Текст книги "New Frontier Omnibus (Books 1-4: "House of Cards", "Into the Void", "The Two Front War", "End Game")"

Автор книги: Peter David

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

The transporter automatically surveyed their immediate environment and locked on to the first, nearest destination that would enable them to survive. And an instant later, Si Cwan's and Zak Kebron's bodies dissipated as the miraculous transporter beams kicked in, sending their molecules hurtling through the darkness of space to be reassembled in the place that was their only hope for survival: the science vessel Kayven Ryin.The vessel which had assaulted them, and now provided their one chance to live . . . if only for a few more minutes, at best.

When Zoran saw the Marquandbacking away, he began to tremble with fury. "Where are they going? We gave them what they wanted. Si Cwan spoke to his sister. Get them back here!" And he cuffed Rojam on the side of the head. "Get them back!"

Rojam barely felt the physical abuse. He was too concerned with the Marquandsuddenly moving away from the station, as if they had tumbled to the trick. More on point, he was concerned with how Zoran was going to react, and what precisely Zoran might do to vent his displeasure. Hailing the shuttle craft, he tried to control the growing franticness he was feeling as he asked, "Why are you backing off?"

From the shuttle craft there came nothing more than a brief, to-the-point response: "We are returning to our vessel. a situation has come to our attention. Marquandout."

"They know! They know!"roared Zoran.

Rojam's mind raced as he tried to determine the accuracy of the assessment. "I . . . I don't think they do. Suspect, perhaps, but they don't know. They want to see what we'll do. If we're just cautious . . ."

"If we're cautious, then they're gone!"

"We don't know that for sure! Zoran, listen to me—!"

But listening was the last thing that Zoran had in mind. Instead, with a full-throated roar of anger, the powerfully built Thallonian knocked Rojam out of his seat. Rojam hit the floor with a yelp as Zoran dropped down at the control console. "Get away from there, Zoran!" Rojam cried out.

"Shut up! You're afraid to do what has to be done!" Even as he spoke, Zoran quickly manipulated the controls.

"I'm not afraid! But this is unnecessary! It's a mistake!"

"It's my decision, not yours! You're lucky I haven't killed you already for your incompetence! And if the phaser cannons you rigged up don't perform as you promised . . ."

But the need to complete the threat didn't materialize, for the phaser cannons dropped obediently into position, even as their targeting sights locked onto the Marquand.

"In the name of all those whom you abused, Si Cwan . . . vengeance!" snarled Zoran as he triggered the firing command.

The phaser cannons let loose, both scoring direct hits, and the cries of triumph from the half-dozen Thallonians in the control room was deafening. Actually, only five of them cheered; Rojam pulled himself to sitting, rubbing the side of his head where Zoran had struck him. "This isn't necessary," he said again, but he might as well have been speaking to an empty room.

The shuttle craft was pounded by the phaser cannons, helpless before the onslaught. The Thallonians cheered every shot, overjoyed by Zoran's marksmanship. Even an annoyed Rojam had to admit that, for all his faults, Zoran was a good shot. Of course, having computers do all the work certainly helped.

"Hit them again!" crowed Dackow, the shortest and yet, when the mood suited him, loudest of the Thallonians. Dackow never voiced an opinion until he was absolutely positive about how a situation was going to go, at which point he supported the prevailing opinion with such forcefulness that it was easy to forget that he hadn't expressed a preference one way or the other until then. "You've got them cold, Zoran!"

Zoran fired again, this time missing the shuttle craft with one phaser cannon but striking it solidly with the other.

But as Zoran gleefully celebrated his marksmanship, Rojam commented dryly, "What happened to having Si Cwan's throat in your hands, enabling you to squeeze the life out of him?"

The observation brought Zoran up short for a moment. "If you had done your job better, I might have had that opportunity," he said, but it seemed a hollow comeback. The truth was that Rojam's statement had taken some of the joy out of Zoran's moment of triumph. Granted he had won, but it wasn't in the way he would have liked.

And then a flash consumed the screen as the shuttle craft erupted in a ball of flame. Automatically the Thallonians flinched, as if the explosion posed a threat to them. Within mere seconds the flame naturally burned itself out, having no air in the vacuum of space to feed it. The fragments of the vessel which had been the Marquandspun away harmlessly, the twisted scraps of duranium composites no longer recognizable as anything other than bits of metal.

"Burn in hell, Si Cwan," Zoran said after a long moment. The others, as always, nodded in agreement.

Only Rojam did not join in the self-congratulations. Instead he was busy checking the instrumentation on an adjoining console. "What are you doing?" asked Zoran after a moment.

"Scanning the debris," Rojam informed him.

"Why?" said Juif, making no effort to keep the sarcasm from his voice. "Are you concerned they still pose a threat?"

"Perhaps they do at that."

The pronouncement was greeted with contemptuous guffaws until Rojam added, "They weren't aboard the shuttle craft."

"What?" The comment immediately galvanized Zoran. "What are you talking about? Are you positive? It's impossible."

"It's not impossible, and they weren't there," Rojam said with growing confidence. "There's no sign of them among the debris. I wouldn't expect to find any bodies intact . . . not with the force of that explosion. But there should be somethingorganic among the wreckage. I'm not detecting anything except pieces from the shuttle craft."

"Are you saying they were never aboard? That it was some sort of trick?" Zoran's anger was growing by the minute.

"That's a possibility, but I don't think so. If they were never at risk, then they went to a great deal of trouble to try and force our hand. But here is a thought: Some of those Federation shuttles come equipped with transporter pads."

"You think they may have evacuated before the ship blew up."

"Exactly."

"But the only place they could have gone to . . ." And then the growing realization brought a smile to his face. ". . . is here. Here, aboard the ship."

Rojam nodded.

Beaming with pleasure, Zoran clapped a hand on Rojam's back. "Excellent. Excellent work." Rojam let out a brief sigh of relief as Zoran turned to the others and said briskly, "All right, my friends. Somewhere in this vessel, Lord Si Cwan and his associate, Lieutenant Kebron, are hiding. Let's flush them out . . . and give our former prince the royal treatment he so richly deserves."

SELAR

III.

SOLETA GLANCED UPfrom her science station as she became aware that McHenry was hovering over her. She glanced up at him, her eyebrows puckered in curiosity. "Yes?" she asked.

Glancing around the bridge in a great show of making certain that no one was paying attention to them, McHenry said to her in a lowered voice, "I just wanted to say thanks."

"You're welcome," replied Soleta reasonably, and tried to go back to her studies of mineral samples extracted from Thallon.

"Don't you want to know why?" he asked after a moment.

"Not particularly, Lieutenant. Your desire to say it is sufficient for me."

"I know I was 'spacing out' earlier, like I do sometimes, and I know that you were defending me. I just wanted to say I appreciate it."

"I was aware that your habits posed no threat to the Excalibur,"she said reasonably. "I informed the captain and commander of that fact. Beyond that . . . what is there to say?"

"Why'd you leave, Soleta? Leave Starfleet, I mean."

The question caught her off guard. Now it was her turn to look around the bridge to make sure that no one was attempting to listen in. She needn't have worried; eavesdropping was hardly a pastime in which Starfleet personnel habitually engaged. Still, she was surprised over how uncomfortable the question made her feel. "It doesn't matter. I came back."

"It does matter. We were friends, Soleta, back at the Academy. Classmates."

"Classmates, yes. I had no friends." She said it in such a matter-of-fact manner that there was no hint of self-pity in her tone.

"Oh, stop it. Of course you had friends. Worf, Kebron, me . . ."

"Mark, this really isn't necessary."

"I think it is."

"And I say it isn't!"

If they had been trying to make sure that their conversation did not draw any undue attention, the unexpected outburst by Soleta put an end to that plan. Everyone on the bridge looked at the two of them in unrestrained surprise, attention snagged by Soleta's unexpectedly passionate outburst. From the command chair, Calhoun asked, "Problem?"

"No, sir," said Soleta quickly, and McHenry echoed it.

"Are you certain?"

"Quite certain, yes."

"Because you seem to be having a rather strident dispute," he said, his gaze shifting suspiciously from one to the other.

"Mr. McHenry merely made a scientific observation, and I was disagreeing with it."

And now Shelby spoke up, observing, "It's rare one hears that sort of vehemence from anyone, much less a Vulcan."

"Lieutenant Soleta cares passionately about her work," McHenry said, not sounding particularly convincing.

"I see," said Calhoun, who didn't. "Mr. McHenry, time to Nelkar?"

"Twenty-seven minutes, sir," McHenry said without hesitation, as he turned away from Soleta and headed back to the conn.

Calhoun never failed to be impressed over how McHenry seemed to carry that knowledge in his head. Only Vulcans seemed nearly as capable of such rapid-fire calculations, and McHenry seemed even faster than the average Vulcan.

Which Soleta, for her part, did not seem to be. Her outburst had hardly been prompted by some sort of scientific disagreement. But Calhoun didn't feel it his place to probe too deeply into the reasons for it . . . at least not as long as he felt that his ship's safety was not at issue.

If it did become an issue, though, he would not hesitate to question Soleta and find out just what exactly had caused her to raise her voice to McHenry despite her Vulcan upbringing.

"Vulcans," he muttered to himself.

Soleta turned in her chair and looked questioningly at Calhoun. "What about Vulcans, Captain?" she asked.

He stared at her tapered ears, which had naturally zeroed in on the mention of her race, and he said, "I was merely thinking how what we need on this ship is more Vulcans."

"Vulcans are always desirable, Captain," she readily agreed, and went back to her analyses.

The main lounge on the Excaliburwas situated on Deck 7 in the rear of the saucer section, and was informally called the Team Room, after an old term left over from the early days of space exploration. It was to the Team Room that Burgoyne 172 had retired upon hish returning to the ship. S/he had felt a certain degree of frustration since s/he had not had the opportunity to complete hish work on the Cambon.If there was one thing that Burgoyne disliked, it was leaving a project unfinished.

And then s/he saw another potentially unfinished project enter the Team Room. Dr. Selar had just walked in and was looking around as if hoping to find someone. Burgoyne looked around as well and saw that all of the tables had at least one occupant. Then s/he looked back at Selar and saw an eversobrief look of annoyance cross the Vulcan's face. That there was any readable emotion at all displayed by the Vulcan was surprising enough, and then Burgoyne realized the problem. Selar wasn't looking for someone to sit with. She was trying to find an unoccupied table.

Her gaze surveyed the room and she caught sight of Burgoyne. Burgoyne, for hish part, endeavored to stay low-key. S/he gestured in a friendly, but not too aggressive manner, and waved at the empty seat opposite hir. Selar hesitated a moment and then, with what appeared to be a profound mental sigh, approached Burgoyne. Burgoyne could not help but admire her stride: she was tall, almost regal of bearing. When Selar sat down, she kept her entire upper body straight. Her posture was perfect, her attitude unflinching.

"I believe," Selar said in her careful, measured tone, "that our first encounter was not properly handled . . . by either of us."

"I think the fault was mostly mine," Burgoyne replied.

"As do I. You were, after all, the one who was rather aggressively propositioning me. Nonetheless, it would not be appropriate to place the blame entirely on you. Doubtlessly I was insufficiently clear in making clear to you my lack of interest."

"Well, now," Burgoyne shifted a bit in hish chair, "I wouldn't call it 'aggressively propositioning' exactly."

"No?" She raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Burgoyne leaned forward and said, "I would call it. . ." But then hish voice trailed off. S/he reconsidered hish next words and discarded them. Instead s/he said, "Can I get you a drink?"

"I am certain that whatever you are having will be more than sufficient."

Burgoyne nodded, rose, disappeared behind the bar, and returned a moment later with a glass containing the same dusky-colored liquid that was in hish glass. Selar lifted it, sniffed it experimentally, then downed half the glass. It was only her formidable Vulcan self-control that prevented her from coughing it back up through her nose. "This . . . is not synthehol," she said rather unnecessarily.

S/he shook hish head. "It's called 'Scotch.' Rather difficult to come by, actually."

"How did you develop a taste for it?"

"Well," said Burgoyne, and it was obvious from the way s/he was warming to the subject that s/he had discussed this topic a number of times in the past. "About two years ago, I was taking shore leave on Argelius Two . . . a charming world. Have you ever been there?" Selar shook her head slightly and Burgoyne continued, "I was at this one pub, and it was quite a lively place, I can tell you. It was a place where the women were so . . ."

Burgoyne was about to rhapsodize about them at length, but the look of quiet impatience on Selar's face quickly dissuaded hir. "In any event," continued Burgoyne, "I felt very much in my element. We Hermats are sometimes referred to as a rather hedonistic race. That's certainly a sweeping generalization, but not entirely without merit. In this pub, however, watching the Argelians and assorted visitors from other worlds engaging in assorted revelries and debaucheries, why . . . I felt that my humble leanings were dwarfed in comparison.

"And then my attention was drawn by one fellow seated over in a corner. A Terran, by the look of him, with hair silver as a crescent moon."

"You are attracted to him, no doubt," said Selar dryly.

"No, actually. He was a bit old for my tastes. But I was interested in him, for he seemed to be watching everything without any interest in participating. Furthermore he was wearing—believe it or not—a Starfleet uniform that hasn't been issued in years. A costume, I figured. I asked the bartender about him, and apparently he'd simply wandered in one day some weeks previously and just—I don't know– taken up residence there. He hardly ever left. So I went over and chatted with him. Asked him what he was doing there. He told me he was 'reliving old times,' as he put it. Remembering friends long gone, times left behind. He was reticent at first, but I got him talking. I have a knack for doing that."

"Indeed."

"Yes. And he seemed particularly intrigued when

I told him I was an engineer. He claimed that he was as well. Claimed, in fact, that he wrote the book on engineering."

"A man with drinks in him will claim a great many things when he seeks the attention of a pretty face," observed Selar.

Burgoyne was about to continue when s/he paused a moment and, with a grin, said, "Are you saying you think I have a pretty face?"

"I am saying that, with sufficient intoxication, anyone may seem attractive," replied Selar. "You were saying—?"

"Yes, well. . . as I said, he boasted of a great many things. Sufficiently intoxicated, as you noted. Came up with the most insane boasts. Said he was over a hundred and fifty years old, that he served with Captain Kirk . . . all manner of absurd notions. And he also had no patience at all for—how did he put it—?" And Burgoyne made a passable attempt at imitating a Scots brogue as s/he growled, " The wretched brew what passes for a man's drink in this godforsaken century.' He was drinking this," and Burgoyne tapped the glass of brown liquid.

"That very drink?"

"Not this specific one, of course. It was two years ago, remember. But he seemed to have a somewhat endless supply of it. We seemed to communicate quite well with one another. At first, I believe, he took me for a standard-issue female, and he openly flirted with me. When I informed him of the Hermat race and our dual gender, at first he seemed amazed and then he just laughed and said," and again Burgoyne copied the brogue, "'Ach, I would have loved to set up Captain Kirk with one of ye on a blind date. There would have been some tales to tell about that one.'" Burgoyne paused and then added, by way of explanation, "There are some who find our dual sex disturbing."

"Is that a fact," said Selar noncommittally.

"Yes." Burgoyne swirled hish drink around in the glass. "Tell me, Doctor . . . are you among them?"

"Not at all. I find youdisturbing." Burgoyne's smile displayed hish fangs. "I'll take that as a compliment," s/he said.

"As you wish."

"So anyway, the Terran offered me some of what he was drinking, and I tried it, and I swear to you I thought that it was going to peel the skin off the inside of my throat. I quickly realized that he was right: The stuff they've gotten us accustomed to in Starfleet is nothing compared to genuine Earth alcohol. Hell, even Hermat beverages pale in comparison to," and s/he rubbed the glass affectionately, "good ol' Scots whiskey. He told me if I had any intention of being a genuine engineer, that I should be able to drink him under the table. So I matched him drink for drink."

"And did you succeed? In drinking him under the table, I mean."

"Are you kidding?" Burgoyne laughed. "The last thing I remember was his smiling face turning at about a forty-five-degree angle . . . or at least that's what it seemed like before I hit the floor. But before that happened, I really let him have it."

"'Have it'?"

"I told him that I thought he was being gutless. That he was sitting in this pub hiding from the rest of the galaxy, when he could be out accomplishing amazing things. That he might be telling himself that he was being nostalgic, but in fact he was just being gutless," and s/he tapped one long finger on the table three times to emphasize the last three words. Then s/he winced slightly and said, "At least I think that's what I told him. It got a little fuzzy there at the end. When I came to, I was in a back room at the pub with all sorts of debauchery and perversity going on all around me. Reminded me of home, actually. And I found that he'd left me something: a bottle of Scotch, and a message scribbled on the label of the bottle. And the message was exactly two words long: He'd written, 'You're right.'"

" 'You're right.' That was the message in its entirety."

"The whole thing, yes. Never saw him again, but I can only assume that he decided to get back out to where he belonged."

"And where would that be?"

"Damned if I know." Burgoyne leaned forward. "Do you understand what I'm saying to you, Doctor?"

"Oh. Well. . . not really, no. I had simply assumed that this was a long and fairly pointless narrative. Why? Is there something to this story beyond that?"

"What I'm saying, Selar, is that we shouldn't be afraid to try new things. We Hermats have our . . . unusual anatomical quirks. But—"

She put up a hand. "Lieutenant Commander . . ."

"An unwieldy title. I prefer Burgoyne from you."

"Very well. Commander Burgoyne . . . despite a valiant endeavor, this conversation is not proceeding in substantially different fashion than our previous one. I am not interested in you."

"Yes, you are. You simply don't know it yet."

"May I ask how you have come to this intriguing, albeit it entirely erroneous, conclusion?"

"All right. . . but only if you promise to keep it between us."

She pushed the drink of Scotch several inches away from her as she said, "I assure you, Chief Burgoyne . . . nothing will give me greater personal satisfaction than knowing that this conversation will go no further than this table."

S/he leaned forward conspiratorially and gestured that Selar should get closer to hir. With a soft sigh, Selar did as Burgoyne indicated, and the Hermat said in such a low voice that even the acute hearing of the Vulcan could barely hear hir:

"Pheromones," whispered Burgoyne.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Pheromones. Hermats can detect an elevated pheromone level in most races. It's a gift. It cues us to rising sexual interest and excitement."

"I see. And you're detecting an elevated pheromone level in me."

"That is precisely right," Burgoyne said with such confidence that even the unflappable Selar felt a bit disconcerted. "You're becoming sexually excited. . . more so when you're with me, I like to think, although that may simply be wishful thinking on my part. I have always been something of a romantic."

"Commander . . . I am certain that you are quite good at your job . . ."

"I am."

"But you are unfamiliar with Vulcan biology. It is . . ." And then she caught herself, surprise flooding through her mind. She had been about to discuss such delicate and personal matters as with an off worlder. What was she thinking? Why was she having trouble prioritizing? ". . . it is impossible that I would be interested in you, in any event."

"Impossible why?"

"I cannot go into it."

Burgoyne leaned forward with a look of genuine curiosity on hish face. "Why can't you go into it?"

"I cannot," Selar said, her voice rising a bit more than she would have thought appropriate. The volume of her response didn't quite penetrate.

"Look, at the very least, I'd like to be your friend. If there's some problem that—"

And Selar was suddenly on her feet, and her response was a roar of fury. " I said I cannot go into it! What part of 'cannot' did you not comprehend?!"

The silence was instantaneous throughout the Team Room. Selar had managed, with no effort at all, to focus all attention in the room on herself. It was hardly a position that she desired to be in. Slowly her gaze surveyed the Team Room. Fighting to recapture her normal tone of voice, she asked, "May I assume you have something of greater importance on your minds than me?"

The crewmen needed no further urging to return to their respective conversations, although there were assorted quick glances in Selar's direction.

Automatically she put her hand to the underside of her throat. Her pulse was racing. The sounds of the room suddenly seemed magnified. Her temper had flared with Burgoyne, and although s/he might be one of the more irritating individuals that Selar had ever met, s/he was hardly enough to warrant the Vulcan tossing aside years of training and indulging in an emotional outburst.

"I have to go," she said, exerting her magnificent control over herself.

All flirtation, all smugness, was gone from Burgoyne. Instead s/he took Selar's hand firmly in hish own. Selar tried halfheartedly to pull clear, but Burgoyne's grip was surprisingly strong. Belatedly Selar remembered that Hermats had physical strength approximately two and a half times Earth norm. "Selar . . . if nothing else, we're fellow officers. If a fellow officer is in trouble, I'll do everything I can to alleviate that trouble. Whatever is wrong with you, I want to help."

"I do not need help. I merely need to be left alone. Thank you." And she exited as quickly as she could from the Team Room. This left everyone staring in confusion at Burgoyne. Burgoyne, for hish part, merely raised a glass. "May the Great Bird of the Galaxy roost on your planets," s/he said to the collective Team Room. S/he finished off the contents of hish glass and then, with a shrug, s/he reached over, picked up Selar's glass, and knocked that back, too.

Selar ran as quickly as she could down the Excaliburcorridors. Twice she almost knocked over passing crewmen before she made it to sickbay. Upon seeing her return, Dr. Maxwell promptly proceeded to give her a quick precis on the status of the four dozen passengers from the Cambon.But before he could get out more than a sentence, she cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"Is there anything wrong, Doctor?" asked Maxwell, now clearly concerned about the condition of the chief medical officer. "Any problem that I can help with?"

"I am fine," she replied in a less-than-convincing manner.

"Are you sure? You seem rather flushed. Is there a—"

"Are you an expert on Vulcan physiology?" Selar demanded.

"No . . . no, not an expert per se, although I'm certainly well versed in—"

"Well, I am an expert, Doctor," she shot back. "I have been living inside my particuler vucan physi ology for quite some time now, and I assure you that I am in perfect health."

"With all due respect, Doctor, I don't know as I'dagree."

"With all due respect to you, Doctor, your agreement or lack thereof is of no relevance to me whatsoever." And with that she stalked quickly to her office, locking the door behind her to guarantee privacy.

She had no desire to subject herself to a medical scan in sickbay in full view of every one of her staff and technicians. She had no particular concern over the privacy of other crew members when it came to getting physicals or having problems attended to. But now that it was she herself who was in question, her right to privacy had assumed paramount importance. It was ironic, and yet an irony that she was not exactly in any condition to truly appreciate.

She opened an equipment compartment in the wall and extracted a medical tricorder. Adjusting it for herself, she began to take readings.

Pulse, heartbeat, respiration . . . everything was elevated. Moreover, she was having trouble focusing on anything.

Selar reached deep into herself. A calm, cool center of logic was drilled into Vulcans at such an early age that it became utterly ingrained into their nature. Yet Selar was having to relive that training, finding that cool center and tapping into it. Her body, her system, was entirely at the command of her mind and she would force it to obey her commands. Slowly she quieted her hurried breathing. She cleared away every noise, every distraction, until she could hear the accelerated beating of her own heart. She slowed it, bit by bit, replacing the dim red haze which seemed to have taken hold of her with a sedate, serene blue.

She thought back to her first days at the Academy, the first time that she had encountered the Academy pool. Such things were virtually unknown on Vulcan, an arid planet with a steady red sky and a sun so searing that Vulcans had even developed an inner eyelid to shield themselves against its effects. The pool might well have been an alien artifact; indeed, in many ways it was to her.

Clad in a bathing suit, she had stood on the edge of the pool, dipping a toe into it, unsure of what to do. Every logical bone in her body had told her that there was nothing to fear. That fear was besides the point, as it so often was. And yet she could not bring herself to ease herself into the water . . . until the decision had been taken out of her hands when a passing cadet named Finnegan had thought it the height of hilarity to shove her from behind into the pool. She had fallen feet-first into the deep end of the pool. . . and proceeded to drown, since naturally people who are born on a desert planet have absolutely no idea how to swim. The selfsame Finnegan, chagrined, had immediately leaped into the water and pulled out the sputtering Vulcan.

But Selar had taken that first unpleasant experience as a challenge, and every day found her at the pool until she was as good a swimmer as anyone at the Academy. Many was the time where she would simply float in the water, arms outstretched, bobbing with the gentle lapping of the water.

Now she was projecting herself back to that time. She imagined herself floating, floating ever so gently, buoyed as if by lapping waves. Bit by bit, she fashioned her recollections of the Academy pool into a place of escape. The rest of the world, her worries, her concerns, her uncharacteristic confusion, all melted away as she bobbed in the water with no distractions. She felt her composure returning to her, her ineffable logic controlling her actions once more. Whatever was happening to her, it was nothing that she couldn't control. Nothing that. . .

"Hi," said a voice. And there, swimming past her in a tight bathing suit that accentuated hish firm breasts, hish curvaceous hips, and also what seemed an impressive male endowment, was Burgoyne.

Selar snapped forward in her chair, the pool vanishing along with the Hermat intruder. She looked around and found herself, of course, still in her office. A quick scan with the medical tricorder told her that her bioreadings were back to normal. But the image of Burgoyne was solidly rooted in her mind.

She leaned forward toward her computer terminal and said, "Computer."

"Working."

"Personal medical log, Stardate 50926.2 . . ."

There was a pause, sufficiently long enough for the computer to prompt, "Waiting for entry."

Selar could only think of one thing to say, Fivewords that summarized her present situation with simple eloquence.

"I am in big trouble," she said.

KEBRON

IV.

"HOW MUCH TROUBLEwould you say we're in, precisely?" Si Cwan asked in a low, tense voice.

"A good deal," replied Zak Kebron.

Between them they had precisely one phaser, the sidearm that Kebron habitually carried whenever embarking on any sort of mission. They'd had no time to grab anything else off the shuttle before the unfortunate ship had blown up.