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Orsova stood up behind his big desk, and there was something prophetic and distant about him. The desk sprawled like an emblem-tiger oak. That was something Zevon had talked about a long time ago. The memory sparked to life. “What do you want?” Orsova asked.

“We wish to negotiate for custody of the Romulan prisoner named Zevon.”

Please let him still be alive, please let him still be alive, please-Orsova said nothing about Zevon, clearly determined not to give anything away. Instead, he simply asked, “Why do you want one of our prisoners?” “Damn you,” Stiles grumbled. Spock looked at him.

In frustration and contempt Stiles wagged a hand at Orsova. “what am I-chopped cabbage? He damned well knows Zevon’s not just ‘one of their prisoners’ to me! Is he alive or not, you bastard?”

At Stiles’ single step forward, two of the Four guards launched forward from the sides of the office, blocking his way to Orsova. The guard closest to him drove the butt of his rifle into Stiles’ stomach, and he was driven down.

Spock grasped the guard’s arm, avoiding the weapon, and pushed him back in such a way that somehow the movement wasn’t threatening. As Stiles gasped at the ambassador’s feet, battling crying lungs and a bruised rib, Spock spoke again to Orsova.

“If the Pojjana strike a deal with the Federation, the Bal Quonott and all others in the sector will be pressured to deal with you on favorable terms. That would give the Pojjana substance beyond just your planet. Indeed, you would be a power to be reckoned with in the entire sector. Certainly that offers some value.”

Orsova’s round bronze face tilted a little like a ball rolling. Maybe he was trying to think. Looked like it hurt.

Stiles’s legs were watery as he waited. He had to force himself to stand still, not flinch or shift around, to bury the cloying nervousness, cloak the haunt of old terrors.

“You’ll be held,” Orsova ultimately decided, “as part of the foreign ship that invaded our planetary space. You’ll be held as hostages until the rest of your ship up there surrenders. The ship is mine now, property of the Pojjana people. The crew will be turned over to your government after a healthy fine is paid for destruction of property, violating our space… and any other things I think of.”

This was Orsova’s playing ground. That showed clearly, as he stood up behind his big fancy desk, made of the wood Zevon had long ago discovered did not compress during Constrictors. He came around the bright orange piece of furniture, touching it only lightly along the edge. At the comer of the desk he paused, only steps from Stiles. His eyes burned into Stiles’ eyes. “Except you,” he said. “I’ll keep you for the memories.” Cued by some secret signal or habit, two of the four armed guards in the room came forward as Orsova moved out from his desk and paused again at Stiles’ side. The guards were close enough to threaten against any attempts to attack the provost, so Stiles was careful to remain perfectly still. Being frozen into place by past horrors helped some.

Orsova’s eyes drew tight. “It was an insult to me when they took you away. I promised the planet I would get you back. I kept your cell waiting. Didn’t even clean it. Part of the promise.”

With eyes flat and still as a doll’s, Orsova motioned to the guards. “Take them away.”

“Orsova.”

“You brought me back already? Why? I stopped the Federation people. Their ship ran away.”

“Their ship did not leave the solar system. I have been monitoring. They’re hiding somewhere. I have discovered why they came here.”

At these words from the Voice, Orsova paused and frowned. He had been sure the Federation ship had run away. He had the Federation’s Vulcan ambassador and Eric Stiles where no one would find them, and the Federation ship had run off. But this person, this ghost who spoke to him in unexplained terms, with impossible knowledge, said otherwise.

“I have changed my plans. I must have these people alive. The doctors, and Zevon.” “And Stiles?” “Do what you wish with him.”

“Why do you want doctors?