CHAPTER 3

The head of the Tholian captain came barely to the Klingon's chest. He had to step back and stretch his neck in order to look into the Klingon's eyes. But the size differential did not deter the ornery Tholian. The captain was aboard his own ship; the Klingon was outnumbered.

"That will be exactly 5,000 credits for the rum." If the Tholian had hands he would have held one palm out. Instead, he summoned to his side a Worker who did. Too bad too. He had often wondered what it was like to actually hold the money in his hands.

"5,000 credits!" Commander Kruex glared at him through slitted eyes. "That is too much, Tholian."

"Oh is it?" answered the captain, a touch of sarcasm in his harsh voice. "Was it also too much to rescue you from certain death?"

Kruex had had better luck bargaining with used craft dealers than he was with the manipulative Captain Frak. "You and your ship were on the other side of the galaxy. You had nothing to do with it. It was a lucky accident."

"Accident? Accident, Commander?" Captain Frak's eyes illumined suddenly bright. "Do you actually believe it was luck that transported you to the bridge of your very own vessel? That it was by chance you shared the platform with the Tholian merchant who rescued you?"

"What rescue? We were to be beamed into space, my ship happened to be in orbit at the same time, in the same coordinates as those set at the executioner's transporter panel. It was luck." Kruex squinted more than the lighting on the Penurious made necessary. His voice became venom. "How is it you come to know these things, Tholian?"

"Why by Arn's transmissions, of course," Frak volunteered. "The Tholian merchant told us everything he knew when you had him contact us to set up this transaction."

"Impossible! I told him exactly what to say and he said nothing more. There were no tricks, I saw to that. I had a phase . . . er--" Kruex stopped abruptly, a syrup smile erupted on his face. "I had faith in him."

"Ort," the captain addressed the Worker at his side, "explain it to the commander."

"Why of course, sir," replied Ort with a half bow and flurry of hand movements. Frak nodded, eyeing the Worker's limbs approvingly. "Commander," Ort turned his attention to the Klingon. "Ours is a hive culture where Worker, Drone and"--he gestured toward Frak--"Army species alike work together for the same cause. We work only for the colony. For us there is no other way. We possess, what you might call, a colony consciousness which allows us to transmit vast amounts of information with short bursts of electromagnetic energy. Arn, the Tholian aboard your ship, is a member of our merchant colony. As a Worker like myself, he often travels far to benefit the colony. Sometimes it is difficult to get back, but instinct drives us home, Commander.

"Workers are very resourceful creatures," added Frak. "It is a very strong and powerful instinct that drives them."

"He needed a ship. You had a ship. You were the logical choice, Commander," replied Ort. Once rescued, you would put as much distance between you and Klingon territory as possible. But you were torn, Commander. Klingon was your home. As a battlecruiser commander you had a good life. A life you did not volunteer to end. Arn could see it all in your eyes. Your determination to alter the fate you had been served. Your obsessive desire for restitution . . . reclamation in the eyes of the Klingon Emperor. A dilithium-rich planet snatched out from under the Federation

bargaining table would be a great prize to present the Emperor. It was this premise on which Arn rested everything. That is why he told you of our mission with the Enterprise. That is why you traveled to Tholian space. That is why you brought Arn home."

"And you expect me to believe that that bungling merchant used his instincts to save us." Kruex laughed. "He couldn't even accomplish the job that sent him to Klingon in the first place. He was sentenced to die just as I was. My being here now is the result of a lucky accident, nothing more."

The Klingon thought that it was Frak who was laughing now, but he couldn't be sure. "Was it also luck that caused the radio problems your ship had experienced? Is it not true that your crew knew nothing of your stripped command or execution?"

"Stop wasting your breath, Frak. If this is another way you people go about justifying your ridiculous bills, I'm not buying. Since I've been here, I've paid for shuttle docking, parking tickets, transaction permits and bloody translator fees."

"And a hall pass. Don't forget the hall pass," proclaimed the navigator.

"We also washed his command shuttle," Ort added while mimicking a circular washing motion with his right hand. "He failed to mention that, Captain."

Frak gazed at the arm momentarily then looked up. "Good work, gentlemen. Make sure both appear on the commander's bill."

"I've had enough of this, Tholian," bellowed Kruex. "You'll get 1,000 for the rum and that is it!"

"Very well, Commander, 1000 for the rum . . . and 4,000 for our rescuing efforts."

Kruex folded his arms, his mind already made up: He wasn't going to budge on this one. "There was no rescue."

"Then you still do not believe you can stand here today due only to the efforts of a Tholian?" continued Frak.

"I do not."

"And you are not convinced that Tholian merchant Arn purposely selected you for his means of escape . . . that he needed you just as much as you needed him . . . that he rigged both your ship's radio and the execution transporter?"

"No I am not."

"Commander Kruex, how then do you explain your position in the execution line directly behind Tholian merchant Arn?" Frak paused then quickly moved in to close the sale. "The line was formed . . . alphabetically!"

Kruex faltered. Klingon is a fiercely rigid and organized society. Order is their life-blood. Alphabetical order is as natural to a Klingon as a big head is to a Talosian. "All right, all right. I was rescued by the merchant. You've won, Tholian. 5,000 credits. Now hand over the rum and I'll be on my way."

"5,000 Federation credits," replied Frak.

"Federation credits?" Kruex's chest expanded to twice its normal size. "And pray tell what is wrong with Klingon currency?" His voice boomed throughout the bridge of the tiny vessel. The Tholian was unimpressed.

"Tell me, Commander, what could I buy with Klingon credits . . . army boots? A case of hardtack, perhaps? Or maybe a pair of those horribly tacky pantyhose your species use to lure misguided Orion Slave Girls into sleazy back rooms of disreputable space stations." The crew snickered behind their captain. Kruex gritted his teeth. "You see, Commander, your world is always at war. Now I have nothing against war, mind you--as long as there is a profit in it-- but in order to see your investment pay off, the war has to end. Yours does not. Your Empire is in eternal warfare." The Tholian cleared his throat, very businesslike. "No, it would not be a good investment at all. No, not at all. Besides, we are planning a visit to Ranger Rest Easy's Dude Moon this summer and they only accept Federation credits."

Kruex frowned, then sighed in disgust in the direction of the Tholian navigator who hollered Yee Haw. "All right, all right . . . Federation credits . . .but not until I personally oversee every last crate loaded onto my shuttle." He paused as if to correct himself. "And not before I taste the stuff, either."

"Which reminds me," continued the capitalistic Tholian. "That will be another 2,000 credits for the crates transported aboard the Enterprise."

The Klingon turned purple. "2,000! Out of the question."

"Do you realize how long it took us to fill those bottles? Besides, there could be repercussions with the Federation. After all, this is your charter."

"Yes, but I didn't tell you to pi--"

"Sir, the Enterprise," interrupted the navigator, "she's following us."

The captain flipped a switch at the navigator's console merely by gazing at it. Kruex stared at the switch, slightly impressed, then up at the screen, overly agitated.

The Worker slipped a crystalline hand, palm up, out from within folded arms. The captain's smile was a contented one.

"That will be 7,000 Federation credits, total."

Kruex turned away from the screen to face his tiny adversary. He didn't have to look back to know that the Enterprise was closing in. "All right. 7,000. Now get this ship out of here."

The captain smiled, though if it were not for the slight fluctuation in radiation emitted from the alien's luminescent eye sockets, no nontholian would ever have known. "I thought you were anxious to meet this ship again?" Frak deliberately goaded.

Kruex paused then bent down to cast a shadow over the merchant captain. His voice was more like a growl. "I told no one. How do you know this?"

The Tholian laughed, this time Kruex was sure of it. "If it is supposed to be a secret, it is a bad one."

"Explain yourself, Tholian," Kruex threatened.

"That is easy, Commander. In the last six hours you have used the name Enterprise with many of the most colorful adjectives I have ever heard. Although you may not mean for anyone to hear you, it really does come out quite clearly you know. And through such a fortress of clenched teeth."

Kruex began to steam. His climatic stabilizing field was already struggling with the crisp 320 degrees at which the Tholians kept their ship. His flaring temper was not helping.

"Get this ship out of here, now."

The Worker shot a finger in the Klingon's face.

"Yes, just like that," said the captain sincerely. "You must teach me how to do that."

A trickle of moisture rolled down the tightened jaw muscles of the Klingon commander. He wiped it off and examined his fingertips, tapping the stabilizing device attached to his belt nervously. He looked up.

"I will deal with the Enterprise when I am ready. And not on a garbage scow like the Penurious." Kruex shoved his face into the Tholian's. He accentuated each word.

"Now . . . get . . . this . . . ship . . . out of here!"

The captain pivoted and slowly paced about the bridge, seemingly unaffected by the Klingon's abrasive show of masculinity. The Worker kept pace beside him, arms clasped behind his back.

As he began his approach back toward the Klingon, Frak sent a brief ultrasonic message in the hot, oppressive Tholian air. His crew sent back what could best be described as a collective nod.

"I am afraid there is not much we can do, Commander. Our modest vessel could not possibly outrun a Federation starship."

"Captain, you don't mean . . . surrender?" The navigator hammed up the act by rocketing out of his chair. The rest of the crew did all they could to keep from laughing. Some rocked back and forth in their chairs. The ones that could bit on tiny Tholian knuckles. The captain turned toward the navigator and winked his satisfaction.

"No . . . not surrender." He gestured toward the Klingon. "Not with our distinguished guest here as a bargaining chip. After all, we are merely a vendor in this deal."

"Why you impudent little . . . ." Kruex snarled, placing a finger on a button in the middle of his belt. "I could beam aboard the Baby Crusher in an instant and blow you, your crew and this pitiful little heap right out of space."

The Tholian smiled another annoying smile. "I do not think so, Commander." The Klingon's massive eyebrow began to twitch. He was never very good at bluffing. But how could the Tholian know? The attack occurred after initial radio contact with the Penurious. No, it is impossible, Kruex assured himself. It was Frak who was bluffing now.

"Tholian ships may not be as swift as Klingon battlecruisers or Federation starships, and they may not be the most formidable crafts in space. But we do, if I may say, have the most extraordinary sensors and detection devices in the galaxy." Frak paused for effect, and to watch the knotted ball wobble in Kruex's throat as he became quickly less assured. "Yes, Commander, our scanners picked up your ship limping out of Romulan Space approximately three hours ago. I think that maybe the Baby Crusher was caught off guard by a cloaked Romulan cruiser, eh?" The Klingon was tightlipped. "I thought so." The Tholian captain stepped up to the Klingon and brazenly ripped the communication device from the commander's belt. "So you see, Klingon, the only thing you could blow out of space is your own nose."

Kruex had been caught off guard. He knew the Imperial Guard would notify the Romulans of his present "rebel" status. He knew it would be risky entering Romulan space. But certainly not as risky as crossing all of Federation Space to get here. And here is where he had to be. Here is where he would find the Enterprise. Here is where he would kill James T. Kirk.

So, the Baby Crusher is under way, thought Kruex. Again he wondered why the Romulan ship didn't finish them off, why it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, why it made no attempt to intercept the small command shuttle making an escape from the listing battlecruiser. He realized his musings were quickly losing him ground. He straightened his shoulders, managed an evil smile.

"If you think handing me over to the Enterprise will get her off your back, then you do not know the captain of that ship. His smile grew more wicked as he glanced at the screen then down at the Tholian. "Captain James T. Kirk is much too pompous to let you go away unpunished."

He's playing right into my hands, thought Frak, keeping his broadening grin under control. "Perhaps you are right. But that is a chance we are going to have to take." He paused as if another idea had suddenly occurred to him. "Unless--?"

"Unless you change course and head directly into the Romulan Neutral Zone," finished Kruex. "Kirk wouldn't dare follow." The Klingon licked his lips in a manner which strangely unsettled the Tholian. "Once inside Romulan Space we'll transfer the rum onto my shuttle and be done with it. You'll be half way home before the Romulans even knew you were there."

Captain Frak stared into his Worker's crystalline palm and the light it refracted from the viewing screen. He seemed indifferent. "Entering Romulan space is all well and good for a Klingon." He paused. "Or at least it is supposed to be." Kruex did not respond. "Anyway, I do not believe a Tholian cruiser would receive a very warm reception." He paused, relishing another chance to madden the unfortunate Klingon. "Have you forgotten the Baby Crusher so quickly?"

This time the Klingon's nostrils flared. While his plan entailed many things, it did not include the destruction of his own command ship. Romulan, Tholian and Federation alike would pay for his loss. He clenched his fists, trying to remain calm.

"Look, Frak, I thought you people followed a code of honor. I was referred to you by a merchant in your own colony. That makes me a protected guest, an ally to the Tholian race." Whatever happened to your renowned Tholian punctilio?"

"Punctuality," corrected Ort. "We are renowned for our punctuality, not for an observance of etiquette." He looked at his wrist chrono, tapped the crystal face and frowned. "Oh dear."

"A referral by another of our colony serves only to tell us that it is safe to do business with the sender," continued Frak. "While it is true we protect our clients while transactions are being made, it is also true that our transaction is near completion. The rum is being loaded onto your shuttle as we speak." He paused, momentarily interrupted by Ort's vigorous shaking of his wrist chrono. He began again. "If, however, you wish to begin a new transaction and are still interested in going to Romulan space"--Frak glanced at the approaching starship then back at Kruex--"I am willing to discuss our high-risk travel rates."

Kruex was fed up. "All right . . . it's dangerous . . . how much?"

The bridge stilled with silent anticipation. Kruex looked about, disheartened by the number of greed-filled faces, disgusted by the ones that actually dripped saliva from their mouths as they waited lustfully for their captain's exuberant bill. The whole place stank of free enterprise.

"Well, let's see," said the captain to himself. "Hostile territory . . . pursuit . . . one passenger . . . cargo . . . by weight . . . command class shuttle . . . plus rum." His head snapped up. "50,000 credits."

The Klingon blew up. "50,000!" We're am I going to get 50,000 credits?"

"Cannot your precious Klingon Empire afford it, Commander? After all, it is they who stand to gain the most in this venture."

Hearing this affront on the Empire, Kruex got back some of the fervor he had upon boarding the Tholian ship. He may be an outlaw, but he was once the captain of a Klingon battlecruiser. He was still very proud. "Klingons do not buy, Tholian . . . they take what they want."

The captain turned away and strolled toward the screen. The Enterprise was rapidly closing the empty space between the two vessels. He turned back sharply. "Then, Klingon, take yourself to the Romulan Neutral Zone."

Beads of sweat began mounting on the Klingon's forehead. His eyes jumped from the oncoming Enterprise to the exasperating Captain Frak. "All right, I'll get the money. I'll get it. Now change course for the Neutral Zone before it's too late."

The captain spoke without looking, his gaze once again fixed on the Enterprise. "How, Commander? How will you get the money?"

The Klingon licked his lips, this time out of nervousness. Time was running out. He had to think fast. He bit his thumb nail, his eyes flit back and forth. He was used to action, not thinking--at least not thinking that didn't involve some sort of battle strategy. He felt like ripping the heads off these walking stalagmites and flying the ship himself.

The Tholian finally turned around. "Even if you did come up with it, how do you plan to get back home? We both know what kind of reception the Romulans would give you, and the other way lies . . ." The Worker motioned toward the screen. "All you have left is a shuttlecraft."

Kruex smiled a sincerely happy smile for the first time since he opened his wallet. "Don't worry about me, my little friend. I've got a man working on that right now." Then, his dilemma was solved. His smile grew wider, more evil. "Captain, how would you like a cut dilithium crystal big enough to power a starship?"

Frak's eyes brightened. "This man you speak of, he can get such a crystal?"

"Before this day is out," Kruex assured.

He held a brief telepathic conference with his Worker, nodded, then looked up at Kruex. "Commander, exactly how big is big enough to power a starship?"

Kruex kneeled on one knee, closer to his now captive audience. He eyed both Worker and Captain with an intentional slowness. The thin air carried his gravelly whisper throughout the bridge. "About the size of your fist." He shook a triumphant fist in front of Frak. The captain frowned.

"The size of his fist." Kruex pointed to the clenched fist of the Worker. The captain beamed.

"Done, Commander. Done." He turned to the Tholian drawing dilithium crystals in a pool of spittle. "Helmsman, change course to 535,23,6. We are heading into the Neutral Zone."

He turned back to the Klingon. "You say this man is working on it, eh?"

Kruex smirked, stroking his goatee. "As we speak, Captain. As we speak."

Doctor Smith was doing exactly what he always did, touching things he was a moment ago told not to touch. When he pulled on the lever, everything went black in engineering. The technicians' panic could be heard in the myriad of voices that cascaded about the dark.

Scotty was seething, but diplomatic. He flipped the lever back into the proper position, talking through clenched teeth. "Now uh told ya, Doctor, ya cannaw be touchin' things in here. The Enterprise is a delicate lady; ya cannaw be pokin' around where ya don't know what." He breathed out a great sigh. "Do ya understand?"

"Perfectly, my dear man. Perfectly." Doctor Smith walked further into the heart of the ship's engine room, pushing young Will along in front of him. He gazed almost hungrily about the walls, asking question upon question of the Enterprise's most unhappy chief engineer.

Why not show these gentlemen around the engineering deck, the captain had said. Sure, while he escorted the women around the recreational facilities, thought Scotty. I wouldn't mind the showing, but they always want to touch things. Scott's lips stiffened; he shook his head. Like any lass, the Enterprise needs a lovin' touch.

"And what do we have here?" Smith reached for two small handles on a metallic covering protruding from the wall. He tried them once before noticing the numbered keypad centered on the face of the right-hand panel.

"Doctor Smith." Will tugged on the side of the doctor's velour shirt. "I don't think we should be touching anything in here. You heard engineer Scott." He looked over his shoulder. Scotty was busy muttering to himself and resetting a set of dials that Smith had managed to throw out of sync.

"Levers," said Doctor Smith. "I distinctly heard the man say levers. Don't touch anymore levers." He caressed the outline of the panels, running his fingers along its rectangular contour until they reached the numbered combination lock. He put his hands together, limbering his fingers like an amateur safe cracker. "What possible harm could there be behind two tiny little doors?"

"I don't know about this, Doctor Smith." Will turned around to see Scotty racing over to them, wide eyed. Smith's fingers had already done the rumba on a keypad dance floor and were firmly wrapped about each handle.

"Don't--"

High intensity light streamed out of the opened doors. "Whaaaaaaah!" Smith lurched backward, arms pinwheeling. Scotty shaded his eyes and managed to close the compartment without too much commotion from the rest of the engineering staff. He turned around slowly, hands resting on his hips. Smith looked as if he wanted to crawl under the carpet; there wasn't any, so he hid behind Will.

"Doctor, are ya tryin' tah kill us all? This isna the Jupiter 2. It's a United Federation starship. Ya donnah just fill her up with liquid deutronium and off she goes." Scotty punched in a new combination, hiding the pad with one hand while stabbing the keys with an extended index finger. He looked over his shoulder at Smith. "This is the dilithium crystal converter assembly. It's what channels the power from the mattah/antimattah integrator." He finished the job and faced Smith, managing a weak smile. "It's the very heart of our warp drive engines. Without it, it'd be very unlikely any of us would ever see Earth again. Do ya get mah meanin', Doctor?"

"Crystal converter, you say. Hhhmmm," said Smith, preoccupied. Scotty rolled his eyes.

"Aachh!"

"I'm sure Doctor Smith didn't mean any harm, sir," said Will. "Isn't that right, Doctor Smith."

Smith grinned like a shark. "That's right my boy, no harm, no harm at all." He sidled up to Mr. Scott. "You know how inquisitive young boys can be, always trying to find out what makes things tick."

The chief engineer opened his mouth but didn't say anything.

"Red alert. Red alert." Captain Kirk's voice interrupted via intercom then echoed its way throughout the massive starship. "Battle stations. Battle stations. This is not a drill. I repeat. This is not a drill."

Smith's scream this time was more like a whimper. "What's happening?"

"Don't worry. There's no cause fer alarm. Ya just stay right here and keep out of people's way. Everything's gonnah be fine. Just don't touch anything." Scotty had a sad expression on his face, his head cocked to one side. He walked briskly to the door, turned around one last time before exiting. "Don't touch anything." He clarified the statement like an umpire calling a man safe at home plate.

Jim Kirk sat at the command chair, chin resting on his thumbs, knuckles pressed against his lips. He stared in anticipation as the Tholian cruiser slowly began to fill more of the screen. He glanced at Sulu intermittently, waiting for an answer. Sulu looked up from his console.

"Sorry, Captain. Looks like we won't be able to catch them outside the Neutral Zone."

"Warp 8, Mr. Sulu," the captain ordered without looking away from the screen.

Spock was puzzled.

"Captain, you're not thinking of entering the Romulan Neutral Zone?"

Kirk turned his head, cocking it slightly at his first officer. "Worried, Mr. Spock?"

"Captain, I am not capable of worry. I am, however, concerned."

"And just what is it that concerns you, Spock?" Lines formed under the captain's eyes as his smile widened.

Spock gave a momentary glance at his computer then back at Kirk. "At our present speed of warp 8, we will pass into the Neutral Zone in approximately 2.35 minutes."

Jim eased back in his chair. "Don't be . . . concerned, Mr. Spock. I have no intention of starting a war with the Romulans over a Tholian con job." He tilted his head back toward the screen, pointing at it with short, stabbing motions. "But I do intend on stopping that ship. Helmsman," Kirk addressed Sulu. "Compute the time at which we will have to commence braking in order for us to stop right at the edge of the Neutral Zone. I want to shorten the distance between us and the Penurious as much as possible. Mr. Chekov." Kirk turned to the young ensign controlling the weapons panel. "Lock in photon torpedoes."

Spock turned, one eyebrow raised. "Captain?"

"We may not be able to follow them into the Neutral Zone, Mr. Spock, but there's nothing in the treaty that says we can't fire into it."

"Sixty seconds to braking," announced Sulu.

"Captain, let me remind you. We still do not have the Tholian rum. At present, we must assume that the alcohol is still aboard the Penurious. Destroy it, and you destroy our chances to conclude our pact with Belledom 10."

"Fifty seconds."

The captain pondered. "Tell me, Spock. Tholian rum is a credit a keg on Tholia. Why the old switcheroo?"

"Forty seconds."

"If by the old switcheroo, you are referring to the impromptu commutation of bottled uric matter for the expected alcohol shipment, we can only surmise the Tholian's motives. I suggest that perhaps there are parties unbeknownst to us with knowledge of the mines of Belledom as well as Lestun Har's affinity for spirits." Spock folded his arms. "We may have been out bidden."

"Twenty seconds."

Captain Kirk frowned. "Sulu, how much did the Federation pay for the Tholian consignment ... wasn't it 2,000 credits?"

"Ten."

"10,000 credits!"

"Nine."

Kirk swiveled his chair to face Spock.

"Eight."

"Spock. No independent could beat 10,000 credits. My guess is the Romulans are the ones that out bid us. And now the Tholians are making the delivery."

"Five."

"Captain, there is as yet no evidence to prove--"

"If we let them go, then the Romulans could finish the deal with the Belledomese and get the dilithium crystals for themselves." He waved his fist in front of him, accenting each word. "I . . . can't . . . take . . . that . . . chance."

"Two."

"One. Ready for braking, Captain," announced Sulu.

Kirk sliced the air with his arm. "Now, Sulu."

The Romulan cruiser slipped past without so much as a glance from the intruding Tholian ship. Its cloaking device on, the Bird of Prey seemed almost to touch the Tholian vessel as it passed by the fore screen.

Inside, the bridge was small, as were all Romulan ships. Centurion stood next to Rhombus, his commander, unwilling to let go of their argument.

"I do not understand you, Rhombus. First you leave the disabled Klingon battlecruiser without finishing it. Now you stand here and do nothing as a Tholian vessel enters our sector. If it were not a weak and powerless merchant ship, I would swear you were turning coward. Pray tell, what could you be thinking?"

The tall, lean commander stared down at the old Romulan. Only Centurion would I let get away with talk like this, Rhombus smiled to himself. The old fool. So many campaigns have we fought together, and still he cannot figure my motives.

"Tell me, Centurion. What would you do if you were in command of that Klingon battlecruiser. You are classified a rebel ship. You are attacked by supposed allies. And your ship is now stripped of its warp drive? Where would you go?"

Centurion grimaced, thinking long and hard. "I would assume that word was sent from Klingon that I was a traitor to the Empire and to the Alliance and would seek asylum elsewhere."

Rhombus folded his arms behind him. He put on his peculiar crooked smile, his pointed eyebrows raised by a gathering of lines directly above. "And just where exactly would you go?"

"That's an easy one, Rhombus," cackled Centurion. "The Organian Treaty Zone: the only safe place for a rebel Klingon ship."

"Exactly," said Rhombus. "But you would have to traverse Federation space to get there. You wouldn't dare enter Romulan Territory again."

Centurion paced before the Commander, fiddling with his robes. "These are all quite logical deductions, Rhombus. But where is the logic in letting the Klingons go?" He gestured toward the screen. "Where is the logic in allowing

Tholians to enter Praetor's own space?"

Rhombus reached over the helmsman's shoulder and flicked a small switch. The image of the Tholian ship and all the surrounding stars went blank. "Helmsman, 180 degree turn." He looked back at Centurion.

"Praetor did not order the destruction of the rebel ship. The Klingon Emperor did. I do not take my orders from Klingon.

"Maneuver completed," the helmsman interrupted.

Centurion grew impatient. "But we did not even force them to surrender their vessel. Here was an opportunity to obtain Klingon secrets without treaties, without sacrificing our own technologies. Here was a great opportunity for honor."

Rhombus' eyes narrowed, the pupils darted silently side to side. He licked his lips, then grinned. "Tell me, Centurion. Does the hawk feast on the dead rat as a field mouse scampers past its aerie?"

Centurion straightened, more formal to address the commander's allegoric questioning. He always hated this. He shook his head. "Why no, Commander. The hawk does not feast on death when it could drink the blood of the living." That one was smooth enough, but it was a standard. His question would be far more difficult to phrase. Already he could feel himself falter as he sifted his mind for the

correct parabolic transposition. His lips were dry.

"But, Commander, there is no mouse. The proud bird of prey has left a kill but to stalk a flea that kicks dirt in its face." He did not like the way that one went at all, but was sure he got his point across. The commander nodded slowly, whether out of understanding or admiration for his analogous poetry, Centurion could not tell. He paused, gathering his thoughts. Finally Rhombus rebutted.

"The rat, once killed, does not move and can be eaten another day. The flea may annoy, but the hawk will not scratch lest it be spotted by the rabbit which can scamper to its hole." Satisfied as always with his bestial prose, Rhombus again flicked the switch at the helmsman's console. The Enterprise appeared on the screen. "You see, Centurion, I have no desire to feast on Klingon rat."

Centurion smiled. It seemed his commander had bigger fish to fry. More important, his next line came easily. "But, Commander," he smiled as if expecting a literary award. "The rabbit is still in his den."

Rhombus clucked, cocked his head toward Centurion then returned his gaze to the viewing screen. He had had enough of this poetic banter. "The Enterprise will not cross over into the Neutral Zone . . . intact, that is. It will, however, be a simple task of towing the remains of its burnt

and ruined hull into Romulan Space." He turned his head slowly to Centurion who eyed him back with a wicked smile. Rhombus' crooked grin stretched to his right ear. A row of white teeth glistened from the darkness within. Turning his attention back to the Enterprise, his smile erased with neurotic speed, leaving only the hint of a snarl in its wake. He ordered to his First without averting his pernicious stare.

"Lock in weapons on engineering. Prepare to disengage cloaking device."

His arms hung stiff at his sides, knuckles whitening around clenched fists. "I want nothing left of Enterprise."

The lights on the bridge blinked on and off as the Enterprise lurched with the stress of braking. The ship pitched port, to starboard, to port. The crew reeled coordinately in their seats. Those unfortunates left standing unaware found themselves bouncing off corridor walls like carbon-based pinballs, many of which transformed into listless, organic rag dolls after the first few bounces.

On the bridge, Spock strained, clinging to his viewer. Sulu and Chekov flung to the floor. Captain Kirk alternately braced himself on the left, then right arm of the command chair. Then the ship ceased its violent rolling.

The lights blinked once, then stayed. The image of the Tholian ship wavered then held firm. It appeared smaller and smaller as the craft raced away from the dormant Federation starship. Kirk jumped from his chair.

"Fire."

Nothing happened. Jim looked at the empty console before him. Both Chekov and Sulu were on the floor, holding their arm and head respectively. He flashed a quick look toward the screen. Soon it would be too late. Jim dove to the weapons panel, his torso stretching over Chekov's vacant chair. With one arm coiled around the front of the panel, the captain flicked the proper sequence of switches with the other. He straightened, relieved at the sight of four searing fireballs, two from port, two from starboard, jetting their way to an intersecting rendezvous which would be the evasive Tholian vessel.

The two officers swaggered up from the floor. All eyes were riveted on the screen, awaiting the inevitable impact of the photon torpedoes. Halfway to their destination, the armaments exploded. A blanket of white light streamed in from the screen, blinding those on the bridge caught off guard. Kirk lowered his arm from his eyes as the brilliance slowly subsided. Still squinting through the repercussive detonations that followed, the captain strained to get a glimpse at the thing the torpedoes had struck. It was a small ship, off kilter and in flames. Then, the vessel foundered, belly side up, exposing a peaked and frazzled mural of a Bird of Prey.

Kirk's mouth opened, silent for a moment before managing a dry whisper: "Romulans." He swallowed hard then quickly regained his composure as he backed his way into the command chair. He groped blindly for the familiar arms before easing himself in.

"Sulu, reverse power. Give me maximum warp as soon as she can take it." He turned to Spock only to receive his Vulcan "I told you so" look. The captain shrugged with facial expressions only then turned his head back toward the fiery wreck.

He drummed the command chair with his fingers, sending a reassuring smile to the rest of the crew. As he did, his other hand flashed forward, flicking a small switch on the arm of the chair. Both hands then slipped into a folded position across his chest. He crossed his legs, shifted his weight, eyed the bridge, nonchalant.

The serial numbers on the ship's hull winked out as did the rest of the exterior lights that illuminated the Enterprise. Then the retreating starship wrapped itself in space like a beetle slipping into black ink and was gone.