The hour was late, unseemly late, to be visiting a man's quarters—the private cabin of a commander, who also happened to be human. Alien. If she stopped to study it out, Nahfia Lonce knew she might bolt, so instead she concentrated on the golden liquor McCoy had served, on the pearlescent sheen of the goblet, and inconspicuously on the man himself.

Leonard was talking about Starbase 15, the port of leave they were scheduled to visit after the current survey mission. He sat in a chair opposite her, smiling a lazy smile, his legs casually crossed. There had been a special chemistry between them ever since their assignment to a landing party brought them together for the first time—the new Chief of Security and the veteran CMO.

"If you like," he drawled, "I could show you around the port district. Just the two of us…"

She felt an ominous trembling in the pit of her stomach. Setting down the bourbon, she escaped into a small, hardcover book on the side table. "Sounds nice," she said, and began thumbing through the pages. After a moment she noticed, thankfully, that the words were right side up. It looked like poetry. You're a fool, Nahfia. A disciplined Zaran would never become involved with a human. He's too out of sync with Zaran ways, Zaran needs…

They had been keeping company for more than three weeks, and so far he had only kissed her once, very chastely on the cheek. She was having a difficult time restraining the bonding energies that clamored to burst free. And there he sat, looking so impossibly relaxed, so incredibly desirable.

Nahfia forced her attention toward the printed phrases of poetry. It was a long time since she had held a real book. As she made herself read, the disturbing words drew her in deeply…

Hear!

The dragon comes

bone-chewing,

spewing flame

along its path,

instilling fear

through mindless wrath,

it's shocking rage

a madman's march.

Where will it end?

Oh, spare the young!

She turned from the nightmare verse to find Leonard standing very near, one hand resting on the back of her chair.

"Lovely, isn't it?" he asked.

"Horrible. Is it something a human wrote?"

Leonard smiled wryly. "I'm afraid we humans can't claim the honor. It's a collection of ancient Vulcan nursery rhymes—something Spock's mother helped compile and translate. Pretty awful stuff to feed children, isn't it?"

Perching on the arm of her chair, he gently took away the book and began toying with her mane. She felt his breath stir the wispy curls above her right temple. If she dared look up now, she knew she would lose herself in those gentle blue eyes of his.

Great gods, how she wanted him! She could not keep holding back like this without causing herself harm. Every inch of her yearned for the life-bonding of Zara—a formidable commitment even for her own species, let alone for a human accustomed to weak marriage commitments. Only yesterday she had learned of Leonard McCoy's previous marriage and divorce He had called his former wife a harpie—the same woman he had once loved enough to marry. What had become of that love? How could such a man take on a permanent commitment and remain content? How could she put herself at such risk?

Shakily she said, "There are things about me you don't understand. About…the customs of my people."

His lips brushed her cheek in a whisper of a kiss before settling tenderly, possessively, on her mouth. Even as she reached for him, a thousand warnings sounded in her head. No—hold back, don't let it start to happen…it will never work…you belong with your own kind…

"Tell me," he urged between kisses. "I want to know everything."

And Nahfia found she could not refuse him—or herself—this chance. As her reservations slipped away she vaguely wondered, where will it end?

ooooo

Admiral Kirk sat wondering how a simple survey mission could have turned so disastrous. Yes, it had happened before in his career, but never quite like this—never a crewmember murdered and all the evidence pointing directly at the convalescing captain. He found himself thinking, if McCoy paid as much attention to business as he did to the new Chief of Security, the two of them might solve this unpleasant mystery one helluva lot faster. But he did not put it into words. He knew it was his concern for Spock that made him feel this way…and the knowledge that he alone had permitted Spock to beam down. Curbing his irritation he said, "I'm waiting, Doctor."

McCoy swiveled his desk chair and looked over at the patient under discussion. In the corner of the office Spock sat staring at the floor, his Vulcan features impassive. One could only guess at the conflicts churning beneath that rigidly controlled exterior. "Well, physically he's in fair shape. Despite a sharp rise in fatigue, his blood chemistry is, shall we say, the 'new normal'. The scratches are healing nicely."

"That's nice to know," Kirk said with some sarcasm. "Give me his mental evaluation."

"The surface scan reveals an appreciable loss of memory."

"Which verifies Spock's statement."

McCoy turned back to Kirk and leaning toward him, said very quietly. "Jim, the strardus has me concerned…"

From the corner Spock said, "Doctor, you need not whisper. I know I am an addict. I am also well aware of the effect Saurian strardus has on one's mind and body. I deal with it on a daily basis."

"Good for you," McCoy said tartly.

Anger flared in the Vulcan's eyes. "Is it wise to taunt me? Clearly I have become dangerous."

"That's enough, both of you." Kirk was in no mood for a sniping match. "Spock, there is precious time unaccounted for—nearly an hour of unexplained absence after you remember pausing by the obelisk at the ruins. Ensign Weller gave her story before she died, and all the physical evidence backs it up. You must remember something more."

Spock bowed his head, pressed his fingertips to his temples, and withdrew into himself.

"You and Reesa Weller," Kirk said, "working as a pair, both missing from the landing party. Suddenly you report in with a smashed tricorder and impaired memory. Weller is found raped, battered, and barely conscious. And she names you as her assailant."

Spock lowered his hands and looked at his commanding officer, frustration showing in his dilated eyes. "Why would I have done such a thing?"

"You tell me," Kirk came near to imploring. "There were traces of your skin under Weller's fingernails, along with T-negative blood. There was clear evidence of sexual assault. What in hell happened down there?"

Spock was silent.

Kirk had not really expected an answer. They had been over this again and again since the moment Ensign Weller made her accusation—and now Reesa was dead, adding murder to the list of unanswered charges. Rising, he paced the cramped area of McCoy's office, emotions warring against his obligations as the current commander of the Enterprise. Over the years he had grown to trust Spock implicitly, and even if the captain were not half Vulcan, and therefore all but incapable of criminal violence, still Kirk would have believed in him. They were more than fellow officers—they were friends. And that fact made Kirk's present duty all the more distasteful.

Coming to a decisive halt, he said, "Spock."

The Vulcan rose to face him. "Admiral, I believe we should consider the psycho-tricorder."

"What?" exploded McCoy. "You volunteering to have your brain picked over?"

Spock cast him a withering glance. "Crudely phrased, Doctor. I will not say that I find the prospect agreeable, but psycho-regression seems the only logical course. My memory lapse must be explained to the admiral's satisfaction—and my own."

McCoy looked to Kirk for support, but the admiral's eyes lowered with regret. "Starfleet procedures leave me little choice, Bones. Schedule a regressive memory scan as soon as possible."

"Jim." The doctor drew him outside the office and kept his voice low. "Given a little time, amnesia often reverses itself without any sort of medical intervention. There's no reason to subject a Vulcan to the psycho-tricorder."

"We have reason," Kirk said just as quietly. "With so many sensor-inhibiting minerals planetside, Lieutenant Lonce's investigation is going slow, but so far there's no sign of harmful life at the ruins, clear down to the viral level. So what does that leave? Eyewitness and physical evidence against Spock. Listen Bones, I let him go on that landing party and now a young woman has lost her life. Something sure as hell happened down there, and we can't ignore it. Like you said, there's the strardus to consider. It lowers inhibitions and triggers impulsive behavior. Hell, I've seen firsthand what it can do to Spock, I've seen the rage come out of nowhere."

"A look of rage, not out and out murder. I can't believe Spock would violate a woman and beat her to death."

"Let's hope you're right." Steeling himself, Kirk opened the office door and assumed the impersonal tone of command. "Captain Spock, you are hereby confined to quarters except as required for any medical procedures." It became necessary to clear his throat. "A guard will be posted at your door."

Still on his feet, Spock straightened to attention. "Understood, sir," he calmly acknowledged and walked out of the office. The door closed behind him.

McCoy looked steadily at Kirk, but said nothing. He didn't have to.

"Bones, of all the people aboard ship, the evidence—and the strardus—points only to Spock."

McCoy sighed. "I know. You think he's guilty?"

"I don't know what to think," Kirk admitted, "but whatever the psycho-tricorder reveals, I'll never believe Spock capable of committing murder—not in his right mind. The evidence is stacked so high against him that I think we're a little afraid of examining the truth. But we have to."

Shaking his head, McCoy reached across his desk and pressed a computer switch. "Medical log, supplemental. No doubt feeling pressured by circumstances, Captain Spock has requested a regressive memory scan of that time period encompassing the fatal assault on Ensign Reesa Weller. Since Vulcans can resist most any kind of psycho-inducement, the results of such a procedure would be open to question and therefore inadmissible as court evidence. Furthermore, treatment of this kind is considered so morally intrusive by Vulcans that it could well exacerbate the patient's condition. Taking these, and other previously stated factors into account, I cannot recommend psycho-tricording at this time. Let it be noted that I will carry out the procedure as ordered by Admiral Kirk, but under deepest protest. McCoy out."

Their eyes locked and Kirk strode from the office. Using a hall intercom, he ordered Spock's guard and continued on to the bridge. His mood did not improve upon finding the Enterprise warping out of orbit. Hurrying down the bridge steps, he spun the command chair, bringing him face to face with the astonished first officer. "Mister Sulu, why have we left orbit?"

Sulu rose from the chair gaping at the disgruntled admiral as if Kirk had lost his mind. "Sir. Captain Spock—"

"What does the captain have to do with it?" demanded Kirk. He heard whispers from the bridge stations. Straightening, he repeated in a determinedly calmer voice, "Explain, Mister Sulu."

Sulu swallowed hard. "Captain Spock came onto the bridge and personally conveyed your order. We were to leave for Starbase 15 immediately."

Kirk's mind whirled. "You say Spock was here?"

"Yes, sir. Only a moment ago."

Kirk's fingernails dug into the palms of his hands, and he used the pain to hold himself together. "Abort those orders. We have an away team on that planet. Return us to our previous position—and keep us there." He was in the turbolift before Sulu could answer.

ooooo

A guttering flame-idol cast hellish shadows over Spock's Vulcan retreat—the cabin that had become a prison cell. After talking to Sulu, Kirk was surprised to find Spock here where he belonged, lost in some sort of meditation. It was hard to believe the Vulcan guilty of issuing false orders, yet it would not be the first time Spock had set the Enterprise on an unauthorized course. Compelled by ancient mating drives, he had once diverted the ship to his home planet for a rendezvous with his betrothed. On another occasion he had locked in an unapproved course for the benefit of his former captain. Kirk would never forget those shocks at finding his trust in his first officer betrayed.

It scarcely compared with the tumult of emotion he felt now. In answer to his query, Spock convincingly replied, "I came from sick bay directly to my cabin."

"Directly. Speaking to no one."

"I shared a turbolift with an Engineering trainee. I do not remember any conversation."

"I see. Then explain how it is that Commander Sulu observed you there only moments ago, ordering the ship to Starbase 15." The bewilderment in Spock's eyes deepened as Kirk continued. "Tell me, are you in the habit of stranding away teams? Or are you in such a rush to get out of here that you forgot all about them?"

"Admiral…" Spock's rough voice wavered as he struggled to maintain his composure. "You say I was on the bridge…issuing orders. Yet I have no memory of

being there. None at all."

Kirk called up the bridge log tape on Spock's desktop computer, but the visual recording squelched any errant hope he might have entertained. Spock was clearly there on the bridge ordering the change of course. Switching off the unit, Kirk stood in silence for a long moment, his eyes on the darkened screen, thinking it through. Then he turned to the captain, his friend, his painful responsibility.

These past weeks he had grown used to the dilation of Spock's eyes, but now he looked long and hard at the evidence of strardus use, with all its implications. A woman was dead and Spock's behavior had just put more lives at risk. Standing there, Kirk remembered the Vulcan ability to influence another's mind, without even touching. He had seen Spock successfully use it to escape captivity. A guard at the door was not enough.

Decisively he said, "It's time to rethink the parameters of your treatment. You've been allowed a lot of freedom—too much freedom, it seems."

Spock seemed calm and accepting. "I told you it was inadvisable for me to stay aboard ship."

"Yes. You did." With a leaden heart, Kirk went to the door and beckoned the security guard inside before addressing Spock. "Captain, I must ask you to come with us. You are under arrest."

ooooo

News of the captain's confinement traveled quickly through the small community of the Enterprise. Though Kirk had kept Weller's accusation quiet, much of the crew already suspected a connection between the ensign's slaying and Spock's arrest.

In the brig, Spock faced his loss of freedom with an outward show of stoicism. The arrest procedure had been handled in a polite, almost apologetic manner that reflected the guards' shock—a brief, solitary walk through the body scanner, the mandatory retinal scan for the purpose of identification. He had exchanged his uniform for yellow coveralls, but was allowed to keep his warming suit underneath.

There was relief when the force field finally engaged behind him, shutting out the guards' embarrassment and pity. Alone, Spock lay on a wall-mounted bunk and passed the idle hours in thought.

He did not blame Kirk. The admiral had acted appropriately in the face of irrefutable evidence. There was no reason to believe the bridge log tape had been altered, or discount the grim facts linking him to Reesa Weller's murder. Spock was well aware of the blank spaces in his memory. Like the drug-hunger ever lurking in the shadows, they mocked him…

ooooo

McCoy nearly jumped out of his skin when someone nudged him. Pretending he had not been caught dozing, he gathered his dignity and swiveled from the lab biocomp. But there was no faking with Nahfia. Worry lines sprouted between the Zaran's tawny eyebrows, accentuating her sultry feline appearance. Sometimes she seemed like a sleek, golden-skinned lioness, though taken part by lovely part, she also looked very human to McCoy.

Noticing the padd in her hand, he grimaced. "More arrests needing medical attention. How many does that make today?"

"Four…so far. The number of incidents seems to be increasing. In all my years with security I've never seen anything like it. But," she added solely for McCoy's benefit, "wearing ourselves out won't help matters."

Setting down the report, she slipped behind him and began gently massaging his shoulders. Warmth spread from her fingertips, soothing his taut muscles as he eased back against her. The woman had a talent for healing, for caring, that made him wonder why she had chosen security work instead of medicine as her profession. Every time she touched him, McCoy marveled at the tender restraint of those powerful Zaran hands, lavishing an old country doctor with attention. They had come a long way since that first kiss last week in his cabin. The happiness she brought him could almost make him forget the rash of shipboard violence and Kirk's continued pressuring to regress Spock. Almost.

With a sigh he sat up straight. Though he had personally injected the captain with his regular dose of "medication" only an hour ago, he asked, "How's Spock doing?"

Nahfia settled onto the work counter. "Outwardly, still faring well, but one can never say, with a Vulcan. He must find the whole experience terribly distressing."

Not half as distressing as he'll find psycho-tricording, thought McCoy. Aloud he said, "You are doing your best to make him comfortable?"

She smiled, loosing a pleasant glow of psionic energy. "Stop worrying, Doctor. No matter how crowded it becomes down in Security, the captain will have a cell to himself and every amenity regulations allow. At least he's getting plenty of rest, which is more than I can say for some individuals around here." Her amber eyes glistened in fond reproach. "Hey, I missed you last night. Things were sort of cold on deck five."

On impulse McCoy rose up and kissed her full on the mouth. Despite Nahfia's formidable strength, she exuded a haunting femininity that made him want to slay mythical Vulcan dragons for her. Maybe it was those tender places in her heart that attracted him—the secret yearnings, the private fears, the insecurities of this alien among humans. Or maybe it was just the way she returned his love so freely.

"Missed you too," he whispered huskily, fingering her silken mane. He knew Doctor Fielding was due any time, and the thought of the door opening suddenly made him back off. His and Nahfia's late night trysts had already stirred up enough gossip. Even the admiral had made a sardonic remark or two, and McCoy was not surprised about that. A woman-charmer like Jim Kirk might enjoy the Zaran mate hunt, but he would hardly be interested in lifelong Zaran bonding and the emotional security it offered.

ooooo

Lately there had been little to do on the bridge but run training drills and brood. The brown mud ball of the aptly designated planet Mega Morbidus monopolized the forward view screen with its unlovely presence. A rich storehouse of minerals, mining potential excellent. Just a tremendous hunk of ore hurtling through Space. Yet looking at it, Kirk felt as if he were staring down a deadly enemy.

An armed guard stood watch at every transporter station to ensure that no one but the trained investigative teams beamed into the danger zone—as if the Enterprise herself were not a danger trap these days. Altercations, fistfights, all sorts of mischief. Seething discontent had the security staff working their tails off, often in collaboration with the medical department.

How cozy, Kirk mused. The current discipline problems were providing McCoy with 101 excuses to postpone Spock's treatment and make eyes at—

"Admiral."

Kirk jumped guiltily at the sound of McCoy's voice on the intercom. "Yes, Doctor?"

"I have the patient ready." The peeved tone left no doubt as to McCoy's meaning.

"I'm on my way," Kirk said, turning the con over to Sulu. At sickbay a nurse ushered him to the door of a treatment area, then discreetly left him to enter alone. Inside, his eyes settled first on a restraint table—a gleaming tangle of wicked body locks built to contain the most uncooperative of humanoid life. Thankfully, it was empty.

He turned to find Spock in a sort of lounge chair, looking almost relaxed. Perched nearby, McCoy exuded resentment and strained the limits of military courtesy as he said, "Well Admiral, I'm so glad you could make it for the show."

Kirk took the only free seat, one of a discontinued design affectionately dubbed "bun-busters". Shifting his weight against the unyielding blue plastic, he said, "I'm aware that you're acting under protest, Doctor. Your objections have been duly noted, along with the foot-dragging and constant stream of alibis that have delayed this session for days."

"Alibis!" McCoy nearly choked on the word. "Have you looked around sickbay lately? Those 'alibis' are bonefide medical cases. They're telling you this crew is unraveling."

"Is that what's happening?" Kirk shot back. "A mass attack of Space nerves? Some bizarre psychological reaction to Weller's death? More likely this disruptive behavior stems from something Spock brought with him aboard ship—an undetected virus or something even worse. In any case—"

"An undetected virus?" McCoy was on his feet. "Are you suggesting that my medical department has not done its job? For your information, Admiral, there is no pathological agent involved.

"As I was saying," Kirk said loudly, "exploring Spock's memory should be top priority."

"I agree," Spock said with utter composure.

McCoy turned on the Vulcan, scowling. "Damn it, you would agree!"

"Just get on with it," Kirk said tiredly. He felt no satisfaction when McCoy complied, fastening sensor patches to Spock's temples with stiff, angry fingers. Briefly Kirk met the Vulcan eyes—frightening in their acceptance—before Spock closed them, shutting everyone out.

But he can't shut us out, thought Kirk, wanting suddenly to tear off the patches and cancel this intrusion now. He forced down the gut reaction with an effort that left him sweating.

Watching the admiral sweat gave McCoy a great deal of satisfaction. The psycho-tricorder was a tabletop model with a screen capable of translating memories into movie-like images. The process left nothing at all to privacy. Hoping for a last minute reprieve, he fiddled with its settings as long as he dared, but at last he realized that the delaying tactic was only making things harder on Spock.

"Hell," he muttered, all his usual banter failing him. "I guess we're ready, then. But I'm pulling the plug at the first sign of trouble."

"It's trouble we're looking for," Spock quietly reminded him.

McCoy switched on the tricorder. As static began writhing on the screen, Kirk stood and moved in for a closer look.

"Would you like some popcorn?" McCoy asked him.

"Bones, if you think I'm enjoying this…"

"Gentlemen, please," Spock entreated.

McCoy put Kirk out of his mind and got down to work. "Okay Spock, keep your eyes closed…and relax. You're feeling completely comfortable, even drowsy. Not a worry in the world." His clinical eye noted the lay of Spock's lean fingers and the slow, steady respiration. Responding well to the influx of beta-inhibitors…doing his best to cooperate. Somewhat reassured, McCoy began leading his patient back in time to the fateful hour on Mega Morbidus. Images appeared on the screen. Faces, landscapes, close-ups of alien ruins, the tricorder in Spock's hands. It was the away mission from Spock's point of view.

"You have separated from the others. All but Ensign Weller."

There was a brief climb up a hillside to an eerie-looking ruin. Then the scene focused on one of the many metallic shafts protruding from the ground. And there it stopped.

McCoy observed a corresponding rise in Spock's vital signs and attempted to ease him through the disturbance. "Come ahead now, past the obelisk. Move on…"

Spock's level of distress rose markedly. His fingers dug into the upholstery. The screen was a jumble of static.

"Spock." McCoy spoke with gentle authority. "I'm with you. Jim is with you. Move ahead."

Spock's eyes snapped open. He gasped and his black stare locked on some private hell that stiffened every muscle in his body. Yet the screen was remained empty.

"That does it," McCoy said, switching off the tricorder.

Spock reached for his head. Rubbing at the sensor pads, he drew a series of ragged breaths that seemed to steady him.

"Do you remember?" prompted Kirk. "Anything?"

"…Darkness," Spock said, "only darkness…"