by Jane Seaton

"You'll need to take it easy for a couple of days. That was quite a knock on the head." McCoy looked tired, but not so tired that his eyes couldn't signal and everything else. If you want to talk... Only Chekov didn't want to talk. And it was only the knock on the head that mattered, and the man who'd given it to him. That thought brought back the memory of Kirk's blow so sharply that he flinched from it all over again.

McCoy caught at his shoulder. "Hold on. What was that? Does it still hurt? Come on, I know we've been busy in here, but you don't have to rush off yet."

"I'm fine, Doctor."

McCoy had heard so many patients say that over the years, he could diagnose half a dozen conditions by the inflection they gave that phrase. Chekov was evidently suffering from all of them. The ensign felt bad, and he thought that he deserved to feel bad.

"Well, I won't keep you sitting here then. I'm just going off duty myself..." McCoy paused, looked round at the battlefield that was sickbay, comforted himself that Christine would get it back in order quicker without him, and anyway, he was off-duty in name only, opened the door and ushered Chekov out into the corridor.

The Klingons were being entertained in the main rec room. McCoy steered Chekov into the smaller mess room on the same deck as sick bay. The medical staff used it, along with a couple of dozen other regulars, mostly older personnel who preferred its quieter mood. Chekov hesitated in the doorway, clearly feeling he didn't belong.

"What can I get you to drink?"

"I don't really..."

McCoy was about to tell him he'd have a double vodka and like it, when he remembered he was supposed to be rebuilding self-esteem. Sometimes the renowned McCoy bluster wasn't the best approach. "Tea? Coffee? Fruit juice? I wasn't planning on getting you drunk, you know. Or nothing at all, if you'd rather."

"A glass of water, please."

"Right. I'm going to track the Captain down, and..."

"What will he do?"

"Do? About what?"

"About me."

"He's probably going to apologise for hitting you quite so hard."

"He had to..."

"Well. I don't think so."

Chekov looked as if he would have argued with that, if his opinion had been worth a candle.

"What I mean is, you weren't the only one. We all did things we're not too happy about. He probably hit you harder than he needed to. He probably quite enjoyed it."

The ensign glanced away from the doctor as if embarrassed. "Is that relevant to what I did?"

"If it helps you to understand that you didn't do anything."

"But I did. I remember seeing the opportunity, thinking they were Klingons, that I could kill them, then changing my mind and... It wasn't anyone else."

"Would you have felt better if you had killed them? There are people walking around this ship at the moment who certainly did their damnedest to waste a few Klingons. And it was no thanks to me that they didn't succeed."

"I wonder if it makes any difference to her."

"Chekov, I'm not sure what you're thinking, but the Captain's orders are that you stay out of sight until they leave..."

"But they know what happened. Surely she'll understand it wasn't my fault..."

"If you can put yourself in her shoes, I'm sure you can see that it's pretty irrelevant..."

"Yes. And if you can put yourself in my shoes, doctor, it is irrelevant to me too."

McCoy reflected that if Spock was teaching the ensign to be relentlessly logical, the skill was spilling over into his ability to make an emotional argument.

"How can I trust myself again? How can..."

"How can you expect a woman to trust you?"

Chekov seemed relieved that he'd made his point at last. McCoy handed him the glass of water he'd asked for and sat down with a coffee for himself. The ensign stood there, almost at attention, eyes focused on nothing.

"Most women have always had to accept, if they've ever had reason to think about it, that most men are strong enough to win any physical fight. And considering the mayhem the sex is capable of, they've usually trusted us in the face of plenty of evidence to the contrary..."

"I don't mean in general. We were talking about me. How could anyone trust me?"

Jenny Chan, a researcher from biochemistry, stopped dead in the doorway, an open book in her hand. "Don't you deserve something stronger? It's been quite a day, I hear."

"There speaks someone who was on the wrong side of the emergency bulkheads. Or the right side, depending on your view point." McCoy waved her over. Jenny was exactly what he needed. He'd once overheard his father describe someone as a gracious lady, and the moment he'd met Lieutenant Chan, he'd felt he understood precisely what his father meant.

"I'm not interrupting something, am I?" She came and stood next to Chekov, not sure how to interpret the situation. McCoy shook his head and nodded at her to sit down.

"We don't often see you in here, Mister Chekov. I can't stand the bustle upstairs, but every so often I say to myself, he's never going to come down to you, you'll have to go up to him."

He looked at her with troubled, pain-filled eyes and she glanced at McCoy. "What have you been doing to him, Doctor? He looks all in."

McCoy nodded. "He is. He just needs someone who'll listen, particularly if he doesn't want to say anything. I'm afraid the rest of the crew are too busy being nice to the Klingons."

"Then I'm your woman. I have no appetite for diplomacy and neither do they. Could I presume on your Southern manners and ask you to fetch me a coffee before you leave us to a companionable silence?" McCoy obliged, thinking that if his wife had been that skilled at expediting someone's departure, he'd never have caught her in bed with his best friend.

Chekov shut his eyes and relived the impact of Kirk's fist on his face again.

"Why do you do that?"

"What?"

"Flinch when you close your eyes?"

Chekov just bit his lip and looked at McCoy.

"Tell her about it, Ensign. I can't answer your question. I'm sure the Lieutenant can convince you that you don't need an answer. Jenny, you probably know most of what happened today..."

"A good deal of mayhem."

"Yes." He glanced at Chekov, knowing he was about to say things Chekov might prefer he didn't, but he trusted Jenny, and anyway, this was going to be general knowledge sooner or later. This ship worked by knowing and understanding, not keeping secrets. "Chekov tried to rape one of the Klingon women. The Captain stopped him. That's where he got the black eye."

"Chekov, I'm so sorry."

That caught him by surprise. "Sorry?"

"Well, it's bad enough to be used by something like that anyway, but... Look, come and sit down. You poor kid. It wasn't you, it really wasn't you. You couldn't have done anything like that. You're one of the good guys."

"I thought I was."

"I know you are. Absolutely no doubt about it." The lieutenant glanced up at McCoy and nodded that he should go. He took a few steps backwards towards the door, then turned and left them to it. Jenny stood up and pushed Chekov down into a seat, then sat next to him and took his hand. "Did you enjoy what you did?"

"No!"

"I mean at the time."

"I'm not sure what I was feeling at the time. I wasn't thinking about what I was doing at all, not until the Captain..."

"Came and made you realise what you were doing."

"I've never seen him so angry, so disgusted. I don't know how I can face him again. Or Mister Spock... Or anyone. I wish I could just leave."

"I understand how you feel, and why, but really, you are over-reacting. This is not anything you had any control over..."

"You're assuming that. But you don't know. It didn't feel to me as if I was out of control. It felt like I knew what I wanted and I was going to get it."

"That would be so out of character."

"Maybe it isn't."

"It is."

"Perhaps I usually don't let it show."

"Look, the people who know you best, Doctor McCoy, the Captain..."

He flinched again. "The Captain knows me so well he knocked me out. If you're correct, why was he in control of himself and I wasn't? Why couldn't he have just reasoned with me? Why..."

"Maybe he wasn't in control of himself. Maybe whatever was inflaming everyone else made him lose his temper. It makes sense. Doesn't it?"

He didn't answer.

"Chekov, I guess you have to feel this bad about it all. You wouldn't be you if you didn't, if you just said it's okay, it's not my fault. But don't let this go on too long. It's as if that thing hasn't let you go yet. Everyone else is free and you're still in its toils. It couldn't have done what it did if we didn't all have a nasty streak somewhere. But the only one who's suffering from your dark side right now is you. Huh? Be nice to yourself. If you did anything you shouldn't, you got a black-eye from the Captain's Mister Hyde to pay you back. Call it quits. I bet he'll be as embarrassed as you are next time you meet."

Chekov smiled suddenly. "Thank you. I hope everyone is as understanding..."

"I think they will be."

He nodded. "That's good. Because I really enjoyed what I did, and if I had the opportunity I'd do it again. So you can keep your smug 'aren't we all nice people' act for someone who's stupid enough to believe it, Jenny." He leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. When she pulled away, he tightened his grip on her hand until it hurt.

"Ensign..." She twisted out from under him and yanked her hand free with a sudden tug. He let her go and stood up.

"You see how wrong you were about me?"

He waited for an answer for a few seconds then walked out.

***

McCoy wasn't bothering to patch grazes and treat bruises. Chekov wasn't the only one still disfigured the next morning. But Kirk caught sight of him across the rec room and turned to McCoy. "He's all right, is he?"

"It's just a black eye, Captain."

"Does he remember what happened, I mean, what really happened?" A good many crew members were still having difficulty sorting out the actual events of the previous day from their distorted recollections. Kirk himself wasn't too sure of some things, but he did remember putting everything he had into hitting Chekov and from the evidence, he remembered right.

"You, him and Spock all seemed to remember it pretty clearly. Spock was barely affected by the whole thing, in comparison to the rest of us. The illusions worked on him, but he didn't get so riled up, as you might expect."

"D'you think that thing was intelligent, or just working on instinct?"

McCoy had been considering that question all night. "It's kind of difficult to guess how a thing like that might operate. There's no real evidence that it was sentient. I think it probably threw out a lot of stimuli and then beefed up the ones that got the response it wanted. I don't know if all that good humour at the end really upset it, or just made it think this wasn't such a good hunting ground after all. Maybe it didn't operate entirely randomly, but had some way of reading memories, picking out events and objects that were associated with the reaction it was looking for. But it must be able to survive long periods of dormancy, to travel through space as it does. And presumably it reproduces when it finds the right environment..."

"Could that have been what it was looking for here? A starship adrift in space would make a good cocoon, with a built in food supply."

McCoy shrugged. "I don't know. Want to go look for another one to study it?"

"Not until I've unloaded my passengers." Kirk stood up. "I'm going to have a word with Chekov, unless you think I shouldn't..."

"I think you should, and the sooner the better."

***

"Yes, what is it?" Kirk looked up from the game of chess and noted that McCoy looked worried.

"Trouble."

The Captain sighed. There had been a time, not so long ago, when trouble meant Klingons, or Romulans, or something new and interesting. Trouble had become horribly home grown and predictable of late.

"What's he done now?"

"I have Ensign George in my sickbay with a dislocated jaw."

"And Chekov?"

"Well, if someone picks fights with security guards, he's got to expect to end up a little bruised. He'll be on the sick list for a couple of days."

"Hell. I'm short of personnel already. How did it happen this time?"

"I think that's almost irrelevant, Captain. This is becoming a pattern."

"But why, Bones? If you can't tell me why this time, then why every other time..?"

"I think he's decided that since he's bad, he might as well be horrid."

"What?"

"'When she was good, she was very, very good, but when she was bad, she was horrid.' Sounds like our ensign, don't you think?"

"Could you start at the beginning, Bones? I didn't sleep too well last night. I'm not up to guessing games."

McCoy paused to think what he was going to say, which worried Kirk. The doctor normally had a bull-in-a-china-shop approach to communication of any kind that wasn't strictly bedside.

"When we had those Klingons aboard, we all did some things that were a little difficult to deal with afterwards."

"Yes, but..."

"I think what Chekov did, in his eyes, was a little worse than what the rest of us came up with."

"It would have been, if he'd been responsible for it." Kirk was silent for a moment, reliving the killing frenzy, and the ability of one's victims to seemingly rise from the dead. "But he wasn't."

"He may have been asking himself, why he was the only one that happened to..."

"He was probably the only one who had the opportunity."

"Maybe. But I think it's knocked his self-image for six. He's trying out a new one."

"Isn't that something we all do when we're twelve or so?" Kirk said impatiently. "He's an adult. He must surely have noticed that this new Chekov isn't universally popular."

"He was probably too busy with his homework when he was twelve. He had to work damned hard to get into Starfleet. He wasn't in any of the preferred categories."

"Okay, Bones. I know I walked in on my father's coat tails."

"I didn't mean you, particularly." McCoy glanced around the rec room for evidence in support of his thesis. "But, say, Sulu would have been given credit for his colonial background, Uhura is just natural talent, that new batch of ensigns, you should look at their records and see who pulled strings on their behalf. Chekov just had to be better than the other four, five hundred similar candidates for the place he got. He probably hasn't dared put a foot out of line since he was seven. Which is fine, so long as being good is what he wants to do, what he thinks he is."

"And if he doesn't? I mean, does this lead to something that I can do about the situation?"

"You can remind him where the boundaries are. Let him know he can't behave like this."

"Now we've regressed to what parents are supposed to do with two-year-olds."

"For all I know, he may already have set his sights on the Academy before he was out of diapers. You could have to work through a whole mess of missed developmental milestones."

"You are being flippant, aren't you?"

"Yes. But the advice remains the same. You have to show him now that you won't tolerate this. Otherwise something's going to break. It might be his career, or it might be someone else's neck."

"Or some security guard's jaw."

***

Ensign George, a temporary plastic brace meshed over several of his white, even teeth, stood up when the Captain came into sickbay. "Sir, could I have a word with you?"

"Yes, Ensign. Sit down." Kirk followed his own suggestion and pulled up a chair. "What is it?"

"I wanted to say that this was my fault. Before it gets any further. I started the fight."

"Well, thank you for your frankness, George. Could I ask why you started it? Not completely out of the blue, presumably?"

"No, sir. But..."

"Ensign Chekov gave you some reason?"

"He was just... rubbing me up the wrong way. I lost my temper. I guess, training to get in the first strike, to take any advantage you can, I let it happen when it wasn't appropriate."

"Mm. You do have to draw that line between duty and pleasure. I gather you're not the only one who's decided it would be a pleasure to land one on Ensign Chekov lately."

George looked grateful for this measure of understanding. "I'm sorry, sir. I guess I know he's been a bit touchy recently. I should have just steered clear. I'm not trying to wriggle out of this, sir. But I think someone should tell him he's way out of line. I shouldn't have hit him, I know. But, well, he asked for it. He was looking for a fight, and I gave him one."

McCoy had left Chekov in a treatment cubicle to await his Captain, and the ensign was leaning against the wall kicking a desk chair round and round on its central pedestal. He stopped belatedly when Kirk put a hand on the chair back.

"Well?"

"Captain?"

"When I was about four I used to be able to wind my brother up into a rage without ever doing anything I could be punished for. Who did you practice on?"

"Sir?"

"Either a large number of my crew are out to get you, or you're doing something to provoke them. This is the third incident you've been involved in this week..."

"I know. I can count."

"Ensign!"

If he expected Chekov to apologise, he was disappointed.

"I haven't done anything against regulations. I can't help it if..."

"If what?"

"Nothing."

"If Ensign George had had any intention of bullying you, and I don't say it can't happen, but he is about the unlikeliest person you could choose to accuse of it, you'd be in sick bay, not him."

"I was lucky."

"No, Mister, you were not lucky. Not by any measure I understand. One more incident like this and I'm going to throw the book at you. For the moment, you're on an extra three hours a day of the most pointless duty I can devise for you."

Chekov actually smiled. "Thank you, sir."

***

The clip on the corner of the shelves, not properly positioned in the first place, sprang off the pole. The shelf resting on it collapsed, catching the ensign's palm between two layers of metal. He forced them apart with his left hand and freed the other. The deck officer came across and put out his own hand, inviting Chekov to show him the damage.

"Just skinned knuckles. It's nothing."

"If you'd slow up a bit and do it properly that sort of thing wouldn't happen." When this elicited no response, the d.o. tried again. "After all, you're here for three hours whether you finish it or not. What's the hurry?"

The cargo holds of the Enterprise were echoing, empty spaces. Since no one could predict what the ship might be called upon to carry, from livestock to hazardous chemicals, a variety of demountable storage systems were provided, none of which were very satisfactory. The heavy shelving was the worst. It was so cumbersome and difficult to use that it tended to be thrown back into its lockers after each outing, damaged and muddled. The thought of Chekov spending three hours a day sorting it out, performing maintenance and listing damaged components for replacement was giving Kirk no satisfaction. He'd drawn the same assignment himself, many years ago, although through necessity rather than discipline, and could think of no better method of teaching a young officer the value of keeping your temper, organising your priorities and above all making sure you never had to do that again.

Chekov silently applied silicon lubricant to the joints of a cross member that had been jammed into a buckled bracing strut. His head ached from the bright lights of the cargo bay, his muscles ached from the unaccustomed exercise. None of his knuckles retained any of their original covering, and he was only through one hour of the first of fourteen stints of this. Worst of all, the d.o.'s tactful silence was driving him mad.

He couldn't even indulge himself by blaming Kirk for being a tyrant. He knew that, if anything, he'd got off rather lightly on this occasion. It was as if the Captain knew he was sliding down to self-destruction and saw no need to give a him a shove along the way.

That one blow aside, Kirk had done nothing about Chekov's attack on Mara, said nothing after he'd stopped Chekov in the corridor with an invitation to talk that had been turned down oh so politely. The ensign had dared to hope that the incident was finished with, had tried to forget it himself. Then the nightmares had started. Not just Mara, but other women, some real, some imaginary, all helpless and screaming to him for mercy that he wouldn't give. He hated himself more for the nightmares than for the reality.

"Finished?"

Chekov was just stowing away the last of the components, in their proper places, all in good working order, all listed on the computer, location and condition confirmed. The first of ten lockers was indeed finished. Unfortunately, it was the smallest of the ten. Tomorrow, he'd start on the heavy duty stuff. The deck officer had wandered off ten minutes ago, when the three hours was up, but Chekov had stubbornly continued until he'd achieved his own personal target for the day.

"The Captain doesn't pay overtime, you know," Sulu continued, trying to keep his voice unworried.

"Are you here on business?"

"No. I just came down to drag you..."

"Then get out of here. I don't want to be dragged anywhere, thank you."

The lieutenant couldn't conceal his concern now. "Come on, Chekov, it's no good sulking."

Chekov wanted so much to just sit down on the deck, put his aching head into his bruised hands and let Sulu tell him it would all be all right, but he knew he didn't deserve a rest, didn't deserve the pain to stop, most of all, didn't deserve a friend who'd stay by him whatever he did.

"I'm not fucking sulking. Will you take your...

"You'd rather be on your own?"

Chekov didn't answer, managing to convey scathing contempt without words. The relief when Sulu turned round and walked away was so good, he just wanted to curl up round the desolation and hang on to it for ever.

***

It was an act of desperation, really, to ask Spock to speak to the ensign. Apart from the close working relationship that the two men still, apparently, enjoyed, there was only one reason to involve Spock, and that was the fact that Kirk could trust him to keep his temper. As McCoy had suggested, it did seem as if Chekov needed to test the limits, to find out how far his superiors would let him go. Spock's ability to keep responding logically might be intensely frustrating for the young man, but at least it wouldn't end in violence.

"I am compiling the duty rotas for the survey work in the Emmaeus system," Spock duly announced without preliminaries when he arrived in the briefing room the following morning. Chekov put down the report he was working on and looked up.

"Your recent disciplinary record gives me some cause for concern," the Vulcan continued in the same even tone. "If there is any likelihood that you will be unavailable due to injury or restrictions placed on you by the Captain, I cannot include you in the team."

This announcement seemed to come as a bolt from the blue to the ensign. He pushed his chair away from the table, the better to look up at Spock with what appeared to be genuine dismay. "That's not fair. I can't help it if everyone's been down on me since... since I..."

"I am not concerned with the fairness of the situation, ensign. Simply with its practical consequences. If you can reassure me that you will be available throughout the next seven days for whatever shifts I require you to stand, and that your work will be up to the necessary standard..."

"What's wrong with my work?"

"Your recent performance has been disappointing."

Chekov lowered his eyes and pulled his report back towards him. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll make sure it improves. And - I'll do my best to stay out of trouble."

"I trust your efforts will be sufficient," Spock responded. "Please call up the files on the asteroid distribution survey."

While Chekov concentrated on the computer, Spock worried that he'd somehow missed the point here. There had been no evidence of the pushing of limits Kirk had described. Chekov was plainly taken aback by Spock's comments, but that was all. Perhaps, the Vulcan considered reluctantly, he should do more.

"You say that 'everyone has been down on you'? What exactly do you mean? And since when?"

"Since the... since the Klingons were on board, sir. People just seem to take any excuse to get into an argument, or start a fight. I can... I can understand it."

"Why? It seems incomprehensible to me that anyone should wish to create trouble, for you or for themselves."

"Because of what I did."

"You did not harm any of the personnel of this ship."

"I know. But that isn't the point."

"Then what is?"

"Well, there are some things you just don't do. And I did one of them. I can't be punished for it, but people still want to let me know they think it was unacceptable."

Spock was silent while he absorbed this idea. "You feel you are being subjected to an informal disciplinary process."

"Yes."

"Fascinating. And do you consider this - acceptable?"

"I don't see what I can do about it, sir."

"Do you feel that you deserve it in any sense?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Everyone else was just fighting. Maybe I... Well, maybe every woman on this ship has the right to walk out if we're left alone together. Maybe the men should be worried about what I'll do to their girlfriends..."

"It seems to me that you, and the rest of the crew, if you are correct about their motivation, are placing too much emphasis on something that happened in abnormal circumstances."

"No one else reacted the way I did. I was the one it happened to."

"How clear is your recollection of the events of that day? Of your own motivation?"

"Not very."

"Would it help if I..."

"Sir?"

"I could assist you to review those events in an objective manner, to weigh up what occurred in the light of what you believed at the time."

"You mean a mind-meld?"

"Yes, although at a most superficial level. I would merely assist in accessing memories which are currently confused and blurred by a strong emotional content."

Chekov unconsciously moved a fraction of an inch back in his seat. The idea was attractive. To remember why he had behaved as he had, to know the extent to which the alien was responsible... That made sense, even set against his natural aversion to the whole concept of having someone else, and not just someone, but Spock, whose good opinion he valued almost above anyone else's, reaching into his mind. What did not make sense was the hungry desire he felt to take the Vulcan up on his offer. Exactly like the compulsion that made him pick up on every half-imagined insult, rub on every raw nerve and square up to the Captain like a bare knuckle fighter.

"If you think it will help..."

Spock rose from his seat and came round to stand beside the ensign. "Try to relax. This will not hurt, but..." He placed his strangely hot finger tips on Chekov's temples and cheekbones. "Your mind to my mind..."

Spock expected disorder, good intentions mingled with the milder deficiencies of mankind. Instead, a surge of raw, hungry hatred battered into his mind and bore his sense of himself away like flotsam.

It sought out its own likeness deep inside him, so far under the constraints of Vulcan training and conditioning that it touched on something he only knew he possessed because the tales of Surak needed to paint a villain black enough to balance that personification of light.

"Mister Spock?"

Chekov twisted in his chair to look up at the Vulcan. He didn't know what a mind-meld was supposed to feel like, but he was pretty sure you should feel something.

Spock let his fingers fall away from the ensign's face. "I don't think this is necessary," he said, in a detached voice that didn't sound quite like himself. "It's obvious what happened."

"Sir?"

"You found yourself alone with a Klingon woman. You were aware that the crew of this ship, and our Klingon visitors, were behaving in a manner that would not normally be considered acceptable, and you realised that sooner or later an explanation would be discovered for this aberration. You concluded that you therefore had an opportunity to indulge in criminal behaviour, with negligible risk of sanctions."

Spock had moved round so that he now faced the ensign. Chekov's face was frozen into disbelief. "No, Mister Spock. I didn't think that. I'm not quite sure what I was thinking. I was very angry, I know, but I did not think that."

"Of course, in the circumstances it would be difficult to prove anything against you."

"I didn't think that. I swear I didn't."

"But in the interests of justice and discipline, and since I know exactly what did happen, although it might not be admissible as evidence, it seems to me that the informal sanctions you believe to be in operation are insufficient. Stand up."

"Sir, if I did... if I did take advantage of the situation..."

"Be silent."

It wasn't until Spock thundered out that order that Chekov saw through the veil of his own misery and realised that something was deeply wrong with the first officer. The Vulcan's face was remorseless vengeance personified.

"Remove your tunic."

"Sir?"

"You do not deserve to wear the uniform of a Star Fleet officer. Remove it."

Chekov hesitated just too long. Spock one handedly slammed him back into the wall behind him. He hit it with such force that his teeth rattled in his head. Under Spock's cold, relentless surveillance he forced himself to stand upright away from the wall and pull the gold velour over his head. He looked at it for a moment, then folded it carefully in two and put it over the back of a chair.

Spock reached under the table and gave a sharp tug to a length of flex, disconnecting it. The monitor set into the table top faded to black.

"What are you going to do?" Chekov stared at the cable but was still unprepared when it struck him. He reached out blindly to catch Spock's wrist and stop him, only to have his own arm caught in the Vulcan's iron grip. The next blow ripped across his chest. When he struggled, Spock dug his nails into the flesh of his upper arm and raised the cable again. He flung up his hands to protect his face and half turned his back, just in time for this blow to land squarely and stagger him to his knees.

"No, Mister Spock, you can't do this!"

The force in the Vulcan's arms was beyond anything he could resist. From his knees he fell forward onto all fours. Within another three blows he'd curled up, his arms over the back of his head, his singlet in tatters and his face pressed into his knees to smother the screams that each new assault seemed to cut out of him.

When it stopped he remained perfectly still, incapable of thought, of sound, even of anger. The appalling reverberating pain in his back and shoulders seemed to soak up all his emotion.

"Get up."

He didn't think he could. Somehow he turned his head and rolled over onto his side. Spock was calmly slotting the connectors at the ends of the cable back into their sockets. He seemed unaware that the cable itself was slick with blood. When he'd finished he turned back to the ensign.

"Is something wrong, Mister Chekov?"

Either Spock wasn't going to acknowledge what he'd done, or he couldn't. Chekov didn't know how to begin to respond to the first officer's inquiry.

"Please clear up in here before you leave."

"What's the matter, Bones?"

The doctor raised his eyes blearily from a cup of very black coffee. "Nightmares."

"What? That's not like you..."

"Not me, Captain. Your crew. I had a dozen people in to see me before breakfast. All complaining about dreams - violent, extraordinary dreams. One or two who share cabins woke their room-mates up apparently screaming the place down."

Kirk's own breakfast tray was forgotten. "Any common themes..."

"No. All things they already knew they were terrified of, or had experienced in nightmares before. Spiders, being chased through glue, bereavement, although in horrifying circumstances. Absolute classic night horrors. And I've checked the atmosphere, and all the other obvious environmental triggers." He glanced around to check that the first officer wasn't in earshot. "And Spock..."

"Spock's been having nightmares?"

"Vulcan's do dream, Jim. The same way we do. With the same lack of conscious control over those dreams and the same lack of memory usually. I had understood their dreams tend to be abstract on the whole..."

"What, like abstract painting?"

"Who knows? Spock claims to have had detailed, violent dreams of assaults on one of the officers of this ship..."

"Assaults by whom?"

"By himself."

Kirk shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Could it just be stress? We missed out on shore leave when we tore off to deal with the distress call from..."

"The fact of the dreams themselves is stressful. Apart from that, he's overworking at about his normal level. If I told him to take a rest it would probably do more harm. Anyway, the Emmaeus survey's all but over. He can rest if he feels he needs it."

"Spock's dreams involve him as the aggressor, while everyone else is the victim... is that the case?"

"Of the incidents reported to me. Of course, people might be less likely to report dreams in which they assault their shipmates. Whereas Spock..."

"Keep me posted. How about Chekov?"

McCoy looked taken aback. "How... Oh, no, he hasn't reported anything."

"I meant generally. He doesn't seem to have taken a step out of line since I spoke to him after that bust up with Ensign George last week."

"Hmm."

"That's bad?"

"I've hardly seen him. But since you have him working extra duty..."

"You were the one who told me to lay down limits."

"I'll find an excuse to have a word with him. In the meantime, Jim, if you can persuade the powers that be that we really need some shore leave... I think it might solve a good many minor problems."

"Have you finished your report?"

Chekov looked at Spock out of eyes dark with lack of sleep. The survey team had spent a long day tying up the sensor readings on the anomalous pre-solar Emmaeus system, filling in gaps in their observations and trying to make enough preliminary sense of the data obtained to know if they needed more readings before they left. Just thirty minutes earlier, the Captain had decided it was time to go. The scientists had battened everything down, relief and satisfaction at a job well done very much in the air.

"We're... uh, we're meeting in the rec room for a drink, Mister Spock, just to blow off some steam..." Lieutenant Clore felt himself slipping into semantic difficulties. "We'd be pleased if you'd join us, sir."

"I may do so shortly."

"Chekov? Are you coming up?"

It was the first time in weeks, it seemed, that anyone had expressed any desire to socialise with the ensign. He shied away like a teased cat. "No."

"Please yourself." Clore shrugged, offended, and turned to follow the rest of the team.

'Don't go...' Chekov wanted to shout after him. 'Don't leave me alone here...'

"Your answer, Ensign?" Spock continued as if the interruption had never happened.

"Uh, not quite, sir. The data is all correlated, but I have not yet written the..."

"Let me see it." Spock held out his hand for the padd Chekov was using. The ensign fumbled it, let it crash face down onto the table. "Mister Chekov, when I spoke to you before the survey commenced, I said that I required an improvement in the standard of your work and in your general behaviour. That improvement had, I thought, been forthcoming. I asked you about your report now merely to check that you weren't having any difficulty with it, and to allow an opportunity for me to comment privately on your performance. Why are you behaving as if you expect something unpleasant to happen?"

"I don't, sir."

Spock took the padd from him and plucked the control stylus out of his other hand. As he did so, their fingers brushed momentarily.

Spock squeezed his eyes shut, as if suddenly afflicted by a migraine. When he opened them again, Chekov knew he was in trouble. He backed up a couple of paces and hit the wall of the lab. "Mister Spock... please..."

The Vulcan picked up a stool with slender steel legs. He wrenched one of them free of the clamp that held it in place and dropped the remains to the floor. Chekov put up his hands to protect himself. "No..."

The first blow was merely a warning, knocking the ensign's hands clear so that Spock could grab his shoulder and force him face down across the table in the middle of the room. The second blow fell across his back, the third on his shoulders. "No..." Chekov sobbed again. This time there was some response, this time Spock actually stopped. The ensign almost didn't dare move for fear of provoking a fresh attack, but the building terror at what Spock might be doing instead eventually forced him to lift his head and look. Spock had gone.

***

"Are we talking about crop circles?" McCoy demanded of the hapless Cultural Attaché to Hamidi IV.

"Uh..." the man began, and ground to yet another embarrassed halt.

Spock looked up from something he'd until then been finding far more interesting than the diplomatic difficulties between Star Fleet and the superstitious Hamidii. "The twentieth century Terran phenomenon of so-called crop circles was generally considered at the time to be the result of a combination of unusual meteorological micro-systems and inventive hoaxers. No natural mechanism was ever identified for their creation."

"Well, there are no hoaxers on Hamidi III," the cultural attaché pointed out. "There isn't anyone. But for the last several thousand years, there have been circles. Great big ones visible to the naked eye on occasion. And since they've had the optical technology, they've been finding smaller ones."

"Just circles?" Kirk queried. "I'd be more inclined to believe there was intelligence at work if the shapes varied..."

"They do," Spock informed him, and handed over the tricorder that had been absorbing his attention for the last ten minutes. Kirk scrolled through the file. It started with ancient Hamidii texts containing representations of the larger 'circles' that the primitive people had been able to discern on the surface of their sister planet long before they learnt to grind lenses. The term was a generalisation for a variety of ellipses, circles and patterns of circles.

"Has anyone from linguistics had a look at this?" the Captain queried. "If you have several thousand years worth of these patterns..."

"The Hamidii put a religious interpretation on the whole thing, Captain Kirk. They haven't been very willing to release records to us for scientific analysis. And the larger circles don't change particularly quickly. This one..." The attaché nodded to the current display on the screen. "...has been forming over the last fifty Terran years. And because of the way they identify Hamidi III with their deities there's been a reluctance to investigate. They've actually had the capability of interplanetary travel for about two centuries. They've been to the outer planets, but not their nearest neighbour."

"And they don't mind us going?" Kirk asked.

McCoy could tell the Captain's curiosity was aroused, but he suspected that almost anything, bearded women and plagues of frogs included, might have interested Kirk at the moment. The prospect of a round trip to Star Base Seven, in the company of two of the most by-the-book Admirals in the Fleet, wasn't exactly filling any of the crew with eager anticipation.

"I think they see it as a happy compromise," the diplomat admitted, the corners of his mouth lifting in a rare smile. "If the Gods do react with thunderbolts, none of them will be in the firing line."

"But if they haven't been curious enough to go and look before now..."

"It isn't curiosity. They've reached the bio-crisis. Get out or cut back. Hamidii III, unless it really is the local home of the Gods, is habitable, exploitable... just what an overcrowded, mined-out planet needs."

"So what's in it for us?" Kirk demanded, shooting a teasing look at Spock.

"An opportunity for the Captain to avoid travelling some fourteen light years under the disapproving gaze of Admiral Comber," the Vulcan replied perceptively.

"Oh well, when you put it like that..." McCoy drawled.

The attaché sat up. "You mean you will? We could have sent one of the local shuttles, but we felt that it was... well, that there was an element of risk. That you were better equipped for the mission, that is."

"You'll get to Starbase Seven in what... four days?"

"I'm sure that Mister Scott could be persuaded that the warp engines will benefit from a 'nice long run at a tidy lick'," Spock suggested. "We could be there and back in... seven point four days, without suggesting to the Admirals that we weren't enjoying their company."

McCoy looked suspiciously at the Vulcan. While his comments were delivered in his normal neutral tone, he definitely gave the impression of being very much behind Jim's attempts to find an excuse not to come to Starbase Seven with the ship. Could it be that the Vulcan wanted to do something during those seven point four days that he knew Kirk wouldn't permit? It wasn't that far-fetched an idea, the doctor told himself. It wouldn't be the first time Spock had treated the Enterprise as being at his own disposal, or even the second. McCoy made a mental note to turn down the opportunity to join the jaunt to Hamidii III, if it was offered. He might be needed on board.

"I'm not sure how interested I am in crop circles," Kirk said thoughtfully, "but there are some other problems that might be solved more easily off the ship than on it."

"Like what?"

Kirk didn't answer McCoy's question, but looked significantly at the attaché. The young man took the hint.

"Well, we'd be very grateful, Captain, if you found you could fit this in with your other duties. It's close at hand, I know, but it's still the unknown."

"What sort of problems?" McCoy wanted to know immediately the three officers were alone.

"Chekov," Kirk admitted. "I keep telling myself to keep on top of him but he does just enough right to be able to avoid an all out confrontation. On a survey shuttle, he's not going to be able to keep out of my way."

"I would prefer not to be responsible for him," Spock said unexpectedly.

"Why?"

Spock hesitated uncharacteristically, as if he'd said that without having the reason readily to hand. "He is unpredictable, a distraction to the remainder of the crew and... I find him irritating."

"Well, I never," McCoy responded.

Kirk frowned. "You think he's setting out to annoy you deliberately?"

"I don't think he has singled me out, but he is determined to annoy everyone and I am not excluded. He is... quite good at it."

"Oh. Well, I intend to include him in the landing party, so you needn't worry about it."

"If you're thinking of taking all the bad boys, there are one or two others I could suggest," McCoy proposed.

"Hold on a minute," Kirk objected. "This isn't an outward bound trip for problem cases. I'll need someone from linguistics, an exo-biologist, at least one, a shuttle pilot or two, an environmental specialist, maybe a meteorologist..."

***

Back on board, Kirk watched his selected team preparing for the visit to Hamidii III, while the rest of the crew ground their teeth and made sure everything was regulation prior to the arrival of Admirals Comber and Gearing.

Uhura was running over modifications to the shuttle's communications systems with a relatively newly transferred ensign, Yann Mihalchenko, a lanky blond whose enthusiasm for circuitry was becoming a shipboard joke. Kirk had no reservations about taking him along. Most of the rest of the eight man crew were reliable enough too. Sulu would be second in command. Clarke, the current temporary Security Chief, was included because his secondary field was linguistics. Kirk was wary of intelligent Security people, they so often disagreed with his tactics, and weren't afraid to say so. Clarke at least was guarding his tongue for the moment. He was too new aboard to criticise.

McCoy, by way of including "bad boys", had given Kirk Ensign Bowyer as combined life sciences/paramedic. "He's competent," the surgeon explained. "He passes his exams, he comes through simulations with flying colours, he follows orders to the last decimal place, but oh... Present him with a real patient with a headache and by the time he's weighed up all the options and debated the issues... I'd like him to be in a situation where he can't come running to me. He's got no confidence in his own judgement. There's no way I can fake a critical situation in sickbay..."

"But can he cope if we hit one while you're away? You know communications are a problem..."

"I know he can do it, Captain. All you have to do is convince him."

***

Kirk rounded the end of the shuttlecraft and stopped dead. Chekov immediately took a step back from whatever he'd been doing, but made no real attempt to conceal what was happening. The water container continued to pump its contents out onto the ground from a split along the seam. Ensign Mihalchenko stuck his head out of the hatch, obviously unaware of the Captain's presence. "Dammit, Chekov, I told you not to throw those canisters out. We're already on tight rations."

"Come and help me," Kirk snapped and Mihalchenko jumped guiltily down to the ground. Between them, the two men rolled the container over so that the damaged area was uppermost and the leakage stopped. It was obvious what had caused the problem. A small boulder with a jagged point lay a metre or so from the shuttle hatch. Someone impatiently and carelessly rolling the canisters out of the hold could easily drop one on the lump of rock, causing it to split under its own weight. Kirk was unaccustomed to his crew being careless and impatient.

"Get something to patch that and finish unloading the rest. Mister Chekov, start walking, that way." Kirk pointed out into the wide grassland that stretched to the distant, oddly flat horizon. The ensign surveyed the vast openness and turned back to confront his Captain. "What for?"

"Because you don't want to know what I'll do to you if you don't... now!"

Kirk let him march due north until they were well out of earshot of the camp. When he stopped, at Kirk's command, his face was resentful. Kirk tried not to react to it.

"This mission has no slack. And I don't just mean wasted water. I mean people who don't want to pull their weight. I included you on this team as a last chance. I wanted to give you one final opportunity to pull yourself round before I wrote you off."

Chekov was standing there as if he hadn't even heard what the Captain was saying. When Kirk's glowering silence finally got to him, he just said, "And?"

"One more incident, anything, and you're off the Enterprise at the next crew rotation. If necessary, you'll spend the next four days under guard and go back to the brig. Do you understand me?"

Chekov raised his eyes to where the Enterprise was no longer in orbit above them. "Perfectly, Captain."

"Chekov, I hope you're not going to force me to do that."

"I know I will. I can't help it. Trouble just finds me."

"That's a very poor excuse. I'd have thought you could have come up with something better."

"I'm not trying to make excuses. I can see what's happening but I can't control it. I just don't know why..."

"Why won't you let Doctor McCoy do anything?"

"I have!" Chekov's tone was belligerent, then he quietened down again. "He's run all the tests. He says he can't find anything wrong. The only alternative is that I'm psychologically disturbed, and I know I'm not, so why waste time..."

"You said you couldn't control yourself. That's not a mental illness, necessarily, but it's a problem you can tackle if you want to. Promise me you'll talk to him about it and I'll forget what I said earlier."

Chekov seemed to take an inordinately long time thinking that over, but eventually he said, "Yes, I'll talk to him. But it won't do any good."

The planet was so silent. Even the gentle breeze had ceased to whisper in the stiff, dry stems of the endless grass.

A soft noise suddenly lanced through the tension, only to wind it up a notch further. It was a low, throaty growl, on a world where nothing yet had a throat.

"Don't move," Kirk ordered, pulling his tricorder round in front of him and beginning to adjust the sensors. Chekov obediently remained absolutely motionless but he spoke in an undertone.

"It's behind you, Captain."

Kirk glanced up at the ensign, unwilling to turn and looking for some clue in the other man's face as to what was behind him. Chekov's face wasn't very revealing, oddly contorted as it was by an intense mix of fear and - what? Elation? Chekov kept talking, very quietly. "It's a reptile of some sort, I think. It must have been moving through the grass on its belly, but it has reared up on its hind legs now. It is approximately two metres in height and I would estimate its mass at around two hundred kilograms. Its teeth appear to be adapted for tearing flesh..."

"Your phaser, Mister Chekov. The taxonomy can wait."

Funny how, even having told Chekov that he was prepared to throw him off the Enterprise, Kirk felt no qualms as he waited with his life in the ensign's hands.

"It is advancing cautiously, but it is only five metres from your position. I would anticipate that if you move to reach your phaser, it will attack and knock you down before you can fire."

Then it struck Kirk, that Chekov might just be prepared to stand there and let the creature, whatever it was, attack.

"Your phaser, Ensign!" he hissed as sharply as he could without raising his voice.

"I didn't bring it with me, Captain. I wasn't expecting to leave the camp."

Kirk swallowed, almost gagging on anger. "Then do you have any other suggestions?"

"If I stand here until it attacks you, then while it is occupied I can return to the shuttlecraft. It is still advancing."

Compelling if momentarily redundant questions, like what the beast was doing on a world that wasn't supposed to have evolved even a basic spinal cord yet, and why Chekov's mother hadn't drowned him at birth, clamoured for attention in Kirk's brain. He began to edge his right hand across to his left hip and his phaser, his eyes all the time on Chekov's face. The trouble was, he didn't know what he wanted Chekov to do. The course of action the ensign proposed might well be the best chance they had for at least one of them to survive. And if Chekov hadn't cold bloodedly spelled it out, Kirk would quite likely have ordered him to do exactly what he was proposing.

Kirk had to gamble, on whether his phaser would be effective against the thing, whether it would indeed attack him immediately he turned, whether Chekov was correct in assuming it would simple-mindedly concentrate on one victim at a time. Well, Chekov had plainly opted out of the equation, although whether that was through cowardice or a desire to see his Captain ripped apart, Kirk had no way of telling. He'd have to take his own chances. He braced himself ready to move quickly. Then he stopped.

Without turning, as if he couldn't bring himself to look away from the thing, Chekov had begun to walk very slowly backwards. Something thundered past Kirk in a cloud of dust. His phaser cleared his belt and was up and aimed in one smooth action. He fired, playing safe with a shot that took half the creature's head away. The thing careered forward, momentum carrying it on so that it crashed into its intended victim and sprawled inelegantly on the grass. Chekov rolled clear. It still tried to get back onto its feet, blood fountaining from its neck, before it eventually collapsed and lay twitching among the crushed orange-yellow stalks.

Kirk shook his head to clear the rush of sick giddiness that greeted his escape. He was aware of shouts, of his people moving to help, but he was concerned that Chekov was still in danger of being crushed by the creature's final convulsions. He didn't want to vaporise the thing: they needed to know what it was, where it had come from. He kept his phaser trained on it until it stopped moving. Then he knelt down at Chekov's side. The ensign's eyes were open and alert. He was bleeding from a deep slash along the length of his left thigh, where, presumably, he'd been caught by one of the beast's hind claws.

"If you'd only run, it wouldn't have caught you." Kirk turned back to the thing and his stomach heaved. It was deliquescing like a salted slug. If it had ever had claws, no sign of them remained. "Don't move. Wait till Bowyer gets here."

"Yes, sir," Chekov replied, as dutifully as if nothing had happened between them prior to the monster's attack. He looked curiously peaceful.

"Pavel..."

"Yes?"

"What were you playing at? Why didn't you run? Why didn't you tell me what you were going to do?"

The ensign frowned. "You had to be frightened."

"I was frightened."

"But it didn't work. It wasn't enough. It still has to be me or it doesn't work." He said that as if he didn't expect Kirk to understand, then he looked his Captain in the face. "I wanted it to kill me."

Kirk caught hold of the younger man's hands and squeezed them so hard that it hurt both of them. "Why?"

Bowyer came skidding to a halt on the greasy plant stems, folding to his knees at Chekov's side and tumbling medical equipment out of his kit.

"Are you injured, Captain?" he demanded, already running his tricorder over the obvious casualty.

"Just a little shaken. I think his leg can wait. Get some readings of that - mess, before it disintegrates completely. I'm sorry, Ensign, but we need to know what it is. Do you need something for the pain?" As Bowyer turned away and contemplated the brownish-purple mess that was congealing in the harsh sunlight, Kirk looked for a hypo.

Chekov shook his head vehemently. "No. I don't want anything." The stubborn, aggressive edge was back in his voice.

"Well, you're getting it anyway," Kirk said with forced cheerfulness, administering a generous dose.

By now Sulu and Clarke were also examining the attacker. Sulu glanced across at Kirk. "What happened, sir?"

Kirk noted that Clarke was using his tricorder to monitor for any further attacks. "We need a perimeter guard around the camp. Whatever it was, we didn't see it coming until it was virtually on top of us. It looked as if it couldn't move that fast. I think it must keep down in the grass while it's stalking, until it gets relatively close to it's prey..."

"Then they must eat each other," Clarke offered shortly. "What was it? This mess could have been anything."

"It looked like a cross between an alligator and a tyrannosaurus. Teeth, claws, short limbs, about two metres tall when it was upright."

Sulu was moving away, following the creature's trail in the grass.

"It seemed to come out of nowhere," Kirk was continuing.

"It did," the helmsman confirmed. "Its trail starts here."

Kirk glanced down at Chekov to check he was still stable. He'd turned very pale, and his skin felt clammy. Shock, Kirk recognised, and began to unfold a thermal blanket. His attention was elsewhere however. "Mister Sulu, get back to the shuttle, and see if you can raise the Enterprise. If we're lucky, they're still in range. Unexpected dangerous wildlife is one thing, monsters that can appear out of thin air are quite another."

Sulu didn't hesitate. He could have called back to the shuttle using his communicator, but if they needed to work a little magic to get the signal across, he was the one to do it. He just ran, hoping Uhura was on duty and in good form.

They stretchered Chekov back to the shuttle. Bowyer set to work on the ensign's leg, reassuring the Captain that there was nothing to worry about. Sulu didn't have such good news.

"They're out of range, Captain. Given the ionisation in the atmosphere it's not surprising. It might be worth trying again after sun-down. The signal would be much clearer..."

"But they'll be that much further away."

"Yes. I've gone over all the sensor and tricorder readings anyone made from just before you were attacked. The creature registers as you'd expect given what we know. There's no clue as to where it came from."

"Thank you, Mister Sulu. We'll just have to work with what we have. We need perimeter sensors, plus someone on watch at all times. There's no reason to suppose that those things can't just pop up inside the camp. No one's to leave camp alone, or unarmed..."

"That's standing orders already."

"Not in Chekov's book, apparently." Kirk stopped, and realised he needed to talk to someone about what had just happened. "Lieutenant, I know you and he are friends..."

"We are? Could you tell him that?"

The lieutenant's interruption wasn't flippant.

"For a moment out there, I really thought he was going to stand by and let that thing rip me apart. He said he wanted to frighten me..."

Sulu's puzzled frown threw no light on Kirk's confusion.

"Well, whatever his reasons, I'm not prepared to risk people's lives with an officer who plays games in situations like that.

"You've decided to transfer him off the Enterprise?" Sulu looked less surprised than Kirk had expected, as if he'd long seen this coming. "He did draw it off for you...

"If he'd had his phaser, he wouldn't have needed to be a hero. If he'd been doing his job properly, I wouldn't have taken him out there to tear him off a strip. I'm afraid he's a danger to himself and everyone else. And..." He hesitated. "And I'm not sure he was trying to draw it off. I don't know what he thought he was doing."

"There has to be a reason for him to behave like this," Sulu said quietly.

"Well, if he knows what it is, he won't tell, and as far as McCoy is aware, there's nothing medically wrong with him. Believe me, if Bones could find an excuse, he'd have him under treatment like a shot. All his current behaviour allows us to do is discipline him or offer voluntary counselling. The first is water off a duck's back and he isn't interested in the second."

"I know, sir, but... It has to be something that's happened while he's been on the Enterprise. We can't just..."

"He doesn't seem to care. If he does care, he can ask for help. We're not a psychiatric hospital, if that's the problem, and I don't know that it is. What's happened to him that hasn't happened to everyone else?"

Sulu cast his mind back. "What hasn't? Triskelion? The Scalosians? Getting tortured by Klingons? He really was convinced they'd killed his brother. And..."

They looked at each other, both unsure how much the other knew about the events of their brief shipboard contretemps with the Klingons and the alien entity. Kirk didn't even really know how much Chekov remembered.

"He was pretty shaken by it," Sulu said, reckoning that he wasn't telling Kirk anything he didn't already know. "I mean, we all went a little over the top, but he... he wasn't sure how much was him, and how much was the alien."

"It was so completely out of character."

"That's what I told him. And I think Doctor McCoy talked to him too. If anything he seemed to get over it too quickly, or at least he didn't want to talk about it. Sometimes you can't tell if he's brooding."

"Hmm."

"Anyway, why would feeling guilty about that make him react like this?"

"If McCoy and Spock have taught me one thing between them it's that the human psyche isn't rational. You're right, Lieutenant, I hate to give up on him, but I can't indulge him at everyone else's expense. When it came to the crunch out there, I couldn't trust him. He did the right thing this time... or at least it turned out to be the right thing. Next time, someone might get killed. I don't know if he's lost his nerve or lost his sense of duty. Either way, he has to go."

Sulu glanced away at the huge sun that was just grazing the horizon. "Sir, if you want me to try raising the Enterprise again, I should do it now."

"Go ahead. And if you have any ideas about Chekov, I want to know about them."

"Of course, sir."

Kirk checked out what everyone else was doing. Most of the crew were off duty, if still watchful, and an impromptu, slightly subdued supper party had gathered around a camp fire. Mihalchenko and Bowyer were producing an odd mixture of American and Russian folk music with the help of a guitar and a harmonica, others were talking over the next day's activities, or simply trying to relax. Clarke was on watch. He had found a comfortable seat atop the shuttle that gave him unhindered views all round. When the sun set with heart-stopping suddenness he shouted down cheerfully, "Hey, turn the lights on!" Sulu left his fiddling with the radio to soak the camp in brilliant white floodlight.

Chekov sat with his back against the side of the shuttle, ignoring everyone and under instructions to rest his leg. Kirk had tried earlier to talk with him, about what had happened out in the long grass, about anything. Chekov's response was worn, clumsy politeness, as little like himself as anything else Kirk had observed in the last three months. Kirk noticed that no one else was making any attempt to keep him company.

He collected a couple of platefuls of food and went over to his navigator. "Have you eaten?"

"No, sir."

"Don't you think you should?"

Chekov stared at the food as if it were utterly alien. "I'm not hungry."

"Suit yourself." Kirk leaned against the shuttle and looked up at the star littered sky as he picked at the rations on his plate. "I don't mind whether you eat or not, but I'm not going to let you save my life and then just go down without a fight."

Chekov looked up in response to that. "I didn't save your life. I took the only action that gave me a realistic chance to survive. It might easily have knocked you down and then come after me. You don't owe me anything. If you want to throw me off the ship, why don't you do it? What do you want me to do? Ask you to change your mind? Beg?"

Kirk shook his head. "Just give me the least excuse to keep you on board."

"You're wasting your time."

The Captain felt like picking the ensign up and shaking him. "Everything I thought I knew about you has been called into question by your recent behaviour. I'm going to have to proceed on the basis that you are a danger to yourself and other members of the crew. It's up to you to prove me wrong."

Chekov looked away and Kirk thought he caught a glimpse of the old ensign, the one who would have been close to heartbreak if his Captain had said that to him.

"If you want to talk, if there's anything..."

"No, Captain. I'm sure it's only a matter of time before I prove you absolutely right."

***

Most of the party woke early when daylight arrived as abruptly as it had departed the previous evening. The silence of the grassland was eerie to people accustomed to bird song or insect choruses. The knowledge that inexplicable and undetectable monsters also lurked in the long grass cast a shadow of fear over the camp, but there was an air of determination to carry on as normal. As Kirk breakfasted, he listened idly to the two biologists, Landseer and Rutley, deep in some anecdote.

"...and then the mother goes off in pursuit of her mate, and the young suddenly find they've got to catch their own food. They're not big enough to drag it down, or fast enough to catch up with it, so they pull a neat little trick. They emit an ultrasonic vibration, which just grates on everything's nerves. Suddenly you've got a wildlife reserve full of hyper-tense herbivores goring each other. They had to eradicate them, and that played havoc with the food chain. In the end they had to replace the entire eco-system. And that's when they brought in the Deltan fire-wasps..."

"Oh, yeah, eating the host from inside. But there are no end of Terran equivalents..."

"But that's only half the story. Once the wasp has given everything it has to spare to the larva, the larva takes over the whole animal. It actually goes off and mates with other wasps, only of course, it isn't mating at all, it's laying more eggs. The cunning thing is, a prospective host that's in season is also brimming over with the particular nutrients that the new larva needs. When they hatch, they have very particular requirements for elements that are usually very rare on the planet. They quite quickly change over to needing a diet that the wasp can easily provide from its normal prey, but no one knows how this particular adaptation evolved. The wasp has no need for the nutrients. In fact they're poisonous. The little beast is storing up trouble for itself in order to feed the thing that will eventually kill it..."

Kirk stood up, knocking over a cold cup of coffee. "Where's Bowyer?"

Rutley glanced over. "He and Sulu are running some more tests on the remains of that beast. What we got was so screwed up, they decided to recalibrate the analyzer. But I think it was just a - screwed up beastie. Its biology made as much sense as a polar bear on Vulcan. It had to be an artificial construct, Captain."

"Yes, I agree. And Chekov?"

"I think he's doing something to the shuttle, sir. He must have had breakfast a while ago."

"I don't know why the Captain included Ensign Chekov in this tour in the first place," Landseer said once Kirk had passed out of earshot. "He's the worst troublemaker I've come across in all my time in Starfleet. I'm amazed Kirk hasn't kicked him out on his ass long since."

Rutley frowned. Landseer was a comparative new boy aboard the Enterprise, and hadn't really earned the right to criticise yet, especially about something the more established crew felt uncomfortably helpless over. "He's earned a certain amount of slack..."

"I heard he raped a Klingon prisoner. You call that a certain amount of slack?"

"Who told you that?"

"Someone in Medical."

"It's not true."

"Well, okay, I didn't really think it could be. Shall we get to work? "

Kirk walked into the middle of a row. Sulu had given up trying to calm down the two assailants and simply placed himself physically between them.

"I don't care what the protocol is," Bowyer snarled "All I'm asking is that you tell me when you're about to turn up the power to an experiment I'm half through with. Is that too much? Or are you just looking for trouble, because if you are..."

"You should have..."

"It wasn't bloody necessary." Bowyer turned and started at the sight of Kirk. His fists were clenched. He forced himself to stand to attention with great difficulty.

Kirk was concentrating on Chekov. "Yesterday, I told you..."

"And I told you that it would be a waste of time" Chekov interrupted.

"Mister Sulu, would you take Ensign Chekov outside, please. He's under arrest."

Chekov looked perfectly composed, as did the Captain.

"Ensign Bowyer, I have the beginnings of a theory about what's wrong with Chekov. Do you have the medical scans you did on him yesterday?"

"No, Captain. That's what our... disagreement was about. I had my medical tricorder plugged into the shuttle's sensors and he re-routed a power surge through it that wrecked it. I could recover the data back on the ship, but not here."

"Deliberately?"

"Well, it's hardly the sort of thing you do accidentally... sir." Bowyer still seemed to be quivering with rage.

"I meant, did he know exactly what you were doing? Is it possible that he knew it would wipe the medical records?"

Bowyer thought and shook his head. "No. He knew I was using the link, but I could have had any number of things switched through it." He seemed to calm down. "He just wanted to mess up whatever I was doing. To get me annoyed. And it worked. Doctor McCoy warned me. I should have been prepared. I'm sorry, sir."

"We have another medical tricorder?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

"I want Chekov monitored, as comprehensively as you can, continuously."

The paramedic sighed. "If I have to follow him around with a tricorder, it'll be a close call who ends up hitting who first. There was something that the scans I did showed up..."

The ear-splitting yowl of the perimeter alarms suddenly went off and Kirk flung himself at the controls of the shuttle, putting the sensors onto close scan. He didn't really need them. Clearly visible through the wide screen he could see another of the beasts sinking its teeth into Rutley, even as Landseer hit monster and victim with a stun shot.

Rutley slumped but the creature was still conscious. It had at least become relatively motionless, concentrating on its prey, as Landseer desperately powered up the phaser and began to pump lethal energy into his target. The thing was smoking before it finally collapsed.

Bowyer reached Rutley at almost that instant. He lifted the blackened corpse away from the biologist. "Damn. Damn." He was staring at the awful injuries as if he didn't know where to begin. Rutley's right arm was hanging by a few shreds of muscle and the right side of his face was mashed beyond recognition. Kirk crouched beside the paramedic and put a hand on his shoulder. "Fifty micrograms of Deomat to stabilise, then you may have to take his arm off, but hold on for a few minutes. I'll get the stuff you need."

"Yes, thank you, sir. I'll be all right."

"Landseer, get the medical field kit out of the shuttle. Mister Sulu, we can't stay here. I dropped the one that attacked yesterday with no difficulty. This one withstood a phaser blast that would have knocked out a Tellarite ironclad. Whatever they are, they can adapt..."

"It might not be the same thing, sir."

"The trouble is, we know nothing at all about what it might, or might not be. I'm not risking lives against unknowns like this. We'll pack up and take the shuttle back to Hamidi III."

"Yes, sir," Sulu responded evenly. "The medical facilities there shouldn't be too bad." He nodded towards Rutley. Bowyer was calmly doing all the right things now. The biologist looked very cold and white as Kirk drew near to check up on his condition.

"You're right, sir, I'll have to amputate his arm. But I'll put it in stasis, just on the chance that Doctor McCoy can do something..."

Kirk was looking intently at Rutley's face, searching for some sign that his injuries weren't as bad as they'd seemed. If anything, they were worse. "Yes, go ahead."

There was no objection from the rest of the party to the planned withdrawal. Packing was slowed by the need to maintain a watch. Kirk now had two people assigned to that. Bowyer was also out of it, leaving Sulu, Mihalchenko and himself to take down the sleeping domes and pack everything up. He was in two minds whether to involve Chekov. In the end he ordered the ensign to carry what had been packed over to the shuttle, reckoning that he couldn't really disagree with anyone over that. Chekov accepted the chore without comment.

Once they were half done Sulu dropped out to supervise stowing the cargo and ready the shuttle for launch. A couple of minutes later, he reappeared in the doorway, his face unnaturally pale. "Captain, can I have a word with you?"

Kirk abandoned the intricate folding that turned a twenty foot diameter dome into a package less than a foot on a side. "Yes?"

Sulu waited until Kirk was close enough for their conversation not to be overheard by anyone. "The emergency evacuation valve on the main fuel tank has been opened. And someone carried out a maintenance cycle on the system while it was open. We haven't lost any fuel but it's contaminated with exhaust residues. We can't use any of it."

"The reserve tanks..."

"Someone's pumped them through into the main tank. We've got about four hundred litres of usable fuel. Enough to achieve a low orbit, not maintain it. Not even long enough for someone from Hamidi III to come out and pick us up."

"I don't think they'd come anyway," Kirk said grimly. "I think they'd interpret our problems as divine retribution. You said 'Someone'..."

"It had to be Chekov. No one else would have known how to override the fail safes without setting off alarms."

"I would have..."

"Well, okay. Did you do it, sir? Because I know I didn't."

Sulu's reply was unusually short-tempered. Kirk shook his head patiently. "What about someone else entirely, not one of the party?"

"How can I tell? They can make monsters pop up from nowhere, maybe they could get inside the shuttle without us knowing. Whoever they are. If they are."

"We'll move anyway. In the hope that what we've experienced here is a local problem."

Sulu looked doubtful and Kirk grinned apologetically. "We don't want to be like the man who drowned in four feet of water because it didn't occur to him to try and stand up."

"And what about Chekov?"

"I had a theory, that might have explained all our problems at once. Only I think I've just disproved it."

"Sir?"

"I was beginning to wonder if the alien that attacked us might have left a part of itself behind."

"But..."

"I know. Rutley's injuries are not showing any signs of accelerated healing. And if it was the same alien, we'd all be at each other's throats." Kirk turned away suddenly and called out to Bowyer. The ensign came over at a fast trot. "How's Rutley?"

"Stable, sir. I can't do anything more here."

"No. I realise that. You said you'd spotted something on the tricorder scan of Chekov."

"Yes, sir. I'm not sure if Doctor McCoy knew about it, or whether I just misinterpreted the readings."

"What was it?" Kirk adopted a patient approach. He knew that Bowyer was operating outside his proper limits and that confidentiality was a potential minefield for paramedics operating with equipment that could casually spot serious genetic flaws, unannounced pregnancies and illegal drug use.

"He has a lot of very severe bruising. Mostly in the area of his back, shoulders and upper arms. I didn't examine him, obviously, but I'd say he's been badly beaten in the last ten days."

"What?" Kirk couldn't believe it. He could believe in the planet's pop-up monsters more easily than in something like that happening on his ship. "Sulu..."

The helmsman shook his head, plainly just as puzzled.

"I could be wrong," Bowyer emphasised.

"Ensign Chekov! Come here, please."

The Russian came, at a pace that almost demanded someone shout at him to hurry up.

"Did you touch the maintenance board on the shuttle this morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"For what reason?"

"Routine daily maintenance."

"Is opening the emergency evacuation valve on the main fuel tank part of that routine?"

"No."

"Then why did you do it?"

"I... didn't." There was no hostility in Chekov's manner.

"According to your medical scan, you've been injured in the past ten days. How did that happen?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." This time Chekov's face revealed clearly that he was lying, and anxious about it.

Kirk took a deep lungful of the irritatingly cold, dry air. He wasn't averse to disciplining a crewman in front of his colleagues but he disliked the circumstances that were making him do this to Chekov in full view of fellow officers he knew had little sympathy for the navigator's current difficulties.

"Take your shirt off."

A flash of fear lit up the ensign's eyes for a moment, then he shook his head. "No."

"I'll give you one more chance to obey that order."

Chekov didn't move.

"Sulu, I'm sorry to have to ask you, but I need to know what's going on here."

The lieutenant walked over to Chekov. "Come on, Pavel," he said softly. "It'll be easier if you do it yourself."

"I don't want to make it easy," Chekov informed him equally quietly.

Sulu pinned him against the side of the shuttle with one hand in the small of his back while he unfastened the neck of his tunic. The ensign could have made a fight out of Sulu's attempts to remove the garment but he chose not to. It fell to the ground and Sulu stepped clear so that Kirk could see what he had already seen. The bruises were too numerous to stand out distinctly. Broken skin was mended along all but the deepest of the cuts but stripes of unhealthy colour made a disorderly lattice.

"Who did this to you?"

Chekov maintained his silence.

"Ensign, you didn't damn well do this to yourself. I want to know who did it, now."

"Chekov..." So many unlikely scenarios to explain the sickening mess of injuries crowded into Sulu's mind that he had to fight to stop himself putting words into Chekov's mouth.

Kirk suddenly realised that he was cold himself, chill with shock. He stepped forward and picked up the fallen tunic, held it out to the ensign. "Put it on. I've seen all I need."

"It was Lieutenant Clarke, and some others from Security."

"What?" Kirk glanced across at the man Chekov was accusing and put a hand up to still the lieutenant's denials.

"I know you won't believe me."

"Why would he do that?" Chekov was right. Of course Kirk didn't believe it. But he could see there was nothing to be gained by wringing answers out of the ensign and then refusing to listen to them. And if not Clarke, then who?

"He said, if you were going to let me get away with rape, he wasn't."

"Why didn't you report it?"

"Because it would have been my word against theirs. And you'd accept theirs, wouldn't you? After all, I did attack that woman. You hit me yourself. Why would you care if someone else wanted to..."

Kirk swallowed. It seemed that everyone in the small camp was watching the two of them now. "I hit you because I needed to bring you under control and you'd demonstrated that you weren't about to obey my orders. I don't tolerate lynch law on my ship..."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"If you'd reported it at the time, Mister Chekov, I'd have investigated it and taken the appropriate action. It's a little difficult now..."

"You're going to let him get away with accusing me of running my department like a bunch of vigilantes?" Clarke demanded hotly. The Security Chief had joined the group by the shuttle, seething at the slur against himself and his men. "Captain, I wouldn't do something like that..."

"Have I said I thought you would, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir, but..."

"Then we'll drop it, at least for now. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Clarke didn't look happy.

"And when we get back to the ship, Mister Chekov, you'll explain your failure to follow the correct procedures."

"Yes, sir," Chekov said. "I was confused, in a state of shock." He was all righteous, innocent agreement now. Kirk could see Clarke's blood pressure going back off the scale.

"When we get back to the ship, ensign, we'll deal with whatever you imagined happened."

Chekov hugged his balled up tunic as if it were a lifebelt. "I didn't imagine it."

No. The bruises were real enough. Someone had laid into the ensign. But accusing Clarke was just one more example of Chekov's current willingness to make trouble wherever he could.

Kirk looked round at his team. One casualty, one officer under arrest and completely untrustworthy. One biologist, one security man, one paramedic, who was also supposed to be an environmental scientist, but had his hands full already, one green ensign and one good, resourceful lieutenant, who could fly the shuttle and command the whole party if necessary, but whose judgement he wasn't quite sure he could trust where Chekov was concerned, not in the present circumstances. Add to that a planet full of unexpected dangers and a shuttle that couldn't take them anywhere useful...

"Bowyer, this type of grassland covers virtually the whole planet, right?"

The ensign jumped on being addressed. "Yes, sir. Eighty percent of the land mass."

"Good. Work with Mister Sulu to find a location that's as different as possible to this. If those monsters are the local dominant life form, let's look for somewhere they don't occur naturally. We also want good visibility."

"But sir," Landseer objected, "we're supposed to be studying the grassland areas..."

"We've found something that could make your circles, haven't we?"

"They could, I suppose, but I'm not sure it's reasonable to assume that they do..."

"And I'm not sure it's reasonable to risk lives trying to find out whether they do or not. We already know that they attack humans and appear to be able to develop resistance to our weapons. That's enough for now."

"Yes, sir."

"So let's finish packing. Back to work, everyone, please. Mister Chekov, get dressed and assist Mister Landseer."

Landseer cut over to Sulu as the Captain went back to his origami. "I don't understand. If we can't do any more work, why don't we just leave?"

"Because we have insufficient fuel to leave or maintain orbit ."

The biologist's face paled. "How did that happen?"

Sulu shrugged. "We're not sure," he lied, not looking at Chekov.

Landseer was plainly dissatisfied with that but let it drop. Instead he turned to Chekov. "So it was true, then. You did attack a Klingon woman."

Chekov was pulling the sleeves of his tunic the right way out ready to put it on. He nodded. "Yes, Lieutenant. I did. I also contaminated the fuel in the main shuttle tank. Do you wish to know anything else ?"

"Damn you! Are you trying to get us all killed?"

"Mister Landseer! That will do. Get back to work." Sulu paused for a moment, waiting to see whether both men were going to obey him or defy him and continue to argue. Chekov finished pulling his tunic down into place.

"Okay, Ensign. Let's get those stores loaded." Landseer pointed towards a pile of crates. Chekov marched off to do as he was told.

Within ten minutes they were carrying Rutley on board and clearing up the last pieces of debris from around the camp. Apart from the broad area of trampled grass and the wide swathe of the track to where the monster had attacked Kirk and Chekov there was nothing to show for their brief stay. Even the remains of their two assailants appeared to have evaporated into nothingness.

"I thought you'd like this, sir." Sulu was making a tired effort to cheer his captain. A sudden storm had blown up soon after they took to the air, giving them a difficult choice between going high and wasting fuel or battling through the turbulence and flying on sensors. There was no question that Kirk could fly a shuttle but he was rusty. Although he wouldn't have admitted it, Sulu would rather have had Chekov co-piloting for him, even in his present unpredictable mood. Kirk looked round at the rain and wind swept rock plateau. The horizon was as flat and boring as before. Not even a stray boulder broke it up.

"It's a lava sheet. With no tunnels or gas bubbles big enough to hide a mouse. There's nothing for anyone to eat, and worse, there's no water, which is a problem for us too. If we stay here any length of time, we may have to fetch some drinking water. It's half an hour's flight to the nearest source."

Kirk smiled. "The ideal vacation spot. Thank you, Mister Sulu. Let's hope the monsters were just very good at creeping through the undergrowth. I want two people on watch at all times and we need lunch once the domes are set up. And Sulu..."

"Sir?"

"I sense a good deal of hostility towards Chekov."

"He told Landseer that he contaminated the fuel. I suppose Landseer's told everyone else. I'd say that..."

"Yes?"

"They're all relatively new on board, apart from Rutley. They have no reason to be very tolerant. If he's looking for a fight, they'll give him one, sooner or later."

"Then it's up to you and me to keep the peace, isn't it?"

By the time lunch was ready, Sulu was beginning to wonder if such a featureless spot had been a good idea after all. Landseer and Mihalchenko, sitting back to back atop the shuttle, were swapping folk songs in an effort to keep alert. Either they'd exhausted their repertoire of cheerful numbers or the grim mood of the day was affecting their choices. The helmsman pulled himself up the handgrips to give them their food and paused to scan the grey, unbroken skyline.

"There's really nothing out there, is there?"

"There wasn't anything out there when the last one hit," Mihalchenko said shortly.

Chekov had put most of the camp up single-handed, working with a good deal of anger in his movements, as if he held a grudge against every item of equipment. Kirk lent some assistance with the heavier items but mostly conserved his strength. As well as watching for monsters, his five active officers had to nurse Rutley and guard the Russian. They needed to rest when they could. If Chekov was exhausted, so much the better.

When he'd finished, Kirk brought him lunch, not encouraging him to join the others.

The ensign wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his uniform, sweat drenched now that the storm had blown past and been replaced by cloud filtered but oppressive heat.

"Am I in solitary?" he asked. He'd hardly spoken all morning and now his voice was subdued, almost sounding as if he did want someone to talk to.

"Sit down. I'll stay with you while you eat."

Chekov obeyed, crossing his legs and devouring the not very attractive rations with complete disinterest. Sweat, and the last of the rain, had matted his hair into rat-tails, and fine beads of moisture clung to the almost invisible hairs on the back of his neck. Watching him work, Kirk had noticed the injuries on his back and shoulders plainly bothering him, nearly healed though they were. He couldn't understand how no one had noticed the ensign's condition back on the ship, except that he'd been doing his best to isolate himself for weeks. Had someone been bullying him? It was difficult to credit in any circumstances, far more difficult to believe that Chekov, the old Chekov, wouldn't have turned to someone for help.

Clarke and Bowyer took meagre helpings of the mixed vegetables and rice. Without the stimulus of hard work, and in the growing heat, they couldn't find much enthusiasm for standard rations. Clarke's barely concealed frustration with Chekov was such that he was almost choking on his food. Sulu fetched cold water from the cooler in the shuttle and handed it round. Clarke nodded over at Kirk and Chekov. "What's there to say?"

"Mm?" Sulu responded through a mouthful of water chestnuts and cashew nuts.

"The Captain keeps talking to him. Why? You can't talk to someone like that."

"Well, someone beat him. The best thing the Captain can do for you is find out who that someone was." Bowyer drained his plastic beaker and put it down on the level rock.

Clarke was beyond even admitting the reasonableness of this suggestion. "Well, whoever did it, I reckon he deserved it. Look at everything he's done since we got here. Everything he can to make trouble. At our expense."

Sulu wondered how long ago he'd stopped being Chekov's friend, if these two, who'd been aboard the Enterprise nearly three months, could be so totally unaware that the relationship had ever existed.

"I don't know what's wrong with him at the moment, but if you'd been on the Enterprise a little longer, you'd know he's a good officer. He's just having some problems at the moment. He's also my friend. Okay?"

Clarke took another forkful of rice and chewed it slowly. "If you say so."

"Yes, sir." Bowyer sounded less sceptical but he still added hopefully, "Do you think that means he's not trying to kill us all?"

"Captain!"

The whine of phaser fire lanced through the air as the three men jumped to their feet. Another of the monsters, apparently a little smaller and faster but built on the same general pattern as the others, was coming at them out of nowhere. Mihalchenko and Landseer were both firing on it.

Sulu yelled "Scatter!" and dived for the cover of the shuttle, while the other two ran for the domes. Seemingly confused, as one clear target suddenly became three, the beast hesitated and began to look around. The phaser fire seemed to have no effect on it at all. It was between Kirk and Chekov and the rest of the camp and it decided that it had found the next meal. The two officers had drawn their phasers, Chekov's meal overturned. The ensign had half risen onto one knee and Kirk was standing with his hand on Chekov's shoulder, considering their adversary.

"Aim for its eyes, Mister Chekov. If that doesn't work, we'll move down to its belly. Now."

They shot, their actions simultaneous and accurate. The creature blinked dismissively.

"New target."

Again, the two men worked like one. The thing started to move in closer.

"You run for the shuttle. I'll go for the dome. Now!"

Kirk knew he was gambling, that one of them would make it, on an outside chance that both of them would get clear before it made up its mind which it would chase. He was halfway to safety before he realised Chekov hadn't moved. The ensign was still kneeling, face turned up to watch the slow approach of death as Kirk stopped and turned to go back to him.

"Captain, for God's sake!"

Landseer's voice joined in with Sulu's, but Kirk's feet were being dragged back in spite of all the urgings of common sense. The monster, clumsy at slower speeds, as if it kept its balance by running faster than it could fall, lumbered towards Chekov and stopped inches away from him, spittle drooling from its open mouth onto his face. Then it lowered its head in a long slow arc, teeth exposed to sheer off flesh as it made its pendulum swing. Six hearts stopped beating for an awful moment and the creature vanished.

Sulu came skidding to a halt on the dusty surface of the rock, just as Kirk reached Chekov too.

"What the hell did you think you were doing? Both of you?"

Kirk was shaking with rage and terror that had nowhere to go. Sulu looked slightly sheepish, but his hand was still clenched round a knife whose six inch blade gleamed dully in the sunlight. "We only know phasers don't work, sir."

Chekov wiped the slow, thick saliva from his face. His eyes were bright and feverish as Kirk hauled him unceremoniously to his feet with one hand clamped round his upper arm, forgetting his bruises. "You nearly got your wish this time. In future you obey my orders. Understood?"

When Chekov didn't answer, Kirk shook him. "Do you understand?"

He blinked, dragged himself back to the real world. "Yes, sir."

"Get everyone together. In the shuttle. Clarke, pull in the perimeter alarms. Reconfigure them to tell us if anything materialises out of nowhere inside the triangle of the shuttle and domes."

"We've got no defence, have we?" Bowyer said nervously.

"Sulu's knife might have worked," Clarke called back over his shoulder. "And it liked Chekov. We'll just have to keep him between us and them."

"The first one attacked him," Sulu pointed out.

"A scratch," Clarke disputed. "It was just a piddling little scratch."

The seven conscious members of the landing party crammed into the front half of the main shuttle cabin, leaving Rutley still unconscious at the rear. Chekov sat staring out of the window at the grey scene, swept by another unexpected squall of rain.

"We've been attacked three times. The second and third times, the creatures seemed able to withstand whatever we'd used against them the previous time..."

"You mean the next one will be able to eat Chekov?" Clarke demanded.

Kirk ignored him, but turned to the ensign. "Did you do anything, think anything, that might explain why it didn't attack you?"

"I just thought it was going to kill me. I thought it looked... familiar."

"There you are. It was an old friend of his."

"Mister Clarke, please." Kirk didn't sound angry, merely impatient. "The attacks have come at intervals of twelve and five hours. Did anyone see where the thing came from this time?"

"Yes, sir," Mihalchenko answered. "It just appeared. No visual distortion, transporter effect, anything like that. I didn't have my tricorder running, so I can only report what I saw. It was just there, already charging."

"What were we all doing when the first one appeared?"

Setting up camp, making preliminary readings, Kirk had been talking to Chekov, lecturing him, trying to get him to make some sort of stab at rehabilitating himself. And on the second attack Sulu had been talking to Chekov, while Kirk and Bowyer had been discussing what the tricorder had, or might reveal about Chekov's health, Clarke had been on watch, while Rutyer and Landseer had been eating and talking. Mihalchenko had been answering a call of nature. The final attack had hit them when they were all eating, on watch or not. Kirk had been with Chekov again. There was no common factor that might have stimulated an attack, no equipment in use, no signals from sensors or radio.

"Sounds like if no one talks to Chekov, it won't attack us," Clarke suggested, only half facetiously.

"That's not very helpful..." Kirk stopped. Each time, he, or someone else, had been pushing Chekov, trying to find out what was wrong with him. "What were you saying to Chekov, Sulu?"

Sulu glanced warily at his friend. Chekov had fallen asleep, his head pillowed on his arms, folded on the back of the next row of seats. Bowyer rose worriedly and ran a tricorder over the ensign. He swung it round to show it to the Captain but Kirk waved the machine aside. "You tell me."

"Physical and emotional stress leave tell tales in the body. He's been through the wringer. Well, obviously. But more than what just happened explains, I'd say. I could be wrong."

Without condemning Bowyer, who was doing his best, Kirk wished with all his heart that McCoy was here. "Sulu?"

"I was just trying to get him to talk to me."

"Okay. If we were going to be scientific about this, I'd wake him up, put him through psychoanalysis, and see if another monster turned up. Although we haven't been attacked every time I talked to him. But flirting with dangers we can't defend ourselves against doesn't appeal to me much, so we'll continue as if we have no idea at all what causes these attacks. No one will leave the immediate area of the shuttle and domes under any circumstances. No one will leave the shuttle without my permission. We'll be on emergency water rations. We'll maintain a watch, since presumably the things can materialise in here as well as outside. And we will also, and maybe unnecessarily, refrain from badgering Chekov, and from waking him up for the moment. Sulu, find hand weapons of some sort for everyone. Does anyone have a pack of cards?"

Clarke did something to rehabilitate himself in the Captain's eyes by cheerfully losing nearly a month's pay to the other players over the course of the next four hours. Only Landseer didn't join in, sitting crouched over the computer at the helm, busy following up some idea of his own. Eventually boredom and hunger began to make people restless. Mihalchenko ducked out of the game, happy to take his winnings while he was ahead. He scrounged around among the rations still aboard and came up with beer and sandwiches.

"Shall I wake him up, Captain?"

"No. But make sure Bowyer has something to eat." As the game folded, Bowyer had gone back to where Rutley lay, silent and still, on the stretcher bench at the rear of the shuttle. Once they'd all eaten, Kirk looked at the left-over food and across at Chekov. He knew he had to make a decision, not let things drift by default. If they were really safer while the ensign slept, they should use something from the medical kit to knock him out until the Enterprise returned. If it made no difference, he should wake up and eat something. He hadn't finished lunch; for all Kirk knew he hadn't eaten breakfast.

"Chekov?" The ensign pulled away from his hand. "Pavel, come on."

Clarke looked round at the unexpected gentleness in Kirk's voice.

"Captain..." Chekov seemed to take a moment to remember where he was. He stared sleepily at Kirk.

"Do you want something to eat?"

The ensign wordlessly accepted a plate and glass, flicking the catch that released the fold down table in front of him with his elbow with the practised ease of someone who earned his living working in shuttles. 'How can I turn my back on him?' Kirk thought, unconsciously echoing Sulu. 'What have we done to him?' He reminded himself that he'd decided not to push the ensign. Maybe Chekov needed some reassurance; not questions but acceptance...

"Don't worry. It's going to be all right..."

The shuttle rolled thirty degrees like a yacht caught broadside to a swell and crashed back to the horizontal with a bone shuddering impact.

"They're back," Clarke snapped, as if they didn't all know that. Bowyer was cursing low and furious as he tried to secure his patient. Landseer staggered out of the cockpit as the craft rocked again, less violently. Blood was starting to ooze from a four inch gash across his right temple. "Two of them," he said briefly. Then he planted himself in front of his white faced Captain. "Permission to try something, sir?"

"They can't get in here. The worst they can do is turn us over. Secure for take off, everyone. Lieutenant Sulu, we'll go and..."

The sound of unbreakable clear steel shattering like crystal stopped him dead.

"Go where?" Landseer seemed to be welded to the decking.

Kirk made no attempt to push him aside. He'd run out of options. "You have a better idea?"

Landseer nodded. "I'll explain later. Your permission, sir?"

Kirk nodded in return. Decisive action was needed, not argument. He could hear the monster smashing up the consoles in the cockpit with whatever part of itself it had managed to get in through the broken ports.

He expected Landseer to head for the equipment stored at the rear. Instead, the biologist hauled Chekov out of his seat.

"No..." He wasn't going to stand by and let Landseer throw the thing a sacrificial lamb.

Landseer slapped the ensign twice, hard across the face and pulled him out into the narrow aisle of the shuttle. "This is your fault, you bastard. You got us stuck here. I'm going to push you outside and let the thing rip you apart and I hope it does it so that you live through every bite it takes. Do you hear me? Aren't you going to beg me not to throw you out? I want to hear you crawl, you..."

The sheer venom of Landseer's attack on Chekov had wrenched everyone's attention away from the wrecked cockpit. As the shock of it passed, they realised that apart from the heavy breathing of the lieutenant and Chekov's panicked gasps for breath as he fought in the man's grasp, everything was still. Landseer abandoned his tirade and dragged Chekov, kicking and struggling, over to the doors. Before Kirk's "What the hell..." had taken shape, Landseer had opened them and sent Chekov sprawling onto the bare rock outside. They closed again as Kirk threw himself after his navigator. Landseer blocked him from hitting the release.

"Open those doors. I won't let you make a scapegoat out of him..."

"No, Captain. I don't think he's in any danger. Really. They've gone. Let me explain."

The beasts had indeed gone. Chekov had dragged himself to his feet, looking like someone who'd just picked himself up from an earthquake and wasn't sure when the aftershocks would hit. He stared, appalled, at the blankly shut doors of the shuttle, and then backed away into one of the domes. Kirk comforted himself that he was probably no less safe in there than he had been in the shuttle, given the ability of the monsters to break meteor-proof armour, and the apparently murderous intentions of Lieutenant Landseer. Clarke and Mihalchenko looked as if they had reservations about what Landseer had done, but only just. A qualified two cheers, perhaps.

"Mister Landseer? I want an explanation, a good one."

Kirk wasn't sure how much he was really interested in hearing the biologist's excuses, and how much he simply wanted to defuse the situation. This mission was looking less and less survivable as it was, without a mutiny taking place.

"Captain, correct me if I'm wrong, because I've only been observing this from a distance, at third hand, some of it. You and Mister Sulu tell me that Chekov is a good officer. I've been aboard three months, and in that time, he doesn't seem to have any friends, he's at the centre of any trouble that's going, and he seems to go out of his way to turn people against him."

"Yes..."

"Since we've been here, he's been the same, but you've been pretty patient with him, trying to get him to talk, rather than just losing your temper with him. And whenever you've really made an effort to get alongside him, one of those things has attacked."

"Y...es. I'm not sure it's a valid conclusion, that yelling at him and throwing him outside will have the opposite effect and prevent them attacking."

"And I've been reading Mister Spock's report on what happened while you had the Klingons aboard. That was when Chekov's... problems started, wasn't it?"

"No," Kirk said very firmly. "What happened to him while the Klingons were aboard was no different to what happened to the rest of us. I'm not happy about several of the things I did. If you talked to a good many of the crew..."

"I know, sir. I'm not trying to make the point that Ensign Chekov is somehow a... a bad apple. I can see that you have a good deal of respect for him. I accept that you have a reason for that. Have you read Mister Spock's report, sir?"

No. Along with a good many other things he should have done since that fake blood-letting, it had been buried under the need to get the Klingons off his ship and back into their own territory, and then something else had come up - Parmen, the Scalosians. He'd never even sat down with Chekov and really made sure the ensign was okay... he'd just taken McCoy's word for it, assumed the youngster would rather not have it raked over. "I reviewed his general conclusions, of course. But no." He didn't make the excuse that no human Captain could ever have time to take in the full depth of the research that Spock applied to every one of the Enterprise's adventures.

"He reported that you intervened in Mister Chekov's attack on the Klingon woman, that you knocked him out. When you arranged a truce with the Klingons, an artificial outburst of good relations, he was still out cold, wasn't he?"

Kirk nodded. "Probably."

"Now many species respond to hostile conditions, what you imposed on this alien life form, by running away, becoming dormant - or by reproducing. It may have identified Chekov as a suitable - host, because it recognised the type of feelings, the strength of those feelings, that would be directed at him because of what he'd done. Also he was the first of the Enterprise crew, on the landing party, to show signs of its influence. He may be particularly susceptible, for some reason. You all accepted the violence, the hostility which you all experienced. What he did was... less acceptable. So, when the creature was driven out, he was unaffected by what you were doing, still unconscious. A protected location, with a suitable supply of nourishment in prospect. Does it make sense, sir?"

"Yes," Kirk conceded. "So what conclusion does it lead you to?"

"I think it's immature, weak, nothing like as powerful as the mature form you encountered originally. We can isolate him..."

"No." Sulu broke into the argument with almost violent conviction. He reddened under the stares that were turned on him. "You can't just throw him out to face this on his own. If you do decide he's too dangerous to the rest of us - you can go off somewhere and leave him here with me. Captain..."

"We're not considering the details yet, Lieutenant. And I'm grateful for your offer, but you would have to consider that you might be providing what it needs to survive, a source of conflict."

Sulu's determination wilted slightly in the face of a logical objection. "Even so..."

"And you'd have to consider that I would not be prepared to go and leave him on his own either. What's your next option, Mister Landseer?"

"We can keep him unconscious, taking the risk that it might just move on, or we could kill him. Depending on how dependent it is on him, that might destroy it."

"Not acceptable, even if you could give me cast iron guarantees. Anything else?"

"If you think that once the Enterprise returns we can in fact destroy it without killing Chekov, we just need to stay alive ourselves in the meantime. It provokes conflict to generate negative emotions, which it needs to survive. We can go for appeasement. If we can make Chekov frightened, angry, lonely, just plain miserable, we can keep it at bay. We have to stop trying to be nice to him. In fact we have to be calculatedly unpleasant."

Sulu and Kirk looked at each other. This was all very well for four people who didn't really know the ensign.

"You're suggesting we play with fire," Kirk pointed out. "What if it's growing, or even just ready to - emerge, or metamorphose, or whatever. We could be nursing it along ready for it to lash out and destroy the Enterprise when she gets back. Or the inhabited planets in this system."

"I know, sir. That's why I think you really have to consider the... the least attractive option." He stared at his boots, then looked up and made a point of meeting Kirk's eyes. "From your reaction to all of this, and Lieutenant Sulu's, I'm not trying to say that Ensign Chekov deserves what he's about to get, whatever you decide. I'm sorry if I thought that before. I'm sure Ken and Yann..." He nodded at Clarke and Mihalchenko, "...would agree with me. But we're not going to survive the next attack, are we? Is Chekov going to be any better off, for being here alone because we wouldn't do what was necessary to survive, to survive so that we could warn the Enterprise?"

Kirk turned to Sulu in a businesslike, determined way that lifted a good deal of the weight of despair from the younger man's shoulders. "Can we launch a commsat?"

"Yes, sir. It will take... twenty percent of our remaining fuel."

"Landseer, a full copy of your analysis for Mister Sulu to put in orbit, please. That way, the Enterprise will at least be fully informed when she gets back. Bowyer, get me a hypo with enough sedative to knock Chekov out for - say twelve hours. Clarke, come with me."

This time, no one tried to stop Kirk when he palmed the doors open. Outside, a suitably depressing mizzle hung in the air. The two men looked at each other before stepping out, neither quite one hundred percent happy that Landseer was right, and the planet wasn't just inhabited by unpleasant and adaptable monsters with a knack of interrupting well-intentioned chats with alienated ensigns.

Kirk leaned back inside. "Sulu, I need you out here."

He jumped down onto the lava flow and strode over to the dome, with Clarke, looking slightly apprehensive, close on his heels. The helmsman came to the door. "Sir?"

"Come on."

The dome was lit inside by a portable lamp. Chekov was sitting with his back against a stack of equipment, a phaser in his hand.

"On your feet, Mister Chekov."

The ensign obeyed almost by reflex and Kirk had taken his phaser before he completed the movement. He looked slightly surprised, as if he'd expected something else completely.

"What are you doing? You're safe in the shuttle..."

Kirk had been wondering whether he should explain to Chekov what they were going to do, but warning bells were ringing. This was the almost reasonable Chekov they'd tried to talk to before all three attacks.

"Lieutenant Clarke, hold him for me."

Clarke had twisted Chekov's arms into a secure lock before he remembered the bruises. He relaxed his grip as much as he could without making it useless.

"Captain?" Chekov wasn't struggling, but his eyes were wide with barely contained terror. Suddenly, Kirk had no difficulty believing someone had beaten him. Something had to have happened to make it possible for Chekov to fear his shipmates like this.

"That hypo, Sulu."

The helmsman double checked the dose and handed it to Kirk, who pushed it into Chekov's arm. "This won't do you any harm," he said. "Just relax."

Inevitably, Chekov did the opposite. He stood staring at Kirk, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. After a couple of minutes, Kirk went over to the door and yelled across to Bowyer, "How quickly should this stuff work?"

"Within ten seconds, sir." Bowyer dropped out of the door, then remembered Kirk's instructions that no one should leave the shuttle without permission. "D'you want me to..."

"No. Stay there." Kirk went back inside. "Ideas anyone?"

Clarke shook his head. "What if we can't kill him either?"

"I'm not considering that."

"Then we have to isolate him, until the Enterprise gets back, and hope they can do better. It looks like we don't have any other options."

"Sulu, get that commsat off."

"Sir."

"What do you mean, what if you can't kill me? What are you talking about?"

Kirk realised he couldn't make a rational decision about this while Chekov was standing there, pale as a ghost, biting down on the pain in his shoulders. "Let him go and come outside."

Clarke released his prisoner, leaving him standing uncertainly in the middle of the dome.

"You're going to put him somewhere on his own?"

"I'm thinking about it... He's saved my life, directly or indirectly, because he's seen some way out of a problem, or been so damned good at his job, or just not been willing to run away and save his own skin... If he was here with me now, and you, or Sulu, or... or some..."

"He wouldn't want to do to me, what we are now going to do to him. I know, sir. And I don't want to do it. Even though I don't have any of the reasons to care that you do. But I will find it easier than you will. You don't have to come and watch."

Kirk blew out a sharp, grateful breath. Clarke's offer at least clarified in his own mind that he wouldn't consider what the man was suggesting. "Thank you, Lieutenant. But let's try everything else first." The shuttle shuddered as the communications satellite was launched. The bright glow of its impulse booster was lost in the cloud almost instantly.

Kirk turned back into the dome. "We're safe out here too. You're going to keep us safe."

"What are you talking about?" The ensign backed away nervously, as if afraid of what Kirk might do.

"Landseer was right. You're the key to all of this. Come on. We're going out. There's no need to hide in here." Kirk pulled his phaser off his belt and tossed it into the shadows in the far corner of the dome, along with Chekov's. "Lieutenant, your phaser, please." Clarke, reluctantly, however useless he knew the weapon to be, obeyed. "Ensign Chekov," Kirk continued, propelling the bewildered ensign out of the dome into the clammy twilight, "I know as certainly as I know my own name that you won't let anyone here get hurt, will you?" Something growled, something behind one of the domes. Clarke looked round, his eyes measuring the distance to the shuttle.

"You have to obey my orders now, as exactly, as precisely as you can. I know you can do this. And I know you won't get this wrong, because all our lives depend on you doing it right."

"Sir, I..."

"Don't say anything, don't argue with me. Just obey me."

"Yes, sir."

"Whatever I say, you have to believe it. That won't be difficult, because it's all perfectly true. You're not allowed to disagree with me, or hang on to the smallest mental reservation about it. Are you quite clear about that?"

"I don't understand..."

"You don't have to. I'll explain it all later, but for now..."

"No. I'm not going to follow your orders without understanding why. This doesn't make sense. You let Landseer throw me out because you thought you'd be safe if I was dead. You were going to use me to buy your safety... "

"No. I wouldn't do that. You know I wouldn't do that."

"And when it didn't kill me, you decided I was in control of it somehow..."

"I think it is in control of you. That's why you have to let us help you, you have to trust me..."

"I'm not going to trust you. You've tried to drug me, and that didn't work..."

"Why didn't it work?"

"I don't know. So you're going to trick me into doing something, and if that doesn't work, you'll kill me. Won't you?" He turned the last question on Clarke, who couldn't quite bring himself to deny it.

"Ensign." Kirk's tone brought Chekov's attention back to the captain. "Shut up and listen to me, and I'll explain. I can't explain if you keep interrupting me, can I?"

"You're lying to me..."

"Why would I lie to you?"

"Why would you tell me the truth?"

"Because that is what I expect you to tell me. That's what our relationship is based on, isn't it?"

The growling started again, from the opposite direction. Clarke's hand went to the pocket knife which was all he had to defend himself and his captain from the monsters.

"So when you start lying to me, I know something's wrong. And we need to put it right. I'm afraid that's going to be difficult, but you have to do it."

"I can't."

"Then I'll help you."

Clarke didn't even see them coming. From opposite directions, the beasts rammed into him. One spitted itself on the blade of his knife with no conscious intent on his part and its furious thrashing tore the weapon out of his hand and carried it away. The other lunged not at him but at the Captain. He reached out and grabbed at its little two-fingered front legs, ripping them backwards and feeling them tear out of their sockets. The thing let out a thin scream of agony and his hands were empty.

"Lieutenant!" Sulu was catching his arms, swinging him around before he could carry on the attack and flatten Chekov. He realised that Bowyer was kneeling beside Kirk, his medical tricorder letting out urgent bleeps. "Sulu, I need help here..." Bowyer's voice was tight with panic.

"Clarke, put Chekov in the dome. Don't hurt him. If you injure him, I'll have you court-martialled. Do you understand that? Do you?"

Clarke swallowed, took a deep breath and pulled himself back under control. "Yes, I do, Mister Sulu."

***

"Lieutenant, I'm losing him. Can't we contact the Enterprise?"

"No." Sulu came to the back of the shuttle, where Bowyer was slumped onto a seat next to his patients, all his medical equipment tumbled in disorder around him, biting on his lip to stop himself crying. "I've tried. Look, you've done what you can. You've done it well. You're not a doctor. That's not your fault. How's the Captain?"

"He's still unconscious but he's stable. He didn't lose much blood and there's no sign of serious trauma. He should come round in the next hour or so, or..."

"Or what?"

"Or nothing. There's nothing I can do about it if he doesn't. Just like there's nothing I can do about Rutley. Oh, God." The ensign buried his head in his hands.

"Bowyer."

"Yes, sir?"

"You're our paramedic and we're all depending on you. You may be out of your depth with Rutley. That's unfortunate, but it isn't your fault and it doesn't diminish your responsibility to the Captain, and to the rest of us. You have to get a grip. Don't think about what you can't do, concentrate on what you can. Okay?"

"Yes... I guess so."

"Right. Get all this tidied up to start with. You'll feel more in control if you can find everything."

Sulu turned back to the front of the shuttle and caught Clarke's eye.

"Lieutenant?"

"You have to make a decision, Sulu. We can't go on making the same mistakes. Is this thing usable?"

"You mean can we fly it?" Sulu shook his head. "Maybe with four or five hours work..."

"Shouldn't we be getting on with that then?"

Sulu took a deep breath. "I don't think we have that long."

"Why?"

Sulu felt that Clarke had asked the question for the sake of form. He was as aware of the facts as the rest of them.

"The attacks have come closer and closer together..." he began explaining, not showing his impatience.

"Because someone's provoked them. If you leave him out there..." Clarke was determined to persist.

"It might not be enough. We might not discover that until it's too late to do anything about it."

"So what do you propose doing? Because I really think you have to consider killing him. You're gambling our lives against his..."

"I only intend to gamble mine."

"No. It's not that simple and you know it. You're the only pilot we have left, you're in command of this mission. It's not just your life you're taking risks with."

"Look, there's nothing we can do. The only ideas you have are dump him or kill him. I'm going along with the first of those, I'm just saying I'm going too."

"It's not just about getting rid of him, it's about starving the alien. If he can work on you, get you riled up..."

"He won't."

"Why, what d'you think you are? Some sort of saint?"

"My life is going to depend on keeping calm. It's a powerful argument for keeping your cool."

"And the monsters?"

Sulu put his hand reluctantly on the phaser Clarke had returned to him.

"They don't work, Lieutenant. Or had you somehow failed to notice that?" the security man asked coldly.

"I'm going along with your other plan, too."

"You'll kill him if the monsters attack? I don't believe you..."

"I don't need to convince you, only Chekov."

Sulu checked on Bowyer again. The ensign didn't seem any happier but at least he was calm and attending to his patients.

"Wait till the Captain comes round," Clarke suggested over Sulu's shoulder as he looked at Kirk.

The helmsman shook his head. "No. There's a lull after the storm. I want to get him away from here before it starts to get rough." He threw on a cold-weather jacket and picked up enough emergency rations for the two of them for two days. Mihalchenko was working at repairs in the cockpit with Landseer keeping a watch for intruders. "You've got enough water for three days, if you're reasonably careful. The Enterprise should be back by then. If not, you'll have to move..."

"We can use this thing as a hovercraft if we can't manage anything more elegant," Mihalchenko said, almost cheerfully. Sulu wished everyone had something to do to keep them fully occupied.

Under Clarke's disapproving frown, he decided not to bother with a farewell pep talk and simply went to open the door.

"Good luck," Clarke said, unexpectedly.

Outside, it was full night. Sulu flicked on his torch and pushed open the door to the dome. "Chekov?"

"What do you want?"

"Put that on." Sulu threw him a second jacket.

Chekov rose to his feet and stared at the bundled fabric. "What...?"

"Don't ask questions. Just do as you're told."

The jacket was too large. Sulu must have picked up Kirk's or Clarke's. Chekov painstakingly, irritatingly, turned up the cuffs so they didn't swamp his hands. Sulu paid no attention, loading the rations and canisters of drinking water into a shoulder pack. He handed it to Chekov.

"Where are we... "

The ensign caught sight of Sulu's face and shut his mouth. He shrugged into the pack, wincing as he settled the straps.

"Okay, now get outside."

Chekov obeyed. He stood there in the pool of light that spilled through the shattered viewports of the shuttle.

"I know this is a question, but where do you want me to go now? I presume you are intending to tell me to just walk away from here? You don't have the courage to kill me yourself, so I have to walk off and let this planet do it for you. So, North? South? Follow a particular star?"

"You and I will go north." From his study of the charts when he and Bowyer identified this spot, there was nothing but barren rock for five hundred kilometres in any direction. But north was the easiest direction to follow. Sulu had a horror of walking round in circles and he knew his resolve was going to be tested to the limits, without any suggestion of being lost.

"You and I?"

Was Chekov really surprised? Sulu checked phaser and communicator before turning to look at him. This was the first danger point. He had to lay down the ground rules first. "Chekov, let me make some things clear before we start. Yes, I'm coming with you. Yes, you have to go because you're too much of a danger to everyone else to stay here. If I think my life is in danger, I will kill you. Don't doubt it for a moment."

"I wouldn't hurt you." The Russian said it very quietly.

"I would have accepted that before today. But..."

"I don't understand why you are doing this. I want to talk to the Captain."

"You can't."

"He's afraid to come and talk to me?"

Sulu bowed his head. If Chekov was going to be hurt and confused one moment, aggressive the next, it was going to be very difficult to keep the situation centered on what Sulu wanted to achieve.

"He's injured. He's unconscious. He can't talk to anyone. Now start walking." He pointed north, past the nose of the shuttle.

"What about the... the creatures?"

"I don't know, Chekov. What about them?"

"They could attack us. Your phaser..."

"I'm taking a gamble, that if I kill you, I won't need to kill the monsters."

"You're being irresponsible. If the Captain is unconscious, then you are in command of this mission. You cannot simply..."

"Would you rather walk out there on your own, mister?"

"Yes... no."

About one time in three, Sulu felt it was really Chekov talking. "Get started."

Chekov turned to face due north into nothingness and took the first step. His pace was a little forced, too fast to keep up all night. Sulu didn't argue it. He switched his torch on and followed, leaving the little oasis of light around the shuttle.

After an hour of silent, angry progress, the ensign spoke. "I don't know what good you think this will do. I haven't hurt anyone."

"What d'you call contaminating the fuel?"

"That didn't hurt anyone." Chekov was walking determinedly, head down.

"Why did you do it?"

"Why?" The ensign had stopped and turned back to face Sulu, his face caught in the torch beam. "It's the sort of thing I do. Ask Clarke. Ask Landseer."

"No, it's not..."

"So what are we doing out here? How do you justify throwing me out of the shuttle? Where are these monsters that are supposed to be attacking us?" Chekov's accent was almost incomprehensibly thick with anger. Sulu absorbed the aggression, reflecting none of it back.

"The alien that got aboard the ship, with the Klingons..."

"Oh, you want to talk about that. She was just a Klingon, Lieutenant. Who cares what I did to her?"

"I'm not interested in what happened then. But we do think it's here again now. It's doing something to you. Which is why I'm not going to get annoyed with you. I know when you say... things like you just said, it's not really you talking. You don't know what you're doing half the time. Most of the time. For the past three months you've been behaving out of character..."

"No. I have tried to keep out of trouble, but other people have made trouble for me."

"Why would they do that?"

"Because I... I attacked that woman."

"If the Captain thought that was your fault, you'd have been in the brig before your feet could touch the deck. Everyone knows that."

"Then why did Clarke..."

"I don't know, Chekov. I don't know if I believe you, when you say he attacked you, but if he did, you must have provoked him somehow."

"I provoked him? How?"

"No, not you. I meant the alien. The alien must have made him do it." Something growled in the night, so close Sulu imagined he could feel its breath on his face. "Send it away."

"What do you mean? How can I? In God's name, Sulu, give me a phaser, or a knife. At least let me defend myself!"

Again a growl, louder but no closer, hungry. There was no doubt that Chekov's fear was real, despite his two previous escapes.

"The phaser won't work. I don't think a knife will any more. Send it away or I'll stun you. If that doesn't get rid of it, I'll kill you."

Both men stood silent. Their own breathing was lost in the immense emptiness that surrounded them.

"It's gone..." Chekov sounded disbelieving.

"It's not real. It can be here one minute and nowhere the next."

"It is real," Chekov countered, with the conviction of someone who'd looked into those murderous eyes from inches away.

"No. The alien..."

"Shut up about the alien. There never was an alien. It was just an excuse."

"Chekov, people saw it, they saw it growing brighter when we attacked the Klingons."

"Did you see it?"

"Well, no..."

"And neither did I. It was a convenient excuse."

"Are you saying you want to be responsible for what you did?" Chekov was silent, as Sulu castigated himself for letting that slip. "Which I know you weren't."

"How do you know I wasn't?"

"Because of who you are. It's just not possible."

"I'd rather admit it than hide behind some fantasy. It was her fault, anyway. She led me on. She was practically begging me to..."

"What about the fact that everyone's injuries healed so quickly?"

"Maybe they were never that badly hurt. And so what? You said the Captain was unconscious. And my leg... Did Bowyer suggest a ten kilometre forced march was just what it needed?"

Sulu didn't answer. He hadn't thought of that, amidst everything else.

Chekov continued his complaints. "What about Rutley? Is he recovered? Your theory is inconsistent with my observations, Mister Sulu." Chekov imitated Spock, but for the sneer in his voice.

Sulu paused before answering, stockpiling calm. "We think what you are affected by may be an immature form of the creature, less powerful, feeding on your emotions, and maybe on emotions that are directed specifically at you. I admit we're guessing but it's the best we can do. You're not responsible for any of this. I don't blame you..."

"Well, obviously. If I'm not to blame for what I do, then you all have an excuse too. For killing Klingons and now Clarke can beat me up, Landseer can throw me to... to the lions and you can all wring your hands and say you didn't mean it. 'I'm sorry, Captain, but I had to kill Chekov. My life was in danger.' Is that what you plan to tell him? I'm not armed, I'm no threat to you but you drag me out here where there are no witnesses to contradict you. Are you going to use the phaser or are you carrying a knife? Of course if the phaser works, that's not too convenient for your theory, but it will save you getting blood all over your uniform. That might make people think twice when you go back and make your pathetic excuses. Why don't we get it over with now? I don't see why I should walk any further."

"Chekov..."

"But I don't understand why you hate me so much. I can see that Clarke might be jealous, being stuck in Security, or Landseer. It means so much to some people, to get onto the bridge. But you... What have I ever done to you?"

"I don't hate you."

"Then why do you want to kill me?"

"I don't want to kill you. But I do want to get further away from the shuttle, so keep walking."

"No. My leg hurts too much."

"Chekov, I'm your superior officer and I'm giving you a legitimate order. You have no grounds to disobey me. Move."

"Yes, I do. You're planning to kill me. I don't have to cooperate with that."

"Chekov..."

The ensign planted his feet wide, rooting himself to the bare rock. Sulu considered his next move. He'd relied on Chekov remaining in a relatively unaggressive mood for longer than this. They were at most six kilometres from the shuttle, barely out of sight across the shallow basin of the lava flow. Maybe it was enough.

"Stop trying to wind me up. It won't work. We both know I don't want to kill you. If I did, why would I have bothered to come all the way out here? Clarke and Landseer think killing you is the safest thing we could do, Bowyer agrees, reluctantly. Mihalchenko will go along with what I decide and the Captain and Rutley are out of it. It would be self defence and no one would question it."

Chekov didn't respond.

"Come on. Tell me why I don't just kill you now."

"I don't know. Someone told you killing people is wrong. You need an excuse, something to push you over the top."

"I have all the excuses I need. Rutley had his arm torn off, the Captain is unconscious. The shuttle is wrecked. All of that is directly or indirectly linked to you. The balance of probabilities points to us being very much safer if you're dead. Why are you still here?"

Chekov shrugged, then turned the movement into a flying tackle at the lieutenant's ankles. They collapsed in a tangle of legs and arms. Chekov came up with Sulu's knife while the phaser rattled away across the rock and into darkness. The lieutenant began to back after it, keeping his eyes on his now armed colleague, cursing himself for neglecting the obvious threat.

"'Send the monster away, Chekov.' Didn't you realise, the monster is here? Did you forget that Starfleet trained all of us to be killers? You're so stupid."

Sulu's right arm was numb. He hoped it was just a temporary block from the savage impact of his elbow on the ground when he fell, but it could be worse than that. He reached what he judged to be the point where the phaser would have ended up and bent down to feel for it, trying to keep the torch in the same hand shining on Chekov all the while. His fingers brushed warm synthetic. He fumbled the torch and lost sight of Chekov. An instant later he knew where the ensign was, felt him force the knife into his shoulder.

He swung up with his left fist, clenched round torch and phaser, knocking Chekov back into the darkness. The knife clattered to the ground and the pain dizzied him. He couldn't do anything about the agonising input from his shoulder but he could refuse to be angry or afraid and somehow he did.

There was a waiting silence. He swung the torch round until he located Chekov. The Russian blinked at the sudden glare of light, focused hunger in his expression, like a predator waiting for his victim to show the weakness that he could fatally exploit.

"It won't work, Chekov. You can push me until I have to kill you, or you can kill me. But I know neither of those is what you want. I'm not going to get angry." Feeling was returning to his arm. Pain and heat. He lifted his right hand to find his shoulder sodden with blood. The knife had slipped in behind the clavicle. Not meant to kill, then. Chekov could have found his heart if he'd wanted to.

The ensign hissed, a frustrated, brutish sound. "I could have killed you..."

"But you didn't."

"Next time, I might."

"I don't think so."

"You don't have the guts to..."

"Right. I'm terrified that I might have to kill someone I like, someone..."

"Shut up."

"Someone honest and brave, and..."

"Don't..."

"I can't hate you. I can't even lose my temper enough with you to convince myself that I can do any of that. But..." He stopped, not for emphasis, but to control the surges of sick giddiness that were threatening to overpower him. For such a cold night, he felt frighteningly hot and oppressed, as if an electric storm was imminent. "But at the moment you are dangerous. And I will deal with that if necessary. I'll do my duty."

"You'll kill me."

"Only if you force me to, and I can only do that because I know you'd rather I did that than let you go on hurting people, maybe killing someone. I know you don't want anyone harmed..."

"Don't say those things." The ensign covered his ears with his hands and backed away. "It's not true."

"What's not true?" Sulu clenched his fingers hard to reassure himself that he still had some strength. The darkness around him was pulsating ominously.

"I'm not what you said. I'm... I'm..."

"Caring, and loyal, and conscientious..."

"Please, Sulu, stop it. It's just not true."

"You're hurting him," a reasonable, faintly critical voice said just by Sulu's left ear. He started violently.

Sweat made his grip on his phaser precarious. He turned slowly. If Chekov's monsters could talk now, life was about to become a little more complicated. If the voice did belong to one of the monsters, endowing it with the ability to speak had necessitated some other radical changes. On the other hand, this did look like something Chekov might dream up on a good day. She was petite, with an elfin face around which short blonde hair trailed in careless spikes.

"I don't mean to," Sulu explained with an exaggerated, unreal patience. "This is a rather complicated situation."

"I'm sure. We've been watching you. It's been... dramatic."

Sulu examined her critically. He'd been wrong about her hair. It was long and dark. And her face was Asian and mysterious. If she was dangerous, then he had a duty to protect Chekov as well as himself. The ensign had no phaser, nor a knife any longer. He backed away from the girl towards his colleague. His feet seemed to be moving a few seconds after the rest of him.

"Don't worry. I intend no harm to any of you. And if I did, you wouldn't be able to stop me."

Sulu glanced at Chekov. The ensign was staring at his feet, no more ready to follow Sulu's lead and help him out of this situation than he had been in any of the earlier crises of this expedition.

"Who are you?"

"As an individual, or do you mean, from what people do I come?"

His thoughts seemed to be sliding away from him through greased fingers. He spelt out his question with painful precision. "Specifically, are you a native of this planet, is the form in which I perceive you real and usual for you, and what are your intentions towards us?"

"Yes, no, and benign. Specifically, to rescue him from further abuse. You could kill him if you continue like this."

"I know. I'm trying to find a way to keep all of us alive."

"That is reassuring," she said.

"It's also untrue. He's simply waiting for an excuse to kill me."

"Chekov, I'm not."

"You are!"

"Please, let's not argue." She radiated indulgent calm. "Why did you come here? We are aware of other creatures on nearby planets, but none have disturbed us before. And you are not among those local species, are you?"

"Uh, no. We are representatives of the United Federation of Planets, and..."

"I'm not interested in your social structures."

Irritation cut through Sulu's daze. Suddenly he wasn't interested in her either. "Okay then, we're explorers. Some of those... local species had noticed... odd markings on this world from time to time. They were curious and so were we. We saw nothing from orbit so we decided to take a closer look."

"I understand. The markings are a creative expression. They were not intended as a form of communication. They should be disregarded by our neighbours. But why did you bring him? It seems he is dangerous to you."

"We didn't appreciate just how dangerous. But our Captain..."

"Your leader? The one who was most recently rendered unconscious?"

"Yes. I think he wanted to give him one last chance, to sort himself out."

She shook her head sadly. "That was misguided. He is far too dangerous to you. You will have to leave him here. Or he will destroy all of you."

"No, you don't understand. I'm not going to just leave him anywhere. We believe he's been affected by an alien life form..."

"As I said, you are hurting him. I can help."

She advanced on Chekov, who shrank away from her. "No, Sulu. I don't want to stay here."

Sulu felt torn in two. If she could help... If she couldn't, Chekov was going to kill someone, probably him for starters... He could start the reasoning but no train of thought could run for more than a moment without breaking. Terror and desperation might have made him turn to her, anger might have boiled over into decisiveness. He couldn't afford them, even now. And it was only a matter of minutes, seconds maybe, before he would pass out.

"Now, don't be alarmed. I won't hurt either of them. There!"

Her hand reached into Chekov's head as if he were a mere hologram. It emerged bearing a dully glowing red form. "Oh, he is weak. I was almost too late."

The ensign crumpled to the ground as she walked away. Sulu realised to his horror that her concern wasn't for Chekov at all but for the alien force that had been tearing him apart.

"But he will recover. Yes, we can make him strong again. We can feed him. We can nurse him..." Crooning, she walked steadily away. And as she did so, she became insubstantial, transparent, invisible.

Sulu started after her. "You don't understand. It's dangerous. It could destroy you..."

He was shouting at no one. She'd gone. He stumbled to a halt.

"Chekov?"

He got no answer from the ensign. The night had turned sharply colder and the rain had started to fall in earnest.

Sulu sat down heavily by the wet huddle that was the Enterprise's navigator. "Chekov?" Putting the torch down on the ground, he touched his own shoulder. His fingers found liquid blood. "I'm still bleeding. I need something to staunch it. Let me get the first aid kit. No, my communicator. I've got to tell the others what's happened first. Chekov?"

He pulled out his communicator, flicked it open and held it like that for a moment, too disorientated to remember what he was supposed to do next.

*** Landseer heated the coffee, stirred three sachets of sugar into it, then for good measure added another. "Sit down and drink that. It'll be all right. Really. He'll probably be better off for being out of it."

He forced the cup into Bowyer's hands and pointed to the nearest seat. "That's an order, Ensign. You obey them, remember?"

"Oh, God." Bowyer collapsed into the seat, slopping coffee onto himself. He didn't seem to notice. "I don't know how I did it. I got the hypo ready and then the monitor started screaming..."

"Yes, yes. Okay." Landseer cut short the recitation that Bowyer had already been through half a dozen times in the ten minutes since he'd injected Kirk with a large multiple of the proper dose of Ryadin, a powerful sedative. The drug had been meant for Rutley in the first place. "It's not your fault, Pete. Rutley's condition is way outside your competence. The shuttle is a mess and we're all at the end of our rope. He'll be okay. He's just got to sleep it off. It's not as if there's anything he could do if he was awake. Try and relax."

The reedy chirp of a communicator cut the air from the front of the shuttle, where Clarke and Mihalchenko were screwing cover plates back over the Russian's repairs. "This is Clarke. What's the situation with you?"

"Clarke?" Sulu's voice sounded shaky. "You've got to come and get us..."

"Why? What's happened? Are you sure it's safe? Sulu? Lieutenant, are you okay? Sulu, answer me, dammit!"

The security man appeared in the hatch to the main compartment, holding his communicator. "You heard that, Dave? I think he passed out or something. His communicator's still on. What do you think we should do?"

Landseer took the gadget from Clarke's hand. "Sulu? Can you hear me? Chekov? Come on, answer me!"

After an agonised moment of silence he snapped it shut. "Well, Lieutenant, it's your decision, but if we consider what might have happened... Maybe Chekov attacked Sulu, Sulu killed or disabled him and was injured himself. And now he needs help. Or it could be a trap. Maybe Chekov's got the upper hand somehow and he wants us there too.

"What could Chekov do to force Sulu to tell us to come and get them?"

Landseer thought for a moment. "Nothing. Except maybe pretend to be all right. It didn't sound like that, did it? So Sulu thinks that at worst, we'll be no worse off if we pick them up. On the other hand, if Sulu's injured, he could die if we don't go and get him."

"Chekov might be injured too. He said come and get us and Chekov didn't answer either." Mihalchenko was tucking tools back into a maintenance kit. "We can use the shuttle as a skimmer, fly at up to say forty kilometres an hour, about thirty metres up. We don't have any navigation, but we can home in on the lieutenant's communicator, and at that speed, the shuttle's floodlights will give us enough visibility for safety."

"How's the Captain?" Clarke addressed the question to Bowyer, who merely shook his head and continued staring into his cooling coffee. Landseer picked up the medical tricorder and went over to Kirk. "He's just out cold. The level of the drug in his system is falling at around... seven per cent per hour. He should come around in... say eight hours. Rutley is stable. Bowyer is..." He glanced at the ensign, who looked up at the sound of his name. Landseer smiled. "Bowyer is going to be okay, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

Clarke nodded. "Glad to hear it. Now, this might be a rough ride, and it'll be pretty draughty up front. Can you find me some goggles, Ensign? And you'd better get yourself some and be another pair of eyes for me. Put a jacket on too. It'll be cold. The rest of you, tidy up some of the loose stuff in here, make sure the Captain and Rutley are secured and then strap yourselves in. When we get there, no one is to leave the shuttle without my say so. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Landseer assented readily. Mihalchenko echoed him.

Five minutes later, the shuttle rose smoothly to its unusual cruising altitude. Clarke pushed his goggles down over his eyes. "I haven't flown one of these since I left the Academy. Let's hope it's one of those things you don't forget."

"I bet the one you flew then had a windscreen too," his co-pilot chipped in, resolutely cheerful. "At least if you scratch it when you land no one's going to notice."

"It wouldn't notice if I drove it nose first into the ground." Clarke shrugged. "So let's get on with it, shall we?"

The powerful lights illuminated a semicircle before them that stretched for about four hundred metres, although the pitch black of the night beyond and the flatness of the terrain made it difficult to keep any sense of scale. Navigation was no problem. Clarke simply lined up with the signal from Sulu's communicator and flew.

***

Sulu opened his eyes and looked up at the shuttle ceiling. Lying across a row of seats wasn't exactly comfortable, but it was warm and felt incredibly reassuring somehow.

"Lieutenant?" Mihalchenko was leaning over the back of the next row of seats. His face was pinched with tiredness and his red-rimmed eyes looked enormous. "How are you feeling?"

Sulu asked himself that question. Bits of him weren't sure of the answer but he was definitely alive.

"I've never given anyone a transfusion before. I'm afraid your arm's going to be black and blue..."

"What happened to Bowyer?"

"He'd... uh, he'd had enough."

"And everyone else? The Captain..."

"He's still unconscious."

"Still? Hold on a moment, what time is it?"

The ensign flipped up the blind on the port by Sulu's head. "Just after dawn. He's been out for eleven hours in total, but..."

"Then it's more than just concussion..."

"Hang on. Don't try to get up. You lost about four units of blood. You'll only faint if you start running around. It's not concussion at all. Bowyer gave him a hypo meant for Rutley. He's just sleeping it off. That's all. Really. He's going to be okay. Rutley's still with us too."

In deference to his nurse, Sulu took his time over sitting up. Bowyer was slumped half upright in one of the front row of seats, Landseer mirrored him on the opposite side of the shuttle. "Where's Chekov?"

"Lieutenant Clarke put him in the dome. To be on the safe side. We haven't had any trouble so far. What happened? He stabbed you, didn't he?"

"I'd better make sure he's okay..."

"Clarke's keeping an eye on him and..."

Sulu pulled unsteadily to his feet.

"Hey, don't rush, Lieutenant. There's no point you... You don't want to have a relapse."

The shuttle door slid open, admitting a breath of chill, wet air to the stuffy interior of the cabin. The grey dawn sky seemed exactly the same colour as the rock underfoot, turning the world into a claustrophobic closed sphere.

"I thought I... Oh, Sulu. It's you." Clarke looked chilled and bad-tempered, not an unusual state at the end of a night on watch.

"How's Chekov?"

"Asleep."

"Did he... I remember I meant to call you to come pick us up, but I don't know if I..."

"I think you passed out mid-message. Yann had just got the shuttle operational so we homed in on your communicator and found you easily enough. Chekov seemed - he didn't seem to know what was happening. But he'd wrapped you up in a sleeping bag and I think he'd given you a shot to slow the bleeding, at least there was an empty capsule. Did you... what happened?"

Sulu's eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the dome. Chekov, still in his field jacket, was lying on top of a couple of sleeping bags, his wrists and ankles secured with strips of webbing.

Clarke registered the helmsman's disapproval. "We... I thought it was safer. I mean - he did stab you. And we were all so tired. I wasn't sure I was going to stay awake to watch him..."

"Okay. Get a knife to cut these with. And some coveralls out of the shuttle, for me and him, and something for us both to eat."

"Are you sure it's safe?" Clarke demanded. "I mean, we haven't had any trouble since we picked you up, not since you took him away in fact. Maybe we should just let him sleep..."

Sulu knelt down beside Chekov, as if being closer would make it easier to decide what to do. The whole episode with the native seemed dream-like and distant. What if Chekov had caused him to imagine it? "No. I'm sure he's all right now. He was awake when you found us?"

"Yes."

"And you say he'd tried to help me?"

"Yes, but..."

"Then we'll take a chance and wake him up. If I'm wrong..."

"Sulu, you're not going to wake him up."

Clarke sounded apologetic but decided. The helmsman got back to his feet. "Look, until the Captain comes round, I'm in charge here. I agree, there's a small risk that I'm wrong, but there's nothing we can do about it. He'll wake up sooner or later anyway. And I want to check he's all right otherwise. I don't want any trouble from you..."

"We don't want any trouble either. We've talked it over. We know what we're doing. You've been seriously injured and I'm not sure..."

"We? You and who else?"

"Me and Lieutenant Landseer. We think you're taking unnecessary risks. It's not as if you're fit to be on duty."

"I'm not doing anything that I wasn't doing before I was injured. And you're no medic."

"Bowyer is." Clarke sounded as if he'd been rehearsing this conversation all night.

"Mihalchenko said he'd cracked."

"He's the only medic we've got. So I'll just have to accept what he says, won't I? Anyway, he's just exhausted, he's not unhinged. If necessary I'll wake him up and he'll say your judgement is way off. Look, Lieutenant. I know I could be utterly wrong, but I'm willing to take the risk. When the Captain comes round, he can sort it out."

"He'll say the same as me. I'm waking Chekov up. I respect your reservations, but they're misplaced. I know what I'm doing. Get me that knife."

"He stabbed you, Sulu. Whatever the rest of it was about, you aren't going to deny that he did that are you? He admitted it to me."

"You questioned him? You talked to him about what happened?"

"I just asked him how you'd been injured and he told me he'd stabbed you. He didn't even sound as if he gave a damn. He's a danger to all of us and you don't seem able to accept that."

"Clarke, I'll give you one last chance to obey me."

"No. I can't. I'm sorry, but I have to think about the Captain and the rest of the men. We're not waking him up and we're not releasing him when he does wake up. Nothing's happened since you went. I agree that's a good sign. But if anything does happen, I'm going to stun him and if necessary kill him. I don't want to make you have to do that."

The whole conversation was taking place in whispers, although Chekov seemed too deeply asleep to be disturbed. Sulu found it intensely frustrating. "Ken..."

"I'm really sorry about this, Sulu. I know I'm probably going to be even sorrier later, but Landseer agrees..."

"That's no excuse. It just means you're dragging him down with you. And it won't look that brilliant on Bowyer and Mihalchenko's records..."

"At least you'll all be alive to give evidence at my court martial."

If Clarke had shown the least sign of enjoying what he was doing, the helmsman would never have forgiven him for it. As it was, when Sulu knelt down to wake his friend and the security man knocked him away with the full power of his right arm, he merely blamed the situation. He picked himself up and backed away from the prisoner. "Okay. I can see you're not prepared to listen to reason. This isn't necessary and it isn't fair to Chekov. But I realise I don't have a choice. What are you going to do now?"

"I'm going to ask you to go back to the shuttle. And I want you to give me your word you won't attempt to come back out here without my permission."

"Right." Sulu got to his feet. "Have you at least run a medical scanner over him?"

"No."

"Christ, Ken, what if he..?"

"Keep your voice down, Sulu, please. Okay, I will. I'm sorry. I should have done that. Now will you go?"

Sulu couldn't remember any guidance from anyone to a relatively young lieutenant on how to react after you'd been ousted in a mutiny. There had been advice on how to stop it happening in the first place, but he hadn't been thinking about watching his back... He'd been thinking about Chekov, who was now going to wake up, maybe injured, certainly confused and disorientated, and find himself tied up like a parcel... If he was still in the grip of the alien, what good was it supposed to do? And if he wasn't...

Mihalchenko met him at the door of the shuttle. Sulu now put a different interpretation on the youngster's white face. Finding yourself in the middle of a mutiny, then having to wait for your superior to come round and discover what you were up to, was enough to shake the foundations of a more solidly assured ensign than Yann Mihalchenko.

"Did Mister Clarke..?"

"The lieutenant suggested that it might be wiser to let Ensign Chekov wake up in his own time. I reluctantly accepted his advice. I don't want to hear you tell anyone otherwise." Sulu glanced around the shuttle. "Is there anything to eat?"

"I'll get you some breakfast. And... thanks, Sulu."

"Don't mention it. Ever." Sulu sat down, stiff and angry, in the seat by the door, just behind the still sleeping Landseer. "Have you had any rest?"

"Yes. Lieutenant Clarke and I had a couple of hours straight after we got you back here and finished patching you up. Bowyer's been asleep since before that, but I really don't think there's much point waking him up. If your commsat made it to orbit..."

"Why shouldn't it have?"

Mihalchenko shrugged and handed Sulu something that looked marginally inedible, along with a cup of coffee. "It just doesn't seem sensible to assume it did. But if it did, when should the Enterprise get back, if they respond immediately?"

Sulu worked it out, then double checked it because he didn't trust his brain. "Not before around dusk today."

"That's what we thought."

"Do we still have plenty of water?"

"Sixty hours worth without being too strict."

The two men were silent for a while. Then Mihalchenko sat down next to Sulu. "Did you call us to fetch you because you thought it was all right, or because you were injured?"

"Unless I imagined the whole thing, or it's an elaborate illusion like the monsters..." Sulu hesitated. He wasn't sure that the ensign wanted to hear his uncertainties. But he needed to think it through, and doing it aloud with someone else was probably the best way to get it straight. "I was talking to him, telling him things he didn't want to hear. Then someone said, 'You're hurting him.' I thought she meant Chekov, of course. But she didn't. The natives of this planet - she looked human, but I don't think she was - were more interested in the alien thing than in us. She more or less said they didn't want anything to do with us, but I was hurting the alien. She just... lifted it out of him. I don't know how exactly. Then she... vanished. It was like a dream anyway. I don't know how real it was. Chekov simply collapsed. I started to call you... I don't remember any more than that. What sort of state was Chekov in when you got to us? Lieutenant Clarke said he admitted he stabbed me, but he didn't seem bothered..."

"He was in shock. I mean, he hasn't been exactly making sense most of the time we've been here, but he was - it wasn't that he didn't care. He just couldn't begin to deal with what was happening. He'd done everything he could for you."

"But did he seem more like himself?"

"Lieutenant, as far as I'm concerned, when he's being himself he's picking a fight with me or biting my head off... He was like someone else completely, if that's what you mean."

Sulu shut his eyes for a moment. He couldn't relax until he'd spoken to Chekov, until the ensign had woken up and demonstrated somehow that he was the good friend Sulu had been missing for weeks. How had they all let it go this far?

"Lieutenant?" It was Clarke. His broad frame filled the hatch. "Chekov has a fractured wrist. He's okay apart from that."

"You've untied him?"

Clarke shook his head.

"Come on. You can find some other way to restrain him. You can't leave him like that..." Sulu pulled himself up. "Have you considered waking Ensign Bowyer up and asking him to look at it? Are you going to give him painkillers when he does wake up? It'll be agony..."

"He is awake. He's not complaining."

"What's he doing then?"

"Nothing. I thought - maybe if the alien thrives on negative emotions, like fear and anger, maybe if he's uncomfortable and resentful enough he'll just... I don't know, Sulu. I don't know what to do."

"Well, you'd better make up your mind, hadn't you? I suppose you were hoping he'd wake up foaming at the mouth and you'd have the reason you needed to shoot him straight off..."

"No, I didn't want that. But it would be easier to be certain one way or the other. Look, we're all in this together. It's as much your problem as mine."

"You felt very strongly that I couldn't handle it a few minutes ago. What you did isn't something you can reverse at will. You'd better see it through now. You know what I think. You can take that into account if you want to. But it is your decision."

Clarke glanced round the wrecked shuttle, at the sleeping crew whose careers, as well as lives, he'd put at risk. Mihalchenko got up. "I'd better check the Captain..."

"Mister Sulu, I'd like you to come talk to Ensign Chekov, and help me assess his condition. We'll offer to treat his arm. If he is still dangerous - well, we'll see, I guess."

"Okay." Sulu stood up, unsmiling.

Bright sunlight was beating down on the dome now, making its interior seem blacker in contrast.

"Chekov?"

The ensign was lying on his back, staring at the vault above him. He didn't respond.

Sulu knelt down beside him. Clarke had remained by the door, not seeking to interfere. "Chekov?"

"Yes?"

"Your wrist is broken. Does it hurt?"

"Something hurts."

"I'll spray it to numb it before I untie you. Okay?" He gestured to Clarke to give him a medikit.

"Whatever you say. How am I going to stop you?"

Sulu swallowed uncomfortably. "How do you feel this morning?"

"Cold, hungry, injured, tied up. How do you think?" Chekov snapped back.

Clarke came over with the kit, his eyes full of anxiety that Sulu found it hard not to mirror back to him.

"This will feel cold..."

"Just do it, can't you?"

Sulu fumbled it and soaked Chekov's hand and sleeve with the ice-cold spray. A scalpel from the kit severed all the ensign's bonds in seconds. He sat up and hugged his wrist to himself to warm it again.

"How much do you remember about last night?"

"Last night? Starting when?"

"After... After I was injured."

"You were injured? What are we doing? Are we avoiding talking about something? After you were injured, Lieutenant, I became aware that you were talking to someone I couldn't see. I thought maybe you were delirious."

"You didn't see her at all? You didn't feel anything? You don't feel different now?

"No."

Sulu glanced at Clarke now, losing his certainty that all must be well, that last night had been real, in some way that meant something. This still wasn't Chekov. "Pavel, you stabbed me last night..."

"Yes. I know."

"Why did you do that?"

"Because you were hurting me. To stop you. I had to stop you. It wasn't my fault."

"What was I doing that hurt you? Can you remember?"

"You were... You were being... you wouldn't get angry with me... I had to make you lose your temper and... I don't understand. Something's wrong..."

"Oh, Chekov." Given his friend's usual talent for overstatement, Sulu almost laughed. "You can't believe how much of a relief it is to hear you admit that..."

Chekov stared at him out of a fog of confusion. "Everyone's been down on me, ever since the... ever since the Klingons... But you were..."

"Ever since the Klingons were aboard, you're the one who's been behaving out of character. You've been doing everything you could think of to make yourself unpopular. Really. It hasn't been anyone else. The problem was with you." Sulu watched carefully for Chekov's reaction to this. "We think it was the alien, the one that caused the trouble in the first place. You were unconscious when we got rid of it. Part of it, its offspring or something, took refuge with you. And then it did everything it could to protect itself. It forced you to fall out with everyone, to annoy everyone as much as you could, sheltering it from positive emotions, feeding it on negative ones. And it's got worse and worse, as it grew, or as it learned how to use you. Until we arrived here. Then you couldn't get away from us, and you couldn't annoy me, or the Captain. So you just got more and more aggressive and dangerous..."

Chekov suddenly sat bolt upright, wincing as he used his damaged arm for leverage. "The Captain... He's still unconscious isn't he? What did I do?"

"You didn't do anything. He's okay. He was knocked out, and then Bowyer accidentally gave him a hypo meant for someone else. It was an accident. No one's to blame."

"And the someone else the hypo was meant for?" Chekov asked. "What about him?"

"Rutley. He was badly injured, but that wasn't your fault either."

"He had his arm torn off," the ensign stated matter-of-factly. "And I contaminated the fuel. Rutley would have been in sick bay hours ago if I hadn't..."

"It wasn't you..."

"But I remember doing it, Sulu. I remember reasoning it out, deciding when, and how. There wasn't anyone else telling me to do it, or forcing me. And I don't feel any different now. How do you know it wasn't me? How do I know?"

"Because yesterday you didn't give a damn about Rutley, or any of us."

Clarke's sudden entry into the conversation took both officers by surprise.

"Did you?" the lieutenant pushed. "Sulu kept saying you were a good man, a friend. I thought his judgement sucked, frankly. I thought you were going to get us all killed. You watched Rutley go down, you sabotaged the shuttle, you damn near got yourself and the Captain killed and it didn't bother you, as if it wasn't real. You just wanted a fight, another excuse for a fight."

Chekov glanced nervously at Sulu, as if he feared Clarke was going to attack him.

"Mister Clarke," Sulu cautioned, then remembered that he wasn't in command here.

"Don't worry, Lieutenant. This isn't the same guy we were dealing with yesterday. I was thinking: have you ever tried to get someone into a sleeping bag with a broken wrist? It's not something you do for someone you don't care about."

Chekov and Sulu looked at each other for a moment, as if trying out this idea for size.

"We should get that splinted," Sulu said inconsequentially. "Everyone felt like that, Chekov. We all wanted to kill Klingons. I did. Then it stopped. That's the only reason I know it wasn't me. Normal people don't want to murder someone one minute and not the next. You'll just have to accept it."

Chekov frowned. "You're making it sound like it was all my fault. It wasn't. You all just shut me out, as if you didn't want to know me, as if I was a... an untouchable or something. It's not me. It's you, everyone..."

"Pavel, the alien was making you see it like that. Really. We tried and you just pushed us away. If anyone else had pulled half the stuff you have over the past few weeks, Captain Kirk would have thrown them off the ship. We should have realised sooner what was wrong, but you weren't letting anyone help you."

Clarke came back with the first aid kit and held out his hand for Chekov's wrist. The ensign responded mistrustfully, watching in silence while the plastic sleeve hardened round his arm.

"Okay? Is that comfortable?"

"Yes."

"I'll go and check on the Captain and the others. Okay?"

"You don't have to ask me, Lieutenant."

"Sulu..."

"We can't just forget it happened, Ken."

Clarke slammed the medikit shut and strode out into the sunshine.

"What's the matter with him? Surely, if the Captain's not... Surely you're in command, not him?"

"We had a disagreement. I wanted to do one thing, everyone else wanted to do something else. I was outnumbered, so I decided not to turn it into an out and out mutiny. I backed down graciously. Probably too graciously."

"They wanted to kill me?" Chekov asked quietly.

"They wanted to..." Sulu tried to find a way round the unpalatable truth. "They wanted to have that option if there was a risk of anyone else getting hurt."

"You told me you would kill me, to protect yourself."

"Yes, I know, but... I'm not sure I could have."

"And they thought they could? They thought that was the right thing to do?"

"They haven't been aboard very long. They don't know you. They..."

"I've been that much of a bastard for the last three months?"

Sulu shrugged uncomfortably. "Yes."

"Why didn't someone say something? Why didn't you..."

"You wouldn't let me, Pavel. I kept trying, but..."

"I thought it was everyone else... I don't know what I thought, but it made sense, then."

"Everyone who was on board when it happened knows how it felt. They'll all understand."

"Is Ensign Rutley going to be all right?"

"I don't know."

"And the Captain?"

"I'm pretty sure he will."

"And Lieutenant Clarke's put his career on the line, and everyone else here..."

"I don't intend to say anything to the Captain about that. I just don't want him to think he's got away with it too easily... Look, you can't take the blame for all of this. That's not how it was..."

"How do you know? I can't tell. All I know is I thought I was reacting normally to people around me being aggressive or difficult. What if..."

Something cut off the sunlight that had crept round to illuminate Chekov's face. Both men looked up at the silhouette in the doorway.

"Captain?"

Kirk came over to them, shaking his head slowly as if still trying to clear Bowyer's overdose out of his system. He squatted down beside the two men, looking carefully at the ensign. "I gather you're back to normal, Mister Chekov."

"I don't know..."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't remember ever being anything but normal. Everything I did made perfect sense at the time."

Kirk thought about it. "Yes, I see what you mean. If I hadn't seen the wretched thing running away from us, I would have wondered if I hadn't just got out of bed the wrong side... I remember feeling that I had every reason to be furiously angry, with the Klingons, which is nothing special, and with you as well. Come on. You were just unlucky that you were unconscious when we threw it out... and that was my fault. I knocked you out."

"You think that's why..."

"Why it stuck with you rather than anyone else? It makes sense, doesn't it? That and the fact that you're still blaming yourself for the whole thing now. It probably thought it had found a food supply for life. Come on, I don't want you attracting any more of the things that are floating around. It's not your fault. That's the official line and I forbid you to disagree with it."

Chekov blinked at the force of Kirk's exoneration. "Yes, Captain..."

"Now, Mister Sulu, what's this about Lieutenant Clarke disputing your command?"

Sulu blushed dark red. "He told you?"

"He all but staged his own court martial and carried out sentence. What happened?"

"We disagreed over how to deal with... with Chekov. I was prepared to take more chances than he was. When we got back from... he told you, I took Chekov out last night, to get him away from the shuttle?" Kirk nodded. "They came after us. I was injured..."

"I stabbed him," Chekov interrupted.

"Yeah. I passed out. By the time I came to, Clarke and Landseer had made up their minds they'd... they'd kill Chekov if there was any more trouble. I didn't have my phaser. I couldn't talk Clarke round. I wasn't even that sure I was doing the right thing. I couldn't see anything to be gained by forcing him to tie me up or start shooting, and I knew I couldn't stop him."

"So you relinquished your command to him, just like that?"

"Well..."

"Sulu, you're just too damned reasonable, sometimes. You had no authority to do that, and you misled him by making it that easy on him. You should have made him fight tooth and claw, over your dead body if necessary, nothing less. You've left him thinking he can put his judgement above his C.O.'s whenever he likes and get away with it. And worse, you've given the same wrong message to three other junior officers. Even if you were damn sure you were wrong and he was right, you should have found another way to deal with it."

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry. But..."

"But what?"

"At least they were still listening to me. I was just so frightened they'd do something stupid."

"They did. It's called mutiny and it's never clever, even when it's necessary." Kirk glanced across at Chekov, who was trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. "How badly injured was he?" he demanded, pointing at Sulu.

Chekov swallowed. "I'm not really sure. He must have lost about a litre of blood. He probably wasn't thinking straight..."

"I can't let this go," Kirk cut in over the top of Chekov's attempted excuses.

"No. I see that, sir. That's why I wouldn't let Clarke just duck out once we knew it was all right."

"Were you intending to tell me?"

"I hadn't..." Sulu faltered under Kirk's hard gaze. "No, sir."

"Go and get Clarke and Landseer in here."

"Yes, sir."

Sulu, looking grimly resigned, obeyed the order.

"Captain, you can't blame him..."

To Chekov's surprise, Kirk sighed and smiled at him. "When he accepted a commission, he accepted the responsibility that goes with it. And you can't just hand it back when the going gets tough and everyone disagrees with you. You can't even hand it back to keep someone you care about safe. Don't worry. He'll survive. And... Chekov, you were lying about Lieutenant Clarke, weren't you?"

To Kirk's surprise, Chekov hesitated a moment. "Yes, Captain. I'm sorry."

"So what happened?"

Chekov seemed to be about to answer but fell silent again.

"I don't know if you feel you somehow deserved it because you simply pushed someone too far..."

"No."

"I don't like the thought of having someone on my ship who would do that to you... to anyone. Whatever the circumstances. You really have to tell me."

"Yes. I understand. It was the Emmaeus survey..."

Kirk nodded. It had been an act of desperation, really, to request that Spock include the ensign in his team for the survey. Certainly, Chekov had been doing nothing to make anyone want to work with him for four or five weeks by then. But if he still had a good working relationship with anyone at that point, it was with Spock, primarily because Spock ignored, or failed to notice, his insubordination. As McCoy had suggested, it had seemed as if Chekov needed to test the limits, to find out how far his superiors would let him go. Spock's ability to keep responding logically would simply be intensely frustrating for the young man.

"Well..." Chekov fixed his eyes on the middle distance and began to spell out what had happened.

It wasn't easy to listen to Chekov's account with any objectivity. Kirk wanted to tell the ensign he was imagining it, lying, that it was all part of the alien's vicious deception. Only no one could inflict injuries like that on themselves.

"That was all he said?"

"Yes, sir. And then he walked out, as if nothing had happened. I'm not sure he knew what had happened."

"I see." Kirk didn't know what to say. The scenario was so bizarre, must have been so terrifying...

"The next time... the next time was at the end of the Emmaeus survey. I was reporting to him and he happened to touch my hand. He seemed to... to... He hit me again, but... but not as many times as the first time. I..."

"Okay," Kirk said gently. "The details don't really matter. The rest of the time, he behaved normally towards you, even when you were alone together?"

"We weren't... I was doing everything I could to avoid being alone with him."

"And you never had physical contact with him on any other occasion?"

"No, sir."

"It sounds to me as if his touch telepathy allowed the alien to get right into his mind and attack you through him. I hope that's all it was. He hasn't been showing any other signs of unusual behaviour. But... why didn't you tell anyone? It wasn't as if you could have been lying, about the attack itself, at any rate."

"I didn't think anyone would care... I know I was wrong, but... I wasn't thinking very clearly. And... Well, it's... I can't explain it, but I didn't... I didn't want it to stop. Not just Mister Spock. Everyone. When he was hitting me, it hurt... but I was myself again. As if... As if the alien was so busy absorbing everything, the pain and the... that it had to let go of me for a while. I did want people to get angry with me. I did. It wasn't just something the alien was doing."

"No," Kirk said firmly. "Don't blame yourself. Did anyone else overreact like that? I know about most of the fights you got into..."

"Other people lost their tempers, but not like that. It was as if he was very, very angry, but not out of control. As if... he was being angry on behalf of someone else. But it felt right. I knew I deserved it. When anyone tried to talk to me, to be nice to me, it was far worse."

"You have to stop thinking that, that you deserved it in any way at all." Kirk glanced up and realised that the three officers he'd summoned must have been waiting outside for some minutes. He gestured them into the dome. They came and stood awkwardly to attention in front of him.

"Captain," Sulu reported.

Kirk stood up to face them. He held a hand out to Chekov and pulled the ensign to his feet. "Out of here," he said sharply, pointing to the door. Chekov emerged into the daylight and looked around him, expecting Hamidi III to look somehow different, less threatening and oppressive. It still seemed a bleak and unwelcoming place.

Yann Mihalchenko sat on the shuttle step, drinking coffee. He raised his eyes and met Chekov's before the navigator could pretend he'd been looking elsewhere. "Want some breakfast?"

"Uh, yes. Please."

"Tea, coffee, chocolate? There's some toast Clarke didn't get round to eating, or I can get you something else."

"Tea, please. And toast... Yes."

Mihalchenko balanced his cup on the edge of the step and stood up to go inside. When he came back, he had a set of engineering coveralls over his arm. "Lieutenant Clarke told me to get these out for you. Your uniform's covered in blood."

Chekov mumbled his thanks and stripped off his uniform. The details of the previous night were indistinct, but it looked like Sulu had bled mostly over him. Once he'd finished, Mihalchenko was already standing by with his breakfast.

"How's your wrist?"

"What? Oh. It's not... It's okay."

He sat down on the ground with his back to the shuttle. To his surprise, the other ensign joined him. "Rutley's doing a little better," Mihalchenko volunteered. "Bowyer's pleased. I think he was imagining Doctor McCoy would have him strung up for incompetence."

"That's good, that he's better, I mean," Chekov said awkwardly. He let his eyes wander over to the dome. It was impossible to see inside and Kirk's voice carried only as a low murmur.

"What do you think he'll do?" Mihalchenko said, gesturing with his empty cup towards the dome. "It's the first time I've ever been glad I was the most junior officer around. I just kept my head down and..."

"You didn't agree that they should kill me if necessary?"

Mihalchenko looked straight ahead as he answered. "If necessary. I mean, if you had been threatening someone with a phaser, or another of those monsters had turned up. But I think... Sulu would have agreed in those circumstances, wouldn't he?" He turned to face the older Russian. "Landseer worked out what was going on. He thought it through best. And Clarke was prepared to do what he thought was necessary for the rest of us to survive. But I'd rather have Lieutenant Sulu in command any day. Of the three of them. He stood by you as far as he could, but I don't think he was being reckless."

Chekov nodded. "I understand my behaviour over the past three months has been..." he started, reckoning he had a lot of apologising to do and he might as well get on with it.

Mihalchenko grinned and shook his head. "I think we should start from the beginning again." He held out his hand. "Yann Mihalchenko. My friends call me Mike."

Chekov took the hand and grasped it uncertainly. "Pavel Chekov. And I'm not sure I have any friends just now."

"You can say that after what Lieutenant Sulu did? And the captain?" The engineer shook his head again. "You mean they'd do that for just anyone?"

"Well..." Chekov considered. "I have some very good friends, now I come to think of it. I just hope I haven't got one of them into a lot of trouble."

Mihalchenko stood up. "You can't blame yourself. I mean, whatever the situation was, how someone reacted to it is their responsibility. So what do you think the Captain will do? If he takes it as seriously as he could, they'll all be in deep trouble, won't they?"

"He won't court martial anyone. He'll find a way not to do that," Chekov replied, more hopeful than certain.

"I'm trying to clear up some of the mess those animals made. Mister Scott's going to have to send another shuttle down with a crew to make this one space-ready, but we can cut the time it takes once they get here with the parts. Will you give me a hand?"

Chekov grasped the olive branch firmly. "Yes. Of course..."

"What's going on? Where is everyone?" Bowyer had come to the door and was looking at Chekov as if he'd found a fox among the chickens.

"The Captain is conferring with his senior officers, and Mister Chekov and I are going to get back to work on clearing the wreckage. Unless you want a rest from watching Rutley?"

"No, I... What's that?" Bowyer pointed out past the dome to something. The other two ensigns turned to look. A narrow mid-grey column in the far distance joined dark grey horizon to lighter grey cloud.

"Rain?" Mihalchenko hazarded. The sun was still shining overhead, but the air was becoming hazy.

"I don't think so," Bowyer said slowly. "But..."

"...You could be wrong," Mihalchenko finished for him. "On this occasion, I don't think you are."

The engineer strode over to the dome and re-emerged a moment later at Kirk's heels. The captain glanced briefly at the phenomenon then headed for the shuttle's sensors. Chekov had already got there. He announced his findings without turning, keeping his attention fixed on the small auxiliary screen that was the only way left of accessing the shuttle's computer. "It's registering as a high energy atmospheric disturbance. But the conditions are not right for something like that. You need a mix of cold and warm air masses and our records don't show anything of that nature here."

"You really didn't see anything when Sulu was speaking to the natives?"

Chekov could feel the warmth of Kirk as the older man leaned over him to reach some control or other, not quite making contact. "It just seemed to me that he was talking to himself." He took a deep breath. "What did you say to them?" he risked asking, quite expecting to be told that it was none of his business.

"That if it wouldn't make you feel even worse than you already do, I'd have had them hung drawn and quartered, all three. What instruments have we got? Can you get a speed and bearing for that thing?"

Chekov pointed to a reading in an unfamiliar register. "I have it on the missile tracker."

Kirk shook his head. "You're right back on the ball, aren't you?"

"Captain?"

"Never mind. ETA?"

"Three point two nine minutes. Its velocity appears to be constant, which again suggests it isn't a purely natural occurrence."

"Well, we can't outrun it, we don't seem to have any defence against these natives, if what they said to Sulu was true. But they didn't seem to intend any harm... Chekov, just on the off chance that they've decided to return the alien to us, could you spend the rest of those three point whatever minutes convincing yourself that you're the most wonderful ensign Star Fleet has ever produced, beloved by all and in an exceptionally cheerful mood this morning?"

"I'll try, Captain."

"It's not that far from the truth, you know," Kirk said, turning away to go and round up the rest of his team.

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, and you should know, you're my second in command at the moment."

Chekov didn't need to ask why. Kirk had obviously decided to fudge the issue of Clarke and Landseer's misdemeanours, slapping a temporary demotion on them that would terminate the instant the Enterprise arrived. He was surprised, and not a little uncomfortable, that Sulu was included. But then, Kirk had seemed if anything more disturbed by the helmsman's behaviour than that of the mutineers. The Russian just hoped that Sulu would accept the reversal with his usual tolerance, and more, that nothing untoward would happen to the captain in the next few hours.

He continued to monitor the whirlwind's arrow-straight approach, squeezing what data he could out of the crippled sensors. When it was thirty seconds away he left the console and went through to the main compartment. Bowyer and Mihalchenko were sitting with Rutley at the rear of the shuttle. Kirk was standing outside, waiting for the alien to arrive. The three lieutenants were with him. None of them, so far as Chekov could determine, were armed. Clarke looked as if he felt naked without a phaser. Sulu caught Chekov's eye and winked.

"Come out here, please, Mister Chekov. Mister Clarke, go and sit on the radio. Keep trying to raise the ship. It's a long shot but we may need them in a hurry."

Clarke brushed past as Chekov squeezed deferentially out of his way. Sulu shook his head fractionally.

About a hundred metres from the perimeter of their camp, the tornado, now a pillar of dust and vapour that reached to the base of the clouds, differentiable from a natural storm chiefly by its silence, came to a halt. It should, Chekov thought, have fallen apart once it stopped moving, split at its narrow waist and collapsed simultaneously upward and downward. Instead it stayed where it was. He realised that it was silent only compared to the roar one expected to accompany it. It was humming like a vast and angry dynamo. Far from feeling competent and beloved, he saw himself as a lightning conductor, helplessly drawing down destruction on his colleagues. It occurred to him to take the shuttle and flee, taking the pillar of fear with him. As if he'd betrayed the thought in some movement, some tensing of his muscles for flight, he saw Kirk mouth, "No," at him.

"Chekov..." He glanced up in surprise at the sound of his name. In the opposite direction to the whirlwind, as if that had been sent to distract them, a pale, fair youth was walking into the camp. The figure was unthreatening, unarmed, hardly clothed. Its features were smudged, like a quick chalk sketch.

The ensign looked to Kirk for guidance on how to respond, but he didn't seem to have seen this new arrival. "Captain, a humanoid individual is approaching us." He pointed. "Can you see it?"

Kirk turned and scanned the horizon, obviously unable to detect the alien. "No. You'll have to deal with it."

The youth held out its hands, empty. "I came to apologise. They have told me that what I did was wrong. I was however only trying to survive." The being's accent was exactly Chekov's. And its appearance, its victim now realised, was a photographic negative of his own.

"You are what attacked the Enterprise, what made me do all those things?"

"Yes. I... I don't need to do that any longer. I borrowed your form in order to talk to you. But I won't use it once you leave. I promise."

"Can you... can you put right any of the damage you did?"

The alien shook its head. "I'm not that powerful. I can only use emotions and illusions. But the natives of this world can do more. They helped me, while I was a prisoner in your mind. They gave concrete substance to my desires."

"One of the monsters you created injured Ensign Rutley..."

"I know. He is healed."

Chekov swallowed. He hadn't expected it to be this easy. "And our shuttle is badly damaged. The hull is breached and most of the equipment inside is not functional..."

"It is restored."

The ensign didn't turn to see what was happening to the Galileo. The expressions on everyone else's faces were enough.

"Thank you," he said, then wondered if he should be rather more grudging in his attitude. After all, this was the beast that had caused all the damage in the first place.

"I shall remain here. The people of this world wish me to tell you that they do not desire contact with you. You may remain here until your greater ship returns for you. You will not be harmed."

The negative of himself began to fade out, as if it had been congealed from the air and was now returning whence it came. The whirlwind moved again, whipping up fresh dust at its foot and then vanishing.

"Crop circles, rock circles, you could create them easily with the ability to control air movement like that..." Landseer was captivated by the phenomenon. " I wonder what the mechanism is for it. Did you leave the sensors operating, Chekov?"

Before he could answer, Kirk interrupted. "Was that one of the natives?"

"No, sir. That was the alien. I think they must have... tamed it. He... it apologised."

"Apologised?" Clarke's voice held a clear indication that he didn't consider that sufficient settlement for the trouble the alien had caused. Chekov continued his report. "He said the natives had - had healed Ensign Rutley. And they've repaired the shuttle..."

"I don't think Doctor McCoy is going to like this." Bowyer said miserably. He was worrying about the now surplus to requirements arm in the shuttle's small stasis unit.

"I'll have it stuffed and put on the wall of my cabin," Rutley responded. He'd looked at the arm briefly and then squeamishly turned away, but so long as he couldn't see it, he seemed to regard his extra appendage as something of a joke. He appeared to be in perfect health once more.

"If we run out of rations before the Big E gets back, we'll roast it," Mihalchenko muttered. He and Chekov were carrying out status checks on the shuttle prior to taking off. Despite the natives' apparent toleration of their visitors, Kirk still felt it would be wise to leave as soon as possible.

"All pre-flight checks are positive," the older ensign announced. "Lieutenant, could you tell the Captain, please?"

Clarke slid out of the seat where he'd been catching forty winks while the rest of the party inspected the hieroglyphics left by the tornado. "Yes, sir."

Chekov blushed, provoking a grin from the security man. "Make the most of it, Mister Chekov," he advised before dutifully departing to do as the ensign had requested.

Ignoring Mihalchenko's amusement at this exchange, Chekov turned back to the Galileo's instruments and the increasingly leaden sensation of impending disaster that was centred in his stomach. The shuttle's clean bill of health in the pre-flight inspection didn't reassure him in the least. If someone could mend a wrecked shuttle that easily... He keyed in the commands for a total systems check.

"Something the matter?" Sulu's voice said close behind him.

"I don't trust it... them."

"I do. They weren't bothered enough about us to mean us any harm. We just don't matter to them."

Chekov looked at Sulu. "And if something does go wrong, Clarke isn't going to take my orders, is he?"

"I will, Mike will, Bowyer and Rutley will follow the crowd... I think he will, if you don't give him a very good reason not to. The Captain was extremely displeased..."

"I'm sorry..."

"So I got caught in the fall out. Another time, I'd do things differently."

" Galileo, this is Enterprise. Are you receiving us? Galileo, please respond." Uhura's voice was nearly lost in static. "If you are receiving, please respond on narrow band alpha. Galileo..."

Chekov leaned over to switch to the suggested channel. "This is Galileo. Can we have code confirmation please?"

Sulu raised his eyebrows. "Good idea, if you feel you can trust your own memory of what the code is."

There was no response from the Enterprise. Both men tensed with the passing seconds.

" Galileo, Alpha Nine Seven." The communications officer sounded more than a little anxious as her voice punched through a sudden surge of interference. "What's your status? Mister Spock would like to speak to Captain Kirk."

"The situation here is under control. The Captain is completing some observations. I'll attempt to patch you into his communicator."

"Standing by."

Chekov pushed buttons and was met by a yowl of protest from the comm board. "She sounds as if she doesn't trust me," he muttered, half under his breath.

Sulu leaned over to the controls. "Pavel, I hate to have to tell you this, but the last time they heard from us was probably a message from a satellite I put into orbit, telling them you were killing us one by one and asking them to come back ASAP. Shall I talk to them?"

The ensign shook his head stiffly. " Enterprise, the interference is too great for me to contact the Captain, but he's on his way back. He should be here within five minutes."

There was further hesitation from the ship. Sulu mimed that Chekov really should let him speak but the ensign was adamant. He was in command here. He'd deal with it.

"Mister Chekov." It was Spock's voice this time. He sounded even more stiffly formal than usual, compounding Chekov's awkwardness. "Please detail the exact status of the landing party."

"Yes, sir. The shuttle was damaged but is now repaired and checks out flight ready. There are injuries to members of the party but none require urgent medical attention. Our survey revealed that the planet is inhabited by a sentient life form. They have stated that they do not wish to maintain contact. We have been asked to leave as soon as the Enterprise returns. Captain Kirk and Lieutenant Landseer are examining tracks left by one of the natives to ascertain how they could be responsible for the circles."

"You are aware of the last communication we received from your party, Ensign?"

"Yes, Mister Spock," Chekov admitted reluctantly. "But I'm all right now."

"Why has the Captain left you in charge of the shuttle rather than a more senior officer?"

Sulu was smiling at Spock's questions until he noticed Chekov's irritation and wiped the expression.

"We have had some disciplinary problems, sir," Chekov reported stiffly. "At present I am the most senior officer."

"Well, if you were lying to them, you'd have thought up something more convincing than that," Sulu said into Spock's answering silence.

"Allow me to speak to Mister Sulu, please." The Vulcan's sensitive hearing had clearly picked up Sulu's presence, if not the substance of his remark.

Sulu moved closer to the microphone. "Mister Spock?"

"Can you confirm what Mister Chekov just told me?"

"Yes, sir."

"You have nothing else to report?"

Sulu knew that he was being prompted for a coded cry for help, in case Chekov, or anyone else, was standing over him with a weapon. "No, sir."

"Very well. Mister Chekov, we will enter orbit in seventeen point four minutes. Is the shuttle able to rendezvous with the Enterprise?"

The navigator took over from Sulu again. "We have enough fuel to achieve orbit, but not to manoeuvre extensively for rendezvous. We'll need you to match orbit with us. Do you want me to calculate and transmit our flight plan?"

"If Mister Sulu has no other duties while you await the Captain's return, perhaps he should do it. Please leave this channel open."

"Yes, sir."

Chekov moved away from the navigation board to let Sulu work. The helmsman gave the task only a fraction of his attention. Chekov was staring out of the forward screen, very still.

"What's wrong?"

"Have you finished that flight plan already?" Chekov snapped without turning round.

Sulu felt a cold shiver along the length of his spine, before he remembered that even the old, familiar Chekov could be bad tempered.

"Chekov..." he tried again. This time, the ensign turned and pointed at the comm board. Sulu was reassured, up to a point. Not wanting to say what was bothering you in the plain hearing of the entire bridge was vastly preferable to refusing to talk at all. He finished off the plan and transmitted it just as Kirk and the others became audible on the last leg of their return to the shuttle.

Kirk greeted the news that his ship was back in contact with a grimace, as if some unpleasant duty awaited him. He gestured the two officers out of the cockpit and slid the hatch closed. Chekov sat down immediately in the nearest seat and closed his eyes. If he'd wanted to talk, it seemed he'd changed his mind.

"Pavel..."

"I'm sorry."

Not a beginning, not an opening to further conversation. Go away and leave me alone.

Sulu checked no one else was within earshot and took a chance. "Who did beat you up?"

"Everyone wanted to. It doesn't matter who did."

"Well, the Captain's going to have to..."

"No, he isn't. He's not going to do anything."

"That's what's got you..."

"No. I don't want him to do anything. It wasn't anyone's fault. It wasn't my fault either. It never is, is it? Things just happen." He fell silent for a moment. "The great adventure. Join Star Fleet and be transformed into a monster. Or enslaved. Or shot. Or tortured. Or..." He hesitated over things he didn't even want to put into words then moved on. "What am I doing this for, Sulu? What are you doing it for?"

"Well..."

"To meet aliens who'd rather talk to that thing than us? To..."

Sulu slid into a seat at an unthreatening distance from his friend. "You've had a rough few months."

"She was terrified. She was so scared of me... What if... What if it's all a mistake..."

"Pavel..."

"They're as frightened of us as we are of them. I'm not sure who is meant to be the enemy."

"It's because we're at war. The enemy is - the people who want to go on fighting. The ones who are afraid to stop. But you have to defend yourself in the meantime. Pavel..."

"I don't want to be the enemy. I don't want to be part of someone's nightmares. And I always will be now."

"Pavel, we spend ninety percent of our time on scientific..."

"Yes. I spend ninety percent of my time being the subject of someone's experiments. At least that's how it feels."

Sulu bent over to pull out a spike of grass stem that had threaded itself through the fabric of his pants. "It's probably just as well you feel like that."

"Huh?"

The helmsman noted that he'd got Chekov's full attention at last, but didn't look up from his examination of his botanical specimen. "Because Captain Kirk said he thought, if you wanted to stay in Starfleet anyway, you'd be better off starting over somewhere else."

Sulu glanced out of the corner of his eye at the ensign.

"Oh." Chekov looked as if he'd suddenly become aware of a gaping hole under his feet. "Well..."

"So what are you going to do instead? I mean, you're pretty well qualified. Starfleet experience always pays."

"I don't know. I didn't mean... I'm not sure I..."

"I guess I'll miss you, but you're right, it's not worth it, if you're not sure you want to be here. I mean, it's not as if there aren't a couple of thousand people waiting in line for every place at the Academy, and that's just the ones who pass the entrance requirements. So, you can probably do just about anything you want to do, back on Earth. What were you thinking of?"

"I wasn't thinking... Are you sure Captain Kirk said that?"

Sulu jettisoned the stalk. "He didn't say anything of the sort. But you don't really want to go, do you?"

"You..." Chekov pushed himself out of his seat but didn't go anywhere. After a moment, he turned round. "What gives you the right to do that to me? Who do you think you are? I thought you were a pilot, not a...a..."

"I thought we were friends, even if you... even though I haven't been very good at it lately."

Chekov folded into the seat next to the lieutenant. "How can you dare to think you know what I want when I don't know myself?" His attitude was so much less angry than his words that Sulu ignored them. He shrugged and smiled.

"Can you imagine having some dumb, safe job, having to take up rock-climbing, or Russian roulette, just to remind yourself you're alive?"

"Russian roulette only involves using one bullet."

Sulu soaked up the implication that Chekov felt the odds against him had climbed to worse than one in six. Looking back over the past year or so, the helmsman had to admit the ensign seemed to be dogged by misfortune... Misfortune that he'd always shaken off until now.

"Who beat you up?"

"Why do you need to know?"

"Because I don't think they should get away with it. I think you need to know that someone will make sure they don't..."

"It was Mister Spock."

When Sulu didn't respond, Chekov continued. "So, what do you intend to do? Suggest he commits Sepuku?"

The abrasive, needling tone of the past weeks had returned to Chekov's voice. Sulu made the necessary effort to ignore it, reckoning it was only habit. "But why? Do you know why?"

Chekov shrugged, grateful that Sulu had phrased his disbelief with his usual tact. "It was the Vulcan mind meld. It let the alien get into him. It took him over and used him to... to scare me witless. I couldn't be on the bridge with him without shaking."

"Well, look... He didn't know what he was doing and the alien's gone now, so..."

"So it doesn't matter, the Captain doesn't need to do anything and it wasn't anyone's fault. Why couldn't you just accept what I told you first off? Now on top of feeling weird when I see him, I have to put up with you watching me to see if..."

"I'm sorry."

"You always assume I've got things wrong somehow, that you know better..."

"Well, I'm sorry... I guess I didn't understand. But... I'm sorry."

"What am I going to say to him, Sulu? What's he going to say to me?"

The lieutenant hesitated while he placed this change of subject. Apology accepted... or discounted: he wasn't sure. "Mister Spock doesn't remember, right?"

"Chekov." Both men looked up and realised that Kirk was watching them from the open hatch to the cockpit.

"Captain?"

"We'll leave in five minutes. Make sure everything's clear out there. Mister Sulu, I want you to pilot, I'll assist."

"Yes, sir." Chekov scrambled to his feet and ducked out of the shuttle.

Kirk looked at Sulu. "What were you talking about... if it's not private?"

"Well, I guess it is, but... I think he feels pretty awkward about going back to face everyone, and Mister Spock in particular. How sure are we... I mean, he could have just imagined it, couldn't he?"

Kirk shook his head. "Spock confirmed what Chekov told me. He had been under the impression that it was a false memory, something created by the alien but eventually he checked out the briefing room where he... where the attack took place. Apparently there was blood all over. Chekov's blood."

Rutley appeared at the door of the shuttle and Kirk waved Sulu into the cockpit and pulled the hatch to. "Obviously it wasn't Spock's fault, anymore than any of this was Chekov's fault, but Chekov's been on report, or extra duty, or confined to quarters for most of the past three months. At the very least I need to do something about that..."

"He's just... I don't think he's even thought about that."

The shuttle grounded as softly as a falling leaf. Sulu remained at the controls, going through the routine of leaving the craft in condition to lift off again at a moment's notice, knowing that the next emergency might hit in seconds rather than days, or weeks. That was what he liked about the job... most of the time.

He realised that not everyone had left.

"Chekov?"

The ensign came to the door. "Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

"Waiting for you."

"Okay. I'm done."

Despite a trouble free journey back to the ship, Mister Scott was wheeling up enough equipment to take the shuttle apart and rebuild it from scratch. Sulu reflected that he might as well have left everything cockeyed after all. He ushered Chekov out before him onto the steps. The engineer grinned at the pair of them. "I hope you checked their technicians had Starfleet approval before you let them fix her."

"I ran every test I could..."

"I was joking, lad." Scott laid a hand on Chekov's shoulder as he came up to look over the pristine interior compartment. "It's good to have her back in one piece, though. She's a good craft." Then he turned to the ensign. "And you, Mister Chekov. We've missed you too."