Worlds of Star Trek Deep Space Nine

by Heather Jarman

  Security, she wondered, or a death squad? Instinctively, Prynn raised her hands above her head, but then she realized the blades pointed not at her, but at Shar.

  “I come in need,” he said calmly, “seeking the hospitality of the Zha of the Clan of Cheen.”

  In near unison, the Andorians secured their blades in sheaths mounted at their hips and fastened to the breastplate with a square pin bearing the same silver-green crest. Each guard removed his headpiece, cradling it between arm and rib cage. Prynn hadn’t seen Andorians with this appearance save in old holos from the early days of the Federation: crowns of straight white hair, close-cropped against the skull. Shar seemed like a different race entirely by comparison.

  This is the part where they tell us to get the hell out of Dodge, Prynn thought, dreading the prospect of facing the storm conditions outside.

  One of the quartet stepped forward, extended a flattened palm toward Shar. “We have not seen you for many cycles, Thirishar ch’Thane. Welcome.”

  Shar reciprocated the gesture. “Your welcome is received gladly, Vanazhad ch’Shal.” He broke from the palm touch and rested his hand on ch’Shal’s shoulder.

  Ch’Shal’s relaxed antennae curled, and he mirrored the gesture, touching Shar’s shoulder. “The Zha awaits you in the Enclave chamber. We will escort you.”

  “She knows I’m here?” Shar asked.

  “She’s known for some time,” ch’Shal said. “Another visitor to the keep informed her of your return to Andor. Zha Arenthialeh zh’Vazdi.”

  Thia. That made sense, Prynn supposed. The young zhen said she’d be coming here after she met up with her bondmates.

  Prynn fell in line behind Shar and Phillipa as they followed the quartet of security guards—or assassins, or soldiers, or whatever the hell they were—another ten meters down the corridor, which she assumed cut right through the keep wall. It opened into a covered but open-sided path that bisected a wide cobblestone courtyard. Hearing the rain pelting against the steepled stained-glass roof above their path, she braced for the elements, but realized that forcefields held back the storm. Relieved that she wouldn’t be assaulted afresh by wind and rain, she relaxed enough to study her new surroundings.

  Twisting to look at where they came from, Prynn could see that a command post was built into the keep walls. More than a dozen security officers clothed similarly to their escorts patrolled along the upper wall, protected from the weather by the same forcefield technology being employed in the walkway. From the intermittent lighted windows in the wall, she discerned there were at least three occupied levels within. Considering that the front wall was at least as wide as DS9’s mid-core, she guessed there could be hundreds, if not a thousand people inside. Once upon a time, before Andor had been unified under one government and clans warred against one another, Cheen-Thitar Keep would have been a formidable target. She wondered, doubtfully, if it had ever been conquered.

  On the right side of the courtyard, extending the length of their walkway, Prynn saw a building complex sprouting interconnected milky domes and solar collectors, indicating an agricultural center. She knew that many settlements across the Federation depended on such artificially created environments for foodstuffs and to enhance oxygen generation. The keep’s facility compared favorably with those she’d seen in other hostile or artificial environments, most notably the most remote areas of places like Mars and Titan. The other side of the courtyard remained open, save for a few scattered benches, and could be a gathering place during the temperate months. On all sides, Prynn noted many open oval doorways leading into more passageways; she imagined they were only seeing the barest surface of the keep.

  Before she could ask questions, their escorts led them into an elliptical opening in the wall and down a steep stair into what appeared to be an elongated subterranean foyer. Windowless, the room’s walls were adorned with tapestries woven in warm, welcoming colors. L-shaped benches were set into the corners of the foyer where they entered. Prynn noted another open oval on the far side of the room.

  “Leave your bags here, then ready yourselves for Enclave,” ch’Shal said. “We’ll take you inside after you’ve changed.”

  Changed? Prynn turned a confused face to Shar.

  He shrugged off his jacket, folded it neatly, and placed it on a bench. “You’ll need to remove your clothing for the Enclave,” he explained. “It’s the custom.”

  Oh, is it? “So…when you say, ‘remove your clothing’…”

  “A cloth shield is provided for those who sit in Enclave with the clan,” Shar explained as he sat down on a bench and pulled off his boots. “Traditionally, new visitors were received stripped of all their possessions and goods. The clan council would then evaluate them based on who they were instead of what gifts they brought or what they wore. These days, it’s more a question of manners than security.”

  She then noticed that the walls over the benches were lined with hooks, with lengths of thin, vividly hued cloth in a myriad of colors hanging from each. No footwear.

  “If you were carrying a weapon or smuggling contraband, you wouldn’t be able to bring it into the presence of the clan council,” ch’Shal said, clarifying further.

  “I see,” Phillipa said, reaching uncertainly for a garment of sunset orange.

  What Shar called a “shield” was actually a long length of plain oval fabric with a slit cut in the center, presumably to pull over the head. Four finger-width strips of cloth dangled from the sides—ties. Not too much there, Prynn thought.

  “After Enclave, you will have time to change into fresh clothes before attending the Deepening meal in the dining assembly,” one of the other guards said. “Your bags will be delivered to the sleep hall.”

  Prynn selected a shield in what she thought was a flattering shade of violet, and stood waiting, clutching it to her chest, wondering why their welcoming committee hadn’t left yet. There were, after all, people getting undressed here and they were the ones obsessed with manners.

  The four guards remained where they stood, their antennae relaxed, chatting with Shar as he disrobed. Obviously they had no intention of leaving.

  No nudity taboo. Wonderful.

  Prynn exchanged looks with Phillipa, who, judging from the brightness in her eyes and her tightly pinched lips, wasn’t thrilled about the situation either. And what was Shar doing? Didn’t he sense their discomfort? His antennae allowed him to feel the moods in a room, didn’t they? The counselor took a deep breath and began peeling layers of clothing. Oh well, Prynn thought, dropping her travel bag on a bench, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I thought about Shar getting to know me better, but I’ll deal.

  “Wait,” she heard Shar say, and looked up to see that he was already naked. Prynn’s first impulse was to look elsewhere. But her curiosity quickly got the better of her and she let her gaze drift back to him, allowing her eyes to linger and then roam discreetly over the lean cut of his body, gave herself a moment to study the differences between them. And he was different; outside her experience, sexually…but maybe not prohibitively so. In fact, the more she looked, the more intrigued by the possibilities she became.

  Shar, however, wasn’t looking at her, or at Phillipa. He addressed the guards. “As a courtesy to my companions, who have different customs, will you absent yourselves while we change clothing and trust us to find our way to the Enclave as soon as we’re dressed?”

  “My apologies to your companions. Of course, Shar,” ch’Shal said. “We’ll announce your arrival to the Zha.” The chan turned to his fellows and hissed a few short words in what Prynn assumed was an Andorii dialect her translator implant wasn’t programmed for, and as one the four departed, leaving the three visitors alone. Shar politely kept his back turned to the humans as they changed.

  “Shar, before we see Sessethantis…” Phillipa retrieved a small fabric pouch from a pocket in her travel clothes, spilled Shar’s shapla into her hand, and passed it over to him. “You’ll know what
to do with it.”

  A soft sigh escaped Shar’s lips as he placed the shapla around his neck, the locket disappearing underneath the “shield” garment. “Thank you.”

  Even in the chamber’s dim light, Prynn could see the shapla’s shadow beneath the thin fabric. How long would it be before zh’Cheen saw it as well? And more to the point, what would she do then?

  4

  Phillipa pulled the sides of her shield’s back flap forward, tucked them under her arms, and pinned them close to her body with her elbows. She had brushed up on Andorian anthropology for this trip, and wondered how she’d missed this custom. She could see how stripping away the clothes and trappings of rank would equalize all who joined together, as well as providing added security for the keep, but she wondered darkly if the intent wasn’t also to make the guests feel so self-conscious they’d be as docile as a sehlat after a heavy meal. And she had reasons to be self-conscious. Sibias claimed he loved every divot and wrinkle created by her pregnancies. He might—but she didn’t. She resolved to carve out enough time to take the occasional run around the docking ring when she got home.

  But what Phillipa had the presence of mind to notice, as Shar led them down sloping arched passageways to the Enclave room, was the complete absence of doors inside the keep. Peering into archways, she’d found many spacious rooms with high, vaulted ceilings lined with the same luminescent white quartz that provided lighting elsewhere in the keep. Impersonal public spaces—but no private ones. She also noticed the complete lack of interest in their presence displayed by the keep residents who passed by. Not one sweeping head-to-toe examination, not even a furtive over-the-shoulder glance. Those residents who did acknowledge their presence evinced serene expressions and eyes that gazed not quite at them, as if they were focusing their attention on a point just beyond their guests’ ear or forehead: eye contact without eye contact. Based on what she knew from observing Shar and his bondmates, and from what she saw here, Phillipa surmised that personal, interior space was privacy. Whereas among humans and many other Federation cultures, like those on Bajor and Trill, cordoned-off physical space created privacy, Andorians drew their circle of intimacy within their minds; all aspects of the exterior world—including the body—were seen as public domain. They don’t define me as the forty-five-year-old one-eighth Vulcan female that I am. In their view, what I am is what they can’t see—it’s my thoughts and feelings and experiences that only I can reveal to them.

  As they descended deeper and deeper beneath the keep, down a gradually declining passageway, the swelter intensified steadily until Phillipa discovered the reason for the muggy conditions.

  The clan Enclave was composed of four diamond-shaped water pools framed by a deck paved in rough-hewn slate and granite. Water burbled up from a glowing opaque bottom, fizzing and foaming as it reached the surface. Sheets of steam peeled off the pools, saturating the room with fog and making it difficult to discern the octagonal chamber’s dimensions. Through the veiling mist, she realized a full Enclave awaited their arrival. Along every pool edge, polite blue faces bobbed above the bubbling water, the colors of their sodden shields nearly indistinguishable.

  From the minty-salt scent, Phillipa guessed that the peninsula’s underground hot springs had been siphoned off to fill the pools. A flat, gray stone island rose from each pool’s center, and from the goblets scattered about, Phillipa assumed the island was used as a table. Enclave participants sat along the edges of the pool, facing inward, enabling them to see all those seated around. Presumably, visitors could drink and socialize in this cozy environment, avoiding the inevitable bulk of furs, leathers, and boots required to move around comfortably in the drafty stone rooms that comprised most of the keep. Soaking in these pools and imbibing a favorite liqueur had the potential to be a relaxing experience; Phillipa hoped she had the chance to visit the Enclave under better circumstances.

  As they entered, a decrescendo of whispery voices followed, fading to near silence. Condensation coated the mossy walls, water droplets drizzling down pillars and puddling on the floor. Phillipa walked cautiously, wanting to avoid an accidental slip, but she realized the stones had been roughed up, giving grip to her bare feet. Surveying those in the room, Phillipa identified Dizhei and Anichent, and was unable to suppress a pang of sorrow. She and her family had been stranded on Bajor during the lockdown caused by the parasite infestation, and Phillipa had been unavailable to the bondmates during their emotional reunion with Shar, or for their unhappy departure from the station. Now, weeks later, they looked better to her, healthier, no longer consumed by their grief. But their tension upon seeing Shar was palpable.

  Then Phillipa’s gaze found an older Andorian. Her delicate facial features, the willowy, almost swanlike carriage in the neck and shoulders reminded her so much of another…and her face…the face that had haunted her dreams for months. She met Sessethantis zh’Cheen’s eyes directly and found no glassy politeness there, only pain.

  They walked along the pool edges to the nearest empty spot. Shar sat on the edge, dangled his feet and, pushing himself off the side, slid into the water. Taking a place on either side of him, Phillipa and Prynn followed suit, discovering a built-in ledge to sit on beneath the water. Uncertain of the protocol for such a meeting, Phillipa watched Shar. Though his face remained impassive, his taut antennae betrayed his true mood; even she could feel the charge in the room.

  Prynn didn’t bother with a façade: she wore her suspicion like a drawn weapon, warning any who might cross her. Equally transparent was her attachment to Shar. The way she unconsciously touched his arm, his shoulder—the way she hovered protectively by his side—revealed an emotional attachment Phillipa wasn’t sure a wiser woman would expose to this audience. Prynn needed to remember that in spite of the polite welcome they’d received thus far, the fact remained that Shar was uninvited. He had been deliberately excluded from the rites and there were reasons for that decision. But what troubled Phillipa most was how the clan would perceive Shar’s response to Prynn. He allowed her to remain near him, he unveiled his expressions when he spoke with her, and when he occasionally brushed against her, the comfort and familiarity in his touch bespoke a connection that Phillipa wasn’t sure that even Shar had allowed himself to acknowledge. Zha Sessethantis would not miss it, of that Phillipa was certain.

  After several uneasy seconds of silence, a single hollow clang sounded, announcing the formal beginning of Enclave.

  Sessethantis rose from the ledge, standing. “Welcome clan and friends to the Enclave before Deepening. We gather to join in the eternal quest to become Whole, and to celebrate the endeavor.” She made a half-turn so she fully faced Shar and paused, willing him to meet her wide, lilac eyes.

  Phillipa felt Shar tense, sensed his anxiety, saw it in his antennae.

  “Welcome, Lieutenant Commander Phillipa Matthias of Alpha Centauri, who has come at my bidding to take part in the Rite of Memory. Accompanying her is Ensign Prynn Tenmei of Earth. We hope you will join us after Enclave for our Deepening meal in the dining assembly. May you find welcome in our keep.”

  A chorus of voices whispered welcome.

  Phillipa bowed from her shoulders, and after a moment’s hesitation, Prynn did likewise.

  “And another comes with our Starfleet guests. Thirishar, long-lost chei not of my body, but of my heart, beloved of my—” She swallowed hard, her eyes bright and glistening; she dropped her gaze for a long moment.

  The room stilled to utter silence save the gurgling of the pool, the drip-drip-drip off the ceiling beams. No one, especially Phillipa and Prynn, dared breathe as they watched Thantis approach Shar.

  “Shathrissía. There. I have invoked the name of the dead,” she said, her voice tremulous, husky with sorrow. “Thirishar was her true ch’te. He has long been away from us, walking a path apart. But he has returned to join us in our hour of grief. On behalf of the Cheen-Thitar clans, I bid you return to the Whole.” She paused, surveyed her audience, then dism
issed their attention. “Be about your business.”

  Thantis’s welcome to Shar dissipated the tension. Phillipa hadn’t been sure what the gathering thought would happen, but clearly, the situation had played out better than they’d expected. As the company relaxed, a low whispering resumed. No one appeared to care that neither Shar nor Thantis had yet to look away from the other.

  A chill prickled Phillipa’s bared arms and shoulders; she shivered. Ducking lower into the water, she settled where her chin hovered just above the surface. The sudden gush of heat saturated her senses. She continued shivering but she knew it had less to do with temperature shifts than with the charged emotional undercurrents she sensed around her. Phillipa expected the chill would remain until whatever gauntlets had been thrown down between Shar and Thantis were fought for and a winner decided. She didn’t consider herself a betting woman and believed that was a good thing, considering that she had no idea—professionally or intuitively—who would prevail in their battle of wills.

  Several hours later, Prynn stood on the threshold of the dining assembly, another octagonal room, searching for Shar and Phillipa among the hundreds of occupants. If she didn’t find them soon, she was prepared to drop down wherever she could find an empty spot in an eating circle and start in on her dinner—or Deepening meal, or whatever the Andorians called it. The communal fashion in which the clan ate—seated on the floor on rugs, dishing their portions off platters and bowls onto plates, then using flexible hari bread as a scooping utensil—was dress casually, sit comfortably. The cleanup and serving chores seemed to be divvied up according to whoever was closest to the dishes and who had a free hand, not social rank. Practical. Prynn liked that.

  In contrast, she remembered a ridiculous Starfleet-brass dinner party her parents had taken her to—one of the rare times they were all together, and her first fancy dress-up occasion, her hair tied up in a sparkling red velvet bow. Endless tables featuring more forks, spoons, and knives at each plate than she had fingers. After two hours of dangling her short legs off the Queen Anne chair, she’d rejected her bowl of rubbery escargot with cessar bean sauté, a sea fruit parfait, and a warm pumpkin soup, finding only a basket of rolls to her liking. She remembered being restless with hunger, her stomach yowling in such a way that she attracted the attention of an admiral her mother was conferring with. Tonight she had been similarly situated. The Andorian she had sat shoulder-to-shoulder with in Enclave—a shen named Uthiri—had turned a bemused expression on her when the rumbles started. Now that she thought about it, Prynn couldn’t recall the last meal she’d eaten. Probably something from the replicator on the Viola, or the mealy ration bar she’d tried on the Orbital Control Station. Yuck to both.