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Chapter Text

Uncle Leonard,

Of all possibilities in my life, I did not conceive of returning so soon to the Empire. I still cannot go to Homeworld, but I am now en route to the outermost rim of Klingon space. Mr. LeVanne does not permit to tell you further details. Home will be so close yet so far away.

I misunderstood Mr. LeVanne. He is an honorable man. Now without reservation, I trust he will protect us. He maintains his special rapport with Minjaral, but now he also regards us fondly. On occasion, he calls me ‘Dova’, explaining that his mother tongue has various ways of construing someone’s name when among friends. I think of you and the rest of Babu’s family. Mr. LeVanne is strange, but I think you would enjoy his company if you met him.

My Ferengi friend has taken the name Prina-Krax. I cannot easily condense all the details regarding what led to this decision, but I assure you that this name suits my friend. I underestimated Prina-Krax’s sartorial sophistication even after seeing such musical and aesthetic virtuosity. I loathe to say that Minjaral, by his own admission, lost interest in fashion when he stopped his roguish ways under the Occupation. Vudic’s fashion sense is basic at best; his only true asset is that he can distinguish between shades of green, blue, and violet, notable because apparently there are no words for these colors in Vulkhusu. Thus, Prina-Krax and I have grown closer because they and I can discuss fashion in ways the others cannot. I also learned that Prina-Krax is fond of gossip, and their superior hearing allows them to eavesdrop on the crew in ways I never could. We only share with each other because it would be uncouth to meddle in crew affairs. We can enjoy their melodrama from afar. At last, I feel that I am precisely where I belong.

Yes, Uncle, I finally did what I needed. Vudic and I spoke of everything we had gone through and especially the space station. I can admit now that yes, I do love him. He is like Kujvak to me who I will always love too. I think I was even, briefly, in love with Captain Kagga. I remember the first time you called me a romantic, and I have never forgotten. I see you and Auntie Mumtaz. I see my brothers and their spouses. I long for someone to share my life with, someone to serenade each night and make love to each morning. I truly believed that when we met, Vudic would long for the same under his reserved exterior.

Alas, it is not to be. Perhaps it was my own desire clouding my vision. Vudic apologized so many times, I think I should be flattered. He explained that filial piety has determined the decisions of his adult life. He is his mother’s only child and the youngest of his father’s children; so strange that he is my mirror, me my father’s only child and mother’s youngest. His parents are in their twilight years. Dr. Jalal is a spry woman at 82 at his father is in good health (I understand that his father, though at the astounding age of 181, is equivalent to his mother’s age.) He is convinced it is his duty to take care of them, but there is a deeper concern. He admits he being ‘illogical’ when he spoke aloud my own fear—when Babu is gone, I will be alone on Homeworld because no one will understand how we feel, being part of and apart from the place we love. Going to Earth will not be the same. Uncle, I love you, but I know that you would rather we leave the Empire. I cannot. It is still home. Babu will pass and my home will be emptier for it. He admits that this time away from his parents has been difficult simply because humans do not live as long as Vulcans. Only when his mother has passed will he consider marriage, and even then I do not think he will truly consider it until his father’s death.

The revelation pains me deeply, yet I am relieved to finally understand my friend. He tells me that he grieves for me and for the pain he has caused me. His compassion made the conversation all the more bittersweet. He says regret is not enough. He wishes my forgiveness, not merely given but earned. He wants penance. How close I came to breaking my vow that I would shed no more tears when he gave me his prayer beads! How can I refuse him?

I did avoid him after our discussion for many days, a very difficult task as we are quartered together on the star ship. There is a holodeck on this ship, and I found solace in a training program for hand-to-hand combat. My skill was lacking, but the release did more for my soul than any victory. No longer does this heartsick malaise consume me. Vudic is my dear friend and I am his. I hope we live long enough to attend each other’s weddings.

Mr. LeVanne assures me that is the planet a place where my dishonor on Qo’Nos will not matter. Even if word of it reached its social circles, high society takes a cosmopolitan interest in so-called dishonored people. He also tells me that he has the ear of the planetary governor, and an audience with her will supersede anyone’s interest in my past mistakes.

Please tell my parents I am safe and I am well. For the first time since leaving Homeworld, I am optimistic about what the future holds.

With Love,
Doh’Val

Chapter Text

Tsengo, Daughter of Etho, House Ahn, planetary governor of Siff by indulgence granted through the Klingon Imperium, possessed a presence that suffocated everyone’s will and consumed any room she entered. In the lavender parlor where she received all of her new guests and dripping with furs, she stood with a poise refined over years of strict training and generations of proper breeding. Her kohl-dark lips nursed the Klein bottle pipe in her cedar hand. The bustling, endless party roared behind the double doors. After an impeccable introduction of them all by Mr. LeVanne, Doh’Val’s soul curdled with dread as his nightmare manifested.

“What cosmic fortune,” she said with a plume of white smoke rushing over her magnificent teeth. “A friend in the Emperor’s court came to visit, and he told me a rumor that, until now, I believe was his attempt to win me.”

Mr. LeVanne’s bland smile perceptibly tightened. “Governor, you cannot tell me this and expect me not to insist on more information.”

The gray strands of her flowing, umber hair glistened like dew in the parlor’s golden light with every tilt of her head. “He told me of a fascinating story about a peer under House Bar’s patronage who had been deceived by off-worlders.”

Doh’Val felt the familiar shooting pain of his Lichtenberg scar. Mr. LeVanne’s sharp gaze didn’t waver, nor did his honeyed tone. “I understand Siff welcomes off-worlders in ways that the Empire’s heart never would. Am I mistaken?”

If she weren’t humiliating him, Doh’Val would already be thinking about becoming her sixth husband from how she met Mr. LeVanne with steely pleasantry. “People on Qo’Nos concern themselves with small matters.” Smoke flowed through the crystals and coils of the pipe before disappearing somewhere impossible. “However, the off-worlders were a Ferengi and a one-eyed Cardassian.” Her free hand smoothed down the hairs of the plush fur around her chest. “It was told that the Cardassian was such a scoundrel that he kidnapped the family’s youngest and forged their family seals on documents to make it look like they gave him away willingly.” Her piercing gaze moved to them. “A curious story.”

Doh’Val grit his teeth in anticipation. His patriarch, resplendent in gold and crimson, the belted tunic’s broad, keyhole neckline showing off his ridges, and the leggings clinging to his calves, stood tall and strong as juniper in the face of this scrutiny.

The patience in the governor’s voice made Doh’Val’s life flash before his mind’s eye. “Did you meet these scoundrels during your travels?”

Minjaral’s flame-colored false eye seemed to twinkle. Doh’Val’s heart stopped dead at his half-smile. “Governor, I will not lie. I am that scoundrel.”

Mr. LeVanne audibly inhaled while Governor Tsengo exhaled the smoke which had disappeared from the pipe moments before, her smile broadening. “I know.”

Of course. Gods, of course, she knew before they arrived at the embassy. If she were even half as important to intelligence brokering as Mr. LeVanne claimed, she knew their names and faces before they set foot in her mansion. “I expect as much from the Empire’s Hand of Fate.” Minjaral rested a hand over his breast with his genial crooked smile. “Governor. Hear my story, and you will agree there was no other choice in protecting the family’s honor.”

Her hand ventured to his blind side, and his hand politely followed. Their smiles held while Doh’Val felt his head growing light. “L’Van, you tell him lies about me?”

Mr. LeVanne’s hands rested on the top of his cane like it was the pommel of a sword. “Governor, I never lie.”

Agonizing moments passed until finally, Governor Tsengo’s hand rested on Minjaral’s shoulder. “Come, Master Seu. Convince me with your stories.”

His hand rested atop hers and in a show of some gesture he must have learned during the Occupation, he turned over her hand to rest his cheek in her palm. “It would be my pleasure.” A few particles of the orange sindoor powder smudged down the center of his forehead danced in the air.

Snickering, Governor Tsengo led him to the stone settee in the style of the Four Queens-era while her pipe hand dismissed them. “We have much to discuss, Master Seu.”

The servant led them out, but Doh’Val looked over his shoulder. Minjaral nodded to reassure them that he could take care of himself. Seeing him bow with the grace of an Imperial courtier, Doh’Val became convinced that Seu Minjaral was the most magnificent man to ever set foot inside the Governor’s palace. The dark double doors closed with a foreboding clunk, and the servant said, “The governor will summon you when she is ready to give each of you an audience.” Only then did he remember to breathe.

They followed the servant into an adjoining boudoir as spacious as his parents’ dining room. Dull beige décor of thick drapery and brocade covering every speck of wall space muffled the noise of the party spilling all through the palace. While the rest of them clumped together and cautiously studied the furniture which cost more than the sum of their possessions, Mr. LeVanne strolled in as if it was his to stand before one of the five picturesque floor-length mirrors arranged around the room allowing someone to see all angles of their body at a glance. The servant set down a large elegant box on the cosmetics table and then withdrew for their privacy.

Mr. LeVanne busied himself with the box. “I trust Mr. Nima-son with the governor.”

As he set out various items, Doh’Val squinted and asked, “Excuse me, is that my hair oil?”

“Yes.” He was emptying the pockets of his bone-white waistcoat. “Mr. Nima-son lifted items from your luggage for me.” The mirror pointed his sharp eyes at all three of them. “The first meeting with the governor is tiring. You will need to refresh yourselves for the party.”

Vudic stood his ground. Wringing their hands, Prina-Krax went for the jar of green skin crème which kept them at their best. Doh’Val picked up his comb and the little hinged box of hair beads; this would help him decompress.

Redirecting his affection away from Vudic, unfortunately, sent it firing in all directions. Prina-Krax took inspiration from their amorous lawyer by setting aside all prostheses and wearing their brilliant white-and-gold suit sans shirt, the waistcoat altered to hem in their breasts and create a noticeable cleave that kept drawing Doh’Val’s eye; the chains and jewelry hanging between the waistcoat’s lapels made it that much harder to look anywhere else. He had to look away completely when Prina-Krax spread the green crème down their front without a thought for who else was in the room. “Are you keeping that ring?” he asked, tugging on his hair a little harder than necessary to pull him back to his senses. “The one that stains you.”

“Oh.” He caught their embarrassment and sadness. “I did want to keep it….”

Mr. LeVanne was undressing in the corner of Doh’Val’s eye. “Keep it.” He was holding something between his teeth as he spoke. “Your mother gave it to you. That is more important than decorum.”

“I fail to find the point of this exercise,” said Vudic dryly, “and I object to you forcing me to wear this instead of my own clothes.” The Manchu-collared vermillion shirt flattered him, but the sleeves only extended to his forearms; it was from a collection Mr. LeVanne curated to loan to his wards. He had insisted Vudic wear it tucked into his brown trousers in imitation of the man’s own style.

Mr. LeVanne, already down to his muslin undershirt and his ebony trousers half-unbuttoned, watched them by the mirror’s reflection as he pulled the ribbon from his hair. “I explained before. Blue is not what one wears the first time one meets the governor.” He took the comb from between his teeth. “After this night, wear whatever you please.”

“I am aware of your explanation. I sustain my objection.” The string of lapis lazuli prayer beads hung from Vudic’s belt loop.

“I hear you sustain your objection, and I say that your objection is without logic.” Doh’Val caught the various scars on Mr. LeVanne’s neck and down his shoulders and wrists, cut with surgical precision compared to the messy battle scars on Minjaral. It surprised him that his slimness was real and not the illusion of clever tailoring, although Doh’Val also saw soft signs of aging.

“Consider that the governor is important.” “I understand her importance, and I find her obsession with appearance illogical.” “Then you have forgotten where you are—” He combed, he checked his gums, he dabbed cedarwood cologne on his neck and through his hair, all the while calmly arguing with Vudic about why he was right and Vudic was wrong. If Doh’Val kept staring, he would start filling in details about Mr. LeVanne’s body and turn his mind toward imagining what kind of lover he was. Better to focus on himself.

It relaxed him to work in sections with his hair which he hadn’t cut since leaving Homeworld and now touched the top of his ribs, all the while remaining thick and luxuriant despite their many tribulations. The beads slid easily onto his lustrous locks, becoming like stars against the darkness of his mane. And against his burnt orange Old Kingdom jacket and dusk-blue vest, he hoped to remind other guests of a burning nebula.

“Dova.” Mr. LeVanne’s voice carried the warmth that he once reserved only for Minjaral. “You are the image of the governor’s past husbands.”

“Am I?” He puffed up in the mirror, reflexively smiling at both the compliment and the envy that flashed across Prina-Krax’s face. Even Vudic seemed in want of attention from their host. The stint on Ferenginar had reshaped his body and made the shoulders of his jacket and inseam of his trousers a little snug.

“Yes.” Mr. LeVanne, slipping on his black long-sleeved shirt with the high Nehru collar and sparkling gold buttons, put a flutter in Doh’Val breast with his smile. “Your hair alone will be the talk of the evening.” The waistcoat he unfolded was the same vibrant color as Vudic’s shirt.

In his mind came the image of Mr. LeVanne grabbing a fistful of the hair he so admired and dragging Doh’Val to the nearby plush lounging sofa, throwing him down and ripping the buttons off his— “Did you meet any of the governor’s husbands?”

“No. She is a widow.” He added darkly, “Do not ask about them.”

Protocol dictated that all new guests pass through the grand hall which served as a temple to House Ahn and the governor’s legacy. Middle Empire etiquette, said the servant, who explained the details of this protocol with supercilious patience. “—The governor has chosen to share her vast fortune by providing the hospitality of this palace and a banquet which is in its tenth continuous year—” Heirlooms and ancestral death masks were tastefully arranged and displayed on a rotation basis from the governor’s collection. Scattered throughout were the various successes of her reign: restoration of all historic buildings and battlegrounds, constant infrastructure improvement to give much of the populace a sense of purpose, and an endowment that put artists under the patronage of the public rather than private families. Her adequacy as an administrator and her creative interpretation of trade law made Siff a hub for everything exotic.

When they passed the wedding portraits of Tsengo and her husbands, two details stood out to Doh’Val: first, each one had the same curves and softness that civilian life had given him; second, the governor grew older, and her husbands stayed the same age. “Profits and Lace, you do look like them!” said Prina-Krax, elbowing him as they walked. “Should I step aside so you can have a chance with her?”

He growled in reply. Prina-Krax meant well, but having the conversation within Vudic’s earshot made it all the more embarrassing. He always saw how Vudic looked away in visible discomfort.

“Master Analyst, you and your guests may now join the others.” The servant withdrew through some unknown passage, leaving the four of them in a small room with nothing but patterned tapestries everywhere. It brought back memories of standing backstage at his patron’s theater before a performance.

“Gentlemen, I recommend you enjoy yourselves. I shall collect you when it is time to leave.” Mr. LeVanne twirled his cane as he turned.

Doh’Val rushed after him. “Wait! Your rule is that we must stay together!” Wandering this place without Mr. LeVanne’s help seemed foolish at best.

“Correct, but the governor’s mansion is the most secure building on the planet, more than even our embassy.” He gestured with his cane, grinning giddily, to a place that Doh’Val assumed had a door behind its tapestry. “Entertain yourselves by meeting the guests before the governor summons you back to her.”

Prina-Krax grabbed Mr. LeVanne by the elbow. “Then I’m joining you!” Their grin made Doh’Val roll his eyes as they said, “I need to tell everyone what a good spouse our friend will make.”

“Please no—” Too late. As the pair left, Prina-Krax called over their shoulder, “Qo’Nos’ Greatest Lover! That’s you, Dova!”

Being with Vudic felt like being at the Talas Conference in the worst way; the silence between them was suffocating. Vudic took the translator from his ear to pocket it. “I prefer to speak with you directly.” Doh’Val couldn’t help a soft smile to hear his friend’s accent just as he had at the Talas Conference. “Will you interpret for me?”

He pocketed his own. “Yes. Yes, I shall.”

They stepped into the expansive banquet room where fixtures along the ceiling mimicked the aurora he had once seen on Earth. Memories of the Talas Conference came back and so did Doh’Val’s self-consciousness. Around high tables and low sofas in the soft low glow, people with outfits worth more than his family’s estate clustered in clumps: Guests dressed like flowery meadows and swampy bogs and golden savanna. Guests in voluminous furs and painted skins and supple leather. Guests in more gold lace than their frames should be able to support and masks of mythical creatures and encounter suits decked with decorative mechanisms. The multitude of smells from perfume to natural pungent musk to aromatic foods all coalesce into a strange brew that made his head light. They picked their way along the perimeter of the room, agreeing with a shared glance that they should find their companions.

Within moments, a guest who reminded Doh’Val of his old patron intercepted them. “Ah! I was told Florian had brought a son of the Empire and a fetching young Vulcan to the party! It must be you two!” He grabbed their sleeves without asking.

Doh’Val hastily whispered, “He says someone named Florian knows us. A servant?”

Vudic didn’t hide his subsumed aggravation at being handled by a stranger. “The Investigator. Recall his name: Nikolai Florian.”

The clump of party-goers greeted them with a chorus of hearty salutations, and Doh’Val’s heart softened at Vudic’s insistence on greeting them with the speck of Klingon he still remembered from traveling together. He had to push away those memories which had become so bittersweet.

“By Kahless, you are the image of the Governor’s last husband.” “Please, I must have a lock of your hair, it is beautiful.” “Did you meet him? Such an honorable man. Terrible shame, his disappearance.” “Are you here for long?” He slipped back into his Homeworld self like putting on a pair of well-worn boots, thoughts wondering back to when the four of them were on Qo’Nos. The hints at gossip, the fawning, the imposing questions—oh, Gods, how he had missed it! If only his brother’s grandparents could see him now! He even hoped Kuvjak was somewhere at this party to see how much better Doh’Val was without him. A few times, he became so caught up in the adoration that he forgot to keep Vudic appraised of what was happening in the conversation; for his part, Vudic seemed indifferent to the rudeness.

Another group of guests drifted by and their new acquaintance called out, “Listen! Florian brought us a friend from the heart of the Empire!” “Oh, the heart of the Empire? Any news of the Chancellor?” “Yes, yes, any news of the Chancellor?”

These people were far above Doh’Val’s station. He stammered his way through an excuse about being off-world and not able to keep up with the affairs of the Council before strongly prompting Vudic to regale them with a story about the various diplomats his family knew; while interpreting, Doh’Val purposely dropped the details about his parents doing manual labor and or that the diplomats themselves didn’t wield much power.

The evening became a whirlwind of aromas and laughter as the guests pushed them through a gauntlet of different cliques who often asked the same questions; Vudic’s answers shortened and grew terse while Doh’Val’s answers lengthened and grew bombastic. They passed through rooms that all felt like a different kind of party: a cozy lounge with soft music and various guests trying to woo each other, a smoky room where servants acridly reminded guests that losing a game of chance was not a good enough reason to start a fight, people dancing in a large hall to music from artists everyone insisted were the trendiest that Siff had to offer. They kept to Klingon circles, but he also observed other aliens stopping their conversation to eavesdrop on his stories. He never took a sip of wine yet felt drunk as he drank up every drop of their attention. His exile became a fun story instead of the life-shattering event it had been. The fight which nearly cost Vudic his life became an amusing anecdote made more amusing with Vudic standing there.

A moment of respite came when they could withdraw to a corner and watch the current room, yet another ballroom where bright golden light cast a glow over everything and boisterous conversation nearly drowned out the music. Doh’Val lifted a goblet of wine from the tray of a passing servant. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Vudic answered with a silent head wobble, looking out over the crowd. Seeing his friend actively disengage dampened Doh’Val’s spirits. Was he offended? What had Doh’Val done to deserve this?

“Perhaps Minjaral is here after his audience with the governor.” Perhaps they could find a way to send Vudic back to the embassy early while the rest of them had their fun.

He gestured to his shirt and kept his voice low. “These clothes do not represent who I am. They are neither a reflection of my heritage nor my character. While I must accept the Investigator’s reasons for forcing me to wear this, my illogic grips me.” He took the prayer beads from his belt loop and wrapped them around his palm. “I am far from Homeworld in an unfamiliar place. Correspondence with my parents gives me incomplete information about their day-to-day health. The task at hand is to discover the person who has impersonating me. Instead, I am preoccupied with this matter.”

Doh’Val took the remaining length of the prayer beads to wrap around his own hands. When their knuckles touched, he felt a pleasant hum in his breast. “If the Investigator says we must come back, I will argue on your behalf that you deserve to show all of who you are.”

From the sigh and the sparkle in his eyes, Doh’Val let himself believe that Vudic’s love confession was on the tip of his tongue. But before he could speak it, something caught his attention.

The silvery chiming peal sounded like clusters of bells on someone’s wrists and ankles. Brassy jingling and tapping, the sound of a tambourine enthusiastically slapped against the heel of a palm. A clearing had formed on the floor where people gathered to watch the source of all this noise. Her black hair must have been very long because it was piled so high on her head that it looked like a narrow ziggurat with several golden pins keeping it secure. She hopped and stomped her bare feet. Her dress looked like a single unbroken piece of powder blue cloth gathered at the waist to create numerous folds with a slit that went to her thigh.

Vudic let go of the prayer beads they both held and edged toward the group around her, his brow creased in concentration as if trying to dissect her with his eyes. A moment later, he grabbed Doh’Val by his jacket lapel and rushed to the group. Doh’Val pushed away all other thoughts around Vudic’s breath tickling his ear as he said, “She is a Vulcan. We do not dance like this. We do not dance at all. I cannot discern at the moment, but I believe she is showing signs of the madness that captured me on the space station.”

Doh’Val reeled. Little had changed in Vudic’s expression yet he saw fear. “Doh’Val. If I am correct, you must leave right away and find the Investigator, and then you must stay very far away from me until it has passed.”

“Vudic, that seems unnece—” “I cannot allow it again.” His voice was raw. “Were I merely human, I would let myself use the words I need.” Gods, would Doh’Val ever be free of this love for him?!

The Vulcan woman finished her dance and thanked her audience by going to her knees and touching her forehead to the floor. The group around her clapped and cheered, declaring it the most wonderful dance they had seen all evening. Doh’Val had seen better, but that wasn’t important now.

Together, they skulked after her as she went for a shadowy alcove. They would take her into the powder room they had seen adjoining the ballroom. Silently, Vudic took Doh’Val’s fancy kerchief and wrapped it around one hand to create a crude glove. She seemed wholly unaware. Doh’Val took his place at the powder room door. Vudic made his strike, grabbing her by the neck with his gloved hand. Strangely, she did not cry out, letting Vudic roughly take her away as the bells on her hands and feet jangled. As soon as they stepped through the doorway, Doh’Val hurried after them and slammed the door behind them.

She stumbled out of his grip, bracing herself against a vanity that shuddered from impact. Turning around, her dark eyes burned bright, her mouth becoming a tight line.

Dammit. Vudic was speaking his native tongue. While Doh’Val hastily reapplied his in-ear translator, the woman shrank like a wilting flower from his friend. His only experience with this ‘madness’ was no help. Vudic spoke softly such that his voice hardly echoed off the mosaics and tiles. “—llow me to cool your blood fever. I am well-versed in such techniques.” His covered hand reached out to her.

She was still as death. Her unreadable eyes stared past the offered hand.

“We are of Homeworld. Allow me to cool your fever—”

Her pale bare arm was a blurred arc and the sharp clap of her hand against Vudic’s face reverberated all around the small room. Doh’Val wondered why he never considered doing that himself. Another blow to Vudic’s jaw came when she clocked him with the hard edge of her tambourine. In the mirror behind the woman, Doh’Val saw his friend progress from alarm to bewilderment to intense curiosity.

The woman now stood tall and defiant. “You exhibited signs of the blood fever and its madness. I had to discern if you were afflicted.”

“Why did you conclude this?” There was no blood, but Doh’Val saw a dark bruise already forming as Vudic cradled the sore spot.

“You are holding me captive.” She brandished the tambourine until he yielded back.

Doh’Val bit his lip to keep from smiling at the note of offense in Vudic’s reply. “You were dancing. Vulcans do not dance.”

“I do not expect a Romulan operative to understand our arts.” A grave accusation! The numerous bells chimed melodiously as she boldly stepped forward. “Leave now, before the governor discovers you.”

The shadow of a snarl passed across Vudic’s face. “I have met the governor. We are friends of Florian—”

Her demeanor brightened. “You are friends of Florian. He is here.”

No, no, they were not done. Doh’Val needed more. “Why—” She shushed him, replaced her earpiece, and then ordered him to continue. “Why do you say my friend is Romulan?”

“He is. He frequents an establishment favored by spies. He acts in ways unbecoming of any student of Surak.”

It delighted him a perverse way to see Vudic haughty and defensive as he turned away from them, a sign that he would not engage until they had come to their senses. Doh’Val bowed as peers of the Imperial court did. He could only hope she knew the palace’s protocol. “Madame. Florian brought us to the governor to request her help. Someone is impersonating my friend, and he is accused of grave crimes he did not commit. I do not doubt the governor’s ability, but if what you say is true, then his honor is already tarnished. I cannot allow this. For He Who Saved My Life, I must find and punish the one who has injured him.” He dared to reach for the tambourine in place of her hand. “I beg. If you know anything, please help us.”

She let him hold it between his fingers. What was she thinking? Her face betrayed nothing.

He breathed again when she said, “I will help you.”

Qapla! He bowed in gratitude. “I am indebted to you, Madame.”

“I shall now leave. Do not stop me.”

They both moved out of her way, but Vudic still would not look at her. She paused at the door, her dark eyes seeming to dance in the low light. “Friend of Florian. You are holding a grudge.”

“I am not,” he said curtly. “I am choosing not to engage with one who is devoid of logic.”

A thoughtful hum. “On Homeworld, my ancestor was accused of poisoning our culture because she knew the color blue, the same color as our old enemy. One day you will learn that logic is relative, not absolute truth.”

Could it be?! Vudic, seized with the question Doh’Val was already forming, turned to her. “Who was your ancestor.”

“T’pporrah, the painter.” The corner of her mouth turned up. “You lack understanding of Homeworld’s arts. I do not expect you to know her. Good evening to both of you.” The tinkling of her dance bells was quickly overtaken by the noises of the party as she rejoined the crowd.

Serendipitous! A descendant of the transgressive artist that marked the beginning of their friendship, here in the palace of a Klingon governor, lending them her aide!

Vudic stared after her, and for the first time since growing close in their travels, Doh’Val realized he had no idea what his friend was thinking. “She never told us her name.”

Chapter Text

Mother,
I write to announce my intention to wed. You know well my resistance in the past, but continuing that resistance is no longer logical.

T’Rir, a descendant of the painter T’pporah, shall be my spouse. Marrying into her family where art is intergenerational will provide me with unparalleled opportunity for growth as an artist. I shall wed her and learn from her parents, her grandparents, and her great-grandparents. I shall finally learn how T’pporah painted. I shall learn the unwritten history of Vulcan aesthetic values. At last, I shall attain my greatest aspiration to create art which is truly bold and will catalyze change on Homeworld.

Although we are equal in age, T’Rir’s family tutored her instead of sending her to conservatory where she would have been my classmate. We attend the L-langon Gathering on different years, hence why I have never seen her there either. Her family’s tutoring incorporated the pre-Surak art forms such as dancing and gastronomy out of a belief that in order to understand Surak’s teachings, one must also wholly understand the context in which they arose until this knowledge is as much a part of one’s being as the water one drinks for sustenance. She considers herself a generalist, but her recent interest has gone toward the ancient art of shadow puppetry. It is her goal to stage a production of The Arduous Journey of T'Lana on the Road to Enlightenment because, she believes, artists will gain greater understanding of its transgressive content by confronting it as a group rather experiencing the work in one’s isolation. Her notions vex me, but I also must acknowledge they come from a perspective I have yet to achieve.

I have not disclosed my intention to her or anyone else. Yet, I sense in her an openness toward me. I am confident that she will accept me as the most logical person to be her spouse. First, however, I must demonstrate that our compatibility. Already, an opportunity presents itself: Minjaral gained the governor’s favor, and, at the behest of the Investigator, she has invited us to perform for several nights in her palace. I am certain that one from a family such as hers will appreciate the music we four have created.

She has also given aide while I suffer the damage caused by the one impersonating me. Following an evening set, a guest approached me and claimed that I had accosted him. The details of his account proved it was the impostor who had done this. However, he would not be persuaded. He demanded satisfaction and challenge me to a duel, a practice Doh’Val told me was part of etiquette and court culture in the Empire. Unlike other parts of the Empire, the people of Siff could be persuaded to choose creative forms of dueling. T’Rir suggested a lying contest instead of a duel by daggers. She would serve in my place. I agreed. This lying contest was more akin to a storytelling duel; what impressed me was both her extemporaneous creativity, her attention to detail when assembling her falsehoods, and her ability to temper the guest’s emotions. By the end of the contest, she was declared winner and the guest regarded me amiably. It caused me to reflect on my friendship with Doh’Val; perhaps there was a time when we should have dueled like this as well.

We have not yet found the impostor, but I am confident in the efforts of my friends and the Investigator’s guidance. T’Rir distracts me from the task, but I regard her as a necessary distraction as her presence allows me to focus on my art.

It is my singular goal that when I return home, I shall return with your future daughter-in-law.

Your Son

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Provost’s Archives
Vulcan Conservatory for the Arts at ShiKahr

Dr. Jalal,

We must deny your request. Our policy remains that only graduates of our institution may access the public-facing records without permission. We must remind you that institution policy will only allow us to provide you with your son’s records.

The subject of your request must provide written permission for your access. We recommend you ask them. Your future requests will be ignored if you fail to include permission for access.

A final note: Cases of home tutoring do not exclude our institution wholly. Your inclusion of this erroneous information in your request is illogical.

Archivist for the Provost

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Office of Records
Vulcan Society of Artists

Dr. Jalal,

We must deny your request. Standing policy is that only members of the Society may request records on current membership rolls.

If this is a request on behalf of your son, his censure does not bar him from accessing the full resources of the Society. He may make record requests with written support from his sponsor. We will fulfill any request he may have.

A final note: We have been instructed to remind your son that any unsolicited contact with the family of the artist T’pporah will result in immediate expulsion from the Society.

Head Archivist

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Aafia,
This announcement is unexpected. Vudic’s resistance to marriage is well-known within our social circle and not unusual. If he had change his mind, he omitted this from his recent letters to us. Vudic is an adequate student of Surak’s teachings. We are confident that his decision is neither impulsive nor illogical.

This person T’Rir is not known to us; however, this is logical since the Society forbids us from contacting T’pporah’s family. We assume that if a member of her family approaches us, that does not violate their rule. This person he has described is fascinating. Such a person is rare but not unheard of as a few members of the Society were also home tutored. However, it has been tradition for generations that the families which home tutor will still send their children to one of the Conservatory’s campuses. It is strange that this person lived in ShiKahr district and never attended the ShiKahr campus. Perhaps her family sent her elsewhere. The painter T’pporah remains an object of his admiration, and he expressed several times his goal to create art which tests the boundaries of aesthetic theory.

Your grandchildren are well. We shall visit you at the end of this month. They are eager to see their grandparents.

Live Long And Prosper
T’Vel and T’Kiha

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Aafia,
I must apologize for any offense my illogic causes. The matter is urgent, and I have contacted you as soon as possible.

Allow my explanation. I apologize that I am breaking Vudic’s confidence. Over our friendship, his concern for you and your husband overrode any desire for life partnership. I am disclosing his illogic, and I apologize for this as well. Talok has three children and several grandchildren, all of whom will fulfill their obligation to care for him when he becomes enfeebled. However, he is your only child. Your grandchildren by him are, by his own agreement, not faced with the same family obligations. Although Talok’s family has demonstrated their acceptance of you several times, he is still preoccupied by a fear (Yes, a fear, and I apologize for the word) that when you are too infirm to care for yourself, they will not. His fear extends to any family he may join as spouse; their family will value their own standing over your well-being, and they will make demands on him to prevent him from caring for you. Only a family with sufficient social immunity will allow him to keep both his duty to you and his duty to his spouse. His focus turned to his development as an artist and teacher after the birth of my child, and he confided that the birth of T’Vel and T’Kiha’s children convinced him to abandon the pursuit. He is content with the arrangement of his life.

We must discuss face-to-face what I have learned. At the risk of expulsion from the Society, I found and contacted the descendants of T’pporah to inform them of this situation. They informed me thus:

T’pporah spent many years imprisoned by the Vulcan High Command. When she gained her freedom, she exacted vengeance the community which had abandoned her. She returned to the leadership of the Vulcan Society of Artists, and she threatened all members who contacted her family with expulsion. This rule has become Society law. She forbade her family for ten generations from pursuing art as their life purpose. They would create art only for leisure. Today, they are a private people. They have stated that if I contact them again, they would report my transgression to the Society.

T’Rir is not who she says she is. Vudic is in danger.

Please contact him.

I shall see you soon.

Live Long and Prosper
T’Lan

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Office of the Head Investigator
Interagency Workgroup
Data Consortium of the United Federation of Planets

Doctor Jalal:

My sincere apologies. The information you have given us must be treated as highly valuable and sensitive. For that reason, we cannot use any instantaneous means of communication with the Senior Analyst’s current whereabouts. A data package will be dispatched as soon as possible. I cannot speak to when the information will reach him.

I can assure you that your son is staying at one of the Federation’s embassies, and he is where he belongs. Mr. LeVanne and I have been colleagues for many years. He is using every resource at his disposal to ensure your son’s protection.

I cannot offer more. Please continue to keep contact with the Data Consortium campus on Vulcan, and please inform the Consortium immediately if you are contacted by anyone you believe wishes to harm you or your family.

Sincerely,
Ginger Hsu

Chapter Text

Oh, by the gods, how he missed going to the opera.

And, oh, what an opera house! This place on Siff, owned by Governor Tsengo and paid for out of her personal wealth rather than taking anything from the treasury, made even his old patron’s sumptuous opera house look pale and tawdry in comparison. The rumor was that it had been built for her third husband and used exactly one million Andorian tiles for the acoustics, meant to house both her love for him and her ever-expanding collection of art.

“I thank you for accompanying me.” T’Rir had requested a companion to a secluded dressing room with adjoining lavatory, and Doh’Val jumped at the opportunity to ingratiate himself. She stood before the expansive, decorated mirror, her sapphire dress billowing as she turned her lithe form this way and that.

A fine opportunity for him to check himself. Tonight, he wore one of his favorite outfits combining his Nepali and Klingon heritage. “It is my pleasure.” He smiled at the reflection of his Lichtenberg scar, hoping the Governor had noticed him during the evening. On the wall behind him were prints of art made in celebration of previous performances. “I hope, however, it is not out of fear. An opera house is a safe haven.”

“I understand that opera houses are focal point of socializing in Klingon culture, and I am gratified to experience this aspect.”

What serendipity that Vudic’s blunder had brought her into their lives! He now considered wooing her behind his friend’s back. “That is why we have so many intermissions. We need time to gossip.” And what gossip! His heart fluttered early in the evening when someone he hardly knew pulled him aside because they had a secret so delicious and scandalous they would simply burst if they kept it to themselves much longer. “I still hold out hope for staging my own opera one day.” Morath never asked him to write one, instead employing another composer who only wrote operas. It never stopped bothering him.

“And what do you wish to depict?”

It was on the edge of words, but dare he say it? Would she understand? “A story from Earth.” When it was the two of them traveling, he and Vudic talked about writing operas about their human parents’ culture; it felt equal parts self-indulgent and vital to their own artistic survival. He still remembered talking to Vudic about how revolutionary and transgressive it would be to tell Klingons the story of Siddhartha. “A very old one. I do not expect you to know it.”

“Please tell me this story when the opera has concluded.”

Again, he considered courting this woman of such great prestige and heritage. Did other Vulcans enjoy poetry the way Vudic seemed to? “I shall.”

“I am curious. Why a story from Earth? What about this place fascinates you?”

Yes. Perhaps. She would understand. “My father came from there.” He theatrically fussed with the beads in his hair. “He is human.”

He saw the swish of her dress from the corner of his eye as she turned to him. “But you are Klingon.” Her voice dropped. “You are hybrid.”

“Yes,” he growled, bracing for the sickening refined rudeness he never forgot. All this time away from Homeworld and spent around the other three had thinned his skin to those who frowned on his family for creating him.

Her cloth shoes sighed as she stepped toward him. “Like Seu. He is hybrid.”

The reflection of that stony Vulcan countenance was impervious. “Yes.”

“And Vudic. He is one too?” Was she disgusted?

Why won’t she just insult him! He squared himself in preparation for battle. “Yes, and if that offends you—” She was closer than he realized and now resting her hands along his chest. He remembered how thin the cloth was which separated their skin, and his forehead ridges heated.

Her face was unreadable but a purr came to her low voice. “Even the Ferengi?”

He thought about forgoing poetry altogether to move straight to seduction. “Y-yes. Yes. In a way. It is complicated. You should ask Prina-Krax.”

One hand slid up and her finger grazed the bare part of his shoulder. “You and Vudic. What are you to each other?”

Potent memories came to the fore, and his mind jumped between their hungry hours traveling together and the savage way they made love on the space station. “...Friends. Good friends.”

Her breath tickled his ear. “I understand you collaborate often. Is there space in your arrangement for another?”

What did her cheek taste like if he bit her? Would it taste like Vudic’s?

An urgent knock came to the dressing room door. An usher’s voice announced the next act would start very soon.

T’Rir pulled out of his grasp. What did she want? She didn’t favor him with a come-hither glance over her shoulder. He let her slip through the door, turning back to the mirror for one last round of preening. He glanced over his shoulder before pulling a kohl pencil from a hidden pocket to line his eyes. Vudic had done the same before they met T’Rir at the opera house. Did he want her? The thought put a weight on his shoulders. He would not spar with his friend over the lady’s affections. They must discuss right away. The lady should choose, not them. But, he did hope she chose him if only for the opportunity to be with someone who would purge Vudic from his heart. If only once, he could be more that the second choice….

In the moment he finished lining his eyes, a voice he never wanted to hear again spoke. “Hello, Doh’Val.”

Doh’Val spun on his heels, face hot, pulse pounding, body ready to fly into a fight. “Kuvjak,” he sneered.

Years ago, he wondered what could happen for him to ever truly fall out of love with Kuvjak. Now, he knew. When he reached into the place where he once cherished his adoration for the man, he found nothing. Doh’Val didn’t dwell on his beauty or the new beard he had grown. “You look well.” His hazel eyes drifted up and down. “You look healthy.”

“Were it not for the governor’s strict rules about fighting, I would be beating you until you did not move.”

Kuvjak hummed softly in reply. “I wondered if you knew.”

“Knew? That you were spying on me, my family, and my friends?” He promised himself he would not shed a tear until he reached Homeworld. The affection was gone, but the betrayal still stabbed at his heart. “Where is your honor?”

“Those people are not your friends, Doh’Val.”

Kuvjak got under his skin because he had been right every other time before. Arguing would make him look petulant. “Go back to Homeworld,” he said, insistently pointing to the door. “Before I ask the governor’s guards to throw you off this planet.”

“She knows I came here to continue my work.”

“To spy on me! Again!”

Kuvjak held his chin high. “Yes.” His tone held a tenderness that Kuvjak never showed him before, not even when they were lovers. “And to warn you. I know about the Federation’s hunter. I know you are in his grasp, and he will sooner kill you than let you go home.”

“Mr. LeVanne would not do that.” His mustered bravado was already deflating.

“How certain are you?”

Not certain enough. He didn’t want Kuvjak to know that.

“Whatever he told you, it was told to deceive you.”

He huffed angrily. “Mr. LeVanne never lies.”

“But he never tells you everything.” Doh’Val’s heart froze. “Does he.”

Damnit. Kujvak was still right. And maybe Doh’Val still loved him, even if he couldn’t find inside him where it had gone. “What did he not tell me?”

“That everything I did, everything I have ever done, I did it for three reasons—honor, love, and friendship. My family, my wife, and you.” The fierce love they once shared came through in his voice. “He did not tell you that whatever you call it, even calling it something as dirty as ‘spying’, I did it because it was the only way I could protect you and your parents. I am just as honorable as he pretends to be.”

“In Kahless’ name, I—”

“Was not there when the Dominion struck!” It came like an accusation. “You were on Homeworld! Writing music! You never saw what I saw.”

He drew back. “You never told me,” he said quietly.

“Dominion soldiers.” He hid his face in his elbow for one heart-breaking moment. “They have no beliefs or culture or art. There is no notion of glory or reward. There is only the next kill. They are machines, Doh’Val. Machines built with flesh and bone. They do not even care to avenge their fallen comrades because they do not love.” He was crying on the inside from the slight quaver in his words. “These are not soldiers. I would call them butchers, but even butchers respect their meat. And we, naive about our enemy, sent our brothers and sisters to a slaughter.”

Doh’Val spotted a gray hair in Kuvjak’s dark mane. Another life, that was Doh’Val, and he’d be another body floating in space with his soul wandering the cosmos. “For what? The enemy did not even deign to acknowledge us as warriors. They lost interest. And who won? The Federation. With war strategy? No. They won with guile and deceit. With their Section 31 that they are now so intent on destroying. I joined the Vanguard because it exists to protect our homes. Its duty is to protect us, not just the Empire. And I will do everything to keep you safe. You can hate me for what I did, Doh’Val, but if you hate me and are safe, then I can still live.”

They had both changed so much. He didn’t see it until now. But when an usher said through the door, “One minute to performance, sirs,” Doh’Val pushed past Kuvjak and stormed back to his seat in a huff. The story was one of his favorites about a poet warrior who travels through Sto-Vo-Kor in a dream vision; instead of enjoying it at all, he was brooding over these new complications.

The performance ended but the night was hardly over as the Governor would allow them to mingle in the opera house late into night and if someone asked sweetly, perhaps even until daybreak. Gossip and wine flowed freely and still, none of it lifted the cloud from his mind. How dare he show his face here! Standing in the golden foyer with other guests, Doh’Val half-listened to another group while scanning around for any sign of Kuvjak. He hardly tasted the bloodwine he was gulping down by the bowlful.

“Doh’Val, you are troubled.” No. Please, no. Not Vudic. Anyone but Vudic.

“No, not at all.” He couldn’t muster a false smile. “Eager to go back to the embassy. Nothing else.”

His blue eyes became slits. “Doh’Val,” he said coldly. “I will respect your decision not to speak what is troubling you, but do not lie to me.”

Nearby, T’Rir’s dark eyes focused in on him from behind a leather hand fan. “Yes, Doh’Val,” she said in a tone he couldn’t read. “Tell us what preoccupies you.”

What should he say? Already, his ridges heated. His collar felt too tight around his neck. Vudic knew him too well and went to Doh’Val’s other ear to whisper in their shared language, “Does it concern T’Rir?” He must not have hidden his agitation well when he came back to his seat.

He answered with a head bobble.

“We shall discuss privately at the embassy.”

No words could show how grateful Doh’Val was for him in the face of everything they gone through, even the heartbreak. “Thank you,” he whispered, squeezing Vudic’s shoulder.

Was he fated to always find pain when looking for love? He still loved Kuvjak and hated himself for it. Rejoining the other knots of people did give not cheer him up as he had hoped. His eyes went to the others: Prina and Minjaral, working together to build their quartet’s reputation ahead of their first performance; Vudic and T’Rir at the edges of some conversation, seeming more at ease with each other than anyone else; Mr. LeVanne telling one of his many stories which so delighted the Governor’s guests.

He had almost forgotten the earlier incident when at the far side of the foyer, he saw Kuvjak stalking toward them. What had he done in a past life to deserve this? He moved to intercept but Prina saw them and broke off her flirtation with one of the Governor’s many nieces-in-law. “You!” She brandished her hand fan. “I demand satisfaction!” Gleeful chatter rippled through the crowd. “A musical duel! My fingers versus whatever you call talent, if you have any!” Doh’Val wondered how long she had planned on this.

“Middle Empire etiquette is the way of the Governor’s court, Ferengi. I have the right of refusal with off-worlders.” He said ‘off-worlders’ like it was a slur while the crowd agreed with condescending giggles and a few murmurs of disappointment. “I also have no quarrel with you.” He pointed to Vudic. “I come to level accusations against this man.”

Vudic’s dismissive dispassion was music to Doh’Val’s ears. “Respectfully, I am uninterested in your accusations. If you mean to tarnish my honor, I will not hear you without the Governor. Good evening, sir. Now, leave.”

Kuvjak dodged Prina and Doh’Val saw from his stride that he meant to subdue Vudic. “It is my duty as Vanguard to protect the homeland and I shall fulfill that duty.” His voice filled the foyer. “You have no honor to tarnish, sir. You are a Romulan operative passing yourself off as a Federation citizen, and you are a blight to everyone you meet.”

Where had Minjaral come from? He faced Kuvjak, girding himself and even daring to lay hands on the man, pushing him back. “You make dangerous accusations of my friend, and I will not allow you to speak this way. I will not warn you again.”

“Sir, I have no quarrel with you—”

“You quarrel with my friend. Thus, you quarrel with me.” Behind him, Vudic stood with his hand at the ready to deploy that debilitating nerve-pinch should Minjaral ask. The chatter rose in pitch, titillated by the possibility of a fight.

Doh’Val ran to join his friends. “If you quarrel with my patriarch, you quarrel with me.” A few calls of encouragement scattered through the crowd which began coalescing around them.

“Doh’Val, listen to yourself—”

“And you quarrel with me!” Prina’s diminutive height couldn’t restrain her towering pride. Did she still have that disruptor she had pulled on them?

T’Rir joined their blockade around Vudic. “It appears you are outmatched, sir.”

Of course, Kuvjak wouldn’t back down. His military training and years of service taught him how to survive while outmatched. He measured himself against Minjaral before spitting in front of him as a sign of disrespect. “I slew many with your face in the Dominion Wars, p’taq, and I still remember how.”

Minjaral’s flaming false eye gleamed harshly. His smile was a warning, and he spoke softly. “Why should I not slit you from gullet to groin where you stand? You think I fear Klingon prisons after the Occupation?”

While Kuvjak lectured the four of them, Doh’Val watched Minjaral’s hand fall behind his back. Could he live with his patriarch killing his old love? Or would it just be too much and Doh’Val would cease to be?

Amber liquid splashed on Kuvjak’s shoulder and splattered on his face in such bombastic fashion that he forgot all of them, sucking in air to bellow his rage at whoever had been foolish enough to do that. Mr. LeVanne’s voice preceded him. “Oh, forgive me, sir! Have I interrupted you?”

Where had he come from? Doh’Val remembered him halfway across the room, laughing and carefree. He swayed a little as he pulled out a silk kerchief to messily blot Kuvjak’s clothes. “I insist! I have dishonored you, sir!” A few knots of people laughed uproariously while the crowd began dispersing. He seemed a little inebriated as he spoke to Minjaral, “Have I interrupted anything?”

Minjaral kept his mirthless smile. “No.”

Mr. LeVanne squinted. “Have we met, sir?” Gods, had he put his trust in a man who couldn’t hold his wine? “I think you are the most handsome member of the Empire I have met—oh, if you please, do not tell the Governor, her jealousy would be too much for me if she heard me….”

The distraction gave them the exit they needed to retreat to the embassy. Vudic gave his hurried farewell to T’Rir while they charted their path back to safety.

Doh’Val lingered behind because Mr. LeVanne’s behavior made him anxious. Until he heard this: “Me? Florian, Son of Gaston. The Head Investigator? Yes, I know of him. I doubt you will see him during his visit. He sends me to mind his wards. He lacks any zest for life. I hear he can’t even quote a single line of poetry….”

Chapter Text

Three years ago, as an apology for his extended absence following a recent assassination attempt, the Investigator gifted Governor Tsengo a handcrafted Go set complete with his own musings on the rules and stratagems. The gift so delighted her family that in the intervening years, Kolana, niece by way of the governor’s third marriage, innovated a new game combining more axes of dimension and a few additions borrowed from a similar Klingon game. Within the Governor’s never-ending party, the young peer held court via the game once a month, inviting other people of her station and anyone whose presence may needle her aunt. Thus, on the night of Pi-314’s premiere performance to Siff’s polite society, Nikolai Florian Gastonovich LeVanne lounged in a plush, warmly-lit parlor with the future of Siff, nursing something very strong that resembled a martini only in color.

“Brutal that you cannot travel with a personal chef or even mixologist, Florian,” said Kolana while dividing out the silk-smooth stone pieces for the next round of play. “No replicator can compare to organic creativity.”

He blinked through the eye-twitch which came every time someone called him ‘Florian.’ “Lady Kolana, you alone know the pains of my life.”

She snorted haughtily and her guests cackled. “And who is that man of yours with the most beautiful hair I have ever seen? The half-human.”

He squinted through his inebriated haze. “...Ah, Doh’Val, Son of Carl, House Seu.”

The stone game pieces tapped on the obsidian table like drops of rain. “He reminds me of my dear uncle, such a genial man, however soft-handed he was. Tell me about this Doh’Val.”

Nikolai pulled out his cigarette case to help him put off talking as his mind frantically snatched up every scrap of conversation he could recall. “Yes, yes,” he said slowly. “Half-human, as you said, on his father’s side.” He nearly fumbled his precious cigarette before sliding it into the holder. “Scientists, both his parents, Morath’s patronage, I think.”

Kolana’s grinned with jagged teeth. “I know Morath! He gives the most exquisite gifts.”

“I am told that the day his father met his mother, he declared to himself that he would marry her by whatever means she would allow.”

She snatched up his lighter before he could take it. “Love at first meeting. How fanciful.”

He rolled his eyes at her mischief. “His mother was a widow with two children, and his father determined that he would win her by showing he could be every bit the parent that their father had been.” But he was also a little drunk and so, he leaned over obediently in wait for the lighter. “He succeeded. And to this day, they love each other as war loves carnage.”

The lighter gave her dark eyes a yellow flame of their own. Her knuckles brushed his. “Do you think it is true? That one can love another at first glance?”

He didn’t want what she was offering, but his skin hungered for the touch of faraway friends. He held her gaze. “I imagine anything is possible, Lady Kolana.”

While Bajor’s great pretender crooned over strings, organs, and drums to an unrestrained crowd swooning over his scars, Nikolai let the buzzing warmth of intoxication wash over him to the entertainment of fellow party goers twenty years his junior. Lady Kolana purposefully courted him with her deep understanding of Go evident in the game she invented, his attention becoming one of her many goals regardless of what he had to say about the matter. He cursed himself each time he rose to her offers.

He contemplated melting into the cushions for the evening when one of Lady Kolana’s parasites burst into the parlor. “By Kahless!” she exclaimed. “The half-human may yet come to blows with the Vulcan!” She added in a husky growl. “How absolutely scandalous.”

The promise of a spectacle pushed everyone from their seats. While the others stampeded away, Lady Kolana lingered back. Nikolai stumbled backwards from the rough tug on the waistband. She leaned toward despite the smoke leaving his lips, close enough to catch the undeniable scent of a human beneath the stench of fire. She bared her teeth, book-ending her words with a dominating grow. “Florian. Do your people care for poetry?”

“Another story for another time, Fierce Lady.” He grabbed her hand and kissed it; eccentricity deviating from etiquette caused confusion here instead of offense.

On his way to the south ballroom where he last saw his four wards, he stopped at the south wing concierge. A softened, worn piece of paper came from a pocket, Klingon script scrawled inside. “If you please, an intravenous drip by these parameters.”

The concierge smoothed out the numerous folds in the paper. “And will you be taking this in this wing’s medical office?”

“No, the ballroom in this wing. And thank you.”

“Of course, sir.”

In the candlelit ballroom decked in the refined décor of the Middle Empire, music continued from an unknown source but dancing had paused in wait for the next set of performers. At the far end, a small crowd began forming around the scandal. Doh’Val’s deep voice sounded an octave higher than normal. Nikolai knew what Doh’Val knew: this could have been a private squabble at the embassy, but then there would be no chance for public shaming. It had become so heated that Nikolai noticed servants offering other guests decanters of water instead of wine or cordial.

He found Minjaral leaning against the nearest banquet table. The glint of the candlelight off his indigo false eye gave mischief to his crooked smile. Nikolai planted an elbow on his shoulder and kept himself steady with his cane. “Minyusha,” he said in a lilting whine. “Stop them. Or at least move them.” He noticed Vudic’s restraint and the flashes of emotion in his blue eyes. “If you please?”

Minjaral turned his head with a sniff. “How much did you drink?”

His fingers poorly show how much had been in his glass over the evening. He famously became a skylarker after two watered down drinks. “Minyusha. Handle them.”

“I think he wants this, and I think as his friend, I should let him have this.” He cocked the brow on his good side. “As a gift.”

Pieces of the quarrel came through the low thunder of guests’ commentary. “...T’Rir? They are arguing about her?”

“You recall how they talked like friends so they would not compete for the same person’s love? Vudic did not tell him that he intends to marry her.”

Nikolai searched his hazy mind. “I do not follow.”

Minjaral snickered. “Then you do not remember the space station.”

Two glasses of cordial loosened Nikolai’s tongue. “You cannot expect me to remember any one of the thousands of people I have watched have sex for my work.”

Before Minjaral could answer, Krax pranced up with a fistful of paper slips. “Hah! I got eight bets on Doh’Val and eight bets on Vudic for when a fight breaks out. I think this time, the dabo wheel spins in Vudic’s favor.” Around the perimeter of the ballroom, scattered pairs and trios of Romulans snidely simpered at the scene.

The argument had moved to discussing the “gathering” which Vudic insisted was not an orgy. Nearby guests gasped and grumbled in theatrical offense and Nikolai wrinkled his nose at them because he heard the abhorrent topics discussed with jaded interest between these walls.

Krax stuffed the slips into his coat pocket. “Two at a time. I still can’t believe he had two at a time. You ever have two at a time, Minjal?”

“No, I could not split my attention between more than one.”

Nikolai wetted his lips idly. “I had five at a time. Once.”

Before either could inquire further, a servant appeared at his arm. “Your intravenous rehydration, sir.” Murmuring some gratitude, he surveyed those nearby before rolling up his sleeve to the servant, the skin on his circuitry of scars shiny and briefly resembling the delicate threads of metal beneath. He caught Krax staring, coughed politely, and simpered to himself when the Ferengi made a big show of looking elsewhere.

He didn’t feel the needle enter, and the tiny pump built into the clamp around his elbow was warm. “The mechanism will alert you when the hydration pack has emptied, sir. A servant will assist in the removal.”

Nikolai flexed his hand a few times and gave a few more words of thanks before the servant vanished into the scenery.

The argument now focused on something which had transpired between them during their year lost on the way to Bajor. Vudic’s movements were stiffer and tighter while Doh’Val gestured wildly. The bystanders had become like the chorus in an opera with their own unhelpful commentary. Every servant in the ballroom now took a path between the pair and the rest of crowd, maintaining a buffer space.

Minjaral tapped his shoulder. “What is the significance of reading poetry?”

He knit his brow as his mind groped around for what he had missed. “...Ah, yes, here in the Empire, it is part of formal courtship.”

Minjaral gasped softly (Meanwhile, Krax exclaimed, “Poetry! Of course!”). “I quoted a few lines of old Kardasi poetry to the governor during my private audience.”

“Did she request it?”

Minjaral’s false eye moved slightly while he looked all over the room as if his memories were written on the walls. “I recall she asked if my culture had any poetry at all. I quoted Bajoran too. Prophets, what have I done?”

He stifled his laughter. “It is one of her games, Minyusha. I made the same mistake when I first met her. I am told that asking for poetry does not carry the same weight as reciting poetry of one’s own accord.”

Over the course of the hydration pack’s life, the argument doggedly marched toward a crescendo; body language and tone slid into hostility as they re-litigated their time together. In the dissipation of the alcoholic fog around his mind, Nikolai idly noted that Doh’Val and Vudic had formed such a passionate relationship through focus on the shared commonalities of their human cultures, but they deliberately ignored each other’s non-human differences. Klingons want bold, ostentatious declarations of love; Vulcans want to be quietly noticed.

He regained clarity in time for the grand finale: “Doh’Val, you underestimate the elasticity of my preferences.” “Do you love anything or anyone? Can you speak it? Is there fire inside you?!” “I do not speak such things and never will. You do not understand. You choose not to understand. What you want is empty and superficial.”

The clap of hand against flesh cracked like thunder. Nikolai noticed every Romulan all but salivating over the opportunity to see their species’ rival beaten to a mess. The other guests hollered for a duel. Doh’Val’s haughty voice rose above the din. “Vudic Jalal! You are the most selfish person I have ever met!”

Nikolai saw Vudic exerting all of his Vulcan restraint not to sink to a response. He slowly turned away and said icily, “I will not engage you further. Goodnight, Doh’Val.”

The crowd rudely booed in his face as Vudic waded through. Walking away from such a slight was dishonorable, but more importantly he’d deprived all of them of a good diversion. Like all of his joints had seized up, he came to the three of them and announced, “I wish to return to the embassy.”

Krax spotted the people who had taken bets from him also coming to join them. “I’ll go with you!”

While the two made their escape, Minjaral watched Doh’Val. “I will go speak with him,” he said with the gravity of someone who reluctantly took on the burden of leader.

No sooner had the hydration pack left his arm did the extra fluid hit his bladder. The audience had now crowded around Doh’Val to Minjaral’s chagrin, connecting “the Vulcan” with their favorite insults to remind their fellow son of the Empire that, of course, he had been in the right the whole time. Nikolai deliberately ignored calls of “Florian!” because his eye-twitch was too obvious.

His mental map of the palace left large holes in the South wing, leaving him to wander inefficiently in search of a lavatory. The incident in the ballroom had rallied the assigned servants and thus left him with no guides.

The Old Empire sculptures and mosaics dominating the South Wing gallery created jagged darkness when the gash of light from the main hall spilled in. Layers of shadows created landscapes. With no lavatory in sight, he briefly considered relieving himself in a nearby vase. He wouldn’t have been the first.

“Florian?”

He blinked through his eye-twitch. “Ah, Lady T’Rir.” The source of scandal cast a long shadow across him. “Perhaps you can help me.”

“I shall. First, I am in need.” The dark obscured her face.

Games were currency here, and someone like her would have learned that quickly. “And what is it you need, Madame?”

One of his favorite things about the Governor’s palace was its security, allowing him to let down his guard enough to release the tight coil of tension which constantly constricted his shoulders and hip. When she closed the distance, too late did he realize her aim. Being much shorter than him gave no impediment and she roughly dragged him to pin against one of the wall mosaics, Nikolai so taken that it was chance alone which stopped him from cracking the back of his head against the stones.

He hated himself for freezing. “T’Rir!” Outrage was on his tongue but would not leave his lips.

Her fingers pressed against his temples with her elbow grinding against his cane hand. “I need to know what you are, Florian.”

His free hand went to push her off but she batted away every attempt. “You can ask!” She caught his fingers once and as punishment, twisted them so hard he thought they may break.

Her knee pinned his thigh. “I need to know why I cannot read you.”

Being merely ‘Florian’ here had kept him safe. Her pursuit could betray everything. He struggled against her as the panic grew and rose in his gut.

“I need the secrets of your body, Florian.” Her free hand snaked into his waistcoat.

The moment of peril pushed his body to reveal two details he had spent years keeping from everyone except the Governor: one, he had spent decades training himself such that extracting himself from these situations became muscle memory; and two, he needed that training because he used to assassinate telepaths for his government.

Time jumped. He stood behind her, the hidden garroting wire in his cane pressed around her throat, his breath heavy and heart racing, her fingers digging savagely into his groin as a threat.

He tightened the wire and pushed out of her a terrified yelp. She in turn pressed harder and drew a pained whimper from his lips.

He spoke slowly to ensure she heard every single word. “I will count to three. Then, I will slowly release my grip, and you will release your grip.”

He couldn’t know if she’d oblige.

“One. Two. Three.”

Like extracting a splinter, he took a punishing amount of time loosening the wire from her neck. She lifted her grip one finger at a time.

He hopped out of the reach as soon as her hand withdrew.

There were many things he should have said. Tell her that Vudic would be betrayed to learn of her behavior. Threaten to throw her before the governor. Remind her that just because she is on holiday in the Empire it does not give her license to conduct herself in a way unbecoming to her species. Humiliate her for violating him.

Instead, for reasons that only made sense to him much later, he said this as his parting words: “Next time, wait until after I have relieved myself!”

Chapter Text

The planet’s star had recently undergone a coronal mass ejection, casting off its plasma through its system to throw charged particles into the planet’s magnetosphere and exciting atmospheric particles.

Down below on the south wing terrace of the governor’s palace, Doh’Val stared at the ribbons of light undulating across the stars while other Klingons collected around him and told him all the reasons that he had been right to make an example of ‘the Vulcan.’ He leaned against the stone railing and stewed instead of answering them. The statue garden in the small valley below was a battlefield between shadow warriors.

He didn’t look up at Minjaral’s cordial cough asking the others to disperse, but his stomach clenched when the other guests acknowledged, continued speaking for a few more moments, and then gave their farewells to Doh’Val alone.

Minjaral gave a concerned hum at the others as they left; he knew they were being rude, even if he couldn’t name it. The sound of crackling passed behind them as a servant carried one of the enormous flat bowls of fire used to provide light and heat in the decorative columns dotting the terrace. A moment later, the column nearby flickered to life.

Minjaral asked with a leading tone, “Do you want to talk?”

Doh’Val scoffed. “It is pointless.”

On the terrace, a few groups had collected to talk about the newest gossip and their own lives. The warmth of the column wafted toward them. “I am also disappointed in him if you must know. I never expected him to care about social standing.”

Doh’Val snorted derisively. “I was a fool to expect him to stop deceiving me.” His hot breath condensed into a cloud as he exhaled. His friends had been right; Vulcans cannot be trusted. No marriage before his mother’s death? How absurd. Why didn’t he see through it? Why did he ever believe him?

“You will be angry with me.” Doh’Val braced internally. “But I understand his reasons.”

Of course. Why expect different this time.

“My upbringing granted me one advantage that the two of you never had. I had people who understood me because they were hybrid.” His tone reminded Doh’Val of all the times his brothers consoled him, understanding that he needed a softer touch than other Klingon children. “I cannot understand what isolation you and he must have felt in your lives to look around and see no one else like you.”

Doh’Val sheepishly turned toward him, keeping his voice low and eyes downcast as a few guests passed by. “I did learn about one or two.” When visiting Earth, he would sometimes wait for everyone else in his uncle’s house to go to sleep before scouring government databases looking for other hybrids that were like him. “One was a diplomat, the other was in Starfleet. I wrote to both.” His finger traced circles on the railing. “They never wrote back to me. It was rude of me to impose.”

Minjaral took his hand. “You deserved an answer. You deserved to know people like you.”

He shrugged. “I had my father and his family.”

Minjaral’s indigo false eye blended in with the night, and stars had seemed to form in it. “But it is the same, speaking with them?”

Before he ever met the other three, he would have thought it a silly question. He winced at his own answer: “No.”

“It never is.” He squeezed Doh’Val’s hand the way his father would. “I do not know, but I think he is worried for his parents.”

He couldn’t help rolling his eyes. “Vulcans never worry.”

“You know he is more.” His sigh came as a cloud. “He might believe that if he—what is the word—is Vulcan enough, and in the right way, then it will fix everything. He thinks T’Rir is how he will restore things to what they once were.”

Vudic was chasing stature after criticizing Doh’Val for the very same thing! How often he had passed judgment and questioned if he was ‘sufficiently dedicated’ to their goals! Minjaral’s arm around him wasn’t comforting like before. Nor was his attempt at levity. “He assumes that she will agree, but he has not asked. She may say no. She may want you instead.”

“No. Hardly.”

“And what makes you so certain?”

“Because I am always the second choice.”

++++

The ribbons of light had brightened and intensified, their turquoise glow making everything on the terrace look like it was part of an aquarium exhibit. Doh’Val thought about the Talas Conference. He wanted to pinpoint the exact moment everything had gone wrong.

The click of heels against stone announced his new companion but the pattern was erratic like someone always on the verge of stumbling. Romulan, from her face and ears, like so many guests here at the conjunction of three great civilizations. Under the watery light, the form-fitting suit covering her lithe body was jade. He couldn’t wholly discern her form because the bolero she wore had the largest, most aggressive shoulder pads he had ever seen, and the patterns were a chaotically intricate mess of green, gold, black, and purple that seemed designed to confuse. She clutched a small bottle, Romulan ale he presumed, her head held defiantly high despite the heavy, glistening headdress that exploded out from her crown, a grand halo etched with sun rays.

He gleaned her name, Arenn, from the various slips of conversation shouted around the terrace between her and others until she clattered over a cushioned chair by the fire column, falling into it with a plush thud. Her headdress coruscated between the flickering orange of the fire and the green of the sky. Averting his gaze to only keep her in his periphery, he considered following her from afar for the rest of the evening to observe her as one would follow a sunset.

“You.” Perhaps he’d been caught staring. “You! Look at me!”

He turned slowly, realizing he’d never met a Romulan and only knew that it was a great insult to compare them to Vulcans even though with a knife to his throat he’d be hard-pressed to discern one from the other. The shadows cast dark furrows on her brow. She looked like a queen consort as she scrutinized him from her chair. “I know you. You entertained us this evening.”

His ridges were hot with shame. “Yes.”

“I remember. It was you, and the Ferengi.” She counted off on her oval-shaped decorated fingernails. “And the Cardassian.” A snide smile followed. “And the Vulcan.”

He didn’t care to correct her. “What does it matter to you?” He should go...somewhere. Not back to the embassy. He had nowhere else he could feasibly go without the Investigator berating him.

“I saw you two earlier.” The bottle made a familiar pop as she uncorked it. “You should have broken his nose.”

He reeled. Hearing his fellow imperial citizens tell him he was right was one thing, but this was strange. “You heard what we were discussing?”

“No, but I hardly need to.” She took a hearty swig from the bottle. “L’shan-Vu, he is a Vulcan. What more do I need to know? He deserved it.”

He had pushed a thorn into Doh’Val’s heart. Again. Again! Arenn bit her lip with an impish smile as she languished back in her chair. “We should find him,” she said. “The north wing cellar needs a new coat of green paint. Lady Kolana can arrange it.”

He laughed harder than he meant to and privately admitted that in this moment, the idea of Vudic being a bloody mess was appealing. She demanded with a gesture that he sit with her. “Why do you associate with them? What use are they to you?”

He set his hand on the other chair but wasn’t ready to join her. “They are friends.”

She snorted derisively. “Vulcans do not have friends.” The bottle went back to her lips. “I am told the same is true of Ferengi and Cardassians, and I deduce it is true since they are not very civilized. Yet, I know Vulcans. They have people who occupy their attention until they grow bored.”

He couldn’t help smiling. Was he flirting? Perhaps. “I hear the same about Romulans.”

Her dark eyes sparkled like midnight under the green light ribbons and the orange flickers. “They say it about Klingons too.” Was she flirting too? “Who do you think is right?”

“I would rather act than think.” A soft, amorous growl escaped his throat.

She hissed playfully. When she leaned forward, the shadows hid the plunge of her collar. “Do you ever think about how many species are in the Federation? How many small, weak peoples have to work together to equal the might of your people or mine? They give everyone a voice, and what happens? Any starship captain can start a war.” He could feel her watching him, waiting for him to agree. “And then they ask us to fight their wars.”

He picked through his memories of history lessons, recalling Homeworld’s tense relationships with their neighbors and even tenser relationships with the Federation. He also remembered the looks he would get whenever Earth came up. “They attempt to work together.”

Arenn snickered. “The Federation lives by mob rule. Where is their seat of power? Nowhere. They lack strong leaders, strong people who can take the will of the rabble and guide it to greatness.” She seemed to be searching for the right words. “Ah! A moral center. A leader who can capture them—you know what I mean!”

He smoothed out his beard with only the tip of his finger. “An emperor.”

“Yes!” She huffed like she was frustrated he didn’t get it sooner. “I never understood why Vulcan keeps throwing its lot with the rest of the Federation.” She didn’t notice the ale spilling on her when she drank. “They should have taken and enslaved Earth generations ago. Vulcan could have its own empire. Instead, they have a sick society.”

He thought about telling her he was hybrid, but the words died on his tongue.

“They refuse to acknowledge their own nature—our nature!—and what is the result? They create intricate rituals for the purpose of touching skin.” She reached out to him. “Give me your hand.”

Curiosity piqued, he leaned forward and extended his palm.

She took it in her free hand. The edges of her nails were smoothed and softened so that they would graze but never break skin. “Look at this. Was that difficult? No because we understand. But to Vulcans, this” —she held up their clasped hands— “is obscene.” Letting go, she waved away his hand. “They withhold every natural impulse until they are close to death.”

Reflecting back on their months together, Vudic’s behavior fell into a narrative he could understand like how he wouldn’t so much as take Doh’Val’s hand except when they were alone, and even then, it was fleeting. He finally sat in the chair and gestured for the bottle of ale. “The Vulcan has his tender side.”

Handing off the bottle, she snorted. “He is not a god.” The green and orange danced in her dark eyes. “Having a tender side not mean that he deserves your time.”

The ale was peppery on his tongue. It went down his gullet like water. “I have been away from the Empire for some time. I think I have forgotten the way of things.”

“You were with aliens. It is natural that you forgot among them.” She kept talking as if they were the same. Maybe they were. Or at least, they shared an understanding that the others couldn’t.

He lounged back in the chair, hoping she noticed the tips of his Lichtenberg scar exposed on his forearm. Yes, he had his criticism of the Empire just like his parents did, but he also ignored the rumors about the emperor that noble families drunkenly muttered at feasts; in truth, Kahless was still a virtuous warrior who embodied the past, the present, and the future of the Empire. “Life outside the Empire is messy. No one cares for honor. The only rule is that there are no rules.”

“Yes! You! You understand.” Arenn basked in her own self-satisfaction. “Be with your own people. What is out there that you cannot have here?”

What indeed? No matter what, the Empire was still home. Vudic was out there. More heartbreak was out there.

Someone called out from the other end of the terrace and Arenn shouted for them to be patient. She muttered some unintelligible swears to herself before struggling out of the chair and to her feet, swaying slightly on her precarious high heels.

“Oh, your bottle, Miss.” He held it out for her.

“No, it is yours now.” The light ribbons and fire column highlighted her callipygian backside. Her dark eyes narrowed slyly. “And remember. No matter what they say about us, they still break their own laws to drink our ales and wines.”

Chapter Text

That Seu Minjaral was from Bajor despite looking like their oppressors made him novel.

That he had lived through the entire Cardassian dynasty and rescued valuable pieces of culture made him interesting.

That he almost certainly fought in the rebellion which drove the invaders from the Bajoran homeworld made him intriguing.

And that he spoke so sparingly about this part of his life despite living out the fantasy of so many Klingons—a just and honorable fight equal to none—made him fascinating.

Many had inquired with varying degrees of subtlety that he parried or redirected. What modesty! He answered a question—never the one asked—and slipped away before one could follow up. His reticence became a game among some guests such that every evening following the quartet’s performance, they would ask about the most tangential details of his life in the hopes of discerning the rest.

Someone had the brilliant idea of paying attention for once when the quartet played, putting a new twist on the game and titillating more guests. Painstakingly comparing notes and pouring over every translated word, the game turned to begging to learn more about his work and divine the rest from there. He still gave the same oblique answers, but now he was part of the game, slyly offering hints to the ones who could see them. And on occasion, a few guests completely forgot to play the game and got caught up in talking about music and art. Those were his favorite evenings.

The newest addition to the governor’s orbit caught wind of this. Mr. Seu the Second, his adopted nephew. Enmeshed in Lady Kolana’s court (for now), he listened in on these conversations before finally speaking up.

“You should already know by now that he killed a few Cardassians.”

“How are you so certain?”

“He is my patriarch. I must know these things.”

The confirmation was like blood for sharks. They reexamined every mundane detail collected over the last month. The thrill intensified. At the next performance, they latched onto everything in his music.

And then someone got impatient.

“Where is he.” Fire from the nearby candles flickered in Seu Minjaral’s green false eye while addressing the servant. A few feet away, guests viciously scolded the one who ruined their game. “I need the Other Mr. Seu.”

“Of course, sir.” The servant’s bland gentility never wavered. “Just a moment.”

He was left waiting long enough for his anger to fester.

The pain in his facial scar stabbed at his cheekbone and raced along his brow under the bright chandelier of the private lounge where Lady Kolana entertained her peers. He didn’t smile when they cheered and stood to greet him, and one even called their valet to bring him bloodwine. “Master Seu! You honor us with your presence!”

“Where is my kin.” His gaze fixated on the long couch in the back where Doh’Val had a lady and her brother flanking and fawning him, both caught up in his story and fondling a lock of his long luxurious hair. “Where is he.”

“Carl’s Son!”

Try as Doh’Val did to mask it with a smile when he stood and saw him, Minjaral saw dread and guilt. The others didn’t notice. They didn’t know him.

He wouldn’t discipline Doh’Val in public. For now. They went to the hallway where he dismissed the servant. “What have you told these people?”

Doh’Val was a terrible liar. “Nothing untoward.”

Minjaral snarled. “They ask me who I killed during the Occupation.” He could still speak like an officer. “Why are they asking me?”

He wouldn’t look at Minjaral as he compulsively smoothed out his facial hair. “I may have suggested it. In Kahless’ name, Minjaral, look at how they respect you now!”

He grimly realized that these questions never came up while on Qo’NoS because Madame Tavana had been his buffer; she knew just enough to know that the facts would horrify even the most war-hungry warrior. “This is not respect.”

“Why not lie? You told the governor and everyone else about being a confidence artist.”

“Doh’Val, I chose to leave that person behind when the Occupation ended.” And lying about that time was an insult to the people he lost.

“I did it to elevate your standing!”

“Did you?” he demanded.

They both knew he was lying. He had been caught, and here he was, twisting himself in knots to pretend it was anything else. “Minjal, listen to yourself!” He reached to assuage him with an arm around the shoulder, but Minjaral pushed it away.

“I thought you understood why I rarely discuss that part of my life.”

“Minjal, I do, I do.” Who was this cowering colonist who had replaced his friend? “I understand, truly, but what is the harm in sharing a few exciting details? Nothing too unseemly!” He considered punching that obsequious smile off Doh’Val’s face. “Nothing about your scars!”

Listening to him grovel, Minjaral felt as if his pah would leave his body and the husk left behind would implode. He was doing it for the four of them, he said. Klingons know what a just and noble cause it had been to drive off the Cardassians, he said. A few wisely chosen stories could make them the governor’s favorites above everything else, he said. That was when it hit Minjaral like a knife in one’s lung: Doh’Val was gossiping, and he was doing it so people like the governor would find him more interesting.

“—And with the governor’s help, we could resolve all of this business without the Investigator!” Behind all his bravado and forced confidence, Minjaral saw desperation. “Minjal! We could finally have our lives back!”

His gaze wandered up along the edges of the ceiling at the ornamented tiling. Doh’Val wanted this gaudy life.

“What could be more important?!”

Surviving. Honoring the dead. Art. Friendship. Shared struggles. The invisible, ineffable force which drew them to each other.

“All you have to do is remind them that your honor surpasses them all! You fought for the greatest cause of all, freeing one’s people!”

He shifted his posture to the one his body never forgot: a legate’s spoiled nephew. His mouth and throat knew the supercilious manner that colonists addressed his people. His scarred face could still capture that genteel sneer. “Alright. What story do you want to hear? The one about the Bajoran my friends and I beat to death because I did not care for the way his friends stared at me? What about the Cardassian I killed as a favor to his wife?”

It felt good to see his smile curdle. “Minjaral, you know what I meant—”

“What would you like, Doh’Val? Yes, I was a confidence artist. What would please you? The times I did nothing when a colonist burned his servant’s face for dropping a dish because it would ruin my ruse? How I taught music to colonists’ children and tutored in their houses and let members of their family think they had seduced me? That I stole trinkets from these houses and did not care if the servants were blamed?”

“This behavior is wholly unbecoming—”

A nasty hiss silenced him. The venom in his voice felt better than singing ever did. “What about years I spent believing that if I dressed like them, and spoke like them, and acted like them, I could trick them into thinking I was one of them?”

What joy he felt to see Doh’Val flinch! “...You could have said no.”

He could have, but this was so much more fun. He leaned closer, savoring his own snarl. “These people think they have anything in common with Bajor? I can hardly tell the difference between them and the Cardassians.”

He bristled. “That is enough!” His conceited anger was almost endearing. “I will not allow another word of slander against the Empire!”

On instinct, his hand fell to the sheath on his thigh, empty from turning over his weapons when he entered the governor’s palace. “Then duel me.”

He could only growl impotently.

“Remember this, Doh’Val.” He was close enough for his breath to brush against Doh’Val’s beard. “Nothing about the Occupation was glorious or honorable. My world was made of pain. A just universe would not have allowed me to ever exist. So, forgive me if I have no interest in entertaining people with stories they cannot understand.”

A servant came out from the lounge. “Sirs. Lady Kolana wishes to know if you will join her.”

Doh’Val’s voice went high the way it had during his histrionics with Vudic in the ballroom several nights ago. “No.” He cleared his throat. “No, I must be having a bout of spaceship sickness and I must retire for the evening.”

“Of course, sir.” The servant vanished.

Good. He yielded space as his temper cooled. “I will walk you to the embassy.”

“I, I think I would rather the Investigator’s company instead.” He had the same look of the officers who would slink off in shame after Minjaral humiliated them in front of their peers.

Watching him go, he called softly. “Doh’Val. Remember who your people are.”

He froze, said nothing, and continued on his way.

Walking back to the wing where the terrible question had first confronted him, the familiar feelings rushed in: melancholy, guilt, emptiness, and fatigue. He knew that he should apologize when he returned to the embassy. He wished he could talk to Safia now. Bajor didn’t feel like home, but he still missed it.

He stopped at the large entrance, lingering by the double doors opening into the south ballroom. Catching his reflection in a hallway mirror, he cringed at the colonist’s formalwear he was wearing. Ferenginar had been a trial, but at least there, he didn’t dress like his oppressors. Perhaps he could steal away to one of the palace’s many bedrooms and fall into a darkness where none of this existed….

Some guest that seemed Romulan stumbled through the hallway, stopped, saw the mirror, and preened in front of the mirror. Something in their manner struck him as familiar. Were they a frequent guest? He couldn’t find the memory, but he was certain that they had met.

The Romulan noticed him. “Oh, you, I know you.” He thought they were smiling and then realized it was the natural line of their mouth giving that illusion. “Your music is like nothing I have ever heard.”

“Thank you.”

“I must know.” He felt the dreaded question coming. “The Cardassians. What did you do when they invaded?”

His throat was raw. “We wept for many years. We died.”

The dull thunder of chatter in the other room filled the silence between them.

Eventually, the other spoke. “They should be our allies, the Cardassians. We have so much in common with them.” They sighed audibly. “I think it will be in my lifetime that Romulus goes the way of Cardassia. Nothing is timeless, not even empires.”

The fatalistic talk surprised him. Minjaral straightened, unconsciously stepping closer to know more. “I thought this sort of talk was a betrayal of your people.”

“It is.” Now the slight smile became apparent. “But I am not with my people, am I?” How quickly this imperialist beguiled him!

Minjaral offered his arm. “It is a difficult thing, surviving the end of everything you know.”

The Romulan shyly linked an arm around his. “Can you instruct me?”

Perhaps. He looked one last look at the ballroom. The ache of absence sharpened. But this new companion felt more understanding. He led them down the hallway. “First, you should consider learning a new language. I learned Kardasi—no, forgive me. I should start from the beginning. First, I must tell you the history of Bajor and my province….”

Chapter Text

For much of Doh'Val's life, his perception of nobility had been dictated by Morath and his family; they were courteous but aloof, insightful but capricious, and deeply patriotic. One did not divulge dissatisfaction with the latest moves of the Empire because it made Morath personally uncomfortable. And of course, tradition was more important than novelty. Doh'Val remembered waking up from a dream and writing out an entire canticle in exactly the traditional form Morath always requested; only after leaving Qo'NoS did it bother him how much music he had been writing in his sleep.

Governor Tsengo's family gave him the same rush as the Talas Conference. They freely vented their frustrations about the Empire, forcing him to secretly request embassy staff for the same current events dispatches that the Investigator received each day just to keep up with the conversation. They all but demanded he write new music with features he'd never considered or even heard of, and he often stayed up late messily drafting work that made him panic. They were still as capricious, though, with their attentions straying to his other companions.

He may have dropped a few harmless scandalizing details about his companions once or twice. Just enough to remind the Governor's family how carefully he paid attention to their music requests.

Tonight was bliss. Lady Kolana and her peers gathered around to teach him the board game she had invented. They each played him and soundly thrashed him in each round, but they also summarized their critiques including where his instincts had been right. When was the last time he had felt this? Qo'NoS. When he still had his parents, his brothers, his childhood friends, and Kuvjak.

He still had Kuvjak. Being in the Vanguard was all he needed to join Lady Kolana's court of friends and hangers-on. He silently observed, stroking his beard in thought, resplendent in his Vanguard uniform on the stone couch like Chenrezig. Doh'Val couldn't help stealing glances, feeling his face heat and remembering what they'd once had.

Lady Kolana laughed brightly at a new arrival. "Florian!" She rose and the rest echoed his name with a welcoming chorus. He and Kuvjak looked at each other with the same question on their faces.

"Does my aunt tire you yet?" she teased, smiling toothily at the Investigator while forcefully gesturing to her valet who brought over a small crystal goblet of cordial.

Doh'Val had discovered something about himself while on Siff: he deeply envied how the Investigator wielded his outsider status, effortlessly matching the refined customs and manners of their hosts without losing the eccentricities which made him charming. How did he do it? Never harried, never befuddled, never sober. Always the same easy, knowing smile. No wonder so many guests found him nigh irresistible.

“—and your aunt is asking for you.” Doh’Val watched him leaned close to say something, obviously clever because he was smiling and she was laughing, a private joke he shared with people his friends on Qo’NoS would have died to be in the same room with. She even gave him a playful growl as she departed.

Only after joining the others did he notice them. “Good evening, Novice. And I see we have a new—” His smile twisted with confusion. “...guest. Mr. Seu. I did not expect you.” His eyes darted back to Kuvjak. “I hope the Vanguard will not arrest us. The Investigator will be very displeased.”

Kuvjak stood as if to join him, causing ‘Florian’s’ feature to tense. “For now, you are free. Mr. Seu and I had worked out our differences.”

His gray eyes darted to Doh’Val. “How...good of you.” His grip on the cup of cordial tightened with a little squeak. “I must admit, I assumed Mr. Seu would be with his companions.”

Doh’Val couldn’t help averting his eyes while Kuvjak answered for him. “I invited him to join us.”

The Investigator had the impeccable ability to communicate a suspicion that he would not indulge until they all returned to the embassy. “How good of him to accept your invitation.” Doh’Val wondered what he could do to avoid ever going back to the embassy.

Kuvjak retained the poise he possessed even as a youth as they chatted blandly. The Investigator was ignoring whatever had previously bothered him. They belonged here. Why didn’t he?

“—there are worse men to work for than the Investigator.” Doh’Val still hadn’t adjusted to this fiction that he was just the overworked diplomatic attache of the tyrannical, humorless Hand of the Federation. “I promise I will tell you as soon as I meet them.” Some nearby guests heartily laughed. The familiar silver cigarette case appeared from his inner waistcoat pocket.

Kuvjak only smirked. “I am told there is a smell. A burning forest. It follows him.” He leaned on a nearby display shelf. “Curious that it follows you.”

The Investigator stopped his hand midway to lighting the cigarette as something unreadable crossed his face before melting back into that easy, knowing smile. “Oh, right, I suppose I have it too. Between the governor and he, I picked up the habit.” He watched Kuvjak as he brought the golden holder to his lips. “Alas, on Siff, smoking is my vice.”

“And what about evading telepaths?”

It was the first time the Investigator ever seem off-balanced. “Excuse me?” he demanded.

“I heard a rumor that the Investigator can resist telepaths.” He idly drew an invisible doodle along the shelf he was leaning against. “He must have taught you. As his servant.”

He stared at Doh’Val as if trying to telepathically strangle him. “You would think he was that generous.”

“A pity.” Kuvjak waved for the attention of the servant who was a permanent fixture in the parlor. “Please summon the Vulcan—yes, Vudic, that was his name. Tell him Carl’s Son asks for him.”

Unlike every other time when a servant acted right away, Pym looked at Kuvjak, slowly to the Investigator, over to Doh’Val, then back to the Investigator who must have said or done something only Pym could perceive before she said, “...Of course, sir.”

Only from months with the Investigator did Doh’Val notice the slight stress in his smile. “Mr. Jalal is busy, no doubt with that charming woman.” Was that sarcasm on the word ‘charming?’ What did he think of T’Rir?

“He will come for Doh’Val.”

While the others chatted, Doh’Val kept his mouth shut and busied himself with the game before him even though everyone else had lost interest. He swore he could feel Mr. LeVanne’s eyes drilling into him. Yet, he carried on with Kuvjak as if nothing were amiss.

Gods, why did his pulse still pound when Vudic entered? He seemed demure in his manner. “Doh’Val, you wished to see me?”

He rose too late. Kuvjak spoke before he could. “I would like to see you perform that legendary death grip your people are known for!” He pointed to Mr. LeVanne. “I want you to do it on him.”

The Investigator wobbled as he stood to protest. “Sir! You cannot expect me to idly sit here for a Vulcan death grip!” He gestured wildly with his cigarette holder. “It will kill me!”

“Well perhaps the Investigator taught you to resist.”

Vudic, so dignified. “I will not do it. Arrest me if you must.” His blue eyes fell on Doh’Val. “I know prisons. Siff will be no different.”

Kuvjak stroked his beardless face. “Hm. That would be a pity.” But he knew Kuvjak. He knew his dear friend and former lover would do whatever it took to get what he wanted.

Doh’Val had to do something. “The nerve pinch. You told me it was like the death grip.” Gods, Vudic, play along!

Vudic’s silence before answering agonized him. “It is still a violent act.”

It was the Investigator who surprised him, standing and handing off his cigarette holder to Pym. “Oh, Vudic, just indulge the man and you can go!” He even added with a scoffing laugh, “It would not be my first.”

“Florian, this is ill-advised—” He hushed at something that the Investigator did or said. Maybe it was nothing but a sharp look. Whatever it was, Vudic changed his tone. “...Very well. I will do this because you consent.”

The guests excitedly gathered around while the two perched on a plush lounging couch, the Investigator offering a nervous laugh and insisting that he couldn’t control his anxiety because these were never pleasant. Something about experiencing a few of these and each time gave him a fright. Doh’Val only joined the crowd when everyone else had found their place.

The Investigator’s hands stuttered before he undid the top buttons of his red shirt and pulled back his collar to reveal pale pink underneath, his body seeming frail in the moment. “Now now, Mr. Jalal, try not to hurt me!” He flashed a silly smile to the crowd, and they responded with their own guffaws and titters.

Vudic laid his terracotta hand on Mr. LeVanne’s skin.

“Oh, Vudic, please, count for me, will you?”

Doh’Val watched Vudic’s face.

“Come now, Vulcan, what delays you?” “He is half-Vulcan.” “Vulcan, half-Vulcan, hardly makes a difference.” “Alright, hush now.” “You hush me?” “Yes, now be quiet. I would rather not die. It is precise. Now then. Hush.”

The room held its breath. Vudic’s blue eyes were like steel.

“One. Two. Three.”

Vudic gave the softest pinch and Mr LeVanne instantly fell back. A blue bottle in his hand tipped over, spilling water on his chest and down his neck to turn his red shirt burgundy. The crowd closed around him with a mixture of concern and fascination. Finally, a few hands reached out to grab and lightly slap his face. It took three slaps before he groggily opened his eyes and asked, “What happened?”

A smattering of applause in gratitude for the demonstration of the famed Vulcan Nerve Pinch, a few even congratulating Vudic for such riveting technique. Vudic took their thanks coldly. Each time, he always looked at Doh’Val and never the speaker.

Vudic did not ask for permission. He ignored the remaining words of praise, speaking no word to the servant and disappearing through the parlor’s double doors.

Meanwhile, Mr. LeVanne needed three people to bring him to his feet. He clutched his head and wobbled, looking like a disordered bundled of sticks from how his lanky limbs were in disarray. “Oh, Providence, my head has gone to the stars!” He was like a newborn muskox.

Doh’Val held his breath when The Investigator grabbed his sleeve. “There you are—oh, my head—take me to the lavatory, if you please? Providence, did I die? Perhaps it was like a death—” and so on he went, whinging about the state of every part of his body like the ‘soft-handed’ youths the guests would all deride while the two of them were away. People who hadn’t joined the military. People like him.

He took Mr. LeVanne to the adjoining powder room while the other clung to him like he would melt into the floor otherwise. It didn’t occur to him until now how heavy the Investigator was despite seeming little more than skin and bones.

In the lavatory, he still feigned sickness. Only when he saw the lavatory door close did he rise to his full height and slink to the other side. He grabbed a hand towel with a snap and snarled, “You talk too much.”

Doh’Val should have known. He knocked his fist on the door in frustration. “Kuvjak was right! You may not lie but you hardly ever tell the truth!”

Mr. LeVanne rolled his eyes in a way that offended Doh’Val so deeply he thought about punching out his teeth. “Talking to him is dangerous. I recommend speaking with legal counsel—”

“Enough!” If only he had some wine to throw in his face. “I tire of this Federation falderol!”

His eyes narrowed. “Keep your voice down.”

“Yes, how dare I speak ill of Florian, the governor’s plaything. You spend so much time with her, and for what?”

His left eye twitched enough to put a spasm in his cheek. “Mr. Carl-son, please exercise discretion when you gossip about me.”

Doh’Val dismissed him with a sardonic gesture. “I am quite discreet, Investigator.”

“No.” His tone sharpened. “You are not.” Glancing over his shoulder, he opened the mirrored cabinet over the sink and began pulling out everything to place it along the nearby shelf. “Do you know that I despise being called Florian?”

This would have been fantastic to know sooner. He grunted back a non-reply.

“No, you do not. I do not expect you to know.” Fancy vials and cosmetics and other miscellany that seemed more expensive than anything they deserved to handle were cluttering up the shelf. “There are many reasons. One of them is protection. The governor knows what I am because she is a servant of the Empire. That makes it her right to know. The servants know for the same reason, it being their right. The others, like Lady Kolana, think they deserve to know because they are rich, and their families are powerful.”

He couldn’t muster up the same umbrage from moments before. “What is the harm in them knowing?”

It was worse than how Minjaral had dressed him down or when Vudic stared at him because Mr. LeVanne didn’t care how Doh’Val took this revelation. “If they know, I do not expect Vudic to leave the planet alive. Everyone who thinks they are entitled to me will demand I find scandalous details about their rivals, and I will spend too much time denying them to do my work or keep you safe.”

Flustered, he grumbled, “Stop using him to control me.”

“I cannot control you, Mr. Carl-son.” He carefully uncorked and unscrewed various items with no hint as to what he was looking for. “However, unless I am mistaken about Klingon culture, it would be wrong to let him die an empty, dishonorable death.”

“Only Klingons care for those things.”

He quirked his brow. “I think Vudic’s mother would disagree.”

Vudic’s mother always made him think of his own father: crossing lightyears for love, always a little outside and out-of-step, cutting up fruit and setting it outside Doh’Val’s door when he had been a boy crying in his room about being everyone’s second choice for everything like apprenticeships or love or friends.

“Your desire for Kuvjak is inscrutable to me.” He splashed some brown liquid from one of the cabinet’s vials onto the hand towel he was holding. “He broke your trust.”

Doh’Val downcast his eyes. “Many people have done that.”

“Did he tell you he did for the good of the Empire?”

He reeled. “...Yes. He did.”

“Of course he did.” The hand towel smeared the liquid on his deltoid where Vudic had pinched him. “And he is not lying. That is why it is dangerous to talk to him.”

He couldn’t see what Mr LeVanne did. “There must be some mistake.”

“I am no expert on the Vanguard, or the Empire, or Klingon culture.” The knob of the faucet squeaked when he turned it. “However, I know spies.” His tone turned playful. “How do you think my government decided on me for this Investigation?”

Somehow, he should have guessed.

The hand towel softened under the water. “I befriended people and used everything I knew to extract information from them. On occasion, my government asked more.” When he threw the towel on the stain on his deltoid, he crumpled slightly and hissed in pain. Though it only stayed there for a few moments, drawing it away revealed a splotchy and harsh red mark like someone had violently grabbed him.

Glancing at his own reflection, he saw how little of his father’s heritage was present in his clothes tonight. Kuvjak. His compliments to Doh’Val always happened to be when he was wearing Imperial fashion without foreign influence. But Kuvjak must be different from these dishonorable spies that Mr. LeVanne knew.

“I think you believe that I am accusing him of disloyalty to his government or that he is somehow dishonorable, and I am not. He is dangerous because of his loyalty to the Empire. It is everything. If he is like the ones I am sent to hunt, he does everything for the Empire.” The water susurrated as it filled the sink. Mr. LeVanne disposed of the soiled towel and was grabbing a clean one. “If your friendship with him is still dear to him, then I imagine he reminds himself that whatever way he may use and hurt you, he is doing it out of love for you, for the Klingon people, and for the Empire.”

But what would Mr. LeVanne have him do? You belong with us, said Kuvjak when they encountered each other again after the altercation with Vudic. Siff could be the place he needed as a crossroads of empires, the place to be all of himself. Kuvjak could open any door. What could Mr. LeVanne do that his beloved could not?

“There is an Earth saying—although now that I think on it, translating it is unimportant.” He took the wet hot towel and pressed it all over his face. “Consider this: work with me instead of him. He plies you for information, tell me, and I can tell you what he is looking for and what to tell him.”

He recoiled inwardly at the thought. “I cannot do that to him.”

“How is it different from what he is doing to you?”

“It is not the same.”

“As you wish.” His tone needled Doh’Val with the subtext that he was absolutely, beyond a doubt, right about everything and Doh’Val was not.

“Yes.” He grumbled. “Hurry up.”

When he finished at the sink, he looked a mess: searing red on his pale skin where Vudic had touched him, terrible flush in his cheeks, strands of dark hair plastered against his skin, water stains on his shirt to imitate sweat. “One last comment.” Doh’Val stifled his groan as Mr. LeVanne was putting away the lavatorial items clustered on the shelves. “I tell them to call me Florian, a name I despise, to remind me that they are not my friends.” His voice softened with sadness. “At times, I wish with all of my body that I could trust them the way I trust my loved ones on Homeworld.”

“You said you felt safe here.”

“I do. The governor gives me solace. But more importantly, I have control over what people know. There are many places I go where I feel safe, but there are so very few places where I feel loved.”

“But. But they adore you here.”

A bittersweet sigh. “They love who they think I am. They love my position. They love what I could do for them.” The sink’s dripping echoed against the tiles. “They are not my friends.”

An impatient knock. “Florian?” called Lady Kolana from the other side. “In Kahless name, are you dead?”

“Not today, dear lady!” His posture and tone shifted immediately back to the carefree, superficial party guest that he had been before, the change coming so seamlessly that Doh’Val felt he was watching an octopus change its form. “Mr. Seu has revived me!”

He opened the door and stumbled forward to lean on Lady Kolana, fanning himself and wiping his brow. “Providence, those Vulcans! That nerve pinch was no match for me!”

Lady Kolana alternated between cooing over him and snapping at servants to bring him proper refreshment. The other guests made their own remarks on what a good sport he had been and how resilient he was for a human. Doh’Val slipped around them to dodge the larger group, grateful that no one noticed him. Mr. LeVanne did a marvelous job of keeping the attention on himself.

Kuvjak stood to join him at the far end of the room. “You told me he could resist telepaths,” he whispered angrily.

“The Investigator can.” He felt sick as he spoke. “I just assumed Florian could do the same.” Not really a lie. Not really. Maybe a bit.

Kuvjak growled a few curses at no one in particular. “Alright. I understand your access is limited.” He started for the exit.

“Wait, I thought you were staying longer.”

“Oh, no, no, I should call Vekla. We can meet tomorrow.”

Doh’Val watched the most handsome warrior he had ever met walk away, and in that moment, he felt so empty and so very alone.

Chapter Text

He went cold to hear it: “No, Providence, do not tell Doh’Val. He talks too much. He cannot know.”

Another night at the governor’s palace, another successful performance for the guests. As soon as they were packing their instrument, a servant gave Minjaral—and Minjaral alone—a message. A message he did not share with the rest of them, stealing away for his own business. Doh’Val had to know, if no other reason than good gossip. He followed the other to one of the cloak rooms and lingered outside the threshold; how he evaded being found, he did not know. Inside, Minjaral and the Investigator. They were conspiring. Pressed against the wall, he concentrated on their voices.

“Prophets, he does,” said Minjaral, exasperated.

Underneath their voices, the dull rumblings of many feet throughout the palace. “T’Rir is not what she claims.”

“I do not follow.”

“She is lying about her parentage, and I suspect she is lying about the rest.”

Minjaral faltered. “She is a confidence artist? Do Vulcans have confidence artists?”

“I do not know. I only know that she is lying.”

“Nik—Florian. Prophets. Florian. How long have you known this?”

“This morning, but I became suspicious after an early encounter.”

His tone grew more authoritative. “What encounter?”

He sounded uninterested in his own words. “An incident in one of the galleries. I was drunk and she tried to undress me.”

Minjaral did not agree. “She—Nik—she did that?” Restrained outrage. “I must speak with her.”

A curt growl. “You will do no such thing!”

“Her behavior was unacceptable!”

Clicks of the cigarette case. “Minyusha, I have lived through far worse.”

“As have I. It does not change my mind. She has no right to your body.”

“Providence! She must believe there is a chance I will return her gestures.”

“Her ‘gestures’?! You want me to stand by while she, while she—Prophets, molests you?”

“Yes.”

“Florian—”

“Do you trust me.”

“What are you asking.”

“Do you trust me.”

“Yes.”

“With your life?” Doh’Val needed to know the answer more than he needed his next breath.

“...Yes.”

“Then do as I say.”

Another silence. “I—Help me comprehend. T’Rir, whom you claim is a fraud, has convinced Vudic that she is a master artist, someone who could fix all of his mistakes on Homeworld. And while she poses as a suitable mate, she made sexual advances toward you on one occasion.”

“More than one. An incident in one of the washrooms. Actually, the story is very amusing—”

“Prophets, please. Not now.”

“I need to understand her motives and her loyalties. Perhaps she is connected to whoever is impersonating Talok-son. What say you?”

A pause. “My specialty was impersonations. If she is what you say, the goal is the same regardless of the trickery: he has something she wants.”

“Then she believes that Talok-son is a government asset. The impostor has made their mark.”

“But what is this fixation on you?”

“Telepath’s paranoia.” Sounds of his chewing stick against his teeth. “This rules out the obvious: Romulan playing a Vulcan.” He went on some tangent about the two planets’ histories, but the detail occupying Doh’Val was this strange revelation about T’Rir.

...Which gave him a naughty idea. If she didn’t care for Vudic, why should he stand aside? Nikolai certainly wouldn’t have her. And whatever she was, nothing like the comely artist she played at. Something else, and that excited him. A chance to rub his victory in Vudic’s awful, beautiful face—

“Tell me what must be done.”

“Collect more information. It is all we can do.” And then, the thing he should have expected: “We may yet be able to use Doh’Val.”

“He talks too much.”

“Precisely. We share a few details here and there, something he cannot resist sharing. Bait to draw out T’Rir.”

“But what if she sees through the game?”

“Then we have collected new information.”

A long tense pause.

“Using friends. There must be another way.”

“I note your protests.”

“Nikola—”

“Providence, Florian. You know this.”

“Florian. Do not dismiss me.”

“Rotted Turtle Eggs, Mister Nima-son! I will not have this argument outside the embassy! Sulk about it until we leave. Then we may discuss your discomfort.”

Shuffling footsteps. Doh’Val slid back along the wall before peeling himself away and striding back toward the foyer as if he’d just turned the corner. The two appeared, Minjaral seeming to look past him while the Investigator displayed the same bland joviality he gave all the guests. Now, it struck him as patronizing. Doh’Val had fallen in status. Just another party-goer. “Mister Carl-son! Have Lady Kolana’s people bored you already?”

How should he answer? “Not at all,” he said looking to Minjaral in hopes of finding a hint, “Lady Kolana sent me to fetch a bottle from the cellar.”

His smile held but his features tightened. “She only sends servants to do that. Sending you would be a great insult.” An invitation for Doh’Val to try a better lie.

“...Now that you tell me this, yes, I recall, in fact she was” think faster! “wondering if you would join her for” faster! “a game of Go.”

He nodded approvingly. “The three of us shall attend.”

“Oh no, I cannot, I really should go back to the embassy, temperance is the medicine for tonight, there is so much work, I should find Vudic or Prina, certainly Vudic, he and T’Rir—” he bumped against a colonnade while backing away “—no no, just Vudic, I promise not to leave alone of course, but another time, yes, another time.” He fled, not knowing if they believed a single word.

Before he could formulate a proper plan of action, Kujvak caught him. “Doh’Val! Why do you hurry?” Were the others still nearby?

How did he never notice Kujvak wore the same bland expression as the Investigator? “Looking for you, of course.”

He mus have hid his disgust well as Kujvak, delighted, clapped a hand on him. “Lady Kolana has asked for you again. I hear she may let you court her, if you wish it.”

Doh’Val didn’t have time for intrigue. “Alas, I must be going.” He mentally groped for something. “I will do my best to learn more about the Investigator for you.”

The hungry turn of his smile made Doh’Val’s heart sink. “You are a true friend.” Then his brow furrowed. “But you learned nothing else this evening?”

He made sure not to glance off in weakness. “He is cunning in that way.”

“Alright. Keep your human handler happy. Good evening to you, Doh’Val.”

By now, he knew every path through the palace and took the longest one along the outer rooms where he wouldn’t be spotted by anyone else. Reaching the grand entrance, he darted inside to the first cloakroom for his coat.

“Please, I must go to the embassy where Mr LeVanne’s attache is staying.”

The servant watched him carefully. “Do you wish me to fetch one of your companions.”

His gaze went to the corridor which opened into the never-ending party, then back outside to the dark, sweet night. “No. Do not trouble them.”

Chapter Text

If Prina-Krax had known, they would have followed through on the threat of urinating on all of Doh'Val's clothes. By great fortune, his Ferengi friend never connected the missing snuffbox to the bout of coughing which afflicted him the next night, giving him reason to remain at the embassy.

The others put on a good show of protesting his absence yet something in their expressions—even in Vudic's—signaled relief. How he did not condemn then and there for their falsehoods, he would never know. The first hour of his solitude he spent haphazardly revising a few of their recent compositions in an elaborate pretense of continuing their work. Something to make them believe the ruse. The rest of the evening, he combed through his memories to write down everything he could possibly recall about T'Rir. With so little knowledge of Vulcan culture, every detail became equally important. Did it matter that she cared for shadow puppets? Was her style of dress unusual? Then, a more important question: What was even the point of looking? He only knew what the Investigator had discussed with Minjaral, but what else had they found? Minjaral was no expert. Neither was the Investigator. T’Rir might be lying, but it may not be for nefarious reasons.

...The indiscretions with the Investigator were troubling. In pondering what she was, he questioned romantic pursuit. The Investigator dismissed it as "telepath's paranoia." It didn't sit well with Doh'Val.

From the highest window of the building seated on a cushioned bench cut from the wall, he spied on the side entrance to the embassy grounds. First, Prina-Krax and Minjaral arrived at a reasonable hour. Later, Vudic and The Investigator. They lingered at the gate, Vudic too polite to cut off their handler as he went through yet another of his stories. Long moments passed before they parted, Vudic entering the gate while the Investigator stayed outside to indulge his terrible habit.

Watching the Investigator have this private moment, Doh’Val pondered how guarded he still acted. But that should be expected, yes? He was still outside, and he mentioned the attempts on his life, even ones brazenly committed so close to these places that were like his fortresses. A tiring existence, he reckoned. It could warp anyone’s mind. And the loneliness—

Movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Vudic? Vudic. Lingering several places behind the Investigator and at the farthest corner of the embassy's fence, watching. But he had gone inside—

"Doh'Val."

An undignified yelp escaped his lips as he lurched forward, loudly knocking his ridges against the windowpane. From outside, the Investigator called up, "Who is the dishonorable scoundrel watching me!"

Vudic stood in the doorway. "I thought you heard me approach," he said apologetically. "Has your health improved?"

"Oh. Oh! Yes, yes, very much."

Vudic's brow knit in curiosity. "I do not recall your interest in the surroundings of the embassy before."

“I was, ah, watching. Waiting.” He hadn’t contrived a good excuse. “I was waiting for you.”

The tight flat line of Vudic’s mouth became too common these days, that cold neutral expression when he knew Doh’Val wasn’t telling the truth.

This time, it was unbearable. With a heavy sigh, he began, “I must talk to you about my concerns regarding you and T’Rir—”

“Minjaral’s affection for you is clouding his judgment,” he said. “It falls to me to reproach you.” No one else would hear that edge of anger which Doh’Val caught, and it sliced him. “Under any other circumstances, we would no longer associate.”

Doh'Val searched his memory for what he had done this time. "T'Rir is yours to pursue, but—"

"She is irrelevant to what I am telling you." Momentary hesitation. "The nerve pinch appears harmless. But it is still an act of violence. Some employ it without reservations. I do not."

He couldn't stop himself. "Angry because of Kujvak? Have nothing else to fret over?"

Vudic's lip curled and nose twitched, threatening a snarl. "It is not how I choose to live."

"So, what now? An apology? You would break our friendship over one incident?"

A dark flush rose in his face. "When we met, you wanted to change your culture. Here, you let it control you." His countenance remained serene, but his voice was full of venom. "I respect your decisions not to explain yourself, but I ask you not to lie to me." Doh’Val held his tongue because deep down, he knew he deserved this. “I ask this of you. You lie, and then you lie again, and then moments ago, you lied again.” A passing emotion flashed in his eyes. “I expect you to be illogical. I never expected you to be dishonest.”

Rising, he reached for the other’s shoulder. “Vudic, we can discuss that later—”

“If you will not discuss it now, then we will not discuss it at all.” He started again but then clamped his mouth shut, looking away to recover his composure. Had he—in Kahless’ name, had he injured Vudic?

“We will discuss, but give me one moment.” Looking back to the window, he looked for his subjects. No Investigator, not even a wisp of smoke. And no Vudic. He looked everywhere in his view. They had vanished.

“Vudic—”

But turning around, he found himself alone.

Chapter Text

A Prina night, and oh, what a night! The whole group so delighted the Governor that after Prina's offhand remark about fashion, the Governor's couturier visited the embassy the next day to take measurements; even Vudic obliged because it was logical to accept the offer and illogical to risk offending the Governor. Tonight, the Governor's generosity on full display: Turquoise and midnight blue all over, a million little folds in the fabric seeming to create shiny scales, the bell-shaped skirt creating a comfortable perimeter that prevented anyone from getting too close and button-closed inner pockets to stash anything she wished. The large diamond hole which gave everyone a view of her breasts would have been mortifying—except everyone, even males, wore this style. Instead, it was freeing. A blue translucent veil from her own collection graced her nose. The choker with all its dainty dangling chains and stones, always cool and moist against her skin. And always, her mother's ring.

Tonight: their usual early evening (which started to feel like the contract on Ferenginar after the Governor arranged a standing invitation for them to perform), and then going their separate ways. Homeworld had been good and important, but this was the first time since their ordeal began that they were allowed to do anything on their own. Prina held court around a keyboard in the East Wing drawing room. Male attention had been distressing before the others pointed out that guests were excited by her prowess; after that, she noticed how they always asked about her process and her work, comments on her body always abstract. There was rumors that she was collecting a stable of secret admirers, Klingon males well aware that she’d never marry them and thus happy to adore her from a distance.

Romulan females loved to play games. She could never quite grasp her footing with them, but that never stopped her from trying. Tonight, the dabo wheel was spinning in her favor. A trio of diplomats' relatives were around her keyboard as she dazzled with her skills and argued passionately for the merits of Ferengi art.

Behind them and at a distance, Minjaral, severe in his black and gold, false eye matching, pointedly ignoring other guests. He acted lost in thought.

She found a natural end to their play, suspecting that nothing but a good story would come out of it. Excusing herself, she walked past him to the larger, sparsely populated anteroom, hearing him fall in behind her.

He stepped into an alcove to hide behind a statue. She stood at its lip.

"Tell me your thoughts on T'Rir." She was disappointed that the lady that chosen their friend instead of her, as usual. "Besides that."

Prina shrugged. "Different from other Vulcans, but also just like them, Haven't thought much about her. Why?"

Minjaral was looking everywhere except at her or tilting his head toward noises around them. "I, Prophets, the Investigator asked me not to say."

"Minjal!" That beetle's asshole! "Just because you're his favorite does not mean you can start keeping secrets for him!"

"Alright,” he said with a pained sigh, “but he cannot know—" He recounted what they knew, and while Prina heard hesitancy, she gave him grace. None of it alarmed her.

"She is a clever female."

"Have you nothing else to say?!"

"Remember when you met me? Why is she different? She has her reasons."

"And what about our friend?"

"Telepath, right? He must know. How can a telepath not know she is pretending?"

Minjaral gnawed on his lip. She knew that one, the type he did when he wasn't convinced but couldn't find a rational explanation for why he wasn't convinced.

"The Investigator says he will get Vudic out of trouble while we are here, yes? Alright. So, once that is done with, Vudic can go back to his homeworld, Doh'Val has whatever he wants here and will stay, and I think the Investigator still wants you around." Her shoulders fell, frowning. "I suppose he can drop me off at Risa and I can decide where I go next."

She didn't expect him to act so hurt. "I, I do not understand."

"Minjal, it has been thrilling. Returning to Homeworld? I never could have without you three. But.” The people around them, caught up in their own intrigues, seemed happier than them. “Perhaps now is the time we go our separate ways."

Profits and Lace, the way he looked at her made everything worse. "Why?"

Sighing, she spun her mother’s ring around her finger as she collected her thoughts. "Vudic and Doh'Val, they had a good time on my homeworld, we all did. It’s time to move on."

"Until the Investigator releases us, we have no choice."

"But once the Investigator finds this impostor, he only needs you, right?" She waited for his grunt of assent. "If the two fancy boys were arguing like on Homeworld, I may think different. But they hardly speak to each other. Profits and Lace, Minjal, you hardly speak to any of us."

"How can you say that? We practice together and perform together everyday."

She folded her arms the way her mother sometimes did to seem more in charge. "Where was I the other night?"

"Here, of course." She gestured for him to continue and, as she already knew, he floundered. "Before it, you commented on Vudic whistling while he shaved. You performed with us. And then—and then, after that, you...." His face crinkled his frustration. "I remember passing you in the hall and...." He shaded his good eye, embarrassed. "Alright. I do not know. Where were you?"

"For me to know and you to keep guessing." The itch to pace was getting stronger. "Listen, I would not mind going back to the space station now. My old boss will be full of fits because he will know I make more profit that he will ever see. I might try being female more often. Everything is new and strange." She shyly reached up to stroke one of her lobes, her own lobes free of prosthetics. "I can go to one of those conferences you three kept talking about."

"And I want the honor of presenting you to our fellow artists."

"You will, Minjal! Why are you acting as if us going our own ways is a death sentence? We can see each other again." She drew close, slowly bouncing on the balls of her feet. "We will. Why, you could come stay with me. Why not a holiday on Risa and then, who knows, we could even go to Earth. I heard enough about it. Might as well see it."

Seeing Minjaral so distraught, she shifted repetitively between her feet without room to properly pace. "Minjal." She took his hand because it felt like what he needed. "The other two." She sighed, looking over at the various clumps of finely-dressed guests, many of them diplomats or relatives of diplomats or wealthy or noble or some other position which made it clear they were better than most other people—herself included. "They got what they wanted from us, although now I can't tell what it was anymore. Have an adventure and meet some interesting people, I guess. Now, they want to go back to their homes and be like...." Saying it aloud made her realize that she shared his pain. "...Be the way they're expected to be." It made her feel hollowed out. "And. Well. We weren't meant to be part of that."

He was looking at the other guests now too. "We have a duty to them as our friends."

But did they? Her lips parted to speak when a sharp clang of falling brass echoed in the nearby hall. That voice— "Vudic stayed behind tonight, yes?" She didn't like the other's uncertainty.

Vudic called out, "Do you duel? Or have you logic enough to know I would best you?" More clanging. "None can resist the Vulcan death grip, sir, and I dare not kill at the governor's palace. You are asking for a dishonorable death." Why couldn't she hear the other side of the conversation?

Their friend popped into the anteroom, hair tussled and with a swagger she never saw any Vulcan display. Was this his human side? He trotted over, eyes brimming with excitement. "My friends!" He clapped them both on the shoulder. "I thought the universe would conspire to split us apart."

They needed to talk. Prina started, "We had been talking—"

"You do not mean to leave me, do you?" His demeanor was opaque.he asked, sounding injured. "Is it T'Rir? Does she make you jealous, dear Prina?" Was he joking? Was that a joke?

She kept squinting at him. "No, not, uh, not really, no. We were just talking and—Minjal, what do you think of T'Rir?"

A dirty look crossed his face. "You seem happy with her."

"Vulcans are not to feel such things." He beckoned them closer. "But, you are my friends. Yes, I am happy. I am delirious." The corner of his mouth kept lifting slightly. "I want to see her bathe and drink the water she leaves." Prina made a mental note to remember that statement; it was almost poetry and sure to entice some of the females here.

Minjaral grimaced as he said, "That is all that is important."

"Once the Investigator business is concluded, why not stay here? T'Rir has opened my eyes to so many things. All of us, together."

"Perhaps."

"Or shall we go to Earth?"

"Perhaps."

"What is this sudden indecision?"

"We can discuss it at the embassy."

"Oh, yes, regarding that." He lowered his voice. "T'Rir has invited me elsewhere for the evening. I will return in the morning. Give the Investigator my regards." With one last elegant gesture, he dismissed himself from their conversation. Prina was rubbing her temples as she watched him.

"Now do you understand? He may be too wrapped up in her schemes to see the truth. And there is still the matter of this impostor."

"Maybe that was it, the impostor."

Minjaral kept watching the threshold where they had seen him disappear. "No. The impostor would not take the risk of talking to us.”

Chapter Text

Through a narrow slit, Doh'Val watched, blood trickling into his beard from how hard he bit his lip. The folding screen concealed him.

Soft light and fuzzy shadows made the room dreamlike. Vudic in chartreuse and sage, T'Rir in rust and garnet. He, seated on his knees at her feet, head bowed. She, covering her mouth, umbre eyes on him.

His voice, a hoarse whisper. "Forgive me. I dare not speak such illogic to any except one from Homeworld."

She, kneeling down. "There is nothing to forgive." Her fingers disappearing his dark hair.

"I must speak with them. We are fracturing." His forehead, leaning on her collar. "The prospect consumes me with emotion, and thus I cannot. I look for a rational approach, but then I become preoccupied by what I have lost."

Doh'Val knew right away her next words: You don't need them, Vudic. They were never your friends. Leave them and come with me. I'll be everything they can't.

She, anguish creasing her brow, hand stroking his head. "They care deeply for you. The fracture is temporary."

He, straightening. "I...I fear. I fear it cannot be mended."

Her free hand, intertwining its fingers with those on his. "This is your illogic." Her voice, honeyed and low. "They are your friends, and you are theirs. They are emotional species who need to find their wits, but they have not forgotten you."

Him, trying to speak, only able to create a cracked sigh.

She, drawing close, the light between them narrowing to a hair's shaft.

Doh'Val could bear no more. Hands clamped over his mouth and nose, he skulked away while the two figures became one.

Chapter Text

It was scandalous. It was outrageous. It was what Governor Tsengo chose because with her domain outside the grasp of the Imperial Court, she could cultivate her diplomatic ties to her advantage.

Masking—and many corrected Doh'Val to never say "masquerade”—had become fashionable among Romulan elite. The rules were opaque by design, like everything Romulan. Tonight, the Governor insisted that everyone, down to every servant, participate—perhaps this was a way she gave tribute to the Star Empire while still maintaining real loyalty to her own emperor, a kind of extension of Klingon imperium. Someone grumbled about the composition of the crowd, a notable swell of off-worlders. Doh'Val mimicked the servants and chose simple cloth that cupped around the lower half of his face; staying in the Governor's good graces outweighed the discomfort or inconvenience. Hidden against the inner lining of his tunic, a kohl pencil and some stationery pilfered from one of the guest rooms. Despite his fastidiousness, dark bits of the pencil caught in the crevices of his cuticles.

With so many guests in such variety of elaborate guises, he never knew when he was being watched. His companions were the only ones he could read: Prina wore one of her many veils just as she had on Ferenginar because she had researched beforehand how to make her own style acceptable; Minjaral wore a strange half-masque which both obscured and highlighted his great scar, raising questions as how he had found the time or funds to obtain a bespoke mask; and Vudic, oblivious, dressed as if it was any other evening.

T'Rir. Not just a half-masque with glistening adornments, but a veil over her hair. She flitted around Vudic like a butterfly. The flame-orange veil, an airy translucent cloth, flashed blue embroidery. Its last resting place had been among Vudic’s affects.

She must have excused herself. He watched orange bobbing through the crowd, keeping his distance.

Spotting her duck into another room, he sprinted after. It was one of the many lavatories, this one made for steam baths. He thought she was alone, so perhaps he could—

"Why do you blow smoke in my face?"

"I want you to keep your distance." The Investigator. Dammit. He became a statue with his ear pressed to the door.

"You fear me."

"No, but I fear the danger you bring me." The acoustics of the lavatory and the urgency of his poetics made him sound like a nervous noble in a play.

"What danger do I bring you?"

"Vudic."

"Vudic is not one to act without logic."

"He is half-human."

"I would not hold that against him."

He laughed like it was a joke despite her earnestness. "He is still human! Part of him, at least.” Sounds of them circling each other. “Your people know love, do you not? If you know love, then you know jealousy, and I cannot believe that anyone, no matter how learned they are in your ways of Logic, could forgive an injury of the heart."

"You are so certain that he would know."

"He is still Vulcan enough. He will read me."

The playfulness of her tone curdled into venom. "If I cannot read you, neither can he."

"Back!” Shuffling. “I will put this ember into your eye!"

"And how shall you explain to him my mutilation?"

"And how shall you explain to him us together alone in this washroom?"

"There is nothing unusual about two people being in a washroom."

"There is when their intentions are..." The final words seemed to die on his lips.

Doh’Val barged in, loudly coughing but keeping his head down lest he see anything he wasn’t meant to. He carried on the coughing fit as long as he could and then had to catch himself as the false fit became a true fit until he thought he lose whatever spirits he had drunk earlier in the evening. At last, he said, “Oh, Florian! Lady T’Rir! Am I intruding?”

Surrounded by bright porcelain and stone, they stood separated from each other in the cramped lavatory and seemed strange without the moody, seductive lighting of the party. T’Rir, eyes wide enough to show their whites in her mask, the plunge of her neckline showing sand-colored skin turning olive with blush. Her ochre dress was more like a mist or aura than anything real, opaque in the correct places to provide some modesty, but still distracting. “No, there is nothing to intrude.” She stared at the Investigator like they were co-conspirators.

The Investigator mirrored her expression. “A friendly conversation.” The gold holder shone blindingly as he held it up, cigarette still smoldering. “Nothing more.”

Chapter Text

The truth of T’Rir eluded Minjaral. All his conspiring with Prina-Krax and the Investigator produced nothing of value.

No closer to discovering the truth of the impostor either.

Tracing the impostor turned into their obsession. The counterfeit and the genuine article became place-based: if he was spotted at the embassy, that was the real one, but if sighted at the Governor’s palace following a long absence, they might be seeing a mirage. One day amiably chatty and the next day aloof, Vudic and the impostor gave in equal measures. Was the stony mute their friend, or the one who hummed while idling?

Rumors circulated of him frequently visiting the opera house next to the Romulan embassy. Why? When confronted, he admitted to attending one or two performances with T’Rir; the lady had coaxed him because she was interested in seeing what Romulans considered their “erotic arts.” He gave his characteristic head-bobble, said dancing never held his interest, and considered the event nothing notable, regardless of how hard Prina-Krax pressed for more details.

Sometimes, he would go to the palace, only to have acquaintances ask what he was doing there. Hadn’t he told them he would not be attending tonight? Or worse, they had just spoken with him elsewhere, and they became cross when he had no recollection of that conversation. All the while, T’Rir never left his side.

T’Rir hardly ever left his side. The private game between her and the Investigator disquieted Minjaral; it reminded him of the tenuous position of Bajoran servants favored by their Cardassian master’s affection. He would rather the Investigator strongly rebuff the advances, not these muddled spurning and feigned fear of retribution. True to his character, Vudic was either oblivious or choosing to remain ignorant.

Keeping track of Doh'Val wasn't a necessity or priority.

Days ran together. This current evening, Minjaral excused himself early from yet another audience with the governor because the bright light was giving him a headache. Hadn't they just been with her the night before?

Another cold night on the grand stone balcony. The thick heavy cloak, a gift from the Governor, kept him so warm, he didn't need to huddle around one of the numerous fires. In the valley below, the necropolis glistened under the light cast by the never-ending party.

"Minjal!" A Krax night. He also had donned the Governor's gifts, a tidy suit with many of the motifs from classical Klingon fashion, plus his own heavy hooded cloak and gloves. His shoes clicked on the stone.

"Has she retired for the evening?"

"No, she has business with—" He theatrically gagged. "Florian."

Together, they leaned on the railing, cloaks wrapped snugly, staring down at the valley.

Minjaral sighed. "I changed my mind. Doh'Val and Vudic have no more need for us."

Krax scooted closer to comfort him. "We had a good time while it lasted." He tweaked his own ear. "I will miss playing together, all four of us. Writing for each other, too." A scoffing laugh. "I think I might even miss the bickering."

A low breeze rattled the tender leaf-falls of a tree near the necropolis. "I miss Homeworld. Against everything, I miss Homeworld again." He palmed his false eye to study it; purple with the yellowing etching of a Resurrection Flower. "I truly believed. This time, I will let go and forget all of it. I burned my house, I gave my farewells, I made it all but impossible for me to return. If I go back, I am a criminal." He pressed his forehead spoon to the cold railing, wondering if his skin might freeze to it. "And yet. I want to return!"

He put back the false eye because it felt important that Krax see both. "I cannot reconcile it. Vudic and Doh'Val gave away so much. For me! For you! And now?." He idly flicked at some nearby specks of grit. “The impostor is too frustrating. I do not care to solve that mystery because I think...I do not care for them anymore.” To speak it pained him. “Were we friends? Were they friends? Or have we been using each other until one of us lost interest?"

"Does it matter? Move on, let it go." Krax sounded desperate to make himself do that. "No point to going back."

"But are you not upset?"

"YES!" He stifled a scream with a groan and stifled that by covering his face. "I—Minjal, I was very happy—alright, no, I wasn't, but I could keep myself busy! It was very easy not taking things seriously and expecting people to leave, never getting too attached. And, and...." He didn't talk much about Ferenginar, but he always wore his mother's ring and the little trinkets he received from the staff, including their lawyer. He turned toward the shadows. "What am I supposed to tell you, how much it all hurts? What good does that do?" A sniffle from the cold which made their noses run. "Thought about courting the Governor. If she marries me, I might be able to go back to Homeworld...."

He shouldn't have pressed.

"Let them go, Minjal." Another sniffle. "Let them go."

They sat in silence, turned away from each other, lost in their own misery.

Vudic’s shadow fell on the balcony with the illumination of the party at his back. He turned to leave. No. Minjaral wouldn’t allow it. He caught Vudic in a tight grip, and the other went stiff. "Why do you run from us?" he demanded.

"I did no such thing," he said, unreadable. "You appeared preoccupied. I chose not to interfere."

Something wasn’t right. "Did you bring our instruments?"

An unnerving pause. "Yes."

He studied Vudic. "...Alright." He withdrew his hand. "We will begin practice shortly."

"Yes."

Had things felt wrong because they were, or because he was finally accepting how much his regard had changed?

They didn’t acknowledge their next visitor until they spoke. "Where is he?" Doh'Val looked everywhere except at them.

"Vudic is with our instruments. He was just here."

"Kuvjak!" He growled and lowered his voice. "He cannot know I am here."

Both stood at attention. "Why?"

That damned guilty look on his face said enough. "I cannot tell you."

"...Profits and Lace, I know what happened." Krax threw down his cloak. "You sold us to him!" The gloves came off. "He promised you whatever you wanted, and you sold us!"

"I did no such thing!"

"Maggot-shit bastard, you sold us!" While Krax rushed him, Minjaral chose to stand back and let his friend get in a few solid blows. Doh'Val blocked and cursed, never fighting back. Krax let both fists and words fly. “What did he promise! Did you even get a good price! I bet he swindled you just like everyone else swindles you!”

When Minjaral halfheartedly intervened, they separated but Krax was already squaring up for a second bout. Dabbing his cheek and finding bloody scratches, Doh'Val snarled. "Insolent whelp."

"You sold us!"

"Foul-tempered cur! I—" He huffed. "No, I will not fight. If that is what you choose to believe, do as you will."

"Choose? What else is there!" Krax punctuated this with a rude gesture. "And to think we trusted you! You! Are the least talented of all of us!"

That remark cut Doh'Val deeper than any knife could, judging from how he winced and turned away.

"What? Never kept your mouth shut since we got here and now you have nothing to say?"

His shoulders rose and fell with the deep breath he took in, exhaling as if trying to push all the air from his lungs. On his face, determination. "Trust me, distrust me, it will make no difference." From his pocket, he pulled one of those familiar chains of prayer beads he always carried. He set it on the railing next to them. "Give this to my parents when you see them."

While Krax shouted after Doh'Val to drive him away faster, Minjaral picked up the string to study. Beads of metal and plant seeds, all finely polished, alternating patterns and large decorative knots to create segments. The chain was still warm from its owner’s body heat. A light aroma floated off the string, one Minjaral knew: the incense in Doh'Val's family home.

Prophets. "Krax." His hands trembled. "He means to go in our place."

A breeze whipped up.

"Well!" Krax hurried to grab his gloves and cloak. "Stop standing around!"

They wove and dodged around the numerous partygoers, Krax's hand tightly clasping his. Both shouted various apologies as they pushed past whoever didn't yield. At least once, Minjaral's cloak whipped along a table and dragged a platter which clattered behind him. Krax sharply elbowed someone to yelp and move.

Just when they started searching the next wing, both spotted him in the main foyer where it was quieter than the rest of the palace. Crouching in a wall recess, he balanced a paper journal on his knee and scribbled with some stylus that stained black on his fingers.

Minjaral rushed. "Tell us what you know."

Startled, Doh'Val flinched and then growled. “I said I cannot tell you!”

"Then tell us what you think of T'Rir.”

He glanced past them. “It does not matter what I think.”

Krax joined their huddle. “Listen here, Doh’Val, whatever your plan is, we want in.”

“The less you know the better—”

Krax yanked his sleeve, and Minjaral smiled slightly at the flash of anger in Doh’Val’s eyes which he expertly restrained. “Stop that! You don’t get to run off and be heroic without us!” Letting go, the hand with the ring stain was turned palm-up, an offering to help their friend to his feet. “I…” He stammered. “All of us or none of us. Got it?”

Minjaral extended his hand as well.

Doh’Val stared at them both, dark eyes glistening with unwept tears. He swallowed hard, exhaled, and took the help offered.

Still in their huddle, the trio shambled hastily into the North Wing, which was often sparsely populated at this time of night. A few rounds of bickering, but then they found a small bedroom that was unlocked and looked unused for months. It smelled like the other rooms that people rarely visited, faint notes of laundry soda, wood oil, and polish.

Each peeked out to the hallway before closing the door behind them. Krax fell into his habitual pacing while the others found seats.

Hesitantly, Doh’Val began: “Any Federation citizen can enter the embassy. We see them come and go often. But how come we have never seen T’Rir?”

Prophets! “...I never noticed.”

“Strange, yes?” He flipped through the pages of the little notebook, silently fussing over stains and smudges in his writing. “I see her with other people. Not intimate, but—” He gestured around to find the right word. “Kuvjak was one of them.”

Krax gasped like the guests who loved gossip more than even their friend. “No!” The response lightened the mood.

“Yes!” He flipped through more pages. “This was several nights ago—” As he walked them through his notes, new information and ideas emerged: Times when the others had been at a loss, Doh’Val was certain he encountered the real Vudic because of his friend’s whistling. Gaining access to the Governor’s family meant visits without the rest of them, and he would see T’Rir on evenings when she thought she wasn’t being watched. He was also writing down all the lies he told Kuvjak because it was the only way to keep track of them.

“—But in all this time, I cannot recall once when the impostor and T’Rir were together.” He stroked his beard in thought. “By chance, they have to cross paths eventually.”

An idea dawned on Minjaral. “They already have.” He joined Krax’s pacing. “Prophets, of course, if she is always with Vudic, she can tell the impostor when to stay away.”

Krax suddenly froze in his tracks. “Profits and Lace, the impostor!" He clasped his forehead. "Minjal, we saw him! We saw the impostor! He is here!"

"How are you certain?" Minjaral opened the door just enough to survey the outside.

"We were on the balcony, yes? He turns to leave, you stop him. His clothes were wrong—well, you never noticed because you have no sense of fashion. But it was his clothes! He never wears blue and red together; no string of those beads he likes; no scarf—whatever Doh’Val calls it. But the clothes! It was the clothes!"

Chapter Text

Like smoke into the sky, the impostor vanished from the party. Their instruments, his clothes, everything had been as they expected when they finally found Vudic. And T’Rir, always, at his side.

So they performed. What else was there to do? Doh’Val halfheartedly paid attention, his concentration on Vudic. The fine fingers, the silvery voice, as clear as ever before: this was his friend. No one made music like him.

The same throngs of adoring fawners circled around them at the conclusion of their set. “Please, I must speak with you.” He laid a light hand on the other’s elbow before he would melt into the crowd.

After everything, Vudic still allowed it. No words, but he gestured for Doh’Val to go on.

But where to start? “T’Rir.” Anything would sound like histrionic jealousy. “Do you love her?”

His eyes narrowed. “I will not discuss the topic with you.”

“Is she what you want?”

“My wants are irrelevant. She is the most logical choice.”

Time was running short. “And what if she is not what she has shown you?”

“You refer to her overtures to—” a momentary eye-roll “—Florian. They are irrelevant.”

“There is more—”

“Doh’Val.” He looked away, eyes closed, fist clenched. “We will discuss after our business on Siff has concluded.”

“Vudic! T’Rir is a fraud!”

He looked back with the same incandescent rage he wore when pon farr madness had gripped him on the space station, brief but unmistakable. When it receded into a stone facade, he said coldly, “I will see you at the embassy.”

Doh’Val let him go. He acted interested in the fawners, none of whom held his attention nowadays. Swirls of colors and sounds, he stopped distinguishing between guests. It was all noise.

T’Rir. They were standing together, noses nearly touching, purple shadows on them in a room rarely visited and styled to emulate a past governor’s study. He did not remember how they got here.

Her dark eyes held something foreboding and arousing. Did she plan to seduce him? She might be a fraud, but the idea made him giddy.

“You talk too much.”

One hard shove put him backwards into the stone chair behind the great desk, putting sharp jabs and dull aches along his back. He stumbled until he found a seat. He hoped he wasn’t grinning.

She glided toward him. “I am fond of you,” she began, voice low and smoky, “and I like your pretty singing.” A bolt of light in her hand. “But. I need that foolish tongue to keep silent.”

A blade to heighten the play. He caught her wrist and—what now? Growling lustily, he was so delighted by her flirtation, he did not know his next move.

The sharp slap against his nose startled him enough to lose his grip. She hastily rounded the desk, naked confusion and bewilderment scrawled on her face.

He stood up to make chase. “I do know a little Vulcan poetry.” Was he looking too eager? They fell into a dance going round and round the desk, he keeping a respectable distance with no sudden movements, she lingering a moment before darting out of reach but never quite discouraging him. Intrigue and arousal and desperation and the weight of everything churned inside him until the words spilled forth: "Will you do nothing but torment me with your charms!”

“If I torment you, why chase me?”

He needed to know, he needed it! “What does he have that I do not!”

This made her stop, putting them on opposite sides of the desk. "Vulcan citizenship," she said like an apology. "I am flattered, I truly am, but I cannot have Kuvjak's pet in my way."

"Is that what everyone thinks of me?!" The revelation was such an injury he fell back into the chair, rubbing his ridges in embarrassment.

"You did not know? I assumed...."

"No! I--" He scoffed angrily. "Nevermind. His pet?! His pet! Gods, it is so, it is so diminutive!" He directed a rude gesture at the hallway. "Is that all I am?!"

She perched on the far edge of the desk. "No."

His pulse pounded in anticipation.

“I think that you are beautiful.” A light sigh in her voice. “I think your music is beautiful.”

A mirror in the far corner caught his reflection; here he was, splayed in the grand chair, leaning on one elbow like a king weighing the future of his kingdom. And she thought him beautiful.

"I am fond of you, as I said.” Her words were low and honeyed the way they had been when comforting Vudic. “But I need your friend."

He idly traced over an embellishment on the desk. “Will you tell me why you need him?”

“No.” Her bare wrist glowed in the low shaft of light. “If I did, you would not leave this room alive.” A long lock of dark hair snaked down her exposed fair neck. “The universe would be cruelly robbed of a sublime creature.”

Leaning forward, he clasped his hands. “Then why did you choose him?”

“I said that I need him.” In his vision, she was like a statue delicately decorated with gold leaf. “I did not say that I chose him.”

Was it true? Her hand, tantalizingly close yet until now verboten. “And your advances toward Florian?”

“Like your friend, I also need him.”

His arms seized her. One hand was grabbing her shapely buttocks; her hands lay prone on his breast. She slid easily from the tabletop to his lap in the chair. The thin cloth layers separated them from being skin-to-skin. “Tell me.” His ridges hot, his breath falling on her collar. “Please, I must know.” His nostrils lay on the nape of her neck to take in her raw musk. “Tell me I was first.”

Her fair hands rested on the crook of his neck, and she leaned back to let him bow her over the desk. “I know when you sing, it is songs for the opera you wish to write.”

Countless silk strings reached inside him: his lips, his root, his scars, his lungs, his ridges. Raking his teeth on her supple skin, growling and wrestling with his jacket, he was already drunk on his own fantasies of ravishing her. He wanted her to flinch slightly at his bite and imagined an emerald half-moon below her collarbone. He half-expected the buttons of his trousers to pop from his arousal. Under her diaphanous dress, a slender but soft figure in which he could sink his teeth and let his mouth be filled with her cupric taste.

The strings inside him went taut; he was happily at her command. Their eyes met. He could see the delicate hairs on her upper lip. “I do need your friend,” she said. “I do not need your help.” The slight arch of her brow underscored her meaning. “Your silence is enough.”

“As you wish,” he gasped and pressed forward again, his jacket now liberated, one hand hastily searching for the buttons on his trousers. One side of the dress slid off to reveal a bare shoulder, another place for him to conquer. Strands of his long hair intertwined with her. More throaty growls as he tested and teased with his teeth. His free slid hand carefully up her thigh to the inevitable prize, no doubt wet and quivering. He was trying to melt into her so they could be one flesh—

The knife laying on the desk caught a shaft of light.

Ever so gingerly, he perched her on the desk. He stood, pulse pounding, backing away from his seat. The strings inside were growing weaker, thinner, but still he felt them. “...No.”

She tilted her head, her mouth a small, crooked line. “You want him.”

“I want you.” He knelt by her. “Please.” His body pleaded: ignore his judgment! Give her whatever she wanted!

“You want him.”

His hand rested next to her knee. “Is it wrong to want both?”

He felt the sadness of her smile. “No.”

“You are unlike anyone I have ever met...” The urge to recite poetry for her overcame him. “How the sky has cleared this morning
the blueness spreading like a netted veil”

The shaft of light that had shown him the knife now showed him the subtle tremble of her throat. “Leave. Before I find my strength.”

Turning his back on her, he hastened to the doorway. Sounds and colors of the endless party bathed him. Lingering at the threshold, he dared to steal one last glimpse of her.

No one. Only his discarded jacket and the shining knife on the desk.

Chapter Text

He wondered if the old gods of his father’s ancestors were protecting him in this place so far away from their seats of power. This place was no longer safe. He hurried toward where he heard people, hoping to catch a servant’s attention.

The sprawling, labyrinthine palace kept him guessing. Somehow, he had wandered into the domed arboretum where guests were doing—whatever it was they were doing. He didn’t care.

“Doh’Val!” If he were weaker, Kuvjak’s voice would have made him faint. Beautiful as ever. “In Kahless name, you are pale as a corpse!”

He mustn’t get distracted. “Forgive me.” He groped for an excuse. “The hour is late. I must go.”

The escape was in vain; Kuvjak cornered him behind a cluster of exotic trees. “Doh’Val!” He wore concern deftly. Why do you hurry?”

He mustn’t show weakness. “Kuvjak, forgive me. Another time, please.”

But when he stepped to move past, Kuvjak seized his arm in an unforgiving grip. “Doh’Val.” Talking to him like a child caught in a lie. “You know something. Don't give it to that Federation Hunter. Tell me instead.”

He didn’t resist, but he watched the other, waiting for him to let go. "Doh'Val,” said Kuvjak. “You know what must happen. You must do the right thing."

He already knew he was doing the right thing.

"Doh'Val, please. Please. We both love the Empire. You know where you belong and where your loyalties are." His gaze caught the small bulge at Doh’Val’s breast in the shape of his notebook. "Don't you want to go home? Don't you want to make things right with your family?"

“When the time is right, I will return.”

"But you throw your fortunes where? With them?!" He scoffed. "What can they offer you, these—these—"

"Hybrids?" Doh'Val moved to shake off Kuvjak’s grip to no avail. "That is what you were going to say.” He refused to back down because he knew it. He always knew it. “Hybrids, like it is a crime."

"Their moral fiber is not like ours." He stepped forward when Doh’Val wouldn’t yield to his pulling. "You are different. You are better than them."

A horrible question came to him. "How am I better than them?"

"You understand, Doh'Val. You understand honor. You know the way of things."

Yes, the way of things. The way things were expected to be, the order of who or what is more deserving. “I know my place." He growled. "I know who is beneath me and who is above me."

A haughty sneer. “And now you resent this? The life and grandeur you reaped under your family patron? You resent your place on Homeworld? You think you love these people?”

“And what if I do?” He wrenched himself from Kuvjak’s grip. “You will imprison them?”

“After what they did to you and your family, why should I not?”

“And if I try to stop you?”

Something monstrous came to his eyes, even as his face wore sadness. “Then I must do what is good for the Empire.”

He needed to go. He turned away, but Kuvjak’s words cut him to the quick. "You love me. I know you do." His beloved had always known how to hurt him. "Whatever your heart tells you about them, it is false. But what is says about me—that is real.”

Fists balled, he breathed in and out to steel himself. How much heartache could he take before it killed him?

“Doh’Val, If you are still a son of the Empire and if you love me, you will tell me what you know.”

He broke away before the other could reach him. “I have to go.”

“Doh’Val!”

He wouldn’t look back, never, not even if—

"Doh'Val! Son of Carl!” Kuvjak bellowed, words filling the room and freezing everyone in their tracks. “House Seu, Disgraced from House Nakarmi! You have wronged me, and I demand satisfaction!”

The arboretum went quiet and then bubbled with excited chatter.

Between them, Pym stood, hard glare on both. "Gentleman. The governor forbids dueling in the palace. Choose your seconds and wait for my summons."

Per tradition, the guests formed barriers between them and carted each to opposite corners of the arboretum. He heard none of the well-meaning advice and questions from the guests, all of it merging into tangles of noises; how could Kuvjak do this to him?

Someone, a woman his mother's age, took his arm as both groups proceeded through the double doors outside to a small, well-cultivated field surrounded by lanterns which servants had begun lighting; the little black bell-shaped flowers clustering all through the clearing blossomed on a diet of Klingon blood. He was still in a fog of disbelief, even as the bracing cold air caught up to him. Humiliation or death, the only choices? Did everything between them now mean nothing?

He felt sweat beading along his hairline and on his ridges despite the breeze. What chance did he have? The woman who led him volunteered to be his second and he must have agreed, but what was he doing here? Kuvjak was stronger and faster, more skilled at combat in every way, and he trains daily like any other warrior.

He was staring down at the bath’leth, seeing his haggard, fearful expression mirrored back in the blade, In the back of his mind, Prina-Krax's voice rose up with the question: But can he sing?

None of his friends were around to give advice or help.

Surrender?

Fight and die?

Grovel for mercy?

Doofbeetle! A singing duel!

Digging deep to draw up every iota of courage inside him, Doh'Val stood tall and proud, chin high and defiant. "Before we begin!" The crowd quieted. "Middle Empire rules are the custom in the governor's court, are they not!" Onto the ground he tossed his weapon. "This crude instrument is nothing! I demand a duel by music."

Kuvjak sneered, weapon raised. "Middle Empire etiquette does not give you that right. I take your demand as forfeiture."

"Then you dishonor yourself and your house with your petulance!" In response, the crowd jeered at Kuvjak.

"He is stalling."

"As are you!" He girded himself and struck his own version of Krax's swagger. They were in a round, so he started ambling along the edges, talking instead to his audience.
"Om! Praise to Vachi, praise of Sarasvati,
praise to the warrior-poets who sang
the first legends of Kahless. Bring forth your wine,
and I shall sing to you a story of great deeds."

Snatching a large, empty wine bowl, he turned it upside to tuck under one arm as an improvised drum. It had a decent timbre, letting him hammer out a few rough notes.
“From lands of Fire came one,
From lands of Water came another,
And the third, from lands of Sorrow

Double-formed, they were
In soul and body
Into three, six

But inside their chests
Beat the hearts of
Kahless’ finest….”

The words and melody had come to him from a part he did not know before. The crowd craved this new story they had never heard before. Who were these “warrior-artists” they asked, these great men who protected the innocent and sacrificed their public honor for the good of others and made powerful people jealous of their virtue? Kuvjak eyed him the whole time with a scornful frown. He was the only one who knew.

He was running out of verses. The whole time had been treading along the perimeter of the round. This time, he paused near Kuvjak.

In his disgust, Kuvjak looked away, taking his eyes off Doh’Val.

"--And today is still a grand day to die!" The bowl which shattered across his old lover’s face would have had little effect, but Doh’Val knew something no one else did: on Kuvjak's right cheek, a dainty scar indicated where he had broken his cheekbone which never healed correctly. Instead of training himself to endure the pain, he protected that side and grew out his facial hair to hide the scar. On his clean-shaven face, the little mark was a bullseye.

Pottery shards scattered. Kuvjak folded forward like a piece of laundry, and then became stiff in that concave position, a strange curve of a man. He fell. Onlookers howled.

"I will call no contest!" he announced before anyone else tried to claim one way or another, and the crowd roared. "Find me when you are ready for a proper duel!” Hysteria and ecstasy suffused the air.

He hoped his fear wasn’t showing as he bolted from his new admirers to find the palace exit.

Kuvjak would be waking up at any moment

Chapter Text

Near midnight.

In the temporary office The Investigator claimed as his own, Doh’Val patiently sat in an old chair. The lamp and shadows made his face more angular than usual. Deep in concentration and hunched over his desk, one slender hand slowly turning each page of the little notebook while the other held a chewing stick the way he held his beloved cigarette holder. Every so often, his sculpted eyebrows wiggling in astonishment or incredulity. At times, his lips moved soundlessly from him immersed in conversation with unknown interlocutors.

When he looked up, his chair swiveled to the window. He was still holding the chewing stick. “And the events of tonight. Have you withheld any details?”

He sighed in embarrassment. “No.”

The Investigator’s chest swelled and slowly shrank. “The contents of this notebook. You have shared with no one else, your companions excluded.”

“Correct.”

He turned his chair partially toward Doh’Val, eyes narrowed in vexation. “You wrote by pen in Federation Standard.” His stick-holding finger traced along the edge of the cover. “If Kuvjak had taken it from you, could he read it?”

“A few words, I think.” He added while looking away, “Whatever I taught him when we were…lovers.”

The Investigator frowned in his vexed musings, drumming his fingers on the desk as he studied the room. “He would need help to read this, perhaps force you to read it for him.”

Doh’Val groaned. “Can you please say what you mean to say?”

The Investigator became surprisingly contrite. “Yes, it is late, I—well, I….” And a sheepish smile broke over his face, reminding Doh’Val of how the man had been on Ferenginar when he finally solved the mystery of who was taking credit for Prina-Krax’s work. “I am impressed. I am—Providence, Dova—I am tickled!”

Standing up, the Investigator seemed to chuckle at his own shortcomings. “I have underestimated you!” This side of the man was very strange to see. “Minjaral, I admit, I have a special fondness for.” His voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “But you.” Suddenly, Doh’Val remembered his first meeting with the family patron. “You.” The Investigator looked at him with an intensity that made Doh’Val feel naked. “When all of this business with the others has finished, I think I may need someone like you.”

Down that path lay madness and destruction. “Thank you,” was the most polite response he could muster.

He was tapping the chewing stick on the table like a compulsion. “I have one question that plagues me.” He bit his lip as he studied Doh’Val. “Why.”

“I do not follow.”

There was an uncharacteristically impish glint in his eye. “Every day, I meet people who cannot resist temptation. I too have succumbed.” He clicked his tongue. “And I watched you do the same during our time here. But now, you resist. Why?”

“I think it hardly matters—”

“No, none of that.” He waved away any further protests which may come. “Motives are important in my work. Twice. Tonight! You were offered temptation.”

His face and ridges heated because part of him still wished he had given in to T’Rir. “Yes.”

“Including Kuvjak. Do what he asked, and you would be going back to your homeworld tonight.”

“It, yes, that is possible.”

“But you rejected him, and then you humiliated him!”

Doh’Val growled at the accusation. “He demanded a duel! I do not expect you to understand what would happen if I did not answer that challenge!”

“That is what makes it brilliant! He brought it on himself!”

Why indeed. “I, I suppose I love Vudic too much.”

The Investigator gave a sneering chortle. “No, you are deflecting.” He rounded the desk to open a nearby cabinet. “Loving him too much a reason to betray him.” From the cabinet came a decanter and two fluted glasses. “I know your schemes to endear yourself to the Governor’s inner circle. The reward for handing over an accused spy would solve all of your problems.” From the decanter splashed a liquid that looked like pure water and smelled like cleaning fluid. “Or the other two. Hand them over to prove your loyalty, and you will want for nothing.”

He felt a terrible headache coming on, something that seemed to happen often when talking to the Investigator. “Nik—I mean, Florian—Inves—SIR.” His fingers massaged the sides of his temple. “Why is that important?”

“Because it is contrary to everything I know about you.” With the energy of the Investigator’s entire being now laser-focused on him, his eyes sparkled. “So, I must know. Why?”

Why. The question clung to him like wet linen. Why. Why. Why.

Looking at such intense attention was like looking at the sun. His gaze wandered around the small office, used by other people, cluttered with the frivolous adornments that many others gave to create a dissonant altar to the cultures of the Federation. Among the pile of things, he spotted the icon of a seated bodhisattva. “My parents.”

The Investigator kept silent, gesturing an invitation for him to elaborate.

He kept his gaze on the bodhisattva. “I could do as Kuvjak asked, and I would go home. I could rejoin my father’s house. Honor would be restored. Kuvjak would ensure this.” The pain in his throat behind his nose increased. “And my parents would be happy. But.” He sighed. “They would ask how. I am not clever enough to lie.

“They would still be happy. They would still love me. But every time they looked at me, they would know that I sacrificed someone else’s children to come home—people they met and whom I called my friends.” An uncertain, scoffing laugh followed. To have her look at me and see….” It was too much to continue. “Certain acts are wrong. Not merely by law or honor. Cosmically wrong. People like you can live with such things on their hearts. I cannot.”

A thoughtful silence in the room. The chaotic evening and this quiet moment gave him an epiphany: Kuvjak’s promises would always be empty because too much had changed, including him. When he came back to Qo’Nos while looking for Minjaral and Prina-Krax with Vudic, he could slip into the clothes in his closet, but they didn’t fit the same way. He had seen the future then, but he didn’t know.

“You are wrong about one thing.” In his hand, a proffered glass. “I could not betray a friend either.” A wry simper.

He was astonished, unable to find the right words and ended up responding with a jumble of sounds.

“Yes, I am capable of caring about people I meet.” His smile broadened. “But I work to not give that impression.”

Doh’Val took the glass. The burn of the draught brought back more memories of Ferenginar.

“If I did, I cannot imagine going through another day of living.” He made that memorable squinting face after throwing back the glass. “I would lay down and wait for death.”

He tried to imagine the people who could command this hunter’s love and loyalty. He could only imagine the scoundrels populating that savage world of espionage.

“What I must do now will seem unfair.” His tone darkened. “I must detain you here in the embassy for the next several days. You cannot tell the others why.” Listening to his reasoning, the prospect soothed Doh’Val. Cloistering may purify his spirit. He can meditate, read the tantras, work on his embroidery; he may even take a picnic by himself in the arboretum while the others are at the palace. “—I cannot tell you more. Please trust me.”

“Alright.” The easiest thing he had agreed to since meeting the Investigator.

He held the door to let Doh’Val back into the darkened hallway. “Good work, Dova. Get some rest.”

Thanking him, he went into the hall. Walking past a window, he saw the swirls of light in the sky from the particles dancing in the planet’s magnetosphere.

He hoped he was doing the right thing.