His eyes closed … but dreams quickly intruded.

Somewhere, a drummer pounded tightly stretched skins; and Madness—a faceless entity with hot red eyes—danced naked in a dry lake-bed, demanding human sacrifice.

The fever claimed him, wrapping him in ember-hot arms for the night.

Chapter Seventeen

KIRK'S EYES OPENED to the sensation of water dripping on his face. Dragging himself back to consciousness, he raised one hand to his forehead, fighting the dizziness and pain which rose in his stomach as he tried to move. Reality refused to focus.

"Spock?"

"Juliet?" another familiar voice said as Kirk became aware of a supportive hand on his shoulder. "Sorry to disappoint you, Jim," Richardson added, words coming as if through a tunnel, "but it's just Prince Charming without his Cinderella. And on thishunk of rock, I don't think there's even an ugly stepsister."

Struggling to sit up, Kirk leaned heavily on Richardson for support, grabbed the wet cloth from the other ensign's hand, and rubbed it briskly across his face. After a moment, his eyes opened, scanning the desolate terrain, and he found himself suppressing a groan of dismay.

Jagged rocks reached toward a pale yellow horizon on all sides; and skeletal trees with black-fingered branches dotted the alien landscape. The ground was relatively soft, consisting of muted brown sand and a smattering of tiny clear crystal-pebbles vaguely resembling diamonds. As the blue sun sank low on the horizon, the clear rocks glistened, giving the illusion of a sea of shiny stones. Overhead, somewhere high among the rock buttress, a spring gurgled noisily, sounding like a muted whisper of children's voices.

At last, Kirk met his roommate's eyes. "I feel like a person who just swallowed a bottle of rubbing alcohol," he muttered, wishing his head would clear. "What the hell happened?"

Richardson shrugged absently, then winced at the stab of pain which ran through one arm. "Close range disruptor stun," he surmised. "That was a good try you made back on the ship. Too bad it didn't work."

Forcing himself to remember the turn of events, Kirk breathed deeply. "Not exactly standard issue Security people," he recalled.

Richardson grunted, leaning up against the outcropping of rock, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand. "Our little friends left a pile of survival gear over there," he continued, jerking his head toward a mound of green canvas packs resting against the base of the buttress. "But since I flunked basic tent-building in survival school, I thought I'd wait around for some help in setting up housekeeping." He paused. "I hope you read Romulan cookbooks, Kirk."

Kirk managed a smile, glancing to where the gear had been haphazardly dropped to the ground. "I don't suppose they decided to stay for dinner," he surmised.

Richardson shook his head. "They did ask me to relay their humblest apologies, but I had the impression they were in a bit of a hurry to get back." Gradually, he sobered. "I was barely awake myself, Jim," he explained. "But I did hear one of them summon a Romulan cruiser for beam-up, so I'd assume we're not in the Alliance anymore." His eyes narrowed curiously. "Still … if they'd wanted to knock us off completely, they wouldn't have left that stack of junk for us to play with."

Kirk nodded to himself. "Dead hostages don't command a very high price on the open market," he said quietly. Then, looking at Richardson, a frown came to his face. "C'mon," he urged, putting his own misery in the background. "Let's see what we can do about that arm."

Without waiting for an answer, he stripped off the uniform tunic, struggled with the sleeves, then grunted appreciatively when the fabric finally ripped. His eyes scanned the horizon carefully as he sought something to use as a splint. Finding a nearby tree with low-hanging branches, he stood—a little too quickly, he discovered, as the desertlike world shifted and spun out of focus. He took a deep breath, waved Richardson's unspoken protest aside with a quick gesture, and edged over to where the skinny tree had poked its way through the rocks and was growing at a crooked angle. Bracing himself with one foot, he lifted the other leg, drew back at the knee and kicked.

With a startled snap, the tree severed almost at the base. After picking it up and breaking the main branch to an appropriate length, Kirk turned to see a puzzled and worried expression take shape on Richardson's face. He returned to his friend's side, took the man's wrist in one hand, and slowly extended the arm to its correct position, grimacing as he felt the ligaments straighten.

"This is to pay you back for all the dirty clothes you left all over my bed!" he said, trying to refocus Richardson's attention.

Richardson winced. "It's not broken," he said matter-of-factly, "but it willbe if you keep that up!"

Kirk managed a laugh, looking at the alien landscape once again. "Any idea where we are?"

"Well, at first glance," Richardson began with a mock-professional air, "I'd be willing to bet that we're not in Oz." He flinched when Kirk began fitting the branch to the arm. "But if you'll look out that window on your left, you'll see that we're now passing over the—ouch!—Golden Gate Bridge. On your right, you'll see the Pacific Ocean. That tiny speck is a lifeboat, containing your captain and crew. And if you'll further observe—ouch, dammit!—you'll see that the left wing is on fire." He grinned warmly. "Use your imagination, Kirk," he urged. "And don't pinch the stewardess."

Kirk laughed lightly, using strips of the dismembered uniform to tie his handiwork in place. "Better?"

Richardson grimaced. "Do Gorns fly?"

After another moment, Kirk finished the splint, rose to his feet, and brushed loose sand from his knees. "Let's see what our hosts left to eat," he said, going quickly to the pile of survival gear and dragging the two largest bundles over to where his roommate waited. He began digging through the first pack, pulling out an assortment of ration bars (labeled in Romulan dialect); instruments which appeared to be for cutting and digging, presumably to use in search of food; and finally, a standard Alliance-issue medi-kit.

"Efficient little bastards, weren't they," Richardson said, leaning forward to survey the contents of the bag.

But Kirk didn't answer. His eyes remained locked on the contents of the medi-kit … and the two full ampules of lidacin. He took a deep breath, then glanced at Richardson out the corner of one eye.

"How's the pain in the arm, Jerry?" he asked at last, also noting the diluted coenthal and another painkilling substance which was marked with the universal symbol for morphine.

"Manageable," Richardson decided. "Save the stuff for later." But his brows furrowed as he studied Kirk's face. "Do you … remember anything that happened while you were unconscious?" he asked presently.

Kirk felt a chill climb along his spine. "No," he replied. "Why?"

"Well, when you started coming around, you kept calling for Spock." An easy grin came to the ensign's face. "Now in itself, that may not seem so strange. He isthe captain: fearless leader, bold ruler, god among mortals, et cetera and so on and so forth. But that's not what caught my attention." He laughed reassuringly at Kirk's confused expression. "Maybe it doesn't mean anything, and maybe it does," he continued, "but you kept asking Spock about the Enterprise. You kept asking him if the Enterprisewas safe."