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: 7-12/?
Archive: Sure.  Just let me know.
Disclaimer: Paraborg is God.
Summary: events right after the classic episode that started it all.

   ***

   She was *not* a creation of a cordracrazed mind.  And so much of his
personal identity was in pieces, that he didn't know if he was grateful to
be back in reality or not.  Once the first steps to awareness were made...

   He remembered all too well the last time.  The way genuine memories had
become lies, and what he'd thought were insane images, actual reality. 
Days had been needed before he could even sift through the past and recover
lucid thinking.  Some people never recovered from the betrayal of their own
minds.  They suicided.

   Impressions of a cavernously large room filtered in first; what had been
a cacophany of clatter and dischord had turned out to be nothing more than
a handful of rainbow-clad Fabrini talking in measured voices.  On the few
times a voice had lifted, McCoy had relived a new version of hell; sound
had pierced his skin like being tattooed with bamboo splinters all over. 
Unable to pull away from vibrations that came from everywhere, his body had
merely stiffened like a corpse, paralyzed with the auditory shock.

   They'd tried keeping him upright, but the cold stone floor had grounded
his burning body, and it was soon advised to leave him there.

   Natira's silence was stone hard, stone heavy.  It filled the room
outward, weighed him down even worse than the restraints.  He felt it press
against the fatigue that crushed him, and felt himself yield to it.  A lack
of concern for himself had replaced his usual persona hours ago when he had
prepared himself for death on the COPERNICUS.  As far as things appeared,
the inevitable was only delayed.

   And if it meant never feeling the cordrazine again, he would be grateful
for death.  His first flashback.  He didn't even know how he'd survived it.
Hadn't wanted to.  Why did he?  Facing another spell of pure insanity was
more than he could comprehend.  Why hadn't his heart burst?  Questions kept
whirling, nonstop, piling upon each other and pulling against him like a
tornado in his mind.

   The black and white tile pattern on the floor suddenly opened up and
collapsed into a black hole.  Beyond this unquestionably riveting moment,
he was aware that some kind of excitement was going on around him.



   ***

   It took a lot of effort, but the floor tiles had become his definiton of
reality, and he finally managed to get them to fall back together in the
ordinary checkerboard pattern.  It was slow going.  He had to start at the
hand lying inches from his face and decide if the tile under it was black
or white.  *That* took a long time.  Like a synaptically confused victim of
bad mushrooms, he kept getting confused on what he was looking at.

   When his concentration lagged, squares fell away from the edges, and he
had to work ever harder to bring them back.  Exhausted and hopeless, he was
starting to think it would be best to give up the ghost.

   No...Joanna would *not* have to live with being the daughter of a raving
lunatic.  Disgrace enough he was an exile.

   Audible checkerboard tiles floated around his ears, equally chaotic:
conversation.  Footfalls of low-soled Fabrini shoes.  Military-style boots.
He wasn't all that curious about discerning what was going on.  It was
enough to know he was cold, soaked in his own sweat, others' blood, and
less than a modicum of rationality.

   Unfortunately, as his visual reality slowly strengthened, so did his
audible reality.  It added to his distraction, and made focusing all the
harder.

   "...Ha'aff aliibii ken oraki..."

   "...po'ri?"

   "Bi...yana ma'kari tomo-e goezin."

   *Wondering what the hell's wrong with me.* If things weren't so
pathetic, it'd be funny.  Another spurt of Fabrini worked its way through
his subdermal translator and the humor congealed.  *They found the
shuttlecraft logs!* He couldn't imagine how else they could know about the
assassination attempt.  But how'd they know to crack the Imperial codes? 
Was there another Imperial spy working for the Romulans?

   Too many mysteries right now.  Too many assaults against his mind.  He
didn't know if his monsters would return again, but he didn't want to stick
around and find out the hard way.  Closing his eyes against the bewildering
flicker of firelight against the zebra-colored floor, he let everything go.



   ***

   *They'd dropped him back in the icy green field, or maybe this was just
another hallucination.  Or was it a memory that had finally caught up with
him?  He couldn't question his senses right now, not in *his* condition.

   Bodies everywhere.  The fine cold rain couldn't wash them clean any more
than his uniform could empty out the maroon that had painted his shirt,
dyed his sash crimson.  Crimson.  Command sashes should be that color;
since one got their rank through killing another.

   (Killing, killing, killing, killing...)

   His hands went to his temples, fingers digging deep wanting to pierce
his skull but that manic strength was gone.  What had ripped his co-workers
apart had spared him, and now his life was in shreds.

   Co-workers...they had been about to kill him.  Didn't make a difference
though, did it?  Piper had been about to kill him, only the faulty hypo
hadn't worked quite the intended way.  He didn't remember killing Piper at
all, just the sight of the body when the curtain lifted.  But this...this
he was remembering.  The images were fuzzed and confused.  He wasn't
certain how genuine his reality was.  But enough remained in his mind. 
Just barely enough...

   His strings cut loose, he folded up on the long wet grass that cut like
razorwire into his legs and hands.  Yeoman Barrs was just off to the edge
of his eye, white as an ice floe, and as cold.  The rain was silvering her
skin, covering the red of her sleeve.

   Who wanted a mad doctor?  If aggression triggered the cordrazine, he'd
never survive another ten minutes on the ship.  They'd pack him to Ebla,
where they threatened to send him all along, an "opportunity to learn" on
the drug-study program.  Permanent guest.

   He wouldn't last more than a week before they cut his brain up beyond
all recognition and held the slices up to the sunlight.

   Slowly, the conclusion he'd been reaching for made its way through.  The
energy flux had rendered the phasers null, and probably the medical
'plasers, but there had to be something left in the shuttle.  Something
sharp.  Sharp enough to cut open his throat.  His daggers were gone, buried
in various crewmembers.  Someone else's?  Had to find *something* before
the fog came back.

   He could feel the insanity tapping on his skull, wanting in, wanting in,
like the Bronte ghost at the window *let me in!  let me in!* He had to find
a dagger.  Something.  Anything.  It was coal-black in the shuttle, and
he'd have to search with his hands.

   His hand rested on the lip of the impact-bent shuttle, and that slight
weight sent the overstressed metal to bow down.  Rain, ice-cold from his
overheated skin, tumbled down his head, sending blood-pinked water down his
back.*



   ***

   Water, hot enough to burn, tumbled down his face, rinsing against the
caked blood.  The smells of live grass, scorched earth and metal and death
were slapped away.  Incongruous change to soap and burning firewood.  His
hand rested on the lip of the stone sink, trying to support himself.  As if
sanity could be physically conjured.  Clink of a wrist-restraint against
the stone.



   ***

   *Too dark to see anything, and the light was getting worse outside.  He
fell to his knees and went flat, trying to cover as much ground in the
uneven craft as possible while his hands searched.  A burn on his temple
throbbed, revenge against the numbing of the rain.*



   ***

   The burning on his temple struck something cold.  His head twisted,
shocked at just how incredibly icy it was; like liquid nitrogen it gave off
its own split-second burn.  A hand was holding him still and he tried to
claw it away.



   ***

   *Something soft.  It gave like gelatin, millions of tiny air bubbles
breaking under impact.  A brain.  A bone-shard raked his palm; he jerked
away, and ridiculously, he thought of the dangers of infection in such an
unsanitary cut.  Humans were the filthiest species...  Matted blood and
worse things were drying from his body heat, stiffening the fabric of his
uniform.*



   ***

   His hand was forced palm-flat, that icy sensation going from his temple
to the cut.  He could hear someone talking to him, knew they were trying to
get him to calm down, but he didn't know if it was a woman or a man, if
they were lying or telling the truth.  And actually, he didn't think it
mattered.  He might be sane for a while, but the monsters kept coming back.

   *This isn't like the last time.* He thought.

   *What isn't?* He asked himself.  Or was someone asking him?

   *Crazy.  They didn't keep coming back.*

   *Who didn't?*

   *I can't stay here.  I keep falling.*

   *Do you know who I am?*

   *I don't even understand that question.*



   ***

   *The warped floor of the craft bowed up; pads off the broken seats
scattered like clumsy pillows.  His shoulder struck against one when he
lost his balance and fell on his side.  Coarse cold hair matted and sticky
met his fingers.  He pulled his hand away and his sleevecaught on something
hard and narrow.  Hollowhilt.  But the blade was gone, cheap metal snapped
away from an impact.  He knelt down over the invisible body, hands
searching among the cloth, trying to find a sash, a boot-knife...a sleeve
weapon...something fell down from above in the blackness, smothering wet
cloth reeking of blood and intestines...he pushed frantically with his
arms, knocking the body backwards.  It swung from the exposed powercords,
and the last of the blood and air escaped from the severed stump of a neck,
hissing and gurgling...*



   ***

   He was too confused.  Memory was overriding the present.

   Slowly, things sorted itself out.  Very very slowly.

   The blood-clammy uniform was gone.  He couldn't see what he was wearing,
just felt the weave of cloth against his skin.  He somehow knew the air was
supposed to be chilly, but after bathing in the memory of freezing rain,
the stone room felt warm.  And dry.  The blanket thrown on top of him was
dark green.  Thank god, not the red that the Fabrini used so much.  He
didn't think he could stand that dark dried-blood shade.  The hissing was
coming from wood in the fireplace, sap burning and giving off a sugary-pine
stench.

   Natira finished pouring out a large pitcher (the gurgling sound had
triggered the memory of the headless body).  She turned around to find him
motionless, lying quietly and quietly watching.  There was no expression in
his eyes at all, sort of a glazed lack of sensation that she recognized
very well.

   Taking this in, she took the chair against the low,, cot-like bed and
held up the slim glass.  "Can you drink this?" A spark of alarm at the
thought lit his eyes.  Not trusting himself to speak, he shook his head
mutely.

   Thinking, Natira stepped away, her heavy skirt rustling past his ear. 
She returned a moment later with a clear fluid.  "This is not wine." She
said to his look of nausea.  "It is water."

   He thought about it, and shook his head again.

   "Do you know where you are?" She tried.

   She watched as he turned the question over.  Finally, his lips parted.
"Dar...an..."

   "Yes." She almost whispered.  "Daran.  And you, Ma'koi, are extremely
fortunate to be alive.  If that is good fortune, or bad, I cannot say yet."

   Force of habit made him try to rise.  Sitting up went rather well, but
he knew he couldn't go past that point for a while yet.  A weak spell shook
him and he closed his eyes, releasing his breath out.

   At least, he frowned weakly at the dark brown cloth around his wrist, he
wasn't wearing plaid.  Just the thought of the vomitous Fabrini colors made
his aching abdomen clench back up again.

   Natira didn't speak for a long time.  He was aware her eyes never left
him while she paced.  She was going to make this as raw as possible.  Not
surprising.  The time had come to pay dues.  He didn't know just how hard
it had been for her to survive, but he knew she would match that
difficulty, inch for inch, on him.

   *Pay the Piper.* The unexpected pun ached; pay Piper, indeed.  The man's
actions still rippled after his death, and would probably still ripple
until his intended victim died.

   Behind him, Natira was sliding a drawer open; the sound of wood
whispered, clicked shut, and she was walking around to the low table at his
side.  She set the object in her hand on the polished surface, and McCoy
wondered if it was possible to have a heart attack on top of everything
else.  One Empire-issue Covert Operations File.  Every starship had one. 
And this one had the familiar harpoon-sigil of the ENTERPRISE on its top.

   Natira's lips smiled so slightly, with bitterness.  "Our allies have
their own allies on your ship." She announced.  "You have...interesting
co-workers, Ma'koi."

   They were the first *real* words she had actually spoken to him.  And he
didn't know where she would take it.  Privately, he was burning to know who
would be friendly with the Romulans.  The first guess would be Spock--would
have been, before the disastrous falling-out withthe Flagship Commander...

   *Unless that's what we were supposed to think.* The first trickle of
suspicion rested cold fingers on his neck.

   Long lashes flicked downward, veiling dark brown-green eyes.  "I spent
many hours studying this." She said softly.  "I wanted revenge against
Kirk. I wanted to find some way, however small, to ease my hatred against
him."

   *And me.* He added silently.



   "And you." She agreed.

   She'd always seemed to know his thoughts, to look through him and read
the inside.  The resonation between them had been what made his actions all
the harder, knowing the agony she was feeling, and forcing her to live
through it when all she wanted was sweet death.  No wonder she saw him as
the ultimate betrayer.

   Her long nails tapped the plastic, a harsh woodpecker sound that went
through his skeleton.  "You have had your first cordrazine recurrance, have
you not?" She wasn't asking.  She knew damn well what it was.  "I watched
you."

   *Watched me constantly.* It was her eyes he'd felt in his delirium.

   "Do you know you spoke in your fever?"

   The question, leveled like a phaser, struck hard.  He felt the edges of
his view fuzz out to gray, then with a force of will remembered to breathe
again.

   "No." He finally remembered how to talk.  It hurt.  From his broken lip
down to his throat.

   "You spoke." She repeated in the short, crisp way Fabrini did.  "I asked
you questions.  You answered them."

   He wouldn't ask what he'd told her.  There was no point.  The Empire
took a dim view of officers who cracked under pressure.  Even an Admiral
could be assassinated, or executed, for giving the enemy information.

   *I'm dead.  I've BEEN dead since the flashback.  Why can't they hurry up
and make it official?*

   "You knew that we might meet again." Natira's greengold eyes were
citrine.

   "I knew." He agreed.  There had been no other possible route.  His last
vision of her on Yonada had been the determination on her face.  An
answering for what had happened.

   "You made me live, Ma'koi." Her pale hand tightened on the plastic
square.  His eyes automatically slid to the motion, and she took it for
avoidance.  The hand reached, gripped his chin and forced it up.  "I wanted
nothing more than to die, and I was going to die.  But you made me live. 
You forced me to see that I could not be so selfish as to leave what was
left of my poor people behind.  You used words I could not argue against."

   Her grip went hard, and the blow came.  "So now our positions are
reversed, and I see the same look in your eyes.  Do you deny that the
Empire owes the Fabrini?"

   "No." He forced out.  "I never did."

   "Agreed.  You wish for death, Ma'koi, but you will never find it.  My
decree on you, is that you will live."

   What she feared and hated was his own fear.  And she was going to make
him endure what he had made her do.  He wasn't surprised.  Just sick
inside.

   But he had to know something, and all this could wait.  "Tell me
something." He whispered.

   Her gaze never wavered.  "What?"

   "You have the ship's logs.  You saw what happened."

   "Yes."

   "Did I kill anyone?"

   For the first time, a genuine emotion broke the ice of her calm. 
Astonishment.  "You do not know?" She asked.

   "I can't remember.  I think I did.  But cordrazine...it lies." He
couldn't describe the confusion any other way.

   Her brown eyebrows tilted, meeting in a light frown.  He wondered what
the devil she had to debate about.  Either he did kill, or he didn't.

   "I will tell you." She said at last.  "But now is not the time, Ma'koi.
If you are still this confused..." A shrug was her answer.

   Finally, slowly, a smile that was completely without humor ghosted the
side of his mouth.  "Have it your way." She had her reasons for being
deceptive.  So be it.  His life was no longer his, and he was in no
position to demand.

   Again, the green-gold eyes vivisected him.  "You think you're
permanently mad?"

   "Probably." It was all he could conjecture at this point.

   Her head cocked to one side.  "You had more than the cordrazine to worry
about." He didn't understand what she meant.  "There are...other factors.
You'll learn of them when you're...recovered."

   "Oh." He wondered if it mattered.  Maybe he cared only from habit. 
Didn't seem like he was really concerned about what happened.  All he
really knew, was he was tired, too tired to to anything but close his eyes
and watch the nightmares that would come.

   = = = = =

   Chapel couldn't remember drinking this much beer while on ship before.
And Nyota was determined to keep pouring it in.

   "Will you hold on." She finally clunked her bottle down.  Scott chortled
in the background, his face cheerfully flushed.

   "Sorry." Nyota shrugged.  "Anyway, where was I?"

   "Halka." Scott reminded her.

   "Oh, thanks, Monty.  Halka."

   "What about Halka?"

   "Well, don't you think its odd Mr.  Spock persuaded the Empire to save
them?"

   Chapel mused over the question, and, enslaved to habit, actually took
another drink.  "Couldn't argue with his reasoning." She said at last.  "I
mean, *why* kill them all when we need slave labor to mine the crystals?"

   "Aye, but no one ever thought about that before." Scott pointed out. 
"Most of the time, we just level the main cities or even th'whole planet."

   "Not like we have to worry about *Halkans* rising up against the Flag."
Nyota snorted.  "You should have been down there, Christine.  Pacifist is
just not the word for them."

   "They'd sooner die as a race than let one life be taken from their
dilithium." Disgust painted a Scottish burr as the big man leaned over for
another millet.  "Can ye ken thot?"

   "The whole race??" Christine was nonplussed.  "They'd let their own
children and old people die for that?" The other two nodded seriously. 
"That's just wierd." She said flatly.  "And frankly, irresponsible! 
Leonard called people like that "parasites."

   "Huh?" Uhura blinked with an alcoholic bleariness.

   "Parasites.  He said people who are too good to kill are too good to get
their hands dirty.  That makes them helpless, so they have to be taken care
of.  At least if they're mining crystals for us, they're not being
useless." She shook her head in scorn.  "Hmph.  They should count
themselves lucky.  Think of what the *Klingons* would have done to them!"

   "Or Orions."

   "Oh, you know how it is.  People look at their "finer"contributions,
like art, music, literature, poetry, as if that justifies the lack of a
spine." Uhura snickered.  "Does that make me a Philistine?"

   "You?  Just open your mouth and sing." Scott grinned at the tiny woman
with open adoration.

   "Maybe I should leave." Christine said again.

   "Och.  What's yer hurry?"

   *No hurry, just don't want to interfere with a romance...* Christine
shrugged sheepishly.

   "Well, where was I?" Uhura wondered.

   "Halka." The Engineer and CMO said together.

   "Oh, yes.  Halka.  Anyway.  I think it's good that they're sweating
their highbrow lives away in those mines.  People that don't fight, they're
useless."

   "Um." Christine agreed.  Nyota wasn't going off tangent, as much as
talking in circles.  "Makes you wonder if any Halkans will start signing up
for the military to get away from the mines."

   "Hah.  As highbrow as those prissies were?  Honey, you weren't THERE!"

   "Glad I wasn't, considering where the lot of you went before you got
back."

   "Honey, you weren't THERE." Nyota repeated.  She poked Christine in the
chest insignia.  "Nobody lifted their voice, they all spoke one at a time,
and we were under-evolved mud under their pansy sandals!"

   "Pansy sandals?" Christine tried to picture it.

   "Pansy sandals." Nyota repeated.

   "If they're so evolved, you think anyone will join the military?"

   "Hah.  There's deviants in EVERY society!  I give 'em high odds that
once they really understand what it's like to be like any of us--fighting
poverty, hunger and scrabbling for shelter--they're gonna go back down the
evo-looshunary scale and sign up for Fleet-sponsored food and supplies!"

   "'Join the Empire.  See the Galaxy.'" Scott quoted, ever so seriously.
"Take a share in loot und kill lots of Klingons."

   "I think we kill Klingons for free." Uhura frowned.

   Christine opened her mouth to say...something...but her communicator
chirped at the same time.

   "Oops." She bent down and fumbled in her sash.

   **Dr.  Chapel.  Are you indisposed?**

   Chapel shivered at Spock's imperious baritone, and her audience
respectfully shut up.  "Not at all sir."

   **Your presence is required in Sickbay.**

   To the curious stares, she could only shrug.



   ***

   Christine was just as surprised as anything to see Spock in the company
of Marlena Moreau, and the little Latino was cradling a large red burn on
her bare forearm.

   "What seems to be the trouble?" She asked even as she pulled out the
basikit.

   "I burned my arm." Marlena grumbled.  Her mouth was twisted up on one
side, and she added with a growing smile, "It was the best way to get down
here."

   "We don't get many hypochondriacs." Chapel commented drily.  "Masochists
and sadists, yes...but not many hypo's."

   Spock had his hands clasped behind his back.  His eyebrow had slipped
up. "It was the simplest way to have a private meeting." He said simply.

   Christine paused while leveling Marlena's arm out.  The spray of
sterilite poised over the burn.  "Oh?"

   Spock did not answer her directly.  "Despite what happened to the
COPERNICUS, we will still need to meet with the Romulans.  The meeting
place has been moved to the flagship herself."

   Chapel went chilly inside.  "That's...interesting." She licked dry lips
and applied the spray.  Marlena watched with fascination as the solution's
active enzymes devoured the layer of dead and damaged cells at record
speed.

   "As the new Chief Medical Officer, your presence is required."

   Chapel's first thought was wholly absurd: *Easy come, easy go!*
referring to her suddenly brief position as ship's doctor.  Well, maybe
they could get Dr.  Chang up.  She was a fair surgeon, after all...

   "Who else will be attending?" She was proud of her neutral tone. 
Marlena looked up and cocked a wicked eyebrow, openly amused.

   "For now, it will merely be myself and yourself." Spock was holding his
calm quite well.  Chapel wondered what was really going through his head.
After what Commmander Charvenek had promised to do to him...or rather, to
his nose, his ears, his thumbs and his beard...

   "I see." Chapel managed.  "For this we need to have a private meeting?"

   "The captain can't spy on anyone while he's on duty." Marlena smiled. 
"We're just making a few shortcuts."

   "Ah." Christine was still in the dark, but figured things would come out
eventually.  She picked up the regen and misted a fine gel bandage over the
arm.  "Keep it dry for ten minutes." She advised.

   "Is that all you have to say?" Marlena asked in amusement.

   "Well, no.  I've found a new nurse for the ship.  But some strings may
have to be pulled to bring her aboard."

   "Why would that be, Commander?" Spock asked placidly.

   "She's Leonard's daughter." Christine didn't give them time to blink
from surprise.  "She's just graduated, she's been an EMT since 14, and
grossly overqualified to be planetside."

   "If she's been an EMT that long, she can't possibly be squeamish."
Marlena commented.

   "Squeamish is not a word that would come to anyone that encounters
Joanna McCoy." Christine took a deep breath.  "I would like her on the
staff."

   "Do you foresee difficulties?" Spock leveled.

   "One." Christine looked him dead in the eye.  "She is unfortunately
attractive." Leonard still thought--had thought--she was 'cute as a
bug'--but Christine knew it was a good thing the girl had all those black
belts.

   "Mmmmn." Marlena's smirk was not pleasant.  "If you're worried about the
captain's eye..."

   "I'm not asking for anyone to lie, but if there were RUMORS she had a
protector that no one wanted to cross..." Christine left it unsaid.

   "I see." Spock folded his arms at the military at-rest.  Christine might
be going mad from the stress, but she could have sworn there was a glint of
amusement in the dark eyes.



   ***

   "What do you think?"

   Marlena was always blunt.  An appreciable trait.  Spock did not answer
at first.  The hallway was momentarily crowded with saluting crewmen.

   "The rest depends upon the captain." Spock replied slowly.

   Marlena's expression was shrewd as she glanced up at him.  "Still
thinking, hmn?  You Vulcans do that a lot."

   "Compared to some, indeed." Spock did not rise to the limp bait.

   It was Marlena's turn to be quiet.  "We'll see." It was not a promise,
or a writ upon stone.  For a moment, she looked tired and older than her
real years.  Spock did not envy her the burdens she was bearing.  There had
been a time when she had cared deeply for the captain.  And that care had
been reciprocated.  But now was not the case, and Kirk was keeping her
either from habit; or because she was too useful to transfer or kill.  It
was not a good thing to be tolerated in any way; loss of pride led to
homicides.

   Spock knew no matter what, he owed her a debt.  She had stayed with Kirk
longer than she would have of her own volition, to keep her own promise to
him.  She could have been the captain's woman on the ship of her choice
months ago.  But without her help, Spock would very likely be dead.

   Marlena broke the silence by changing the subject.  He'd known she would
do that eventually.  Humans were oft predictable in that matter.

   "I'm just hoping the Commander doesn't make that necklace of your
fingerbones."

   "It is not a prospect that pleases me either, Lieutenant."

   Marlena knew Vulcan irony.  It was the only humor they admitted to.

   "Well.  It could be worse.  My great-grandfather's South Sea ancestors
made pothooks from their enemies' digits."

   "As you say." Spock agreed blandly.  "And we shall see.  Events are
moving swiftly, Moreau.  I advise caution, and a preparedness to move
without hesitation."

   Marlena snorted.  "You'll never have to worry about that from me." She
told him.  "So long as I get what I want."

   "We have discussed this." Spock agreed.  It was also his way of dropping
the subject.



   ***

   Alone in her Sickbay--HER Sickbay.  She was beginning to hate it. 
Christine sighed and toggled her comm.

   **Uhura here.**

   "It's me." Christine hesitated.  "How soon can you set up the band for
Earth?"

   **I can probably do that as soon as I set up my diag's on the Board when
I get back on duty.** Uhura yawned sleepily.  **Stop it Monty!  You'll make
me pass out!**

   Christine smiled wryly.  The secret to Uhura and Scott's relationship,
she knew, was the fact that they had almost nothing departmentally in
common.  Neither one would ever be jeopardized by the other.  Talk about
peace of mind...  "When are you going back on duty?  I thought you were
off?"

   **I thought I was too.  But Angela called in sick.  Don't worry.  I
gots...  lotta soberalls.  Um.  I'll be back on in an hour.**

   "You'd better add a stim on top of the soberalls."

   **Thought they had stims.**

   "Not all of them."

   **Well that's just wonderful!** Uhura revived a little from her major
annoyance.  **What do you recommend?**

   "Coffee.  Black.  Lots of.  All the sugar you can hold."

   **What good is that going to do me?**

   "Not too much; just make you regret drinking too much in the first
place."

   **Some doctor.**

   "Blame M'Benga." Christine was already tiring of the banter.  "Look,
I've got to go.  Soon as you can set up the band, tell me."

   = = = = = Uhura was a hard worker on the ISS.  One of the hardest; in
that, she had everything in common with her Bridge-peers.  Backstabbing
might be so common that it was worth no more than mild surprise...but if
you gave your word, you'd best keep it.  Otherwise, you'd find yourself
without any friends.  Quickly.  Overnight.  Friendless people equated
walking dead ones.

   So her first thought was: *Chapel won't like this*, when she saw the
chaos running all over the Bridge.  Obviously, it would be more than a
simple matter of diagnostics to get out of the way.  Maybe she'd have to
stall on the bandrent until after she was officially off duty.

   "Lieutenant." Kirk had swiveled in his high-backed chair, sparing her a
cursory once-over.  Salute still firmly affixed to her breast insignia, she
bowed with her head and swung her arm outward like a wetship boom.

   "Clean your board.  I want all available channels on standby, full
spectrum.  No messages of personal or private nature to be sent out for the
next 48 hours.  Is that understood?"

   "Aye, sir.  Is this an official sound-black?"

   "Consider it so." Kirk had been about to turn his back on her, but the
doors opened, the guards stepped aside, and Scott was entering.

   Duty called.  He gave her no more than a stiff nod of acknowledgement,
answered Kirk's quick burst of orders.  She watched from her station as he
stomped to his, a big man that moved lightly...when he so chose.  Maybe
they could meet later...

   Uhura privately sighed for an opportunity lost as she fixed the
transdator firmly into her ear, checking first for anything amiss.  All you
needed was to have an ear infection traded around the Communications Crew
to make people *really* cranky.

   Now was not the time to consider it, but she really did want to move
deeper with Montgomery.  Sulu's attention waxed and waned, and she cared
for neither phase.  When he was interested in her, he just about drove her
mad.  When he wasn't, she felt the same because she kept obsessing on when
he'd start paying attention to her again.  Scotty was almost untoucheable
with Sulu's circle of power.  If the Helmsman tried anything, he might
learn very quickly that Scott already knew all there was to know about
electronic revenge...

   Nice thoughts.  It lifted the mood off her shoulders somewhat as she
followed orders.  She ran over the positronic crystals several times until
she was satisfied at their warmup speed, and placed no less than four major
channels, three hailing frequencies, and six scrambled/lessor beams on
automatic standby.  There.  One touch of a toggle and she'd be saying the
dreaded, "Hailing frequencies open, sir."

   Sulu's deep voice murmured, out of Uhura's easy range of hearing in her
forest of chirrups and bleeps.

   "Onscreen, Lieutenant." Kirk snapped.

   Uhura glanced up, ready for any order, as the main screen changed from
its view of the Daran System Border, one Romulan Flagship, and the pale
Daran Sun.  In its place was the cramped-looking confines of the
older-style Romulan Bridge.  In the middle of it all and dominating the
view was Commander Charvenek.

   **Captain.** Charvenek spoke with the heavy dry irony Vulcanoids were
famous for.  **To what do I owe the honor?**

   "Simple duty, Commander." Kirk leaned back in his chair, one leg across.
"Answering your requested hail and acknowledging there will be a further
transfer of medical information."

   One delicate, charcoal eyebrow went up.  **I am surprised.** The dry
voice filtered across space and inflected perfectly.  She was using her own
knowledge of Imperial Standard, and not a translator.

   "Surprised at what, Commander?"

   **That you're willing to follow through with your word.** Her smooth
lips twitched, and Uhura had the distinct impression that Kirk was a source
of amusement somehow.  Not a good situation.

   "Why wouldn't I, Commander?" Sharp edges knifed around each word the
captain used.  Uhura knew his light eyes were glinting like stones now.

   **Oh, nothing much.  Just that we couldn't help but notice that your CMO
managed to get himself assassinated en route...when he was the one we
specifically requested.**

   Uhura's throat froze in the middle of what could have been a betraying
gulp of surprise.  Further down, she saw Spock's dark head, lifting from
the viewer for the first time.

   She risked a single, tiny glance at Scotty, just long enough to make eye
contact with him.  His dark brown eyes were almost black.  She knew what he
was thinking.

   *The captain's wanted all of us dead since we saw his bad showing on
Halka.  Who is he going to go after next?* Dread prickled her spine. 
Scotty keeping Sulu from her was one thing; no one could protect anyone
from the captain.

   Kirk was smiling now, his voice warm with it.  "I'm afraid I have little
say in the little political games that my people enjoy."

   **Obviously.  It must be a dreadful burden to be you, Kirk.  Not an
honor I would take upon.**

   "With luck, you won't have to." Now the knives and smiles were side by
side in his speech, and he'd leveled cities with such behavior.  Uhura
risked a quick look to Scott, who was perfectly staid and unmoving at his
post.  "When will you state the time of visit?"

   Charvenek turned her head slightly; a soft gabble of consonants rippled
in the background.  After a moment, while Uhura nervously watched the
ramrod straight Spock join Kirk's side, she returned her gaze.

   **Our diplomats have safely ensconced in the palace.  We are told your
diplomats are there as well.  Security is considered clear.  You may send
your shuttle over at your own discretion.**

   "No sense wasting time." Kirk smiled.

   Charvenek's eyes slitted to obsidian, and in the shriveled second before
she waved the connection off, her gaze sliced at Spock with murderously
controlled heat.

   Kirk chuckled to himself.  "Romulans." He said to no one in particular.

   "Course holding, sir." Sulu's voice was wary.  Quiet.  Anyone could tell
things were tight and tense in their part of space.  What was worse, Kirk
seemed to know everything that was going on...but he wasn't telling.

   Spock looked down at his captain.  "Sir?" He murmured softly.  "When
shall I send for the team?"

   "Why, you can do it now, if you want." Kirk smiled.  "Just yourself and
Dr.  Chapel, Commander.  No one else."

   Spock hesitated.  "Storn is an excellant biochemist."

   "He is also indispensible.  Now that Life Sciences is on the verge of a,
shall we say, power vacuum, I don't care to leave the ship without
backups."

   *If that's so, why is he letting Spock go?* Uhura blinked across the
Bridge at Scott.

   Storn worked part-time as one of Spock's bodyguards.  Most officers were
never refused at least one liegeman.  Kirk had his reasons for being rude,
but they weren't really standing up.  For some reason, he wanted Spock
alone and unprotected on the Flagship.

   Scott met her eyes.  His complete lack of expression said he was
thinking the same thing...and drawing the same conclusion.



   ***

   Chapel had been on a Romulan enclave once, way back before *a lot* of
borders had juggled around.  She knew that despite the skimpy uniform,
she'd be sweating herself silly, and then sniffing from arid sinusitis. 
She'd be sympathetic to Spock, only he would probably take the visit to the
NIGHTEAGLE as a vacation.

   *Humph!  Right!  Vacation in hell!* She rechecked her seat restraints;

   Spock glanced her way as he finished the program.  Leaning back, she
watched the shuttlebay doors open up, revealing a too-large Warbird, and a
great deal of empty space.

   Spock had something on his mind, all right.  She wasn't about to ask
what it was.  As soon as make a horse drink as pry a Vulcan.  Then again,
you could always stick an IV in a horse.

   She sighed.  She wasn't a CMO.  Not really, not at all.  And here she
was, pretending to be one.  It would have to do until she either found her
feet or became another casualty on the Food Chain of Rank.  Talk about a
possible possibility.

   This is where Spock should be giving her any needed advice.  And at this
point, she'd be grateful for a "keep the curtain inside the shower" speech.
But her Commanding Officer never said a word, just watched the warship grow
larger in their viewscreen.

   *Vulcans.* She thought wearily.  *If I wasn't so damned accountable for
my own stupidity, I'd blame the Universe for this stupid crush!*



   ***

   Lt.  Uhura had achieved her rank by a blend of strength and flexibility.
And it was Montgomery's strange body language that was sending off the
alarms in her mind, not Spock's absence, not Kirk's peculiar and smug
silence.

   The Chief Engineer was extremely busy at his stand-post, keeping his eye
on the energy readings and waiting for any orders he might get as Acting
First Officer.  But the man was *nervous.* Twice she saw him flick a look
to the turbolift doors, or to the two men posted on guard.  She wasn't sure
from where she was.

   *What the devil is going on?  There's something he didn't tell me?  Or
something he didn't know about until just now?* She wished she knew.  She
wished she could figure him out.

   "Surprised she doesn't blow the shuttle out of space." Sulu commented
wryly.

   Kirk chuckled.  "Maybe she will." He shrugged.  "You know how it is with
women."

   *Hmph.* She did not appreciate that gibe, but she'd grown up with a lot
worse in order to survive.  Let chauvinists think what they wanted.  It
made it all the better when you stuck a knife in them.

   And sometimes, she'd just love to knife Sulu.

   "Romulan ship opening Docking Beam." Farrel reported from Navigation. 
"It looks like the OORT is boarding without mishap."

   "I," Kirk murmured, "would be very surprised."

   = = = = =

   Charvenek hadn't changed one iota since their last infamous meeting
(Well, Leonard had called it "a real horn-locking").  The Commander was
wearing quilted trousers under her kilt, the undress-warstyle that was now
in her Fleet, but that was the only difference.

   Her almond eyes swept up and down Christine appraisingly.  "Dr.  Chapel.
Perhaps I should congratulate your promotion."

   "I could live without the honor, Commander.  But I thank you for your
consideration."

   Charvenek flicked an eyebrow up, then down.  She nodded at Spock.  "I
just spent an interesting savam speaking to Kirk.  The man gets...more
interesting...every time I see him."

   "I cannot disagree." Spock replied politely.

   Christine had been expecting one or the other to pull out a weapon and
start using it.  And here she was in the middle.  When no flashing, aiming
or swiping resulted, her nerves began to prickle.

   "Let us get out of the shuttlebay." Charvenek shook her head, sending
her shoulder-length hair brushing against her face.  "I find it too cold
for my liking."

   Cold?  Christine was sweating.  She prepared herself for a temporary
tour of hell.

   The ENTERPRISE folk fell into step behind Charvenek, a phalanax of
guards politely bringing up the rear.  Christine tried to remind herself
that phasers at her back were Romulan good manners, to ensure no one would
assassinate one of *their* guests, but her skin prickled the entire way
across the metal floor.  Boots rang and echoed in the hanger; helmeted men
and women stopped to bow as well as salute.

   "I will not be amiss in my manners, Commander Spock." Charvenek stopped
just after the doorway and waited for them to catch up.  "Will your
physician join mine and myself for a cup?"

   Spock bowed, Romulan-style.  "That would be appreciated, Commander."

   *Oh, my Lord.* Christine hoped her reactions didn't show.  Spock
obviously hadn't thought himself transparent, but...men in love..

   *Transparent as hell!* She couldn't believe she hadn't seen it before.

   "Allow me to lead you to our lounge, doctor." Charvenek bowed calmly. 
Now that Christine was on the alert, she found herself searching the olive
face.  She didn't see anything near the glimpse of heroine-worship that had
flicked, firefly-swift, over Spock's face.  But then, women were better
than men at dealing emotions.

   "Thank you, Commander." She bowed back.

   Leonard had once told her that 70% of medicine was in acting ability. 
If that were so, she should win a medal for this performance.



   ***

   Sulu's glossy head shot up as a light came on his board.  "Sir, my
readings indicate a power surge on the NIGHTEAGLE."

   "Increase scanning, Mr.  Sulu.  Hold your distance.  Science Officer?"

   Science Officer Pro Tem Chekov was stuck as firmly in his viewer as
Spock ever would be.  "Increasing form of plasma flux, sir.  It seems to be
coming from the shuttlecraft area."

   Scott had plugged his board in.  "Sair!  That appears tae be some kind
of explosive weapon!"

   Sulu went rigid; Kirk leaned back in his chair.

   "Hold your position, Mr.  Sulu."

   Sulu twisted around, unbelieving.  "Sir?"

   "I gave you an order, Lieutenant."

   "Sir." Sulu whispered through white lips.  His hands shook over the
controls.

   "Sair, 'tis a BOMB!" Scott blurted.  For reasons Uhura could not see, he
shot a panicked look past her to the turbolift, then back to Kirk.

   No sound in space; it all came from everyone's board as sensors lit up.
A thin trail of metal combustible wafted up from the rear of the Romulan
Bird of Prey.

   *Spock!* Uhura thought.  *Chapel!* They were on board, had to still be
in the area--dead now!

   *Kirk!* She spun in her chair; Kirk was looking up as the livid-faced
Engineer strode towards him.  He was smiling, waiting for Scott to do
something--

   *Scotty, stop!* Uhura screamed inside the privacy of her own mind.  Her
only understanding was that Montgomery was going to get himself killed,
that Kirk had been ready for this, had some backup that would erase his
Chief Engineer for trying to kill him.

   Scott's big hand wrapped around his personal weapon, a skein dhu he
carried in his boot.  The short staghorn hilt gleamed like fresh ink in the
red light of the Bridge.  His face was grim, set, ready for Kirk.

   And Kirk did nothing.

   The instant before Scott struck, the captain's face changed from smug
assurance to betrayed shock.  Uhura's eyes widened in her own shock, but
there was no time to react.  Before Kirk could say anything, Commander
Scott had coolly thrust his knife into the other man's heart.

   Kirk was dead before he finished folding up on the floor, but Scott,
methodical as always, never took a chance.  He ripped the agonizer and
dagger from Kirk's sash before they could be used, and stepped out of the
line of the dying man's arms.

   "Mr.  Sulu." He barked.  "You are now First Officer.  I suggest you
check our shields for maximum strength.  The Warship may not be pleased at
us at the moment."

   Sulu was galvanized into action--possibly at his new promotion more than
anything.  "Aye." He snapped, and slapped the shields up.

   "Lt.  Uhura." Scott sank heavily into the Command chair as if it burned
him.  "Open hailing frequencies on all channels.  Respond to the first one
they return."

   "Aye, sir." Uhura moved by rote, her long minutes of preparation putting
her in good stead.  But her thoughts were still free to fly.  *Why didn't
the guards at the door kill Scotty?* She shot a look upwards.

   And for the first time, she recognized the men.  They worked for Spock,
was loyal to him.  And they were smiling the tight-lipped gallows smile of
men who had followed their orders.



   ***

   Dust filtered down from overhead; dust made of powdered metal and
crystal lens and plastine and capable of blinding the eye.  Christine heard
a man screaming in the wobbling darkness.  The catwalk ground shrilly, her
ears assaulted as woven metal fibers ground against others.

   She was holding on to Charvenek's loose sleeve, and the ranking fringe.
Good thing the fringe was a part of the uniform; she needed the leverage.
Christine coughed with aching lungs in the thin atmosphere, in heavy
gravity that took so much of her strength away, and prayed for someone to
come.  She didn't know how much longer she could hold on.  And she didn't
have the space in her lungs to scream for help.

   And no help was coming.

   The only coherant thought Christine was capable of, was the look on
Spock's face if Charvenek died.  It held her together, and she fought to
keep from screaming as the other woman's gravity-dense body slowly
dislocated her arm.  The Commander was infuriatingly limp and still;
hysteria threatened the doctor's mind at the possibility she was dead.

   But she couldn't let go.



   ***

   She woke up to the Romulan version of Sickbay: green spectrum lights,
yellow-tinged equipment.  It gave Charvenek a sick olive complexion as she
bent into Christine's view of the world.

   "Are you able to respond?" The Commander asked politely.

   Christine stifled the urge to laugh.  The trouble with Vulcanoids; they
just didn't know how funny they could be.

   "Who wants to know?"

   Charvenek looked past Christine's head.  "I think she's still
non-competent."

   Spock's bearded face joined the view, upside down and wearing a
plastiskin bandage over his left eye.  "Doctor?"

   "Yes?" She took a deep breath.  It didn't hurt.  "What happened?"

   "At this point, I can only conjecture the shuttlecraft was a bomb."
Spock said dryly.

   "That we only barely got rid of." Charvenek added in the same voice.

   "Oh." Christine thought about that.  "Now what?"

   "Now what?"

   "Did Kirk do this?"

   "It is a safely conservative assumption."

   "That...that...ohhhh." Thoughts of revenge were negated by the start of
a headache.  "Oh, I'll kill him later." She groaned.  "Right now, I'm in
too much pain."

   "Is she serious?"

   "Possibly, Commander.  Humans have an unfathomable sense of humor."

   "I'll show you unfathomable." Christine snarled through her teeth. 
Whatever they'd given her medically to kill the pain of her dislocated
shoulder, was bubbling through her head like nitrous.  "He killed my best
friend.  My best friend in the entire Galaxy.  Now I'm stuck with a job I
am NOT qualified for and I can't get 'holda Joanna to let her know about
Leonard in person, my new payraise is going to go into bribing my staff
into NOT killing me on a regular basis, and my mother is going to ask me
why can't I just make my way in the Universe the old fashioned way and
marry some ambitiously wealthy moron.  That's unfathomable, SIR!  Taken in
that context, I'd like to know how un-absurd my situation is supposed to
be!"

   Spock listened to this with an oddly chastized expression.  Christine
had no idea her rant closely resembled those of Amanda Grayson's when Sarek
was being overly Republican with her.

   Charvenek was blinking.  A smile flashed across her face and was quickly
stilled.  "Perhaps you should talk in private." She murmured.

   Spock looked nervous at the thought.  Charvenek chuckled and lifted her
fingers up.  After a moment, Spock returned the gesture, as awkwardly as a
teenager giving a candy apple to a girl.

   Then they were alone.

   Spock cleared his throat.  "Doctor, I am to understand you...have
feelings for me."

   Christine was determined to spare his pride.  "I have a lot of feelings
for you, Mr.  Spock.  Right now I'm mostly amazed you haven't killed Kirk
after all these years."

   He cocked his head to one side.  "Your thoughts were open when you saved
Charvenek's life." He said flatly.  "It is considerate of you to try to pad
my sensibilities.  But even a well-meaning deception will do us no good
here."

   "Oh." Chapel sighed.  "Well.  So what?"

   "You do not understand.  Charvenek saw your mind.  It left...an
impression on her.  She owes you her life, and feels you should have
happiness."

   Chapel felt the boil again.  "I didn't save her life to get her
gratitude.  Or yours."

   "Honestly." Charvenek had returned.  "Spock, I'm sorry.  Let me speak.
You had best contact your ship and make sure Sulu isn't running amuck."

   Spock sighed, the first show of exasperation Christine had ever seen. 
"I wish that were not possible."

   "Well, it is.  I'll explain everything."

   Christine watched him go, feeling quite out of her depth.

   "Men." Charvenek commented.  "It doesn't matter what species, I've
found. There's a gap in communication, and it begins when their XX
chromosome loses the leg and becomes XY."

   "Um." Christine cleared her throat.

   Charvenek sighed.  And smiled.  To the human's surprise, she picked up
the cool hand inside hers.  "Don't worry." She assured her.  "Now.  Let's
talk."



   ***

   "Sir...The NIGHTEAGLE is hailing us on a peaceful frequency." Uhura said
it numbly.  She wasn't sure she believed it herself.

   "Onscreen, Uhura." Scott rested his hands on his legs and leaned
forward.

   Spock's familiar bearded face suddenly looked back at them. 
SubCommander Tal stood at his side, scowling as darkly as one so
innocent-looking could.

   "I take it you are well, Commander." Spock commented evenly.

   "Aye, sair.  Not in time tae stop th'captain.  Was too late that I
learned what he was up ta.  I would like tae know how he managed ta'hide
that wee giftie on yer ship."

   "As would I.  Military forensics should tell us much.  Subcommander
Tal's men have volunteered." Spock suddenly sighed, looking tired.  His
dark eyes rested on what he could see of the still body at Scott's feet. 
"A regrettable outcome, but when a lematya goes mad, the desert suffers."

   The turbolift doors hissed open, and Marlena Moreau stepped out.

   Uhura thought she'd been crying.  Her face was swollen but her color was
normal.  Perhaps makeup was hiding her embarassment.  She never glanced to
the floor where her lover was.

   "Lt.  Moreau." Spock bowed from his neck.

   "Mr.  Spock." Moreau bowed back.  If Spock looked tired, she sounded it.
"I should say, congratulations, Cpt.  Spock."

   "Not a reward I preferred.  But necesssary." He said softly.  "Have you
made your decision?"

   Marlena took a deep breath.  "You have started a chain of events,
Captain." She announced heavily.  "Perhaps I am just as safe in a rebel's
ship, as I am anywhere else."

   = = = = =

   When the people were first placed on Yonada, they were moved under the
earth to both let them forget, and to slowly accustom them to a very
different planet.  The rebels, the Clanless Ones, who fought against the
Oracle, lived above the soil in the Forbidden Mountains, and eventually
caused so much damage to the computer that controlled their lives in order
to save them.  Eventually the small band of malcontents died out, but their
effects remained in a journey that was far too long in space, adrift from
its true route.

   Many thousands of years had passed since the Fabrini created a sun of
rose-quartz and radiation.  Daran V, the intended new home, had suffered
climactic upheavels and a once-drier, warmer world was now wet and
moderate. Deserts rested under the swelling oceans; low mountain ranges
were now atolls and keys.  Reefs grew coral over ancient beds of rock and
the flora and fauna flourished to unimagined glory.

   Natira liked Daran V when it was like this: magenta in the fading of the
day, with infinite large snowflakes spinning down to cover the drifts of
new snow.  She liked the cool weather; most of them did.  Beyond the sweep
of rolling hills the dark green mountains held much of the planet's wealth:
Ethnobotanicals, natural sources of some of the Galaxy's rarest and
hardest-preserved flora.  Even the fauna, if one considered the unique
properties of the venom of several poisonous reptiles.

   These natural riches, which compensated for the Daran's lack of valuable
mineral or metal, ensured a degree of autonomy.  No one would overharvest
the wilds any more than they'd kill the goose that laid golden eggs.  And
none knew the plants better than the natives.

   None knew the art of harvesting and preservation better.  The Fabrini
belonged here, and the Romulans were only the latest in a wave of invaders
upon the planet who were willing to protect the people from another, and
trade their resources.  Natira felt it an added bonus that the Romulans,
like the Orion, Rigellian, Klingon and Sigman races, found Daran V an
intolerably frozen swamp.  No one felt obligated to stay longer than they
had to.  There were a few Romulans on long-term stations here, it was true,
but they were always in and out of Healer Fapala's clinic with endless
rhinovirus, bronchial and pneumatic ailments.  They liked the drugs of
Daran V.  They liked the rendered venoms and flavoring agents.  But they
never stayed if they had the choice.

   And if the Romulans ever lost their hold on Daran...whoever replaced
them as "conqueror" would find no reason to change an efficient system. 
Natira always gave a mental shrug at this conclusion.  History invariably
proved the outcome.

   She blinked fat snowflakes out of her long eyelashes, smiled that a veil
of lace was beading her long hair.  With a shake she flung herself free,
and stepped across the roof of the Fabrini Capitol.  Like everything else
on Daran, it was cut of the dark blue-gray granite and stronger than steel.

   She left the growing storm gratefully, wet white sweeping her wake as
she hung up her long green coat.  Inside it was warm and dry.  Her people
nodded hurridly as they all passed each other in the stone halls.  Time was
often short for her people.  The fact that things had been better for them
under the Romulans had not goneunnoticed.  This was why she had been so
willing to treaty the Lost Fabrini Medical Lore with them.  Odd how that
had given them another kind of autonomy; it could take a hundred years
before Yonada's memory was fully plumbed.  And still the planet's riches
would remain.  She did not fear Romulan takeover in that regard.  They
truly did find this climate horrific.

   If they were to remain independant throughout the following generations,
they would have to develop their own medical technology, build their own
facilities, operate their own healing guidelines.  It was her idea to
standardize the Fabrini medicine into a giant research library.  But she
needed (and was getting) adequate help from others.

   And she had a scheduled meeting with one of those sources right now.

   Healer Fapala glanced her way as she stepped before her small knot of
bodyguards.  His white hair was rose-tinted with the bending sunlight, the
red and orange stripes of his family line showing up even stronger.  "My
Lady." He bowed.

   "Fapala.  How goes the progress?"

   The old man pursed his lips.  The bodyguards had politely made
themselves invisible, but would materialize in a second.  "We are not
behind schedule." he said at last.  Natira's initial smile at the
announcemment faded at his sober look.

   "Is that not good?" She wondered.

   His dark brown eyes were a little hard, impatient the way he'd always
been when she was small.  "Before the massacre of our people, we never hid
our feelings."

   Natira felt her spine stiffen.  "That is so." She agreed without
actually conceeding he was accusing her.

   "I have worked hard today." He informed her with that wonderful blunt
acidity the older ones had with the younger.  "I will not be available to
Stand Watch tonight.  Someone should."

   Now she knew what he was saying.  Challenged, her jaw thrust out just
slightly.  "Then I will take your place, since there is a need."

   "There is." He turned his frail back on her, and slowly stepped away.





   ***

   McCoy looked up from dinner at her arrival.  The calm disinterest he'd
worn since waking from the cordrazine had never left him.  Irrational
though it might be, Natira had an occasional urge to shake him by the
shoulders just to see if he would react to it.

   Such as now.

   Not that he WAS as calm as his face indicated.  As soon as he dropped
into REM sleep, he would begin the predictable pattern of nightmares.  The
mild ones he simply slept through, tossing and turning the whole time.  But
it was more typical that he wake up screaming.  It was too dangerous to
leave him alone outside of a conscious state; someone was always on watch
in case of an accident.  And while she knew he hated it, he never
complained, and never intended to.  His silence was a rebellion.

   He complied to her demands to the letter.  Not one day of the month had
passed without contributing to the computer transcriptions.  His experience
with the Galaxy's current grade of artifical intelligence left him more
qualified than anyone else on the planet.  He was even teaching Fapala
better methods of adapting the Fabrini memory cubes into modern relays.

   Natira suppressed the urge to say something imperious as he acknowledged
her entrance without meeting her gaze.  That was his other rebellion.  She
could make an issue of it, but knew it a waste of time.

   "There is news about your ship." She told him without preamble.  "Kirk
is dead, killed by Officer Scott."

   McCoy looked a little surprised, in a detached kind of way.  "Scott? 
Kirk must have pushed his engines too far."

   Natira wasn't certain what that meant.  "It would seem Kirk had enlisted
his woman in a...trap to kill Scott.  When she failed to participate, it
left Scott ample opportunity to place a dagger in Kirk's heart.  Spock is
now the captain."

   The doctor's eyes flickered at that.  "Better Spock than Sulu.  And
Marlena?  Guess that answers *that*." The last was muttered, as if an old
suspicion was now confirmed.

   She took the seat across the table from his, where Fapala or one of the
healing assistants normally sat.  Again, he managed to look at her without
letting his eyes slip into hers.

   "There is more." Natira poured a slim pitcher.  "The ENTERPRISE has
entered an...alliance with the Romulan Fleet.  They are inviting any of
your Empire's ships to join, and their intention is to overthrow the old
regime."

   A year ago, McCoy would have broken a rib for laughing at the notion of
SPOCK as a Spartakus.  But even surprise was something that took more
energy than he usually had.

   "You are not interested?" She asked, eyes calmly shrewd.

   He met her look across the table.  "You're not likely to know what I'm
curious about."

   "Such as?" She ruffled, ever so slightly.

   "The new CMO."

   "I heard it was a woman."

   "A what?"

   Natira was surprised to see him go completely white.  She eyed him
warily.  The implant in his temple would prevent him from berserking, but
that was not a scene either would want.  His left hand slowly released the
waterglass, and moved below the table where she couldn't see it shaking.

   Christine?  CMO?  She was the only woman qualified.  Was M'Benga dead?
And if so, was Hollister?  He could only hope, but how had any of it
happened?  Christine didn't *kill* people.  You had to push her *hard*
before she took out the knife, and even then, she'd growl a warning first!

   The pieces of a suddenly new puzzle whirled like the outside snow as he
existed in a state of shock.

   *Calm down.  Take a deep breath.* He stuffed his astonishment under the
nearest rug in his mind and began stamping on it.

   "And you don't know who the woman is." He stated.

   "No." Natira was still watching him closely.  "I could find out."

   "If you could." He managed.  Because there was an equally good chance
the CMO wasn't Christine--maybe one of the women Dr.  April kept training
up.  Christ, he was probably just mouthing the hook again.  But he had to
know.

   Natira's face was settling into steadier lines.  That knowing expression
she had so often was back.  And as usual, he did his best to ignore it.

   It was hard knowing that he'd spilled his figurative guts while
vulnerable from M'Benga's cocktail of drugs.  He understood Natira well
enough that she'd asked him *everything* she ever wanted to know that he
could supply.  And he couldn't remember a damn bit of it.  He wouldn't be
surprised if she knew him better than HE did.

   Ok, dinner endured.  It was over with.  With a great deal of relief he
put the empties on the servant's board and resolutely stalked to the other
side of the room.  Fabrini didn't know how to make beds to keep you from
falling off them, but if he stretched out very very still and didn't talk
or open his eyes, maybe she'd go away.

   Natira thought he had the air of someone who fully intended to be
stabbed in his sleep as he pulled off his shoes and flopped back on top of
the covers.

   This was not going well.

   The Heirophant sighed, feeling it hiss through her lungs.  Fapala's
earlier words were the harshest scolding she'd endured in years.  Truth
might burn, but it was worse when it fought free from burial.  McCoy was
laboring under misinformation.  A great deal of it.  And she'd done nothing
but encourage that.

   She searched for a way to begin.  It was difficult.  He was lying still
as a corpse, concentrating on the sound of his own breath.

   "McCoy." She'd finally learned his name properly.  "Do you know how old
I am?"

   "No." He answered at last.  Not a question one would expect at three
hours before midnight.

   "I am almost exactly your age." Natira listened to her heart beat a few
times.

   "You carry it better." He said dryly.

   "Since infantcy, I had been trained to serve my people to the best of my
abilities, and do what I can to protect them."

   Bitterness was leaking into every word.  Just as a man will open his
eyes and look if he feels his house is on fire, McCoy warily left his inner
world for the outer one.

   "I have never forgotten my duties as Priestess, Ma'koi." She flubbed his
name again as her accent returned full force.  "Never in all my life."

   He didn't see why she was re-hashing obvious facts.  "I believe you."

   "When Kirk killed *so many* of us," she continued, riding roughshod over
him, "I forgot everything I was sworn to do." Now Natira was talking
through her teeth.  Each word had to be pushed through the narrow gaps. 
"Everything.  I imagined I had failed.  I forgot my duties to those who
survived the massacre.  All I could think of was I should die.  I should
follow the ones I had failed in life."

   Her large eyes glittered, tears from many motives.  "And you made me
live." She whispered hollowly.  "You told me what my duties were.  You
reminded me of the charges I had carried my entire life, and had
forgotten."

   He didn't speak.  He just stared at her trying to talk to him...or flay
him open; he wasn't sure which.

   Incredibly, she looked away first.  He still stared as she watched the
wall on the other side of the room.  Her jaw looked ready to break, it was
out so far, and he'd never seen her this dark with emotion, even when she
was trying to hold in her pride and bow her head to Kirk for alleigance.

   "I don't hate you." She said at last.  "I don't think I ever did. 
But...you hurt my pride, Ma'koi.  It is not easy for me to think I could so
easily forget my duty."

   McCoy didn't think the bloody massacre of harmless civilians was a
*simple* issue, and leaders did a lot worse than flake out under lighter
matters.  He was smart enough not to say anything.  When in doubt, stay
put.

   "You hurt my pride that I had to be told." She repeated again.

   Natira was wanting him to respond to that.  After a long moment in the
growing darkness, he simply exhaled.

   "What do you want me to say?" He asked.

   She twisted back to look at him.  Wary and confused and intense, he was
probably looking the same way.

   "You want blame...or praise...I can't give it to you.  You're the leader
of your people.  You have no peers to judge you, and no computer-oracle to
punish you."

   Natira's gaze was incredulous upon his.  He had no idea what'd he'd said
or such a reaction.  Color was beginning at the bottom of her bare throat,
and spreading upward like a radiation burn.

   "Ma'koi, that is not what I was meaning!"

   Her teeth clicked shut loudly, making him wince.  A moment later, she
was stalking out of the room, her winter-weight skirts rustling after her.

   McCoy pondered the fact that he was alone at night, for the first time
since he'd slammed into Daran V, and wondered how long the blessed privacy
would last.

   *Hah.* He wearily closed his eyes.  Somebody would come.  Someone always
came to keep an eye on him.

   = = = = =

   "You have to be careful with this stuff." McCoy spoke quietly as he
poured the bitter black drink out into two cups.  "It's a lot like the
o'oren your people take in the mornings.  But it's stronger."

   Natira picked it up mechanically.  Parts of her went numb at odd times;
a part of her recovery from the trauma of being a hostage for her wounded
folk.  "What is it?"

   "It's called coffee." He said it slowly.  "Don't take it before going to
bed.  It's hard to shake the effects off."

   The taste was something like the o'oren of her home, and she said so.

   "You may *have* to drink a cup or two for a while," his strange,
piercing eyes studied her from across the table.  "It has a warming effect
on your biology.  I noticed you seeem to feel cold in our artifical
atmosphere."

   "Yes." She murmured.  When she looked at him, his eyes dropped, just
slightly.  "I am cold."***

   ***





   Clumsy with being woken *quickly* from her deep sleep, Natira fumbled
for a light and her fingers found it by accident.  She blinked painfully as
the blue-shadowed room illuminated.

   Her vision cleared.  McCoy was sitting with his feet on the floor, head
in his hands and wincing.

   *Someone should stand watch.* Fapala had said, implying it should be
herself.  Natira felt ill.  She'd no idea that the fits were still as bad
as the night of the crash.  Without thinking of it, she had just assumed
the intensity would die away.

   Her heart was *still* pounding from what had left her ears ringing.

   As she stepped away from the wall, she thought to speak to him to bring
him back to a more solid awareness.  But he pushed himself upright, and
staggered away.



   ***

   *Christ.*

   He was running through a mental list of every deity he could think of,
partial blasphemy, partial distraction.  Every god or goddess, every self
proclaimed divine species his ship had ran into, every single damnblast one
of *those*.

   *God.*

   Still shaking, he rinsed his mouth and spat out the remaining bile. 
Least he'd gotten to the sink tonight.  Thank god for small favors.  Or
somebody.

   Without looking up, he felt Natira's presence blocking the doorway,
reinforcing the sensation of a box trap.

   Taut as a drumskin, he shut the door between them.  It felt as though he
had an acre of sweat on his skin, and he listened for any trouble as he
scrubbed it off.  But she granted him his need for isolation.



   ***

   Natira had plenty of time to think.  Her mind worked as she kept above
the kettle of hot water.  Neither of them were going to get much sleep
tonight.  She glanced out the black window every so often and noted the
snow that was still piling against the thick pane.  A moisture-laden
atmosphere broke up radiation.  Planetary sensors would be confused
tomorrow, possibly slow down the day's trading.

   McCoy came out dry and clean.  With the air of long practice, he pulled
the quilted sheet off the bed and got a replacement.

   She sighed and held out a thick clay mug of hot tea.  "I do not know
what this is." She said to his eyebrow.  "Fapala said to try it."

   He examined the steam and made a tiny shrug.  Wide awake, he had no urge
to stretch back out, and just wrapped the new quilt around his thin body
and took a place by the low-burning fire.

   It still surprised him that such an obvious heirophant would wait upon
herself, but Natira added new logs with easy skill, and wordlessly took her
own cup to her own place.  Not far from him, but not too close.

   "Was Kirk always like I knew him?"

   Her reward was a tiredly surprised glance.  "No." He said shortly.

   "What was he like?"

   "Different." McCoy said bluntly.  "A lot less closed in.  You could
approach him.  He...inspired loyalty." Each word tasted bad, and came out
hard.  "He took care of his crew.  He never risked the ship without
reason."

   Natira tried to imagine it.  She found it impossible, and looked back at
McCoy.  Judging from his expression, she *was* trying to visualize the
impossible.  What Kirk had been, he had left that persona forever.

   "Why did he change?"

   McCoy didn't answer for a long time, just watched the fire.  She wasn't
used to being answered so slowly, and had to remind herself that this was
McCoy's way when he was tired.

   "We saw it happening." He picked up the thick mug and rested it against
his chin, feeling the radiant heat.  "It's not easy to be a captain.  You
can rise in power only so far before you have the choice of "eat or be
eaten." Back in the old days, all he wanted was his ship.  And he could
have stayed the way he was, safe on the ENTERPRISE."

   McCoy took a long drink.  "It started with Vega.  An open rebellion. 
They give new captains tests like this.  Make them show their teeth, and
make sure they aren't vulnerable to...the finer sensibilities.  He wound up
having to kill over 9,000 of them.  Planetside, too.  And while we were
still in the system for cleanup, we get sent to Deneva.  There was a colony
infested with...Lord, I don't know what you'd call them.  They were a
flying parasite, nearly mindless but they'd use the intelligence of the
people whose bodies they took over--"

   McCoy saw her face.  "They're gone." He assured her flatly.  "Very, very
dead.  We had to blast the entire colony to ash.  Thousands of people were
cremated alive.  It was the only way to kill the things that...that owned
them.  And Kirk's only surviving family had been on that colony."

   "Oh." Natira said with great inadequacy.

   "Then," McCoy added with a terrifying calm, "We find out much later that
the Caesar had been overzealous in ordering us to exterminate the
population.  The things abhorred strong light.  But...we hadn't been given
time to find out."

   Natira swallowed dryly.

   "So, exit one *semi* open minded, somewhat inquisitive and curious
Starship captain.  Enter one soul-damaged monster on a bend for
self-destruction." McCoy finished the cup in a gulp but kept the warm clay
in his grip.  "And, incidentally, that's when he *really* started
killling."

   Natira swallowed, her throat papery.

   "I noticed," McCoy added evenly, "that he never killed but at a
distance. His enemies disappeared nice and neat after that...no personal
bloody quashings, nothing that would leave a body behind.  His way of
distancing himself from what he was doing, I figured.  Yonada was started
by his men, but even Spock couldn't ignore how he acted after it was done."

   He was done with talking, done with remembering.  He got to his feet and
set the mug down, click, on the nearby table.  "Good night." He said
curtly. Oh, sure, maybe his abruptness was downright rude, but he couldn't
bring himself to care about it.  If she was really annoyed about it, she'd
enact some kind of discipline.

   But, Natira never said anything, not even to threaten.  She never even
looked at him.  Time passed and he opened his eyes to a wary check, sensing
himself on the verge of sleep.  But the Priestess of the Oracle was still
sitting in the chair by the fire, unmoving with the cup in her lap.



   ***

   Chapel materialized with a pang of nervousness; an old fear about
unfamiliar surroundings.  As her vision readjusted she was startled by a
looming chunk of marble or granite that made her think of the main entrance
to Yonada.  Square-like glyphs were cut, so lightly she didn't think they
were very practical against the wear of time, to her shoulder-level.  It
was unlike any written record she'd ever encountered as her days in
xenoarchaeology under Roger Korby.

   *No chance in hell I could translate that.  I bet Spock could...* The
thought made her lips tilt up, no longer wry, but warm.

   Around her, Fabrini stepped lightly to their assigned tasks.  Their
clothing was muted somewhat; Spock had explained that each color symbolized
a specific bloodline.  An odd form of personal ID, she supposed.  Rather
like the Highlander tartan, only taken to extremes.  She remembered Natira
wore shades of green.  An orphan, the Empire's file had revealed.  Raised
since birth to be an empathic oracle for the service of her race.

   Spock had sent her down to Daran V in order to "oversee a small delivery
of medical goods" that would be transferred to Charvenek's ship.  His
peculiar expression as he relayed her orders stayed with her mind as she
followed verbal instructions to the Capitol Building.  She almost believed
he was...  worried about her.

   Their relationship had grown much closer, in and out of professional
aspects, but she had to trust he had a reason for not explaining *why* he
wanted her to beam down for the ship's pickup.  Anyone else would have
done. She'd volunteered plenty of her staff but Spock had merely stroked
his ever-lengthening beard and said:

   "Perhaps you are the best choice for the task."

   And that was that.

   *Whatever.* She decided.  She loved Spock.  She even *liked* him, and
that could be even harder to find in the Empire.  So she just trusted that
his oddball behavior would become clear on the planet.

   A lightly armored guard stepped politely in her way and bowed from his
neck.  If he had angers against a member of the ENTERPRISE, she saw no
sign. Fabrini weren't like a lot of the humanoid species they resembled.

   "Are you expecting me?  I'm to pick up a box of medicines for the
NIGHTEAGLE."

   His ruddy face cleared under dark hair.  "This way.  You could get
lost."

   That she could well believe.  She followed his colored back: dark and
varied shades of green and faint yellow on a black background.  It was
easier on her eyes than some of the schemes...

   Three floors deep into the building, and Chapel hoped she would get a
guide OUT as well as IN.  *Been in space too long...I'm used to everything
laid out in straight lines!*

   "Someone will guide you from here." The guard said obliquely, bowed his
head in that odd little way again, and was gone before she could protest.

   She looked around.  *Now what?* Nothing looked helpful; this was some
kind of library for Godzake.  A few people were milling about here and
there, reading or accessing the book-thin computer terminals, but no one
was looking at her with an offer to help.

   "Chris..?"

   White-faced, Chris slowly turned around.  She stared back at a face as
pale as her own.  Then grips locked tight, held even tighter.



   ***

   "I thought you were dead." She finally said, dumbly.  Most of the shock
had eroded, and they were sitting in a private alcove.  It was mostly a
wide ledge against a window that overlooked the valley to the forested
mountain.

   A moment later, she instantly kicked herself for saying something so
utterly, patently STUPID.

   Leonard laughed softly, reading her expression correctly.  "I thought I
was dead too...for a while.  You haven't changed." He lifted his dark
eyebrows up in approval.  "How does all that gold feel on your sleeve? 
Weighing y'down?"

   "Not likely, damn it." She glanced impulsively down at her wrists
"Leonard...  how the *hell* did..." Words failed her.

   "Um." He blew out his breath and looked to the high beams of the
ceiling. "Truth to tell, Christine, I'm not sure how I survived.  It wasn't
from some higher power, I'm sure--I'd like to think even the Squire of
Gothos is smarter than *that.*" He rubbed his right temple with a light
frown.  "Ah, to make a long story short, I came out of the cordrazine in
the wreck of the shuttle."

   "Did anyone else make it out?"

   His face shut down, giving her the answer.  "No." He said curtly.

   She nodded, and did not ask.  She resolved never to ask, unless he was
willing to talk.  "I take it the Fabrini found you."

   "Oh, they found me all right.  They'd instigated the crash of the
COPERNICUS." McCoy said with shocking bluntness, and an even more shocking
calm.  "There was a rumor, you see, that Kirk was on the shuttle, not me. A
screwup in Intelligence of Biblical Proportions." He waited for her to
adjust to that bit of news before he went on: "I'm told it wasn't Natira
who gave the actual order to have the ship brought down.  *She'd* know Kirk
wouldn't do something that risky.  All I remember is after the crash,
thinking that the "power surge" had rendered all power tools useless." His
mobile face halted after that sentence.  "Funny.  I don't remember the
power surge itself, but I remember *thinking* about the power surge after
the, uh, "landing."

   Chapel sensed he was not telling her everything, and she didn't know he
was blocking the memory of his botched suicide.  "A power surge?  That's a
pretty tricky weapon if it's true.  The ENTERPRISE detected nothing but the
ship degrading its shallow orbit."

   "Yeah.  Nice technology.  Scotty would love it.  It uses the plasma in
naturally prolific solar winds.  One of the few defense systems they have
here--at least its not chemically fused weapons."

   Chapel wiped at her upper lip, thinking hard.  "How are you?" Leonard
wasn't the only one with the gift for bluntness.

   "How am I?"

   "Natira didn't report your survival.  We all thought you were dead."

   "She told Spock just last night."

   "So that explains it."

   "What?"

   "He was acting weird." Chapel scowled.  "And you know what I mean.  She
could have reported you in a long time ago.  Traded you for something she
wanted."

   An unreadable look filtered over his eyes.  "She has what she wants."

   "I don't understand." She didn't want to understand.

   "Natira needed--needs--a transcriber for the Yonadan computers. 
Personal knowledge has gone down under the dictatorship of the computer. 
It's so bad, typical Fabrini healing is more like herbalism, folklore and
moxibustion than it is surgery, diagnostics, and formulization.  I owed
her, and she decided how it would be paid." He got to his feet with a sigh.
"C'mon.  You need to see the clinic."

   "You owed her?" Chapel followed him.  "I can understand that, but how
long will you be paying?"

   His silence said everything.



   ***

   She tried again later after he showed the box of selected drugs the
ENTERPRISE would give the NIGHTEAGLE.  After one look at the list of
contents, she was holding in on her envy.  Some of these plant
derivitives...

   "Leonard, are you going to be *staying* here?"

   He hesitated and leaned forward over the large plastine box, using it as
a table for his elbows.  It wobbled slightly on its antigrav sled.  "Spock
didn't tell you everything, I guess."

   "No, obviously.  I only knew to come down here.  I guess I was meant to
see things for myself."

   Leonard didn't answer her directly.  "You did figure out that Spock and
Charvenek's hatred was just a big setup to hide their true feelings."

   Chapel snorted and rolled her eyes.  "I figured it out the second I saw
them standing together.  Poor Spock.  It was so...obvious."

   He chuckled lightly.  "And you don't mind sharing him with the
Commander."

   "How did..." She cleared her throat.  "No.  No, I don't.  It was
rather...  Charvenek's doing."

   He blinked.  "I'm surprised.  She didn't seem the sharing type.  Hum. 
It's because you saved her life, isn't it?"

   "Why are you bothering with asking me anything?  Your sources are better
than mine!" Chapel snapped, her color heating her neck.  It wasn't fair.

   "Not that much better." He said with some of his familiar old deadpan
humor.  "We just happen to be the Hub of the Galaxy down here, didn't
y'know?  Do some shopping before you leave.  The ale is cheaper than fruit
juice."

   "No thanks.  I'd like to live to see middle age." She took a deep
breath. "Yes.  Well.  I can't explain the situation."

   "Don't have to." He shook his head.  "I just wanted to know if you were
comfortable with it."

   "What, you aren't going to ask me if I'm happy?"

   "Happy is a nonpermanent state.  Comfort is something you can rely on."

   Well, he ought to know.  And it *was* a good question.  Chapel
remembered back--a hundred years ago--when she'd occasionally permitted
herself to fantasize about being Spock's woman.  All those senarios had
acccepted he would still be married to T'Pring.  And now, T'Pring was
divorced, and Charvenek had taken over.  Christine considered Charvenek a
*vast* improvement to the viper-silent Vulcan woman.

   "We're all getting used to each other." She said at last.  "Charvenek's
hardly around, she has her own duties like Spock does.  But there's
no...infringement of feeling, I guess you could say."

   Concubines were common in all cultures; just under different names. 
Spock, being the product of a Vulcan Senator and a human concubine, would
hardly neglect her life.  She had no problems with not being the source of
"direct inheiritance"--that honor came chained with responsibility and
endurance.  She was glad to know that if she ever had any children, they
would enjoy freedoms a "direct heir" would never know.

   "It's comfortable." She said at last.  "I had to think about it, and
analyze your question, but I don't want to complain or change what is
happening."

   "Let's hope the Galaxy stays that way for a while." McCoy involuntarily
glanced upward, invoking the Orbital Defense System.

   She switched the subject quickly.  "You never answered *my* question. 
Are you going to leave?"

   Leonard sighed and looked at his nails.  "Christine, As badly as the
Fabrini wanted Kirk dead, they wanted me or Spock to re-introduce their
medical technology to the Modern Age.  We were the only computechs fluent
in Fabrini.  Natira made it...clear that she was willing to do what it took
to have that goal."

   "I guess I can understand.  Their knowledge is really the only
weapon...or bargaining tool...they have."

   "For now.  They're working like you wouldn't believe, trying to get
their other skills going.  Their knowlege of metal and stone architecture
rivals anything I've ever seen, and would contribute a lot to building
settlements in geologically unstable, or radioactive colonies.  But the
memory banks are what everyone's desperate to have.  They have cures for
diseases that we THOUGHT were incurable.  I still can't believe some of the
things I've been finding, and there's something new every day."

   "So...what happened?" Chapel wondered quietly.

   He made a shrugging motion.  "Given the choice, Charvenek was obviously
going to turn ME over to the Fabrini.  Thanks to the difficulty of coded
trans-missions, Spock didn't know what was going on until right before the
shuttle departed.  He probably thought it was for the best; I'd be out of
the way, and he did consider me a cipher."

   Chapel listened between the words.  "You're trying to make me feel
better, aren't you?  You said you or Spock.  Spock is...untouchable.  He's
now a Romulan ally, and the Romulans are in good with the Fabrini.  You're
not."

   Again, he answered her with silence.

   Chapel didn't like it, but she could see it.  Spock might want Leonard
back because of his undeniably higher skills and experience, but he could
hardly turn down the woman who controlled all access to Fabrini Medicine.
Nor, logistically, could he refuse the Fabrini a demand that was so
vital...and so easily satisfied.

   And then he completely surprised her.

   "I can't go back to space anyway." He was toying with a thread hanging
off a brown sleeve.  "I flashbacked, Christine.  It's too dangerous."

   Christine hadn't wanted to let him go, after recovering from the shock
of finding him alive.

   He misread her silence, as he often did--Chapel was rarely predictable
when she was internalizing.  It was his first reflex to say something
utterly absurd.

   "Could probably get a paper out of myself.  What do you think?" As her
mouth fell open, he grew even more straightfaced.  "Sort of like a
workstudy program, like Ebla II wanted to have with me, only I can do my
own lobotomy.  Rig up a few mirrors..."

   "Leonard McCoy, you are *insane.*" Christine said slowly and clearly.

   "S'ok." He grinned at her, and it actually reached his eyes--but then,
Len always did have a sense of the ridiculous.  Probably because of what
she'd said.  Too late, she regretted calling him insane.

   "I'm going to have to keep an eye on you." She said at last, after
filtering through a lot of possible comebacks, none good.

   "Sounds good.  Now that you're honorary Romulans, they've GOT to be nice
to y'all down here."

   Chapel involuntarily snorted.  "Well, Spock says we'll be stopping back
over in a few months." She glanced down as she spoke, torn between the need
to tell him Joanna would be on the staff by then, and the logic of not
working him into a state.  She compromised.  "Do you want me to tell Joanna
you're alive?"

   He stopped.  "Probably best not." He looked away.  "She can finish
school with my Burial Compensation."

   Chapel had to fight the urge to tell him the truth.  She knew it was a
terrible risk to smuggle the girl across a suddenly chaotic Galaxy.  What
if she never made it to the ENTERPRISE?  For that reason, she locked her
mouth down.  And the fewer that knew, the better.  For now.

   "I understand." She licked her dry lips.  "And I wish I could stay
longer."

   "Mmmn, maybe you'd better not." He let go of the box and put his back
against the wall, folding his arms across his chest with that little half
smile still on.  "I hate goodbyes.  Just say..."see you later.""

   "See you later...then." Christine stepped around the crate and they
hugged one last time.

   Of course, he got the last word.  He usually did: "Don't be too hard on
Spock.  That's Charvenek's job."
   TBC...