“But you’ve had no luck?”
“Communications from them dried up about the same time they did from Terek. I think the Romulans may have forgotten our people too.”
“Meanwhile,” said Odo, “I shall be speaking to the new castellan to try to get some movement from the Cardassian government. He owes me a favor or two.”
“I’m impressed,” Ro said. “But again, I have to ask—what do you want from me?”
Odo and Pa’Dan smiled at each other. “We know that you have to keep your involvement semi-official,” Odo said. “But a little Starfleet muscle never did any harm.”
Ro smiled back. “Starfleet muscle. Yes, I can do muscle.” She lifted her palm to Pa’Dan. “Give me the name of that contact on the repatriation committee. I’ll be happy to help.”
* * *
Crusher had to admit that the Athene Donald was exceptional. A tweak of envy passed through her when Pulaski showed her the labs, and for a second she thought about signing up, getting back on the exploration trail . . . She reminded herself sternly that joining the crew would involve spending long hours with Pulaski. If Beverly Crusher really was going exploring again, she could surely do it in more congenial company. But Crusher was not a vindictive woman, and she gave credit where credit was due.
“The ship’s beautiful, Katherine,” she said as they entered the turbolift to make their way toward Tanj’s office. Pulaski was very keen for Crusher to meet her friend, and Crusher in turn was intrigued to meet the kind of person willing to sign up for those long hours with Pulaski. “Everything about it—the design, the facilities—”
“The bar’s well stocked too.”
Crusher smiled. “You’ll need that after a couple of years in each other’s company.”
“I hope not,” said Pulaski as the lift came to a halt. “The idea—well, I’ll let Maurita explain. She understands that part of the mission much better than I do.”
Crusher liked Tanj at once, a quick-moving Trill with long dark hair tied back in a brisk ponytail and sharp eyes that didn’t miss a trick. “Another friend, Katherine?” she said as she shook Crusher’s hand. “I thought I’d met all your friends by now. There can’t be that many.”
“Shut up,” said Pulaski, easing herself into the nearest chair. “This a good time?”
“Would it make any difference if it wasn’t?” Tanj smiled and gestured to Crusher to sit. “I have a meeting with Metiger shortly. She wants to discuss some of the supplies coming on board at DS9.”
“Metiger?” Pulaski turned to Crusher. “If you can hang around, Beverly, you’ll get to meet our Tzenkethi.”
Crusher was slightly embarrassed to have been so transparent, but as soon as Pulaski had mentioned that a Tzenkethi doctor was on board, her interest had been piqued. Tanj looked at her with amusement. “Don’t worry, Doctor,” she said. “Everyone wants to gawp at our Tzenkethi.”
They talked for a while about the project, and Tanj opened up when Crusher asked about her purpose for the ship. “Scientific research works only when there’s an open culture,” Tanj explained. “The whole purpose of the Athene Donald is to provide a space away from political or social pressures to allow the people traveling together to put them out of their mind and get on with working with each other.”
Crusher was interested. “So a fixed space—a base or a space station—you don’t think they work as well?”
Tanj shook her head. “Too easily embedded in everyday squabbles—or, perhaps I should say, in wider institutional agendas. The Athene Donald is a bubble away from all that. Traveling and solving problems together naturally fosters community.”
“That’s the idea behind ships like the Enterprise,” Crusher said.
Tanj nodded. “Yes, Starfleet knows this instinctively with its research and exploration ships, but this will be the first time that someone specifically observes and documents the processes with a crew that is not only multispecies but also comes from several different powers. Of course”—she smiled—“we could all get cabin fever and end up throttling each other.” Beverly could have sworn that Tanj licked her lips at that prospect.
“Maurita’s a sociologist, Beverly,” Pulaski put in. “And yet we’re still friends.”
“And Kitty is bad mannered and difficult. And yet we’re still friends.”
Pulaski laughed. Give the woman her due, Crusher thought, she didn’t pretend to be anything other than she was.
The door chimed. “Enter,” Tanj called.
In walked the most beautiful creature Crusher had ever beheld. She had seen Tzenkethi before, but even Alizome Vik Tov-A had not been as lovely as this. Metiger glowed—there was no other word for it. A silvery sheen came from her skin, as if she carried some kind of light within her. She was taller than all three of the other women, perhaps easing toward seven feet, and supple. Her skin rippled like quicksilver as she moved. Crusher thought faintly that this would be how an angel might look.
“Doctor Crusher,” said Tanj, “allow me to introduce Metiger Ter Yai-A, our specialist in genetic screening. Metiger, this is Doctor Beverly Crusher, lately of the U.S.S. Enterprise, and now chief medical officer on Deep Space 9.”
Then there was the voice: low and melodious, as if someone was strumming gently upon a harp. “I am glad to meet you, Doctor Crusher.”
Such simple words, and yet the effect . . . You could be lulled by a voice like that, Crusher thought. You would obey that voice without question. She ran through what she knew about Tzenkethi status markers. Ter: a leadership role of some kind. Yes, you would want someone with this status to be obeyed without thought . . .
Crusher collected herself. “I’m very glad to meet you too.” She thought her own voice sounded squeaky in comparison, like a child’s.
Metiger nodded, as if she agreed that Crusher should be glad, and then turned to Tanj. “I do not wish to intrude, but we had a meeting arranged.”
“We were just leaving,” said Pulaski, standing up. “Beverly, let me introduce you to the bar.”
The two doctors scurried into the turbolift like schoolgirls caught in the staff room. “Where did you find her?” Crusher said as the lift doors closed. “How on earth did you get her to come along?”
“Nothing to do with my charms,” Pulaski said. “Maurita was contacted by her after she gave a paper on the Athene Donald at a research conference. She asked to come along.”
“She asked?” Crusher was amazed. “Since when have the Tzenkethi started to become so open? I can’t believe they’re letting her travel. And she’s genuinely a scientist? She’s not a spy?”
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know, but, yes, I’d read a couple of her papers in the past and I’ve quizzed her since she came on board. She’s the real deal. What do you think?”
“What do I think?” Beverly shook her head. “I don’t know what to say!”
Pulaski gave a wry smile. “Astonishing, isn’t it? She has . . . Well, the only word I have for it is ‘glamour.’ In the original sense. It’s as if people are enchanted. Maurita is slightly besotted with her. Fascinating to watch.”
They entered the bar. “Get me a gin and tonic,” said Beverly to the barkeep. When the drinks arrived she knocked back half of hers. “I’ve met Tzenkethi before—but nothing like this. That one—Alizome Vik Tov-A—was definitely a spy.”
“Vik Tov-A . . .” Pulaski pondered this. “Did you work out what the markers meant? I can’t quite get my head around them.”
“I think I got the hang of some of it,” Crusher said. “Alizome and Metiger are personal names. The Tov in Alizome’s name is a status marker, signaling she’s one of the governing class. Metiger has Ter—that signals leadership in some way. My hunch is that it means somebody whose orders should be obeyed by members of any follower class, regardless of their functional specialism. Because”—Crusher smiled—“and here’s where I start winging it, names also indicate function. For Alizome, Vik marked that she was empowered to neg
otiate on behalf of the Autarch. And for Metiger, well, I’m guessing, but I imagine that the Yai is something to do with scientific expertise. She has expert knowledge of some kind. That would be my guess. What do you think?”
“Works for me,” said Pulaski with a nod. “All conjecture on my part. Metiger isn’t exactly effusive. Where on earth did you meet a Tzenkethi before?”
“Same mission as the Venetans. Alizome was there advising them. We thought the Tzenkethi were trying to militarize the Venetan frontier. Alizome came close to triggering war with the Federation before she backed down.”
Pulaski whistled. “That was kept quiet. But do they seem different? Alizome and Metiger?”
Crusher pondered this. “Yes, I think they do. I felt Alizome was always watching us. With Metiger—well, I only have a couple minutes’ exposure to go on, but I felt that I didn’t quite signify. I’m not important enough to observe.”
“She can be a little dismissive.”
“Hell, Katherine, I’ve met a lot of research directors like that and they don’t have the excuse of being Tzenkethi.”
Pulaski laughed. “I guess I’ll just have to observe her in turn and see what she gives up. I’ll send you my notes if you like.”
“I would like,” Crusher said. “Are they deliberately secretive, do you think? The Tzenkethi?”
“Hard to say, isn’t it? I don’t go out of my way to explain how Federation society works when I first meet someone. It’s the water you swim in, isn’t it?”
“But Tzenkethi society is so complicated . . . Their genetic science must be well ahead of anything we know.”
Pulaski grunted. “Between you and me, and having had a peek at what Metiger is working on—”
“A peek?”
Pulaski waved her hand. “Technical term. But I don’t think their genetic programs are as impressive as we think they are. In fact, I think it’s all baloney, propaganda to keep the serfs in place. You know, tell them they’ve been bred for a specific purpose to stop them thinking they can do anything else. Like in that hymn.”
Crusher thought she might be starting to feel the effect of the gin. “Like in the what?”
“The one about the rich man in his castle and the poor man at his gate.” Pulaski tuned it, or perhaps cawed it was closer. “ ‘The rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate. God made them, high or lowly, and ordered their estate.’ ”
“You’re full of surprises, Katherine Pulaski.”
“You better believe it, Beverly Crusher. But you see what I mean? I think the Tzenkethi serfs believe they exist to serve because they’re told that the Autarch has ordained it that way, and they believe that because it’s biological rather than cultural it can’t be changed. Which is stupid on several counts. Because biology is as easy to change as culture, isn’t it, and increasingly so. Isn’t that what we’re all trying to do here? Muck about with biology.” She eyed Crusher. “Like you and your second family. At your age!”
Crusher sighed. “And I was starting to like you.”
“Oho!” Pulaski laughed. “Don’t ever make the mistake of liking me!”
“I certainly won’t again.”
“So, how is it going in the Crusher-Picard household?” Pulaski said. “I was surprised that the kid wasn’t with you. René, isn’t it?”
“René, yes, and you should respect how we choose to bring up our child. Wesley didn’t suffer from being in a single-parent family.”
“But everything is okay, isn’t it? I know that some marriages work better when the people concerned are nowhere near each other, but yours didn’t strike me as one of those.”
Crusher looked into her half-empty glass. “There have been some complications.”
“Complications?”
“You know there was a prior attempt on Bacco’s life?”
“I heard,” Pulaski said grimly.
“Jean-Luc dived to protect me rather than the president.”
Pulaski tutted. “I bet that pissed you off.”
Crusher looked at Pulaski in surprise. “Yes, it did. How did you guess? I’ve had a hard time getting people to understand.”
“Easy,” Pulaski said. “Because his job is to protect the president, not his wife or the mother of his child. You can do that yourself.”
“That’s right.”
“Bet he made you feel guilty for feeling that way.”
“He didn’t make me, but I did feel guilty. I wanted a little time away to think. Deep Space 9 came up for other reasons, but it offered that opportunity.”
“I see.”
Crusher shook herself. “Anyway, if we’re getting personal—didn’t you ever think of having children?”
“Are you kidding me? I tell you what, though, I did think of asking Jean-Luc to marry me.”
Crusher nearly spat what remained of her gin over the table. Pulaski was eyeing her with what could only be described as mischief.
“Imagine it,” said Pulaski. “It would have been like a screwball comedy.”
“It would have been a bloodbath!”
“That too. But fun while it lasted. And hilarious to watch.” Pulaski leaned back comfortably in her chair. “What I’m saying is that marriage, in my experience—and I’ve got three times of experience—requires more than readiness to work at it. It requires the presence of each other. That’s what blew up my marriages—and why I didn’t want kids. I was more interested in my work. And while it made me feel sad not to be near whichever husband happened to be around at the time, it didn’t make me sad enough to give up the chance to do my best work. So I guess I’m asking—is time and space for reflection really what you and Jean-Luc need?”
Crusher sighed.
“You’ll know your own marriage best,” Pulaski said, “but I know full well what made mine fail. I didn’t put in the hours. And you’ve got to put in the hours. I put them elsewhere. And I’ll keep on putting in the hours there until I drop.”
The hours, thought Beverly, finishing her gin and tonic. You’ve got to put in the hours . . . Good advice, whatever the source.
* * *
Their ships were small and various, like beads strung together by a child. They were tiny and ragtag against the sleek new station. The travelers upon them were ragtag and various too. They called themselves the People of the Open Sky.
Three
Captain’s Log, Personal.
Let me reflect a little upon first contacts, since these are the missions that seem particularly to intrigue the layperson, if numbers of requests for anecdotes are to be considered significant data! Charting untraversed regions of space, documenting nebulae, measuring photon densities—these are the day-to-day scientific activities that take up most of our time on an exploratory vessel such as the Enterprise, and with which the crew is most generally busy. But the layperson has little understanding of such matters and even less interest. Instead, the romance of first contact has captured the imagination, and that is what civilians wish to know about.
And indeed who can blame them? Even the most seasoned starship captain, with many thousands of hours of voyaging, cannot help but feel a quiet thrill to realize that he or she has embarked yet again upon that most delicate but rewarding of missions: learning to communicate in a meaningful fashion with a hitherto unknown species.
Perhaps laypeople might be less enthusiastic if, like the rest of us, they had been obliged to read through the extensive protocols for first contact devised by what must be some of the most fiendish minds ever to pass through Starfleet. Finding themselves in such a situation, they would quickly come to appreciate this documentation, assembled as it has been over years from extensive experience and with considerable thought. While we embark upon space exploration wishing to be discoverers of the new, there can be considerable consolation, when embroiled in a difficult or confusing new situation, to find that someone has been this way before . . .
“Thank you, Captain Ro, for showing us such interest. We are simply
travelers. We do not mean to stay long.”
Starfleet protocol stated there should be more pomp and ceremony to first contact, but you could hardly force that on people if they didn’t want it. And these people clearly didn’t want it. They had introduced themselves as the People of the Open Sky, asked for permission to dock—and that had been it. No formal greetings, no “We come in peace,” nothing other than the fact that the station seemed suddenly to be full of children. Lots and lots of children. Shouting, laughing, generally making noise and having a good time. Blackmer wasn’t pleased. He suggested they be asked to keep to specific areas. “They might,” he said, when pressed as to why, “cause trouble.”
“They’re hardly delinquents,” Crusher said dryly. “Some of them barely come up to my knees. Personally, I think they’re delightful. They brighten up the place.”
Ro agreed entirely. “If the day ever comes that it isn’t safe for kids to run around this station, we all need to pack up and go home.”
Nevertheless, she took herself over to the quarters where the People had been assigned, in order to make a more formal introduction, as per the book. But formality was firmly off the table. The rooms, with the doors wide open, were busy with chattering adults keeping their eyes on the very smallest children while the older ones rushed in and out. A few elderly folks were snoozing in chairs here and there, cracking open an eye every so often to see the little ones and smile. Ro couldn’t see who was in charge—was anyone in charge? It looked like chaos. Eventually, from numerous short chats and conversations, she worked out that the person she needed to be speaking to was called Oioli. Oioli would be back soon, it seemed, but had popped out to take some of the toddlers for a stroll along the Plaza.
Ro waited for half an hour, then an hour, and was about to give up and go back to the Hub when the door opened and a tall thin alien with olive green markings across the temples came in. This, Ro guessed, was probably Oioli. Accompanied by at least a thousand toddlers, Oioli looked tired (not surprising) but happy (some people were like that with kids, or so Ro had heard).
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