Family

by Westel

The Enterprise captain and crew, responding to a Priority One call, find more than they had bargained for on the ancient mining planet.

1. Chapter 1

The Journey

Westel

"James Tiberius Kirk, son of one George Samuel Kirk, deceased, captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise, Starfleet, United Federation of Planets. Youngest man in the Fleet to be given command of a starship. Commendations... "

"Stop, computer."

"Waiting."

Achlar turned from the console and faced his superior, Baruk. "Did you hear enough, Mr. President, or shall I continue?"

Baruk leaned back in the luxurious upholstery of his chair, leaving his one-man chess game for the moment, and casually lit a Terran cigar before replying. The glare of cheap overhead lighting reflected off his balding head. "Cut the blarney about all his honors, Ach. I'll be wantin' to know about this heritage status, is all. Does he hold a status of legitimacy or not?"

Achlar instructed the computer. "Family delineation on Kirk, specifically marriage contract between said George Samuel and Kirk's mother, Winona. Also birthdates and decease dates on all family members."

"Working."

"Print it out, computer."

"Acknowledged."

Achlar handed the printout to Baruk and appeared to busy himself at his desk, all the while watching the president for a reaction, quick in coming. Baruk smacked the flimsy with the back of his hand.

"Hah! Here it is, Ach! Priceless, priceless! This is how we get rid of that miserable life form once and for all! Would ye be knowin' how old Jimmy-boy is, Ach? Thirty-four. Do you know when his father died? Before he left home, Ach - while he was still home with his darlin' mother! He was the youngest son, and his brother, rest his soul, went on to his reward a year or so ago." Baruk leaned back in the chair, crossing his legs. He stroked his red-blond beard as a look of scorn distorted his features. "Poor fellow, he can't be knowin' that when he gets here he has no status, no property - hell, he doesn't even have a name! Bastard Jimmy-boy. Jimmy No-name. Truly marvelous." He laughed, without pity.

Achlar looked hungrily at Baruk. "You'll deal with him in the usual manner, Mr. President?"

"Oh, no, Achlar, Jim-boy is very special. I owe him, remember?"

Baruk stood and paced slowly about the garishly-lit room, pulling at his beard. When he spoke again, the witty Irish lilt had given way to heavy, cultured tones.

"When he swaggers in here we will greet him with a reception commensurate with his status as a—former—starship captain. We will not only disinherit him, but we'll send him somewhere,,,permanent."

Achlar laughed mirthlessly. "Yes, I get it, and what the dogs don't want the rats will finish off."

Baruk smirked at the old, sinister joke. "I admire your sense of humor, Ach. Do have a cigar. Oh! And send the priority signal, too, there's a good lad. Since my resources have advised me she's in the vicinity, the Enterprise will bring us our passenger in short order."

"Reception committee's all ready, Mr. President."

Light from the computer monitor screen and cigar fumes mingled to form an eerie green glow over Achlar's head as he activated the priority one emergency signal. Baruk moved his chess piece and swore lustily under his breath, reverting back to his own accent. "'Tis checkmate for you, Captain Nobody. The game is over and, um...you lose."

Six Weeks Later—

"Of all the Tom-fool things for a man to do - a starship captain to do!"

"Bones, I really don't need this today."

"Well, you're gonna get it. I don't know why you go and do things to yourself like this when you've got enough on your plate as it is."

"I didn't go and do anything! Damn it, McCoy, you act like I sprained my wrist on purpose, for good... Ow!"

Spock stood next to the Chief Medical Officer, observing his ministrations to Kirk's wrist. "Is he severely damaged, Doctor?" he intoned.

"No, Mr. Spock," interjected Kirk, truly irritated by now. "It's just a sprain. Nothing to worry about."

"It is not a sprain; it's a break, and I'll thank you to keep your personal - and inaccurate - opinions to yourself, Sir." McCoy glanced up from his examination and nodded good-humoredly at the Vulcan. "He'll be fine, Spock. A little too rambunctious in the gym, eh?"

"Correct." Spock affirmed.

Kirk grunted, grimacing at McCoy's touch. "Now who's expressing a personal opinion? Bones, I fell. Everyone falls sometimes. I took a bad step, that's all."

McCoy once again sought confirmation from the science officer; it was given.

"Okay, Jim," he soothed. "Just rattling your cage a little. Delivering diplomats is no fun, is it?"

"It is not," Kirk replied, tightly.

McCoy shook his head again, stifling a smile. If there was anything the captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise hated, it was shuttling diplomats here and there for the Federation. The only thing Kirk hated more was acting the diplomat himself. The icing on this particular cake was that there had been three diplomats, each with his, her, or it's particular needs (and demands), each from a different planet (and nowhere near each other), and all on their way to a conference of some kind which, in McCoy's humble opinion, was simply an excuse to eat very expensive food among very boring people. Kirk had somehow managed to keep their passengers fairly quiescent until their delivery a day ago, but the time spent mollifying grown children had taken its toll. No wonder Jim had gotten hurt; distraction does that to a fellow. He didn't envy Kirk one bit.

"Look on the bright side, Jim," he offered, speaking above the hiss of the hypo to Kirk's wrist.

"There's a bright side?" Kirk flinched a little at the touch of the cold hypo against his skin, then relaxed as the analgesic took effect.

"Sure!" The CMO clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder and leaned closer to whisper, "At least you didn't have to go to the conference itself!" McCoy bounced on his toes, winking at Spock, whose response was a lifted eyebrow and folded arms.

"Captain, if you no longer require my services here, I shall return to the bridge."

"By all means, Mr. Spock. I'll join you shortly..." McCoy opened his mouth and raised a finger, and Kirk added, "...after I get my lecture from the good doctor." The doctor cut the reply off in mid-syllable.

"I'll only keep him a few minutes, Spock."

McCoy was true to his word, as Kirk was soon fixed up with an osteo-regenerative hypo and a supportive wrist bandage.

"There, now, behave yourself and it'll be off in a week. Now, if you don't mind, I've got better things to do. I'm certifying you fit for duty - light duty."

Kirk smiled at his recalcitrant friend and slid off the biobed, stopping at the comm station to answer a call from the bridge.

"Kirk here."

"Captain," spoke Uhura, "we are receiving a Priority One distress call from the planet Echthra, in this quadrant. The message is recorded and repeating itself every 60 seconds."

Kirk muttered an expletive under his breath and glanced at McCoy, who shrugged.

"Since when have you ever listened to me?"

Kirk scowled at the physician and hit the intercom switch. "On my way, Lieutenant. Red alert."

The klaxons and red lights followed on the heels of the captain as he strode out of sickbay. McCoy watched the doors close behind him and began to pick up items from the table. Nope - he didn't envy his captain one bit.

Two solar cycles earlier:

Teah crept to the window and peered cautiously through the curtains, an instinct already warning her to stay hidden. They were at it again. She could hear the low, ominous tones of her sire as he threatened her mother, a dialogue she had heard so many times before. This time, however, something was different.

The predictable end of these confrontations was a beating, usually. Yells and curses. Such outbursts of violence - though frequent - always ended after a time, resolved at least temporarily. But this time, Teah felt the undercurrent of something far more ominous. She let herself in the front door, moving quietly through the dwelling. A guttural laugh drew her into the next room. Teah's mother was against the wall, K'tal's hand around her throat, her feet barely touching the floor. Salah saw her daughter and pleaded with K'tal to stop, not wanting her child to witness this. K'tal turned his gaze on Teah, a feral grin spreading over his dusky features. He turned back to Salah and slowly raised her from the floor, his grip tightening on her throat. Salah began to gasp and struggle horribly, her lovely features contorting in agony. Desperately Teah flung herself at K'tal, clawing at his face, trying with all her strength to break the deadly stranglehold. With his free arm he flung her away, slamming her hard against the wall. Stunned, she slid down to sit dazedly on the floor, and watched helplessly as her sire, mate of her mother, pulled out a disrupter and aimed it at Salah's chest.

Teah's screams mingled with the screech of the disrupter before she blacked out.

A Priority One signal always meant trouble - big trouble. Though necessary, Kirk disliked the restrictions he was forced to observe due to the nature of the emergency call. Only the threat of planetary disaster or invasion of UFP territory by hostile forces qualified for the Priority One. For the Enterprise it meant mandatory communications silence; their only recourse was to follow the signal and come into the unknown situation at full alert. Mandatory or not, Kirk didn't like the handicaps.

The Priority One could be misused, too, though penalties for such misuse were high. Take the last time they had answered such a call: there had been no disaster at all, though circumstances later proved that it was a good thing they had responded. The space station loaded with quadrotritecale and a petty

official loaded with pomp gave Kirk a brass-cymbal headache that day. As the tale played out, the presence of the Enterprise crew (not to mention a few hairy creatures of questionable reputation) ultimately unearthed a Klingon undercover agent and averted the delivery of a poisoned grain shipment. But a Priority One call, for whatever reason, placed the starship answering that call at high risk.

Kirk paced the bridge, watching his crew efficiently handle their respective duties and subconsciously listening to the engines, or rather feeling the faint vibration which spoke of the tremendous power hurtling them through space at warp eight. He found himself willing the great engines to push harder, to carry them to their destination faster, to get this interminable waiting over with. Dealing with a situation, any situation, was far easier to handle than the waiting itself. He glanced toward the science station. At least Spock had something to do as he scanned for anything which might give them a clue to the reason for the Priority One. The first officer sensed he was being watched and looked up, raising both eyebrows in silent inquiry.

"Mr. Spock, have you found anything that could give us an idea of what we're getting into?"

"Negative, Captain. I pick up no physical disturbances of any kind in this quadrant. There is no evidence to indicate a natural disaster has occurred, either on the planet or in the immediate solar system." Spock bent to read as more information came up on his screen. "Echthra is a mining planet, on the extremes of Federation jurisdiction. There is little official contact between them and Federation officials... no previous history of problems."

Kirk leaned back against the rail below the science officer, drumming his fingers absently as he chewed on Spock's information. No natural calamity. That left a few million unanswered questions - was there a disease ravaging the populace below them, or some other type of devastation? Invasion was still certainly an option, though every reading indicated there was none. It wasn't likely that the Romulans or Klingons would go to the trouble to invade the place. Echthra was barely class M, rocky - totally unable to support agriculture according to an earlier report Spock had provided, and the materials mined were common and easy to acquire in Romulan and Klingon territories.

"Coming into range of Echthra, Captain," said Chekov.

"Put it on screen, Navigator."

"Aye, Sir."

The small, grey planet hovered insignificantly ahead of them. According to Spock's preliminary report, there was little information about the place other than it had been originally unpopulated until corundum was discovered there.

Terra's supply of raw alumina had been depleted over two centuries ago, and as the mineral was vital for synthesization of transparent aluminum, planets abundant in supply of it were immediately colonized. The Romulans and Klingons had plenty of their own supply planets for the stuff, but currently their civilizations weren't trading with the Federation. A planet such as Echthra, though officially under the auspices of the Federation, usually conducted its own affairs with nominal interference from the UFP, the 'government' made up of a hodge-podge of people from many backgrounds, some of them rather unsavory. Still, if the mineral was delivered as promised, paperwork properly prepared in triplicate, and Federation dues paid more or less on time, an unorthodox governing body rarely presented a problem.

As Sulu maneuvered the Enterprise into a cautious orbit, Spock scanned for spacecraft which may be hovering in the vicinity.

"Uhura, do you have a fix on that signal yet?" The lieutenant, who had been monitoring the same recorded message for hours and experiencing difficulty nailing down the source of the signal due to the mineralized planet below, suddenly straightened as a new message came through her console. The message was difficult to hear, the signal breaking up. As she adjusted her reception, her lovely eyes suddenly widened and she yelped in pain, jerking the offending receiver from her ear. The immediate silence on the bridge surrounded her in a cloud of dismay.

"Uhura?" The captain waited, unruffled.

"Captain, this is crazy!" Anger began to replace her embarrassment. "The Priority One signal has stopped, and now there's a strange..." She started to say music, but the sounds coming from her console barely merited that definition. She shook her head and raised her hands for lack of words.

"I'd better hear it for myself. Put it on audio, Uhura."

Kirk immediately regretted that last order as the bridge was pierced by wild, ear-splitting electronic wails, punctuated by primitive drum beats and wordless, human screaming. The captain made a slicing motion with his hand and the sounds were cut off.

"Any idea what that was, Spock?"

"Obviously a type of entertainment derived from musical notes, Captain."

"You're saying that was music?"

"After a fashion, although poorly produced."

Jim couldn't fathom any amount of production making an improvement on what he had just heard. He stood up and paced around the bridge, noting Uhura's panel indicators going off the scale with the muted sounds coming from that planet.

Time to examine the options again.

Scanners showed no space vessels, no ion trails in the vicinity. They were alone in orbit. A Priority One call, followed by that ear-blasting cacophony, was more than odd - it was crazy.

Kirk continued his walk around to Spock's station. "Spock, scan the planet. See if you can pick up anything which might indicate madness or panic down there - any pooling of crowds, such as in a riot or large gathering - any signs of full-scale fighting, bodies, anything."

"Already in progress, Captain." Spock turned back to his computer.

Kirk sat in his chair, chewing a thumbnail, slowly becoming conscious of a dull throbbing at the back of his head which matched the pulsing red lights of the silent red alert.

"Captain, indicators show that all is running within the parameters one would expect of a mining colony of this type and size. Judging by my readings, it is the end of a routine workday. People are traveling by land-car to their homes or elsewhere, mining operations are shutting down. I can see no reason whatever for a Priority One."

So here I am again, Jim thought, reeled in like a dead fish. He leaned forward in his chair, his fury at being at the beck and call of some idiot for the second time in his career turning into cold, hard resolution that this time he would personally throw the perpetrator in the brig and fuse the locking mechanism.

The crew on the bridge watched the metamorphosis from disbelief to anger, from anger to resolve.

"Mr. Sulu, maintain a holding pattern, but be ready to break orbit at my order. Mr. Spock, continue to scan for anything unusual on the planet or off, and augment Uhura's search for the location of the signal." Kirk stood squarely in the middle of the bridge, fists on hips, and blew out a breath. The flashing alert lights were reflected in his eyes. "And cancel red alert!"

Bridge crew jumped to follow orders, glad that the waiting was over at last.

Baruk was entertaining an exquisitely prepared dinner and an equally exquisite dinner partner when Achlar stuck his head in the room.

"Ach, not now! Run along before I get upset and ruin me darlin's dinner mood."

Achlar swallowed and shrank back some, his face peering beyond the edge of the door. "I'm sorry, Mr. President, but the Enterprise is in orbit and they are demanding to speak to the person in charge. They're pretty steamed, Sir!"

"Are they, now? Well, they haven't even begun to heat up." Baruk bent over the hand of his voluptuous dinner guest. "Duty calls, my dear," he crooned in Arthurian tones, "Pray continue your meal. I won't be too long."

She manufactured a toothy smile and had returned to her dinner before the President quit the room.

"I am deeply sorry, Captain Kirk. This is most unfortunate. It seems a few miners who had worked at one of our further exploration outposts became somewhat rowdy on their yearly R&R. They were a bit inebriated and took over our communications center. One of them inadvertently activated the Priority One signal and there was no way to countermand it, since they had locked themselves in. I suppose one of them finally turned it off, but then he fancied himself a broadcaster or similar nonsense and began playing some nauseating material. We were finally able to break in, Captain, and the miscreants are detained. I sincerely regret that you and your ship were brought here on such false pretenses. I do hope you will let us make it up to you. Echthra is not a fancy place, but we are hospitable. Please allow us to show you the comforts of home for a day or two."

The President's elegant, diplomatic words didn't sit right with Kirk. He sounded false - no, that wasn't it - he felt fake. It was a gut reaction, but Kirk trusted his instincts. "Thank you, Mr. President. I'll take your invitation under consideration and contact you again shortly. Kirk out."

As Uhura closed the communication, Kirk sat in the command chair, absently playing with the bandage on his wrist. McCoy, who had been present during the captain's dialogue with Baruk, knew something was eating at Jim. He looked over to the science station and saw that same concern reflected in the Vulcan's eyes.

"Spock, you and McCoy come with me. Uhura, please call Mr. Scott to the bridge. He's to notify me of any change in the status of that colony, no matter how insignificant. I'll be in my quarters."

The lift doors closed before the communications officer could reply.

Science and medical officers rode with their silent captain to Deck Five and walked to his cabin under a spell of anticipation. They sat at the table, watching Jim pace the small area before them and exchanging a silent glance or two of their own. A brief empathic communication was made between them and Spock conceded it was time to draw their commanding officer out of his reverie.

"Jim, how may Dr. McCoy and I be of assistance?"

Kirk paused in his pacing, turned and flopped down in a chair and opened his hands in perplexity. "Spock... Bones, this President Baruk - there' something...familiar about him. He's not what he seems." The CO put a hand to the back of his neck. "He's hiding something." The captain leaned his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. "And I want to know what it is." He stopped, watching his friends for their reaction. When none was forthcoming, he shrugged. Weird?"

"Jim, I'm not about to shrug off one of your hunches," said McCoy, crossing his arms.

Kirk looked at Spock.

"I am not sanguine about intuition, Captain, as you well know. However, like the good doctor, I believe yours bears close scrutiny. What is it in particular about this man that bothers you, Jim?"

Kirk ran his hand through his hair. "Well... I feel like I know him from somewhere, but changed. And that accent! It's a stage voice, Shakespearean. You know how I mean - sonorous, affected. It's as if he were disguising his real voice."

"That may be exactly what he is doing, Jim. According to ship's records, there may be many recalcitrants living in a mining colony such as this, its civilization affording them the anonymity and privacy they desire. Indeed, Earth history would indicate many such persons went on to lead productive, even exemplary lives in their new residence and identity."

"You're probably right, Spock. I do tend to fixate on things occasionally." Jim smiled briefly, straightening in his chair. "Well, gentlemen, we have been invited to Echthra. Diplomacy would dictate we honor their invitation and bolster colony/Federation relations. We should also find out if they have any medical needs, Bones. Spock, you'll check into their supply needs?"

McCoy grinned. "We could all use a little R&R about now! Right, Spock?"

Spock stared unblinkingly at the CMO for a few seconds, then turned to the captain. "I believe your invoking diplomatic concerns for our visit is quite logical, Jim."

"You would," muttered McCoy under his breath.

Kirk hit the intercom switch. "Uhura, contact President Baruk. Tell him a party of three will be beaming down shortly. Mr. Spock, Dr. McCoy and myself will be spending a few hours there. Also inquire about any supply and/or medical requirements; those can be relayed directly to McCoy and Spock. Oh, and inform Starfleet of our plans."

McCoy and Spock left together to complete various duties and delegate assignments to subordinates in preparation for beamdown. But Kirk sat at the table in his room, the nagging warning he felt intensifying, like his headache, with every beat of his heart.

The landing party transported safely and was greeted by a tall, somber man with broad shoulders and the familiar facial contours and coloring of a Klingon. Reflexively Kirk tensed, even when the Klingon spread his hands in the universal gesture of peace and welcomed them to Echthra in perfect Standard. Kirk bowed slightly and followed the welcomer out of the room, forcing his fists to uncurl. He knew that many outworlders colonized a planet such as this - neutral zones and treaties (or the lack of them) did not often extend to mining colonies. He knew this - but it did little to assuage tension in his body and the pain in his head.

McCoy tried to engage K'tal in conversation, but only managed to find out the Klingon's name. It seemed this swarthy giant was not disposed to reveal anything personal about himself. McCoy walked along silently, his face a deep brown study.

They walked through endless hallways constructed of a corrugated material, cheap and flimsy-looking, thrown together hastily. Another sign of mining life, McCoy noted: everything had that temporary look, as if the colonists expected to tear it all down one day and move on to another mine, another colony.

The corridor they were in emptied abruptly into a large hall, its gymnastic appearance heightened by glaring white light bulbs, unshaded. In the center of the hall was an elaborately carved dining table, obviously very old and valuable, set for several guests. Two people awaited them there, and rose as

they drew closer. The taller of the two, with thinning hair and a prolific beard, made his way toward the trio, his white teeth baring themselves in what Kirk supposed was a grin.

"Welcome, welcome, my dear guests from the illustrious Starfleet. This is indeed an honor!"

The man's handshake was firm and forthright as he clasped hands first with the captain and then with the doctor. He did not offer to take Spock's hand, perhaps because he knew it was not a Vulcan custom, or perhaps because the first officer had firmly placed both hands behind his back. He gestured grandly to his guests and they took their places at the brightly lit table.

It was an interesting meal. A few other minor government officials had made their appearance and were seated with the rest. Baruk dominated the conversation with stories of the colony, and while everyone listened politely to his tales of mining life, the captain was a captive audience. Kirk was still trying to figure

out where he had met Baruk before, because he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that he had met him. He hung on the president's every word, listening for any slip, any syllable or tone that would give him away. The insistent pounding in his skull was almost forgotten in his intense observation of their verbal host.

Spock was interested, aesthetically, in the sharp contrast of aged wine with plastic glasses, old and elegant furniture with new and cheap accessories. It seemed to him that there was a mixed message here, denoting a mind that flip-flopped in its rationale of what was in good taste and what was not. Such

bizarre contrasts weighed heavily on the Vulcan's mind as he ate his delicately prepared fruit dessert, made especially for him in deference to his distaste for heavy sweets and ethanol beverages. It was not unpleasant, but there was a peculiar spice garnish he did not recognize which stung his tongue slightly,

like ginger.

McCoy, relaxed and enjoying Baruk's amusing anecdotes, still could not help but notice Kirk's tension. Jim seemed oblivious to any of the other guests' contributions to the conversation, although there was little chance for the half dozen petty officials to get a word in. Baruk never seemed to draw breath, and Jim never took his eyes from his face. Despite the comforts of a delicious meal, good wine, and colorful stories, McCoy decided he'd better keep his wits about him - after all, Jim had been under a lot of stress the past couple of weeks and especially today, no thanks to that damn Priority One fiasco. He set down his wine glass, reluctantly. It was a good vintage and he would have been happy to sample more of the same. You owe me one, Jim. McCoy settled in his chair, nibbling at his dessert and pointedly ignoring his half-full wine glass. He couldn't help but feel a little sorry for himself, having to watch Kirk down three glasses of wine during the course of the meal. Jim had hardly touched his food. Jim, you're gonna have a hangover tomorrow, McCoy mused

Kirk fingered the stem of his plastic wine glass. He had stared at Baruk's face so long his vision blurred. Passing a hand over his eyes, he turned his attention from the president for the first time that night and glanced around the table. He knew he had been introduced to the junior officials as they had come in, but he could not recall any of their names. They were all nameless faces, faces with no names...

Why was it so hot suddenly? His head began to spin and there was a strange roaring in his ears. Dizzy, he put a hand to his forehead, shading his closed eyes.

Sensing his friend was experiencing difficulty, Spock set down his fork and looked at the captain. Jim?

Kirk raised his head to look at his science officer; the room spun for a moment, the roaring in his ears increasing. As Kirk looked on, Spock's head elongated grotesquely, pulsated, and turned inside out!

Kirk's sharp intake of breath halted Baruk's dialogue and all eyes were upon the commanding officer.

"Captain, is there anything the matter?"

"Jim, what is it?"

Kirk heard the voices - saw the faces that went with them - behind closed eyelids. Familiar faces; friends. Somehow he knew that if he opened his eyes, he would see something else.

"What seems to be the problem with your captain, boys? 'Tis a shame he can't handle his ethanol, now."

That voice! That voice!! - it's got to be...

Kirk jerked open his eyes, searching for that red-bearded face, those familiar eyes... As he found Baruk, the room undulating around him like a heavy sea, he was vaguely conscious of Spock hunched over in his chair, eyes closed, and of McCoy holding onto the table, looking white as death. A very distant part of him knew they were in trouble, but they were so far away, and there was something else he had to do...

Jim moved toward Baruk with what was left of his failing strength, stumbling along the edge of the table, knocking over wine decanters. Officials fled the table, upending their chairs in their hurry to get out of Kirk's way. Baruk stood easily at his chair, his smile broadening at every fumbling step of the starship captain. Kirk, finally reaching the president, tried to straighten up, to look Baruk in the eye, but the world had gone askew... he crouched, swaying, desperate to keep his balance. That face...

"You," he whispered, the pounding in his head and steady roaring in his ears obscuring the sound of his own voice. "I... I know you."

"Oh, 'tis true, Jimmy-boy, that you do. We've a bit of catchin' up to do, though, don't we now? But we'll have plenty of time for that, later. Ye won't be goin' anywhere for a long, long time."

Kirk's sight was failing. Standing was becoming more difficult; there was something wrong with his knees. Looking down, he saw that they were melting away like wax, running down into his boots, which were also beginning to melt. He looked back up at Baruk's chest, his neck... Where is his face? As he felt himself falling, Kirk grabbed the front of Baruk's suit with both hands and finally focused on the president's eyes. There it was: the old glint of mischief, now become malice. Kirk knew those eyes as well as he did his own, and realized the person he thought he'd never see again, the man who had once been his upper-classman, the man who had been a short-term shipmate and long-time tormenter, was smiling down at him once again.

"My God," Kirk gasped, as he slithered into an oily, churning unconsciousness, "F- Finnegan!"

"Uhura, try those old radio transmission frequencies. Perhaps we can get through that way."

"I've already tried that, Mr. Scott," said the lieutenant, as she initiated the attempt again. "But never say die... "

Mr. Scott sat on the edge of the captain's chair, stewing in his inability to contact the landing party. They were an hour overdue for check-in, and Uhura's attempts to contact the colony had been unsuccessful. Scotty began to wonder if the drunken malcontents had once again taken over the communications center, but his own good sense and a bit of Celtic pessimism told him there was something more than a closed channel involved here. The captain would have found a way to contact them, if it were only old-fashioned signal flares. Scotty sat back in the chair. That's it! No more waiting!

"Mr. Chekov, take the science station. Scan from the beamdown coordinates, fanning out in concentric circles until you locate a Vulcan - our Vulcan."

"Aye, Mr. Scott."

The navigator began his task, hoping there weren't any Romulans in the colony. It could be very embarrassing to mistakenly beam up a furious Rihannsu. He set the instruments with extreme precision, using the ship's medical computers to determine Spock's exact physiological makeup. As he methodically scanned, the tactical indicated he had moved past the metropolitan area of the city and was entering a more rundown region, criss-crossed with alleyways and decaying buildings. Occasionally he would get some mixed readings which seemed to indicate something other than humanoid, but they were so fragmented and the spectrum shifted so quickly he could not be sure of his information. Once, for a moment, he thought he read Vulcan/Klingon, or Romulan/Klingon, if that were possible, but he soon lost that, too. However, not long after, the indicators locked on to their specified target: half-human, half-Vulcan. The life form was weak, readings unsteady, and there was another life form with it; Chekov could get no details on it, however. It seemed to be human, but was partially obscured by the life-readings of the Vulcan/Terran. When Chekov looked up, triumph at his discovery and puzzlement at the mixed reading etched on his face, Scotty knew he had found Mr. Spock. If they could get Spock back, they were in a better position to find Kirk and McCoy.

"I have him, Mr. Scott, but his life-signs are thready. There's someone else with him."

"Transporter Room."

"Kyle, here."

"Ensign Kyle, Mr. Chekov is sending you some coordinates," Scott said, watching Chekov execute that directive. "Lock onto them and beam up anything alive down there. Have Security there before you transport, just in case. We don't need any surprises. I'll be down directly."

"Aye, Sir."

Scotty got out of his chair and caught the eye of the communications officer. He lowered his voice. "Lass, please ask Dr. M'Benga to meet me in the transporter room. We may need him."

Uhura's lips tightened. "Right away, Mr. Scott."

Scotty made it to the transporter room in record time, but the beamup was already completed. M'Benga, who had also just arrived, was bending over someone... no, there were two of them... lying on top of another on the transporter pad. Mr. Kyle was calling for more medical help. Scott dismissed the Security team and hurried over to see if he could offer assistance. M'Benga had moved the Vulcan off the still form of the Chief Medical Officer. Scott was horrified to see McCoy curled into a fetal position, his eyes wild and unfocused. Even more horrible was the sight of Mr. Spock, on his back, his eyes staring fixedly at the ceiling, and his lips pulled back in the parody of a grin.

McCoy was aware of bright lights around him, but they had more substance than the wavering, fiery flashes that had earlier pulsed through his head. There were voices, too, but they were quiet, distinct. Praise be! He could understand them! That one was Miss Chapel; that one M'Benga.

The fear and confusion he had been feeling for what seemed like an eternity began to fade as he basked in the comfort of the solid, familiar world he knew so well. Confidence returning, he raised an eyelid tentatively, squinting in the dim light. His half-view of sickbay, biobeds, equipment, all in their proper places, cemented his opinion that he was indeed back in the real world. Opening both eyes wide, he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Nurse Chapel, would you please... "

Light fell upon him in shards of broken ice, and cymbals crashed in his brain as the world tilted. Hands closed upon him - painful iron grips that crushed his bones and bruised his flesh. His heart pounded furiously as he struggled to free himself, every effort causing more pain, more fear. He heard the hiss of the hypo, felt his body slowly relax, and the room gradually righted itself. He became aware of the sounds of his own life readings emanating from the monitor as they dropped back into a more normal range.

M'Benga leaned over him. "Don't move, Leonard. You'll be all right, but you must give your body time to flush the drug from your system."

"Flashback?"

"Yes, Doctor. Apparently your abrupt movements brought it on. But then, anything can bring it on, until it is completely gone."

"But that could take months! Do you know what it is?"

"Not really. It is an hallucinogen, but its exact makeup is not yet determined. We know it has the ability to change itself once it enters the human bloodstream, and connects to certain brain cells, adapting to that particular host cell. It can then react immediately with audio-visual or neural functions of any kind, or remain dormant until triggered. It can also remain inert, never triggered at all. And each person is affected differently, which makes the symptoms difficult to predict."

McCoy sat up, slowly, with Christine's help, and looked around sickbay, noticing for the first time that he was the only patient. "Spock... Jim! They were drugged, too. It hit the captain first, then Spock; but when I tried to help, all hell broke loose in my head and... where are they?"

M'Benga and Christine exchanged glances, then the nurse broke the news as gently as she could that Spock was in isolation, in a catatonic state apparently brought on by mental trauma, and that Kirk was missing on the planet below.

Something of the look between his co-workers and Chapel's careful tone finally registered in his foggy brain. He began to put it all together. Obviously, he had been drugged, apparently by the few sips he had of the wine, and he had just as obviously been found and transported to the Enterprise, lucky enough to be cared for by a trained medical staff. Even so, he knew instinctively that it would be some time before he could be sure he was free of the drug. The memory of what had just happened only minutes ago was a cold reminder in the pit of his stomach. Thank goodness he had drunk only a little of the wine...

Suddenly the full implication of what Christine had told him about his missing captain hit him. In his mind he saw clearly the ornate dining table, individual decanters of wine at each place setting, the captain's empty glass...

"Oh no! Oh God - NO!" He flung himself off the bed, the sudden movement throwing him into a writhing, black sea. "We have to find him! Jim needs our help... " He felt the hands grab him again as his mind filled with the image of the drained glass in Jim's hand, and the knowledge that his friend had consumed three glasses of a chemical hell.

Pain and crushing fatigue overwhelmed the grieving physician, and he was lost in merciful unconsciousness.

Screams.

Harsh... hoarse. Drawn out as if every one of them would be the last. Detached, he heard himself screaming, saw himself writhing in anguish. He was captive in a living nightmare, a helpless victim of its attack. Light was a continuous stab of pain. Whether his eyes were open or shut made no difference - the light found its way in, bursting upon the retina and wrapping itself around the optic nerve with flaming intensity. When he turned his head to avoid it the rough walls became a thousand claws in his scalp; they ripped into his skull, exposing his brain. He reached up to try to hold back the grey mass which dripped down his face, and groaned aloud as the manacles wrenched his wrists, raw and bleeding from his tormenting ordeal.

Time flowed in and out, like tides and eddies. Kirk knew he was a prisoner, but was it dream or reality? The Enemy was there, surely. That was real, wasn't it? He had seen Finnegan on the playground planet, too. He had thought him real, at first, but that was a generated illusion, a fantasy. Here he seemed real, hatefully, abysmally real. Here, Kirk would rather he had been the illusion. But real or not, Finnegan was still the Enemy.

Kirk's body drooped against the wall, desperate for rest that did not come, parched for lack of water, often left alone, awakening in terror when company did finally come. His days and nights ran together like the water he was denied. When visitors came, they were Klingons with Irish voices who slammed disrupters against his chest to stun him again and again, until his heart flew from his body and lay beating wildly on the floor, where the Enemy stomped it into a hundred visceral pieces as Kirk looked on.

There were times when he knew nothing, sleep or unconsciousness taking him, but they were short-lived. He awoke to water thrown in his face or a fist in his ribs, each physical torment carrying with it a cacophony of unrelated, bizarre entities. He preferred the dark - at least the nightmares he experienced there were his own.

Once he woke up alone. He knew he was awake because it was pitch black and totally silent, but he was aware of his own breathing and the sound of blood coursing through the vein in his neck. He was sitting on a rough stone bench, his back against the cold wall, both arms shackled and hung above his head. Gently, he tested the left one - it was secure. As he tried the right, the shooting pains eloquently announced the newly broken bones in his hand and wrist. McCoy will be furious - I've undone all his handiwork. He smiled wryly to himself. The situation was bad, but he was feeling better, wasn't he? He was thinking straight, wasn't he?

God, I'm so tired.

Maybe the drug was wearing off a little. It had to be, or he wouldn't be sitting here in his right mind. His people on the Enterprise would find him, sooner or later. If he could just wait it out a little longer. If only no one would come and bother him for awhile, just leave him alone...

His people - they would come for him. He knew they would. Spock wouldn't stop until he had found him...

Spock.

Jim reached out in his mind for that simple, solid presence which was always there - a comforting knowledge of the essence of the Vulcan which was only a thought away. But now there was a vast emptiness, a hard, cold shell of sorrow and forgetfulness. Kirk reached out with his hands in the blackness, the shackles arresting the movement sharply.

Spock! Spock, where are you?

There was no answer in the dark which surrounded him.

Fear rose up like bile in his throat as he recalled the scene of the Vulcan slumped at the table, staring blankly, his hands twitching. The vision receded, his friend drawing further away as Kirk called after him again and again, panic in his voice.

"Your Vulcan friend is not coming for you, Jim. He's dead, and your doctor friend is dead, and the Enterprise left orbit two days ago."

"Or..." Kirk swallowed hard and tried again. "Orbit?"

"Mm, yes," came the disembodied voice. Kirk strained to make out something, anything in the dark, his breathing labored. "They believe you to be dead, you see, eaten by vermin after losing yourself in the Wilderness."

Gone. They're gone.

No one was coming to help him, to get him out of here. He was alone.

Alone.

And he would die here.

Suddenly the lights came on, stabbing at his mind, distorting his world again. There was the Enemy, and there, beside him, was the Klingon with the disruptor in his hand. There before his eyes was the source of all his pain and desire, his ecstasy and terror. Kirk laughed like a madman as the two figures walked toward him. His head arched back against the wall when the first stun blast hit him, and all sensation fused into a red haze of consuming flame.

"What's that you're sayin', Doctor? Mr. Spock needs me?" The chief engineer's voice was incredulous. "Beggin' your pardon, but I've no knowledge of Vulcan healin' techniques. I thought you were the expert in those matters!"

"I know enough, Mr. Scott, but I've never had to deal with hallucinogens and their effect on Vulcan physiology before. Mr. Spock has been comatose for three days now, and he is now calling your and Dr. McCoy's names. It's the first sign of any change. We must do as he asks - it may be his only hope."

Scotty was torn. He had been on the bridge most of the last three days, in temporary command, and taking the full burden of that responsibility upon himself. It was a heavy one, and he found more reason to be thankful he was an engineer and not the captain. During those three days he had sent down twice as many search teams. The third had located a petty official named Achlar who claimed to know nothing, though Mr. Scott doubted that. Baruk and Kirk had disappeared along with Baruk's bodyguard, K'tal. When they scanned the planet, however, no trace of them could be found. Scanning for humans on a predominantly humanoid planet was an exercise in futility, and certain minerals acted as a natural shield, so scanning for Klingon was equally useless if that Klingon chose to stay hidden.

The fourth and sixth teams searched the same area Chekov had scanned originally, where Spock had been located lying on top of McCoy in a refuse heap. They reported nothing except a maze of caverns, all buried under older colonist buildings now falling into decay, providing endless opportunities for concealment.

A message had been dispatched to Starfleet, but they could not expect an answer for another four days. Mr. Scott was on his own. Until help came, they could do no more than they were doing at present: scan, search, and inquire. Maybe I ought to do a little threatenin', too, he thought sourly. But first things first.

"Mr. Scott?" came M'Benga's disembodied voice.

"All right, Doctor. I'm on my way," Scott replied, and keyed off the comm. Sighing heavily, he turned command over to Mr. Sulu and left to join M'Benga in sickbay.