True, the Shalra were still inclined to see technology as magic and the aliens as supernatural beings; but the Pa’haquel and their allies made no attempt to persuade them otherwise, merely letting them define things however they wished. “Is it right to let them think of you as gods?” Deanna had asked Oderi.

“If that is what makes them comfortable, why not?” the Rianconi had answered. “Should it not be up to them to decide how to fit us into their worldview? If they call us deities, it is because deities are something they understand and know how to cope with. It gives them the power to manage contact with us, to define it in their own terms, rather than being forced to accept our definitions of ourselves, based on concepts they have no idea how to manage.”

“But if they believe you’re gods, it gives you the power to dominate them.”

Oderi had smiled. “I have found that most beings get upset when their gods do not do what is expected of them. And when that happens, they tend to overthrow them as false gods. Believe me, the alliance has learned better than to try it.” Deanna had reflected on what had happened to James Cook in Hawaii—and what had almost happened to James Kirk on Miramanee’s World—and realized the Rianconi had a point. Perhaps the Prime Directive was as much about protecting the explorer as the natives. And perhaps its assumptions about the fragility of pre-warp cultures were somewhat condescending.

Now, Deanna studied the flowerlike faces of the Shalra who waited in line for her handouts of food, breathed in the heady aroma of their grief, anxiety and determination to survive, and reflected that if Starfleet had been in charge and had followed the letter of the Prime Directive, all of them would be dead now, along with their whole beautiful, intangible culture. But on the other hand, Will’s refusal to abandon the star-jellies to their fate may have placed countless more worlds in jeopardy. Both the choice and the refusal to intervene had an impact.

So which would be the least damaging option here, she wondered: To help the Pa’haquel regain their ability to hunt and kill star-jellies? To abandon them to work it out for themselves and hope for the best? To require them to adopt a different way of life, if a viable one could even be found? There seemed to be no option that would not result in devastating loss of life on at least one species’ part. But was it right to sacrifice the needs of the few for the needs of the many? Deanna recalled Jean-Luc Picard’s impassioned opinion on the subject: “I refuse to let arithmetic decide questions like that!”

At the moment, she was glad to leave that question for a later time. Right now she had people to help on an individual level, Shalra who knew nothing of these larger issues but were concerned simply with where they would live, whether they could obtain enough food, or whether they would ever see their mating-circle partners and children again. And one Vulcan,Deanna added. T’Pel was here too, at Deanna’s recommendation, and she was a dynamo. Having charges to take care of again had given her a renewed sense of purpose. She tended to the refugees with great efficiency and unwavering calm, but with a gentle and reassuring touch and unexpected patience for their emotional distress. It was not what Deanna would have expected of Vulcan motherhood…but on reflection she felt that it was what she shouldhave expected. Compassion was a logical trait in a caregiver.

A heavy growl from nearby disrupted her reverie. The Fethet’s patience had finally run out, it seemed. His tail twitching violently, he shot to his feet and upended the table of nutritional supplements he was meant to be handing out. The Shalra slithered back from the disruption as best they could, but there was little room to spare. “This is intolerable!” the Sasquatchian youth bellowed. “The Fethetrit are not meant to servethe needs of primitive slugs! You, all of you, should serve us!” He swung his head and hands around to encompass everyone in the spacious chamber. “Once we ruled this sector! We raped worlds until they screamed for mercy, then we raped them harder until they begged for death! We gnawed on the bones of their kings and philosophers! We turned the likes of you into our livestock, devoured your worlds till nothing was left, then cast the husks aside and found new worlds to feed on!”

The Pa’haquel supervisor was not intimidated by his bluster. The lanky avian strode over to the twice-as-massive Fethet, puffed his feathers to their fullest and barked, “Sit back down and clean up your mess.”

“I am a Fethet! I do not take orders from birds like a mewling Rianconi. I devour them as my dinner!” Deanna had heard boasts like this before. The Fethetrit bantered about sophontophagy even more than Dr. Ree did, and unlike him, many seemed sincere in the desire. But this time it went beyond boasting. The angry male clenched his fists, bringing his knuckle-claws into position, and swung at the Pa’haquel. Even without the claws, the mass of his fist alone would have been enough to cave in the supervisor’s skull, if the latter hadn’t been alert and dodged the blow. But one claw struck glancingly and tore a livid gash in the side of his head. Feathers broke free and fluttered heavily to the ground, weighted by blood. The Pa’haquel ignored the injury and lashed out with a kick, his own splayed talons taking the Fethet in the gut. But the Fethet’s dense red fur cushioned him, and the blow was not serious. He caught the supervisor’s leg and squeezed. Deanna heard several loud cracks.

But she was too busy moving to think about it—moving swiftly and silently behind the Fethet, positioning herself for a disabling kick at the back of his left knee, which she delivered with precision. She’d studied mok’baraunder Worf for years, and fought against Jem’Hadar in the years since; it had been a long time since she’d needed to rely on breaking pots over people’s heads.

But the Fethet merely staggered and let out a roar of pain. He was limping, his left leg barely responding, but that didn’t stop him from whirling around and beginning a lunge at Deanna. Fleetingly, she wished there had been a pot handy after all.

Then a flash of light hit the Fethet from behind. He staggered and toppled, and she rolled aside before his weight crushed her. Behind him, she saw a Vomnin female in a tripedal pose, one arm still with its knuckles on the ground while the other held a disruptor. Deanna was about to thank her when the Fethet stirred again. Clambering to hands and knees, he prepared to lunge at his newest assailant. The Vomnin changed the weapon’s setting one-handed, and before Deanna could say anything, blasted the Fethet’s face off.

“No!” the supervisor cried, but it was too late. “You…should not have done that,” he gasped through the pain of his shattered leg. “We need all our strength.”

“We are stronger without a monster like that,” the Vomnin cried. “And you are in no position to dictate to me, Pa’haquel.” She aimed her weapon at the supervisor’s intact leg, and the avian clenched his teeth and bowed his head in acceptance. The Vomnin holstered her weapon and strode proudly away on all fours. Silence and the stench of burned fur remained in her wake.

Reinforcements arrived just then and took charge of the wounded supervisor. Deanna merely sat there quietly for a time, head in her hands; then she let Oderi lead her away. “The alliance…isn’t always this tenuous, is it?”

Oderi shook her furry head, blinked her huge loris-like eyes. “Now that no more skymounts can be taken…the others begin to fear that the Pa’haquel will no longer be able to protect them. Their fear makes them angry. And there are many old tensions. The Fethetrit’s boasts are not entirely bluster. They did conquer and enslave dozens of worlds before starbeasts shattered their power, and some were Vomnin worlds. And the Vomnin feel they should be in the lead; they see nomads as rather primitive. But the skymounts have always given the Pa’haquel the edge.”