ãCOPYRIGHT  1994 BY PAUL S. GIBBS

M'RESS
A STAR TREK NOVEL
BY PAUL S. GIBBS

This story takes place in the
second year of the second
five-year mission of the 
USS Enterprise

CONTENTS
CHAPTER:
PROLOGUE	1.
ONE	9.
TWO	40.
THREE	72.
FOUR	104.
FIVE	140.
SIX	173.
SEVEN	205.
EIGHT	240.
NINE	274.
TEN	309.
ELEVEN	340.
TWELVE	379.
THIRTEEN	413.
FOURTEEN	451.
FIFTEEN	489.
SIXTEEN	528.
SEVENTEEN	556.
EPILOGUE	576.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
USS ENTERPRISE, NCC-1701
Lieutenant M'Ress	Communications Officer; Caitian
Captain James. T. Kirk	Commanding Officer
Commander Spock	First Officer
Commander Montgomery Scott	Chief Engineer
Dr. Leonard McCoy	Chief Medical Officer
Dr. Christine Chapel	Assistant Medical Officer
Lt. Commander Hikaru Sulu	Helmsman
Lt. Commander Uhura	Chief Communications Officer

USS ZELAZNY, NCC-1372
Captain Mark Antilles	Commanding Officer
Commander Olivia Edgeworth	First Officer
Lt. Commander Joel Abrams	Chief Engineer
Lt. Commander Karl Gaetano	Geologist
Lt. Commander Barbara Delaney	Bio-Sciences
Lt. Commander Kiro Nakamara	Astrophysics
Dr. Richard Enyeart	Chief Medical Officer
Lieutenant j.g. Lenora Burke	Head Nurse
Lieutenant Peter Harris	Chief of Security
Lieutenant Nadia Kerenski	Climatology
Ensign Wallance (Wally) Osgood	Engineer's Mate
Ensign Brian Matthews	Communications Officer

STATION DEEP SPACE TWO:
Admiral Stephen Conroy	Commanding Officer
Commodore M'Rael	Starfleet Engineering Corps; Caitian
Lt. Commander Alicia Sutton	JAG Prosecutor

PROLOGUE
The triple suns dawned, blinding as usual, upon the sixty-third day of my exile.
I yawned and stretched, there on my makeshift bed of grasses and leaves, where I had lain all night curled tight around myself against the chill. At the full extension of my arms and legs, sharp but ill-tended claws sprouted from each finger and toe, and vanished as I relaxed. The air was still cold, and my fur was puffed up hugely all over my body. It wouldn’t stay that way for long, though; by noon it would be broiling. It was time for me to begin my daily battle with this misbegotten planet.
I brushed my overly-long orange mane out of my eyes, and reached for the thong which I’d taken to using to keep it tied back. Then I padded over to the small shelf I had hacked, so laboriously, into the living wood of the tree trunk.
The remaining artifacts of my life as a Starfleet officer were arranged there, almost as in a shrine. The folded remains of a uniform, black trousers and a sky-blue turtleneck, shredded past repair by thorns. The burgundy tunic, with the bars of a lieutenant, I used as a blanket at night. A canvas bag and a pitted, dulled rock hammer. A hand phaser, stone cold dead, used up weeks ago. A tricorder and a communicator, both battered and dented, but working.
It was the tricorder I lifted first. I had set it to do an orbital scan, seeking something, anything, circling this hell-hole world. I dared operate it only a few minutes a day, though, and the “recharge” warning sounded almost constantly. And that was all; this morning as with the sixty-two preceding, my rescue was not at hand. The communicator was low on power too, the red light flashing frantically. It rewarded the distress beacon only with a hiss of static, punctuated by random, wild crackles. The planet had a crazy magnetic field. That was why we’d come. It might be why I was still there, marooned, alone.
What makes a starship simply explode? I wondered yet again. In my dreams I still saw it; an antimatter explosion brighter, briefly, than those blinding suns. Sixty-four lives snuffed out in an eyeblink. And one left over, to be snuffed out at a rather more leisurely pace.
The gourd-like jug that held most of my water supply was still half-full, saving me a great deal of trouble. I drank deep, and then rubbed some into my eyes, which were aching and blurred again. As I did, my stomach growled, loudly, and I sighed. It was time to rejoin my ancestors.
A glance outside my shelter, down the trunk of my tree, showed no circling predators. Perhaps they had learned after all. I gave the coiled ladder a kick, and it unrolled noisily down to the ground. I shuddered as I remembered the night I’d neglected to pull it up. They’d been small, rat-sized; but there’d been hundreds of them, their teeth and claws vicious. That’s what finally did in the phaser. I hoped someday to have the scars repaired.
I rigged my knife belt, hung the two one-liter water bottles upon it, flanking my tail; and slung my spear at my back. Then I swarmed down the ladder. I would say “like a cat,” but that’s a little too close to home, and obvious besides.
At the bottom I fell into a crouch, every sense I owned as alert as I could make it. I swung my gaze in a slow circle, and sniffed at the slight, rapidly warming breeze. There was no scent other than the strange, medicinal odor of alien vegetation. The predators were indeed elsewhere, it seemed. 
Thus reassured, I adjusted my knife belt and the sling of my spear, and began to jog. There was only one direction I could go, or at least only one that would reward my hunt: deeper into the woods. In the other direction, visible from my shelter, were a range of low, volcanic hills. And they were barren, neither plant nor animal life.
In these situations, I reflected for perhaps the ten thousandth time, it would be nice to be an omnivore; it doesn’t take much time or trouble to hunt down a leaf. But evolution had provided me with a digestive system which could not take nutrition from vegetable matter, and that was that.
After all those weeks the prey was beginning to get rather wary, there in the vicinity of my shelter; it was necessary for me to go farther and farther afield for each hunt. And that, of course, increased both the trouble and the danger.
The canopy closed over me, dimming somewhat the sunlight, which was by no means a bad thing. Huge trees, identical to the one I called home, crowded closer and closer, their trunks as substantial as warp-nacelle struts. Their crowns were lost in distance, as they reached higher and higher for light; their bases were obscured by thick mats of underbrush and scrub, including dense stands of the thorny bushes that had done in my uniform. Any one of those thickets could be concealing breakfast; or something that would like fresh Caitian for its own breakfast. I slowed to a cautious, silent walk.
I am no longer sure what attracted my attention first; whether it was scent, or a faint staccato sound. Maybe both. But something pulled me close to a thick stand of scrub, and made me fall into a crouch. Very slowly, I reached out and parted the branches, just a few centimeters.
The birds were large and flightless, at least as far as I knew; they had thick, stubby legs, long necks, heavy, ponderous bodies, and feathers of a dazzling, iridescent green. A human probably would have likened them to wild turkeys. There was no analogue from my world, where birds are mostly small and rare.
There were about six of them in that little clearing, strutting around at random, pecking at the ground, presumably for insects or seeds. They made a soft, contented clucking sounds, deep in their breasts. Fate had been good to me, for once; I was downwind of the stupid creatures, and their eyesight was apparently quite poor. If I stayed concealed I’d have a chance; but if roused, they’d scatter like shrapnel.
Slowly I slipped back. To my left, a few meters away, was an opening in the brush, one where I could burst through without savaging myself on the thorns. I edged that way, unslinging my spear and knotting the sling around my waist. 
At the opening I paused, peering through the underbrush to orient myself. One of the birds was browsing not more than three meters away, its head lowered, oblivious. That was my target.
I took a deep breath. Evolution had shaped more than my stomach, of course; it had given me sharp teeth and claws, and theoretically, the instincts for the hunt. Civilization, though millennia old, was a veneer on a savage history. Or so they claim. From where I stood, evolution be damned; I was not cut out for this.
I gripped my spear and charged. I doubt whether the big stupid bird even knew what hit it. I felt the shock in my arms and torso as the spear point went home, straight through the breast. My prey screamed and flopped; the rest of the flock squawked and scattered, gone in seconds.
I stood for a moment, looking down at the corpse. I felt a shudder go through me. Sixty-three days. After a lifetime of getting my meals from the processors. What had I done to deserve this?
###
About an hour later I headed home. Slung on my back was most of the meat of the big bird, wrapped up in a rude sack made of its own skin. My hands, and the fur around my mouth, were bloody. It happened every time. I guess it was instinct, evolution; but the sight and smell of fresh meat was irresistible, no matter how hard I tried. I had stuffed myself. I used my knife to slice through the thick hide; but after that it was teeth and claws. A fine figure of a Starfleet officer, yes, top of her class; a naked savage tearing at her prey.
I’m not particularly proud of the evolutionary baggage I carry; I doubt if anyone is, really. I was certainly glad none of my human friends was there to see my descent into savagery. As it was, I’d have to wait till I got to my local stream, to wash off the stains.
Great Goddess, I prayed (and not for the first time, either) get me off this rock! Before it becomes permanent!
Still, I was not displeased with my morning’s work. With any luck, there would still be a few live embers in my firepit, saving me some trouble. Properly smoked, and wrapped in leaves, the meat would keep for a long time. With luck I might not have to hunt again for four or five days.
In a way my distant ancestors were smarter than I was: after a meal like that they’d find a quiet place to sleep it off. There’s a definite alertness deficit, I found. And that can be quite dangerous, especially in places where you’re not top of the food chain...
I heard the footsteps behind me, an almost subsonic rumbling that completely failed to register for a full five seconds. When it finally did I dropped my bundle and spun, my hand already dropping to my knife belt.
The carnivore was huge, three meters at least, and outweighed me by perhaps five times. It was about the size and shape of a Terran grizzly or a Vulcan sehlat, and it was less than two meters away from me, moving at full gallop. Its forepaw, all huge claws, and a mouth full of fangs, both gaped toward me.
Somehow—only the gods know how—I managed to spin out of the way. The beast barreled past, stumbling. As it did I swung wildly with my stone knife. To wound it, to slow it down...anything.
It was at best a mixed success. The knife went home, scoring a deep gash in the thing’s furry side, a doubtless painful wound. But a flying rear leg caught me in my own side like a runaway shuttlecraft, and flicked me aside as if I weighed nothing. I was tumbled end over end, helpless, and, despite mythology to the contrary, I landed hard on my back. I heard a splintering crack and felt a sharp pain as the haft of my spear broke underneath me. My knife had gone flying, to parts unknown. My thong had come untied too, and my mane spilled into my face, blinding me.
Shaking the stars from my eyes, I got my arms underneath me, to lever myself upright...and then a violent pain down my left side informed me of my two or three fractured ribs. My arms gave way and I collapsed onto my right side, unable to move or even breathe.
Get up, I screamed silently. You idiot, get up!
I never did get up. But with the beast very nearly on top of me (I could actually feel its breath) I set my teeth, and, ignoring the wave of agony, I flipped myself over onto my back. I raised my arms and legs, all sixteen claws expressed as far as they would go. If I was about to become this thing’s early lunch, it wasn’t going to like paying the bill.
And then...well, there are times in life when everything seems to go in slow motion, when you feel as if you could step back and analyze every last motion. And that’s how it was. The carnivore was towering above me, prepared to fall on me with teeth and claws. Blood as red as my own ran from a long gash on its side. The most horrible thing was the utter silence: it neither growled not roared. All I heard was its raspy breathing, and mine.
And then...from somewhere in the distance I heard a hum, a half-familiar high-pitched whine that set my teeth on edge. This was followed by a babble of voices, the first I’d heard in sixty-three days, raised in shouts. And finally another sound, one even higher-pitched and more insistent. The rearing carnivore was suddenly outlined in blinding blue light.
And then...gone. In a wave of terrible heat and a stench of scorch and ozone, the huge creature simply went transparent and blew away.
Slowly, painfully, I raised my head, wondering who or what my savior had been.
There were six of them, stepping slowly toward me. I saw the burgundy tunics and black trousers of Starfleet uniforms. And the faces, two of them so familiar as to stop my voice in my throat. Lieutenant Commanders Uhura and Sulu. The other four, security and sciences men, I did not know by name. They gazed at me in curiosity, but without recognition.
I got my elbows underneath me and sat up. Slowly, with an agonizing grind from my ribs, I stood. The six of them backed away a step or two, raising their phasers. Naked, covered with dirt and blood, all disheveled fur and mane...I must have looked like a wild animal to them.
Then Uhura dropped her arm. “My God,” she uttered. “It can’t be.”
Finally I found my voice. Except for a few exasperated mutterings in my own language, I had hardly used it in sixty days. I turned to Sulu and said, “Lieutenant M’Ress reporting for duty, sir.”
His jaw dropped open. Then he looked me up and down, and grinned. “You’re out of uniform, Lieutenant.”
And then he reached out quickly to catch me, as I collapsed into his arms.

CHAPTER ONE
The promotions list had been posted, as I’d suspected; but I wasn’t on it. 
With growing incredulity, I scrolled farther down through the long list of names, ranks, service numbers and postings. Species like mine who commonly use only one name do occasionally tend to confuse the Starfleet computers, which are programmed rather homocentrically. I was sometimes amused to find my “first name” listed as “Lieutenant,” and a confused set of question marks, meaning “data missing” in the “rank” column.
But I reached the end of the list, an ensign-cum-lieutenant j.g. whose name began with seven Z’s, without finding my name at all. I leaned back in my chair, my tail lashing back and forth in agitation, the claws of my right hand drumming on the desktop. This was...quite contrary to my expectations, as Commander Spock might have put it.
It had taken some considerable time for me to perfect the personal conditioning program for my quarters, and I was usually quite proud of it; I had set the program to run automatically every time I entered. The light around me was dim and colored faintly magenta, except for the brighter spot above my desk. The faint sound of clicking tatak-wood wind chimes played pleasantly, randomly, just at the level of my conscious hearing (a human might not have heard it at all.) I breathed in the scent of late-second-summer Lamnia blossoms, in air with the oxygen content slightly richer than ships’ norm. Usually it all served to comfort me; like their computers, Starfleet designed their living spaces for the comfort of humans, and sometimes it jangled. 
The Enterprise was in warp, a long transit to a DS station that would take two weeks more. My shift on the bridge had crawled by, each second on the chronometer taking a separate eternity to click over. I had processed the subspace data dump from Starfleet early in my shift, routing it to the proper departments as per standard procedure. I might have sneaked a peek at the list then...but Commander Sulu had the bridge, and he was tough as a brush demon on procedure. Rumor had it that he would have his own ship soon; I wasn’t sure if I would like to be assigned under his command or not. Be that as it might, though, both he and I knew that the promotions list was not for the eyes of the crew until Commander Spock had reviewed and publicly posted it.
And so I’d had to wait. Reminding myself, as both the humans and my own hunting ancestors had it, that patience is a virtue, I had somehow made it through my shift, occupying myself with a totally redundant but officially approved Level 2 diagnostic of the comm systems. After my relief arrived I hurried through a meal, oblivious to what that sight would do to the appetites of my companions in the officer’s mess; and then retreated back to my own quarters. I had forced myself to exchange my uniform for something much more comfortable (a loose, flowing caftan and a comfortable collar) before pouncing on my terminal. And now this.
Abruptly I made a decision. This was not helping, I knew. I could stare at that list until doomsday, and my name still wouldn’t be on it. There comes a time to stop stalking and began the chase, and this was it.
I flicked the intercom switch. “M’Ress to bridge.”
“Bridge,” came a familiar, friendly voice. I had turned the comm panel over to her less than an hour before. “Uhura.”
“Commander,” I said, “where is the captain, please?”
“One moment, Lieutenant,” she replied. “I’ll check.”
As I waited I grimaced slightly, exposing teeth in an expression that no one would ever mistake for a smile; and a soft growl escaped my throat. That was the entire problem; that word: Commander. Technically, Lieutenant Commander, of course, but still it opened up a gulf between us that had never existed before. Uhura had trained me when I was posted to the Enterprise as a lieutenant j.g., late in the first mission; and when I was promoted to full lieutenant six months later she had organized the party. The caftan I wore had been a gift from her, from her homeland in East Africa on Terra. I had helped her to celebrate her own promotion, almost a year ago; in private she claimed there was no division between us, that our friendship was still the same. From her point of view, perhaps she was right; but for me, something felt different.
“He’s in Briefing Room Four,” Uhura told me. “Alone.”
“Thank you,” I said, and I clicked off before she could ask why I wanted to know. With a sigh I stood and reached for the uniform I had quitted just a few minutes before. Somehow I didn’t think a multicolored striped caftan would impress the captain.
###
Captain (formerly, and perhaps someday again, Admiral) James T. Kirk, despite being a definite and growing legend in Starfleet, had the reputation of being quite approachable, not to say astoundingly charming. But it was with a certain hesitation that I neared the briefing room. In truth the captain and I had little contact with each other. I was the second-shift comm officer, when he was rarely on the bridge; I had been in few landing parties with him. He did know my name; but that could only be because I was the only Caitian on board, and my fuzzy face was fairly unmistakable. Perhaps this was a large mistake...
But I had come this far, even changing back into those uncomfortable garments that passed for a uniform, and I looked ridiculous standing there dithering in the corridor. So I forced myself to step forward.
He was there, alone as promised, sitting on the far side of the otherwise empty briefing room, a data pad in his hands, a cup of coffee and the remains of a sandwich on the table before him. His feet were on the table as well, his legs crossed at the ankle; his boots needed resoling.
He looked up sharply as the door hissed closed behind me. Without that sound he might not have noticed me, despite my burgundy uniform tunic. Unlike human crew members, I wore no boots, and to humans my footsteps were silent; more than once I’ve been roundly cursed for “sneaking up” on someone, when I thought I was making as much noise as a flatulent maxigrazer.
“Lieutenant M’Ress,” he said, somewhat in surprise.
“Excuse me if I’m bothering you, sir,” I said. “May I speak to you for a moment?”
“Of course,” he said. “Please sit down.”
I did, perching myself awkwardly on an adjacent chair while he bustled self-consciously about, sending the dishware down the disposal chute and setting the pad aside. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Lieutenant?” 
I suppressed a shudder. Despite many attempts, beginning when I first arrived at Starfleet Academy, I had never learned to swallow the horribly bitter fluid. “No, thank you, sir,” I said.
“You know,” he commented amiably, “a ship’s captain ought to have someplace other than his quarters or a briefing room to get some work done. I think I’ll mention that to the Admiralty.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, not really having a sensible reply to that.
He sat with his hands clasped before him, and gazed earnestly at me. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” 
“Well, sir...,” I began, and I fumbled to a halt.
“I take it,” the captain said helpfully, “that something is troubling you. I don’t recall your ever asking to see me before.”
“No,” I agreed. “I haven’t.” I took a deep breath. “It’s the promotions list, sir. It’s just been uploaded from HQ.”
“Oh?” he said. “I haven’t had a chance to take a look yet. What about it?”
“I...I wasn’t on it.” I was feeling slightly foolish now, like a terrible whiner; but I would look more foolish if I backed down.
He nodded. “I see,” he said sagely.
“I really was counting on that promotion, sir,” I said. “And I really think I deserved it.”
“I agree, you did,” he said. “My report was strongly in favor.”
“Thank you,” I said, surprised. It had been a routine, scheduled performance review, and  I’d had no idea that he had even attached a report; I had requested no such thing.
“You’re welcome,” Captain Kirk said. “But, we do have to look at it from Command’s point of view. In their eyes the Enterprise is rather top-heavy with command-rank officers.”
“I suppose that is true,” I agreed reluctantly.
“And since your field of specialty is communications, and Commander Uhura is your superior in years of service, that does tend to influence their thinking.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The Enterprise is a special case,” the captain went on. “I’ve been allowed to hold on to a crew that would ordinarily have been posted out to other assignments long ago. That’s because Command has finally realized the value of a team that can work together almost as one person. I’m very pleased to call you a part of that team, Lieutenant. I was extremely impressed with your work during the refit, and I know you would have been the chief comm officer if I hadn’t called Uhura back to the Enterprise for the V’Ger mission. That wasn’t quite fair to you, I know,  and if I had my way you would be a Lieutenant Commander by now. Unfortunately I don’t have my way; I can only recommend.”
“I understand that, sir,” I said. I paused. Then, “What do you suggest?” I asked.
He hesitated, and then smiled his famous smile. “From my point of view and that of the Enterprise, I would like to see you stay. But I can understand your desire to move up; it’s a trait most of us have, or we wouldn’t be Starfleet officers. For you personally, I’m afraid I’d have to suggest a transfer. Get out from under all the officers, somewhere where you’re more visible. Perhaps a change in specialty too.”
I felt my heart sink. I’d been afraid he’d say something exactly like that. Probably because I knew myself, deep inside, that it was the only logical conclusion. But it was not what I’d wanted to hear.
“I realize that’s not an easy choice,” the captain was saying. “But if it turns out to be the one you have to make, you’ll have my full support.”
I nodded sadly. “Thank you, sir.” Why had that sounded like an epitaph?
###
The environmental program started as usual as I entered my cabin. Angrily I raked my claws across the control panel, canceling the run. I wasn’t in the mood. I sank down at the desk, my face in my hands. 
It is by no means only Captain Kirk who was a legend in Starfleet; the ship he commanded had its own mythical quality. To be assigned to the Enterprise was the dream of almost every officer I had ever known; the ones who had not shared it, I had always considered dolts. That day almost six years ago, when the young Ensign M’Ress of the Farragut had received her promotion and assignment to Enterprise, was the most exciting of my life. I had made it; I was on the bridge of the most famous ship in the fleet. 
I leaned back, and I smiled slightly. My assignment to Enterprise had been an opportunity, yes; but at the time, I hadn’t exactly thought so...
###
Ensigns don’t have private quarters; at least they didn’t then. You had to have at least a broken stripe of gold on your sleeve to rate that. The rest of us, ensigns and enlisted, had roommates.
Mine, at the time, was a young human, Ensign Angela Metcalf of security. Through one of those strange perversities of a universe that loves to complicate our lives, she and I had totally opposite duty shifts, so that I’d be asleep when she woke, and vice versa. I don’t think I ever woke her up; Caitians aren’t quiet for nothing. And when she rose...well, I pretended; and it usually didn’t take me long to get back to sleep. Angela and I were good friends, and I don’t recall that we ever seriously quarreled; but Caitians are by habit solitude-loving people, and I’m not cut out to share quarters. I endured it through my Academy years, and I endured it on the Farragut, but I never enjoyed it.
This time, though, as I stumbled in, she was already up and dressed, standing in front of the mirror, turning her incredibly long mass of raven-black hair into a tightly-coiled braid that regulations would approve of.
“M’Ress!” she said as I entered. “You’re late.” She looked a little closer. “And you look like you’ve just seen a ghost. What’s up?”
“I’ve...I’ve just been to see the captain,” I said.
She grinned. “That almost qualifies. What’s wrong? Have you been snarling at Lieutenant Porter again?”
“No,” I said. “Well, not much. No—it wasn’t a chewing-out. It was this.” And I handed her the sheet of hard copy, printed on the slick,  recycled plastic material that passes for “paper” on a starship. 
“‘To Captain Golding, USS Farragut,’” Angela read. “‘Be advised that Ensign M’Ress, Communications, has been assigned to USS Enterprise, NCC-1701, as second-shift communications officer; and will, upon transfer, be promoted to the rank of lieutenant j.g. Transfer will take place at Starbase 29—’”
She didn’t get any farther before it sank in. She tossed the paper aside and grabbed me up in a bearhug. She had strong arms, and I felt my ribs creak. “M’Ress, that’s wonderful! Do you know what this means? This is it! Your ticket to the top. Everybody wants to be assigned to Enterprise.” Then she stepped back and eyed me suspiciously. “So how’d you rate, anyway?”
I shrugged, yet another human habit I’d picked up. “I have no idea. They had an opening. Their first officer, Commander Spock, and their communications chief, Lieutenant Uhura, apparently picked me out of a couple dozen candidates. They say they were impressed by my service record.”
“Epsilon Niobe,” Angela said firmly. “That was it.”
I shrugged again. “Perhaps.” About five months before. A survey mission, a rare chance at off-ship duty. Five of us; we’d used a shuttlecraft, so the Farragut could continue work in another part of the system. An engine failure, a landing that was perhaps a little harder than the book calls for, on an airless asteroid...and I had managed to get the mangled comm systems working again, just long enough for one brief yell for help. It had been enough, and we’d all been beamed aboard in one piece before our air ran out. Captain Golding, a man full of colorful metaphors, had said in his report that I’d put the comm panel back together with “chewing gum and baling wire,” whatever those might be. It had gotten me a bit of tinsel to hang on my dress uniform.
“I...was thinking about refusing,” I told Angela.
She looked at me for a long moment, as if I’d just grown a second head. “Turn down Enterprise? You must be crazy. Why, in heaven’s name?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’m...comfortable here. This ship is home. You’re all my friends. I don’t want to give that up.”
“Listen to me, my dear dimwitted Caitian,” Angela said patiently. “Starfleet is like that. We knew that when we signed on. Your first assignment is never permanent; it’s a springboard, a proving ground. You’ve been on that comm board, third shift, for three years. If you don’t take this, you’ll still be there five years from now.
“But on the Enterprise...Believe me, M’Ress, if you take this assignment, five years from now you’ll be a Lieutenant Commander. I guarantee it”
###
I chuckled to myself, there in my private quarters. I lifted my right arm and gazed at the sleeve. Two long bars and three dots. Thirteen years of service. Almost six, since that conversation had taken place. And I was still waiting. I’d allowed Angela, and Captain Golding, to bully me into taking the transfer. And I had never really regretted it; it had been an opportunity. But if I’d known, then, that such a prestigious posting would cripple my chances for promotion...
I shook my head. There might be wisdom in Captain Kirk’s advice, as there had been in Angela’s, but right now I couldn’t quite see it. It was late, anyway; time to get some sleep, or I’d be grouchy all through my shift tomorrow. And believe me, you don’t want to deal with a grouchy Caitian.
###
 I’ve never had any need for a raucous alarm clock to wake me up, not with my hearing; a soft chime and a gradual brightening of the room lights does just as well.
I yawned, and stretched, and reached up to rake my hair out of my eyes. My usual sleeping attire was a simple knee-length nightshirt. With climate control I had little need for blankets, but I feel more comfortable with something covering me, so I used a single light sheet, which rustled down to my waist as I sat up. A glance at the chronometer showed the time I expected: 0600. “Computer,” I said, “Daily schedule.”
“Oh-eight-hundred, meeting with Lieutenant Commander Uhura to discuss replacement of subspace emitter array,” the flat voice said. “Briefing Room Four. Ten hundred hours, duty shift begins. Nineteen hundred, officer’s dinner, Officer’s Mess, casual.”
Life’s little ceremonies. Captain Kirk had recently started these dinners with his senior officers in an effort to improve morale and share ideas. I did have the dubious honor of being of the ship’s most senior lieutenant, according to the stripes and dots on my sleeve (which was why, among other reasons, I rated a senior officer’s quarters); so I was invited to many of the dinners. “Casual,” by the way, translated as “No uniforms; this means you”; giving me the additional problem of deciding what to wear.
I stood, and stretched again. I have some morning stretching exercises, not unlike what the humans call Tai Chi, enough to get the blood circulating again. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I’m not a morning person. Back in the Academy...well, I can’t say that I ever actually clawed my roommate, but she did once wake me up while wearing a fencing mask.
My morning ablutions were fairly simple: a sonic shower, brush my teeth; and run a hairbrush over every square centimeter of my fur. I held up my hands and expressed all eight claws as far as they would go; long, curved and jet black. Then I fumbled in the drawer for a file. For social purposes, among humans, I kept my claws fairly blunt. At least, I did then; events were soon to change that habit radically and permanently.
During the night, the ship’s automated laundry had delivered a clean uniform. This, the latest high-fashion statement from the Quartermaster Corps, was at least more dignified than those ridiculous miniskirts; black trousers, snug around the calves, a light grey turtleneck pullover, and a burgundy tunic with rank bars on the right shoulder, and a wide black belt. No boots; the Quartermaster tried, when the uniforms were recently changed, to give me a pair; it was the most miserable six weeks of my career. I had never before worn shoes or boots, and I quickly discovered that I needed my toes to keep my balance. Of course, a lowly lieutenant didn’t have the power to change uniform designs, but there’s a certain Caitian commodore...
Off-duty, of course, there was no regulation that I had to wear a uniform, and I usually didn’t. The caftan I’d slipped into the night before was fairly typical, and I wore it often. Apart from having been a gift from a good friend, I liked it because it was similar in form to the Caitian “day-robe,” the common clothing of my people, male and female, adult and kit: a knee-length, light garment, either short-sleeved or with longer, loose sleeves, and an open neck. Collars of various types, either in gold or silver (for formal wear) or woven and beaded (for daily wear) are also common for both sexes and all ages. On duty I tended not to; too uncomfortable (and pointless) beneath the uniform’s turtleneck. For reasons having to do with that curious phenomenon known as “modesty,” however, I would seldom be caught wearing anything with an open neckline, without a snug collar.
I used the brush again, for my mane this time. It was getting a little too long again, but I wouldn’t have time to get it cut today. A couple of small, discreet clips would keep it out of my face.
At that point, as I smoothed down my tunic, my stomach sent up its usual message: feed me now! I’d been fairly quick, and I still had almost an hour for a leisurely breakfast. 
The Officer’s Mess was two decks up from my quarters, on C-Deck. As I exited the turbolift I almost literally ran into Lieutenant Commander Sulu.
He smiled. “Good morning, M’Ress.”
That was a signal, and I felt free to reply in kind. “Good morning, Hikaru.”
Despite my opinion of Sulu’s hard-nosed command style, actually he was quite a pleasant human, and good company. We were off duty, after all, and I’d known him for a long time; once upon a time we were the same rank. Uhura was probably right; I did brood too much on the rank business.
“I’m on my way to breakfast,” I went on. “Care to join?”
“My destination exactly,” he agreed, and he fell into step beside me.
The Officer’s Mess of the Enterprise, following the refit, was a pleasant place, very conducive to digestion. A low ceiling, the random scattering of tables gently spotlit, the floor carpeted, the walls covered with paintings and prints, which were rotated frequently. Sulu and I got our trays from the processor console and took a small table near the back.
The place was not crowded; a few lieutenants, who greeted us with friendly waves; and in the opposite rear corner, Commander Scott. He had a data pad propped up before him, as he munched stolidly through an enormous plate of bacon and eggs. I like Mr. Scott; I suppose everyone does. Years after I first met him, I still got a kick out of hearing him call me “Lassie.” Mr. Scott had readily accepted Captain (then Admiral) Kirk’s recommendation that I join the refit team; and I had worked under him for almost three years.
It was at times like this, that I really missed Lieutenant Arex, who was now making a living driving the USS Hood. Actually he and I had had very little in common; he was an Edoan, quiet, kind, thoughtful, soft spoken, and a vegetarian; not to mention having three arms and three legs. I was a carnivore (bipedal) and I could be bad-tempered, irascible and quite vocal. But we were the only non-humans in the Bridge crew (except for Commander Spock, and he doesn’t really count as far as potential for intimate conversation is concerned) and we’d struck up a friendship. Him, I could have talked to easily. Sulu I felt a little more restrained with.
Sulu’s breakfast seemed to feature something like seaweed; and I recalled that he was on a vegetarian kick too. Mine could probably best be described as steak tartare.
“Tea?” Sulu offered, lifting a bamboo-handled pot.
“Please,” I said. Tea, especially the mild green tea Sulu favored, I could handle.
“I heard that you didn’t get your promotion,” Sulu commented. “I’m really sorry.”
I kept my face impassive, but I was shocked right down to my tail. Great Goddess, I thought, it’s all over the ship! I wondered darkly who the snitch had been; and then I realized, with a rush of shame, that it had probably been me. For the past six weeks my mess-hall conversation had been of nothing but that promotion; I really had been counting on it. The promotions list was now open for public viewing; anyone not finding my name there would draw the obvious conclusion. Suddenly that officer’s dinner didn’t seem like such a good idea; maybe I could develop a sudden blinding headache...
Sulu was looking at me expectantly, and I forced a smile. Actually I’d been avoiding thinking about it, and the reminder was less than appreciated. “I’m...trying not to let it ruin my life,” I told him.
“That’s good,” he said. He picked slowly at his seaweed. “You know,” he said, “It took me a devil of a long time to get my promotion...”
He was only trying to be sympathetic and helpful, I knew, and so I bit back my first reply, which probably would have made him pick up his teapot and find another table. Instead, I said, “Last night I was speaking to the captain. He told me he believes it was denied because we have too many command-level officers already.”
 “That could be,” Sulu said. He smiled broadly and covered my hand with his own. “It certainly wasn’t for lack of qualifications.”
“Schmoozer,” I said. “But thanks. The captain also told me he thinks I ought to consider a transfer.”
“Well...,” Sulu said. “He may have a point. There might be places where you’d be more visible, less lost in the crowd. It really depends on how quickly you want it to happen. You know you will get promoted here, M’Ress. Sooner or later.”
“I know,” I said. But by then you and Uhura will be full commanders or captains, and the five-year mission will be over, and who knows where I’ll be headed. Did I really want to wait that long?
“Hikaru?” I said. “You say it took you a long time to get promoted. Did it...did it matter to you? Or was it something you didn’t really care about?”
“It mattered,” he said. “Certainly it mattered. I think it does to all of us. But...I suppose it wasn’t something I dwelled on very much. It was going to happen when it happened.”
I grinned at him. “Is that perhaps a less than subtle hint, Commander?”
He slowly matched my grin. “If you like, Lieutenant. Or you can see it as ancient Oriental wisdom.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “‘Sulu say...’” I paused. “Seriously, do you think I ought to consider a transfer?”
“Oh boy,” he said. He poured us both a refill. “Considering the length of time I’ve spent on the Enterprise, I think I’m the wrong person to ask that.”
He leaned back, swirling the tea in his cup. “But, if you can stand another bit of wisdom, there is an old saying.” He smiled. “Chekov used to call it an ‘old Russian saying.’ It’s this: ‘the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.’”
At that juncture, Commander Spock would have said, “What does the color of ornamental vegetation have to do with the Lieutenant’s promotion?” But my grasp of Terran idiom is quite good, and I just nodded. “Point taken,” I said. I glanced at the wall chronometer. “And I’m about to be late for my briefing.” I gulped down the rest of my tea, and then I reached across and squeezed Sulu’s hand. “Thanks, Hikaru,” I said. “For the tea and everything else.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, mystified. “Whatever it was I did.”
###
I was not in fact late for my briefing, but Uhura was. While I waited I activated my data pad to study the assignment.
The subspace emitters—or “coils,” in the vernacular—are the heart of any starship’s communications system, the part that takes the electromagnetic signals of voice, data, whatever, and boosts them beyond the speed of light, so that it takes days or weeks, instead of centuries, for the message to get where it’s going. At the heart of the emitters is a crystal oscillator, using dilithim (naturally.) Because they do oscillate, at frequencies in the terahertz range, they don’t last forever. The Enterprise had a bank of six, which the comm system automatically used in rotation. And since it had been more than a year since the refit, it was time to think about replacing them. The trick is to do so in staggered order, so that the comm systems don’t go off-line while you’re working.
That’s what the briefing book said. And I should know, because I’d written it. 
It could be said, perhaps fairly, that I should have been conducting this briefing, not Uhura. I was the one, after all, who’d spent two and a half years with the refit team; I had been at the designers’ elbow when the new comm systems were planned, translating their grand theories into the practical realities of a communications officer; and I had installed the present set of emitters with my own two hands, lying face-down in a Jeffries tube. But Uhura was the commander, I was the lieutenant, and that’s the way it goes.
Lying face down in a Jeffries tube...there had been one other occasion when I’d been forced to do just that. Quite a long time ago...
###
“Here’s the situation,” Captain Kirk said. He glanced around at all of us, gathered around the briefing-room table. The captain, Mr. Spock, Mr. Scott, Lieutenant Uhura...and a certain Lieutenant j.g. M’Ress, six months aboard the Enterprise and participating in her first high-level briefing. Looking back at her through the mists of time, I imagine she looked rather bewildered.
“This station relays almost half of the subspace communications for this entire sector,” the captain said. “And I can assure you, that is a great deal of traffic. Spock?”
“The auxiliary transmitters have been able to take up forty-seven percent of the load,” Mr. Spock said. “However, they cannot take the full normal load without dangerous overloading. We must bring the main transmitter back on line as soon as possible.”
He manipulated the controls of his computer console, and we all leaned forward to gaze at the ridiculously small three-sided viewer in the center of the table. It showed a complex blueprint, a large number of closely-spaced twisting lines that at first made no sense to me.
I had been on the bridge, three hours previous, as the Enterprise had approached the station, nudged alongside by Sulu’s skilled hands. It had started life as an asteroid, a roughly potato-shaped lump of iron and nickel in a tumbling orbit. The contractors had straightened it out, equipped it with thrusters to keep station, and had filled the interior with the complex machinery of a subspace “switchboard.” Very little rock was visible on the surface any more; it was hidden behind dozens of huge parabolic transceiver dishes, pointing in every possible direction.
“The problem is here,” Mr. Spock went on, highlighting a spot in red. “Evidently an entire bank of subspace emitters has failed. It appears to have been a cascade effect; the first to fail caused the second to overload, and so on. It will be necessary to replace the entire bank of ten.”
Mr. Scott shook his head in disgust. “Och,” he said. “How in hell are we supposed to repair that?”
I had no idea what he was talking about, though evidently the others did, and I was too proud to ask. If there was one thing I’d learned at the Academy, though, it was to be a sponge; I’d wait and see what I could soak up.
“It will indeed be a challenge,” Spock said. “This station is entirely automated, and was designed to be fail-safe. Failures of this nature were deemed to be impossible.”
Mr. Scott muttered something Gaelic and probably obscene.
“As you say,” Spock said placidly. “‘Fail-safe’ is often a contradiction in terms.”
“You can’t build a fail-safe subspace emitter,” Uhura said. “It’s impossible.”
“The designers believed otherwise,” Spock said. “But events would appear to vindicate your opinion, Lieutenant.”
I’d finally soaked up enough; and it dawned on me. The scale. The lines were passages, so-called “service ducts,” and they were no more than a third of a meter in diameter. And the area Mr. Spock had highlighted was almost dead center, buried in the heart of the station.
“I’m open to suggestions,” Captain Kirk said.
In the lengthening silence I finally heard a voice. Strangely, it seemed to be mine. “I have one, sir.”
The others turned to me, and I saw looks of amazement on their faces. Except, of course, Mr. Spock. Perhaps I spent a little too much time being a sponge...
“You do,” the captain said slowly. “And what is that, Lieutenant?”
I’d had more encouraging invitations, but somehow I managed to get my throat working and forged ahead. “Sir, I would like to volunteer to do the job. I believe...I believe I am the only one who can.”
The Captain seemed to have been struck dumb with amazement; it was Mr. Spock who spoke. “Indeed,” he said. “And why is that, Lieutenant?”
“Sir,” I said, “I believe there are only three people on this ship who would be qualified to do the job. Mr. Scott, Lieutenant Uhura, and myself. Of the three I’m the only one small enough to fit down those ducts.”
The captain was silent for a moment; then he looked at Uhura and Mr. Scott; and then the three of them burst out laughing. Mr. Spock, of course, simply looked slightly offended by their hilarity; while I sat there feeling baffled and hurt.
Finally the captain wiped his eyes. “I do beg your pardon, Lieutenant,” he said. “I don’t intend to disparage your offer. Uhura?”
She glanced at me and smiled. “In my opinion Lieutenant M’Ress is right, Captain,” she said. “She knows the equipment as well as Mr. Scott or I, and physically she is the smallest.”
“Lassie,” Mr. Scott said to me, “I dinna think ye know what you’re getting yourself into. There’s no life support on that station. None. Gravity, yes, but no air or heat. You’ll have to go in wearing an environment suit...”
“Not possible, Mr. Scott,” Spock interrupted. “Given the diameter of the ducts, the lieutenant’s body size, and the noted agility of her species, she has an excellent chance of negotiating the passages, but not in an environment suit. The bulk would be too great.”
“The station is fairly small,” Uhura pointed out. “Would it be possible to establish a temporary life-support system?”
“Possibly,” Spock said. “There are other difficulties to consider. Because of the station’s high RF fields, it will not be possible to transport the lieutenant directly to the work area. She will have to enter here.” He highlighted the only space of any size, a small chamber perhaps two meters to a side, on the station’s underside. It was nestled in among the massive scaffolding that supported a bank of twelve transmitter dishes. “This is the station’s monitoring room,” Spock said. “The diagnostic and monitoring panels are here. It is also the only place at which the service ducts intersect. Lieutenant M’Ress will have to enter the duct here, and make her way to the repair site. It is a linear distance of perhaps sixty meters; though of course there are numerous bends. By closing off the other ducts in the monitor room, it should be possible to flood the passageway with sufficient air to sustain her until she has completed the work.”
“Life support isn’t just air,” the captain pointed out. “What about temperature?”
“Extreme cold will not be a problem,” Mr. Spock said. “Extreme heat may be. Conduction and convection from the equipment will quickly heat the mass of air. For the equipment, the temperature will be within the acceptable operating range, provided it is not sustained for an extended time. For the lieutenant, however, the temperature will soon become uncomfortably, perhaps dangerously, high. Given my knowledge of Caitian physiology, I estimate no more than an hour before dangerous hyperthermia may result.”
I swallowed. Is it too late, I wondered, to go back to being a sponge?
“Lieutenant?” the captain asked. “Now that you know all the facts, you can reconsider. No one will blame you if you choose to back out.”
I gazed at him for a moment. Then, somehow, I found myself shaking my head. “No, sir,” I said. “I’ll do the job.” For better or worse, sponge time was definitely over.
###
I crawled. Like a ghost, in dark tunnels whose sides nearly touched my shoulders, I crawled. It was too cramped for hands and knees, so I crawled on elbows and knees. The air I sucked in through the filter mask was already warm, going on hot, and it stank of metal. My headlamp sent a bobbing beam of light ahead of me, reflecting back from yet another damn curve that I’d have to snake around.
We had done it. Mr. Scott and his engineers had transported over first, in environment suits, with tanks of air and meteor patches. With the termini of all the other tunnels temporarily sealed, they had pumped my route full of air; and then set up a small chemical rebreather to scrub out the carbon dioxide. That was the theory, anyway; sixty linear meters into the station, I rather doubted there would be enough circulation for the equipment to make much difference.
And then I’d beamed over to the monitor room, into a space already coffin-sized, and made smaller by the equipment that was supposed to keep me alive. Mr. Scott and his engineers had beamed back to the ship, so as not to put any more strain on the makeshift life support system; I was on my own. 
Before I’d left the ship, Mr. Spock had sprung one last surprise on me. The ducts I’d be crawling through were packed with sensitive electronics, to which dust, hairs and so on are pure death. That was one reason why the station was normally kept in vacuum. The air they’d pumped in had been absolutely pure, microscopically filtered. And I’d have to keep it that way.
To that end I had been outfitted with a “clean suit.” White in color, made of a stretchy, slick material, it fit like a coat of hull enamel, and it covered me from head to toe. Even my tail had its own form-fitting sleeve. Normally I, like most fur-bearing species, don’t like to wear anything quite that tight and enclosing; but something more baggy would have slowed me down, hampered my movements in the tight space, and so I’d acquiesced. My face was covered by a filter mask, which made the act of breathing even more difficult than it might have been. A headlight strapped around my forehead completed the ensemble. Behind me, at the end of a length of line, I dragged the padded case containing the ten new subspace emitters. I’d needed my hands free, and I hadn’t wanted the line to get caught in my legs, so I’d tied it to the end of my tail. The box slid smoothly on the deckplates.
I had studied the plans of the station minutely, memorizing every detail, while waiting for Mr. Scott to complete his work; and as I crawled I stopped every few seconds, to read hatch numbers. I would probably carry the number I was looking for to the grave: 37-MJ6. It might as well have been branded on my brain.
I think it took most of eternity to reach the correct panel; though it was probably closer to twenty minutes. The panel was to my right, about half a meter long, and curved. If it had become vacuum welded...
I rested my aching arms for just a moment, my cheek against the deckplates; then I reached down to my belt.
The first item I brought up, inching it past my stomach in the tight space, was my communicator. A normal communicator probably wouldn’t have worked here, because of the RF noise; but this was my own modified model. I’d had it for several years, from my early days on the Farragut, and I’d done a considerable amount of tinkering on it. I had managed to increase the range by about fifty percent, and the signal gain as well. The only drawback (and the reason why Starfleet didn’t much care for my modifications) was that it used power perhaps twice as fast. Despite that, I had done the same modification, quietly, for several other officers. What Starfleet didn’t know...
I set it near my head and managed to lever open the cover with a clawless, clumsy, gloved finger. “M’Ress to Enterprise.”
The reply was static-filled, garbled, but just barely audible. “Enterprise. Kirk here. What’s your status, Lieutenant?” He didn’t sound surprised to hear from me; he must have known about my tinkering.
“I’m at the panel, sir,” I said. I glanced down at a small instrument strapped around my left wrist. “Temperature in the duct is approximately thirty and rising. Temperature in the suit is...appreciably higher. Beginning to open the panel now.”
I managed to get my slim toolkit up to chest level and opened it. The panel, all the panels around me, were secured by flush-fitting bolts with star-shaped heads. Fortunately I’d been well-outfitted by Mr. Scott, and I quickly selected the proper tool. Its handle was practically touching my faceplate as I fitted it to the first bolt.
That first bolt resisted my strength with iron will for nearly thirty seconds, and I wondered darkly what idiot had used a power tool to secure a maintenance hatch. Then, with a crack that echoed through the tunnels, it came free. I eased it out and placed it carefully by my head; the other three were more cooperative. Then the panel...just hung there.
I cursed, under my breath, in Caitian. The damn thing ought to have fallen off; but it remained obstinately in place. It was flush-fitting, and had nothing so convenient as a handle; I’d have to pry it off. I searched through my toolkit. A knife, perhaps; a thin prybar; an old-fashioned flat-blade screwdriver; what did I have that was narrow and thin? Nothing? Nothing at all? Mr. Scott had failed me?
For almost a minute I lay there, thinking furiously. To come all that way, and to be blocked by such a simple thing...
Simple, yes; and it demanded a simple answer. The most natural answer available to me. With a sigh I raised my right hand, encased in a four-fingered glove made of that same white material, and mag-sealed to the sleeve. Slowly I expressed my claws. Even though blunt, they cut cleanly through the fabric. I inserted then under the panel’s edge—three at the top, and the thumb on the left side—and pulled. The hatch broke loose, hitting me square in the head. This time I yowled a few Caitian words that I was glad my mother couldn’t hear.
“Lieutenant?” came the captain’s voice. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “The panel is off. Beginning the replacement now.”
The small instrument around my left wrist had a triple function: a thermometer, and a pair of dials indicating the oxygen and carbon dioxide levels in the air around me. I glanced at it, and my heart began to hammer. The temperature was up over thirty-five, the oxygen was declining rapidly, and the carbon dioxide increasing just as rapidly. As I’d feared, there wasn’t enough circulation.
Caitians don’t sweat. Covered head to toe with fur, evaporative cooling wouldn’t do us much good anyway. Instead, overheated, we pant. Only in this case my instinct, my need, to do so had to be rigidly controlled; it would just make the air go foul even more rapidly. Breathing in quick sips through my nose, I could almost feel my body temperature rising.
I turned over onto my back, spread my legs as far as they would go, and pulled on my tail. Near the end I caught hold of the line, untied it, and pulled the case up between my legs. Somehow I managed to transfer it up over my stomach and chest, my chin and forehead. I turned over onto my stomach again to open it.
The so-called “psych boys” at Starfleet Command (more formally the Spaceflight Psychology Research Department) have a number of charming ways to test new cadets for any sign of common phobias and fixations. My only one, I recalled, had been a slight fear of deep water; it’s a Caitian thing. Funny, I clearly remembered the claustrophobia test; and I remembered emerging completely untroubled, and a bit bored, from the dark box. Maybe I could suggest a few refinements to the test...
I got the box open. Inside, nestled in foam padding, were ten flat black boxes, each about the size of my hand. Subspace emitter units; “coils.” At the far ends, the ends buried in the foam, were the gold-plated multi-pin contacts.
In the now-open inspection hatch, an identical set confronted me, standing in a neat row in angled sockets. There was absolutely no way to tell, visually, that they were burnt out; we had to rely on the diagnostic software for that pronouncement.
I lifted my right hand to pull one of the emitters from its socket; and as I did, I noticed that the hand was shaking. I had to grasp it with the other to stop it. And that brought the wrist instrument into view. Temperature was now over forty, oxygen down almost to the red zone, and carbon dioxide already into the red zone.
Get to work, idiot, I told myself angrily. Death by hypoxia or hyperthermia was all the same; the operative word is “death.” Oh, to be a sponge again...or even to have one there beside me, soaked in cold water.
One by one I pulled the emitters from their sockets and replaced them, pushing the new ones in firmly. There was only one way they could fit, so that was no problem. I put the bad ones back into the case.
Dark spots were beginning to float in front of my eyes as I pushed the last emitter home. But I wasn’t finished yet. “M’Ress to Enterprise,” I called. “The new emitters are in. Ready for test.”
“Acknowledged,” the captain said. “Stand by.”
Perhaps I heard the hum as the new emitters powered up; I was mainly hearing the blood roaring in my ears. I waited for thirty agonizing seconds. Then the captain said, “You’ve done well, Lieutenant. The new emitters check out one hundred percent. Get the panel back on and get out of there.”
“Yes sir,” I said. He didn’t have to ask me twice. I fumbled for the tool and the bolts.
I had trouble. The tool kept falling out of my hand, which was nerveless and clumsy. I almost lost two of the bolts. It was forever before I got the panel into place and tightened down, and another eternity before I got my toolkit back on my belt, and the box closed up and tied to my tail again. I didn’t give a damn about the old emitters, frankly, and I would cheerfully have left them there; unfortunately Mr. Scott wanted them. I think he wanted to use them as evidence of the station designers’ incompetence. I started to turn around...
This time my curse was in Terran. “Dammit!”
“Lieutenant!” the captain called. “What’s wrong?”
I was almost weeping. “I can’t turn around, Captain. It’s too tight.”
I hadn’t considered that. I’d counted on my famous Caitian agility, the flexibility of my spine, and my small size to manage it. But I couldn’t. No matter how I twisted, the tunnel was too tight to bend myself double in. And that suddenly, in that instant of realization, all the claustrophobia the psych boys said I didn’t have, came rushing up, grabbed my throat and squeezed.
“Lieutenant! Lieutenant M’Ress!” the captain’s voice was stern and uncompromising. “Listen to me. You’re going to have to back out. Do you hear me? You got in, so you can back out.”
“Y...yes, sir,” I managed to say. Finally I straightened myself out. Elbows and knees. And I backed up. I backed up over the case, my legs spread out, and I kept going, pulling my tail back uncomfortably between my legs. I picked up my communicator and jammed it, still transmitting, into the strap that held the filter mask to my face. And I kept backing.
“That’s it!” the captain coached. “Keep moving. Spock, keep a fix on her. You’re doing fine, Lieutenant. Just keep moving.”
To this day, I don’t know how far I got. Maybe halfway. My elbows and knees kept slipping out from under me, and my visual field was like looking down a gun barrel, more than half black; with brightly-colored afterimages obscuring the rest. The last time I read my meter, or at least the last time the numbers meant anything to me, the temperature was up to fifty, the oxygen was well into the danger zone, and the carbon dioxide was approaching lethal concentrations.
Finally my strength gave out. My arms and legs collapsed, and I fell on my stomach in the tunnel, like a beached starfish. 
“M’Ress!” Captain Kirk called. “You’ve stopped moving. What’s wrong?”
“Can’t...can’t go any farther, sir,” I mumbled. “Can’t get up.”
“You have to!” he said. “Get up, Lieutenant! That’s an order! Get up and fight!”
I tried; but my arms wouldn’t take my weight, and I came crashing back down. “Sorry, sir,” I said. “Can’t make it.”
“Spock!” the captain was shouting. “Can we get a transporter lock?”
“The RF interference is too great, Captain. The signal would be fatally corrupted.”
They’re going to have a devil of a time recovering my body, I thought hazily. See where volunteering gets you...
“Mr. Spock,” the captain said, “if we shut down the station’s transmitters, would that clear the RF sufficiently?”
“Yes, sir,” Spock said. “But the interruption of subspace traffic...it would cause chaos.”
“Subspace traffic be damned,” Captain Kirk said. “Do it. Shut down the transmitters and get her out of there.”
“Aye, sir,” Spock said.
My last thoughts, as the transporter took me, were ones of amazement. I couldn’t believe he was doing this. For a mere lieutenant j.g.?
###
I have no memory of being rushed to sickbay, nor of being stripped and immediately put into a cold bath; which is good, because I hate baths. I do know, because I was told, that my body temperature had climbed to almost forty-four degrees (Caitian normal is thirty-eight), I was desperately dehydrated, and my heart came very close to stopping from carbon dioxide poisoning.
I spent the next five days in sickbay, weak as a kitten. Near the end of that time Captain Kirk came to see me, smiling, to report that my repair had been entirely successful; and to hand me the message from Starfleet, congratulating me and promoting me to full lieutenant. Which was good, of course; but all in all, I’ve always thought that there must be an easier way to get promoted...
###
“M’Ress?” the voice said. “Are you all right?”
I shook my head hard. Damn flashbacks! Then I looked up. Lieutenant Commander Uhura stood beside me, a data pad and a stack of cartridges in her hand, looking down at me in concern. I wondered in embarrassment how long she’d been standing there.
“Um—yes, fine, thank you,” I said. “I was—uh—studying the briefing book.”
“I wouldn’t think you’d need to,” she said. “You of all people.” She crossed the room and sat down, the data cartridges cascading across the table. As she reached across to corral them, she said, “Listen, M’Ress, I heard about your promotion...”
I held up my hand. “I know. You heard, you’re sorry, I appreciate that, and I’m doing all right. Okay?”
“Uh—okay,” she said, momentarily flustered. Probably I shouldn’t have spoken so brusquely, especially to my best friend within a hundred light-years; but all this earnest sympathy was beginning to get to me.
“Then—uh—let’s get on with the briefing,” Uhura went on. “If you want to talk later, when we’re off duty...”
“Thanks,” I said, smiling. “You’ll definitely be the first person I ask. But I really am doing all right.”
“Good.”
...Except, of course, that I was lying through my pointed little carnivore’s teeth. Obviously this promotion business was bothering me, even more than I’d cared to admit. One way or another it was going to have to find a resolution, or I’d have no peace with myself. Not to mention what it would do to my work efficiency.
All right, I thought savagely. If a transfer is what it takes, then a transfer is what it will be. And maybe, with any luck, this time I wouldn’t have to nearly lose my life as well.

CHAPTER TWO
		If Deep Space Two had a sign on it, it would be “please pardon our dust.”
It was Commander Spock’s bridge shift (and mine) when we broke out of warp near the edge of the dismal little system in which the station was almost the only solid object.
“On course to DS 2,” Sulu reported. “ETA twenty-two minutes at full impulse.”
“Very well,” Mr. Spock said. He turned to me. “Lieutenant, please contact the station and request docking clearance.”
“Aye, sir,” I said. I fitted my specially-molded wireless earphone and began to do that. Meanwhile Spock reached for the intercom.
“Captain Kirk to the bridge, please.”
It was an unassuming, not to say drab, system, right on the edge of Federation space; beyond was unexplored territory, and beyond that, the dust clouds that hide the center of the galaxy. All the area in between was potential Federation real estate; unless, of course, someone else held title already. So far, no one seemed to. 
The station itself was in a close orbit around a small, cooling black dwarf star. During its red giant stage, some millions of years ago, the star had absorbed whatever inner planets it might once have had; leaving its near orbits conveniently empty. But it also gave the station a definite middle-of-nowhere loneliness that I found slightly depressing. Hard to believe that someday it would be the cultural and economic center of a thriving, heavily colonized sector. Though probably not in this Caitian’s lifetime.
Captain Kirk arrived on the bridge less than a minute after Mr. Spock’s call; the turbolift hissed open to Mr. Sulu’s call of “Captain on the bridge.”
“We are approaching Deep Space Two,” Spock reported gravely.
“Thank you, Mr. Spock,” the captain replied with equal gravity; but there was a twinkle in his eye. He turned to me. “Lieutenant?”
“The station reports us clear to dock at berth two, Captain,” I reported. “And I have Admiral Conroy coming on visual.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Main viewer, please.”
The large viewscreen rippled and cleared. The face that looked out of it was smiling broadly. A human male, perhaps sixty or so years old (I’m a bad visual judge of human age); his hair was white, anyway, and his eyes large, piercing and bright blue.
“Jim Kirk,” he said, or maybe “uttered” is a better word. “How long has it been?”
“Twelve years, give or take,” the captain said. “How are you, Admiral?”
“Getting by,” Admiral Conroy said. “Out here at the edge of things.” His eyes narrowed. “So—Captain Kirk again, eh, Jim?”
“For the moment.”
“How did you manage to Finagle another command? The last I heard, old Nogura wanted your butt behind a desk.”
“He did,” the captain said. “But...”
“But, when the homeworld is threatened with destruction, and the only ship in the sector with a prayer of getting there in time is the one you used to command,” the admiral finished shrewdly.
“That’s about it,” the captain confirmed. “And when you’ve saved said homeworld...”
“You’re in a position to make demands. Enough said. What have you got for me, Jim?”
“A major shipment of supplies,” the captain said. “Including that hull sheathing you’ve been shouting for.”
“Good,” Admiral Conroy said. “Damn good. Maybe we can finally get D-section sheathed and pressurized now.”
“We’ll begin transport as soon as we’re docked,” Captain Kirk promised.
“Good,” the admiral said again. “In the meantime, our station isn’t much to look at yet, but what facilities we have, your crew is welcome to use.”
“Thank you, Admiral,” the captain said. “I know they’ll be grateful. We’ve been in space a long time.”
“And I’ll be expecting you and your senior officers for dinner tonight. Nineteen hundred hours, officer’s dining room.”
“We’ll be there,” the captain said. “Kirk out.”
He waited until I’d broken the connection; then he collapsed into the center seat, his head in his hands. “Dear God,” he said. “Not another admiral’s dinner.”
“As you have yourself observed, Captain,” Spock said. “Duties.”
The captain sighed. “Duties, Mr. Spock,” he agreed.
“DS 2 coming on screen,” Sulu interrupted, and we all turned. Among the stars in the center of the screen was a slightly brighter, larger point. “Magnify,” the captain ordered, and Sulu did.
Someday in the far-flung future, Deep Space Two would be a massive open ring, about a kilometer in diameter and fifty meters or so in thickness, with six spokes connecting to a spherical command center at the hub. That, as I say, would be the future. For now, most of the ring was a skeleton, no skin at all. It looked like the “wire-frame” rendering of an incomplete computer-assisted-design project; but in this case the “wires” were girders and engineered structural members. Two of the six spokes were sheathed, and showed by their lights that they were in use; as was perhaps one contiguous third of the ring. The rest was open to space.
“We are seeing the results of ten years’ labor,” Mr. Spock commented. “Conditions have been unusually difficult. Especially the transportation of supplies.”
“Hello,” Sulu said. “Looks like we’ve got company.”
Again we all turned. The station’s slow rotation had brought the completed section of the ring directly opposite us. Evenly spaced around the ring were a number of docking ports, massive magnetic clamps and extensible pressure corridors. Or at least there would be someday. At the moment there were only three active. One of them was occupied by a small, nondescript vessel that was obviously the station’s lifeboat; really more of an overgrown shuttlecraft than a starship. The other...
As the rotation brought it into view, my first disdainful thought was, what’s that pile of junk doing so deep into space? And my second was, leaking air, most likely.
The ship was obviously quite old. Only about a third the size of Enterprise, it had no saucer section at all; just a roughly cylindrical primary hull with rounded ends. Its warp-drive nacelles were suspended below the hull, at angles of about forty-five degrees, on short, massive pylons. The hull was extensively pitted and stained, and appeared to have been crudely patched in several locations.
“What is she, Spock?” the captain asked.
“It appears to be a Bradbury-class exploration vessel, Captain,” Spock said. “Approximately thirty to forty years old. I was not aware that any of them were still in service.”
And this one looks ready for the salvage yards, I thought. Then I shook my head, angrily. Prejudice, I chided myself. You’re getting too used to a ship where everything is clean and new. Even Enterprise was getting painfully out-of-date and worn before the refit!
“Whose is she, I wonder?” the captain said idly.
Mr. Spock moved toward his library computer. “I shall endeavor to find out,” he said; but I’d been making myself useful again, and I interrupted.
“Don’t bother, Commander. The station computer lists her as USS Zelazny. Captain Mark Antilles. Currently engaged in charting and exploring this sector. They’re in for repairs and resupply.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Captain Kirk said. He sighed. “I suppose a courtesy call will be in order.”
“Indeed,” Spock said.
“Eventually,” the captain finished. “Take us in, Mr. Sulu.”
“Aye, sir,” Sulu said cheerfully. In fact he loved that kind of thing: next to combat, close-order maneuvers were his favorite party piece.
Indeed, it was a pleasure to watch as he maneuvered us in. Cutting impulse power to almost nothing, he delicately bent our path into a parabola matching the station’s spin. He aligned us with the pair of docking clamps until the delta-V was zero; then, with gentle taps on the port-side thrusters, he brought us up against them with the ease of a feather floating to earth. The deep, almost subsonic boom that echoed through the hull was entirely the magnetic clamps taking hold.
I had to repress an ugly pang of jealousy. Like all bridge officers, I am qualified to man the helm, and once in a while I even got the chance to do so, outside of the simulator; I am also a certified small-craft pilot, and a pretty good one if I do say so myself. But I would never have dared to even attempt such a maneuver. I’d probably have knocked the station out of its orbit. 
On the other hand, Sulu would probably be no good at all at field-stripping a communicator. It’s all relative.
“Reading all stop,” Sulu said. “Warp drive and impulse on warm idle. Welcome to Deep Space Two.”
Welcome to the end of the universe, I corrected silently.
“Nicely piloted as usual, Mr. Sulu,” Captain Kirk said. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived. Until our departure the bridge will maintain spacedock watches. Mr. Spock, will you please draw up a rotation plan for shore leave parties, so we won’t overtax the admiral’s limited facilities. Mr. Sulu, you will please join us for the admiral’s dinner?”
“Aye, sir,” Sulu said, with just a slight note of dejection in his voice.
The captain grinned. “Cheer up, Mr. Sulu. Consider it part of a potential captain’s training. Lieutenant M’Ress, will you please inform Mr. Scott that he may begin transferring the cargo at his convenience.”
“Aye, sir.”
“And also, please communicate the admiral’s invitation to Mr. Scott, Doctor McCoy and Commander Uhura, along with my strong hope that they’ll be able to attend.”
...Or face his wrath; I knew Captain Kirk very well. “Aye, sir.”
He turned away, then turned back. “Oh, and Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You’ll be attending the dinner as well.”
That took a few seconds to sink in; then I wheeled around in my chair. “Me, sir?” I asked incredulously.
He smiled broadly. “You, M’Ress. You are our most senior lieutenant; and as we discussed the other day, we’ve got to see about making you more visible. Call it the first lesson in being a command-level officer.”
“Uh—yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Out of the corner of my eye I caught Sulu shaking his head, a sardonic smile on his face. I could almost read his mind: you’ll be sorry!
Why was it I believed that?
 ###
I don’t know quite why it is, but it seems to be a fact of Starfleet, if not indeed nature: when attending an official dinner, men are expected to wear their best uniforms; but women are expected not to.
I stood before the mirror in my quarters, and I slowly turned a full circle, twisting my neck around to check for creases or wrinkles. Captain Kirk wanted more visible; he was going to get it.
It was a recent acquisition, from my last shore leave: a Caitian evening robe, calf-length, loose, flowing, open neck, made of a shimmering, metallic fabric, in bold triangles of gold, silver and bronze; and belted around the waist with gold links. That, and a gold collar around my neck. Was it a little much, for a half-built space station in the middle of nowhere? Probably. But if this didn’t get the admiral’s attention...you could call it practice, I suppose, for similar occasions closer to the center of things.
Actually, the problem of my promotion had not been uppermost in my mind, these last two weeks of our transit to DS 2. As something that I could not possibly do anything about, so far from home, I had somehow managed to shelve it and concentrate on my duty. I had made two forays into the depths of a Jeffries tube in the engineering hull, and each time had spent a half an hour or so flat on my stomach, replacing and testing subspace emitters. (A much more pleasant job, by the way, than the one that got me my last promotion: the Enterprise’s Jeffries tubes were large enough for a sentient being, had adequate ventilation, and if anything, were kept a little too cool, for the sake of the equipment.) Instead of a full-body clean suit, this time I’d been able to use a small deflector shield generator, not unlike the sterile field generator used in sickbay during surgery, and which I could insert my hands into like a pair of invisible gloves. The only drawback is a slight loss of fingertip sensitivity. The job had gone off with no problems; another glowing report for my service record. Yeah, right.
Other than that, just routine: duty shifts that usually passed without either receiving or sending any traffic (not this deep in space); routine maintenance duties; a few good games of tennis; attending a couple of musical performances and a Shakespeare revival; a book or two I’d been meaning to catch up on; a painting I’d been trying to finish; conversations, meals and whatnot; and losing a few more games of 3-D chess to Commander Spock. Whoever said that military life involves long periods of boredom interspersed with brief minutes of sheer terror, didn’t know the half of it. He never made long warp transits, that’s for sure.
I had never been to an admiral’s dinner before; senior or not, lieutenants are not commonly invited to such things. Captain Kirk was probably taking a big chance by including me, and I wondered uncomfortably if I was going to be snubbed all evening. The others would surely look out for me, especially Uhura; dragging me into the conversation by the tail if necessary. But still...I hoped I remembered all those lessons on the social graces that my mother had forced on me, all those years ago. At the time they certainly hadn’t sunk in. 
I was startled out of my thoughts by a strident whistle from the intercom. “Lieutenant M’Ress to the starboard airlock please.” It was the captain, he sounded peeved, and I was late. Quickly I turned around once again, to make sure; and then I left my quarters. An ensign, walking by with a data pad in his hands, stopped full in his tracks to stare; I felt his eyes on me until the turbolift doors closed behind me. I guess he’d never seen a Caitian evening robe before.
 ###
Admiral Conroy met us at the airlock. There were six of us who crossed the pressure corridor from Enterprise to DS 2 that evening; Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock, Dr. McCoy, Sulu, Uhura and myself. Mr. Scott, probably predictably, had begged off.
As I had expected, Uhura wasn’t in uniform either. She had chosen a kimono-like garment, floor-length, in a dazzling pattern of multicolored flowers; large shield-shaped gold earrings, and a strand of carved wooden beads that clicked faintly as she walked.
On our way over, Dr. McCoy had chivalrously offered me his arm, and I had taken it. Slightly ahead of us, and a little more awkwardly, I saw Sulu do the same for Uhura. I smiled inwardly. He could pilot a spaceship with the best of them, but he had a long way to go to match the doctor’s Southern charm.
I’d leaned close to McCoy. “How do I look, Doctor?” I whispered.
“Stunning,” he’d whispered back. “You’re definitely going to turn some heads tonight.”
“I suppose that’s a good thing,” I said. “Thanks, Doctor.”
Admiral Conroy stood just outside the airlock, his hands clasped behind his back. A few paces behind him stood a young man, dark-haired but otherwise nondescript except for a slightly officious expression, wearing the insignia of a lieutenant commander.
The admiral was shorter than he’d looked on the viewscreen, and possibly a bit younger. He smiled broadly and stepped forward, extending his hand to Captain Kirk. “Jim,” he said, as he pumped the captain’s arm. “It’s good to see you again.”
“And you too, Admiral,” the captain replied. “Allow me to introduce my senior officers. My first officer, Commander Spock.”
“Admiral,” Spock said gravely, nodding his head respectfully. 
The admiral nodded back, but knew enough about Vulcans not to officer to shake hands. “Commander,” he replied in kind.
“My chief medical officer, Dr. Leonard McCoy.”
The doctor’s hand did get a vigorous shake. “Doctor. My medical officer is a great fan of yours. He speaks very highly of your book on Fabrini medical techniques.”
“A modest effort,” Dr. McCoy said. “Thank you, Admiral.”
“My helmsman, Lieutenant Commander Sulu.”
“The best pilot in the fleet, eh, Commander?” the admiral asked with a smile.
Sulu grinned as he accepted that powerful handshake. “It’s been said, sir. Not by me.”
“My chief communications officer, Lieutenant Commander Uhura.”
Dr. McCoy had nothing on the admiral for charm; he actually bowed low, lifted Uhura’s hand, and kissed it. “Enchanted, my dear,” he said.
“Pleased to meet you, Admiral,” Uhura said; but I’d known her a long time, and what she was thinking was, Oh, brother!
“And finally, our senior lieutenant and second communications officer, Lieutenant M’Ress.”
The admiral hesitated visibly; I wondered what was going through his mind. Was it because I was Caitian, or because I was only a lieutenant? Whichever it was, his natural gallantry finally won; he bowed before me, and lifted my furry hand, claws and all, to his lips. “Charmed to meet you, Lieutenant.”
My Terran went missing for a few seconds. When it came back I murmured something like “It’s a pleasure, sir.”
“My chief engineer, Mr. Scott, sends his apologies,” Captain Kirk said. The tone in his voice promised mayhem for Commander Scott later. “He wished to supervise the transport of your supplies personally.”
“Quite understandable,” the admiral said affably. “And I’d like you all to meet my aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Commander Merton.”
The little weasel actually clicked his heels together, before executing a neat little bow. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said crisply.
“And now, if you’ll all follow me,” the admiral said, “we’ll be on our way. Our crew quarters, offices and such are on the third level. This way, please.”
We followed. The airlock opened out into what would one day be the Promenade; a wide, open area, two levels high, that entirely circled the station. Again, however, that was the future; now it ended rather abruptly at two ends, in blank hullmetal pressure walls. Along the Promenade the walls were divided into many small, dark spaces, closed off with barred gates. Eventually, it was hoped, they would be the shops and offices of independent entrepreneurs. Right now, thought, the ghost-town effect was rather dismal; there was almost no one in sight, and our footsteps (or at least some of them) echoed hollowly.
The turbolift was freight-sized, and therefore big enough for all of us. It was a short ride to the third level. Here things were more familiar, at least to people used to starships; narrow grey-painted corridors lined with blank sliding doors. Up here a few more of the station crew were in evidence, hurrying past us on obviously urgent errands, greeting the admiral in passing. 
The sign beside the door said “Officer’s Dining Room,” and the admiral ushered us in with a grand gesture. “Welcome,” he said.
Impressive, was my initial thought. Especially for the middle of nowhere.
The room was impressive. In the back was a long table with a full twenty place settings, actual china embossed with the insignia of the station; and crystal goblets and wine glasses. Closer to us there were smaller circular tables loaded with canapés, a punch bowl, and so on. Several enlisted crewmembers stood by, one behind a bar, the others, with towels over their arms, standing like statues near the dining table. Frankly, it was a better spread than I thought they could manage.
“Make yourselves at home,” the admiral said. “I’ll return shortly. I’ve got to meet our other guests.” And he exited, taking his shadow with him.
Well, here you are, I told myself. Now what?
My fellow officers were mixing, helping themselves to canapés, and all (except Spock) were crowding around the bar. I shrugged. Make myself at home, I guess.
Eschewing the bar, I had helped myself to a glass of fruit juice from the buffet, and I was gazing dubiously at the canapés, when I heard a soft voice behind me. “It is good to see you again, M’Ress.” What made me turn around quickly wasn’t just the words; it was the fact that the voice was speaking my own language.
The figure that stood there was Caitian, of course; no one else can even begin to speak our language. She was a little taller than me, and much older; sixty-three Terran years, to be exact. Her mane was mostly white, and she wore it longer than mine, fastened behind her head with a plain black ornament. There was a little grey on her face, too, around her eyes and muzzle. Her evening robe was similar to mine in cut, but of a shimmering blue, the color of Terra’s sky, or Cait’s. The collar around her neck was silver.
“Commodore!” I said, with pleasure, also in Caitian. Then I remembered my manners. I set my glass down and stepped forward, raising my hands, palm-out, to the level of my face. She did the same. We met in the middle and clasped hands, my right to her left and vice-versa, intertwining our fingers; then slowly we expressed our claws, until the tips just barely pricked the backs of the others’ hands. We held that pose for a few seconds, then released our grip and stepped back.
The others were staring at us, and Commander Spock was looking frankly fascinated. I guess they’d never before seen the traditional ceremonial greeting of two Caitians who were acquainted but not related.
Captain Kirk sauntered up, drink in hand. “Obviously you two know each other,” he said, smiling.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Captain Kirk, this is Commodore M’Rael of the Starfleet Engineering Corps. The commodore sponsored me for the Academy.” She was also, in case you haven’t guessed, the one who succeeded in convincing the Quartermaster that Caitians do not wear boots.
“A pleasure, Commodore,” Captain Kirk said. “You’ll be pleased to know that Lieutenant M’Ress is one of my most trusted and efficient officers. I’ve had nothing but commendations for her work.”
“Indeed,” Commodore M’Rael said, smiling. “This I knew; I have monitored her progress closely.”
“What brings you out so far, Commodore?” I asked hurriedly. Frankly I find third-person statements of admiration to be rather embarrassing.
“This station’s difficulties,” she replied. “Many years ago I oversaw the construction of Cait’s orbiting freight and passenger transfer facility. Perhaps you are familiar with it, Captain.”
“Indeed I am, Commodore,” Captain Kirk said. “I had the pleasure of touring it during my brief tenure as an admiral. An impressive structure.”
“I thank you,” the commodore said. “Starfleet believed that my experience would be of benefit to the construction of this station. Because of the isolation the work has been quite difficult, and has fallen badly behind schedule.”
“Mr. Scott will be sorry he missed you, Commodore,” the Captain said. “He may want to speak with you before we depart.”
“I would be honored, Captain,” the commodore said.
Captain Kirk smiled. “I’m certain you two will have things to discuss privately,” he said. “Please excuse me.” And he stepped away.
We waited until he was out of earshot; and then we switched to Caitian. I’m not quite sure why, when we were both so proficient with Terran; probably because we both so seldom got the opportunity to speak the native tongue. “I am very pleased to see you, Commodore,” I said. “I had no idea you were here.”
“I have not been, for long,” she replied. “It has been only a month. I am pleased to see you also. You are looking well.”
“I thank you. You are also.”
“As well as I might, at my age,” she replied, with a needle-toothed smile. “Captain Kirk was quite correct. I am extremely pleased by the progress of your career. Especially your work during the Enterprise refit. You have brought much honor to Cait, your family, and to me as your sponsor. It is as I expected.”
I bowed my head in thanks. “I am pleased to have lived up to your expectations.” I hesitated, and then I forged ahead. “Commodore, is it permissible to ask you a question?”
“Always, child.”
“You say that you have monitored my progress, and that you are pleased with it. Can you tell me, then, why my promotion was denied?”
She hesitated for a full ten seconds. Then, as she was about to reply, we heard a commotion at the door; Admiral Conroy was returning with his “other guests.”
She said quickly, “Your question deserves an answer; but now, I think, is not the time or place. I have offices on this level. Come to see me tomorrow, my child. I will secure your captain’s permission. We will speak then, at length.”
I bowed my head, repressing a most human sigh. “As you say, Commodore.”
She reached out and brushed my cheek with the back of her hand. Then, abruptly, she switched to Terran. It was a signal; back to business. “Please allow me to see to your menu tonight, Lieutenant. The food processors at the station are not too imaginative, but I always travel with a number of good programs from the homeworld.”
“I’d be very grateful, Commodore,” I said. In truth I had been worried about that. I’d expected to have a choice: to consume something unappetizing, or to make a scene by requesting something different. The commodore would save me from that.
But then, that suddenly, all thoughts of the dinner, the commodore and everything else were driven completely out of my head. I’d glanced across the room, over at the newcomers who had entered with the admiral; and as I saw them, or rather one of them, my heart tried to stop beating.
There were three of them, all in Starfleet uniform; a middle-aged woman, an older man, and a younger man. It was on the latter, with the insignia of a lieutenant commander on his shoulder, that my eyes locked; and I found myself moving toward him as if pulled by magnets. “Joel?” I said quietly, half to myself. Then a little louder, “Can it be...Joel?”
He glanced over at me, without recognition for just a few seconds. And yes, it was Joel. Nine years older or so; a few lines on his narrow, almost triangular face; a little more of his curly dark hair gone, raising his forehead even more than I remembered. Joel Aaron Abrams.
Then he did recognize me. “M’Ress!” he said incredulously. “Can it possibly my little M’Ress?”
“Of course it is,” I said, smiling. “How many other Caitians do you know?”
His face lit up on that same huge smile I remembered so well, those same little lines forming at the corners of his small pale-blue eyes. He reached out to grip my hands. “M’Ress!” he said again. “It’s been forever! How are you?”
The others were staring, and frankly, not all the gazes were quite friendly. The other man and woman, who had entered with Joel, were looking at him and me with an expression that was half surprise and half...what? Displeasure? At the time I didn’t know what, and in the pleasure of the reunion I didn’t take time to figure it out. I wish now I had. Great Goddess, how I wish I had! But right then, my eyes and attention were all on Joel.
Beside us, the admiral cleared his throat, perhaps a little bit testily. “Excuse us, Admiral,” Joel said hurriedly. He glanced down at me “Is it still lieutenant?” he asked me quietly.
I nodded; he couldn’t have known otherwise. I don’t wear rank bars with a full-length evening robe. “Yes, it is.”
“Lieutenant M’Ress and I are old friends, Admiral. We attended the Academy together. She graduated at the top of the class. I didn’t.”
“Quite all right,” the admiral said expansively. “Old friends can turn up on the strangest places.” He raised his arms, gathering my shipmates together around him. “Captain Kirk, everyone, I’d like you to meet our friends from the Zelazny. I’ve asked them to join us this evening. This is the first officer, Commander Olivia Edgeworth.”
She was middle-aged, as I said, about fifty-five or so; dark hair with a touch of grey, and a narrow, almost pinched-looking face with large green eyes. There was something about her that I didn’t quite like, even at first glance; possibly the fact that I couldn’t catch her eye. Her gaze slid away from mine whenever I tried. On Cait, that would have been unforgivable; but humans have different standards, I’ve found. She bowed her head and smiled tightly. “Hello, everyone,” she said, her voice a little shrill for my taste. “Captain Antilles sends his apologies. He was held up by some personnel problems.”
“The chief engineer, Lieutenant Commander Joel Abrams.”
Joel smiled shyly, as he always did in crowds, and bobbed his head. “Hello,” he said simply.
“And the chief medical officer, Dr. Richard Enyeart.”
The doctor was well into his seventies, his hair white, his face sallow and rather morose. He nodded and essayed a small, sad smile. Clearly he didn’t like being the center of attention. That didn’t last long, though; as soon as the admiral had completed the tiresome task of introductions, Dr. McCoy took Dr. Enyeart by the arm and steered him toward the bar. They’d be engaged in their gruesome shop talk for hours, if permitted.
I retrieved my almost-forgotten glass of fruit juice and accompanied Joel to the bar. I watched, repressing a shudder, as he was served his old favorite: scotch and soda, no ice. “Lieutenant Commander now, eh?” I asked. Was that perhaps a tiny note of envy in my voice? Probably.
“Almost two years ago,” he said. “What about you, M’Ress? How is your career going?”
“I’m still doing time at the comm board, I’m afraid,” I told him with a wan smile.
“That’ll pass,” he said with assurance. “I know you—you’re too good to be stuck there forever.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said. “Lately I’ve had cause to wonder. Goddess! We’ve got so much to catch up on!”
“Years,” he agreed. “And very full ones.” He glanced over my shoulder then, and his expression suddenly changed. I followed his eyes, and I caught Commander Edgeworth looking at us over the rim of a glass, daggers in her eyes. As she caught my glance she quickly looked away. What in the world—?
“...But not here,” Joel said, as smoothly as if he’d never paused. “Later. There’s an Andorian cafe on the promenade—the only business open so far. We can talk there.”
I sighed. This was becoming a habit; obviously it was Put Off M’Ress Day. Not that I really wanted the admiral and everyone else listening in on our private memories, some of which were...well, private. “All right,” I agreed. “Later.”
He smiled and squeezed my hand. Whatever else we might have managed to say at that point was interrupted by Admiral Conroy; he was clapping his hands together for attention. “All right, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Let’s take our seats, shall we? And we’ll see what my kitchen staff has arranged for us.”
I glanced around hurriedly, seeking Commodore M’Rael; she smiled slightly and made a small, sweeping, “don’t-worry” gesture with her hands. How she’d managed to make the arrangements that quickly I’ll never know, but made them she had. I would be able to swallow my dinner.
We all moved toward the big table. Admiral Conroy flitted around us like a traffic cop, guiding us to our seats, mixing us up like a good host is supposed to. The young crewmen along the wall suddenly sprang into life, proving that they were not indeed mannequins, and dinner was served.
I was dying to speak at least a few more words to Joel; but as fate would have it, I was seated at the opposite end of the table from him, in between Commodore M’Rael and Commander Merton, the admiral’s obsequious little cipher. I honestly don’t remember much of the meal; I have no real idea what the commodore had arranged for me to eat, except that I think it was fish, and someone kept my water glass filled. I had to hold up my part of the conversation, of course, with the commodore, and with Uhura, who was directly across from me; and even with Merton, when I couldn’t avoid it. I had to listen to Admiral Conroy’s supposedly funny stories, and chuckle warmly along with the rest. And I occasionally had to switch to Caitian to answer brief, almost subsonic asides from the commodore. Mostly they were comments about the admiral. Apparently our jovial host, in real life, was a stern taskmaster, and did not entirely approve of Starfleet encumbering him (as he put it) with Commodore M’Rael. They were seldom in agreement when it came to construction techniques and details. But mostly, in between it all, I thought about Joel.
I still often remembered my friendship with Joel Abrams; but in recent years, as I gained experience in human relations, some of the memories had become...troubling. Mostly because of a missed opportunity, or perhaps a barely-avoided tragedy, and the fact that I still couldn’t decide which one it would have been.
Members of the same class at Starfleet Academy tend to stick together pretty tightly. Mainly in self-defense, to be honest. To the upperclassmen you’re a “plebe,” fair game for what can be a particularly rough brand of hazing. (Or at least so I’m told.) When you get to be an upperclassman yourself, associating too much with the plebes is a dire social faux pas; and you’re expected to join right in on the hazing.(Which I never did; I’m not that kind of person.) In many ways, it’s an odious system; but it is a time-honored tradition, and it does serve to introduce the cadet to the niceties of the rank structure, which he or she will have to contend with until retirement.
But I digress. Joel Abrams and I were in the same class, and were about the same age (thirty-three Terran Standard years, that night as we suffered through Admiral Conroy’s dinner.) From the very beginning of our Academy days we were inseparable, even among our tight little group of friends. I was the only Caitian in my class, a situation which could have been somewhat lonely and awkward; but because of Joel, it wasn’t.
We went everywhere together, on our rare days of liberty. It was Joel who first convinced me to accompany him into the city of San Francisco, which I was a first afraid to do, because of the crowds and noise. And even farther; we visited Marin County, the redwoods, the Napa Valley, and my especial favorite Terran city, Monterey. I have no idea how many little cafes and coffee houses we closed down around us, talking and laughing deep into the night, before staggering back to the air shuttle, exhausted. I don’t like coffee, and my physical tolerance for alcohol has always been small, but that didn’t seem to hamper our adventures. It was also Joel who introduced me to tennis, which I still played; and coached me to a women’s singles championship our third year.
And then...well, I suppose it always happens, especially in an organization like Starfleet. We graduated, we were posted out on opposite sides of the Federation, and we lost touch. We promised to write, and for a while we did; but the difficulties of trying to find each other with messages was great (I ought to know); and soon...we stopped. I didn’t even know if he ever thought about me any more. Doubtless he, like me, had made other friends.
As for the troubling part...well, in the Academy I was young, and I suppose “naive” is a good description; in regard to human relations, painfully so. It was only years later, after a great deal of observation, that I thought back on my relationship with Joel...and I was embarrassed. It finally occurred to me: during those four years he had no human girlfriend.
Now I am certain, as much as anyone can be, that Joel Abrams was entirely heterosexual; and reasonably attractive, as I understand human standards. It occurred to me that the reason why he hadn’t had a human girlfriend was that he considered me his girlfriend.
The problem was, I hadn’t known it at the time. And that’s the embarrassing part. The social (and even biochemical) cues for romantic/sexual attraction are very different for humans and Caitians. In other words, he’d been transmitting, but my comm board hadn’t been receiving. And that (or at least it would be for me, if the situations were reversed) must have been terribly disappointing for him, as well as perplexing and ego-destroying. Or, of course, I could be entirely wrong, fooling myself. I’d had no way of knowing for sure, just suppositions based on observing the social life of two starships.
But if I wasn’t fooling myself, if my suppositions were correct...actually, I might have been in a worse dilemma if I had known at the time. You see...Then at least, I had a little trouble with the concept of inter-species romance. It wasn’t prejudice; it really wasn’t. If pressed, I would have to admit that such relationships are possible, and I knew that many of them work out very well. I did know about, and later met, Ambassador Sarek and Lady Amanda. But for myself, my own life and my own personal hopes, desires and ethos...I just couldn’t see it. Especially between species so biologically and physiologically different. Humans and Caitians are both mammals; but that’s about as far as the similarity goes. Time passes, opinions change; but during my Academy days I was absolutely certain: keep it inside your own species.
So...if I had known what Joel’s intentions were, I might have felt compelled to reject him, and there would have gone a beautiful friendship. It wouldn’t have been the same any more; couldn’t have been.
Except...years later, as I thought about it, it was not without a certain pang of regret. My fondness for Joel Abrams had been very deep; maybe, just maybe, I could have put aside my beliefs and been a little less dogmatic. I’d always thought I’d never know.
But now...as I glanced down the table as Joel, who was deep in conversation with Sulu and Spock, I had to wonder again. How different the last nine years could have been. Possibly...a lot less lonely. I do fine for friends; and I’ve always prided myself on being a solitary, self-sufficient individual; but there are times. As there aren’t a huge number of Caitians in Starfleet, I’d always expected that particular kind of loneliness to force me back home someday. Joel caught me looking at him, and he sent a smile and a wink my way; and my stomach did flip-flops again. I was really going to have to think about this...
Admiral Conroy was not a night person, it seemed; any more than I’m a morning one. Shortly after dessert (an exotic ice-cream creation which I did indulge in, unmodified, and liked) he stretched out his arms, yawned, and looked at the wall chronometer. “Well,” he said, “I’m sure we all have duty tomorrow...,” and the dinner was over. It must be wonderful to be an admiral; I wonder if I’ll ever really know?
Commodore M’Rael met me at the door, and took my hands. “It has been very pleasant seeing you again, my child,” she said in Caitian. “Do not forget—tomorrow, in my office. We will speak then.”
“I will be there, Commodore,” I said. “And...thank you for your assistance tonight.”
“You are welcome,” she smiled. “Good evening.” And she was gone.
Joel hung back, until Commander Edgeworth and Dr. Enyeart had already gone, the latter still in the company of Dr. McCoy. Then he stepped over, smiled, and linked his arm with mine. “Shall we?” he asked.
“One moment,” I said. I turned to Captain Kirk. “Sir, with your permission, Joel...Commander Abrams...and I have some things to...discuss.”
I don’t know what Captain Kirk thought I meant; or maybe I do. He smiled broadly. “Just be back in time for your duty shift tomorrow,” he said.
 ###
Krav’s Place was a dive; but it was popular.
As the only independent business open so far on DS 2, it could hardly be otherwise; everyone gets tired of processor food, once in a while.
Dark (I suppose “atmospheric” is a better word than “dingy”), the place was a collection of some twenty or so mismatched tables scattered randomly around a long counter. The artwork on the walls was abstract, brightly colored, and slightly revolting. The Andorian behind the counter (presumably Krav) was tall, slender, pale blue, and dour. His right antenna was twisted. Mutation or old injury, I couldn’t tell.
As we entered, Joel paused just inside to look around. The cafe was crowded, almost every table occupied, and he raked them all with his gaze, his expression...anxious, I suppose I’d have to say. A few seconds, though, and his face cleared; and then we entered.
“What were you looking for?” I asked him.
“Looking?” he echoed blankly. “Oh, for familiar faces. Zelazny crew. But nobody’s here.”
It appeared that there were indeed none; nor indeed any Enterprise crew either. The personnel of both ships wore the standard, current Starfleet uniform, but the DS 2 crew didn’t. They had modified the trousers and tunic into a one-piece burgundy jumpsuit, almost like the garment currently worn by Academy cadets. And everyone in the cafe, male and female, wore that uniform. More practical, I guessed, for the down-and-dirty work they no doubt did. A few of them looked up at Joel and me in benign curiosity; and more than a few pair of eyes lingered on me. I had to smile to myself, at the incongruity of wearing a formal evening robe and collar into a place like this.
“Reminds me of that coffeehouse in the Haight-Ashbury that we used to go into all the time,” Joel commented.
I nodded and chuckled in remembrance. I’d been a lot younger and a lot less discriminating then. The place had been called the Summer of Love; the decor was Early Packing Crate; and the clientele had been mostly young, angst-filled, frustrated artists and poets. At first they’d eyed our Academy uniforms with hostility. But the owner of the place, a refugee from the 1960’s who was a definite xenophile, had been thrilled to death to have a Caitian as a regular customer.
I’d gone back, during my time in San Francisco when I was on the refit team, and the owner of the place (a little more grizzled and vague) had still remembered me; but it wasn’t the same. In retrospect, of course, it couldn’t have been.
I wasn’t hungry, and the look of Krav’s Place made me even less so. Joel ordered a cup of Andorian coffee, black as ink (and probably tasting like it too); and I a cup of mild herbal tea. Funny, that’s just about what we used to order at the Summer of Love, too. We found a table in the rear, away from the crowd.
Joel reached across the table and took my hand. The feel of his bare, slightly rough hand against my fuzzy one brought back a flood of old memories, enough to make my heart ache within me. “I can’t tell you what it means to see you again, M’Ress,” Joel said. “I’ve really missed you.”
“And I’ve missed you too,” I said. I was just now beginning to realize exactly how much. “A lot.”
He wasn’t moving his hand from atop mine, and I wasn’t going to ask him to. “So tell me about it,” he said. “The last nine years. How’s my favorite Caitian’s life and career going?”
I tried; but how do you condense nine years of experiences into a thousand words or less? You hit the highlights, that’s how. It helps a lot if the person you’re talking to has had roughly the same kind of experiences. I told him about the Farragut, the Enterprise, and the experiences that had gotten me my two promotions. I told him about the refit, my months of shuttling back and forth from San Francisco to Spacedock every day. And I told him about the first year or so of the Enterprise’s second five-year mission, which, as far as I was personally concerned, had been fairly uneventful. Except for V’Ger, of course; but there wasn’t much I could tell him about V’Ger that he didn’t already know, or was still classified. Everybody in the Federation knew the basic story.
“It’s funny,” he said, when I finally wound down. He lifted his hand to signal for a refill for both of us, then he covered my hand again. I shuddered as the lugubrious Andorian poured more black ink into Joel’s cup. Somebody was going to be awake all night, that was for sure.
Joel went on, “Our paths might have crossed a lot sooner. I almost ended up on the Enterprise refit team.”
“Why ‘almost’?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Frankly, I thought Zelazny was more of a challenge.”
I almost choked on my tea. I stared at him, incredulous. “That floating scrap heap was more challenging than Enterprise?” I demanded. “Are you insane?”
He grinned. “It’s been said,” he replied. “Actually, just keeping her in space is a constant challenge. And she’s not that bad. She’ll make Warp Five on a good day with a following wind.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, unconvinced.
“—And I think I’ve finally got her antimatter containment field stabilized.”
“Always a plus,” I commented. “All right, your turn. What about your last nine years, Commander?”
He rubbed the side of his nose, a gesture I remembered quite well. He said, “Well, the last time you and I managed to find each other with a message, I had just been posted to that old dilithium freighter—the John Sutter—as a junior engineer’s mate.”
I nodded; I remembered that. It was his first posting out of the Academy, as the Farragut had been mine. On the whole, I’d been luckier. Much.
“We did the run from Coridan to the Alpha Centauri fuel depot,” he went on. “A month each way. Five round trips a year. And I did it for four solid years.”
I winced. “How did you get your parole?”
He paused for more dubious liquid refreshment before he went on. “Well, by that time I had managed to claw my way up to lieutenant j.g.—er, if you’ll excuse the expression.”
I gave him my best dagger-toothed smile. “Maybe.”
“Um—yes. We happened to be on the Centauri end of the run when I heard that the Alpha spacedocks had a opening for an engineer with experience in life-support systems. Which, you probably remember, was my Academy major.”
I nodded again. He used to wax quite eloquent—in his opinion, anyway—on the subject, at the slightest provocation. “So you jumped at it.”
“‘Jumped’ is too mild a term. ‘Flung myself bodily’ might be better. Anyway, I did that for about three years, getting promoted to full lieutenant along the way. Then I took another opening, in warp-drive mechanics. I heard about the Enterprise project, and I’d been sort of offered a position, and I was thinking about it, when they brought the Zelazny out of mothballs for this survey. I got involved in refitting her, then I decided it was time to ship out again, that I’d been hanging around spacedock too long. I was about due, so they just promoted me and made me chief engineer. The rest is history.”
“How has the mission been? Difficult?”
“Not too bad,” he said. “Of course, just keeping the ship spaceworthy is a full-time job, so I haven’t gotten involved too deeply with the survey work. But it’s generally been quite successful. In the last year and a half we’ve fully surveyed and mapped thirty systems. So far we’ve found eleven habitable planets, and five terraformable ones.”
“Not a bad average.”
“The last survey, though...didn’t go quite as well. We...lost a man.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Who was he?”
“Lieutenant Commander Enrique Morada,” he said. “He was our anthropology-paleontology officer. They’d beamed down to a class-M planet. A real paradise, apparently; temperate climate, lots of native vegetation and animal life, perfect colony material. Henry was excavating a fossil bed—and a gravel bank gave way underneath him. He fell almost fifty meters. Killed instantly.”
There was pain in his voice, and I squeezed his hand. “A friend?” I guessed.
What he said, simply, after a few seconds, was “Yes.” But there was something else in his voice...some other feeling that I couldn’t quite identify. I finally decided it would be best not to pry. It wasn’t until much later that I found out what else I’d heard in that single syllable.
“So anyway, that’s created quite a problem for us,” Joel went on, almost visibly shrugging off whatever emotion had gripped him. “By Starfleet regulations we can’t go on with our mission until we’ve replaced him. We’ve got a small crew, and everyone is fairly much specialized. We don’t have anyone else qualified. Captain Antilles was hoping to find someone here, but no luck. They’re all engineers and technicians. So we’re stuck here until Starfleet can send us someone.”
“Way out here, that could take a while.”
“Only too true,” Joel said. “What about you? How long are you in town?”
“Probably only about two days,” I said. “We have to offload our cargo, and Captain Kirk will certainly give everyone a chance at shoreleave.” I looked around, and grimaced. “Such as it is. Then it’s back to civilization.”
“For some of us,” Joel smiled. “We’ve got a year yet in this survey.”
“Then what?”
He shook his head. “Quite frankly, I’m not sure. We have orders to take Zelazny back to the Alpha Centauri spacedock when we complete our mission. I rather doubt they’ll think it worthwhile to refit her again. She’s the last Bradbury-class left, you know. I’m afraid she’ll be off to the scrapyards, or maybe the Luna Spaceflight Museum. And I’ll be off—who knows where?”
“The next time I see you,” I predicted, “you’ll have a ship of your own.”
“Nice thought,” he said. “But who knows how long that will be? That’s one part of Starfleet life I’ve never gotten used to: too many good-byes.”
Don’t I know it, I thought.
Sitting there, with my hand still clasped in his, I was suddenly very grateful for formal evening robes, despite their discomfort after four straight hours of wear. Without the robe’s weight my tail would have been lashing back and forth, signaling my agitation to everyone in the cafe. As it was, weighted down, only the bushy tip was flicking back and forth somewhere in the vicinity of my feet, doing a better job of sweeping the floor than Krav ever had.
The realization had grown slowly in me, as the conversation progressed: he wasn’t going to say anything! So either I’d been deluding myself all these years, or...what I wasn’t sure what; but I did know: if I didn’t say something myself, it was never going to get said. Only, I wasn’t sure what I could say, how I could put it, without a high probability of making a fool of myself.
A time to quit stalking, I reminded myself firmly, and I took a deep breath. “Joel,” I said, “over these last few years I’ve thought a lot about us, about what we meant to each other, and about the good times we had. And I’ve been wondering if perhaps we weren’t really communicating very well all that time.”
He put down his coffee cup and looked into my eyes. Goddess! Those eyes of his! I couldn’t believe it, the first time I really looked at them, all those years ago: pale blue, not gold; and round pupils! Amazing. He said, slowly, “I’m...not quite sure what you mean.”
“I mean...well, I’ve been wondering if perhaps what you were feeling toward me was...more than just friendship, but I was too inexperienced and too Caitian to realize it.”
He was a very long time answering, and what he said might have changed my life, and his, forever. Unfortunately, I’ll never know. “Well, I...,” he began.
And then...it was like a light switch, or the closing of a relay, or the change of state of a data bit from 0 to 1. He glanced over my shoulder, and he seemed to stiffen; I felt it through his hand. And then his entire demeanor changed.
“I...think I’d better be going, M’Ress,” he said awkwardly. “I’ve got an early duty shift.”
“What—?” I began in confusion. I turned slightly in my chair, and I saw what he’d seen over my shoulder. Two young humans, a man and a woman, had just entered Krav’s Place. They wore standard Starfleet uniforms, and I didn’t recognize either of them; so, logically, Zelazny crew. I felt my back stiffen and my fingertips begin to tingle in incipient anger. What was going on? Could it be that he was ashamed to be seen by his crewmates with me?
Then I forced myself to relax. No, I told myself. Sheer coincidence. We’d gone everywhere together, back in the Academy, and he had never been ashamed to be seen with me. Even at his parents’ home in Atherton. No; this was probably my fault. I’d been pushing too hard. I do have that tendency.
I said, “All right, Joel.” I reached for my belt pouch; but I wasn’t wearing it. “I seem to have left my credit card in my cabin,” I said.
He smiled as he retrieved his own from inside his tunic. “Allow me,” he said. “Higher pay grade.”
“Will I see you again?”
Again his demeanor changed. “I’m...not sure,” he said nervously. “Call me, though, when you get your shoreleave assignment. We’ll see.”
“All right,” I said again. I smiled and grasped his hand. “It’s been lovely seeing you again, Joel. Really.”
His answering smile was nervous, and his eyes shifted. My peripheral vision is better than a human’s, and I could see that the two Zelazny crewmembers were at the counter talking to Krav. It seemed they hadn’t yet seen us in our dark corner.
“For me too,” Joel said. “Very. Good night, M’Ress.”
“Good night, Joel.”
And then he practically fled from Krav’s Place, leaving me sitting there wondering just what the hell I’d done wrong.

CHAPTER THREE
Commodore M’Rael looked very different in uniform.
It was a little past eight hundred hours when I presented myself at her office, a little late, because I’d had some trouble finding the place, in a sea of identical doors lining the station’s third level. As I arrived, I saw to my amusement that the commodore had been assigned a secretary, a young blond-haired human. There were no rank bars on her station-modified uniform; therefore, an ensign. She looked up from behind her desk with a professional smile as I stepped in.
“May I help you, ma’am?” she said politely, after observing my own rank bars.
“I have an appointment with the commodore,” I said. “Lieutenant M’Ress.”
“One moment, please,” she said, and she turned to an intercom panel.
As I waited I looked around. The outer office was small and bare, just the secretary’s desk, two other chairs, and the computer terminal. All of it right out of the standard replicator programs, no attempt at softening the institutional harshness. Frankly, it struck me as just the sort of thing that would drive Commodore M’Rael insane, if I knew her at all.
I had a bridge shift due later that afternoon, and the Enterprise would be leaving some time the next morning; that pretty well limited my opportunities to speak to the commodore to one, namely, right now. Personally I might have preferred a slightly later appointment; I hadn’t slept much the night before. And it wasn’t all due to the fact that it had been after one hundred hours when I finally got back to my cabin. I’d tossed and turned for hours, my mind in turmoil, finally dropping off just about the time my alarm sounded. So one may very well imagine my physical and mental condition as I dressed hurriedly, making sure my fur, mane and uniform were neat; ate breakfast even more hurriedly, and rushed down to the pressure corridor. 
I’d found the station a bit more lively in the day shift than at night; many more crew members rushing about, most of them towing cargo floats or lugging massive tool boxes. The entire hull rang slightly with the sound of work, which a human probably wouldn’t have heard; to me it was a quite audible vibration, as the supplies from the Enterprise were put to good use. Admiral Conroy apparently intended to have another tenth of the ring sheathed and pressurized within a week.
The secretary exchanged a few quiet words with the intercom; then she smiled up at me. “Please step through, Lieutenant,” she said. “The commodore is expecting you.”
I already know that, I thought irritably; but I merely nodded and smiled back. “Thank you, Ensign.”
Starfleet officers are usually given a fairly generous weight allowance for personal items when they travel; and of course the higher the rank, the higher the allowance. I stopped just inside the commodore’s office, astounded.
Her desk, chairs and computer terminal were standard issue; but nothing else was. The walls were covered with framed blueprints, designs of her many projects: Cait’s orbital facility, which she’d mentioned to Captain Kirk the night before; a dilithium-mining platform in our asteroid belt; ships she’d had a hand in designing; and so on. Most of  the floor was covered by a large rug, dazzling in color, and much more comfortable against bootless Caitian feet than bare deckplates. On a small table in the corner was a tiny shrine to our world’s deity, the Goddess, before which a few candles flickered. And on her desk was a forest of framed holos, of family and friends. I was amazed to see one of myself there, taken on the day of my Academy graduation, looking proud—and young! Goddess, how young!
The commodore rose from behind her desk to greet me; our hands met over the desk-top. Unlike the DS 2 crew, she had retained the standard Starfleet uniform (no boots); her undershirt the gold of the engineering division.
She started out immediately in Caitian; at least we wouldn’t be eavesdropped. “Thank you for coming, child. Please sit down.”
I did so. “Thank you for agreeing to speak to me, Commodore,” I replied, also in Caitian of course. After her beginning, for me to speak Terran would have been impolite, a deliberate snub. “I fear that the matter of my promotion has been preying on my mind these last two weeks.”
She settled back in her chair, her hands clasped before her. “Tell me why,” she said.
So I did, exactly as I’d told Captain Kirk that night in the briefing room. When I finished, Commodore M’Rael was nodding. She said, “As your sponsor, I have taken it upon myself to monitor the progress of your career, but it would not have been appropriate for me to interfere at any stage. I had no input in the decision to deny your promotion, and I sought none; however, I do have my sources, and perhaps access to an insight that even Captain Kirk does not share.
“I believe that your captain was at least partially correct. The Enterprise does indeed have an unusually large number of command-grade officers, and that does tend both to overshadow you, and to make Command more reluctant to create yet another, at least without compelling motivation.”
She leaned forward slightly. “However, I believe that there is another factor. Command is of the opinion, and I find that I must agree, that so far your career has lacked the depth of experience necessary to make an effective command-level officer.”
“I am not certain what you mean, Commodore,” I said.
“Thus far your experience has been limited to service on board heavy cruisers of the same class, and always in communications. Your experience in the refit was valuable, to be sure, but was still in communications. A command-level officer is expected to be able to turn her hand to almost any duty aboard almost any ship—including that of acting captain, in situations more challenging than warp-transit watches. I do not doubt that you possess the skills for leadership, M’Ress. But thus far, in the eyes of Command, they remain undemonstrated.”
Doubtless that’s what Captain Kirk had been getting at, when he’s suggested a change in specialty, as well as a transfer. I said, with just a slight note of desperation, “Commander Sulu believes I will be promoted aboard the Enterprise, given time.”
“He is doubtless correct,” the commodore said. “If you avail yourself of every opportunity for new experience that presents itself. I daresay, however, that on Enterprise such opportunities may be few. The solidity of her crew is a benefit to her mission, but to you, personally, it may be a curse. If you wish your promotion to come sooner, as opposed to later, then I believe Captain Kirk’s advice may be the best: a transfer.”
“I have been considering his advice these last two weeks,” I said. “I find myself... somewhat reluctant.”
“I do understand your feelings, my child,” she said. “All of us—humans as well as Caitians—have a strong need for stability in our lives. In time, the ships we serve aboard become home, our crewmates family. It is difficult to contemplate leaving them.”
“That is so,” I acknowledged.
“And yet, if I may offer an observation, it is in the nature of our profession to take risks, is it not? Was it not a grave risk for a young Caitian, who had never before been off-planet, to journey to Earth to enter the Academy? And have you ever regretted taking that risk?”
“Never,” I said, and it was the truth. I had never regretted even one minute of my Starfleet career. Well, at least up until then I hadn’t. Events were soon to change that.
“Then I might suggest that it may be time for another risk. The benefits to your career, and to your personal growth, could be great.”
I thought about it for a few moments. Then I made to rise. “I thank you for your time and your thoughts, Commodore. You may well be correct; but it seems that I can do nothing about it until the Enterprise returns to more populated sectors of the Federation.”
She waved her hand for me to sit back down. “That may not be true,” she said. “We may have an opportunity for you here and now.”
I did sit back down, rather suddenly. “Pardon me?” I asked.
“The Zelazny,” Commodore M’Rael said. “You may be aware, their anthropology-paleontology officer, Lieutenant Commander Morada, was killed in an accident during their last mission.”
“Joel—Commander Abrams—told me that,” I confirmed. “Also that they cannot return to their survey until he has been replaced.”
“Which may require many weeks,” the commodore said. “And Captain Antilles, I am told, is most anxious to continue his mission. It was that problem which kept him from attending the admiral’s dinner last night.”
“I appreciate his dilemma,” I said. “But I do not quite understand...”
She smiled. “Has it really been so long, my child? Your university studies, and indeed your studies at the Academy, were in just those fields—anthropology, paleontology, archaeology.”
This may require a word or two of explanation, which I’ll inject while I watch myself sitting there stunned. The commodore was quite right; those had been my fields of interest, and study, for quite a long time. Caitian universities don’t quite operate in the same way as Terran; but I received what would be the equivalent of a Bachelor’s degree in those sciences, and (at the risk of seeming immodest) at a fairly young age. I might have gone on, for the equivalent of a Master’s or even a doctorate; but I’d felt something else calling me: the desire for space, and for adventure. That this desire had been stimulated by the commodore herself, and her stories of Starfleet which I’d grown up listening to, is undeniable.
At the Academy there can sometimes be a bit of a conflict between what you want to do, and what they think you ought to do. Someone apparently decided that I was bridge material; and communications is an obvious choice for Caitians, given our hearing acuity. I might have fought their plans and won, staying on a pure science track; but I chose not to,  mainly because being on the bridge puts you that much closer to the center seat. 
“Have you kept up with your studies, M’Ress?” the commodore broke into my thoughts.
“As much as possible,” I said. “When I can find the time.” Not too damn often, is what I might have added. I went on, “But...the late Mr. Morada was a lieutenant commander. Does that not imply...?”
“Under normal circumstances, yes,” she said. “The position would require a command-level officer. In this case, however, given the importance of Captain Antilles’ survey, I believe I could convince Admiral Conroy to authorize an exception. And, if your performance is good...”
The flow of her logic was easy to grasp. If my work was good, Command might find it easier to simply promote me in order to make things proper and tidy, rather than bother to replace me. Was it devious? Not really, at least not from Commodore M’Rael’s point of view, which was that of an engineer. I knew her, and I knew that her motto had always been, “if it works, it’s good.”
“You are troubled by my suggestion,” she said. It was a statement, not a question.
I smiled slightly. No Caitian can ever hide from another, or from a human who’s in the know, the fact that he or she is emotionally upset; it’s the tail, a reflex that we can’t control. Unlike last night, my tail wasn’t weighed down by an evening robe, and it was lashing back and forth like a semaphore. “I fear this is all a bit...sudden, Commodore,” I said. That wasn’t the only reason, of course; I was also furious with myself. Why hadn’t I thought of this myself, last night when I heard about Commander Morada? Because you were too besotted with Joel Abrams, that’s why, I told myself. “I feel...that I must think on this. I do not wish to make a hasty decision, especially one so important.”
She nodded. “It is as I expected,” she said. “Though I do not need to remind you that your time for thought is short.”
Too true; less than twenty-four hours before the Enterprise would depart for sunnier climes. “I understand,” I said. “I will be in contact with you soon, Commodore. I thank you again for your time, and your assistance.”
We clasped hands again, and then I was gone. Somehow—though I’m sure it wasn’t what the Commodore intended—I felt worse than when I’d arrived.
 ###
I was officer of the watch.
Apart from the long warp transits that I’ve already mentioned, there are few things on a starship more stupifyingly boring than spacedock watches. The ship is secure, the engines idling; the helm and nav stations aren’t even manned. There’s usually little or no comm traffic.
However, along with those warp transits, spacedock watches are a good opportunity for the less senior officers to develop their command skills, and it was my turn again. And so, perched in the center seat, I surveyed my domain.
It was a somewhat reduced domain. Apart from myself, there were only three others on the bridge; the only three stations manned were communications, environmental control, and the engineering status board. At the latter two a pair of ensigns were languidly monitoring; I had thought of no busy-work to assign them to. And at the comm board, Uhura was performing a systems diagnostic. Funny, I’d done the same thing during my last shift.
It’s an interesting note on Starfleet policy that despite the presence of a superior officer on the bridge, I was legally (as well as morally and ethically) in command of the ship, until either Captain Kirk or Commander Spock told me otherwise. Not that I’d be likely to go power-mad; if any real emergency did occur, I was duty-bound to call the captain. Still, there is an undeniable thrill in planting one’s rear on the center seat, even in spacedock.
The only problem was, it gave me entirely too much time to think. Too many things had happened in the last day. First Joel’s inexplicably rude departure from the cafe; then Commodore M’Rael. Too much for one poor confused Caitian to absorb. It didn’t help that the main viewscreen showed the Zelazny’s stern, one docking berth up. The focus of all my problems, right there in one stained, patched hull.
I looked around. No crises seemed to be demanding the C.O’s attention at the moment. I rose from the center seat and stepped slowly over to the comm station. “Uhura?” I said.
She must have jumped five centimeters; my darn quiet footsteps again. “Sorry,” I said.
“That’s all right,” she said. She bent down to retrieve her earphone from the deck. “What can I do for you?”
“You remember that talk I said I didn’t need to have, a couple weeks ago?”
“Certainly.” 
“I think I need it now.”
She looked around too. “I don’t suppose we’ll be interrupted,” she observed. “Go ahead.”
I perched myself on the handrail, extending my tail straight out behind me for balance. “I’m...considering transferring to Zelazny,” I said.
Her cry of, “You’re considering what?” made the two ensigns spin around in their seats. Uhura and I both gave them our best superior-officer looks (you learn that early on) and they turned back to their panels. Uhura lowered her voice. “Why, for God’s sake?”
“They’re desperate for an anthro-paleo officer,” I explained. “And both Commodore M’Rael and Captain Kirk think I need more experience.”
“But on board that?” she protested, waving a hand at the screen.
I shrugged. “I believe there’s a human saying, something about ‘a bird in the hand.’”
“There is that,” she replied. She leaned back. “So—what do you want from me?”
I smiled ruefully. “Talk me out of it,” I suggested.
She hesitated. “If Commodore M’Rael and Captain Kirk feel so strongly about it, I’m not sure if I can...or should. But tell me why. Why do you want to be talked out of it?”
I pointed to the viewscreen. “Isn’t it obvious?” I said. “Seriously—I really, really wanted that promotion.”
“I know you did,” she said.
“And up until today, I would have said that I’d do anything to get it. This looks like my best opportunity; but now that it’s staring me in the face...”
“Cold feet?” she guessed.
“Freezing,” I agreed. “As much as I really, really want that promotion, I also really, really don’t want to give up Enterprise. I’m...comfortable here.”
“So what’s more important—career or comfort?”
I shook my head. “That’s the problem. I can’t decide. One minute I think: anything to get ahead, do whatever it takes, go wherever you have to. The next minute I’m thinking: relax, don’t push so hard, let it happen when it happens. I feel as if there’s two people fighting in one body.”
“Who’s winning?”
“I think...I think...it’s the career,” I said. “I keep having this horrible picture of myself retiring as a lieutenant...”
“That’s not very likely,” Uhura said.
“Intellectually, I know that,” I said. “Emotionally, though...”
“All right,” she said. She glanced at her board; the diagnostic was still running, the status lights going green one by one. It had about five minutes more to run, barring any (highly unlikely) system problems. “I’m sorry, M’Ress, but I really can’t talk you out of it. Anyway, if I did, I have a feeling I’d have Commander M’Rael angry at me.”
“It’s true, she is...rather counting on me taking this. I could tell when I spoke to her. I got the impression that she’s already been working on Admiral Conroy for approval. This is a slightly irregular transfer, in that I’d be replacing a lieutenant commander. If I back out now, Commodore M’Rael loses some of her credibility with the admiral, and I would lose some of her respect.”
“Which isn’t really a reason to transfer.”
“No,” I agreed, somewhat reluctantly. The commodore’s respect was one of my most treasured possessions, not to be damaged lightly Still, she had a point; it was my life, not the commodore’s.
Uhura’s eyes suddenly narrowed in suspicion. “Say—this wouldn’t have anything to do with that young man you left the dinner with, would it?”
“Joel?” I said. I shook my head. “No,” I said emphatically. Then: “I don’t think so.” And finally: “Well, maybe just a little.” Her question had caught me off-guard; I was going to have to think about that.
“The fact is,” Uhura said, “I hate giving career advice, especially to friends. If it goes wrong, I feel liable. But...you were counting on that promotion so much. If you let this opportunity slide, I really think you’ll regret it later. The posting wouldn’t be forever anyway.”
“Just a year,” I agreed. “That’s what Joel told me. A year until the survey is over, and they return Zelazny to the Alpha spacedocks. He doesn’t expect her to be refitted again.”
“So there you are,” Uhura said. “The crew will be reassigned, and if you’ve done a good job and been promoted into the position, you’ll have your choice of assignments.”
I nodded; all of that had occurred to me. 
“Maybe even Enterprise again, if that’s what you wanted,” Uhura went on. “Captain Kirk would certainly try, if you requested it.”
Perhaps, but try and succeed can often be two different things.
“Please don’t misunderstand me, though,” Uhura said. “I’m certainly not trying to get rid of you. You and I are the best comm team in Starfleet, and I’d keep it that way forever if I could.”
I smiled and reached over to clasp her hand. “Thank you,” I said. “From you, that means a lot to me.” I paused. “So...bottom line?”
“Bottom line...I think you’re going to end up doing this anyway, no matter what I or anyone else say. I know you, M’Ress. And I suspect you’ve already made up your mind.”
Actually I couldn’t quite agree with that, and I might have said so; but at that moment the comm board beeped, signaling the end of the diagnostic sequence. “Your report, Commander?” I said with mock severity.
“All communications systems on-line and one hundred percent functional, sir,” she replied with equal formality. She smiled. “Sometimes I wonder why we bother.”
A good thought for the day, that.
 ###
I had dinner alone, in my quarters.
For me, that’s very unusual; I almost always took my meals in the Officer’s Mess. Even when I’m not actually dining with someone, I like the feeling of activity around me; I like to watch the interactions, and—shall I confess?—I like listening in on the conversations. (Ridiculously easy, in fact almost unavoidable, for a Caitian; humans tend to forget the acuity of our hearing.) But this time, I had some serious thinking to do, probably the most serious since eighteen-year-old M’Ress debated entering the Academy. My senior-officer’s cabin had a food processor unit, a little more limited than those in the Officer’s Mess; but I don’t go in for gourmet cooking. I’d exchanged my uniform for a day-robe; I curled myself up in the circular dining nook, my legs tucked up underneath me, and my mind worked furiously as I played absently with my dinner.
Despite what Uhura might believe, in no way had I made up my mind. In fact I was still oscillating worse than an out-of-synch warp drive. Career or comfort, Uhura had said. More visible, Captain Kirk had said. The taking of risks, Commodore M’Rael had said. And countering them all, contrary as usual, Sulu’s the grass is always greener. Who to believe?
I still remembered that teenager, recently graduated from S’Salan University and wondering what direction the rest of her life should take. I still remembered her bucking the opinion of family, friends, teachers, advisors, almost everyone, to follow the path of an individual who was both hero and mentor to her. I still remembered the day when she stepped off a ship into a place where there was not another living Caitian in sight, a strange, crowded, noisy place that had at first frightened her near to death. And I still remembered that she had succeeded; she had mastered the strangeness, mastered her fear, and made it through; not only those four years, but the subsequent nine. Because in her there was something of her hunting ancestors; something that would not give up, once it got its claws in.
...And because she’d had help. I don’t know where that thought came from, but it brought me up short. And it was true. The fact of my ultimate success might have something to do with my inner toughness, or my intelligence, or whatever have you; but the fact that I’d even hung around to try, was due almost entirely to Joel. Those first few weeks I had been scared to death, frightened of the strangeness around me, and most especially of the crowds and the noise; too frightened even to accompany my new friends into San Francisco. I’d seen the pictures of Fisherman’s Wharf, the ant-hill swarms of people; and I’d feared that I would not be able to tolerate it. More to the point, I’d been frightened for them, for all those tourists; frightened that in my panic I might start slashing randomly with my claws at anything that moved, anything that came too close. It’s most likely that I would not have, of course, given the oaths that I took as a child; but it was up to Joel to show it for the irrational fear that it was. The fact that I loved California now as my third home was due to him.
Uhura’s question still bothered me, and I still couldn’t adequately answer it. How much of this, the fact that the offer was so terribly tempting, was because of Joel? To what extent had my desire to be close to him again affected my dispassionate judgment? 
...And if it has, so what? I thought pugnaciously. If you stay aboard Enterprise, it will be strictly from sentiment and friendship. If those two emotions were part of what was leading me in the other direction, so what?
In my darker moments of indecision I have sometimes wished for the emotionless logic of a Vulcan; it would make life so much simpler. Or, on reflection, maybe not.
I looked around at my large, comfortable, modern cabin. I looked at my collection of art. In my mind’s eye, I looked beyond my cabin to the corridors of Enterprise; her decks, her bridge, her lounges and science labs and so forth...places I knew, could reach blindfold. A ship that felt as comfortable to me as an infant’s cradle. And as I looked around, I realized that it was in farewell. Uhura, Captain Kirk, Commodore M’Rael were right. There was only one way I could go from here, a path so clear it might have been chosen by the Goddess. 
Almost on its own, my hand stole across the table to the intercom panel. “M’Ress to Captain Kirk.”
The reply was rapid, almost as if he’d been waiting for me. “Kirk here.”
“Sir,” I said. I swallowed. “Sir, I wonder if I might have a brief word with you.”
 ###
“I do apologize for the delay,” Commodore M’Rael said. “I fear we are still waiting for Captain Antilles.” This time she was speaking Terran; because Captain Kirk was with us.
“I understand, Commodore,” Captain Kirk said. “Believe me, I do.”
The captain had been more than a little surprised by my announcement. Not by the fact of it, but by the timing. He, like me, had expected us to get back to the center of the civilized universe before I could even start working on my problem. He’d sat me down, there in the briefing room where we’d met, and asked me the standard “are you very sure” questions; but after I’d answered in the affirmative, there wasn’t much else he could do but help me. He had, after all, promised to support any decision I made; he would not renege on that. Deep down, I knew, he wasn’t at all happy about giving me up. I suppose it’s nice to know that there’s somewhere you’re wanted.
The data pad with my transfer order on it lay on the desk between Commodore M’Rael and me. It had four signatures on it already; two in the Terran alphabet and two in Caitian hieroglyphic script: Admiral Conroy’s, Captain Kirk’s, the commodore’s, and mine. Only one space was left blank.
We had not seen the admiral at all during this process; too busy. The commodore had arranged it all, with the exception of the admiral actually finding five seconds to touch stylus to pad. As for the commodore...I frankly couldn’t tell if she was pleased or not. As always, she simply radiated a cosmic serenity that seemed to grow deeper as she aged. But definitely, not surprised. From the moment I’d called her with my decision, less than two hours ago, she had shown no hint of surprise. Was I really that predictable? Or—as I glanced at the tiny shrine in the corner of the office—was this whole thing ordained by the Goddess? Quite frankly, I’m not much of a believer; but the presence of that ship at that place and time, with that particular position open....It did tend to give one to think.
“Lieutenant,” the commodore said (she only called me “my child” in private, and in Caitian.) “I fear that I must ask: are you certain in this? It is not too late to change your mind, if you are not.”
I looked at the captain; he maintained a carefully neutral expression. I swallowed hard. “I don’t wish to change my mind, Commodore. I...want to go through with this.”
“As you wish,” she said.
At that moment the intercom beeped, and Commodore M’Rael pounced on it. She listened to a few quiet words from the secretary, then she said, “Send her in.”
Her? I wondered. Who’s her? Then the door opened, and I found out. It was not Captain Antilles, of course, whom I wouldn’t have known even if I’d seen, but knew from context to be male; it was, rather, Commander Edgeworth, his first officer. She all but barged in, appearing not to notice Captain Kirk and me. “Commodore,” she said briskly. “I understand you have an anthro-paleo officer for us.”
“I do,” Commodore M’Rael said. She paused. “Forgive me, Commander, but I was expecting Captain Antilles.”
“He sends his apologies,” Commander Edgeworth said, just as she had the night before. She held up a data pad. “I have here his authority to approve your candidate’s transfer.”
“Very well,” the commodore said. “Then meet your new officer: Lieutenant M’Ress.”
Edgeworth spun around, apparently seeing Captain Kirk and myself for the first time. I nodded my head politely. “Commander,” I said. “We met at the admiral’s dinner.”
I saw her jaw drop open as she regarded us, or I should say me; and then she rounded on Commodore M’Rael, her eyes narrowed. “This is not acceptable, Commodore,” she said tightly. “Not at all.”
The commodore, as always, confronted anger with beatific calm. “May I ask why not, Commander?”
“The position of anthropology-paleontology officer specifically requires a lieutenant commander,” Edgeworth said. “I seriously doubt whether this...lieutenant...had the requisite experience...”
Commodore M’Rael interrupted her firmly. “Lieutenant M’Ress has more than thirteen years of Starfleet experience,” she said. “Furthermore, she has taken honors in the fields of anthropology, paleontology, archaeology and history, both at Starfleet Academy and at S’Salan University on Cait. Her assignment to communications has been largely a matter of Starfleet expediency, although her work in that field has also earned many commendations, not the least from Captain Kirk. The captain and I may personally vouch for Lieutenant M’Ress’ experience, as well as her intelligence and adaptability.”
“But her rank—” Edgeworth persisted.
“Is largely irrelevant,” the commodore said. “Your mission is of great importance to the Federation, which wishes to expedite the colonization of this sector. That mission has been severely delayed by the loss of Lieutenant Commander Morada. Under the circumstances, Admiral Conroy has seen the wisdom of taking advantage of the knowledge and experience of a slightly less senior officer, rather than delay the mission further. The admiral has approved this, as have I, Commander. As far as you and Captain Antilles are concerned, it is—what is the human term—a fait accompli.”
Commander Edgeworth looked at me again, and as I gazed into her eyes I began, for the first time, to entertain some shadow of a doubt as to the wisdom of my decision. There was more to Commander Edgeworth’s objections than just her concern for my experience or lack thereof. What it was, though, I had no idea. At least not then.
...But we all have difficult assignments; we all run into officers who seem determined to pre-judge us unfairly. It had happened to me more than once; frankly, because I was a Caitian. And I had always prided myself in my ability to prove them wrong, to have them—so to speak—eating out of my hand in short order. This time would be no different, I was confident.
Finally Commander Edgeworth sighed. “As you say, Commodore, we have little choice. Our mission has been delayed too long already.” She picked up the pad and stylus from the desk and added her large, bold signature to the only blank line. And with that, it was done.
She turned to me. “You will report for duty by fifteen hundred hours tomorrow, Lieutenant,” she said. “You may find service on board Zelazny rather different from what you’re used to. We are a small ship, our crew accommodations are small, and we have more severe weight restrictions for personal gear. I will transmit a list of our rules and regulations to you. Good day, Commodore. Good day, Captain.” And with that long string of declarative sentences still hanging in the air, she exited.
“What,” Captain Kirk wondered out loud, “was that all about?”
“That is quite a good question, Captain,” the commodore said. “I am not well acquainted with Commander Edgeworth, but there seemed to be little of gratitude in her reaction.”
“Perhaps,” I suggested, “she just doesn’t like having her decisions made for her.”
“Perhaps true,” the commodore said. She turned to Captain Kirk. “Captain, I must apologize for depriving you of an experienced officer.”
He smiled. “To be very honest, Commodore, it will be a definite loss,” he said. “But life in Starfleet is like that.” He looked over at me. “When I next meet M’Ress I fully expect to see a Lieutenant Commander, or even a Commander.”
“Very likely, Captain,” Commodore M’Rael said.
I forced an answering smile. The reaction had hit, suddenly, and I’d gone ice cold, despite the fact that the room actually was quite warm. The commodore knew; she could see my tail lashing again; but she said nothing. I wondered if she could read my thoughts too, as I sat there wondering, Great Goddess, what have I done?
 ###
Sickbay, of all places.
I sat there on the edge of the exam table, embarrassed and a little chilly in an ill-fitting paper gown that didn’t quite close in the back. “I don’t really know why you’re bothering,” I growled, my tail lashing.
“Regulations,” Dr. Chapel said cheerfully. “’A thorough physical exam is required before the transfer of any crewmember or officer,’” she quoted. “Though I have to agree with you.” She held up her data pad, ticking off the items with her finger. “Heart rate, perfect. Respiration, perfect. Blood pressure, perfect. Vision, fifty percent better acuity than human norm, sixty-five percent better low light vision. Hearing, seventy percent better in the high frequency range than a human, and thirty percent better in the low frequency end. You’re in perfect health, M’Ress.”
Morning had come again; the morning of my very last day on the Enterprise. The ship would have departed from DS 2 already; the cargo had been offloaded; but Captain Kirk had held up departure, for my sake. I had been excused from duty, of course; it would have been pointless for me to do a shift on the comm board now. I had until fifteen hundred to report to the Zelazny, if I didn’t want to deepen Commander Edgeworth’s displeasure. Frankly I wasn’t sure if I was going to make it in time.
“Thank you,” I said. “Can I get dressed now? I’ve got packing to do.”
“One last item,” she said, unperturbed. While I’d been helping rebuilt the Enterprise, Christine Chapel had been back to school, adding a couple more letters—M.D.—to the Ph.D. that already decorated the end of her name. And in the process, she had added several more degrees of self-confidence to her resume as well. No more the compliant, invisible nurse; I had even seen her having knock-down-drag-out fights with Dr. McCoy, much to his chagrin. Her specialty was non-human medicine, and so, since her return to Enterprise, she’d inherited the relatively easy job of keeping the ship’s one and only Caitian healthy. A job she was about to relinquish.
“Which is?” I asked dubiously.
“Claws, please,” she said succinctly.
I lifted the backs of my hands before her and tightened the proper muscles, expressing my claws. She took my hands in hers.
As she examined my claws I had to smile to myself in fond remembrance. My old schoolteachers used to do exactly the same thing when I was a kit, often using a magnifying glass. Picture thirty or forty little Caitian boys and girls, standing all in a row with their hands raised in front of them, as the teacher went down the line checking their claws minutely, looking for any signs of inadequate care. Any such signs would be greeted by a stern lecture and a visit to the school nurse. Not that it happened very often; I was not at all exceptional in the fact that I never was on the receiving end of such a lecture. Pride in our claws is a deeply-ingrained cultural trait.
I suppose I’d better explain that now all at once, because you’ll need to know in order to understand much of what happened to me later. If it sometimes seems that I spend a lot of time and attention on my claws, there’s a good reason for that: I do spend a lot of time and attention on my claws. It’s impossible to overstate the importance of those sixteen small sharp appendages to Caitian society. It might be termed an obsession, almost a cult, that infuses our entire culture. It defines a major part of who and what we are.
Caitians are carnivores. That’s a fact for which we make neither apology nor excuse. In our distant past we were hunters; first solitary, then in increasingly large groups. But at the same time, we are not a physically large species. Most humanoid races are bigger and heavier than us. More to the point, the species of animals that formed our prey back in that dim past were also mostly larger than us. Massive size and strength were not the keys to our survival. What was, was such things as our intelligence, our agility, our hearing and eyesight...and our claws. And of all those factors, we have always considered the claws to be the most important. Those other things will get you close to your prey...but at the moment of truth, it is the claws that finish the job.
It isn’t quite that way any more, of course; Caitians haven’t hunted their food in centuries. We get our meat, like humans, from huge ranches run with the efficiency of factories. We are no longer savages; we are a civilized and peaceful species, accomplished in art, literature, science and technology; an early signatory of the Federation Charter.
Even so, the importance of our claws has never diminished. It’s all through our religion, our rituals (as in the greeting Commodore M’Rael had shared, much to the amusement of Captain Kirk); our literature and art. In our dominant religion, our deity, the Goddess, is usually pictured with her hands in two stylized poses; one open and giving, generous, symbolizing our peaceful civilizations; the other raised in a striking position with hugely expressed claws, symbolizing our savage heritage. And more than that; our claws are our defense, the keeper of our peace, and our hedge against situations in which civilization might abandon us. Given our claws, the saying goes, we can survive anywhere. I might forget to carry my phaser; but I could never forget that which is attached to the ends of my fingers. 
Caitian children are instructed from a very early age in what might best be translated “the way of the Claw.” They are taught to take care of their claws, to keep them properly trimmed, cleaned and sharpened, to avoid accidental injury, and to avoid any diseases or fungi that might cause deformity. In earlier times, of course, those things would have been a matter or life or death.
And also, most importantly, they are taught when not to use them. As young kits we swear an oath never to use our claws against any sentient being, except in the direst contingency of self-defense. (It used to be “any other Caitian,” of course; that was before we joined the interstellar community.) In all my life, at least so far, I had never been forced to use my claws in anger. I never really expected I would.
The claws of young kits are fairly soft—they begin to harden in adolescence—and won’t hold a sharp point. That in itself probably avoids some tragedies. At no time, though, in adult or child, are the claws ever, ever cut short, not even as a punishment for misdeed. The prehistorical reason for this is easy enough to guess: a clawless Caitian was a dead Caitian, unable to hunt or defend himself. That has persisted beyond the logical cause; for a Caitian to deprive another of his or her claws would be a despicable crime, a violation comparable to rape. It may be hard to explain to a human just how strongly we feel about this. I knew of no case, ever, where such a thing had happened.
Among humans, as I’ve mentioned, I then kept my claws a little shorter and a little more blunt than I might have at home...but I would no more cut them off, nor allow it to be done, than I would have cut off my own tail. And under Federation law, no one could order or force me to do so. Or at least that’s what I thought at the time.
“No problem there,” Dr. Chapel said. “As usual.”
I smiled. “I always did get good marks for that,” I said. “I wasn’t aware that it was part of the standard Starfleet medical exam, though.”
“It isn’t,” she admitted with a slightly guilty smile. “Just my own curiosity. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have your own built-in personal defense system.”
“A major responsibility,” I said, as I put away my built-in personal defense system. “Is that all?”
She reached over to a nearby chair and handed me my uniform. “That’s all,” she said, and she turned away, making a few notes on her data pad as I dressed. A few seconds later she said, over her shoulder, “M’Ress? Are you...sure you’re doing the right thing?”
I paused, halfway into my pullover. Light grey; I wouldn’t be wearing that for much longer. I said, “I think so, Christine. I’ve thought about it until my head hurts. I think it’s time to get my career moving again. You ought to understand that.”
“I do,” she said. “You know that I originally joined Starfleet as a means to an end.”
I nodded; everyone who had been aboard before the refit knew that rather sad story.
She went on, “Once I’d decided to stay, I began to feel exactly as you do—that I didn’t want to be a nurse forever.” She spread out her arms. “And here I am.”
I was dressed again, and as I smoothed out my tunic she turned to face me. I reached out and put a hand on her arm. She didn’t flinch, as some might. “Christine,” I said, “I complain a lot about these exams, but you know I’m really going to miss my personal physician.”
She smiled. “And I’m going to miss my most challenging patient.”
I let her hug me for twenty seconds or so, before I pulled myself gently away. I hate good-byes, and this, I knew, was only the first of a long series I’d have to endure in the next few hours. I’ll tell you, it’s hell being popular. My voice was suspiciously husky as I said, “I...I guess I’d better go get some of that packing done.”
 ###
They gave me a party. 
I suppose it was inevitable, really, but I might have wished that they hadn’t. Uhura and Sulu were the main instigators, of course, along with Mr. Scott and Dr. McCoy. They decorated the officer’s lounge for the event; the big room at the rear of C-Deck with the windows overlooking the nacelles and the secondary hull was festooned with streamers, balloons and banners bearing messages like “Good luck” and “Bon Voyage.”
I had no choice but to attend, of course; and I had to attend in uniform, letting Uhura outshine me in one of her dazzling gowns; everything else I owned had already been packed.
The fact is, I really hate being the center of attention; but unfortunately, since I’d left Cait my life had often thrust me into exactly that position. Being the only Caitian in my class; the only Caitian on the Farragut, the Enterprise, and the refit team...no matter where I went, it seemed all eyes were on me. And here I was again.
Everyone who was someone was there; Sulu and Uhura of course, as well as McCoy, Chapel and Scotty, and a scattering of other lieutenants and ensigns, whom I counted as close friends. Even Mr. Spock and Captain Kirk were there, to my extreme surprise. I had no idea who was running the ship. When I arrived—a little late, because of my damn interrupted packing—they all clustered around me (except Spock, of course) patting me on the back, shaking my hand, and so on. I found and pasted onto my face a happy smile, as I turned a slow circle, thanking them en masse. Someone had put a glass into my hand, and I sipped at it cautiously; fruit punch, non-spiked. That would have been Uhura’s doing; she knew my tolerance for alcohol. And it was barely noon, after all.
The captain let it go on for a few seconds, then raised his hands for silence. “Everyone,” he said, “I believe Commander Uhura has a few words she’d like to say.”
One thing I had never seen was Uhura at a loss for words; and this time was not an exception, though her voice was a little hesitant. “All of us here,” she began, “have had the privilege of serving with Lieutenant M’Ress for a number of years.” She glanced at Mr. Scott. “Some longer than others. We all knew her not only as a fine and efficient officer, an asset to any crew, but also as a good friend. As for myself, I count M’Ress as one of the closest friends I’ve ever had. At first, when we met years ago, I was afraid that the differences in our cultures might keep us from understanding each other; but I’ve since discovered that our cultures really aren’t that different after all.”
The goofy smile was still plastered on my face; but now it threatened to become a grimace. Great Goddess, I thought, she’s getting maudlin! Get me the hell out of here!
But I couldn’t, of course, and I hid my expression behind the rim of my glass. Uhura went on, “It’s in the nature of Starfleet service that friendships, relationships are often all too transitory. It’s something we’ve all had to harden ourselves to. Still, I think all of us do feel more than a little sadness when circumstances force yet another parting on us. And for me, this time especially so. M’Ress and I have been called the best comm team in the fleet; I won’t comment on that. I do know that all of us, here, are the best team in the fleet, period. All of us are going to miss M’Ress’ contributions to that team. I know I will.”
There was a polite smattering of applause; and then, of course, they were all looking at me. No way out, unless I jumped through the big windows. I sighed, set my glass aside, and turned to face them. I cleared my throat, which was betraying me by insisting on closing up. My tail was swishing, but I couldn’t help that.
“As you all know, I haven’t had a huge number of postings,” I said. “Most of my career has centered around this ship, Enterprise. This vessel is more like home to me than any other place, outside of Cait. And all of you, this entire crew, is as much a family to me as my blood relations. I am deeply proud to have served with you all; and I am especially proud to have played a small part at least in the rebirth of this ship.
“I’m sure all of you will miss my smiling face—” There was a bit of laughter at this; they all knew that I was just as likely to show a snarling face as a smiling one—“and I know that I’ll miss all of yours. Thank you.”
There was a bit of applause, and then the ordeal was over. I retrieved my glass, which someone had kindly refilled. And then I tried to force myself to mingle. Goddess, how I hate this! I thought.
It was Mr. Scott who approached me first, a little unsteadily; just past noon or not, whatever was in his glass wasn’t fruit punch. He had a small package in his hand, unfortunately.
“Lassie,” he said, “I know ye requested no gifts, and I know ye don’t have much of a weight allowance. But I’m afraid I couldn’t help meself. This is from all of us.”
Repressing the sigh, I put my glass down once again and accepted the package. It was small, about hand-sized; not particularly heavy, and wrapped in brightly-colored paper. The others drifted in to watch as I opened it.
What I found myself holding, to my vast amusement, was a subspace emitter coil—one of the ones I had removed from a service panel in the depths of a Jeffries tube just a week or so ago. Someone—no doubt Mr. Scott himself—had polished the silvery metal casing to a shine, and had engraved (most likely with a fine phaser drill) the words “USS Enterprise NCC-1701” and the names of the present mission’s senior officers, including my own. It was utterly useless, totally foolish...and completely wonderful.
Mr. Scott was smiling down at me. “Well, lass?” he prompted, when several seconds had gone by.
I smiled, and for the first time in our long association I transcended rank and protocol. “It’s beautiful, Scotty. Thank you.” And then I balanced on the claw-tips of my toes to kiss him on the cheek.
“Thank you, lass,” he said in surprise.
I honestly don’t remember much more of the party. In retrospect, that’s probably a good thing, because the event did indeed turn into exactly the kind of sloppy, sentimental sob-fest that I would have gone light-years to avoid. I was about ready to claw somebody—anybody—when it finally broke up, an hour or so later.
I’d received all my good-byes—ranging from Spock’s “your work has been exemplary; I predict a successful future” to Sulu’s grinning, thumbs’-up “knock ‘em dead, kid.” And I had given my own, somehow retaining my control over my voice and the Terran language. The only person who had hung back, oddly, was Uhura. When I made my escape, walking rapidly down the corridor to the turbolift, she still hadn’t spoken a word to me.
I heard the footsteps long before their owner caught up with me. Not the sharp clicking of regulation boots, though, but a looser slapping sound...sandals? Nearly at the turbolift, I turned.
It was Uhura of course, and as she drew near she reached out to take my hands. “I know how much you hate that kind of thing,” she said, indicating with a nod of her head the party I’d just escaped. “It was necessary, though. They all expected it.”
“I know,” I agreed. As painful as it was, I added silently. “Thank you, though. I actually think I would have felt rather abandoned if you hadn’t.”
“I thought as much,” she said with a smile. “I did mean what I said. I am really going to miss you terribly.”
I was starting to have that feeling again. I’d had it first in the briefing room the previous evening, as I’d informed Captain Kirk of my decision; again later in Commodore M’Rael’s office, and yet again just a little while ago, during my good-byes: the panicky, choking feeling that I was making a gigantic mistake. It was made worse by the fact that there was absolutely nothing I could do about it; I’d signed the transfer. I had just over three hours to report to the Zelazny, or be thrown into the brig for desertion.
“I’m going to miss you too,” I told her. “You know that.” Those few words didn’t begin to convey my feelings, though; my gratitude for her friendship and guidance, from the moment I’d stepped on board the Enterprise as a newly-minted, nervous j.g.; the deep partnership I had always felt with her, as we’d worked together; the meals, shoreleaves, heartaches, fears and dreams we’d shared. It was largely because of her that this ship was home, this crew family. And no words I could speak now would convey that.
“I know,” she said; and somehow I got the impression that she was responding to my thoughts, not just my previous words. “I have a feeling, though, M’Ress, that this isn’t permanent.”
“No?” I said.
“No,” she replied firmly. “We will serve together again. I don’t know where or when, but we will. And then the rank business won’t matter any more—to either of us.”
We hugged then, a lot longer and harder than I’d hugged Christine Chapel. “I won’t say good-bye, then.”
“No,” she agreed. “Not good-bye. Just...so long.”
 ###
It was a little after fourteen hundred hours when Joel Abrams met me at the airlock on the station’s Promenade level. Over my shoulder on a wide strap was a tubular polymer case, about three-quarters of a meter long and twenty centimeters in diameter, that contained everything I was allowed to bring with me. It had been an agonizing series of choices, packing that case; the weight limits had been severe indeed.
I suppose I might have beamed directly to the Zelazny; in fact Mr. Scott graciously offered to do the job himself; but why waste transporter energy just to save a short walk?
As the airlock doors closed behind me, Joel rose from a nearby bench and stepped forward, a wide, silly smile plastered all over his face. He took my hands. “M’Ress!” he said. “It is true!”
“Hello, Joel,” I said. “What’s true?”
“That you’re shipping out with us.”
I nodded and tried to smile, and halfway succeeded. “Afraid so,” I said. “You didn’t know?”
“I knew they’d found a new anthro-paleo officer for us,” he said. “But I never dreamed it would be you. Not until the senior officer’s meeting a couple hours ago. After I heard, I practically begged Commander Edgeworth to let me come meet you.”
“Well, I’m glad it was you,” I said. And I was; especially in preference to Commander Edgeworth. Something about that woman definitely gave me the creeps. Hopefully that feeling wouldn’t last long; or else I wouldn’t be in for a pleasant time.
“You probably haven’t had much chance to work in anthro-paleo lately,” Joel commented.
“Not much,” I admitted. “I’m hoping I still remember how.”
“It’s probably like riding a bicycle,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Uh—never mind. I meant that it’ll come back to you. You’re going to have a lot of chance to practice, anyway. I think you’re going to find our mission very...interesting.”
There was more than standard Terran dictionary meaning to that word, and if I’d known what it was, I would have fled back up the pressure corridor, screaming. Unfortunately, I didn’t. Yet.
“We’d better get going,” Joel went on. “We’ve got just enough time for me to show you your quarters, before Captain Antilles’ mission briefing. He wants to ship out in the morning.”
“Uh—okay, sure,” I said. Unfortunately, the reaction was setting in again, the realization of what I’d done, and I suddenly found myself rooted to the spot, unable to move or even breathe.
Joel linked his arm with mine. “I know,” he said. “Believe me, I know. It’ll be all right, M’Ress. I’ve got a feeling it will.”
I smiled at him. “Thanks,” I said. And abruptly, I reached a decision. Something needed to be said, and said right now, before we ever reached the ship. “Joel—about the other night in Krav’s Place. I’m sorry if I—”
But he never heard my apology, because I was interrupted by a voice over the station’s P.A. “Attention,” it said. “Attention, all personnel. Enterprise now departing from Docking Berth Two.”
I couldn’t help myself. I twisted free from Joel’s armlock and almost ran over to the small round viewport next to the airlock.
I was in time to see, but only just; the pressure corridor had already retracted flush with DS 2’s hull, and with a subsonic boom, the magnetic clamps released. I saw the little puffs of gas as the thrusters pushed Enterprise gently away—it had to be Sulu on the helm again. I watched her drift a few kilometers away, slowly rotating till her stern faced the station. Then the impulse drive glowed, and Enterprise took off as if kicked, gone from sight in seconds. Why did I feel like she’d taken a big chunk of my life with her?
One year, I reminded myself. Three hundred and sixty-five Terran Standard days. Then you can write your own ticket.
Joel touched my shoulder. “Okay?” he said gently.
I sighed. “Okay,” I said; then I shouldered my travel case and let him lead me away.
...And as he did, I realized with a start that I didn’t even know what my new commanding officer looked like. 

CHAPTER FOUR
My new cabin was, well...small.
You can get too used to things, I find, especially comfort; and I had definitely gotten too used to my large, two-room, senior-officer’s quarters on the Enterprise. Here, there was hardly enough room to swing a—never mind.
The single room was about two meters deep by three meters long. Tucked against one short wall, to my right, was the bunk, shallow storage shelves built into its head and foot. In the near left corner was a small, circular table, with a single chair. A computer terminal and a small comm screen were perched on a shelf behind the table; a few drawers built in beneath. There was a small semicircular hanging locker in the far left corner. The floor was bare, slightly textured deckplates (quite cold against bare Caitian feet); the light from glow panels that covered the entire ceiling.
A door in the left-hand wall let into the microscopic bathroom; a sonic shower stall, a toilet and a tiny washbasin. No other door; apparently the bath was not shared, and that was a relief. The cabins on the pre-refit Enterprise had had shared bathrooms (yes, even the officers’ quarters); and even though I had shared with Uhura...well, that’s one part of my life where I’d really prefer a measure of privacy.
The small size and limited fixtures of this bathroom didn’t bother me especially; it was entirely adequate for my needs. I actually prefer sonic showers, and I’d never once used the whirlpool bath that had been the most vaunted feature of the Enterprise’s post-refit cabins.
I dropped my travel case on the bunk, and flopped down next to it. I winced as my butt hit the mattress; “hard” would be an understatement, and it would be useless even to look for the pneumatic adjustments I was used to. “This is as good as it gets, eh?” I said hopefully.
Leaning against the wall next to the door, his arms crossed casually across his chest, Joel Abrams grinned at me. “This is exactly the same type of cabin inhabited by sixty-two other members of this crew,” he said. “Myself included. Only the captain’s and Commander Edgeworth’s are slightly larger.”
Something had finally sunk in, and I looked up at him sharply. “Is this the late Commander Morada’s quarters?”
He nodded. “It is. Or rather was. We don’t have any others. We could hardly stretch a velvet rope across the doorway and charge admission.”
“I suppose not,” I agreed. I shuddered slightly. I’d never occupied the quarters of a dead person before. My revulsion was no doubt largely superstitious; still...
It had been a relatively short walk up DS 2’s Promenade to the docking berth where the Zelazny had languished for almost two weeks, unable to continue her mission. Once on board it was my duty, of course, to report immediately to my commanding officer. This had proved not difficult, as I’d found Commander Edgeworth waiting for me at the ship’s airlock, pacing back and forth impatiently.
I’d come to attention before her. “Lieutenant M’Ress reporting, Commander.”
“About time,” was her only reply. In point of fact I was almost an hour early; but I didn’t say so. “Your voice-print has been authorized for computer access,” she went on. “There’s a mission briefing at fifteen-thirty. Don’t be late.”
“Understood, Commander,” I said stiffly. 
“Commander Abrams, please show the lieutenant to her quarters,” Commander Edgeworth said, and then she stalked off. Behind her back, Joel gave me a smile and a roll of his eyes, as if to say “pay no notice, she’s always like that”; and then he lead me away.
We’d seen only a few others of the crew as we’d made our way; and those few had looked at me with what I remembered later as very strange expressions, somewhat removed from benign curiosity. There was something else odd about them, too; about their appearance. It took me quite a while to figure out exactly what. At the time I scarcely noticed them at all, their expressions or appearance; I was too busy furiously trying to memorize the ship’s layout. Commander Edgeworth had sent me a simplified diagram, along with the ship’s regulations and draconian weight limits; but I’d had little time to study it. I’d have to learn by exploration, during my off-duty hours. How lost could I get, after all, on a ship less than a third the size of Enterprise?
“You’re better off than some,” Joel said, breaking into my thoughts. “You’ve also inherited an office.”
“Have I really?” I said, absurdly delighted despite myself. “I’ve never had an office before. Where?”
“Down in the Sciences section,” he said. “I’ll show you later. I wouldn’t get too excited, though. It’s just a box with a desk and a computer terminal.”
“Good enough for me,” I told him.
He grinned and straightened up. “Tell you what,” he said. “We’ve got about forty-five minutes till the briefing. Why don’t I leave you alone for a while? You can get unpacked, freshen up, investigate the computer, whatever. I’ll come get you when it’s time.”
I nodded slowly. Joel did still know me pretty well; he knew that I was feeling a little overwhelmed; and when that happens, what I want is to be left alone. It’s safer for all concerned, too. “That sounds good,” I said. “Thank you.”
“I’ll see you in a while, then,” he said, and he exited, stage left.
I sat for a moment, there in the sudden silence, staying still until I felt that I could cope again. Finally I took a deep breath and turned to my travel case.
As I think I’ve mentioned in reference to Commodore M’Rael, confinement in a sterile, bare, impersonal space would be the surest way to drive a Caitian insane. Unfortunately, here I was; and there was little I could do to personalize this place; not with the skimpy contents of my case.
I had packed a few day-robes for off-duty wear, rolling them into tight cylinders; and ditto for two nightshirts. Into the middle of that roll I had stuffed my few necessary hygiene items, the most important being my hairbrush and my nail file. Below that, two slim plastic cases; one containing my specially-molded wireless earphone (my days in Communications seemed to be over, but you never know); the other containing my medals. (At that time I had three; all of them of the service-above-and-beyond variety. One was for that shuttlecraft crash, back on the Farragut; the second for that subspace-relay episode; and the third, much more recent, was for a landing-party mission that I’d been the leader of, and had turned nasty in a swamp inhabited by unfriendly reptiles. Long story, but suffice to say that Ensign Morley had cause to be grateful that I kept my claws well-tended.) I wouldn’t have packed the medals, but they went with the dress uniform. I’d also managed to find room for a few small holos, shots of my mother and father, my two brothers and sister. (One of my brothers, S’Sell, is of course my twin; all Caitian births are fraternal twins, male and female. Our other brother and sister are some three years older. I am technically the very youngest, having entered this vale of tears about twenty minutes later than S’Sell; and I am the only one of the four who left Cait.)
...And of course, last but not least, the gift from Mr. Scott. In point of fact that little object had put me about a quarter of a kilogram over the weight limit; ordinarily no one would care, but I’d been living in fear that Commander Edgeworth would want to weigh my travel case. Fortunately she hadn’t.
One thing I hadn’t packed was uniforms; at least not beyond the one I was wearing. That was because every part—trousers, tunic and undershirt, with the exception of my rank bars and years-of-service pins—would be changing, possibly as early as the next morning.
It didn’t take me long to arrange my few items—the holos and Scotty’s gift in the shelf at the head of the bed, the hygiene items in the bath, the clothes in the hanging locker and the drawers—and then I sank down in the single chair to examine the results. There still wasn’t much in the room that said “M’Ress;” but maybe as time went on, that might change. I do have a way of collecting things.
I was definitely going to miss my artwork and tapestries, though, and especially my rugs. I had entrusted it all to Commodore M’Rael; she would see it all safely into stasis storage for me at DS 2. I hoped.
Now what? I wondered. My unpacking had taken just fifteen of Joel’s forty-five minutes. What to do next?
I swiveled around in my chair. Probably Joel’s third suggestion was the best; introduce myself to the ship’s computer. Commander Edgeworth had said that my voice-print was authorized now. Just a quick tour...
I was still sitting there, seething, thirty minutes later when the doorbell chimed. “Come,” I said, or rather snarled.
It was Joel; and as he entered he looked at me in alarm. “Something wrong?” he said.
“I thought you said this ship was refitted before this mission,” I said.
He grinned. “’Refitted’ is perhaps too strong a term,” he said. “The engines were brought back on line, and the life-support was updated. Other than that, she’s just about the way she was when she was first launched.”
“Including the computer?” I said.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
I expressed the claw of my right forefinger to flick the terminal’s “off” switch. “I,” I said, “have just had a half-hour furious argument with this recalcitrant piece of duotronics.”
“What about?”
“My new uniforms,” I said. “I was trying to order them from the replicator system. The damn thing kept asking me what size boots I needed. It simply would not believe that I don’t need any boots—and it wouldn’t let me proceed. Obviously it hasn’t gotten word from the Quartermaster about Caitian uniforms.”
“Probably not,” Joel said. “We’ve never had a Caitian aboard. So who won?”
I grinned. “The computer that I cannot defeat has yet to be built,” I said. “Fortunately DS 2’s computer had the correct design—because of Commodore M’Rael. I was able to download it from there.”
“So?”
“So...we’ll find out tomorrow morning,” I said. “With my luck, I’ll probably end up wearing a miniskirt again.”
He grinned. “Come on, it’s time for the briefing,” he said. 
As we left my cabin and proceeded down the corridor, I was struck yet again by the age of this ship. Everything (or at least everything I’d seen so far) was quite clean, and seemed to have had a recent coat of paint; but it felt...used. I was familiar with the design of the pre-refit Enterprise, of course; but this layout, this entire design and detail, seemed even more antiquated than that. It reminded me strongly of holos I’d seen of the Enterprise during the time of Captains April and Pike. Same shipyard, perhaps; or same designers. If I hadn’t had an implicit trust in Joel’s engineering skills, I would never have set foot on board.
I waited until we were alone on a slow-moving turbolift; then I leaned close to Joel. “I’m  getting the distinct impression that Commander Edgeworth doesn’t like me very much,” I commented.
His chuckle was perhaps a little nervous. “She’s like that to everybody at first,” he said quickly. “And frankly, I don’t think she liked the way the admiral and the commodore got you aboard. I think she felt a little...manipulated, perhaps.”
“Oh boy,” I said. “I certainly don’t need that hanging over my head for the next year.”
“I don’t think it will,” he assured me. “One thing Commander Edgeworth is, is practical. If you do you duty well...she won’t be able to argue with success.”
“I hope that’s true.”
Zelazny had just eight levels, compared to Enterprise’s twenty-one. The officer’s quarters, as well as the common mess hall and the recreation room, were on Deck 3; the crew quarters one level below. Sickbay was on Desk 4 also. The science labs, where my office apparently was, lay far down on Deck 7. The ship’s one and only sizable briefing room was on Deck 1, a bit sternward from the bridge. This much I’d gleaned from the map. Unlike Enterprise, the turbolift came up in the center of Deck 1, rather than directly into the bridge. There was a second turbolift farther stern.
The briefing room was a reasonably typical example of the species; a fairly large space, dominated by a large rectangular table, its top flat black. This one had ten chairs around it, eight of which were already occupied as Joel and I entered. I recognized Commander Edgeworth, near the head of the table, and Dr. Enyeart opposite her. The rest were a mixture of men and women, all strangers to me.
But it was the figure at the head of the table that caught my eye, and held my gaze locked to his. The rank bars on his shoulder were easy enough to read; finally, after all this time, I had laid eyes on Captain Antilles.
I’ve heard it said, that more than ninety percent of your impression of someone is formed in the first few minutes after you meet them. And truly, I don’t think I’ll ever forget my first meeting with Captain Antilles. Believe me, I have tried.
He was surprisingly young for a captain; less than forty, I guessed. Impossible to tell how tall, seated behind the table; but it later turned out to be very, towering over me by a good half meter or more. His build was slim, almost bony; his features sharp and pinched. His hair was blond and cropped very short; his eyes small, deep blue, and as piercing as a phaser bolt. At the sight of me, his jaw clenched visibly.
Joel spoke first, by way of an introduction: “Captain, ladies and gentlemen, this is Lieutenant M’Ress, our new anthro-paleo officer. Lieutenant, this is Captain Mark Antilles.”
I did my best; I smiled and stepped forward, my hand extended for that gesture of greeting that I’d learned from humans. “Captain,” I said brightly. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
He did not rise. He glanced down at my extended hand, but made no more to raise his own to clasp mine. Then he looked me in the eye. “You’re late, Lieutenant,” he said. His voice was quiet, precise, clipped. “Please take your seat.”
Slowly my hand dropped to my side, and my heart dropped toward the deckplates. “Yes, sir,” I said, and I did, taking one of the two open chairs down towards the foot of the table. Joel sat down beside me, to my left.
“I suppose some introductions will be in order,” Captain Antilles went on. From the tone in his voice, clearly he regarded it an odious duty. “I believe you already know Commander Edgeworth, Dr. Enyeart and Lieutenant Commander Abrams. The others are the remainder of our senior staff.” He indicated the man to my right; fortyish, brown hair and pleasant, somewhat wide features. “This is Lieutenant Commander Karl Gaetano, our geologist.” Then, across the table next to Commander Edgeworth, a woman about thirty-five or so, very dark, features like fine sculpture, topped with tight-braided black hair. “Lieutenant Commander Barbara Delaney, our bio-sciences officer.” Then next to Commander Delaney, a small man, perhaps fifty or so, and extremely Japanese. “Lieutenant Commander Kiro Nakamara, our astrophysicist.” And next to him, a woman in her late twenties, very small, with pale skin and long, flowing dark hair. “Lieutenant Nadia Kerenski, our climatologist.” And finally, at the very foot of the table, a man perhaps six years younger than me; and one so similar in appearance, build and hairstyle to Captain Antilles, that they might almost have been brothers. Only the hair color differed: bright red instead of blond. “And finally, Lieutenant Peter Harris, our chief of security.”
I gave them all my best and most charming smile, which, admittedly, can be rather alarming to the uninitiated, with teeth like mine. “It’s a pleasure,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy working with you all.”
What I got back was...nothing. Dead silence, blank stares. I might just as well have been introduced to a bunch of mannequins. Slowly I put away my smile.
This reaction from his officers actually seemed to please Captain Antilles; he had a faint smile on his face as he said, “All right. Let’s get to work.”
The captain nodded to Commander Edgeworth, and she punched keys on the console before her, bringing up a star chart on the table’s small four-sided viewscreen. The roughly wedge-shaped form of a standard galactic sector, with DS 2 at one apex, appeared. The wedge had been divided up into several smaller triangles, six in all; and three of those were shaded in pale blue. The rest were black. It did not take a genius, nor even a lieutenant commander, to figure out what it represented; but Captain Antilles explained anyway.
“Our assigned task has been to survey this sector for the Federation,” he said. “Not, it must be said, an exhaustive survey; but rather a rapid location and categorization of inhabitable planets, as well as the location of, and first contact with, any intelligent life-forms that we might encounter. So far there have been none. From the standpoint of Federation expansion and colonization, this is fortunate.
“We had completed approximately half of our survey when we were forced to return to DS 2;  chiefly because of the untimely death of Lieutenant Commander Morada; but also because of our need to resupply. We will take up our survey again here.” He indicated the point of a triangle, the first one not already blue. “The first system we will examine is a binary star cataloged as A- and B-Benideel. Alpha Benideel is a star similar to Sol, with a high probability of planets, possibly Class M.
“Our resupply having been long since completed, and our crew now back up to full strength, we will depart DS 2 at oh-six-hundred tomorrow. Do you have any difficulty with that. Mr. Abrams?”
“None at all, sir,” Joel said cheerfully. “My engines are in top condition and ready to go.”
“Glad to hear it,” the captain said, with the first genuinely warm smile I’d seen from him so far. He glanced around the table. “We have lain fallow far too long, ladies and gentlemen, and we have a great deal of lost time to make up. You all know your departments; you know what I expect of you.”
And then his gaze found me, the only exception to his last statement. His voice hardened audibly as he said, “Our transit time to A-Benideel will be approximately two weeks, Lieutenant. During that time I expect you to familiarize yourself fully with the details of our previous surveys, as well at the operation of the anthropology-paleontology department. I believe that your last assignment was communications?”
“Yes, sir,” I confirmed.
“And that your qualifications for this position are based solely on a university degree from your homeworld?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied levelly. “As well as study at the Academy.”
He shook his head dubiously. “I hope,” he said, “that Admiral Conroy and Commodore M’Rael have not made as big a mistake as I suspect they have. We shall see. Commander Gaetano?”
The brown-haired geologist had been staring into space; now he came back to life. “Sir?” he said. In his voice there was just a hint of an accent; Terran/German, I presumed.
“I am detailing you to monitor Lieutenant M’Ress’ progress,” Captain Antilles told him. “You will be responsible for seeing that she gets everything she needs. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Gaetano said, and he glanced over at me. In that glance there was little or nothing of friendliness.
Captain Antilles looked around again. “Any questions?” he said. A pause; apparently there were none. “All right, then,” he said. “Dismissed.”
As we walked out, Joel stepped up beside me and slipped his arm through mine. “That went well,” he commented.
I gave him a look. “You could definitely have fooled me,” I told him.
His smile widened. “My first day on this ship was a disaster,” he said. “Captain Antilles had been given a bottom-of-the-line ship, he knew it, and he decided to take it out on me. He was thoroughly convinced that I was a complete idiot. It took months to convince him otherwise. It looks like he’s willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, anyway.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Plenty of doubt. Listen, I’m starving.” Which was true; I’d neglected lunch. “If you’ll show me the mess hall, I’ll buy you dinner.”
He shook his head. “I’ll be happy to show you the mess hall,” he said. “But I’ll have to take a rain check on dinner. If we’re shipping out at oh-six-hundred I’ve got to make sure I can live up to my claims about the engines.”
He had a point, I supposed. If Captain Antilles called for Warp Four in the morning, and the Zelazny refused to move...the captain was unlikely to be amused. “I suppose I can figure out how to operate an antique food synthesizer.” And hopefully, though I didn’t say so, it would  have a few programs for things I could actually consume. It can sometimes be a real pain, having dietary restrictions. “Lead on,” I concluded.
###
Now, I am not a snob; or at least I like to think I’m not. Still, I couldn’t resist a tiny frown of disapproval at my first sight of the mess hall. I suppose I’d gotten too used to the Officer’s Mess, both on the Enterprise and at Fleet HQ. After all, you work your way through the Academy, you fight for promotions; you ought to get some perks, at least; and that one room where the enlisted are forbidden to tread, is one of them.
But not here. Built perhaps in a more egalitarian era; or maybe just because it was so damn small, the Zelazny had just one mess hall. It was a cavernous space, at least compared to most of the other rooms I’d seen aboard so far. Completely unadorned and undecorated, it did at least have one large viewing port, which at the moment showed the hull of DS 2, close up. The room was full of round tables, four chairs per; the wall opposite the door was taken up with the small sliding hatches of the food synthesizers, as well as the screens and keyboards of the selection system, the disposal chutes, and the racks of utensils and condiment packets.
I stopped just inside the door for a look around. The hall was not crowded; a few tables were occupied, by small groups and individuals. Engrossed in meals and conversations, none of them so much as glanced at me. That look around, however, did save me from what would have been a dire faux pas. To my right, in the area nearest the viewport, there was a definite division. Not anything so obvious at a rope or a railing; but a slightly wider strip of floor, like the bare stripes of rock between clones of sea anemones in the intertidal. To the right, obviously, was Officer’s Country, taking up about a third of the total space. If I’d taken a seat on the other side...It seems a trivial thing, I know; quite silly, actually; but it’s amazing how quickly that sort of thing can become overwhelmingly important in the enclosed environment of a starship.
Finally I stepped forward, across to the selection screen and keyboard. As I did, conversations stilled and meals paused. I tried to ignore this, and not to read anything sinister into it. I was, after all, very new on this ship, aboard less than two hours. They’d get used to me in time. Meanwhile, I was expecting an argument with the meal-selection computer, and I was not disappointed.
It would be too much to ask, I suppose, for that antiquated load of scrap to have Caitian menus already loaded. I’d have to have a detailed talk with the computer later. Probably I’d have to get Commander Edgeworth’s permission first. Maybe some of those menu programs that Commodore M’Rael always traveled with...
In the meantime, though, I did have to eat; and, as I’d done so many times before, I improvised. I settled on a good-sized New York steak, rare. Make that very rare; in fact, don’t cook it at all; just heat it up to about 36°. Oh—that, and a glass of milk, room temperature. (Yes, I like milk; is there a problem with that?) I convinced the computer to fill this order with a minimum of trouble, and I carried it to Officer’s Country. I didn’t yet feel comfortable enough to simply join someone unannounced, so I took a table alone in the middle of the section. Time to be a sponge, again.
Despite Joel’s assurances, I could not quite believe that my first meeting with Captain Antilles had gone all that well. At very least, he was a good deal more hard-nosed than my other commanding officers had been. Comparisons to Captain Kirk probably weren’t fair; but they were inevitable. He had never termed my assignment to his ship a mistake...
I shook my head and applied myself to my slightly warmed steak. Tomorrow, I told myself. It’s been a long day. You’re tired, disoriented. Tomorrow you can start proving to him that you’re the best anthro-paleo office in the fleet. Tomorrow, when you’ve had some rest.
Lost in thought, it took me a while to realize that I was being watched. When I did, when I finally felt the eyes on me, I slowly raised my head and looked around, as casually as I could manage.
There were only a few others present in the hall, as I mentioned. In Officer’s Country there were just five; three j.g.’s and two full lieutenants, strangers all. In the enlisted section, about ten. And as I looked up, my gaze slowly circling the room, I saw that every one of them was staring at me, their expressions ranging from aghast to horrified. As they saw my glance they all looked away, returning to their own meals and conversations. What in the world—?
Then I looked down at my nearly-empty plate, and understood; or at least thought I did.
I am not what you’d generally term a messy eater. I do use a knife and fork, implements as familiar on Cait as on Terra. But I was eating raw meat; and I don’t go in much for chewing, not having any molars to do it with. It wouldn’t take much imagination to say that I was gulping down my dinner like a ravenous beast.
...To which I’d have to reply, So what? Get used to it! In my time I’d seen humans down meals that I would have considered unappetizing, to say the least; and as for some other species...but that’s all a part of living in a cosmopolitan galaxy, and especially of being in Starfleet. Or at least so I thought.
...But that thought brought back to my mind, the fact that something was extremely odd about this crew. I hadn’t been able to pin it down before; but now, looking around, I did. Since I’d set foot aboard, I had seen only humans. No other species at all. Could it be, I wondered, that I was the only non-human aboard?
My mind rejected that thought rapidly; mainly because it was highly unlikely; but also because it would have been a serious violation of Starfleet regulations, if true. No; surely there must at least be a few other non-human s aboard. Hidden in the below-decks, perhaps. After all, so far I’d seen barely a third of the crew of sixty-four. I’d encounter them eventually.
But at the moment, surrounded my humans, strangers all, I found myself unaccountably self-conscious; almost embarrassed by my cuisine and eating habits, for the first time in a good many years. As rapidly as I could but with as much decorum as I could manage, I finished my dinner and disposed of the dishware. I was aware of the eyes following me as I departed, almost fled, from the mess hall. I had the rest of the evening to myself; but if I could find my way back to my quarters, it was probably time, as the poets say, for contemplation in solitude.
###
I had a new uniform.
It wasn’t the first time, of course; in my career I’d had several different uniforms, ranging from the ridiculous to the sublime, as the saying goes: from my cadet jumpsuit through that awful miniskirt, through the pastel-colored creations that my humans friends termed (for some cryptic reason) “Dr. Dentons”; to the current much-improved design. The changes I’d made were not major; in fact they involved nothing more than colors. Up until the previous evening, the undershirt, the narrow stripe up the side of both trouser legs, the patch on my right shoulder where my rank bars lived, and the “service bar” circling my left wrist, had all been grey, the color of the Operations department. Now they were light blue, the color of Sciences. Only the rank bars themselves hadn’t changed; but that’s what this whole exercise was about, wasn’t it?
The back of the bathroom door, I’d discovered, was a full-length mirror, and I turned back and forth before it, inspecting the changes. On the whole I rather thought I approved. More to the point, I considered myself damn lucky; after my furious argument with the ship’s rather dimwitted computer the day before, anything could have happened. But as I’d told Joel, I can defeat any computer ever whelped; the design of the trousers (slightly short, elastic around the cuffs, and the all-important tail hole) was correct, and the size was even right. For the first time I felt as if I might actually fit into this new job of mine. 
The night before I’d dropped my old uniform into the laundry chute, and now, I knew, it was on its way to the ship’s mass recycler unit, to be broken down and reconstituted into new uniforms; or indeed any number of other things. What I didn’t know then, of course, was that I would never again in my career wear Services grey.
I had woken up at oh-six-hundred hours; partly because of my own internal clock, but mostly because of a sound, one which a human probably wouldn’t have heard: the deep throb of the ship’s engines. We were leaving DS 2 dead on schedule; Captain Antilles, I was to find, was nothing if not prompt. For better or worse, my new life began now. 
Since I had no scheduled bridge shifts any longer (nor indeed any reason to even set foot on the bridge) my life was about to become a little less structured than I’d become used to. At the moment, in fact, my chief duty was to study: to bring myself up to speed on the Zelazny’s mission. (And, let’s be honest, to discover just how much anthropology and paleontology I’d forgotten over the years.) Fortunately—at least from my point of view—that would be largely a solitary exercise.
Actually, my emotional condition was a great deal better that morning than my physical. I hadn’t slept much the night before—mainly because of the unfamiliar quarters; and also because the events of the previous day had kept playing and re-playing through my mind all night. That; and the fact that my new bunk had proved hard indeed. Hopefully I’d get used to it; but for the moment I was a bit stiff and sore, a definite kink in my neck.
Also I was hungry again—amazing how many calories you can burn, tossing and turning—and I headed for the mess hall. I had to pause just outside my quarters, though, looking ruefully at a discolored rectangle on the wall, at about human eye-level. A spot where a name-plate had been bodily removed, and had not been replaced. I’d have to see about that, before I’d really feel at home here. Vanity, no doubt; but if so, then let’s hear it for vanity.
I was in the mood for fish that morning; and in need of a bit of caffeine to get me going. I took my tray (a salmon steak and a cup of tea) over to the officer’s section. There were just a few others present, and I recognized only one: Commander Gaetano, the geologist. He sat alone at a table near the viewport. He did not respond to my friendly nod and smile.
I was about to take a table by myself again, when I saw a figure that I’d overlooked before, near the back corner. He was alone, his head in his hands; there was a single piece of dishware on the table before him, that being a mug. I made my way over and slid into the seat opposite him. “Good morning,” I said.
Joel raised his head to look at me; his eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, and the corners of his mouth turned downward. “What’s so good about it?” he grumbled.
“Great Goddess, you look terrible!” I said. “What—have you been up all night?”
He straightened up, cracking his back, and then he took a long pull on the mug; I smelled strong coffee. As usual. “That I have,” he said. “I’ve got to stop making promises that I might not be able to keep.”
“The engines?” I guessed.
“Were off-line until oh-five-thirty,” he said. “Fortunately Captain Antilles doesn’t know that.”
I waved my free hand at the viewport. Through it could clearly be seen the hazy streaks of stars passing by, blue fading to red; obviously we’d achieved warp. “So?” I said.
“So...somehow or other, we’re doing Warp Five,” he said. “Hopefully we’ll keep doing it.” Abruptly he smiled, and reached over to touch the collar of my shirt. “That’s a change,” he said. “Apparently you won the argument.”
I smiled. “Yes, I did. What do you think?”
“I think it suits you,” he said. “And I know you’ll live up to it.” His fingers dropped to my shoulder, and brushed lightly over my rank bars. “These will be changing soon, too.”
“I hope you’re right.”
As he had done that night in Krav’s Place; he put his hand atop mine, there on the table; and once again I felt that same electric thrill. He said, “As soon as you’ve finished your breakfast, I’ll keep my promise and show you your office.”
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “Thank you, but no. You’re just about done in. I’ll find it myself. You go rest.”
His smile was small and tired. “Thank you,” he said, squeezing my hand. “I figure I’ve got just about enough energy left to make it to my bunk.”
“Dinner tonight?” I asked.
“I’d like that. I’ll—”
He broke off then; and he seemed to freeze solid in his seat, his hand, still gripping mine, suddenly tightening. He was looking over my shoulder, into the main area of the mess hall; and his eyes widened.
I risked a quick glance. Commander Edgeworth had just entered the mess hall. She stood just inside the door, her arms crossed, staring fixedly at Joel and me. For a few seconds her gaze remained locked with Joel’s, an unmistakably icy stare; then she turned and departed the room.
Quickly Joel withdrew his hand from mine, and he stood. “I’ll—uh—I’ll talk to you later, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’ve—got to get some rest now.”
And he left, moving remarkably fast for one so evidently exhausted. That made twice in a row; maybe I needed a better brand of mouthwash.
###
Joel had been quite right: my new office wasn’t much to write home about.
As part of the Zelazny’s dubious refit, Deck 7, which had previously been cargo bays, had been converted into science labs. All of the planetary sciences, so important to the survey, had their work spaces there. The largest, of course, was biosciences; followed by geology and climatology. Anthro-paleo didn’t have a lab as such; but there was a space provided for cataloging and storing fossils and artifacts. Fossils there were in plenty, a collection I would have to review eventually, as it was mine now; but artifacts there were none. The Zelazny had so far uncovered no civilizations, past or present. That, of course, could change at any time. 
But anyway, the offices. A smallish cargo bay had been subdivided, with thin metal partitions, into half a dozen coffin-sized cubicles. They were set in a horseshoe-shape around an open area that had been turned into a kind of informal briefing lounge: a small table, a few comfortable chairs, a computer terminal and a viewscreen.
The offices had identification plates beside their doors, marking them by specialty and name. Mine was in the middle of the row, sandwiched in between Commander Gaetano on the left and Lieutenant Kerenski on the right. The sign said “Anthropology/Paleontology”; the name plate, however, had been removed, leaving a rectangular scar. I’d have to see about that, too. With some trepidation I stepped up to the door; and it slid open for me.
It was a box, a little less than two meters to a side. In the enter a desk, cantilevered off the right-hand wall. A swivel chair behind that. On the right-hand wall, a small viewscreen. A computer terminal perched on the desk. And that was about all. No decoration; no marks on the wall to show that there ever had been. I shuddered. How can anyone live like this? I wondered. And, What can I transfer from my quarters, to personalize this place even a little? Maybe I should have packed my diploma from S’Salan University; not only for decoration, but also to prove to myself that I actually did get that degree.
I crossed behind the desk—I had to bend my hips to do so—and I sat down gingerly. The chair had a slot between the seat and the back; more through sheer coincidence than any sort of planning, of course; still, it was an uncommon luxury for my tail. Uncommon in the human-dominated world, that is; not on Cait. 
As I’d crossed the room, of course, the door had closed; and I sat in the middle of a solid metal box, reminding myself firmly that the psych boys had said I didn’t suffer from claustrophobia. “Well,” I muttered to myself, in Caitian, “I suppose it’s time to get to work.”
I took a deep breath and activated the terminal. “Computer,” I said, “Display survey logs for current mission of USS Zelazny. Chronological order.”
“Specify log types,” the computer replied.
I bared my teeth in a grimace. “All,” I said. Doubtless there was far too much to take in one gulp; but I could break off and return whenever I wanted. I leaned back and tried to get comfortable as the text began to flow across my small screen. I’d better pay attention, I knew; the way Captain Antilles had talked, I might be in for a quiz later.
###
A little over two hours later, I’d finally had enough. “Computer, freeze display,” I said, and it did. I leaned back and rubbed at my eyes, which were blurry; and, after following the scrolling lines of text for two hours, even objects at rest seemed to have acquired a jittery movement. Yes, it was time for a break.
The uninitiated could not possibly imagine the number of log entries and data dumps that can be made by various people during the course of a planetary survey. Many pearls of wisdom, it is true; but scattered thinly in a sea of absolute trivia. I was paying the price for requesting all of the logs.
As I’d learned during the briefing the day before, the Zelazny’s mission planners had divided the sector into six triangles of equal area. Each of those triangles had represented, they believed, the area that the ship could comfortably explore, before having to return to DS 2 for resupply and R&R; about four months’ worth. In their logs the crew had taken to referring to each triangular are as a separate “survey.” In two hours, I had gotten barely a tenth of the way into their very first survey, more than a year ago. As I’d feared, this was not going to be an afternoon’s work; in fact, I’d be very lucky to be done before we reached A-Benideel.
Among all the verbiage, though, I was beginning to glean some idea of the personalities of my new crewmates. Captain Antilles’ Ship’s Logs made the least entertaining reading: they were short, matter-of-fact, bare-bones recordings of the ship’s position and status. Commander Edgeworth, as Exec, wrote mainly about crew matters; but she had managed to make even that subject totally devoid of life. Both of them, their logs might as well have been written by computer. Not so, most of the others.
In truth, I could have safely deleted Joel’s engineering logs from my study; his problems with his engines weren’t really any of my business. But I didn’t, because his breezy, slightly sarcastic writing style was a breath of fresh air, after the captain and the commander’s coldness. There were many things about Joel that I had forgotten, unfortunately; his slightly quirky sense of humor being one of them. Odd, because it had been one of his most endearing qualities; no matter how bad the situation, (even finals week) he could always make me laugh.
I also found myself strangely interested in Lieutenant Commander Gaetano’s logs. Much of it, by necessity, was a rather dry account of the geology of the planets in question: rocks, minerals, tectonics, continental structure, and so on. I was able to understand almost all of it; geology as a science is next door to paleontology; to study the latter you first have to study the former. But beyond the statistics, I was catching a glimpse of a person that I thought I could grow to like; he had an absolutely passionate love for his work, and I’ve always responded well to dedication. 
The most poignant, of course, were the logs of Lieutenant Commander Morada. Like Gaetano, his log entries were mainly factual; but hidden in them I thought I detected several disparate emotions at war. On one level, an almost childlike delight, as he described in detail the fossils of strange life forms he’d uncovered; and disappointment, that he had not found any intelligent life, nor any signs of past civilizations. A bit of frustration, too, at the necessary brevity of his surveys. I could understand that: in no way could any paleontologist be satisfied with a sack full of fossils. He (or she) would want to know everything; the entire evolutionary history of the planet. Unfortunately, he’d never had the time. No one ever does; but I could feel for his frustration; I had felt it myself. Eventually, of course, I would come to his very last log entry; and I wasn’t looking forward to that. Not at all.
It wasn’t Commander Morada that kept coming back to my thoughts, though; nor Gaetano, nor Captain Antilles or Commander Edgeworth. No; it was Joel. And in a way totally separate from his logs, or his duties as Chief Engineer.
There may have been things about him that I’d forgotten; but there were far more than I hadn’t. His eyes, for one; his smile; his kind words; his unwavering friendship. Over the last couple days, since the admiral’s dinner, memories of our days at the Academy had come flooding back, some of which I hadn’t recalled in years. In my dreams the past couple nights too; some of them had been quite...interesting. Memories and feelings. The last two days had been far too hectic, and I’d had little time to bring those feelings out into the open and examine them. Now, in the quiet of my private office, I did so. How did I feel about him, I wondered; nine years later? We were still friends; that much was clear. But...was there more? Had there ever been? Or had I just been kidding myself?
As I’ve already more or less mentioned, nothing more physical than hand-holding or the occasional hug ever occurred between Joel and me. I remembered well, though, one occasion when something might have, and very nearly did. It was a vivid memory, but still, one I didn’t call upon very often; the feelings associated with it were...difficult.
It was during our fourth year at the Academy; and we’d gotten a three-day pass. Just obtaining one of those precious documents at all was difficult; for the two of us to have one at the same time was nothing short of miraculous, and we were determined to make the most of it.
We were very fortunate in that Joel had a family friend who owned a long-term lease on an apartment in Monterey (well, Pacific Grove to get technical) in a wonderful old building, a 20th-Century artifact, overlooking the Bay near Lover’s Point. This friend was spending a year off-planet on business, and he’d given Joel the access codes to the place to use whenever he wished, provided he cleaned up after himself.
We’d taken the air shuttle very early that morning, about a ten-minute trip from San Francisco. We stopped at the apartment only long enough to dump our travel cases before we hit the town. And brother, the town hit back. In that one frenetic day we saw the famous Aquarium, Fisherman’s Wharf, Cannery Row, Asilomar Beach, museums, historic adobes...we saved only Carmel for the next day. It was close to midnight when we finally straggled back to the apartment, exhausted but glowingly happy.
Because we’d wanted, for that brief time, to leave Starfleet Academy behind us, we hadn’t even brought our cadet uniforms, opting instead for our “civvies,” as Joel put it. In his case that was slacks, a sweater and a light jacket; but in my case it was a boldly-striped Caitian day-robe (which I’d bolstered underneath with a pullover, because Monterey in the summer can be remarkably cold) and a beaded black collar. I arranged the folds of the robe around me as I sank, not to say collapsed, down onto the old, slightly sprung sofa in front of the big window. The curtains were open, and through the windows I could see the rectilinear blaze of lights that is Monterey Bay at night.
“We must have walked forty kilometers today,” I said to Joel, or rather to his back; he was in the kitchen. “My feet are killing me.”
Joel emerged from the kitchen, a steaming mug in each hand; I immediately smelled hot cocoa. That was a departure for him, at least; during the day he’d consumed enough coffee to float a shuttlecraft. 
He sat down carefully beside me and handed me one of the mugs. Not too sweet nor too hot; he knew how I liked it. “What you need,” he said, “is a foot massage.”
“Pardon me?”
“A foot massage. Shiatsu. I took a class once. You’ll love it.”
I was rather dubious on that point, but he was insistent. He took the mug from my hands and set it on the coffee table; then he patted his knees in invitation. I sighed. Once Joel Abrams got an idea in his head...
I turned around sideways on the sofa, rearranging the folds of my day-robe, and lifted my feet into his lap, feeling like a complete fool. That feeling quickly evaporated as he went to work.
Caitian feet have about the same number and types of bones as a human’s; that’s where the similarity ends. Technically speaking, our feet are quite elongated, the “heel,” which forms a definite backwards kink in the line of our legs, is elevated well above the ground. We stand on what in a human would be the ball of the foot, or (more technically) our metatarsals and phalanges. Because of this, and our recently-evolved bipedal stance, our balance is a dynamic thing, requiring the use of our tail as a counterweight, and also requiring constant sensory input from our toes. All usually quite unconscious, of course. Those facts were to give me considerable trouble years later when the Quartermaster tried to foist a pair of boots on me; but that night in Monterey, those problems were mercifully far in the future.
The tops of my feet are furry, of course; the bottoms (including the bottoms of the toes) are covered with thick skin like moccasin leather, protective against most types of terrain, very well padded, and quite flexible. It was into those pads of flesh that Joel’s skillful fingers pressed, shifting and replacing the bones, tendons and muscles, with wonderful results.
Frankly, I had never felt anything quite so good in all my life; within a few minutes I was literally purring, much to my embarrassment, and my tail was swishing in gentle contentment, curling randomly around Joel’s arms and wrists.
When he got to my toes, though, I roused myself to warn him. “Careful,” I said. “You might get scratched.”
His hands froze, his fingers separating my toes. “Pardon?”
I sat up a little straighter and reached out to guide his hand to the first toe on my right foot. “Press here,” I said, indicating a point on the underside of the toe just below the tip. “Gently, please.”
He did, and his eyes widened in surprise as a long curved claw sprouted, hooking over his finger. He tested the point, and from the fact that he drew his hand back fast, I presume he found it quite sharp. The claws on our feet don’t mean as much to us, culturally speaking, as those on our hands; but they do have their uses, primarily for traction on soft surfaces, and I tended mine as carefully as I did those on my fingers.
Joel released the gentle pressure and the claw vanished. “Thanks for the warning,” he said, and he went back to work, carefully avoiding those “trigger” points on my toes. I leaned back again, and reached over to the table for my mug. Sitting there, sipping the cocoa, having my feet reshaped...a marvelous feeling of utter relaxation went through me, such as I rarely felt any more; even then, no, especially then, I led a rather stressful life.
“How’s that?” Joel said finally, reaching back and retrieving his own almost-untouched mug.
“Wonderful,” I said. “I’m sorry I ever doubted you. ” Strangely, though my feet and lower legs were still lying across his lap, I had no particular desire to move them. My tail was still flicking lazily around, now in the vicinity of his knees, as if with a mind of its own. Joel looked at me, and I felt the breath catch in my throat as I looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time. Joel reached out his arms...
And whatever might have happened then was interrupted by a visiphone call from one of our more humorous friends at the Academy, where a late-night party was going on. With that, of course, the mood was broken, and Joel and I retired to our (separate) bedrooms for some much-needed sleep. And though the rest of those three days was quite pleasant, memorable even, somehow that particular mood and circumstance didn’t happen again. Over the years I’d often wondered if I should have been grateful to our late-night caller—at the time I was—or if I should have hunted him down and killed him. I still wasn’t sure. I also can’t be sure how far I would have allowed the situation to go, if we hadn’t been interrupted. I wasn’t sure; but I had suspicions.
But now, nine years later...well, the most charitable thing I could say was that he was being rather hard to pin down. Every time I tried to start a serious conversation...he departed the scene at warp speed. It was becoming most disconcerting.
I shook my head hard, fighting free from memories. Break time was over; time to get back to work. I took a deep breath. “Computer, resume.”
###
“So...how did your first day go?” Joel asked me.
The question was more than half intended to distract, but I wasn’t falling for that; I kept my eyes on the chessboard as I replied, “Actually, I had a small problem.”
He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Which was?” he asked.
I’d emerged from my office after ten solid hours of study, interrupted only by a half-hour lunch. By the end of it my eyes had been gone, totally shot; not to mention my nerves. And the walls of my office had moved at least half a meter closer together. Tomorrow, if possible, I’d use the table and the terminal out in the briefing area.
After leaving my office I’d felt my way to the mess hall, having become quite ravenous; and there, to my disappointment, I’d failed to find Joel. Once again I’d eaten alone, daring this time to take a table near the warp-streaked viewport. Nobody seemed to notice; nor indeed to pay much attention to me at all. Gradually my eyes cleared and my nerves settled. I had absorbed a massive amount of information; it would take some time, I knew, for it to all settle in.
I’d almost finished my dinner when Joel hurried in, apologetic. As was typical for him, a few hours of sleep had been sufficient to revive him; he had showered, and shaved, and once again looked like a human being. And, as was also typical, after waking up he had returned to Engineering.
“M’Ress, I’m really sorry,” he said, sliding into place across from me. “We were fine-tuning the warp coils, and I lost track of time.”
“That’s okay,” I told him magnanimously. It wasn’t the first time in our friendship that something similar had happened, and probably wouldn’t be the last. “You’re not eating?” I went on.
“No,” he said. “I had a big lunch, or breakfast, or something, just after I woke up. Tell you what: finish up, and I’ll show you our Rec Room.”
He did. It was a smallish space in the sternward section of Deck 3; small, but comfortable. The floor was carpeted, much to the relief of my toes; the walls a more restful brown. There were a few paintings and prints on the walls, all of them Terran. Scattered around the floor were a number of games tables, for cards, chess and so on; along far wall a few niches with chairs and sofas for reading and conversation; and a small theater for viewing films or threevees. So far, it was the most pleasant room I had encountered aboard Zelazny. Others apparently thought so too; the place was not exactly crowded, but well-used.
“I’ve been wondering,” I told Joel as we looked around. “What about exercise on this ship?”
He pointed to a set of wide double doors in the sternward wall. Two crewmembers carrying small duffel bags were just exiting from it. “Through there is our gym,” he said. “Not much, I’m afraid. Mostly variable-resistance equipment, treadmills, stairclimbers, that sort of thing. We don’t have room for a tennis court. Oh—there is a small lap pool with a continuous current.”
I made a face. I considered myself to be in pretty good physical shape, as Christine Chapel had certified; but it took work to stay that way. My favorite exercise, by far, was tennis; on the Enterprise I’d seldom lacked for an opponent, and when I did, I could have the computer fire serves or volleys from a ball gun. My least favorite, again by far, was swimming; I hadn’t even known how, when I arrived at the Academy. Variable-resistance machines, treadmills and stairclimbers had always been at the low end of the scale too. But I had to have exercise...
I hadn’t been in the mood, though, that evening; and so Joel and I had found an empty chess table. Joel was a demon at chess, and had won a few minor championships; years ago he could always beat me. But in the meantime I’d had instruction from Commander Spock. I went on the attack immediately; within a few minutes Joel was in trouble; he knew it; and hence his dastardly attempt to distract. 
“I had massive amounts of information to go through,” I told him. “I still do. It dawned on me very quickly that I wasn’t going to be able to memorize it all, and that it would be foolish even to try.”
“That sounds logical,” Joel said. One of his rooks was in danger, and he moved it a few spaces and a level. 
“So,” I went on, “I decided to just skim most of it, and to have the computer mark for further study anything that looked interesting or vital.”
“That sounds logical too,” he said. “So what was the problem?”
“I’m getting to that,” I said. “As I went on, I started to notice that the amount of information, the raw data, that I was skimming was getting smaller, instead of larger.”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“Well, let me see if I can explain,” I said. I thought for a moment. Then I said, “The Zelazny makes a survey of planet A. All of the various science departments make their reports, and it’s all gathered together in the logs. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“Then the ship moves on to planet B, in another system. It’s a similar planet, and you’d expect the various departments to have roughly the same amount of raw data, right?”
“I suppose.”
“But they didn’t,” I said. “Or at least they didn’t seem to. It appeared that every new planet was generating less and less data.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know why that would be,” he said.
I glanced up at him quickly; but his eyes were on the board. I’d known him a long time, though, and something about the way he’d said that...perhaps a little too casual and off-hand? I went on, “Well, as it turns out, it wasn’t. The data was collected, all right, but a good deal of it was being read into files with security locks on them. Ones that I couldn’t access.”
He looked up. “That’s strange,” he said.
“Very,” I agreed. “Especially since the data most affected was generated by Commander Morada. Some of the others’ reports were, too; but mostly it was Morada’s. For some of the planets this ship has surveyed, almost half of his logs were unavailable to me.”
Joel shook his head again. “That’s got to be an error,” he said. “Commander Edgeworth probably  made a mistake with your voice-print.”
“I thought of that,” I said. “But it’s strange...those secure files, it appears, are open only to her and to Captain Antilles. I was wondering if you’d have any idea why?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said; and once again my alarms went off. Too casual; too dismissive. “As I told you back on DS 2, I haven’t gotten too involved with the survey work. I’ve had enough to do, just keeping the engines running.”
“Of course,” I said. If he heard the irony in my voice, he chose to ignore it.
“So tell me,” he said, with a slight grin, “did you try to get past the locks?”
“Of course I did,” I said; I was a little offended that he’d even needed to ask. “Whoever set them up was a master, though. So far they’ve defeated me.”
“As I said, I’m certain it’s all a mistake,” Joel said. “If you went to Commander Edgeworth, I’m sure she’d correct it for you.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I said. I peered at him again, curiously. Suddenly he was nervous, fidgety. Was there something more, something he wasn’t telling me?
He caught my eye on him; and then, very deliberately, he reached out his forefinger to knock over his king. “I concede,” he said.
###
I couldn’t sleep.
I’d returned to my cabin after the chess game, exhausted, with no more ambition than to change into my nightshirt and climb into bed. My eyes were finally clear again; certainly I didn’t want to read any more. I’d switched the lights out and curled up to sleep.
An hour later I gave up and rose. I’d tossed and turned that whole time, half-asleep at best, wide-awake mostly. And this time it wasn’t the hard bunk. No; it was my problems with my studies that troubled me. That, and Joel’s reaction. Before I’d spoken to him, I had been more than half convinced already that it was a mistake; that my voice-print hadn’t been fully authorized for some mundane reason, as he’d tried to tell me. But now...my revelations had scared him to death. I could tell, could see it in his eyes; could almost smell it. He had known that it wasn’t a mistake. But if it wasn’t...
I didn’t need to turn up the cabin lights; the soft glow of the bedside chronometer, and the tiny guide-lights beside the cabin and bathroom doors, were quite enough for my eyes. I made my way over to the room’s single chair and sat. My cabin came equipped with a food-synthesizer slot, as complete as the ones in the mess hall; and from it I ordered my favorite soporific, a glass of warm milk. I tucked my legs beneath me, wrapping my nightshirt around them as I sat there sipping.
Joel had recommended talking to Commander Edgeworth; but somehow I found myself reluctant to do so. My experiences with her so far had proved her to be anything but helpful; and she did not strike me as a person too willing to admit her mistakes. If she had indeed made an error in my voice-print authorization (which, frankly, I doubted), bringing it to her attention would be just as likely to win her enmity as her assistance. It might be better if I made another attempt myself.
Setting my glass aside, I activated my terminal. As with chess, I’d always had a flair for computers; but over the last few years my talents for both had been nurtured by Commander Spock. He would have vehemently denied, however, teaching me to be what used to be called a “hacker.”
Slowly, patiently I explored the security lock around those files. It would be tedious to detail my back-and-forth dialogue with the computer; suffice to say, it was beginning to look less and less like an error, and more like a deliberate attempt to keep those files a secret. But why? It was scientific data, relating to the ship’s mission; why in the world would it be accessible only by the captain and the first officer? It made no sense at all.
One thing I had learned, in working with computers: there is always a back door, always a way to Finagle. I believed that I had just about found it when my terminal suddenly went dead.
I sat for a moment, quite nonplused. One second I’d been working; the next second nothing. It was as if someone had kicked out the plug. A mechanical failure? I wondered. And, Who do I call to fix it?
It was late, and I was about to leave it and consult Joel in the morning, when the intercom sounded. “Edgeworth to Lieutenant M’Ress.”
Uh-oh, I thought, as I reached for the button. “M’Ress here.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded without preamble.
“Pardon me, Commander?” I said, startled.
“The computer alerted me that someone was attempting to access secured files,” Edgeworth said. “I investigated and found that it was you. I want to know why.”
Silently, I sighed. No use denying it. I said, “Commander, those files contain information vital to my studies and my job. I couldn’t understand why I’d been denied access to them.”
“Those files,” she said tightly, “contain information which the captain has deemed to be of a sensitive nature. The files are secured for that reason. They will be opened to you, if and when the captain deems it appropriate. In the meantime you will confine yourself to the public files, and stop wasting our processor time. Is that clear, Lieutenant?”
“Commander—” I began; but she rode me down. 
“Is that clear?” she insisted.
“Yes, Commander,” I said. “Quite clear.”
“Good,” she said, and clicked off, leaving me sitting there in the dark, wide-awake, my tail lashing. Because you see, it wasn’t clear; not one word of it.

CHAPTER FIVE
Shedding season.
It has rightly been said that female Caitians have two great miseries in our lives. Shedding season is one, in the spring and fall; the other is what humans euphemistically call “that time of month”; which for Caitians comes only twice a year, mercifully at the opposite poles of the calendar from the shedding. “That time” can be brought under some kind of control by hormone shots, and ceases anyway some time in our sixth decade of life. The other goes on as long as we live. The males, of course (the Goddess bless them) escape “that time;” but they don’t escape shedding season. (Don’t laugh too hard, by the way, if you happen to be a human; you’ve got a shedding season too. Ever notice that the bathroom sink collects more hairs at certain times of the year?)
Back home on Cait, on the endless rolling veldt of S’Salan, the northern hemisphere continent that was my home, a mild winter would be giving way to the increasing warmth of spring. If there had been sufficient rain, the grasses would be sprouting, growing almost overnight taller than an adult male. And the flowers too, many thousands of square kilometers of them, on the rises and in the hollows especially. The twisted, jet-black skeletons of the tatak trees would be sprouting too, transformed almost unbelievably by millions of tiny pale-green leaves, and, on the branch-tips, cream-colored blossoms.
My family home on Cait was a big, sprawling place, as most are; circular in shape, with a large garden in the center. And the queen of that garden, predating the house by hundreds of years, was an enormous tatak, a “specimen” as the botanists have it. Its lower trunk had leaned a little, enough that the soft claws of a young kit could find more than enough purchase in the shaggy bark to climb far into the iron-hard branches. I’d had one particular favorite branch, high in the canopy, where I could recline, my back against the trunk, looking over the roofs of my home to the endless plains. It was pleasantly shady, a cool microclimate on hot days; and pleasant in another way, with a touch of mystery and imagined danger, on warm scented nights when our two moons were riding high and bright. Some nights I’d even slept up there; my sense of balance operates just as well asleep as awake. My branch had been quite high; even my brothers and sister hadn’t dared to climb to it. It’s an advantage, at times, being the smallest.
I sighed, there in my cabin aboard the Zelazny, fighting free of old memories. My cabin had a built-in vacuum, a long tube with a narrow nozzle, which dwelt behind a panel inside the wardrobe. The tube was long enough to reach all through the cabin, and I was using it, as I had several times in the last couple days, to suck up the coating of short reddish-brown hairs that had appeared, as if by magic, on the floor, the bed (especially the bed!) the table; and indeed every horizontal surface. By my reckoning this had begun a little early; but I’d been under a bit of stress lately, and that can do it. The only good news was, the sooner begun, the sooner ended.
The worst part wasn’t the constant cleaning up; it was the maddening itch, all over my body, which nothing known will relieve for very long. It made my uniform all but unendurable; even my day-robes and nightshirt were torture. The only relief, I’d long since found, was to spend my off-duty hours wearing nothing at all. Fortunately no one was likely to walk in on me unannounced. It would go on for about a week or so, until my fur looked rather threadbare; then the new, lighter undercoat would sprout, and it would all be over for another six months.
Parenthetically, it was at those times of the year, and those on the other side of the calendar, that I got my reputation for being bad-tempered. I suppose that’s deserved, actually.
I sighed again as I coiled the hose and stowed it away. Miserable or not, bad temper or good, it was time for me to get to work again. In the ten days since the Zelazny’s departure from DS 2, my new life had settled down into a routine, as life is apt to do: up at oh-six-hundred, shower, dress, breakfast in the mess hall (usually alone, sometimes with Joel); then to my office to study. Lunch in the briefing area just outside my office; then more study; perhaps in my office or perhaps with the fossil collection. Then dinner (ditto for comments about breakfast); a few hours in the Rec Room or the gym; and then to my quarters and bed. 
In itself, I know, none of that sounds particularly stressful, and it wouldn’t have been, in other circumstances. What I was finding so stressful, what was causing my fur to fall out, was the crew. The best term I can come up with is “standoffish.” Never in my life had I had so much trouble making friends. My usual experience is about three to four days. (Case in point: I met Joel Abrams on my second day on Terra.) Here: nothing. My overtures of friendship were not even visibly rejected. Why, I wasn’t certain; except...well, I was an outsider, so to speak; a new addition to a crew that had had few others. And I was replacing someone who had been undeniably popular with the crew. Perhaps their resentment was to be expected; and perhaps the ice would melt eventually. We’d see, anyway.
Very carefully, I pulled on my uniform; but as cautious as I was, it wouldn’t be long before the heavy layers of cloth would be torture. Why did Caitians ever take to clothing, anyway? At least this explained why trousers, sweaters, and other close-fitting garments weren’t popular on my planet. If they were, come shedding season we’d all be clawing one another.
Well...paradoxical as it may sound, moving around actually helps; and so I did. I’d go first to the mess hall for a light breakfast (very light, because the itching ruined my appetite.) And then to my office. We were only about four days from A-Benideel, and I still had some catching up to do.
###
About an hour later I gave up. It was no use; my mind wasn’t on anthropology today. How could I think about the past, when I was rooted firmly to the here and now by my physical discomfort? I closed my eyes and leaned far back in my chair, my hands clasped behind my head. I should have stayed in my quarters, I realized a little belatedly. I could have studied there just as well as in my office, leaving off the uniform. And taken a break every hour or so for a sonic shower, which would remove the loose hairs and at least take the edge off the itching. Tomorrow, if it was this bad, I would do just that.
During those intervening ten days I had at least managed to decorate my office a little, using local materials as they say. In my studies I had discovered that Commander Morada had been what used to be called a “shutterbug.” During his landing-party missions he had used the visual scanner of his tricorder to record still images, that were not of any scientific value, just because they were artistic and attractive. I had found it easy enough to request hard copies of some of these (for study, of course) and then to attach them, poster-like, to the walls of my office. I truly regretted, now, never having met him: even our aesthetic senses had been similar, it seemed.
...That; and I’d also “borrowed” from the fossil collection a particularly attractive piece: the fist-sized shell of a spiral-shaped marine animal, not unlike the Terran Chambered Nautilus. It had been chipped free from most of the rock matrix that had enclosed it; but a cone-shaped slab of black shale at its base served well as a stand. It now occupied the corner of my desk. Funny how just those few things prevented the walls from moving closer together. Well, most of the time, anyway. In response to my pleadings, Joel had managed to get the name-plates made for my quarters and my office. In that regard, at least, I no longer felt like a trespasser.
Besides my physical discomfort that morning, I also had another problem. There was something niggling at the back of my mind, something I couldn’t quite remember. It was a problem of some kind; or a question; or perhaps just an observation. Whatever it was, I had shelved it some days ago, expecting it to solve itself. So far, it seemed, it hadn’t; and now it was clamoring for my attention again.
When I finally remembered my eyes snapped open. Of course! That first day, my first dinner in the mess hall. I’d looked around at the crewmembers surrounding me, and observed that they all seemed to be human. And that wasn’t right. For the next nine days I’d been unconsciously expecting to run into other non-human crewmembers...and I hadn’t. By this time, surely I had encountered all sixty-four of my crewmates; and every one of them was apparently human.
I straightened up. I had evidence now that my computer time was monitored by Commander Edgeworth, a fact which, while within her purview as first officer, was still uncustomary and rather rude. If she was monitoring me now, hopefully she’d interpret this as just curiosity. “Computer,” I said, “Display crew roster of USS Zelazny, cross-referenced by planet of birth.”
What I saw was nothing short of appalling. Sixty-five crewmembers. By alphabetical order my name came in at about the middle of the list; the “planet” column said “Cait,” of course. But every other one, all sixty-four of them, had the same single word in that column: “Terra.”
Goddess! I thought. They are all human! Not only that, every damn one of them is an Earthling! What are the odds against that happening? I had little time for any more open-mouthed contemplation though, because at that moment the door chimed. For an instant I was frozen. Commander Edgeworth? I thought wildly, if a little illogically. Quickly I cleared the screen. “Come in,” I said.
The person who stood there, though, was not Commander Edgeworth; in fact it was Lieutenant Commander Gaetano.
“Commander!” I said, in surprise. “What—uh—what can I do for you?”
He glanced around my office, taking in my new decorations with a slight frown of disapproval. He said, “Captain Antilles ordered me to keep an eye on your progress, Lieutenant. I thought it about time we found out how well you’re doing.”
Uh-oh, I thought, here it comes: the quiz. I’d been dreading it for days, knowing it was coming. I said, trying to hide my dismay, “Certainly, Commander.”
“Let’s step out to the briefing table,” he said. “More room.” 
We did; I was inordinately aware as I rose that my desk and chair were covered with a fine mist of hairs. Dammit! 
For some unaccountable reason, as we sat down I was as nervous as on the day of my oral exams (the ones that determined if I really would graduate the Academy); and , as on that day, my tail was going eight to the bar. Unaccountable, yes; except...well, I’d been an avid student of human body language for a number of years. And what I was getting from Gaetano was this: he wanted me to fail, to be found wanting in my studies. He didn’t expect me to, not exactly; but he wanted me to. I could see it in his eyes.
“All right, Lieutenant,” he began. “Let’s see how much you know. I assume you’ve studied our survey logs?”
I haven’t spent the last ten days filing my claws, is what I didn’t say. “Almost all, sir,” I said. “I am currently reviewing your last survey.” The one where Morada got killed.
He hesitated a beat, and I wondered if he was going to say that I should be farther along. Then he sighed. “I suppose that’s adequate progress,” he said. “All right...we’ll start with the star cataloged as VSA 4792. Tell me about its planets.”
And he leaned back, his arms crossed over his chest, staring owlishly at me. I don’t suppose he could have caught me at a worst time if he’d tried, unless he woke me up in the middle of the night. Massively uncomfortable, my mind still reeling from the implications of what the computer had just told me...but I had to put it all aside and focus on his questions. 
I hadn’t been quizzed like that for years, not since my early days on the Farragut; but if I was to be charitable, I suppose Captain Antilles could be forgiven for being doubtful. In his eyes, I’d been foisted on him by a higher officer’s command, qualified or not, in a way that smacked of nepotism. I’d probably have been skeptical too.
It would be pointless to detail all the questions that Gaetano asked me, covering most of the Zelazny’s previous surveys. Suffice it to say that I answered them all. Some instantly, some with a bit of thought; some by the skin of my teeth. And that wasn’t what he wanted. I saw the growing dismay in his eyes as he went on, and the questions became increasingly esoteric. As the Goddess is my witness, he desperately wanted me to fail. When I didn’t, he seemed almost... frightened. Like he’d been ordered to make me fail, dammit; and didn’t want to report that he couldn’t.
Finally—it must have been close to an hour later—we finished. He ground to a halt when he asked me a question that I couldn’t answer. “I’m sorry, Commander,” I said with a smile and a helpless shrug. “I haven’t studied that particular survey yet.”
“Hmph,” he said. “All right. Make sure you have, though, before we reach A-Benideel.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. I hesitated a moment. Then, seeing that he had no intention of volunteering the information, I went on, “How did I do, sir?”
His questions had been astute, proving him to be as intelligent as I’d thought he was. And he knew almost as much about paleontology as I did. That figured; I probably knew almost as much about geology as he did. He’d been getting...well, slippery, toward the end, though. That’s the only word I can think of: trying to trip me up. And I don’t appreciate that, from anyone. Hence my question: almost a slap in his face.
He said, grudgingly, “You did very well, Lieutenant. Ninety-eight percent, I’d say. The Captain will be very pleased.”
Why was it I thought he meant just the opposite? Maybe it was because the words seemed dragged out of him, like pulling teeth. Why? I wondered. Why would Captain Antilles, or anyone, want an officer to fail in her duties? What could his stake in that be? It was quite a while before I found the answer to that question.
Gaetano went on, “Captain Antilles also ordered me to aid you.” He paused. “So...is there anything you need, or any questions I can answer?”
There was one; but did I dare ask it? The last time I did, my computer terminal was switched off for most of a day. But what the hell, I’m a daring sort of person. “Yes, sir,” I said. My tail started lashing again, as I took a deep breath and forced myself to go on. “In my studies I’ve found that quite a few of the logs, mostly Commander Morada’s, are in secure storage, accessible only by the captain and Commander Edgeworth. I’ve been wondering why.”
His reply was a good deal more instructive than Commander Edgeworth’s had been, if not much more informative. He went a bit pale first. His mouth opened a closed a few times, silently. Then he said, “It’s because of Commander Morada’s death. He had an unfortunate habit of adding too much personal detail to his logs. Captain Antilles believed it would spare Morada’s family a great deal of embarrassment if those details were expunged before he allowed anyone else to view the logs. So far he hasn’t decided who should do the editing.”
Where should I start? If anything, Commander Gaetano was a worse liar than Joel Abrams, who was absolutely dismal at it. There was not one word of truth in his story; and it contradicted everything Commander Edgeworth had said. I was almost insulted, wondering what kind of idiot he thought I was. Nowhere in Commander Morada’s logs had I seen any evidence of excessive personal detail; why would it exist only in some of them? And it was not only his logs that were in secure storage; just mostly. And so on. This “explanation”, such as it was, had obviously come directly from his imagination.
But still, instructive. I was right, I thought wildly. He is afraid. But what of? There could be only one answer to that: his superior officers. Antilles and Edgeworth. 
I could have pursued it, I suppose, pointing out the inconsistencies; but I would just be putting his back to the wall; and the Goddess only knows how he would have reacted. So I just said, mildly, “Thank you, Commander. If I may request, please let me know when those logs become available. I’m sure I’d find much useful information in them.”
He gave me a quick look. His expression was almost laughable, as easy to read as the large-print edition. He was thinking, She bought that? I kept my own face as bland and inscrutable as I could, as he said, “I’ll do that, Lieutenant. I’ll—uh—let you get back to your studies now.”
And with that he rose and retreated rapidly, his office door snapping shut behind him. I sat still for a moment. Then I shook my head. I don’t like this, I thought dismally. First the computer’s revelations, now this. What had I gotten myself into?
###
I asked Joel.
We were in the gym, late that afternoon before dinner. Now, you will probably be thinking that the middle of shedding season isn’t the best time to begin an exercise regimen; and you’d be at least partially correct. But I’d had little choice. The last ten days had been hard on me; far too much sitting and reading, far too little physical activity. The problem wasn’t my muscle tone, although that would have started to slip eventually. No; it was my nerves that suffered. I’ve never been much on sitting still for extended periods; not at least without wanting to claw somebody. On board the Enterprise I would have grabbed my racquet and defeated somebody in straight sets. Here, I had to be satisfied with exercise machines. The ship’s computer had been convinced to provide me with a light T-shirt, and a pair of pull-on shorts with a tail hole. 
Oh—and “partially correct?” As I mentioned, activity helped the itching a little; and the sonic shower afterwards would be a blessing.
Probably because of the time of day, Joel and I were the only ones in the gym at the moment; he lying on his back beneath the handlebars of a resistance machine, set to do bench-presses; and I was on a stairstepper next door. We’d been working for some minutes when I said between pants, “Joel? Are you aware that everyone on this ship besides me is Terran?”
The effect of that simple question was extraordinary. The bench-press bar slipped from his hands and came down with a clang; if he’d been using free-weights, he probably would have garroted himself. He sat up hurriedly. “I...suppose I was,” he said. He reached for a towel and mopped the sweat from his face. I wished I could do that; my tongue was lolling with my heat-reducing panting. “Why do you ask?” he went on.
“Well,” I said, “It’s extremely irregular, to say the least. In fact, I believe it’s a violation of a Starfleet regulation—a fairly new one, about six years old.”
I suppose I’d better explain that. Once upon a time Starfleet experimented with starship crews made up all of one species. The idea was to increase harmony and decrease friction, I suppose; theoretically at least, all the crewmembers would understand each other. The most famous of them was the Intrepid, a sister-ship of the old Enterprise; she’d had an all-Vulcan crew. Years ago, when I was still doing time as an ensign, Intrepid was destroyed by a huge, unicellular, energy-consuming creature, which was later killed itself by Enterprise. The official report on the incident placed partial blame on Intrepid’s mono-ethnic crew. Too hidebound, prisoners to logic; unable to contemplate an illogical, daring or unconventional solution. It had taken a multi-species crew, after all, to destroy the thing. After that tragedy, Starfleet had officially banned single-species crews. Every ship in the fleet was supposed to have a mixed crew. Supposed.
“So?” I prompted.
“So what?”
“So how did it happen?” I asked patiently. Goddess, he’d never been that obtuse before...
“By accident, I suppose,” he said. “I don’t really know. I’ve never thought about it before. This mission is kind of the backwaters of Starfleet, dear. We’ve taken what we could get.”
“Present company excepted, of course,” I said with a mocking grin. “That’s not an answer, though.”
He lay back down, and gripped the bars. “No? Why not?”
“Joel, I can imagine an all-human crew being assembled by accident. Humans do make up the majority in Starfleet, even now. But humans live on a large number of Federation planets. There are a lot of colonies. This crew isn’t just all human, it’s all Terran. That’s just a bit too much of a coincidence for my taste.”
“Sorry,” Joel said. “Can’t help you there. I know how I came aboard, and how you did. That’s all I can swear to.”
I looked at him closely, as he pushed the bar up and down rhythmically. He had that tone in his voice, the one I’d heard when I’d asked him about the locked files. Too casual, too offhanded. Once again he knew more than he was telling. What’s with this crew? I wondered angrily. What are they all so afraid of? And you, Joel. We used to be able to talk about anything, anytime. I trusted you. Why are you closing up on me now?
I stopped stepping then, and leaned heavily across the grip-bar of my machine, panting from heat and exertion. What I might have said at that point I’m not sure; but given that Joel was my superior officer, it probably would have amounted to insubordination. We were both spared, though; him a set of burning ears, and me a possible trip to the brig. Before I could speak, a pair of other crewmembers walked in, laughing between themselves, gym-bags in hand. They gave our little tableau barely a glance as they crossed to another pair of resistance machines.
Oblivious, Joel sat up and draped his towel around his neck. “I’m going to hit the showers,” he said. “I’m exhausted.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”
###
Compare and contrast.
Words of dread, I know, for anyone who has never suffered through an essay exam. History is the worst. You know the type of question: “Compare and contrast the grazing-land policies of the M’Rralla Matriarchy with that of the S’Sannran Confederacy a century later.” Whereupon you regurgitate onto paper all the dubious “facts” that have been stuffed into you all semester. Yick!
It had been many years; but the habit of being a student was deeply ingrained, and recent events had caused them to resurface. It’s probably not surprising that I found myself thinking in terms of an essay, on the subject: “Compare and contrast two ensigns.” Okay, here goes:
The one was Ensign Brian Matthews. Twenty-two years old, on his first deep-space assignment, lucky him. Bright-eyed, eager, hopeful...and utterly bewildered.
I’d been on board twelve days, and our arrival at A-Benideel was imminent, when he finally got up enough courage to speak to me. Before that I’d caught him occasionally looking at me, his gaze one of benign curiosity, a definite departure from the studied indifference, or free-floating hostility, that I was getting from the rest of the crew. Every time I caught him gazing at me, though, he glanced away hurriedly. Shy, I figured. I remembered being that young, vaguely; but one thing I’d never been was shy.
The night he finally got up enough nerve to speak to me, I was sitting in the Rec Room, alone in an extremely comfortable chair in one of the reading niches, my legs tucked up underneath me and my tail waving contentedly. Because of my damn shedding I had dared, for once at least, to wear a day-robe outside the privacy of my own quarters. It hadn’t seemed a major scandal, though: I had often enough seen others in casual clothing there. I had managed to bring just a single collar with me, a multicolored beaded one that would go with anything. I hoped. The data pad in my hands was displaying a murder mystery, not survey logs; I’d had enough of those for one day, thank you.
Despite all the problems I suddenly found myself heir to, as always I found it impossible to be anything other than contented in the early evening. It’s my best time of day; relaxed, comfortable, my mind drifting...the shower I’d indulged in just after removing my uniform, had taken most of the edge off the itching. But mainly, well-fed. It was always hard for me to avoid the onset of a comfortable lethargy after a good dinner. An evolutionary thing, I suppose; but I defy anyone to be bad-tempered when he’s got a full stomach (unless he happens to have bad digestion, that is.) Unlike Gaetano, this young ensign’s timing was perfect; he could hardly have caught me at a better time.
I heard his hesitant footsteps on the carpet; and I glanced up as he sidled into my niche, his hands behind his back.
He was Caucasian, very; complete with blond hair and blue eyes. His ears were large and prominent. He smiled apologetically. “Am I disturbing you, Lieutenant?”
“Not at all,” I said. In fact, for anyone to even speak to me was astounding. “Ensign—?” I prompted.
“Matthews, ma’am,” he said politely. “Brian Matthews. May I speak to you for a few moments?”
“Of course,” I said. I set aside my data pad and waved a hand at the adjacent chair. “Sit.”
He did, perched bolt upright with his hands clasped in his lap. He made several attempts to speak, and dried up each time.
“How may I help you, Ensign?” I asked, half amused and half irritated.
“Well, ma’am,” he said finally, “you probably don’t know this, but I’m the first-shift comm officer.”
“A big responsibility for one so young,” I commented.
“Very,” he agreed. “And one for which I didn’t have a great deal of training. The comm equipment on this ship has been nothing but trouble. It’s my responsibility, of course. But unfortunately I’ve never had anyone to consult about it before. Certainly not the Captain or Commander Edgeworth.”
I gave him a wry smile. “I can sympathize with that. So?”
“So...during my last year at the Academy I made a special study of the Enterprise refit. I know that you designed the new comm equipment...”
“That’s an exaggeration, I’m afraid,” I corrected. “I was deeply involved, true, but it wasn’t single-handed by any means.”
“Uh—yes, ma’am,” he said. “Still, my point is, you are a highly-experienced comm officer. The most experienced I’ve ever encountered, in fact. And frankly, I’d like to ask for your help.”
“What with?”
“If you would, Lieutenant, I’d like you to take a look at the comm equipment. Perhaps you can find the faults that I’m not experienced enough to locate.”
I probably should have refused, telling him that I was too busy; I would have saved myself a great deal of trouble. But somehow I couldn’t. Something about this young human intrigued me; perhaps he reminded me, ever so slightly, of a certain young Caitian ensign on her first deep-space assignment. And any attention at all, even a call for help, was a welcome change.
And so, slowly, I smiled. “I’ll be happy to, Mr. Matthews. When are you next on duty?”
He smiled back. “Tomorrow morning at oh-eight-hundred.”
A thought struck me then. “Uh—Ensign—who’ll be the duty officer then?”
If he guessed the reason for my question, he gave no sign. He said, “Lieutenant Harris, ma’am.”
I nodded slowly. The operative word there was “lieutenant.” And he was a lot younger than me; therefore, less senior. Him, I could handle. Or at least I thought so. “I’ll meet you there, then.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said gratefully. “Very much.”
“You’re welcome, Ensign,” I said. I watched him rise and beat a hasty and slightly awkward retreat. Then I smiled, shook my head, and returned to my murder mystery. Was I ever really that young?
###
The next morning at oh-eight-hundred I forsook my studies and made my way to the bridge. 
Since my rather extraordinary talk with Commander Gaetano a couple days before, I had completed my studies of the Zelazny’s survey logs. I was now engaged in a rather more detailed examination of the fossils I’d inherited. It was quite an interesting collection.
I’d hurried through the last few series of logs for two reasons: one, because I’d been expecting another quiz from Gaetano; and two, (of course) because I was still denied access to so much of it. My studies had become a kind of guessing game, or one perhaps of reading between the lines; trying to figure out what it was they weren’t telling me. Not to mention why, of course. After Commander Edgeworth’s violent reaction, and Gaetano’s very strange one, I’d just about given up trying to find out; I’d simply done my best with that I could get. What the captain and Commander Edgeworth were thinking was only to be wondered at. I’d had no contact with either for days. Nor Gaetano either; his office door stayed resolutely closed. Not that it particularly bothered me.
Physically, I was feeling a little more comfortable that morning too; the itchy phase was beginning to taper off, thank the Goddess, replaced by the regrowth phase. Less vacuuming, too.
I hesitated just outside the big, red-painted, double doors in the forward area of Deck One. Did I really want to go through with this? There were several reasons why I thought I did, anyway. One was curiosity; and no, I don’t need to be reminded of the old Terran proverb. I wanted to see what the bridge looked like. And also...well, it hadn’t even been two weeks yet, but I found myself missing the bridge already. I know what you’re going to say: that I’d made my own bed; and you’re quite right. But still, I’d worked the bridge for a long time, all my career in fact, and the sudden departure had left a void. And third, this was a chance to actually do something, to accomplish something tangible. All that studying was useful, I suppose; I was preparing myself for duties to come. But somehow it had felt...wrong. Non-productive. This, the chance to roll up my sleeves and get my hands dirty, so to speak, was probably just what I needed to tide me over to A-Benideel. I stepped forward.
The doors parted before me, and all the familiar sounds enveloped me. Starship bridges all sound mostly alike, I’d found. The soft hum of high voltage; the chime and ping of sensors and monitors; the muted click of old-style tactile-feedback control keys, which were rapidly being replaced by programmable touchpads (which beep, by the way.) For an instant, before any eyes turned my way, I surveyed the scene.
Zelazny’s bridge was smaller than Enterprise’s, or indeed any ship I’d ever been on. In shape it was a rectangle with rounded corners, and descended in three wide stairsteps to a large viewscreen that filled the forward wall. The helm and nav stations, side by side on one console as usual, were up front, on the edge of the middle level; the captain’s swivel chair, the proverbial Center Seat, one step up. The science, engineering and other monitor and control stations lined the port and starboard walls, on the highest two steps. The comm station was on the upper level, starboard side; Matthews was already in place there.
As was typical in warp, all stations were manned; and as promised, Lieutenant Harris was in the center seat. At first I saw only the red, fuzzy back of his head; he was staring resolutely forward. My entry had been all but silent, as was typical for me, and I might have continued to stand there indefinitely. But then the young ensign at the engineering panel glanced up and saw me. He was dark-haired and sharp-featured, and I was to get to know him very well in the weeks to come. To my sorrow.
At the moment he jumped at the sight of me, as if he’d touched a live wire. “Lieutenant Harris,” he said, or rather squeaked.
Harris wheeled around rapidly; and then everyone else did too. Nine pairs of eyes rested on me, none of them particularly friendly; with one exception. Matthews looked positively ecstatic to see me.
Lieutenant Harris’ eyes narrowed. “Lieutenant...Em-Ress, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, politely ignoring his mangled pronunciation. He came closer than some had, anyway.
“What are you doing on the bridge, if I may ask?” he went on, his tone more than slightly condescending. At the sound of it I felt my back and my tail stiffen. You do not use that tone with officers of equal rank; especially not in the presence of juniors. You’re a lieutenant too, I told myself firmly. Senior to him. It’s about time you started exercising your authority.
I stepped forward, aware of the eyes following me. I smiled, as disarmingly as I knew how, as I pointed to the comm station. My voice was as firm and steady as I knew how to make it; no apologizing. “Ensign Matthews asked me to help him. Apparently there’s been some trouble with the comm equipment.”
“And why did he ask you, Lieutenant?” Harris said. At a guess I was almost ten years older than him; but that question was just barely short of an open sneer. From the engineering panel I heard a brief, strange sound; I glanced over just in time to see the dark-haired young human hide his guffaw behind his hand.
I looked down at Harris’ sleeve before I replied. One dash and three dots. Eight years. I did a quick mental calculation. My smile widened to show a few more of my teeth. My tone was still pleasant, still polite; but with a tiny ring of steel in it. I’d learned how to do that back on the Enterprise, not long after they gave me a trainee on the comm board. “Possibly because I was working a comm station when you were still in the Academy, Lieutenant,” I said.
There was a noise like a gust of wind; the sound of eight people  sucking in a sudden deep breath. Harris’ face darkened and his jaw worked. “Ensign Matthews has overstepped his authority, and Commander Edgeworth will be taking that up with him later. In the meantime, he is correct about the comm equipment. I am aware of your qualifications; I don’t suppose you can do much harm.”
I inclined my head. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” I said, just slightly sardonically. And then I did something that I still wish I hadn’t. In any other place, on any other ship, it would have been almost obligatory; you do not get to be even a lieutenant by ignoring blatant insubordination. No; you nip it in the bud immediately. If you don’t, they’ll walk all over you. I stepped over to the engineering station, and bent down. “I’d suggest you keep your mind on your own duties, Ensign,” I said quietly, but pointedly.
The look that he gave me was pure venom, but he said, “Yes, Lieutenant.” His voice was just barely on the right side of surly. I’d made an enemy, I knew; but it wasn’t the first time, and frankly I didn’t care. But I should have. Goddess, I should have! I might have spared myself...well, we’ll get to that eventually; that is, if I can bring myself to tell you about it.
Much satisfied with the assertion of what I saw as my entire legitimate authority, I crossed over to the comm station. The eyes lingered on me for a few minutes; those of Harris and the nameless engineering ensign longest; but finally all of them looked away and returned to their duties. 
I smiled at Matthews. “How are you this morning, Ensign?”
He had seen that little display, of course; his answering smile was a trifle nervous. “Very well, thank you, Lieutenant,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”
“Happy to,” I said. I glanced over at Harris, and shuddered. I was having second thoughts now. I hadn’t much liked his looks when I’d first seen him, during that briefing my first day...maybe I should have been more polite. Chief of security; he could be trouble. Too late now. “Let’s see what we can find out. So, what sort of problems have you been having? Subspace?” In my experience, it usually was. 
Surprisingly, though, he shook his head. “No. We did have some problems with the subspace radio a few months ago, but the techs at DS 2 seem to have cured that. My main problem has been with ship-to-shore. Sometimes it takes forever to establish a transporter lock. Oh—that, and since we started this survey I’ve been having trouble with the intercom and shipwide PA system. Signaling the wrong station, not coming through on all decks; that sort of thing.”
“About the ship-to-shore problem,” I said. “What did they say at DS 2?”
“They...couldn’t diagnose it,” he said. “They said the equipment was within tolerances. But try telling that to a landing party waiting five minutes to beam up.”
“Spacedock repair crews have notoriously little imagination,” I told him. Over the years I’d been told the same thing often enough: that the equipment was fine, and the problems I was reporting were all in my head. Of course, I’d always been a demon for system performance; witness my modified, Starfleet-non-approved communicators. On Enterprise I’d had a superior officer willing to let me experiment. Here, I wasn’t sure.
I took a quick look over my shoulder; at the moment we were being ignored. “All right,” I said. “Let’s see what we can find.”
Another thing you learn on your way to becoming an officer is the ability to fake it convincingly. It was a fact that I was an experienced comm officer; but I had qualified on the equipment found in heavy cruisers, and then on the state-of-the-art gear on the refit Enterprise. This stuff was antique, ancient history; two tin cans and a string. It had been years since I’d studied anything that primitive. Second year of Academy, maybe. Well, I did still remember how to run a diagnostic, at least. Maybe inspiration would strike.
###
Two hours later, give or take, I was still at work. I’d shucked my tunic, hanging it over the back of Matthews’ chair; and I’d rolled up the sleeves of my new blue undershirt. I’d spent most of that time exactly where I was: flat on my back on the deck, halfway inside an inspection hatch that was far too small for a human. A little dirty, too.
Matthews was in seventh heaven. In the past two hour’s we’d managed to trace his intercom and PA problems to a single faulty duotronic switching-logic circuit. The other problem—the ship-to-shore one—was a little harder to solve. Unfortunately, the techs at DS 2 had actually been correct: the equipment was performing up to specs. At least the unimaginative, conservative published specs. Fortunately for Matthews, I’ve never been a believer in published specs. I’d managed to liberate some tools from an emergency locker, and with them I was tweaking a few frequency settings that aren’t, at least according to the book, supposed to ever be tweaked. It was a trick I’d learned long ago from Uhura; I remembered being quite scandalized the first time she showed it to me. You can do that? had been my reaction. Whether it was applicable to a tin cans and a string, was yet to be seen.
“Try that,” I called up to Matthews; and he ran the performance benchmark diagnostic for the twelfth or thirteenth time.
“Still nineteen-point-nine percent better,” he replied.
I sighed. Nineteen point nine percent better was a definite improvement; it could make the difference between five minutes to establish a transporter lock, and four, thus improving the tempers of your landing parties. But...well, I’ve always been the kind of person who needs that one last decimal point. We had tried a dozen times so far, making hair-fine adjustments to the frequency settings; but so far that last point had remained elusive.
The other members of the bridge crew, including Lieutenant Harris, had ignored us utterly; and as the time passed I’d ignored them too, until finally their infrequent voices faded into the background. That proved to be a mistake; I’d reckoned without the well-known habit of a captain to drop in on his bridge crew unexpectedly.
I had plunged into the inspection hatch again, ready to do battle for that last tenth of a point, when I was interrupted by a loud, harsh voice, right there next to me. “Lieutenant M’Ress!” it barked.
I used to think that “nervous as a cat” was just an expression; but at that moment I discovered otherwise. I jumped, banging my head on the hatch-frame and almost taking off an ear on a support strut. Thank the Goddess for my thick mane. A little dazed, stars before my eyes, I backed out of the hatch. Then I saw who it was, and I hurriedly got my feet underneath me and stood.
Captain Antilles stood beside the comm station, his arms crossed over his chest. a look of dark disapproval on his face. Behind him stood Harris, looking pleased; everyone else was staring too. Matthews had backed away a few steps, looking fearful.
“Lieutenant M’Ress,” the captain repeated, his voice low and dangerous. “What are you doing on my bridge?”
Bravely, but a little unwisely, Matthews tried to jump in. “It’s my fault, Captain,” he said. “I asked Lieutenant M’Ress—”
The captain’s eyes flicked over to him. “I am not speaking to you, Ensign,” he said. “Yet.” He looked back at me. “Answer my question, Lieutenant.”
“Sir,” I said, as respectfully as I knew how. “Ensign Matthews has been experiencing some problems with the comm equipment. Because of my experience as a communications officer, he asked for my help in locating and repairing the problems.”
He looked at me a long time before he said, “Lieutenant, did you sign on this ship as a communications officer?”
“No, sir.”
“If you wished to continue as a communications officer, you could have stayed aboard Enterprise, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I would suggest that you confine yourself to the duties you have been assigned. That should be enough work to occupy you, without having to look for more. Is that understood, Lieutenant?”
I considered telling him about the good I’d done; that his comm equipment was now about twenty percent more efficient than it had been. But somehow, I didn’t think he’d really want to hear it.
I hesitated just a second too long. A little louder and a little more harshly he repeated, “Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir. Understood.”
“And in the future you will stay off the bridge, unless you are ordered to be here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Behind the captain, Lieutenant Harris was grinning like a famous cat from Terran/British literature. That didn’t last, though, as the captain rounded on him next. “And you,” he said, “should have informed me of this breach of regulations immediately, instead of letting this go on two hours. I am not pleased, Lieutenant. Not at all.”
“Yes, sir,” Harris said. “Sorry, sir.” The look he shot me behind the captain’s back could have blistered paint. Another enemy for my roster; I did seem to be acquiring an unfortunate knack for it.
The captain’s eyes found me again. “What are you waiting for, Lieutenant?”
With as much dignity as I could muster, I retrieved my tunic and departed the bridge. I felt the eyes following me. By evening, I knew, the story would be all over the ship, getting more and more embellished at each telling. And that wasn’t the worst of it. No matter what I might have hoped, my dignity was not intact; nor was my authority. Both were damaged now, perhaps beyond repair. And an officer without dignity or authority is in deep, deep trouble.
###
Later that evening I was having dinner alone, trying to ignore the stares and whispers all around me; the story had spread that quickly. The problem was, of course, that I could hear all the whispers, no matter how quiet their owners thought they were being. “The captain kicked her off the bridge,” they said. “She damaged the comm equipment, I heard.” “She threatened the captain, too; and Lieutenant Harris.” 
When I heard the quiet throat-clearing beside my table I glanced up, lifting only my eyes. “I don’t think you want to be seen talking to me,” I said softly.
Ensign Matthews spread his hands dismissively. “I’m already on report,” he said with a smile. “How much worse can it get?”
I winced. “I’m not sure if I want you to find out,” I said. “I’m sorry, Brian.”
He pulled out the opposite chair and sat. “I’m the one who should apologize,” he said. “I’ve been on report before, and I’ll survive. But I know that I put you into a very difficult situation, and I’m really sorry. Please believe me: I had no idea the captain would react like that.”
“No reasonable person would expect him to,” I told him. I sighed. “I suppose I’ll survive too; it can’t last forever.” I paused. “Just out of morbid curiosity, what happened to my modifications? Did you have to reverse them?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I showed Captain Antilles the results of our benchmark tests. Even he couldn’t argue with a twenty percent improvement. He decided to let your work stand. For the moment, that is. He fully expects your modifications to cause problems in use; or at least so he says. Personally, I don’t believe that.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” I said. I chuckled, a trifle bitterly, and shook my head. I said, “You humans have a concept. You call it a Pyrrhic victory.”
Slowly he matched my smile. “I suppose it was, at that. For both of us, I guess.” He rose. “Good night, Lieutenant. Thank you again, very much, for your help.”
“I wish I could say ‘you’re welcome,’” I replied. “Good night, Ensign.” 
I watched him depart; then I smiled and shook my head again. I’d made one friend at least, it seemed. Too bad it was one with so little power.
###
Compare and contrast.
The second ensign in my imaginary essay was a very different individual. I got to know him quite well, to my everlasting sorrow. His name was Wallace Osgood; usually known to his friends—who were many—as “Wally.” He was an engineer’s mate; and, in my humble opinion at least, a fool. He was also, in case you haven’t already guessed, the one whose undying enmity I had gained with my reprimand on the bridge. Too bad I didn’t know just how deep his enmity could run.
We had arrived at A-Benideel dead on schedule; somehow or other Joel had managed to keep his engines running all the way. I wasn’t on the bridge, of course, when we dropped out of warp; but I did witness the event, on the viewscreen in the briefing area outside my office. The rest of the science staff—Commanders Gaetano, Delaney and Nakamara, and Lieutenant Kerenski—were there as well, all of them studiously ignoring me. I was getting used to that, though.
We’d come in at the edge of the system, of course; and Captain Antilles, if he followed standard procedure, would plot a minimum-fuel course inward, one which would take us past as many of the planets as possible, using their gravity as a boost and a course correction to the next. Any that we missed, we could catch on the outward leg. So far—at least by the long-range sensor readings—it wasn’t looking promising.
“The star is somewhat smaller and cooler than Sol,” Commander Nakamara told the rest of us. “Four outer gas-giant planets.” All of them colder than the domain of the Dark Ones, I added silently.
“There is a possibility of three or four inner planets,” he went on. “At the moment it’s difficult to be certain. Our sensor sweep is blocked by an extremely dense asteroid belt, at least three times thicker than Sol’s.”
He threw a graphic up on the screen, and there were whistles of awe. Even I was impressed. Cait’s sun (The catalogs call it 15 Lyncis, if you want to know) has a thick asteroid belt too—a major source of minerals for our whole sector—but nothing like this. Unless Antilles’ helmsman was as skilled as Sulu (which I strongly doubted) we had better avoid them entirely; rise above the plane of the ecliptic, and drop back down closer in.
“We should know more tomorrow, when we’ve reached the inner system,” Nakamara went on. “I’d suggest an adjournment until then.”
He glanced around at the others, his gaze sliding across me as if I was an empty chair. All around me, my so-called “colleagues” were nodding agreement.
“Might as well,” Gaetano said, leaning back and stretching out his arms. “Who’s for dinner?”
As one they rose, and, talking amiably among themselves, departed the briefing area. I sat for a moment, watching them, my emotions alternating between anger and despair. Two weeks. Two solid weeks, and I was no closer to understanding these people. Nor did I know why; why did they insist on treating me like a part of the furniture? Because they’re all Terran?
I rejected that thought as soon as it occurred. No; that couldn’t be. I’d lived among humans for years, on Terra and on board ship; and never once had I run into anything like the human’s proverbial, and unfortunate, tendency for racial prejudice. Surely that was something the human race had outgrown. Surely it was.
I sighed. One year, I reminded myself again. Minus two weeks.
Finally I stood. I gathered up my data pad, on which I’d been making probably useless notes, very rapidly in Caitian hieroglyphic script. Might as well head off for dinner myself.
The dining hall was a little crowded, and noisy (at least to my ears.) My scientific friends were at a table in the rear, near the viewport, which was showing a slowly shifting starfield as we drifted through the system. If I was waiting for them to wave for me to join them, I was disappointed. I looked around in vain for Joel, and then sighed again. He was becoming increasingly elusive; we hardly ever met for meals any more; or even in the Rec Room or gym. He pleaded overwork, of course; but in my present mood, I had to wonder, darkly, if he was avoiding me too. If so, that was both inexplicable and unprecedented. He had never avoided me before. In the Academy, in fact, he’d had the knack of showing up in the damnedest places; turn a corner, and there he was. Only in the women’s locker room had I felt reasonably confident that I wouldn’t run into him. 
Finally I took my tray and my data pad over to a table in the rear, alone. As I ate I keyed the pad, scrolling through my notes and the sensor-stream data I’d uploaded from the computer. So far there was absolutely nothing in this system to interest anthro-paleo...
The mess hall was noisy, as I said; terrible acoustics, really. But Caitians have an ability to pick out individual voices in a crowd, perhaps more effectively than a human could. And the words I heard, in a voice vaguely familiar, brought my head up sharply, my eyes searching.
The voice was male, human (of course) and sounded young. It said, “Hey! Look at that! She drinks milk out of a glass! I’d have thought she’d lap it out of a bowl!” Which was followed by a burst of raucous laughter.
The source was not difficult to locate. Near the aisle there was a larger table, some eight or so seats, and around it sat a number of young ensigns, male and female; Ensign Matthews not included, I might add to his credit. The center of attraction was one man in particular, who sat in profile to me; and I recognized him instantly: he was the one I’d upbraided that day on the bridge. Because I like to know my enemies, I’d asked Joel (his immediate supervisor) about him; he’d given the young idiot the name that I’ll take with me to the grave: Wally Osgood. He had, it seemed, a reputation as a wag, not to mention a bully; but he had a large entourage of followers, who seemed to find him amusing. The voice I’d heard seemed to fit what I remembered from the bridge; and even as I looked up, the others around the table were still laughing uproariously.
For just an instant I was at war with myself. That they were talking about me seemed certain; there was indeed a glass of milk on my tray, along with a half-finished Porterhouse steak. But what to do? Half of me—the half that had the reputation of being bad-tempered—wanted to jump up, go over to the table, and murder every one of them. The wiser half, though—the half that had gotten me through thirteen years in Starfleet with only a few informal reprimands—held  me back. Go through channels, it whispered. Get more evidence. One isolated remark isn’t going to convince anyone.
So—before they could notice that I’d heard—I quickly lowered my gaze, pretending to return to my data pad. Humans underestimate my sense of hearing, as I’ve mentioned. I’d see how much rope I could give them.
It was not long before they reeled out another hank. Just seconds after I’d looked down, that same voice came through again, brash and sarcastic. “We’d better check ship’s stores,” it said. “See if we stock flea collars.” And then, into the rush of laughter, it added: “Or catnip mice.”
Now, I like to think that I’m generally not a very sensitive person. Over the years I’d heard any number of “cat” jokes and puns in reference to myself; even Joel had a store of them. (His favorite, whenever he found me in a non-talkative mood, begins “Cat got—?”) Usually I enjoy them myself, and I even tell a few on myself, as you’ve probably noticed. But this had absolutely nothing of Joel’s gentle teasing in it. This was little short of vicious; it was as if I were to tell a joke to Joel starting with, “Did you hear the one about the two Jews—?”
...And again, even as the heat of my anger increased: “Good thing there isn’t a dog aboard. It’d chase her all over the ship.” And: “You know how they call her to a briefing? ‘Here, kitty, kitty, kitty...’”
I was absolutely appalled. Partly by what I was hearing; and partly by my own naiveté. What had I been thinking, just minutes ago: that the human race must surely have outgrown racism? Obviously my experiences hadn’t been as vast as I’d thought. It still existed, like a loathsome and supposedly extinct disease turning up in a ghetto somewhere.
I had seldom felt as alone as I did at that moment; though that record wouldn’t stand very long. Surrounded by humans who disliked me intensely for some unfathomable reason...what could I do? How could I get through this?
Nip it in the bud, again, I decided. Let him know that you are aware; and that you don’t intend to be a victim.
At the next remark: “I sure hope they had her spayed before they let her on board” I slowly, deliberately raised my head. Osgood’s head was turned away from me; but I caught the eye of a young woman across from him. It had the desired effect: at my stare her laughter faltered; she fell silent and looked stricken, her eyes widening. Osgood caught this, and he turned slightly to gaze at me. I hit him with the full force of my most withering “superior officer” gaze.
It was at best a mixed success. I had seen other ensigns and enlisted wither under that stare, like grass under a blowtorch; but Osgood didn’t. He stared back at me for a few seconds, and he did look troubled; but then he laughed full in my face. It was the most blatant act of insubordination I’d seen in all those thirteen years.
I was frozen, absolutely rigid in my seat; I could not believe what I’d just seen. On Enterprise no ensign would have dared; they would know that I’d bust them so fast they wouldn’t have time to draw a deep breath. So why—?
I figured it out, a few seconds later, but too late: Osgood and his entourage had already dumped their trays and made good their escape. Osgood had been present on the bridge, that day when I’d tried to assist Matthews. He had seen the captain’s reaction; had seen the captain tear down my authority as an officer. In Osgood’s eyes, now, even if I tried to have him on report, I wouldn’t be able to make it stick. 
...And the damnable thing was, he was probably right.

CHAPTER SIX
A-Benideel was a bust.
It took us about two days to discover this, as we fell slowly through the system. As I’d expected, Captain Antilles had chosen to rise above the thick asteroid belt, rather than try to jockey through it; and then we had dropped back into the plane of the ecliptic for a look at the inner planets. It hadn’t required much looking.
Captain Antilles called a formal briefing, as is customary; my second since joining the crew. Gathered in the briefing room that morning were the captain, Commander Edgeworth, Joel, Commanders Gaetano, Nakamara and Delaney, Lieutenant Kerenski, and (very much as an afterthought, it seemed to me) my poor self. The captain listened to the reports with an expression of rapidly growing impatience on his face.
“There are four inner planets,” Nakamara began. “All of them are of nickel-iron composition. The innermost is a small world, occupying an orbit similar to that of Mercury around Sol, and with similar conditions: extreme temperatures and radiation flux, and no trace of an atmosphere. The second and third planets are moonless, slightly larger than Earth, and are totally uninhabitable, having reducing atmospheres not unlike Venus. Temperatures on the second planet are in the range of nine hundred degrees; on the third, about six hundred. The atmospheres of both are composed mainly of carbon dioxide, and are extremely dense. No organic molecules could exist on either.”
“The fourth planet is slightly more promising, but only slightly,” Gaetano said. “It is a Mars-like world with a thin, cold atmosphere.”
Commander Delaney took it up. “As far as we have been able to determine, the fourth planet has no life. There is, of course, a possibility of unicellular life deep in the soil, perhaps in the vicinity of the poles, which show a tiny amount of water ice. This is something that would require a physical landing to determine.”
“The climate on the fourth planet is cold, averaging about five degrees at the equator,” Lieutenant Kerenski said. “There is evidence of high winds and dust storms, chiefly in the so-called temperate zones.”
“The planet is not habitable,” Nakamara said. “But could be adapted as Mars has, by the use of pressure domes; and could possibly be terraformed, though at great cost.”
The captain looked around. “Is there any evidence that this planet has ever been habitable?”
The others looked at each other. As that question sounded suspiciously close to one of paleontology, I was about to jump in; but Gaetano spoke quickly, overriding me. “No, sir,” he said. “It would appear that this planet’s climate and conditions have remained unchanged for many millions of years. Unlike Mars, this planet shows no evidence of ancient watercourses. There appears never to have been running water.”
“Then the system is useless,” the captain muttered, with a tragic sigh.
I got a very strange feeling then. There was a stir through the room, and several glances in my direction. Strangely, it felt to me as if the captain had just said something injudicious or improper, and the others were expressing a sudden jolt of shock and embarrassment. But why? The captain was correct; the system was just about useless, as far as the Federation was concerned. Why should the captain’s statement of the obvious be so shocking? When Gaetano spoke, quickly, it was almost as if he was covering up something.
“For the purposes of immediate colonization, it is less than ideal,” he agreed. “However, spectral analysis of the asteroid belt reveals huge amounts of iron, nickel, cobalt, copper, carbon, silica and other useful minerals. This system may become an important mining center one day.”
Captain Antilles dismissed that with a sneer and a wave of his hand. “Perhaps so,” he said. “But such speculation is not our mission.” He looked around the table. “If that’s all, ladies and gentlemen, then we’ll adjourn. We’ll be moving on tomorrow morning to our next stop; a Sol-type single-star system about twenty light-years distant. We will arrive in about six days.” He began to rise.
I had sat there the last half hour with a growing sense of incredulity, as every one of them talked either around me or over my head; and otherwise ignored me. Finally I couldn’t take it any more. “Excuse me, Captain,” I said.
He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Yes, Lieutenant?” he said in surprise.
“I was wondering sir, if you wished to hear my report.”
His face twisted in a smirk. “Do you have a report, Lieutenant?”
There was a brief stir of laughter, most of it not very pleasant. Joel did not join in; he quickly turned his head, a troubled expression on his face. “Pardon me, sir?” I said, taken aback.
“Lieutenant,” the captain said with scant patience, “We have just heard from Commander Delaney  and the others that all of the planets in this system are lifeless, and have always been so. Your specialty is ancient life and ancient civilizations. There are none of those here. Therefore I would have thought that you would have nothing to report.”
“That is true, sir,” I said. The tone in his voice should have warned me; but I soldiered on. I wish now I hadn’t. “But I believed it customary in briefings to invite the participation of all officers. So far, I have not been so invited.”
There was another stir at the table, but not laughter this time; this was more like a gust of wind through dry leaves. Commander Edgeworth swept the others with her icy glance, and the sound died down.
Captain Antilles fixed me with a stare like a Centauri basilisk. “Let’s be clear on a few points, Lieutenant,” he said quietly, coldly. “I consider your tenure on this ship strictly temporary. Admiral Conroy and Commodore M’Rael have forced me into this, and I resent it deeply.
”I have studied your service record, and I do not believe you are qualified for this position. Unfortunately, because the admiral and the commodore believe otherwise, I will have to have evidence before I can prove my point, and that will take time to accumulate. And so I am stuck with you until our next supply stop; three months at least.
“I know that you came aboard this ship hoping for a promotion. I can tell you right now that it isn’t going to happen. Not on my ship at any rate. When we next return to DS 2 you will be departing from this vessel. Where you go from there I frankly do not care. Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant?”
I sat there absolutely frozen, as if doused head to toe with ice water. Most of the other officers were staring at me, their gazes pinning me to my seat, making me feel about a centimeter tall. Their gazes were for the most part unfriendly; only Joel’s was neutral, carefully so; and his eyes remained averted.
But at that moment I was too shocked to care about the others. I could not believe the bald-faced hostility of the captain’s pronouncement, nor the impropriety of making it in the presence of other crewmembers. Captain Kirk would never have said such a thing; but if he had something even slightly unfavorable to say, he would have done so in private. That’s just common courtesy, among other things.
“Do I make myself clear?” Captain Antilles repeated.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Perfectly clear.”
###
On the way out, Gaetano grabbed me suddenly and painfully by the arm, pulling me aside. He waited until the others had passed; then he said, harshly, “What the hell were you playing at, Lieutenant?”
I gazed at him incredulously. “I was trying to give my report, Commander.”
“You didn’t have a report to give. You know that.”
“That’s true,” I agreed, fighting to keep my voice under control. He was, after all, my superior officer. “But it would have at least been polite for the captain to ask me. Or at least to acknowledge my existence. Sir.”
“What do you mean by that?” he demanded.
“I mean, Commander, that I am a Starfleet officer, a lieutenant with thirteen years of experience. Frankly I’m getting a little tired of being ignored.”
“Let me tell you something, Lieutenant,” he said, or rather hissed. “No one here cares how many years of experience you have. What matters on this ship is one thing: results. So far you have none. Until you have, you are nothing on this ship, Lieutenant. Do you hear me: nothing!”
I had been fortunate, and blessed, I know; that all through my life I had been supported. From earliest childhood: my parents, my teachers, college professors, Commodore M’Rael, Academy instructors, Joel, superior officers...all of them had graciously allowed me to learn, and to grow, at my own pace and in my own way; and had been absolutely, unconditionally supportive. Never, even in my worst nightmares, had I ever been told I was “nothing.” Gaetano could not have hurt me more if he’d slugged me.
I pulled free from his grasping hand and turned away, almost as if I really had been physically struck. I didn’t want him to see my face; if he did, I might make an idiot of myself.
And that quickly, Gaetano’s attitude shifted. He took a step backwards; and when he spoke, his voice was quiet and almost hesitant. “We—uh—we might have better luck in the next system. I’ll...make sure you get to make your report then, Lieutenant. All right?”
I glanced up at him. It wasn’t an apology; but it was clearly the closest thing I was likely to get. I cleared my throat, which had tightened up a little. “Yes, Commander,” I said. My voice was just on the right side of sarcastic. “Thank you very much.”
###
To say that I was upset when I returned to my office after the briefing would be a definite understatement. I sank down at the table in the briefing area, quite alone. My head was pounding,  and when I raised my hand to rub it, I discovered that the hand was shaking. In fact my whole body was trembling. My tail was not even lashing; it had gone beyond that; it was simply stiff, the tip bristling and quivering. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly as a long hiss, trying to calm myself. I was at best partially successful.
It’s tempting to say something trite, like “the truth was out:”; but unfortunately, it wasn’t. The captain’s outburst, and Commander Gaetano’s, had only added a new layer to the mysteries surrounding me. Why? I asked myself for the thousandth time. Why do they treat me this way? What in the Goddess’ name have I ever done to them?
It’s funny how quickly, and how completely, your attitudes can change. Only two weeks ago I’d been thinking ahead, with keen anticipation, to the end of this year. “Write my own ticket” was the term I used, I believe. But now...I hadn’t thought about promotion for days, not until Captain Antilles had mentioned it; I had switched to thoughts of simply surviving that year. I’d been shocked that the captain would make that pronouncement, so boldly and so openly; but the content of it had not really surprised me, not if I was honest with myself. Deep down I’d already know, had known for days, that I could kiss my promotion good-bye. To come out of this with my present set of rank bars intact might be more than I could manage.
Finally, a tiny bit calmer, I glanced up at the wall chronometer. It was nearly twelve hundred hours, lunch time. There was a food synthesizer slot on the wall behind the table; over the last couple weeks I’d made frequent use of it, so as to not interrupt my studying. But now, my stomach was still in a knot, and rebelled against the thought of food. That was happening a lot lately too; I even believed I was losing weight. 
I rose and stepped over to my office door. The door slid open for me...and then I took a step backwards, as if I’d been slapped in the face.
There is a material used extensively in Starfleet. In an earlier day it would have been called “spray paint.” It’s a polymer, used to stencil packing crates, touch up ship’s registration numbers and names on the hull, after tiny meteorite collisions...many uses. It’s thick, it’s black, and it’s nearly indelible. And in my absence this morning, someone had used it, with a free and crude hand, without benefit of a stencil, to scrawl words across three walls of my office. The letters—averaging about half a meter high or so—said “Welcome to the Cat House”; and concluded, on the right-hand wall, with a childish drawing, which I guess was supposed to represent a Terran housecat. The scrawls went right across the clear panels that covered my scenic prints. Thankfully, my desk, chair and computer seemed to be untouched; and so was my beautiful fossil.
For a few seconds I literally thought I would faint. I couldn’t breathe, and my heart was hammering. I stumbled backwards several steps, finally collapsing into one of the chairs surrounding the table. The office door, no longer sensing my presence, slid closed, as if taking pity on me.
It was a long time before I regained anything like composure. When I finally did, when I could breathe, when I had some control over my muscles, and when I felt that I could speak Terran again, I slid my hand across the table and pressed the intercom button. In a voice that was almost my own, I said, “Lieutenant M’Ress to Commander Abrams.”
He was a few seconds in answering; a few endless seconds. “Abrams here.”
I had no way of knowing where he was, or who else might be listening; so I kept it formal. “Commander, would you please come to my office? I’m—having a little mechanical difficulty here.”
“On my way, Lieutenant,” he said, and clicked off.
I don’t know how long he took; five minutes maybe, no more. During that time I did not move a muscle; hardly even breathed. When he finally arrived he looked down at me, his face creased in concern. “M’Ress,” he said. “What’s the trouble?”
In response I just pointed. “My office,” I said softly. “Take a look.”
He quirked an eyebrow at me; then he stepped over to the door. It took only a glance. 
“Good God!” he uttered. “What in the world—?”
“The word is ‘vandalism,’ I believe,” I said. “Also known as a ‘hate crime.’”
He looked back at me. “Isn’t that a little strong? Are you sure it isn’t just a...joke? A prank?”
“Yes,” I said. “I am sure. Very sure.”
“Was the door locked?”
I gave him a look. “No,” I said. “In thirteen years in Starfleet I’ve never felt it necessary to lock a door.”
“Well, maybe you ought to start,” he said.
I nodded. “I will now,” I said. And I damn well would. I’d create an encryption code that the Central Computer at Command HQ couldn’t crack in a hundred years.
“I don’t understand this,” Joel was saying. “Who would do such a thing?”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea,” I said bitterly.
He came back to the table and sat down beside me. “Who, then?” he said.
“Engineer’s Mate Ensign Wallace ‘Wally’ Osgood,” I told him flatly.
“Osgood?” he repeated. “Why him?”
“I told you,” I said tiredly. “I reprimanded him on the bridge. A few days later I heard him making remarks in the dining hall—remarks that I can only describe as racist. He knows I heard him, too. That, and this, is his revenge.”
“Can you prove that?” he said pointedly.
I sighed heavily. “No, of course I can’t prove it,” I said. “I didn’t see him. But who else would have a motive, or be that childish? You know Osgood; you yourself told me what he’s like.”
“Yes,” Joel said. “Unfortunately I do. What—uh—what do you want me to do about it?”
I looked at him incredulously. Surely it was obvious. “I want you to put him on report, Joel,” I said. “I want his hide nailed to a bulkhead.”
“Why me?”
“One, because you’re his commanding officer,” I said. “And two, because I can’t do it.”
“Why not?”
I sensed in him what might most charitably called a “reluctance to act.” I smiled thinly. “Joel, twenty minutes ago I was informed by Commander Gaetano that I am ‘nothing’ on this ship. Five minutes before that our good captain told me, in front of the senior officers, of his plans to have me off this ship when next we return to DS 2. You were there; you heard him. I have no authority here, Joel. That’s been made abundantly clear. But as far as I know, you still do.”
He hesitated a long time. “M’Ress, please believe me, I want to help you. But this is...difficult. I can’t act in a vacuum. You know that. We’ve got to go through procedure. We need proof, witnesses, something. I know you’re sure who did it, and I don’t really doubt you; but that won’t convince Commander Edgeworth.”
A knife sticking out of my ribs with Osgood’s hand clutching the grip wouldn’t convince her, I thought. I said, pointedly, “So?”
He sighed. “So,” he said with vast reluctance, “I will talk to him. Osgood has been trouble the entire year he’s been aboard, and anything I say probably won’t make much difference. It hasn’t so far. But I will try.”
I turned away, and nodded. Best I was going to get, it seemed. “All right, Joel.”
He took my hand. “And,” he said, “I’ll get a crew down here and clean that up. There won’t be a trace left.”
I gripped his hand. “Thank you, Joel. Very much.”
His smile was hesitant, but seemed genuine enough. “You’re welcome.”
I hesitated a moment. Then I said, “Joel? Is my sanity important to you?”
He looked at me quizzically. “Of course it is,” he said.
“Then can you please answer a question, before it drives me insane?”
“I’ll try.”
“The question is, why? Why does everyone on this ship seem to dislike me so much?”
He paused. He covered my hand, which was still clasping his left, with his right, making a sandwich. He said, “I...don’t think that’s really true. I think perhaps that because you’re new, you’re an easy target for a lot of free-floating hostility. This mission hasn’t been easy, M’Ress. We’re a long way from home, on a less-than-ideal ship, with little hope of rescue if things go badly wrong. It’s been very stressful. Maybe they’re all snappish with you because they don’t feel you’ve paid your dues, so to speak, the way they have. I think it will pass. Osgood is an exception, though, unfortunately. His problem is his own very deep insecurity.”
I smiled. “Your own diagnosis, Doctor?”
He matched my smile. “No. I wish it was; then I’d probably be wrong. Unfortunately it’s Starfleet’s; the psych boys. They thought a tough mission would teach him discipline. So far, though, there’s been no sign of that.
“I know you, M’Ress. I know that you’ve never been easy to bully. They don’t know that. As soon as they find out, though, it’ll get better.”
I smiled and nodded silently. Let him think I believed him. I wanted to; his answer was logical, and much better thought-out than Gaetano’s had been, several days ago. But equally untrue, I feared. Too many things around me just didn’t add up; too many to ascribe to job stress. As much as I wished I could believe the beguiling simplicity of Joel’s words, I couldn’t. And most unfortunately, I knew that he didn’t believe himself either. It drove the wedge between us a tiny bit deeper; though perhaps I was the only one who recognized that.
Joel gave my hand one last squeeze, and let go. He stood. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ve got to arrange that work crew.” He nodded toward the office door.
“No trace,” I quoted.
“No trace,” he agreed. And then he was gone.
###
I went back to my quarters.
There was really very little else I could do. Zelazny had achieved warp again, on our way to our next survey; I had studied all I could study till then; and with Joel’s work crew arriving, I had no desire to hang around my office. It would have been poetic justice, I know, for Joel to assign Osgood to the cleaning crew; but he wouldn’t. That there would indeed be no trace, though, I had no doubt. Joel would inspect it himself.
...And anyway, I’d had a horrible thought, even as I’d spoken with Joel. Goddess! If he got into my office, what about my quarters? With that thought in mind, I had to restrain myself from running down the corridors like a madwoman. It was with a definite sense of dread that I stepped up to my cabin door. I already felt violated; if he’d rampaged through here...
But my fear, fortunately, was needless. There was no sign that anyone had entered my quarters. No scrawled messages; nothing disturbed or missing; not even a rubber snake in the bed. Apparently he hadn’t been quite that daring.
I had been warned, though, and would tempt fate no longer. As soon as I’d taken a rapid and reassuring look around my quarters, I sat down for a talk with the computer. It took me only a few minutes to design a cypher-key for both doors, one which I felt reasonably sure was unbreakable. In order to enter my office or my quarters I would have to speak the code-words; and because of the possibility of eavesdroppers, I had taken two additional precautions: one, voice-print identification; and two, the code-words had to be spoken in Caitian.
And then, that done, I went hunting. And in doing so, I made my second costly tactical error in dealing with Osgood. It wasn’t the last, and it wasn’t the worst; but it was bad enough. The third and most costly...but we’ll get to that.
I have no real excuse, I suppose, for my errors; except these few: number one was my own sheltered upbringing. I’d seldom before been exposed to treachery or hatred; and so I had little experience in how to handle them. That this caused me to overreact is undeniable; but that’s also hindsight. And number two is the fact that I had little confidence that Joel really would speak to Osgood. I have no logical reason for that; just my gut feeling. He had seemed very reluctant to do so. I’ve never been any good at letting things dangle, nor at letting others solve my problems for me. Osgood, it seemed, was a slow learner; he needed to be shown, again, that I would not be his victim. After sufficient repetitions of that fact, perhaps the fun would go out of the game. That was the theory, anyway.
I found him in the mess hall, alone (which was very uncharacteristic) staring sourly at the warp-dance in the viewport, as he nursed a cup of coffee.
I must admit, his solitude and his expression did give me pause. Maybe Joel had already spoken to him, against my expectations; what else would account for it? For a few seconds I debated whether this really was a good time; then I girded myself and stepped forward. I had already fully realized the futility of tackling him when he was surrounded by his supporters. Whatever the reason, alone was better. 
I stepped up before his table, silently of course; and I stood there with my hands planted flat on its surface. “Ensign Osgood?” I said.
He jumped visibly; he hadn’t noticed me yet. His eyes widened, then narrowed. “What do you want?” he said in a flat and disinterested voice.
I decided to ignore his tone; bigger fish to fry. “A moment of your time, Ensign,” I said.
He just stared, and I went ahead. “Ensign, while I was at a briefing this morning, someone vandalized my office in the sciences section.”
His eyes widened again, which was as good as a confession; then he assumed a carefully neutral expression. I was right, I realized. Joel did already talk to him. Wonders never cease. “What’s that got to do with me?” he demanded.
I shrugged elaborately. “Probably nothing at all,” I said. “You do seem to have many friends in the crew, however, and I hoped I could ask you the pass this on to them.”
I leaned a little closer, and had the pleasure of seeing him draw back a trifle. I went on, “I don’t appreciate vandalism. Regulations tend to frown on it too; I believe the term is ‘gross insubordination,’ and that it’s a court-martial offense. I don’t have any proof as to who did it, at least not yet. There is a law of averages to these things, however: more incidents, more evidence; more chance of being caught. If I do find proof, then I will be very, very upset with the person who did it. And more to the point, regulations would demand that Commander Edgeworth act on it; she’d have no alternative.” I smiled broadly. “Just thought you could pass than on for me.”
He looked at me for a long moment. If I expected a tearful confession, I was disappointed; but I’m not that stupid. His poker face intact, he said, “Certainly, Lieutenant. I’ll be very happy to pass that on.”
“Thank you, Ensign,” I said; and I turned and left. My satisfaction was somewhat tempered, though, by the one word that he uttered, just as I reached the door: “Meow.”
###
We moved on.
The first survey of my new assignment had come and gone without much success, either for the Federation or for myself. Hopefully the others would be better. Among other things, I was starting to feel quite cramped on board ship. It was long past time for a taste of natural air, natural gravity...and most especially, open spaces. I’d never been on a ship so conducive to claustrophobia before.
The next few days passed relatively uneventfully; except for one...incident. It was with definite trepidation that I returned to my office, the day after the vandalism; I stood before the door a full three minutes before I could bring myself to speak the code words that would unlock it. Finally I took a deep breath and did so. I glanced rapidly from side to side; then I let out that breath as a long sigh of relief. It was as Joel had promised: not a trace. Whether the walls had been repainted with fresh thermocoat, covering the scrawls; or whether the black marks had been somehow cleansed away, I didn’t know; nor did I really care. There was a faint odor lingering in the room, a sharp chemical smell; but it could either have been paint or solvent. Even the clear cover-panels of the prints were clean; probably replaced.
I smiled as I crossed the office and sat down. My relationship with Joel Abrams was in a difficult phase right then, for reasons unknown; but even so, he was still as good as his word. The clean walls, in conjunction with the lock on the door, made me feel better, safer; a little less violated. Too bad that feeling wouldn’t last long.
I did have two surprises that morning. The first came about half an hour after I’d sat down. Despite the fact that the survey of A-Benideel had done absolutely nothing for anthro-paleo (as the captain had delighted in informing me) it was my duty to put that fact in more official language and log it; the first entry in my anthro-paleo log. My non-entry entry, by the way, was by no means unprecedented; I had come across several similar made by Morada. Not every system produces habitable planets. Very few, in fact.
At any rate, I was dictating my report to the computer when the doorbell chimed. Quickly I hit the “hold” button. “Come,” I said cautiously. Who in the world—?
It was Commander Gaetano who stood there, his hands behind his back. “Lieutenant,” he said, his voice quiet and almost hesitant. “May I have a word with you?”
Great Goddess, I thought, not another quiz! “Of course, Commander,” I said, beginning to rise.
He waved me back to my seat. “No need,” he said. “This will only take a moment.” He took another step forward, so that the door slid closed behind him. He took a deep breath. Then he said, slowly, “Lieutenant, I have become aware that some things I said to you, yesterday after the briefing, were somewhat...ill-considered, and liable to be misconstrued. It’s come to my attention that my words might have caused you some emotional distress. If that is the case, I would like to apologize. It...was not my intention to upset you.”
You could have fooled me, buster, is what I might have said. But there comes a time, I suppose, to cut your losses. “That’s quite all right, Commander,” I said, tempering my gracious tone with just the barest touch of irony. “I understand that this crew has been under a great deal of strain lately.”
He nodded several times, looking relieved. Frankly, I was more than a little suspicious of his sudden conversion. So far, no one else on this ship had given a damn about injuring my feelings (well, with one or two exceptions.) He’d spoken quickly enough yesterday; why should he regret it now? Had Joel spoken to him, perhaps?
“That’s it exactly,” Gaetano said gratefully. “Thank you for being so understanding.”
“Not at all, Commander.”
“...And, if you have any questions or any problems, I’d like you to feel free to bring them to me, and we’ll see what we can do to work them out.”
On a warm day in the Dark Domains. “Thank you very much, Commander. I’ll keep that in mind.”
He nodded a few more times, and then he departed. For several seconds I stared at the closed door. The Caitian phrase I muttered isn’t too readily translatable; the closest thing might be: “Now ain’t that a kick in the head?”
The second surprise came a few minutes later, when the intercom beeped. “Abrams to Lieutenant M’Ress.”
I hit the “hold” button again, and the “reply” key next to it. Joel was smiling broadly as the screen lit. Behind him I saw a small, dimly-lit space filled with monitor panels; probably his own office on the Engineering deck. “So,” he said without preamble. “Any trace?”
I matched his smile. “No trace,” I said. “Thank you, Joel.”
“You’re very welcome,” he said. He paused. “I did have a talk with Osgood,” he went on. “I’m afraid I couldn’t come right out with an accusation, of course, but I did make the strongest implications I dared.”
“And—?” I prompted.
“And,” he said heavily, “I doubt it really did any good. I certainly didn’t get a confession. Although...well, he’s on duty down here right now, and he’s quieter than I think I’ve ever seen him. Maybe it did make an impression after all.”
I coughed delicately into my hand. It may have had less to do with his words and more to do with mine; which had been somewhat more to the point; but it was hard to say. “Thanks for the effort, anyway,” I said.
“I just want you to know,” he said, “I’ll be keeping an eye on him. If I get even the slightest bit of evidence that he was responsible for the vandalism; or if there’s any more incidents...I’ll be going directly to Commander Edgeworth. I’ll make her listen. I promise.”
Exactly how much this promise was worth, I wasn’t sure; but I did appreciate the offer. Maybe it implied a thawing of our strained relations. I decided to press my luck just a little further. “Joel,” I said. “I really hate to say this, but ever since I came aboard it seems that we haven’t been communicating very well.”
He glanced down, and nodded, shame-faced. “You’re right,” he said. “And I’m very sorry for that.”
“It didn’t used to be that way.”
“No, but we both used to have a lot less on our minds,” he smiled. “Tell you what: let’s do something about it. How about dinner tonight? Not in the Mess Hall, though,” he added quickly.
“Where, then?” I said.
“My quarters.”
I quirked an eye at him. Given the size of the average cabin on board Zelazny, it would be an intimate dinner indeed. But he did have a point, when it came to private conversation.
“Sounds good to me,” I said. “When?”
He rubbed the side of his nose. “Let’s say about oh-six-thirty,” he decided. He grinned. “Can’t stay up too late; we’re not as young as we used to be.”
Isn’t that the truth. “I’ll be there,” I promised.
“Good. Oh—one thing,” he said. “No uniforms, huh?”
“You’re taxing my wardrobe,” I told him. “But I’ll see what I can do.”
“See you then,” he said, and clicked off. I sat silent for a moment; then I chuckled and shook my head. For once it seemed to be Treat M’Ress Nicely Day; maybe I should have checked my horoscope.
###
When I told Joel that he was taxing my wardrobe, I wasn’t kidding. I had brought with me nothing like the fancy evening robe I’d worn to the admiral’s dinner; it was packed away (I hoped) in storage on DS 2, along with almost everything else I owned. My reasons had been twofold: for one thing, I hadn’t expected to need one, not way out here; and I’d had enough trouble with the weight restrictions as it was. Nor could the ship’s computer be persuaded to create such a thing; it only knew from uniforms, gym shorts and other simple things. 
For some reason I was quite nervous that evening, as I showered and dressed; I fumbled, dropping my hairbrush and nail file twice. Why? I wondered angrily, as I stooped for the brush and banged it back into the drawer. Great Goddess, you’ve had dinner with Joel Abrams hundreds of times. Thousands. Like almost every night, during four years at the Academy. Why this now?
I’d donned the newest, best-looking and heaviest of the few day-robes that I’d brought with me; and I contrived a sash of shimmering, metallic fabric to belt it. My one poor beaded collar would have to do duty again tonight. I looked at myself in the mirror for several long minutes, smoothing down my mane and my robe yet again. Finally I sighed. “Good as it gets,” I muttered; and I left my cabin.
I didn’t have a long journey ahead of me; Joel’s cabin was only four doors down the corridor, sternward from mine. It was exactly oh-six-thirty, sayeth a nearby computer panel, when I buzzed his doorbell.
He was smiling broadly as he answered the door. “Punctual as always, Lieutenant,” he said. He waved his hand grandly. “Please come in.”
“One tries, Commander,” I said, and I did. He waited until the door had closed; then he looked me up and down with evident appreciation. 
“You’re looking especially good tonight, M’Ress,” he commented.
“Considering my limited resources,” I said. “Nonetheless I thank you.” I glanced at him. “So are you.”
He was wearing black trousers, non-Starfleet-issue; and a loose, long-sleeved dark-blue shirt, mag-sealed up the front. It was the first time I’d seen him out of uniform in, oh, say, nine years; and it reminded me of that long-ago day in Monterey. Goddess, we’d been happy then!
He raised his arms and grinned. “Oh this?” he said with mock primness. “Just a little something I threw on. Let’s sit, shall we?”
We did; and as we did, I looked around rapidly. This was the first time I’d seen his cabin, or indeed any one on Zelazny besides my own; and yes, it was almost identical to mine. The only exception to that was that it was flipped 180° from mine; that is, his bunk was on the left, not the right. (if you’re curious, the reason for that was the plumbing: that way his bathroom backed up into the one of the adjacent cabin, and they only had to run supply and drain pipes through one bulkhead. That’s SOP, even on the refit Enterprise.) His walls were almost bare, just a few engineering diagrams. I saw a cluster of small holos near the head of his bunk; I recognized his parents, brother and sister, all of whom I knew well. The sparsity proved it: he hadn’t escaped the weight limits either.
I’d expected one of us to be sitting on the bunk, but it was not to be: somehow he had managed to acquire a second, mismatched chair. Possibly from the briefing room; he was a lieutenant commander, after all. He had moved the computer terminal back from the table to the shelf behind; still, there wasn’t a lot of surface area. The table was bare as yet.
“Where’s the good china?” I teased as we sat.
He smiled. “If the ship owned any, I’d be using it tonight, believe me.”
“I thought every ship was issued a set at launching,” I commented.
“Rumor has it that every piece of Zelazny’s was broken during an unfortunate encounter with a stellar string fragment.”
The picture that engendered was both amusing and alarming. An officer’s dinner, all the good dishes and the dress uniforms...and then wham! Roast beef and gravy everywhere. But, having seen what was left of a ship that hit a string fragment while doing Warp Six (no survivors), I suppose it wasn’t really that funny. Zelazny was lucky to have survived at all. Hopefully they’d checked the superstructure since then...
“What’s on the menu?” I asked.
“Well, uh,” he said, “I had kind of thought of leaving that to individual choice. You know me: I can barely feed myself, let alone a Caitian.”
It was true; I did remember that well. “Fair enough,” I said. He extended his hand, deferring to me as his guest; and so I turned first to the synthesizer slot. Over the last couple weeks, in my copious spare time, I’d been tinkering with the computer. There is a Caitian food animal called a “maxigrazer”; a very large, somewhat bovine creature, genetically engineered over centuries to produce the most lean meat with the least fuel and...byproducts, shall we say; both solid and the kind that contribute to global warming. Maxigrazer meat is the staple food of most Caitians, and it’s even a major export item; humans have come to like it, as a healthier alternative to beef. My culinary programming skills were not vast; I did spend one horrible week as a mess-hall mate during my early days as an ensign. But I was getting close. A little more work on the texture...The traditional, slightly sour M’malla sauce had been much easier to replicate.
Joel watched with interest as my meal was delivered; then he placed his own order: he joined me in a maxigrazer steak (but in his case, broiled); a baked potato, and a salad. And coffee. For him, always coffee. I’d sometimes joked that he was fueled by it, like deuterium for an impulse drive.
For a while we ate in near-silence; our only words were comments on the ship and the mission; shallow, meaningless stuff. But his gaze was on me, intently; and mine on him. It was not the case, I am certain, that we had nothing more substantive to say. It was, rather, that neither of us quite knew how to begin.
It was Joel who finally broke the spell. We had gone through dinner into dessert; and I had allowed him to talk me into one of my favorite vices: New York cheesecake. He lifted his coffee cup and leaned back in his chair. “You know,” he said quietly, “I’ve been thinking. I really regret the time we’ve lost—those last nine years. I’m really sorry Starfleet forced us apart so long.”
“I am too,” I told him. “I’m only just beginning to realize how much.”
Behind me my tail began to wave, indicating my sudden and inexplicable agitation; and I cursed it silently for a traitor. Joel noticed it too, I could tell from his quick glance; but just as quickly he looked away, and didn’t mention it. He’d known me a long time; he knew very well what it meant; and he wouldn’t embarrass me by calling attention to it.
“M’Ress, may I ask you a slightly personal question?” he said.
Uh-oh. “Of course, Joel.”
“We’ve talked a lot about the last nine years, about our careers and such. But...well, we didn’t talk much about...emotional matters. Personal matters. I was wondering...”
He dried up, looking embarrassed, and I grinned at him. “You mean, during those last nine years, did I have any wild and torrid romances?”
He looked stricken; then slowly he smiled. “Something like that,” he agreed. He paused. “So...did you?”
I shook my head. “No,” I admitted. “I didn’t.” I shrugged helplessly. “I...don’t meet many Caitians out here in space, Joel. Least of all, eligible young males. I’ll...get around to it someday. Go home to Cait, probably. Maybe I’ll retire early, find a mate, and have a dozen kits.” I grinned again. “Equal time, Mr. Abrams. What about you?”
He shrugged also. “I’ve had a few...relationships,” he said. “Nothing I’d describe as wild or torrid—or even very long-lasting, unfortunately. There was one at Centauri, though. I really thought we had a future. But you were right, M’Ress. Starfleet is hell on romances. Jessie was a top navigator; she shipped out, and that was that.”
“Too bad.” Considering my predicament, my sympathy was all that it should be; namely, close to zero.
“I’ve been trying for years to attain a situation where relationship and assignment are in the same place at the same time.”
I started to reply; but something in his glance made my voice catch in my throat. Finally I said, “That...would be advantageous.”
He leaned forward again, set down his coffee cup, and reached across the table to clasp my hand. He said, “I’m wondering, though—”
“You’re full of questions,” I quipped, a little uneasily. I didn’t try to pull my hand away, though. “What do you wonder?”
“You said that you don’t meet many eligible Caitian males,” he said. “I’m wondering...actually I’ve always wondered, ever since we were in the Academy: does it absolutely have to be a Caitian?”
This is it, I realized wildly. Suddenly I knew why I’d been so nervous; knew why my tail was imitating a railroad crossing arm. This was the rerun of that night in Monterey ten years ago, but without the possibility of a visiphone call. The choice that call had saved me from was now forced upon me: whether to listen to the dictates of my prejudices, or to give in to the feelings that had been developing slowly, almost without my knowledge, ever since I first met Joel, that windy San Francisco day more than thirteen years ago. Either choice would change our relationship, completely and forever. For better or worse; and which would lead to which, I didn’t know. 
What I should have said, indeed what was on the tip of my tongue to say, was “Yes, of course it does.” And that would have ended it; probably forever. But my tail wasn’t the only traitor that night. Maybe it was his eyes, boring into mine; maybe it was...oh, I don’t know. But what came out of my mouth, softly, was, “No. I...don’t suppose it does absolutely have to be a Caitian.”
And that, finally, was it. Without another word he pushed aside the dishware and leaned across the small table to embrace me, his arms tight around me; and I let him do it. More: I found my own arms, with a mind of their own, encircling him; and my claws weren’t even expressed. I felt and heard a purr begin, somewhere deep inside me. Joel looked into my eyes for a few seconds as if unsure what would happen; then he kissed me.
After that, quite frankly, it’s a bit of a blur. At some point he reached up underneath my mane to unfasten and gently strip away my collar; thus proving that he did know as much as I thought he did, about Caitian physiology and culture. He knew why we commonly wore collars. The neck, the throat is...well, let’s just say a very sensitive area; and to leave it bare in public, uncovered by either collar or clothing, is considered slightly...indecent. And that, the touch of his lips in the fur of my throat, really was it, the point of absolutely no return. Some time a little later my day-robe also departed for parts unknown, and I felt the warm and slightly yielding surface of a bunk beneath my back. Later, I knew, I’d be wondering why I let this happen; but at the moment I had a few other things on my mind.
###
The bunks in the Zelazny cabins were entirely too narrow.
We would have done much better in that apartment in Pacific Grove, which had big double beds with (as I recall) antique brass headboards. Here...well, we managed, though both of us did almost end up on the floor several times; but actually sleeping together afterwards would have been hideously uncomfortable; out of the question.
And so, as soon as sufficient strength had returned, we rose and gathered the scattered pieces of our apparel; and then I dressed and departed. In my present state of euphoria (no doubt hormone- and endorphin- related) no regrets or second thoughts had yet penetrated my mind; that would come later. Boy, would it come later!
Joel caught me at the door, his hand on my arm. “M’Ress?”
I turned toward him; and right there in the corridor he bent me backwards with a kiss. “Good night, M’Ress,” he said.
“Good night, Joel.” I reached up tenderly to touch his cheek; and then he was gone, stepping back so that the door closed between us. Alone, I stood staring at the door for a moment; then I sighed and turned to go.
I don’t know if I heard him, or just felt his presence; but I had almost reached my own door when something made me spin around suddenly.
I got just a glimpse, as he ducked around a corner, some ten meters sternward from me; just a glimpse, but more than enough to recognize the dark hair and sharp features of Ensign Wallace Osgood. 
###
I got almost no work done the next day; probably not surprisingly. I spent most of the day sitting silent in my office, staring at my lovely fossil, drumming my claws nervously on the desk. How could  you? I thought angrily, over and over again. How could you let that happen?
There are a number of answers I could give to that, I suppose; many of them deeply psychological. I could say, for example, that it was because of my painful loneliness, here on this unfriendly ship; or that I’d been slightly unhinged by the stress of dealing with Osgood and his friends. And both would be true, in a measure. But it might come closer to the truth to say that, at that moment, it had simply been what I’d been wanting to do for close to thirteen years.
And really, in the final analysis, why not? It wasn’t as if I hadn’t enjoyed it. The Goddess help me, if I hadn’t enjoyed it! Joel and I had known each other a very long time; if not with him, my oldest male friend, then with who? And it implied no commitment, no strings attached on either side. Not in this day and age. To humans, at least, indulging in sexual relations sometimes seemed as common as a handshake. What was Ambassador Sarek’s oft-quoted remark? “At the time, it seemed the logical thing to do.” Logic, of course, had had little or nothing to do with this; unless it can be said that rampaging emotions operate on their own kind of logic. The time had seemed right to follow through on something that had begun, if I wanted to be honest with myself, many years ago. It might happen again some day; or it might not. And that’s all there was to it.
...At least that’s what I tried to tell myself. Too bad it wasn’t working. The fact was, my upbringing and my personal beliefs kept rearing their ugly heads, smashing through my carefully-built structure of rationalizations. In fact I felt guilty as all hell; and I was afraid I’d ruined my friendship with Joel, by turning it into something that I couldn’t maintain. And it was something I’d have to live with, for a year; or at least until Captain Antilles made good his threat to have me off the ship. Just what I needed right now: another damn complication.
Which thought, of course, brought me full circle: How could  you? How could you let that happen?
This went on, back and forth in my head, for what must have been several hours. Finally I shook my head hard, angrily. This cannot go on, I realized. Quite apart from what it was doing to me emotionally, I was in serious danger of being tossed into the brig for dereliction of duty. No; one way or another, this had to be resolved; and right now.
Find him, I told myself. Talk to him. Find out what his intentions are. Work it out now, once and for all, or neither one of you will have any peace.
With that resolve, I left my office. It was nearly twelve hundred, said the old clock on the wall; there was a finite possibility that I would find him in the Mess Hall. If not eating, then at least replenishing his caffeine supply. If not there, then perhaps the engineering deck. Whichever; I’d find him; I’d search the ship from stem to stern if necessary.
###
It wasn’t necessary.
As I’d halfway expected, I did find Joel in the Mess Hall. That saved me a trip to the engineering deck, and possibly some trouble; I wouldn’t have been surprised to find that I wasn’t authorized to go there. He was alone, at a table in the rear; and there was a pensive look on his face as he toyed listlessly with a sandwich. I was not especially hungry myself, so I didn’t bother stopping at the dispenser wall; I crossed directly over to him. And that, as was becoming distressingly common these days, turned out to be a mistake.
Now, I usually like to think that I am not stupid. Joel had been quite correct, that night of the admiral’s dinner, when he’d told those assembled that I’d graduated near the top of my class. (And he hadn’t been as far below me as he’d implied.) If you look at my Starfleet records, or my old transcripts from S’Salan University, you’ll find a comfortably high IQ score. Fact, not bragging. But there can certainly be times when I don’t put that supposed brain power to very good use, and this was one of them.
I caught the unusual sight out of the corner of my eye, as I walked rapidly toward Joel, threading nimbly through the crowd. At a table near the viewport, Ensign Osgood and Commander Edgeworth were sitting together, their heads together, deep in conversation. That in itself was odd enough, if I’d let myself notice. But even worse: as I entered their eyes lit on me, and their talk faltered; and their gaze followed me intently across the hall.
I ought to have taken the clue, I know. I ought to have turned tail and departed, and spoken to Joel later, in private. But I didn’t. Why? Monomania, I guess. After that morning of exhausting debate with myself, I was so totally obsessed with the thought of clearing the matter up, putting it to rest, that nothing else registered.
I attempted a smile as I slid into the seat beside him. “Hello, Joel.”
He looked up at me, startled; then he looked over my shoulder, and his expression briefly became one of sheer terror. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath, trying to master himself; he was partially successful. “Hello, M’Ress,” he said unsteadily.
Yes, I know; once again I should have been warned. So I’m an idiot; I plowed blithely ahead. “Joel, we have to talk.”
“What—uh—what about?”
I cocked my head at him. “I’d have thought you’d know very well,” I said with a grin. “Last night. Or was that just a normal evening for you?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, of course it wasn’t.” He paused. “Uh, listen, M’Ress, I don’t think this is really the best time...”
“Yes, it is,” I interrupted firmly. “It’s got to be. There are some things that need to be said right now. What happened last night has redefined our relationship, Joel. We’ve got to figure out where we stand, and we’ve got to figure it out soon. You know me: I hate being left in limbo. It drives me crazy, in fact.”
He looked over my shoulder again; and then he lowered his voice. “M’Ress, please,” he begged. “This really isn’t the place for this discussion.”
I looked at him, my eyes narrowing. “Why?” I asked. “What are you afraid of, Joel?” I waved my hand. It was lunch hour; the hall was busy, noisy. “No one can hear us.” I smiled slowly. “Or—would you rather that I came to your quarters later?”
“No!” he said, so forcefully that I leaned back, shocked and hurt. He lowered his voice. “No,” he repeated, quietly but intensely. “That would not be a good idea.”
“Joel,” I said, “What exactly are you telling me? I admit I’m feeling a little guilty; but that’s just a conservative Caitian upbringing talking. I’m certainly not ashamed of what happened. Are you telling me that you are ashamed?”
“No,” he said. “No, certainly not. It’s just...” He took a deep breath and lowered his voice even more; in that place a human might not even have heard him at all. “What happened last night was a mistake, M’Ress. It was my fault; I admit that, and I apologize. But we have to be honest and admit that it never should have happened.
“You and I are friends, very good friends, and I hope that will always be true. I hope I haven’t ruined that. But under the circumstances, that is all we can ever be: friends. It would be terribly wrong for us to ever repeat last night’s events. I hope you can see that.”
I was about to answer, angrily; I was about to tell him that no, I couldn’t see that at all. But I didn’t get the chance. He looked over my shoulder again, his face going slightly pale; then, quickly, he rose. “Please excuse me,” he said.
And with that he departed, rapidly. I think he took my heart with him; certainly something accounted for the fact that it seemed to have been ripped out of my chest.
...And as I watched him go, I caught a glimpse of Edgeworth’s doleful stare, and Osgood’s sardonic grin, upon me; before they, too, stood and left the hall.

CHAPTER SEVEN
Another day, another solar system.
It took us a little less than six days from the time we left A-Benideel to reach the subject of our next survey, a hopefully more promising system.
“It’s cataloged as VSA 11247,” Commander Gaetano told us. He grinned. “Evidently it  hasn’t rated a real name yet; so forward your suggestions to the Planetary Survey Office, Fleet HQ.”
There was a small buzz of laughter; evidently that was by way of a running gag. Gaetano went on, “So far we’re scanning eleven planets. No asteroid belt to speak of this time. The seven outer planets appear to be large, mostly cold gas giants; not much interest to us. But the inner four are smaller and solid. One of them appears to show some promise.”
It was the standard group gathered that morning around the briefing table outside our offices: Gaetano, Nakamara, Delaney, Kerenski and myself. Gaetano stood at the big viewscreen, onto which he’d thrown a computer-generated diagram of the system. As he spoke, he looked at us all in turn, like a practiced orator; and for once, to my extreme amazement, his gaze did not slide past me as if I wasn’t there. In fact, several times his eyes actually lingered on me, a couple seconds a shot; and his expression was almost friendly; or at least not openly disdainful. I was tempted to look back over my shoulder, to see if someone else was standing behind me.
Gaetano went on, “It’s a bit too early to tell for certain, of course, but it appears that the second planet from the star may be a live one, so to speak. Long-range sensors are definitely reading an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere. This star is quite a bit smaller and cooler than Sol, however, and even though it’s in a much closer orbit around its star than Terra is around Sol, it may be quite cool, not to say frigid. Perhaps too cold for life. Lieutenant Kerenski, you will please continue to monitor the sensor data relative to this?”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Because the system has no asteroid belt, the captain will be able to plot a much more direct, and faster course inward,” Gaetano said. “We should be in the vicinity of the second planet by about twelve hundred hours tomorrow.”
There was a stir around the table, a few glances and smiles exchanged. The reason why wasn’t hard to deduce: they were all feeling just as cramped on board ship as I was.
Gaetano caught this; he smiled. “As you’ve all deduced already, if the planet does turn out to be habitable, we’ll begin our surface surveys almost immediately. As I recall, it is my turn to lead the preliminary landing party...”
There were several mutters and groans, mainly of the “Yeah, sure” variety; and a soft, sardonic “raspberry,” source unknown.
Gaetano’s smile widened, and he lifted his hand. “Now, now,” he said, “you’ll all get your turns. Now, as to that first landing party. Commander Delaney, will you be available?”
She nodded eagerly. “Just try to keep me away.”
And then, quite astoundingly, Gaetano turned to me. “And can I count on your participation, Lieutenant M’Ress?”
For a full five seconds I was quite speechless. Then I said, “It will be my pleasure, Commander.”
He smiled, actually smiled at me. “Good,” he said. He looked around. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, we all have sensor-stream data to monitor. Let’s get to work, shall we?”
Along with the others, I gathered up my data pad and rose. To my extreme relief—and not a little surprise as well—it seemed finally to be time for me to polish up my tricorder and my rock hammer; time to do what I’d signed on for.
###
Alone in my office, I keyed my computer terminal. With a sigh of pleasure I leaned back in my chair, my tail flicking lazily. It’s funny, as I’ve already mentioned, how your opinions can change. When I’d come aboard this office had seemed coffin-sized, claustrophobic, a prison cell; I’d hardly been able to stand it for more than a couple hours at a time. The room hadn’t gotten any bigger, of course; but now, far from being a cell or coffin, it was a refuge. In here, alone, with nothing and no one bothering me; I could almost pretend that I wasn’t up to my whiskers in problems. The trouble is, I had to come out of my office once in a while; and the problems were always there waiting.
As Zelazny fell through the system, any system for that matter, her sensors would be pointed in every direction, running at full power twenty-four hours a day. Each planet would be photographed, measured in many ways, and cataloged. So too would every solid object orbiting the star. Only a habitable planet, though, or something else overwhelmingly interesting, would cause the captain to interrupt the ship’s low-fuel course. Our purpose, after all, was primarily to locate sites for colonies; and also to find out if anyone was there already. Exhaustive studies would come later; in many cases, much later. If the second planet proved to be habitable, we would enter orbit there for a few days. If not, we would pass it by, and be on our way.
In the meantime, I had available to me the constant stream of data from many sensors, literally dozens of channels: cameras, of course, photographing in many spectra; but also gravity sensors, radiation detectors, spectrometers, mass sensors...you name it. Much of the stream was meaningless to me, of course; so I edited out most of them, concentrating on those sensors, cameras and others, that were pointed at the second planet. There, and there alone, it seemed, would I find anything to pique my professional interest.
It is probably not to be wondered, however, that my attention soon began to wander. We were still far away from the second planet; as far as Saturn is from Terra, say. Even in the best telescopes, the putative inhabitable planet was no more than a dim blur. There would be more data and better pictures in the hours to come. In the meantime...I keyed my terminal to alert me if anything unexpected or interesting occurred, and I leaned back, closing my eyes and letting myself sink into a deep ocean of thought.
Except for my night with Joel, and his perplexing and dismaying reaction the morning after, those six days of warp transit had passed uneventfully. In many ways that had been a blessing: there had been no more vandalism, no more remarks in the mess hall; in fact no incidents of any kind, unpleasant or otherwise. I did occasionally see Ensign Osgood, of course, in the mess hall or the rec room. But it seemed that I finally had him cowed; whether it was my words to him, that day after the vandalism; or Joel’s; or a combination of the two, I didn’t know. But ever since, at one glance from me he would turn silently away. Unfortunately the operative word here is “seemed”; I seemed to have him cowed. I ought to have known, I suppose, that someone like him wouldn’t let it go quite that easily; that something was cooking in his vindictive little mind. I ought to have known, but I didn’t; at the time I was well pleased with my cleverness.
With that difficulty apparently solved, the most vexing item on my personal agenda of trouble was that of Lieutenant Commander Joel Abrams. Since that day in the mess hall, he had gone from “elusive” to...I guess “unfindable” would be the best term. I mean, after that I never saw him; incredibly, it appeared that he had actually changed his personal habits, so as to avoid me.
After many years of practice, I usually believed that I had a pretty good understanding of human behavior. But in this case, I was totally at a loss to explain Joel’s reaction. I mean, all this fuss over one simple sexual encounter? Was it really worth it? I knew very well that it hadn’t been the first time for him, any more than it had been for me. Yes, it’s true, always before we’d kept it inside our own species; but what’s the difference? I’ll freely admit that I had been feeling some guilt (before it was driven out of my head by anger); but I’d truly believed that he and I could have worked it out; could have reached an understanding. Yes, it was true that our relationship would never be the same as it was; but “different” doesn’t necessarily imply “destroyed.” It might even have been better than before; a better understanding of each other’s true feelings. But Joel didn’t seem to even want to find out. In my mind, according to my system of values, his current behavior was barely rational.
It was also a kind of behavior that I had never before seem from him. I know that people do change with time; we had been apart for nine years; and the last time we saw each other we had still been just kids; we hadn’t yet been plunged fully into the world of duty and responsibility. I knew that the ensuing years had changed me; for the better, I hoped. But Joel had changed more than seemed reasonable. He used to be the most steady, reliable, least-nervous human I knew; I think I’ve already mentioned that he had been a major stabilizing influence on me, during those Academy years. That was true no more; but what had happened to cause this, I had no idea.
I was also not too sure about my own behavior. Joel had been avoiding me, that much was certain; but I had made no attempt to track him down or confront him. It wouldn’t have been all that difficult; it wasn’t as if he had an infinite amount of space to hide in. The fact that I had not done so, and had no particular desire to...was that childish of me? Was I merely being petulant? Or was I actually following a path of wisdom, avoiding worse problems? I couldn’t decide. And so, for all those six days, I had just left it alone. If I hadn’t, if I had pursued him and made him talk to me, what would have happened? Who can say? I’ll never know, of course.
It did seem, however, that an almost legendary friendship was over, finished. And that, my friends, did indeed hurt. A lot.
###
VSA 11247/2 was habitable, but only just.
It took less than one orbit to determine this; after our otherwise unremarkable transit of the outer system.
“What we are not dealing with here,” Lieutenant Kerenski told the meeting, “is a tropical paradise. Average equatorial temperatures are in the range of ten degrees Celsius. The so-called ‘temperate’ zones average below zero. There are massive ice caps, extending from the poles to more than thirty degrees north and south latitude. Only in the tropics is there a zone that we’d define as habitable.”
Despite the warmth of the room, I shivered. As you’ve no doubt worked out by now, the vision of hell in the dominant Caitian religion is a freezing cold place, rather than the burning hot netherworld of the human/Judeo-Christian mythos. What we were seeing on the screen was a fair approximation thereof. It was as Kerenski had said. The planet was banded, almost like that inexplicable human custom called an Easter egg; white on both ends, with a narrow, mottled stripe of blue, brown and green around the middle. 
“The continental arrangement is fairly unremarkable,” Gaetano said. “Most of the land masses are covered with ice, of course, in some cases dozens of kilometers thick. It would be useless and dangerous even to attempt a landing in those areas. However, there is one interesting aspect to the planet.”
He manipulated the controls before him, and the viewscreen image zoomed in with dizzying speed, until it centered on a patch of coastline in the equatorial zone. He created an arrow-shaped pointer. “This planet has not always been so frigid,” he said. “What we see here on this coastline is a gently-inclined slope of siltstone and sandstone, some twenty kilometers wide, leading up from the water and ending at a sharp rocky cliff many kilometers long. Clearly we’re looking at ancient sea bed, a continental shelf, which at one time was inundated. The withdrawal of water from the oceans to form the ice caps caused this land to be exposed. From the degree of erosion, the depth that stream channels have cut into the exposed sea floor, I estimate possibly one million years ago.”
“This agrees with our readings of the system’s primary,” Nakamara said. “It appears to a variable star, to a degree of perhaps ten percent. At present, and for the last million to million and a half years, it has been in a cooling pattern. 
Previous to that it was much warmer; though never as hot as Sol. Because of this planet’s relatively close orbit, however, it may even have once had a warmer climate than Earth.”
“There is rich plant life in the equatorial and tropical regions,” Delaney said. “Rich in quantity, that is; the actual biodiversity appears to be low. As is typical of cold waters, the seas are quite rich in plankton, diatoms and related forms. Major portions of the land masses are heavily forested; we may be seeing something similar to Terran conifers. Other areas appear to be grassland; many thousands of square kilometers.”
“The climate over most of the planet is quite dry, however,” Kerenski said. “As Commander Gaetano noted, much of the planet’s water is currently locked in ice. Whatever plant forms are present must be adapted to extreme drought as well as cold.”
“What about animal life?” Gaetano asked.
“Our studies are so far...inconclusive on that,” Delaney said.
Gaetano frowned. “Why? The biosensors...”
“There is a heavy ionizing layer in the atmosphere,” Nakamara said. “Harmless to us, and transparent to visible light; but it tends to block many other electromagnetic spectra. Our biosensors included.”
“We believe,” Delaney said, “that there are no large animal forms. Any that exist will most likely be small—the size of a Terran dog, perhaps.”
“But you’re not certain,” Gaetano said.
She smiled and shook her head. “No. Not until we go and look.”
She let the stir go around the table for a few seconds; then she went on. “We are fairly certain that we are scanning no life on the ice caps,” she said. “This may not be strictly true. There may be unicellular forms, such as algae; such things are incredibly tenacious. Whether it’s worth our time to go looking for them is...debatable.”
At that point all eyes turned to me. I’d more than halfway expected that, though, and so I wasn’t caught completely flatfooted. I said, “From orbit, there is no sign of civilization. No cities, no ruins, no obvious works of intelligence of any kind. This is by no means proof positive, however. Civilizations on most worlds tend to favor temperate zones. For all we know, there may once have been a thriving society; all trace of which is buried under kilometers of ice. We may—may—be able to get a better idea after our landing.” Even as I said that, I shivered again; I was beginning to regret promising to be in the landing party. No way out now, though. Unfortunately.
Gaetano glanced around the table. “All right,” he said. “Obviously this planet is not a good site for colonization. But our second, and equally important, mission is to locate any signs of present or past civilizations in this sector; ones whose claims on this space may complicate the Federation’s plans to colonize. As Lieutenant M’Ress has correctly pointed out, it may be impossible for us to determine if intelligent life did ever arise here; but it is our duty at least to try. We will concentrate our landings in the equatorial areas, which are at least survivable. The first area I have in mind to take a closer look at is the ancient seacoast that I just showed you. That area is currently moving into night. Its dawn will occur at about ten hundred hours tomorrow, ship’s time. Commander Delaney, Lieutenant M’Ress, the three of us will beam down shortly thereafter. Any questions?”
We all glanced at each other; then, slowly, I raised my hand. “I have one, sir.”
He looked at me in surprise. “Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Would it be possible for me to requisition a pair of electric socks?” I asked, dead-pan.
For a few seconds there was stunned silence; then slowly, very slowly, they all relaxed and began to chuckle. I leaned back, pleased. Maybe—just maybe—I was finally starting to make some headway.
###
I think I’ve already mentioned that I had rather a fondness for the uniforms that were current at the time my little adventure took place. That is, after we solved that footwear contretemps. One of the best aspects of that uniform, as I was forcefully reminded that day, was what I suppose you’d call an accessory.
The Quartermaster’s catalog called it a “Field Jacket”; and it was standard issue for most landing parties. Burgundy in color, heavy in weight, with a thick, high collar and a zipper front, it had a nearly endless number of large and useful pockets; including one specifically designed for a Type II phaser pistol (and you can believe I’d filled that pocket.) And it was warm. In some cases, on more temperate planets, possibly a little too warm; but not here; Goddess, not here!
The planet’s early morning was clear, not overly bright...and cold. The plateau we stood on, the three of us, was two degrees north of the equator. My tricorder’s temperature readout stood at two degrees as well: but in its case, that was two degrees Celsius. How can you do your job, I wondered, when you’re concentrating on not freezing to death? In those first couple minutes after beamdown, I pulled my jacket a little closer around me, hitched up the collar, and looked around with trepidation.
The landscape around us was almost Earthlike; just different enough to be slightly surreal. Ahead of us, to the west (the direction from which a hard and biting wind blew ceaselessly) the plateau ended at a sheer, tumbled cliff of black stone, some twenty meters high. Below that, a flat plain stretched away, dun-colored and featureless except for meandering, dry gullies. I could see, though a human might not, the bright edge of the current seashore, some twenty kilometers away.
Behind us, to the east, the plateau stretched back for a kilometer or so, then ascended a sharp, eroded ridge to another flat. Our plateau was of dark stones embedded in reddish soil, with stunted, anemic-looking bushes sprouting between the rocks. On the higher ground was an almost impenetrable stand of what appeared to be tall, densely-foliated trees, of a green so dark it appeared almost black. There was total silence around us, except for the constant moaning of the wind. Yes, this place could definitely masquerade as one of the outer sectors of the Dark Domains.
My nose detected—as again, a human’s might not—several odors all mixed into one. Predominant among these was a salt tang from the distance sea; which was, we’d found, very salty indeed, the brine concentrated by the freezing and removal of so much water. I also smelled an aromatic, resinous scent that probably came from the trees on the upper plateau; and a slightly spicy, sage-like odor that was most likely from the seed-pods of the brush that danced in the wind all around us. It was a strange but not unpleasant combination. It reminded me of the forests of coastal northern California; unfortunately, that tended to remind me of Joel. Angrily I thrust those thoughts away. And as I did, I shifted my weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
It was at times like those—and only at times like those—when I regretted, just a little, the fact that Caitians don’t wear shoes. My request for electric socks had been only halfway a joke. The leathery pads of my feet made most surfaces endurable; but ice-cold, sharp stones are never particularly comfortable. Too bad Joel didn’t seem to be in the Shiatsu massage business any more. After this day, I was going to need one.
Commander Gaetano clapped his hands a few times, then clasped them together and blew on them vigorously. He said cheerfully, “All right, people, enough gawking at the scenery. Let’s get some work done.”
Standing beside me, Commander Delaney looked just about as frozen as I was starting to feel; but Gaetano looked quite comfortable; looked like he was relishing it, actually. Behind his back, Delaney gave me a grin and an exasperated roll of the eyes. Then the three of us split up and went to work.
I’d spent the night before cramming. Not survey logs; I had those just about memorized. No; I’d been frantically looking up textbooks on anthropology and paleontology, trying to figure out how much I’d forgotten. I was especially rusty on field techniques, not having done any for more than thirteen years. Hopefully it would be like Joel’s “riding a bicycle”; whatever that had meant.
I had a tricorder, tuned for geology use; and over my shoulder I had a sample bag, which currently contained only two things; a rock hammer (still an indispensable tool for a fossil hunter) and a small kit of brushes, picks and so on, meant for fine extraction. The tricorder was mine, issued to me when I came aboard; the bag, hammer and tool kit I had inherited, so to speak, from Commander Morada. Somehow, handling his tools felt almost as creepy, if not more so, than sleeping in his bed. But I was trying not to think about that.
As I fine-tuned my tricorder I glanced around. Gaetano was now about thirty meters away from me, in the direction of the cliff, his nose buried in the display of his tricorder. Delaney was about forty meters away in the opposite direction, bent down over a clump of some kind of scrub. As I watched I saw her snip off a seed-head, seal it in a small clear envelope, and stow it carefully in her down sample bag. 
I sighed. Both of them seemed confident enough; why did I feel like I was fumbling? With my tricorder finally tuned to my satisfaction, I keyed it and began a slow, circular sweep.
As I worked, my attention was only three-quarters on my tricorder. Because of our problems with the orbital bio-scans, I frankly distrusted Delaney’s blithe assurance that there were no large animals on this planet. This situation reminded me a bit too much of the one that had gotten me my last medal. True, that had been a swamp, not a frozen wasteland; but there are many other shapes that unpleasant creatures can come in, besides that of Reptiles of Unusual Size. I was not really nervous on my own account, but mainly for my more defenseless companions. They were entirely too casual, too careless. Ensign Morley had been too, before the large and ugly thing had dropped out of a tree, directly on top of him. I still shuddered at the memory. I intended keep my phaser and my claws both handy, that was for sure. I was very glad I had done so the last time; quite apart from another pretty decoration for my dress uniform, I had always been rather fond of Morley. It had pleased me to be able to save him from being a lizard’s brunch.
About an hour later, Commander Gaetano wandered up to me. At the time I was down on my knees, next to an outcrop of grey stone, chipping at it with the pointed end of my rock hammer. “How’s it going?” he asked affably.
I made a sound of disgust and stowed my hammer. “Pointless, I’m afraid, sir,” I said. I waved my arm. “Igneous rock. For kilometers in every direction along this terrace. I’m not going to find any fossils in this.”
He glanced over my shoulder at my tricorder readings. “Indeed not,” he agreed. He pointed, out to the ancient seabed below the cliffs. “You might do better down there.”
He was likely correct, I had to concede. Old seabed would most likely be composed of unconsolidated or partly-consolidated sediments; seashells, fish skeletons, and so on would be very likely. “Can we get down there?” I asked.
“I don’t see why not,” he said. “The cliff-face has eroded back to a fairly gently angle. I think we can pick our way down the boulders.”
I shrugged. “Why not?” I said, and I stood.
...And then Gaetano reached out quickly to catch me by the arms, as I swayed and nearly fell. “Are you all right, Lieutenant?” he said as he set me back on my feet.
“I...think so, sir,” I said. “That’s strange...all of a sudden I felt very dizzy.” I passed a hand in front of my eyes, brushing away the stars. “I’m all right now, Commander. Thank you.”
“Maybe you are,” he said. He released me and reached for his tricorder. He adjusted it and did a quick scan of me. “That’s the problem,” he said a moment later. “The 02 level on this planet is a little low; and so is the level in your blood. Caitians are used to a bit more oxygen than Terran norm, aren’t you?”
“A fraction, yes,” I confirmed. A small oxygen boost had been one aspect of the conditioning program in my quarters on the Enterprise (which, among many other things, I sorely missed.) I had become accustomed to Terran norm, my lung capacity actually increasing over the years; but the extra kick had always served to boost my energy level at the end of a long day.
“I don’t think it’s dangerously low,” Gaetano said. “But I’d suggest breathing slowly and deeply.” He grinned. “Might improve your mental acuity too.”
“Thank you very much, Commander,” I said sardonically. “I’ll do that.”
Commander Delaney had apparently noticed our little drama; she came jogging over to us, puffs of cold vapor emerging from nose and mouth as she panted. “Everything okay?” she said.
“The lieutenant got a little short on oxygen,” Gaetano said. “She’s all right now.” He pointed. “She and I are going down to the seabed,” he went on. “Like to come along?”
She squinted, shielding her eyes with her hand. “There appears,” she stated, “to be very little down there to interest a biologist.” She waved in the opposite direction. “I’m going to climb up to those trees, if you don’t mind.”
Gaetano nodded slowly. “All right,” he said. “I don’t see a problem with that. Keep in communicator contact, though. Say every ten minutes. Shall we go, Lieutenant?”
Actually, I saw some major problems with that, and I started to say so; but they were both lieutenant commanders, and did not appreciate advice from the likes of me. That much they made clear with a glance. So I shut up. As I watched Delaney walk away, though, climbing briskly up toward the line of forest, I shook my head and sighed. How in the world had those two gotten to be superior officers, or indeed even stayed alive this long, with attitudes as cavalier as that? And what good would keeping in communicator contact do, if we were too far away to help? Make it easier to locate her body, was my guess. Not my problem, I suppose; but if I ever got to lead one of these landing parties...In the meantime, though, all I could do was to follow Gaetano meekly over to the cliff edge—while remembering to breathe slowly and deeply, of course.
I peered dubiously over the edge. Actually Gaetano had been correct: in the million years, give or take, since the sea had receded, the once-vertical cliff-face had indeed eroded, big boulders and blocks tumbling down onto the ancient strand and intertidal. The result was a slope of no more than forty degrees or so. That varied, of course, depending on how much had fallen in a particular spot. It would be a rugged climb, though. The good news, of course, was that we only had to climb down. We could be beamed up from there.
Gaetano pointed a bit to the right, where a tumble of boulders made a zigzag path. “Looks as good as any,” he said.
“I suppose so.” I bowed low. “After you, Commander.”
“Most gracious, Lieutenant,” he said. He eyed the first two-meter drop for a few seconds; then slowly he lowered himself over the edge, backwards and feet first. I saw the strain on his face ease as he found a foothold, and the weight on his arms was gradually taken up by his legs...
You know, the problem with my premonitions isn’t that they’re not correct; they usually are. The problem is that they always seem to be right for the wrong reasons. I’d been thinking in terms of her, Delaney; and of large and nasty animals. I’d forgotten that there were three of us; and that there are other dangerous forces in nature. Gravity comes to mind, for example.
Commander Gaetano eased himself down, putting more of his weight into that single foothold...and then, as the human saying as it, all hell broke loose. With a shuddering roar the huge boulder beneath him collapsed, precipitating a slide of large and small boulders. Gaetano gave a cry as he began to fall, and his hands, which by then were all I could see of him, scrabbled futilely at the crumbling edge of the cliff.
I’ve heard it said that Caitian reflexes are faster than human. I don’t really know if that’s really true; but if so, Gaetano had reason to be glad. Before he had slid more than a quarter of a meter, I was already in action. I threw myself full-length on the cliff edge, my hands outstretched to grab his wrists, even as they slid out of sight. I expressed the claws of my toes to their greatest extent and jammed them hard into the rocky ground beneath me. Gaetano, feeling my grip on his wrists, reached out his hands to grasp my own wrists. The dead weight was terrible, and I was dragged almost half a meter before I ground painfully to a halt. Below Gaetano the slide still rumbled and boomed away, boulders scattering wide across the dry seabed.
“Can you get a foothold?” I called down to Gaetano.
“I’m trying, dammit!” he yelled. I saw his legs kicking, scrambling; but every place he jammed his boots, the rock crumbled out from under them like sand. “Hang on!” he pleaded.
“I am!” I said. “But not indefinitely!”
It went on for an endless time; maybe two to three minutes. The strain on my arms and wrists was unendurable; his manic grasp had long since made my hands and fingers totally numb, and I had no idea whether I was still hanging on. My hips and shoulders were being dragged out of their sockets, and my toe-claws were slowly plowing eight shallow furrows. Worse, stretched out like that I couldn’t get a deep breath, and I was getting dizzy again. Either I was going to let go; or he was going to pull me over the cliff with him. It all depended on the hardness of the ground beneath me, and the strength of my limbs and claws.
And then the miracle happened. I heard the running footsteps behind me, and the shout of alarm. I risked craning my neck over my shoulder for a quick look. It was Commander Delaney, of course, running like a track star; even as I watched she discarded her sample bag and her tricorder. “Hang on!” she called. “I’m coming!”
“Not my legs,” I gasped as she came close, already leaning down with outstretched arms. “If my claws come loose we’ll all go over.”
She drew back a step. “What, then?” she said desperately.
“My tail,” I said. I raised it before her, and fought to keep it still. “Near the base.”
She hesitated just a second. Whether she was afraid of hurting me, or just reluctant to touch it, I’m not sure. Finally I felt her hands close around the appendage, near to where it emerged from my trousers. I whipped my tail around her waist. “The far end,” I said. “One hand. Like belaying a rope.”
I didn’t have time or breath for a more complete explanation; but fortunately she took the point. She gripped the end of my tail just above the tuft with her left hand, and leaned back hard. 
Now, what I was doing is high on the list of “never, never do this” in the Caitian owner’s manual. I stood an excellent chance of dislocating most if not all of my tail vertebrae. But we didn’t have a great deal of choice. With that much of the weight off my legs, I was able to back up just a trifle on my knees, making up the slippage, and re-plant my toe-claws more firmly.
About that time Gaetano found a solid toe-hold; just one; but it allowed us to pull him almost halfway up in one convulsive surge. An involuntary yowl of pain escaped my throat as we did. Another foothold, and another couple mighty pulls, and Gaetano lay panting on his stomach on the cliff-top. A few last pebbles pattered down.
Delaney released my tail and rushed over to him. “Are you all right, Karl?” she said anxiously.
Oh sure, I thought, as I got my legs underneath me, turned over, and sat up. Never mind the Caitian with the numb hands, scraped toes and strained tail.
“I’m fine,” he said breathlessly. “Just scared half to death.” And then, incredibly, he leaned over and put a hand on my shoulder. “Lieutenant?” he said in apparently genuine concern.
So amazed was I by his solicitude, that I couldn’t reply for a few seconds. Finally I said, “I’m all right too, Commander.” I grinned. “I have a feeling I’m going to be sore in the morning, though.”
“That might be an understatement,” he said with a wry smile. “I’m no lightweight.” He reached out and gripped my hands gently. “You saved my life, Lieutenant. Thank you.”
My answering smile was a little hesitant. “You’re welcome, Commander.”
Gaetano looked from me to Delaney and back again. “Let’s get the hell out of here, eh?” he suggested.
###
Neither Gaetano nor I was much hurt; but he wasn’t the type to take chances. As soon as we were on board he ordered me, and himself, to sickbay for a check-over.
I had not had much contact with Dr. Enyeart, our Chief Medical Officer, since I came on board, not beyond that briefing the first day. He mostly kept to himself, seldom if ever coming to the Mess Hall or the Rec Room. Now, sitting in my skivvies on one of his antiquated exam tables, I saw no reason to revise my first opinion of him: he was dour, taciturn, lugubrious; and a barely competent physician (at least so far as Caitians were concerned.) To Drs. McCoy or Chapel, there was no comparison. Enyeart’s chief nurse, one Lieutenant j.g. Lenora Burke, was a fiftyish, mostly grey-haired woman with an expression of permanent impatience; clearly she felt she had better things to do than this “ministering to the sick and injured” nonsense.
As I said, neither Gaetano nor I was much hurt. Enyeart ran his scanner over my tail, and declared it to be merely strained, nothing dislocated or fractured. That was fortunate, because frankly I’m not sure I’d have trusted him to put it right. The tops of my feet had been scraped raw by being dragged over the rocky ground; somewhat distastefully, Burke cleaned the grit and fur out of the wounds, and Enyeart quickly healed them. And that was all; except that my hips and shoulders were stiff and sore, and my wrists deeply bruised. They would doubtless ache for days.
Gaetano had fared only slightly worse. His face had received a few small cuts from falling stones, and a sharp spire of rock had sliced right through his trousers into his left leg, as he’d flailed around for a foothold. And he had twisted his back a bit. Considering the fact that he could have been a damp spot on the landscape, covered with boulders, he’d come through pretty well.
He and I were just recovering our dirty uniforms when Captain Antilles entered; or perhaps I should say “barged in.” He had a deep scowl on his face; and with him, as if on a leash, came Lieutenant Harris.
The captain ignored me and spoke directly to Gaetano. “What the hell happened down there, Commander?” he barked.
“My fault, Captain,” Gaetano said without flinching. Behind us, Enyeart and Burke had faded into the background; no fools they. “Lieutenant M’Ress and I wished to take a closer look at the seabed. I believed it would be safe to climb down the cliff. 
As it turned out it was not safe; the cliff began to collapse under me. Lieutenant M’Ress was able to catch me before I slid to the bottom. She held on until Commander Delaney arrived. The two of them pulled me to safety. I can say without hesitation, sir, that Lieutenant M’Ress saved my life.”
The captain’s gaze flicked over to me. On board Enterprise, or indeed any other ship I’d ever been on or heard of, such a pronouncement from a superior officer would have earned me at least a commendation from the captain. Twice now, similar situations had actually gotten me medals. But here, both of those things were far too much to expect. Even a kind word was not forthcoming.
“Why did you wish to examine the seabed, Mr. Gaetano?” Captain Antilles said quietly.
Gaetano glanced at me. Then he said, “The coastal terrace we were working on was composed entirely of igneous rock, and did not contain fossils. The lieutenant and I believed there would be more chance on the sea floor.”
“I see,” the captain said. “Your desire to take responsibility for this incident is commendable, Commander. However, in light of what I’m hearing, the reason why you undertook the climb, I believe that I must place the blame solely on Lieutenant M’Ress.”
It was like a punch in the stomach. The word, what? almost exploded from me; I managed to bite it back in time. The captain, watching, almost seemed to be enjoying my struggle to keep my composure.
Gaetano looked from me to Captain Antilles and back again several times, his expression troubled and...what? Fearful, perhaps? Finally he swallowed. He said, choosing his words carefully, “I must say I strongly disagree, Captain. The decision to attempt the climb down was entirely mine.”
“Spoken like a model Starfleet officer,” the captain said, with a sardonic smile. “I would suggest you re-examine the direction in which you extend your loyalty, however.” His gaze shifted to me, and hardened. “I am still amassing the evidence which will enable me to be rid of you, Lieutenant. You may be sure this incident will be prominently mentioned. Good day.”
And with that he and Harris departed; but not before I caught the evil grin that Harris threw me over his shoulder. He hadn’t forgotten that day on the bridge.
Gaetano approached me. He raised his arm, as if to put it around my shoulders; then he seemed to think better of it, and let it flop awkwardly. He said, “My...uh...my report won’t read that way, Lieutenant. Neither will Delaney’s. We both know what really happened. I’d be dead now if it wasn’t for you—that’s what my report will show.”
I turned away and nodded. “Thank you, Commander. I appreciate that.”
Hollow words, though, and we both knew it. On this ship, I’d long since discovered, only one report meant a damn thing: that written by Captain Mark Antilles.
###
In the end we stayed about three days at VSA 11247/2. We made four more long surveys, and I took part in every one of them, despite the fact that the morning after our first I almost couldn’t get out of bed, I was so stiff and sore. My wrists had swollen ominously, so much so that I had trouble making my fingers do what I wanted them to; the bruises were dark purple, going on black, under my fur. Unfortunately there was little Enyeart could do about that; only time would cure. My only solace was that Gaetano was in roughly the same condition.
What if I hadn’t been able to hold on? I thought bitterly, deep in the night, as I lay in my bed waiting for a painkilling pill to kick in and let me get some sleep. Would Captain Antilles have thought it deliberate? Would I be charged with murder now? Yes, it rankled me; to have an act of self-sacrifice; yes, of bravery if you like, thrown back in my face. No, I don’t demand medals for every action I take; but Captain Antilles’ desire, his need, to blame me for the incident seemed to border on the irrational. It was the same old question again: what did I ever do to them?
But anyway, the planet. We gradually built up a picture, a story worthy of H.G. Wells, of a rich and diverse biosystem thrown out of equilibrium by the slow, inexorable decline in solar output. What we found now, in the regions free of ice, was an ecosystem of low diversity, just a few tough, adaptable forms, that had survived the rapid (geologically speaking) change. It would take not much more cooling of the sun to close off that narrow equatorial strip, burying it in ice as well; and that, very likely, would be it for life on this world; or at least anything more complex than bacteria. Just a slight nudge might do it.
We did eventually make it down to that ancient seabed, but not by climbing down; in fact we had ourselves beamed directly there. And yes, it was gold mine of fossils. In a few hours’ work I filled my sample bag with shells, the incredibly fragile skeletons of fishlike creatures...many things. All very interesting, of course, but it brought on the same feelings of frustration that Morada had felt and expressed in his logs. In no way was I investigating this planet’s past; I was doing no more than taking a few very random samplings, almost like throwing darts at a map.
I tried to imagine doing the same thing with Cait or Terra. There are places on both planets where you could drop an archaeologist, and he or she would come to the conclusion that neither planet was inhabited. Ridiculous, yes; but as I said before, this was not an exhaustive study.
Still, on another level I was not at all displeased with the work I had done, both on the seabed and in the four or five other locations we’d visited. I was still convinced that the best way to counter Captain Antilles’ accusations would be with a solid body of work; and this, I believed, was a good beginning.
There was one slightly amusing incident during our very last survey. Commander Gaetano and I had beamed down hurriedly, just the two of us, to a desolate spot right on the edge of the ice. We’d come down this one last time, in such a terrible hurry, for the absolute damnedest, most ludicrous reason you could possibly imagine. The night before, Commander Nakamara had been looking through some of the still pictures (visible light) that had been made during our numerous orbits. And, completely by accident, he had located one, which in his own words, had “electrified” him. I had seen it that morning, when he showed it to the rest of the science staff in a state of great excitement. The photo showed what appeared to be a region of regular, almost rectangular shapes, covering perhaps ten square kilometers. The image had been taken in visible light, as I said, and through a partial and extremely rare clearing in the persistent fog and clouds that surrounded the edge of the ice. It was possible, just possible, Nakamara asserted, that we were seeing some kind of structures; possibly the ruins of a city.
Now, I was extremely skeptical, to say the least. Nothing I had found so far indicated that this planet had ever harbored intelligent life. We had found no living animal larger than a shrew. There was no sign of any power generation, or the residual radiation that almost any technological civilization leaves behind, to its sorrow. And...well, back in the 20th Century on Terra there was quite a furor, briefly, over a space-probe photo which purported to show a huge sculpture of a humanoid face on the surface of Mars. Terrans (or at least the type susceptible to a particular kind of gullibility) had found everything in that photo, from “ancient astronauts” to the face of their God, to the face of a popular singer who, for some bizarre reason, attained a kind of mystical status after his death. It turned out, of course, that the so-called monument was just a rock; and that the “face” was just a trick of light and shadow. I strongly suspected that’s what we were dealing with here, and I said so at the meeting. My suggestion was not, needless to say, greeted with much enthusiasm. The closest thing I got to support was from Gaetano.
“Actually,” he had said charitably, “I tend to agree with Lieutenant M’Ress. But if there’s even the slightest chance...”
And so, here we were. In subsequent orbits the place had remained stubbornly shrouded in clouds; and because of the ionization layer, the results of other types of scans were “inconclusive.” I’d asked Gaetano, just before we beamed down, why, if Nakamara was so damn enthused, wasn’t he beaming down instead of me? Gaetano had grinned in return. “Because you’re the anthro-paleo officer, not him,” he’d said, and that settled it.
The place we were in was bleak, cold, all but lifeless, and very foggy. We limped forward, still careful of our mutually strained bodies, through an icy wind that whipped streamers of mist past and around us; we couldn’t see more than two meters in any direction. From somewhere ahead, though, came two distinct sounds, as least to my ears: that of rushing water, and a strange creaking, groaning, snapping sound, unlike anything I’d ever heard before. And then, suddenly, the mist parted in front of us. What we saw brought us up short, gasping in awe.
We stood near the edge of a broad, deep chasm, almost a valley. Impossible to tell how broad; to our left and right the fog closed in within a hundred meters, closing off those views like a heavy curtain. Directly across from us, though, was the ice. The solid, sheer leading edge of the glacier was perhaps four or five kilometers distant; but it was very tall, and stood out in sharp relief, its surface gleaming white on the edges, and in the heart that peculiar deep blue that heavily-compacted ice takes on. Piled up at the face was an enormous hillock of sand, gravel and other small debris; the glacier’s terminal moraine, into which it pushed out from its face like a conveyor belt the finely-ground rock that it picked up in its travels. Through numerous gaps in that moraine ran small, swift streams, their water milky with fine silt. And the glacier was alive. It groaned, it creaked, it crackled, the noises echoing clearly through the valley like the cries of tortured souls. And even as we watched, a large promontory of ice resembling Yosemite’s El Capitan detached itself and fell with a rumbling crash that shook the ground underneath our feet. 
What we were seeing here was the edge of the ice, the place where it had reached an equilibrium with the “warm” weather of the tropics; but I couldn’t help feeling, as I stared open-mouthed across the valley, that it wasn’t really a treaty; just a temporary cease-fire. Bundled heavily in my field jacket, nonetheless I found myself shivering uncontrollably. I remembered the engravings, the illuminated religious texts from Cait’s version of the Renaissance. They looked far too much like this. The gateway to the Dark Domains was between massive pillars of ice; many of the damned never even got beyond them, as huge blocks were known to fall and crush them on the spot. And they were the lucky ones.
Gaetano was staring at me. “Are you all right, Lieutenant?”
I shook myself. “Yes, thank you, Commander. I’m fine.”
“Good,” he said. He pointed down with a sour grin. “There’s our ‘ruins.’”
With an effort I tore my gaze away from all that ice, and followed his pointing finger. The valley below us was filled, almost to the face of the glacier, with tall, massive columns of rock. Their tops were almost flat, dead black, and formed nearly regular geometrical shapes, mostly hexagons. The tops of the pillars seemed to cover about twenty meters square, on average.
“Columnar basalt,” Gaetano said in disgust.
I nodded. “The Pinnacles,” I said.
“Pardon?”
“On Terra, sir,” I amplified. “California. Some kilometers east of Monterey. It’s a park, a monument,  built around these kind of formations. Not on this scale, though.”
I suppose I’d better explain that, for the benefit of non-geologists in the audience. A mass of molten basalt, as it slowly cools, tends to shrink; and the shrinkage tends to split it into a number of upright , geometrical columns, often with empty space between them. The Pinnacles Terran Monument, as I’d said, was a smaller-scale version of what we were seeing now. I remembered well the hike I’d taken there many years ago; yes, it was with Joel. It had been a summer day, blazing hot; and there’d been almost no one else there: just us and the rattlesnakes. It was one of the few times I can remember when I’d actually enjoyed being thrown head-first into a swimming pool. It seemed a million years ago.
“The scale is unusual,” Gaetano agreed. “But not unprecedented. I think we’re agreed, Lieutenant, that this is a natural phenomenon, unrelated to any intelligent life?”
I shivered again, as a particularly cold blast of wind swept off the ice. “Definitely, sir,” I confirmed.
“Then let’s make a few quick tricorder scans and get out of here.”
We did that. He set his tricorder to the “geology” mode, getting the mineralogical and chemical makeup of the columns; while I set mine to visible light and did a slow sweep of the area. As I did so, it came to me that if I put aside my vestigial religious superstitions, there was actually a kind of wild beauty to this scene. The billowing clouds, the gleaming blue ice, the dark columns of basalt...on a whim, then, after I’d completed the scan, I keyed in for a still “snapshot” of the complete view, just as Morada had done so many times. I did have an open wall in my office...
Behind me, Commander Gaetano said, “Damn!”
I quickly stowed my tricorder and turned to face him. He was scowling impatiently at his communicator, and as I watched he tapped the face of the small instrument with his forefinger, a common (if useless) gesture of frustration that I’d often seen from Captain Kirk. “Problem, Commander?” I asked.
“Well, yes,” he said testily. “I’m having trouble raising Zelazny. It must be Nakamara’s damn ionizing layer.”
That was probably true, I reflected. As the planet’s day wore on, solar radiation would increase the thickness of the layer; during the night it would scatter again, only to build up the next day, and so on into infinity. But that wasn’t uppermost in my mind. What was, was this: there are moments in life, I’ve found, when the Goddess herself seems to hand you an opportunity to score a point. And this, at last, was one of them. I stood, and fumbled in my copious pockets for my own communicator. “Let me try,” I said.
He shrugged. “Be my guest,” he said helplessly.
I could barely repress a gleeful grin as I flipped open the cover, a flick of the wrist that swiftly becomes an ingrained reflex, and was noticeable now only because it hurt. “M’Ress to Zelazny.”
The voice came through immediately, loud and clear. “Zelazny. Ensign Matthews.”
With an effort I kept a straight face, though Gaetano was gaping at me, amazed. “Two to beam up, Ensign,” I told the communicator.
“Stand by.”
Gaetano started to ask; but he was interrupted by a familiar high-pitched whine, and a tingling, as the transporter took us. Apparently Zelazny’s comm equipment was having a good day.
I sighed in relief as the Zelazny’s microscopic, six-pad transporter room took shape around us; with all its faults, at least it was warm up here. I shouldered my tricorder and stepped off the pad. A good meal and a hot cup of tea...
Gaetano waited until we were out in the corridor, away from the ensign behind the transporter controls; then he thrust an arm in front of me, bringing me to a halt. “One word, Lieutenant,” he said. “How?”
I smiled. Should I? Does the magician explain the trick? Maybe to a superior officer, he might. “Can you keep a secret, Commander?” I asked.
He gave me a very strange look. “Yes,” he said in an odd voice. “I can.”
I showed him my communicator. “One of my specialties,” I said. “I used to be a comm officer, you recall. Years ago I started tinkering with communicators. I found a way to increase the gain and signal strength almost twofold.”
His eyebrows rose. “Really,” he said in surprise. “Does Starfleet know about this?”
“Uh—well, yes, as a matter of fact they do, sir. Officially I’ve been ordered not to do it any more.”
“Why?”
“Well, sir, my modifications do have a price: increased power consumption. About thirty percent higher on the new models. About fifty percent on the old ones.”
“So why do you—?”
“Because it’s so damn useful,” I told him. “That situation just now for example. If I hadn’t been carrying a modified communicator, we would have had to wait for nightfall. I’m sure we could have survived, by finding shelter and phasering a rock to keep warm, but it would have been very uncomfortable.”
“Very,” he agreed.
“And that wasn’t the first time,” I said. “Some years ago I was in a situation that might have been fatal, if I hadn’t had one.”
“That’s a good enough reason for me,” he commented. “Uh—listen, Lieutenant. Completely off the record. If I was to, say, loan you my communicator...”
“...It might accidentally get dropped, and then I’d have to repair it,” I said blandly. “Good thing I know how.”
“Very good,” he said. He smiled. “It would be a shame if you had to do that, wouldn’t it?”
Slowly I smiled back. “Yes, sir,” I agreed. “A damn shame.”
He glanced up and down the corridor; no one was in sight. Then, behind his back, he slipped his communicator out of his belt and passed it to me. Behind my back, it dropped into one the pockets of my jacket. “Tomorrow morning,”  I said softly.
“No hurry,” he said. “Hopefully we’re all finished with this ice cube now. Thank you, Lieutenant.”
And then he was gone. I watched him for a moment, retreating rapidly down the corridor; then I smiled and shook my head. And then I shivered again, as a little residual chill took me. That meal and cup of tea were long overdue.
###
The universe, it seemed, had developed an annoying habit since I set foot on board Zelazny: that of blind-siding me. 
With our survey of VSA 11247/2 now finished, I had spent the rest of the day in my office, working on my report. With a lighter heart, and more enthusiasm than I’d felt for weeks, I made my way that evening to the mess hall for what I believed was a well-deserved dinner. And it was a large one too, red meat and fish: tramping around that frigid world day after day had tended to work up an appetite. I took my dinner and my data pad to a table in the rear; and sitting down, keyed for the rough draft of my survey report. This time, Commander Gaetano had promised, I’d actually get to make my report; indeed, this time I didn’t see how I could be prevented from doing so. And as such, it had better be a good one.
I heard the footsteps, of course, long before their owner reached me; I am nearly impossible to sneak up on. But for a long moment I didn’t even bother to look up from my pad. Whoever this was, surely he or she wasn’t heading toward my table; only very rarely did anyone disturb my solitude. Even when I wanted them to, actually. I didn’t look up, in fact, until the footsteps ceased, and I heard the voice: “Lieutenant M’Ress?”
I glanced up sharply then, to see Commander Edgeworth looking down at me. Her arms were crossed, and her expression stern and uncompromising. Neither of which was unusual, actually. The fact that she was talking to me, was.
“Commander,” I said, surprised. “How may I help you?”
“I need to speak to you, Lieutenant,” she said. “May I sit down?”
“Please,” I said. With real regret I pushed aside my half-finished dinner; I’d finished the cod fillet, and now I was working on a particularly good re-creation of a maxigrazer steak. I’d finally gotten the program almost perfect; the last vexing problem of texture was nearly solved. As the commander sat, she glanced at my tray; and she shuddered. She averted her eyes quickly.
She said, “Lieutenant, please believe that I take no pleasure from the duty I now have to perform. But Captain Antilles and I have discussed this matter extensively, and we feel that we have no choice.”
I felt my blood pressure begin to rise, though I had no real idea why. Conversations that start like that, though, rarely do one any good. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Commander,” I said carefully.
“Lieutenant, over the past few weeks that you’ve been aboard, the captain and I have received a number of complaints about you.”
“In regard to what?”
“To be blunt, your eating habits; and your choice of diet. No one else aboard is a carnivore, as you know, and many of the other officers and crew find your diet of raw meat rather...upsetting.”
“With respect, Commander, that would strike me as being their problem, not mine,” I said. “I must eat. And my diet is not merely a choice; it is dictated by my physiology, as is yours. You would become sick from raw meat; I can’t digest vegetable matter in any quantity. There is nothing either one of us can do about it.”
My voice had risen just slightly during this exchange. Not enough to be termed insubordinate; but enough that our discussion now had an audience. The mess hall was rather more full than usual; and almost everyone there was staring at us. And that number now included Joel Abrams, who had just entered; and paused on his way to the selection wall, no doubt wondering what was going on.
Commander Edgeworth continued, unpreturbed. “I wish it was that simple, Lieutenant. There are sixty-four other members of the crew besides you. Captain Antilles and I have to consider the feelings of each of them. You are the junior member of this crew—”
“Excuse me, Commander,” I interrupted her. “I am a lieutenant with thirteen years of Starfleet service. Are you saying that I’m junior to ensigns with less than six?”
“On this ship, you are the junior,” she said firmly. “All of the rest of this crew have served Zelazny for more than a year; you, only a month. And the unpleasant fact remains, you are spoiling the appreciation of mealtime for some members of this crew.”
“Who?  Who are they?” I demanded. “I would like some names, Commander.” Though I was fairly certain I knew already. In my mind I saw a vandalized office; I saw myself in this very mess hall, making thinly-veiled threats. I saw a figure duck quickly around a corner as I emerged from Joel Abrams’ quarters. And the same person, the same slimy individual, starred in each of those images. There was only one word for this: revenge. 
She waved her hands. “That isn’t important, nor is it your concern. As I said, this is not a pleasant duty for me. But in consideration of the other members of this crew, Captain Antilles and I would like you ask you, from now on, to take all of your meals in your own quarters. I believe you will find the food synthesizer equipment there as adequate as that here.”
Once again, as had happened so often lately, I was struck completely dumb. When I could finally speak again I said, “Commander Edgeworth, in my thirteen years in Starfleet I have taken meals in a large number of dining halls, among a large variety of other species. At no other time has anyone ever complained about my eating habits or my diet.”
“That’s as may be,” she said. “This is a different crew and a different situation. The captain and I do regret the necessity of this, Lieutenant. We hoped that our request would be sufficient, and that we would not be forced to make it an order.”
Desperately, I looked around, seeking support. And I found none. Close at hand, Lieutenant Harris was looking pleased, though he quickly glanced aside when I looked at him. Farther away, Commander Gaetano looked troubled and sad; but as he caught my eye upon him he composed himself into a carefully neutral expression. And even farther away than that, Ensign Osgood looked about to fall out of his seat, unsuccessfully hiding his laughter behind his hand. I was right, I thought savagely. It was him; him and his friends. He put them up to it. 
And Joel? My best friend from the Academy, more recently my lover, and most recently a total stranger, looked at me impassively, his gaze locking with mine for a moment; then he glanced at Edgeworth. I saw the iron-hard look she gave him; and I saw him recoil from it as from a physical blow. And then, very deliberately, he turned aside and continued toward the selection wall. And that was it; the end. I felt my heart sink. I was alone, utterly alone; and without allies, this was a losing battle.
I looked up at Commander Edgeworth, who was gazing at me expectantly. I said, “Very well, Commander. For the record, I consider your request to be highly improper, and I suspect that’s why you don’t want to make it an order. But if I refuse, I don’t imagine I’ll ever be able to eat here in peace again. Captain Antilles has already informed me that my tenure on this ship will be short. Out of respect for my crewmates’ digestion, in the time remaining, I will henceforth eat in my own quarters. Please excuse me.”
And with that I stood and left, taking my data pad but leaving my half-finished dinner behind me. Let someone else clean it up. If I wasn’t good enough to eat there, I’d be damned if I’d bus the tables.

CHAPTER EIGHT
I heard voices.
Now, I’m not usually in the habit of listening to other people’s conversations. Well, maybe just a little; but certainly not those of superior officers. But as I’ve said, people tend to underestimate the range of my hearing. Commander Gaetano’s office was right next to mine, the partition in between was none too thick, and there was a ventilation duct through which the voices came as clearly as if they’d been shouting in my ear. To this day I don’t know if the parties involved knew I was there, next door; perhaps they thought they were being quiet. I certainly can’t believe that they would have wanted me to hear what I heard.
Once again we were in transit; and once again it would be about six days to our next destination. That was quite all right with me, actually; I planned to spend those days quietly healing. Even five days after the incident that had caused it, my battered and bruised body was still not completely recovered. Maybe my mental state had something to do with that. In those few days I had once again boarded the emotional roller coaster. The low points had been very low indeed: Captain Antilles blaming the incident at the cliff on me; and the brutal humiliation of my very public banishment from the mess hall. The high points—saving Gaetano’s life, finally being permitted to give a survey report—had been nowhere near high enough to compensate. Especially considering the stony silence that had greeted my report.
That morning I was taking refuge in my office again, as I had been doing a lot lately; not that I had a lot of work to do. I’d woken up stiff, sore, depressed, disgusted, and half-ill; I’d had a good mind to put myself on sick call and stay in bed. In retrospect, I probably should have.
I heard the footsteps first, then the door open; and then the harsh voice of Commander Edgeworth. “A moment of your time please, Mr. Gaetano.”
“Certainly, Commander.”
Scraping sound of a chair being pulled back. Then Edgeworth went on, “Captain Antilles asked you to monitor the work being done by Lieutenant M’Ress.”
At that, of course, my ears really did prick up. Slowly, silently I lowered the data pad I’d been listlessly studying.
“And I have,” Gaetano said. “Very closely.”
“As you know, the captain considers it absolutely vital to get her off this ship as soon as possible. I don’t think I need to tell you why.”
“Indeed not.”
“Well?” she prompted impatiently.
“Well, the captain may find that harder to do than he expects.”
“Why?” she sounded startled.
“She’s doing her duty,” Gaetano said. “She’s at least as good an anthro-paleo officer as Morada ever was—probably better. Like it or not, Commander, she is qualified, and always was.”
“There must be something,” Edgeworth said desperately.
I could hear the shrug of his shoulders in his voice. “Not that I’ve been able to find. If you took her service record so far to Admiral Conroy, he’d recommend promotion, not removal. And it gets worse.”
“How?” she asked reluctantly.
“If the captain wants to file that complaint against her, he’ll have to do so at DS 2, correct? Well, it won’t be just Admiral Conroy who would be involved in reviewing that complaint. It would be that commodore, too, the Caitian one. M’Rael. And do you know who she is?”
“Besides a respected officer in the Engineering Corps?” Edgeworth said sarcastically.
“She sponsored Lieutenant M’Ress for the Academy,” Gaetano said. “She’s like a kind of godmother to her. She takes M’Ress’ welfare very seriously. The amount of evidence you’d need to prove to her satisfaction that M’Ress is incompetent would be astronomical. And she’d very likely resent the implication from the start. Believe me, the captain would be fighting an uphill battle.”
“You’re probably right,” Edgeworth said with a sigh. “Dammit! Why couldn’t she have been unqualified?”
“Just the captain’s bad luck, I guess,” Gaetano said, with more than a trace of sarcasm.
“Do you think we could...engineer something?”
“To make her look incompetent, you mean? I doubt it. She’s already overcome all the obstacles you’ve tried to throw in front of her. You realize, she graduated top of her class.”
“Well, do you have any suggestions?”
“Has the captain considered enlisting her help?”
There was a pause, then Commander Edgeworth said, in tones of outrage, “What?”
“Why not?” Gaetano said. “She’s a qualified archaeologist too. The captain’s goal would be any archaeologist’s dream. She wouldn’t have to know all the reasons. It would be a lot easier getting her to help than trying to work around her.”
“I do not think,” Commander Edgeworth said frostily, “the captain will greet your suggestion with a great deal of enthusiasm.”
“Probably not,” Gaetano said with a sigh. “Too bad.”
There was a deep note of suspicion in Edgeworth’s voice. “I must say I don’t like what I’m hearing, Mr. Gaetano,” she said. “It sounds suspiciously like divided loyalties. I wonder if something has perhaps...colored your thinking, let us say.”
“If you mean, can I divorce my analysis of her from the fact that she saved my life, the answer is no, I can’t,” Gaetano said. “In a similar situation, could you?”
“In a similar situation,” she said coldly, “some of us might have preferred falling off the cliff, rather than letting ourselves become beholden to her.”
“That’s your prerogative,” he said placidly. “Please forgive me if I don’t agree.”
“All right,” she said resignedly. “That’s over and done with, so it’s useless to argue about it. I would suggest, though, that you think long and hard on your situation here; and where your loyalties should lie. Keep observing her, Mr. Gaetano. If you find anything, anything at all, report it to the captain or myself immediately. Immediately, Commander.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Immediately.”
One may well imagine me, sitting in that microscopic office, my hands gripping a data pad hard enough to crush it, my tail going like a flag in a gale, hardly daring to breathe. I could not, absolutely could not, believe what I had just heard. I especially could not believe I’d heard it on board a Starfleet vessel, of all places, between two supposedly superior officers. And I really, really could not believe that I’d heard if from Gaetano. We’d had a bad beginning, true; but recently he’d begun to treat me quite decently, and I’d almost started to like him. He’d defended me before the captain, the day of the accident; and some of his words just now could be construed as being in my favor too; but his kindness was terribly shallow, and entirely self-serving. Or at least so it seemed.
I waited until I heard the door open and close again, and then a few minutes more. Then, as silently as I could (which is very) I left my office.
Where to turn? I wondered as I paced the hallways, almost in a daze. That I wasn’t liked too well on this ship I knew; but I had never suspected the depth of that dislike. It was clear too, now, that something was going on; some kind of conspiracy was flowing all around me. I had to do something, to tell someone; but who? Who could I trust, when both the captain and the first officer were obviously involved? 
Of all those sixty-four humans, there was only one. Once, years ago, I would have trusted him with my life; lately that trust had been shaken badly. But, fortunately or unfortunately, he was all I had. Quickly I turned my feet toward Engineering.
###
Joel was at the warp monitor panel when I arrived. There were a few others present, ensigns mostly, at the various panels or performing routine maintenance. Among them was Ensign Osgood. His eyes followed me with open, hostile suspicion as I crossed over to Joel.
He looked up at me in surprise, which turned to something like terror, as I approached. “Lieutenant M’Ress,” he stated apprehensively.
“Commander Abrams,” I said formally. “May I have a word with you please?”
He looked around at his staff; some of them, most especially Osgood, were staring at us like a convention of zombies. “Uh—okay,” he said. “In my office, Lieutenant.”
I followed him, aware of the eyes boring into the back of my head. Joel’s office, on the far side of the Engineering deck, was a small space filled to capacity with monitor panels. There was barely enough room for two chairs. We sat. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
I should have been warned by his tone, and by his refusal to use my name, even in private; but like an idiot, I forged ahead. “Joel,” I said, “I desperately need your advice. I’ve just heard something, well, alarming.”
“Go on,” he said.
I tried to; but I had gotten in only a few words before he raised his hand, stopping me. “Just one moment,” he said. “You were listening in on a private conversation between Commander Edgeworth and Mr. Gaetano?”
“I couldn’t help it,” I said. “You know that, Joel. You know what my hearing is like. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.”
“Nevertheless...”
“Nevertheless nothing, Joel. I heard something that I didn’t like. Evidence of conspiracy, I believe. Does it really matter how I heard it?”
“I suppose not,” he said. “All right, go on.”
Again I tried, and again he held up his hand. “Perhaps your hearing isn’t as good as you think, Lieutenant.”
“What?” I said in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you were obviously mistaken.”
“Nonsense. What I heard—”
He interrupted firmly. “Whatever you may think you heard, you were mistaken. I don’t believe I’ll need to report this to the captain or Commander Edgeworth; not this time; but I’d suggest that you avoid listening in on any more private conversations. Even if you have to leave the room. Is that clear, Lieutenant?”
“I don’t—”
“Is that clear?” he repeated.
Slowly I rose, my tail rigid with anger behind me. Obviously I’d been mistaken; there was no one, absolutely no one, that I could trust on this ship. “Yes, Commander,” I said stiffly. “Very clear. Very clear indeed.”
“Then you’re dismissed.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I turned to go; but at the door I paused and turned back. “There’s just one more thing I’d like to point out if I may, Commander.”
“Which is?” he asked reluctantly.
“That you’ve turned into a real jerk, sir,” I said. And then I left.
###
I was losing weight.
With all the troubles swirling around me, I might not have noticed that fact, but for two clues. The one was my uniforms. When I’d come on board they had fit perfectly, as they had for quite a long time. Now, even though the computer was producing the same size I’d work for years, they were getting looser, almost sloppy. I’d had to order the computer to take them in twice already. 
The other was an odd bit of technology, one which I had never before encountered on any starship. In the bathroom of my quarters there was an area of the floor, about a third of a meter square, outlined in red. Because my quarters had not come with an instruction manual, I’d had no idea what the red square represented, until one day when I got curious enough to ask the computer. It turned out that the square was a kind of scale: if you stood there, the computer could speak your weight down to the nearest milligram. And more: it could also give your heart rate, blood pressure, respiration and body temperature. I was surprised it didn’t tell your fortune too.
But anyway, what that little patch of floor was telling me was quite disturbing: so far, since coming aboard, I had lost something like eight kilograms. I knew that figure to be correct because Christine Chapel had weighed me during that pre-transfer physical.
But why? I certainly hadn’t been trying to lose weight; for Caitians, generally speaking, that’s rarely necessary. Was it possible that something was wrong with my diet? I’d been subsisting almost exclusively on my re-created maxigrazer meat, because the reminder of home had been comforting; ringing the changes with different sauces and spices. Had I screwed up the programming somehow, neglecting nutrition in my quest to get the texture right? Hurriedly I threw on my uniform and sat down at my work table for a talk with the computer.
It took only a few minutes of work for me to realize that my menu was not at fault. Nor was the fact that I was now taking all my meals in my quarters or in my office. The nutritional values were all there in the food I’d been ordering: the calories, the vitamins and the minerals needed to built healthy Caitians ten ways. The problem was that I simply wasn’t consuming enough of them. There was a big discrepancy between what the synthesizer delivered and what actually made it to my stomach. A discrepancy explained by the amount that got shoveled down the disposal chute uneaten. That, and the number of meals that I’d simply skipped. I had thought it only an occasional thing, that I failed to finish a meal, or failed to order one at all; I was appalled to find that both those things were becoming more and more frequent. A lot of the time these days, it seemed, I simply didn’t feel hungry. 
It was all there on the  screen; as with every crewmember on every Starfleet ship, the computer kept close track of my nutrition. The difference was, on Enterprise the computer would have alerted Dr. Chapel by now, and she would have come to call, demanding to know why I wasn’t eating; or would have already hauled my tail into sickbay for a checkup. Here, if the computer had alerted Dr. Enyeart, it seemed he had better things to do.
There are a number of medical conditions that can cause a Caitian to experience anorexia; some of them quite dire. But I didn’t think it necessary to have myself checked for a parasitic liver infection or a pre-cancerous intestinal tumor. No; the simplest explanation seemed the most likely: stress. Too much of the time these days, my stomach was in a hard, tight knot; no wonder I couldn’t force food into it. The same thing had happened to me, briefly, during my first year at the Academy; I’d dropped five kilos before I’d learned how to deal with it.
But that kind of weight loss wasn’t good by any means. Before arriving on this ship I hadn’t exactly been overweight; in fact I’d been a touch under the (very arbitrary) “ideal” weight for a Caitian of my age, sex and height. That being true, an eight-kilo weight loss wasn’t healthy at all. Nor would it be good to let it go on.
But, what to do? The best thing, of course, would be to reduce my stress level. Unfortunately, that didn’t seem likely to happen any time soon; almost a year from now, or when Captain Antilles got me off the ship; whichever came first. I could be deep into malnutrition by then. Second best would be to simply force myself to eat, knot in my stomach or no. Now that I was aware, maybe I could. Third best...
I found the program in the food synthesizer database; and it took little modification for my dietary requirements. Meant primarily for people who were for some reason—dental work, for example—temporarily off solid food, I suppose you’d term it kind of a “milkshake.” It did indeed have a dairy base, which I could digest easily. Various additives would boost the calorie, protein, vitamin, mineral and fiber content. I wouldn’t recommend it as a steady diet, of course; but if sometimes I couldn’t force myself to eat, maybe I could force myself to drink.
###
Somebody wanted to talk to me.
When I finally arrived at my office, somewhat later that morning, I was surprised to find that the “message waiting” light on my terminal was flashing. Whoever it was, why hadn’t he (or she) used the intercom to contact me directly? I was always available. Goddess, was I available! With some reluctance I pressed the “play” key.
 The message was voice-only; the voice was male, low, apologetic, hesitant, and unfortunately familiar. “M’Ress, this is Joel,” he said. “About that incident in my office yesterday. I want to apologize to you. You caught me at a bad time, but that wasn’t your fault, and I had no cause to be so brusque with you. I’m really very sorry. I think we should talk. Would you meet me at my office later? Let me know.”
I sighed. This situation had a bit of an endless-loop quality to it, like the ancient type of audio recordings that used to get stuck and play one groove over and over. One day people were nasty to me; the next day they apologized. Well, some of them did anyway. And the apologies were never worth the spit behind them. Tell me, why should I have believed this one?
One of the more hair-raising theories in physics (or maybe I should say metaphysics) holds that every time someone makes a choice or decision, a new quantum universe splits off, in which the decision or choice is made the other way. Frankly I’ve never been sure whether I believe that or not. Consider the number of sentient beings this universe has harbored since it began; and consider the number of choices that you, just a single person, make in even one day. The word “infinite” doesn’t even begin to describe the number of universes that must have split off. But if you accept this theory, then somewhere there is a universe in which some other M’Ress decided to go see Joel later that day. I sometimes wonder if she heard anything useful, or even acceptable. In light of later events, probably not.
I said, “Computer, record reply.”
“Ready.”
“Reply: ‘Get lost, Commander.’ End of message.”
###
A few minutes later, while I was still engaged in fighting back the ugly pangs of regret, my doorbell chimed. It was far too soon to be Joel responding to my response; so it was with only a moderate degree of hesitation that I said, “Come!”
It was Gaetano, and he was smiling. At one time—quite recently, in fact—I would have welcomed the sight of that smile. Now it seemed terribly phony, insincere. Or was that just my imagination? I couldn’t get that conversation I’d overheard out of my mind...
“What can I do for you, Commander?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing, really,” he said. He stepped forward, letting the door close, and perched himself on the edge of my desk. “I haven’t seen much of you since we went to warp. I was wondering how you’re feeling.”
“Oh, better, I suppose,” I said. “Still a little sore. But I’m healing. How about you?”
He grinned and rubbed the back of his neck. “The same,” he said. “Better than I could have been, I suppose. Oh—and I also wanted to thank you for ‘repairing’ my communicator.”
I smiled. Despite my anger, that night when I’d been banished from the mess hall, I had gone ahead and done the job anyway. Probably it was therapeutic, forcing me to concentrate on something other than my desire to strangle Commander Edgeworth and Ensign Osgood. It wasn’t a long or difficult job, really; mainly just a matter of opening the back and tweaking a few settings. It is a tight space though, and the set-screws very tiny; the hardest part had been finding the correct tools. I’d finally stolen (sorry, borrowed) them from a maintenance locker near my quarters. I’d had the communicator back to Gaetano, as promised, the next day.
“You’re welcome. It’s working to your satisfaction, I hope?”
“It’s working,” he said. “The rest remains to be seen.” 
Abruptly, then, he sobered, and put away his grin. He cleared his throat. “Listen, M’Ress, I just want you to know...I was there, the other night in the mess hall when Commander Edgeworth made her pronouncement. I just want to say that I agree with you: it was a completely improper request to make of anyone, let alone an officer of your standing. I’d been in the Mess Hall quite a number of times while you were eating, as you’ve probably noticed; and I want you to know that I was never offended, nauseated or put off my feed because of you. You were quite right: all of us have different eating habits, and there’s little or nothing we can do about it. I sometimes think this crew is far too insular.”
Suddenly there was a lump in my throat, and I had to fight to speak around it. “I appreciate that, Mr. Gaetano,” I said. “I really do.”
“If you’d like,” he went on, “I’ll speak to Commander Edgeworth. Tell her the same thing.”
The tone in his voice was strange; let me see if I can explain it. Have you ever had someone offer you something, or ask you something, in a tone of voice that practically demanded that you say no? It was like that. He made the offer to be polite, and if I really insisted, he’d follow through; but he would really, really rather that I didn’t insist.
And so, of course, I didn’t. Maybe I should have; just to see what would have happened. But instead I shook my head. “No, thank you, Commander,” I said. “I really don’t think it would do much good. I’ve come to the conclusion that once the captain’s made a decision...”
He nodded; his expression was one of relief. “You’re just about right,” he confirmed. “Once he’s made a decision, that’s final. I am sorry, though.”
“Thank you.”
“For what it’s worth, you’re welcome. Now,” he went on more briskly, “we’ve been so busy these last few days, I haven’t had a chance to ask you: is there anything I can help you with? Any questions or concerns I can answer?”
I almost did it; I almost asked him about that conversation I’d overheard. I almost asked him what was going on around me; why it was so vitally important that I be put off this ship; what it was the captain was working on, that I couldn’t share in or even know about. I almost did.
But finally, mentally, I sighed. What’s the use? I asked myself. It would only cause trouble. He’d be upset, and quite probably angry, that he’d been overheard; and unlike Joel, he might report it to Edgeworth. And I’d learn nothing; he would lie to me, as he had on that other occasion; and then, also like that other time, he would probably disappear into his office for a week or so, leaving me utterly alone. No; whatever was happening, I’d have to decipher it the hard way. His friendliness might be phony and self-serving; but it was better than none at all.
And so, once again, I shook my head. “No, thank you, Commander. So far I think I’m doing all right.” Goddess, what a liar!
“Glad to hear it,” he said. He paused. “In that case, I wonder if you would be willing to help me.”
“Of course,”  I said, surprised. “What with?”
“Some of the mineral samples from that last planet,” he said. “I’ve, uh, gotten a little backed up cataloging them. And since you’re the only other person on this ship who knows a damn thing about geology...”
Almost eagerly I pushed back my chair and stood. “After you, Commander,” I said.
###
Commander Delaney stretched out her arms and lifted her face to the sunlight. “Now this,” she commented, “is more like it.”
Feeling the warmth of the sun, and the gentle breeze stirring my fur, I was inclined to agree with her. I took a deep, flower-scented breath and let it out slowly, feeling at least a small portion of my tension drain away. Yes, this was much more like it indeed.
The star was cataloged at VSA 11378; a steady, friendly yellow-orange sun. The planet was the third of nine, and in many ways might as well have been Terra. Two-thirds water; four large continents and a scattering of smaller subcontinents and islands; a climate a touch warmer than Earth’s; small ice caps; large and generous temperate zones. And life. An explosion of life, such as sent Zelazny’s biosensors off the scale when we entered orbit. Tropical rainforest, temperate coniferous forest, grasslands, tundra, savanna...you name it, this world had it. And a diverse range of animal life to go along with it.
“I don’t need to tell you,” Commander Delaney had said at the briefing (she was in charge of this survey; her turn), “that this is a prime colonization prospect. One of the most promising we’ve located so far, in fact. It is vitally important for us to locate any sign of intelligent or pre-intelligent life.” She looked at me. “This is course is primarily Lieutenant M’Ress’ duty; but it will be up to all of us to assist her, as we go about our own investigations. Let’s do it.”
And brother, did they assist! It’s amazing, I suppose: enter orbit around a barren ice-cube of a world, and people practically have to be hurled bodily into the transporter, to get them on a survey team. But you find a warm, friendly planet, and they’re tripping over each other to beam down. Well, maybe it’s not quite so amazing, after all.
Take that day for example, the fourth since our arrival. We were investigating a temperate savanna, a place of high, waving grassy, large gnarled trees, and gentle rolling hills. It reminded me almost heartbreakingly of Cait; or failing that, of the foothills of northern California in the summer. The trees were actually a lot more like Valley Oaks than tatak; massive ash-grey trunks, scaly bark, immense canopies of twisted branches, small dark-green leaves. Weirdly, though, the branches of most of the trees were intertwined with thick, almost snake-like vines, which were incredibly tough and fibrous. Commander Delaney had phasered down a few samples, and had proclaimed them a kind of “air plant,” getting moisture from the atmosphere and doing the trees no real harm, not unlike the Terran “Spanish moss.” They gave a definitely temperate scene an oddly tropical look.
Anyway, that day the entire science team was down, wandering around the area with vaguely beatific looks on their faces and tricorders hanging loose in their hands. Even Commander Nakamara was there, though his specialty was above the atmosphere. Taking a brief respite from fossil-hunting, I had joined Commander Delaney behind one of the massive trees. Sitting in its shade, she was using a powerful spotting scope to keep tabs on a herd of grazing animals about a kilometer distant; all the while muttering quiet notes into her tricorder.
The animals were apparently mammals; small, dark-colored, spindly legs and long necks, topped by small, triangular heads, no horns or antlers. They were (so Delaney said) about the size of the Terran/African Thompson’s Gazelle. Judging by their legs, they were obviously built for speed. The herd consisted of perhaps a thousand individuals, most of them grazing on the long grass; but every once in a while one or two of them would rise and stand unsteadily on their hind legs to browse at the small leaves of the scattered oak-like trees. 
We hadn’t discovered yet what their predators were; but whatever it was, it would probably be small and swift too, like the Terran cheetah. Commander Delaney had started to speculate on this, enthusiastically; then she’d glanced over to see me staring at her, and she’d shut up, much to my amusement. Was she worried about offending me? If so, that was a first for any member of that crew.
As for me...well, it’s probably a reflection on my savage heritage that I was wondering, just a little, what the small grazers would taste like. Probably the surroundings were stirring deep instincts, which even thousands of years of civilization can’t entirely erase. I wish I’d known, then, how soon it would be that I’d be very glad those instincts were still intact.
As I lounged there at ease beside Delaney, it came to me that I actually felt fairly good, for once. My bruises and strains had healed, or at least well enough; the planet was pleasant, and my time was at least being put to semi-good use, uncovering fossils. Although, like Morada, I still hadn’t gotten my name into the history books for uncovering an unknown civilization. This planet, it seemed, was as devoid of intelligent life as all the others Zelazny had touched. As I said before, though, that’s not uncommon. Planets with life are many; planets with intelligent life few. If we went through this entire sector without finding one, that would not be unprecedented. It would make the Federation office of Expansion and Colonization very happy, though.
Shall I be brutally honest? Despite the fact that I am fiercely loyal to the Federation and its ideals, I do sometimes have moral difficulties with projects like this one; with the fact that the Federation would regard this planet as free real estate. True, the planet had no intelligent owners; but still, it had its own, unique ecosystem. To see it overrun with humans (or even Caitians), importing their own plants, animals and pests; the see the native biodiversity drastically reduced, or relegated to a few scattered, sickly reservations, islands under siege...would be more than a little sad.
Unfortunately, there was little that I or anyone else could do to halt or even slow down the march of  Federation expansionism. I was a good soldier; I followed orders, I did my duty. Didn’t make it any easier to stomach, though.
But that particular day, such thoughts were fairly far from my mind. What was uppermost was that Commander Delaney was not only tolerating my presence, but actually seemed to welcome it; she’d smiled at me, quite warmly, as I’d wandered up. She’d seemed quite interested as I’d described, in a whisper, the similarity of this place to the veldt of S’Salan on Cait. At least so far as the science staff was concerned, I did seem to be making some progress.
I had been resting there for perhaps fifteen minutes when my communicator suddenly beeped. “Gaetano to M’Ress.”
With a sigh I reached for the small instrument. Duty calls. “M’Ress here. What’s up, Commander?”
“I think I’ve found something you might be interested in,” he said. 
“On my way,” I told him dutifully. I hauled myself to my feet. “Where are you?”
“Relative to you, that’s hard to say,” he said, and I heard the grin in his voice. “I’ll keep transmitting a carrier wave. You can home in on it.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. I glanced over at Delaney. “Happy hunting,” I told her. And then I was gone. I could have used my communicator to find Gaetano, by turning in a slow circle while keeping an eye on the signal-strength meter; but it was much easier to tune my tricorder to his communicator’s frequency and let it give me a vector. This I did, and I set off to the west.
He was about a kilometer or so from where I’d left Delaney. Directly in my path, a low grassy hill was bisected by a gully, perhaps four meters deep and five across, probably cut by many flash floods over many years, if this planet had a rainy season anything like Cait’s. The gully ended in a wide, gravelly alluvial fan, which consisted mainly of flakes and chips of scaly, dark rock. That caught my eye immediately, and I bent down to examine a few chips. As I’d thought, it was shale, or something very like it. The signal on my tricorder led directly up the wash into the gully, and I followed it. As the walls rose around me I saw that the rock they were made of was indeed shale, in chocolate-brown layers as thick as my thumb. The beds seemed to dip to the west. If this was what Gaetano had meant, he was indeed correct: I was very interested. This was prime fossil territory. I picked my way carefully over sharp, shifting stones; ringing echoes of my passage bounced back from the walls.
I found Gaetano a hundred meters or so in, where the gully took a sharp bend to the north. He had climbed two meters or so up the wall of the gully, and was perched there, one hand bracing himself on a knob of rock, the other holding his tricorder, doing a slow scan. I was nowhere as quiet as usual, not on loose rock; and as I approached he glanced down at me, grinning. “Ah, there you are, Lieutenant.” More nimbly than I’d have given him credit for, he scrambled down. He pulled his communicator from his belt, opened it, and switched off the carrier wave. He took a couple steps toward me and waved his hand toward the shale wall. “I thought you might like to take a look at this,” he said.
“Something good, sir?” I said.
His grin widened. “Well, it’s hardly the Burgess Shale, but not bad. I didn’t want to mess with it until you got here, but there seems to be a very rich strata of fossils.”
“Fair enough,” I said. I shouldered my tricorder, eyed the sharply-angled wall, and clambered up. My claws, finger and toe, were a definite necessity.
About two meters up I wedged my toe-claws into a crack, the claws of my left hand in another, and reached for my tricorder.
A long time ago I’d learned, and recently had re-taught myself, the knack of tuning a tricorder so that fossils in a matrix of rock show themselves by their slightly higher density. With a fine touch you can tune the ‘corder so that the fossils show up on the screen as clearly as in a photograph.
That’s the theory, anyway. Only in this case it didn’t appear to be working; the screen showed only a jumbled mass of indecipherable patterns. I growled softly, deep in my throat, wondering if my tricorder had gotten out of calibration somehow; it would be a pain to climb down and re-tune it. But then I realized, with a shock, that there was nothing wrong with the ‘corder. In fact the shale in front of me was jam-packed with fossils, such that their patterns overlapped and interfered with each other. Not the Burgess Shale, Commander Gaetano had said; but if not, it was damn close.
He called up to me. “Any good, Lieutenant?”
“Very good, Commander!” I shouted back down. “I think you’ve made a major find here!”
“All in a day’s work,” he said. “I’m going to follow the seam up the gully a ways. Call if you need me.”
“Yes, sir,” I said absently. I barely heard his shuffling, sliding footsteps recede into the distance, so rapt was I.
It turned out that my initial assessment had been a little off. In fact the entire shale face was not full of fossils; in fact most of the layers were almost devoid. The concentration was in one single layer, one almost a hand’s-width thick, and much lighter in color than the others, almost cream. Clearly it represented something; but what? A mass extinction, perhaps? A volcanic episode? The light shale could once have been a thick layer of volcanic ash...It would take further tests, in conjunction with Commander Gaetano, to know for certain; even to know how old this layer was. In the meantime...
A proper excavation of the site would have taken considerable time, and would have begun by digging down from the surface. I didn’t have the time or the tools. But the fossiliferous layer was more resilient to erosion than those above and below it, for some reason, and therefore some of it protruded out from the wall like a cantilevered shelf.
Over the next half-hour or so, working mainly one-handed, I was able to carefully knock out a number of sizeable chunks, each one packed full of fossils. Occasionally I even dared to let go with both hands, trusting to my toe-claws, and to a sense of balance more finely tuned than a human’s. And a counter-balancing tail to keep it that way.
The forms I found were mainly animal, clearly inhabitants of a shallow sea that had once covered this plain. Classification was of course impossible; but a few were almost familiar: long, sinuous shapes like segmented worms; and a small, oval, joined creature that reminded me of the Terran trilobite. Like the trilobite, there seemed to have been an awful lot of them.
As I went about my work I was dimly aware of two sounds. One was easy enough to identify: an intermittent sharp tapping which was Gaetano’s rock hammer, some twenty meters or so up the gully. The other was harder: it was a high-pitched squeak or creak, which seemed to be coming from almost directly above me. At first it was subliminal; but slowly it grew in volume, until was actually distracting. Finally, annoyed, I looked up.
While I’d been intent on my fossils, the wind had risen, going from a gentle breeze to what Lieutenant Kerenski would probably have termed a “fresh” wind. It was blowing almost directly down the gully as through a wind tunnel, raising little clouds and funnels of dust. Very soon, if this was anything like the afternoon winds of S’Salan, it would be far too unpleasant to keep working. But that didn’t explain the noise. Not entirely.
What did, what filled in the missing piece, was the tree. Almost directly above me, perched on the edge of the gully, was one of those oak-like trees, quite dead. Its branches were bare, ash-grey, and broken off at the tips into tortured, jagged shapes. Oddly enough, the dead branches were festooned with a tight wrapping of that snake-like vine; and that was still very much alive, bright green. It may have been the gully itself that had killed the tree; many large roots protruded through cracks in the shale to droop, lifeless, in mid-air. Their undercutting and exposure may have done in the tree; no way to know for certain. At any rate, however, the tree was definitely the cause of the sound; the wind was making several large branches rub together. Annoying, especially to someone with ears as sensitive to high frequencies as mine; but apparently harmless. I went back to work.
I think I heard the loud crack first, followed by the shout of warning; logically, of course, that’s how it must have been. Yes: a loud, splintering snap; and then: “M’Ress! Look out!”
I looked up sharply. A large limb had broken off the tree, near the trunk; but instead of falling straight down, the tangling vines were causing it to arc toward me like a perfect golf swing. I saw the jagged end of the branch sweeping toward my face...
I tried to duck; but perched as I was, I was only partially successful. The jagged end caught me a glancing blow on the left side of my head; I felt a sudden tearing sensation and a paralyzing jolt of pain. The force of it was enough to knock me loose, and I toppled over backwards, my rock hammer, sample bag and tricorder going in three different directions. At the far end of the swing the branch tore free of the vines, turned a complete somersault, and fell heavily into the gully.
As for me...well, it wasn’t a long fall, fortunately, and somehow I managed to curl myself into a tight ball, and therefore to roll with it. I bounced down the wall and onto the floor of the gully, landing on my back, a bit battered and shaken, but otherwise unhurt.
Or so it seemed. When the stars cleared, and I was able to get a breath, I became aware that there was an odd, and rapidly spreading, dampness on the left side of my head. Shakily I lifted my hand...
My fingers shied away from what they found there, and also from the stab of pain their touch brought. When my hand came in range of my eyes again, I saw that there was blood on it. A lot of blood. In fact I seemed to be bleeding like the proverbial stuck pig, all down the side of my head and onto my shoulder.
About that time I heard a slipping, sliding sound as of rapid footsteps, and Commander Gaetano dropped to his knees beside me. “Lieutenant!” he panted. “Are you all right?”
“No,” I said unsteadily. “No, Commander, I don’t think I am.”
“Let me see,” he said. Then he saw, and I watched the color drain from his face. “Oh my God,” he uttered. He grabbed for his communicator. “Gaetano to Zelazny. Medical emergency. Two to beam up.”
In those few seconds before the transporter took us, I found his hand and clutched it hard. The shock was wearing off, and it was beginning to hurt. A lot.
###
My left ear was not completely severed, but very nearly.
Dr. Enyeart had propped up the back of one of his exam tables to about a 45° angle, and there I saw, rigid, my hands gripping the sides of the table, hard. The small, black, parabolic reflector poised above my head, at the end of a jointed arm, was a sterile-field projector; it served as well to temporarily staunch the bleeding. It also deadened some of the pain-receptors, but only some. Every time he touched what was left of my ear, cleaning away dried blood or clipping away matted fur, I had to bite back a yowl; and my claws poked eight small holes in the padding at the table’s edge. There was no way I was letting him put me under, though; the Goddess only knows what he might have done then.
“Can you save it, Doctor?” I asked. My voice sounded thick and lisping; I was finding it more and more difficult to concentrate, which made me lose the clear enunciation of Terran words and slip back into my native vocal habits. 
“I think so,” he said, a little reluctantly I thought. The tone of his voice gave me the creepy, panicky feeling that he considered amputation to be the much easier and more reasonable course of action. That made me more determined than ever to avoid general anesthesia, no matter how much pain I’d have to endure. He went on, “There’s a good centimeter of tissue left, and the wound isn’t too ragged. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
I’d bled—Goddess, how I’d bled—all the way from the transporter room to sickbay, leaning heavily on Gaetano’s supporting arm. The actual quantity probably hadn’t been large; but it felt like liters at least. It had soaked my mane on the left side of my head, and would have ruined my tunic and undershirt, if they hadn’t already been torn full of holes by the rocks. I’d bled, in fact, until Gaetano lifted me bodily up onto the exam table, and Dr. Enyeart got the sterile-field projector in place.
It shouldn’t have been that way, I might add; and when I felt stronger I would doubtless be very angry. My memory of the accident was a little fuzzy, but I clearly remembered hearing Gaetano say “medical emergency” when he’d called for beam-up. By regulations, Enyeart and Burke should both have been waiting in the transporter room with a medkit and a gurney. I shouldn’t have had to walk. We’d found them both in sickbay, surprised to see us, not even really getting ready. And for all they knew, I might have been dying. It’s not really correct to say that on Enterprise heads would have rolled; on Enterprise such a thing would never have happened at all. Commander Gaetano knew this too; his expression was ugly as he allowed Burke to eject him from sickbay.
The device that Enyeart lifted from the instrument tray, which looked like an old-fashioned flashlight, was a minor medical miracle called an “anabolic protoplaser.” I never studied medicine, so my grasp of the theory is shaky; suffice to say that the instrument healed wounds by causing rapidly accelerated cell regeneration. It certainly beat the old needle-and-thread method; and it seldom left much of a scar.
Before he began, though, Enyeart paused and gazed at me severely. “This is going to be a bit delicate,” he said. “If you’d like to end up with the smallest possible scar, I’d strongly suggest holding still.”
Given the pain I was in, I might have said something horribly sarcastic just then. But...well, he was technically a full commander; he held the fate of my ear literally in the palm of his hand; and besides that, I was getting a little too woozy for snappy repartee. Hard to say whether that was blood loss or concussion. I said, simply, “Yes, Doctor.”
Once he’d actually started—did he have to get up the nerve, I wondered—the job took only about ten minutes. Under the sterile field it only tingled, instead of stung; I held on hard, and I managed to keep my head perfectly still.
When he was finished—when I had two ears again—he wrapped the restored one in a sterile dressing, and turned off the projector. He smiled thinly, a rather horrible sight. “That’s it, Lieutenant,” he said. “It’s going to be rather sore to the touch for a while, and there will very likely be some temporary swelling too. That should pass in a few days.”
“What about the scar?” I asked fearfully. 
“Minimal,” he promised. “If any. I hope you know how fortunate you were, Lieutenant.”
I shuddered and nodded my agreement silently. He was right; a few centimeters lower...
“All right,” he said briskly. “Where else are you injured?”
He had just finished checking me over—discovering yet another collection of nasty bruises—when Commander Edgeworth entered. Oh great, I thought. Just what I need. If there’s anything worse than another reprimand from the captain...
She was scowling, of course; I’d rarely seen her otherwise. She fixed Enyeart with her stare, all but ignoring me. “How is she, Doctor?” she asked between clenched teeth.
“Lieutenant M’Ress has had a bad fall,” Dr. Enyeart said, as if dictating his medical log. “She had a partially severed ear, which I have repaired. She also has a mild concussion, multiple bruises, and a twisted neck.”
“Is she fit to resume her duties?” Enyeart asked.
“No, Commander,” Enyeart said firmly. “Because of the blood loss, and especially because of the concussion, I am prescribing bed rest. I would say two to three days.”
Even if I’d been in the mood to argue (I wasn’t) it would have been pointless; it’s easier to contest scripture than a Chief Surgeon’s orders. That would be it, though, for me and VSA 11378/3. Even that wonderful shale. In two to three days we would most likely be gone. Hopefully Gaetano would rescue my samples. Maybe I could talk him into collecting a few more as well...
Commander Edgeworth finally turned her scowl on me. “You have a definite knack for causing trouble, Lieutenant.”
With the emergency over I found myself growing terribly tired. Probably it was mainly the blood loss. If I’d been feeling better I might have considered my next words a little more carefully; but I’d probably have still said them anyway. I’d had quite enough of accusations to last me for a very long time. “I was doing my duty, Commander,” I said softly. “I am not responsible for the behavior of dead trees.”
Her jaw dropped and she sucked in a deep breath, apparently deeply shocked that I’d even dare to talk back. I went on, “I believe I have enough data to compile my report on this planet. My report will be turned in on time, Commander. You have my word on that.”
Her mouth opened and closed a few times, as her face darkened. Finally she said, rather lamely, “See that it is, Lieutenant.” And she departed.
I closed my eyes and leaned back, feeling a tiny smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. To see Commander Edgeworth at a loss for words...that was almost worth all the pain.
###
Despite Dr. Enyeart’s grousing—or maybe because of it—I had no intention of spending three nights, or indeed even one, in his sickbay.
They called Gaetano to help me; it turned out that he hadn’t gone much farther than the corridor. Leaning on his arm again, held up by him actually, I made my way slowly to my quarters.
Gaetano hung around, his expression one of concern, while I stripped off my ruined uniform, cleaned as much of the dirt and dried blood off my fur as I could, put on my nightshirt, and basically collapsed into my bunk. He made sure I had water within reach beside my bed; and he helped me link a data pad to my computer terminal.
“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” he asked, when all this was done. “That was a hell of a tumble you took.”
“Quite sure, thank you sir,” I said. “I think I just need some rest.”
“All right,” he said dubiously. “Call me if you need anything.”
He turned to go; but I reached out quickly and caught him by the hand. “Commander,” I said, “I...just wanted to say thank you. You saved my life. If you hadn’t shouted...”
He smiled and gripped my hand gently. “That makes us even,” he said. “Get some sleep now, Lieutenant. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. That was one order I was only too glad to obey.
###
In the end I spent three full days in my quarters, recuperating. I didn’t spend that entire time in bed, not exactly; but I did spent it quietly resting.
As Dr. Enyeart had predicted, my repaired ear did indeed swell ominously; the day after the accident it resembled a triangular furry balloon. It was also very, very sore to the touch. That, and my twisted neck, made it very uncomfortable to lie down; my collection of bruises made any other posture painful too. During those three days I held myself together with painkillers. Not opiates, though, but powerful analgesics, like the ancient Terran aspirin, which posed no danger of addiction. At best they took the edge off the pain. I would recover, though; there was no doubt about that. It was just a matter of time.
On the afternoon of the second day I felt well enough to get some work done. Sitting up in bed with the data pad in my lap, I began to work my survey data into a passable report. As I’d hoped, Commander Gaetano had indeed rescued my sample bag, as well as my tricorder and rock hammer, and he delivered them to me personally. I spent hours simply gazing at those small chunks of shale, trying to imagine the ancient sea that had spawned these creatures. How many million years ago? I might never know.
I was not left entirely alone during recuperation. Oh, I was not bothered by Captain Antilles or Commander Edgeworth; nothing that unpleasant. But I did have several other, more agreeable visitors. Mostly it was the science staff. Commander Gaetano visited several times, and not just to check on the progress of my survey report. Commander Delaney visited twice, and even Commander Nakamara and Lieutenant Kerenski made an appearance. They all brought news, as well as checking on my health, sharing with me their survey notes and their anecdotes. I don’t think I’ve ever been so grateful for anything in my life, as the attention they paid me. Whether Gaetano put them up to it, or they did it of their own volition, I don’t know; and I don’t really care. The visit that would have meant the most to me, though, failed to occur. My fault, I suppose. Telling someone to “get lost” can sometimes have that effect...
Of all the visitors I did receive, however, perhaps the most welcome, and certainly the most unexpected was Ensign Brian Matthews. He stood in the hallway, peering in uncertainly, for long seconds after I’d called the door open. “Do I have to get out of bed and drag you in bodily, Ensign?” I asked testily. “Get in here!”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and he did. He stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed, his hands behind his back, as I put aside my data pad and sat up a little straighter. 
“I haven’t been seeing much of you lately,” I said. “Where’ve you been hiding?”
“Uh—nowhere in particular,” he said. His gaze kept stealing involuntarily up to my left ear, which was still quite a sight. Hopefully the swelling would go down soon. “I—uh—guess we’ve just been missing each other. What with the captain changing me to the later shift, and you being out of the Mess Hall...”
I grinned. “You’re far too polite, Ensign,” I said. “What you really mean is that you’ve been avoiding me.”
He looked away. “No, of course not, Lieutenant,” he said unconvincingly.
“That’s all right,” I said. “Actually I don’t really blame you. For whatever reason, I seem to be bad news on this ship. The smart people do avoid me. The last time I was associated with you, you ended up on report.”
He waved his hand. “I told you before, that doesn’t matter. But unfortunately you’re right. I guess I have been avoiding you. I’m sorry about that. Not...not enough courage, I guess.”
“I doubt whether that has much to do with it,” I said. “And I still don’t blame you. So what brings you here today, Ensign?”
“Nothing earth-shattering, I suppose,” he said. “I was just worried about you. They say you had quite a fall.”
I shrugged, which hurt. “About two meters,” I said. “Stories grow in the telling. I’ll be fine. Eventually.”
“That’s good,” he said. “Very good.” He smiled slightly. “They say you’ve been doing a good job in anthro-paleo. Maybe too good.”
I looked up sharply. “What do you mean by that?” I demanded.
He took a step backwards, looking shocked. “The, the captain and Commander Edgeworth,” he stammered. “I’ve heard that they’d rather you weren’t such a good officer. It’s no secret that the captain wants you off his ship.”
I sighed. “I know,” I said. “Everyone else knows too. The only thing I don’t know is why.”
I fixed him with my gaze, but he just shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I’d help you if I could. But I don’t know either. Captain Antilles doesn’t open his mind to ensigns.”
Once again I sighed. He was telling the truth, I could tell; there was no sign of deception in his face or his voice. Life really is terribly unfair, I thought helplessly. The one person who truly would be willing to help me, and he knows nothing. 
“I’m sure it’ll get better, though,” he went on. “I’ve heard Commander Gaetano say that the science staff is really impressed with your work. The captain and Commander Edgeworth will have to come around eventually.”
Says who? I wondered; but it would be pointless to say so. I smiled. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Brian. I really do. And I appreciate the visit too.”
He smiled broadly. “You’re welcome,” he said. “To tell the truth I’ve felt a little...responsible, I guess. Ever since that day on the bridge. If I really have been avoiding you, Lieutenant, that’s why. That day...I only got put on report because of it. The trouble you got was a lot worse.”
“Osgood?” I guessed.
“Osgood,” he agreed. “I really wish it had occurred to me to warn you about him. He’ll get his eventually, but who knows when?”
“Who knows?” I muttered in agreement.
Matthews stepped forward and reached out to clasp my hand carefully. “I’ll let you get some rest now, Lieutenant. May I—may I stop by again later?”
I nodded. “Please do,” I said. “You’re welcome here any time.”
He was gone then, and I closed my eyes and let my head and shoulders slip down a litter farther on the pillow. Somehow—maybe only temporarily—the pain seemed just a little less severe.
###
On the fourth day I rose, ignoring the lingering aches and pains all over my body, showered, dressed in a fresh uniform, and made my way unaided to the briefing room.
They were all surprised to see me, I know; and in the case of the captain and Commander Edgeworth, there was more than a little displeasure mixed in with that surprise. I saw Commander Gaetano smile at me, as he moved over one seat and invited me to sit beside him; and I saw the icy look that Edgeworth shot him, which turned off his smile like a light switch.
I sat still, despite my increasing discomfort, as we heard from Nakamara, Kerenski, Delaney and Gaetano. Finally the captain’s eyes rested on me. “You have a report, Lieutenant M’Ress?” he said distastefully.
I rose to my feet. “Yes, sir,” I said. “Quite an extensive one.” And, with only brief glances at the data pad before me, I gave it. I spoke mechanically, my mind only halfway on the words I was speaking; because more than ever before, I was aware of the tension around that table. It was as if I sat at the center of a bar magnet. On one pole the science staff: Gaetano, Delaney, Nakamara, Kerenski; all of them listening to my report with interest and appreciation, looks of encouragement on their faces. Especially Gaetano. But at the other pole, the captain, Commander Edgeworth and Lieutenant Harris. They looked...worried. Bleak, suspicious, troubled; they glanced from me to the other members of the science staff; and then at each other. Especially the captain and Edgeworth. Joel was not at the briefing, for whatever reason; trouble with the engines, most likely. Who knows what pole, if either, he would have been pulled toward? I wish now I’d known the cause of the troubled looks those others exchanged, all through my speech. 
But I did not. I had eyes only for my colleagues; whom I finally felt I could call that, without sarcasm or quotation marks. Their encouragement made me feel as if, finally, I was beginning to fit in.
I wish I’d known that it was just the opposite. I wish I’d known that even the small degree of approval and popularity I’d gained on this ship would be seen by some people as a major threat. I wish I’d known how alarmed, how terrified, those people were getting; and how important it was to them that I never be allowed to fit in.
...And I really, really wish I’d known to what lengths their panic would drive them. I already knew that my life had become intractable, stressful, a complete mess; little did I know that it was about to become Ground Zero.

CHAPTER NINE
We are coming now to a part of my tale that I am going to have a great deal of trouble telling. It involves events and experiences that are deeply shameful to me; that no Caitian would willingly speak of to another. Only the fact that most of my audience (I presume) is human allows me to tell it at all. Indeed, that fact demands that I tell; because you must understand these events to understand much of what came after.
It happened about a week after my injury, and four days or so after our departure from VSA 11378. We were in warp again. It would be a long transit this time, more than two weeks. Oddly enough, though, the trip would actually take us a little closer to DS 2; we had already penetrated as deep into our latest survey section as we would, and it was time to fill in the corners, so to speak. I didn’t know it yet, but it would also be my very last mission aboard Zelazny.
During those four days since our departure I had healed, at least physically. The pain of my mild concussion and twisted neck had faded quickly enough. And to my vast relief, my ear had indeed healed cleanly, as Dr. Enyeart had promised. The post-operative swelling had gone down in a few days, and the fur was beginning to regrow on the back side. The scar was no more than a thin reddish line already, and even that would fade in time. I had been very, very fortunate, I knew. I could have lost the ear entirely, requiring reconstructive surgery that Enyeart wasn’t equipped for; I might have waited months. Or I might have lost my entire head. That evening, when what remained of my life fell apart, the ear was still slightly tender to the touch.
I was in the Rec Room. Since my banishment from the Mess Hall nearly four weeks before, this was practically the only public area of the ship still open to me; that, and the gym next door. The gym I couldn’t avoid using; I had to have exercise. The Rec Room I avoided as much as I could, feeling uncomfortable there; but shuttling back and forth between my coffin-sized office and sarcophagus-sized quarters did occasionally begin to tell on my sanity. Both the Rec Room and the gym, though, when I used them, I used them alone and in silence.
And that’s how it was that evening. I’d sat down at a game table, behind a 3-D chess set. There were several other people present, but when I looked around invitingly they all turned away. Finally I had sighed and activated the computer terminal. It, at least, would always talk to me; and was always willing to play a game of chess. It was a lousy conversationalist, though; and I couldn’t ever defeat it without cheating. In both of those areas, I really, really missed Joel.
Since the incident of the conversation I’d overheard, and Joel’s stonewalling reaction to it, I’d had no contact with him at all. That, of course, was certainly in part my fault. I still occasionally saw him, of course, in the corridors or in briefings; but every time, as soon as I caught his eye, he simply turned away. Several times he had fled the Rec Room, rather than confront me. And his expression; was it shame, or was it fear? The former I could understand, the way he’d been treating me; but why the latter? Every time he turned away from me, though, it was like a knife in the heart. He hadn’t even come to see me after my accident, when he’d known damn well that I’d been beamed up concussed and bleeding. Thirteen years of as close a friendship as you’re ever likely to see; out the airlock in a few brief weeks. And I didn’t even know why!
...But at any rate, that evening in the Rec Room. Had I really been alone there, I might almost have been content; I am not afraid of solitude. But unfortunately, I was not, at least not for long. About four meters away there was a green-felt-topped card table. When I entered it was unoccupied, but when I’d been sitting for just a few minutes, four young ensigns entered the Rec Room, sat down around that table, removed a deck of cards and a rack of chips from a compartment underneath, and began a game of poker. And one of them was “Wally” Osgood.
Since the vandalism of my office, and Osgood’s creative revenge for my anger, we had settled down into a kind of “cold war.” Unfortunately, I  never had proved that it was he who had done the vandalism; and so for the time being at least, he had escaped court-martial. And with my banishment from the Mess Hall, he had won that round. Still, my thinly-veiled threats at the time had evidently not gone unheeded. They had at least quieted him down. There had been no more vandalism, nor any other overt action, and he avoided me. I’d heard few, if any, remarks for those several weeks.
If this pleased me, though, I was a fool. I should have known that someone like Osgood wouldn’t let it go; I should have known that all that pent-up hatred would cause an explosion eventually.
Yes, I should have known. And that evening, I should have been warned by his presence, especially in the company of some of his supporters; I should have immediately cleaned up my chess pieces and left quietly. I still curse the stubbornness that made me keep my seat, ignore them, and go on with my game.
The four of them played half a dozen hands or so, noisily, apparently ignoring me too; but I could almost feel their eyes on me; could almost feel the other three silently egging Osgood on. Finally he raised his voice across the intervening space. “Would you like us to deal you in, Lieutenant?”
Now, there are many ways you could say those few simple words; as a sincere invitation, I suppose would be one way. This, however, was nothing like that. It was a sneer; his voice dripped sarcasm; and as he spoke, his companions snickered behind their hands.
I glanced up from my chessboard, and saw him leering at me. The others looked on interestedly. “No, thank you, Ensign,” I said. I suppose, in retrospect, that I should have tried to laugh along with him somehow; or maybe even accepted the invitation, which would really have nonplused him. But I didn’t. Instead, I chose to try to keep my dignity. And at that moment, with that choice, I was doomed.
His face darkened. “Oh, please excuse me for asking, Lieutenant,” he said with elaborate obsequiousness. “I suppose poker is too lower-class for such a high and lofty officer as yourself.”
I tried to smile. “I’ve played poker in my time,” I said truthfully. “Quite a bit.”
“Oh really,” he said. “Then I guess it must just be the company you object to. Is that it? We’re not good enough for you?”
A little too late, I felt myself growing alarmed. His voice was hard, hostile; this “conversation” was rapidly getting out of control. I was aware that the others in the Rec Room had put aside their data pads and their games, and were staring in evident interest at the unfolding scene. “No, of course not,” I said.
“‘Of course not,’” he quoted with a nasty parody of my voice, slurred R’s and all. Abruptly he stood and approached my table. The other three sat silent, staring in anticipation. Osgood bent over me. “Well, let me tell you something, Lieutenant. We don’t like you. Not at all. We were very happy on this ship before you came aboard. This was a good ship, a human ship; a Terran ship. We didn’t need the likes of you here. And the sooner you’re gone, the better off we’ll all be.” As he spoke, he punctuated each phrase by flicking chess pieces off the board with his finger.
Suddenly I was tired. Tired of him, tired of his sneering face; tired of the circumstances that forced me to sit there and listen to a brazen insubordination that wouldn’t have endured ten seconds on Enterprise. 
And at that moment I made my third, last, and worst tactical error in dealing with Osgood. An error, yes; but in a way, I don’t know what else I could have done. The situation of the moment, and the situation of my entire life, had gone so far out of control that I had few, if any, alternatives. I had no legitimate authority, at least none that any higher officers would back up. But if Osgood won this one, if I meekly allowed him to get away with this, I would have not one minute of peace as long as I was aboard. Circumstances had forced me that far: into actions that broke oaths I had taken: some thirteen years ago, when I’d joined Starfleet; and some much longer ago than that, as a kit. Oaths that I never expected to be goaded into breaking.
The Rec Room was dead silent as Osgood bent over me; you could literally feel the anticipation in the air. And in that charged atmosphere, I acted. As quickly as I could, which was very, I reached out my left hand and grasped the lapels of Osgood’s tunic. I am stronger than I might look, and I had surprise on my side; I took a fistful of burgundy fabric and pulled, forcing his face down close to mine. I raised my right hand, there before his eyes. The back of my hand faced him; that’s important, or at least it is to me, and would be to another Caitian. A human might not realize the significance. Slowly I expressed my claws to their fullest extent.
“I am rapidly getting fed up with you, Ensign,” I said, my voice a low and hopefully dangerous growl. “You are insubordinate; and you are an idiot, which you make more and more obvious with every word you speak. I’ve put up with you for nearly two months; I don’t intend to put up with you any longer. I really think it would be much better, much safer, if you left me alone from now on. Now get the hell away from me!”
With that I released his tunic and stiff-armed him away. He stumbled back several steps. His eyes were wide, and his gaze riveted on my still-expressed claws. For a few seconds he just stared; then he turned and fled. His companions looked at me, aghast; then they rose silently and followed him. They left a snowfall of cards and chips on the table. 
I sighed then, as I put away my claws and turned back to the table. Behind me, the spectators stared for a few seconds; and then, catching sight of my gaze upon them, they very deliberately turned back to their own activities. I was alone now, and I might have continued with my game; but with the others present I would have no peace of mind. Already I could feel their gazes stealing back to me; and hear their soft words as they began to discuss the incident. As quickly as I could, I cleaned up the scattered chess pieces and left.
There had been definite satisfaction, as well as high comedy, in the expression I’d seen on Osgood’s face. But both were already fading, in light of what I knew to be true: I had not heard the last of this. There would be consequences for my actions; of that I was certain. I only wish I’d known, beforehand, just how bad those consequences would be.
###
I was trying to sleep, and failing, when the call came over the intercom; the harsh voice of Captain Antilles. “Lieutenant M’Ress report to sickbay immediately.”
This had to have something to do with Osgood, I knew; but at twenty-three hundred hours? I’d thought I had until morning at least. And why in the Dark One’s name would he want me in sickbay? There was only one reason I could think of; and it sent a chill down my spine. But no way out; I rolled over and pushed the button. “On my way, sir.”
Though I had to hurry (Captain Antilles didn’t stand for delays) I made sure that my uniform, fur and mane were spotless and wrinkle-free. When I arrived I found the captain in Dr. Enyeart’s office, along with the doctor and Nurse Burke. The captain was seated; the doctor and the nurse stood flanking him. All three looked grim, their gaze boring into me like a phaser drill.
I pulled myself full to attention. “Lieutenant M’Ress reporting as ordered, Captain,” I said crisply.
“Sit down, Lieutenant,” the captain said, his lips barely moving. I did so. Then the captain began again. “Lieutenant, I understand there was an incident involving yourself and Ensign Osgood this evening in the recreation room.”
Sinking feeling. “Yes, sir,” I said. I’d been expecting this reprimand, and had been prepared to ride it out as best I could. It would be useless to try to explain, I knew; he wouldn’t be interested. As usual, I’d just have to take my lumps. But why in sickbay? I hadn’t really injured Ensign Osgood, though the Goddess knows it was an effort not to. Was he claiming that I had hurt him? If so, I knew who would be believed, and it wouldn’t be this Caitian. Injuries could be falsified, stories invented, the silence of witnesses insured; and it would be a court-martial offense. Great Goddess, if only Gaetano had been there! He would have supported me!
“I also understand that you threatened the ensign with your claws,” the captain said. He pronounced the last word distastefully.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I was angered by some statements made by Ensign Osgood. I have had ongoing problems with him for some weeks. I deeply regret this incident, and I assure you it will not be repeated.”
“I am frankly not certain that is enough, Lieutenant,” Captain Antilles said. “I am given to understand that Caitian claws are not always under conscious control; that they may sometimes be extended reflexively.”
“That is true, sir,” I said. “But...” I was about to go on, to explain that his question was meaningless; that there is a vast difference between simply expressing claws and raising them to use. The difference between the back of the hand and the palm. But I was not permitted to explain.
“I am speaking, Lieutenant,” he said sternly. “Since you arrived on this ship, I have feared that your temper would cause serious problems. Such was indicated in your service record. Tonight my fears have been justified; your loss of control might have caused a grave injury. I do not think I can accept your assurance that it will not happen again. I believe my only choice is to make certain that your next outburst cannot cause injury.”
I had no idea what he was talking about; or at least no conscious idea; but maybe subconsciously I did. My heart began to hammer, and my tail to lash uncontrollably. “What do you mean by that, sir?” I asked reluctantly.
“Simply this, Lieutenant,” Captain Antilles said, with a cold smile. “You might term it disarmament. I am hereby ordering you to submit to having your claws, on both your hands and feet, trimmed to the point where they can cause no damage.”
I went cold. Absolutely frozen in my seat; my spine was a steel rod, my tail a wire sculpture topped by a bottle-brush. When I could finally speak I said, “Sir, I must respectfully refuse that order on the grounds that it is unlawful.” By the book; but words I had never before had to speak. I never thought I would.
His face darkened. “I am this ship’s commander. I decide what is lawful here, mister. Not you, nor anyone else.”
“Sir,” I said desperately, “your order is a direct violation of Starfleet regulations and Federation law, regarding the sanctity of an individual’s body. No Federation citizen, nor any Starfleet personnel, officer or enlisted, may be ordered to undergo any procedure that in any way alters the basic or specific form of their bodies.”
“You may feel free to file a grievance with Starfleet Command or your Federation Ambassador at your convenience,” he said. “In the meantime, I will protect the rest of my crew. Your hands, please.”
In agony, I hesitated, and the captain said impatiently, “If you continue to refuse, I will have Security forcibly restrain you, and then the procedure will be carried out. You have no alternative, Lieutenant. You will save yourself a great deal of pain by submitting.”
He would do it, I knew. Lieutenant Harris would be all too glad to help him. And the results would be the same, except that I’d end up with another set of bruises, or a phaser hangover. Starfleet Command was on the other side of the galaxy; the Caitian embassy even farther. I had no succor, no one to prevent this. Even Gaetano wouldn’t have dared. Slowly, painfully, I laid my hands on the table, palms up.
Nurse Burke then pounced. One at a time she took my hands in an unbreakable grip. She’d been studying; she knew just where to press, right below the tip of each finger, to force the claw to express. Then it was Dr. Enyeart’s turn. He used a pair of heavy ring-type cutters, a larger version of what a veterinarian uses on a dog’s nails. They were made of a hardened alloy of some kind; but even so, he had a difficult time of it; Caitian claws are tough. I sat rigidly still, but my heart was hammering and my breathing rapid with terror and shame.
It didn’t take long. They did both hands, three fingers and a thumb apiece. Then I was obliged to put my feet up on the desk as well. Ridiculous; Caitians don’t attack with their feet; the claws there are used mainly for traction, as when I’d saved Gaetano’s life. But they did them too. Within two minutes all sixteen claws, black, lovingly tended, trimmed and sharpened, lay like shavings of ebony on the desktop. The doctor had cut them far back, right down to the quick, and it had hurt. It was a wonder I didn’t bleed, though he probably had a coagulant pencil ready. If he’d damaged the cuticles...
The captain was smiling faintly as the doctor finished. He said to me, “You are ordered to report to Dr. Enyeart or Nurse Burke once every week to have any new growth removed. If you fail to do so, I will order the doctor to have your claws permanently removed. Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant?”
I looked at the doctor and the nurse, searching for some sign of remorse for what they’d done, or some realization of the terrible crime they’d just committed, and were being asked to compound. There was none. In fact, they looked positively eager to try out that little bit of surgery. “Yes, Captain,” I said. “Quite clear.”
“Good. You are dismissed.”
I started to rise; but I was interrupted again. “Oh, and Lieutenant?”
“Sir?”
“Two more items. Number one, it would probably be best if you refrained from using any of the Rec Room facilities for the remainder of this mission.”
It was a blow; but only a dull one. All the feeling had gone out of me already, leaving me numb. I might have asked him how I was supposed to get any exercise, if the gym was off-limits to me; but the answer was obvious: he didn’t care. “Yes, sir.”
“And number two, you are hereby restricted to quarters for the next five days.”
I came very close to thanking him for that; but I didn’t, because then he probably would have reversed himself. Instead I merely nodded, tiredly. “Sir,” I said; and I left before he could think of anything else.
###
I walked back to my cabin, gingerly, because my toes hurt as they pressed on the deckplates. The pain would pass. At least the physical pain.
Dazed, I sat down on my bunk. Slowly I raised my hands, which were trembling with repressed rage and shame. I willed the proper muscles to contract. They did, but only the barest hint of black emerged, cut-off, blunt as a spoon, useless. For the first time in my life I had some slight inkling as to what a rape victim must feel. There was no doubt about it: I had been violated. Never mind that they would grow back again, if they were left alone. I had been mutilated. Not just my body. Everything I thought I was, everything my culture had given me, had been left in a neat little pile on that desk. I don’t expect any human would understand.
Had he known? I wondered. Had he any idea what he’d done to me? Would he even care? Or had his only thought been to humiliate, to leave me even more defenseless than I already was?
I buried my face in my hands; and for the first time since childhood, because I come from a species to whom tears are shameful, I wept.
###
He came to me.
If I’d had any emotions left, I probably would have been surprised; I didn’t think he would do it, would have the courage to come.
I had spent the two days since the incident alone in my quarters; studying, meditating, reading, anything, trying to keep my mind constantly occupied. At times I almost succeeded; then I would move my hands or my feet, I would feel the little sting of pain from the tips of my digits; and it would all come back. Every time it did I gasped, as if I’d been physically struck. Perhaps someday, if I lived long enough, the shame and fear and anger would fade. Right now, though, I couldn’t even imagine that time. I no longer wanted to thank Captain Antilles for restricting me to quarters, though. He had known what I didn’t at that point: what an exquisite torture solitude would be.
There was a hand phaser on my work table; my own personal one, which I’d had for more than a year. Usually I kept it, as regulations demanded, in a locked cabinet under the desk. I could not remember now, exactly, when I’d gotten it out; I only know that I’d found myself with the weapon in my hand, my thumb resting lightly on the trigger patch, staring into the glassy eye of the emitter tube. And it hadn’t been set to stun.
That had shocked me, of course; maybe my subconscious had planned it that way. I remember actually debating with myself, as I stared into the phaser, wondering which path would be more endurable. That I finally chose to continue living is of course obvious; I remember forcing myself to power down the phaser and set it aside, the emitter tube facing the wall. And there it still sat. Somehow I hadn’t been able to force myself to put it away.
When the door chimed I ignored it. In the depths of my shame and depression I wanted no company. And besides, who on this benighted ship would mean me any good? Grief I needed no more of.
But the chiming was insistent, and finally I sighed. “Come in,” I said.
Those words unlocked the door, and it slid open. I looked up listlessly.
He stood there with his hands behind his back, looking at me with an expression that was a combination of concern, hesitation and fear. “M’Ress?” he said. 
My voice was bitter, and I didn’t even try to soften it. “How may I help you, Commander Abrams?”
“May I—may I come in?”
I spread my hands. “It’s your ship, not mine. You can go where you will.”
He stepped inside, and let the door close behind him. Slowly he crossed the room. There was no other chair; so he perched himself awkwardly on the bunk. He looked at my table, and I saw his eyes widen as they rested on my phaser. Then, very deliberately, he looked away.
“M’Ress,” he said, “I heard...what happened to you.”
“Have you indeed?” I said mockingly. “I don’t imagine there’s anyone on this ship who hasn’t, by now.”
“M’Ress, would you please listen to me?” Joel said pleadingly. “I’m trying to tell you how sorry I am.”
“’Sorry’ is meaningless, Commander,” I said. I raised my hands. “I’m sorry too. But here I am.”
“What more do you want from me?” he demanded. “I had no idea the captain was going to do something like that. And he does have a right to protect his crew.”
“That’s nonsense,” I said. “You know it’s nonsense. You know me—you know the oaths I took as a kit. You know I wouldn’t have harmed that fool Osgood. I showed him the back of my hand, for Goddess’ sake!”
“Yes,” Joel said, somewhat more quietly. “I do know what that means. The captain doesn’t. And he didn’t solicit my opinion before he acted. He seldom does. He did what he thought was right.”
“That’s nonsense too,” I said. “What he did wouldn’t stop me if I really wanted to hurt someone.” I snatched up the phaser and showed it to him. “There’s this,” I said. “There’s also knives. There’s also any number of large and heavy items. If I truly had violent tendencies, I could use any one of those things. The captain knows that. If he really thought I was dangerous, he’d have a guard outside that door; or he’d have me in the brig.”
“Why, then?”
“To humiliate me,” I said. “To demoralize me. Don’t you see? He’s isolated me from almost all contact with the crew, except where necessary. Now this. He wants me to be, and to feel, alone and helpless. And he’s succeeding quite well.”
“Why?” Joel said. “Why would he?”
My gaze bored into his eyes. “I don’t know, Joel. Why don’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know why.”
He was lying, I could tell; in all the years I’d known him, he’d never learned to lie successfully. But I didn’t know how to get the truth out of him, except by physical force; and he was bigger than me. I tried an oblique approach. “Joel, you probably know Federation law as well as I do; and Starfleet regulations too.”
“Probably.”
I held up my hands again. “Based on that knowledge, do you agree that my legal rights have been violated?”
He hesitated ten seconds or so, then he nodded. “Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, of course I do.”
“You are a command-level officer, and you’ve been on this ship for more than a year,” I pointed out. “I am a lieutenant, and I’ve been here less than three months. Obviously you’ve got more power, more authority, than I have.”
“So?”
I swallowed hard. At the prospect of what I had to say, my throat was tightening, and I fought to clear it. “I need your help, Joel. I am helpless. Any authority that’s legally mine as an officer, he has undermined. I can’t turn to any other superior officer for redress. The science staff would agree in principle that my rights have been violated, but they wouldn’t take action. This I know for certain. I need help, your help, before my career, or my health, or my sanity are permanently damaged.”
“What can I do?” he asked.
“Joel, something is going on aboard this ship. Something besides our assigned mission. We both know that. The difference is, I don’t know what it is, but I think you do.”
His face had a haunted, wary look, like a deer in the headlights. “What...makes you think that?”
“Because you are a senior officer,” I said. “Aboard for more than a year. And other things. The fact that you kept running away from me, when I tried to talk to you. And that conversation I tried to tell you about, the one I overheard between Edgeworth and Gaetano. You stonewalled me damn fast on that; and you were terrified. I could tell. You can start by telling me what is going on. I’m in a battle here, Joel. I’m at war with Antilles and Edgeworth. It’s not of my own making, but I’ve been forced into it anyway. At least tell me what I’m fighting for. Give me a weapon.”
He looked at me for a long time, a whole parade of emotions passing across his face. I think I know what he’d expected, and it wasn’t this. He thought he could come to me, put his arms around me, and make the world go away, as the old saying goes. And he probably could have, too, if I’d let him; the problem was, it would only have been temporary. I don’t think he was prepared for me to demand something a bit more concrete. For a few seconds, however, I thought he would tell me; though what use I would have found the information, there and then, I can’t say. I’ll never know, though.
He finally said, “I’m sorry, M’Ress. I can’t help you. I...don’t have anything to tell you.”
“Do you want me to beg you?” I flared. “You ought to know me better than that, Joel. I have never begged for anything in my life, from anyone. I never will.” I raised my hands. “When they did this, I didn’t beg. I think he wanted me to, expected me to, but I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t give him what was left of my dignity.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want you to beg, M’Ress. I do know that much about you. I just...have nothing to say.”
“We meant something to each other, a long time ago,” I commented. 
“We still do,” he said. “I hope we do, at least.”
“And even so, the answer is still no? You won’t help me?”
He shook his head helplessly. “I can’t help you.” He paused. “Please listen, M’Ress. This will all blow over. Keep quiet, do your duty, don’t ask questions. It will all end.” He nodded down at my hands, resting on the table before me. “Even that. If you do nothing else to aggravate him, maybe the captain can be persuaded to let them come back.”
Suddenly, once again, I was tired. Tired of the conversation, the situation, and him. Just tired. I turned away. “Get out,” I said softly.
“Pardon me—?”
I wheeled on him. “I said ‘get out,’” I snarled. “Which word do you have trouble understanding?”
“M’Ress...”
“I thought we were friends,” I said. “Maybe even more than friends. But if you won’t do this for me, then we are through. Finished. Our friendship and anything else there might have been. Get out!”
I turned away again. I heard his shuffling footsteps, and heard the door open and close. Then I buried my head in my arms. What was that smell I detected, lingering in the air? The smoke of burning bridges, perhaps?
###
I did have one other visit that day; one that went a little better: Lieutenant Commander Gaetano.
As he entered, his eyes lit first on the phaser, just as had Joel’s; a tiny ghost of a grin pasted across his face. “That’s not the answer,” he said. “Believe me, it’s not.”
I sighed. “I know that, Commander. Or at least I do now. Uh—how can I help you?”
As Joel had done, Gaetano perched himself on the edge of the bunk. “I was about to ask  you the same thing. Are you all right, Lieutenant?”
There was no point in asking him, if he knew what had happened to me; of course he did. Obviously it was all over the damn ship. I occasionally had a vision of Osgood laughing uproariously when he heard the news; a vision which almost made me wish I had clawed him.
Gaetano was still looking a me expectantly. I shook my head. “I don’t’t know, Commander. I honestly don’t. I don’t think anyone on this ship appreciates what he did to me. It was not the same as trimming your nails, you know. Not at all.”
“I understand a little,” Gaetano said. “As much as any human can, I guess. I know it’s rather pointless and facile to say I’m sorry.” He grinned, just a little. “But I am sorry, nonetheless.”
Why was it, I wondered dimly, that talking to Gaetano was so easy, when talking to Joel had been so hard? Possibly because I didn’t really expect anything from Gaetano. He was superficially friendly; but that was all. He had never been open with me; even though I knew damn well that whatever was going on, he was deeply involved. I’d never even bothered to ask him; I knew he either wouldn’t tell me, or would tell an outrageous lie. I expected no more from him. But Joel...from him I’d expected much more. I’d expected help, honesty, that went beyond words or platitudes. That’s why I was so terribly angry with him.
I said, “I appreciate that, Commander.”
“I want you to know, too, that I’m not the only one,” Gaetano went on. “All of us in the science staff feel the same way. We feel that the Captain far overreacted to the situation— especially as it was not your fault. No one who had been on this ship for long could believe that Osgood was an innocent victim of your violence. Everyone knows how he’s been harassing you.”
“I...don’t suppose you’d tell the captain that,” I said hopefully.
“As a matter of fact I would,” he replied. “I have. The captain and Commander Edgeworth too. On behalf of the science staff I informed him of our opinion that your civil rights have been violated.”
That surprised me greatly; more, possibly, than anything else had since I’d come aboard: that any of them, let alone all of them, would stick their necks out to that extent. “Thank you,” I said softly. Then: “Do...do you think it did any good, sir?”
He smiled helplessly and shrugged. “Who can say?” he said. “Maybe—well, every once in a while a captain has to be reminded that he’s not God. Maybe it was time for his wake-up call.”
Maybe so, I thought, but how does that help me?
Gaetano went on, “Lieutenant, I know this might not be easy for you to hear. I’ve come to realize what kind of person you are: impatient, aggressive, a go-getter. You get things done. Ordinarily there’s nothing wrong with that. But in this particular case I think the best virtue you can cultivate is patience. That’s really the only advice I can give you, from someone who knows this ship: to endure. No one—not even the captain—can reasonably argue with the caliber of your work. Just keep doing it.”
“And nothing else?” I said.
“I told you, you wouldn’t want to hear this,” he reminded me. “Just trust me, Lieutenant. I think the worst is over for you—if, and only if, you let it be. In a very real sense it’s totally up to you.”
Joel had said something roughly equivalent; not long afterward I’d thrown him out. So why did I have no particular urge to throw Gaetano out too? I glanced at his face, which was drawn, anxious, staring at me in something like...what? Fear, perhaps?
Here is a man split in two, I realized suddenly. On the one hand he does want to help me. But on the other hand he knows things that he doesn’t dare tell me. Just being there, just speaking to me at all, he was putting himself at risk, I knew. He had said all that he dared to say. Nothing concrete; just hints.
...And that thought left me with an ugly feeling of guilt. Not because of Gaetano; but because of Joel. He was torn in two also. I should have seen that. He and Gaetano were two of a kind, in that sense: trying to balance their affection (or at least good will) toward me against something, some secret, that frightened them half to death. The only difference was, Joel’s stake, his desire to help me, had been even bigger than Gaetano’s. And so was his fear of the consequences of failure? 
“I understand, Commander,” I said. And partly, I think I really did: better at least than before. “Thank you.”
“No charge,” he said. His grin reappeared. “Speaking of work, I wonder if I can talk you into helping me with some of mine again?”
“Such as?”
“That last planet,” he said. “Prime real estate, as you know. The Federation Expansion and Colonization people will be wanting the most complete mineralogical and soil analysis I can give them. I must have taken a couple thousand samples. Now I’ve got to catalog them against the tricorder readings I took in situ.”
I was about to refuse, as gently and politely as I knew how; I really didn’t feel like it. But them I caught his hopeful gaze on me again, and I realized what he was doing. They used to call it “occupational therapy.”
“I’d certainly like to help you, Commander,” I said. “But we’ve got one small problem. I’m still restricted to quarters, for the next three days.”
“Oh,” he said, crestfallen. Then he brightened. “Well, I’m not restricted to quarters, and I’m not restricted from yours. We can work right here, if you’re agreeable.”
“You’re sure the captain won’t mind?”
“What the captain doesn’t know,” he said, “won’t hurt him. Or us.”
What the captain doesn’t know, I thought darkly, isn’t very much. But if Gaetano would take the responsibility...“All right, Commander,” I said. “I think I’d like that.”
...And the strange thing was, I was actually telling the truth.
###
A little over two weeks passed.
That’s an easy thing to do, isn’t it, just to toss off a statement like that, to dismiss almost eighteen days of one’s life with just six little words. Easy, yes; a damn sight easier than living it.
They let me out of my gulag eventually, though I scarcely noticed the difference. Every public area of the ship was now off-limits to me; with the exception of the hallways. I spent my days shuttling between my quarters and my office. My only solace, the only area bigger than a gym locker that I could legally inhabit, was the briefing area outside my office. I spent as much time as I could there. During that time the science staff was my lifeline; really my only link to sanity. For that I wished them each an eternity or two less in the Dark Domains than I wished everyone else aboard.
And as for my own emotional state...well, I suppose that I might have begun to recover, just a little, if it wasn’t for one little problem: two times during those eighteen days I dutifully reported to sickbay, where Nurse Burke produced a pair of cutters and clipped back the incipient rebirth of my claws, all sixteen of them. And that did tend to keep the incident rather fresh in my mind.
Would the captain have made good on his threat to have me permanently declawed, if I’d failed to report? To this day I honestly don’t know. But it was not a chance I could take. A few days after the original clipping I’d forced myself to research the subject. I’d had a more difficult time than I’d imagined I would. It turned out that no such thing as a permanent declawing had ever happened to any Caitian, at least so far as the Starfleet medical database knew of. I’d had a little better luck with the veterinary medicine files. If Dr. Enyeart wanted to do such a thing, he would evidently have had two choices: one would be to use a laser scalpel to open up the tip of each digit and cauterize the cells of the cuticle, from which the claws grew. The other would be to amputate the tip of each digit to the first joint; the way they declaw Terran housecats. Either alternative was too horrible to contemplate; and worse than that, I had no assurance that either could ever be successfully reversed by reconstructive surgery. And so I did not try to resist. I don’t think anyone of my species would question my decision.
What really, really did rankle me, even more than what had happened to me, was Osgood. During those two weeks I didn’t see him at all; I truly believe he and I were deliberately being kept apart. But I did hear things; and I did ask questions, especially of Gaetano. The thought that no punishment. absolutely none, had befallen Osgood for the incident was nearly unbearable. He had been judged entirely blameless. That he was running around scot-free, able to use the mess hall, rec room and gym without any restrictions...well, it was clear proof, as if any further proof was required, that the universe is completely unjust. As it turned out, though, I didn’t need to obsess on that matter quite as much as I did. There’s another old human saying: “what goes around comes around.” In reference to Osgood, that was to come true very shortly.
After my initial shock, anger and shame had faded a tiny bit, I realized—rather with a shock—that Captain Antilles had made what I could only see as a major mistake. I could not understand how he believed he could get away with what he’d done.
Eventually—in a little over two months, in fact—we would be returning to DS 2 for resupply and repairs. Surely the captain knew that my first move when we arrived would be to file a complaint against him. I could already picture the scene: if Commodore M’Rael was still on the station, I would need only go to her office and show her my hands. Her anger would do the rest; that she would help me was an absolute certainty. The honor or our people, if nothing else, would demand it. She would probably be hard-pressed to restrain herself from using her own claws on Captain Antilles. Surely he had to know that.
I could come up with only three halfway reasonable explanations for his behavior. One was that he really didn’t realize the gravity of what he’d done, and expected to be able to laugh it off. (In which case he was in for an unpleasant surprise.) Two was that he intended to take advantage of the old principle that it’s always easier to get forgiveness than permission; that would probably tie in with his spurious argument that he was “protecting his crew” from me. (As for the results, though, ditto for number one; Commodore M’Rael would not buy that claim.) Or three: perhaps he intended to “relent,” three weeks or so before we were due to return, and let me grow my claws back. That way my complaint, if I still wished to make it, would have no concrete evidence. The results of that one might be a little more iffy; but I had a feeling that Commodore M’Rael would believe me much more readily than she’d believe Captain Antilles. Gaetano had been quite right when he’d told Edgeworth that the commodore took my welfare very seriously. To counter that possibility, however, I forced myself to use my tricorder to make a visual record of my hands and my feet, showing the stubs of the claws; I encrypted the cartridge, and I locked it away in the same thumbprint-access cabinet where I kept my phaser.
One thing was absolutely certain: I had no intention of letting Captain Antilles get away with this. Out here in the middle of nowhere, where he was a demi-god, he could intimidate me; but in the presence of a higher authority, never. There was no way he could stop me from filing the biggest civil-rights complaint that the Federation or Starfleet had ever seen. If it was the last thing I ever did, I’d see him—and some others as well—court-martialed. I had almost been fearing the next supply stop at DS 2, knowing that he would use it to try to have me off the ship, possibly ruining my career in the bargain. I no longer felt that way. No; that next stop was my lifeline, the salvation of my career, and quite possibly my life and health.
...Now, the only problem was staying alive, and sane, until I could get there.
###
At the very end of those eighteen days, I did have one curious experience; just about the last thing I would ever have expected to happen: Captain Antilles asked me for a favor.
It was early afternoon, and I was in my office; I had just finished a slightly late lunch (made late by a science-staff briefing; we were rapidly approaching our next survey, and the long-range sensors were promising an interesting one.) These days, because of Commander Edgeworth’s edict, I couldn’t eat even at the common briefing-area table any more; I had to take the tray into my office. Frankly, that was usually fine with me. I had just about gotten to the point of taking my half-empty tray out for disposal, when the intercom beeped. “Antilles to Lieutenant M’Ress.”
As always when I heard his voice, I felt a vast sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and my tail began to wave. But I didn’t have much choice; I pushed the button. “M’Ress here.”
“Lieutenant, I have a request to make of you,” he said without preamble.
Great Goddess, I thought desperately, what does he want from me now? Shave off my fur? Cut off my tail? File down my teeth? When will he learn that he can’t make me into a human? “Sir?”
“We’re experiencing a bit of a difficulty on the bridge,” he said. “I would like to know if you would be available to take a partial shift on the communications board.” His voice was clipped, almost strangled; obviously issuing from between tightly clenched teeth. He was hating this.
If I’d dared, I might have refused; anything that put me into closer contact with the captain, I avoided if I could. But of course there was no way I could refuse. It was his whim at the moment to couch an order in the indirect terms of a “request.” Maybe because he was asking me to cross-department, which is usually uncustomary. And besides that, this was so obviously painful to him, to ask me for anything, that it was actually a pleasure. “Certainly, sir,” I said sweetly. I paused. “May I ask why, sir? I thought this was Ensign Matthews’ shift?”
His voice hardened. “Ensign Matthews is...unavailable,” he said with finality. “When can you be on the bridge, Lieutenant?”
“Five minutes, sir.”
“Acceptable. Antilles out.”
I sat there for a few seconds, my head literally whirling and my tail lashing. “What,” I wondered aloud and in Caitian, “does this mean?” One thing at least was certain: whatever circumstance had made Matthews “unavailable” (he could be on sick call, for example) would leave the captain in dire straits indeed; there was little redundancy in Zelazny’s crew. That was why I was aboard, after all. I could imagine the captain frantically reviewing the crew roster, and finally coming reluctantly to the conclusion that there was only one other person on board qualified to run the comm panel: a certain Caitian. The rebel without claws. This situation actually had some possibilities for humor; the first time in many weeks.
In the end it took me a little longer than five minutes; because I had to stop at my quarters first to search for my wireless earphone. I had to wonder, now, at the sudden gift of prophecy that had made me pack it, using up a few precious grams of my weight allowance. I arrived at the bridge slightly out of breath, clutching the small plastic case. “Lieutenant M’Ress reporting for duty, sir,” I said formally.
He swiveled in his chair to face me, scowling as usual. Did he thank me politely for helping him out of a jam? You know better than that by now. “You’re late, Lieutenant,” he said. “I take it that you are familiar with our communications equipment?”
If it was anyone else but him, I would have been honest and admitted that I was going to have to fake it. Two tin cans and a string, I think I’ve mentioned. “Yes, sir,” I said simply. “Well enough.”
“We’ll see. Take your position, please.”
I didn’t know the young ensign at the comm board. I only knew that she looked harried and exhausted. I found out later that she’d just pulled a double shift, lucky her, and come very close to a triple one. I tapped the back of her seat. “Relieving you,” I said.
She looked profoundly grateful as she closed out her board and stood, cracking her back. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” she said quietly as she turned and departed the bridge. I thought I saw a bunk in her future.
It took several minutes for me to familiarize myself with the quaintly antique comm board (I halfway expected to find a bunch of long wires and sockets to plug them in to) and also to tune my earphone to the frequency it used. It felt very strange, now, after all that time, to clip the little instrument to my furry ear. (Fortunately I’d always used the right; my left ear was still a little tender.)
I found the comm equipment not too different from what I’d trained on, years ago; I would be able to operate it. I was also faintly amused to find that the modifications I’d helped Matthews make, all those weeks ago, were still in place. Obviously the difficulties the captain had expected had failed to materialize. Not that he’d ever admit it.
Finally, when I felt confident, I dared to glance around. Besides the captain, only two other people on the bridge were really familiar to me. One was Commander Nakamara; he was at the sciences station just to my left. As he caught my glance he looked up from the library computer and smiled affably. The other I recognized first my the back of his head, as his engineering station was directly opposite mine: Ensign Wallace Osgood. Looking at him, I felt that same sinking sensation. Where he was, trouble (at least for me) usually followed.
He must have felt my eyes on him, or perhaps he’d suddenly become psychic; because he turned and looked at me. And as he did I got the shock of my young life.
Osgood’s face looked like he’d been hit by a runaway shuttlecraft. Both of his eyes were blackened, swollen half-closed; there were numerous other bruises, making his face look puffy; and his upper lip had been spectacularly split and repaired. Obviously he had been “done over,” as they say, by a professional. Recovering from the shock, my only thought was, couldn’t have happened to a nicer fellow.
Osgood looked at me for a few seconds, as I sat there absolutely paralyzed. Then, very deliberately, he turned away. And from that moment on, I never heard another word from him. I mean that literally: never.
I shook my head hard as I turned back to my board. A very nasty little suspicion started to grow in the back of my mind: were Osgood’s condition, and the circumstances that had brought me to the bridge that afternoon, entirely unconnected? I waited until the captain seemed occupied—an ensign had entered and handed him a data pad—then I leaned over to Nakamara. He wasn’t Gaetano, true; but all of the science staff had been treating me reasonably decently lately. “Commander?” I said softly.
The tone of my voice must have alerted him to my desire for privacy; he replied quietly. “Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Sir, can you tell me what’s happened to Ensign Matthews? The captain said he was ‘unavailable’...”
Nakamara glanced nervously over at the captain, but he was still engrossed in his data pad. Then Nakamara lowered his voice even more. “I suppose you’d find out eventually. Mr. Matthews has been restricted to quarters indefinitely. He...got into a fistfight in the gym last night.”
The penny finally dropped, and I looked quickly over at Osgood. “Yes,” Nakamara confirmed. “With Osgood.” He smiled. “As I hear it, Osgood got quite the worst of it.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or furious. That young idiot! I thought savagely. That’s the kind of thing that can absolutely destroy a career. Believe me, I’d recently found that out. I was certain, though, that the fight hadn’t been about an unpaid poker debt or something as banal as that. No: it had been about me. Osgood would “get his sooner or later,” Matthews had said. Maybe I should have taken that as a clue. If only I hadn’t been so distracted by the fact that my body had been a roadmap of pain. If I’d known what he planned I would certainly have stopped him. If not for his sake, then for mine.
And that thought lead to an even worse one: why hadn’t I been blamed? I had been blamed unjustly for every other damn thing on this ship; this would have seemed a golden opportunity for the captain to humiliate and demoralize me even more. He had not passed up any such opportunity yet. What he would have done to me this time, I shudder to contemplate. It was several days before I found out how I’d escaped.
At the moment, though, I had other things on my mind. Nakamara had just turned back to his panel when the helmsman, a lieutenant who was another near-stranger, announced: “Approaching VSA 21437, Captain.”
Captain Antilles looked up sharply from his data pad. “Slow to one-half impulse, Mr. Moore.”
“Aye, sir.”
The warp-stretched stars on the viewscreen went from streaks to bars to dashes to points as Zelazny slowed. In the center of the screen there appeared three slightly larger, brighter points, forming a skewed triangle.
Captain Antilles turned toward me. “Lieutenant M’Ress, inform Starfleet of our arrival.”
“Aye, sir.” I busied myself doing so. I suppose I’d better explain here: subspace radio has always traveled much faster than light; but at that time in history, in most cases, it was not instantaneous. This was one of those cases: it would take several days for our message to reach our home base, in this case DS 2. It would of course take just as long for an acknowledgment to reach us. Because of the probability that we wouldn’t be in the vicinity of any star long enough to receive a return message, DS 2 would usually not bother to send one. Only in an emergency would they attempt to contact us.
Anyway, this was old stuff for me: I had transmitted this kind of message literally hundreds of times in my career. It was the usual: stardate, position, and ship’s status. It also included a highly compressed data squirt: the results of our last survey.
As I transmitted, something was niggling at the back of my mind. The subspace radio was acting vaguely odd. It wasn’t anything I could pin down; not even anything that I could clearly define; it just didn’t feel right somehow. The message appeared to transmit correctly, though, and I decided to ascribe the feeling to two things: One, ancient equipment; and two, the fact that I was a bit rusty at this. I sometimes have wished, though, that I’d paid more attention to one of my old grade-school teachers; the one who advised me to “trust my instincts.”
“Message sent, sir,” I reported.
The ghost of a very strange smile crossed Captain Antilles’ face. “Good,” he said. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Your report please, Mr. Nakamara?”
He was bent over a hooded viewer, in exactly the same way I had so often seen Mr. Spock do. He said, “We appear to have a trinary star system, Captain. Very complex orbit. A red giant, a white dwarf, and a Sol-sized yellow-orange star.”
“Any planets?” Captain Antilles asked impatiently.
“One moment, sir,” Nakamara said. There was a pause of two or three minutes, during which the captain’s scowl deepened, and everyone else on the bridge held his or her breath. Finally Nakamara spoke again, distractedly, half to himself. “The stellar radiation flux makes it difficult...ah! One planet, Captain. It appears to be locked in a Trojan-point relationship with the stars. Slightly larger than Terra...” he trailed off. “And possibly Class M.”
A stir went through the bridge crew. I could well understand that: we all knew how extraordinary that was. A trinary star system was just about the last place you’d expect to find a Class M planet. Or indeed any planet at all. The gravitational fields, and especially the tides, in such stellar relationships tend to be incredibly chaotic, breaking up planetary bodies rather than allowing them to peacefully accrete.
“Could be an outsider,” Nakamara said. “From another system. Trapped by these stars’ gravity.”
“But Class M?” the captain insisted, incredulously.
“Uncertain as yet, sir, ” Nakamara said. “But possible. I am getting a strong oxygen-nitrogen signature. No data on surface temperature or conditions yet, however.”
“Can you get us a visual, Mr. Nakamara?” the captain asked.
“Possibly, sir. One moment.”
On the main viewscreen, the rough triangle of stars suddenly jumped forward, in ten or so quick staccato leaps; and shifted slightly to the left before vanishing off the edges of the screen. In the center now was a small dot, blurred and indistinct, mottled in brown, blue and green.
“Best I can do for the moment, I’m afraid,” Nakamara said. “That’s maximum magnification, and computer enhancement.”
While this was going on, I’d been doing the standard comm-officer thing when approaching an unknown planet: scanning all the standard radio frequencies, searching for any sign of intelligent life. It’s well known that any civilized planet, even one with a 20th-Century level of technology, puts out more radio noise than the average star; and it usually follows definite patterns and frequencies. This, too, I had done countless times before.
I had run through almost every frequency range I knew without finding anything, and had just about concluded that this planet was an innocent of intelligence as all the others we’d visited, when suddenly I froze in my seat. My tail, which had been waving absently with my intense concentration, went stiff and rigid behind me. My hand rose to my earphone.
Captain Antilles picked this up immediately, of course. “Report, Lieutenant,” he snapped.
One very important part of a comm officer’s training is to cultivate the ability to pick out a deliberate, intelligent communications signal from a sea of static. Most comm officers in training spend hours practicing it. It’s something that (at the risk of sounding boastful) Caitians are usually quite good at. Even a couple months out of practice, the faint sounds I heard leaped out at me as if it was the Voice of the Federation broadcast.
“I’m getting a possible signal, sir,” I reported. “Extremely low RF frequency.”
“On audio, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, sir.” I pushed buttons, and a tidal wave of static crashed over the bridge.
A few seconds later Captain Antilles scowled at me and raised his voice. “I don’t hear anything, Lieutenant,” he said darkly.
Human ears, I reminded myself. “One moment, sir. I’ll see if I can clean up the signal.”
On Enterprise it would have been kit’s play; but here, with Zelazny’s micro-brained computer, it took much longer. Finally the static diminished—but did not vanish—and my putative “signal” came through much stronger and clearer.
It was a strange sound, a pure tone that oscillated from subsonic (to humans) to a frequency that set my teeth on edge, in a regular period of about five seconds, endlessly repeated.
In all those weeks, I had never seen Captain Antilles so excited. He practically leaped from the center seat and crossed rapidly to my station, greatly alarming me. But there was no need: for once he meant me no harm. He bent low over my board, gazing at the sine-wave display of the signal.
“Very regular indeed,” he murmured. He glanced up at me. “Is it a form of communication, Lieutenant?”
“Unknown, sir,” I said. “If it is, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever encountered before.”
For a few seconds he looked as if he was going to make disparaging comments about the depth of my experience; then, apparently, he thought better of it. He said, “Let’s try the Universal Translator.”
“Aye, sir.” Again, this was something that would have taken just seconds on Enterprise; here it took the computer nearly five minutes to deliver its verdict. During that time the captain remained hovering above my station, one hand on the panel and the other on the back of my seat, making me extremely nervous. Or I should say, he did until my tail, waving uncontrollably, accidentally collided with his arm. Then he gave me a strange, sharp look and moved a little to the left.
Finally the computer pronounced its judgment: “Specified signal is not a form of intelligent communication.”
“Damn!” Captain Antilles said savagely. “What the hell is it, then?”
“I believe I can answer that, sir,” Commander Nakamara broke in. He threw a graph up on the small screen above his station; an oscillation curve that exactly matched that of the signal. “This planet has an extremely curious magnetic field,” Nakamara explained. “Extremely strong and with exceptionally rapid and violent oscillations. I’ve never seen the like before. This is going to require further study.”
“What you’re saying is, the radio signal may be the by-product of a natural phenomenon?” the captain said.
“Exactly so,” Nakamara said. “The pattern match is far too exact for coincidence.”
The captain cocked his eye at me, challengingly. “Lieutenant?” he said.
“I have to concur with Commander Nakamara, sir,” I said carefully. At that moment, I realized to my amusement, I was working two specialties at once; an extremely odd and possibly unprecedented situation. “I don’t believe that this is evidence of intelligent life. But it doesn’t preclude the possibility.”
“Harumph,” Captain Antilles said. That was the first time I’d ever actually heard someone say that. “We shall see. Continue to monitor the situation, both of you. And for the moment, Lieutenant, get that damn noise off the bridge speakers.”
I might have reminded him that he’d been the one who wanted it on the speakers in the first place; but why borrow trouble? “Aye, sir,” I said, and I banished the sound.
The captain returned to the center seat, where he perched with his chin in his hands, staring moodily at the main viewer. And as the hours went by and the planet grew steadily on the screen, I found myself, too, glancing up at it more and more often. The sight of that mottled disk gave me a strange feeling, somewhere in the pit of my stomach. What I didn’t know, couldn’t know then, was just how well I was going to get to know VSA 21437 /1 (and only.) Far better than any sane person would want to. 

CHAPTER TEN
This planet, I could give a name to.
I had not availed myself of Commander Gaetano’s offer to suggest names for the last two planets we’d visited; frankly, I’ve never been big on naming things. Even before our first landing, though, I knew that this time I’d have to make an exception. And so, privately, I christened the place: “Hellhole.”
Unfortunately, it was a name that I had to keep to myself; because Captain Antilles had taken a bizarre and inordinately strong interest in the worthless rock. He even took the completely unprecedented step of attending the science staff’s pre-landing briefing.
Picture if you will: Gaetano, Nakamara, Delaney, Kerenski and myself, gathered around the small table outside our offices; and there he was, perched balefully at the end of the table, his arms crossed and an expression of massive impatience on his face. The term “nerve-wracking” doesn’t even come close.
As might be predicted in this case, Nakamara started off. “This planet is extremely unusual, in many ways,” he said. “Not the least of which is its orbit. The planet is locked into one of these three stars’ Trojan points—a point of gravitational stability.”
We all know what a Trojan point is, I thought irritably, very aware of the Captain’s scowl upon us all. Get on with it!
“The Trojan point orbit most likely accounts for the presence of the planet’s two moons,” Nakamara went on. “They are very small, along the lines of Deimos and Phobos around Mars, and are very irregular in shape. They are most likely captured asteroids.
“The planet does rotate, so it does have a day and night cycle; some twenty-six Terran hours, split exactly down the middle. But its axis is absolutely perpendicular, and the planet would therefore have no seasons at all.”
“The climate is extremely harsh,” Kerenski took it up. “The planet is Class M, but just barely. There are no polar ice caps. Average equatorial temperature is 37 degrees. Average in the so-called temperate zones is over 26 degrees. The land masses are large, on the order of more than seventy percent of the planet’s surface; the seas are small, shallow and very salty. Humidity is generally very low, on the order of 2 percent globally. There are a number of high plateaus where the daily temperature variations are brutal: from over 37 degrees in the daytime to less than minus 6 at night.”
An ideal vacation spot, yes, I thought. We went from the ridiculous to the sublime back to the ridiculous again.
“Harsh or not,” Delaney said, “this planet does harbor a surprising variety of life. The equatorial regions are largely barren desert, but the higher temperate latitudes are astoundingly rich. There are huge areas of grasslands, many thousands of square kilometers; and some of the high plateaus that Nadia just mentioned support some limited stands of forest. We’re also getting definite indications of animal life—some of them appear to be quite large.”
Oh wonderful, I thought. Now that they’ve rendered me defenseless...
“Dangerous?” Gaetano asked sharply.
Delaney shrugged and smiled slightly. “Only one way to find out.”
“Very encouraging,” Gaetano said. And then they all, with the exception of the captain, glanced over at me.
“The quality of our orbital scans has been excellent,” I said. “As with our previous surveys, we have no evidence of intelligent life or civilization. By all outward appearances, we seem to have found another uninhabited planet.” And a damn useless one, I added silently.
“What about the magnetic anomalies?” Captain Antilles broke in quietly.
“Pardon me, sir?” I said, startled.
“The planet’s unusual magnetic field,” the captain amplified. “Is it possibly a form of communication?”
“I...was under the impression that we settled that question yesterday, Captain,” I said carefully. “Commander Nakamara believes...”
The captain frowned, his favorite facial expression. “Does Commander Nakamara do all of  your work for you, Lieutenant?”
The multiple implications of that question stung me, and I had to fight to keep my voice even and respectful. “Not at all, sir,” I said. “But I do very much value his expert opinions. In this case Commander Nakamara believes the magnetic fluctuations to be a natural phenomenon, possibly caused by a core more liquid or more active than the norm. I concur with his opinion, based on my experience as a comm officer. Our computer can find no intelligible signal in the fluctuations—just random, chaotic noise. In any event, geomagnetism would be a very unlikely form of communications.”
“Your opinions are noted, Lieutenant,” Captain Antilles said dismissively. He turned to Nakamara. “Are the conditions on the planet safe for our landing parties, Commander?”
“The radiation flux is slightly high, but within tolerances,” Nakamara said. “The major problems will be the ultraviolet and the heat. I’ve discussed this already with Dr. Enyeart. He suggests avoiding the equatorial areas entirely, unless absolutely necessary. He also suggests that the landings begin in the early morning, planetary time, and that they be short: no more than about five hours at a time. He will provide UV-blocking skin treatments for those who require it, which will be almost everyone. He also suggests very strongly that everyone who beams down carry as much water as possible. And finally, if anyone in a landing party experiences symptoms of heat exhaustion, he or she should beam up immediately.”
“You may consider the doctor’s recommendations to be my orders,” the captain said. He looked around the table, his gaze excluding me. “I will tell you all now, however, that I do not intend for this to be a brief or cursory examination. As Commander Nakamara has said, this planet poses many questions. Before we leave here, it is my intention to have them answered  thoroughly. I believe that you all understand me.”
It’s strange, the sensation I got then. Once before I’d felt it; in the briefing that followed our survey of A-Benideel. Now, as then, the others gathered around the table glanced quickly at me, their expressions troubled and nervous; as if, once again, the captain had said something that he shouldn’t have in my presence. But what it had been, I still didn’t know.
“I especially,” Captain Antilles said, “want to know beyond a doubt whether this planet has ever harbored intelligent life. Despite the opinions of some, I still consider that question very much open.”
“Our first landing will be at oh-seven-hundred hours tomorrow,” Nakamara said. “Let’s get to work.”
###
I went to see Matthews.
It had been my intention not to do so; I feared that it would only serve to get us both into more trouble. But that evening, with our first landing due early the next morning, I found my curiosity getting the better of me. I simply had to know what had really happened; and how I had avoided being blamed.
The security ensign guarding the door to Matthews’ quarters was young (aren’t they all, really?) and he looked at me with a mixture of respect, trepidation and outright terror. “May I help you, Lieutenant?” he said nervously.
“I’m here to see Ensign Matthews,” I said. “I understand he is allowed visitors.”
“Uh, yes, ma’am,” he said. “Do you—uh—do you have clearance from Lieutenant Harris?”
“No,” I said. “I wasn’t aware that I needed one.”
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he sighed. “I should call him,” he said. “But Lieutenant Harris hates being bothered when he’s off duty. All right. You can go in, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Ensign,” I said with heavy irony. I stepped through.
I must add parenthetically here that Zelazny was one of the very few ships I’d ever encountered in which everyone, even ensigns and enlisted, had their own private quarters. The reason, I suppose, had to do with the small crew and the small ship; if the crew members didn’t have at least one place where they could be absolutely alone, they would have gone nuts. I know I would have. But I digress.
Ensign Matthews was seated at his work table, a data pad in his hands. Instead of a uniform, he wore casual trousers and a loose long-sleeved shirt; he seemed to have adopted a “shore-leave” mode of thinking. He looked up at me with a cheerful smile as I entered; his left eye was spectacularly blackened, the bruise shading from purple into that peculiar yellowish green tint. “Lieutenant!” he said, sounding pleased. “This is a surprise!”
Despite Matthews’ cavalier attitude, I had to repress a shudder. I had recently gone through the “restricted-to-quarters” bit myself, for the very first time in my career; and while I suppose it’s much better than the brig or the stockade, I still devoutly prayed that it would be the very last time. I am simply not the kind of person who responds well to confinement—especially when you add a large dollop of injustice to the mix.
My first words to him, as the door closed behind me, wiped the smile off his face. “You, Ensign Matthews,” I proclaimed, “are an idiot.”
He looked startled. “Pardon me, Lieutenant?”
I stepped across the room and perched myself on the edge of his neatly-made bunk. “That fight you had with Osgood,” I explained. “Don’t you appreciate what that kind of thing can do to your career?”
He shrugged. “As I said once before, it isn’t the first time. Fights happen on starships, Lieutenant. Especially ones on long patrols. As long as no one is badly hurt, the psych boys at HQ usually see it as a stress release.”
In that, he did have a point. But still...“You’re not going to tell me that was just a stress relief, Brian,” I said. “I know why you did it.”
“Of course,” he said placidly. “Osgood is an idiot. He always has been. He’s my age; we were in the Academy together. Even there he was always the screw-up, always the class clown. He came within a hair’s-breadth of washing out any number of times. But this...everybody on this ship knows that he caused what happened to you. A couple nights ago he was in the gym bragging about it. He was actually pleased by what he’d done; proud of it. When I heard that...well, I couldn’t take it any more. And with him, a calm discussion of the issues wasn’t going to do it.”
“Well, in a way I appreciate it,” I said. “I do appreciate your loyalty. But you did put me in a very bad position, you realize. Captain Antilles punished me terribly for that incident in the Rec Room. He might very well have blamed me for this too. Did that ever occur to you, when you were pummeling Osgood?”
He shook his head, crestfallen. “At the moment, no, Lieutenant.”
“In fact,” I went on, “I still can’t believe that I didn’t get blamed.”
Suddenly he grinned again. “That’s the best part of the story. You see, the gym was fairly crowded that night. A lot of them were Osgood’s clique—you know the ones I mean.”
I nodded. To my sorrow, I did; the ones who had sat around the Mess Hall table with him, laughing at his racist remarks; and the ones around the poker table that terrible night, egging him on. I knew them only too well.
“But,” Matthews went on, “all of a sudden they weren’t quite so supportive any more. He was bragging, and joking about what he did to you; but they weren’t laughing. It was just... silence. No encouragement at all. Osgood’s not the kind of person who would take that as a signal to shut up, though. He got louder instead. And that’s when I couldn’t take it any more.”
“And?” I prompted.
“And...afterwards, Osgood tried to get their support, to get them to say that you’d put me up to an unprovoked attack on him. But they wouldn’t do it.”
“No?” I said, startled. “Why not?”
“I don’t really know,” he said. “But when Lieutenant Harris arrived, not a one of them supported Osgood. They all swore he had caused the fight.”
I was absolutely astounded. I’d honestly believed that there was no limit to what Osgood could get away with. Had he finally gone too far? I like to think that most intelligent beings, even humans, have at least a thin thread of decency in them. Had what had happened to me, which they had tacitly supported, finally begun to prick at the consciences of those people?
“So why are you here, and Osgood still on duty?” I asked.
Matthews smiled. “The captain and Commander Edgeworth had fits about that one. They wanted to blame you; but without any evidence at all, even they couldn’t go that far. All they could do was determine who threw the first punch, and that was me. I never denied that.”
I peered closely at him. “Commander Nakamara told me that Osgood had gotten a lot worse than you. I think he was right. How’d you manage that?”
In response he grinned, and pointed to the wall above his bunk, where a framed certificate hung. I rose for a closer look. It was an award, the familiar gold-edged parchment given at the Academy for winning an athletic competition. I owned one myself, in storage at DS 2. Mine was for tennis, of course; but Matthews’ was for boxing. In his third year, it seemed, he had taken the lightweight championship.
“I see,” I said. “Well, Mr. Matthews, I find that I’m still in a rather difficult position. On the one hand I want to thank you and congratulate you; it was about time someone taught Osgood a lesson. But on the other hand I’m duty-bound to tell you: never, never do anything like that again!”
He smiled. “Quite frankly, Lieutenant,” he said, “I don’t think it will be necessary again.”
###
I’d named this planet correctly, it seemed.
Our first landing site (chosen, needless to say, without the benefit of my advice) was in a valley, or perhaps more correctly a canyon, which cut roughly north to south for two hundred kilometers or more on a large continent in the planet’s so-called “temperate zone.”
We beamed down to the canyon’s floor just after sunrise (or maybe I should say “first sunrise;” only the red giant had appeared above the horizon when we arrived.) As we materialized I gasped and turned my head; a stiff, hot wind, carrying a load of stinging sand, had struck me full in the face. Goddess! I thought. If it’s like this with one sun barely risen...
The surface underneath my long-suffering feet was gravel, quite sharp, which rustled and shifted uneasily as I moved my feet, searching in vain for a comfortable place to stand. The air smelled strongly of rock dust and heat; and the only sound, other than my companions’ footsteps, was the moaning of the wind down the canyon.
Beside me, Gaetano squinted up into the bloody light. “Reminds me of the Grand Canyon on Terra,” he commented.
I looked around. Somewhat without my consent, I found myself at the bottom of a canyon possibly two kilometers deep. The walls, very nearly vertical, were extensively convoluted and channeled. By running water? At the rim the walls were perhaps three kilometers apart; down where we were, perhaps two. The floor of the canyon was flat, absolutely flat, and utterly dry; in places thick beds of gravel, and in other places deep washes of coarse sand. In that weird light, at least for a few more minutes, all colors shaded from dark grey to dead black; and the shadows were green.
“If so, where’s the Colorado?” I teased Gaetano.
He shrugged affably. “Okay. Mariner Valley on Mars, then.”
That, I could almost buy, having once stood on the floor of that self-same valley. I’d been wearing a pressure suit, though, and the temperature had been well below zero.
The red sun had risen fully above the rim of the canyon by then; a gigantic blood-colored orb that seemed to take up a full quarters of the sky; and yet could be looked at full-on without pain, as can the last few minutes of sunset on Terra or Cait. Its green-tinged shadows were steadily shrinking....when the other two suns rose simultaneously.
“Dramatic” is not the word for the change that ensued. “Horrifying” might do it.
It was as if someone had just turned an arc-light onto a darkened stage. Suddenly the gravel below my feet was light grey, not black; and the washes of sand were light brown. The walls of the canyon were banded in dark grey, brown, cream, red, purple...many colors, making that Grand Canyon comparison suddenly more apt. But unfortunately, appreciation for the beauty  of the transformation was the very farthest thing from my mind at that point; because with the other two suns came a wave of heat. It was almost a solid object, that heat; like a fast-moving wall that slammed into me, taking my breath quite away and almost knocking me over. I found myself turning away, half-crouched, as if shying away from a physical blow.
“Wow,” Gaetano said. He lifted his tricorder. “Massive amounts of UV. Thank God for sunscreen cream.”
I don’t need sunscreen; or, more accurately, I do on only one small part of my anatomy that my uniform normally leaves exposed: that is, the very tip of my nose. I was thanking the Goddess for a thick and UV-proof coat of fur. Though, very soon I suspected, that opinion would be exactly reversed. As it was, though, the small tube of sunscreen that Dr. Enyeart had pressed on me, and which I carried in the bottom of my sample bag, could potentially last me for months (not that I planned on hanging around that long.) My human colleagues weren’t that lucky. Even Commander Delaney, whose skin was even darker than Uhura’s, was by no means immune.
Commander Nakamara clapped his hands together. This time he was in charge of the landing party, as Delaney had been the last, and Gaetano the one before that. My turn, if indeed it ever came, would obviously be very far in the future.
“All right, people,” Nakamara said. “It isn’t going to get any cooler. Let’s get some work done while we still can.”
Next to me, Delaney looked disparagingly at the canyon walls, on which there was not one spot of green visible. “How the hell am I supposed to get any work done here?” she muttered. Then she sighed, shrugged, and moved off, unlimbering her tricorder. I echoed her sentiments; but in my case it was more like: “How the hell are we supposed to stay alive here, long enough to get any work done?”
I sighed myself, and reached for my tricorder and rock hammer. Some of the layers of the canyon walls seemed to be limestone, or something very like it; maybe I could find some fossils interesting enough to compensate for a fatal heat-stroke.
###
A couple hours later I was half a kilometer up a side-canyon, perched unsteadily on a boulder (without help from my toe-claws, which would have made my balance secure) examining a face of light grey limestone. Not because it was especially promising (it wasn’t); mainly because it was on the shady side of the canyon. Not that the shade helped much. When I heard the slithering clatter of footsteps behind me I spun, almost losing my footing; but it was only Gaetano.
He was sweating freely, the front of his tunic hanging open (as was mine), his face flushed bright red, as he struggled across the loose gravel toward me; but he grinned anyway. “What’s up?” he said.
I closed my tricorder and sat down atop the boulder. There was room for two, and he hauled himself up beside me. I said, “It’s hot, this planet is worthless, and I’m almost out of drinking water. What’s up with you?”
“About the same,” he said. “The word I’d use is ‘strange,’ though. This planet is truly bizarre.”
“How so?” I asked. I suddenly realized, to my embarrassment, that I was not calling him “Commander” or “sir;” but he didn’t seem to either notice or mind. Indeed, it seemed to me that I could have called him by his first name without offense. It was a comfortable, friendly thought; but I couldn’t ever forget that his friendliness was entirely superficial.
Gaetano waved his hand. “Case in point, this canyon. It shows every sign of having been cut by flowing water, over many millions of years. Like the Grand Canyon, as I said. But our learned friend Lieutenant Kerenski tells us that there has never been that much flowing water in this planet’s entire history.”
I shrugged. “So she’s wrong.”
He grinned. “Don’t let Nadia hear you say that. But no, actually, I don’t think she is. The amount of water on this planet is extremely low. It always has been.” He waved his hand again. “Case in point number two,” he said. “What are most of the layers in these walls made of?”
“Limestone,” I said instantly. That much had been obvious, even from the first glance. 
“Which forms—?” he prompted, in a voice like an especially pedantic professor.
“Usually from the accretion of shells in a shallow sea,” I said. Then I realized what he was saying. “Meaning that this entire area, many thousands of square kilometers, would have once had to have been under water.”
“Perfect score,” he beamed. “And that doesn’t seen very likely either. Remember what our sensor scans told us about the present seas: extremely salty, and totally devoid of life. They’re even more saline than the Dead Sea on Terra. Even a brine shrimp would curl up and die within ten seconds.”
“Meaning that those seas couldn’t accrete shells of any kind.”
“Exactly,” he agreed. “Only rock salt. The present seas are surrounded by huge salt pans, like the floor of Death Valley, and kilometers deep, like that which we find under the bed of the Mediterranean. I’m not seeing any evidence of that anywhere near this canyon. So, either conditions on this planet were once radically different than I’m willing to give them credit for—” he broke off.
“Or?” I prompted.
“Or...I have no idea,” he grinned. “’Tis a puzzlement, as they say.”
“I wonder...,” I began, and trailed off. 
“Yes?”
“Well,” I said reluctantly, aware that the theory I was hatching was somewhat off the wall, “This planet is in a Trojan point orbit. Trojan points are notorious ‘collectors’. In the Terra-Luna system, spacecraft have to avoid the Trojan points, because they collect a dangerous amount of dust and debris. Most of the smaller moons of Jupiter are asteroids that have been caught in the planet’s Trojan points.”
“That’s all true,” Gaetano agreed. “So?”
“So...could this planet be from outside this system ? Captured by these suns’ gravity, as it passed through?”
“Meaning that it evolved its geology in a different star system, and then was cut loose from its primary for some reason?”
“Stranger things have happened,” I pointed out. “Star do explode, or collide with others.”
“True, but there’s a problem with that,” Gaetano said. “During the transit through deep space, the planet’s atmosphere would have frozen solid. Granted that it could have thawed out later with little or no loss, but any life would have been utterly destroyed along the way. It would have had to evolve all over again.”
“Unlikely, granted,” I agreed. “Although we have no idea of the time factor. But that leaves us back where we came in.”
“True,” he said, untroubled. He glanced up at the limestone cliff I’d been working. “Any luck?” he asked.
“Zero,” I told him. “I’ve been poking around these cliffs for the last two solid hours. If there’s a fossil in them, I can’t find it. Not so much as half a seashell.”
He frowned. “That’s...strange.”
“Very,” I agreed. “As far as I can tell, the rock is pure, almost grainless calcium carbonate. For all I know it could have precipitated out of solution.”
“Not very likely,” he said. “Not on this scale.”
“I know,” I said. “Add it to the list, I suppose.”
“Right.”
“Commander,” I said, having lost my nerve a trifle, “what do you think about that strange magnetic field?”
He scratched his chin. Then he said, slowly, “I tend to agree with Commander Nakamara: a natural phenomenon. The tidal stresses from those three suns would be terrific. We’ve already picked up evidence of some strong earthquakes. It would tend to keep the core very liquid, and in constant and chaotic motion. The geodynamo effect, you know.”
“And the captain’s theory—?” I persisted.
He smiled slowly. “Is very unlikely.” He ran the back of his hand across his forehead, and what appeared to be half a liter of sweat streamed down his arm. 
“I’ve always been curious,” I said, or rather panted. Indeed, my conversation had been a great deal more disjointed than I’ve written it, because of my constant, breathless panting. “What it’s like to perspire.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “Believe me, you wouldn’t like it.”
I glanced up at those awful suns, and then back down hurriedly. “How hot is it, I wonder?” I commented.
He consulted his tricorder. “Exactly forty-three degrees,” he said blandly.
Goddess! “I think you ought to know,” I said, “that my warranty is voided above thirty-two degrees.”
“Mine too,” he said. “But ours not to reason why.”
I made a face. I knew the quote, of course, but I’ve never been crazy about the “...or die” part. 
Gaetano slid off the boulder, and gave me a hand down. “Let’s go see how the others are doing, eh?”
###
The next morning I was sick.
I was not actually heaving, or anything as dramatic as that; but I woke from ten hours or so of restless sleep feeling shaky and fragile, and with a blinding headache. Unable to face the prospect of breakfast (as I’d been unable to face dinner the night before) I put myself on sick call; and, with extreme reluctance, I took myself with unsteady footsteps to sickbay.
To my surprise, I found my colleagues already there, all four of them stretched out on exam tables, looking every bit as miserable as I felt. 
Gaetano grinned weakly as I entered. “We were wondering when you’d join the show,” he said.
As I stripped off and hauled myself up onto the last available exam table, I said reluctantly, “Uh—we didn’t pick up some kind of weird and lethal virus that the bioscanners missed, did we?”
Dr. Enyeart sounded disgusted. “No,” he said. “What you picked up was a case of heatstroke, running around in those temperatures without enough water.”
“We had water,” I protested. “Two full liters each.” And I’d finished mine, down to the last tepid drop.
“Carry more next time,” he said ruthlessly. I was a little reluctant to let him touch me, because of the last procedure that he’d carried out on my poor corpus. Indeed, every time I saw him I had to resist an impulse to hide my hands behind my back. But this was an emergency. I allowed him to press a spray hypo against my upper arm; and a few seconds later my headache began to recede. “Or stay down a shorter time, or pick a cooler place.”
Wonderful advice, yes, I thought. I said, “Wait a minute. If we’re all here, who’s beaming down?”
“Nobody,” Nakamara said. 
“And the captain—?”
“Is livid, yes,” Gaetano grinned.
That, I could well imagine; but Enyeart said firmly, “Livid or not, none of you is going to beam down today. Doctor’s orders. I’m prescribing rest, and lots of fluids, for at least twenty-four hours.” He turned to me, his gaze and voice almost accusing. “Especially for you, Lieutenant,” he said. “For some reason you seem to have been the hardest hit.”
I thought, Yeah, well, you try traipsing around down there in a fur body suit, and a uniform on top of that, and see how you like it! “Understood, Doctor,” I said.
Nakamara cleared his throat. “I think we’d better adjourn to our briefing area,” he said. “We can at least discuss results from yesterday. That shouldn’t be too taxing.” He smiled. “And the cold drinks are on me.”
Silently I shook my head. Captain Antilles was going to just love this one, considering how interested he was in this planet. The entire survey team putting themselves out of commission—? Oh, well, at least there was one consolation: I could see no way that he could blame me for it.
Nakamara looked around, and we all nodded our agreement. Dr. Enyeart sighed tragically. “I suppose that will be sufficient, though I would prefer to see you all get bed rest,” he said. “There isn’t a lot more I can do for you here, at any rate.”
We all started then to dress, preparatory to leaving; but as we did, Dr. Enyeart picked up a data pad and studied it. “One moment, Lieutenant,” he said to me. “I see here that another week has passed. We might as well take care of it now, since you’re here. I have the clippers with me; won’t take a moment.” He did, too, in a pocket of his smock, and I turned away as he produced them. It hadn’t taken long, as you might imagine, for me to come to absolutely loath the very sight of the damn things.
At he made this announcement, three things happened. Two were normal, and one very unexpected. One, my heart sank. Two, my tail began to lash. Those were normal. What was unusual was this: my colleagues, all four of them together, paused in their dressing to give Enyeart a very harsh look. I could almost read their minds, especially Gaetano’s; they were thinking: She came to him for help, and this is what she gets? Enyeart, though, seemed utterly oblivious.
Looking at them, a strange feeling went through me. With their support behind me, I came close to telling Enyeart just where to stuff his clippers. But...well, I knew what would happen, if I did. He would go straight to Captain Antilles. My colleagues’ support, even Gaetano’s, was paper-thin; they would not even attempt to prevent Enyeart from permanently declawing me, which the captain would immediately order him to do. And that, as I’ve said, was a risk I didn’t dare to take. 
And so I sighed. “All right, Doctor,” I said. I glanced at Nakamara. “I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes, if that’s all right, sir.”
Nakamara looked at me for a long moment, his expression strange. Then he nodded once. “Of course, Lieutenant,” he said softly. “We’ll be waiting for you.”
And then he and the others trooped out, leaving me to the tender mercies of Enyeart and his damn clippers. On their way out I heard Gaetano say to Nakamara, “You know, Hiro, I bet we’d find lots of fascinating stuff in the antarctic...”
###
In the end, Zelazny spent two solid weeks orbiting Hellhole.
If I had been consulted (I wasn’t) that would have been closer to two days, or two hours. Admitted that this planet was a fascinating collection of paradoxes; but that did not, at least for me, even begin to compensate for the absolute misery of exploring it. During those two weeks we made a number of landings, in various parts of the planet (avoiding only the barren and lethally-hot equatorial regions) and there was no place where we landed, that was not miserable. Even the arctic and the antarctic were only a shade less than brutally hot.
...And no matter how long I may live, I doubt whether I shall ever see another place as desolate and horrible as the shores of those small seas. I have been to Death Valley on Terra; I’ve seen the so-called “Devil’s Golf Course.” But compared to Hellhole’s seas, that place is a temperate rain forest. They were little more than puddles; even the largest was no more than fifty kilometers across, and about ten meters deep at the center. They were so salty, as Gaetano had said, as to be instantly fatal to any life-form known to science; not even algae could endure them. And the seas contributed, in no small way, to the mystery that this planet represented; because at one time they had been much larger, and presumably somewhat less salty. All of them existed in huge sinks, many thousands of square kilometers, which gave every sign of having once been sea-bed; but were now no more than glaring, sterile, lethal salt flats, the layers of compacted salt kilometers thick. And each of the pans came equipped with at least half a dozen bone-dry river beds, entering from every direction. Curiously—a fact that both Gaetano and I noticed instantly—the river beds ended at the very edge of the salt pans. There was no sign that the rivers had chased the recession of the evaporating seas, eroding their channels into the widening beds. That meant that the seas had dried, and the rivers had ceased to flow, almost simultaneously, and at an incredibly rapid rate. Another mystery for our growing list.
And yet, despite the horrid conditions, there was life on this planet, as our biosensors had indicated. It was a tossup, which was the biggest mystery: how life had gotten a start here in the first place; or how it continued to exist. In many areas of the planet, in the high temperate to the arctic and antarctic, there were titanic expanses of grasslands, millions of square kilometers of a tough, fibrous grass which grew much taller than a person. The effect of standing on a ridge, say, above the grasslands in the constant high winds was like watching a storm-tossed sea. And in some areas, high plateaus and mountains where the nights were as brutally cold as the days were hot (because of the thin air and the lack of an insulating cloud layer) there were large stands of forest, the trees of several different types. And that about did it for the range of ecosystems, much to Commander Delaney’s disgust.
The animal life was a good deal more elusive. We knew that some existed; our bioscans proved that. But other than a few dark shapes fleeing the dawn—some of them unnervingly large—we had seen little. Something ate the high grass; we saw many regions where it had been grazed almost flat over large areas; but we never saw what did it; only their large droppings. You may well imagine the ribbing that Delaney endured for her “dung collection”; but you do your work however you must. She, at least, had something to go on. Her theory (which I had no trouble believing) was that most of the animals were nocturnal. It made sense: anything to get out of that damn horrible sunlight. Or at very least crepuscular, inhabiting the twilight times of dusk and dawn. Even Captain Antilles hadn’t been so foolish as to order a night landing party (Yes, it would have been cooler; but, given the size of some of the animals our bioscans had indicated, appallingly dangerous.)
Yes, this planet was undeniably fascinating, no doubt worth many years’ study (by someone much more hardy than me.) But what irked me as the days and the landing parties went on, was the fact that unraveling those mysteries wasn’t our job. We weren’t equipped for it, either in materiel or personnel; or, indeed, time. Our mission, at least as it had been described to me, was to search for colony sites; that, and to search for intelligent life. It had taken me, at least, no more than a day or two to discover that this place was a miserable colonization prospect; and that it had not one trace of intelligent life. By our mission profile, we should have packed up and moved on after we’d made that determination. But for some reason, Captain Antilles refused to let it go. Why,  I didn’t then know; it took me a very long time to find out. At the time, I knew only that he refused to listen to reason; and that he continued to order us down on more and more landing parties, until I despised the very sight of the planet. He seemed a man possessed, like Ahab; it seemed to me that he was...searching for something, I guess I’d have to say. What it was, I couldn’t then say. And as each day passed, as he failed to find it, his temper got progressively worse. I tried to avoid him as much as possible (always a good policy, actually) The problem was, that was become less easy to do. Suddenly it seemed that wherever I turned, the captain was there. He began attending our science briefings, all of them; he demanded to see our log entries every day. He became daily more enraged that we weren’t finding whatever it was we were supposed to be finding.
The truly bizarre thing is, I became certain that my colleagues knew what the captain wanted them to find. I saw the worried, harried glances they exchanged as the captain sat down to watch our briefings; and I saw them look nervously at me as I gave my reports. I’d had that feeling before, of course; the feeling of an undercurrent, something happening all around me that they didn’t dare share with me. And as always, that experience gave me a remarkable feeling of unsafety.
I suppose, in retrospect, that I should have let it go, like I always did; but by now, I suppose, you know that I couldn’t. And at the end of the first week, I finally screwed up my courage and asked.
We had beamed down that day to a place that almost—almost reminded me of home. It was a rolling plain, somewhere above the Arctic Circle, covered with a shorter, grey-tinged version of that ubiquitous grass; and trees. They weren’t tatak, but they were close: tall, twisted shapes, with dark brown, rough bark, and tiny, avocado leaves. Even in the arctic it was hot; and the wind was fierce.
That day I found myself, as I had so often recently, working with Gaetano. It was logical enough, I suppose, our specialties being so closely related; and he had been ordered to monitor my work; but there was much more to it than that. Against all reason, I was developing a genuine fondness for Karl Gaetano. I know there are many reasons why I shouldn’t have; but in the near-total absence of any other positive emotional contact...
At any rate, on this particular day we had poked around, examining the outcrops of rock (volcanic), discussing the planet’s origins without coming to any conclusions, and quite failing,  as I had failed for the past six days, to find anything resembling a fossil. Finally, around twelve hundred hours our time, he pointed to a large, sprawling tree about twenty meters distant. The tree’s canopy was sparse, and its shade dubious; but any shade at all was a relief, from those three relentless suns. 
Commander Gaetano wiped the sweat from his broad forehead. “Let’s take a break,” he suggested.
“Fine with me,” I agreed. There was a large flat rock near the tree trunk; we sank down into it. As the hot wind stirred the branches, splotches of shade washed over us.
Gaetano reached into his sample bag and pulled out a water bottle. He took a swig, wiped the rim on his sleeve, and passed the bottle to me. The water was tepid at best; but at that place and time, tasted better than srall-nectar. I’d been panting like a bellows, and my mouth was dust-dry. I was feeling a tiny bit dizzy, too; probably heat exhaustion again. Potassium tablets, that was the answer.
“Thank you,” I said, handing the bottle back.
“You’re welcome,” he said, and there was such warmth in his voice, that I glanced over at him quickly. Once again he was smiling, actually smiling at me, not just grinning; and certainly not smirking or sarcastically laughing, as so many others did. And his smile didn’t quickly go away as I looked at him. 
You can become so starved for affection, I had found, that even the smallest crumb thrown your way can seem a benediction. Sitting there under that tree, I found my heart quite literally melting from the sight of just a simple, honest smile. Goddess! That I should have reached such a state! And how fortunate I’d always been before. Surrounded by family, friends, loved ones...I had never before lacked for a smile or a sympathetic ear. Never before had I felt so literally that I was dying from loneliness.
Quite frankly I still didn’t entirely trust him; and I still didn’t know whose side, if any, he was on. But at the moment his friendly smile was enough, enough to make me contemplate something as foolish as hugging him. But he broke the spell himself, before I could; he reached into his bag again, and handed me a ration bar, meat concentrate. With a tiny sigh, I accepted it. The mundane always has a way of supplanting the sublime.
For several minutes we sat in silence, munching on the rather unpalatable (but guaranteed nutritious) ration bars. Then I cleared my throat. “Commander,” I said, “can you tell me—what’s the captain looking for?”
The effect of that simple question was remarkable. Gaetano’s normally ruddy features went dead pale, and he swallowed hard. He took a quick look around; but we were alone, the others off plying their own trades. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded harshly.
A little stunned by his reaction, I retrenched. “Well, sir,” I said, “obviously he’s devoting an inordinate amount of time and energy to a planet that doesn’t really seem worth it. It’s too hot to be a good prospect for colonization, and there is no intelligent life here. There never has been; I’d stake my reputation on that. I just wondered why the captain is so interested.”
Gaetano set the remainder of his ration bar aside. Then, with breathtaking suddenness,  he grabbed my right wrist in an unbreakable grip, and pulled my face close to his. His voice was taut in anger, his accent thickening, as he spoke in a raspy whisper. “Don’t ever ask me that again, Lieutenant. Do you understand me? Don’t ask me, or anyone else in the crew either. It is not your business.”
I am not easily intimidated, though perhaps there are times when I should be. “What are you talking about?” I countered. The grip on my wrist was starting to hurt, but I couldn’t pull free. “Of course it’s my business. I’m an officer on the Zelazny. How can I do my duty—”
He cut me off, squeezing my wrist even tighter, so that the bones ground together painfully. What was in his face and voice now, though, had very little of anger; it seemed to be mainly...fear. He seemed genuinely terrified of something. “You’ll do your duty the best way you can, Lieutenant,” he said. “You’ll investigate what the captain tells you to, and in the way he tells you to do it. No more, no less. And you will not ask why.” He shook my wrist, causing my hand to flop back and forth. “This isn’t the worst thing that can happen to you.”
He was referring, of course, to my cut claws; trimmed back that very morning, and tender. I was inclined to disagree with his assessment, though; he didn’t know Caitians. Despite the pain, I was about to press him further, to ask him what he meant; but something in his eyes stopped me. He wasn’t afraid for himself, I suddenly saw; not at least not totally. He was afraid for me. And if I didn’t desist, he might well fracture my wrist.
So I just said, “All right, Commander. Thank you for clarifying that.”
If he heard the irony in my voice, he gave no sign; he merely released his grip on my arm. Then, probably seeing my grimace of pain, he took my wrist between both his hands, and gently massaged it. “I’m sorry,” he said; and I had a feeling he was referring to more than just squeezing my arm.
“That’s all right, sir,” I said.
He released me again, and reached for his bag. “We’d better—uh—we’d better get back to work.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and I hauled myself to my feet, utterly perplexed. Obviously I’d just been warned—but what of?
###
I’d overslept.
For me, that was very rare; my internal clock usually worked flawlessly. Life on this damn ship, however, was messing up most of my internal rhythms; this was just the latest example. I’d neglected to set an external alarm; by the time I finally woke up and glanced at the chronometer, I had less than half an hour to get ready for another landing-party detail. No leisurely five-course breakfast for me this morning.
The day before had marked the end of our second week orbiting Hellhole; and by this time, I know I was not the only one impatient to move on. I could see it in the eyes of my crewmates; could hear it in their voices. Especially my colleagues, as we all assembled in the transporter room each morning for yet another landing. Everybody on board Zelazny, with the exception of Captain Antilles, was dying to blow this popsicle stand.
I wolfed down (if you’ll pardon a dubious metaphor) a few slices of liver, with a rapidity sure to cause heartburn later. Then I threw on my uniform and stuffed a few necessary items into my sample bag. I was just about finished—including the most important, twin liter-sized thermal jugs of ice water, and a packet of potassium tablets (you don’t have to sweat to get an electrolyte imbalance, in heat like that) when the doorbell chimed.
I sighed. Who the hell—? “Come!”
He stood in the door way with his hands behind his back and a hesitant look on his face. As per usual. I sighed again. “Make it fast, Joel. I’m about to be late.”
“Five minutes?” he asked.
I suppose I really should have kicked him out again; but...I owed him one. Ever since our last confrontation, weeks ago now, I’d been suffering from some little stabs of guilt for the way I’d treated him. “All right,” I said. “Five minutes.”
He entered, letting the door close behind him, and then sat down on the edge of my unmade bunk. He took a deep breath. “First of all I want to apologize to you. When I came to you after that...incident...I was truly only trying to help. But I guess I didn’t do a very good job of it, and I’m sorry I upset you.”
As he’d spoken I’d continued to work, not looking at him. Now I set aside my sample bag. “No, Joel,” I said. “I’m not the one who’s due an apology. You are. Of all the people on this ship I think you understand best what happened to me. That day my emotions were still raging out of control. You had the misfortune to get caught in the undertow. I do know that you were trying to help, Joel. Because of some things that others have said to me recently, I’ve come to realize that I should have accepted what you were offering—uncritically.”
“I appreciate that,” he said, with the tiny hint of a smile. He patted the bunk beside him. “Please—sit down.”
I did so. He reached out to grasp my hands; and I didn’t prevent him. He went on, “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking too, these last few weeks. I’ve been thinking about our friendship, all those years ago, and why it worked so well. It helped, of course, that we had a lot in common; that we liked the same sort of places and things, for example. But that wasn’t the real reason, I don’t believe. What was, was the fact that we were always honest. We didn’t hide things from each other.”
“I can’t argue with that,” I said cautiously, wondering where all this was leading.
“Since you came aboard, really since that night on DS 2, our friendship has been going downhill fast.”
“Can’t argue with that either.”
“From my point of view that is very, very bad. I don’t want to throw away what we had, M’Ress. We were too good for each other to let that happen.”
“I...suppose you’ve got a point there.”
“And so I’ve been trying to figure out what went wrong. One thing was immediately obvious: it wasn’t anything to do with you. You haven’t done anything wrong. The problem is entirely with me. Since you came aboard I haven’t been honest with you. We know each other too well for you not to be aware of that; just as I would be aware, if you were ever dishonest with me. And I don’t blame you one bit for your anger. You had ever right to expect that I would treat you with this same honesty that I did, all those years ago; and in that expectation I have failed.
“I want you to believe me, though, that I have had no intention of harming you. Far from it. I have been dishonest with you; but not because I enjoy it, or because I wanted to. No; it has happened because I felt that it had to; that I had no choice. What I’ve tried to do, believe it or not, is to help you. There are a lot of things going on aboard this ship that you don’t know about. I’m sure that’s quite obvious to you by now. You’ll have to take my word that there are a lot of things you’d be far better off not knowing.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand,” I said. But actually I did; or rather I was beginning to. Many things were beginning to fit together, to confirm suspicions that had been many weeks in the making; and his words were just another few pieces. The picture they were forming was one that I didn’t like, not one little bit. It showed one hapless Caitian in a great deal of danger.
“I know you don’t,” he said. “At least not completely. And I’ll tell you, up until recently I would have said ‘good.’ Quite frankly you could have gone through this entire mission without understanding, and in many ways been a lot better off.
“But I know you, M’Ress. Or at least I should have. I know that damn curiosity of yours; I know that you need to understand what’s going on around you, whether the knowledge is good for you or not. I should have known that my silence, when you knew I had the facts in my possession, wouldn’t sit very well with you. I tried to ride it out; and I failed. What we’ve had between us these last couple months is the result. But please believe me, I did have your interests at heart. And mine too. Our mutual safety, to be brutally honest.”
I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline, and my heart began to pound. I tried to keep the growing excitement out of my voice as I said, “So?”
“So...I’ve decided that I can’t do it any more, M’Ress. I can’t lie to you, can’t evade your questions, can’t stonewall you any more. Our friendship is far too important to me. All I can do is hope that it will work out; that telling you what I’ve got to tell you won’t be as dangerous as I fear it will.”
“Go on,” I said impatiently.
At that moment the intercom beeped; the voice was Nakamara’s. “Lieutenant M’Ress report to the transporter room immediately,” he said testily.
I leaned over and pushed the button. “On my way.”
“Listen,” Joel said. “What I’ve got to tell you is a very long story. Too much to condense into thirty seconds. And we don’t dare attract attention by making you any later. Tell you what: come to my quarters tonight. Make sure no one sees you.”
“Of course.”
He smiled. “Caitian stealth. Good. We’ll talk then. And I swear I’ll tell you the truth, M’Ress. The truth about Zelazny. I can’t say that you’ll like it—in fact I know you won’t—but you will know the score.”
“I’ll be there,” I promised. The Goddess help me, if I wouldn’t!
“All right,” he said. He raised his arms, then hesitated. “May I?” he asked.
“Please do.”
We embraced briefly; and then, hesitantly, he kissed me. And that, at long last, was the Joel Abrams I remembered. “I’ll see you later, M’Ress.”
###
It was a little after thirteen hundred hours—and the heat was literally stifling—when my communicator beeped. “Nakamara to M’Ress.”
Our work that day had taken us into the planet’s far north. On Terra that same latitude would have been northern British Columbia, for example; in other words, cool and damp. Here, no such luck; at least not in daytime. We were examining a plateau area, some thirteen hundred kilometers above the theoretical sea level, and when we’d arrived in the early morning, the thin air had actually been quite cool, going on cold. That hadn’t endured for more than half an hour after sunrise, though. By ten hundred hours it had been well over thirty-five degrees, and climbing.
We’d beamed down into a wide grassy clearing near the edge of a major forest. The trees were wide-spaced, their bases lost in thick scrub, bushes with long and lethal thorns. The trees themselves reminded me somewhat of the Giant Sequoias of the Sierra Nevada range on Earth; in that their trunks were massively huge, and their crowns seemed to comb the sky. Unlike Sequoias, though, with their red shaggy bark, these trees were dead black in color, their bark hard and smooth. Their branches began much closer to the ground, only about five meters up. The branches (at least the lower ones) were huge, almost three-quarters the diameter of the trunks, and absolutely horizontal, their top surfaces almost flat. The branches ended, many meters from the trunk, in dense bunches of dark green, triangular leaves.
Almost immediately after we’d beamed down we’d picked up indications of animal life; not just tricorder readings, but also numerous tracks, some of them quite large, crossing and re-crossing the dusty ground. So far, though, we had not encountered the owners of any of the tracks. It was entirely possible, said Delaney, that the animals were nocturnal or at least crepuscular. As I’d worked, though, I’d kept every sense I owned alert, and I’d kept my phaser very handy. It was the only defense I still owned.
The entire science staff was down that day, as usual; and a little while after we’d arrived, when we’d reported the large animal tracks, Lieutenant Harris and another security man had beamed down to join us. In the relative cool of the morning the entire team had left the forest and trekked some three kilometers or so across barren waste to a ring of low volcanic hills, most likely the eroded remains of a caldera. These proved to be as uninteresting as they were hot, though, and we’d all soon retreated back to the forest. There, at very least, was some shade.
I had spent that day in a curious and unpleasant state of bilocation. Physically, of course, I was down on that hot and hostile planet, trying to do my job while my brains slowly fried; but mentally and emotionally I was still up on the ship. Joel’s words, and the promise he’d made, still reverberated through my mind, ruining my concentration on anything else. The hours had seemed endless, since he had made that promise; and the hours to come, before he would fulfill it, seemed nothing short of an eternity. Later that night, when I sneaked up to his quarters, would I really learn the truth? Or—as had happened too many times lately—would Joel flake on me again? If he did...well, being clawless, I wasn’t sure exactly what I might do; but one thing was certain: this was his absolutely last chance.
But anyway, my communicator beeped. I straightened up, running the back of my hand across my dazzled eyes, as I fumbled for the little instrument. I had been working alone for a couple hours now, following the deeply-carved bed of a small tepid stream. Yes, you did read that right: I said a stream. Other than those seas, this was the only open or running water we’d encountered anywhere on the planet; and the only fresh water bar none. I’d stumbled upon the creek earlier, by accident; and I’d stood there looking down into it, rather stupidly I fear, for more than five minutes before I accepted what my eyes were telling me. The stream emerged from somewhere in the forest; and it flowed, meandering, to die in a rocky sink a few kilometers outside the forest. And once I’d found it, I’d lingered by it. More (shall I be honest) because I enjoyed the sight, sound and smell of running water in this Goddess-forsaken place, than for any practical reason. The banks were composed of sandstone, though, sprinkled liberally with slightly mysterious chunks and boulders of obsidian. As far as I could tell, the sandstone was utterly, absolutely devoid of fossils. For anthro-paleo at least, this whole survey had been pretty much a bust...
“M’Ress here.”
“Lieutenant, the captain has ordered us to pull out,” Nakamara said. “Meet us at the beam-down point immediately.”
It’s about time! “On my way, sir.”
Hurriedly I packed up my sample bag, which was empty except for two nearly-drained water bottles and a rock hammer. Struggling a bit, wishing once again for my claws, I clambered up the stream bank. The watercourse skirted the very edge of the forest, and there was a clear, wide and slightly ominous path leading from the stream to the clearing that had been our beam-down point, about a kilometer distant. It was far too hot to run, so I settled for a quick walk. Even that was almost too much.
The six of them were already there, gathered in that grassy circle; dirty, hot, sweating, gazing at me impatiently.
“Ah, there you are, Lieutenant,” Nakamara said, as if it had been six hours since he’d called. In fact, it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. “We’re just about to beam up.”
I was panting hard, but I managed to get the words out: “Did you say the captain ordered us to pull out, sir?”
“That’s right,” Nakamara said. “Apparently the captain has decided we’ve spent enough time here, and that we’re not going to find anything more. He’s going to leave a sensor buoy in orbit to record the magnetic fluctuations, and then we’re moving on.”
Personally I could have told the captain more than a week ago that we’d spent enough time here; if, that is, he would ever have listened to me. I wondered who’d had the courage to knock some sense into his head. “That works for me, sir.”
“I had a feeling it would,” Nakamara smiled. He flicked his communicator. “Nakamara to Zelazny. Ready to beam up.”
“Zelazny. Matthews here. Small problem, sir. One of you is going to have to wait, I’m afraid.”
Nakamara looked disgusted. “Of course,” he said wearily. “Stand by, Ensign.”
This may require a brief word of explanation. Zelazny, unlike most ships, had precisely one (1) transporter, and that one had exactly six (6) pads. With Harris and his muscle-man having beamed down to “protect” us, we now totaled seven.
Nakamara looked up at us. “Okay,” he said, “who gets to put up with the heat for another five minutes?”
The science staff, me included, all looked around at each other speculatively; left to ourselves, we probably would have drawn straws or something similar. But across from me, Lieutenant Harris mopped his  forehead and scowled. Obviously he was not built for heat; his face was florid, redder than his hair; and he was sweating heavily, big damp patches under the arms of his tunic. He said, “What’s the problem? Miss Kitty here is the junior officer. She can wait.”
There was a gasp all around. You know, it’s strange. I ought, of course, to have been mad enough to rip his gizzard out; but though his comment stung, somehow I couldn’t muster any anger. I felt only a kind of tired ambivalence; and I turned away, suddenly (and for the first time in my life) ashamed of myself.
It was Gaetano who got angry for me. For several seconds I thought he was actually going to slug Harris, which would have landed him in restriction just as Matthews had been. Finally Gaetano mastered himself, and he spoke, his voice tightly controlled, dangerous. “You’ll watch your language when you speak about a fellow Starfleet officer, Mister,” he growled. “You’ll do well to remember that. And to make sure you do, you get the prize: you can stay in the heat a little longer.”
“No,” I said; or at least it was someone using my voice. I looked up at Gaetano. “No, Commander,” I said. “That’s all right. Lieutenant Harris is correct. I’ll wait.”
I have no idea, even now, why I said that. Maybe...maybe I was just tired. They’d made me defenseless; maybe they’d finally taken my spirit too, along with my claws. I just couldn’t face it any more: the trouble, the constant struggle. If I didn’t back down, I knew, Harris would go straight to Captain Antilles; and my side of the story would never be heard. I had no desire to find out what punishment the captain would cook up this time. That’s one theory, anyway. I do often wonder what would have happened if I’d let Gaetano force Harris to wait, while I beamed up with the others.
Gaetano looked at me for a long moment, as if to ask me whether I was certain; in response to his unspoken question I just nodded slightly, once. He sighed. Then the six of them stepped back a little way, and assumed that peculiar parade-rest beaming stance. “Energize,” Nakamara told his communicator.
I watched as the transporter took them, as the gold sparkles faded away to thin air; and I listened as the whine whispered away to silence. And then I was alone, utterly alone, the only sentient being on that entire planet. That thought troubled me for some reason, and I shivered slightly despite the heat.
I waited about a minute, then I flicked my own communicator. “M’Ress to Zelazny,” I said impatiently. “Any time now, Ensign.”
“Stand by, Lieutenant,” Matthews said. “Energizing n—”
Suddenly his voice was cut off, by a burst of static so loud and raucous that the communicator was literally shaken from my hand and fell to the grass. Out of the corner of my eye I caught something, and I spun, looking up. What I saw then I will always remember; it has haunted my nightmares ever since; and seeing it froze my heart within me.
It was in the southern sky, low, nearly to the horizon; a bright white flash, a tiny spot at first; but it grew quickly, blossoming into a world-eating blob of intolerable brightness. Streamers and filaments, shedding sparks, reached out in all directions. No noise; no sound at all. Just that horrible spreading brightness. It grew until it outshone the three suns, casting harsh shadows of its own...and then, slowly, it faded and was gone, leaving only the bright purple afterimages on my retinas. I had not been able to tear my eyes away; I had not even been able to blink.
I grabbed up my communicator and spoke pleading, desperate words into it; exactly what, I don’t remember. But there was no response. Nothing. Just silence, punctuated by random crackles of static. 
Slowly, as if physically struck from behind, I dropped to my knees, my head in my hands; and then I fell forward onto my face. “No,” I said softly. Then, again, louder: “No!” And finally I lifted my head and screamed it to the uncaring heavens: “No!”
And that was all; except that before a merciful oblivion took me, I looked at my hands, and one thought careened over and over again through my head: the knowledge that I was in deep, deep trouble.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Survival.
At Starfleet Academy, they make a big deal out of survival training, starting in your very first year; even to the point of (eventually) dropping you in the middle of Death Valley or some other inhospitable place, with nothing but a liter of water and a belt buckle. And I suppose it is all very educational, in its way.
...But in the long run, the damnable truth is that every survival situation is different. It’s a big galaxy, after all, with an infinite variety of planets. What applied well to Death Valley, say, would be almost entirely useless in a swamp full of large reptiles. And so on.
And anyway, I’d always before tended to depend on the Caitian definition of survival: the one that begins “given our claws...” Never in my worst nightmares had I imagined that I’d have to survive a hostile planet without them. But that, at least for a while, was exactly the situation I found myself in. My claws would regrow, if I lived long enough; but it would be several weeks before they’d be a useful length again. Would my phaser hold out that long?
The answer to that question, if I had many more nights like my first, was a definite “no.”
I did not lie there with my face in the dirt very long that day. No; to do so, to give in to despair, was a luxury that I simply couldn’t afford. Sitting there on the ground, because I was temporarily unable to stand, I made several more attempts to contact the ship; without success. Then I pulled out my tricorder. What it showed me—the traces of hard radiation and antimatter in the atmosphere—were like a death-knell to my heart. All doubt, if indeed there ever had been any, was now removed: Zelazny was gone, destroyed.
I don’t know how much longer I might have sat there, dazed; but the suns were beating down on me, and the heat was terrible. Finally it occurred to me that to remain there much longer was to die; and so I struggled to my feet. There was just one place I could go, one place  on all this planet that offered any hope of survival, and there I headed.
###
Along the banks of that sluggish stream, the one I’d been working near earlier, grew one solitary tree, removed from its nearest fellows by half a kilometer or so. Several of its huge roots extended out into the watercourse, forming a natural dam that backed up a still, deep, clear pool. On the shore, more roots enclosed a semicircular area of deep red sand. A dense, blissful shade hung over all.
My legs were wobbly, my strength almost gone; it took me more than half an hour to find that place. By that time I know I was heat-struck and desperately dehydrated, my twin liter bottles bone-dry. Probably I was partly irrational too. I had barely enough sense left to haul out my tricorder and check the water (drinkable, thanks be to the Goddess) before I fell to my hands and knees and lapped it up like a Terran housecat with a bowl of milk. Good thing Osgood couldn’t see me; I’d have proved all his racist remarks correct, after all. 
Some minutes later, with my thirst finally eased a little, and my mind a bit clearer, I sat down on one of the roots that dammed the stream, my trouser legs pulled up and my feet dangling in the pool. The water was much cooler than I’d expected, at least in comparison to the air; and it felt wonderful between my toes. I knew then what I would have to do. The wonder is that it took me so long to make myself do it. Even dying of heat, I still had to overcome my natural Caitian reluctance.
Finally I did it. Hurriedly, before I could change my mind, I stripped off my uniform and set it carefully aside. Then I plunged, quite naked, into the pool. I felt perfectly safe in doing so; the water was only neck-deep, and crystal-clear; I could tell that the Loch Ness Monster wasn’t waiting to grab me. I paddled around gently, easing my tense muscles.
It felt good, though I’m astounded to hear myself say so. Caitians have a natural aversion to water; as I’ve mentioned before, I didn’t even like baths. When I arrived at the Academy I didn’t even know how to swim; you may imagine my panic and terror when they told me that a swimming test was part of the standard physical fitness course. It was Joel who...
Joel. There in my pool I cried out in anguish; and angrily I took that line of thought and snapped it in two. You can’t face that yet, I told myself. You can’t even think about it now. You can’t afford the distraction. Later. If you survive, there will be plenty of time to grieve.
It’s easy, I think, to underestimate to what extent that stream was my lifeline. Without it, or if it had proved undrinkable, I truly believe I would have been dead within a day. With it, I might—might—have at least a chance. Finally, my muscles threatening to cramp, I hauled myself out of the pool and sat resting, dripping, on the giant root. I did not bother to shake any of the water out of my fur; it would evaporate soon enough, and in doing so would create a pleasant microclimate around me.
As I sat there evaporating, I became aware of another sensation clamoring for my attention: hunger. I was regretting, now, my small and hurried breakfast. I reached up nearer the treetrunk, where I’d stacked my clothing; and I pulled my sample bag from the bundle.
What I found inside was...grim. That morning in my hurry I had tossed in exactly three foil-wrapped meat bars, intending them for my lunch; a lunch that I’d not bothered to take. I suppose I might have tried to ration myself, eating half of one now and the other half later. The problem with that was, once those bars were opened they didn’t keep at all; certainly they wouldn’t in that climate anyway. So in truth I had enough for one big, or three rather meager, meals. Three was the most sensible; and one of them might as well be now. With a shrug I hoisted one and peeled away the foil.
###
I made camp, such as it was.
I saw no reason to move very far from the water; and so I made my camp for the night in the sandy area on the other side of the tree.
As hard as it was to believe at that moment, I knew from Lieutenant Kerenski’s work that after sunset the temperature on this plateau would drop rapidly. For that reason, after I’d dried out and dressed, with hands and rock hammer I dug a deep pit in the center of the sandy area, and ringed it with stones. Into that pit I arranged a good quantity of dried brush and sticks; they were not difficult to find, though I had to watch out for the thorns. I piled an even larger quantity of bigger sticks nearer the base of the tree, as reserve. I’m glad, now, that I did all this; that I didn’t decide to try to do without a fire. I don’t think I would have made it through the night. And not just because of the cold, either.
The red sun set last, as it had risen first. As the other two set there was a definite drop in temperature; definite and for the moment, welcome. But as the green-tinged shadows grew longer, the cold came on at a truly breathtaking rate, as much like a fast-moving solid wall as the heat had been that first day. I curled tight around myself under my spread-out tunic, the only even semi-warm covering I could contrive. In the growing twilight I reached for my phaser, and with a short burst I ignited the brush in my firepit. Crazy, I thought as the flames licked higher. To be huddled around a fire, shivering, four hours after nearly dying from heatstroke. This planet is truly insane...
I curled up a little tighter, laying my head on the tip of my tail, and I closed my eyes. I was exhausted, utterly worn out; but would I be able to sleep? Or would my dreams be full of that bright white flash? Maybe my brain would take pity on me...
I suppose I ought to have known that Hellhole wouldn’t give up that easily. I suppose I ought to have known that the pool I’d camped next to would be a major watering hole for the locals. I ought to have known; but I didn’t.
I dozed, I think, for half an hour or so; exactly what woke me I don’t know. Possibly a sound, a faint nose that a human wouldn’t even have heard. Whatever did it, suddenly I came wide awake, sitting up quickly, my eyes wide and searching. My fire had burned down by then, to a glowing bed of coals and a few jets of wavering bluish flame. Neither of the moons was in the sky, and the night was pitch-black outside my circle of firelight. I was later to find out, though, that even when both moons were riding high and full, their light could best be described as “wan.” And in the darkness...
Eyes. I was surrounded by eyes. Hundreds of pairs, large and small, glowing in the firelight, red, yellow and orange. They blinked, they shifted position, they drifted a little closer. No suggestion of bodies; not in that light. Just eyes.
With a ragged gasp of sheer terror I groped one-handed for my woodpile and threw sticks into the fire. With the other hand I grabbed for my phaser.
As the fire flared up the animals retreated; the hundreds of eyes got smaller and dimmer. I still had no suggestion of bodies; I still couldn’t tell exactly what I was facing. My Caitian ears detected the sound of deep breathing, from many sources; and from somewhere straight ahead, a deep, low growl. The acrid smell of wood smoke mixed with a musty, animal scent that made the fur on the back of my neck stand straight up. The stubs of my claws tried to express, useless and tingling.
For a few minutes it was a tense standoff; then one particular pair of eyes began to come slowly closer. They were large, yellow, wide-spaced, and more than a meter off the ground. I heard raspy breathing, and the growling I’d heard previously grew louder and closer. Wildly I fired my phaser, aiming for a spot right between its eyes. I don’t know what, if anything, I hit; but there came a harsh bellow, and then the splintering, crashing sound of something large and heavy throwing itself bodily through the underbrush. The rest of the eyes were suddenly extinguished. My sigh of relief sounded suspiciously like a sob.
As may be predicted, I did not get much more sleep that night. I sat, curled up with my legs beneath me, my back to the tree, my tunic pulled as close around me as I could; my phaser in my hand. I stared into the flames and embers of my fire, and occasionally I threw on a few twigs. My breath made clouds of vapor before me; I believe that the temperature was by then close to freezing, though I didn’t reach for my tricorder to find out. I didn’t want to know. Once in a while I dozed, for a few minutes at a time; then I would jerk awake, searching frantically. For the moment at least, the eyes did not reappear.
Somewhere along about zero hundred hours, wide awake, I decided it was time for me to face facts. All that afternoon and evening I had merely reacted, taking things as they hit me; it was past time to make some definite plans for my survival. 
Fact: Zelazny was gone, destroyed. How it had happened I couldn’t guess, though she certainly hadn’t seemed to be under attack; therefore some kind of mechanical failure was the most likely supposition. The crew evidently had never known what hit them. Fact: I was alone, utterly alone on a planet that was marginally habitable at best. And fact: if I was to survive this, it was up to me. For the first time in my thirty-three Terran Standard years, I literally held my life in my own furry, four-fingered clawless hands. No one would help me. If I made any mistakes, if I incapacitated myself...I was dead. That was the harsh reality.
I had one slender thread of hope to cling to; the hope that I might not grow old and die here, alone and forgotten. It was true that I was very, very far from home, deep in a sector that was not yet even truly Federation territory. But if Zelazny failed to report in for long enough, Starfleet should become concerned, and detail a ship to search for her. And the searchers would start at her last reported position. The position I myself had reported, two weeks ago. Here. But unfortunately it could take weeks for a search even to begin. Assuming that I might eventually be found, how to stay alive till then?
The way I saw it, there were three basic things that I would need: the three basic ingredients of all survival. Number one was water. That, apparently, wasn’t a problem, though perhaps I could contrive a better storage container than two one-liter bottles. As it was, I was tied a little too tightly to the stream for my taste.
The second was shelter. That was a big one. Not so much shelter from weather; rain here seemed to be as rare as maxigrazer droppings. No; what I needed was someplace that I could defend, someplace where I could feel secure enough to sleep through the nights in peace. The ground obviously wasn’t it. I’d discovered that a little too late. So where?
Up, I decided. Into the trees. We’d seen no evidence of flying birds, nor any other arboreal creatures; and I strongly doubted that anything could climb those trees. I know I could not have, even with a full set of claws; the bark was simply too hard and smooth. But I had one advantage over the animals here (at least, I hoped so): a sentient brain. Already I had the beginnings of an idea... 
The third necessity, of course, was food. And that one could be the biggest problem yet. No doubt a human, equipped with a tricorder or trusting to luck, could have located edible roots, herbs, fruits, seeds, nuts. But I am not human. If I wanted to stay healthy in addition to alive, ninety-five percent or better of my nutrition would have to come from one source: meat. Red meat or white meat, either would do. But it absolutely had to be meat.
And that, of course, meant one thing: hunting. And that, despite the presence on my body of sharp teeth and (regrowing) claws, was something I had never done in my life. Not one in a thousand Caitians, in this day and age, will ever hunt his or her own food; the price of civilization. Would I even know how? Would long-buried instincts emerge when I needed them?
If I could actually locate any game, then as long as my phaser held out, the actual killing should be reasonably easy. (The operative word here is “should.”) But that was the trouble: my phaser would not stay charged forever. It would, as I mentioned before, be a race: would my claws regrow to useful length, before my phaser died?
Damn Antilles anyway, I thought savagely. Without his violation of my precious bodily integrity, I would have been infinitely less helpless now...
Along about three hundred hours, I found myself cursing the darkness. My firewood was running low, and the eyes had started to drift back. Just a few; but they were venturing closer now than before. I had to let off a couple more of my precious phaser bolts to get them to move back again. I had a long time to go, however, before dawn would rescue me; the nights on this planet, like the days, were precisely thirteen hours long, and always would be. Hours to go...
Along about six hundred hours I found myself doing something that I had not for many years, not since childhood; because I’d thought that I really wasn’t a believer: praying. I muttered every prayer for deliverance that I could lay my tongue to, beseeching a merciful Goddess just to get me through that night. The eyes were getting close again, I was so very tired, I was out of firewood, and phaser bolts weren’t driving them away for long any more...
And the Goddess heard me. I don’t know what might have happened; certainly I would have had a hell of a fight on my hands, against very long odds; but then the horizon flushed red. In less than a minute the sudden first dawn came up, flooding the world with bloody light. I had a glimpse of a number of dark shapes, large and small, scattering in the gathering dawn. A few minutes later, and the other two suns rose, in a rush of light and heat; and by then I was once again alone. I laid my head back against the tree trunk, and closed my eyes, quietly uttering a prayer of thanks. I had been warned, though. Whatever the cost, I would not spend another night on the ground.
###
I went to work.
I’ve always prided myself on being pretty good with my hands. As a small kit I used to occupy myself for hours on end with simple, ultimately useless, but entertaining little handicrafts. And one of my favorites, for some reason completely unfathomable to my adult self, was that of rope-braiding. 
At one time it wasn’t a useless skill at all. On the veldt of S’Salan there are thousands of square kilometers of tall grass, tough and fibrous. Stripping the stalks and braiding the fibers  into rope for lassos, bolos and the like was once an important survival and hunting skill. Not any more of course; another price of civilization. But the skill, I had found, was fairly easy to pick up. At one time I’d had quite a collection, festooned around my room, much to my sister’s disgust (it was her room too.)
One of Hellhole’s most common plants was also a grass, which in places grew taller than me. In this place where I found myself it was nowhere as near as prevalent as in others (such as our second beam-down, for example, where it had covered a million square kilometers); but on the other side of the stream, just outside the forest, there was a square kilometer or so; and I found it thick, tough and fibrous indeed. I had no knife with me, and a rock hammer was of little use; but there were any number of chips of obsidian lying around. In the absence of my claws, one of them, fist-sized and with a curved, sharp edge, became an adequate cutting tool. Within half an hour I’d gathered a large armload of grass stalks, and I took them back to the stream. Not that I needed water for the job; but I did for myself.
The process itself was fairly simple. I used my sharp chuck of obsidian (any other time I would have used the claw of my right index finger) to slit the stalks; and then I extracted the bundle of fibers (mostly white, but sometimes beige or brown) that made up its heart. Left to dry for a very few minutes (in that heat) I could then braid them together not unlike braiding hair. These fibers seemed, if anything, even stronger than what I’d used as a child; and somewhat sticky, more apt to stay braided.
It took most of the rest of that day; several times I had to stop to rest my cramped fingers;  many more times for water; once for one of my two remaining ration bars; and once to strip off and dive into the pool to cool off. But finally I had three sizable lengths of rope, one about fifteen meters, and the others about ten. I was helped enormously by the great length of the grass stalks; much longer than those I’d used before. At one end of  the longest length I tied a rock the size of a potato. Along the other two lengths, more laboriously, I tied sticks, each as thick as my thumb and about half a meter long, placed about three-quarters of a meter apart, the knots near both ends of the sticks. In this way I fashioned myself a crude, but quite serviceable, ladder. This I coiled and slung across my back; my other length of rope I draped over my shoulder. And then I went on a search.
I had to go a little distance from the stream, into the fringes of the forest, to find an appropriate tree. I circled many, craning my neck upwards, before I picked one. It was removed a little distance from any other trees, so that none of its branches touched that of another; and it had a single huge branch much lower than any I’d seen, no more than five meters up. Maybe I could have done better; I don’t know. But evening was coming, and that spurred my decision-making process wonderfully. I stood below that branch, looking up at it, for a long time. I uncoiled the long rope and let it drop loosely on the ground. I weighed the rock in my right hand, tossing it up and down several times. I used to have a pretty good right arm; on the tennis court, my serves, at one time, had been described (with all modesty) as “unstoppable.” But that was a long time ago, and I hadn’t practiced, or even exercised, much lately. Only one way to find out...
Putting everything I had into it, I heaved that rock upwards. Just barely did it clear the branch, carrying the rope with it; and it thumped to the ground on the other side. Grinning like an idiot, I hurried over to it. Quickly I untied the rock and tied a loop in that end, through which I fed the other free end. Like running up a flag, I drew that loop up until it snugged tight against the branch. Then I took a deep breath, grasped the rope, and began to climb, shinnying up with hands and knees clasping the line.
It would have been infinitely easier with my claws, or a set of mountaineering ascenders; but fortunately I only had to do it once. As I’d expected, my improvised rope held my weight easily. A few minutes later I drew myself up onto the top of the branch.
The bark was smooth up there, the surface nearly flat and more than two meters wide. There was no sign that any other creature had ever been there before. Looking down, I smiled to myself. If I couldn’t be safe up here...
From my back I unslung my coiled ladder. At its top I had left long lengths of rope without rungs; and these, with a great deal of difficulty, I passed around the branch and tied tightly. I gave the ladder a kick, then, and watched it uncoil noisily down to the ground. And that, friends, is how I got my shelter.
###
Actually, it took me several more days to complete. I spent the second night up on that branch, pulling the ladder up with me; and though the creatures, whatever they were, circled below all night, I was left otherwise undisturbed. Despite exhaustion, however, It cannot be said that I slept well; I was not really comfortable. Out there in the open, with air circulating freely around me and no possibility of a fire, it was intensely cold. And worse: every time I turned over I found myself waking up in terror, lest I roll off the branch. There was one major difference between this tree and the tatak of my childhood: there I’d been able to wedge my (much smaller) body into the crotch where three large branches emerged, with no way for me to fall. Here, there was absolutely nothing between me and the Big Drop; not even my claws. No; it had to get better than that. And over the next few days,  with a great deal of work, it did.
In that forest, among those massive trees, there were a number of smaller ones, including a slender, upright, light-barked thing like a Terran poplar. With my phaser it was not difficult to cut a number of these; and I braided more rope. It was harder work hauling them up the tree, a few at a time, using some of my rope as a crude block-and-tackle. Over the next few days I built first a platform, widening and flattening the branch-top; and then a kind of rude shed atop it. One wall of the shelter was the treetrunk; the other three were poles, lashed together securely with rope. The flat roof pitched slightly away from the tree; I’d seen little need to make it waterproof. The door was small, hatch-like, just big enough for me to worm through; and over it I hung a curtain of dangling grass, the leftovers from my fiber extraction. On top of the platform I made my bed; a large quantity of grass and leaves, formed into a kind of nest; I renewed it often. With that excellent insulation, curled up tightly underneath my tunic, I could pass a fairly comfortable night, even without a fire. The shelter was also shady, and well-ventilated enough, to be comfortable (or at least endurable) in the middle of the day. And a few refinements: with rock hammer, phaser and obsidian, I hacked out a small shelf into the bark of the tree, as a resting place for my equipment. And deep into the forest, I came across a thicket of huge, weird, gourd-like things. Dried and hollowed out, the largest two I could find held a full ten liters of water each. Too heavy to carry up the tree full, I laboriously filled them two liters at a time.
It must not be assumed, of course, that all I did during those few days was construction. No; on the third day, with my ration bars long gone, my gnawing hunger forced me into that which I’d be dreading: hunting.
It turned out—fortunately for me—that this forest wasn’t as devoid of animals during the day as I’d feared. No, there were quite a few forms, hiding from the heat in the underbrush, if you had the patience to find them—and the stealth. Mainly the stealth. It was no wonder that my human colleagues hadn’t seen them, as they blundered through the forest like a herd of elephants. It required the stealth of a Caitian even to see the inhabitants of this place; let alone get close enough to kill them.
As I said, there were many types of animal life in that forest. Most of them were mammals, or something like it; furry, anyway. There were small things like a cross between a rabbit and a squirrel; there were large rooting creatures like wild pigs, but not as dangerous; and there were big flightless birds like turkeys. All of them, also fortunately for me, proved to be edible and non-poisonous. I let my tricorder tell me this, rather than relying on trial-and-error.
Quite frankly, I don’t think I want to talk about my first couple attempts. They were a fiasco. I was nervous, anxious, clumsy; I either spooked the animals by making some kind of noise, or scattered them anyway with a phaser shot that missed. By the fourth day I really believed that I was going to starve to death, before I bagged anything; I was almost ready to make myself seriously ill by trying to become herbivorous.
Finally, on that fourth day, desperate and actually weak from hunger, I somehow managed to force a measure of calm upon myself. Maybe I knew it was my last chance. At any rate, in a small clearing deep in the forest, I came across a dozen of so of those small rabbit/squirrel things, hopping placidly back and forth as they nibbled on the grass. Hidden behind a bush, I took a deep breath, stilled my hunger-induced shakes, and aimed my phaser, more carefully than I had since my Academy marksmanship test. The shot I squeezed off caught the largest and nearest of the unfortunate creatures in the head, bowling it over. The rest of the group (Herd? Gaggle? Flock? Whatever.) scattered, but that was all right. Slowly I pushed my way through the bush and picked up the small corpse. And then...
At the beginning of this little adventure that I found myself enduring, when it became plain that I would have to hunt to eat, I had been concerned that I, who had never hunted in my life, wouldn’t know what to do even if I did manage to kill something. I needn’t have worried. My stomach churning with hunger, my mouth salivating uncontrollably, I looked down at that little creature. Slowly I put my phaser away; and then I lost my mind.
When I finally came to, so to speak, I found myself crouched on the ground. There was little left of my victim but fur and bones; my face, my hands and the front of my uniform undershirt were covered with spattered blood. I stood and backed away in horror. Goddess! I thought. I did that? Was the veneer of civilization that I wore so proudly, really so terribly thin? Was I really always that close to being a savage? Or had it just been my terrible hunger?
...But my stomach was full. For the first time in several days my stomach was actually, comfortably full. And when you come right down to it, in that place and that situation, was anything else really important?
And that’s how it was. Over the next few days my hunting skills improved, until I could be reasonably certain of bagging something every time I went out. And every time I did, every time I held the body in my hands...my conscious mind went away. I couldn’t help it; and frankly, I didn’t really try. I had not the skills for hunting, it seemed; at least nothing in my education had helped me so far. But I did still have the instincts. And if I gave myself over to their mastery, they would keep me fed.
I was returning to my ancestors in more ways than one. The Caitian digestive system actually evolved to cope with the scarcity of food: when my ancestors made a kill they would gorge themselves to repletion, and then possibly not eat again for days. It’s only comparatively recently, since joining the interstellar community, that we bought in to the human idea of three square meals a day. (And as with humans, that habit can cause Caitians some digestive problems.) If anyone had asked me several weeks before, I would have said that I was too civilized; that I didn’t have the knack for binge-and-fast eating. But I found that I did, after all; if I could hunt big and eat heavily, I would not have to eat again for two to three days. The system did have one drawback, though: I wouldn’t be good for anything but sleeping during those two to three days.
I did have one small problem with the primitive, savage life: my claws. Or rather, my lack thereof. They were indeed growing back, to my inutterable relief; every morning I expressed them to check their progress. But the growth was agonizingly slow; it might be several more weeks before they would be long enough to shape, sharpen and use. And I definitely missed them. As evolution had intended, they were the perfect tool for tearing through tough skin or hide. In the primitive state of mind that often followed my kills, I sometimes found myself dragging my fingers hard across the skin of my victims; and snarling in rage when nothing happened. Without my claws, my teeth had to make do; and that was both inconvenient and hazardous. This was not the place to break teeth.
For the solution to this problem, I must thank my civilized college education, rather than my savage instincts. Years before, during my days at an undergrad at S’Salan University, a visiting Terran archaeologist demonstrated for one of my anthropology classes the technique, perfected millennia ago in many places on Earth, of chipping arrowheads, axes, hatchets, knives and so on out of hard stone, like chert, flint...or, best of all, obsidian, “natural glass.” Not only demonstrated, I should say; actually taught us how to do it. I’d been pretty good at it, too, though I was now at least thirteen years out of practice. 
Fortunately, the raw materials were plentiful. I’ve already mentioned the quantity of obsidian that littered the ground near the stream; it was not difficult at all to find some appropriate chunks. I didn’t have a deer antler available, but I did have a rock hammer. It took me several days to regain the knack of gently pressing , rather than striking, the flakes of stone away; I ruined a number of pieces before I did. But finally I had a decently sharp stone knife, with a long serrated blade and a rounded grip. I wrapped the grip thickly with some of my home-made rope, so that it wouldn’t slip when my hand was covered with blood.
After that my hunting was easier. I was able to hunt bigger game, going after those big flightless birds or those pig-like mammals, whose flesh I had previously been unable to penetrate; and after I’d eaten my fill on the spot, I could butcher and carry away much of what was left. Near my tree I dug a deep pit in the sandy soil, in which I kept a fire constantly burning by carefully banking the coals; and in this pit I smoked thin strips of meat on wooden skewers. The crude “jerky” thus created was not the same as fresh, raw meat; but it did keep much better, and it did free me both from the tyranny of frequent hunting, and also from the enforced inactivity that inevitably followed an eating binge. Wrapped in leaves, the smoked meat would keep for at least a week.
Oh—there was one other spin-off from my hunting life. For fairly obvious reasons, I tended to return from my expeditions covered head to toe with blood; and not my own blood, either. This being an uncomfortable and revolting state of affairs, I was obliged to wash the blood out of my fur and clothing after each hunt. The pool where I had spent my first awful night was rather far removed from my tree shelter; and after that night, after learning that it was a watering hole, I didn’t care to frequent the area. And so, on a bend of the creek much closer to my shelter, I very laboriously levered, rolled and pushed boulders into the stream-bed until I had formed a kind of rude dam, backing up a pool even larger than the one I’d camped beside. This pool served well for drinking water; it was easier to fill my bottles there. It also served admirably as a place to wash my clothes and myself, and—surprisingly—for swimming. It’s strange; up until that time I had despised swimming, doing it only when duty absolutely required. Now—most likely because of the heat—I found myself actually enjoying the feel of cool water around me, and my natural Caitian terror of that sensation faded and was lost forever. If I lived through this experience, I might actually been seen at the swimming pool once in a while. The operative word there being, of course, “if.”
###
By the end of the second week I was naked.
Now, that was by no means an easy decision to make, and I didn’t make it lightly. But in the end it was both inevitable and unavoidable. And it was, in a strange way, partly my own fault.
Because of the planet’s brutal heat, I had ordered from Zelazny’s computer, and worn that last day, a uniform made of the lightest, coolest, most ventilated material available. The others may have done the same; but it wasn’t visually obvious, and so I don’t know for certain. The light material may indeed have kept me cooler; but unfortunately, it didn’t hold up long to rough living. Immediately after my stranding I had ceased to wear my tunic, using it only as a blanket, leaving the trousers, and especially the undershirt, exposed and vulnerable. And within days both of them were full of holes. Thorns, mainly, as I hunted, pushing through the bushes; but also split seams and runs in the material. I had no way to repair either. And both undershirt and trousers were soon permanently stained with dirt and blood, that rinsing in tepid water couldn’t completely remove. As for my extremely lightweight undergarments...don’t even ask. They were more or less intended to be disposable, recyclable; as indeed was the uniform; and they hadn’t lasted two days.
Nor was that all: even full of holes, the trousers and undershirt were far too heavy and hot for the life I was leading; they were conspicuous, much more so than my own brown fur; and being so ragged, they were even more of a magnet to grasping thorns. More than once I’d become so entangled in the underbrush that I’d had to abandon a chase and patiently extricate myself.
Finally, one morning I looked at the ragged, almost disconnected remnants, folded there so carefully on my little shelf, and I sighed. What’s the point, really? I wondered. And when I went down to hunt, I did so in nothing but my own fur.
Doing so took me back more than twenty years, to my childhood.
The area of S’Salan Continent on Cait where my home was, has a rather unique climate. The summer there is long, and broken into two distinct parts. The initial part, the so-called “first-summer” lasts about two Terran months, and is very hot and dry. This is followed by two weeks of drenching, almost constant monsoon-like rain, the so-called “Interval”; which is in turn followed by two months of dry “second-summer”. This part is very slightly cooler, and is a season when many annual, rather than perennial, plants sprout and bloom. It fades slowly and almost imperceptibly into a golden autumn.
First-summer days can be brutally hot, especially if you happen to be covered with fur. During that time any clothing, even the lightest day-robe, can be unendurable. As kits, my siblings and our friends had solved the problem by simply doing without any clothing at all. We could have stayed indoors, I suppose, where the climate was controlled; but what child wants to do that? And more to the point, what adult wants the child to? We’d spent the days in the dense (but still hot) shade of the tatak trees, drinking ice water and chilled juice by the liter, playing quiet and languid games...and panting a lot.
I well remember first-summers when I spent days or even weeks on end without so much as a stitch on me; nothing but a light collar. Small children can get away with that sort of thing. It’s only later, in adolescence and adulthood, that concepts such as modesty and decorum come along to spoil your idyllic little world. At that point you leave your clothes on, and you either huddle indoors in front of the air-chiller, if you can; or suffer outdoors if you must. Even as a kit, though, the act of doing without clothes had given me a feeling of freedom and liberation; a feeling that even the passage of twenty-odd years, and the terrible trouble I was in, couldn’t completely diminish.
I suppose I could, as a human might, have used the remains of my uniform to create a kind of loincloth; but what, really, would have been the point? The areas of my body that a loincloth would have covered were just as furry as the rest of me; maybe even more so. I rigged a belt from my homemade rope, with loops for my knife, phaser and water bottles; and over the next few days, as I waited out the heat of the afternoons in my shelter, I occupied myself braiding and weaving different shades of grass fibers into a wide, comfortable collar that I fastened snugly around my neck. It stayed there, too, the entire time I was on that planet. Other than that, though, from that day on I spent the daytime hours entirely naked; and quite frankly I felt much better for it. Much cooler, for one; and much less conspicuous; and most importantly, I could move much faster without all that weight on me. The thorns didn’t catch as badly in my fur, either; and yes, the blood washed out more easily too.
###
It’s tempting to say, I suppose, that abandoning the remains of my clothing marked my final, inexorable change from Starfleet officer to naked savage. But that’s not quite true; there was still one tiny detail left, one technological crutch, that Hellhole could deprive me of: my phaser.
I think I’ve already mentioned how surprising it is, that one’s life can settle down into a routine so quickly; and, almost without my being aware of it, it had happened again. Already, just three weeks into my exile, this weird life of mine felt completely natural; and my previous life in space was so long ago and far away as to seem almost a dream. I rose very early, before the first sunrise; if I was quick enough, I could watch the needles of frost that kept the soil loose, retreating back into the ground as the temperature swiftly rose. I would drink from the bottle that I kept from freezing by sleeping with it; groom myself as well as I could; and then I would check for predators. If there were none (and there usually weren’t, not after sunrise) I would kick my ladder out the door and follow it down. On the ground I would tend my firepit, adding fuel and re-banking the coals. Then, if I didn’t need to hunt, I would attend to other chores; gathering wood, filling my water bottles, and so on. Or, if I was hungry or in need of fresh meat, I would strap on my belt and go hunting. Successful or not (usually yes) I would return to my shelter before the heat of the day became unendurable, and before I ran out of water. If my hunt was successful, I would load up my firepit for smoking, and then while away the time in the shade, while guarding my smoking meat from scavengers. Or if not, I might nap the afternoon away in my shelter. (And that, I might add, is another way in which I was reverting to the habits of my ancestors. It is only comparatively recently in our history that we converted to the diurnal, sixteen-hours-awake-and-eight-hours-asleep day. In earlier times—though I hate to admit it— Caitians actually behaved more like the Terran housecat: alternating periods of sleep and activity, all through the day and night. Obviously, that was something else we were prone to return to, given half a chance.)
...More likely, though, I would spend the time down at my home-made swimming pool, immersed up to my neck. As afternoon turned to evening, and the temperature fell, I would clean up whatever it was I was doing, bank my fire, and climb up into my shelter, rolling up the ladder and pulling the grass curtain over the door for warmth. It was a simple routine. Not easy; in fact it was a hell of a lot of very hard physical work, more so than I’d done in a long time. But simple, and in its own way, not unpleasant, after the hell I’d been through those last couple of months. In many ways, I think, this was just what I needed; no intrigue, no struggles with intractable senior officers, no fear that my career was being destroyed. Fastened tight to the here and now, every day, I underwent more psychic healing during those simple, silent days than an entire year of therapy could have provided.
The incident that finally did in my phaser—and came very close to doing me in as well—began with a mistake.
I had long known, of course, that there were predators and carnivores in that forest, other than myself. I knew also that most of them were nocturnal; in fact there was a whole nocturnal economy in that forest, that I knew very little about because I didn’t dare to buy into it. Other than the glowing eyes that circled my shelter most nights, and an occasional glimpse of something large and dark retreating from the red dawn, I still had seen no predators. In fact, during my entire exile on that planet I had just two close encounters with carnivores. Both of them were nearly fatal.
I’d worked hard that day, stalking, hunting down and killing the largest of the pig-like rooting animals that I’d seen so far; and then carting back many kilos of its meat to my tree, slicing and smoking it. The fruits of my labor lay, wrapped in leaves, in one corner of my shelter as I lay down that night, dead tired, to sleep. I had enough food for many days, after that. Fortunately for me. Fortunate also, that I’d taken the time to fill my water jugs before dark.
It was about midnight, I guess, when the noise woke me. It was a strange sound, a skittering, clattering, chuckling noise. I sat up...and that’s when I saw them. Fortunately both of the moons were in the sky and full, casting their little bit of faint light; otherwise I would never have seen my executioners coming.
In my tiredness that night I had neglected to pull up and coil my ladder; it was still dangling down to the ground. I remembered that clearly now. A small mistake, yes; but out of small mistakes do major disasters grow...
Individually, the creatures were small, rat-sized perhaps; but there were hundreds of them. They swarmed up the ladder with a horrible chittering, whispering sound...and then they were upon me.
If I’d had my claws...Goddess, if I’d only had my claws! With a gasp of horror I leaped to my feet, or I would have been overrun where I lay. I grabbed my phaser in my right hand, and my knife in the left; and I fought for my life. They crawled up my legs, and I struck at them; they crawled up the walls, and I shot them down. They crawled up the ladder by the dozen, until I managed to fight my way over to the doorway. Grasping my knife in my teeth, laying down a covering barrage with my phaser, I managed to pull up my ladder one-handed. Unfortunately I pulled up another dozen or so of the things with the ladder; but I had stemmed the tide.
I never really saw what the damned things looked like, except briefly in the flash of my phaser as I shot them down; and that was all the gleam of big, chisel-shaped incisor teeth. By the dozens, the hundreds, I shot and struck them down, and there were still more. And they bit. Whenever they could get close enough, they bit hard. In a few minutes I was covered head to toe with bites; my feet, my legs, my tail...and especially, my arms. My right arm was bitten in several places right down to the bone, as six of the things launched themselves at my face at once. In terror of being blinded I’d thrown up my arm, and they clamped down on it. They took chunks of my fur and flesh with them as I flung them away and shot them down left-handed. After that my right arm was useless, dangling, numb.
Even in the early part of the battle I had become aware of a red light flashing in the darkness: the low-power warning of my phaser. For days now I had watched the steady fall of the power meter anxiously, husbanding the last reserves; snapping off quick shots, and only when I was certain of my aim. But this, the dozens or hundreds of wild bursts that I let off that night, was it. Near the end of the fight the phaser gave a strange bleating sound and died. I flung it away and spat my knife from my teeth back into my left hand.
The last few of the creatures went on the defensive, skittering away from my wild knife-thrusts; but the shelter was too small for them to outrun me for very long. In a few minutes I hunted them down and knifed them. 
And that was all, except for the cleaning-up. In the dim moonlight, working mainly by feel, I found the little furry corpses, some of them charred and some of them bleeding, and tossed them, one by one, out the door. It seemed to take hours. I never saw them again, not even a trace; the scavengers took even the bones.
I was bleeding from perhaps two dozen wounds, but most of them were minor. The worst were on my right arm, which was bleeding profusely now, still hanging limp, and stinging like fire. I had no way of suturing it, which it desperately needed. Nor would I have had the expertise to do so. I made do; I washed out the wounds, then I tore strips from my already-shredded undershirt and bound them tightly. Thank the Goddess, no arteries had been severed; I would have bled to death in minutes. Direct pressure stopped the venous bleeding soon enough. And then, finally, I collapsed. I mean that very literally.
I spent the next three days in my bed, too weak to rise, shivering under my tunic despite the heat. I think it was mainly blood loss that caused that; and reaction to the horror of the experience. I did not become infected. Actually that isn’t as miraculous as it might sound; in fact there were no bacteria on this planet that had evolved to infect a Caitian. None, at least, that I had not brought there myself. But for those three days, I lay helpless. I barely had the strength to eat a little, and to drink copiously. If I had not had ample food and (especially) water within easy reach, I am very certain that I would have died.
On the morning of the fourth day I rose. Shaking with the effort, I removed the bandage from my arm, washed out the wounds, observed that they were closing, and wrapped them again. I’d carry scars from this one, I knew; big ones. Someday, perhaps, I could have them repaired. But fortunately my arm was usable again. Not fully; that would take another couple weeks. But adequately. Then I surveyed the damage to my home. Fortunately I had found and evicted all the invaders; no rotting corpses, thank the Goddess. But there were bloodstains soaked into the floor; and I had shot the walls so full of charred phaser-holes that I eventually had to almost entirely rebuild it. The original walls ended up feeding my firepit.
Later I kicked down my ladder and carefully descended, favoring my right arm, and taking my water bottles. It took several exhausting trips to refill my storage jugs. The fire in my pit was out, stone dead. That could have been a major problem; in my current state, I wasn’t sure if I could have managed the bow-drill business. But the energy cell in my phaser had recovered, just a little. There was just barely enough power for one weak shot into a pile of dried grass, igniting it. And that was it. After that the phaser, my savior, was just an inert hunk of metal, plastic and ceramics.
The next day I went to work again. I found another, smaller chunk of obsidian, and with it fashioned a long, sharply-pointed spearhead. A long straight sapling, hacked off laboriously with my knife, became the haft. I split one end and bound the spearhead there with some of my hand-made rope. I had a strong sense of occasion as I did this work; I knew very well that once again I had entered a new phase of my exile. No more could I hide behind a bush, doing my killing with a long stab of energy. No; from now on it would be my own strength and speed, mano a mano, up close and personal. More dangerous, yes; but in a strange way, possibly more rewarding. My last technological crutch was gone; and with its passing, I had taken yet another step in my descent into savagery. Where it would end, the Goddess only knew.
###
In the fourth week, I began thinking fondly about rescue.
By this time (or so I told myself) the Zelazny would be seriously overdue to report in; and possibly a ship would already have been dispatched to search for her. They might arrive any day now. 
That thought (which, if I was brutally honest with myself, was highly unlikely to be true) nonetheless grew in my mind, until it became a kind of obsession. I became irrationally fearful that the rescue ship would come and go without finding me; I mean, why would they have any reason to search for me here?
To deal with that fear I turned to the two remaining tools of my former life: my tricorder and communicator. Since my stranding neither of them had been of any use, except occasionally the tricorder to tell me whether something I was about to eat or drink would kill me. Neither of them was heavy, sharp or lethal enough to be used as an effective weapon; and so they had lain almost forgotten on my little shelf. Now I took them up again. I set the tricorder to do an orbital scan, seeking anything that might be circling Hellhole; and with the communicator I transmitted a full-power distress beacon. I did this twice a day, morning and evening; and twice a day I was disappointed. Every day I had to firmly resist the temptation to keep scanning, keep transmitting, for hours on end, as if sheer persistence would force a rescue ship to appear out of empty space. No; I didn’t have the power to waste on that sort of nonsense. Five minutes at a stretch, that’s all I could afford; and even that would drain the batteries soon enough. Which is not to say, though, that the sight of that empty screen, and the sound of random static, didn’t send a knife through my heart.
###
In the fifth week, I held a minor, private celebration, of a sort: my claws, all sixteen of them, had finally grown long enough to shape and use.
The regrowth had been terribly slow. Of course, no such thing as having my claws cut back to stubs had ever happened to me before, so I had no real measuring stick to go by; but I did know how long it used to be between filings, and compared to that, this had been forever. Probably it was my uncertain nutritional situation that caused it; I know that I lost a good deal more weight during my stranding. The meat that I was consuming, evidently, was not entirely adequate for my needs. It kept me alive; but that was all. Every day from the beginning of my exile I expressed my claws, fingers and toes, and examined them minutely; and every day it seemed that they had not grown at all. They had, though, of course. The miracle is that all of them were growing back straight and strong. There had been a terrible danger that they wouldn’t; that the constant cutting would permanently damage them. 
And because of that, I had to force patience on myself. Though my claws were getting longer, their tips were still as blunt as Dr. Enyeart’s clippers had left them; and if I tried to shape them before they were long enough, I could actually do a great deal of harm. I didn’t dare damage the cuticles.
One day late in the fifth week of my exile, I judged them finally to be ready. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a nail file with me. At one time that would have been very unusual for me; in the old days I wouldn’t have gone two meters away from my cabin without a nail file. But after the first cutting I had gotten out of the habit of carrying one; the memories it engendered were a little too painful. Little did I know...A rough chunk of sandstone, roughly triangular, would have to do. 
The shaping of claws is an art-form among Caitians, and one we learn in early childhood. You’ll never find a manicurist’s shop on Cait; no, we do the job ourselves, and we all develop our own particular shape and style. Any time a Caitian, male or female, has an idle moment, you’ll most likely see him or her haul out a nail-file for a quick touch-up. It is so common a sight as to be invisible to a Caitian; and we, unlike humans, don’t find it a rude or unacceptable thing to do in public. In human company, though, I’d long since learned to desist.
It was not the most elegant job I’d ever done; but when I was finished, and I sat there looking at my sharp, pointed, useful claws again...a strange feeling of exhilaration went through me. Once again I was whole; once again I was Caitian. Once again I would have been fit to appear in polite Caitian society. Once again I could greet another Caitian, properly and without shame. And it had taken this, a stranding beyond any hope of survival, to bring them back to me. If Zelazny had not been destroyed, they would have kept cutting my claws, once a week, for as long as I was aboard; until, perhaps, I would have forgotten what it was like to own them. And as I looked at them, sharp, black and shiny, as I turned my hands back and forth before my eyes, I made a vow: that I would never, never lose them again. No person, no officer, no one and nothing in the universe would ever do that to me again. I might still die here, or I might be rescued; I might go home to Cait, or I might go to Terra; or any of a thousand other worlds. But wherever I went, whatever happened to me, I would face it as my Caitian heritage taught: with proudly expressed claws.
###
In the growing twilight I drew the stone knife from my rope belt and made a scratch on the living wood of the tree trunk, next to my little shelf. It was the forty-second such scratch I had made there. Six weeks.
Those words—forty-two days, six weeks—echoed dismally through my mind as I prepared for the coming night. I removed and carefully hung up the belt that held my knife and water bottles. I untied the thong which held my mane back out of my eyes; my hair was already far too long, but I had no good way of cutting it. Soon I might have to consider braiding it, it was becoming such a perishing nuisance. I took a long drink from one of my water jugs; and I poured more water into my hands, to rub into my eyes. I’d been having trouble with my eyes, these last two weeks or so; often at night they ached, deep down; my vision was occasionally blurred, especially late in the day; and when I closed my eyes to sleep the darkness was filled with strange, amorphous, flowing purple afterimages. I had no good explanation for this, and it troubled me of course; but what could I do? Add it to my growing list of troubles, that’s what.
I fluffed up my bed of grass and leaves, and lay down, curling tight around myself against the already-growing nighttime chill. I pulled my ragged uniform tunic over me, running my fingers wistfully, as always, over the rank bars. Another hard, hot day; I ought to have been exhausted...but for some reason, sleep would not come at my bidding.
All through those forty-two days I had, quite, deliberately, lived my life on the surface; I had screwed my mind tight to the daily cycle of problem-solution-problem. I had not allowed myself to feel; I had clamped off almost all emotion, except for the bouts of sheer terror that I couldn’t prevent. But the depression, the sadness that might have welled up and consumed me...those, I felt, I had no time for; they were distractions I could not afford. And so I had kept a tight lid on them. Until now, that is. Suddenly, lying there in my bed as the night grew darker and colder around me, I felt all that pent-up emotion come flooding back, threatening to close off my throat. The moisture I felt in my eyes wasn’t the water I had rubbed there; no, it was a much saltier fluid than that.
In one important way my sudden surge of emotion was easy to understand. Time was passing, and I had entered one of my twice-yearly menstrual periods. It had come a little late, by my calculations, just as my shedding season had been early; but my body was so messed up by these last few months, probably only an extended sojourn on Cait would restore my natural rhythms. Possibly my borderline malnutrition was an aspect too.
Back home on Cait the hot second-summer would be fading into autumn, days of golden, hazy sunlight and pleasant warmth. The tatak trees would be losing their leaves, the flowers giving way to the hard, black nuts that have become so popular as a delicacy on Terra. And all over the planet, millions of Caitian females would be hating the golden, hazy sunlight; hating the warmth; hating the trees; hating their mates; hating each other; and hating themselves. It’s not a pleasant experience, “that time;” thank the Goddess it only comes twice a year. And here I had nothing; none of the hormones or other treatments that at least make life during that time endurable. And it was the first time since I was a teenager that I’d had been forced to endure without them. Usually I just went to Christine for a few shots...Believe me, I would not have been pleasant company at that time, even if there had been any person within a hundred light-years. And there was no way, no way in hell that I could have maintained tight control over my emotions. Not then.
Joel. Strange how all my feelings, all of my emotions should center on that one face. But it wasn’t Lieutenant Commander Abrams, Chief Engineer of the Zelazny, that I saw, there behind my eyes. No; it was Cadet Abrams, Starfleet officer candidate. I saw his joyful, laughing twenty-year-old face. I saw the two of us studying together, late into the night. I saw him patiently coaxing a terrified, shivering Caitian into the shallow end of a swimming pool. I saw our forays into San Francisco, him chasing that elusive Perfect Cup of Coffee, and me along for the ride. I saw us on the beach, in the redwoods, on the trails of Point Reyes...I saw that weekend in Monterey, and I felt the regret, now, of a lost opportunity. I saw it all, all those four whirlwind years; but inevitably, the pleasant visions ended in a flash of white light, the soundless and horrible explosion of everything I knew.
We wasted so much time, I thought. The tears were flowing freely now, down my face and into my fur; but I didn’t even try to stop them. Whatever was going on aboard Zelazny, did it really matter that much? In this huge universe, do the actions of sixty-five individuals ever really matter?
I cursed, now, the day I set foot on board Zelazny; and even more: I cursed the fate that had taken me to DS 2. It would have been better, I knew, if Joel and I had never encountered each other again; if we had held on to our memories and illusions. It would have been better if I’d never known that he’d been killed; or if I’d read about it, far after the fact, in a cold, static list of vital statistics. Better than the cruel fate that had tantalized me with visions of what could have been, and then snatched away any hope of realizing them. See what comes of thinking you want to be promoted?
And yet...the voice that whispered to me then, out of the darkness, might have been my own; the voice of some inner and wiser self. Or it might have been Commodore M’Rael, speaking to me over the gulf of many light-years. I’ll never know. But what it whispered, privately in my mind, was this: what you had, can never be taken away. And I understood. The memories of those happy four years were within me; and would live as long as I did.
...And that was why it was so vitally important that I survive this. And not only that. My thoughts went to Joel’s parents, still living on Terra, the last time I’d heard. I had known them, of course; and it seemed that they had even liked me. I vowed, there and then, that they would not hear the news from some cold and uncaring admiral. No; I would tell them, myself, what had happened to their son. And if they’d have me, I would stay to grieve with them.
I turned over again, in my bed of grass; and I curled up a little tighter. Tomorrow would be another hard, hot day; and so too would the many tomorrows yet to come.

CHAPTER TWELVE
The smells were familiar.
When I arrived at Starfleet Academy, lo those many years ago, it was my first time off of Cait. Among all the strange experiences and sensations that assaulted me those first few weeks, it was the smells that I remembered most. The sharp, metallic smell of recycled ship’s air, at first; then the unfamiliar, damp, seaside odors of what I’d first thought of as a cold and uninhabitable place, San Francisco. But the hardest to get used to (though I wouldn’t say so in mixed company, of course) was the smell of humans.
Oh—that, and the noise. Cait is a quiet place, of necessity; Terra is anything but. For the first few months I really thought the noise would drive me insane, before I learned to do what a human learns in childhood; to tune it out.
When I finally woke I took a deep breath. That proved to be a mistake, as I felt a sharp twinge down my left side. I let it out and tried again, more carefully. I smelled...starship. That much was instantly obvious. Recycled air and humans. Odd how it now seemed familiar and comforting, not strange. And add to that a sharp scent that was obviously disinfectant. So...where? Sickbay? My eyes felt sticky, somehow reluctant to open; so I raised my right hand for an exploration. 
I was lying flat on my back on what was certainly a bed, a thin, almost slippery sheet covering me to the neck. Underneath that I felt a common, one-size-fits-none hospital gown. After all those weeks without, any clothing felt strange, almost confining.
There was almost no sound, except for the faint, subsonic humming of a starship; that, and the quiet chiming of the medical monitor above me, in time to my heartbeat. Evidently I was alive.
Finally I managed to force my eyes open. Sickbay, yes; the other beds were unoccupied, their monitors dark and silent; no one seemed to be around.
What confused me, though, was the light; or rather the lack thereof. The ceiling glow-panels had been turned far down, till they emitted no more than a soft orange glow. I could see the other beds only as indistinct lumpy shapes. What in the world was going on?
I felt my breathing quicken in incipient panic as a superstitious thought occurred: perhaps I was dead; or perhaps they merely thought I was. Perhaps this was actually the morgue, not the hospital.
Calm down, idiot, I told myself sharply. The monitor above me was beeping more rapidly now, in response to my rising heart rate. I was most certainly not dead; and if they’d thought I was, the sound of the monitor would attract someone’s attention quickly enough. Still...
My voice was husky from disuse, and I actually had a hard time finding the Terran words; for the first time since childhood. “Hello?” I called. “Is anyone there?”
I heard a door hiss open, somewhere behind me, and there was a brief stab of brighter light that was quickly extinguished. Then footsteps. The human who approached me was a dark blur; but his scent was familiar. “Doctor McCoy?” I guessed.
“That’s right,” he said, proving that my memories were correct, and that I was indeed aboard Enterprise. As he stepped closer I could see, barely, the familiar greying hair and craggy face, now smiling broadly. “How do you feel, M’Ress?”
“I don’t know,” I countered. “You tell me.”
“All right, I will,” he said affably. The bed jolted a little as he sat down on the edge. “You were beamed aboard two days ago with three fractured ribs, which have been repaired. You also had quite a collection of cuts and scrapes, which have also been repaired. You are about twelve kilos underweight, and suffering from a mild case of anemia, as well as other evidence of stress. Those will take a little longer to fix.”
It was no real use telling him that the weight loss and the stress had started before I’d left the Zelazny; let him think it had just been my uncertain diet and dangerous lifestyle those past sixty days. I waved my hand in the air. “Why do you have it so dark in here?” I asked.
He cleared his throat. “That was for your sake also,” he said. “In case you woke up before we could warn you, which of course you did. The alternative was to bandage your eyes shut, which we thought would be even more alarming for you. The fact is, the sunlight on that planet is terribly bright, and contains massive amounts of UV and infrared radiation. It would even have been too bright for human eyes, in large doses. As for you, with your Caitian eyes...well, I’m afraid there was some retinal damage.”
“Goddess!” I breathed. “I knew it was bright down there...but I had no idea it was that bad.”
“I don’t suppose you had a pair of sunglasses with you,” he said.
“Not hardly.”
“Well, I won’t lie to you,” he said. “If you’d stayed down there much longer you would have ended up permanently visually impaired or even blind. As it was, we had to keep you under the cellular regenerator for nearly twenty-four hours, to get a healing sequence started. Here,” he said, handing me an object from the bedside table.
I took it in my good hand and held it close to my eyes. The object turned out to be a kind of wraparound visor, very light in weight, with the single, wide lens very dark. Given the placement of my ears, human-style eyeglasses would have been very inconvenient; this thing was designed to fasten behind my head, and was notched below the lens to rest on my muzzle just above my nostrils.
“You’ll have to wear this for a few weeks, to give your retinas a chance to heal,” Dr. McCoy went on. “You’ll find that your eyes will be very sensitive to light till then. We have every reason to believe, though, that your sight will be fully restored, given time.”
I sighed in relief. “Thank you, Doctor,” I said.
“No charge.”
Abruptly a thought occurred to me, as something he’d said a minute before finally sank in. “You say I’ve been unconscious for two days?” 
“Nearly.”
“Do you know what our current position is?” Clearly we were not in warp; I’d have been able to hear the engines. Even the impulse drive seemed to be idling.
He sounded surprised. “Still in orbit around the planet,” he said. “Geostationary over the plateau where Uhura and Sulu found you.”
I wondered why; but that wasn’t important right then. I reached up and gripped his arm. “Doctor, this is very important,” I said urgently. “I have to speak to the captain. Right away.”
He hesitated, and I went on, “Please, Doctor. This is vital. Life or death.”
Something in my tone must have convinced him; he nodded and stepped across to the intercom panel beside the door.
As he spoke I closed my eyes. He’d been quite right; they were damaged. After only a few minutes’ use they were hurting, a deep dull ache. They’d hurt like that down on the planet, too, I recalled; especially at night. I’d frequently experienced dazzling afterimages, bursts of color and random flowing shapes, as I lay down to sleep. And in the mornings my vision had frequently been blurred; sometimes—especially in the later days of my exile—it had persisted for hours. As I’d had a few other, more immediate problems to worry about, I had just added it to the list. Now...if Dr. McCoy was wrong, if this never healed...where would my career be then?
Despite my agitation I think I may actually have dozed for a few minutes, which is probably indicative of my deep-down exhaustion. I came back to full alertness, though, when the door hissed open. I had to avert my eyes from the corridor light that spilled in.
“What’s this about, Bones?” I heard the captain whisper.
“Damned if I know, Jim. She says she has to talk to you. Life or death, she says.”
Captain Kirk grunted, and then stepped closer to my bed. “How are you, Lieutenant?” he asked kindly.
“Much better, sir,” I said. “And I want to thank you very much for my rescue.”
“You’re welcome, though it was actually quite accidental,” the captain said. He hesitated a beat, then said, “Dr. McCoy tells me you need to talk to me?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. I tried to lever myself up with my elbows, and failed; healed or not, those ribs were plenty sore. Dr. McCoy stepped forward to help me into a more dignified sitting position. I went on, “Captain, Dr. McCoy says that we’re in orbit around the planet where I was stranded. Is that true?”
“Yes, it is,” the captain replied.
“We must break orbit,” I told him.
He looked startled. “Why?”
“Captain, the Zelazny was in exactly this orbit sixty-five days ago when she was destroyed.”
“Destroyed?” he echoed, startled.
“Yes, sir. An explosion. I can’t say that there’s a connection...”
He looked at me for several seconds. Then, slowly, he crossed to the intercom panel. “Bridge,” he said. “Helm.”
“Helm,” came the reply, a familiar voice. “Sulu.”
“Commander, take us out of orbit,” the captain ordered. “Re-establish an orbit around the farther moon, and hold till further orders.”
“Aye, sir.” Sulu was a good officer; he didn’t ask why.
I heard, as usual, what a human might not hear: the deep throb as the impulse engines came to life. It would take about fifteen minutes, I knew, to make the transit.
The captain found a chair and pulled it over beside my bed. “Done,” he said.
“Thank you, sir. It’s probably unnecessary...”
“And possibly not,” he said. “Believe me, I appreciate the warning. And now, Lieutenant, I think it’s time we had a discussion.”
“Jim,” McCoy began warningly, “she’s in no condition...”
I held up my hand. “It’s all right, Doctor. I feel fine, and the captain is quite right. I do have a lot to tell him.”
Dr. McCoy withdrew, grumbling as usual. I heard the door hiss closed behind him.
I reached out for my visor. “If you’d like, sir, we can turn up the lights,” I said.
“That’s all right,” the captain replied. “I’m not afraid of the dark.”
“If I may ask, sir, how did you find me?”
“By accident,” Captain Kirk said, leaning back in his chair. “As you’ve probably surmised, we were assigned to search for the Zelazny, after she was reported missing. Unfortunately, we had a devil of a time at it. The last reported coordinates were almost twenty light-years from where we finally found you; at the A-Benideel system.”
“Excuse me, sir,” I interrupted. “I can’t understand that. This is the third system we visited after A-Benideel. And each time we transmitted our location to Starfleet, as per regulations. When we arrived at this system I was taking a shift on the comm panel; I transmitted the message myself.”
“Lieutenant, I don’t doubt that you’re correct,” he said. “But I can tell you for a fact that no transmission after A-Benideel was received by Starfleet.”
I shook my head. Worry about that later. “Please go on, sir.”
“After finding no trace at A-Benideel, we had a bit of a mystery on our hands. Because Zelazny had no set itinerary, just Captain Antilles’ discretion, we had to guess which systems would be interesting enough to justify investigation. After searching nearly a dozen stars, we were finally attracted here. It was this planet’s position in a trinary system that caught our eye first; and then its strange magnetic field, and the fact that it harbors life. That is almost unprecedented for a planet in this kind of system, as I’m sure you know.
“We found no trace of the Zelazny, and we had no idea that you or anyone else was down there. What Sulu and Uhura beamed down to investigate was an intense focus of magnetic energy; a ‘third pole,’ Spock called it. And it seemed to have been focused precisely where you were found. Almost to the very meter.”
“I have no explanation for that, sir,” I told him. “I had no equipment with me to generate that kind of effect. Just a dead phaser, and a half-dead communicator and tricorder.”
“I’m curious, Lieutenant,” the captain said. “Commander Uhura tells me that they rescued you from a large predatory animal, and that at the time you were naked except for a belt and a collar made of plant fibers, and were carrying a spear, a stone knife, and a bundle of raw meat.”
I sighed. “It’s all a little hard to explain, sir,” I said. “The best I can do is to day that I had to revert to savagery in order to survive. I’d been stranded for sixty-three days, and I was very much down to the basics. As for my nakedness, my uniform had been destroyed by thorns, it was far too hot in the daytime to wear anything, and I could move and hunt faster without clothes anyway.”
“I don’t quite understand,” he said. “’Had to revert to savagery to survive’?”
“My species is carnivorous,” I said. “We started as hunters. It’s only in the past few thousand years, at the dawn of our civilization, that we switched to animal ranching. Evolution hasn’t caught up; we still have claws and sharp teeth. I had to hunt to eat. But I’d never hunted in my life, not before sixty-five days ago. After my phaser died I had to hunt as my ancestors did. And that meant that I had to give up...give myself over to instinct and evolution, and turn my civilized mind off. It was not pretty, but it kept me alive.”
“I understand,” he said. “Now—you say that the Zelazny was destroyed. How?”
“We were attracted to this planet for the same reason you were,” I said. “Its position, the fact that it was Class M, and it strange magnetic field. I can tell you that we found no indication of any third magnetic pole, at any time. Captain Antilles was very interested in the magnetic anomalies, though. He believed that the fluctuations might have been an artifact or a signal of some kind—that perhaps there is, or was, a civilization there.
“We spent two weeks on the surface looking for any signs of intelligent life. We found nothing. If someone has recovered my tricorder—”
“Mr. Spock is analyzing your recordings now.”
“Good. At any rate, Captain Antilles decided finally that we were wasting time; he decided to leave a recorder buoy in orbit and move on.
“I was in the last landing party. The captain had ordered us to pull out. Zelazny had only one transporter. Six pads. There were seven of us in the team. I was junior on that ship; I had to wait for beam-up. I had my communicator open...” Here I had to pause, and swallow. The memories were flooding back. “Ensign Matthews at the comm board told me to stand by. And then the ship...exploded.”
“Exploded?” Captain Kirk echoed.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I saw it happen. It was brighter than the suns. There was a burst of static from the communicator, a bright white flash...and then nothing.”
He rubbed his chin. “That sounds like a warp core breach,” he mused. “Or an antimatter containment failure.”
I nodded. “That’s what I thought as well, sir. The atmosphere screened out most of the radiation, but my tricorder did detect traces of antimatter afterward.”
Captain Kirk nodded. “I see.” 
“The rest you know, sir,” I said. “I spent the next sixty days surviving as well as I could.”
His mind was still on the Zelazny. “I hate to suggest it,” he said, “but a warp core breach or a containment failure is a mechanical problem...one which usually indicates faulty maintenance.”
“I know, sir,” I said. “But in this case I find that very hard to believe.”
“Why?”
“Granted that the Zelazny was not a young ship,” I said. “And she was inadequately refit for her mission. But Joel... Lieutenant Commander Abrams...had a reputation as one of the finest engineers in the fleet. I believe Commander Scott speaks—excuse me, spoke—very highly of him.”
“That much is true.”
“I can’t believe he would allow the warp drive to get into a state where such a thing could happen. When we met on Deep Space Two, just before my transfer, he told me that he’d finally gotten the containment field stabilized.”
“Which leaves us back at square one,” the captain said with a wry grin. “With no answers.”
“Captain,” I said. “If I may ask...what happens to me now?”
“Well, to begin with, we’ve sent word of your rescue to your family on Cait,” he said. “Beyond that...after our investigation here, we will be returning to Deep Space Two. Admiral Conroy is certain to order a hearing. Possibly even a court martial.”
“Yes, sir,” I agreed. As with any Starfleet officer, those two words sent a shiver down my spine; but really, logically, I had nothing to worry about. A court martial was standard procedure following the loss of any ship, at least where there are any survivors left to testify. And as Zelazny’s last survivor, curiously, it would be my responsibility to answer the charges. If I told my story truthfully and to the best of my ability, though, I couldn’t see what I could possibly be found guilty of.
“Until then,” Captain Kirk went on, “I want you to concentrate on recovering your strength. When you’re feeling better, we will certainly want your assistance in our investigation. As well as a detailed statement of your experiences.”
“Yes, sir,” I said again. Then, “Captain?”
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“If it’s possible, sir, after this is all over...I would like to formally request reassignment to the Enterprise. I think...I think I’ve discovered where my best destiny lies.”
He smiled, his famous charming smile. “I think you may be right. Don’t worry, M’Ress. I think I’d be a fool to let you go again.”
###
“The visor has a magnetic catch,” Dr. Chapel said. She reached behind my head to demonstrate, then stepped back as I tried it myself. It took both hands and a definite pressure to release it.
“It’s not very comfortable,” I complained.
“Granted,” she said placidly. “But if you want to save your vision, I strongly suggest using it. Your retinas will be very sensitive to light until they’re healed, and any more damage might well be permanent.”
“All right,” I said, with a sigh of resignation. “I will.” 
A little more than twenty-four hours had passed since my return to consciousness, and I was feeling a bit better, though still quite weak. The throb in my side was almost gone, unless I made an imprudently rapid motion. My other wounds gave me no more trouble. At my urgent request, Dr. Chapel had brought me a nail file, with which I’d rapidly completed the pleasant and long-delayed job of properly tending my regrown claws, all sixteen of them. Down on the planet, with my sliver of sandstone, I’d been able to keep them sharp, but not much else. Now, with a slim steel file, I could trim and shape them a bit more aesthetically. The ship’s barber had been in too, and had cut off about three-quarters of my far-too-long mane. Out of the thong, it had grown well past the base of my tail.
Oh—all that, and I had also been eating like a starved tiger. It felt good not to have to hunt it down and butcher it myself any more. Slowly, gradually, I was beginning to feel less like a naked savage and more like a Starfleet officer again.
“I’m going to turn up the room lights,” Dr. Chapel said. “Tell me if there’s any discomfort.”
With the visor on and the lights turned low, I couldn’t see a thing; Sickbay looked darker than the Guano Caves of M’Sauur. As Dr. Chapel slowly turned up the glow panels, shapes and colors gradually reappeared, but dimly. At a guess, the visor cut out perhaps ninety-five percent of all light. It left me in a permanent, and somewhat disorienting, twilight. Thank the Goddess for my senses of hearing and smell; and that the planet hadn’t damaged them too.
“Well?”
“No pain,” I told her. “I can see well enough to read, maybe. If the print was big enough.”
“As long as you can navigate without walking into walls, I’m satisfied.”
I couldn’t guarantee that, actually, but I didn’t say so. “How long?” I asked.
“Two to three weeks,” she said. “I’ll let you know. And don’t you go trying to rush it. You can only make the damage worse.”
“I won’t,” I promised, and for once I meant it. As inconvenient and undignified as this was, if my vision became permanently damaged, my career in Starfleet would be over, finito. Maybe someday they’ll cure blindness, but even prosthetics haven’t gotten that good, yet.
“Christine,” I said, “When can I get out of here?”
She sighed as she consulted my chart. “Well,” she said, “I don’t suppose there’s much more we can do for you here. Let’s say tomorrow morning, shall we? In the meantime I’ll arrange for quarters, a new uniform, and so on.”
“All right,” I said with scant patience. Anyone who knows me, as Christine Chapel certainly did, knows that I hate enforced inactivity. My idea of R and R is a few hot sets of tennis, not a day in bed. Not that I had the strength for that; not yet, anyway. But then something she’d said sunk in, and I chuckled. “A uniform, eh? So I’m still in Starfleet?”
She sounded confused. “Aren’t you?”
“As far as I know,” I said. “Until the court-martial, anyway.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said dismissively. “That’s just a formality. Believe me, I know.”
“...And in the meantime,” I went on, “I’m on board a ship that I’m not assigned to, and without any official position or duties.”
“By the captain’s orders,” she said severely, “your first duty is to get your strength back. After that...well, don’t worry. Captain Kirk will figure something out. You know him. He takes care of his officers...and his friends.”
“Maybe,” I said, wondering in which category, if either, I qualified. I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. “I can’t understand why nobody has visited me. Surely the whole ship knows I’m back...”
She coughed into her hand. “Actually...several people have tried. Uhura, Sulu, Mr. Scott and Lieutenant Morley, among others.”
“They have,” I said slowly. “Then why—”
“Because I wouldn’t let them in,” she said reluctantly.
As I said, she knew me, and she was probably expecting an explosion. But at the moment, I didn’t have the strength. “You wouldn’t,” I said. “Why, if I may ask?”
“You’ve been all alone for—what was it—sixty-three days. I felt that you probably needed to come back to civilization slowly. And the captain ordered you to rest.”
She might have a point; all those people crowding around me, asking questions, trying to be happy and cheerful...I couldn’t have taken it. Not yet. It would have been nice to know that in advance, though. So that I wouldn’t think I’d been abandoned, or that my former—and perhaps future—crewmates were ashamed of me for some reason.
“You know,” Dr. Chapel said, “not many people would have survived what you went through. Now many humans, anyway.”
I hadn’t really thought about that; I had just done what I’d needed to do, day by day. And not only on the planet. “Perhaps,” I said. “I don’t really know.”
She patted my knee, raised there underneath the thin blanket. “Get some rest now,” she said. “I’ll make those arrangements.”
###
It was my cabin; and yet it wasn’t. 
The Enterprise, it seemed, hadn’t even touched a Starbase since my transfer, and therefore had not taken on any new personnel. Nor had anyone been promoted to a senior position. So my cabin, despite being a coveted senior officer’s model, had apparently not been reassigned. Curious. Or maybe not so curious; maybe some rapid and discreet shuffling had been done. I never got anyone to admit that, though.
Declining a float-chair, or indeed any help, I made it there on my own two feet, though I was wobbly, and the corridors seemed to be rocking back and forth in 3/4 time. The visor reduced the light to a tolerable level, though I got some very strange looks from other crewmembers, who doubtless wondered if it was October 31st. A new uniform had been created for me (I don’t take anything off the rack) with the blue undershirt of the Sciences section. At one time it would have fit; now it hung loose, even the elastic around the calves. Drs. McCoy and Chapel were right; I needed feeding. Some day-robes and a nightshirt had been promised me as well, which was good; I’d been beamed up with literally nothing but my fur.
Finally I stood, leaning against the bulkhead as if holding it up, beside the nondescript door on E-deck. The nameplate—“M’Ress, Lieutenant” followed by my service number—was long gone of course, as was the stylized sine-wave pattern that designated the Communications Section. I stepped up to the door, and it opened for me.
A human writer (or was it a Vulcan? I forget) once observed, “you can’t go home again.” How right he was. The room beyond had been home, for a long time; now it was just...a room. Two rooms, actually. A bunk, neatly made. A transparent aluminum divider. A work table. A circular dining nook. A computer terminal. Bare walls and shelves. Beyond, the bathroom. Gone were my tapestries, my paintings, my sculpture collection. Gone was everything that had made this place mine; that had held back the cold impersonality.
I crossed to the bunk and sat, not to say collapsed, down on it. My legs were weak and my side throbbing. This was beginning to be alarming; was I ever going to feel better? 
An idea occurred then, to perhaps hasten the recovery process. “Computer,” I said. “File search.”
“Specify,” the canned voice replied, proving that my voice-print authorization had indeed been restored, as promised.
“Search for file M’Ress Environmental One,” I said hopefully.
“Working,” the computer said. Then, just a second or two later, “File found.”
Actually I was quite surprised. The library computer was Commander Spock’s domain, and he was a demon for efficiency. I’d expected it to be purged already. Still, with terabytes of storage available...
“Check integrity,” I said.
“Working...file is intact.”
Wonders never cease. “Run at this location.”
Immediately the cabin lights dimmed and warmed toward magenta. The faint clicking of chimes began; and the sweet scent of blossoms drifted toward me. It had been a very long time; the Zelazny’s antique computer and life-support system couldn’t have reproduced this, even if I would have been allowed to take up the processor time.
Gratefully I reached for the magnetic catch at the back of my head, and peeled away the visor. Then I winced, and closed my eyes. “Computer,” I said. “Cancel spotlight over desk and reduce ambient lighting by one third.”
When I peeked again this had been done; and finally the light was at a tolerable level. Despite Dr. Chapel’s assurances, that situation was getting alarming too...“Save new configuration as M’Ress Environmental Two.”
The door chimed. I considered ignoring it, but in fact I was desperate, starving for company; the solitude had too many ghosts in it. “Come in,” I said, and I remembered just in time to avert my eyes.
The door hissed open, and a familiar voice said, in concern, “M’Ress? Are you all right?” It was Uhura.
“I’m fine,” I said. “The light hurts my eyes. Please come in, Commander.”
I waited till I heard the door close. Then I raised my head. She was standing directly beside me, looking down at me with a faint, concerned smile. “It’s not like that between us,” she said softly. “Never.”
“Pardon?”
“The ‘commander’ business,” she said. “That’s always been a circumstance of bureaucracy. You know that as well as I do.”
“Yes I do,” I said, smiling. “Uhura. Please, let’s sit down.”
I rose with an effort, and we stepped through into the painfully bare work room. I sat down at the desk, leaving the lounging chair for her. She pulled it over close to mine. As she sat, I reached over to clasp her hand. “Thank you for rescuing me. I’d have been that thing’s lunch, if you hadn’t arrived.”
“You’re very welcome,” she said. “To be very honest, though, I have no idea what made me fire my phaser. I didn’t recognize you at all, not until you stood and spoke. I...don’t think I’ve ever seen you—uh—without clothing before. It must have been telepathy.”
“Then thank the Goddess for telepathy,” I said, forcing a smile.
She looked around the bare room. “Did you lose everything?” she asked.
“Pardon me?”
“When the Zelazny was destroyed,” she explained. “Did you lose all your art and mementos?”
“Oh...no,” I said. “My cabin on the Zelazny was the size of a tool locker, and there were severe weight restrictions. I could only take a few day-robes, nightshirts  and personal hygiene items. Almost everything else is still in a stasis locker on DS 2. I can retrieve it when we return there.” My family could get me copies of the holos I’d lost, and Starfleet would replace my medals, eventually. No; physical objects were the least of my worries.
“That’s something,” she said.
“Yes,” I agreed. “That’s something.”
She was silent for a moment, looking at me. Then she said, “I don’t know very much about Caitian psychology, I’m sorry to say. But human psychologists have a term—they call it ‘survivor’s guilt.’ Sometimes a person who survives a disaster will feel a crushing guilt—merely for surviving when others didn’t.”
Of course I took her meaning. For a long time I was silent. Uhura was my oldest  female friend, at least in this corner of the galaxy, and in many ways the best I’d ever had. We had worked together a long time, shared a lot of feelings and experiences. If I couldn’t talk to her...
“You’re half right,” I said. “Yes, I do feel guilty. But not just because I survived.”
“No? Why, then?”
“Because...,” I said, and I choked off. Finally I forced myself to go on. “I feel guilty because I don’t really feel very sorry for most of them. I’ve tried, I’ve even had nightmares about it, but I just can’t manage it.”
For a moment she was too shocked to speak. “You can’t mean that,” she said.
“I wish I didn’t. I...didn’t have a good time on that ship, Uhura. Not at all. It was three months of living hell.”
“Why?” she said.
“To begin with, I was the only non-human aboard Zelazny.”
“How can that be?” Uhura asked, frowning. “Starfleet regulations...”
“Were circumvented somehow,” I said bitterly. “And that’s the way they wanted to keep it. I was given the very clear message, from the first day, that if they hadn’t been desperate for an anthro-paleo officer, I never would have been allowed on board.”
“How?” she persisted. “How did you get that message?”
My hands, resting in my lap, began to tingle, and I had to fight an impulse to hide them behind me. I should tell her, I thought. I should share my pain with someone. But I couldn’t. The depth of my shame wouldn’t allow it. I said, “What’s the word? ‘Hazing,’ I think that’s it. Brutal comments. Racial epithets. Vandalism of my office. I was banned from the Mess Hall and the Rec Room. I had no authority at all; I was always made very aware that I was junior on that ship, even to those with years less service in Starfleet than me. In fact, that’s why I survived. They made me beam up last.”
“But what about Commander Abrams? I thought he was your friend.”
Joel. More than sixty days later, it still sent a knife through my heart. Why, Joel, why? We could have had something together. Why did you abandon me, until it was far too late? “He was,” I said. “A long time ago. On Zelazny...he didn’t lift a finger to help me or protect me. Not a finger.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose...maybe he was afraid to. Captain Antilles was...powerful. You didn’t cross him, if you knew what was good for you. Or maybe...he just didn’t want to. The majority of the crew hated me. Maybe he did too, deep down.” I didn’t really believe that, though; I couldn’t. Not after everything we’d shared. I could not conceive that someone with whom I’d been so close, would suddenly come to hate me. No; I could no more believe that of Joel than I’d have believed it of Uhura.
She was shaking her head. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” she said. “Not on a Federation starship.”
I couldn’t believe it either, and I’d lived it every day for months. Surviving that planet was easy in comparison. Why had they hated me so? There’d been exceptions, of course: the members of the science staff came to mind, and Lieutenant Commander Gaetano most especially. We’d worked together on so many surveys...by the end he’d actually come to like me. In public he’d tried to hide it, but I could tell. His few acts of kindness had been a blessing, among all that hatred. The same for Ensign Matthews, struggling with the ship’s balky comm systems. He’d been grateful for my help, as I was for his dealing with Osgood. But the rest of them: Captain Antilles, Edgeworth, Harris, Osgood...the hatred they had felt for me had been palpable from the first minute I stepped on board. And unlike Gaetano and the rest, I never felt that I’d made even a millimeter of headway with those others. Never for a second did they alter their opinion of me, right up to the very end. 
Uhura was looking at me, her large dark eyes radiating concern and friendship. And suddenly I knew that I was going to tell her, had to tell her. “The hazing and the racist remarks weren’t the worst,” I said. I felt my heart pounding, and my throat drying up. “If you were Caitian I couldn’t possibly tell you this,” I went on. “What they did to me was the worst thing any Caitian can suffer. Something we don’t discuss, don’t even think about. Worse than rape.”
For a moment she looked confused; but then her eyes widened. She knew about Caitian culture, at least a little; she’d been taught by an expert. “You mean—?” she breathed.
I nodded. My voice was barely under control as I choked out. “They...they cut off my claws.”
“But Christine said...” she began.
“They grew back,” I said. I held up my hands and proved it. “Thank the Goddess, they did. But for four weeks, until I was stranded, I was clawless. And even longer; it was more than another month before they grew back to a useful length. Until then I was defenseless. A Caitian...a Caitian would rather be dead.”
“Did you—?” she began fearfully.
“I considered it,” I admitted. “When it was first done. I had a phaser, and I did consider using it.”
“But—?”
“But...I couldn’t. I couldn’t let the bastard win.”
She took my hands. “I’m sorry,” she said simply. “I’m really sorry.”
With an effort I pulled myself together; I had been on the verge of the tears that Caitians never show. Still, it had been good to tell someone; a catharsis, if you like. And she was the only one I could possibly have told. Certainly not Captain Kirk, nor even Doctor Chapel; and never, never Commodore M’Rael. And Uhura’s simple, honest sympathy, without maudlin pretension, was the perfect balm; almost like the Vulcans’ “I grieve with thee.” I forced a smile. “It’s all over,” I said. “All in the past. I think...I had better concentrate on the future. My future.”
“You’re right,” she agreed. She rose, and pulled me upright too. “Come on. Get your visor.”
“Where are we going?” I said, mystified.
“Officer’s Mess,” she replied. “You look like you need feeding. And...I think you also need company. Friendly company.”
I couldn’t argue with that, either one; and I let her lead me away.
###
I woke the next morning feeling wonderful.
It was 0600, according to the bedside chronometer. I had set no alarm, but my own internal clock was apparently working again. Strange, how old habits can re-establish themselves given half a chance. Having no pressing reason to rise yet, I turned carefully over onto my stomach, resting my chin on the backs of my hands. I smiled fondly as I recalled the events of the previous afternoon and evening.
Uhura had been right; she usually was. I had been in need of friendly company; possibly even more so than food.
What happened in the Officer’s Mess, I am certain, was orchestrated carefully by Uhura. When we arrived the place was almost empty; and we did eat, she and I. She insisted on carrying my tray from the dispenser, while I sat, which was both embarrassing and gratifying. During the meal we spoke a little; not at all about what I had told her in my quarters, though. Mostly, I wanted to hear what had happened aboard Enterprise during my absence; and she’d obliged. Just the highlights, of course; the details would take days to tell. If nothing else, Enterprise led an active life.
We had just about finished eating when they began to arrive. Sulu first, then Scotty; then Lieutenant j.g. Morley, my one-time trainee; Lieutenant Commander Ancheta, of our own anthro-paleo department (I was able to “talk shop” with him now); Dr. McCoy; and others, junior and senior officers. None of them had seemed particularly interested in eating; but all of them had somehow managed to cluster around Uhura and me. I don’t know if you could really describe it as a “party;” certainly it was nothing like that horrific little event that preceded my transfer. This gathering had a much more spontaneous feeling. It wasn’t really, of course; but it was the feeling that counted.
Christine Chapel hadn’t known the half of it, of course, when she’d said I needed to ease myself back into society. She’d known that I’d been totally alone, exiled, for sixty-three days; but what she hadn’t known was that I had been practically alone for three months previous to that. And that situation had been much, much worse. I’d heard of ostracism, the so-called “silent treatment” before; but had never experienced it myself: it isn’t practiced on Cait, nor tolerated at Starfleet Academy. It’s the faces, I knew now; the staring, silent, mocking faces. That’s what drives the unfortunate victim to thoughts of suicide.
Goddess, what a difference! I remember thinking, sometime during that evening. As I mentioned, Enterprise hadn’t touched a Starbase in my absence; the crew she had, had been there when I departed. Everyone knew me. And—though maybe I flatter myself—I  like to think that most of them actually liked me. Here, there was no silence, no stares; no remarks, no sarcastic, mocking  laughter. The laughter that surrounded me, there in the Officer’s Mess, was genuine, friendly, inclusive; and I joined in with it. Already I could feel some of the knot of stress in my stomach begin to dissolve. 
The gathering had gone on for hours, first in the Officer’s Mess, then in the adjacent, more comfortable lounge, where I was installed like one of my world’s old Matriarchs in a chair by the viewports, and kept well-supplied with non-alcoholic drinks. Only the cast of characters changed, as people went on and off duty. Uhura stuck with me through all that time; I have a feeling that she was either ordered to, or requested permission from the captain to. I don’t care which. She’d acted as a kind of referee, keeping too many people from clustering around me at once; and she steered the conversation firmly away from anything to do with Zelazny or my exile.
I was totally exhausted by the time I made it back to my quarters, though it really wasn’t late; I’d had just enough strength left to collapse into my wide and comfortable bunk, where I slept for something like eleven hours. 
It might well be true,  I reflected, that laughter is the best medicine. As I rolled over and sat up, I found that the ache in my side was almost gone; and that my eyes throbbed a bit less as well. They were still sensitive, though; and I left the lights in my cabin turned far down, the bare minimum necessary for navigation. 
When I’d returned to my cabin the previous evening, I’d found that a delivery had been made in my absence: a spare uniform, a night-shirt, two day-robes, and a few hygiene items, including a much-needed hairbrush. Christine had already gotten me a nail file, you recall. I’d had enough ambition left to hang everything up; and to slip on the nightshirt before I collapsed.
Now, the following morning, I stood for a moment at the wardrobe door, debating; and then I selected a plain brown day-robe. I was, after all, officially off-duty, and I might just as well be comfortable. At home, or even previously in this cabin, I would also be reaching into my jewelry drawer for a beaded collar; but now I had none. What had happened to my hand-woven one, which I’d been wearing when I was rescued, I didn’t know; probably the disposal chute. Oh, well.
Even in a day-robe, I could still have gone to the Officer’s Mess for breakfast; but I found that I didn’t really want to. Last night had been wonderful, just what I’d needed at the time; but still, I’d been out of circulation for a long time. My nerves were still a little on edge; they wouldn’t take too much too soon. A quiet, solitary breakfast was what I needed. This way, as well, I could leave the lights turned down, and I wouldn’t have to endure that damn visor. And finally, I had some thinking to do. Something about the events preceding my rescue wasn’t quite adding up, and it was time for a heart-to-heart with the computer. I took my breakfast tray, quite heavily laden with lean maxigrazer steak (a better re-creation than Zelazny’s computer could manage) over to the work desk.
Two more things I’d missed, and almost given up hope of ever seeing again: a decent computer; and one where I wasn’t locked out of all the information I needed. I had missed that last part especially. (And I still didn’t know why; why Captain Antilles had maintained such a tight, and to me illogical, security. It looked like I never would, now.)
The Ship’s Logs for the last two days, while I’d been lying fallow in sickbay, were easy enough to access, as was the current sensor data stream. Enterprise was still in orbit around the farther moon of Hellhole; a geosynchronous one that kept the planet always in view. Every sensor the ship possessed was aimed, full-power, at the planet.
What I didn’t know, couldn’t have known until Uhura told me, was that she and most of the landing party had stayed on the planet after I was beamed aboard. They had found my shelter (by the smoke from my firepit) and recovered my phaser, communicator and tricorder, which were all now in the hands of Mr. Spock. Other than that, not much. That magnetic anomaly had vanished as soon as they beamed down. Or was it after I was beamed up?
I paused then, my tail frozen in mid-wave, my teacup halfway to my lip. Where in the world had that thought come from? And why? I shook my head. Worry about it later. In the meantime...Not surprisingly, I suppose, the captain had allowed no more landing parties since I was rescued. Considering the circumstances of my stranding, that was probably wise. 
It took a few minutes of searching through the ship’s log to find what I hadn’t known I was looking for; the piece that wasn’t fitting. I was hampered by the fact that I had to have the computer read them to me; it still hurt, I found, to focus on a readout screen for long. I leaned back with my eyes closed, and a second cup of tea in my hands, as the bland voice spoke.
When the run had finished I sat for a minute, drumming my newly-dressed claws on the desk top. Is this significant? I wondered. Enough so to bother...?
Finally I reached for the intercom. “M’Ress to Commander Spock.”
He was at the bridge science station, I saw as my monitor lit. “Spock here.”
“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Commander.”
“Not at all. How may I assist you, Lieutenant?”
“Sir, I’m told that my tricorder and communicator were recovered from the planet.”
“That is correct. I am still analyzing your tricorder records.”
“Thank you, but that’s not exactly what I meant. What I’d like to know is, were both of them functional?”
“Yes,” he said. “Both were critically low on power, but you had done a good job of conserving energy. Why do you ask?”
“Sir, I had set my tricorder to do an orbital scan. I did such a scan every morning and evening, and I also sent a distress call at the same times.”
“As per standard Starfleet emergency procedures.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve just been through the ship’s log for the past week. I see that the Enterprise was in orbit around the planet for almost six hours before I was found.”
“Five hours forty-seven minutes,” Spock said blandly. I knew he would.
“Yes, sir. My point is, I did a scan and sent a distress call less than two hours before I was found. If the tricorder and communicator were in working order—”
“I take your point, Lieutenant. That is indeed curious. Your tricorder should have detected the ship in orbit, and we should have received your distress call.”
“Perhaps that magnetic anomaly?” I speculated.
“Perhaps so. Fascinating. I will investigate, Lieutenant. Thank you.”
“Do you...need any help, Commander?”
“No, thank you, Lieutenant,” Spock said, and he clicked off. Damn Vulcans anyway; always so literal-minded. Don’t even recognize the pleas of a Caitian slowly going out of her mind...
Involvement, that’s what I need, I suddenly knew. Not just companionship, but work. Something real to do, to accomplish. The last sixty days I’d always had a program, each day, a new survival challenge to meet and overcome. Even on the Zelazny I’d been able to take solace in duty. Is it any wonder I felt a bit cut adrift, a bit out of focus? The problem being, of course, that Captain Kirk really had nothing he could do with me, no official duties to assign me. I was basically a passenger, until I could be reassigned; and a passenger was something I hadn’t been, not since that trip from Cait to the Academy. It was something I didn’t remember how to be.
Well...if I couldn’t count on Captain Kirk to provide me with some purpose, I’d have to make my own. He had ordered me to rest, but I took that to mean in the physical sense: to regain the strength of my over-taxed body, and my damaged eyes. My mind didn’t require any further rest, and indeed was repelled by the prospect. The Ship’s Logs were available to me, as well as my own tricorder readings, and the data stream from the ship’s sensors. And all the processor time I was likely to need; my computer time wouldn’t be monitored or restricted here. I would conduct my own investigation. Surely all that time on Zelazny had given me something besides heartache.
###
Several hours later I took a lunch break; and this time, day-robe, visor and all, I ventured out to the Officer’s Mess.
As I picked up my tray I saw Sulu sitting at a table in the back; and when he noticed my glance, he smiled broadly and gestured urgently for me to join him. As I made my way over I had to work hard to keep my emotions tight inside myself. I still couldn’t get used to people actually being nice to me...
“The very Caitian I wanted to see,” Sulu said as I sat down across from him. “How are you today, M’Ress?”
“Much better, Hikaru, thank you,” I said. “Really much better.”
“Your eyes—?”
I sighed and shrugged. “Who knows?” I said. “Still sensitive. Christine swears they’ll get better, though.”
“I’m sure they will,” he said. “Hey—I’ve got something here for you.” He opened the front of his tunic (Starfleet uniforms still had a damnable lack of pockets) and withdrew a small plastic box, which he handed across to me. I looked at him quizzically; but in return he only grinned cryptically.
I opened the box. Inside, coiled neatly, I found a wide Caitian-style collar. It was woven of shiny black thread, with a complex geometric pattern in silver running through it. “This is lovely!” I said, running the collar between my fingers. “Thank you, Hikaru.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Actually I can’t take all the credit. It was mostly Uhura’s idea. We both know how much you hate being without one.”
“You’re right there,” I said. I drew the collar around my neck and clasped it; they’d even managed to get the size right; just short of snug. Immediately I felt more comfortable, more relaxed. It’s a silly thing, I suppose, just a matter of habit; but in the long run, what’s wrong with that? I reached across to clasp his hand. “Thank you,” I said again. “Very much.”
“Our pleasure,” he said. “So—what have you been doing with yourself?”
“Well, the captain ordered me to rest, and physically I have been,” I said. “But I’ve also been working. I’ve been studying the sensor data and the ship’s logs—trying to make some sense out of what happened to me.”
“And?”
“It’s...frustrating,” I said. “In fact that’s why I took a break: it was driving me crazy. Nothing makes sense. I can’t figure out why Enterprise didn’t find me earlier; and I can’t figure out why Zelazny was destroyed.”
“As to the first, I can’t be of much help,” Sulu said. “As to the second, though, that seems fairly obvious: it had to be a containment failure.”
I nodded. “That’s what everyone keeps telling me,” I agreed. “But I’m...still not sure I believe it.”
Why not? I asked myself, for perhaps the thousandth time. Why does my gut still reject it, the most reasonable explanation?
...Because, despite all the problems we’d had, deep down I still wanted to trust Joel Abrams; his engineering skills, at very least. He’d kept an antiquated and (let’s face it) unsafe ship running, almost single-handed; I didn’t want to believe that he would allow a containment breach to happen. I didn’t want his legacy to be one of failure.
“Penny for ‘em,” Sulu said. 
I glanced up; he was looking at me quizzically. Even for someone with a grasp of Terran idiom as good as mine, his reference was a little obscure. Finally I said, “Oh. Nothing very important. I was just thinking...I believe I’d better have a talk with Scotty.”
###
It wasn’t working.
Almost five days had passed since my rescue, and Enterprise was still in orbit around the planet’s further moon. During that time, the ship’s science staff and I had both prosecuted our separate investigations. Unfortunately, neither of us were finding anything. 
Captain Kirk had, wisely I think, refused to allow anyone to beam down. Nor would he move Enterprise back into orbit around the planet. And so we were all relying on data from the long-range sensors. And also unfortunately, it wasn’t really enough. The magnetic anomaly that had preceded my rescue had not recurred; and so could not be investigated; and the reason why I had not been found earlier remained unexplained. My equipment, as Mr. Spock had noted, had been critically low on power; but definitely still functional. Neither Spock, nor Mr. Scott, nor I could yet explain why they’d failed.
I did have that talk with Mr. Scott, after finishing my lunch with Sulu. He was friendly (he was always friendly) but unfortunately, not very helpful. He agreed with me that Joel had been a good engineer, whose reputation had spread far; but, as he said: “Containment failures do happen, lassie. I’ve reviewed the records from the Centauri spacedocks, about your Zelazny. She wasn’t so much refit as just patched back together. Your Abrams was a damn fine engineer; but even he couldn’t predict or prevent the failure of an aging warp-field generator that ought to have been replaced years ago.”
He was right, of course; and his explanation quite logical; but it was not what I’d wanted to hear. I still had a hard time believing it; why, I don’t know.
But at any rate, when those five days had passed, and I had just about run out of avenues of investigation, and I felt like the walls of my cabin were closing in on me...I made my decision. I rose that morning, breakfasted, groomed, dressed myself in the uniform that I’d forsaken for days, and made my way to the bridge. The bridge that I hadn’t set foot on in five months.
They were all there, on duty; Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock, Sulu, Uhura...even Mr. Scott at the engineering panel. They all looked up at me, startled and with very strange expressions, as I entered,  quite unannounced.
“Lieutenant M’Ress,” the captain said hesitantly. “What...uh...what can we do for you?”
I brought myself to full attention, there on the landing of the turbolift. “Captain, I’d like to request permission to return to duty. Any duty.”
He paused for a long time before he answered. Meanwhile the others exchanged a glance, their expressions ones of—what? Sadness? Concern? I couldn’t quite tell; but it upset me anyway, and I felt my tail begin to move. Finally Captain Kirk said, “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. If it was up to me I would certainly consider it. But I’m afraid it’s just gone out of my hands.”
“Pardon me, sir?” I said, startled.
In response he glanced over at Uhura. Very reluctantly she lifted a data pad from the panel before her. “We received this just five minutes ago,” she said softly. Then she read: “’From Admiral Conroy, C.O. Deep Space Two, to Captain Kirk, commanding USS Enterprise. You are hereby ordered to return immediately to DS 2. Upon you arrival Lieutenant M’Ress, last survivor of USS Zelazny, will stand trial to answer any and all charges arising from the loss of Zelazny. Until that time Lieutenant M’Ress shall temporarily be relieved of all duties as a Starfleet officer.’”
“I’m sorry, M’Ress,” Captain Kirk said. “But orders are orders.”
I’d been expecting this, true; but not quite so soon, nor so brusque. When finally I could speak again I said, “Am I...am I to be placed under arrest, sir?”
“No, of course not,” he said with finality. “You are not accused of any crime, and I very much doubt you ever will be. It would be ridiculous to believe that you had anything to do with Zelazny’s destruction. The hearing is meant for fact-finding, to close the books; the court-martial format is a formality. Just tell the panel your story and you’ll come out fine.”
“I’m sure you’re right, sir,” I said.
“In the meantime, however,” he said apologetically, “I’m afraid that we must follow procedure. And because of that, I hope you won’t take it personally when I ask you to please vacate the bridge.”
My tail froze behind me. I could barely speak as I said, “Of course, sir. I understand perfectly.”
I felt their eyes on me as I turned and entered the turbolift. Unlike my time on Zelazny, however, the gazes that followed me were kind and sympathetic. Even the captain: unlike Antilles, Captain Kirk had found neither pleasure nor satisfaction in that order. I had that, at least.
In the turbolift I slumped against the wall, dazed. Captain Kirk didn’t know it, but he’d just given me a major problem. Not one of whether to tell the panel the truth; of course I would do that. No: my problem was deciding just how much of the truth to tell them.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Deep Space Two had changed.
That fact became very obvious, almost as soon as we’d broken warp on the edge of that desolate little system where the station lived. I witnessed that event, as well as our steady impulse transit inward, on a small viewscreen in the officer’s lounge, which I’d tuned to repeat the scene on the main bridge viewer. Though officially relieved of duty, and barred from the bridge—and in fact out of uniform, wearing a comfortable striped day-robe—I was still welcome to use the lounge, as well as all the ship’s other recreational facilities. On Zelazny it would have been very different; but as I was to note many times, Captain Kirk was not Captain Antilles. I sat there alone in a small alcove, taking my ease with a cup of tea. I figured that I’d better take all the ease I could; my life was about to become remarkably uneasy, I suspected.
The last time I’d seen DS 2 it had been no more than one-third complete: most of the ring, and all but one of the six struts, had been just spiderwebs of support structure, open to space. Now it appeared to be more than three-quarters finished. Only one small arc of the ring, and two struts, remained unsheathed. Lights showed through viewports in sections that had been quite empty previously, proving that they were indeed pressurized and in use. And there were even half a dozen ships, of widely varying sizes and designs, scattered around all those new sets of docking clamps. The cause of this growth spurt had to have been Commodore M’Rael’s presence; she did have a definite reputation for getting things done. If DS 2 had a sign on it now, it would be “Open for Business—Walk Right In!” 
The sight of the station, so radically changed, did strange things to the pit of my stomach. It brought home to me, with a palpable shock, just exactly how long it had been since I’d last seen the place. More than five months, actually. Sometimes it didn’t seem possible. With the familiar surroundings of Enterprise enveloping me like a security blanket, my sojourns on Zelazny and Hellhole seemed quite unreal, almost like a particularly bad dream. Only that damn visor, and my collection of scars (physical and emotional) proved that it had been real.
I could imagine the scene up on the bridge now, as we drifted slowly in to dock. Sulu at the helm (of course) his fingers dancing delicately over the controls, bringing the huge ship in millimeters at a time. Uhura (or maybe Lieutenant Morley) at the comm board, contacting the station for clearance. I could clearly picture the exact controls that she (or he) would be touching; I could almost feel the wireless earphone buzzing quietly in my ear. That used to be me, and thinking of it gave me an unexpected stab of nostalgia. Maybe I should have left well enough alone...but my wireless earphone had been destroyed along with Zelazny, and for the moment at least, the uniform hanging in my quarters still had a blue undershirt.
Well, this is it, I thought as we drifted in. In just two hours I was due in court, for my preliminary hearing. What would come of that, I had no real idea. I might even find my tail being dragged down to the station’s security cells. Who could say? Yes, this was probably the very last ease I could expect for a long time...
The transit back from Hellhole to DS 2 had taken about five days, a damnsight faster than poor old Zelazny could have made it. I’d spent the time, basically, worrying. With little else to do, it had grown to a near-obsession. Everyone around me, including officers with a great deal more experience with this kind of thing than me, told me that there was nothing to worry about. But I’d been having a very hard time convincing myself they were right. I guess I’d just been too thoroughly programmed during my time in Starfleet: the two words “court martial” scared me half to death. They seemed to lead inexorably to the words “dishonorable discharge” or even “stockade.” Logically, that was ridiculous of course, given the facts of the case; but try telling my stomach that.
And it was to assuage those feelings of fear that, on our second day in warp, I’d gone to see Mr. Spock.
Spock’s quarters had perhaps the most exotic decor of any I’d ever seen. (And in that estimation I do include my own, temporarily defrocked cabin.) Because I was barred from the bridge for now, I had to wait until he was off duty to see him; and I approached his quarters that evening with a certain degree of trepidation. He had the well-deserved reputation of being a person who valued his privacy...
The response to my ring on his doorbell, however, was almost instantaneous. “Enter!”
A faint, sweet scent, more pleasant than otherwise, drifted toward me as the door opened. Inside the light was dim, at least through my visor, and I stepped forward almost blindly, not seeing him. “Mr. Spock?” I said.
I caught a bare glimpse of movement somewhere off to my left, and then the ceiling lights brightened a trifle. “Lieutenant M’Ress,” he stated.
He was seated at his work desk. Instead of his uniform he wore a long robe, not unlike a Caitian evening robe, which seemed to be made of black velvet or something similar. The high collar, the cuffs of the sleeves, and a wide stripe up the front were silver, embroidered with Vulcan characters in black thread. (No, I don’t read Vulcan.) I winced slightly as I saw that garment; it appeared to be a Vulcan meditation robe...
“Am I intruding, Commander?” I asked diffidently.
“Not at all, Lieutenant. Please, come in. Be seated.” He indicated the nearby lounging chair, which looked as if it got little use.
I perched myself on the edge of the chair, arranging the folds of my day-robe around my legs, while Spock, without apparent hurry, put away several small objects that had sat atop his desk before him. Chief among them was a small red and gold rug, about the size of a placemat; a fist-sized globe of some black stone, in an iron stand; and what looked like a bronze dagger with a twisted blade. While he stowed these items away, I took a quick look around.
As I said, exotic. Mr. Spock’s quarters, in size and design, were exactly like my own (the standard senior officer’s model) but you’d never know it. One wall was dominated by a huge circle-and-triangle IDIC symbol, in a mosaic of tiny random-shaped bits of tile. On a stand in one corner stood his beautiful Vulcan lyre (which Uhura played well too.) On the desk stood the inevitable 3-D chess set, on which he had long ago taught me the finer points of playing a predatory game. On another shelf, a thing like an ancient Greek helmet, made apparently of hammered copper, with a wonderful green patina. On yet another, an object like a big lump of lava rock with three large holes in it, gently flickered and sent forth thin wisps of incense. Tapestries and hangings of dizzying pattern—most of them featuring colors a little dark for my taste—crowded the walls. The environmental controls were set to keep the air rather hot and dry, but after Hellhole, I was used to that.
Mr. Spock had cleared his desk, and now he turned toward me, his hands clasped and his index fingers steepled. “Now, Lieutenant,” he said. “How may I assist you?”
I took a deep breath. I said, “I’d like to ask your advice, Mr. Spock. Frankly this court-martial that I’m facing had me a little...concerned.” Not to say frightened out of my wits...
“Understandable, given that it is your first experience,” he said placidly. “I might suggest, however, that your concern is somewhat misplaced. You have not been charged with any offense, and it is unlikely that you shall be.”
“So I’ve been told, sir,” I confirmed. “But still...well, as you said, this will be my first time on the ‘hot seat,’ as they call it at the Academy. I’ve never even been called upon to be a witness. But over the last couple days I’ve spoken to others who have. They all have one piece of advice for me: get a lawyer.”
“That may indeed be wise,” Spock said. “Especially for one inexperienced in the technicalities of the law. A human saying has it that ‘the man who is his own lawyer—’”
“‘Has a fool for a client,’” I finished with a smile. “I know, sir. My problem is, we’re most likely a hundred light-years from the nearest attorney.”
“There may be some practicing now on DS 2,” Spock pointed out. “There is much more business activity on the station now than when last we visited. It would be easy enough to ascertain, at any rate.”
“True. But even if there are...I’m not certain if I’d feel entirely comfortable. Not with a total stranger. Frankly I’d prefer to have someone who knows me looking out for my interests.”
“That will indeed prove difficult.”
“Perhaps not, sir,” I said. I hesitated. “I was wondering...well, if you would agree to act as my attorney.”
His eyebrow rose, mute indication of deep astonishment. “I believe the human expression would be ‘why me?’ As you are aware, Lieutenant, I am not a lawyer.”
“That’s true, sir, but from what I understand, I am allowed to have anyone I wish represent me. It doesn’t have to be a member of the Federation Bar.”
“True. But my question remains unanswered, Lieutenant: why me?”
“I’ve...been looking through some of the old ship’s logs, sir,” I said. “From the time before the refit, even before I joined the crew. I was very impressed with your work to defend Captain Kirk in the Ben Finney affair.”
“Captain Kirk was defended by Mr. Samuel Cogley,” Spock reminded me severely. “He is unfortunately unavailable to us, if indeed he is still practicing. My work to assist him was of an investigatory nature only.”
“True enough,” I agreed. “But in the end your investigation saved the captain—which Mr. Cogley’s speech-making, however eloquent, probably would not have.”
His eyebrow rose again. “You may...have a point, Lieutenant.”
“And,” I persisted, “I was also impressed by your defense of yourself in the Talos IV affair.”
I’d debated with myself, whether I should mention that; and now I saw that I probably shouldn’t have. His expression darkened, and what looked like a spasm of pain crossed his face.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said quickly.
He waved his hand, his composure regained. “No apology is necessary, Lieutenant. Very well. Your points are taken. I will be honored to represent you.”
It was as if a huge weight had lifted from my shoulders; and I smiled. “Thank you, Commander. Very much. How—uh—how do you think we should proceed?”
He hesitated a moment, as if deep in thought. Then he said, “As the court will be primarily one of investigation, your recollections of events aboard Zelazny will be of great importance. You have already presented your official report on the explosion, and it is factual enough. It will certainly be entered into evidence immediately. But I would suggest that the court may find your report somewhat...incomplete for their purposes. They will be concerned with details, nuances, minutiae. The court will wish to examine almost every minute of your time aboard Zelazny. They will argue, with some justification, that even the most unimportant-seeming incident could be of great significance.
“I would suggest that you start there,” he concluded. “Bring to your mind every detail of your time on Zelazny. Commit it to writing if necessary, or audio recording. If nothing else, this should help you attain a level of consistency which will very likely minimize the time you will spend giving testimony.”
I nodded slowly. ”Yes, sir,“ I said. “Every detail.”
...And now, sitting in the Officer’s Lounge watching DS 2 grow slowly bigger, I grimaced, shook my head, and sighed. During the following three days I had attempted to do exactly as Mr. Spock had requested, and had wracked my brains for anything, any tiny incident or detail that might help explain why Zelazny had exploded. My success, frankly, had been...small. And the exercise had left me—apart from a ringing headache—with more problems than ever. Namely, there were far too many things about my time aboard that ship that I simply didn’t want to talk, or even think, about. 
I heard, and felt, the rumbling boom echo through the hull as DS 2’s magnetic clamps grabbed Enterprise and pulled her in tight. Another triumph for Sulu; like he could get any cockier than he already was. With a sigh I lifted my teacup and drained off the last few, stone cold milliliters. It was time now for me to struggle into my best uniform and let my life take another quantum leap into the complicated. I could hardly wait.
###
The courtroom was new.
The section of DS 2 where I now found myself, waiting with scant patience and lashing tail, had been open to space the last time I’d visited. In fact, it had been the very section sheathed and completed using the supplies brought by Enterprise, on that fateful mission that had so changed my life. Had led directly to this, in fact; there’s irony, if you like.
As we waited I glanced around. I must admit (no, correct that: I’m damn proud to admit) that my experience with courtrooms in general was virtually nil; but I suppose that this one was functional enough; and not as ugly as it might have been, though little attempt had been made to soften the institutional feeling of it. The room was quite large, two levels high in fact. At the head of the room was a raised desk, quite wide, with seating for up to four judges at a time. (The number of judges in a Starfleet court martial depends on a number of factors, including the nature of the charges, the rank of the accused, and the number of qualified command-level officers available to act as judges. In my case I would have to settle for two.) The judges would enter through their own door, behind the desk, a door which presumably led to chambers. 
Next to the judges’ desk was the witness stand, of course, a simple chair elevated on a small platform. Mounted on the right arm of the chair was the familiar veradication disk. No more do courts have to mess around with oath-taking, or indeed the possibility of perjury at all. Not with that handy little device. The witness simply placed the palm of his or her hand flat down on that twenty-centimeter, glowing disk; and the physiological changes caused by the utterance or even contemplation of a falsehood would cause the computer that was recording the proceedings to raise all kinds of ruckus. Only a truly pathological liar, one who is fully convinced that his false statements are true, can defeat the thing. And yes, it works just as well for Caitians as it does for humans. 
Along the left-hand wall, as one faced the judges, were the attorney’s tables, defense to the rear and prosecution toward the front. Each table was wide, and had three seats, as well as a computer terminal. Directly across, along the right-hand wall, was the jury box. It would not be used in this case, of course, nor indeed in any Starfleet court martial; but this station would one day have a large civilian population, who would be subject to Federation, rather than Starfleet, justice. Quite frankly I’m not sure which system I prefer.
Cantilevered above the main courtroom floor, like the first balcony in a theater, was the public gallery. It held about a hundred seats, and all of them were full that afternoon. Mostly with DS 2 personnel, the curious or the merely bored; but down in front, right at the rail, were Sulu, Uhura, Scotty and Christine Chapel. All four of them smiled encouragingly down at me.
Yes, the courtroom was very new, everything bright and clean, if rather boring, in the standard grey Starfleet thermocoat finish. I wondered idly, as I looked around, what they had used before this place was completed. Or had they even had a need for a courtroom before? Was it possible that I was actually christening the place?
Down on the floor, I sat at the defense table, flanked by Mr. Spock and (at his own insistence, though he had no official part in the proceedings) Captain Kirk. I felt very small between them. The captain looked just about as impatient as I did, as he glanced around the courtroom. Spock, of course, looked perfectly serene, sitting absolutely motionless with his hands clasped before him. Damn Vulcans.
At the other table, to our left, sat just one lone figure. She was human, very; and appeared to be about thirty-five or so. She was small, rather short and of slight build, and had dark brown hair in what I believe is called a “page-boy” cut. Her insignia was that of a lieutenant commander. I had not been introduced to her, and did not yet know her name; but the nature of her job was painfully obvious: she was the Judge Advocate General prosecutor. I gazed at her sidelong through my visor, and she did not notice my eyes upon her; she continued to study the contents of a data pad with fierce concentration, her brow furrowed. The sight of her did absolutely nothing for my composure, and I actually felt my claws begin to express. Despite her small size, she looked...formidable. I did not look forward to being questioned by her.
Finally—it seemed like hours, but it was probably closer to ten minutes—a boson’s whistle sounded, and an amplified, disembodied voice called out, “All rise!”
We scrambled to our feet and came to attention. The door behind the judges’ desk opened, and two very familiar figures slowly entered: my judges. The only two command-level officers available within a hundred light-years, who were not also material witnesses: Admiral Conroy and Commodore M’Rael.
The commodore’s eyes were on me, as she took her seat. A human would most likely believed that her expression was quite neutral; but I knew better. In fact she was gazing at me with deep sympathy and pity, as well as...curiosity, I suppose I’d say. She was sizing me up, wondering how I’d been affected by my experiences. Little did she know, actually.
“This general court martial is now in session,” Admiral Conroy said. “You may be seated.”
We did; and there was a pause as the admiral glanced down at a data pad. Finally he looked up, directly at me, his gaze spearing me. This was not our avuncular dinner host, the one who had gallantly bowed and kissed a furry Caitian hand; this was a tough, no-nonsense military man. The change was startling, and I felt a shiver go through me. 
He said, “This court is convened to investigate the circumstances surrounding the destruction of USS Zelazny, and the loss of all hands save one. Lieutenant M’Ress, will you please rise?”
With a quick glance at Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock, I did so. The admiral went on, “Lieutenant, this court recognizes that you have endured a terrible ordeal. It is not our intention or purpose to add to your suffering. However, it is your sworn duty, as the last surviving officer assigned to Zelazny, to answer any charges arising from her destruction. Do you understand this?”
“Yes, Admiral,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “I am certain that you will agree, that the loss of any starship is a serious affair. In such a case it is important that we provide as much of an explanation, a closure if you will, as can reasonably be given. Your parents on Cait were spared the loss of a daughter; but there are sixty-four other families who have not been so fortunate. It is to them that we owe this service. The purpose of this court shall be to determine, in so far as we are able, the cause of Zelazny’s destruction. To that end we have just one source of information to draw upon: yourself. Your service record clearly indicates your long-standing devotion to duty; I know that you will now recognize your duty to cooperate fully with this investigation. Am I correct in this?”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“Let me emphasize as well that at this time there are no charges filed against you; our purpose, at least for the moment, is investigation. Commodore M’Rael of the Starfleet Engineering Corps, and I, will judge this case. Do you have any objection to this, or any reason to question our impartiality?”
“No, Admiral. None.” Not that an objection would have accomplished anything, except to be obstructionist.
He looked over at the prosecution table. “Commander Sutton, does the JAG office have any objection?”
The young woman glanced up. Her voice, when she spoke, was just what I’d expected: very direct, and with a definite ring of steel. “No objection, Admiral.”
Admiral Conroy looked back at me. “This case will be prosecuted by Commander Alicia Sutton, the local representative of the Judge Advocate General’s office,” he said. “Do you have any objection to this?”
It wouldn’t have profited me any, to have objected to this either; she was the only JAG representative on this side of the galaxy. “None, Admiral.”
“Good. Have you secured legal representation?”
“Yes, Admiral,” I said. “I will be represented by Commander Spock, first officer of the USS Enterprise.”
Admiral Conroy glanced at Commodore M’Rael, and she nodded. “The court has no objection. Commander Sutton?”
“No objection, Admiral.”
“So noted. You may be seated, Lieutenant. The court will now hear opening arguments. Commander Sutton?”
I sat down, trying to control my sudden bout of shuddering,  as Commander Sutton rose. And so it begins, I thought darkly. Where it would end, only the Goddess knew.
###
Krav’s Place was no longer a dive; but it was still popular.
That first hearing had not lasted long, really; only about an hour or so, though it seemed an eternity; and afterwards, seeking solace, I went for a walk on the station’s Promenade. 
The ghost-town emptiness that I had found so depressing on my last visit was gone; or perhaps I should say that it was going fast. For one thing, there was a lot more Promenade to walk. Eventually it would be an unbroken ring, and if one had the stamina, he would be able to walk all the way around. That was still the future; even now, the Promenade ended at blank walls. But they were a lot farther apart than they had been. In the meantime, those dark, empty storefronts were coming to life. No longer was the Andorian cafe the only independent business; not by far. Not all of the shops were occupied, but I would estimate that a good forty percent were, and that made quite a difference. On my walk I saw cafes, barber and hair-styling shops, tailors, milliners, boutiques with merchandise of many kinds...an explosion of commerce. At the moment it seemed that most of the customers were station personnel; that would soon change, of course, but in the meantime...well, Starfleet officers, and even enlisted, get paid pretty well; and we do tend to spread it around. 
I had money in the bank, plenty of it; and at one time the boutiques would have been of definite interest to me, especially those featuring clothing, jewelry and objects de art. But right now, probably understandably, my desire for shopping was somewhat dulled. Later, maybe, when this was all over; but not now. Finally, after half an hour or so of aimless wandering, I found myself outside the door of Krav’s Place.
As I said, Krav was no longer the only game in town; and I was both amused and a little disappointed to find that he had cleaned up his act. He had repainted the place, for one, a lighter shade; his tables and chairs were all new, and all matched; and he actually seemed to have been mopping the floor once in a while. He’d even cranked up the wattage on the overhead lights. Competition had forced him into it, of course, and his cafe was still very popular; but in a way it was a little sad. It was as if I’d gone into the Summer of Love in San Francisco and found that it had gone mauve and fake granite. In other words, yick.
At any rate, I entered into a prolonged and somewhat strained negotiation with Krav (his Terran was a little broken, and I don’t speak Andorian), which eventually resulted in my being served a large cut of Andorian K’Valla steak (which they usually grill to the point of cremation) uncooked, and smothered in a kind of sweet-and-sour sauce that was—uh—interesting. I took my meal to a booth in the back; approximately the same position as the rickety table I’d shared with Joel, all that time ago. From there, behind the privacy of my visor, I could watch the passing crowd. To my relief they were all DS 2 crew, or civilians, all of whom gave me barely a second glance. I was not in the mood for company right then.
As I said, the preliminary hearing had been fairly brief. Commander Sutton had given her opening statement, in which she came perilously close to making the very accusations that Admiral Conroy had said weren’t to be made. Force of habit, I guess. In the end she had not exactly promised to prove that I had personally bombed Zelazny; but almost. And then Mr. Spock had risen to give his own calm, reasoned, insightful, and extremely dull counter-argument, in which he had promised to prove that Zelazny’s destruction was accidental, due to age and decrepitude. Frankly, he had the easier prospectus.
There had also been a minor turf-battle over several (to me at least) obscure and rather unnecessary points of law and procedure. Only one had meant anything to me. Commander Sutton had more or less insisted that I be housed, during the trial, in quarters aboard DS 2, where presumably I could be watched. Mr. Spock, in rebuttal, had pointed out that Enterprise would be going nowhere, as long as the trial lasted, because some members of her crew were potential witnesses; that I was under a doctor’s care (true, as far as it went) and that I would be more comfortable in my own familiar quarters aboard Enterprise. (Also true, though they weren’t quite so familiar any more.) I don’t think Admiral Conroy cared very much; he knew I couldn’t run out on them, no matter where I slept. And so he allowed Commodore M’Rael to rule in Spock’s (and my, of course) favor. 
 And that was all; the real testimony—my testimony, in the main—would start tomorrow. And that’s when my problems would really begin.
Mr. Spock had recommended that I record, and be prepared to have examined, every aspect of my three months on board Zelazny. The problem was, of course, that there were several areas of my experiences that I really didn’t want to have examined. Chief among those was the incidents that had lead up to the cutting of my claws. It was enough, more than enough, actually, that Uhura knew about that event; I had no particular desire for it to become a matter of public record. Most especially not in front of Commodore M’Rael. In that one action Captain Antilles had caused me enough shame to last a lifetime. Under the present circumstances, being forced to reveal it to the commodore, or indeed any other Caitian, would be much more than I could endure. Though perhaps you’d have to be Caitian to really understand that. As it was, with my claws regrown and with no other witnesses, I could pretend, at least to other Caitians, that it had never happened. The shame I would have to endure privately, forever.
And there was more than just my cut claws. Something had been going on aboard Zelazny. Of that I had always been certain. The problem was, of course, that I’d had no solid idea what it was. Obviously Captain Antilles had been pursuing an agenda of his own. Whatever it had been, it was something that he could not share with me. That it was connected in some way with the hatred much of the crew had felt toward me, I was also certain. Not to mention, of course, the sheer terror shown by Joel and Gaetano every time it seemed that I was getting close to the truth.
But I’d had no details, nothing concrete to go on, just a lot of suspicions. I might have learned the truth, had I made it to Joel’s cabin that night. But whatever he’d been about to tell me, had died with him.
And in the end, that was the crux of the matter: did any of it really matter any more? Captain Antilles’ plan, plot, conspiracy, whatever it had been, had exploded to atoms above Hellhole. Discovering what it had been would be a mystery, a detective story that I had no desire to become a part of; and might indeed be impossible. And, ultimately, of course, pointless.
The way I saw it, describing in detail my experiences aboard Zelazny would just serve to expose me to a degree of pain and humiliation that I simply didn’t care to experience. Is that wrong of me, given my oaths as a Starfleet officer? Probably. But there are other oaths, and at that time, I truly felt that it was the only choice I could make; the only choice that would preserve both my sanity and what was left of my Caitian dignity. I would restrict my testimony to the events surrounding the ship’s destruction, I decided firmly. Anything else was irrelevant.
Those were my thoughts as I sat there at the back of Krav’s Place, toying with my steak (actually that sauce kind of grew on me.) And as I sat, wondering idly whether there was anything on the dessert menu that I could digest, someone entered the cafe. She was human, an ensign wearing the station-modified uniform; and as she stepped inside my eyes lit on her, because she was somehow familiar to me.
She paused at the doorway, looking around; and then, seeing me, she eschewed the counter and walked purposefully across the cafe toward my booth. And as she did I finally remembered: she was Commodore M’Rael’s receptionist. I had encountered her (I could not really say met) when I’d arrived at the commodore’s office for that meeting which ultimately resulted in my transfer. But what would she want from me now—?
She stepped up directly in front of me, and she smiled. “Lieutenant M’Ress?” she said.
“Yes, that’s me,” I said carefully.
“This is for you, Lieutenant,” she said. She handed me a small piece of folded plastic “paper”; then she turned swiftly and fled.
I watched her go, a frown of puzzlement on my face; then I glanced down at the paper. On the outer surface were a few markings; but I couldn’t read them. With a muttered curse I reached up, unfastened my visor, and pushed it to the top of my head. Squinting into the sudden glare, I looked again. And as I did, my heart skipped a beat, and my tail began to lash. The markings were my name. Not surprisingly, I suppose; but it was not written in Terran, but rather in Caitian hieroglyphic script. And that could mean only one thing.
Eagerly I opened the note. Inside there were more hieroglyphic characters. They read, roughly speaking: “My child—It is obvious that you have suffered much. As you know, it would be inappropriate for us to speak together at this time. Rest assured that we shall speak, at length, after the court has finished its business. My thoughts and prayers are with you.” And it was signed, of course, “M’Rael.”
By the time I’d finished reading my eyes were burning and starting to water, and I hurriedly reseated my visor. Then I leaned back, the ghost of a smile on my face. With a slightly nervous glance around I folded the note and slipped it hurriedly into the front of my tunic. Probably I should have swallowed it; but my dinner was going to cause me enough indigestion already.
And I had to smile. The fact of that note, its careful content, and the way it had been delivered, were all absolutely typical of Commodore M’Rael. She was a living example of that old human saying: “use your head to the damnedest with no holds barred.” She knew that speaking to me directly would prejudice the case, and could cause a mistrial; but at the same time, she could not let me believe that she was ignoring me. That I had suffered she would have known from two sources; one, my report; and two, the evidence of her own eyes. I had noted the concern on her face as she had seen my visor, and the uniform hanging loosely on my still rather emaciated frame. So she had done the only possible thing, to ease my mind and her own. Yes, it was typical M’Rael. 
But what she didn’t know, and couldn’t know, was that she had just given me a problem too. Unfortunately, the very last thing in the universe that I wanted right then was a talk with Commodore M’Rael. Not, though, because of what she might say to me; but because of what Caitian honor, and my loyalty to her, would force me to say.
###
The next morning I was on the hot seat.
Scarcely had the court convened when Commander Sutton rose to call me to the stand. Now, under Federation law, and even Starfleet military justice, I was of course protected from self-incrimination, and in a criminal case I could not be compelled to take the stand. But in this event, to refuse would have had several unfortunate consequences. Number one, it would have brought the entire proceedings to a screeching halt, which would not have made me popular. And number two, it would have given the impression that I was guilty of something; and might even have made the court reconsider their half-promise not to charge me with anything. As part of the minor legal skirmishing the day before, I had agreed to waive my right not to testify—in the interest of uncovering the truth, of course. And so, there I was; wide open for Commander Sutton’s best serve. I hoped my backhand was still up to it.
The five meters or so from the defense table to the witness stand seemed to have expanded to at least five kilometers, and my feet seemed glued to the floor. Once again it was the eyes, the hundreds of silent staring eyes, that did it; that made me feel no more than a centimeter tall. By the time I took my seat my tail was—well, you know what it was doing—and my fingers were tingling. There was just a hint of black at each fingertip as I laid my right hand, palm down, on the veradication disk.
As I sat—and as I forced myself to relax, doing the Yoga breathing exercises that Sulu had once taught me—the disk below my hand began to glow and the grow warm, and the computer did its standard identification business.
“M’Ress, Lieutenant,” it said tonelessly. “Service number SC 989-0659 DLZ. Species, Caitian; planet of birth, Cait. Age, thirty-four Terran Standard years—”
Goddess! I thought, as the computer droned on. The damn thing’s right! I’d had a birthday during this whole mess, and I hadn’t even remembered. That was a first for me. It isn’t really a Caitian habit to make a big deal out of birthdays; but it had always been my habit. On Enterprise, of course, I would have had a party thrown for me. Back home on Cait another party would have been given, this one for my twin brother S’Sell; and once again, for about the twelfth year running, I hadn’t been there. This time I hadn’t even been able to send my usual message. Starfleet can be hell on family relationships too.
“—Three times decorated for valor by Starfleet.” True enough; and I was very conscious of the medals which should have been hanging on my chest. They’d been atomized along with Zelazny.
“Last recorded assignment, Anthropology-Paleontology officer, USS Zelazny, NCC-1372. Previous assignment, communications officer, USS Enterprise, NCC-1701.”
And so on. By the time it had finished I had forced upon myself a measure of calm, my tail had nearly stilled, and the tiny hint of claws had vanished. By the time Commander Sutton rose and faced me, I felt that I could probably once again speak intelligible Terran.
Commander Sutton speared me with her gaze for a moment; then she started in. I had to give her high marks for alacrity; she wasted no time. “Lieutenant M’Ress,” she said, not mangling my name too badly, “would you please describe for the court the events of Stardate 8794, your last day board USS Zelazny?”
And that’s how it began. You’ve followed my story this far; it would be pointless, I imagine, for me to repeat word-for-word the testimony I gave. Suffice it to say that by sixteen hundred hours, when the court adjourned, I was utterly exhausted, feeling like I’d been dragged through a hedge by my tail; and, in terms of my story, I had not yet beamed down to the forest on Hellhole. The dissection of my tale had been that thorough. And not only from Commander Sutton: Commodore M’Rael and Admiral Conroy had gotten in on the act as well.
With that kind of scrutiny, it was becoming harder than I’d expected to tell the truth while avoiding any mention of my treatment as the hands of Zelazny’s crew. To do so, and to remain consistent, and to prevent the veradication computer from raising an alarm, was perhaps more than I could continue to accomplish. I never thought I’d be living proof of another old human saying, the one that begins “Oh what a tangled web we weave...” But at the same time, I could think of no good way to back out of my resolve.
A couple of examples, I suppose, will serve to illustrate the difficulties I was having, as well as the microscopic examination my testimony was receiving. Such as:
“Lieutenant M’Ress,” Commander Sutton said, “are you aware that no transmissions from Zelazny were received after the one announcing your arrival at the A-Benideel system?”
 “I was made aware of that fact after my rescue,” I replied. “By Captain Kirk, in explaining why Enterprise was there. At the time, however, I was definitely not aware of this.”
“Do you have any explanation for this failure to report?”
“None,” I said. “My duties on Zelazny took me to the bridge very seldom. As a former communications officer, I know that it is a standing Starfleet order for a ship on an extended exploration mission to report its position and status upon arrival at each new system. In the case of the first two systems following A-Benideel—”
“That would be VSA 11247 and VSA 11378?” Admiral Conroy interrupted.
“Yes, Admiral,” I confirmed. “In the case of those two systems, I have no evidence whether the standard message was sent or not; I was not on the bridge during our arrivals. Only in the last system, VSA 21437, do I know for certain that it was sent.”
“And how do you know this, Lieutenant?” Commander Sutton said.
I hesitated for a moment, sensing a booby-trap ahead; but I’d started, and had little choice but to finish. “In that case I was taking a shift on the comm board when we arrived in the system. Captain Antilles specifically ordered me to send the standard location and status message, and I did so.”
Almost instantly Commodore M’Rael (if you’ll excuse the expression) pounced on that one. “How did you come to be taking a shift on the communications panel, Lieutenant?” she said mildly. “I believe you had signed aboard as the anthropology-paleontology officer.”
If I’d been human, I probably would have started to sweat about then. Instead my tail began to go, and I was powerless to stop it, though Commodore M’Rael’s eyes shifted to immediately to the waving appendage. She, at least, knew what it meant. I had to strongly resist an impulse to lift my hand off the veradicator disk. I said, carefully, “Zelazny had a very small crew and very little cross-training. The chief communications officer, Ensign Matthews, had a personal difficulty—”
A little to my surprise, I got away with that one. I guess, if you think about it, being restricted to quarters does truthfully qualify as a “personal difficulty.” I went on, “—that kept him off duty for several days. Captain Antilles knew that I was an experienced comm officer; and so he asked me to take a partial shift in relief of the number-two officer, who had been on duty for more than fifteen hours.” 
“Did you take any other shifts at that station?” Commodore M’Rael persisted.
“No,” I said. “After that the captain was able to juggle shifts sufficiently so that I did not have to. And Ensign Matthews was back on duty in about a week.”
“To your knowledge, was the Zelazny’s subspace radio functional?” Commander Sutton asked.
“To my knowledge, yes it was,” I said. “Ensign Matthews told me that there had previously been some problems with it, but that the technicians here at DS 2 had corrected them.”
...But it hadn’t felt right when I sent that message, I reminded myself. Should I mention that? No, I decided almost instantly. Just a gut feeling, and you weren’t really familiar with that antiquated equipment. You’d just sound like an idiot.
“Very well,” Commander Sutton said. She sounded disappointed. “We’ll move on...”
 And again:
“Lieutenant, during your time in Starfleet you have encountered many other officers, have you not?” Commander Sutton asked, some time later.
“Yes, I have,” I replied. Silly question, I thought. Little did I know what she was leading up to.
“And during that time, have you ever formed opinions in your mind as to the qualities of these officers; the efficiency with which they perform their duties, for example?”
“I...suppose that I have, yes,” I said.
“During your time aboard Zelazny, did you form any opinions about Lieutenant Commander Abrams, the chief engineer, or his staff?”
Joel. Even after more than seventy days, the pain of it was still as keen. For several seconds I couldn’t answer, and I was very aware of the eyes upon me. Especially the eyes of Commodore M’Rael, narrowed now in suspicion. I was absolutely certain, in those few seconds, that the veradication computer would sound an alarm, detecting my distress and interpreting it as an attempted falsehood. It must have been more sensitive than I would have given it credit for, though; either that, or less. It remained mercifully silent.
Commodore M’Rael, however, did not. “Is there a problem, Lieutenant?” she said softly.
“No,” I said. My voice was husky, and I rapidly cleared my throat. “No, Commodore. Commander Abrams and I were...old friends. We’d known each other since our Academy days. His death was...upsetting to me.” Understatements—even huge ones—aren’t lies, it appears.
“Do you feel that you are able to answer Commander Sutton’s question?” the commodore asked.
“Yes,” I said. I took a deep breath. “Yes, Commodore, I can. In my opinion, based solely on my years as a Starfleet officer, Commander Abrams was an extremely effective engineer. He was responsible in the main for the fact that an aging and unsafe ship remained in space as long as it did.”
“And his staff?” Commander Sutton persisted.
Osgood. Almost instantly my grief was replaced by a stab of anger, followed by a crushing wave of shame. In my life I’d never truly wished anyone dead, but my feelings toward Osgood had come damn close. On any other ship he would have been busted inside a week. He’d have spent his entire tour peeling potatoes. But Captain Antilles and Edgeworth blamed me for every incident that he caused. Why? Why was a damn idiot ensign worth more than me?
Once again the eyes were upon me; and once again I had to force myself to speak, and quickly before Commodore M’Rael could jump in. “Commander Abrams maintained an efficient staff as well,” I said. Whatever else they were, they were efficient. “I saw no sign of lax maintenance. On the few occasions when I had to call upon the engineering staff for repair work —” Removing the evidence of vandalism is certainly repair—“I found that the work was done rapidly and well. I do not believe we can blame Zelazny’s destruction on poor maintenance.”
From the expression on Commander Sutton’s face at that moment, I could clearly read her mind. She was thinking, Then what do we blame it on? But once again she sighed, and changed the subject.
...And so my exhaustion by the end of the day is probably not to be wondered at, as well as my discouragement and depression. Under the circumstances the ordinarily welcome sight of Uhura, waiting for me at the Enterprise end of the pressure tunnel, was high on my list of things that I did not want to see. It would have been exceeded only by, say, a squad of DS 2 security guards with orders to take me into custody.
Uhura caught me right at the airlock, stepping forward quickly and linking her arm with mine, separating me from Mr. Spock and Captain Kirk. “M’Ress,” she said, “could I have a word with you? In private?”
I glanced at Spock and the captain; they seemed unconcerned, and kept walking, deep in conversation. I sighed. “I’m sorry, Uhura,” I said. “But can I take a rain check? I’m really tired. All I want right now is comfortable clothes, food, and sleep, in that order.”
“Five minutes?” she said, raising yet another unwelcome echo from the past. But...well, at that point I needed all the friends I could get, and to antagonize my current best friend probably wasn’t a good idea.
And so I nodded slowly. “All right,” I said, just as I had that other time. “Five minutes.”
I allowed her to lead me away, not to the Officer’s Lounge as I’d halfway expected, but instead to her own quarters, not too distant from mine. I guess she really did want privacy...
I had always liked Uhura’s quarters, and I was pleased to see that it had not changed during my absence. Another two-room senior-officer’s model, her decor was distinctly (and not surprisingly, I suppose) African, from the complex, interwoven patterns of the rugs and the hangings, to the brightly-colored masks and sculptures of ebony.
She waved me to the lounging chair, and pulled her desk chair over close to me. Seeing the determined expression on her face, and the way that she leaned earnestly close, I became suddenly apprehensive. This obviously wasn’t going to be a discussion of fashion or hairstyles. “What—uh—what can I do for you?” I asked her reluctantly.
“You can tell me what the hell you’re up to,” she said.
I recoiled slightly from the harshness in her voice. “I...don’t know what you mean,” I said.
“Yes you do, Lieutenant,” she said pointedly. “The testimony you gave today. You haven’t said a word about what really happened to you on Zelazny. And don’t tell me that you couldn’t work it in—you had a hundred opportunities. I think you’ve been deliberately skating around the subject.”
“You’re absolutely right, I have,” I said. “But...I can’t do it. I just can’t force myself to talk about it. I’ll tell them anything they want to know about the explosion, but that’s all.”
“Why?” she demanded. “M’Ress, you were treated like dirt by almost an entire Starfleet crew. That’s... unprecedented. Inexcusable. Don’t you want the court to know? Just so they can guard against it happening again? Don’t you want justice?”
“No,” I said simply. “No, I don’t. What good would it do, Uhura? That crew was an aberration; and they’re all dead. Whatever they did to me, it died with them.”
“Not entirely, it didn’t,” she countered. “What didn’t die was the memories. They’re still very much alive, in there.” She pointed at my head. “And that’s where they’ll stay, festering, until you do something to purge them. If it was me, I couldn’t stand that. It might literally drive me insane, carrying around that kind of emotional wreckage.”
I shook my head tiredly. “It doesn’t work that way,” I said. “Not for us. What happened to me was...humiliating. Shameful. Especially this.” I lifted my hands briefly. “That was the most shameful thing that could ever happen to a Caitian.”
“I know,” Uhura said, her tone softened a trifle. “All the more reason—”
“No,” I interrupted firmly. “You don’t know us, Uhura. I don’t think any non-Caitian could really understand. We endure our shame. In private. We do not ever burden others with it. If I had returned here aboard Zelazny, that would have been different; I would have had to somehow force myself to tell someone, probably Commodore M’Rael, what was happening, despite the shame; because the alternative would have been for it to go on and on as long as I was aboard that damn ship. I might have been able to force myself in that case, because it would have accomplished something. But there is no point, no purpose now. I shouldn’t even have told you. I thought, because you’re human, it would be different; but it wasn’t. If Commodore M’Rael found out now, for no practical reason...I would never be able to face her again.”
She shook her head. “You’re right,” she said. “I don’t understand.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t,” I said. “All I can do is ask you to trust me. I do know what I’m doing, Uhura. Everything the court needs to know, they will hear; and truthfully. That much I swear.”
She nodded reluctantly. “All right,” she said. “It is your business, I suppose, and I certainly can’t force you to change your mind. As your friend, though, I just hope you’re not making a bad mistake.”
“I...don’t think I am,” I said. “And—as my friend, I need you to make me a promise. Promise me you won’t tell anyone else what I told you. All right?”
She hesitated, and I pressed her, my tone sharpening a little. “All right?”
Finally she nodded again, even more reluctantly. “All right,” she said. “I promise.”
Why was it, though, that looking into her dark eyes, I had the distinct feeling that she had her fingers—metaphorically speaking—crossed behind her back?
###
I couldn’t sleep.
The last time I’d done the insomnia bit (other than on Hellhole, which doesn’t really count) had been in my early days on Zelazny; that night when I’d learned that there were huge areas of the science logs closed off to me. It was also the night when I’d learned that my computer usage was being monitored, and was liable to being cut off at the pass. It was also the very last time that I’d felt anything even remotely approaching safe on board Zelazny.
Since returning to Enterprise I had generally been sleeping like a stone. But this night, as with that last, I was kept awake by something prodding at my brain; something that just wasn’t adding up.
The court-martial had ended its fourth day that afternoon, and (at least from where I sat, mostly in the witness stand) we were not a lot closer to any final determination of why Zelazny had exploded. What more, really, could they have expected? I had felt Uhura’s eye on me, all through the last three days, her gaze disapproving; though I didn’t dare to look up at her. She had promised, though, and what was of much more concern to me were the big golden eyes of Commodore M’Rael, drilling, always drilling, into the side of my head. She knew me, better than most; but more to the point she understood the motivations of the Caitian mind, in a way that no human ever could. What she knew, or thought she knew, I didn’t care to speculate.
One advantage to the fact that I’d been allowed to remain on Enterprise: I knew the layout of that cabin like the back of my furry hand. It was not necessary for me to turn on even the smallest of lights, as I rose, ordered and received a glass of warm milk from the synthesizer, and curled myself up in my lounging chair, my legs tucked beneath me.
I sat for a few minutes, there in the near-total darkness, sipping my milk...and listening. A human ear, I suppose, would have reported total silence; and indeed there was little even for my Caitian hearing. A soft hum of power, which was a constant on any starship. The muted rush of air through the vents, and the similar, more liquid sound of water coursing through the plumbing. The occasional clicks of relays closing. Perhaps—far away and unintelligible—the mutter of quiet voices. Like Scotty, I knew this ship; I knew every sound she could make, right and wrong. This was...home. Almost as much as that big sprawling house on the savanna. 
The court-martial, the daily ordeal of testifying or listening to others’ testimony, was bringing back memories of Zelazny and Hellhole, including many that I didn’t particularly want to explore. But they’d been forced upon me, and now that I dwelled upon them, I was finding many things that just didn’t make sense.
Zelazny...it was all very well, of course, for me to come to the conclusion that my experiences aboard that ship weren’t relevant to the business of the court. But in retrospect, my expecting myself to simply let the matter drop, just like that, wasn’t very realistic. No; I had lived it far too long for that; lived with the racism, the ostracism, and fear...was it any wonder that it still burned somewhere deep inside me: the desire to know why?
Unfortunately, I had as little explanation for that as I had for why the Zelazny had exploded. Only a head full of unconnected data points. Such as: obviously Captain Antilles had surrounded himself deliberately with humans. No, not just humans, but Terrans, natives of Earth. I didn’t buy, had never bought, Joel’s explanation that the crew’s makeup had “just happened.” No; Antilles had really had to work to achieve that end, especially in the face of Starfleet regulations. But why? Was it racism? That he had hated me was obvious; did that hatred extend to all non-humans? Or even to all humans who were not born on the home planet?
I shook my head, there in the darkness. The motivations of racism are alien to me. It is not, unfortunately, a peculiarly human phenomenon; but they have, in historical time, shown a definite talent for it. I’d always thought that to be in the past. Now I knew much better.
What was Antilles looking for? I wondered again. The rest of the crew had known; that much was certain. And some of them had been absolutely terrified by the prospect that I might find out. Joel had even implied that it could be very hazardous to my health even to inquire. It had been something to so with the sciences; that I knew. Especially with my own specialties of anthro and paleo. Those areas had been the subject of most of the logs that I’d been locked out of. But what specific area of those sciences it had involved...
Morada, I thought suddenly. He had been my predecessor; he had recorded most of the information that Antilles had locked up. Could it be...that he had known too much for his own good?
I shook my head again, angrily this time. No, I thought. No, that’s ridiculous. His death was an accident. Just like my accident with the tree branch, or Gaetano on the cliff. Surely even Antilles wouldn’t have gone that far...
I shuddered, and grasped my nearly-empty glass a little tighter. Or would he? Was that what had scared Gaetano and Joel so badly? The fear that I might have an “accident” too? Or was all of this simply paranoia? How to know? How to ever know, now that the evidence was gone?
But if I was right...then maybe I could understand both Gaetano and Joel a little better. Gaetano had liked me. Joel had...more than liked me. Had their bizarre behavior—the lies, the stonewalling—been a clumsy male/human attempt to help me; or to protect me? If so, then I had failed miserably to take the hints they’d been dropping. And that, of course, added another layer to the burden of guilt that I already carried. Because I should have taken their hints. I should have concentrated on survival, on doing my duty as well as I could and nothing else, rather than making myself a target for Antilles’ wrath by trying to find out what was happening around me. 
...And then you’d probably be just as dead, I reminded myself. Blown up with the rest of them.
But maybe, just maybe, Joel and I could have been happy together during the time we had left; if I had not made demands upon him that he couldn’t fulfill. Happy, and not at each other’s throats constantly. Maybe. Would it have been worth it? Who knows?
...But unfortunately, that wasn’t the only thing preying on my mind that night. The other was Hellhole. Sitting there, I unconsciously began to rub my right forearm with my left hand. It didn’t hurt any more, and my arm wasn’t impaired in any way; but the scars left by the attack of those rat-like creatures were indeed large, and ugly, and the fur was patchy and tufted above them. Fortunately they didn’t show when I wore my uniform, nor with the long-sleeved day-robes I’d ordered; but I definitely wasn’t going to be wearing anything sleeveless in public until I had them worked on. If indeed medical science could do anything about them.
Hellhole was a desolate and almost waterless planet. That much we’d proved within a day or so. What life there was, was secretive, nocturnal, almost invisible by daylight. Huge areas of the planet were literally, unerringly lethal to human or Caitian. And yet, I had managed to get myself stranded in a place with shade, relief from the heat, water, the potential for shelter, and diurnal animals that mostly stood still and waited for me to kill them. The only place, in short, where I would have a chance of surviving for more than twenty-four hours. If I’d been left in the canyon of our first landing, or the dry grasslands of our second, or especially beside one of those sterile saline seas...I wouldn’t have lasted through the first night. And I don’t imagine that dying of thirst is an especially pleasant way to go. Isn’t that just a tiny bit much to chalk up to mere coincidence?
But there was no intelligent life, anywhere on that planet. I’d offered to stake my professional reputation on that. There had been no signs of cities, ruins, structures or earthworks of any kind. That damn magnetic field had been a curiosity, a natural phenomenon. Unless you believe in supernatural forces (which I don’t) there was nothing but coincidence to chalk it up to.
Except...Captain Antilles had obviously been convinced that something, whatever it was he was looking for, would be found on Hellhole. Why else would he have taken such an interest in the dismal place? Why else keep us there for two weeks, our assigned mission on hold? Why else would Gaetano have nearly suffered apoplexy, when I’d asked him what the captain was looking for there? Why else was the captain so thoroughly convinced, beyond all reason, that the magnetic fluctuations were some kind of communication? What had he expected to find there? Some kind of intelligence? And (this thought made my tail stiffen and a shiver go up my spine) what if he was right? What if—?
But...no. In the absence of any evidence to the contrary, the court seemed to be rapidly coming to the easiest conclusion, once which even I was beginning to reluctantly accept as fact: that Zelazny’s destruction had been entirely accidental. In his testimony that very afternoon, Scotty had declared the ship to have been a “disaster looking for a place to happen”; and I tended to agree. Besides, if something had reached out from the planet and destroyed Zelazny, why would it spare the likes of me? And why would it make absolutely no contact with me, during the sixty-three days following? No; that made no sense either. Easier to believe (as Commodore M’Rael surely did) that the benevolent Goddess had been looking out for me. And that took me, unfortunately, back to where I started from; which is to say nowhere.
I stifled a yawn, and I glanced across to the softly glowing numerals on the bedside chronometer: 0213. I had to be in court early, again, in the morning; and if I didn’t want to be grouchy all day...Fortunately the warm milk, as usual, had served to activate my natural endorphins, and I felt sleep creeping up on me even as I quitted my chair and climbed back into bed. Whatever mysteries were still hanging around, they’d have to make an appointment during office hours.
###
The show was almost over.
I suppose it’s wrong of me to term it so; but it was really inevitable for me to see it that way: the biggest vaudeville act to hit DS 2 in months. The public gallery overlooking the courtroom was filled every day with a rotating series of off-duty officers and enlisted. Even a number of Enterprise crew had turned out. Unlike the ambivalent, merely thrill-seeking DS 2 crew, though, I knew they were all actively rooting for me.
Actually, as courts-martial go, my first (and hopefully last) hadn’t been too painful. Commander Sutton hadn’t found a great deal to prosecute; one of the judges was so obviously biased in my favor it was quite ridiculous; and anyway, what could I possibly be guilty of? I hadn’t bombed the Zelazny, for Goddess’ sake.
So at any rate, the whole thing had turned from an orderly trial to a kind of free-for-all debating-club meeting. I was not the sole witness; we have also heard from Scotty, from Sulu and Uhura, from DS 2 techs, and even from Captain Kirk and Christine Chapel. But my testimony was the most important, and over the last five days I spent what must have been almost thirty rather grueling hours in the witness chair. The veradication computer never made a sound as everyone in sight—Admiral Conroy, Commodore M’Rael, Commander Sutton and Mr. Spock—questioned and re-questioned every last point of my experiences.
I did tell the truth, and nothing but the truth; but not, I must confess, the whole truth. It was not easy, damn difficult in fact; but I did manage to restrict my testimony entirely to the Zelazny’s destruction and my stranding. Not one word did I speak of what had happened in the weeks before. Shame was part of the reason why, as I’d told Uhura; but as the days dragged on another, equally firm resolve grew within me: that I also had little desire to open a can of worms that would keep me on that damn witness stand another thirty or forty hours.
Commodore M’Rael suspected. Of that I was absolutely certain. During the trial I’d caught her watching me closely, her eyes narrowed in what I can only describe as suspicion. Her questions had been brief and emotionless, and had dealt only with the matter at hand; or at least the questions she spoke. The questions in her eyes were something else again. Somehow, after this was all over, I was going to have to escape before she put voice to those questions. If she did, if she managed to corner me...then I would be honor-bound, by the ethics of our society, to answer.
So anyway, that fifth morning it was almost over: the testimony—mine and others—had all been taken, every last word of my story picked to molecule-sized pieces, and we sat awaiting the verdict. Mr. Spock and Captain Kirk occupied the defense table with me; I felt even smaller than usual between them. Uhura, Sulu, Mr. Scott and Dr. McCoy were in the gallery above us. From the other table, where she had sat quite alone for five days, Commander Sutton looked over at me with an affable smile. If a conviction equaled victory to her, then she was about to lose. Didn’t seem to care much, though.
And me? I was tired, worn out. My body still hadn’t recovered fully, nor put back all that lost weight; and my eyes were aching behind my dark visor. And I still had no idea what my future would be, not even after I left this courtroom this very morning.
The hum of conversation stilled at the sound of the boson’s whistle; and when we heard the court crier call out “All rise!” we did, coming to attention and remaining so as Admiral Conroy and Commodore M’Rael entered and sat down behind their raised desk. “Be seated,” the admiral said, and we did.
Admiral Conroy nodded to Commodore M’Rael, and she cleared her throat. “We have reached our decision,” she said quietly. “Lieutenant M’Ress, will you please rise?”
I did, and stood at attention. The commodore continued, “Lieutenant M’Ress, it is the judgment of this court that the destruction of the Zelazny was entirely accidental, most likely the result of a fault in antimatter containment, or a warp-core breach. We thank you for your excellent and detailed testimony which has enabled us to reach this painful conclusion. We also concur that there are many anomalies associated with the planet on which you were stranded, and we have recommended that Starfleet thoroughly investigate them. We believe, however, that they ultimately have no bearing on Zelazny’s destruction.
“It is further our judgment that Lieutenant M’Ress is entirely blameless in this affair, and innocent of any stain of wrongdoing. This court wishes to extend our commendations to you for the courage and resourcefulness you so amply demonstrated in surviving a difficult and dangerous situation. Your service record will so note.”
I risked a quick glance up at the gallery; Uhura was smiling broadly, miming the clapping of her hands; and Sulu was giving me both thumbs up. Beside me Captain Kirk was also smiling; and even Mr. Spock was looking faintly satisfied.
Commodore M’Rael reached for the gavel. “This court stands—” she began; but she never finished. She was interrupted when the door at the rear of the courtroom suddenly slid open, and a station security ensign entered. His face was pale, as if he’d seen a ghost or ten; he hurried up the aisle and stepped behind the judge’s desk. Looking vexed, Commodore M’Rael and Admiral Conroy bent close to him as he spoke a few quiet, urgent words that even my ears couldn’t pick up. The expressions of impatience quickly vanished; I watched the blood drain from the admiral’s face, and the commodore’s ears went pale.
“This court stands in recess,” the commodore said, her voice suddenly shaky. She banged the gavel a tiny bit harder than was absolutely necessary. “All participants will please hold themselves available for further proceedings.” And then she and the admiral practically ran from the room.
The gallery began to break up, the audience members muttering to each other in confusion as they exited. I realized that I was still standing at attention, and amidst the babble of conversation I sank back down into my seat.
“What do you think that was all about, sir?” I asked Captain Kirk.
He looked over at me with a frown of confusion. “I haven’t got a clue, Lieutenant, but perhaps we can find out. Ensign!”
The young human who had delivered the upsetting message was still lingering near the judge’s desk, as if unsure whether he’d been dismissed. At the captain’s shout he stepped over to our table. “Sir?” he said crisply.
“What’s going on, mister?” Captain Kirk demanded.
The ensign hesitated, as if unsure whether or not he should say. Frankly, in retrospect, I wish he’d held his silence. What he said shocked me right down to the tip of my tail, and brought the entire structure of my last seventy days crashing down around me. It also, though this of course is purely incidental, put the future of my Starfleet career seriously in jeopardy.
“Captain, the USS  Zelazny just broke warp on the edge of the system. She’ll be docking inside an hour.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” Captain Kirk said, “I’m open to impressions.”
Amidst all the confusion I’d been permitted to return to the Enterprise with the others, even though I’d more than halfway expected to be taken into custody as a liar or a lunatic. After a brief rest we’d regathered in the briefing room, where I sat, shell-shocked, flanked by the captain, Spock, Uhura, Dr. McCoy, Sulu and Scotty. The briefing room’s big viewscreen was on, and it showed the battered hull of Zelazny, sitting in her docking clamps about a third of the way around the ring from the Enterprise. The survey ship’s shining viewports stared at me like a thousand accusing eyes.
I said, “Captain, if I may...”
“Please,” the captain said.
I looked around the table. “Sir, everyone, I know how this makes me look,” I said. “But I’m neither lying nor crazy. I know what I saw on that planet, and that’s exactly what I told you, and the court.”
The captain held up a placating hand. “Please, Lieutenant. Neither your sanity nor your veracity is in question here. There are a number of damn peculiar things going on, and I for one would like to get to the bottom of them. Mr. Spock, what’s the current situation?”
Spock steepled his fingers in front of him, a characteristic gesture. “The Zelazny docked at DS 2 approximately two hours ago,” he said. “Captain Antilles was quite surprised by the fuss his arrival caused. He has hastened to file a report, which I shall summarize.
”To begin with, Captain Antilles reports a malfunction of the Zelazny’s subspace radio, one which had gone completely undetected until the ship’s arrival at the base. This, he claims, is the reason why the Zelazny has been out of communications for more than four months.“
”Has he explained why the ship was overdue returning to DS 2?“ the captain asked.
”He has,“ Mr. Spock said. ”In his account, the area of the sector they were exploring proved to be unusually rich in habitable planets; a fact confirmed by his logs. As the supply situation seemed adequate, Captain Antilles decided to extend that particular survey. He believed, of course, that Command had received notification of his decision.
“Captain Antilles’ account of the events at VSA 21437 differ greatly from that of Lieutenant M’Ress. Captain Antilles relates that the lieutenant’s communicator signal and transporter lock were lost as the Zelazny attempted to beam her aboard. He further reports that they received no distress calls from her. Captain Antilles claims, and his log supports, that the Zelazny remained in orbit for three additional days, while search parties combed the lieutenant’s last known position for signs of her. Without success, needless to say.”
The word was literally forced out of me, first in my own language, as a yowl; then in Terran. “What?”
“I only quote from Captain Antilles’ official report,” Commander Spock rebuked me mildly, and I subsided. Spock went on, “Captain Antilles cannot account for the explosion Lieutenant M’Ress described. He claims the Zelazny encountered no such phenomenon.
“After three days of searching, the Zelazny returned to their mission,” Spock concluded. “As they had already penetrated so deeply into the survey area, Captain Antilles believed it would be more efficient to continue his survey without an anthro-paleo officer, rather than abandon it and return to DS 2. The captain also blames the subspace radio malfunction for his failure to report Lieutenant M’Ress’ disappearance.”
I was on the verge of exploding; but Uhura, sitting beside me, put her hand atop mine, calming me. She said, “One moment. Mr. Spock, you keep saying ‘claims,’ that Captain Antilles claims something happened. Does that mean you don’t believe him?”
“I am...indeed troubled by some aspects of Captain Antilles’ report,” Spock said. “All of us here have known Lieutenant M’Ress for a  number of years. We can all vouch for her honesty, her dedication to duty, and the accuracy of her observations. I find that I cannot so vouch for Captain Antilles.”
He turned to Uhura. “Commander, I feel we must make our confessions now, in order to move this discussion along.”
“You’re right,” Uhura said. She turned to me, and squeezed my hand. “M’Ress, I hope you can forgive me. I’m afraid I broke the promise I made to you.”
“You mean—?” I began.
“Yes,” she said. “During the trial, some of what you told me about your time on the Zelazny, I related to Mr. Spock. I’m sorry. I know it was private, and I know I promised, but under the circumstances I thought it was important for him to know. I knew it would go no farther, at any rate.”
Under the circumstances, I suppose she was right; and I didn’t have the strength left in me to be angry. “All right,” I said.
Captain Kirk and the rest were looking perplexed. “Excuse me,” the captain said plaintively. “What’s this all about?”
“Lieutenant M’Ress’ revelations to Commander Uhura were of a somewhat...personal nature,” Spock said, bless him. “Suffice it to say, in brief, that she was not made at all welcome on board the Zelazny. She also found that the Zelazny has an entirely human crew, in direct violation of Starfleet regulations.”
“And, sir, ”I added, “I got the distinct feeling they wanted to keep it that way.”
“And also,” Uhura said with a glance at me, “M’Ress believes she discovered some definite irregularities about the Zelazny’s mission and operations.”
“Why didn’t you report any of this, M’Ress?” the captain said severely.
“I...didn’t believe it was relevant, sir,” I said. “Up until two hours ago I felt it had been more or less a personal problem, nothing to do with the ship exploding. The crew’s feelings toward me didn’t seem to impair their efficiency. Quite the opposite. And as to the irregularities ...I was never sure. I had no proof of anything.”
Captain Kirk shook his head. “Lieutenant, I appreciate your feelings. As we learn to be officers, all of us are taught to solve our own problems, the best way we can. But it is relevant now. Personal or not, I’m afraid we’re going to have to have the entire story. And right now.”
“Yes, sir,” I said; and despite the sinking feeling that threatened to engulf me, I told them. Even Uhura hadn’t heard some of the details of my experiences, and she looked shocked. I felt my stomach start to tighten inside me as I spoke; the retelling had reawakened some of the pain, the feelings that my sixty-three days had buried.
The captain interrupted me partway through. “Are you certain what this Osgood was doing wasn’t just hazing? Breaking in the newcomer?”
“Yes, sir, I am certain,” I said. “From what I understand, hazing is supposed to be more or less a playful thing. This was...cruel. Calculatedly cruel. And it is supposed to taper off in time, not intensify. Osgood didn’t stop until Ensign Matthews beat him nearly insensible.”
“From what you understand, Lieutenant?” the captain said with a smile. “Everyone in Starfleet Academy is hazed as a plebe. It’s a time-honored tradition. Weren’t you?”
I lifted my hand, my claws expressed slightly. “No sir,” I said. “Not that I can recall. Perhaps I was just lucky.”
“Ahem, yes,” Captain Kirk said. “Point taken, Lieutenant. Please go on.”
I did; and a few seconds later it was Doctor McCoy’s turn to interrupt. “He threatened to do what?” he exploded.
“To...to have me permanently declawed, Doctor,” I told him. I had to force the words out, and the tips of my fingers and toes gave a twinge as I did. Time had not dampened the shame of it. Quite the opposite, in fact. And to be revealing it to all of them...was almost more than I could force myself to do, despite the captain’s direct orders. If Commodore M’Rael had been present I know I could never have made myself speak. “Unless I submitted to having my claws trimmed back to stubs every week. He claimed it was for the protection of his crew.”
Dr. McCoy shook his head angrily. “That’s contrary to every Starfleet regulation, Federation law and medical ethic I’ve ever heard of. And this Dr. Enyeart—he was willing to do it?”
“He seemed positively eager to,” I said. “But I never gave him the chance. I reported for the trimming as ordered. Every week until I was stranded.”
“I’ll have him struck off,” Dr. McCoy said darkly. “I’ll have him up before the Surgeon General...”
“Later, Bones,” the captain said. He asked me, “You say there were irregularities. What were they, and what caused you to have suspicions?”
“Captain Antilles is...charismatic,” I said. “He exercises an extraordinary amount of control over his crew...almost a fanatical zeal. It’s my belief that he has an agenda, something above and beyond his assigned mission.
“I’m afraid my evidence is entirely circumstantial, though,” I went on. “Many things that I overheard; a number of transparent lies that were told to me. Several members of the crew were nominally friendly to me, and it frightened them badly whenever I asked questions. And Captain Antilles was absolutely desperate to get me off the ship.” Briefly I described that conversation between Edgeworth and Gaetano, in the office next to mine; and Gaetano’s extraordinary warning to me, not long before my stranding. 
“And I was never really allowed to do my job. You know, sir, that I signed on the Zelazny as her anthro-paleo officer. When I arrived on the ship I was not allowed to examine more than half of my predecessor’s work. All of it was kept in the computer of course, but a good deal of it was coded to be accessible only by the captain and his first officer. I participated in the post-survey briefings, but my contributions were not welcomed. Much of my work was dismissed as entirely perfunctory. Whatever Captain Antilles was truly doing, I was obviously not to be included.”
Mr. Scott suddenly snorted, as only he can snort. “This isna helping.” he said.
“Scotty’s right, Jim,” Dr. McCoy said. “This Antilles is obviously a damned racist, and he’s surrounded himself with racists. That’s not good, and it will have to be stopped. But do we really believe he stranded M’Ress on that planet, and then faked the ship exploding, just to be rid of her?”
“Actually, Doctor,” I said darkly. “I could imagine just that. You don’t know Captain Antilles.”
“He would have had to falsify his logs also,” Sulu pointed out.
“By no means impossible,” Spock said.
“Spock, that’s a serious charge against a Starfleet captain,” Kirk said. “So are yours, M’Ress. Can we back any of it up?”
“At the moment, no, Captain,” Spock said. “Lieutenant?”
“No, sir,” I agreed. “I don’t have any proof. Not even any well-founded suspicions. I have no idea what his agenda was.”
“What I do have, however,” Spock went on, “is what the good doctor might call a ‘gut feeling.’ I am much more prepared to believe Lieutenant M’Ress than Captain Antilles.”
We were interrupted then by the intercom. “Bridge to captain.” I recognized the voice: Lieutenant j.g. Morley; once upon a time, as an ensign, he had been my trainee; after my transfer, had gotten a well-deserved promotion. He had my old job now: second-shift comm officer.
Captain Kirk pressed the button. “Kirk here.”
“Captain, incoming message,” Morley said. “From the USS Zelazny.”
Captain Kirk glanced at me. “Captain Antilles?” he asked me.
“Probably, sir,” I said. I felt my fingertips tightening, preparatory to expressing my claws; and I quickly hid my hands below the table. “I have no idea what he’d want, though.”
“I’m afraid I do,” Captain Kirk said grimly. “Let’s find out. Put it through, Mr. Morley.”
We all turned toward the screen. It rippled, the image of the Zelazny vanishing. It was replaced by a face, one which I hadn’t seen in more than seventy days, and which I had not expected to see ever again. Captain Antilles. I felt a shudder go through me as his piercing gaze rested on me; and, out of sight below in my lap, my claws expressed to their full length or beyond, tingling madly. Not in anger, though, but in terror and shame. I was genuinely afraid of the man; and I hid my hands, my claws, for fear that he might take them away again. Crazy, I knew; he was kilometers away; but I couldn’t help it.
For a full ten seconds his eyes rested on me, his expression enigmatic; then they shifted. “Captain...Kirk, isn’t it?” Antilles said. That was a deliberate insult, and everyone at the table knew it; there wasn’t a man, woman or neuter in Starfleet who didn’t know James T. Kirk by sight.
“Correct,” Captain Kirk said. “And whom have I the honor—?” He can give as good as he gets. 
“Captain Mark Antilles,” he said. “The Zelazny.”
“What can I do for you, Captain Antilles?” Kirk asked. For the moment his voice was neutral and friendly; but his own gaze was piercing. He was sizing up Antilles; and not liking what he saw.
“I have just been made aware that my anthro-paleo officer, Lieutenant M’Ress, has been rescued from the planet where she vanished, ” Antilles said. “I would appreciate her return to the Zelazny, so that I may continue my mission.”
Captain Kirk was silent for a full thirty seconds. Anyone who knew him, as we all did, knew that silence: it was dangerous. When he spoke his voice was still neutral; but I’d known him a long time, and I caught the undertone: contempt. “May I remind you, Captain, that Lieutenant M’Ress is a commissioned Starfleet officer, not a piece of furniture. Up until two hours ago she had every reason to believe that your ship had been destroyed. She has expressed to me a strong desire to remain on board the Enterprise. I am duty bound to respect her wishes.”
“May I remind you,” Antilles hissed, “that she is still legally attached to my ship. She signed the transfer, and so did you. It has not been rescinded. She is mine, Kirk, and I want her back.”
This is bizarre, I thought wildly. For nearly twelve weeks he was dying to get me off his ship. Now he wants me back on. What the hell is he up to? 
“Captain Antilles, Lieutenant M’Ress has informed me of certain acts committed on her person by your orders, which appear to have been violations of her rights as a Starfleet officer and a Federation citizen. She has also informed me that her treatment on your ship was not what any sentient being has a right to expect.”
For a moment Antilles was silent. Then he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Kirk.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” Captain Kirk said. He leaned forward, and suddenly his voice had the ring of steel in it. “Let me tell you something, Antilles. I was commanding a starship when you were in grade school. I will not be dictated to by you. Under the circumstances, given her appalling treatment at the hands of your crew, Lieutenant M’Ress has a perfect right to reconsider her transfer. She also has a right to resign her commission. I believe she would do so in preference to rejoining your crew. I am not prepared to send her back to the Zelazny until all the issues this situation has raised are resolved. Do I make myself clear?”
Antilles’ jaw worked, but his face remained impassive. “Admiral Conroy will hear of this,” he uttered.
“Feel free,” Captain Kirk said cheerfully. “He’ll be getting my report too. Good day, Captain.”
“You’re going to regret this, Kirk,” Captain Antilles said. “Mark my words.”
“I sincerely doubt that. Kirk out.” And he clicked off. 
There was silence for a moment. Then I said, “Captain, I’m sorry. Sorry to cause all this trouble.” I took a deep breath. “I will return to the Zelazny.”
“The hell you will, Lieutenant,” the captain said sharply. Then he calmed. “I appreciate your desire to make peace, M’Ress. But as your former C.O., and most importantly your friend, I can’t let you go through with it. That man—” he waved his hand at the screen, which once again showed the Zelazny. “I believe that he is genuinely insane. Meglomaniacal. If I let you set foot on board that ship, you’ll lose more than your claws this time. I doubt we’d ever see you alive again.”
I should have been shocked, right down to my toes. But I wasn’t; it made too much sense. That was the only reason why he’d be so insistent on having me back: to shut me up, permanently this time. “Pardon me, sir?” I said. “You don’t mean...”
“Indeed I do, Lieutenant,” the captain said grimly. “Think what this implies. If we accept your suspicions that Captain Antilles does have some kind of secret agenda, and I’m beginning to, then we also have to believe that he saw you as an impediment. That much is obvious from his treatment of you. He might have found that planet, with its lethal conditions, to be a convenient place to be rid of you. And it doesn’t seem he’s any too pleased to see that he failed.”
My mouth dropped open. I hadn’t worked through the full implications yet. “What...what could he do now, sir?” I asked.
“As long as you’re aboard the Enterprise, you’re safe,” the captain said. “He knows that. That’s what all that was about: an attempt to get you off this ship, and onto his. I would bet my last credit on it.”
“Can...can he force you to turn me over, sir?”
Captain Kirk looked pained. “How long did you serve under me, Lieutenant? Let him try. Let him go to Admiral Conroy. If he does, I will tie him so firmly in red tape that he’ll never get free. I’ll take it all the way to Command. We’d all be retirement age before he gets through with the appeals.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
“Unfortunately, it may not end quite that simply,” Spock said. “The lieutenant’s suspicions about him may or may not be true, and will be quite difficult to prove; but her treatment at the hands of his crew is another matter. There is a great deal of evidence to prove those assertions: her own testimony, sworn under veradication if she so chooses; as well as that of the many witnesses. He will not wish her complaints about that to be heard; to allow such mistreatment to occur could well be a court-martial offense. The other matter, that of his ‘secret agenda,’ he could hope to ride out, to use a human phrase; but this, he could not. And if he does indeed with to silence her, for whatever reason, he does have another option.”
“Which is, sir?” I asked.
“Given the circumstances of your disappearance, he might attempt to charge you with desertion,” Spock said.
I shuddered. Not another court martial, was my first thought. My second thought was worse. A trumped-up desertion charge...if he tried that, then all of my complaints against him would seem self-serving. How much mileage would Fletcher Christian have gotten with his complaints about Captain Bly? And it would get me into the station’s brig. Even Captain Kirk wouldn’t be able to stop it, if Admiral Conroy ordered station security to take me into custody. And once there... my chances of coming out on top would be low. I might be ordered back to the Zelazny, where I didn’t look like a good life-insurance risk; or I might be dishonorably discharged; or I might actually be sent to the stockade as a deserter. Either way...my stomach tightened again.
“Jim,” McCoy said with a pained expression, “I hope you realize how shaky a chain of assumptions this is built on. We don’t have any proof at all.”
“You’re right of course, Bones,” the captain said. “But Spock said it: he’s more willing to believe Lieutenant M’Ress than this Captain Antilles. Now that I’ve seen him, and  know what kind of man he is, so am I. He’s already broken numerous Starfleet regulations: in what he allowed to happen to M’Ress, and in the makeup of his crew. There’s got to be a reason for it all. If there’s even a chance that he’s up to something else, something more serious or sinister, it’s our duty to find out, and, if necessary, put a stop to it. By any means available.”
“Indeed,” Spock said. “Our difficulty is still the proof. Lieutenant M’Ress will forgive me if I say that Admiral Conroy will not accept the ill-defined suspicions of a lieutenant over the word of a captain.”
Only too true, I thought. Only too true. And in that case, even Commodore M’Rael’s unshakable faith in me might not sway him. No; I needed help. I needed someone willing to put his or her butt on the witness stand and testify that I’d been Antilles’ victim from day one. But who would it be? Who would know the truth, and be willing to speak out? Not Gaetano, unfortunately; I’d been convinced for a long time that he did know what was going on; but he was a rock. He wouldn’t tell me; of that I was certain. The rest of the science staff...I’d never been sure exactly what they did or didn’t know; nor what they would or wouldn’t tell. And Ensign Matthews, though always willing to help, knew absolutely nothing of any use. Who did that leave...? “Joel,” I said softly.
“Pardon me, Lieutenant?” the captain asked.
“Lieutenant Commander Abrams, sir,” I amplified. “He is...was...my friend. And I’m convinced that he does know what was going on.”
“Do you think he might be persuaded to talk?”
There are many forms of persuasion, I thought. Friendly is best, of course, but when it doesn’t work...But I only said, “I think so, sir. I believe it would have to be me doing the persuading, though.” What the captain didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt me.
The captain nodded. “All right,” he said. “Conclusions. We believe Lieutenant M’Ress accurately reported what she experienced, and we believe Captain Antilles may have falsified at least part of his report, possibly to cover up other activities. Spock, I want you to examine the Zelazny’s logs. If there are any discrepancies, I want them. Uhura, I want a report on this so-called subspace radio failure. And M’Ress, if you think you can get your friend Commander Abrams to talk, have at it. Dismissed.”
We headed for the door; but the captain said, “M’Ress?”
I turned back. “Sir?”
“Lieutenant, if we’re not just spinning daydreams here, then Captain Antilles will be hoping for an opportunity to catch you off the Enterprise. So just...watch your back, all right?”
I smiled. “I will, sir,” I said. “Believe me, I will.”
###
Joel was not on board Zelazny.
That was fine with me. I had no particular desire to set foot aboard that ship again; as Captain Kirk had warned, I had the feeling that if I did, I wouldn’t leave it. At least not vertically. Possibly I could have recruited a squad of Enterprise security men; but in what I was about to attempt, the fewer witnesses, the better. There was a risk, small I hoped, that I would have to become physically violent.
The danger I was putting myself in now, by coming onto the station alone, was unfortunately very real. If, as Captain Kirk feared, Captain Antilles did wish to press the claim that I was still serving under him, then he might conceivably convince Admiral Conroy to order the station’s security force to arrest me and return me to Zelazny. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, they used to say; Captain Kirk would find it much harder to get me off the Zelazny than to keep me off. The logical thing for me to do would be to stay aboard the Enterprise and lock myself in my quarters, pleading exhaustion from my ordeal. 
Unfortunately, I couldn’t. As with every other dangerous mission I’ve ever faced, this was both  necessary and unavoidable. And so it had to be done with the speed and precision of a commando raid, before anyone realized I was even on the station. If they did...well, I was carrying a hand phaser, tucked under the belt of my uniform tunic; but it was ridiculous to think I could shoot my way out. No; speed would be my only salvation.
So—I spent some time with the station’s computer, with Commander Spock’s assistance; and then I took the pressure tunnel to the Promenade. My sixty-three days had honed my previously-unknown tracking skills, and I set off with determination. Others on the Promenade took one look at me, my face a dark mystery behind that visor, and they got out of my way. Smart people. I kept an eye out for station security and members of the Zelazny’s crew, prepared to duck either. I was fairly confident of my speed; if I saw them before they saw me, I could be back on board Enterprise before they could react.
It is undeniably true that my temper is one of my worst attributes. On my way to becoming an officer I’d had to learn, sometimes painfully, to curb it. As a cadet and ensign I’d garnered my share of reprimands. It’s a measure of my success, I suppose, that my record on the Enterprise was spotless. But now...for the last four hours or so, since the Zelazny broke out of warp, I had felt the anger building up inside me. Very soon it was going to have to find an outlet.
He was exactly where I expected to find him: in Krav’s Place, the Andorian cafe. The place where it all started. The cafe, as I mentioned, was still popular, even with its new upscale image; and was crowded, noisy. I spotted him sitting alone in the back, the same table I’d occupied just a few days before; sipping slowly on a cup of that strong Andorian coffee. He had a morose, thoughtful look on his face. I made my way through the crowd as if they weren’t there; they parted before me like that famous sea in Terran mythology.
Joel looked up at me, as I appeared beside his table; and his eyes widened a bit. Then he essayed a rather sickly smile. “M’Ress!” he said. “Please, sit down.”
I did not sit, but stood gripping the back of the adjacent chair, hard. I took a deep breath. In my anger, as usual, I felt my Terran slipping, and I had to fight to speak clearly. “I’d like to talk with you,” I said, my voice low and tightly controlled.
“Of course,” he replied. “I knew you would. Sit down. Let me buy you a drink. I can’t tell you how happy I was to hear that you’d been found...”
He was babbling, and I shook my head firmly, shutting off the flow. “Not here,” I said. “Too noisy. There’s a briefing room two levels up.”
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. He ran his credit card through the slot on the table’s new service box, and then stood. He followed me out onto the Promenade. 
This might be easier than I expected, I realized with pleasure. I hadn’t expected him to agree to follow me so readily. That had been a weak link in my plan. But I’d simply had to get him out of that public restaurant. Too many people to see; too many people to call security; if this went as I feared it might.
“How are you?” he asked, as he headed for the turbolift. “I hear you had a hard time of it. Your eyes...”
“Are healing,” I told him. He probably thought I was smiling. “I’m feeling much stronger too.”
“Good,” he said. “When you were lost...I was very upset. Very.”
“I’m sure you were,” I said.
It was only a short turbolift ride up to the third level, and then only a few steps to the briefing room I’d selected. If I could just get him in the door...
The place was small, about four meters square, just a single triangular table and nine chairs, and a computer terminal. I ushered him in with a casual wave of my hand. Then I stood with my back to the door as it closed. At last, I thought. “All right, Joel. It’s finally time for us to have our long-delayed discussion,” I said.
“I...don’t quite know what you mean,” he said softly.
“My last day on Zelazny,” I said. So far my temper was holding. The memory had returned to me, as I sat in the briefing room, of the last time we’d seen each other. Now, if only he would follow through on the promise he’d made... “You came to my cabin that morning, when I was getting ready for the landing party. You asked me to meet you in your quarters later. You said you had something very important to tell me. The truth about Zelazny, you said.”
He hesitated a long time, a strange expression on his face. I waited hopefully. If he spoke now, if he kept that long-delayed promise...then maybe, just maybe, we had a future together. But then, finally, he shook his head. “I...I’m sorry, M’Ress. That was a long time ago. I don’t really remember...”
It felt as if he’d punched me in the stomach. To do this now, to betray me now, when we’d been so close to a resolution of all our difficulties...Did he know that he was throwing away everything? Did he even care? “Dammit, Joel!” I flared. Then, with an effort, I calmed myself. “All right, Commander,” I said icily. “I didn’t want it to have to be this way, but if that’s the way you really want to play it, I’m more than willing. Computer, execute program M’Ress One.”
“Acknowledged,” the station’s computer replied.
Joel looked at me, his eyes narrowed. “What was that all about?” he asked suspiciously.
I smiled widely, letting him see all of my teeth. “A little something I cooked up,” I said. “I’ve just sealed he door, and turned off the security monitors, until I tell the computer otherwise.” I began to step slowly toward him. “Now we can really have that talk. We won’t be bothered. By anyone.”
It’s astounding. He was taller than me by a good ten centimeters, and outweighed me by perhaps twenty kilos; I still hadn’t put back all the weight I’d lost. But he backed away from me, step for step, until his shoulders thumped against the far wall. A bead of perspiration started across his forehead.
I stepped up close to him, and I lifted my hands, their backs facing him. I’d really hoped I wouldn’t have to do this; most especially, not to him. But he was giving me precious little choice. Slowly I expressed my claws. Filed smooth, and a little shorter than they had been on Hellhole; but very, very sharp. I was through, forever, with keeping them blunt for the sake of human sensibilities. The sight made the sweat run faster from his forehead.
“I am not happy, Commander,” I told him. “And I think you know why.”
He cleared his throat. “Lieutenant,” he said sternly, “I am your superior officer. Threatening me is a court-martial offense.”
“Then perhaps we can go to the brig together,” I said. “This isn’t Zelazny, Joel. It’s just the two of us here; man to Caitian. I want answers, and I’m going to get them. Your crew treated me like slime mold for three months. Your own behavior wasn’t much better. You know what the captain had done to me. And I believe that he deliberately abandoned me to die on that hell-hole planet. Now he’s making me look like a lunatic, a liar, a deserter, or all three. I want to know why, and I want to know now!”
His voice was husky. “I...I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
My grin mocked him. “You always were a bad liar, Joel,” I said. I sheathed my claws and dropped my hands. “But I’m through putting up with it. You admitted that you do know; you swore you’d tell me. Now is the time. Sit down. Talk,” I ordered.
He did sit, his hands trembling on the table before him. “You don’t know what you’re asking, M’Ress. Captain Antilles had a fit when he found out that you were here. I’ve never seen him so angry; he was ready to kill the next person who crossed him. You don’t betray him when he’s in that kind of mood. Not if you want to keep breathing.”
“Captain Antilles’ moods be damned,” I said. “He is a racist, and he has surrounded himself with a shipload of racists. We were friends, Joel. More than friends. We had a lot of good times. Those days of liberty in San Francisco, Monterey, the redwood forest. Even that night in your cabin on Zelazny. Was all that, all those years, phony?  Were you just using me that night? Most of your crew-mates hated me. That was obvious. What about you? Do you hate me, Joel?”
He shook his head emphatically. “No, M’Ress. I could never hate you. Never. Very much the opposite. And I’m not a racist. You know that; you know I never have been. But...you don’t defy Captain Antilles. I couldn’t help you. I couldn’t even help myself.”
“You could have transferred.”
“No,” he said. “People don’t transfer off that ship. They don’t even try. The man you replaced. Lieutenant Commander Morada. Do you really think he accidentally fell off that cliff?”
“Great Goddess!” I said. Had I been right, then? “You don’t mean...”
“I do,” he said grimly. “An ‘accident’. Morada was disgusted with Captain Antilles. He was going to file a complaint as soon as Zelazny arrived back here. But Henry knew too much; the captain couldn’t allow that. He plotted with Commander Edgeworth and Lieutenant Harris; they decided to make Morada an example. It was Harris who actually did it; the rockslide was caused by his phaser. I swear, though, that none of the rest of us knew that before the fact. Only later. But after that we all knew: on that ship you keep quiet, you do your job...or you don’t come home.”
“That’s crazy!” I said. “How can a man like that be allowed to command a starship?”
“I told you a long time ago,” Joel said. “Zelazny isn’t Enterprise. It’s a small ship, an aging one, a very small cog in a very large machine. Starfleet Command isn’t looking over his shoulder all the time, as they do with your famous Captain Kirk. They take no notice of Captain Antilles at all.”
“And that’s his problem?” I guessed.
Joel smiled wryly. “No,” he corrected. “That’s his opportunity. He wants anonymity. We’re supposed to be a exploration ship. And we do indeed explore. But what we’re looking for, and what Starfleet assigned us to look for, are two very different things. Captain Antilles has...a mission. A mission of his own.”
“What is his ‘mission’?” I asked. My tone was slightly softer, but only slightly. Things were finally beginning to make a little sense. The things I’d seen, heard, found on the Zelazny, were finally beginning to fall into place.
“He...,” Joel began, and trailed off. For almost ten seconds he stared silently at the table before him, a number of strange expressions chasing across his sweaty face. Then, finally, he began again. His tone was quiet and almost...relieved, as if he was glad to be unburdening himself at long last, of a terrible secret. Would he have told me this, all those weeks ago, if a little matter of stranding hadn’t prevented him? No way to know now. “He’s looking for the Preservers.”
I blinked; I’d been expecting something horrendous. “So is everyone,” I said. “Try again.”
The Preservers are the biggest mystery in galactic anthropology. Supposedly, millions of years ago, a race whose nature is still completely unknown seeded planets all over the galaxy with humanoid species; thus explaining why there are so damn many of them, any why they all seem to share enough basic genetic information to make them, at times, able to interbreed. So far, the only direct physical evidence is the asteroid-deflecting obelisk on the so-called “Amerind Planet.” The Enterprise’s experience there, which was so terribly traumatic to Captain Kirk, occurred just a few months before I joined the crew. I knew the details, courtesy of Uhura and Sulu; but even years later, it wasn’t mentioned openly.
“You don’t understand,” Joel said. “Captain Antilles isn’t just looking for evidence. He wants to find the Preservers themselves, in person, if they still exist. He wants to communicate with them.”
“Why?”
“Captain Antilles has some...unique ideas about anthropology,” Joel said. “He believes that the stock the Preservers chose for their seeding was Terran human. He believes that the other humanoid races, on the other planets, are...bastards. The result of miscegenation. He wants to find the Preservers to obtain evidence, from them, that Terran humans are inherently superior to all other humanoid races.”
“I see,” I said mildly. “And as a non-humanoid, where do I stand in his personal cosmology?”
“Beneath contempt,” Joel said miserably. “Non-humanoid intelligent species are an abomination, he believes. He...has occasionally advocated extermination.”
“I see,” I said again. “That does indeed explain a lot. In that case, though, I have just one question.”
“Yes?”
I lifted my hands again, the claws expressed. “How in hell could you let me on that ship?” I demanded. “You claim you were my friend. Why in the name of the Goddess did you let me come aboard that ship?”
He shrugged. “What could I do? I didn’t know it was you replacing Morada until after the transfer was signed. Even Commander Edgeworth didn’t know, until she arrived at Commodore M’Rael’s office. She was trapped; so were you. There was nothing I could do.”
“You could have warned me,” I said. “You knew what kind of treatment I’d get from that crew. You could have at least warned me, so I could protect myself.”
He looked away. “I was a fool,” he said finally. “I guess you’d call it...an experiment. Captain Antilles was desperate for an anthro-paleo officer. He’d been told that we couldn’t continue our mission...our official mission...without one. When Commodore M’Rael made the suggestion, and convinced Admiral Conroy, the captain had no choice but to accept you. Since it was too late to prevent your coming aboard, I decided to watch for a time, and to see what would happen. I thought, if he was confronted by a non-human who was intelligent and competent...”
“You wanted to change his opinions,” I finished for him.
“Yes.”
“At my expense.”
“I...suppose. Yes.”
“Did it work?”
He shook his head. “No,” he confessed. “By the time I realized that, it was too late. We were both in too deeply. I didn’t expect him to treat you as badly as he did, M’Ress. Honestly, I didn’t. I truly expected him to more or less ignore you.”
I might have murdered him right then, cheerfully; and I wouldn’t have needed the phaser. But the thought of another court martial stayed my hand. That, and the information I still needed. With a massive effort I calmed myself enough to go on. “That mission,” I said. My Terran was slipping, becoming more of a hiss and a snarl, and I repeated myself more slowly. “That mission. The radio blackout.”
“That was deliberate,” Joel said. “Captain Antilles had high hopes for that sector. You see, we still don’t know what the Preservers looked like. All we have to go on is mythology, religion, legends. It may be that the Preservers are non-corporeal. I don’t know what methods the captain used; he doesn’t share. But he believed that sector was it, the place he was looking for; where he would find the Preserver homeworld, or at least a world they had occupied. He wanted no distractions, no interruptions, no one at Starfleet wondering what he was doing. The subspace radio was sabotaged so as to give the impression that it was still functioning. Later we could ‘find’ and ‘correct’ a ‘malfunction,’ and Starfleet would be satisfied.”
“Did Ensign Matthews know about this?” I asked. If Brian had been part of this conspiracy...then my faith in human nature was shattered forever.
Joel shook his head emphatically. “No. None of the comm officers did. Only Edgeworth, Harris...and me. I had to help them do the sabotage.”
I decided to let that go. “Antilles didn’t care that ships might be sent to search for you?”
“No. He believed he could elude any searchers until he’d found what he was looking for.”
Big joke, I thought. Calling me to man the comm station that day, ordering me to send the location-and-status message; when he knew damn well the subspace radio was dead. He must have really had a laugh over that one. Bastard. It did explain one more thing, though: my vague feeling that day, that the comm equipment wasn’t working quite right. That grade-school teacher was right: I should trust my instincts more.
I nodded. “I begin to see. That’s why he was so excited when we found that planet. That strange magnetic field...”
“Might have been some form of communication,” Joel agreed. “At first he was sure he’d found it. If not the Preserver homeworld, then at least an outpost of theirs. Later, after you and the rest of the science team had found no trace of civilization, he decided that the magnetic fluctuations were a natural phenomenon.”
“And that’s when he decided to strand me there.”
Joel looked into my eyes, or at least into my visor, his expression haggard and pitiful. “M’Ress, I give you my word as your friend, and as a Starfleet officer. We did not deliberately strand you there. It happened just as Captain Antilles reported. I was at the bridge engineering station; I saw it all. Your communicator signal stopped. The transporter lock was lost.”
“And the three days of exhaustive searching?” I asked mockingly.
“Partially true,” he said reluctantly. “Actually...we spent one day in orbit, searching.”
“Beaming down search parties?” I asked.
“No,” he confessed. “Captain Antilles wouldn’t allow it. He said it was too dangerous, after one officer had already vanished. We used the sensors. We tuned them as finely as we could, to detect a Caitian life-form. I helped. We detected...nothing.”
“And the explosion I saw?”
He spread his hands helplessly. “I can’t explain that. We didn’t see it. We didn’t cause it.”
“I was sending distress calls almost constantly, that first day,” I said.
“We received nothing,” he insisted. “No signals of any kind. Finally the captain decided to move on.”
“And if you’d beamed down?” I pressed him.
“We probably would have found you,” he confessed. “M’Ress, I’m sorry. I wanted to beam down. I even considered disobeying orders and doing it anyway. But...”
“But you didn’t.”
“No,” he said, his eyes lowered. “No.”
I shook my head slowly. I no longer felt like murdering him; he wasn’t worth it. “You left me there to die,” I said. “Captain Antilles might not have deliberately stranded me, but he certainly took advantage of the situation. In my mind there isn’t much practical difference. And you let him do it.”
“What could I have done?” he pleaded. “How could I have stopped him?”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I spoke past him into the empty air. “Commander? Did you get all that?”
“Yes, Lieutenant,” Commander Spock’s voice said. “An excellent recording. Admiral Conroy should be most interested.”
Joel looked like he’d been gigged. “What is this?” he demanded.
I smiled sweetly. “I told you I’d turned off the security monitors,” I said. “I didn’t tell you what else I might have turned on. Every word we’ve spoken has gone directly to the Enterprise. And from there to the Admiral. Goodbye, Commander.”
He stood quickly, grasping at my arm, but I shook off his hand. “Please,” he begged. “You don’t know what you’ve done. You’ve ruined my career. Maybe even killed me.”
“Captain Antilles isn’t going to be in a position to kill anyone, ever again,” I said. “As for your precious career...I’m not responsible, Joel. Antilles’ little project...It couldn’t have gone on forever. You know that. Sooner or later he would have been found out. And you could have done something, Joel. When you were last here, on this station. That was after Morada’s death. You could have gone to Admiral Conroy, or Commodore M’Rael. They would have put you in protective custody if necessary, until the investigation was over. Surely you must know this. Why didn’t you do it?”
“I...I don’t know,” he said miserably. “I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”
“You’re weak, Joel,” I said. “You didn’t used to be, but you are now.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I didn’t used to be. You’ve got to help me, M’Ress. Go with me to the admiral, or Commodore M’Rael. Help me explain.”
“Why?” I demanded. “Why should I? You didn’t help me at all.”
“Because of what we had once,” he said. “Because I lo...”
Quickly I held up my hand. “Don’t say that, Joel. I don’t want to hear it. A long time ago, it would have meant something to me. Not any more.” I looked up. “Computer,” I said. “Cancel program M’Ress One.” And I spoke the code words in my own language, which no human throat could have duplicated. The door slid open.
To my surprise, two station security guards entered and flanked the door, their phasers drawn. Could Captain Antilles...? “What do you want here, Ensign?” I asked the nearest.
His tone was respectful. “We were called here by Commander Spock, Lieutenant.” He nodded toward Joel. “Our orders are to place Commander Abrams under arrest.”
Quickly I stepped between them. I paused to look back. His face was white, his expression ghastly, his arms still outstretched, pleading. “The God of your world  might help you, Commander Abrams,” I said ruthlessly. “I cannot. Do your duty, Ensign.”
###
“Well,” Captain Kirk said, “that wasn’t quite the kind of discussion I had in mind, but I suppose we can’t argue with results.”
His tone was somber, and his gaze was fixing me like a bug under a microscope. “Am I...in trouble, sir?” I asked.
“Under the circumstances, Admiral Conroy has decided it would be pointless to charge you with assaulting a superior officer,” the captain said. “He has also decided against a charge of perjury for your incomplete testimony during the court martial. Frankly, I believe you can thank the influence of Commodore M’Rael for that. Let me guess: your aunt?”
He wasn’t really angry, I realized; and I allowed myself to relax and smile. “A friend of the family, sir,” I admitted.
“Having had a few of those myself, I can understand the advantage,” the captain said. “Seriously, however, I do know that what you’ve just done must have been extremely difficult for you. A betrayal of friendship, especially one of such long standing, is never easy to accept.”
I swallowed. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do,” I agreed. “Sir, if I may ask, what is the situation now?”
“Spock?” Captain Kirk said.
It seemed that we were all doomed to spend the rest of our lives in the briefing room. The  cast of characters was shrinking, however; Scotty and Sulu were both absent, back to their real jobs. Spock said, “Captain Antilles and his senior officers are under arrest. We still have no proof that they stranded Lieutenant M’Ress deliberately, but their search for her, both in length and practice, was quite contrary to regulations. Starfleet will also be taking a very careful look into the death of Lieutenant Commander Morada.”
“Spock, do you believe Commander Abrams’ story?” the captain asked.
Spock quirked the closest thing to a smile as you’re likely to see from him. “Given the circumstances under which it was obtained, I do,” he said.
“Lieutenant?” the captain asked me. “You’ve known Abrams the longest. Did you believe him?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. The audio-only recording of the discussion hadn’t really shown the nuances, or the captain wouldn’t have needed to ask. Joel had, at least temporarily, been more terrified of my anger and my claws than he was of Captain Antilles. “His story explains quite a lot. I believe that Captain Antilles took advantage of my disappearance to be rid of me. He knew the nature of that planet, the heat, the lack of water and the dangerous animals; and he knew how helpless I’d be, without my claws.”
The captain sighed. “Unfortunately, that leaves more questions than it answers. We still can’t explain why you did lose touch with the Zelazny, nor why you seemed to see the ship destroyed.”
“There are, of course, a number of ways in which such a thing could be falsified,” Spock said. “The most effective would be a small magnetic bottle of antimatter launched into the atmosphere. The explosion as it burned up might well be mistaken for a larger explosion at a greater altitude.”
“M’Ress?” the captain said.
I spread my hands helplessly. “It easily could have been, sir,” I said. “I have seen ships destroyed, but only by phasers or photon torpedoes. I have never seen a containment failure. I’ve only heard it described—mess-hall talk. What I saw seemed to fit the descriptions.”
“We have, however,” Spock put in, “no evidence that any such falsification was done, nor any logical reason why it should have been.”
“Dead end,” the captain said. “Uhura, what about this subspace communications failure?”
“A fabrication,” Uhura said flatly. “It wasn’t easy to find, but the station technicians finally did, once I alerted them to the possibility. To a more casual inspection it would have looked like a blown subspace emitter, and a failure of the self-diagnostic software. An unlikely combination, but given the age of the equipment, not impossible. And I do have evidence that Captain Antilles has done it before. I found it in the ship’s log: the Zelazny’s subspace radio has failed twice before in the last year.”
I nodded; that fit with what Ensign Matthews had told me, the day I helped him work on the comm circuitry.
 “The explanation is always the same,” Uhura went on. “An old ship, inadequately refit. Not that there’s been much official notice taken.”
“What about ship-to-shore radio?” the captain asked.
“Perfect working order, sir,” Uhura said. She glanced at me and smiled slightly. “Better than specs, actually.” Obviously she had recognized her own style—and mine—in the modifications I’d made, all those weeks ago. “I presume he would have had no reason to sabotage that.”
“Which doesn’t help,” Captain Kirk said. “Thank you, Commander.”
“If I may submit, Captain,” Spock said, “I do not believe the answers to our questions lie with Captain Antilles or the Zelazny.”
“No?” the captain said. “Where, then?”
“The planet.”
“Spock, that’s crazy,” Dr. McCoy said. “We spent almost five days circling that planet, or at least its moon, and we didn’t find a thing beyond the odd magnetic field.”
“Our research was incomplete when we were ordered to return to DS 2, Doctor,” Spock pointed out. “And we had proceeded from a false premise. Our assumption was that Zelazny had been destroyed, and we attempted to explain why. Now we must reverse that process, and explain why it was not.”
As he spoke I felt my ears prick up; and then a wild excitement grew within me. A few soft words in my own language escaped my throat.
“Pardon me, Lieutenant?” the captain said mildly.
“Sorry, sir,” I said. “I was just agreeing with Commander Spock. We must return to the planet.”
“Your opinion is noted, Lieutenant,” the captain said, and I realized that I’d spoken rather out of turn. I leaned back, chastened; but the excitement in my gut still wouldn’t go away.
Why? I wondered. Why in the name of the great Goddess would I want to go back to Hellhole; to the place that had almost killed me? Had I finally lost my mind?
Captain Kirk was saying, “As much as it pains me, I find that I must agree with Commander Spock. Our answers are on that planet. We will be returning there as soon as I have clearance from Admiral Conroy.”
He paused, and looked around. “In the meantime, I want each and every one of you to study the records of the Zelazny as they pertain to that planet. I want to know what I’m getting into this time. Dismissed.”
I filed toward the door with the others. Keep quiet, keep moving, I told myself. Maybe he won’t...
But he did. “Lieutenant M’Ress, a moment please.”
I turned, repressing a sigh. “Sir?” I said.
I expected a lecture, a more stern one in private, about my methods of interrogation; but it’s never safe to second-guess James Kirk. “Sit down, Lieutenant,” he said, and I did.
“I may regret asking this,” he said. “But I couldn’t help noticing. You seemed positively eager to get back that planet. And frankly I was wondering why.”
“I was asking myself the same thing, sir,” I said. “I believe there are two reasons, one practical and one...not.”
“Go on,” the captain prompted.
“On the practical side, sir, I feel that my credibility as an officer has been damaged. Commander Abrams’ revelations explained some things, but not all. I did report a ship destroyed that wasn’t, and I did put Starfleet through the trouble and expense of a court martial. That has made me look more than a little foolish. Commander Spock may still trust my observations, but I doubt whether many others will, unless we discover why I saw what I saw. Until then, I might even still be liable to charges of desertion.”
“Far-fetched, but not impossible,” Captain Kirk said. “I do understand your need for a resolution. And...your non-practical reason?”
“Captain, I was snatched away from that planet so quickly...I suppose, somewhere deep in my mind I feel I have unfinished business there. I guess I need to make my peace with the place.”
“All of which presupposes that I’ll actually allow you to beam down,” the captain said.
I felt my back and tail stiffen. “Uh...yes, sir. That it does.”
“Which I probably will have to,” he said. “Whether I like it or not, you’re our expert on the conditions down there.
“But,” he said severely, “before I let you set foot on that planet, I will have to be convinced that you are physically fit to do so, especially your eyes. And you will be taking precautions to protect your vision every minute you’re down there. Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant?”
“Quite, sir,” I said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, and his tone softened. “In the meantime, M’Ress, I want you to work with Commander Spock. I want you to describe your time on that planet in the finest detail you can manage. Knowing Spock, he’ll doubtless find some connections that would elude the rest of us.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Then you’re dismissed, Lieutenant,” the captain said. “Get some rest—you look like you could use it.”
“Yes, sir. I quite agree.”
I waited until the briefing room door had closed behind me; then I smiled fondly and shook my head in wonder. How in the world had I ever expected to find another C.O. as good as that?
###
Someone was in my quarters.
I’d returned there directly from the briefing room, my steps slow and even a little unsteady. Captain Kirk was right; I was exhausted, dog tired (if you’ll pardon another dubious metaphor.) The end of the court-marital, the Zelazny’s return, meetings, my “talk” with Joel...had it all really happened in just one day? I was still not fully recovered from my ordeal; my body and my eyes were aching, and I wanted nothing more than my bunk. I wondered, though, if I would be able to sleep, after all that had happened. Especially after Joel. Should I have treated him better? I asked myself. In a way he was correct; he was a victim, as I was. Did he truly deserve to be the sole target of my anger? Should I really have been so quick to throw away everything we’d had? 
As I entered, I tiredly reached behind my head and peeled away my visor. The light in my quarters was dim, for the sake of my poor eyes, and I almost missed seeing the figure sitting silently in my desk chair; until it rose to its feet.
Reflexively, I fell into a crouch, my hands rising...and then the dark silhouette resolved into a familiar figure. “Commodore?” I said in confusion.
It was; Commodore M’Rael, whom I had last seen this morning behind the judges’ table. Now, she didn’t speak a word, just stepped toward me. I set aside my visor and lifted my hands for the ritual greeting...but she did not. Instead, she quickly caught my right hand in both of hers, an unbreakable grip. Her forefinger pressed just below the tips of my three fingers, forcing the claws to express. My mind, my very body, still remembered the last time something like that had happened, and I had to fight to stand still, not to struggle in her grasp. She held my hand close to her eyes, to examine the claws minutely in the dim light. Then she released me, and turned away.
“Commodore?” I said again. “What’s wrong? How...how did you get in here?”
She turned back, and reached up to brush my cheek. “Forgive my intrusion, my child,” she said in Caitian. “Your security personnel could not refuse the orders of a commodore. I had to see you. I had to know.”
“To know, Commodore?” I asked, switching to the native tongue myself. “To know what?” Though I had a pretty good idea already.
She sat down, and she waved me to the more comfortable lounging chair, where I perched, not sitting back. “News has reached me,” she said. “News of what Captain Antilles did to you. I will not name it; we both know what I am speaking of. Such a thing is virtually unknown, but not utterly. It is not impossible in such a case, if the cuticles are damaged, for the claws to refuse to grow back, or to do so with some abnormality or deformity. I feared you would not voluntarily tell me, if such had been the case.”
“It pleased the Goddess that it not be so,” I said, using a stock phrase from our language. I didn’t really believe that, though; I’d had plenty of time to think about it, and I suspected that it had pleased Dr. Enyeart that it not be so. He and Nurse Burke been covering their own bottoms, and thus had been extra-careful. “Excuse me, Commodore—how did you learn of this?”
She waved the question aside. “That is immaterial,” she said. “What is more important is this: why did you not testify to these events during the court martial?”
I lowered my head. “It seemed unimportant to the business of the court,” I told her. “And...what was done to me were shameful things. Perhaps the most shameful I have ever been forced to endure. It is our way not to burden others with our shame.”
“What Captain Antilles did to you was a violation,” the commodore said. “In two senses. He violated your legal rights in the Federation and in Starfleet. And he violated your body as surely as a rapist. On Cait such a crime would be unspeakable, unthinkable.”
“I...do not believe Captain Antilles understood the full implications of his actions.” Somehow I was managing to keep my voice rigidly under control; it was easier in Caitian than it would have been in Terran. “He knows nothing of our culture. Nor would he have cared. His sole intention was to humiliate and intimidate me.”
“Did he succeed?”
I hung my head again. It was a long time before I could reply. “Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, Commodore. He did.”
“When the news came to me, I must confess I came very close to violating my oath as a Starfleet officer, and my beliefs as a Caitian,” the commodore stated flatly. “Captain Antilles is under arrest, helpless in the station’s security cells. It was all I could do to prevent myself from going there and killing him, using the claws he had denied to you. It would have solved nothing, I know, and I would have been prevented; but my anger was that great. I cannot imagine the depths which your shame and anger must have plumbed.”
I said nothing; I had no words.
“Tell me,  child,” she said. “If events had been different, if you had not been stranded on that world, what would you have done?”
“It was...it was my intention to file a formal complaint against Captain Antilles. I knew the Zelazny would return to DS 2 soon for resupply. At that time, if you were still aboard the station, it was my intention to come to you, to put my shame aside somehow...and to show you.” I lifted my hands. “I knew that you, of all people, would understand—and believe.”
“And you were counting on my anger,” she said without rancor.
“Perhaps so,” I said. “But...that is past. It is all past. My claws returned, without deformity. And I have had much time to work through my shame and anger.”
“Have you?” she said, and her eyes, shining in the dim light, bored into mine. “Have you really?”
Again I had no answer, and again she went on. “I have come to tell you that you need not have been concerned that you would burden or offend me. You see, I share your shame, M’Ress. I realize, or at least I presume, that you have acted in part to spare my feelings. With knowledge of how the Zelazny’s crew treated you, comes the knowledge that I am responsible. I arranged your transfer to that ship. I may only hope you will believe me, when I say that I knew nothing of Captain Antilles’ beliefs or prejudices.”
“That goes without saying,” I replied quickly. “And...the transfer was my choice, Commodore. There is no shame you need feel.”
She smiled. “You are kind. But my recommendation that you go was strong. As was my suggestion that you needed more depth of experience in your career, in order to secure your promotion. The Zelazny seemed sent by the Goddess for that purpose. Clearly, it was sent by the Dark One instead. I may only ask your forgiveness.”
“And I yours,” I said. “I fear I have failed your expectations of me.”
She rose, stepped toward me, and cupped my face in her hands. “No,” she said earnestly. “No, my child, you have not. The greatest gift our Goddess gives us is our lives, and the greatest honor we can do her is to protect that gift. You survived. You did what was necessary. Your actions have brought you honor.”
I took her hands between mine. “Thank you,” I said softly.
She went on, “Our shame will always be with us, M’Ress. But in enduring it, we grow stronger. The human philosopher Nietzsche observed: ‘What does not kill me, strengthens me.’”
“Perhaps,” I said. I swallowed. Then I said. “Captain Kirk intends to return to the planet.”
“I know.”
“I believe I must return there also. It is...necessary.”
“It is,” she agreed. “There are many questions. Not all of them purely scientific.” She brushed my cheek again, then stepped back. “Rest now, child. We will speak again later.”
Then she was gone, her footsteps as silent as only a Caitian’s can be. And somehow I knew, despite everything, that now I would indeed be able to sleep in peace.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I went down to the security cells.
No, not as a client; although several times in the past few days, most notably in the hours following the abrupt end of the court martial, I’d thought it a distinct possibility. No; I went as a visitor.
The brief message had been waiting in my private e-mail box in the ship’s computer, when I woke up that morning, less than twenty-four hours before Enterprise would leave the station. (This time, however, I was due to be aboard.)
My cabin was at least not quite so bare as it had been. The day after my confrontation with Joel—and everything that engendered—I had gone back, one last time, to Zelazny. Accompanied by an armed DS 2 security guard, no less (though the ship was deserted), I had gone to my former quarters and my former office. After Enterprise, I was re-appalled by how small they were. Much to my surprise (I’d half expected Commander Edgeworth to jettison it all) I’d found all of my meager belongings intact. Someone (probably Joel) had been there before me, though, to straighten up, make the bed that I’d left rumpled that last day, and arrange my medals across the blanket, as is customary when someone is missing and presumed dead. The sight of that both touched me deeply and made me mad; because I wasn’t in the mood to be touched.
Quickly I’d collected everything—clothes, medals, holos, wireless earphone, Scotty’s parting gift from before my transfer—and then I’d moved on to my former office. The DS 2 security guard lounged outside, not even batting an eye, as I helped myself to that beautiful “Nautilus” fossil, and several choice pieces from my hard-won “Burgess Shale” on VSA 11378/3. The way I saw it, Starfleet had more than enough samples to catalog those planets; and after the hell I’d been through, they owed me that much. I left the prints of Morada’s photos for the next person’s enjoyment, whomever that unfortunate individual might be.
And then I’d fled. Setting foot on board that ship had been a real, physical effort, one which had very nearly made me ill; and now, those empty, abandoned corridors held far too many echoes for my taste.
And so, that morning as I sat down at my desk, I gave the fossil a brief, fond smile; it made my quarters a tiny bit less empty and impersonal. My other belongings were still in storage, pending my next permanent assignment. I’d known immediately, even before I pushed the button, that the message wasn’t from Commodore M’Rael. She disliked even intercoms; e-mail she absolutely detested. Typically Caitian, I suppose; but even I don’t take my species’ dislike for cold impersonality to quite that extreme. If she’d had anything more to say to me, she would have said it face to face. If not her, though, then who? Joel? And if so, what more could he have to say to me? I wasn’t in the mood for another screaming match.
It wasn’t, though. The message was brief, just a few words: “Please come to the security cells. I’d like to speak to you, if you will.” And the sender was Lieutenant Commander Karl Gaetano. Probably the very last person I would have expected to send such a message.
I’d thought about it, thought furiously in fact, as I’d showered, dressed, and breakfasted. I could simply ignore it, I knew; in less than a day it would cease to matter: we’d be gone, back to Hellhole. And what could he have to say, that I’d want to hear?
But even as I’d thought about it, seeking reasons not to go, I’d known that I was going to. And so, finally, maybe two hours after the message was sent, I made my way across the pressure corridor again, to the hallways of DS 2. When would it finally be the last time?
The security cells were in the lowest level of the station, below even the Promenade; in an area of narrow, dingy hallways that were occupied mainly by storage, and the environmental engineering equipment. They were in one of the first area of the station to be built; that probably says something about the nature of most sentient species. There were about a dozen cells in all, lining the narrow corridor on both sides, and were overseen by a central, circular monitor desk that looked into them all, both with direct vision and cameras. Usually, I guessed, the cells were occupied by crewmembers who’d had a few too many drinks at Krav’s Place, and maybe gotten into a fistfight. Probably not an uncommon experience, out here at the end of the universe. They’d probably never had felons in residence before.
As I stepped off the turbolift I kept my visored eyes resolutely forward; not looking into any of the cells. I knew who was occupying them; or at least I had a good idea; and I didn’t want to look at any of them. I could feel their eyes on me, though, as I passed, their gazes boring into my back; some hostile, some impassive...and maybe some that were neither.
The human behind the desk was a little older than me, but was only a lieutenant j.g.; no ambition, probably. He was sitting before the monitor panels looking bored; but he looked up sharply as I stepped up before him. “May I help you?” he said warily.
“My name is Lieutenant M’Ress,” I said. “Of the Enterprise. I’m here to visit Commander Gaetano.”
He tapped at his computer terminal, frowned at the screen for a few seconds, and then nodded. “Admiral Conroy has approved the visit,” he said. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, deeper into the corridor. “He’s in Cell Eleven. Enjoy.”
“I was wondering...may I be permitted to enter the cell?” I asked. “I’d like to speak to him face to face.”
He hesitated, looking me up and down. “I don’t know, Lieutenant,” he said slowly. “Are you sure that’s wise?”
I raised the backs of my hands to him, and expressed my claws slightly. “I think I can take care of myself,” I said.
His eyes widened; and then he grinned. “Who’s gonna take care of him?” he said. “All right. I’ll be watching—give me a wave when you’re finished.”
“Thank you,” I said; and I moved on. Slowly I made my way up the corridor. My tail was waving, my fingers tingling. What could he want to say to me? I wondered again.
There wasn’t much in the cell. A wide, apparently open doorway (but I could hear the whine of the forcefield.) Built into the rear wall, a bunk. A washbasin and a toilet, without even a privacy screen. And not much else. I shivered. I’ve never so unfortunate as to spend time in the brig; frankly I don’t know if I could endure it.
He was sitting on the bunk, his head in his hands; he evidently hadn’t heard me coming. His uniform had been exchanged for a plain grey jumpsuit; his hair was disheveled, unkempt. I cleared my throat; and he looked up sharply. His normally cheerful, grinning face looked haggard, his blue eyes sunken and red-rimmed, and his mouth set in a grim line. “Lieutenant!” he said softly. “I...didn’t expect you to come.”
The mood I’d worked myself into might best be described as “implacable”. I would listen to whatever he had to say, as long as it didn’t become too outrageous; but he knew, and I knew, that I would be testifying against all of the Zelazny officers at their upcoming court martial. If his intention was to ask me to change my testimony, he would not find me a receptive audience. Not at all.
I glanced back at the desk and nodded; the guard nodded back and pressed a button. I saw the sparkle and the flare as the forcefield dropped. I stepped forward, through the arch of the door frame; the fur on my back and tail stood on end with static as the forcefield was re-established behind me. “I came,” I said simply. “What can I do for you, Commander?”
He smiled wanly. “It’s nice of you to use the title,” he said. “I don’t imagine it’ll be valid much longer.” He scooted over on the bunk. “Please—sit down.”
I did so, silently. He looked into my eyes for a moment, or tried to; he was foiled by the visor. He went on, “I asked you here because I want to talk to you. There are a few things—a few truths—I thought you ought to know, while I’ve still got a chance to tell you.”
“Go ahead,” I said simply, giving scant encouragement.
He took a deep breath. “First of all—I realize that anything I might say to you will probably seem entirely self-serving, or an attempt to influence your testimony. I can only ask you to believe that it isn’t; that I mean what I’m about to say sincerely.”
I said nothing; just waited silently, impassively, for him to go on. A moment later, with a sigh, he did. “First of all I want to apologize to you for the way the crew of the Zelazny, myself included, treated you,” he said. “I can say this on behalf of no one but myself. For myself, I am utterly disgusted by their actions; and by some of my own. Their treatment of you was unworthy of any Starfleet officer, any sentient being, and especially any human.”
Still I was silent, giving him no encouragement at all; but he went on. “I have to confess that I did subscribe, in a very small way, to some of Captain Antilles’ theories of anthropology.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “It was easier to believe under the conditions he fostered on that ship: a total absence of any non-humans. We had no counter-example, no one to show by their presence the errors and fallacies of his beliefs. That is, until you came aboard.”
“Oh?” I said. “Really?”
If he caught my sarcasm, he gave no sign. “It will probably be scant satisfaction to you,” he said, “but the fact is, Captain Antilles was terrified of you, from the moment you came aboard. Not physically, I don’t think; he was afraid of what you represented. He believed that you would be the ruination of all his plans. He as much as said so, in a late-night briefing that you knew nothing of. And of course he was right, though not for the reasons he expected.”
“What did he expect from me?” I asked. I was beginning to become intrigued, almost in spite of myself.
“I’ll get to that,” he promised. “It was expected of me, and of everybody on that ship, to hate you. I admit I did try. And I failed. The survey work, our  specialties so closely related, our offices next door to each other...we couldn’t help but work together frequently. And Captain Antilles had ordered me to monitor your work. He was hoping, of course, that I would uncover errors or deficiencies. Needless to say, I didn’t. Under those circumstances I found I couldn’t continue to hate you. I think I really began to realize this that day after the A-Benideel briefing. I cringe now, when I think of the things I said to you; I will always regret that. At that moment, when I saw your reaction, you ceased to be a symbol and became a person, with real likes, dislikes, fears, beliefs...and pain. As a person, I found very little about you to hate, and a good deal to like. I am only sorry, now, that I couldn’t show it more directly.”
I thought about that day; how he’d confronted me in anger because I’d dared to speak up for myself in a briefing; he’d told me that I was “nothing” on Zelazny. And then he’d suddenly backed off; the next day he’d apologized, sort of, and after that he’d become increasingly friendly. I thought too about that conversation I’d overheard, when he’d defended me, more or less, to Edgeworth. And on VSA 21457/1, a few days before my stranding. He’d grabbed my wrist and spoken harshly to me; but not out of anger or hatred. He’d been afraid; afraid for what might happen to me. I said, “I...am grateful for what you could do.”
He smiled again. He said, “I don’t think I was the only member of the crew who felt that way, either. The only other one I can swear to, though, is Ensign Matthews. He was, and still is, openly fond of you. I think you know what risks he took, demonstrating that.”
“I do,” I said. “But I don’t know of anyone else who especially liked me. Certainly no one else showed it. All I got from most of them—even the science staff—was a kind of careful indifference.”
“That’s true,” he agreed. “That’s all they dared show. It’s my belief that the crew’s acceptance of Captain Antilles’ private cosmology wasn’t as deep as he might have liked. The only true believers were himself, Commander Edgeworth, Lieutenant Harris; and a very few others. Some of the rest gave lip service to the concept; but most, like myself, preferred silence. All of us were kept in line by fear. Those who stepped out of line, who openly opposed him, might end up as Commander Morada did. You know what I’m saying.”
“And?” I prompted. He was making sense, though. Entirely too much sense.
“And, that’s why Captain Antilles was so afraid of you. He believed that the other members of the crew might also cease to see you as a symbol, and start seeing you as a person. It’s my belief that exactly this was happening, slowly but surely. Our colleagues in the science staff do like you, more than you might know; though apparently they dared to show it even less than I.”
I took it up. “You said that the crews’ belief in his theories was already weak. If it was to be broken entirely...”
He nodded. “That’s right. Anything might have happened. Even mutiny. He might have been relieved of his command; and under the circumstances, a court martial might well have deemed it justified.”
“And so he couldn’t dare let me be personified.”
“That’s right,” he said again. “The ridicule, the remarks, the undermining of your authority...all of that was at his direct instigation, intended to depersonalize you. And finally, that last incident with Ensign Osgood.”
My fingers tingled again, and I resisted an impulse to hide my hands behind me. “I...always thought that was just part of a long cycle of revenge. I tried to have Commander Abrams put Osgood on report, you know. For insubordination. I’d reprimanded him for it myself. And he didn’t like that one bit.”
“It probably did start as revenge,” Gaetano agreed. “But Captain Antilles encouraged and nurtured it. You know, privately he despised Osgood as an idiot, which of course he is. He was hoping you’d get angry enough to kill him, or at least claw him badly. When you didn’t, when you merely frightened Osgood, the captain had to salvage the situation as best he could. He had hoped to make you appear to be almost a wild animal; savage, bloodthirsty, threatening.”
“I...don’t think he really knew what he was doing,” I said. I held up my hands. “What these really mean to us.” 
“I doubt he did, really,” Gaetano confirmed. “Or even if he’d care. I only discovered afterward, myself, when I did some studying, trying to understand your reaction.
“I don’t think the captain’s strategy worked very well. I know that you were isolated; and that you were upset and depressed. You might not have realized this; but sympathy toward you increased greatly after that incident. With the exception of that imbecile Osgood, the rest of the crew was laying off on the remarks and the slurs. Even Osgood’s friends, you remember; they conspired to keep silent after Ensign Matthews beat the tar out of Osgood; when they might have blamed you for the incident. Tormenting you was no longer fun; though you were mostly out of circulation, we could all easily see the pain you were in.”
I raised my hands again. “Why did he do this? What did he hope to gain?”
“Two things,” he said. “One, to demoralize and intimidate you. Especially with the threat of permanent removal. He also hoped to revive the torment by rendering you helpless. He’d already undermined all your authority as an officer, making it clear that there would be no punishment for tormenting you. He wanted it to be clear that there would be no physical threat from you either. I believe it backfired; it make you very clearly the victim, not the aggressor. I doubt whether many of the others really knew what he’d done to you, beyond the obvious facts; but they could clearly see that you’d been plunged into a near-suicidal depression. That was a great shock to all of us, and a certain level of anger began to be directed toward the captain.”
I shook my head. “I hadn’t known that. I...wasn’t myself.”
“I know,” he said gently. “The captain saw it happening, though, and we can only imagine the depths of his desperation. He simply had to get you off that ship, and you weren’t cooperating at all. I don’t know if I should tell you this; but I fully believe that you would soon have suffered a fatal ‘accident’, much as Commander Morada did. The fact that you were stranded very likely saved your life.”
I nodded soberly. I had thought of that. What would it have been? Another collapsing cliff? A phaser misfire? A malfunctioning transporter? I had lived through those sixty-three days on the planet; would I have survived at all, if fate had left me aboard Zelazny?
“What you can’t know is the depth of feeling on the ship after your disappearance. The captain, Commander Edgeworth, and Lieutenant Harris were frankly relieved, of course; but that feeling wasn’t shared by many. Many of us felt a definite void, a sadness; and a deep sense of loss and guilt. The same sort of feelings we’d experienced after Morada’s murder. I know that I felt all of those. It was Joel Abrams who was hardest hit, though.”
At the mention of that name, I felt my tail stiffen. “I don’t want to hear about it,” I said firmly.
He cocked his head curiously. “I thought you and he...” he began.
“You thought wrong,” I said harshly. “Commander Abrams is of no consequence to me, or to your story. Please go on without footnotes.”
“Uh—all right. Even with your disappearance, Captain Antilles’ plans were ruined. The belief in his theories was shaken; the crew had little desire left to search for the Preservers. Captain Antilles was really afraid of this supply stop. He delayed it as long as he could. Not even in his worst nightmares did he imagine that you’d be here, of course; but he was very, very afraid that some one of us would expose him; would destroy him and his project.”
“And would you have?” I asked pointedly.
“I think so,” he said soberly. “I’m not sure who. It might have been me. It might have been Abrams. It might have been someone else. I can’t say. But it would have happened. You had given us that; you’d made us see that it couldn’t go on.”
I took a deep breath. I said, “Commander—Karl—I really do appreciate what you’re doing. And I am grateful to you. I know that you didn’t dare show more than a few small kindnesses; I can assure you that they truly did make life quite a bit more endurable.”
“But?” he prompted, smiling slightly.
“But,” I said, “my feelings about you, and Antilles, and Edgeworth, and the entire crew of the Zelazny are all mixed together. Possibly inextricably. I thought I’d sorted it out, down on the planet; but at that time I thought the Zelazny had been destroyed, and that you were all dead. I don’t know what to believe now, Karl. I don’t know who is guilty and who isn’t.”
“I am guilty,” he said firmly. “That I am guilty is undeniable. I am guilty of silence; I am guilty of not refusing, as is my sworn responsibility, orders which I knew to be illegal. I am guilty of withholding evidence of crimes that I knew had been committed, including the crime of murder. And I am guilty of looking the other way as you were brutalized. My guilt is only very slightly mitigated by those ‘small kindnesses’ that you just mentioned.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. I waved my hand in the air, indicating the small, bleak cell. “Sorry that it turned out this way.”
“I’m sorry too,” he said. “But please believe me—I don’t blame you for this. Not at all. That’s the major reason why I wanted to talk to you; to tell you that I honestly harbor you no ill will, no matter what might happen to me. You saved my life, on that frigid planet; I have no choice but to be grateful for that. We were all doomed before you ever came on board Zelazny, no matter what we might have hoped. It would have ended exactly the way it has: here in a security cell. It was foreordained, the minute Captain Antilles announced his true intentions to the crew.”
“I think you’re right,” I said. “I only wish I didn’t have to be a part of it.”
“I also wish you hadn’t,” he said. “You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. You deserved nothing that happened to you.”
Slowly I rose. “I...have to go, Commander,” I said. “We’re shipping out today—back to VSA 21437.”
“Good luck.”
“Thank you,” I said. “And...thank you for this talk. I understand many things better now—including you.”
He reached up and clasped my hand briefly between both of his. “Good-bye, M’Ress,” he said. “I sincerely hope we’ll meet again—under better circumstances.”
“We will,” I said. “I have a feeling. Good-bye, Karl.”
The lieutenant at the guard station was alert; the forcefield dropped as I stepped up before it, and re-formed after I’d stepped through. Slowly, thoughtfully, I moved forward. Yes, I understood better now. Much better. I gave the guard an absent “Thank you, Lieutenant,” as I stepped past him.
I had almost reached the turbolift when my thoughts were interrupted. The voice came from my right and a little behind, and it said, “Disgusting!”
My entire body jerked, as if I’d been shot; then I spun around, falling reflexively into a crouch, my claws expressed and ready for...what?
The figure was tall, and wore a grey jumpsuit; he stood with his hands behind his back, so close to the forcefield screen that his skin must have been tingling. 
“Captain Antilles,” I stated. 
He stood there, as I say; with an expression of supreme disdain on his face as he looked me up and down. “Disgusting,” he said again.
I straightened up and put away my claws. “Pardon me?”
He shook his head again. “An animal,” he said, half to himself. “They put an animal in a Starfleet uniform and put it on my ship. And I had to let them do it.”
I felt my whole body go rigid with anger. “What are you talking about, Captain?” I demanded.
“You, Lieutenant,” he said. The last word was an open sneer. “You’re not human. Not even humanoid. You’re an animal. A savage, carnivorous, snarling animal. You don’t belong on a starship. You belong in a zoo.”
My claws had expressed again, all by themselves. I took a few useless steps toward the forcefield. He stared at me, and did not back up. “That’s it, Captain,” I said. “I put up with you for three months on your ship. You’re not in command here, Captain. You’re not in command anywhere, any more. I don’t have to listen to you now.”
His face darkened and his jaw clenched, just as I’d seen so many times. “Watch your tongue, Lieutenant,” he rasped.
“Not any more, Captain,” I said, and the last word was an open sneer. “Not for the likes of you. I’ll save my respect for Captain Kirk and Commodore M’Rael. People who deserve it. You don’t deserve any. After the way you treated me, all I have for you is contempt.”
All the hatred, all the anger I felt toward him, and which I’d kept bottled up inside all those months, for the sake of my career and my freedom, came suddenly pouring out of me. I raised my claws. If not for the forcefield they would have almost been in his face. “Do you see this, Captain?” I demanded. “Yes, they grew back. No thanks to you. Do you have any idea what you did to me, when you had them cut off? Do you know how much of a Caitian’s life, how much of our self-image, is here? Do you know how defenseless you left me, when I was stranded? Did you even care? Did you have any thought other than to humiliate me?”
“I acted to protect my crew,” he grated.
“That’s nonsense,” I told him, as I had told Joel all those weeks ago. “You know it’s nonsense. You knew it them. If I really wanted to hurt somebody, what would have stopped me from picking up a knife, or a phaser, or anything heavy or sharp? No—your only desire was to intimidate me, to deny my heritage. For three months you tried to make me feel ashamed that I’m Caitian. And do you know what the damnable thing is? You almost succeeded. You almost made me ashamed. But no more, Captain. Never again.”
“I am ashamed of what you are,” he said coldly. “I am ashamed that humanity ever had anything to do with your kind. I am ashamed that I was ever forced to allow you on board my ship, and to treat you as an officer. I am ashamed that your precious commodore forced me to waste time dealing with you. I am ashamed that you didn’t simply die on that planet and leave me alone.”
“No more, Captain,” I said more forcefully. “You are an aberration. A throwback. You and most of your damned crew. The biggest mistake of my life was when I first stepped on board your ship. That is a mistake I will never make again. I do not intend to get within a dozen light-years of you or your crew, ever again. Now will you please tell me what you want?”
“I already have,” he said. “To tell you how I feel. How I feel about you, and all the other bastard species of the galaxy. You are worth nothing compared to Terrans. Absolutely nothing. It disgusts me that so many of my species are blind to what you represent. That will change, however. Someday the Terran race will wake up. And then all of you will be purged from this galaxy. Purged.”
“I’ve heard all this before, Captain,” I said tiredly. “The same old racist claptrap that your species ought to have left behind two centuries ago. None of it is new. A couple centuries ago the whites hated the blacks. Now you hate all non-Terrans. What’s next? Hatred of anyone from outside this galaxy? From outside this time-space continuum? It’s all nonsense, Captain. You might convert idiots like Osgood, or paranoiac conspiracy theorists like Harris, or professional misanthropes like Edgeworth. But you will never convert anyone with half a brain in their heads.”
“We shall see,” he said simply. “We shall see.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “I’m not holding my breath.” I paused. “I’m curious, Captain. Why are you telling me this? Why are you even talking to me? Surely you know I’ll be the star witness at your court-martial.”
“I cannot expect justice,” he said. “Not from the likes of your commodore, nor from any human seduced by the treachery of aliens. They will conspire, and my career will be over. This I know.”
“And so you figure you’ve got nothing to lose,” I finished for him. “Actually, you’re probably right.” As he’d spoken, my anger had turned cold inside me. He simply wasn’t worth it; wasn’t worth the bother. As I’d said, all I had left was contempt; and what I guess I’d have to describe as a kind of sadness. Captain Antilles was intelligent and talented, a charismatic leader who inspired confidence in many; what an incredible waste!
“In that event,” I went on, “it would appear that I have nothing to lose either. Or, more to the point, I have nothing more to fear; nothing to fear from you. So let me tell you what I think of you.” I took a deep breath. “I don’t have much talent for hatred, Captain. I certainly can’t manage to hate whole species at a time. I don’t even hate you any more, not really. I’ve always been very fond of humans, as a rule. But you, Captain, give every Terran a bad name. You are evil. That’s an old-fashioned concept, I know; but it’s the only one that fits. Everything you say, everything you do, everything you believe in, is quite thoroughly evil. And as soon as people like you, and your opinions, pass from the universe, the better off the rest of us will be. I pray the Goddess that it will be soon.
“I am not a savage, Captain, no matter what you might think. As a small child I swore an oath never to use my claws in anger against any sentient being. So far I have kept that oath. But you know, in your case I could easily have made an exception. You had better count yourself fortunate; that on your ship there were security guards, and that here and now there’s a forcefield.”
“You prove my point,” he said with a grim smile.
“Good-bye, Captain,” I said, ignoring his observation. “I expect the next time we meet will be at your court-marital. It is an event I shall enjoy. Until then, Captain, just get the hell out of my life!”
I spoke those last words so forcefully that he took several steps back, his eyes widening in terror, almost as if I really had clawed him. I grinned at him, mockingly; then I very deliberately turned my back on him and walked away.
The voice from the next cell spoke my name, rather than my rank; and urgently. “M’Ress!”
“Go to hell, Joel,” I said without turning.
I heard his rapid footsteps, and the crackling of the forcefield as he got a little too close. “M’Ress, please wait,” he begged. “I’ve got to talk to you.”
I sighed, and stopped. I guess I really am a sucker, sometimes. “All right, Joel,” I said. “What do you want?”
“I want to say I’m sorry,” he said. “Sorry that I didn’t help you, back on the Zelazny.”
“You said you couldn’t,” I said. I still wouldn’t turn to face him. “Case closed.”
“I’m not sure of that any more,” he said.
I did turn then, and stared into his face. Like the previous two, he wore a grey jumpsuit; his hair mussed, his chin stubbled. He stood at the forcefield with his hands raised in supplication. “What do you mean?” I demanded.
“I mean...I’ve begun to wonder. I was the only person who could keep the Zelazny’s systems running. Without me, the ship would have been dead in space. I was too important to have any ‘accidents.’ I’ve started to wonder...if I’d had the courage to try...if I might have been able to protect you.”
“Moot point,” I said. “Whether you could have or not, you didn’t have the courage to try. So it’s pointless even to wonder, isn’t it?”
“Is it pointless to learn from experience?”
“What do you mean?” I said again.
“M’Ress, I was trapped. You were trapped. Everyone on that ship was, to a certain extent. Even Captain Antilles. It was like a Greek tragedy, where every action is dictated by a fate that can’t be altered. In that situation no one acted as well as perhaps they might have. Maybe not even you. I freely admit my own failure. Does it have to destroy our entire future?”
Some part of my mind was thinking, Great Goddess, why are you even talking to him? He’s behind a forcefield! You can walk away, and never have to speak to him again! Ignore him and move on!
But somehow I couldn’t; I couldn’t let it go. Perhaps he had touched a nerve. “What future, Joel?” I demanded. “Did we ever have a future?”
“I...hoped so,” he said. “For a long time I’ve hoped so. All those years ago at the Academy...I found that I was in—”
I raised my hand. “Don’t say it, Joel,” I warned. “I told you before: don’t say it.”
“I will say it, dammit,” he insisted. “And you can’t stop me. I found that I was in love with you, M’Ress, and I still am. Never once in thirteen years have I stopped being, somewhere inside.”
“Did I know that?” I demanded. “Even once before in all those thirteen years, did you tell me that? Even that night in your quarters? We had sex that night; but did you say a word about love?”
He looked away, and shook his head. “No.”
“I don’t play games, Joel. You ought to know that about me. I say what I mean, and I expect others to also. The morning after that night I came to you in the Mess Hall. I was ready, Joel. Despite all the trouble around me, I was ready. If you’d said the word I would have been yours. If you’d told me how you felt...then we might have had that future.”
He looked back at me sharply. “Maybe some of us aren’t like you, M’Ress. Maybe some of us have a little trouble saying things as directly as you’d like. Maybe we thought our actions would speak loudly enough. It works both ways, M’Ress. Maybe we wondered if we were being rejected when we didn’t hear that word either—and maybe that made it even harder for us to speak.”
It was my turn to look away, suddenly deeply ashamed. A great wave of regret rose inside me, threatening to close off my throat. So I’d been right. All those years, I’d been right. But what good did it do now? “I didn’t know what to think,” I said. “Honestly, I didn’t. I wasn’t rejecting you, Joel. I’m not human. The signals you sent, those actions you spoke of...maybe a human woman would have understood them intuitively. I didn’t. I couldn’t. Let’s be honest, Joel. Humans are notoriously casual about sexual relations; and it doesn’t necessarily imply anything emotional. All I did know for certain was that you had been my friend, my dear friend...and I have always been grateful for that. What I’ve become, my success in Starfleet, is due in no small part to your friendship, support and encouragement. But anything else...it’s too late, Joel. It’s all over for us.”
“Why?” he said. “Why does it have to be? Why can’t we start over? Go back to where we both came in, that night after the admiral’s dinner? We were happy that night.”
“Too much has happened since, Joel,” I said with real regret. “And whatever the reason, you refused to help me on the Zelazny. You refused even to listen to me. Even that would have helped; just to have a sounding board, someone with at least a sympathetic ear. And it wouldn’t have harmed you, just to listen. I don’t know if I can ever forgive or forget that. Yes, we were happy that night in Krav’s Place; but only up to a point. If you hadn’t run away, when those two Zelazny crewmembers came in, things might have gone very differently.”
“You’re right,” he said. “You’re absolutely right. I can’t change what I did, M’Ress, as much as I might want to. I can only swear to you that I did learn from it. It would never happen again; if you allowed me back into your life, you will never again lack for whatever protection or help I could give you.”
“I wish I could find it in me to believe that,” I said sadly.
“What more can I say?”
“You can tell me why, Joel. Why you decided to back away. Was it just fear? You didn’t used to be a coward.”
“Yes,” he said. “It was fear. But not for my sake. At least, not entirely.”
“What do you mean? Who were you afraid for, if not yourself?”
“I was afraid for you, M’Ress. You see, I did indeed know what was going on, aboard that ship. I knew Commander Morada had been murdered; or at least I knew it after the fact. I was not involved in the planning or the execution of the act. But still I knew too much. The captain and Edgeworth were already suspicious of me, because I’d admitted that you and I were old friends.
“I don’t regret that night in my quarters, M’Ress, and I was never more in love with you than I was then. But what I told you the next day was true: it shouldn’t have happened. Not then and there. I was carried away; I hoped no one would know. But Osgood saw you leaving my quarters; and when I found that out, I had to back away, fast. I was afraid that if I was seen getting too close to you, it would seem that I was conspiring with you, telling you what I knew. If the captain had gotten that impression, then both of us would have been doomed.”
“So you decided to stipulate that only I be doomed.”
He shook his head. “No, M’Ress. Not at all. That was not my intention. What I hoped to accomplish, I didn’t; but I had hoped that distancing myself from you would keep you safe. You would not be seen as a co-conspirator. It might not be easy for you to believe, but ignorance of what the captain was trying to accomplish, kept you alive. If you’d known, you would have been dead. The captain knew that you wouldn’t collaborate; and he wouldn’t have wanted you to.”
“In other words, you didn’t trust me to keep my mouth shut,” I observed. “Joel, you could have told me what was happening. You could have slipped a note under the door of my quarters. Used sign language. Anything. I could have used that knowledge, Joel. Even if I never revealed it openly, it would have been a weapon.”
He turned away and nodded. “You may be right,” he said. “I don’t know. The choice was made; all I can do is live with it. I was going to tell you, though. The day you were stranded. I’d made up my mind that I couldn’t lie to you any more; that I couldn’t stand seeing our relationship destroyed.”
“And yet a couple days ago, you didn’t even remember making that offer.”
“I remembered,” he said. “But...well, I was scared. I told you what Captain Antilles was like when we arrived and found you here. He was hoping to stonewall the entire situation; he hoped to get you back aboard Zelazny and then leave the station immediately. I was afraid that he’d actually accomplish that; that he’d talk Admiral Conroy into forcing you back aboard. And if that happened...I doubt he would have bothered looking for a planet to strand you on, M’Ress. Or even making it look like an accident. I have a feeling that you would have gone out the nearest airlock. And if I talked to you, I was afraid I’d follow you.”
I said, “Joel, you’re asking me to let you back into my life. In light of that, why should I? All those weeks, you wouldn’t help me. Then you said you would. Then you lost the nerve. If I’d actually made it to your quarters that night, would you have lost the nerve by then, too? What assurance have I, that it wouldn’t happen again? What assurance do I have, that you wouldn’t vacillate again, some time when it would get the both of us killed?”
“Who told Commodore M’Rael?” he asked.
“Pardon me?”
“Commodore M’Rael. She knows what Captain Antilles did to you. She knows about your claws. You didn’t tell her. Who did?”
“I...I don’t know. She wouldn’t say.”
“I told her,” he said. “After I was arrested, I demanded to see her. She came down here, to my cell. I told her everything. I do know you, M’Ress; I knew you would never tell her yourself. Captain Antilles was in the cell next door, as he is now; he could hear every word. It felt very good to speak, to tell her, knowing that he could hear, and couldn’t do anything about it. You see, I’m not as vacillating as you might think I am. In the final analysis, I’m not.”
I shook my head. “What good does any of this do, Joel?” I asked. I waved my hand, indicating the cells. “How could I let you back into my life now, even if I wanted to?”
“I am likely to be court-martialed,” he said flatly. “If so, it is my intention to plead guilty. I am guilty; it’s foolish to claim otherwise. I am very likely to be cashiered, it is true. Imprisoned, possibly; but I doubt it.”
I nodded slowly. He was probably right. He was guilty of conduct unbecoming, that was true; of withholding evidence, possibly. But the mitigating circumstances were strong. He hadn’t participated in Commander Morada’s murder, nor even known about it until it was too late. He hadn’t brutalized me. His crimes were mainly of omission, not commission. In those circumstances, Starfleet would probably cut their losses; dismiss him from the service, set him adrift. Imprisonment would cost money; and what, really, would it accomplish?
“There are worse things that could happen,” he was saying. “I’m frankly not sure I deserve to wear that uniform any more. But I will survive, M’Ress. You know that. I won’t starve, God knows. There is life outside of Starfleet, however pedestrian it might seem for a while. And whatever the rest of my life ends up being, I want you to be part of it. If you will.”
“I...don’t know, Joel,” I said. “Starfleet is still my life. One way or another, you’d be asking me to give that up. And I don’t think I can; not now. I’ve fought too hard, these last few months.”
“It might not have to come to that,” he said. “But I understand. I know what you’re really saying. If someday you think you can forgive me, come and find me. Please.”
“I...may,” I said. “I may do that...someday.”
“Until then,” he said, “please remember: I love you. I will always love you.”
What I said then, I don’t know why I said it. With everything that had happened between us, the words ought to have stuck in my throat. But they didn’t; they came easily, as if someone else was speaking with my voice. The Goddess, perhaps, saving me from myself. “I...love you too, Joel,” I said. “I think...I always have.”
And then I turned and fled, practically leaping into the open maw of the turbolift. Behind me was silence: if Edgeworth, Harris and the others had anything to add, they’d kept it to themselves. Maybe there’s a lesson there.
###
Mr. Spock said, “Lieutenant? Would you be offended by a personal question?”
What I thought was, uh-oh. What I said, pleasantly, was, “Not at all, Commander.”
About five days had passed since the Zelazny’s return; and the Enterprise had once again departed Deep Space Two. This time, though, I was aboard; we were in warp, headed back to the planet of my exile. We would arrive in about two more days. I had spent most of the intervening time exactly where I was now: in Spock’s small, rarely-used office in the sciences section, going over the data. My eyes were healing, so Dr. Chapel claimed; though it was a long and painful process. I still had to use my visor, in all but extremely dim light; and things seemed alarmingly fuzzy at times. I was due for another checkup the next day. I’d stared at the screen, and the maps it depicted, as long as I could; then I’d called a break, to remove my visor and rub my aching eyes. I was still leaning back in my chair, my eyes closed, as Mr. Spock spoke.
“I have often noted in your speech patterns,” Spock went on, “the tendency to refer to a ‘Goddess’ or ‘Great Goddess.’”
“A bad habit of mine,” I agreed.
Working so closely with Mr. Spock, sharing science duties for the first time, I found myself getting along with him better, perhaps, than I ever had before. Mr. Spock was an undeniably fine officer, and the most intelligent being I had ever met; but I had never really felt very comfortable around him. I found his Vulcan emotional suppression incomprehensible. (By now you will have worked out that “unemotional” is a word that’s never been applied to me.) And I’d always felt from him, or at least imagined I did, a slight touch of the holier-than-thou disdain that herbivores always seem to feel toward us poor carnivores. Now, though, I was getting the distinct impression that he’d actually been impressed by my anthro-paleo work on Zelazny.
“I have of course studied the mythology patterns of Cait, and I know that adherence to that particular religion has been declining for several centuries, as often happens when societies reach a point of technological sophistication. As you are a person of scientific background, I would like to know if your speech patterns indicate your beliefs.”
I was silent for a moment. Then I straightened up, reaffixed my visor, and turned to look at him. “That is a slightly difficult question, sir. Up until recently I would have said no, that I do not really believe, that my speech pattern is just an affectation.” I smiled. “Though please don’t ever tell my mother that. But recently...down on that planet I found myself doing an awful lot of praying—which I haven’t since I was a child. So now...I am undecided.”
“There are many who believe that faith and science are not necessarily incompatible.”
“So I’ve heard, sir,” I said. “Less than six months ago I would have disagreed.” 
“Do you believe then, that some kind of supernatural force was involved in your rescue?”
“Given the evidence, Mr. Spock, it’s as good an explanation as any,” I said. “Consider: something completely unknown and unexplained created a magnetic anomaly, guiding the landing party to the precise spot where I could be found—and where I was in imminent danger of losing my life.”
His eyebrows rose. “Fascinating,” he said. “When we consider that Captain Antilles believed that planet to have been connected to the Preservers, a race that may be non-corporeal, and whose powers are unknown. I must think on this more.”
I’d been thinking about it since I woke up in sickbay more than two weeks ago. I wished him better luck than I’d had.
For several minutes there was silence, as we each contemplated our own thoughts. Then I said, “Mr. Spock?”
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Can you tell me, sir—how much do we really know about the Preservers?”
###
“I’m going what?” I exploded.
Universal law: when your doctor calls you into her private office and bids you to “sit down,” beware. It is never good news.
Christine Chapel glanced down at the top of her desk, where my hands rested palms-down; hands from which the claws had suddenly expressed, full-length. After all this time, there is probably no need to tell you what my tail was doing. Yes, I was upset. Wouldn’t you be, if someone just told you that you were going blind?
“M’Ress, I’m truly sorry,” Dr. Chapel said softly. “But the test results are unequivocal. Some kind of slow, steady retinal degeneration has set it. I can’t explain it, and I can’t stop it.”
I shook my head hard. How? I thought wildly. How can this happen? Why now, just when I thought I was putting my life back together? Surely, surely there must be an answer.
“The Caitian College of Surgeons?” I murmured.
Dr. Chapel shook her head. “I have sent a message to them. Because of the distance, it will be days before we get a reply. But...well, I’m sorry to say this, but I really doubt they’ll have any better answers. I have virtually their entire database available to me here already, you know.”
I nodded miserably. “Yes,” I said. I did know that. It had helped keep me healthy, before that extremely ill-considered transfer. “There’s nothing in the database to account for this?”
“Nothing,” she said sadly. “Caitians are usually quite free from visual problems. Nothing like this has ever been described.”
“Do you at least have a theory?”
She spread her hands helplessly. “No,” she said. “Nothing as tangible as a theory. My guess is radiation of some kind, from one or all three of those suns. Something beyond the high levels of infrared and ultraviolet that we were already aware of. We’ll certainly be doing more tests when we arrive, but I doubt it will lead to a cure.”
“Why is it showing up now? It’s been almost more than two weeks since I left the planet.” I heard the sharpness in my voice—Convince me!—and I fought to moderate it. Bad news, so kill the messenger; an old and unfortunate habit.
She sighed. “When you were brought aboard Dr. McCoy and I diagnosed the retinal damage immediately. At the time the cause seemed obvious: the ultraviolet. We believed that putting you under the cellular regenerator, which we did, had reversed the damage. Obviously we were wrong. It just served to mask the damage, slow down the degeneration, temporarily. The process has now begun again, overriding the repairs we did.”
“If...if you used the cellular regenerator again...,” I said. I was grasping at straws, I know; and Dr. Chapel let me down easily. She shook her head sadly.
“I can’t recommend that, I’m afraid,” she said. “It might slow the process down again; but probably for a much shorter time. Or it might actually accelerate the degeneration by upsetting the equilibrium.”
“How...how long?” I forced myself to ask.
“It’s difficult to say for certain. There is a possibility that the degeneration could reach a certain point and then level out, for years or possibly forever.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “I know when I’m being lied to, Doctor. The truth, please.”
“All right,” she said. “I ought to know better than to waste my bedside manner on you.” She took a deep breath. “At the rate the degeneration is currently progressing, barring any acceleration or deceleration, I would say that you will be completely blind in about three months.”
Three months. The words echoed and re-echoed through my head endlessly. Three months and my career is over.
“There are many things we can do to preserve your vision as long as possible...,” Dr. Chapel was saying; but I raised my hand, shutting off the flow.
“Christine,” I said firmly, “I’m sorry. I know you’re just doing your job, and I’d love to discuss those things with you. But...not right now. All right? Later—when I’ve had some time to work through this.”
“Uh, okay, sure,” she said. “I understand.” She reached across the desk and gripped my hand; fortunately I’d put away my claws. “M’Ress, I just want you to know. Anything you need. Anything at all. I’m here. Any time you need me.”
I forced a smile. “I appreciate that, Christine. I really do.”
###
In a daze, I wandered the corridors of Enterprise. The crewmembers who saw me gave me strange, concerned looks; but they forbore to speak to me. Not, I think, that they would have gotten a particularly intelligible reply from me.
Finally—I have no real idea how—I found myself in my quarters, sitting at the desk with my head in my hands. What do I do now? I thought in despair. Starfleet was much more than my career; it had become my life. Even in the depths of my troubles aboard Zelazny I had not seriously considered resigning my commission; it was damage to my career that I had feared the most. I had always expected to have a long, successful career, ending in a peaceful semi-retirement not unlike that which Commodore M’Rael was contemplating, as soon as she was finished with DS 2. All of that, out the airlock now.
Starfleet is wonderfully accommodating to people with physical disabilities. They more or less have to be, because one species’ disability might be another’s norm. And for many species, medical science has performed miracles in reversing, or at least compensating for, many types of disability. But there are exceptions, and blindness is one of them. There is no cure for blindness, at least, it seemed, not for the type I was descending into. Caitians depend on their vision as much as humans do, if not more; and there can be no adequate compensation for its loss. There would be no place on board any starship for a blind Caitian.
The problem with the premature ending of my career was not money. I had more than enough years in Starfleet to guarantee a decent pension; and anyway, coming from the family I did, I’d never had to worry about money. The same had been true of Joel Abrams as well. No; the problem was contemplating the emptiness of many long years stretching out before me. At thirty-four I was still reasonably young; I could potentially last another eighty years or more. What, now, would fill those years?
Yes, I know what you’re going to tell me: you’re going to remind me of the rich and full lives lead by many blind people, and of the contributions they have made to society. And yes, I do know all that. At that time, though, no such hopeful or logical line of thought could have penetrated my despair. My chosen career was over, dead; that was my only thought.
In the short term, there was just one thing I wanted: home. Like a wounded animal crawling back into its den, I wanted nothing more than to see my home again. Cait, S’Salan; that big, sprawling old house on the veldt; I wanted to see them once more, while I still could. After this mission was over...
That thought brought me up short, my breath catching in my throat. The mission! We were so close; less than a day from Hellhole; Spock and I had studied Zelazny’s logs, as well as the entire data base on the Preservers, until I dreamed about them at night. Surely, after all that, Captain Kirk couldn’t, wouldn’t...
###
Captain Kirk could, and did. Or at least tried.
He called me to the briefing room later that day, and as I came to attention before him, I saw that there was a data pad on the table before him. From the look on his face—half concerned and half-stern—I didn’t need to be psychic to know what was on that pad. “Lieutenant M’Ress reporting as ordered, Captain,” I said crisply.
The ghost of a smile played across his face. “I’m not Captain Antilles, M’Ress. Please, sit down.”
I did. He took a deep breath. “I have here a report from Dr. Chapel,” he said. “The results of your vision test today.”
Sinking feeling. “Yes, sir.”
“First of all, I want you to know how sorry I am. You are and have been a fine officer, and you deserved much better than this. I place the blame for this squarely at the door of Captain Antilles, and I intend to report that to Starfleet.”
“I...appreciate that, sir,” I said. My voice was husky, and I hurriedly cleared my throat.
Captain Kirk went on, “I wish that it could be otherwise, but of course you know this will mean your retirement from active Starfleet duty.”
Another nail in the coffin. “Yes, sir. I do realize that.”
“It does not, however, mean the end of your life, or perhaps even the end of your usefulness to Starfleet,” the captain went on. “You won’t be able to space any longer, but there is the distinct possibility of a consulting or research position. Starfleet does not throw away talented people, Lieutenant. You may take my word for that.”
“Thank you, Captain,” I said almost inaudibly.
“What you wish to do is of course your choice,” Captain Kirk said. “And you won’t be rushed into any decisions; I know you’re in a fragile emotional state now. I can assure you that whatever you decide, you will have this crew’s full support. After we have finished our business with our mysterious planet, I intend to take this ship directly to Cait. You will have the best doctors that your world and the Federation can supply.”
“Thank you.”
Captain Kirk paused. Then he said, “As to this mission, however...”
I’d been expecting this; still my sinking feeling sunk a little lower. “Yes, sir?”
“I’m sorry, M’Ress, but in the light of this report I’m afraid I can’t allow you to beam down to the planet.”
“Sir,” I said, “I must respectfully request that you reconsider that decision.”
He set aside the data pad and leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m listening,” he said. “Tell me why.”
“Sir, by the estimates of Dr. Chapel I have perhaps three months until I become blind. For the moment my vision is still adequate, especially with the help of the visor. My physical condition, apart from my eyes, is good. If I take adequate precautions, I do not believe I can do my vision any more damage. At least none that will matter in the long run. I am the only person aboard who truly knows the conditions on that planet. And...I want this, sir. This will in all probability be my last mission as an active Starfleet officer. That planet did this to me. I want at least to help find out why.”
Captain Kirk looked at me for a long moment. Then, finally, he sighed. “All right, Lieutenant. I must admit you do have a point. More than one, actually. You have my permission to beam down. But on one condition: if you experience any sort of pain or discomfort in your eyes, you will beam aboard immediately. Understood, Lieutenant?”
“Understood, sir.”
“Good. Now go rest your eyes. You’re going to need them.”
###
Hellhole was still there.
The way my life had been going, I might have expected it to be done, vanished into the ether like a dream. But there it was, still in its Trojan point orbit in the center of the triangle formed by those three damn lethal suns, when the Enterprise broke warp near the edge of the system.
Once again I was on the bridge for the occasion, but not at the comm panel; Uhura was holding down that station. No; I was hovering next to the center seat, beside Captain Kirk, like the proverbial fifth wheel, my hands clasped behind my back and my tail flicking anxiously. I had not told Uhura about my eyes, nor Sulu or anyone else. Nor, I am certain, had Captain Kirk or Christine betrayed that confidence. The others would find out soon enough; until then their pity, while it would of course be heartfelt, was a distraction I didn’t need. I think Uhura suspected, though, that something was wrong: more than once during the last day I’d caught her looking askance at me.
“Is it safe to orbit the planet, do you think, Spock?” Captain Kirk asked.
“I would say yes, Captain,” Spock replied from the sciences station. “Given that we now know that Zelazny was not in fact destroyed. The phenomenon described by Lieutenant M’Ress apparently had no effect on Zelazny.”
“Logical as always,” the captain commented. “All right. Take us in, Mr. Sulu. Full impulse. When we’re in range establish a geosynchronous orbit over the coordinates where the lieutenant was found.”
“Aye, sir.”
As we drifted in, Spock bent close over his hooded viewer; and I stepped over beside him, having nothing better to do. He threw a graph on a small display screen above his panel. “This is the current pattern of fluctuation in the planet’s magnetic field,” he said. “Does it seem to match the Zelazny readings?”
I frowned up at the screen. “From what I recall, Mr. Spock, the frequency of repetition seems a bit slower. By perhaps a second.”
He turned to the library computer. “Point eight-seven seconds, to be precise,” he said. “Interesting, but probably insignificant.”
“Any sign of the magnetic anomaly that lead us to M’Ress?” the captain asked.
“None so far, Captain,” Spock reported. “Continuing to monitor.”
I looked up at the main viewer. As the planet—the world I’d privately dubbed “Hellhole” even before I knew how right I was, and which had once seemed very likely to become my grave—grew, strange feelings began in the pit of my stomach. They were composed in equal parts of anxiety, loathing (because of the memories of my sixty-three days) and a kind of wild, uncontrollable excitement; the same thing I had felt when Captain Kirk first announced that we’d be returning here. I could not, really could not, wait to beam down there; it was all I could do to keep myself from dashing down to the hangar deck and stealing a shuttlecraft. And I still couldn’t figure out why; there was no logical reason to feel that way; and every reason to want to run as fast as I could in the opposite direction. Was it just the prospect of answering all those vexing questions? Or was something else calling to me? I thought back on that discussion I’d had with Mr. Spock, a couple days ago; and I felt a chill start somewhere in the vicinity of my toes and rise quickly. What if that was literally true? If something down there was calling to me now...then what did it want?
“Lieutenant?”
I shook my head hard. Mr. Spock’s voice sounded concerned, at least as much as it ever gets; and he was looking over at me quizzically. I realized, with a rush of embarrassment, that I had no idea what he’d just said to me. “I’m sorry, Commander,” I said. “My mind was... wandering.”
“Understandable, under the circumstances,” he said placidly. “I asked if the Zelazny team investigated these hills to the west of your shelter.”
I remembered those hills. “Very briefly,” I said. “The hills are volcanic, almost devoid of life, and absolutely devoid of fossils or artifacts. And...” I paused, and smiled. “Quite frankly, Mr. Spock, they’re extremely hot and uncomfortable. We didn’t spend any more time there than we had to.”
“That may have been an unfortunate choice.”
I glanced up at him. “Something, sir?”
“I am not certain, Lieutenant. The data is as yet incomplete. I believe, however, that it would be well for us to brave the discomfort and investigate more thoroughly.”
I looked at him closely for a minute or so; but his face remained impassive. One thing I had learned, though, after many years’ experience: when Mr. Spock tells you that something needs investigation, you’d be well advised to investigate.
###
We’d arrived.
As I entered the transporter room, Mr. Spock frowned. “This is intended as a brief investigation, Lieutenant,” he said.
He was probably referring to the many kilos of equipment with which I’d festooned myself, almost to the point of impairing mobility. “That’s what they told me last time, sir,” I said. “It turned out to be sixty-three days long. This time I’m taking no chances.”
He gave me a look; then he nodded his head briefly. “As you wish, Lieutenant.”
There were five of us beaming down that morning: Mr. Spock, Sulu, Lieutenant Commander Ancheta (our anthro-paleo officer), a young ensign from security whose name I didn’t know; and myself. Our plan was to beam down, briefly, to the clearing where I had been rescued. The “brief” part, though it hadn’t been said openly, was for my sake; or at least for the sake of my failing eyes. I think the captain hoped I would call it quits after this first landing; then the other members of the science staff could do their work on subsequent beam-downs, without having to watch out for me. The captain, I’m sorry to say, didn’t know me very well.
Christine Chapel’s approval for this mission had been extremely grudging, to say the least; she had allowed it only when I made it clear that I was going even if I had to phaser-stun the transporter operator and beam myself down. The only alternative having been to throw me into the brig, she had finally relented.
As my teammates did their final equipment checks, I reached up to adjust my new visor. Christine had presented it to me the previous evening, after analyzing the radiation bouncing around in the planet’s atmosphere. This new visor was slightly more comfortable than the last; and the eye-pieces were more form-fitting, allowing no light leakage from the sides. The lenses were photo-sensitive; up here they were merely dark, but when exposed to the light down below they would quickly become extremely dark. They also screened out every form of electromagnetic radiation known to science, except for that extremely narrow range known to human and Caitian as “visible light.” And they didn’t let through too damn much of that, either. I was of course touched by Christine’s thoughtfulness; but privately, I thought it a rather useless gesture. So I went blind a little faster. At this point, what did it really matter?
Mr. Spock stepped over to the console and pressed the intercom button. “Spock to bridge.”
“Bridge. Kirk here.”
“Captain, we are ready to beam down.”
“At your convenience, Mr. Spock. Keep in contact.”
“Yes, sir.”
At a gesture from Spock we stepped up onto the pads. As we did, as I took my place, I felt that same excitement growing within me. My heart was hammering hard enough to break through my ribs, and I had to fight to keep my breathing under control. This is it, I thought. All the answers I need are down there. And I’m damned if I’ll be shunted back aboard before I’ve found them.
“Energize,” Spock said.
###
It was the same place all right.
As the tingling of the transporter slowly faded, I saw the clearing grow substantial around me; that same place where I had almost met my doom, and where the cavalry had come over the hill in the nick of time. As the scene grew solid I was aware of the blinding light, before my visor frantically darkened; and the strange spice-rack smell of the vegetation; and finally a wave of heat that struck me an almost physical blow. Yes, it was the same place.
“My shelter was this way if you’d like to take a look, Mr. Spo—” I began. The words froze in my throat as I turned to my right; and then I spun a complete circle, like a top. I was alone. Utterly alone.
For a few seconds I was frozen; then I scrabbled frantically for my communicator. It took an eternity to pry the lid open. “M’Ress to Enterprise,” I yowled. “Mayday! Emergency beam-up!”
My only reply was a loud and raucous burst of static...one that was chillingly familiar. Some horrible impulse—I still don’t know what—made me look up sharply into the sky. And then, once again, I saw it; and once again, it froze my heart within me.
It was in the southern sky, low, nearly to the horizon; a bright white flash, a tiny spot at first; but it grew quickly, blossoming into a world-eating blob of intolerable brightness, before my visor darkened even more and blotted it out. Streamers and filaments, shedding sparks, reached out in all directions. No noise; no sound at all. Just that horrible spreading brightness. It grew until it outshone the three suns, casting harsh shadows of its own...and then, slowly, it faded and was gone. Once again I had not been able to tear my eyes away; but the visor spared me from the painful purple afterimages.
The crackling communicator dropped from my suddenly nerveless fingers. And then, slowly, as if physically struck from behind, I dropped to my knees, my head in my hands. “Not again,” I said softly. And again, louder: “Great Goddess, not again!”
And that was all; except for the one thought that careened over and over again through my head: the knowledge that once again, I was in deep, deep trouble.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The triple suns dawned, blinding as usual, upon the second day of my latest exile.
I yawned and stretched, there on my makeshift bed of grasses and leaves, where I had lain all night, protected against the chill by an astonishingly effective thin silver “space” blanket, which folded up into a package smaller than my hand. At the full extension of my arms and legs, sharp and well-tended claws sprouted from each finger and toe, and vanished as I relaxed. The air was still cold, and I kept the blanket wrapped around my shoulders as I rose. It wouldn’t stay that way for long, though; by noon it would be broiling. It was time for me to begin, again, a battle with this misbegotten planet. This time, though, I had more weapons for the struggle. In fact I was loaded for bear.
I brushed my mane back—not nearly long enough for a thong—and reached for the dark visor that protected my poor failing eyes from the blazing suns. With that in place I padded over to the small shelf I had hacked, so laboriously and so long ago, into the living wood of the tree trunk.
The very useful artifacts of my past and present life as a Starfleet officer were arranged there, nothing like a shrine. My neatly folded uniform, black trousers, a sky-blue turtleneck and a burgundy tunic, a little dusty, but all still in perfect condition. A phaser Two-B pistol, the most powerful then made, and a full half-dozen extra power cells in a bandoleer. A tricorder and a communicator, both brand-new and fully charged, and with extra cells too, also on the bandoleer. And a small pouch containing two weeks’ worth of concentrated rations. Had I expected to be stranded again? Consciously, I would have said no; but something inside me obviously hadn’t wanted to be unprepared. As I’d told Mr. Spock, my last “brief survey” had lasted sixty-three days.
It was the rations pouch I reached for first. I rummaged inside and pulled out, at random, a concentrated meat bar, certified suitable for Caitians. I peeled the foil back and took a bite as I lifted my tricorder.
Without a great deal of hope, I had once again set my tricorder to do an orbital scan, seeking one particular thing circling this hell-hole world. It was wasteful of power to operate it for more than a few minutes, and pointless too: nothing. Not a blip. Before landing I had once again worked over my communicator, boosting the signal gain and transmission range as much as I could; to hell with the power consumption. Even so, it rewarded my distress beacon only with a hiss of static, punctuated by random, wild crackles. This planet still had a crazy magnetic field.
I sat back against the trunk of the tree, pulling my blanket a little closer around me, munching my meat bar reflectively. I’d filled my water jugs the night before, and that was good too. I lifted one of them and drank deep. No need to rub any into my eyes, not this time; for the moment at least, they felt adequately well. Mostly, I had some serious thinking to do.
As before, I had spent most of the previous afternoon in frantic, fruitless attempts to contact the Enterprise. Failing that, and failing the arrival of a rescue party, I had been faced with two grim realities: that of the coming night, and the predators that would doubtless still be dreaming of fresh Caitian for dinner; and that of the heat that still pounded down on my head like a hammer. I’d found my treehouse shelter easily, and, surprisingly, found it intact, even to my rope-and-stick ladder, still dangling. More importantly, I’d also found my waterhole intact. After I’d refreshed myself with a brief immersion, it was the work of only an hour or so to make the shelter livable again: renew my bedding, clean and refill my water jugs, and otherwise make myself at home. I’d rolled up the ladder just as the red sun set and the cold came on like a tidal wave.
Now, despite what I’d seemed to see again, I did not for one minute believe that the Enterprise had been destroyed. There’s an old saying, one that Commander Scott was fond of quoting, the one that begins “Fool me once...” No; the ship was still up there, somewhere, quite intact. Of that I was certain.
I could easily believe in some kind of force that blocks communicator signals. We’d experienced just that often enough. I could also believe in a force that would block my tricorder’s orbital scan. We’d run into that, too. I could picture Mr. Spock and Uhura frantically working to overcome those forces. I could even believe in something that can interfere with a transporter, so that only one signal gets through.
But Captain Kirk was emphatically not Captain Antilles. He would not be satisfied with an orbital scan. He would have search parties down on the planet, as many and as long as needed to locate me. Of that I was also certain. So my problem was this: where in the name of the Goddess were they? They knew my beam-down coordinates, and they would surely know that I would take to my old shelter, which both Uhura and Sulu knew how to find. Why hadn’t I already been rescued? Or—to redefine the question—what was keeping me here?
Put that way, the question sent a creepy feeling down my spine. Goddess! I thought. Was something—some force—actually, actively working to prevent my escape? And if so, why? Why me, of everyone in the universe? So far as I knew, every other person who had set foot down here had been Terran human. I had been the only one not. Was that significant? Was something down here singling out non-humans? And if so, what for? It was the same old question again: what had I done to deserve this? On the Zelazny the fact that I wasn’t Terran had been sufficient cause for torment. But why here, many hundreds of light-years from Earth? 
I shook my head angrily. Until I had more facts, I could sit and speculate forever without resolution. No; it was past time to do something about my situation. 
Unlike my previous exile, food and survival were not an immediate problem. I had rations enough for two weeks (or longer, if I tightened my belt; I’d taught myself the art of fasting during my last visit.) It would be some time before I’d even need to think about hunting. So what to do with that time? What was my best next move?
We (or at least it was supposed to have been we) had beamed down to explore. I couldn’t help but believe that there was something extraordinary about this place, this particular part of the planet. After all, during the Zelazny survey I had participated in more than a dozen landings, from the Arctic to the Antarctic. Saline seashores, deserts, grasslands, forest, mountains...we’d seen it all. But it was here, on the edge of this forest, that I had twice been stranded; here that I could survive; and here that the Enterprise had detected a massive, and still unexplained, magnetic anomaly. That’s what we’d intended to investigate.
During my previous exile I had explored the forest for many kilometers in every direction. Of course, scientific investigation hadn’t been my main objective; but I am a sentient being, and a scientist by training. I’d kept my eyes open. And in all those sixty-three days I had found nothing that I would term out of the ordinary, nothing that would explain my stranding. 
So what was left? If the forest was just a forest, nothing more, then what place in the near vicinity had not been adequately explored? The answer to that one was easy: the hills. About two kilometers away from my shelter, out beyond the edge of the forest; if I stuck my head out the door I could see them. The only feature on a flat, hellish plain that extended for perhaps a hundred kilometers to the west, ending at a sheer drop down to a million square kilometers of grassland. They were low, no more than a hundred meters, rolling, volcanic, forming a ragged circle about a two kilometers in diameter, with a hollow center. Most likely the neck of an extinct volcano, slowly eroding to death. And entirely barren, except for a scattering of wiry shrubs; no animal life, and no water to support any.
As I’d told Commander Spock, the Zelazny team had given the hills barely a second glance, during our very last survey. My specialties of anthropology and paleontology being next door to geology, I had readily confirmed Gaetano’s rather hastily-formed opinion: the hills held nothing to interest us. Volcanic rock simply doesn’t contain fossils, anywhere in the universe; and no sapient being would build a civilization, or even a temporary settlement, in a place utterly without water.
Now that I knew Captain Antilles’ real objectives, I could understand why the others on the survey team had dismissed the hills so rapidly. It’s funny, I suppose, when you think about it: the very officer who is charged with locating ancient life and civilizations, is the one you don’t dare tell what you’re really looking for. It must have driven him crazy. No wonder he’d been desperate to get rid of me.
After my first stranding, with no food or emergency equipment to speak of, the need to survive had overridden all other concerns. Even if I’d thought it worthwhile, I wouldn’t have had the time or wherewithal to explore those hills. But now...
Mr. Spock had been inordinately fascinated by those hills, for some reason; but he wouldn’t tell me why, citing “incomplete data.” I knew that he’d intended to investigate them, heat or no . I wished now I’d leaned on him a bit more to learn what he suspected; because, of course, I was going to have to do that investigation myself.
The morning was already heating rapidly, and soon it would be far too hot to travel. As I rose I shucked the blanket and folded it neatly. I looked at my uniform, lying there in a bundle; and then I looked at the incandescent sunlight flooding in through the shelter’s grass-curtained door. I sighed. Captain Kirk had wondered why I’d abandoned my uniform, during my first stranding. If he’d been there, and if he’d been covered head to tail with fur, he would have understood. I got to work.
###
At the bottom of the ladder I fell into a crouch, my phaser armed and ready, my senses alert...but I was indeed still alone. Maybe the predators didn’t know I was back yet. Keeping my eyes moving and my hearing sharp, just in case, I rearranged my unwieldy load of equipment.
From my uniform tunic I had stripped the wide black belt, and fastened it low around my hips. It had hook-and-loop fastener patches for my phaser and communicator. Over one shoulder I slung the bandoleer of power cells; over the other went the tricorder. Two one-liter canteens (the very same ones I’d carried during my last trip here; they’d been rescued along with me) clipped to the back of the belt on either side of my tail; on the left I clipped a small pouch containing a tiny first-aid kit (mainly plastic patches for my feet) and a few ration bars. As an afterthought I added the folded silver blanket to the pouch as well. And that was all; tunic, undershirt, trousers and unmentionables remained in a neat bundle in my shelter, a note attached in case anyone found them. Anyone who could read Terran, that is. The discomfort (mostly psychological) of not having a collar would just have to be endured; I didn’t have time to do any more grass-weaving. Once again I was a naked hunter; a technological savage, if that’s not a contradiction in terms. I set off, not at a jog, but at a brisk walk that didn’t jangle my equipment. My phaser stayed gripped in my hand.
Unlike Commodore M’Rael, I’ve never been much of a believer in signs or omens. But sometimes, I must admit, I have to wonder. My path out of the forest took my directly through that clearing, the little glade that had been my beam-down point; and had also been the place where Sulu and Uhura had rescued me from the predator’s attack, those few weeks ago. And halfway across my foot struck something small and hard, almost making me stumble. I recovered my balance and turned to curse it, whatever it had been...and the words stuck in my throat. To my astonishment, I found myself staring down at a stone knife. My stone knife. Lost during that same attack. I had spent most of the last day in that very glade, pacing back and forth, hoping for rescue; why hadn’t I found it then? Why was it underfoot now?
Slowly I bent down and picked it up. Chipped inexpertly out of the abundant local obsidian more than eighty days ago, because I’d been clawless and defenseless then; and retained afterward because it had been useful.
I looked up, into that blinding sky. I don’t know who or what I was speaking to, but I addressed it in Terran. “All right,” I said. “Thanks.” There was a spare loop in my bandoleer; I stuck the knife snugly there. And then I moved on.
###
In the dubious shade of a big pink boulder—it looked like rhyolite—I sat down to rest. I pulled one of my water bottles from my belt and unstoppered it. I forced myself to sip only a little; and then to put the bottle away. Just enough to stave off dehydration. I had to make it last. Who knows when I’d manage a refill?
The walk over had been grueling, a fair illustration of the Terran concept of Hell. During my previous time on the planet I had spent all my time in the forest, where the trees and underbrush created a microclimate that, if not exactly cool, was at least mostly endurable. Out on the open plain the heat was brutal, a blast furnace. Within a hundred meters I’d been panting like an overworked bellows. I was wishing now that I’d started well before dawn. As it was, I had three less-than-attractive alternatives: to make the journey back in the heat of the afternoon, to wait until after dark, when the predators came out to play; or to spend the night here.
I’d found an easy pass, a dry wash really, from the plain through the hills to their center. The space there, an almost perfect circle, was about a kilometer in diameter. Almost certainly it was a caldera, formed by a volcanic explosion, possibly millions of years ago. The big boulders of obsidian that littered the edge of the forest were evidence. At one time, in a wetter climate (if there ever had been a wetter climate here; another unsolved mystery of Hellhole) it might have been a lake; now it was a flat pan of painfully sharp gravel and scattered thorn bushes. The suns beat down mercilessly, reflecting from rock and soil, casting harsh multi-colored shadows; without my visor I would have gone blind much faster than I already was.
With a sigh I heaved myself upright and reached for my tricorder. Time to face facts: I hadn’t a clue what I was looking for. Damn Spock and his “incomplete data!”
All right. Start with a magnetic scan. That’s poetic justice, isn’t it? The very thing that got me into this in the first place? I keyed in the proper sequence and turned in a slow circle, holding the instrument out before me. The ‘corder’s warbling echoed weirdly back from the stark hills.
The planet’s magnetic field was about as easy to pin down as an Arcturian glassfly, which made local anomalies almost impossible to recognize. Three times I narrowed the field, and three times I said a few choice Caitian words as the readout shot off the scale anyway.
When finally I’d narrowed the field and reduced the signal strength by a truly ludicrous amount, I finally got a reading that I could home in on. Following it, I left my semi-shady spot and walked slowly across the gravel bowl. I had to keep shifting my weight from one foot to the other, so that I proceeded in a kind of undignified quick-step dance. The gravel underfoot was jagged, as well as burning hot. Maybe a pair of nice thick sandals...the Quartermaster would just love that request, I knew.
On the far side of the bowl, backed up against a sheer rock face, was a kind of niche, almost like a shrine, formed by three sharp slabs of black stone about three meters high, leaning drunkenly against each other. In the roughly rectangular space at their center the gravel was piled high and deep. And in that place, in a circle roughly two meters in diameter, was a powerful magnetic anomaly. In strength and frequency signature it was the exact analog of the “third pole” that had preceded my rescue. My poor tricorder was almost overwhelmed by it; it would have been clearly detectable from orbit. Right there underneath my toe-claws. A coincidence? Yeah, right.
Now what? I asked myself. Obviously I’d been meant to find this; but now that I had, what was I meant to do with the information? I had a creepy feeling that this was some kind of intelligence test; and I wasn’t certain if this poor, tired, heat-struck Caitian was up to passing it. While I thought about it, I reached for a water bottle and took another few small sips. I was getting hungry again too...
I was just on the verge of calling a break and seeking shade when an idea occurred. I have no clue, even now, from whence it came. Maybe something got tired of waiting for me to pass that test, and planted the idea into my brain. Or maybe—I’d like to think so, anyway—the thought bubbled up from my own communications background. I’ll never know for certain, I suppose.
There is a basic principle in physics called “interference.” Different frequencies of sound, light, any kind of energy, will interfere with each other, canceling each other out or reinforcing and boosting each other. It’s the cause of, among many other things, the annoying flutter you hear when two radio frequencies are too close together. The principle can also be used to reduce noise by generating the exact opposite frequency; a technology still widely used, even in starships. My little tricorder didn’t have the power to cancel out a massive magnetic anomaly; but what would happen, I wondered, if I created a little local interference?
It took only a few seconds to set up; and a minute or so for my tricorder to lock on to the correct opposite frequency. I watched the interference build up...
It was a loud cracking noise, like a shot from an old-fashioned rifle; it echoed and re-echoed from the rocks around me. From a standing start I leaped backwards three meters, as the ground beneath my feet suddenly collapsed. I retained just enough sense to switch off my tricorder.
A few seconds later all was silence, except for the sliding, cascading noise of gravel falling and bouncing into some deep, hollow space. I crept forward slowly, my phaser in my hand. A few steps...and then I stopped and stared, amazed.
It hadn’t been a rockslide; not exactly, anyway. In fact the area of ground bordered by those three slabs of rock had dropped straight downward. The four edges were as sharp as if they’d been cut with a laser. The hatch—that’s the only word that fits—hung, rocking slightly back and forth, by the edge closest to me, clearly on a hinge of some kind.
I leaned a little closer. Below the hatch was a vertical shaft, absolutely square and straight, its walls made of some jet-black material that was clearly not native rock. It ended, some two meters down, at a landing which was littered with sand and gravel. And below that...stairs. Even through my visor it was clear: a set of stairs dropping off into the earth, passing out of my view in a meter or so. 
I took a step back from the brink, my mind whirling. I remembered a conversation I’d had with Gaetano, many weeks ago and perhaps a thousand kilometers or so from here. This planet had no intelligent life, I’d said; and I’d been willing to stake my professional reputation on it. If I truly had done so, then my reputation would have been lost. I hoped I wasn’t as spectacularly wrong about any of the other planets I’d surveyed.
Why didn’t we find this before? I thought furiously. We investigated these hills; even a quick tricorder scan should have revealed a hole this big!
The answer to that was simple. Chilling, yes, but simple. Because we weren’t meant to. At least not then. That something was watching me now, and had been all through my original sixty-three days, was no longer just a supposition. But why had it made no contact with me before now? Had it just made up its mind about me? And if so, was it for good or ill?
Well...the invitation was clearly there, the road open and beckoning, almost defying me to take it. Leaving only one question: did I dare?
The answer to that was simple too: you’re damn right I dared! I had not crawled through hell these last six months just to back away now, with the answers I sought just below me. Besides that, where else could I go?
Unfortunately, it looked to be a one-way trip. There was no ladder attached to the side of that shaft; I’d have to jump. I had none of my famous handmade rope; nor, even if I’d had some, a good way to anchor it. There was no way I’d be able to jump up to the edge of that hatch, not in this gravity. Once I was down, I was down to stay. At very least it ought to be cooler down there.
I slung my tricorder at my back again, and re-affixed my phaser to my belt. I also checked the security of my other equipment. Then I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm my suddenly pounding heart. I crouched down low on the edge of the hole, my tail dangling down into the dark space, my hands gripping the edge. I expressed my claws for a better grip. Whatever that dark stuff was, it was not slick; it gave the slightly singed pads of my feet quite enough purchase as I lowered myself into the gap. The walls were hard, though, and my toe-claws were worse than useless. For a few seconds I hung by my fingers, preparing myself; then I relaxed my claws and my grip and let go.
It was a drop of only about a meter or so, of course, and for once I landed safely on my feet. Immediately I swiveled around to face the stairs, my hand going for my phaser.
Nothing. Nothing threatened me, nothing confronted me, save a long line of black steps, dusted with sand and gravel, that stretched down and out before me until they were lost in darkness.
For just a moment I hesitated, there on the landing. I glanced up at the bright square of sky above me, as if bidding it good-bye; would I ever see it, or indeed any sky, again? For better or worse my path lay ahead and down. I looked at my phaser; and then, very deliberately, I put it away. Begin as you mean to proceed, an old Caitian saying has it. I pulled my tricorder around in front and keyed it as I slowly began the descent.
I tried counting the steps, but I lost track after about a hundred and fifty. They descended straight as an arrow; and they, as well as the walls on either side of them, were absolutely smooth, their corners sharp. The technology that had built this had been high; easily the equal of  Federation engineering. I might be getting in over my head, in more ways than one...
As I descended the reflected sunlight slowly petered out, except for a faint glimmer; about halfway down I paused and hesitantly peeled away my visor. The light around me was dim, very dim; quite endurable without the dark lenses. There was a faint glow somewhere ahead; impossible as yet to tell what it issued from. I clipped my visor to the back of my bandoleer for future reference, and I continued.
I would estimate that I’d descended perhaps half a vertical kilometer—and my calves were screaming their protests—when the stairs suddenly ended. I sat down on the last step to massage my legs, and survey my situation.
Ahead of me stretched a long, dark tunnel, quite straight for as far ahead as I could see. Perfectly square in outline, it was about three meters to a side, and composed of that same black material. Down here the temperature was much lower, as I’d thought; my tricorder pronounced it 20°. After the heat above, that otherwise comfortable temperature felt freezing; I found myself actually shivering slightly, and questioning, now, my decision to shuck my uniform. I might have picked a bad place to be naked in. That my shivering was at least partially psychological is of course undeniable.
For about ten minutes I rested, until my legs informed me that they intended to hold me upright again. While I waited, I drank a little more water, and downed another unpalatable ration bar. Gradually my shivering stilled.
I could see now the source of the faint glimmer of light I’d noticed from the stairway. On the ceiling about five meters ahead was a large white square, about two by two, from which issued a faint yellowish glow. There seemed to be another such panel about twenty meters ahead; beyond that I couldn’t say. A human would probably have found it barely bright enough for navigation; myself, I could have read a book in that light.
...Or maybe not any more. As I looked up at the glow-panel I saw its edges turn fuzzy; and my eyes suddenly, inexplicably began to water. Quickly I glanced down at the glowing readouts of my tricorder, there in my hands; and they too were fuzzy, unreadable. I had to blink hard several times before my eyes reluctantly cleared. And as I did, a chill went down my spine and stiffened my tail. Goddess! I thought in horror. It’s happening already! Obviously the degeneration was progressing faster than Christine had predicted. Had she missed something, when she’d designed the new visor? Some kind of radiation that had slipped through those shielded lenses? Down here, at least, I was out of that relentless sunlight, and the damage should be slowed. Beyond that...well, if I ever did make it back to Enterprise, Captain Kirk was going to have to hurry if he was going to get me back to Cait in time for me to actually see it. I tried not to think about the alternative: what would happen if I never made it back to the ship. To be blind, here on this planet, would be a death sentence. And it would not be an easy or pleasant demise either. Better to phaser myself than to let that happen.
Well, my vision might be slipping fast, but I still had my other senses. Though the information they were giving me currently was not the most useful. My ears brought me nothing; absolute dead silence, except for my own heartbeat and breathing. I could feel no discernible movement of air. And I could smell nothing beyond a slightly stale, damp odor, as in a long-undisturbed basement. The humidity down here was much higher than on the surface. I didn’t need my tricorder to tell me that.
I took a deep breath, and I rose to my feet. At that time I honestly feared that I had just days, or maybe no more than hours, of vision left to me; so rapid had been the transition from mostly clear to mostly blurry. Obviously I had no time for the luxury of a rest break. Taking a firmer grip on my tricorder , I moved forward. My footsteps, needless to say, made no sound.
I almost passed the writing by before I realized what it was I’d seen from the corner of my eye. With the realization I stopped in my tracks and wheeled around, my heart racing. 
The letters were incised into the black material that made up the walls; they were quite sharp and clear, about half a centimeter deep. I say “letters,” though of course they were neither the Terran alphabet, nor Caitian hieroglyphic script. They were, however, familiar. Over the past several days I had studied their like intensely. They were Preserver characters.
There were eight of them in a straight line, shapes like arrowheads, helixes and polygons, all very angular. What they signified I had no idea, and my tricorder couldn’t tell me. I might never know; the analysis of just a few phrases of Preserver language had once occupied Mr. Spock, day and night, for almost three straight months. 
At that moment, however, the symbols’ meaning wasn’t uppermost in my mind. What was, was one single, stunned thought: He was right! That bastard Antilles was right! Surely this place could not be the Preserver homeworld; but if not, then it was clearly an outpost or colony of theirs. Perhaps a colony gone wrong? I had still not seen any sign of present intelligent life. Could the force that was watching me, guiding my actions, be nothing more than machinery, left running on automatic? Running erratically now, because of age and disrepair...?
At first it seemed that the characters marked nothing in particular; then my fingers, gently tracing the wall, came across the outline of a doorway, about the size of a standard Terran household door. The door itself fit extremely flush to the surrounding wall, with a seam that I couldn’t have slipped one of my whiskers into; it seemed most logical that the door was meant to open by either sinking back into the room beyond, or protruding out into the corridor. In testing the former theory, though, it resisted my full strength, as I put both shoulders against the panel and pushed; my feet slipped, almost causing me to fall, and the door hadn’t moved a millimeter. I had firepower, and possibly I could have phasered my way in; but why? Go on as you mean to end. I used the tricorder’s video sensor to snap a shot of the characters, just in case I ever got to report to Mr. Spock; and on I went.
###
About four hours later I called another halt. 
During that time I had managed to become thoroughly...well, “lost” isn’t the correct term. I had passed no intersections; I could easily enough have retraced my steps back to the stairway, if there had been any point in doing so. But I had passed literally dozens of bends in the tunnel, some left, some right, some sharp, some shallow. Many of them had been almost complete doublings-back. After the first few I had no idea which direction I was headed. On any other planet my tricorder would have functioned as a compass; here, the crazy magnetic field made that impossible. Maybe that was deliberate. Oddly, this walk reminded me of nothing so much as that nightmare crawl, all those years ago, through the service ducts of an automated subspace relay station. The conditions here were quite different, of course; but that feeling of being disoriented and trapped was quite familiar. There was another feeling growing in me as well, one even more unpleasant: that of being manipulated.
Also during that time, I passed precisely one hundred and three of those close-fitting doors. Not one of them was open, and I quickly gave up trying to force any of them. The markings beside each one were different; I spared a few seconds to take a snapshot of each. If nothing else, I was building a database of the Preserver alphabet.
I was somewhat nonplused when I came to the water fountain. I heard its trickling and splashing many meters up the corridor, of course; but the sound was so distorted by echoes that I couldn’t identify it until I was nearly on top of it. Maybe I didn’t believe my own ears. It was a little oval niche in the wall, about waist-level; the bottom half formed a small bowl. From the back wall a stream of water spurted forth, arced over, and splashed into the bowl. The basin was always about half-full; obviously there was a hidden drain of some kind. 
I stood and stared at this apparition for several minutes. I like to think that I have a very healthy skepticism of things that are simply too damn miraculous to be true. Like this thing had been here, quietly spouting water, for uncountable years just waiting for me to wander by with my bottles nearly empty. Sure. I believe in Santa Claus too. 
Well...skepticism is one thing. Refusing a gift that drops into your lap is quite another. My tricorder pronounced the water perfectly pure, exactly the same in trace chemicals and minerals as the creek water I’d lived on for sixty-three days. If I was about to be poisoned, it was beyond Federation technology to detect it. I shrugged. Why not? I drank deep, as from a schoolyard bubbler; the water was just on the right side of cold. Then I filled both of my bottles. 
It was at that moment that I suddenly began to feel extremely tired. I’d been on the move for almost six straight hours, after a night of (at best) troubled sleep; and suddenly I was unable to go even one more step. I slumped down onto the floor next to the water fountain, my back against the wall. Tiredly I shrugged off my bandoleer and set it aside; and the same with my belt. From the side pouch I pulled my silver blanket and spread it over my legs, up to my waist. I had five ration bars left with me; a few minutes later that number was reduced to four. Now, if whatever force was watching over me would care to conjure up five or six kilos of lean maxigrazer steak...
Before I lay down, some prudent part of my mind made me do two things: one, set up my tricorder as a proximity detector, to sound an alarm if anything or anyone came within five meters of me; and two, to pull my phaser from my belt and tuck it into my lap. I curled up on the floor with the blanket wrapped tight around me, my head resting on the tip of my tail. Within minutes I was asleep.
###
My eyes were worse.
About four hours had passed when I woke, yawned, and stretched my stiff and sore body. I really hate sleeping on a hard floor...
But as I opened my eyes, all thoughts of physical discomfort were driven clean out of my head; because, in short, I couldn’t see.
Or—more accurately—it was as if I’d blundered into the thickest San Francisco fog ever to drift in through the Golden Gate. I could see my hand in front of my face, but only through a thick glowing mist that gave everything strange, prismatic fringes. 
For almost a minute I was in a red panic. I blinked hard, dozens of times; I rubbed frantically at my eyes with the backs of my hands. Nothing helped; my vision stayed resolutely cloudy.
Finally my groping hand encountered my belt, and one of the water bottles clipped to it. It took an eternity to get the bottle unfastened and the stopper out; and then I upended the bottle over my face. The problem with my eyes was in the retinas, deep inside, and logically, doing this should have accomplished nothing; but somehow—I’m not sure how or why—the cool water did serve to wash away whatever film had coated my eyes. As I shook away the drops of water my eyes cleared—-more or less. The fog was still there; but it had parted somewhat. Once again I could read my tricorder’s screen, as I retrieved it shakily to check the time.
I slumped against the wall, trying to take control of my hammering heart, my shaking limbs, and my hyperventilation. I was cursing myself soundly for a fool; I didn’t have time for sleep. Not until I’d found my answers. Then I could sleep forever if need be.
Not enough time had passed for me to become hungry again yet; I brushed away the remaining water, and then stood. I refilled the bottle that I’d half-emptied into my eyes, and resettled all my equipment more or less comfortably. Nothing was missing; there was no sign of any nocturnal visitors. Not that I’d really expected any. I took a deep breath, said a few more silent prayers, and moved on.
Whatever power was supervising my little pilgrimage, apparently took my vision problem as a clue that it had better hurry up; because I didn’t have much farther to go. I had walked only about half a kilometer from the water fountain when the corridor took a sudden sharp turn to the right. I turned the corner....and I stopped, shielding my eyes with my arm, shying away from a sudden onslaught of light. Blindly I groped for my visor and slipped it on.
The corridor had opened out, and dead-ended, into a large room, some ten meters or so in each direction. The entire ceiling was a single white glow-panel, shining much brighter than those I’d been passing in the corridor. The three walls were covered with symbols, hundreds of them in neat lines, floor to ceiling. Needless to say, I could read none of them.
Slowly, hesitantly, I stepped forward into the room. My hand was itching to grab my phaser, but I restrained myself. I would not give in to fear or mindless aggression; not yet, anyway. Not until I faced a tangible threat. So far the makers of this tunnel had been taking pretty good care of me; why should they change their minds now? That I had finally come to the right place, the place where I was meant to be, I had no doubt: there was nowhere I could go from here, except back.
There was exactly one piece of furniture in the room, if you want to call it that; dead center on the floor: a slab of that same black material, about a meter high and wide, and two meters long. Its top was quite flat and level. What in the world—?
I made a slow circle of the walls, my tricorder making slow sweeps to record all those hundreds of symbols. When I finished that I turned my attention to the slab. It was quite plain, no symbols on it; and smooth to the touch, as I ran my fingers across it. What it signified...
For the past ten hours or more I had become used to the dead silence; to the only sounds being those made by me. Unconsciously, I think, I had slowly turned up my hearing to its full Caitian sensitivity, which is considerable. And so the small shuffling sound I suddenly heard brought me whirling around as quickly as a shout. Then I gasped and jumped backwards a meter or more, grabbing frantically for my phaser. Except, it wasn’t there.
The...thing...was dead black in color. It was bipedal, and had two long arms; it was very tall and skinny, built almost like a gigantic insect of some kind; quite angular in construction. Its head was a featureless egg-shape on a long stalk of a neck. Its fingers—I think six per hand—were like mechanical grabs. In fact that was the operative word: “mechanical.” Not for a second did I believe I was confronting a living creature. No; this had to be a robot of some kind.
It stood less than half a meter from where I had been standing; its approach had been almost silent. In its right hand it clutched a black tube maybe a third of a meter long; in its left my own phaser, which it had lifted from my belt with the skill of a practiced pickpocket. And as I watched, horrified and fascinated, it took a step toward me. And another. And another.
I backed away, matching it step for step. My voice sounded strange in my ears: a thin, strangled yowl. “Uh—listen,” I said. “Can we talk this over? My name is Lieutenant M’Ress. From the starship Enterprise. I represent the United Federation of Planets. I’m sorry if I’m trespassing, but I seem to have become marooned on your planet...”
It made no reply, and there was no expression for me to read; it just kept walking toward me; and I kept retreating. I tried again. “Listen,” I said. “I don’t know what you are. For all I know you might even be a Preserver. Obviously you know what a phaser is. But I’m warning you—I’m not defenseless. I don’t want to hurt you, but if you don’t back off I’ll have to.”
Still it came; and then my back thumped against one of the side walls. No other choice now. “All right, buster,” I said. “You asked for it.” What I did then, in retrospect, was probably not the smartest thing I’d ever done; but by then I was desperate, and out of options. I raised my hands, my claws expressed to the full; and as the thing came right up into my face, I let it have them, both sets, right across the torso. 
I struck with my full strength. If the thing had been a living creature, my claws would have cut deep into flesh and muscle, and possibly even bone. But this thing...well, I presume you’ve probably, at least once, dragged your fingernails across a chalkboard? It was exactly like that. The thing was hard, like a ceramic of some kind; my claws skidded across its front harmlessly, with a shriek like an outraged bat. My arms were nearly jarred from their sockets. The thing was not hurt; I hadn’t even scratched its paint job. But it did stop in its tracks, paused for a moment, and then backed up a full pace.
I nodded in relief. At least I’d finally gotten its attention; and fortunately I had not managed to break any of my claws. “That’s better, fella,” I said. I glanced from side to side. Can I make a run for it, I wondered, before this thing could catch me? Its legs were awfully long... “Maybe you can tell me what it is you want,” I suggested.
The thing stared at me for a moment; at least that’s the impression I got, though it had no visible eyes. Then, without apparent haste, it raised the black tube and pointed it at me. From the hollow end of the tube issued a rapid spurt of white vapor, enveloping my head. My chest went thick, my breathing labored; the room spun a complete circle; and I dropped like a sack of cement.
###
I woke up lying flat on my back, on a hard and cold surface.
It took an eternity for me to force my eyes open; when I did, I found myself staring straight up at a brightly glowing ceiling. Fortunately my visor was still in place. Nothing else was; my belt and bandoleer were gone. I could feel that much. From the context I reasoned out where I was: atop that black slab in the middle of that inscribed room. With that realization the memories came flooding back: obviously the thing had gassed me with something. And I’d just stood there and let it do so. I tried to sit up...and I couldn’t.
My heart began to race and my breathing to quicken as I struggled to sit up, roll over, twitch a finger...anything. I was not restrained in any way, at least not that I could feel...but I was totally paralyzed. Only my eyes and eyelids would move under my conscious control; and that very reluctantly. I was even denied the traditional Caitian stress relief of a twitching tail. Never in my life, even on board Zelazny, had I ever felt so helpless...or so naked. My uniform, even my silver blanket, might as well have been a million light-years away.
I caught the motion to my right, just at the edge of my peripheral vision. My head wouldn’t turn to follow it, so I strained my eyes.
The mechanical was back. It had put away the gas tube and my phaser, as well as my other belongings, somewhere out of my sight; as it approached the table it carried in its hands a large black box. It set the box on the edge of the table and opened it, folding back a hinged lid; inside, nestled in form-fitting spaces, were a number of small, incomprehensible black objects. Tools, perhaps? Maybe...surgical tools?
Dear Goddess, I thought frantically. The damn thing is going to vivisect me! I fought again with my invisible bonds, but still I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even make a sound, beyond a weak, strangled gasp. My lips and vocal cords refused to cooperate.
The mechanical left the box open on the edge of the table; then it began an...examination, I guess is the best term, of my body. And I do mean my entire body, whiskers to toe-claws. With its long, cold, metallic fingers it probed me; lifting my arms and legs, turning me partially over to feel my back and tail; probing my skull deep under my mane. Obviously those hard digits had a sense of touch, of some sort; and probably other senses as well. It even pried open my mouth (not that I offered much resistance) and peered in at my tongue and teeth. I say “peered” because that’s the impression it gave, leaning close with its eyeless bulb of a head. It moved with assurance; I had no doubt but that it did also possess some kind of vision. It even  probed into a few areas where most people would prefer not to be probed—at least not by a stranger.
There is a limit, I found, on how long you can stay terrified; and since nothing particularly painful nor ghastly had happened to me yet (mainly just embarrassing), I was starting to shade over into angry. What is this thing, I wondered, some kind of intergalactic Peeping Tom? What does it want from me? As you may have realized by now, I don’t do helpless.
After about ten minutes or so the robot finished its examination. It stood still for a moment, as if in thought; then it began again. This time it ignored most of my body, concentrating on just a few specific areas, which it probed in exacting detail. It took me a few minutes to figure out what it was doing, what those particular areas represented; but even when I did, it still didn’t make any sense. It was examining areas in which I had scars; specifically those scars I had inherited since signing on board Zelazny. (Which was the majority of my collection, actually.) The thin red line on my left ear. The tops of my toes, scraped raw as I saved Gaetano’s life on VSA 11278/2. The gash in the small of my back where my spear broke underneath me when the predator threw me across the clearing. The small scars in many areas, from injuries suffered while hunting. And most especially, my right arm. It looked for a very long time at my right arm. Under the patchy fur the arm was crosshatched with scars, the marks of sharp chisel teeth. I still hadn’t had a chance to have them made a little more presentable. It would have taken time, probably hours in sickbay; and, as I think you’ll agree, my life had been a bit too full lately. That the thing was only interested in recent scars became obvious when I realized that it had entirely ignored the small, round scars at the backs of my heels and the base of my palms. Those scars, marking the amputation of my “dewclaws” (small, useless little stubs of digits) when I was an infant, I shared with every Caitian alive; but the mechanical didn’t give them a second glance.
Finally the robot went to work. Laying my arm gently down, it reached into the box and brought up a wedge-shaped thing, which looked like a slice from a wheel of cheese. If ever there was a black cheese. It held the thing up at head-level, as if examining it, and then apparently manipulated a control of some kind; the narrow end began to glow red, and I heard a muted buzz.. It lowered the device toward my arm.
Now it begins, I thought, more in despair than terror. As well as I could, I tried to brace myself for the pain and the blood...but they didn’t come. Instead, as the robot stroked the device up and down my arm, I felt only a warm tingling sensation, which was more pleasant than painful. 
After that it moved on. Over the next fifteen minutes it touched that device to every part of my body that harbored a recent scar. Some of them received only a brief wave; others a longer treatment. It ended by cupping the back of my left ear delicately with one hand, as it ran the device over the inner surface with the other. 
The robot’s touch was careful, almost gentle, and it was causing me no pain or discomfort so far; and so I actually found myself beginning to relax, my mind to drift. What could it be doing? I wondered hazily. Could it possibly be...?
Finally, apparently satisfied, the robot put away the wedge-shaped device. It selected another, a short wand with a broad, flattened tip. It turned over my right arm, exposing the inner side, and touched the tip of the device there. Whatever this thing was, it didn’t hurt, but it did tingle; and left a curious cool feeling behind it. For only a few seconds did the mechanical use this device, then it selected another. This one looked like a long writing stylus with a sharply pointed tip. The robot moved the apparatus back and forth over that same patch on my arm for three minutes or so; and this one definitely stung. It was not excruciatingly painful or anything like that; but I would have pulled away from it if I could. What, if anything, this device had done, I couldn’t see; the robot quickly lowered my arm to the table, concealing the inner side.
The next object out of the box was a flat disk about twenty centimeters in diameter, with a rod-like handle in the center. This the robot laid flat on my chest, directly atop my sternum, right between my small (and quite invisible, buried in the fur) mammaries. Whatever this thing was, it caused a warm, pulsing feeling to spread quickly throughout my chest cavity; and my heart, which had been pounding in fear for what felt like hours now, suddenly relaxed into a steady, strong, calm beat. I had no idea what that device had done for me or to me; nor how many years would have to pass before I would find out.
The robot paused for a moment; then it pulled a final device from the box. This one was a flat black slab about the size of an old-fashioned hardback book; one long side had a big semicircular “bite” out of it. Setting this aside, the robot reached up quickly...and pulled away my dark visor. I gasped as the full brightness of the ceiling light speared into my eyes like an ice-pick. I squeezed my eyes tight shut.
But only for a few seconds; before the robot pressed the curved side of the latest device onto my face, over my eyes. The surface was spongy and form-fitting under pressure; there were two hollows that corresponded to my eyeballs. Unsure what was being done to me, I fully intended to keep my eyes shut; but I found that I couldn’t. Something forced me to open my eyes wide. My field of view was filled with a dim, directionless, reddish glow that pulsed hypnotically, and seemed to penetrate directly into my brain. I felt that same, and by now quite familiar, warm tingling surround my eyeballs and their orbits. 
The mechanical left this device over my eyes for a full five minutes. Then it pulled the thing away. It had adhered slightly to my fuzzy face, and the robot had to peel it away with a gentle rocking motion. The tingling was replaced by a deep, mild ache; and just as something had forced me to open my eyes, something now was forcing me to close them. The lids felt thick and heavy, almost as if they were swelling; in a few seconds they narrowed to a slit and inexorably closed. In those few seconds, though, I looked around myself; and things looked...clearer? Goddess, was it possible? Could this thing have—? I couldn’t know for sure.
Something touched my forehead then, something warm and buzzing; and then I felt myself once again slipping rapidly into unconsciousness. As I did, at the last moment, I tried to force my throat to work. “I think I understand,” I said. I’m still not sure whether I actually spoke the words aloud; but even if I didn’t, I got the distinct impression that the robot understood me. “I just want to say...thank you.” I got the ridiculous, utterly ludicrous impression that the thing was smiling at me; and then I was gone.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Morning. Again.
I woke slowly, curled tightly around myself on my bed of dry leaves and grasses. My stomach growled, loudly and painfully, and I sighed. Time to go hunting again already? Seems like I just did...uh...when? I turned over and reached up to throw aside my top covering...and I froze, my hand clutching a fistful, not of the fabric of a torn Starfleet tunic, but of a thin, crinkly, plastic material.
That was months ago, I realized wildly. I sat up in a rush, the silver space blanket slipping down my bare torso to my waist. Underneath it I was quite naked. The last two days, I thought. Were they—?
The light in my shelter was still dim, but growing rapidly brighter and redder; apparently it was just getting on for the first dawn. Dawn of what day, I didn’t know. I lifted my right arm close to my eyes and brushed aside the fur. The patchwork of small scars, all those dozens of bite marks...were gone. Completely vanished. Where they had been, the fur was thick and smooth again, no longer patchy. In place of the scars...was something strange. On the inner surface of my arm there was a patch of bare skin about two centimeters square. The fur there had evidently been shaved away, or something similar, as opposed to permanently depilated: I could already feel the rough stubble of its regrowth, as I brushed my thumb across the patch. That alone implied how many hours had elapsed since the shaving. In the center of the patch was a pair of small, dark spots. Frowning, I squinted a little closer. The marks were purple...bruises? No; they didn’t hurt, and there was no apparent swelling. Two small angular shapes, quite sharp and regular in outline, and very familiar....and then, with a start, I realized. An ancient human art, not practiced for centuries...what was the word? A tattoo, that was it. The marks had been tattooed on my arm. And they were familiar, as I said; very familiar. I’d seen their like on the walls of the tunnel, and in the old recordings Mr. Spock had made. Preserver script. What exactly they signified I didn’t know.
I let my arm flop and laid my head down again, my mind whirling. So it wasn’t a dream or an illusion. That...thing, creature, robot, whatever...it healed my scars. Better than any doctor in the Federation ever could have. And that means...My eyes! Great Goddess, my eyes!
Convulsively I sat up again. The dawn was well and truly coming, and the light through the curtained entrance was rapidly growing brighter; I shied away from it, almost instinctively. But inside my shelter the light was still quite bearable. And everything I saw, from the niche on the far wall to the back of my own furry hand, was sharp, clear and colorful. And it didn’t hurt; no matter how intensely I stared, my eyes absolutely refused to hurt. Could it be? Could it be, beyond any hope that Federation medical technology could give, that they were healed?
Beside my bed, in a neat pile, were all the items that I had carried with me into the tunnel. Belt, phaser, tricorder, bandoleer, pouch, water bottles. Crowning the pile were two small objects, almost artistically arranged there: my communicator...and a stone knife. My visor was nowhere to be seen.
The message was abundantly clear; I was being given my walking papers. Rapidly I stood. I threw the belt over one shoulder and the bandoleer over the other, along with the tricorder; I grasped the stone knife tightly in one hand and the communicator in the other. With no hesitation, absolutely none, I flicked my wrist to open the lid. Don’t ask me how I knew; I have no idea, even now. But somehow I was dead certain that I’d get more than noise this time. “M’Ress to Enterprise.”
The answer came instantly, strong and clear and without a trace of static: the familiar, welcome voice of Lieutenant Morley. “Enterprise. My God, Lieutenant! Where have you been? We’ve been searching everywhere!”
“Never mind that, Mr. Morley,” I broke in. “One to beam up. And now.”
“Right away, Lieutenant.”
In the last couple seconds, before the transporter took me, I looked over at the niche in the wall, saw what was bundled so neatly there...and I wondered if maybe I should have waited just a minute or so longer...
###
Captain Kirk fixed me with his gaze. “Lieutenant M’Ress,” he said severely, “Do you have some kind of problem with Starfleet uniforms?”
I felt the rising warmth as my ears and the tip of my nose turned bright red. There could be only one answer to that, and I gave it. “No, sir,” I said. “None at all.”
“Good,” the captain said. “Then can we count on you to stay in yours from now on?”
“Uh—yes, sir,” I said. “Sorry, sir.”
“That’s quite all right, Lieutenant. Your report please.”
The briefing room was crowded that afternoon; every senior officer aboard had turned out to hear my tale: the captain, Mr. Spock, Scotty, Sulu, Uhura, Commander Ancheta, and Drs. McCoy and Chapel. They listened with various expressions of amazement and incredulity as I described how I’d spent the previous couple of days. There were visual aids too: the shots I’d made with my tricorder, of the tunnel, and of those lines of Preserver script, thrown up on the briefing room screen. 
I was about finished—and confronting the fact that I really had no conclusions to offer—when Captain Kirk raised his hand. “One moment, please, Lieutenant. Dr. Chapel?”
Christine cleared her throat and glanced at me with a smile. “After Lieutenant M’Ress was beamed aboard this morning I performed a thorough physical exam on her. I discovered several small but significant alterations to her body. First and most important, there is now no sign of the retinal degeneration that I previously diagnosed. It has not only been halted, but the damage already done has actually been totally reversed. Lieutenant M’Ress’ eyes are as healthy now as they were before her transfer to Zelazny. Dr. McCoy and I agree in deeming this a medical impossibility.”
She let the stir go around the table for a moment. As for myself, those few simple words were the most welcome I had ever heard. Of course she had not kept me in suspense; she had told me more than an hour ago, as I lay on the examination table. One thing was certain: the end of my career was definitely canceled—at least for the next few decades.
Christine went on, “And that’s not all. During her time on Zelazny, and most especially during her original stranding on the planet, M’Ress acquired a number of scars on various parts of her body. The most visible were on her right forearm, caused by the attack of a number of small predatory animals. All of those scars have entirely vanished. In their place, on the inside of her right arm, is a small mark. It appears to be what was once called a ‘tattoo’; a mark made by the injection of pigment under the skin.”
“Would you mind showing us, Lieutenant?” the captain asked diffidently.
“Not at all, sir.” I rose and removed my tunic, draping it over the back of my chair. I rolled up the (still) sky-blue sleeve of my undershirt, baring my arm; and I extended it across the table, the inner surface facing up. Everyone leaned close to examine the marks. When everyone had had a look, I rolled down my sleeve, retrieved my tunic, and sat.
“The marks on the lieutenant’s arm are clearly Preserver characters, as were those she recorded from the tunnel walls,” Spock put in. “They closely resemble those we found several years ago in the asteroid-deflecting obelisk.”
It’s a tribute to Captain Kirk’s strength that he didn’t visibly flinch. He said, “And do you have a translation, Spock?”
“A very rough one only,” Spock said. “As you may recall, the characters in the Preserver language represent not words as we know them, but rather musical notes. However, we do have approximate meanings for many. I would interpret the meaning of these characters as...’friend.’”
At that point, with that one word, it all made sense. All sixty-three days of my previous exile; the two of my latest, and my experiences down the tunnel. Suddenly I understood it all.
“We can remove the marks,” Dr. Chapel was saying. “A fairly simply skin graft would do it.”
I shook my head firmly. Even an hour ago I would have begged her to do so; the presence of the characters on my flesh had given me a creepy, almost violated feeling. But no longer. “No, thank you Doctor,” I said. “I think I’ll keep them. The fur will grow back over them soon enough anyway. I believe I was intended not to tamper with them. And I think they might come in handy, if I ever meet any more Preservers.”
“I don’t quite understand,” Captain Kirk said slowly. “You were intended not to tamper with them?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I believe that I finally understand what was going on. It’s my belief that this planet is a trap.”
“A trap?” the captain echoed.
“Yes, sir; or perhaps I mean more accurately a test.”
“Go on, Lieutenant,” the captain said. He sounded utterly perplexed, and a little irritated, and I hastened to explain.
“There are several facts to consider, sir,” I said. “The first is the extreme unlikelihood of that planet existing at all. The second is the planet’s bizarre magnetic field. Both of those things would make that planet an irresistible attraction to most space travelers. Even the Klingons would probably take a look.”
I let that sink in for a moment, then I went on. “Consider also that the Preservers seemed most interested in, not to say openly obsessed with, human and humanoid races. And yet of all the people who set foot on the planet, only I was detained there. Yes, I do mean exactly that: ‘detained.’ I believe it is because I was the only one not humanoid. I believe that this planet was deliberately created by the Preservers to attract and observe members of non-humanoid species.”
“To what end, Lieutenant?” Spock asked.
I shrugged. “Who can say, sir? Perhaps the Preservers wished to know if any non-humanoid species would be a possible threat to the humanoids they had planted and supported. Perhaps they wished to know if they’d made the right choice in picking humanoids. Or perhaps this facility is even older than we suspect. Perhaps it dates from a time when the Preservers were still deciding which species to preserve. We can’t know for certain.”
“Let me see if I understand what you’re saying, Lieutenant,” Captain Kirk said. “Do you believe that this planet is a...construct of some kind?”
“I’m becoming more and more convinced that it is just that, yes, sir,” I said. “Too many things about it are so terribly unlikely. Its very presence in this system, as I said. Also the fact that it is Class M, and harbors life. Trinary star systems simply don’t evolve Class M planets. The fact that it seemed once to have had a radically different climate; and the fact that I couldn’t find even one fossil, anywhere. I believe that this planet was created, to be an irresistible paradox for the curious. The place where I was stranded twice is the clincher, though.”
“How so?”
“Well, sir, that forest was the only place on that entire planet where we found running fresh water. It also contained everything I needed to contrive a shelter, and the only diurnal animals we’d seen. That forest was the only place on the planet where I could have survived at all. I believe that someone created that place exactly for me; a ‘Lifelike Habitat’ if you will.”
“Supposing we accept this,” Captain Kirk said, “what does it mean to you personally?”
“I believe now that some intelligence on that planet was observing me even as early as those first Zelazny landing parties. I believe it wanted to know more about me. And I believe it engineered my stranding there; at least to the extent of making me believe Zelazny had been destroyed, and preventing them from finding me.”
“And that last day, when we did find you?” Uhura asked.
“That may have been one of two things,” I said slowly. Frankly I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “They may have been finished with me, and ready to let me go on my way; and that’s why they guided Enterprise to my location with that magnetic anomaly. Or—perhaps the attack by the predator was another, final test. To see how I would react; or to see if humanoids would risk themselves to save me from danger. I tend toward that explanation. The more I think about it, the less—natural—that attack seems. The large predators on that planet are universally nocturnal. I’d never seen one in daylight, up until the time that one jumped me. Whether my hosts would have let it kill me, if I had not been rescued, I don’t know. I suspect not, though.” At least I hope not...
“And on this occasion?” the captain asked.
“I got the distinct impression, sir, that I had...passed the test,” I said. I knew now with absolute certainty, that I had been manipulated during every minute of my latest exile. I’d been pulled to those hills, pushed to discover the tunnels, and driven to explore them. The process had been quite inexorable, my progress as inevitable as a rat’s in a maze. Even the presence of that water fountain had been part of the game, and more than just a kindly-offered opportunity for me to get a drink. I now considered it no coincidence that I had grown irresistibly sleepy after drinking from the fountain; nor that a dousing of that same water had temporarily cleared my failing eyes. What the additives had been, I don’t know; my tricorder had not detected them. But I had been manipulated so skillfully that I hadn’t even been aware of it. Not until it was far too late to back out.
I went on, waving my hand in front of my eyes, “This, and healing those scars, was both a reward and...an apology, perhaps. And this—” I pointed to my right arm. “This was their way of telling me that I am accepted, that I—and possibly my whole species—am worthy to consort with the humanoid species that they nurtured; that I am not considered an enemy or a threat. That’s why I’m not in a hurry to have those marks removed. I believe that if I was ever in such a situation again, they would recognize me immediately. Maybe it wouldn’t take sixty-three days again.”
“Leaving unexplained,” the captain said, “only why neither Zelazny nor we could find you. Antilles may not have beamed down search parties, but I damn well did.”
“I suspect, Captain,” Spock said, “That the question of search parties is largely irrelevant. We did not find her, nor did Zelazny, because we were not meant to.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Spock?” Dr. McCoy demanded in disgust.
“Consider the circumstances, Doctor,” Spock said placidly. “To the point of view of Lieutenant M’Ress, she beamed down alone; the rest of the survey team did not materialize. To our point of view, the opposite had occurred; the survey team had arrived, but the lieutenant had not. Over the next few hours both Lieutenant M’Ress and the survey team apparently occupied the same specific area of the planet; but without encountering any sign of each other. The following day, rescue parties combed the area extensively, again without finding a trace of her. Even in her shelter, which, to our view, had not been occupied in many weeks.”
“So?” McCoy persisted.
“Obviously Lieutenant M’Ress’ experiences were not an illusion; we have physical proof of that. Given that fact, I would submit that she and the survey team did not occupy the same plane of existence. Whether hers or ours represented reality is impossible to say. Clearly, however, the force that kept the lieutenant on the planet wished her to be alone. The illusion it created, of the destruction of both Zelazny and Enterprise, contributed to this. They wished to give her what would appear to be a logical reason for her stranding; and to make her believe that rescue was at best a remote possibility. Thus her behavior would be as natural as possible.”
And they succeeded, I thought. Goddess, did they succeed!
“Spock, are there truly Preservers down there?” the captain asked.
“Impossible to determine, sir,” Mr. Spock said. He turned to me. “Your conjecture, Lieutenant?”
I spread my hands helplessly. “I can’t say either, sir,” I said. “I encountered only one creature, and I am reasonably certain that it was a robot. There clearly was a guiding intelligence down there. Whether it was living Preservers I don’t know. Or even if ‘living Preserver’ isn’t a contradiction in terms. It might have been an entirely artificial intelligence; perhaps an automatic system of some kind. Possibly millions of years old. Frankly I think Captain Antilles would have been disappointed; he wanted a tête-à-tête, so that he could discuss his theories of anthropology.”
“Do you think there’s anything more to be learned down there?” the captain asked.
“I strongly doubt it, sir,” I said quickly. Strange; a few days ago I had been itching to beam down to Hellhole; dying to. Now I was equally eager to get away from it; far away. Partially, I think, that attitude had been implanted in me, just as I believed that my drive to return had been; but that’s not the whole answer. Just a couple days ago I’d thought that my career and my life were  about over; this mission had been intended as my last hurrah. Now, though... suddenly the future stretched out before me, not bleak and empty, but full to the brim. And there was one job in particular, one duty that I owed to myself, that I could not wait to complete. It was well past time to finally depart Hellhole, and for my life to begin again.
I went on, “When we consider, sir, that the Zelazny’s survey team was not allowed to find any of the things I was led to, I have a strong feeling that any further surveys would find just what Zelazny did: a hot, hostile, useless planet.”
The captain nodded slowly. “I’m inclined to agree with you, Lieutenant.” He looked around the table. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, in the long run it appears we are left with more questions than answers, and I know that probably doesn’t sit well with a crew trained for exploration. But I think it could also be said that some of us—” he smiled over at me—“have had their most important questions answered very adequately. And that might actually be why we came back here in the first place. I see nothing to be gained by staying here any longer. Do I hear any objections?”
He looked around again; but there were none. Least of all from me. “Then,” Captain Kirk concluded, “let’s get the hell out of here, shall we? Dismissed.”
We started to file out, but Captain Kirk called to me. “M’Ress?”
I turned back. “Sir?”
He smiled. “Good work, Lieutenant. And...congratulations.”
Slowly I smiled back. “Thank you, sir.”
He was waiting for me out in the corridor, Lieutenant Commander Sulu was; and as I stepped past he reached out quickly to link his arm with mine. “So tell me, M’Ress,” he said with a smile, “Do you still play tennis?”
###
“Gone?” I echoed in dismay. “So soon?”
Once again I found myself sitting in Commodore M’Rael’s office, there on the third level of DS 2. She had called me there, almost immediately after the Enterprise’s return, I hoped for the very last time, to that station. And my first question to her—after I had greeted her properly, and reassured her as to my health and welfare—can well be guessed. She already knew my story; my report had preceded us via subspace radio.
She nodded. “Yes,” she said softly. We were, of course, speaking once again in the mother tongue. “Some of the junior officers and enlisted are still here, but all of the senior officers have already departed. Starfleet sent the Saratoga II for the purpose, rather than waiting for Enterprise. It was not known how long your mission would take.”
“But how?” I insisted. “How could the hearings have already been held, without my participation?”
“Your participation was not required,” she said. “Nor indeed was anyone else’s. The senior officers of the Zelazny, those who were charged, pleaded guilty to all the charges placed before them.”
“All?” I echoed again, incredulous.
“Indeed,” she said. “The hearing was quite brief—astoundingly so. Captain Antilles, Commander Edgeworth and Lieutenant Harris were charged with a variety of crimes, including that of murder, in the death of Lieutenant Commander Morada. Dr. Enyeart and Nurse Burke were charged with violations of medical ethics, and with violating your civil rights as a Federation citizen. The latter charge was also applied to Ensign Osgood—he was the only junior officer charged. All of them, of course, have been cashiered, Dr. Enyeart’s medical license has been revoked; and all will serve sentences of various length. For Antilles, Edgeworth and Harris, that will be life. They will never leave their penal colony.”
I shuddered. They brought it on themselves, I reminded myself. “What about the others?” I prompted.
“Lieutenant Kerenski, and Lieutenant Commanders Delaney and Nakamara were charged with concealing evidence, and with conduct unbecoming of an officer,” Commodore M’Rael said. “They have been permitted to remain in Starfleet; but have received a formal reprimand, a reduction of one level of rank, and an eight-year ban on promotion. They will be reassigned elsewhere. I do not believe their assignments will be...entirely pleasant.”
I knew what she meant; they’d probably be posted to bleak, barely-terraformed colony worlds on the edge of the Federation, and wouldn’t see Terra again till retirement. “What...what about Commanders Gaetano and Abrams?” I said hesitantly.
“They were deemed to have not participated actively in either Captain Antilles’ plans, nor in your brutalization; nor to have had prior knowledge of Commander Morada’s murder. They were also judged to have done you good, as opposed to harm, during your time aboard Zelazny. As such they faced but one charge: that of conduct unbecoming. This was based largely on your reports, I might add.”
She fixed me with her gaze; curious and possibly a little disapproving. She always did have a “throw the book at them” view of disciplinary action. “It was true,” I insisted. “Commander Gaetano showed me as much kindness as he dared. And Commander Abrams...” I trailed off.
She smiled slightly. “I know,” she said. “I know of your long relationship with him; he spoke of it to me. And I know that his feelings toward you were not unreciprocated. That, he did not need to tell me.”
I chose not to comment on that. “What was their punishment?” I asked.
She hesitated. Then she said, “Theirs was a formal reprimand, reassignment, and a five-year ban on promotion.”
I nodded slowly. It could have been much, much worse. And their reassignments would probably be much more endurable as well. But I was glad: I was grateful to Gaetano, for his kindness; and as for Joel...well, Commodore M’Rael was correct. His feelings for me were far from unreciprocated, even now. I’d hoped to be able to see him, to tell him that; to begin to rebuild what we’d once had, and those weeks on Zelazny had so badly damaged. But now...
“However,” the commodore went on, and that one word froze my heart for some inexplicable reason. I looked up sharply as she went on, “However, only Commander Gaetano has decided to accept his punishment. Commander Abrams, I regret to report, has chosen to resign his commission. Under the circumstances, he has been allowed to do so in terms of an  honorable retirement, in recognition of his exemplary service of the past. He will return to civilian life with no stain on his character, and with full access to his benefits and pension.”
It was like a knife through the heart. But not, when I’d taken a few seconds to gasp and recover, entirely unexpected. I remembered our last conversation. “I think...,” I said slowly, by way of explanation, “that he did not feel worthy of the uniform any longer. The reason why...may have had something to do with me. At least to a certain extent.”
“Why, my child?”
“I may be deluding myself, Commodore,” I said. “But I believe he feels a certain guilt because he was not able to help me more effectively on Zelazny.”
“And you, child?”
“Pardon me, Commodore?”
“Do you feel guilt now, because of his resignation?”
“Yes,” I said finally. “I do. Perhaps I should not, but I do.”
Dammit, Joel, I thought, why? Why didn’t you wait? It wasn’t the end of the world. We could have worked it out—and I would have helped you. You know I would have. Why the coward’s way out?
“Did Commander Abrams record a message for me, before his departure?” I asked hopefully.
She shook her head. “No, my child. I am sorry.”
I frowned in confusion. I couldn’t understand that...or maybe, on reflection, I could. I knew him; I knew the way his mind worked. After our last conversation, most likely, he believed that he’d said all he could profitably say; that now the ball was in my court (to use a metaphor dear to my heart.) If I wanted him, I would have to seek him out myself.
“I would submit that your guilt is somewhat misplaced,” the commodore said, peering closely at me. “Commander Abrams is a free individual; his actions are his own. In his mind, there may not have been another choice.”
I sighed. “You are doubtless correct, Commodore.” Nonetheless there was a knot of sorrow and regret in my gut that wouldn’t go away. Joel...
She might have been reading my mind; maybe she was. “You will see him again.”
I looked up, startled. “Pardon me?”
“The former Lieutenant Commander Abrams. You will see him again; and when you do, things between you will be very different.” She smiled. “Treat that as a prophecy, if you wish.”
I nodded slowly. “You may be right.” But when? When we’re both old and grey? Dammit, Joel, I do love you. I really do. But where in all the galaxy can I find you now?
With an effort, I forced myself back to the present. “What about the junior officers and the enlisted?”
“With the exception of Ensign Osgood, who actively participated in the violation of your rights, the others have been deemed to have been helpless victims of Captain Antilles’ charismatic power,” she said. “They will be reassigned, separately, to other ships and stations. They will have no other blemish on their careers.”
“That is well,” I said. And that brought a sudden thought to my mind: Matthews! Before we leave this station, I must have a word with Captain Kirk about Ensign Matthews. He would be a major asset to Enterprise. “The majority of them were indeed helpless under his power. And those who were slightly involved, may change their beliefs in a less poisonous atmosphere.”
“That is exactly what Command hopes,” the commodore confirmed. “You may well believe, however, that they will be closely watched for a time, until they have proved by their actions that their opinions have indeed changed.”
“That is good also.” I shook my head. “My apologies, Commodore. You called me here on business of your own, and I have not allowed you to conduct it.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “It was not unexpected,” she said. “Indeed, I had three reasons for calling you here. The first was to give you exactly this news, regarding the crew of the Zelazny. The second involves another matter close to you: your service record.”
I was startled. “Pardon me?” I said.
“During your time on the Zelazny, Captain Antilles made an unusually large number of entries into your record,” she explained. “All of them extremely...unfavorable, I might say. I do not doubt he was attempting to sabotage your career.”
That bastard, I thought savagely. I really should have clawed him! Out loud I said, calmly, “May I be permitted to see these entries, Commodore?”
“Certainly,” she said. She handed across the desk a data pad. I scrolled through it briefly, the heat of my anger increasing with each “page.” I won’t repeat any of  (the former) Captain Antilles’ comments about my poor self; let’s just keep it to two words: “untruthful” and “libelous.” My hand was actually trembling with rage, and with the effort of keeping my claws unexpressed, as I handed back the pad. If I ever caught up with him...
Commodore M’Rael noticed my anger, of course. “Be at peace,” she suggested. “As you know, a Starfleet officer’s service record is usually permanent, good or bad; the best that one can generally hope for is to add one’s own comments in rebuttal, for whatever that may be worth. However, in this case, since the officer entering these comments is now a convicted felon, Admiral Conroy and I have prevailed upon Command to have these comments expunged entirely. They will follow you no longer. Your record will show that your service aboard Zelazny was exemplary; such was sworn to by Commanders Gaetano and Abrams before their departure.”
The Goddess bless you Joel, I thought. And you too, Karl. And even you, Admiral. You can kiss my hand any time you like. I said, “I thank you, Commodore. I am extremely grateful.”
“You are most welcome,” she said. She paused. “The third, and final, matter I wished to discuss with you is perhaps the most important: it involves your next assignment. You should know, first of all, that Starfleet has decided to re-staff Zelazny and continue her mission to survey this sector.”
In alarm I half-rose from my seat. “Commodore,” I said quickly, “If they are thinking of reassigning me to Zelazny, I will not go. I will barricade myself in my quarters aboard Enterprise first.”
She waved her hand again. “Sit down, please, Lieutenant,” she said with a faint smile. “Admiral Conroy and I know well your desires in this matter. Even with a new crew, we know that your feelings toward that ship are traumatic. We have no intention of forcing such a transfer on you. This assignment, I believe, you may find more to your liking.”
She handed me the data pad again, this time displaying a different page. On it I saw the standard transfer form, my name at the top; and it was a transfer back to Enterprise. To my surprise—I wouldn’t have thought he’d have had time—I saw Captain Kirk’s signature already there; as well as the commodore’s and Admiral Conroy’s. Only one space was empty; and accepting a stylus from Commodore M’Rael, I quickly filled in that blank. “Thank you, Commodore,” I said. “I have been feeling quite...uncertain as to my future lately.”
She smiled. “It pleases me to help,” she commented. “But I fear I cannot dissolve all of your uncertainty. Only Captain Kirk may do that. You are officially a member of the Enterprise crew once more; but I do not know to what duty he will assign you.”
Probably back to the comm board, I thought. Oh, well, there are worse fates. Though I really was starting to enjoy the anthro-paleo business...
“I am sure his decision will be a wise one,” I said. I paused. “If our business is complete, Commodore, I would ask permission to take my leave of you. Now that I know where I shall be, I must hasten to retrieve my belongings from storage. Now that Enterprise’s business here is complete, she will be leaving soon.”
“As you say, my child,” she said. “I fear it may be some time before we meet again.”
“What does your future hold, Commodore?”
“Home,” she said. “My work here is all but done. The corner has been turned; this station will be completed without any further aid from me. In any event, Admiral Conroy will be glad to be rid of me. I shall return to Cait. I am at an age now where I must be concerned for my health.”
As she spoke she laid her hand over her chest. I nodded silently, solemnly, knowing exactly what she was saying: at her age she had to begin to pay attention to her heart. 
Heart failure—from simple fatigue or “wearing out” rather than any particular disease—was for many centuries the major barrier to Caitian longevity. Indeed, up until perhaps two centuries or so ago, it seemed impossible that any Caitian would ever live past seventy (for males) to seventy-five (for females.) Advances in geriatric medicine helped, of course; but it required the development of a practical artificial heart to break this barrier. These days many Caitians live to well over a hundred; but without exception, those who do, do so with a atomic-powered, plastic and ceramic pump ticking away rhythmically in their chests. Commodore M’Rael was fast approaching the age when a Caitian must begin to seriously monitor the condition of his or her heart, in order to catch problems before they turn into outright failure; and that, quite frankly, is best done on the home world, where the doctors really understand our bodies. When my time came, that’s where I wanted to be.
...But with that thought came another one, rather disturbing: I remembered one of the devices that the robot on Hellhole had used on me, the flat disk that it had lain atop my chest. Christine had been quite unable to determine what, if anything, it had done. Now I wondered: could it have...? If so, however, I wouldn’t know for another thirty years or more.
“I do not believe I shall leave Cait again,” the commodore was saying. “If anyone wishes to consult with me, they can come to me.”
I smiled, fighting free of my speculations. “I will be sure to visit you, when next I am home.”
“That would please me greatly,” she said. She stood, and so did I. “It is time.”
A simple clasping of hands wasn’t going to do it; I embraced her, feeling her strong arms around me. “Good-bye, Commodore.”
“Good-bye, my child,” she said. “I need not say, ‘the Goddess be with you.’ That She is, and always will be, She has already made abundantly clear.”

EPILOGUE
Life is good, I reflected. In the long run, life is good.
Wearing that striped caftan, Uhura’s gift to me so long ago, the collar that Sulu had given me a few weeks before, and with a cup of his special green tea on my hands, I lounged comfortably in my quarters. My newly-restored quarters, that is; I had visited the stasis lockers after I left Commodore M’Rael’s office, and had recovered everything. Back were the tapestries, the paintings, and the sculptures. Back was everything that had made this place mine. And one additional piece as well. Sorting my belongings had been a definite and long-anticipated pleasure; I will leave to your own imagination my feelings as my fingers closed once again around the custom-molded grip of my own familiar tennis racquet.
The Enterprise was back in warp, in transit to the more populated sectors of the galaxy, after our brief stop at DS 2. We had arrived there, of course, intending to clear up what are euphemistically called “loose ends.” (Otherwise known as the court martial of half a dozen senior Starfleet officers.) As it turned out, though, there had been very few ends left to tie. I had seen Commodore M’Rael, I had filed my reports; I had signed myself back on, officially, to Enterprise. And then I had bowed out.
Captain Kirk had acceded to my request for a few days off duty with a smile and a nod. “You deserve it,” he’d said. “Take all the time you need.” He seemed relieved as he’d said it; I suspected he didn’t know what duty to assign me to, either. 
Three days later, I was still taking it. I’d locked up my uniform (still with a blue undershirt, but that could change) in the wardrobe, and I’d hung out the “Do Not Disturb” sign, so to speak. So far, no one had. I spent some time in the very pleasant tasks of unpacking and redecorating my quarters; some more writing letters to my family (always a challenge, writing something that won’t be savaged by the Starfleet censors.) But mostly, I had just rested. My weight was back to normal, my strength restored, and my eyes healed, thank the Goddess; or maybe the Preservers. Very soon I would feel my well-known devotion to duty calling me again; but not quite yet.
And my denied promotion? I had to shake my head in wonder as I reflected on the person I’d been those six months ago or more, and how much those extra bars on my shoulder had meant to her. Who cares? I thought now. Who cares about titles? This ship is my home, these people my friends. They would die for me, as I would for them. That was all, and it was enough; why look for trouble by demanding more?
My reveries were interrupted by the door chime. I sighed. Maybe my devotion to duty had come calling already. “Come in,” I said.
It was Captain Kirk who stood there, his hands behind his back. Quickly I set aside my teacup and moved to stand.
The captain smiled. “That’s quite all right, M’Ress. May I come in?”
“Please, sir,” I said, and he did. He glanced around curiously, taking in my collection of Caitian and human art. 
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen your quarters before,” he commented amiably. “They suit you.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “It took a lot of work.”
He stepped close to the wall above the desk, where my new piece hung: a crudely- chipped stone knife, mounted on red velvet and framed. I’d been lucky to find a shop on DS 2 willing and able to do the work in a hurry. “A reminder,” he guessed.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Of many things. Uh...what can I do for you, Captain?”
“Ah,” he said. He stepped over and perched himself comfortably on the edge of the desk. He was carrying two small objects, I now saw; one was a data pad. The other, clutched tightly in his left hand, I couldn’t quite see. “A little unfinished business, I’m afraid.
“You’ll be happy to know that Starfleet has stamped the entire affair closed. Based on your report the planet has been declared off-limits. No other non-humanoids will have to spend sixty-three days down there.”
“That’s good,” I said. “That’s very good. Uh—sir, if I may ask, were you able to do anything about Ensign Matthews?”
The Captain smiled. “I was indeed. Coming from you, I considered your recommendation of him to be high praise indeed. As you may know, Starfleet has decided to restaff and relaunch the Zelazny.”
“Yes, sir, I did know. Commodore M’Rael told me.”
“As it happens,” the captain went on, “several members of our own crew did decide to transfer to the Zelazny. As your probably also know.”
Actually I hadn’t known; ship’s operations hadn’t been high on my priority list the last few days. Not a lot of point in saying so, though.
“One of which was Ensign Tate. She became our third-shift comm officer when Lieutenant Morley was promoted, following your transfer. She’ll be Zelazny’s chief communications officer now, which will look good on her service record.”
I nodded. I knew Melissa Tate only very slightly; she’d been an engineer’s mate before. Frankly I wished her all the joy of Zelazny’s antique comm equipment. As long as it wasn’t me going, I was happy. “And that...left us with a third-shift opening, sir?” I asked. Strange; I’d expected...
“Just so,” he confirmed. “One which I was very pleased to fill with your friend Ensign Matthews. Uhura says he should work out quite well.”
I thought, that young idiot has been on board for three days, and he hasn’t said hello yet? Why, for the Goddess’ sake? Then I realized: my Do Not Disturb sign. The others, most notably Uhura and Sulu, would have warned him: when I say I don’t want to be disturbed, I mean it. This time they were only half-right, though. “Thank you, sir,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll be an asset.”
“I’m sure he will too. To our boxing team, if nothing else. And that brings me to why I’ve come to see you. Another of our officers who decided to transfer to Zelazny was Lieutenant Commander Ancheta.”
“The head of our anthro-paleo department,” I commented.
“That’s right. The remainder of this survey will be quite an opportunity for him as well. And that, of course, has left me with the problem of replacing him as well. Commander Spock is the direct supervisor of all our science departments, and I’ve relied entirely on his advice. He was very impressed with what you accomplished on the Zelazny, despite Captain Antilles’ efforts at sabotage; and by your assistance to him in reviewing the records of the planet before you beamed down. Based on his strong recommendation, I’m pleased to offer the position to you.”
“I’d be very honored to accept it, sir,” I said instantly, with a rising sense of excitement. The opportunities that stretched out before me, with that simple offer, were endless. The sciences are one of the two primary reasons why Starfleet exists in the first place (the other, of course, is military necessity); and the sciences of anthropology and paleontology rank among the highest in importance. To have this opportunity on Enterprise, where I would actually be permitted and encouraged to do my best work, would be to “write my own ticket” indeed. Then it sunk in, and I frowned. I asked him the same question that I’d asked Commodore M’Rael, all those months ago. “But, sir, a department head? Doesn’t that require—?”
He smiled, and lifted his data pad. “From Starfleet Command, received this morning,” he said. He read from the pad: “‘In recognition of meritorious service in resolving the matter of Captain Antilles and the Preserver Planet, Lieutenant M’Ress, under your command, is hereby granted immediate promotion to the rank of Lieutenant Commander, and all the rights and duties thereto.’”
He held out his left hand, and finally I saw what the other object was: the rank bars of a lieutenant commander. “Congratulations, Commander.”
My body went numb, as if grazed by phaser fire; and my Terran fled like a thief in the night, every last word. It was some seconds before I could rise to my feet and reach out to take the bars from the Captain’s hand; and several more before I could wrap my tongue around the words: “Thank you, Captain. Thank you very much.” I was aware, though, that it wasn’t really he whom I should be thanking; but rather Commodore M’Rael. How many strings she’d had to pull, how many favors she’d had to call in, to accomplish this, I didn’t know; nor, really, did I care.
“You’re quite welcome, M’Ress,” he said. Then he offered his arm, his elbow crooked. “Now, if you’d care to let me escort you to the officer’s mess, I believe Sulu and Uhura have arranged a little reception in your honor.”
As I took his arm and allowed him to walk me down the corridor, I thought: what was I thinking, just a few minutes ago? Who cares about promotions? I do, I realized. I damn well do!
...And as the mess hall door slid open for us, I saw the crowd and the decorations, I heard the cheers, I felt their hands slapping my back and grasping my arms, and someone pressed a drink into my hand, I realized again that it was true: life is good. In the long run, life is good.

THE END

THE TAKEOVER
It was foggy. Again.
As I exited the infirmary I shivered, just a little; and then I sighed. Even now, going on my fifth straight year of residence in Monterey, I still hadn’t really gotten used to the summer weather. Mark Twain once said that the coldest winter he’d ever spent was a summer in San Francisco; and Monterey isn’t that far south. Hitching up my tunic, wishing for a field jacket, I started down the winding path toward the transporter building. 
The Monterey Presidio—now the local Starfleet field HQ, and home of the famous Language Institute—occupied a flat-topped grassy hill in the southwest corner of  Monterey, Most of it dated from the 20th Century, and had been converted and re-converted over the long decades. Unlike the Planetary Research Center, most of which was housed in the huge old Del Monte Hotel building a few kilometers east, the functions of the Presidio were scattered among a large number of small to medium-sized clapboard salt-box buildings. It would be almost impossible to get a day’s work done there, I’d long since discovered, without going outdoors a dozen times. No matter what the weather. There was one compensation; the Presidio paths did have a beautiful view out over the city of Monterey, the Bay, and the Gabilan Mountains beyond. At least when the overcast lifted, which, this summer anyway, wasn’t too damn often.
The mood I was in that afternoon could best be described, I suppose, as “pensive.” The duty of visiting Commodore Green in the infirmary was one that had to be done, but it wasn’t an easy job. He was getting better rapidly, and he was an active, impatient person; he made a terrible invalid. With his strength growing daily, he wanted nothing more than to get back to work. And he’d raged at me, of all people, because I couldn’t spring him from his confinement. I’d beat my retreat as quickly as politeness allowed, on the excuse that I had a lot of work to attend to back at the Center. Which, actually, was the truth: with Commodore Green out of commission, I was up to my furry little ears in work. Which was nothing new, of course; just a quantum level or so higher than usual.
I was almost to the transporter building—and my blessed escape back to the Research Center—when I heard a voice behind me call my name; unfortunately, a familiar voice. “Commander M’Ress!”
I turned quickly, and then stood frozen, transfixed by the singular sight on a senior Starfleet flag officer hurrying to catch up with a mere commander: Admiral Emilio Sanchez, my C.O.’s C.O. He was no lightweight, and he was panting slightly as he came up before me. He smiled broadly. “A lucky coincidence,” he said. “I was just about to screen you at the Center.”
“I’ve just been to see Commodore Green, sir,” I said. Then, in trepidation, “What—uh— what can I do for you, Admiral?”
“I wonder if you could spare a few minutes to come to my office, Commander,” he said. “There are some matters I need to discuss with you.”
Immediately my heart sank, and I felt my tail begin to wave uncontrollably. In fact I didn’t have a few minutes, not if I was to be honest; but you don’t refuse an admiral’s “request.” I tried hard to keep the dismay out of my voice as I said, “Of course, sir.”
He turned, and I fell into step beside him, up a winding path toward a slightly-larger- than-average building that housed his office; and I had to hustle to match his stride. He smiled over at me again as he said, affably, “How are those twins of yours, Commander? Growing like weeds, I imagine.”
“That’s...just about the word for it, yes, sir,” I agreed. “And they’re both quite well, thank you. They’ve been walking and talking for some time now, of course. Getting into everything.”
“Walking and talking,” he echoed incredulously. “How time flies,” he went on in tones of regret. “I haven’t seen them since they were newborns. Would you have any objection to Maria and I coming for a visit some evening?”
Maria was his wife, whom I’d encountered any number of times at various receptions. She was pleasant enough, if a little shallow. But as I contemplated the true meaning behind his words, my dismay sunk a little lower. Great Goddess, I thought, now we have to feed an admiral and his wife dinner! But what I said, of course, was something like “Joel and I would be very honored, sir.”
It took us only a couple minutes, at the admiral’s pace, to reach the Administration building, near the very top of the rise that the Presidio occupied. The building was a bustle of activity, junior officers and enlisted mainly, and both the admiral and I received many respectful greetings as we entered and ascended to the second floor. They might not know me, but they knew a set of commander’s bars when they saw one.
Admiral Sanchez’ office was considerably larger than mine, and definitely had a better view. On the way in he threw his secretary (a j.g.) a terse “Hold all calls, Lieutenant”; and scarcely waited for her reply of, “Yes, Admiral.”
Sanchez’ decor was somewhat nautical, I guess; darkly-stained massive furniture, blueprints and watercolors of sailing vessels on the wall; and a brass clock that quietly chimed the hours in the old Terran naval system of “Ship’s Bells.” Only the computer equipment perched on the corner of his desk indicated the twenty-third century. At least his floor was carpeted; more comfortable to my long-suffering feet than cold concrete pathways.
The admiral waved me to a large and comfortable chair. “Have a seat, please, Commander,” he said, and of course I did. Meanwhile he turned to a food synthesizer panel mounted into the wall behind his desk. “May I get you something, Commander?” he asked politely. “Coffee? Tea?”
I shook my head. “No, thank you, sir.”
“Fair enough,” he said, and he took his seat. He sat hunched forward, his hands clasped before him, his dark eyes spearing me. “How is Commodore Green?” he asked. He added quickly, “I haven’t had a chance to see him for a day or so.”
I kept my amused smile and chuckle tightly under wraps. What he really meant, of course, behind his slightly lame excuse, was that he had been avoiding visiting the Commodore; he found the visits every bit as unpleasant and trying as I did. But of course I couldn’t let on that I’d guessed that. So I said, “He seems to be quite a bit better, sir. He’s very anxious to get out of the infirmary.”
A tiny smile lifted the corners of Sanchez’ neat black mustache. “I’m sure he is,” he commented. “He’ll stay there the next five days, though, by God. Even if we have to tie him down.”
“—And very anxious to get back to work,” I finished.
The tiny smile fell abruptly. “Ah,” he said, “That, I fear, is our problem.”
“I’m...not sure if I understand, sir,” I said.
He leaned back, crossing his arms over his ample stomach. “Commander, how old is Commodore Green?”
That question took me aback, and it was a few seconds before I found an answer. “I believe...about seventy-five Terran Standard, sir.”
He nodded. “That’s right, close enough,” he confirmed. “And you’ve been his assistant for almost five years.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t think I need to tell you the kind of workload he has always taken on himself; or remind you of  the pace he sets.”
I grimaced, just slightly. “Indeed you don’t, sir.”
“What you might not realize is that he has been in increasingly poor health for many years. This heart attack wasn’t his first, you know. He had one other.”
“No, sir, I didn’t. When was that?”
“A little over ten years ago. That one was quite mild, and he spent no more than a day or so in the infirmary. Not like this time. This one was a very near thing indeed, I’m told. If you hadn’t been there...”
I nodded soberly. Someday I hoped to be able to forget the scene, that afternoon almost a week before. I’d come to the commodore’s office with some “paperwork” for his signature...and he hadn’t answered his door chime. That had been a first; always before he’d at least yelled “go away!”; and it had alarmed me for some unaccountable reason. I’d risked a reprimand by using my security override code to force the door, and there I’d found him, slumped over his desk, a cup of coffee spilled across its oak top. Somehow, frightened nearly to death, I’d retained enough wit to call the Presidio for an emergency beam-over to the infirmary. And, thank the Goddess, I’d been in time. By just minutes, the doctors had told me later.
Admiral Sanchez went on, “I’ve been trying for years to get him to slow down, and to reduce his workload. That idea of knocking off early on Fridays; that was mine originally. I sold him on it as a way to reward his staff for good work; but of course it was really a way of getting him to relax more.” He sighed. “Unfortunately it didn’t work very well. He merely worked all the harder the rest of the week.”
I nodded again; I knew that very well too.
“About seven years ago I decided I’d had enough,” Admiral Sanchez said. “I told him to make himself ready to retire; to find someone to replace him. I’m sure you know how he dragged his feet on that, too; over the next two years he interviewed and rejected ten officers who applied for the job.”
“Yes, sir. And then I came along.”
“And then you came along,” he agreed. He paused. “I’m going to be very honest with you, Commander,” he said. “I don’t want you to believe, however, that I’m discounting or denigrating your abilities. Far from it. Some of those other ten officers were merely adequate; but a few had qualifications close to your own; though none had ever had so prestigious an assignment as Enterprise. Frankly I saw Green’s rejection of them to be chiefly a delaying tactic; if he had no replacement, he couldn’t retire. I had made up my mind that if he tried to reject one more, meaning yourself, that I was going to step in and simply appoint you to the position, despite his objections.”
Quickly he held up his hand then, before I could say anything. “Now, please understand,” he said. “That was by no means a random or capricious decision. I had of course reviewed your qualifications, and I knew that you came highly recommended by Admiral Kirk and Captain Spock. If your qualifications had not been completely adequate I wouldn’t have considered that action. Fortunately I was spared that decision: Commodore Green decided on his own, without any prompting from me, to accept you. And needless to say, since then your work has been exemplary.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re very welcome. The problem, of course, is that Commodore Green hasn’t shown any signs of retiring yet. I know he’s given you a massive workload, which you’ve taken up quite gracefully; but someone or other, it hasn’t come out of his. He is working just as hard and as fast as he did before your arrival. And frankly, he has gotten far too old for that, whether he wants to admit it or not. What happened a week ago is the result.”
I couldn’t argue with that, of course. Over the last five years I had often looked at Commodore Green in concern. He hadn’t only been burning the candle at both ends, it seemed to me, but in the middle as well. I mean, the pace he set had often run me ragged, and I was more than thirty years younger than him. But...“I agree with everything you’ve said, Admiral,” I said, “but I’m sorry to confess, sir, that I’m still not quite sure what you’re getting at.”
“Just this,” he said. “I’ve been putting up with it too long, and I’m not going to any more. As of tomorrow, Commodore Josiah Green is officially retired.”
My tail, which had been almost at ease for some minutes, froze solid, and then  began to wave again. I said, carefully, “I’m not sure how he’ll take that, sir.”
Admiral Sanchez smiled ruefully. “I am; I’m sure he’s going to absolutely hate it,” he said. “Which is why, on the doctors’ advice, I’m not going to tell him quite yet. But frankly, Commander, I don’t much care how he’s going to take it. I don’t believe I really have much choice. You and I both know what would happen, if I let him return to duty. I could order him to work only half shifts...”
I took it up, nodding. “And he would, for two or three days. After that he’d be back to working as hard and as long as before.”
“My thoughts exactly,” he confirmed. “And in six months he’ll have another heart attack, the next one possibly fatal.”
I shuddered, just slightly, thinking about that; and Admiral Sanchez’ eyes narrowed. “Something wrong, Commander?” 
“No, sir,” I said. “Not really. It’s just...well, it’s not pleasant for any Caitian to contemplate heart troubles. It’s still the scourge of my species, as you may know, Admiral.”
“Yes, I do,” he said gently. “And because of that, I’m sure you can see my point. Commodore Green is a brilliant scientist, with many years of valuable work still before him: writing, lecturing, teaching perhaps. I will not have that talent wasted. If he is determined to work himself to death, that’s his decision; but I’d rather he do it at his house in Pebble Beach, and not in my Research Center.”
“Understood, sir.”
“...And that, of course, brings us to the real reason why I wished to see you.”
“Yes, sir?”
He smiled again. “Can’t you guess, Commander?” he said. “With Commodore Green retiring, whether he likes it or not, your division of the Research Center needs a new C.O.”
Finally I did understand, and for several seconds I couldn’t reply. Every last word of Terran I possessed was gone, like a ghost at dawn. Finally I said, or rather yowled, “Me, sir?”
His smile widened. “You, Commander. Do you have a problem with that?”
My mind was whirling, my tail lashing, and my claws had even expressed a little. I took a deep breath, forcing myself, rather unsuccessfully, to be calm. “I’m...not sure that I’m ready for that, sir.”
“Nonsense,” the admiral said firmly. Then his tone softened a trifle. “I do understand your feelings, M’Ress. You’ve been the Commodore’s assistant for five years, and you’ve grown comfortable in that position. He’s grown comfortable with it as well. Maybe a little too comfortable, both of you. But it wasn’t meant to be that way. The arrangement wasn’t meant to last nearly as long as it has. You’re—what?—about forty-three now?”
“Yes, sir,” I confirmed. And some mornings, brother, I was aware of every last minute of it.
“Well, there you are. You’ve been in Green’s shadow—everyone’s shadow, really—far too long. And that, really, is a shame. If you hadn’t taken a turn into the sciences, Commander, by this time you might well have had a starship command.”
I turned away. This wasn’t the first time that particular point had been made to me. The reasons for my turn to science, and for my decision to take a ground assignment, particularly that specific ground assignment in that specific place, had been complex, and perhaps not entirely amenable to any explanation that a human would understand. The simplest thing to say is that I did not think, and had not ever thought, myself suited for starship command. And now, with a husband and two-year-old twins down the hill in Pacific Grove, any such prospect was definitely out. But this...
I took another deep breath. “I...suppose you’re right, sir,” I said finally. “Of  course I’ll be very honored to take the position.”
His answering smile and murmur of “Thank you, Commander,” were a little sardonic, and I understood why: was there really much chance that I wouldn’t take the position? He was my C.O., and you didn’t refuse his assignments any more than his requests. And anyway, I’d known this was coming.
“With all that settled,” Admiral Sanchez went on briskly, “I wonder if I might make a few observations.”
“Of course, sir,” I said hurriedly.
“Number one is this,” he said. He leaned back as if collecting his thoughts, then went on, “You know, Commander, that I’ve never found it necessary to micro-manage the Research Center.” He grinned. “I don’t understand most of what you people are doing anyway, so any interference from me would just mess things up.
”All the same, though, it’s undeniable that the work being done at your Center is vitally important to Starfleet and the Federation. Just because it’s being done here, in those old buildings in a city so far removed from Fleet HQ, doesn’t in any way diminish the importance. And I would say that of all the sciences practiced at the Center, yours may well be the most important, especially for the prospect of colonization. 
“I have discussed this matter with the powers that be in the Sciences Division at Fleet HQ. We’ve discussed your qualifications, your service record, your accomplishments over the last five years...and we are all in agreement: there is absolutely no need for me to change my habits, no need for me to be looking over your shoulder constantly. As of tomorrow, Commander, that department is yours, to do with as you like. Within Starfleet regulations, of course.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
“That having been said, however, I just want you to know: I do understand that this, an independent command of sorts, is very new for you, and if you find that you need any assistance or advice, I hope that you won’t hesitate to call on me. Believe me, I will not see it as a sign of weakness. Very much the opposite, I assure you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Third is a procedural matter. I realize that you will probably be wanting someone to take over the position you’ve been holding—that of executive assistant, someone to help clear the drudge work. What I’d like you to do is to look over your staff, review their service records, and find your best-qualified lieutenant. When you’ve made your choice, I have authorization from Command to promote that person immediately to Lieutenant Commander.”
“I understand, Admiral,” I said. Already in my mind I had a list forming—a very short one, with one particular name prominent on the top. “I’ll have my recommendation to you in a few days, sir,” I concluded.
“Take your time,” he said. “I want you to be very certain of your choice, even if we have to go outside the Center to find someone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just one last thing, Commander, and I’ll let you go,” Admiral Sanchez said. “As I told you, the Archaeology-Paleontology-Anthropology division of yours to do with as you like. But if I might make a suggestion...”
“Of course, sir.”
“There are many people in your division who have worked with Commodore Green for a number of years,” he said. “Some of them even longer than you have. You’ve become aware of how the Commodore runs the division, and I don’t doubt that over the last five years you’ve formed some opinions as to what works and what doesn’t. Possibly you’ll be contemplating changes. My suggestion is this: if you do have any plans, phase them in slowly, instead of springing them all at once. Just for the sake of everyone’s morale, of course.”
I found myself nodding. There was a great deal of sense in what he said; this was going to be a shock to everyone at the Center as it was, without my compounding it. Quite frankly, though, at that moment my mind was in such a state that I had no idea, as yet, what changes I would or wouldn’t make. “I quite agree with you, sir,” I said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Commander,” he said. “And now, unless you have any questions, you’re dismissed.”
“At the moment I can’t think of any, sir,” I said. I tried to essay a smile, and maybe succeeded; but my tail was still lashing out of control. “I’m sure some will occur to me later.”
“I’ll be here,” he said. “And if I’m not, I can always be found.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, and I rose.
“You’re welcome,” he said. I was almost to the door when his final words stopped me. “Oh—Commander?”
I turned. “Sir?”
“Congratulations, M’Ress.”
###
I literally fled from the admiral’s office, and then from the Administration building. Outside there was a bench, there alongside the path, and I sunk down onto it, oblivious now to the fog and chilly breeze. It was a bare half-hour since I’d left the infirmary, I realized dazedly. Then, I’d been in a pensive, slightly sour mood. Now my mind was whirling, spinning; the entire structure of my last five years had been turned on its head, with just a few words. I knew I should be thinking ahead, imagining the opportunities that had been laid out before me like a banquet; but try as I might, I couldn’t. All I had in the recesses of my mind was stark, sheer terror. I had no idea, absolutely no idea, how to be the C.O. of forty-seven people. Not this one poor Caitian.
I don’t know how long I sat there, my head bent in despair; it may have been as long as another half an hour. During that time a number of people passed me on their way to the Admin building; junior officers mainly. I was dimly aware of their curious gazes raking me; but they forbore to speak to me. Probably wise.
Finally, with a sigh, I stood. I still had that mountain of work waiting for me at the Center, and at least until tomorrow morning, I was still second in command, only acting C.O. I had best get back to the salt mines.
Except...for some reason, I couldn’t; I could not force my feet to move down the path toward the transporter building. Finally I sighed again. I knew full well what the problem was: with my mind in such a state of turmoil, there was absolutely no way I could have gotten any of that work done. The rest of that day I would have been no good at all, either to the Center or to myself. I probably would have spent the time snarling and expressing claws at the dozens of people who would inevitably come to see me, seeking instructions. No; all of a sudden I had a great deal of thinking to do, a great deal of planning; all of it ultimately even  more important than the work that was piled up. And that was best done in the one place where I could be reasonably certain that I wouldn’t be interrupted every five minutes.
There was a line of comm terminals inside the lobby of the Administration building, I recalled; and it was to one of them that I made my way, pulling the privacy door closed behind me. I punched the familiar codes, and a few seconds later the connection was made. As luck would have it, the very face I wanted to see gazed out of the screen at me. “Anthropology Division, Lieutenant Kinsey,” it said blandly.
Peter Kinsey was our (no, my, I corrected myself sharply) senior lieutenant; one of only five in the division who was a full, rather than a j.g. About twenty-seven or so, human (though born off-planet); he was an incredibly capable administrator, as I’d found to my gratification; and a brilliant archaeologist as well. He knew more about that subject, perhaps, than even I did. He was barred from deep-space missions by the strange, debilitating biorhythm upset that about one in a thousand humans experience away from terra firma; and, in my opinion at least, we were lucky to have him. He was living proof of what Admiral Kirk had once told me: that Starfleet does not throw away talented people. I had promised Admiral Sanchez that I would carefully review my staff before choosing my assistant; but in the privacy of my thoughts, I really didn’t think it would be necessary. That one name had already sprung to the top of my very short list.
“Lieutenant, this is Commander M’Ress,” I said. Unnecessarily, of course; he was already well familiar with my fuzzy face.
“Commander,” he said in barely-expressed surprise. “Are you still at the Presidio, ma’am?”
His use of that honorific, at a time when Starfleet was trying to institute “sir” for both male and female, was quaint and (to my ears, anyway) refreshing. “Yes, I am,” I confirmed. I took a deep breath. “I...won’t be returning to the Center today, 
Mr. Kinsey. I’m taking  the rest of the day off.” There, I’d said it; and the world hadn’t ended. Duty can become almost an addiction, I’d long since found; shirking it even for half of one day can lead to withdrawal symptoms.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said. “I have some...personal business to take care of.”
“Understood, ma’am.” He knew better than to pursue the matter any farther than that.
“You’ll have to handle things there today,” I told him. “Anything that’s not an emergency, shelve. Anything that is an emergency...well, I trust you to handle it yourself, Lieutenant.”
There was a definite gleam of gratitude in his large, impossibly blue eyes as he nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh—two more things, Mr. Kinsey,” I said. “Number one, I want you to pass the word to the staff. I’m calling a meeting at oh-eight-thirty tomorrow. I want everyone to be there. Understood, Lieutenant? Everyone.”
“Everyone,” he repeated. “Yes, ma’am.”
“...And number two, you’d best arrange for an auditorium large enough to hold us all.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He hesitated, and from the look on his face I could clearly read his mind. A total staff meeting was by no means a common occurrence; he was wondering what it meant. “Commander,” he said hesitantly, “may I ask—?”
“No,” I said, a little more sharply than I’d intended. I made myself soften my tone a little. “No, I’m sorry, Peter, but you can’t.” I smiled. “You’ll find out tomorrow morning with everyone else.”
“Understood, ma’am,” he said. “Kinsey out.”
For a few seconds I stared at the darkened screen; then I smiled fondly and shook my head. This would be a good test for him, leaving him in charge today. If he performed as well as I thought he would, then I would definitely have found my second in command.
In the meantime, though...once again I departed the Administration building, and planted my bare feet on the chilly concrete of the paths outside. This time, however, I did not turn toward the transporter building, but rather to the main gate and the shuttle stop there. Lover’s Point was just a little farther than I wanted to walk today.
###
As I let myself in the front door, and paused to wipe my feet on the soft, absorbent mat set into the floor just inside, Joel came out of his office (actually the downstairs library), a look of concern on his face. “M’Ress?” he said as he rounded the archway into the front hall. “Is that you, honey?”
“Yes, it’s me,” I confirmed, with a slightly tired smile. His look of concern deepened as he reached out and took my hands. 
“Is everything all right?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Then, without waiting for me to answer, he jumped to an obvious, if slightly morbid, conclusion. “Oh my God,” he said in horror. “Not Commodore Green—?”
I shook my head quickly. “No,” I said. “The commodore is fine. I’ve just left a meeting with Admiral Sanchez.”
“That must have been some meeting,” Joel said.
“That it was,” I agreed. I nodded over his shoulder, at our favorite old sofa, which had been moved nearly three years ago from our old apartment to a place of honor in the living room of our 20th-Century antique cubist-style house. “Let’s sit,” I suggested.
“All right,” he said, and we did. As we settled in I reached up to my shoulder to unfasten the corner of my wraparound tunic, where it mag-sealed just below my rank bars, letting it flop diagonally across my chest, held closed only by the wide black belt at my waist. Only in private would I dare to show that bold triangle of light-blue lining. Admiral Kirk, perhaps, could get away with it in front of his crew; but for everyone else, it was very bad form. I took a deep breath, aware of Joel’s concerned gaze on me. I said, “Admiral Sanchez just told me that he’s ordering Commodore Green to retire, for medical reasons. And that leaves me in command of the Archaeo-Anthro-Paleo division, effective tomorrow.”
He threw his arms around me, in a hug so tight that I actually felt my ribs creak in protest. “M’Ress, that’s wonderful!”
“Is it?” I asked dubiously, when my breath returned.
“Well, certainly it is,” he said. “My God, you’ve been waiting for this for five years, haven’t you?”
“I suppose I have,” I said. “But now that it’s come...I’m not sure if I’m really ready.”
“Of course you’re ready,” he said. His tone of voice was exactly the one Admiral Sanchez had used: one to brook no disagreement. “When you took that position five years ago, you knew that this was coming. You knew that Commodore Green was looking for a replacement, not just an assistant. The only amazing thing is that it took this long.”
“Admiral Sanchez thinks that I’ve become too comfortable as Commodore Green’s assistant,” I commented.
“Admiral Sanchez is exactly right,” Joel said. He reached down to squeeze my hands. “Believe me, darling, I know what you’re feeling. I was a lieutenant at the Centauri spacedocks for a long time. No responsibilities to anyone else, no staff, no nothing; just follow orders. When they made me a chief engineer aboard that ship I was scared to death. Even though I only had a dozen people under me, I was utterly convinced that I’d never learn to deal with them all. But of course I did, finally, for the same reason why you will: because I had to.”
His reference to that ship was a kind of code; he was referring, of course, to the late and unlamented USS Zelazny, broken up for scrap (so I heard) some eight years ago. By the ground rules of our marriage, neither of us referred to our experiences aboard that benighted hulk any more than absolutely  necessary. “I...wish I could be that certain,” I said. “This is a lot more than a dozen people.”
“True,” he admitted. “But that’s a matter of degree, not content.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Listen, my dear furry darling,” he said. “You’ve worked at that Center for five years. The people there all know you; and more to the point, you know them. You’ve been giving them orders in Commodore Green’s name all that time. Now you’ll be giving the orders in your own name. So what’s the difference?”
He was right, of course, as usual; and I was grateful as always for his words of encouragement. It was not the first time he’d had to do that; what he called “Jump-starting a Caitian.”
“Any chance of a promotion?” Joel asked.
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “Or, not yet at least. Most of the department heads at the Center are commanders and lieutenant commanders.” 
“Too bad,” he said.
That had, however, started a new train of thought. Because I’d never hold starship command, I would never be a captain; however, it was not unknown for an officer in the sciences, or the Engineering Corps, to skip directly from commander to commodore. My friend and mentor M’Rael, recently retired as an admiral, had done just that. Commodore M’Ress... Those cozy and doubtless ridiculous thoughts, however, were interrupted by a flicker of movement off to my left, which I caught out of the corner of my eye. I looked up sharply.
Mrs. Mason was peering in through the archway that lead to the hall. As she caught my eye on her, her wide, pleasant face turned bright red. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I was just coming from putting the twins down for their nap, and I heard the voices.”
“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Mason,” I said. I knew she wasn’t an eavesdropper. But as she made to withdraw, I called her back again. “Oh—Mrs. Mason?”
She peered enquiringly at me. “Yes, Mrs. Abrams?”
My eye was on our latest acquisition, the huge, beautiful, antique long-case clock that now graced (not to say overpowered) our living room. It had stood for many years in Joel’s parents’ house in Atherton; but they had recently moved to a much smaller place, and hadn’t had room for it any more. And now I was both amazed and a little dismayed by what it was telling me, which was that it was nearly thirteen hundred—excuse me, one p.m. I went on, “In all the melee today I haven’t had time for lunch. I wonder if you’d be so kind...”
She smiled broadly. “Of course, Mrs. Abrams,” she said, and she ducked out. Friendly, yes; helpful, definitely; indispensable, totally. Now, if only I could get her to call me “M’Ress” instead of “Mrs. Abrams”...
I leaned over then, hugged Joel, and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” I said. “I think I needed that pep talk.”
“No charge.”
“Have you had lunch?” I asked him.
“Yes I have, sorry to say,” he told me. “But I’m just about ready for another cup of coffee.”
I grimaced. Him and his coffee...I kissed him again. “Please excuse me, dear,” I said. “I’ve just got to get out of this uniform.”
It took me about five minutes. I spent three of those minutes changing from my uniform into a comfortable soft day-robe and collar, hanging up my uniform, and carefully locking away my hand phaser in the wall safe. I spent the other two creeping quietly into the nursery for a look at the twins. As Mrs. Mason had indicated, both Emmy and Tommy (M’Rael Sarah Abrams and Thomas S’Surraa Abrams, if you want to read their birth certificates) were fast asleep in their small “youth-sized” beds. I smiled as I gazed at their peaceful, furry faces, their heads pillowed on the tips of their tails as they lay tightly curled. Unfortunately it wouldn’t last; in an hour or two, tops, they would be wide awake, ready to play...and hungry. Goddess, would they be hungry! Joel sometimes said that they had metabolisms like a runaway warp drive. But at the moment, the sight of their recumbent forms caused a profound sense of peace and calm to descend over me like a warm blanket. It was always that way; in slumber there was something definitely angelic about them. Probably that was the real reason why I’d chosen to come home that day. Those two were better than a tranquilizer for me.
I made it downstairs to the dining room just in time, as Mrs. Mason set a plate, a small dish and a spoon, and a glass on the table. “Thank you,” I told her gratefully. Despite my agitation, or maybe because of it, I was on the verge of starving to death.
Over the last two years—almost three, now, I realized with a shock—Mrs. Mason had learned how to feed Caitians. The plate held a generous slab of Terran top sirloin, raw of course, but warmed to blood temperature (Sorry, but that’s the way I like it: evolution.) The dish contained a quantity of a bright-red Andorian sweet-and-sour sauce. Since being introduced to it at Krav’s Place, a seedy Andorian cafe on Deep Space Two (during my experiences with that ship) I had become rather fond of the stuff. I’d had to re-create it from memory, of course, but Mrs. Mason and I finally had the recipe just about right. And the glass contained milk, room temperature. Forget haute cuisine; to hell with five-course dinners. To a hungry Caitian, this was paradise.
As I applied myself to my lunch, Mrs. Mason bustled around the dining room, dusting and whatnot. I knew from experience that she liked to take full advantage of the twins’ naps to get much of her other work done; and I felt a little guilty, now, about having her waste that time making my lunch. I could have done that myself.
As I watched her work, I reflected once again how lucky we were to have her; or, more to the point, how lucky Joel was. He’d found out soon enough, in the days following my return to duty after my maternity leave. He’d learned that there was no way, absolutely no way, that he could run a private consulting firm and look after two rambunctious Caitian kits simultaneously. Not if he wanted to retain his sanity, anyway. Despite what it cost us, the presence of Mrs. Mason in our household had been a blessing from the Goddess.
With that though, another occurred, and I swallowed, clearing my throat for speech. “Mrs. Mason,” I said, “I owe you an apology.”
She rounded on me in surprise. “What for, Mrs. Abrams?”
“You’re part of this family,” I told her. “Or at least I’ve always liked to think so. You deserve to hear my news too.”
“If you’d like,” she said neutrally, but there was a gleam of gratitude in her eyes, just as there had been in Kinsey’s.
And so I told her, By the time I had finished, she’d tossed aside her duster and come around the table to hug me, a liberty that I stoically endured. Mrs. Mason was only about ten years older than me, but I’d always believed that she had a definite maternal feeling toward me, as well as toward the kits. “That’s wonderful!” she said, just as Joel had half an hour earlier. Unfortunately, the passage of that half hour had done little to convince me that either one of them was right.
“I hope it’s wonderful,” I told her. “Anyway, in the next few weeks when you see me expiring from stress, you’ll know why.”
“Pshaw!” she said, or some strange sound like that, and she went back to her dusting. Well, that at least made it unanimous: three out of three people believed that I’d be able to do the job. I was the only one with doubts. Not that there was anything new about that; Joel had been “jump-starting” me since our Academy days, and, the Goddess willing, would continue to do so for many decades to come. Before my career was over, maybe he’d manage to bully me all the way up to admiral. Yeah, sure.
What am I going to tell them? I wondered suddenly, about halfway through my steak. I had to swallow hurriedly as my heart began to hammer and my breathing quickened in terror. I’d told Kinsey to have everyone assembled at oh-eight-thirty tomorrow in whatever auditorium he could find available at the Center. I’d known, even as I spoke to him, that I’d have to tell the staff something; but what? What words could I possibly speak that would make them accept Commodore Green’s departure, and my succession, simultaneously? How could I prevent them from turning into a lynch mob?
While I was occupied by these cheerful thoughts, Joel came wandering in from the kitchen. In his hand was the huge mug that sometimes seemed to be an appendage; from it issued wisps of steam and the scent of strong black coffee. He sat down across from me. “I suppose this means,” he said slowly, “that I’ll have to break my good suit out of mothballs.”
I glanced up at him sharply. “Why?” I asked suspiciously.
He paused for a sip of bitter scalding fluid before he continued. “For your reception, of course,” he said, smiling. “Surely you don’t think Admiral Sanchez will let this event go by without one, do you?”
My spirits, already low, sank just a little more. “You’re right,” I groaned. “The Goddess help me, you’re right!”
Over the years I had suffered through dozens, if not hundreds, of those fetid little events. Receptions, admiral’s dinners, captain’s brunches, and so on. I suppose that somewhere in the universe there are people who actually enjoy that kind of thing; I am definitely not one of them. Dinner with friends I can enjoy; but spending three hours glad-handing various admirals, commodores, captains, diplomats, clerks, minor functionaries and other parasites...frankly I’d rather be dragged backwards through a hedge by my tail. I always left those horrible affairs right on the verge of clawing someone. And yes, some time in the next two weeks I’d have to put on the dress uniform and the medals, and endure another one. And this time I’d be the center of attention. Me, that is, and Commodore Green; the admiral would most likely combine the commodore’s going with my coming, so to speak. I could hardly wait.
“Life’s little ceremonies,” Joel said with a grin; but whatever reply I might have made (most likely one of the horribly sarcastic variety) was interrupted by a soft beeping, which issued from a small black box clipped to the waistband of Mrs. Mason’s skirt.
“The twins are awake,” she announced unnecessarily. It had been Joel’s idea, some months back, to install the proximity detector over their little beds, to alert us by means of the pocket pager when they woke up and began to move around. And with that, an idea occurred to me, one which (hopefully, anyway) might drive all thoughts of my problems out of my head. At least temporarily. And it would definitely serve to make up for the time that I’d cost Mrs. Mason.
I swallowed the rest of my meat and pushed the plate aside. Then I said formally, “Mrs. Mason, may I borrow my children from you?”
###
I spent most of the rest of the afternoon with the twins. To have their mother at home on a weekday was a novel experience for them, and they’d been absolutely overjoyed to see me standing over them when they rose from their nap. I played with them, right down there on the nursery floor; I read to them; and I spoke to them, pointing out objects in the room and pictures in the books, and naming them in Caitian. (A little to my sorrow, they were growing up with Terran as their first language; it appeared that they would end up speaking it with even less of an accent than I had. But I was fiercely determined that, while they were still young enough, they would acquire their ancestral language too. It was too early, though, to know how well I was succeeding.) I also attended to their claws, cleaning and trimming them; that was the one and only job I didn’t trust Mrs. Mason to do.
The very existence of the twins was still a constant source of amazement to me; what with my career and such, I had all but given up on the idea of ever reproducing. When Joel and I were married, some five years before, the idea of children had been the farthest thing from our minds. Not surprising, I suppose, considering that our wedding had taken  place exactly two months after our accidental meeting on Ocean View Boulevard just outside his apartment (that same place we’d borrowed during our Academy days; after returning to Terra he’d bought the lease.) Five years later those days were still a bit of a blur: our two-hour unconditional reconciliation, our one-month whirlwind live-in romance, and our one-month frantically busy engagement. Two years later when the idea of children did finally occur, we knew that it would be a problem. Humans and Caitians are absolutely not interfertile; Joel and I didn’t even have the same number of chromosomes. Some work beyond the ordinary was obviously going to be necessary.
It was scary (at least to me) to observe how much the two of them—especially Tommy— were starting to resemble their father. By that, of course, I mean their biological father; the Caitian male whose generosity had provided the seed to give them life. Their real father, the one whom they knew, and practically worshipped, as “Daddy” was the human male who, several times during that afternoon, took breaks from his work to peer in, smiling, at the three of us; the one whose surname they possessed. It was possible that the twins would never know their biological father. If they were ever introduced to him, it would be simply as Dr. S’Larrah, their mother’s old friend,  senior professor of archaeology at S’Salan University. We’d have to be careful, though. Humans think that all Caitians look alike (frankly we feel the same way about them); which meant that no one on Terra would ever notice the resemblance. But, if we ever went back to Cait...well, it would not be impossible for someone who knew S’Larrah and me to put two and two together. Admiral M’Rael already had; but her, I could trust to keep her mouth shut. Others I wasn’t as sure of; especially because Tommy, by the time he reached adulthood, would be a carbon copy of S’Larrah. Which didn’t make me sorry that I’d asked S’Larrah for his assistance, rather than using the sperm banks; not really, anyway.
Playtime with the kits (Joel sometimes called them, affectionately, “our little furballs”) did have its desired result: I felt almost all of my anxiety flow away, replaced by a vast beatific calm. It hadn’t always been that way, of course; pregnancy at my age had been eight months of pure misery. And since then we’d had plenty of sleepless nights, two a.m. feedings, teething pains, colic, so on and so forth. And the process that had brought them into being—the obdurate refusal of Caitian and Terran authorities to allow us to adopt; the medical procedures which I’d undergone, and which I’d rather not discuss (beyond the obvious word “invasive”); the legal maneuvering, agreements of secrecy, and S’Larrah’s release of any claim to paternity; moving from the old apartment to our present, larger home just after the birth...all of it had been, frankly, a colossal pain. But worth it. Goddess, had it been worth it!
Both of them had grown too big, and far too active, for me to have the simple pleasure of holding one in each arm, rocking them, and listening to them purr in contentment. In fact, it was all I could do to get them to sit still while I trimmed their claws. But that was all right. They did still purr as they played, in between bouts of helpless giggling; and in the year or so since they’d started talking, my heart still melted at the word “Mommy”, whether it was spoken in Terran or Caitian. No doubt on the road to adulthood they would provide Joel and I with plenty more grief; that always seems to be a child’s primary function in life. But I had a feeling that the grief would always be transitory; while the joy would be permanent. I might have wished that we’d started earlier; but Joel’s parents were still going strong, and so were mine; I had no doubt that Joel and I would live long enough to spoil our grandchildren. The only question there, of course, was this: what species would they be?
###
So engrossed was I, in the information flowing across my computer screen, that I entirely failed to notice Joel entering my study; at least until he laid his hands atop my shoulders. “Hey, lady,” he said softly into my right ear, “are you coming to bed tonight, or what?”
Startled, I looked up. He stood behind me in the semi-darkness, lit only by the computer screen; and I saw his bare, tanned legs and slippered feet below the hem of his black bathrobe. “What time is it?” I asked him.
“A little before midnight,” he said.
“Goddess!” I replied in amazement. It had been a little after dinner, a little past the twins’ reluctant bedtime, when I’d stepped into my office. Honestly, if anyone had asked, I’d have sworn it was only half an hour or less; but it had really been more like five. And with that realization came others, of physical discomfort: that the house was cold, the heat turned down for the night, and my feet were icy; that my back, neck and legs were one solid cramp; and that my eyes were finding it difficult to focus on anything farther away than ten centimeters. With a little snarl of pain I rolled my head in a full circle, feeling the kink in my spine.
Immediately Joel’s hands, still resting on my shoulders, slipped underneath my mane and shifted closer to my neck. His thumbs dug in, beginning a firm but gentle massage. I felt the purr of pleasure begin, somewhere deep inside me, and I didn’t try to resist it. While he worked, Joel glanced over my shoulder at the screen; but the Caitian hieroglyphic script it showed left him none the wiser. “What have you been doing in here so long, anyway?” he asked.
I sighed. “Writing my speech for tomorrow morning,” I said. “Or trying to. Trying to come up with something that will forestall the mass desertion.”
“Any luck?” he asked. His fingers were still at work, moving now from my neck down to my shoulder blades and upper back. I felt the kinks slowly begin to unknot under the rolling, sliding pressure. Joel probably didn’t know it, but that class in Shiatsu massage that he took on a whim, more than two decades before, was a major reason why I’d married him. “Not much,” I admitted. “I keep having this awful feeling that anything I try to write and memorize now is going to come across as terribly stilted and insincere when I deliver it tomorrow. I’m beginning to think that my best bet is just to extemporize.”
I heard the grin in his voice. “As we humans say, ‘wing it,’” he said. Then he went on, in a wheedling tone: “Listen, darling, can’t I convince you to come to bed? It’s a lot warmer there, among other things.”
In that he was doubtless correct. The hem of my day-robe was just below my knees, as I sat: and everything below that, most especially my toes, was freezing. “All right,” I said. “I’ll come. I’m so keyed up, though, I don’t know if I’ll manage to get any sleep.”
His arms slipped around me, pinning my own arms to my sides, his hands clasping together over my stomach. He nuzzled close to my cheek. “Oh, you’ll sleep,” he whispered into my ear. “By the time I’m through with you, you’ll sleep.”
I considered that for a moment; then, very deliberately, I worked one arm free and clicked off my computer.
###
I waited until the last of them had passed; until I no longer had to shake hands or murmur polite responses to insincere congratulations; I waited, as I say, until the corridor was clear; and then I closed my eyes and allowed myself to sag. My shoulder blades hit the wall behind me with a resounding thump. If I’d been human, I doubtless would have been drenched in sweat, big rings of it under the sleeves of my tunic; but evolution had provided me with no such silent and concealable relief for my overheated condition. I was panting as I slumped there, my tongue lolling and my mouth dust-dry. 
I’d done it. My heart pounding, my voice sounding in my own ears like a strangled caterwaul, I’d heaved myself up onto my hind legs behind the lectern of the small first-floor auditorium and told them. Forty-seven of them (Lieutenant Kinsey had done his job well, as I’d expected, and the entire staff had indeed been present); young and not so young; human and humanoid, Starfleet and civilian scientist, officer and enlisted. They had sat there like statues, listening to my words in silence, only their staring eyes betraying their emotions: first, amazement and sorrow that Commodore Green would not be returning; then shocked surprise when I named myself as his successor; and then hostile suspicion (or perhaps that was my imagination) when I ventured to outline my plans for the department. I’d told them that I had no immediate changes in mind (true) other than that of taking over the Commodore’s office; that their “dress-down” and early-quitting-time Fridays were safe (also true); but that in the weeks to come I would be reviewing all of their service (or employment) records with an eye to possible shifting of teams and assignments. (Also true, but the Goddess only knew when I’d actually begin that process.) I had reassured them, as well as I could, that life in archaeo-anthro-paleo would go on; that that with their continued hard work, we would prosper. And maybe I even believed myself. To be honest, though, that brief summary is all I can give you: I no longer have any memory of the exact words I spoke. I only know that it took me something like forty-five minutes to speak them. My strongest memory is the weird, panicky feeling that I kept having, that Commodore Green would suddenly burst in and denounce me for a fraud and a usurper. Maybe I wished he would.
And now the staff was gone, passing me almost in review as I stood just outside the auditorium; and filing up the stairs to our third-floor suite of offices. By now they would all be back at their desks, most likely writing their resignation notices or transfer requests. Would I even have a staff left, in two days’ time?
The voice at my elbow spoke quietly, but as I heard it I jumped as if shot. “Commander?” It said in tones of concern, “all you all right, ma’am?”
Immediately I opened my eyes, to find Lieutenant Peter Kinsey gazing down at me, his brown furrowed. I clearly recalled seeing him climb the stairs as well; he must have doubled back. I straightened up, tugging the hem of my tunic back into position, and I cleared my throat. “Yes, Lieutenant,” I told him firmly. “I am.” I hesitated. Then I went on, “I want to thank you for your assistance yesterday—especially for getting everyone here on time.”
He smiled, and if he’d had a tail, it would have been wagging. “You’re welcome, ma’am,” he said. “Always glad to help.”
Looking into his honest blue eyes and open, slightly foolish smile, I made my decision; and I let slip, just a tiny bit, the facade of invulnerability that I usually wore wrapped around me like a cloak. “How—uh—how do you think it went in there, Peter?” I asked hesitantly.
His smile widened. “Quite well, I’d say, ma’am,” he assured me. “I can’t deny it was a shock, hearing about Commodore Green. Especially for those who have worked with him the longest. But that will pass; and everyone knows that Admiral Sanchez has put the department in good hands. We all knew that this would happen eventually; the entire staff has absolute confidence in you, Commander.”
“What about you, Lieutenant?” I asked teasingly.
“Of course, ma’am,” he grinned.
I suppose he might just have been, what is the human term, “brown-nosing”; but as I peered closely at him, I couldn’t believe that he was. Anyway, anyone who’s been around me for any length of time, as he had, would know that sycophants are more likely to arouse my contempt than my favor. I found myself actually beginning to relax, just a little; if nothing else, Kinsey did indeed have his finger on the staff’s proverbial pulse. If they were planning to disaffect, he’d know. I smiled back at him. “Thank you, Peter.”
“You’re welcome,” he said again. Then, that suddenly, he straightened his back, put away his smile, and became the model of a serious and efficient young officer. “In regards to yesterday’s work, Commander,” he said. “I took the liberty of condensing all the unfinished business onto a data cartridge, which I left on your desk. I was able to deal with most of the routine matters; but there are a few things that require your signature.”
I nodded. “Very good, Lieutenant,” I said. “I’ll go have a look at that now.”
“Any orders, ma’am?”
I have frequently thanked the benevolent Goddess, from whom all blessings flow, for my ability to think on my feet. “Yes,” I said, and without much more hesitation than that, I reeled off a series of duties for him to perform. Nothing earth-shaking, I suppose; mostly just routine department matters, the kind of things that would have previously fallen to me. Carefully chosen, though; his performance of those jobs would once again serve to test my confidence in him. Already I thought I could see a new set of rank bars in his very near future; and that thought pleased me. 
When I’d finished he nodded once. “Understood, ma’am,” he said briskly, and he hurried off, climbing the stairs two at a time. I watched him go; then I smiled and shook my head. Ah, to be young and eager again!
###
Something wasn’t right.
The feeling came to me, almost as soon as I’d sat down behind my desk. Nothing definite or definable; just a vague annoyance like a fly buzzing around my head; the sense that something around me, or maybe inside me, was somehow out of balance. I leaned back in my chair and looked around, seeking the cause.
My office was by no means an uncomfortable or unpleasant place to work. It was of a decent, non-claustrophobic size (funny, really, how with each successive job my offices got bigger, starting the with coffin-sized space I’d endured on that ship.) The office had two big windows, which looked out into the canopy of a dense stand of Monterey pines, no more than ten meters away; and which I could open, as I often did, to catch the sea breeze. The office had been painfully bare when I first acquired it five years ago; just the desk, the chair and the computer terminal. My first order of business had been to decorate it, pushing back the cold impersonality that would quickly drive any Caitian insane. Paintings, hangings and rugs from my own extensive collection had done the job admirably. On one corner of my desk sat a cluster of holos; of Joel and the twins, of course; but others as well, of my parents, brothers and sister, whom I rarely got to see any more, unfortunately. And on the other corner, the most spectacular fossil I’d ever seen; a large shell like a Terran chambered nautilus, still attached to a triangular spire of shale that served as its base. It was a specimen from a planet I’d never visited; I’d appropriated the piece from that ship’s collection in honor of the man who had found it: Lieutenant Commander Enrique Morada. I bitterly regretted never having met him; he’d been murdered by that ship’s demented Captain Antilles some weeks before I came aboard. I’d kept that fossil with me, more specifically in whatever my workspace happened to be, ever since.
But it was none of that which caused my sense of unease that morning; not even the bright orange data cartridge lying neatly atop my desk blotter, reminding me sharply of the work I’d neglected yesterday. No; it was something more fundamental than that; it was the deep knowledge that this place, this office, wasn’t mine any more.
Slowly I rose, leaving the cartridge where it lay, and left the office. The door that I sought was the next one down the corridor, no more than six meters away. I stood before it for a long time, gazing at the plaques mounted there on the solid, ancient wood surface. One said “Department Head, Archaeology-Anthropology-Paleontology”; the other said “Commodore Josiah Green.” Despite the inevitability of this moment, I still felt like a trespasser. And that feeling was intensified by the fact that once again, as I had a week before, I was obliged to use a security override code to get in. I stopped just inside, letting the door close behind me; and I looked around the musty space as if seeing for the first time. Ridiculous, that; over the past five years I had entered here hundreds of times. But always before it had been the occupant, rather than the room, that had been the focus of my attention.
Commodore Green’s office was perhaps half again as large as mine, though it was so crowded and jumbled as to feel smaller. It was on the corner of the building, and so its two large windows (window seats, actually) looked both north and west. The one, the west, looked out over the same grove of Monterey pines that mine did. The other, the north, looked over the grounds of the Center, across Del Monte Boulevard, over the high dunes, and showed just a tiny sliver of dazzling blue Bay above them. 
The commodore’s desk was an antique, solid oak, and so was his chair, an elaborately scrolled and carved frame with a cracked and powdery green leather seat and backrest. Slowly, almost with a feeling of sacrilege, I circled around the desk and sat down in the creaky old chair. The horsehair seat was lumpy and hideously uncomfortable; maybe the commodore’s backside had grown used to it. As I looked around, I sighed, realizing the enormity of the job confronting me.
The commodore’s office was jam-packed, full of the flotsam and jetsam of fifty-plus years in archaeology. Every centimeter of available wall space was taken up by shelves, and those shelves were stuffed to overflowing with...well, stuff. Books for one, real old-fashioned paper books, from many worlds, leaning drunkenly against each other. If they were shelved in any kind of order, the filing system was too arcane for me. And fossils, many of which I had long since given up trying to identify. And artifacts, from almost any human, humanoid or other civilization you’d care to name. (Including a set of Caitian Third Matriarchy hunting bolos at least two thousand years old, twin to the famous set in the S’Salan University Museum. How he’d acquired them, he wouldn’t say.) Stacks of boxes on the floor, some sealed and some hanging half-open, contained more mysteries. It had been obvious to me from the first time I’d set foot in here, five years ago: even Commodore Green had no idea what all of it was.
In a way, I suppose, you could say that this office was a metaphor for the department. Somehow, all of this would have to be cleared out; the commodore’s personal possessions boxed up and returned to him, fifty years of dust swept up, and this space, this office, emptied for my use. In the same way the commodore’s influence on this department would also have to be removed. Carefully, of course, and gently, to avoid damage; and with respect, not just dumped down the recycling chute. And even then it would never be possible, nor even desirable, to expunge it all. Like the fossils and artifacts that lined his shelves, Commodore Green’s knowledge and ability had been important contributions to science, and would remain so.
Sitting there on that uncomfortable chair, my tail waving behind me,  I shook my head angrily. It was ridiculous, of course, to be thinking this way, as if Commodore Green was dead. He was alive and well, and with care might last decades more; no doubt as soon as he was out of the infirmary he would turn himself into this department’s personal poltergeist. Even if Admiral Sanchez was brave enough to ban him from the building, there was still the visiphone. We’d have the benefit of the commodore’s knowledge and wisdom for a good long time. It was entirely premature for me to be writing his eulogy.
And yet...in one important way perhaps that “eulogy” metaphor wasn’t entirely misplaced. The problem was, of course, that Commodore Green would have too easy access to the department. And despite his retirement, despite Admiral Sanchez’ best efforts, if he was allowed to do so, Commodore Green would once again take over the department. He would attempt to run it, to micro-manage it as he always had, from the study of his Pebble Beach home. And unfortunately, I had the feeling that the staff might let him get away with it, on the theory of “better the devil you know.” If I allowed it to happen, I could become the department head in name only; little better than a figurehead. It wouldn’t be deliberate, at least on the commodore’s part; he would not see it as an effort to sabotage me. It was simply the way his personality worked: he had an absolute, overwhelming  need to be involved, to be in charge.
And to me that meant just one thing: that it was an inexcusable luxury for me to be sitting here, sighing tragically over the enormity of the job before me. As far as Commodore Green’s influence over the department was concerned, my speech this morning had been, must be, his eulogy. This department was mine now, by order of Admiral Sanchez, and must remain so. Any doubts as to my abilities which remained in my mind must be expunged immediately; or they would destroy me. My influence, my regime, began right now. And this office, this space, with all it symbolized, would be the best place to start.
Firmly I planted my hands on the solid oak before me, and stood. There were always a number of enlisted and junior officers running around, just begging to be put to work; and here was their chance. With a big enough crew I could have this office cleared by quitting time. It was past time to finish this takeover.

The End