The Sarpeidon Chronicles Part 5: The Way to Dusty Death

Chapter 1

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.
-MacBeth

Chapter 1

In the confines of the narrow room, which its occupant kept almost unbearably hot, Jarrod sat facing the man he'd returned from Gamma Aurelius to see.

If 'man' were the appropriate term, or even one that Octavius would favor. In truth, he appeared more lizard-like than humanoid, with rough, pale skin stretched tight over an almost featureless face. In terms of his mannerisms and speech, however, he struck Jarrod as one of the most civilized beings he had ever encountered. If Michaela Taylor were to be believed, that was hardly a surprise.

Though he felt foolish for asking the question, he could see no way around it. "Are you really eight hundred years old?"

Octavius' beak-like mouth curved in a peculiar smile. "Why should that be so difficult for you to accept? Among my people the very concept of measuring time in such miniscule increments is not only pedestrian, but irrelevant. Still, we understand that there are many inferior races, like you, who have no other way to mark off the segments of their lives. So, yes, by the standards of your own limited sense of time, I am. Hence my name - or the name I haven chosen to use among your kind."

"I must admit, you're not what I envisioned when she told me about you."

"I could remedy that more easily than you think. Changing my molecular, even my genetic structure, is a matter requiring minimal effort at best. You could think of me as a sort of Terran chameleon - after a billion years of highly specialized modifications. So, tell me what you would prefer that I resemble. An elderly humanoid with a long white beard? A stoic, superannuated Vulcan?"

"No, I would definitely not prefer that." Jarrod shook his head, recalling with a slight pang his grandfather's most recent visit. Not even his father had bothered to hide his relief once he'd gone. "As you are will be fine."

"Do you know how Admiral Taylor described you? She told me you were brash, impatient, and idealistic to a fault. However, she also assured me that you were a young man with a profound capacity for loyalty and affection. Thus far, may I say, you are exactly what I expected."

Jarrod blushed. "I'm sure her assessment was too generous. And I'm sorry if I offended you."

"One could not live as long as I have and still be that easily offended. In any case, I understand you have come to see me about a more specific matter. Please proceed."

"Well...yes. Michaela not only told me about your extraordinarily long life, but your species' love of travel. She says you've been all over the galaxy-and that once, long ago, you visited Sarpeidon."

"Correct on both counts. My people live to wander and wander to live. We have visited-and founded-worlds, cities, entire populations of beings both like ourselves and startlingly dissimilar. There are so many, in fact, that even we have lost track."

"Then you have no equivalent to the Prime Directive?"

"At one time, that was the case." Octavius sighed. "Alas, the governing body to which I am still subordinate has become less flexible over the centuries. A complete waste of energy, in my opinion. Even a finite being like you must realize that upholding such an ideal is the consummate exercise in futility. Even the simple act of observing an alien culture will change it in countless ways, though they are not always apparent. The attitude of my contemporaries was that we should always exert a positive influence wherever possible. You, and every other sentient being, should be grateful for our hubris. It's likely that the universe you know would be a vastly less evolved place without our influence."

"If that's true, I'm sure you're right. For today, I'd be grateful if you could tell me something about my home world. It no longer exists, as you probably know."

Octavius nodded. "I was disappointed to hear of its destruction. The Sarpeids were an enjoyable race-a bit hot-tempered for their own good, but entertaining all the same. I suppose I don't have to tell you that. No doubt you share at least some features of their disposition."

"Let's just say that I try to control my passions."

"Yes, how unfortunate for you to be crossed with a Vulcan. You must constantly be at war with yourself-not to mention everyone else around you." When his visitor's blush deepened, Octavius indulged himself in a throaty, high-pitched laugh. "But where Sarpeidon is concerned, I was simply a disguised outsider taking a brief respite from more important labors, and I left over one hundred of your years ago. What insights could I give you that your own mother could not?"

Agitated, Jarrod rose and paced the room. "Almost anything would be more than she is willing to tell me. Speaking of her former life pains her, so she does not encourage questions on that subject. My father and I didn't even tell her about you. Please, Octavius. I want to hear all about everything, everyone you saw and knew there. Perhaps you can tell me something of my grandfather; I share his name, but beyond that I know almost less of him than I do of you. And most of all I want to hear about the Tyrant. There are questions that have tormented me for nearly twenty-five years-yet I cannot bring myself to wound my mother by asking."

Octavius settled back in his egg-shaped chair and rested his chin against long, steepled fingers. The muscles in his face contracted in thought. "I can tell you right away that I did not know your grandfather. Zor Khan I can tell you about, though I left Sarpeidon long before they called him by that other name. You were correct to come here, young man. No doubt there are many aspects of your past about which I could illuminate you. Either that...or I could show you firsthand."

"Firsthand? Do you mean you've kept an old book or something? That isn't really what I was looking for. My father has a number of computer files-"

"Computer files! How quaint. One might as well fold a gliding contraption out of paper and claim that one has traveled on a starship. No-I am referring to actual passage to that other time. One hundred years in the past, right to the site of the events that helped spawn you."

Jarrod couldn't believe he'd heard correctly. "That isn't possible," he blurted, though he knew that he sounded far from certain on that point.

"No? Many would say that your existence, not to mention your presence in this time, is equally impossible. Yet, unless my eight-hundred-year-old eyes deceive me, here you are. There are many gateways to the past; Admiral Taylor has devoted her career to finding and studying them. Starfleet considers her success groundbreaking. Yet she has barely uncovered the faintest trail compared to the thoroughfare my people can use virtually at will."

"But even if it could be accomplished, why should you let me revisit history? You said yourself-merely the act of observing can alter things we can ill afford to see changed. Surely it's too dangerous for one as unevolved as I am."

"In a sense, that is true. But you and I, Jarrod, have something in common that perhaps no one else alive would understand. We know what it means to yearn for contentment, belonging. I have traveled so long, and so far, I have given up even the desire for either. In you, though, I sense the possibility of resolution, not to mention the stirring of an empathy I thought I'd lost. Mind you, I'm not offering you much-an afternoon to walk, anonymous, among your ancestors." When no answer was forthcoming, Octavius scowled. "Well? This is an opportunity I would extend to no one else. Take it now, before I have second thoughts."

Slowly, and with some difficulty, Jarrod shook off his dazed expression. "I-I don't know. I'd have to think about it."

"Then think. Let me know soon. I do not plan to stay in this place long. It was kind of Admiral Taylor and your father to arrange asylum for me, but Amphitrite is not to my liking. The people ask too many questions and the air is too cold. Now leave me."

---

Late into the night, he lingered at the computer in the study. His eyes traced the contours of the letters on the screen, but his racing mind refused to make sense of them.

"What are you reading?" His mother came into the room suddenly, before he had time to shield the document from her. Her face changed, as he'd known it would. "Why are you looking at that?"

"Why not?" he answered, more defensively than he'd meant to. "Father saved it so we could read it whenever we wanted to."

Zarabeth gazed over his shoulder at the digital reproduction of Sarpeidon's historical archives, downloaded so many decades earlier, when the library that contained them was on the verge of destruction. The original file had long ago been consigned to the Federation's depository, but Spock's private copy had always remained with him.

"I don't deny that you have every right to look at it. I was just wondering why."

"Maybe a better question would be why you look at it so seldom, Mother. Lidia and Adonia have never cared to do so at all. You haven't encouraged any of us to read it."

"Because I see no purpose in doing so. Why would I wish to read about something I already lived through? You will find no record of your ancestors in that document-we were expunged from the chronicle just as we were obliterated from the only life we knew. Now their secrets live only with me, and I think it best to keep it that way. Please, Jarrod, let them rest, as I have learned to."

The strain in her voice shamed him into compliance. "Very well-if that is your wish. Anyhow, I didn't come in here just to read this. I was sending Leila a transmission. I loaded it on a whim."

Ironically, Zarabeth seemed relieved to switch to a subject that was normally risky. "So how is Leila? She must miss you."

"That's mutual. She'll go on missing me for a few more days, unfortunately. Subspace transmission to Gamma Aurelius is notoriously slow and unreliable." He leaned back in the desk chair and looked up at her. "Tell me the truth. Are you and Father embarrassed by my living with her?"

"I have to admit that another arrangement might have suited us better, though I think you were right not to marry."

"We haven't ruled out that possibility. Given the circumstances, it seemed advisable to wait."

"Finally, something we can agree on."

He flashed a tentative smile. "It's a start."

"Your father and I realize that you have your own life now, and we have no desire to interfere. You may share what details you like, and keep the rest to yourself."

"The way you do with respect to your past."

"Yes. Exactly like that."

Their conversation was at an end, he knew, for this was one issue she would never budge on. Sighing, he reached for the keypad.

"I guess I'll turn this off and go to bed now."

"No, don't. I wanted to write to Adonia. She's been on active duty for nearly a week now, and I want to know how it suits her."

"I'm sure she's fulfilling her destiny by being impossibly perfect. Goodnight, Mother."

When he got up, he purposely left the document up. At the door of the study, he paused to watch his mother slide into the seat he had vacated. For several minutes, she gazed at the screen without expression, no doubt reliving memories she had never shared with anyone-probably not even his father. Then, in a single, decisive gesture, she wiped the screen and brought up the subspace transmission program instead.

Upstairs, he settled into Adonia's room, where he had taken up residence for the duration of his visit. Stretching out on the narrow bed, he laced his fingers behind his head and stared out the window. Somewhere on that vast, star-splashed canvas, his sister was plummeting ahead at warp speed. Maybe one day her starship would even cruise past the burnt-out husk that had once been Sarpeidon. Unfortunately, she would probably take only passing notice if she did. Both his sisters were too much a part of this world, this present, to concern themselves with the sorrows of the past. His brother, meanwhile, was too young and too smugly Vulcan. Only Jarrod carried a lifelong yearning to know more about the vanished world that had spawned him, and the annihilated lineage whose name he kept alive.

That night, he dreamed of a place, and people, he had never seen and knew almost nothing about. He was quite sure that, a few rooms away, his mother did, too.

In the morning, before anyone else had come downstairs, he slipped away to the city and presented himself at Octavius' dwelling. Octavius came to the door with a smile, as though he'd risen early to wait for his guest.

"I've thought about it," he announced before Octavius could say anything. "I want to go. I want you to send me to Sarpeidon."

- - -

"What must I do?" Jarrod couldn't quite banish the tremor from his voice as Octavius motioned him toward a small chamber he kept curtained off from the rest of his dwelling.

"You need only remain still and relaxed. The process will feel no different than that brought on by an ordinary Federation transporter. If it comes to that, the technology is not so very different-only farther-reaching. But never mind that for now. Focus your mind on infinity if it helps. Now, give me your hand."

Jarrod raised his arm, and Octavius strapped on a thin bracelet fashioned of metallic cloth. From a distance, it looked ordinary enough, but closer inspection revealed that an apparently random pattern of beads and inked-on motifs concealed a web of buttons and microprocessors.

"You will have thirty minutes to look around, and no more. If you wish to return before the appointed time, squeeze your wrist like so." Octavius demonstrated by wringing his left wrist in his right hand. "It will act as a signal to me to bring you back. Don't remove the wristband, or you will experience what could prove to be devastating physical effects."

"I understand."

"Remember-keep your face concealed and speak to no one. Your role is that of an observer, not a participant. If you cannot agree to these conditions, turn back now."

Impatiently Jarrod slipped on the embroidered skullcap that, along with his outgrown curls, covered the subtle points of his ears. The hood of the traveling cloak Octavius had given him would take care of the rest. "Yes, yes, I agree. Let's just get on with it, please."

"That is precisely the sort of recklessness I must warn you against indulging. I hardly need remind you what is at stake should you forget yourself while you are in the past."

"I'm sorry. I do realize how serious this is. It's just that I've been thinking about this all night. The anticipation is almost more than I can bear."

"Very well. Let us proceed, then. When it is time for you to return, you will start to feel faint and disoriented. Conceal yourself and remain in one place while the dematerialization takes place. I will be waiting for you when you return."

Stepping back, Octavius let the curtain drop back into place. Though he had not been instructed to hold his breath, Jarrod did so anyway. Octavius hadn't misled him; the darkness, and the slight twinge of nausea, did indeed remind him of the effects of a transporter beam. Just before he lost consciousness, he felt his body contract and shudder. Then he was plunged into an endless, mindless sea of black.

Suddenly, he was upright again, his feet on solid ground. He stood among a row of bright, sweet-smelling fruit trees. Just beyond them lay a road, and on it walked throngs of people in colorful robes trimmed with silver, gold, and copper threads that gleamed in the intense sunlight. The horizon, with its outlines of towers and Gothic steeples and spires, could have come straight from the images in his father's downloaded chronicle.

Could this really be Sarpeidon? Or was he dreaming?

He stepped forward, feeling strangely awkward on his feet, and careened into the center of the road like a drunkard. A man pulling a cart laden with goods for the marketplace gave him an irritated look as he passed on. Reeling back to the shoulder, Jarrod stood and watched another throng of men march past, this time in black and silver military garb. His throat went dry with a jolt of fear. Could these really be part of Zor Khan's notorious peacekeeping force?

No-it was impossible. He was hallucinating. All this was some trick performed by Octavius-to cause the images he'd carried in his head so long to gel into a specious physicality, like his younger brother's virtual reality games.

Still, even if this were a game, Jarrod found it instantly addictive. His senses began to clear as he pulled up his hood and plodded on, moving more swiftly now along the cobbled road, joining the stream of chatting citizens-real or not. To judge from the parcels of goods they carried, they appeared to be patrons of the local marketplace. Whether he was currently walking toward or away from the site of trading he neither knew nor cared. He was too absorbed in the dazzling sights and sounds, not to mention the intoxicating smells that rose from the baskets carried by the shoppers. The breeze carried the mingled aroma of exotic flowers, crisp produce, even freshly baked bread and tiny spice cakes of a sort his mother had programmed into their dwelling's food replicator long ago. How could Octavius have known about that? Another trick, perhaps, but spectacularly impressive.

The farther he walked, the thinner the crowds became; therefore he assumed he was moving away from the city's central district. For reasons he could not clearly define, he found himself drawn to a single magnificent house that dominated the skyline. Gabled, with a brightly tiled roof and no less than four towers that stretched toward the soft, summery clouds, it was the sort of house a storybook prince-or a disenfranchised nobleman like his Sarpeid grandfather-might inhabit. Another score for Octavius, he thought as he approached the polished wrought-iron gate that separated the house's walkway from the street.

Slowly, he became aware that four people were drawing closer behind him, also strolling toward the gate. At the front walked two men approximately his own age, one blond and clean-shaven, the sporting a dark, military-style haircut and beard. Behind them walked an older man, also bearded, and a woman in a cape and hood like the one Jarrod had put on. As they came closer, the dark man's brows drew together in annoyance.

"Move it, will you?" he shouted, then flung out his right arm as if to knock Jarrod aside. Not waiting for the blow, he darted sideways and watched them open and enter the gate. As the four of them passed in single file, the woman half-turned and darted him a glance of apology.

Hastily Jarrod stepped back, his feet sliding on the crisp white gravel that covered the path. His ankle flared with pain as he placed his weight awkwardly on the side of his foot.
This time, his clumsiness was not the result of vertigo, but of shock. There could be no mistake: the face he found himself looking into was his mother's.

---

While the four mysterious figures passed through the gate, Jarrod retreated into the row of fragrant fruit trees that lined the road. His head was spinning, and he was finding it more and more difficult to breathe. Soon he felt a wave of disorientation take over his senses and finally understood what was happening. Could thirty minutes really have passed so quickly? It hardly seemed possible.

Worst of all, he still wasn't sure if he had dreamed the entire experience. Fighting his growing queasiness, he forced himself to think like his father for a moment. What he needed was some kind of proof-solid evidence, perhaps-to take back with him.

But what? There was no time to double back to the marketplace and obtain an artifact-besides, he had no money. Just then, another bout of nausea hit him, and in desperation he grabbed the slim trunk of the fruit tree for support. All at once, the answer came.

Reaching up, he closed his fingers around one of the oblong red fruits and pulled it deep inside his shirt's baggy sleeve. The sun-warmed press of its flesh against his was the last sensation he felt before the world contracted around him.

When he opened his eyes, it seemed as though hours had passed-but there was Octavius, standing just beside the drawn curtain, and everything in the room remained as it had been before. His cheeks felt vaguely feverish, and his muscles ached as if he'd been dragged along stony ground for several miles. The skin around his lips itched with an inexplicable growth of whiskers, even though he had shaved earlier that morning. If the journey had indeed been a hallucination, it had left behind surprisingly real physical effects.

"Well?" Octavius moved toward him, one long-fingered hand extended for support. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"I don't know. What happened to me? It feels as though I've just woken from a particularly vivid dream."

"It was no dream. You were there. I chose the coordinates myself. You were no more than a hundred yards from the house of your grandfather and namesake, Jaryd. Perhaps you even saw him without realizing it."

Jarrod thought back to the stately, silver-bearded man who'd walked alongside the woman who resembled his mother. Could he really have been looking at the man whose bloodline he had carried into the future? And the others: the blond man who had seemed close to his own age could only have been Argus, the uncle who had forfeited his life trying to outrun the Atavachron's deadly effects. The only possible identity he could come up with for second young man was Milos, son of Adon, a cousin his mother had mentioned briefly once or twice. He had been a captain of the guards under Zor Khan's predecessor, only to be condemned to an ignominious public execution after failing to finish off the Tyrant.

"No," he decided, shaking his head in a furious effort to clear it. "I saw nothing but the product of my own imagination. The sort of journey you speak of is impossible. It must be."

Octavius scowled as if he were looking at a misbehaving child. "How sad. I have given you a gift no other mortal has received in more than a century, yet you still choose skepticism over awe. You are more Vulcan than you care to admit, young man. It is for that reason only that I excuse your impertinence."

"I'm sorry. Perhaps I simply need time to make sense of what's happened to me. I feel dizzy...strange."

Muddled, he moved away from Octavius' outstretched fingers and raised his own hands to soothe his aching forehead. Suddenly, he stopped in mid-movement. The pilfered fruit had moved inside his sleeve.

Octavius peered at him quizzically, his reptilian head tilted on his narrow shoulders. Quickly Jarrod tucked his arm against his side to conceal the telltale outline.

"The effects would have been far worse without the wristband. Perhaps I should have calibrated it differently."

"It doesn't matter," Jarrod said, breathing faster than normal. Moving awkwardly so as not to dislodge the hidden fruit, he stripped off the wristband and returned it to Octavius. "I should go."

"Very well. Need I remind you to tell no one what occurred here this morning?"

"Who would believe me?"

"I think we both know that your father would."

"Then you have nothing to fear. I haven't confided in my father for over twenty years. That isn't going to change anytime soon."

"Normally, I would chide you for such a lack of parental respect. In this case, I find it reassuring."

Jarrod continued to feel ill all the way home. Huddled in the back of the Embassy groundspeeder, he clutched his arm protectively against his chest. Though he longed to take his prize out and examine it, he dared to do nothing until he could be assured of complete privacy.

Unfortunately, he found nothing of the kind when he entered the house. Both his parents were in the sitting room with cups of tea in front of them. They looked curiously, almost suspiciously, at his dazed expression and rumpled appearance.

"You left very early," Zarabeth said. "I didn't even realize you'd gone until I checked your room."

"Is that why the two of you are here? Waiting to question me about my whereabouts?"

"Actually, I was just going to ask you if you wanted to have some tea with us." His mother seemed surprised at his defensive outburst, but Spock's attention immediately focused on the odd position of his arm.

"You appear to have sustained an injury," he observed.

"It's nothing-just a cramp. I'm used to rising early at the colony and getting right to work, so I went to the Embassy gym. I guess even a few days here has made me soft. I'd better go upstairs and put some analgesic ointment on it."

Before they could stop him, he hurried back to Adonia's room and hastily peeled off his shirt. As the fruit rolled slowly across the bed, Jarrod stared in astonishment. Though it had been in his possession for less than an hour, it was no longer the plump, fresh specimen he had plucked from the tree. Its shape was different, for one thing, withered and pulled in at the center as if it had been deflated. The vibrant red color had also faded to a dull, greyish pink, and the firm surface was spotted with decay.

Unsure what else to do with it, he gingerly lifted the monstrous item and laid it on top of the dresser, then crawled onto the bed to contemplate it further. He still felt far from well, and soon it seemed only sensible to close his eyes and let his shattered nervous system regenerate. Exhaustion pressed down on his eyelids like two insistent fingers.

When he opened them again, the light in the room was quite different, and the door stood open. His mother was looking down at him with a crisp new shirt folded over her arm.

"I had a feeling you'd fallen asleep. I didn't mean to wake you, but I wanted to bring you something to wear tonight. Lidia has asked Selyk and his father to dinner, so we'll have to be somewhat formal."

"Selyk! Is that still going on?" Jarrod sat up and rubbed his bristly face, feeling more like himself at last. Everything around him seemed normal, as well. Maybe he'd only dreamed his bizarre visit to Octavius that morning, and forgotten to shave as well.

"I'm afraid so. Lidia cares as much about your father's disapproval as you did at her age."

"Will I be expected to converse in Vulcan?"

"Do you remember enough to get by?"

"You must be kidding. You know I barely passed that class, even at the Embassy school. Father and Grandfather were outraged-but neither one of them could show it." He smothered a laugh. "That alone was worth the loss of credits. I can still see their faces."

"Well, maybe you can think of some excuse to slip away. I'll just leave this for you. Come down whenever you're ready."

She turned to place the folded shirt on the dresser and stopped cold.

"It can't be." She picked up the fruit. Its shape had become further corrupted while he slept, but its basic qualities were still intact.

And, apparently, all too recognizable.

"Where did you get this?"

The peace he'd experienced only moments ago vanished. It was replaced by a dull, sick palpitation in his stomach. "I-I brought it with me from Gamma Aurelius. I was going to eat it on the shuttle, but I forgot that I had it in my bag. It's no good now. I meant to throw it away."

Zarabeth picked it up and turned it over and around in wonder. "Leila grows these on Gamma Aurelius?"

Swallowing hard, he forced himself to sound casual. "Sure-they're all over the place. Why?"

"Let me take care of it. You're right: it isn't fit to eat now."

After she'd gone, taking the fruit and leaving the shirt in its place, Jarrod raked his hands through his hair in utter frustration.

- - -

At dinner that night, two things stuck out in his mind. The first was that, to his relief, the entire subject of Vulcan culture-and language-was studiously avoided by his father as well as Selyk and Sumarr. The second was how much the entire evening resembled similar gatherings of long ago, right down to the disapproving glances his father frequently cast in his direction. He managed to ignore them until the guests had departed and he somehow found himself trapped in the study with Spock.

"Your mother showed me the object you brought with you from Gamma Aurelius."

"Oh? Surely you don't mean that rotten piece of fruit. I can't imagine why she took such an interest in it, or why she would expect you to."

"On the contrary, I found it a most curious discovery. How likely is it that a fruit-bearing tree with so distinctive a product should evolve simultaneously on Sarpeidon a century ago and on Gamma Aurelius in the present day?"

Jarrod turned away to conceal the color that rose in his cheeks. "Not very likely at all. In fact, I think it more probable that Mother's memory is faulty. The resemblance is probably superficial at best."

"All the same, I intend to consult Leila about it immediately. A botanist of her stature will surely find such an anomaly worthy of a comprehensive study."

"I-I really wish you wouldn't, Father."

"I suspected you might respond that way. Jarrod, we are not operating at cross-purposes here. Zarabeth is your mother; she is my wife. It would appear we have an equal interest in protecting her."

"From me?"

"From the consequences of your dabbling in what you do not understand. I am aware that Octavius numbers Sarpeidon among his many ports of call. Perhaps he took away cuttings from certain botanical specimens he found intriguing. Perhaps he has shared these artifacts with you. Unlike your mother, I do believe you are entitled to a fuller understanding of your heritage if that is your wish. However, both you and Octavius are aware that the Federation has banned unsupervised timeslipping. When he accepted sanctuary here, Octavius agreed not to exercise his abilities for the duration of his visit."

"Perhaps if I'd completed my studies at the Academy, I would have been more aware of these regulations," Jarrod snapped.

"Your sarcasm is misplaced. As a Federation citizen, you are also bound by his agreement."

"May I be excused now? This day has been hellish from start to finish, and I'd like to end it now."

"Very well. I trust I have made my position clear."

"Quite. The Embassy would applaud your tact. Goodnight, Father."

- - -

The next day, when he returned to Octavius' dwelling, his face was haggard and his eyes burned from the sleepless night he had endured. A hundred different scenarios had churned through his mind until dawn, including the possibility that the mummified fruit was little more than a parlor trick that Octavius had conjured up to dupe and manipulate him. For all he knew, that was the way beings from his world entertained themselves, the way Terrans had once trained and raced less intelligent mammals for their amusement.

"My father suspects what we did," he said without preamble, sinking into the chair his host wordlessly offered him. "Perhaps you should expect a visit from him today."

"I can handle Ambassador Spock. Do you think he is the most powerful figure who ever threatened me?"

"I promise you I told him nothing. Anyhow, what was there to tell? I'm not sure myself what really happened. It seemed I was there, but my rational mind insists that I couldn't possibly have been."

"Again, I am disappointed, though not surprised, at your reluctance to believe. As I've told you, your kind is still many generations away from even the ability to comprehend our most basic technology. May I suggest a small experiment to set your mind at ease?"

Jarrod's eyes narrowed. "What kind of experiment?"

"I spent most of yesterday recalibrating this wristband, and I believe that you could make a second journey with minimal physical discomfort. What I suggest is this: return to the site of your original visit, effect some small but significant modification in the original course of events, then return to the present and find out if your mother carries with her the altered memory, or the original. It may be the only way to prove that you really stepped into the past."

"You're prepared to send me back? But yesterday you said I would have thirty minutes, and no more. My father told me that you had vowed not to use your technology for the duration of your stay here."

"I assured the Federation that I would not venture into other centuries or other worlds. I made no promise with respect to demonstrating my abilities to others. As for your thirty minutes, I see that the uncertainty the experience has caused you is far worse than what you suffered before. I believe it my duty to make amends for that."

"This is madness. You're asking me to interfere in events that transpired more than a century ago?"

"So you do believe you were really there. Young man, you are a mass of contradictions. Either I have the ability to send you back, or I do not. Kindly make up your mind and stop squandering my time and patience."

Jarrod dropped his aching head into both hands and spent a few moments in tortured thought.

"All right," he said finally. "Let's try again."

---

An hour later, he was back on the crowded streets of Sarpeidon's capital city. His ancestors-if such they were-had loved color, he noticed. Exotic plants flowered in front of every building, and the same vivid hues were repeated in the clothing and jewelry worn by the citizens. The sights that had intrigued him earlier now seemed ominously garish. The pall of death hung over the spires and colorful roofs. A few passers-by stared at his drab brown cloak distrustfully, but he was glad that it covered his pain-glazed eyes.

This time, he made his way directly to the gated house. Octavius had suggested a small change, one that his mother would remember, but one that would produce no lasting effect on history. What that might be, Jarrod had no idea.

Fortunately, Octavius had given him no time limit for this second transport. He could afford to think things out more carefully. Perhaps he could even come up with a way to test Octavius' sincerity.

The first thing he realized, as he walked the length of the iron fence, was that its function was primarily decorative. Scaling it would have been a difficult, but far from impossible feat, especially if one circled around to the back. There, flat, manicured lawn gave way to gardens and shady rows of those same fruit-bearing trees, planted closely enough to form a web of branches and concealing leaves. Farther back were small storage sheds and cabins, possibly inhabited by servants.

As he'd suspected, hoisting himself to the top of the fence and dropping down among the fruit trees required minimal effort. Years of manual labor among the colonists, combined with Vulcan genetics, had given him an upper-body strength the leisure-oriented Sarpeids-or Octavius himself-probably couldn't anticipate.

Once inside the grounds, he moved rapidly toward the nearest cabin. A dingy structure built low to the ground, with dust-covered windows facing the main house, it seemed the perfect place to hide and survey his surroundings until he decided what to do.

To his surprise, when he reached the structure and crouched down to peer inside, he realized that he wasn't the only one who'd flagged the cabin as the ideal hiding place. Far from being empty and ramshackle, the cabin's interior was furnished with a long table and a dozen or so high-backed chairs-all of them occupied by richly attired, serious-looking gentlemen, their heads bowed forward as they carried on an intense discussion. Three of them he recognized from his vigil by the gate; the identities of the others he could only guess at.

He didn't have to guess about the content of their discussion, especially when the man he assumed to be Milos rose and planted a fist on the table as his voice rose in passion.

"He holds power without license, he harvests riches without discretion, and he wields punishment without justice. If the rumors are to be believed, he has added lechery to his extensive list of trespasses. How can we possibly doubt that it is time he was stopped?"

"You will have little difficulty persuading anyone that your charges against him are true," said an older man seated to his left. "You may be less successful in convincing others to die in support of them."

"Dying may be the easiest punishment we could expect," suggested another member of the group. "My nephew and Atoz were schoolmates; when they met in the marketplace recently, Atoz confided that the Tyrant is experimenting with a device that can send men instantly to an exile so far removed from all they know and love that execution would seem a welcome alternative."

"Nonsense." The blond man Jarrod assumed to be Argus banged his metal tankard down in front of him. "Atoz was my schoolmate also, and well we all knew that he was mad. The poor fellow has good intentions, but long ago he lost his mind to those books he tends like a lover. I fear he can no longer distinguish between what he has read and what he has heard in the Palace."

"But it makes a peculiar sense that the Tyrant would trust him in that case. He knows no one would credit the young man's wild stories."

As the conspirators began to argue the point, Jarrod leaned closer to the smudged window in an attempt to see and hear more. Too late, he realized his mistake in not paying equal attention to what lay behind him. From the corner of his right eye, he spotted the figure hurrying toward him, brandishing what looked like a long wooden staff. Not until he saw it coming down toward his shoulders did he realize it was an ordinary, dirt-caked garden spade, swung with ferocious accuracy by a thickly muscled groundskeeper.

The blow propelled him forward against the window and then backward into the dirt, where he lay facedown and moaning. Distantly, through ringing ears, he heard feet scuffling around him and guessed that the conspirators, alerted by the commotion, had fled. When the last wave of agony had passed through his skull, he lifted his head and blinked up at the four men who stood looking down at him. The coarse-looking man with the shovel stood closest, his makeshift weapon ready for a second stroke, if need be. The other three had by now become all too familiar.

"A trespasser, my lord," the servant informed the oldest man among them, who scowled and touched his squarely cut white beard.

"It's him again," Argus shouted, his fair cheeks flushed with rage. "He stood at our gate and watched us pass only yesterday. Am I not correct, Milos?"

Milos, too, was stroking his face thoughtfully. His other hand brushed the ornate military dagger he wore at his side. "Argus is right, Uncle. It is the same man. He followed us from the marketplace. Do you not remember him yourself?"

"He is a spy for the Tyrant. There is no other explanation!"

"None that we have heard, at least." The older man crossed his arms and stared down at their captive with a grave expression. "But then, we have scarcely given him a chance. Speak, young man. Tell us who you are and why you have secreted yourself on my property."

Jarrod began to answer, but felt his tongue falter and swell in his mouth. What could he say, after all? To claim that he was the old man's grandson, namesake, and heir would make him sound as insane as this Atoz, whoever he was, never mind the more serious complications that could arise.

Turning his eyes back to the ground, he gently shook his aching head. "My name is unimportant. All I wish you to know is that I am no threat to anyone here. I have good cause to hate the Tyrant as much as you do. I promise you that."

"Could he have heard what we were talking about?" Argus darted a frightened look from his cousin to his father.

"If he did," Milos said in a low voice, "he must never leave this place again." Slowly, his fingers tightened on his dagger.

"Milos!" the old man commanded, stepping in front of Jarrod's sprawled form. "Calm yourself at once! Are we no more civilized than our enemies?"

"Civilized, yes. Foolish, I sincerely hope not, Uncle."

"Then I must prevent you from acting like a fool." With a single, decisive motion, his grandfather summoned the gardener to lower his shovel. "You are Argus will take this man to the potting shed at the far end of the orchard. You and he will remain there until we can make sense of this situation. Guard him, but treat him with mercy and respect. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord."

Jarrod's senses swam as he was hauled up by the arms and dragged along the grass, his feet trailing helplessly behind him. By the time he was pushed onto the rush-covered floor of a small wooden structure and left there in near-darkness, he decided he'd had enough. Perhaps Octavius really was indulging in an odd-and undeniably exciting-game, but the blood in his mouth and the pain in his shoulders were real enough. Besides, he knew now what he could question his mother about back in the present. The arrival of a strange intruder who had subsequently vanished from a shed in the orchard would be evidence enough to satisfy him.

Sitting up, he glanced around the shed to make sure he was not being watched. Hastily, he pushed back the sleeve of his cloak and then his tunic to reveal the wristband Octavius had strapped on him only hours ago. Even more hastily, he wrapped his hand around it in the way he'd been shown and squeezed.

Nothing happened.


- - -

Argus, Jaryd, and Milos continued to argue about the fate of the stranger as they walked back to the house.

"We can't hide him in the orchard forever," Argus insisted. "Besides, he may escape. He will take what he heard this afternoon straight to the palace. Then it will be our turn to flee. And I fear we will never outrun the Tyrant's minions."

His father shook his head. "Ezul will guard him competently. Meanwhile, I suggest we try to find out who he is. His attire and appearance are strange; he will not have escaped notice in the marketplace. I suggest, Milos, that you make discreet inquiries there and return as quickly as you can."

"Uncle, I must side with Argus in this case. He would not be the first spy to disappear without a trace. Let Zor Khan guess at his whereabouts. He will still have no evidence against us."

"And if the stranger is telling the truth? You would dispose of a potential ally against the Tyrant? You, who called for unity among rebels only an hour ago?"

"That was different," Milos retorted. "I was speaking to friends-men we have known and trusted for years."

"In rebellion, Milos, no one can be trusted completely."

They fell silent as they drew up to the house, both because Milos had no ready reply and because they had no desire to be overheard in this more populated area of the estate. All three of them stopped in the middle of the path when Kellam, the oldest and most seasoned of the house-servants, came running toward them. His arms flailed wildly, as though he were fending off a swarm of insects, and his lined face was ashen.

"They were here, my lord," he shouted as he flew down the steps. "The Tyrant's advisor and three of his men! They came into the house-I tried to stop them but they pushed me aside...."

"What's happened?" Rushing forward, Jaryd grabbed the old man's trembling shoulders to prevent him from collapsing. "Why did they come into the house? What did they want?"

"I tried to stop them," Kellam wept, his frail body sinking against his master's far sturdier frame. "But I am too weak, too old. My lord, I beg your forgiveness. The Tyrant has arrested your daughter."

Chapter 2

Spock returned from the Embassy late that afternoon to find Zarabeth in a state of apprehension.

"I don't suppose you saw Jarrod in the city today?" she asked.

"I did not."

"He left early this morning and hasn't been back since. The two of you quarreled again, didn't you?"

"We discussed a few matters. It did not amount to a quarrel."

"Was Leila one of those matters?"

"You may be relieved to know that Leila is a subject both of us prefer to avoid at present."

"Well, he didn't pack up his things, so he hasn't gone back to Gamma Aurelius. I suppose he must be around somewhere. Maybe he decided to look up an old friend. Though I can't recall that he had too many of those."

"No doubt you are correct." Spock's mouth became a grim line. "Most likely he has gone to pay a call."

"Maybe I should question Lidia. She went directly to her room after school to do some research. Now I wonder if she just didn't want to be asked."

He held up a hand. "I will speak to Lidia. You need trouble yourself no further in the matter."

Though Zarabeth looked far from convinced, Spock went upstairs alone and buzzed for entry into Lidia's room. Through the door, he could hear the muffled sound of his daughter's voice, clearly betraying some anxiety, and a burst of distinctly male laughter. Had Jarrod secretly returned to the house after all?

Without waiting to be formally admitted, Spock keyed in the door's override code and entered.

Inside, he found Lidia scrambling off her bed in a panic. In the spot she had just vacated, sprawled lazily against a heap of pillows, lay the source of the masculine voice he'd heard-not Jarrod at all, but Selyk. To Spock's unutterable relief, both of them were fully clothed, though the top button of Lidia's tunic was undone, exposing a flush of embarrassment that seemed to encompass most of her upper body.

Her father's single raised brow and patient tone mortified Lidia more effectively than any direct accusation.

"I came to inquire whether you had spoken to your older brother today. He is not in the house, and your mother has become concerned."

"Ah - no, Father, I have not."

"Very well. In that case, you may go and tell her so yourself. Selyk, please accompany me to the study."

"Certainly, Ambassador." Selyk swung his legs off the bed as casually as if he were climbing out of a garden hammock. "My pleasure."

The boy's mouth twitched at the corners as he moved down the hall beside Spock. When they were behind closed doors again, Spock cast a less benign eye over his guest.

"You may explain yourself now," he said.

"I doubt you require any explanation from me. I confess that I was indulging in sensual experimentation. At times, as you may know, the baser emotions can provide a most agreeable distraction. If you do not know it, I am sorry for you-and perhaps sorrier for Lidia's mother."

"Perhaps you believe that your insolence will distract my attention from what I have seen. I assure you that you are mistaken."

"I have no interest in distracting you, since I really don't see any problem. Lidia and I will be married within a few years. Surely you see the logic in sampling the goods before making a long-term investment. Incidentally, how long were you and Lidia's mother wed before she conceived your older son?"

"I need hardly remind you that there has been no agreement with respect to a betrothal between you and Lidia, whatever your father may choose to believe."

"What does that matter? Lidia will be 18 soon-I am already of age. My father believes the same thing I do: that it is only a matter of time before she accepts me. Then you will have nothing to say about it."

"Is this part of his strategy, then - compromising my daughter in order to make my cooperation inevitable?"

Selyk shrugged. "If this is what you choose to believe, I cannot stop you. But as I said...it matters little, if at all."

Spock waited until Selyk's expression had grown more self-satisfied than he had ever seen it before. Then he addressed the younger man with what appeared to be genuine curiosity.

"Selyk - is marriage to Lidia the future you truly desire? Or is it what your father desires on your behalf?"

"Both. Or, should I say, in this case I fail to see any difference. My father has gone to great pains to ensure my future, and Lidia is a part of that. You know that our status as Federation citizens is far from secure; it is my father's dearest wish that I help him remedy that."

"Then were it not for the prospect of disappointing him, you would have no genuine interest in this scheme?"

Frowning, Selyk twisted his fingers together and scanned the bookshelf that spanned the wall behind him.

"If you want to know the truth, if my future were entirely in my own hands, I would choose something entirely different. If you were to repeat this to my father, I would deny every word - but the fact is that I despise Amphitrite almost as much as I despise this safe but insufferably dull existence he has carved out for us here. If it were up to me, I would do as your son did and leave this pitiful pile of rocks under cover of night. I would travel until I found a way of life that is more to my liking-one that doesn't remind me every day that I live as I do because my father is a traitor. However, my leaving him, or the sanctuary he has arranged for us, is something he would never permit. So here I continue-with Lidia as an admittedly pleasant distraction. Do I shock you?"

"Not at all. For the first time, in fact, you have engaged my interest. Selyk, what would you say if I arranged passage off this world for you? You would travel anonymously-as my son once did-and your final destination would be your decision alone."

Selyk turned from the bookcase, his eyes bright with astonishment -and another emotion that looked remarkably like greed, Spock thought.

"You would do that for me?"

Spock nodded. "Unlike your father, I see a great many advantages to your leaving Amphitrite. Come to the Embassy tomorrow afternoon. By then I will have compiled a list of the freighters scheduled to pass through our orbit within the next month. Many of them maintain nothing more than trade agreements with the Federation; your Romulan ancestry will concern them far less than your ability to pay your expenses. I might be persuaded to assist you with those as well."

"I am not without means of my own." Selyk pulled his lips back in a defensive smile. "After all, my father has been encouraging me to save up for my wedding. I will see you tomorrow afternoon, Ambassador."

There was no need to caution Selyk to tell no one of their conversation; Spock could see that he understood.

Alone again, with one problem solved for the moment, Spock returned his attention to more pressing matters. There was no point in contacting Octavius via telescreen; if he accepted the page at all, he was unlikely to be forthcoming at a distance. A direct audience was his best, and probably only, option. If Jarrod did not present himself within the hour, he decided to return to the city.

What Zarabeth had said was unfortunately all too accurate; like him, Jarrod was not a man with friends he could, or would, call upon at whim. It was possible, of course, that he had struck up new acquaintances over the course of his two-week visit.

Spock only hoped that, if so, they did not reside one hundred years in the past, on a planet the present world knew only as a phantom.

- - -

Zor Khan's Chief Minister met his master in the sovereign's private dining chamber, where an ornate table lay heaped with sweetmeats and delicacies of every imaginable variety. He was closely followed by the guards with their bewildered captive, who had neither resisted nor spoken since her removal from her father's house nearly an hour before. As they approached the table, Zor Khan himself rose to inspect the entourage.

Though the sovereign's expression was less welcoming than he had hoped, Iyal pressed forward with his duty. "Your prisoner, my lord," he said, gesturing toward his soldiers. "The daughter of Jaryd, as requested."

To Iyal's dismay, the Tyrant's expression suddenly turned choleric. "Idiot," he growled, shoving his minister aside and moving to address Zarabeth directly. "Iyal, the fool, misunderstood my orders. You were to be brought here as a guest, not a prisoner." A single venomous look dismissed the guards that flanked her. With an expansive gesture he motioned her toward the table. "Be seated. The rest of you are dismissed."

"But, my lord, it would be prudent to retain at least one sentry while you are entertaining."

"And it would be even more prudent for you to learn to obey my commands, Iyal. Now go."

Blanching, Iyal and the soldiers withdrew. With a snort of satisfaction, Zor Khan seated himself directly opposite her and pressed a button that had been set into the table itself.

"Are you frightened of me?" he asked as a servant appeared and began to apportion the foodstuffs between them.

"I confess I was taken aback by the manner in which I was summoned."

He was pleased to hear some fire, however tentative, flare up in her reply. Nothing bored him more quickly than a timid or simpering woman, and in this case Zor Khan welcomed the impertinence he found so jarring in her male relatives.

"A mistake, as I said before. Name the brand of torture you prefer, and I will punish Iyal for his insubordination. You may observe, if you like."

That shocked her; he took pleasure in the way her eyes widened, the way her lips parted with a quick intake of breath.

"I would not like that at all, my lord." Dubiously she inspected the plate and wine goblet the servant had filled for her.

"Do you suspect that I have poisoned the food?" Simultaneously amused and offended, Zor Khan turned to his servant. "Reassure the lady at once."

"Yes, my lord." Without a moment's hesitation, the young man took up a spare goblet, tipped a sample of Zarabeth's wine into it, and drank deeply. He followed the same procedure with the food, cutting off tiny portions and swallowing each in turn. Finally he returned to his place at the end of the table and stood at silent attention.

Zor Khan pointed with his fork. "There. Do you observe any change in him? No? Then I expect you to conduct yourself as a proper guest. I regret that you have been so swayed by the opinions of my enemies, particularly that audacious pup who calls himself your brother. I can be a most benevolent master when I am given the chance."

"I will try to remember that, my lord." Cautious again, she poked at the meal but kept her eyes averted.

"See that you do." A long, tense silence passed, during which he studied her with unflagging interest. Briefly he wished he really had drugged her meal-she would have been more pliable then, more reactive to the effect she had on him. Then again, he had never been the kind of man to prefer watered-down charity to a genuine challenge. "Tell me, daughter of Jaryd-do you find my palace enticing?"

"I daresay it suits you very well. Just as my father's house suits me."

With a violent motion, Zor Khan pushed his plate aside and stood up. "Come with me," he demanded. With obvious relief, she left the table and followed him from the room, down one lengthy and finely decorated hall and then another. Finally they arrived at a massive pair of gilt-edged doors, which Zor Khan pushed open with a visible effort. Behind them lay a magnificent room, with art on the walls and furniture so fine it might have been considered art as well. "You may enter," he said. "Does it please you?"

Beyond the first room was another, equally spacious and exquisitely decorated, this time featuring a wardrobe large enough for someone to dwell in and a canopied bed draped with shimmering hand-stitched quilts and curtains alike.

"I've never seen anything quite like it," she said. "But I confess that I am at a loss, my lord, unless you are looking for a housekeeper, or a hired companion for one of your female relatives. These rooms were clearly designed for a woman."

"You are most observant. In fact, I would prefer that they be yours."

"Mine!"

"I would be most generous to you. These apartments would be yours exclusively, along with a servant of your choice. I will provide you with gowns, jewelry, musicians to entertain you and fools and trifles to amuse you. And, though I plan to keep you to myself most of the time, I see no advantage to keeping you in complete isolation. In fact, I will allow you to invite even your brother on special occasions."

While he spoke, he stroked the twin points of his beard and watched her expression change-from incomprehension to astonishment and, finally, to a sort of horrified repugnance.

"My lord-are you inviting me to be your mistress?"

"An unfortunately coarse word, though the precise terminology is unimportant. After all, I alone make the laws and determine the customs in this city now." His right hand moved along her shoulders, following the sweep of her loose hair. "As you may know, I am in need of an heir to secure both my lineage and my reign. If you give me a son-the one thing I have been denied-I will make you my Empress."

Wincing with revulsion, she pulled away. "Please, my lord-no."

"Would the life I offer be so intolerable?" Leaning closer, he tilted her face up to his. When she flinched, he too stepped back with a snarl. "Apparently so. Well, I will not force myself on you. Despite what you may have heard from my enemies, many of whom you number among your own relatives, I am a civilized man. I am, however, a sovereign who prefers to have his own way."

Both of them looked up when Iyal entered the room. "My lord, Jaryd is here. He demands that his daughter be released to him at once."

Zor Khan turned away from them both with such force that both Zarabeth and Iyal jumped back.

"You may return my guest to her father-not because he commands it, but because I am tired of her. On the way out, Iyal, you might suggest that she think carefully about what I have said to her. It is not an offer I make lightly. I will allow her time to formulate a suitable answer."

He didn't bother to watch them hurry from the room, satisfied that both had felt the power of his rage.

If that didn't inspire them to behave more decorously when the three of them next met, he would simply have to find a more persuasive method.

---


"Octavius, I have come for my son."

Settling comfortably back in his chair, Octavius extended one long arm and swept the room with an expansive gesture. "Look around, Ambassador. You can see that he isn't here."

"You know very well that, if my suspicions are correct, searching the immediate area would be futile."

"And what do you suspect, exactly? Oh, never mind-I can imagine the convoluted movements of a mind such as yours. One of the drawbacks to belonging to a highly advanced race is that nearly everyone overestimates my capabilities in nearly every conceivable area. In this case, you are quite mistaken. You see, my own people banned me from timeslipping decades ago-the result of certain philosophical differences that have yet to be resolved."

"You also assured the Federation that you would refrain from such activities. However, neither agreement constitutes definitive evidence."

"That would be true enough, except for one thing. The Assembly that once held sway over my movements saw fit to raise certain physiological barriers that have prevented me from following such whims. What you suggest would be impossible, even if I were not in retirement. I am now as much a part of this time as you are, and to my chagrin there is nothing I can do to change that."

"Still, you cannot deny that he has been here to see you several times. After the last visit, he disappeared. A connection between the two events seems likely."

"I must confess that I am disappointed in Federation hospitality. I came to Amphitrite to rest, not to become involved in your household conflicts. Most likely your son is merely disporting himself as many other young men do in this city. He'll turn up when it suits him. Trust me, Spock. Over the past eight centuries, I have raised many children of my own. It might surprise you to learn what entertainments they are given to once they are out of our control."

"Then perhaps you will be good enough to recount your last conversation with him. It may at least suggest some alternative line of inquiry."

"In that case, you might redirect your attention back to your own family. Your son wished to inquire about Sarpeidon's history and culture. As I did not possess the information he desired, I suggested he consult with his mother instead. He then informed me that she had no wish to discuss that topic. You see? I am guilty of frustrating him, nothing more." Abruptly Octavius' expression turned sour. "Now leave me. This is tiresome, and I wish to begin my nightly meditation. It is a habit of eight hundred years' standing, and I insist that you respect it."

"Very well. I shall return if I require further information."

"And I shall again be forced to disappoint you. Now go and spend the evening with the family members you have managed to keep track of."

Though Spock replied with only a curt nod, Octavius took pleasure in the fact that his final barb had clearly stung. Alone again, he rose and keyed open the tall corner cabinet. Only one item, his most treasured possession, sat hidden inside.

For a long time, Octavius stood and gazed triumphantly down at the fist-sized cube. For years, the device had lain dormant, its crystalline surfaces cloudy and lifeless. Tonight, all four faces were alive with tiny, moving images. One reflection held his particular attention: the deep red banners of Zor Khan, floating high above the city by a balmy summer breeze. Octavius still fondly remembered the warmth of those long Sarpeid afternoons; little wonder, he mused, that the entire world had finally burned itself to cinders. Everything about that world had glowed too hot and flared too fast, though it had suited him well enough at the time.

Still, the time of ruin and devastation lay far ahead of the dignified scene he now viewed. For the present, Octavius felt nothing but elation. The main reason he had deactivated the cube was that he couldn't bear to watch the same painful events play out the same painful way, while he remained a powerless spectator. Now, for the first time in a century, he had hopes of seeing something different happen.

---

While his father and two cousins looked on somberly, Argus paced the sitting room in a frenzy of rage.

"This is the most outrageous insult I've heard yet! My sister, the Tyrant's concubine? Father, I'm surprised you didn't strike the black-hearted cur down yourself!"

"That would not have been possible," Jaryd said, shaking his head. "Iyal did not grant me access to the Tyrant's person."

"In any case, Zarabeth was not harmed," Boroc, the son of Jaryd's younger brother Azir, offered hopefully. "He let her go when she refused him. We ought to remember that."

"No, Cousin," Milos said. "We ought to remember instead that Zor Khan is not the sort of man any woman can simply turn down. Having her is a matter of pride now. I have it on good authority that he will summon her again tomorrow evening. This time, she will not escape with her honor." He paused to stroke his beard in thought. "Truly, his audacity is beyond all contempt. And yet, in another way, this entire situation might be considered a gift from the Celestial Ones."

The others stared at him as though he'd gone mad.

"Why would you say that, Cousin?" Boroc asked.

"Think about it. When is Zor Khan most likely to be unarmed, and unprepared for an attack, than when he is about to disport himself with a woman? It is the perfect opportunity for us to strike."

Argus gaped in disbelief. "You would prostitute my sister, your own cousin, to pursue your vendetta against him?"

"This is more than a vendetta, Argus. The hatred we bear him is but a child's tantrum compared to what he feels for all of us. Mark my words: if we don't knock him down first, he will do far worse to us."

"Even if you're right," Jaryd said, rising from his chair, "there is a flaw in your plan. If an attempt is made on the Tyrant in her presence, Zarabeth will be arrested as an accomplice. A risk that grave I cannot permit, let alone any other damage to her innocence."

"Uncle, I promise that I can arrange for Zarabeth to appear completely blameless. I did not serve ten years in the Praetorian guard without making friends-not to mention connections I cannot presently name. A good many men, highly placed, have given me their trust in this matter. You must give me yours as well."

"That we will not," Argus shouted. "We have always been friends as well as cousins, Milos, but this time you are presuming too much."

"Am I? Perhaps you will not think so when I tell you what else the Tyrant plans to send for tomorrow evening. One of his house-servants gave me a written order for the wine he plans to serve while she is with him. Interestingly, the note was addressed not to the vintner, but to the apothecary. It is a special vintage he seeks, one that contains an additive that will make even a chaste woman accept his lewd advances without a murmur of protest." Thrusting his hand into his belt pouch, Milos produced a folded slip of paper and crushed it against his cousin's chest. "This is the man whose life you would spare, Argus?"

Milos waited while Jaryd and Argus smoothed out and examined the note. Their expressions reflected first disgust, then hopelessness.

"It would seem that your cousin is correct, Argus. We no longer have any choice," Jaryd sat down heavily, crumpling the note in his fist. "We must act at once. Milos, what do you propose?"

"I propose that, since our sovereign's order never reached its destination, we supply this special wine ourselves-and find the right man to deliver it with our compliments."

"If it is an assassin you seek," Boroc said, jumping to his feet, "I have both the strength and the courage."

Milos placed both hands on Boroc's muscle-strapped shoulders and gave him an affectionate shake. "Of your competence I have no doubt, Cousin. However, we cannot send anyone the Tyrant would recognize. I would like to propose another candidate. Uncle, I assume our trespasser is still safely confined?"

"He is."

"Then let him prove his claim that he hates the Tyrant as passionately as we do. If he refuses to go along with our plan, we must kill him. If he dies in the attempt, however, we will deny knowing him. No one will be the wiser, and no one will connect him with Zarabeth."

Jaryd sighed and rubbed his forehead. No one spoke for several minutes. "Are we agreed, then?" the old man finally asked. "Argus, bring your sister here. For her own protection, let us acquaint her only with enough detail to alleviate her fears."

"Agreed," said Argus, "though in my opinion she will have good reason to be afraid."

"No harm will come to her," Milos insisted. "I will personally see to that."

---

Spock found her in Adonia's room, shaking out and refolding the clothes Jarrod had brought with him from Gamma Aurelius.

"I am glad to find you alone," he said. "Zarabeth, we must speak privately."

"Lidia told me what happened with Selyk," she said without looking around. "I hope you weren't too hard on them. That sort of behavior comes naturally to people their age. They don't do it simply to spite us."

"Selyk does not concern me at the moment. We have a more pressing matter to address." Gently he pried a green open-necked shirt from her hands and dropped it back onto the bed.

"I didn't want to ask you," she admitted. "You haven't found him, have you?"

"No."

"Well, we have to keep looking. None of his things are gone-I went through them to make sure, though I know he'd be angry about that. Why don't I go back to the city with you? Lidia can manage on her own."

"In light of recent events, I doubt that." He raised a brow. "In any case, I am convinced it would accomplish nothing. I believe he is much farther away."

Her shoulders sagged. "I feel that, too. Is there nothing we can do?"

"In fact, I have developed a theory. Testing it, however, will be problematic."

"Why?"

"Because it will undoubtedly cause you great pain. I regret that I can find no alternative. Zarabeth, you must tell me everything you can remember about Zor Khan's destruction of your family."

For several moments, she stared at him in utter astonishment. "First Jarrod, and now you. Why does everyone suddenly wish me to recount those things? For thirty years I have struggled not to think of them. You and I have never spoken of them since before we were married. I don't understand it."

"We had no cause to speak of them earlier. Tonight, we do. You know I would not ask you if I did not have sound reasons. "

"Which are?"

"I regret that I cannot share them at present."

"Please, Spock, don't make me. Besides, I couldn't possibly remember everything accurately. So much time has passed-and so many nightmares. I'm not even sure myself sometimes whether I'm recalling a dream or what really happened."

He nodded. "There is another way, one that will not require you to relive the experiences on a conscious level. Perhaps it will even provide you with an opportunity for healing."

"I know what you're asking," she said, still incredulous. "And allowing you into my mind has something to do with finding Jarrod?"

"At the moment, it is the only idea I have."

Her answer came slowly-and not easily, he could tell. "Very well, then. We should go to our own room. We won't be disturbed there."

"Agreed."

Moments later, Spock secured their door and settled himself beside her on the bed. As she chose a pillow and stretched out on top of the covers, he was taken aback by the genuine fear in her eyes.

"I haven't felt this nervous since our wedding night," she confessed in a shaky voice. "Actually, I wasn't anxious at all compared to this."

"I seem to remember things differently." He skimmed his fingers over her forehead, then rested them lightly above and beside her eyebrow.

Her smile flickered into a scowl. "Spock-would it be possible for you to remove some of my memories? The particularly dreadful ones, perhaps? Trust me, you'll know them when you see them."

"If that is your wish."

Her face clouded as she thought it over. "No," she decided after a moment. "As much as those images torture me, I can't give up my last tie to everyone I lost. As much as I cherish my life with you, I don't want to lose them."

"I understand. I will disturb nothing."

"Go ahead, then." She closed her eyes; the lashes were already damp with tears.

Leaning closer, he pressed his fingers harder to her forehead. "My mind to your mind...." he whispered....

The memories came in floods, the sheer weight of her emotion disorienting him at first. Then, gradually, the haze gave way to a more focused stream of images. He saw the faces of people he had only heard vaguely about, relived with startling immediacy the nightmares that still occasionally shook her from sleep. Buried more deeply were pleasant memories as well-the warmth of family gatherings, the excitement of civic festivals, the happy abandon of childhood games. All were eclipsed, though, by the cold, dark terror that came later-of long nights filled with icy tears, unbearable loneliness, and a longing for death so intense that it battered his own rational core.

Finally, he pushed his way to the details he sought. Pictures formed with surprising clarity, years of denial focusing them into razor-sharp detail. Her first glimpse of the Tyrant, a terrifying private audience, obscene demands that filled him with instinctive revulsion-then, finally, a murder plot gone horribly wrong. The assassin stepped forward from a web of shadows, a cloaked man whose face remained hidden.

To Spock, however, his identity was all too apparent.

Hastily he withdrew himself from her thoughts, disentangling and rearranging their fragmented identities. Soon, almost like an echo, he heard her calling to him.

"Did you find what you needed?"

He wasn't sure whether she had actually spoken the words or merely thought them. In any case, he responded out loud.

"Yes, Zarabeth, I have."

What, if anything, he could do with this knowledge was another question entirely.


---


Jarrod shivered as the palace guard's narrowed eyes traveled from his face to the two bottles of wine-the finest his grandfather's well-stocked cellar had to offer-he cradled in his arms. He had to force himself not to look back at the low wall that surrounded the servant's entrance, where Milos and Argus crouched, watching.

"You say you are expected?" the guard asked with a scowl.

"I am. This is the wine the Tyr-er, the sovereign sent for. I confess I am late, but my master the apothecary wanted to be absolutely certain his work was satisfactory. I hope I won't be punished for his error."

"You'll have to wait here."

The heavy door slammed shut between them, leaving Jarrod with an almost irrepressible urge to bolt. He remembered, though, what Milos had promised to do to him if he gave in to it.

A few moments later, the door opened again. This time, a man in an expensively embroidered tunic stood beside the sentry.

"I am Iyal, Chief Minister to our sovereign Zor Khan. It was I who requested this special vintage from your master. I trust my instructions have been followed?"

"They have." Jarrod fought back a surge of nausea as he held out the wine for the minister's inspection. "Both bottles have been treated with certain substances designed to make a woman more...cooperative. I have orders to deliver them personally so that there can be no question of tampering."

"Follow me, then." Iyal turned, his weighty robe swinging in his wake, and strode quickly down the hall. Jarrod's entire body felt so numb that he had to hurry to keep up. Suddenly, Iyal turned a corner and pulled Jarrod out of sight beside him. Pushing him flat against the wall, the older man eyed him gravely.

"I pray Milos has chosen his accomplices wisely," he said under his breath. "All our lives may depend on his judgment."

Jarrod stared, astonished. "You are with us?"

"You might be surprised how many of us in the palace wish you success, even if most of us don't have the courage to act on it." Dropping his hands to his sides, Iyal stepped back and shook his head. "Within this house, we have seen and heard things we will never forget."

"Just do me the courtesy of forgetting you ever saw me."

"You have my word. And I have other words for you, too. Bear in mind that if you fail, there is nothing I can-or will-do for you."

"I know that. I do require one thing of you. See that Zarabeth leaves here safely. She knows nothing of this. Besides, you will face Milos' wrath if she is not returned to him exactly as she was. And I assure you, his revenge will be nothing compared to mine, whatever befalls me."

"I understand your meaning. She will have safe passage." Iyal's lips twitched with anxiety. "Walk forward until you come to the last door on the right. You will find the Tyrant-and the woman-in there."

---

Content that he had made his expectations for her second visit clear, Zor Khan saw no need to waste time with mundane social niceties. He tied on a brocaded dressing gown that swept the floor, dismissed his servants for the evening, and sat down on the canopied bed to anticipate a night of transcendent pleasure. The candles he'd arranged around the room glowed a soft red that reminded him of her hair and stoked his own flaring passion.

Only one obstruction hindered his plans-Iyal had reported earlier that his special shipment had been inexplicably delayed. How tiresome and incompetent Iyal was becoming. In the morning, he decided, he would consult with Atoz about a suitable locale for his Chief Minister's retirement. Preferably, it would be somewhere brutal and ugly, a place where Iyal's soft hands and even softer heart would ensure brief survival at best.

Presently two guards conducted her into the outer room and Zor Khan rose to meet them. Ironically, he found wrapped up in even more clothing than was usual or seasonal: a heavy traveling cloak over some serviceable, but far from alluring garments. She regarded his state of relative undress with scarcely suppressed alarm.

Her naivete-whether genuine or not-stirred him even more than he had expected. Perhaps he would not need the wine, after all. How much more challenging, and therefore stimulating, the evening would be without it!

"I am pleased that you answered my summons so promptly," he told her. "I knew you were a sensible girl in spite of your paternity."

She walked toward him, shaking slightly as Zor Khan dismissed his guards. "Actually, my lord, I came because I wish to find out more about your offer. There are a few points I remain uncertain about."

"Tell me." Circling around her, he traced the fold of her cloak as it dropped across her shoulder, finally tugging at the clasp that held it in place. He felt her muscles clench under the fabric, and his own pulse quickened with excitement.

"Well...I suppose I'm unclear about my position in your household. You want me to give you a son. That would be, you must confess, a difficult guarantee to make."

"Perhaps, but on that point I must remain unshakable. My dynasty demands male heirs-and, given the volatility of my kingdom, more than one would be advisable." He sighed. "Obviously I cannot risk taking a barren wife. Surely you see that."

"I suppose. But if I cannot satisfy these demands, what would become of me? Will you cast me aside-or worse?"

"If that is the case, naturally I would be forced to take another as my wife. Let me be truthful. I am a man of ravenous appetite. Whatever happens, you will not be the only woman I bring into my palace. However, I am convinced that you will always be one of my favorites." Suddenly, he wheeled her around and pulled her against him. "I am not a gentle man by nature. Yet you will find me an exciting lover. I can promise you that."

With a burst of strength that surprised him, she pushed him away and crossed the room. "Please, my lord. I came only to talk to you. I have agreed to nothing yet. Nor has my father."

"Your father be hanged!" Within seconds, the pleasant heat of his lust had ignited into raw fury. He advanced on her with quick, deliberate steps, forcing her to back away hastily.

"Insolent wench! Do you realize that I could summon my guards and have you held down?"

"I wish you would not, my lord."

"Your wishes are not my concern. You are here to serve mine!"

She caught her breath sharply and swerved to one side as he lunged for her. A chair, a statue, and a small footstool provided her with only temporary protection; Zor Khan flung each one aside in turn. Finally, the wall itself halted her progress. The Tyrant pulled back his lips in amusement when she hurled herself against it, grabbing the wall hangings as if she believed she could hide behind them. Though she tried once again to roll to the side, away from his clutching hands, Zor Khan easily blocked her and sank his fingers deeply into the supple flesh of her arms. Excitedly he leaned his full weight against her, moving one hand to her hair and tilting her face toward his.

Then, without warning, Zor Khan's world exploded in a burst of sound and a shower of sparks.

---

The dim light cast by the candles and the haze of her own panic made it nearly impossible for Zarabeth to see exactly what had happened. All she really knew was that one minute, he was pressing her flat against the wall, his hideously grinning face bearing down on hers. The next, he had crumpled to the floor and collapsed into a spreading pool of dark liquid. She thought it was blood until she saw the silhouette of the man standing over the collapsed body of the Tyrant, the jagged neck of a shattered bottle in his right hand. The rest of the glass vessel, along with its spilled contents, covered Zor Khan's dressing gown and the plush carpet he lay sprawled on.

"Go. Quickly." The stranger looked up at her. His voice was rough with terror. "Iyal has promised you safe passage outside. Your brother and cousin are waiting for you."

She started to reply, but stopped when Zor Khan struggled onto his hands and knees, cursing. This time, the stranger grabbed her and shoved her toward the door.

"Please, Mothe-I mean, my lady. Go, now!"

The words had barely left his lips when Zor Khan lurched up from the floor and pitched forward, knocking the smaller man to the floor.

Zarabeth didn't wait to see what happened. She ran into the hall, where Iyal appeared and hurriedly conducted her into the courtyard. Soon Argus and Milos had pulled her into the darkness with them.

"What happened?" Milos demanded, shaking her when she paused to catch her breath. "Is the Tyrant dead?"

"There was-there was a stranger," she gasped. "I left them fighting one another."

"May the Celestial Ones fight on his side," Argus whispered as they hurried away. "If they will not, we are all done for."

---

Just as the Tyrant pulled him to the floor, Jarrod heard the chamber door slam and knew that his mother had escaped. He only hoped Iyal could be trusted. Otherwise she might run directly from Zor Khan's clutches into those of his house guards.

If only he knew what had happened originally. Why had he never pressed his mother for details when he had the chance?

One thing he did know-Zor Khan was not meant to die yet. It would have been so easy to reach down, wrap both hands around his neck, and choke his loathsome soul from his body. Instead, he had to flee-and leave his ancestors to their original fate.

Before he could scramble to his feet, he felt the Tyrant's arms lock around his waist. Seconds later, a sharp pain erupted in his side. Glass shards crunched under the two of them as they rolled across the wine-soaked carpet, their fists flailing at one another. Every moment, the agony between his ribs grew more intense, forcing him to strike out with greater ferocity. At last, he managed to stand and deliver a powerful kick that sent Zor Khan skidding backward. Grabbing his wound, Jarrod broke free and ran for the door. Halfway there, he realized that the wetness on his shirt was not wine, but blood spurting between his fingers. Desperately he bunched his cloak against the flow to avoid leaving a trail of gore for Zor Khan's men to follow. On the floor he saw the jagged bottle neck Zor Khan had stabbed him with.

Endless stretches of hallway opened like a maze in front of him as he ran, oblivious to anything but his own survival. Soon his pace began to slow, as his sight dimmed and his legs grew impossibly heavy. At the same time, his head seemed lighter, as if he were fading into a dream. Perhaps he was-or perhaps, at last, Octavius was pulling him back into the future. When he couldn't take another step, he fell against the wall and squeezed his wristband until he no longer had the strength to make a fist.

Suddenly, he knew he could go no further. In the distance, he heard the running feet of the guards as they closed in on the fleeing assassin. Perhaps this was the way it was all meant to end-perhaps this was Octavius' plan all along. Why, he couldn't imagine.

At the end of a long, last hall, in front of a door he had not the strength to open, Jarrod crumpled. As his eyes began to close, he spared a few poignant thoughts for Leila, his parents, and his siblings. Somewhere in the future, no doubt, they were already mourning him-if the future as he knew it still existed at all. If the guards had killed his mother, or even if she escaped, he knew that nothing would remain as he had left it. This time, his own foolishness, his arrogance, and his misplaced curiosity might well have destroyed them all.

Then, just before everything around him went dark, the door behind him slid open. Strong hands closed around his chest and dragged him through.

---

When Spock returned to Octavius' dwelling the following day, he brought with him four green-shirted members of the Embassy's security force.

"How dare you invade my home?" Octavius demanded as they pushed through the door and fanned out to begin a thorough investigation. "Leave at once, or I will make a full report of your misconduct to the Diplomatic Council. When I'm through with you, you will be fortunate to find work in the Embassy galley, cleaning dishes."

"Like any other Federation facility, the Embassy maintains automated equipment for that purpose. In any event, I have already the Council's approval to search the premises and arrest you if necessary."

"On what charge?"

"On the charge that you have violated the most important condition of your asylum here. You may not have been timeslipping yourself, but you have sent my son into the past."

"I told you that I have no idea where your son is."

"Your words are not in dispute. However, their accuracy most certainly is. I have already demonstrated that to the council's satisfaction."

The female security officer called to him from the back of the room. "Sir, we've found something."

Flushing blue with rage, Octavius followed Spock to the curtained chamber. The uniformed woman stood over the pillows that lay scattered on the floor and passed her tricorder through the empty space.

"This is my meditation chamber!" Octavius shouted. "I'm sorry if you are so narrow-minded as to find that suspicious, not to mention to defile its sanctity. I insist that you leave this instant!"

His indignation faded the moment Spock opened the tall cabinet that stood in the corner.

"And does your form of meditation require this device? Most interesting." Leaning forward, Spock peered intently at the glowing object tucked inside. The tiny pictures that glowed on the cube's multiple surfaces reminded him of others he had seen nearly twenty-five years ago...on a disc that had altered the course of his life.

---

For a long time after he opened his eyes, Jarrod lay still and waited for his head to stop swimming. From what he could make out, he'd managed to avoid prison, but he wasn't back on his grandfather's estate, either. Instead, the space that held him was close and low-ceilinged, strewn with old furniture and what appeared to be boxes of books. Wrapped around his chest was a stiff bandage, the coarse cloth splotched with rust-colored stains. Thankfully he had not inherited his father's copper-based blood, or whoever had nursed him would soon be asking uncomfortable questions.

The wristband was still in place, too. Gritting his teeth as a flash of pain raced through him, he reached across to squeeze it. Not surprisingly, it didn't respond.

He jumped when a stranger's voice interrupted his thoughts. A peculiar young man with wide, darting eyes and an unfashionably severe haircut crossed the room to stare down at him.

"I am relieved to find that you are not dead. You were so pale this morning that I wondered what I would find when I returned from my duties upstairs."

"So you saved me from the Tyrant?"

"I hid you, yes, and treated your wound. What choice did I have, once you found your way through the connecting passage? My library was never meant to be a place of bloodshed. Zor Khan has changed all that." He shook his head sadly, picked up a book, and wiped a few specks of dust off the leathery cover.

"You must be Atoz. I've heard about you."

"Yes, I'm sure you have. I'm not mad, you know, however Milos and his cronies may slander me. They consider anyone mad who prefers the company of books to that of soldiers. I won't ask who you are. That way, if I am asked, I need not lie."

Jarrod nodded. "Fair enough."

"Not that anyone will think to question me. After all, I'm considered weak, ineffectual-no threat to the sovereign's plans."

"Well, I don't consider you any of those things. I'm very grateful for your courage."

"I must confess, it's as much hatred for the Tyrant as concern for you that drove me to act as I did. Still, it's more than most people around here would dare to do. You and Milos are the exceptions, apparently."

"Yes...Milos." Jarrod sat up and gasped with pain. "Tell me, Atoz: how long have I been here? What happened to the others? Was Zor Khan injured badly?"

"He was injured, yes-badly, no. Those few cuts were not enough to bleed the vileness out of him. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that your life is forfeit the moment you are found; the same goes for Milos and his cousins, though for now the Tyrant hasn't seen fit to arrest them. You may be sure he is using his recovery time to devise the perfect punishment for all of them."

"We both know what that will be: the Atavachron."

"You know about that?"

"Yes." Jarrod was about to run his hands over his face, but stopped and looked down at the wristband. He began to study it as if seeing it for the first time. "In fact, I want to ask you some questions about it."

Atoz finished cleaning the book and gently set it aside. "I remember the first time he showed it to me," he said wistfully. "I thought it was a magician's trick, an illusion. How could a device possibly lay open all the centuries for our inspection, even our participation? It was wondrous." His thick brows sank. "When I learned that he planned to use it only for evil, it saddened me more than I can say."

"What interests me is its history. How did Zor Khan build it? Where did he get the idea? I mean no offense, but none of the technology I've seen here-in the palace, I mean-even approaches it in complexity."

"These questions intrigue me as well. Alas, Zor Khan's trust in me is quite limited. He has appointed me keeper of the gateway itself, but not of its secrets."

"But people must talk. Surely you've heard things in all the time you've spent here."

"Of course there is speculation, but no one is quite sure how he obtained the schematics. Possibly he brought in scientists, engineers, even seers, then disposed of them once they had completed their tasks. I also wondered for a time whether it was some sort of natural phenomenon-a sort of spatial rift that disrupts the normal temporal perspective. How he learned to exploit it I can't imagine. I'm still cataloging the various ages it opens onto. We've discovered about thirty so far. There seem to be new ones each time we activate the portal."

Jarrod continued to run his fingers over the surface of his wristband. "Tell me about the way you prepare people. I've heard about that, too."

"Another necessity Zor Khan has turned into a kind of torture. Experiments showed that prolonged exposure to the rift could cause terrible somatic distortions. That is, one could conceivably enter another time young and healthy, then return having aged a century-or more. To counter those effects, the Tyrant devised a kind of equalizer, to be injected under the skin. It was intended merely to facilitate travel to distant eras. Presently he decided to use it as a kind of temporal ball and chain, to keep people wherever he sends them. They are no longer travelers, but prisoners."

"Atoz, will you take me to see the Atavachron? I must find out more about it."

"Certainly not. You can hardly move as it is. If the guards come upon you there, you would have no chance to escape. Why don't I get you some tea now? I have found a medicinal brew in an old volume that should speed your healing considerably."

Another jab of torment when he tried to sit up convinced Jarrod that Atoz had a point. As soon as he could stand, however, he planned to press the issue again. His suspicion that the wristband might operate on the same principles as the Atavachron was admittedly farfetched, without a shard of real evidence to support it. Still, his only other option was to lie here until Zor Khan's guards stumbled across him and dragged him off to execution.

Sinking back on the musty pallet that had become his bed, Jarrod began to examine some of the hundreds of books piled around him. How ironic: suddenly an entire library of Sarpeid culture lay at his fingertips, and he had lost all interest in anything but the world he'd so foolishly abandoned.

---

"Your detention cells are surprisingly comfortable, Ambassador." Octavius sprawled on the tiny room's only chair, which he'd centered under the light fixture. His arms dangled lazily at his sides, the curled fingers just brushing the floor. "If you'd like, I could suggest some minor alterations that would render your prisoners far more cooperative."

"The purpose of this facility is to safeguard, not to punish," Spock informed him. "And I have come not interrogate you, but to inform you that the diplomatic council has sealed your dwelling. I have been given clearance to investigate any devices found inside that could be used for timeslipping." As protocol demanded, he held out a padd. "You may inspect the pertinent documents if you wish. All have been properly worded and endorsed."

Sighing, Octavius lifted one hand and waved the offering away. "I would expect nothing less of you, even if it is your own son we are talking about. My only request is that you handle my possessions with care. You run a great risk by meddling with things you are incapable of understanding."

"I believe my inability to understand them is temporary at best. In fact, I have called in expert assistance."

"It will do you no good. Trust me, there is no user's manual for you to decode. My people developed the technology, and we are the only ones who can operate it properly."

"Then explain to me how Zor Khan learned to use it so efficiently."

Octavius blinked away the startled look that briefly crossed his herpasian features. "I don't know what you mean."

"The moment I saw the mechanism concealed in your quarters, I knew I was looking at a replica of the Atavachron-different in its specifics, perhaps, but based on the same general principles. Since that is the case, it is apparent to me that you bequeathed the technology to the Sarpeids one hundred years ago. What I cannot fathom is why, considering your disdain for any culture you do not consider as scientifically advanced as your own."

"You know, perhaps I did underestimate you, Spock. I don't for a moment believe that you will ever decipher the secrets it took my people several millennia to develop, but in some respects we are not so different. Though you know as well as I do that you are doomed to failure, you are still willing to go to any lengths to ensure the safety of your son. That is no more and no less than what I would do-and what I have done."

"Then Zor Khan-"

"Zor Khan was, and is, my son. As you may know, my people have the ability to transform ourselves to mimic a variety of humanoid races; what you may not know is that we can alter our DNA almost as easily. I have fathered a variety of children over the centuries, most of them totally unworthy to call themselves my issue, not that they ever knew. Zor Khan was different. He was born to be a king-his mother and I saw it in him from the first. Alas, many others stood between him and his rightful throne-including, may I say, your own wife's stubborn clan. Still, I had great dreams for him. I gave him the Atavachron, showed him how to use it. My fellow timeslippers punished me for that, and I know you sympathize with their self-righteous, misguided notions of noninterference. On the other hand, you really can have no quarrel with what I did." Octavius smiled wistfully. "Sarpeid women are as hot-blooded as the men, aren't they? I myself had a preference for the dark-haired ones, though I understand the sorrels are like fire. You would know better than I."

"My opinion of your actions is a subject best left for another time. However, I still fail to see what my son has to do with any of this."

"Do you? Consider this; for a century I have lived with the knowledge that Zor Khan's destiny was not greatness, but an ignoble death at the hands of a coward. Because of my punishment, I have been unable to go back myself and alter events. When I learned from Admiral Taylor that there were yet two surviving members of the House of Jaryd, I began to think of nothing else. How ironic, and satisfying, it would be if a member of the same bloodline that brought about his murder ended up preserving his life instead. Your son has never really considered himself part of this time, or this world. Call it what you will, I gave him what you could not: a chance to find his destiny as a Sarpeid."

Before Spock could reply, Octavius' gaze shifted to a spot behind his left shoulder. An Embassy security guard stood behind the force field, waiting to address Spock.

"Excuse me, Ambassador," he said in a low voice. "Admiral Taylor's shuttle has arrived. She's waiting in your office."

"I take it she is the expert assistance you mentioned," Octavius said when Spock turned back to him. "Take my word for it: neither of you will be able to stop what I have set in motion. Zor Khan will remain alive, and in power-as he was always meant to."

Chapter 3

They worked late into the night, examining the devices they'd found in Octavius' dwelling, careful to disturb nothing. Every now and then, the moving picture on the disk would change, reflecting the passage of hours in Sarpeidon's past as well as in their own present.

"As best I can determine, it works something like a transporter, only with a range Starfleet technicians can scarcely comprehend," Michaela Taylor said at last. "Instead of reassembling particles directly from platform to surface, it directs them through some kind of temporal conduit, possibly wormholes or artificial ducts they've placed at strategic locations. My guess is that it's so instantaneous that it would seem like stepping through a portal."

Spock turned over one of several unusual wristbands they had discovered in a jewelry box at the back of the cabinet. "Then perhaps this is used not only as an activation device, but also to compensate for bodily distortions. The Sarpeids knew that without preparation, transport through the Atavachron would result in death."

"The same technology was probably modified to that end. Some sort of implant, maybe."

"Then I suggest we find a way to initiate a transport of our own. Since we have not disturbed the disc, I should be able to enter the past shortly after he did. Perhaps I will be early enough to prevent him from doing damage to the timeline-or to himself."

Taylor glanced back at the disk, where the image was fading with the onset of twilight. "He must have been there several days already. We'll have to work quickly. Since we have more than one wristband at our disposal, we could take one of them apart and try to identify its components. It would be a start, at least."

Spock handed her the wristband. "Agreed."

---

The day he spent hidden away in Atoz's secret book depository would have been altogether miserable if he hadn't been too weak to do anything but browse the dusty pages. By the time Atoz returned with his evening meal in a basket, he supposed he knew almost as much about Sarpeid culture and history as his mother did. He only hoped he'd have the opportunity to impress her with his erudition someday.

"You're looking much better," the young man told him cheerfully, spreading out the provisions he'd smuggled in. "I always suspected that the information to be found in my books is as valuable as anything a modern healer can offer. You may attribute your rapid recovery to a poultice recipe I found in a text dating from my great-grandfather's era."

"I'll remember that." Jarrod touched his wounded side. The flesh was still tender under the bandage, but Atoz didn't notice his wince of pain. "Atoz, I do appreciate the way you've hidden me, and at great risk to yourself. But you know I can't stay here much longer. It's only a matter of time before Zor Khan realizes that this place exists, or has you followed here. As you said yourself, I'm nearly healed."

"Well, where will you go? I must tell you that you can no longer count on Milos and his cousins to help you. All of them were arrested this morning, and, if the truth be told, many in this city blame their ruin on you."

Jarrod forcibly shook off the spasm of grief that passed through him. "Actually, I want you to take me to the Atavachron. Is it under guard?"

"Only when the Tyrant is experimenting with it. The rest of the time, he expects me to watch over its only entrance. He still believes that no one knows of it, though I have done my best to enlighten those who will listen."

"Then you can take me there tonight?"

Atoz sat back, eyes narrowed in thought. "If I do," he said after a pause, "will you use it to go back where you came from?"

Jarrod looked up, almost choking on the hunk of bread he'd hastily stuffed into his mouth. "What do you mean?"

"There is no need to feign ignorance with me. It was obvious to me from the moment I began to nurse you that you are not one of us. In fact, from the moment the Tyrant showed me his device, I knew someone like you would eventually arrive. The only thing I am not sure of is whether you come from the past or the future. And I assume you cannot tell me."

"I'm glad you understand."

"I do. And as much as I would like to spend an entire day asking you questions, I realize that my very existence may depend on not only my future silence, but my present restraint."

"You really are a very wise man, Atoz. I'm older than you are, but I wish I had your sense. If I did, we would never have met. Now let me ask you something else. Take a look at this." Pulling up his sleeve, Jarrod held out the wristband for Atoz's inspection. "Have you ever seen anything like this?"

Atoz pursed his lips. "I confess I noticed it when I first took you in. Zor Khan did show me a similar mechanism once."

"I knew it," Jarrod said grimly. "Octavius was no mere observer on this world. The Atavachron-or some variation of it-does still exist in my time." He rubbed the wristband in growing agitation. Atoz held out his hand nervously.

"Do be careful, my nameless friend. If that is what I believe it to be, you would do well not to remove it, even by accident. Without it, you will revert to your true age while you are in this time. Since you have apparently not been born yet, I would not care to speculate what might become of you."

"My problem right now is that it doesn't work. Do you have the knowledge to repair it?"

"Doubtful. My understanding of the Atavachron is rudimentary at best. And I can hardly ask Zor Khan's assistance."

"That's why I need to go to the Atavachron. Maybe somehow I can figure out how to activate this thing. I'll be able to go home, and you can forget you ever saw me. Please, Atoz, take me there."

Atoz sighed. "Not now. There are too many people about. In a few hours, the Library will be deserted. I shall return for you then."

"Thank you. I'll be waiting."

Alone again, Jarrod wolfed down the rest of the food and then stretched out to rest. He suspected that a long night lay ahead of them.

--

With a grim expression, Spock pushed the baggy sleeve of his cloak back into place and stepped inside the curtained-off area of Octavius' dwelling. Standing in front of the cabinet, Michaela slowly rotated the disk to focus on the coordinates they'd chosen. Next, she reached for, but did not quite touch, the disassembled wristband spread out in front of her.

"I'm ready," she told him, her voice shaking a little. "At least, I think I am. We won't be sure until we attempt the transport."

"Understood. I am prepared to accept the risk. You may proceed."

"Very well." She waited as he reached up to arrange the hood that would conceal his Vulcan features from whomever he happened to meet on the other side. Just as he was about to flip it over his eyes, though, he paused to look at her.

"Admiral-if our calculations prove erroneous and I do not return, please see that Zarabeth and my surviving children are cared for."

"You know I will. But I also intend to make sure it doesn't come to that."

"In the event that you cannot, please study the chronicle I have stored in my personal database at home. If possible, I will have my fate incorporated into the historical record so that she may know what happened to me."

"It's not too late to let me go in your place. After all, this is mostly my fault. I'm the one who brought Octavius into your lives. You have no idea how deeply I regret that."

"Octavius is as skilled at deception as he is at time travel. As for my son's transgressions, I alone will bear the responsibility."

Taylor nodded. "In that case, I'll be here when you both get back."

Moments later, he was gone.

--

Even now, standing right in front of the Atavachron, Jarrod found it hard to accept that he was actually seeing the real thing. It seemed hardly credible that this innocuous-looking doorway had caused his mother-and him, and countless others-a lifetime of hideous nightmares.

Unfortunately, nothing else about it was any easier to comprehend. The controls Atoz pointed out to him bore little, if any, resemblance to anything he'd seen during his abortive career in Starfleet, much less to Octavius' defective wristband. Not for the first time, he faced the dreadful possibility that he might never be able to return home.

"What is it you hope to learn here?" Atoz asked while he examined the room in silent desperation.

"I'm not sure," Jarrod confessed. "I thought perhaps I would know when I saw it. But I don't recognize anything here."

Just then, a shuffling sound from the hall turned Atoz's cheeks even paler than usual. "Zor Khan's guards," he whispered. "We must go."

Wildly, the two of them looked around for an escape route. The only possibility Jarrod could see was the Atavachron itself, an option that seemed riskier than capture. In any case, they had no time to choose, much less prepare, a destination.

Thinking fast, he turned from the portal and crossed the room toward Atoz. The smaller man looked startled as Jarrod locked an arm around his throat and pulled him into a mock chokehold.

"Forgive me, Atoz," he said under his breath as the door slid open behind them. "This is for your own protection."

He turned to meet the three sentries who burst into the room, their daggers drawn. Zor Khan himself rushed in behind them, flushed with excitement.

"That is the assassin Milos sent," he announced. "Take him into custody at once!"

"Stay away," Jarrod shouted, dragging Atoz into the corner. "Come closer and I will break his neck."

"Take him alive." Zor Khan motioned to his guards, who fanned out in a triangular formation. "Whether Atoz lives or dies is of no concern to me."

They converged on him quickly, ruthlessly. Jarrod had just enough time to push Atoz to safety before a numbing blow to the side of his head, and another to his side, flung him to the polished floor. All three guards pinned him down while Zor Khan bent and tore open his shirt, revealing the jagged wound left by the bottle shards.

"This is indeed the man who attacked me. Confine him with the others until I decide what manner of execution would serve him best."

On his way out of the room, Zor Khan detoured to the spot where Atoz still lay, huddled and speechless with shock.

"Fortunately, your captor was an even greater coward than you are," he snarled. "One day, Atoz, your weakness really will cost you your miserable life."

Before he turned to follow his soldiers, the Tyrant paused to deliver a vicious kick to the librarian's face.


--

The morning sky shone a somber grey, the clouds heavy and jagged like stones. Despite the uncongenial weather, however, the city's entire population seemed to have emerged from their dwellings and flooded the streets. They moved toward the marketplace in sullen groups, most of them staring straight ahead without expression. Only the few who walked alone, mostly older people or those carrying merchants' satchels, dared to sneak the occasional sidelong glance at the others. No one paid the cloaked stranger any particular attention as he drifted among them.

Spock soon fell into step beside a diminutive white-haired man whose sharp blue eyes scanned the crowd with obvious distaste.

"May I inquire where everyone is going?" he asked, prompting the old man to look at him as if he were mad.

"Clearly you are not native to this city, or you would know all too well."

"I arrived only this morning. It has been many years since my last visit, and I fear I am unfamiliar with current customs."

"If spectacles like this come to be regarded as custom, we are all certainly done for," the man scoffed. He squinted up at the hood that obscured most of Spock's face. "You'll need to mind every word you say while you're within the city walls, I can tell you that. Perhaps you think your sacred orders will protect you, but the truth is that Zor Khan fears neither gods nor mortals now. You'd best come along with the rest of us."

"Unfortunately, you have not yet enlightened me as to our destination."

"Can't you guess? There's to be an execution in the square. Attendance is mandatory. You'd better not be caught walking the other way, Brother, or you will join those unfortunate souls on the scaffold."

"Who is he?"

"He is Milos, son of Adon, once a well regarded member of the Prefect's most select guard, now a most discouraging case of courage misapplied." The old man sighed. "You can be certain his end will not be dignified. Yet in some ways, I think Milos and his cousin Boroc are more fortunate than the rest of the conspirators. All of us have heard strange tales, of exiles to lands so inhospitable that even their slow, public deaths would be less painful. But what can we do to help them? To speak out against the Tyrant's methods is enough to warrant arrest...or worse."

"I see." They had almost reached the designated site; under the shadow of the scaffold, the crowd became thicker, rowdier. Presently the man he'd been walking beside was drawn away by the surge of bodies. No one tried to stop him as he slipped away and took refuge in the courtyard of a modestly sized townhouse. Ahead of him lay the public square, with Zor Khan's sentries posted at intervals of twenty meters or so. Despite their orderly formation, Spock soon discerned that their approach to crowd control was intuitive, at best. As the number of spectators rapidly swelled, the attentions of the inexperienced guards grew fragmented enough that he was able to slip away in the opposite direction.

There, rising sleek and white above the orderly rows of houses, stood the Library. Cryptic as his son's mind could be at times, Spock knew he would eventually have reached the Atavachron-either by choice or compulsion.

Logic suggested that he begin his search there.

---

Left to himself in a clean but windowless cell without furniture, clocks, or even a scheduled meal, Jarrod couldn't really be sure how many hours had passed since his arrest. The wound in his side, which Atoz had tended so carefully, opened up again and began to fester. The more he tried to ignore it, the more insistently the agony gnawed at his flesh. Pain control was just one more Vulcan ability he'd never bothered to take seriously, much less cultivate. Only now did he realize that he'd never really experienced true suffering before.

The ache behind his ribs had become almost unbearable by the time Zor Khan's guards returned. Rough hands pulled him off the polished floor and then pushed him back onto his knees. Moments later, the Tyrant himself strode into the cell.

"He's been remarkably quiet, my lord," the taller guard reported, barely suppressing a smirk. "Been thinking about his crimes, no doubt. This might be the best time to apply torture, if your lordship wishes it."

"I do not," Zor Khan said emphatically. "How often must I repeat that I do not approve of torture as a means of gathering information? Even you know that those in torment will say whatever they think will ease their suffering, whether the information is reliable or not. In any case, there is nothing he can tell us that I have not already learned and dealt with. Milos and Boroc are dead, and those meddlesome old fools who spawned them have been dispatched to places where they will never be found. The only question that remains is what I should do with this traitorous wretch." Raising one foot, Zor Khan placed the sole of his booted foot squarely over the center of Jarrod's chest. "Circumstances suggest that you did not follow Milos of your own volition. If your words are sufficiently eloquent, I might be inclined to spare you. So, will you beg for your life?"

Even the simple effort of lifting his head caused a rush of pain that almost caused Jarrod to black out. Somehow, he managed to meet Zor Khan's gaze and hold it.

There were many details about her ordeal on Sarpeidon that his mother had never shared with him.