by Diane Carey
hand caught the edge of the canvas. The sail started to
luff.
Philotoff snapped the sail out of her way. The boom
waggled. I moved--fast. I caught a glimpse of the
phaser bolt as it struck out and sizzled into the sea
beyond the starboard rail, and I was pinched with a
sniggering little regret that I didn't hang around to see
the look on Philotoff's face. I heard her scrambling
around on the deck as she searched frantically for me,
heard her drop into the fo'c'sle through the open
hatch, and heard her shuffle through the galley, the
forecabin, the main cabin, and finally up the aft hatch-
way, but by then I had the advantage. When she
popped up through the aft hatch and the sun turned her
dun hair to umber, I was there and so was my phaser.
A second later, Yeoman Philotoff was heaped over the
hatch stairway, twitching and numb.
29
She wasn't alone; I was numb too. My arms ached
from the stiffness as I held them locked before me,
joined at the phaser in a tangle of fingers. I stared at
Philotoff's !imp form, and at Vallo still crumbled be-
yond her. If only I could know this was right...
"Freeze right there, lady."
By the time the new voice cut through me, I'd
already lowered my phaser, and my guard. I'd forgot-
ten the tug. I looked over my shoulder, toward mid-
ships. The tug hovered just above the chop off our port
side, casting a jade shadow on the water. A burly
guard hung his arms over the bumper rail, his shoul-
ders hunched, and a phaser trained square at my heart.
"Don't turn," he said. "Drop the phaser."
Defeat swarmed over me. Evidently being at sea for
so long had dulled my thinking processes more than I
realized. I would have to remember this---for future
shore leaves. My phaser thunked to the polished
wooden hatch-top at my feet. Only then did the guard
climb carefully onto the tug bumper and hop from
there to Keeler's rail, and finally onto the deck just
port of the foremast. I stood on the aft hatch, helpless,
my back still to him. I didn't turn, but I was watching
the guard as he kept the phaser firmly raised. He knew
better than to trust me. Kirk's face passed by in the
shadows cast by the guard's bulk as he slowly crossed
the green deck. What was I supposed to do? What did
the captain want of me? Should I take these people
down--that was out of the question now; the guard
had a solid drop on me.
High above me, the mainmast groaned in a stern
gust of wind over the ship, echoing my feelings. The
guard was big; I'd have a hard time taking him physi-
cally, if he ever gave me the chance. Not likely. He
was very cautious, approaching me with suspicious
slowness. A few more steps and he would have my
phaser.
All at oce, the fores'i boom, with the sail sloppily
30
bracketed between it and the lowered gaff like a rum-
pled bedspread, swung hard over from the starboard
side where Vallo and Philotoff had left it. The guard
threw his hands up when he saw the heavy tangle of
wood, rope, and canvas swinging toward him, but he
was no match for the sheer weight. The boom and gaff
thudded into his chest and knocked him hard into the
blocks and tackles of the rigging that supported the
mainmast. He howled his pain and anger, and the
expression on his face told me he wanted nothing more
than to have my right arm in his gritted teeth. His big
body shuddered and recovered in spite of the deadly
blow. Somehow he stayed on his feet and shook the
boom off with a mighty heave. Swinging freely, the
boom wobbled back over the forehatch.
But I hadn't waited. The phaser was back in my
hand. I leaped from the hatch onto the deck for a clear
shot, and took it. The stun beam caught the guard in
the shoulder and raced through his body, its energy
force knocking him onto the rail. He pivoted over it,
his eyes wide with shock, and tumbled into a mild
white froth.
My shoulders shook with tension as I straightened. I
broke my stare from the floating guard as his body
bobbed under the blue surface. I looked to starboard.
Dr. McCoy was just getting to his feet, leaning on the
raised deck amidships.
"I forgot all about you!" I blurted on a gust of relief.
He crawled under the lobbing boom and reached
over the rail to catch the stunned guard's left arm as
the body bobbed to the surface. I tucked the phaser
into a pocket and rushed to help him. Using the loose
jib halyard, I tied the guard to the side of the ship,
ensuring that he wouldn't go under anymore. "What are you doing?" McCoy asked.
I looped the rope under the guard's armpits two
more times for good measure and said, "I'll be right
back." I stepped up onto the polished rail and made a
31
crazy leap for the tug--it was farther away than it
looked. The bumper squeaked under my deck shoes
and keeping my balance was a fight to be remembered.
I wasn't going to be surprised again. In moments, the
tug had been thoroughly searched and I could stop
worrying about having another face pop up behind me
when I wasn't looking. I climbed back onto the tug's
turtle-backed deck and called, "All clear. Help me get
those three on board the tug."
McCoy glanced at the waterlogged form of the
guard, then back at Philotoffand Vallo, both still safely
under stun on the aft deck. "Pull closer, then," he
called in a frustrated tone, waving his hands in surren-
der.
By the time the doctor and I had wrestled the three
security people onto the tug and dismantled the navi-
gational beacon so the tug couldn't be tracked too
soon, yet another forgotten presence had pulled along
our starboard rail.
"What's happening?" Ambassador Shamirian
called as three of his crew held the two ships together.
Gavelan's bumpers were over the side, squeaking with
effort between the vessels. The ketch's sails were
being dropped and her movement soon stopped alto-
gether. We were adrift.
"Oh ...."I buried the phaser deep in my flight-suit
pocket as I followed McCoy back onto Keeler's boa-
green deck. Quickly I crossed to the port rail and
stepped up onto it, holding the rigging. "Ambassador,
I need your help."
Shamirian was a barrel-shaped man with a scruffy
black beard and ink-spot eyes, his swarthy complex-
ion softened by the gentle way in which his features
came together. A collarless yellow shirt flapped
against salt-and-pepper hairs on his massive chest as
he inhaled thoughtfully. He was an adventurous sort,
as he had aptly proven in the constant tournaments
32
with Captain Kirk over the past few weeks, but the
adventurer
was always hidden behind an innate father-
liness. Lacking Kirk's presence, I needed someone
like that right now.
He squinted his eyes in expectation, even a touch of
amusement.
"You name it," he said.
We sailed for days and I counted every hour. My
only respite came in the dream-dogged sleep Dr. Mc-
Coy forced me to catch while I could get it, and there
was little more to do while sailing a straight course.
Ambassador Shamirian led the way in Gavelan, while
two members of his crew and I shared constant wheel
watch in his wake. Four hours on, four hours off.
Frustration nagged at me, as well as the dreams that
jarred my sleep, dreams of James Kirk nodding at me
to follow him into a very black void. I keenly missed
his easy gestalt with the ocean, that gourmet blend of
sea and eye. For a while 1 thought I might be losing my
high sense of trust for him, and that frightened me. If 1
couldn't trust Kirk, then who?
Frustration .... If we had the facilities and the
cooperation, we could have beamed to our destination
in a matter of seconds. Instead we plodded tediously
up one swell and down the other, creeping along the
Earth's wet surface like insects and there seemed no
end to it. I plied Dr. McCoy with questions, suspecting
that Kirk would have told him what was going on if he
told anyone, but all I got was various versions of "I'm
a surgeon, not a secret agent." After a while I began to
believe him. Perhaps even Leonard McCoy was kept
from certain information. That made me more ner-
vous; what could be so touchy that Kirk wouldn't tell
McCoy about it?
Shamirian's crew members aboard Keeler set my
mind at ease more than anything. I hadn't wanted to
33
admit to him that Earth's wind patterns sometimes
deceived me, and the ambassador's offer to lend expe-
rienced crew had taken at least one of the rocks out of
my stomach. Captain Kirk had told me I should be
able to feel the wind's direction on my face. I never
could. I wanted to.
By the time we swung into the quiet Caribbean cove
at Man-o-War Cay in the Abaco Islands of the Baha-
mas, I felt like an old woman. I took no time to breathe
in the pure air or enjoy the mixed scents of the
settlement, or even to marvel that the tiny semitropical
island had managed to avoid the touch of the dilithium
age. This was Keeler's home port, the place where she
had been rebuilt and rerigged, a place where small
sailing vessels had been built for centuries, as far back
as the American Revolutionary War, Ambassador
Shamirian told me. Blond settlement natives, still car-
rying the fair coloring of ancestors centuries removed
who had been shipwrecked here, and a strain of Hai-
tians still made up the population. Since space travel
had become common and the discovery of marvelous
off-world resorts whetted Earth folks' appetites, the
tourist trade had fallen off to a trickle in the Caribbean
side-islands. Now, Man-o-War Cay shuffled along her
own peaceful way, serving passing travelers and re-
pairing water vessels as she had for generations. So
what was I doing here?
"What now?" Dr. McCoy asked as he straightened
from helping me take the main halyards down.
My spine clicked as I straightened. "The captain
said there would be a ship here for me. A space-going
ship. There can't be that many of those on a dot of land
this small."
He shrugged. "Let's find it."
I was glad he suggested that. I didn't want to seem
like I was giving orders to Leonard McCoy. Though he
was technically my superior, he was not an officer of
the line---and he liked it that way. Captain Kirk had
34
left me holding the bag, and evidently McCoy was
happy to let me keep it. The doctor seemed to under-
stand how much I needed to get that bag by the throat
and shake it.
We left the schooner in Ambassador Shamirian's
care, took his good wishes, and went ship hunting.
Indeed it was a banana republic. There was even a
doddering Haitian native bent over a wheelbarrow
filled with bananas, hawking his island fruit. So there
were we, Star Fleet officers both, meandering along
the sand-crusted dock area, each carrying a bunch of
bananas. We questioned our way across the island to
another cove, where we were told there was a hangar
used for space hoppers and air transport vehicles.
Indeed Man-o-War Cay did have its area of modern
contamination, despite first impressions. The hangar
was large enough for several space-going shuttles.
When we first walked into the square blue building we
saw four Federation shuttles being worked on. Beyond
them were two private hover-cars, and beyond those a
huge, ugly, patched-up wreck probably being salvaged
for parts. It took up most of the hangar area and
prevented us from seeing beyond it.
"Maybe it's behind that wreck," I mentioned.
"We could just be in the wrong place," McCoy said.
"I'm not sure the fellow who directed us here was
actually speaking English. Or maybe Jim's connec-
tions didn't hook up."
"Let's at least look."
My heart sank as we stopped to get under the
wreck's twisted nose, taking care not to be cut by
jutting pieces of metal and fibercoil hull. From here on,
the hangar was empty. I strode a few paces into the
area, and sighed. Would the pieces of this puzzle keep
backing out of my reach?
"Nothing," McCoy commented as he came to my
side. "Maybe we should just contact Star Fleet and
see if we can reach Jim."
35
My lips pressed tight. "Not yet. I assaulted Fleet
Patrol officers to get here. I'm not leaving until I'm
sure there's no ship here meant for me." I continued
glaring, unseeing, into the empty space of the hangar
as though to clear my head and let revelations pour in,
but none came. The only interruption was a drawling
voice of someone singing, and the corresponding clank
of tools from inside the wreck behind us. At least
somebody was enjoying himself.
"Hello rha baby, hello ma honey, hello ma ragtime
gaaaaaaaal. Send me a kiss by wiiiire ....Baby ma
heart's on fiiiiiiire. Hello ma baby, hello ma
honey..."
I closed my eyes and moaned. "Oh, no. No."
McCoy moved beside me. "What?"
My head drooped. "I know that voice." Collecting
every bit of self-control I owned, I turned around and
soaked in the panorama of dented, mangled, patched,
time-battered hullscape. With a deep breath and grit-
ted teeth, I bellowed, "Scanner!"
There was a bump from within the coilplate under-
belly and an illustrative "Ow! Goddang it." A face
bloomed from a hatch in a place whe
re no sane life
form would put a hatch. The familiar boyish features,
brown eyes, and sloppy brown hair at once relieved
and enraged me. "Piper!" rolled the Tennessee pro-
nunciation of my name. "Ya'll're late!" He crawled
out of the hatch head first, and I was there to catch him
by the--orange and blue floral?--collar. Ignoring the
tropical shirt where a Fleet uniform usually lived, I
rammed him up against the scored hul l.
"Why are you here?"
Scanner's smile dropped and he pressed back in my
grip. Though I didn't have a man's strength, I had
three things that worked on Scanner Sandage five feet
nine inches, a full clip of impatience, and his respect.
"Now, whoa, Piper," he began carefully. "Don't cold
36
start your warp engines. I know what you're think-
ing."
"Then tell me."
"Mr. Spock said you might be surprised to have
your own command all of a sudden, but I figured--"
"Spock was here?"
"Well, sure, for a while... when we installed the
warp engines and the computer bank."
I let go of him to step back and stare in sinking
disbelief at the ship. It was a piled design, but the
original hull shape was lost in additions and modifica-
tions, each with its own shape and color. Only the
original blunt nose and some of the starboard hull
remained unfettered by extra equipment. It looked like
a displaced prehistoric lizard, and the observation slits
engineered into the sides looked like gills left over
from a bad stint of evolution. I held my breath. "This
lumbering, obsolete junkyard has warp speed?"
He touched his heart, flexed his knees, and uttered,
"Oh, yeah! She'll go warp four!" He glanced help-
lessly at Dr. McCoy, then back at me. "Aw, Piper,
have a heart. A ship hasn't even got any personality
till it's at least twenty years old."
"Oh?" I shot back. "And what part of this ship is
only twenty years old?"
Dr. McCoy followed, wordless, as Scanner took my
elbow and escorted me slowly along the rutted hull.
Names of people and projects were illegibly etched
into dents and over patches, cut or burned in by
whatever tool was being used at the time. "You got the