Holly S. Trueblood

2284

-1-

James T. Kirk pushed through the crowded corridors of Starfleet Headquarters with the single-minded determination of someone who knows he’s late. The throng parted in front of him like waves before the prow of a ship, reforming in little eddies behind him to comment on the maverick Starfleet admiral who only recently had come out of a court-martial with a captain’s rank and command of the finest new ship in the fleet.

Kirk ignored the stares and the murmuring; after years of haunting the halls of Command, he was almost used to them. He checked the chronometer in the corridor and frowned. The captain increased his pace. The Commander-in-Chief of Starfleet was not a man who liked to be kept waiting, and Kirk had his own reasons for wanting to make sure this meeting went off without a hitch.

As he turned the corner and headed into the home stretch, Kirk’s race against the clock hit an unexpected hurdle. He sighed and gave up any hope of making it to Admiral Cartwright’s office on time.

The former captain of the starship Excelsior folded his arms across his chest. "Well, if it isn’t Starfleet’s favorite starship captain," Captain Styles drawled. "I’m surprised to see you’re still here. Is Command afraid to let you loose with your new toy—or aren’t you happy with the assignments they’ve offered you?"

"My orders are no concern of yours, Styles." Kirk made as if to step around the taller man, but Styles moved again to block his path with his riding crop.

"Oh, of course, excuse me. The great Captain Kirk writes his own orders," Styles remarked acidly. "And, let’s see, when last I checked they included sabotage, hijacking a starship, inciting fellow officers to mutiny, entering a forbidden sector of space and bringing the Federation to the brink of war with the Klingons. Quite an impressive record."

The Excelsior had been the jewel in Starfleet’s crown until the old Enterprise had left her—and her foppish captain—sputtering uselessly behind in SpaceDock. Kirk hadn’t meant the act as a personal affront; as Styles pointed out, the sabotage of the Excelsior was only one of many crimes Kirk had committed to reunite the body and soul of his executive officer and friend. The risks he had taken had been more than worthwhile—Spock had been restored to him. But Captain Styles wasn’t likely to forget the insult to his ship any time soon, especially since after the incident he’d been relieved of command of the Excelsior.

"Frankly, I’m surprised they’d give you any kind of ship after the stunts you’ve pulled," Styles continued. "The brass must not think much of this new Enterprise if they’d give her to the man who ditched the old one."

Kirk simply smiled. "You forgot the part where I saved the planet."

"Oh, yes, the alien probe." Styles’ lips drew back in a bitter smirk. "Kirk rides gallantly to the rescue of Planet Earth in a hijacked Klingon cruiser while the rest of us poor mortals wait out the crisis in stasis."

Seeking shelter in that part of a starship normally reserved for storage of tissue samples and the occasional dead body wasn’t exactly dignified. But since the probe was sucking the energy out of every ship in SpaceDock and disrupting the ecology of an entire planet, Styles’ choice for survival could hardly be called cowardice. But some had...

Kirk didn’t blame him for his bitterness. More importantly, Kirk didn’t have the time to trade insults. "Captain Styles, if you don’t mind, I’m on my way to see the C-in-C. I’d hate to have to tell him you delayed me."

"Oh, by all means, Captain Kirk." Styles finally stepped aside and let Kirk pass. "I wouldn’t presume to keep you from your destiny."

The officer’s unpleasant laughter followed Kirk down the corridor as he made his escape. Why do I have the feeling he knows something I don’t? Kirk asked himself.

The encounter improved neither Kirk’s mood nor his timing; he arrived in Cartwright’s office a full ten minutes late. But his luck hadn’t run out completely—the admiral was still closeted with an earlier appointment. The captain had time to take a breath before the door to the inner office opened and a slightly harried adjutant exited. Cartwright followed at a more deliberate pace. In all his years in Starfleet, Kirk had never known a C-in-C to be in a hurry. The top brass expected others to hustle for them.

Cartwright turned to Kirk with a handshake and an apologetic smile. "Jim—sorry to keep you waiting. Come in." He took a seat behind his desk and indicated a chair for Kirk.

The captain remained standing for a moment, his gaze held by the spectacular view of the sprawling Starfleet complex and the San Francisco skyline that could be seen through the transparent aluminum wall behind the desk. The complex still showed evidence of the destructive power of the probe; here and there robodozers moved mountains of debris and construction crews labored to repair buildings damaged by the hurricane-force winds and flooding.

"I’ve always admired your view, Admiral," Kirk said finally.

"You could’ve had one just like it, Jim, if you’d behaved yourself."

The captain grinned and shaved a few years off his no-longer-boyish face. "I’ve got what I want, thank you, sir."

"Yes, you fell in it and came out smelling like a rose this time," Cartwright laughed. "Just remember your friends may not always be around to put in a good word for you."

"Surely you’re not considering retirement yet?" Kirk asked as he settled into the chair beside Cartwright’s desk.

"Well, I damn sure ought to be. I’ve got a couple of years on you, and you’re no spring chicken."

"Admiral Nogura was in his eighties when he retired," Kirk pointed out. "And then served on the Federation Council almost another eight years before retiring to his stone garden in Sendai."

"Ah, but the Old Man was no mere mortal, as we both know," the admiral replied. "So. How’s the new ship checking out?"

"Judging from my captain of engineering’s level of grumbling, I’d say he’s just about got all the gremlins out of her. She’s just about ready for a real drive, and not just around the neighborhood." Kirk watched the admiral’s face expectantly.

Cartwright would not be rushed. "And the crew?"

"Couldn’t ask for better," Kirk said. "I had to do a little arm-twisting to get McCoy to agree to sign up for another tour. Uhura’s coming along. So’s Chekov. Sulu’s gone to the Cooper. Of course, most of the crew is still a little green..."

"The older we get, the greener they look, Jim," Cartwright laughed. "But never mind. I take it you’re ready for some real orders, and not some ‘only ship in the quadrant’ nonsense from Bob Bennett?"

"Ready and willing, sir." Here it comes at last, Kirk thought.

Cartwright got to his feet and paced slowly down the length of the room. Kirk’s heart sank. He recognized the signs—this was going to be bad news.

"There’s a nasty situation developing on Epsilon Crucis Four," the admiral began. "Some bad blood between neighboring states. One side is accusing the other of using biowarfare and the two governments are close to all-out war."

"Epsilon Crucis Four...that’s Sarva, Councillor Harrket’s home planet?"

"It is, and that’s the problem," Cartwright answered. "Harrket was very influential on the Federation Council, quite the political operator. He managed to keep the Peacemaker contingent in line by sheer force of personality, I guess. Since his death, the dynamics of Council politics have been highly unstable. A lot of the Council members still look to Sarva’s representative for some form of leadership, but that poor soul is in no position to offer it with his home planet approaching Armageddon."

"And the votes on admission of new planets come up...when, in four months?" Kirk mused.

"Exactly."

The captain shrugged. "Well, it makes good cocktail conversation, but what’s this to do with Starfleet? Sounds more like a job for Diplomatic Services."

"Indeed it is," Cartwright replied. "Since the warring parties have asked for Federation help, the Diplomatic Service is dispatching a special envoy to Sarva to mediate the dispute and make sure the Council’s ducks are all in a row for the admissions votes." The admiral paused. "Your job is to take him there."

Kirk stared at Cartwright in disbelief. "Admiral, any ship in Starfleet could do this job and you know it," he said hotly. "Are you seriously going to assign a brand-new Constitution-class starship to babysit a Diplomatic Service table-jockey?"

"Need I remind you, Captain, that you are in no position to choose your assignments?" Cartwright snapped. "You’re lucky you’re not commanding a desk in the lower-level operations section. You’re technically still on probation—and there are plenty of people in both Starfleet and Federation headquarters who’d like to see you take just one more step out of line."

Kirk was well aware that Captain Styles wasn’t the only one who resented his being given command of the new Enterprise. He was convinced there was something about the bureaucratic mind that simply could not tolerate independent action, no matter how well it turns out.

He took another approach. "Admiral, this is an insult to my crew. I’ve got some of the best people in Starfleet on that ship. Some of them have given up a lot to stay with me. There’s no reason they should suffer because I’m on some bureaucrat’s hit list."

"Your crew is part of the reason we picked the Enterprise for this job," the admiral said. "Since a medical problem is at the heart of this dispute, Doctor McCoy is going to be invaluable." Cartwright put a conciliatory hand on Kirk’s shoulder. "Don’t take it so hard, Jim. Given your career of late, things could be a lot worse. I’ll try to dig up something more interesting for you before you get back."

Kirk nodded. He could see this was an argument he wasn’t going to win. "Thank you, sir," he said, resigned to it. "We’ll get your envoy where he’s going. But once we’ve got him home safe and sound, I want the hottest ticket in town for the Enterprise."

"I’ll try my best, Jim. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few papers to push."

Kirk headed for the door, but slowed and finally turned before reaching it. "I guess I have you to thank for having any command at all."

Cartwright dismissed the thanks with a smile and a wave of his hand. "You still have a few friends left around here, Jim," he said. "Just don’t pull the rug out from under us, okay?"

"I’ll try to behave myself in future, Admiral," Kirk promised drily. Then the captain of the Enterprise turned and set off for his ship, his smile fading as he wondered how to break the news of their less than glamorous assignment to his waiting crew.

*****

As the captain of the Enterprise was ending his meeting, in another part of the vast Intergalactic Government Complex, the Special Envoy to Sarva was just beginning hers. The topic of conversation was the very officer who had just left Starfleet Headquarters for his ship.

"Frankly, Elena, I’m not too happy about the ship Starfleet has offered for this mission," the Federation Director of Interplanetary Relations said with a frown. Jarawhal Chandra Singh lowered his stout body into the chair behind his desk. "Admiral—rather Captain—Kirk is not exactly the most predictable character." The director paused and chuckled to himself. "Though I must admit he’s never dull."

Ambassador Elena Christopher smiled across the desk at her rumpled mentor. "So I hear. Actually, I’m looking forward to finally meeting Starfleet’s bad boy after all these years." Her eyes, the same pale gray as her diplomatic tunic, sparkled with private amusement.

The director stopped fidgeting with the pile of data tapes on his desk. "Now, Elena, you just watch yourself," he said, waggling a warning finger in her direction. "Kirk’s reputation with women is just as bad as his reputation for following orders."

Christopher scowled affectionately in return. "Oh, stop clucking. I’m—well, never mind how old I am, but I’m certainly old enough to take care of myself."

"I know perfectly well how old you are," Singh replied. "I was there the day you were born. And the day you entered the Diplomatic Service. I’m the one who got you the job in the first place, as I recall."

"Yes, and you’ll never let me forget it either, even if it was twenty years ago." Unable to resist teasing him, Christopher smiled wickedly. "Besides, I hear the captain goes for the young, sexy, alien princess type. That’s hardly my style."

"Oh, yes, you with the blond hair and the beautiful face, I’m sure he will find you repulsive," Singh countered. "Anyway, you have other things to think about."

"I’m sure the job on Sarva will keep me busy enough," Christopher agreed, her smile dissolving. She had seen the kind of madness that was drawing Sarva into war before. A memory, poised to intrude on her conscious mind, was savagely repressed.

"There is also this." The director took a sheet of flimsy from his desk and flipped it into her hands.

Christopher knew without looking that it was a job description. She’d been expecting this. "But, Jari, we’ve been over this before. I’m perfectly happy with the job I have now."

"Elena, you are a twenty-year veteran of Diplomatic Services with a list of special distinctions as long as your arm," Singh argued. "How long do you think you can keep refusing positions before you lose all opportunity for advancement? You need to move on. Zipping around the galaxy may be fun, but it’s doing your career no good. We need your experience—and your good sense—here at headquarters."

He indicated the packet in her hands. "Now this is a very interesting position with a lot of potential for doing some real good. You won’t find a better scope of work in the entire Diplomatic Services. Promise me you’ll take time to consider it on this trip."

Christopher sighed. He was right, of course; it was time to hang up her wings and come down to Earth. But, God, to think I’d have to sit and stare at these four walls all day! "Okay, Jari, I’ll think about it." Singh looked as if he didn’t believe her. "Really—I promise."

"Good. Now are you all set to go?" He rose and began walking her to the door.

She laughed at his fussiness but decided against teasing him about it. He was the closest thing to family she had left, so she indulged him. "We’re scheduled to leave at 1630 today." She gave him a hug. "I’ll see you in a few weeks."

"Elena..."

Christopher turned back and caught a glimpse of the older man’s expression of pride and concern before he had time to hide it successfully. "If I didn’t know you were the best person for this job..." he began.

She put a hand on his arm. "I know," she said. "I’ll be careful."

The announcement of their mission to the Enterprise’s senior officers had not gone well. Only Spock was keeping his opinion to himself as Kirk and the others made their way through the business-like bustle of the ship to the aft transporter room.

"Taxi service for the Diplomatic Services!" Chekov complained. "And to the dullest planet in the Federation!" His accent became more impenetrable the angrier he got. "No doubt there vwill be a small army of dried-up old apparatchiks yelling, ‘My cabin is too small, Mister Chekov!’ ‘I’m not used to this type of computer, Mister Chekov!’ ‘What? The replicator is not programmed for Arcturian slime puffs, Mister Chekov?’ I thought I’d been promoted beyond this kind of duty, Captain."

"I haven’t had time to look over the duty roster for a protocol officer, Pavel," Kirk said. "Until I can find some lowly ensign with a talent for making difficult people happy, I’ll just have to rely on your charm."

"I’ll look over the duty roster myself, Captain, and make some recommendations," the Russian grumbled. As Third Officer of the Enterprise, what else could he do? Tell his captain no?

"Be my guest," Kirk answered.

Kirk knew his chief medical officer was just as unhappy, but he doubted anything he could say would mollify Leonard McCoy. "I’m with you, Chekov," McCoy said. "This is the finest ship and the best-led crew in Starfleet. I can’t believe all that talent is going to be spent herding a bunch of blasted table-thumpers."

"Bones..."

"I suppose you’ve forgotten the Trill delegation we had to deal with? Or the Cygnetian amazon women? Or that the time we had a delegation from Diplomatic Services on board and you ended up with a knife in your back?" McCoy told Kirk. "And don’t try to tell me that trip to Babel was different. We may not have enemy agents to deal with this time, but you’re still gonna need eyes in the back of your head!"

Just before they reached the transporter room, Kirk stopped and said sharply, "I don’t like it any more than you do, Doctor, but those are our orders." His voice was low enough that none of the crewmen in the corridor looked twice, but his tone made it clear the discussion was ended. "Now, I expect you—all of you—to show our guests the courtesy and respect they are due."

The doors to the transporter room opened to admit them as Kirk looked up at Spock, who had yet to offer any kind of comment. "That goes for you, too, Spock," he added unnecessarily.

The Vulcan blinked once. "Of course, Captain."

Captain of Engineering Montgomery Scott was already in his place at the transporter control panel, fine-tuning the control settings. "Starfleet Command says they have one standing by to beam up, Captain."

Kirk turned to him, puzzled. "One, Scotty? Are you sure?"

"Aye, sir. I just spoke with them five minutes ago."

"I guess that means we’re still waiting for the rest of them," Kirk said, wondering with some irritation how long that would delay their departure. He sighed. "Well, let’s get this one aboard, at least. Carry on, Captain Scott."

The others waited impatiently while the captain of Engineering made the necessary adjustments to bring their passenger on board. The transporter beam established itself in the center of the platform and gradually a Human form materialized in its midst. When the beam had completed its work and switched off, Elena Christopher was left standing on the pad, her smile at the ready.

The effect on the group assembled to greet the special envoy could not have been greater if the president of the Federation Council had emerged out of the beam. Kirk felt the rumble as their carefully constructed assumptions about diplomats collapsed, but he tried hard not to show it. From his face, no one would have known he expected the same "dried up old apparatchiks" that Chekov had described—and no one could have guessed the effect the contradiction of his own prejudice was having on his heart rate.

The special envoy stepped gracefully off the platform and extended a hand to Kirk. "Elena Christopher, Captain. Permission to come aboard?"

Kirk grasped the ambassador’s hand and answered her smile with one of his own. "Permission granted, Ambassador. Welcome aboard the Enterprise."

Only after he had introduced his officers did he think to ask, "Will your staff be beaming aboard separately?"

Christopher laughed affably. "I’m afraid I’m all there is, Captain. I prefer to work alone."

Well, there’s another assumption gone, Kirk thought. If this keeps up, I’ll be revising my estimates of Klingons before long. "I see," he said at last. "Well, good, then we’ll get under way."

The captain turned to his acting protocol officer, who wasn’t doing the best job of hiding his new opinion of the Diplomatic Service. "Mister Chekov, will you escort Ms. Christopher to her quarters? Once you’re settled, I hope you will join us for dinner, Ambassador?"

"I’d be delighted, Captain." She gave Chekov a nod. "Lead on, Mister Chekov."

Kirk looked around at his spellbound officers. "Well, gentlemen, I believe we all have work to do."

Grinning, McCoy joined Kirk and Spock on their way to the bridge. "Well, I’d say this trip is beginning to look up!"

"Weren’t you the one who was just complaining to me about Federation Diplomatic Services table-thumpers?" Kirk remarked.

"Can I help it if I’ve never met a diplomat that didn’t set my teeth on edge?" the doctor replied. "Excepting your father, of course, Spock. Ambassador Christopher is something else again."

"Indeed," Spock replied. "The ambassador has an unparalleled record in the Diplomatic Service, including five special citations and the Federation Medal of Honor for her work in negotiating the peace treaty on Stratos. Her reputation in the service is that of someone who prefers field work. She has reportedly refused a number of appointments to Federation Headquarters."

"Something else entirely," McCoy agreed.

Kirk looked at his executive officer with curiosity. "You seem to have followed the ambassador’s career rather closely, Captain Spock."

"Not at all, Captain," Spock answered with equanimity. "She is well known in diplomatic circles."

Kirk exchanged a smile with McCoy and waited as the turbolift delivered them smoothly to the bridge. He took his place in the command chair. "Mister Hennessy, I believe we are scheduled for departure at 1630."

"Aye, sir. Commencing departure sequence now."

*****

After the last of the dishes had been cleared away, the group in the senior officer’s lounge lingered over brandy and coffee. While the conversation took a political turn, Kirk watched the guest of honor with quiet, intense interest. Elena Christopher certainly knew her stuff. She was more than holding her own against Spock, who, with uncharacteristic garrulousness, was putting her knowledge to the test.

"Public opinion has it that the upcoming admissions debates will be among the most acrimonious in recent times," Spock said. "Would you agree with that assessment, Ambassador?"

"Yes, unfortunately, I would, Captain Spock," she replied. "I wouldn’t exactly say the Council is in disarray, but certainly its members no longer speak with one voice. And, of course, the Klingons are taking advantage of the situation to win friends among the non-aligned planets."

"I take it Councillor Harrket’s influence is missed," Kirk ventured.

"More than you know," Christopher agreed. "It’s a bad time to be without his leadership. The problem is that the Sarvans still carry a lot of weight in the Council, and they are waffling dangerously on several key votes."

"Odd that a man like Harrket could be so influential coming from a system a hundred parsecs off the main trade routes," McCoy commented.

"Epsilon Crucis Four was one of the earliest of the Federation-sponsored colonies in that sector," Spock explained. "The colony was established primarily for agricultural and emigration purposes, before the main trade routes settled into their present configuration. Low population density and the cultural norms of the colonists have limited the growth of large cities. Sarva has no natural resources of interest to other systems. In fact, most of the planet is covered with water. The only landmass is the size of Australia."

"Thank you for the lecture, Spock," McCoy interjected. "It’s no surprise to me that Sarva has never quite taken off as a colony—who’d want to go all the way out there for their forty acres and a mule? But I still say it’s unusual for someone who comes from that kind of a planet to have as much power as Harrket apparently had."

"You wouldn’t think it unusual if you had met Councillor Harrket, Doctor," Christopher said. "He was an extraordinarily gifted statesman. I’m sure he would have been heartbroken to have seen what has happened to his planet in the short time since his death."

She knew him, Kirk thought, probably worked with him. This is all personal for her. There was something in the tiny lines that appeared when she smiled, something behind the pale gray eyes that hinted at a great depth of commitment. He felt a few more false assumptions come crashing down.

"Well, I’ve read all the briefing tapes, and I still can’t get this mess straight," McCoy was saying. "Now, we’ve got two major political blocs—the Sankiang in the northern part of Sarva’s main continent and the Arged in the south, right?"

"That is essentially correct, Doctor, except for some minor, largely autonomous city-states on the coast of the island continent of Dimor," Spock added precisely. "Councillor Harrket was a native of one such city."

McCoy ignored him and continued: "Relations between these two governments are so bad that one is accusing the other of using a biological agent against them—this damarr fever."

"Damarr fever..." Kirk repeated, weighing the exotic syllables in his mind.

"Apparently a local word, meaning ‘shadow’," Christopher explained. "It refers to a characteristic pallor associated with the final stages of the disease."

McCoy would not be distracted from his line of inquiry. "What started the fuss between these two countries in the first place?" he insisted. "This was just one big happy colony a hundred years ago."

Christopher smiled sadly. "The two factions formed very early in the colony’s history, but I’m afraid no one is really sure why the enmity developed," she said. "At any rate, the epidemic is the focus of hostilities now. We won’t know much about the actual situation until we can view it for ourselves, but the Argeddans have filed a formal complaint saying that the geographical distribution of the fever along the border with Sankiang directly implicates the Sankianis."

"There have been no cases of the fever outside the border area?" Kirk asked this for clarification, but for some time his mind had been resting only lightly on the subject at hand. He was finding that the merest smile or glance from the other end of the table was enough to nudge his thoughts in another direction entirely.

"None beyond the Argeddan side of the Bakarr River valley, to be specific," Christopher replied. The expression in her eyes when she looked back at him didn’t quite match her professional tone. Kirk felt the temperature in the room jump ten degrees.

"But this sounds like a medical problem to me," McCoy protested. "If the Arged’s medical establishment hasn’t been able to isolate the cause of the illness, why doesn’t the Federation just send out a medical research team?"

Christopher was blunt. "The first priority is to keep the two parties from blowing each other to kingdom come until we can resolve the issue, Doctor. The Sankianis deny that the epidemic even exists—and you’ve seen the reports the Argeddans sent to the Federation."

McCoy snorted. "There’s not enough data in those reports to tell whether this is the plague or a bad case of the common cold."

"If the epidemic turns out to be real, the Federation is prepared to send in medical help—as soon as the political situation is stabilized," Christopher said. She smiled winningly at McCoy. "Until then, Doctor, I’m afraid you and your staff are it."

"So what else is new?" McCoy muttered.

Trying to follow the conversation on more than one level, Kirk had lost all track of time; only the intercom tones announcing the end of the second watch reminded him of his duties as host.

"Gentlemen, I’m sure our guest would be grateful for a little rest after the grilling you’ve given her tonight," he said. "No doubt there will be plenty of opportunities to continue this discussion at another time."

As the officers pushed back from the table, Kirk turned to Elena Christopher with a slightly self-conscious gallantry. "May I see you to your cabin, Ambassador?"

"Why, thank you, Captain," she accepted. If she thought his offer a little old-fashioned, she gave no sign of it. She walked with him slowly down the corridor as the others bid them goodnight.

"You seem to take your work very seriously," Kirk said conversationally.

"Well, I’ve invested twenty-odd years in it," Christopher admitted with a laugh. "I suppose I must enjoy it."

"Your reputation certainly shows it," he said. "Your work must take you away from home a lot." He was fishing; she knew it immediately.

"I have no family, Captain," she said, answering the unspoken question. "I have some long-suffering friends, but I’m afraid I rarely get a chance to see them. I guess you could say I’m married to the job."

There was no trace of regret in her tone, no hint of defensiveness or expectation of sympathy. Yet her words resonated in Jim Kirk, deep in that place where he locked away his own loneliness. "I think I understand," he said.

"In a way I envy you, Captain," she went on. "You carry your family with you—Spock and McCoy and the others."

Kirk smiled. "We’ve been together a long time."

"It’s not hard for me to see how you’ve been able to command their loyalty," she told him.

Kirk looked up warily, but nothing in her face indicated she meant to flatter him. Either she was sincere, or she was very, very good at her job.

"For the record," she continued, "I’m not one of those at headquarters who believe you should be hung out to dry for helping Spock. I truly admire you for it."

"Spock would have done the same for me," he answered. "Has done as much for me a dozen times."

As they reached her cabin door, she turned to face him. "Look, I realize this is not exactly a plum assignment for you and your crew. But as far as I’m concerned, I couldn’t have drawn a better ship in Starfleet for this mission."

Her faith in his ship was another surprise. Kirk found that he was genuinely grateful for the unexpected support. Maybe all the headquarters backstabbing had bothered him more than he’d been willing to admit. "Thank you, Ambassador," he said. "I think my crew will feel much better about this assignment once they’ve met the Federation special envoy herself."

He suddenly realized she was standing quite close, close enough for him to inhale the spicy scent of her perfume with every breath, close enough for him to imagine the softness of her skin under his hand. She seemed in no hurry to move; perhaps she knew the effect she was having on him.

Finally, she smiled, whether in response to his compliment or to a subtler message, Kirk couldn’t tell. "Well, it has been a long day," she said. "Goodnight, Captain Kirk."

He nodded. "Goodnight, Ambassador Christopher."

The image of her upturned face and the warmth in those gray eyes stayed with him as he headed back to his own cabin. When he passed the ship’s communications officer a few minutes later, Kirk was still smiling. He was beginning to think that this diplomatic support mission was just what his new ship—and her seasoned captain—needed.

The young ensign sitting beside Commander Nyota Uhura in the F Deck mess hall gazed with rapt attention at a muscular fellow crewman across the room. "You know," she said, her fork poised halfway to her mouth, "I think maybe Engineering should be my next rotation."

Uhura laughed. "Well, I certainly can’t offer anything in Communications that would compete with that!"

Ensign Teresa Garcia grinned and turned back to her fruit salad. Garcia was a command officer, fresh out of the Academy. She had only just begun her six-week rotation in Communications, but she felt she already had a sympathetic mentor in Uhura. The communications chief was tolerant and approachable, and she seemed to know everything there was to know about this ship and its unusual crew.

Garcia decided it would be a good time to ask a question that had been on her mind since she’d first received her assignment to the Enterprise. "Commander Uhura, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"Oh, he’s a little young for me," Uhura dead panned.

The ensign laughed and dismissed the subject of the crewman from Engineering with a small wave. "No, it’s about this ship. It’s a little out of the ordinary to have this many senior officers aboard, isn’t it? I mean..." Garcia began to sweat. How exactly am I going to put this? she wondered. "Well, look at Captain Spock—he’s a captain, but doesn’t have his own command? And Mister Chekov, he could have had his own ship by now. And Captain Scott in Engineering..."

"Not to mention a certain commander who’s still a comm chief, right, Ensign?" Uhura said with a smile.

Garcia turned the color of her uniform jacket, sure she had destroyed whatever hope she’d had of surviving her tour of duty in Communications.

Uhura put a reassuring hand on Garcia’s arm. "Well, I have to agree with you, Teresa. It is most unusual. In fact, I’d say it’s a situation that doesn’t exist anywhere else in Starfleet. That’s because the Enterprise’s captain is an ex-admiral by the name of James T. Kirk. All of us old-timers have been with him off and on since he first got command of the old Enterprise."

Old is right, Garcia thought. She hadn’t been much more than a baby when Kirk received orders for his first five-year mission. Oh, she’d read about it in school and later in her Academy classes. In fact, the Enterprise and her legendary captain and crew figured in case studies in almost every class from Strategy and Tactics to Xenobiology. Garcia had mixed feelings about being assigned to a legend. It was intimidating, for one thing. And she couldn’t help but wonder if the best days of this captain and his loyal crew might be past.

"I’ve even held the center seat of an escort-class vessel for a few years, Ensign. Did you know that? Not many do, and one day I may return to the center seat. But for right now, the captain needed a crew for his new ship, and he asked me...us to come back," Uhura was saying. "For me, that’s all it took. Right, Mister Chekov?"

The security chief, tray in hand, pulled back a chair and sat down. "Da. Vwhat are vwe talking about?"

Lieutenant Jeff Hennessy, the new helmsman, also joined them. "Yeah, what’s today’s mess hall subject?"

"The ensign here was just asking why the Enterprise crew is so top-heavy," Uhura teased.

Garcia’s embarrassment deepened. Talk about intimidation! Pavel Chekov was just possibly the best navigator in Starfleet, and yet now served as Chief Security Officer and Third Officer. He’d been Executive Officer for a few other ships, and his record was exemplary. He still held some records at Starfleet Academy even. Jeff Hennessy had been positioned aboard the Enterprise straight out of the Academy, replacing Hikaru Sulu at the helm. He was the fifth highest rated cadet in his class. Her own rating from the Academy was less than impressive.

The third officer flashed a grin that transformed his entire demeanor. "You mean, vwhy aren’t vwe all climbing the career ladder in some other part of Starfleet?" He leaned forward confidentially. "Well, I’ll tell you, Ensign Garcia. I’m happy here. The Enterprise is no ordinary ship, and Jim Kirk is no ordinary captain."

"But you’re a command officer," Garcia blurted without thinking. "Don’t you want..." she stopped, horrified by what she’d been about to say to a superior officer.

"My own ship?" Chekov finished for her. He didn’t seem to be offended. "Not yet. Perhaps someday, but I like it here. Besides, Captain Kirk asked me to join him on this mission. I vwould never let him down."

Hennessy mumbled, "Got that right," through his Katarian egg salad sandwich.

Uhura put a cap on the discussion. "If we see any action on this mission, you’ll find out for yourself why we’re aboard this ship with Captain Kirk."

"Not much chance of that!" Chekov snorted.

"Are you still sulking?" Uhura asked him. "I thought the ambassador changed your mind about all that."

The Russian’s eyes lit up. "About the Diplomatic Service, yes." Then, just as quickly, his face fell. "About Sarva, no."

"What’s so bad about Sarva?" Garcia wanted to know.

Chekov paused to consider. "Oh, nothing much—if your idea of shore leave is a tour of some precolonial ruins or perhaps a mud bath at the hot springs. If, on other hand, you prefer a little nightlife, Sarva is not for you. The largest city on the planet is no bigger than the average village in Russia. The citizens of Sankiang are under strict curfew at night, and the population of the south believes firmly in that old Russian proverb, ‘Early to bed, early to rise...’"

Surely it’s not that bad, Garcia thought. "What about art, music, theater?"

Chekov, Hennessy and Uhura shook their heads.

"Shopping?"

They shook their heads.

Garcia was beginning to lose hope. "Beautiful scenery?"

"The north—where the hot springs are—is practically a desert," Hennessy replied. "The south is practically a swamp. The mountains in the west—and the ruins—are not too bad. The beaches are covered with rounded stones. Very little sand, and the rocks get almost too hot to walk on. The seas are slightly saltier than Earth’s and very oily."

"Oily?"

"The oils are a natural by-product of an algae-like colonial lifeform which lives in the surf. They are very smelly," explained Chekov.

Uhura finally stepped in to change the subject. "Come on, guys, you’re having a negative effect on morale. Who knows, we may be so busy we won’t have time to worry about shore leave. Now tell us about the ambassador. I’ve been hearing all sorts of intriguing rumors."

"You should have seen his face vwhen she stepped off that platform!" Chekov laughed.

Garcia offered a comment before Uhura could come up with an adequate reply. "I heard she was awarded the Medal of Honor."

The security chief nodded. "I looked it up after Spock said something about it. Apparently she vwas the target of three separate assassination attempts vwhile negotiating the Stratos Accords. The last attempt vwas made at the signing ceremonies—killed two of her bodyguards and put her in the hospital vwith a mortae in her back. They say she vwouldn’t let them med-evac her until she’d seen the Troglytes sign!" He grinned and shook his head. "And the agreements have stood up despite everything."

"Sounds like a very determined woman," Uhura said.

"And wvery beautiful," Chekov added with conviction.

"Pavel, you have such a limited view of the universe." Uhura scowled at him as she pushed back from the table. "Are all Russian men like you?"

"Vwell, of course, they are not as handsome and intelligent..." Chekov began, but was cut off by a chorus of groans. He grinned and joined the others filing slowly toward the passageway.

"By the way, how’s it going with that lieutenant in Engineering?" Uhura asked him in a low voice.

Chekov smiled slyly. "That was yesterday, Nyota. Today, I’ve set my sights a bit higher."

Uhura, walking just slightly behind him, put a friendly hand on his shoulder. Garcia strained to hear what she said to him. "Pavel, don’t ask me how I know," Uhura said, "but I have a feeling you’re going to be outranked on this one."

Hennessy laughed heartily, but the meaning of their conversation was lost on Garcia. She figured Chekov and Uhura couldn’t possibly be talking about romance. After all, they were just so damn old!

"I said File Twelve, not File Twenty-one, you blasted hunk of microcrystals!" McCoy snarled at his comm terminal and punched in the codes for a second time. The doctor had always had mixed feelings about the technology that was so vital to his work, but this particular morning his feelings were definitely more negative than positive. He and the computer were both downright cranky.

Elena Christopher appeared at the lab door, looking as if she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or offer sympathy. "Are we still on for this morning, Doctor, or should I come back when your patient is feeling better?" She indicated the terminal.

McCoy grinned in spite of himself. "Better come on in before I’m forced to put it out of my misery."

The ambassador settled into the chair beside McCoy’s desk and got right to the point. "Have you had a chance to look over that medical data from the Arged?"

"Yes, not that it tells us much," McCoy replied.

"What kind of thing is this anyway?" Christopher asked him. "It sounds like a cross between Rigelian fever and simple influenza."

"Well, the symptoms resemble a lot of other common illnesses—fever and severe headache, lung congestion, joint inflammation. The tremors are a little unusual." McCoy frowned. "But the Argeddans have done all the standard tests for the known diseases and apparently came up empty."

"And did I read that mortality rate correctly: ninety-two percent?"

McCoy nodded grimly. "Whatever it is, this thing is not responding to treatment. It looks like they’re losing people to fever and pulmonary edema—well, technically, ‘left-sided heart failure,’ but basically a direct result of the symptoms of the disease. Something like this should be relatively easy to treat, but I can’t tell from this report what’s been tried."

"What are the chances this is due to a biological agent, like they claim?" the ambassador asked.

Something about the way she said it brought McCoy’s eyes to her face with a snap. She looked back at him evenly enough, but he sensed a smouldering fire banked behind that outward calm.

After a moment, he shrugged. "Impossible to tell from this. Hell, I can’t even figure out how many cases they’re getting every week. If they can’t give us some more to go on, we’re going to have a tough time helping them."

Christopher ran a hand through her loosely styled hair. "So I take it our chances of walking in on a full-scale biological war in progress are about even with our chances of discovering a lot of smoke and mirrors."

"Just about," McCoy agreed.

"That’s what I figured," she said briskly and rose to go.

"That’s it?" McCoy said. "That’s all you needed to know?" The doctor wasn’t sure if he should be offended or grateful for the briefness of the meeting.

"Uh-huh. Thanks."

"You knew all this before you even came in here," he concluded. "What did you need me for?"

"Confirmation, of course." Christopher smiled at him, and the doctor found himself smiling back.

"Just like someone else I know," he muttered.

"What?"

"Never mind. Glad to be of help, Ambassador."

She smiled again and turned to leave—and came within a centimeter of colliding with the captain in the doorway. "Oh, hello!"

Kirk grinned broadly and stood aside for her to exit. "Ambassador." He glanced at McCoy. "I hope the doctor was able to provide whatever assistance you needed?"

"He was indeed. Thank you, Captain." She flashed another smile at McCoy and ducked out the door. Kirk watched her for a moment, then turned to his chief medical officer. "What was that all about?"

"Just once I wish someone would ask me a question they don’t already know the answer to." McCoy looked up and caught sight of the lively interest in Kirk’s eyes. He’d seen that look before. "Uh-oh, here we go. I’d watch it if I were you, Captain. I have a feeling that woman is at least one step ahead of the rest of us mortals."

"Me, Doctor?" Kirk said, wearing his most innocent smile. "I assure you my relationship with the ambassador is strictly professional."

"So far." McCoy sat back and folded his arms across his chest. "Now what can I do for you?"

Kirk momentarily looked blank. "Oh, uh, dietary supplements. There was a nasty little message on my comm terminal that I’m in need of Vitamin C."

"Look, I can’t answer for the tone my computer uses to talk to your computer. I’m barely on speaking terms with the thing myself." McCoy stood up and crossed to the supply cabinet. He returned with a sealed package of orange tablets. He handed them to Captain Kirk. "You’d think a Starfleet captain would know enough to make sure he eats enough citrus in his diet. What’s the matter? You don’t like the fruit salad?"

"I’ve told you to never use those words with me, Bones," Kirk said. He flinched at the memory of the months he’d been forced to eat fruit salad on Nu-2 Canis Majoris VI as a lieutenant aboard the Farragut. He’d been stuck there for two months waiting for pickup, and the only thing the racoon-like Nutoos ate was fruit salad. With lots of tangy and sour citrus. There were no meats, no starches, no steak and potatoes, no dairy, no chicken salad. Just fruit salad. To this day, Kirk hated the stuff. He cast a slightly resentful glance at the doctor.

"Right now, I’d settle for the Dixie Belle Café back in my home town of Toccoa Falls." McCoy sighed. "I should never have let you talk me into another tour; I’m getting too old for this."

Kirk clapped a hand on McCoy’s shoulder. "When I think you’re ready for the rocking chair, Doctor, I’ll let you know." The captain turned with a grin and left the lab to McCoy.

The doctor shook his head, then dropped into the seat in front of his comm terminal. "Not you again," he groaned. The terminal hummed benignly in reply.

Three days later Kirk was in the gym, locked in his regular death struggle with the progressive resistance machine. The pace of life on the ship had slowed to a predictable routine, punctuated only by the occasional drill required on a deep-space shakedown cruise. For the first time since the Enterprise had left SpaceDock, her captain had a little time to himself.

He shifted positions on the machine and started a new count. His straining muscles were fully engaged, but his mind was free to wander and he found himself thinking about Elena Christopher. She was an extraordinary woman. Kirk had always appreciated extraordinary women, but there was more to his fascination with her than that. He could recognize it, but he couldn’t yet define it—a sense of something shared, perhaps, or some kind of chemistry that went beyond the obvious physical attraction.

Whatever it was, he hadn’t had much opportunity to pursue it. His duties around the ship and hers preparing for her work on Sarva had provided few chances for them to be together. But now that things were slowing down a bit...

Kirk went another round with the machine, then called it quits and headed for the locker room. He paused in front of one of the glassed-in exercise rooms to wipe the sweat from his face with a towel and looked up to see the room had an occupant.

Elena Christopher was absorbed body and soul in the complex, powerful movements of the Tai Chi, a discipline nearly as old as the Chinese culture that had developed it on old Earth. Both mental concentration and physical agility were required to perform the strictly orchestrated series of postures and steps. And Kirk was finding it a thing of surpassing beauty to watch.

So much so that he wasn’t aware of the presence of his executive officer beside him until the Vulcan spoke. "Beautifully executed," Spock commented. "The ambassador seems quite proficient."

"Hmm?" Kirk responded absently, transfixed by Christopher’s willowy melding of grace and strength.

"I refer to the Tai Chi, Captain."

Kirk’s eyes flicked in Spock’s direction. "Yes, Captain Spock. In fact, I was just admiring the ambassador’s—uh—proficiency myself." He made an effort to give the Vulcan his full attention. "I’m surprised to see you here, Spock. I thought Vulcans had no need of the more rigorous forms of physical exercise."

"Quite correct, Captain," Spock agreed. "The exertion you Humans seem to find so pleasurable is neither necessary nor healthy for the Vulcan metabolism."

"I don’t know that I’d call this ‘pleasurable,’" Kirk said, dabbing again at his face with the towel. "Were you looking for me?"

Spock nodded. "Ship’s sensors have picked up a very faint reading at extreme range," he explained. "Most curious—I was inclined to dismiss it as an echo at first, but the readings have registered consistently for more than one standard hour and appear to be growing stronger."

Kirk looked up, instantly on alert. "Any idea what it is?"

"Negative. I have been unable to achieve adequate definition at this range."

"Speculation? Something tailing us?"

"I would resist any attempt to draw conclusions from the limited data available, Captain," Spock said. "At times, the readings even seem to disappear completely. In fact, given the number of minor defects in the ship’s systems, I am not able to eliminate from consideration the possibility that it may be a sensor ghost."

Kirk felt the apprehension that had touched him briefly fall away. The new ship had been full of bugs; Scott had spent weeks repairing most of them, but that was what a shakedown was for. This sounded like another in a long list of "things the design engineers didn’t quite get right." And since it wasn’t likely to be serious, Kirk couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease his conscientious executive officer.

The captain frowned at Spock in mock severity. "Your information seems somewhat imprecise, Captain."

The effect on the Vulcan was just what Kirk had been looking for. He cleared his throat and stared straight ahead. "I apologize, Captain. The phenomenon is inexplicably disturbing. I believe you would say I am following a hunch in pursuing it."

Kirk’s jaw dropped. "To think I’ve lived long enough to hear that," he marveled. "Storing your katra with McCoy seems to have had some permanent effect." He grinned and started to walk away, but something tugged at his memory. What was it McCoy said about that trip to Babel? Eyes in the back of my head. "Continue monitoring, Spock," he ordered. "Let me know if there’s any change. I suspect the new equipment is to blame, but let’s be sure."

Kirk turned into the locker room and tossed a final comment over his shoulder. "Far be it from me to ignore a hunch, especially one of such historic proportions."

It was nearly midnight when Christopher finally switched off her comm terminal and rubbed her burning eyes. The ambassador had been at it for hours, reviewing the tape records from Sarva, committing to memory the names and faces, the titles and politics of the players in the game she was about to enter.

She looked around the cabin and realized she’d hardly left it all day. "This is ridiculous," she muttered.

She considered her options. The idea of sleep was appealing, but she decided what she really needed was contact with living, breathing sentient beings. Interacting with the computer had its limitations. She took a few moments to freshen up and headed out in search of more stimulating company.

The corridors were quiet and dimly lit; the activity at this time of night was to be found in the recreation deck on G Deck. Once there, Christopher avoided the noisier game platforms and found her way to the upper deck, a balcony around the entire rec deck with huge windows overlooking the warp engines of the starship. The windows, filled with the compelling velvet and diamonds of deep space, served as a cosmic backdrop for a lively scene of Human interaction.

Christopher crossed to the food servitor at one side of the lounge and punched up a drink. The selection, she noted, was considerably better on a starship than on the smaller ships she often traveled. She treated herself to Argelian starspirit; the food servitor delivered the rare liquor without a hiccup. Drink in hand, Christopher turned to survey the balcony and almost immediately spied a familiar face.

Leonard McCoy was deep in conversation with someone on one of the closer loungers. It wasn’t until she almost at the table that Christopher made out his companion to be Jim Kirk. She suddenly realized with a tiny thrill of anticipation that she’d been hoping to find the captain here.

The two men looked up as she approached and met her smile with an enthusiastic invitation to join them. Christopher slid onto the sofa beside McCoy and hoped that she looked more composed than she felt.

"Well, Ambassador, what do you think of our view?" Kirk said, nodding at the windows. "I think the new Enterprise has a few advantages over the old one."

"It’s spectacular," she agreed. "But, please, when I’m not sitting around a negotiating table, I prefer Elena."

McCoy beat Kirk to a response. "Yes, even the captain of the Enterprise has a first name—it’s Jim. If I ever had one, I’ve forgotten it."

"Now, Bones..." Kirk began.

"See what I mean?" McCoy finished. His wristcom suddenly beeped, and a female voice called for Doctor McCoy to report to Sickbay. McCoy scowled. "Now, what could be so damned urgent at this hour?" He reached for the signal pad and buzzed the duty nurse in the medical section. "What is it, Marie?"

"We have an injury from Engineering, Doctor. Nothing critical, but Doctor Dushayne thought you should be informed."

McCoy and Kirk exchanged puzzled looks. "All right, Nurse Webb. I’ll be right down." To the pair on either side of him, he said, "What the hell’s going on in Engineering that we’ve got an injury?"

Kirk was already on his wristcom as the doctor excused himself and headed for Sickbay. "Engineering, this is Kirk. What’s happening down there?"

"Lieutenant Indri here, sir. We had a faulty circuit on the Number Two impulse engine control panel. In attempting to repair it, Ensign Camara received a minor shock and burn."

"Any idea what caused the circuit to fail?"

"Apparently a flawed microcrystal, sir. We have replaced the crystal, and we are just starting tests on the panel now."

"Very good, Lieutenant. Does Captain Scott know about this?"

"Yes sir, he has been informed and is on his way to the section at this moment."

"Well done. Have Captain Scott report to me once he’s had a chance to look things over. Kirk out." He shook his head. "That’s a routine repair procedure. Some of these kids are so green they don’t know their..." He stopped and grinned. "Let’s just say it’s a good thing we have some time for them to learn the ropes," he explained, moving to the lounger vacated by McCoy.

Christopher laughed. "You don’t have to be so delicate for my sake, Captain. Believe it or not, the language of diplomacy is not always—um—diplomatic."

"Come to think of it, you’re right," Kirk replied with a smile. He settled back in his seat. "What made you decide on the Diplomatic Service in the first place?"

"An old family friend pulled a few strings to get me a start. I wasn’t very enthusiastic, but he insisted the Diplomatic Services was the place for me." She smiled, remembering how Jari had badgered her. "I suppose he thought he was protecting me. There was this ensign, just out of the Academy. He and I were pretty serious, and Jari was afraid I’d make a big mistake if he didn’t take matters in hand."

She sipped her drink. "Well, it worked. The ensign and I put off making any commitments for a while. I took my first assignment—trade negotiations on New Paris—and the job sort of grew on me."

"And the ensign?"

Christopher hesitated for a second before answering. "He went to Zargassa—and he didn’t come back.

"I’m sorry." Kirk paused. "I was at Zargassa—a lieutenant aboard the Farragut."

He stared at the viewscreen, his face betraying his feelings. Christopher watched him wordlessly. She had seen this reaction before. It had been almost twenty-five years, but the mention of the disastrous peace-keeping mission in Arcturus still tapped a well of anger and pain in everyone who had been there. "You were decorated for your part in the action," she remembered.

Kirk shook his head. "We barely escaped the Battle of Three Moons with the ship intact. I spent a month in a regeneration tank. And I was one of the lucky ones."

"I’ve never forgotten that it was a diplomatic failure that set the stage for Zargassa," she said. "I guess it’s been a kind of motivation for me."

Kirk’s anger burned in his voice. "Lives were lost at Zargassa because we failed to analyze the military situation correctly. We had a chance to avoid fighting at Three Moons altogether; we just didn’t see it in time."

She laid a hand an his arm and said gently, "We, Jim? Surely you don’t blame yourself after all these years—a lieutenant aboard one ship in a battle that involved squadrons? Admiral Joseph paid the price for what was his mistake."

"I’ve never forgiven him for that mistake," Kirk said, turning his glass thoughtfully in his hands. "Maybe I should, now that I’ve made a few of my own." After a moment, he looked up at her. "I’m sorry. I haven’t thought about it in years—guess you pushed a button I didn’t know I still had."

"Don’t apologize," she insisted. "I’m glad to have a chance to see what’s behind that uniform."

"Am I that hard to read?" he replied, smiling. In his eyes, anger had been replaced by warmth of a different kind.

Christopher wanted to soak it up like a cat in a sunny window. She smiled back at him. "Maybe not. Maybe it’s just that you are not at all what I expected, Captain."

"I could say the same of you, Ambassador." He leaned closer and covered her hand with his own.

She sensed the pleasure he felt in the simple touch, recognized the current of shared excitement between them. She waited, barely breathing, for what might happen next. The mood was abruptly shattered by a voice from the ship’s intercom.

"Engineering to Captain Kirk."

Kirk winced, took a deep breath and tapped the wristcom. "Kirk here."

"Scott, here, Captain. The Number Two impulse engine checks out fine now, sir."

"Very good, Captain Scott. What’s the report on Ensign Camara?"

"Doctor McCoy says it’s nothing serious," the engineer said, "but I’ll be giving the entire section the standard safety lecture tomorrow morning."

Kirk flashed a grin at Christopher. "That should bring your section back up to its usual efficiency, Captain Scott."

"Uh, aye, sir. Except for one or two little things..."

Christopher saw Kirk close his eyes and offer up a prayer to whatever gods might oversee the smooth operation of a starship.

"What things are those, Scotty?"

The Scot’s brogue thickened. "Well, sir, I was going to wait until first watch...."

"That bad, huh?" Kirk sighed. "I’ll be right down." He switched off and smiled regretfully at his companion. "Something tells me I’d better go have a look. I’m afraid we’ll have to continue this another time."

As he rose to go, she gave him her most inviting smile. "I’ll try to remember where we left off."

He accepted the invitation with a smile of his own, then reluctantly turned to make his way to the nearest turbolift. Elena Christopher watched him until he disappeared around the far bulkhead, trying hard to ignore a sharp and very physical sense of disappointment.

-5-

Engineering was always busy, even on third watch. Scotty’s "bairns" needed babysitting at all hours and Kirk had known for years that the captain of Engineering did his best tinkering when his captain was not around to make unreasonable demands.

Still, Main Engineering buzzed with more than the usual energy as Kirk strode through in search of Montgomery Scott. It looked as if someone had stirred up a hive of bees. Overlaying everything, Kirk could still detect the acrid smell of blown circuitry. What the hell is going on?

When Kirk finally caught sight of him, the engineer was shaking his head over an exposed control panel. "Well, lads," Scott was saying, "you’ll have to pull this one, too. They’re falling like dominoes now."

"Trouble, Captain Scott?"

The engineer straightened from his work and acknowledged the truth with a nod. "Aye, sir. That flawed crystal in Number Two impulse was just the start of it. We’ve got control relays burning out all down the line."

Kirk discounted Scotty’s exasperation and tried to get a reading of the true scope of the problem. "How bad?"

"Well, we’ve just about got a handle on this one now, sir," Scott admitted. "But I’m having the lads take a look at all the main control circuits, just in case we’ve got another crystal ready to give up the ghost. When one of these flares out, the strain on what’s left can raise quite a ruckus."

"Is her design that faulty, Scotty?" Kirk had put the old Enterprise through every kind of engineering hell, and she had saved their lives many times over. He hated the thought that his new ship might not be capable of taking the same punishment—or providing the same protection. "I thought we’d worked out all the gremlins by now!"

His engineer grinned proudly. "Ah, no, sir. She’s a beauty, don’t you worry. We just have a few ‘adjustments’ to put her in fighting trim."

Kirk scanned the engine room, which showed evidence of more than a few adjustments. "Stay on it, Captain Scott. We don’t want one of those panels to blow when we’re in a tight turn at full impulse."

"Aye, sir." Scott looked as if he might say something more, but apparently he thought better of it.

The captain made it easy for him. "Anything else I should know about?"

"Well, you might as well hear it now, Captain," Scott sighed. "We may be short a shuttlecraft or two when we get to Sarva."

"We only have two shuttlecraft to start with, Engineer," Kirk said, his voice carefully modulated to conceal the fact that he was very nearly at the end of his patience.

"Aye, sir, that’s true," Scott said uncomfortably. "But they’re both on the repair manifest presently. Captain. Sir."

Kirk’s voice dropped another notch in volume. "They are new shuttlecraft, Captain Scott. How can they both be on the repair manifest?"

"Well, sir, a couple of the lasses were looking them over and discovered a few glitches in the navigational computers."

"Glitches."

"Aye, sir."

"In the navigational computers of both shuttlecraft?"

Scott swallowed nervously. "Aye, sir."

"And how long do you estimate it will be before these glitches are repaired?"

"Well, that’s the problem, sir," Scott admitted unhappily. "It shouldn’t take too long to do the job—that is, if I can find a couple of lads or lasses with some experience to do it— but getting to it is another thing. Unless you want me to put it ahead of the work on the control circuits?"

Kirk refused to believe the Starfleet brass had deliberately given him command of a lemon. "No, Captain Scott, the control circuits are more important. If you don’t get to it before we reach Sarva, we’ll just have to do without the shuttles. As long as the transporters are working." He fixed his engineer with a warning glare.

"Oh, aye, sir. No problems there! I fixed those while we were in orbit above that planet in the center of the galaxy."

"Good. Now, if there is nothing else, I’m going to bed."

Scott nodded confidently. "We’ll have her shipshape in no time, Captain. Sleep well."

"Thank you, Scotty," Kirk mumbled as he turned to leave. "I certainly hope so."

Kirk returned to his quarters tired and more than a little uneasy. First Spock’s sensor ghost and now the problems in Engineering. For a routine taxi run this was turning out to be one hell of a trip, reminding him of just how bad that mission with Sybok had been. He considered calling the bridge to check the ship’s status one last time but thought better of it. Let them do their jobs, he told himself. Nothing worse than a nursemaid for a captain...

He knew there was nothing wrong on the Enterprise that a few days of monitoring and adjustment wouldn’t fix. Still, Kirk couldn’t shrug off his sense of foreboding as easily as he slipped off his uniform tunic. Sighing, he threw the jacket over a chair and sat down at the desk to make an entry in his personal log.

There was a lot to report, and the process of committing it all to record was not making him feel any better. The buzz at his door made little impact on a train of thought that was headed steadily downhill. He responded automatically with a distracted "Come".

He looked up, expecting to see one of his senior officers with yet another piece of bad news. His visitor came nowhere near meeting his expectations.

Elena Christopher, a bottle of what appeared to be Saurian brandy in one hand and two glasses in the other, smiled at him from the doorway. "My timing is either very bad or very good," she said. "Which is it?"

She had changed her simple diplomatic tunic for a long, black bodydress in a soft jersey. The dress covered one arm from wrist to shoulder with a modest sleeve—but the other it left completely bare.

Kirk felt the full effect of the change in a rush of sensation along his spine. He smiled. "In fact, your timing couldn’t be better." He moved to take the things from her hands and set them on the desk. At the same time, he checked to make sure the corridor was empty before the door slid shut behind her.

She laughed. "Don’t worry, I wasn’t followed."

He colored slightly. "Well, it’s not every night a beautiful woman walks into my cabin at almost two in the morning." He poured out the brandy and offered her a glass.

"Really? With your reputation?" Her soft smile took the edge off her words.

"Don’t believe everything you hear," he said quietly.

She met his gaze long enough for him to recognize sympathy and the beginning of understanding.

He could feel the pull of the loneliness they had in common, drawing him in. He wanted to touch her, but he held back, waiting. She would make the first move, when she was ready.

She took in the scattered data tapes on his desk, the abandoned log. "Looks like the news from Engineering is not good."

"Scotty’ll have it straightened out in a few days," he said. "We’ve just got a few more gremlins to chase out." He chuckled. "You should’ve been here over the past few months during our missions to Tellus and Nimbus Three. These problems are nothing by comparison."

"You’re worried about it anyway."

He shrugged. "That’s my job."

She looked at him with a sudden seriousness. "It’s not easy for you to get away from all this, is it?" She somehow included the maroon Starfleet jacket thrown carelessly across the chair, the cabin, the ship, the whole fabric of his life in one small gesture.

"No," he admitted. "But I welcome the opportunity once in a while."

"That’s encouraging," she said. She moved closer. "You know, there are at least a dozen regulations that govern relationships between professional colleagues in Starfleet and the Diplomatic Services. We’re probably violating a few of them right now."

That had occurred to him, though he hadn’t yet figured out who would be considered the transgressor and who the "victim" in this case. "Does that bother you?"

"Not particularly," she answered. "You?"

Her nearness melted whatever reservations he might have had. "Not at all," he said.

"Good." She closed the distance between them and rested both hands on his chest. There was no hiding his reaction; he knew she could feel his heart leaping to meet her touch. She smiled. "Then since I’ve caught you at least partly out of uniform, I just may have a chance."

He answered her smile and traced a delicate line from her cheek to her bare shoulder with his fingertips. Oh, yes. "I’d say your chances..." He paused to kiss the soft hollow of her neck. "...for getting just about anything you want..." He brushed her ear with his lips. "...are excellent."

She raised her mouth to his, and he kissed her, lightly at first, an exploration. She led him deeper; he followed eagerly. He felt her arms encircle his waist, her hands slide across the muscles of his back to pull him closer. She whispered his name, and suddenly, he wanted her with an intensity beyond all conscious thought, a need beyond all control. She moved against him, slowly, deliberately, and there was no longer any reason to hold back. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.

He lifted her and carried her to the bed; in his mind there was nothing but the silken warmth of her skin, the sweet taste of her mouth, the contours of her body revealed in the half-light, the music of her voice in his ear, urging him on. In the universe, there was nothing but his building passion for her and hers for him, nothing but the long, delirious unfolding of their intimacy and the final, shattering realization of their ecstasy.

There, in the dark of night, in the warmth of closeness, Jim Kirk let go of the wider world and his place in it. There, in her arms, the captain of the Enterprise allowed himself to be nothing more than a man like any other.

*****

Kirk awoke in the darkened cabin some time later—alone. The chronometer read 0530—well before the start of the first watch. He relaxed again, determined to catch another hour of sleep. Warmed by the memory of last night and the promise of another ten standard days of relative ease before they reached Sarva, he had almost drifted off again when the intercom buzzed urgently.

Jolted, he reached for the pad and responded, "Kirk here."

"Spock, Captain. Sensors are showing a small vessel matching our course at extreme range."

Kirk shook off sleep. "A ship, Spock? Not your ghost?"

"Negative. The vessel is now close enough to determine that it is a scout ship of current Klingon design. Its speed is great enough to bring it within phaser range in thirty-nine point two five minutes."

Kirk was already reaching for his clothes. "I’m on my way."

*

The captain reached the bridge a few short minutes later and went immediately to Spock at the science station. "The ship has increased speed and is closing," Spock informed him. "Anticipating phaser range in twenty point four five minutes now."

"Definitely Klingons?"

"Affirmative."

His expression grim, Kirk turned to the ensign on duty at the communications station. "Signal yellow alert." He surveyed the bridge and saw only the younger faces of the inexperienced third watch crew. "And get the first watch up here now."

Kirk noted that some of the new crewmen were disappointed to hear they’d be relieved before the fireworks started, but the majority looked glad to be let off the hook. And he saw that his communications officer, a command ensign on rotation, was making a brave, but not very effective attempt to keep her voice level as she called Chekov, Uhura and the others to the bridge.

When she had located each of first watch officers, Kirk took a step closer and said quietly, "Hang in there, Garcia. This isn’t the first time the Enterprise has faced the Klingons—and it won’t be your last."

His comment had the desired effect on the nervous ensign, but Kirk realized even as he spoke that it wasn’t quite true. The encounter would be a test for this Enterprise. He suddenly felt like a stranger on his own ship, dangerously exposed by the absence of that gut-level rapport he’d built with the old Enterprise through dozens of situations just like this one.

He pushed the thought aside and focused instead on the faint image of the Klingon ship growing steadily clearer on the viewscreen. "Range, Mister Dixon?"

The novice helmsman glanced at his panel. "One hundred twenty thousand kilometers and closing, sir."

"Slow to impulse," Kirk ordered.

Hennessy and Chekov appeared on the bridge, struggling to get the juices flowing as they picked up the situation from the duty officers and took over their stations. By the time Captain of Engineering Scott arrived, most of the third watch had left the bridge, but Ensign Garcia was still at the comm station briefing Uhura.

"Stick around, Mister Garcia," Kirk told her. "You may learn something this morning." He worked to conceal a smile as Garcia acknowledge his order. The ensign looked like she’d much prefer to skip this particular lesson. "Uhura, open a channel to that ship."

Uhura punched in the command and replied, "Hailing frequencies open, sir."

"This is Captain James T. Kirk of the starship Enterprise. We request your identification code as per Section Twenty-eight, paragraph twelve of the Organian Treaty. Please comply."

Uhura listened for a moment, then confirmed the obvious. "No reply, Captain."

"Range fifty thousand kilometers. We are being scanned, Captain," Spock broke in.

"Repeating. This is the U.S.S. Enterprise. We have noted your course and speed. Unless you identify yourself immediately we will be forced to view your actions as hostile."

"Range thirty-five thousand kilometers and closing," Hennessy said levelly.

"Still no reply, Captain."

"Shields up. Signal red alert, Chekov. Battlestations."

Spock looked up from his monitors. "Sensors show they are arming phasers. Range twenty thousand kilometers and closing."

"Evasive maneuvers, Mister Hennessy!" Kirk clenched a fist and brought it down on the chair arm in frustration. "Are they crazy? They must know we outgun them ten to one."

"Picking up a transmission from the Klingon vessel, Captain," Spock said urgently. "Subspace and scrambled."

Kirk whirled in this seat to face the science station. "Get me a fix on the direction, Spock."

"Calculating now, sir."

"Range, Hennessy?"

"Eight thousand kilometers and still coming at us, Captain."

"Ready phasers, Mister Chekov."

"Armed and ready, Kyptin."

"Hold your fire, Chekov. I can’t believe they’re really going to do this. Spock?"

"Transmission completed and recorded, Captain. We have no key for this code as yet. The message was, however, aimed in the direction of Epsilon Crucis." Spock straightened from his sensor monitor and cocked an eyebrow at Kirk.

Kirk looked at the Vulcan in surprise, but he had no chance to ponder the significance of the information he had relayed. The Klingon ship was nearly on top of them.

Chekov looked over his shoulder at Kirk, waiting for the order to fire.

Kirk shook his head minutely. "Not yet, Mister Chekov. Stand by."

"Aye, sair. Standing by."

Hennessy called out the numbers. "Range five thousand kilometers and closing. Four thousand...twenty-five hundred...fifteen hundred...five hundred kilometers...contiguous space."

On the viewscreen, the ship swept past so close that the crew on the bridge instinctively ducked. In actuality, the fly-by was so close the warping effect generated by the Klingon ship rocked the Enterprise violently as the fabric of space around her rippled like a sheet in the wind.

Those crewmen who were unlucky enough to be standing as the ship absorbed the impact were thrown roughly to the deck or slammed against the bulkheads—along with anything else that wasn’t bolted down.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the scout was gone.

"Heading directly away from us, Captain," Spock reported. "They are on an evasive course, speed approximately warp nine."

Neither ship had fired a shot, but the officers on the bridge, with the exception of Spock, were as shaken as any battle could have left them. Even Kirk took a moment to find his voice and order the ship to secure from red alert.

He scanned his bridge. No casualties, thank God. And no damage. The young command ensign was struggling to her feet beside the comm station. "All right, Garcia?" he asked her.

She was as gray as the bulkhead, but she nodded. "Fine, sir."

He smiled. She would do. "Well done, Ensign," he said. "Uhura, I’ll need damage reports as soon as you can get them."

Uhura went to work and the reports began to filter in. Damage to the ship had been minimal, but there were a higher number of casualties than usual—the price of inexperience for some of the newest members of the crew. Kirk listened silently, controlling his expression to give no sign of the anger—and the guilt—he was feeling.

When the reports were in, he called McCoy in Sickbay. "How is it, Bones?"

"We’re busy, but the injuries are mostly minor—a few broken bones. What the hell went on up there anyway?"

"Never mind, Doctor. Make sure your staff has everything under control and meet me in the briefing room as soon as you can get away. Kirk out."

The captain stood and made a terse announcement. "I want to see senior officers in the briefing room in twenty minutes. Uhura, inform Ambassador Christopher that her presence is also requested."

He left the bridge without another word, leaving Ensign Garcia, among others, one more thing to think about for the rest of the morning.

***

Exactly twenty-four minutes later, Leonard McCoy rushed through the doors of the briefing room, looking like he’d taken the fifteen meters of corridor from the turbolift at a dead run. "Sorry, Jim, I got here as soon as I could..." His voice trailed off as he got a look at the captain’s face. "Uh-oh," he muttered as he slid into the last empty seat at the table next to Elena Christopher.

The ambassador gave him a brief, sympathetic smile. She’d been on time to the meeting, but the tension in the room had been enough to make her feel vaguely guilty anyway. Captain Kirk was in full professional display this morning. The man whose bed she’d shared the night before was nowhere to be seen.

Kirk looked at Christopher and began without preamble. "Ambassador, less than an hour ago, as the rest of us here are only too aware, the Enterprise encountered hostile action from a Klingon scout vessel. The ship approached us at a very high rate of speed, refused to respond to our communications and gave every indication of initiating an attack."

Christopher watched his face as he spoke. He was trying hard to keep it submerged, but his anger was running very close to the surface.

"Fortunately for us and certainly for them," he went on, "the Klingons did not fire on us. They simply overtook us and disappeared, leaving us to wonder what the hell their intentions were in the first place."

Kirk got up and began to pace. "Was that crew acting on its own? Or is there something about the Enterprise the Klingons find so interesting they would send a ship this close to the heart of the Federation to track us at extreme range for dozens of lightyears? And if it was a spy ship, why the last-minute charge? That’s hardly the best way to avoid detection. Comments, anyone? Ambassador?"

"I would suggest that it is not so much the ship the Klingons are interested in, Captain, as her mission," Christopher said at the risk of stating the obvious. "The Klingons are surely aware of the deteriorating situation on Sarva. They may see it as an opportunity to wrest at least one planet—and quite possibly several more—from Federation control. The Empire would do almost anything to disrupt the admissions votes; and if that were my objective, I would certainly start with Sarva."

"That hypothesis would seem to be corroborated by the evidence of the transmission, Captain," Spock said. "As you recall, it was directed at Epsilon Crucis, not back to the Klingons’ home base."

Kirk turned to his executive officer. "Are you suggesting the Klingons have people on Sarva?"

"Very likely, Captain," Christopher answered. "There is a Klingon embassy on Sarva, and per the Organian Treaty, they are not prohibited from visiting the planet. Frankly, I’d have been surprised if they haven’t been up to some mischief."

Kirk’s jaw tightened. "So they tracked us long enough to be sure of our destination, then sent a warning to their friends on Sarva. But what about our little game of tag?"

"A feint, Captain?" Hennessy suggested.

"Perhaps they thought we’d miss their transmission in all the confusion," Uhura added.

"And maybe they couldn’t resist a closer look at your ship after all, Captain," Christopher said with a smile.

The humor was lost on Kirk, who stood at the opposite end of the table, visibly trying to put the pieces together so that they made sense. "With all due respect, Ambassador, I find it hard to believe the Klingons would risk playing cat and mouse with a starship over something as elusive and intangible as diplomatic influence," Kirk argued. "The Klingons are not usually so subtle. And it was sheer luck that no shots were fired this morning—we could just as easily have blasted them out of space."

Christopher suddenly found her own temper rising in response to Kirk’s dismissal. You can underestimate the importance of this mission, Jim Kirk, but you’re making a big mistake if you underestimate me. "Captain, I realize diplomatic escort missions are not generally considered to be the height of military excitement," she said, "but if you thought this was going to be a picnic you were sadly mistaken. You better believe the Klingons would gladly sacrifice the lives of the crew of a scout ship to influence the outcome of negotiations that affect their interests. The battle of wits around a negotiating table can affect the lives of thousands just as surely as a battle between starships. If I lose this one, the Sarvans will destroy themselves in a senseless war, and the Klingons will be right there to pick up the pieces."

The ambassador no sooner finished speaking than she regretted it. She could tell from the look in Kirk’s eyes that she’d hit on the true source of his anger. He blamed himself for being caught unprepared—that the encounter had been relatively harmless hardly mattered—and she had just thrown it in his face.

She glanced quickly around the table and saw that the point hadn’t been lost on the others, either. Damn it, Christopher, she thought, can’t you keep your mouth shut? She saw Kirk take a deep breath.

When he spoke his tone was coldly professional. "Thank you, Ambassador. I won’t need to be reminded of that again." He held her gaze a moment longer, then turned to his officers. "The performance of this ship and its crew in the last twenty-four hours has not even come close to the standard I normally expect from the Enterprise," he said in a voice that seemed unnaturally calm. "Before we are faced with another situation like we had this morning I want to know what every crewman, every piece of equipment, every last nut and bolt on this ship is capable of. I’m ordering full station and weapons drills for all watches until I’m satisfied every member of the crew knows this ship inside out."

He paused to let the message register. Christopher saw Chekov and Hennessy exchange a look that spoke volumes about the meaning of Kirk’s orders.

"And Scotty, I want the Enterprise in peak operating condition," Kirk continued. "We can’t afford to be in the middle of replacing control relays the next time the Klingons show up."

The captain of engineering looked properly chastised. "Aye, sir."

"I believe all of you have your work cut out for you," Kirk snapped. "Dismissed."

The officers stood and slowly filed out into the corridor. Christopher hesitated before leaving, wanting to say something, but only too painfully aware of the barriers that were up once again around the private man behind the captain’s uniform.

McCoy grabbed her elbow, deftly steering her into the corridor before she could act. "Take my advice—as someone who’s offered a few too many brutally honest comments in his day," the physician said kindly. "Give him some time to cool off."

"I guess I hit a nerve," Christopher admitted with a faint smile.

"Well, maybe your timing wasn’t the best, but you were right and he knows it," the doctor replied. "It would be a little hard for him to admit right now, but Jim would rather have the truth, even if it hurts." McCoy smiled. "Frankly, I’m glad to have someone else around to play the gadfly for a change."

Christopher didn’t answer; her thoughts were on another track. "It’s almost as if he was angrier with himself than with me..."

"He’s harder on himself than on anyone else on this ship," McCoy confirmed. "It’s part of what makes him so good at what he does, but it takes a toll. I think you know as well as anyone what I mean."

"Then I should have seen this coming," she said bluntly. "Instead I missed it by a lightyear. Some diplomat, huh?"

"Oh, I don’t know," McCoy said. "You seem pretty perceptive to me."

Christopher smiled and squeezed his arm, grateful for his friendship on what had become a difficult morning. "Thanks, Doc." She turned to go. "Now I’m going to take my fine perceptions and my diplomatic language back to my doghouse, where I expect to stay for the rest of this mission."

-6-

Teresa Garcia ran a hand through her black hair and exhaled loudly. Then she punched in yet another response to the "Request for Data Analysis" command that appeared with monotonous regularity on her panel at the communications station in auxiliary control. She was almost afraid to look at the computer’s evaluation of the analysis she had supplied. Nothing had been good enough for Uhura and the rest of the brass on the bridge since they’d started these confounded drills.

Garcia turned to her partner on the second watch, an Australian who had been a year ahead of her at the Academy. "I’ve never been so impressed with the vital role Communications plays during battle," she said sourly. "I thought once I’d gotten the hang of ‘hailing frequencies open’ I had it made."

Lieutenant Murphy laughed. "Just be glad you’re not on rotation in Engineering," she said. "And Weapons is no party, either."

Garcia had to agree. She had been watching Murphy fire imaginary photon torpedoes at imaginary Klingons for hours. She looked down and scowled when she saw the computer’s response to her last input. The rating was only slightly above adequate. "When are they going to get tired of this, anyway?" she complained. "We’ve been at it for three days. If we don’t know what we’re doing by now, we’re never gonna know."

Murphy shrugged. "I hear the old man was really ticked off by our little brush with the Klingons the other day. I guess when he’s happy we’ll get a break."

"I was on the bridge that morning," Garcia said. "‘Ticked off’ isn’t the phrase I’d use." That had been afterward, of course. During the attack he’d been as calm as a priest. She didn’t think she’d ever achieve that kind of composure under pressure.

"Yeah, Captain Kirk can be a tough old bird," Murphy said. "But then he needs to be to keep you youngsters in line."

Garcia sighed. The computer was asking for her input again. "He doesn’t have to worry," she said. "I’m too tired to get out of line. If this watch ever ends, I’m going to sleep for eighteen hours."

"This watch is never going to end," Murphy said brightly and blew up another Klingon ship.

*****

On the bridge, Leonard McCoy stood at the science station, kibitzing while the Enterprise’s executive officer monitored the drill responses coming in from various parts of the ship. The crew was tired—the doctor could hear the fatigue in their voices—and from what he could see the limits of performance improvement had been reached long ago.

"Don’t you think we’ve had just about enough of this, Captain Spock?" he asked when the drill sequence had been ordered yet again.

Spock looked at him expressionlessly. "It’s not a question of whether I think it’s enough, Doctor. Undoubtedly Captain Kirk will inform us when he feels the crew is sufficiently prepared."

"The crew is not going to be any better prepared after the next drill than they are right now. Listen to them: they’re exhausted and rapidly becoming demoralized. We are past the point of diminishing returns here."

"As usual you exaggerate the situation, Doctor." The Vulcan kept his voice low to avoid being overheard by others on the bridge. "However, I agree with you. The captain’s reaction to the encounter with the Klingon ship seems to have been somewhat...excessive. In fact, I find his behavior puzzling in more than one respect."

McCoy was intrigued. Despite all their years together and the bond that had been created by their mind-meld in the last moments of what the doctor thought of as Spock’s first life, it was still rare for the Vulcan to confide in his friend. McCoy smiled to himself and prompted Spock to go on. "What do you mean?"

"The captain’s mood seems unusually depressed. He has not taken time for his usual recreational activities."

The doctor shrugged. "That’s not uncommon for a man who’s intensely involved with his work."

"True," Spock admitted. "But the captain’s reaction to hard work is normally one of enjoyment. He does not seem to be enjoying this. And I have noted something else. On a number of occasions, I have observed that the captain avoids contact with Ambassador Christopher."

McCoy was floored. "Surely you haven’t taken up the dynamics of Human interaction as a hobby, Spock?"

"Not at all, Doctor," the Vulcan replied. "I merely observe that the captain’s behavior is neither logical nor efficient. The ambassador is a highly competent professional. Her opinions and observations are of value to our mission. I fail to understand why the captain would not seek them out, even if he did not find her to be attractive as a female companion."

"A female compan..." McCoy interrupted himself with a huge grin. "Spock, I do believe I must have had some effect on you!"

"I suppose that was inevitable," Spock said.

McCoy thought he sounded resigned to the fact, if not exactly happy about it. "Well, Spock, since you brought it up, I’ll tell you what I think," the chief medical officer began, "I think he does find her attractive, perhaps dangerously so. That is precisely the reason he has been avoiding her."

Spock shook his head slowly. "That is not logical."

McCoy sighed. "No, and it’s not sensible, either, Spock, but it’s very typical of the Human male."

Of course, the doctor thought, it isn’t Spock who needs to hear this. He decided it was time to have this discussion with the captain, no matter how risky it might be for himself. Kirk’s stubbornness was affecting the mental health of the crew and that made it McCoy’s responsibility. He left Spock to his work, and, squaring his shoulders, headed for the captain’s quarters determined to do his duty.

***

The cabin door slid open in response to his buzz, but McCoy lingered in the doorway, considering Jim Kirk’s appearance. "You look like hell," he said at last and crossed over to the littered desk.

Kirk looked up at him. "Nice to see you, too, Doctor."

"I’ll bet you haven’t been out of this room in three days." McCoy cleared a space for himself on the chair in front of the desk and sat down. "And you’ve been working at that damn terminal for so long you have little squares where your eyes should be."

Kirk smiled and leaned back in his chair. "Bones, why is it I get the feeling I’m in for one of your lectures?

"Maybe because you deserve one?" He waved the bottle he’d brought with him at the desk full of data tapes. "Now, come on, turn that thing off and let’s have a drink." He poured out two small glasses and handed one to his friend, who waited stoically for the doctor to say his piece.

The familiar kick of the brandy renewed McCoy’s courage. "Jim, don’t you think you’re being a little hard on your new crew—not to mention your old friends?"

"Doctor, it’s my responsibility to see that this ship and her crew are ready to respond to any situation."

"Yeah, yeah, I know all about that," McCoy broke in. "I’ve only been listening to it for twenty years. I just think three days of drills might be too much of a good thing."

"You didn’t seem to think it was excessive when your Sickbay was overflowing with injuries from a minor encounter." There was an edge to Kirk’s voice born of fatigue and not a little defensiveness.

McCoy studied his glass. "If you’re trying to build loyalty in a young crew, this is a damn poor way to go about it. I can hear the grumbling all the way to my quarters."

"Two-thirds of the members of this crew have never been in deep space before," Kirk countered. "Lack of experience could get them more than a few bumps and bruises next time around. They’ll thank me if they survive long enough."

McCoy looked at him. "Is it really the crew you’re worried about, Jim? Or is it yourself? Are you sure you’re not pushing them because you were caught short?"

Kirk left his chair and slowly paced the length of the cabin. "I should have been ready for this, Bones. A new ship, a green crew. And Elena was right—this mission only looks like it might be an easy one. If I’d done my homework I’d have known that. I let my guard down—and we were just plain lucky the consequences weren’t more serious."

"For God’s sake, Jim, you can’t anticipate every eventuality!"

"The evidence was there," Kirk said sharply. Then, as if to himself, he added, "I was just too...distracted...to see it."

McCoy knew an opening when he saw one, and he didn’t hesitate. "Sometimes a little distraction is good for you, Jim—gives you some perspective on life. And Elena Christopher is the best distraction you’ve had in a while. She’s beautiful, she’s brilliant and, for once, she doesn’t seem to be asking anything of you. There’s no reason to think that spending a little time in her company will get in the way of your concentration. This is hardly the first time you’ve had a romantic interest on the job."

Even as he added the last line, McCoy felt a quick stab of contrition. The scars from a few of those encounters, he knew, were only freshly healed; some would never close completely. Another man might have favored his injured heart like a bad leg; Jim Kirk constantly tested his—to strengthen it or to make sure it was still functioning, McCoy was never certain.

The doctor expected a curt order to mind his own business. He was surprised when Kirk answered quietly, "This one is different, Bones."  he captain straightened. "At any rate, on board ship in deep space is not the appropriate place to pursue my own personal interests, whatever they may be."

McCoy looked at him incredulously. "And where the hell else are you going to pursue them, pray tell? You’ve been a starship captain for twenty years; you’ll probably be a starship captain for the rest of your life. When are you going to take some time for yourself? I mean, you’ve got relationships—Gillian Taylor, Kate Logan, even Uhura. But you can’t seem to make time for them, or for yourself."

The doctor leaned forward earnestly. "I promise you the crew will not mutiny, the ship will not fall apart, if you and Elena Christopher share a few quiet moments together. In fact, I dare say your crew would be grateful for a reprieve."

Anyone else looking at Kirk’s expression would think the doctor had pushed his captain too far. But McCoy recognized that he’d accomplished what he came for. He stood and moved toward the door. As he reached it, he turned and pointed in Kirk’s direction. "If I were you, I’d cancel these infernal drills and enjoy the rest of what should be a quiet cruise to Sarva. And relax, will ya, Jim?"

-7-

Elena Christopher was trying hard to lose herself in her work. The low, steady drone of the drill responses from the intercom provided a slightly irritating accompaniment to the hum of her scanner as she reviewed the remaining data tapes on Sarva. She sighed. Whether she liked it or not, she was going to know everything there was to know about this assignment a week ahead of planetfall.

Christopher hated to admit it, but somehow Jim Kirk had infected her with his doubts about the Klingons’ motives. Now she found herself looking for something else in the data—what she couldn’t say—and it was driving her crazy.

Of course, that wasn’t the only thing that was driving her crazy. The captain himself was doing a pretty good job of that as well. He’d been avoiding her for days—nothing else could explain the fact that they hadn’t so much as run into each other in the corridors since "the morning after."

And that was some night before, too, she thought regretfully. Jim Kirk might have a reputation, but part of it, at least, was well deserved.

She sighed again. This wasn’t the first time her outspokenness had cost her. Usually she just chalked it up to experience and forgot about it. But this time she was left with a strange sense of loss, as if she had missed an opportunity or had somehow turned down the wrong path. That night with Jim had had all the earmarks of a Significant Event. She laughed to herself.. Your Significant Event isn’t likely to be repeated, Elena. I think they call that a one-night stand.

She turned back to the data tapes and had summoned enough concentration that the buzz at the door a few minutes later made her jump. Annoyed, she answered with anything but welcome in her voice. The last person in the galaxy she had expected to see walked through the door with an apologetic smile.

"I can come back another time if you’re busy," Kirk said, looking as if he was ready to bolt at a word from her.

"No, no, please," she managed to say, caught somewhere between the last of her irritation and the first of a confusing onslaught of emotions of a different nature. "Come on in."

She moved to the bunk—the only place in the tight cabin where they could sit without a desk between them—and waited, outwardly calm, for him to sit down next to her.

"I think I may owe you an apology," he said, finding a spot on the edge of the bunk just close enough to jack up her pulse.

She tried to focus on what he was saying. "I’ll accept yours if you’ll accept mine. I was out of line the other day—I’m sorry."

He shook his head. "You were right. I’m sorry it took me so long to admit it."

"Well, for what it’s worth," she said, "I’ve been spending the last three days looking for another reason why the Klingons would be interested in this God-forsaken planet."

He grinned. "Find anything?"

"No," she replied. "But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong we’ll just have to keep our eyes open when we get there."

"Agreed. I don’t think they’ll be back before then," he said. "They got the information they needed. Now they’ll keep a low profile for a while."

She found she couldn’t resist teasing him just a little. "How are the drills going?"

"I’ve canceled them," he said with an embarrassed smile. "Doctor McCoy seemed to think the crew was on the brink of mutiny."

"You have a good crew, Jim," she said earnestly. "Your experience will get them through any rough spots. Don’t worry."

He nodded, acknowledging her attempt to reassure him, but he didn’t answer. A small, awkward silence fell between them. In the quiet, the question that Christopher had been asking herself for days came noisily to mind again.

"Jim, how do you feel about what happened between us the other night? Do you think we made a mistake?"

He looked startled—and guilty. "I’m not sure. Do you?"

"No, I don’t," she decided. "Maybe the timing wasn’t quite right, but people like us can’t always wait for the right time to make a connection. Sometimes right now is all you have. I don’t think that’s wrong."

"No, it’s not wrong," he said. He reached out to touch her hair. His thumb brushed her ear, setting off little tremors of pleasure along her spine. "Risky, maybe, but never wrong."

Risky? Yes, that’s possible. There was something about her reaction to him that was unexpected, unpredictable. She wasn’t sure where it might take her. "I don’t mind taking a few risks if that’ll get me what I want," she said playfully.

He laughed softly. The sound, coming from deep in his chest, sent another charge ripping through her. "And what is it you want?" he asked.

Smiling, she pushed him down onto the bunk and stretched out on top of him. She could feel his response even through the heavy cloth of his uniform and shifted her position to encourage it. She kissed him, lingering over his taste and the delicious feel of his mouth until she was nearly out of breath.

Then she drew back to look at him. "I want to feel the way you made me feel the other night," she said, the sensations rushing along every nerve as she spoke. "I want to feel that way for hours, maybe even for days."

He ran his hands down her back to her buttocks and pressed her warmly against his rising hips. He smiled at her sharp intake of breath. "That," he said, "can be arranged."

*****

"Standard orbit in two minutes, Captain." Hennessy keyed in the last of the trajectory code and watched his monitor for confirmation that the Enterprise had achieved orbit. On the viewscreen the dusty blue and brown of Sarva loomed against the inky backdrop of space.

Kirk, in the command chair, replied automatically, "Very good, Mister Hennessy. Commander Uhura, inform our hosts that we’ve arrived and we’re ready when they are."

"Aye, sir. And, Captain, Doctor McCoy and Ambassador Christopher are standing by in the transporter room."

Kirk nodded and left the chair to join Spock at the science station. "Anything unusual, Captain Spock?"

"Negative, Captain. The only other ships in the system are commercial vessels, predominantly mid-sized freighters."

Kirk frowned. "I don’t like it. Somebody received that message from the Klingon ship."

"Two possibilities, Captain," Spock said. "Either there was another Klingon ship in the vicinity which has since left..."

"Or someone on the planet is cozy with the Klingons," Kirk finished for him.

"There is also the possibility that the scout ship contacted the Klingon Embassy."

The Enterprise’s commander considered a moment, then let it go for the time being. "You have the conn, Spock. Let me know if anything turns up." He sighed. "Frankly, I’d rather be up here than stuck in that conference hall below, listening to the Argeddans blow off steam."

"I do sympathize, Captain," the Vulcan replied. "The Sarvans’ discourse is distressingly emotional, even for Humans."

Kirk could think of nothing meaningful to say in reply, despite an urge to come to the defense of his species. He shook his head and retreated to the turbolift, leaving the bridge to his executive officer.

*****

The transporter beam shimmered and left the three from the Enterprise in the softly lit coolness of the State Hall of the Directorate of the Arged. Kirk had scanned the data tapes and knew that the room was the largest of any in the complex housing the Directorate. Yet the impression created by the room’s designers was one of intimacy, of shelter from the harshness of a hostile environment. Rich textiles in deep red, purple and royal blue softened the contours of the room, covering the floor and the walls with sensuous color and texture. For Kirk, used to the clean lines and Spartan interior of the Enterprise, the decor seemed more appropriate to a bedroom than a government reception hall.

At the near end of a low table of light, highly polished wood, a small group of Argeddan officials stood ready to greet them. The short, dark Argeddans were as colorfully dressed as their surroundings, but their grim expressions were a poor match for their bright clothing.

With the barest of polite smiles, one of the group stepped forward and extended a hand. "I am Atu Soborr-Taal, Director of the Arged. I trust all is well in your household?"

The ritual greeting, a holdover from the Terran cultures that had first settled Sarva, demanded a ritual response. Christopher grasped his hand lightly and provided it. "All is peaceful there. I am Ambassador Elena Christopher." She indicated her companions. "Captain James Kirk and Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy of the starship Enterprise."

"You are most welcome," the Director said with a slight bow. That he omitted further greetings signaled a great sense of urgency. "I regret that the circumstances which bring you to our planet are...as they are. Please." He led the way to the table. "The situation is very grave—we have much to discuss."

A low, padded bench circled the table, which Kirk now saw was set into a shallow well a step below the level of the floor. He was mildly surprised to find that the arrangement allowed him to sit comfortably with no fear of scraping his knees on the underside of the table. Not exactly practical, he decided, but functional.

Kirk turned his attention to the Director, who was introducing a member of his senior staff. Defense Bureau Head Lai Ndarr was an older woman whose deeply lined face showed no sign of either humor or compassion. She was not one to waste time on formalities. "Sankiang is clearly initiating a course of events that can only lead to all out war," she said, as if daring anyone to argue the point. "They intend to weaken us and stretch our resources to the limit with the fever before they mount a direct attack across the border."

The Federation’s Ambassador absorbed the outburst impassively. "You are convinced this is their intention?"

"Even as we speak, the Sankianis are amassing troops on the border in preparation for the conflict," Ndarr replied. "Our only defense is to act decisively." She almost sneered. "I find this...palaver...pointless."

The jowly Prefect of Bakarr State joined his voice to hers. "My people are dying by the hundreds along the border with Sankiang, Ambassador. We stand by and do nothing while the Sankianis wait to pick our bones. I demand that the Federation assist us in putting a stop to this bloody atrocity!"

"I assure you, Prefect, I will do all I can to effect a solution,"’Christopher replied evenly.

"I sincerely hope so, Ambassador," Ndarr said icily. "Otherwise we will be forced to solve this problem ourselves—with a preemptive strike over the border to eliminate the threat of invasion!"

"Ndarr!" The Director was livid. "Your opinions do not reflect the official position of this government, as I have pointed out before."

Ndarr’s face was a mask; she said nothing more.

The Director turned to Christopher. "We do not seek war, but we will not fail to gain redress for the suffering of our people. You must use the power of your starship to make the Sankianis understand—"

Christopher cut in sharply, just ahead of the captain of the starship in question. "The Federation does not use its starships to threaten or coerce, Director—for any purpose. The Enterprise is here as my escort—and I am here to determine where the truth lies in your dispute in the hope of avoiding open war."

"The truth is that Sankiang is guilty of biological warfare!" the Prefect growled.

"The government of Sankiang denies any involvement in the epidemic which affects your people," Christopher pointed out. "In fact, they insist the plague is a creation of your Bureau of Information."

"That’s a lie!" the Prefect shot back.

In the confusion of angry murmurs around the table, the young science bureau head was almost inaudible. "I assure you, Ambassador," she said with quiet conviction, "the fever is no propagandist’s tool. It is horribly real."

"And Sankiang is directly responsible!" the Prefect added.

Christopher ignored him and spoke to the young scientist. "Convince me," she said. "If you can convince me, I will bring the full weight of the Federation to bear on the Sankianis."

The woman swallowed nervously, but Sobarr-Taal indicated a pile of data tapes at the foot of the table. "The evidence is before you, Ambassador."

"Ve