Commodore Hayes’ monotonous drawl droned through Jim Kirk’s brain without really registering on his consciousness, something that rarely happened to Starfleet’s most decorated captain. But Kirk was tired, so tired that his mind could not hold onto any single comment the commodore mercilessly poured out, so tired that he didn’t even notice his chief medical officer blatantly staring at him from across the level planes of the conference table. McCoy’s frown took in every crease of Kirk’s brow, each dark circle under his hazel eyes, and all the stifled yawns, which the captain tried in vain to hide.

In an exhausting effort to stop the warring factions of Traxus that Commodore Hayes had mentioned, and bring them to peaceful cooperation, Kirk had just pulled an almost-constant 72-hour shift with virtually no rest, and it showed eagerly on every line of his muscular body.

Slowly, Kirk became aware that all eyes in the room were focused on him, and he realized with a surge of panic that the commodore must have spoken to him. He bit his lower lip momentarily, struggled to decide how to react, then simply held up his hand casually, indicating that he had nothing to add, and hoped it didn’t make him look like a bigger fool than he felt.

But the commodore just said, "Fine. That’s it, then. Thank you for your help, Captain." He extended a ham-like hand toward Kirk and as the captain grasped it, the senior officer leaned close and whispered, "And get some sleep, Jim. You look awful."

An ironic smile touched Kirk’s lips. "Aye, sir."

Before he could turn, McCoy was at his side, long fingers firmly attached to the captain’s arm, guiding him away from the pale gray gaze of Commander Corbin, Commodore Hayes’ thin, but persistent, legal shadow for the past week, who obviously waited for a chance to speak with the famous James T. Kirk. Well, he’d have to wait a little longer. The doctor’s scowl left no doubt that he had taken charge. Corbin stepped back, frowning in disappointment as McCoy steered the captain out of the briefing room and through the familiar corridors of the Enterprise toward Level Five.

As Kirk noticed a few glances from curious crewmen, he disengaged his elbow from McCoy’s possession and squared his own broad shoulders. "I’m fine, Bones," he insisted, even though he could not quite mask the fatigue that cut through his tone.

"Yeah." The doctor did not try to take Kirk’s arm again, but remained doggedly at his side. "I didn’t quite catch all of the commodore’s briefing. Could you fill me in on the basic details?"

For a brief moment, Kirk, who could not have repeated a word the commodore had said if his ship depended on it, considered bluffing an answer, then saw the glint in McCoy’s blue eyes and knew he was already doomed. Pursing his lips, he glared at the doctor for a long moment before he allowed the smile pushing at his lips to emerge.

"Okay, so maybe I’m a little beat," he admitted. "Nothing a good eight hours of sleep won’t cure."

They resumed their pace toward the captain’s quarters, and Kirk felt the draw of welcomed sleep. He wouldn’t concede to McCoy just how tired he was, but sensed the doctor knew anyway. When they arrived at the door, Kirk glanced at his friend. "Come in for a drink?"

McCoy nodded. "And to make sure you get that nap." His eyes followed Kirk’s every move, saw the effort it took for the captain even to lift the decanter of Saurian brandy and pour two amber glasses full. As they sat in silence, McCoy carefully palmed the hypo he had sneaked past Kirk, ready to press it home when he had the chance, but he never needed to. The captain set his glass on the table and stretched his legs before him, somehow reclining in his stiff office chair.

Before the doctor could suggest that Kirk lie down, he saw his friend’s eyes flutter closed and heard his breathing grow heavy and even. Fondly, McCoy watched the tired lines etched across Kirk’s features smooth and saw the face relax into its soft boyish planes. He shook his head and scanned his thoughts over the events of the previous three days. Few men could have accomplished what Jim Kirk did by bringing those two governments together and averting a devastating war, and yet Commodore Hayes had assumed the bulk of the credit for the diplomatic corps. McCoy sometimes wondered if Starfleet knew what they had.

With a grunt, he rose and somehow managed to drag the captain’s dead weight to his bunk. He removed Kirk’s boots and threw a light blanket over him, then, with only a slight hesitation, clicked off the intercom, leaving the captain hopefully interruption-free for several hours. He’d probably catch hell from Kirk when he woke, but the doctor would willingly put on his mitt and take it, if was for the health of his friend.

*****

Gray moss hung low from the trees like heavy drapes darkening a bedchamber. The oppressing heat of the day sat on the lungs of those assembled, making each breath a labor. Perspiration ran in rivulets down their round faces and they all fidgeted, anxious to be done with the meeting. The comments, so numerous at first, had died to occasional murmurs and each person there cast frequent glances toward the leader, waiting for a sign of dismissal.

"We cannot believe them," one brave voice announced, more loudly than she had intended. She dropped her tone, but continued. "They make their promises, but it means nothing. Can you not see that?"

Another voice, quieter even, replied, "Does trust not begin somewhere? If we do not trust, shall they? We have had two days of cease-fire. Maybe they are serious this time."

"Only because Starfleet is still here," yet another voice added. "When they leave, what is to keep them at their word?"

The arguments rose again, their dissonant strains echoing across the forest. Amid the cacophony a thin, reedy tenor somehow carried above all, and each voice silenced abruptly at the realization. Their smooth faces respectfully turned toward the speaker who stood slightly above them.

"We have come through a great deal," he began slowly, his thin chest struggling for air. Wisps of yellow hair floated about his head like freshly cut hay. "For years, we believed we were alone on our world. Then we discovered another civilization with a people similar in appearance, but different in beliefs. Still, we attempted to meet with them, share ideas, technology." He paused, his breath coming in gasps, and momentarily accepted the support of a young man standing nearby. "Just as our battles began, we discovered another disturbing thing: that not only are we not alone on the planet, but we are merely a small population in an increasingly crowded galaxy."

The crowd remained silent. These revelations were still new to them, still incredible enough to inspire awe. Taking advantage of this, the leader continued.

"The Starfleet captain helped us find common ground. Are we so selfish that we would throw away this opportunity because it requires sacrifice?" His small eyes met several of those in the crowd, those he felt needed special emphasis. They lingered on the large eyes of a woman who towered above the others, both men and women. "I cannot make the decision for you, but you must know how I feel." A skeletal arm reached for support as he stepped off the stump he had used as a podium and shuffled into the humid vegetation.

After a moment, the female spoke. "Dakel is a respected leader and he has guided us well in the past." Her dark gaze met each face boldly, faces different from hers, but bearing the same desire. "But he does not understand the Mietre. If we are to survive, we must not allow them power over us. We must remain strong, and that means not giving in to their two-faced compromise." Unsettled glances gave way to certain ones. "Who is with me?"

One by one, the followers lifted tubular hands with her slim ones in acceptance until all had committed their loyalty to her, and to war. She nodded, satisfied. Deep in the trees, a lone, thin figure bowed his head and wept.

*****

A crisp ocean breeze caressed his face with just enough salt sting to make his skin tingle. He closed his eyes to let the warming rays of the sun enfold his body, lulling the aching muscles into relaxation. His entire being floated in contentment. Then, like a sinister interloper, a noise, irritating and persistent, crashed into his peaceful thoughts, pulling him rudely from the welcomed calm. He tried to ignore it, but it remained steadfast, growing increasingly louder.

Jim Kirk’s eyes flew open and he sat straight up in bed. For a disorienting moment, he tried to place the situation; his attention focused on the door and the annoying buzz filling his ears. With a curse he threw off the light blanket, wondering vaguely how it got there, and stumbled across the room. He felt like he had crawled on his belly across the Rigelian Alps; he knew he probably looked like he had. Straightening his tunic into some semblance of neatness, he managed to croak out, "Come."

First Officer Spock stood in the doorway, his bland features only momentarily disturbed by the sight that greeted him. The uplifted brow confirmed Kirk’s assessment of his appearance. I do look like hell, he figured, but in typical fashion, the Vulcan recovered quickly.

"Captain, we are at Red Alert. A Traxian group of rebels has attacked the Mietre, and the hostilities have resumed."

"What?" Kirk exploded. "Why the hell didn’t you call me?" His eyes fell on the red alert light flashing mutely and he realized, before Spock could respond, what had happened. "Damn McCoy!" he snapped. "He turned off the intercom."

"A predictable act," Spock acknowledged. "Apparently, the good doctor felt that your rest was of ultimate importance." His expression indicated that Spock may have agreed, because he said, "And I regret having to disturb you now, Captain, but I felt—"

"Yes, of course." Kirk passed a hand across his face and drew in a heavy breath. "What time is it?"

"0300 hours, ship’s time."

The fatigue settled more deeply against the captain’s shoulders. 0300! He had slept less than three hours! Three hours out of 72. "Give me ten minutes, Spock, and I’ll be on the bridge."

"Yes sir. And, Captain, Commodore Hayes is waiting in the briefing room."

Of course. "Fine. Tell him—ask him to come to the bridge."

Corbin will probably be there, too, right on Hayes’ coattails. It wasn’t as if the Diplomatic Corps advising attorney caused trouble; it was just that he was always there, and Kirk disliked people hanging over his shoulder with no obvious reason for being there. There were only two lawyers Kirk had ever liked. One, Samuel T. Cogley, had saved his career in a court martial; the other…well, he had different reasons for liking Ariel Shaw. Besides, something about the rail-thin Corbin triggered alarms in Kirk’s renowned intuition. He hadn’t yet put his finger on it, but something about Corbin just wasn’t right. As Spock left, he dismissed those inconsequential thoughts and dragged himself to the head, wondering what the hell had happened on Traxus. It had all gone so well before, but the captain had been in enough situations to know almost anything could happen when two so dissimilar peoples attempted to cooperate.

He also realized that he could not avoid seeking out McCoy for a stimulant. Without it, the captain had no doubt he would fall flat on his face before he could even make it to the bridge. The sonic shower did little to rejuvenate him. After combing a hand through his hair and donning a new uniform, he reluctantly headed toward Sickbay, knowing he would receive a lecture from McCoy, but also knowing there was no other choice. The doctor would fuss, but he would cooperate.

*****

"This is not acceptable! Not acceptable at all!" Commodore Hayes’ jowls shook as he paced the upper bridge.

In the center seat, Kirk said nothing, knowing it would do no good anyway. Mitchell Hayes had never been one to keep his emotions bottled up and the captain knew that after a good rant, the older officer would calm down and approach the situation more sensibly. Besides, despite McCoy’s grudgingly administered stimulant, Kirk barely held collapse at bay. Better not to waste his energy on something he couldn’t control anyway. Instead, he spent his time pondering solutions to the re-ignited hostilities and consciously forcing back the exhaustion that hovered ominously over him, making an effort to throw off any evidence of fatigue. He was only partially successful.

As predicted, the commodore’s ire faded, and he came to rest just to the left of the command chair. Kirk turned to look at him and noticed with some irritation that Commander Corbin waited, at attention, by the turbo lift doors. He wondered vaguely if the aide followed Hayes into the head, too.

"I don’t know, Jim," the commodore said in a voice pitched solely for the captain, although Kirk knew Spock could hear. "What could have happened? Both leaders seemed quite pleased with our arrangement."

From the corner of his eye, Kirk noted the lifted brow from his science officer, and suppressed a smile. Our arrangement had actually been Kirk’s arrangement, but he was quite content to let the commodore assume some of the credit, especially since that arrangement did not seem to be working.

"The leaders," he reminded the senior officer, "are not necessarily the ones responsible for this, Commodore."

"Oh?"

From their right, Spock joined the conversation, rising gracefully from the science station and approaching them with his hands clasped behind his straight back. "Indeed, sir. I have been monitoring communications from the planet. The attacks seem to originate in one, possibly two, isolated areas of Traxus, indicating that a faction, perhaps acting alone, is...taking matters into its own hands."

The commodore’s jaw dropped and he held up his thick palms. "But, why?"

"As you recall, Commodore," Kirk said, pushing himself straighter in the chair, even past the ache of his muscles, "there were several, even at the peace conference, who still expressed animosity toward the other peoples. It is certainly not inconceivable to consider that one or more of these have initiated riots, or perhaps even a coup."

Astonishment washed over Hayes’ florid features. "Do you think so, Kirk? Is it possible?"

The captain was surprised. Had the commodore not even considered that possibility?

"All things are possible, Commodore," answered Spock. Hayes flashed an annoyed frown at the Vulcan, for a moment contemplating whether or not Spock was being insubordinate. Apparently, he decided the first officer was serious and returned his attention to the captain.

"We cannot let these…rebels ruin what we have accomplished!" He ran a huge hand over his face, and spoke softly to the captain. "Damn it! Two months away from retirement. Did you know that, Jim? This was my last assignment." He smiled wistfully. "Got a little place on the Martian Colonies I’m going to settle on."

Kirk smiled sadly at the older man, feeling for him even though he had always considered Hayes just another blustery paper pusher.

As if he suddenly realized what he was saying, the commodore cleared his throat, shook himself brusquely, and returned to the current problem. "Well, what are we going to do about it?"

"Or should we do anything about it?" Spock added, oblivious to the commodore’s sudden irritation.

Hayes stared, aghast. "My God, man!" he cried. "How can you even suggest that? The Federation is counting on this treaty." Behind him, Corbin still stood, pale eyes visibly indifferent to the argument unfolding.

In the face of such outrage, the Vulcan remained maddeningly calm. "There is the Prime Directive, Commodore."

For a moment, Hayes did not move; then he visibly deflated. "Yes, of course. Kirk, we have not violated it, have we?"

As amused grin flickered across the captain’s face as he contemplated the irony of the commodore asking him about the prime directive. But he considered the question carefully. "We have interfered, Commodore, with the natural progression of the planet. This contact could be considered a violation of the Prime Directive."

Hayes’ large face paled.

"However," the captain continued, "they did request our assistance, and we are obligated to respond."

The commodore’s eyes brightened. "That’s true! That’s true!"

"The question then, is a moot point," Kirk offered. "It is our duty to help these people since they have asked." No one contradicted him.

At the possibility of action, Kirk felt some of his fatigue drop away. "Let’s get on it, then. Lieutenant Commander Uhura, get me both leaders and have them meet me at the same neutral site—the space station shared by both governments." He pushed himself from the chair, swallowing a groan. "Spock, put together a landing party and send them to the transporter room in fifteen minutes. Oh, and you have the conn."

The first officer did not actually touch Kirk, but he stepped close enough to the captain to draw his attention. "I can lead the landing party, sir."

Kirk knew the concern was well placed, but felt a tickle of irritation in spite of himself. "Thank you, Mister Spock, that won’t be necessary," he said evenly, his tone pleasant, but final. Spock’s expression remained stoic except for the elegantly lifted brow. To Kirk, it was in indication of concern and slight irritation. The captain sighed. "All right. You come, too. Get your gear." No one else caught the triumph on the Vulcan’s face, but it was there, nonetheless. Kirk turned to Uhura. "Commander, you have the conn."

"Yes, sir," she replied as she made her way to the center seat.

*****

The ship’s night cycle was just ending as Kirk and Commodore Hayes strode through the corridors toward the transporter room, Corbin close at their heels. Kirk could not help imagining his weary body cradled in the softness of his own bunk, or perhaps someone else’s bunk, he thought with a grin, instead of preparing to beam down once again into a potentially hostile environment.

When they entered the transporter room, they were greeted by two security men, whose biceps and shoulders strained against their grey tunics and body armor, and by Doctor McCoy, tricorder and medical kit firmly in hand.

The captain stopped short. "Doctor," he began, his voice hard, "I don’t recall assigning you to the landing party."

McCoy did not even blink. "No, Captain. It was my understanding that the first officer was responsible for assembling the landing party." He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, a gesture Kirk recognized to mean that the doctor was holding an ace.

Still, the captain narrowed his eyes and asked, "And Mister Spock assigned you?"

"Yes, sir, he did." McCoy was so confident, it did not even occur to Kirk to doubt him. He turned to Spock, who had just entered, but before Kirk could muster any anger over that, a wave of vertigo swept across his vision and he swayed.

"Jim?" McCoy grasped his arm immediately, but Kirk shook him off.

"I’m fine," he insisted, but decided perhaps Spock had been wise to send for the doctor. "Let’s go."

As they disappeared in a silver shimmer, Kirk noticed the scowl on McCoy’s brow, and knew he’d be hard-pressed to avoid the doctor’s close observation.

*****

Sheera gathered her strength one last time and swung the butt of her spent rifle hard against the enemy’s head. A resounding crack and gory spray of blood rewarded her efforts as the attacker’s body spun, then dropped to the ground. She allowed her dark eyes to scan the horizon for more of the enemy. Satisfied, she dropped her eyes to encompass the immediate area. Twisted corpses, some with gaping wounds already attracting swarms of insects that feasted on the raw meat, were scattered over the uneven terrain. She failed to suppress the hot tears, which sprang up as she recognized the remains of some of her own followers among the carnage. The knowledge that she had been right, that the other side could not trusted, did not allay her overwhelming despair.

As the enemy swarmed in on them, they automatically fell into their well-practiced plan, scattering into small groups and disappearing into the surrounding tangle of vegetation, but not before a bit of serendipity was granted them. One of her scouts had discovered an opened crate of the alien weapons, phasers they were called, and managed to drag it with him on their retreat. At least now they might be able to match the Mietre if needed. She scanned the hideous scene, and recalled other atrocities performed by these attackers, atrocities done, not on volunteer warriors, but on women and children who had done nothing to them. When, she wondered, would it end? How could they stop such hate? Shoulders slumped, Sheera hastily gathered those closest to her and abandoned the field, grieving that they did not have enough time to bury these noble ones who had offered the ultimate sacrifice.

*****

With his shock of yellow-white hair flying wildly, the Traxian leader shuffled as quickly as possible through the airlock doors and into the cramped space station multi-purpose room. The bright white walls, slightly curved at the tops and bottoms, created a tunnel effect, and Dakel had to make a conscious decision not to stoop, even though his head cleared the ceiling by a good half meter. His failed surreptitious encounter with Sheera’s group weighed heavily on the thin shoulders and he wondered absently how a people that had achieved space travel and had built a space station together could not get along.

He dismissed these thoughts as he entered the room and shook the extended hand of the Enterprise’s captain, suppressing a chuckle at the sight of the larger humanoids bent against the ceiling that cramped them at under two meters. Several Federation officers had accompanied Kirk, including the hulking commodore and his ever-present assistant from the earlier negotiations. They sat at the oblong table and the Federation party heaved sighs of relief when their backs could straighten up.

As Dakel scanned the participants, he allowed his eyes to pass over the assorted undersecretaries and rest a long time on his adversary, the president of the coalition of the Mietre. Unlike him, Andar was young and energetic, his body round and plump with health, his shoulders thick, his sharp eyes alert, but, Dakel thought, not wise, not wise at all. He wondered how Andar would react to the rebel’s attack, if he would even believe Dakel was not responsible. Or perhaps it did not matter; Dakel felt responsible anyway.

The captain’s soft voice pulled them together. "Gentlemen," he began, then nodded toward a beautiful dark-skinned woman who sat to his right, "and lady. This meeting is to discuss the latest development and hopefully return to the amiable relationship that existed for a little while." He smiled, and Dakel saw again evidence of the charm and personality that had broken through years of animosity and brought them together the first time.

"First," said the captain, "Councilman Dakel is going to explain to us what has happened." He leaned back, indicating clearly that it was the leader’s turn.

With effort, Dakel stood, accepting the support of Doctor McCoy, who rose from his own adjacent chair to help the frail man up. "I begin with an explanation, not an excuse," he declared, his voice almost like gossamer. "A rebel group, led by one of our former council members, Sheera, has apparently decided that peace is unattainable." He turned toward Andar and paused to draw a labored breath. "Frankly," he said, "she does not trust you and has refused to believe you really seek cooperation."

The young man stood indignantly. "That’s absurd! Why would we take such a step without true intentions?"

Dakel was surprised when the commodore nodded. "True." The young commander who had accompanied the commodore echoed the agreement.

Captain Kirk, still seated, also seemed surprised for a moment, but he quickly returned his attention to the negotiations and spoke directly to the Mietre leader. "Mister President, the councilman is merely relaying information to you; he is not accusing."

Dakel watched as Andar’s eyes narrowed, then the younger man sat, thick hands knotted into fists, but silent. The old man continued. "We have, of course, taken steps to locate and stop their group, but so far we have been unsuccessful." He failed to mention his earlier meeting with Sheera, in which he practically gave them the choice to fight or not. He had grossly miscalculated, thinking Sheera’s logic would sway her to his view. But she had relied on emotion, and now he must face the consequences.

Andar had calmed down but his eyes still flashed. "And what if you cannot find them? What then? We will not allow attacks without retaliation."

Trembling with the effort to stand, the elder leader waved an apologetic thin hand and eased back into his seat, again with McCoy’s prompt assistance. "No, we do not suggest you do. Our only request is that you give us time to talk with them. Convince them to—"

Andar’s broad face laughed. "You just said you can’t find them. How can you talk if—"

Dakel interrupted, looking directly at Captain Kirk. "We cannot, but I believe your ship has that capability, does it not, Captain?"

He could tell from the dark shadow that crossed Kirk’s face that the captain did not like the question. Without a word, Kirk’s eyes met those of his first officer and some communication passed silently between them. It was the latter who spoke.

"You are correct, Councilman," came the deep tones. "The Enterprise is capable of locating life signs; however, since all inhabitants of Traxus have the same genetic signatures on the sensors, we would be unable to separate the rebels from the others."

Dakel pursed his lips into a mass of wrinkles, then sighed. He would do what he could to help, even if it meant revealing a secret he had kept for twenty-five years. Of course, since the Humans were here, it really didn’t matter anymore. "May I," he inquired, "speak privately with you and Mister Spock, Captain?" He saw Hayes straighten. He had forgotten about the other officer. "And, of course, the commodore, too," he quickly added.

If Kirk was surprised at the request, he didn’t show it. He nodded and rose. Dakel noticed a slight grimace, which quickly disappeared. McCoy guided the leader into the side room while the woman and another officer in grey were left to entertain a suspicious Andar. The Starfleet aide just managed to stick close enough to the commodore to gain entrance to the private meeting.

When the doors closed, Kirk and Hayes turned expectantly toward Dakel and waited. Likewise, Spock and McCoy remained silent, following their captain’s lead. Corbin waited in the shadows, as usual.

"You can isolate the rebels," Dakel began without preamble.

Still, the officers did not speak.

"One of them is not of Traxus."

"What do you mean?" the doctor asked.

Shaking his white head, Dakel explained. "Their leader, Sheera, is not of our world."

"What?" Kirk stepped closer and took Dakel’s shoulders brusquely, then eased off as he felt the frail bones shift. "What are you saying?"

"Sheera came to our planet as a child. She was the daughter of a couple whose craft crashed on our planet. I found them, the parents dead, the child barely walking. I knew I could not let anyone find it. We were an ethnophobic people then, perhaps still, but her appearance was different, so I explained that it was a birth defect. My wife and I raised her as our own. She is my daughter."

Hayes practically jumped on his words. "So you had previous otherworld contact!"

Dakel noticed Kirk’s frown. He replied, "I suppose, in an indirect manner, but my wife and I were the only ones who knew until you came. We returned to the site, buried Sheera’s parents and dismantled the spacecraft."

"Where are the parts now?" Spock asked.

"In the Ravine of Condor. No one goes there and anyway it is concealed under years of undergrowth."

McCoy’s grip tightened on his arm. "Do you know what race Sheera is?"

As the others stared at him, Dakel swallowed slowly, nodded, then gave them the answer. "She is of your race, Captain Kirk."

Kirk’s jaw dropped and his left hand grasped the table as if for support, but he straightened almost immediately and squared his shoulders. "How do you know?"

"She looks like all of you."

"There are many humanoids in the galaxy," McCoy suggested.

"If you saw her, you could tell."

"I hesitate," Kirk said, recovering somewhat, "to allow President Andar to fire on the rebels without speaking with them first to present our proposal. Perhaps if we talked directly to Sheera..."

"We?" McCoy echoed, glaring at the captain. "I’m sure Spock could—" But he cut off when he saw Kirk’s expression.

Dakel noted the exchange. "I do not know if it would help, but I will try to arrange it somehow. Without knowing where she is—"

"We can locate her," Spock said. "As you indicated, since she is Human, her signature will be easily detectable among your people."

"And," Kirk added, his voice stronger with the decision made, "we can transport you to her position."

McCoy released his hold on Dakel and stepped to the captain’s side. "Jim, I don’t know how strong the councilman is. I mean, maybe a shuttle would be better."

For a moment, Kirk looked as if he would deny the doctor, but then the lines around his eyes smoothed and he nodded. "All right. Spock, have a shuttle readied for a landing party. I’ll lead it." He ignored the two pointed frowns from his officers and turned back toward the conference room.

Commander Corbin, who had remained silent during the exchange, now spoke, startling Dakel, who had all but forgotten he was there. "Captain, I don’t believe you should go." He held up a hand as Kirk opened his mouth. "I understand your reasoning, but you are the commander of the Enterprise, and these are rebels, retaliating with violence. Starfleet cannot allow someone of such rank to place himself into danger."

Dakel could see the anger seething just beneath the surface of Kirk’s flushed expression.

The captain visibly gained control before he responded. "I...appreciate your concern, Commander," he offered, although it was obvious he did not appreciate Corbin’s concern at all. "But this is a potentially volatile situation. I was responsible for the original treaty."

Dakel saw Hayes frown at this and remembered that the commodore had been quite vocal about his own participation in the negotiations.

"And I will be responsible for restoring the peace." Before Corbin could speak, Kirk continued, turning toward Hayes, his tone now confident. "Commander’s prerogative gives me that power to decide, as ship’s captain. Don’t you agree, Commodore?"

Caught in the red tape Kirk had uncoiled before him, Hayes grunted shortly, then nodded. "But don’t believe everything you hear, Captain," he warned. "Corbin is right. These people have killed and will kill again. I will not lose a starship commander to terrorists."

Dakel watched the exchange with interest. The thin aide had prompted the commodore to display more strength than the leader had seen before, but Captain James Kirk remained in control, despite the rank. That much was obvious. As they returned to the larger room, Dakel shuffled in last, feeling the incredible weakness of his failing body and wondering if he would survive to see peace with the Mietre or with his daughter.

"I understand, Mister President," Kirk was saying when he entered, "that your people have been attacked. I understand that you cannot trust an agreement until these attacks are stopped. Do you understand that Councilman Dakel is not responsible for these events? That renegade groups—"

"I understand, Captain, that there will be no agreement until there are no more attacks." Andar stared with his tiny black eyes up at Kirk, defiance in every line of his stocky body. "We will take care of these ourselves if you cannot."

Kirk ran a hand over his face, then brought it down quickly, as if he had not intended to betray any frustration or fatigue. With a deep breath, he tried again. "Councilman Dakel is making every attempt—"

"That’s apparently not good enough, Kirk."

The captain took a calming breath, then addressed the Mietre president. "We have a plan."

Andar looked dubious, but listened.

Kirk continued. "We think we can…communicate with them, talk to them—"

The round Mietre interrupted. "We have already talked, Kirk. What good has it done?"

Uncharacteristically, Kirk’s voice snapped, betraying his fatigue. "Are you that anxious to fight, Mister President?"

After staring into the captain’s unwavering gaze, Andar finally nodded. "You have only a few hours, Kirk. I am running out of patience. We will have to fight back, to protect our…property, and not just with the rebels."

His stance softened unexpectedly and he turned toward Commodore Hayes and Commander Corbin. "To show we are willing to be reasonable, please allow me to send with you a sample of our finest beverage. I believe you’ll find it…appealing."

Hayes glanced at Kirk, who did not respond, then nodded. "Of course. Thank you. I am sure we will enjoy it."

An aide to Andar then entered carrying a canvas covered rectangular box bound with twine. As he handed it to Corbin, Kirk stepped forward.

"Just a minute, Commodore." He gestured toward a security guard. "Open this."

"Captain," Hayes began in a placating tone, "I am sure President Andar has sent us no booby traps here."

Kirk turned to face his superior officer. Dakel watched carefully for signs of the young captain giving in, but could see no weakness in the firm stance. "I am sure he has not, as well, Commodore, but nothing comes on board my ship without being checked first."

This time, Andar moved toward them, his round hands reaching for the twine. "If you’ll permit me, Captain," he crooned silkily, taking the package from Corbin and placing it on the briefing room table. In a moment, the box was opened.

"See, Captain," the president said, "nothing but mijar wine." He drew out a long-necked darkened glass bottle and uncorked it. A faint aroma of fruit and alcohol teased their nostrils.

Kirk gestured once more and McCoy ran his tricorder over it. "Clear, Jim. A moderate alcohol level and some sort of fruit mixture."

"Of course," Hayes replied, picking up the box and handing it back to Corbin. "What else?" He glared at the captain. "Kirk, I’ll speak with you in my quarters when we return."

The starship commander nodded, but did not seem at all intimidated, Dakel saw again. Perhaps this strong young man could talk some sense into Sheera, he reasoned. She was like him, after all, and when she saw that... Dakel held a great hope in the Enterprise’s captain, a hope on which his entire world rested.

*****

James T. Kirk had been dressed down in his day on a few occasions. Most of the time he didn’t deserve it. Once or twice he deserved more. And as an admiral at Starfleet Operations, he’d given his share of oral reprimands. On this occasion, with the confidence of having made the right decision, he stood calmly while Commodore Hayes shook with rage. A disturbing maroon flush rose in the older man’s face, and he did not seem to be trying very hard to control his anger.

"Just what the hell did you think you were doing, Mister?" he demanded.

Kirk could tell he was not going to pause long enough for an answer, so he didn’t attempt one.

"You insulted President Andar. Practically accused him of trying to poison us. I wouldn’t be surprised if he decided not to cooperate with us at all. You have obviously forgotten who is the superior officer here. I’ll be damned if I’ll have a wet-behind-the-ears pup try to outshine me in front of my staff. Who do you think you are?" His tirade came to an abrupt halt, his bloodshot eyes glared only inches away from Kirk’s face.

Only a tightening of his lips betrayed Kirk’s anger. Barely resisting the urge to remind the commodore in no uncertain terms that he was hardly wet behind the ears, especially having been in charge of Starfleet Operations for two and a half years before resuming command of the Enterprise, the captain took a long moment to call on a few handy Vulcan techniques and maintained a steady gaze.

With a momentary silence from his attacker, Kirk finally offered, "Commodore, it is my duty, as captain of this vessel, to protect her and my crew, including you, sir, from any possible threats, whether real or perceived."

In the face of Kirk’s measured response, the commodore calmed somewhat. "How can you even think Andar would try to harm us? What could he possibly gain?"

"Regulations state—" Kirk began.

Hayes waved a ham-like fist in the air. "Regulations be damned! You can’t go by the book always, Captain."

Kirk suppressed a smile at this ironic statement. Obviously, Hayes was not well researched on James T. Kirk and his command record. He could be called many things, but, just in the case of wet behind the ears, "by-the-book" wasn’t one of them. The commodore had moved to the small safe and removed a blue velvet box with the Starfleet emblem emblazoned on it. He opened it and displayed the contents for Kirk to see. Inside rested a small medal, along with the citation that had accompanied it when it was presented.

Kirk glanced over it, noticing that the engraver must have had a difficult time fitting all of the commodore’s four names on the limited surface space. He remembered the unusual look Hayes had given him at the reception to sign the first Traxian-Meitre Treaty, when he wore his dress uniform that displayed the almost-embarrassing array of decorations he, himself, owned.

Hayes’ hostility became much clearer now. "I have served Starfleet for thirty years, Kirk," he murmured. "Thirty years, and this is all I have to show for it. A second-class medal and a sleeve full of service stripes."

The captain shifted his gaze, unsure of the route the conversation was now taking. He risked a comment. "Commodore, I am sure Starfleet values you a great deal. The diplomatic corps has always been a thankless position."

Hayes laughed, but it contained no humor. "Yes. I am sure they do. You young space jockeys dash heroically around, shoot a few Klingons out of the sky, and they canonize you. Youngest captain in history. Youngest admiral in history. Me, I work my tail off trying to keep things peaceful so you guys don’t have to risk your lives, and no one notices, or cares." Self-pity oozed through his voice.

Ignoring the additional slight about space jockeys, Kirk dropped his formal stance and moved toward his superior officer. "That’s not true, sir," he said, trying to put more sincerity in his words than he felt. "You are well-known as an accomplished diplomat." He was pushing that fact, but figured it didn’t really matter.

All of the anger and bluster had vanished now. Hayes placed a heavy hand on Kirk’s shoulder. "Look, uh, Captain. Maybe you were right back there to check those bottles. I guess I…just wanted everything to work out and it’s falling apart now." He caught the captain’s eye. "Don’t ever leave your ship again, Captain Kirk. You made that mistake once. Don’t let them take her from you again. If you do, you’ll end up…like me." This last was whispered so that Kirk had to strain to hear. Before he could respond. Hayes waved him out of his cabin. The last thing Kirk saw was the hulking figure hunched pitifully over his desk.

*****

As the shuttle cruised through the atmosphere of Traxus, its hull gleaming white against the blue sky, Jim Kirk breathed deeply, trying to feel the oxygen flowing to his fingertips and toes, willing McCoy’s latest stimulant to propel him from the pull of exhaustion into the anticipation of meeting the rebel leader. After the pathetic scene in Hayes’ cabin, he had easily managed to side-step the commodore’s objections to the mission. Still, it had been galling to have to defend his reasons, especially in front of Corbin, who had instigated the entire conversation. He couldn’t imagine why Hayes put up with the arrogant little wimp. That attitude wouldn’t last long under Jim Kirk’s command. Neither officer had volunteered to come along, and Kirk certainly had not suggested it. He actually looked forward to some relief from their constant presence, even at the price of dealing with the Traxan rebels.

Lieutenant Commander Sulu, Chief Helmsman of the Enterprise, piloted the maneuverable shuttlecraft between a grove of trees, which closely resembled the great spruces of North America, and a gently sloping meadow. Before they could emerge, the helmsman noted, "Captain, life forms thirty meters ahead at the edge of the trees."

"All right," Kirk said, "Phasers on stun. I’ll go first. McCoy, you help the councilman."

When the doors shooshed open, Kirk peered hard into the lush blue-green needles. For a long moment, nothing moved. He stepped onto the ground, his hands raised to show he was unarmed. Sulu crouched behind him in the shuttle, phaser drawn.

"Sheera," Kirk called. "I’m James Kirk, Captain of the Enterprise. I have brought Dakel. We want to talk with you." He waited a beat, trying to discern a movement among the branches. Then, the limbs parted, and a slight form stepped into the open, flanked by four thick guards, weapons ready.

Kirk’s breath caught as he couldn’t help staring at the woman before him, the Human woman. He had no doubts now. In sharp contrast to the rounded, tubular bodies of her comrades, her form was slender and fine, her face delicately structured. Wavy auburn hair haloed a pair of emerald eyes. She was one of the most beautiful women Kirk had ever seen, and she was staring back at him, jaw hanging. He realized this must be her first encounter with her own species. To have lived your entire life among people completely different, and then discover you were not even of the same planet must be quite a shock, he figured.

To her credit, she managed to draw her shoulders back and demand, "Where is Dakel?"

"Here." With McCoy’s help, the leader stepped into sight and somehow the captain regained awareness to turn and lend a strong arm to lower Dakel to the ground.

Her eyes acknowledged him with respect, even in their current situation. "You are wasting your time," she said, although her tones were soft, unharsh. "We are right."

Kirk moved closer, hands out again in supplication. "Sheera, let us help you. We can talk with Andar. He has promised—"

Sheera’s gentle tone hardened instantly. "His promises are not worth bachan spit." Although he was unfamiliar with that fauna, Kirk comprehended her meaning easily. "We cannot trust him. He has already attacked our camps, killed our people."

She stared at him again. As the fire blazed in her eyes, Kirk forced himself to respond calmly. "Andar claims that you attacked him."

Sheera smiled, but it was not a pleasant expression. "Of course he does. Why should he suddenly become honest just because the all-powerful Starfleet captain has arrived?"

Kirk drew a deep breath to push past his impulse of anger at her hostility, and offered one of his most charming smiles. He saw McCoy’s brow lift. "If what you say is true, we will need proof. One of us will stay here, live with your people for a few days. If Andar attacks, we will be able to defend you, send a transmission to the ship."

He knew already who would stay, and sensed that McCoy realized his intent, because the doctor scowled at him. Kirk ignored the glare of blue eyes, and instead concentrated his attention on the attractive green ones. As their gazes locked, he felt a spark leap between them, knew that she was intrigued by this new discovery of Humans despite her cool facade. It was she who broke the stare to draw a deep breath. Even then, she remained silent for a long time.

Dakel, perhaps seeing an opportunity, added, "Give them the chance, Sheera, to save our planet." He played what Kirk realized was his ace. "I would like to see peace before my time comes."

Sheera winced. That was hitting below the belt, but it worked. She turned back to Kirk. "Fine, but you will soon see how it is. We do not live in comfort, Captain."

Kirk smiled. "We do not expect any."

From his right, a gravelly voice cleared and Kirk turned toward it. "Captain, I would like to know who you plan to choose to stay. I think Commander Sulu—"

"Doctor, I’ll select the crewman. You’ll need the lieutenant commander to pilot back to the ship, and you will help the councilman. That leaves me—"

"Jim!" He steered Kirk away from the others. "Jim, you’re dead on your feet. How much longer do you think you can last? What kind of help would you be?"

"That’s enough, McCoy!" the captain snapped. Sheera looked toward them in surprise, and Kirk lowered his voice. "I’m all right, Doctor."

McCoy’s voice remained equally low, but it carried finality. "The hell you are. I’ll make it a medical order, Captain."

For a long moment, Kirk glared at his match, contemplating his chances with his chief medical officer. Finally, he relaxed, and felt the weariness push at his shoulders. "All right. We’ll keep two security, you, and me. That will show Sheera we’re sincere and Sulu can return Councilman Dakel." And you can catch me when I fall, he mentally supplied to the doctor.

"Well," McCoy drawled, "what if Dakel wants to stay?"

"We’ll let him choose."

"I don’t like it, but—"

Kirk moved away from the doctor and approached the frail councilman who had laid a thin, translucent hand on his daughter’s arm. Although he did not want to intrude on their private moment, Kirk realized his twenty-four hours were ticking by.

"Excuse me, Councilman, Sheera," he said gently. For the first time, the woman looked at him without the hostility she seemed to harbor before. He wondered briefly what Dakel had said to her.

"We are prepared to stay with you," he explained. "Do you wish to remain, Councilman, or have our pilot return you to your home?"

The pale, watery eyes seemed sad as he shook his head. "I regret, Captain, that my strength will not permit me to remain, much as I desire it." He grasped Sheera’s hand, which dwarfed his own. "Remember what I said, and...take care in all your journeys."

She nodded, tears brimming, and their hands slid apart slowly. With McCoy’s help, Dakel shuffled back to the shuttle.

Giving Sheera a moment to compose herself, Kirk watched her father leave. When he turned, she was watching him. "Your father is quite a man," he said.

She nodded, and Kirk saw a very faint smile lift her lips. Whatever it was Dakel had said, Kirk was grateful for the change in attitude.

*****

For a short, pudgy man, Andar could move very quickly when he had to, and circumstances had just propelled him from his overstuffed chair to glare with significant intimidation at the messenger. "What? Kirk did what?"

Swallowing, the hapless young Mietre somehow resisted the urge to back up, and remained at attention, repeating his information. "Reports have been received, sir, that a group from the Federation ship, led by Captain Kirk, is in the rebel camp. They intend to stay to see who is the aggressor in this war." He chanced a glimpse at Andar’s scowling features, didn’t like what he saw, and swallowed again, eyes fixed straight ahead.

The president had almost forgotten his messenger, though. Now he paced furiously, talking to himself with increasing volume. "He lied to me. I didn’t know he was going there. Who does he think he is," he roared, "interfering with our plans? He’ll ruin everything!"

He stopped, the rich cloak waving back and forth for a moment longer until it decided to rest with its wearer. "You, boy."

The messenger clicked his heels crisply.

"Get out now, and if I hear that you’ve discussed any of this with anyone, you’ll be in the next group that meets those rebels."

The messenger nodded once, then turned on a heel and exited. Andar took a moment to calm himself, then strode to a native tapestry hung against the wall. Sliding behind it, he reached into his robes, removing the speaking device his contact had given him. In a moment, a soft voice responded.

"Is it true?" Andar prompted. "Is Kirk in the rebel camp?" He swore at the answer, then continued. "Does he suspect anything? Of course, he can’t be allowed to leave. If they find out—Yes, yes, of course, but—Don’t you think they’ll investigate?"

The voice on the other end continued to speak quietly. He listened for a few moments, then smiled. "Yes. That’s perfect. Give me the position." He cackled with dark glee. "You can do that? They won’t be able to track them? Excellent! They’ll be unwitting causes of their captain’s demise."

He paused, listening; then his face frowned. "I don’t care. It’s too late now. It must be done. Kirk is too dangerous. You have to know that, don’t you?" A satisfied smirk replaced the frown. You’ll take care of it, then? What? No, I told you not to worry. There’ll be no connection to you. Our agreement stands."

Finally, the decision was made. Andar almost laughed at the thought of the mighty Federation throwing their resources gladly to him when they learned of the tragic death of the illustrious Captain James T. Kirk and his landing party at the hands of the rebels. Gleefully, he called in another messenger.

*****

The smothering heat of the Traxus day evaporated at sunset, replaced by cool, refreshing breezes. Suffering from the cumulative effects of exhaustion and stimulants, Jim Kirk fought to keep his mind on what Sheera was saying. They had arrived at the rebel camp, hiking a good five kilometers from the beam-down site, an easy walk for the captain usually, but he found himself stumbling frequently over flat ground. The captain knew that Dakel, who had wisely chosen not to accompany them, could never have made it. Sheera glanced toward him once or twice, but he could not tell if it were more for curiosity or irritation.

On the third falter, McCoy grabbed Kirk’s arm and levered him back to his feet. "Let’s take a break, Jim. Let you sit for a minute."

The captain released himself and shook his head. "I’m not going to be nursemaided, Bones. I can make it." He pushed ahead before the doctor could berate him further, but could still feel the icy darts of McCoy’s blue eyes boring into his back.

"Damn it, Jim. You’re not as young as you used to be!"

Kirk swung around with a glare. "Bones, I’m only forty-one years old. Stop making me out to be some sort of invalid. I admit I’m tired, Doctor, but I’m more weary from your nagging than anything else."

Fortunately, McCoy’s response was unintelligible.

Finally, they broke into a small clearing, with crude tents scattered among clumps of grass and low bushes. Curious rebels peered from the flaps, their black eyes shifting from Sheera to the Enterprise crew and back. They had never seen any other Humans and now gawked openly. Sheera ignored them, and pointed to a ragged canvas at the edge of the camp.

"Your quarters, gentlemen," she said. Kirk knew he heard satisfaction in her voice as they tried not to be too dubious about their accommodations. "We don’t expect any trouble tonight, since Andar knows the Enterprise is still around. But just wait. It won’t take long." She ran through the camp routine, noting that the bathing area was a stream just down the hill and that meals were served when they were lucky enough to catch them.

As she spoke, the captain felt his body shutting down, refusing to be bullied by his own will anymore. "I think I need to sit down," he muttered. From a long way away, he saw McCoy’s face loom above him, felt hands reach for him, fought to remain conscious, to refuse to go down, but a tunnel of black moved in on him.

When he opened his eyes again, he was seated on a small canvas chair, his head in his hands. A quick look around revealed the two body-armored security officers and a number of Mietre rebels also assembled, with Sheera hovering behind McCoy. He was somehow pleased to see the worry on her smooth features.

"It’s okay, Jim!" McCoy was saying. "I told you you’d crash when those stims ran out."

Kirk tried to nod, but he wasn’t sure he managed it. "Sorry I snapped at you back there, Bones."

McCoy nodded. "I deserved it. I’m just worried, Jim. You need sleep."

"Doctor?" Sheera’s voice, as well as her face, betrayed concern. The rebel leader leaned closer, her hand on Kirk’s sleeve. "Is he all right?" Kirk never heard the answer, because at that moment, a hypo hissed against his shoulder and blackness occupied his thoughts.

With a grunt, McCoy rose from Kirk’s side and flicked off the feinberger. "Exhaustion mainly," he explained. "He’s had practically no sleep for three and a half days."

Her green eyes widened. "Why?"

"Why?" Sheera felt the anger flash from the doctor. "Because of your damned planet, that’s why!" he spat. "Because you people can’t get along, and you’re fighting each other every chance you get, and because it’s his job to stop you." He took a deep breath. "That’s why," he finished softly.

They had carried Kirk to Sheera’s tent, some hundred meters or so across the compound. McCoy’s instruments told him the captain would be fine after a long rest, but he still would feel uneasy until Kirk came around again.

Inside the rebel leader’s quarters, the soft flicker of a lantern illuminated the sparse furnishings, casting dancing shadows against the tent walls. McCoy was reminded of camping as a youngster in the north Georgia foothills. When Kirk had been gently deposited on the narrow cot, Sheera motioned for the doctor to sit with her in the field stools positioned by a folding desk, similar to those from Earth’s 20th century, pieces McCoy had seen in museums. She offered him a cup. At his hesitation, she laughed and drank from it.

"Only water," she assured him. "Anything else is a luxury."

The cool liquid refreshed him more than he had anticipated. After a long swallow, he set it down on the desk and met her warm gaze. Somehow, her attitude had changed from their first meeting. She seemed much more approachable now, and McCoy tried to figure out what had caused the difference.

"Your captain," she began, glancing at Kirk’s still form. "Why did he come if he was not well?"

McCoy shook his head. "He’s the captain." He really didn’t feel comfortable sharing that Jim Kirk felt responsible for the 495 crewmen on his ship when he was in space, and the rest of the galaxy at all other times. At her frown, the doctor continued. "Your planet asked for help. He’s in charge. He’s not going to send anyone else to do something he wouldn’t do himself."

She nodded in comprehension. "I see."

Eager to change the subject, the doctor asked, "What about you? Tell me about this rebellion. Do you really think Andar cannot be trusted?"

The green eyes grew dark at the mention of the Mietre leader. She stood and paced as much as she could in the tight confines of the tent. "Andar," she spat in distaste. "Andar is a two-faced coward who puts on the mask of a diplomat while he stabs his own people in the back. He has oppressed his own country for years; now he wants to oppress ours. Some have been taken in by him, by his slick voice, but they will see. He will ruin us and it will be too late."

She turned on McCoy, anger knifing through her tone. "Some of us refuse to let it happen. You will see. He will not be able to hide the murderous crimes even though he knows you are here."

Stunned, McCoy stared at her. If this was true, what could they do to stop Andar? The Federation would not look approvingly on Jim joining the rebel side to defeat another faction. But if Andar really were the aggressor...

"Sheera," he said softly, grasping her arm and standing to look her in the eyes, "you must know that we cannot help you fight, but the captain will do everything he can to preserve your world and help you all live in peace."

"Peace?! There will be no peace as long as Andar is in control. And we have suspected for some time that he has off-planet contacts. How we can compete with that, I don’t—" She stood over Kirk’s cot now, looking down. "I am afraid...you have come down here only to fail. Andar will attack, as usual, and I...I wouldn’t want anything to...happen to you." McCoy had the distinct feeling she wasn’t talking about him alone.

He smiled, even though she continued to look at the captain. "We’ll be fine," he assured her, then zeroed in on what he felt was her true concern. "Captain Kirk is..." He started to say, "Starfleet’s finest," but thought that sounded too cliche, even though it was true, so he substituted, "pretty good at what he does. If anyone can work this out, he can."

Suddenly aware that she was staring at Kirk, Sheera swung around to face McCoy. "It’s just that...you’re the first Humans I’ve ever seen. Besides myself, that is. Until you came, I never knew I was...not of Traxus. I just thought I was...different. I had gotten used to it. It was a bit of a shock to see you, even after my father told me. Now I see people like me, and it’s...appealing to know that I’m normal."

The doctor chuckled. "More than normal, my dear." At her lifted brow, he explained, "You are...very attractive, Sheera. Didn’t you notice us staring at you when we first beamed down?" He had seen the momentary connection between Jim and this woman, and had been around long enough to anticipate the inevitable.

McCoy had to smile a little. In that moment, the hard rebel leader looked so vulnerable. A soft pink flush spread across her cheeks. "I didn’t know it was because...I just thought...I’ve always considered myself a misfit. I thought you found me so hideous you couldn’t help staring."

The doctor’s chuckle grew into an outright laugh. "Darlin’, nothing could be farther from the truth."

For a moment, they stood in silence, then Sheera said, "You must be tired, Doctor. The hike, and all the negotiations. We’ll be breaking camp in the morning. Why don’t you get some sleep. We have a tent for you just a few steps down the path." She noticed McCoy’s eyes dart toward the cot. "I’ll stay with the captain, and if there’s any change, I’ll send for you immediately."

He seemed to hesitate, then shrugged. "Well, all right. I’m sure he’ll be fine with a little rest. Good night, Sheera."

She smiled and walked him to the tent flap. "Good night, Doctor McCoy. Sleep well."

When he was gone, she returned to the chair and sat watching Kirk for a long time. She had never had any real interest in the few Traxian males who courted her, and now that she saw males of her own species, feelings she had not known before were creeping up on her. Her eyes lingered on the captain’s face, traveled down his muscular body. It was not the tubular bulk of the Traxians, but a more contoured form, with broad shoulders and a longer frame.

She closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself in a world of Humans. She felt a kinship with these people who had suddenly appeared in her life, and the last thought she had before sleep drifted over her was that if Andar attacked again she would lead these new-found kinsmen into danger, a danger that was not theirs, a danger which might cost them their lives. The idea made her heart ache.

*****

The head councilman of the Traxians sat, ochre head bowed, gnarled fingers fiddling absently with a set of prayer beads. It had been several years since he had prayed as earnestly as he did now. Even in prayer he could not resist cursing his own body’s betrayal of the years. Somehow, he knew that if he still possessed the strong, round body of his youth, he could have prevented this. Somehow, he could have stopped the killings. The pale, watery eyes lifted toward the sky, although he sat under the cool drapes of a canopy. Like Sheera, he really did not trust Andar, but he felt the obligation, as leader, to begin peace somewhere. There were too many hot-heads, too many who felt that everything could be solved through battle. Even Sheera, his Sheera.

As her strong, angular face swam in his mind, he recalled the time she had first asked about her differences. He had dreaded the day since they found her, knowing she would become self-aware. With a deep sigh, he tried to explain that some people just looked different.

"But who?" the young child asked persistently, her large, green eyes, so unlike his own small black ones, pleading. "I have never seen anyone as different as I."

With a father’s pain, Dakel nodded. He would try to be as honest as possible. "No. You are right about that, Sheera. You are unique, special. No one here is like you. That is an important thing to remember. The Maker of All designed you for a purpose." He paused, watching her features, features he had come to love, but features which drew instant stares from others. She did not let her gaze leave his. "We will watch, and wait for that purpose, my love. I believe it will come."

After that day, she had not asked again, but seemed to accept her lot in stride. Eventually, Sheera’s natural confidence, despite her looks, drew others to her. They ignored her strangeness and drew her into their social realm, even placed her in positions of leadership. Dakel noted, with mixed emotions, that many of the young Traxian males searched her out for courtship. He did not think she returned their interest, but it was good, in a way, to know that someday, someone might look after her as he had done.

As she grew, however, Dakel realized that no one would ever have to look after Sheera. She had chosen to become one who looked after others. On the day she left to join the resistance against the Mietre, they had parted on bad terms. Still, Dakel held hope that she could see the futility of that effort.

The beads clattered to the floor, startling the councilman from his memories. Again, his thoughts turned to the starship captain. He had seen Sheera’s intrigue with the new Humans, had seen her eyes linger on Kirk, and began his prayers anew that the youthful commander of the Enterprise could sway Sheera. Knowing his strength would fail soon, Dakel spoke quickly, appealing earnestly to the Maker of All to hear him, to save his daughter and his planet.

When the attendant entered to see to the councilman, he found Dakel asleep on his divan, the beads again clutched in the failing, crooked fingers.

*****

A persistent chirping woke him. For a moment, he just lay there, taking stock of his body and its condition. His muscles ached, his head pounded, and his mouth felt like he had cotton stuffed in it, a hangover from the stims, he knew from experience, but the heavy weight of fatigue which had been so much a part of him for days seemed lighter. Considering it safe, the captain of the Enterprise finally decided to open his eyes and was surprised to find not McCoy, but Sheera sitting by his side. He took a moment to watch her as she slept upright in the stiff-looking chair, enjoying the soft look of her slightly parted lips and the shadows the long lashes cast across her smooth cheeks. Loathe to wake her, but knowing he needed to take care of some personal details, he sat as quietly as he could.

She was instantly alert. "Good morning," she greeted.

Pushing the headache away, he smiled charmingly. "Good morning. I must say this is a pleasant surprise to wake to."

He saw a blush creep across her face. "How do you feel?" she asked.

"Better," he said honestly. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Most of the night."

He pushed away from the cot and stood, but the sudden rush of blood from his head swept blackness across his vision, and he swayed forward. Sheera lunged to catch him, despite her petiteness. Her arms encircled his waist and even through the swimming images, Kirk felt her body pressed against his. After a moment, he could see. His first sight was of her flushed face gazing up at him, a clash of emotions battling on her fine features.

With effort, he cleared his throat and muttered his thanks, pushing gently away to sit back down.

Still flustered, Sheera kept her slender fingers on his arm. "You’re not all right," she realized. "I’ll get McCoy."

"No." He covered her hand with his. "I just stood up too fast. Really." She looked dubious, but remained where she was. He was suddenly conscious of their hands touching and withdrew his reluctantly. Sheera moved across the tent, then returned with water and a small cloth.

"Here," she offered. "This might help."

Gratified, he took them, drank the sweet-tasting water, swirled it around in his mouth, and wiped his face with the cool, damp cloth. "Thank you." He knew he had not imagined the natural spark that had leaped between them, not surprising since they were the first Humans Sheera had ever seen. It was to be expected that she would want to be with them, learn about them, look at them. He warned himself to go slowly. The emotions, the confusion she must be experiencing would make her vulnerable. But looking now at her, her hard jaw, determined eyes and defiant stance, it was difficult to see any vulnerability.

"The latrines and wash basins are out back," she said. He nodded gratefully and disappeared through the tent flap. When he returned, she had tidied the bunk.

"Did you stay here the whole time?" he asked, although he suspected he already knew the answer.

Her auburn hair bounced once. "Your doctor needed sleep, and so, he tells me, did you. How long had it been?"

Kirk shrugged, not wanting to make his weakness an issue. "A few hours."

"More like a few days." When his head snapped up, she smiled. "The price of responsibility," she added, and he realized here was a kindred spirit, one who had lost sleep, too, because of duty. Their eyes locked for a moment, her flashing green ones, his warm hazel ones before he reluctantly dragged his gaze away.

"Well." Defying stiff muscles, he stood again, waiting out the dizziness, and trying not to let her see. "Let’s see what’s going on around here." With only a slight effort, he regained his balance before they stepped out of the tent. Sheera followed closely.

McCoy was the first to see them. "Jim!" he called, jogging toward them. "How do you feel?"

Kirk resisted looking at Sheera as he responded, "Fine, Bones. Good as new."

The rebel leader scowled. "Better, Doctor," she clarified, "but he’s still a little dizzy, I think."

McCoy’s frown echoed hers. "That true, Jim?"

"Just leftover from the stims," Kirk assured his friend.

"Let me just check you out—"

This time, Kirk stood his ground. "Later, Doctor. I’m really fine, and we’ve got a mission to run. A mission that’s already behind schedule."

McCoy seemed to consider fighting, then gave up. Kirk hid a grin of satisfaction, knowing it would only irritate the doctor. "Well, let me show you what I’ve found, then."

They followed McCoy toward one of the tents. Kirk noticed the pitiful condition of many of the rebels. Their bodies, normally heathily rounded, had shriveled so that the skin that had stretched over the frames before now hung like fading drapes. Despite this, the fire of battle remained in their small eyes. With a surge of sympathy, he determined to find a way to help them, even if he had to challenge the Prime Directive...again. They arrived at the tent, stepping around several rebels lying by the entrance in various stages of injury. Kirk recognized the doctor’s touch on some of them, even though he had not brought medical supplies from the Enterprise. The captain knew McCoy would be pestering him for permission to bring down a protoplaser, and Kirk would be tempted to let him do it.

The doctor was bent over one of the rebels, pulling up a discolored bandage. "Tell me what you see," he said, looking at Kirk.

The patient’s entire right side swelled in a reddish-purple mass, angry welts streaking vertically from armpit to waist. Kirk winced in uncomfortable empathy, feeling the effects himself, memories from more than one similar experience.

"That’s a phaser burn," he realized aloud.

Nodding, McCoy waited a moment until the implications became clear.

As his eyes met the doctor’s, Kirk felt his jaw drop. "A phaser burn. Who the hell has phasers on this planet besides us? Spock told me these people are still using gunpowder."

"My thoughts, exactly," the doctor agreed. "But that’s definitely what this is. And all these others have the same wounds." His arm swept across the tent to indicate at least fifteen Traxians stretched out on the floor.

"Those are Andar’s weapons," Sheera explained, bitterness dripping from her tone. "You see what we’re up against."

Spinning to face her, the captain grasped her shoulders and asked, "How long have they been using these? Do you know where they got them?"

She didn’t answer immediately, only extracted herself from his grip and glared. Obviously, Kirk realized, she didn’t like being threatened, no more than he did. He hoped the softened expression in his eyes conveyed his acknowledgment and apology. Apparently, it helped, because she answered, "I told Doctor McCoy already that Andar has outside sources. We don’t know who, but they supply weapons and resources for him. We cannot hold out much longer against such forces."

"Damn it!" The captain glanced around the tent, then gritted his teeth, coming to a decision. "We have to find out who the supplier is. If off-world contact is that prevalent, then the Prime Directive doesn’t mean anything anymore."

"And we can help Sheera’s people?" McCoy supplied hopefully.

Without answering verbally, Kirk shrugged and took Sheera’s elbow, relieved when she did not pull away. "Bones, do what you can for these people. I’m going to talk with Sheera and her group leaders to see what we can do. I have a feeling we’re going to be in this deeper than we planned."

The doctor nodded in acceptance and returned to his ministrations over the wounded as Kirk and Sheera moved across the compound.

*****

The temperate night had faltered in the persistent face of the returning heat of the morning. The Starfleet officers found themselves in a constant battle to keep the sweat from stinging their eyes. Having seen to the comfort of the wounded, Leonard McCoy paused in his study of the rebel’s limited medical supplies to glance toward the captain, who stood with Sheera and another rebel, listening to her gloomy predictions about their chances for success. His main concern, however, was Kirk’s health. He watched carefully as his friend wiped his brow again and pushed up the sleeves of his command tunic, wrinkling the rich braid at the wrists. Still, they all felt the heat, and since he had awakened, the captain seemed much more alert, in command. Briefly, McCoy wondered if Sheera had anything to do with that, then chuckled at himself. Even Kirk didn’t work that fast. But one or two memories flashed across his thoughts, and he reconsidered the chuckle. Still, if the captain was back to normal, it didn’t matter how he had gotten there, at least to McCoy.

Returning his attention to the medical gear, he shook his head in disgust. How could these people manage to defeat a technically advanced power with medieval instruments? If Jim would let him he would gather his own...

A smattering of sharp pops interrupted him, and he looked up in time to see the rebels scatter across the compound, diving for shelters, trees, anything to shield them from the forces that swarmed from the forest. Without thinking, McCoy flopped to the ground and began a belly crawl he had not used in years. His eyes searched for Enterprise crew, especially seeking one in blue, but the dust, kicked up and now swirling about, dominated his view. Shouts mixed with alien cries clashed in one horrible cacophony of sound. Desperate, McCoy reached for his wrist communicator. The ship must know. They needed help.

Before he could activate it, a heavy boot slammed down on his hand. The doctor yelped at the pain as the device was snatched from his wrist. Gathering enough strength for a lunge toward it, he was stopped short by the rifle barrel pressing against his forehead. He decided perhaps now was not the time to test his reflexes.

*****

Lieutenant Commander Uhura tapped a well-manicured nail three times on her pad, anxiety growing as her fears that this was no faulty circuit were realized. No, the signal had vanished, as if someone had…pulled the plug. Heart leaping into her throat with the implication of what must have occurred, she swiveled to face the center chair and its current occupant, First Officer Spock.

"Commander," she began, and the Vulcan turned instantly. "Something has happened to the sensors. I’ve lost scanning abilities. I can’t keep track of the captain and landing party that way."

The Vulcan rose gracefully and stood by her station immediately. "Have you tried a re-boot of the system?" he suggested. She nodded. "A re-route?" Another nod. "A—"

"Mister Spock, it’s as if it was turned off. There’s no information coming in at all."

"And you cannot contact them at all?"

"Well, I’m still trying the communicators, but I’m not getting a response"

He nodded. "Continue." As Uhura returned to her boards, the Vulcan fought back what he could only describe as a…feeling. He did not like admitting to feelings at all, but this one gave him an uncomfortable eeriness. A calm answer from the captain would remedy that.

Spock’s feeling did not dissipate. On the contrary, it grew even more irritating as he listened to Uhura call for the captain over and over, with no answer on the other end. As their gazes connected, the communications chief met the Vulcan’s eyes and shook her head.

"Impossible!" declared Commodore Hayes, his generous jowls shaking with rage. "How can you have lost their signal? We’ve been in constant touch since they went to that God-forsaken piece of rock." As his boss paced, Commander Corbin stood in his usual spot by the turbolift. He was hardly noticed anymore by the bridge crew.

Spock waited out the tirade, having witnessed the captain’s method of dealing with the volatile senior officer before. When the verbal avalanche settled, the Vulcan replied, "As I have already indicated, Commodore, we are working on the sensors even now."

This piece of information did not seem to satisfy Hayes in the least. "What’s talking so long? I’ve got a Starfleet landing party unaccounted for. And not just any landing party, one with Captain James T. Kirk in it. Do you know how valuable that man is?"

The Vulcan, who did indeed know how valuable James Kirk was, not just to Starfleet, merely nodded.

Before he could comment, the commodore continued, "Why the hell didn’t he send someone else, anyway? What’s the captain doing on landing party duty?"

Although he actually agreed with Hayes, a fact which disturbed Spock slightly, he felt duty-bound to defend his captain. "As you know, Commodore, regulations leave landing party selections to the captain’s discretion. Captain Kirk occasionally accompanies the landing parties when he feels his presence is...necessary." He did not add that when the captain did not beam down with the party, he nearly drove the bridge crew crazy fidgeting in his chair and asking dozens of questions about the group planetside. Spock knew Jim Kirk could no more stay on the ship than he could give it up. Still, the Vulcan wished his friend chose to stay more often.

"Well," Hayes mumbled, "we need to change that."

"That seems to be irrelevant at this point. If you like, sir," Spock offered, "we can alert you when we have re-established contact with the captain. Perhaps you could rest—"

"Rest! How can you suggest that with our people missing? No, I’ll stay right here on the bridge until we know what’s happening." He planted his ample frame firmly by the captain’s chair and stared at the screen, which gave up no secrets with its view of the benign-looking planet.

Unfortunately, thought Spock. Having the commodore’s bubbling emotions so close at hand would be a distraction, not to mention the ubiquitous Corbin. Spock would not admit to irritation with the commander, but he would certainly not be disappointed when the mission was finished, and Commodore Hayes and his, what was it the captain had called him, his shadow, were gone. He glanced around the bridge and found that the expressions of the crew mirrored his opinion. Still, he did not betray his thoughts outwardly, but focused on locating Jim Kirk and his crew.

*****

When the attack began, Jim Kirk instinctively shoved Sheera behind him. She pushed away, glaring at him, and then grabbed at his hand. "This way!" she called. "Hurry!"

"No!" he cried. "I can’t leave. My people are here. Where’s McCoy?" He started toward the medical tent, but Sheera pulled back.

"You can’t help them in this," she yelled. "One of my people will guide them toward a haven. We have them hidden around the area. There’s a plan already in place. Trust me." For a moment their eyes locked, his angry, hers wide and pleading. "We’ll regroup later. We can’t do anything now." The anguish bled from his eyes, but she would not relent. Finally, he gritted his teeth and swore. She took it as acquiescence, turning away and pulling him with her.

They leaped over the rebel they had just been talking to, his chest now a pincushion of bloody, oozing wounds. Kirk could not spare a moment for regret. He would do it later. The rapid fire crisscrossing the compound left little doubt that anyone who had not scampered in the first seconds would never scamper again. Feeling completely helpless, he let himself be dragged with her.

She let go of his hand and plunged into the forest. As they ran, a sudden burst of pain tore through his left upper arm near the shoulder, throwing him off balance. He stumbled and slammed hard against a thick, gnarled tree, which stubbornly refused to give an inch. Grimacing, he realized that he had been hit, but how bad he wasn’t sure. That would have to wait, too. Before he could steady himself, another burning sensation flashed across his back, just above his right hip and grazed his wrist. Looking down, he grabbed at the wrist comm, but all that was left was a semi-melted wristband. The device was now completely useless.

Fighting to gain his feet, he caught up with Sheera and let her lead them through the undergrowth which tangled the floor of the forest, fighting the terrific urge to turn back, to see to his crew, but she was right. In that chaos they could not have done anything. He prayed she was right about the safe havens. Oh, Bones, he groaned. Be okay. Be okay.

Finally, she slowed, picking her way gingerly through the deep vines and bushes. "We’re almost there," she called over her shoulder.

"Almost where?"

But she did not answer, only took his hand again. He grimaced as the searing pain cut through his arm and shoulder and hoped that wherever "there" was, they had time to stop a moment. He needed to gather his scattering thoughts, to regroup, as she had said, to plan how to get to McCoy and the others.

Suddenly, as if it had materialized from a transporter, the jagged mouth of a small cave beckoned them. Wriggling into the narrow entrance, Sheera stuck her hand back out for Kirk. He had trouble pushing his shoulders through and could not suppress a cry of pain when the rock scraped against his wounds, but he squeezed in, and was rewarded when he realized the cave itself was much larger than the entrance. As a matter of fact, Sheera had already stood and touched her hand to the wall. Dim lights grew brighter until they could see each other and the cave well.

The cave spanned about fourteen to eighteen cubic meters. Its walls glistened with quartz-like formations. Centuries-old stalactites cascaded like chandeliers from the ceiling. Kirk took a moment to appreciate the glittering architecture of nature. As his eyes left the walls, he saw equipment that looked like small folding tables and chairs propped against the stone walls directly in front of them. Rolled bundles, which he assumed to be sleeping mats, were piled together to the left, and the cave seemed to continue on past the lighting toward the right. Obviously someone either came here frequently or expected to come. In contrast, a familiar-looking space crate rested incongruously against the natural stones. He tried to focus on the print and realized with surprise that the words were written in English: MACH 1, Inc.

"We prepared places like this several months ago," she explained even though he had not asked. He still lay panting near the entrance, trying to gain control over his dancing vision. Finally, he managed to prop himself against a cool wall.

"The standard practice after a raid is to wait in the safe havens until daybreak of the next day, then meet in a pre-determined place. Andar doesn’t know about them. We’ll be safe here, and we can plan—" Her eyes widened when she saw the blood that soaked his uniform sleeve and dripped from his hand mixing with the moisture that trickled from the formations. She dropped beside him. "You’re hurt!"

The captain shook his head and closed his eyes against the swimming images before him. "Not bad," he managed. "I’ll be—"

She darted into the unlighted area and returned almost immediately with a small bag. Folding beside him, she opened it and rummaged through, grinning in victory as she lofted the small bottle and cylindrical-looking object.

"Take off your shirt," she instructed.

He stared at her, his vision a little fuzzy, until she laughed, misinterpreting his silence, and moved toward him as if to remove it herself. "Look, I need to get to the wound. Now, I can cut it off if you can’t manage—"

Nodding, he tightened his eyes against the expected pain and drew the shirt over his head. She just clicked her tongue and took his arm, examining the injury more closely.

"Hmm. Looks like friendly fire." At his questioning gaze, she explained, "Conventional weapon wound made by a bullet. Andar’s men use phasers."

He stared, knowing he had experienced that, too, and wondered again where the phasers had come from. Sheera was reaching for the medikit.

"Well, it doesn’t look like it hit the bone. I can take care of any infection that might come up with the antibiotic. Except for loss of blood you ought to be okay." She carefully cleaned the wound, grimacing sympathetically along with Kirk, then unrolled the cylindrical object, which turned out to be bandage, and wrapped it snugly around his arm.

Withdrawing a silver object that tapered into a long thin foil, she held it up to the dim lights. "This ought to do it," she decided firmly. As she took his good arm, he realized with a start that she meant to push that sharp end into him. He recoiled slightly.

"Is that really nec—"

But her tongue clicked. "You’re a big boy, Captain," she said, amused. "Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little shot."

"Oh, it’s a hypo, but it doesn’t look like—"

The needle pierced his skin and drove deep into the muscle. The cry that escaped him was involuntary. None of McCoy’s hypos, even the bad ones, had ever really hurt.

Sheera smiled. "There. Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?’

Kirk frowned. Now both arms hurt. "Yes," he declared. "It was."

She laughed and began replacing the medical kit items. "For infection, Captain," she explained. "And there’s a pain killer with it. You should feel better soon." Sitting back to admire her handiwork, among other things, she asked, "How do you feel?"

He shrugged, illogically not wanting to admit that he felt like crying over the events, like screaming at the pain in his arm, like lying down with the fatigue that had not quite left him. Instead, he drew a deep breath, allowing the oxygen to clear his brain and found that the pain had lessened.

With his good arm, he pointed to the crate he had seen earlier. "What’s that?"

She followed his gaze. "Oh. One of our few victories over Andar. We captured a partial supply of phasers. Only a few—so we’re saving them for an important moment."

His brow raised ironically. "You didn’t consider what we just went through an important moment?"

"Just a skirmish," she shrugged.

Again, he read the stamp. "MACH One."

"You heard of it?" she asked curiously.

He shook his head. "No, but it’s written in English. That gives proof of a Federation connection." Pulling himself back to their immediate needs, he stared hard at her. "What now? I have to know my crew is safe." His conviction left no doubt in her mind about his intentions.

She forgot about the crate under his intensity. "They will have secured the camp by now, and made it almost impossible to retake without superior forces. We’ll meet the others in the morning and make our plans."

"Almost?" He pounced on that particular adverb.

Sheera smiled. Here was indeed a kindred soul. "Almost. But then, I have as my accomplice the Captain James T. Kirk of Starfleet. And I have a plan, if you’re up to it."

He glared at her, his hazel eyes growing dark, his handsome face hardening into intense lines. She caught her breath at the purpose and confidence coming off him in waves. "Yes, well, as I said, I have a plan."

*****

In her quarters, Uhura paused as she studied the printout with a somewhat astonished expression. Slapping the intercom button, she called urgently, "Uhura to Bridge."

Almost immediately, the desired response came. "Spock here."

She wasted no time with preliminaries. "Mister Spock," she rushed out, "I have something I think you should see. Can you meet me in my quarters?"

The Vulcan hesitated. Uhura had never invited him directly to her cabin. He noted the surprised glances from the bridge crew. Chekov’s eyes snapped with what Doctor McCoy would have identified as lasciviousness. Commodore Hayes raised both bushy eyebrows. Still, Spock determined, Uhura must have a good reason. He pushed the uncomfortable innuendoes from his mind and responded. "On my way, Commander."

Turning to the helm, he said, "Mister Sulu, you have the conn."

As he exited to the sound of Sulu’s relief being summoned, he thought he heard a snicker, but refused to dignify it with a reaction.

When he buzzed Uhura’s door, she wasted no time in opening it. His brow arched at the sight of her flowing diaphanous gown. Obviously, she was relaxing off duty, but her next words changed his impression immediately.

"Look," she said, thrusting a flimsy printout in front of him.

Curiously, he scanned it, his sharp eyes talking only seconds to absorb the information. It was a legal document incorporating a new mining company, MACH 1. Attached was the petition of incorporation issued by the Federation Bureau of Commerce.

"The signature," Uhura prompted.

At the bottom of the page, concluding the length of legal nomenclature, stood a boldly printed name: Titus Corbin, Attorney at Law. Black eyes met warm brown ones in sudden comprehension. "Has anyone else seen this, Commander?" he asked, although he already knew the answer. Uhura was smart and loyal.

She shook her head. "I just dug it up from several rather…unconventional sources," she confided.

He thought he heard the synonym "illegal" for unconventional, but did not comment.

"What do you think, Mister Spock?"

He pondered the facts for a moment. "This could be totally unrelated, of course," he offered, but she heard the doubt in his deep voice, and continued to wait in silence. Finally, he handed the evidence back. "Do nothing for the moment, except perhaps utilize your…sources…for any more information." He turned to leave.

"Yes, sir. And what about the captain? He needs to know."

Spock paused at the door and for a brief moment, she glimpsed rare pain behind his mask. "I am afraid, Ms. Uhura, that the captain’s concerns at the moment are probably more focused on surviving."

As he left, she felt the heaviness of worry fall on her shoulders. He had voiced what they had all feared for some time. The captain was in danger, perhaps serious danger, and they could not do a damn thing to help.

*****

James Kirk sat back on his heels and considered Sheera’s plan. It was daring, dangerous, and desperate. He liked it. He also had come to the realization that he liked her, too. Even in their current predicament, he found himself focusing too closely on the way her hair cascaded across the plan she drew out in the cave, the way her eyes held his when she wanted him to feel her intensity. He had enough experience to know, too, when the woman was just as interested, and he could see it in those green eyes. It would be several hours before they were scheduled to meet with the rest of the groups. The medicine had kicked in, and he felt much better. He began considering ways to fill the time.

"How’s the arm?"

"Hmm?" He pulled away from his thoughts, realizing she had spoken to him.

"I said, how’s the arm?"

"Oh, okay," he lied. In truth, despite the painkiller, it still hurt like hell, but he somehow didn’t want her to know.

"Yeah, sure." She moved closer to him. "I know you, Kirk," she said.

He knew she didn’t mean it in the obvious way, so he waited for her to continue.

"You’re not going to admit that it hurts. You’re not going to show any weakness if you can help it, nothing that will make anyone think you can’t handle anything."

He stared at her accuracy, a flush of defensive anger coloring his cheeks. She moved closer. "I know you because I’m the same way. We’re alike. Kindred souls." Her face hovered above his and Kirk relaxed. An impish grin tugged at her lips. "Do you realize you’re the first Human I’ve ever kissed?"

He smiled. "You haven’t kissed me."

"Easily corrected," she assured him, leaning so that their lips touched.

Kirk did not draw her closer, but let her lead. This was her move. Still, it was hard not to pull her against him and breathe in the honey-scent of her hair.

The kiss lasted only long enough to make him yearn for more. Perhaps that had been her intention. Still, he just waited.

Her eyes flickered with uncertainty at his silence. "Was that wrong?" she asked. "Dakel told me that he had learned from sources aboard the ship of my parents that Humans consider this...anticipatory to mating."

Kirk’s eyes widened.

"Traxians have other methods, but I think with my biology they are not as effective. Perhaps I have been here so long, I have lost the sensations necessary—"

Kirk stood, drawing her against him and lowering his mouth to hers. He concentrated on pouring all the passion he was capable of into the kiss, and could not suppress his body’s reaction to it. It took only a moment for Sheera to respond, flinging her arms around his neck, arching her own lithe form against him. His head swam, a combination of the injury, the danger, and the feel of her breasts burning against his bare chest. When he finally released her, they both swayed for a long moment before she lifted her eyes to his.

"Do all Humans kiss like that?"

He smiled, fighting the urge to blush. "Well, I can’t speak for all Humans, but I think it’s generally done that way."

Her eyes almost glowed as they held his. "Hmmm. I like it."

Kirk laughed, ignoring the muted pain in his arm, and waited for her to make the next move, assuming she knew her choices. She did. Her fingers slipped to the fastenings of her tunic and released them, dropping the garment to the cave floor and displaying her curves for his gaze, which grew more heated by the moment. As her hands grazed his back and moved lower, he drew in a sharp breath. Sheera paused, unsure if that meant pleasure or pain. Her eyes fell to the wicked welt caused by the phaser blast that had grazed his back and melted his wrist communicator.

"Why didn’t you tell me about this?" she demanded.

Kirk shrugged. "You didn’t ask."

Jumping up before he could stop her, she dragged the medical kit over again. Kirk sighed in frustration as he watched her pull two mats over and stretch them out onto the hard cave floor.

"Lie down on your stomach," she ordered.

"But—"

"Lie down and drop your trousers."

Kirk stared at her for a moment, then complied, knowing it would do no good to protest. Sometimes she was as stubborn as McCoy. "Ow!" He raised his head and turned toward her.

"Be still and I’ll have this taken care of soon." Her hands smoothed a cool ointment over the wound, the palms brushing lower as she rubbed. Kirk gritted his teeth at the sensation and unsuccessfully tried to concentrate on something besides her caresses. She finished, but lingered in the same position, her hips straddling his buttocks. Kirk’s body was responding despite his feeble attempts to calm it.

She urged him over, staring at her first sight of a Human male, then eased his uniform pants off. Gently at first, Kirk drew her to him, turned her so that she was beneath him, guided her with more patience than he realized he had at the moment. They moved together, bodies intertwining, mouths burning, souls touching. The danger still lurked outside, his crew waited, but this moment was theirs.

He wanted Sheera’s first time with one of her own to be memorable, so he concentrated his considerable talents on arousing every nerve in her body. She was ready for him, anxious to join, but he held back, reluctant to cause her pain, not knowing how experienced she might be. Finally, he eased into her, his jaw muscles catching in an attempt not to lose control. Yes, the barrier was there.

With his eyes, he asked permission. She nodded, although he wasn’t sure she knew exactly what she was agreeing to. As gently as possible, he gave a firm thrust and broke through. Sheera gasped, tears coming to her eyes. He kissed them and waited. Then he began to move, his gentle rhythm soothing. Again, Sheera gasped, but not in pain. Her eyes sought his, and she pulled him deeper into her, groaning as the rhythm quickened.

Kirk held out as long as she did, slowing when he drew too close, until he felt her strong convulsions and hot release, his own control crumbling as she cried out. He finally let go, catapulting over the edge with her, oblivious to any previous physical discomfort in the face of overwhelming passion.

When he reached coherence again, he looked down at the woman in his arms, brushing away a lock of hair that fell across her smooth cheek. Smiling, he kissed her gently and settled back onto the sleeping mats. Sheera propped up on one elbow and stared at him so long he had to ask, "What?"

"I...I didn’t anticipate... You see, Traxians are not as..." She faltered, not sure how to verbalize her feelings. "I’m not inexperienced, but Traxan males are, well, their bodies are...not big, and...since I’m Human, they don’t..."

A furious blush colored his cheeks as he realized what she was saying. Not knowing how to respond, he remained silent for a long moment, then whispered, "We need rest before we move against Andar."

But Sheera did not want to rest. She raised up over him, drew her slim hands lightly across his chest, then moved lower. Kirk’s breath caught as she straddled him, and he decided maybe they didn’t need as much rest as he thought. He ran his fingers up her body and arched into her, gasping at the journey of her own wandering caress. No, she was definitely not inexperienced.

*****

"I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Commander," Andar said, his small eyes sad, "but we have reports that your captain and crew have been taken hostage by the rebels." He shook his head slowly. "Of course, if we had known Kirk planned to come to the planet in the first place, we could have warned him."

First Officer Spock ignored any semblance of courtesy and interrupted the image on the viewscreen. "When did this happen, Mister President? Are you reports confirmed?"

Andar’s tubular hands waved casually in the air. "Some time during the early afternoon. We have, of course, sent troops to investigate, and will do our best to help in this...unfortunate situation. We will keep you updated." The screen blanked, then returned to the pleasant view of Traxus, a view Spock was quickly coming to dislike.

He swiveled in the captain’s chair and faced the communications officer, back on the bridge without much more information from her surreptitious investigation. "Lieutenant Commander Uhura, have we located any of the landing party’s coordinates by way of their communicators?"

"We’ve found a signal from some of the communicators, sir, but they are obviously not being carried by crewmen. The signals are all on top of each other, like—"

"Like they are lying in a pile," he finished.

She nodded, then said quietly, "Mister Spock," she said softly, "could you help me with this?"

Her request rang alarms in the Vulcan’s head. Uhura needed help? Immediately, he rose and stepped up the bridge to communications, mindful of the presence of Commodore Hayes. "Yes?" he answered in a low voice.

Just as he had assumed, Uhura didn’t really need help. As soon as he arrived, she whispered, "We’ve accounted for all of the landing party’s communicators except one." She paused pointedly, and Spock felt a sick flip-flop in his stomach.

"The captain’s?" he questioned.

She nodded, the worry tightening her smooth features. Her expressive eyes mirrored the anxiety he could not share. "And there’s more, Mister Spock," she added, then mouthed, "Look," and pointed at a panel she had gently set aside. Inside, among the components of her board, rested a small obelisk about the size of a computer wafer. Fused to it were a series of wires, tangled in a mass of colorful snake-like coils.

Spock understood immediately. "Sabotage?" he mouthed back.

She nodded slowly, comprehending the seriousness of this revelation.

His back shielding them momentarily, Spock motioned toward the panel and whispered, "Work with as much haste as possible to restore the sensors. Be discreet."

She glanced toward Corbin, who had apparently not noticed their interest in the panel, and nodded. Spock returned to the center chair, painting on a serene expression as if nothing had changed.

His only acknowledgement was an order. "Get me Dakel, Ms. Uhura. We will beam him up to the ship immediately. He has questions to answer."

Hayes, who had remained unusually quiet during the exchange, stepped forward between the Vulcan and communications. "Commander," he said, "do we have time for talking? Obviously, Captain Kirk has failed. Now is the time for action! We must destroy the rebels while we can." Commander Corbin silently stepped toward them in support of his commanding officer.

Spock considered the commodore’s unexpected decisiveness momentarily, his dark eyes falling briefly on the aide, as well. "Commodore, if the rebels do hold the captain, Dakel is perhaps the only one who can resolve this without violence. The captain knew the risks. We must not act in haste, if we want to act wisely."

Hayes’ gaze faltered under Spock’s certainty. "Well, you can’t wait too long. Suppose Kirk is already dead?" He was oblivious to the pained looks he received from the bridge crew at this harsh speculation.

With effort, Spock quelled the disturbingly emotional reply that jumped to his lips and calmed himself with a studied survey of the bridge. Punching a button on the arm of the chair, he called Engineer Scott to the bridge to assume command before he entered the turbo lift and headed to the briefing room with Commodore Hayes and, as usual, Commander Corbin at his heels.

*****

Leonard McCoy glared at the Mietre guards who stood stiffly at the edge of the tent that accommodated the Enterprise crewmen. For several hours they had been detained here, told nothing about the fate of their missing crewmen, one of whom was James T. Kirk. Wild visions forced themselves through the doctor’s tired brain, the worst of which had Kirk sprawled lifelessly in the back of the large transport they used to dump the bodies of the rebels that had not survived the attack or managed to escape. So far, thank God, Jim’s body had not shown up.

Most of the rebels had been rounded up and corralled in the various tents throughout the compound. The Starfleet crew merited separate quarters. Shifting his gaze carefully, McCoy caught the dark eyes of Sloane, the one security guard captured; the other lay twisted in the pile of corpses. A questioning brow rose, but Sloane answered with a minute shake of his head. No one had seen the captain or Sheera after the attack. McCoy worried about their fate.

Just beyond the guards, the doctor saw a gleaming jumble of equipment, tricorders, phasers, and wrist communicators. Something unusual covered them, and after a moment, McCoy realized it was a portable interference field, designed to mask technological instruments from detectors. Usually, that meant Romulan or Klingon detectors, but the doctor realized in anger that it would prevent the Enterprise from detecting their signals. Maybe that was good, though. Maybe Spock would send help when he could not contact them.

As he looked more closely, his eyes fell on a familiar symbol. Startled, he blinked, then looked again. The Starfleet stamp glared back at him impossibly. This was Starfleet issue. How in the galaxies did Andar obtain it? Then he remembered Sheera’s certainty that the Mietre had other connections. Dear Lord! Starfleet itself?

As he considered this disturbing revelation, the tent flap lifted higher and a guard barked something to them. No one moved. With obvious anger, the guard issued his command again, this time adding a threatening fist shake. When he received no response, he moved menacingly toward McCoy. Despite the small stature of the attacker, he looked menacing and the doctor braced for the blow.

"Stop!"

The abrupt order garnered McCoy a momentary reprieve as the guard turned crisply and saluted the figure that had entered. His rounded body sauntered in with confidence as he surveyed the battered group.

"Andar!" McCoy snarled down at him. "I should have known you’d be behind this. What a hypocrite you are, accusing the Federation—"

The Mietre waved a tubular hand casually. "Doctor McCoy, you know nothing of this situation. I suggest you keep your mouth shut and wait until we are finished. Then, maybe, I’ll let you go."

Ignoring Andar’s advice, McCoy stepped closer. "Where’s Captain Kirk? What have you done with him?"

The rounded cheeks tightened in amusement. "My dear doctor," the president said with obvious satisfaction, "your brave captain is dead."

The force of his words slammed into McCoy’s brain. It couldn’t be true. He stiffened his legs to hold him. "No. No, you’re wrong."

"I am sorry to be the one to tell you," Andar offered with fake sincerity. "He and the rebel leader were killed during the rebel attack."

"Rebel attack!" McCoy snarled, recovering enough to respond. "You were the attackers. You’ve been the attackers every time, haven’t you?"

Annoyingly, Andar seemed unfazed by McCoy’s accusations. "I have learned one of your Earth phrases, Doctor. One which seems appropriate here. ‘To the victor belong the spoils.’ And I believe the spoils include relating events in any way you wish. The rebels have been defeated. Unfortunately, your captain was in collusion with them, hoping to gain some of our Mietre riches for his cooperation. He and the misfit Sheera, who was actually one of you, placed as a spy by Human