"Fire photon torpedoes!"

Captain James T. Kirk leaned forward in the command chair, as if forcing the weapons of the USS Enterprise to fire by his very strength of will.

Nothing happened.

The Klingon warship on the viewscreen drew bead on the Federation starship and fired again. The Enterprise shook, but the screens held.

"Mr. Sulu, I want torpedoes!" The Captain's voice was firm but determined.

"No response, sir!" the helmsman replied, still struggling with the controls.

Kirk punched a button on the arm of his chair. "Auxiliary Control! Mr. Chekov, fire photon torpedoes!"

"Firing, Captain!" And the screen showed the torpedoes away at last.

The voice from Auxiliary Control, however, was not Pavel Chekov's. Ensign Carl Remington, fresh out of Star Fleet Academy, had replied. Kirk heard the fear in the boy's voice, and wondered if he would break under fire.

"Number One Phasers -- fire!"

The Klingons were moving in for the kill -- the shortrange weapons caught them full blast, but their screens also held.

"Number Two Phasers -- now!" Kirk pressed his advantage.

The Klingon vessel's port screens went down in a satisfying display of fireworks. "All weapons -- fire!"

Remington responded at once. Torpedoes and phasers blasted the enemy ship; the Enterprise was peppered with return fire, her own screens shorting out for a long moment. Then the rest of the Klingon screens fizzled out, and the long-necked ship blazed in death glory.

"Cease firing!" Kirk commanded -- and realized that the firing had stopped before his order. "Auxiliary Control!"

No answer.

"Chekov! Remington! Respond!"

There was a long pause. Then Chekov's voice, weak and choking. "Keptin. Medical aid--" A cough, then silence.

"Sickbay!" Kirk exclaimed, punching another button. "Bones, get someone to Auxiliary Control, on the double!" Then the general intercom, "Anyone in vicinity, take over Auxiliary Control!"

"Grogan here, Captain!" came a female voice as the AC button lit reassuringly. "Mr. Chekov's unconscious, and Mr. Remington... I think he's dead!"

"Grogan, man the console -- power is out on the bridge!"

"Aye, Captain."

But the battle was over. The Klingon ship lay dead in space -- scans showed all power out, life support systems nonfunctional. The gasps of the aliens, choking on fumes from the fires consuming the last of their air, rang in the ears of the Enterprise crew.

"Enterprise to Klingon vessel -- crew prepare to be beamed aboard our ship! Scotty--"

The engineer's voice responded, "Aye, Captain, we'll try -- but we scan only a dozen or so left alive, and they're dyin' even as we try to fix on 'em."

Kirk sat frozen now, listening to the reports coming in. The Enterprise had sustained major damage -- they would have to put in at the nearest starbase for repairs. The computer monitored the ship; those damage reports were swift. But people had to care for people; the reports of deaths and injuries followed at a more leisurely, and trying, rate.

"We got three of the devils aboard alive," Scotty reported as he entered the bridge from the turbolift, "all sick as dogs from breathin' smoke, and well deservin' of it!" The Scotsman headed immediately for the sputtering helm console.

"Where are they?" Kirk asked.

"Sickbay. I suppose Dr. McCoy will patch 'em up well enough for interrogation."

Kirk stared at the viewscreen, which still displayed the Klingon vessel, now a tomb for all but three of its crew. "Why did they do it?" he wondered aloud. "I know they dispute our right to this quadrant, but to attack? All we did was warn them that they were in Federation space."

"They're Klingons," Scotty responded. "What do you expect?"

"But why risk their lives? One on one they knew they had a less than even chance against a starship. Why bother to fight over a hundred cubic light-years of vacuum?"

Mr. Spock, who had been silently manning his post throughout the battle, suddenly spoke up. "'We go to gain a little patch of ground/ That hath in it no profit but the name.'"

"Hmm?" asked Kirk.

"Hamlet," the Vulcan supplied. "Shakespeare understood the warrior mentality. 'Witness this army, of such mass and charge,/ Exposing what is mortal and unsure/ To all that fortune, death, and danger dare,/ Even for an eggshell.'" He paused, then added, "Or as a Klingon poet might put it, Captain, any excuse for a fight."

"Cynicism, Spock?"

"Observation, Captain. I have seen how the Klingons act, only too often. They are not logical... but they are predictable."

"Are you suggesting that I might have avoided this battle?" Kirk asked.

"No, Captain, quite the opposite. I am suggesting that given contact with the Klingons in a disputed quadrant, battle was inevitable."

But Kirk felt no better because his First Officer agreed he had had no way out. There had to be a better way than blasting away at one another. They were like children playing pirates -- but with genuine loss of life and limb!

Finally McCoy reported from Sickbay. "Four dead, Captain. Rosen, Livinger, M'Gura, Jakorski. Ninety-three injuries, but only eleven serious enough to confine them to Sickbay. One of those, however -- Jim, when you can, will you please come down here?"

"Remington?" Kirk asked, recalling that Grogan had thought the boy dead.

"Yes. I'd like to talk with you privately."

Scotty had the bridge console operating again; all final reports were in. "Mr. Spock, take command," Kirk instructed, and took the turbolift to Sickbay.

Those of his crew who were conscious managed to smile at the Captain, and he turned on his charm in return, assuring them they had all done a fine job, and would certainly soon be back on their feet with McCoy's help. But his enforced cheer dropped away like a mask when he followed the doctor into the intensive care unit, and saw Carl Remington lying pale and unmoving. He certainly looked dead. Only the life sign indicators on the board over his head showed life in the still form. "How bad?"

"It's hopeless," McCoy replied. "Dammit, Jim, the worst of it is, it'll take him days to die. He's totally paralyzed. His voluntary nervous system is burnt out -- must have taken a freak burst of energy in those last blasts from the Klingon ship. His involuntary system is working -- I took him off life support, and... he's alive, for the moment. But he can't do anything -- and I do mean anything. He can't even blink his eyes. But if he stabilizes instead of dying in the next few days, he could go on like that for years."

"Dear God," Kirk whispered. "Does he know? I mean, can he hear us? Is he -- aware in there?"

"I don't know. He hasn't responded -- there's no increase in heartbeat or respiration to indicate emotional response -- but maybe he can't even do that. Should I ask Spock to--?"

"No!" But after a moment Kirk sighed. "Yes. We have to know."

Mr. Spock, although always reluctant to use the mind meld, agreed. "Yes -- I understand that you must know whether Mr. Remington is aware before you can decide on treatment for him. I will meld with him, Doctor, if you will grant me privacy."

Kirk and McCoy retreated to the doctor's office to wait for Spock's report. Kirk slumped into a chair, for the first time that day allowing his state of mind to show in his posture.

"Maybe he's technically dead," McCoy offered. "I found no brain wave activity--"

"And maybe his body will just turn off, too, and save you the trouble--" Kirk cut off his angry retort, and rested his elbows on his knees, rubbing the palms of his hands over his eyes. "I'm sorry, Bones. You did everything you could."

"And so did you," the doctor said. "Here -- my prescription." He held out a brandy. Kirk took it gratefully, without protest. After a moment McCoy sat down in his desk chair and said, "Jim, Remington's one of those kids you identify with, isn't he?"

"Bones, I--"

"I know -- you care about your whole crew equally. But I also know that whenever you see one of these up-and-comers right out of the Academy and ready to take on the galaxy, you remember a certain James T. Kirk setting out to become the youngest Captain in Starfleet -- and doing it."

"That was a long time ago, Bones."

"And at times like these you wonder what it's all for. Why set yourself up for a day like today? They come only too often, don't they?"

Kirk nodded. "But somebody has to do it. Maybe we're protecting vacuum here -- but if we let the Klingons have this particular piece of vacuum, they'd build a starbase that much closer to populated Federation territory. But dammit, that doesn't make it any easier to have people die, or be crippled for life."

He sat staring into his drink, and McCoy didn't prod him further, knowing the Captain would probably have another drink or two, sleep from exhaustion, and be up early for a workout in the gym before facing the funeral ceremony.

It was nearly half an hour before Spock emerged from the intensive care unit, pale and grim. "Mr. Remington is... there, Doctor. He cannot respond, but his mind is alert, trapped deep within himself."

"Oh, God," McCoy said softly, tears welling in his blue eyes. He didn't let them fall, but they roughened his voice as he said, "This is when I wonder why I'm a doctor -- if I hadn't done anything for that boy today, perhaps he'd just have died. Instead, he is condemned to living death." He poured himself a brandy this time, hesitated, then poured one for Spock. "Don't argue -- just drink it."

"I am not arguing, Doctor," said Spock, downing the drink in one swallow. Then he sat down in the last chair in the small office, and said, "Doctor McCoy, Captain... there may be a chance for Mr. Remington to recover."

"Spock," said McCoy, "there is no way to repair that kind of nerve damage. Nerves don't regenerate. If anyone was even working on a technique for nerve regeneration, I'd have heard of it."

"Not if it was happening at the Vulcan Academy of Sciences," Spock replied, "and was still in the experimental stage."

"Was?" asked McCoy, realizing that Spock's ever-perfect grammar would call for the subjunctive if he were speaking hypothetically. "You mean there is such a technique?"

"Yes, Doctor, there is."

"But -- how can you know that when I don't? I read the Journal of the Vulcan Academy, too."

"They have not completed their research, and so cannot yet release the results," Spock explained. "However, I have a... personal reason for knowing about the experiments."

Kirk sat up, immediately alert with concern for his friend. "Personal, Spock? Is something wrong?"

"Not with me," the Vulcan replied in the flat tone that masked his feelings. Both human men recognized that it meant he was controlling carefully. "It is... my mother."

"Amanda?" McCoy asked, recalling the lovely lady whom he had gotten to know on the voyage to Babel. "Is she ill? Is there anything I can do, Spock?"

"She has degenerative xenosis."

McCoy held his tongue, knowing that expressions of sympathy would not be welcomed by his Vulcan friend. The disease was one of the products of star travel -- it seemed to be a kind of allergic reaction to living for long periods on alien worlds. Once it had started, there was no cure; the nervous fibers dissolved away until the person simply died because the body could no longer operate. "How long?" he finally asked gently.

"We hope -- my father Sarek and I -- that she will not die, Doctor. She would have had only a few more months, but the regeneration techniques developed by the healer Sorel and his associate, Dr. Daniel Corrigan, were tested successfully on Dr. Corrigan."

"Sounds like a man after your own heart, Bones," Kirk commented, "trying his experiments on himself."

"Although he is only a few years older than my mother," Spock explained, "Dr. Corrigan began a few years ago to age very rapidly -- physically. Fortunately, his mind remained untouched, and he and Sorel were able to develop their methodology. Sarek tells me that Dr. Corrigan recovered completely -- including nerve regeneration. At this point they are trying the technique only on people who cannot be cured by any other means. My mother is in the stasis now; in a few days she will be released. The latest communication from my father says that the monitors show almost total regeneration. She will be well, and will have many more years with my father."

"Spock," said Kirk, "I'm very happy to hear that. But why didn't you tell us before?"

"I intended to -- but the communication came just before the battle. I was going to ask for leave on Vulcan, and request that you come with me, Dr. McCoy. I have complete faith in Dr. Corrigan, who has been my mother's physician for many years. However--"

"Thank you, Spock." McCoy felt warmth at Spock's trust in him. "I would be honored. Do you think they'll accept Remington? Jim -- the Enterprise will have to be drydocked for repairs anyway--"

"Take Remington to Vulcan, Bones. That's an order. And of course your leave is granted, Spock. For once you'll get shore leave at home -- we're not even that far from Vulcan!"

"Since you will also have leave time, Captain," Spock said formally, "may I invite you to my home? I am certain my father will be honored to have both of you as guests -- and when my mother is released from stasis, she will surely be pleased to see you again."

So it was settled, with relief all around. Now the only problem was McCoy's: keeping Remington alive until they reached Vulcan.

Copyright © 1990 by Paramount Pictures