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Sopek, Trip thought, then amended the Vulcan name to the one the man had been using during his operations inside Romulan space: Ch’uivh.

The pain Trip had thought he’d soon be past forever returned to his consciousness in full measure, enhanced by the uncomfortably hot and rarefied air. Ignoring it as best he could, he tried to struggle to his feet but succeeded only in getting as far as a wobbly kneeling posture.

A sharp, authoritative voice rang out before Trip could determine the exact direction from which it had originated.

“Do not move.”

Trip instinctively raised his hands, making the universal I-am-not-a-threat gesture.

A uniformed young man approached from before a low console located near a bulkhead. A second uniformed figure, a woman, stood behind this console; Trip assumed she had been the one responsible for the delicate hair’s-breadth rescue that he and Ch’uivh had just received. But the most significant detail that Trip noticed about his rescuers was the nasty-looking weapon clutched in the hand of the young man approaching the transporter stage.

The next thing he noticed was that both the man and the woman had dark hair arranged in nearly identical bowl cuts, upswept, vaguely sinister-looking eyebrows, and ears that tapered delicately upward into elegant points that evoked ancient legends of demons and pitchforks.

Trip’s heart sank. I should have figured on Ch’uivh having a backup ship parked nearby.

But something about that notion didn’t add up, though he couldn’t quite focus his attention solidly enough to place it. The uncomfortable environmental conditions weren’t helping, and neither were his aches and pains. All he could do was focus on the uniforms that both his “hosts” wore—drab, utilitarian paramilitary garments that didn’t look like anything he’d seen during the entire time he’d spent on Romulus.

He wondered whether these people served in something roughly equivalent to a Romulan merchant marine fleet, or if they belonged to a Romulan dissident splinter group like Ch’uivh’s Ejhoi Ormiin organization, from which Trip had only barely succeeded in escaping with his life.

And then there was the matter of their foreheads, which were far smoother than any forehead he’d seen on Romulus....

“State your name, please,” said the young man with the pistol.

Trip tipped his head to give the single remaining universal translator he carried in his left ear the best chance of functioning properly; the device’s slight delay made him wonder if it was about to fail, leaving him in the linguistic lurch.

After spending a silent moment debating just how much he should reveal about himself, Trip finally spoke, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth. “I’m called Cunaehr. I... rescued this man from his ship before it was destroyed.” His hands still raised, he nodded toward the unconscious figure of Ch’uivh.

The man with the weapon raised an eyebrow in apparent curiosity as he came to a stop about two meters away from the transporter stage and regarded Ch’uivh. “I will summon medical help for this man.” A moment later, the woman behind the transporter console appeared to be doing just that.

“Where am I?” Trip asked, still taking care not to make any threatening moves.

“You are aboard the cargo ship Kiri-kin-tha,” said the armed young man, the barrel of his pistol never wavering.

“Cargo ship,” Trip said, not immediately recognizing the vessel’s name. “Romulan?”

The man raised both eyebrows this time. “Vulcan,” he said, apparently puzzled as to why anyone might mistake a Vulcan ship for a vessel used by the Romulans.

“Vulcan,” Trip said, momentarily stunned. “Not Romulan.” Well, that certainly explains the air in here, he thought as he felt a sweat beginning to break out across his forehead.

A huge, involuntary grin split Trip’s face, but he worked hard to suppress it, along with the tide of relieved laughter he felt building immediately behind it. He wondered how long it would take these people to drop him off back home on Earth.

The other man’s bemusement