura's voice was gentle,

"he's no
longer transmitting."

The flash that lit up the bridge was blinding, forcing
those present to shield their eyes until the screen
faded
to blackness. Slowly, the familiar sight of

Aritani
reappeared.

"The entire operation has been destroyed,"

Spock
reported from his viewer, "with the exception of a few
mining tunnels. Shock waves on the surface
reaching

MINDSHADOW
six-point-three on the Richter scale." He
looked
steadily at Kirk. "No survivors beneath the
surface,

Captain."

Kirk's gaze was fierce and directed straight
ahead at
the quietly rotating planet. He could not meet

McCoy's
eyes; he knew the horror in them matched his
own.

The grass no longer grew as high as

Kirk's hip; in
most places the soil had been bared by the
pirates'

phasers, leaving black, evil-smelling scars.

The neat
rows of golden vines had disappeared entirely from
the
landscape, burned from existence, but the grass
persisted. Already it crept back in timid
blue-green
clumps to cover the blackened earth.

Kirk called out.

There was a rustling sound near the side of the
mountain, and the sound of small footsteps.

Natahia
appeared from behind the charred stump of what was
once a great tree. Around her stood three
male
growers who carried handmade spears.

"The pirates are gone," Kirk called. "The
earthquake
resulted from the destruction of their ships and
weapons."

They stopped several feet from Kirk.

Natahia's
beautiful blue robe was torn and heavy with mud;
her
streaming hair was wild and unkempt. But her
manner
was as regal as it had always been.

She eyed Kirk distru/lly. "Six of my people
died
in that earthquake."

"I'm sorry," Kirk said gently. "But there will
be no
more earthquakes, and no more attacks on your people.

Our enemies were using your planet as a military
base. Their weapons were hidden beneath the ground.

They wanted control of Aritani because of its
minerals
and so that they could control other nearby planets
from it as well. When we discovered their base, they
killed themselves and destroyed the base rather than
be taken prisoner."

Natahia closed her eyes. "So we stand at
last on the
bones of our enemies. And what does the Federation
want with us now?"

"We only want to offer our assistance to help you
rebuild what the pirates have
destroyed."

"We require no assistance in rebuilding our
huts--"

"I was speaking of the land, Natahia. To restore
it to
what it was."

Her eyes widened slightly. The growers with her
whispered among themselves with hopeful excitement,
but she silenced them with a quick motion of her
hand. "You have methods for doing so?"

"Yes. We can make your land fertile again. We
can
help you to produce crops quickly so that your people
can be fed."

Natahia's voice suddenly sounded very old and
feeble. "We have been eating the small animals
and
birds--it was repugnant, but necessary for
survival."

"Our offer is unconditional. However, the offer
to
join the Federation remains open."

Natahia bowed her head for a moment; when she
raised it again, her eyes had lost some of their
proudness.

"I have learned many things since the pirates
forced us to flee to the caves in the mountains. If
we
had not banded together, we would certainly have
starved. We have learned to be dependent."

"And is it such a bad thing?" Kirk asked.

"I cannot say that it is always bad, nor can I
say that
it is always good, for it often forces one to compromise
one's belief. I would call it a necessary evil."

Kirk looked down at the scarred earth and thought
of those who lay beneath it. "Sometimes, Natahia,
we

MINDSHADOW
must do things we despise, in order to achieve a
greater good."

"I must agree with you, Captain Kirk. I
speak now
for all the growers who have survived. We do not
value technology or the weapons it has
produced, but
we do value our way of life, so much so that we
will
not permit other invaders to destroy it again. And so
we shall compromise our beliefs to some
extent in
order to preserve them. We welcome the
assistance of
the Federation and wish to ally ourselves with it."

Captain's Log, Stardate 7008.4:

The Enterprise is leaving Aritani with two
extra
passengers: the Aritanian delegation to the

Federation.

Following the delivery of all diplomats to
their appropriate destinations, we will proceed to

Star Base Two for some long overdue shore
leave.

Kirk turned off the recorder and turned to look
at

McCoy. The doctor stood watching Aritani
turn
slowly on the viewscreen.

"Slow day at the office, Bones?"

"Not much to do in sick bay these days," McCoy
replied, keeping his eyes on the screen.

"A lovely place, wasn't it?" Kirk said
softly.

"What? Oh... yes, I suppose it was."

Kirk gave up his attempt at
conversation. McCoy
had for once come to the bridge for something else...

she was there, somewhere far below the surface, and
this was the only way he had to say good-bye.

When Spock stepped off the turbolift, the
captain
and the doctor were too entranced by the viewscreen
to notice. He walked over to Kirk's side and
cleared
his throat delicately.

Kirk glanced up. "What is it, Spock?"

"The Aritanian delegation has been properly
welcomed
aboard and escorted to their quarters, Captain."

"Good." Kirk sat up straight in his chair.

"I have
the feeling that this time the return trip from Aritani
will be a little less eventful."

"I sincerely hope so, Captain." Spock
turned to
regard McCoy's faraway stare. "You have been
un-characteristically
reticent as of late, Doctor."

Kirk winced. Surely Spock was
aware of McCoy's
feelings for Emma, and was capable of greater
tact...

McCoy tore his gaze from the screen at last.

"I suppose

I have, Spock," he said with unusual
seriousness.

"I think Spock misses his daily argument,"

Kirk
said in an attempt to lighten the situation.

Spock did not acknowledge the captain's
remark. "I
can surmise the cause of your depression,

Doctor, and
while I am not insensitive to it, I feel that
condolences
are somewhat premature."

McCoy suddenly became alert. "What are you
talking
about, Spock?"

"Six fighter vessels are still unaccounted for,

Doctor.

I submit that Tanirius, or Dr. Saenz
if you wish,
was on one of them."

"How would you know?" McCoy struggled angrily
against hope.

"It is a perfectly logical assumption,

Doctor. The
most likely candidates to evacuate the hangar
in the
seconds preceding its destruction would be those who
knew it was going to explode."

McCoy sounded bitterly tired. "Or maybe
just rats
deserting what they figured was a sinking ship after the
weapons room was destroyed. Do you think I
haven't
thought about it, Spock? But she would have let me
know she was alive--"

Spock seemed to think for a moment before he

MINDSHADOW
spoke again. "I rather doubt that they were rats, as you
call them, Doctor, considering the fact that shortly
before he left for his new assignment, Mr. Varth
informed me that precisely six Federation
sympathizers
were working at the Romulan installation, including

Tanirius."

A small spark of hope entered McCoy and
slowly
warmed. "Is that true, Spock?"

Spock gave a slight nod.

"But why wouldn't she tell me? why would she
leave me to think that she was dead?"

"Perhaps it is necessary for her to be presumed
dead, to protect her from the wrath of the

Praetor."

The spark dimmed. "Then even if she is
alive... she couldn't risk seeing me again."

"Not as Tanirius," said Spock, "or as

Emma Saenz,
but perhaps..."

McCoy actually smiled weakly at the

Vulcan. "It'll
never happen, Spock, but it's nice to think
about." He
squared his shoulders. "Guess I'd better get
back to
sick bay."

"I thought you didn't have any work," Kirk
protested.

"Did I say that? I can't imagine what I
must have
been thinking of." McCoy walked with a slightly
brisker step to the turbolift and did not look
back at the
viewscreen again.

Kirk waited for the lift to close before turning to
face his first officer. "Thank you."

Spock frowned in puzzlement. "For what,

Captain?"

"For letting McCoy think she. might still be
alive.

We Earthers have a word for it-compassion."

"Call it what you will," Spock replied
stiffly, "considering
the doctor's current mental state, I thought
he
should be made aware of the possibility--"

"Then what you said about Varth and the six
sympathizers--comt
was true?"

Without changing his expression, Spock managed
to
convey the fact that he had been highly insulted.

"I
would not intentionally attempt to mislead the good
doctor..."

Kirk sighed. "And every woman he meets,
he'll be
wondering if it could be her. You know, Emma

Saenz
was under orders to kill you, Spock, but she
didn't,
because she came to realize how much McCoy cared
about you. And after what you just did for McCoy, I
might almost be tempted to think that the affection was
mutual."

Spock rose to his full height. "Captain,

I scarcely
think that the bridge is an appropriate place
for such
insulting accusations." He moved with cool
dignity
back to his station.

Kirk smiled and leaned forward to address the
helmsman. "Take us out of orbit, Mr.

Sulu."

And the blue orb on the screen grew smaller and
smaller, until at last it faded from view.