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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2005 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

  This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 1-4165-1059-1

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

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  http://www.startrek.com

  Acknowledgments

  There are so many people who have made my new and growing life as a writer possible and have helped—and continue to help—me along the way. The entire Trek writing and publishing community is unbelievably helpful, welcoming, and supportive of newcomers. I’m not even going to pretend I’m trying to list everyone. However, I would like to single out a few: Dean Wesley Smith for giving me my first shot; Keith R.A. DeCandido for trusting me enough to let me play with the S.C.E.; Kristine Kathryn Rusch for her brutal and delightful guidance; and Loren L. Coleman for opening doors for me beyond Star Trek. These people have become friends to me.

  To my wife, Valerie, light of my life and

  treasure of my heart, whose irrational

  stubbornness in sticking with me no mat-

  ter what has made all that I have possible.

  Chapter

  1

  Domenica Corsi decided she wasn’t dead.

  Determining whether she was dying or not took a little longer.

  The pain was certainly sufficient for fatal injuries. And she couldn’t move. When she pushed past the pain enough to try, nothing happened. More disturbing than either the pain or the immobility was the floating in darkness, along a dark tunnel toward a light. She’d heard about that. Generally speaking, in terms of being alive, that was a bad sign.

  The light went out for a while and when it came back she decided it meant she’d fallen asleep. Or passed out.

  There was a sound, like leather against wood, and another like clicking or ticking, but they faded and were gone. They’d sounded alive, not like machines. There was a smell, too—peppermint and cedar. That stayed.

  Pain still gripped her, but it was not as intense. More an ache than agony. And it was universal, as though someone had methodically pummeled every square centimeter of her body with a loving attention to detail.

  She still could not move. But now, more aware, she realized a tightly wound blanket, not paralysis, held her in its grip.

  The light she had been floating toward resolved itself into a softly glowing…She wasn’t sure. It was irregular, but vaguely spheroid, and seemed to be overflowing out of a basket of woven vines. The basket was on a shelf, maybe two meters away. The shelf looked as though it had been carved out of a wall of living wood.

  She let her eyes drift shut and considered the possibility she was delirious. As far as she could remember, no Federation starships were carved of wood.

  Corsi forced her eyes open.

  She was not delirious. She was wrapped in a blanket on a bed of something soft, the source of the peppermint and cedar scent, she decided. Her bed was low to the floor of a dimly lit room or cabin that seemed to be carved from a single block of heavily grained wood.

  Turning her head the few degrees the wrappings allowed, Corsi could see the one shelf with the odd lantern, a wooden bucket or trough that was not carved from the floor, and a dark wall covering that may or may not have concealed an entrance. She had no idea where she was or how she’d gotten there, but she was reasonably certain it had not bee
n of her own free will.

  There was a padding sound again, something soft—leather?—sliding over wood. And again the series of clicks and ticks. Movement and voices, she decided, beyond the wall hanging-covered door.

  Corsi let her eyes droop shut to slits, no tension to her face as she feigned sleep. Through the haze of her lashes, she saw the wall covering bow inward, then aside.

  A head appeared, long and broad, just over a meter above the floor. At first she though it was an animal, but then she realized it was carrying a tray with folded cloths of some sort. She couldn’t make out its color through her lashes in the dim light, but it was dark. What she could discern of the face looked remarkably like that of a Terran chipmunk, minus the split upper lip. The tiny rounded ears that projected above and wide, lemurlike eyes compounded the effect.

  It turned to one side, chittering in a series of clicks and ticks, and Corsi realized the creature was longer than it was tall. The body that extended back from the upright torso had at least two pairs of legs. The blend of disparate features struck her as being like nothing so much as a cross between a chipmunk and a centaur.

  A second chiptaur entered the room, and then a third. With that many eyes on her, she couldn’t risk her surreptitious observation and let her eyes drift fully shut.

  Corsi willed her body to remain limp as the creatures unwrapped her from the blanket. They were as gentle as they could be; at least they seemed to be taking care, chittering softly to one another as though mindful of disturbing her. But it was hard not to tense against the pain that shot through her at every turn and pull. She thought she heard the rustle of the doorway hanging beneath the sounds of their voices and thought perhaps one had exited into the outer room or hall or whatever lay beyond her small chamber.

  As they lifted her legs Corsi caught the sharp scent of urine and realized they were changing her diaper. She couldn’t stop the hot flush she felt spreading up from her throat.

  A sharp chirp stopped the gentle flow of clicking conversation. A pad, feeling like warm suede, pressed against the side of her face. They’d noticed her change in hue.

  Corsi felt the sharp prickle of coarse fur as one of the creatures laid its broad head against her chest, evidently listening for her heartbeat. No way to hide her racing heart.

  There was a startled whuff of warm breath against her chin.

  This wasn’t the best tactical situation for making a move, but Corsi realized she wasn’t going to get to choose her moment. She followed the broad head up as it pulled away from her chest.

  She hadn’t been able to tell much about their physiology from her cursory observation, but she did know they breathed air through noses in front of their heads. Assuming their lungs weren’t in their skulls, that meant their windpipes passed through their throats. That was the only point of attack she could be sure of.

  But a blow to the throat could be fatal. She wasn’t about to kill anyone unless she was sure it was the only way out. So she rolled toward the being, gasping through the pain as she came up on one knee. Grabbing a furred shoulder at the base of the neck, she threw her offside leg over its back.

  The chiptaur gave a startled clack and tried to shy away, but before it had taken a step, Corsi was astride. Guessing similar plumbing and ventilation, she leaned her shoulder into the back of its skull, preventing it from throwing its head back, and snaked her left arm around the being’s throat in a classic “sleeper” hold, gripping her left fist in her right hand for leverage.

  Of course, given the alien’s short stature, this meant Corsi was bent almost double. Which was just as well. Now that she was on her feet, or at least crouching, she could see the wooden room—the wooden walls curving seamlessly into the wooden floor—was barely tall enough for her to have stood erect. She’d have to crawl to get through the door.

  There was only one other chiptaur in the room; she’d been right about one leaving. It froze by the bucket beneath the shelf, regarding her with its lemur eyes.

  With her eyes wide open, Corsi could see the beings had four arms. Two small ones, about the size of a ten-year-old human’s, were mounted on narrow shoulders just below the neck. A second pair about twice as large jutted from broader shoulders a half-dozen centimeters below. The arrangement made the chiptaur’s upper torso vaguely reminiscent of a ziggurat.

  Because all four hands were extended toward her, spread wide in an evident warding gesture, Corsi could see the upper hands had four radiating fingers. The lower hands had a central pad with two opposable thumbs like a pair of surreal mittens.

  From what she could see of the horizontal lower torso, the chiptaur’s four legs were arranged like a cat’s.

  Her captive had frozen the moment her arm had slipped around its neck. Now it seemed to settle, forcing her to one knee to maintain her grip as it apparently made itself comfortable on the floor.

  The second chiptaur, evidently over its shock at her sudden attack, followed suit. Tucking its legs under its body, it braced its upper torso on the elbows of its heavier arms. Without a sound, it regarded her solemnly, almost sadly, over two pairs of folded hands.

  The chittering clicks and ticks continued from the other side of the wall covering. The third chiptaur was evidently continuing its side of whatever conversation Corsi had interrupted. When it paused she knew from the give and take of the earlier exchanges that whoever was out there expected a reply from either her captive or the being looking on with an unnervingly level gaze.

  She prodded the back of her captive’s skull with her shoulder, the only thing she could think of to urge it to respond. She was certain it understood, but it remained silent, as motionless as a statue in her grip.

  “Speak,” she murmured in the round ear next to her cheek. Probably a useless sound without her combadge and its universal translator. “Answer him.”

  The round ear flicked at the feel of her breath, but that was all.

  After a moment there was a short series of ticks from beyond the doorway. A query, Corsi suspected, though there was no rising inflection.

  Still the creature beneath her remained unmoving. But for its breathing she would have thought it was carved from the same wood as the room.

  The behavior of the second chiptaur was even stranger. Unencumbered by a clinging human, it showed no inclination to either answer its companion on the other side of the curtain or leave on its own. It simply sat, or lounged, and regarded her with an expression of what looked to Corsi like unflinching resolution.

  At last the third chiptaur evidently decided to investigate the silence and thrust its head around the edge of the curtain. It blinked once, its already wide eyes going wider in an almost comical expression of surprise at the sight of Corsi evidently strangling its companion.

  Then, with an almost human—and clearly heartfelt—sigh, the tension left its body. With the same unhurried resignation as the others, it tucked its legs up under its body and settled down, blocking the doorway in its repose.

  Corsi considered her tactical options.

  A tug on her captive’s head confirmed it had no intention of moving. It was clear if she wanted it to come with her, she was going to have to drag it. Now that she had a feel for how densely muscled it was, she estimated its mass at about one hundred kilograms. Not an easy burden, particularly given its awkward shape. Not to mention the problem of keeping her hostage hostage while shifting its equally massive and inert companion out of the only exit.

  With a heartfelt sigh of her own, Corsi released her captive’s neck. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  Chapter

  2

  P8 Blue sat in darkness, looking toward a patch of grayish light her sensors told her was the mouth the hundred-meter tunnel Waldo Egg had made.

  Egg without the Waldo, Pattie corrected herself. The arms came off while we were still in the stratosphere.

  The good news was the soft peat was firm enough to hold its shape. At least the tunnel showed no signs of collapsing in the immediate
future.

  The bad news was the peat was firm enough to hold its shape. Which meant it was dry enough to ignite if she fired her attitude thrusters. Not that the heat of burning peat would present a threat to the EVA pod; it had recently withstood the temperatures of atmospheric entry, after all. But if the peat burned it may close off her only escape route.

  At least, she thought the material was peat. Her field was structural engineering, not organic chemistry. And Waldo Egg, as Faulwell had dubbed the EVA pod, was designed to operate in space. Which meant the sensors could accurately assess the molecular makeup of the densely packed, fibrous, organic material in which she was suspended, but the computer was not programmed with the vocabulary to give it a name.

  Whatever it was filled a basin over a kilometer in diameter with a mean depth of two hundred and thirty meters. Which meant if the peat beneath her caught fire she could conceivably sink another one hundred and ninety meters.

  Pattie had thought the peat basin was a dry lake bed coming in. Not that she’d had a good look at it. She’d just had a momentary impression of a clearing in the forest that looked softer than the volcanic mountains she was streaking toward.

  Whatever it was had looked like her best chance for survival. She’d rotated the pod, retrofiring thrusters never meant to combat a gravity well, in a desperate attempt to bring herself down before mashing into the rock face.

  She’d succeeded, plowing stern first into what she expected to be—comparatively—soft ground. Only instead of gouging a trench along its surface, the EVA pod had plunged underground at a shallow angle. The shuddering stop had been nothing like the savage bounce and tumble she’d been braced for, but it was still the roughest landing she had ever walked away from.

  Or would walk away from if she could figure out a way to get out of here.

  The escape hatch was on the side, pressed firmly against a solid wall of presumed peat. If the hatch had opened inward instead of out, she might conceivably have dug her way through the fibrous vegetable matter to the tunnel proper. Though it would be tough going with nothing approximating a shovel available.