When intermission came, the pen again became busy. Lahs did his best to avoid Wen in the small throng of bustling non-gifts, pleased with himself that he was proving his Mistress’ judgment in allowing him to resume his normal place. He thought again of Krel and suppressed a grin. With the noise of dishwashing and refilling glasses and snack-trays, he didn’t even notice the ever-present sound of Wen’s chains. Someone, though, did.

“Enough!” cried a large slave, grabbing Wen by the chains and throwing him down onto the floor. “Master,” he called to the Tender, “this creature is driving me mad! Can’t you wrap the metal in rags so that we don’t have to hear the clink-clanking all evening?”

The Tender’s quirt snapped across the larger non-gift’s shoulders. “Five lashes!” he called to one of the pen guards, then kicked the slave away from Wen. The Tender stood over the bedslave, frowning. “It is unbearable,” he muttered. “Stay there,” he ordered the boy. “Don’t move.” Then he turned to another guard. “Have Centurion Deron paged,” he said. “We must do something about the noise.”

The house lights had come up, and Deron turned to Ve’el, only to be interrupted as a page came to his side. There was a short, whispered conversation and the Centurion frowned, then rose.

“Excuse me, my Ladies,” he said to Ve’el and Holsa, “there seems to be a problem with my slave. With your permission?

Holsa waved her hand in dismissal. Spock, go with him, Pelori said privately, then, aloud, “Tarvak, will you be a dear and see that Lahs is behaving himself?”

With a barely perceptible nod, Tarvak rose as well. “Of course, my Lady.”

When the Centurion entered the slave pen, Lahs tried not to watch, but was unable to keep his eyes on his work. He noticed First Master standing to one side, but as the Romulan didn’t signal to him, he kept to his assigned task. The Tender spoke quietly to Deron, the Romulan Warrior’s face becoming darker and more displeased with each passing moment. Finally, clearly irritated, Deron strode to where Wen still lay, unmoving, on the tiles. He grasped the chains, hauling Wen to his knees.

“I would’ve thought you wouldn’t be so clumsy, pet,” he said.

The non-gift hung his head. “Forgive me, Master,” he whispered.

“Now I have to spoil your beautiful appearance,” the Centurion continued peevishly. When he raised his hand, Lahs almost gasped – but the Warrior only unfastened the chains from the collar at Wen’s throat, then detached them from the wrist cuffs. As he curled them into his hands, he stared at the slave at his feet. “Look at me, Wen,” he said sternly.

The bedslave did so. There was a long moment of silent communication. Lahs shivered as Wen’s eyes grew wide, his lips parting

“Remember what I expect of you,” Deron said at last.

“Yes, Master,” Wen replied in a voice that was soft and hoarse. The Centurion stroked the non-gift’s face in a way that seemed at odds with the determined look on his face. When the caress ended with the fingers of Deron’s hand sliding up to gently catch Wen’s ear between his middle and ring finger, Lahs shivered again.

Pelori MacEntyre sighed as Ve’el and Joron moved to the back of the box to sample the assortment of appetizers the servants had delivered. I hope your friend isn’t in trouble again.

Don’ fix too much hope on that, Li’l Mac, Del advised. When trouble on the boil, he usually dive right into the pot – if he not there already.

“Joron,” the Legate said, joining them. “I sincerely hope you did not find my brother-in-law’s… attentions too offensive.”

“Of course not, my Lord,” the warrior replied politely.

“Good,” Ramok said, although he leaked emotions that indicated he would be just as eager to find that the reverse were true. “At times, he is quite lacking in… self-control.”

The Legate’s eyes traveled to the front of the booth where his Lady-wife was absently draining yet another glass while she scanned the crowd below for attractive men.

Ramok sighed and turned back towards the front of the box. “Seems to run in the family,” he said in a soft, cynical aside meant only for Ve’el’s ears as he used his turn as an excuse to lean in close to the lady.

Ve’el chuckled conspiratorially.

Del narrowed his eyes as the Legate moved to the railing. He into you?

Me? Pelori asked, watching as the Legate acknowledged someone in the crowd below with a wave.

No, the idiot Human means me, Ve’el corrected.

Then yes, MacEntyre replied, letting Ve’el smile pleased indulgence to Ramok when the Legate glanced back over his shoulder at her. I’d say he’s getting to be pretty into her. Ambition and ruthlessness attract him like another man might be fascinated by… Pelori turned in time to catch where her companion’s attention was focused. … a nice rack.

Damn, Joron, Del scolded. Watch where you pointin’ our eyes, boy…

My Lady, the Romulan protested, I would never…

Oh, you wouldn’t? the Cajun demanded. What the matter boy? You sayin’ my girlfriend’s rack ain’t good enough fo’ you? Apologize to the lady.

My Lady… the warrior began, flustered.

It’s all right, Joron. MacEntyre replied, taking a treat from one of the trays and turning to stand beside the warrior in front of the serving table. I know who the troublemaker is.

Oh, you do, do you? Del asked, moving to stand as close beside her as propriety would allow.

MacEntyre let her shoulder bump into his arm. And so I’m your girlfriend now, huh?

Joron had to bite the corners of his lips to keep the engineer’s grin off his face.

Del bumped her back affectionately. If you behave yourself.

What do you think I’m going to do? Run off with Joron?

The Cajun shrugged. You gotta admit he a pretty handsome fella, eh, Pel?

Don’t call me Pel.

Why not?

Because you call yourself Del.

Del an’ Pel, the engineer tried the combination out. Kinda cute.

I hate cute, the lieutenant replied.

Joron kept his lips closed over the Cajun’s chuckle. I bet you do.

And since we’re at it, MacEntyre continued. I’m also not very fond of people making statements that link my hair color to my personality.

Oh, so you got the temper to go wit’ that carrot top, non?

Joron clamped his lips down on a wince as the half-Indiian pinched a patch of exposed skin on his thigh.

“Lady Ve’el!” The Legate motioned her over to the railing. “My Tribune wishes to introduce you to some friends of his who live in your neighborhood.”

I hope you know that gonna leave a bruise, Del thought after MacEntyre.

Tough, the Lieutenant thought back as Lady Ve’el leaned forward over the railing so that she could smile indulgently down at the Tribune and his acquaintances. And quit staring at my rear end.

Damn, Joron, Del scolded. For Telan’s sake, have some shame, boy…

I think I’m going to puke, Joron decided.

“A pity,” Deron remarked as he walked back to the theater box with Tarvak. “I thought the chains gave an exceptional display.”

“It was most generous of you to forgo that pleasure for the sake of harmony in the pen,” Tarvak returned. There was something in the Centurion’s manner that was making the Romulan quite uncomfortable. If what Lahs had said were true – if Deron were truly Warrior-Set…

Unmistakably, Spock interjected with wary discomfort. His body language when near Ramok is clear proof. And his reaction to Joron.

“I’m sure the little beast will find other ways to pleasure me,” Deron stated with a knowing chuckle.

That set off alarms in Tarvak’s mind – red alert! came from the mind of the Vulcan. The memories of Lahs’ sobbing recital of faults and flaws from the previous evening seared images into Tarvak’s mind. The Centurion had abused his station before and had combined it with Ve’el’s own passionate nature to create a perversion between Ve’el’s slave and his own.

But surely, he thought to himself, he would not be so careless as to instigate anything untoward in a public place.

It was no comfort at all that the Vulcan was not nearly so certain.

When the pen was again relatively quiet, Lahs returned to his seat on the bench. He was surprised when Wen crawled over to him, sitting back on his heels at his fellow non-gift’s feet.

“Don’t do that, Wen,” Lahs said uncomfortably.

“I need to be near you,” Wen responded softly. “I won’t speak if you don’t want me to, I just…” He looked into Lahs’ eyes. “Please, Lahs,” he said.

“Why would you…” the older slave began.

“I don’t know. I just… I just do.” The pleading in the boy’s dark gaze was most disconcerting.

Lahs frowned, but gave a curt nod. Wen’s fingers briefly stroked Lahs’ thigh, then he sighed as if the touch calmed him.

The silence between them quickly grew too unnerving for Lahs to bear. Surely, if I engage in quiet, normal conversation, that will not violate my Mistress’ instruction, Lahs rationalized. Non-gifts were allowed to talk together if it didn’t disturb any true Romulan.

”You look well,” he ventured cautiously.

“Do the adornments please you?” Wen returned, a grateful smile lighting his features.

“Not particularly,” Lahs replied.

Wen’s smile faded. “I can’t remove them. I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t me they have to please,” the older non-gift pointed out.

The bedslave sighed. “I know,” he said, “but I hoped…” He stopped awkwardly. “I’m sorry for your back,” he offered quietly.

“I’m recovering,” Lahs said in a tone that implied ‘I’ve had worse.’

“I’m sorry,” Wen said, and Lahs scowled.

“Stop saying that.”

“I’m…” Wen closed his mouth.

Reaching for something – anything – to say to the boy, Lahs tried, “Do you know what happened to Krel?”

The bedslave shuddered. “Yes,” he answered. “Do you want to know?”

Lahs fought with himself. A part of him ached to hear all the gory details, and another part of him wanted to forget Lady Holsa’s non-gift even existed. Finally, he settled on a compromise.

“In brief,” he replied.

Wen’s head bent, his voice barely audible. “I was made to – to put him to use,” he said. “To hurt and humiliate him. I – covered him – many times – while Deron and Ramok watched…”

Lahs’ heart started thundering. A slave, using the names of his master and the Legate…?!?!

“…and then Ramok took him away to beat him. I don’t know what happened after that.” Wen took a deep breath, then laid his head on Lahs’ knee. “Oh, Lahs, Kah-lir, I am so sorry…”

Lahs nearly jumped out of his skin as he leapt up from the bench.

“What did you call me?” he rasped.

The bedslave rose to his knees, grasping tightly to Lahs’ thigh. “Please, beloved, please don’t be angry! I had no choice! Deron is…” The boy’s voice seemed to falter. “…he is… I am a slave, his slave and…” The pretty face began contorting in pain. “…he commands…Lahs, his voice is in my mind…I can’t….please, beloved…!” He gasped, falling against the older non-gift’s legs, his hands clutching at his temples. “Please, please, please…!”

“Wen, stop it!” Lahs whispered fiercely. He bent, pushing the boy away, trying to keep his movements inconspicuous. “We’ll be beaten, your Master will be called again, Wen, stop this!”

With a sudden lunge, the young bedslave knocked Lahs off his feet. He crawled up the older non-gift’s body, his eyes a dark inferno, clutching at Lahs’ flesh, his mouth moving, kissing in a paroxysm of need. He was sobbing brokenly, “Kah-lir… I hunger… let me attend you… let me serve you…!”

The horrified cries of those surrounding them drowned out the sound of the Tender’s quirt coming down over and over on the bedslaves’s writhing form.

The guards finally had to drag Wen off of him. Lahs quickly got to his knees, bowing forward so that his head was touching the tiled floor. “Forgive me, Master,” he said breathlessly to the Tender. “Forgive me, forgive me, I don’t know what came over him…”

He expected and received five short lashes from the quirt, but the Tender then turned and strode quickly to the corner of the pen where Wen was gasping and sobbing, still trying to squirm away from the guards’ bruising grasps.

“Hold him!” the Romulan snapped and the guards shifted their grips, forcing Wen to his knees, facing the Tender. Lahs raised his head just enough to turn it, staring at the maddened bedslave. The dark eyes were burning, wild and desperate and terrified. The cries that came from his throat were inarticulate animal sounds, the slave’s hands reaching beseechingly toward Lahs himself. It was very hard for the older non-gift to watch as the Tender firmly grabbed the boy’s head, forcing the bedslave to look at him.

“Khrahkah!” the Tender thundered, and Lahs froze, as did every other person in the pen, non-gift and Romulan alike. It was the spoken portion of the ultimate telepathic command: Stop!

Wen, too, went utterly still, then his mouth opened in a soundless shriek as the enormity of what he had done forced itself into his consciousness. He went limp in the guard’s hands, his body shuddering over and over again. His eyes closed, helpless, hopeless tears flowing from under his eyelids.

The Tender remained focused on the bedslave’s face for several moments, then drew back in horrified disgust.

“This animal is unclean!” he blurted out. “Its mind had been compromised! Restrain it immediately!”

Lahs closed his eyes, shuddering. He knew well enough what would happen: Wen would be bound, his arms behind his back, a loop of rope going around his throat to prevent any sudden movement. His legs, too, would be bound, calves bent back to thighs so it would be impossible for him to rise or crawl. He would be gagged and blindfolded, a chain about his waist keeping him fastened to one of the pillars that decorated the perimeter of the pen. And rather than disturb the play or its Romulan patrons, the Tender would simply leave him there until the performance was over.

Lahs stayed, unmoving, until one of the guards stepped over to him. “Get up, boy,” the Romulan said, giving Lahs’ side a nudge with his foot. “The creature was compromised. You won’t be held at fault.”

“Thank you, Master,” Lahs whispered, and slowly rose, returning to his bench. The glances he stole of the trembling non-gift in the corner were furtive ones, lest anyone think he was concerned for the fate of a slave who had been telepathically conditioned to outrage and perversion.

The second act began with the several members of the orchestra on stage. The flute player was on the runway playing a solo that gave the audience a chance to praise and reward him when Tarvak and Deron returned to their seats.

Under the calm façade presented by their Romulan hosts, DelMonde and MacEntyre turned their thoughts anxiously to their comrade.

The chains the Centurion placed on his slave were creating a distraction, Spock informed them simply, keeping his distaste to himself.

What happened? MacEntyre asked.

He removed them, the Vulcan reported, focusing his eyes on the stage beyond, trying to ignore the continued presence of the Centurion.

What about Lahs?

He was occupied with duties in another section and other than displaying some concern for Deron’s slave, he did not seem in distress, Tarvak said.

So fo’ once, we dodge the bullet, non? Del concluded.

The night’s not over yet, Pelori replied pessimistically.

The flute player’s tune faded as he relinquished his place on the main runway to a musician playing a set of small drums strapped around his waist and another carrying a set of bells fixed to an ornate silver frame.

You are troubled? Joron held out two fingers to his Bonded.

Tarvak smiled briefly as he placed his hand over his Dei’lrn’s.

If he is Warrior-Set… the younger Romulan began.

Let us watch the play, his Bonded suggested firmly but affectionately

The musicians exited amidst shouts of the audience’s approval.

The performers playing Orliot and the priestess entered from the temple façade and moved to their places to either side of the still burning flame. As the percussionists who had remained inside the orchestra box began a slow hypnotic beat, the Priestess raised her hands. The air vents blew life into the gauze scarves hanging from Orliot’s robes.

“Attend to the journey of the displaced spirit of Orliot,” the Priestess intoned.

The flute played softly as the priestess made a series of sacred gestures. Puppet-like, the lead actor’s hands moved in a smaller, more jerky version of her movements until he was poised, leaning slightly forward with hands outstretched.

A chorus member entered from the side, gorgeously robed in burgundy, navy, and gold. The character’s elaborately curled hair and stylized makeup identified her as a female. The Priestess’ vocalizing presented emotions that suggested her youth and strength of character as the performer executed a complicated dance/walk that took her across the stage and down the main runway.

She carried a gold tipped walking stick. While she performed a clever and intricate twirling routine with it, the lead actor came down and took a position on the platform that had elevated him in the first act. The platform raised once again. While the crowd cheered her on and showered her with gifts, Orliot began to imitate her movements. The routine reached a climax with a very high toss of the stick and successful catch.

After the cheers for the performer died down, the character began to move backwards with cheerful carelessness. Instead of his movements echoing hers, hers began to echo Orliot’s. While she slowed to a halt, facing the audience on center stage, the platform lowered the lead actor behind her. His expression and the Priestess’ song made him seem almost vampiric. Catching her arms and holding them outstretched, the two of them began to dance together.

The priestess’ song suggested sensual pleasure as the performers moved to a voluptuous score from the orchestra. The dance became faster as her tone added hints of erotic fixation, then obsession, and finally building madness.

Ring any bells fo’ ya, Ve’el? Del asked unkindly.

The Lady paid him back for the remark by having his lover’s face give him a look of complete contempt.

The lead actor disentangled himself from the performer playing the young woman with carefully choreographed difficulty. In the end, he sent her twirling in confusion away from him and down the stage left runway while he took a position on the elevator platform again. It raised him out of sight of his next potential host.

This performer was dressed in the colors that signified the uniform of a warrior. His long hair was white though, and his makeup include age lines.

I suppose the Human will assume that this is me, Tarvak speculated gruffly.

He does not have enough beauty to be you, my Bonded, Joron assured him with a smile.

This possession followed much the same path as the previous one had. The performer playing the old warrior carried a sword. He came forward on the runway and completed an impressive series of flashy moves before being drawn back within the range of Orliot. After the lead actor descended, the two performers executed a unison series of combat poses together as the Priestess’ accompaniment spoke first of bravery, then recklessness. The old warrior convulsed in a position of pain as he was either injured or had a heart attack. Orliot fled from communion with him and was elevated back up to his perch as chorus members entered and bore the old warrior away on their shoulders.

While the group completed their solemn march, Del’s eye was caught by the flame on the altar. It had begun to glow very brightly and dance out of time to the music. The Priestess seemed to notice it too, the performer slid a careful step further to the left. The engineer couldn’t take his eyes of the blaze even though it was becoming painful to look at.

Del? Beside him, Pelori sounded a little anxious.

I... Something was making it hard to think. I… not feel so good…

At the same moment, both the engineer’s and the lead actor’s heads were wrenched back to an odd angle.

“Dishonored dead.” The voice that rang out in the hall seemed to come from the lead actor, but it was a fuller, more choral sound than one man could possibly make.

There was a collective gasp from the audience. Beside Del, both Pelori/Ve’el and Tarvak/Spock froze.

“Dishonored dead.”

The orchestra ground to a ragged halt.

“Dishonored dead.” The voice repeated for a third time. “Why are you here?”

No sound was coming from Del’s mouth, but his lips moved along with the words.

Who are you? Tarvak demanded.

“Why do you move among the living?” the voice of Orliot countered.

What do you want? Pelori/Ve’el asked as one.

“Tarry not here,” the voice advised, moving Del’s lips.

A strange gust of wind that was not a special effect blew through the theatre and extinguished the fire on the altar.

Del and the lead actor opened their eyes and lifted their heads.

The engineer rubbed his neck and blinked his eyes. What ever'body lookin’ at me fo'?

The lead actor shook himself and looked around, disoriented.

A drummer in the orchestra began a tentative beat and his comrades quickly joined in.

What the hell was that? MacEntyre asked, feeling echoes of her question all throughout the hall.

I don’t know, Tarvak returned giving the same answer as the other half of the audience.

The performer playing the priestess relit the altar. Seeing this and hearing the music of the orchestra, the lead actor resumed his “waiting” position.

Was that part of the performance?

Was what part o' the performance? Del asked.

Joron! Tarvak called urgently.

I am here, his Bonded replied sounding awed. I heard it from inside him.

Heard what? Del demanded.

The voice of Orliot, Joron replied wonderingly.

Del, are you all right? Pelori put in, her voice tremulous.

DelMonde was starting to get more than a little nervous. Am I all right ‘bout what?

You spoke with another’s voice, Mr. DelMonde, Spock informed him, and even the Vulcan’s tone sounded shaken.

Del had heard that tone before, though not from the Vulcan. It had come from Jeremy Paget, one or two lifetimes ago. Shee-it, not again.

Del? came again from Pelori.

What do you know, Human? was sharp fear from Tarvak.

Is it the isti’li? Joron asked, surprisingly understanding.

Taking a deep breath, Del sent the details of his encounter with the spirit of the dead Sevrinite, Adam, into the minds of the bodies next to him, then stopped the confused riot of questions with the hard clang of mental shields slamming firmly up.

Although the performers did their best to recover, the next segment was very shaky. The chorus member who played Orliot’s final host was dressed as a young warrior. He carried two knives and did a juggling routine with them that seemed rushed and abbreviated. The audience response to his solo was correspondingly lukewarm. When it came time for his pas de deux with Orliot, the performer seemed stiff and reluctant to be touched. The lead actor, however, seemed oblivious to this – and everything. He moved through the routine with a detachment that seemed odd when compared to his earlier intensity.

“Orliot.” The Priestess, although speaking at her full volume, sounded weak in comparison to the voice that had spoken before. “Vanquisher of the ghoolar knew this young warrior could not expel him.”

The lead actor stood behind the chorus member grasping him by the wrists and holding his arms outstretched. Orliot began a melody that spoke of victory, but the victory soured into a minor key. As it did so, the performer’s intensity once more became strong and focused. A look of enlightenment lit the actor’s features as he sang of clarity and resolve. The chorus member dropped gratefully into the upright seated position of a warrior when his wrists were released.

Orliot float-walked in front of him, his fine features looking transfigured with understanding as his vocalizing spoke of balance reclaimed and equilibrium achieved.

“Orliot’s spirit journeys on to the altar of souls in the place of final peace,” the Priestess intoned.

“I journey,” the lead actor sang in a calm, pure voice.

“His honor reclaimed.”

The performer moved forward on the runway. “I journey.”

The Priestess raised her hands in blessing on the hall. “Journey on likewise all souls gathered here.”

“I journey…..” The lead actor held the note an impossibly long time as he exited down the runway so that the last note echoed from beyond the doorways. “…..on.”

As the houselights brightened, both Joron and Tarvak's cheeks were wet. The audience’s cheers seemed more of relief than of approbation.

“Well, that was certainly odd,” Ramok said, turning back to his guests. “My Lady, have you ever seen the like?”

“No,” Ve’el was so shaken that she almost forgot to flirt. “Never.”

“Damned actors.” Holsa’s words were a little slurred as she rose and finished her last drink in gulp. “Always adding some cheap trick to squeeze a few extra veks out of the stands…”

Dishonored dead.

The words echoed in Tarvak’s mind as he sat, unmoving, in the theater seat.

Dishonored dead.

Dishonored. To be dishonored… a thing worse than dead. To be both…

Tarvak? Joron’s voice was faint and far away.

Dishonored dead, why are you here?

It was not my choice! Tarvak cried to the disembodied spirit. I could not know I would be so used by some agent of my enemies!

Tarvak?!

Dishonored dead, tarry not here.

If I could leave this body, if I knew the way to the Altar of Souls…!

Beloved! Joron cried. Tarvak! Then, Spock, help him!

Tarvak! The strong intonation of the Vulcan was closer. Tarvak, this is hallucination. There is no spirit which calls you save that of your Bonded.

Bonded! Tarvak gasped in sudden alarm. I have dishonored… Joron…!!

NO, NO! Joron called desperately.

Joron, I am sorry, dishonored…dishonored…!

No, beloved, I am not dishonored, I am with you! Joron clawed his way into Tarvak’s tortured thoughts. I am here… please, my love, don’t leave me!

JORON!

Spock moved hastily aside as the Bondmates’ minds fused together. He felt DelMonde also turning his gaze from the tumultuous union.

Lieutenant Commander, can you explain what happened? he asked carefully.

Hell no, DelMonde replied uncomfortably. No more than I already done did.

The – isti’li?

That what done it before.

Then that was…?

Orliot, yeah.

Spock withdrew, letting that troubling thought settle uneasily within him.

Del? Pelori ventured gently.

Yeah, yeah, I alright, the engineer responded testily.

That was real.

Sure as shit, darlin’.

My superiors need to know this. If other agents can actually summon the truly dead…

They gonna be in a hell of a lot more danger from the Telanate, Del finished her thought. The suspicion such an unintended ability would cast on future infiltrators was more than enough cause for alarm. An’ I not summon him. He come all on his own.

That only makes it worse, Pelori returned. She paused, then added, Are we in a hell of a lot more danger? The Indiian was clearly worried.

I not know, cher, Del said tersely. I swear to god I not know.

When the patrons of the theater began arriving at the pen to claim their slaves, Lahs was in a maelstrom of internal guilt and shame. He knew he wasn’t at fault, knew that what the Centurion had done to Wen was no part of him, but still, the fact that he had been chosen to be the object of the bedslave’s depraved obsession tore at him. He found himself thinking incongruously not of his Mistress’ displeasure, but rather what First Master would think of the obscenity. The thing was offensive enough to any Romulan, but to a Warrior Bond the perversion would be ten times greater. That a non-gift would behave as though it were Bonded was a blasphemy beyond understanding. The fact that there could only be one instigator of such sacrilege only made the horror of it worse. Even being Warrior-Set could not excuse it. Non-gifts had few rights, but being deliberately compromised violated them all. Lahs couldn’t begin to comprehend how the Centurion would be held accountable.

Then, as those who entered the pen stared at the bound slave, and the whispers of horror and gossip began, Lahs damned himself for thinking only of his own plight. Wen was the one who would be destroyed over it, the pretty, young slave who was only doing as his master had programmed him to do, who was perfectly obedient to his master’s desires, who suffered the terrible torture of commands in his mind that went against all the training he had managed to endure – indeed, had mastered to perfection.

That the boy would be taken from the Centurion, Lahs had no doubt. But where would he go? Who would want to purchase a compromised non-gift? Would he have his mind wiped? That would almost be a kindness, would it not? But he couldn’t be allowed to continue as a bedslave – maybe not even a personal servant, as Lahs himself was. He wouldn’t even be allowed in the camps or mines – there were too many other non-gifts there and he could no longer be trusted. There were tears in Lahs’ eyes when he heard the voices of his Mistress and the Legate, Lady Holsa and First and Second Master – and trembled for Wen’s sake at that of the Centurion.

Upon seeing his slave, Deron thundered, “What has happened here? Why wasn’t I notified immediately?”

The pen guards moved to surround him. The Slave-Tender was speaking to Lady Arjon herself. The elderly, regal woman’s face was set in a look of horror and rage.

“My ladies,” Ramok said to Ve’el and Holsa, “please, remain here.”

“Legate, a moment, please,” Tarvak put in urgently.

The two Romulans took a few steps away,

“I think you know the problem, Legate,” Tarvak began.

Ramok glanced at Deron, then at Wen’s bound figure. “This is not my doing, Tarvak,” he returned grimly.

“I assign no blame but to the Centurion,” Tarvak said carefully. He took a deep breath, and explained, as delicately at he could, what Lahs had told him had transpired between him and the bedslave in Ve’el’s home.

The Legate’s face twisted in disgust. “Why was this not brought to my attention sooner?”

“Lahs is not my slave,” Tarvak said. “It was not my place to do so. But with this public ignominy…”

“Yes,” Ramok frowned. “I’ll take care of it. My thanks, Warrior.”

Tarvak nodded and returned to Ve’el, Holsa and Joron. Ramok walked over to Lady Arjon, bowing to her respectfully, beginning to speak to her in hushed tones.

“By Kali’an, whatever has happened here?” Holsa asked.

“It is not a fit subject for so great a Lady,” Tarvak demurred.

But you gonna tell us, non? DelMonde put in. His and Joron’s eyes were fixed in horror on Wen.

I don’t know the details, Tarvak returned carefully, but from the confinement, I would guess that the non-gift was compromised by Deron, and acted on it.

What do you mean, ‘compromised’? Spock asked.

It’s an abomination! Joron said with a shiver.

It is the term used when a master or mistress places thoughts and imperatives within the mind of a slave to cause it to act as though it were gifted, Ve’el explained with no trace of guilt, or the horror that bled from Tarvak and Joron. In this case, I assume, judging from the severity of the bindings, as though it were Bonded.

Joron shuddered again as DelMonde cried, What?

Was Lahs implicated? Pelori asked with deep concern.

Is he restrained? Ve’el answered disdainfully.

Aema, sumin tu, the Indiian replied with a grateful exhale.

What gonna happen to the poor t'ing? Del said, his anguish almost as great as Joron’s.

Unknown, Tarvak returned. It is an indicator of dangerous instability that could next be turned on gifted Romulans. To leave such a thing in the bounds of any Romulan community could set a perilous precedent.

Precedent? And that the poor li’l non-gift’s fault? Del demanded. Deron to blame fo’ it, non?

Yes, Tarvak’s voice carried clear unease. And unless he manages to somehow explain himself adequately, he will be punished for it as well.

As well, Del again repeated. You people got no sense o’ decency.

The slave will surely be taken from his House and his ownership, Ve’el put in. They will probably have to put the poor thing down. A pity. He was uncommonly beautiful.

Del/Joron moved away from her in the guise of moving closer to Tarvak.

The Legate and Lady Arjon were approaching Deron, and every ear in the pen strained to listen.

“Centurion,” the Legate said formally, “you will be charged with blasphemy.”

Deron’s eyebrows nearly flew off his head. “I? Legate, what have I do to with the worthless slave’s abominations…”

“We understand well what you have to do with it,” Lady Arjon intoned. She pointed her finger dramatically. “Kah-en’gen’t!” she declared loudly.

The word echoed in horror within the minds around her: ‘Warrior-Set.’

Deron’s eyes grew side. “No!” he cried. “Ramok, you know…”

“I know I was once a fool,” the Legate replied. “I should have sensed the aberration in you from the very start.” He shifted his glance to the guards. “Summon the Warriors of his cohorti. They will confine him until a trial can be convened.”

“Ramok, no, I beg you…!” Deron pleaded, grasping the Legate’s hand. Ramok shook off the touch.

“You will be stripped of your commission, Deron,” he said, “Your sister’s influence can’t save you from this.”

“What of the non-gift, Legate?” the Slave-Tender asked.

Legate turned his gaze to Wen’s bound form. “I will take charge of it,” he said, his voice containing a surprising amount of sympathy. “Perhaps the Telanate can repair its mind. If not…” He sighed. “I will accept the responsibility for its final disposition, on my Lady-wife’s behalf. Ownership of the creature does devolve to her.”

“Most kind of you, Legate,” the Lady Arjon commented approvingly. Ramok bowed to her and the guards took Deron away.

Go To Part Nineteen
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