“If you hate the beach,” Daffy Gollub demanded. “Then why are we here?”

Her boyfriend shrugged. He had his back turned to her and was staring out the large window. “Because you like it.”

This wasn’t one of their normal fights. It certainly wasn’t one of their “good” fights which both of them secretly knew would end up with sex. Gollub frowned and sighed. She was dressed in the cute little one piece that she’d found. It hit exactly the right note between adorable and screw-me-now. Normally, it would have driven Pavel insane. Now, he wouldn’t even look at her.

“You should change,” she said for the fourteenth time. Chekov was still in the horrible dark-colored outfit he’d dragged out of the back of his closet. “You’ve got to be too hot in that thing. Besides you look like you’re going to a funeral or something.”

The Russian gave her the sort of reproving/wounded look he’d been giving her every time she mentioned anything even vaguely connected with death before heading to the room’s small bar.

Gollub groaned and let her beach bag drop to the floor. If he opened a bottle of vodka, then that was it for the rest of the day…

Chekov opened the biggest bottle of vodka available from the room’s meager selection of beverages.

The chemist shook her head and sighed again. He had seemed to be fine at first. Subdued, yes, but that was only natural after losing a team member… The navigator had seemed in better shape than Spock, who immediately went back into maximum seclusion mode. He was certainly better off than Del, who had been president of the Drink ‘Til You Kill Yourself Club before he left for the mission and now seemed to be on the fast shuttle to Crazytown with no return ticket in sight.

“Bubee,” she said, crossing to him. “I know you’re hurting.”

He didn’t look up at her. He was doing a lot of that – looking down or away. And it wasn’t his normal couldn’t-win-a-fibbing-contest-against-a-team-of-Vulcans telltale avoidance of eye contact. This was different. This was I-don’t-feel-good-about-myself stuff. And except in situations where he had not managed to be as perfect as he thought he should be, he didn’t not-feel-good-about-himself very often at all… and it usually didn’t last too long if he did.

Chekov walked back to the window to drink, taking the bottle with him.

“But you can talk to me,” she said. “And that’s what we’re really here for… although I would like to get a tan while we do it.”

Instead of laughing at this teasing plea, he merely looked at her – his eyes lingering on her hair for some reason, before turning back to the window. “If you wish to go, go on.”

Exasperated, she stalked over and picked up her bag. “Want me to see if I can score some sapphire for you while I’m out?”

The Russian frowned forbiddingly. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Gollub put a hand on her hip. “That if I knew I was going on a vacation with Mini-Noel DelMonde, I would have packed differently.”

His eyes narrowed at this, but instead of fighting back, he turned back to the window and poured himself another drink.

“Look, Pavel,” Gollub began, “I’ve tried to be patient…”

“Oh?” The navigator swallowed another glass of clear liquid. “Have you? That phase passed so quickly I must have missed it.”

“Okay, that’s it.” The chemist stalked forward and took the bottle from her lover’s hands. “I’ve had it with this damned moping around. You’re getting out of that black undertaker’s outfit and into something normal and you’re going outside with me and you’re going to have fun if it kills you.”

The Russian’s glare was icy as he retrieved his bottle. “I’m not your slave, Daphne,” he informed her coldly, before turning away.

From this range, she could see that there were tears in his eyes. He looked down to hide them, then wiped at his face impatiently.

“Is that what this is all about?” she asked softly, taking his arm. “How much do you remember, Pavel Andrevitch? Security clearances be damned. How much do you fucking remember?”

“I just want to be alone,” he replied, pulling away from her. “I don’t feel well.”

“Are you sick?” Gollub put a hand to his forehead to check for a fever.

“No, no,” he said, pulling away again. “Not physically. Mentally, mentally. I feel mentally ill.” As he heard the words come out of his mouth, he looked at her, stricken, then quickly looked away. “You know what I mean,” he said gruffly, taking his bottle and opening the door to the balcony.

Gollub blinked. “Yes,” she said, the gravity of her lover’s situation finally starting to dawn on her. “I think I do. You had another nightmare last night, didn’t you?”

Chekov didn’t deny this. His hand tightened against the door of the balcony as he leaned against the frame, not going out. It was as if he was afraid he would melt in the light of day.

“Whatever it was that they did to you so you could pass as a Romulan,” the chemist said, crossing behind him. “What ever it was that they put inside your head --- It’s not gone, is it?”

She could see the catch in his breathing from the movement of his back. “No,” Chekov said so quietly she almost couldn’t hear him. “He’s gone. I felt him die.”

“Bubee,” she said, touching his shoulder.

“Leave me alone, Daphne!” He jerked away from her violently. “It hurts….Can’t you see that it hurts?”

“Remembering?” she asked, keeping her tone gently.

“Thinking,” he said, pushing past her to refill his glass. “Thinking hurts.”

She watched him down two shots, feeling sick to her stomach. What had they done to her sweet, oh-so-proper but oh-so-loving boy? And more importantly, who could possibly undo it?

“Please,” he begged, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at her. “Just go.”

“Okay.” Gollub said slowly as an idea began to form in her head. “I’ll go. But I’ll be back. You just… Hey, why don’t you just look out the window and drink for awhile? Think you can manage that?” She didn’t wait for a reply as she threw on a robe and grabbed her wallet. “And start packing. Okay?”

“Where are we going now?” he asked defeatedly.

“To see some ladies who don’t mind putting their fingers in other people’s brains,” she replied, changing shoes.

“What?”

“San Francisco, bubee,” she clarified, heading for the door. “We’re dropping in on some old friends in San Fran.”

Chekov lay on his cot…bed, bed, bed, he corrected himself in the small cabin of the yacht of one of Daffy’s friends.

One of the perks of having been in the Clave, she had told him, was that it was always possible to hitch a ride from anywhere that was anywhere to anywhere else. From the ETA’s that Daphne had given him, he could tell they were traveling very fast – faster, in fact, that was generally possible or legally permissible for a craft of this size. That, also, seemed to be one of the perks of being an ex-Clavist.

Chekov tried to get up, but couldn’t quite manage it. He believed that Daphne and her friends were keeping him sedated. They must be putting pills into his food. It was just as well. The nightmares were so bad now that he couldn’t sleep normally.

Lieutenant MacEntyre had told him that the nightmares were symptomatic of his mind struggling to balance two sets of memories. Why were they getting worse now that the other person was gone?

Chekov stopped himself. He’d been given a set of simulated memory engrams. There was no other person.

It had certainly seemed like another person when the Telanate officer… when the Intelligence officer had woken him up. There had been a voice in his head – a voice that called him “Master” for some reason.

“Forgive me, Master,” it had apologized, “But my Mistress is gone. I cannot live without my Mistress.”

“This is ridiculous,” Chekov said aloud, wiping his tears away. “There was no person in my head. It was some sort of reaction to the programming..”

The Telanate officers had told him there was nothing wrong with him. The memories would fade like a dream, they had said… Intelligence officers, not Telanate…

His head felt fuzzy. He felt like mold was growing inside his mind – mold, or another person… Was that possible? Could the false memories planted there by the Federation Telanate grow into a new person? When the voice who spoke to him died, did it leave parts of itself behind that were still alive and growing?

He wished that Lieutenant MacEntyre had survived. He felt so much more comfortable with her than with the Telanate officers. She would explain it to him. She would care for him. His Mistress always knew what was best for him…

Chekov rubbed his eyes. Mustn’t let Dafshka catch him thinking that way. Of course, there was no reason for her to be jealous. His Mistress cared for him, but had not been in love with him.

The navigator sighed when he remembered the first moment he knew his mistress had fallen in love with someone else. His memory started at that point when he felt that first bitter pang of jealousy. Of course, that was silly of him. She didn’t belong to him. Still as he watched in the mirror, as she sat and let him brush her hair, as she smiled at Noel, it had hurt. The fact that the engineer had truly seemed to care for his Mistress made his disappointment more palatable, but only marginally.

He missed his Mistress terribly.

Daphne had been cheered by the fact that he had changed into a white tunic with blue trim and a loose fitting pair of white pants for their journey on the yacht. She had forgotten that white was the Japanese color of mourning. She didn’t realize that Romulans dressed corpses in blue and white for their journey to the Afterlife.

I’m not a corpse, he protested to himself. I am not dying. I’m just journeying…

The door slid open. “You awake, bubee?” Daphne asked as she entered carrying a tray.

“Yes.” He struggled to sit up. “But I am not hungry, Dafshka.”

“Just a little soup,” she said, not taking no for an answer as usual.

“It isn’t going to help,” he replied, defeatedly.

“But it can’t hurt.” She helped him up to a semi-upright position then piled pillows behind him for support.

“I’m sorry I am ruining your vacation,” he apologized as she took a larger tray out from beneath the bed and folded it out over his lap.

“What’s to ruin?” she replied with determined cheerfulness. “I’m drinking good booze, smoking good dope, and catching up on all the gossip. I’ve even had time in the kitchen to whip up a little something for you. And how often do I get to do that?”

He turned his head away from the spoonful of soup. “It’s drugged, isn’t it?”

“Quit kvetching and take your medicine,” she replied.

“That Haven poison won’t help me,” he growled.

“Haven-schmaven.” She turned his head back towards her. “I told you – I whipped up something for you.”

“Don’t make me go back to sleep,” he begged her.

She frowned. “More bad dreams? Or are they just bad memories?”

He turned his head away.

“Come on, bubee.” She gently stroked his cheek. “Tell me.”

“I am not permitted to discuss such things,” he informed her firmly.

She looked shocked. He couldn’t figure out why. He’d said as much a thousand times already.

“I am sorry, Dafshka,” he apologized stiffly, “but at the debriefing…”

“Did you just speak to me in Romulan?” she interrupted.

Chekov blinked. Why would he do something like that?

“Okay.” She put down the spoon and handed him the bowl. “Drink it all. Right now.”

“It won’t help,” he argued pessimistically as he obediently put the bowl to his lips.

“I know.” She put her finger on the bottom of the bowl to make sure he didn’t stop until all the liquid was gone. “I’m just trying to keep you in one piece for a few more hours.”

He didn’t tell her that wasn’t the problem. It wasn’t that he wasn’t in one piece. There were just too many pieces inside his head. Like someone had dumped two jigsaw puzzles in the same box then glued them all together.

“This will make you sleep, but won’t let you dream,” she promised taking away the bowl. The chemist smiled sadly as she brushed his hair back from his forehead. “That will be good, won’t it?”

“Thank you,” he said, grateful not only for the medicine, but that she’d pushed his hair into a more proper Romulan style. He was very proud that he remembered not to add “Mistress” to the end of his thanks. That would only displease Daphne.

She kissed him on the forehead. “Try to get some rest.”

He turned onto his side, as she dimmed the lights before leaving. He was sorry he had been brusque with Dafshka before. She was really trying very hard to be good to him. It wasn’t her fault. She could never understand how hard it was for a slave to be without the guidance of his Mistress…

Chekov sat uncomfortably on the couch in what Daphne had said was Ruth Valley’s home in Berkeley, California on Earth. Daffy was whispering to the Antari as they stood together in the small kitchen. Jilla Majiir was watching him, her gray eyes worried. He did his best not to look at her. Though her skin was paler and her hair a darker red, he couldn’t bear the sight. The fact that her ears were pointed only made it worse.

Lieutenant MacEntyre was only half-Indiian, he told himself, and my Mistress wasn’t…

He stopped the thought as Jilla’s eyes grew wider.

Groping for something to say, he made himself ask, “And how are the ship designs, coming?”

The Indiian blinked. “We are approximately three days ahead of schedule, “ she replied, though her expression clearly told him she was well aware this was a conversational ploy.

Three days after only three months. Three over thirty. That is a ten percent decrease in the time allotted for the completion. If that rate is a constant, they will be finished in…

Numbers. I think too much of numbers.

Again, he stopped his thoughts. He was beginning to feel nauseous.

“Ruth,” Jilla said quietly but with a real sense of urgency. “Hurry.”

The Antari glanced over to them, narrowing her eyes. “More information would be better,” she said.

“That’s all I’ve got,” Daffy replied tersely. “You gonna work your voodoo or what?”

“Will he let me?” Ruth asked dubiously.

“He better,” the chemist vowed.

Chekov watched as the Antari straightened, then strode across the room to sit beside him.

“Pavel,” she said, “I need your permission. I won’t break down your walls unless you tell me I can.”

“I cannot refuse telepathic contact, Mis – Miss Valley,” he said as humbly as he knew how.

“Uh, yes, you can,” Ruth frowned.

That was puzzling – And I don’t like puzzles – but Chekov shrugged and nodded. “You have my permission,” he said.

She reached out, placing her fingers gently at his throat, and somewhere inside him, something froze.

No, no, no! This is wrong. My Mistress hasn’t given her permission! She will be angry…

Calm yourself, Pavel, came a voice in his mind that was somehow both familiar and unfamiliar. Just relax and let me see what’s in here.

He shivered, but tried to do as he was told. He always tried to do as he was told. He was a good boy, an obedient slave…

Holy shit! The woman’s voice shrieked in his head. You poor schlemiel, you don’t know!

Don’t know what? Pavel asked in a growl.

No wonder you think you’re going crazy!

I do not think I am…

Yes, you do. Or one of you does.

One of… what nonsense is….

Pavel, there are two sets of memories here.

Of course, false engrams were implanted in…

False engrms my ass! These are real memories, of a real person – a person you’ve been for weeks!

That is imposs… Forgive me!

Ruth’s thoughts started. Who are you asking forgiveness of?

Pavel’s head was throbbing. I – I don’t – my Mistress…

Mistress? Oy vey… He felt the Antari’s mind probing deeper, like peeling away the layers of an onion. Pavel, I can see the problem, but I’m not sure how to solve it. You’ve got memories here you shouldn’t have, things the mental blocks were supposed to insulate you from.

I was told – I would not remember, the Russian tried to put in helpfully.

But they didn’t just put memories in you, Ruth tried to explain. They put a living – well, okay, not living – breathing – no strike that, too – a real Romulan in your head. A person, a being, with his own agendas and his own thoughts and feelings and reactions. And they’re still there, even though the Romulan isn’t, because you don’t know they’re his and not yours.

That is not poss… the navigator tried again.

No, Pavel, it is. Spock told me all about it, as much as he could. And until and unless you can accept that, you’re not gonna know who you are – Pavel Chekov or…

Lahs, Pavel said.

And I can’t make you accept it, the Antari continued. All I can do is try to separate what’s you from what’s him. You’ll have to do the rest.

The rest? What do you mean, the rest?

Ruth sighed. You’ll have to let go. You’ll have to accept that he’s gone. You’ll have to grieve for the loss of someone who you never met, but who has become as much a part of you as – as Daffy is. You can’t keep it all bottled up with Russian stoicism or stubbornness. You have to talk, to acknowledge it out loud, like with any other grief.

But I don’t want to remember! Pavel cried.

Lahs does, Ruth replied with heartfelt sympathy. For better or worse, it was his life. He needs to have that life – and his death – mean something. You’re being haunted, Pav, and the ghost just needs a little recognition before he can journey on…

The Russian shuddered, not knowing why.

Because that’s the phrase Romulans use for going to the Afterlife, Ruth explained, then added, and I know it because he does.

This is not possible, Chekov insisted. There is no afterlife…

So says the man who asked for the Kaddish.

The thunder in Chekov’s brain grew louder. Please, please, Ruth, I cannot…

Let him talk, Pavel. Let him tell us. I promise I’ll keep Daffy from smacking you. I know he’s here, and Jilla will accept it because she lived so long with the ghost of her mad scientist dead Vulcan husband.

Chekov sighed, defeated by his own fear and the anguish in his head. And then will this insanity go away?

I don’t know. But at least then you’ll understand it.

It took a while, but Pavel finally began talking. He did his best not to repress the memories, and found that as he talked, more and more emerged. After a while, when he realized that he was in a room with only females, it became much easier.

“Fucking bitch!” Daffy burst out for about the twentieth time.

“You will not speak disrespectfully of my Mistress!” Chekov/Lahs replied, far more forcefully than Lahs alone would ever even think of speaking to a female.

Ruth groaned and closed her eyes. Getting Pavel to talk – after convincing him that he needed to – hadn’t been easy. It had taken a lot of coaxing, a few threats, and Daffy having a screaming crying fit before Pavel finally opened up. Keeping him talking was proving to be just as big a problem…

“I will speak any way I fucking....”

“Daffy!” Ruth put her hands up in a gesture of utter frustration. “Not helping!”

The chemist glared at her. “I'm supposed to just stand here and...?” she fumed.

“Unless you want him to stay this way forever,” Ruth replied, taking the Russian by the wrist again, “yes.”

“She does not own me,” the navigator muttered to the floor.

“Aaargh!” Daffy stormed into the kitchen letting the door slam behind her.

“She thinks she owns me,” the Russian asserted accusingly, letting his eyes follow the chemist.

“Well...” Ruth shrugged. “There's that.”

“She is upset because she feels you were punished unjustly.” Jilla explained.

Although Ruth could tell that dealing with someone in this state was difficult for Jilla, the Indiian was remaining calm and focused. Chekov responded well to her quiet questions and prompts. The navigator was relating fractured pieces of emotions and reactions in no particular chronological order, and Jilla’s periodic restatement of both his and Daffy’s emotions seemed to help him put them into some perspective. Of course, sometimes even that didn’t work. Then, when he tried to stop the flow of incomprehensible thoughts and feelings, Ruth would touch his wrist, giving him a jolt of courage and breaking the blockages that formed within him.

“Oh, no,” the navigator said, answering Jilla’s last clarification, “I deserved my punishment. I was willfully disobedient.”

It was disconcerting how at points like this the Russian would look less like himself. As he told the bits a pieces of his story, a second distinct personality seemed to have emerged. This person – Lahs, of course – had a simplicity about him that was unlike Chekov. He had an ingenuousness about him that was distinct from the Russian’s last-puppy-in-the-shop appeal.

Thinking about that put Ruth in mind of a phenomenon that in their academy days Del had dubbed, “The Miracle of the Immaculate Fornication.” Because of his wide-eyed cluelessness, people who should have known better – even the friends and roommates of women he was sleeping with – would frequently engage in serious speculation on whether or not the Russian was a virgin.

Lahs had the innocent non-innocence of a childlike non-child that was similar to the Chekov she had known since he was in his late teens – but was entirely different. She forced herself to return to the matter at hand – Lahs’ punishment for disrespecting his Second Master. “But to have to kiss the bottom of someone's boot...” she pointed out. “Seems kind of harsh... and unhygienic.”

“It was a fair punishment thoughtfully designed to discourage future acts of arrogance that would bring shame to my Mistress's household.” The slave continued to be completely consistent in defending his former mistress from any and all attacks, even when the things he remembered were clearly considered cruel and humiliating by the navigator. Remembering something else, Lahs/Chekov smiled. "And I was not forced to do it in the end."

"Your Mistress relented?" Jilla said in soft surprise.

"No. Second Master complained very loudly that he would be dirtied by contact with me...” The Russian shook his head disapprovingly. “Oh, the upset he caused in our household!”

Ruth grinned. “I can imagine.”

“What a vain, selfish, trouble-making thing he was!” the navigator exclaimed vehemently, then took in a deep breath of surprise at his own temerity.

Valley raised her eyebrows. “Sounds like you've been wanting to get that off your chest for awhile.” Despite the fact that she knew how true this statement was, it was one of those things. She could say it. No one else was allowed.

“Oh, yes.” Chekov turned to her – and was discernibly wholly Chekov once more; clueless as to how momentarily perturbed with him Ruth was. “You know how annoying Noel can be... Can you imagine being forced to be his slave? Facing punishment if you even thought anything uncomplimentary about him?”

Ruth couldn’t, exactly, but having been on the receiving end of Del’s sarcasm when criticized, she knew what Pavel meant. “Zehara save me from ever finding out,” she agreed.

“And as conceited and nosy he is,” the navigator continued, “He is always sure that whatever you are thinking must relate to him in some way. And he is always listening in on your thoughts purposefully trying to find something derogatory...”

“You spoke of Lieutenant Commander DelMonde as both ‘Second Master’ and ‘Noel,’” Jilla observed, forestalling Ruth’s inevitable defense of her former lover. “You seem able to distinguish between the two.”

The Russian nodded slowly. “It seems obvious now.”

“But not at the time?”

“No…” The navigator said as Ruth pressed gently on his wrist. “Some things I remember make more sense now. Second Master was bonded to Master Tarvak, who he cherished and honored above all others. Noel's relationship with Spock is...”

“Not close,” Ruth supplied, cutting off any more detailed description. She was dumbfounded by the many images she found in the Russian’s mind of Romulans who looked very much like Spock and Del embracing, touching, and smiling at each other. It was disturbing and even a little oddly arousing. She blanched at the reaction. Not arousing. No. Not at all. Blechh! No wonder her husband hadn’t wished to speak of the experience.

“No,” the Russian agreed adamantly, responding not only to her statement but to her emotions, which, given her close proximity to his brain, the Lahs ghost couldn’t help feeling. “So at the times that First Master seemed so displeased with Master Joron...”

“It was actually Del and Spock...”

The navigator nodded again. “In the same way Second Master distrusted my Mistress, but Noel....” He caught himself and stopped.

“... was in love with Lieutenant MacEntyre,” Ruth finished for him. Even from the Russian’s psi-null observations it was obvious how deeply the Intelligence agent and the engineer cared about each other. She shuddered to think of his devastation at the lieutenant’s death and it mixed inextricably with her own guilt and sorrow. Joron had told her Del was close to death himself. To find someone who could help heal the terrible damage she had inflicted on him, only to have that person taken away… She shuddered, swallowing her tears. Poor Del. Poor, poor Del…

Not-quite-Chekov looked at Ruth. "I am sorry, Mistress."

Valley took in a deep breath and shrugged. "I don't own him."

“Were you in love with Lieutenant MacEntyre?” Daffy asked from the kitchen doorway.

Real-Chekov straightened. “Lieutenant MacEntyre was a consummate professional with the highest possible devotion to the Federation. I admired her greatly.”

“Yes,” Gollub pressed. “But were you in love with your Mistress?”

Not-Quite-Chekov reddened and dropped his eyes to the floor. “I...I...had improper feelings for my Mistress.”

“Improper how?”

“It is wrong for a slave to have desire for his mistress,” he replied very quietly, caught somewhere between trying to not look at his lover and to letting his eyes beg her forgiveness

“Yes, it fucking was,” the chemist replied remorselessly.

“Daf,” Ruth warned.

Gollub turned sharply on her heel. “Drinks for anyone while I'm storming out?”

“Wait.” Jilla signaled her, then turned back to Chekov. “It is understandable that you would develop strong feelings for someone you were required to be loyal to,” she said.

“I am loyal to my mistress,” the navigator replied in a perfect blend of Chekov and Not-Quite-Chekov.

“For a Romulan, as for Vulcans, loyalty is as strong a motivation,” the Indiian continued, careful not to mention the word the navigator would surely balk at. “And it would be difficult for a Human male to not become aroused when required to perform the sort of personal tasks you were assigned - brushing her hair, helping her dress...”

“Bathing her...” Ruth said, thoughtlessly relaying a strong memory fragment.

If it were possible for Daffy Gollub to have burst into flames on the spot, she would have. “Oh, that rotten little red-headed slu…”

“Daphne, please.” Jilla lifted a commanding hand. This is the central conflict, she thought to Ruth. He was in love with his mistress, but Pavel will not allow him to believe it. We must find a way to let Lahs acknowledge it without shame or fear. She turned back to Chekov. “You said that you were able to distinguish between Lieutenant Commander DelMonde and your Second Master, Joron.”

The navigator nodded. “I am now.”

“And you are able to see differences between Commander Spock and your First Master, Tarvak?”

“Each had a different relationship to Second Master.” Ruth could feel Chekov sort through and categorize the relevant memory fragments. “I suppose it was Mr. Spock who was so kind to me, who bought me food, who attended to me after I was beaten... who I was to tell if I needed medicine...”

“Can you distinguish between Lieutenant MacEntyre and your Mistress?” Jilla asked.

Chekov tilted his head to one side as he thought. “That is difficult. I did not know the Lieutenant very well. She purposively tried to remain in character when she with me on the ship so I would not have conflicting memories when the mission started.”

“But there were differences...” the Indiian prompted.

“She felt differently about Master Joron and Master No...” Chekov stopped himself and blushed as Daffy snorted. “I mean, Noel, of course.”

“Were there other differences?”

“Sometimes she seemed... a bit... cruel...” The admission seemed much more painful for him than describing the beatings and humiliations he’d suffered.

Gollub put her hands on her hips. “A bit, yeah.”

“I don't think Lieutenant MacEntyre would behave in such a manner unless it could directly advance the mission,” Chekov retorted staunchly. His face then became more troubled as he continued to sort through his memories. “Sometimes.... Lady Ve'el.... seemed to only wish to please herself.”

Ruth arched her eyebrows significantly at Jilla. This was the first time he’d referred to the Romulan persona as anything other than “Mistress.”

“Can you distinguish between the way you feel about Lieutenant MacEntyre and the way Lahs feels about Lady Ve'el?” Jilla asked softly but firmly.

Chekov blinked at her. Tears welled up in his brown eyes. “We miss her terribly.”

This was the first time he’d referred to himself in the plural, and Ruth took a slow breath, steadying the beginnings of acceptance that she felt within him.

“Why do you -- Pavel Chekov,” the Indiian specified, “miss Lieutenant MacEntyre?”

“She was such a professional. So young, but... To give her life in such a way...” Tears rolled down his cheeks unheeded.

“Reminded you of...” Ruth said, reading his thoughts.

“…Irina Galliulin,” Daffy finished for her, knowing his thoughts.

“I do not mean to be disloyal to you, Daphne,” Chekov said, speaking to her more directly than he had since they had arrived, “but to see her choose to die in that manner...”

Gollub nodded. “Re-opened the old wounds...”

“And I did not wish to open old wounds I had inflicted on you Daphne,” he confessed, his eyes pleading for her pardon.

A forgiving smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Dumb schmuck.”

“And how does Lahs feel?” Jilla asked, firmly drawing the navigator’s attention back to her.

“He feels lost.” More tears pooled in the navigator’s eyes. “The death of his second mistress was terribly hard, but he was told what to do. He obeyed and was given a new life, a new mistress to care for. She too became ill. He didn't know how to properly care for her. The terrible thing happened and he was taken from her and given this new life, this new mistress to care for. And now... she is gone...” The tears streamed down his face. “He does not know what to do...”

Moisture also gathered in Ruth’s eyes at the depth of the grief inside the Russian., and Jilla, too was close to weeping.

The Chekov who was not really Chekov suddenly took Ruth and Jilla by the hands. "Mistresses, please, guide me! Tell me what I must do..."

Valley looked at Majiir. Are we up to this?

We must be. This is why Daphne brought him to us, the Indiian replied.

What do we do? I can’t just yank them apart, that’d do more damage than…

You misperceive, Ruth, Jilla said softly. Pavel may think Lahs still lives, but he does not. This is not memory trapped within his mind. This is a spirit, one who does not yet realize that he must journey on. He wants to, I believe, but Pavel’s emotions hold him...

Because the little nebbish won’t accept that there are such things as ghosts, so he tries to make it logical and insists that this, somehow, is …

Precisely. We must find a way to give Lahs the guidance he asks for…

Exorcism, huh? I’m not that kind of…

There are Indiian prayers for such things…

There would need to be some way to anchor…

And does not the Kaddish….

He is Jewish, whether he wants to think so or not…

The Indiian took in a deep breath and nodded. Open yourself, Ruth...

After a moment of silence, Jilla began an Indiian prayer, "Oh, God Who Guides the Romulan Dead," she said, changing the way the supplication was usually addressed. "See this lost soul. Give him guidance. He has no wish to remain. He knows his tasks here are complete. Do not punish him by hiding Your face. He has no wish to defile the living. He has no wish become a Marauder. Do not abandon him here. Oh, God who guides the Romulan dead..."

As she repeated the plea, Ruth glanced at Daffy. Before she could even begin to communicate the idea of anchoring Chekov's soul among the living, Daffy nodded. They began the words of the Kaddish almost at the same second.

As their chanting continued the room filled with an incredible presence unlike any Ruth had ever known. It was powerful, but ungraspable. The force was so strong, it seemed almost impossible that it could be invisible. Then it moved on, leaving only the sound of the wind and the waves and women’s voices. Chekov let go of their hands.

To his infinite surprise and relief, his mind suddenly fell quiet.

“Is that it?” Daffy asked, and he was almost shocked to see her face was wet with tears.

He shook himself, as if waking from a dream that dissolved with the morning’s light. “Is that what?” he asked, then, “Dafshka, why are you crying?”

When Daffy threw her arms around him, sobbing, he glanced awkwardly at Jilla and Ruth. The Antari looked to the Indiian, who took a deep breath and said, “The ghost is gone.”

“That’s what I thought,” Ruth said, then smiled at Chekov. “You’re gonna be fine, bubee. Just fine.

Go To Part Twenty-Four
Return To Part Twenty-Two
Return to Valjiir Stories
Return to Valjiir Continnum