Broken Image

by Andriech

Two Captains. Two ships. Two crews. Two universes. And one war that could destroy them all - unless they can learn to see each other in a completely different way and learn to work together. When a Klingon ship from the mirror universe gets trapped all bets are off. Because in the universe where the Enterprise represents the evil Empire, the Klingons are the force of good.

1. Chapter 1

~Broken Image~

by Patty Wright and Elizabeth K. Love

Disclaimer:

WE DON'T OWN ANY OF THE CHARACTERS FROM "Star Trek" - if we did, we'd be living there.

WE DO OWN ALL ORIGINAL CHARACTERS AND THE KAICAMDREAN UNIVERSE. PLEASE DON'T USE THEM WITHOUT PERMISSION.

Author's Note:

This is the first of a trilogy of novels. It was the real first fanfiction I ever wrote, and you will find later concepts and characters being toyed with here.

It was revised and published first a couple years after "The Motion Picture" and before "The Wrath of Khan". To tell the truth, I think "The Undiscovered Country" wasn't as good as this much earlier treatment of the same delemma was. But that is just my opinion...you'll have to form your own. - Patty

CHAPTER ONE

The scoutship raced toward the asteroid belt with every ounce of power it had left. One engine pylon, charred by phaser burns and all but useless, still clung tenuously to the hull by a few circuits.

Veering unsteadily, the ship tried in desperation to hold its course. Its adversary was gaining far too fast. The star corsair bore down on its elusive prey and another phaser blast leapt out from the larger vessel. The blue bolt of light flashed across the distance, eagerly searching out its mark.

By some miracle, it missed, but only barely. Swerving sharply, the scout began weaving a precarious course through the asteroid belt. The hunter loomed behind it like a demonic shadow.

"Sir, priority message from Space Station Gamma IV: ion storm increasing above normal levels, progressing inward past quadrant boundaries."

The Captain nodded imperceptibly. With the damage the smaller ship had taken on, the storm might prove to be a blessing: a blessing they needed. The pirate had slipped through their clutches once too often to allow them the victory. And this time, the smuggled cargo hit too close to home for the Captain to accept defeat.

"Status on rogue vessel, Feran?"

"Heavy damage sustained on main impulse drive," the Science Officer answered, almost before the question had been finished. "Deflector shields down to minimum power. They've switched to auxiliary, Sir."

The Captain stood and stared at the viewscreen with arms crossed against her chest before turning and beginning to pace in front of the command chair. She was of average height and bore herself with a straightness that was the tell-tale sign of years of military training. The honey brown color of her skin had the look of a tan, and her dark brown hair swept back from her face and fell of its own accord in soft waves that curled haphazardly above her shoulders. Her russet eyes danced with easily read emotion and they alone betrayed the tautly controlled, quick temper of her youth. Though her eyes were a trifle too far apart, her nose too slender and her cheekbones too prominent to proclaim her extremely attractive, she had a power in her movements, something about her that transcended more conventional beauty.

She bore herself with an aura of command that impressed upon all that she well deserved her position. Her whole manner of carriage demanded respect, a respect that seemed to erase the awareness of the feminine curves of her body.

Her boots pressed the deck firmly as she paced. She was a pacer by nature, found pleasure in the silent communication between the ship and herself. Each step demanded answers of the ship and the ship of her. There was no indecision present in her pacing, instead there was a decisiveness that echoed the determination of a person who knew what to do, but had too much to accomplish all at once.

The Captain pivoted slowly in mid-stride and rested her hand on the back of the helmsman's chair as her eyes completed a quick sweep of the board. "Olir, change course to 0795 mark 2. Increase speed to Warp 10. I want a tractor beam on that ship. Lieutenant Kenar, get me ship to ship."

"Have them on the channel, Sir."

"Osrai, this is the Captain of the Kytaerin. Surrender your ship. This is your final warning."

Static cracked over the speaker as the well-known pirate responded bitterly: "I'll see you in hell first T'Shar!"

"Strange place for a rendezvous, Maret." The soft, even observation came out of nowhere.

The Captain turned and threw a warning glance at her second in command, who had stepped up beside the command chair. "Perhaps I'll send you instead, Tasha."

The Kainan shrugged in a luxurious movement of boredom. "Might be interesting."

"I'll be sure to provide you with ample opportunity," the Captain remarked, turning back to the screen. Amusement gleamed in her russet eyes, despite the fact her face remained set. Although Tasha's rank of Kainan afforded her almost all the privileges equal to that of a Captain, except for command, she was still subject to the Captain's orders. The Kytaerin was Maret T'Shar's ship. However, in this Kainan's case, that did not necessarily mean all orders found themselves obeyed.

A slight smile alit Tasha's silky tan features as she drifted back down to the science console. She paused, her hand resting lightly on the back of her chair and drew her eyes down to the Science Officer. The dark cloak fell over his shoulders lightly and moved with him as he worked. He was tall, slender and serious, and didn't turn from the viewer though he knew she stood behind him.

"Long range scans on the storm, Commander?" she asked.

"Yes, Ma'am," Feran responded, already having known the question would be coming. "Storm now increased to magnitude +6. Showing definite signs of continuing increase."

"+6 and increasing?" She asked without particularly wanting an answer. "That's going to be quite a storm."

He nodded slightly before again adjusting the readings. "With all due respect Ma'am, it already is."

She frowned slightly in thought and sank into her chair beside him. "What did you say the position of the storm was?"

The Commander hesitated a moment and drew his eyes over to her slowly. He was the silent, aloof type of old world man that never said much, but noticed more than anyone cared to admit. He held that knowledge trapped within, deep where things no one wanted to know about him dwelt. He restrained a smile behind a facade of debonair wisdom, knowing full well the question came of more than scientific curiosity

"324 mark 8, Ma'am."

She nodded in acknowledgment and began to work with the instruments before her. He smiled, his pale blue eyes studying her before turning back to monitoring his own instruments. "Feran, have we established a tractor yet?"

"Negative, Captain. We're still out of range: only a few more seconds. Sir, their engines are reaching critical level."

"Give me a tractor now. I won't lose Osrai again."

"Yes, Sir."

The Captain turned as a spark of light flashed on the viewscreen. Suddenly, the three-sided screen filled with blazing white light as an explosion tore through the scoutship.

"Sekash!" T'Shar cursed in her native language. She had known this would be the way it would end all along. Practically, she could have expected nothing else. Osrai would never allow her the victory. "Commander?"

Feran shook his head. ";Completely destroyed, Sir."

"And the cargo?""

Also completely destroyed. Residue on all sensors."

"Sekash," T'Shar muttered again. That, above all, was the most painful. Osrai had had his revenge. "Lieutenant, inform Fleet Command of the status of the mission." She turned toward the dual science console. "Kainan Arikara..."

She froze as her eyes fell on the empty chair beside Feran. Though the First Officer had returned from a mission only hours ago, the Captain was not surprised to find her gone again. Tasha Kainear Arikara was a spy-perhaps the galaxy's best, and the position she held aboard the Star Corsair Kytaerin she considered little more than a hobby that helped cover her more fruitful activities.

The Kainan was gone again: gone without sound or perception of movement and that's the way it always was. That's why she never failed when it came to her career, why not even orders from commanding officers could tie her down.

Feran turned and held the Captain's gaze for a long moment. His pale blue eyes warmed in a shared thought of friendship and bemusement. Yes, the First Officer left often on important missions, but just as often there was no mission. She left because of her personality. The woman found it nearly unbearable to sit in one position unoccupied for more than a few seconds. The Captain's lips curled in a slight smile of satisfaction. Yes, of course, Tasha was gone, of course.

Feran," she asked quietly, "Has the Zyldshen left the ship yet?"

The Science Officer nodded. "Yes, Sir. Sensors read that the Kainan's ship has entered the storm zone." That was not unusual. Tasha moved quickly and was well out of reach before anyone realized she was gone.

"On present course, will the Kytaerin be going anywhere near the storm?"

"It does appear there is no way to avoid it. Chasing the scout has led us directly into it."

The ship rocked suddenly.

"Sir, we're in the Ion storm. Shall I change course?"

She swung toward the screen. "No, Olir, reduce speed to Warp 6. On my orders be prepared to halt and maintain position."

"Yes, Sir."

Tasha's hands danced over the controls of her ship in seemingly endless and incomprehensible movements. None of the equipment was labeled as a precautionary measure in case anyone got aboard the small vessel. They couldn't operate it without the labels and perhaps more importantly, they couldn't decipher what half the strange equipment was. She'd scavenged the equipment from one end of the galaxy to the other: modified some, stolen others, dug up and renovated extinct ones, and then finally created the ones she couldn't find. It had created a ship that could do everything she wanted it to, the way she wanted it to.

Now, that equipment was humming in excited activity as it vacuumed in information from the ion storm. Tasha coaxed and guided it along. At the moment, she wasn't particularly interested in ion storms, but the information would be useful for general scientific purposes and, besides, it had given her a chance to relieve her boredom with what Maret was doing.

The Captain sat down and leaned back in the command chair. She stared out at the First Officer's small scoutship on the screen.

"Well, my friend, you've really gotten yourself into this one, haven't you?" she thought deliberately. A permanent telepathic mind link could do much more than seal a friendship. At the very least, it could bypass the inconvenience of equipment and eliminate the awkwardness of public communication.

"So, you've gotten rid of Osrai," Tasha replied from within her mind. "Someone had to get this information while you were playing cat and mouse."

"Okay, you incompetent excuse for a science officer," Maret teased. "Stay out there and get the information from the storm, the Fleet will want it, and, I assure you, cat and mouse is purely a Terran game. I don't take kindly to Terran games."

Tasha laughed softly within her mind. The thought link was gone, but Maret could still feel her friend's presence drawing closer, Tasha's ship should now be within regular sensor range. The Kytaerin was still on the outer rim of the disturbance so that only Tasha's small ship, dead center of the storm, was getting the brunt of it.

The Captain glanced at the Helmsman. "Stop here, Olir. Maintain position." She turned back to Feran, who nodded slightly in confirmation.

"The Zyldshen is on our sensors, Captain; well within range"

"Lieutenant, open a hailing frequency."

"Yes, Sir."

"Tasha," the Captain directed through the intercom. "Channel the information into our computers."

"Distortion..." came the reply. "Not reading you clearly."

"Sir," Feran said heavily, "Storm increased to magnitude +9."

The sound of explosions burst through the intercom.

"Tasha! The storm's too violent. Return to the ship."

"KASHEERA! Only minor damage..."

"Sir, we're not receiving any information," Feran stated levelly. Although eccentric, Tasha was as brilliant as the ship's main Science Officer and the work they performed as a team was unparalleled.

"Tasha!"

There was no reply and in a burst of static, the communication link was gone. The Captain's mind groped out demandingly. "Tasha? Tasha!"

"I didn't think you really meant it when you said you were sending me to hell," came the soft reply within Maret's mind. "It's a Terran concept, but if this is anything like what they see as hell, I can understand their fear of it."

Suddenly, the thought link was gone too.

"Kenar! Get me ship to ship. " She slammed the intercom. "What the hell is going on out there, Tasha? Tasha! Clear that communications board, Lieutenant."

"I'm trying, Sir."

"Sir," Feran relayed quickly. "Magnetic interference increasing, ionic distortions +10 magnitude."

"Sir, I've got something on a low frequency." Kenar swung around. "It's Kainan Arikara."

"Tasha! What's going on out there?" T'Shar demanded.

"My ship's being destroyed by an ion storm. What the hell do you think is going on, Captain?"

"We're not receiving any data."

"That's because I'm not sending any," Tasha declared. "The distortion's too great."

"Captain T'Shar."

She turned swiftly as Commander Feran looked up from his viewer.

"Storm has increased to +11 magnitude, Sir."

T'Shar glanced at the panels. "Get back in here, Kainan."

The communications were getting worse. The First Officer's voice filtered in through heavy static. "Captain, I've got an object on my sensors."

"We'll investigate from here. Return to the ship," T'Shar ordered.

"No, you won't be able to get close enough with the Kytaerin for correct readings," Tasha countered.

The Captain tensed. Damn her...

"Maret!" Tasha suddenly exclaimed. "It's the Enterprise!"

T'Shar started. "The Enterprise?!" she questioned, her eyes narrowing. "What's she doing in this sector?"

"...don't know. I'm going in for a closer look."

"No!" T'Shar ordered. "Lieutenant Commander Avirra, arm phasers. Kainan get back in here." She trusted the Vulcan now commanding the Enterprise even less than she'd trusted Kirk. For what he lacked in ruthlessness, he made up in cold-blooded logic that was usually twice as deadly.

"Communications deteriorating," Tasha responded again. "Will investigate the ship."

"Storm increased to +12 magnitude," Feran reported.

"Sir, we have visual contact."

"Put it on the screen, Olir."

T'Shar swivelled in the command chair. "Lieutenant, get me the Zyldshen."

"I'm sorry, Captain, the channel is blocked."

T'Shar turned back to the viewscreen. "Communications deteriorating like hell," she muttered. The Enterprise loomed on the screen, dwarfing Tasha's small scoutship racing toward it. "Damn her! She'll have her way if it kills her," T'Shar thought, studying the screen intently. Suddenly, the Enterprise winked from sight, taking the Zyldshen with it.

"Commander?!"

"Unknown, Sir. They're both gone. I have a fix on their last known position," Feran answered, then added: "Storm has decreased to +4. Tolerable level, Sir."

The Captain drummed her fingers on the command console. "Keep scanning the area," she ordered. So, the Empire was back to playing follow the leader: a subtle shadow game to test out another remodified cloaking device perhaps, or did their new Captain have his own motives concerning this coincidental rendezvous? After a moments thought, she continued aloud. "Lieutenant, send a sub-light message to Fleet Command: attention Admiral Kailen Nosharra. Inform him of our present status and the developments of the past few minutes. Include automatic log tapes of the incident."

"Sub-light?" Kenar questioned, shocked. "But it'll take weeks to get there, Sir. Don't you mean...?"

"Sub-light," the Captain said evenly. "I meant sub-light, Lieutenant. Proceed as ordered."

Maret glanced sideways over at Feran, who was looking at her. Their eyes met for a brief instant before he smiled wryly in understanding and went back to work. No, she wasn't going to deal with the Admiral until it was more convenient.

Kirk resettled himself in his command chair uneasily.

"Storm increased to magnitude +12, force variance to force 3," Spock pronounced.

"Maintain position. All sensors on full power," the Captain said evenly, almost as if it were a thought out loud. He leaned forward and studied the viewscreen, gentle hazel eyes toying with the stars that had dared to challenge him. Osrai was gone, lost, and so was his cargo.

Space had taken that from Kirk, and now it dared to challenge his ship. Fool child that toyed with dynamite. The bridge was swarming with activity, but the Captain sat in solitude in the midst of it. He shifted impatiently. He had only just sat down, but sitting was not his way. He wanted to be up - to be moving. Kirk controlled his urge to resume pacing and stared fiercely at the raging tempest on the viewscreen. The Enterprise shuddered for an instant under the strain. The Captain also shuddered. They had gone through this together and together they'd tame the elements into submission.

As if in answer, the stars blurred and a large object appeared in the center of the screen. The image cleared for a moment, but disappeared just as quickly. It had been a Klingon battle cruiser. Kirk tensed.

"Storm decreased to +4, tolerable."

"Spock, sensor readings on that ship?"

Spock turned and viewed him quizzically. "Ship, Captain?"

"Yes, the one that was just on the viewscreen."

Spock shook his head. "Sensors record no man-made objects in the area."

Kirk nodded. "It was only there for a second, it could have been destroyed."

"No debris recording on the sensors, Captain."

McCoy smiled, resting his hand on the back of the command chair. "Maybe there's a ghost in the area, Jim."

Kirk glared at him icily.

"Captain."

"Mr. Chekov?"

"Sir, the ship appeared Klingoni in configuration. They could be using a cloaking device."

Kirk nodded. "Yes. The Defense team on Yellow Alert?"

"Yes, Sir." Chekov said, turning back to the equipment at his Security Station. After a moment, he turned back to Kirk. "Sir, the dynamic variance usually associated with the use of the cloaking device isn't there, as far as I can tell. Sensors still too distorted to be accurate."

Kirk's lips tightened into a fine line. New ship, new cloaking device, he mused. He glanced back as Ensign LeDuc strode onto the bridge.

After a moment's hesitation, the junior officer moved over to the defense and weapons station and Chekov, who stood up. The Ensign sat down uneasily, as if the chair was ill fitting and studied the elder man's face as he spoke.

Chekov's orders were brief and spoken softly. There was no need to impress the weight of his words upon the younger officer. The defense team was well trained, and even if you worked for the most likeable department head on the ship, you learned to detect the subtle changes that meant strict business.

"I don't want any heroes," Chekov concluded emphatically. "You detect one particle of space dust, one tenth of a decibel point in readings and you notify me immediately. Nothing is too unimportant to tell me about. I'll be touring the defense stations and then I'll be in the Security Lab. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir," LeDuc replied sincerely.

Chekov nodded, but whispered as he turned. "Better safe than sorry, hmm?"

A smile swept over the younger man's face. "Yes, Sir. Those old Russian proverbs have a lot going for them."

Kirk bit back a smile, but his eyes had a gleam of mischief in them when they met Chekov' s. "Can you tell me anything more about the ship?"

"Yes, Sir," Chekov replied, daring playfully not to acknowledge that Kirk had overheard the younger man's tease. "It was built in Terran space dock 74-B, commissioned by Starfleet on Stardate 2224.6, Serial number: NCC 1701. Approximate overall length 288.646 meters, width 127.102 meters, beam 72.6 meters. Gross dead weight metric tonnage: 190,000. Approximately 35 years estimated endurance at light year velocity. Maximum safe cruising speed Warp Factor 8. Currently under command of Captain James T. Kirk. Anything else, Sir?"

Kirk remained motionless, his face frozen as he heard McCoy deteriorate into hearty laughter behind him.

"Bet he's been saving that one up for years," his soon-to-be ex-Chief Medical Officer snickered.

"Lieutenant," the Captain intoned evenly after a long moment. "Do you have any further information concerning the apparent Klingon Battle Cruiser that was 50 kilometers directly in front of us approximately 90 seconds ago?"

Chekov smiled easily. "Oh, that ship. No, Sir: not yet. We picked up a lot of distorted information. I'm going to the lab to try to sort some of it out."

"Good," Kirk said. "Let me know if you get anything."

Nodding, the Security Chief strode into the lift.

"Damage reports, Spock?" Kirk turned and addressed the non-emotional First Officer pointedly as unabated laughter continued to ripple through the bridge. Some things never change.

Scientists could say that space was a vacuum, void of sound, but anyone who had been in space for any amount of time knew that the eerie silence of its storms could be more deafening than any tornado. The ion storm had sunk backward to a small circle of space where it churned in contentment dying here, exploding into new activity there. It had been four hours since the incident and both ships rested on the rim of the small storm. On the bridges of their ships, Kirk and T'Shar sat staring at the viewscreen, wrapped in the cocoon of solitude command afforded while activity swarmed around them. They sat without thinking for a long while, just staring in appreciation for the deafening roar of the silent storm, the protective warmth of the ship, the lack of activity while all activity was directly related to them and for the very existence of the stars themselves.

After an eternal moment T'Shar sighed and shifted slightly, as though the movement would stir her thought processes. She wondered where Tasha was. It was a lazy, unconscious thought: half acknowledged and had no real meaning to it. The permanent, subtle mind link which the ritual of Kaishar established was still between them, so she knew the First Officer was alive, but beyond that, only the stars held the answers. Maret wasn't worried; it was useless to worry about Tasha. A spy is a spy is a spy. Whatever Tasha wrangled her way into she usually found pleasure in wrangling her way out of and worrying wasn't going to increase the spy's chances of success. Over the years she'd learned that Tasha Kainear had a way of taking care of herself.

Still, Maret wondered: she couldn't help it. It was possible that Tasha had been captured and, spurred on by that thought, the Captain considered turning to give Feran an order. She didn't, however, because she knew he'd have already carried it out. Anyone consulting the computer records would find no trace of Kainan Tasha Kainear Arikara. That day would come, T'Shar knew. The day when Tasha couldn't wrangle her way out and the Captain would be called upon to deny her closest friend.

She tried, as she had a hundred times over, to picture herself sitting there, staring openly into the person's face on the screen and calmly saying that she did not know, had never even heard of Tasha Kainear. There was no such person in the Fleet, no such person connected to the Federation.

No, she could not see herself doing it now. Not this time. Yet, Maret T'Shar knew she would, and could plainly picture herself doing it in the future. When the time came she perform the task unemotionally:deliver the speech flatly, coldly, without even a thought. It would simply be another activity of command that day. It would not be until much later that she would consider the consequences of betraying her First Officer and compatriot. Not until the last moments of waking would she wonder what type of execution it had been and what had been done with the remains of the body, if there were any. Her friend would sever the mind link before could was how a spy's job was expected to end. How it always ended finally. No matter how necessary it remained, being a spy was a thankless job. Success, and no one notices: failure and you disappear.

T'Shar shuddered angrily at herself.

Yes, Kasheera, yes! She would do it with calculating coldness. What was she?

A Kyelar: a Captain.

And what was a Captain - someone bound by duty to hand your best friend over willingly for execution? Yes, something answered from within her, at times it came with the job.

What was she becoming?

Her stomach wrenched as her mind turned back to a memory from the past: Captain James T, Kirk of the I.S.S. Enterprise. The hatred welled up, still so strong she could almost feel it as a tangible she turning into a Kirk? Was there really any difference in people or were they all the same miserable entities just playing useless charades with themselves?

Kirk finally shifted his gaze away from the screen, emerged from the silent cocoon of thought and let his mind probe the activities around him. A movement at the defense and weapons station caught his eye, and he shifted his eyes to watch, still absorbed in the isolation of his own thought.

The Chief of Security, approaching the station, waved the Ensign back into the chair he was just about to vacate. Chekov leaned over the younger officer's shoulder and deftly moved a control. The readout screen altered significantly, displaying a quarter-section grid. Trying to comprehend through his self-conscious nervousness, the Ensign frowned in energetic concentration as Chekov ran through a detailed explanation.

Kirk leaned back further in the command chair, his eyes fixed on Chekov's form. The image of the Security Chief wavered as the stance, the movements, the seriousness and even the facial expressions penetrated through Kirk. For a split second of blood-chilling realization, the image of Lieutenant James T. Kirk of the Farragut stood there. The image brought back memories of long forgotten conversations, friends, orders.

Straightening slightly, Kirk drew a long breath to settle his flaring defense mechanisms. Yes, he admitted with sudden, fierce clarity, Chekov was very much like himself. It was something the Captain had been admitting gradually over the years. Long ago, he had ignored and rationalized the similarities. The impetuousness and the naive, energetic determination of the young Ensign Chekov he had respected and admired from the beginning. In those days, however, Kirk had silently marveled at how much like Andrie Chekov his Chief Navigator was. It wasn't a conscious comparison, of course, Kirk did not give any credence to anyone's family background: but it was something he had noticed. Chekov had a lot of his father in him.

Now, Chekov's impetuous nature lay concealed beneath an aura of self-certainty and command. The Ensign that Kirk had coached and respected for his honesty and determination had refined, matured and perhaps mellowed-and yet, he hadn't really changed at all.

Only now did the realization surface that he'd been seeing himself all along: the same impetuous nature, the stubbornness, the mistakes, the trivial jokes, all replayed. Kirk sat watching himself in the past, and he almost laughed at himself. Now, he openly compared Chekov to himself and rarely noticed his father's qualities in him. It was the way society worked. The less others see you as walking in the shadow of another person, the more you actually do walk in the shadow of that person. The Lieutenant was the image of his father, yet it was rare that anyone noticed.

Kirk continued to watch Chekov, thinking about the light friendship that had grown between them. He liked to think it was because he had discovered Chekov's hidden secret, guarded so well Sulu was the only other person aboard who knew it, and he really didn't count because he was Chekov's closest friend. But that wasn't the reason of course: it was because Kirk had subconsciously seen himself in Chekov.

Suddenly, Kirk smiled slightly and turned back toward the screen. Yes, they were alike. He'd seen the potential ability in the Ensign and saw it even more so now. Chekov, like Kirk, was going to make a great Captain and somehow Kirk realized he wouldn't be surprised if Chekov would be considered the best in the Fleet. Well, almost the best. Yes, Chekov would make a great Captain like Kirk.

Kirk did a sudden, quick double take and stared at Chekov. A 'great' Captain? What was a great Captain? What made people single himself, James Kirk, above the rest? He continued to stare at Chekov, now, remembering the Ensign that had been, knowing suddenly haw much change had taken place and how much more would occur before Chekov reached the position Kirk held now.

Was it worth it? Kirk demanded of himself. Is it worth it?

He swung his hazel eyes back to the screen and shifted his position. What had happened to the Klingon ship? he wondered in sudden anger. What was it out there that he didn't know about?