Raising his hand to his wound, Anichent’s face blanched gray. He teetered, tipped, his eyes rolled back into his head and his hand, smeared in dark blue, hung limply.
Dizhei screamed, bracing her weight on the table. Startled, she threw up her hands, bits of glistening glass embedded in her palm.
Ro slapped her combadge, “Security, send a team to Quark’s! And alert the infirmary to expect company!” Shoving past zh’Thane and Dizhei, Ro hastily examined Anichent. He drifted in and out of consciousness, his clammy skin shone with sweat. Not being familiar with Andorian physiology, she could only guess he was in shock.
“Councillor!” Ro ordered. “Snap out of it, I need you to help him to the infirmary.” Zh’Thane regained her composure, slid her arm around Anichent, and with him propped against her, helped him away from the table. Dizhei followed after zh’Thane, quaking with each step. Within minutes, medical help would arrive to tend to Anichent, but her job wasn’t done yet. Ro turned to face Thriss.
Agitated, Thriss, in her blood-spattered dress, huddled against the wall, thrusting the broken glass out in front of her. Upper body hunched, she jerked toward each sudden movement in the crowd.
Her voice low and steady, Ro said, “Put down the weapon.” She walked slowly, focusing her energy on capturing Thriss’ attention. “Put it down and we’ll talk.”
“No,” she whispered. “I won’t.”
7
Vaughn plunged his sticky fingers into the washbasin, swishing them around until the remains of the nut-syrup pastries washed away. A servant standing at his shoulder snatched the basin and replaced it the instant he finished. And I thought Starfleet brass were pampered.The Yrythny military chieftains, if J’Maah was representative, had a lot in common with feudal lords with their rugs and embroidered couch cushions. Vaughn had vacationed at luxury resorts whose accommodations paled in comparison to these.
“Excellent dinner, Chieftain J’Maah. I enjoyed the roasted shellfish especially,” Vaughn said. The Defiant’s replicators were good, but having a fresh-cooked meal was definitely appreciated.
Chieftain J’Maah stretched out on the floor, rubbing his full stomach with satisfaction. “Myna is a good cook. She served my House when I was growing up. I took her off Vanìmel when the promotions began. My consort consented to letting Myna come on this journey because of you, Commander Vaughn.” He closed his eyes, breathed deeply and relaxed.
Vaughn wondered if this was some kind of mealtime ritual the Yrythny followed and waited to see if M’Yeoh, First Officer Meltoh and Navigator Ocah dropped to the floor. J’Maah’s officers remained seated, sipping at goblets of wood wine. Vaughn followed their lead. “My best wishes to your consort, then,” he said. “And my compliments to Myna.”
A servant had brought J’Maah pillows for his head and feet. Another combed and braided his hair, interweaving crystal beads and ribbons as she worked. She hummed softly.
“Not the rinberry oil, Retal,” J’Maah backslapped the servant’s cheek. “Takes the color out of the headdress.” He shook his braids, his face puckered in resentment. “Go on now, find the right one.”
Vaughn was finding it increasingly difficult to stomach the scene playing out before him.
Murmuring apologies, the servant’s yellow-green skin blanched; she crawled away on hands and knees. She huddled in the corner, rubbing ointment into the scrape she’d received from the chieftain’s chunky rings.
Vaughn wanted to ask if she required medical assistance, when J’Maah explained, “Very loyal, that Retal. But not smart. Can’t expect too much from a Wanderer.”
Without a word, Retal returned to her ministrations, dabbing J’Maah’s scalp with oil, her long graceful fingers deftly weaving the strands.
Vaughn watched, his chest tight. I think I’d like to be excused from the table.
Minister M’Yeoh materialized in the chair beside him. “Tell me Commander, how are the repairs on your ship going?” he murmured. Seated at the foot of the table, he had said little during the meal.
Turning away from his view of J’Maah’s pedicure, Vaughn sipped from his wood wine. “The extra hands from the Avaril’s engineering staff have helped tremendously.” After his concerns about the Defiant’s security, he’d reviewed a list of all non-Starfleet personnel allowed to access the repair bay and requested that their bioscans be entered into the security identification system. If he had Yrythny coming and going with Nog’s crew, he wanted to keep track of them.
“We’ve received word from Luthia,” J’Maah said. “Your Lieutenant Dax did an excellent job at the Assembly Chamber today.”
Perhaps luck hasn’t completely eluded us,Vaughn thought, relieved. Or maybe this Other of the Yrythny is watching out for our mission.
J’Maah burbled contentedly. “I should have asked you Vaughn, but Retal here has an excellent way with hair. You’re welcome to have her attend to that—that hair on your chin even.”
“Thank you for the offer,” Vaughn said politely. “Another time, perhaps.” Watching this slavish attention to J’Maah was setting Vaughn’s teeth on edge and he hoped he’d be given leave to return to his crew shortly. Too bad Quark wasn’t here—he would love all this decadence.
“As you wish,” J’Maah wheezed, his barrel stomach rising and falling in a relaxed rhythm. “We have the whole way to the Consortium and the whole way back to Vanìmel.”
Here comes the part where I might provoke animosity,Vaughn thought. “Chieftain, a point of clarification. The Defiantshould be spaceworthy by the time we reach the Consortium. Once we obtain our matter load, we plan on flying back to pick up Lieutenant Dax and her team.”
“Of course, of course. The needs of your crew come first. I’m sure they’re anxious to get on their way,” J’Maah said.
“We still hope to explore a great deal of territory before we return home.”
“Whatever we can do, Commander. We’re here to help.” The chieftain’s breathing deepened, his body relaxed and finally his membranous lids dropped over his eyes.
The senior staff sat quietly, watching their captain’s still figure for a few minutes. Finally, First Officer Meltoh whispered, “This is when we go. You first, Commander.”
Hastily, Vaughn made for the exit, grateful for tinny replicated food and sleeping on the deck—without the services of a head masseuse.
“A pillow is a legitimate bet,” Tenmei protested.
Julian examined her more closely and determined she was being sincere. “Fine then, I’ll take a look at it, decide what it’s worth.”
Without sitting up, she reached back and grabbed the pillow from where it sat at the foot of her sleeping bag. “Can you put a price on a non-Starfleet issue pillow at a time like this?” she asked tossing the pillow at Bashir. “Besides, if Cassini can bet his slippers—”
“They’re self-heating!” came Cassini’s muffled protest. He’d tunneled into the sleeping bag two across and one down from Tenmei, having retreated there after being soundly thrashed one round back.
“—then I can bet my pillow,” Tenmei concluded.
Since Nog, the commerce expert, was otherwise occupied, assigning value to crew members’ bets had fallen, by default, to Julian. He preferred to play poker; running the statistical probabilities and plotting strategy was very entertaining. His crewmates, however, determined there wasn’t a way to handicap him in cards and none of them enjoyed losing every single round. Either Julian dealt the cards or he watched. “Take it or leave it,” Tenmei had told him.
It wasn’t fair, really—he didn’t consciously choose to win every contest he’d entered—he just did. During their first week into the mission, engineering sponsored a casino night in the mess. Any game that wasn’t random, Julian won. After that, it became an unwritten rule that the advantage bestowed on Julian by his genetic enhancements required handicapping or elimination. No one resented his abilities, but no one would play cards with him either. In this round of poker, Julian represented the house. He sat cross legged on the floor between Chao and Lankford and knew, from his glimpses at their cards, that they’d be joining Gordimer in the “broke” department very soon. Chao might figure out that Tenmei was bluffing—there was no way she could have better than three of a kind—but he doubted it.