Goddess of Love . . . and Death

Tina Josephs examined the red crystal carefully, then looked again at Dr. Fisher. "You're sure," the Security Chief asked.

Dr. Fisher nodded once, somber. "It's definitely Venus drug, and fairly potent stuff, too. She should know." He nodded at the still form on the diagnostic bed.

She looked once more at the crystal. It felt like so much gelatin, yet its heart glowed and shimmered. She handed it to Captain Thalek.

"Why would anyone willingly take this . . . hashketha?" The Andorian was disgusted to the core.

"It's particularly popular on frontier worlds, where male and female populations are frequently imbalanced . . . it seems to act on the most ancient parts of the humanoid brain, making the females into helpless cavewomen---maximizing their sexuality so they can trade on it for security and protection with the strongest male. And the males become stronger; more aggressive. Homicidal apes, really."

Thalek frowned at the doctor. "A nice, informative lecture which doesn't address my question: why would someone take something that deranges their faculties and kills them by inches?"

The doctor stared at two uncomprehending faces and sighed. Were doctors the only ones who understood people's frailties? "The drug gives a feeling of self-worth and potency; its primary users are people with a low level of self-esteem: the hopeless and near-suicidal. To them, it would be addictive even without the physical cravings. It makes emotional eunuchs feel whole again."

The Andorian shook his head, not really understanding. Fisher tried another tack.

"You were raised in a warrior society where the genuinely ineffectual get killed off young. The survivors are sure of themselves to the point of arrogance." Dr. Fisher grinned at Thalek's frown. "If you imagine yourself injured in a desert, unarmed, with wild predators around and every man's hand raised against you, you might better appreciate the outlook these people have. Now take the drug and be healed: you're whole again, armed, and people look up to you. And the effect is real; people act differently around a person who is self-confident and a little dangerous-looking than someone who cringes from shadows."

"And someone like this has brought this poison aboard my ship."

"It would seem so, Captain."

"Dr. Fisher, the entire crew is due for a physical. Now. I want to know who's using this hashketha." Thalek turned to Tina. "Commander Josephs, I want you to land on this with both feet, before it gets any worse."

"I understand, sir." Her voice matched his for grimness.

" . . . So, that's the situation," Lieutenant Commander Josephs said. "I'm assigning three of you to planetside undercover, and three of you to nose around shipboard. And effective immediately, all Security personnel are to report to Dr. Fisher for drug-testing to make certain that we're clean. Anyone declining to be tested will be offered a non-prejudicial transfer. Any questions?"

At forty three years of age, Tina Louise Josephs did not yet have to worry about gray hairs, her constant jokes about the job giving her them to the contrary. A handsome, physically fit woman, she didn't have to worry about her social life, either. What little social life being the Sol's Security Chief permitted, that is.

"Who will be on the assignments?"

"I haven't decided just yet, but when I do, only the affected personnel will be informed: I want this to be a leak-proof operation."

"Don'cha trust us, Boss?" That was Lt. Bottoms, making one of his little jokes.

"On this job, I wouldn't trust my own mother." Josephs was not smiling. "Look people, the drug trade is a lucrative one, and any one of us could be tempted. And drug dealers are notoriously ill-tempered; I'm not going to risk the lives of my people by letting the cat out of the bag. So, I'm going to tell the bare minimum of people the bare minimum they need to do their jobs until this is over. After it's over, we'll all sit down and I'll bring everyone up to speed. If there are no other questions, you're dismissed."

There were none. Over the course of the next several days, Chief Josephs shuffled assignments like a deck of cards. Teams were broken up and locations changed, apparently at random. The idea was to make it look like everyone had moved around, making it harder to spot the undercover agents. And Captain Thalek made liberal shore leave arrangements, making it easier to get people planetside.

The cover story for the Sol's lengthy stay was that extensive warp drive re-alignment was necessary. Nothing that required a spacedock or much in the way of outside supplies, but it could be very time-consuming. Visits by curious colonials were diplomatically put off.

Tina pinned most of her planetside hopes on Lt. Sven Lundgren. Bright, imaginative, and ambitious, he had checked out absolutely clean---and he had a brother in the colony. It was her hope that having local contacts would allow them to clean this up quickly. To that end, and to aid in his cover, Lundgren was going to pretend disaffection with Starfleet and cashier out on Tarkana IV.

Shipboard, Lt. George Bottoms was the man. Where Sven was tall and blonde, George was shorter and black. Sven was known to be somber; George Bottoms was anything but. On the other hand, Bottoms may have lacked Lundgren's ambition, but he was every bit as bright.

As Sven materialized near his brother's home, he was immediately impressed with Tarkana IV. He was impressed with the numerous ground vehicles and relative lack of air traffic. He was impressed with the poorly maintained roads and streetlamps. And he was particularly impressed with the predatory looks the locals were giving him. The bolder ones were all armed. Sven pulled his small hand phaser out of concealment and appeared to change its settings before making it vanish again. This little bit of theatre caused everyone to start minding their own business again.

Olaf's house was reasonably well-maintained, but shared a subtle air of apathy with the whole colony. The recyclables collection had not been taken in some time.

Inside was a cozy enough home with Olaf's wife Marie, two boys, local dog-equivalent, and Olaf. But the talk around the supper table was of long lines at the grocery store, a line-jumper who got a (well-deserved) stabbing, and how the gang that Olaf's kids belonged to had held off a larger group of opponents earlier that week. Olaf praised his boys warmly for this accomplishment.

For his part, Sven told stories about Starfleet life, stories in which Starfleet always managed to be the butt of the joke or the cause of the problem. And he spoke wistfully of putting down roots and breathing fresh air for the rest of his life.

"I don't suppose Tarkana IV has any openings," Sven joked.

"We've always got an opening for a hard worker, or someone who knows how to make his brains do the work."

"Can't be any harder than starship life," Sven replied. "As for brains, well, you're talking to a Starfleet officer, the dumbest creature since Klingons crawled out of the ooze."

"Who says they have?" Olaf quipped.

"You know, this is my idea of heaven," Lt. Bottoms said.

"Sir?" Ensign Tomkins was not certain that she'd heard correctly. She looked around at the cramped, dimly lit crawlspace. Aptly named, there was insufficient room in the crawlspace to stand, and barely enough room for two people to lie side by side.

"Yup," he said, setting another sensor in place. "There's nothing I like more than to crawl through the dusty dark with an attractive lady."

"But it's not dusty, sir." Tomkins took pragmatism to an extreme, which made her a good engineer---and a poor dinner conversationalist.

"If you give me a lecture on the scrubbing systems," Bottoms grunted, putting some muscle into his final placement, "I'll do something terrible to you." What, he wasn't certain. He hoped she wouldn't ask.

She didn't ask. In fact, she didn't say anything. After a few moments, George said, "That was a joke, you know."

"No, sir, I didn't. I . . . uh, I'm told . . . I'm told that I don't have a sense of humor," she finished in a rush. In the dim emergency lighting (probably the source of a few emergencies itself), it was hard to make out expressions. Even so, George Bottoms could tell that Ensign Lisa Tomkins was embarrassed. Which made him feel embarrassed.

"It's a cultivated taste," George said, trying for levity. "Not everyone takes the time to cultivate it," he finished lamely. He scooted along for about ten meters. "This is over the rec room, right?"

Lisa flashed a light on the numbers painted on the crawlspace wall. "No, sir. Another five meters."

"Right," he grunted as he moved again. "Here?"

"Yes, sir."

They worked in silence for several minutes.

"Sir? What are these devices for?"

"They're a replacement for the old biotelemetry 'belt buckles'. Being stationary, these sensors won't be as subject to interference as the old system was."

"Yes, sir." She sounded dubious. "So why is Security involved? This looks like a straight-forward installation job."

"Because, the idea is to take normal readings for calibration purposes. If the crew was aware they were being monitored, it would throw some of the readings off. Next sensor, please."

He had spoken without looking at her, concentrating on the work. When he reached for the sensor module, she held onto it, forcing him to look at her.

"Sir, if this is classified, just tell me so. But don't bullshit me." You didn't need light to tell she was angry.

His voice went hard. "What makes you think this is bullshit, Ensign?"

Tomkins held her ground, matching him glare for glare in the dim lighting. "Because Engineering's been trusted on sensitive work before. Because Commander Quinn programmed the fabricators for this sensor job himself, then wiped the program when the run was complete. Because even though you have a trained engineer along, you're doing all the work yourself. Because you're bugging only certain parts of the ship. And despite the sheer size of the job, you and I are the only ones installing these things."

"All right, Ensign." Lt. Bottoms sighed. "I can't tell you a damned thing except that it's a very sensitive job, and that no one in the crew must know, just yet. I'm going to have to inform Cmdr. Quinn that I told you even this much."

"I can handle that," Tomkins replied, a smile in her voice. "I just couldn't handle you thinking that I was a total idiot." She handed over the sensor.

Sven walked into the bar, pausing a moment to let his eyes adjust. The first thing he noticed were all the weapons. Everyone carried a knife of some sort, and most had other weapons as well: phasers, disruptors, stunners; one woman even carried an antique projectile weapon. Had Sven been an aficionado, he'd have recognized it as an old Ruger Blackhawk. The fact that she was still alive meant that no one else had recognized the priceless antique, either.

A snatch of conversation caught his attention: "There I was, four light-hours away from the nearest rock, and that was the size of my thumb . . ." Sven turned away; if the stories were that old, the information wasn't likely to be newer.

Tending the bar was an otherwise attractive blonde with a surly look to her face. Sven smiled and ordered a whiskey.

"Local or imported?"

"Local." Wouldn't hurt to seem friendly, Sven reasoned.

"Brave man," was the reply as she shoved a glass at him and sloshed some dirty-looking liquid into it. Sven's imagination supplied smoking holes where the liquor splashed onto the bar. He took a cautious sip, thus saving his vocal cords. The raw liquor burned like a runaway pile all the way to his stomach, where it simulated a meltdown. Sven had never heard of the China Syndrome, but now he knew what it felt like.

It was impossible to suppress a shudder, but he did wait until he could speak above a whisper again. "It's got quite a kick," he admitted. He slid his credit tab over to the bartender. "Buy yourself a drink," he added.

"I don't drink while I work," she said, managing to sound a little less sour. Never the less, his tab came back with a drink-sized tip debited.

A few hours and a couple of drinks later, Sven had learned several things: 1) her name was Anastasia Yar and she didn't date the customers, 2) the imported whiskey was much better than the local brew, and 3) the quickest way to get thrown out was to ask Anastasia about Venus Drug.

He was picking himself back up when he heard a mocking voice: "And I always thought you were such a straight arrow."

"Planet-hopping can change a man---if he does enough of it." Sven turned and faced his brother, still dusting himself off. "This isn't the first bar I've been thrown out of; I doubt it'll be the last."

"So what'd you do? Recite the Boy Scout Pledge once too often?"

"Ticked off the bartender."

"With Anastasia, that's not hard, but she doesn't usually throw out a paying customer. You were paying, weren't you?"

"Not enough, I guess. Any other watering holes in this village?"

"Watch what you say, Boy Scout. We've got over three hundred thousand people in this 'village.'"

"Sorry, I forgot how touchy you colonials are about that," Sven lied. It surprised him to see a minor gibe like that making his brother red-faced with anger. "C'mon, I'll buy you a drink," Sven added, hoping to change the subject. Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, he said with a grin, "But not in there."

The prospect of a free drink changed Olaf's mood yet again, and they spent several hours hitting the younger Lundgren's favorite dives. The two made rather a mess of their last stop, and the bar's patrons cheerfully returned the complement. All in all, Sven later reflected, it was a pretty successful introduction to Tarkana IV's night-life.

Capt. Thalek sat morosely, studying the reports from Security. This early in the investigation, they did little more than indicate that things were being set up. As a precaution, they had been put under his voice-lock by Cmdr. Josephs. Patience was a warrior's virtue, but the Andorian was not always a virtuous warrior; he wanted to do something to help. Thalek sat bolt upright as a thought struck him. He tapped the intercom button.

"Thalek to Mr. Quinn."

"Quinn here."

"Mr. Quinn, at your convenience, I'd like to talk to you about an idea of mine."

"Aye, sir. In about an hour, then?"

"Very good, Mr. Quinn. My office in an hour. Thalek, out."

Thalek returned to his paperwork, figuring to do something useful while killing an hour. It was a very long hour. At last, the office buzzer sounded.

"Come."

Frank Quinn sat in the offered chair and waited expectantly.

"I've got an idea that may halt the smuggling, and has other implications as well."

"Yes, sir?"

"While an object is in transporter storage, it's basically digitized data. Why not subject that data to analysis? We could detect illegal substances or dangerous micro-organisms before rematerializing them. Maybe even remove the contraband while in transit."

The Chief Engineer was shaking his head even before Thalek was finished.

"You're on the right track, Captain, but it can't be done. Not yet. Maybe in eighty to a hundred years, what you suggest will be routine, but . . ."

"Where is the problem?"

Quinn sighed. "It's in our hardware and software, sir. Oh, we have an object stored in the transporter computer, right enough. I've even heard rumors of using the data to create duplicates. But even if we had the software, it would take over a week to perform the analysis. And the software presents a bit of a problem, too."

"How so?"

"Well, what you're proposing is creating a digital filter that would recognize and optionally remove disease organisms and contraband substances from a very large mass of data---without harming the rest of the data. It's a very tricky task you're setting up; not unlike voice recognition software."

Thalek frowned. "I don't quite follow you."

"It's like this: back in the Terran twentieth century or so, voice recognition was originally thought to be a simple problem, capable of being solved in a few years' time. But it got worse the more they looked at it.

"Your voice contains data on your gender, which is irrelevant to what you're saying, so we filter that out. It also contains information on your emotional state; that's irrelevant too. And your health and fatigue levels, in general terms. Then there's the fact that you never say the same word exactly the same way twice. And the fact that I never say the same word exactly like you do. Then homonyms complicate things further: the so- called 'to, too, two' problem.

"In short, this simple-seeming problem took software scientists over fifty years to solve. And what you're asking is several orders of magnitude more complex."

"I see," Thalek replied. He pulled a small hone out of a belt pouch and unsheathed a well-worn knife. The Andorian examined it critically a moment, murmuring something in his native tongue, then slowly began sharpening the blade.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"I only said that it's time to buy another anger-knife."

"'Anger-knife', Captain?"

Thalek sighed and put his tools away. "Actually, it's a meditation knife. For centuries Andorians have used the mind-emptying task of honing a blade as a meditation exercise, much like what I've read of your Zen meditations. So, we buy a cheap, sturdy knife and use it only for sharpening. Of course, meditation is also a good treatment for, shall we say, 'untargeted' anger, so they've picked up the nickname of anger-knives."

"I see. Well, don't let me interrupt your meditations, Captain. I can come back some other time." Quinn rose and tried to move towards the door without seeming to hurry---and failed.

Thalek chuckled. "Very well, Mr. Quinn, but think about it. There could be a Nobel or Zee Magnees prize in it for you. Not to mention fortune and glory!" Thalek brought out his meditation tools again.

"Yessir. I'll look into it, sir!" And the door hissed shut behind the engineer.

Now that Sven Lundgren was established as a pub-crawler---and brawler, it was time for the next stage of his cover. Sven wasn't looking forward to this part; getting beaten up seemed a lot more appealing.

Making sure that he was supposed to be on duty at the time, Sven agreed to be at his elder nephew's birthday party. When his communicator began beeping, he ignored it until it quit. It took an hour, but eventually Cmdr. Josephs and two burly assistants showed up.

"You're supposed to be on duty, Mister."

"Tina! Join us for a drink; we're celebrating Nils's birthday." The slur in his voice was only slightly exaggerated. Tina Josephs's frown deepened, if possible. "Tina, this is my brother Olaf, and his wife Marie, and this fine lad is Nils----"

"You're drunk! I want you back aboard, and I want you aboard now, or you can kiss your career goodbye."

Sven shook his head solemnly. "Can't do it: Sol's not in the right position for half an hour. We're outta trans--transporter range."

Josephs flushed. "Well, you're not going to spend it here getting drunker."

"You're not going to let a woman talk to you that way, are you?" Olaf didn't wait for an answer but worked his way to his feet and faced the woman. He topped her by at least a foot. "Why don't you take a hike, lady? My brother and I aren't finished with our drinks." Grinning hugely, he signaled the waiter for another round. The two Security guards waited impassively, content to take their lead from the commander.

"Your brother is out of uniform, drunk while on duty, and away from his post. That's deep trouble, Mr. Lundgren. Don't help him get any deeper." The words were quietly spoken, but to Olaf it was like waving a red flag.

"I said, 'take a hike.'" A push on Tina's shoulder emphasized his words. The two Security guards started forward, but halted instantly at her gesture. She turned and smiled, and they relaxed: it was not a nice smile, but it was one they'd seen before.

She looked past Olaf, ignoring him. "Are you going to come easily, Sven, or the hard way?"

"You're gonna need reinforcements, lady, and they're half an hour away," Olaf sneered. He pushed her again. Alarmed, Sven got to his feet.

"You're not afraid of these three, are you, Sven?" Olaf was contemptuous as he aimed another push at Cmdr. Josephs. It never landed. In a smooth, effortless move, she caught his arm and spun him around into an armlock.

"I wasn't speaking to you," she said evenly, ignoring his efforts to escape. "Are you coming, Sven? Or are you as stupid as your brother?"

"Maybe I like it here," Sven snarled. "Maybe I'll just quit now and you can go back to your starship and your canned air. Yeah, and your red alerts that pop out of nowhere and last for hours before we hear what's going on . . . and pulling double watches looking for jokers playing games with the food synthesizers . . . No, I'm not going back! I'm resigning, right here, right now."

Josephs continued to study him, ignoring Olaf's efforts as if they were no more important than a five year old tugging on her pants leg. "Fine," she said at last. "Be back on the ship in the next twenty-four hours and we'll muster you out. Be even one minute late, and I'll see to it that you spend the next eighteen months mining dilithium with your teeth."

Turning her full attention to Olaf for the first time, she spoke in an emotionless voice. "Your manners need a refresher course. I really hate being interrupted." She released him so quickly he staggered.

With a roar of rage, Olaf swept up a bottle from the table. Before he could land a blow with his makeshift club, Sven caught his wrist, then deftly extracted the bottle and set it back. Olaf glared at his brother and tried to get his arm loose. "Are you crazy?!" Sven hissed. "She once took a kzin into custody with her bare hands!" Tina Josephs and her companions watched in that relaxed pose that meant instant trouble for any attacker.

"Commander, I think you should leave now," Sven said. Josephs nodded, then gathered up her team with a look and left. Sven released Olaf's arm. What happened next shouldn't have been a surprise, but it was.

Olaf rounded on his brother, face flushed and eyes fevered. "You helped her. You helped her against me, your brother!" A trace of spittle trickled from the corner of his mouth. "You traitor, you back-stabbing son of a bitch! You took the side of that bitch instead of your own flesh and blood. I ought to cut your throat for that!"

There was more, but Sven was no longer listening. The threat had triggered his training, and he was a machine now. Observation: Olaf's knife was in his boot tonight; Sven's was in his belt. Target: Olaf's heart. Range to target: three and a half feet; need to take half a step forward. Speculation: Olaf might be angry enough to carry out his threat. Assessment: if Olaf goes for the boot knife, he's a dead man.

In two heartbeats, Sven had locked in a mortal self-defense program and was now able to pay attention to lesser matters again. Idly, he noted that he himself was trembling with rage. He waited tensely for Olaf to wind down---or act. Olaf wound down.

"I need to go home and pack now," Sven said. "I have to find a place of my own to stay."

"I'm not done talking to you yet!"

"I'll talk, when I can talk about it calmly. At the moment, you're between me and the door."

"You're not leaving until we talk this out!"

Sven took a breath, held it, released it. "I'm going to ask you, just once, to stand aside and let me pass."

Olaf looked disgusted, but moved aside. "This isn't over yet, Sven!"

"When I can talk about it calmly, I will. Right now, I'm leaving."

Lisa Tomkins was monitoring the sensors in a state of total, absolute boredom. Having spent several years in Engineering, she could now watch the panels with half an eye and still stay awake. She hoped someday to master the art of doing something genuinely interesting and not overlook her chargees.

She had no one to blame but herself, however. If she hadn't been bent upon impressing George, that is, Lt. Bottoms with her intelligence, Cmdr. Quinn wouldn't have assigned her to further assist the lieutenant in his work. Now, she knew too much to go back to her regular duties until the investigation was over.

'Which might be soon,' she thought when an alarm went off on her panel. There had been several false alarms before, but something about this alarm was different. One of the screens automatically showed an image of the area where the detection was made. Lisa gasped and hit the switch that sent these images into permanent storage: she had a definite keeper, here. Even as she watched the person on the screen ingesting the drug, she was also hitting the intercom switch.

"George, it looks like we got one! Computer, enhance and identify." The computer, pre-programmed for this operation, adjusted the image's contrast and brightness, then froze a frame for processing. A second later, it printed a name on the bottom of the screen: Ensign Patrice Edelman.

"Oh no . . ." Tomkins groaned.

"What is it, Ensign," a rather groggy Bottoms demanded.

"Sir, it's Patrice! She's my cabinmate."

"I'm on my way," and the closing of the channel were the only replies.

There were times when diplomacy just wasn't appropriate. Sven had already decided that right now was definitely one of those times. He dodged a kick, then threw some moderately effective counterpunches. The theory was to do some damage to his hulking opponent without making himself look too good, while not taking too much damage himself. The practice was a bit more complicated. He rolled with a punch that felt like it could take his head off, if it landed squarely.

The two circled in the makeshift arena, looking for openings. Sven's opponent, a heavily muscled man with interesting scars on his fists and face, thought he spotted such an opening. Sven stood his ground until the last second, then snapped a powerful left to the jaw that felled his opponent.

Grabbing the man's shirt collar with both hands, Sven applied a choke hold---and a small transponder, which was the whole point of this exercise.

"Had enough?"

Unable to speak, the giant nodded.

"Hand over the goodies, then."

The giant fished a plastic bag out of his pocket (the whole point of the exercise from his viewpoint) and gave it to his vanquisher. Lundgren simply dropped the man and examined his winnings: nearly four ounces of Venus Drug. It was the traditional prize in such matches, here at De Milo's, the fourth such purse Sven had won this week.

"You stomped him good!" Kathy squealed.

In a way, Kathy was Sven's first conquest. An attractive redhead, she'd picked him up in a bar. Having seen her surreptitiously swallowing the drug, Sven was amenable. After the wildest three days of his life, Kathy decided to introduce him to De Milo's. And Sven's hitherto slow investigations hit paydirt.

De Milo's was an old warehouse in the heart of the business district. Inside, it was "a wretched hive of scum and villainy"---and the chemically damned.

Sometimes resembling scenes straight out of Dante's Inferno, De Milo's was the hotspot for Venus Drug users. There was a bar where any intoxicant could be had for a price----cash only, Mister.

There were several makeshift arenas where males could test their drug- enhanced machismo; the same arenas where Sven fought and frequently won.

And there was the auction block. Here, the women had a quantitative measure of their beauty: they sold themselves for a night to the highest bidder. Sven quickly found out that he couldn't afford Kathy. Fortunately, she didn't feel the need to "check her numbers" very often.

And it was at De Milo's that Sven did his "rat-tagging." Every man he fought, every woman he fondled had a transponder surreptitiously added to their accessories. Inert to most scanners, the transponders emitted a data pulse only when the correct code was transmitted to them. The SOL was even now creating a map of their habitual routes and stopping points. Already, they had pinpointed three other clubs similar to De Milo's, and most of the dealers' locations. Sven was to learn that this was not always welcome news.

"What we apparently have here is three crewmen who apparently tried the drug on a lark, and became addicted. All three have answered our questions and agreed to submit to verifier-scans. All three claim that their supplier was a colonist." Chief Josephs looked at the other three officers in the briefing room: Captain Thalek, Chief Engineer Quinn and Doctor Fisher.

"Then there is no distributor among the crew?" Dr. Fisher's tone was one of hope.

"There's no evidence of one. Of course, absence of proof is not proof of absence."

"Of all the paranoid---"

"That's enough, Doctor," Thalek said quietly. "That's her job. And she does it well."

Fisher blushed. "Sorry, Tina. I just want to see an end to this."

Chief Josephs accepted his hand and shook it. "I know, Harry. I hate spying on the crew. I hate keeping secrets from my own people. This whole damned mess stinks!" She looked over at Frank Quinn. "By the way, Frank, those sensors of yours are doing a fine job. We can't carry even one unshielded capsule of the drug through the tagged areas without the alarms going crazy."

"You can thank Harry for that," Quinn said, nodding at the doctor. "He found an old report by a Dr. McCoy that commented on the effect Venus drug had on med-bed scanners. I just used a similar circuit."

Thalek tapped the table once. The other three immediately broke off their conversation.

"Doctor Fisher, have any more abusers shown up?"

"No, Captain. Everyone else has passed their physicals."

"Cmdr. Josephs, are you reasonably sure that there is no one distributing this hashketha on the SOL?"

Tina Josephs thought about it. "Yes, sir. There's just too few users aboard to support a pusher; if there were one, they'd have created more customers by now."

"Fine," said the captain. "Let's wrap this up then. Start the arrests."

"Aye, aye, sir!"

Sven returned to his apartment one night to find a message on his terminal: "Phone home." Fortunately, Kathy was not the woman he was with that night, and he was able to leave her there while he went out again "to get some drinks." Once outside, he found a public comm unit and called the SOL. Eventually, he reached Tina Josephs, who immediately had him scramble the line.

"Sven, I won't mince words with you. Your brother is a dealer, and we botched his arrest a couple of hours ago. I need your help in catching up to him before he can spoil other raids."

"Are you sure of this?"

Silence.

"Right. Stupid question. How can I help? We aren't exactly close, right now."

"You already know some of his favorite haunts; it would take us days to learn that, and we'd ruffle too many feathers learning it that quickly. Give us the list and we'll check it out. If we don't catch him, I'll be back to you."

"Sounds like you don't want me in on the arrest, Tina."

"That's right, Lt. Lundgren. I don't want you anywhere near him at the time: you're too valuable where you are. I can't have you compromised."

Sven counted to ten in Swedish.

"All right."

It didn't take long to list the places he remembered; there weren't many. And he had shortened the list by one. After the calls, he went back to his apartment and threw the woman out. Later, he barely remembered that she'd been there, let alone what he'd told her. Armed with a map, he drove his rented vehicle to a cabin in the forest, a couple of hours out of town. His brother had taken him there a couple of times for some hunting. It was a good hiding spot, until things calmed down . . . just the sort of place Olaf would use.

Olaf answered Sven's knock warily, not the least reassured by the fact it was his brother at the door.

"They're on to you," Sven said without preamble. He shouldered past into the cabin. "They're probably on their way right now."

"Who is? Why would anyone want me?"

Sven's jaw tightened painfully. "Save it. I already know, and I just came to get one question answered. Why? Why are you selling this . . . this poison?!"

"I needed money. Besides, only the fools who buy it get hurt." To say Olaf was unrepentant was to understate the case: Olaf was completely casual, matter-of-fact.

"Turning thief is cleaner than this!"

"Nothing's lower than a thief!" Olaf's disgust was obvious, if hard to understand.

"No? Try a drug pusher. You claim that you only hurt your customers, but every one of them robs or kills for money to buy your drugs. At least a thief only has one victim at a time. All by yourself, you've created a crime wave! And you're not the only pusher, by any means."

"So what? We only sell to the stupid ones, the ones dumb enough to want it. It works like evolution, only faster. Why should you care about them, anyway?"

"Maybe because I might have been one of them," Sven admitted. "I was always unsure of myself, an outsider even at home. I certainly wasn't wanted in the little clique you and Inga formed."

"You were a wimp," Olaf sneered. "You were always too good to associate with us, or to get yourself dirty playing . . . you'd always hide in your room with a book, instead."

"It was safer company, or don't you remember some of the 'games' you and Inga used to play? Like all the times she used to scream for help because you were beating her up? And then she'd jump me from behind because I was 'too rough' on you? And then both of you would swear to Mother that I'd started the fight."

Olaf shrugged. "You were too big for us; we had to stick together. Mother was the only one to stick up for us."

"She stuck up for you particularly. I got letters from her, you know. I know about the arguments, the money you owed her, the jobs you quit or got fired from. Once, just once, she admitted that she was afraid of you. She died without a credit to her name because of you and your thieving ways!"

"That's a lie!" Olaf screamed, then launched himself at his brother. Sven hit him with a right to the jaw, then pulled out his phaser. Olaf slapped it out of Sven's hand with contempt.

"I hoped you would do that," Sven said, smiling slightly as he punched Olaf in the mouth. "You know, I only lost one fight to you."

"Welcome to number two, brother," Olaf replied, and pulled a large bowie knife out of a hidden sheath. Sven began backing up, looking for the lost phaser; his own knife was back in the apartment. Olaf moved with the confidence of a cat dueling with a mouse.

"C'mon, Boy Scout!"

"You always were a lazy bastard," Sven said, trying to keep an eye out for the phaser and the knife at the same time. "If you really want a piece of me, baby brother, you'll have to come and get it."

"Killing you is going to make up for a lot, Sven."

Sven spat on the carpet. "What does a thief know about killing? Maybe you need me to turn my back to do the job?"

Olaf lunged forward and Sven blocked the blade, but missed getting a wrist hold. Evading the return cut garnered a shallow slice across Sven's right palm. Sven threw himself backward across the dining table, managing to kick Olaf on the chin as the younger Lundgren lunged again.

Rolling to his feet, Sven now had the table between him and his attacker. He watched as Olaf spat out a tooth, then wiped blood off his chin. Olaf stared at the blood for a moment, jaws working angrily.

"Letting you knock that phaser out of my hand is starting to look like a mistake," Sven admitted. He backed a couple steps until he fetched up against the china cabinet he'd noted earlier.

"The last one you'll ever make," Olaf agreed. He watched, amused as Sven opened the silverware drawer with his left hand, still facing Olaf. "You won't find anything sharper than a butterknife in there, brother."

Sven reached in and pulled out several . . . forks? Olaf just laughed as Sven transferred one to his still-bleeding right hand.

Olaf stopped laughing the moment the first fork bounced off of his chest. The second also bounced off, but it had hit his throat. The third missed entirely, as with a roar of rage, Olaf vaulted the table, sliding along its surface for a second.

That second was all that Sven needed. Dropping the forks as he dodged his brother's feet, Sven slid into the perfect position to block and catch Olaf's knife arm. A quick twist broke Olaf's wrist. The knife fell, quivering point-first in the wooden floor.

Olaf twisted free, aiming a spinning kick at Sven. Sven caught Olaf's leg, trapping it against his own body. Then the elder Lundgren brought his left elbow down smartly against Olaf's kneecap. Olaf screamed, drowning out the noise the kneecap made. Sven released the leg and unleashed a quick left-right-left combination that left Olaf crumpled on the floor.

Sven looked down at his brother, noting with irony that the missing phaser was now next to his own left foot. He picked it up with his good hand, and changed the setting to something lethal. He aimed at his brother a long moment, hands trembling with his anger. Slowly, he lowered the weapon and reset it to 'stun', then settled in to wait. Thanks to his own transponder, he knew it wouldn't be a long wait.

Sven spat at the force-screen in the brig. The spittle boiled instantly, some it spattering back against his uniform, unnoticed. His brother nonchalantly raised his head, briefly creating the illusion that Sven was the prisoner, not himself.

"Yes?"

"I just got the medical report. You're addicted to the Venus Drug, too. I thought you only sold to the stupid ones!"

"I'm not addicted to it; I can quit any time I want."

"Good, because you're quitting right now."

"What do you mean?" Was that apprehension in Olaf's face?

Sven smiled nastily. "Why, I'm going to cut you off. Then I can watch your 'evolution' in action."

Olaf's scream halted Sven halfway through the door. Sven re-entered the holding area, allowing the door to slide shut. "Yes?"

"I'll make a bargain: I keep getting my stuff and you get the names you've been seeking."

"You know that everything in here is recorded?"

"Yes, yes! Do we have a deal?"

"Shall I swear on my honor?" Sven was sarcastic.

"Oh, definitely, brother. I know how much honor means to you Starfleet types."

"Very well, I swear on my honor as a Starfleet officer that if you give me the names I need, I will personally see to it that you get all the Venus Drug you need."

Olaf spent the next two hours detailing his contacts with his bosses, and gave away every pusher and distributor he knew. Without much surprise, Sven noted that Kathy was one of the pushers. Since the colony was still relatively small, Sven knew that this information would just about shut the trade down. Even so, he was disgusted by the display. Nothing is important to an addict except his drug, he thought and labored mightily to keep the thought from reaching his face.

"And I get my stuff," Olaf asked again.

"All you need," Sven replied as he left. "Did you get all that?" he asked the Security officer monitoring the cell.

"Yes, sir, every bit of it. Including your agreement to supply the prisoner with drugs."

Sven's face hardened as he nodded. "All he needs. But you heard him yourself: he's not addicted. He doesn't need it."

The monitor started to laugh, saw Sven's face and stopped. Quickly.

"Yessir."

Thalek shook hands with Sven and gestured him to a seat. Seating himself, the Andorian allowed himself a moment to study the lieutenant. He didn't like what he saw. Lundgren looked more like he'd blown the case, rather than closing it.

"I want you to know that I've entered several commendations into your service record," the Andorian opened with. "You did a very difficult job very well. Very well, indeed."

"Thank you, sir."

Thalek frowned. "You don't seem very pleased, Lieutenant."

"Sorry, sir. I was thinking of my brother."

"Yes, arresting him must have been very hard." Thalek's expression reflected his sympathy.

"Not at all, sir. I rather enjoyed it. Leaving him alive afterwards; that was hard."

Another frown appeared. "Andorians have a very strong respect for family. I got the impression that humans do, too."

"I never felt that Olaf was much in the way of 'family', sir. And after he threatened to kill me . . ."

"You don't feel that the drug may have been responsible for that?"

"Frankly, sir, I couldn't care less. On or off drugs, my brother is a shiftless, miserable excuse for a human being. He's conned money out of every member of the family and drove my mother into poverty and an early grave. I only regret that I didn't kill him when I had the chance!" Sven was red-faced with anger, even as he slowed his breathing back to normal.

"So, you have no compassion for your brother's situation?"

"Sir, when a dog goes mad, the compassionate thing is to destroy it--- before it harms anyone."

"Then why didn't you?"

"Sir?"

Thalek patiently elaborated: "Why didn't you kill him? Especially since you feel that way."

"I . . . don't . . . know, sir."

"That's not good enough, Lieutenant. You made a life and death decision. I need to know what's behind the decision."

Sven averted his eyes as he thought.

"I guess . . . it's because he wasn't a danger any more . . . and it's wrong to kill unnecessarily." He looked back at the Andorian.

"You 'guess?' Are you sure you aren't 'guessing' what answers I want to hear?"

Lundgren flared angrily. "Yes, sir, I'm sure! But I'm not going to lie and tell you I'm certain about my answers, either."

Thalek nodded. "Good. You're not afraid to admit that you don't know. And you know how to hold your temper, when it really matters." He held up a hand to forestall Lundgren's protest. "It's easy to kill. Cold blood or hot makes no difference. A simple press of a button and a being is gone; usually with no evidence. Choosing to not kill is much harder and much more complex. Doing the right thing usually is," the captain added drily.

"I can get Security people who'll kill on command, or when their leash is slipped; people who kill without a second thought," the Andorian continued. "They're useless as Security personnel. And I don't need a team of assassins."

"You almost got one anyway."

"I doubt it. There's three things I'd like you to consider, Lieutenant. First off, I think you should check out what Dr. Fisher has to offer; some of his staff are trained in counseling. Second, you should seek out Cmdr. Josephs and get the benefit of her experiences. Third, I think you need to learn to be more forgiving, both to your foes and yourself. Guilt and rage are an ugly, unstable combination. More than one person has destroyed himself that way." Thalek stood, signalling an end to the interview.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"You've already made Cmdr. Josephs and I proud of you, Mr. Lundgren. Keep us that way."

"Aye aye, Captain!"

The Andorian watched Sven depart, then pulled out his hone, and a well- worn blade. After a moment, deep in thought, he began sharpening the blade.

Star Trek® is a registered property of Paramount Pictures, and all rights remain vested in Paramount Picures. No violation of Paramount's copyright, trademark, or licensing is intended.

All characters created by John A. Whiting are my sole property. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is possible, if I've created my characters well enough.

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