“I am no medical expert, Admiral,” Tuvok said gravely, studying the locket Uhura had given him, “but it is my understanding that it is not unusual for illnesses once believed eradicated to recur decades, even centuries later. However, with the exception of Rigelian fever, I know of no such organism that crosses human/vulcanoid bloodlines. Nor am I aware of any disease which kills everyone who contracts it.”

“And if you were thinking like a spy…” Uhura suggested, letting him finish the thought.

“One logical explanation might be that this disease had been deliberately created. But by whom, and why?”

“Exactly what it’s our job to find out. For security reasons, I’d like you to deliver this to Dr. Crusher personally. Then have a chat with our little friend.”

Tuvok studied the locket gravely. “ ‘Security reasons,’ Admiral? Even on the grounds of the Academy?”

Uhura made a wry face. “Yes, I know. It’s made it all the way from Ki Baratan to here untampered with, but I can’t help thinking, now that it’s my responsibility…”

“Understood,” Tuvok said.

Chapter 4

“This is not intended to be a formal interrogation,” Tuvok began. “Merely an attempt to establish the veracity of the information you have given us.”

“Of course,” Zetha said in a tone which suggested she believed just the opposite. The tone was not lost on Tuvok.

The disciplines of Kolinahr,even unfinished as Tuvok’s had been, left resonances. While all Vulcans were touch telepaths, he had learned to augment his innate skills to such a degree that often touch was not needed. In addition, his years among humans had instructed him in the nuances of body language. The angle of a head, the tension in a spine, the nervousness of a gesture, a dilation or contraction of the pupils, changes in respiration, pulse, body heat, all told their tales. The ability to read them was a vital part of his armamentarium as scientist, security officer and, where necessary, interrogator.

Feral child,was his first thought, watching Zetha once more through the mirror wall. If she was in fact a trained intelligence operative, she was relatively inexperienced. Or very, very good.

The room Uhura had consigned to her was windowless and secured from the outside but, in all other respects, as comfortable and well-appointed as an officer’s billet aboarda starship, complete with a sleeping alcove, a replicator, sanitary facilities, a library computer, even a wardrobe containing several changes of clothing in the correct size.

Tuvok noted, however, that having satisfied her hunger with several trips to the replicator, Zetha seemed content to leave the other amenities untouched, and to wait until someone told her what to do next, however long that might take. In the meantime, she had curled up in one of the overstuffed chairs with her feet tucked under her, and was devouring matter of a different sort, running several information programs on the computer simultaneously.

No doubt, Tuvok thought, she realized that everything she was reading could be monitored, and attempts to access sensitive materials would be blocked. His supposition was confirmed when, seeing him in the doorway, Zetha sat up and put her feet on the floor like a child interrupted at her homework, but made no attempt to hide what was on the screen. Tuvok heard the drone of a basic Romulan/Standard language program in the background.

“A wise choice,” he commended her in Romulan. “Learning our language will facilitate your time with us.”

“You’re a Vulcan,” she responded by not responding. “How do I silence this thing without losing what I’m reading?”

“Computer, mute program,” Tuvok said, and it did.

“ ‘Computer, mute program,’ ” Zetha mimicked him, almost perfectly.

Tuvok watched her process a multitude of impressions, not least of which was the surprise of meeting her first Vulcan, without any overt reaction, though he detected an increase in her pulse and respiration.

“I am Tuvok,” he said. “Admiral Uhura has asked me to make certain you are comfortable, and to speak with you.”

“Tuvok,” Zetha acknowledged, glancing at his insignia. “You are less than an admiral.”

“My rank is lieutenant,” he acknowledged. “You are observant.”

She shrugged.

“Shall we begin?”

She shrugged again. He activated the universal translator and the recorder.

“Zetha,” she said, before he could ask. “Born in Ki Baratan, or so I am told.”

Tuvok’s eyebrow rose. “You do not know for certain? There is no record of your birth?”

“None that I am aware of. So I can’t tell you how old I am, either.”

If Tuvok found the answers unexpected, he gave no sign. “Known relatives?”

“Didn’t I just answer that?” she said impatiently, and Tuvok noted a tension in her muscles, a barely controlled hostility. “No family name means no family. If what I know about Vulcans is true, you should understand that.”

Bravado, Tuvok noted. Hiding what? He sat back in his chair and softened his approach. “Perhaps you should tell me what you know about Vulcans,” he said, as if he were addressing one of his daughters.

“I’ve heard things,” she said diffidently. “Rumors. We of the Sundered talk of our distant siblings often, even though you choose not to acknowledge us.”

It was at this point that Tuvok began to wonder who was interrogating whom, and he knew he would get no further on that topic.

“How were you raised, then, if you have no family?”

“What’s the first thing you remember?” Tahir used to ask her, whispering in the dark while they waited for a contact who might or might not show up.

“A voice,” she would say. “Screaming at me. Or, no, the first thing I remember is the hands.”

“Hands—?” he would prompt her, his breath warm on her face, his own hand brushing her cheek.

“Yes. Grabbing me by the hair. Then the voice…”

The feeling of her hair being pulled out by the roots, to the accompaniment of shrieks, her own and those of the creature doing the pulling. “I’ll snatch you bald-headed! Ruined my life, demon spawn!”

Slam! The eye-smarting pulling stopped, if only because the claw-like hands had released her and flung her against the wall. She skidded on the slick tile floor, trying for purchase, to gain her feet and run. Not far; she knew from past experience that the door was locked. There must be earlier memories, then, interchangeable with this one.

Smack! The impact of an open hand against her jaw. She hadn’t seen it coming, so at least had not clenched with fear. No teeth chipped this time. She dropped and rolled, barely clear of the boot-toed feet kicking at her shins. But she’d forgotten about the ugly divan in the middle of the room, and found her small body trapped against it; it was too low for her to crawl under it. The kicks came faster then, striking anywhere soft. Zetha curled into a ball, feeling the blows against her ribs, her spine, knowing there would be fresh bruises over the old ones, the familiar ache in every muscle that by now seemed more normal than not.

“Get up!” the woman said at last, breathless from the effort. “On your feet and out of my sight!”

Mother, grandmother, caretaker? Old, young? Was she even Romulan? Or was it she, not the absent paternal parent, who had polluted the “pure” bloodline with her alien genes? Try as she might, Zetha could never see the face, only the clawing, hurting hands and the tiny booted feet. The voice might have been Romulan, might not; the accent was colonial pretending to be citified. But who or what she was or had been, no knowing. Because a time came when the screaming stopped, and the hands and little booted feet went away.