No, NO! Spock, how can you…! Joron screamed.

Find another way, the Vulcan insisted, his tone anguished but unyielding.

He loves her, don’t you know that? As much as you do, as much as I do Tarvak! How can you take her from him, how can you let him die like this!?

Joron, you can keep the body alive, Tarvak commanded. You can breathe for him, use the isti’li to wrap his mind until healers can be found…

And he can return to what?! Joron demanded, agony pouring from him. Pelori is dead, this shor’vath denies him the only other union that matters! He turned his thoughts again on Spock. Half-breed monster, is Vulcan reverence for life but a sham? Are you so selfish, so blind, so conscienceless that you will allow Del to die so that you needn’t be bothered with his claim on the golden one? Bastard, fucked-up, fucked-up bastard…!!

Joron, khrahkah! Tarvak roared, and while his Bonded’s thoughts froze, the Human body did not. With only emotion to guide it, it attacked the Vulcan next to it, screaming in incoherent syllables of rage and vengeance. It couldn’t overcome Vulcan strength, so it simply grasped one arm, neatly flipping the body over onto its back, continuing down with it to claw at the hated face and eyes – and mind.

Jeremy Paget quickly assessed the situation, fear rising all along the back of his neck. He saw the Intelligence agents aiming their weapons at the grappling – Vulcan? Indiian? – and snapped, “Weapons down!” He opened the small medkit at his waist, moving swiftly toward the two men. “With the xenoneurophene they’ll absorb anything stronger than the kill setting,” he explained. Then he knelt, took a deep breath, shouted, “Kroykah!” directly into Commander Spock’s ear, and hit the Indiian DelMonde with a hypo at his neck at the same time. As soon as the engineer’s muscles went limp, he hit Spock with another hypo, just to be safe. He leaned back on one booted heel and glanced around. Chekov was a sobbing, trembling, moaning heap. There was an Indiian boy, holding onto him and Jeremy couldn’t quite suppress the shock of recognition. The two Intelligence agents were each speaking into their communicators.

“Where’s Lieutenant MacEntyre?” he asked.

Lieutenant Pelori MacEntyre was dead, having given her life in the line of duty. Spock, DelMonde, and Chekov were in Sickbay on the Enterprise, their normal appearances being returned as the Intelligence Officers carefully removed the navigator’s Romulan persona. It had been decided to assess the damage to DelMonde’s brain before extracting Joron or his Bonded. The young Indiian who looked too much like Sulu – and who was really a Romulan – was being held in a well-guarded but comfortable stateroom. The Enterprise had placed a tractor beam on the orbiting shuttle, but its occupant had committed suicide before he could be beamed to the brig. The shuttle’s last transmission, when decoded, had included only information about an apparent equipment malfunction on the station, with no hint that the ‘operatives’ had been captured or compromised in any way. The Intelligence Officers had ordered that a final, false transmission be sent, indicating that the Telanate agents had returned successfully and that the shuttle was returning to Romulan space. Then the Enterprise phasered the empty craft out of existence.

Jeremy stood outside the Sickbay room with Jade Han and Captain Kirk.

“Are Lieutenant Commander DelMonde and Commander Spock gonna survive this, Doctor?” he asked the small Chinese women.

I don’t know,” she returned softly, staring at the observation window. “Without knowing the details of what brought them to blows….”

Paget gave her a disbelieving stare.

“…what final straw precipitated them coming to blows,” she corrected smoothly, “I have no way of making any psychological prognosis.”

The intercom on the wall signaled, and Kirk stepped up to it. “Captain Kirk,” he said, “Go ahead, Uhura.”

“Sir,” came the lovely communications officer’s voice, “I’ve got a priority call from the Shipyards. It’s Commander Majiir.”

Jim raised his eyebrows and said, “Put it though, Lieutenant Commander.”

With halting, confused sentences, Jilla’s voice told them what had transpired only minutes before. The sound of Ruth’s sobs in the background could be plainly heard.

“Has something untoward happened to Mr. DelMonde?” the Indiian asked at last.

Jim sighed. “That’s a long story, Mrs. Majiir,” he said. “He and Spock and Chekov were on an undercover assignment. They’ve just returned. They’re all alive, but there were some… irregularities in the completion of the mission. I’m sorry, but it’s need-to-know.”

“I understand, sir,” Jilla replied. “But given the strength of Ruth’s reactions…”

“Just tell me he’ll live!” Ruth wailed.

“He’ll live, Ruth,” Jade put in, then, with deliberate misunderstanding, added, “and so will Mr. DelMonde.”

“Zehara, Zehara, Zehara…” came the Antari’s moans of relief.

“Calm, her, Jilla,” Jade continued. “We’ll be contacting you with the details when we can.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Jilla said. “And thank you, Captain. Majiir out.”

Jim closed the com, then turned to Jade. “You’re certain about that, are you, Doctor?”

“Yes, I am,” Jade responded. “Though I can’t guarantee he’ll want to.”

Del awoke and immediately wished he hadn’t. He was raw, inside and out, his head a jumble of grief and rage and despair. She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead! was a constant stream of anguish within him, a pressure so great it made his chest want to explode.

I tried to bring the golden one to you, Joron’s voice apologized brokenly. They wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t let…

I not wanna know, Romulan, Del snarled back.

There was a catch, as if Joron had taken a deep breath. So it’s back to that, now, Human?

I jus’ want you an’ all the memory o’ this fucked-up bullshit the fuck outta my head, the engineer growled.

I tried to save your life… the Romulan protested grimly, though it’s plain you have absolutely no regard for mine.

Why should I? Del demanded. You no’ting to me, now, boy, not’ing but a reminder o’ what I done lost.

I’m sorry for that, Joron murmured, but it’s hardly my fault. The voice paused. Nor it is my fault that they won’t remove my essence until they’re certain you’ll be able to breathe on your own.

I breathin’ right enough, son.

No. I am.

Del took stock of that. Then he carefully made himself take a conscious breath. Then another, then another.

I breathin’, he said at last.

Well, then, the Romulan within him sighed. I suppose this is good-bye.

An’ good luck, an’ good riddance, Del returned.

He closed his heart to the unbearable sorrow.

My deepest apologies Spock, Tarvak said carefully when the Vulcan had recovered from the telepathic sedative. Joron was truly only trying to save Mr. DelMonde, in the only way he could comprehend.

I understand, Tarvak, Spock returned. I trust you understand why such a ‘solution’ was not possible.

Not entirely, the Romulan replied hesitantly, although I don’t need to. That it is not the course you would choose for your life is not mine to question.

I thank you for that.

After a moment of silence, Tarvak ventured, They will come to remove me from your body soon. I do not know what awaits me or Joron. I do not know if we will continue as bodiless ghosts or be transferred to some other host, or if we will be allowed to go into the Afterlife…

Nor do I, Spock silently acknowledged the fear and sadness in the Romulan’s thoughts. But I wish you well, Tarvak. I hope this experience has not proven to be too unpleasant for you.

Spock, after Joron’s attack…. The Romulan paused. May I still count on your willingness to allow us a final moment…?

I gave you my word, conditioned on Mr. DelMonde’s acceptance. The Vulcan was clearly uneasy.

I will not take undue advantage, Spock, Tarvak promised, and I thank you for your understanding.

Spock looked up from the sickbay bed as the Human Intelligence officer, Halloway, and her Vulcan compatriot, Sekan, entered the small room. Between them, supported by their unwavering grip on his upper arms, was DelMonde.

“Are you prepared for the severing?” Sekan asked.

“I been ready since the day you put this damned ghost in me,” DelMonde muttered.

“As am I,” Spock answered, “however, I made a promise to Tarvak.” He deliberately avoided DelMonde’s gaze. “He wishes for one final moment with his Bonded.”

“Oh, hell no!” DelMonde snapped.

“It is a reasonable request,” Halloway said softly to the engineer.

Please, Mr. DelMonde, Tarvak whispered. You have lost so much, believe me when I tell you that even a brief moment within our Bond will help to heal your soul.

As I believe I mentioned to you – one or two lifetimes ago, Joron added, his humor soft and immensely sad.

I hate him, I hate him, I hate him… Del seethed.

Please, don’t hate Tarvak, Joron reprised.

For a moment, Del was surrounded by all the despairing need of the Bond – the fear that this would, indeed, be the last time they would touch, fear of the unknown future, fear, even, of having to ‘guest’ inside another alien body. When the fear for his life and future filled in what small cracks were left, he felt tears in his own eyes and relented.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” he snarled. “But you mind them restrictions.”

I will, I will, thank you! Joron’s voice was suffused with grateful relief.

Del took a deep breath and retreated, and Spock did likewise.

Tarvak rose from the sickbay bed, taking his Bonded into his arms. Do not be afraid, my love, he said. Whatever befalls us, I am with you.

Can we decide, beloved? Joron asked. With the isti’li, can we be strong enough to vacate these bodies on our own, to prevent the monsters who stand next to us from using us again?

Perhaps, if we but had a guide… Tarvak replied sadly.

But we do, Joron said. He took a breath, closing his eyes. A voice that was neither his own nor Del’s welled within him.

Dishonored dead, why are you here?

Tarvak’s breath caught in his throat.

We desire to tarry here no longer, he said to it.

Follow me to the Altar of Souls, Warrior.

Kiss me, Tarvak, Joron begged softly.

You never need to ask for that, my Dei’lrn.

Kah-lir, I love you.

And I, you, my Bonded.

They embraced, their lips meeting with soft pressure, letting union fill them. It was warm and sweet, and Joron sent it to Del’s essence, leaving a lingering memory of wholeness and completion as a skin to wrap the engineer’s raw, wounded mind in. I journey…

Blue power surged through them, the flame of the Altar of Souls growing and expanding to cover and consume them. They blazed together, caught in its cleansing power, their spirits blending and melting together, one mind, one heart, one soul…

I journey… Orliot sang, ….on.

Del abruptly jumped away from the Vulcan’s arms. With a snarl, he spat, then his face contorted and he immediately puked on the Sickbay floor.

Seven hundred an’ twenty-four, seven hundred an’ twenty-five, seven hundred an’ twenty-six… Del lay on his back counting the small dots in the ceiling tiles above his bunk. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten started. Anything to keep his mind blank. Maybe he’d been thinking about Lahs… After Del got past fifty, though, he knew he was on his own.

Seven hundred an’ twenty-seven, seven-hundred an’ twenty-eight. On his own. So empty. Like a cold blue desert.

When he heard the door slide open, the engineer closed his eyes. He couldn’t take even Jer right now. Jer was trying so hard. Jer was looking after him so good…

The river of anger that was the only thing moving in Del’s soul washed over the idea of Jer and his good intentions. Damn Jer for trying hard. Damn Jer for keeping him alive. Why the hell wouldn’t they all just let him die?

Del blinked when he realized that the person who walked in was not Jeremy Paget. This person was too quiet.

He raised his head just far enough off the pillow to glare at his visitor. “What the fuck you doin’ here?”

His former roommate stood at the foot of his bunk and shook his head. “You still don’t remember to lock the door, Noel.”

“Fuck you.” DelMonde rolled over onto his side, facing away from the Russian. “Get th’ fuck outta here.”

Chekov sat down on Jer’s bunk. “I do not intend to stay long.”

“Jus’ long enough to tell me off fo’ tryin’ to kill your beloved mother-fuckin’ Vulcan mentor?” the engineer asked acidly.

“I did not come to talk.”

When he heard a clicking sound, Del had to look over his shoulder. The Russian had laid a plain black box on the bunk beside him. When he opened the clasps, Del could see the bottle of Polish vodka nested in packing straw. As the navigator removed the bottle and two glasses, the engineer pulled himself carefully up into a half-seated position.

Chekov remained silent as he handed him a glass. “Long ago,” he finally explained filling his own glass, “You and I made a rule…”

“No cryin’ ‘less you drinkin’,” DelMonde finished for him as the Russian poured a measure of clear liquid for him. He stared at it numbly. There were no tears in him. An empty desert with a river of hate running though it couldn’t cry. He thought about the last time they’d drunk together like this – so many lifetimes ago. It had been for Irina… another brave secret soldier-girl, who was gone now… gone in an instant by her own choice.

Suddenly the tears that he’d told himself had all dried to ash flooded his eyes. Sobs from the core of his raw, bleeding soul shook him.

The Russian gently took the glass from his trembling fingers and patiently refilled it.

“I be dead inside now, T-Paul,” Del heard his own hollow voice confess, letting his old roommate wrap his hand around the drink as the tears streamed down his face. “They not not’ing left fo’ me.”

Chekov waited for his ex-roommate’s breathing to even out, then raised his glass. “We drink to her now.”

“Don’ say her name,” the engineer begged quietly. “I can’t hear that right yet.”

The navigator nodded. “It’s not necessary.” He held out his glass. “To our fallen comrade.”

Del made himself clink glasses before lifting the contents to his lips and tossing down all its contents in one feral gulp. The vodka burned down his throat like liquid pain. One thing about the damned Russians – they knew how to drink. They knew how to take this simple act and turn it into a ritual in which one swallowed agony and became one with it.

Chekov refilled his glass.

“You look like you doin’ all right.” The bitterness in Del twisted this observation into an accusation. “Guess Daf glad to have you back.”

The Russian nodded, but – even in his thoughts – didn’t elaborate.

“How much of it all you rememberin’?” Del asked.

He could feel the other man’s mind flinch away from those memories. “More than I will ever tell Daphne,” Chekov admitted and held out his glass again.

The vodka didn’t sting as much this time. Pain was making itself comfortable inside him, like an old friend who planned to stay for a while.

“It’s like a dream.” The Russian rested his glass on his thigh. “Most is indistinct, confused. But there are moments…” He refilled both glasses. “Moments of extreme emotion… a few images... I remember being beaten… and…. uhm… the bathtub.”

“An’ the shower?” Del said, unable to reign in his own cruelty.

Chekov’s already pink cheeks reddened. “Parts of that… And something about watching someone being taken away… And at the end, the great sadness… the loss.” The Russian’s eyes filled with borrowed tears. “Small moments too… her eyes… her beautiful hair…”

Rage twisted the engineer’s guts when he realized that the ex-slave was remembering his mistress. “That bitch Ve’el killed my Pelori,” he snarled. “Damn her to a hundred hells. Damn that soulless, undead, noir, vampire bitch to the worst, deepest, fuckin’ hell there is for a thousand eternities.”

The Russian nodded despite the fact his cheeks were still wet with mourning for the Romulan lady. “In the end, though,” he pointed out, holding out his glass, “the lieutenant made her own decision. She was brave.”

Del clinked his drink against it with anguished pride. “That was my girl.” The fiery liquid warmed his throat like the sun on the desert. “None braver.”

They sat in silent memorial for a moment.

The engineer wiped at his eyes. “She kept tellin’ me it was gonna come down to death. Why I not listen to her, T-Paul?”

“You never listen to anyone, Noel,” the Russian replied without rancor.

“Fuck you,” the Cajun replied without any force behind the curse

“To lose someone you have cared for so deeply never seems possible.” The pain of experience was sharp in the Russian’s voice. “It is hard to accept. There is nothing harder in life to accept.”

DelMonde rubbed the back of his hand across his cheeks. “I guess you gonna try to tell me now that time heals all.”

Chekov held up his glass. Infinite sadness shone in his brown eyes. “No,” he said. “I am not.”

After living in a web of carefully crafted layers of subterfuge, lies, and double lives woven by scheming Federation strategists and desperate Romulans, this truth burned like the vodka in his stomach. It was as pure and clear as the love Pelori MacEntyre could only reveal fully to him in her last moment of life.

“What is the phrase you use?” the Russian asked. “C’est le guerre?”

“No, Pavel.” DelMonde took in a deep breath. “It c’est la vie.” He clinked glasses to hide the echoes of angels in his voice. “C’est la vie.”

The room was luxurious far beyond anything Wen had ever seen, other than his former Master’s bedroom. The bed was soft, there were comfortable chairs, a convenient dresser and mirror, a desk with a computer terminal - even a private bathroom. At first he wasn’t at all sure that someone hadn’t made a mistake, but the handsome, dark-skinned man in the red shirt had assured him that these were to be his temporary quarters.

He sat quietly on the bed, trying to understand what had happened. He had only a few facts to go on. Joron, Tarvak, the Lady Ve’el and Lahs weren’t. They were but Federation officers impersonating Romulans. That in and of itself was an order of magnitude beyond his comprehension. He was, after all, Dei’lrn – he was quite sure that the minds he felt were true Romulan ones, as sure as he was that Lahs actually was non-gifted.

He was on board a Federation starship, and he wasn’t going to be interrogated nor executed. The Human female who had come to the suite on the station has scanned him and pronounced him of no strategic value – meaning he didn’t know anything that could be used against the Empire. Wen was glad of that, but he’d been certain he was then facing a death sentence. But the kind, red-shirted man had explained that, too. “The Federation doesn’t work that way, boy,” he’d said, his use of the word far friendlier and with no sense of irony or humiliation. “We don’t kill innocents just ‘cause they happen to be different than us.”

The final piece of information was that Wen had no idea what was going to be done with him. He had no idea if he was to continue to be an Indiian. He had no idea if the medicines the Telanate had given him would wear off, if his ears would grow back, if his eyebrows would revert to their true shape. Nor did he know if he wanted them too. Too much of his life had been too difficult because he was deemed so pretty. He hadn’t had time, during his reconditioning, to wonder how true – other Romulans had missed his gift during the birthing examinations. He had understood from Joron…Liison… whatever the name of the Human officer was – that what the Telanate had called ‘a touch of empathy’ was far more formidable than they had let him believe. He supposed it was fortunate that his former Master’s aberrations had led to the discovery…

His mind froze as the Telanate commands overwhelmed his thoughts. Never think it, never feel it, you have no Bond, your soul is alone. Such contact is abhorrent, the blasphemy must be cleansed. You are not bound to any other. You have no Bond, your soul is alone.

Wen swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and let the new truth wash away his fear. He was not to blame. He would not be held responsible. All he needed to do was be a good boy and do what his Telanate trainers told him.

Except, of course, he would never see them again.

He was still sitting on the bed, hours later, when a nameless sense of dread began rising in him. His heart starting beating faster, his temples throbbing. It was familiar sensation, a frightening one. It was the touch of his Master’s emotions, calling, whispering. Soon, Wen knew, there would be commands, he would be ordered to do, to feel, to become the desperate abomination that…

But the words the feelings resolved to were not of perversion nor compulsion. These were hopeless, defeated, pain and grief too great to bear. He recognized Joron’s voice – and had an oddly lucid moment of realizing that he had never heard Joron’s voice – muttering broken sounds, something about “sapphire” taking too long, wondering if he could get “ol’ Jer” to be a “li’l bitty bit” careless with a “phaser.” Then Wen realized he was talking about telepathic manipulation – and the reason it felt so familiar became horribly clear.

He jumped up from the bed, desperate but not knowing what to do. He rushed to the door, surprised when it slid open. A red-shirted male stood there – not the kind, dark-skinned one – and Wen blurted out, “Master Joron needs help, sir!”

“Master…?” the man said, turning to him.

“Please, sir,…!” The name came to him, and he cried, “Please, I need to speak with Master Paget!”

Jeremy hurried to the cabin that had been assigned to the young Romulan in an Indiian body. He’d been in his office trying to arrange some sort of place for the boy. Agents Halloway and Sekan had indicated their willingness to take him, but after seeing the aftermath of one of their assignments, Jeremy wanted to exhaust every other option first. He’d put in calls to the Vulcan Science Academy, S’rel Kehara on Antares, and even the Indiian Ambassador. When the call came from the guard, he dropped everything.

As he entered the cabin, the adolescent was pacing rapidly back and forth, his silver skin glowing like a beacon. Jeremy had to again repress his shock – the boy looked so much like… He took a deep breath. “What’s the problem, Wen?” he asked, trying to exert a calm demeanor.

“Master, it’s Joron!” Wen said, coming to him, his silver eyes wild.

Jeremy frowned. “I told you not to call me…” he began.

“He… he thinks of … of death …”

Paget closed his eyes briefly, certain the boy had felt the strange disappearance of DelMonde’s Romulan ‘guest.’ “I’m sorry, Wen, but Joron and Tarvak are both…”

“I’m not talking about…” Wen cried, then stopped, flustered. “Sir, I don’t know the name of the man, the one who was Joron…”

“N.C.?” the TerAfrican said automatically.

“Ensee,” Wen repeated. “Sir, Ensee is thinking of ways to trick you into providing him with a weapon. He wants to go to the Afterlife, but there’s no honor in it! I don’t understand….!”

“Fuck shit, I do,” Paget sighed. “Thanks, Wen,” he said, “but how do you know?”

The boy’s head bent, his skin again shimmering. “I – I felt it, sir. I’m Dei’lrn, I feel the emotions, and because of… past…” His voice started to choke.

Jeremy placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, intending to guide him to the bed where he could get control of his reactions. But when his hand made contact, Wen gasped, nearly whirling to face him, the gray eyes wide and staring and somehow both horrified and longing.

The expression was far, far too familiar and Jeremy swallowed, trying to alter the emotions that the boy was responding to, when Wen suddenly stumbled away from him, rasping, “You are Bonded!”

“I’m what?” Paget repeated, then shook his head vehemently. “No, no, Wen, I’m Human, I’m mind-blind, I don’t have any gifts…”

“I feel it,” was a whisper of wanting and dread.

Something’s definitely not right with this boy, Jeremy thought. Maybe the best thing would be for telepaths trained in all sorts of methodology to take charge of him. “Okay, you just calm down now,” he said aloud, reaching out again to comfort him.

“Please don’t touch me!” the boy rasped.

The TerAfrican raised his hands. “All right, all right, calm down, I’m not touching,” he soothed.

That seemed to do the trick. Wen shuddered, then sat down, glancing up tentatively.

“Can you help Ensee, Master – “ He closed his mouth on the word.

“Just call me Jeremy,” Paget said. “and yeah, I’ll help N.C.” He had to grin at the way the boy had interpreted the initials. “Now, Wen, about you…”

“Will you send me back to Kol-ran?” the boy interrupted.

“Is that on Romulus?”

“It’s the province where I was born.”

“No, Wen, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Jeremy studied the young man. “Did you like Lieutenant MacEntyre?”

Wen blinked. “Who, sir?”

Paget made a face. “Oh yeah. I mean Ve’el.”

Wen’s head bent. “No, sir,” he murmured.

Shit. “I think you need to be with people who can train your empathy.”

“Like the Telanate, sir?”

Jeremy thought about that. From what he’d seen, their methods weren’t all that different, or their ethics. Still, they were the best qualified. He sighed, knowing what recommendations he’d be making to Captain Kirk.

“I guess, yeah,” he answered the boy. To his surprise, Wen’s face lit with a hesitant smile.

“They were very good to me,” he said softly. “They could’ve have mind-wiped me, or just killed me, but they took the trouble to try and find a place for me. I’m sorry I won’t be going back to them.”

“Then I think you’ll like the Intelligence Unit,” Paget returned, trying to match the young man’s smile. “You just rest here until they’re ready to come for you.” He started back to the door, then added, “thanks, again, Wen. And good luck.”

When the door had closed behind him, Jeremy almost turned back. For some reason he couldn’t define, it felt like he was missing something important. But when it wouldn’t coalesce, he put it on a mental back burner to concentrate on the more immediate problem of his suicidal roommate.

Wen sat on the edge of the bed, calming himself. He tried to send the thought that help was on its way to Ensee, but he doubted his meager gift would allow the much stronger telepath to hear him. He was glad he’d been able to think of some way to help, though. It made up, in small part, for the terrible way he had failed Lahs when the older – the non-gift’s mistress had been so cruelly taken from him.

I am sorry, Lahs, he thought softly, tears coming to his eyes. I know how you felt about her. I hope you know how I felt about you. I hope you can forgive me.

When the members of the Federation Telanate came to take him, he was still crying.

The transmission light on the communications terminal in the small house at Berkeley lit, the attendant chime beginning it’s soft summons. Ruth was out on the porch, playing her guitar, so Jilla turned from the dishes she was washing to open the hailing frequencies.

“Commander Majiir,” she said, taking a seat at the desk.

“Good evening, Mrs. Majiir, “ came Spock’s voice as the screen resolved into the Vulcan’s calm face.

“Good evening, Spock,” Jilla returned. “I am pleased to see you have recovered.”

Spock’s eyebrow rose. “Recovered, Jilla?” he asked.

The Indiian flushed. “I called the Enterprise when…”

“Ah. I see. Is Ruth available?”

“Of course, sir.” Jilla rose, taking the few steps to the large patio door. “Ruth,” she said to the Antari, “There is a transmission from Spock.”

She was nearly bowled over when the taller woman bolted up and into the house. She took the guitar her roommate handed her without question, then set it carefully against the wall and returned to her dishwashing.

“Beloved, you’re all right, thank Zehara, I was so worried, what the hell happened to Del, what was that, who was that, I can’t take this, let me come home!” Ruth blurted out before she was even actually sitting down and without taking a breath.

“Calm yourself, my wife,” Spock returned, though a small smile of pleasure and relief was pulling at the corners of his mouth. “To answer these questions is precisely why I have instigated this communication.”

“God, I love it when you talk like that. Hell, right now, I love it when you talk. I miss you so much…”

“As I do you, Dei’l…” He stopped on the word and Ruth frowned.

“What’s that all about?” she asked.

Spock paused. “It is a very long story, Ruth, and most of the details are still classified. I have received permission to explain the telepathic communication you received, but nothing more.”

“Have I mentioned lately that I hate Starfleet?” the Antari scowled. “No, I haven’t, because I haven’t talked to you in fucking weeks!”

“Which is because I have been on an undercover mission in Romulan space.”

Ruth’s mouth opened in shock, and she carefully closed it. “Okay,” she said.

“With Pavel Chekov and – Noel DelMonde.”

“Oh god,” Ruth whispered.

“We were – implanted – with what were explained as false Romulan memories, which turned out to be the essences of actual Romulans. I cannot give you more detail than that, my wife, but what you experienced was the xenoneurophene enhanced contact of my Romulan ‘guest’ and that of Mr. DelMonde.”

“Xenoneurophene?!” Ruth snapped. “Who’s bright idea was it to use that poison?!”

“Starfleet Intelligence,” was Spock’s crisp response.

“Oh god… are you sure you’re all right?”

“I did not ingest any of the chemical,” the Vulcan reassured her.

“But Del did,” Ruth frowned.

“We were informed that Starfleet chemists had modified it to be safe.”

“I’ll bet.” Ruth frowned again. “Spock, the – communication – was covered in cerulean blue, even from you…”

“Yes. The effects of the drug leaked from my Romulan guest to me.”

“How? If you weren’t taking any, how did your body…?”

Spock sighed. It was a long sigh, an uncomfortable one, and Ruth squinted at the screen.

“What aren’t you telling me, husband?” she asked.

“Only the things I am not at liberty to, beloved.”

You promised, Spock.

I did. The Romulans implanted in Mr. DelMonde and I were Warrior-Bonded.

What the hell’s a….oh. Ruth’s mental voice grew shocked. OH!

And when Mr. DelMonde took the drug, it also enhanced – his Romulan guest…

This ‘Joron’ person.

…which bled, through his Bond to my guest…

And that would be ‘Kah-lir’ right? But that’s not a name…

His name was Tarvak. His enhancement then bled into me.

After another disconcerted pause, Ruth said hesitantly, They talked about my bonding with Del…

Yes. Joron believed that if you and he formed that tie, he and I would be forced to accept Joron’s Bond to Tarvak, and we could all live together in a pleasant pentagamy.

Oh, Spock, I’m so sorry….

It seemed, to Joron, a logical solution to the idea that he and Tarvak would be forever encased in bodies which are not particularly fond of one another.

Forever… Spock, you don’t mean…?!

No, my wife. They chose to use the power inherent in the xenoneurophene to vacate my body and that of Mr. DelMonde. They are dead, truly dead and beyond the reach of Starfleet Intelligence.

Ruth felt the sting of loss and the grief for the ended lives that permeated Spock’s being. I’m sorry, she said again.

I am pleased they were able to find a way out of their dilemma, her husband returned, his mental voice clearly subdued.

Spock… Del, is he… I mean with the xenoneurophene, will he…and if there were some empathic blending from the Joron person, the death would have…

I do not know what his current condition is, other than he was deemed well enough to be released from Sickbay. As was I.

Ruth offered a third, I’m sorry and Spock brushed it away.

“I have another matter I wish to discuss, my wife,” he said aloud. “It concerns our marriage contract.”

“Time to re-up already?” the Antari teased, trying to get back some semblance of normalcy.

“Not quite. But I wish to consider the idea of formalizing the Bond which already exists between us.”

“Bond?” Ruth repeated.

“Our telepathies are in harmony. It is only the actual Vulcan ritual which…”

“And the Antari one, but who’s counting cultures?”

Spock blinked. “There is an Antari bonding?”

“Of course. On a planet full of telepaths it’s a natural.”

“So it would seem.” The Vulcan paused. “At any rate, I would ask you to consider whether you would be amenable such a thing.”

“To a salish?”

“That is the Antari bond?”

“Ooh, I so wish you were here so I could smack you!” Ruth retorted. “I told you once upon a time that my parents were.” She pursed her lips. “Maybe I’ll call Daffy and have her do it for me.”

“Unwise, my wife.”

“Or you could just come here and let me do it myself.”

“And if that were possible, I would.”

“Even to get smacked?”

“Any physical contact with you would be immeasurably welcome, beloved.”

“Spock, I miss you so much…” Ruth said, her eyes filling with tears.

“As I do you, my wife. I must go. There is a time limit on the use of the communications facilities.”

“Tell Uhura I’ll get her for this.”

“It is hardly Miss Uhura’s…”

“Joke, Spock. Oy vey, I’m gonna have to totally retrain you.”

“I hope not totally, my wife,” the Vulcan returned with just a hint of suggestion. “I love you, Ruth.”

“I love you, Spock.” She sighed as the screen went blank. “Valley out,” she murmured, the put her head down and let her tears come.

Go To Part Twenty-Three
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