Title: The World Bewitched 
Author: Kelthammer 
Pairing: Mirror Spock/Mirror McCoy 
Series: TOS Mirror
Rating: NC-17,
Feedback: okey dokey 
Disclaimer: Resistance is NOT futile, Borg Queen!  I 
will NOT be assimilated!

Hypnosis challenge.  Ok, here goes.

Visual note:  If you've ever seen DeForest Kelley in
RAINTREE COUNTY, as the Confederate cavalryman who managed
to blow away Lee Marvin as Lee Marvin blew him away (And
with those rifles, at least it was quick and you got to see
some of his bare chest), this is what McCoy is looking like
right now. After all, he's out in the criminently *jungle*
for weeks and can't be bothered to keep his hair above his
collar.

***

McCoy had found a small white weevil-type insect,
conveniently already dead, and carefully pinched it up
between his medikit's tweezers.  Kneeling down before a
small nepenthe plant he thought again how much it looked
like the carnivorous pitcher plants on Earth.  Instead of
being tall and slender, it was squat, fat, almost barrel
shaped.  Where it opened, fleshy green lips parted with
long spines like on a Venus Flytrap.  He wrinkled his nose
at the unpleasantly sweet scent protruding from the
peristem, and carefully dropped the gift into the open bowl
of clear yellow-green rainwater.

The effect was as drastic as dropping bloody beef into a
shark farm.  The water boiled; tiny swimming larvae with
poisonous mouths jumped upon the floating weevil and began
tearing it apart.  They weren't as fast as the brarkers,
though.  Those little purple ant-like arachnoids were
swarming out of the nest they'd constructed in a side
tendril and jumping in after the prize.  For all the world
it looked like a rescue team after a drowning victim.  As
the doctor watched (thankful he wasn't a weevil, and
especially that one), the brarkers snatched the weevil from
the larvae and dragged it up to the lip of their nest. 
Whereupon, they promptly ripped the weevil to pieces, and
threw what they didn't want to the still-boiling larvae.

"Bacchanlius Romanus."  McCoy muttered in Old Imperial. 
It translated roughly to, "Let's feast...but on *my* terms."


Other than steam inside your own skin in the humid sun,
and check and re-check the team's equipment while everybody
else went off exploring godknowswhat, there wasn't much
else to do these past three weeks (and in the Empire, one
week was ten days).  Not for the first time, McCoy wondered
if Kirk was either a) mad at him for something he didn't
known he'd done, or b) getting wind of another
assassination in Sickbay and pulling him out of the
environment until things calmed down.  With Kirk you just
couldn't tell. McCoy knew that his captain was unlikely to
sponsor someone killing him off, because you just couldn't
find a CMO that lacked ambition under any old rock. 
Ambitious CMOs tended to lead to bigger, uglier things,
such as uprisings against captains.

Reluctantly, McCoy had discarded the A Theory after the
first week.  When Kirk was mad at you, you got the
agonizer, or the agony booth, an agony shot, shot out of
sheer existance, or just plain shot.  If he was *really*
mad at you, or if you were in the way, you simply failed to
appear to work and the crew would avoid anything resembling
ground pork in the mess hall for the next two months.

So that left the B Theory.  Which meant M'Benga's family
was leaning on him again.  McCoy found it hard to really
dislike his AMO.  The man knew his stuff, and he knew his
Vulcans.  You'd have to go to the INTREPID to find a better
Vulcanxenophysician.  But M'Benga had the unenviable weight
of coming from a prestigous family that had its members
scattered *all over* high posts in the Empire.  Being a
doctor was all right in their thinking, but he should be
the very damn best doctor there is, and why wasn't he CMO
of the Empire's Flagship by now?  Was McCoy phaserproof? 
Did he sleep with a flak jacket?

The answer to all that was, M'Benga wasn't about to be CMO
while McCoy breathed air.  No, he wasn't phaserproof, and
no, he wasn't sleeping with a flak jacket, but he *had*
slept with something even more effective:  Fleet Admiral
Kufe.  Thank God, she had no interest in going any further
in rank. Just about everyone had breathed collective thanks
to suddenly-proven gods when that happened.  One of those
women who looked tough and was even tougher, she had agreed
when McCoy asked to transfer, spoke to Kirk and paved the
way to Mark Piper's long overdue assassination.  Kirk had
gained a xenophysician who was refreshingly grounded in
sanity, dedicated to his work, and a few favors from the
fourth-most powerful warrior in the Empire.

Considering what working with Kufe-Soma had been like,
McCoy could easily put up with being sequestered from an
AMO who felt the bite of overdemanding parents every so
many months.  And he didn't have to go to bed with
*anybody* to keep from getting shot.  Joy.  Amazing what
you learned to appreciate.

He got to his feet and brushed sand off his kneeboots. 
All equipment was on standby and ready for theoretically
anything that could happen, but McCoy knew as well as Kirk
that anybody gone missing in *these* jungles, wouldn't be
more than a handful of dried bleached toothpicks by now. 
Protein was at a premium here, and the market never wavered.

Underneath the endless variety of greens, Rigel V's jungle
soil was hot, poor, dry and sandy.  It was full of inert
and useless matter, unsuitable for even the lightest
agriculture.  It couldn't even hold water properly. The air
stank of the high-quality glass and chemical-synthesizing-
rendering factories that papered the valley below.  The
natives rarely lived for long under the working conditions.
Constant exposure to glassmaking literally fossilized their
lungs inside their ribs.  It was an ugly way to die.  Only
the desperately poor criminals enacted such labor.  Just
the threat of the factories was enough to make a hardened
man resolve to do better.

But, glass or chemistry, that was the only option for a
poor Rigellian wanting to survive or do better than
survive.  The richer folk always had the priesthood to turn
to--Twelve different Mind Sects (which translated as
religion to the Empire) who could do a southern Baptist
Heller Preacher proud.  McCoy had often wondered if the
Mind Sects were the reason why people didn't complain too
much about their options in life.  Brainwashing at an early
age...

A red-clad security man, sleeves still gleaming from his
new lieutenant's stripe, stumbled slightly as he made his
way down the hill to the rest of the landing party.  His
boot heels tore the delicate heath and bone-white sand
gleamed from the trail.

"We've found one."  Lt. Bowyer saluted smartly across his
chest, a *thump* of attention.  "The captain says you need
to scan it."

Dr. McCoy glanced up from assembling another field kit
from the dregs of the campsite (antivenoms, anti-
inflammatories, and anti-just-about-everythings) and
nodded.  "On my way."  He said noncommitally.  Long
experience had told him if he responded promptly, he
wouldn't be given grief for not instantly returning a
salute.  It made even hot-to-advance junior officers think
he valued their reports.

Bowyer led the way, a typical security guard in that his
shoulder muscles rippled tightly under his shirt and his
hips could barely be contained inside his tight pants.  The
doctor resigned himself to the rather unaesthetic view--if
he had a quad* for every crewman who pumped himself up full
of enhancers, he'd be retiring in style.

(Retiring to a career of luxury--treating the kind of old
men Bowyer would become before long: half-wrecked and
addicted to all kinds of broad-spectra neurodrugs...)

Dark green Waxleaves brushed against their heads and they
alternately ducked or swept vines aside.  As they entered
the thick of the jungle the air changed from Industrial-
stinking to heavy, sweet, and cloying.  It was not unlike a
really strong corn-based syrup with just a hint of
snapdragon mixed in.  The source of the scent was in the
purse-shaped primitive nepenthe flowers that hung from
stalks in the canopy.  Seemingly too large to be
successfully hanging from those stalks, they were gorgeous
when the sun beamed through the transparent membranes:
mottled yellow between red of human and green of Vulcan
blood, itwas a forest of stained glass sculptures.

*Grim* sculptures.  Nearly all the flowers held
sillhouettes of some kind of struggling prey.  Insects
mostly, but here and there the doctor could see a soggy and
disturbing outline of matted fur, and tiny, perfectly
preserved mammalian skeletons, swimming in the clear fluid
of digestive saps and rainwater.

For some reason, birds appeared to be immune to the guiles
of the carnivorous plants.  McCoy was oddly grateful for
that.  He liked birds, and was indifferent to the mice-like
rodents that was the main food source for the indigenous
natives.  Cute and fuzzy a-kee'leet might be, they traveled
in packs and ganged up on anything bigger than they were
for a pirhana-like fest.  Which was why everybody had a
phaser with them on the landing trip.

The open air of the clearing was a relief after the thick,
dizzying scent of the jungle.  Here it was a lot fresher,
and sweeter.  The snapdragon scent was stronger and easier
to deal with than that awful syrup-odor that hung in the
nose and stuck to the clothes.

James Tiberius Kirk's bright golden shirt glowed as McCoy
entered the small clearing.  He stood in the center, yellow
in a sea of red and sparkled with the occasional science-
blue shirt.  The greenery was confused and tangled in the
open light.  From here, McCoy could see an odd lump:
someone's knee protruding from the mat of green.  Well,
what was left of it.  The particular metallic-sour reek of
decaying Rigellian hit him a moment later.

(You are what you eat.)  McCoy thought wearily.  The
richer caste of Rigellians thought a simple dinner was a
gorgfest on rich food, wine and indiscriminate sex.  For
some reason, all that excess came out when they died.  Poor
folk didn't really smell like anything in comparison.  Talk
about your past coming back to haunt you...or at least the
coroner's upon your necropsy.

Salutes were thumped against all chests.  McCoy already
had his tricorder out for a medical-grade scan as Kirk took
a step backwards.

"Something's oddball, McCoy."  Kirk's face was set,
displeased and annoyed. It was common knowledge he disliked
jungles, and he especially disliked mysteries.  "What does
that look like to you?"

McCoy scanned with his eyes and instrument at the same
time, taking in the half-eaten native, the shredded
clothing, and the data analysis.  "Looks like an a-kee'leet
group attack, but for some reason they stopped eating.  I
didn't know anything could make them stop."

"Nothing *can.*  That's the mystery."  Kirk set his hands
on his hips, exhaling.  "Once they start, it takes a phaser
to stop them.  They get so caught up in a bloody frenzy
they'll even start on each other if the victim didn't gorge
them enough."  Aware that he had an audience, the captain
added in a properly unimpressed voice:  "They swarm like
minnows around their victim, climb up and around him, and
literally chew him to death.  Then when he stops kicking,
they literally haul the corpse away about ten or fifteen
feet and then start the *real* meal."

McCoy's eyebrows drew up in a "yech" expression as he
looked at his captain. "That's a little odd, all right. 
They kill a man, drag him away a short distance, and then
start eating?"

"Nobody knows why, but its disturbing to people who never
see that kind of thing."  Kirk shook his head.  "I saw a
man sentenced to death in the Arena by a pack of those
things."

"Oh."  McCoy was quiet for a moment.  "Captain?"

"Yes?"

"If I ever get caught trying to overthrow you, promise me
you'll just kick me out of an airlock."

Kirk snorted.  "If *you* try to overthrow *me*, I'll pack
you off to Ebla II where you so rightfully belong."

McCoy opened his mouth to retort and stiffened.  "Hmn, now
that's odd. Captain, are you familiar with this substance?"
The higher in rank you went, the more you knew about
certain ugly tools of assassination.  Although McCoy knew
damn well what most of them were, it was simply good
manners to pretend he didn't.  This, however, was no
pretending.

Kirk peered into the data screen.  "Not at all.  I'm not
even sure what it is."

"Well, it's not a toxin, but it...damn.  What the hell
*is* this?"  McCoy shook his head.  "I've never seen
anything like it before.  Almost like an opiate of some
kind, but the chemical tracings are...they're all strange."

"What's the simplest explanation for something like that?"

"The simplest?  Somebody was making a poison and they
didn't know what they were doing."

"Run some samples up to the ship."  Kirk jerked his head
to the side, summoning a troup of sweating young guards. 
"Wilson!  Farrell!"  He barked to his personal bodyguards--
one tall, lean, young and full of hair, the other his exact
opposite.  They were a fearsome team.

"Sir?"  Wilson snapped a salute.

"Pipe to Uhura, tell her to contact the capitol.  It looks
like we've found the missing Praetor."

McCoy spared a surprised glance at the gnawed corpse.  So
that was Sackhorn. He wondered if Kirk would collect the
reward for the missing man.  He probably would.  Kirk
despised "police calls" and considered "backwater planet
summons" just exactly that.

*   *   *

McCoy was glad to be up in the cold air of the ship after
three weeks of jungle.  Temperature and humidity didn't
bother him; it was the *smells* that got him after a while,
he explained to Nurse Chapel as they trundled to Biopsy Lab.

"Something's always either rotting or giving off a smell
so sweet you want to throw up.  Or at least give up sugar
for the rest of the year."

Chapel was making a disgusted noise as they rounded the
corner and nearly collided into the blue chest of the First
Science Officer.  Salutes went off like gunfire.

"Your pardon, sir."  McCoy spoke formally.  More from the
guards than from Spock himself.  They were as protective
and nasty as hyperactive panthers.

Spock as usual was flanked by his two Vulcan guards, two
of the best Life Scientists to come out of the Academy.  It
was not a bad joke, that part of their studies was "The
Science of Staying Alive on a Starship."

"The captain informed me there was a problem for the lab."
He said evenly.

McCoy caught Chapel's very subtle shiver.  Like most women
on the ship, she was attracted to the Vulcan, but she'd be
crazy not to be afraid of him too. It was well known that
Spock performed his duty and let no emotions or persuation
sway him.

"Well, that's what we're going to find out."  McCoy lifted
the pack of samples in the air.  "Has there been any word
on why the New Praetor ordered an entire starship here just
for a Missing Persons Search?"

"It has revealed itself to be a complicated matter." 
Spock clasped his hands behind his back and McCoy did his
level best not to feel hard dark eyes boring holes in his
back as they all walked down the hall.  "Praetor Sackhorn
was a member of the Fifth Mind Sect.  That made it
difficult to simply search for him in the conventional
circles."

"Yeah, a Missing Secret Gestapo Priest."  McCoy shook his
head.  "Where *would* you look anyway?"

Not to mention, why would you?

"The Empire is politically indifferent to a planet's
infighting."  Spock paused, allowing the lab door to open. 
"New Praetor Nasanthakaan requested the presence of a
starship for several good reasons.  I find the most curious
has to do with the fact that Sackhorn was last seen in the
vicinity of "taboo ground" which was the Nepenthe Jungle we
have been exploring."

McCoy had almost missed a step at "Praetor Nasanthakaan"
but recovered fairly well.  But at "Taboo Ground" he lost
it again.  "Why is the Nepenthe Jungle taboo?"

"Unknown at this point."  Spock explained.  "We only know
that *all* jungles that contain nepenthe plants are held in
superstitious awe and fear.  This taboo does not extend,
conveniently, to non-Rigellians."

"Huh."  Was all McCoy could say to that.

Spock nodded and his guards promptly flanked the doorway
protectively.  "We will need a report at 0200."

0200 was when Kirk was expected to beamup.  "You'll get
it."  McCoy said neutrally.  He couldn't promise a great
report, but there would be something.

Chapel exhaled as they entered the small room.  "I don't
think I like the sound of this."  She said aloud.

"I hardly ever like my orders."  McCoy said.  "That's what
I get for not reading the fine print when I sign my name to
a contract."

Chapel snorted (Spock ignored the exchange as chatter) as
he turned off the air circulator and switched on the
CLOSED/RECYCLE vent.  A red light set in the door went on,
its twin doing the same on the other side.  Now nobody
would interrupt them until they were finished.  For good
measure, Chapel ensured the lock was in working order.

"I'll confess I'm one of the mushrooms** in this matter." 
The Nurse explained.  "What is so special about the
nepenthe plants anyway?"

McCoy half-shrugged as he peeled off his outer uniform and
struggled into a tech's blue suit.  Not bad, Chapel thought
as she made her own struggle. She really wanted to ogle at
Spock, but didn't dare.

Not even for a second.  On the other hand, her boss wasn't
exactly hard on the eyes.  So she watched him out of the
corner of her eye as they all donned the tech suits hanging
on the wall racks.

McCoy was thin but carried himself with an easy grace. 
Despite his build he was strong and active.  The three
weeks in the jungle had leathertanned his skin and etched
bright copper into his much-lighter, longer hair.  Just out
of boredom, he had confided, he had let a moustache "take
over" over his lip.  Chapel thought it was a nice change,
but he'd have to cut the rest of his hair once he was fully
back on ship duty.

The (favorable) talk in the women's sauna had her plenty
informed, should she ever want to investigate a less
professional relationship with him.  Once in a while, she
considered that possibility.

What held her back was, while it was hard to find a
reliable lover on a starship, it was even harder to find
someone you could trust.  McCoy trusted her because she
followed his personal ethics closer than anyone else in
Sickbay; neither were interested in the sadomasochistic
games that always went around, neither chose to help
themselves to the drugs or tools, and neither really
tolerated those that did.  They survived the company of
most of the Sickbay, and watched out for each others'
backs, and everyone thought for sure they were lovers
anyway, but they weren't.

Chapel would never attempt to explain their relationship
to anyone--she wasn't sure she understood it herself,
except that medicine fulfilled a deep need in both of them.
It was science, learning, curiosity, and something
approaching poetry to see the wonder of a body, a mind, and
the emotional, invisible bond that held it all together. 
In a way they were puzzlers faced with an ever-changing
algorithm when they began their job each day.  Nothing was
ever quite the same, so there was never a reason to be
bored.

Of course bordeom invariably meant danger, as that was
when you had to worry the most about someone wanting your
rank.  Chapel was the only Nurse in Sickbay with a Command
Sash; and she had *earned* it, not killed to get it.  She
had never made a kill in her life but knew someday that
would just have to happen. Holstone, M'Benga's little
suckup, wasn't even subtle about wanting her job.

"The questions I want answered the most are, if he stopped
breathing before the Praetor Nasanthakaan sent for us, why
isn't he a puddle of sludge by now?"  McCoy hunched over
his table, staring at the bewildering graphs. "This doesn't
make any medical sense.  The jungles are so poor, the
entire and sum ecosystem is geared to take instant
advantage of any protein.  That's why most of the plants
are carnivorous, and a goodly portion of the rest,
symbiotic!"

Spock also bent over the table, easily reading the krypta
upside down. "Perhaps the unknown element is a
preservative."

"I wondered about that.  What if its also the reason that
the little furry landsharks stopped chewing on him."

Chapel pointed to a shivery blue line on the electro-
graph.  "There's some kind of biochemical breakdown.  Look.
It's in the deepest part of the body, but the closer you
get to the skin's surface, the weaker it gets."

McCoy tapped his fingers on the computer.  "Maybe sunlight
breaks this stuff down.  And possible heat too.  No wonder
we can't recognize it; probably exists in a wholly
different form."

"A safe enough assumption for the moment."  Spock said
absently.  "But the substance would have had to completely
permeate the body."

"Almost like getting a bath in it."  McCoy muttered.

"Chemicals..."  Chapel lifted her head.  "Aren't the
Rigellians skilled biochemists?"

"In a way."  McCoy sighed.  "You know, all the Rigel
planets are infamous for sentient hypnoid lizards, or
mesmerizing predators, or an incredible amount of natural
narcotics.  They probably supply half of Orion with
narcosynthetics."

"Opiates as well."  Spock was taking notes on a keyboard
wired for Vulcana Lingua in record speed.  "The difficulty
is this is all done with the tacit approval of the Ruling
Priesthood."

"Well, of course."  McCoy said dryly.  "If the Empire
knuckled down on the *huge* drug market, we'd be out of all
our very best interrogation and persuation substances."

Chapel made an uneasy face.  "I have no doubt a priesthood
that calls itself "Mind Sects" would be interested in
chemical peresuation."

"Well, Sackhorn was in the Fifth Priesthood.  There were
originally fifteen to worry about, but thanks to various
civil wars, only eight are left.  The way that planet keeps
going, history is on the side of those who want the Sects
out of the way.  They're just getting smaller and more
inbred as time wears on.  Sorta.  Got some bizarre new
breeding program going on I heard."

Spock looked at him sharply.  "What kind of breeding
program?"

"The Ruling Caste kinda resents the large amount of
humanoid blood in the lower slave--pardon me, I mean,
industrial laborer--caste.  They're full of stories of the
Glory Old Days of Pre-Reform Vulcan and how they should
work their way back there once they've re-purified their
bloodstock.  It's really very considerate of them, when you
think about it.  Bas as they want to get home, they don't
want any ugly humanoid genes to follow them back to the
Motherworld and contaminate."

Spock's brows had gone completely up.  "Where did you hear
this information?"  He demanded.

"Admiral Kufe's office."  McCoy shot back.  That had been
his post, pre-ENTERPRISE.  "She had to deal with some real
pureblood lunatics and the political designs was so muddy,
so insane, the *Tellarite secretary* said it was all
whitewash."

"If a Tellarite says it, it must be true."  Chapel was
shaking her head. "Well, here's something useful.  Traces
of some kind of neurodepressor.  At least that's what it
looks like it WAS."

Both men craned their necks to see what she had found.

"Yep.  That's what I'd say."  McCoy grinned.  "Well, its a
good place to start."

*    *   *

By 0200, the report was passable.  There really wasn't
much to go on, except for the following facts:

* Sackhorn had been exposed to some element that not only
preserved his body, but made him inedible to the ravenous a-
lee'keet.  As that was damn near unheard of, Spock listed
this on top of the report.

* The substance was completely unknown.  It might have
helped matters if a little more of the body had been left
behind, but the rodents had eaten just enough to make it
impossible.  Sad but true.

* Sackhorn was seen near Taboo Territory.  He was
certainly found deep inside it.  How he got there was up to
speculation.  The Caste was extremely closemouthed and
refused to give a clue as to the man's capability of
breaking sacred laws.

Kirk read over the report in the privacy of his cabin
while drinking strong coffee.  Marlena hovered in the
background, off duty from the chem lab and assembling a
simple dinner.

Spock awaited his captain, arms folded in the at rest pose
of the Empire, cultivating patience behind the mask of his
beard.  Every time he was around Marlena, he had to remind
himself not to be annoyed that a gifted chemist had chosen
to advance her way in rank via Kirk.  While the practical
aspect of Spock's nature understood that she needed
protection, there was still a purist scientist that
regretted she was not earning her rightful laurels.

Frustrating.  Marlena was one of the finest technicians he
had ever encountered, but her temper nearly rendered her
talents null.  Kirk was the strong leader for her, and
Spock had to reluctantly accept the fact that she preferred
such a lifestyle.

Oddly enough, McCoy had agreed with him on that once when
they were working in the lab.  The doctor was of course
officially out of the usual political loop, and hardly ever
on the Bridge, but he had an uncanny grasp of people and
was generally unflappable against the foibles of humanity.

Spock knew that eventually he would have to stop living
such a Spartan lifestyle.  Things had been abnormally quiet
among the ship for the past year, but it was foolish to
think that would ever stay that way.  He needed a sr'ben to
bond with, but so far none of his Vulcan bodyguards had
shown themselves to be acceptable.  They would agree to
such an offer if he made it, but Spock was searching for a
subconscious compatibility--such a mental similarity might
be the difference between life and death in combat.
Unfortunate that so far he found himself compatible with
humans more than other Vulcans, for he considered himself
Vulcan above all other definitions.

Humans were annoying to him more than half the time.  He
did not mind them, so long as they did their job adequately
and left him alone.  But to ask a human to not wander into
forbidden territory...Spock avoided glancing at McCoy as he
thought that.

Swish.  Another plastic sheet was flipped over.  Kirk
could read swiftly, and grasp swiftly.  Another scientist
who had chosen power and priviledge over knowledge.  Spock
occasionally indulged in a very un-kaiidith attitude at the
rampant waste in the Empire.  His captain would make an
excellent sr'ben, were they of equal rank.  Kirk, however,
conceeded to no authorities, not even friendship.  Again,
kaiidith.

McCoy privately loathed an invite to the captain's
spacious quarters.  Kirk lived in the lap of luxury in
rooms that were three times the size of Spock's, which was
not just showing off the mores of rank and power, but
commonsense.  If somebody went into McCoy's cabin to kill
him, it would be like killing a rat in a box trap.  Kirk
not only had room to maneuver, but his shielded bulkwalls
made sure nobody could tell which room he was currently
sleeping in.

Spock sat at Vulcanly attention, his black beard catching
threads of light from the simple Andorian lamp on the
table.  Once in a while, his onxy eyes would flick to McCoy
while Kirk read.  McCoy knew what he was thinking.  He was
thinking it too:  The ENTERPRISE had been handed a
hopelessly complicated case and somebody somewhere would
just love it if they failed.

Kirk signaled the end of the report by dumping it on the
table.  "Very well."  He picked up his coffee. "Mr. Spock,
your personal anaysis?"

Spock was slow in replying, which meant he was still
juggling algorithms. "There are still enough unknown
factors that we cannot rule out the possibility that
Sackhorn met with a genuine accident."

"I once read a coroner's report like that."  McCoy said
dryly.  "A man unpopular with the local organized crime got
drunk and walked into an open turbolift shaft, fell on his
own dagger six times."

Spock shot him a look that was rather dagger-like himself.

Kirk chuckled wryly.  "If I had a quad for every strange
coroner's report you had up your sleeve, I'd be a Praetor."
He leaned back in his chair as Marlena neared with a tray. 
"Your analysis?  What of the Rigellians themselves?  Their
power and religious schisms?  Your file says you spent a
month here before ENTERPRISE."

"A month too many.  I was with a sequestered group and
isolated.  I wasn't exposed to much."  McCoy shook his
head.  "The castes are comprised of a high number of
albinos, captain."  He winced at a particularly ugly
memory.  "For this reason they've built up the neccessity
of nocturnal ritual and ceremony.  In fact, its gotten to
the point where you can't aspire past Novice without being
a full or partial albino."

"Well, we've seen stranger."  Kirk admitted.  "And we've
been invited to see the New Praetor.  I've been informed by
the Protocol Packet, that Nasanthakaan will be referred to
as "New Praetor" until he's had the post for one year, and
one day."

McCoy already knew that; he nodded silently.

Spock slapped his black eyes upon him.  "You demonstrated
*some* familiarity with Rigel's politics before, doctor. 
Can you think of anything to add?"

McCoy sighed as Kirk turned his hard green eyes to him. 
"A lot of the stuff I saw is still under sealed files.  But
when it comes down to, say, personality of the average
Rigellian, I advise extreme, extreme cool poise."  He set
his jaw.  "These people take great stock in a pokerface.  I
submit, it may be because a blushing or flush-enraged
albino makes for bad form among the priesthood."

Kirk's lips twitched in amusement.  "I have no troubles
visualizing that." He murmured.  "Very well.  If none of
you has any objections, we'll be beaming down now."

McCoy did have objections, and none of them would wash. 
He bit his tongue and hoped for the best as they wended to
the transporter room.

*   *   *

McCoy saw considerably more albinos present in the Hall of
Learning than on his last visit.  Like the Palace of the
Snow Queen, tall, willowy folk with ethereal, androgynous
features glided like will o' wisps across the massive
marble pillar'd capitol.  Even the colors they wore were in
relationship to their blood.  Pearls, gray, silvers, faint
yellows and dusty rose predominated.  The ENTERPRISE men
were almost harsh to the eye against the soft moonlight-
halls.

Rigellian New Praetorate Nasanthakaan was a tall, slender,
almost bony man, a perfect example of his species.  As a
typical member off the Mind-Sect caste, he was a partial
albino with snow-white hair but normal bronze coloring
elsewhere.  It made him extraordinarily handsome and he was
smart enough to be absolutuely aware of it.  Pre-Reform
Vulcans had settled in the system thousands of years ago
and managed to (slowly) blend in with the native and
somewhat humanoid population.  One would think this meant
there was relatively little racial strife on Rigel, but the
truth was, Nasanthakaan was one of several Noble Families
that sought to re-purify the Vulcan blood.  Ergo, his
attitude to humans was pretty much what you'd expect.

Icy, icy pale gray eyes the shape of apple seeds swept
over the room.  McCoy was fervently hoping the other man
would be all business and not--

"Captain Kirk."  The Rigellian spoke with surprising
strength for such a slender form.  McCoy knew his
appearance was deceptive.  But it was his voice that his
best weapon.  His voice and his eyes.

Kirk stepped forward, all tight muscle and predatory
capability.  Among this Hall of pale and washed-out priest,
he burned as hot and alive as the Terran sun.  McCoy felt
the shivers to see these icy people watch him with the same
hunger a moth held for a flame...or a vampire for warm and
living blood.

"New Praetor."  He spoke with crisp courtesy, his hands
poised loosely at his sides.  "Reporting as ordered."

He was given a nod, and the apple-shaped eyes swept to
Spock.  They lingered there on the Vulcan a moment longer
than on Kirk, but nobody thought aught of that; Spock was
always getting second or third looks.  His parentage was as
legendary as his feats.

"First Officer Spock."

"New Praetor."

If Kirk was the sun, then Spock was undoubtedly the moon. 
A moon under a dark eclipse, all shadow and stark black
space between the stars.  Here was someone who burned as
strongly as Kirk in this faded planet, only with a cooler,
mathematical light.

McCoy had already braced himself.  He knew this was going
to be ugly, ugly...

The eyes hit him with the force he remembered.  After he
left Kufe-Soma's, he had privately vowed to himself to
never block out his recollection of the other man.  It was
just too dangerous to give in to that urge to file that
memory away where it couldn't be found again.  Pale gray
disks shone like platinum, and...yes, dilated slightly.

"McCoy."

He felt the flick of eyes from the others, noting and
wondering that his medical rank had been sidestepped.

"New Praetor."  He said simply.

"You humans age quickly.  I tend to forget."  Smooth and
quiet, the strong voice hummed like a powerful engine just
outside of human hearing range. "But you have aged rather
well, as the phrase goes."

McCoy only gave a nod, not giving in one inch.

"My apologies."  Kirk broke in between the gaze, polite
and smooth and deadly underneath.  "Had I known there was a
previous acquaintance between yourself and my CMO, I would
have brought him sooner."

(And if he doesn't have the perfect excuse for not telling
me, he's going into the Agony Booth when we get back on
board!)

Nasanthakaan smiled thinly.  "It was a long time ago,
captain, under circumstances that are still classified, am
I right?"  He didn't wait for a response.  "Suffice to say,
I learned the hard way about the good doctor's backup
weapons."

Hell, McCoy thought strongly.  He wondered if the
Rigellian could still pick up his thoughts.  But there was
no sign.  Didn't think there'd be anyway...Nasan' had had
to have picked up some tricks in six years.

The Rigellian moved slowly to his chair, long fingers
curling over the stone table.  "I have read your report
about my brother's death."  He began slowly.  All three of
them couldn't restrain a reaction at that, and he smiled
thinly.  "Yes...little resemblance, I know.  Especially
now."  The lips twitched upwards in sardonic humor.  "I was
pleased to see how swiftly you could find so many answers.
It was impressive, Kirk.  I hope your investigation leads
us to the identity of his killers."

Kirk nodded.  "As do we, Praetor."

The Rigellian appeared to be buried in thought for a
moment, then lifted his albino head.  "I had posted a
reward for his discovery.  You are indeed entitled of that.
Half a million credits."

"That's very generous.  Thank you."  Kirk spoke politely,
but without giving anything of himself away.

Nasanthakaan turned away for a moment.  "I have been
granted the blessing of your High Command to direct you in
this matter.  Since you were able to perform so well."

The New Praetor stopped talking for a moment, his eyes
seemingly drifting away across the room of moth-like Fifth
Mind Sect members.

"Find my brother's killers."  The New Praetor said simply.
"I charge you with this, Kirk.  If you succeed, I will be
generous beyond your expectations."

Then the eyes stopped drifting.  They turned to hard
silver disks.  "But fail, and I will personally kill as
many of your crew as I feel will take the place of my lost
kin."

McCoy had no doubt on his chances of being first in that
line.

*   *   *

When they were alone, Kirk and Spock faced him, as he knew
they would.

"Doctor, were you aware that you had a previous
acquaintance with the current reigning planetary Praetor?" 
Kirk demanded.

McCoy only shook his head.  "It's a common name."  He
heaved his breath in a sigh.  "He was a young gun on his
way up, and someone had hired him to take out my commanding
officer.  I got in the way."  He shrugged stiffly.  "Then
his contract was nullified at the survival of his target
and he had to leave.  Check with Admiral Kufe if you want
the whole story.  I'm not privy to all the details."

"No, no need for now."  Kirk gnawed on his lip.  He was
deeply furious but too wise a tactician to indulge in it. 
Like a proper miser, he hoarded his emotions, and
especially his anger, for when he really needed it. 
"Spock, what do you know of Rigellian dynamic?"

"That Nasanthakaan is highly unlikely to get himself
personally involved with his brother's murder."  Spock
clasped his hands behind his back.  "It goes against
tradition, in a world where alliances and clan-marriages
hinge on a remote, and objective relationship."

"Reassuring."  Kirk muttered.

All of them were quiet as they absorbed each and every
implication.

"So."  Kirk looked at him again.  "Backup weapons, huh?"

McCoy made a face.  "I stuck a hypo in his face.  He
assumed it was loaded."

Kirk stifled a snort, but it was clear he was richly
amused.  Spock's eyebrow went up.  "I believe I would have
paid a good deal to see that." Kirk mused.  "That so-calm
face..."  He stuck his thumb in his sash and tapped his
fingers along his hip, thinking.

McCoy was glad the subject had been dropped.  He really
had no desire to let the world know he kept a Capellan
Stand-Ready inside his sash-pocket.  It was considerably
more dangerous than a dagger, and rivaled a phaser at short
range.  If you knew what you were doing with it.  And McCoy
did.

He wondered if Nasanthakaan still had that scar...


*   *   *

Somebody had been in his cabin.

The doctor paused at the door, scanning the small space
with his eyes. Controlled chaos was the name of the game;
apparant disorder to anyone snooping without knowing what
they were looking for.

His laundry was normally tossed into a corner in helter-
skelter order...but with the insignia always facing down. 
He could see the edge of the Empire's sword peeking from
behind a sleeve.  Yesterday he'd set a teacup on its side,
as if he'd let it fall over without righting it.  Now it
was sitting rightside up on the small counter by the food
replicator.  Suddenly, McCoy had no urge to get anything to
eat until he scanned it first.

McCoy pondered who would be spying on him at the moment. 
It was always something going on.  If you wanted to worry,
then *don't* be under surveillance.  Usually it was Sulu,
searching for anything good, or better yet, hoping to find
something that would leave Kirk or Spock vulnerable. McCoy
never kept hard copies around.  But, somebody always
slipped up, and you couldn't blame the man for hoping.

Kirk.  He'd bet it was Kirk.  Suspicions were up and
rampant since he'd gotten a glimpse of his CMO's former
life with Kufe.  While he couldn't demand details of a
classified mission...well, don't as and don't tell went the
SOP.

Exhaling, the doctor peeled off his sweaty shirt, yanked a
red clipcard from his desk and jammed it into his
computerslot.  The screen blipped.  The harsh masculine
voice of the dratted machine alerted him that it was ready
to SEND, and he simply punched the right button instead of
talk to the inanimate.

Kufe's strong, dark-skinned face filled the small screen. 
That was surprising.  Her appearance had changed little
since they'd last met; a tall slender Afrocajun with the
slanted eyes of her mother's Carib blood.  She was wearing
the blood-red silk sleeveless vest of a Fleet Admiral, with
redgold bands around her arms, wrists, throat and ears.

"What's going on, Bones?"  She asked crisply.

McCoy blinked.  "I'm surprised to catch you that quick."

"I pay 'ttention to evrything that happens in the Rigel
System."  Kufe said dryly.  "What's up, you Mangrove
Melungeon?"

McCoy stifled a sigh.  Kufe actually thought racist labels
were amusing.  He didn't.  "I'm asking for a favor, Kufe."

"You're asking?"  Graceful black eyebrows slid up. "Len,
you are *such* a no-game-player.  You're supposed to demand
a favor if you want to survive politics."

"Admiral, we've had this talk before."  McCoy gestured as
he spoke, grabbing at his left earlobe as if suddenly
nervous.  Kufe caught the signal: he couldn't promise if
the beam was secure or not.

"Well, what's on your devious little mind, Leonard?"

"I'm thinking maybe you should let Kirk know the specs
about our little run-in with the Fifth House."

Another eyebrow went sailing.  Kufe was almost Vulcan. 
"That's still classified."

"I know."  He said simply.

Kufe regarded him in dead silence as they stared at each
other across space.

"I'll send him a synopsis."  She said at last.  Behind her
desk, she was pulling out her knife and peeling a white
peach.  "You think things are getting bad again down there
again?"

"How would I know?  You know the whole schism, not me. 
But Nasanthakaan's in control of the Fifth Sect now."

Kufe paused.  "Remind me to stick my informants in the
Agony Booth for a few hours."  She said mildly.  "That's
something I should have known before I cleared your ship's
orders for Rigel."

"I shouldn't have to remind you, of all people, who and
who not to torture." McCoy spoke very thinly.

Kufe grinned.  "Dahomey, but I miss our fights, you old
Bajou Bilge Rat."

"*I* don't."  McCoy said emphatically.

"I know.  That just made it all the more fun for me.  Why
don't you get transferred back down here, Snake Doctor? 
Erzulie is always on the lookout for Agwe."

McCoy closed his eyes.  On top of a *lot* of other
interests, Kufe was a dyed in the wool practicioner of the
voudoun.  Erzulie, the red-clad loa of sex and magic
happened to be her patron.  Erzulie's main consort was
Awge, a pale-eyed half-breed who wore a sailor's uniform
and incorporated healing and angst in equal proportions. 
Needless to say, Kufe had been trying to see if their
physical similarities went all the way to the world of the
Invisibles.

"No."  The doctor managed to get out through his teeth. 
"No, nope, sorry, Admiral.  Not interested."  Kufe was
grinning, showing all her impressively healthy white teeth.
She knew he would rather sell himself to the Klingons than
go back to Earth, but she always had a lot of fun trying.

"Too bad."  The Admiral chuckled.  "I shouldn't have let
you go.  Why did I give you up, anyway?"

"Because you owed Kirk a favor, Kirk needed a CMO who
wasn't crazy, and I had to transfer far, far away from you
before I turned a hypo on myself."

"Besides that.  We could have worked it out, don't you
think?"

McCoy had closed his eyes again.  Kirk would never know
what his CMO did for him, that was sure.  Now that he had
gotten what he wanted, he had to put up with Kufe's cat
playing Mouseball with him.  And she was perfectly capable
of toying with him for hours.

He knew that gleam in her eyes.  She was not only prepared
for evesdroppers on this conversation, she was *hoping*
someone was listening.  It would make it so much more fun
when she verbally vivisected him onscreen.

"Maybe."  He said cautiously.  "If I ever agreed to a full
frontal lobotomy."

"Now, Len, its just a lie that I only wanted your body." 
Kufe took a long, lingering bite of peach, letting the
juice run down her chin.  McCoy was aware that sweat had
suddenly broken over his temples.  "I liked your sarcasm
too."

"You don't need a brain to be sarcastic."  McCoy pointed
out.  He was pulling his collar away from his throat,
feeling claustrophobic in the cabin.

"Mmmn, that's true.  But do you know how hard it is to
find a proper southern gentleman in High Command?  They're
in the distinct minority, and I've already slept my way
through them.  Several times."

"No doubt."  McCoy reached for his water glass.  "You need
to broaden your horizons."

"You've said that before."  Kufe mused.  "I'm not going
for any albino English, though.  And that's most of
Yankeetown."

"Oh, Lord God..."  McCoy rubbed his forehead.  "Kufe, can
we discuss your galloping nymphomania on somebody else's
long-distance comm fee?"  When you sensed the ground just
beginning to sift under your feet, it was best to retreat.

"Zombie pia, Len.  You're as nervous as the old agaya
crab.  What, some duppy coming 'round, playing plateye on
your door?"  Kufe's accent never came out unless she was
either seriously playing, or flat out serious.

"Maybe."  He answered.  That was how he could say "yes"
over a potentially unsecured connection.  "And the duppy
has silver eyes."

"That no duppy.  For sure, that's a mocko jumby!"  Kufe
snorted.  "Len, you think that albino up to his tricks,
I'll get your pretty captain a full report."

McCoy didn't hide his relief.  "Thanks.  I'm tired of
watching captains come and go.  Would like to see this one
stick around a while yet."

"No doubt he agrees.  You think he could be in trouble?"

"I don't rule anything out with that Titanium Freak.  I
played chess with him, remember?  Wouldn't move even a pawn
unless he had three other moves lined for backup."

"Hmn.  So when are you coming to visit me?"

"Never."

"Never?"  She grinned again, predatory.  "Len, how come I
have to tie you down to have any fun with you?"

"Kufe, how come you're the only woman in the Galaxy that
*has* to tie me down to get their fun with me?"

She made a face at him.  "Because if you didn't struggle,
it wouldn't be nearly so much fun."

"Uh-huh.  And that's why I'm keeping three black holes, a
quasar, and twelve solar systems between us."

"You watch.  I'm going to visit the ENTERPRISE someday,
and spend all my time worshipping that lovely captain of
yours."

"Be my guest.  His woman is a bit of a hot blooded Latina,
though.  For the record, I warned you."

"That's fine, Len.  I'm hot blooded too.  Maybe she'll
share if I ask proper."

"Well, go ahead.  It won't hurt to try."

"You mean that?"  Kufe asked skeptically.

"Sure.  It won't hurt *me* a bit if you try to horn in on
Marlena's territory."

Kufe burst out laughing.  She was still laughing like a
green heron when she clipped off her end of the beam.

McCoy bid good bye with a great deal of relief.

*   *   *

Kirk and Spock had their eyebrows permanently stuck to
their foreheads as Marlena turned off the security camera.

Moreau wished they could have used the Tantalus device; it
was much clearer and would follow your target through the
ship.  But Spock shouldn't know of its existence.

Kirk turned off the Tantalus Device.  "Well, that was
entertaining."  He commented to Marlena.

Marlena was shaking her head with a smile.  "Kufe has a
reputation.  It looks like for once the gossips are a
little conservative."

He smiled, looking a great deal like a little boy.  "So,
would you share me?"

Marlena smiled back.  "Not on your life."  She said sweetly.

Kirk chuckled.

Spock stoically put up with the exchange of lips.  He
wondered if McCoy had been aware of the search in his room.
Granted no one knew what the doctor's behavior was like
when he was alone--Chapel was likely the only exception--
but his instincts were telling him the doctor was a bit
more leery than he'd thought.

*   *   *

Kirk pulled away from Marlena (Spock was not unhappy to
see that) and smiled.  "Later."  It was his way of
commanding her to leave.

Well used to his moods, Marlena smiled at him in a way
that promised the captain would get little sleep tonight,
and strolled out, her short skirt hugging her hips.  Spock
wondered why Kirk would act as though he had never seen
that display before.

"You disapprove, Mr. Spock?"  Kirk was too amused at his
First's discomfort to take offense.

Spock collected himself.  "I do not know if I will ever be
accustomed to humans."  He defended himself.

"Ah."  Kirk nodded with a strange look in his eye.  "You
know, for a while I wondered if you were jealous when she
decided to be my woman."

"Jealous?"  Spock repeated as if it were a word
incomprehensible to him.

"Yes.  After all, she's quite talented, intelligent,
brilliant on occasion and dedicated to her job."  Kirk's
smile did not exactly say *which* job she was dedicated to.

Spock replied slowly as he joined Kirk in his office. 
Kirk had narrowly struck at the truth; before Khan's
subversion of Marla McGyvers, Spock had seriously
considered a relationship with Marlena.  But then Marla had
betrayed Kirk for Khan, and Marlena had proven herself well
prepared for the moment when she managed to kill the woman.
Kirk had rewarded her with Marla's position.

(And does she ever regret that?)  Spock occasionally
wondered, and told himself it was because he was a student
of the human race, and not an expert.

"To be truthful, captain," Spock sat down at Kirk's
gesture.  "While I consider Marlena aesthetically pleasing,
it would be unwise for me to cultivate a relationship with
a woman of her example."

Kirk looked up from rummaging in his desk.  "And what
example is she?"  He wanted to know.

Spock answered his captain very carefully.  "I serve among
humans, with barely enough approval from my family to
permit me to use the clan name."

"You're saying you need a Vulcan woman?"

"Not specifically.  I am being persuaded to invoke a
sr'ben link in case something happens to my wife."

Kirk was familiar with the specs of the infamous "sword-
link" Vulcans enacted among each other.  The link did not
discriminate between sex, age, or even species (although it
was usually between the same sex), its function a psychic
support in case something befell the other.  To wit, if
T'Pring's Clan ever went to war with the Soyh Clan, and she
became brain-injured or dead, Spock too would die from the
link-trauma, unless someone else was already bonded to him.

"Ah."  Kirk nodded.  "I understand now.  Sounds worse than
being married against your will.  I don't envy you, Mr.
Spock.  You could at least find a concubine.  And if you
ever achieve the high rank you're capable of, you'll be
expected to."

"I do not envy myself, captain.  It is a uniquely useless
pasttime."

Kirk was about to reply when his communicator chirped. 
"Kirk here."

Uhura's soft voice slipped over the beam into the room. 
"Sir, coded message to you, from Fleet Admiral Kufe."

The men traded looks.  "She does work fast, doesn't she." 
Kirk muttered admiringly.  "Send it through, Lieutenant." 
He smirked as his computer began scrolling.  "Probably not
letting Sulu have a peek at it just to annoy him.  They've
been fighting again."

"I was not aware they were ever at peace."  Spock was
honestly puzzled.

Kirk snickered.  "You might have something there."  He
shut up and concentrated as Fleet Coding filled his screen.

"Hmmmn...."  Kirk broke his silence by flipping the screen
around.  "Your turn."


Fleet Admiral Kufe was as brisk in writing as she was in
life. Nevertheless, she told a vivid story in polished
detail.

The Rigel System had always been pharmacaelogically rich. 
Still a Commodore, Kufe-Soma had been driven to investigate
the specs of a new drug that would boost green blood cell
production in Vulcans.  Such a drug, if compatible with
those of mixed heritage, could be a profitable boon to the
Empire.  Of course nothing was ever as simple as it
sounded, and in this case, the difficulty was within the
Rigellians themselves.

The Ruling Caste had originally numbered fifteen families,
but each family had its own Mind Sect, which was the
priesthood that ruled each ruling caste.  When a Sect died
out, the Caste family officially existed, but was little
more than a figurehead.  This was the fate the Fifth Mind
Sect was facing, and they had struck a co-working alliance
with their longtime enemies, the Third Sect.  Hostile in
private, neither family breathed word of their disharmony
to any of the offworlders.  Dr. McCoy, who was at the time,
and still was, a Lieutenant Commander, filed an official
complaint that the delegate from the Fifth House, One
Nasanthakaan, was deliberately testing the boundaries among
the humans, searching for weak spots.  Kufe expressed
concern that the delegate was using Rigellian mental gifts
to probe into their minds, and everyone was soon issued
mild drugs to render their thoughts unreadable.

(This was before the Empire laid down a demand that even
Rigel could not deny: That No telepath in the Empire's
Space could take advantage of a non-telepathic species
unless in the line of duty as per the Empire itself, and
then only under orders from High Command.)

What followed next was a typical disastrous Imperial
Snafu.  Due to a difference in body language between the
two species, Nasanthakaan's leader mistakenly came to the
conclusion that Kufe was cultivating an alliance with the
Third House behind his back.  Suspicious that such a
meeting would mean the destruction of his family, Nasan'
attempted to kill her.

McCoy had been telling the truth when he said he "got in
the way." Literally, he had.  Blocking a sword cut with his
own arm, he had stabbed at the Rigellian's face with an
empty hypo.  Not knowing the tool was harmless,
Nasanthakaan flinched on instinct, and backed away far
enough for the doctor to wound him into incapacity.  The
report did not say how Nasanthakaan was wounded.

Kufe finished with unmistakable sarcasm between the lines:
You could insult a Rigellian, but you could never prove
them wrong on anything.  When Kufe survived the attempt,
she had proven them wrong about their conclusions.  So
while legally Rigel could do nothing but apologize
eloquently over the misunderstanding, the Fifth House
Affiliates would be simmering in feudal resentment for a
good long time.

(Curious, that.)  Spock thought.  (But the Admiral is only
barely forthcoming.  Still, it explains much about the New
Praetor's actions.  If he still believed the Empire wished
to crush his family...)

*   *   *

The hour was late.  Spock settled slowly in his one chair
by his desk, steepling his fingers in thought.  Responding
to previous commands, his computer began speaking to him,
outlining the latest mail he had gathered. News from home
briefly took his attention from Rigel:  T'Pring had
accepted as a gift from the Soyh Clan, a metal sculptor
named Stonn.

When Spock activated his memory, he could recall a Soyh-
affiliated Stonn: a very muscular man with a classically
handsome face, and no discernible wit whatsoever...but his
skills in artistry more than made up for that.  T'Pring
might find herself frustrated to play host to the many
number of enamored men and women who desired to gather his
company.

Spock found himself mulling over this latest news from
home.  T'Pring was a capable woman, and she would do what
she wanted, regardless of what Spock or anyone would wish. 
But Spock could not help but wonder if there would
be...repurcussions from accepting Stonn.  Politically, the
Soyh Clan was in good form and good manners to offer her a
gift of an artist.  Her clan's official metalwright had
recently died.  And T'Pring hardly had to worry about Stonn
killing her.  That was unthinkable.  Artists were forbidden
to take up weapons themselves.

All of this was yet another remainder that he needed to
establish a sr'ben. T'Pring might not have anything to fear
from Stonn, but there was always a minor war between
various families on Vulcan...

...and of course, there was always the "acts of God" that
took life nearly as often.

Why had he told Kirk about the sr'ben link?  Had it been
an unconscious desire on his part?  He had no wish to kill
Kirk, not for any reason, and trusted him on a level he had
never enjoyed with any other commander.  Kirk was a
scientist, a capable man in many fields.  Spock admired
that more than he admired his skills in command.

Ideally, Kirk would make an excellent sword-link.  But his
captain would never conceed or give in a relationship.  Not
now, at any rate.  Perhaps when they had both been younger
and less hardened, the possibility would have existed.  The
curious scientist was gone. In its place, a seasoned
fighter who never hesitated to kill, and who only barely
tolerated the presence of anyone who considered themselves
his equal.

Kaiidith...

Spock sighed and ordered his computer to cease.  He would
have to meditate deeply for at least an hour before he
could call himself ready for his next work.

*    *   *

McCoy got tired of staring at the ceiling after an hour of
tossing around his bed.  He shambled out, groggily pulled
on his uniform and snapped on the computer.  Something was
seriously niggling in the back of his mind and, like a
fighting trout, wasn't keen on getting reeled in.  So he
pulled up the reports of Rigel and played with that
thought, letting free associations flow around him.

Chapel's question in the necropsy lab:  What was the big
deal about nepenthe plants?  He hadn't been able to answer
her.  Nor Spock.  But a few minutes of cross-indexing
raised his suspicions.

All nepenthe plants lured their prey in to the digestive
traps by use of strong chemicals exuded from the peristem. 
McCoy tried to get a biochem breakdown of the peristem and
got a large CLASSIFIED stamp across his screen.  Ok, he
tried to get the same on the plant's fluid.  CLASSIFIED.

Plant matter.

CLASSIFIED.

Tissue.

CLASSIFIED.

The god-damned root system, for Christ's sake.

CLASSIFIED.

The doctor began a slow burn.  His fingers drummed against
the desk, the only sound in his cabin.

He requested a molecular chain on any/all Rigellian-
exported drugs.

CLASSIFIED.

He thought of Rigel's sodium pentathol, a stronger and
more efficient version than what any other planet in the
Empire could create.  He requested it.

He got it.

A bewildering chain of shapes and colors filled his eyes.
So far so good, but nothing that was particularly
spectacular.  It differed from its competitor synthesizers
in its larger amount of transmitters to the human brain. 
McCoy suspected he had gotten this fairly innocuous drug
because it was so widely available.

He poked into his own pharmacy.  Nothing there.

He tapped with his fingers again.  Then his face cleared
and he went searching for nepenthe plants, EARTH ORIGIN.

Bingo.

Many more minutes passed as he scanned the information. 
Earth's nepenthes were dwarves, compared to some of the
species on Rigel, but they were all similarly designed.

The peristem of the plants were full of chemicals that
attracted the prey they were designed to.  While an Earth
nepenthe might occasionally catch and swallow a mouse, it
was rare.  And different plants attracted different kinds
of prey.  McCoy felt his eyebrows go up at a botanist's
speculation that each plant tailored its chemical peristem
to the prey it preferred. All plants used a scent that
would be compelling to its chosen victims, but inert or
unpleasant to all others.  What the peristem's composition
did was create a kind of hypnotic effect upon the brain,
and possibly even an addiction.

Disturbing to think about, that you could catch a whiff of
something deadly and want to go nearer.  McCoy read further.

There was even a co-existance of insect species between
Earth's nepenthes. He was fascinated to read the account of
insects who, like Rigel's could live without fear in the
digestive enzymes of the plants, and rescue prey that fell
in, only to rip it to shreds and throw what they didn't
want back into the enzyme pool.

The reasons for this, it was revealed, was all nepenthes
had evolved on terrifically poor soil and could not handle
an embarassment of riches.  If even two whole insects were
caught and drowned in a Bornean nepenthe, the decay of the
insect could sicken, and even kill the plant.  Hence, a
system that depended on insects that behaved like a'kee-
leets.

Behaved like a'kee-leets.

McCoy sat upu straight in his chair.

Behaved like a'kee-leets.

Too bad if Kirk was asleep.  He dove for the comm switch
and paged his captain.

*   *   *

Kirk rubbed tired eyes and spit out the words with a
snarl:  "Circumstantial evidence, my Captain's sash!  You
can almost hang Rigel on this!"

Spock, looking not at all tired, stood against the wall
with his arms folded at resting position.  "It would seem
we have inadverdantly stumbled upon one of Rigel's best
kept secrets.  I had some suspicions, but they went no
further than to wonder why the Praetorate insisted that we
leave Sackhorn's body where it was found."

McCoy hadn't heard about that.  "Did they say why we
should?"

Spock shrugged.  "As there are countless cultures with the
same custom, there was no query."

"So we could get real proof if we could examine the
remains.  Maybe."  McCoy exhaled.  "Lovely."

"Nasanthakaan set us up for failure."  Kirk spat.  "Find
my brother's killers.  He knew damn well his brother's
killers were a nepenthe plant and a pack of raving a'kee-
leet!"

"Typical."  McCoy muttered.  "Sneaky devil.  Smarmy and
shutmouthed."


"I suggest we play the Rigellians as they wish to play
us."  Spock said as the humans turned to him.

"How so, Mr. Spock?"

"Evidence is in strong suggestion that a plant was the
agent of Sackhorn's death.  Nasanthakaan has charged us to
find his brother's killers. Obviously a subtle trap, one
that we will fail in if we waste our time looking for
Rigellian killers.  I recommend that the Enterprise makes a
visible show of searching in the wrong direction while
myself and Dr. McCoy search for proof that this plant
exists."

Kirk leaned back in his chair, frowning.  "Not a bad idea.
How would we distract Nasanthakaan?"

"I suggest we ask for permission to interview possible
suspects.  He will no douubt be glad to help us in our
misdirection."

McCoy snorted.  "Yeah, that's the way he works.  But I
didn't see any big Rigellian-gulping nepenthe plants in
that clearing."

Kirk and Spock considered that for a long moment.

"Well we weren't looking for one."  Kirk pointed out.

"What is the usual range that an a'kee-leet pack will drag
its prey away for devouring?"

Kirk gnawed his bottom lip.  "Depending on the size of the
pack...the more rodents, the further they drag the body. 
The pack that I saw in the Arena couldn't have numbered
more than a hundred."

"A hundred rodents the size of chiuhuahuas?  Christ." 
McCoy shuddered.

"A small pack would be anywhere from two to forty.  A
large pack, now...I'd say in excess of two hundred."

"This is getting more and more probable."  Spock
confessed.  "There are many habitats we have not personally
explored, and Rigellian folklore speaks of man-eating
trees.  If a nepenthe is large enough to devour a man, it
would certainly be considered more treelike than plantlike."

"And Rigellians can't touch them, can't do anything with
them because all forms of nepenthe are taboo!"  McCoy
rolled his eyes upwards.  "Good god...we might have walked
right under that thing without knowing it!"  He thought of
the sickly snapdragon smell, and shivered.

"Indeed.  We must find the solution on our own."

"And that means, finding a mythical flesheating tree." 
Kirk agreed tightly.

"I want you and McCoy down there on planetdawn."  The
captain snapped.  "I'm going to play the befuddled captain
and ask Nasanthakaan for permission to interview anyone who
might have had a problem with his brother.  He should enjoy
aiding me in the process of justice."  Kirk snorted at his
own speech. "Get some rest, gentlemen, you're going to need
it!"

*   *   *

They beamed down at the campsite; Kirk would never de-camp
at a holding on any planet until he was on the verge of
leaving.  It was a sound military caution, and they were
grateful for it now.  McCoy hurridly dropped his gearbag on
the lab table and ran a check through all the standing
equipment while Spock relayed to Kirk the beamdown was
successful.

"We will make our way to Sackhorn's location as soon as we
finish checking." The Vulcan glanced at the filling sky
with distate.  "Otherwise rain may impede us."

*Understood.  Keep us in touch.  Kirk out.*

McCoy had slung up a trailbag over his shoulders and was
waiting patiently. "You go first."  he offered with a faint
smile.  "That way, if any a'kee-leet jump us, I can at
least try to save you with the phaser."

Spock made a point of pausing as he slung up his own pack.
McCoy was a crackshot, and there was no doubt he *could*
pick off small rodents with a phaser set to needlebeam, but
he had no desire to be the target for a swarm of flesh-
eating mice.

"The a'kee-leet rarely attack during the day."  He
reminded McCoy stiffly.

"Rarely."  McCoy repeated.

Spock pretended this conversation was beneath him and
started walking. Inwardly, he was fuming.

They took their time in the gray dawn.  Moisture hung
heavily on the leaves and bark, dripped from above.  A low
rumble of thunder and a gray cloud from across the valley
said that the rain was detouring, for now, into the
slightly cooler air west of the factories below. Spock was
gratified to see the cloudbank roll slowly off.  He was wet
as he could tolerate.

"Ugh."  McCoy paused, rubbing his nose fiercely.  "I hate
that smell!"

"What smell?"

"Snapdragon smell.  I used to love it.  Now its just awful."

"I would not even begin to know what a snapdragon smelled
like."

"Its light and sweet, like a fancy perfume.  I think its
coming from all the nepenthe plants.  Gets worse when the
air's wet."

"Scents carry in water."  Spock reminded him.  It was the
main reason why Vulcans did not smell nearly as well as
humans.  There was no vehicle for much of that sense in a
dry desert climate that may not see rain save once every
three generations.

"Well, here we are."

Spock followed the doctor's gaze.  The curtain of
waxleaves vines parted under their hands to show the
familiar open clearing.  White sand still wounded the frail
loam-cover from the landing party's heavy boots.  And
Sackhorn rested, that one knee drawn up in its ghoulish
way.  McCoy could see there was considerably less of the
Rigellian by now; the preservative chemicals must have worn
off.

Insects flew up in a cloud, small white flying weevils
with black eyes.  The corpse was even more revealed at
their departure.  Mostly skeleton and a few shreds of
tissue hung upon the bones.  That was what the weevils had
been feasting on.

"Fascinating."  Spock had knelt in the tangle of
gingervines and was aiming his tricorder over the skull
down to the feet.  Still imprinted into the bone of the
forehead, rested a small data chip.  "Not even clothing
left. This is a most efficient system for disposal."

"Or murder."  McCoy said vaugely.

"Or murder."  Spock agreed.  He frowned and removed a
small pair of mechanical manipulators from his field kit.

Concentrating, he stitched a small ring around the data
chip and removed it, taking a portion of the skull it was
embedded in with it.  The brain was no longer intact; what
he could see from the impaired view was mostly liquid. A
scent wafted up, partially sweet, and partially metallic
rust, but mostly rotting.

"Up."

Spock thought McCoy was expressing nausea, and ignored him
while pocketing the sample inside a field case.

"Up."  McCoy said again, much stronger.

Spock glanced up.  McCoy was staring as if hypnotized
straight up the sheer cliff wall.

"Look."  McCoy whispered softly.

There was no mistaking that large lump bulging partially
over the very edge of the 50-foot drop.  It was dark green,
mottled yellow and red the shade of human blood.  And, as
the air grew heavy and moist from the nearby rainstorm, the
scent of snapdragons wafted down.

"The a'kee-leet must have fished the body out of the
nepenthe's storage tank and dumped it down the cliff for a
leisurely feast."  McCoy commented. "Clever little buggers."

"All creatures can be quite admirable in following their
instincts."  Spock got to his feet.  "The question is, how
did Sackhorn get lured to the nepenthe?"

"I can't see any way from here.  There must be some way
around the cliff..."

"We should divide."  Spock nodded sharply.  "Lock your
phaser and follow the cliff in one direction.  I will do
the same in the other."

"Got you..."  McCoy shook his head dubiously.

Spock settled his lean body among the play of vines,
shrubs and canopy-symbionts easily.  It was normally
difficult for a Vulcan to accept the claustrophobic, wet
environment of a jungle, but Spock had been away from the
deserts of his home for more than half his life.  Sometimes
it amazed him how adaptable he had become.  T'Pring would
never understand the fascination of a different
environment.  She was like too many of their people,
feeling that anything outside of Vulcan was a threat, a
danger, and at the very least, unpleasantly incompatible. 
Sarek would understand some of what Spock felt, but his
father was taciturn by nature, and moreso since the
banishment of his brother Sybok.

Thoughts of Sarek's First Son sent a sudden stab of
emotion through Spock, and out of long practice he stifled
it.

Spock's communicator chirped.  He flipped it open quickly.
"Spock here."

*Spock...*  McCoy's voice floated across the beam, shaky
and weak sounding.

"Doctor, did you find a way to get to the plant?"

*Not...exactly...*

Spock frowned, hearing a laboring of breath.

*Spock, I've been caught in the perimeter of the plant. 
It seems...humans are vulnerable to the nepenthe too.*  A
chill went up Spock's spine to hear McCoy speaking in a
very cold, clinical voice.  *Just in case, you'd better not
follow me.*

"Where are you going?"

*Call Kirk and get yourself beamed up!*

"Doctor--"

The beam went dead.

Spock was motionless for half a heartbeat.  Then he was
whirling and plunging back through the jungle.

*   *   *

He nearly fell flat on his face into a thornbush when he
fell over McCoy. The doctor was lying on the ground,
unconscious.  A hypo lay next to him. Spock bent over him
and checked his pulse.  Still alive, but signs faint.  He
picked up the hypo, saw an empty chamber next to it. 
Sedative. Spock was duly impressed at the precaution.

The Vulcan had been holding his breath for over five
minutes and was starting to feel the lack of oxygen.  He
bent and picked the doctor up, slinging him over his
shoulder.  Hurrying past the point of grace, he vaulted
fallen trees and skirted the standing ones, trying to get
back to the clearing where they had first spotted the
carnivorous nepenthe.

Wind blew across the carpet of vines.  Spock stopped and
let the human's limp body sag down, flipped open the
medikit and breathed gratefully in the cleaner  air.  A
counteragent was quickly found and he loaded the chamber. A
stimulant on top of a sedative, even a weak one, was
medically unadvisable, but Spock felt there was a need for
the action.

McCoy's eyes fluttered open at the first hiss.  Confusion
clouded his eyes.

"Hell."  He growled.  "I hope I'm alive, because I'd hate
for this to be the afterlife."

"You are obviously undamaged."  Spock lifted an eyebrow.
"Fortunately, I was able to hold my respiration long enough
to find you."

"Um."  McCoy suddenly closed his eyes, hand to his
forehead.  "Help...m'up."

Spock complied.

"Rigellians..."  McCoy was keeping his eyes firmly closed
as Spock guided him to a fallen log. "Th-the plants are
taboo...because they're the prey..." A hot sweat was
breaking out over his skin as Spock let go of his arm.
"Must've kept susceptibility...even when th'Vulcans began
mixing..."  He suddenly doubled up, clenching at his ribs.
"Oh, *God!*"

Spock was unacccustomed to seeing such a strong reaction
from the doctor. "What is it?"

"Head...feels like s'turning inside out..."  McCoy hit the
earth with his knees, clutching his skull and grimacing. 
"Oh, no, get out!  Get out!"

Spock could detect nothing with his senses, but he was not
a fool either. He grabbed the doctor and threw him over his
shoulder.  With enviable speed, he ran from the clearing.

*   *   *

They were almost to the camp when McCoy lifted his head. 
Spock paused and slowly set him down on his feet.  McCoy's
blue eyes were unfocused and faded.  Spock waved his hand
across the blank gaze.

"Who were you speaking to, doctor?"

"I...I don' know..."  McCoy stopped, shivered, and
swallowed.  "I don't think it was...Spock, it was in my
mind, but it wasn't sentient!  Does that make any sense?"

Spock tried to think.  There was always the risk that a
nontelepathic species would be unfamiliar and unskilled at
describing a telepathic experience.  But if it had been
sentient, he surely would have sensed it as well as the
doctor.  And better, too. "What do you think it was, if it
was not sentient?"

"A...compulsion."  McCoy swallowed again and clutched his
forearms.  "A mindless compulsion."  He didn't look capable
of walking, and just barely could stand.  Spock re-hoisted
him over his shoulder, and, proving just how upset he was,
the doctor made no protest.

Spock was greatly disturbed.

*    *   *

Spock listened as the rain began to patter over their
heads.  Inside it was what passed for warm and dry on the
planet, but to Spock it felt clammy and miserable.  He went
to the spaceheater and turned it up as far as it could go. 
It needed to be done anyway, to enact a crude de-humidifyer
inside the shelter's plastic film doors.

"Sodium...pentathol."

Spock turned to see the doctor was still trying to
function, still thinking out loud.

"What about sodium pentathol?"  Spock wondered where this
had come from.

"Rigel's...export of narco...synthetic...truth serums." 
McCoy was spacing the words out with his breath.  "Must
use...relative of...nepenthe.  Words are...related." 
Breath.  "Narcotic.  Hypnotic. Leaves one... suggest-
ible..."  Breath.  "Suceptible." Breath.  "Fifth Mind
Sect...taboo plant."  He was beginning to shake his head
from side to side as one thought overode another, clustered
and tumbled, stones in an avalanche.  "Taboo plant!  My
God!  Mind Sect...Holy Priests!  Controlling drugs!!"

Spock pushed him back down, noting idly that the man was
soaking wet.  "I understand what you are saying.  You need
to conserve your strength for the moment."

McCoy was struggling to maintain his own volition.  Spock
watched as he went through the movements of making a
coffee, and held it to his lips with both hands, eyes still
wild and confused.  Spock had rarely seen such a chemical
reaction on a human before.

"I can still feel it."  He whispered.  "Its like a siren
singing.  I want to go back to that thing, even though I
know it's just a trap to kill me!"

Spock sank down on the other toolchest.  "But you can
fight it."  He stated.

McCoy was motionless, then slowly shook his head.  "It's
just started.  I took a lungful of that stuff.  I can feel
it getting stronger..."  His face clenched up for a moment.
"Nepenthe...why didn't we think of that?   That's how it
translates to our language. Nepenthe...the poet's drink of
amnesia and peace and death."

Spock had always prided himself on having at least a
*slightly* faster mind than a human.  He was chagrined to
be beaten to that conclusion.

"The smaller plants must be the harvesting grounds for the
hypnotic drugs Rigel exports."  McCoy was still speaking in
that dazed voice. "Controlled by the priests, for the
priests...and they do it themselves because their mental
skills can give them an edge?"

"Possibly."  Spock said cautiously.  He thought of the odd
chip in Sackhorn's skull.

McCoy suddenly froze.  "Spock, tie me down or knock me
out.  Or I'm going back."  He was already getting to his
feet.

Spock grabbed him by the shoulders.  They were so close he
could smell the human's natural amberlike scent.

"Possibly unneccesary."  He snapped.  "If this is
affecting your mind, I may be able to meld with you and
interfere with this process."

"How?"  McCoy wanted to know.

"Wait."  Spock pressed his fingertips to the proper spots,
and blinked as the link opened.  McCoy was very open, he
realized in surprise.  That was unusual.  Possibly the
plant had affected him this way?

Spock decided he was right as the usual maelstrom of
barriers, blocks and muddy impressions that existed in
unfamiliar minds failed to present.  It was as simple as
breathing.  He actually had to stop himself to keep from
sliding through the surface and into the deepest, most
private areas.

(Curious) he indulged in fascination, and hesitated a
moment before going further.

"Doctor."  He spoke very carefully, planning his course of
action as he went along.  "Listen to me."  It was
impossible for McCoy not to obey; he would be responsive to
anything asked of him while this element was in his blood,
in his brain.  "We are going to the nepenthe plant.  With
its connection in your mind, you should be able to show me
precisely its location.  That way I can alert the ship."

McCoy nodded.  His face had gone gray at the idea of going
back, but he also knew he couldn't fight the thing by
himself.

Spock took a slow breath, and slung up the trail case over
his back.  With one arm he helped McCoy to his feet and
they went back outside.

Now that he was going in the "right" direction, McCoy's
strength was returning.  Spock considered how very ghoulish
this was as he fought to keep the human in his grip.  There
would be Sickbay-grade bruises on his arm later.  They
wended their way back to the clearing at the base of the
cliff and Spock had to hold McCoy down with some violence
as he pulled a filter mask over his face.  Now he could at
least breathe without fear of his half-human heiritage
taking him over.

"This way."  McCoy suddenly stiffened and plunged through
a stand of colortrees.  Spock kept up while mentally
marking their trail, even though it seemed like a paranoid
precauution.  Even their lightest footsteps tore the tender
plant growth and left wide white gashes of glittering sand
behind.  Sand that was desert-dry underneath the dripping
canopy.

McCoy ducked through a shimmering waterfall of dark green
leaves and paused, momentarily stymied at the sight of the
cliff before them.  Before Spock could open his mouth, the
doctor had reached up, and put his hand through the curtain
of plant growth.  Soft ferns as delicate as mist shied away
from the crudity of an animal's touch, and they were
standing before a narrow cave.

Spock grabbed him again.  "Hold still for a moment."  He
advised--ordered--and reached for a handlight in the
trailpack.  His mental guides over McCoy were--just--strong
enough that he and the doctor were in serious competition
with the mindless will of the plant.

"I can't believe you can't smell this!"  McCoy rasped. 
His coloring was going from up to down, and Spock wondered
how much longer he could last.

"I do not regret my lack in that ability."  Spock said
truthfully.  In the back of his mind he was hoping this
would finish soon, before the plant's chemistry overwhelmed
both of them.

Bones met their gaze.  Old, dry and perfectly preserved. 
There could have been a hundred of them.  Spock came to the
same conclusion as the doctor:

"These were placed here!"

"I agree."  Spock kept a firm grip, mental and physical,
on McCoy as he aimed his tricorder.  "These remains show a
high number of humanoid Rigellians.  No discernible
examples from the Vulcanoid Mind Sect Houses."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I do not know...yet."  Spock admitted.  He had found the
emergency backup handlight and was paying the light across
the narrow cave slot.  "There appears to be a channel."

"I know.  I can feel that thing coming from there.  It
must be some kind of air current."

"Doctor, be careful."  A sudden, shocking idea had come to
Spock.  "It is possible that this nepenthe plant is part of
a large trap."

"I can't be careful, and you know it!"  McCoy snapped. 
"That's your job, remember?"

"Very well.  But go *slowly.*"  Spock put all the weight
of his mind into that verbal command, saw the other flinch
as it "took."

Shaking his head, McCoy occasionally put his hand up to
the back of his neck as if feeling an unconscious pressure
in his brain.  The primitive site, Spock realized.  The
center of volition and decision.  It was suddenly clear as
to how McCoy would be helpess against physically resisting
it, and yet still be able to verbalize his warning to
Spock.  The plant had control over one part of his brain,
but McCoy still kept the rest.

Chisel marks straightened the organic and chaotic curve of
the cavern passage.  A strong breeze began to blow into
their faces, damp from outside. It was coming from above
them, Spock found his theory confirmed.  The scent of the
nepenthe carried through the cavern and outside, dispersing
itself across a large range for its victims.  The presence
of actual hands engineering the stonework made Spock
suspect quite strongly that they were walking through a
trap of murder.

"Jesus CHRIST that reeks!"  McCoy was digging his fingers
into the back of his neck as he spoke.  "It's not far."  He
breathed unevenly.  "It's...its close."

"Move as slowly as you can."  Spock was reaching for the
phaser at his belt. "We do not know if there are any a'kee-
leet nearby, but it is a strong possibility."

"Joy."  Was McCoy's response.  Spock wondered if the
doctor could ever get stifled for long.  His sense of irony
seemed indefatiguable.

The need for handlights ended as pale gray dawnlight bled
through the cavern before them.  The stone was turning dark
green under the presence of lichens and moss.  Spock put
the light away hurridly and grabbed the doctor's arm,
feeling a sudden instinctive need to do so.

"Can you resist it?"  Spock spoke directly into the ear,
making McCoy jump.

"Not much longer."  McCoy was wiped.  "Get this thing's co-
ords and beam it the hell up!"

"That is the--"

McCoy stopped so quickly the Vulcan crashed into him.

Spock glanced in the direction of the horrified stare.  A
dark bulge rested at the base of the nepenthe bowl.  It
contained many small lumps.

"A'kee-leet."  McCoy mouthed.  "Don't...wake them up!"

Spock had no desire to.  There must have been hundreds of
them.  Easily three hundred...

Spock steadied himself.  He held the doctor tightly in his
arms and siezed his gaze, forcing his will into the
suppliant one.  "You will stay here." He spoke firmly, in
his mind and with his mouth at the same time.  "Do not move
until I order you."

McCoy nodded silently.

Spock moved as quietly as possible, the doctor's
communicator held open in his hand.  He got as far as the
lip of the plant, and slowly rested the tool at its base.

He straightened slowly and backed away without taking his
gaze off the dangerous thing.  Only then, with his body
safely pinning McCoy against the rock wall, did he open his
own communicator.

"Captain, Spock here.  We have found the plant in
question.  It is currently hosting a...very large colony of
a'kee-leet.  When you beam up, do not reassemble it until
you have a valid target."

Kirk's voice came on the beam instantly.

*Reading you, Spock.  A large colony, hm?  Sounds
delightful.*  As he spoke, a familiar whine filled the air.

"Do not, I repeat, do not finish the beamup.  Keep the
plant in suspension's memory until you are ready to beam it
down into a containment field."

*Understood.  Excellent work, Mr. Spock.*  Kirk suddenly
snickered.  *I think the Praetorate will be fascinated at
the "suspects" I'll be beaming down to him.  Do you think
it would be a little too much to set it down in the center
of the palace?*

Cold, wet, and emotionally at odds, Spock considered the
reactions possible. "Not at all."  He answered with
feeling.  "In fact, I recommend the gesture as a show of
strength."

*That's my first officer!  Anything else?*

Spock watched as the enormous, barrel-shaped plant of
death dissolved in a shower of slow-timed sparks.  McCoy
smiled faintly as the last of the thing departed, and he
sank down against a large moss-covered stone.

"Captain."  Spock glanced at the swaying doctor as he
spoke.  "I suggest you wait before beaming us up.  We have
been exposed to the plant and I do not recommend our
joining the ship until the threat of contamination is done."

*Agreed, Mr. Spock."  Kirk spoke crisply.  *Your
recommendation?*

"I will hail you in one hour.  That should give us time to
understand our situation better."

McCoy frowned, stymied, at the odd conversation but knew
better than to contraidict *Spock* in front of Kirk.  He
watched as the Vulcan calmly flipped off the communicator,
then turned to look at him.

Spock's months-long search for a sr'ben had found a sudden
solution.  A solution that was standing in front of him.

With the speed only thought can achieve, it was a perfect
conclusion. McCoy's mind was totally open and pliable under
the nepenthe.  Perfect for instigating the sword-link
through the link that was already there.

"Spock...it's the plant..."  McCoy breathed.  Give him
credit; he did point it out.  "What you're looking for..."

Spock merely pushed his wet hair from his forehead.  His
hot mouth swallowed up whatever else could be said.  McCoy
struggled to get away from the scratch of the coarse beard;
then he struggled to breathe.  That was a mistake, as he
learned.  Spock was inflamed.

Spock reached up and pressed his fingertips to McCoy's
temples, moving in tiny circles.  The doctor's eyes drifted
closed and he let his head fall back with a shaky sigh. 
The snapdragon scent of nepenthe was still soaking in his
skin, his mind, every bone in his body.  The jungle canopy
wheeled and dipped crazily above his skull and he stopped
looking hurridly.

Spock was tugging his shirt off, then slipping hot dry
fingers inside the wicking Tee.  The touch stroked across
his chest, ruffled the short hairs, sent the nubs rock-hard
as his body realized what the other's intentions were. 
Volition gone.  Mind empty, awaiting orders.  Anticipating.
The shirt was gone and the hands stroked down the back,
stopped at the base, hestitated at the officer's sash. 
Spock's beard tickled his throat as a slight smile pressed
against the sweating skin and the Vulcan pulled the
Capellan Stand-Ready out of the sash pocket.

"That is a very dangerous object to carry."  The Vulcan's
deep voice rumbled, sending shivers across every inch of
skin the doctor owned. Spock was still smiling, amused that
McCoy had been carrying around such an object of subterfuge
for years without anyone knowing better.  "Does your woman
know you possess this?"

"I don't...have a woman."  He gasped as Spock pressed him
down on his back on the ground.

"No?"  Spock was surprised.  "Not Nurse Chapel?"

"We're just friends..."

"Friends?"  Spock tasted the unfamiliar word.  "I really
must learn how that was managed someday..."  He bent
forward and tossed the weapon aside, running both hands
down the doctor's ribs at once.  McCoy sucked his breath in
at the touch.  "But that can wait..."  He murmured under
his beard.

In the end, Spock was surprisingly gentle with him. 
Passion rarely got out of control with Vulcans, unless
their blood fever was unchecked.  And this was certainly
not the case.  His mind was strong and careful of the
other's, pulling his scattering, flying thoughts together
with a deft touch of mental skill, keeping them contained. 
Channeling the focus from fighting to get away, confusing
his nepenthe-soaked brain into thinking of a different
pleasure.

(Yes.) Spock commanded the malleable will.   (This is what
you want, not to leave...)

(Yes.)  The other, the sr'ben, agreed in his mind.

*   *   *

"Small wonder we did not find this in our initial search."
Spock was hunched over the small scope on the table,
peering at the (still flesh-encrusted, gorey) chip with
bone stuck to its back.  "It is mostly ceramic, using
chemicals and minerals rather than metals to transmit
dataimpulses."  He paused.  "Quite brilliant.  Instead of
quartz, it uses citrine as a base."

McCoy was lying on the cot with a cup of coffee perched on
his chest, listening to the recurrant rain spatter on the
cleardome ceiling, and not really being interested in
Spock's gleeful interest in a chunk of warped technology. 
"So what's it there for?"

"You noticed it was over the Third Eye."

McCoy shrugged.  Nearly all hominid species had psychic or
paranormal associations with the forehead, above and
between the eyes.  He remembered that he hadn't verbally
answered, but then Spock was still talking, so he must've
got the acknowledgement through the link.

The link.  He was going to have to get used to that.

Later.  He told himself.  Much, much later.  Right now, he
couldn't give a flying farthing and a rolling doughnut up a
hill, to quote his creative, if obscurely lingual,
grandmother.

"As of now, I cannot speculate on its specific purpose." 
Spock leaned back and carefully dropped the chip in a
sterile solution.

"Mn. Citrine.  Doesn't that produce an electrical current
when exposed to heat?"  McCoy closed his eyes as he talked,
feeling the urge to just let the rest of him melt away with
his mind.

"Yes."  Spock agreed, considering this bit of trivia.

"It is possible that the Rigellian Mind-Priests can employ
biofeedback to lift their body temperature in localized
places.  If they were to do it where the chip was, perhaps
that was how they could activate the implant...for whatever
purpose they carried."

"Gotta be involved with communication somehow."  McCoy
cracked his jaw in a huge yawn.

"Mmmmn."  Spock suddenly focused upon the implant with
great interest.  "I wonder if the Rigellian mental powers
are really as vaunted as they say...or if they employ
artifical aids?"

McCoy only yawned again, and put his coffee down before he
wound up wearing it.  "You still filing symptoms of
nepenthe exposure?"  He drawled.

"Yes."

"Better add "increasing lassitude.""

"I already have."  Spock eyed him.  "Your brain is in
serious need of naxolone."

"Gotcha."  McCoy yawned again.  "I'll get...right on it."

Spock sighed, not quite exasperated.  "Best not.  I would
like an idea of how long the effects will last."

"Well, hell."  McCoy said with false regret.  "Have fun
talkin' to Sackhorn's brainpan.  I'm gonna just go with
this and hit the hay."

Spock's voice sounded in his mind, gently as an echo.

*Are you so certain it is just the nepenthe that made you
so tired?*

*Certainly not, you smug bastard, but ask me if I care.*

*You are annoyed at what happened.*

McCoy coolly (mentally) drew a breath and held it for a
moment.

*I'm aware that according to Vulcan mores, you did nothing
wrong, but we humans prefer at least a polite query, and in
your case, how about an apology for not giving me the
option?  Just as an acknowledgement that humans do things
differently?*

Spock was silent for a moment.  *I cannot cause you harm,
you know.*

*Yeah, I know.*  His body sound asleep, McCoy continued
the mental dialog as Spock carefully packed up the samples.
*But this is going to take getting used to.  Especially
since I thought you considered me one of the lowest forms
of life onship.*

*Not quite that drastically.  I admit to being surprised
to discover what you really are.*  Spock agreed.  He packed
up and turned around in his chair, taking in the sleeping
form.  It crossed his mind that McCoy was going to get a
haircut and shave when they returned.  A pity.

*Well don't expect me to actually thank you for all this. 
I think you're incredibly naive to think your wife is never
going to want to kill you.  And that Stonn sculptor sounds
like trouble.  So if anything happens to you, I have
incipent insanity to look forward to. Just great.*

*As my sr'ben your family will be well provided for.* 
Spock heard a mental "snarl" at that.  *What family you
choose to have, at any rate.*

*You're just the soul of tact.  Are you going to tell Kirk
what's happened?*

Spock hesitated.  And surprised himself by hesitating even
further.  *He knows my father is pressuring me to take a
sr'ben...*

*But he didn't exactly volunteer himself.*  McCoy had
understood the situation the nanosecond their minds had
joined.  *Well, as this sword-link stuff is supposed to be
kept private, I can keep another secret.*

*It is not that I do not trust the captain.*  Spock
absurdly, felt the need to defend Kirk and himself. "But as
you said, this is largely a private matter."

*Mmmnn-hmn.*  McCoy agreed dryly.  *Sure it is.  Ok, have
it your way.  I'm not exactly eager to let the world know I
have another personality grafted into my skull.  But you
make any smartass cracks about "being the better half" and
so help me, I'll find some way to get even with you.*

Spock almost smiled at that.

*    *    * At 0800 hours, Admiral Kufe, who made all
things Rigellian her business, was richly amused to receive
an hysterically outraged communique from the Fifth House. 
As the details unfolded of Kirk introducing Praetor
Sackhorn's "Murderers" in the middle of a crowded palace
hall, she grew even more amused.

Humans were by nature gifted liars.  They were so used to
being looked down upon by species that considered
themselves superior in every way, that Kufe was delighted
to get another chance to be subserviently obnoxious.

"Oh, dear."  She said sweetly.  Translators weren't
mechnically capable of picking up little things like
sarcasm, contempt, or mockery.  "I really must send a stern
note to the Captain's Board over this.  Dear me.  I wish
our people weren't so bad at...reading each other's body
language.  It would save so much mis-understanding,
wouldn't it?"

The Praetorate Ambassador, who had known Kufe since McCoy
had stuck a Capellan Stand-Ready in Nasanthakaan's thigh,
knew what was going on.  With a snarl of defeat, he broke
the connection.

Kufe sent Kirk a bottle of rare Bastillan greenwine, a box
of Swiss chocolates, and a short letter scolding him for
letting his mischievous impulses get out of hand.  The
context of the note was somewhat detracted by the fact it
was written on the back of a thousand-credit voucher slip.

*   *    *

Marlena penned the thank you note for Kirk on the back of
a photograph of the captain showing a nice view of the
chest muscles behind the captain's vest.  In other words,
Kufe-Soma, enjoy the view, because you aren't getting
anything else.

*   *   *

Admiral Kufe understood the note, smiled, and made plans
anyway.  She liked nothing better than a challenge.

*   *   *

Sulu made a study of the nepenthe plants as a side-hobby,
and returned to his old botanical interests for a while. 
For a while Spock was helping him, but then the Vulcan
seemed to lose interest once the chemical mysteries were
broken down,  and the study of the nepenthes became all
his.  Later on, when he became captain of his own ship, he
made a point of keeping a large, human-sized speciman
inside its very own room.  When it was fed, how often, and
by what, remained a dark speculation and cause for high
crew work output for years.

*     *   *

Spock had extinguished all light but from the firepot
beast.  In concession to being off-duty for the next 24
hours, he had actually taken off his uniform and was
wearing the loose black robes of his father's family.
McCoy, who didn't even keep civilian clothes around, was
sweating under his uniform collar in the high heat.

The Vulcan was holding a small bottle of a dark fluid in
one hand and opening it with the other.  The scent of
snapdragons wafted up.  A small smile was toying at the
corners of his lips as he spoke.  "I took the liberty of
running a full analysis of the nepenthe's nocturnal
peristem."  He said as if discussing a pleasant day for
sailing along the coast.  "This is more than a common
hypnoneurodepressor, doctor.  It contains an interesting
blend of ingredients.

"Neuropeptides...endomorphines...enkephalines...dynorphins.
..a fascinating cocktail that causes a direct effect upon
the brain, and especially the hippocampus."

"The hippocampus?"  McCoy repeated, alarmed.  That was the
section in charge of storage/memory retrieval.

"Calm yourself."  Spock said calmly.  "It does not appear
to be harmful in any way."  He paused while rubbing a large
amount into his palms.  "It synthesizes *very* easily."

"Oh."

The Vulcan had reached up to press his fingers along that
familiar spot at his temples.  A cold tingle and he could
almost feel the nepenthe soak into all the right brain
receptors.  "So."  Spock was saying. "How do you feel?"

"Like I'm standing in quicksand."  McCoy snapped.  "How
the *hell* do you think I feel?"

Spock chuckled.  He circled and poised his hands above the
human's shoulders, slowly lowered them, and began a deep,
digging massage into the taut muscles.  "An interesting
effect on the human brain," he commented as the doctor
groaned, "when combined with the meld..." He moved closer
to the neck, feeling the nerves ripple like piano keys. 
"It seems you have been neatly programmed to respond a
certain way to my stimulus."

"That would..."  McCoy let his head fall back.  "Explain a
lot about...The Rigellian Ruling castes, wouldn't it..?"

"Yes, it would."  Spock had bent closer, his lips
practically vibrating against the ear.  "Worthy of further
research, wouldn't you agree?"

"How could I not agree?"  McCoy asked with some of his 
old acerbity, and Spock made a deep sound of amusement in
his chest as he swung him around, and pushed him down to
the bed.  "And you Vulcans say *humans* talk too much. 
God."

"Indeed."

Spock brushed his fingers along the meld points, but by
now had no need to physically enact the link.  It flared
under the command of his will.  The body beneath him
pressed close, hands holding him by his hips.  They moved
together, pressing for friction.  McCoy's mouth yielded
gently to Spock's frontal assault, his hands travelling up
the Vulcan's back to rest at the strong shoulders.  His
lips let go and his head fell back, sighing as Spock began
trailing featherlight kisses down his neck and across his
collarbone.

Spock spread his fingers and rippled them down the strong
back, feeling different human muscles shiver at his touch. 
He was enjoying this even more this time, now that they
were in the privacy of his cabin, the carpe diem urgency
gone.  Undressing had become foreplay, the smell of the oil
soaking throughout the cabin.

McCoy made a murmuring hum as the other began rubbing his
body with the oil. Partly sensual, and partly sheer luxury,
he had no wish to do anything but lie there and take it. 
Oh, Lord...the Vulcan's hot skin laid down on top of his,
and arms wrapped around bodies again, legs slowly curling
against the other's.  Spock had already discovered by his
efficient trial-and-error methods that humans were far more
sensitive in the neck and nipples than Vulcans.  In a few
minutes his attention on both areas was rewarded by gasps. 
McCoy's hands reached up, trying to push his head away,
trying to breathe.

"Shh."  Spock calmed him with a touch, waited as he
collected himself, and began anew.  The large hot hands
traveled all over, perfectly willing to explore what should
be very familiar territory.

"Did you know," Spock began blandly, as he rolled his
lover over and began on the back, "Admiral Kufe is planning
a visit to the ENTERPRISE?"

He felt the body beneath him tense.  *That doesn't sound
good* he heard in his mind.

"Possibly."  Spock agreed.  He was calm, though, and
continued his slow, lazy strokes over the warm, tanned
skin.  "But nothing that cannot be dealt with, I am sure."

Strong silence from the doctor.  Not only was McCoy
unwilling to commit himself to something he knew nothing
about, he wasn't eager to consider the Admiral anywhere
near him again.

Spock could understand why; that was a part of McCoy's
being that he could easily read, just as McCoy could read
the troubles brewing in Spock's home.

"From what I understand," Spock still spoke in that calm,
casual voice, but it was growing husky as his hands moved
slower and lower, "She is curious about our captain."

"Not so much as--"  McCoy choked, starting at the
sensation of a hot finger slipping inside.

"Not so much as what?"  Spock asked in that dry,
impossible way Vulcans had when they were teasing you with
their ability to keep a straight face.  He used his other
hand to tease the shape of ribs and down the flank to the
outer thigh.

"Not so much as..."  McCoy let his head fall back,
facedown onto the bed. *Jesus.*  "Checking out her
investment."

"She considers Kirk an investment?"

McCoy sort of made a shrugging motion; not easy
considering the way Spock had him trapped.  "She's been
silently backing his ventures for years.  Even before this
ship."

"Mmmn."  Spock murmured.  He was up to two fingers now,
watching the reactions intently.  "Is her...sexuality a
guise then?"

"In a way..."  McCoy rasped.  His fingers dug hard into
the cloth beneath him.  *She's in perfect control of
herself.  But most people can't believe that, so she winds
up...tricking them.*

"Ah."  Spock pressed gently, to an extreme result.  He
withdrew very slowly, both hands at the other's hips now. 
"This should be...fascinating."  His head tilted, lips
tickling the round ear.

The human shivered a bit as Spock slowly joined with him. 
Olive colored hands reached around, clenched around his
own, a grip like handcuffs, and they both began to move.

*If you fear you cannot avoid Kufe when she comes...* The
Vulcan's strong mental voice rippled and echoed inside
McCoy's, powerful and compelling...God, it was like a
strong opiate, rubbing the soul with silk... Rubbing inside
and out, all over, every part, in his mind, what Spock
called the katra, inside his body with his easy thrusts,
over his body with the roving hands. *Then we can easily
take steps to prevent anything that you do not wish to
happen...*

He cried out, his head going down as he felt the release
begin in his mind and end with his body.  Spock held back
gently, still holding him, still stroking.  Moving in time
to the spasms that caught his sr'ben, but not joining him
yet.  Soft hot lips and a scratchy beard soothed and
excited the back of his neck.

"Do not worry about Kufe."  The Vulcan spoke, a harsh dry
whisper against the hot neck.  He was still moving, still
coaxing him along to the end he wanted.  Beyond thought--
he'd passed that point a long time ago, his lover could
only arch against that strong furred chest and give in to
the next wave that washed over them.  "If she respects
power, and respect she must, then she will recognize the
circles of power that exist on this ship."

Inside the core of building ecstacy, he sensed a wordless
acknowledgement. A long slow wave was building and when it
crashed it would be with tidal force.  They were blending
fully together, feeling one body instead of two. Spock
closed his eyes and let his head relax backwards, gripping,
gripping...

The End

*   *   *

*Quad:  A quarter-credit.  Condensed into easy terms, a
quad and a smile will get you a cheap beer in a cheap bar.

**Mushroom:  Kept in the dark, fed on s***.  A time-
honored military word.