“Lahs,” Joron drawled, “you haven’t answered my question.”

The non-gift glanced up swiftly, then lowered its eyes again. “Question, Master?”

“Why your service is suddenly so pleasant a thing,” the Junior Husband returned.

Lahs felt another blush overtaking him. “I – I was properly punished for my misdeeds of last evening in the pen, Master,” he said as humbly as he knew how. “A creature such as myself understands and appreciates the need for swift discipline.”

“Do you. Tell me of this discipline, Lahs.”

Lahs lowered his head so that his young Master would not see the light in his eyes. “My Mistress saw fit to – to beat me, Master,” he murmured.

The young Romulan craned his head, gazing critically as Lahs’ body. “I see no marks,” he countered.

“The beating was delivered…to… to my backside, Master,” Lahs choked out, but the memory was far from painful.

“Ah, then it’s covered by your clothing,” Joron nodded. He took a sip of his j’lat and the non-gift assumed that was that. But the Junior Husband reached down, grasping the waistband of his pants. “Let me see,” he snapped.

Lahs froze.

“Joron, enough,” came Tarvak’s voice as the older Romulan moved swiftly from the bedroom door to the table.

“I only wish to become more acquainted with our Lady’s styles of punishments,” Joron replied off-handedly, but the undertone of ugly darkness was evident. “In case it should ever fall to one of us to provide him with proper chastisement should she be absent.”

“It will always be enough to send him to his cot to await me,” Ve’el warned.

“And if he misbehaves in public, my Lady?” Joron pressed. “Shouldn’t we know the limits of what you would allow if he offends some superior then?”

“Joron, I said enough!” Tarvak snapped.

She let the creature orgasm, Tarvak! Joron sent with scathing accusation.

DelMonde felt Pelori’s wince and he smiled grimly. That right, he told her, feel it!

If she did, it’s none of our affair, Tarvak replied tightly.

Joron suddenly stood. “Forgive me, my Lady,” he said, “but if I may be so bold, do I have no rights here? I am Dei’lrn, I feel this beast’s smug arrogance. It dares to think itself well-used, it dares to take pleasure in actions that should shame and chastise it.” He glanced down, to make sure that the non-gift was suitably horrified at its own flaws. “It’s not a bed slave, my Lady, it’s a drudge, one who should not be allowed such liberties…”

“I allow it, Joron,” Ve’el interrupted angrily. “Lahs is mine, and I will do with him what pleases me. Not you, not Tarvak” – not others, her mind added vehemently “ – what pleases me! Do I make myself clear, Junior Husband of mine?”

Joron turned to his Bonded. “Tarvak, must I endure…” he began.

“She is our Third,” Tarvak told him. “She is the Lady of this household. Lahs belongs to her, not to us. How she disciplines him is no concern of ours. Do I make myself clear, my Bonded?”

With a snarl, and a silent, hurled epithet at MacEntyre, Joron turned, storming back towards the bedroom.

“Calm him, Tarvak,” Ve’el said with a disappointed sigh.

“Yes, my Lady,” the Senior Husband replied, but his tone was uncertain.

When alone with her slave, Ve’el motioned to him. “Come, Lahs,” she said. The creature rose slowly, shuffling to her side, kneeling heavily at her feet.

“Yes, Mistress?” he whispered.

She smiled at him, ruffling her fingers through his hair. “You were a good boy,” she told him. “You must not hesitate to obey Second Master’s commands again, but you were a good boy.”

Lahs turned his face up to hers, his eyes shining, a warm flush of gratitude on his face.

“Thank you, Mistress!” he cried in surprised gratitude.

“I have an errand for you this morning. You must take word of our address to Centurion Deron at the Legion compound. He will be dining with us this evening.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the slave responded eagerly.

“Get me paper and pen, and be quick,” she said.

“Yes, Mistress,” Lahs said again, and when he rose, she gave his backside a sharp slap. He jumped, but she could feel the pleasure that infused him.

What did you do?! came from her host’s mind.

As I said, nothing untoward, Ve’el replied with a secretive smile.

“Joron,” Spock began as he walked with grim purpose into the bedroom.

“No!” the young man snapped at him. “No, don’t do it, don’t say a word!” Even through the empath’s shields, the rage and turmoil were evident.

Joron, he tried again, hoping the telepathic contact would bring the Romulan persona to the forefront to reassert the control the engineer was clearly perilously close to losing.

It isn’t fair! the Romulan wailed. That – creature – gets what is denied me – denied you! Ve’el does what she wants with the pathetic Human animal, and you and I – worthy Romulans and Warrior Bonded, we have to suffer because these others have some ridiculous notion of…

And since the others have these notions, and we have obeyed their restrictions, what is it that troubles your host? Tarvak put in patiently, and Spock regretted getting his wish.

Joron snorted derisively. He wants the body Ve’el has appropriated.

Does he? Tarvak considered this as Spock did his best not to interfere. And would you, my Bonded, be adverse to allowing him to serve our Lady?

Joron hardened. Why should I grant him any quarter, Tarvak?

It might make him more amenable to…

No. Joron’s answer was tight. He hates your host.

Tarvak’s eyebrow rose. So much that he will let his own needs go unattended?

So much that he would kill him, not caring that it would destroy himself as well.

Destroy myself? Spock heard the echo of DelMonde’s thoughts within Joron’s mind.

Tarvak and I are Bonded, fool! Joron spat. If you destroy him, you destroy me, and we are linked to your consciousnesses – or haven’t your great empathic abilities discovered that much?

In swift images, Spock saw Joron and Tarvak’s final moments being replayed in DelMonde’s head. Joron, still a Warrior on active duty, though posted as was necessary with his retired Bonded, was gravely injured in battle. There was nothing the Romulan healers could do for him. He was dying – and so was Tarvak. The older Romulan – and Spock was startled to see in Joron’s memory just how much older Tarvak had been – knelt at the bedside of his beloved, tears flowing freely from the stricken eyes. Joron’s beautiful face was hideously burned, his mind clouded with the drugs that had been given him to combat the terrible pain. He reached a mutilated hand toward his Bonded’s face, the name trying to form in the lipless mouth. The agony that was shared between the two men rivaled Spock’s own at Ruth’s encounter with the sauvrn – and he felt it rivaling DelMonde’s own at Ruth’s inexplicable rejection. He became aware that Joron knew of their shared love for the same woman, and felt Tarvak’s sudden, speculative acknowledgement of the fact.

The Vulcan tensed, waiting for the moment of death and the severing of the Bond that, due to their telepathic contact, he knew he would feel.

It didn’t come.

There was a moment of rising fear, rising pain – then nothing. It was as if a shroud had been pulled over their awareness, to be drawn away as they awakened within new bodies. Circumstances, and their final memory, told them they had died – but Spock was no longer so sure. Their bodies may have perished – he had no frame of reference for that – but the Bond, their joined telepathies, had never been disrupted. Of that much, the Vulcan was certain.

As certain as he was that, as Joron had said, his life and Noel DelMonde’s were now tied in precisely the same way.

Tarvak, Joron, honored Warriors, he said carefully, I beg you to retreat so that the Human and I may understand this truth.

He understands nothing but vengeance and sarcasm and drugged escape, Joron sneered.

He is Dei’lrn, like you, Spock replied. He knows only emotion. Allow me to help him to think as well as feel.

A reasonable course, my Bonded, Tarvak added.

Joron scowled, but capitulated. For all the good it will do, he sent as a parting shot.

And I will monitor outside reception, Tarvak offered, so that you may converse without fear of discovery.

My thanks, Warrior, Spock acknowledged, and felt the older Romulan’s satisfaction at the tone of respect. He took a moment to center himself, then, with a deep, inward breath, said, Mr. DelMonde?

Fucked up fucked up bullshit! the engineer exploded. Those goddamned mother-fuckers done fucked us fuckin’ good!

Agreed. But as we have no means to change it now…

Th’ hell I not!

… and keep us both alive, we must adapt.

I ain’t fuckin’ adaptin’ to no fuckin’…

Lieutenant Commander though I am not the mission commander, I am your superior and you will follow my orders! Spock snapped.

That brought DelMonde up short.

I understand the need Humans have for release, the Vulcan continued, and I will not hear any commentary on how and why I have such knowledge. I am half Human. But as I am also half Vulcan, I am better equipped – no commentary, Mr. DelMonde – to handle physical deprivation. I understand you are not. If you and Lieutenant MacEntyre find a discreet liaison to be beneficial to your well-beings, that can only further our mission and I have no objection. If you find it necessary to masturbate to alleviate your physical needs, I have no objection and I will do my best to restrain Tarvak’s understandable desire to share such – pleasures – with his Bonded. But you must understand, Mr. DelMonde, that what Joron has said is true, at least for the time being. Our lives are inextricably tied. Hate me all you wish, your emotions are your own. But you must accept that Joron’s need and yours are bound, as are mine to Tarvak’s. We have agreed to necessary limitations to accommodate our own privacy and relationship, such as it is – but contact within those limitations must be allowed – and must not affect our situation afterwards. Lieutenant MacEntyre was reluctant to make such a thing an order. I am not. I do. You will obey, it, Lieutenant Commander, or I will make certain that you are stripped of your commission and your position when we return to the Federation. These are living beings, Mr. DelMonde, whether or not they have living, separate bodies. Give them the respect that fact deserves.

Goddamned supercilious… Del growled

…green bastard, I know, Spock interrupted smoothly, his mental voice ice and steel. You will follow my orders nonetheless. Now go and work out with Miss MacEntyre whatever needs to be worked out. And do not take your frustration out on Lahs again. That, too, is an order.

DelMonde’s muttered imprecations were barely audible.

I gave you an order, Mr. DelMonde. Acknowledge it.

Yes, sir, acknowledged, sir, was sent from between gritted mental teeth.

Excellent. Dismissed.

After DelMonde had gone, Spock sent his thanks to Tarvak, then lowered himself to the bed, and let the Romulan’s regard and Vulcan meditation reweave his torn and frayed nerves.

MacEntyre was waiting for him when DelMonde exited Tarvak’s bedroom. “We need to talk,” she said, holding up her jammer to show him it was activated.

“I need t’ drink,” he informed her, grabbing a bottle of ale off the sideboard and heading towards his room.

“No reason we can’t do both,” she said, doggedly falling into step beside him.

“If the firs’ words out your mouth are either ‘’bout last night’ or ‘I gonna give you a mild sedative,’” DelMonde warned as she closed his bedroom door behind him. “I swear to God, girl…”

“Okay.” MacEntyre nodded and folded her arms. “How about, ‘how did it go in there with Spock and Tarvak and Joron’?”

“Well…” Del pulled the cork out of the bottle with his teeth and spit it out the window. “They all pretty sick of my shit – as is everyone, I assume. An’ my superior officer in there has now put me under direct orders on pain o’ bein’ busted down to buck private to get wit’ the program and quit bitchin’ ’bout the fact that I wake up naked next to the man I hate most in the universe wit’ the taste o’ his green tongue in my mouth – and will probably be doin’ so fo’ the foreseeable future…to which I am told my choices are shut th’ fuck up, grin, an’ bear it.” The engineer took a long swallow of the burning blue liquid. “I also bein’ strongly advised to seriously consider jackin’ off for Tarvak if he asks.” That also called for another long pull on the ale bottle. “An’ I had best not pick on T-Paul-Lahs just ‘cause he got lucky las’ night an’ old Joron an’ me are unhappy ‘bout the ways we did an’ did not seem to get lucky…” The Cajun made a sweeping gesture in MacEntyre’s direction. “Which brings us to…”

“About last night…” the lieutenant said, smiling wryly as she picked up on her cue.

DelMonde took a seat on his bed and gave her another expansive wave of his hands. “You got th’ floor, Lieutenant.”

MacEntyre shrugged. “What can I say? I was 'asleep'… And you – more than anybody else in the universe at this moment -- know exactly how that goes.”

“It none o’ my damn business anyway,” Del muttered as he took another pull from the bottle.

Pelori smiled a little and turned her head to one side. “You’re kind of acting like it is.”

“Joron went into this whole story ‘bout how his Bond... or whatever… is all tied up in me an’ Spock now an’ killin’ ‘em will kill us,” the engineer replied, brusquely moving on to a different topic. “You be knowin’ anyt’ing ‘bout that?”

MacEntyre shook her head as she sat down next to him on the bed. “Nothing. I was led to believe that the Romulan personas were merely engram simulations -- sophisticated computer models of the brain patterns based on real people – not the still living spirits of real people.”

Below the surface of her determined professionalism, Del could feel echoes of the deep doubts that boiled.

“Within a few days of Ve’el being ‘installed,’” she continued. “I began to have ‘conversations’ with her, but I thought -- and everybody told me -- I was just being the crazy, emotional Indiian who had to personify everything…”

Despite his lingering feelings of anger and betrayal, Del had to fight the urge to put his arm around her comfortingly and say admiring words about what a brave little thing she was. “It all pretty fucked up,” he said, with rough sympathy instead.

“Yes.” MacEntyre smoothed her hair back. “Right now, I only know what Ve’el tells me. …And she’s not speaking to me at this moment.”

Del lifted an eyebrow, somewhat selfishly pleased that MacEntyre and her guest mind had a falling out over the bathtub incident. “Your li’l tete a tete go well?”

“We’ve re-inscribed some boundaries,” Pelori reported with a tone that sounded less than completely certain.

Del put one foot up on the bed so he could turn to face her. “She ever taken you over before, cher?” he asked, pushing back another stray tendril of her hair as if it bothered him.

“No,” MacEntyre shrugged, looking down at the floor as if there might be clues to help her solve this problem there. “Not unless I wanted her to.”

DelMonde withdrew his hand. “An’ did you want her to?”

The lieutenant looked up and rolled her big grey eyes impatiently. “No. Why would I?”

“I dunno,” the engineer said to his bottle. “You done always liked him…. A lot better‘n you like me.”

MacEntyre blinked. “Liked who? Lahs?”

“Chekov.” Even to his own ears, DelMonde could hear the jealousy dripping from his pronunciation of that name.

The lieutenant’s mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile. “What makes you think I like him?”

A blaze of anger shot through DelMonde. “Other’n the fact you able to happily sleep through Ve’el bendin’ him over th’ side o’ her tub and lettin’ him suck your tits ‘til he come?” he asked nastily.

“Yes, yes.” MacEntyre made a dismissive gesture. “Other than that.”

Once more Del was amazed at how a half-Indiian could be so aware of his emotions and still seem so completely unaffected by them. Her Human daddy must have been one cool bastard. “You done always acted like you liked him,” he muttered darkly. “Smilin’ at his dumbass jokes an’ all.”

“When we were training together on the ship?”

“Yeah.”

MacEntyre took a moment to consider, then nodded. “He was easy to work with.”

Del crossed his arms and frowned. “I guess he not ever give you a hard time.”

“No,” the lieutenant confirmed. “Not like you did.”

“No reason you shouldn’t like him,” the engineer said bitterly. “Everybody like the dumb fuck.”

“He had a good personality.” MacEntyre nodded. “Very cooperative… And, of course, he’s a lot more cooperative now...”

Del was beginning to get the feeling he was being teased. He narrowed his eyes and took another long sip from his bottle. “An’ he not a drunk,” he pointed out accusingly.

“I’ve heard he does like to drink,” MacEntyre replied.

“Well,” the Cajun had to admit. “I do happen to know he always keep a bottle o’ 150 proof Polish vodka under his bed…”

“And he does have that girlfriend…”

Who -- even if he broke up wit’ her to go wit’ you -- would cut his dick off ‘fore she let him end up wit’ another woman,” DelMonde felt duty-bound to inform her. “Jus' so you know.”

MacEntyre nodded gravely. “Lieutenant Commander, do you find some humor in the fact that here we are, two tel-empaths, having a conversation about whether or not I like your friend better than I like you?”

Del frowned. “It not seem laugh out loud funny to me, no…”

Pelori shook her head. “When I was in the fourth grade, all my friends were sending “Do you like me? Check yes or no” letters to each other. I got sick of it. I stood up and started telling everyone exactly who did and did not like who.”

In his mind’s eye, Del could see her – a bossy little girl with freckles and red pigtails standing on a desk blurting out devastating truths while her teacher and classmates watched on in open-mouthed amazement. “You always said you not like chitchat,” he commented.

“I got suspended for a week,” she recalled. “But a couple of them did end up getting married to each other years later...”

“Well…” DelMonde sat up and resolutely straightened his well-ventilated tunic. “I guess they no harm in tellin’ you another item that come out o’ my marchin’ orders from Spock, then. Apparently it okay with everyone if you an’ I throw down for a quick one.”

MacEntyre’s mouth quirked until it finally resolved into a wry smile. “You know, Mr. DelMonde, when I heard you were a poet, I just knew that you were going turn out to be a hopeless romantic.”

“You not know the half of it, girl,” he informed her, taking another long sip from his bottle. “Hell, this jus’ my “B” side material, darlin’.”

“You mean to tell me it gets even better than this?” she asked facetiously.

He had never met a telepath who was harder to read. Despite the occasional flashes he was getting, there was no indication in the state of her shields that she was unbending to him at all.

“Oh, yeah,” he replied, coolly. “I not pull out the “A” game ‘til I know I got some chance o’ succeedin’.”

She looked at him for a moment, her grey eyes turning grave. “Have you ever slept with an Indiian woman, Mr. DelMonde?”

“Miss MacEntyre, that an almost cruelly personal question to put to a man that you contemplatin’ rejectin’ out o' hand.”

“When Indiians have sex,” she said seriously, “we believe it should be real sharing, complete openness.”

Del clamped down on his own shields, hoping to hide how utterly arousing he found that statement. “So I done heard,” he replied diffidently.

“I’m not sure if I can give that to you,” she said, opening up far enough to let him verify that she was being truthful.

Del’s voice caught in his throat at the sweet taste of her mind. “Why not?”

“Because of…”

“…the mission?” he finished for her, outraged. “First I gotta be jealous o' T-Paul an’ now the fuckin’ mission? Damn, girl, there anyt’ing or anyone who not more important to you than me?”

“The people who I work for…” she began, still holding the crack in her shielding open. “The people who planned this mission… The training I have undergone – and not just for this mission…. Del, I know things I can’t reveal to you – not now and maybe not ever. There are doors in my mind that I can’t unlock for you. If you came in, you’d be able to see the doors. And knowing you, that would bother you.”

“It do bother me,” he said, readily.

“Yes.” MacEntyre seemed sad but resigned as she began to let the cracks in her shielding fall shut.

Del reached out and took her by the hands, refusing to be completely shut out again. “It make me scared fo' you, girl.”

She nodded. “And there’s been nothing in this mission thus far to indicate that you shouldn’t be, has there?” she asked, as bluntly honest as always.

“True dat,” he had to agree.

“And…” MacEntyre gently but firmly pulled her hands back. “Even if we can work things out with our multiple personalities and 'throw down for a quick one,' I am Pelori MacEntyre. I’m not…” She broke off and shook her head sharply. “I hate to even bring her name up… The woman you and the Vulcan fight over.”

“Don’ bring her up, cher,” Del pleaded quietly.

“And as little as I like the prospect of having a relationship with Joron and Ve’el sitting and looking on from the bleachers,” Pelori continued, “the thought of making love to you always under the giant shadow of some Moon Priestess…”

“Stop.” He put a finger on her lips. “Okay?”

MacEntyre drew in a deep breath, re-gathering her cloak of professionalism. “Okay.”

“I thought ‘bout her this mornin',” Del confessed.

“Exactly,” MacEntyre sounded resigned but not bitter.

“I thought ‘bout her,” Del continued, “an' thought th' hurtin’ would start… but it didn’t.”

“Well,” Pelori said, returning to full Lieutenant MacEntyre mode, “there is a good possibility that -- because she is a strong telepath and lived on that ship for many years and has many close friends still in the crew -- somehow her psychic signature has become embedded there. I told your friend, Dr. … I mean, Mr. Paget before we left on this mission, that there was a possibility that leaving that environment might lessen the pressure for you. The physical distance may have just taken a while to start to having an effect. I imagine the drug I’m giving you is also helping to strengthen your shielding.”

“Oh.” Del blinked slowly. “That all sound reasonable.”

“It’s a theory.”

“I had kinda thought it not hurt so much to t’ink ‘bout her…” Del lifted his eyes to hers. “… ‘cause I had started to t’ink ‘bout you…”

For the first time since they met, Del found he had been able to say something that actually made Pelori MacEntyre stop talking. She didn’t resist when he drew her into his arms and kissed her. There was no great bursting of her walls or shielding. It was more like a slow thaw -- a gradual, careful melting and trickling into one another.

After a moment she pulled back her head and smiled. “This must be the “A” game, Mr. DelMonde?” she asked impudently.

“You gotta know it,” he said, claiming her lips again.

Their kiss was slow and hard, their minds melting into their lips and tongues.

“So what you say, cher?” Del whispered into her Romulan ear. “Voulez vous…?”

MacEntyre pulled back. “Another thing…”

DelMonde groaned. “Wit’ you they’s always one more damn t'ing, ain’t they?”

“Joron’s going to demand payback for this,” she informed him, as was Lieutenant MacEntyre’s duty.

Del grimaced. “That horny li’l Romulan whore really ‘bout to get on my last nerve.”

“Give him the rest of the day… and I promise to see what I can do about tonight.”

“Fuck tonight,” he said, pulling her to him again. “I want you now, Pelori.”

He could feel her grin on the side of his cheek. “Call me Li’l Mac.”

“Come here, girl,” he growled, happily pulling her down on top of him. “Let me show you how I can make poetry.”

“Lahs?”

The slave was surprised to see a familiar face on the servant tentatively peeking from around one of the heavy paneled doors of Centurion Deron of the Third Cohort’s lavishly appointed quarters at the Legion’s compound.

“Wen!” he smiled, then looked around the empty servant’s lobby warily. “Are you allowed…?”

“Yes, yes,” the lovely boy replied, speaking softly and carefully closing the door behind him so as not to disturb the person in the other room. “My master is writing a note to your mistress. He said I might speak to you quickly when I told him about the trouble from last night.”

“Oh, that,” Lahs replied. The incident in the Senatorial Parlor’s slave pen seemed very far away now.

“Did your mistress punish you?” Wen asked, his large eyes full of sympathy.

“Yes,” the slave replied, keeping his features carefully neutral. “Yes, she did.”

The boy made a noise of pity. “Was it a bad punishment?”

Lahs had a hard time keeping himself from smiling. “No, not too bad.”

Wen cocked his head to one side, puzzled by this response. “What happened?”

“Oh, nothing.” Memories of his mistress’ pleasure still made the non-gift’s body tingle with delight.

The boy frowned for a moment, then began to grin as an explanation for his new friend’s flushed cheeks came to him. “She put you to use?”

It was very hard not smile. “I am not allowed to speak of private matters,” he informed the boy.

“When did it happen?” Wen pressed heedless of his reserve. “After the punishment?”

“I may not speak of it,” Lahs repeated firmly.

“Before the punishment?”

“I am not allowed…”

The boy’s grin broadened. “During?”

Lahs cleared his throat, but was suddenly unable to answer at all.

“So it wasn’t a bad punishment at all, was it?” Wen giggled wickedly. “You may be the one kicking Krel’s food plate every time you see him, hmm?”

“Oh, hardly,” Lahs replied, wishing he could stop blushing.

“Congratu…” Wen reached out for him, then suddenly stopped. “Do you still think you have the space sickness?”

“No,” the non-gift assured the beautiful bedslave. “It was probably just too long between times… you know…”

“Oh, yes.” The boy was once more filled with sympathy. “Going too long without being properly put to use would surely make you very agitated.”

Lahs felt it was imprudent to confirm or deny such an assertion.

“Congratulations, then!” Wen took him by both hands and squeezed them as he grinned delightedly. “I hope it’s the beginning of much more of the same for you.”

The non-gift couldn’t help but return the boy’s infectious goodwill. “Thank you.”

“Don’t the two of you make a pretty pair?”

The slaves immediately dropped hands and bowed their heads, turning to face the Romulan who neither had heard enter.

“Forgive us, Master,” Lahs apologized quickly over Wen’s simultaneous, “Forgive me, Master.”

“No need.” The Centurion’s lazy drawl made his level of pleasure or displeasure with them hard to read. “It was quite stimulating.”

Lahs bit his lip and resisted the urge to speak into the awkward growing silence.

“Well,” Deron said after a few moments of letting his eyes travel over first one pretty slave then the other. “Unless you wish to put on a performance with my boy for me, I suppose you’d better get back to your mistress.”

Lahs took the note the Romulan held out. “Thank you, Master.”

“Come, Wen,” the Centurion said to his slave as Lahs hurried to the door. “Let’s make sure you don’t become agitated today…”

Lahs refused to allow the disconcerting thought of ‘performing’ with Wen to ruin his mood. He was happy. The Mistress was pleased with him, despite his numerous faults. His punishment had been fitting, but ultimately contained much more pleasure than he had had in a long time. He regretted that it so obviously disturbed his Second Master, but he could do nothing about that. The Mistress was always free to use her slave as she wished.

When he arrived back at his Mistress’ apartments, he was quite surprised to find neither her, First, nor Second Master in the common rooms. The carafe of j’lat was still on the table, along with the used cups. Mindful of the note the Centurion had given him, he cleared his throat and called, “Mistress, I have returned. The Centurion sent you a response.”

At the sound of Lahs’ voice, Pelori pulled herself away from DelMonde’s hungry embrace. “We don’t have time,” she whispered. “Tonight, after dinner, Del.”

“That a promise?” he growled, nipping at her ear.

She shivered. Aema, yes! she sent him.

With a final kiss, he let her go. She stood, straightening her clothing and switching off the jammer, again hiding it in her sleeve. She gave a lingering look at the man who lounged indolently on the bed, then turned and left the bedroom.

“Very good, Lahs,” Ve’el said to the non-gift, holding out her hand for the paper he carried. He put it in her hand, his fingers shyly sweeping across hers as he did so. With a frown, Ve’el slapped his hand, but it wasn’t sharp and he grinned at her, then lowered his eyes.

“Impertinent,” she said.

“Forgive me, Mistress,” he said happily.

She read the Centurion’s note of thanks, and his suggestion that the Lady Holsa and Legate Ramok be included in the dinner invitation. The three most important and influential people in the Province, she thought, impressed in spite of herself. A good beginning for you, yes? she continued to Pelori.

Yes, it is, her host answered, and Ve’el chuckled at the double meaning.

Calm yourself, child, she admonished almost playfully. How would we explain the flush?

We’re the lady of this House, Pelori returned. We don’t have to explain it.

True, Ve’el acknowledged, pleased that the girl was accepting their pride of place. She went to her desk, carefully penning a formal invitation for the Legate and his Lady. She was aware of it when Tarvak emerged from the bedroom, and when Joron sauntered out of his small room. Joron went for the j’lat, Tarvak for his lythyr.

She handed the invitation to Lahs, giving him instructions on how to get to the Legate’s home, and when the non-gift was gone, she turned to her husbands.

“We are going to the gladiatorial games today, my husbands,” she announced, “and we will be dining here this evening with Centurion Deron, and, if we are fortunate, the Legate and Lady Holsa.”

“Very impressive, my Lady,” Tarvak returned, then glanced at her. “If I may speak on a matter of some delicacy, my Lady?”

Ve’el frowned, but nodded her assent.

I have come to realize that there is a telepathic interference of sorts when we and the others in this room speak privately to one another, he said carefully.

Yes, Ve’el replied.

That seemed to startle him. You know of this, my Lady?

It has something to do with the mental emanations in each case being from only one set of brain cells, she responded, which apparently sets up natural interference patterns. As long as all six 'people' are active within our three heads, no one else will hear anything but the murmur that will be recognized as a family 'privacy' shield.

You shittin’ me? came Noel DelMonde’s almost delighted exclamation.

Most assuredly not. But I must emphasize that such only applies to our conversations with each other. If we speak to other Romulans, we will be as open to scan regarding those communications as any other telepath. And if one non-Romulan is too forward, or too loud in his thinking, that will surely be overheard.

Why hasn’t this been mentioned before? Pelori put in, clearly suspicious.

I discovered it while allowing our hosts to have a necessary, private communication only minutes ago, Tarvak answered. And the reason for it…

Seems most logical, Spock confirmed.

This could be a distinct advantage, MacEntyre put in thoughtfully. If she still had her doubts, she kept them to herself.

Assuming no one of the six of us behaves in any way that would be likely to trigger suspicions and a deeper telepathic scan, the Vulcan said pointedly.

Go t’ hell.

Insubordination, Mr. DelMonde.

Yes, sir, sorry, sir. DelMonde’s mental voice was far from contrite.

Since that is the case, Ve’el reasserted herself, I would suggest, Tarvak, Joron, that you take a firm hold on the foremost place for most of our activities today and this evening. If the others will allow themselves to be – subsumed – all will be well. She glanced around the room. Is this agreeable?

Tarvak/Spock looked at Joron, then at Ve’el. DelMonde glared at the Vulcan.

How I trust these charonges? he asked.

With sudden vehemence, Joron pushed through. Do you see what I am forced to put up with? he demanded. A reasonable course, reasonably presented, with the backing of his superiors and added safety for his rude and uncouth interruptions and still he balks! He plans assignations with that one – he pointed clearly at Ve’el’s body, not at Ve’el – and denies and derides mine with the one to whom I am Bonded? What is she but an unimportant half-breed…

Joron, enough! Tarvak commanded.

Mr. DelMonde, perhaps if you would consider the advantages of peaceful cohabitation? Spock suggested.

Such as? DelMonde shot back.

Avoiding a long, slow painful interrogation and ultimate death comes to mind, Ve’el put in dryly, her assertions seconded forcefully by Pelori.

And perhaps Joron will be more likely to grant you privacy when you need it, the half-Indiian added with a clear undertone of meaning that sparkled covertly between them.

He call you a half-breed, Del growled.

Which I am, she returned easily.

Need I issue another order, Lieutenant Commander? Spock stated with clear warning.

Del sighed. No, sir, I agree voluntarily, sir.

Good, Ve’el stated. When Lahs returns, let us enjoy a day at the games.