On The Horns of a Dilemma

Commodore Troutman sighed and signed another form on his electronic "clipboard" before banishing the report back to the bowels of the ship's computer. Between reports, he sipped reflectively at the Saurian brandy he'd been nursing most of the afternoon. It still amazed him that promotion to command of a Starbase could create so much work. Nor was it much comfort to think about all the work First Officer Thalek would be doing when he became Captain of the SOL in a week. Perhaps the worst part of all was the nasty suspicion that commanding Starbase 57 was likely to involve even more paperwork than running a heavy cruiser.

The door buzzer sounded a welcome respite from such thoughts. "Come," he said with something approaching enthusiasm.

The door slid aside for Yeoman Chandler---and the Commodore's lunch.

"Sir, there's still something wrong with the food synthesizers." There was no mistaking her irritation. "I finally had to charge your meal on my diet card. Yours kept giving you carrot sticks and a jelly sandwich."

Troutman frowned. "Sounds like T'Laan is right: we seem to have a practical joker aboard. I'll get Mr. Gabriel to assign one of his computer experts to double check the system for her, and I'll have a little chat with Security about the problem."

"Meaning no disrespect, sir, but does Cmdr. T'Laan need help from the Science Officer's experts? I mean, everyone knows about Vulcans and their computers . . ."

"Contrary to popular belief, Yeoman, Vulcans aren't born wearing wrist-comps. T'Laan is an excellent Mess Officer, but her background in computers is only a little better than yours. And if you must know, she made the request for expert assistance herself." The Commodore frowned meaningfully at Chandler. "And if I hear any interesting rumors about T'Laan or Vulcans in general, I'll know where they came from."

Chandler blushed. "Sir, what the Captain says to his yeoman is supposed to be strictly confidential."

"That is the theory," Troutman agreed drily. "Let's strive to get theory and practice to agree for one more week, shall we? Now, why don't you go get yourself something to eat. I'll explain to Dr. Fisher why you're suddenly eating for two."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." And if Chandler felt the least bit embarrassed about the Commodore's roguish turn of phrase, she wasn't going to show it. Not her, uh uh!

The intercom's whistle forestalled further conversation.

"Troutman here."

"Sir, there's an urgent signal from Starfleet Command coming in."

"Pipe it down here," he replied, moving his glass discreetly out of range before turning on his viewer.

Hardly waiting for his image to appear, Admiral Wilson began speaking.

"Commodore Troutman. The Banshees are being overcome by plague. You and the SOL are hereby ordered to divert to the Banshee homeworld, where you will maintain the peace and render all necessary assistance to the native populace until relieved by Captain Josephson of the hospital ship Pasteur. If the local government has succumbed, you are authorized by the Banshees to declare martial law and act to preserve the peace, in which event you will stay until relieved by another Starfleet vessel or Captain Josephson declares the emergency to be over. Questions?"

"Sir. What is the nature of the problem? Will it impose any hazards for my people?"

"The disease is a viral infection that causes the Banshee chitin to start growing again. Our doctors feel that even the Andorians are unlikely to contract the disease, despite some biochemical similarities."

"The Banshee government has authorized me to declare martial law. How likely is that to be necessary?"

"The disease is extremely contagious, with a seventy five percent infection rate. Immobilization occurs within a week or two of infection, depending upon the patient's condition. Even without the doctors' projections, I'd think it pretty likely, Jack. They already have a cure for the disease, but they have yet to develop a version that isn't lethal to the patient. When one is developed, the Pasteur will bring samples and the synthesis formula. I'm informed that could happen within the week."

"How is it that I get to save the galaxy this time, instead of Starfleet's darling?"

The Admiral frowned. "I take it, Captain, that you have not heard that Admiral Kirk has spent the last month on Vulcan waiting for Captain Spock and his Chief Medical Officer to recover from some kind of Vulcan mumbo jumbo? Or that they will have their asses court-martialed as soon as they leave their little sanctuary? Any other relevant questions, Captain?"

"No, sir."

"Then I suggest you study the materials transmitted along with your formal orders; the medical information is already flagged for your Chief Medical Officer's attention. Starfleet Command, out."

Almost before the screen could go dark, Troutman had gotten the computer's attention. "Confirm arrival of new orders this stardate and accompanying materials."

"Working. Arrival of orders confirmed. Additional materials still being transmitted. End of transmission projected for ten seconds from now---mark."

Troutman switched off the computer and sat back heavily. "That's a lot of 'additional materials.'" He hit a switch. "Troutman to helm." "Helm here." "Set a course for the Banshee homeworld, warp five. Give me our e.t.a." "Aye, sir." A minute's worth of pause, then, "Estimated time of arrival is three days, four hours, sir." "Very good. Execute course change. Troutman out." The Commodore turned to Yeoman Chandler. "See to it that all department heads receive copies of our new orders and associated materials, then set up a meeting of same in three hours."

"Aye, sir. Uh, sir, who are the Banshees, and what are they like?"

"Do you have any phobias regarding meter-long beetles, Yeoman?"

"By now," the Commodore said, seating himself at the head of the briefing room table, "you will have familiarized yourselves with our new orders and caught some of the implications. Mr. Gabriel, please give us an overview of the Banshees and their world."

"Aye, sir." The Science Officer activated the tri-screened table viewer. "As you can see, Banshee physiology resembles the Terran scarab beetle with some notable differences: they have eight legs, with the forward pair having evolved into effective pincer-type manipulators.

"The antennae are auditory and olfactory organs with limited application as manipulators as well. Banshees typically run about a meter long, with a half meter variation in either direction.

"Communication is primarily by a pair of large diaphragms on either side of the abdomen, which the Banshee can operate from the subsonic to the ultrasonic regions. As the nickname implies, most of the audible energy is in the higher frequency ranges.

"The Banshees are fiercely independent, with an almost pure democratic system made possible by a very extensive computer network. They have reluctantly accepted the fact that some representation is required, even in their system, but each representative has a constituency of only ten thousand individuals, making the Banshee governing body one of the largest in the Federation. These representatives propose the laws, but the general populace passes or vetoes each one. Laws may also be put on the ballot by referendum.

"The Banshee homeworld is the fourth planet from a G-4 sun, an unremarkable class-M world except for the fact of a 1.5 G surface gravity."

Dr. Fisher raised a finger, catching Troutman's attention.

"Yes, Doctor?"

"Beaming down into a fifty percent greater gravity field can pose some health hazards, even if you're prepared for it. I'd like to arrange some kind of acclimation period for all landing parties before and after beamdown."

"How long a period? Frankly, I'm reluctant to have the ship's gravity adjusted to 1.5 G's for the duration; this will be strenuous enough work without that."

"I think that even thirty seconds to a minute would do, if the field is shifted slowly."

Troutman looked at his Chief Engineer with eyebrows raised.

"Mr. Quinn?"

"No problem, sir: the transporter alcoves are equipped with their own gravity generators for this kind of problem. We can program in an automatic sequence for the generators from the transporter console."

"Excellent. People, there is a distinct chance that we will be thrown into a martial law situation shortly after or upon our arrival. Has anyone given any thought to how a lone starship polices an entire world of frightened individualists?"

"Yes sir," the Security Chief said. "The planet is encased in a network of phaser equipped defense satellites. If we focus those satellites on the planet instead, we could utilize their sensor systems and the phaser stun setting for riot control and curfew enforcement."

"What if the original satellite controllers are incapacitated or uncooperative," asked Thalek, the Andorian First Officer.

Troutman turned to his Science Officer. "Well, Mr. Gabriel? Are your computer people ready to take on some hostile military programming?"

"They'll be using variable passwords, restricted access terminals, data encryption and computer-virus counter-attacks," Gabriel said thoughtfully. He brightened. "My people managed to get Starfleet's accounting programs working; this should be much easier."

Troutman almost hid a smile. "Very good, Mr. Gabriel. Dr. Fisher, when the inoculant is available, we need it to be distributed to the doctors first, both to immunize them and for their patients' treatment, followed by logistics personnel and police. I'll want you to inspect their inoculation system and set one up if theirs has collapsed."

"Don't forget to inoculate the politicians, Jack. The sooner their government is back on all eight feet, the sooner we can drop that part of the job."

"Good point, Doctor. If there's nothing else . . . ? I expect your reports and recommendations to be on my desk by 1800 hours tomorrow. This meeting is adjourned."

Captain's log, stardate 8808.3: We have been in orbit for three days now, with no indication of when the Pasteur will arrive. The Banshees have turned control of their defense satellites over to us and requested that we assist the local police in maintaining the peace. Our other duties are medical liaison and transportation. To that end, we have requested raw materials for the manufacture of a series of transporter relay satellites, which should be in place in another four days. Commendations to the Engineering staff for their speedy work under difficult conditions.

For politeness' sake, Thalek and Chief Engineer Quinn beamed down into the hallway just outside the hospital administrator's office: few people appreciate having others literally popping in on them. Not for the first time, Thalek thanked the appropriate gods that the administrator's office was designed with multiple species in mind; a purely Banshee office would have put the Andorian on his hands and knees.

Thalek glanced at his electronic clipboard one last time, then glanced over at Quinn who was sniffing the air.

"Problem, Mr. Quinn?"

"No sir. It's just that I haven't been down before; it kind of smells like roses."

Thalek nodded. "Slightly rancid ones, I'm told. You'll get used to it." Thalek palmed the doorlock, then went in for his latest confrontation.

"A moment please," the Banshee said, typing away at his computer. "Be seated," he added, pointing with an antenna, still engrossed in his screen. To Mr. Quinn, the voice sounded like a handsaw he'd once heard a friend playing as a musical instrument: high pitched with a peculiar quaver to it.

Thalek waited patiently for a minute, then impatiently for two. Frank Quinn studied the office as they waited. It was paneled in a black wood that was down right depressing, at least to him. As the Andorian was about to speak, the brown "beetle" finally looked at him.

Thalek jumped in immediately. "Good afternoon, sir. My captain has requested that Mr. Quinn and I look into the delays surrounding several items I have on my list here." 'There, that was diplomatically put,' Thalek thought as he proffered his clipboard.

The Banshee administrator barely glanced at the list, scratching carelessly under a wing casing. "These items are not delayed, they are refused. They are vitally required here. If there's nothing else . . . ?"

"I'm afraid we haven't adequately dealt with this problem, yet. The mortality rate is almost sixty percent in your Kelska province, directly attributable to the lack of these supplies. The mortality rate here is closer to eight percent."

"It is my intention to keep it that way. These materials are difficult to obtain and I require them for future patients." Thalek was not versed in Banshee body language, but those rigidly held motionless antennae had to mean something. Especially considering how active they'd been earlier.

"We are already in the process of doubling the production rate at some of your factories," Chief Engineer Quinn offered.

"The items are needed here." The antennae were still motionless. Determination?

"Very well," Thalek said. "You are terminated. Clean your belongings out within the hour so the new administrator can begin work."

"You have no authority----" Now, they quivered. With outrage?

"Check your terminal," Thalek suggested. "Look for governmental directives filed over the course of the last seven days. All members of the SOL's crew have been deputized as members of your police force. And you are guilty of hoarding vital materials during a planetary emergency. I believe that's a capital offense under your legal system?"

Banshee sighs are painful to most humanoid hearing organs, including Andorian. "You win. The supplies will be released immediately." The antennae were definitely drooping. There was no other word for it.

"This incident is already a matter of record. If we have any more problems with you, I'll file those charges, and my problems will disappear. Is that understood?"

"Yes."

"Good day to you." 'Diplomacy be damned!' Thalek thought as he opened the office door. 'That felt good!'

Thalek lead the way out of the Administrator's office, and right into the Andorian woman trying to enter.

"Your pardon, I--Shalina! It is, as humans say, 'a small world.'"

Shalina was typical of her kind to gross appearance: about 1.9 meters tall, slender, with the blue skin and white hair of the northern hemisphere Andorian. But it ended there: she was beautiful even by human standards. By Andorian standards . . . whew! Definitely not typical.

"Redel, of Lord Ka's Thalek clan, your surprise does not do you credit: I informed you that my mate and I had transferred to this very hospital some months ago. You sent a reply, so I must assume that you received my communique."

"I did, as you said, receive your letter. But why such a formal tone, Shalina? Between us, it smacks of insult, lacking but the use of our home tongue to complete it."

"That part has ended. I am not here to fight," she added in soft Andorian. "Permit me to pass."

Thalek automatically stepped out of the way--it had not been a request--and watched as the door closed behind her.

"Who was that, Redel?" Thalek realized that he'd forgotten the Chief Engineer's presence during the brief encounter.

Curtly: "My ex-mate." Thalek looked back at the Administrator's office for a moment. "I'll see you back aboard the ship," he added before walking off.

Knowing it might cause nothing but trouble, Thalek still went by the hospital's day care center. As he suspected, their children were there. Reshta, the elder boy, was a sturdy looking lad of perhaps eight years. Redela, named partially after Thalek, looked to be about five. Both boys would have been in school, had there been enough teachers who weren't sick. Thalek was rather surprised to see even the day care center operating, but decided that trained medical personnel could probably get almost anything they wanted right now---except rest.

"Who are you?", Reshta challenged.

"Guess," Thalek invited.

"Bala of Lord Telk's clan Pithra?"

"Does recollection of me wither so soon?" Thalek concealed his annoyance; he'd never particularly liked Pithra Telk Bala.

"Then who?"

"Thalek Ka Redel."

Reshta turned to his brother, excitement and pleasure mixed. "Do you know who he is? He is our krella!"

Redela looked at Thalek. "Are you our father?"

"Yes."

"Krella! Krella!"

Redela's happy response brought both pleasure and pain to Thalek; pain uppermost for all the things that never were and could never be. 'I've received gentler blows in mortal combat,' he realized.

"That part is over. You don't need me anymore; you have a new father now," Thalek said gently.

"But you're my krella."

"Redela, I would prefer that you call him 'Thalek'."

Thalek shifted into, then back out of, combat-stance in the course of a single startled heartbeat.

"Shalina. My apologies. I know you would have preferred to tell him under . . . more controlled circumstances."

"True, I would have chosen another time, but apologies are unnecessary. I am far closer to indifferent than upset. And facts are facts; you were his krella. But now, Tael has sponsored the boys to his clan."

"I was informed. Your mate is most generous." Thalek placed his hand on her upper arm. "I must go. But I'd like to see you again, sometime."

"Perhaps. But these are frantic times." She moved her arm and his hand slid away. Was it a natural movement, or done deliberately? 'Of such little things are paranoias born,' Thalek thought. "My mate . . . and the boys, would enjoy seeing you again."

"Chaperons, Shalina?"

"If you like. Your attentions are not entirely unwelcome, and I have often wished that our original relationship had become more . . . formal." She held up a hand to forestall objections. "I know the reasons, and I have come to accept them, if not agree with them. But I speak now with no intent to offend: I simply do not have the time for a lover, even when I am not dealing with planet-wide emergencies. And I already have a permanent mate."

"I take your point. My regards to you and yours." Thalek turned and left, utterly routed.

Mr. Thalek had the conn when the Commodore entered the bridge nearly two hours before the change of shift. The Andorian was almost halfway out of the command chair when the Commodore waved him back.

"No, there's no emergency," Troutman said, answering Thalek's expression. The Commodore moved closer and lowered his voice. "But I think we need to talk."

"Sir?"

"Mr. Quinn reports that some of the materials he needs are unavailable."

"I'll have to check my reports to find the cause."

"I see. Well, Dr. Fisher tells me that you also owe him some items."

"Sorry, sir. It must have slipped my mind. It won't happen again."

"It already has, Redel: the Banshee government is complaining that urgently required personnel and supplies were diverted from a regional relief center to warehouses and hospitals in the capitol. Surely they are already well-supplied there?"

"I see your point, sir."

"Do you? Each of these was a smoothly running operation, headed by yourself, until a couple of days ago. Now they're going awry and you are flitting about the ship like some ill-tempered ghost." Noting the Andorian's startlement, Troutman added, "Yes, I know all about that incident with midshipman Harris, and I'm letting your reprimand stand in his file only because he was careless with the equipment. But you blew the incident entirely out of proportion and pretty well killed a well-deserved reputation for fairness." Troutman leaned closer. "Redel, I'm not just your captain; you and I are also good friends. If there's anything I, or your other friends can help with, tell us."

Thalek frowned. "I . . . I cannot, Commodore. Not just yet, at any rate. Give me a couple of days." The Andorian straightened. "I apologize for my incompetent behavior, Commodore. It will cease at once."

"It must, Redel. Too many lives are at stake here." Troutman sighed. "I'll be back to relieve you in a couple of hours."

A few days later, Thalek and Troutman were in the Commodore's cabin, sharing a drink together. It was then that part of the story came out.

Thalek had been on home-leave almost ten years ago, where he'd met an attractive xeno-biology student. A philosophical argument at a social gathering had gradually blossomed into a strong relationship. They parented a son, then a few years later, a second. But Thalek had been assigned to a heavy cruiser shortly thereafter, and the longer-range missions with infrequent leave time eventually took their toll. A couple years after the break-up, Shalina met Tael and they were wed. Tael adopted the boys, an action made easier by the fact that Shalina and Thalek had never married, and sponsored them into his clan.

"And now you've run into her again?"

"Yes, just a few days ago. I find that I still love her, a fact which has made my life more difficult lately."

"I can imagine. Still, she's married now, Redel; she's out of reach."

"Cultures differ," was Thalek's sole reply. And Troutman began to really worry.

Thalek was at the day care center again, unobtrusively recording the children at play with a tricorder.

"I thought I might find you here."

Thalek dropped the tricorder, whirled, and found his fists inches from Mr. Quinn's face and midsection. Thalek didn't just relax; he sagged.

"Could I ask what you are doing here?"

"That one's easy: I need the Commodore's 'hatchet man' to help me expedite some supplies. What are you doing here?"

"That one is not hard, either: I intend to challenge Shalina's mate, Tael. I wanted a memento of the children, in case I lose."

"I don't understand."

"I intend to take Shalina from Tael by combat, per our customs." Thalek slowly retrieved the tricorder. "But if I challenge and lose, I doubtless will never see my sons again." A decisive click turned off the tricorder and closed the subject. "Let me drop this off in my quarters, and then we shall see to your materials."

Fixing Mr. Quinn's problem took most of the afternoon, and made Thalek late for the shift change on the bridge. He was on his way to the command chair to relieve the current watch officer when Yeoman Chandler intercepted him.

"Sir, the Commodore was wondering where your report is. It's a day overdue, sir."

"I think I left it on my desk, Yeoman. See to it, won't you?"

Chandler gave the First Officer a dubious look, but she had heard about the 'new' Thalek, and asked no questions. "Yes, sir."

In Thalek's quarters, the yeoman found his desk to be empty, except for a tricorder. 'This must be it,' she thought as she removed the microtape. In his quarters, the Commodore slipped the tape into the computer slot, but he did not get a report; he got some home movies of Andorian children and a very intimate conversation.

Troutman touched the intercom control. "Mr. Thalek, report to my quarters. Troutman out."

Moments later, the First Officer entered. "You sent for me, sir?"

The captain got up from behind his desk.

"Redel, what I need to discuss is completely off the record; you can be as frank as you wish---as I must be. I understand that you intend to challenge Tael for Shalina."

Thalek's face became a mask. "May I ask the Commodore how he obtained that information?"

Troutman held up the microtape. "A little bird told me."

"It is true."

"Redel, I'd like you to postpone that challenge."

"Sir, I cannot."

"Redel, this thing is affecting your work. I need my officers to give me one hundred percent during this crisis, and frankly, you can't while this occupies your mind."

"Commodore, this is not your business; not Starfleet's concern. And there is a factor of which you are unaware: time. I have only a couple of weeks left during which challenge is legal."

Troutman's eyebrows rose. "I did a little research on Andorian customs; the computer gave me the impression that this was an illegal challenge anyway."

Thalek smiled a mirthless smile. "Not so. Sir, an Andorian groom must defeat all of a woman's suitors before he may claim her. To that end, he must announce a date far enough in advance that all involved may arrive. Late-comers have no legal challenge right---unless they are on active civil duty, such as police duty or military service. Such have up to two years to make their challenge, after which their right is also forfeit. When Tael challenged Shalina's suitors, I was unable to get leave. My two years end in a little over two weeks."

"Redel, I need you---at your full capacity. I appreciate the situation, believe me, I do, but which gains a warrior more honor: winning a wife or saving thousands of lives?"

"Commodore. . . Jack, this is something I must do, else the chance is lost forever."

"Redel, you gave an oath as a Starfleet officer to protect the Federation and its citizens. I must forbid this fight. I'll make that an order if I have to."

"Jack, Starfleet has given me honor, career, and home. I would not willingly give that up. But I must be true to myself as well; Shalina is worth a dozen careers. I will resign my commission if I must."

"When this mission is over and I'm put to pasture in some pleasantly dull Starbase, you'll be Captain of the SOL. Are you willing to surrender your first command before you get her?"

Thalek looked away. "I know the SOL means a lot to you, Jack, and it must seem as if I'm throwing her away." Thalek looked straight at his captain. "In my eyes, I'm trading the SOL for something infinitely precious. My commission is not too great a price."

"There is an alternative, I think. I have read that Andorians settle many disputes by combat; even a dispute with a superior officer can be settled that way if the situation isn't critical. While the Banshee situation is critical, it isn't going to change much in the next few days."

"You would allow me to challenge in the Andorian manner?"

"Yes. The terms are simple: if you win, you can resign if you wish, or I can assign another officer to your duties until you have done what you feel needs doing. If I win, you will not issue a marriage challenge or resign, and you will get back to work. Agreed?"

"Agreed. Let it be so. And let it begin." And Thalek struck Troutman a blow that lifted the captain from the deck.

Troutman rolled on impact, dodging the next several blows more by luck and instinct than skill. Then his head cleared a little, which proved his undoing, for it cleared enough for planning but not enough for a sound plan.

Seeing an opportunity, the captain rushed his First Officer and succeeded in slamming the Andorian into one of the bulkheads. Unfortunately, Andorian physiology came into play: Thalek's vestigial exoskeleton creaked but cushioned the impact. Thalek merely took the opportunity to strike another telling blow.

Ears ringing and vision blurring, Jack knew his win would come now . . . or never. It was never. The last thing Jack saw was a fist headed right between his eyes. His cabin exploded silently around him, and the lights went out.

"Yes, I am aware of how I look, Doctor." Troutman was attempting to regain some semblance of command and dignity, while looking like something the cat had rejected for dinner.

"Would you mind telling me just what happened here?" Dr. Fisher had much curiosity and little shame.

"First Officer Thalek and I had a private discussion, Doctor. That's all you need to know."

"My, aren't we formal today? Tell me, Redel, were you ticked off because he won't put you in for a raise?"

"The Commodore is correct: the details of our discussion are not your concern."

"I see. I can also see my medical log entry: 'The Captain sustained injuries indicative of hand to hand combat during the course of a private discussion with the First Officer, who did not look undamaged himself but refused treatment with typical Andorian machismo.'"

Troutman looked annoyed, then pained at what the expression did to his face. At minimum, he was going to be painfully puffy for awhile, at worst, his crew might have to tiptoe around the subject of a black eye or two.

"Doctor Fisher, I rather doubt that you're going to put down nasty speculations or racist remarks in your log, so just quit playing detective and get on with your repair job. Later, after I have enough blackmail material on you to keep you silent, I just might fill you in. But even then, there are parts that I cannot discuss because they aren't even my business. Is that clear, Doctor?"

"Since I can see that you're going to be difficult about it, I guess it will have to be."

"Doctor, you are shameless."

"Very observant, Redel. And if you don't want to add to the rumors that are inevitably going to follow this incident, you should let me patch you up some. The skipper may have lost, but he went down fighting."

Thalek said nothing, but sat down where the doctor could examine him better.

"Oh, and I have a bit of good news for both of you: the Pasteur is on its way with our cure."

It had not been Thalek's intention to visit the day care center before issuing his challenge, but his feet betrayed his mind and followed their own course. Once there, he discovered Reshta giving a lesson in swordplay.

The "swords" were actually local reeds, sliced into thin strips and bound into a tube that had a surprising amount of give. While difficult to injure with, they could give a nasty bruise, and Thalek doubted that the other parents would be happy if they knew: he had discovered that non- warrior races protected their young as if fragile, despite the natural resiliency of youth.

"Redela, you and Tamara demonstrate what I have just shown," Reshta said, and stood next to Thalek to watch.

"You are a skilled swordsman and a fine teacher," Thalek commented.

"Your words are a gift to me," Reshta replied absently.

"There is something on your mind."

"I am troubled, yet do not know where to ask without risking offense."

"It is hard for honest questions to create honest offense."

"Thalek Ka Redel, is it wrong to love?"

"No," Thalek said, startled. "Why do you feel it might be?"

"I strive hard to become a warrior my krella may be proud of," and Thalek realized with a pang that the boy spoke of Tael, not him. "But love creates weakness, and I believe that I love my krella."

"Love can be a weakness," Thalek acknowledged, "yet it can also strengthen you. Uncontrolled anger can cause an ill-timed sword strike, yet the same anger, with control, can strengthen your arm and make your aim truer. Love makes one vulnerable to threats against that which is loved, but love can help a warrior recover from wounds that would kill someone less motivated. Like much of the warrior's path, it can be difficult, but if honor is served first, love is no more a weakness than any other emotion. And all emotions serve a purpose."

"Do you love my mother?"

"Your question is both personal and impertinent. But yes, I love your mother. And I love both of you, my sons. I intend to challenge Tael and win the three of you back."

"It is complex, and I do not understand. Krella, teach me: how does this serve honor, as you said before?"

Thalek stiffened. 'Indeed: where is the honor in serving only my own needs? Until this moment, have I given any thought to what they might wish?' The thoughts were bitter, doubly so because Thalek knew what the answers were.

"Krella?"

Thalek unfroze. "My son, I must think on this," he said slowly. "But I begin to think that it does not."

"What will you do?"

"By now, you should have heard the story of Sha'ara. No? She lived almost two hundred years ago. Her mate was called to war, and she begged him not to go; to stay on their farm and keep it safe. He thought for three days before telling her that honor dictated that he leave. He died in that war, and his body was returned. 'How foolish he was to leave, knowing he might be killed,' one of his younger sons said. And Sha'ara replied, 'A man may love his mate, but if he is worth having, he loves his honor more.' And then she buried him."

"But what will you do?"

"Sha'ara buried her love; perhaps it is time, not so literally, for me to bury mine. . . May thee and thine fare well, my son." Thalek left.

Thalek wrote the note personally, in his native tongue. Although his calligraphy was poor, it would not be proper to involve a third party, not even the ship's computer.

It said, "I regret that I am two days late for your second anniversary; I plead the press of duty. For the same reason, I cannot gift you with this in person: we've received new orders and will leave in less than a day.

"Tael, may this offering protect your family and clan, and may it bring them peace . . . Thalek Ka Redel."

In the case was a finely crafted sword that had been in Redel's family for a hundred years.

Shalina's reply and a small box arrived less than an hour before the SOL broke orbit.

The note said, "I have spoken with Reshta; I am not unmindful of what you chose not to do. There are times when honor programs us, traps us, forcing actions that we would not otherwise do. But our honor is part of that which separates us from the beasts. I send a small token, in understanding of your loss. Shalina."

The box contained a massive bracelet, inlaid with turquoise almost the exact shade of Thalek's skin. And inside the bracelet was an inscription in beautiful Andorian calligraphy: "In Salute to Sha'ara's wisdom."

Thalek scrawled his signature at the bottom of the report and stored it in the computer. He paused a moment, then called another report out onto the portable screen which Starfleet insisted was a "Portable Manual Data Input Device." The name made marginally more sense than "clipboard", which is what the humans insisted upon calling it. After a hasty scan and a hearty sigh, Thalek signed this report, too.

'Finished at last,' he thought. It had only been two weeks since the Andorian had been made captain of the SOL, and it seemed like every waking moment since then had been spent doing "paperwork." Worse, as the former executive officer of the SOL, he knew just how little of it could be delegated out. At least tonight he had managed to finish early. As he reached for the glass on his desk, the intercom whistled. A slave to reflexes, his hand activated the 'com.

"Thalek here."

"Flano here, sir. We've caught our prankster."

Thalek tried not to sigh audibly. "Bring him in, Kantara."

"Aye, sir. Flano out."

Thalek looked wistfully at the Terran brandy before putting it back. No use starting rumors that the last two weeks had driven him to drink.

The door buzzer sounded and Thalek straightened his tunic. "Come," he reluctantly invited. In trooped First Officer Kantara Flano, Assistant Records Officer Peter Brockleman, and Security Officer Patricia Garrett.

"Give me your report, Kantara."

"Sir, I asked Security for a few volunteers to find out who has been re-programming the food synthesizers. Lieutenant Garrett is one of those volunteers."

Thalek looked expectantly at Lt. Garrett.

"Sir, I borrowed a couple of tricorders and concealed them in inconspicuous locations in two of the Mess Hall offices, programmed to record when someone was in their sensor field. Twenty-four hours later, I retrieved the tricorders and reviewed the microtapes. As a result, I settled upon the prisoner as a suspect and arranged to be near the last Mess Hall office he visited during his next off-duty period. I observed the prisoner entering the Mess Officer's office after the Mess Officer had left. I entered the office and caught the prisoner at the keyboard. He cleared the screen, but a scan of recent computer activity showed that the computer had been tampered with at the time I made my arrest. He---"

"Arrest?" Thalek said sharply. "Have you filed a report yet?"

"No, sir."

"Continue."

"Aye, sir. According to the computer scan, he had been altering Vulcan dietary planning to include meatballs for lunch and rithan steaks for dinner."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. Ensign . . . Brockleman, isn't it? Ensign Brockleman, do you have anything to say?"

"It was only a joke, sir."

"A joke? Do you think it amusing to give vegetarians like the Vulcans meat? Did you think I found it amusing that I ended up with vegetables in my dinner two nights ago? Or that Lt. Freeman laughed his way to Sickbay when some apple juice, to which he is violently allergic, was included in his meal?"

"I knew that he didn't like apples, sir. I didn't know why."

"No? That's heartrending. Do you have anything else you wish to add?"

Ensign Brockleman straightened even further. "Sir, I take full responsibility for my actions. I offer my resignation as partial recompense."

"Some compensation!" Thalek snorted. "Do you think that you'll get a free ride to the nearest Starbase for discharge? No, Ensign, we'll get some work out of you. Resignation refused. Lieutenant, you may leave. Don't file that arrest report; I'll handle things from here."

"Aye, sir." She left, trying not to smile.

"As for you, Ensign, I'm going to let Dr. Fisher give you a talk on the benefits of proper nutrition. Then, I'm going to let you tell him how you overrode his dietary recommendations."

"Sir!"

"Then, you will immediately start spending your off-duty hours assisting Mess Officer T'laan in programming the food synthesizers until further notice."

"Aye, sir."

"Dismissed, Ensign."

After Brockleman had left, Thalek turned to his Executive Officer. "Think a month of that will be sufficient, Kantara?"

"It should: T'laan has the reputation of making her assistants eat their mistakes."

Thalek smiled for the first time that afternoon. "I know."

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. Mr. Gabriel kindly allowed me to use him in this story, and all copyrights to Mr. Gabriel remain vested in him.

Revised -- Stardate 200009.29

Send any comments or suggestions to thalek@keyway.net