“I don’t think it does,” Masada said.

Decker was getting annoyed. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“No, sir,” Masada said. “What I mean is, I think only a very small portion of the genetic string has anything to do with the mold itself. The rest is…well, just kind of there.”

Takeshewada tilted her head in a way that implied she found Masada’s answer less than satisfactory. “But what does it do, Guillermo?”

The science officer’s eyes widened as his lips tightened into a thin line and his shoulders rounded into a shrug. “No idea. I can tell you that it’s big, but other than that…” He just shook his head.

“And our tradition of excellence continues,” Decker said with a sour inflection. His darkening mood was brightened by the arrival of his coffee. He accepted the mug from Guthrie, then turned immediately back toward Masada. “How soon can you finish some tests and get me a real report?”

“I’m not sure I can,” Masada said. “Our lab’s good, but it’s not this good. We’re gonna have to send all of this—the samples, the scans, the whole kit and kaboodle—back to Starfleet Command and let them handle it.”

Decker’s shoulders slumped with disappointment. “Are you serious? We make a once-in-a-lifetime find, and you’re telling me we have to punt?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.” Masada looked even more disappointed than Decker felt. “With our hardware and manpower, we could spend years on this and not make a dent.” Dejected, he added, “It’s just too big for us to tackle alone.”

With a heavy sigh, Decker resigned himself to the situation. “There’s an old saying on Earth,” he said as he gave Masada’s shoulder a consoling squeeze. “There’s no ‘I’ in ‘team.’ ” Sipping his coffee carefully, he walked down the short stairs to his seat, settled into it with a muffled grunt and a few pops from his aging knees, and pivoted around toward the communications officer. He opened his mouth to issue the order, then remembered that he didn’t know what her name was. Glancing at Takeshewada, he gave her a quick nod to carry on.

To the first officer’s credit, she knew exactly what Decker needed her to do and covered his lapse seamlessly. “Ensign Ponor, open a secure channel to Starfleet Command,” she said. “Prepare to relay information from Lieutenant Masada’s station, on his mark.” Ponor acknowledged the order, and minutes later Masada finished the data transfer. Takeshewada appeared at Decker’s side as he finished his coffee. “Transmission complete, sir. And we have new orders from Starfleet.”

“Do tell,” Decker said, handing his empty cup to Guthrie, who was breezing past at precisely the right moment to relieve the commodore of his petty burden.

“We’ve been ordered back to Federation space,” Takeshewada said. “To begin patrolling the Klingon border in the Gariman Sector, before putting in for resupply at Deep Space Station K-7.”

Decker looked at the mesmerizing drift of warp-distorted stars on the main viewer. “Looks like the Taurus Reach will have to wait for someone else to plant our flag. Helm: Plot a course for Station K-7, and hug the border all the way there.”

“Aye, sir,” the helmsman said.

It cut against the grain of Decker’s nature to turn his back on a mystery such as the meta-genome that Masada had uncovered. Even more difficult was turning away from the exploration of such a vast unknown as the Taurus Reach in favor of a mundane border cruise. But as the starfield on the viewer blurred and shifted, and the Constellation turned homeward, he knew that the work he and his crew had begun here, hundreds of light-years from home, was no doubt in very good hands.

2265

1

Captain James T. Kirk walked alone through the crowded, busy corridors of the Enterprise. He moved quickly, like a man with a purpose, but the truth was that he had been wandering without a destination for the better part of an hour. Memories of Delta Vega haunted him. Gary Mitchell’s eyes, fiercely aglow with the alien power that had corrupted him, refused to stop staring back at Kirk every time he tried to sleep. Night after night, the ghost of Kirk’s best friend, dead by his hand, awaited him in his dreams, his spectral stare an inescapable silent reproach.

Even though the power packs Scotty had salvaged from the Delta Vega lithium-cracking station had enabled the Enterprise’s warp engines to be restarted, the ship’s current top speed was well short of its rated maximum. At their current best possible speed, they were still months from the nearest Federation base. By now Kirk’s after-action report—filed via subspace radio—had likely reached Starfleet Command. He did not regret the simple notation he had entered for Mitchell, despite the fact that the man had tried to commandeer the Enterprise and had turned his new psionic powers against Kirk. The young captain continued to remind himself that the being who had jeopardized his ship and crew had not been Gary Mitchell—not really. After the Enterprise’s failure to breach the energy barrier at the edge of the galaxy, Mitchell—and, later, psychiatrist Dr. Elizabeth Dehner—had been changed by the experience, transformed. Kirk had to believe that the man he had known would not have been capable of such casual cruelty…of murder. Instead, he had noted in his log only that Mitchell had died “in the line of duty.”

A door opened as Kirk passed by, and the aroma of fresh coffee lured him into the galley. Dr. Mark Piper sat alone at a table, gratefully inhaling wisps of hot vapor snaking upward from his burnished aluminum mug. “Morning, Captain,” the grizzled, aging physician said, his voice rough.

The greeting brought Kirk up short. “Is it?” He checked the ship’s chronometer, mounted over the galley door.

“It’s almost 0100,” Piper said. “Technically, it’s morning.” He sipped carefully at his beverage.

“I guess it is,” Kirk said with a wan grin. “Burning the midnight oil?”

“Emergency call,” Piper said. “Nothing serious enough to wake you for. But I guess that’s not an issue.”

Kirk stood in front of the food dispenser, eyeing his choices. “Who was it?”

“Alden,” Piper said, then puffed gently on his coffee.

None of the menu choices appealed to Kirk. He sat down across from Piper. “What happened?”

“An accident in engineering.” He took another sip, inhaled through gritted teeth, and set down his mug. “Spock’s probably writing the report for your morning briefing even as we speak.”

“No doubt,” Kirk said. His half-Vulcan first officer was nothing if not efficient. However, the same suppression of emotion that enabled Spock to exercise unimpeachable logic in his other official capacity, as ship’s science officer, had also led him to urge Kirk to kill Gary Mitchell before his new powers drove him to enslave or exterminate the Enterprise crew. Kirk had not heeded Spock’s warning, and helmsman Lee Kelso had paid for Kirk’s mistake with his life. The captain knew that it was absurd to blame Spock for what happened, or to be angry with him for being so quick to condemn Mitchell to death. Spock’s chief duty as first officer was to protect the ship and its crew, even if that meant sacrificing one to save the others.

Knowing those things made Mitchell’s death no easier for Kirk to accept, however. He had pulled the trigger and brought a ton of rock down on his friend. No amount of rationalization was going to erase the lingering guilt that had shadowed his every thought since that desperate moment.

After a silent minute, Piper said, “You should eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Try getting some sleep, then.”

Kirk chuckled ruefully. “Easier said than done.”

“On this ship, I guess that’s true.” Piper grabbed his mug and stood up. “I have to head back to sickbay. Want to stop in and say hi to Alden?”

Before he could accept the invitation, Kirk was cut off by a two-note whistle from the overhead speaker. “Captain Kirk to the bridge,” came Spock’s voice over the intraship channel.