I: Earthrise

Part 1 of 2

"I asked you to receive this transmission in private, Captain Kirk, partially because of the seriousness of the situation on Beta Canaris 12. What happened at the Academy has also begun to happen to the colony since the survival group left, but there adult Dacs are killing human children. The monster that murdered Cadet Franklin was a newborn infant. So you see what we're dealing with here."

Do I? Kirk thought, resisting the impulse to close his eyes and massage the bridge of his nose. Admiral Cunningham invariably gave him a headache. "Murdered?" he repeated, wondering if he had missed something.

"The two witnesses were well-trained Starfleet cadets, soon to be graduates. One of them was a Vulcan. Even they were horrified by the senseless slaughter of their classmate." Cunningham was genuinely upset, Kirk told himself. Anybody would be. Why, then, did he look and sound like a silver-haired actor making a speech in support of his favorite political candidate? "The planet is lush and uninhabited. A veritable paradise." Kirk nodded. When, he wondered, was the last time he'd he heard that one? Last week? Or was it yesterday? "These creatures must be stopped before they decimate the colony. Innocent children. It's unthinkable that we permit these atrocities to continue."

And, thought Kirk, that we pull out and permit all that innocent dilithium to remain unmined. Unworthy thought, that. "But, sir," he said aloud, "why should the Dacs start to kill children now? The colony has been there for several years."

"We have no idea. These creatures are animals. Monsters. They aren't intelligent. There can be no rational basis for these attacks."

I thought you said that hatchling murdered somebody, Kirk thought. Baby animals don't commit murder. "Maybe there's an irrational basis for them," he said. But killing children? Children?

"That is precisely the point, Captain. Starfleet wants to know what that motivation is, and we may have a way of finding out. One of the witnesses to the killing of Cadet Franklin is a telepath who works with exotic alien animals at the Federation Multispecies Lab on Luna. She's human, oddly enough." Kirk felt a tingle across the back of his neck. "That's the other reason I wanted to talk to you in private. Cadet Halsted has established some sort of telepathic communication with the creature who killed the other young woman, and Starfleet wants to send her on the Enterprise to Beta Canaris 12 in an attempt to communicate with the adult Dacs. Your ship is currently assigned to mapping operations in that sector. But the young woman in question is the daughter of your first officer's wife. Do you foresee any--ah--problems with this situation?"

Count to three, Kirk thought. One. Two. Three. He arranged an appropriate smile, part nonchalance, part thoughtful concern, and unleashed it with an appropriate lack of haste. "No problem, sir. Spock is half Vulcan."

"That was the thinking here, but we thought it best to discuss the matter with you first."

Kirk studied the man on the screen, detecting no subterfuge. He had always suspected that Jill was wrong when she insisted that several of her teachers knew that he was her father. Now that suspicion was virtually confirmed. If anybody knew, everybody would know. "I can't be Jill Kirk in Starfleet, J.T," she had said once, years ago. So she wasn't. She was Cadet Halsted, and she was well on the way to getting herself killed.

He chose his words carefully, saying only what he would have said if the cadet in question were unknown to him.

"With all respect, sir, I don't think it's appropriate to send a peagreen on a critical mission like this. What qualifications does she have?" He heard the sharpness in his own voice, and knew that it would have been there no matter who they were talking about. So far so good.

"She is en rapport with the alien, Captain. We don't understand exactly how. She herself says that the communication is non-verbal, and yet she is able to verbalize the telepathic messages she receives."

"Verbalize? But they didn't respond to the Universal Translator. If they had, the Federation wouldn't have colonized there."

Cunningham shook his head. "Captain Kirk, I don't have explanations for any of this. But Jill Halsted is able to communicate with that creature, and she is the only one who is able to do so. She has an exemplary record at the Academy--a few B's and one C, but that's to be expected when a cadet specializes." What the hell, Kirk thought, do her grades have to do with this? Did you check her transcript to see if she's qualified to put her life on the line? "She got the Fossey Award when she was still in PREPDIV. She's been working part time at FML for over three years, and she's published two papers on xenotelepathy. Her instructors and her supervisor think very highly of her. And she has volunteered for this mission. If there is any chance of communicating with the Dacs, we have to take it. If you wish, we can assign Cadet Halsted to another ship. But as you pointed out, the situation on BC 12 is critical. Time is of the essence."

"I...see." If she were someone else's, he thought. If she were someone else's, what would I say? "Admiral, I'll agree on condition of captain's discretion. You know how these kids are, sir." Just the right mix of Old Boy camaraderie and due respect. If she were someone else's.... "Thirty percent wash out in the first five years, and that includes the best and the brightest. Starfleet Academy is playing house compared to the real thing. I want to see how she plays for real before we entrust this mission to her. Do I have your authorization to take her off the mission if I think she isn't up to it?"

"Of course, Captain."

"Very good, sir." Crisp now. Businesslike. "Where will she come aboard?"

"At Vulcan," he told Spock later that evening. "We're due there in ten days anyway to pick up Starfleet's gift to the flagship, and that will give Jill a couple of days at home after graduation."

Spock ignored the reference to their other new crew member, which in itself was mute testimony to the fact that Jill's impending presence on the ship was disturbing to him. He had been meditating when Kirk sought him out; now he paced slowly the length of the room in his black robe, hands clasped behind his back. Kirk sat on the edge of the desk, watching him.

"I find it difficult to believe," Spock said finally, "that no one at Starfleet Command knows that Jill is your daughter."

"She never told anybody because she didn't want special treatment." Kirk heard the pride in his voice, but this was Spock. "And I never told anybody because she didn't want me to. Who else would? When she was at PREPDIV, she thought some of her teachers knew. Cameron, for one, because he didn't like her. But I sounded him out once, and I'm sure he didn't know. Just being his own sweet self."

"You have sought information on her progress at every opportunity."

"I'm sneaky. Manipulative bastard." Spock favored him with a deadpan stare. "Smile, Spock. You know you want to." Spock's smile drifted into view as he turned and proceeded down the room, but by the time he turned again and approached his captain, it had disappeared. "Here I sit," Kirk continued uneasily, "and you're doing the pacing. What do you know that I don't know?"

"She is kylh, Jim." Frowning now.

"I know that. Hell, she can sense a Le-matya when it's a kilometer away, and she's been working with animals for years at FML."

"Individual animals. Pterodactylus Canaris lives in flocks."

"So do the mandilla."

"The mandilla are benign." Spock came to a stop in front of him. "There is little danger of her losing herself in the flock gestalt."

After a moment, Kirk said quietly, "Go on."

"Kylh is a telepathic sensitivity to sub-humanoid species. Jill is also an empath. Both are non-verbal means of communication, and hence very...compelling on an emotional level, even one-to-one. Have you ever carefully observed a flock of geese in flight?"

Disturbed as he was, Kirk nevertheless wondered if Spock had an ulterior motive in using that particular species as an example. "In early Greenwood, '...As iron filings by a giant magnet/Somewhere behind the sky,'" he quoted. Spock raised his eyebrows slightly, but he was in no mood to discuss the captain's reading habits, nor was the captain. "The flock thinks with one mind."

"That is an over-simplification, but it will suffice. If that 'one mind' is a malevolent one, it is potentially highly dangerous to one who is kylh."

"Are you saying that she--"

"Jim, had you known what you know now when you spoke with the admiral, would the outcome have been any different?"

"No." But the captain was a tad white around the mouth.

"I will work with her," Spock said with the curiously dispassionate gentleness that had reassured Kirk so many times before. "If it appears that I can assist rather than hinder her, Captain, I will beam down with her."

"Mr. Spock," said the captain, "that's the best news I've heard lately."

"So why ask me?" snapped the CMO. "You and Spock've already made up your minds. What're you doing--taking a poll?"

Kirk hoisted his glass in the doctor's direction, drank, and sighed. "Just answer the question, Bones. Was I wrong to let them assign her to the Enterprise without their knowing she's my daughter?"

"'Was I wrong?' 'Was Spock wrong?' Dammit, Jill volunteered for this mission. Have you given even one passing thought to what it would have done to that ch-- shit, even I do it--to that young woman if you'd refused to take her on?"

Kirk sat perfectly still for a long moment. Then he said, "No, I haven't. But I am now."

"She worships the ground you--shut up! I'm not through yet." Belatedly, McCoy glanced toward the open door of his office and lowered his voice. "Sorry, Jim. Now you listen to me. Your daughter is going to be one of the finest officers Starfleet ever had. She's got the genes, she's got the brains, she's had the emotional support, she'd had the training, she's got everything going for her unless you screw it up. Don't." He sat back in his chair and took a long breath. "Let her be herself and she'll be just fine."

Smiling a little, Kirk nodded. "I don't know why Starfleet thinks I need another counselor. I've already got two."

"And another thing." The doctor jabbed the air between them with his finger. "Don't make up your mind about that until you see what Starfleet has for us."

"Bones, it's just another of their half-assed bureaucratic pilot studies. I'm up to here with 'em."

"That's what you always say. Simon Greenwood isn't a half-assed anything. He's a half Vulcan empath who's had three years of training on Betazed. He's also a Starfleet officer."

"The idea of a ship's counselor doesn't threaten you?" Kirk asked, intrigued.

"Hell, no. I'm a doctor," growled the doctor, "not a mind-reader. If Starfleet--"

"Empaths don't read minds," said the captain, no longer smiling, and sounding unconvinced even to himself.

"Is that what's really bothering you about all this?"

"No. Well, maybe."

"Jim--" McCoy sat back in his chair, glass in hand, relaxing at last. Then he raised his glass in a mock toast. "Here's to self-knowledge." And drank.

"I've always gone on my own gut feelings." Kirk scowled into his glass, swirling the liquid in it. "Why the devil do I need somebody else's gut feelings cluttering up the bridge?"

"I dunno. Let's find out, shall we?"

"Are you actually looking forward to having another half Vulcan in this crew?"

McCoy snorted. "No way to go but up." Then he grinned. "What I'm looking forward to is seeing the two of 'em together."

Samal had obviously done his homework, Jill thought. The corn, stretching off to her left toward a horizon that looked as distant as it was supposed to, was as high as an elephant's eye. Neat touch. Trust a Vulcan to be literal and wry at the same time. Guiding Flicka with her knees and a touch of the rein, she walked the young sorrel along the picket fence that surrounded the front yard. She let her gaze wander over the red barn, the white two-story house, the outbuildings, the massive old tree with a child's swing dangling from one of its lower branches. An inner-tube, J.T. had called it when he had described the scene to her originally, and as J.T. had had to do with her, she had had to explain to Samal what an inner-tube was. The ambience wasn't difficult to explain, though. "Think of Vulcan just before the Na-Shoma rains start," she had said, "except the sky has to be blue." As far as she could tell, it was perfect: hot enough to make Barb and Noah and even Koop wilt and complain, humid enough to make even Samal and Jill sweat a bit, but so blessed warm after San Francisco. And down at the chicken house, Samal had done what she said even though his nostrils had flared and his mouth set when she explained. "It has to smell like a chicken dinner that wasn't quite fresh to start with," she had insisted, again remembering what J.T. had said about Iowa in July. Poor Samal. But he had done it. If Lassie or Morris went there before the chickens were in, she was sure even they would be fooled.

Flicka stirred and whickered, eager for her oats and a good long drink. Jill had kept her to a trot because of the heat, but her mind was wanting Barn. Barn, it said wordlessly. Cool. Drink. Eat. Patting the mare's neck, Jill eased her forward into the yard as Lassie scrambled up from her place in the shade and came running to meet them, toenails scratching and scuffling on the loose gravel as she changed direction so fast that she almost fell over on her round little side. The engram source, a beagle, had been scarcely more than a puppy, and even the heat couldn't keep Lassie down for long. Ears flying, tongue flopping, she was the closest thing to a smiling dog that Jill had ever seen. Skidding to a stop barely a meter from Flicka's front hooves, she barked an ecstatic welcome-home, even though Jill and Flicka had been gone for less than fifteen minutes.

"No," Jill whispered, tightening the reins even as Flicka's startled skin contracted. "Easy. Atta girl." She patted the mare's neck again, holding down her own excitement. The farm wasn't her project anymore, not after today. No sense getting excited about something that she wouldn't be around to see come to fruition. But Flicka would have startled and reared up if Jill had not quieted her. Fantastic. Samal was a genius, no matter how Barb bitched about him. ("Programmers! They're all off the wall, and Vulcans are worse than the rest of 'em.") What might he accomplish with the farm, and all the rest of their projects? I want to find out, she thought. I want to find out I want to find out I WANT TO FIND OUT.

Sighing, she dismounted and knelt to receive a dog embrace. Messy animal, she thought, hugging the solid, round, wiggling body as Lassie slobbered in her ear. If Lassie heard "messy,"she gave no sign, pawing happily at Jill's trouser leg; all she really heard was the love. So solid. Compared to this, Morris was a streak of gray or a boneless fur scarf.

"Mrow," said Morris, stretching, rump in the air, tail straight up, front paws kneading the grass next to the path. Yawn. Couldn't care less, really. "Mrowowow." Husky. He was already purring. Jill coaxed Lassie to lie down with her head on Jill's knee. They were in the shade of the big tree, and Flicka obligingly began to graze. Morris hissed perfunctorily at Lassie, who gave him a brown-eyed stare and thumped her tail on the gravel. Morris allowed himself to be picked up and draped in a circle in Jill's lap. His ears still flicked, but he and Lassie had come to terms. He rumbled on as Jill stroked him under the chin. A breeze stirred the lush green above them, and the inner-tube languidly turned and twisted in it. Nearby, a fat striped insect was investigating a flower.

Not like Vulcan at all, Jill thought. Better stop right now. I could get to like this place.

"Bye, Flicka," she said, smiling over her shoulder at the mare who looked back--long-faced, velvet-nosed, chewing. "Bye, Lassie." Thump, thump. "Bye, Morris." Rumblerumblerumble. "Save program," she said, and she was sitting on the floor of a massive enclosure stretching as far as the eye could see. The dark, monochromatic ceiling, floor, and walls were crisscrossed with white grid lines. She was alone there.

"Another one of your half-assed pilot studies, J.T.," she said fondly, aloud, and got to her feet. If I could tell you about this, she thought. If I could make you see it, hear it, smell it. Then you could understand how much I--

"Like it here," she said aloud, dusting off her hands. There was no dust on her hands. It only seemed that she could still feel the dust there, after her ride on Flicka. Her special sensitivity to animals could not be fooled; she was always aware of a lack of depth when she sounded the holos. She thought of it as similar to being able to see the tile floor of a shallow swimming pool through clear water; you would never mistake it for a stream bed. But the dust on her hands felt real, and the appearance and behavior of the "hollow" animals (another way in which she verbalized her own perceptions of them) was incredibly accurate. So much to be learned here.... So much for someone else to learn here.... She stepped purposefully toward the door, aware that the grid lines were beginning to feel like a cage. Samson, she thought. And Who. And Monica. But they can't see their cages. And it's only a little while longer for them, now that we have the technology to do this. "Exit," she said, and the doors to the hallway slid open before her.

Outside, she turned and looked at the now-closed doors and the legend stenciled on them. "Old McDonald's Farm," it said. "In Process. Authorized Personnel Only." As she moved down the corridor, her mind moved elsewhere. Pigs, she thought. Cows. Samal probably can't do pigs and cows, and I probably couldn't veritest them effectively. I've never sounded a pig or a cow. He and I could go to a real farm, though. We could....

Straightening her shoulders, she continued on down the corridor, waving to two techs as they passed. Odd how a few extra meters here on Luna could make a corridor seem twice as wide as the corridors on a ConClass. Or maybe she just remembered them as tunnel-like compared to FML's. Frowning a little, she approached the door marked "Vulcan's Forge."

"Enter," she said, and the doors swished open. No need to call up a program here. Here, the program was running all the time, with several backup generators hooked into the system in tandem. If this program crashed, the real animals within would die in hours. Or go crazy, she thought. They weren't in such good shape as it was. Only she could sense it, but at least Barb believed her, and was leaning on Samal to get the Vulcan Sub-Humanoid Engram Duplicate program finished so that they could send the engram sources home free. Samal was having such a good time doing a Vulcan SHED that the program was getting convoluted with loops and subroutines. Good or bad? she wondered. The more detail the better, if they were really going to study these analogs and draw valid conclusions about the source species. But Samal got so carried away. Maybe if she talked to him again.... Stop, she thought. Stop stop STOP. It's over.

"Who?" she called aloud as the doors closed behind her. "Samson? I-Chaya? Come say goodnight."

The ambient temperature in VF was only a few degrees warmer than it was in the farm, but the difference almost took her breath away, accustomed as she was now, after eight years in school, to Earth. Oxygen poor, dry enough to burn your lungs, and the heat was savage rather than merely simmering. Here, with the sim of the back of Sarek's house between her and the red sun, she stood in shadow. A barren hill that rose between her and the Forge, part of it in shadow as she was. Together, she and Samal had created the ultimate duplicate, designed to support the lives of a flock of seven youngish mandilla, one middle-aged owlcat, one old sehlat, and a mated pair of varnth of indeterminate age. Of all of the animals on Vulcan, these ten were the most nearly domesticated, the least likely to suffer from a very short period of stasis aboard ship and a relatively short period of incarceration at FML. They were her friends, the Vulcan animals she had studied during school vacations while she was still a teenaged student at PREPDIV. Their SHEDs were almost finished, and when she and Monica went aboard the long range shuttle that would take them to meet the Enterprise at Vulcan, the Vulcan animals would go with them. Home. And none too soon.

To anyone else they would seem fine, she knew. Only she, who knew them well, noticed that Who, the owlcat, flew languidly and seldom swooped; that I-Chaya went prowling on the Forge only once a day instead of two or three times; that the mandilla were restless and fidgety when they flew in to see her; that the two varnth, Ess and Tee, slept part of the night as well as most of the day. Confinement, she knew, was the variable. She could feel it in their minds. They couldn't see the walls around them, but they knew they were there. Even Monica knew they were there....

"...Day after tomorrow," she told them, stroking I-Chaya's grizzled head as he lay beside her. She knew that none of them, not even I-Chaya, could actually understand a word she said. But she had learned long ago that verbalizing her thoughts and feelings added clarity to their expression on the telepathic level to non-verbal animals. "You'll all go to sleep for a little while, and when you wake up, you'll be home." Samson, the leader of the mandilla, stamped one miniature hoof and snorted. About time, she imagined him saying. Get this nonsense over with. Not logical. When Jill giggled at the fantasy, I-Chayah blinked and yawned a huge, comfortable yawn much like Morris's, Ess's transparent head peeked at her over the shady stone where he and Tee were camped today, and Who crooned "Who" in what Jill chose to interpret as an approving tone. Satisfied, she left them, and moved on to the last enclosure at the end of the corridor.

WARNING, said the door. Pterodactylus Canaris. EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. Code One Authorization Only.

"Shit," Jill muttered, keying the door control with her code one keycard. Monica's attack had been territorial, instinctive, sub-rational. Jill had explained that to everyone, over and over, in person, over subspace, over Lunalink. To no avail. "Babies aren't territorial," was the adamant response. Babies could commit murder, but babies couldn't be territorial. Some logic. Doubleshit.

The door slid open, and she stepped into the distant past of her own world.

Mild sea breezes tickled her skin, laced with the scent of salt water and seaweed. Before her, a narrow beach with an encroaching tidal pool rimmed against a low, flat outcropping the same color as the sand; its face was a sheer drop which, had it been as high as its model, would have prevented wingless predators from climbing it. Behind the outcropping was a chalk cliff, equally sheer. Above, an Earth-blue sky was cloudless, and yet the air was moist, humid, heavy, smelling of swamps. Once again, Samal had done a fine job, this time on extremely short notice.

Monica hung upside-down from the edge of the cliff, her wings half spread. She was nearly twice as large as she had been when she hatched, already far too large to roost on Jill's arm as she had done that day a week ago. But her appearance had not changed otherwise, nor had her shape; Jill knew from recent intensive study that the species changed much in size but very little in appearance between birth and adulthood. The long, bony crest at the back of Monica's head counterbalanced her toothless beak. Her trunk was short and compact, her neck flexible but equally compact, her long tail stiffened by bony rods, enabling her to walk by counterbalancing the length and weight of her beak and crest, but also making her virtually helpless on the ground. The apparent solidity and density of her center section was in sharp contrast to her wings, which were still tissue-thin, supported by a single long, bony finger that ran the length of the wings' leading edge. Three other fingers, clawed, projected from the same edge, close to the trunk. Half-folded as they were, the wings still appeared to be translucent black until light shone through them. The short, pale fur on her neck, back and breast gave her the appearance of a denuded chicken pasted to a hang-glider with claws, yet the overall impression was black: black crest, black beak, black tail, black wings. Against the chalky white cliff, she looked like something out of a Rorshach test, Jill thought--as though someone had smashed a huge bottle of ink against the bathroom wall.

The Dac's large eyes were closed, but Jill sensed that she was not asleep.

"Come on down, little one," she said firmly. "You and your folks are in deep shit all over the Federation, and I have to brief you on the mission before we go on board the Enterprise."

There was no telepathic answer, verbal or otherwise. Monica had refused to communicate since Jill had turned her over to Starfleet authorities. (Refused? Jill thought. Why 'refused'? Maybe she can't. Why do I think 'refused'? Yet the word kept coming to mind.) Monica simply let go, turned right side up in the air, and glided down to the beach, settling on the sand directly in front of Jill. She was less than a meter tall, and Jill hunkered down in front of her, looking into the black reptilian eyes.

"Why won't you talk to me anymore?" Jill asked. Monica stared back, opaque, alien. Talk, of course, was not the right word. Monica had never communicated in words. She had simply thought ideas into Jill's mind, like a drop of colored dye spreading in a beaker of water.

Intruder.

Kill.

Name?

And more. Centuries more. Centuries of race memory that Jill had only had time to glimpse.

"I can't convince them that you're intelligent unless you communicate with me again," she went on, still looking directly into Monica's eyes. "They--Starfleet Command thinks I was hallucinating because I was in shock." Nothing. Jill shifted her weight, knelt, and sat back on her heels. "Jill," she said, pointing to herself. "Monica." Nothing. "Hell." Jill sighed. "Okay. A long range shuttle will be here tomorrow to take us to Vulcan. We're going to have to put you to sleep, in stasis. It won't hurt you. I'm going to my farewell party here tonight. I'll come and see you again in the morning. Goodnight, little one."

She rose and turned toward the door. Agony leaped out and followed her.

Stay, it said. Stay. Stay. Stay.

Turning slowly, Jill returned to her former position on the sand. "Why do you hurt?" she asked, emphasizing each word mentally as well as vocally.

Alone, said the pain.

Eons of wings.

Gliding side by side.

Skies full of wings.

"The flock," Jill whispered. "You need the flock." And she thought, She'll die before we get her home.

The dark eyes remained opaque, expressionless, staring. But in Jill's mind, another picture was forming: herself, from the back, turning away, about to go out the door.

Alone, said the pain.

"Oh, well," said Jill, blinking back tears. "We can fix that." She stood up, still facing Monica. "Interim solution. Come on. Let's go to the party together, and you can meet my flock."

"The hell she's not," said Barbara.

"She isn't, Barb. She won't hurt anybody." Barb's dark eyes were empathetic, but it was clear that her doubts remained. "Monica--the other Monica--was in her space when she was born, and she was alien. She has no territory here, and she has no flock. She won't kill without the one and she can't survive without the other. Just let her come to the party and then I'll go and stay the night with her."

"We could put her in stasis now," Barb said doubtfully.

"She'd die in stasis."

"How do you know that?"

"I just know. There'd be...nobody with her there."

"Baby, she'd be unconscious." Jill did not answer, and Barb leaned forward, casually pulling one denim-clad knee up under her chin, her thin brown arms wrapped around it, one thin bare foot on the seat of the chair, and rubbed her chin thoughtfully against her knee. No bones, Jill thought enviously. Brown rubber with a shaved head and loop earrings. "She's been alone until this afternoon."

"Something changed this afternoon, while I was with her."

"What changed?"

"I don't know."

Barbara's gaze shifted toward Monica, who stood motionless in the middle of the office, wings folded around her body, eyes fixed on Jill. Barb had a small, cluttered office with a big, clear window. Outside was black sky and white moonscape; inside was Monica, now looking like a round-shouldered black vulture with a witch's cap and a very long beak.

"Christ, Jill," said the chief, and sighed.

"She's not dangerous."

"The Feds'll have us by the balls if she hurts anybody."

"Neat trick." When Barb grinned and shrugged, chin still resting on her drawn-up knee, Jill coninued, "They will anyway with our grant renewal process coming up." Stop, she thought. Not ours. Not mine. Theirs. "Where's my party going to be?"

"We thought," said Barb, eyes still on Monica, "that you might like to go to New York and hit a few sky clubs, then have dinner someplace. I...somehow I don't think Monica would dig the nightclub scene."

"She might like to go on a picnic," said Jill. Barb and Monica were both staring at her now, eyes equally black, equally blank. "A picnic," Jill repeated. "On the farm. It's called interspecies integration. We could even put it in the quarterly report."

"It doesn't have weather, Sam," Jill insisted, sitting cross-legged on the grass facing the cross-legged Vulcan. "It has a sky and temperature and humidity and barometric pressure, but they never change. We--you have to program some real weather, or the SHEDs will be affected by the absence of variety in their environment. I don't think Lassie is as aggressive as she should be. That might have something to do with the flatline ambience."

They had eaten their picnic lunch and packed out their trash, and Barb and Noah had gone for a walk together, hand in hand. Koop was playing with Lassie under the trees near the house; the dog had growled at the shaggy Tellarite at first, but when Koop barked at her in what was apparently a conversational tone, Lassie allowed herself to be drawn into a game of what Noah had immediately christened Dog Tag. Flicka had disappeared around the barn when Monica entered the farm and had not been seen since. Lassie had barked and snarled, but getting no reaction, had quickly lost interest in the Dac. Morris, whose source engrams were those of an adult male, had screeched and hissed, climbed a tree, climbed down again, hissed some more, and finally stretched out on his side, the tip of his tail flipping almost rhythmically, half closed eyes still trained on Monica; had Jill not researched Terran cats, she would have assumed that Morris was falling asleep rather than anticipating an invasion, ready to let out another yowl and defend his territory should Monica care to challenge him. Monica challenged no one. Throughout it all, she simply stood and watched Jill, black eyes opaque and without expression, wings folded around her. She had not moved since she had followed Jill into the farm.

"Is this not 'weather'?" Samal asked mildly. He had little interest, she knew, in modifying a program he considered finished. Like programmers the universe over, he abhorred 'maintenance' as nature abhors a vacuum. But he was an amiable sort for a Vulcan, seldom arguing with anyone unless anyone wanted to schedule a meeting while he was working, which was most of the time.

"It's just one kind of weather. My...friend who told me about Iowa said the weather is changing all the time on a farm like this." She looked up at the blue sky above, and then at the pinkish sunset that peeked over the nearest hill. The only hill. It was too small, she thought. Good thing the SHEDs couldn't see how the place looked when the program wasn't activated, or apparently even sense how confined they really were. And the sunset looked exactly the same every night. "There's a lot more variety than there is where you and I grew up. My friend says, 'If you don't like the weather, wait an hour.'"

Samal's eyebrows rose. "You wish me to program variations in the weather each hour?"

"That's up to Barb. But I've put that recommendation in my final report, yes." Samal looked back at her, expressionless. "Sorry, Sam. It isn't really maintenance when the program's not finished, is it?"

"Perhaps not." He frowned slightly. "Why do you call me 'Sam,' Jill?"

"I won't if you don't like it."

"I do not object."

Jill nodded. "I really didn't realize I was doing it. I had an uncle named Sam. Sort of. I never actually knew him, but they lived on a farm like this when they were kids, and I guess I just...." Her voice trailed off.

"Sam was your mother's brother?"

"No."

Samal waited politely for her to continue, but when she didn't, he did not press her as a human friend would have. As Barb would have. As Noah had once, when they were lying in bed together. "Why don't you ever talk about your father?" he had asked, and she had answered lightly, "I don't want to blow my cover." Even the very human Noah had taken the hint and changed the subject.

She and Samal continued to discuss the weather until Noah and Barb returned, still hand in hand. Or again, as the case might be. Good, Jill thought, watching them come around the house together, laughing. No loose ends. She had been worried about Noah after their breakup, but he and Barb were looking better together every day. "What does Noah look like?" J.T. had asked her, frowning a little, the day they rode the cable car so that she could show him where she and David had met one mellow Saturday afternoon years ago. "Isn't it about time I met him?" And she had answered, "He looks like Peter if Peter were Japanese and didn't have a beard. Except even skinnier, and with this delicate face. All angles, like Origami." Maybe that's why we didn't last, she thought now. Because he looks like my cousin. Sort of.

Samal wandered off to look at the sunset, Noah joined the pair on the lawn, and Barbara came to sit under the great spreading tree with Jill, circling somewhat warily around both Morris and Monica. "Stand-off," she commented, dropping down on the grass, grasping her ankles and pulling her feet together until their bare bottoms touched. Jill, also barefoot and also in jeans, imitated the position with little difficulty. "Hey!" said Barbara approvingly. "Teach you a thing or two at Starfleet, huh?" Jill shrugged, smiling. "Why did you dump Noah?" Barb continued without pause, her gaze still holding Jill's. "He was crazy about you."

After a moment, Jill said quietly, "Yeah. And that was why."

"You interested in somebody else?" Barb asked, watching her eyes.

"Mmm-hmm. Last name: Charming. First name: Prince."

"Bullshit."

"You asked. I answered. I'm waitin' for Mister Right."

"Or," said Barb, "Mister White 'n' Bright?"

"Oh, Barb."

Their gaze held, and then Barbara looked away.

"I have this thing about a guy I only met once," Jill heard herself saying. Out loud, she thought. First time out loud. "We didn't even say anything to each other, and it was five years ago."

Barbara turned slowly to meet her gaze again. "You have got to be kidding."

"Uh-uh."

"Bizarre, baby." Barbara was frowning now. "You were what--fifteen?"

"Uh-huh."

"Where did you meet this guy?"

"In my mother's office. At the VSA. Oh, Barb, he is so beautiful." A nervous giggle escaped, and then she was laughing. "I'm serious." They were both laughing now, and she was glad she had said it out loud. Out loud, it really did sound bizarre. Bizarre enough to make your best friend laugh when she was hurting, and then maybe it would go away and stop screwing up your life. "Absolutely gorgeous half Vulcan in a Starfleet uniform. Not green, though. Gold. Really. The most beautiful brown eyes. Now just listen--"

"A gold-plated Vulcan human," Barbara managed to say. "Oh, it's so you, baby." She slapped both her knees, rocking back and forth. "Hoo-wee!" They were both still laughing and wiping their eyes with the heels of their hands when the Dog Tag game broke up. Then Samal wandered back, and they talked about the weather again until the sun went down and the moon rose, breathtakingly real. And then it was time to end it.

"I have to go planetside tomorrow," Noah said, hugging her like a cousin. "So I won't here to see you off." He stood back, hands on her shoulders. "Break a leg, Admiral." They hugged again, and Jill, looking over his shoulder, saw something change in Monica's eyes.

"Noah--." Pushing him gently away, she smiled. "Better be careful. Monica...." But it was gone now. Monica stood still in the moonlight, her wings folded, black reptilian eyes focused on Jill as before. Had she really looked at Noah? Jill wondered. Had her wings really moved? Or was the change something only Jill herself had sensed?

Night on the beach in Monica's "world" was cool and damp, with no moon and many stars shining. Lying on top of her open sleeping bag, Jill looked up at the roosting creature high above her. Ink blot in the night, against the white cliff.

"I wish you could tell me," she said aloud. "Why did Noah upset you? Please try to tell me."

Nothing. Monica stirred faintly, but it was only the wind, as though a kite had caught there and was stirring in the breeze off the sea.

Sighing, Jill lay down on her stomach and pillowed her chin on her hands. All packed. Tomorrow morning there would be one more hassle via Lunalink with Starfleet Command about Monica's traveling conscious to Vulcan, and she was sure she could handle that. Then, at 1700, they would leave for Vulcan on the LRS.

Last night at home before leaving for a couple of days at home before going home for the rest of her life.

She raised herself on her elbows and wrote in the starlit sand at the head of her sleeping bag. F M L. Then, slowly, she drew an A between the F and the M, an I between the M and the L, and a Y after the L. She lay looking at it for a while, still propped on her elbows. Then she wiped it out with her hand and rolled herself in her sleeping bag.

"'Night, Monica."

Nothing.

Jill closed her eyes, and immediately she saw the image of Simon Greenwood, the first, last and only time she had seen him in her mother's office at the Vulcan Science Academy hospital. Beautiful, she thought drowsily, the memory of Barbara's laughter bubbling up inside her. Bizarre, baby. But if he looked that good in his uniform, think what he'd look like stripped.

"On second thought," she said aloud, "don't. Big day tomorrow. 'Night, Simon." But she was still smiling when she fell asleep.

For her Lunalink interview with Admiral Cunningham, Jill dressed in full Starfleet uniform for the first time. Ensigns wore no stripe, and she wished she had one. But her belted, red-brown uniform jacket fit with comforting precision, and the turtle neck of her green science jersey was reassuringly snug. For the first time since she had come to FML with Monica a week ago, the day after graduation, she bound her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck and wore no earrings.

"You look scary," Barb informed her. Then: "Are you scared?"

"A little," Jill admitted. "If he says Monica has to be in stasis, she'll die before we get to Vulcan. I have to convince him. But if I can explain it right, he can't refuse."

"Lotsa luck," Barb said doubtfully. "Do you want me to stay in here with you?"

"Uh-huh. But don't let him see you. Or Monica."

"Baby," said Barb, "I'll take care of me. You take care of Monica."

The com screen faced away from the office clutter and toward the window behind the desk at which Jill sat. Moonscape made a good backdrop, she thought. Serene, not-of-this-world. Monica stood in the center of the room, shoulders hunched, wings folded, eyes on Jill. Barb perched in an easy chair, bare feet tucked underneath her. She wore jeans, a full cut top splashed with color, and earrings the size of jar tops. Feeling suddenly hot and confined in her uniform, Jill stiffened her spine, folded her hands on the desk, and faced the silent blue and silver insignia on the screen.

When the image cleared and the admiral appeared on screen, she realized immediately that she had made a serious mistake. He too sat at a desk, hands folded on the desk top. Behind him was a star chart. Except for their insignia and the color of their jerseys, the two of them might have been of equal rank.

Uh-oh, she thought, and waited for him to speak first.

"Good morning, Ensign," said the admiral, taking in the scene.

"Good morning, sir."

"I have a staff meeting in ten minutes," he went on briskly. "I understand that you have a request regarding the Dac's method of transport."

"Yes, sir. I'd like to request permission to transport her out of stasis."

"Oh?" Cunningham frowned. "May I ask why?"

"She's frightened, sir. She's separated from the flock, and they can't live like that for very long. She needs emotional support. I--"

"Emotional...support," the admiral repeated. Across the room, Barb raised her hand and made a suppressing motion in the air. Easy, she mouthed. Too much. "Ensign, didn't this creature murder a friend of yours?"

Let it go, she thought. Keep your eye on the ball. But she couldn't hold the words back. "I don't think it's fair to call it murder, sir."

In the chair, Barb pulled both knees up, hugged them, and hid her face against them.

"I...see." His eyes were the same color as his hair, Jill noted absently. Steel gray. "In my opinion, Ensign, your loyalties are very easily redirected."

"Then your opinion is wrong," said Jill. At the periphery of her vision, she saw Barb's head bounce up, but she kept her eyes on Cunningham's. Two or three seconds passed, and then she added, "Sir."

Without haste, the admiral raised his hand, the tip of the thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart. "Mister Halsted, you are that close to insubordination."

"I stand corrected, sir." Monica, she thought. Monica is going to die if I keep this up. "Monica Franklin was a classmate of mine. She died a horrible death, and it made me sick and I'll never forget it. Just like those children on Beta Canaris 12 are dying. Monica--this Monica is the only one who can help us find out why. I can communicate with her, sir. I can find out why this is happening. But this Monica has to be alive for me to do that."

"Very well," said the admiral. "Would it be too much to ask, Ensign, that you to explain to me exactly why you want her out of stasis enroute to the colony?"

Jill explained, palms sweating, perspiration running down her sides beneath her jersey, her gaze never leaving the admiral's. Barb sat perfectly still, watching. Monica stood perfectly still, watching. "I'll be with her all the time, sir, on the trip and on Vulcan. I know she won't hurt anybody as long as she's with me."

"How do you know?"

I just know.. But she kept the words back. "I don't, sir. I meant that I'll take responsibility for her behavior."

"You put her in stasis," said the admiral, "or you put her in a cage."

Before Jill could reply, she saw Barbara nodding violently. She took a moment to be sure her voice was steady, and then she said, "A cage."

"It's not him. It's everything." Jill sobbed against her hands, still folded on Barbara's desk, while Barb perched on the desk edge, stroking her hair and crooning. Jill's hands were wet with her own tears, but at least she wasn't getting them on the sleeves of her uniform. They just kept coming and coming, her mind noted with detached awe. Why? Where were all these tears coming from? Why was she sobbing like this? There was nothing in her mind to cause this, and yet the tears kept coming and the sobs shook her whole body. "It's not him. It's everything." She went on weeping and Barb went on crooning, and after a time it was over and she could sit up and blow her nose. Throughout it all, Monica stood staring in the middle of the room.

"She'll be better off traveling in a cage," Barb said when the storm had passed. "Better for you, better for her, better for everybody. You know it, baby." Jill nodded, blowing her nose again. "If she attacks anybody else--"

"I know. But she has no territory to defend."

"Jill, you're her territory right now."

Jill looked up at her friend, and then turned to look at Monica, whose eyes were still fixed on her.

"Oh my god," she whispered.

"Just look where you're goin' an' cover your ass with the brass," Barbara murmured soothingly. "You're gonna be fine. A lotta big changes for you right now, so you're under a lot of stress. You know anybody on the Enterprise?"

"Uh-huh."

"Somebody you can talk to?"

"A couple people."

"Good people?"

"The best." Jill drew a deep, shuddering sigh. "Oh, what a stupid, stupid--"

"You pulled it out of the fire," Barb reminded her. "Real shaky start, but you did good. Anybody tells you different, you just send 'em to me. Now let's go make us a cage."

Click on the right arrow below to go to Part 2 of "Earthrise"