Waiting on Serenidad

Seventy years later, George Kirk’s grandson, Peter, was sitting in an area common to both high-rankers and no-rankers. He was waiting for George’s second son, Jim, to finish a sudden urgent meeting with Spock. Then, the two Kirks would join Doctor McCoy for a nice lengthy leave on Serenidad, guests of La Caudilla herself, a.k.a. Princess Teresa de la Vega Ruiz-Mendoza McCoy. Peter had met her once, and even though it was under very bad circumstances, she couldn’t help but look incredible. Best word was, she still did.

In a seemingly absent but quite conscious gesture, he rubbed his lieutenant’s bars for about the millionth time since getting them back. Technically, it was not a promotion, but rather a restoration to a previously held rank. But Peter barely recalled the first time he made lieutenant. This time, he recalled and treasured it fully. He didn’t know whether or not his life had actually become better after his release from Tantalus Penal Colony. Peter Kirk simply knew that life tasted better.

He tried keeping his patience, knowing that the absent Jim would come when he could. The first time he tried to contact him, Peter mused, would probably also be the last, so he held out just a bit longer, so as not to try Jim’s patience. The two had at long last reached a point where a delay was seen as a delay, not an effort to push the other one away. Besides, Peter found it a bit of a kick just to sit around in Starfleet Headquarters and not worry about tests and such. Passing cadets took greater note of his bars than he himself did.

He and his uncle had spent the last five months together, as Peter lived out his dream of service aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise. Granted, the ship was being largely shut down, and he was mostly assigned the categorization of scientific equipment. But serving with Jim aboard his ship was something that would never leave his nephew’s heart. Plus, the sometimes-drudgery of this duty had helped net him the extra leave time, as seasoned officers had left the ship in advance of such duty.

"That should be enough time."

Peter called Jim on his private frequency, but was quietly and quickly brushed aside.

"Not now, Peter. This is...we’ll talk later."

The upset tone in the senior Kirk’s voice would have been evident to Peter even before Dianas. Nowadays, he knew what that precise tone meant. Captain Kirk was upset with someone he cared about. The younger Kirk was mightily glad that it wasn’t him.

"Aye, Captain. Kirk out."

Reasoning that he might be waiting a while longer than he had originally thought, Peter got up from his chair and began to wander the then-emptied class-halls. Having very few fond memories of Starfleet Academy life, he had never really appreciated how well designed the place was. Or perhaps, he reasoned, the design had been improved in the last twelve years.

That wouldn’t surprise him. But a voice, seemingly from the dark past, did manage to surprise him.

"Big shot hero-kin. That means exactly nothing here. Nothing at all."

Peter was well past his probation, yet still knew that getting into a fight was by definition a bad idea. Yet if this unknown speaker failed to withdraw what he saw as fighting words, then the lieutenant would feel hard-pressed to keep his temper even. A second voice, though, shook him out of his temporary self-absorption and brought him back to reality.

"I’ve never done anything to any of you. Yet, day after day, you stand here, and try to obstruct my passage to the one class where tardiness really costs you big."

A subtler lot than his own tormentors, Peter still found these people simply vicious. They were like the prehistoric velociraptors, hunting and pecking for weakness before swiping at their prey with their dewclaws. Their target, a pretty Human female cadet of Asian descent, happily seemed a bit calmer than Peter did at that age. Despite her calm, or perhaps because of it, the ringleader of the four harassers kept right on.

"Is the cadet afraid of telling Daddy about her less-than-perfect record? Well, too bad. You’re here until you’re good and late. This is what happens to stuck-up trash like you. You walk around here with a bug shoved up your behind, and the rest of us are supposed to genuflect or curtsy. Well, screw you, screw your Dad’s high-powered friends, and screw your Da—"

At that, Peter saw the young woman come alive, and slap the ringleader. It wasn’t an angry slap, from what he could see. It was more a line of demarcation. She wasn’t saying that she was about to cry. She was perhaps saying that he was about to. That is, if the punk was about to allow a fair fight, which Peter correctly doubted.

"Hold her. I’m gonna enjoy this."

Past letting matters run their course, Peter Kirk shouted words at the party that he had, in many respects, waited a lifetime to say in earnest. "Cadets, stand down!"

However full of themselves the harassing party might have been, ignoring Peter’s words was obviously not in them. To ignore even an upperclassman was tantamount to death for most cadets. To ignore a commissioned officer was grounds for eternal damnation.

"Lieu-Lieutenant, this isn’t how it—"

Peter again ate up this opportunity, a kind of generational payback. "Cadet, permission to speak was neither requested nor granted. You will maintain silence. Am I understood?"

He turned to the young woman. "Cadet, you are dismissed. Report to your class. Here—" He scrawled a number sequence. "—is my public BellComm code. If your instructor needs verification of your story, I’ll provide it."

Peter, who had never had anyone intervene this way on his behalf, could not help but see the gratitude in her eyes.

"Thank you, sir."

As she left, Peter turned his attention to the other four. "You’ll stand at attention for five minutes, and ruminate on conduct unbecoming a Starfleet Officer. Then, after I take your names, you can go."

As he hoped and prayed, one of them, the ringleader, spoke up. "Not a good idea, sir. My dad serves in Admiral Po’s office. Helps process personnel assignments—if you know what I mean. So how does a ground assignment as Starfleet observer to Tantalus Five sound?"

Like the man once said, irony is nothing if not ironic. Peter lightly shrugged at the big-talker. "Great. I haven’t seen Harry Mudd in years. He still owes me for poker, the bastard. Now, Cadet, would you care to withdraw that threat?"

The arrogance never seemed to fade from the punk’s face. "No, sir. I would not. I will, however, take your name for possible action."

In Peter’s day, the other three would have been dropping this loser like a hot potato. But now, they looked on, figuring to walk away scot-free. They would be wrong in this figuring. "My name? Okay. I’ll spell it. K-i-r-k."

The looks on their faces said at least that they could spell. Whatever influence the leader’s father had, it had just been wildly trumped. Peter called for Security, and not a peep was heard the rest of their time together. Peter was quite explicit in their behavior and their threat. The younger Kirk knew that Admiral Po of Starfleet Personnel was not going to be happy with one of her staff, but that wasn’t his problem.

When Peter finally got back to the Starfleet Headquarters Main Briefing Room, Jim Kirk was only just emerging. The captain looked disgusted.

"Jim? What’s wrong?" Peter asked.

Kirk turned and pointed at an emerging Spock. "You wanna know what’s wrong? Ask Spock! Tell him, Captain. Tell my nephew why we can’t spend our leave together. And Peter? Don’t punch him, because you’re going to be sorely tempted to do so."

Peter walked over to Spock, and both were still a bit shaken as they watched Captain Kirk walk away, still muttering to himself. "Captain Spock, I’ve seen him that angry exactly once—at me. Sir, what happened? What’s going on?"

Were Peter a bettor, he would have taken odds that while Kirk’s reaction itself had not surprised Spock, the depths and breadth of that reaction did. The Vulcan did not seem quite himself. "Peter, your uncle is needed on a vital mission of galactic peace. No other man is better qualified to accomplish this daunting goal."

Somehow, being around Spock made Peter want to carefully control his reactions tenfold. Jim had referred to the man as a brother many times over. That made the Vulcan legend family. On this occasion, though, the lieutenant addressed the captain in a manner disturbingly similar to a more troubled and troubling Peter Kirk.

"Well, its always him, isn’t it?"

Perhaps Spock was taken aback by another upset Kirk. At least that’s what his face suggested to Peter, who apologized, at least for the intent of his words.

"I’m sorry, Captain. I should have prepared myself better for this very real possibility. Sir, is the mission classified?"

Spock did not answer, except to ask a question of his own. "Peter, are you upset with me?"

"Sir, if I gave offense...."

Spock cut him off with a raised hand. "That was not my question. You are operating under the fallacious assumption that I have chosen to be challenged by the slightly harsher tone your voice has taken. That is incorrect. My sole concern is for your uncle, and by extension, yourself. I do not wish to reopen the rift between the two of you."

Peter nodded, reluctantly. "Yes, sir. I am upset with you. But I also know that you wouldn’t do this without good cause."

Spock looked in the direction Jim had gone, so visibly upset. "Then, Peter, you know more than your uncle does. I never truly gauged the depth of his grief over your late cousin’s murder. That appears to be an error on my part."

While the Vulcan continued staring at the path of his absent friend, Peter fought back another wave of anger. The Genesis incident had been a news blur to the young ensign while stationed on Prothos Colony. Peter had found out that Doctor David Marcus was his first cousin about the same time as everyone else in the galaxy had. It seemed only weeks passed before he learned he no longer had a cousin, thanks to a lunatic Kh’myr Klingon named Kruge.

"Begging the captain’s pardon, sir, but what has all this got to do with David Marcus?"

Spock almost seemed annoyed, now, in a Vulcan-like way. "Yes. I should not have allowed my attention to wander. Could I be upset with Jim in turn?"

Peter shrugged. "When Jim gets like that, sir, it no longer matters whether he’s on the right side of an argument. One’s natural instinct is to recoil. Trust the word of one who’s been there and back."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "I am familiar with his patterns of behavior, Peter."

"Why? When has he ever been upset with you?"

Spock allowed for the relative naivete of the question and got back to business. "That is not important, now. Our mission is not classified. Its motives and methods are quite open to any and all scrutiny. The Enterprise and its crew are to play host to Klingon Chancellor Gorkon and his entourage. Our aim is a truly historic one. To bring a full and lasting peace between the Federation and the Klingon Empire. The Praxis Crisis has opened a window of opportunity that may not come this way again in our lifetimes. Your uncle is very much needed, both to show the Klingons the face they most respect, hate and fear, and to have this mission be headed by someone whom anti-Klingon political forces within the Federation cannot easily call a dupe or a collaborator."

Peter shook his head. "That is big, no argument. A man of my uncle’s stature could make all the difference. But why was he so upset with you?"

Spock paused. "In concert with my father, Ambassador Sarek, I helped begin these talks. I arranged that your uncle head this mission. I did all of this without first informing him of my plans."

Peter’s eyes went wide. Small wonder Jim’s upset! The younger man realized he was learning about all this only minutes after Jim himself had. "Sir, permission to speak freely?"

"Granted."

Peter couched his words, but not his intent. "Sir, you sorely mishandled this. I may not know Jim as well as I’d like, but I do know he does not like surprises, unless they’re on his part. Dad once told me about a surprise birthday party he threw for Jim. I mainly remember the gist of the story —it’s been a long time. Suffice it to say, things didn’t go very well."

"Yet, if I had informed the captain of my intentions, he would never have agreed to them."

Peter allowed a slight smile to form.

Spock nodded, seemingly in realization of his unspoken counter to that argument. "I see. But the fact remains, I believe firmly in the cause of peace. The discomfort of my closest friend must not enter into this equation, no matter the cost to our relationship."

Perhaps a smarter Peter Kirk had emerged from Tantalus, because he decided then to leave the issue to be settled between the friends. But he added one last thing. "Sir, Jim’s been set up any number of times. Serenidad comes to mind, with the Klingon assassin of El Caudillo impersonating him."

"Your point, Lieutenant?"

"Well, it seems to me that if this effort fails, the Klingons could claim that Jim was foisted on them and that this caused insurmountable problems."

Peter was prepared to hear any number of responses. The one he got, though, was not among them.

"A superior suggestion, Peter. Yes, I shall ask that a document be prepared to that effect. In fact, I am surprised that neither I, my father, or his staff suggested such a thing. A simple thing, really, and yet it would never occur to a Vulcan. These negotiations are so fundamental, such possible excuses for failure should be summarily removed."

Peter was still thrown when Spock added,"You continue to show signs of your heritage. I would encourage you to keep doing so."

Peter nodded. He was glad to help, and he also knew that Jim Kirk would calm down eventually.

"Thank you, sir. So, when do we all leave for the rendezvous with Gorkon?"

Spock again looked slightly off his mark, as he gave Peter more news he didn’t need. "We do not, Lieutenant. It is true that you paid for your crimes, in full. You have made an excellent recovery on many fronts. Your actions aboard the Enterprise, the Shenandoah, and the Marseilles all point clearly to a young man who has left the grim past behind. But for this mission, we were forced to carefully screen all those who will be in contact with the various high-ranked negotiators. Forgive me, Peter, but you were considered in this instance to be a security risk. You will not be a part of this mission."

Peter felt the world drop out from under him yet again. As Spock and Jim engaged in the greatest diplomatic coup since the Federation was founded, Jim’s nephew would once again simply be a person who read about history--not one who helped make it. "I understand, sir. Thank you, sir."

Spock wanted to offer more comfort, but there was no time. "I must go." The Vulcan headed out the double doors of the briefing center, heading, no doubt, to the Klingon Embassy.

Peter watched him go, then wandered down the corridor to the lounge, trying and failing not to feel absolutely miserable.

*****

"Lieutenant Kirk?" came the thickly accented voice.

Head buried in his hands as he sat on a bench on the lounge, Peter looked up and hoped that Commander Chekov had not been waiting too long, while he wallowed in misery. Protocol aside, he simply liked and admired the man. "Sorry, sir."

Peter stood, but Chekov bade him sit back down. "Vwe’re not on duty, Peter. My concern vwas how vworn down you looked. Have you spoken to your uncle, or to Kyptin Spock?"

"Mostly to Captain Spock, Commander. Jim...didn’t seem in a talkative mood."

Chekov nodded. "Right now, wvery few of us are, Lieutenant. Kyptin Spock is a great man, but his sense of timing...leaves much to be desired. To even contemplate a comprehensive peace with those Klingon Cossacks..." He trailed off.

Peter was getting the impression these anti-Klingon feelings ran deep among his uncle’s crew, and who could blame them? One phrase explained it all: The Serenidad Tragedy.

Chekov continued, "In any event, I came to speak with you on a few matters. The first, I’m sorry to say, involves you leaving the Enterprise. You vwill not be part of this mission."

Peter nodded, not feeling the impact quite as keenly this time. "I know, sir. Captain Spock informed me that I’m a security risk. Well, they told me my crimes at Dianas would follow me. I’m just never prepared for when they catch up."

Peter saw Chekov’s face shift, seemingly in annoyance. "Oh, did he tell you? Hmm. One might consider such things the province of the chief security officer. But not Kyptin Spock, apparently. Lieutenant, you are not a dangerous criminal. No one thinks you are going to shoot the Chancellor or burn anyone’s cabin. But there are different levels of risk. Level One Risks—such as members of hate groups or those, such as yourself, with criminal records—are obvious, and none are knowingly serving in Starfleet. Level Two Risks are those crewmembers who have had close family killed by Klingons. Those individuals are being identified even as we speak by a young Vulcan under Kyptin Spock’s tutelage and furloughed. Then, in such a situation as..this conference...we are forced to go to the Level Three Risks: those whose presence compromises the ability of the senior officers.

"You, Peter, were actually disqualified on all three levels. Not only because you have a criminal record from Dianas, but also because you lost a cousin to Klingons. Furthermore, you are the closest kin of our captain, a man no more vwell disposed toward Klingons than I myself am. Frankly, I vwould not vwant someone who could be falsely accused of acting under secret orders from his uncle around on a mission such as this. Being the captain’s nephew, Klingon or Federation forces opposed to this peace mission could frame you in such a vway that the captain’s integrity and the mission itself could be jeopardized."

Peter was grateful, but now was worried for Spock. Jim’s anger at the Vulcan was simply the most visible, not necessarily the most deeply felt among the crew. "Thank you, Commander. Was there anything else, sir?"

Now, Chekov smiled. "There is indeed, Peter. Did you come to the aid of a cadet who vwas being harassed earlier?"

Peter wondered how that had got around so fast. "Yes, sir. As you know, I have a low opinion of such goings on."

Chekov gestured behind Peter, and once again the younger Kirk cursed his self-absorption. The same young woman had been standing behind him. "Peter Kirk, meet Demora Sulu. My goddaughter, of sorts. I’ve already sent a message to her father, Hikaru, relating what happened. You have my thanks, and very likely his as well. Now, if you both will excuse me, some frenzied preparation awaits."

As Chekov left, Demora Sulu nodded. "Thank you, sir. No one’s ever stood up for me like that since I got here. It’s like those jerks have carte blanche."

Everything old is new again, thought Peter. "Glad to be of help, Cadet. Are you an upperclassman?"

She smiled. "I can’t wait to get out there. Sir—"

"It’s Peter. We’re kind of cousins, by way of Enterprise, after all."

She nodded again. "Peter, can I ask you a personal question?"

A bit nervous, Peter nonetheless allowed it. "Go right ahead, Demora."

She now appeared nervous. "You and Pavel both mentioned crimes at Dianas..."

At least it was politely phrased, he thought. "I did a some things I’m not proud of. I hurt a lot of people, including myself. I ended up spending three years in penal rehab. Why do you ask?"

Cadet Sulu looked askance. "I...until I heard you admit that...I thought I was the number one screw up in the Enterprise...‘family’."

Peter knew enough to see deeply held shame. He reached out and lightly grasped Demora’s hand. "Whatever happened, trust in those you love. I didn’t. I held it all in until the very sight of Enterprise made me ill. Don’t go that way, Demora. Nothing can kill a family’s love. Believe me, I tried with my uncle. But you see, they never give up on us, no matter what. And one more thing..."

He trailed off, released her hand, and he saw that Demora was smiling. "Yes, Peter?"

He smiled. "As to being the number-one screw up in this space-happy clan of ours? Sorry, kid, you’re not even close."

*****

Peter and Demora chatted for a time. She was surprisingly open about her life to a relative stranger, but for Peter this reinforced the feeling of meeting up with a long-lost cousin of sorts. When they exchanged BellComm codes, and she left, Peter felt good. Maybe Jim was his only real blood relation left. But through the Enterprise, the orphan from Deneva still had family. One of those he now regarded as such caused his wrist-comm to beep right then.

"Enterprise to Kirk," came Uhura’s voice.

Hoping against hope that it was a calmer Jim wishing to speak with him, Peter answered. "Kirk here, Commander."

Even through the filter, the relief in the chief communications officer’s voice was evident. "Peter, I’m glad I found you. I have to make a request of you. An urgent request."

Lieutenant Kirk puzzled at her phrasing. "Sir, I’m Starfleet. I’ll go where I’m told, and I’ll do so twice as quickly if one of you seven is doing the telling."

He didn’t know why he needed to say that. Perhaps his criminal and otherwise unpleasant past actions pushed the reformed man to make simple, fundamental declarations. Perhaps Uhura appreciated this in any event, for she chose not to counter it in full. "That very well may be, Mister Kirk, but considering that you’re on leave, I know enough to couch my orders a bit. Can you beam aboard?"

Since arriving, Peter had seen his and Jim’s plans fall through, witnessed Spock be completely unaware of Jim’s duress, been informed that he was a security risk, both bluntly and politely, and met a charming young woman who helped remind him of a big gaping hole in his life. A duty shift, simple, straightforward and structured, sounded very good, right then.

"Yes, sir. I can and will beam aboard right away."

*****

At the transport pad, Peter told the operator his destination and authorization. "Enterprise, per Commander Upenda Nyota Uhura. Confirmed?"

The young operator looked at him. "You actually know those people?."

Peter’s face betrayed a little pride. The man was very young, and very new, to look at him. "Not as well as I’d like, Ensign. But they all seem to know me."

While enthusiastic and positive, the operator seemed part of a trend. From Demora’s openness about her sexual escapades to the silenced big-talking cadet to this kid, everyone around him seemed to be incapable of restraint... including Peter’s heroes aboard Enterprise, it seemed.

The operator spoke again. "Someday...it’s gonna be me up there. Energizing."

Peter was no longer thrown off by such comments. He hoped that this was a sign of his recent maturity. Materializing aboard Enterprise, he was greeted by the one who’d summoned him.

Uhura handed him a padd. "That’s a short message from a very grateful Captain Sulu." She studied his face. "And since I forgot to say so in the hurly-burly of the last few months, congratulations on the completion of your tour of duty aboard the Marseilles."

Peter shrugged. "Thank you, Commander. That...was a long mission, and one I was grateful to see come to an end."

Uhura nodded. "All things considered, I can’t blame you for that sentiment. I’m also grateful you’re here. Most junior officers on leave promptly disable their wristcoms..." She smiled. "...accidentally, of course."

Peter nodded. "Probation or no, I think it’ll be a long while before I can afford to ‘accidentally’ anything. I don’t know what my actual prospects are, but I think these bars of mine want some company."

She led him out and into the hallways while talking. "Showing up when asked to in a difficult situation is a very good start, Lieutenant. You know about our mission, I take it?"

Peter nodded. "Yes. I’ve also been informed about my security status."

Uhura led him towards a bay that contained some equipment they had previously stored. "If this weren’t such a historic—if naively misguided— occasion, you might’ve made it aboard. But there was no leeway, here. I was frankly shocked at some of the people Valeris bounced."

Peter asked the obvious. "Who is Valeris?"

Uhura opened the secured doors to a bay that was just as crowded as Peter remembered. "She’s a young Vulcan, a protégé of Captain Spock. I just hope she doesn’t share his political sensibilities in regards to this ill-conceived mission."

If Peter hadn’t witnessed first-hand the bond between the senior crew on many occasions, he would have incorrectly thought their friendship with Spock was over. That said, the strain was painfully obvious.

The look of shock on the younger man’s face seemed to tell Uhura she’d overreacted. "I’m sorry, Peter. I’m angry not with Spock, but he volunteered us without taking our feelings into consideration. No discussion. No debate. He may hold the rank, but he is most certainly not the captain. How can we all forgive this immense presumption?"

Peter felt torn up inside, seeing these people—his family—turning upon one of their own, no matter the cause. He gave the best answer he knew how to give. "You forgave me. Surely Spock deserves forgiveness more than I ever did."

If his words moved her, she chose not to show it. "Maybe he does. But no one seems to be able to make Spock realize how sorely he’s mishandled all this."

Peter had no counter to that argument. So he got back to business. "Commander, what am I doing here?"

Perhaps she was actually grateful to have the subject changed, for Uhura said no more about Spock. She handed him another datapadd. "I need you to dig out the Mark Seven Universal Translator and these related duotronic components. I never installed this system because it just struck me as too buggy..."

Peter briefly recalled something from the interminable categorization process. "But isn’t the Mark Eight a more fluent-sounding model?"

She checked over the list while answering. "Yes. But the Mark Seven has a larger, more diverse and adaptable database. It was especially developed for use with the Klingon language. We can’t afford syntax, grammar or any real errors on this mission. I am not giving the Klingons any excuse for war. I intend to see this peace work."

"Yes, sir."

"Call me when you’ve gotten them all pulled, and I’ll get you to give me a hand installing this older system on the bridge." Uhura turned and left Lieutenant Kirk with his list.

He glanced up and down the aisles of the storage area, shaking his head. "This is going to take forever..."

*****

After about five hours, Peter had just about gathered all the required duotronics. He had stopped for a glass of ice water and banana wafers when he saw a woman he did not recognize emerge into the cargo bay. Seeing she was a Vulcan, he guessed that it was Valeris whom Commander Uhura had mentioned.

She spotted him and quickly crossed the storage room deck to confront him. "Are you authorized to be here, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, Lieutenant. Under Commander Uhura’s orders, I’m tagging equipment that she intends to install in the bridge comm system."

Valeris pulled up a datapadd. "What is your name?"

"Lieutenant Peter Kirk. You can check with Commander Uhura, Lieutenant. She’ll verify my story, if you need that."

Her voice, a forced monotone rather than the natural calm of most Vulcans he knew, never wavered. "No need. Her authorization is not relevant, in this case. By order of Captain Spock, I have classified all known security risks. You, Peter Kirk, are unique in that you are the only one that meets all three criteria for exclusion. You must leave the ship, or I will call Security."

Peter shook his head. "I’m not going on this mission, Lieutenant. Captain Spock and Commander Chekov have already explained that to me. But Commander Uhura asked me to get this job done as many of the crew are furloughed. Once I’ve got her shopping list filled, I’ll leave, Lieutenant."

She regarded him with a tilt of her head. "You are recorded as already being on furlough. You have no place here."

"Mister Valeris, in another ten minutes, I’ll be done. I will then resume my leave, and await my possible transfer to another posting. But I promised Uhura I’d do this for her. Now, may I get back to work?"

"You may not. As a security risk, your handling of this sensitive equipment is automatically suspect." She strode to the nearest wallcomm. "Security to Storage Area Seven."

"Mister Valeris, stand down."

The Vulcan turned and looked at Uhura who was standing at the door. The lieutenant asked, "Am I not to be permitted to perform my task, as appointed by Captain Spock?"

Peter was slightly amused by her nervous habit of tilting her head from side to side.

Uhura pointed at the door. "Go and ask him yourself. He’s back on board."

She nodded, again in an off-putting manner. "I shall. It was a pleasure meeting you, Peter Kirk."

Lieutenant Kirk tried and failed to keep in a quip. "Charmed, I’m certain, Valeris."

Again, the head-tilt. "Unlikely." She strode from the area.

When the doors closed, Peter opened his mouth to speak, but Uhura promptly cut him off. "Yes, she’s for real."

Peter looked at the doors again. "You’re absolutely certain of that?"

Uhura chuckled. "Honestly? No..." She looked at the antigrav cart of assembled duotronic components. "Have you finished?"

"One last item, Commander." He disappeared around the corner and came back with the main unit. "I saved the Mark Seven itself for last."

"I appreciate you doing this for me."

"I appreciate the opportunity," Peter answered honestly. "Now, let’s not let me overstay my welcome."

Uhura smiled. "Agreed."

Pushing the cart into the corridor, they walked to the transporter room without conversation. The doors slid open, and Peter stepped up to the platform. He smiled at Uhura. "Be careful out there, Commander."

She looked at him with concern of her own. "Let’s all be careful. I hope to see you soon, Peter."

Peter nodded and looked around the transporter room.

"Destination, sir?" asked the transporter officer, a tall woman he didn’t know by name.

"Mac’s on Bay Street, Ensign."

She smiled. "Aye, sir."

It was the next to last time Peter Kirk would stand aboard the Enterprise-A. "Energize."

It was the last time he would be happy to see it, as well.

Materializing on a public transporter pad in one of San Francisco’s finest bars, Peter muttered a prayer. "God, please let this day get better-and fast."

"How about it if we bypass the good Lord, Peter, and see a princess, instead?" came a voice filled with a Southern drawl.

Peter turned with a start to see a smiling Leonard McCoy. "Doctor, it’s good to see you!"

McCoy chuckled and led the younger Kirk to his table. "Since Spock seems determined to prove all my old comments about him are one hundred percent true, I’ve been thinking. What if we sent a certain frustrated young man on to Serenidad?"

Peter smiled. "Sounds like...just what the doctor ordered, sir."

McCoy laughed heartily as they arrived at his table. "That’s good to hear, Peter. I was afraid that this little surprise party Spock’s throwing would have you as bad off as Jim. Your uncle’s not a happy man, right now."

Peter dipped a chip in salsa, munched it, then nodded. "I know, sir. I saw him not long after Captain Spock informed him of your mission."

McCoy shook his head. "Then you saw him in his white-hot stage. Not a pleasant sight. Believe me, I know. I’ve been on the receiving end of that glare."

Peter asked a question he wasn’t sure he had the right to. "Doctor, are you upset with Captain Spock?"

McCoy shrugged. "With his approach? Yes. About who he’s seating us with? Hell, yes. My wife was destroyed repeatedly by the Kh’myr Klingons. So were better than half the people of her planet. I was there for the worst of it. But upset with Spock? No. This action proves my point, a point I don’t think Jim’s ever fully gotten: Spock and his people are different from us. The many differences between our peoples can be transcended. They can be overcome. They can be celebrated. But they cannot be ignored. Vulcans are no more Human than...than you are Jim."

The doctor saw Peter look a bit downcast, and moved to calm him. "I didn’t mean anything by that, son. You’re just not Jim Kirk. Heck, nobody is ever going to be Jim Kirk except Jim Kirk. All that we need to be is what we’re capable of being. But back to our pointy-eared friends...

"Do Vulcans need us? They most certainly do. Their thinking is all inside a box that dwindles in size geometrically if left unchallenged. Captain Spock tells me that you made a suggestion that no Vulcan would have entertained. Heck, when we encountered that space-going amoeba, the Intrepid was destroyed and its Vulcan crew killed because they could not conceive of what was killing them.

"Do we need Vulcans? Our planet’s history is practically a how-to file on unrestrained lunacy. A little self-control never hurt anyone. And I hope that if we do get peace with Qo’noS, somebody remembers that even a good Klingon has views on war and combat that a lot of us couldn’t even start to understand. Every time Spock proves he’s different, Jim takes a while to adjust. But he will. He always has."

Peter saw McCoy look as if he’d realized something.

"Please tell me that you are not planning to speak to Jim on this," the doctor drawled.

Peter nodded. "He’ll listen to me. I’ll urge him to forgive Spock, just as he forgave me. This time, I can help them. I can help all of you, instead of hurting. Because watching all of you so upset—even angry—with Spock is tearing me up inside."

McCoy’s eyebrows canted. "Lieutenant, I am officially ordering you to stay out of this. Get in the way of Jim and Spock, and I might just have you up on charges. You will do what all of us are doing: hanging back and letting those two settle what in many ways is the dispute of their lives. It’s all about differences, Peter. If you had never committed a single crime, if you were about to get your own high-caliber command, if you were on the verge of making the galaxy think of a new Kirk, one thing would remain the same: we care for you. But you’re not one of us. Again, I don’t mean anything by that. It’s just the plain truth. There’s some heartaches we seven plus people wouldn’t wish on anyone. Some of those were caused by being who we are. Some...were caused by...each other. Your intentions are good, I know."

Continually thrown by just how much he had to learn, Peter nodded a bit weakly. "And you know what they say about good intentions..."

McCoy nodded his head. "I do. So do you. Now, if someone could just explain that to Spock...aw, what I’m doing? It’s this kind of talk that put that fool notion in your head. Now, let’s get you on the transport. My stepson will be piloting you. He was supposed to grab me and Jim—and maybe another couple of the command crew for good measure—but you know what happened there."

Peter shook his head. "I still have to speak to Jim. I just want to say goodbye."

McCoy raised a hand. "There’s no time. And he’s still in no mood. You can talk by subspace later. We were already supposed to be well on our way, if you’ll recall. Teresa’s transport can’t stay docked too long."

Peter wondered why this was, but McCoy kept right on. "Son, I have a few ground rules for you. One: find out where the sidearms are kept at the palace, memorize every route to the armory, remember those routes like you know your own name. Two: if Teresa or the boys cry out, run—don’t walk—to them. I don’t care where she is when she cries out. You go to her. If she tells you everything is all right, ignore her and look for assassins, pirates, I don’t care what. If she tells you to get out, you tell her you’re under direct orders to do what you’re doing. Three: allow no one—and I mean no one—into the palace complex unless they are cleared by Connor Randolph, her chief of security, in person. Connor’s a former student of Jim’s; she’s a great gal, and she’s from Xartheb. You can count on her. Four: don’t confront a Klingon directly. Even the Segh vav are plenty tough and plenty cunning. Just get her and the kids away from any attacker. There are people on Serenidad whose treatment of her makes what you went through at the Academy seem like Basket-Weaving 101."

Peter appreciated the nod to his own past, but raised a few points. "Sir, she’s the absolute ruler of that world. If she tells me to get out or not to bother her, what choice do I have?"

McCoy broke out in laughter that seemed damned near on the verge of hysteria. "Peter, don’t let anyone ever tell you that you don’t have a sense of humor. Sita? Absolute ruler?" The doctor snorted. "After her father’s death, she created a Ruling Council and gave most of her power to them. She still rules because she is so beloved by the people of Serenidad. But sooner or later, she’ll step down and end one of the Federation’s few remaining monarchies."

McCoy took a sip, and Peter was about to ask another question, but something in the old man’s eyes silenced him. It was clear he wanted no more questions. "You’re going to Serenidad as my guest, Peter, and I want you to have a good time. Just stay alert." The doctor looked at his wrist chrono. "My stepson Miguel had to finish up his liaison work at the Klingon Embassy before this mission. He’d requested to be at the main conference when it convenes, but he got disqualified by some Vulcan girl with a hair up her ass. She said his presence constituted a security risk."

Peter twisted his lips. "Oh, geez, I guess I wasn’t the only one."

McCoy shook his head and chuckled. "No, you weren’t." The doctor slapped his wristcom. "McCoy to DeSoto." He waived at Mac, the proprietor of the establishment, and she gave him a thumbs up and a friendly wave as she punched in McCoy’s credit code, one she obviously knew well enough to have committed to memory.

"This is the Serenidad Royal Barque DeSoto," came a gruff voice.

"Two to beam aboard."

"Identification and authorization?" the gruff voice growled.

"Leonard McCoy and Peter Kirk. Authorization: Do No Harm."

"Acknowledged. Activating transport beam now."

Peter found himself on a transport pad aboard a small starship with a Klingon behind the transporter console.

"Leonard, is this Peter Kirk?" the Klingon asked.

"Indeed it is, Miguel. Peter Kirk, may I present Crown Prince Miguel Morales de la Vega Ruiz-Mendoza?"

The Klingon bowed deeply, and Peter followed suit. "I am honored, sir," he said.

"The honor is all mine," came the gruff voice again. "Welcome aboard, Peter Kirk."

Peter looked at the Klingon in amazement. Yes, he knew that Teresa’s son was half-Klingon, the progeny of her rape by the Klingon Commander Kral. But knowing something is not the same thing as having seen something with one’s own eyes. The cranial ridges of the Kh’myr were subdued but still present. The eyes were like charcoal, and the skin was the color of dark olive. But the smile was genuine, Peter decided, despite the sharp canines present in Miguel’s mouth.

Peter would be traveling a long distance in the company of a Klingon. The day had gotten better, but no less interesting, it seemed.

The two younger men waved as McCoy beamed off the DeSoto. Peter felt the doctor had other things on his mind. Probably among them was him going and doing exactly what he had warned Peter not to do. But then, the doctor was part of that tight inner circle, and had experience confronting Jim and Spock. If that was the case, Lieutenant Kirk could only wish him well.

"Come with me, Peter Kirk," said Miguel, spinning and making his way out of the transporter room.

Following wordlessly, Peter’s thoughts briefly turned to Spock’s compliment. That a seasoned officer would accept such a suggestion from a relative rookie with a dubious past only made the Vulcan even more remarkable in Peter’s eyes. At times, it almost seemed as if Spock understood him better than Jim did. That thought of course raised the question of why Spock didn’t more fully comprehend Jim’s anger over the surprise diplomacy. But by this point, they had arrived at a hatchway.

It slid open, and the two entered the bridge of the barque. It had an elliptical layout, with a large throne-like center seat, the helm and navigation stations at the fore, a communications bay rear aft, an engineering station rear starboard, and a clear dome over the control center. Looking back, he could see the long cylindrical engineering hull and could see the triangular arrangement of the three warp engines, common in ships designated as barques.

Peter was amazed. "This? This...is a starship? Wow! It looks like something out of the old twentieth century pulp magazines."

"Yes, it does." Miguel’s smile told Peter that this was a common, even an expected reaction to the splendor of the royal barque. "I take it that you are impressed with my mother’s barque."

Peter was just about speechless. "I’ve never seen such a large transparent aluminum canopy on a starship!"

Miguel raised an eyebrow, perhaps copied from a certain Vulcan ‘uncle.’ "Mother dislikes enclosed spaces."

"Miguel, this is going to be a decently long journey. I have a feeling that laying down parameters of polite conversation might be in order. I tend to step where I shouldn’t."

Without comment, Miguel nodded and did as Peter asked. "I will not speak of my conception. I will not speak of the media reports about my mother. And your restrictions?"

Lieutenant Kirk was surprised at how easily his two came out. "Deneva and Dianas. I can’t change what happened to me as a child. I can’t change my crimes as an adult. Add to that, I’ve never been truly comfortable talking about myself. From the brig on Enterprise to my debriefing after the Marseilles incident, that feels like all I’ve been doing for six years."

Miguel smiled yet again. "Counselors mean well, Peter. But they do tend to go on past the point of diminishing returns." He offered his hand. "We have come to terms."

Peter glanced at the empty stations. "Any crew?"

"Not on this trip. It’s a rather sophisticated ship and can be flown by a single pilot or even the autopilot." He gestured to an empty station. "You may sit anywhere except the center seat. That is reserved for my mother."

Peter eyed it skeptically. "It doesn’t look terribly comfortable."

"It isn’t," Miguel admitted. "This ship was originally commissioned for my grandfather. Mother is loathe to change anything he designed."

Peter sat down at the communications bay as Miguel sat down at the helm. "Let’s get underway. Raise Traffic Control, if you will, please."

Peter inserted the earjack and tapped a few keys. "Earth Traffic Control? This is the Serenidad Royal Barque DeSoto requesting departure clearance for Mu Herculis."

"Acknowledged, DeSoto. We’ve got two departures ahead of yours. We estimate five minutes’ delay."

Miguel chuckled. "‘They also serve those who sit and wait.’"

They sat silently, Peter monitoring communications and Miguel running his preflight check.

After a few minutes, Traffic Control contacted them. "DeSoto, this is Traffic Control. Departure clearance granted. Please set a course of 172 mark 0 and use the Neptune alley for departing this system. Godspeed, DeSoto."

"Neptune alley acknowledged," responded Peter as Miguel nodded. "Thank you."

As Miguel piloted the Royal barque out of the Sol system through one of the largest commercial traffic lanes, Peter briefly realized anew that there was a Klingon with their lives in his hands. His feelings were mixed. Yes, it was because of Kh’myr Klingons that he would never meet his cousin David. And it was impossible to be in Starfleet without encountering endless stories of depredations dating all the way back to first contact between Terrans and Klingons. The Segh vav were a bunch of bastards in and of themselves, and the Kh’myr were the squaring and cubing of those qualities. It was like a built-in parallel universe where Khan Singh had won, and was still alive on a planet full of potential Hitlers, Stalins, Maos, Pol Pots and Greens.

Yet he knew of Miguel’s harsh origins, and no one, sane and not, of Serenidad would try to hold him responsible for his father’s people. Also, Peter’s only real contact with a Klingon had been his own fault, a part of the mess he made of his life at Dianas. Not Tom Cooper. Not Koloth. Just Peter Kirk.

Peter would never say this to Jim, but he found he just couldn’t hate Klingons. Mistrust? Hell, yes. But if David Marcus had lived, his use of protomatter would probably have caused Peter and him to meet on Tantalus Five. So Klingons, while dangerous and in need of watching, just didn’t excite raw hatred in him. He knew this view was likely naive. Yet for the moment, it was his.

For the moment.

"Peter, we’re now leaving the Sol system. Our ETA at Mu Herculis is five days. I have engaged the autopilot. It is more sophisticated than some. We will not need to disengage it until we reach Serenidad unless we are attacked or pursued."

Peter shook his head at Miguel. "There’s a distinction between the two?"

"Indeed. Enemies will attack us. The media drones will pursue us."

"Again: there’s a distinction?"

Miguel nodded in appreciation of the humor, and led them from the bridge to the royal suite below. It was massive, having at least two private bedrooms and baths, a common entertainment area and even an exercise room.

"Yours is the bedroom on the starboard side, Peter," Miguel explained as he headed to the exercise room.

Peter smiled, thoroughly impressed, yet said nothing.

Miguel then picked up an odd weapon, one shaped somewhat like a crescent moon. He began to swing it in a precision arc, a movement that never faltered in its balance and grace. After ten minutes, he was done.

Peter lightly clapped. "I’ve never seen that sort of weapon before. Is it from Serenidad?"

Miguel offered the well-built sharpened weapon to his traveling companion.

Peter had expected its weight. He had not expected the feelings that touched him when he held it. It was a weapon that nearly cried out to be used.

"No. It is from Qo’noS. It is a batlh’etlh — an ‘honor sword.’"

"Honor? Among Klingons? Seems unlikely..." Peter was skeptical.

Miguel raised an eyebrow in unspoken warning. "Perhaps we should change the subject."

"Agreed." Peter chuckled at that and so did Miguel.

Miguel wordlessly resumed his workout, and Peter donned his own gymsuit and completed a workout of his own on the resistance apparatus. Afterwards, they went to their private rooms to shower and change.

After the two viewed some holovids and the news from I.N.S., they tried talking once again.

Peter would have a hard time reminding himself of the bigger man’s youth, but he would do it. "It’s going to be a long five days."

Miguel nodded. "We have little in common."

"We’ll find something. But I guess we have to exclude certain subjects, just to get by. Your stepfather made me very aware of that when I offered to broker peace between Jim and Spock."

Miguel looked at him askance. "Indeed? Uhura and Chekov gave me similar warnings. I suppose we are too young to know things as they do."

Peter smiled. They now had the workings of a subject that could take them all the way to Serenidad. "Or maybe....maybe they don’t know either, but need to keep that secret at all costs."

Miguel raised a finger. "Leonard keeps insisting that his exchanges with Spock are never juvenile. But there was this one dinner. Spock declared that the Enterprise’s actions over..."

Under Connor Randolph’s clearance, the DeSoto assumed stationary orbit above the Serenidad Royal Palace and Peter and Miguel were beamed down to the royal estate. Princess Teresa stood before them, smiling warmly. Two little boys stood at her side in amazement.

"Mommy, why did Uncle Jim dye his hair all black?"

The Princess smiled. "This isn’t Uncle Jim, Davie. It’s his nephew, Peter." She stepped forward and hugged him, kissing him on his cheek. "Welcome to Serenidad, Peter Kirk."

Lieutenant Peter Kirk was a man overwhelmed. The estate was just impossible. It had to dwarf the whole of Riverside, Iowa. It seemed to rival Deneva’s capital city—that he could see.

The royal residence looked like an admirals’ retreat Peter had once gofered for, and there were over two dozen people staying there, not five. Even so, that retreat had symbols of high office all over it. This home was exactly that—a home. La Caudilla and her family lived there, but it was still a home, and that made it seem yet grander still.

The air was warm, and the sky was utterly clear. Obviously, Princess Teresa’s forebears had chosen this location for its climate as well as view. Perhaps, like Martha’s Vineyard on Earth, this place never really saw much bad weather.

But like a grand centerpiece was the Princess herself. Her beauty had been endlessly spoken of, but in each curve and every part of her he couldn’t see, Peter knew why so many had gone on for so long about it. More than that, she had the presence of a ruler. It was how a young orphan had imagined Gueniviere to look, when Uncle Jim made one of his magic visits and read to him of might that served right.

"Your Majesty, I am deeply honored. You are as charming as I’d heard. I have gifts, if you don’t mind."

Davie McCoy jumped and shouted. "Oh, boy! Uncle Jim has gifts!"

Teresa gently covered her little boy’s mouth. "That is Peter, David. Peter is the son of Jim’s brother Sam. They looked very much alike, so Peter looks like Jim, too."

"So is Peter our cousin? And can he give us gifts?"

Now, she looked at Peter. Her gown slightly hugged her breasts as she turned. Peter forced himself to make eye contact, and fast.

"He can give them later. And only if he drops that tiresome Majesty stuff. I’m Teresa. Understood, Lieutenant?"

Her smile was both genuine and gentle. He thought about the long list of people that had hurt her. Peter wanted to hunt them all down like dogs, if only to see her smile at him again.

"Understood, Teresa. And thank you."

As she walked away, Peter looked up at the sky, forcing images of Kh’myr-laden transports from his imagination. Turning and seeing that the boys had ditched the newcomer in favor of Miguel, Peter entered the residence and was directed to his room by a servant who obviously thought highly of Captain Kirk. Thanking the man for his words, Peter decided to take in the place later, fearing that otherwise he would be so dumbstruck, he’d never reach his room.

*****

There was a small but subtle difference between stowing one’s gear and unpacking one’s things. Peter’s leave was long enough that he could unpack his things and not have to care precisely what drawer he put them in. After sending out a standard arrival message to Starfleet on subspace, Peter looked around his unbelievably large accommodations and plopped into a bed the size of his Academy dorm room.

He realized as he stared at a highly ornate ceiling that this was his first real leave since graduating the Academy. No working vacations, or probations. No criminal stupidity, and no prison time. In a trend that continued to disturb him, he couldn’t remember what his last leave had been about. It wasn’t amnesia, to hear Doctor Noel tell it. It was just the tendency troubled people like Peter had to blend certain years together. It was partly a defense mechanism, but it left a hole in him he could no longer completely ignore.

Well, he could completely ignore it then and there, and that’s just what he decided he should do. The bed was so comfortable, he just nodded off. And he dreamed of better days.

His rest was interrupted by a small visitor who clambered up into his bed. "Unca Jim."

It was Jimmy McCoy. "Unca Jim."

Peter had to smile at the tender sight. The little one honestly thought he was Jim. "No, pal. But thank you."

Princess Teresa came around the corner, her middle son Davie in tow. "There you are, my little explorer. Peter, I’m sorry. They both worship Jim, and I can’t seem to make his namesake here understand that a strong resemblance doesn’t make for the same person."

Peter nodded, and grabbed up a delighted little boy. "Stubborn, huh? Darn it, Jimmy—you’re a McCoy, not a Kirk!"

Davie laughed like it was the best joke ever. "Mommy! Peter sounds like Daddy!"

Now Davie joined his little brother, and both went down in a ruthless tickle-fit administered by their new ‘cousin’. Before gently shooing them off, he looked intently at Jimmy. "Peter. I’m Peter, okay?"

"Pe-ta. Pita."

Now, Lieutenant Kirk’s mind flew back a quarter-century. His own little brother had called him that, just learning to speak before the events of the parasite disaster. Peter tousled Jimmy McCoy’s hair, and smiled. He would not allow the past to eat him alive yet again. "Close enough, pal."

Davie started as he remembered something. "Peter, we’re going swimming with Mommy. Wanna come?"

The Princess nodded. "He’ll come. By royal decree. It’s a private lake, Peter. So far, not even the vidarazzi have found it on their flyovers."

She walked out with Jimmy and Davie.

Peter watched her go, a good deal more intently than he had been taught by his grandmother was polite. Then, he reminded himself that this curvaceous, well-built beauty of a Princess had another title: Mrs. Leonard McCoy. But if awkward staring were the extent of his troubles, Peter Kirk would still find himself loving Serenidad. So far, this vacation had been the very best thing that could have happened to him, apart from Jim not being there.

Walking the path down and reaching the lake, Peter saw that his donning of bathing trunks had been a good idea. Everyone else, including a frankly stunning Teresa, had a suit bottom, though Teresa had gone topless. This was hardly a shock, but he was still glad he had braced himself for the sight. Though he and Miguel had as agreed avoided discussing them, Peter was well aware of media reports about Princess Teresa. On the off chance that the sensational reports about the Princess’s public habits were dead on, he didn’t want to offend her by looking somehow disdainful. Peter had suffered enough traumas to know how they can force a person inward. If Teresa, as a rape and kidnap victim, had turned either prudish or wanton as a result, no one would truly blame her.

But she was indeed neither, as her next comments revealed. "You and Jim both tend to keep in good shape, I see. I have a lot of very good exercise equipment in my home."

His mouth spoke without consulting his brain. "Which you obviously use."

As Peter gulped, Teresa smiled. "Thank you, Peter. Consider the compliment returned."

Peter smiled as well, but shrugged. He had a good physique, but that was partly genetics, after all. Also, any advantage his looks might have given him in the past had been negated by both his attitude and the perceived danger of being involved with a Kirk.

"La Caudilla honors her humble guest."

Teresa turned to make her routine check of the boys, playing in the far shallower water near the shore. The shape of her behind through the suit bottom showed that no workout equipment went unused, whether in her house or on her barque.

Peter whispered as she wiped mud from Davie’s face, "Lord, give me strength."

She dove beneath the water, looking good as ever. Peter watched the two boys play. Davie was holding two plastic figures, one an odd looking creature and one looking vaguely like a Constitution class ship. Little Jimmy listened intently as his brother wove an epic tale. Peter ferociously fought off memories of Deneva and his older brother Georgie before things went very bad. He saw the tender scene merely for what it was, and dove under.

Besides keeping in shape as part of his long-term therapy to work out stress, Peter had excellent lung capacity. He’d gotten it as a child, when he would play head games with the therapists who had him swim to regain full use of his legs. The clear water provided him with an excellent view of the now-surfaced Teresa’s half-clothed body. She saw him, and smiled once again.

After a nice swim, Peter resurfaced. He had pushed his limits, but not so that he was gasping for breath. He did see that the boys were no longer by the shore.

Teresa spoke. "I sent them back up, Peter. I didn’t want them to see me do this."

He was now officially nervous. "Do...what?"

She came back and waded in the water. He found he could get used to her topless state quickly, but her body itself was another story. "I saw you holding your breath. Up for a contest?"

Peter felt relief, and allowed himself to relax. She hadn’t wanted two small boys to play at holding their breath. Entirely innocent.

"Anytime, your Highness!"

A little competition, he reasoned, was the perfect way to get over his dumbstruck admiration of her beauty. Breathing in very deeply, they both descended. Even more than her buoyant breasts, he found watching the hair on her head float up over her like a crown the most alluring sight.

For what seemed like minutes but likely wasn’t, they ran about even. As both their cheeks began to puff out, Peter felt like Teresa was about to give up. As she removed her hand from her mouth, this seemed the case. But when Peter saw that hand dart between his legs, he felt a squeeze and then yelped, giving up his air—and losing the contest.

He surfaced, not sure whether to feel angry or flattered.

Teresa surfaced, her smile now seeming eternal. "You lose!"

In a heartbeat, she had swum over and given him a kiss on the lips. It wasn’t deep, but he felt it, especially the brief touch of her chest against his.

She began to walk out of the water as he composed himself. This time, he let a little anger show.

"Are you crazy? Your kids are not that far away."

She merely turned and shrugged. "We’re both of us crazy, Peter. You can’t have seen what we two have and not be. This was just a little crazy fun, shared by veteran survivors. Didn’t you enjoy that?"

Peter gave it up. He didn’t have time to waste on being angry. Not over something like this. He walked up to her. "Of course, I did. But you’re married to my uncle’s best friend."

She chuckled and shook her head. "Do you think Leonard would leave me over giving you a squeeze? The man knows how competitive I am. So long as it went no further, he’d just laugh."

She pulled his cheek. "You are very cute. And you have Jim’s looks as well as his almost prudish morals. But I absolutely adore my husband, Peter. No one is cute enough to make me forget that. I’m not shy, as you can tell. But whatever the media says, I’m just not a crazed wanton. Any more than you are a serial arsonist. We’ve each had our moments. But our sorry luck and bad choices aren’t here, Peter. So I grabbed you where it counts? So your eyes are fixed on a certain part of me?"

Teresa smiled, and Peter was glad he had his trunks on. "Here, we have fun. Here, we relax. We can even look—and think to ourselves whatever we want as we do. And in all that—there is no harm done."

Peter felt like he understood. "I need to learn to have fun."

They started to walk back. Peter saw Teresa scoping him out—in a friendly but appreciative way. "I have some friends—alumni of my finishing school— they’d love to get their hands on something like you."

"Who am I to deny a royal matchmaker?" He now felt very comfortable around this woman. "Teresa? About us being survivors?"

"Si?"

"What if I said I had no desire to discuss anything I’ve been through?"

She put her arm around him, and this time, he didn’t feel at all awkward touching her. He did wish she had a robe on, but that’s life. "I’d say that such a desire proves that you are a survivor, Peter."

For the immediate present, the names of dead family, the places of shame, and the identities of numerous fiends would have no place in this very new friendship.

*****

Two hours later, Peter sat down to dinner with the family. The boys both sat down next to him. If Peter knew anything about kids, he assumed they were doing so to have close access to the packages he’d brought with him.

His attraction to Teresa he’d dealt with as he’d been taught. He did not repress it, but waited until he was in a locked shower room and moved to release his sexual tension. If he was attracted to her, he reasoned, far better to just live with it than deny it. She wasn’t his. She wasn’t ever going to be his. But as Teresa herself had said, he could dream, even if he knew in his heart that those dreams were not reciprocated. Occasionally calling the beauty ‘Mrs. McCoy’ in his thoughts also helped matters, he found.

He was by now used to Miguel, but took pains to memorize his exact face, far more Human of course than that of a full-blooded Kh’myr and yet still very much Klingon. If an assassin somehow got by the stalwart Connor Randolph’s impressive security net, a second’s delay would be fatal if Peter thought the attacker was Miguel. Not that his chances would be all that great in any event.

"Enjoying your lobster, Peter?"

Peter smiled at Teresa, allowing the attraction to rise up for a moment to reinforce that smile. He hadn’t wanted to tell her that Doctor Noel had advised him against rich foods like lobster and rarebit. There was a distinct possibility that alien foods that were similarly rich could bring about mood swings, and so it was better for Peter’s long-term stability if he just as a rule avoided them all. "Oh, very much. I don’t eat like this very often. Certainly not in a dining hall like this."

She nodded. "Leonard thinks it’s overdone. I wish he were here to complain about it."

Perhaps, Peter reasoned, this was the reason Doctor McCoy had asked that he go on to Serenidad without them. Everyone was telling him how much he resembled Jim nowadays. Perhaps his face was meant to calm a woman who missed her husband. If so, he could live with that quite happily. For his earlier thoughts of her as Lady Gueniviere worked well if he were a knight in her service, permitted to pine but never to touch or to speak of touching.

"I wish he were, too. I brought gifts for everyone."

Dinner was finished, so Teresa nodded and allowed the boys to circle Peter, jumping up and down as they went.

"What did you get us, Peter?"

"Stuff!"

Davie began to sound less coherent than Jimmy, out of sheer anticipation. Peter was glad that Miguel had quietly corrected him on the source of Davie’s name. Until the Klingon Prince had told him that Leonard’s father was named David, Peter had mistakenly assumed it a tribute to his own fallen cousin, David Marcus. But names like Peter and David were common enough. Scotty’s heroic young nephew had been named Peter Preston. Peter Kirk wished that his hasty departure had allowed time to speak to Captain Scott. Ever since the chief engineer had finally forgiven him for Dianas, he had acted very much like another uncle. Jim had urged him never to ask about Scotty’s own family, vaguely indicating a distance that rivaled their own, as it had once been.

"Okay, guys! Calm down."

Perhaps he was inheriting more than Jim’s looks, for the two responded quickly to his voice and did indeed calm down. He handed them the packages. "Now, fellas, I was in Japan with Commander Chekov fetching the contents of a storage bin Captain Sulu had forgotten about. I saw these in a shop. I really hope you like them."

Jimmy opened his. It was a figure of a silver-and-red warrior of sleek design and eyes vaguely like golden crescent moons.

"Pita, thanks you!"

The little one gave him a hug and kiss, then ran to show Miguel and Teresa. Miguel actually seemed intrigued. "A fine warrior, obviously of superior stock. I imagine many stories will be told of his exploits."

Kirk smirked. "Actually, my understanding is that there were quite a few vids featuring him."

"Does he have a name?"

"Ultraman. And he’s a defender of Earth from monsters of all kind."

Davie was almost ready to shake apart as he opened his present. He gazed at it in awe. It was the figure of a green-grey dinosaur that looked like a cross between a stegosaur and a T-Rex. It had a vaguely canine mouth and head, a long tail, and a set of protruding dorsal fins.

"Peter? What’s his name?"

The lieutenant chuckled. "You know, you wouldn’t believe it, kid, but his name is Godzilla."

"Gozollo."

"Close enough." Peter smiled. "He and Ultraman were really popular three hundred years ago. When they made those things out of plastic, I wonder if they knew they’d last this long."

"Is he a good guy or a bad guy?"

"Godzilla? Well, he’s both. Sometimes he’s good, sometimes he’s bad."

Davie squealed with delight. "Like me!"

Now next to him, Teresa whispered to Peter. "You got that right."

But he now went for Miguel’s gift. The Klingon shook his head. "Peter, it is hardly necessary..."

But Peter wouldn’t hear of it. "I only hope its appropriate, amigo."

It was a lithograph of what looked like a Renaissance painting. An archangel with a sword had run through a horned beast which clung to a great precipice. Miguel looked as dumbstruck as either of his little brothers. He spoke almost haltingly. It...it is the Archangel Michael. The imagery...Peter, thank you."

The Klingon stared at his namesake, and Peter was very grateful that his intuition to buy something based on a man’s name had panned out. He had originally thought to reproduce an image of Kahless based on Jim’s mission to Excalbia, but besides possible offense, Spock warned that the image might be wholly inaccurate. He’s so cognizant of me, Peter thought. So why didn’t he know better how Jim would act?

Now it was time for Teresa’s gift. He had hopes to truly impress her. He had fears of greatly offending her. "Again, I just took a chance."

Teresa opened the framed piece and smiled. "Again, you took the right chance."

It was probably one of the very first headlines on that subject. Beneath it was a picture of El Caudillo, his wife and daughter, and Carlos, the tragic young man who would be Teresa’s first husband. "I have many possessions, Peter. But very few I cherish. They tend to be like thoughtful, dear friends."

She kissed him on the cheek, and Peter felt a balance restored. By hook or by crook, he would be able to handle Teresa—so to speak.

Possibly to encourage the energetic boys, an early night was called. Peter found to his delight that his room could be audio-sealed, although he suspected the security staff had found some way around this, for very obvious reasons. He played an eclectic mix of Mozart, Joplin, Lennon-McCartney, Granz, Jtarok, and a few treasured random bits from his late father’s obscure music files. He had kept those since Deneva. He’d even brought them with him to Tantalus.

"...would there suddenly be sunshine on a cold and cloudy day? Oh, babe....what would you say? Cause, oh, baby I know....I know, I know...I could be so in love with you...and if I could only hear you say you do...but anyway...what would you say?"

As a horn solo began, Peter heard a knock on the door, and got up to put on his robe. "A minute."

Lowering the volume, he opened the door to find Teresa in a nightgown that thankfully didn’t hug her body.

"Too loud, Princess?"

Her eyes were a little teary.

"Peter, please restart this selection. I was scanning the boys’ rooms, and heard yours instead. Who sings it?"

Peter scratched his head. "Sam always described this as being from his ‘One-shot Wonders’ collection. ‘One-shot Wonders’ were recording artists who, due to the vast financial restraints of pre-digital recording, charted once popularly and then never again. A lot of the names were lost in The Post-Atomic Horror."

Teresa nodded, and Peter restarted the selection. As it played, she held out a hand to a surprised Peter. "Dance with me?"

At least she had a robe on this time, he reasoned. "By your command, Milady."

Peter knew in his heart as the music played that Teresa was likely morphing his features from those of a confused ex-Iowan farmboy to those of a charming old country doctor from Georgia. But as the music played, he held her and she him, always in a friendly way, and he found he just didn’t much care. There was something about just being with her that maybe didn’t require—being with her.

And he didn’t even step on her feet.

Peter arose especially early in the morning. He was surprised to hear a certain message in his morning starmail:

"You don’t get any points for merely doing what you’re supposed to, Lieutenant. Had you failed to break up a potential brawl between cadets, I’d be forced to question why you were ever given that uniform in the first place, let alone why you were given it back. Also, I know Cadet Sulu to be well and fully capable of fighting her own battles and taking care of herself. That is my considered opinion as a starship commander in Starfleet."

The man’s features then softened considerably, and he allowed a very friendly smile. "As a father, though, I can’t thank you enough. You don’t know what she put herself through to get into the Academy, Peter. I hope one day that she and I have the kind of renaissance that you and Jim have obviously had. That anyone stood up for her makes me a happy man. That it was you—a good young man with so many past troubles, both those self-inflicted and otherwise —makes me a very, very happy man. I am both grateful to and very proud of you, Peter. The resilient young boy who was our guest for that month after Deneva has at last come back as the kind of person I hope my daughter is able to emulate—"

The smile widened. "All my best regards, Lieutenant Kirk, as well as those of Commander Rand. Sulu out."

What a long strange trip it’s been, thought Peter. That a man of Hikaru Sulu’s caliber would be thanking him was once simply unthinkable. They had all praised him, of late. Yet the toughest road lay directly ahead. When the shine was off his reform. When no one would compliment him merely for being better than he once was. When ‘those bars of his’ would seek the ultimate company, and have to compete for it with the best and the brightest, people who had never missed a step or had a mark against them. Only now, in the wee small hours of the morning, did he even dare to whisper his secret dream, one never directly revealed, even to Jim.

"I, Captain Peter Claudius Kirk, do hereby joyously and proudly assume responsibility for the lives and well-being of my crew and my ship. So do I assume the post of Commanding Officer—"

Dream or no, the last words were always the hardest for him to utter.

"—of the U.S.S. Enterprise."

As he dressed for his workout, Peter saw most of them there in his mind. I’ve proven you right. You were right to trust me. You were right to believe in me. I will be worthy of your legacy, Uncle.

Peter always found it odd that he could never see Jim in this daydream. Perhaps, then as now, he would be away on an important mission. For now, Peter concentrated on walking to the workout room.

Once again, he ignored the splendor of the place in favor of his destination. The workout room was Spartan in its layout but decidedly advanced in the array of equipment available. Miguel and Teresa were already there, as was a large newcomer Peter correctly took to be Connor Randolph. Holding out pads while a sweatsuit-wearing Teresa kicked at them, she looked at Peter, and then Miguel, who was now practicing wielding his honor-sword with just one hand.

Peter, who had started using a grav-suspended heavy bag, heard the Xartheb-born security chief say something to the crown prince. "You win. The resemblance is very pronounced."

A silver button, probably the symbol of countless bets between them, passed from Randolph’s to Miguel’s hand. The prince smiled at his guest. "Thank you, Peter."

Peter switched to open-palm thrusts. "Always glad to help, Miguel."

Peter finished with the heavy bag by kicking very high and to the side. Not wishing to smash his feet or toes, he did this merely to keep limber, and not for power.

But before he could seek the vacated weight-resistance chair, he was stopped by Connor Randolph. "Mister Kirk, it’s always a pleasure to meet someone you’ve heard so much—and so many different—things about."

They shook hands. "Likewise, Mister Randolph. Anyone who can confront Jim the way you did and live has my respect."

She looked towards the middle of the floor. "Respect is fine. How about giving me a round?"

Peter darted his eyes about. "You’re from Xartheb. You’ll clean my clock."

She looked back at him. "When did you graduate?"

"Um, twelve years ago."

"You mean before they reduced the physical ed and Security training requirements for Science-track cadets?"

She had him there. When Jim Kirk had been a dean at Starfleet Academy, one of the rules changes he had bitterly resisted had been a reduction in all physical training for non-Command and non-Security cadets. As Peter had recently found out the hard way, almost the instant Jim had left due to the Genesis affair, the amount of daily physical education for many cadets had been halved. Also, half a semester of basic security training had been almost tithed. Peter was in effect one of the last graduates to go through a physical program similar to the ones that had produced his seven heroes.

"Care to throw down, Mister Kirk? What’s your fighting style?"

As they entered the matted ring, Peter answered, "Jeet-Kune-Do."

Connor Randolph nodded. "Mine’s an evolving style. Ready?"

They bowed, and she came at him. Peter knew his only chance was to obey the letter and the law of his lessons. Those lessons he now recited mentally.

Be as water. Water becomes that which it enters.

Her effort to flip him failed as he shifted his feet into the mat just enough to gain purchase.

Water flows along the river bed, too quick to be held.

Connor’s foot-sweep was narrowly avoided by his quick jump.

Water will, given time and opportunity, wear down even a great mountain.

Using the momentum from his jump, Peter pushed his open palm into her solar plexus. The Xartheb staggered back about an inch, then spoke. "Good. Very good."

Water’s flow can be dammed.

Peter barely registered the three blows that sent him flying to the mat, flat on his back. No effort. It hadn’t taken any real effort for her to kick his ass. He hadn’t even really made a showing. Then, he heard laughter.

Water boils, and its steam can scald.

How dare she laugh at him? His face began to contort in open rage. He hadn’t bragged. She had asked for this match. He had conceded her strength and training from the start. Who the hell did she think she was?

"May I ask just what’s so funny?"

Still laughing, she extended a hand up he might soon make her regret. "You. Your face is the exact same color of beet-red as your uncle’s. He was pissed, too—and that’s being mild."

Through his rage and shame, Peter made some connections. "You...beat Jim?"

Water may quench the soul. Water may put out a fire.

"Often," she answered, laughing. She thrust the hand at him again.

He took the hand up, suddenly not feeling so bad. He wiped his forehead. "Connor, has anyone ever beaten you?"

She nodded. "Of course."

There is always a stronger river.

"Peter, my people hate to lose, but it does happen. A Kh’myr got past me, but only just. He was so wiped, by the time he got to Miguel, he was wide open for a blast from a Mark Six Disruptor Carbine. The stain he left on the front walkway is still there. La Caudilla has forbidden us from cleaning it. It’s her way of reminding us to keep vigilant."

She was the one for the job, no doubt of that.

"Sorry I didn’t give you much of a match."

She shook her head. "You knock me back a full inch, and you call that not much? Peter, my style is like I said, always evolving. I add things as I go along. Well, guess what? I’m adding yours. I’ll show you how not to leave an opponent so many openings if you’ll show me what you know about Jeet-Kune-Do. Deal?"

They shook hands to end the match and seal the deal. For the rest of that session and for their next few matches, Connor gained an advantage one of her size and strength sometimes overlooked. The ability to maximize force with a minimum of motion. Peter, for his part, still struck the mat with his back, just less often and in a longer time-frame.

Peter was, like everyone else, waiting for word that the Enterprise was passing through the Serenidad system on its way to Qo’noS. With Miguel and the boys in town shopping, Peter went down to the lake after an afternoon solo workout session.

Seeing Teresa in it already, he called to her. "Do you want to be alone?"

She shrugged and smiled. "The lake is a democracy."

Her smile seemed more of a grin, but he was getting as used to that as the sight of her topless. Peter dove in, and went as deep as he could. Teresa joined him for an underwater swim. It was only then he noticed something odd about her bikini bottom. Her...bottom. Gasping for air as he resurfaced, he heard her gentle laughter. Despite how far he’d come in readying himself, Teresa had gotten him once again.

Wading to the shore, Peter picked up a triangular piece of cloth that he had missed seeing before. He shook his head at Teresa. "You know...you could have told me."

Still half-covered by water, she seemed to find his embarrassment highly amusing. "And miss the look on your face? Besides, we’re adults. What’s the difference in simply seeing a few more centimeters of flesh than before?"

Peter said one word as he smiled and walked back to the residence. "Location."

While walking, he began to realize that his private thoughts while on this leave would consist of images of being with Teresa and reminders that this would never occur. Peter decided he could live with this. He had seen her with very little on, and seen her with nothing on at all. She had grabbed his privates. None of which had led to them betraying Doctor McCoy. Maybe flirtation was in them, but adultery was not.

He hoped. The problem was, Teresa kept upping the ante, seemingly for the fun of seeing him squirm a bit. He’d seen and swam with nude women before, even beautiful ones. But Teresa was very different. She was a princess, in every sense of the word he had ever imagined. It was getting so that he was wondering if he was on the verge of doing something stupid. Peter desperately did not wish to offend Teresa. He also didn’t want her to laugh off a clumsy proposal. But how far could his feelings go without him at least telling her? Well, she couldn’t up the ante any more, at least. She loved her husband too much to cross any sort of line. If he had been a telepath, Peter was sure he’d see a love between them stronger than death itself.

He entered his room and threw himself on the bed. A few minutes later, he dozed off. That he slept for over twelve hours would not surprise him, as he had been promising his body this kind of heedless sleep for over a year.

His body’s desire for Teresa’s bed he could handle, to some extent. But when no threat or duty was about, and it wanted sleep, his body’s desire for his own bed was like a juggernaut. He remembered not being horrified by his early solitary confinement at Tantalus. For his weary soul knew that now, no pranksters or Kirk-hating officers could take pleasure in rousing him. He would find out though, that someone else must have been concerned by his missing dinner.

Oddly, his dreams as he slept were of the usual things, and not the beautiful princess. In one, he misbehaved at Tantalus. Van Gelder had him dragged screaming before the Neural Neutralizer. In another, he moved like lightning and killed Tanith Brok before she claimed a single head. In a third, he found and met that woman of his dreams he had described to Laurel McCutcheon, the one who was almost as big a screwup as he. But she only said one odd phrase in a level voice: ‘You are Peter Kirk?’ But as he moved to shake her hand, his arms suddenly felt like lead weights. ‘An odd way to greet someone,’ the unseen woman said as she walked away.

The lead weights were quite real. They even had names. He had forgotten how small children were. They had clambered into his bed, seeking the protection of their new cousin from the things that stalked a little one’s room. Jimmy seemed contented. Davie looked relieved, the burden of being the oldest one in the bedroom temporarily lifted. Peter could only find one fault with the beautiful moment: "I have to go to the bathroom, guys."

Though his need was not yet pressing, he knew that could and would change. But disturbing these two angels seemed almost as grave a sin as lying with their mother would be. Yet these things have a way of working themselves out, on occasion.

"If you pull your arms out quickly, they’ll never know. It’s like removing a plastiskin bandage," came their mother’s voice. Teresa knew her children, that much was clear to Peter. And he had not been surprised by her presence in the room.

Peter laughed softly, and quickly rolled out from underneath the kids. He strolled into the lavatory for a moment, and then came out, shaved, showered and dressed in clean shorts and a shirt. The boys were still curled up on the bed, but Teresa was already gone.

He walked downstairs to the kitchen and found Teresa sitting at a table, a piping hot breakfast waiting for them. She was dressed in a long sleepshirt which hung down her legs to her knees, but which also clung very nicely, he decided, to her figure.

She smiled at him. "It’s good to see you so relaxed, Peter. I was afraid I’d thrown you off by what I threw off, yesterday, at the lake."

He nodded. "You did. But only because I thought of the suit bottom as your personal line of demarcation." He sipped his pomegranate juice and helped himself to a biscuit. "Never doubt that in my eyes, you are the most beautiful woman in this galaxy, and certainly the most beautiful that I’ve ever seen. seen. Plus—you’ve shown me a rather high level of trust. And if I say a word more than that, I’ll risk something even more beautiful—our friendship."

She blushed. Finishing her own omelet, she placed the dishes in the sink for the staff to handle later. She came up behind him and wrapped her arms around him. "Thank you, Peter." She walked out of the kitchen, and he couldn’t help but watch her shapely form.

"Damn," he said to the empty kitchen. "I need a cold shower. Or a workout. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do."

*****

Peter was surprised at first that Miguel was present in the gym. "Good morning! Are you up for a battle?"

The Klingon seemed serious, so Peter responded, "Sure. So long as you don’t laugh too hard."

"You have my word, hombre."

Miguel handed him another honor-sword. It felt odd to him, and not merely for its relative lightness. "Is the weapon not to your liking?"

"Miguel, is there a difference between our weapons, aside from the heft?"

Miguel seemed to hint at something with his next words. "Describe the difference you claim to feel."

Peter tried for a minute, then finally found the words. "Captain Spock once allowed me to touch a laser pistol that had belonged to Captain Pike. I’ve handled dozens of phasers and such—but nothing ever felt like that one."

Miguel nodded in a happy realization. "Then you have a warrior’s instinct. For my weapon was a gift from Ambassador Kamarag of the Klingon Embassy on Earth. Made by hand, and with as much ritual as construction. Yours is merely a replicate. The same materials—and yet it can be said to lack a soul."

Peter shifted his grip until Miguel said he had it right. "Jim is the warrior. I’m a scientist, like Sam."

The weapons met in the middle, and Peter was secretly glad that the much stronger younger man was not holding back. He felt that he would rather know his prospects right from the start. They weren’t great, but that beat a sucker-punch any day.

"Is there any reason you cannot pursue both paths?"

Pushing up from a position of seeming defeat, Peter regained even ground with the prince. He was actually close to holding his own. "No, I guess there isn’t. Tell me, does your Klingon half confer fighting skills as well?"

Miguel caught Peter’s blade as it arced downward, but Peter was able to slide it out in time to negate this advantage. The honor-sword was not an easy weapon to use. But it seemed a vastly patient one.

"There are those who say these ridges," he pointed at his forehead, "confer wisdom, and recent science seems to bear that out. Yet, there are even those Kh’myr who feel that since they are born with them, the wisdom is unearned, a replicate as soulless as your weapon."

Perhaps it was gaining some of Peter’s fighting spirit, though, as a jumping movement reminiscent of his hand-to-hand fighting style forced Miguel back, stopping the opening of a movement that might have ended the fight then and there. But Peter failed to quickly press his advantage, and Miguel rapidly had him again on the defensive.

"So the path is as important as the destination to these individuals? Maybe Uncle Jim has a better chance than I thought with Gorkon."

Miguel surprised Peter by duplicating almost perfectly the jump from before. It nearly had Kirk, but he used a squatting motion to force himself back up, nearly causing Miguel to lose his weapon.

"Impressive. Connor may not be the only one asking you about this style. But Gorkon is for real. I am only a low-level liaison officer, yet those who are for peace speak to me openly. To those who are for war, I am a reminder that even brute force has limits."

Peter came to realize that while Miguel was not holding back in terms of strength and skill, he likely was doing so in terms of overall speed. Besides that, he could not match the Klingon prince for stamina—though he could come closer than most might think. The Shenandoah had proven that. By inverting his sword suddenly, Peter forced Miguel back yet again, although in the process, he almost cut himself on the pointed edges.

"So do those ridges help in battle?"

Peter couldn’t tell how much he was surprising Miguel, and how much he was just being shown kid gloves. But he didn’t care either way. For every second that he battled was a second that he didn’t relive Teresa’s underwater surprise. Trust or no, she had to know somewhat how that would stay with him. Somehow, he would get her for that—in a friendly way, of course. Miguel was now using a sort of chopping motion that was neither as dangerous nor as vulnerable to a counter as it first looked.

"The scientists created what the Empire wanted; living, walking war machines. But they are often one-dimensional in their thinking, even in battle."

For a moment, the two fell into a motion that, if it had been the entire battle, would have had its viewers claiming the fix was in. For each countered the other’s every motion without fail. This broke up after five minutes, and they circled one another.

"But with their sheer power, isn’t that one dimension enough?"

Miguel rushed Peter, who pulled away as the weapons met. He almost lost his footing to the Klingon prince whose speed had just casually tripled. Peter chose to take that as a compliment.

"Often, it is enough. But I have seen footage of battles in which Kh’myr literally forgot to use their weapons. They even seemed to forget they had them, so sure were they in their power and its intoxicating feelings of invulnerability."

Peter felt the endgame was close, and so tried to prepare for literally anything as the circling resumed. "Sounds like Kh’myr could even sit on a supreme advantage for years on end. But the way they tear into their victims still leads me to believe that the power more than compensates." Miguel swung out, but never struck Peter, who surmised that he was being somehow herded.

"I feel that my Human qualities of intuition and forethought place me well above all but the mightiest Kh’myr warriors."

Things are moving too slowly, Peter thought. The weapons were meeting constantly now, but with no pattern that he could discern.

"I won’t disagree with you, but which aspects of those qualities are you referring to?"

Miguel picked up the pace, leading Peter to believe that his friend was trying to wear him out. For all that, Kirk held on.

"Well, as to forethought, I would use as an example..."

Miguel stopped talking and looked past Peter. "Mother? I had thought you were with Connor, arranging the CommPic calls’ secured frequency."

Peter saw her—all of her—again in his mind. "Teresa?"

Miguel knocked the honor-sword from Peter’s hand, and caught it as it fell. Had Teresa been present, she might have gotten quite a laugh from it.

"Miguel, you tricked me! Using your own mother?" Peter’s smile belied his shaming tone.

Miguel seemed glad for this. "What can I say? I beat more opponents that way."

Perhaps, Peter reasoned, this was the prince’s special revenge upon the visitor. After all, Miguel would soon take the two boys out for yet another day of shopping, seeking more plastic figures like those Peter had given them. This had also caused a run on whatever such things existed on Serenidad. The princes’ spending habits were closely scrutinized.

"Miguel, why don’t I take Los Hermanos Diablos out today, and give you a break?"

Miguel hung up the honor-swords and shook his head. "I appreciate that, Peter. More than you could know. But I treasure these times with the only two who have never seen me as a Klingon first. Besides, Serenidadian Law only stops the press from harassing legal minors. You are well of age, not to mention the only living blood-kin of Serenidad’s greatest hero. You would be asked savage, shocking questions. They might even try to imply any number of loathsome things about you."

Peter could think of at least one such thing, at least since Miguel’s ruse had so handily reminded him of Teresa’s little joke. The battle was done with, and no longer able to keep those images out. Going back to his room, Peter checked for any visitors and locked the door. He then told the computer to awaken him within two hours. His lengthy sleep earlier had done wonders for him, but he didn’t want the exhaustion of the battle to eat up another day. Especially since that day was to culminate with CommPic calls to the passing Enterprise. He had missed Jim once, and he wouldn’t allow it again.

But a new twist came as he slept. This time, his dreams were of Teresa. He dove below the water. He saw what he had seen before. His face went where it shouldn’t have. So did his hands. She never once objected, but only smiled as he touched her. When the coupling occurred, it was all too much, and he felt the climax occur immediately.

"The alarm."

He woke up, and quickly realized what had happened. Depositing the sheets in the dirty linen bin, he hoped that the servants didn’t check them too closely. A bit flustered, he jumped into the shower, sweaty from workouts both real and imagined, and needing a thorough cleansing. He also spoke out loud.

"That hasn’t happened since I was fifteen! I have to say something. I have to do something."

Not to save the galaxy but to protect a very special friendship, the mind of the last of the Kirks went to work. He found a possible solution.

*****

In what was becoming for him an afternoon ritual, he headed for the lake. Swimming already was Teresa, her work with affairs of state and the securing of the CommPic frequency obviously done for the day. He approached slowly, careful not to make this obvious. When he did not see Teresa dart for the rocks or shore, he knew that his chances of this working had hit 50-50.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Never."

She was working far too hard to hide a grin. Just as yesterday, she hadn’t set this up, but would take full advantage of the opportunity to get a seemingly harmless laugh. While Peter would never hurt her, he would answer her boldness by being even bolder in a different way. Faking a diving motion, he pulled back at the last minute and saw that same piece of cloth. He picked it up as she giggled.

"I almost got you again."

He nodded, setting her up something fierce.

"Yeah, you did. Now, I’m heading back up. Call me when you’re done."

As he had guessed and hoped, she shook her head.

"Peter! You can talk about ‘location’ til the cows come home. But I don’t care how you see me, and I fully trust you. Fully."

The trap was sprung. He took the suit bottom, and put it over his shoulder like a captured pelt.

"No. I don’t think so. Talk to you later."

He picked up his pace before she called out.

"Peter, my bottom?"

He turned and nodded again.

"Yeah, I saw that, too."

He continued to walk away. She got a bit arch. "What makes you think I won’t get up out of this lake, chase you down, and kick your cute ass?"

He turned around again. "Thanks for the compliment. But you see, you may not be overly concerned how I see you. Back at the residence, though, some of the older servants, people you’ve lovingly described as being like family— well, they just might be scandalized. La Caudilla fighting in such a state!"

Her cocky look vanished. It had been a bluff on his part, but obviously there were such people on her staff. Her next words were more conciliatory. "What do I have to do to get that back from you?"

Peter Claudius Kirk’s mind edited his words like it never had before. He handed the bottom over at the water’s edge, and looked directly at the only part of her that he ever could touch—her eyes.

"You have to accept that I’m not mature enough to handle seeing you this way. My heart and my mind say that you are my friend, and that you are the wife of a dear friend. My body and its accompanying sensations, which don’t have all that much real experience, only see this gorgeous creature with nary a stitch. Forgive me, Teresa. I don’t wanna reduce your freedom. But I need that line of demarcation. Will you grant me it?"

She put the bottom back on, and if Peter saw anything more as she did, he reasoned it would be the last time he did so. "A line of demarcation kept the peace between Spain and Portugal, way back when. If it grants peace to someone I’ve grown so fond of, well, then what’s a little restriction? Peter, did I offend you?"

He stepped in with her. "Never. You could never offend me. Teresa, I’m not complaining about what I saw. The problem is not you. It’s me."

She shook her head, and he felt the difference the bottom made. Her breasts were beautiful as they shook, but they could never convey the inadvertent signal his body took from seeing her nude. "No. It’s me. I like playing with you, Peter. I mean, literally playing with you. Like we were kids together, or something. I have Leonard. I have my boys. I have employees to whom I am very close. But I have so few friends that aren’t a structured part of my life so close to my own age, without even broaching how similarly life has treated us. Being around you, I feel like maybe I am eight years old, before all the boy-girl stuff starts. Am I making any sense?"

He let his eyes wander down to her chest, then back up. "Everything except the eight year old part."

He finally said it. "I find you enormously attractive. Whether or not that’s mutually felt doesn’t matter. Because I know where our relationship is not leading to. I don’t know a lot of things for certain, but I know that. Your every fifth word is ‘Leonard’. That says it all."

She caressed his cheek. "You do realize that ‘cute’ is a euphemism on my part? And there will be a woman saying ‘Peter’ just like you described."

He shrugged. "When?"

Her eyes now took on a sexiness that no private part could hope to. "Tonight. I set you up on a blind date!"

She had gotten him yet again. "Okay. But before then, let’s work on some more rules."

She nodded. "Such as?"

He turned, waded into the water, and then splashed her full in the face with a small tidal wave worth of water. "Rule Seventeen: I can splash you, but you can’t splash me!"

She turned her head slowly to mock-glare at him. Apparently Connor Randolph wasn’t the only one who hated losing.

"You wanted to act like eight-year olds."

She splashed him back. "I’m La Caudilla! You can’t make that kind of rule in my lake!"

Now, both were smiling. The lines were now clear.

"Uh-uh! You said the lake was a democracy!"

The afternoon swim ended with another breath-holding contest. Teresa even played fair, this time.

*****

At 1900 hours, Peter in his room saw a familiar face appear on his wall-sized BellComm screen. At seven, he had thought that she might be an angel. She would always have his respect.

"Hello, Peter. I just hooked up Princess Teresa and Doctor McCoy. How are you?"

He said what he honestly felt, now that the air had been cleared. "I’m great, Commander Uhura. Yourself?"

"Miserable. I pulled some muscles in my arm trying to install those components without competent aid. You are missed, Mister Kirk. Ah, the captain is now ready to speak with you."

Peter prayed that this was a literal statement.

Jim Kirk appeared on the wallscreen. The captain was obviously in his quarters, wearing those old reading glasses McCoy had given him, a bound copy of The Odyssey in his hands.

To Peter’s well-hidden disappointment, he still did not appear to be a happy man. "Jim, how are you doing?"

The captain of the Enterprise shrugged noncommittally. "Considering that I’m not sparring with you or Miguel, playing with the boys, or sunning and swimming with Bones and Teresa, all so that I can sit down with