A Difference Which
Makes No Difference

"‘Sita—nooooo!!!" Leonard McCoy jerked upright at his desk, his blue eyes wide with horror. Tears streamed down his stubbled cheeks.

Another nightmare about Teresa. Each one had been more horrible than the last. Each one depicted Teresa being butchered in some grisly fashion by that Klingon bitch Vetara and her henchmen.

But...they seemed like more than nightmares. Much more. They were far more vivid than any dream he had ever had. They were more like...visions of some kind. Like those induced by Sybok all those years ago, perhaps. It was if he was there on the Klingon homeworld of Qo’noS, watching the horror unfold, but unable to intervene. He could actually feel the desert sand around the Durit compound sting his eyes, and clog his nose and the back of his throat. He could smell the riotous green growth of the nearby terraformed jungle, hear the fearsome shrieks of the wildlife that inhabited the green tangle of vegetation— tough, lethal desert creatures that had merely shrugged and quickly adapted to their new environment. He could feel the blast furnace heat of Qo’noS’ twin suns—hell, he half-expected to look in a mirror and find that his skin was red and blistered.

And he could smell Teresa’s blood when they butchered her.

Teresa was alive in these nightmares—although every one of them had ended with her execution. This, of course, was impossible. You couldn’t kill a dead woman. Teresa had died eleven months ago, killed by the vile, parasitic mantril in the q’laI arena. The deadly creature had gnawed its way into her belly and devoured her entrails while a shrieking Teresa, her wrists bound behind her, had run, staggered, and finally fallen in the sand, writhing and jerking and bleeding until her limbs convulsed, and then relaxed.

McCoy blinked back tears. The Klingon bastards had holotaped her execution in gory detail. An overzealous INS news bimbo had gotten hold of the tape and broadcast part of it on the air before INS Chairman Brad Bashaw had pulled the plug himself. Unfortunately, the disgraced and fired anchor woman, Sienna Gillette, had bootlegged a pirated copy of the holodisk, and by now, billions of beings throughout the galaxy had witnessed Teresa’s final moments.

McCoy had forced himself to sit through the gruesome holo just once, just so he could know what had happened. Most poignantly, he remembered how a hovering holocam had mercilessly focused on Teresa’s naked, blood-spattered corpse lying spread-eagled in the sand, a gaping wound in her stomach, the beautiful dark eyes staring glassily, fixedly at the suns overhead. The unforgiving lens had robbed Teresa of any last shred of dignity, displaying her most intimate anatomy for the entire galaxy to see, freezing on that gory tableau for several long moments until a horde of screeching scavengers attacked her corpse en masse, leaving behind a gnawed skeleton in a matter of minutes.

McCoy wiped his eyes and sagged back in his lounger. He glanced blearily around his office. It was a mess—just like he was. He had taken the Starfleet Surgeon General’s post immediately after Teresa’s death, and had basically been living out of his office for the past eleven months. He gazed blankly out the huge picture window. The morning fog was lifting over the bay, and the upper superstructure of the Golden Gate Bridge loomed in the uniform grayness.

And why shouldn’t he become a hermit here? Why not? He had endured more tragedy in the past eleven months than many men suffered in a lifetime. First had come the loss of two of his closest friends. Jim Kirk had died heroically saving the U.S.S. Enterprise-B in the Nexus debacle. Scotty had disappeared when the S.S. Jenolen, the ship ferrying him to a retirement colony on Norpin V, had simply vanished from Federation scanners, presumably a victim of a Tholian expansion deep into Federation territory. Then had come the cold blooded murders of his and Teresa’s little sons, Davie and Jimmy, and—the final nail in the coffin lid—the bloody execution of Teresa herself.

McCoy sighed. His life, his world had been destroyed by those terrible events. He had descended into a vicious cycle of self-destruction: industrial strength drunkenness by night, detoxification and cleanup in the morning; workaholism by day. His colleagues marveled at the way he drove himself, the unparalleled service he afforded his patients, the aggressive way he tackled and solved administrative problems.

"What a dedicated physician!" they all exclaimed.

Dedicated, my ass! McCoy thought sourly. I’m just doin’ it to keep from goin’ crazy!

Crazy was one thing he was not—at least, according to the Starfleet psych wizards. They allowed that he was under incredible, almost unbearable stress, but he was completely sane.

And removed. He had not spoken with Joanna or her family in months. He would not allow them into his life. After all the tragedy, he could not, would not allow himself to get close to his own daughter or her children. He would have nothing to do with them. Nothing.

So where did that leave him with these nightmares of Teresa?

McCoy shuddered. He had dreamed of Teresa right after her death. Those, however, had been pleasant dreams. Teresa, the boys, Jim and Scotty—they were all still alive. He and Teresa would steal off to their favorite hideaway at Lago de la Crístol on the palace grounds of Serenidad and would make passionate love under the stars above.

Then he would awaken, and the overwhelming grief and loneliness threatened to crush him.

He plunged into his alcohol-induced haze shortly thereafter, and had quit dreaming altogether about anything.

Until five days ago.

McCoy suddenly stiffened. He realized now what the horrible nightmares reminded him of—and why they troubled him! They were almost identical to the mental impressions—the thought or the sense that someone else’s consciousness was in his mind with him—that had tormented him when he had carried Spock’s katra in his head.

But that was impossible! In every nightmare, Teresa called out to him for help just before she met a horrible death. She had shrieked his name when Vetara had driven the razor-sharp blade of a d’k tagh between her legs and gutted her at the end of the HoHtaj. She cried out for him an instant before the headsman’s axe decapitated her, and again when that bastard Khareg thrust his huge phallus down her throat and broke her neck with his climactic thrust. She screamed his name in agony when she was burned alive at the stake, and again today, when Khareg shattered her leg as she hung on the cross, killing her.

Each time she died, she called for him.

But that was impossible; she was already dead. Had been for eleven months.

McCoy didn’t care what the psych-docs thought. He was fairly certain he was going crazy. There was no way Teresa could possibly be alive. He had scanned her pitiful remains—a skull and a gnawed ribcage—and had positively identified them in the q’laI arena.

These are just very morbid, very grisly nightmares, Leonard, he thought forcefully. After what you’ve been through, you’re lucky you can think at all.

He hadn’t convinced himself. The dreams were very real, but very bizarre. Teresa, for example—the strange hairiness of her body, her smaller breasts, the strangely long nails. Why would he consistently dream of her looking like that? And Vetara, grossly pregnant in every dream. She hadn’t been pregnant in the holotape of Teresa’s execution. And why Khareg? He never had met any such Klingon that he could recall.

Why couldn’t he just chalk up these nightmares as the by-products of a tortured subconscious? He could prescribe some Hypersomanthan for himself to prevent him from dreaming and be done with it.

"Because they’re too damned real," McCoy growled aloud.

Spock.

The thought occurred to McCoy that he had not been tested for ESPer capacity since he had been the keeper of Spock’s katra.

"Spock, you Vulcan son of a bitch!" he groused affectionately. "If you were here right now, I’d ask you to perform one of those blasted mind-melds I hate so much, just to see if you could tell me what the hell is going on! Or at least..."

He snapped his fingers. Of course! Spock was on Vulcan right now, having just returned from an ambassadorial assignment to the Beta Quadrant. He had returned from the Enterprise-B with all due haste aboard his warp shuttle for reasons known only to himself or his family. Well, he thought, now’s as good a time as any to have a little chat with an old friend.

McCoy tapped a touch-sensor on his BellComm terminal. His assistant responded almost immediately. "Yes, Doctor?"

The call from Leonard McCoy had disturbed him more than he wished to admit. The vivid nightmares McCoy had reported involving his dead wife, Princess Teresa, seemed, on the surface, to be just that—terrible dreams and nothing more.

Except that Spock himself had recently begun sensing what he could only describe as vague "psionic echoes."

At first, the Vulcan had written them off as residual echoes of a past mind-meld with Teresa, brought on perhaps by his mental encounter with the ‘angelic’ felinoid in the Beta Quadrant, but they had persisted. He had not had full-blown nightmares about the princess as McCoy had had, but he, too, sensed unformed flashes of terror, blinding pain, and then nothingness.

And the cycle repeated itself again and again, just as McCoy reported.

Spock could sense that the thought traces were indeed those of Teresa. It was as if she was calling out to someone, although not necessarily him.

And, of course, Teresa was dead, brutally murdered eleven months earlier. To think that he could possibly be sensing thought impressions from her was absurd—totally illogical.

Or so he had thought—until he had spoken to McCoy.

Spock exhaled slowly. He had tried to reassure his old friend, even as he could not reassure himself, that Humans were not prone to having such vivid sensory impressions when they dreamed. McCoy had reported he could feel the heat of Qo’noS’ suns, smell the newly created jungle, feel the sand in his eyes. The physician had always been psi-null; still, he was a very empathic individual. And, as McCoy had pointed out, he had not been psi-tested since he had carried Spock’s katra. It was possible that McCoy had acquired some rudimentary ESPer abilities from that experience.

What, then, was happening?

Both he and McCoy were sensing thought emanations, purportedly from Princess Teresa—and in McCoy’s case, extremely graphic nightmares about her. This, of course, was patently impossible. She was dead.

And yet, he could not deny the evidence of his Vulcan psionic abilities.

Spock shook his head imperceptibly. For all of his logic and mental disciplining, there were many things he could not explain. For example, Jim Kirk. The captain had died—supposedly—in the Nexus incident aboard the Enterprise-B, and yet Spock could still sense faint threads of the mind-link he had shared with his closest friend. It should have been severed with his death. Spock had been so distressed by the incident that he had submitted to a complete mental and physical examination, fearing an early onset of Bendii Syndrome, the Alzheimer-like dementia that had claimed so many males of his father’s family. The tests were all negative; Spock was in perfect health.

Therefore, the only logical explanation, as improbable as it seemed, was that somehow, somewhere, James T. Kirk was still alive.

And Princess Teresa?

Spock had watched some of the distasteful holovid of Teresa’s execution. McCoy himself had scanned her scattered remains on Qo’noS and had filed her death certificate upon his return to Serenidad. She was quite dead.

And yet, Spock himself was living proof that death need not always be the final curtain. Could Teresa possibly be alive—and, if so, how? Spock had tried to allay McCoy’s fears; his friend had been under enough pressure the past eleven months. But Spock himself had doubts about what the two of them were sensing, and if....

Spock frowned, his brows knitting together.

McCoy was a very impulsive individual. It was quite likely that he might take it upon himself to go to Qo’noS to investigate firsthand—a course of action that would not only be extremely foolhardy, but also extremely dangerous.

He activated a hyperchannel and punched in a series of codes. Presently, the face of a coolly beautiful young Vulcan woman sharpened into focus on his screen. She raised her hand in salute. "Live long and prosper, Spock."

"Live long and prosper, T’Sela," Spock intoned, returning the gesture. "Is my father available?"

"Yes, he is," she replied. "Please hold."

The image of the young woman wavered, to be replaced by the imposing figure of Ambassador Sarek, resplendent in the robes of his office. Father and son exchanged greetings, and Spock quickly outlined what had been occurring with McCoy and himself. When he finished, Sarek cocked an eyebrow, but his expression was unreadable.

"Fascinating," the elder Vulcan murmured. "How do you account for this phenomenon, Spock?"

Spock pursed his lips. "I...am at a loss to explain it at this time. I have no hypothesis. Princess Teresa is dead, and yet I am sensing mental emanations from her consciousness. I recognize them, since I once mind-melded with her. But no, I cannot explain why or how this phenomenon is occurring."

"Indeed." Sarek paused. "I–we–owe McCoy much. What would you have me do, my son?"

"I am...concerned that he may do something totally illogical—yet totally Human. He may attempt to investigate the phenomenon himself by going to Qo’noS since all his nightmares were set on the Klingon homeworld."

"I see. Upon what do you base that assumption?"

Spock looked almost embarrassed. "I am, as Captain Kirk used to say, ‘playing a hunch’—following up on an illogical deduction."

Sarek almost smiled. "As I recall, the good captain’s hunches were correct more often than not. I will be in Paris for two more days, but I must return to San Francisco on Thursday for a Federation Council meeting. I can pay McCoy a visit at that time, if you wish."

"That would be most kind."

"If McCoy asks the purpose of my visit?" Sarek queried.

The Vulcan hesitated. "Tell him...I was worried about him, and asked you to ‘check up on him’," Spock answered. "Tell him the truth."

Sarek arched an eyebrow, but did not comment. "McCoy is a worthy individual," he said. "I will do whatever I can to assist him—and you."

"Thank you, Father."

"Live long and prosper, my son."

"Live long and prosper, Father."

Spock broke the connection and sat back, once again staring at a blank screen. Meditation was in order; his thought processes had not been in so much turmoil for a long time.

He rose slowly, making his way to the meditation stone in his bed chamber with cat-like, purposeful strides so as not to awaken T’Liba, his bondmate.

And as he walked, he thought he sensed, deep in his mind, a woman’s whimper of confusion and terror that segued into a long, strident, agonized scream.

Hell, he knew the Vulcan better than either of them wanted to admit since he had shared Spock’s katra after the Genesis Incident.

McCoy took a breath. He was more energized than he had been in months. He had showered, shaved and packed in record time. He had arranged for transportation to the Klingon Empire once he got to Starbase 27 on Trylias and acquisition of the rather illegal weapons and hardware he would need once he got to Qo’noS.

Only one minor detail needed attention—getting out to Trylias.

His BellComm terminal beeped for attention. Right on schedule, he thought. "What’s the good word, Jeannie?" McCoy rasped.

"Well, I’ve got good news, and I’ve got bad news," the soothing contralto voice of Jeannie Morgan, his personal assistant, responded. "Good news: the U.S.S. Saratoga under the command of Captain Shoop is actually heading out to Trylias, and would love to take you there for your inspection of Starbase Twenty-Seven’s medical facilities."

"Great!" McCoy enthused. "Sherry’s an old friend of mine! So what’s the bad news?"

"The bad news is that she leaves orbit in twenty-two minutes. There’s no way I can get a shuttle from Starfleet Command to get you up there in time."

"So have her beam be up," McCoy returned without hesitation. "What’s the problem?"

There was a long silence. "Let me get this straight," Morgan said finally. "Did I just hear Admiral Leonard H. McCoy, M.D., Ph.D., Starfleet Surgeon General, noted technophobe, reviler of the transporter and all things mechanical, request to be beamed up?"

"Yep," McCoy replied. "The sooner, the better. No time like the present."

"Are you okay?"

"No, I’m not okay," McCoy answered brusquely. "I’m just in a hurry."

"I’m sorry, Len," she said. "I know the stress you’ve been under. I didn’t mean to—"

"I know, darlin’," he said softly. "It’s all right. I don’t think I’ll ever be ‘okay’ again. That’s not your fault. Sorry."

"No problem. I’ll contact Saratoga to beam you up." Morgan paused. "Len, be careful out there."

McCoy chuckled. "I’m just goin’ out to Trylias to inspect the hospital at Starbase Twenty-Seven, then maybe take a little R’n’R."

"Yeah...right!" Morgan snorted derisively. "In a grand total of forty-five minutes, you arranged this ‘inspection,’ got ready and made several scrambled, hyperchannel calls to places I don’t even want to know about!"

It was obvious to him that she was crying. "Just arranging a little vacation," he soothed. "There’s nothin’ to worry about."

"I’m going to worry anyway. Please—just take care of yourself. I mean it!"

"I will," McCoy affirmed. "Love ya, doll."

"Love you, too," she sniffled. "I’ll get that beam-up arranged."

He glanced around his office, wondering if he had forgotten anything. His gaze fell on his liquor cabinet. "How could I forget?" McCoy muttered. He pulled open the door, selected two bottles of Romulan ale, a Canopian brandy, and a Saurian brandy—Jim Kirk’s favorite.

Then he stopped.

"No."

He returned the bottles and flasks to their shelves. "No," he repeated. "Don’t have enough room for ‘em, anyway."

His console bleeped again. "U.S.S. Saratoga to Admiral McCoy. Ready to beam you up, sir."

"Acknowledged," McCoy responded. "I’m ready."

"Energizing."

"Here goes nothin’," the doctor muttered as the transporter sparkle enveloped him, and he vanished from the room.

A nightmare he shouldn’t have had in the first place.

McCoy frowned. He had given himself a full dose of Hypersomanthan right before he had dozed off, and yet he still dreamed. This one had been the worst yet. Before, he had always had the sense that someone else—Teresa—was in his mind. This time, he had been in her mind. It was as if he was Teresa, watching everything through her terrified eyes, feeling the horror and the excruciating agony of being impaled on an eight foot long sharpened wooden stake as it pierced her rectum and drove up into her body.

McCoy pulled himself up to a sitting position and sagged against the side of the bunk, drained, Gradually, he composed himself. He stopped trembling, and rose unsteadily to his feet. He shambled to the compu-chef, urge to mosey down to Sickbay and see if he could borrow a bottle of brandy for medicinal purposes, and selected iced Altair water instead.

McCoy sipped his drink. He glanced out the huge transparent aluminum portal of his guest stateroom, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. The distorted stars of subspace whipped by at a dizzying rate. Drawing on his many years of spacefaring experience, McCoy estimated they were going at least Warp 8 and maybe faster. Shoop’s haulin’ ass!

Still shaking from his harrowing experience, McCoy tottered into the bathroom and took a quick shower, mixing about half water and half sonics. As a fresh uniform materialized around him, he brooded about what had just happened. He didn’t even want to consider what it all meant.

His comm terminal chimed for attention. "McCoy here."

"Len? You’re finally up?" The face of Captain Sherry Shoop crinkled into a smile on the viewscreen.

"Yeah—I had kind of a rude awakening."

Her brows narrowed. "You okay? Anything I can do?"

"Naw, that’s okay, Shoop. I’m about as okay as I can be under the circumstances. I’m looking forward to some R’n’R on Trylias after I do my inspection." McCoy hoped she couldn’t see him crossing his fingers behind his back.

"Well, you’re gonna get there a little quicker," she said. "We’ve been doing Warp Eight since we left the Sol system. The crew could use some leave time, too, so I thought the sooner we got there, the more time we’d have. Our ETA is about two hours forty from now."

McCoy broke into a grin. "Wow, that’s great, Shoop. I really appreciate it."

"No problem." She paused. "Listen, if there’s anything I can do..."

"You’ve already done it. Thanks, Shoop."

The screen darkened, and he strode back over to the portal.

Somewhere out there, among the streaking stars—and not too distant—was the homeworld of a race of angry, alien warriors who would be none too happy to find him trespassing on their planet.He didn’t care. He would go to Qo’noS and get to the bottom of the mystery that had plagued him for the past six days.

Spock regarded the image of his father on his comm screen and nodded. "As I expected," he said. "However, I seem to have miscalculated the amount of time it would take McCoy to organize his expedition. I underestimated him; I did not believe he would be able to leave so quickly. I was hoping you could dissuade him, or at least delay him until my arrival."

"According to his administrative assistant, he left directly after he spoke with you," Sarek supplied. "He left aboard the starship Saratoga, bound for Starbase Twenty-Seven on Trylias—an interesting choice for the Starfleet Surgeon General to visit to conduct ‘a routine medical inspection,’ wouldn’t you say?"

Spock nodded in agreement. "Indeed—especially if he intends to use Trylias as a waystation to launch a foray into Klingon territory. Did his assistant offer any other information?"

"She said only that McCoy claimed it was his duty to inspect the new medical facilities at Starbase Twenty-Seven. No Surgeon General has been there since the starbase was rebuilt after being destroyed by a Klingon sneak attack."

"I see. So, ‘out of the blue,’ to use a Human expression, Doctor McCoy decides to visit a starbase hospital on a planet that just happens to be one of the Federation worlds nearest to Qo'noS"

"A fascinating coincidence," Sarek commented dryly. "Doctor McCoy’s assistant claimed he would be taking some leave time after the inspection."

Spock nodded approvingly. "Logical. Trylias is well-known for its recreational facilities. As it is located at the edge of Federation territory, Starfleet created quite a facility there for the morale of the ships on border-patrol duty in what is arguably the most dangerous tour of duty in Starfleet. Doctor McCoy’s decision to take leave there is quite a clever ruse."

Sarek hesitated. "I...took the liberty of making some arrangements for you, my son. A long range warp shuttle has been reserved for you at Vulcan Space Central. You will be able to intercept the U.S.S. Excelsior in approximately one point two five days. Captain Sulu has received sealed orders to take you to Qo’noS on a diplomatic mission."

Spock canted an eyebrow. "Indeed."

"As part of their agreement with the Federation to offer financial aid and assistance with terraforming their world, the Klingons have agreed to allow diplomatic inspection visits, whenever the Federation wishes. Chancellor Azetbur has assented to allow you and the Excelsior access to Qo’noS—reluctantly, I might add. Captain Sulu has the proper recognition codes to allow you safe passage in and out of the Klingon Empire."

Spock allowed himself a ghost of a smile. "So, in essence, my ‘inspection’ will be as much a sham as Doctor McCoy’s."

"Indeed. Normally, I would attend to this myself, but I have pressing duties elsewhere. I hoped you would not mind." Sarek’s expression was almost sheepish. "I...assumed you would which to intercept Doctor McCoy before he comes to harm."

Spock could not disguise the gratitude in his voice. "I appreciate your gesture, Sarek," he said. "I hope I am in time."

"As do I," Sarek agreed. "Live long and prosper, Spock."

"Live long and prosper, Sarek of Vulcan."

Spock straightened in his lounger. His worst fears had been realized. The probability that McCoy was on Trylias preparing an illegal—and extremely dangerous—mission to Qo’noS was extremely high. There was, of course, the outside chance that he had simply gone there for rest and recreation—although that was not very likely.

Spock suppressed a sigh. It would only take him a few minutes to get ready for his journey, and another thirteen point four to inform his bondmate and allay her concerns. Perhaps he could make one last attempt to dissuade McCoy from undertaking his emotional, illogical quest.

I can’t see!

Panic gripped her. She was blind!

She felt a cool, cushioned surface under her body, and her wrists and ankles were restrained by what felt like soft cuffs. A bed, or a cot? She got the impression that the restraints were there to protect her rather than to imprison her; they weren’t all that tight or restrictive.

She was unusually confused and disoriented. She was having difficulty remembering her name. Terri? Terise? Teresa—Teresa Morales something something something.

She could see light now, and she relaxed a bit. It was a soft, uniform green glow growing brighter by the moment.

Now she could see shapes. She blinked once, twice, and her vision cleared.

"Subject’s vision now functional," a harsh, computerized male voice practically snarled. "Subject now free to move about her enclosure."

She felt the cuffs unlatch. She sat up abruptly—and immediately wished she hadn’t. Dizziness caused her to flop back down. Her stomach lurched.

"Subject is experiencing inner ear dysfunction. Reverse peristalsis is imminent."

She gagged and retched, but her stomach was empty; there was nothing to bring up. Gradually, she brought her nausea under control. She sat up again, slowly this time. She was still a bit dizzy, but it was manageable. She opened her eyes and glanced around.

She was sitting on a medical diagnostic bed in an otherwise bare, white, antiseptic room. It appeared to be some sort of holding cell. There was a doorway that opened into a very high tech scientific laboratory.

The energy barrier that hummed and sparked in the doorway shattered the illusion that she was free to go wherever she wished.

Her memory cleared and sharpened now as well as the fog lifted from her brain. She was Teresa Morales de la Vega Ruiz Mendoza McCoy, Crown Princess of Serenidad. Her last conscious memories were of being held prisoner aboard the Klingon bird-of-prey QIH, under the command of Captain Vixis and her all-female crew of q’laI warriors. The Klingon women had sexually abused her and tortured her, and threatened her with a bloody, agonizing death in the q’laI arena when they reached Qo’noS. They had also...

A sob caught in her throat and tears streamed down her cheeks. The ridge-headed bitches had murdered her babies, Davie and Jimmy, in cold blood! She wept inconsolably for several long moments, her shoulders shaking. Gradually, she composed herself. She wiped her eyes, casting her gaze around the cramped confines of her cell.

Well, this wasn’t the q’laI arena, but she was probably on Qo’noS. Klingon glyphs were emblazoned on the diagnostic panels. A chill quivered down her spine. What if they had been experimenting on her? This looked vaguely like a medical lab. Klingons only used the healing arts to patch up warriors so they could be thrown back into battle, or to repair the dreadful injuries of a young Human girl who had been sexually abused to the point of death, just so she could be raped again—as had happened to her all those years ago as a prisoner of Khalian.

She swung her legs off the table and took a few cautious steps. So far, so good. In fact, she felt wonderful! She felt so loose-limbed and agile. She was a trained athlete who worked out several hours a day keeping her superb body in top condition, but it had been years since she had felt this good. Occasionally, the bionics Leonard had used to rebuild her knees, elbows and ankle joints after Khalian had butchered her acted up, got a little stiff. Nothing major; it didn’t impede her from doing whatever she wanted to do, but it was a mild annoyance that was becoming a little more noticeable as she got older.

As she edged closer to the doorway, she caught a glimpse of herself in a full-length mirror, and she gasped.

She was nearly nude. She was dressed—more or less—in a spidery, translucent garment she had seen some of the q’laI wearing aboard the QIH. It reminded her of a very skimpy bathing suit; it was little more than a collection of gauze-like strips, help up by gravity and good intentions. The front straps barely covered her nipples; her aureoles peeked out on either side of the tiny strips of cloth. The straps plunged down to a triangle of fabric that didn’t quite conceal her pubis. Her buttocks were essentially bare; a string encircled her waist and disappeared between her cheeks, like a thong. Her captors had apparently depilated her as well; her legs and underarms had been shaved. They had grown somewhat stubbly during her captivity aboard the ship. Her hair was styled in Klingon fashion, combed back from her forehead and piled atop her head in an intricate jumble of braids and beads.

The shock of her appearance wore off, only to be supplanted by an even more wrenching surprise. Díos Mio, how had I not noticed this first? Her breasts! What had they done to her breasts?

She stared at the reflection. Her big, beautiful, awe-inspiring breasts were slightly less than half their normal size—or rather, they were their normal size, the size they had been before she’d had her spectacular breast enhancement surgery two decades earlier. She blinked and stared again. They were very nice—full, round and perfectly formed—but much less massive than she had grown used to. What had they done to her?

She stepped closer to the mirror and frowned.

She did not have on a stick of make up, and yet her skin was absolutely flawless. She was a very beautiful woman, but she was almost forty, and was not ashamed to admit she needed a little help from time to time. Not as much as most women her age, but a little assistance with the fine lines around her eyes and mouth.

Except that now, even the fine lines were gone. Her skin was literally glowing, as smooth and unblemished as a newborn baby’s. She stared even closer, making sure it wasn’t a trick of the dim light. No, her skin really was that soft and smooth.

She trembled. As gratifying as this was, there was something vaguely disquieting about it. It was not natural.

She heard footsteps shuffling out in the main laboratory. Someone was coming! She drew her lips back over her teeth in a snarl and clenched her fists. They were more than likely coming to kill her. Let them come! She was not going down without a fight. She would make them pay for what they had done to her.

For what they had done to Davie and Jimmy.

She flattened against the wall, ready to spring. The forcefield deactivated. She pounced, and then stopped short. "You!!" she spat. "I never thought I’d see you again!"

The Klingon male was a little over six feet tall and slightly built—definitely not a warrior. He wore the umber-colored tunic of a healer. The face was older, seamed with wrinkles, and his hair was almost totally white, but she knew him right away.

Qel Kyrlaag, the doctor who had repaired her body several times while she was in Khalian’s clutches, only to have the insane admiral ravish and nearly destroy her yet again as he impregnated her first with a daughter, and then twin sons. Kyrlaag’s eyes were flat, dead-looking—almost soulless. He had the look of someone who was very weary of life.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, gesturing at her body. "What have you done to me?"

He stared at her. "You are a clone of Princess Teresa, ruler of Serenidad," Kyrlaag told her right out. "A perfect clone, I might add, but a clone nonetheless."

Her eyes widened. She began to laugh incredulously. "You are insane! I know who I am! I just want to know what you’ve done to me. My breasts—"

"Those are the breasts that developed naturally from your genetic code, Little One," Kyrlaag cut her off. "Your ridiculously oversized implants were not part of your DNA. Neither were the bionics that were used to rebuild you. You have a perfect body—no implants, no bionics, no organ transplants. You are an adult female who was, for all intents and purposes, born a little over two standard hours ago."

She glared at him. "I am Princess Teresa!" she raged. "I told you—I know who I am!"

Kyrlaag chuckled mirthlessly. "They all say that—and in many ways, you’re right. You possess all the memories, the emotions, the engram traces of Teresa. You are a perfect—and I emphasize perfect—clone of her. I have solved the problem of replicative fading. I have found a way to impress the engrams and brain traces of the original subject on each of the copies. So in many ways, yes, you are Princess Teresa." He paused. "But Princess Teresa died horribly in the q’laI arena nearly one of your years ago!"

"I...I don’t believe you!"

"You never do," Kyrlaag said, almost sadly. "But it is true. It has been possible to manufacture a perfect physical replica of an individual for a few centuries; however, it has not been possible—until now—to imbue a clone with the essence of the person being duplicated; the personality, the memories, all the things that make an individual who he or she is."

"And you claim you’ve found a way to do that?" she asked, skeptical.

"I have found a way," Kyrlaag asserted. "Using mindsifter technology. I developed an auxiliary unit called the gh’luk’so module, which scans and records a subject’s engrams. The module can also transmit and imprint those same engram traces into the brain of a clone of that individual. Because the physiology of each brain is different, the engrams can only be impressed on a clone of the original subject. My engrams, for example, cannot be imprinted into a clone of you."

She looked stunned. "I...this is crazy! I remember everything that ever happened to me!"

"Yes, you do," Kyrlaag agreed. "If you could access them, you have memories from before you were born, in your mother’s womb, up until the end of your captivity on the Bird-of-Prey. Or, I should say, you have all the memories of your original predecessor. It can be very confusing. Even I cannot help thinking of you as Princess Teresa—and I created you! I cannot begin to imagine your bewilderment. It is a strange dichotomy—yes, you are Teresa, and no, you are not Teresa."

"But I was never mindsifted—at least not in the last twenty years!" she protested.

"But you were," Kyrlaag countered. "Think—what is the last thing you remember before you awoke here today?"

"I was aboard the QIH," she said. "I was...raped by Vixis and Valias, and their band of female warriors. Then they tortured me—shoved agonizers up inside me. I...I passed out."

Kyrlaag nodded. "While you were unconscious, Vixis had you mindsifted, looking for secrets about the Serenidad planetary defenses to use for future invasion plans. When Lady Vetara discovered that the gh’luk’so module could be used in conjunction with cloning technology, and that the QIH’s mindsifter had a complete engramic pattern of Princess Teresa, she became obsessed with creating clones of you—of her. Vetara has the princess’ gold-plated skull mounted on a display stand at her estate. That’s where the DNA material for you was secured. There is enough there to generate millions of replicas of you."

"Why? Who is Vetara, and what have I ever done to her?" she asked.

"Lady Vetara qoln Durit is perhaps the most powerful individual on Qo’noS and one of the wealthiest. She is also quite mad," Kyrlaag spat, the venom in his voice raw and undisguised. "The chancellor, the members of the Senate, all quake at the mere mention of her name. No one who has ever defied Vetara has lived to see the next sunrise."

"I don’t know the woman," she said, puzzled.

"No—but you knew her older brother, Commander Kral qoln Durit of the Imperial Klingon Fleet."

She paled. "No," she whispered. "Kral! He raped me and impregnated me with my son, Miguel..."

Kyrlaag nodded again. "And you killed him, thereby earning Vetara’s undying enmity. Her insane thirst for vengeance will never be quenched. Each day, she slaughters one of you, only to ‘resurrect’ another replica of you the next day—and butcher her as well. She is always looking for ever more inventive and bloody ways to murder you, using methods of execution from Qo’noS and from all over the galaxy. Your immediate predecessor was impaled, and her predecessor was crucified. Another was gang-raped to death, and still another was burned at the stake. And, of course, there was one which suffered the HoH’taj. So you see, the cloning process affords her with an eternal supply of victims." He shook his head. "Of all the uses to which that technology could be applied, she squanders it on bortaS!"

She hugged herself. Her eyes were wide with disbelief. She shook her head and held up a hand. "Wait a minute," she said, her lower lip quavering. "If I am a clone, and I’m not convinced that I am, what happened to the ‘real’ me?"

Kyrlaag heaved a weary sigh. "You ask me that every time."

The physician took a small silver tube about the size of a cigar out of the pocket of his tunic. He released it, and it hovered in mid-air. A light glowed at one end of the cylinder, and the holding cell filled with sound and images.

She gasped. A holographic projector! The scene was an arena filled with jeering Klingon women, hundreds of them screaming for her blood, screaming for death. And she saw...herself. Teresa was in the clutches of her half-Klingon daughter Valias and Captain Vixis of the QIH. The Klingons in the arena were there to watch her die.

"This is a holovid of the ‘real’ Princess Teresa’s execution," Kyrlaag murmured. "It is not for the weak of stomach."

She watched, transfixed in horrified fascination. She was as she remembered herself. She was naked, her wrists bound behind her. Her massive breasts bobbled as she was shoved roughly over the sand.

"It’s...it’s me!" she whispered. "I...I don’t remember any of this!"

"This occurred shortly after you were mindsifted," Kyrlaag supplied. "Or rather, after the real Teresa had been."

She could not tear her eyes away as the gory vignette unfolded. She watched as the ‘real’ Teresa was led before an elderly Klingon woman in ceremonial robes, who pounded a heavy staff on the ground as she condemned Teresa to die. She flinched as Valias slashed Teresa’s abdomen with a razor-sharp d’k tagh, pressed a cage containing some sort of crab-like creature against the open wound. She looked on in horror as the creature chewed its way into Teresa’s belly through the wound and devoured her entrails until the princess finally collapsed in a bloody heap on the ground.

And finally, the bile rising in her throat, she listened to the roar of the crowd rise to a thunderous, joyful crescendo as the image of her breathed her last, and an army scavengers stripped the flesh from her bones.

The images faded.

"Oh, my God," she quavered. "Oh, my God."

Kyrlaag gently gripped her elbow. Numb with shock and horror, she followed him out into the lab like a sleepwalker.

Then she screamed.

They had come to a dimly lit antechamber. Row after row of large tanks stretched into the distance. And in each tank, floating in clear emerald fluid, was a clone of Teresa Morales de la Vega Ruiz-Mendoza McCoy.

She staggered backward, recoiling in horror, and nearly fell. Kyrlaag caught her.

A number of the clones were fully formed and looked just like her, except that they were covered with body hair, and had long, curled fingernails and toenails. Others were in various stages of development. Some were recognizable, but a few had the appearance of adult-sized embryos.

"I had time to get you cleaned, shaven and manicured," Kyrlaag said. "You should be allowed some modicum of dignity. Most of the time they drag them out of here naked and dripping with generative fluid. They achieve awareness just in time to die."

"You bastard!" she hissed. "Maldito! Madre de Díos, what have you done? This is vile, horrible, unholy! Do you willingly go along with this...this obscenity?"

"Willingly?" Kyrlaag’s tone was brittle. "Not willingly, no. As it was with Khalian before, I am now a thrall to Lady Vetara. I do her bidding, or the lives of my loved ones are forfeit. She will kill them."

He chuckled. It was a sad, despairing sound. "Ironic, is it not? With Khalian, I was charged with keeping you alive. With Vetara, I must ensure that you die—again and again and again..."

"What...what will they do to me?" she asked tremulously.

"I do not know," the Qel admitted. "All I can tell you is that, with Vetara, it will not be quick or painless. Your fate has yet to be decided."

"Except for the fact that I am doomed," she said, unable to keep the sob from her voice.

Kyrlaag lowered his eyes. "Yes," he muttered. "I am sorry, Little One."

Heavy footsteps echoed in the laboratory, moving fast and coming closer. Three huge Kh’myr Klingon males stepped out of the gloom. She whimpered and moved behind Kyrlaag to shield herself from them. The biggest of them flashed an ugly smile full of yellow, broken teeth. Pouncing like a cat, he grabbed the now screaming woman with one hand and stripped her with the other. He flung her to one of his comrades, who gripped both of her wrists and immobilized her.

"Was that necessary, Khareg?" Kyrlaag asked.

"She won’t be needing this for what’s going to happen to her, Qel," Khareg snarled, tossing aside the torn, flimsy garment he had ripped from her supple body. "Targs don’t like to eat fabric. You just mind your little clone factory and make sure that Lady Vetara has an endless and fresh supply of bortaS choQ."

Khareg turned his attention to the naked Teresa-clone and licked his lips. "By the guardians of Kh’eloz, they are beautiful when you shave them, Qel. They excite me." He loomed over he and brushed his fingertips tips over her as she squirmed in terror and revulsion. "Did you know that you clones are virgins, be’sIJ?" he hissed. "Nice and tight. Vetara let me have a clone to tlhap to death a few days ago."

Khareg’s eyes smoldered. He bent down and bit one of her nipples, drawing a yelp of pain and fear from her. "Noooo!" she screamed.

"All right, Khareg. That’s enough!" Kyrlaag snapped, yanking the giant’s hands away from her. "Isn’t it enough you are going to kill her? Do you have to degrade her as well?"

Khareg snarled and raised a clenched fist, but held back his blow. "You are fortunate that you are a Qel," he spat. "Don’t ever touch me again, or I will kill you!" He gestured to his companions, and they began to herd their captive out of the room.

"Kyrlaag!" the Teresa-clone cried. "You once told me that not all Klingons were like Khalian—like animals! When did you change? If you let them do this, you’re no better than they are!"

The physician flushed guiltily, unable to meet her gaze.

"Kyrlaag!" she screamed. "For God’s sake, please help me! Do something!"

A huge fist caught her flush on the jaw. She saw stars just before the blackness swallowed her.

*****

She came to lying face down on hot, scorching sand. She crawled up onto her hands and knees, shook her head to clear it, and squinted against the glare of the suns. Her hand closed on the rough wooden trunk of a small tree. She looked up.

And screamed in horror.

The ‘tree’ was a sharpened wooden pole, and the bloated, gore-clotted corpse of a naked Human female hung on it. The stake disappeared between her buttocks and exited from her open, silently screaming mouth. A cloud of black, flying insects swarmed over the body.

She scrambled backward, shrieking and gagging as the stench of decaying flesh reached her nostrils. Madre de Díos! she thought. What a horrible way to die!! She knew the identity of the body, even though the scavengers had made it nearly unrecognizable. It was her. Or rather, it was a clone of the late Princess Teresa of Serenidad.

"Yesterday’s kill," a rough female voice chuckled. "We had to jerk her head back and guide her body as it slid down the stake so we could get it to come out through her mouth. She looks rather like a targ on a spit, ready for roasting, wouldn’t you say?"

The Klingon woman was tall, her belly huge with child. She was beautiful, but her eyes were cold and malevolent. This had to be Lady Vetara. She strode across the sand, accompanied by the giant Khareg. She paused next to the impaled corpse. "She lived a lot longer than I thought she would. The force screens surrounding the compound have kept the big scavengers off the carcass, or else nothing would be hanging there now. Her eyes grew even harder. "Now to deal with you."

The Teresa-clone whimpered in terror. She tried to run, but Khareg easily caught her and pinioned her arms behind her back.

"Take her to the pit," Vetara commanded. Khareg nodded in assent, and bodily pushed his tiny captive along.

*

The "pit" was rather more elaborate than a simple hole in the ground. It was perfectly circular, fifteen meters in diameter. Eight foot high walls of gleaming durasteel formed the outer boundaries. As they approached, a loud cacophony of grunts and squeals echoed in the air. They stopped at the edge of the pit, and the Teresa-clone gazed down, gasping in horror.

Half a dozen large pig-like animals milled about. They were covered with brown, bristling, shaggy fur. Dangerous-looking razor-sharp tusks protruded from the sides of their porcine snouts. Even though they were very bulky, their ribs were showing, and they appeared to be somewhat emaciated.

When the creatures saw the three humanoids standing at the edge of the pit, they charged the wall below them and vainly tried to climb up the sheer metal surface, growling and gnashing their fangs, and foaming at the mouth.

"Targs," Vetara said. "These are the wild variety. They are omnivorous; they will eat plants or flesh—anything that gets in their way, actually. Including the clone of a little Human be’SIj!"

The Teresa-clone recoiled, eyes wide with terror. She paled at the sight of the snarling beasts.

"We have starved these animals for several days," Vetara said. "They are mad with hunger. They will make short work of your skinny, little carcass."

"There’s not nearly enough meat on her bones to satisfy them," Khareg rumbled, tightening his grip on the clone’s wrists as she began to struggle.

"I know," Vetara said. "I have already ordered Kyrlaag to send up another one." She smiled tightly, drawing out a huge d’k tagh battle dagger from within the folds of her tunic.

"Blood will fan the flames of their frenzy even higher," Vetara hissed. "It should be interesting!"

The Teresa-clone stared in horror as Vetara brandished the huge blade. It gleamed wickedly in the bright sunlight. Twin "claws" snicked out on either side of the handle.

It was a weapon designed to do maximum damage, and Vetara knew how to use it well. "This is how you die today, be’SIj," she whispered, her eyes glintly insanely. "How will you die tomorrow?"

Without warning, Vetara savagely thrust the dagger into her victim’s lower abdomen, twisting it from side to side before ripping it free. Khareg released his grip on the Teresa-clone, laughing at her agony as she sank to her knees.

The pain was beyond comprehension; she could not even scream. "N-no," she managed, choking on her own blood as it filled her mouth.

"The wound is mortal," Vetara said conversationally. "Usually it means a very slow and painful death; however, the targs will finish you off first." She chuckled. "In a way, I am being merciful to you, be’SIj!"

The clone collapsed weakly on her side as the parched sand soaked up her blood. I’m dying, she thought. Leonard... She was numb with shock and blood loss, and was only dimly aware that Vetara had nudged her with a boot, and she was tumbling headlong into the pit. The targs were on her before she hit the ground.

She found her voice then. She shrieked in agony as the targs tore her apart. Her screams did not last long. Soon, the only sounds in the pit were those of grunting and noisy chewing.

Vetara turned to Khareg, an almost beatific smile on her face. "Glorious," she purred. "These clones are very hardy; they seemed to last much longer than I expect them to, no matter what we do to them."

They heard a commotion behind them, and turned to see two of Vetara’s Klingon henchmen dragging another struggling Teresa-clone toward the pit. Unlike her predecessor, this one had not been shaven or manicured, and was unkempt and hairy and covered in the green generative slime from the cloning tank.

This is a miserable world, he thought.

The cold wind whipped around the desolate plateau. Gray, everywhere. Everywhere he looked. Gray rocks, gray cliffs, gray sky. He had not seen the sun for weeks.

Miguel Morales de la Vega, presently using the pseudonym Kralek, gazed up into the gloomy sky and scowled, blinking against the rain that pelted his face. He towered nearly seven feet tall, trim and muscular. His long black hair was combed back and tied in a pony tail, and his forehead crest flared in annoyance as a gust of wind blew rain under his poncho and down his back.

Miguel was a Klingon-Human hybrid, and a handsome youth, even by Human standards. As well he should be—he favored his mother, who had been one of the most beautiful women in the galaxy.

Had been.

Grief and rage welled up in him again, as they had many times these past eleven months. Like his stepfather, Leonard McCoy, Miguel had watched his mother’s execution holovid only once. It still haunted his nightmares, as did the image of her skull and gnawed ribcage lying on the floor of the q’laI arena. He was also haunted by a vision of the tiny corpses of his brothers, Davie and Jimmy, their throats cut from ear to ear, stretched on a slab in the morgue in the basement of Serenidad’s royal palace.

Hot tears leaped unbidden into his eyes, and he swore. It was a weakness; it humiliated and embarrassed him. It was the one genetic trait he had inherited from his mother that he despised. A full Kh’myr Klingon had no tear ducts, and couldn’t cry. The Segh vav could, and even Kahless himself purportedly cried a river of tears. But the Kh’myr had been engineered without this weakness. And yet he wept anyway, and he threw his head back and roared out his rage and sorrow, bellowing until he was hoarse.

His screams echoed off the crags and outcrops for several moments. Somewhere in the distance, rocks tumbled down a cliffside, dislodged by the reverberations.

Miguel wiped his eyes. The boredom of this place was driving him insane. He had been given asylum here at the monastery on Boreth after his mother’s murder. He had slain HoD Vixis and his half-sister Valias for their part in Teresa’s execution, but had later learned that the Lady Vetara had been the driving force behind her capture and death.

When he decided to launch a vendetta again Vetara, however, his allies in the Klingon government, particularly Ambassador Kamarag and Admirals Kor, Kang and Koloth had ‘dissuaded’ him from following that course of action by sending him in energy cuffs to Boreth. "Protective custody," Admiral Koloth had called it.

He was not a prisoner, but he often times felt like one.

It was getting dark. Miguel turned and clambered back over the jumble of rocks that served as a "path" back to the monastery complex. The only good thing that had come from his stay was that he was now in the best physical condition of his entire life. Negotiating the rugged terrain of Boreth was the best exercise he could imagine.

He made it back to the main gate just as darkness fell. The guard nodded perfunctorily at him as he entered.

Miguel sighed. He felt so isolated here; he had no one to talk to, and there was certainly no one else with whom he had anything in common. Most people here barely tolerated him. There were a great number of clerics and quite a few serious students. There were also religious zealots who flirted with lunacy and derelict drug addicts who ingested great mounts of hallucinogens to help them find a religious epiphany, to "find Kahless," or so they claimed.

Miguel’s footsteps reverberated in the ancient halls. Flamepots and torches were the only source of illumination in the dim corridors. Someone staggered toward him out of the shadows. Miguel tensed, then relaxed. It was only Kolar, a hopelessly addicted pilgrim. Clad only in a tattered loincloth, his emaciated body lent him the aspect of a death camp prisoner. His head seemed much too big for his scarecrow-like frame; long, unkempt hair scraggled everywhere. His wild eyes stared fixedly, the pupils dilated to pinpoints. Miguel wrinkled his nose. The creature reeked of body odor and gh’lar, the most potent hallucinogenic fungoid known to Klingons.

"I...I’ve seen Kahless!" Kolar cackled.

"Phah!" Miguel spat. "No doubt you have! Given the amount of mushrooms you’ve ingested, you probably have been seeing flying targs!"

Kolar’s spinning eyes blazed. "You young whelp! You do not believe me! I have seen Kahless! You mock me!"

"I do not have time for this," Miguel grumbled, brushing past the frail pilgrim.

From somewhere within the filthy folds of his loincloth, Kolar produced a sheathed, stiletto-like dagger. He drew it out and stalked after Miguel with silent, murderous intent.

Some sixth sense warned the young man. He whirled and dodged just as Kolar struck with his needle blade. Instead of burying itself deep in Miguel’s back, the dagger glanced across his ribs. Miguel drew in a sharp breath as fiery pain streaked across his side. Then he reacted instinctively.

Miguel’s left hand shot out and wrapped around his attacker’s forearm before the ‘pilgrim’ could strike again, and his right hand gripped Kolar’s throat. He twisted, and the corridor was filled with the brittle sound of snapping bone as wrist and neck broke simultaneously. The insane light in Kolar’s eyes died as his body went limp.

With a snarl of contempt, Miguel tossed the rag-doll corpse into an alcove. The side of his tunic was soaked with blood, and the wound hurt. He glowered at the broken body of his assailant. The scrawny Kolar had been no match for his brute strength, not really. He experienced a brief pang of remorse. Then he remembered that he probably would have been killed if Kolar’s dirk had found its mark, and his scowl deepened.

Miguel strode down the corridors, ignoring the curious glances at his blood-stained tunic until he reached his quarters. He gingerly stripped off his tunic and laid it across the back of a chair. His thickly-muscled upper body rippled as he strode into the bathroom. He dug a can of liquid antiseptic suture spray out of the medicine chest. The wound wasn’t excessively deep, but it was bloody, and it took several applications to stop the bleeding. He carefully cleaned away the blood from around the wound, wincing as his washcloth abraded the tender flesh. He glanced at himself in the mirror. The skin around the wound was pink, with a jagged, slightly darker line in the center. It would heal with only a minor scar.

As he walked back into the living area, he noticed a green light flashing on his computer console. A starmail. He frowned, wondering who might be calling him. No one knew he was here except for... He punched up the message, but it was scrambled.

Glowering at his terminal, Miguel de-scrambled the starmail, and found another layering of scrambling. After four more levels of frustration, Miguel was ready to destroy his computer and wring the neck of the sender of the starmail.

Suddenly the screen cleared, to be replaced by the insignia of QI’val, the most feared and deadly intelligence agency on Qo’noS. Miguel’s eyes widened.

"Identify for retina scan," the computer demanded harshly.

Miguel sat still as a crimson laser danced over his eye.

"Identity confirmed. You are Miguel Morales de la Vega."

The QI’val insignia dissolved to be replaced by the gnarly face of a Klingon admiral. Miguel was impressed. "Koloth," he whispered.

"Greetings, Miguel," he said almost pleasantly. "I must apologize for all the cloak-and-dagger theatrics, but Kang, Kor and I felt that you should be made aware of this." His face clouded. "What you are about to see is surveillance holotape that was filmed at the Durit compound on Qo’noS just days ago. I warn you—what you are about to see is gruesome in the extreme, and you will find it personally upsetting. But, as I said, we believe you have a right to see it."

Miguel felt his stomach tighten into knots. He saw a sandy courtyard, part of an opulent estate on Qo’noS. Beyond the high stone walls, the thick, green foliage of terraformed trees waved in the light breeze. The holocam scanned in for a closer view of the courtyard. A giant, well-muscled Kh’myr male stood shirtless in the blinding glare of the twin suns, casually leaning on the handle of a headsman’s axe. The blade glinted in the bright light, the steel obviously sharpened to a lethal edge.

"They are bringing her out," a guttural female voice proclaimed.

A tall, very pregnant Klingon woman strode into view. The beauty of her face was marred by a patina of evil.

A growl rumbled deep in Miguel’s throat as he recognized her. "Vetara!" he howled. "You murdering be’SIj!"

Lady Vetara flashed a feral grin. "Your blade will soon taste blood and flesh, Khareg."

The giant smiled, displaying yellowed, broken teeth. "I can hear her coming," he said.

Miguel could hear her, too. A woman, shrieking at the top of her lungs in abject terror. She was dragged into view by two of Vetara’s minions, an Andorian male and a Klingon female. She appeared to be a naked Human woman, but she was covered with a slimy green substance. The mane of her hair was nearly a meter long, and kinky and tangled as though it had never been brushed. Her finger and toenails were long and curved, gnarled like misshapen branches or roots of a tree.

Miguel would’ve thought her to be a neglected prisoner except for the fact that aside from her appearance, she appeared to be in excellent physical condition. She was short, but had the body of an athlete. Clearly, she was neither emaciated nor malnourished. Her arms flailed mightily, as she fought like a Capellan powercat, screaming and howling in rage and sheer terror. Kicking and clawing with her long nails, she struggled to free herself. Her captors were extremely strong, but they clearly had their hands full with the tiny spitfire.

The Andorian’s face twisted in anger and hatred, and he raised a balled fist, as if to smash the prisoner into unconsciousness, if not kill her outright.

"No!" Vetara growled. "I want her awake and taking notice when she is beheaded!"

The struggling woman found her voice. "Por favor! Please!!" she cried. "Don’t do this! I don’t want to die!"

Miguel’s blood nearly froze in his veins. That voice! He knew it better than his own! The prisoner shook her hair out of her face, and he got his first good look at her. He bellowed in consternation. "Computer—freeze image!"

Miguel was in shock. When he found his voice again, it was weak and quavering. "Computer, augment face," he ordered, although he had recognized her instantly. "No! Miguel quavered. "This–is–not–possible! She is dead!! I saw her remains, lying in the sands of the q’laI arena! What kind of obscenity is this?"

It was his mother, Princess Teresa, impossibly alive on Qo’noS, eleven months after her gruesome death.

And she was about to die—again.

Miguel shivered. "Computer, resume holo transmission."

Her shrieking filled the room again, increasing in its intensity as her terror mounted when she spied the lethal battle axe. Vetara’s minions wrestled with her, and the Klingon woman finally succeeded in lashing ‘Teresa’s’ wrists behind her back. She tackled her prisoner around the waist and bore her to the ground by the stump of a large tree. The stump was crisscrossed with axe cuts and stained dark with the blood of a myriad of alien races.

A chopping block! realized Miguel.

The Andorian viciously grabbed his mother’s hair and immobilized her head on the block, his superior strength unchallenged at last.

"Be careful with that axe, you oaf!" the Andorian growled at Khareg. "I like my hands!"

Miguel tensed, staring in numb horror at his mother’s pale, terrified face. Khareg grinned and raised his weapon high over his head.

"yI’HoH!" Vetara snapped.

"Noooo!" Miguel howled.

"Leonard—please...."

The blade flashed in the sunlight as Khareg swung it down with brutal force. It sliced easily through its victim’s neck with a meaty "chunk" and buried itself in the wood with a hollow "thwack". Teresa’s head fell one way, and her body fell another. Her headless corpse jerked and convulsed several times, and then lay still.

Vetara reached down and picked up the dripping, severed head, her features twisted into a scowl. She spat in Teresa’s dead face. "Disappointing," she snarled. "Too quick, too easy, too...painless. She did not suffer enough."

Miguel wiped away tears of grief and rage. Then he started. He could hear his mother’s voice again, shrieking in terror and cursing!

"Malditos! Take your filthy hands off me!"

Miguel stared at the screen incredulously. He was losing his mind!

Another ‘Teresa’ was bundled into view by two enormous Klingon males. Unlike her predecessor, however, this one’s hair had been cut and styled just as his mother’s had been just before she died. She had been manicured, and cleaned up.

Miguel frowned. How is this possible? He steeled himself and looked at the decapitated corpse lying in the background. Suddenly, it dawned on him what was happening.

Vetara brandished the severed head in the face of the ‘new’ ‘Teresa’, who screamed and recoiled in horror. ‘Teresa’ turned her head away, gagging and retching as Vetara impaled the head on a sharpened stake planted in the ground.

The Klingon woman turned to Khareg and gestured to the new arrival. "This one is for you, bangwI’," she purred. "You may tlhap her until she dies!"

The screen faded to black briefly, only to be replaced by the grim face of Admiral Koloth. "You need not see anymore," he said. "He raped her and sodomized her many times until he suffocated her by forcing his choQ’etlh down her throat." His eyes narrowed. "By now, you’ve probably realized what is happening here. Vetara is involved in illegal cloning experimentation."

Miguel nodded. He had surmised as much. The obvious fact that he had seen two identical duplicates on Princess Teresa on the holo was all the evidence he needed for such a conclusion.

Koloth looked as though he had eaten something which had disagreed with his stomach. "I need to tell you, Miguel, that this is not your garden variety cloning. One of our leading researchers has perfected a process of copying and transferring the engram traces of an individual into a clone of that individual. Every memory, every thought your mother ever possessed, from the moment she first achieved awareness to moments before her death, has been implanted in these clones." He paused. "It is an abomination. Each of these clones is your mother, resurrected only to be slain by Vetara."

A thrill of hope flared in Miguel’s chest. If he could rescue one of them alive, before Vetara killed her... He cursed himself and quashed the illogical thought. It was more important to utterly eradicate this technology—this abomination, as Koloth rightfully called it—and to kill Vetara as well. He resolved right then and there that he would do just that—even before he heard Koloth’s next words.

"QI’val has been forbidden by Chancellor Azetbur from taking any action, other than observe, even though cloning on this level is outlawed all over the known galaxy—even here on Qo’noS. Vetara is so powerful that Chancellor Azetbur and the others on the Council are terrified of her. She could wreak havoc with the governments of our enemies with her clones, but Kang, Kor and I are more concerned that she will eventually replace members of our government with programmed clones. So far, however, Vetara has limited her use of this technology to petty vengeance–as near as we can tell."

Koloth growled in frustration. "As I said, our hands are tied. However, it a private citizen of the galaxy, particularly someone who has a vested interest in the situation—such as yourself—were to take matters into his own hands, we would look the other way. In fact, he would have our tacit blessing."

A brief smile played about Koloth’s lips. "Qapla’, Miguel. And be careful." The screen went dark.

Miguel shook his head, chuckling as he hastily began to gather up the few possessions he had brought with him to Boreth and pack them in a travel bag. The admiral knew him too well! He knew there’d be no stopping him from going to Qo’noS to investigate—he’d like to see anyone try to stop him!"

His door chime rang—not unexpectedly. "nuqneH?" he demanded.

"A word with you, Kralek," a muffled voice spoke from beyond the door.

"Come," Miguel said as he continued to pack.

Cleric Reghar entered the room. His florid features were darker than usual. "I see that you already realize that you must leave Boreth," the priest said evenly. "I have already made travel arrangements for you, and received dispensation from Admiral Koloth on your behalf. No charges will be filed against you since you acted in self-defense, but there is no room for violence here!"

"Indeed!" Miguel exclaimed with a derisive snort. He held up his slashed, blood-stained tunic for Reghar’s inspection before he tossed it into a disposal chute. "Perhaps if Kolar had been aware of your ‘non-violence’ policy, he would still be alive!" Miguel commented dryly.

He took a tunic out of a chest of drawers, and carefully shrugged into it. "It matters not anyway," Miguel rumbled. "I have personal business on Qo’noS that needs attention, and I must leave immediately." He turned to face Reghar. "I thank you, Father, for allowing me to stay here this while. But now it is time to go."

Miguel strode toward the door, but Reghar caught him by the arm.

"I sense anger and violence in you, young one, and a thirst for revenge," the cleric said. "Be careful, Kralek. They will be your undoing."

Miguel shook his head, his eyes blazing. "No, Cleric Reghar, they will not be my undoing. I will need all of those feelings if I am to accomplish what I must do." He shrugged away from the priest’s grasp and stormed down the corridor.

Reghar stared after him, shaking his head sadly, convinced that he was charging headlong to his doom. He had hoped the youth would be different, but like so many others of his age, his blood burned as hot as the twin suns of Qo’noS.

Leonard McCoy sat on the deck of his cabin at Starbase 27, trying to compose his shattered nerves. The starbase’s great facilities were modeled after a state park lodge from mid-20th century Earth that had once stood in the region that was still called Kentucky. It was a beautiful place; McCoy’s cabin was at the edge of a thick, deciduous Earth-like forest. A golden sun and its blue companion floated in a emerald green sky, accented by a few fleecy white clouds here and there. This was possibly one of the most relaxing places in the galaxy.

But Leonard McCoy could not relax.

He had just awakened from another harrowing nightmare of Teresa—two of them, in fact, back to back, seemingly simultaneously, as if they were overlapping. He watched in horror through Teresa’s eyes as she was brutally stabbed by Vetara then flung into a pit of ravenous, boar-like creatures. The beasts tore her apart, eating her alive as her shrieks rang out in the pit.

And even as one of the horrific animals ripped out her throat, a new set of images intruded upon his subconscious. Another Teresa was dragged in front of Vetara, and soon met the same grisly fate.

McCoy shuddered. His nervous system was raw and screaming. He had experienced what Vetara’s victims had felt, as if it were actually happening to him. He was in their minds as they died, and it terrified him. Because as he lived in these minds during his ‘nightmares,’ he realized that he was indeed in the mind of his late wife, each and every time.

His BellComm unit beeped for attention. "Incoming CommPic," the computer intoned.

McCoy frowned as he strolled back into the cabin. Couldn’t be Slattery unless he was really early—he wasn’t due for another half hour.

A lopsided grin lit his face when he saw the message originated from ShiKahr on Vulcan. He had wondered how long it would take Spock to figure out what was going on—although he had a feeling Spock had known the score right from the start. McCoy flipped on his viewer.

"What are you doing on Trylias, Doctor?" the Vulcan demanded without preamble.

"I’m fine, Spock—thanks for askin’," McCoy replied, chuckling. "And how are you today?"

"Forgive my lack of protocol, Doctor McCoy," Spock said. "However, given our last discussion, it is fascinating to find you on the one Federation starbase that is closest to Qo’noS, the Klingon homeworld."

"Medical inspection of Starbase Twenty-Seven’s Sector General Hospital, Spock," McCoy answered blandly. "Part of the duties of the Starfleet Surgeon General."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Really, Doctor?"

McCoy exhaled slowly. "Okay, Spock, you got me," the physician admitted. "The inspection is just a cover."

The Vulcan nodded. "As I surmised."

"It’s a cover that will allow me to take a little R’n’R," McCoy continued. His face tightened. "After all the...garbage that’s happened to me in the past year, I need a vacation...badly. And this is the best place in the galaxy to take one. You ever been here? It’s beautiful."

Spock looked dubious. "I suspect that you have a different agenda, Doctor. I would implore you not to do anything foolish."

"Don’t worry, Spock," McCoy returned. "I’m just going to sit on my deck. I’m too old for climbing the cliff face of a mountain or sub-orbital skydiving."

Spock sighed. "Indeed. I see that I am wasting my time by endeavoring to ascertain your true motives. Just be careful...Leonard."

McCoy hesitated, touched by his usually stoic friend’s show of concern. Should I tell him what I’m up to? Ask him for help? he thought. Hell, he probably already knows what’s going on, but he’s too far away to stop me.

"Spock, I’ll be fine," the doctor reassured his friend. "I’m gonna do a little hikin’ and swimmin’, but other than that, I’m just gonna sit on my deck in this wonderful rocker—but I like I said, thanks for checking up on me." And he closed the CommPic frequency without a further word.

Hurrying into the bedroom, McCoy checked his gear one last time. In a carrying case the size of a footlocker, he had stored enough of an arsenal to obliterate a small continent. He had a short-barreled Mark IX blaster carbine, a phaser II pistol, forty-eight photon grenades with time delay fuses, a personal deflector shield, long-range communicator, night-vision goggles, night-vision binoculars, a medi-kit and rations. He would be a veritable one-man army.

He would need to be on Qo’noS.

McCoy had called in several decades’ worth of favors to outfit his little sortie to Qo’noS and to arrange transportation for it. Dex Slattery, the captain of the Jean Lafitte, a mercenary vessel, would take him through the Organian Treaty-imposed Neutral Zone to the edge of Klingon space; Slattery had been the first mate aboard the Lafitte when McCoy and Jim Kirk had hired the ship to take them to Qo’noS to rescue Teresa from the clutches of the mad Kh’myr Klingon, Admiral Khalian, twenty years earlier.

Slattery was to transfer him to a Klingon freighter with the unimaginative name of tepqengwI’, under the command of HoD Kraagar. Actually, McCoy mused, the name of that Klingon freighter isn’t so bad. He had heard of one whose appellation translated into "Dirty Underwear"!

McCoy was a little nervous about hiring the Klingon, but Slattery vouched for him. And he had little choice; it was the only way he could get to Qo’noS. Kraagar was going to beam him down to the planet in a shipping crate. McCoy would materialize in a cargo bay just a stone’s throw from the Durit compound, and from there he would be on his own. Kraagar would have to break orbit immediately. He would not return for at least ten days, and he promised to try to contact McCoy on a coded channel when he returned.

Assuming that the physician was still alive, of course.

McCoy sat on the edge of the bed, wearily rubbing his eyes. He hadn’t thought about it much, but he really did not expect to return alive from Qo’noS. Once, a long time ago, he wouldn’t have batted an eye. Ten days on the Klingon homeworld? A walk in the park, a breeze. "The Magnificent Seven," some obscure INS reporter with a love of ancient Terran holos had once dubbed the command crew of the U.S.S. Enterprise. Jim, Spock, Scotty, Sulu, Chekov, Uhura and McCoy. Time after time, they had done the impossible, snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, saved the galaxy again and again. They had laughed in the face of Death, cheated Death. Hell, one of them had even come back from the dead. Death was something that happened to other people, not to the Magnificent Seven.

Not anymore, though. Death was stalking them anew, and with a vengeance. Jim, Scotty, Connor Randolph, Davie and Jimmy.

Oh, God, Teresa.

McCoy buried his head in his hands. So what if he didn’t come back from Qo’noS? Without Teresa, life wasn’t worth living anyway. He missed her so. She was so vivacious, sexy, bright and funny. She was ethereally beautiful and incredibly insatiable. It wasn’t just the sex he missed. She was fun to be with. All the time. Making loving, gardening in the back of the Palace grounds, decorating their bungalow, Hell, watching holovids and doing the laundry. It didn’t matter. She was just a joy to be around.

Now she was gone.

McCoy wiped away a tear. Life went on. You were supposed to get over it, get on with your life, move one. Well, it wasn’t that easy. Besides that, he didn’t want to get over her, or get on with his life, or move on. Life was nothing without her.

And if he died on Qo’noS, at least his remains would be in the same soil as hers. In a way, they would be together again. McCoy set his jaw. Once he got to Qo’noS, he would, with any luck, get to the bottom of these terrifying nightmares. He would feel like an absolute fool if it turned out that he had, in fact, just been having a series of gruesome dreams.

Qel Kyrlaag sat back unsteadily in his recliner, feeling the numbing effects of a bottle and a half of q’ilvan. It was not enough; he was still conscious. He wanted to obliterate his memories of this day —of the last twenty DISmey for that matter. He had spent hours cleaning up four clones of the late Princess Teresa, shaving, manicuring and trimming them.

And then Lady Vetara had executed all of them in one fell swoop.

The physician took another swallow of the potent liquor. Vetara had thrown a lavish dinner party for the rich and famous and powerful of voDleH veng, the Imperial City. Not all of the guests were particularly happy about being there, but no one refused an invitation to dine with Vetara unless they had a death wish. Four long, ornate tables were set up in the great dining hall, laden with tempting, succulent foodstuffs from all over the galaxy.

Standing on each table on a large block of ice was a naked clone of the Princess, each with her hands lashed behind her, a noose cinched tightly around each one’s neck. The ice, of course, slowly melted until eventually the clones swung free at the ends of their ropes, slowly strangling.

The dinner guests had been highly discomfited. They were mostly traders and merchants, business people—not warriors. They were unaccustomed to the violence, the mayhem, the bloodshed that came so naturally to Vetara and her subordinates. They had dined with forced conviviality as the corpses twitched above them, bloodshot eyes bulging from their purple faces, swollen, blackened tongues protruding from their open mouths.

After the soiree was over, the bodies had been cut down and flung into Vetara’s targ pit, where the voracious ovinoids devoured them, bones and all, in less than a rep.

Kyrlaag sighed and downed another gulp. For two decades, he had been in denial. He was a victim, he reasoned, a puppet first of Khalian and now of Vetara. His family would die if he went against the wishes of his masters. But now he realized he was just as responsible for the death and carnage as his insane overlords. No, he decided. No more.

Kyrlaag took another sip from his bottle. No more would he be a pawn, a puppet. The decision, once made, had been easier than he would have thought. His sole regret was that he might not see his family one last time.

He cast his gaze out the transparent aluminum window which overlooked his lab, and upon row upon row of receptacles containing the clones of Teresa Morales. His gaze locked on the nearest one, on the serene, lovely face. He was reminded of the Terran children’s fable of "Sleeping Beauty" he had once read while on Nimbus III.

Tomorrow night, he would awaken one last clone. This one, however, would not fall into the clutches of Vetara qoln Durit. This one, he vowed, would be given a chance to resume the life that had been so brutally stolen from her in the q’laI arena eleven months ago.

Kyrlaag rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered to his bunk. He no longer feared Vetara, nor did he fear death. He was, indeed, weary of life—at least this life. He could not purge the guilt he felt for all the death and carnage he had not prevented in the past, but he swore by Kahless that he would not fail tomorrow.

"It’s like deja vu all over again," Captain Hikaru Sulu murmured as he watched the Vulcan warp shuttle on approach to dock with his massive starship.

"That’s redundant, babe," Doctor Ariel Cord, Sulu’s CMO and lover, said as she playfully squeezed his arm.

Sulu smiled. "Sorry. When Spock intercepted the Enterprise to join us for the V’ger mission all those years ago, he flew in on the same model warp shuttle. For all I know, this is the same shuttle he used then."

Sulu and Cord moved away from the transparent aluminum portal as the pilot made his final approach. There was a gentle thump, and the hiss of the airlock pressurizing. Sulu watched, bemused, as several male members of the honor guard cast quick, furtive glances at the stunningly beautiful Ariel Cord. No matter—in a moment, they would have eyes only for their famous visitor.

A bosun’s whistle sounded as the door slid open, and there was Spock, resplendent in his ambassadorial robes. "Permission to come aboard, sir," the Vulcan intoned.

"Granted, sir," Sulu said, smiling as he raised his hand in the Vulcan salute. "Welcome aboard Excelsior."

Spock returned the gesture. "Thank you, Captain Sulu. I regret that it was necessary to divert you from your current mission."

"No problem, Ambassador," Sulu said cheerfully. "We’ve been mapping gaseous anomalies. I’ve got crewmembers going crazy from boredom."

"Indeed." Spock allowed himself a slight smile. "How much do you know of your new mission?"

"Only what I was given—we’re to proceed to Qo’noS at maximum warp, and you will provide details upon your arrival."

"And you have no problem with that?"

Sulu shook his head. "I’ve known you a long time, sir. I trust you implicitly."

"Very well." Spock glanced around. "If we could retire to your ready room, I will provide the details."

"I’ve got rounds to make," Ariel Cord announced. "I’ll leave the cloak-and-dagger stuff to you boys. I’ve had my fill of that."

But Spock held up a hand. "Doctor Cord, if you please—a medical perspective would be greatly appreciated."

The chief medical officer shrugged. "Okay, I’ll turn rounds over to Doctor Viger."

After Cord’s brief call over the comlink to her assistant chief medical officer, Spock, Cord and Sulu took a turbolift to the bridge where they were momentarily delayed by a round of greetings. Sulu left Commander Janice Rand with the conn and ordered Helmsman Boris Lojur to proceed to Qo’noS at Warp Nine. Then Spock , Sulu and Cord adjourned to the ready room through the corridor on the port side of the bridge.

The three of them quickly settled in around a small bamboo table in the center of the floor, sitting on the pillows provided. Spock seemed almost uncomfortable.

"Captain Sulu, Doctor Cord—the reasons for this foray to Qo’noS are not rooted solely in logic. Some of them are based on, for the lack of a better term, a hunch. We may be on the proverbial wild goose chase." The Vulcan hesitated. He took a deep breath, then launched into an account of his CommPic discussions with McCoy. He told them everything, even described his own experience of receiving ‘psionic echoes’ of Teresa. When he finished, Sulu and Cord sat back, stunned.

"My...God!" Sulu whispered. "Spock, are you saying that somehow Teresa is alive? Ariel and I both saw her remains on Qo’noS. How can this be?"

Spock rested his chin on tented fingertips. "At this time, without hard data, I can only conjecture, Captain. My...best guess is that somehow, the Klingons, or more specifically the House of Durit, have developed a perfect cloning process wherein the replicates are indistinguishable from the original. I suspect that this may be a variation of their mindsifter device, but I have no evidence to support that suspicion."

"Her memories, her thoughts are somehow intact in this clone," Cord concluded. "If that’s so, a clone like that would actually be Teresa."

Spock nodded. "Precisely. ‘A difference which makes no difference is no difference’." The Vulcan paused. "On my journey here from Vulcan, the thought impressions I have been receiving have grown stronger as we traveled closer to Qo’noS. I mindmelded with Teresa once, and I can attest that these psionic emanations I have been sensing are indeed from her."

The Vulcan closed his eyes for a moment. "These emanations have been highly...unpleasant. It is a repeating pattern—it is as if she is achieving awareness at first, and her thoughts are confused and disoriented."

"Gods!" Cord exclaimed. "Like a clone being ‘born’!"

"Precisely," Spock said. "Then follows sheer terror and indescribable agony, followed by a nothingness that resembles death."

"And that pattern repeats itself?" Sulu queried.

"Oh, Gods," Cord said in a small voice. "Then Leonard’s nightmares are real, right? The House of Durit is awakening clones and torturing them to death, only to do it over and over, each time with a new clone. Why?"

Spock shook his head. "I do not know. The head of the House of Durit is Lady Vetara. She is reported to be completely insane. Her thirst for revenge could be so great that she must execute ‘Teresa’ over and over."

"Haven’t they been through enough?" whispered Sulu softly, staring out the portals. "Bones McCoy and Princess Teresa didn’t deserve...don’t deserve what’s happening."

Cord turned white as a sheet. "That Klingon bitch has got to be stopped!"

The Vulcan nodded slightly. "My...hunch is that Leonard McCoy is on such a mission at this time. He is very resourceful, but he is not accustomed to this type of action. We must be prepared to extricate him as he could be in great danger."

"Are we under orders to put a stop to the cloning?" Sulu’s gaze turned to face the Vulcan’s.

Spock shook his head. "Negative. That is beyond the purview of this mission, Captain. Chancellor Azetbur is allowing us only the opportunity to rescue the good doctor. Regrettably, as much faith as I may have in him, he is only one man. The odds of his successfully ending the cloning are..." He was about to quote a number, but he obviously stopped himself. "...are infinitesimally small. But we are not to render any aid or assistance to him, even though it is my considered opinion that they would be extremely grateful to anyone who could...remove Vetara."

"Good Gods!" Cord muttered. "Is this Vetara so powerful that even the Klingon Senate is afraid of her?"

"Yes," Spock and Sulu answered simultaneously.

"Guess that answers that," the doctor sulked.

"Or main objective is to ascertain that Doctor McCoy is indeed on Qo’noS," Spock said. "It will be necessary to isolate his bio-signs from the high level of background radiation still present on Qo’noS from the explosion of Praxis. It will be extremely difficult, but not impossible. It is also possible that his subcutaneous transponder—which all Starfleet admirals are required to have—could be located."

"I’ll get Ensign Tuvok on detecting Human lifeform readings and Commander Rand on the transponder. If he’s down there, we’ll find him."

"He’s there," Cord said. There was a faraway look in her eyes. "He loved Teresa with every fiber of his being. If there was even an outside chance he could find her alive, he’d move Heaven and Earth."

"We must be prepared for any eventuality," Spock stated. "Chancellor Azetbur is not particularly happy that we are...paying her a visit."

Ariel Cord wrinkled her nose. "I’m not too fond of her myself," she said. "She’s a petulant, spoiled bitch. She’ll never measure up to her father, Gorkon."

"It is not uncommon for offspring to be compared to their parents—and found wanting," Spock said cryptically.

"Well," Sulu said, "whatever the case, we’d best be about our business. At this speed, we’ll be on Qo’noS in no time!"

As he followed Sulu and Cord out of the ready room, Spock thought of Leonard McCoy. What was he doing right now? The Vulcan did not share Ariel Cord’s romantic notion that McCoy was going to the Klingon homeworld on the chance he would find his dead wife restored to life. He might just as likely be going there to destroy what he would consider a crime against nature, an aberration like the mythical Frankenstein’s monster. The thought of McCoy attacking the Durit stronghold alone—no matter how well-equipped and well-prepared he was—gave the Vulcan pause. Vetara had purportedly surrounded herself with a cadre of the most vicious thugs and killers and terrorists in the galaxy. Many of them were Kh’myr Klingons. A highly trained Starfleet Intelligence operative would have little chance against such odds, let alone an ‘ol’ country doctor’ with little background in counterintelligence operations.

Spock was not certain what McCoy would do or how he would react.

Leonard McCoy lay prone on a hillock overlooking the stronghold. This area was in transition between the natural desert that had been here for eons and the terraformed jungle that encroached more and more each day. When he had been here twenty years ago, the patches of jungle were fairly rare, as the Klingons had not been conservationists.

Since the Praxis explosion, however, and the introduction of Federation technology, the hot, steamy jungle had grown by leaps and bounds. The fear that numbers of desert species would not be able to adapt to the new environment had proven unfounded. Of all the myriads of creatures on Qo’noS, only two had become extinct, and most of the other animals had flourished and increased in number in the new jungles.

Like most everything else on this planet, McCoy noted, the critters were very, very tough.

Dusk was approaching. The scrub he was hiding in provided good cover, and his deflector field prevented his detection by sensors. There weren’t too many patrols; it was if Durit’s people could not conceive that anyone would have the audacity to attack the compound. All he had to do now was wait for nightfall, and then...

McCoy scowled. He hadn’t quite figured out what came next.

His worst nightmares had been confirmed. Everything was as he had ‘dreamed’ it. One of the first sights he had seen through his binoculars was the gruesome image of Teresa’s rotting, impaled corpse. Clouds of Klingon glob flies flocked around it; it was even more bloated and decayed than in his nightmare, but it was still recognizable. A scan of the body positively identified Teresa’s DNA.

McCoy had seen Vetara of the House of Durit, too, huge with child, and her gigantic henchman Khareg. Both were just as he had imagined them.

So it turned out he hadn’t been dreaming at all. Everything he had ‘seen’ in his nightmares had actually occurred here on Qo’noS. Vetara was bringing clones of his late, beloved wife to life, only to horribly execute them for her own pleasure.

And he was going to put an end to it, come hell or high water.

McCoy checked his arsenal again. He had a number of very illegal devices on his person which would surely get him executed were he captured. The sawed-off blaster carbine lay on the ground, a few inches from his hand as he scanned the estate again with his binoculars. It was quieting dow