“I’m a physician. These are your people I’m treating,” Bashir snapped, clearly agitated after their ordeal. “They sustained their injuries protecting us, so you’ll have to arrest me to make me stop,” he said, and continued mending a laceration.
That seemed to bring the patrol leader up short. “Fine, then.” Carelessly, he kicked away refuse cast aside by the fleeing mob. He approached Commander Vaughn, who was facing him expectantly. “Are you the leader of your group?”
“I’m Commander Vaughn.”
“Chief Enforcer Elkoh,” the patrol leader said. “Can you explain what happened here?”
“I was going to ask you the same question.”
The patrol stopped all Yrythny lingering in the plaza, demanding identification and conducting spot searches. With arms straight up in the air, civilians suspected of lawbreaking waited their turn to have their belongings inspected. Other enforcers retrieved the weapons thrown aside by escaping rioters.
Vaughn provided what answers he could to Elkoh’s inquiries; perhaps they looked to him, as an alien, to offer an objective account of the incident. For his part, Vaughn was more interested in what the Yrythny female who dispersed the mob would have to say. She stood by quietly, watching, awaiting her turn. She’d removed a small computing device from her shoulder pack and was clicking through the contents when the chief enforcer thanked Vaughn and turned to her. “Delegate Keren?” he asked.
She nodded, unruffled, and replaced her computer in her shoulder pack. Shoving her hands in her pockets, she said, “Enforcer?”
The officer subvocalized something into a metal nodule mounted on his throat and then paused, listening intently to his earpiece until frown wrinkles creased his spotted forehead. “You had something to do with this?” he said accusingly. “After the last time, Assembly Chair Rashoh said that if you were discovered to be involved, directly or indirectly with any act of Wanderer rebellion—”
“I read the censure,” Keren said, raising a hand to hush her inquisitor. “I caught word that there might be trouble, after the Assembly received the news of the aliens’ visit. I came here to greet the Assembly Chair’s guests.”
“From whom did you ‘catch word’?” the officer sniffed.
“That doesn’t matter,” Keren dismissed him breezily.
“Assembly Chair Rashoh will beg to differ. He—”
“Stop, Elkoh. I speak on behalf of our esteemed leader,” said a Yrythny newly arrived on the scene.
To Vaughn’s eye, the towering, dark-skinned newcomer resembled the chieftain of the Avaril in mien and garb. But where J’Maah had been thick and stumpy, this Yrythny was lean and tall, his neatly braided chestnut hair falling out of an elegant headpiece, adorned with bronze and silver embroidery.
“Yes, sir, Vice Chair Jeshoh.” Elkoh offered his superior a bow before ducking away. “I may need to question you and your people further,” he cautioned Vaughn.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Vaughn said mildly, keeping his attention fixed on Vice Chair Jeshoh, who had turned toward the away team’s benefactor.
“Ah! Delegate Keren. Why am I not surprised to find you here?” Jeshoh trained his ebony eyes on the smaller Yrythny.
“You owe these strangers your gratitude, Jeshoh,” Keren said, pointing at Vaughn’s crew, who continued to see to the injured escorts. They’d been joined in the last few minutes by several Yrthny medics. “The honor guard you sent to bring them to the dining hall would all be dead were it not for their medical assistance. Your own enforcers are more interested in finding the guilty than helping the wounded.” Keren tossed her cloak off her shoulder.
Jeshoh turned back to Vaughn, and in a gesture Vaughn was beginning to know well reached for the commander’s elbows. Vaughn responded in kind. “I bring the deepest apologies of our leadership. Please know we will do all we can to assure your continuing safety.”
Before Vaughn could reply, another enforcer tapped him on the shoulder. More questions. Could he identify any of the agitators from a digital image? The soldier handed Vaughn a tablet and showed him how to scroll through the contents. While he perused the Yrythny “Most Wanted” lineup, Vaughn listened to the conversation resuming between Jeshoh and Keren.
“You risk violating your censure, Keren.”
“My fellow Wanderers listen to me! The violence could have been much worse.”
“For your sake, I hope an investigation proves you right.”
“It will. The truth bestows confidence, Vice Chair Jeshoh.”
“So you always say. I still win our debates.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” she countered.
“You haven’t passed a single resolution this legislative session.”
“My most recent is stalled in your committee.”
“If it was a good law, wouldn’t we pass it?” Jeshoh walked away before Keren could protest. “Commander…Vaughn, is it?”
“Yes,” Vaughn said.
“The leadership awaits us. Several of these enforcers will escort us to dinner.” Taking the tablet from Vaughn, he called out to Elkoh, passing the device to him. “You will proceed without further inconvenience to our guests, Chief Enforcer. Assign your best people to accompany us.”
Silently, Shar and Keren walked side by side down Luthia’s long, streetlike tunnels past shops, laboratories, supply depots and military checkpoints to a pathway that ran along an artificial river. Swift currents hurried along beside them, foaming and crashing against red coral barriers and boulders, which were weathered smooth. He found the soft random sounds of the water calming. With each twist of the path, with each bridge they crossed, Shar became increasingly amazed at how much more of a “city” Luthia was than any of the Federation’s space stations. No matter how much time he spent on Deep Space 9, he never forgot that he was swaddled in metal and conduits. Here, the life pulsing through the city might wholly push aside his disbelief.
A dense, mixed population of civilians, government and military personnel created a stimulating mix of textures and scents: salt-water-filled bins of fish; tangy, unwashed clothing and rotted wood; butter-soft slippers made of skins; homespun cloaks, gaudy baubles, tubs of congealed cooking fats. He was reminded of some of the more rural communities of Andor.
Shar avoided looking directly at Keren, trying instead to study her unobtrusively. Not nearly as muscular as many of the Yrythny they’d encountered so far, she had a slender build. Her charcoal and cocoa-colored facial stripes blended in with the nondescript headpiece she wore. Her clothes were suitable for farm work, and yet apparently she was some kind of government leader.
Keren shoved her hands into her pockets and hummed a discordant tune while she walked. Shar lengthened his stride so he could keep up. Surprisingly, he felt not the slightest bit winded as he chased alongside Keren; he’d grown accustomed to his body taking time to adjust to the gravity or the atmosphere of a new world, but Luthia already felt comfortable to him.
“Thank you,” he said finally.
She raised calm eyes to Shar’s frankly curious face. “Are you addressing me?”
“You saved my life,” Shar offered by way of explanation. “Thank you.”
She shrugged, adjusted the ties on her blouse. “The fools who attacked misunderstood the news from the Avaril. They thought you were Cheka spies, captured when you encroached on our perimeter. Of course, it may be that you are spies, but we’ve no proof of that. I’m afraid that our ongoing conflict with the Cheka has many of our people on edge. The helplessness, the anger sometimes feeds the mob mentality and overwhlems common sense.”
“I see. Then, may I ask…Why me, Delegate Keren? My shipmates—”
“You have me at a disadvantage,” Keren interrupted. “While you know me, I don’t have the benefit of your name.”
“I beg your pardon. Ensign Thirishar ch’Thane, science officer, U.S.S. Defiant.”
“Thank you. I liked the look of you, Ensign ch’Thane. Kneeling there, you didn’
t seem fearful.” She studied Shar. “More curious.”
“I have many questions,” Shar said honestly.
“As do I. In exchange for your life, may I ask the first?”
When he realized Keren appraised him as candidly as he did her, he felt his face become flushed. For what other reason have I come on this journey, than to ask questions and seek answers?“Please,” he said.
“Dammit!” Ezri whispered, hopping on one foot. The thud of her boot resonated through the cavernous hall of the massive government building into which the away team had been led.
Startled, Julian looked up from his tricorder. “Are you hurt?” He glanced at their soldier-escort, offering a smile. No need to panic the local constabulary.
Wearing a pinched expression, she grunted, “I walked into that bench over there. My shin hurts like hell.” She shook out her leg, rolled her shoulders.
Julian scrutinized her nervous fidgeting. Yes, Ezri had assured him, several times, that she felt fine. Aside from heightened adrenaline—entirely normal, considering—and a few minor bruises on her throat, his tricorder readings bore her out. Maybe. Her blinking, her jerky movements—uncharacteristic clumsiness…
“Don’t say it,” she said perfunctorily.
“What?”
“I could tell you were going to say it.”
“Say what?”
“You had that look,” she said, screwing up her face. “The look you reserve for an infected specimen.”
“Not fair,” he protested, shaking his head. “I’m always concerned about you.” He suppressed the desire to put his arm around her. One doesn’t squeeze the X.O. on duty, he reminded himself. By mutual agreement, he and Ezri were keeping their relationship in their quarters for the duration of their mission. “We’ve had a rough day. We’re all exhausted. We’re on an alien planet in a strange environment—”
“So why aren’t you looking at Commander Vaughn that way? Or Shar? Or Aaron?” she challenged.
He considered her, and by some not-genetically-enhanced instinct, Julian knew that Lieutenant Colonel Travis had stood a better chance of defeating General Santa Anna at the Alamo than he, in this moment, had in winning an argument with Ezri Dax. “Shall we go to dinner?”
“You’re trying to change the subject.”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” he admitted, following their group into an expansive dining hall. Rich, spicy smells instantly assaulted him, very reminiscent of a victory celebration General Martok had once hosted aboard the Rotarran. A few of his non-Klingon guests had lost their appetites (and their earlier meals) after prolonged exposure to the gamey buffet. He hoped his crewmates could avoid such queasiness now, especially Ezri, who in the past had struggled with nausea.
The thought reminded him of something. “Being in Luthia doesn’t make you spacesick?”
She snorted indelicately. “I beat that months ago.”
“So far above a planet’s surface, with all these twisting hallways? And that bowl over there appears to be filled with something akin to gagh.” He peered more closely at a passing plate. “Possibly a tangerine-colored sea anemone.”
“Keep it up and you just might make me sick.”
Modestly dressed in rough linens and bland earth tones, Yrythny attendants guided the Starfleet guests to the head tables. Twenty or so Yrythny, dressed similarly to Jeshoh, stood beside benches waiting for their guests. When the officers from Defiant assumed their places, the attendants scurried to the back, eyes cast down.
The strong social parameters he’d observed since meeting the crew of the Avaril led Julian to believe that the Yrythny were a caste-based society. The basis of those castes wasn’t readily obvious; he wondered if their unusual genetics figured into their designations. Headwear, it seemed, denoted rank. Turbans, hairpieces, skullcaps and scarves in vivid colors, some with beads, others with elaborate embroidery contrasted sharply with the nondescript veils and hooded cloaks he’d seen in the plaza and streetways of Luthia. Thus far, everything he’d learned about the Yrythny, whether from observation or while treating their wounded, intrigued him.
At the front of the room, an Yrythny wearing sky blue robes clapped his hands together three times. He lifted his arms to the heavens and chanted an invocation. Joining hands, the other Yrythny focused eyes upward in imitation of their cleric. When the chant concluded, hosts and guests alike sat down.
Servers with heads swathed in scarves carried in plates of cold yellow and green vegetables drizzled in creamy sauces, flat, wide noodles and pots sloshing with shellfish broth. Commander Vaughn directed the servers to Julian, who scanned each dish for metabolic compatibility. After a brief analysis, he signaled Vaughn with the all clear. The commander scooped a generous helping of noodles tossed with pieces of a purple squidlike life-form onto his plate; the others followed suit.
Ezri reached toward a plate of kelp-colored fishcakes.
Julian cleared his throat sharply.
She sighed. “What now?”
“If you feel your spots starting to itch…”
Ezri rolled her eyes. “I know the drill, Julian. I don’t need you to mother me.”
He frowned. “Did it ever occur to you that I’m simply looking out for the welfare of Defiant’s first officer?”
She scooted over, placed a quick kiss on his cheek and whispered, “Tell you what. After food and a shower, we can climb into bed and you can conduct a thorough examination of all my spots. In the meantime, relax.”
Julian laughed and shook his head. Admittedly, he tended to overcompensate where Ezri was concerned, but he had no desire to embarrass her or undermine her authority. Perhaps he could ease up. He kissed her back, pleased by the prospect of a leisurely late night. And spot #514 was a particular favorite.
Copying the Yrythny, Ezri used her hands and fingers as utensils, rinsing them in the water basins when she changed from one item on her plate to the next. The efficient servers periodically passed by to swap out dirty basins for clean ones. The food supply, comprised mostly of marine life, seemed endless. Whenever she cleared one plate, another appeared. Julian had escaped to speak with Vaughn three plates ago. Finally, she cleared a plate filled with pulpy fruit and syrup-soaked biscuits and no plate replaced it. Grabbing her stomach, she slumped over. I’ve eaten enough to last me the rest of the day, she thought, and considering that the replicators on Defiant won’t be working anytime soon, that’s not a bad thing.
On her immediate left, the Yrythny she remembered as being called Jeshoh was finishing his own meal.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to know your people better,” she began, hoping he wouldn’t find her curiosity offensive. “Vice Chair Jeshoh, isn’t it?”
Dipping his fingers in the basin, he rinsed the last of his meal away and dropped his hands to his thighs. “Yes. I understand we have similar roles.”
“Oh?”
“Like you, I am—” a filmy lid dropped over his dark eyes before abruptly opening “—second in command. Talking may prove enlightening for both of us.”
The servants cleared off the tables, brushing crumbs to the floor and wiping the surfaces in front of the guests. Jeshoh spun away from the tabletop giving the workers more room; Ezri did the same, so they sat knee to knee.
“I heard Delegate Keren use the term ‘Wanderer,’ and call them ‘her people.’ To what was she referring?” The slavish servility she was witnessing piqued her interest. She respected the cultural values of other worlds, but being fawned on by attendants who didn’t dare meet her eyes or accept “thank yous” made her uncomfortable.
“You’re perceptive,” Jeshoh said, bemused. “We are two peoples. I am Houseborn, meaning after my sea time as a hatchling, I returned to the place where my parents laid me. I was reared in House Perian, the First House of the Yrythny, on the shore of the north continent off the Black Archipelago.
“The Wanderers have no home. Like the Houseborn, they, too, are swept into the sea as hatchlings, but when the
time comes to make the transition to the land, they fail to return to their place of origin. Lacking the proper instincts to heed the voice of the water, the Wanderers are proven to be weak. They work harder to attain the same knowledge we Houseborn come by naturally.”
Ezri refrained from commenting. Instead, she asked, “But where do Wanderer hatchlings end up, if not at their own Houses?”
“They come ashore to other Houses, where they are taken in and raised as servants.”
“And this Delegate Keren,” Ezri said, recalling the slightly built, feisty Yrythny leader who scaled the pillar and effectively dispersed the mob. “She is—?”
“Delegate Keren is a Wanderer. A representative elected to voice Wanderer interests in the Lower Assembly. She is also trouble,” he added quietly. “Over time—in the last two centuries especially—the Wanderers have attained more rights and privileges. Keren, I’m certain, would try to convince you otherwise.”
“I wouldn’t mind hearing both sides of the story,” Ezri said truthfully.
Jeshoh smiled and shrugged. “I suspected you wouldn’t. You seem very inquisitive, which is a trait my people admire. But I feel I should warn you, she’ll make it sound worse than it is. With their advanced educations, Wanderers have earned positions in the sciences and arts. They were chiefly responsible for the building of Luthia, originally as an escape from planetside living. Now, Luthia hosts half our population. Wanderers still live separate, primarily congregated in the oldest part of the ring. They call it the Old Quarter.”
“I take it the mob in the plaza were unhappy Wanderers.” Unhappy was putting it mildly. Maybe enraged? Perhaps even seething with retribution?
“The Wanderers believe the Houseborn will use the war with the Cheka to rescind their rights—or use it as an excuse to avoid advancing their rights. Either way, they’re misguided.” While he spoke, a servant knelt beside Jeshoh, poured oil from a small pitcher onto his arms and massaged it into his skin. He carried on without acknowledging her presence.
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