forced to.”
“You can’t keep me unconscious or locked up forever—”
“No. I cannot.”
“So how do you think you’re going to stop me?”
“I will confine you to quarters tonight if necessary. I cannot overemphasize the danger of what you are contemplating.”
“And after tonight?”
“I hope that in the morning you will be more receptive to reasoning.”
“Don’t count on it.” “Dr. McCoy, I forbid you to pursue this course of action.”
McCoy spun around and turned on Spock in a fury.
“And you think you can command me, now, do you? Because you’re the captain? You’ll never be the captain of this ship!” His voice was a whiskey-hoarse shout, and only anger kept him from collapse.
Spock took a step backward, then recovered his poise.
“Dr. McCoy, I ask you to give me your word as a Starfleet officer that tonight you will not carry out the action you have threatened.” Spock left his own threat unspoken.
McCoy glared at him, then relaxed suddenly and shrugged. “Sure. I won’t do anything tonight. I give you my word. What do I care?” He laughed, a sound like tortured steel. “I have all the time in the world!” He turned around and wandered out into sick bay. “What happened to my bottle?”
Lieutenant Uhura sat at her station on the bridge, ready to scream.
LieutenantUhura, she told herself. Remember that. Keep remembering that.
She knew perfectly well that she would neither scream nor find something to throw at Pavel Chekov, though she wished she could do both. As the strain of the last few hours increased, the excitable Russian distracted himself by alternating incomprehensible mutters in his native language with whistles so tuneless that he must not even be aware of what he was doing. Uhura had perfect pitch; Chekov whistled flat. To Uhura the sound was like the constant scratching of fingernails down blackboards.
Uhura knew, too, that her irritation over Chekov’s nervous habits was her own attempt to stop worrying about the captain. Dr. McCoy had issued no bulletin on his condition since immediately after surgery, and that was hours ago. She did not know whether to treat the silence as a hopeful sign, or a sinister one.
It was not so much that Chekov whistled half a phrase of a tune over and over again, or even that he whistled it in the wrong key for the mood of the piece, but that the longer he continued, the flatter his notes became.
Spock had not returned, and Uhura had heard nothing of him over the ship’s communicator circuits since he left the bridge. Nor had she heard anything of Mandala Flynn. She must be in sick bay, for Beranardi al Auriga was coordinating the search for an accomplice of the attacker.
Uhura shivered. Spiderweb was little more than a rumor to her; she was from Earth, where there had been no terrorism in decades. She knew what spiderweb was supposed to do; still, she assumed the reports were exaggerated. Captain Kirk and Mandala Flynn were both down in sick bay, perhaps seriously hurt, but they would recover. Uhura was certain of it. After all, Mandala had walked out of here under her own power, so she could hardly be critically wounded.
Pavel hit a particularly off-key note and Uhura glared down at him in annoyance.
The turbo lift doors opened. Pavel stopped whistling.
Mr. Spock walked onto the bridge, and Uhura knew immediately, with an overwhelming wave of despair, that everything had gone terribly wrong.
Without a word, Spock stepped down to the lower level of the bridge. He stopped for a moment, and then he sat in the captain’s seat.
Uhura clenched her long fingers. She had an irrational urge to leap up and run from her post, to a place where she would not have to hear what Mr. Spock was about to say.
But Spock had opened the emergency paging circuits: when he spoke, everyone on the Enterprise would hear him. There was nowhere to run. Pavel had turned around: he too sensed disaster and his face had paled to a sickly shade.
The silence and the tension increased.
Spock closed his hooded eyes, opened them again, and gazed straight ahead.
“This is Commander Spock.”
He hardly ever refers to himself by his rank, Uhura thought, only by his position, science officer, first officer —
“It is my duty to tell you that a few minutes ago, James T. Kirk, captain of the U.S.S.Enterprise , died. He was injured beyond hope. He did not regain consciousness after he was taken from the bridge. He experienced no further pain.”
Uhura withdrew as far as she could into her own mind, letting the words slide over her consciousness and skid across the slick shiny surface she put up to protect her from the hurt. The realization would have to sink in slowly; for now, she could not accept it.
“In attempting to defend the captain, Commander of Security Mandala Flynn was mortally wounded.
She died in the performance of her duty.
“The suspect in the murders is in custody. No concrete evidence of an accomplice has been discovered.”
Spock paused, as if searching for some unfamiliar word of comfort to offer to the crew. He failed to find any. He shut off the circuits; the switch made a decisive snap.
“The captain—is dead?” Pavel Chekov spoke in a low and unbelieving tone.
“Yes, Mr. Chekov.”
“But—what will we do?”
“We will proceed with our mission,” Spock said. “Lieutenant Uhura—”
She looked at him blankly, and replied, finally, as if she had to travel a very long distance just to hear him. “Yes, Mr. Spock?”
“Notify Starfleet of what has happened ... and the civilian authorities. Mr. al Auriga will undoubtedly wish to take all our statements within the next few hours. We must all do our best to report accurately
what occurred.”
“Yes, sir,” Uhura said dully.
Sulu crept quietly into the minuscule cabin he shared with the senior weapons officer, Ilya Nikolaievich. The cabin was half the size of his private quarters in the Enterprise . Perhaps eventually he would find sharing a room unpleasant, but right now his excitement at being on Aerfen was impenetrable. Besides, during normal times, when they were on patrol, he and Ilya Nikolaievich would be on watch at different hours and each would have the room to himself for at least a while each day.
Sulu had not felt so good, nor so tired, in years. He had worked for eighteen hours with hardly a break, refamiliarizing himself with the weaponry carried by Aerfen and its sibling ships, weapons that depended on precision and finesse rather than brute force, as did those of the Enterprise . He was pleased with his first set of practice scores, but nowhere near satisfied, and he would not be happy till he met or exceeded the scores of the ship’s two other weapons officers. The rivalry was a friendly one, but it was rivalry nonetheless.
Ilya slept as peacefully as a child. When he was awake his square-jawed sculptured face held hints of suspicion, watchfulness, and even cruelty. He demonstrated procedures to Sulu efficiently, straightforwardly, and neutrally, showing neither resentment of his new colleague nor enthusiasm for him. Other members of the crew called him Ilyushka, but as he did not invite Sulu to use the diminutive of his name, Sulu stayed carefully with the formal first name and patronymic. Sulu knew he would have to prove himself to everyone: to Hunter, of course, and maybe particularly to Ilya Nikolaievich.
Ilya was shorter than Sulu, but similar in build: compact and well-proportioned, slender but muscular.
His heavy straight blond hair fell across his forehead, nearly to his eyebrows, and below his collar in back. He reminded Sulu of Spock, he held himself in such tight control. He was no less somber now, asleep, then he had been earlier, but the tension had gone from his face. He was a human being: the only Vulcan in him, he had put deliberately into his character.
Sulu took off his shirt, then sat down to pull off his boots. They were rather tight and as the left one slid off, his hand slipped. The boot spiralled out of his grasp. He lunged forward to catch it knowing he could not, and
