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“How are we going to explain blowing up their emitter?” Stiles circled behind the ambassador and came around the other side as if stalking the plane on its approach. “We had to do it. I couldn’t let it pull my ship down-” “Of course not.”

The plane soared over them, one wing tilted low, and they could clearly see the pilot in his helmet looking down at them. He was contacting the Pojjana security forces.

They’d never get away now. Stiles battled inwardly, wrestling with the idea that getting away wasn’t the best idea, wouldn’t get them where they needed to be, wouldn’t find Zevon.

“You needn’t call me ‘sir,’ “Spock told him, as if they were sitting over a dinner table or playing badminton. “I have no Starfleet rank any longer, and you are the commander of the vessel that matters in our lives today.”

“Yeah, well… well, it’ll be long time before I can think of you as anybody other than Science Officer Spock of the Enterprise.”

The plane circled the area, keeping them inside its surveillance area while no doubt calling for backup. Stiles never let his back turn to the plane, moving constantly to stay between the aircraft and the ambassador, a shield of vellum against rockets if they decided to open fire. Each step drove him deeper into his troubled thoughts.

“Do you know,” he began, “do you realize how many hours on end I rehearsed calling you ‘Ambassador’ before that evac mission? I just knew I’d get down to that planet and call you ‘Mister’ or ‘Captain’ or ‘First Officer’ or ‘Your Honor’ or ‘Your Highness’-something stupid was waiting to pop out of my mouth and I could just taste it. All the way in Travis and the evil twins kept saying, ‘Eric, will you quit mumbling the word ambassador?’ I’ll bet… I just bet Captain Kirk never had that kind of problem.”

Spock paused a moment. His eyes never flinched nor did his expression change much. He peered solemnly into the past and seemed to enjoy what he saw.

“No,” he said. “He had others. Those were excellent days. But they are passed now.”

Despite the circumstances, Stiles found himself sighing. “Maybe for you. Not for the rest of us.”

Looking up now, Spock said, “Because you feel you must live up to them?”

Somehow there was no right answer to that question. Damned if he did, damned-Apparently the ambassador didn’t expect an answer, because he kept talking himself. “If James Kirk’s mission logs are the barometer against which you measure yourself, you set too high a task for yourself You must temper your awe. You can never attain so high a standard.”

Even though a patrol scout craft now appeared over the mountains and streaked toward them across the meadow flats, Stiles turned to Spock and didn’t bother to look at the patroller as he heard its humming engines approaching.

“Oh, is that right?” he challenged. “I ‘always admired you for the things you did and the-I guess ‘style’ is a good way to say it… I never got the idea you were filled up with yourself. Till now, anyway …. Why are you nodding? I just insulted you.”

“Rather, you just complimented yourself” Spock corrected. “And you must not expect me to argue with the ship’s commander.”

His tone was somehow cagey, manipulative, carrying palpable ulterior messages. And that eyebrow was up again. Stiles scoured him silently, wondering what to make of the ambassador’s expression. Was he being teased? “Are you feeling ill?” Spock asked him then. Stiles flinched. “What?” “You’re very pale?’ “Well… it… isn’t easy getting needled by a… by a…” “A super-eminence?” Spock supplied.

Stiles peered at him, able for a moment to ignore the approach of the Pojjana security scout. Was Spock smiling? Was that a little smile? Was it?

As the Pojjana scout came to a hover over them with its warning lights flashing, its containment field snapped on to enshroud them in red spotlight-they could no more walk out of it than through a vault wall.

“Stay quite still,” the ambassador warned. “They will assume we’re armed.”

With the flat of his hand Stiles shielded his eyes from the containment field’s glare. “We should’ve