THE SEASHUTTLE COUSTEAU emerged from the starship’s hangar bay and streaked across black, starlit space toward Akkalla. Inside its fiery cocoon, the shuttle pierced the planet’s wreath of atmosphere, then traversed a dawn sky that was sullen and overcast.
McCoy pressed his nose to one of the aft-cabin viewports. “What the devil are those things?”
Llissa joined him at the port. They were alone in the compartment, with Chekov and Spock in the cockpit and Zzev in the water-filled air-lock belowdeck. Even at an altitude of two miles, they could make out the jagged backs of thousands of triteera, gleaming as they plunged through the waves in an endless procession. These were the stragglers, still on their migratory journey north.
“Triteera—the biggest, most magnificent creatures on Akkalla—and sure to be endangered as a species if the harvest raids keep going. Might not happen tomorrow, but it will eventually.”
McCoy turned pensive. “I’ve read that’s what happened to whales on earth—hunted near to extinction before whaling finally stopped. Some species came back, but it was too late for a lot of ’em.”
“Probably no species is indispensable, but nature put them here for some good reason, I think,” Llissa mused. “You’ll never know when one that’s gone turns out to be the one you need someday.”
With surgical precision, Chekov piloted the shuttle down, decelerating and skimming the waves, incidentally giving a closer view of the triteera continuing with their voyage and their dining.
“They don’t even notice us,” McCoy marveled. “Then again, if I was their size, I guess I wouldn’t care much about a little ship like this either. Are they intelligent?”
“We don’t know—haven’t been able to study them close-up. Now that we’ve opened up this part of the world, maybe we’ll be able to. Especially if my father can make contact with Wwafida and cooperate with them.”
Up front, Spock and Chekov consulted the navigational chart displayed on a computer screen. They were about forty kilometers off the southeast tip of Suberein, perhaps a kilometer or less from the fringe of the triteera herd. “Set us down here, Mr. Chekov.”
With a sure touch on the thrusters, the Russian stopped their forward motion and lowered the craft gently down onto the rolling surface of the sea.
The Akkallan cutters fanned out in a wedge, with Vvox on the bridge of the lead vessel. She and three of her officers crowded around the scanning console, staring at the small visual display screen with its vector lines and locational grid. A barrel-chested trooper named Ttoom sat with his hands on the scanner controls.
“It’s off the grid, brigadier,” Ttoom said with assurance. “And that means it either crashed or it landed on the ocean exactly where it gave us our last reading.”
“Then it couldn’t be a Chorymi convoy,” Vvox said. “And if it’s not a harvest raid, then it has to be from the starship. Whatever they’re doing, I want to catch them at it. Pilot,” she called across the bridge cabin, “change course to intercept!”
Kirk rested his elbows on the railing circling the elevated outer bridge level, standing below the science station where Ensign Greenberger sat peering into the sensor viewer. Her deft fingers bounced lightly across the science computer console, and the sensor image flashed on the screen above her. “Positive I.D., Admiral. Thirty Akkallan ships, military cutters by configuration and size, heading dead-on for where the Cousteau just landed.”
“Damn.” Kirk balled his fingers into fists. “What about spacescans—any activity between Akkalla and Chorym?”
Greenberger whisked a blond forelock off her cheek and punched up an outbound view of the solar system. “Nothing, sir.”
Kirk started to turn toward Uhura at communications when the young science officer abruptly spun in her seat.
“Hold on—they’re out there! Just came within range.” She stared into the viewer again, reciting the readout as it came up. “I’m picking up three of those monster harvest ships and ten escort fighters.”
Kirk’s jaw tightened. “Shields up, Sulu—full power. Greenberger—distance from Akkallan surface boats to the shuttle.”
“Ten kilometers.”
“Okay, they’re not in immediate danger. Uhura, open a channel to the Chorymi harvest convoy.”
Spock and Llissa knelt on the rim of the air-lock platform. Zzev Kkayn—or the being he’d become in the past four days—bobbed in the water, waiting for them to open the hatch and set him free to roam the domain that would be his home for the rest of his life. Spock’s hand was poised at the hatch control.
“Are you ready, Dr. Kkayn?” Spock said aloud, since Zzev could still hear even though he could no longer speak.
Ready, Spock, Zzev thought back. Let’s get this over with.
“Wait,” Llissa blurted. “I want to—to say something to him.”
“We have little time to spare,” Spock said.
“I know. Zzev—Father—I don’t even know what to call you. We might not ever see each other again. I never thought about what to say to you until this instant, and now there’s more than I have time to say.”
Spock, Zzev thought, tell her she doesn’t have to say anything.
“I can hear him,” Llissa said, startled. “I mean, I can sense him. At least some of what he’s thinking at us. How come I couldn’t back on the Enterprise?”
“Perhaps because he has become more adept at transmitting. Fascinating. This means that it is possible for land-dwelling Akkallans to communicate with Wwafida. Now, please hurry. We must release him.”
Llissa, Zzev thought, glad we worked together … wasn’t perfect … some of … old arguments … better than we might’ve … when I come back … Now, open the damn hatch!
“That last part I got loud and clear. Open the hatch, Spock.” She reached down, and Zzev lifted a webbed fin-hand out of the water to brush her fingers.
With a muffled rumble, the hatch slid aside. Zzev flipped, feet up, and dove through the opening out into the ocean.
Spock and Llissa clambered up the ladder to the aft compartment, hurrying to the science console. Chekov and McCoy were already there.
“The transponder is functioning perfectly,” said Chekov with a firm nod.
They all watched the telemetry being beamed back to the shuttle, displaying his depth, direction, and distance from the ship. “Good, good,” Spock murmured. “He is proceeding with caution and appears to be attempting to get accustomed to his new surroundings before diving to greater depths.”
“This is Admiral James T. Kirk of the Federation starship Enterprise—I repeat—do not approach Akkalla. If that’s your intention, we will be forced to intervene. Please acknowledge.”
Uhura shook her head. “No response, sir.”
“Greenberger—?”
“They’re still coming, Admiral. No deviation in course or speed. If they heard us—”
“They heard us.”
“Then they don’t give a damn—sir.”
“Enterprise to Cousteau—come in, Spock.”
“Spock here.”
“We’ve got problems on two fronts. There’s a Chorymi harvest convoy on its way—and a fleet of thirty Akkallan military boats. I suspect the Akkallan force was on its way to defend against an anticipated raid, but they spotted you, and they’re headed in your direction.”
“Indeed. Those are distressing developments.”
“Yeah, and we’re going to have our hands full up here. We may not be able to cover you from two directions. Better not release Zzev. Just get out of there and return to the Enterprise.”
“We have already released Zzev.”
“Then get him back aboard, on the double.”
“I shall attempt to recall him.”
“Make it fast, Spock. Let us know as soon as he’s aboard. We’ll do what we can to give you some breathing room. Kirk out.”
Spock shut off the comm system, then turned to face the direction in which Zzev was swimming. He closed his eyes and concentrated all his considerable mental powers on reaching out through the watery distance between them. In silent anxiety, Chekov, McCoy, and Llissa watched him.
Zzev, Spock thought, trying to infuse his signal with as much urgency as possible, you must return to the shuttle. We must leave Akkalla at once. We are endangered by both a Chorymi harvest convoy and a group of Akkallan military boats.
Spock waited. Nothing.
Zzev, are you sensing my thoughts?
Still nothing.
Then—
Spock’s eyes opened wide as he absorbed a burst of euphoric mental energy.
Amazing! Amazing! Swimming free isn’t like anything I’ve ever experienced! It’s like a religious revelation—seeing the true face of Mother Sea for the very first time in my life. The colors—the feeling of being part of a whole.
Zzev, Spock tried to interrupt, you must come back—
But either Zzev didn’t hear, or he simply wasn’t listening as he swam and pirouetted in a joyous ballet. The freedom, he exulted. There’s nothing like it on the land. Maybe flying is like this—no limits, no bonds or chains—I’m going to try diving deeper now. There are some triteera not too far away. I wonder what they’ll think of me? But no Wwafida so far.
No, Zzev, Spock called out with his mind. You must not—
The sleek Akkallan military cutters skipped over the whitecaps, riding high on their hydrofoil outriggers. In the lead craft, Trooper Ttoom pressed his earphone tightly to his head.
“Brigadier Vvox, Defense Control reports a Chorymi raiding convoy approaching the planet. It’s a big one.”
Vvox crossed the bridge cabin and leaned dose. “How big?”
“Three mother ships, ten fighters.”
The brigadier gave him a flinty glare. “Are they in the atmosphere yet?”
Ttoom shook his head.
“Then we take care of these starship interlopers first. We’re going to even a few scores today, Ttoom. You keep in touch with Central. Keep updating the position of the Chorymi.”
Ensign Greenberger pivoted in her seat. “The Akkallan boats’re still closing, Admiral.”
Kirk leaned forward in the command chair. “Mr. Sulu, are you ready for some precision phaser surgery?”
The helmsman looked back over his shoulder with clear-eyed confidence. “Aye, sir.”
“Set power at minimum—fire a couple of bursts just off the bows of the lead boats in their wedge.”
“Herd them away from the shuttle, sir?”
“Exactly. I’m hoping this’ll be enough to buy Spock some time. I don’t want to have to use stun force. If we knock out those cutter crews, the vessels’ll be out of control. I want to avoid loss of Akkallan lives if at all possible.”
“Understood.” Sulu keyed his weaponry controls to implement Kirk’s orders, priming phaser banks at minimum power, and engaged the tracking system on target. “Phasers locked and ready, sir.”
“Tactical display on main viewer,” said Kirk.
Sulu obliged, and the image of the planet was replaced with a green sensor grid of lines and concentric circles. At the center of the grid, a winking red spot marked the sea shuttle, sitting motionless in the ocean. From the lower right comer, thirty yellow blips made up the advancing wedge of Akkallan cutters, cruising inexorably toward the Cousteau.
“Fire at will, Mr. Sulu.”
“Aye, sir.” Sulu peered at his targeting scope. The crosshairs leveled, centered—and he hit the trigger.
Three needle-sharp beams of energy spiked through the Akkallan atmosphere and struck the surface of the ocean in a triangle exactly ten meters from the bow of Brigadier Vvox’s cutter. Even at their lowest setting, the fire-orange bolts boiled the water into a blinding screen of steaming vapor. It happened so quickly that the only reactions possible on the sea vessels were those springing out of pure reflex, including an instantaneous yank on the steering wheel by the pilot, sending people sprawling all over the boat. The cutter swerved into the path of the next boat over, forcing it in turn to cut suddenly. Within seconds, the entire right half of the formation had sundered into fifteen pieces, like a badly cut gem shattering into shards. The other half of the delta fell into chaos too, as those pilots tried to figure out what was going on.
At the bottom of a pile of fallen bodies, Vvox spluttered as she shoved Ttoom and three other troopers off her and scrambled to her feet. The pilot had also been forced to slam the throttle back to lower speed, causing the hydrofoils to retract. They were now subject to both the tossing of the waves and the spasmodic pitching of crossed wakes.
Ttoom hauled himself up. “What was that?”
“The starship,” Vvox growled. “Signal every cutter—get back into formation—now!”
“Right away,” said Ttoom as he stumbled across the heaving deck to the radio console.
The yellow blips jostled erratically on the Enterprise viewscreen, their forward progress halted for the moment.
“Nice shooting, Mr. Sulu.”
“My pleasure, Admiral. We don’t want to let them regroup.”
Kirk stretched an approving hand. “At your discretion, commander.”
Sulu grinned and turned back to the targeting display on his panel. “Now that we’ve got ’em stopped, let’s get ’em corralled.” His fingers flashed across the buttons on his console—
—and six pillars of fire sizzled into the sea around the scattering surface vessels, driving them farther off course and farther toward complete confusion.
Llissa sat across from Spock in the shuttle’s rear cabin, her hands clasped at her chin, searching the Vulcan’s face for some sign that he was getting through to her father, getting him to come back before they had to leave without him.
“Chekov,” said Spock, “prepare for liftoff.”
“Spock,” McCoy began, then muzzled his dissent. There was no choice.
Spock closed his eyes again, head bowed, centering his concentration once more on communicating with Zzev. Llissa could no longer sit, and she jumped up, opening all the viewports and pacing from one to the other, hoping for a glimpse of her father swimming toward the shuttle.
Suddenly, Spock’s head snapped up, eyes clamped shut. Zzev! Where have you been?
I can’t come back, Spock, Zzev thought back to him. I know they’re here, very, very near—I feel it. I have to warn them. Don’t worry about me. If you have to leave, go. Protect yourselves. I’ll dive deeper than the raiders can reach. I’ll be safe.
Zzev, Zzev—you are not yet acclimated for great depths. Surface for a breath first.
I’ll be fine. It feels like I’ve been doing this all my life. In case Llissa can’t receive my thoughts, tell her—tell her I’ll be safe. I’m going down now—much darker just a few meters farther down. Colder, too. Tell McCoy I seem to have enough glycoproteins.
Zzev, if you must dive, do it slowly.
Can’t see the light above anymore. Like night here—hard to tell directions—
With Sulu keeping an eye on the Akkallan cutters, firing another phaser salvo when needed to hold them at bay, the main viewscreen again showed outer space, and by now the Chorymi convoy was close enough to appear as a collection of specks in the center of the starfield.
“Anything, Uhura?” said Kirk.
“Negative, sir.”
“All right.” Kirk’s jaw took on a belligerent set. “New message.”
Kirk thumbed the comm button on his armrest. “This is Admiral Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise. If you cross the plane of this vessel’s orbit, we will have no choice but to fire on you. This is your only warning.”
Getting short of breath—got to get to surface—need air … Not sure which direction—
Then there was a long silence. Spock waited.
Zzev, respond—
More silence. Llissa didn’t know exactly what was happening, but she knew she didn’t like the creases deepening around Spock’s eyes.
Spock—can’t find it—can’t get to—can’t—
The Vulcan wrenched his eyelids open and tried to stand but slumped back into the seat, completely drained. Llissa dropped to her knees in front of him and shook him by the shoulders. “Spock, where is he?”
His parched lips opened, but no sound came out. He gazed at her with hollow eyes. “I—lost contact,” he finally whispered.
Chekov looked back from the cockpit. “The transponder is still working.”
“But that doesn’t mean he’s still alive,” Llissa said, her voice numb.
“Do something,” McCoy urged. “I don’t care if it’s logical—just make it fast!”
“I shall continue trying to contact him,” Spock said, regaining his orientation. “He is a sea creature now. He may have capabilities of which we are not aware.”
“Is that the best you can do?”
The science officer raised a rueful eyebrow. “Yes.”
Under maximum tension, the Enterprise bridge crew tended strictly to business, with no extraneous conversation, just an undercurrent of job-related murmurings from the outer ring of work stations. At times like this, when Kirk had little to do but wait for something to happen, the comparative quiet could be unnerving, and he was glad to hear Greenberger’s voice out loud.
“Admiral, some of the Chorymi ships’re changing course.”
He pivoted toward the science station. “Which ones?”
“Four of the fighters, sir.”
“Heading?”
“Right at us.”
Kirk leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Evidently, a word to the wise wasn’t sufficient. Sulu, status of the Akkallan surface fleet?”
He smiled. “They’ll never win any awards for choreography, sir.”
“Good. Keep two phaser banks aimed at the planet. Lock the others onto the Chorymi fighters.”
“Power level, sir?”
“Make it one-quarter power, Sulu. That should be enough to shake ’em up.”
On the viewscreen, the diamond-shaped fighters were clearly discernible now, growing larger as they bore down on the Enterprise. Without warning, all four fired their weapons, licks of blue flame spitting from their cannons, energy pellets streaking across black space. The pellets exploded harmlessly against the starship’s deflector field, with only a slight shudder reaching the bridge deck. The tiny fighters split into pairs, two peeling off to the right, two to the left, wheeling around for another pass.
“Shields solid, Admiral,” Sulu reported. “Phasers tracking.”
“Hold your fire, Mr. Sulu. Is the mother ship within range?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lock onto it. When I give the word, fire across its bow.”
“Aye, sir.” Sulu adjusted his target controls, then flexed his fingers above the trigger buttons, waiting.
Out in space, the quartet of Chorymi fighters regrouped and charged toward the Enterprise again.
Kirk leaned forward, one elbow resting on his knee, chin propped on that hand. “Stand by, Sulu.” He paused. “Fire!”
Without even a split second’s delay, the helmsman pressed the trigger button, and an angry orange bolt lanced out from the starship and sizzled across the harvest ship’s blunt nose.
“Mr. Sulu, fire again.”
The second phaser beam slashed past, missing by a hair’s breadth.
Without a return shot, the four fighters veered sharply and retreated to the relative security of their convoy.
“Admiral,” Greenberger said, “they’ve stopped their engines, holding their position.”
“Message from the Chorymi fleet commander,” Uhura said. She patched the signal to the bridge speaker, and the voice that came out was a flustered mixture of fury and fear. “—won’t stand for this unwarranted hostility. We demand an apology and your assurance of safe passage to our destination. Reply now!”
Kirk’s index finger jabbed the comm button on his chair. “This is Admiral Kirk of the Enterprise. You fired first, commander. You are violating Akkallan space, and you’ve ignored the valid request of a Federation vessel that you stop. You’ll get no apology for initiating hostile action. And as for safe passage, you’ve already arrived at your destination. You’ll hold your present position until I give you permission to depart. If you don’t do as I say, we’ll be forced to pursue and disable your ship. Is that understood, commander—” Kirk’s tone made it clear he wasn’t asking a question.
“Yes,” the Chorymi growled.
“Good. Enterprise out.”
All eyes remained on Spock—Chekov looking back from the pilot’s seat, Llissa and McCoy huddled around the Vulcan in the cramped aft compartment. Spock’s own eyes were still closed as he listened for the vaguest hint of a telepathic sign from Zzev Kkayn. The transponder signal continued to wink on the computer screen.
“Dammit, it’s been forever,” McCoy finally blurted.
Spock’s eyes opened. “It has been two minutes, fifty-three seconds, doctor.”
“What’re we gonna do, Speck? We can’t keep waiting here.”
“No, we cannot. Mr. Chekov, prepare to submerge the shuttle.”
“Submerge? What for?” said McCoy.
“To follow the transponder signal and ascertain Zzev’s condition.”
“But, sir,” Chekov said, “Admiral Kirk ordered us to—”
“I am well aware of the admiral’s orders, lieutenant,” Spock said. “Submerge immediately, and head directly for the location of the transponder beacon.”
“Yes, Mr. Spock,” said Chekov.
The shuttle dipped below the waves, enveloped by the sea. As they went deeper into darkness, Llissa glanced at the directional locator display on the screen and sucked in an astonished breath. “Look! He’s coming back to the surface.”
“Continue closing, Mr. Chekov,” Spock said as he and McCoy turned to the screen.
“Can those numbers be wrong?” McCoy asked, his voice apprehensive.
Spock ran the sensing system through a quick check. “It appears to be functioning.”
“Then he must be all right.”
“Not necessarily, Dr. McCoy. There could be any number of reasons why the transponder is surfacing, including—”
“Dammit, Spock, this is no time for lists of—”
“He’s right, Leonard,” Llissa interrupted. “Let’s wait and see what we find.”
“Mr. Spock, look out there,” Chekov called back through the midship hatch, turning the craft slightly so they could all see a three-quarter view through the starboard observation ports. They were already deeper than the reach of daylight, down in a twilight world of shadows and shimmers and darting shapes, where human vision could not always be trusted. But there was no mistaking the sight rising up from even murkier depths—the vast bulk of a full-grown triteera.
In the first seconds of watching the creature, Spock was struck by an impression he knew to be illogical, unprovable, but there nonetheless. This massive animal seemed to be swimming with a conscious yet conflicting sense of tender urgency. The Vulcan hit the switches for two starboard floodlights. As the beams flashed on, the triteera’s three tail-flukes lost their rhythm and quivered uncertainly, though for just a couple of beats.
Spock panned the light toward the animal’s head and found confirmation for his perception of purposeful tenderness in the way it swam. It was balancing something on its flat rostrum, nudging it toward the world of air and light above. Coming a little closer, they got a better look at the object of the triteera’s attention. It appeared to be a Wwafida.
McCoy leaned over the science officer’s shoulder, squinting through the port. “Could that be Zzev?”
“Possibly. Mr. Chekov, do not get any closer to the triteera. Head directly for the surface.”
“Spock, is that such a good idea?” McCoy asked.
Llissa answered first. “If that is my father, and if he’s still alive, that triteera’s his best chance.”
They felt the deck tip back slightly as Chekov let the shuttle rise as quickly as possible. As the Cousteau broke through, water pouring off its nose and sides, the triteera came up about fifty meters away, exhaling a plume of steamy breath that swirled in the breeze. Only the creature’s angular head and a short portion of its back were out of the water, and it rolled slightly to its right, allowing its primary side flipper—four meters of shiny, mottled black skin—to support the Wwafida and keep it floating where it could breathe.
Spock closed his eyes and sent a pulse of mental energy out toward the Wwafida and the triteera. Zzev, is that you? Are you able to communicate?
“Well? Anything?” McCoy prodded.
Spock opened his mouth to answer, then stopped in midbreath.
Spock—? I thought … was going to die—
“It is Zzev,” the science officer announced formally.
Llissa and McCoy stood stunned for a moment. McCoy found his voice first as joy and relief burst across their faces. “It is? Then he’s alive?”
“Obviously,” said Spock, arching a critical brow. “And I am going to take an emergency raft and retrieve him. Mr. Chekov, while I prepare the raft, take us closer—but do so with great care. I do not want to alarm the triteera.”
“Aye, sir,” Chekov grinned. “Very, very carefully.” He eased the throttle forward and steered toward Zzev and the proprietary creature that had saved his life.
With McCoy’s help, Spock released a rescue raft from its storage locker in the shuttle ceiling. Then he opened the side hatch, letting the tangy salt-sea breeze in, popped the raft’s auto-inflation valve, and tossed it down to the water, where it unfolded and filled to its completed shape. He handed the mooring line to McCoy, then climbed down the access ladder.
“Spock,” Llissa called down to him. “Look what’s out there.”
He paused at the bottom rung and turned to see what she was pointing at. From all around, small sea creatures were joining the triteera, at least a score of them. It wasn’t until a pair swimming together leaped all the way out of the water, diving playfully, that he could be sure of what they were. Now there was no doubt—about a lot of things.
“I don’t believe it, Spock!” McCoy shouted. “They’re Wwafida!”
“So they are, doctor,” Spock said as he stepped into the bobbing raft. “Now release the line so I can get our own Wwafida back to safety.”
McCoy threw the cord down. Spock caught it, then found the control stick for the compact engine mounted at the raft’s stern. He started it and drove the inflatable through the swells.
Faces still spread into wide grins, McCoy and Llissa stood in the open hatchway, hanging on as the shuttle rolled with the waves.
“Dr. McCoy,” Chekov yelled from the cockpit, “the ship is calling.”
McCoy ducked back inside and pressed the comm button on the computer console. “Jim?”
“Bones—what’s going on down there?”
“It’s a long story. Zzev’s okay. Spock’s gone out to get him. And we found Wwafida—lots of them!”
Kirk slapped his armrest gleefully. “That’s great, Bones. Tell Spock to get back up here as quickly as possible.”
“What happened with the Chorymi raid and the Akkallan military flotilla?”
“We’ve got them both on hold. Now, I’ve got one more piece of business to take care of. We’ll see you in a little while. Kirk out.”
Kirk turned toward the communications station. “Uhura, contact the Publican. And this time, we don’t take no for an answer.”
Abben Ffaridor took a half-step back and regarded his painting with a critical eye. In direct contrast to his mood, he’d created a sunny landscape with blossom-dappled hillsides and a crystal-blue sky—not a cloud or drop of water to be seen. Now that the painting was finished, he felt a curious sense of tranquillity come over him, accompanied by a fatalistic acceptance of the real world outside his fantasy work of art. He’d been closeted in his suite since Brigadier Vvox and her armada sailed from Havensbay, wrestling with decisions made in recent weeks. He still didn’t think they’d been bad decisions, but the events they’d set into motion hadn’t gone at all according to plan.
He was mildly surprised that the crumbling of his would be empire hadn’t driven him to despair. Whatever finally transpired, he believed in his heart that the people of Akkalla would understand the extraordinary circumstances that had forced him to seek radical solutions to grave problems, and they wouldn’t blame him. When it all came out, and he was certain it would, they would see that he did his best.
His best, as it turned out, hadn’t been good enough. He thought they would forgive him for that.
What good is order without freedom, freedom without truth?
The old maxim had been running through his mind all day. Freedom and truth were truly important. That’s what his whole term of office had been about—preserving freedom and truth. He hadn’t forgotten them, not ever. But without order, they would wither and die. They know that, don’t they? They understand …
They’ll forgive me.
The Publican heard a tap on his door. “Come in.”
A young female trooper with bright eyes and short curls entered diffidently. She looked barely out of childhood. Ffaridor knew all the more experienced troopers were out trying to quell civil demonstrations and riots.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir.”
“Quite all right, quite all right. What is it?”
“Admiral Kirk is calling from the Enterprise. Should I tell him you’re too busy to—”
“No, no. I’ll talk to him.” He went slowly to his desk and switched on the communications console. The screen lit, and Kirk’s stern face appeared. Ffaridor sat down. “Yes, Admiral.”
“We’ve collected evidence to prove the existence of large numbers of Wwafida, sir, more than enough to convince the Federation Council and prompt an investigation into your actions. You know as well as I do what the results will be.”
“Yes.” Ffaridor paused. “What would you like me to do?”
Surprise overtook Kirk’s severe manner, and he hesitated for a second as he found himself forced to change gears. It seemed there wouldn’t be any confrontation. “Recall your fleet of military cutters from the northern Boreal Ocean.”
“I can’t, Admiral. They’re out of radio range.”
“We can take care of that. Uhura, set up a signal relay, please.”
With her usual competence, she had the circuitry arranged in a matter of seconds. “Ready, sir. Publican Ffaridor, you can contact your fleet any time.”
“Thank you. Brigadier Vvox, this is the Publican. I’m reaching you with the help of the Enterprise.”
“The Enterprise?” Her voice came over the bridge audio system. “What’s going on? They’ve been interfering with our mission, Publican, and they—”
“You’re being recalled to port, Jjenna,” Ffaridor said in a voice devoid of rancor. “It’s over.”
“No! They don’t have the right—”
“But they have the power. That’s something you should understand.”
“We’ve got to take on the Chorymi raiders.”
“There’ll be no raid,” said Kirk. “We’ve stopped the convoy in space. They’ve got you outgunned, brigadier.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Are you that anxious to shed Akkallan blood?” Ffaridor asked, shaking his head in regret.
“What’s happened to you?” Vvox shouted, her fury and frustration boiling over as she pounded her fists on the control panel of her cutter. “We rule Akkalla. We don’t take orders from Federation intruders!” With bulging eyes, she fixed her stare at the radio speaker, as if she could see through it all the way to Ffaridor, hoping her power over him could force him to rescind his decision to cower before Kirk’s threats.
“If you’d prefer, brigadier, we’ll let the convoy through. I’ll collect all Federation personnel on Akkalla, as well as Akkallans wishing political asylum, and leave the mess to you,” Kirk said evenly.
“We’ll fight, Kirk, and we’ll win. This is our world—we can’t give up.” She whirled to search the faces of her officers, expecting to find rabid support. Instead, she saw defeat in their hollow eyes, the same defeat she heard in Ffaridor’s voice.
“Brigadier.” It was Kirk on the speaker again. “You can agree to these terms—immediate release of the Synod and all political prisoners, stop the purge directed at your scientists, and observe a ceasefire with Chorym if they halt their raids on your oceans. The Federation will be glad to mediate—Akkalla is a Federation member, after all. Your choice, Publican Ffaridor.”
“No! Don’t take it, Abben,” Vvox hissed, spinning back to the radio panel. “Let us fight for what Mother Sea has to offer us—all the power in—”
Trooper Ttoom bashed the butt of his pistol across the back of Vvox’s head, and she slumped to the deck. “I declare a mutiny,” he announced, without much spirit. “Anybody want to argue with me?” None of the other officers in the bridge cabin moved a muscle. “That’s what I thought. Publican Ffaridor, we’ll abide by your decision.”
Ffaridor sat sadly at his communications station. He folded his hands with great dignity. “We accept your terms, Admiral Kirk.”