Lieutenant MacEntyre had requested to use Sickbay’s quarantine ward for her sessions with Chekov. It was a reasonable request. The type of mental work she was doing required quiet isolation. McCoy had agreed readily enough, but Jade Han made a point of monitoring the sessions to make sure the lieutenant didn’t also require privacy so she could do things she did not want to be observed.

Han drew in a deep breath as she watched MacEntyre standing over Chekov’s bed on the monitor outside the ward. Overseeing the procedure was a frustratingly difficult task. Han could check and see that the drugs MacEntyre gave to the navigator were only conventional sedatives designed to heighten receptiveness to hypnosis. She could examine the devices the lieutenant put in the Russian’s ears and see that they were almost identical to the transmitters Starfleet routinely used to allow officers to rapidly assimilate masses of information. Han herself was currently supervising the use of similar devices to help the selected officers master the Romulan language in a matter of days.

What Jade could not evaluate to her satisfaction, though, were moments like this one when MacEntyre seemed to be in direct contact with the navigator’s brain. The lieutenant stood by the bed holding Chekov’s wrist in one hand as if she were taking his pulse. Her other hand was around his neck with her thumb pressed gently over his carotid artery. It was a stance unexpectedly similar to ones Han had seen Antari healers assume.

Jade also was not sure what to make of instances like the one beginning to occur before her. Chekov seemed to rouse a little. His eyelids fluttered half open as his head moved restlessly from side to side and his fingers twitched spasmodically. MacEntyre kept the vitals display over the bed switched off – because of the noise she said – so Han could not be certain of the degree, but the reaction definitely looked like one of pain or distress.

As she’d seen the lieutenant do on several occasions, MacEntyre shifted her grip from her patient’s wrist to his temple, spreading her fingers in what looked like a version of the Vulcan mind touch. Since MacEntyre was half-Indiian and half-Human, Han had not expected the lieutenant’s technique to be pure. However, her approach was unprecedentedly eclectic, as if she’d been raised in a community of telepaths from all over the Federation – or at least very thoroughly trained in a variety of their methods.

As the Russian stilled, MacEntyre visibly relaxed. She eased out of contact in the gentle way an Indiian would, stroking her patient’s hair and face in a manner that seemed kind. There was even a very small smile on the lieutenant’s face as she gave Chekov a final pat on the chest as if to say, “Good boy.”

Han didn’t know whether to be touched or horrified.

As MacEntyre placed the twin transmitters in the Russian’s ears, Han switched off the monitor and deactivated the lock on the door. She didn’t enter, though, until MacEntyre was completely out of contact with the navigator.

“Is there a problem, Doctor?” the lieutenant asked softly.

“No,” Han replied, beckoning her out of the ward. “But our other patient is out of surgery now. I thought you might like to see him before he wakes up.”

“Wakes up?” MacEntyre repeated, following her to the recovery ward. “I thought this operation could be accomplished under local anesthetic.”

Han gave her a tight smile. “Oh, we don’t plan to put the rest of you out.”

MacEntyre gave a short laugh of rueful understanding when they came into the room where Noel DelMonde lay sleeping. “So Dr. McCoy doesn’t appreciate commentary on his surgery?”

“I would avoid it,” Han agreed, checking the engineer’s vitals by force of habit. “Unless you feel you need a nice long nap.”

DelMonde’s neck was supported by a special pillow designed to keep him from rolling to one side or the other. He was dressed in a blue sickbay coverall. The visible skin on his hands, arms, feet, face, neck, and chest was already beginning to darken to an olive bronze. His eyebrows now swept up into two carefully curved points.

“He makes a handsome Romulan, doesn’t he?” Han observed as MacEntyre stepped closer to examine the engineer’s newly shaped ears.

“Computer simulations projected that he would,” the lieutenant replied. “The mission planners feel we can use this to our advantage… although there may be some liabilities…”

“Really?” Han asked, crossing her arms. “What nature of liabilities?”

Instead of answering, MacEntyre leaned in closer to DelMonde’s head. “Is there still swelling and discoloration from the surgery?”

“Yes. It will disappear in a few hours.”

“Good. The shape and appearance of the ear is very vital in Romulan personal aesthetics. A somewhat larger ear is considered more sensual in males….” The lieutenant took in a deep breath and straightened. “However, as you say, he makes a handsome Romulan. Our other subject should be ready for his surgery in a little over an hour. I’m particularly anxious to see the results on his features. The planners feel that the more physically attractive he appears, the more convincing he will be in his role.”

“Your ‘subject’ has a name, you know,” Han reminded her pointedly.

MacEntyre took a moment to breathe in as an Indiian would when receiving criticism. “Yes, Doctor,” she replied with a professional calm. “He now has two names – a Human one and a Romulan one. I have begun to condition myself to think of him only by the latter. I assume it will be confusing for you and his other shipmates for me to refer to him that way aloud, though.”

“The conditioning you’re putting him through seemed very intense,” Han said, coming straight to the point. “Are you sure that it will be reversible -- that there will be no permanent damage to his psyche?”

“The Lieutenant Commander’s mind is remarkably pliant,” MacEntyre replied. “However it is also exceptionally resilient. I have no reason to believe the conditioning will cause him irreversible damage.”

Han paused and considered the myriad of things that could go wrong on this mission and cause not only Chekov, but the whole team damage of the ultimately irreversible kind.

“In the short term,” MacEntyre conceded. “He may experience some nightmares. Until I trigger the memory switch, I doubt he’ll sleep very well.”

“And what about you, Lieutenant?” Han looked into MacEntyre’s cool grey eyes. “Can you sleep well at night?”

The other woman once more had to take in a deep breath before she could answer, “After this mission is over, Doctor, I plan to sleep very, very well.”

Alone in his cabin, Spock took a place in front of the log recorder, inserted a data disc, and began recording.

My beloved wife,

If you are viewing this, I have obviously not returned from the undercover mission I was assigned to. I am recording this not only because that is a distinct possibility, but also because, as I could not communicate with you regarding it beforehand, I wanted to assure you that I have not forgotten our agreement never to keep things from one another.

I have been ordered to infiltrate Romulan society, attempting to discover the whereabouts of a base which trains Romulans to pass as Federation citizens of various races. In order to present the most plausible disguise, it was decided that I would pose as half of a Romulan Warrior Bond – that is, a male who is Bonded to another male. Since strong telepathic ability is required for this role, Starfleet made a decision regarding the other half of the alleged Bond, one that has distressed and angered me.

Beloved, this is difficult for more than one reason. The other telepath chosen to be surgically altered to pass as my Romulan Warrior Bond is Noel DelMonde. The difficulties between he and I have grown since he returned to the Enterprise. His hatred and disdain have been a constant irritant between us, and he does nothing to hide his continuing sense of anguished loss. And I – perhaps due to my union with you, and your long-standing one with him, perhaps due to my own guilt, perhaps due to his erratic shielding, or perhaps due to deliberate intent on his part – I feel it all from him as though I were empathic as well as telepathic. I need not tell you the effect this turmoil has on my well-being.

At this time, therefore, I cannot see how I will be able to feign the necessary respect and affection which would be the norm for a Romulan Warrior Bond. Yet I must do so. If there were to be discord suspected in such a Bond, it would be deemed necessary for a Romulan telepath to intervene to determine the cause. Is it the foreseeable nature of such an event that is the likely cause for the failure of the mission and of my inability to return to you.

My wife, forgive me.

If I am dead, I have no doubts that you know of it already. If I am merely considered missing in action, I know you will bend heaven and earth to find me – but I must beg you not to abandon your life and career for such a fool’s hope. If I am discovered to be a spy in Romulan territory, and if I were to survive their interrogation techniques, what you would discover, were you to ever find me, would not be worth saving. Believe me when I tell you that not even a keheil could reverse the kind of telepathic damage the Romulans would inflict.

And so, my dearest love, I am recording this to say good bye. I regret that we have been apart the past three months. I regret that my actions caused so great a rift between us for the better part of a year during our all-too-brief marriage. I regret that I will never see a child of mine grow within you, never again touch your face, or feel your arms around me, or hear your voice. I regret that this mission, should it fail, will likely take from you the only other man who could take my place in your heart – and yes, my Dei’larr’ei, that is the hardest of all admissions.

              I love you, my golden one. I always will. Remember me.
              Your husband
              Spock evan Amanda

Noel DelMonde was sitting up in the sickbay bed when Christine Chapel walked in. Although she had been assisting McCoy during the necessary surgery to alter the engineer’s physical appearance, she couldn’t stop the gasp upon seeing the completed work.

Del turned his head to her. “Get me a mirror, cher,” he said.

“Of – of course, Lieutenant Commander,” she stammered. She rushed to her office, returning with a small hand mirror, then watched in utter fascination as DelMonde examined his features in it. He turned his head from side to side, lifting then lowering his chin. He raised an elegant eyebrow, then scowled

You be likin’ me better now? suddenly sounded in her mind.

“Mr. DelMonde, I…” she began, and he turned, startled.

“I not say nothin’, Chris,” he stated.

“But I heard…”

His newly bronze-tinged green skin darkened in what she could only assume was a flush. “Gotta adjust my shields,” he muttered “Damn xenoneurophene.”

It was only then that Chapel realized his comment had not been intended for her. As she groped for something to say, the engineer returned the mirror to her.

“Leas’ I not ugly,” he commented wryly.

You could never be ugly, Chapel thought and he grinned at her.

“Why, what a kind t’ing to say, Miss Chapel,” he replied.

She blushed.

“You are to stop that immediately, Mr. DelMonde,” Pelori MacEntyre said as she stepped into the room.

Del stared. The pretty half-Indiian had been transformed into a haughty Romulan beauty. She had left her hair its natural bright red, and her eyes were still Indiian ice, but there could be no mistaking her heritage.

“Well, ain’t we th’ pretty pair,” Del remarked.

“Triad,” MacEntyre corrected as, behind her, Spock also entered the private room.

“Shee-it,” Del muttered.

Spock’s normal Vulcan skin had been darkened and given the Romulan bronzed tint. He sported a thin moustache and a neatly trisected beard. It gave his features an aristocratic superiority.

Rather than comment on the obvious ranking implied by the look, Del gave a false grin and asked, “So what ol’ T-Paul look like?”

“Chekov isn’t out of surgery yet,” Chapel informed him.

He studied the new color of his hands. “If I get injured, I not gonna bleed red, am I?" he stated dubiously.

“Of course not,” MacEntyre answered. “That would’ve been profoundly stupid.”

His grin remained unfriendly. “Jus’ checkin’.”

“Have you studied the tapes I gave you?” she said.

“Yeah, I read ‘em,” Del returned. “When I not passed out from drinkin’ too much,” he added with a vicious smile.

“And the language indoctrination has been completed?”

The engineer saw Spock frown at the word, and though he felt much the same way about the idea of ‘indoctrination,’ he wasn’t about to deliberately agree with the Vulcan on anything.

“I am fluent in several dialects of the common Romulan tongue,” he replied – in perfect Romulan.

“Does he still have a southern accent?” Chapel asked curiously.

“Hardly,” was MacEntyre’s disapproving response.

“You not like the way I normally talk, girlie?” Del challenged.

“My likes or dislikes have nothing to do with it,” the now-Romulan replied. “It is simply that any accent other than a distinct Romulan one would be most inappropriate.”

Calmly, Del rattled off a few of the more impolite Romulan epithets, then showed his teeth and said, “Just practicin’ Lieutenant.”

“Since this mission is classified,” MacEntyre said, taking no notice of Del’s rudeness, “It would be best if no one but those already briefed see you. I’m afraid I have to insist, Lieutenant Commander, that you remain in Sickbay. As will I,” she added to forestall his complaint.

“Oh, li’l Daffy ain’t gonna like that none,” Del returned, deciding that he could surprise the Lieutenant by not protesting. By the twitch of her eyebrow, he had.

“Mr. Chekov’s significant other has been appraised,” she answered. “It would have been unnecessarily cruel not to inform her.”

“Well, what you t’ink o’ that, Mr. Spock?” Del said pointedly. “Seem decent enough, non?”

Spock just as pointedly did not respond.

“He not gotta stay put, Lieutenant,” the engineer continued, shifting his gaze back to MacEntyre. “No one gonna t’ink he look much different.”

“Except for the beard,” Chapel put in, then smiled shyly at the First Officer.

With an obvious deep breath, Spock addressed the mission commander. “Since that is the case, Miss MacEntyre, I will take my leave. I will be in my office if I am needed.”

“Of course, Mr. Spock,” MacEntyre replied. Inside his head, Del heard, You will cease baiting him, Mr. DelMonde.

You will go to th’ farthest level o’hell I can toss you, Miss MacEntyre, Del rejoined. He felt Spock’s frown, and added, in Romulan, you too, Bonded.

“Nurse, leave us,” the lieutenant snapped.

Chapel’s blue eyes opened wide, but she hurriedly left the room. Pelori MacEntyre leveled an icy gaze on the engineer.

“Mr. DelMonde,” she said coldly, “as I have attempted to impress upon you, this mission is of the utmost importance and the utmost peril. You will control your enmity, you will control your telepathy, you will solidify your shielding until not a single stray thought can escape you without your conscious and deliberate knowledge. Or,” her eyes became silver lasers, “I will do it for you. Am I understood?”

Del let an eyebrow rise. “What make you t’ink any o’ that was less than deliberate, girlie?”

The woman before him blinked, then scowled. “If you were to do anything like that while in Romulan territory…”

“But we not,” Del interrupted, just as cold as she was. “An’ ‘til we are, my thoughts, my mind, an’ my opinions are my own – an’ I express ‘em whenever an’ to whomever I please. Am I understood, Lieutenant?”

“Discipline will serve you better, Lieutenant Commander,” she returned stiffly.

“Oh? Now that sound interestin’, darlin’,” he said with a grinning leer.

But is more your roommate’s style, Del heard.

Now who be needin’ to control her telepathy, hmmm?

Before him, Pelori started, frowning. It would appear the xenoneurophene has already had an effect.

Del chuckled, knowing and not caring that it was a familiar – from one or two lifetimes ago - evil sound. He watched as Spock held a brief conversation with the Romulan half-Indiian, then the two left him alone. He immediately called his cabin, hoping Cobra was off duty.

“Hey, Jer, you gotta see this,” Del’s voice said from the curiously video-blanked comm screen.

“So show me,” Jeremy replied. He’d been reading the latest communication from Sulu, and wasn’t happy about being interrupted for trivialities.

“Non, this gotta be in person,” the engineer replied, and from the tone of his voice, Paget could tell he was grinning.

“The surgery’s complete,” the Security Man said with a grin of his own.

“I oh so pretty,” Del confirmed. “An’ bring my guitar an’ a bottle or two. I not allowed outta Sickbay.”

Jeremy scowled. “I’m not lettin’ you drink on that poison,” he stated firmly.

“Shee-it, Cobra…”

“No, Cajun.”

A disgusted sigh came from the comm. “Yes sir, Commander, sir,” Del drawled. “But the guitar, non?”

“Sure,” Jeremy agreed, and closed the link.

A few minutes later, Jeremy walked into the small isolation room with DelMonde’s guitar case, and stopped dead in his tracks. The engineer – it was the engineer, wasn’t it? – sat in a padded lounge chair, his feet up on the Sickbay bed, dressed in medical coveralls, looking very much like himself, at least in attitude. His features, however…

Paget shook his head, deciding it would be a very good idea not to mention to his friend how much he resembled the First Officer.

“Oh, I do, do I?” Del said with a scowl.

Paget shrugged, not at all surprised that DelMonde had heard the thought.. “Not really, I guess,” he said, “but at first glance….” He shook his head again. “It’s just the ears, N.C..”

“An’ here I thought I good-lookin’,” the engineer muttered. “That what Chris think.”

“And she’s right,” Jeremy soothed. He set the case down and stepped closer to Del. “Do you mind?” he asked, leaning down.

“Examine away, Docteur,” Del said, graciously turning his head.

“Hush,” Paget said automatically, and Del grinned.

They were very nicely shaped ears, Jeremy decided., full and tapering to the distinctive Vulcan/Romulan point, though not curving inward quite as much as Spock’s – or Jilla’s. There was something unquestionably sensual about them and Jeremy had to smile when the engineer shivered at his light touch. The upswept eyebrows made Del's gaze seem colder, but no less intoxicating, and there was no clash between his altered skin tone and his already dark hair. “Yes,” the TerAfrican said at last, “you are oh so pretty.”

“I meet the requirements o’ you an’ Daf’s checklist fo’ desirable men?” the Cajun asked.

Paget grinned. “The important one.” He took a breath, and DelMonde said with him, “Very fuckable.”

“Commander Paget,” said a voice from the door, and Del scowled.

“Lieutenant, you never hear o’ knockin’?” he said as Pelori MacEntyre stepped through the doorway.

She arched an eyebrow at him. “I thought you would be able to sense my approach, Lieutenant Commander.”

Jeremy stared, well aware that he was being totally unprofessional. In her Romulan guise, Pelori was, to his mind, at least ten times more attractive than she’d been as her normal half-Indiian, half-Terran self. There was an elegance and cold assurance about her that made his heart rate jump. Must be them pointed ears, he sighed to himself, and in his head, heard DelMonde snort.

“I did,” the engineer was saying out loud, “but there lesser creatures in th' room.”

“Lesser creatures?” Pelori questioned.

“I s’posed to be t’inkin’ like a Romulan, non?”

“Commendable,” the lieutenant replied wryly. “The reason I’m here, Commander Paget, is that I wanted to inform you that there will be a limit on how much contact you will be allowed to have with our team now that we are in our Romulan disguises. It is deemed best, to allow us to make the conscious shift into our Romulan personas.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jeremy replied automatically, and again, DelMonde’s unvoiced commentary sounded in his mind. “I was just bringing him his guitar, ma’am.”

The lovely face frowned. “Romulans do not play guitar, Mr. DelMonde.”

“You know that part a li’l while back when I tell you I gonna say what I want?” Del told her. “That go for doin’ what I want, too. Here, Jer, pass me my ax.”

Carefully avoiding Pelori’s gaze, Jeremy handed the guitar case to his roommate. A few quick movements opened the snaps, and Del lifted the instrument out, settling it comfortably in his arms. He checked the tuning, played a few experimental chords, then glanced up at Paget.

“I got a new one,” he said. “You wanna hear it?” Without waiting for an answer, the engineer began to play, a bright, lively series of notes. Then he began to sing.

“Empathic girls are somet'ing, when they read you, it so sweet,
An’ Indiian girls wit’ they silver skin, they tia knock me off my feet…”

He gave a show of teeth in Pelori’s direction.

“The psychics an’ the pre-cogs really tell it like it is,
An’ kinetic girls when they strut they stuff can really hit me where I live
I wish they all could be telepathic girls….”

The lieutenant abruptly turned and left the room. Jeremy couldn’t stop his laughter.

“Some people not take a li’l good-natured’ teasin,” Del said wickedly

After a few more moments of conversation, Jeremy said his goodbyes to Del and strode purposefully through Sickbay, heading straight for Lieutenant MacEntyre. There were some things he had to discuss with her. While her manner certainly didn’t lead him to believe she was lax in considering all the data available to her, there was some data he was fairly certain she didn’t have.

She was sitting at a desk, transferring notes from a statboard, and she said, before he spoke, and without looking up, “Yes, Commander?”

“I need to speak to you about this mission,” Paget returned, very well used to having someone know he was there before he gave any outward indication. “As the Chief of Security for the Enterprise,” he added, lest she think it had something to do with his personal relationships.

She put the board down, giving him her full attention. “Yes, Commander,” she repeated.

From the other end of Sickbay, DelMonde’s voice and guitar could be clearly heard.

“The Vulcans have they cold facade, an’ they will power jus’ not fade…”

They both ignored it.

“I understand fully why those chosen for this mission were chosen,” he began. “And I have no doubts as to your abilities, or your training to handle the delicacies involved. However…” He paused, trying to decide how to best present the information. “There is a situation between Commander Spock and Lieutenant Commander DelMonde which presents a strong contraindication…”

“The Romulans, they empassíon’d, an’ they can cut you like a blade…”

“I am aware of the antagonism, Mr. Paget,” MacEntyre interrupted smoothly.

Paget frowned. “No, ma’am, I don’t think you are, begging your pardon.”

“I been around the galaxy an’ I seen all kind o’ gifts…

“Mr. DelMonde had an affair with the Commander’s Antari wife…” Pelori began again.

“But when I away from the UFP, it the Antaris that I miss
I wish they all could be telepathic girls…”

It was Jeremy’s turn to interrupt. “But that’s not what I’m talkin’ about,” he said, “though that is the cause of what I’m talkin’ about.” He took a deep breath. “N.C. – Lieutenant Commander DelMonde says he can feel the lingering presence of Spock’s Antari wife. Now, I’m mind-blind myself, but I can understand how a powerful telepathic and empathic being such as Ruth Valley could permeate the unconsciousness of those she comes in contact with, and how such impressions could be perceived by another gifted being.” He knew he was sounding much more like a psychologist than a redshirt, but he also knew that it was highly unlikely that MacEntyre didn’t already know that about him. “That sense of presence causes Mr. DelMonde constant pain and triggers memories that he worked hard at SanFran to suppress.” He leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk. “It’s why he drinks, Miss MacEntyre, and why he takes more sapphire than he’s prescribed.”

The lieutenant was frowning. “With a small application of discipline…” she said.

“And he channels all that misery to Mr. Spock,” Jeremy broke in bluntly. “Who, due to the fact that he’s not empathic and has no shields for those kinds of emanations, sends it right back to N.C. It’s a dangerous feedback loop, Lieutenant, and not one that either of them knows how to stop. Check the Commander’s physicals for the last three months and you’ll see the deterioration.”

With a raised eyebrow, Pelori turned to the view screen and did just that. After reading Spock’s medical file, her frown deepened.

“And,” Paget continued, “I can’t imagine that givin’ Mr. DelMonde xenoneurophene is gonna do anything other than make a bad situation worse.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Paget,” Pelori said. “Our research has significantly reduced the more harmful effects of the xenoneurophene/amyneurophene combination, while retaining its strengthening and shielding properties. When Mr. DelMonde has received the full dosage, it is extremely likely that his sense of Miss Valley’s presence will cease.” She glanced up at him, her cool eyes warming just a little. “And besides that, in a few days neither he nor Mr. Spock will be on the Enterprise – and where we’re going, I doubt there will be any lingering presence for either of them to sense.”

Paget sighed. It made sense from a gifted point of view. But he wasn’t at all certain that the ‘gifted’ explanation was the only one at work. Still, he’d presented his concerns to the mission commander, and that was really all he could do. He straightened.

“Yes, ma’am.” he said, “But I’d still suggest you keep an eye on it – in case the results of your research have different effects when out of the laboratory.”

“Thank you, Commander,” she returned and smiled.

The unexpected expression momentarily took Jeremy’s breath away, a wave of intense desire sweeping over him. He recognized the sudden awareness in her eyes – he’d seen it in Jilla’s - and grinned back at her. “I can’t help what I feel, Miss MacEntyre,” he admitted, “but I never let it interfere with my duty.”

The lieutenant flushed, her Romulan skin greening. “Perhaps, Mr. Paget, when I return from this mission, there will be a time when neither one of us are on duty.”

“I’d definitely like that, ma’am,” he returned.

“Mr. Paget?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Why do you call me ‘ma’am’? You outrank me.”

Jeremy blinked. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it’s your bearing, or your attitude of command. Maybe it’s the control of your gifts.” He shrugged, “And you are the mission commander.” He smiled again, “Ma’am.”

Their gazes locked for a moment, to be interrupted by Del’s:

“I wish they all could be telepathic girls…”

“He has talent, I’ll give him that,” Pelori scowled.

Jeremy chuckled. “Ma’am, you don’t know the half of it.”

“Wake up! Wake up!”

He tried very hard to obey. It was just too hard. His eyes wouldn’t open.

“Wake up!”

The woman sounded displeased.

Panic tightened his throat. It was important to always be pleasing. He tried to obey. It was so dark. He couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or not. What should he do? What should he do?

The woman moved away from him.

A sickening feeling gripped his stomach. She was displeased. He must not displease. He must try to harder to obey. Why couldn’t he wake up? He was shaking and sweating with panic. What should he do?

The room began to glow a dim blue.

“Pavel?” the woman asked, sounding more frightened than displeased. “Are you awake?”

As his eyes adjusted to the light, objects in the room took on a more familiar look. As he blinked at the woman, his notion of who she was began to reshape.

“Da…Da…Daphne?” he asked experimentally.

“Are you all right?” she asked, staying on the other side of the room, with her hand on the control for the lights.

“I am… so sorry,” he gasped. “So… sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Leaving the lights only half on, she tentatively moved to the foot of the bunk. “You were dreaming.”

“Sorry… sorry… sorry.” His hearted pounded painfully. He looked down at the tangled bed sheet wrapped around him. He should know where he was. He should know who he was. “So….sorry.”

“It’s okay.” The woman repeated, sitting down at the foot of the bed. “You’re okay. There’s nothing to apologize for. You just had a bad dream.”

“Dream?” Trying to orient himself, he brushed his damp bangs back from his forehead. His hand brushed against something…His ear… His ear curved into a point. That was wrong. He wasn’t a… A what?

“Pavel?” the woman asked. “Do you know where you are?”

“Daphne?” he repeated, a little more sure of himself this time.

“Pavel,” she reached out and touched his foot. “Do you know who you are? Tell me what your name is.”

“I am…” For a horrible minute, he remained completely blank. Think, he ordered himself. What was it she was calling him? “I am…Pavel…” as soon as he heard himself say it, the rest of his identity clicked into place. “Pavel Andrevitch Chekov,” the navigator said, smiling and sighing in relief. “Oh, that was quite a dream.”

Gollub didn’t return his smile. “This is part of what that bitch MacEntyre is doing to your mind, isn’t it?”

Chekov dropped back against the pillows, exhausted. “She warned me I might have nightmares until…”

“Until you let her completely wipe your brain?” the chemist supplied acidly.

The Russian was too relieved at remembering who and where he was to argue with her. He even knew that it had been so dark in the cabin because when they decided to have sex earlier that evening, Daffy had insisted on there being absolutely no lights. His new ears and eyebrows, she had decided, were just carrying the whole Mini-Spock thing too far. “Daphne… Dafshka, please come lay beside me.”

She complied grudgingly. “Oh, all right.”

“I am sorry,” he whispered in her ear when she was laying in his arms.

“Stop apologizing.” She brushed his hair back, careful to avoid his new ears. “Are you all right now?”

“Oh, yes, “ he assured her, nestling his head against her shoulder.

“You were dreaming you were a Romulan, weren’t you?”

“It’s over now,” he assured her, closing his eyes.

“Something bad was happening to you in the dream, wasn’t it?” she asked. “You were shouting things in an alien language. It sounded like you were begging for your life.”

“No, no…I was just….” Chekov stopped. Explaining that the dream had been about a routine beating was not going to comfort his girlfriend. “It was just a silly dream. Let’s go back to sleep.”

Gollub was quiet long enough for the navigator’s breathing to slow and his mind start to drift back off into sleep.

“What does ‘kavahn en zavret’ mean?”

“Let me serve you,” the Russian mumbled back automatically.

“That’s a strange thing to say when you’re begging for your life.”

“It’s nothing,” he assured her. “It’s nothing… I… He… The person in the dream was just promising anything to try to get out of a…. an unpleasant situation.”

He could see in the half-darkness that Gollub was frowning.

“Please, Dafshka. It’s nothing.” He stroked her face and kissed her shoulder. “I have read too much. You know how they always try to frighten you in the briefing materials for a mission. I just had a bad dream.”

“What does ‘kol'anii’ mean?”

Chekov’s eyes snapped open at the word. “What?”

“That’s the other thing you were yelling.”

“Oh, it only means ‘Forgive me,’” he lied. “Please, Dafshka, there is no need to be concerned. It was only a dream. You are always warning me not to read so much before I go to bed. Please, let’s go back to sleep.”

Daffy was still frowning. “I can’t believe you’re letting them do this to you.”

“Dafshka,” he soothed, letting his hand trail down to her breast. “Let’s not fight. We have so little time left before I must leave…”

As she let him kiss and caress her, the navigator wondered how truthful he was being. The dream had been very vivid. Was it the memory of the person he was going to become for the next few weeks? The woman in the dream had not looked at all like MacEntyre. And yet, he didn’t think Daphne would believe that if he told her that he had seen himself being punished in a room that very well could have been a bedroom while he cried, “Let me serve you, my Mistress! Let me serve you!”

“Damn,” Del swore softly to himself in Anglo as Chekov bent to serve him a slice of orange-colored meat.

MacEntyre smacked an impatient palm against the tabletop. “Mr. DelMonde, for the last time….!”

“Sorry,” the engineer replied quasi-repentantly. “But just look at them jack-rabbit jugs he got planted on either side o’ his head.”

“Oh?” Chekov said, dropping his humble servant facade. “And have you looked in a mirror lately?”

The Cajun reached out and spanned the navigator’s closest ear between his thumb and middle finger, then compared it to his own – fudging only a little to emphasize the disparity.

“Ah, you are correct.” The Russian nodded. “I do seem to have significantly more length than you.”

“Oh, that class, T-Paul,” the engineer retorted. “Go fo’ the dick joke… an’ right in front o’ your lady mistress…”

His “lady mistress” was flushed dark green with anger – and not at the joke. This was supposed to be a role-playing exercise to get them used to maintaining their Romulan personas. Thus far the results had been less than satisfactory.

“Gentlemen,” Spock said from the head of the table. “The sooner we complete this exercise…”

“The sooner we get out o’each other’s sight,” DelMonde finished for him. “...if not minds. From the top again, Miss MacEntyre?”

“If we could just continue, please,” the lieutenant snapped back. She took in a deep breath, smoothly falling back into her “Lady Ve’el” persona. “Tarvak,” she addressed Spock in an even, aristocratic tone, “is the pla’t’or to your liking? I gave the cook special instructions to make the dish conform to the guidelines your physician has prescribed.”

“It is well prepared, my Lady,” the Vulcan replied. Since Spock was a vegetarian and most Romulans were not, the cover story was to be that he had a condition of the digestive system that required him to be on a special diet.

Normally, every day conversation between intimates like this would have been carried on telepathically. However, MacEntyre had deemed the group unready to make that jump yet.

“And is your meal prepared to your liking, Joron?” she asked Del, her glare daring him to misbehave.

“It is also well-prepared, my Lady,” the engineer replied in flawless Romulan, as he took a polite bite of the orange meat. He seemed to have a little trouble swallowing it. “Although it does have the taste of the inside of a marazhon’s intestines….”

‘Lady Ve’el’s’ eyes narrowed. “Do you wish to have the cook flogged?”

“No,” 'Joron' replied, quickly draining his glass of wine and gesturing to their servant for a refill. “I think beating our server will sufficiently make the point.”

“Lahs!” Ve’el snapped at her slave who was scowling in a most inappropriate way at her junior husband.

“More wine, my lady?” the non-gifted offered, swiftly correcting his expression and hurrying to her side.

Suck up, Del’s voice mocked inside Chekov’s head.

The navigator waited until he was behind MacEntyre to make a very discrete rude gesture at his younger “master” with the hand that was also out of Spock’s line of sight.

“Lahs,” Ve’el said in a tone that convinced him she had eyes in the back of her head.

“My Lady?” he said, coming to her side.

When she pointed at the ground beside her, he awkwardly assumed the kneeling position he’d seen in all the tapes – flushing bright green and avoiding the engineer’s eyes. “Yes, my Lady?”

Ve’el lifted his chin. “My Mistress,” she corrected firmly.

The Russian could hear mocking laughter inside his head as he turned an even deeper shade of green and choked out, “Yes, my Mistress.”

Daffy gonna kill your ass when she hear ‘bout this, the voice inside his head promised.

“Joron,” ‘Tarvak’ said sternly. “You make a poor jest at this fellow’s expense.”

“Forgive me, my Bonded,” ‘Joron’ replied as properly as he was required, but letting a seething flow of animosity stab…

“What the fuck was that?” Del demanded in Anglo when a forceful psychic wave shoved his emotions back towards him.

“You must learn self-control, Joron,” Ve’el replied, gesturing her chastened servant to refill her senior husband’s glass. “Your displays of temper are not acceptable.”

The engineer glared at her for a moment, before slamming down his utensils. “Oh, fuck this!” he exclaimed, rising and storming out of the room.

Pelori MacEntyre blew out a long frustrated breath. “Gentlemen, it looks as though we’re going to be taking another break.”

“Perhaps if Dr. Han spoke to him…” Spock recommended without much enthusiasm.

“That’s a very good idea, sir,” the lieutenant returned, carefully re-folding her napkin. “I was thinking more along the lines of asking your captain to put him in the brig for a few hours.”

“His roommate has a certain skill at delivering motivational speeches,” Chekov suggested, pouring himself a glass of the Romulan wine he’d been serving other people for over an hour.

“Or I could just wring his neck now and save all our lives,” MacEntyre concluded, crumpling the neatly folded napkin in her fists.

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” Chekov said, giving her an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “In theatre, people say, ‘Bad dress rehearsal – Good performance.’”

MacEntyre sighed. “Then I wish were in the theatre.”

“With this much drama,” the Russian agreed ruefully. “We would be a sure hit.”

Go To Part Three
Return To Part One
Return to Valjiir Stories
Return to Valjiir Continnum