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is writ by the victors.”
    “THE KENISIAN PEOPLE do not want war with the Ma’abas.”
    In the briefing room, Ambassador Pippenge was seated, plainly nervous, halfway down one side of the table and directly opposite Zhatan. As the Kenisian ambassador had come alone, the captain decided to have only Pippenge join them. Kirk sat at the end of the table, next to Spock who was in front of the computer console. McCoy was next to Zhatan, and Uhura had joined them and was seated next to Pippenge. Scott glowered from the very end of the table, still smarting over what the Kenisians had done to the Enterprise .
    Highlighting the tension, two security guards waited patiently just inside the doors.
    “We are called the Maabas,” Pippenge corrected, his voice much softer than it had been that morning.
    “Mabas,” Zhatan said, not quite right. “However one pronounces it, our point is we, especially, dislike armed conflict.”
    “No more than we.” Pippenge spoke so quietly Kirk could barely hear him.
    Zhatan clearly had—and she smiled. “Good. As ambassador, we are prepared to accept the peaceful surrender of your people.”
    Strange phrasing , Kirk thought. Was she royalty? Referring to oneself as “we” suggested that possibility. Could Zhatan be warlord, ambassador, and queen, all rolled into one?
    McCoy scowled at the arrogance. “Very magnanimous of you.”
    Missing the sarcasm, Zhatan merely nodded her acceptance of the “compliment.”
    “You want us to surrender the entire planet to you?” Pippenge was incredulous. “There are billions of people—”
    Zhatan cut him off. “We counted approximately four billion, three hundred twenty-nine million, five hundred seventy-seven thousand, four hundred thirty-two.”
    “A-a-approximately,” Pippenge stuttered.
    “We’re not factoring in birth and death rates, though it is safe to say the number has at least increased since we scanned the planet.”
    “Must come with the ears,” McCoy muttered, and Kirk cast him a harsh glare.
    Zhatan turned toward the doctor. “We beg your pardon?”
    “You say ‘we.’ ” Kirk drew her attention from McCoy, and Zhatan swiveled toward the captain. “May I ask why?”
    “Us?” she said, seeming to think Kirk didn’t understand the word.
    Kirk and Spock shared a quick glance.
    “Could you define ‘us,’ ” Kirk pressed.
    “Us,” she said matter-of-factly. “Meaning ‘we.’ ”
    “We,” he repeated. “More than you, an individual.”
    Suddenly Zhatan nodded, a smile curling her lips. “Yes, we see your confusion now.” She motioned to Spock. “Those of Vulcan may be able to explain better than we.”
    The captain felt his face tighten. He was becoming annoyed. “Spock?”
    “I’m afraid I’m at a loss, Captain.” He looked to Zhatan. “Please specify.”
    “There is a word you may know: Shautish-keem .”
    In Spock’s eyes, Kirk saw a flicker of understanding. “A very old myth.”
    Zhatan smiled more deeply—almost a grin—which on someone who was of Vulcan descent always looked a bit off. “We are no myth.”
    “You only?” Spock asked. “Or perhaps your caste?”
    “All Kenisians.”
    Whatever it was Spock now understood, he was clearly intrigued. Kirk saw the Vulcan straighten a bit, more focused than usual, even for him. “Care to explain, Mister Spock?”
    “ Shautish-keem is a method . . .” He paused and corrected himself. “The myth of a method—”
    Zhatan frowned at that amendment, but Spock continued.
    “—from Vulcan prehistory—of preserving the consciousness of one’s ancestors within the mind of their progeny.”
    Silence weighed down on them for what seemed like a long while, until McCoy finally spoke. “Well, Spock may understand, but I’m not sure I do.”
    Kirk was glad he didn’t have to ask.
    “As an example,” the science officer offered, “the wisdom of a matriarch, before her passing, may be passed on to a selected relative so that her memories would