The Slave Tender took Lahs by the upper arm and escorted him directly to his mistress.

“My Lady,” he said giving her a deferential bow. “I gave your boy five stripes for speaking up,” the Tender explained when Ve’el’s eyes fell on the bright green mark visible though the cutout in Lahs’ tunic. “But that was after the other boy had gone at him. All the non-gifts were panicked. Seeing this one get punished helped settle them all back down.”

Lahs kept his eyes down. He would have sank properly to his knees if the Tender didn’t still have hold of his arm. The thought of facing his mistress’ anger on top of the terrible thing that had happened was almost too hard to bear.

“He’s not been acting out, though,” the Tender continued, sounding distracted. “Behaved himself all night. Hard little worker. No one saw him do anything to provoke the other boy.”

Lahs did not look up at the sound of boots marching by. He counted the floor tiles below him so that no thought of how deserved he felt Centurion Deron’s punishment would be would leak from him as the guardsmen marched Wen’s master past them.

The Tender still hadn’t let go of Lahs’ arm. “This is a bad business,” he said, sounding more sad than angry.

“Indeed.” Lahs’ mistress’s voice also sounded hushed and cheerless.

“Been years since I saw anything like this happen,” the Tender recalled. “And that was in a brothel, not a high-class place like this.”

“Thank you, Tender.” His mistress’ tone was harsh with sarcasm. “That insight into your colorful career makes me feel so much better about this entire situation.”

The Slave Tender hastily bowed and pushed Lahs forward. “Sorry, my Lady.”

“Lahs, go secure a shuttle for us,” she ordered, again sounding more tired than angry.

“Yes, Mistress.”

Lahs made his way out of the slave pen and down the corridor towards the foyer without, as much as he wished to, looking back at the place where Wen was still tied. Delaying would anger his mistress. There was nothing he could do anyway… That thought gnawed at his stomach. If only there were something….

Lahs froze as the double doors to the foyer opened in front of him and a group of guardsman entered wearing black uniforms. The Telanate. Like all the other slaves in the hall, Lahs immediately moved as close to the wall as possible and knelt down. Officers of the Telanate must not be inconvenienced by the presence of mere non-gifts. Although he kept his head properly down, Lahs could see that the guardsmen pushed a force cage between them. The transparent, glowing box floated a little off the floor as they propelled it forward. This was what they would put Wen in.

Lahs squeezed his eyes closed and quickly wiped away the tears that had sprung into them. There was nothing he could do, he reminded himself sharply.

Once the Telanate officers were well past him, he rose. His mistress was ready to depart. There was no time to indulge his personal concerns. A slave should not even have personal concerns.

He hurried to join the line of slaves waiting to speak to the doorman. To keep his mind blank, he counted the number of servants in line ahead of him and the number of seconds it took for each to give the name and address of his owner and for the doorman to enter the information into his pad and dispatch them to a spot in the front of the building to wait for their transport. The line was moving swiftly, but there was still enough time for Lahs to count the tiles under his feet and try to think ways to use this number to figure out a way of estimating the number of tiles in the floor of the large foyer. He knew this was thinking too much of numbers but it was better than noticing the way the other slaves left extra space so as not to be too near him. It was better than thinking about the whispers in the hall about Centurion Deron. It was better than picturing the officers in black untying Wen from the pillar in the slave pen and putting him into that awful cage.

“Lady Ve’el, Master Tarvak, and Master Joron,” Lahs reported when it was his turn. He gave the address of their apartment.

The doorman consulted his list. “Go to five.”

“Thank you, Master.”

Lahs could see his Mistress and her husbands across the foyer. All of them – as well as most of the other true Romulans in the hall – looked troubled as they stood speaking quietly with each other. Before the non-gift could reach them, however, the doors to the corridor opened. The company of Telanate officers marched out, guiding the floating cage between them.

Lahs stepped back well out of their way and knelt as they passed. The image of Wen in the cage was burned into his eyes. Even when he closed them, the terrible picture was still there – Wen kneeling in the glowing transparent cage that was too short for an adult to stand in. A black hood was over his head and the ropes binding him had been replaced by metal cuffs that bound his wrists, ankles and thighs together.

There is nothing I can do, Lahs reminded himself, his tears starting again. He knew that this was true. However it just didn’t seem right. It seemed as though he were abandoning Wen in a shameful way.

When the officers had passed, he rose and swiftly moved to his owners.

“Bay five, Mistress,” he informed her, then turned at her gesture to lead the way.

When they exited, Lahs tried to keep his eyes only on the shuttle the doorman had summoned for them, however it was hard to ignore the progress of the black-clad officers as they loaded their prisoner into a black ground transport vessel just a few spaces in front of them.

The non-gift couldn’t shake the feeling that what was happening to Wen was his fault. Centurion Deron’s guilt was not to be discounted, of course, but Lahs couldn’t help thinking that his own irresponsible actions surely had contributed….

The shuttle operator opened the door of the transport. Lahs forced himself not to steal one last look in the direction of the Telanate transport before boarding. What was happening to Wen was definitely his fault… at least in part.

Guilt twisted around in Lahs’ mind as he knelt in the shuttle’s slave nook by the door. The small craft hummed into motion. His owners were silent in their seats.

A plausible explanation of his culpability and possible solution occurred to Lahs with such force that the words, “May I speak, Mistress?” were out of his mouth before he paused to consider if speaking was appropriate.

Lady Ve’el turned her large grey eyes on him unsmilingly. “What is it?”

“Perhaps Wen has a spacesickness,” Lahs suggested, “Perhaps he got it from me. Perhaps First Master could give him some medicine…”

“That’s…” His Mistress’ face suddenly looked as if she were very, very troubled. “That’s not the problem.”

This, Lahs knew, was the reason why slaves should never offer ideas. They were always wrong. He shouldn't have spoken. He shouldn't have even tried to have an idea for how to save Wen. Having a brief moment of hope made it all the more clear to Lahs that Wen's situation was hopeless. The non-gift felt crushed in the jaws of his own helplessness and sadness. “I won’t ever see him again, will I, Mistress?” he asked – again without pausing to think if it was appropriate to speak.

He was surprised to see his mistress blink back tears. “Probably not,” she answered, turning away. “Put your head down and be quiet now.”

Lahs obediently bent forward and put his arms against the plush carpet of the shuttle’s floorboards. He rested his forehead against his folded hands and silently counted each drop of grief that fell from his eyes.

Well, isn’t this cozy?

Ve’el turned from her dressing table mirror. “Joron?”

Not exactly, her visitor thought with a lopsided grin. “Tarvak wishes to speak to you before you retire, my Lady.”

You should ring the bell before you enter, Pelori reproved.

Yeah, Joron wanted to, Del replied crossing to the dressing table and perching on the edge facing her while Lahs continued to work on her hair. But I figure what the hell? We married, non?

We’re part of a Triad, MacEntyre returned. It’s not exactly the same thing..

The engineer’s grin was rueful. Tell me ‘bout it.

Is it Spock or Tarvak who wants to talk to me?

Both. They have some questions for Ve’el.

Oh… MacEntyre took in a deep breath. The Romulan inside her wouldn’t be thrilled about being questioned, but Deron’s arrest did raise issues about Ve’el’s relationship with Lahs and how far she had allowed things to go with Wen the night the Centurion and his slave had come to dinner.

The engineer’s eyes settled on the non-gift who was still focused on brushing out Pelori/Ve’el’s long red hair. Nothin’ like a man who love his work…

MacEntyre had generously given him permission to count the strokes – as long as he didn’t go over fifty. It was an activity that seemed to relax all four of them. Even Ve’el and the blocked-off navigator seemed calmed by the rhythm and casual contact as the non-gift carefully brushed out each lock.

He do this fo' you every night? Del asked.

Pelori smiled a little at the touch of possessiveness in this thought. As Ve’el has said to Joron – it is unseemly to be jealous of a non-gift.

Del lifted an eyebrow. Even one that so handy at bathtime?

Lahs is completely trustworthy, she assured him.

Oh, Mr. Lahs could scrub the nuns’ backs at the convent without battin’ an eye, I sure, but I could tell you stories ‘bout that hot-to-trotsky body o’ his that‘d curl your hair. For emphasis, Del reached out and pulled at one of the carefully combed golden-red sausage curls Lahs had arranged artfully about Ve’el’s shoulders.

Don’t do that, Pelori cautioned. He may start thinking….

Lahs, they both could immediately sense, almost felt sorry for Second Master. If he had to pleasure both First Master and the Mistress tonight, the junior husband was going to see some hard use indeed…

Del reached out and flicked two fingers against the non-gift’s forehead.

The slave made the “ow!” noise Chekov always did, then fell to his knees as like the good Romulan servant he was.

Now see what you’ve done, Pelori glared at Del before turning to her non-gift. “Lahs, Second Master is not a bedslave.”

Even if he do dress like one.

Shut up, Joron demanded indignantly.

“It is not proper,” MacEntyre continued, “for you to think of …of his activities using such language.”

“Or think of his activities at all,” Del added emphatically.

“Forgive me, Master.” The non-gift humbly held out the hairbrush while keeping his gaze on the floor.

Why he handin’ me this? Del asked, accepting the brush.

Pelori frowned. He expects you to beat him with it.

Just a few strokes, Joron added, sounding matter-of-fact.

Thanks, but I t’ink I pass on that one, Del thought, putting the brush aside before addressing the non-gift. “Lahs, I’m going to let you off with a warning this time. Do you know why?”

The slave shook his head. “No, Master.”

“Because I know I’m not going to catch you thinking anything like that again.”

“No, Master,” the non-gift confirmed adamantly.

“And…” The engineer snapped his fingers to get the slave to look him in the eye. “… Because I’m nice.”

Lahs blinked at him. “Thank you, Master.”

“No, no, no.” Del snapped his fingers again warningly. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Say what, Master?” the slave temporized innocently.

“That I’m nice a person and that I’m good to you.”

The non-gift took in a deep breath. “You are a nice person, Master, and are very good to me.”

He doesn’t mean it, Joron said with a weary sigh. You should have just hit him instead of wasting your time.

Wastin’ my time? the Cajun repeated. Hell, you know how long I been tryin’ to get this bull-headed Russian to say anyt’ing in my favor? This a major fuckin’ triumph.

Congratulations, Pelori thought to him wryly as she rose. “Lahs, turn down my bed and go to your cot. I’ll get to bed myself after I’ve talked to Tarvak.”

“Yes, Mistress,” The slave replied, keeping his eyes respectfully averted as Del held out a hand to help MacEntyre to her feet. Second Master is…niii.. Lahs shied away from the new term recommended by the junior husband. …Very gifted. A true Romulan. And very fortunate to find such favor with the Mistress… Very, very fortunate…

Oh, Del thought as they neared the door, I may have lost the coin toss fo’ tonight.

Meaning?

Meanin’ I owe Joron one an’ he pretty adamant ‘bout Tarvak needin’ him tonight --- all night.

Oh. MacEntyre let her disappointment/resignation leak through to him. Well, he was pretty shaken up. We all were.

Del paused outside the door and took her into his arms. Well, we jus’ gonna have to find some other time fo’ you t’ put me to the use fo' which I so obviously intended.

Pelori grinned, putting her arms around his neck. And that will be hard use indeed, she promised as they shared a ravenous kiss.

Ve’el broke out of the embrace and crossed to where Tarvak was waiting for her. “I have no intention of being interrogated in my own home,” she said, taking the jammer out of her sleeve and activating it in a clear refusal of telepathic contact.

“We mean no disrespect, my Lady,” Tarvak soothed as Joron came to sit on the arm of the couch beside him. “However, we have concerns. It seems likely that you will be interrogated….”

“I don’t think so,” the lady cut him off with calm assurance.

“My Lady,” Tarvak said, modulating the Vulcan’s rejection of this statement as willful denial. “The compromised non-gift was fixated on your slave. The two boys had been permitted previous contact under this very roof. Under the law….”

“I have no doubt that you have a very clear understanding of the law, Tarvak.” Ve’el’s tone was almost condescending as she sat down in the chair opposite her husbands. “What you do not understand is politics.”

Once again, the older Warrior kept his Vulcan host from confronting his Third in a too blunt manner. “Then perhaps you should illuminate us, my Lady.”

“There is the law, yes,” Ve’el conceded. “But much depends on which court tries Deron.”

“Which court?” Joron repeated. “He was arrested by the Telanate.”

“No. Wen was taken away by the Telanate,” Ve’el corrected. “Deron was arrested by the military. Beyond that the Centurion was publicly accused of blasphemy.”

“And could therefore be tried in the religious courts?” Tarvak said, some understanding of the potential complexity of the situation beginning to dawn.

“Exactly.” Ve’el confirmed. “A priestess could examine him tonight. Find evidence of blasphemous thought. Condemn him. And he would be executed by dawn… without any reference to me at all.”

Joron and Del crossed their arms. “You say that like you don’t expect it to happen.”

“Only if everything goes completely as Ramok wishes,” Ve’el replied. “If Holsa has any sway with the religious court and decides to try to save her brother and wound her husband, she will push for the priestesses to thoroughly investigate the causes of his being Warrior-Set. In which case -- as we all can sense -- Ramok will be implicated. Both men will probably be sentenced to undergo deep psychic cleansing and sent into exile in service of a distant monastic colony.”

All the Romulans took a moment to fill their hosts in on this unenviable fate. Cleansing of this nature would reduce a gifted person practically to the state of a non-gift. The penitent would serve the priestesses of the monastery as slaves, retaining only enough of their telepathic powers to be fully aware of the magnitude of the shame they had brought upon themselves.

“If Holsa pushes the court to find reason to mitigate Deron’s offence,” Ve’el continued. “I may indeed be called, but only to provide evidence that the Warrior Bond that was active in my home during the time of his visit aroused Deron in a manner that was beyond his control.”

“Which would be acceptable…” Joron said slowly.

“But we lose Ramok as patron,” Tarvak pointed out.

“Which may not matter if the Telanate is pleased enough with us,” Ve’el said. “If the matter goes to the civil or military courts, again Holsa’s influence can be an important factor.“

Tarvak shook his head, unwilling to accept this degree of ambiguity in what he felt should be a completely straightforward case. “Surely the law is the law.”

“Of course.” Ve’el shrugged at his concern. “But which crime the Centurion is being charged with is a matter open to interpretation.

Joron sighed and rolled his eyes. “Politics!”

“If the offence being investigated is the contamination of the slave,” Ve’el pointed out, “you yourself may be called to give testimony, Tarvak.”

Tarvak nodded. “Because I was the last to witness his interaction with the slave.”

“However, I doubt that will be necessary. Ramok thoughtfully prevented the non-gift from being put down.”

“And put him in the hands of the Telanate instead,” Joron said, seeing the action clearly as a stratagem now.

“Who are doubtlessly scanning the slave even as we speak,” Tarvak predicted.

“And should have enough evidence by now to have Deron executed a hundred times over,” Ve’el confirmed. “However, if Holsa is once again able to shift the charges to her brother being Warrior-Set…”

“Then again Ramok is implicated,” Joron put in.

“And the evidence the Telanate is gathering from the non-gift could be used against him,” Tarvak concluded.

“And we have all witnessed a certain awareness in the Legate of his brother-in-law’s affliction,” Ve’el pointed out. “As hostess on the night they dined with us, I was under obligation to ease the Centurion’s “discomfort” caused by coming into accidental psychic contact with an active Warrior Bond. However as relatives in normal, casual telepathic contact, Holsa and Ramok should have been aware of his over-stimulated state and taken steps to calm him. Instead, after the disturbance that ended the evening, he and Ramok together devised a punishment for their slaves that aggravated the Centurion’s already fevered condition. So again, if Holsa is angry enough and powerful enough, Ramok could be sharing Deron’s cell.”

Tarvak tilted his head to one side in surprise. “You would testify against Ramok?”

“I could,” Ve’el replied without hesitation or remorse. “We all could. It is therefore my prediction that if Ramok is successful and is able to come to an understanding with his Lady-wife, we will be receiving news very soon that we have been given an assignment that will require us to be very far away as the Centurion’s fate is decided.”

The older Romulan crossed his arms, frowning. “And if you are wrong?”

Ve’el returned his frown disdainfully. “Then priestesses will be at the door for me tomorrow morning to take me away to be questioned on my sexual deviance and the Telanate will execute us all by tomorrow night.”

Joron placed his hand on his Bonded’s shoulder and sighed. Despite the protests of their hosts and Tarvak’s continuing concerns, the lady had just clearly signaled that the conversation was at an end. Further questioning after such a statement on her part – no matter how ironically delivered -- could not avoid becoming offensively accusatorial.

Ve’el rose and deactivated the jammer. “Enjoy your rest, my husbands. However things go tonight, tomorrow is sure to be a busy day.”

Let it be, beloved, Joron soothed as he and Tarvak prepared for bed. There is little we can do to affect the situation either way.

Yes, I know, Tarvak replied with a sigh. But it is all so disturbing – and after the strange occurrence at the play…

The isti’li, Kah-lir, and my host’s unusual abilities, Joron interrupted. Nothing more.

I am not so certain, the older Romulan returned uneasily.

But we need not talk of any of it now. We are here, alone, together…

Not precisely alone, beloved.

No, but Del has promised me this time without interference. He took his Bonded’s hands. I would ease you, my love.

And I need your communion as I seldom have, Tarvak admitted.

Within the grasp of his husband’s hands, Joron parted the fingers of his left. Come, take me, then, Kah-lir. Let me give to you the sweet culmination that you gave to me after the games.

Spock will not approve.

I will not touch his body, beloved, or his mind. The Bond will be made whole in our thoughts, and whatever it may impel within the body will be as an afterglow.

Your emotions…

Are for you and you alone, as they have been since the night your mind first took mine, Joron broke in tenderly. Spock will know nothing of it.

Dei’lrn, the spell you weave is most compelling, Tarvak said with the hint of a smile.

Then let it compel you, beloved.

Joron moved into his Bonded’s arms, and Tarvak’s right hand parted as the younger man’s had done. Slowly their thoughts mingled, then drifted together as their touch moved upwards along arms and shoulder, to throat and cheek and ear, two fingers sliding in front of the fleshy points, and two behind. Closer and closer their thoughts entwined, Joron’s of devotion and comfort, Tarvak’s of need and acceptance. Their mouths met in the briefest of kisses and at that touch, their minds became but one, one being, one soul, one life.

The sun had not yet risen when the outer door chime sounded. Blinking sleep-filled eyes, Lahs rose from his cot, trying not to stumble as he hurried past his mistress’s bed. He noted that she was sitting up, the sound obviously having also awakened her. He moved through the common area to the apartment door, opening it. Two black-uniformed members of the Telanate stood here.

“The training begins now,” one of them intoned. “Wake the household, Candidate Lahs.”

Startled by the address of obvious respect, Lahs forgot to answer properly and instead, turned and rushed, wide-eyed, back to his mistress’ room.

“Mistress, they have come for us!” he said breathlessly.

“They?” she questioned sharply, throwing back the blankets. Lahs immediately averted his eyes from her nightgown-clad form.

“Members of the Telanate from the training base, Mistress,” he explained. “They said the training begins now.” He swallowed. “Mistress, they called me ‘Candidate.’ What does that mean?”

“It means,” Ve’el returned, her face lighting with a smile, “that we have been accepted. Go wake First and Second Master. We have no time to lose.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he said and as she rose, he quickly hurried to his masters’ bedroom. The door was closed, and he carefully sounded the chime.

“What is it?” Joron’s voice called irritably. “It isn’t even light out yet.”

“Forgive me, Master,” Lahs called back. “Telanate officers have arrived to begin the training. Mistress Ve’el says we must hurry.”

“Praise Telan!” the Second Master’s voice exclaimed. “Kah-lir, wake up! We’ve been accepted!”

Lahs returned to his Mistress. She was already half-dressed in a tunic of red, and was just pulling on matching leggings.

“Hurry, Lahs,” she said. “Get dressed. They will be timing us.”

Lahs did as he was commanded, his mind blank and numb.

In the days that followed, there was no time to think of Wen or the Centurion or much of anything save the intense drills they were put through. Their minds were scanned deeply and often, instructions about the Federation races they were to impersonate fed telepathically as well as through the more conventional sleep-learning devices. The apartment was vacated, the four given rooms at the training base, austere cells with beds, trunks for clothing and personal items and little else. Their Bonded status gave Joron and Tarvak a single cell, but Ve’el and Lahs were housed separately. They ate communally and washed in a dorm-like communal bathroom, with individual shower-stalls and sinks. Ve’el was assured that their belongings were in secure storage and would be available to her and her husbands at the times they were not on a mission – though it was carefully explained that these missions were often months, even years, in duration. Every opportunity was presented them to change their minds about accepting assignments, with the careful explanation that once they did so, there could be no turning back.

The emotional pressure was nearly more than Joron could bear. He was surrounded by Telanate officers, some projecting anger, some grief, some joy, some desire, some more subtle emotions such as jealousy, worry, or curiosity, even such base emotions as hunger or greed or panic. He was to sort and identify each feeling, assign it to the proper officer, and react accordingly to each person in turn.

He shouted with matching rage at the anger, wept with the grief, smiled and laughed with joy, and flirted shamelessly at the touch of desire. He reacted to the jealousy with affront – and was firmly reminded that when on a mission, he could not expect to be treated as a Warrior Bond.

“And how am I to do that?” he asked his instructor. “I am Bonded.”

“You and Tarvak must arrange matters between yourselves,” he was told. “There are no Warrior Bonds in the Federation.”

Tarvak finished the fifth battle simulation – and the fifth victory – then glanced at the officer who stood checking that all the information provided was accurate. He waited patiently, knowing that a calm demeanor in the face of such evaluation was a necessary skill for the portrayal of a Vulcan. It would not do to demand a response, as would be appropriate for a Romulan Warrior.

Finally the black-clad Telanate looked up from his statboard. “Excellent work, Tarvak,” he said.

The Romulan and the Vulcan within him merely nodded.

The officer smiled.

“Lahs, you’re studying the floor again,” the instructor said peevishly.

The non-gift raised his eyes. “Forgive…” he began.

“No!” the woman snapped. “You must not ask forgiveness, and you must not think of yourself as a non-gift! That term is not used in the Federation.”

Lahs swallowed. “Yes, Mis – “ He stopped himself before completing the word. “Ma’am,” he corrected.

“Sit up straight, Lahs, head up at all times. You must bear no traces of slavery in your posture or your expressions. You are to be deferential to your commanding officer – not owner, Lahs – but never obsequious or fawning.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lahs replied immediately.

“That’s better.”

“You are no longer a member of the highest caste, Ve’el. In the Federation, woman have equal rights with men, but not superior rights. You will be accorded no special standing or respect due to your gender – indeed, there is still some measure of inferiority inherent in the way in which Federation females are treated by some Federation males.”

“Ridiculous,” Ve’el scoffed.

“Perhaps, but true none the less,” her instructor countered. “Most importantly, you will never be attended by a slave or servant of any kind. You will be expected to do for yourself all the things for which you were accustomed to relying on your non-gift. And you must accord him all the rights of any other being. While he will be in a subordinate position professionally, you must learn never to think of him as subordinate personally or socially.”

“I understand,” Ve’el replied sourly.

“And such expressions of distaste will only make those with whom you interact suspicious as to why you so dislike your aide,” the officer reminded sternly. “Use your intellect.”

When Ve’el’s eyes grew hard at the reprimand, the Telanate chuckled.

“Get used to being treated disrespectfully,” he said, then added, with clear irony, “Lady.”

“Again!” the instructor barked. Another combatant came at Tarvak, and he allowed the Vulcan to neatly flip the man over his hip.

“Good.” the officer said, then turned to Ve’el. “Her!” he said to another warrior. Without hesitation the man attacked. Ve’el stumbled back and the instructor snapped, “Hold! Ve’el, use the technique Joron demonstrated. You must have the ability to engage an opponent.”

“Women are attacked in the Federation?” she asked haughtily.

“Women are expected to be as versed in defensive techniques as are men,” the instructor said. “Again!”

Ve’el steeled herself, and when the next attack came, stepped aside to allow Pelori to stop the man with a perfectly executed throw.

“There, you see, it’s easy!” the officer complimented. He pointed to Lahs. “Him!”

Lahs immediately dropped to his knees.

“No, no NO!” the officer thundered. “Get up, boy! Defend yourself!”

“Mas – sir, I can’t… he is a Warrior, sir…” Lahs exclaimed, his fear plain in his widened eyes.

“And you’re a Federation male being attacked. Defend yourself!”

Lahs got back to his feet, trembling, watching as the Warrior again readied himself for the assault. When the man rushed at him, Lahs tried to do as he’d been shown, but was unable to make his body use the leverage to fend off the attack.

“Hold!” the instructor snapped. “Joron, work with the boy.”

The Romulan, who had been standing aside, his arms folded, watching the exercise, frowned. “Yes, sir,” he said. Doesn’t the Human within the non-gift know… He began to DelMonde.

His body do right enough, DelMonde said, but we gotta let Lahs know it.

How?

Push him. He don’t like either one of us none.

Joron stepped next to Lahs, motioning him to the far end of the training room.

“Come on, little aide,” he taunted silkily. “I know you’ve been dying to throw me.” He was gratified when Lahs’ face tightened, even though the brown eyes were fear-filled. “Think all those improper thoughts now, boy,” he said, assuming a fighting stance, “and no counting this time.”

Lahs’ face greened slightly, his eyebrows lowering. Joron waited, then rushed the boy without warning. Lahs moved aside.

“Come on, you can do better than that,” Joron said. “Or should I have you polishing boots again?”

The Romulan attacked again, and this time Lahs grappled with him, but still didn’t use the judo technique. Joron broke the hold easily.

“Still can’t manage it?” he asked disdainfully, stepping away. “Do you think if you fail, they’ll send me far, far away? Don’t you realize that where I go, Ve’el goes?” He paused, then added, “It’s really a shame they don’t have bathtubs here isn’t it, Lahs?” Then he attacked a third time.

He was more than gratified when the shorter male efficiently flipped him onto his back.

“See, you can manage it after all,” he grinned.

When Lahs gave him a fierce smile in return, he arched his eyebrow in surprise and inside him, DelMonde chuckled, Thataway, T-Paul.

Go To Part Twenty
Return To Part Eighteen
Return to Valjiir Stories
Return to Valjiir Continnum