by Greg Cox
“Is anything wrong?” Varathael asked.
“Not at all,” she lied, looking away from the simmering triangle behind her. “I was merely admiring your daughter. She is quite charming. You must be very proud of her.”
Varathael nodded. “Laazia possesses a keen mind and laudable ambition. She is already a skilled arbitrator, adept at mediating whatever small disputes arise among my fellow Ryol. I fully expect her to lead our people when I have grown too old to look out for our welfare.”
Janeway noted the lines upon his face. He seemed only a few years older than she. “Surely that day must be far way,” she said.
“Quite,” he agreed. “Ours is a very long-lived race.”
She wondered how a Ryol’s lifespan compared to that of a human or a Vulcan. By Ocampa standards, she remembered, ten years was an unbelievably long time to live. In any event, the Elder appeared healthy enough. He walked at a vigorous pace through the garden. Janeway had to hurry to keep up with him, grateful for the slightly diminished gravity.
She gave up trying to figure out the maze herself, content to follow Varathael’s lead. In the unlikely event that she found herself stranded in the maze later on, she could always be beamed back to the ship from any point within the maze. Laazia and Paris spoke to each other too softly to be overheard, but Janeway caught snatches of Neelix’s ongoing monologue.
“The really astounding thing,” he told the unfortunate Naxor, “about Talaxian hair pasta is the way a true gourmet can tell in just one bite what year the hair was cut and during what phase of the moon. Why, I remember one time I was dining at an asteroid colony outside the Revodro System when the proprietor actually had the nerve to insist he was serving full-moon follicles even though the fibers were stringy and the texture was as coarse as the hide of a Lapinkan gorzehop deep in the grip of rigor mortis! I mean, really! Can you believe it?”
“I suppose I must,” Naxor said coldly. Janeway thought she overheard a trace of irritation in the younger Ryol’s tone.
Neelix appeared oblivious to his escort’s surly manner, or perhaps, Janeway speculated, he was simply determined to improve Naxor’s mood through sheer force of personality. She suspected the latter, although she feared that her morale officer may have, in this particular instance, overestimated the capabilities of his distinctive charisma.
“I say, this is a spectacular garden, Mr. Naxor,” he said, pausing to contemplate an immense anemone whose swaying violet tendrils stretched well above Neelix’s head. “What sort of plant nutrients do you use? My Kes is quite a gardener in her own right. You should see some of the floral masterpieces she’s caused to bloom in Voyager’s hydroponics labs. She has what the humans call a ‘green thumb,’ not that she’s literally green of course, not like the Emerald Priestesses of Msyamysa. Now those are really green! My Kes, on the other hand, is more of a pinkish shade. . . .”
“I’m sure she is,” Naxor said curtly, his fraying patience too obvious to be missed. “Perhaps you would prefer to contemplate the splendors of our garden in silence.” Janeway hoped that Neelix would take this none-too-subtle hint and leave Naxor alone. Was there anyway she could signal Neelix without attracting undue attention from Varathael?
Neelix seemed to regard Neelix’s ill temper as a challenge to be overcome. “Well, enough about me and my travels, fascinating though they may be to some. I want to know all about Ryolanov. Tell me about everything! How’s the cuisine around here. I fancy myself something of a gourmet, but I’m always open to new culinary experiences. Tell me all about your food. What’s the planetary specialty? What sort of exotic repast really whets your appetite?”
“Silence!” Naxor snapped at Neelix. The pupils of his eyes expanded dramatically. “Must you prattle on endlessly?” He raised his hand above his head, his fist clenched as if to strike the Talaxian.
Amid the diplomatic pleasantries of the Ryol’s meeting with the away team, Naxor’s angry words erupted like a thunderclap out of a clear blue sky. Other conversations hushed abruptly as all eyes turned toward the ugly scene. Paris dropped Laazia’s arm as his hand drifted toward his phaser. Janeway started to intervene, but Varathael spoke first. “Naxor!” he barked. Janeway heard a harshness in the Elder’s tone that had not been there before. His own pupils seemed to expand somewhat. A sign of anger, Janeway speculated, or simply strong emotion?
His leader’s voice seemed to cool Naxor’s fury by several degrees. His raised arm drooped limply to his side. His pupils shrank to mere pinpricks in the malachite brilliance of his eyes. “Elder,” he said. “I am sorry. I did not mean—”
“These people are our guests,” Varathael declared, “and they have not traveled so far to be insulted by such as you. Apologize to them, not me.”
Tension descended over the garden. Even the chirping birds seemed to have fallen silent. Naxor glowered at Paris through half-lowered lids. Laazia reclaimed Paris’s arm, making a bad situation worse. Varathael stood stiffly beside Janeway, impaling Naxor upon a icy stare.
“Really, there’s no harm done,” Neelix insisted, clearly hoping to defuse the crisis. “It’s all my fault. I always talk too much. Sometimes even I get tired of listening to me. . . .”
“That’s enough, Mr. Neelix,” Janeway said quietly. As nearly as she could tell, this was an internal matter now, something for the Ryol to work out among themselves. The best thing they could do now was stay out of it—and hope that this awkward incident did not permanently sour their relations with the Ryol. So much for shore leave, she thought, glancing over at Tuvok. The Vulcan stood by attentively, one hand poised above his commbadge, ready to have the entire team beamed back to Voyager if the situation got out of hand. She exchanged a meaningful look with Tuvok, shaking her head slightly. Not just yet, she signaled. Let’s see how this plays out.
“Well?” Varathael demanded. “Apologize!”
Naxor clenched his fists at his side, his sharp nails digging into his palms. Janeway was surprised to see an inky black fluid drip from his hands onto the walkway. Blood? She noted again the scar upon his face. The legacy, she wondered, of some past battle or brawl? The imperious young Ryol seemed capable of violence. Even now, he seemed only slightly cowed by Varathael’s displeasure.
He looked away from Paris and Laazia, staring instead at the fused black paving. “I apologize, Captain Janeway,” he said, hesitating a beat before including the bewhiskered Talaxian, “and to you as well, Mr. Neelix.”
He did not, Janeway noted, offer any explanation for his behavior. Still, it appeared the situation could be salvaged after all. “I accept your apology,” she said, stepping forward. “First contact with representatives from another civilization is always stressful. I’m just glad we can put this little misunderstanding behind us.”
“Yes, of course! My sentiments exactly,” Neelix added. “I promise not to bore you again—unless I can’t help it.”
“Frankly, I’d put my money on the latter,” Paris joked. He extended a friendly hand toward Naxor. “Trust me on this, I’ve known Neelix a lot longer than you have.”
Janeway admired Paris’s initiative, but questioned his timing, especially since Laazia was still beaming her incandescent smile in the young lieutenant’s direction. Naxor peered disdainfully at Paris’s proffered hand. His gaze slid sideways to lock with Varathael’s. The Elder nodded. Naxor shook Paris’s hands. Janeway saw Paris wince slightly as the Ryol squeezed his hand; she guessed Naxor’s grip was none too gentle.
“I can tell you are a sociable sort, Mr. Paris,” Naxor said. He glared at Laazia. “Very sociable.”
The Elder’s daughter ignored Naxor’s pointed remark. She kept her malachite eyes focused on Paris as she spoke. “I do hope you will all be able to stay with us a while. There is so much I want to learn about you.” Letting go of Paris’s arm, she stepped between Naxor and Neelix. “About all of you,” she added diplomatically. “I couldn’t help overhearing your remarks about the hair pasta, Mr. Neelix. It sounds quite ext
raordinary. As much as I revere our society and its traditions, I have often thought that we might benefit from an infusion of new blood and new ideas—not to mention some new recipes!” Her laughter acted as a salve over the raw feelings exposed a few moments before. Janeway recalled the Elder’s praise for his daughter’s skills as a mediator.
“Yes,” Varathael seconded his heir. “Perhaps we can arrange an program of social and cultural exchange.”
Sounds like shore leave to me, Janeway thought. “I would like nothing better,” she said sincerely. So why do I feel so uneasy about this whole thing?
CHAPTER
3
“SO WHAT DO YOU THINK OF OUR CITY, COMMANDER?”
Chakotay strolled down a spacious thoroughfare lined on both sides by swaying purple palms. High in the sky, a crescent moon adorned the night. Through the trees, he glimpsed pyramidal structures constructed out of a marblelike substance of various colors and textures. Few of the pyramids were more than two or three times taller than the nearby trees; the Ryol, it appeared, did not go in for skyscrapers. The grounds between the pyramids were attractively landscaped. A fuzzy violet moss spread over neatly trimmed lawns. Evidence of advanced technology was discernible, but nonintrusive, such as the artificial lighting that cast a diffuse white glow around the entrances and exits of the pyramids, or the decorative lanterns that, rising at regular intervals along the way, illuminated the road on which he walked beside a charming Ryol functionary named Boracca. Occasionally a pair of Ryol zoomed past them on lightweight air-cycles that levitated several centimeters above the road. Judging from their lack of noise or visible exhaust, Chakotay guessed that the vehicles employed some form of magnetic suspension. As nearly as he could tell, the Ryol lived a peaceful existence in harmony with their environment. Chakotay found himself pleasantly reminded of the traditional Native American colony where he had grown up.
“It’s very scenic,” he told Boracca. “Is all of Ryolanov this idyllic?”
“Mostly,” Boracca said. She was an athletic-looking woman about the same height as Chakotay. “Of course, I like to think that Ryolaler is the most beautiful city on the planet—it is the capital, after all—but every city has something to recommend it. The poles are cold and uninhabitable, but most of the population lives on islands north and south of the equator. The climate here is so agreeable that I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”
“I can appreciate that,” Chakotay agreed. Captain Janeway, he decided, had not exaggerated the planet’s natural blessings. Although the sun had descended several hours ago, the temperature was still warm. He was quite comfortable wearing nothing more than his red Starfleet uniform. The night was still and serene with the scent of exotic spices in the air.
Boracca led him to an imposing pyramid at the end of the avenue. A warm glow escaped the open doorway of the pyramid, beneath the graceful curve of a marble arch. “Here we are, sir,” Boracca said. “Speaking for the rest of my people, we are honored that you agreed to attend this reception. I know many who are looking forward to meeting you.”
“Likewise,” Chakotay replied, “and thanks for letting me take a stroll around your city first. After spending several weeks on a starship, it’s nice to spend some time outdoors.”
“I suppose that must be so, Commander,” Boracca said. Her malachite eyes seemed to glow with excitement, further enhancing her already stunning good looks.
Is everyone on this planet this attractive? Chakotay thought. It certainly seemed that way.
“To me, life on a starship sounds absolutely fascinating and adventurous,” Boracca continued. “I hope I shall have the opportunity to actually visit your ship.”
“Perhaps,” Chakotay said, being politely noncommittal. Concerned about the Prime Directive, Captain Janeway wanted to get a better sense of the Ryol’s technological level before inviting them aboard Voyager. His own impression so far was that a tour of the bridge and living quarters could do little harm to Ryol society, although it might be wise to keep them away from the engine rooms, at least until they knew a little bit more about their hosts.
He entered the pyramid to find a spacious ballroom filled with Ryol and Starfleet personnel mingling freely. Hanging lamps spun far overhead, throwing shifting waves of light and shadow upon the chamber below. Incense, thick and musky, scented the air. A trio of Ryol musicians occupied a raised stage in the center of the ballroom. Chakotay did not recognize their instruments, but the music was bright and lively. Sort of a cross, he thought, between Terran calypso tunes and a Bolian wedding jig. Glancing around the room, he spotted B’Elanna Torres standing in the corner, glumly sipping from a crystal goblet. She looked singularly out of place and uncomfortable. Poor B’Elanna, he thought. Mingling was not one of her strong points. That was one advantage the Maquis had over Starfleet, he mused. The Maquis never expected you to make small talk at a diplomatic reception.
A movement near his elbow distracted Chakotay. He looked down to see an unusual creature standing only centimeters away. It was a primate of some sort, its naked body covered by a thick coat of bristling red hair. The coarse fur concealed the creature’s gender, as well as most of its face. The creature was less than half the first officer’s height and more than a little scrawny-looking; its spindly arms trembled beneath the weight of a triangular serving tray containing several fresh goblets filled with a bubbling orange liquid. Large black eyes peered out of a hairy face, watching Chakotay expectantly.
“Would you care for a drink, Commander?” Boracca asked. She reached down and lifted two goblets off the creature’s tray. The tiny primate held on to its burden as if its life depended on it, its skinny fingers curled around two edges of the tray. Chakotay noticed that the creature had six fingers on each hand. “Sucrusso elixir,” Boracca volunteered. “It’s a carbonated fruit juice, and quite refreshing.”
“Er, thank you,” Chakotay said, accepting a goblet. The little creature scurried away, winding its way through the crowd where more guests removed drinks from its tray. He waited for Boracca to say something about the creature, but no explanation appeared to be forthcoming. “Excuse me,” he said, “but that being that just brought us these cups, who or what was that?”
“Being?” Boracca looked puzzled for a second. “Oh, you mean the neffaler.”
“Neffaler?” he prompted her.
“A useful animal,” she said. “They can be trained to perform simple, menial tasks. Not very aesthetic, I admit, it’s all we can do to keep them bathed and groomed.”
Chakotay frowned. “Are they sentient?”
“Hardly!” Boracca laughed at the very notion. “If not for us, they’d still be gibbering in the trees.”
“I see,” Chakotay said diplomatically, uncertain how to respond. He glanced around the ballroom. Now that he knew what to look for, he spotted maybe half a dozen neffaler at work throughout the crowd, their shaggy heads bobbing at waist-level for the assembled Ryol and Starfleet humanoids. Some of the neffaler carried trays of food and drink; others cleaned up after the guests at the reception, picking up empty goblets and discarded napkins and such. They looked more like servants than pets, he thought.
Then again, he remembered, humans had employed animal labor for millennia, as had most sentient species at some point in their history, so he was reluctant to pass summary judgment on another culture. Who was he to tell the Ryol how to deal with their fellow life-forms, especially after they had gone out of their way to make the crew of Voyager feel welcome?
Still, Boracca seemed a lot less alluring all of a sudden. He glanced again at B’Elanna Torres. The ship’s engineer remained stranded at the edge of the reception. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I see a member of my crew that I need to have a brief conference with.”
“Certainly,” Boracca said. “Try not to work too much, though. Our nights are far too beautiful to waste on business.” Goblet in hand, she wandered off into the depths of the crowd. Chakotay watched her go, then skirted aroun
d the borders of the reception to join Torres. She was still nursing her glass of elixir and all but pacing the floor in impatience. He thought he spotted a visible trace of relief in her expression as she saw him approaching her. Chakotay could sympathize; during his days as a Starfleet officer, before abandoning his commission to join the Maquis, he had ended up stuck at more than one boring reception, forced to hang around with no one to talk to. No wonder the Captain delegated this party to me, he thought.
“Good evening, Lieutenant,” he said. “Enjoying your drink?”
Torres made a face. “Too sweet,” she said.
Chakotay sipped from his own goblet. Actually, the bubbly elixir was quite tangy and delicious, but Torres’s palate, he suspected, was more Klingon than she would want to admit. He knew better than to say as much. “The Ryol certainly know how to throw a party, don’t they?”
“If you say so,” Torres said. “Frankly, I’d much rather get a look at one of their power generators. Our supply of dilithium crystals is running lower than I like. Ideally, we should refill Voyager’s primary dilithium chamber before we leave this system. If the Ryol use any form of matter/antimatter reactor to power this city, then maybe we can work out some sort of trade.”
Chakotay nodded. He knew how important dilithium was to the proper functioning of the warp engines—and how rare it was in the Delta Quadrant. “I thought you were using the theta-matrix compositing system to recrystallize the used dilithium?”
“We have been,” Torres told him, “but with mixed results. The compositing system’s been operating at less than fifty-percent efficiency ever since that last battle with the Kazon, plus we burnt out another crystal escaping from that quantum singularity. We’ve managed to recrystallize some of our original dilithium, but not enough to give us a comfortable margin of safety.”
A neffaler ambled past them carrying a tray stacked with discarded glasses. Torres added her own glass, still full, to the creature’s tray. Chakotay watched the neffaler disappear into the crowd, quietly impressed at its ability to navigate through the throng of Ryol and Starfleet merrymakers.
