Just a couple notes on continuity, this story references my earlier pieces Saith Daepahr hrrafv Llaiirevha and "Flaihhsam s'Spahkh" directly.

Heis'he Ri'nanovai (A Mother's Love)

Four humanoids in oft-repaired spacesuits rappelled down a still-hot shaft burned through solid rock by a starship's phaser. At the bottom of the shaft, a ferrocrete wall that still smoldered from the sustained burst.

"Jallix did a good job with the phaser," the leader said as he hit bottom, his voice tinny with interference. "No sign he damaged the vault." He unhooked from his line. "Concrete saw!"

The roar of the whirling flat blade was muted by hard vacuum, only transmitted through Jethro Wizniewski's spacesuit as the carbide and durasteel blade bit into the wall. It took almost half an hour for him and the big Hirogen, Kubaz, to finish the last of the cross-cuts, but after that the job became much easier. Anchors were drilled into the face for eye-bolts, strong cables and hand-cranks laboriously hauled the pieces of ferrocrete out of place. Finally, they planted jacks into the gap to replace what they'd removed, and squeezed inside.

"Dammit, looks like half the lower levels of the stronghold collapsed in on the vault when the shockwave hit the planet."

"There's some storage cases over here, Jethro!" the shortest among them radioed. "Gotta be something valuable, even if it's just information."

"I was expecting something more along the lines of latinum, Bork," Jethro retorted, "or something we can sell."

"Want something you can sell? How about this?" He held up a sword in a scabbard.

Jethro stepped over and took the sword from the Ferengi, drawing it halfway out of the scabbard. The gracefully curved blade was a good meter long, with an ornate gold-filigreed basket hilt and a large silvery pearl set into the pommel. "Heckuva sword."

"Sharp, too; watch yourself. That's an honor blade, traditional Romulan heavy saber, important heirloom," the little goblin explained. "That thing'll snap a bat'leth right in half. And that's just the top of it. Some of this data here? There are collectors and historians who would pay. 81st Rule of Acquisition, 'There's nothing more valuable than information.'"

"All right, Bork, you've convinced me this wasn't a complete waste of time," Jethro assented, resheathing the sword. "You're in charge of picking the loot."

The little Hirogen-built frigate, his ship Jessica he'd bought at government auction, floated powered-down in the shadow of the shattered planet as the team beamed back out with their spoils. Jethro and Bork and the others quickly doffed their spacesuits, and the crew began securing the precious cargo in the hold as they headed for the bridge. "Got a good haul, boss?" the overweight Talaxian at the pilot station asked as he began powering up the ship.

"I'm hoping so, Jallix. Maybe that sword will bring a decent price at least. Or maybe hiring Bork was a waste of money—he's eating us out of house and home. He'd better be right about this or he's fired. Whatever, lay in a course for the Suliban Helix in Japori sector."

"On it." He began to throttle up and the cluster of asteroids that had once been an inhabited world began to recede behind them. "Hey, Jethro," Jallix said, suddenly, "I'm picking up a disturbance off our starboard side."

"A distur—Oh, fuck me!"

The stars off the starboard side were wavering visibly now. A dark green shape began to materialize in the blackness, a hooked prow on a long neck, with broad swooping wings longer than the main fuselage.

"Mogai-class warbird! They're arming weapons!"

"Go evasive! Run for it!"

Two pairs of lime-green disruptor bolts streaked past the bow, then a blue cone snapped out from an emitter at the base of the warbird's nose, snaring the ship as its engines ignited. "They've got us in a tractor beam!" Jethro hollered. "Give me more power!"

"You've got everything I've got!" Kubaz yelled from the engine compartment. "They'll make us their prey!"

Then a female voice came from the speakers. "Seeker-class frigate, this is Riov Jhu t'Salathim of the Imperial Warbird Punia. You are ordered to release control of your helm and prepare to be boarded. Signal compliance immediately or we will destroy you for dishonoring the Lost."

Gasko Station, six days later.

"You cannot buy your way out of this, Ambassador Dronk." The grey-haired Rihanha sneered. "Your citizen was caught graverobbing in the ruins of ch'Rihan!"

Ambassador Dronk shrugged. "'The riskier the road, the greater the profit.' 62nd Rule of Acquisition."

"'Dead men close no deals,'" Fvillha Velal tr'Hrienteh retorted. "15th Rule of Acquisition."

Morgan t'Thavrau covered a burst of laughter with her hand as Dronk stammered and tried to recover. Ambassador Rama Myreen spoke over him. "Praetor Velal, the President is willing to allow Jethro Wisniewski to be tried under Romulan law, but only if the death penalty is taken off the table."

The grey-haired Rihanha leaned back in his chair and sighed. "I cannot promise you that, Ambassador Rama. I'm trying to push a judicial reform bill through the Deihuit right now. I can't very well interfere with the courts."

"I understand you're in a difficult position," the Bajoran said, her earring jangling as she gestured placatingly, "but this is a point of principle. My government abolished capital punishment over a century ago. We can't very well allow one of our citizens to—"

"Ambassador, Wisniewski is frankly fortunate Riov t'Salathim didn't space him out of hand!" He grunted irritatedly and took a gulp of water from his glass.

"Madam Ambassador," Deihu Hannam t'Hei spoke up from beside Morgan, "is there something you can do in exchange for the fvillha? Perhaps help grease the wheels on the vote to lift Lloann'mhrahel sanctions against the Shiar, restore diplomatic relations?"

Rama opened her mouth, then snapped it shut and thoughtfully pressed a finger to her face. "You know, there might actually be something I can do there. Praetor, can I make some calls and get back to you?"

"I don't see why not. If there are no objections we can adjourn for now." The people around the table shook their heads and began to stand and file out. "Oh, Khre'Riov?" Morgan stopped by the door and half-turned. "May I speak to you privately?"

T'Hei gave Morgan a querying look. "It's all right, lhhei. I'll join you at the ship."

"Please don't cause me any trouble," the older woman said with a pleading look.

"I am not D'trel." Morgan stepped back into the conference room and shut the door.

Velal stood and approached her; out of habit she straightened to full attention. "What can I do for you, lhhai?"

The man reached into a pocket of his dark green robes and withdrew a data solid. "I didn't want to mention this in front of the ambassadors; it's a personal matter, not relevant to the extraditions. According to geographical records the graverobbers were operating in an area of the city of Rateg."

"Rateg?"

"It was the seat of the House-Clans of Ortikant and Vreenak."

Morgan frowned. "As in Deihu Merken tr'Vreenak? The one the D'Nneikha had assassinated?" A memory, a man with ice blue eyes and a sharply angled face, passed in front of her eyes.

"That's right. Part of their... ill-gotten gains were some computers in a secured vault in the ruins of Stronghold Ortikant. The Tlaru'daehhr ih'Shiar worked through the data looking for anything useful and, your name came up in reference to his."

"I'm not terribly surprised; my mother worked for tr'Vreenak in Novok when he was the prefectural governor."

Velal's eyes narrowed. "Actually, I was referring to the hfihar genetic records. As far as I knew no Vreenaksu or Ortikantsu survived the Loss, but your file came up as a cross-reference."

Commander's Quarters, ch'M'R Aen'rhien.

Morgan stared at the data solid in apprehension.

In the old days, before Shinzon's coup, the Rihan noble class had almost invariably married for political reasons, to secure alliances between hfiharir or mend blood feuds. But only seven of eighteen ships had survived the Journey, and the Rihanh's collective descent from so few individuals meant inbreeding was a real danger, so all the clans kept gene-maps of their members to avoid such mishaps.

To Morgan's knowledge, though, there were no such ties between the Vreenaksu and the Thavrausu; her great-aunt had been a political opponent of tr'Vreenak in the Deihuit when he took the clan's seat in the chamber after his mother retired. And her mother's job was just that: a job.

Morgan picked up the small cube of plastic and crystal, held it up to the light. She liked the fvillha, and as far as she could think of there was no sensible reason for him to deceive her about this.

"What are you afraid of?" she muttered to herself, pressing the data solid into a slot on the console.

Data spooled out onto the screen and Morgan began tracing the family trees. The two hfiharir had interbred considerably: in 2346 Merken tr'Ortikant had married Liorae t'Vreenak, a niece of Hru'hfirh Mnheia t'Vreenak and already his fourth cousin. But there was no mention of any relation to the Thavrausu.

Perhaps the connection was earlier than the records available, which grew fragmentary after the nineteenth generation. "Ship, cross-reference the Vreenak-Ortikant bloodline with the House of Thavrau. Extrapolate from my own genetic records."

"Match found."

"Display results, secondary screen," she said. Then: "Fire and Wind!"

The relation wasn't an ancestor, it was her. She was the one with blood from them, not the other way around. And not from the Vreenaksu, but the Ortikantsu, from Merken tr'Vreenak himself.

"Merken tr'Vreenak is my father?" she breathed.

Officers' Gym.

Steel rang on steel as Morgan blocked a concerted assault from her executive officer. Sarsachen tr'Sauringar was an accomplished swordsman and was stronger and heavier than her, but he was trained with Terrhain rapiers, not the honor blade.

Morgan deflected a thrust at her torso and stepped in, striking in a quick sequence of wide arcs. The big man quickly fell back to keep his advantage in reach, swatting aside a few strokes from her honor blade that came closer than he liked, then held up a hand and raised his facemask. He grabbed a bottle of water off the wall and tossed another to his commander. "So why wouldn't your mother have said anything?"

"Must I spell it out? Well, you're from Kevratas."

"Ie," he said uncertainly. "Some Hearthworld noble thing I don't understand?"

"I suppose. Tr'Vreenak was married at the time."

Tr'Sauringar made a face. "Ah. Trying to avoid a scandal?"

"See, you don't get it. He had an adulterous affair with his chief of staff!" He gestured for her to continue. "Oh, for Fire's—It could've caused a blood feud between our clans, Riov, a three-way feud, no less!"

He gaped. "Really?" Morgan nodded. "So she was—"

"Saving all three of us, yes: Liorae would've been within her rights to kill me! Not to mention Mother saved both their careers," she added.

Morgan turned away from him, glancing at the black sky out the viewport. In the dark she remembered the face of her mother, smiling up at her at daughter at graduation from Phi'lasasam, then Merken tr'Vreenak, a stern scowl across his face.

Then, unbidden, she remembered another face, an elderly man with a face perpetually set in an emotionless mask, with deep-set brown eyes that smiled without needing his lips to follow. "Did you know?" Morgan murmured.

"Know what?" tr'Sauringar asked from behind her.

"Not you. Him. Spock. When I met him in Ki Baratan, he told me something, that I'd only have one mother."

"You actually got to meet Spock, rekkhai?" he asked, interestedly. "You'll have to tell me about that sometime."

"Maybe I will."