Shar’s gaze shifted to the viewport, to the blur of the planet’s surface, now speeding past. “One of the interesting things about all this is that a growing number of our scientists think my people didn’t even evolve on Andor. That hundreds of thousands—if not millions—of years ago, we were refugees from some other dying world.”
“Why’s that?”
“We haven’t been able to find anything in our studies of animal and plant biology native to Andor that indicates the four-gender paradigm evolved naturally on our planet.”
“You’re unique then.”
“Yes.” And alone, he added mentally.
“That can be a good thing.”
Can it? If he could definitively answer that, it might also address the other questions that nagged at him, eroded his peace. Ideas tossed back and forth in his mind, the theology, the science—and his hopes; he became lost in the currents of his thoughts.
3
Studying the fist-sized beetle perched on her plate, Prynn leaned down in her chair so that she was at eye level with the table and tried formulating an eating strategy; she didn’t have a clue where to start. She scanned the cavernous waiting area of the shuttleport, searching for other travelers who might have made a similar food choice. Most of those milling around or lining the rows of benches gnawed on steaming bread pockets or fruits. Apparently, the “insect delicacy of the Archipelago” wasn’t too popular. No wonder there wasn’t a line at that kiosk, she thought regretfully. But I’m so hungry!
The food vendor had handed her an elongated utensil with a smallish three-pronged head to go with the plate. She examined the utensil (that she’d started to think of as a baby pitchfork) and at the speckled exoskeleton, wondering if she should spear the beetle’s underbelly, thus releasing any edible fluids or flesh. Or whether she should attack the beetle like a Bajoran tidal crab: first, the legs were ripped off, then the body decapitated before the fork was plunged into the tasty innards. Regardless of what approach she chose, Prynn didn’t like the way the beetle looked at her with its prismatic eyes and ebony pincers. She looked around, hoping to spot a friendly replicator.
“Prynn,” Shar said, tapping her on the arm.
“Oh, hi. Any luck on finding passage to Zhevra?”
He slipped into the chair opposite her and shook his head. “Travel was suspended just after we landed. No public shuttles or transporters until after the storm passes and the climate-control protocols are lifted.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
“We’ll need to find shelter for the night. It’s less than two hours to sunset and another seven before Deepening. I doubt circumstances will change before then.”
“Deepening?”
“Midnight.”
“So where do we go until we can head to the capital?”
“With Phillipa. To Cheen-Thitar Keep.”
Prynn arched an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Public accommodations are full. Between the storm and the festival, we will have better luck with Thantis than finding space to sleep in an empty alleyway.”
“I see. And you’re okay with showing up without an invitation?”
“No,” he admitted. “But it may be a preferable way to wait out the storm, the forecast for which is increasingly unfavorable for the next day, possibly two.” He hesitated. “And…I’ve been thinking about the fact that there are certain rules of hospitality in my culture, rules that override personal considerations. These rules apply not only to the giver, but to the one in need.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“Meaning that I would cause great offense if Zha Sessethantis were to learn that I was on Cheshras Island under these circumstances, and that I could have turned to her for help, but did not.”
“Even though you’re unwelcome there?”
Shar nodded. “To deny her the opportunity to be generous would only make the situation between our families worse.”
“But so what?” Prynn asked. “She already shut you out. You don’t owe her any—”
“This isn’t just about me, Prynn,” Shar said softly. “Or about her. Insulting the Zha of the Clan of Cheen also affects Zhavey and the political struggle here. It would affect Anichent and Dizhei, who have been hurt enough. I’m tired of making choices that hurt people.”
Prynn sighed. She could see this wasn’t an easy decision for Shar, and she wasn’t going to make things any better for either of them by arguing about it from an alien point of view. That thought, however, brought up another question.
“How will Thantis feel about me coming along?”
Shar shook his head. “Again, personal feelings aren’t relevant in this context. Meeting my obligation to ask for her hospitality obligates her to extend it to me and any who may be traveling with me.”
Prynn nodded, but she was already imagining the awkwardness of being at Cheen-Thitar Keep while the whole clan was sitting shivah. Maybe I need to stop thinking about this from a human perspective. Maybe they really don’t have the same social hangups.
No, she thought. They have a whole different set of social hangups.
“All right,” she said. “You know this place, I don’t. You’re in charge. What next?”
“We need to meet up with Phillipa.” He rose from his chair and she followed, carrying her travel bag over her shoulder and her beetle in front of her. “She’s on an errand at a local marketplace right now, and isn’t far from a leasing facility where we’ll obtain an aircar for the trip to the keep.” Looking at the beetle, he pursed his lips, clearly puzzled. “Why did you buy a steamed shaysha?”
“Oh. You mean this?” As they passed a recycler station, she casually slid the tray through the intake. “Someone left it behind. I’m just being a good citizen and throwing it away for them.”
* * *
Marching double-time, Prynn struggled to keep up with Shar, who moved swiftly down streets and across avenues. Since this was her first time on Andor, Prynn hoped to get a feel for climate and culture; she slowed down intermittently, pausing to gaze at a brightly dressed zhen or read a sign. Hyperfocused Shar, however, was in a hurry and obviously didn’t have time to play tourist. Keeping one eye out for interesting sites, and one on Shar so she wouldn’t get lost, proved to be challenging.
Prynn had learned a little about the province of Thelasa-vei and the surrounding environs from an interactive holo program in an information terminal at the shuttleport. The primary city, Harbortown—Andor’s oldest and third largest metropolis—was twenty kilometers away. Having been built in the largest natural harbor on Andor, Harbortown began modestly as a series of small fishing settlements dug into the mountainsides of the low-lying costal range that formed the harbor’s perimeter. Over the centuries, the settlements had merged and extended out of the mountains and onto a land parcel situated between two of Cheshras Island’s rivers. In modern times, Harbortown was an amalgamation of shipping concerns, oceanography research, geothermal energy production, and sea-life cultivation, to say nothing of its status as a revered cultural and historical landmark. “Living archeology” was the term used, implying that two thousand years of architecture and culture had been integrated into the world of computers, warp drive, and the Federation.
The hologuide had informed Prynn that the tip of the Thelasa-vei province was often referred to as the Hand of Cheshras because the four major rivers converged near Harbortown, creating five land “fingers.” Harbortown was built on the largest peninsula between the Frost and Moss rivers. The guide had promised that the region’s spectacular scenery could be found in and around the glacially carved harbor. She’d noted that the guide hadn’t commented on the lesser villages’ beauty—and now she could see why. Neither the scenery nor the inhabitants were distinctive.
Andorians, clothed in robes, tunics, suits, and dresses—similar to those one might find on any Federation world with humanoid inhabitants—went about their business, occasionally pausing at information terminals or
stopping to talk with someone met on the street. But Prynn couldn’t discern by looking what their interests or professions might be.
The neighborhoods themselves offered a bit more diversity. Row upon row of walls lined the avenues, some made of gray and brown stone and plasteel, others of clay and some of unfamiliar alloys. Ornate metal gates led within. As they passed, Prynn would catch glimpses of the buildings beyond, plastered in vivid hues—brick reds, creamy yellows, azure blues—and the steep peaks of sleek, burnished copper-sheeted rooftops. The effect was more of seeing bits of a mosaic without knowing the overall pattern. All of it appeared jumbled—disjointed.
“What’s with this layout?” Prynn finally asked Shar.
It took Shar a moment to realize what she was referring to. “Each gate provides access to a neighborhood in the village. The residents live, work, and recreate within—they’re self-sufficient, with their own markets, provincial transport systems, and schools,” Shar said. “You’d see more activity out here in the open on feast days when the observant make their pilgrimages to the Guardian sanctuaries. You’ll better understand when we enter the Shess neighborhood to meet up with Phillipa—”
And how anyone would know which of these many clusters of low-lying buildings was the Shess neighborhood escaped her. Aside from a complete lack of signage in either Andorii or Standard, gates appeared at irregular intervals; there wasn’t a discernible organization to the village’s layout. She hadn’t expected the buildings to be so squatty—or appear to be. When she mentioned it to Shar, he explained that most of the shops were underground; only the upper sections of the first-floor walls poked above the surface. Each building was accessed through descending stairs. Reaching above her head, she could easily touch the rooftops without going up on her toes. From above, she imagined that the long avenues of roofs would look like the scaly back of horned reptile, especially with the last glimmers of the setting white sun glinting off the metal sheeting.
As they walked down the near-empty avenues, Prynn saw one of many gates marked with a geometric figure—four interlocking squares forming a quasi star—painted purple-black. I know I’ve seen that before, she thought, but she couldn’t put a finger on where. Initially, she’d assumed that the figure was a kind of identifier like a house number or a coordinate, though she’d soon realized that virtually every gate they passed had been marked with the same symbol. Glancing over at Shar, she saw that he too seemed puzzled by it.
When Prynn asked what it meant, he paused before answering. “I’m not certain—we don’t have old-style villages like this in the South. A visit to the capital and the surrounding communities would remind you of a visit to San Francisco or Ashalla.” He walked over to a marked gate, crouched down, and scraped a bit of the black off with his fingernail. He raised the sample to his nose, sniffed; touched it to his tongue, swished it around, spat. “At least it’s only paint.”
His relief puzzled Prynn. Before she could ask about it, he resumed walking.
“I recognize the iconograph. I’ve seen it engraved on the doors of the Water Guardian’s sanctuary—it’s her symbol.”
“Could she be the patron of this village?”
Shar’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. “No. Each Andorian gender has its own patron—for example, mine is the Star Guardian. If I were observant, I would ask my own Guardian to mediate with Uzaveh on my behalf—not the Water Guardian. Maybe…There is one possible explanation, but there’s a question of legality…” He drifted off, considering the matter. “The Visionists must hold more public influence than I’d guessed was possible.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Visionists value tradition above all. This part of the world—the Archipelago—is the oldest inhabited region of our planet,” Shar said. “Why our ancestors endured here for so long is hard to understand when you consider that nine months of the year, the rain, cold, and storms make for miserable living conditions. The only way we survived was the profusion of underground hot springs that allowed homes to be kept warm and humid, as most of my kind prefer.”
“I suppose in a region where the weather is the biggest threat, the water god—”
“Guardian.”
“—Guardian, then, would be a good one to keep on your side.”
“Exactly. So every year, at the peak of the storm season, they had a period of fasting, prayer, and sacrifice to the Water Guardian, begging for deliverance. The symbol on the door was to remind the Water Guardian that true believers lived within and to pass them over. In the old days, it would have been painted in the blood of the eldest shen in the house.”
Prynn blinked. “Excuse me? Blood?”
“Not for hundreds of years. Long before I was born, the celebration of the Spring Water Festival was heavily curtailed—some of its rites outlawed.”
“Fasting and prayer dangerous? Someone should warn the Bajorans.”
“Not that part. After the people felt like they’d been preserved from death, they celebrated. Eating, intoxicants,” he paused, “tezha with strangers—I’ve read historical accounts of sentient sacrifices: saf-induced hallucinations leading to murdering a shen or pushing a child off a cliff into the ocean.”
“You’re kidding me,” Prynn said dubiously.
“The finer points of our history—and culture—aren’t widely known offworld,” Shar said.
“History, I’ll believe. But culture? Come on, Shar.” His description of his fellow Andorians didn’t track with what Prynn knew of them. “I had two Andorians on my floor at the Academy. They never went to parties. Ever. Hardly ever touched synthehol. Never once nibbled at a proposition for an illicit encounter. The phrase ‘one-night stand’ wasn’t in their vocabulary. What gives?”
“Who we are as Federation citizens living among other species and who we are among our own kind…might be a bit disparate.”
“Have you…ever been intoxicated? Out of control? Decadent?”
“Yes.”
Intrigued, her eyebrows shot up. “Yes to intoxicated, out of control, or decadent? Or all three?”
Shar offered her only an obscure twitch of his antennae.
Prynn studied Shar with renewed curiosity, wondering how much of his true nature he held at bay—and what it would take to provoke it. To see him uninhibited, fully living in the moment…
“Left here,” Shar said, turning off the avenue and in to an open gate. Through a gravel-paved courtyard, past several dark green buildings, down several flights of stairs, and through a damp, sooty hallway that smelled of mildew, they emerged into a massive subterranean marketplace. Rows of booths lined the four marble-block walls, with a center row bisecting the room. Rusting metal lanterns, hanging from hooks mounted into the ceilings, cast speckled light across the rock floor. Prynn saw glittering metal circlets, reed baskets, bolts of shimmering fabric, enormous rugs, decorative tapestries, and bins brimming with indistinguishable trinkets from data chips and padds to fruits. Cages littered with hand-size beetle exoskeletons hung from the open beams; Prynn guessed the orange speckled ones must be more shaysha.
As she walked, she kicked nutshells and bits of oily wrappers with her boots. “Andorians don’t believe in the whole recycler-replicator thing either, I take it,” Prynn said, following Shar down a crowded side aisle.
“Of course we do. Most every household has one. This is a place to trade or search for fresh foodstuffs, art, or one-of-a-kind items. The people of this region value and promote handicrafts—textiles especially.”
“Right,” Prynn said, recalling that Sessethantis zh’Cheen was a textile artist.
“Crafts aren’t merely for creativity’s sake or for personal pleasure. The process of doing the work is perceived as necessary to becoming a Whole individual.”
“The artistry part I understand. But I suppose I don’t get why, if you want or need something, you don’t just ask the replicator for it.”
“Sessethantis used to always complain about how we, meaning myself and my bon
dmates, didn’t have to work for anything that we have. She expected Thriss to learn how to sew her own clothing, prepare meals from raw ingredients—develop skills that replicators have made, among many people, all but obsolete.”
Prynn had a brief vision of herself, sleeves rolled up, hair tucked in a scarf, cranking the massive wood olive presses of old Toscana and collecting the precious droplets in green glass bottles to be sold at market. Could I…? Shaking her head, she erased the picturesque thought of peasant Prynn tilling the rich soil of the Italian countryside. She was definitely a confirmed child of the twenty-fourth century.
Shar touched her sleeve, directing Prynn’s attention to a stall some distance away where Phillipa was engaged in intense conversation with a vendor. Together they made their way around a peat grill sizzling and smoking with fatty fish steaks, then past a wide table where a cluster of Andorians were stitching together what appeared to be ornately woven sleeping mats.
When they caught up to Phillipa, she was finishing her transaction, sliding several credit chips across the table to the vendor. Regular visits to Quark’s bar (which these days was ostensibly doubling as the Ferengi embassy to Bajor) had accustomed her to the use of such currency. Starfleet made provisions for its personnel who lived or worked in non-Federation locales where currency-based economies were still the norm. Usually it was just a matter of thumbing a bill that a vendor later submitted to Starfleet for some previously negotiated form of compensation. Credit chips functioned the same way, only anonymously. But it surprised Prynn to see such an exchange on a Federation world between Federation citizens.
Phillipa pocketed a smallish green satin drawstring bag inside her jacket. “You find us a way to the keep, Shar?”
“There’s a vehicular leasing facility not far from here. I called ahead. They’ve reserved an aircar for us.”
“What did you buy?” Prynn asked Phillipa, wondering what unique trinket she might have discovered here. “Something fun, I hope. Maybe for the kids? A souvenir?”
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