Star Trek: Deep Space Nine®: These Haunted Seas, page 65
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.
Ezri pursed her lips, considering the best way to phrase her next question. “From what you’ve said, it sounds like the Wanderers have tremendous opportunities. What else do they want?”
Jeshoh sat silent, submitting his limbs to the servant’s ministrations: the other arm, a lower leg, the other leg. Ezri hoped his silence meant he was considering her question, not that she had overstepped her bounds.
Finally, he clicked his tongue, dismissing the servant. He said softly, leaning closer to Ezri, “They want arms—to serve in our military. They don’t trust the Houseborn to defend them.” He shook his head. “They want to join the Houseborn in the waters and have offspring. But they fail to see that passing on their flawed instincts will weaken our species.”
“And in spite of progress toward more equal rights for the Wanderers, you still have a hard time living together, I take it?” If the groups in the front and back of this dining room not mingling are any indicator, I’d have to say the answer is “yes,” Ezri thought.
“The Cheka barricades magnify the problems. Since we began associations with other species, our society has reconfigured itself around interstellar trade. Supply shortages and economic setbacks make people afraid and angry.” Jeshoh paused, looked around to make sure no one was listening before whispering, “Rumors of a Wanderer underground movement are being voiced in committee meetings, not just gossiped about in the marketplace.”
And the real reason we were almost killed in cold blood starts to emerge. “That’s a very serious situation.”
“And we’ve yet to find a practical way to resolve it. Neither side trusts the other,” he paused again, looking around to see who might be listening in on their conversation. “We haven’t had war on Vanìmel in 200 years, but…”
Ezri grasped the Vice Chair’s meaning. Though the Yrythny had lived in relative peace for two centuries, Jeshoh feared conflict was imminent. What have we stumbled into? She wondered what Vaughn and the others had learned.
Unbidden, she remembered how Curzon’s deft maneuvering had prevented one of the early Proxcinian crises from exploding into war. “You say you traffic with other species routinely. Have you thought about utilizing third party mediation to open up talks with the Wanderers?” she said finally.
“Explain,” Jeshoh said, puzzled.
“Bringing in a neutral party to facilitate talks between the warring sides. Oftentimes, someone from the outside—one who isn’t invested in one side or the other—is better at determining what points are negotiable and what points each side needs to be flexible on.” As she spoke, she drew an imaginary diagram on the tabletop with her fingers. “A third party functions as the apex of a triangle, balancing the single line binding the conflicted parties together by drawing lines among all three.”
Jeshoh smiled indulgently. “Unfortunately, economic relationships being what they are, our neighbors may be counted upon only to act in their own best interests. Actively helping to stabilize the situation on Vanìmel would damage their standing with the Cheka, who are the dominant economic power in this region.”
From the table behind Jeshoh, the Yrythny cleric turned around abruptly, throwing aside a bowl of fish noodles to gape at Ezri. “A third between the Wanderers and the Houseborn,” he said, eyes wide with excitement. He didn’t bother to plunge his dirty hands into the basin, instead electing to rub them on his robes.
Sipping from a water glass, she reiterated, “Third party mediation is hardly a new idea.”
“The third forges a whole peace?” the cleric persisted.
Ezri looked at the cleric, then at Jeshoh for clarification—he had none—and then back at the cleric. “I suppose,” she said, wondering what he was getting at.
The cleric grabbed Jeshoh by the shoulder and shook him. “It’s the Other. What she says follows the pattern of the Other.”
Jeshoh’s confusion gradually dissipated. “Perhaps,” he said, prying the cleric’s fingers off his shoulder. “It may be worth considering, at least.”
By now, loud Yrythny voices clamored on all sides of Ezri; benches were shoved back as individuals of all ranks squeezed into the spaces around her, and with shoulders and elbows bumping, gesticulated madly. Julian shot her worried looks; she ignored him. Contrary to what he might suppose, she did not start whatever this thing was and she wasn’t about to be blamed for it. He was a little too quick to fall in with Benjamin and his “She’s a Dax. Sometimes they don’t think, they just do” aphorism. Had Benjamin ever had the nerve to say that to my face? Hah! No matter what anyone might think, she didn’t go looking for trouble all the time. Especially not this time.
Another Yrythny beside Jeshoh stood up, raising a hand, asking for acknowledgment from the Yrythny leader, Rashoh, who was seated beside Vaughn. “Assembly Chair, our good cleric has a rather startling idea that merits immediate consideration!”
With one swift movement, the cleric hefted Ezri to her feet, threw a food-speckled arm around her shoulder and clutched her to him as he approached the head table. “Good Master, Lensoh speaks truly. This one—this visitor from far away—has been sent by the Other to finally bind together our fractured world.” He squeezed Ezri for emphasis, his fingers bruising her upper arm.
“I never said that,” Ezri protested. “That’s not what I said. I said that the Wanderers and Houseborn should consider third-party mediation…”
Vaughn looked at Ezri quizzically; she shrugged her shoulders as if to say, I swear to you I don’t know what he’s talking about. Still, with virtually every pair of Yrythny eyes fixed on her, she knew she’d be doing some accounting to Vaughn later but she hoped it would be for laughs. Vaughn had a decent sense of humor. Usually.
To the cleric, Rashoh said, “Explain further.” But his frown remained focused on Ezri.
“This one has suggested the introduction of a Third. To complete the triad of Wanderer and Houseborn. To balance our people and facilitate peace,” the cleric said. “And I believe this one, this Ezri Dax who stands beside me, has been sent from the Other to help us. She will be the Third!” In benediction, the cleric raised his arms to the ceiling. “Praise the Other!”
The crowd murmured a disjointed chorus of honorifics to the Other before the drone of chatter consumed the room. Trays clattered to the floor and benches toppled as they eagerly discussed this latest development.
“There must be a misunderstanding here,” Vaughn said, attempting to quell the excitement in the room before it spread any further. “Lieutenant Dax will share our knowledge and experiences with you, but any other role would be inappropriate.” He gave Ezri a meaningful look.
“I have to agree,” Ezri chimed in at once. “It wasn’t my intention to involve myself in your internal affairs.”
“You cannot deny the Other’s intervention,” the cleric insisted.
Many Yrythny politicians, including Keren, had left their tables to assure themselves a position where they could better hear and be heard. A few tried to worm their way closer to Ezri, hurling questions at her faster than she could answer them. She rotated toward each voice in succession, trying to match what was being said with the speaker. What I wouldn’t do for Jadzia’s height about now, she lamented. Ezri saw Vaughn’s hand above the crowd, as he jerked his thumb back to indicate he wanted her at his side, posthaste. Squeezing her way past the servants and politicians and clerics, she walked up to her CO, carefully placing her back to the crowd.
Vaughn said, over the cacophony of Yrythny voices, “If you’d excuse me, Assembly Chair, Vice Chair, Honorable Cleric, we must take leave of you and your good people at this time.” The murmuring quieted, the Yrythny waited respectfully for Vaughn to continue. “My officers and I need to check on the status of our ship and those we left behind. Please accept my thanks on behalf of all of my crew for your gracious hospitality.”
Perhaps realizing the uncomfortable position their guests were in, Rashoh and Jeshoh interposed themselves between the away team and the crowd as Vaughn led his people toward the exit. The cleric, who originally fingered Ezri, included himself in the leadership, staring after her with reverential wonder. She groaned inwardly. At least the other Yrythny were clued in that they needed to allow their leaders—and their guests—to proceed without interference.
In the spacious hall beyond the dining room, the Yrythny leaders offered the entire Defiant crew guest quarters, far removed from the civilian areas; reduced trade and tourism in the wake of the Cheka conflict had left their hosting facilities completely empty. The away team learned that one of Rashoh’s aides would escort them to the docking bay harboring Defiant, where further instructions would be provided.
The discussion proceeded without Ezri commenting. She thought that was best.
