Cardassia and Andor

by Una McCormack

  “Nah. I’ll just rearrange a few things before I suffocate. Don’t you move.” She ducked out of sight behind a wide taras tree. Minutes later, she emerged with the understocking bunched up in her fist and a reconfigured ceara top: she’d wrapped the length of fabric tight around her rib cage up to her breastbone. She’d then taken the two ends and tied them behind her neck.

  Running her fingers through her short black hair, she ruffled it into its usual spikes, then smoothed a few wrinkles before spinning around so he could take in all views of her garment. “So is some Andorian purist going to assault me for wearing the ceara wrong or is this okay?”

  He stared. The bare slope of her shoulder and the curve of her waist glowed warm in the moonlight. In the shimmering drape, her alien beauty was like something out of myth.

  “Shar?” Her eyes narrowed. “I can always change it back.”

  Feeling transparent beneath her gaze, he looked away. “You are…lovely.”

  She blushed. “I wasn’t fishing for compliments, but I’ll take it.”

  He allowed her to lead him down the pathway from the bridge to the top of the Grand Staircase. Carved out of the mountain rock, the sharply descending stairs merged into the city’s central canal street. Overhead, a clay-tiled roof, sides curled up to catch the rain, protected the stairs from the worst of the elements: the path ahead appeared to be dry. Bluish green tread lighting embedded into the steps would safely guide them. A sprightly ocean breeze, tinged with salt spray, teased the crooked trees bordering the staircase, sending their aging boughs creaking. Insect choruses, undeterred by Harbortown’s noisy festivities, chirped and squawked.

  Prynn linked her arm through his elbow. “There will be dancing, won’t there?”

  This time, there was no awkwardness in his smile.

  * * *

  Central Canal was nearly impassable, with revelers crowded into every space, pushing and shoving their way into the side streets that randomly branched off Canal. Prynn didn’t notice; her face was turned upward, her eyes greedily soaking in rivers of lustrous purple drape over the street. Iridescent metallic threads had been stitched into tessellated patterns of winged creatures and eye-dazzling optical illusions of eternal circles. Beneath the awnings, row upon row of paper lanterns dangled, gleaming like tissue gemstones. And the noise! Grinding, crashing, singing, cheering, thudding, talking, screaming—all combined in a noisy fugue.

  She could hardly absorb it all. Her stimulated senses drank in the salty humidity and pungent scorch of charcoal-roasted animal flesh overlaid with the lush honey-sweet ripeness she’d come to know as the scent of Andorian exertion. So dense was the air that she felt as if she drank each breath.

  Laughing, Prynn spun around, taking in the scenery, her eyes alight with wonder. “I can’t believe this place, Shar. It is absolutely astonishing! Why would you ever want to be away from here? I mean, besides your mom and all that….” Her voice trailed off and she sighed. “Never mind.”

  “It’s unfortunate that circumstances have to be complicated.”

  “Especially since you’re giving up all this,” Prynn said.

  Shar steered her off Central Canal into a side street. A sunflower yellow fabric canopy enclosed the way, and Prynn felt gleeful at the prospect of wandering from street to street, saturating herself in vivid color. Ahead of them, she saw a darker throughway, with more lights and celebration past the dark. She soon discovered that they had to cross a shorter, narrower version of the river bridge to reach the adjoining street. Looking around, she saw Harbortown as a mosaic of black night and hot, wet color; a maze of cobbled streets, bridges, and façades embellished with garish sculpture and dramatic frescoes. Ornamented pillars sprouting blue-orange flames marked every corner. Wild-eyed, vulgar monster faces, fangs bared, stared down from their perches over every doorway. All around them, denizens from across the quadrant roamed, aliens Prynn didn’t even recognize; many had painted their skin with Guardian icons or with nature motifs, wearing fanciful clothing or little clothing at all.

  A misstep sent her stumbling into a tangle of writhing dancers with eerie clouded eyes who pawed at her clothes, pressed their faces into her neck, her stomach, clinging to her like tentacles. A few well-placed elbows released their collective embrace; shuddering, Prynn backed away.

  Shar pointed out the yellow smudges on their arms and faces, explaining that saf changed color as it interacted with body chemistry. She watched their uninhibited gyrations with new understanding, but she clung more tightly to Shar’s arm.

  For the first time since they arrived, she saw Andorians wearing distinctive costumes other than the ceara—not the usual tunics or gowns that she’d seen at the keep or back at Deep Space 9. One Andorian she ran into wore a knee-length skirt and a loose, sleeveless mail shirt, with chunky brass bracelets bound around his upper arms. That individual was holding hands with another Andorian outfitted similarly to the guards she’d met at the keep with the chausses, tunic, breastplate, and gauntlets.

  Noting her curiosity, Shar explained to her, while pointing out various examples, that those Andorians fully outfitted in traditional garb were likely observant and might be headed off to the Guardian temples to offer thanksgiving.

  “The ones in warrior’s attire—they are chan. My kind,” he said. “The ones wearing the chain mail are thaan. You’re already familiar with zhen because Thia’s clothes are modifications of the traditional garb. A shen wears something similar to the zhen, except a shen visiting the Water Guardian sanctuary would reveal her entire back as a sign of her fertility.” He drew Prynn’s attention to a shorter Andorian walking past whose bare back had been tattooed with ornate iconographs and abstract patterns. Playing a version of I Spy, Shar would point out an Andorian and Prynn would identify whether the Andorian was chan, zhen, shen, or thaan.

  Prynn rapidly mastered her task, but she had more questions. “What about physiological identifications? Like human females have breasts, Nasat genders have different shades of shell color…”

  “Another time,” Shar said dryly. “We only have a few days on Andor.”

  “Humor, Ensign. I’m impressed. First sarcasm, now wit. What will it be next?”

  “I’ll try to surprise you.”

  “Promise? I like my surprises wrapped up with bows.”

  “Bows?”

  “Bows. Ribbons tied in loops that are ruffly and festive.”

  Eyes smiling, Shar sighed. “I fear that I failed to pack bows.”

  Walking in companionable silence, they passed through more celebrating, first pausing to watch a troop of gymnasts, then procuring a small bag of roasted sandbush seeds. Prynn was going to suggest they start figuring out a plan for when morning came, when she noticed a subtle change in Shar’s demeanor.

  “What is it?” she asked gently.

  “I was just thinking…At Thriss’s Sending, the mourners will be clothed traditionally,” Shar said. “Zhadi will insist on it.”

  Silence.

  “I saw her, you know,” Prynn said after a moment. “In her coffin. I had no idea…she was beautiful.”

  “Yes,” Shar agreed. “She was.”

  She sensed him drifting away from her, to that place he went when he remembered.

  They had started across another bridge when Prynn asked Shar to wait while she looked over the railing. She’d noticed light and noise coming from below the level where they walked and she wondered what other surprises Harbortown held. Climbing up so her feet rested on the bottom rung of the railing, she bent over the top.

  Vertigo assaulted her; she bobbled, tipping back. Pools of night and blinking lights blurred together, spinning into a whorl of color. Then Shar’s hand was on her back, steadying her, and she leaned back into him, waiting for the wave of queasiness to pass. Once he helped her down off the railing, he guided her to the other side of the bridge to a curb, where he eased her into a sitting position. She dropped her head onto her lap, wedging it between her knees.


  “That may have been a bad idea,” he said philosophically.

  “Now you tell me.” She swung back up to a sitting position.

  “From the base of the city to here is more than seventy levels,” Shar said, stroking her back with the palm of his hand. “I should have warned you that it was a long way down.”

  “I had no idea we were so high up…. Help me up, would you?” Scrambling to his feet, Shar stood on one side of her, holding her shoulder and arm while she pushed herself up off the ground. She brushed dirt off her pantaloons and, testing her equilibrium, she started walking down the street. Shar, hovering at her elbow, was presumably there to help her should she feel faint, but Prynn believed that the dizziness had passed. She let him know that she was fine, but he continued to keep a hold of her elbow; enjoying his protectiveness, she wouldn’t protest that kind of attention. They walked side by side, navigating the crowds for a few blocks, before the party thinned out and they could speak without having to shout. “I’m assuming there’s a reason why your ancestors felt compelled to build their cities like this, one layer on top of another. Instead of like, spreading over the ground.”

  “Harbortown hasn’t always had this elevation. Settlement began inside the caves that run deep into the adjoining peaks—a massive complex was excavated into the mountainside. As the populations grew, the settlers began building on the land around the harbor—technically where Harbortown stands now—and it was more like what you’re accustomed to, sprawling neighborhoods and buildings over open territory. Canals were built to transport goods between the rivers. Thelasa-vei Province thrived. About thirteen centuries ago, a rash of mysterious deaths convinced the Guardian priests that the land was cursed. The harbor area settlement was abandoned, left for the demon spirits to claim.”

  “And the truth?”

  “Excavating into the adjoining mountains released pockets of poisonous gases that were generated by chemical reactions between rock and hot water table. The gases seeped through the porous rock in and around the harbor—settlers had asphyxiated. But since the wind and water currents changed daily—”

  “No pattern could be discerned from the deaths,” Prynn said. “A child in one house would die and the neighbor would be fine. Once they figured it out, they sealed off the mountains…”

  “Not quite. By then, the settlers had already started building up and over the first city. They became convinced that the higher up they built, the less likely it was that demons would follow. Since then, Harbortown has spread up the mountainside—an average of about five levels a century—until the present day.”

  “It looks like the other parts of the city are still habitable,” Prynn said, looking—from a distance—into dark voids beneath them. “I’m certain I heard people down there.”

  “Harbortown residents and workers primarily utilize the top fifty levels. But those who choose to live farther down, in the ancient areas, tend to be like more extreme versions of Thantis, if that makes any sense. They’re Andorians who want to make a statement about ‘the old days,’ or nomadic clans who’ve given up their keeps. The lowest levels have been virtually abandoned, since the canals are no longer needed to transport goods. But the matter of the poisonous gases has never been fully addressed.”

  They had reached the end of the Central Canal district; another stretch of bridge lay before them. Shar shot Prynn a questioning look.

  “I’ll be fine. No more hanging off the rails, I promise,” she said, walking backward across the bridge so she faced him. “See? I’m being good!” She dashed off a jaunty salute, then threaded her hands behind her back. If she read his antennae correctly, Shar was amused.

  “I’m not overly concerned that you’ll be catapulting yourself over the edge,” Shar said dryly. “However, I am a bit curious about what other impulses you might have.” He swept a long, languid gaze over the length of her body, coming to rest on her face. Their eyes met, held.

  A giddy realization struck her: He’s flirting with me. If Andorians flirt. Do they flirt? She stopped walking. He took one step forward; they stood, toe-to-toe, mere centimeters apart, but not touching. The activity swirling around—the drumbeats, the sizzling spits of roasting animals, and the swirling incense smoke—all receded into the distance, and her awareness diminished until it encompassed only the two of them. I want him to touch me, she thought, willing him to rest her hand on her hip, to cup her face…

  Abruptly, Shar’s attention shifted; his brow furrowed. “We have to get out of here.” He grabbed her by the hand and dragged her toward a darkened archway on the opposite side of the bridge.

  “What is it?” she said, worried.

  “Look behind you,” he said.

  A rapid glance revealed a pair of uniformed security people making their way toward them. From appearances, they hadn’t zeroed in on Prynn and Shar quite yet; the numbers of people milling in the street combined with the nighttime’s limited visibility would make it difficult to find anyone. She watched for a moment as one of the police officers held up a padd for a zhen to look at.

  “He’s showing them our pictures,” Shar said.

  “They might not be looking for us.”

  “They’re looking for us. I’m surprised we’ve made it this far. Thantis doesn’t waste time getting what she wants—especially when she’s provoked.”

  In that instant, the officer and the zhen he’d been questioning looked up from the padd and directly at Prynn and Shar. The officer tapped the comm patch on his neck.

  Shar quickly drew Prynn back into the crowds and resumed moving. “We have about three hours before dawn. Do you want to try to elude the authorities?”

  “I’m game if you are.”

  “We have about thirty seconds to make it through that doorway before they blockade the bridge,” Shar said. “Once inside, we’ll take the lift down as far as we can. Then, we’ll start down the closest stairs.” He squeezed her hand. “I suppose we’re beginning our lives as pirates.”

  “Not funny, Shar.”

  6

  “I can’t find them anywhere.” Phillipa waited in the doorway to Thantis’s study. She suspected she brought old news, but she had been charged to track down the pair and she felt obligated to follow through. The dim quartz lighting in the dingy, windowless chamber made it hard for her to discern exactly where the zhen sat. She saw an armoire, a chaise with the stuffing popping through a fraying cushion, an unfinished tapestry hanging from a wall loom. Several yarn-wrapped spindles had been stuffed in a basket. Phillipa stepped into the room and peeked around a stone column.

  Thantis was hunched over her desk, paintbrush in hand, embellishing a clay mask with a series of interconnected diamond shapes in black, green, and gold. Without looking up from her work, the zhen said, “It appears our young ones borrowed one of the shuttles we use to transport our textiles to and from market. They probably departed before we started looking for them.” Twisting so she could see Phillipa, she gestured for the counselor to come closer. “Please take a seat.” She rested her dirty brush in a vase of water. Retrieving a clean paintbrush from a tray, she resumed her work.

  Of the several stools and chairs available to her, Phillipa selected a comfortably situated leather-upholstered armchair across from Thantis and waited.

  “Have you started your mask of grief yet?”

  “I wasn’t aware—”

  “Forgive me, Commander. You haven’t even been here a day! I’ll make a note to have one brought to you tomorrow. You’ll need it for the Sending.” Thantis leaned back and studied her work. “That will have to do for now. I’ll be sending mine to the kiln day after next. You’ll have time to apply your glazes before then.” First stripping off a smock spattered with dried clay and paint, Thantis then wiped her hands on a towel and tossed it in the recycler before dropping into a chair across from Phillipa.

  Resting her chin in her hand, the zhen studied Phillipa, her quivering antennae the only evidence of her being unsettled. She shifte
d, fussed with the drape of her red ceara, leaned back in her chair. In contrast to the immaculately coiffed Vretha, dried paint lined the creases of Thantis’s fingernail beds, her cuticles ragged and fraying from being picked at; her braids, tied up in a scarf, skewed in every direction. The way she fidgeted reminded Phillipa of Thriss.

  Phillipa offered her a neutral smile, but said nothing. Years of counseling had helped her cultivate a tolerance for silence. People usually spoke when they were ready to speak. She had been summoned to Cheen-Thitar Keep by Thantis; Thantis would tell her what she needed, when.

  Finally: “Have you spoken with Charivretha?”

  Aware of the tense relations between the zhavey s, Phillipa felt obliged to avoid placing further stressors on the situation. She chose her words carefully. “Yes. Her conversation with Shar ended badly. However, she still expected that he would travel to Zhevra with her. His leaving with Prynn surprised her.”

  “For all her finesse in politics, Vretha is as clumsy as a klazh when it comes to her chei.” Thantis clasped her hands together in her lap. “And Ensign Tenmei…. A nice enough youth. Spirited.” A long pause. “Tell me, Commander, are Thirishar and Ensign Tenmei lovers?” Her too-casual tone betrayed Thantis’s deeper concern.

  Now I find out what you really want. “I don’t see how their relationship is relevant to the current situation.”

  Thantis shrugged. “Obviously you don’t understand—whether they are or aren’t involved romantically matters little to me. My zhei is gone. Her bond is not threatened. Speak freely.”

  If a therapist suspects a patient of lying, body language often provides the needed answers—one of the basic rules in Phillipa’s studies on nonverbal communication. And Thantis’s body language told a story in itself: rigidly held shoulders, tension in her jaw, a flinty set to her eyes. Phillipa knew what happened between Prynn and Shar mattered a great deal to Thantis, regardless of what she said.

  But Phillipa vigilanty protected the secrets of her patients; for her friends, she did the same. Vretha had attempted to employ similar tactics to Thantis’s when she’d wanted information about Thriss. Phillipa didn’t take kindly to pressure. On her watch, more than a few overeager admirals with the authority to send her to the brig had been told—politely—to go to hell or Gre’thor or whatever place of eternal damnation best suited their culture. Resisting the demands of an overprotective mother would be a piece of Rigelian cream cake by comparison. “I tell you this not because I believe it’s your right to know, but so the insinuations and assumptions can be put aside,” Phillipa said, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Shar and Prynn became friends on the Gamma voyage, during which Prynn lost her mother and Shar lost Thriss. Their friendship helped sustain them through a difficult time. When Shar decided to let Dizhei and Anichent seek a replacement for him in the bond, he was especially lonely. Prynn became a natural companion for him. Their relationship has progressed since then. I believe becoming more than friends would be good for them both.”