Kirk was unable to relax, even though he was supposed to be taking an off-duty rest period. He sat in his cabin, staring thoughtfully at the sleek glass lines of the Windstar. It was a specially crafted, stylized replica of his sailing ship. He could almost imagine the roll of the sea beneath her bow, and could certainly wish for those carefree days before the Academy and Starfleet, before responsibility. There were three people dead with no apparent connection, for no apparent reason. Why? And what should he have done to prevent it?

He went over the survey mission in every detail… but no. Slone hadn’t been on Majel. It couldn’t be anything from the planet… Unless it was some contagion that was even now spreading among his crew. Had Spock or McCoy overlooked that as a possibility? No, they were both careful, thorough… Unless whatever it was was having an effect on them. And if that was so, was it affecting him as well? How, then, could he be sure of his conclusions? Could he be sure of theirs?

He got up, pacing irritably. Don’t start doubting everything, especially not yourself, he reminded himself sternly. You’re got to command this ship. Four hundred and twenty-nine -- twenty-six lives are depending on you.

But, damn it, what’s killing my crew?!

The door chime sounded and Kirk called “come” and turned toward the door as it opened. Spock stepped into the room.

“Captain, I have taken the liberty of asking Dr. McCoy to join us,” Spock said without preliminary. “I believe I may have an answer for the deaths among the crew.”

Kirk couldn’t help staring at his First Officer. “Spock, you’re wet,” he pointed out, feeling immediately foolish as he said it.

“Yes, sir,” Spock replied. “I have just rescued Joan of Arc from the stake.”

“You did what?” McCoy exclaimed as he came into Kirk’s quarters. “And what’s the theory you’ve got about these deaths?”

Kirk thought McCoy looked more haggard and harried than he had earlier, and poured him a glass of brandy. “Thank god there wasn’t another one waitin’ for me,” McCoy added as he took a healthy sip.

“There might have been, Doctor,” Spock informed him. “Fortunately, I know Terran history.”

“What are you talkin’ about, Spock?” McCoy demanded, then he paused. “You’re wet.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Spock returned. “I have discovered a most disturbing activity among the crew. Lieutenant Crawford has been making unauthorized use of his psycho-implants. He allows those interested to become historical personages for personal enjoyment through dreams, as vivid and as accurate as those in his legitimate research. This evening, Miss Valley became Joan of Arc.”

“Joan of…” McCoy stammered. “Spock, Ruth’s terrified of fire!”

“Yes, Doctor. However, she did not know of Joan of Arc’s manner of death. Her terror was great enough that if I had not intervened by placing her under a shower, it could have killed her.”

Which explains why Spock is wet, Kirk nodded to himself. He cleared his throat. “Terror,” he said. “Bones, you said that was what killed Ensign Brace.”

McCoy was staring at his hands, and he looked up. “That’s right, Jim. I did.” Kirk was about to ask him what was wrong when he stood up and paced away.

“Captain,” Spock said, reclaiming Kirk’s attention, “it is possible that the three crewmen who died did so while under the influence of an implant. If, like Miss Valley, they were unaware of some aspect of the historical figure chosen which happened to correspond with some fear within themselves, they could have literally frightened themselves to death.”

“Bones?” Kirk asked. McCoy slowly faced him.

“I think he’s right, Jim. And I think we’d better get Crawford to do some explaining.”

“Are you all right?” Kirk asked.

“I’ve been having dreams that might qualify for Spock’s death from fear theory,” McCoy said, his voice quiet. “Only I never had any implanting done.”

“Coincidence?”

“Perhaps we should consult Lieutenant Crawford,” Spock suggested. Kirk looked at Spock, then at McCoy. He took a deep breath, setting his jaw. There were times when he didn’t like having his intuition borne out.

“Lieutenant Crawford, report to my office,” Kirk’s voice said. Ordered. The captain of a starship never has to ask for anything. He’s too important. Self-important. All they care for is their ships, their status, their station, their lives. Especially him. Married to her. Her. Metal heap and he says her.

And no doubt he has Spock with him. So logical, precise… half-breed. Unemotional. Sure he is. And hell has frozen over. His Human mother can stir his emotions, can’t she? Lady Amanda. Wrong name.

And the good doctor. Good with men, Brisk, efficient. Divorced. A messy affair, damn all women. Remarried, sure, and she’s how far away? Can’t stand flustered, empty-headed females, can you Southern Gentleman?

Report to Kirk’s office. You knew it would come to this. But you don’t have to worry. Dear Simon took care of everything. Small circuits, psychic transponders. And Keheil makes certain they don’t know, don’t remember. Keheil Templar. Burn Saint Joan! It’s time for the real clean-up. Rid the worlds of plastic heroes and half-breeds and women-haters and all the other trash.

Crawford smiled as he hit the remote switch on his machinery and spoke softly, but clearly into the transmitter:

“Captain Thompson. King Oedipus. Jack the Ripper.”

Sulu was studying the Indiian language tape when the door chimed. He called ‘come’ then turned off the reader when Jilla stepped into the room. She was paler than normal and he rose quickly and went to her. “Hon?” he asked, full of concern.

“I am disturbed,” she told him, her grey eyes troubled. “Sulu, did you know that Mr. Crawford’s game was not authorized?”

Sulu blushed guiltily. “Well… I didn’t ask him.”

“I see,”

He sighed and began to explain. “It’s harmless recreation…”

“Spock was quite distressed when I told him about Ruth’s playing Joan d’Arc,” she continued. “He did not seem to see anything harmless in it – Sulu!” She shrieked in surprise as Sulu’s abruptly grasped her shoulders, nearly shaking her.

He let go of her and stepped quickly back. He hadn’t meant to grab her like that, but had moved without thinking when he realized what Jilla had said. “Saint Joan?” he exclaimed, his voice starkly worried, “What was Crawford thinking? He has to know how she died!”

The helpless emotion that shone from Jilla’s face faded, replaced by confused anxiety and fear. “How – how she died?” she stammered.

“Jilla, Joan d’Arc was burned at the stake!”

Her eyes grew wide. “Ruth is afraid of – sumin tu!”

Sulu turned to the com, signaling Ruth’s cabin urgently. His relief was almost as visible as Jilla’s when Ruth’s voice answered, “Valley here.”

“Ruth, it’s Sulu. Are you all right?” he asked. Ruth’s answer was tight.

“Sure. Why?”

“Joan d’Arc.” There was a pause, then a sigh.

“How did you know?”

“Jilla told me. Ruth, why would you want to fool around with something like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like dying!” There was another pause.

“I didn’t know.”

Sulu closed his eyes. “Thank god the dream didn’t get that far.” At the third pause, Sulu was starting to get alarmed.

“It did,” Ruth’s voice said quietly. “Spock pushed me under a shower.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Yeah, well, it was savior time.” Ruth cleared her throat. “Roy, is Jilla there?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Stay put, I’m coming over.”

The com clicked off and Sulu slowly turned. Jilla was trembling, and he pulled her gently into his arms, surprised when she didn’t protest. He was even more surprised when she stayed there, her cheek pressed against his chest, until Ruth came in. Even then, she only lifted her head. She was dead white, and he realized how frightened she must have been; first Spock’s apprehension, then his fear and now no doubt Ruth’s, though he knew Ruth wouldn’t admit to being afraid.

“I don’t understand it,” he began. “Jon made sure Jilla knew something about Elizabeth before he’d let her…”

“Well, he didn’t seem too concerned about that with me,” Ruth broke in. She paced over to the bed, throwing herself down cross-legged on it.

“Maybe he thought it was a joke?” Sulu suggested lamely.

“Lieutenant Crawford does not seem the type to employ practical jokes where his techniques and theories are concerned,” Jilla countered softly.

“Joke, hell, he tried to murder me!” Ruth snapped. “Though how he knew I was…” Her voice trailed off.

“The candles, Ruth,” Sulu said. “In his room, remember? You couldn’t look at them.”

“I’m not that obvious!” Ruth flared.

“You are,” Jilla again countered, again softly.

Ruth glared at her, then clenched her fists. “I was scared enough to die.”

“Maybe he didn't know,” Sulu offered.

“What are you defending him for?” Ruth asked incredulously. “I know that fear, exactly, precisely! It was what killed Jerri.”

“Oh my god,” Sulu suddenly whispered.

“Sulu?” Jilla asked.

“What killed Jerri. She was playing the game, or said she would be, the night she died.”

“John Collins died in his sleep,” Ruth put in.

“You mean the Kennedy freak John Collins?” Sulu asked.

“Yeah. Bones couldn’t figure it out. Was he…?” Sulu nodded. Ruth’s eyes widened. “And Marci Slone?”

“I don’t know, but I’d bet my next promotion on it,” Sulu muttered uneasily

“Oh my god,” Ruth echoed.

“Lieutenant Crawford is a murderer?” Jilla rasped out.

“He’s got to be crazy,” Ruth said.

“But how? Why?” Sulu asked.

“Maybe his own machine,” Ruth suggested. “Maybe an implant went wrong, or…” She glanced up worriedly. “You didn’t say anything to offend him, did you?”

“Not that I know of,” Sulu returned. “Why?”

“I yelled at him today. A late report.”

“You think that’s why he tried to kill you?”

“If he’s crazy…”

“My god…”

“I think,” Jilla said quietly, “that we had best inform the captain.”

Thompson stepped out of the turbolift and glanced around the Bridge. His crew, as usual, were lounging idly at their posts. The ship was in danger and not one man aboard gave a damn but her captain. They were all worthless. He sneered in disgust and strode to the con. He relaxed slightly as he settled into the chair. This was the one place he belonged, at the center of it all where he became his ship.

My ship. I’ll protect you, even if no one else will.

His fingers stroked the padded arm of the con lovingly. He could find peace here, even if only for a moment. It was the only place in all the galaxy where he was able to be who he was. She never questioned him. It was the only place he ever wanted to be.

My ship… my ship…

He turned to ask for a status report but was interrupted by a signal from his com. He thumbed the switch impatiently.

“Captain - Thompson?” a voice faltered, then the com was clicked abruptly off.

What the…? No doubt some stupid officer discovered the solution to a minor problem in the middle of asking for help. Incompetent, every one of them! It was up to him to take care of the ship. Even if anyone else cared, they were all too undependable to trust her with.

But don’t worry, he soothed silently. Alex Thompson won’t desert you.

“Status” he finally requested, and waited for the latest report on the Romulan force following them.

“Thompson. My god, Captain Thompson?” Sulu rasped. His head thundered with memories of Starfleet history classes. Alexander Thompson was one of the Federation’s most infamous madmen. During the first Romulan War, over a hundred years previously, Thompson had sold his crew for his ship. His defense at his court-martial had been protecting military secrets. How could he have let the Romulans capture a starship? He’d stranded his crew on a hostile planet, leaving them there to the elements – or to the Romulan forces. Fleet never found out which. There were no survivors.

He shook his head to clear it. Ruth and Jilla’s pale faces told him that they, too, recognized the name. But how, why would Captain Kirk…?

“Crawford!” Ruth burst out.

“How?” Sulu demanded. “I know he wasn’t…”

Ruth groaned. “Simon Templar! I wondered why I was on Deck Five.”

“Shit, Ruth…!”

“I didn’t know!”

“Damn it!” Sulu headed for the door. “Get Spock, I’ve got to call a security alert. And thank your gods we’re not near Romulan space.”

The king was alone in his bed chamber. It was impossible… No, all too possible. Teiresias had been right, for all his dark forebodings and twisted illogic, he was right! It was he, Oedipus, who had slain Laius, he himself who was Laius' son. His ankles bore the scars – Zeus curse the herdsman who took pity on a royal babe! Not a child of Polybus and Merope, but that of Laius and – no! Mother to her child and her child’s children? Wife to father and son? Iocasta, sweet Iocasta, dearest wife, dearest love! That I should defile you – ah hubris! Had I not dared to defy Apollo! Had Laius not dared! Woe, it is true, I have slain my sire and I bed my mother… mother. Wife. Iocasta!

He rose to hunt through the palace for her and a sound reached his ears. His hand reached out, touching a strange device. He stared at it. Strange words came from it.

“Mr. Spock? Spock, are you…?”

He knew that voice, and it seared him. Did she not yet know? He moaned the name:

“Iocasta!”

Images began to swirl in his mind and he fell to his knees, no longer comprehending his surroundings.

Ruth stared blankly at Jilla. “Iocasta?” she asked. “What does that mean?”

Jilla shook her head.

“Isn’t it Vulcan?”

“No.”

“Then what…?" Ruth rubbed her fingers nervously over her temples, then reached across the desk, punching buttons to activate the computer annex. “Working,” the computer acknowledged after interminable seconds of waiting.

“Library,” Ruth said. “Scan for any reference to ‘iocasta.’”

Jilla was holding onto her arms, breathing deeply. Trying to keep controlled, Ruth thought, then swore at the computer that was taking so damned long. For her part, she was trying to ignore the terror that was building inside her. A sense of urgency was pulling at her, more than Kirk’s ‘Thompson,’ more than the memory of fire. “Come on!” she shrieked at the computer.

“Iocasta,” it replied dryly. “Terran mythological/historical queen of Thebes, immortalized by the Greek author Sophocles in the play Oedipus the King. Iocasta played a central role in the tale of Oedipus, who was doomed by a prophecy at birth to kill his father, Laius, and then marry his mother, who was Iocasta.”

“Stop!” Ruth snapped, and turned to Jilla. “Why would he call me Iocasta?”

“I don’t know!” Jilla cried.

“Continue,” Ruth told the computer.

“Iocasta attempted to avoid the prophecy and gave the baby Oedipus to a slave to be taken to die. The slave took pity on the child and gave it to a shepherd, who gave it to Polybus, a childless ruler of another city. When grown, Oedipus heard the prophecy and left who he thought were his parents, hoping to defy the gods. He traveled to Thebes, meeting and slaying Laius en route. Once in Thebes, he was declared King and married the widowed queen, Iocasta. When the truth was discovered, Iocasta committed suicide and Oedipus tore out his own eyes. The story is used as a model in Freudian psychology to…”

“Goddess, Oedipus, that must be it!” Ruth shrieked. “Damn you, Crawford…!” She whirled from the computer. “Jilla, find Scotty–“ Her words were drowned out by the sudden sounding of the alert claxon.

“Spock?" Jilla questioned desperately. Ruth clenched her teeth.

“I owe him one.”

She and Jilla raced from Sulu’s cabin as the computer concluded its report.

Sulu was the Chief of Security, but it took a confirming call to the Bridge, another “Thompson here,” to convince his officers to take part in what could very well be considered a mutiny. There was no time for medical confirmation. The ship was in orbit and Kirk/Thompson was already assigning personnel to beam-down teams. Majel was hospitable, but if the captain was trying to relive that fatal mission…

Fatal mission. He said he’d just left them there, but who knows what really happened? Romulans don’t take prisoners, but what if there were no prisoners to take? What if Thompson had made sure none of his people could turn traitor in order to save their lives? What if it wasn’t either the Romulans or the elements that had killed those hundred people? What if Thompson himself had taken care of it?

Sulu couldn’t stop his thoughts as the Security team assembled and took the turbolift to the Bridge. Thompson had died by firing squad – the last person to be executed under Terran law before the Federation had been chartered. Is this part of Crawford’s intent? he wondered. Will this be how Captain Kirk will die, with Thompson in his head, facing five men with phasers, proudly dying for his ship? And does that mean I’m going to die of the slow pain of dysentery, thinking I’m in the Caribbean far from medical attention?

He knew how Francis Drake had died. The intestinal disorder was a particularly slow, particularly painful, ignominious way to die. He realized he was expecting to feel the cramps in his stomach at any moment, to forget Sulu and starships and duty and be caught in a death no one could stop.

Or will the pain trigger other memories, other pain and other fear and…

No!

The turbolift opened and the alert claxon sounded. Kirk/Thompson jumped up from the con, demanding to know what was going on. Sulu swallowed. He had expected Spock to be there. Hadn’t Ruth called him?

“Captain,” he stated in as calm and serious a voice as he could, “in the interest of the safety of this ship and her crew, I have to ask you to relinquish command and accompany these men to the Sickbay.”

“This is mutiny, mister,” Kirk/Thompson growled.

The Bridge crew stared at Sulu. He stood his ground. “Sir, you’re not well…”

“No one mutinies on my ship!” the Captain roared.

“Captain!” Scott’s voice said from behind him and Sulu realized he hadn’t heard the lift door opening. “I’ll take over now, lad,” Scott said to him. “Jilla explained everything.” Then he turned to Kirk. "It’s all right now, sir, you come on down to Sickbay with me."

“I will not,” Kirk/Thompson declared. “Not when there’s a threat to my ship!”

“I’m relievin’ you, Captain,” Scott returned. The crew was as tense as a coiled spring, looking from Kirk to Scott and back.

“You have no authority to do so!” came the thundered response.

“Sir, don’t make me use force,” Scotty returned.

“Damn you!” Kirk/Thompson lunged and Sulu’s phaser stun crumpled him to the deck.

“Scotty, where’s Mr. Spock?” Sulu asked as the Bridge erupted with questions.

“Ruth’s with him, or so your lassie said,” Scott replied as he knelt down to Kirk’s unconscious body. He glanced up at the Security team. “Get him to Sickbay, on the double,” he ordered.

“Ruth’s with… why?” Sulu said.

Scott’s face was grim. “Jilla said he was Oedipus.”

“Oh my god.”

“Lad, get to Crawford. If we’re to stop this thing, we’ve got to stop him.”

The streets were brighter, it seemed. Full moon, perhaps. Not many people, but then, he wasn’t there yet. Filthy streets there. Filthy people. The women were there. Soft flesh, but filthy. Cleanse it for them with nice, rich, red cleanser.

He chuckled. Don’t mind me givin’ the trade name. Yours truly. I’ll catch one tonight, painted and perfumed and filthy…from hell…

He turned the corner and there she was, blonde hair piled high, cheeks and lips rouged, the tight blue dress cut so low… She turned and smiled at him. Beckoning. Inviting. Come on, love, d’you want it? Just a copper or two’ll do it, eh, love? He felt the steel come into his hand. This’ll do it, love. This’ll do it right.

Christine Chapel’s smile faded at the look in McCoy’s eyes. Cold blue madness stared at her from the face she knew so well. Then she caught the flash of steel in his hand. It was a primitive scalpel. I dreamt of you last night, Christine. I took a scalpel to you. But this was no dream and Chapel screamed.

She lunged for the com on the wall, but he kept her from it. He passed the blade from hand to hand, maneuvering her into a corner. She shoved a cart of instruments at him and tried again for the com. He regained his balance and came at her. Gasping, she jumped away from him and the alert claxon went off. Thank god, someone knew! She screamed again, knowing that Sickbay was deserted but hoping to attract some attention nonetheless. McCoy was angry now, determinedly thrusting the scalpel at her. She picked up a beaker and threw it at him. He ducked it and it crashed on the bulkhead. She tried to get to a supply cabinet to reach a hypo or a neuralizer – anything to sedate him! He kept heading her off, but somehow she managed to elude his attack.

“Dr. McCoy?” a soft, tremulous voice said, then rose in a horrified gasp.

“Jilla, get Security!” Chapel shouted, but McCoy whirled, his smile returning. He cooed invitingly at the frightened, unmoving Indiian.

He can’t do this to Spock! How dare he? Madness, mutilation, guilt… Is that what he wants for him? Why? What has Spock ever done to deserve that kind of punishment? Crawford, if he’s dead because of you… Because of me. You used me to hurt him, you bastard! Spock, you have to be all right! You can’t think you’re some mythical person! Your logic is stronger than…

Iocasta. He called me Iocasta. You can’t think I’m your…

Golden one.

Push, push push.

My mother wears similar styles…

No, please, it can’t be, please, goddess, just let me help him, let me be in time!

The litany went on in Ruth’s head as she worked on the voice lock to Spock’s cabin. Where’s Templar when I need him? Spock, it isn’t you, just some mad king…

Who killed his father.

“We come to serve.”

“Your service honors us – Captain.”

Captain. He didn’t even acknowledge his own son! Not a word, not a glance, and Spock had tried so hard to be Vulcan…

“Sarek and Spock have not spoken as father and son for eighteen years.”

His mother. Human emotions. He’s so shamed by them – when Sarek was around. Shame, Guilt. Madness. Crawford, how did you know? How could you do this to him?!

"Open, you goddamned door!”

As if at her will, the door slid open. Ruth raced through it and a scream caught in her throat.

Spock was on his knees, olive gore pouring from the empty sockets, his hands bloody and clutching what was left of his eyes.

Iocasta was dead. He could see her, hanging in the throne room, her beautiful face twisted more by her shame than the agony of death. She was dead by her own hand – but it might as well have been by his. He had killed her, killed the only woman he had ever loved. Iocasta. Mother…

No, NO!

It was too much to bear, too much… He took her brooches, golden brooches, lifting them to his eyes.

No more shall you behold such horror as I have suffered and worked! Long enough have you looked upon she who you ought never to have seen! Henceforth, you shall be dark!

Pain screamed in him as he clawed at his cursed eyes in an insanity of grief. Pain to punish him, deserved for his sin! Yet still the cry of need echoed in him; Iocasta, Iocasta!

Surrounded by shame and darkness, he still heard the hiss of the opening door, an intake of breath, a choked sob. There were hands on his shoulders and a voice shouting, imploring; “Spock! Zehara, no! What has that bastard made you do!”

It was her, alive! No, she was dead, he had seen her! The last sight he would ever know, the sight he would carry with him to hell… how could she be…?

The shame was too much, he couldn’t bear the touch of her hands. He pulled away, shrieking in agony, and strong arms surrounded him. Cool fingers brushed through the blood soaking his face. He felt them touch the holes where his eyes had been. There was a hissing cry of pain mingled with terror – from her! No, my love, no! You mustn’t!

He felt himself beginning to change. Guilt and shame began to dissipate. Light was beginning to grow around him. Warmth, strength and beauty surrounded him, golden beauty. Shadows formed and solidified to shapes at the same time the false personality of the mythical king began to ebb. Hubris, he thought, the sin of god-defying pride. Father-defying pride? Sarek is no god, and Mother… my mother.. No. She is not Iocasta. Golden beauty. Golden… But I am not Oedipus. How illogical to believe that I was. Neither is she Iocasta. She is Ruth… Lieutenant Val… With sudden wonder, he realized he could see.

She was kneeling in front of him, her hands covering the blood-smeared ruin of her face. Her eyes! Without thought, he pulled her hands away. Her eyes were gone. What he had done to himself she had taken from him. He gasped, sensing his terror and confusion mirrored in her mind. She had absorbed the nightmare along with the wounds. She was lost somewhere inside the tortured mind of Oedipus.

No! What had he done? Her face, her eyes, the lovely velvet amethyst that haunted his dreams… Fathers no, not for me, not because of me…!

“Ruth!”

He didn’t realize that he shouted her name, He shook her fiercely, then his hands sought her temples. Furiously he gave his thoughts to her. You are not Iocasta. I am not Oedipus. It is false, Ruth, it is false! Her mind touched his, grasping desperately at being and identity. It gave him the strength to control his raging emotions.

It is false, he repeated, calmly, reassuringly. This is Lieutenant Crawford’s doing. You are Ruth Valley. This is but a dream, an image implanted into your memory. Do not let it frighten you into believing it.

He watched as her eyelids closed over the wreckage. A minutes later she scrubbed blood away with the backs of her hands and opened her eyes. He stared into them, joyous that they were whole and seeing and as beautiful as before. Then he watched them fill with tears and it, too, was a joyous thing.

She sobbed, collapsing into his arms for the second time that evening and it gave him comfort to comfort her. She whispered, “I’m sorry,” both out loud and in his mind, repeating it as though what had happened were her fault.

“You saved my life and my sight,” he said quietly. “It is I who am sorry for causing you pain.”

“No, Spock, you don’t understand!” Her words spilled out, confessing her role; Simon Templar, spywork, it was fun, I didn’t know!

“As you did not know of Joan of Arc,” he murmured, allowing his voice to become scholarly and mildly chastising. “You must become more literate, Miss Valley.”

She laughed and it warmed him. Then sobbing laughter became sobbing anger. “Damn that bastard, how could he – “ Her voice broke off as she started. Her worried eyes met his. “The captain! Spock, he called himself Thompson!”

Spock got quickly to his feet, pulling Ruth to hers. He was well aware that she needed rest and food, but there was no time. They washed the remaining blood from their faces and hands, then headed for the door. As they reached it, the com signaled in Scott’s voice.

“Lassie, have ye got Mr. Spock healed?”

“I am well, Mr. Scott,” Spock responded.

“Sickbay then, and hurry. It’s not just the captain. McCoy’s been slashin’ at Christine and Jilla!”

The emotions were more than Jilla could take. The fear and horror she had shared with Sulu and Ruth had left her sensitivity raw and unprotected, and now… Christine Chapel was terrified, panicking in utter desperation. Dr. McCoy turned and Jilla’s senses were bombarded with conflicting sensation: the doctor’s usual identifiable tia, and something – someone else, someone who was hungry and feral, desiring only blood and death and slow, torturous pain. Yet there was righteousness too, a certainty that the pain to be so lovingly inflicted was deserved and more than deserved. The feelings called to her damnation, building inside her with a dread far past sentience. He would kill her, she knew, and he would enjoy it. And worse – or was it better? – she would not stop him. More, she would welcome the touch of the cold steel that would send her to her hell.

She moved slowly forward, unaware that she did so, as the madman who lived inside McCoy stalked smilingly toward her.

The sickbay door opened on the sound of ugly laughter, followed by a scream and Chapel’s cry of “Doctor, NO!” It’s got McCoy, too! Scott realized as he grabbed a phaser away from a Security officer and rushed into the room. McCoy held Jilla and was just raising a knife to her throat. Chapel was on the deck, but was starting to get to her feet. “Get down, lass!” Scott called. McCoy whirled toward him as he fired the phaser. The doctor crumpled, unconscious as Jilla slid, shaking, to her knees.

“Are you hurt?” Scott asked. Neither woman answered, but Scott couldn’t see any blood. He turned and motioned the Security team that carried the captain into the room. He gave terse orders to place both Captain Kirk and Dr. McCoy in restraints, then strode to the wall com and called for Dr. M’Benga, then Spock’s quarters. He hoped fervently that the Vulcan was alive and sane and would be able to make some sense out of the situation.

“Mr. Scott,” Jilla’s almost inaudible voice said as he finished the call to Spock. He turned to her. “Where is Sulu?”

“Are you all right, lass?” he asked, his voice full of concern. She nodded, but from the dullness of her skin and the stark terror in her eyes, he doubted it.

“Where is Sulu?” she repeated.

“Scotty, he was a madman!” Chapel interrupted. “He was going to kill us!”

“Aye, I know.” Scott tried to explain and saw Chapel go nearly as pale as Jilla.

“Jon?” she breathed. “I can’t believe it. He was moody, but… I worked with him and…”

“Please!” Jilla cried. “Where is Sulu?!”

“I’m sorry, lass,” Scott said. “I sent him to take Crawford.”

Jilla swayed and looked like she was going to faint. Scott’s attention was again diverted as Dr. M’Benga came into the Sickbay, and he informed the doctor of what had happened. M’Benga immediately went to check on Kirk and McCoy. As he did so, Spock walked in, followed closely by Ruth.

“The captain, Dr. McCoy?” Spock asked. Scott stared at the blood covering his uniform, and Ruth’s. “Oedipus tore his eyes out, Mr. Scott,” Spock said succinctly. “Fortunately, this Iocasta is a keheil.”

Scott swallowed, taking a deep breath. “The captain and McCoy are restrained. We had to stun both of ‘em. M’Benga’s lookin’ after ‘em.”

“The captain thinks he’s Alex Thompson,” Ruth said. “What’s wrong with Bones?”

“Jack the Ripper,” Chapel answered, still shaking. “Just like his dream. A murderer of women.”

Ruth exchanged glances with Spock. She saw his concern for her, knew he must be seeing hers for him.

“Are you strong enough?” he asked quietly. She nodded.

“You?” she returned. He gave her a curt nod.

“Your ambition could catch you with Thompson,” he warned.

“I wouldn’t want you to have to deal with women-killers right now either,” she concurred.

Spock nodded again and they crossed the room to the two beds. “Dr. M’Benga,” he said, “I fear there is little medical science can do in these cases. If you would allow Miss Valley and I to deal telepathically with the situation?”

“Of course, Mr. Spock,” M’Benga deferred. Then he smiled wanly at Ruth. “Good luck Ruth.” He turned to Chapel. “Nurse, if you would prepare stimulants to wake our patients.”

Chapel ran a trembling hand over her uniform, smoothing it. “Yes, sir,” she said. It took only a moment for her to prepare the hypos. She handed one to M’Benga and bravely approached McCoy herself. Within seconds of receiving the injections, both McCoy and Kirk began to scream.

Ruth reached out, touching McCoy’s temples lightly. Spock’s hands were placed more firmly on Kirk’s, his fingers surrounding Kirk’s left cheek and temple. M’Benga, Scott, Chapel and the security men watched silently as the telepathic talents of Vulcan and Antari slowly fought with the false personalities. Ruth’s struggle was silent. Spock, as was usual in a mind meld, spoke; for himself, for the memory of Captain Thompson, and for Jim Kirk.

“Captain Kirk, you are Captain James Kirk…”

“…my ship, they’ll take her, destroy her…”

“It was long ago. There is no danger here. You are James Kirk…”

“…no one cares about her but me! Damn them all…”

“Jim!”

“Help me!”

“You are James Kirk, the other is false…”

“My ship… my ship…!”

“Not Thompson! Do not fear it, it is not real…”

“Am I…? Who am…?”

“James Kirk.

“My ship!”

“Jim!”

Spock had grasped Kirk’s shoulders. Now Kirk’s hands came up, holding onto the Vulcan’s arms. The hazel eyes were fixed on Spock’s, fearful and questioning. Finally, tentatively he whispered, “Spock?”

“Captain Kirk,” Spock replied. A faint smile crossed Kirk’s features.

“Yes, Spock,” he said, “Captain Kirk,” and he released Spock’s arms as the Vulcan straightened. He shuddered, then pushed himself to a sitting position, wiping his hands over his face. “My god, what was that?”

“A most effective demonstration of the validity of Lieutenant Crawford’s implant technology,” Spock replied. Then he turned as Ruth slumped to the deck beside McCoy’s bed. Kneeling quickly beside her, he asked softly, “Miss Valley?”

She nodded and took several deep breaths. Spock helped her to her feet. McCoy was shaking, but color was creeping back into his face.

“Doctor?” Chapel asked, taking a nervous step towards him.

McCoy sat up, leaning on one arm, the other waving Chapel away. “I’m fine, Nurse,” he replied haggardly. Chapel smiled at him, sighing in relief. “Damn that Crawford,” McCoy muttered.

“Thank you for your quick action, Mr. Scott,” Kirk said, “and, of course, to you, Mr. Spo—“ His voice stopped as Spock again turned to him. “My god, that’s…” he began.

“Blood, yes,” Spock answered.

Kirk’s eyes swung to McCoy. “Bones?” he rasped.

“Crawford got all three of ya,” Scott put in.

Kirk looked confused. “Then how…?”

“Miss Valley,” Spock replied. Ruth blushed, staring at the deck.

“And Mr. Sulu, and Mrs. Majiir,” Scott added.

“Where is…” Kirk began.

“How did Francis Drake die?” Jilla’s voice suddenly broke in. All eyes turned to her. She was stark white, her back against the bulkhead, her body stiff and unmoving, unvoiced terror swirling in her eyes.

“Ensign, what…” Kirk began. Ruth cut him off.

“Sulu! Goddess, where is he?”

“I sent him to take Crawford,” Scott replied worriedly. “Do ya mean ta tell me he was…?”

Ruth didn’t stay to hear the rest of his question. Spock followed her out of the Sickbay.

Sulu went to Crawford’s cabin alone. The man was insane, dangerously so, obviously paranoid. One wrong move and he could end up dying in the Caribbean. Or worse, Jilla could end up on a headsman’s block. He’d thought she was safe, dismissing his worries because Elizabeth had died of old age, still queen, still whole. But then he remembered Crawford’s first suggestion – that they play Henry VIII and Elizabeth’s mother – Anne Boleyn. Just think of the fun, Sulu – she’ll get to be the vivacious, young beauty who seduces Henry away from a loveless marriage. She won’t even recognize the role reversal – after all, you’re her vivacious suitor, taking her away from a no-longer valid marriage, aren’t you? And Anne Boleyn was executed by Henry himself – by her husband, for adultery. Crawford could have implanted the memories of Henry’s second wife. How would he or Jilla ever know it – until it was too late?

She’s a married Indiian, he thought, unable to stop, damned for all eternity because Spock saved her life, because Indi doesn’t recognize extenuating circumstances. She lives in constant fear of it, as great as Ruth’s fear of fire. It could kill her so easily…

He was shaking as he signaled Crawford’s cabin.

“Who is it?” came a guttural snarl.

“Sulu, Jon,” he called, making his tone as light as he knew how. “Can I come in?”

“Security Chief during an alert?”

“That’s over, Jon,” Sulu replied, damning himself for the ship-wide alarm. “It was just some engine trouble. Jilla and Scotty are taking care of it.” He took a deep breath. “Come on, open up! Drake’s anxious to get back to Bess.” He was starting to sweat.

“You’re lying.”

“Open the door, Jon.”

To his surprise, it slid open. The room was again lit only by candles. Crawford smiled coldly. “Try and take me,” he sneered.

Sulu took a cautious step forward. “Take you, Jon?” he asked, and hoped he sounded confused. “Take you where?”

“Sickbay’s bound to be a mess,” Crawford chuckled. “Red Jack’s on the prowl tonight.”

Sulu fought the fear that shot down his spine. Okay, the game’s over. “Come on, Jon,” he said calmly. “Everyone knows. You’re sick, you can be helped.”

“I’m sick?” Crawford returned. “Who wants to stick it to royalty, sweet dragon?”

“Jon, I only want to help you.”

“Of course, Sir Francis,” Crawford sneered. “Like you helped Portabelo.”

Sulu shuddered. He had ‘lived’ the savage rapes and arson Drake had visited on the Spanish port as a swashbuckling adventure where no one really got hurt. But he knew too well the reality of rape, and horrible allure of torture and brutalization. That he had again allowed himself to view it as ‘fun’, even under the influence of Crawford’s helpful implant, haunted him.

“I’m not Drake, Jon,” he said from between clenched teeth.

“Not a murderer and rapist?” Crawford countered. “And the good doctor isn’t a woman-hating butcher! Our illustrious captain wouldn’t sell us all for this hunk of metal! The icicle we call a First Officer doesn’t lust after anyone who reminds him of his Human mother!” There was a light of true madness in Crawford’s eyes and Sulu could no longer control the trembling. He's insane, paranoid, god, Buddha help me! He struggled to keep his voice steady, his eyes fixed on Crawford’s.

“Jon, listen to me. It’s all right, no one’s going to hurt you…”

“I could kill you with a suggestion, do you know that?” Crawford broke in, his voice a sibilant whisper. “One word... or two? You can’t be sure I didn’t set it up already, can you? You and your precious lying little whore?” A short burst of laughter was torn from his lips. “It was so easy! Collins wanted to be Kennedy; rich, spoiled, lying bastard! All right, Kennedy. In Dallas on November twenty-second in 1963.” He laughed again. “And Jerri Brace… she laughed at me. She said historians were out-dated because of computer records. But she didn’t mind having fun with out-dated historical research did she? She wanted to be Marie Antoinette because she liked the ‘look.‘ And I’m so very obliging, aren’t I, sweet dragon? ‘Let them eat cake’ she giggled. She thought it was funny. She has a morbid fear of crowds, did you know that? I did.” More laughter, and Sulu took an involuntary step back. “And Marcia. You would’ve liked her fantasy. But she led me on, the little slut. All she wanted was a one night diversion. So when she was playing Messalina, Claudius found her out.”

“Jon, stop it!” Sulu rasped.

“You never bothered me, sweet dragon,” Crawford went on, and he closed the space between them. “That is, until now. I had a lot of fun watching you and your royalty fetish, Kamikaze.” He smiled and Sulu couldn’t breathe. Watching... “I have to take psych readings before each implant, remember? I told you it was surface, I know.” He shrugged, but the smile remained. “I lied. I know all about you, pet, precious, jewel.”

Memory filled Sulu’s mind, all the terror and agony he kept so deeply buried. All he was, all Ruis Calvario had made him… sick, twisted, sadistic…

“Harder, faster, more, my prince,” Crawford’s voice crooned, soft and seductive.

Images swirled in Sulu’s mind, sensation and longing, horror and ecstasy…

“Jon…” he managed, fighting to keep hold of self, of the present. "Jon, stop it…” Crawford’s voice went on, a taunting, suggestive drone.

“Is it so much to ask, my pet, to please an old man? Surely it is worth all I have given you.”

Sweating nausea, fear ripping into his being, no, please, not again, no…!

“Shall we go hunting, perhaps for nice, silver game…”

NO!

Sulu cried out, panic overtaking him. He could no longer see Jonathon Crawford. Instead, in hopeless desperation, he aimed and fired his phaser at the form and face of Ruis Calvario. Only a part of him heard the door opening behind him, Ruth calling out his name, Spock’s calm voice asking if he were all right. His vision cleared and he slumped, breathing hoarsely.

“Roy, goddess, Roy, are you all right?” he heard Ruth ask him.

“It isn’t him,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “It isn’t him.”

“I’ve done a thorough psychological exam on Crawford,” McCoy reported as he stepped down to stand beside the Captain’s chair. His statement got not only the Captain’s attention, but nearly everyone else on the Bridge looked toward him. He bounced with satisfaction and continued. “He’s going to need a lot of therapy, but in time, the effects from experimenting on himself can be reversed. His trouble was, he overlayed his own naturally paranoid tendencies with those of an historical figure famous for just that particular neurosis; a late twentieth century vice-president of the former independent nation, the United States of America. This man," he cocked his head to one side, "one R.M. Nixon, was involved in the ferreting out of supposed Communist sympathizers in the government. The Communists were the enemies of the United States at the time." He shook his head. "The results created a need for Crawford to destroy his supposed enemies – which was anyone who thwarted any aspect of his ambition.” He mentally checked over people as he continued. “Like someone requiring him to do work other than his pet project, “ he glanced at Spock, “or someone badgering him about that required work,” his gaze shifted to Ruth, “ or someone actually investigating what should have been accepted as routine deaths,” a look toward Kirk.

From the computer station he heard Ruth Valley mutter, “So when under the age of 150 is dying in your sleep supposed to be routine? And I don’t badger.” but chose to ignore her.

“Or someone who’s actually skeptical about his claims, yours truly.” He paused at the phrase, then shook his head and continued. “And everyone who participated in his so-called ‘game’ has been checked out.” He frowned to himself, remembering Jilla Majiir’s collapse into relieved hysteria when Spock and Ruth returned to Sickbay with an unconscious Crawford and a very much alive, if very shaken up Sulu. And he remembered Sulu’s equal relief at finding her safe. Fooling around with the psycho-implants was something McCoy still couldn’t understand. It was playing with fire. The tension among those who had played until everyone was cleared only confirmed his opinion of it. “I don’t think we’ll be having anymore nightmare problems,” he finished.

“Very good,” Kirk replied, “but one thing still bothers me, Bones.”

“What’s that?”

“How did Crawford know what to use to destroy those of us who weren't players in his game?”

McCoy hesitated a second before answering. “He did have access to the psych-profiles of those participating in his legitimate research, but…” He sighed. “The rest of the profiles came from Christine. She was playing the game, too,” he defended quickly. “Someone named Wallis Simpson. She was a divorcee, and her lover, King Edward VIII of England, abdicated his throne for her. Crawford also used her to implant me, so Ruthie wasn’t responsible for all of us.” There was a self-conscious cough from the direction of the computer annex.

"I beg to differ, Doctor," Spock put in. "I doubt Miss Valley was responsible for any of the implants. Both the captain and I were alone with Crawford and his apparatus at some point before he began his project. While her misadventures allowed Crawford to install remote devices in our quarters, she cannot be held accountable for the alternate personalities that were triggered in us."

McCoy noted but didn't comment on Ruth's surprised but grateful smile, and the First Officer's acknowledging nod.

“One other thing,” Kirk said. “Why wasn’t the unauthorized use of Crawford’s equipment reported?”

Sulu began to turn from the Helm, but Spock answered Kirk’s question.

“Captain, the junior officers were as unaware of our suspicions involving the three deaths as they were of any danger from Crawford’s implants. Logically, since the concern was not communicated to them, they could not assume such an activity would be considered important enough to bring to our attention, particularly at a time when the senior staff is concentrating on a problem of such magnitude.”

“No one tells junior officers anything,” Kirk mused. “I believe that policy will change, on this ship at any rate.” He grinned at Sulu, who grinned back.

"Uh, Captain?" Ruth said tentatively. "I know Mr. Spock just said it wasn't my fault... but, well... breaking into a senior officer's cabin is a court-martial offense, and..."

"Don't worry, Miss Valley," Kirk interrupted, and McCoy thought his expression and tone of voice were particularly gentle. "I don't think any of us will be pressing charges."

Ruth grinned at Spock as he returned to the Science Station.

“Thanks for the good word, Boss,” she said. His answer was to add several tapes to the stack already beside the terminal. She made a face. “More?”

“More,” he replied. “I will expand the scope of your studies as you complete each stage.”

Ruth glared at the tapes. History, literature, essays, philosophy... “I’m not illiterate,” she complained.

“Joan d’Arc,” Spock returned succinctly.

Her mouth closed and she shrugged sheepishly. “So maybe I am.” She went back to her viewer, but didn’t miss the slight, satisfied smile that twitched momentarily at Spock’s lips – and couldn’t help smiling herself.

The End