All characters speak in their respective languages unless specifically stated otherwise. Ie, Elves speak Sindarin, Nil'Tanar speaks Polaran, and Ryllaen speaks Federation Basic.

The voices were back again, an angry echo in his ears that never ceased. They were so, so angry, and time had not diminished the hurt. He had not expected it to, and he savoured the strength of his memory, the clarity of the voices that he would never hear again.

The ground was warm beneath him, the pillar cool against his back. The sun was shining with gentle summer warmth, but he did not feel it. His eyes saw only the shadows cast by cloud and leaf, not the glimmer of green-gold that shone through each leaf like faceted gems. He missed the sparkle of water tumbling down one of the many streams, seeing only a distant haze of grey rock.

"It's good to see you again – I haven't heard from you in years. What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Nothing much. Travelling, trading . . . what are you doing on New England, Gordon?"

Laughter. "Travelling, trading. You know how it goes."

Six years, and though they were by no means the only voices that haunted his memory, they were the loudest and the most painful. Death and betrayal had been his constant companions for nearly a decade. It made him physically sick to contemplate it. He had not eaten much in days, nor slept, for the voices prevented one and his conscience the other.

"They say this is a democracy, but I'm beginning to doubt it. Really, how many people can vote for the same idiot as president twice in a row? And the Council – a bigger morass of pointless and ineffective bureaucracy was never created. The Federation needs an overhaul of its political system. It's been in place before half the worlds were even populated."

"Don't say things like that, Gordon, please."

"Why not? It's nothing we haven't said before."

Afternoon sun painted the forest golden. Fingers of sunlight speared through the light foliage, filling the air with a warm haze. The power that filled Rivendell was a soft, suffocating blanket that could not pierce the cold within. He had never felt so at odds with himself. His memory was filled with jagged wounds that had never been given the chance to heal. The destruction of the enslavement device had brought them back to the surface, as fresh as though no time had passed.

"What's wrong? I've never seen you this morose, not even when you split up with Kiana."

"Nothing's wrong, Gordon. Tell me more about your new ship."

"You think that's going to work, Ford? I'm your brother. I know you. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

They clamoured for his attention, the voices of his victims, but one was louder than all the rest. One would always be louder. That wound had struck at his heart, his blood, his soul. He could not face it; could not help but remember it.

"What's that on your neck? It looks like an implant."

"It is. Just a bit of surgery I had to have for an accident."

"I've seen something like it before. Why do you have a Vell-os implant, Ford?"

"It's nothing. Gordon, I have to go. Just tell me you didn't mean anything you said tonight."

"But I do. It bears investigating. I know you've never been interested in politics, but really. The current system is terribly prejudiced and biased in favour of the core worlds. You remember Cantos Viriden? He went into law, and he's noticed something fishy about the judicial system. It's subtle and kind of hard to spot, but you know how Cantos was with the little details. Overall a lot of the cases that have passed through the higher courts seem to produce outcomes favourable to Senate members and government subsidiaries, even when there's no precedent. Even the Vell-os judged cases follow the pattern. He thinks someone is rigging the trials. It's damned suspicious. Even you must see that."

"No. No, I don't see that. Leave it alone, Gordon. Please."

Laughter. "You know I never let go of something I've got my teeth stuck into."

It was the last time he had heard that bright, rough scatter of laughter, the last time he had seen that familiar face unclouded by anger and fear. He felt like screaming; clenching his hands so tight that ragged fingernails bit into his palms, he leant his head back against the smooth carving of the pillar and stared blankly into the sky. He did not want to remember. It hurt so much he could not breathe. He was pale and dizzy, just as he had been then.

"Cantos is dead, Ford! They say he was killed resisting arrest. For what? He's never done anything wrong in his life! I don't know what to do."

"Just stay there, Gordon. It will be over soon."

" What will be over? Ford, what's going on?"

No. No. It was too much. It had not been his first betrayal, nor his last. But it was, in many ways, the worst, and too much. Far, far too much. He did not want to remember the fear that shone clearly in his brother's face over the hyperlink, did not want to feel again the constriction in his throat and the words he struggled to voice, the scream of warning that he could not, could not release. He did not want to remember the report he had made against every fibre of his being, the report that had lead to his own brother's arrest.

He had killed his brother. Even while his mind twisted and screamed with denial, despite the tightness that clenched his heart, he moved like a good little slave, an automaton that fulfilled its programming mindlessly.

His own brother!

He was burning, roasting alive in the fires of his memory. The faces of the dead filled his vision. Cantos. Gordon. The Auroran spy who had genuinely tried to befriend a Vell-os. Hundreds of ordinary Federation citizens. The unknowing telepath he had manoeuvred to her death rather than face the same fate as himself. And all the while he followed the orders of his masters, the Bureau, until all thought to the contrary had drowned in an ocean of unbreakable obedience.

But he had pushed. For a decade he had tested the chains that dictated his actions and had never found any leeway. Now, though, those bonds were gone. There was nothing left to fight against, no barrier between his conscience and the deeds he had done. No buffer against the actions he was responsible for. All that was left of him was his memory. The voices. They scalded him with their accusations.

He had spent days like this on Earth, in the exquisitely manicured gardens that had been maintained even through the minimalist utilitarianism of the Colonial Council. Days between missions; sitting, standing, alone with his memories. But they had not burned then, when his soul and actions had been trapped in dark chains, as they did now. Ryllaen could not breathe for a moment, the homesickness rising up in him so painful that he gasped. Earth was not his home; he had not been born there. But it was familiar, and it was the capital of the Federation. He yearned for the stars, for the vast spaces between and the planets with their myriad colours, their people. Ryllaen ached to stand in the midst of the nebulae that danced with weave patterns only the Vell-os could see, the energy emanating from them twisting around and around in a manner both confusing and beautiful, the endless cycle of birth and destruction that ruled the genesis of stars. He had spent days in Obatta, surrounded by the nebula, finding peace in a universe that held no comfort for a slave. It had been something greater than him, grander and infinitely simpler. There he had felt, for just a moment, a part of it, of the whole, of the universe. That feeling was gone now, had been gone for a long time, lost to the pain and immediacy of life.

Footsteps sounded against the polished floor; reverie broken, he looked up to meet Nil'Tanar's gaze. The Polaran had said very little since the destruction of the enslavement device; Ryllaen was grateful for that consideration. And it was consideration solely for his wellbeing. He knew that with a single brush against the Polaran's mind. He did not care to look further and withdrew into himself.

The voices were so very loud.

"You are free now," Nil'Tanar said after a moment.

Ryllaen did not reply.

"What is your name?"

Ryllaen raised his head. He did not understand the question.

The Polaran settled on his heels against the opposite pillar, his tattered but clean grey cloak pooling around his feet. The boots were the same lightweight synthetic mould that he had always worn, looking incongruous against the rough homespun weave of his borrowed clothes. The long exposure to this sun's radiation with no other protection than the atmosphere had darkened his skin tone, a light bronze against the angry red of new scars. Dark eyes regarded the Vell-os from beneath a fringe of black hair that had lengthened to curl against his neck.

Nil'Tanar spoke again. "You said that you were once a trader. Your name is a Vell-os one; you cannot always have had it. What was your name then?"

"Ford." It was difficult to say. His voice was rough and dry. "Ford Shirens."

It was the name of a stranger.

"Should I call you by that name?"

He could not remember being Ford Shirens, could not remember what it had felt like not to be a slave. The name of a stranger, one he could not connect to. But the Polaran had never addressed him as anything but Vell-os anyway. He did not answer.

Already uncomfortable but stubborn enough not to show it, Nil'Tanar's expression was beginning to lose its composure. "Do you have family?"

Gordon.

"No!" His cry was almost a shout, full of anger and pain.

Startled, Nil'Tanar's head rose. His dark gaze read the rejection in the lines of Ryllaen's face, the set of his mouth and the wide eyes. "I'm sorry," he offered carefully.

Ryllaen subsided. He was lost. The spears of sunlight that swept through the trees blinded his eyes. They shone through him, through the panes of his soul like glass, and it was empty. He turned, and looked at Nil'Tanar, and reached out with one hand. Nil'Tanar froze in surprise; the act was one of such intimacy, such vulnerability, of a child seeking blind comfort from a parent. The Polaran warrior could not move; it was as if the cold fingers trembling against his cheek, a touch so light he could barely feel it as a brush of air against skin, held him paralysed.

"Vell-os?" he prompted, gentler than was his wont.

The whisper was low and forlorn. "I am lost."

Brows furrowed, Nil'Tanar thought for a moment. "Then retrace your steps."

"I don't know how." Ryllaen turned away, let his hand fall to his side. "I don't want to."

Released, the Polaran leaned back against his pillar. His eyes were troubled and wary. "Do you not wish to return home?"

Yes. No.

There was a tightness in his throat; Ryllaen's breath hitched. The pressure squeezing his chest caught; he suppressed it ruthlessly. It seemed easy to do, now. "I don't have a home." He sucked in air once, then again as his breathing eased back into a steady rhythm.

"We all have a home," Nil'Tanar said. But though his eyes flashed, he spoke mildly. "I belong to Polaris; so too do you belong to your Federation, be it as the citizen you were or the Vell-os you became. That is your home."

Ryllaen was unaccountably angry. Through narrowed eyes he glared at the Polaran and hissed, "You're trying to convince me to leave this planet. All you want is to get off this rock. I'm the only chance you've got."

"Yes," Nil'Tanar agreed readily. "I want to return home; more, it is my duty. But that does not make what I have said any less true." He hesitated, then shook his head and stood up. "You are damaged; these Elves have done a miracle to free you, but I do not think they can help any further. Whether you hate them or not, the Vell-os are the only ones who can heal you now."

He barked out harsh laughter. "Not even your vaunted Polaris technology? You would not even try your superior Polaris technology? Does it bother you that these primitives managed something you Polarans could not?"

Nil'Tanar's eyes narrowed. "Yes!" he said, his voice rising at last out of the calm restraint he had held onto. "Yes, we are more advanced than you. Yes, Polaris is superior to both the Federation and the Aurora Empire. It matters not to me; we want nothing to do with them. But we remember. It was the Vell-os who first reached the stars a thousand years before the rest. It was the Vell-os who owned a science greater than what we know, and it was the Vell-os who were closest to the universe. I do not know if they are now – I do not believe it, not while they are slaves. But you are one of them still. Remember that, if nothing else, and remember where you belong." Breathing hard, he left the balcony in a flurry of grey material and frustrated steps.

Ryllaen slumped with a sigh. He had managed to rile the Polaran, but it had left him less satisfied than it should have. The Polaran had been trying, he knew, to be kind. He had never made that effort before – it had never been anywhere within the realm of consideration. Ryllaen laughed again, bitterly.

Should he be treated any differently, now that he was not bound by a sliver of metal?

It was almost as if the Polaran expected him to be a completely different person, more human than he had been, less a threat. A possible ally, rather than a certain enemy. And perhaps he had been different, once. Perhaps he could have had the ability to become different again. But ten years was a long time.

Ryllaen swallowed against the throb of heartache and fear that clung to the back of his throat.