Chapter 1

The market place was shoulder-to-shoulder crowded. Since the invasion four days ago, ever more residents came out to congregate here, in this spacious, sun-kissed central square of their small city. Kirk had observed their growing numbers, every evening, from the little balcony of the Inn. They also arrived earlier and left later, or almost not at all, since the warm weather allowed the hubbub to continue deep into the mornings.

He had an idea about why that was: their century-old routines were shaken, they were shaken, and they looked for familiarity in companionship.

But how strangely these people did that!

The away team had arrived three days before the invasion, but that had been plenty of time for them to sample some of the ways of the Juras. They were an impassive people. Every transaction, from accepting payment to a hand in wedding (they had attended one) was done in an entirely dispassionate way. The Juras lived their lives much like humans – from whom they were superficially indistinguishable - but it was like no one was particularly interested. This temperament slowed everything down. Life here was a saunter. Even the way the Juras moved was slow, unhurried.

Off-worlders, who had been visiting for over a century, had introduced the knowledge of other races, space travel and advanced technologies, yet the Juras hadn't adopted any of these. Not out of some vehement Luddism, because there were some modern elements, like gas lighting, and he'd glimpsed a radio, but simply because they couldn't be bothered. As a result, culturally and technologically, this was predominantly fourteenth century Earth, but without the wars over land and religion. The small, nearly stagnant population was distributed in peaceful rural fiefdoms around walled cities. This small capitol was a large as cities got on Jura.

The planet was devoid of minerals but somewhat prosperous, in that there was no poverty and was beautiful and blessed with a perfect climate, good soils and a wholesome air. Still there was only a limited mix of visitors from other planets and races, doing small trade or stopping over. None of them were particularly glad to be here and left as soon as they could. Kirk's host, the human inn-keeper Lamok, boasted that he had been here longer than any off-worlder, ever, in the history of Jura. Yet this boast was immediately followed by the vow that he would leave his solid business before he totally lost his mind to boredom.

"It's not like Vulcans, James," the colorful Lamok had complained. "It's not that they're formal or even emotionless. There is emotion, but it's lukewarm, neither here nor there! They're so dull. Even if you shake 'em by the shoulders – and believe, I've done so often! - they do not react. What's the point, James? What's the point!"

"James" had taken an instead dislike to this man. As those first days on Jura wore on, he became more and more sensitive to criticism of these people. He didn't know why. He chafed silently when Lamok or other off-worlders mocked the Juras. His own team was warned not to indulge in any derision. Even the Doctor knew he was playing with fire if he tried.

McCoy assured him these people were not drugged and were perfectly healthy.

"Healthier than many a race, since there are no vices, Jim," and then, under his breath, "and no virtues either."

Kirk bit his tongue. Perhaps it was his certain knowledge that these people were about to be brutally raided, and that he would do nothing about it. Star Fleet had sent them to Jura to observe this invasion, to observe the invaders.

Not to stop them.

Not to interfere.

Not to observe the Juras either.

"What is the perfect lab rat?" Kirk asked on their second night, sitting with Spock and McCoy on the balcony. The air was fragrant with the climbing roses. The square beneath them was still deserted at that point.

"I don't know, Jim. One that behaves?" McCoy said.

"One that no one cares much about," Kirk said morosely.

"Captain," Spock said, "the Klingons care."

"They just care about redrawing the lines between them and us. Jura just happens to be behind the new line."

"You really like these people, Jim?" McCoy asked.

Kirk thought for a second or two, gazing out over the square, the pools of flickering gas light on the cobblestones.

"I see paradise, Bones. And I see a whole lot of off-worlders complaining about the snake being missing. Well, they'll have their snake soon, and all this will be destroyed for a mere line in the sand."

"I'll tell you what I see," said McCoy with concern in his voice. "I see a Captain who's been pushed around too much the last couple of months and is suffering from the paradise syndrome. Listen, Jim, the Juras are better equipped to deal with marauding Klingons than any other people in the universe. They'll deal with them the same way they deal with everything else. They won't care."

Jim Kirk had said nothing.

Five days later, sitting on the same balcony, he saw something quite different. He saw these usually private people thronging the square.

Yes, they were passive.

Yes, they moved like automatons on run-down batteries.

Yes, they seemed not to care.

But they had to care because he cared. Because Spock and McCoy had had to hold him back when the Klingon Governor decapitated the Mayor in the middle of that sun-kissed square.

The Mayor had cared. Kirk had seen that in his dreamy eyes just before the ax came down.