Pil’ani House turned out to be a very grand private residence that had once been the summer home of one of the current Emperor’s maternal grandaunts. The theatre, Lady Ve’el and her husbands were informed by their hosts, was a re-modeled audience hall. It was much smaller and more intimate than the local, public theatres – seating only about 500 of the very best citizens of the city.

Admission was by invitation only and was, of course, free of charge. However guests were expected to leave generous tips for their servers at the end of the night. Performances also included scripted opportunities for viewers to shower their favorite actors and musicians with coins and gifts. It was tacitly understood by all that the lion’s share of these gratuities would find its way back to Lady Arjon, the current mistress of Pil’ani House, to defray costs and make many more such glittering evenings possible.

“And there’s my Tribune.” Ramok leaned forward over the railing of the private box reserved for the Legate and his party. “I must introduce you, Tarvak. The two of you would get along very well.”

“Go if you must,” Lady Holsa replied peevishly, signaling one of the stunningly liveried servants stationed in the back of their box to bring her a drink. “But Lady Ve’el and I are seated and intend to remain so.”

The box had two levels. On the lowest were three overstuffed, low-backed chairs that could rotate to either face the stage or other persons in the box. Holsa had moodily plopped down in one of these as soon as they had arrived. Ve’el had followed the lead of her hostess and taken a place on the long sofa-like seat on the next level up.

“If you prefer, my Lady,” Ramok suggested with an apologetic smile to his guests for his wife’s ill-humor, “I could summon the Tribune and his wife here.”

Deron gave Tarvak and Joron an “I told you so” look from behind his back.

“I came to see a play.” Holsa snapped her fingers to indicate to a servant that he should also be bringing her a plate of sweets. “Not to listen to male chatter.”

Ramok laughed as if this were a joke – but not one he found particularly funny. “Then perhaps we males should leave you in peace for a while,” he said, giving her a gracious bow as gestured the Bonded warriors to the curtained exit in the back of the box.

His wife dismissed him with an irritable sniff.

“I guess I know when I’m not wanted,” Deron said jovially, putting the drink he’d picked up back down.

“Oh?” Ramok commented passing him by. “Developing new skills?”

“My Lady.” Joron lingered long enough to bow elegantly to Ve’el, but it was Del who kissed Pelori’s hand fondly.

“Come, my Bonded.” Tarvak held out two fingers.

Del crossed his eyes and made a face only MacEntyre could see before Joron turned eagerly to his mate. “At once, Beloved.”

“Are you feeling ill, my Lady?” Pelori/Ve’el asked solicitously as she accepted a chilled beverage from one of the servants.

Holsa sighed long-sufferingly as she looked down into the crowd below them. “No. But I am in an ill mood.”

Their box was one of the most desirable ones in the house. It was located on the second tier above the floor in the back of the hall. From it, they could see everyone, while everyone else had to turn to see them. The hall was octagonal with two levels of spectator boxes lining five of its sides. The shrine-like stage was centered in the opposite wall. Two runways lead away from its raised main platform to side exits decorated with imposing stonework facades. Another runway bisected the audience on the main floor along the hall’s centerline.

Arriving guests milled about below them, scanning and being scanned as they found their seats and waited for the performance to begin.

“Did you whip your slave for last evening’s little escapade?” Holsa asked, turning to her abruptly.

Ve’el nodded as she waved away the tray of appetizers a servant offered. “A guardsman had to be called,” she explained, mindful of Holsa’s careless leniency with her slave. “I felt his misbehavior merited a swift, stern punishment.”

“But you only gave him a sound whipping and put him to bed?” Holsa pressed.

“And I had him up at dawn scrubbing floors,” Ve’el admitted easily. “But the little fool fainted and had to be put back to bed.”

“But he’s up and about now?”

“Yes,” Ve’el answered as Pelori sent a quick plea to Aema for her colleague’s safety while he was in Deron’s hands.

“Mine is still in bed,” Holsa reported indignantly. “Ramok not only beat him senseless, he had Deron’s slave torture the poor creature for hours beforehand. He’s still groaning in his room. Of completely no use to me…” The matron took a indelicately long sip of her drink. “Ramok even threatened to castrate the poor devil… Like I would ever permit that.”

Ve’el decided to let this too vehement defense of a non-gift pass without comment as she pretended to watch the entrance of the musicians into their box to the right of the stage with interest.

“Oh, yes, my dear.” Holsa continued heedlessly. “A virile husband like that, and I still must have my use boy to see to my needs. Ramok is always so busy with his job, so tired from his duties, so exhausted by the social rounds he must make….”

Something in Holsa’s diatribe bothered MacEntyre. “Did you say that Deron’s boy tortured...?”

“In the manner of one bedslave on another,” Holsa explained briefly. She took another too long pull from her glass. “Which in its own way was perversely arousing… Especially since it went on and on and on. One could hardly ignore it.” The matron snapped her fingers for another drink.

Ve’el watched with raised eyebrows as the over-stimulated old bovine of a woman ate three pastries in three bites.

“If Ramok had any consideration of my needs, he would have stopped it there, but no,” Holsa grumbled. “He has to have his way. Thinks he’s the mistress of the house…”

Ve’el sipped her drink. It was obviously going to be a long night. “You are in an ill-humor, my Lady,” she said, making it sound as though she sympathized.

“Forgive me, my dear, but I truly am.” Holsa drank a third of her drink immediately upon receiving it. “Ramok has put me entirely out of patience this time. It is a fine thing for men to have their careers, but when they begin to use their little jobs as an excuse to neglect their duties to the household, particularly in the bedchamber….”

“The responsibilities of a Legate must be very demanding…” Ve’el demurred, hoping to politely steer the conversation away from Holsa’s bedchamber.

“And could be taken from him in a minute,” the matron said, narrowing her eyes at someone on the floor.

Ve’el leaned forward far enough to be able to see her husbands and Ramok in conversation with an unknown well-dressed Romulan and a pair of warriors whose body language strongly indicated might also be a Bonded pair. Del smiled up and her and winked before returning Joron’s devoted attention back to Tarvak.

“Surely you would never do such a thing, my Lady,” Ve’el soothed, motioning the servants to bring the old windbag another plate of sweets.

“I am in a very ill-humor.” Holsa pouted her thanks as the little tray was delivered to her. “And someone as beautiful and young as you does not have to worry about such things. Especially someone blessed with such a handsome pair of husbands.”

The two women’s gazes were drawn back to the floor of the hall.

“They are Warrior Bonded, my Lady,” Ve’el reminded her.

“Of course.” Holsa acknowledged. “And you must respect the Bond, but do not let them forget that they are only men. If Telan had not seen fit to bless them with gift, they too would be slaves groaning under an owner’s whip.”

“That is a harsh view, my Lady,” Ve’el chided, reflecting that the look the old bovine was giving the attractive men below her made it seem very much like she might be imagining them all in just such a predicament.

“You must know where to draw the line, my dear, or they will run all over you,” Holsa advised her. “If I was the third in a Triad like yours, Ve’el, I assure you, a pair such as that would be well-educated in the price of my patronage.”

“Oh, would they?” Ve’el let a little propriety edge creep back into her voice as she watched her hostess absently lick a stray dollop of crème from her lips as she shamelessly ogled Ve'el's husbands.

“Oh, yes.” Holsa either didn’t notice the warning in Ve’el’s tone or didn’t care. “That pretty Joron would be on his back under me twice for every time he would be allowed to lie on his belly under his Bonded. And don’t think that I would neglect Tarvak either. I’d spend considerable time mounted on that noble steed as well…”

Ve’el almost had to chuckle to herself as Pelori MacEntyre’s usually tightly-controlled temper began to boil.

“Forgive me, my dear.” Holsa patted her guest’s leg in careless, absent-minded apology, keeping her eyes still on the crowd below. “I am out sorts and have nothing but a cold bed to look forward to tonight. Oh, there’s Lady Arjon. I suppose we must go speak to that old wattle-necked sow…”

Yes. MacEntyre silently agreed as Ve’el rose to join the matron. A very, very long night.

This pen was unlike the one outside the Senatorial Parlour. Here, slaves were expected to work at packaging the trays of sweets and other snacks available to the patrons and filling glasses with ale or iced wine, as well as washing used dishware and attending to the pails of used wrappings and other debris. Lahs had been set to filling glasses and was diligently focusing on his work when he heard the Slave-Tender’s voice. “You there! The chained one. Get up immediately!” It was followed, to Lahs’ surprise, by Wen’s.

“Forgive me, Master,” the boy said softly. “I am under orders not to rise to my feet.”

The Tender snorted. “Then what use are you?”

“I can work adequately on my knees, Master,” Wen replied.

“Hmmph!” The Tender’s response was a snort of disdain. “Very well. Bring another case of ale here and mind you don’t drop it.”

Lahs closed his eyes briefly and refused to glance down as he heard the sound of Wen’s laborious progress along the tiled floor of the pen, and that of chains scraping the metal side of the case, the bottles in it clinking gently against each other. Nor did he look at the boy when the bedslave whispered, “Oh, Lahs, your back!”

“It’s not a good idea for us to be talking,” the non-gift replied stiffly.

“Oh.” There was such crestfallen anguish in the word that Lahs found himself turning to the boy despite his orders. The sight shocked him, though Lahs could think of no reason why it should. He had seen slaves collared and cuffed before, though it was disconcerting to be standing while another slave knelt at his feet… But there was not a mark on the young body, not a stripe or welt or bruise anywhere Lahs could see – and the short, cropped top and low-slung leggings showed nearly the slave’s entire torso.

“You weren’t disciplined?” the older non-gift heard himself saying.

“I was,” Wen replied, staring at the floor as he removed the bottles of ale from their case. The chains rattled against them.

Lahs’ own bruises throbbed as he pursed his lips in frank disbelief.

“I know,” Wen murmured. “It doesn’t show. My Master likes me pretty. His punishments are of a more – inventive – nature.” The slave paused, then glanced up. “As you well know.” The dark eyes were haunted, filled with horror and shame and a deep, almost feral terror.

Lahs looked away. He didn’t – despite the fact that he desperately did – want to know.

“It’s a wonderfully advantageous match of course.” Ramok’s Tribune was a talkative stocky man with a florid complexion. He had insisted on taking Ramok and his guests down to the main floor of the hall to meet a notable Warrior Bonded pair. Thus far, however, he wasn’t giving them much of a chance to say anything.

Joron felt his eyes wandering away from the direction of his Bonded again. Sometimes he would find himself suddenly looking up to the balcony box where Lady Ve’el was conversing with Holsa and another matron. Sometimes his eyes just turned so that they would be looking at anything or anyone other than Tarvak…

Sulking isn’t going to help anything, he informed the Human inside him as he moved their eyes back the right side of the room.

I not sulkin’, a voice in his head replied. I jus’ lettin’ you be you. Go to. Knock your damn self out.

“It seems a very good time for the heir apparent to be formally allied to one of the more powerful military houses,” one of the Warrior Bonded pair ventured. The two were rather non-descript, brutish looking men – although they were reasonably well-spoken… For the tiny bit they’d been allowed to speak…

Deron was behaving himself – for a change. In the Legate’s presence, the Centurion didn’t seem to have a lot of attention to spare on anyone else. Joron thought it was more than a little sad to see the way even Deron’s posture showed an awareness of Ramok. It was a cruel echo of the way the newly introduced Warrior Bonded pair’s stances displayed their connection to each other. In the same way, Joron supposed, that his own nonverbals spoke silently of his love for Tarvak…

What the hell I care if some dead Romulan think I be scum? the voice in his head grumbled.

Joron decided to ignore it.

“Actually the timing of the announcement is what concerns me,” the Tribune was saying. “We were expecting news of a new trade agreement. Instead we’re suddenly told that Barat is seriously contemplating marriage…”

Perhaps if you explained yourself… Joron suggested.

Perhaps if the two o’ you jus’ butted the fuck out o’ shit that ain’t none o’ your business… came the reply that he had half-anticipated.

Fine. The Romulan replied, curtly. Stop distracting me. I am supposed to be part of this conversation.

Ramok gave a short cynical laugh that Deron almost unthinkingly echoed. “Surely you do not mean to imply that the announcement of an event of this magnitude could merely be a rhetorical ploy to draw attention away from…”

Don’t kid yourself, son, Del drawled. All you expected to do is stand here an’ look like a better piece o’ ass than either o’ those two dumb fucks.

Don’t be insulting.

Insultin’? Hell, it my ass.

“All I will say,” the Tribune was continuing, “is that once we have a signed trade agreement I will be the first to drink a toast to our heir apparent and his chosen lady….”

Tarvak turned to his Bonded. Joron?

Beloved?

You seem distracted.

No, no… Joron replied, hoping Del would continue to give his Bonded what the Human called “the silent treatment.”

Political talk always bores you, the older Romulan thought to him fondly. The play should start soon.

Yeah, Del comment dryly after the warrior had retreated from their mind. He think you a mother-fuckin’ genius.

Shut up. Joron replied irritably, renewing his effort to follow the oh-so-tedious conversation.

“If the House of Gol-iiun is to forge an alliance with the Imperial line,” Tarvak ventured, “will that not affect the balance of power in that sector and therefore directly impact all contracts with the Homeworld?”

“That is a point well-taken, Tarvak.” Ramok nodded. “Much the same line of reasoning guides my view of the…”

Bonded my ass, the engineer’s mindvoice continued bitterly. I knowed her first. I done had a bond wit’ her ‘fore he even knowed who the hell she was. Hell, I don’ know they even married legal any more. They jus’ had one of them li’l ol’ contracts…

So you feel you also had a claim on this… Joron was still having some difficultly conceiving of a Warrior Bond that could exist between a man and a woman. …person?

‘Course I did. Del retorted. What you think I am? Someone who jus’ runs around bond sully-in’ fo’ the pure hell of it?

You do seem to have your own strange sense of honor… the Romulan admitted. … At times, at least.

At times, huh? Well, thanks a fuckload fo’ that thought. I may jus’ run for President o’ the mother-fuckin’ Federation on that kind o’ vote of mother-fuckin’ confidence.

“State marriages are always an arena for political maneuvering,” Ramok said, as the orchestra began to tune. “Compared to the sort of matters at stake on the Homeworld, our trade agreement may seem to them to be a very minor matter that has simply become lost in the shuffle….”

You tell your man t’ ask his mother-fuckin’ Vulcan buddy what has done been did to me, Del requested heatedly. That all the fuck I sayin’…

Joron snorted. I doubt that.

Dei’lrn? Tarvak’s eyes were once more upon him. You look troubled.

Del, Joron thought tightly. You’re controlling our face.

Oh, sorry. The engineer faded further into the background. Hate to make it look like you had a thought or somet’ing…

Joron smiled. It’s nothing, Beloved.

Tarvak turned his head to one side dubiously, but at that moment, the orchestra began a melancholy tune.

“Ah,” Joron said aloud, making his first comment since introductions had been made. “The overture.”

“Perhaps we can continue this conversation later, gentlemen.” Ramok bowed politely to the Tribune and his Bonded pair friends before turning to gesture his guests back to the exit. “But for now we must hurry back to our sweet…” The Legate grimaced comically. “…sweet ladies.”

While the actual play itself was going on, there was little for the slaves to do. Lahs took a seat at the far end of the pen, grimacing at the pressure the hard bench put on his bruised backside. He found himself watching Wen, who was kneeling, sitting back on his heels on the floor next to the serving tables, replacing full bottles with empty ones in the beverage cases. The constant noise of the chains was setting Lahs’ teeth on edge. He’d noted that Krel was not in the pen, even though the Legate and Lady Holsa were at the performance, and he tried not to think about it – though his grim sense of glee was impossible to completely repress. The Lady Holsa spoiled her slave, but the Legate was clearly a force to be reckoned with.

Apparently the clanking of metal against metal was irritating to the Tender, too, for he suddenly snapped, “Stop that!” at Wen, snapping his quirt against the back of the non-gift’s hands. Wen winced, then laid his hands against his thighs, unmoving.

Lahs looked away, but found his gaze kept shifting back to the pretty bedslave. What had been done to him? How had he been punished in a way that left no mark? Surely the kind of games his Master reveled in couldn’t be considered discipline. I was humiliated, the non-gift thought miserably. He enjoyed it.

But he was drugged.

So perhaps without such – enhancements – he finds serving his Master a punishment?

Impossible for a trained bedslave.

And there was no doubt the sensual creature was superbly trained.

And he found nothing wrong with the Centurion’s perversion regarding Warrior Bonds, Lahs reminded himself. He accepts it as necessary because of his Master’s problem. So that could have nothing to do with the punishment.

It was a puzzle. Lahs didn’t like puzzles. They made him want to solve them, which made him think too many improper things.

He heard another slight sound from the chains and glanced up. Wen had one cuffed wrist held up near his face, its chain hitting against itself. The boy quickly grasped the metal links to silence it, his bent head coming up. Even across the distance that separated them, Lahs could see the tears on the non-gift’s face.

The house lights had dimmed twice by the time Ramok and his guests arrived back in their box. Unlike in a contemporary Federation-styled production, though, the lights were lowered to twilight level instead of being completely doused as the illumination focused on the stage and its runways brightened. The illusion of privacy in public was apparently fairly unimportant to them.

Del/Joron took his place in the middle of the long seat in the second row between Tarvak and Ve’el.

You look downright edible, the engineer thought to MacEntyre, taking the opportunity to briefly caress her thigh while his hosts were occupied with having a glaring contest to decide who had to sit next to who.

Thanks. Carefully keeping Ve’el on her face, Pelori took advantage of the same distraction to discretely pinch Del’s very bare side. You look downright… chilly.

The Cajun raised a Romulan eyebrow at her. I’ll get you fo’ that, Lil’ Mac.

Is that a promise or a threat? she replied archly in purposeful mimic of Ve’el’s voice.

The orchestra faded down to a flute-like instrument playing a wistful solo.

From directly below them came the sound of someone vocalizing, softly at first, then strengthening. With the addition of this voice, the melody grew into something of almost unbearable yearning. A deep sense of melancholy filled the air.

“I journey,” a voice sang, crooning the words out slowly.

Del could feel and hear the words inside his head.

“I journey….” The voice was mellow. It seeped sadness. “I journey….” Below them, the actor moved forward. He was a strikingly beautiful young man in flowing robes with scarves that trailed and floated behind him as if somehow born up by an unseen wind. “I journey…” The feeling of melancholy grew so palpable one could almost touch it as the actor held his note for an unending moment.

Tears rose unbidden to Del’s eyes.

“I journey on,” the actor finished with heart-wrenching simplicity as he turned on the runway to face the boxes in the back.

The audience cheered its approval. The glitter and flutter of silver foil credit notes filled the air. Black robed chorus members quickly gathered them as the lead actor bowed his head in humble acknowledgement of his audience’s approbation.

The actors are tel-empaths? Del asked as Joron added a handful of notes to the general flutter.

Only the two leads, the Romulan informed him. The musical gift is rare and must be carefully cultivated.

Don’t tell me the Human is impressed, Tarvak thought more at Del than to Del.

Shock of recognition, the Cajun replied coolly. I not met too many people as good at this sort o’ t’ing as I am.

You’re an actor? Joron asked.

Only fo’ therapeutic purposes, Del admitted, settling back to enjoy the show.

As the cheers of the audience finally began to die down again, the orchestra took up a tune that sounded like an atonal march. Featuring mostly drums, flutes, and chimes, the song lilted sadly as the lead actor made his way up the runway to the stage. He moved with steps so small and swift that he seemed to float rather than walk. The movement of his long, flowing, blue and white robes and long, gauzy scarves heightened this impression.

Del decided that there had to be air vents strategically located in the stage floor that kept the scarves aloft.

The back of the stage had the façade of a temple. In the middle of the raised portion was what looked like a stone altar. As the lead actor made his way to the left of the altar, he was joined by another performer who entered from inside the temple.

Is that a woman? Del asked Joron. The performer was dressed in the rich, red robes and high headdress of a high priestess.

Priestesses are always female, the Romulan replied distractedly.

He wants to know if a woman is playing the priestess, Pelori clarified for the engineer.

This performer was wearing stylized makeup that emphasized the eyes with colored paint and sparkling jewels. The performer’s eyebrows were extended almost to the person’s hairline. Probably not, Joron replied a little impatiently. But you’re not supposed to worry about that.

Chorus members dressed in robes of black, red, and gold filed in from the left and right runways. As each stepped foot on stage, they one by one began a whirling/dancing/walking step. The two lines of performers crossed at the center of the stage, still whirling/dancing at a rapid pace, but managing never to even come close to colliding as each headed to a place on the lower level of the stage. A few even went down to floor level.

The lead actor lowered his head and began to twirl slowly, holding his arms close to his body. The performer dressed as a priestess moved to the center shrine and lit the altar. The flame burned an eerie blue.

That is the spirit flame, Joron explained briefly. The cast summons the spirit of the main character.

The blue blaze rose and seemed to dance in time to the music as the priestess moved to the right side of the stage. To her left, the lead actor’s whirling quickened, his body swaying with fluidity that seemed incongruent with the very controlled movement of his feet.

So the performance has characteristics of what Humans would call a séance? Spock speculated. A form of communion with the dead?

They are called ‘shadow plays’ or ‘spirit plays’, Tarvak reported. However the name is only figurative. The dead do not actually speak – except in a metaphorical sense. Only the most devoutly and naively religious believe anything otherwise.

The Romulan stopped talking as he felt his host’s sardonically raised eyebrow and heard DelMonde’s dry, Yeah, that never happen in real life.

Point taken, Tarvak agreed with wry humility.

The priestess began to vocalize in a voice that was overtly neither male nor female.

Once again the hall was filled with projected emotion that was hard to categorize – a feeling of nostalgia with a definite solemn, religious tone.

“Open yourselves,” the priestess intoned. “Receive the story of Orliot, a young warrior cut down in his prime.”

Ooops, Del apologized to Joron.

It is no matter, the Romulan replied, dismissing his concern. The bulk of these plays are about young warriors cut down in their prime. I expected it to be this way. It is merely a play.

But told by tel-empaths…Del pointed out. Sure you up fo’ that, sport?

The emotions portrayed are artistic, not realistic, Joron replied, as the lead actor’s spinning continued to increase in speed. Jets of air from the floor blew his steaming scarves up in beautiful swirling patterns above his head.

“Orliot,” the priestess summoned, slowly raising “her” hands. “Of the House of Mai’shon.”

Like a puppet connected to her by strings, the lead actor’s hands began to rise. They unfolded from his body like an opening flower. The whirling of the chorus slowed as his speed increased.

“Orliot,” the priestess chanted. “Son of Norlon.”

The sleeves of the spinning actor’s robe somehow came loose, revealing a blue and metallic garment underneath that while not a uniform, suggested the colors of a Romulan uniform.

“Daughter of Mernot,” the priestess recited, continuing to recount the character’s lineage, moving her raised hands in graceful circles that echoed the dance of the flames and the whirl of the entranced actor. “Daughter of Laegian.”

With the naming of each ancestor, a piece of the outer pale blue and white robe of the lead actor came loose and was blown up and away by the jets of air.

“Daughter of Kaemon. Daughter of Jinshar” The dark blue and metallic under-robe was almost fully revealed. It also had its own metallic, streaming scarves. “Daughter of Ii’klar, blessed of the Goddess and founder of the House of Mai’shon.”

Now in the costume of the young warrior, the lead actor began to vocalize. Feelings of quiet pride intermixed with the more solemn and mystical emotions that flowed from the priestess.

“Orliot,” she sang. “Hero of the battle of Go-kar. Victor of the battle Hrominar. Covered in glory on the field of Irash-nar…”

Joron cleared his throat softly. Is one of us crying again? he asked his host.

My damn allergies give me hell this time o’ year. Del replied, quickly swiping at his eyes with his thumbs.

Pelori squeezed his knee supportively. It’s so beautiful, isn’t it?

Oh, my Beloved… Tarvak put a hand on his thigh. My heart is so full at this moment…

While Del put his right hand over Pelori’s, Joron joined the fingers of his left to Tarvak’s.

The Cajun shook his head in the middle and smiled. Sweet Mary, I on a double date wit’ myself.

“Orliot!”

At the priestess’ word, the drums beat a sharp tattoo and the lead actor stepped out of his spin without the slightest indication of a wobble. He froze into a combat pose, his handsome features set an expression of determination.

“Beloved of his Lady Vhi’jaen,” she continued. “Champion of the House of Mai’jin, is called forth to battle a ghoolar.”

The ghoolar is a mythical creature of the astral plane, Joron explained as the chorus rose to their feet into and formed double lines on either side of the main runway. Created by a mad priestess of the souls of the dead.

The robed figures then float-walked swiftly into the aisles on either side of the walkway that bisected the audiences’ space. Once in place, each put a hand on his fellow’s shoulder. As a unit, they pulled a string concealed the neck and shoulder seams of each performer’s garment. As the strings were removed, the tops of their robes flipped down to reveal a black and red swirled underside.

The audience murmured appreciatively as the smoothness of this mass quick change as the chorus members covered their heads with black gauze hoods.

The drums and chimes began a sharp discordant cadence.

The runway was only around three feet above the floor of the main hall. Still it was impressive when the chorus members all simultaneously performed a standing jump and landed flat-footed on the runway.

The priestess hid her face behind a twisted gesture and began an eerie wordless chant that made Del’s skin crawl.

The Priestess’ gesture represents madness, Joron explained. This is the song of the ghoolar.

As the chorus float-walked back to the lower portion of the stage with the long ends of their red and black swirled costumes streaming, the lead actor came down to meet them. They circled around him walk/twirling.

The lead actor began to rotate slowly. Del was amazed at the stillness of the motion until he realized that the performer was standing on a small turntable that was being raised from the stage floor. The actor was elevated to a shoulder level of the spinning chorus, rotating in the opposite direction, still clearly visible to spectators on the floor despite the way he was surrounded.

An peculiar feeling of déjà vu gripped the engineer as the lead actor began his lyric-less battle song, moving into a slow series of combat poses. The flute played a loose accompaniment to his wordless chant in counterpoint to the ghoolar’s weird tune.

The lead actor suddenly hit a pose with hands out and fingers widespread, the movement underscored by the crash of a gong. Hooded chorus members swayed away from him as if struck by the force propelled outward from his fingers.

The circle quickly reformed. Chorus members behind the slowly rotating lead actor swayed backwards then sharply forward accompanied by the crash of a larger gong. The lead actor’s body mimed the impact of the psychic blow.

Del dropped the hands of the people beside him, pulling back in horrified surprise as he recognized the scene. There before him, played out like a bizarre ballet was the image of his battle inside the belly of the Beast in Dreamland.

What’s the matter? Pelori asked, alarmed not only by his reaction but by the memories that filled him.

The engineer drew in a deep breath and let his hands return to his and his Romulan mindguest’s companions. Them things not entirely mythical.

You claim to have fought such a creature? Tarvak’s voice was dubious.

I gotta do somet’ing wit’ my time when I not busy sullyin’ bonds, Del returned with dark sarcasm.

Such things are not to be joked about, the older Warrior replied harshly.

No, the engineer returned in kind. An’ not the sort o’ t’ing people need to flap they lip ‘bout when they not know not’ing.

Lieutenant Commander, Spock reprimanded sharply

Sir, his subordinate acknowledged reflexively.

Tarvak, the Vulcan began evenly to his mindguest, now is not the time or place to discuss such a thing, but the Lieutenant Commander’s…interference with my Bond took place under… extenuating circumstances.

Sure did.

Mr. DelMonde. Spock’s reproof was even sharper than the first time.

His subordinate’s reply was proportionately more sullen. Sir.

I glimpse it in your memories, Tarvak reported slowly. A beloved commander lost. A difficult decision made…and maintained at great cost.

As I said, now is not the time or place, Spock said, firmly shutting that door. But I will share these things with you fully if you feel you must know.

I would like to comprehend.

It may not be… The Vulcan paused and took in a deep breath. …easy to understand.

Perhaps more so than you think. The Romulan Warriors thoughts were tinged with sympathy. I am relieved to find our Vulcan cousins, despite their claims of pure logic, still feel the power of emotion. You have an almost Romulan heart, comrade.

Not thrilled to be within spitting distance of their mutual admiration society, Del turned his eyes back to the stage. Orliot’s battle with the ghoolar continued. Invisible blows were exchanged at an increasing pace.

The emotions of song and countersong began to shift. A note of despair in the warrior’s melody was counterpointed by a chorus of greedy triumph from the ghoolar. Desolation went from an undertone to the main theme of the warrior’s song. His motions slowed until he frozen into a battle pose. His wordless chant distilled down to one note of hopeless sadness that was almost drown out by the force of the ghoolar’s movement and noise.

The actor continued to hold that one clear note dropping his combat pose and pulling his arms into his body. Although the tone did not change, the emotional quality clarified into something purer and stronger. Resignation became determination. Although the chorus and other actor did not slow or lower their volume, Orliot’s note rang out above them.

Del drew in his breath as the lead actor held out his arms, his note becoming invitation as the platform lowered back the level of the stage. One chorus member broke from the circle and float/walked towards him as if pulled there. He was followed by another and then another.

Deron turned and looked over his shoulder.

“Am I bothering you?” Del asked, irritated as he swiped at his eyes.

“No.” The Centurion smiled. “I’ve never watched a spirit play with a Dei’lrn before. You seem to feel it so deeply.”

“Duh,” the Cajun replied rudely.

“Excuse me?”

“It is the nature of my gift.” Joron hastened to explain.

“Oh.” The Centurion continued to blink at him

Del made a rotating gesture with this finger. “Show’s that way, friend.”

Let me handle the talking, Joron requested firmly.

Don’ let me stop you.

I won’t next time, the Romulan assured him.

The mobbed chorus members now completely obscured the lead actor. The music crashed to a halt. In the silence, the unseen lead actor began a new note. It was the sound of sacrifice and renewal. A mighty wind roared up from the floor vents. The chorus members, in an emphatic two-handed gesture, pulled more ripcords from their robes. The released garments blew wildly upwards as the chorus began to whirl away from center stage. Clad now only in pale blue and white bodysuits with gauze streamers, they pirouetted down the runways one by one in rapid succession.

Their exit revealed the body of the lead actor, now also stripped down to a bodysuit and streamers kept aloft by air vents in the platform – which also kept any of the black robes that now littered the stage from falling on him.

Del shook his head as the body of the lead actor was lifted, looking empty and lifeless on the platform. An’ there, my friends, but fo’the grace of God an’ the bull-headedness of a psi-null “non-gift” go I.

Orliot’s note faded to silence. There was a final gust of air that puffed the streamers of his costume upwards then let them fall down, still and dead.

The house was silent for a moment, then from several points in the house, audience members began to call out the name of the lead actor in grateful recognition of his skill.

You have experienced strange things indeed, Human, Tarvak said, unable to keep himself completely above the engineer’s emotions as silent chorus members quickly gathered the scattered robes and collected the shower of notes that fluttered to the stage.

There are more t’ings in heaven an’ earth, Tarvak, Del confirmed, adapting a quote, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Go To Part Eighteen
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