Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Title: Waking and Dreaming
Author: kelthammer
Series: TOS
Pairing: MU S/Ch; MU Mc/N
Rating: R; adult themes; violence
Parts: 1-6/?
Archive: Sure.  Just let me know.
Disclaimer: Paraborg is God.
Summary: events right after the classic episode that started it all.

   ***

   *Her dreams of Roger were always the same: standing before her, pleading
with his eyes to understand what had happened to him.  Sometimes it was the
android she saw spilling from the charred cloth of his suit, all wires and
relays.

   And sometimes, it was the human; pale twitching intestines laced with
fine red and blue blood vessels, the dark organs behind the slippery
curtain.

   She could smell in these dreams; the scorched fabric, the melted
plastine and silvery drops of metal falling to the floor like the
iron-stinking drops of blood and burned tissue.  And always, no matter what
Roger was in her nightly visits, the dream was the same.  He always turned
the phaser on himself.*

   **

   <Christine blinks.  After all this time (not years, but mileage of
anguish), she no longer wakes up with a wet face.  Her eyes burn hot and
dry.>

   <She cannot wait to leave the ghosts and get to Sickbay.  Her only
concern is Leonard.  He knows when she has the nightmares.  If she looks
bad enough, he'll make her take a Reminex.>

   <No.  No sleep-aids.  She hates the dreams, but she hates the oblivion
of deep sleep even more.  Anyway, Leonard won't take the Reminex for his
*own* nightmares, and in her book, what he went through was even more
ghoulish.>

   <Shower.  Dress.  Beat your boss to work today.  Start in on the
paperwork and be too busy to pay him much attention.  Maybe then he won't
notice.  Sometimes she won; sometimes he won.  At least in the daytime
struggles, of human and human.  But when it came to the monsters at night,
they always lost.>



   ***

   Vulcans rarely slept.  They had other ways of refreshing themselves, but
even Spock had to take a subconscious rest on occasion.

   He rose from his kneeling position in the dark alcove of his sleeping
chamber, red as the sky above his home and murky.  The sculpt of Ares
watched by his computer as he prepared.

   He folded his long legs down to the floor and went to the firepot beast
that eternally burnt the scents of his home desert.  Lifting his hands in
the dry smoke, he washed his hands in it, then brushed his face and the
back of his neck.  His hair absorbed the odor of Vulcan and carried with
him; a calming presence on a ship that was too cold, too dark, too damp for
his liking.

   He was not sanguine about today's profit.  Logically this confrontation
with the captain was to be expected; had been fuming since the Halkan
Delimna.  Never before had he weighed his allies and enemies with as much
reason.

   He did not think Marlena would change her mind about being his ally. 
Her fear of the captain returning had been genuine.  "Do you know what
he'll do to me?" Her hiss had carried reasonable fear, and Spock knew why.
Marlena was not a woman who asked for help of any kind, ever.  Her pride
would never allow it...

   Kirk was not forgiving of himself for failure, and less so for his crew.
All he needed was to imagine her spending time with his double.  The result
would be nothing but agony for a woman who had always been loyal to him.

   Uhura and Scott were loyal to him, in their own fashion.  Like himself,
they followed Kirk's orders and tended to their own business.  They had the
seniority of the Bridge Crew, and for that had more stability, and less
fear for their position.  Sulu was out for himself, for power.  Of all the
officers, he was the most like Kirk.  Spock considered him the captain's
equal in brilliance, and in cutthroat initiative.

   Chekov he never bothered with considering.  He might be a formidable foe
someday, but not while he remained a victim of his own whims.

   Preparing for the damp chill outside his cabin, he reached for his
thermal jacket.  It did much to improve his level of comfort.

   His mother, who knew him better than anyone, would have called him
"frustrated" this morning.  Of course he would have denied it.  He was
simply under many factors.

   And one of his larger factors was an extremely annoying, dangerously
unpredictable human CMO.

   The algorithm would be much neater, he thought, if Chapel was in McCoy's
place.



   ***

   *The defective hypo explodes in his hand.  Designed to pull a man from
death, the drug refuses him oblivion.  The pain is beyond all imagination.
He should have lost consciousness at the first touch of cordrazine.  He
should have collapsed on top of the near-electrocuted Sulu.  But cordrazine
doesn't work that way.  One drop can save a dying man; ten drops can kill a
healthy one.  It is powerful as a bolt of lighttning, and as unpredictable
in its result.

   His last conscious thought before the burning curtain descends, is the
memory of Piper handing him this medikit, and ordering him to the Bridge to
treat Sulu.*

   ***

   He was awake before his chrono went off.  In the simulated light cycle
of the ship it was still "dawn." Time for another day.

   He fumbled for his Officer's Blade in the dark and switched the lights
on low.  He dressed mechanically and strapped the thin holster inside his
boot (wondering again how often he had performed this particular action. 
Considering the times he'd actually had to use the thing...too many).  The
standard reg "Hollowhilt" went to the right in his sash.  It always gave
McCoy a faint chill to see himself wearing the gold.  After all, he'd got
it from killing Piper, but there had been no joy in the action.  Not even
relief--Piper's actions on his being lingered too strongly to ever feel
free of the man.  McCoy didn't laugh at people who believed in ghosts.  He
was haunted by one.

   The morning mail was filtering in while he punched out several cups'
worth of coffee.  Mostly the usual Empire balderdash--the news about the
Romulan Alliance was interesting, considering the ENTERPRISE was slated to
be sent to Altair for the latest Treaty.

   *....hmn...at least that sector was pretty dead-quiet...about as
interesting as an iron meteorite...*

   The doctor frowned slightly when he read the projected list of names. 
The Flagship for the Warbird Fleet would be there--well that without a
doubt meant the ENTERPRISE would be too.  Wonder what the Klingons would
think about that?  Three Empires, and all of them at least respected each
other, but McCoy usually felt the Klingons had the better sense of humor.
Kang could even make Kirk laugh, hard as that was to believe.

   Unfortunately for all Kahless-descended Klingons like Kang, Kor and
Koloth, the caste-race was on the rise.  Who was to say what that area of
space would look like in a few years?  Unsettling prospects in an
unsettling Galaxy.

   Christine had dropped him a note under his day's worksheet: word had
gotten out that he was scheduled for a confidential talk with The Big Two.
That was all she said, but McCoy was grateful.  She was warning him that
the gossipwagons were already rolling.  Best he get ready for it now.

   But ready for what?  He didn't quite know.  It wasn't a good thing to
have an Officer's Meeting in the privacy of the captain's room.  Best to be
ready for the worst.

   *If life moved half as fast as rumor,* McCoy thought with well-deserved
morbid humor, *I'd be at my own funeral now.*

   No matter what, it was unthinkable to have a bad showing.  Even if it
*was* that theoretical funeral.  The Empire did *not* look kindly upon
debility or any other kind of weakness.  Worse when it was an officer.  And
if he died badly, then Joanna would have an unfortunate legacy indeed to
struggle against.  He barely knew her, but he couldn't do that to her.

   At any rate, when Dr.  McCoy slipped his Officer's Blade into his boot,
it was with the knowledge that it might be the last time.

   *And am I relieved?  Or am I not?*

   He had to wonder as he walked down the hallway, answering salutes on
automatic.  McCoy was unique among the officers in that he had no
bodyguards.  But it was not so unique for the medical field.  You just
didn't want to get a doctor angry at you.  Their forms of revenge could be
as horrible as they were impossible to trace.  The fact that McCoy didn't
play such games couldn't over-ride the long-engrained tradition of layman's
fears.  And frankly, why should he be trusted when he was fairly abnormal
for a starship?

   When it came to cutthroat pirate policies, the starships were the worst
in the fleet.  You could get autonomy in the smaller ships, and even
practice pacifism without too much derision on the pure-research vessels,
but the payoff was in your sheer vulnerability elsewhere.  McCoy had paid
his dues on such ships pre ENTERPRISE, and considered it a growth
environment for ulcers.  After all, if you found something of importance,
what was to keep a starship captain from seizing it, and wiping you out for
being the witness, and every man-jack of you on board?  A lot of captains
had made Praetor on the blood of hapless explorers.  It was the stuff of
forensic-fiction novels.

   No; better to have the aggression out in the open.  If you lived with
the lions do it where you could put your back to the wall and defend
yourself.  It was much more honest that way...if honest was the word for
it...

   *Ethical?* He smiled to himself slightly, startling a passing tech
(scaring the hell out of him might be a better description).  *Well that's
one way to put it.  More like a case of very bad parenting, to hear
Spock...*

   But Spock had cut down on his gibes of late.  McCoy didn't know to be
grateful or nervous at that.  The Vulcan ignored him when he wasn't making
a contemptuous comment about his lack of spine, or his favorite accusation,
"sentimental...soft!!!"

   Things had changed since their hellish trip to that parallel universe.
And now it was as if the Vulcan was *waiting* and *watching* for him to
display some kind of particular behavior.  McCoy compared it to being the
only human in a bar of hungry Gorn and disliked his predictament immensely.
Kirk was enough to watch out for.  At least Spock tried to ignore him, but
that status seemed to be changing...



   ***

   Christine took a moment to look at him in the bad light.  Her boss was
slumping with fatigue, his head hanging down over his desk.  If M'Benga or
Hollister saw him like that...

   But they weren't there.  She was relieved at that.  Especially
Hollister. Her own personal version of M'Benga to McCoy.

   "You know what your problem is?"

   McCoy felt Christine's husky voice soak into his central nervous system.
"I need to be cloned?" He muttered into his hands.

   "God help the aliens who attempt *that*." Christine sat on the edge of
the table next to him.  "You need to find yourself a woman."

   "No, thanks." He barely repressed his shudder.

   "Why not?  I know you have an eye for the ladies."

   "Not on *this* ship, I don't.  C'mon, Christine, get real.  I can barely
afford to keep afloat, much less keep a woman."

   "You wouldn't be so strapped if you didn't keep funneling every credit
away." *To a daughter you never see,* she added silently.

   He heard her not say it.  It was an old issue between them.  He
acknowledged what she didn't say by not saying anything right back.  That
was one of the mixed blessings of being old friends.  You could have long,
drawn out and in-depth conversations just by the quality of your silence.

   "You've got to meet with the captain tonight." Christine murmured
uneasily.  "Anything I can do to help clear your desk?"

   "Um." Chills went down his spine.  "I couldn't say.  Just duty as usual,
Nurse." So said, he got to his feet, leaving the relative safety of his
desk.  "Just make sure you've got those biochem specs for Spock."

   "Always." Christine said confidently.  Dryly.

   He gave her a look.  "Can't blame you for setting your eyes on him, but
don't get yourself hurt."

   Not that he really worried about her survival skills.  It was just that
as far as Spock was concerned, there was a long, long list of potential
First Officer's Women on ship.  God pity the woman the taciturn Vulcan ever
did choose, because unless she had her own starship, she'd have to worry
about a lot of jealous rival assassins.

   "I don't intend to, quit being my mother hen."

   "Mother hen you?  What a laugh.  Christine Chapel, you're my insanely
overqualified Head Nurse, and I'm very fond of you indeed, but I don't
think you'd accept help from *the Caesar himself* if he offered!"

   Still shaking his head, he left his office for the supply room.

   = = = = =

   You had the regular storeroom, the security of which rivaled the front
door to Engineering.  And then you had the private stores, which only the
CMO and AMO had access to.  Technically, Chapel wasn't allowed inside, but
McCoy trusted her over M'Benga anyday--and the AMO was nearly insane with
jealousy.

   McCoy loathed the circumstances that made daily scanning necessary. 
Aiming his sensory tricorder upon box after platic box on the narrow
shelves, he waited as the beams read the digital "ID" on the labels of each
vial, and matched it up with the contents.  It was supposedly the only way
to ensure no one could switch drugs for something deadlier.

   Substance abuse among the medical staff was the stuff of legends.

   His eyes narrowed at the cordrazine box.  It was smaller than the
others, with only three vials and what those three held could drive the
entire ship (Vulcans too) insane.  It was the most dangerous thing they
owned.  And after Piper's botched attempt on his life, he never wanted to
look at it again.  Keeping his thoughts at surface level was the only way
he could handle being in the same room with it.  Anything else...

   Nobody knew if he would ever flashback on the drug.  And as the survivor
of the largest dose ever taken, he was the subject of much attention. 
Living in a veritable fishbowl, but if anything could trigger it, stress
might.

   It said a lot about M'Benga, that Kirk preferred a CMO who *might*
someday try to kill him under a drug haze, as opposed to having a man weak
to bribes and coercion take his place.



   ***

   Christine had done as much work as was required, and now she was free to
file the biochems to Spock's department.  She had no fear that it would get
to him; nearly all the Vulcans aboard were in Bio.  Most were also his
bodyguards, and no Vulcan would ever go against Spock.  He was simply too
much of a legend to his people.  He was considered inestimable in value,
and his work had in its own way, improved the living conditions of all
Vulcans.

   Spock's name meant "Unifier" a symbol between to warrior-races.  His
mother had been a not-inconsiderable officer in the Diplomatic Corps,
handling the finer points of speech and espionage with equal skill.  Sarek
had taken her as his consort, possibly urged on by the unpleasantness of
his "true" wife who had already born a fullblooded (but reputedly insane)
son.  In a world where a warrior could keep as many as five consorts,
Amanda was strong-willed enough to remain the only one.  And after the
death of his wife, Sarek had pointedly not taken another, though there were
infinite possibilities for a honorably retired warrior-turned-treaty
writer. Spock, then, had grown up surrounded by potential and opportunity.
And had thrived.

   Despite Leonard's teasing, he had no more illusions about her position
than she did.  Spock was...well, Spock.  If he had ever wanted a woman, he
would have taken one.  Past history indicated he preferred humans when he
had the choice--no doubt a desired change against his legally bonded wife.
But even Spock's affairs were...boring.  Few and far between, and over with
quickly.

   *Except for the Romulan Flagship Commander...* Chapel shook her head as
her thoughts persued the point, spiral-like, to their inevitable
conclusion. *He'd seemed serious as a heart attack over that romance.* Too
bad the way it had ended.

   Vulcan mores were not unlike Humans'.  Chapel understood the dynamic of
legitmate/illegitimate, concubine and actual wife.  Spock was the product
of his father's human concubine, while his older brother Sybok, 100% Vulcan
if not 80% stable, was the "true" inheiritor of the clan's property. 
Chapel had no doubt Spock was content with being the non-attached and
long-shot, last-resort heir to the House of Sharien.  He seemed to carry
distaste for any responsibility that would detract from his never ending
love of science and exploration.  Spock could take on any concubine he
desired, so long as T'Pring ruled his House at home.

   God forbid something ever happen to Sybok, because Spock would be
catapulted into being the one and only valued heir and then he'd have to
start putting out more than an occasional letter home.

   *He'd probably even be sent home.* Nerves clawed her gut, all the way up
her throat.  *And I don't want to think about that.*

   She listened to the quiet thump-clink as Leonard maneuvered his way
around the claustrophobic maze of the Dangerous Drugs Storeroom.  One eye
was on the door, in case of any outcome.  Christine never lied to herself.
It was a guaranteed way to die.  She dreaded the idea of an ENTERPRISE
without Spock.

   Not just because she was interested in him.  Spock kept Kirk in check.
Controlled his growing homicidal urges.  What if Sulu or somebody killed
him?  What then?  Even Leonard, who was in space as an exile, might have to
consider killing Kirk in order to save the ship someday.  In fact, she had
been ready for him to do that, after Yonada.  Even Leonard had his breaking
point, and the deliberately messy slaughter of men and women armed with
only curved knives had driven the CMO ballistic.

   *Spock risked everything to keep the Fabrini from dying altogether, and
now what?* Chapel wondered sadly.  *They might as well be dead.* When the
borders of Rigel had shifted, many planets, including those of the Daran
System, had fallen to Romulan rule.  A double loss.  Kirk might have siezed
their computer banks, but military men never considered the value of the
living.



   ***

   McCoy took a break and punched up a lunch in the mess.  He found himself
re-reading what was known as Rehasher News as he ate; Uhura had piped in
updates from earlier beams.  And despite all efforts not to be stupid, he
went right to the latest on the upcoming Antares Treaty.

   Fortunately (or not) for his nerves, there was actually something about
the Daran System.  He cursed himself to feel the skip in his chest as he
went over the brief paragraph.  The actual conquest of that, and the Old
Rigellian Rim Territory had been one of the more humiliating defeats for
the Empire.  Those in charge of defense had been utterly and totally asleep
at the helm; the Romulans didn't even have to do much to get it.  Just
sailed right in and set up housekeeping.

   The Empire couldn't do a damn thing about it now; there was no prying an
established Romulan force.  The best they could hope for was a re-opening
of trade, and maybe an exchange of prisoners.

   Lord only knew how the Ambassadors could pull *that* off.  Romulans
weren't against humanoids per se, but it tickled them to have Terrans and
Centaurians as slaves.  To their thinking, it was a bloodless revenge
against old scores.  Not unlike ancient tribal warfare policies on the
doctor's home planet.  What the Empire disliked was that human captives and
"indentured servants" tended to resist rescue after they'd been held for so
many years.  It was demoralizing against their campaign of the Filthy
Enemy, and nobody relished the idea of going up against a long-lost
relative inside an enemy warship.

   He wondered how the Yonadan colony was faring under Romulan rule.

   Natira was a survivor, but she didn't want to be.  He couldn't encounter
thoughts of the High Priestess without terrific guilt.

   *I'd never interferred with anyone's desire to die before.  If anything,
he'd risked his own to defend that right.  Why the hell did I stop then?*

   Damn it, but he knew why.

   The Fabrini had needed Natira more than they needed their own worldship.
He'd pulled some dirty emotional blackmail to pull her out of her
self-destructive funk.  And while he'd won, she'd never thank him.

   There was nothing more about the Treaty.  He sighed and reached for
another spring roll.

   And that was when the security alert sounded.

   All around the doctor, people were jumping to their feet.  McCoy jumped
too, a terrific twist in his heart.  He knew that particular pattern to the
klaxxon.  Somebody had just attempted--or succeeded--an attempt against the
captain.

   = = = = =

   His name was Technician Rochemont.  He was three years older than
Joanna, and he'd gone up against a much bigger opponant.

   McCoy leaned forward and made a small adjustment on the K-3 graph of the
bioindicator above the wax-white face.  Behind him he could feel Kirk's
presence, burning like an angry sun.

   "I don't know." He said at last, not turning around as he enhanced gauge
after gauge, left to right down the display.  The heart that beat so
strongly and calmly was under artifical stimulation.  It would beat just as
strongly if the brain finished shutting down.

   "I want to know who hired him for such an idiotic stunt." Kirk's soft
voice was tight.  He rarely raised his voice, but when he did...

   McCoy felt a bath of icewater at the memory.  Ever since he'd embarassed
himself in that cell in the Parallel Universe, Kirk had been idling.  And
McCoy knew he, Scott, and Uhura were just living on borrowed time because
if the captain didn't forgive their witnessing, or put it past him, he was
going to be thrice as easy to provoke.

   Just as Marlena was no doubt living on borrowed time.  Kirk's jealousy
was amazing.  McCoy didn't think there was much point in feeling threatened
at one's counterpart, but the night after their return, Moreau showed up at
Mess with a black eye.

   "I'll do what I can, captain." McCoy spoke the truth easily.  He'd
already promised himself what to do.  Kirk just didn't know what that would
be.  "But there's been a lot of damage to the brainstem; Farrell's the best
knife on the ship, y'know."

   Kirk nodded curtly.  He did indeed know.

   "I don't know how much longer I can keep the cortex viable."

   Medical fact was 100% on his side.  Humanoids were so variable from
planet to planet, subspecies to sub, even space-born and planet-born, that
anybody who ever tried to write a medical text on the generalities of the
primitive brain would get laughed all the way to a straightjacket and a
lifetime supply of happy pills.  Even common laymen like Kirk knew that.

   Not that Kirk was ever common, as in ordinary.  He was damn near a
genius, if not brilliant, and his mind could grasp anything...anything that
it wanted to.  McCoy quite often had nightmares that dealt with
underestimating him.

   "Estimation?" Kirk shifted his weight to his left.  Not a good sign.  It
meant he was searching for an opponant to rip apart.

   "Barring some unforeseen miracle, we've got about six hours to wring any
information out of him."

   Kirk spun on his heel, took three paces, stopped and spun back.  "Do
what you can.  It's possible Spock might be able to do something."

   McCoy nodded as if that announcement didn't make him ill.  Mental
invasion--whatever happened to just quietly killing somebody and being done
with it?

   Alone now, McCoy waited patiently until he was certain no one would
interrupt in the next five seconds.  Then the hypo he'd been forced to hide
in his sash at the captain's arrival hissed quietly against Rochemont's
throat.  It would take time for Kirk to persuade Spockto even consider a
distasteful meld, and by then, the boy would be quietly, peacefully,
irreversibly dead.



   ***

   He was finishing another spate of endless shift reports when AMO M'Benga
rode in.  And with M'Benga, Hollister would be someplace close.  You might
not see her, but they stuck together like glue.

   "Heard another punk was paid to take a shot at the captain." M'Benga
didn't waste time, he went over to the table for a look-see.

   "Sure what it looks like." McCoy agreed neutrally.  They never made
casual conversation; this was no exception.  Strict business, and on the
AMO's part, professional curiosity.

   M'Benga shook his head at the readings.  "They never learn." He marveled
under his breath.  Sharp dark eyes that rivaled a laser's flicked over to
McCoy.  "He's not doing well.  Is the captain going to question him?"

   "I told the captain he didn't have much time to make that decision."
McCoy shrugged with one shoulder, as stymied as M'Benga why Kirk would want
to pay *that* much attention to some teenager who probably didn't even know
who paid him in the first place.

   The future corpse faced them blindly, unaware and unseeing.  All senses
turned off, not even able to hear.  Farrell's knife across the back of the
neck had all but severed the head from the trunk.  Too bad he hadn't. 
McCoy had searched but found no signs of activity that would hint the boy
was conscious in any way.  God, but he hoped not.

   "Any regime I need to stick to?" M'Benga asked.  He was repeating
McCoy's earlier actions of checking and rechecking the biogauges.  They
might have infinite differences between them, and they would never be
friends, but there was that professional respect.

   "Alert me and the captain if there's an obvious change." McCoy couldn't
wait to leave today.  He tossed his stylus and straightened his back.  "I'm
not hopeful that he'll pull through, but then, I've been surprised at
Vegans before."

   M'Benga started.  "He's a Vegan?"

   "Vegan-born, yeah." Deliberately lackadasial, McCoy yawned and adjusted
his sash.  "Ok, that's that.  Later."

   M'Benga's response was absently delivered.  He was already thinking of
how it would be to his advantage to inform Kirk of the assassin's
background before his superior.

   And hopefully, that would be exactly what happened.  This particular CMO
was o Kirk enough that he didn't volunteer any information unless he had
to.



   ***

   He was trying to resume that half-jettisoned plate of spring rolls and
tea when an unexpected visitor showed up with his full cadre of bodyguards.

   "At ease." Spock sounded as distracted as M'Benga had earlier.  McCoy
sat back down at picked up a roll.  Without preamble, Spock sat down and
promptly dominated 3/4ths of the space in McCoy's cabin.

   "I'll try to be." McCoy muttered.

   Spock's gaze flickered.  At best, he was impatient with the doctor--or
at least he had been.  That "fishbowl" look was back, and McCoy felt
absolutely demoralized to be the focus of it.

   "What is your prognosis on the technician?"

   At least Vulcans didn't mince words unless they were in court.  McCoy
bit down into his very late lunch and chewed before replying.  "Full
report?"

   "Yes."

   "I can't predict Vegan mental synaptic conditions anymore than I can a
Rigellian's.  You know more about mental interviews than I do; I can show
you the graphs." He was already reaching for them, thin sheets of clear
plastic colorpatterns superimposed over each other.

   Spock spared a single glance.  "That is all I need to see." He nodded
curtly.

   McCoy leaned back.  "Sorry.  Do you want some tea?"

   Spock paid into pure Vulcan culture norms by not verbally acknowledging
the offer, just poured himself a serving from a cup taken out of the
replicator.

   "If the boy is a Vegan, his reasoning for attempting the captain's life
might be understandable." As in 9,000 dead countrymen put to the sword
under Kirk's command.  Moral: uprisings can be costly.  Of course, it was
easier to focus one's rage on a single mortal target--Kirk--than try to
take on the entire Empire at once.

   "Possibly." McCoy was cautious before he agreed.  It was his personal
belief, but he didn't want anyone to know that.  Let M'Benga and Spock feel
they drew their conclusions by themselves.

   "The question is, why was this never in the records."

   "His background?" McCoy shook his head.  "Imperial reports are very
basic, you know.  If he's never done anything before, then, he was either
very very good at covering his trails, or as innocent as he looked."

   "I'll never understand how your language can judge someone's mental
perspective by appearance."

   McCoy ignored the criticism.  He was quite used to it.  "Look, it's
*not* SOP for the Empire to encourage anytthing more than an homogenized
unity to the government; they don't ask too many questions about where you
come from because it could encourage dangerous cultural unity and
patriotism.  But that's besides the point here.  You don't have much time
if Kirk's wanting an interview."

   "I do not believe it is possible...or profitable." Spock's fingers
tightened, just ever so slightly, around the cup.  "Our meeting has been
postponed until tomorrow morning."

   Odd.  McCoy only nodded, and worked on another roll.  Kirk must have a
lot on his plate.

   And now, in the close confines of his cabin, another meeting was about
to take place.

   "Does the captain have a reason to harbor anger against you?"

   Well, *that* question came right outta the ol' blue.  McCoy actually
stopped chewing, astonished that Spock would have to ask that question. 
Normally the Vulcan was better at reading dynamics.  "It's no secret." He
said finally.

   "I would prefer your point of view." Spock's way of saying he was in the
dark.

   *I don't believe this.  I just do not believe this...*

   "Um." McCoy pushed back his plate and poured himself a refill.  "Well,
its not just me.  You might have noticed his temper of late, aimed at Uhura
and Scott as well."

   Spock's expression barely changed, but McCoy had struck a nerve.

   "When we were on the...Parallel Ship, Kirk said some things at your
counter-part when he thought he was talking to you." McCoy suddenly scowled
and looked down.  "I feel no need to quote verse and chapter.  It's my
personal opinion that what he said was unimportant.  Apparantly, the
captain feels otherwise."

   Loss of face got more inferior oficers killed than possibly any other
factor.  Spock digested this while McCoy went through the motions of
drinking.  The Vulcan was a pragmatist; the prospect of Kirk finding
reasons to dispose of half the senior crew, could only result in a power
vacuum.  And if it was due to pride...

   Spock was warrior enough to know that pride was important, yet not
vital.

   "I would suggest, then," Spock rose to his feet, interview over.  "You
tell your compatriots to be wary.  I noticed M'Benga was visiting the
captain today."

   McCoy's response was unexpected.  The human merely looked tired and
resigned.

   "Kirk can dispose of me any time he wants to." He pointed out.  "I've
been on parole ever since the cordrazine."

   Spock had not realized McCoy could be so blunt.  "Indeed." He did not
insult the other with elaborate language.  "And so far you have behaved
adequately.  But it may not be just the captain that wishes your
replacement."

   McCoy bristled at the not-so-subtle jab.  "The only person I'd trust to
take my place on this ship is Christine Chapel." He too, was on his feet.
"But I don't think you or Kirk are capable of understanding what she's
like."

   McCoy's observation of Chapel as CMO was perilously close to Spock's
own. "And what understanding does one require?" Spock asked with his usual
even calm--a state that invariably annoyed McCoy.

   "You'll never get Christine Chapel's blind obedience, Spock.  Not you,
not Kirk, not me, not anybody.  What she gives is her *loyalty.* And that's
a damn sight rarer, and a lot more valuable."



   ***

   "The Altair Conference is going to be all about the Antares Treaty."
Kirk rested his palms on the small table, leaning forward until the muscles
in his arms thrust out.  "There are other issues, naturally, but this is
the real reason.  Our diplomats will be expected to parlay for the Daran
and Rigellian Rim System, and the Romulans will be expected to run them in
circles." Disdain tightened Kirk's mouth on one side.

   Spock made a thoughtful sound behind his beard.  "What roles will we be
expected to play in this affair?"

   Trust Spock, McCoy mused.  He did have a way with words.  Made you
wonder about the nuances of his native language.

   "Roles?  Good question." Kirk approved automatically, without warmth. 
"The Romulans have demanded a show of peace.  Minimal weapons.  And an open
sharing of medical technology." (McCoy shifted at that, beginning to
suspect.)

   "We are the only starship allowed to attend, just as their flagship is
the only one permitted.  Dr.  McCoy and four other members of Life Sciences
will be on entourage with the same number of unknown Romulan Life
Scientists.  While this exchange of brittle civility is taking place, you,
Mr.  Spock, will be enduring your own acting with our old friend the
Flagship Commander."

   Spock instantly fossilized at the table.

   *Oh, oh.* McCoy inwardly sighed.  *Now if this isn't a recipe for
Kitchen Antimatter...*

   He didn't envy the Vulcan.  Commander Charvenek, after all, had
threatened to do things to him that nobody on the ISS ENTERPRISE had even
*heard* of before.  For his part, Spock invariably acted like the very
mention of the woman was enough to send him to a life of contemplation at
Gol.

   Didn't envy the Vulcan?  He didn't envy himself, damn it!  M'Benga was
going to be in charge of *his* sickbay while he put up with unsubtle
Romulan contempt.

   If Kirk was going to kill him, this'd be a pretty good way of doing it.
The possibilities were damn near limited to only one's imagination.

   And McCoy wasn't blessed with imagination.  He was *cursed* with it.



   ***

   Spock paused in the hallway.  His guards paused too, a polite distance
from their master.  Each commander held datapacks in one hand, hardcopy
preps for their assigned tasks.

   "Were you speaking to me, doctor?"

   McCoy bristled.  "I was talking to God, if you must know."

   Spock was flexible, as far as understanding humans went, but his
mother's sense of humor was very different from the doctor's.  He was
almost going to assume McCoy was being defensive about his religious
convictions.

   McCoy turned to face him, stock-still in the hallway.  "I meant what I
said about Chapel."

   Spock had no idea why the man was returning to a topic ended seven hours
ago.  "I remember what you said." He lifted one eyebrow.

   The doctor pursed his lips, on the verge of saying something.  As Spock
watched, he made the decision.  "She's loyal to you.  M'Benga isn't."

   Spock watched him stalk down the hall to the privacy of his small cabin.
He wondered if McCoy was trying to tell him something else besides the
literal.

   McCoy let the doors of his room shut, and rested his back against them,
closing his eyes.  His restless night was coming back with a vengeance, and
it was now time for bed.

   But what he really wanted to do was never sleep again.

   = = = = =

   *He hadn't been there for the actual slaughter on Yonada.  Hell, he
wasn't even sure what *caused* it.  Some word of defiance, a glance gone
wrong, maybe the people looked too independant for the tastes of the
captain.  And Kirk was, of course, a starship captain; trained to take
initiative and err on the side of caution.  Any explanation of rebellion
against a sword-sworn soldier of the Caesar was reason enough to aim a
phalanax of phasers on KILL into 532 men, women and children.

   Should Kirk have given mercy to a people without just cause, he, and
possibly his entire ship's crew would have suffered the fate of the
Yondans. It was just one of the pleasant things about working for the
Empire.

   He saw Spock first, when he beamed down.  The Vulcan was standing
stock-still under the red of the artifical sky, centered in a pile of
rainbow-striped corpses.  He looked like a raven sculpted of blue and
black.

   The phalanax had disbanded and were milling around, toeing corpses over
and searching for souveniers.  There were none; over the disappointed
babble of the looters, McCoy could make out these people carried no
ornaments, no jewelry.

   *And why would they?  Their world is too small to place value on the
material.*

   Spock's head was down; he had been regarding a child's body with an
enviable calm.  As the doctor picked his way around the killing field (he
avoided the living looters more than the actual dead), Spock looked up to
acknowledge his arrival.  And for a shred of a second, McCoy almost stopped
dead in his tracks, for the Vulcan was wearing a look of open loathing on
his dark face.

   McCoy was no stranger to massacres.  He'd walked in cities phasered to
molten glass, watched as continents were crushed of life.

   He'd stood on thee Bridge and watched as Kirk rendered the entire colony
of Deneb to ash.

   But something had happened here between Spock and Kirk that he wasn't
privy to.

   *What the devil happened?*

   Spock's expression frightened him.  Spock never, *never* showed any
disapproval in Kirk.  Even a disagreement of opinion was considered blatant
disloyalty to a Vulcan raised as traditionally as Spock.  And Spock, for
all his half-human heiritage, could and did out-Vulcan the Vulcans.

   "The captain has a hostage for your perusal, doctor." Spock reported
mechanically.  "A heavy stun victim.  Expidence would be appreciated."

   McCoy nodded and made no other response.  A hostage.  That meant the
leader of these people in this strange world-ship...or someone close to the
leader.  It was his job to make sure they were fit and well for inevitable
"questioning" and "coercion" to the ways of the Empire.



   ***

   This was not one of the "better days" in Sickbay.  A technician had
wounded himself days ago and walked around with the injury, too afraid of
medical treatment to turn himself in.  Now a simple burn had gone very bad,
and the wound approached gangrene.  Cautious questioning had revealed the
kid had not inflicted the injury, unlike the man who had come in before
him. The first man was a classic Goms (Get Out Of My Sickbay) and hoping to
get a lot of nice painkillers for the price of a little pain.

   McCoy had never, ever understood that mentality.  He didn't consider
himself of the "straight AND narrow" bend of mind, but to deliberately
cultivate a habit that could leave you weak, slow of reflex and
inattentive? Might as well make your own coffin and sleep in it until
someone finally finished you off.  The penalty for dereliction of duty
while under influence was so harsh that it amazed him that *anyone* would
even want to contemplate taking a mild tranquilizer.

   *mining ore in a prison colony asteroid?  Noooo thanks!* He flipped the
pages of the finished report over and scanned the proofs of the on-duty
physicians while a trio of green nurses got further training in with taking
blood samples off the Andorian diabetic.  They were going to replace the
name of Satan with his before the job was done, to judge by the sounds
wafting from the back of the ward, but women needed to get dead-on
accustomed to the chauvinism of that particular species.  Because if a
medico backed down on a patient, they'd back down for the rest of their
lives, and all that extensive education would be wasted; they'd be nothing
more than paramedics.

   Speaking of paramedics...he glanced over the list of the ones on duty
for this week.  Nakada had been tapped at random to stand as euthanologist
if the captain ever ordered any criminal "put down" in the next four days.
Much as he hated that job, he'd better hurry up and finish graduating;
paramedics weren't bound by the Oath the physicians were, so it was morally
fine for them to dispense death in the name of the legal system.

   An ensign had been found stabbed to death in Engineering.  Scott had
written "occupational hazard" on his report, so it was a good bet the man
had had it coming.  McCoy glanced at the decedant's specs, noted he was 34
years old and felt that suppostion was right.  You didn't stay an ensign
for that long without something being fundamentally wrong...

   He wrote Dr.  Taljedal's name in for NECROPSY on the ensign.

   "I hate this."

   You could always trust Christine to be honest.  He smiled ruefully over
his desk and put last night's dreaming away with the last of the
bureacracy. "Sorry."

   Chapel exhaled and folded her arms across her insignia.  "In other
words, you're telling me that I'm *really* the one in charge of Sickbay,
only M'Benga isn't supposed to know about it."

   "Or Hollister.  They'd be on you like hair on a tribble."

   "Lovely.  So who else is going to this medical-trade conference?"

   "Um.  Thermopolous, Wagner, R'i'kk, and Barr...I think.  Don't know
who'll be the pilot." He watched as Chapel shook her head again.  "What is
it?"

   "I was just thinking...this is the fifth time inside what...a
year...that the Romulans have offered a medical trade."

   "Yeah, pretty amazing, isn't it?"

   "They've been doing this since the Fabrini fell under their power."

   McCoy was silent as he pondered this new insight.  "You're right.  I
never thought about that...makes you wonder what's going on, doesn't it?"

   "Extremely." Chapel rubbed her chin with the ball of her thumb.  "So far
they've not been asking for anything that could be overtly dangerous..."

   "They wouldn't anyway, and you know it.  You can make *any* information
dangerous.  But their medical technology is behind ours, even with the use
of the Fabrini databanks.  Spock projected it'd take at least fifty years
to absorb all the information out of that galloping huge computer!" Just
the thought of all that hard-won knowledge, lost, made him ill.

   Chapel gave him a long look.  "Don't you have the Fabrini encrypta in
your translator program?"

   "For what it's worth..." McCoy had started to shrug, then saw what she
was getting at.  They stared at each other in frozen silence, grateful no
one else was around.

   "You want some coffee?" McCoy finally managed.

   "That sounds lovely." Chapel agreed gracefully.  She watched from her
place on the edge of his desk as he went to the replicator.  Both of them
were studiously trying to act normal.  Maybe they'd fool a xenophobic
alien...

   "I'm just paranoid." Chapel tried to dismiss her fears.  *Paranoid that
my boss is going to get kidnapped or killed because of what he knows...*
She took the cup from him and cleared her throat.

   "Um...that's not being paranoid.  Not when it comes to *my* safety."
McCoy looked down at his desk as he spoke.  Next to Spock, McCoy knew more
about the Fabrini than any other member of the Empire.  And Spock wasn't a
physician.  In a lot of ways, *he* was the penultimate expert of the
people. What did that mean to the Romulans?

   The Romulan Empire was the smallest of the Three circles of power in the
Galaxy.  What made their position even less enviable was the poverty level
of the people.  Disease was the surest killer, even more than war was.  A
Romulan who made the vaunted position of healer was forbidden weapons, and
they were usually immune from violence.

   The Fabrini medicines had been a spectrum of many species, for medicine
had been the trade of the people for thousands of years.

   So...taking that all in stride...What was that *worth* to the Romulans?

   ***

   In the privacy of his cabin, James Tiberius Kirk was wondering the same
thing.

   Marlena watched from the bed, wineglass perched in her tiny fingers. 
Jim's back was solid and tight, strong as a tank and as hard to read.

   "Are you going to kill him?" She murmured.

   He turned slightly to look at her, the gold-green eyes catching on an
Orion light-sculpture sitting by the table.

   "That would be too obvious." He answered, and to her surprise, walked
away from the screen to the winebottle.  "He's just catching on to what's
been brewing for weeks.  Spies in Covert Ops reported the Romulans are
offering substantial rewards for the capture of anyone skilled or
knowledgeable about the Fabrini."

   "I would think Spock is the first choice for that." Marlena commented.
"He's fluent in their language, after all."

   "He is, but the military wants him dead more than alive." Kirk reminded
her.

   Marlena shivered.  "Just sounds like it would be a swift solution to
kill McCoy." He'd been thinking of killing the CMO for months now, ever
since the return from the other dimension.  The fact that the members of
the landing party were still alive meant Kirk (ever thrifty) was biding his
time.

   "Oh, it would be swift." He agreed, swirling the yellow liquid against
the glass.  "But I'm not going to do anything to him.  My reputation for
"vanishing enemies" is getting ahead of me."

   Marlena was honestly confused.  He smiled to see it.

   "Other people are taking care of the good doctor for me." He clarified.
"And I have no qualm with that.  He'd be lucky to return from Romulan space
no matter what; the rules they have on medicos are absurd."

   Marlena made a semishrug as if to say, "it's all Greek to me" and paid
attention to her drink.  Inwardly she was thinking that if McCoy was
already out of the count, then Uhura and Scott had better watch out because
they would surely be next.

   ***

   McCoy shivered a little as the implications sank in on top of more
implications.  The prep package, with its detailed information for this and
that, was useless for what he *really* wanted to know about this upcoming
conference.

   Chapel was sorry she'd brought the subject up.  No idea if this was all
some kind of fanciful imagining.  She hoped that was the case.  There were
rumors about the Romulan Empire, rumors that people didn't want to
investigate on the chance they might be true.  And a lot of the whispers
had to do with the Romulan supposed interest in genetic buildup,
augmentation, differentiation, and biological disease.

   Humans traditionally avoided the idea of genetic tampering.  The
Eugenics Wars had left millions of nightmares in its wake; they were still
paying for the foolish arrogance and callous manipulation of ancestors who
believed they could change the race for the better with a few shots of
serum and neural splicing.

   "Where's M'Benga?" McCoy was twisting around in his desk with a frown.
"He should have been on duty a quarter-hour ago."

   Chapel shrugged helplessly.  "I haven't seen Hollister either." She ran
her fingers thru her dark brown hair and toyed with an earring.

   "Oh, talk about paranoid; that'll give ya reason." McCoy muttered
something that Chapel had no hope of comprehending--something about pork
barbecues--and dropped his schedule padd with a sigh.  "Ok, since he's
nowhere in sight, I'm leaving it to you to check out the drugs stores this
morning."

   "Me?" Chapel winced.  "Thanks a lot.  I'll remember that."

   "What the heck are you afraid of?  Any man tries to assassinate *you* in
*there*, you can just pop the lid off the humanoid copulin pheremones. 
While he's on his knees begging you for a good time, you can--"

   "Don't think I won't consider that option." Chapel tried to snap, but
she was smiling under her flaming blush.

   "Well, think of something." He warned.  "M'Benga met with the captain
not too long ago.  And I *hate* when that happens."

   Chapel studied him in silence as they sipped black brew.  M'Benga
playing suck-up, that in itself was ISS SOP.  On the other hand, it would
mean something if M'Benga was able to reach Kirk.

   Kirk had been iffy about Leonard ever since that trip into Parallel
Time. And while not about to give ugly details, her CMO had implicated that
the captain had felt he'd lost face in the mishap.  It was true that
Leonard had been very very careful about not making Kirk mad.  She hoped it
was good enough, because if Kirk decided on a new CMO, he'd be able to get
one without too much effort.

   And M'Benga in charge of Sickbay didn't bear worth thinking about.

   "When are you leaving?" She finally asked.

   He glanced at the wall chrono and sighed.  "Twenty minutes.  Ish.  M'not
looking forward to it." As he spoke, he rose and began rechecking the
slender pouch of medical data.  It would have to go through Security first,
to make sure he wasn't giving the enemy the latest recipe for Denebian
Typhus, etc...

   "How long?" She was nervous; he'd been away from Sickbay before, but all
this was odd and unusual.

   Again, he shook his head.  "I don't know.  Kirk said the conference
depended completely on the diplomats, *when* they show up.  What fun.  I'll
probably get all kinds of hands-on experience with verbal assassination,
innuendo, untraceable toxins, and Recreational Drugs; How to Make Opponants
Look Silly, Use Of."

   "How I envy you." Christine said sardonically.

   "Umph." He sighed.  "I'm gonna go ahead and get this down to the Bay. 
Sooner everybody's ready, I guess the sooner we can get it all over with."

   "Anybody you need to keep an eye on?" Chapel thought of Thermopolous,
but he hated *all* doctors, not just Leonard.

   "I don't even know half of 'em.  New transfers." McCoy made a "oh well"
lift of his hands.  "Good luck with your invisible promotion while I'm
gone. Don't do anything strange to my lab specs either."

   "I hope you're not trying to be flippant, because your mycelium cultures
*define* strange."

   "My Nurse, the fungiphobe." McCOy lifted his eyes upward for God's
support, and rapped his knuckles on her forehead on his way out the door.



   ***

   Ten more minutes, and M'Benga still hadn't shown up.  Chapel decided
time was wasting and she might as well do the storeroom before he showed
up. He hated her being in there at all.  Best she not make herself a
tempting target.

   She shouldered up the scanning tricorder and flipped the PROGRAM switch
on; Leonard's personal code.  First scan on the first box told her it was
Retinax.  Second scan verified that the box' contents was indeed what the
label said.  Third scan measured up the advertised amount on the digital
bar, and found there was exactly the amount declared.  She pressed the red
button on the top of the scanner and with a short "wheeep!" the Retinax was
declared PASS INSPECTION.

   One box down in eight seconds.  Only forty-three more to go.  And HALF
the stores didn't fit Chapel's idea of "dangerous drug." Just because some
people were deathly allergic to all the Retinax numbers, it was over here
taking up space and time.

   *Honestly.* Chapel scolded the Imperial Pharmaecological Guild as she
moved down the shelf.  Sedamax 14, the label said.  *Honestly, you can't
really assassinate somebody with Retinax!  You'd have to inject them with
the whole box, and who'd hold still for that?*

   Thoughts of military intelligence kept her somewhat distracted from the
fact that, save too-few allies, she was a ship without a rudder as long as
Leonard was gone.  She took a peek at the chrono; ten more minutes had
passed.  The shuttle should be debarking the bay and aligning its course
for the brief trip.  How long would it take them?  Hah.  She wasn't even
sure *where* they were going.  Maybe the Romulan Flagship; maybe the Altair
Palace just below them.  Or maybe they'd go right over to the next system
and touch down somewhere in the Daran System.  It was less than nine hours
away...if she was right about the Romulans wanting help on Fabrini
Medicine, that'd be the best choice...

   *Of course, Daran being inside Romulan space now, they'd hardly have to
worry about us pesky Imperials causing any trouble with them...*

   Christine sighed and aimed her scanning-gun at the last box.  First
scan: Cordrazine labeling.  Second Scan: contents 100% cordrazine. 
Lahdedah...  Third scan...

   Her face went cold as all the blood fled her skin.  The scanner
clattered to the floor and her communicator clawed out of her sash.

   "Oh god, oh god, oh god..." Her fingers clambored over the frequency
keys; Leonard, answer!  Answer!  He'd be on the shuttle by now, in space,
en route to--answer, answer!

   **Christine?** Puzzled at her unusual call, McCoy's drawl was barely
discernible over the background noise of the moving shuttle.  **What's
up?**

   "Leonard!" She screamed.  "There's cordrazine missing!"

   Whatever he'd been about to say, she never heard it.  There was the
beginning of a voice, then a sharp, short *click* sound of plastic and
metal.

   Christine was left standing with a communicator full of white noise.

   She was still staring at it when the doors to Sickbay opened.

   "Good evening, Nurse." M'Benga didn't look up from his Padd.  He was
busy, he was efficient, he was perfectly innocuous.

   He was Leonard's killer.

   Christine had learned not to cry years ago.  She never actually wept for
Roger, or for her dead family.  But her eyes stung at the thought of
Leonard dying alone and mad, and the only consolation was her dagger in
M'Benga's heart.

   Through a red haze she heard an intake of breath.  As she wiped the
blade on M'Benga's own sleeve she looked up with mechanical disinterest. 
Nurse Hollister, her assistant, her rival in Sickbay, was standing
white-faced and shocked in the doorway.  The redhead's blue eyes were open
to round circles.

   Silly fool, Chapel thought.  Just because she'd earned her rank through
merit didn't mean she'd never gotten her hands messy.  She was used to
people not understanding that, and surprising them later.  And judging from
Hollister's face, she wasn't believing anything she was seeing.

   You killed him too.  She spoke without a sound.  You and M'Benga.

   The advantage of eternal nightmares, she thought as she rose to her
feet, dagger leveled at its new target, was that it left you hardened
against astonishment in the waking world.

   = = = = =

   "You do realize this looks suspicious."

   Suspicious?

   Christine favored Commander Spock a look that rivaled twenty daggers
from across the Briefing Table.  M'Benga's sash didn't fit her very well,
but she'd adjust it later.

   "I'm not certain I understand you, sir."

   Spock actually paused from atop his Padd and regarded her thoughtfully.
They were quite alone in the large room.  Kirk no longer concerned himself
with the scientific aspects of the ENTPERPRISE, leaving that duty to his
First Officer.  Dr.  Chapel's status was now "self-appointed" on the ship's
rolls, as anyone was who acquired their rank through assassination.  Some
called it "field promotion" and for reasons unknown to Spock, considered
that humorous.

   McCoy's last conversation in the hallway had been on his mind a great
deal.  He had not been inclined to take the doctor's worries of Uhura and
Scott seriously.  Now he did.  Time was growing short for Spock of Vulcan.
If Kirk had grown irrational enough to come to this...

   Chapel continued to study him with Vulcan-like regard.  She was not
about to break.  Some humanoids were prone to such behavior, flush with the
adrenaline of their advantageous kill, many rarely survived the first day
of heir "field promotion." Chapel's advantage was she had killed her two
worst rivals out of rage, not selfishconcerns.  And frankly, the ENTERPRISE
was the better for it.  Kirk's sudden favortism of an openly bribable
M'Benga had been...disconcerting.  Moreso because M'Benga had been the
"official" expert on Vulcan physiology, albeit McCoy had been the upcoming
expert on Spock's unique hybrid nature.  Chapel had been McCoy's assistant
in everything, and he had no doubt she would soon approach her
predecessor's level of skill.

   McCoy's words came back to haunt him at that particular moment: Chapel
would give him loyalty, but not blind obedience.  If Spock was willing to
accept that brand of faith, he would have more than an ally with the new
CMO.  But that would mean taking on a special responsibility.  He hoped he
had the time for it.

   Spock set his report down on the triangular briefing table that rested
between them.  They were alone in a room that was far too large for a
simple conversation.  A psychological edge he'd often found over humans. 
It was not working on Chapel, who was no debutante with psychology.

   "Perhaps you would permit me to use the language of your people, Dr. 
Chapel, and say, "shall we put our cards on the table?"

   Chapel's haggared blue eyes sank deep into his, bolder than most women
would, and dangerous for her if he should choose to use his mental
controls. But whatever she was searching for, she seemed to have found it.
She nodded, letting her gaze politely break from his again.  "Please speak,
Mr.  Spock."

   Spock nodded a silent thanks and rested one arm on his rim of the table.
"As Head of Life Sciences, you answer directly to me now.  Do you feel you
can cope with the power vacuum in your Sickbay, or will you need to request
assistance?"

   "If you mean additional physicians and a nurse, I'm sure that can wait
until after our admittedly delicate mission is over with."

   Tactically intelligent.  Spock approved.  "If you feel you are capable,
then there is no problem in that regard." Inwardly, he doubted she could
not; Chapel had never shirked her duties, nor was she known to complain. 
"I am to assume Dr.  McCoy had you...prepared for this eventuality?"

   "You might say that." Chapel murmured.

   Spock slid his stylus back into his carrying slot.  "It is not common
procedure for a Nurse, however qualified, to be responsible for the
Dangerous Drugs Storeroom.  McCoy was training you?"

   "He was."

   "And how do you rate your performance?"

   "Lacking, of course."

   "Of course?" His eyebrows shot up.

   "Dr.  McCoy suggested I go through the storeroom checks.  Had I done so
earlier, I may have been able to prevent the loss of life."

   Spock had listened to her words closely.  She had been cautious in
saying "may have", and referred to the general loss of life as everyone on
the now-wrecked COPERNICUS.  Again, tactical.  It was fortunate for him
that he had no cause to distrust her; otherwise she would be one to watch
with caution.

   "Mr.  Spock...I would like to know what happened."

   Spock did not reply at first.  "I cannot say precisely what happened.  I
can only give you the Bridgeview."

   "That will have to do."

   "Pilot Methuen had signed off contact with the ENTERPRISE before the
time you said you atttempted to contact Dr.  McCoy.  Romulans are not savvy
about humans, Dr.  Chapel.  Because they consider it normal procedure to
keep radio silence whenever possible, they assumed--foolishly--that our
procedures are the same."

   Chapel said nothing to that, but her eyebrows met in mild surprise.  At
least in *their* Empire, humans were taught to never assume.  Then again,
Charvenek's people were not known for being overly flexible in their
thinking.  Even other Romulans complained about that.

   "The COPERNICUS simply continued on its registered flight plan, which
was approved by the Romulan flagship."

   "I see." Chapel mulled that over.  "What was the destination?"

   "Daran V."

   "So nothing was seen amiss until the COPERNICUS...began to degrade over
the atmosphere."

   "Correct." Spock was privately impressed Chapel was taking the details
of her predecessor's death so clinically.  "Complying with our treaty
agreement, the NIGHTEAGLE did not attempt to interfere with the failing
craft, but alerted us.  There was nothing we could do."

   Chapel absorbed the grisly facts stoically.  Whatever had happened,
McCoy must have done something, possibly killed everyone else on board who
could pilot.  She knew he was a fair pilot; either he had been dead or
incapacitated...

   "Daran V is heavily populated." She commented at last.

   "Not at the polar region.  By happenstance, the craft degraded over the
Northern Barrier Reef."

   She hoped Leonard was dead.  Had been dead fairly quickly.  She didn't
want to think of him going through the cordrazine madness a second time. 
The risk of flashbacks had haunted his world enough.

   In a way, maybe she was relieved that he wouldn't have to live with the
nightmares anymore.

   "Doctor, what was the extent of your communique with McCoy?"

   Back to the present.  Chapel rallied.  "I was warning Leonard that
cordrazine was missing from the stores."

   "And you suspected M'Benga?" Spock wanted to be very clear on this.

   "And Hollister.  They were not subtle about their desires, sir."

   "I see.  What logical reasons do you have for suspecting M'Benga?"

   "He'd been in a private meeting with the captain previously.  He'd also
been extremely late to work this morning.  Generally, the only time he is
not punctual is when he's doing something he shouldn't.  He knew how
dangerous cordrazine was to Leonard."

   "Not necessarily, Dr.  Cordrazine is an infamous drug."

   "Agreed, but not many people outside the Laymen's world know of its true
nature." Chapel then hesitated, and to Spock's private curiosity, turned a
dusky rose.

   "What nature would that be?" He wondered.

   "Mr.  Spock, cordrazine causes extreme paranoia, delusions of
persecution, and delirium.  And there are few cases of anyone surviving a
full dose like he had." Chapel swallowed, hard and loudly.  "The truth is,
its a fine tool for assassination for those who don't like to get their
hands dirty.  Anyone has a good chance of surviving, but when they're an
obvious risk to the public..."

   "I believe I understand.  You are saying M'Benga did not actually
assassinate McCoy, he only instigated matters so that someone else would do
the killing."

   Chapel glanced down, nodding.

   Spock disliked the implications, although they fit what he knew of the
AMO.  He had bodyguards, it was true, but when he killed, he killed by his
own hand and he did not respect anyone who relied on others to be their
physical strength.  Chapel would be good for the Medical Department.  She
obviously shared his distastes.

   Kirk had never held anything but contempt for people who "hired death".
But that was before he had discovered the Tantalus device.  Perhaps he
still thought he did his own killing when his enemies (and admittedly,
Moreau's) disappeared.  But making an enemy vanish into thin air was not a
responsible way to deal with opposition.  There had been a time when the
captain would have never considered such actions.



   ***

   Spock walked in silence, his bodyguards respectfully in tow,
automatically sharpening their awareness to permit him the means to think.

   McCoy had tried to warn him.  Not for himself, but to warn where Kirk
was headed.  Now the doctor was dead, and Scott and Uhura could soon
follow.

   Spock considered the Chief Engineer and Chief of Communications
absolutely indispensible to the safety of the ENTERPRISE.  If they were to
be disposed of, everyone would be all the more vulnerable.  Angela
Martine-Teller and DeSalle were adequate replacements, but lacked the
training and experience of their seniors.

   Spock stopped before his door and quietly coded it open.  His guards
posted themselves silently at each side.  Arid warmth and comfortingly high
gravity enfolded him like a cloud.  While he always sought calm, it was
easier to do so in the privacy of his quarters.

   Kirk had not always been this way.  Early in the mission when he had
been less eager to kill.  Less paranoid of his position and power.  But
with the "invincible weapon" in his quarters, the absolute power had begun
a slow corruption.

   Spock considered himself corrupted by the simple knowledge of the
Tantalus Device.  Kirk's counterpart had been clever.  Like the legend of
Eden, Spock could not more avoid thinking of the Device, than Eve could
stop thinking of the forbidden fruit.  After setting Spock up to take
control and end the illogical wasate of the Empire, he had literally made
it impossible for Spock to turn his back and walk away from it.  The trap
was elegant; worthy of any Kirk in any universe.

   He could not walk away from the Device now that he knew it was there. 
So far he had only stalled in the inevitable action.  It was his old hatred
of assuming unwanted responsibility, and his love of personal freedom.

   It was that love of freedom that had sent him to space, on a
mostly-human ship, exploring and risking his life far away from the
confines of family and Vulcan.  "You can't run forever." His mother had
murmured wistfully, brushing her son's hair back for the last time.  "I
hope you'll have fun while you run, though."

   It was time to stop running.  Before more lives were lost.

   It was time to have that long-overdue, promised conversation with
Marlena Moreau.

   = = = = =

   *Stardate 5476.3*

   *Under a painted red sky that reflected the artifical light of a sun
crafted of rose quartz and radiation, the ISS Ship's Surgeon was trying to
fulfil his assigned tasks without being aware of the powergame going on
just behind his crawling back.

   "Captain, the Fabrini are a unique relic of their world.  The
possibilities of knowledge--"

   Kirk whirled on Spock.  "Not one more word out of you, Mister!  I let
you save the Halkans--that should be enough for one lifetime!"

   Spock backed away, eyes wary.  "My apologies, captain."

   Kirk didn't deign to answer, just turned his back on the Vulcan.  "I'll
expect your report as soon as we get beamup."

   Spock stood motionless in a field of dead or dying Fabrini, watching his
captain stalk away from him as if he were no longer of note.

   **She's been heavily stunned.** Kirk's crisp voice had clicked and
popped over the communicator.  **Get her back in shape, doctor.**

   "Aye, sir." McCoy responded mechanically.  Revive another valuable pawn
in Kirk's endless conquests.  Revive for future subjugation.  The fact that
Spock had faithfully repeated Kirk's orders to McCoy was an open gall;
either Kirk wanted to prove a point with him, or prove a point with Spock
at the public snubbing.  McCoy suspected it might be a little of both.

   (Very pretty.) McCoy couldn't refrain from noting that any more than he
could miss seeing the color of the sky.  (And that's a lot of hair!) It
swept down her head in a loose, thick wave of brown as dark as his own with
gold lights.  Her skin almost didn't look real, it was so smooth and
flawless.  But after glancing at the stunned or dead Fabrini on the ground,
he could see that must be an anthropological trait of the people.  The
faint red spectrum of the strange Pellucid world made him feel as though
he'd spent three weeks tanning on a beach.

   He noticed something else, too.  *Why isn't she wearing plaid like
everybody else?* The color scheme was truly, in his mind, godawful.  But
typical of subterranean races with little contact with sunlight; an old
trick of enforcing retinal stimulation and delaying the effects of
sun-deprived ailments and depressions.  He'd no doubt they coped in other
ways...probably had the Saami version of black current vodka and subsonic
music to stimulate/depress portions of the brain.

   And these people only thought they had a real sun...Oh Lord, what a mess
!

   After consulting the tricorder's readings in silence, he matched up a
suitable vitamin shot that would help her recover from the heavy stunning.
Almost as soon as the hypo finished its soft hiss, a blush of color came to
the smooth cheeks and her long lashes fluttered.

   "Lady Natira." He whispered her name at first, not wanting to pull her
into a fresh shock.  "Lady Natira.  Can you open your eyes?  It's important
that you do so."



   ***

   Natira heard the voice before her eyes could see the owner.  She thought
that was a very strange accent, even for an outsider.

   She remembered her men were dead.  As bad as it had been when the
Surface Rebels attacked in her mother's time.  But these people were from
outside their world.  They all wore solid colors like the Clanless Ones and
carried weapons.  Soldiers.  The shorter man in gold--the leader?  Who was
speaking to her?

   "Who speaks?" She demanded, still not opening her eyes.

   McCoy privately sighed in relief.  "Leonard McCoy, Ma'am.  Ship's
physician." *For now, at least.* He couldn't avoid feeling self-sarcastic.
"You had a heavy stun from the Empire's weapons and you'll be feeling weak
and dizzy for the rest of the day."

   "I have felt similar under the Oracle." Natira answered stoically.  "We
have ways of recovering our strength."

   "I'm glad to hear that." The strange voice was quiet.  "Would you prefer
those methods?"

   "You would permit the choice?" Her voice was sharper than she should
have let it.

   "I don't quarrel with ways that work, ma'am."



   ***

   Those incredible eyes were on him, going through him.

   "Look." He swallowed dryly, and was ashamed of himself for reacting like
a stupid kid.  "We don't have much time, and I'm sorry if this is rushing
things.  If your people are going to survive, they're going to look to you
to guide them." He forced every iota of his personality into meeting those
green-flecked gems.  A tiny flicker in those depths, and he realized she
was unused to being met like this.  "The Empire is a cruel place--and the
military the cruelest of all.  Kirk won't hesitate to make an example of
you."

   He'd stopped talking again.  McCoy swore at himself and forced himself
to keep going.  "They'll want you to swear loyalty to the Empire.  They'll
demand tithes of your resources.  And they'll make sure no one will contest
your rule."

   Outrage flared her nostrils.  "No one would contest my rule!"

   "THEY will." He said grimly.  "Believe me, Lady Natira.  They will. 
They'll put a puppet in your place." He looked away, unable to watch those
eyes any more.  "I've seen it happen over and over."

   "You are not like them." She was stating this, not questioning.

   "I work for them.  That makes me like them." He said it harshly, lashing
himself with his own words.  When she said nothing he realized she deserved
a better explanation than that.  "Lady Natira, I'm from a different
generation.  My Empire is under the rule of the blood eagles now.  Conquest
is all."

   "How did you come here then?" She was like a dog with a bone, worrying
at this until she understood it.

   He sighed.  "Exile." He said simply.  "There was nothing for me at home,
so I went for the stars." He rubbed his forehead, feeling another spell of
nausea.

   "As I said, we don't have much time.  When I've declared you recovered
from the stun you'll be expected to speak with the captain.  He'll demand
your surrender and if you won't give it to him, your entire world will be
nothing more than a cinder when he's done."

   Natira's first emotions showed.  She swallowed.  "That might be best."

   At one time, McCoy might have agreed with her.  God knows, he'd helped
many a person to suicide to spare them suffering.  But this was different.
He forgot himself and grabbed her arm, hard.  "No." He hissed through his
teeth.  She was shocked at his presumption,too shocked to speak.  "NO. 
Natira, if there is any good in your people, and I think there is, then you
cannot let them die!" His own voice frightened him.  "We need good people,
who don't hide their feelings, hide their natures, hide period!  It's what
led us to the Empire of today--hiding!  For the love of God, let your
people live!"

   They were both breathing harshly in the badly lit world.  Her eyes were
wide.  Astonished at his temerity, he decided.  She obviously wasn't
vulnerable to fear.

   His hand was stiff; he forced himself to let go.  "I'm sorry." He hoped
there wouldn't be a bruise under that sleeve.  "I've seen too much death. I
don't want to see any more."

   He'd been prepared for her to say something to that, but she was merely
silent.

   His mouth was dry.  "How much time do you think you need?"

   "Time?" She echoed softly.  He looked back at her.  She was studying the
ceiling-sky, her eyes lightyears away from the room.  "I am ready now."

   "No." He contraidicted.  Again that flash of surprise.  "You may think
you can deal with this, but you cannot.  I'm going to tell the captain that
you'll be able to speak to him tomorrow morning.  That should give you time
to...think over your announcements."

   "Who are you?" For the first time, something calculating was showing in
her eyes.

   "Name's McCoy." He answered brusquely.  She was looking *through* him,
and he didn't like the feeling.

   "Ma'koi." She repeated, committing him to memory.  "I will not forget."

   Who could blame him for the chill that went down his spine at those
slow, deliberate words?



   ***

   Kirk was in a far better mood now that the Fabrini "military" was
completely disabled.  He gestured for Marlena to pour drinks for all of
them.  His woman complied with a pleasant smile, but McCoy hesitated just a
touch, before taking his glass off the tray.  Lately he'd been wondering if
there was something going on with that little chemist.

   If Spock hadn't told Kirk it was Marlena who discovered the presence of
their doubles, the captain might have killed her out of jealousy, imagining
his counterpart with her.  Such things had happened before, and McCoy tried
hard not to think about such scenarios.  You'd think it would make a woman
rethink becoming Kirk's, but at least it weeded out the chances of a *soft*
woman aiming for the position...

   "The Subduction went well, captain." Spock, as his usual fashion, set
his own glass at his side and drew one leg across the other, foot perfectly
level, Vulcan-style as a makeshift table.  "Humanoid they be, the Fabrini
are exceedingly well trained and unwilling to act without orders from the
Oracle."

   "Unsurprising, considering the punishment for infractions is pain." Kirk
snorted.  "Your proclamation?"

   "The technology is beyond current Empire Abilities, but someone such as
Mr.  Scott would find little trouble discerning the designs.  Despite the
age of the world-ship, there is almost no damage.  Self-healing circuits
are apparantly reality to these people." Spock lifted his glass for the
first time.  "Searching the Oracle Room revealed the Book of the Fabrini,
which is just as holy to the people as the Oracle herself.  There is a
great deal of medical information inside.  They were the most famous
healers of their heyday."

   McCoy made a thoughtful sound.

   "What, thinking of research?" Kirk asked with a knife-edged voice,
slicing his thoughts.

   "No, thinking of the contraidiction in terms." McCoy answered with his
own bite.  "Advanced medicine generally connotates a liberal slant--I was
wondering of the circumstances that made them decide to go stale inside the
control of a computer."

   "Possibly for the good of the species' survival." Spock said placidly.
"The creators would not wish to leave anything up to chance such as revolt,
civil unrest or perhaps a mentally unstable Oracle."

   "Ugh." McCoy thought that mentally unstable *computers* were nightmare
enough.

   "Prognosis on the Oracle?" Kirk leveled his hard eyes on McCoy.

   "She'll be up to the Meet tomorrow morning.  She's adjusting to the loss
of the Implant more than the stun.  Right now, she's experiencing a great
deal of amazement that nothing will punish her thinking."

   Kirk laughed.  "Stay close to her, McCoy.  She has reason to dislike
*me* and I want it to stay that way.  Use some of that charm you're famous
for and be the Good Imperial.  It shouldn't take her long to warm up to
you."

   McCoy took a swallow from his glass.  "I have the charm of a Tellarite!"

   Marlena muffled a choke into her hand from the back of the room.  Spock
lifted one eyebrow as a comment.  It was probably the reaction of the
stump-stolid Vulcan that made Kirk laugh.

   "That's not what the women say in the sauna." Kirk answered sweetly. 
Just as swift, his hard bloodstone eyes flicked to Spock.  "Now that most
of this is out of the way, I want Sulu to arrange a public execution for
those security guards who fired without my orders."

   Spock bowed from his neck.  "Agreed."

   McCoy concentrated on finishing his drink.  Yeah, agreed all right. 
Good policy to deal swift retribution to soldiers who acted on their own
initiative...and failed.  But Kirk had another reason for putting twelve
men to death.  Over half of them were in Sulu's pocket.  Having the
Security/Helmsman issue those orders out would keep him intimidated and
away from Kirk and Spock for at least a month.

   Politics.  The games people played, to see who got what of someone
else's.



   ***

   The fog was dissipating.  Maybe it was the cold.  Or the wet. 
Condensation was dripping from somewhere overhead, on his wrist.  It'd
taken him long enough to be aware of it.  Even longer to do something about
it.  His sense of up and down was royally confused.  He *still* wasn't sure
if he had it right.  Or left.  Or backwards.  Or forwards or--

   *shocky*

   He dug his fingers into his temples, closing his eyes.  Too quiet. 
Space-black and vacuum-silent.  But the fog was still there, curling at the
furthest edges of his consciousness.  And it wanted in.

   *Let me in let me in* the ghost rapping at the Bronte's window; the
relentless drip of freezing water from overhead.  Overhead from where?  He
didn't even know where *he* was.

   Somebody was underneath him.  Partly.  He felt around in the blackness,
couldn't tell more than it was a man, and a big one.  His hand came away
with a sticking sound and feel.  Syrup that reeked of iron.  His
overstressed heart was pounding a drum in the darkness.

   *What happened?*

   He tried to think, but nothing was forthcoming.  It hurt to try to
remember.



   ***

   Christine was cleaning out Leonard's desk--she'd taken a lot more
satisfaction out of emptying M'Benga's and throwing most of what he had
into the trash.

   This was a hell of a chore, she thought bitterly.  And she didn't know
what the devil to do about the few personal effects.  Leonard was about as
material as Jesus Christ was a pro football player.  About his only hobby
was collecting archiac and frightening remnants of ancient medical
technology; scalpels, bone-spreaders, forceps...all that primitive stuff
that was guaranteed to throw a horror into anyone coming *in* to Sickbay.
She didn't know how often she'd told him that it wasn't reassuring to
anyone to see the 19th-century autopsy tray (replete with tools) mounted on
the front wall.

   Still, everyone had a dark side, and Leonard's native-born morbid streak
manifested in his unstoppable fascination with the witch-doctor stuff.  She
shook her head at an ancient petroleum-byproduct stethescope and stuffed it
on top of the other "questionable" stuff in the box.  Some of this stuff
was actually real plastic.  Worth a fortune.  Not that she had the stomach
to sell anything.  Maybe donate it to some museum...

   She exhaled at the sight of the small address-wafer in the top shelf,
and picked it up with a sigh.  This was probably the only means of
contacting Joanna.  And from what she knew of the McCoy Family Dynamic,
she'd be better off trying to reach the girl without her mother running
interference.  Maybe she should try through the university.  Or use the
medical branch channels.  Joanna was almost through with her training to be
a nurse.

   *Drat!  How's she going to afford school without Leonard?* The sudden
thought hit her right between the eyes.  Joanna's mother (referred to as
"Cottonmouth" by the disgruntled former husband), had not approved of
Joanna's career choice.

   Chapel sat down hard, shocked at the amount of guilt that had struck
her. She hadn't seen it coming.  And now she was swamped with self-loathing
for not being able to prevent his death.

   *Oh, Lord.* She rubbed her face with both hands.  Hard.  Well, maybe it
wasn't her responsibility, but on the other hand, if she'd any loyalty to
Leonard at all, she should try to do something.

   She didn't have a clue as to what.

   Adjusting M'Benga's now-snug sash about her waist, Chapel drummed a
pattern on the edge of her new desk.  Possibly she should try to open
communications with Joanna McCoy first, before she tried any noble heroics.



   ***

   Nyota Uhura hadn't been expecting Christine at her door.  A visitor,
yes--one in particular, but not the new CMO.

   "Well, I'm surprised." She confessed and stepped to the side.  "Come on
in.  I haven't seen you in ages."

   "Big ship." Chapel smiled without humor.

   Nyota's eyebrows went up.  "I'd congratulate you...but I don't think I
should."

   "No." Chapel suddenly stopped in the middle of the antelope-hide rug and
looked lost.

   "Have a drink?"

   "Sounds great."

   Nyota kept an eye on her as she reached for the millet beer.  "D'you
want to talk?"

   "About what?" Christine wasn't losing that confused look in her eye.

   "About...what happened." Nyota wasn't about to venture to say anything,
because she wasn't sure what to call the recent events.  "Kirk's Coronary"
might cover it from the Bridge-view end of things.

   "Ohhhh." Christine grabbed up the red-glass bottle and sank down on a
cushion.  "I didn't ask for this.  I really didn't, Nyota.  I'm suddenly
taking on the work of three people on top of my own load.  M'Benga wasn't a
workaholic, but he was pretty blasted busy.  Hollister was busy--busy
trying to suck up to him and get close enough to my good graces for a
knife. And Leonard was an insomniac who worked when he couldn't sleep.  I
need a medical secretary to take over *just* the filing!"

   "Sounds bad.  Anybody you can trust?"

   "There's Barrows." Chapel said doubtfully.

   "Barrows?  Didn't she have a thing for your boss?"

   "Sort of.  Frankly, I don't think it was anything more than
stress-release.  What's so funny?"

   "W-well...a lot of people thought you and McCoy were lovers."

   Chapel blinked with tired, bloodshot eyes.  "Including you, huh?  Very
funny.  Very, *very* funny."

   "You mean you weren't?" Nyota couldn't hide her surprise.

   "We weren't going to ruin a good partnership with an ill-advised
romance, Nyota." Chapel took a healthy gulp of the beverage.  "Name me one
Inner-Departmental Romance that didn't blow up later."

   "You got me there." Nyota shrugged.  "So you're needing to unwind some
steam?"

   "Whoof." Christine ran her fingers through her hair.  "I was wondering
how much it would cost to send a comm out to Earth."

   "Earth?" Uhura winced.  "A lot.  Where exactly?"

   "Mississippi University.  I'm trying to get ahold of Leonard's
daughter."

   "Didn't know he had one."

   "Well, to hear his ex talk, he didn't.  But I feel like she should know
about what happened to her father, besides an official Black Comm in the
mail and a posthumus medal."

   "Ulp." Nyota took her own drink.  "It's expensive, but if you're willing
to live simply for a few months, I could rent you a bandwidth.  Are you
hoping for a one-way, or twoway?"

   "Two." Chapel confessed.  "Might as well go all-photons."

   "True." Nyota's response was halted by another chime.  "That must be my
company." She winked.  "Come in."

   Commander Scott stepped inside, pausing to look upon Christine.  "Dr. 
Chapel." He nodded cautiously.

   "Hello, Mr.  Scott." Christine smiled softly and spoke gently.  Of all
the senior officers aboard, Scott and McCoy had the most in common.  They'd
been born before the warhawks, and remembered there had been other things
to life besides anarchist command.  She didn't insult him by offering her
condolances.  Scott never spoke of what bothered him.

   Instead, she said, "Leonard left a bottle for you in Sickbay.  I didn't
think to bring it."

   The big man smiled slightly.  "Tis not necessary, doctor.  I can stop by
tomorrow.  If ye'r sure its for me."

   "Oh, I'm sure.  The note tied to the bottle refers to a "woodscolted,
tonedeaf sassenach."

   "Hmph." Scott snorted.  "Th' turnbrained miscrant WOULD get the last
word on me."

   "If you don't think that sounds like you, Scotty..." Nyota murmured with
false demurity.

   "And miss out on a bottle?" He wanted to know.  "I'm gude for a few
names."

   Chapel suddenly felt out of place.  "I should get out of here." She
began to get to her feet.

   "Och, stay, lass."

   "Yes, stay." Nyota managed to be comforting and scolding at the same
time.  "You need to be fashionably absent from your quarters for at least a
while, you know.  Give Sulu time to rip his security spies through
everything you own and turn over anything interesting to the captain."

   "What he disnae keep t'hisself." Scott rolled his eyes with a wry grin.

   "This is why I've avoided command." Chapel managed at last.  "I don't
see how you can handle the casual invasion of privacy."

   "We're Military Lifers, Christine.  You aren't.  There's a...mental
difference." Nyota passed a third bottle to her latest guest as she spoke.
"Once you make the decision to be in the Fleet forever, you kind of...well,
jettison a lot of sensibilities."

   "Keeps ye sane." Scott said helpfully.  "And speaking of, will ye be
keeping the post or stepping down?"

   Christine was astonished by the question.  "I don't know." She
confessed. "I never thought about it."
   TBC. . .