At first, the gold faded away to black; then the closeness of the projection room was replaced with the dry fever of the Sas-a-shar. Juliette stood breathless; a flash of light made her look to the horizon and clouds that undulated in flicks of light. The motion caused lights on the front of the house to bathe her in their blinding glow. From within the house came a moment of surprise, then recognition. But it was not P'Nem. Not Lorot. She danced between the monastery, the desert storm, and the house. Where to run? Deciding felt like forever. She sprinted down the bleached path, panic surging through her as the door of the house skid open. Her pursuer didn't feel Vulcan; their surprise sliced against her presence while their anger burned. She slid in the sand as she was yanked back by her cowl. He didn't know how to pinch the nerve cluster at the base of her neck, but he knew how to hit. Strong as he was, it only took one, and Juliette was dragged back over the rock and grit to the house.
They had narrow Vulcan faces and their eyebrows matched their ears by ending in delicate points. Only the faint ridges that fanned their brows made them distinguishable from the natives. But their similarity ended at those basic physical features. Emotions that boiled off them with a ferocity that made Juliette nauseous. Reaching to them earned her several cuffs across the face until the room exploded with light and she huddled on the floor where she was thrown. Her ears rang; everything tasting of blood. Her sleeves were red from wiping at her raw face. Trembling, she pressed against the wall, covering her head.
She felt herself sat up, and her chin lifted. She tried to hide her face to get away until she realized it was P'Nem and felt a small sense of relief. There was an olive bruise under her eye and her lip bloody and distended, but her presence was calming and accepted Juliette's reach without a flicker of expression. Still, she offered little in the way of reassurance. Nothing was alright. But at least she was calm.
Lorot's beautiful calligraphy had been torn down from the walls, the austere shelving toppled to a broken pile surrounded by gouged and torn cushions that oozed gray stuffing. The cupboards had been emptied and their contents smashed on the floor. The air reeked of spices and the sweat of Romulans as they ransacked storage containers from the back rooms. The unsearched containers were stacked along the wall; the empty bins tossed at random; their contents formed a growing pile in the center of the room. It was hard to believe only five Romulans had caused so much damage, or could feel so eager to wreak more havoc to satisfy their mood.
Despite their weapons and numbers, Juliette had been a surprise that set them further on edge. Their masters' robes joined the pile, and they now wore smocks over fatigues as three of them pried at boxes with poniards while two others held pistols and guarded P'Nem warily.
While they searched, they talked quickly in the language she only heard over her console. Juliette didn't dare look at the Romulan that knelt in front of her until he yanked on her hair to face him. Her eyes went anywhere - his sharp jaw, the fine ridges in his forehead, the fine stubble of his shaved head, to avoid looking into his eyes and risking a connection. He jerked her head from side to side, studying her with a clinician's calm. When he spoke, his Federation standard was surprisingly clear, without a trace of an accent.
"A Betazoid, How clever. Vulcan Intelligence must be very proud of themselves, using children. Tell me again of the calculated cruelty of the Romulan Star Empire, P'Nem."
Juliette shied away as he placed his blade at her cheek. The knife followed until Juliette could pull back no further. His voice was conversational, but his mood held malice. "We were in the monastery for six months before she gave us away - the only thing worse than six months in that monastery has been the weeks in this desert. How should I repay her? Cut off a finger?"
"If you maim her," P'Nem said, "I will not assist you at all."
To see a face so much like a Vulcan slip from a calm indifference and creep into a smile, then bray out a laugh - boiled cold in Juliette's stomach. She felt no mirth from the Romulan, just cruelty. If this is what happened to Vulcans who lost control, no wonder sane Vulcans found the display so unnerving.
He stopped laughing, but the harsh smirk remained. "Your assistance has been fruitless so far. But I enjoy a contest of wills. How many of those will you lose before you learn? I told you I'd kill Korik if you transported away. You were stubborn and did so anyway. Did I not keep that promise?"
"You did."
The calm in her reply fed his disdain "Did you find his body?" When P'Nem didn't answer, he pressed. "Of course you did. But the funeral wasn't enough, I suppose. After all, you visited his grave some weeks ago, still wearing the robes in a wife of mourning. I would have thought binding with Lorot would have given you the closure that chanting in in the desert with these fanatics did not."
Again P'Nem didn't answer, but her jaw set.
"And Lorot - it's almost worth letting you live to see if you'd bind a third time."
P'Nem arched her brow pointedly at the Romulan. "By now, Lorot has told the authorities. You who are running out of time."
"They will arrive in time to help you bury your son."
We warned Danek. He is hiding. Juliette thanked all the gods P'Nem's expression remained neutral.
I suspected as much. They would not let me speak to him to verify.
They cannot track him, and the lights are off in the monastery.
I am gratified my son is all right. It does not help your current situation.
Pylkau transported me here.
Pylkau has made a grave tactical error.
As is discovering a fresh novelty, the Romulan's attention turned back to Juliette, still simmering the hatred he felt for P'Nem, a hatred far worse than the drunken incoherence on the Klingons on the summit, bereft of rage, but with the cool, almost distracted malice of the powerful over the powerless. A tool to leverage against P'Nem. "If we'd have had one of these, we would have caught our comrade - our trusted comrade P'Nem, far sooner than we did, before she stole so much from us. She wouldn't have fooled you, Betazoid, would she? P'Nem feels different to you than we do, doesn't she?"
Juliette couldn't stop looking at the knife. She forced herself to nod.
"P'Nem-"
"I have told you I don't know where it is."
Juliette pictured the badge in her mind and shared it with P'Nem, who responded with recognition and surprise.
The Romulan's gaze flickered between them. He smiled without emotion. "So you keep insisting." But he only appearing to relax; Juliette felt the coiled energy in his mind as he considered what to cut.
"She's telling the truth." Juliette's whisper sounded tight to her ears, airy. She hated the fact it brought his attention back to her and how he pinioned her with his gaze.
"That's right. Betazoids can tell when someone is lying, do they not?"
Juliette nodded again. It seemed to be the answer he wanted to hear. He snatched her arm, and the tip of the knife flicked under her nose.
"Am I am lying when I say that I will cut off your nose if she doesn't tell me where the key is?"
Her breath galloped; the knife scraped her skin. She gave the faintest shake of her head. He wasn't lying. More than that, she felt how he'd enjoy hurting her, and hurting P'Nem through her.
The Romulan nudged the blade to turn Juliette's face to P'Nem's. "Go on. Tell her."
"It's in my room!"
Both the Vulcan and the Romulans looked at her with surprise. The knife flicked away, but he maintained his grip on her arm. He leaned forward, crowding her vision. "P'Nem lied to me for years, Betazoid, so I can detect lies as well, and when you-"
Juliette felt the hope underneath the malice. "It-Its a bird, but it's burned and broken. I took it from where P'Nem hid it."
P'Nem's surprise was barely restrained. You took it?
I thought you had thrown it away.
The Romulan lifted the knife, just a little. "We searched your room."
"I-I hid it-"
P'Nem's expression remained impassive. They will kill us the moment they have it.
I cannot give it to them. I lost it.
Then what are you-
"Where?"
Juliette, stop. They will not find it. They will kill you for lying.
"U-under the gift box."
"D'Nal, S'tokkir," the Romulan said, and two of the four abandoned ransacking crates and peeled down the hallway. Those that remained were focused on P'Nem, uncomfortable with the change in odds. Juliette jerked her gaze to the floor, wishing her hair was long enough to hide behind. From down the hallway, she heard the scrape of furniture and dense thuds.
Any moment they'd return, all stern and tight-lipped and empty-handed. They'd report. What could she do then? She could say it fell when they searched. Maybe the Romulan with the knife already knew she was lying, and this was all one ornate and cruel show. He'd search a big show out of making her search the room, make her admit it wasn't there, all the while knowing that it wasn't, just to watch her stammer out excuses and explanations. Then he'd make her beg, and then something horrible would happen something they never showed in the passion operas. Something-
You must remain calm, Juliette. As calm as you can. When you are afraid, you cannot act.
Juliette borrowed what calm she could from P'Nem, but this time, it was freely given from behind a disciplined wall with a small window where Juliette caught snatches of P'Nem's mind, examining each opponent in turn, sifting each for weaknesses and opportunities. Juliette felt the windows close, but the sense of calm remained.
You have set things in motion, so you must pay attention. His name is D'Haas. He is their commander. When we strike, we must be prepared.
Is he Tal Shiar?
He is.
He said Vulcan Intelligence. Are Vulcan Intelligence the Vulcan Tal Shiar?
Not in the least.
Are you Vulcan Intelligence?
I will not lie to you.
Are you?
I will not lie to you.
P'Nem broke away from the inquiry and focused on D'Haas. "When you have what you seek, let the girl go."
Amusement clouded D'Haas' suspicion. "Why would I do that?"
"Because this is an ancient feud between Vulcan and Romulus, and should remain so."
"That moment passed when you brought in a Betazoid targ to sniff us out like ch'hal root."
"And she knows little. If it remains that way-"
D'Haas' violence was as sudden as it was casual. P'Nem's head snapped back from the force of his fist. Juliette flinched from the spike of his anger and her pain and buried her face into her elbows.
"This is about your dishonor. Your betrayal. This has nothing to do with Vulcan and Romulus. They only care about the badge and the key because I made them care, and I made them care so I could come to Vulcan in force and remind you there is a price for deceiving me."
"Then I should pay that price."
His scowl melted into a slick, tight smirk. "You will. But on my terms. You'll pay for every nod and 'Yes Commander'. Every obsequious platitude, every false smile. How long did it take you to fake normal emotions?"
P'Nem wiped the blood from her nose. "Years. Your revenge is with-"
"My revenge is mine, and whoever I wish it to be." He stopped, his anger smothered by the silence that crept down the hallway from Juliette's room. D'Haas' icy demeanor cracked under a surge of impatience. "D'Nal, report." He stewed in suspicion at the quiet that followed. The other Romulans shifted uneasily between P'Nem and the hallway. A sliver of anxiety prickled forth. He nodded to another Romulan who crept to her room, calling, "S'okkir?" He stopped frozen in the doorway.
"Centurion, there's blood!"
D'Haas' hand shot out, pulling Juliette by her hair down the hallway. She cried out, staggering and paddling her feet to keep the tension off her hair. She twisted around to catch a brief glimpse of P'Nem shoved after by the remaining Romulan.
The floor was splattered green with a long smear that extended past the view from the hallway. Box lay on edge near the middle, its moon face napping.
D'Haas pointed with the knife to the corner ceiling. "Holo-projectors." Juliette flinched at the whine-crack of the disruptor and the crackle of the projector machinery as it sparked first sparked, then collapsed to the floor. The other projectors went dull, their eyes turned downward.
Juliette was yanked into the room after D'Haas. D'Nal and S'tokkir, whichever was which, lay as broken dolls thrown into the corner. One was propped up in the corner, his head lolled back to reveal a dark smile below his chin, the front of his uniform a river of green. The other was bent forward, stretched across the lap of the first, face down. The handle of shears sticking out from the base of his skull.
Juliette looked away. Box's eyes remained closed, but his mouth moved in a single word in Betazoid. Did the Romulans know the language? Well enough to read those plump, silvery lips? Perhaps not, but if they saw …
Juliette pushed the word to P'Nem. Run!
Juliette wrenched herself around, her hair slipping through the surprised Romulan's fingers until he got a better grip at the doorway. But P'Nem seized her arm and pulled with such force that Juliette thought the Vulcan would tear her arm off. She was flung down the hallway, half stumbling, half flying, she careened past the mound of supplies and into the far wall as a roar erupted from behind, carried by a brief moment of panic and dismay from the Romulans before another bust concussion slammed into her, blotting out everything.
How long before she could turn around? She wasn't sure. Her eyes felt gritty, the smoky air bit at the back of her throat. There was some light provided by small, guttering fires and the occasional flicker of lightning from the approaching storm - now clearly visible through what remained of the front wall, the rest spewed out from the front of the house. Her ears whined as sparks sputtered along exposed conduits. Rubble rolled under her feet, and she placed her next step more carefully, searching for flat spaces to tread, while she tried to remember. Vulcan. She was on Vulcan.
She found P'Nem was seated in the wreckage, her back to Juliette as she straddling another figure. Would the Vulcans find such a display improper? P'Nem raised her hands to the night sky, holding a jagged chunk of rubble upward as if presenting an offering. Among the orange fires, the rock looked dark and wet. P'Nem hammered the chuck downward, over and over, and with each swing, the body beneath her spasmed.
No. Not proper at all. Was T'Mar okay? Danek? She hoped so.
She stumbled in the sand. Box? The room in which he had sat was a crater flanked by two walls. It was a shame since a song would be so nice-
Juliette felt the glimmer of presence. It was P'Nem. The front of her torn robe glistened with a green slick that rose to a shadowy splatter ran across her chin and cheek where a jagged cut tore across her jaw. Her breathing came in several ragged gasps as if she, too, was trying to remember who this girl was, let alone the figure behind her that she had so familiarly straddled, now splayed and motionless. When Juliette reached for her, she found an icy wall.
"You have experienced enough," P'Nem said when her breathing was steady. She held out goggles and a breath mask. "Listen to me: more will come before ShiKahr can send security. You have to run. Head west. You can outrun the storm and hide in the caves, but you must move quickly."
Juliette took wobbling steps toward P'Nem until stopped by the Vulcan's hand on her shoulder. She helped Juliette with the mask and goggles. "I cannot protect you from all of them. Go to the caves, and do not argue." She took Juliette by both shoulders spun her around. "Go quickly." She pushed Juliette hard enough to propel her several steps.
Juliette looked back, dazed.
P'Nem strode forward and pushed again. "Go!"
Pushing her.
Could make it.
West, to the caves.
Growling.
Could it be possible?
She stumbled a few steps more as the realization pushed aside her fatigue. Pieces, jagged as they were, fell into place. She's pushing, Juliette thought, pushing, and yelling and-
Herding, guiding.
Not hunting. Not toying.
Juliette ran to the edge of the mesa and looked out as the Sas-a-shar flickered under the approaching storm where the black veins of ravines strangled the lightning battered tors, half melted from a war dozens of lifetimes old. The Plain of Blood was still cooling as tufts of wind flicked at her hair, and the first electric prickle ran down her neck. Surek found peace here. How? The only peace she knew was in the Loresinger's bones secreted deep within the dunes.
She tested the light in her robe and was relieved to see it cast its wan circle among the debris on the path. With her feet a the very edge, Juliette reached with her presence as far as she could, as far as she dared, without losing herself in the wind and sand. Even the gods had to learn they couldn't contain it all, and she let it ripped free, a scream that pushed outward, always outward, from her mind until every muscle trembled and she felt stretched thin. It was a scream not to be heard but to be felt, not of sound that could be lost in the wind or bounced along the unfeeling rocks, but it echoed just the same. The Sas-a-Shar did not answer, but Juliette didn't hope a response. Instead, as she ran toward the storm, her light's pin prick bouncing along the sand, she hoped that it listened.