“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 makeme 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 Defiantassumed their places, the attendants scurried to the back, eyes cast down.
The strong social parameters he’d observed since meeting the crew of the Avarilled 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 allmy 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 onDefiant 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.