“Lahs, go to your cot immediately and stay there until I come for you,” Ve’el ordered. She barely acknowledged the slave’s squeak of “yes, Mistress,” as she quickly followed her junior husband.

You will stop this at once! she began harshly, then her head was filled with the images that plagued him, every word, every emotion, past, present, Joron’s, DelMonde’s comprehended in an instant. She watched as the young man pressed the palms of his hands against the sides of his head, first moaning, then screaming NO! and collapsing beside his bed. Pelori moved forward, kneeling beside him, placing one hand on his wrist, the other at his throat.

Joron, you must retreat, she said softly, hypnotically. You are memory only, an aid to his assimilation. You are insubstantial, unreal, you will not attempt to harness this body for your own, you will remain in the shadows until needed. You must retreat. You are memory only…

She repeated the litany, exerting more or less pressure directly into the subject’s brain as Joron’s strength waxed and waned. She felt the incredible power that pulsed just beneath the surface of his thoughts and realized that her superiors had made a serious tactical error. They had assumed that their modified – isti’li – would effect only the physical host. After all, the Romulan personas were just that, a psychic hologram created to be a projection available for the host when needed. True, the memories had been drawn from actual Romulans, but the fact that those aliens were no longer living had been thought to be enough of a failsafe. The scientists at Intelligence hardly believed in souls, or the survival of the personality after death.

The scientists at Intelligence were very wrong, Ve’el commented dryly.

Pelori started, then swiftly returned her conscious attention to nullifying Joron’s grasp on DelMonde’s mind. Her subconscious quirked an eyebrow at her guest.

Do you mean to tell me that you’re real, and not simply the memories of the Lady Ve’el?

I have been speaking to you, have I not?

Pelori considered this. It had been explained to her, and she had believed, that she would ‘interact’ with Ve’el as she did due to her Indiian heritage. “Tia is tia,” Admiral Glennon had told her, with a wry grin. “The emotions you perceive are real, and therefore, your psyche will react to them as though they emanate from a real person. Since that tia is Romulan, your psyche will not accept that it comes from you. Therefore, it will be safest for your psychological health and for your mission if you simply permit yourself to address Ve’el as though she were a living Romulan.” Such an explanation neatly dismissed any sense of real personality. But with the persona of Joron so clearly present, and with an agenda obviously his own…

Obviously?

It is in direct contrast not only to the mission’s agenda, but the host’s personal desires as well. Pelori addressed Ve’el as she always had. What else does that leave but Joron himself?

And if ‘Joron’ was not programmed by your Intelligence scientists to have such an agenda?

Then… then… MacEntyre’s heart started beating faster. Surely, it must be an effect of the…

Isti’li, Ve’el continued smoothly. But your Intelligence scientists removed the molecular sequence that caused hallucinations.

DelMonde’s system still had traces of the original chemicals –

And always will.

…and always will, Pelori confirmed, but in such minute amounts that there can be no residual effects. And I am in contact with every part of him. This is NOT due to the isti’li.

Then where is another explanation, young one?

No. The Terran half of the agent rejected the truth. The Indiian half rose up in horror. They have imprisoned souls, they have created Marauders?!

Whatever your cultural term for it is, Ve’el returned with wry cynicism.

Beneath her calming mental fingers, Pelori felt Joron retreating in the same revulsion she herself felt. DelMonde’s anger and indignation increased in direct proportion.

He memory only, an aid t’ my assimilation, the bitter, sarcastic voice snarled. He insubstantial, unreal, he not attempt t’ harness this body fo’ his own, he remain in th’ shadows ‘til needed. Girlie, that so much fuckin’ swamp gas.

Are you in control of yourself now, Mr. DelMonde? Pelori asked, hiding her own dismay behind her carefully erected shields.

For the moment… ‘til the Bonded One want his mate again. Or ‘til his mate crash through the Vulcan bastard’s shields again. Or ‘til somet’ing else happen you not bother t’ tell me ‘bout.

You must understand, this is not what was supposed to happen. My superiors were either mistaken…

Or they jus’ lie to your pretty li’l head. DelMonde laughed. Join th’ damn club, li’l Mac.

It took several minutes of deep meditation for Spock to fully regain control of his thoughts. Tarvak was formidable, but he seemed to understand the necessity of keeping his ’host’ whole and sane, and after a relatively short struggle, was content to subside. The Vulcan took the time for a few full and cleansing breaths, steadying his mental fortitude as well as his physical trembling, then left the bedroom, prepared to deal with the aftermath of the perilously close call. He was aware that Lieutenant MacEntyre was attending to DelMonde, and it heartened him.

“Lahs,” he called, and was surprised when the servant failed to answer him. “Lahs!”

“I am at my cot, Master,” came the muted response from across the apartment.

He strode across the common rooms. “Lahs, come here,” he said as he reached the doorway of Ve’el’s bedroom.

“Forgive me, Master,” the slave again returned. “My Mistress instructed me to wait for her here.”

That had undoubtedly been a wise decision, Spock thought, and he debated whether or not it would be more harmful to insist the slave attend him – and his mind recoiled at the usual meaning of that term in Vulcan usage – or to confuse the creature by calling the kitchen for the juice he wanted himself. He decided on the latter.

“Obey your Mistress, Lahs,” he said, then turned and moved to the intercom on the far wall.

“I’m going to give you a mild sedative, Mr. DelMonde,” MacEntyre began, taking a white pill out of small pouch at her waist. She had switched on the jammer so they could converse in Anglo and she could call the engineer by his name.

Del grabbed her arm. “So you be able to tell Joron he fainted after he wake up?” he accused acidly.

“Joron is fairly quiet now,” she said, making no attempt to free her hand. “I wouldn’t wish to disturb him…. Or would you also prefer that he call his friend in to supervise us?” She avoided using the usual ‘your Bonded,’ fearful that such a direct address would only serve to strengthen Joron.

The engineer frowned, but let go of her arm. He accepted the pill when she handed it to him. “I not get somet’ing to swallow this wit’?” he asked sourly.

MacEntyre opened her mouth to summon Lahs, then closed it. “Why don’t you just drink some of the ale you hid under the bed last night?" she asked instead.

DelMonde rolled his eyes as he leaned over and removed a half-empty blue bottle. “I not hide it,” he retorted. “I jus’ not drink all of it at once.”

MacEntyre refrained from commenting as the engineer swallowed the pill. She waited quietly for signs that it was taking effect. At the same time, she concentrated on centering and calming herself. All thoughts of Marauders and stolen souls and the questionable ethics of the people she worked for would have to wait. She needed to be absolutely composed and in control to complete the work that needed to be done right now.

“This feel like watered down jet,” the engineer complained.

Pelori smiled, recognizing the slang name for the Haven drug. “Did anyone ever tell you that you take too many drugs, Mr. DelMonde?”

“They usually embarrassed to do that right after they done fed me a pill,” he replied wryly. “You can’t tell me that were a normal sedative.”

“I said it was mild sedative,” she replied, taking his right wrist again. “I didn’t say anything about it being normal. Your pulse is slowing. How’s Joron?”

“You got his eyelids droopin’ a li’l,” DelMonde informed her. “He wonderin’ what you plannin’ to do to us, girlie.”

“How do you feel?” MacEntyre asked instead, releasing him. “I’m assuming this isn’t too strong for you.”

The Cajun shrugged. “Good bottle o’ bourbon’ll do ‘bout the same t’ing.”

“This fits better in a purse,” she replied. “Feeling a little calmer now?”

“I guess.”

“Anything upsetting you?” she asked, visually gauging his breathing and the dilatation of his pupils.

He gave her a quizzical scowl. “Other than ever’t’ing?”

“Yes,” she replied easily. “Other than that.”

The Cajun gave a short laugh. “Take away ever’t’ing an’ yeah, I all right. How ‘bout you, darlin’?”

“I’m all right,” she replied, letting her shielding drop a little as she tentatively reached out to his mind without touching him.

He wrinkled his nose dubiously. “Is that supposin’ you take away bein’ upset ‘bout ever’t’ing, too?”

“Especially then,” she nodded, satisfied with the tranquilizing effect the drug was having on both the engineer and his guest mind.

DelMonde started to take another sip from his bottle, then stopped himself. “I forgettin’ my manners. You want some?”

“I’m more a scotch and soda girl myself,” MacEntyre demurred.

“I can see that.” The engineer smiled as if he were picturing her in Starbase bar making an order. “A fan o’ the single malt, huh?”

“A nice tall glass would go down really well right now,” she said, knowing that if he was calm enough to get this distracted from his concerns about Joron, he was just about to the point where they could begin. “Wouldn’t it?”

“Damn straight.” DelMonde took another sip from his bottle before putting the cork back in and returning it to its place under his bed.

MacEntyre slowly raised her hands with two fingers extended. “Ready?”

The engineer sighed. She could see him tense a little, but there was no longer any panic or anger in his tia. “As I ever be.”

“What I’m going to do,” she said in a calm and even tone as she put her fingers to his temples. “Is the opposite of what I did to your comrade.” She chose the word deliberately, with no little sense of irony. “ I’m going to try to build – to help you build -- a fence around Joron.”

“Oh, I see…” The engineer closed his eyes as MacEntyre slid gently into his mind. “That not gonna make him happy.”

“Probably not,” she murmured, concentrating on the mindscape before her. The first step was determining what was and what was not Joron. This was not as clear a distinction as she would liked for it to have been, but was discernable.

So he be blocked off completely? DelMonde asked.

“I’m afraid not,” she answered aloud, not wanting to slip any further into a meld with him than was necessary. “Both of your abilities will tend to preclude that. You can think of it this way – if the barrier I built around your comrade’s memories is a box made of duranium, the one around Joron will be…”

“…A picket fence made o’ wet cardboard?” the engineer suggested acerbically.

“Not a long run solution,” she admitted. “But it will give you some breathing room.”

She was purposefully using a modification of an Antari technique to build the interior shielding. Because of his ex-lover, the method would both be familiar to him and stir up enough old memories to keep him occupied and away from her thoughts.

So you knew they was puttin’ real dead people in our heads? he asked, as if purely to prove how futile such efforts were.

“Of course not,” she replied sarcastically. “They told me they had all gone to a nice house in the country with a big backyard where they could run as much as they wanted to…”

She felt the engineer’s dissatisfaction with this brush off, but the drug made it hard for him to focus. Which was a very good thing, since she had begun to consider something that might be necessary for the long run – something she was certain the engineer would balk at. His mind had already drifted on to a question of deeper significance for him.

They gonna be able to get this t’ing back outta me?

“The… aspirin is feeding him,” MacEntyre replied, still refusing to engage in a mental exchange as she kept up her work at a steady, non-threatening pace. “You have to take the… aspirin to survive here. We’ve got to figure out why it's feeding Joron and find a way we can give it to you and not him.”

“Okay,” DelMonde agreed lazily. “So…” They gonna be able to get this t’ing back outta me?

“I can’t remove it,” she admitted, keeping her tone even and her mind calm. “And I suggest that you don’t try. When we return home, though…” Her mind formed pictures of the sort of telepathies would have to be involved… An Antari healer with a background in Vulcan techniques of soul-sundering… Perhaps…?

The engineer’s eyes opened as he frowned. “Stop pickin’ at that scab, Li’l Mac.”

“Sorry.” She spread her fingers into a more traditional Vulcan melding position as she checked and deepened the cordon she had drawn around the dormant memories of the Romulan, and setting up a layer of insulation that might prove useful – if her suspicions regarding a future necessary step were correct. She steeled herself against reacting to the reality of what she saw -- Forced herself to not think about sharing a mind with the sort of… She couldn’t quite stop herself from thinking… abomination…

I got a friend wit’ a problem like that, Del’s mind-voice drawled.

“My condolences.” MacEntyre quickly finished her work and began to pull carefully out of contact. “How’s that? Better?”

“A li’l.” DelMonde opened his dark eyes and looked up at her as she let her fingers drop slowly down to his neck before pulling away completely. “You mind doin’ somet’ing else for me?”

Pelori drew in a deep breath and firmed up her own shielding. “Such as?”

“Have Spock take off them boots.”

“I guess I have made my point there,” she conceded. Then said purposefully. “I’ll have Lahs help Tarvak change.”

As she was afraid it might, the engineer’s face darkened and his hands began to curl into fists.

Lady Ve’el was the one who replied, “Really, Joron, it is unseemly to be so aroused to jealousy by a non-gift.”

“So take that, you asshole,” Del seconded, unclenching his fists.

“Just checking for leaks,” MacEntyre explained not entirely truthfully, taking a deep breath and putting her fingers back to his temples. “And we seem to have sprung one already…Let me see if I can… Yes. There we go.”

“Why’d the mission planners have to pair me up wit’ such a jackass?” the engineer complained as she sealed over the weak spot.

Pelori gave him a crooked grin. “Because they thought you were enough like him to pass for him easily.”

DelMonde scowled. “I gotta get rid of some of them nasty rumors floatin’ ‘round ‘bout me.”

“There.” MacEntyre once more carefully broke contact. “That should hold him for a few hours.”

“An’ after that?” the engineer asked cynically.

“After that we will have thought of a better solution,” she said with an optimism she did not entirely feel. “So, Mr. DelMonde, do you think you can function in this condition?”

A slow grin spread across his face. “Sugar, you be astounded at what I can do in this condition.”

“Can you speak Romulan?” she asked in that language.

“Like a scholar and a gentleman,” he replied in the same dialect.

“Ready to play Joron and take a walk with Tarvak?”

The engineer’s emotions and body language shifted – but it was only the shift DelMonde always did when the Vulcan was mentioned. He shrugged diffidently. “Bring the bastard on.”

“Good.” She smiled, and held out a hand to help him up. “I was beginning to think we were never going to be able to get out of this apartment.”

DelMonde made a point of standing without aid. “You always gotta dope men up ‘fore you take ‘em on a date, Lil’ Mac?”

“Sometimes it helps,” she replied. “Do you always wind up beating your head against your bunk when you’re sober, Mr. DelMonde?”

“Sometime it helps,” he admitted genially.

“Then let’s go see if we can find a good local bar,” she said, switching off her jammer as they exited.

Noel DelMonde felt like the only dumb fool to forget to wear a mask to a masquerade ball. Without guidance from the Joron brain inside him, nothing he was seeing made complete sense as he walked in formation with the rest of his little Romulan “family” through the park near their apartment.

He thought he’d retained much more of the briefing material. However, with Joron locked away, he found he was remembering only about as much as one might reasonably hope to when one had done most of their reading while dead drunk and spent the majority of the briefing sessions preoccupied with contemplating how pleasant it would be to beat a certain Vulcan in the head with the butt of a phaser rifle.

It all put Del in mind of going “warp drive testing” with Jeremy Paget. When they were teenagers, Jer had always been good to line up nicely paying gigs for him to do custom work or repairs on small luxury yachts or light interplanetary schooners owned by some of the rich bitches and fat cats Paget knew from their associations with the Clave. Del had enjoyed this even more once he’d been able to convince Jer not to refer to such assistance in obtaining paying customers as “pimping him out.”

In appreciation, DelMonde had always invited Jer along when it was time to “test the warp drive.” This little ritual consisted of plugging a program into the repaired or customized vessel’s auto-pilot that selected a random spaceport from the hundreds available within a three hour radius. The program would then instruct the auto-pilot to plot a course that would somehow make it take three hours to get there. During that time, the “testers” would get as high as possible on liquor and drugs they brought or found. Upon disembarking, they would wander around in the port and play a game of trying to figure out where they were. Of course, this game was only challenging when one was too blind drunk to read any of the many prominently displayed signs that immediately told unimpaired visitors exactly where they were. Jer still liked to laugh about the time Del had guessed they were somewhere on Neptune when it had turned out they were in Beaumont, Texas.

“My man,” Paget would always end the story by saying, “You were well and truly fucked up that time…”

Del wished this place would resolve itself into being Beaumont, Texas instead of where he knew he was. He wondered what Jer would say if his roommate could see him now, walking around half-grounded with a dead Romulan sleeping in his head.

He knew Paget would like the clothes, at least. The outfit chosen for Del today was one of the less well-ventilated ensembles in Joron’s vast collection of Romulan slutwear. If one discounted the peek-a-boo panels in the thighs of the pants, shoulders of the shirt as well as down the sleeves and up the sides, this might be an outfit that someone who was not a man-whore might wear. The black pants were tight, of course, but not so much so that they impaired circulation. The neck of the brocade shirt plunged into a deep V, but not so deep that one expected to see cleavage instead of chest hair.

Paget would probably say the thing he always said when he wanted Del to wear something whore-ific or slut-rageous – “If ya got it, babe, flaunt it!” Of course, ol’ Jer didn’t have to put up with not being able to shield out the feeling of people running their hairy eyeballs all over him and knowing what they were thinking they’d love to do to a nice piece of trampy man-meat as they licked their slobbery chops.

These outwardly proper Romulans out promenading on this clear morning were not significantly less horny than the average club crowd. Worse than that, they all knew that he knew what they were thinking and knew he knew that they knew… and still weren’t ashamed to give him a wink and a lingering once over.

Although the scene looked like Sunday in the park, Del remembered enough from the briefings to know that the setting was more meat market than innocent playground. People came out of their houses to see and be seen, to scan and be scanned. Romulans hated to waste time on nobodies. These casual promenades with their accompanying not-quite-so-casual mental inspections of each other let everyone make their own calls about who was worth getting to know. They could also judge who didn’t quite meet the cut without anyone getting hurt or – worse yet – wasting time on someone not important enough for them to be bothered with.

Since Lady Ve’el and her entourage were newcomers, most of the scanners who were out scanning today were scanning them like mad. Were it not for the xeno… aspirin in his system, Del would have been beating his head against one of the tall, fern-like trees that lined the park. If those trees had green instead of having pink-ish leaves, they could have almost passed for mimosas…

Mimosas, the engineer thought to himself. I could drink one o’ those right now…

As much as he would have loved to linger in that reverie, Del could feel minds around him beginning once more to turn in his group’s direction with interest. To force himself to focus, DelMonde decided to run through the six basic rules of telepathic interaction as had been handed down to him in written form and lecture.

Rule # 1 was that no male initiate telepathic contact with a female. Rule # 2 went on to state that no male refused telepathic contact initiated by a female. Rule # 3 stipulated that no inferior initiate telepathic contact with a superior. That logically led to Rule # 4 being that no inferior refused telepathic contact initiated by a superior. Rule # 5 was that males did not eavesdrop on telepathic communication between females -- unless invited by the females or ordered to do so by a superior (such as one's wife or mother). And that was related to Rule # 6 which forbade inferiors from eavesdropping on superiors' telepathic communication -- unless directly ordered to do so by someone who was superior in rank to the ones being eavesdropped on.

Being part of a Warrior Bond exempted him and Spock from following Rules #2 and #4 – if following those rules would conflict with communion of the Bond… except under certain circumstances such as… when they were sitting on the dealer’s right on a Thursday night…

Sweet Mary, I need a drink, Del’s brain protested.

Luckily for him, the middle-aged couple passing were only doing some mental window-shopping and made no move to either initiate contact or indicate receptivity for contact. They were interested enough to give Lahs the little bump that would always set the non-gift to thinking about things like how this place compared to their estate in Klii-sun, or how rich Tarvak was, or how important his Mistress’ family was, or about how he hoped his masters would find a nice military job here (particularly second master), or how nice their current apartment was, yada, yada, yada….

The mission planners were right about the necessity of having a non-gift in the party. It greatly smoothed social situations like this one and allowed strangers to assess Lady Ve’el and her husbands’ status without going through the bother (and danger) of telepathic interaction with them…or even small talk, for that matter. All the best people had a telepathically transparent little non-gift with them to field questions about them in this way. It was almost like having a servant carry a big banner with the family crest emblazoned on it and a stack of press releases ready to hand out.

And old T-Paul/Lahs had just the right, perky, mindlessly loyal personality to carry the duty off perfectly as he proudly bounced along behind them wearing a cute little black and red sex-monkey outfit. The only time he had a little trouble was when the telepathic inquiry bump made him think of one person in his beloved Mistress’ entourage.

Second Master is very gifted, he thought to himself a little grudgingly. He does have special mental gifts and a talent for all sorts of… creative things… As always this was immediately followed by a litany of, I am a slave and a non-gift. I am less than the dirt beneath Second Master’s feet….

Why are you thinking that over and over? Del demanded, annoyed.

The slave almost stumbled a step. Are you speaking to me in my mind, Second Master? he thought in a cautious, “Am I going crazy?” tone… which was almost funny considering the number of people that had been in and out of his brain in the past hour or so.

Yeah. The engineer used a little cerulean blue power juice to create a shielded conduit that would let the non-gift and only the non-gift hear him. Keep walking and tell me why you keep saying that dirt thing over and over.

It is to remind me not to think improper thoughts, the slave replied very carefully, still not sure that he wasn’t going crazy.

Well, it makes me want to puke. So quit it.

What should I think then, Master?

I don’t know. Del went through the list of things Chekov usually thought about. How great Mother Russia is was clearly out. What a great lay Daffy is – also out. How great Spock is – puke…. How great the Enterprise/its crew/the Federation is – all out… Why is Noel so fucked up – well, at least he’s not calling me Noel…. How about math?

Math?

Del felt an involuntary stab of sympathy. Poor old T-Paul, who liked to work on astrophysics problems like other people liked to work on crossword puzzles, was locked up inside a brain that had never even been taught to add. You can count, can’t you?

Yes, Master.

Then just count, he thought back gruffly. And quit bothering me.

“Joron?”

Del almost walked into MacEntyre when she slowed and turned. He tried to cover up his lapse with a charming smile and bow. “My Lady?”

“You seem distracted,” Ve’el said, with the lieutenant’s eyes giving him a sharp once over.

Spock/Tarvak had at some point during his exchange with Chekov/Lahs broken off from the group to go buy some bread-y looking snacks from a vendor.

“I am…” Del began in Joron mode, then looking around to make sure no one was near leaned forward and whispered in her ear as himself, “Are we there yet?”

MacEntyre/Ve’el quirked her eyebrows to show she knew what he meant, then chewed the request over for a moment. He could see her smile a little as she evaluated their little outing. After a such a rocky start to the day, she seemed to be pleased with the caliber of the contacts and non-contacts they’d made on this little stroll. She also had to be relieved that the gate around Joron was holding and that Spock seemed to have Tarvak back under control.

“Yes,” she replied, giving each of her Romulan men an approving glance. “I think we’re ready for our debut at the Senatorial Parlour.”

The Senatorial Parlour was a beautifully appointed building with the precise yet somehow sensual geometric lines as the rest of Romulan architecture. Lahs was required to wait in a small ‘servant’s room’ – sort of a dog-pen with chairs – since non-gifts were not allowed in the exclusive club. For a nominal fee, food and water would be provided for one’s slave, and Tarvak discretely paid it with only the slightest frown from Ve’el.

Once inside the luxurious main room, Joron immediately headed for the long bar at one end. Ve’el and Tarvak took the more conventional route of finding an empty table and waiting for a server to approach them. The attentive waiter appeared with two tall, frosted glasses of water, bowing respectfully.

“What may I get for you this afternoon, Lady, sir?” he asked.

Pelori resisted the urge to ask for a scotch and soda, and Ve’el ordered a dry red wine. Tarvak requested ale.

“And would the lady care for an appetizer tray?”

Ve’el nodded her assent, and as the server moved away, she leaned close to Tarvak. “It would be prudent for you to do a surface telepathic scan, a safeguard for your lady,” she whispered, then smiled as if she had made an amusing observation.

Tarvak nodded, chuckling, then did as she had suggested. After a few moments, he murmured, “There are three members of the Praetorian Guard who noted our arrival,” he said, “and not a few others of various rank who are interested in the appearance of a Dei’lrn in their midst. One of them thought that such a person would be a coup to recruitment.”

“Which?” Ve’el asked.

With a small gesture and a nod of his head, Tarvak indicated a strongly-built, middle-aged Romulan who sat two tables away from them. He wore the rank markings of a Centurion.

Ve’el rose smoothly, turning toward him. “Centurion,” she said, filling her voice with pleased regard.

The man immediately rose. “My Lady,” he returned with a deferential smile.

“I am new to Kol’ran,” she said, smiling back, “from the Klii-sun Province. I would be most grateful if you would allow me to buy your refreshments in return for an overview of your beautiful city and its people.”

“I would be honored, Lady…?” an eyebrow rose expectantly.

“Ve’el. And you are…?”

“Deron of the Third Cohorti.”

“The blessing of Telan upon you,” Ve’el said, her smile becoming softer and more radiant.

The man nearly beamed with pleasure, and moved to their table. Tarvak rose politely.

“I am Tarvak, House of Merad, and honored to be the Senior Husband of the Lady Ve’el,” he said, and gave a proper Warrior’s salute: his right fist striking his left shoulder.

Deron returned it. “Greetings, Warrior,” he said. “May I enquire where you served?”

“Fifth Cohort of the Gariq Legion some thirty years past, under the command of Legate Merat,” came the immediate reply.

Behind the façade of Ve’el, Pelori started. That information had not been included in Spock’s briefing packet. It had been assumed that “Tarvak” would not introduce himself as a Warrior, since such information could be easily checked. But, of course, Tarvak knows it, she thought. Then she wondered why her superiors, who knew Tarvak had been a real Romulan, would think he would not so introduce himself, and then realized that they, unlike her, had known their indoctrination device would be placing more than Tarvak’s memories within the Vulcan. It seemed “need-to-know” applied even to their own operatives.

She hastily shut her thoughts behind her impenetrable shields, and focused on the two men before her.

“…participated in the Vasha Campaign,” Deron was saying.

“Yes. That was my last. I was injured and given an honorable retirement,” Tarvak admitted proudly.

“You are in excellent condition for a Warrior your age,” Deron remarked, and Ve’el could feel the suspicion forming in him.

“Ah, there is reason for that,” Tarvak confided, and glanced toward the bar. “Joron, my Bonded, attend me.” His voice was not loud, but Ve’el heard the telepathic summons.

Joron had ordered a glass of ale, then another, then a third. He drank them all in rapid succession, hoping to dull the pressure that engulfed him, not from those around him, but from the internal struggle. An amused cynical thought of how different that was from his normal existence started in his brain, and he shielded it immediately. He signaled for a fourth glass, then turned as a female voice said, “Glorious afternoon to you, Dei’lrn.”

The woman was quite a bit older than he, older than Ve’el – and he realized that his Lady was nearly fifteen years his senior, although her host was two or three years his junior – and he didn’t want to be thinking about ‘senior’ and ‘junior.’

Remembering his role, he bowed. “And a glorious afternoon to you, Lady,” he returned.

“You are new to the Province,” she continued.

“Am I?”

“I would have known of an exquisite male like you,” the woman chuckled, her gaze moving boldly over him. “I am Lady Holsa, the Legate Ramok is my husband.”

Joron bowed again, more deeply. “Joron of House Bo’rah,” he said, “and I am indeed honored to make the acquaintance of such an illustrious and beautiful woman.” He smiled, then took her offered hand, touching his lips to her fingers. “And how may this humble Dei’lrn be of service to so great a lady?”

She laughed, a shrill sound, and Joron was flooded with the image of exactly how she wanted him to be of service. Though it was a sour thought, he let his eyes sparkle wickedly.

“While a most delectable proposal, my Lady,” he murmured, leaning forward to her, “I’m afraid I’ll have to beg your pardon most abjectly.”

She flushed what he knew she assumed was prettily, but her voice carried more ugliness than teasing when she replied, “Oh? And why is that?”

Joron, my Bonded, attend me, came in Tarvak’s voice, and Joron gestured across the room.

“Warrior Bonded?” Holsa exclaimed, and while her lascivious intention quickly faded, her respect did not. “I would be most pleased to be introduced to one who merited union with you.” She smiled again. “And, of course your Lady.”

“Certainly, Lady,” Joron replied – but he turned to the bar and drained his ale before holding out his arm to escort her to Tarvak and Ve’el.