Title:  A Woman Struck 
Author:  Kelthammer 
Series:  MU TOS 
Pairing: Uhura/Chapel; Lester/Coleman, situational K/S/Mc 
Coding: Seriously adult themes.  Sex doesn't squick me;
violence does.

Feedback: Sure Archive: Sure, just let me know

Disclaimer:  This is not real.  We obviously don't have
lives, so tend to your own, Paraborg.

Summary:  After the events of SHE TAKES COMMAND, Kirk goes
too far.  Steps have to be taken.


Now that you have touched woman,
You have struck a rock 
You have dislodged a boulder 
You will be crushed
--South African Women's Liberation Song

"When Elephants fight, the grass suffers." 
--African proverb
**     **     **


ANDROMACHEAN OFFICER'S BAR (IMPERIAL PATRONAGE):

The shellfish was coral-colored and sweet, raw and served
on a bed of blue ice.  Christine ate with gusto, tipping
the violet-green ovalshells to her lips and tilting back,
letting the meat slip between her open lips.  After eating
a few, Uhura found herself more interested in watching her
dinner companion.  It was a show to enjoy.

It did make you wonder how she wrapped those lips around
other things...

"Not bad at all."  The Nurse decided as the last empty
shell was neatly stacked with the others.  The waiter
pounced and vanished with them. "It reminded me of
sugarfish."

"Sugarfish?  What's that?"

"Pacific fish.  They're really sweet, that's how they get
their name."

"And do you eat them raw?"

"'course.  Cooking would ruin them."  Chapel said firmly. 
"I don't mean to sound like a savage, Ny.  But I question
people who claim to be gourmets, and never try their food
in an unaltered form."

"Oh, I'm not one to complain."  Nyota hurried to explain
she was on the same level as Christine.  "My grandfather
ran a cattle farm, and in the dry months we'd take an
occasional cup of blood with him."

"Wasn't that illegal for a while?"  Chapel frowned
curiously.

"Oh, for a while.  But that was the Empire's way of trying
to fix what they thought was a problem.  Poverty and
famine's still very common on the continent, and its always
going to be cheaper to stick a bull for a bit of blood they
can easily regenerate, than it is to get out of the bush
and pick up a government ration stamp to go buy vitamins
with."

"I think poverty and famine's common just about
everywhere."  Chapel admitted (as, all around them,
crewmembers gleefully celebrated their monthly pay out of
existence).  "I used to live all over the Pacific Rim, and
it always was cheaper and easier to go forage for yourself."

"Don't tell the Empire.  They're really worried about
taking care of their people."  Nyota chuckled easily.

Chapel laughed as well.  "Ah, well!"

Nyota let pale gold champagne slip out of the slender blue
bottle and into their glasses.  "Can you believe this
stuff."  She commented.  "We've almost killed the thing and
I still don't have a buzz.  I just feel all giggly and
bubbly."

"Like the champagne."  Chapel offered, and giggled herself.

"Woa.  Am I interrupting anything?"

A red-clad sleeve with gold stripes rested on the lip of
their table, attached to the black-haired Commander
DeSalle.  Despite his misadventure, he was now the picture
of his usual rugged good health.

"No, not at all."  Chapel led the polite "informal" salute
of just swishing the arm forward.  He grinned easily, if a
little stiffly.  Not fully recovered, he was still capable
of sending a lot of hearts fluttering with his old-
fashioned, extremely masculine good looks.

"How are you feeling?"  Christine queried pleasantly.

"Just fine, because of you.  I wasn't able to thank you,
lieutenant.  I thought I'd do a proper job of it."

"Why, thank you."  Chapel went a little pink.  "That's
kind of you, but you'll have to thank my boss too, you
know."

"I heard."  DeSalle smiled ruefully.  "Seeing as how it
was Jost and Otto who *put* me in Sickbay to begin with..."
He shrugged his square shoulders. "Is he around anywhere?" 
Before they could answer, he snickered cheerfully.  "Oh, my
mistake.  You wouldn't be with your ladyfriend if he was
around, would you?"

Nyota recognized a longstanding tease and blushed.  The
ACEO was apparantly not the hermit she'd believed.

"Now, MIS-ter DeSalle," Chapel said in a firmly soberous
tone, "My relationship with Dr. McCoy is completely
professional." The effect was ruined when she started
giggling again.

Ah, Champagne.  Nyota smiled behind her own glass.

"Oh, sure."  DeSalle answered drolly.  "My mistake, my
apologies.  But here, my officially tendered gratitudes to
the best Head Nurse in the best starship in the best fleet
in the Galaxy."  He pulled a slender gold--green bottle out
of the literal nowhere, and set it in front of the
champagne. "Don't waste your time on *that* stuff."  He
scolded.  "Life is way too short to drink cheap booze."

Chapel and Uhura watched him go, mouths hanging slightly
open.

"We've been drinking the cheap stuff?"  Uhura wondered. 
She'd been the one to pay for it, and it wasn't in her
neighborhood of "budget shopping" in the least sense of the
definition.

Chapel shrugged with her lips, opened the lid, and sniffed
the tiny opening. She blinked.  "Well.  Comparatively..." 
Her voice was meek.  "Honey, take a sniff of this!"

*   *   *

*Do you think I would make an adequate captain?*

For one heartstopping shred of eternity, McCoy wondered if
his entire brain had frozen up.  With his body.

Spock was waiting patiently for his answer outside of the
little bubble of frozen time the doctor was in.  His hand
was still gripping his chin, keeping their gazes on even
keel.  McCoy couldn't read a single damn thing in those
obsidian eyes.

"You'd make a dandy captain."  McCoy finally kicked back
in gear, sarcasm in full working order.

"Mn, that is not precisely what I was asking you."  The
fingers tightened just slightly against the skin and bone. 
A promise of bruises if provoked.

"Your pardon."  McCoy responded in a voice of ice.  "But I
hate to assume anything."

Spock's lips twitched.  Not for the first time, the doctor
wondered just what was going on in that IQ-of-412 brain. 
There were times when he was convinced the Vulcan was as
ambitious as an Orion.  And other times...

Other times he felt a vague thread of surreality,
wondering just how real this was.  As if Spock was testing
him for something. And if he was, what the hell was he
wanting to see?  He didn't understand.

"Answer me this."  Spock commanded, his old, familiar cold
self that gave orders from the Bridge.  "How long has the
captain displayed his tendencies for sadism?"

McCoy swallowed dryly.  He didn't need to think about
that.  "Since he returned from that secret mission."

"Yes...almost a year.  And it is growing worse, is it not?"

McCoy didn't see any point in agreeing.  Spock had taken
the field kit to him, for Chrissake.

"How do you think he will be in another year?"  Spock was
drilling lasers into him with that question.

"I have no idea."  McCoy spoke very, very quietly.  "But
it's the captain's choice, is it not?"

Spock had not expected that.  The fingers almost
tightened, then relaxed just slightly.  "One might say." 
He agreed softly.  "What hold does he have over you, kefeh,
that you tolerate this from him?"

Slave.  Spock used that word as a taunt, a double-edged
taunt because humans were valued as "house servants" among
Vulcans.  And take that euphemism for whatever meaning you
wanted to construe.  Kirk's kefeh.

"I do not completely understand everything."  Spock
murmured in a low voice as the lights along the streets
slipped by them in a soft whisper.  "And while I could take
it from your mind...I would prefer not to.  You would
be...incapaciated for days, perhaps weeks, and the captain
would be suspicious."

Lucky me, McCoy's sarcasm was an automatic response.  Even
in his own brain.

"I know this."  Spock suddenly ceased to "grip" using only
his fingertips to press up on the human's chin.  Teasing
him with the apparant freedom to move away, but the doctor
knew better.  "That you have done something to...anger him.
It happened not long after he returned from Camus.  And
somehow, you angered him in a way that he chooses this way
to punish you, instead of deal with you as he would his
usual enemies."

"Well, that makes two of us who doesn't understand." 
McCoy met his eyes hotly.  "Because *I* get the impression
that while you don't really *want* to play the captain's
games, you'd rather die than refuse him.  On anything."  He
paused.  "I wonder why?"

A muscle in Spock's cheek jumped.

"Actually," McCoy continued in a voice he barely
recognized, "I wonder why it was *Marlena* who got the
phaser the other night.  If Kirk's so dangerous, and you're
so het on wearing his sash..."

The whites of the Vulcan's eyes glistened in the dim
lighting.  At first, McCoy sincerely believed he had
finally pushed too far, and was waiting for the killing
blow, but as he watched, Spock's control forcefully
asserted itself over his rage.  And with it, McCoy felt a
sinking in his chest.

"So we are both actors."  The Vulcan voice was dry,
without inflection or emotion.  But he was angry.  "And we
will continue to carry on in the roles we are assigned to."
The muscle tic'd under his eye.  "The captain has given me
an assignment.  And you are correct.  I would not like to
fail him."

It was a truly alarming thing to hear.  But somehow, McCoy
felt as though he had just taken a very dangerous
test...and passed.

*If that's so, why do I feel so damn miserable?*

"Well."  He spoke thinly, and paused to swallow against
the dry clogged feeling in his throat.  "At least I know
where I stand."  A quick thought prompted him to beat Spock
to the inevitable gibe:  "Or at least, where I kneel."

"Yes."  Spock agreed in a twin voice to his.  His grip
tightened on the chain, bending the links.  "Right here."

McCoy was permitted to retreat in his mind at that point,
and it was an opportunity he took.  But as he did, he had
to wonder.

James Tiberius Kirk wasn't the only one who had changed
since that mission on Camus II.  So had Spock.  In ways
that were just as inexplicable.

*    *    *

Very slowly, the party was winding down.  Or reaching a
calm spot; this was when people stopped, leaned back, and
began to pace themselves in the festivities.  Uhura sighed
and stretched, twisting on one foot to slip her arms around
Christine's waist.  "I can't believe I didn't have any
soberalls."  She purred.  "It must be the company."

"Oh, you think?  So I'm a sobering effect?"  Christine
laughed, long fingers expertly untying the elaborate copper
weave in the other woman's hair. "Now, hold still."  She
shaped a copper butterfly out of a length of short wire,
and held it up with a grin.  Another wire became a slender
dragonfly.

"Mmmn.  Are you my hairdresser now?"

"Lord no.  I'd need to practice much, much more to be at
that level." Christine chuckled under her breath as length
after length of copper slowly freed itself.  A songbird, a
honeybee spun into life.  "But I've been *itching* to comb
you out and play with you."

"Me or my hair?"

"Same difference.  Did you know I used to make origami for
rich hairdressers to help pay for school?  It was a lot
more interesting than putting miniature paintings on their
fingernails!"

Above the racket of the bar (which was finally starting to
stabilize), Uhura caught the unmistakeable sounds of a
drunken tavern-song.  Scottish accent. She peeked out the
sides of her eyes.  Yes, DeSalle and Scott, arm in arm,
were bellowing out, "Whiskey in a Jar-O."  "Oh have you
now?"  Uhura put her hands on her hips with a cocky smile. 
"Well, well, well...Can you do both? No offense, sug, but
my vanity just suddenly up and asserted itself."

Chapel chuckled softly.  "I--"  Her voice abruptly broke
off.  Uhura felt her fingers stiffen.

"What is it?"  Uhura tilted her head up, nearly upside
down, to see Chapel staring off into the deepest shadows of
the bar.  All Uhura could make out was the old-fashioned
manual staircase (made of wood, can you believe it. Must be
worth more than the whole structure).

"I just saw the captain leave."  Chapel shivered a bit. 
"He must have been right on top of us the whole time.  Ugh.
I'm glad I never said anything about him."

"Honey, that's second nature."  Uhura reached up, her
small brown fingers curling inside Chapel's longer white
ones.

*    *    *

It was dark in the room.  Moonlight, sharp and white-
yellow, burned strongly in the clear black sky and the
stars hung so fierce you could almost believe they were
adding to the illumination.  Except for the warming brazier
in the corner, it was the only light present.

Kirk smelled of sweat.  McCoy knew that odor from his
internship, practicing on failed gladiators from the arena.
It was the kind that stank of strong euphoria.  Hormones. 
Lusts from different emotions.

While the games were of a very dark nature with the
everpresent threat of a sexual ugliness pervading, Kirk
rarely employed that on him.  What really got him aroused
was the pain of the other man, and sharing that with Spock.
All because he couldn't touch the real person he wanted.

And of course, Spock was in the same hang-up.  It was
every kind of pathetic you could think of.

*I'm probably the only crewman who loathes shoreleave.* 
He thought, unable to resist the ironic humor.  It seemed
crazy, but it kept him from going off the deep end for real.

"Spock,"  Kirk was finished for now, turning his attention
to--momentarily--other things.  "Were you able to clean the
ship's computer banks out?"

Spock merely inclined his head.  "I ran three diagnostics
and there was no sign of any of the Professor's "ghosts." 
He answered.  "I cannot guarantee we have found a permanent
solution..."

"No need."  Kirk interrupted, his eyes glinting.  "We'll
work on that."  His gaze slipped back to the doctor, and
again, McCoy felt a moment of displacement; like it wasn't
Kirk at all who was there, stroking his chest in such a
manner.  Kirk was male as they came, and this gesture was...

...very female.

Something McCoy had not thought him capable of, any more
than he had believed him able to inflict pain and power as
a recreational tool.  The sense of unreality floated over
him again.

Who was he kidding?  He didn't know James Tiberius Kirk
anymore.  This was a stranger to him, a monster.  Like
those sick jokes about alien abductions, cubed and ruled.

"You said your Nurse was...married."  Kirk taunted, still
running his hand up and down the other man's back.  McCoy
had gone rigid, staring straight forward, blankly.  The
captain's lips barely brushed his ears, voice vibrating the
skin.  "But that's not what I heard from DeSalle after you
left."

McCoy forgot to breathe.  What the hell?  Innuendo and
ship's gossip, wrong more often than not.  And it could
kill just as easily as accurate slander.

No help from Spock.  The Vulcan was still standing in the
shadows, his long face a mask.  A mountain demon's face
from feudal Japan; stern and defensive.

He had no idea what to say, and wouldn't until Kirk gave
him a better idea. He swallowed dryly, feeling that warm
hand continue to stroke his skin.

"So you are sharing Ms. Chapel with the good Uhura." 
Kirk's voice had not changed an inch; still soft,
suggestive, dangerously hinting to the future. "But you
didn't want her to have anything to do with me."

"Are you kidding?  She'd never come back."

Kirk laughed out loud, his fingers digging into his skin. 
Just the right kind of lie, just the outrageous flattery,
to make the captain more amused than angry.

"You're a smooth talker, aren't you?"  Kirk did not expect
an answer.  "But you have a point there.  What if she
didn't want to come back to you?  What if she liked me
better?"

"Captain's..."  McCoy fought the urge to gulp.  He was
suddenly swamped with an ugly sensation: he felt as though
he was sweating inside his skin where Kirk couldn't see--
only, he knew anyway.  "perogative."  He could say that,
because that was the only right way to answer.

"Yes."  Kirk's strong hand, strong enough to make Spock
feel the pressure if he so chose, suddenly went tense
around McCoy's neck.  "My perogative. Because I am the
captain."

*Is he going to finally do it?*  McCoy hadn't been afraid
for his life for long with Kirk--this was a new
development, but common sense--and the captain's mad eyes--
warned him that it eventually would happen.  Unless of
course, Spock interferred.

And he wasn't about to so much as communicate the faintest
plea to the Vulcan.  Not after that dose of power in the
car.  A part of him felt bad for thinking of his own pride
when he should be thinking of survival...but apart of him
was exhausted of these insane games.

And if he was dead, then the captain would have no further
use for Joanna.

Kirk suddenly released his grip from his neck, leaving the
air to cool the sweat garnered under the heat of his hand. 
That hand had suddenly found his left wrist.

"Do you know what power is?"  The captain asked
conversationally.

He didn't know what to say to that.

"It's strength.  Strength of the fittest.  And that is
why...only the strongest makes it to be captain."

McCoy felt the snap, felt the pressure of the bones
breaking.  He saw (as if through a tunnel) Spock's eyes
widen.  *He's surprised!*  He thought, surprised himself
that the Vulcan had actually not forseen this.

All this was in the first second.  Then his nerves went
nova and a shooting tidal wave shot up his spine, and
washed back down to sink white-hot fangs into the severed
bones.  In that sharp-toothed moment, the doctor had a
choice: scream and stay conscious, or stay silent and go to
the darkness.

To hell with consciousness.  He stayed silent.

*    *   *

"Mn?"  Nyota sat up in bed groggily.  Her whole body was
exhausted (Never that much champagne, ever again!).  She
barely remembered their climbing to their room before
folding up on the mattress together to pass out.

Next to her in the dark, Christine's moon-white body was
sitting upright, bent over her open communicator.

"Yes, sir."  Chapel was saying quietly.  "Yes, sir.  I'll
be right there."

Nyota felt a prickle of dread as her lover silently closed
her communicator and bent over to pick her clothing up from
the playful scatters on the floor. "Christine?"

"I've...got to go for a while."  Christine's voice in the
darkness was tense and tight.  She cursed softly as she
searched for her boots.  "That was the captain."

"The captain?"  Uhura breathed faintly.

"A...small medical mishap that needs my attention." 
Chapel said thickly, then swallowed with a loud clicking in
her throat.  "I've had this call before."

Nyota was afraid she knew what Christine was talking
about.  "Is there anything I can do?"

"Coffee."  Chapel raked her long hair through her fingers,
snagged it, and took a deep breath.  "Coffee."  She
whispered again.

Nyota scrambled out of the covers, her fingers slipping
soothingly across the other woman's ridge of backbone.  She
lingered where she thought the tattoo might be.  "You have
it, honey."

It wasn't her place, and it would be suicide, but she
wished with all her heart she could go with her.

*   *   *

"Captain."  Chapel felt naked when the door closed,
separating her from his guards.  Not that she'd ever get
any help from them.  The very thought was absurd.

She regretted not piling her hair up in its usual prim
style.  Kirk was taking in the way it flowed down her
shoulders and back, obviously liking the change.

Leonard was lying flat on his back on the bed, one arm
ramrod stiff against his side.  Even in the bad light,
Chapel could see the wrist was discolored and swelling. 
Swollen.  Kirk had let him lie in his injuries.

Again.

"Nurse Chapel."  Kirk was smiling.  "It's good of you to
come on such short notice."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant.  I'm afraid I was a little
careless with your...superior officer."

Chapel stared at him numbly, arm frozen in the salute
across her insignia. This had to be happening to someone
else.  Ridiculous attempt to escape reality, but it at
least helped her stay detached from what was happening.

Leonard kept his eyes half shut during the exchange.  He
might have simply been too exhausted.  Chapel had no way of
knowing.  But his skin was chilled at Kirk's insinuations.

Chapel invoked reserves she didn't know she had as the
captain leaned back in his chair and watched her with his
hooded eyes.  In the faint candlelight, she thought he
didn't look like James Tiberius at all, but someone...or
something...else simply using his skin.

Dreadful thought.  She lowered her eyes demurely and got
down on one knee as she pulled out her medikit.

Leonard's angry humiliation was a palpable animal in the
room, a separate entity from his body.  He would have
endured anything if only she hadn't seen him like this. 
Chapel knew how he felt; she shared that kind of fierce
pride with him.

*Kirk's gone too far this time.*  Chapel wasn't certain
how she knew this, but she did.  Whatever the boundaries
were that Kirk controlled McCoy on, he had gone over them
tonight.

The scanner showed the activity along the dorsal horn;
dull and throbbing neospinal pain, as opposed to the sharp
and focused paleospinal activity she'd seen the last time
this scene was enacted.  Chapel had learned the hard way
that her boss didn't complain about serious aches and
pains. Rather than humiliate him by asking, she checked the
activity of his nervous system to find out.

She found a broad-range opiate and slipped it in with the
general analgesic. Injected slowly.  He almost relaxed, but
did no more than let some of the tension leave.  Without a
word he watched objectively as she re-set his wrist and
sprayed Rigidform over the break.  With luck and the usage
of the heavy vitasilica shot, he'd be good as new by
morning.

"Will you be all right?"  She mouthed.

He read her lips and barely nodded.  Even flickered a tiny
smile at her. Damn, but she wished she hadn't seen that.

"Come see me tomorrow."  She lipped.

He closed his eyes in answer, and let sleep take him.

"Always efficient, Nurse."  Kirk had stood, his chest
gleaming behind his Captain's Vest.  The eyes were hard,
hard as she'd never seen on him before. "I mustn't keep you
from enjoying your shore leave."

"I'm on call, sir."  Chapel inclined her head forward just
slightly, allowing just a bit of her lips to tilt up in a
smile that wasn't at all sincere.  What an actress she was
becoming!

"That you are."  Kirk tossed something in the air, and she
caught it on reflex.  "Dismissed."

Only when she was safe in the elevator did she look at
what her hand had clenched around.  A credit voucher.  And
a handsome price on it too.

Bought her time.  Bought her silence.  She felt nausea
claw her throat, and forced herself to stuff the thing in
her sash (thirty pieces of silver!). She knew that if she
didn't spend it, and soon, the captain would want to know
why she didn't want his favors.

Chapel was no fool.  Kirk never did anything for just one
reason.  He had several good ones in engineering tonight. 
Holding the cold reality of the money slip had suuddenly
hammered them into the Nurse:  Any medico would have been
capable of fixing Leonard up, but Kirk had chosen her to do
it.

Rumors that she was the Doctor's Woman had afforded a
large umbrella of protection against other officers.  But
now the Captain had his eye on her. Having her mend that
broken bone was a demonstration of what he was capable of,
if he didn't get what he wanted.

And there was no mistaking the gleam of greed in his eyes.

*   *   *

Uhura closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the warm
sunshine that bathed them together in the tangle of
bedsheets.  She didn't remember Christine returning to bed,
only waking up to find a warm, voluptuous nurse with her
soft arms around her.  Long strong fingers stroked the skin
of her back, light, feathery, delicate...and Uhura had
fallen asleep out of sheer ecstacy of the touch.

"Mmmn."

Chapel's mind was completely elsewhere.  "God.  Poor Len."
She said suddenly.  It was a dampener of the warm mood, but
inevitable.

Uhura answered slowly.  "I only just found out what's
going on.  I agree."

"It's getting worse, you know."  Christine continued to
stare straight up at the ceiling.

"How long has it been going on?"

"Um."  Chapel swallowed and shifted her weight under
Nyota.  "Not long after the captain came back from that
secret mission.  Len paged me to his cabin one night
because he was too messed up to put his uniform on and
pretend he could function for work."  She sighed.  "At the
time I was horrified.  I was a little naive about that kind
of thing.  I imagined that superior officers were immune to
that stuff, you know?"

"Me too.  That that's the stuff that only happens to lowly
crewmen like ourselves."

Chapel licked her dry lips.  "Len seems to be able
to...calm the captain down, mostly.  But sometimes, he gets
really bad and then there's nothing anybody can do."  Her
face wrenched.  "I've got to do something.  I can't
just...sit back and patch him up when they break him!"

Uhura remembered the doctor's soft teasing, the kindness
as he gently chided her for not being aware of her own
feelings.  "Like what? The captain can have whoever he
wants on his ship.  Theoretically, a visting Admiral can
usurp him, but that's considered poaching.  And then when
the Admiral leaves, things go back to normal."

"Something needs to be done."  Chapel spoke flatly.  Her
eyes had gotten a steely glint.  Nyota sat up to look at
her better.  "This is getting worse. How bad are we going
to let it get before Leonard gets killed...or somebody
else?  What if Marlena wasn't killed for trying to kill the
captain?  What if it had to do with this?"

Nyota sucked her breath through her lips.  "I hadn't
thought of that."  She murmured.  It made her shiver.  "You
have a point."  But once raised, the idea was impossible to
force down.

Because it was truly frightening  Too frightening not to
act upon.

Chapel rolled over and sat up to face her significant
other.  "I told Leonard to come see me today.  The three of
us are going to have a talk."

"Count me in."  Nyota smiled.  "Do you need anything?"

Chapel thought for a moment.  "Let's just get a table set
up.  It's easier to talk when we have silverware to play
with, you know?"

Indeed, Nyota did know.

*     *     *

McCoy showed up at planetnoon, still in the sable civilian
dress and carrying a bag of coffee.  Yesterday's exposure
to the sun had turned him as dark as the Communications
Officer.  It made his eyes gleam like icebergs, and
startled her greatly.

Nyota looked at what he was offering.

"I can't believe I ever thought you two were lovers."  She
shut the door after him as he cocked a wicked eyebrow. 
"Because that would be champagne. Who ever heard of
romancing with caffeine?"

"It works on Romulans."  McCoy pointed out.  He absently
ducked a live vine hanging from the ceiling (the natives
tried to make their cities resemble the wilds at every
chance).  "Do you know what they'll do for chocolate? It's
not a pretty sight.  I once got a theobromine addict to
give up valuable information by blowing hot cocoa steam in
his face."

"Sounds cruel and unusual."

"Don't worry.  I let him drink it after he gave up the
manifold codes."

"Coffee!"  Chapel had come in from the back of their
rooms.  "You remembered my favorite too!"

Nyota elevated an eyebrow at Christine's glee.  "Then
again, I may have to take that back."  She said dryly.

McCoy grinned at her as he handed the paper package over. 
"We're just disciples of the Velvet Roast."

Chapel had snatched the bag and vanished in the kitchen
with it.

"Hey, do I get any?"  McCoy called after her.  Under his
breath to Nyota he confessed, "I didn't know she HAD a
favorite form of the stuff.  Unless she was joking."

"I'll bring it out!"  Chapel called back.  "Let's get to
the terrace!"

"You've got a terrace in this..."  McCoy looked around,
took in the lush furnishings in the *ridiculously* small
space, and struggled to find adequate words.  "four-star
roach motel?"  He managed.

"It was only three credits more."  Nyota rolled her eyes. 
"Come on, the view's great.  Andromacheans don't like to
see the city, but I enjoy this."

He had to agree.  They were high up, almost on the top
floor and the sun was almost directly overhead.  The heat
was blocked by potted fruit trees the natives grimly
employed to try to deny they were inside a world of squares
and planes.  Past the foilage, the smooth white stone of
the high rises and 'scrapers gleamed clean and cool.  The
view stretched for miles, hanging gardens and soft-engined
hovercraft.

"Got it."  Chapel strolled out with a tray, a pot, and
three cups.  McCoy broke his gaze from outwards to see a
beer table had already been set up with breads, cheese,
bottles and meat.  "Everybody dig in.  Tomorrow we may be
called back to duty."

"Lord, that's not likely."  McCoy sighed as he reached for
the first bottle. "Whatever that thing was that was wrong
with the security cameras seems to be cleared.  Spock won't
say for sure, but Kirk isn't taking no for any answer."

Chapel paused.  "I didn't see Spock last night."  She
said, utterly neutral.

He shook his head.  "Kirk sent him back up to make *damn
sure* the computers were clean."

"Typical."  Chapel broke a handful of bread savagely.

(Don't push it, honey.) Uhura thought to the other woman. 
Chapel barely flickered her eyelashes, but she had caught
the message.  (Now isn't the time.  Wait.)  She thought for
something to change the subject with.

"I didn't know you could get that dark, doctor.  Are you
Black Irish?"  Oh, that was brilliant.  That was like
saying, "Isn't this nice weather we're having?" or, "gee
that's a white cloud up in the sky."

Leonard nearly choked on his drink.  "I'm part Lumbee."

"Lumbee?  Is that like Cherokee?"

"Black Indians.  Melungeons.  A Southern racial
conglomeration of swamp white trash, swamp escaped slave,
and swamp Indian."

"And all swamp rat."  Chapel snickered.

"Hey, you ever doubt a swamp rat lacked in coping skills?"

"You have me there, doctor."  The Nurse said drolly.

*    *    *

Spock was supposedly deep in meditation.  Even the
sickbay's bioscanners would think so; his abilities ran so
deep.  But he was in truth, thinking very hard.

Kirk had gone further than ever last night.  Not in that
he inflicted pain, but in the way he had done so.  There
had been no warning, and previously he had preferred to
build up the tension and anticipation for his victim...

A sour taste was in the Vulcan's mouth.  Why was he
aceeding to this?  There was nothing to take pride in, with
placing one's will over another--and even less when it was
two against one, two superior warriors against a single
pacifist, two ranking officers against a lower rank...the
list continued indefinitely.

If he could only learn what hold Kirk had over McCoy.  It
would explain much.  But...

Spock's outward calm was a mask for the turmoil inside. 
He was at odds. Far worse for him to refuse his captain and
avoid his company.  The thought was not logical, nor was it
bearable.

*You know why.*  His inner self admonished.

Yes.  Illogical as those emotions were, he could not seem
to fight them.

Worse, he had once been able to hold his own as a man, and
not let anyone else sway him.  Not on anything.  Not even
his captain.  But somehow, his desire to serve...to please
James Kirk had grown overnight and he all unknowing.  A
part of him wanted to avoid this in every way.  But another
part of him looked forward to those moments, and relived
them when they were apart.

And it was beyond his control.

The sour taste in his mouth was growing bitter.

Marlena had tried to warn him, and he had not listened. 
His inaction had cost a brave warrior her life.  And very
nearly his own and McCoy's.  At least, he suspected without
proof.  McCoy had been unconscious on the floor, Marlena
hysterical, white-faced and panicking.  Spock had no idea
what had reduced Moreau, of all people, to such a state. 
Even at her most fearful of Kirk, she had never lost
control.

"I'll kill you, bitch!"  She had screamed at Kirk, Spock's
sensitive hearing catching that through the bulkheads
before he snapped orders and got through Kirk's bodyguards,
stepped through and took in the scene at a glance.  Kirk
standing choleric and helpless in front of the phaser
sights; Marlena jumping as the door opened, Spock having
less than a second to make a decision and fire...

Spock closed his eyes against the firepot beast, and tried
to shut the door on his own memory.  He had once prided
himself on his instincts.  No longer. Because they were
telling him he had made a dreadful error, and the wrong
person was dead...

*   *   *

"We're worried."  Uhura spoke hesitantly.  "There was a
time when the captain and...Mr. Spock would find these kind
of actions unthinkable.  But now its considered common of
them."

"And it is getting worse."  Christine added.  "We want to
know if there's anything we can do to...prevent that.  Or
at least, to keep some sort of damage control."

Leonard listened to all this in silence, taking an
occasional sip of beer. When the talking ran out, he failed
to fill the sudden silence, and absently traced a line of
condensation off the chilled glass.

"It's not as simple a matter as you think."  He said at
last.  "The captain and I have always had an odd
relationship.  I'll grant you, it's never been like this
before Camus II."  He shrugged stiffly.  "It's never been
violent, possessive or even remotely sexual.  If anything,
it was the *lack* of a sexual nature that cemented our
relationship."

"Tell us."  Christine murmured.

Uhura had a strong feeling that Chapel had never asked
anything out of her boss in her life.  She saw it in the
surprised blink of the blue eyes as he turned to finally
face her, head on.

"I first met Ensign Kirk when he and a bunch of other kids
were sent to my medical ship for extensive patchup.  Last
gasp from the Mutara Retreat. Ugly.  Half of them didn't
survive the trip to the CADEUCCUS. Incredibly young.  And
he was almost the smallest patient in the sickbays.  Some
of the women were more massive.  That was before he gained
all that muscle.  Back then he was still growing.  Fourteen
years old, he said, but honestly, I think he lied about
that.  Wanted to get into space as soon as he could, no
matter what the risk."

"How old were you at the time?"  Christine asked.

"Me?  I was all of nineteen.  Back then you had a senior
officer for every floor of the medical ships; it kept
things decompartmentalized, and things ran a lot smoother
when a microstaff grew to think of their floor as "theirs."
For a moment the doctor slid into memory.  "Basic trauma
was my floor.  We did get a few mental cases, emotional
shock and some denial issues.  But mostly it was broken
bones, low-grade illness, aggravated conditions, that kind
of thing.  The older senior physicians got the REAL good
stuff, like the Burn Ward, Radiation, Xenodisease."

"Lucky them."  Nyota murmured dubiously.  She would never
understand the fascination medicos carried with biological
puzzles.

McCoy leaned back and draped one arm behind the back of
his chair, pushing the empty bottle aside and reaching for
another.  "Kirk was quite the heartbreaker, and you can
imagine he was worried about the predators that could be
running around.  There was a Lt. JG that kept coming around
to visit him, Gary Mitchell.  You could tell Mitchell was
out for a piece of Kirk, and Kirk had spent a long time
fighting him off."  McCoy's face darkened.  "Couldn't fight
him off all the time.  You know, in a way, its odd.  You
get used to that kind of thing happening to you, but when
you see somebody with enough charisma to knock a ship out
of orbit, it shakes you up to see they're just as
vulnerable as you can be.  When I found out for sure what
was going on, I talked to Kirk private.  I said that I
didn't tolerate any foolishness in *my* sickbay, and he
didn't have to worry about anything. Then I made up some
stuff that had him under quarantine for a few weeks.
Mitchell might have been a predator, but he was fussy as
hell.  Most of 'em are, actually.  Some kind of hangup that
makes them avoid anyone that doesn't fit their description.
Ironically, after Kirk got out of my sickbay, he went to
Vega and wound up with that meningitis.  So Mitchell
*really* stayed away from him after that; he's a carrier
for life."

"Was Kirk grateful for what you did?"  Chapel wondered. 
Uhura had wanted to ask exactly that.

McCoy was slow in responding.  "Kirk doesn't feel grateful
for anything. That's not how he runs.  But he's always
defended to the death my refusal to allow sadism in my
workplace.  I wish he'd openly encourage disapproval of the
kind of things that the Josts and Ottos of the world pull,
but I guess in a way that would be going against the Old
School way of doing things." McCoy suddenly looked
exhausted.  "I wish to god it was otherwise.  I don't know
how many times I see good, idealistic kids going into the
medical field...and two years later, winding up just
another sadistic bully because its easier to be that than
to be a white crow."

"But, Leonard..."  Chapel set her lips.  "What he does to
you is exactly what he refused from Mitchell.  You
protected him!"

"Oh, Lord, Christine.  It's not that simple.  Again.  For
one thing, if I ever reminded Kirk what I did for him, I'd
be in the Agony Booth for a full week, or until I threw up
my lungs.  Whichever came first.  You never ever remind
Kirk of anything.  The man doesn't forget.  It would be a
huge insult.  Add to that, it would be a remainder of a
time when he was small and weak...no, not a good idea. 
Damn near suicidal!"

"Then why does he do this to you?"

McCoy sighed.  "Christine...when he came back from Camus
II I noticed he seemed different.  But it was nothing I
could pin anything down on. Eventually the trademark signs
of sadism-addiction crept in.  He was careful to keep it
from being seen, but little things started happening. 
People were getting hurt.  Vulnerable people.  People who
couldn't fight back.  I went to his cabin and spoke to him
about it."

McCoy stopped talking for a full ten minutes.  Time enough
to quietly kill the second bottle and reach for the third. 
The women waited patiently, knowing he would tell the tale
in his own time.

"I still don't know what got him royally mad.  All I did
was say that his actions were in contraidiction to what I
understood of him as my captain. He went completely off. 
Flew into the biggest tirade of paranoid ranting I've seen
from anybody in years.  Accused me of saying he wasn't
James Tiberius Kirk.  All kinds of stuff in that vein.  All
I could do was just stand there with my mouth hanging open.

"When he eventually calmed down, I would have preferred
him to be still yelling.  A cold gleam of ice...had got in
his eyes.  And I wasn't sure at this point that I was even
looking at Kirk.  But someone else wearing his
skin...Chris?"

"I'm all right."  Christine shook herself all over,
ignoring he called her Chris.  "It was just those words you
were using, Leonard.  Go on."

"Well, believe me, I was wishing I were anywhere else." 
He sighed and tugged at his earlobe, thinking.  "He went
for the agonizer, and that's about when things got out of
my control.  Let's just say the captain knows enough about
me that I'm not going to betray him to anybody.  So let's
not discuss that possibility."

Christine glanced down.  "Camus II...do you know what
happened to the captain down there?"

"Hah."  McCoy snorted.  "I know damn near everything. 
I've heard the whole story more times than I can count. 
But it doesn't completely explain the change in his
behavior."

"You never saw any display that would hint to this?" 
Christine pressed.

McCoy exhaled slowly.  "Sadism doesn't pop up overnight
like a mushroom, you know.  There's always a reason for it.
Usually its a case of yesterday's victim becoming
tomorrow's predator."

"I know that, Leonard," Christine began impatiently.

He held up his hand.  "Hear me out.  The KIND of sadism
Kirk's swimming in, it often starts out in a very specific
way."  The doctor appeared to be living with a bad taste in
his mouth.  "It can start out very innocuously, don't get
me wrong.  A few games in the bedroom; a little
threatening, mild tiltation like with a quirt or spanking,
bondage...so long as its kept to one level, and
*infrequently* enacted, it won't go past a certain level of
excitement.  It won't become a boring activity.  But you
have an addictive personality involved, then the same thing
won't make them happy.  They've got to be constantly moving
forward and onward, pushing the envelope, pushing their
partner, pushing themselves.  They're striving for an
endopmorphic high and they'll go to extremes to get it. 
Once they get in *real* deep, just the mild stuff won't do
anything for them.  They've got to go as far as its
possible.  Safety checks such as rules of behavior and
control words that will keep them from going too far with
their partner doesn't work.  What's got me confused as hell
with James Kirk is, he acts like somebody whose been deep
into this stuff for decades, when I know that's not the
case."  he shrugged helplessly.  "Boy's a quick learner, I
guess.  And how."

"Well.  Tell us about what changed him."  Uhura urged
softly.  "Maybe we can help."

He kindly humored her.  "Camus II was a barely-staffed
archaeo-research station that had sufficient backing from
the Empire so long as they kept investigating the remnant
technology the previous inhabitants kept.  From what I
hear, it was an ugly place.  Radiation kept leaking through
the shields, the atmosphere was rife with poison, water,
soil, everything had to be treated so it wouldn't kill
them...there was enough fluoride alone to render half the
known Galaxy brain dead!"

"Lovely."  Chapel was making a grimace.

"Well, the station was maintained by a former lover of
Kirk's, Janice Lester.  Lester seemed to have not liked
being dumped.  Had big plans on being the Captain's Woman. 
She set things up in an attempt to kill him, using the help
of her current lover and research partner, Arthur Coleman.
As Kirk describes it, they almost succeeded, but he managed
to kill them."

"Ugly."  Uhura frowned.  "But forgive me, things like that
happen all the time in the Empire."

"Yeah."  McCoy agreed.  He picked up another beer and
unscrewed the cap. "Well, maybe there'd be more to tell ya,
but I wasn't the first person to see the captain when he
returned.  It was Spock.  And I'm kindly afraid of asking
*him* questions."

"How many of those can you take?"  Nyota paused to wonder.

Both medicos grinned at her.

"Indefinitely, so long as its not a wheat-based brew."  He
chuckled.

"What's wrong with wheat?"

"I can't metabolize glutins in any shape, size or form."

"He's a Type O, Nyota."  Chapel poked him in the ribs with
her elbow--gently--relieved to be able to tease him.  "If
you think that's impressive, you should see him in the
sugar jar.  Let him buy his own dessert."

"Damn."  He said.

Nyota laughed softly, her earrings chiming as they swung. 
"All right."

A few minutes passed while the three of them drank, ate,
and absorbed the conversation.

"Kirk's lost a lot of family."  McCoy said suddenly.  "I
know he scares a lot of people, but I've never been scared
of him.  Not until now."

"I was scared of him when he killed those 9,000 Vegans." 
Chapel answered. "And when he leveled all of Deneb to
destroy those flying parasites, I was terrified."

"Don't see how he had much choice.  Maybe if we'd had time
we could have done something, but the Empire wanted the
invasion stopped *flat*.  Frankly, they didn't even give
him the option of research."

"He had family on that planet."  Uhura remembered.

"Had.  Yeah.  His only other living relative, a big
brother he adored, his sister in law, and three little
nephews.  All gone."  McCoy took a long drink from his
latest bottle.  "This stuff isn't all that bad, if you keep
on drinking it."  He commented.

"Ugh."

"After all that went down, he got really bad.  Closed off.
Wouldn't talk to hardly anybody.  He and Marlena were the
closest they'd ever been at that point."  McCoy sighed. 
"Poor woman.  I'm still not sure she tried to kill him.  I
keep thinking...maybe things got out of hand with *her.*"

"So it all boils down to Camus II."  Uhura began polishing
her long nails. "How long was he down there on that planet?"

"I don't know."  McCoy shrugged stiffly.  "Sometimes the
way he talks, he was just down there for a few hours.  And
sometimes, its like he'd lived there for years.  Especially
when he gets on his rants about how miserable it was."

"And that doesn't strike you as odd?"  Chapel wondered.

"It did at first.  But I tried asking him how long he'd
been down there, and he'd either get ugly-angry, or ramble
off on another tirade.  So I have no idea."

"I wonder if there's any way we could find out about it." 
Chapel murmured.

"Sure."  Uhura looked askance.  "All methods employing a
little risk on our part, but nothing's impossible."

"Woa."  McCoy set his beer down hard, and lifted his hand.
"Stop.  Halt. Cease.  Desist.  Christine, I know that look
in your eye.  D'you think this is an episode of IMPERIAL
TRUTHSEEKERS?  You are not going to play Forensic
Detective.  Don't even think about it."

Chapel did something amazing.  She looked Leonard flat in
the eye from across the table.  "I'm on shore leave."  She
said it sweetly, and very, very steel-like.

"CHRIS-tinnne..."

"I really can rationalize this, if you must know."  Chapel
folded her arms at rest.  "First of all, the way things are
going, I won't have the boss I like for much longer. 
Secondly, it seems like its getting dangerous for all of
us.  Thirdly, he's starting to cast his attention in my
direction."

"And Nyota's."  McCoy whispered.

Nyota felt her heart slam against her ribs.  "Oh, no." 
She whispered.

"So what are we going to do?"  Chapel wondered.

"Good God.  You gonna rig a ride to Camus??"  McCoy's
eyebrows had vanished into his hairline.  "I hope you've
got some savings to empty!"

"I probably could do it."  Chapel murmured.  "Of course,
our biggest worry is getting found out."

"Oh, that's simple.  You just find a superior to file you
a Class One Empire Waiver."  Uhura waved that off airily.

"What's that?"  The medicos asked at the same time.

"I never heard of it."  McCoy added suspiciously.

"Well, its in the Military Amendments, buried deep between
the 97th and 98th Coda, but it says that if any Sword-sworn
Officer of the Caesar needs to take a leave of absence,
they can do so if they have a superior officer grant
petition.  Said Superior must be at least three marks in
rank above."

"That might be a little hard to pull off."  Chapel
clenched her teeth.  "I don't know too many Admirals."

McCoy sighed wearily.  "I know two.  Kufe-Soma, and
Phillip Boyce."

"Phillip?  He's ENTERPRISE!"  Uhura remembered the crusty
old man with ice-blue eyes and a beautiful mane of silver
hair.  "A sweetheart."

"I know.  He sponsored my admission to the Medical Fleet
when I was straight out of diapers."

"You and Kufe don't have a very good history."  Chapel
muttered.  "Maybe you'd better talk to Boyce."

"I'd prefer it, honestly.  But I'm only supposed to know
Boyce in an professional matter.  Officially, I'm just
another kid he invested in."

"Kufe's got the clout."  Uhura pointed out.  "If you want,
I could draft your petition.  I can make a demand for your
first born child look good!"

McCoy's face went black with rage.  It was an
instantaneous reaction and no one expected it.  Uhura
blinked and instinctively leaned back in her chair,
reminding herself that reaching for her dagger was a bad
idea.

Chapel had frozen, her breath harsh in her throat.

McCoy slowly collected himself.  Slowly willed his color
to return to normal.

"Let's...not take that direction."  He managed at last. 
While his voice was calm enough, his hands shook around his
latest bottle.  "I have a private band I can speak to the
Admiral on.  What I do need is to go to my quarters and get
it."  His face soured.  "Without Kirk finding out."

"One of us could get it for you."  Chapel offered. "Just
say where it is."

"Not hard to find.  A red slicer in my top desk drawer. 
And you've got my doorlock."

Chapel smiled wryly.  "And no one will think twice,
thinking we have a sordid affair anyway."

"When you think of it, all affairs are sordid."  McCoy
made a face.

"Too true."  Chapel took a deep breath.  "All right.  I'm
going to go now. Does anyone need anything else while I'm
onboard?"

*I need my common sense back.*  Uhura thought but didn't
say it.  She was still wondering about this crazy notion,
and why the other two were so willing to do it.  *But then,
its not like we really have a choice...the captain is
getting worse.  This is to protect ourselves.  And each
other.*

Chapel gave her a quick kiss on the forehead.  "Later." 
She murmured.

Behind them, McCoy made a disgusted sound.  "You call that
a kiss?  I've seen gladiatrix more romantic than that."

They turned in each others' arms to look at him, a little
unbelievingly.  He matched their look with his own.

"You know we're going to get killed."  He pointed out
reasonably.  "Do you really want to die with regrets? 'I
could have lip-dipped her, but I lost my nerve?'"

"Oh, fine."  Chapel whirled, swept Uhura off her feet, and
stuck her tongue halfway down the other woman's throat. 
"Better?"  She demanded while Uhura was still swooning in
her arms.

"Better."  McCoy offered her thumbs-up.

*    *    *

McCoy simply stretched out on the couch and took a quick
nap while Christine was gone.  Uhura busied herself with
cleaning up the small room, trying to be as quiet as
possible.

*This really is insane.*  She thought.  *Kirk will see
this as treason. We'll be executed for certain.*

But a part of her didn't...really..believe it.  The rest
of her was whispering that this kind of action was long
overdue.

*And if its overdue...I hope we're not too late.*

*   *   *

McCoy emerged from the back room looking like he wanted to
take a shower and scrub his experience with Kufe off his
skin.  "Done."  He said curtly.

"That quick?"  Chapel looked amazed and exhilarated. 
"That didn't take more than ten minutes!"

"Kufe just happened to be Kirk's sponsor.  I pointed out
that if we could find a reversible reason for his aberrant
behavior, it would be a salvaged investment."  He shivered
and glanced away.  "If I couldn't convince her of that,
she'd be killing him off like a rat.  I just traded with a
human life."  He muttered.

"I happens."  Chapel told him quietly.

"Yeah.  I know...We can pick up authorization papers at
the drydock.   I hope I'm not the only one who can fly a
Starshuttle."

"I can."  Nyota shrugged.

"I can't."  Christine confessed.

"We'll show you the ropes on the way."  He smiled
slightly, the first smile she'd seen on him in two days. 
"They're not like the shuttlecrafts in the ENTERPRISE,
Nurse."

"Leaner and meaner."  Uhura suggested.  "From here, Camus
II is about as far as Earth from Vulcan.  It'll take about
a week to get there."

"Could be a long week."  Chapel took a deep, brave breath,
hands on her hips.  "I better buy some reading tapes."

McCoy rolled his eyes.  "Reading tapes."  He walked off,
muttering to himself.

*   *   *

Kufe's reputation for thinking and acting swiftly was
rooted in fact.  Uhura had couried many things in her life,
but this was one of the better starshuttles she'd set foot
in.  McCoy warned them from the beginning that the Admiral
liked all her ships a certain way.  So far Uhura had
figured out that meant the finest in technology, as well as
the most efficient. Older-model gear such as pressure suits
and computer bases seemed to be preferred for their greater
ease in maintenance and repair.

It wasn't really small.  It was about four times a
standard Imperial Shuttle.  But it was built to the guns.

"Any weapons capability?"  Chapel was a little awed.

"Minimal.  Speed and a cloak protects these things the
most."  Uhura murmured.  She noticed the other was rubbing
her eyes when she thought no one was looking.  "Honey, why
don't you take the Officer's cabin and lie down?  It was a
long night for you."

Christine reluctantly agreed.  "Wake me up if anything
happens."

"I promise."  Nyota lied flawlessly.

McCoy ignored the exchange as he finished clearing the
flight plan.  Once they were out of the Andromachean System
Border, the plan was to go into cloak and change the course
to Camus.

Alone now, Nyota took a deep breath, and sat down in the
co-pilot's chair. He was still ignoring her.  As he had
since that odd little exchange.  Nyota had studied him
closely, and finally concluded that he was trying not to
lose his control on her.

"Im sorry for whatever it was I said earlier."  Nyota
busied herself with watching the starfield going by.

McCoy stared straight ahead as he set the backup guides
(different spherical co-ordinant program, in case something
happened to the first one).

"You didn't know what you were saying, Lieutenant.  The
fact is, Kufe already *has* my first born child.  And she
doesn't know who I am."

"Oh."  Nyota was very quiet.  "I'm sorry."  Inane.

"Me too."  He said simply.  Shortly.

Silence.  They watched the pale yellow glow of a solar
sail slip by, its passenger compartment less than a tenth
of the sail's.

"I can't believe people use those things."

"Me neither."

Silence.

"Do you want to talk about it?"  She offered.

"Not much to talk about."  He shrugged in a very male way.
"She decided she wanted a kid; felt anybody who could
survive in this Empire with my ridiculous code of honor was
smart enough to be the father."  The pain was a raw and
open wound, hiding behind his calm voice.

"Why did she kick you out then?"

"So I wouldn't contaminate her daughter with my sanctity
of life.  Don't get me wrong; I've known Kufe since we were
kids in the same swamp.  But what's considered normal in my
family was bad parenting in hers.  What are you staring at?"

"I'm trying to imagine you growing up in a swamp."

"I'm Georgian, Lieutenant.  There's nothing *but* swamp
down there since the Eugenics Wars.  Give or take a few
mountains and some peacock farms."

"Still...Kufe's another breed of human entirely. 
Like...like a crocodile." Nyota remembered which continent.
"Or alligator.  Or a twenty-foot caiman."

He laughed very softly, and looked down at the board as he
checked the adjustments.  "Nyota, do you know what a swamp
rabbit is?"

"I assume its a rabbit that lives in the swamp."

"Uh, huh.  They're a lot like your average furry
cottontails...but they behave differently.  They have to. 
Different environment.  Mostly, they jump into the water to
escape a predator.  They're good swimmers.  That makes them
hard to hunt so you have to watch out for them."  He leaned
back to stare straight ahead.  "Just because they're small
herbivores, doesn't mean they're cowards.  I've seen those
little animals float not three inches away from a 'gator's
snout and the 'gator never so much as twitched."

"That's hard to believe.  How can they do that?"

"They do it," he looked at her then, his blue eyes wry and
gleaming with...humor?  "Because they know that's an
opponant they can't win against."

"So they become invisible?"

"Well, if you were hunting a rabbit, would you think to
look in a pond?"

Nyota thought it over.  "Is that where you get a lot of
your habits? Watching animals in the swamp?"

"You can learn a lot from nature," he said as he reached
into his pocket and began searching for the last of his
concentrate bar.  "But I recommend one watch the wild
before they start watching people.  Humans contaminate
everything, including their own body language."  As Nyota
watched, he sprawled backwards, unwrapping his ersatz
breakfast.  "You do know that Christine's sound asleep in
the back." He told her.

Nyota frowned lightly.  "Yes."  She didn't get it.

McCoy sighed patiently.  "I'm going to be on pilot for at
least three more hours.  I'm going to eat this garbage and
plug in some kind of music to listen to, no matter how
inane or patriotic or boring.  Go spend some time with your
girlfriend, Lieutenant.  You're the reason why she's on
this crazy scheme."

"She cares about you too."  Nyota felt obligated to say.

"She's not picking out bedsheets to match my irises."  He
flipped his eyelashes at her.  "Go. S'an order.  You can
spot for me when I take a break, and show her the opening
ropes for flying these monsters."

Nyota hesitated although she wanted to get up, and gave
him a long look. "If we're going to all be shot for
treason, you might as well call me Nyota."

"Nyota."  He nodded with a wry smile.  "Call me whatever
you want."

"Don't think I won't if we come into conflict."  She shot
back, feeling more confident now that the misunderstanding
was clear.

"No doubt."  Seriousness shaded his eyes darker.  "I hope
you realize, we're already in big trouble, Nyota."

"Well, I figured that."  Nyota began.  "When the captain
finds out we're gone, he--"

"Not just that."  He cut her off very gently.  "Kufe told
me some interesting things while I was on the secure band. 
She was the one who authorized his secret mission to Camus.
If we come up with nothing, we'll have to answer to her."

Nyota momentarily felt weak.  Then she sighed.  "Do you
think all three of us can be wrong on our instincts?"

"No."  He said after a moment's thought.  "But the fact
is, Nyota, I know James Kirk better than anyone.  And if
anyone can cover their trail and leave no traces behind,
its the man we're trying to track now."

**     **     ** 
"It is a double pleasure to deceive the deceiver." 
--Jean de la Fontaine

"People who make no noise are dangerous." 
--ibid 
**    **    **


Christine was *still* asleep.

Nyota frowned, thinking that after twelve hours, she
should at least be stirring, or did all of this affect her
on some level she wasn't talking about?

She dressed quietly, and stepped into the small open area
between the cabin and the pilot's consoles that functioned
as a type of open lounge.

The doctor had the ship on auto, and was alternately
watching the trivid as he sipped some kind of smoking,
molasses-colored drink while pushing the pieces of an old
tangram puzzle around the table.  Nyota didn't think he was
getting much enjoyment out of the dubious broadcast; live
gladiators clipped to a typically annoying commerical for a
home security alert:  "What's worth a good night's sleep?" 
The announcer asked.

"Don't ask that of an insomniac."  McCoy snapped.  "Oh. 
Good evening, Nyota."

Nyota suddenly yawned.  "I'm not quite awake."  She
apologized.

"Andromachean alcohol does that to you--mild native
opiates in the fruit." He poked at his drink and shoved a
triangular piece forward on the puzzle. Nyota had no clue
as to what he was trying to assemble.

The Communications Officer sank into the nearest chair and
examined the menu code for something familiar.  Kufe, she
was gratified to note, had a flavor for North African
cuisine.  Eggs malsouka? Khalota?  She settled for hodra
mechwva with charmoula.

"You gonna give Christine a few flying tips?"  McCoy had a
dish of--good God--cornbread and creasy greens with baked
garnet yams.  And people thought Nyota was ethnic?

Nyota picked up a vegetable shish kebob and dipped the end
in charmoula. "When she wakes up.  She's still sound
asleep.  Dead to the world, actually."

"I don't like the sound of that."  The doctor was serious.
"She tends to work like a dog and then sleep like one when
the work's over with.  It's not healthy."

"She does this a lot?"  It was something to consider if
she was going to have a long-term relationship with her. 
Nyota had expected some clouds behind the silver lining,
but she'd already noticed Christine was reluctant to accept
help from anyone.

"Um.  Yeah, I'm afraid so.  It's her way of dealing with
stress, and its been stressful as all get out lately." 
McCoy spoke the obvious with a hopeless sigh. "Well, we got
about seven more days until Camus, so maybe then she can
lighten up a bit."

"You don't sound at all convincing."

"I'm not, really."  The triscreen had returned to the
Collesium.  Two strapping men in helmets and traditional
gladiator gear were going at it with the mace and shield.

"Dammit, Pedro!"  McCoy cringed as one clipped the other's
helmet.  He went down and a tooth went flying in the blood-
spattered sand.  "You're gonna have a migraine for a week,
you gloryhound!  Serves you right, too!"  He snorted as the
unconscious man (plus his tooth) was cautiously ferried
away on a stretcher.  The winner stepped backwards and let
the cleanup crew sprinkle fresh sand over the gore.

Nyota stopped chomping on a grilled onion.  "You know that
man?"  She asked dubiously.  The idea of the ship's CMO
watching deathmatches, voluntarily, was something that
needed a lot of internal processing.

"I know all the gladiators in the Iberian troupe."  The
doctor said softly, never taking his eyes from the scene. 
"I used to be their physician."

Nyota almost forgot to eat.  "You?"  She repeated. 
Visions of derelict and washed-up stereotypical addicts
treating gladiators because no one else would take them
flooded her brain.

He caught her look, and understood it.  "It's not what the
layman thinks." He said dryly.  "A lot of interns and EMTs
start out at the provincal arenas.  You learn anatomy from
the losers, and seeing as how there's a high percentage of
non-Terran gladiators, it gives you an edge up on
xenobiology."  He nodded to the screen, where the winner
was back in the center awaiting his newest opponant.  "You
get to know those men and women. You don't have much
choice, actually.  You live with them, and you patch them
up when they get hurt.  And, you pronounce them dead and
pull the sheet over their faces when the luck runs out."

"That sounds pretty awful."  Nyota opined.  "Criminals
condemned to fight until they die or their skills grant
them a pardon?"

"Can you blame them for choosing the sword over the
miner's pick?  That's what you get when you get the
condemned status.  The arena or some godawful asteroid
mining belt.  Miners get a lot of radiation, malnutrition,
dehydration and mutation.  Gladiators, so long as they
survive, get good lodgings, good food, and they can keep
whatever presents their starstruck fans give them."

"I guess I never thought about it.  Over on my continent,
the gladiators usually fight wild animals."

"I know."  He said fervently.  "Brrrr."

They watched as the announcer gave a brief run on current
news; results from the fledgling Republican party's votes,
and an anti-Klingon spiel that would have made Kang fall
out of his chair laughing.  Even Kor would have snickered
at the drivel.

"How long did you work with them?"  Now that she was
starting to accept this of the doctor, the curiosity
wouldn't go away.

"I graduated and had no place to go for a few years.  So
until something came up, I figured I would stay with what I
knew."  McCoy was leaning back in his chair, sipping his
tea and watching every move as Gladiator Maximus feinted
and thrust through his warmup-moves.  "Three years the
first time. They'd kind of adopted me by then, and the
troupe leader, who was Chase Dabn at the time, would make
me put on the armor and duke it out with them.  I still go
back to the Iberians when I'm between jobs."

That was a little too much.  "Did you ever kill anybody?"

He was appalled.  "You don't kill in practice.  Bad for
business.  And I wouldn't kill anyway."

"Oh.  Sorry.  I don't really know much of the sport."

"Sport.  Hah.  More like mandatory way of life!  It--oh,
Lord."

The big, husky gladiator's opponant had arrived: a small,
wiry man with nothing more than a helmet for protection and
a net and trident.

"What the hell?"  McCoy demanded.  "You don't put
retiariis with the murmillones!  It's suicide!  He must
have really got somebody mad!"

Uhura confessed she was confused.

"Murmillones are the heavyweights."  McCoy grimaced as the
big man swung his sword through the air.  "Rets are the
lightweights.  Their only technique is to use speed and
agility to overpower with the net, and kill with the
trident.  This isn't going to take long."  He sighed.  "Not
with ol' Silverback Max in charge."

He was right.  In less than forty seconds the newcomer's
head was flying across the camera.

"Doctor," Uhura said very slowly and clearly, "I had no
idea you were like this."

He looked askance.  "Hey, they're my family, lieutenant."

"I still can't believe it.  Everyone on the ship thinks
you're the worst sentimental pacifist.  You might have
killed Otto on screen in front of the Bridge crew but your
reputation is fixed for life."

"For your information," he said patiently, "I AM a
pacifist.  Would you like to go to a doctor who kills
people on a regular basis?  I didn't think so. And as to
Otto, I had to kill him.  Daystrom's ghost didn't pick up
the fact that he was pulling his knife out of his sleeve
and getting ready to slice Christine open with it!"

"Oh."  Nyota felt weak.  "Well I'm glad you got to him
first."

"Hmph."

Temporarily at a loss for words, she rejoined him in
watching the match.

"Let me guess."  She said after a few minutes.  "You were
in the retiarii class?"

He grinned at her.  "That's what everyone thinks.  Chase
felt that was too much of a given, so he stuck me with the
Provos."

"You're joking."  The provos were the total bastards of
the arena.  If the retiarii were the nimble dancer, and the
murmillones were the armored tank, the provos were the
specialized middleweight.  They had heavy, awkward shields,
leg and arm guards, helmets, and *very* short gladius
swords.  The armor was designed so none of the *nonvital*
areas could be struck.

McCoy painted a grim picture: thirty pounds or more of
padded armor, and a helmet that hid your face turned anyone
into a monster.  Friends and lovers wouldn't recognize who
they were fighting, couldn't make eye contact, could make
no human reality of the fight, only survival.  And because
of the armor's padding, even the best fighters were panting
with fatigue and sweat after five or ten minutes.  No fight
lasted more than fifteen minutes unless both were masters. 
It was almost unheard of.

Two women, two provacatrices, came out with good timing,
and Uhura took a close look.  The large shields hid the
short swords, and both had to stab and feint, trying to
take the other off balance or by surprise.  Their torsos
were bare and gleaming with oil that soon mixed with sweat.
She soon realized the provos had to be more aggressive than
defensive; defense would just get you killed faster.

When pressed, McCoy admitted he could hold his own "for a
while" but lacked the killing edge required for the Arena. 
"Most people do, actually.  Chase would always put me up
against the hulking monsters, just to throw the fear of god
in me.  It was...motivating."  He finished somewhat
sarcastically. "Worse because if I didn't do good, they'd
give me all kinds of hell until I finally DID good."

"Do they still rent out gladiators from the same troupe?" 
Nyota puzzled.

"No, not anymore.  Every once in a while, someone
complains that it softens the fighters up, that they need
to battle their own comrades to stay hard. But it happens
anyway, what with the fighters getting bought or traded
from one troupe to the next."

"It sounds like a lot of pain."  Uhura said finally.  She
wondered if mining was all that bad in comparison.  Then
again, if he thought not...

"Pain?"  He repeated, and took his gaze from the screen 
to look at her.  He had the expression he'd donned in  the
Andromachean marketplace only three days ago.  "Pain's a
way of life."

Nyota thought about his internal motives, to be able to
fight among gladiators, and still permit Kirk's
depradations without defending himself. She didn't think
she would be able to do the same, and she said so.

"Command training, Nyota."  He said soberly.  "If you're
going to go any higher in rank, you'll be learning the
truth of that.  High Command takes a dim view on ranking
officers who crack under torture.  No matter how severe.
Kirk, for example, if he was stuck in the Agony Booth, and
broke under a week of nonstop input, he'd be executed for
being a traitor."

Nyota must have turned white as a sheet; she felt as
though a cold wind had brushed her face and he was looking
apologetic.

"Didn't mean to scare you like that."  He murmured.

She cleared her throat.  "It's...all right.  Better I
learn now than later, right?"  She nibbled on her shish
kebob slowly.  "Maybe I should start taking some lessons."

"I can show you the basics."  He offered.  "Then we can
take it from there if you're still interested."

"God, yes."  She exhaled.  "I want to know how to do this.
I prefer to avoid pain at every opportunity."

"Ahem."  He cleared his throat.  "Not a good idea, Nyota. 
Resisting torture is not about blocking pain with your
mind."

"I don't understand.  Why?"

The doctor sighed.  "Pain is a message, Lieutenant.  To
shut that off is dangerous.  It can lead to a talent for
denial."

Nyota didn't--quite--comprehend what he was trying to tell
her, but supposed she would pick it up before long.  "When
can we start these lessons?"

McCoy laughed softly.  "Impatient, aren't you?  Now if you
want."

*        *           *

The days stretched, nerve-wrackingly, as Camus grew
closer.  Naturally, everybody had quirks and perks that
irritated the rest, but the effort went on all sides to get
along.  Nyota was initially disappointed with the doctor's
lessons; they began with the most basic techniques that you
were lightly instructed in in school, but McCoy was adamant
that she absorb these techniques until they were second
nature.  And how she was supposed to do it was up to her. 
Chase Dabn, his instructor, had been able to work his own
impressions by mentally reciting poetry.  Taking a tip from
that, she decided to use music to concentrate with.

No matter how busy they all tried to be (and they wanted
to be busy enough not to think about the kind of disaster
they were getting into), time could hang heavy and limp. 
If real life imitated the adventure shows or cheap novels,
Nyota would be using that time to explore life to the
fullest with Christine.  Life, sadly, did NOT emulate the
overactive imaginations of singleminded writers.  There
were few things in the Galaxy as deathly to romance as the
notion they could all wind up dead in a very stupid-looking
way.  Thoughts of Kirk were chilling, and Kirk with Spock,
even worse.  The only workable solution was to keep busy,
stay sane, and try not to get on the nerves of one's
roommates.  That LAST part was sometimes the hardest; as
the days went on, the dimensions of the CAPIL appeared to
shrink in proportion.

Nyota knew very well her compulsion to check and recheck
and recheck computer diagnostics on the ship drove the
medicos half insane.  On the other hand, if she didn't
constantly reassure herself that all was well, she might
obsessively-compulse herself into the bughouse.  She
limited her scans to where they couldn't easily watch her,
and made it as unobtrusive as possible.  She even justified
her mental state by working on upgrades and redesigned a
few board componants until McCoy complained the Internal
Scanners were on the verge of becoming telepathic.  It was
a half hearted complaint; she was able to ignore it.

At least, McCoy could explain Chapel and Chapel could
explain McCoy.   It kept Nyota from going totally ape at
their own divergant mannerisms.

Christine's idiosyncrasies were in her demeanor.  Nyota
had never a clue the Nurse was so reluctant to accept
affection and TLC.  Being the kind of woman who loved to
lavish attention on her better half when she had one, it
nonplussed her that Christine was always beating her to the
cooking, the cleaning, the organization, the...the just
about everything that Nyota would be doing anyway. She
liked being kissed and hugged, but in the bedroom, she was
far more comfortable with being the giver than the receiver.

"Give her time."  McCoy offered this advice with obvious
resignation.  "She's always been like this, Ny.  Nothing
personal on you. It's just that she's used to being around
people who don't exactly express affection.  Frankly,
you're the best person she's ever hooked up with.  The last
one was a former fiance who didn't bother to tell her the
interesting fact that he'd transferred his consciousness
into an android."

Nyota exhaled.  Very faintly, she could hear the water-
shower as Christine finished her day.  "I don't want to do
anything wrong."  She complained.

"Hey, she's not stupid."  The CMO pointed out.  "You don't
fit her usual pattern.  If it makes you feel better, you're
more like her fantasy come to life."

"Oh, funny."

"Serious as a defilbration."  He lifted his palm solemnly.

"You're not serious?  You ARE serious.  Oh, bother!" 
Nyota slammed her hands on her hips and glared down at him
(he was sitting down; she certainly couldn't look down at
him any other way).  "Leonard, I just want her to be happy
with me!"

"She is."  He rolled his eyes.  "But like I said, s'gonna
take time for her to realize you like to be the giver too."

At least Christine was basically understandable.  McCoy's
particular hangup was like nothing Nyota had ever
encountered...or even heard of.

The smart crack he'd made about insomnia to the triscreen
commerical didn't even cover his lack of sleep.  Nyota soon
began to wonder if he EVER shut his eyes.  Whenever she was
awake, so was he.  He proclaimed to rest on his off shift,
but she never saw it.  She saw him kick his feet up and
poke through a book from the electilibrary (reading on just
about any subject you'd think of, with no preference or
prejudice), or toy with a few chess games against the
computer, or he'd just simply sit and phase mentally out of
existence, his eyes open but gaze unfocused, until it was
like being around a zombie.  The fact that Christine was
used to it, kept Nyota from getting a little freaky.

When she asked Christine about it during a private moment,
she wound up regretting it.

"Nightmares."  The taller woman said succintly as she
shrugged out of her long dress and into something warmer
for the night.  They conserved power, and the enviro-
controls was the first to be sacrificed.  McCoy usually
stretched out on the lounge couch or the narrow sleeping
berths reserved for lowly security guards.  "He has them a
lot."

"Can't he take drugs for them?"  Nyota was confused.  The
Imperial Pharmacology had plenty of sopophorics and
adaptors that changed one's sleeping pattern.  There were
even drugs that let you ENJOY your nightmares--admittedly,
they were expensive, but if a CMO couldn't get them, who
could?

Christine pursed her lips and slowly, sadly shook her
head.  "Not," She said quietly, "for the kind of nightmares
he has."

That was a truly alarming notion, and Nyota would have
soon as remained ignorant of the insight.  There were times
when her own fears of their mission, and Kirk's rage kept
her wide awake and she would lay in Christine's warm arms,
knowing full well the doctor was not only awake as well,
but up and functioning.  In a way, it was as if the CAPIL
was haunted by his presence.  She could easily believe that
if he died his ghost would remain on the ship, leaving
stray book-tapes and empty cups lying around.

The few times when he actually did sleep, the CAPIL felt
oddly empty, and even eerier.

Day by day, Camus II grew closer.


"Do we bother you, Leonard?"  Christine asked hesitantly. 
Nyota was in the galley doing a turn with a real meal,
ostensively out of range but she had excellent hearing.

"Hardly."  He answered.  Christine must have projected
dubiousness, because he kept talking: "Honestly, Christine.
Considering what I've been through for the past six months,
I could care less about being left out of you and Nyota's
fun and games."  He paused; even then he was unable to
repress his famous irony.  "Frankly, I don't think I'll be
able to THINK about sex for a long, long time."

(Whew.)  Nyota shook her head and examined the cassoulet
she was assembling. (And I thought I had it bad before
Christine.)  The memory of his lifting his bruised wrists
in the marketplace returned to her, as well as his dry-as-
ashes take on the Captain and Mr. Spock's unique
relationship: "Roleplaying."

*    *    *

"I'm out."  Nyota tossed her cards after McCoy's in disgust.

Christine snickered nastily and pulled the stack of credit
chips and Imperial scrip to her side of the table.  "Not
bad.  Anybody for a rematch?"

"Not just no, Christine, but *hell* no!"

McCoy lit up a qatstick and leaned back, exhaling the mild
euphorics through his nose without taking the smoke in his
lungs.  "So nice to know my Nurse has such a mean streak." 
He commented.  "Sorta balances out all that self sacrifice."

Christine threw a card at him.  "You're just jealous."

"Possibly."  He shot back.

Uhura stretched.  They had finally run out of things to
do, and cabin fever had kicked in with a vengeance.  She
couldn't believe she'd actually suggested a card game.  And
now she was broke.  "All right.  Who's for another drink? 
Hands lifted; she turned around in her chair and reached
for the pitcher of millet beer.

She didn't want to do this, but somebody had to bring the
subject up.  "How long until Camus?"

"Twelve hours before we hit the System itself."  McCoy
shrugged with a glance at the chrono.  "After that, I'd say
at least another twelve or sixteen before we get to hit the
orbit.  I'm glad you're the main pilot for this; I HATE
planetary landings!"

"Well, that's what I used to do before I transferred off
Navigator."  Uhura said modestly.  "I hate to say this, but
maybe now is a good time to start talking; go over
everything we can think of about this whole business."

Christine grimaced.  "Leonard's pretty much the expert."

"As far as that goes."  He rolled his eyes.  "I don't know
if I can tell you all that much."

"Well, we don't know a thing about the night Marlena
died."  Christine began.

"I tell you, I'm not that much better than you are.  I was
off duty and, as earlier commanded, going to answer my
appointment with Kirk in his cabin to review the Special
Drugs Re-Q's.  When I mean special, I really mean special. 
Compounds and active ingredients that are read eyes-only
and requisitioned by the Acting Commander AND the CMO.  The
guards were expecting me and let me through."

McCoy paused and puffed smoke for a moment.  "At first I
thought I'd stepped into a falling out.  Kirk was standing
in front of that little table in the front of his room, all
stiff as a board and beet red.  Marlena was on the other
side of the table, and there was a phaser on her side of
the table, very VERY close to her.  Too close for Kirk to
try to lunge for it, but you could tell he sure as hell
wanted to.  There was a bottle of that orange-lavored
liqour Marlena likes--liked--to drink, but I wasn't paying
too much attention to that at the time.  Wish now I had.

"If you can imagine how odd it all was--I was frozen in
place with my fist still in salute.  They were aware I had
entered but neither of them dared move in any way.  And I
knew if I moved, they'd catch it out of the corner of their
gaze and BOTH of them might go for that phaser.  Marlena
was completely white faced.  At first I thought it was
simple terror, but my eyes were adjusting to the dim light
and I could see it wasn't terror, it was RAGE."

His audience lifted their eyebrows.

"Yeah, rage."  He insisted.  "Then Marlena grabs the
bottle and swings it at me.  Its in my face before I know
it, and down I go on the floor.  I can hear her screaming
something about how she can't trust me anymore than she can
trust Him, and then adds with, "I'll kill you, bitch!"

"That," Christine said levelly, "doesn't make sense even
when accounting for simple hysteria."

"No kiddin.  Spock must have heard that last part, because
the door flies open, and I see a phaser beam on KILL lance
out.  I'm not all that together thanks to the bottle
against my skull, but the next thing I know, Spock is
bending over me, giving me the light-slap to bring me
around.  There's an Officer's Dagger sunk in his upper arm
all the way to the hilt, and I think the shock of seeing
THAT brought me around more than anything else!"

"I'll kill you, bitch?"  Nyota repeated.  Her expression
mirrored Christine's.

McCoy only shrugged, helplessly.  "Sorry.  I'm not a
mindreader.  And I don't ever want to be."

Nyota summed it up:  "Weird."

Christine sighed.  "We need more information."

"That's what Camus is for."  McCoy said quietly.  "And for
better or worse, I think we're going to get it."

**     **     ** 
The dead must be protected and given a voice." 
--motto of Autopsy.com


"In revenge and in love a woman is more barbarous than
man." 
--Nietzsche 
**     **     **


"Janice Lester."  Christine said in distaste.  "Boy, do I
remember her."

Nyota peered over Christine's shoulder, breathing orchids
as she studied the screen.  There was something dreadfully
unpleasant about the woman who faced back the camera. 
Something between a supercillious smirk, and a gleam of
defense.

McCoy favored the image one glance and shuddered.  "He
sure can pick'em." He muttered.  "Not that I'm one to talk."

"How did you know her?"  Nyota asked.

"The field.  She was jilted for command when it was clear
she was psychologically unstable, so she concentrated on
xenoarchaeology." Christine was unable to stop from making
a face at the woman.  "Took offense at something Roger said
once at an astrophysics Convention, and I thought she would
take his face off.  Roger was about as offensive as...as a
multidophilus culture."

"Um, that's pretty inoffensive."  McCoy chuckled.  "But I
think we've established she was a little on the unstable
side."

"Did Kirk ever talk about her?"

"Uh, just the usual stuff.  She wanted to be Captain's
Woman, and he didn't want her to when she started acting
like she owned him."  McCoy fidgeted as he peeled the
wrapper off a candy bar.  "Rumor over in Kufe's Office has
it she gave him some kind of weapon to make him invincible,
and he dumped her right after he got it."

"Kirk's Secret Spy System?"  Christine queried.

"Fairy Tale."  Nyota dismissed the notion.  "I've heard
those rumors. Imperial technology just isn't capable of
that kind of thing."

"Imperial technology, no, but what about alien
technology?"  McCoy poked her.  "Think of the stuff we've
run into, and barely survived from!"

"Ohhh."  Nyota blinked.

"Well there must have been some reason for her to want to
kill the captain, and from what it sounds like, she spent a
long time planning it out."

"She sounded crazy."  McCoy said between the candy bar. 
"Crazy to even think she could kill Kirk, and smart enough
that she almost pulled it off. Her and Coleman."

"I couldn't find anything on him."  Christine traded a
look with Leonard that Nyota couldn't translate.

"Not a good sign."  McCoy said finally.  "Nobody's
invisible in the Empire. Did you pop a search worm in the
banks?"

Christine tapped a few keys.  "Done.  Maybe we'll find
something on him that way."

"All I know, and that's through Kirk's admittedly
prejudiced point of view, he was a colorless individual who
had dedicated his life to pleasing Lester."

Christine rubbed her tired eyes.  "Well, what say we leave
the banks running on these queries while we check out the
station itself?"

"Should we lock up?"  Nyota wondered.

After a moment's thought, everyone shook their heads. 
Anybody who'd managed to track them to Camus, wouldn't be
stopped by a few voice locks.

*     *      *

The Camus II Station was a *mess* in Chapel's opinion.

Her companions nearly burned up their helmetcomms agreeing
with her.

"This place is perfectly awful."  Awe tinged Uhura's voice
as she played her personal lightbeam over what had been the
main room of the Alien-center-turned Imperial Station. 
"It's like being inside a...cave."

She had a point.  Wires and broken fragments of conduit
and obscure parts hung from the ceiling like roots would in
a real cave; over the breathing of their filters they could
hear a slow, steady drip of something that was too sluggish
and silvery to be water, and a bluish gray mist curled up
from gaping cracks in the floor, twisting in miniscule air
currents like slow-dancing wraiths.  Temperature gauges
said "normal" meant anywhere from -30F to 214F, and right
now, it was on the colder end of things.

Behind her, McCoy cleared his throat.  He was looking the
other way, where the narrow hallway split into smaller
chambers.  "There must have been a hell of a fight in
here."  He nodded at a large black mono-lithic "thing"
dominating the main room at the furthest corner.  Odd
symbols like nothing Uhura had ever seen was cut all over
what was left of it.  "Christine, what do you make of that?"

Christine complied, leaning over her personal tricorder. 
She had redesigned some of the specs for archaeoresearch. 
"I've never seen anything like this."  She murmured.  "No
parallels with any of the old Master Races that went on
before us..."

"Doesn't that look like a phaser to you?"  McCoy nodded to
two large gaps missing in the stone-like material.  Blasted
out once on each side, it was hard to imagine what the
thing had looked like before the damage.  He stepped closer
and examined the readings on his Standard Tricorder (the
one hanging off his belt was Medical).

"My God."  He whistled.  "Blaster-disruptor fire. 
Radiations's still hot on the register.  Somebody sure as
hell wasn't taking any chances!"

"Anything else?"  Uhura had reached the large, L-shaped
computer console that was sitting like a lopsided island in
the near-center of the Main Room.

"Well, mostly what we already scanned: flurocarbons,
sulphur, fluoride, low and high spectrum deposits of
pitchblende underneath the foundations...Can't imagine
anybody building here without knowing that, so why did
they?"  He shook his head, saving the mystery for later. 
"Don't nobody breathe if you get a suit breech." He warned.
"You're better off turning a phaser on yourself.  We're
going to have to go through full decontamination when we
get back to the ship."

"How long do we want to stay out here?"  Chapel wondered.

"McCoy shrugged.  "So I'm suddenly in command?"

Uhura was standing on her toes to look at the top of the
console.  "Until we disagree, Leonard."

"Think of it as a democratic republic."  Chapel offered
her boss.

"There's nothing democratic about a republic."  McCoy
snapped.  "I say we just scout around and get a feel of the
place for a few hours.  Or I can do that, map a diagram of
the structure if you want to concentrate on something."

"I do."  Uhura grunted as she lifted the main LCD off the
top of the console.  "I'm going to check on memory
retrieval."

"On that?"  McCoy echoed Chapel's doubts.  "It looks like
somebody danced a mazurka on it!"

"You're probably right.  But short of disintegrating the
entire console, there's always SOMETHING we can find." 
Uhura puffed her breath out.  "It'll just...take a while."

"Need a hand?"  Christine stepped closer.

"That sounds wonderful."

"Ok, I'll leave you to it."  McCoy shrugged.  "I'm going
to take the tour. Keep your comms open, and let's all stay
in constant touch."

"Be careful, Leonard."  Christine cautioned.

"You too, you two."

McCoy's magnetized boots slowly clicked away, the sound
effect replaced by the clock-like drip of slimy mineral
concentration from the ceiling onto a forming stalagmite
that gleamed violet-green with fluoride mineral.  The women
didn't want to admit they suddenly felt unnerved at his
departure; humans were pack animals by nature, and it went
against the grain that one of their group was separating
for any reason in unfamiliar territory.

"Ooof."  Uhura groped and lifted up a shattered ceiling
light that had fallen onto the center of the computer bank
when a stray disruptor bolt had knocked it down.  "Well,
this is going to take a while.  I wasn't lying about that."

"Can I get you anything?"

"Galactic power?  No, seriously, I might need you to run
to the CAPIL.  This looks like a job for a lot of photonic
crystals."

"All of them?"  Christine was dismayed.  She had hoarded a
crate for her own use, and they had to do with her
specially-designed archaeological tricorder.

"Well, maaaaaaybe not all of them..."  Uhura bent and
gripped something hard and sharp through her sealed gloves.
"But I'll need at least three of the Industrial-sized ones
if I'm to rig up a halfway decent photonic data retrieval
AND relay.  And I need a tricorder with completely clean
memory banks.  Nothing written on it at all, not even
erased clean."

"You'll have to build one then."

"Good thing we've got all we need on the CAPIL."  Uhura
mimed dusting her hands off.  "This is going to take a
while."

"But you think its not impossible?"  Chapel was ready to
be impressed.

Uhura winked at her.  "Honey, this is me you're talking to."

Absurd bravado assured Christine more than any calmly
stated facts.  She relaxed and suddenly grinned.

*     *      *

Christine probably had the least interesting job of all;
she took a lot of pictures of the "monolith"--the only
overtly alien artifact they had found (McCoy reported he
had seen nothing else on his trails) and generally hung
around the console with Uhura.

Uhura was one of those lucky people who lost all track of
time once she got something interesting to work on.  Which
was exactly what happened. Christine, who was taller and a
bit stronger, played stepnfetch for her, slowly working
aside a space large enough for that theoretical clean
tricorder she would have to build when they got back to the
CAPIL.  After clearing the space in the console, she had to
CLEAN it.  Much more tedius with less impressive results. 
After a few hours had passed, she got used to hanging half-
upside down and reaching in drastic angles with a small
power-vacuum, but her ribs would be sore later.

Her comm crackled as she siphoned up a glittering mass of
broken quartz.

*Hey, how is it with you two?*  McCoy's voice came in
strong, but with an eerie effect in the background.

"Just fine, thanks."  Christine answered.  "Where are you?
The connexion's furry."

*S'the radiation.  I'm in the middle of someone's personal
rooms.  Arthur Coleman's, by the looks of it.  Man was a
messy slob.*

"Redundant grammer, Leonard."

*Thanks, mom.*

Uhura smiled at their quick bickering.

"Anything interesting?"

*Well, Coleman has a nice looking still in his
closet...laundry all over the place...some reading
material.  Want me to grab 'em?  I'm sure you've read out
all the titles on board.*

"Sarcasm, Leonard?  That's sweet of you."  Christine
chuckled evilly.

*Well on a less amusing side, I keep finding human
remains.  Three were just smears from close-range disruptor
fire.  Other seven...well they didn't die of old age."

Uhura shivered.

"Lovely."  Christine said softly.  "How long are you going
to be down there?"

*I'm on my way back up.  We need to get back to the ship
for some rest.*

"I feel fine."  Uhura protested.

*Lighter gravity, Nyota.  It'll catch up with you in a big
way if you're not careful.*  McCoy reminded her gently,
without any attitude.  *Besides, its going to take time to
put these suits and what we bring back in full decon. And
on a personal note, I'm for a bowl of something hot and
spicy with crackers floating on top."

Nyota's mouth watered at the thought.  "OK, you've
convinced me."

"And me."  Christine said quickly.  "Meet us up here,
Leonard."

*     *      *

Fatigue hit all at once as they closed the CAPIL's doors
after them. Decontamination felt like eternity.  Chapel
nearly fell asleep on her feet and was nudged awake.

Uhura knew they were all equally tired, but McCoy
permitted no arguments; the women sank into the chairs
around the small table as he pulled dinner out of the
galley.

"Venison burgu?"  Christine sounded resigned.

He glared with one eyebrow.  "I have never complained once
at your raw bars, Nurse."

"I thought you liked raw seafood."

"I do.  I just wish you'd eat something else once in a
while.  You know, experience life a bit before you get too
old to enjoy it..."

Uhura crumbled crackers over her bowl and smiled to see
the flakes of red-hot pepper in the gravy.  "So who wants
to debrief first?"

"You go."  Christine shrugged.

Nyota sipped delicately, smiled, and gave the dish a
thumbs up.  "I won't have much to report until I get the
relay program installed.  If I'm lucky, I might accomplish
that tomorrow."

"Then what?"  McCoy wondered.  He was drinking buttermilk
as if it wasn't the most godawful thing in the world.

"Then I start extrapolating data.  Contrary to what most
people think, there's always something in tapes and storage
bases.  Even if there's a total erase, I can usually find
out what nature the data was."  She leaned back and began
enjoying her dinner in earnest.  "Luckily for us, Imperial
Standard Time runs on the Crab Nebula Neutron:  30 R's per
second.  They'd be using that rule, so I'll use that when
I'm searching through the dates of the old files."

"Is there a reason why they wouldn't be using IST?" 
Christine asked.

"Not if their project was funded by the Empire."  Nyota
said emphatically.

"Huh."

"Anyway, my focus is private logs, official logs, anybody
sees anything like diaries or journals, do let me know. 
And that's all I have to report for now.  Christine?"

The tall woman reached for her coffee and shook her head. 
"Archaeoresearch is a difficult subject.  I'm aware I'm the
closest thing to an expert at this table, but all I can say
is, I recorded visuals of everything that was of obvious
alien origin and I'm hoping there were enough glyphs that
my machines can get some language."

"I didn't see anything that even remotely looked alien." 
McCoy offered. "So I guess its either in the Computer Room,
or outside where we can't see for goose."

"In rare cases, alien artifacts are destroyed after
extensive records are made of them."  Christine reported
glumly.  "It depends on the current governmental definition
of "dangerous"."

"Dandy."  McCoy began digging in his stew.  "My turn, huh?
I've got forensics.  Anybody want to trade?"

"God, no."  Christine said firmly.

"So much for liberated women."  McCoy deliberately bit
down on a whole cayenne pod and sucked his breath in
appreciatively.  Christine, whose idea of zest was to
squirt a lemon on fresh quahogs, grimaced.

"OK, I don't have many working bodies; remember the signs
of dissolved remains under the fire?  The corrosive
atmosphere is making it even harder to analyze what I got. 
Far as I can tell, it was a pretty dangerous place. The
ones in labor uniforms, I'm assuming they did most of the
physical digging and equipment maintenance?"

Chapel nodded.  "Grunts."

"Well, I caught a lot of healed fractions, and half a
huundred signs of other traumas."  He paused and frowned to
himself.

"What?"  Nyota wondered.

"Nothing...I just had a thought on something I need to
track down."  McCoy spoke vaguely, his expression turned
inward.  "Christine, are digs often dangerous?"

Christine blanched.  "Good God, Leonard!  Its one of the
reasons why the pay is so high...not that its as bad as
being a security guard for a powerful and unpopular
leader...but its close."

"Hmn."  McCoy grunted.  The faraway look was still there. 
"How long before your little computer can come up with some
translations?"

Christine sighed.  "I'm not Mr. Spock.  I can't just  rig
up one of these things with a toolbox and spare parts and a
few breadsticks.  And its been a while since I had to write
that kind of program on anything...but hopefully something
will come up in time to give us some breakfast conversation
at the table."

He gave her a nod and looked sharply when she yawned.  Of
course Nyota yawned too.

"That does it.  Both of you gwan and get some sleep.  I'll
stay up a while longer and make a basic record of our day."

Christine was about to protest, but the yawn had started
something.  She stood up and looked ruefully at the nearly
full cup of coffee.  "I guess if this can't keep me awake,
its a sign."

"No kidding."  Nyota got to her feet and stretched,
digging her hands in her spine.  "Well I'm very ready to
stretch out myself.  Bet I beat you up in the morning,
sugar."

"Not taking that bet."  Still, Chapel paused.  "You're
sure you don't need any help, Leonard?"

He smiled slightly, shaking his head, the humor not quite
reaching his eyes. "It's going to be a light night for me."
He explained obscurely.

Christine made a sign of agreement and led the way to the
bedroom cabin.

Nyota was feeling a little fuzzy-brained so she wasn't
really processing. She stood in the shower and enjoyed the
presence of highly filtered water long enough to feel
guilty and came out to find Christine shrugging into soft
cotton nightclothes.

"Just helping keep warm as long as we keep the heat down
to conserve power." Christine explained.

"I'll keep you warm, sugar."  Nyota leered at her.

The taller woman leered right back.  "If we sleep naked, I
will NEVER get out of bed in the morning.  Then Leonard
will have to come in here and wake us up, and he'll be
mortifed."

"No he won't.  He'll say something appropriately sarcastic
about how we're finally making use of our time, as opposed
to reading books."

"Ummm, you're right."

Nyota slid into a silk burgundy gown and then slid under
the covers. Christine's warm arms enveloped her and they
both sighed, relaxing and comfortable.  Nyota told the
lights to go out and they did, leaving them in a soothing
darkness.

"We've got to help him more."  Nyota finally voiced her
guilt.  "I hate that he's doing most of the shifts and
watches."

Christine was so long in answering, Nyota wondered if
she'd said something wrong again.  "Ny, Leonard's an
insomniac, its true, and he has a really rotten sleep
disorder; that's also true.  But his condition has its
compensations.  When he DOES sleep, its as if he's dead. 
If you have to wake him up, he'll get up and do what he has
to do, lie back down, and resume that trip to lala land. 
He gets more out of half an hour than most of us would in
six."

"Yeah, but he didn't look very well.  That thing about
having a 'light night.'  He was expecting those nightmares
to come back, wasn't he?"

"Leonard's got a respectable PSI rating."  Christine said
suddenly.  "How would you feel if you had that, and then
had to deal with dead bodies for most of the day?"

Nyota shivered.  "That's enough to give me nightmares."

"Better not.  Len's going to have the nightmares for all
three of us."

*    *     *

The starfield under atmosphere was clouded; only a pattern
of brightness worked its way through the radiation-laden
corona.  Tired as he was, he couldn't stop searching with
his eyes.

Planetestimals orbited Camus in a broad necklace.  Some of
them, he guessed, would soon be opened for prisoner-miners.
It was only a matter of time. The Empire was a government
of greed and the waste that went with it.

His mind was thrown back into another night not so long
ago, where the sky had been clear and sharp, the stars and
orbiting vessels bright as stars. The night Kirk had
finally gone too far and proven complacency would only get
his victims killed.

Every night when he was alone, he turned the matter of
James Tiberius Kirk over in his mind, and Spock, second. 
And every night, he only seemed to get more questions, and
no answers.

If Christine was right, there was nothing odd about the
injuries he had noted and recorded on his meditric.  But
somehow...he didn't think so.

Two men turned sadistic and growing violent despite
nothing in their psychological profiles, case histories,
even gossips that could indicate they were even capable of
such a thing.  A woman with a history of mental instability
and violence.  A lover willing to kill for his woman.  Dead
workers with *many* injuries that might not have been
inflicted in the line of duty.  And somehow, it all tied in
to Camus II.

He did not like this place.  They were on their second
week of the Waiver Leave.  In other words, they had about
40 days of search to go, 20 more to return to Andromachea. 
Kirk might find them easily before then.  He'd never been
short on guile, intelligence, or brass.  It was nothing to
him to defy High Command, and even Kufe-Soma.

Grateful he was alone, the doctor released his breath in a
long, slow sigh. Kirk thought he had him under his thumb
too afraid to move.  He'd been too busy congratulating
himself for discovering Joanna's existence to look really
further.  And why would he?  It was common enough for
fathers to hide their identities from their children if
they had enough enemies.  And enemies, McCoy had in
plentitude.  Only a few people knew who Joanna's father
was: Phillip Boyce, his own mother, now frail and aging,
Kufe-Soma, Kufe's personal security guard (her twin
sister), James Kirk, Christine Chapel, and thanks to his
confession, now Nyota Uhura.

Joanna Barstone, a young woman graciously accepted into
the ranks of the Imperial Codetalkers Society, being
trained to be useful in Gods Knew how many ways, secure
that despite her unknown lineage, she would make her way
strong and solid in the Galaxy.  She was strong and just
enough of a blend of her parents that nothing would say she
was obviously his.  He knew the foods she liked, and how
her temper could fly when she was frustrated.  When she
finished with the ICS, she would use her skills to pay her
way through nursing school.  She dated infrequently, and
knew how to protect herself. She knew twelve languages, and
six martial arts.  She just didn't know who her father was,
and she probably didn't want to know by now.  Easier to
stay away and get himself killed on the other side of the
Galactic Rim than to stay close by and watch at arm's
length.

Exactly seven people knew who Joanna's father was.

But, and James Kirk was not one of them, only three knew
who Joanna's *mother* was.

It gave him a lot of comfort.

* * * * *

The CAPIL was very quiet in the hours of artifical dawn. 
Uhura sensed that neither of her roommates wanted to speak.
Christine was trying to mark time by scrolling and re-
scrolling her gathered krypta on the alien artifact.
Leonard was just as absorbed with his own tric, only his
data had to do with dead people, not the relics they left
behind.

Nyota sipped her rooibos.  She felt *quite* useless.

Leonard glanced up from across the table at her, his blue
eyes flat and strange.  She saw him look at whatever was on
his screen, then at his newly healed wrist.  He didn't make
a sound, but his chest lifted in a sigh.

"Did you find something?"  Christine missed little.

"Yeah."  He grumbled.  "Those marks of injury on the
laborers.  Maybe some of them could have been work related.
But not all of them."  He pushed away his screen with a
disgusted face.  "I'm taking a shower."  He announced to no
one, and stalked off.

Nyota wondered if his obsessive cleanliness had to do with
his mental and emotional state.  She'd noticed that
whenever he did something that made him feel as though he'd
compromised his principles (talking to Kufe case in point),
he'd go right for the water and start scrubbing.

"This just sucks."  Nyota said, her voice a blurt out of
the blue.

"What?"  Christine stared.

That legally, the captain and Spock could do whatever they
wanted, to Leonard, or to THEM for that matter. 
"Recreational activities" were overlooked indulgently among
officers.  Only when it interferred with the safety (and
profit) of a ship, could anyone call for help.  And because
Kirk and Spock had proven themselves profitable, capable,
and a huge asset to the Empire, they had even more freedom
to power-around their crew.  That was how things were run
in the Empire.  The rights of power were manifested in more
power.

How to explain?  Nyota could only shrug.

Christine set her machine down for his.  Uhura angled, but
medical krypta was highly specialized.  You had to take
training and possess perfect pitch just to decipher the
subtle whirrs and chirps of the "salt shaker" scanners.

"What's it say?"  She poked Christine.

Christine slowly shook her head, getting her hair in her
eyes.  She brushed it out absently.  "Ritual torture.  The
man Leonard was studying...the injuries almost precisely
mirror his."

"Oh." Oh, my.

Christine was quiet for a long time.  "All the cases are
like this."  She said at last.  "The older injuries,
they're the mildest.  Small burns, cuts...but there's signs
of some dreadful stuff going on at the end.  I'm presuming
that when the victims no longer fulfilled their function,
they were killed off, or their deaths were arranged."

"Same difference."  Nyota pointed out grimly.

"Too true."  Christine sighed.

They looked at each other, while the sounds of the shower
hissed in the background.

"Do you think he's telling the truth?"  Nyota rubbed her
arms quickly.  "Do you think the captain, and maybe Mr.
Spock, picked up something here that was causing the
same...the same..."

"I don't WANT to believe him."  Christine was always curt
when deeply upset. "Every rational portion of my brain is
wanting to prove that he's cracked up under the stress and
is looking for answers in witchcraft.  But do you think he
looked maxed out on stress?"

"No, he doesn't look or act like it..."  Nyota poked her
tea.  "You said he has some psychic ability...what if
that's influencing him?"

Christine blinked.  "I hadn't thought of that."  A moment
later her expression drooped.  "No.  No, that won't work. 
He's empathic, Ny.  When he's paying attention and not
blocking himself, he can't be fooled.  He can SMELL when
somebody's lying to him or trying to trick him."

"When he's not blocking himself?"

"Well how long would you like to be like that?  Getting
drunk's the easiest for him.  Or to be so fired up on
caffeine that he can't pay much attention to anything but
what he's doing at the moment."

"But...possession?"

"It's happened before.  Look at Mira Romaine.  Or,
actually, all those other energy aliens who've found ways
to influence sacks of matter like us?"

Nyota shivered.  "What if he IS right?  I'm thinking, what
if Lester and Coleman picked up on whatever this IS, and
they went too far, tried to kill the captain, and when the
captain killed them, this theoretical possessive entity
rode home with him as the host?"

"It fits a lot."  Christine pushed plates and cups away. 
"But I don't want to swallow that just yet.  We still need
more information.  Maybe your logs will tell us something."

Nyota shrugged helplessly.  "It takes time to retrieve
data.  At least 36 more hours."

"At least?"

"At least."

Christine tried not to be depressed at that news.

*     *     *

Leonard came back out looking more human and less hag-
ridden, but Nyota didn't like the new set in his jawline.

"We're changing our tactics."  He announced without
preamble, and obviously, without objection.  "From now on,
no one splits up or does anything alone when we leave the
ship.  FULL sleep cycles.  I'm including myself in this;
Christine, you're in charge of the Somidoses.  We're all
getting plenty of rest, plenty of in-team support, and a
high protein diet.  And starting now, we're going to take
turns scanning each other for unusual brainwave activity."

Maybe he was being a little alarmist, but by all means,
they would never protest cautious measures.  Christine got
to her feet and began setting up the specs for the single
biobed on ship; it normally set in the wall like a Murphy
bed.  He sank down in his usual chair and watched while
Nyota got sick of her old, dead drink and rep'd another.

"How are the archaeological specs coming?"

"Oh, Leonard..." Christine looked disgusted.  "I know I
said we should have something to talk about over the
breakfast table, but I didn't think we'd be having
breakfast this early."

He smiled faintly.  "I hear you.  What is it, 4am?"  He
looked over his shoulder.  "0445.  Well, I'm no Vulcan."

"For which I'm grateful."  Nyota muttered.

Christine slapped the biobed.  "You first."

Leonard rolled himself on.  Nyota understood the purpose
of some of those floating graphs, but not much more.  His
heart sounded normal enough.  Too bad THAT wasn't an
indicator of demonic possession, or whatever...

For the first time, she could see the attraction in
superstition.  Its very principles were rooted in EXTREMELY
simple solutions to complex problems. Somebody possessed? 
Blow them off the map.  Somebody cast a spell on you?
Ditto.  Talk about a seductive philosophy!

Her turn.  Christine decreed they were normal, and went
over the treatment herself.  McCoy said they were all
normal but stress was physically manifesting itself in high
acid buildups, which could lead to ulcers and ruptured
capillaries in the brain if left unchecked.

"We're not going exploring today."  He ordered.  "We're
collating data. Nothing more violent."

Nyota sighed.  "I won't be doing much.  The data bars are
still in the station."

Surprisingly, McCoy snickered.  "You could always finish
decontaminating those fiction tapes I brought from
Coleman's room."

She rolled her eyes upwards.  She was getting royally sick
of his gibes about taking book tapes along with a new
romance.  On the other hand, his persistance was a good
clue as to how utterly ridiculous he thought it all.

Nyota P. Uhura, Lt. of Communications, didn't need his, or
anyone's, help, advice, input or whatever on how to conduct
a torrid affair.

"I just might do that."  She answered sweetly, her teeth
glinting like steel in her wide, wide smile.

*     *     *

Barely three days on Camus, and they already had a day
off.  Nyota was resignedly unsurprised when Christine
promptly stretched out on the lounge couch and fell asleep.
She saw Leonard scowl at her, shake his head once, and
mutter "quanked" under his breath.

Oh, no, he wasn't going to get away with that this time. 
Nyota surrepitously looked the word up.  "overpowered by
fatigue, dating back to--Great Chango, Oxal, and Dhambala
too.  Didn't the man consider the benefits of not using
language 700 years out of date??

Not a little exasperated (living with a living
etymological dictionary was without a doubt, irritating),
she looked up from the computer.  Oblivious to her
thoughts, he had retreated to the back for a regime of some
truly sadomasochistic exercises.  Being a lover of hatha
yoga and naught else when it came to activity for self
improvement, Nyota preferred to put her attention in other
places besides her CMO's sudo strikes.

All right.  Quality reading time.  Nyota defiantly went to
the stack of plastic wafers sitting in the decom box and
lited the lid.  Out of the corner of her eye she saw
Leonard pay a disbelieving look that said, "I can't believe
it."

*Sugar, don't try to dare me.*  Nyota barely kept from
sticking her tongue out at him.

YAUM ASAL, YAUM BASAL, Moroccan Poetry of Modern Times. 
Well, that looked...uh, absorbing enough.  She skimmed such
promising looking titles as, "Soapmakers of Aleppo" and,
"Apple-flavored Tobacco in the Marketplace." None of the
poets' names were even remotely familiar to her; so that
meant it was probably pretty awful.  A privately printed
title somewhere along the literary ranks of "The History of
Chewing Gum"...

*Oh, quit whining and read.*  Nyota resolutely plugged the
wafer in the computer screen.



***I love her.  I have always loved her.  Such a bright,
shimmering soul trapped in a body she despises.  How can I
convince her that the shell means nothing?  But no, too
many people have lied to her, too much damage and pain.  I
can only stand by her side, and give her what I can.  She
means everything to me.***

Nyota's mouth fell open.  This was not poetry.


*         *           *


After two hours of Dr. Arthur COleman's hidden journal,
Nyota needed a break.  Her brain felt bruised and battered
from the abuse of looking inside the mind of a very
unhealthy man.  Leonard and Christine, more used to rolling
in filthy psyches, were still reading with the same amount
of nauseated fascination.

"I can't read this anymore."  She protested.  "I can't
process."

"It's ok, take a break."  Christine insisted.  Leonard was
scribing notes left-handed with record speed, catching
observations as fast as they hit him.  It was his dubious
honor of creating a psyche profile from all of this,
although Nyota didn't see much point in micro-analyzing
which particular subspecies of "lunatic" Coleman was.

Ohhh, gods.  She rubbed her aching eyes and sank back for
some comfort food. Despite her contrary desires, bits and
pieces of Coleman's horrific lfe kept looming up, letter-
perfect, in her carefully trained memory:

***She says she cannot love me with all her heart; that it
had been given long ago by a man who betrayed her.  I told
her I understood and would continue to love her all the
same.  How could Kirk do this to her?  When I think of him
all I want is violence and death.  He sickens me.  She gave
him the Tantalus Device, and he now uses it to control his
ship with an impervious hand.***


***We cannot touch him.  If we step foot on the
ENTERPRISE, his device will detect us, and we will be one
more untraceable act of murder.  Janice obsesses over this
night and day; I cannot blame her.  I see the pain in her
eyes and want to return it to Kirk, trebled.***


***Why do I do this?  Her games with the common laborers;
psychologically they mean nothing to me.  I think of them
as dull, tiresome drudges.  But Janice enjoys toying with
them.  I see in her actions that they are nothing more than
replacements for James Kirk. Some of them even enjoy her
cruelty.  I can understand that she needs this release--***


**The shell means nothing.  Only the soul.  I would love
her no matter what form she would wear.***


***The LET performed successfully today: Tech. Bourne's
soul was easily switched inside Tech Jakob's--***

(Nyota hurridly gulped strong coffee, doing her best to
block out the minute, agonizing, horrifying details of that
seemingly simple experiment. As if switching minds in
bodies was as simple as a parcheesi game!  Coleman had not
left out.  One.  Single.  Tiny.  Detail.)


It was no wonder Leonard was calling this a "downward
spiral into mental illness."

Christine kept muttering, "Home, home on Derange."


It was 0700.

Leonard, obviously his stomache the stronger, compiled a
list of facts:


*The Life Entitiy Transfer relic was the only object left
behind on Camus. Coleman's own records indicated that the
alien species had left it behind on purpose, after the
subdued slave caste got sick and tired of being the host
bodies of the ruling, wanna-be-immortal master caste.  Bad
luck that Lester had figured how to get the thing going
again.

*Lester's sadistic tendencies had already existed in her
psyche before coming to Camus.  The small, enclosed
environment where she wielded all the power had been to her
tastes.  She must have been in ecstacy to discover and
decipher the LET.

*Coleman's profile portrayed a man who carried a lifelong
tendency to fixiate; Lester had simply become his entire
world and no one else mattered. While he did not approve of
Lester's indulgences, it went against his personal
programming to commit the treason of defying her. 
Eventually his personality adapted wholly to her wishes,
and he began "assisting" her games.

*Lester's experiments with her workers had been for a
specific purpose. James T. Kirk.

*Coleman had been very, very willing to assist her in THAT.


They sat looking at each other across the triangular
table.  Plenty of things needed to be said, and no one
wanted to say it.

"Well, here's the problem."  Leonard said at last.  "We
have proof, be it circumstantial, that Kirk DOES have a
secret weapon on his ship that's used to spy on the crew. 
And it sounds pretty damn omnipotent."

"Janice Lester was comitting about 45 acts of treason by
not reporting it to the Empire." Chapel put in.  "Kirk
walked off with it and she didn't dare report it was in his
possession.  I doubt she ever reported she had anything
like it!"  She rubbed her forehead.  "Once he accepted the
gift, he didn't dare report it either--that's reason in
itself.  I'm betting that she gave it to him, and then told
him what she'd done AFTER it was in his hands, trapping
him.  Only he out nerved her and left."

"Which means we'd best be DAMN careful before WE try to
report such a thing!"  McCoy exclaimed.  "We don't know
what the hell it looks like, or even how to begin to look
for it, and just THINKING of it fits my definition of legal
insanity!"

"I'm thinking that whatever it is, it did get messed up
inside Daystrom's M-5."  Nyota began polishing her nails,
an old trick on how to think in charged situations while
staying cool.  Sometimes, it bothered people.  One former
lover complained she was "sharpening her claws" when
certain expressions flitted over her face.  "After all, he
was too brilliant to have *two* things go wrong with his
machine.  Acquiring intelligence is one thing.  Going off
haywire is another."

"Kirk could make it to the Senate with such a device." 
McCoy had gone pale as thought after thought struck. 
"Hell, he could make Caesar so long he plays it low and
never makes it obvious.  Ohhhh, God.  The old James Kirk I
knew, he didn't want anything more than the ENTERPRISE.  It
was Marlena who kept eggin' him on to do this and that. And
this Janice Lester-thing possessing him now...on her
thumbnail psychological profile, she's more ambitious than
Georgina Weldon!"

"Who the devil is Georgina Weldon?"  Nyota demanded.

"Oh, she was a mess.  A ridiculously ambitious Victorian
woman, and equally incompetant.  Disasters far and wide
flocked to her."  Chapel shuddered. "You're right.  We've
got to do something.  Janice Lester with her hands on this
Tantalus Device, it's got to be an apocalypse brewing!"

"Hah!  You women have any IDEA how much trouble we're
in??"  McCoy smashed the table with his fist, eyes burning.
"This is something we don't dare tell anybody!  Nobody's
safe from that kind of power!  Kirk was vaguely safe with
it because he didn't want more than the autonomy of his
ship!  Now you find me just ONE person in this Galaxy who
fits THAT description!"  His color was waxing white again,
and he swallowed.  "If he finds us, we're dead as soon as
we step in the ship.  Assuming we get that far.  He'll want
to know how much we've learned from this place.  There WILL
be interrogations, if I know past history."

"Leonard," Chapel swallowed hard.  "Coleman's diaries are
very very clear. Lester preferred to take her indulgences
out on men.  Forgive me for saying so, but you have a lot
more to worry about than Nyota and me.  We'll probably just
be killed.  I don't want to THINK of what she's done to
people in the past."

"Tell me about it."  McCoy leaned back in his chair. 
"Spock."

"What?"  Nyota asked.

"Spock."  A sudden spark had hit his eyes, a glitter of
foxfire.  "Spock, or should I say, Arthur Coleman, is her
weak link.  And the only hope we have."

* * * * *

What do you mean, Spock's the weak link?"  Christine
flushed as the solution came to her.  "Oh.  He has
Coleman's personality, which is supposedly weaker than
Lester's?"

"Not just that.  Spock himself.  Think.  Can you imagine
anything controlling him against his will?"  Fired up with
his theory, McCoy was pacing.  "It took time for Lester and
Coleman's LE's to take over Kirk and Spock.  It had to be
slow and subtle, or they would have caught on.  There's
plenty of opportunities for it to have happened; nobody
knows everything that happened when Kirk left Camus II and
Spock met him.  I'm thinking that it was a simple physical
touch.  Kirk stumbles, Spock catches him--something like
that.  Coleman hitches a ride. Or maybe Lester's
personality orders him to take the next available body. She
didn't stike me as the type to share."

Deep in the privacy of his mind, McCoy unwillingly
replayed the memory of that "conversation" inside the car
on Andromachea.  Spock's reaction to his gibe, a hair-
trigger from murder, furious that a human had read him so
well. Hell, McCoy had almost accused him of treason,
implying that Spock followed his captain reluctantly. 
Vulcans considered that an insult of Biblical proportions.

*He hates obeying Kirk, but he's a Vulcan.  Until he knows
why he's in conflict, he literally can't do anything.* 
Gawd, Coleman had the perfect host in Spock, didn't he?

"Hah.  Me either."  Nyota snorted to his last spoken
comment, and he reluctantly pulled himself back to Planet
Reality.

Both women were looking at each other with mixed
expressions.  It gave his heart a sick wrench to take them
in.  They were beautiful, inside and out, and Kirk's
adapted personality had wanted them.  There had been no
mistaking the hot, hungry eyes in the dark room.  Those
eyes had said, "devour."  And conjured  images of the
forgotten, selebium-murdered corpses lying in the Camus II
station not five hundred yards from the shuttle.

Kufe had always accused him of not "playing the game" and
leaving himself vulnerable where another man could have a
hundred strings, favors, and resources to pull.  But as
he'd so often countered at her, he'd never been *good* at
making connections, or building favors.  If so, Nyota and
Christine might be safe on the Unaligned Planets now,
rebuilding a new life together.

*And me, I can't go anywhere.  Starfleet or death.* 
Joanna might not know him from a birch tree, but as long as
he was in service, there was still a chance he could see
her someday...

"I guess," Nyota said carefully, "we now know why Kirk was
making us miserable getting "Daystrom's Ghosts" out of the
computer.  It wasn't just Daystrom's stuff, it had
interferred with the Tantalus Device as well."

"Lester's obsessive toy...or weapon."  Christine agreed. 
"All that ambition.  And equally insane!"

"The Tantalus Device did more than screw up Daystrom's
computer.  It has TOTALLY BOTCHED our hopes of calling in
the cavalry."  McCoy's color kept going up, with his rising
anger, then paling as realization returned.  "Our lives
aren't worth our organ donor cards with something like
that.  Whoever comes to take care of Kirk and Spock, well,
they'll "take care" of them all right.  And the three of us
in the bargain.  No witnesses, nobody to tell any stories,
and they can sail off to wherever they want with a device
tailor-made to make a tyrant of any soldier of the Empire."

Christine muttered, "I'd be depressed if I wasn't so
terrified."

Nyota had been about to ask about Kufe, then decided that
would be very stupid.  She gave her lover a quick squeeze
on her shoulder.  "You're saying it's up to us to get
Lester and Coleman out of Kirk and Spock.  Leonard, I
*don't* see any other solution to this, but its hopeless!"

"Hopeless?  You're being optimistic!"  Chapel retorted. 
"We won't be able to get within four miles of them!  And
how could we rip out the possessive entities?"

"Maybe there's a set of instructions on the back of the
LET."  McCoy was always at his worst when his temper was
up.  Comments like that often made the crew ponder his
sanity.  Just as well; crazy CMOs were left well alone.
Look at Piper.

Chapel was used to it.  She let her hands fall to her
sides.  "Fine.  I'll check the translation-glyphs when my
tricorder finishes processing!"

"And," She added with a look at her boss sharper than raw
horseradish, "you're taking a sominol.  No sleep for over
*how* many hours, Leonard?  18? 19? I saw the acid levels
in your brain.  Get a nap in while I look over my tricorder
again."

He glared at her, briefly.  Then caved in.  "Wake me up if
*anything* shows itself."  He warned.

"I promise."  She told him softly.

She made no oaths, so only spoke in her usual quiet voice,
but it was enough for him.

"And don't sleep in one of those awful berths!"  She
called after him. "Take the captain's cabin!"

"Oh, *very* funny, Christine!  I'm going to remember
that!"  A manual-operated door rocked on its hinge.

"Huh?"  Nyota asked.

"Eeps."  Christine put her hands over her burning face. 
"I keep forgetting. He's probably *been* in that bed.  With
Kufe."

"Gods.  I can't imagine.  It'd be like sleeping with a
mugato.  Or a salt vampire.  Or a--"

"Well, Leonard would be the first person to tell you,
there was rarely any *sleeping* involved.  Oh, me."  Chapel
had, unbelievably, turned even darker.  "But yes, I think
he'd agree with your comparative values.  Let's look these
translations over."

"Ok, hon."  Nyota chuckled, taking pity on Christine.  She
didn't often get to see *that* woman blush.  It was really
rather charming.

*      *      *

They brewed medium-octane coffee, and pored over the thin
plastisheets of data, getting dessert crumbs over most of
the table as "morning" tarried on under the radioactive
clouds of Camus II.  After a suspicious glance in the back
berths, Christine confirmed Leonard was "dead to the world"
on one of those glorified slabs.  For future reference, she
warned Nytoa that incessant pacing was a warning sign that
he was about to crash like a decayed atom.

Nyota promised to keep that in mind--as well, she mentally
added, all the warning signs Leonard had told her about
*Christine.*

No archaeologist, the linguist in Nyota was quickly
enthralled at the language structure written on the broken
artifact.  It put her on even keel with Chapel, who'd had
impressive research credits racked up with Korby before
their accidental parting of ways.  Christine pointedly
never mentioned Roger except in a very objective, past-
tense kind of way.

"The sentences are short and crisp."  She showed
Christine.  "Very logical in structure.  Sort of like the
way most Native American languages are designed.  You have
male gender-specific for inanimate objects, and female
gender for animate."

"Huh, but that's only in the very oldest glyphs." 
Christine pointed to another section.  "Five hundred years
later, they have completely neuter specifics."

"Hardly surprising, isn't it?  If you can switch your mind
into another body, you can be whatever you want."

"Please.  I'm eating."  Christine defiantly picked up her
coffee cake.

"If you can handle the content of the language itself, you
shouldn't be upset at *this*."  Nyota told her.  And it was
damned true.  Most of the deciphered writing, so far, dealt
with a sickening political bushwa on the "proper way of
things" which translated to, naturally, a slave caste that
supplied young, healthy bodies to a master lord-amighty
caste that used the LET machine in a concentrated effort on
immortality.  Nyota decided that as bad as trivid
entertainment could be, she'd rather be watching a
Tellarite Group Mating than make this stuff her career.

"HERE'S a word for you."  Nyota grumbled.  "schlorich.  If
I remember my Chief Engineers right, it means "mind-
boggling mess."

"The only Scots word I know is tartle."  Christine
confessed absently.  "Not much excuse with my ancestry."

"What's tartle?"

"It's what happens when you have to introduce somebody,
and you can't remember their name."

"Oh, that's a real word?  Brilliant!  That's just
brilliant!"  Nyota guffawed--quietly.

Christine abruptly grabbed her arm and pointed to the last
page:

"The shell is nothing. The spirit is all.

A truly strong spirit can never be enslaved."

"This is obviously an add-on."  Christine tapped the
screen with a long nail.  "The style of writing is
different; cruder and a little clumsy, etched on top of
previously existing glyphs.  It's the youngest-dated
writing, about 7,000 BCEE, with almost no selebium damage. 
*And* there's nothing else written after it...I would
submit that this was left behind by one of the rebels as a
statement of triumph."

"A truly strong spirit."  Nyota murmured.  "I wonder. 
Does it mean that someone can...expel an invading spirit?"

"Well, it does sound like it, doesn't it?"  Christine
leaned back, sticking her stylus behind her hair (and
holding her hair up out of her eyes.)  "I'm no real expert
on exorcism, but I seem to remember, at least in the
horrible old vids, the key to driving out demons and hungry
ghosts is to force them to admit they don't belong."

"Maybe there's a way to chemically stack the odds in our
favor.  Some agent or blocker."

"Now that's a thought!"  Christine's blue eyes gleamed
with more life than Nyota had seen in days.  "Nyota, you're
not just gorgeous.  You're brilliant!"

"Tell me something I don't know."  Nyota chuckled deep in
her throat, her lips vibrating against Christine's earlobe.

"Go wake Leonard up.  I'll re-page this."


*     *      *


"Ummmm."  McCoy was one of those people who woke up slowly
under Sominols. He listened with barely a grunt as they
filled him in.  Occasional sips of coffee proved he was
capable of motor control.

"Ok, here's what we gotta deal with."  McCoy reached for
the sugar and began making his newest cup of coffee, thick
as mud, and probably about as healthy.  "The brain is an
entity in itself; it "recognizes" or reorganizes, itself
constantly throughout life.  At least, if you're healthy. 
I don't think its much of a linguistic stretch to call Kirk
and Spock, mentally unbalanced."

"No arguments there!"  Nyota exclaimed.

"Synaptically lopsided."  Christine muttered, and got a
poke for her pains.

"Schizophrenia."  McCoy muttered under his breath.  His
eyes had "that look" again.

"Schizophrenia?"  Christine blinked.  "There hasn't been a
case of that in nearly 200 years."

"What's schizophrenia?"  Nyota went ahead and admitted her
ignorance, getting that over with.

"It's an ancient form of mental illness."  Christine
explained as Leonard leaned back and stuck his boots up on
the counter-rim.  "If you can imagine a human developing
more than one personality, and the personalities aren't
always aware of each other..."

"Are you serious??"  Nyota gaped.  "Multiple
personalities, like the Subdivided Species have?"

"Totally.  It caused all kinds of problems for millenia." 
McCoy was glum. "Some societies accepted some forms of the
illness and there were very little problems with it.  For
example, Kali Ma was the split personality of a gentler
goddess when her people were placed under demonic attack. 
But mostly, what people thought was possession, was a
divided personality, or, worse yet, an unforseen physical
cause for some really awful things. Somebody takes a walk
in the woods and an oak tree tells them to sacrifice their
child.  Or they see people that aren't there at all,
stalking them. Like a bad chemical "trip" their brains get
so confused they can extrapolate false data from any of
their senses.  Just finding a legal definition of reality
vs. consensual reality wasn't settled until DECADES after
the Eugenics Wars."

"And that was just the definition.  Finding the solution
happened almost overnight.  It had been around for
centuries, but nobody had actually been paying attention." 
Christine toyed with her cake, no longer hungry.

"Nonstop warfare tends to do that to medical research." 
McCoy offered bitterly.  "We can do wonderful things with
biological germs, virus-bodies and prions, but keep a clean
desk and take notes?  Hah."  To spare Nyota further
bafflement, he explained: "Almost by accident, we learned
schizophrenia can be treated by angiogenesis."

""Almost by accident..." Too right."  Christine rolled her
blue eyes upwards.

"Once they learned how to master angiogenetic drugs, most
physically-enacted mental illnesses became obsolete." 
McCoy suddenly yawned.  "Sorry...oh, hell."  He yawned
again.

"Angiogenesis?  That's the growth of capillaries in the
body."  Nyota was confused.  "What does that have to do
with schizophrenia?"

"Not too much, in itself."  Christine smiled wryly. 
"Angiogenesis is actually the formation of NEW blood
vessels.  If you get too much of it, say, in your retina,
you can easily go blind.  And it can happen without any
design; you never know how or when, but suddenly new blood
vessels will begin to form.  Most physicians are qualified
to instigate or inhibit angiogenesis to treat disorders. 
Such as, starve tumors, increase circulation, prevent blood
clots...before they started using the inhibitor-drugs,
people were actually using radiation and chemotherapy to
get rid of tumors."

"Barbaric."

McCoy snorted drowsily.  "I'll show ya barbaric.  Read
your agonizer manual: "Prevention of incipient frostbite,
lowest setting uses of.""

"ANYway," Christine struggled not to get sidetracked. 
"Angiogenetic inhibitors were gradually discovered to be
useful for other things; neovastat, a naturally occurring
inhibitor was found to have a range of properties besides
targeting cancers of the nonsmall cells.  It was soon
noticed that it eased schizophrenia."

"You think we can use neovastat to cure Kirk and Spock?"

"I doubt it'd be as simple as "cure."  Despite a nearly-
toxic intake of genuine coffee bean, McCoy was still
yawning.  He leaned his head in his hands.  "It isn't one
of those zap, wowee instacures they advertise on the
Medical Channel.  It has to be absorbed into the
bloodstream, and then on to the brain."

"So how long are we talking?"  Nyota demanded.  "A full
day?  Two?  Three?"

"At least a week."  Christine said for Leonard.

"A week!"  Nyota was disheartened to say the least. 
"That's a real problem!"

"No, our real problem is administering the neovastat in a
way that won't arouse any suspicions."  Christine grabbed
her stylus and promptly began making scribbles on her padd
with it.  Leonard looked away, unable to stand witness to
such a useless activity.  "It'd be easy enough to flood the
ship with it; its harmless.  No security camera could pick
it up."

"None of the organoleptic sensors in the ship's security
system *would* pick it up."  McCoy shrugged.  "It's already
in most people's brains.  But I betcha if I scanned two
certain men, they'd be remarkably low in it!"

Christine hesitated.  "Is Spock's brain chemistry that
much like ours?"

"HIS is."

"Mnph."  She began tapping with her stylus.  "We're
speculating in the dark, you know."

"I know.  LORD, I know."

"Ok, it's not a brilliant plan, it's just only the plan
we've got.  And we're running out of time."  Nyota wet her
lips.  "So now what?"

"Figure out some way to expose them with neovastat." 
McCoy shrugged bluntly.  "And if that doesn't work, think
of something else."

"Gee, is that all?"  Christine snorted depressively.

"I say we just go back."  Nyota blurted.  She of course
got an instant incredulous audience.  "Well?  Hide in plain
sight!"

"Just how do we do that?"  Christine wondered.

"If we returned to Andromachea now, we'd still have some
leave time.  I say we do that, and act like our much-wanted
shore leave was spoiled by Admiral Kufe's orders.  If Kirk
wants to know what we were sent out for, we smile and say
that Admiral Kufe wanted us to..."  Nyota thought fast. 
"Something that would make Lester very very paranoid.  What
if she thought we went to Camus to re-evaluate data on the
"artifact" because Kufe thought she found another artifact
just like it somewhere else in the Galaxy?"

"...ohhhh..."  Leonard's jaw had fallen down.  "Nyota,
that's mean, that's sneaky, and that's completely devious. 
You have a KNACK for this kind of thing!"

"And we can remain as ignorant as we want."  Christine
took to the notion easily.  "Complain bitterly the whole
way about our lost leave."

"Hold it.  How are we going to make all this believeable?"

"Talk to Kufe."  McCoy closed his eyes.  "Again.  I'll ask
her to cover for us, we get our stories straight, bingo."

"What are you going to tell her?"  Christine suddenly
frowned.

He fixed her with a glacial eye.  "Neither of you need to
know that.  In fact, as far as you're concerned, you're on
this wretched mission on my orders."

Nyota opened her mouth for a protest--so did Christine--
and all thoughts of grand speeches about women's lib and
anachronistic, misplaced chivalry dried up and died. 
Leonard wasn't really expecting to walk away from this
alive; maybe he hadn't from the very beginning.  But he was
covering their trails so one or the other could do what was
necessary to free the captain and Spock from their
parasites.

* * * * *

McCoy always figured dignity was a rare commodity in his
world, and it was a good idea to conserve it at every
opportunity.  Re: conversations with ex.

Kufe heard him out without a single comment, noise, or
flicker of expression over the twice-scrambled channel. 
That unnerving mannerism meant she was taking what he said
100% seriously.  Maybe later she'd pull out the claws and
use him for a whetstone, but for now, business came first.

"I'm glad this is shielded."  She said at last.  "Of
course, there are those who would think this entire story
is a cordrazine flashback."

"Thanks a lot."  He said without thinking.  Kufe knew of
that malfunctioning hypo--Dr. Piper's last claim to fame
before his AMO took him off the food chain.

She smiled briefly with her snow-white teeth, still
leaning her chin in her hands.  "Ummm...I don't know how
plausible your "rescue effort" is, since I'm no medic.  But
the three of you are willing to go for this, and I KNOW you
aren't going to lie to me.  More your style not to tell me
something I might want to know."

Years of training kept any expression from betraying him.

"So."  Kufe pursed her lips, thinking.  "I think it would
be good if we gave Kirk...or, Lester-Kirk, a good shock. 
Don't you?"

"What kind of shock?"  Kufe's idea of shocking people
could cause some to die of fright.  She especially
preferred large, aggressive snakes that spat venom, and 30-
ft alligators cranked up on mating hormones.

"I'm going to directly beam him.  Tell him that I had to
borrow you and two helpers for a private mission."  Kufe's
razor-sharp mind was already grasping the points that had
taken the CAPIL'S crew days to come to.  "When of course,
he fishes for information, I'll let him know that I had a
rumor there was a deadly relic left behind at Camus II. 
You of course, destroyed it on my orders to be on the safe
side."  Her obsidian eyes chilled.  "I mean it.  Destroy
that thing.  I don't care what you tell Kirk at this point,
but I don't want more than two molecules sticking together
when you leave Camus."

"No argument at all."  He said fervently.

"He'll want to know why I didn't call him, of course." 
She added.  "This is the part you won't like, Melungeon. 
I'm going to tell him that the last time I sent him down
there, he killed people I didn't want dead.  I'm going to
tell him in no uncertain terms that you can follow orders
better than he can."

McCoy nodded silently.  It was a perfect, if grisly ploy. 
Lester's persecution complex (well documented in
excruciating detail) would come out swinging, combined with
Kirk's natural defensiveness and pride.  Together, the
being that was the ENTERPRISE captain would be so busy
being infuriated at Leonard, there'd be no, or minimal
attention being paid to anything else; somewhere Kirk would
leave the field wide open for a nice, ship-wide flooding of
neovastat.

Kufe was looking at him with as much sympathy as she was
capable of.

He gallows-grinned at her.  "Oh, well.  I leave it to you
to bring him to a foaming rage.  Don't let me down now."

Kufe snorted.  "Have I ever given you cause to doubt?  But
seriously, I'm going to be *watching* that ship, boy.  Kirk
probably won't kill you--"

"*Kirk* probably wouldn't."  He corrected her.

"My mistake.  Just watch out for Lester.  I'll do what I
can to make sure you stay alive.  From what you tell me,
she'll find something to hang you on, and then try to sell
me a load of goods.  And then," Kufe added in a voice of
ice and eyes of diamonds, "I'd just have to kill her.  And
her friend.  We'll see how Sulu makes captain."

"Sulu as captain is three of the ten reasons why I'm
trying to salvage Kirk!"  Leonard protested.

"I know.  But that's a promise.  Just make sure Sulu
doesn't *make* captain, hmn?"


Long after that miserable communique had switched off,
Leonard remained sitting stock-still at the dead terminal. 
Dead terminal.  Wasn't that bad grammar?  Oh, well.  He was
just trying to put his mind off the all too near future.

His reflection threw back at him on the shielded glass:
getting too thin, eyes starting to show far too much.  The
wiry boy who picked up bulls on his shoulders for tourist-
money had somehow become a hard-bitten, jaded man who was
never anything more than awkward and clumsy in a uniform he
hated to wear.  A man who for practicality's sake, had been
taught since childhood to hide as much of himself as he
could.  Chameleons were the only pacifists that could
survive, but he wasn't much of a chameleon.  He wasn't much
of anything, if you liked to stick people in nice, neat,
rigid labels.

God, what had the Empire fallen to?  Every once in a
while, that despairing wonder hit him with power enough to
shake his marrow.  To hear the old timers talk, and to
study history, things hadn't started getting really bad
until a few years before he was born.  And compared to now,
his childhood was paradise.  Had so many people wanted to
degenerate into this semi-respectable form of anarchy?  He
feared things would get worse before they got better.  Look
at assassinations.  Bad enough that they were rife, but at
least people took pride in doing their own work, seeing it
as cowardice to have someone else kill for you.  Kirk might
order entire cities leveled by phaser, but he never failed
to take responsibility for it.  What if the Contractor's
Guild rose in power again? Talk about a nightmare.  His
mind shied from the thought.

Kufe never wasted time.  By now she would be having Lester-
Kirk strangling on his own rage and frantically trying to
think of a way out of the land mine of paranoia she'd sown.
By the time they returned to Andromachea, things ought to
be...very interesting.

***

Christine's skills at maintaining co-pilot were good
enough that McCoy was making her help him instead of Uhura.
Uhura was glad for the break.  She was also champing down
her nerves as the Andromachean System came into view.

She had decided she hated Admiral Kufe.  The word-puzzles
she favored were a unique form of punishment.  The kind of
reading material you might find in hell.

"Leonard, what's a five-letter word for ten Irishmen?" 
She called forward.

Leonard glanced up from his latest piloting course with
Christine. "F-I-G-H-T."

"Oh, cute."

"Try it."

She did.  It fit.

"OK," she squared her shoulders.  "What's a five letter
word for ten Georgians?  You've got to know that one."

The doctor snorted.  "B-A-R-B-Q."  At her expression, he
openly laughed. "You never heard that proverb, huh?"

"No."

"What do you get when you have ten Irish-Georgians?" 
Christine muttered. She was trying to practice the x2y2z2
spherical co-ordinants in her head.

"A barbecue with a *lot* of deliberately bruised shins at
the hoedown."  He shot back.  "Here we go.  Ny, you ready
for the hailing frequency?"

Relieved, Nyota got up and quickly replaced Chapel.  "So
now it starts."

***

Andromachea never changed, Nyota thought.  It always
hummed with life and movement, the way cells bumped along
the highways of blood vessels.

After so much time in silence, and putting up with only
two other people, the planet was bewildering.  She winced
at the bright light, and the attack of odors.

"Whew."  Christine must have been thinking the same thing.
"Now what?"

"Y'all go on."  McCoy rested his hand on her shoulder with
a quick grin. "If I can, I'll hook up with you later."

"But how do we find you?"

He lowered one brow.  "You don't."  He murmured.  "Trust
me."

"Ok...talk to you later, when we get back on ship.  I
guess..."  Christine shrugged a little awkwardly, finding
it hard to look him in the eye.

He didn't press her.  "S'ok.  Have fun with your lady-
love.  And try to eat something besides something with
gills or siphoning teeth, ok?"

"Hmph."  Christine rolled her eyes,, trying like hell not
to be nervous. "I'll remember that on your birthday."

"C'mon, let's get back to the hotel room."  Uhura tugged
with a sigh.  "I want to get the smell of recycled air of
my skin, out of my clothes, out of my hair..."

Christine let herself be towed away into the crowd.  But
as soon as she could, she glanced back to where she'd last
seen McCoy.  He was already gone, swallowed up in the
milling crowd.

* * * * * 

McCoy scanned the boiling crowd uneasily, looking for
anything out of line or suspicious.  Just because someone
was on Andromachea...

Uhura and Chapel's departure had been a relief; they might
be grown women, but they were still innocent.  Of course
they would deny *any* kind of ignorance at how the Galaxy
ran itself, but Leonard couldn't forget the shock in Ny's
face to see the bruises on his wrists those weeks ago in
the main marketplace.

Likewise, Chapel's horror when she fixed him up from Kirk-
Lester never got numb, never ended.  Each time she helped
him, he saw the same emotions.

If true disillusion ever came to their eyes, he'd feel
their loss as if it were his own, reliving his own fall
from higher beliefs.

Aliens and native bodies jostled easily as he threaded
through the refurbished hanger; in its heyday it had even
been used for early aircraft, but now was little more than
a public transportation relay and whatever small vending
stalls the dealers could stick in.  And he was being
trailed. It was that familiar knowing in the back of his
neck that, once experienced, was never lost.

What really stuck in the craw was knowing he couldn't
really react to what his own senses were telling him. 
Fighting the first threads of adrenaline, he abruptly
marched to the right, hoping to avoid the majority of the
life around.

*here...we...go...*

Here the alleyways were narrow; clean yellow sand streaked
ochre from a recent rain.  McCoy navigated shallow puddles
that steamed with insect larvae and reflected lime-green
patches of sky.  He nodded at the obesience of a passing
beggar wrapped in black rags.  The man's stench was strong
in the humid air, and the doctor hurridly stepped away. 
Just as he was leaving McCoy's line of vision, however,
there was a clutching movement to the side.

Burning fire lanced out; a phaser beam on KILL glanced at
his head, struck barely at the bricklike wall to his left. 
The aftershock struck him in a wave of radiant heat; its
force pummelled his body like a tennis ball off his feet
and into the opposite wall of the narrow alleyway.  Green
sky spun crazed wheels, then the damp yellow sand of the
earth struck down hard.

***

Spock barely refrained from "Kroykah!"  As Sorv aimed his
own weapon at the assassin.  But Sorv knew his work; a
heavy stun beam struck the grizzled beggar full in the
chest.  Rags flapped; an oily odor of Kalar sweat rose up,
activated by the energy weapon.  Like a broken bird the man
flopped in a steaming rainpuddle that grew rancid and muddy.

Sorv promptly stepped to the side, weapon up, body tilted
backwards to cover Spock's trail.  Sakar and Sond formed a
wedge and marched forward, ready to strike at any target or
be a target to decoy from Spock.

Spock followed crisply, apprehension settling his dark
face as something seemed amiss about the black-clad body.

Sakar knelt swiftly, made a quick diagnosis.  "Dead, sir. 
A Capsule."  He turned the limp head; it lolled, revealing
a blackened hole in the temple where the phaser beam had
activated a sensitive bomb.

Spock's lips tightened in displeasure.  At least, he could
tell the captain there was no doubt that *someone* was
after McCoy, and possibly Uhura and Chapel for performing
the Admiral's work.

Leaving the body, he stepped over the shallow pool to the
doctor.  McCoy had seen his killer just in time to avoid
the killing nimbus.  The side of his face and neck that had
been closest exposed to the phaser blast was red from the
radiation burn.  It would need medical treatment, and
quickly.

At a curt nod, Sakar slapped an appropriate kit in his
hand.  Spock was counting the time by the half-second now,
judging the possibility of further assassins, or if they
had been seen.  He sprayed the burnt tissue with a regen
spray, and set back on his heels to wait for a reaction. 
When there was none, he pressed a frostpack against the
temples.

"Doctor?  Can you hear me?"

McCoy's fingers twitched, thumb pressing inside the palm;
"yes" in military sign.

Spock exhaled as the human's eyes fought to open.

Sorv glanced once to each side, verifying they were alone.
With a press of a palm phaser, the corpse ceased to exist. 
Within the hour, the dissolved molecules would be dispersed
into the air and atmosphere, impossible to trace,
impossible to prove.

Kufe was good at what she did because she understood
people on an ultimate level.  McCoy was used to her ways,
and he knew damn well the man Spock's guards had just
killed had been sent on this suicide mission to further
confuse Kirk and Spock from the truth.

It was one reason why he'd been so grateful to get away,
he mused bitterly as the icepack bore down on his aching
forehead.  After seeing people willingly volunteer to go on
these suicide missions for her, just because she knew the
price of their loyalty and would pay it...

Get away?  He asked himself.  There was no getting away
from Kufe-Soma.  Not unless one was dead.  Permitting him
to join active duty on a dangerous ship where he could be
killed of had been her kindest possible act.

Around him, quick orders were being snapped in the
whispering dialect Vulcans employed when they didn't want
to be heard.  To his human ears, it was like a dry wind
whistling through an endless desert of looped and holed
stones, leafless sagebrush and cactus.  Too-hot hands
cautiously slipped underneath him, and he closed his eyes
at the sensation of being lifted.  A straight line of shade
fell over his skin, and the cool tingle of the transporter
took consciousness away.

***

Incapacitated in the extreme by the fake attempt on his
life (one thing about people on suicide missions, they
strove for realism!), McCoy simply laid there and didn't
feel any keen interest in his surroundings.  Spock was
frowning as deeply as a self-respecting Vulcan was capable
of.

"Doctor, do you know where Lieutenants Uhura and Chapel
are?"

McCoy decided now was as good a time as any to start the
game.  "Decoy."  He managed.

"Decoy."  Spock repeated.  "In what way?"

"Should be...in Kufe's office by now."  The blue eyes
closed again, resting.

Spock considered.  McCoy then, had been the decoy.  Either
he was protecting females with his anachronistic beliefs
again, or the women had something Kufe wanted.

"The captain wants a full report."  He said finally. 
There were too many factors to consider; only further
information would help him discern useful information from
the useless.

"He'll get it."  McCoy said simply, and let the fatigue
take over.  As he slipped into a noncommunicative state, he
used the quiet to ponder the Admiral's dark threat.  It
hadn't been the first time she'd hinted that there were
other agents on the ENTERPRISE besides himself.  And it was
smart that McCoy didn't know who the hell they were.  But
he sure wished he knew now, because it was now up to Ny and
Christine.  His help was nearly over, and that was going to
involve doing what he did best.  Stall for time.

* * * * *

Using a bluntness of language Nyota had never heard from
Christine, the nurse requested they beamup at the medical
transporter, telling the bored tech on duty she was weighed
down with a lot of stuff for the Sickbay.

Tech Danticat, who was as no-fuss, no-muss as one could
get and still be Jamaican, made no protest, and complied
with a rather bored acknowledgement over the beam.

Christine caught Nyota's curious glance as she flipped the
comm shut.

"Saves time."  She explained tightly.  "I don't want to
wade through senior officers and salutes."

"No doubt."  Nyota agreed, and the tingling pull of the
transporter carried them away.

***

His head was really hurting him.

Dispersal-range energy beams tended to leave lingering
effects on even its mildest victims.  Stunning one's
electrical system was simply not a safe everyday policy. 
Spock manged to shoot him full of a vitamin and electrolye
complex before they met Kirk in the private briefing room. 
By then, McCoy's head was starting to clear of the angry
wasp-nest.  He only hoped there was enough residue in the
blast that sticking him to the lie detector would be
impractical.  One could tell whoppers with impunity, with a
subdued nervous system.

Spock satisfied that worry by letting that be the first
thing he greeted the captain with.

"Well, that's all right."  Kirk's--Lester's--gemstone eyes
glinted over not just McCoy, but Spock too.  "If
something's askew we'll ask again...later."

Worlds of promise in THAT tone.

***

Uhura followed somewhat meekly behind Christine as the
taller woman led the way to the main storage of Sickbay.  A
few medicos flicked off rapidfire salutes but otherwise
paid no attention to them.  This was hardly SOP for her own
department.

"I didn't know Sickbay was...so efficient."  She murmured.

Christine grinned.  "Everybody knows what they have to
do."  She explained succintly.  "Leonard's down on some
horrible planet, patching up somebody in the line of duty
half the time, so we're used to doing without him during
that time."

She grunted as a box of what looked like nothing so much
as a beige spongey material was yanked off the shelf.  The
soft-looking surface even gave like a sponge would.  Chapel
gripped and pulled sharply, getting the lid off to show
another box of blue metal.

"We keep neovastat in bulk."  She explained.  "We use it
so rarely, but when we do..."  Chapel lifted the second box
out, carelessly dropping the outer one, which bounced
lightly at her boots.  "Huh."  Her long fingers slid over
the narrow liquid-crystal gauge on the side.  "I thought we
had more than that."

"Is that enough?"  Nyota was beginning to break into a
cold sweat.

"Oh, of course.  I just had it in my head that we had a
new supply.  It's nothing."  She went to the lab table with
a shrug.  "Come on, you can give me a hand..."

"You're sure this won't show up in the sensors?"

"I'm sure."  Christine chuckled softly.  "It's as
innocuous as cheap perfume."

***

"So there's another settlement that matches the one on
Camus II?"

McCoy opened his hands, watching Kirk (apparantly
absently) clean his Officer's Dagger with a clean cloth. 
"I have no idea.  We were just told to take pictures and
level the research station to the ground."

"So you were in demolition too?"  Kirk's lips went up. 
"That's funny to think about.  It doesn't seem as though
Kufe told you much."

"She never does.  She never did."  THAT was pure honesty
right there, and it rang in his voice.

Kirk's--Lester's--eyebrow popped up.  "Well it was an
extremely unpleasant conversation we had with her, if you
must know.  And you grew up with her?" He shook his head in
mild wonder.  "But why would someone be wanting to kill you
for this?"

Leonard felt himself turn green at the thought of the man
Kufe had sacrificed for the sake of a reliable story.  She
had a habit of finding people who either were terminal, or
under sentence, and paying them well for one last mission.

"Just working for Kufe would be enough."  He stuck to the
truth as much as possible.  "It happened all the time when
I was *directly* in service with her."

"I do *not* envy you."  Kirk declared, pointing with his
daggertip.  "Why in the world did you ever agree to work
with her?"

"It's not like I had a choice."  McCoy pointed out, still
being very honest. "I've had to ever since I started
treating her for anemia.  When the laws against genetic
augmentation were adapted for hereditary disease, I was off
the hook."

"Hmn.  What kind of anemia?"  Kirk was always curious
about another's weakness.  Any weakness.

"It's a rare form of sickle-cell..."

Spock had been listening in silence the whole time.  Then,
behind Kirk's shoulder, he appeared to freeze in place. 
His eyes widened.  Kirk faltered, a frown creasing his face.

McCoy held his breath, breath caught on the details of
Duffy's Antigen and the treatment thereof.

*Too soon.*  He thought.  *Unless...they only needed a
fraction of the neovastat we calculated...*  No, that
wasn't possible.  Something else had to be happening...

"Captain?"  He murmured.

Kirk's mouth opened.  His skin went dark as an inner
turmoil began to play under his skin.  Spock's lean
features were dawning with astonishment...and rage.

The doctor had only thought he'd seen Spock truly angry
before.  The reality was quite different.  There was no
name for the degree of loathing that crossed the Vulcan's
features.  Spock's sense of self had been
violated...repeatedly...and he had not been aware of it
until now.

"Spock?"  Kirk whispered.  Wonder and shock colored his
voice, made him younger, took the hard edge that had been
with him for so long.  McCoy's throat went dry at the sight
of Lester's personality fading away from him. He'd not
known it was possible to...to *see* another entity so
clearly.  But as Lester wavered, Kirk waned.  And when Kirk
grew stronger, so did his very aura.

"Fight it, Jim."  McCoy heard himself snap.  "Get her out
of your skin!"

He hadn't spoken to James Kirk like that since the other
had been a frightened boy on his medical ship.  It had
gotten results then.  It did now.

"Spock!"  Kirk grabbed at his face.  "Coleman!"  Lester
flickered over the pale face, was gone.  "Spock--get him
out of you!"

McCoy was forced to conceed the impossible.  The neovastat-
-or something--was exorcising the possessed.

***

Officer's Mess was usually empty this late at night.  And
the pancakes were harmless.  Nyota punched up a huge plate
with strawberries for herself; Chapel took a blackberry
syrup.

"What kind?"

"Buckwheat."

"Don't you always get buckwheat?"

"I can't stand buttermilk, Christine.  And if you're going
to live with me, you're not going to bring it anywhere near
me."

"I'm living with you?  why don't you live with me?"

"Is this room taken?"

They looked up at the doctor's tired voice.  He looked
like he sounded.

"Sure.  Have some sugar and carbohydrates."

"No, no thank you."  McCoy sank into a nearby chair and
leaned back for a moment.  He was back in his uniform and
moved awkwardly.  Nyota thought how at ease he had been
offship and thought he was *really* unsuited to the
military life if it affected him on that level.

"You *look* alive...How's it going?"

"Believe it or not, the neovastat already kicked in."

"It did?"  Christine's voice went up to a minor squawk. 
She stopped cold. "Did it work?"  She whispered.

"Like a...like a charm."  McCoy sounded anything but
thrilled.  Maybe he was too tired.

"Well...how are they?"  Nyota asked.  She was holding
Christine's hand across the table.

"Better."  McCoy smiled a little to see the display of
affection.  "It's going to take some time for them to get
back to the officers we remember..." He hesitated a moment,
then plunged ahead.  "I gave'm a piece of my mind. Pointed
out this never would have gotten so far if they had let
more people trust them."

"That's true, but I wouldn't have said anything."  Nyota
confessed.

"Don't have to, I guess.  We stuck our necks out.  They'll
never mention it, but I doubt they'll hesitate to ask for
our help the next time they need it."  McCoy added grimly. 
"But what I said, I had to say."

Nyota held her breath.  She'd ask this, to close a
chapter, then never delve again.  "Was it Spock and Kirk
that hurt you, or was it Lester and Coleman?"

He regarded her, and Christine, in silence for a long
minute, his gaze never blinking.

"It was Lester and Coleman."  He said finally.


***

Floating Jungles, Rigel Luxury Moon

For reasons that were very obvious to himself, McCoy was
celebrating this offtime alone.

It was night, and the greenery around the small deck of
the rental property was choked with explosive blooms.  The
doctor had mixed feelings about the ensemble: this floating
space station-resort was the closest thing to the wilds he
could get to for now, but genetically tinkered plants never
left him feeling all that good. The vine that stretched
across the rail had four different blooms on its woody
stalks.

He was listening to the sounds of imported nightlife and
sipping a hot latte when an all too familiar figure stepped
out of nowhere and back into his life.

*Bad as a plat-eye creepin' out of the swamp.* he mused
darkly.  *And I think I'd prefer a mythical nightstalker.*

"Not a bad place."  Admiral Kufe-Soma commented, her jet-
black eyes sweeping around the controlled jungle.

"Not bad, considering it was managed at the last minute." 
The doctor agreed blandly.  "Want a drink?"

"Aren't you going to say hello?"

"You didn't.  Why should I?"

Kufe laughed, an oddly soft sound.  Her boots clicked on
the planks of the deck.  "Really isn't bad.  Probably about
as close to home as you can get without Alpha-C."

"Alpha C's expensive this time of year."  He reminded
without rancor.  She folded neatly into the only other
chair as if it had been placed for her use.  "How's it
going?"

"You mean, why am I here."

"I doubt its to discuss visitation rights."

"You're right."  She agreed.  There was a slight layer of
frost on the civility present; McCoy blamed her ambition
for making it too dangerous for Joanna to know either
parent.  Kufe felt her position of power ensured the girl
would have the best life had to offer, and being an
apparant orphan was a small price to pay for that
priviledge.  Kufe won because of her stripes.

The Admiral propped her feet up against the rail.  "I
wanted to know how the captain and Vulcan are doing."

"They've recovered.  A whole damn year ago."  He said
curtly.  "You know that.  Or your little spies should have
told you."

"I'm not interested in the view of anyone but the CMO." 
Kufe said curtly.

McCoy set his drink down.  He too, leaned back, and Kufe
knew that look well.  "I can tell you whatever you want to
hear, Admiral."

"I want to know if Lester will ever come back."

Relieved to be asked a simple question, he shook his head
violently.  "They didn't take chances.  Brought in some
Vulcan adepts to make sure of that."

"That's what I'd heard.  But are *you* convinced?"

"Yes."  He said quietly.

Kufe re-leaned back in her chair, the sharp heels 
glinting in the artifical night-light.  "So long as you're
sure."  She drummed her long fingers on her bare arm. 
McCoy thought she looked like a leopard.

"As sure as I can be for someone who doesn't really know
what's going on." He said sourly.

Possibly she smelled what was coming.  She glared at him. 
"What are you talking about?"

"Well, gosh, it's just the darndest thing.  We risk our
necks to get back to the Enterprise to flood the air with
the neovastat...only...that stuff sure did take effect
*fast*, y'know?"  McCoy's drawl had turned dangerous.  His
blue eyes were slitted lasers as he rubbed his chin.  "Here
we were pretty damn sure it'd take at least a week.  But It
didn't.  It happened almost as soon as the ladies beamed
aboard.  Now, taken one way, it sure looks like we were
responsible for pulling those entities out of Kirk and
Spock.  And we've graciously taken all the commendations
and awards for it.  But we didn't do a damn thing.  You
were stacking your cards again, Admiral.  Somebody on my
staff is working for you, right?  And they flooded the
vents with the neo long before we ever got back.  Christine
said our supply was awfully light, but I convinced'em it
wasn't."

Kufe didn't deny it.  Or admit he'd covered her trail.  "I
prefer things my own way."

"I think I deserve an explanation.  Even a lame one." 
After all, if things had gone askew, he'd be just like that
poor bastard Spock had shot down in the Andromachean
alleyway.

The air chilled around them.

"Or do you have to get one?  I've known you all my life,
Kufe.  Known you back when you were stockpilin' rifles for
your daddy in the swamp.  It's *just like you* to have
signed off your comm with me and gone straight to whoever's
working for you on the ship, have them flood the air with
the stuff.  That way if we get caught, we might get
sacrificed, but Kirk is still...salvaged."

Kufe only shrugged.  "It was acceptable."

"You must have big plans for him."  McCoy said finally. 
Very softly.  "I could almost pity him.  But...he's got the
edge you need."

"He could be Caesar someday."

"If he wants to.  Good luck prybaring-him off the ship." 
McCoy's eyes were hard.  "You take him off the ENTERPRISE,
and he'll die.  That quality you're looking for won't
survive that level of ambition."

Marlena, ironically, had been the one to pin high hopes on
her lover.  Kirk had enjoyed autonomy as much as his ship. 
And now Marlena was dead and he had no one he had to please
on anything...

"Don't judge others by yourself."  Kufe spoke patiently. 
"Just because you couldn't handle command doesn't mean he
can't."

The blow cut low.  McCoy froze for a moment.  Long
practice kept his poise and he coolly lifted his drink up
again.  "Yeah, I know.  I couldn't take it, and I didn't
want to be your puppet, and you've been punishing me for it
ever since."  He shook his head.  "Beats me why you thought
a physician could get high in the ranks."  Kufe's eyes were
glittering in the darkness. He shrugged.

"My daddy may have taught me stockpiling," Kufe said
thinly, "But it was better than yours.  Tracking honey
trees?  Hunting and foraging like some kind of swamp trash,
Melungeon?"

"I *am* swamp trash.  If you think I'm going to be ashamed
of that, think again."  His eyebrow went up.  "At least I
can feed myself.  And that was what got your attention of
me."

"Oh, enough of this.  We've had this quarrel a million
times."  Kufe said impatiently.  "How are your ladyfriends?"

"You know we're not."  He said patiently.  "We're just
friends."

Kufe chuckled.

"Leave them alone, Admiral."  McCoy spoke tiredly, as if
from a long distance.  "They deserve peace in their lives. 
A stability that they've never had before.  They're not
interested in power, or command...or killing."

"You think it's fun for me?"  Kufe snapped.  Her lean face
was suddenly panther-like.  "Len, I may not like the way
the Galaxy is run, but I don't run from it.  I do what I
can."

McCoy studied her from across the table.  Kufe was
serious.  They might never agree on anything, but in her
own way, she was as sincere as he was.

"Why don't you go for Caesar, then?"  He asked finally. 
"If you really agreed with the way the Galaxy is run, you
wouldn't have climbed as far as Fleet Admiral.  Women
*have* made the title, you know.  They haven't just
controlled from the sidelines."

"I'm not afraid of the risks."  Kufe snapped.

"Never said you were.  But I'd understand if you felt it
was more than you felt like taking on.  After all, you
don't like to do anything unless you can control every step
of it.  Maybe that's one thing we can agree on."

Kufe took a deep breath.  "Maybe.  But I'm no fool, McCoy.
And most leaders are."

"I can't disagree with that."  Empty humor twisted his
mouth.

She left the way she came, without ceremony, or a
farewell.  He waited quietly until he was certain he was
alone again before allowing himself his thoughts.

God only knew what the future was going to bring, he
thought.  It might already be too late to "salvage" Jim
Kirk.  The man had a ruthlessness to him that was rooted in
fear of being weak.  When he'd been younger, it had been
possible to see how he could keep that from changing him. 
But now? Hard to say.  Of the two, Spock was still the most
reliable, the steadiest, the last to act without reason.

And Kufe wanted to nudge Kirk further up the ladder?  God,
what an irony *that* was.  If he'd wanted to, he could have
been that already with his Tantalus Device.  Thank all
beings that Kufe hadn't yet learned of that thing.

He only hoped things would stay that way.

*Because it could get worse.  So much worse.  That's the
problem with the Kufes of the Galaxy...and the Kirks for
that matter.  They spend more time being unhappy with what
they have, than being grateful.*

Nyota and Christine might have a shaky relationship, but
it was more real than what the others had.  And they were
smart enough to know it.  A shame people like *that*
weren't the ones in charge.  It'd be a better place for
sure.

Just thinking of that possibility (most likely in a really
way-off parallel dimension), brought the first real smile
to his face in months.

The End...