"Would you repeat what you just said, Doctor?" he requested.

McCoy's head turned rapidly in the Vulcan's direction. "What? That it's got to be a hoax?"

The Vulcan shook his head. "You formulated a hypothesis," he pointed out. "One which could well be the only explanation for the current course of events."

McCoy thought back, wishing his short-term memory was in better working order. But after a sleepless night and a suicide order, he reminded himself that he'd be doing well to remember his own name. But slowly, the words came back to him, and a smile appeared on his face. "That nobody in their right mind would give an order like that!" he recited, feeling vaguely like a child in kindergarten who had just enlightened the teacher. He glanced suspiciously at Reichert, grateful that the ensign was still asleep. "That would explain a lot, wouldn't it, Spock?" he asked, inclining his head in Reichert's direction.

The Vulcan nodded. "Indeed it would, Doctor," he replied. "If we assume that Ensign Reichert is not an isolated case, it may be possible to theorize that the two incidents are almost directly related."

McCoy's brows furrowed. "You mean to say that Admiral S't'kal toldReichert to destroy the ship?" He shook his head. "I can't believe that—"

"Not at all, Doctor," the Vulcan interrupted, arms now folded neatly across his chest in a posture which bespoke confidence. "However," he continued, "if we examine the basic intended result of each incident, I believe you will agree that there isa remarkable similarity."

McCoy thought about it, grateful that he'd chosen medicine as a career instead of espionage. "In other words," he reasoned, "both Reichert and S't'kal were trying to accomplish the same thing."

The Vulcan nodded. "Unfortunately," he said, "Admiral S't'kal is in a somewhat more advantageous position to implement his plan than Ensign Reichert."

McCoy's eyes widened again. "You're not serious about following those orders, are you, Spock?" he demanded.

"Disobeying a direct order from FleetCom will be a difficult task, Doctor," the Vulcan responded. "And yet it is obvious that we cannot permit Alliance forces to deliberately invade the Neutral Zone. The resultant war would obliterate any chance of peace for the next thousand years."

"But … what about those other starships, Spock?" McCoy wondered. "If youfail to carry out those orders, you'll be court-martialed—and someone else will take command of the ShiKahr."

An eyebrow rose elegantly. "It will require at least six Vulcan standard days for those ships to reach the ShiKahr," he realized verbally. "In the meantime, Doctor, we must find some method of isolating the cause of this affliction. And not only must the cause be isolated, but a cure must be found."

McCoy paced over to the desk, flopping into the chair. It wasn't the first time Spock had asked him for a miracle—and he hoped it wouldn't be the last. He glanced first at Reichert, then at the Vulcan. At least he had a place to begin. Impulsively, he thumbed the communication panel. "Nurse Drew, get me four lab techs—equipped with mini-combscribers and portable brain scanners. Have them meet me in the medical briefing room in fifteen minutes."

"Affirmative, Doctor," came the filtered response.

Turning off the communication device, McCoy stared at the Vulcan for a long moment. "There's just one more thing before I officially get started on this, Spock," he said, rising from the desk and going to the Vulcan's side.

Spock waited.

"What about you?" McCoy asked pointedly. "You can't use your Vulcan physiology as a medical excuse this time. S't'kal's about as Vulcan as they come—and it's obviously affecting him."

The Vulcan turned away from the scrutinizing blue eyes. "I seem … able to control what few symptoms I have experienced, Doctor," he replied, voice clipped. "I believe your primary function should be one of isolating the anomaly within those who appear to be the most seriously affected." He strode toward the door, evading the hand which reached toward his arm. "If you will excuse me, I am due on the bridge."

But McCoy stepped in front of him before he could make his escape. "You haven't been altogether honest with me, have you, Spock?" he stated in the form of a question. "Symptoms?"

The Vulcan did not return the doctor's gaze as he stepped aside, pausing at the sealed doors for just a moment. "Doctor," he replied, irritation beginning to creep into the normally level voice, "you have your orders and I have mine—and while I must attempt to discover an acceptable way of ignoring mine, you do not have that same option."

McCoy's eyes widened and he bounced angrily on his toes. He'd never been told to mind his own business quite so formally. But before he could respond, the Vulcan had already slipped through the doors and into anonymity. But he'd hardly expected anything less from Spock.

He turned at last toward Reichert, only to see the other man's eyes suddenly spring open. The cold eyes followed Spock's exit and a dangerous smile broke out on thin lips.

"'That he is mad, 'tis true: 'tis true 'tis pity; And pity 'tis 'tis true.'"

Reichert began to laugh again; that cold, uncontrolled laughter which sent eerie shivers dancing along McCoy's spine.

Chapter Six

COMMANDER TAZOL THREW himself angrily on the bed, slamming one heavy first into the pillow as he was forced to recall the events of the past week. A mission of glory—but for whom? The entire Romulan Fleet at his disposal … yet nothing had gone according to the Praetor's plans. He rolled onto his back, and an illegible cry tightened the muscles in his thick neck. Death would have been preferable to failure, he realized. He closed his eyes, letting the memory replay itself for the hundredth time. Slowly, almost with malice, the images filled his mind … images of the days so recently gone by …

Tazol studied the printout of his orders as a devious smile came to his face. Turning in the command chair of the Romulan Flagship Ravon, he motioned his first officer over to his side with a quick nod of his head. "The Praetor sends greetings," he relayed. "Greetings and demands for the success of our mission."

A young Romulan female glanced briefly at the readout which the haughty Tazol dumped unceremoniously into her hand. "The mission is feasible, Commander?" she wondered, doubt punctuating her voice.

"It has already begun, Sarela," Tazol confirmed, leaning back heavily in the black chair and propping one boot on the arm. "Our operatives in Federation territory were able to provide the Praetor with the information we will need to completely alter the history of this Federation." A cruel smile grew on the commander's lips. "And, subsequently, the futureof the Romulan Empire."

Sarela studied her commander and her husband with open doubt revealed in wide black eyes. She did not like what she saw. As a commander, Tazol was a joke. And as a husband …

She let the thought drift into oblivion. The Ravonshould have been hers; instead, she had received Tazol in marriage by her parents' arrangement. It was custom—a custom she had respected too long, but one she had come to despise over the six weeks they had been married. With an effort, she pushed the personal considerations to the back of her mind, meeting the harsh eyes defiantly.