For a few moments the primitive part of her katra savored that moment. Her conscious mind screamed out with self-loathing—not for having taken Sten’s life, but because, even now, decades later, that one instant of manifest rage, sanctified by the Koon-ut-kal-if-fee, still gave her a tiny measure of joy. It was his own fault, she consoled herself. He should have let me go when I asked to be released.

She had never loved Sten. On Vulcan, teaching children to love was considered grossly improper, but every child was taught how to wield the lirpa and the ahn-woon, and some were instructed in the dancelike martial art of V’Shan.

There were many such dichotomies of her upbringing that T’Prynn had never been able to reconcile to her own satisfaction: She had been indoctrinated with pacifism but taught to kill. Her elders had extolled the right of each individual to make their own choices, but they also had expected her to mate with a man who was all but a stranger to her. From the earliest days of her childhood she had sensed that the emotions raging deep inside her were enormously powerful and vital to understanding the true nature of her existence as a Vulcan, yet her people’s entire society seemed predicated on the philosophy of suppressing its most profound inner beauties because it feared the ugliness that resided beside them.

All her doubts notwithstanding, T’Prynn had learned and obeyed, absorbing the tutelage of the Adepts and the stern reprimands of her parents, until she, too, learned to live her life in a state of self-inflicted emotional atrophy.

Then she had seen the lust in Sten’s eyes, felt his need to possess her, to smother her, to control her. It was a crude and sickening sensation, and she had obeyed the impulse of her heart. She told Sten to choose another mate and let her go.

Enslaved by his own ardor, he had refused to abandon his claim on T’Prynn. His final demand, before she snapped his fourth vertebra, had been “Submit.”

It was a demand now repeated endlessly, in her waking thoughts and in her dreams, by his vengeful katra, which he had projected into her undefended mind—and which now lingered in her subconscious, torturing her without mercy, flooding her thoughts with its memories of wounds she inflicted so that they could mingle with the hurts Sten had bestowed upon her.

Submit!

After more than five decades of unrelenting mental strife, T’Prynn’s answer remained unchanged.

Never.

14

Kirk sat at the desk in his quarters and reviewed Spock’s report of long-range sensor data from the Ravanar system. So far, the information was not promising. There were indications of recent high-energy discharges, which were consistent with the current hypothesis that the Bombay had been destroyed. Reinforcing that speculation was the complete absence of signal traffic to or from the system, which implied that there was no one left alive, either in lifeboats or on the planet.

There’s always a chance, he reminded himself. They might be alive but without communications. Until we know otherwise, this remains a rescue mission.

His door signal buzzed. For a moment he considered making whoever was outside wait while he tossed his damp towel back into his shower nook and swapped his loose civilian shirt for a proper uniform jersey. Then he reconsidered and said, “Come.”

The door slid open, and Lieutenant Robert D’Amato stepped inside. “Pardon the interruption, Captain. Is this a bad time?”

“Not at all, Mr. D’Amato. What’s on your mind?”

D’Amato took a few moments to choose his words. “I saw that Mr. Spock’s roster for the landing party on Ravanar includes Ensign Pawlikowski from earth sciences.” After a brief hesitation, he added, “I also noticed that my name wasn’t on the list, sir.”

Kirk nodded. “And you feel this was an oversight?”

“I am the ship’s senior geologist, sir. It should be me.”

“You’re still on bereavement leave,” Kirk said. “For now, Pawlikowski is top of the list for your department.”

“Captain, I understand that landing-party assignments are made at Mr. Spock’s discretion, but—”

“I selected the landing party, Mr. D’Amato.”

Heavy silence followed Kirk’s declaration. The thrumming of the Enterprise’s engines, straining to maintain maximum warp for an extended run, pulsed through the deck under their feet.

D’Amato seemed to be struggling to restrain a floodtide of temper and grief. “I hereby request permission to return to active duty, and to serve on the landing party at Ravanar.”

“Request denied.” Kirk walked past D’Amato and tossed his used shower towel into the corner.

“May I ask why, sir?”

“You know why,” Kirk said, opening his drawer and removing a clean uniform shirt. “A landing party’s no place to work out a personal agenda.” He backed off from his reflexive authoritarian mode. “Besides, I think you need to give yourself more time to deal with this. It’s been less than three days.”

Shaking his head in protest, D’Amato said, “I can be objective, Captain.”

“Can you? I’m not so sure.”

Pausing to take a calming breath, D’Amato closed his right hand into a fist, which Kirk took as a sign that the man was barely holding himself together. “This isn’t about revenge,” D’Amato said. “And it’s not about some denial fantasy that she’s still alive if only I can find her.” His jaw trembled as he forced out the words, “I know that she’s gone.”

“What’s it about, then? Proving you’re not in pain?”

“No, sir. It’s about making this mean something.” The shadow of grief darkened D’Amato’s face. “I can accept that she died in the line of duty, but not that she died for nothing.” Tears of sorrow and anger welled in the corners of his eyes. “Something on that planet was important enough that Oriana and her shipmates were killed for it. I want to know what it was.”

Kirk put down his jersey on top of the dresser, then walked slowly back toward D’Amato. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to make sense of tragedy, D’Amato.” He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “But it doesn’t always work. I can’t promise you that we’ll find what you’re looking for. Sometimes, the truth is that accidents happen—acts of nature, of random chance, of God, if that’s what you want to call it. You want an answer so badly that you might fool yourself into seeing one that’s not there.”

“No, Captain, I won’t.” D’Amato straightened his posture, as if he were defying the weight of grief burdening his heart. “I’m a scientist. I have my training, standard protocols, simple rules for reporting only what I can detect, observe, and quantify. You can trust me to do my job, sir…to bring you facts, not wish lists. You have my word on that.”

The captain considered D’Amato’s request. He is better qualified than Pawlikowski, Kirk thought. And the briefing from Xiong suggested we would want an expert in subterranean geology. Looking back at D’Amato, however, he remained worried about the deep emotional wound the man had just suffered. Letting this man be part of the investigation into whatever events had claimed the life of his wife wasn’t against Starfleet regulations, but it felt like a risky decision. What if I were in his place? Could I put my faith in science? In procedures and protocols and cold, hard facts? Kirk admitted to himself that he probably couldn’t…. But I’m not a scientist.

“I’ll ask Mr. Spock to tell Pawlikowski you’ll be taking her place,” Kirk said. “Join us in transporter room one tomorrow at seventeen-thirty hours.”

With a look of bittersweet gratitude, D’Amato nodded and said, “Thank you, Captain.”

“Dismissed.” Several minutes after D’Amato had gone, Kirk was still wondering whether he had just made a grievous error in judgment. I guess I’ll find out tomorrow on Ravanar, he decided, then changed into his uniform shirt and left for the bridge.