So this fic has taken a bit longer than I thought. It's a bit difficult to split off into three different points of view, but I plan on making them run back into each other in the next chapter. The factory scene was the most difficult to write. Also, I apologize if I use similar recreational settings. And yes, the Norsicans are not meant to be very likable.

McCoy led Phan out into the hallway where other Norsicans were passing through, loaded down with paperwork. A few of them side-eyed the two humans without a word.

Phan glanced about warily. "I hope you don't consider me a burden."

McCoy waved the notion away. "It's my job. I assume the peasants won't be eating with the queens?"

That earned him a snort from Phan. "No, certainly not. We'll just make do with what we have."

They entered through a wide arch and found themselves in a hall filled with tables. Sitting at them were bureaucrats, who didn't bother to look up at the sight of them, engrossed as they were in their day-to-day activities.

"Diplomat Phan?"

They turned to see a Norsican, his forehead lined with age, and clad in a tailed suit walking over to them. He bowed to them, and Phan inquired, "Yes?"

He gestured to a smaller circular arch off to the side. "In here, please."

The background chatter died down as they followed him into the room. The area was much smaller, and it housed a more diverse crowd of off-world sentients. A couple of the stronger-built Norsicans sat far off to the side, their diving helmets removed. Their guide brought them to a table set near the window facing the building's garden, with rain pounding on it. Low-to-the-ground plants waved in the background from the barrage. Ivy climbed the perimeter wall. "You may order anything you like. It's on the house."

"Do you prefer anything?" McCoy asked.

"Personally, I'm more hungry than thirsty. Something sweet, with ginger," she commented as they sat down. Her eyes narrowing, she muttered, "Never mind, they wouldn't have that plant here in a large quantity, and I desire no special treatment. I will have Kasva sweetbread," she decided, referring to a dish from the prominent mountain range in Yi's domain.

"The equivalent you have to Terran coffee, please," McCoy said to the guide, who nodded his head, and relayed the order to a passing waitress.

"My readings?" Phan inquired, gesturing at his tricorder.

"They're displaying the basic traits of stress in a human being, no more and no less. Physically, you're fine."

Phan smiled. "Well, I suppose that's something to feel grateful for."

A waitress bearing a tray over her head set it down before them. A cup of an orange liquid was steaming, with a carafe beside it. On the other side of the tray sat flat pieces of pone, with a white, sweet-smelling substance packed onto them. Bowing to them, she quietly moved away. McCoy sniffed once at the liquid, and his eyes widened at the sharp smell that reminded him vaguely of cinnamon. "Well, that'll wake someone up," he commented.

Phan's smile widened, only to slowly vanish. Raising one of the pieces of flatbread, she paused, and inquired, "How do I look out there, doctor?"

"You were starting to get annoyed, I could see that on your face," he commented, "To be fair, with the gesturing and constant cut-offs, I would be, too."

Phan frowned. "I was hoping I wouldn't come off as so obvious. I must work on that." She took a hard bite of it, sending crumbs falling onto her plate.

McCoy sipped from his cup, his eyes not leaving hers. Lowering it, he asked, "What's wrong? This isn't your first diplomatic mission."

"This is, however, the first where I'm filling the position of the deceased," she answered firmly, "Would it be the same to you, doctor, if you filled the position of a deceased surgeon in the middle of an operation?"

"I've done that," he replied simply, "It's not easy, but what remains important each time is the patient's life, above all else."

After taking another bite, she placed the sweet bread back down. "I feel as if I'm standing in someone else's shoes. Nancy Hedford and I didn't work close together, but I admired her strength. She was more forceful in her opinions, and that allowed her to stand against others. I have my own strength, but it is different. The queens must readjust to it." McCoy raised his eyebrow. "However," Phan added, "They will have to do so, if they wish to prevent a war. The queens aren't stupid. I just grow tired of the saber rattling."

"it doesn't sound so far removed from Earth politics," McCoy commented, placing his fingers to the side of his head in annoyance, "The politicians don't care as much when it isn't them who are personally involved in the fighting."

"That is your issue," Phan pointed out, catching him off-guard. "Remember, the queens here have given birth to multiple clutches. Their children, and their descendants, have formed most of their population."

McCoy went sideways on the subject. "They view their children differently from how humans do."

Phan nodded her head. "May I ask you a few questions, doctor?"

"Go ahead," he replied, blowing on his coffee.

"Why do you focus upon humanity?"

His blue eyes flicked up at her. "Humanity is interesting. We're capable of great constructive and destructive power. We've advanced far over thousands of years but have also slipped backwards multiple times. We've also come very close to ending ourselves, but here you and I are now, on an alien world."

Phan's eyes darted about in thought. "And do you think that humans are inherently good?" She asked.

"I do," he replied.

"Can you say the same of others?"

"I'd like to think so, yes," he shrugged, "Although I'm probably being offensive when I say that, as other species can't really be judged by our standards. Some are corporeal, and some are not. Our cultures also differ widely."

"But why do you judge them?" Phan asked, taking another bite, and polishing off the first cake.

"Partially out of the human instinct to do so that simply won't die, no matter how far away from the cave we move. The other is to keep myself grounded," McCoy explained, waving his hand for emphasis, "Considering how far from Earth I usually am, it helps me to remember where I've come from, as well as the other worlds I've been to. I base much of my values upon personal experience."

"And is that a good thing to do?" She questioned, wiping her hands on her napkin before reaching for another cake.

"It's all I have to cling to." He smiled. "Dear lady, are you trying to make me admit I'm wrong?"

Phan shrugged. "Not quite. I just thought that if we would be seeing much of each other, it's better I got to know you." She glanced about. "How do you judge these beings around us?"

"If you're coming to me for solace, I recommend you evaluate yourself," he remarked. At Phan's cross expression, he observed, "No, I didn't think you were, otherwise I'd be concerned that the Federation isn't training its diplomats well."

Phan pushed the strands of hair behind her ears. "Yes and no. You can share similar stories to mine, doctor, as there is no way to truly be prepared for the frontier. I should expect anything, then, and remain neutral. This is a test."

"Do you think you've passed?" McCoy prodded.

"It's merely the first round," she replied, putting down the cake and placing the tips of her fingers together, her voice dropping in volume, "They are playing games now, all four of them. It's something else held in common with human politics." Anger sparked in her eyes. "But then, that is what I will refuse to give them: the satisfaction of a win, or the dissatisfaction of a loss. I will take the middle ground."

"You've come back around to your profession, then," he commented.

She shrugged with a small smile. "It suddenly all becomes simple again. So, if I understand, then, when you keep hold of yourself, it makes the answers easier to find? You will not 'float away,' as it were, into the vastness of space?"

McCoy folded his arms. "No, not easier to find," he shrugged, "Heaven only knows the answers that will always elude me. It makes it easier for me to cope with that."

"I see," Phan raised the carafe, and poured more of the hot beverage into his cup, "Such as the being that now possesses my predecessor?"

"The Companion is a being that we may never fully understand. She wishes to be alone with Zephram Cochrane, and that's fine. We must respect her sentient right. However, what I find interesting is the fact that she suffered from the same thing her mate did, and many of us do: loneliness."

He'd defended the Companion on that point against Cochrane's hurtful comments. On the same day, however, McCoy also got to watch the same being torture his captain and his commander. He preferred for her to be left alone with him.

Spock's hand had been warm on the side of his face, after the mission debriefing. McCoy, leaning up against his desk in his quarters, had felt the guilt of not being able to save Miss Hedford. His anguish had rippled through the touch of skin to the Vulcan, who said nothing. However, there was something that was felt, emanating from him, a softness from a sense of understanding.

McCoy had glanced up, and seen those dark eyes regarding him with sympathy, and a certain tenderness that he could not place for a moment, until he heard an echo. Spock was playing back for him the memory of McCoy exclaiming to Cochrane that a relationship with the Companion wasn't inherently wrong, rather it took getting used to. McCoy watched as Spock lowered his hand to his psi-points, and closed his eyes, relaxing against the desk. He could feel his heart beating against Spock's chest, and had a fleeting thought as to how odd it must feel to the Vulcan.

He came slowly back into himself and felt Spock's hand on the back of his head, steadying it. McCoy rubbed at his eyes. "I'm tired." Spock kissed the top of his head, and McCoy blearily raised it at him. "Darling, I…"

"No." Spock brought his arms about him and held him steady. "Not like this."

McCoy's hand found his back and grasped the fabric tightly. "I can't lose you."

"You have not," he replied, "The Companion allowed the captain and me to live." He drew back. "It is not logical, to allow our relationship's movement to be dictated by our hardships." As he felt McCoy's annoyance rising, Spock explained, "I wish for you to rebuild your trust in me."

"You don't seem to trust me," McCoy muttered bitterly.

"If I did not, I would not have you caring for my health," he corrected.

"What do you want, Spock?"

"A courtship," he replied.

McCoy smiled. "That's fine, my belle."

"I'm sorry?" Spock asked, not understanding.

"Nothing. Now, let me up. My back's killing me."

Phan's words broke through McCoy's thoughts.

"It's time." She rose, abandoning the remaining cakes. Draining his cup, McCoy rose with her, and kept by her side as they passed the heavy rifles the guards carried.

XXXXXX

The general from before still pontificated on the platform, though Kirk noticed that his crowd had dwindled somewhat. "Mr. Chekov?"

"Yes, sir."

"Guard the perimeter for me. If the authorities press upon the area, signal me."

"Aye, sir," Chekov affirmed, and Kirk quickly shouldered through the crowd. The ensign backpedaled to the edge of the area and glanced about once. Passerby continued by, though there were more police in the area. Not good, he thought, as he turned his head back.

Chekov watched Kirk ascend the platform, and felt his heart do a backflip. Exclamations of dismay rose from the crowd and the government figures while Kirk saluted the general, who introduced himself as Lon. Kirk held out a held to shake, offering a debate. Grasping it, and shaking it firmly, Lon agreed, clearly enjoying his opportunity to showboat before the crowd.

Turning away and glancing over to see two police officers talking and gesturing toward the gathering, Chekov took a breath, and steeled himself. He recallied Sulu's lesson to him about fear, during one of their sparring sessions on the Enterprise.

Sulu, his chest bare, and wearing a pair of black pants, paced before Chekov, who was similarly clothed in the sparring ring. A thin sheen of sweat covered both, and they were aware of each other's musky scent. Around them, the background sounds of other crew members working out echoed. The heat in the room felt heavy on them.

Chekov traced his partner's movements as he said, "Fear in combat isn't a weakness, it merely is."

"Mr. Spock considers emotions a weakness," Chekov replied, sidestepping toward him. Sulu contrasted his motion, the two stepping about each other as if in a dance.

"Correct, but you must remember, he is half-Vulcan." Sulu aimed a jab at Chekov, which the ensign barely blocked in time, seizing his hand. Leaning his head forward, a lock of the lieutenant's hair fell over his forehead. "You are not." Sulu tugged his hand out of Chekov's grasp. He allowed the motion to counterbalance himself, placing distance between them again.

"So, in that case, what do you know of fear?" Chekov asked.

"It's part of the occupation. You should know that as a navigator."

Sulu ducked out of the way as Chekov aimed a kick at his head. Spinning about, he grabbed for the back of Chekov's knee. Correcting himself, Chekov quickly brought his leg down, the weight causing Sulu's knees to buckle slightly. With a grunt, he drove his elbow toward the pilot. Sulu swung out of the way, and drove his weight forward, pinning Chekov under him.

Chekov slowly caught his breath as he felt his partner's chest, slick with sweat, heaving against his, his dark eyes boring into him. In annoyance, Sulu muttered, "I have told you a thousand times, Pavel: don't telegraph your attacks."

Chekov bit his lip in irritation. "Perhaps it is because you know me too well."

The pilot shrugged and got off him to stand. "You can choose another sparring partner, if you want."

"I like you too much," Chekov replied with a tilt of his head.

"Wrong answer," Sulu's playful expression was the only warning Chekov would get. Surging toward him, Sulu swung for Chekov's chest. Chekov blocked it and glanced up to see a fist streaking through the air toward him. Unable to react quickly enough, he took the sucker punch to the jaw, and crashed to the floor. He groaned, attempting to find his bearings.

A hand extended toward him, and Chekov, moving his hand over his jaw, gratefully took it. Helping him to stand, Hikaru gently laid his hand over Pavel's. "May I have a look?" Chekov lowered his hand, and the pilot gently ran his hand over the unaffected skin nearby. "I'm sorry, it looks like I left a bruise," he commented quietly, the previous aggression draining out of him.

Chekov shrugged. "Consider us even from last time. How's your back?"

Sulu smirked, knowing quite well that Chekov had kicked in him the kidney. He turned about, showing himself off before him. "How does it look?"

"Oh, cute, Hikaru," Chekov replied, as it was bare due to the dermal regenerator.

Turning back around, Sulu asked, "Should we continue the lesson?"

Chekov shook his head and groaned as he brought his hand up to the bruise. "No, I think that is enough for one day. I'll fix myself up."

Nodding, Hikaru moved the mats away, Pavel assisting him. Rising, they headed over to the towel dispensary. Sulu wiped his face on his towel and slung it over a shoulder. "Come on, I've got an hour 'til I go on duty."

Chekov smiled. "Shower, then?"

Sulu gave a knowing smile. "Among other things."

Chekov took the lesson into account as he watched the police officers advance toward him, the gray shoulder pads of their uniforms sticking out. It looked a little funny. Stepping forward, he greeted them, "Hello, officers."

"Off-worlder," one acknowledged, glancing past him, "Why is Captain Kirk on the platform?"

Chekov shrugged. "It's just a healthy debate."

"Debate?" The other officer asked in annoyance. "This is not his affair."

"But it's a public forum, yes?" Chekov inquired, beginning to pick up speed. If there was one thing he did recall about his homeland, it was bureaucracy. "Then it is not trespassing. The crowd can respond to the general, and the captain is not harming him."

"You have an odd definition of public forum, off-worlder," the first officer interjected.

"It's in a public square," Chekov replied. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another officer coming over, and resisted the urge to groan.

Back on the platform, Lon was growing more irritated. Slapping the podium he stood beside, he exclaimed, "You named our planet a different word from what we call it!"

"As has occurred with Vulcan, but it's not meant to be offensive. It's how our star charts work. For example, many extraterrestrials refer to Earth as Terra, but that's not the only name I've heard," Kirk replied soothingly.

"Be that as it may, it still carries the scent of imperialism. We do not wish to fully assimilate to Federation culture!"

Kirk raised a finger. "Ah, but we don't have a monolithic culture. The Federation is comprised of many different cultures working in conjunction with each other."

Lon waved an arm. "Regardless, you think that you can dictate the laws of other worlds! That's offensive!" The government officials nodded at that.

"You are a client state to us. To be considered such, you must adhere to our laws. If you don't wish to do so, that's fine. You can join other jurisdictions, if you wish."

"But the Federation would not like that," Lon replied, tiling his head back, "Would it, Captain Kirk?"

Kirk felt as if the tone of the conversation had changed. "Excuse me?" He inquired.

"We have heard of your Organian Treaty, as well as its causes. It would seem as if you are rather gung-ho, yourself."

Kirk turned to address the crowd of Norsicans and met suspicious glances. "It was my error in judgment, however I have taken responsibility for it."

"That is moot," he replied, "You are representing the Federation. You must conduct yourself accordingly."

"You are representing your world today," Kirk replied, "What do I, as a citizen of the Federation think of it, in its state of martial law?"

Silence fell over the Norsicans, but Lon replied, "You have chosen to do business with us, captain. You must take that into account."

A moment caught Kirk's eye. He glanced over at Chekov's waving hand and saw beyond him the advancing line of policemen. Directly in front of the ensign were about four, who, by their bodily movements, were growing more and more irritated. Swinging his head about, he gave a quick smile at Lon. "And that's all the time I have today. Duty calls. You understand, General."

Lon stood, dumbstruck, and the crowd collectively blinked as Kirk bounced off the platform to run off. It was only the government representatives who called after the authorities to stop him. Kirk slid into a nearby alley, grunting in pain as his shoulders scraped against the narrow walls. He hopped over a rear iron fence, only to nearly crash into a table. It was a restaurant under an awning, with the waiters, waitresses, and patrons looking up in shock. He quickly excused himself, and ran through, hopping over the other side fence, and continuing into a narrow courtyard. He stopped and leaned one hand against a statue of a female Norsican bearing a jug of water over one shoulder. Glancing down, he caught his breath.

Aware of eyes on him, he looked up to see two Andorians seated on a bench staring at him, their antenna trained forward in curiosity. Kirk held up a hand in breathless greeting. "Afternoon!"

The two of them glanced at each other and shrugged before continuing with a heated debate over what sounded like taking on an assignment to Mars. One of the Andorians heavily disliked the heat, and Kirk couldn't help but smile at the comment. The smile became strained, however, as his shoulders stung. Moving his hands off the statue, he stroked along them, finding that his robe and part of the uniform shirt underneath had torn. Blood spotted his skin and part of the fabric.

Rain continued to fall as he moved away from the statue, and further into the courtyard, where a fountain pooled. Flipping open his communicator, he inquired, "Kirk to Chekov, you all right?"

"Chekov here, sir," the ensign greeted quietly after a few moments' pause, "I am fine. The police have since moved on."

"They aren't detaining you?" Kirk asked in a concerned tone of voice.

"No, sir. After the first four chased after you, the general lost control of the crowd. Actually," he chuckled, "the four got stuck because of those broad shoulder pads. I managed to slip away in the confusion before the other officers arrived." Dropping his voice, he added, "I was not expecting them to employ their riot shields to hem them in. The crowd was unarmed."

Kirk swallowed his guilt at that, as he had caused the racket. Choosing to take on a more positive subject, he inquired, "Where're you hiding?"

"The local library, or at least, outside of it. It's not worth going inside if they don't have the Russian classics. I'm sitting on the stairs under the main columns."

Kirk smiled. The Andorians got up to leave, and he decided, "Stay where you are, Mr. Chekov. I'll meet you there."

"Aye, sir." Putting away the communicator, Chekov leaned against the pole, and closed his eyes. He supposed he could take rest when he could get it.

XXXXXX

Uhura glanced quietly about. Vibrations, count the vibrations. She breathed softly and closed her eyes. Minimize all background noise, count the sounds.

Footsteps thumped distantly over the gravel. Water ran in the gutters above her, sloshing. Spock knelt just before her, his phaser out as he cut at the padlock on a metal door. He had previously shut off the speaker on his respirator, leaving him mute. The door was rusted, and old, with trash piled nearby. The lock dropped to the ground, and Spock leaned his shoulder into the door, pushing on it carefully until it slid across the gravel. He slipped through, gesturing for her to follow.

The slightly open door cast a slit of light on the floor. Uhura glanced about as Spock deftly pulled the door shut. The factory was old and appeared to make mannequins or dolls in its day, with half-finished Norsican forms still sitting on the lines. Uhura cast only a quick glance over them, as many were without eyes or limbs. The second floor supported several catwalks, from which hung chains and hooks. Above that on the rafters were ventilation systems. Crouching low, she followed him behind a covered, open-topped bin, with a fake arm grotesquely trailing out of it. A guard's footsteps thumped by in the distance.

Tapping the screen of her tricorder, she indicated by frequency that the signal was coming from the ventilation area. Comparing it against the factory's floor plan, Spock glanced about until he registered a service stairwell. The door to it in his sight, naturally, was barred shut. Along the sides, however, were service ladders from the ground floor, some of which led to the second floor. Metal stairwells led to the floor above.

Uhura stuck her head around as far as it could go as they waited, her eyes widening as she realized that the guard was wearing a military uniform that was under Meylu's banner, its patch a dark green slashed diagonally with light blue. A tug on her arm from Spock drew her attention, and she followed him.

The first ladder was difficult, its greased surface forcing them to use the sleeves and edges of their robes as handholds. The second was more stable, but easier to be spotted on due to the catwalks. Crouching low, they took turns before scrambling up. In the narrow crawlspace above, Uhura guided Spock along the low ceiling until they came to an area blocked by a fan.

Uhura pointed her phaser at the fan, and, on a low frequency, fired. The heat caught the fan, and its metal slowly melted, welding into space. She was forced to pause her work a few times as the voices abruptly stopped. She slipped out of the way, and allowed Spock to fire on it at a low temperature, cooling the metal. The Vulcan crept ahead of her past the fan into the tube, and she followed him into a small "hub" area between the openings of three other fans that hummed quietly to themselves. Standing within it was a medium-sized metal cylinder, stainless steel with red lights blinking. A panel was shut on one side, striped diagonally in yellow and black. Letters stood on it, with a red dissected triangle hovering over it. Running her tricorder over it, Uhura nodded, holding it out to Spock. It was a weapons developer, subsidized by Yi's government to produce equipment for her army.

He knelt before it and began to set to work. Turning away, she slipped over to guard the exit. Uhura tugged open her robe drop on the floor. Grasping the fabric of her uniform skirt, she tugged down on it to keep it from bunching as she sidled forward on her knees.

The movements of Spock's fingers were deft as he carefully moved over the device, pausing to scan at it with the tricorder. Nodding at his result, Spock reprogrammed in a hacking algorithm to the device. The algorithm itself was designed by Lieutenants Loxley and Xiao under his division, and frankly, was more effective for the basic hacking of opening utility-based computers or doors. Spock had planned upon using the algorithm as a base before moving on to a higher system, however this seemed to be sufficient, the panel flipping open. Red glowed from the device on his fac, and he placed the mask back on as a shield. If he was damaged, McCoy wouldn't be able to help him, and a beam up might not be quick enough. It begged the question why beaming to sickbay wasn't considered in the engineering future projects. He considered talking with Mr. Scott about that later.

Uhura's eyes moved and forth from where she was crouched. The metal of her phaser felt cool against her side. Footsteps thumped over the floor at intervals, and quiet conversation filtered up to her. The contingent appeared to be of six people on the interior, with three patrolling the main floor, and three on the catwalks. They moved about in a gridded format, with more voices filtering through the piping in the washing and rec areas. Something banged at intervals, and exclamations of annoyance indicated to her that it was probably some sort of game.

She felt slightly handicapped without her headphone but chided herself. It was nothing. She hadn't had sophisticated equipment back home, when she had listened to the animals crying in the distance at night during family trips to the Serengeti. Ambient clangs and bangs sounded here and there, and air moaned through the pipes.

A slight rustle caught her attention, and she glanced at Spock. He held a cylinder before himself, and she nodded. Grasping her cloak, she tugged it back on, and led him out. Descending the ladders quickly, they crept past a set of crates bearing pieces of skeletons toward the door. Spock nudged it open again and they slipped away. Straightening up, they walked out, pretending nonchalance over the next few streets.

Reaching back, Spock reactivated the speaker in his respiration device. "We will need to turn this over to the proper authorities. Likely, they will desire to know." He proffered the transmitter, and Uhura took it to hide in her robes. Pulling out his tricorder, he quietly logged the data he had gathered.

Uhura smiled. "Do you think the line will be long in the waiting room at the city station?"

"It is the legal system," Spock noted, and Uhura's smile broadened at that as they continued down the road.