“More or less. I suppose,” she answered.
The list of high-priced, exotic delicacies he could dazzle the delegations with boggled the mind. And the bill? The Bajoran government would have to loot the temple treasury to cover his costs…unless…unless he could parlay this catering job into a more lucrative business opportunity.
So what if Bajor succumbed to all the money-free, hearts-and-flowers flourishes forced upon them by joining the Federation? Quark was confident that Cardassia would never embrace the Federation’s do-gooder ideals. The Great River wasn’t dammed up, merely diverted. Granted, there were issues with starvation and disease, but soon enough the Cardassians would be ripe for the picking. He’d dealt with them before (a bit on the chilly side—every client had its quirks) and being a good Ferengi, he’d adapted. Ply them with a little kanar and he could sell them anything.
This could work.
If Ghemor—or Shakaar for that matter—planned on hosting many more occasions like these, their governments certainly would want the finest food services in the sector. Quark’s Bar: Official Hosting Services to Wormhole Worlds. Had a nice ring to it. He could have a snazzy logo designed. Maybe wrangle an honorary title of some kind or another. This little party had the potential to provide a means of securing his future (not to mention unloading more than a case or two of yamok sauce that wasn’t too far past its expiration date to be palatable). The Material Continuum always provided to those willing to navigate its rapids. A toothy smile spontaneously filled his face. “I’ll send the menu up immediately. I’m certain I can come up with something especially pleasing to all the parties.”
“Thanks, Quark.” She took his free hand and squeezed it appreciatively.
“You know, Laren, I’m acquainted with more than a few Cardassians,” he said, hoping he already had an “in.” “Who’s Ghemor got coming?”
“Someone Colonel Kira worked with in the Europani crisis, a Gul Macet,” she paused, studying Quark’s face closely. “But the delegation is being headed by a woman, Natima Lang.”
He gulped, glanced at Ro, and hoped he’d had the presence of mind to avoid gaping at the mention of her name. Of course she knows about my special connection with Natima. She’s playing me like a Trill syn lara and doing a damn fine job of it to be sure, he thought, shivering in delicious anticipation of their upcoming night out. The potentialities of a woman who could outmaneuver him had a powerful allure.
“You might want to take care of that,” Ro said, gesturing at his palm.
Quark looked down and discovered he held a handful of shards, the rest of the snifter a pile on the floor. Glass-punctured fingers drizzled blood onto his ruffled shirt cuffs. “This is a custom-made suit of the finest Tholian silk, I’ll have you know. I hope you’re handy with mending, Lieutenant, because I’ll be dropping this suit by your quarters as soon as this shift ends.”
Treir, sweaty and panting, jogged past Quark, carefully sidestepping the broken glass. “Had a bit of an accident, huh?”
He gave his star dabo girl a look. “Break time over?”
“I needed my other weight,” she said, by way of explanation. “Then I’m going back out.”
“On the bar,” Ro said. She flattened a palm on Quark’s chest, straightened and smoothed his shirt ruffles, and smiled. “I’ll send Dr. Girani if you don’t get that hand attended to.”
And she left.
Quark watched Ro walk away, finding the confident way she threw her legs out in front of her, her hips swinging steadily, oh so alluring. When the turbolift doors closed behind her, Quark turned back into the bar, his wound reminding him of unfinished business. He retrieved a napkin from the countertop and fumbled behind the bar for a medkit. Hopefully, that stupid dabo boy had recharged the dermal regenerator after that exquisitely tasteless episode with the fingernail lady last week.
“Treir! Get this glass mess taken care of!” Quark shouted.
“Try again, Quark,” Treir said sweetly, dabbing at her forehead with a bar towel.
3
Captain’s Log, Stardate 53471.3
The Defiant has taken up temporary residence in the main storage bay of the transport ship, Avaril. Our hosts, the Yrythny, have offered us their resources and supplies to help restore Defiant to full functionality. According to the Yrythny, the “web weapon” we encountered was designed for the express purpose of disabling Yrythny ships.
The Yrythny are embroiled in a conflict with the deployers of the weapon, the Magisterial Cheka Kingdom. The Yrythny describe the Cheka as militant imperialists who dominate this region of space. The Cheka employ a twofold strategy in maintaining their civilization: they enslave species to serve their empire, and subsequently augment their technology base through their conquests of those species. The Cheka apparently have neither the ability nor the motivation to innovate, relying primarily on the inventiveness of other species. Thus far, the Yrythny have successfully resisted Cheka conquest.
The Cheka’s current goal is to genetically engineer a servitor species to act as their army (possibly as the Founders created the Jem’Hadar), and this seems to be the source of their fixation with the Yrythny. The Yrythny, they believe, hold the key to the genetic breakthroughs the Cheka seek. And because the Cheka have no compunctions against experimenting on living subjects, the Yrythny understandably refuse to cooperate.
Doctor Bashir has informed me that the Cheka have likely chosen the Yrythny for experimentation due to the unusual nature of our hosts’ DNA. His scans have revealed that Yrythny genetic material is artificially enhanced, and Bashir has hypothesized that at some point in the Yrythny’s distant past, an advanced species such as the Founders or the Preservers tampered with Vanìmel’s evolutionary process with chromosomal segments that hastened their evolution from amphibious animals to sentients. The Yrythny call it the “Turn Key.”
In an effort to coerce Yrythny cooperation, the Cheka have mined all the sectors around Vanìmel with their web weapons. They’ve succeeded in destroying numerous Yrythny starships as well as cutting them off from most inter stellar commerce. The long-term impact of such isolation could be dire for the Yrythny, and they eagerly seek peaceful, cooperative solutions to their present dilemma. We hope our exchange of information will allow both our peoples to better detect and defend against this unseen enemy. Our ability to safely resume our mission may depend on this alliance.
Standing before the observation window, Vaughn watched Vanìmel, a sparkling aquamarine gem of a world, become progressively more distinct as the Avaril advanced. The planet’s ring glowed luminously beneath the light of its sun. Expecting the ring’s ice, rock, and frozen gases to soon come into focus, Vaughn gasped aloud when a structure of modules, domes, and towers resolved instead.
“A city!” he said, feeling childlike awe.
Tlaral nodded. “Almost half our population inhabits Luthia. Our seat of government, our universities—all of it resides within the ring.”
The closer the Avaril drew to Luthia, the more astonishing the ring city’s design became. As civilizations build atop one another, so had the Yrythny built the ring. Older, crudely crafted units comprised Luthia’s interior with little segue to the elegantly designed units mounted along the ring’s exterior. Docking platforms fixed on elongated spindles extended from the edges, defining the farthest perimeter.
Doors buzzed open admitting a pale-green Yrythny who wore a headpiece of cascading rainbow colored braids, interwoven with crystal beads and metallic ribbons. His three Yrythny escorts resumed positions in the corners of the observation deck, eyes trained deferentially on the ground.
“Chieftain J’Maah,” Vaughn addressed the Avaril’ s captain. “Thank you for allowing me to take in this stirring vista.”
“I wish I could have brought you to the bridge, Commander Vaughn, but I assure you the view from here is equally magnificent,” J’Maah said, walking toward Vaughn, arms extended. In greeting, he grasped Vaughn by the elbows; the commander reciprocated
the gesture.
Stepping behind Vaughn, Tlaral bowed her head subserviently, waiting to be addressed by her superior. The chieftain rapidly tapped his tongue against his teeth, a signal to the technologist, Vaughn guessed, that she could resume her former stance.
“We have word from our leadership. Assembly Chair Rashoh bids you and a group of your officers join him for a meal,” J’Maah said, officiously. “You will dine while the Avaril docks, clears quarantine and other such matters. Our crews will relocate the Defiant to a docking bay at the port, where your people may undertake repairs. Our government is also arranging accommodations for your crew within the city.”
“Your generosity is deeply appreciated, Chieftain.”
“Tlaral will take you to our shuttlebay as soon as you have assembled your team.”
“We’d be happy to transport down if it would be easier,” Vaughn offered.
Sternly, J’Maah shook his head, vibrating the skin pockets hanging off his jaw. “Our transporters have limited range. It was the reason Avaril need to come so close to your ship before our technologists could be beamed over. The assembly chair’s private shuttle has been sent for you. Quite an honor. Quite an honor. Go on then.” J’Maah shooed Tlaral and Vaughn toward Avaril’ s tremendous cargo bay where Defiant and her crew were ensconced.
Vaughn exited without protest, rightly sensing that J’Maah was accustomed to calling the shots. As per J’Maah’s instructions, he would gather his senior staff and he would meet with the government leadership. But, like it or not, he would return to his mission as soon as possible.
On his terms, naturally.
After what seemed like a protracted trek down the docking spindle, the transport doors opened, admitting them to a customs-security area. With a Yrythny escort on either side of each member of the away team, Ezri followed behind Vaughn, Shar, Julian, and Lieutenant Aaron McCallum, security officer, as each of them submitted to full body scans and routine medical screening. For a passport, the Starfleet officers had retinal patterns entered into the Yrythny database. When security issued an “all clear,” their guides led them into the public square, crowded with the trappings of Yrythny life. Merchants hawking bleating animals; food vendors with copper frying vats, their aprons splattered with oil and batter; students clustered around a fountain in heated discussion.
Ezri was content to allow “her” Yrythny to guide her through the sea of bodies, jostling this way and that. Her attention was drawn above the confusion to the lacy, carved arches, lined with enameled tiles, and the delicate curlicues painted up the pillars. Squinting, she could make out dainty flowers and vines twining around the base of the domes, made translucent by the warm light of Vanìmel’s sun. She wanted to pause for a moment, to study the graceful lines and forms, but her Yrythny escorts continually ushered her along.
Choruses of Yrythny voices thudded around her, punctuated by grunts and moans as bodies crashed into each other. With Julian in front of her and her tall Yrythny guides to the side, Ezri was effectively blocked in; she allowed the crowd’s momentum to propel her forward. Other than ceilings and heads, she saw only the walls, seemingly carved out of rose-colored sandstone instead of forged metal. She continued to walk, face upturned, until she crashed into Julian’s back.
“Sorry, Julian, I wasn’t paying…”
Piercing screams cut through the plaza. A crash of a tipping cart. Weapons fire.
Throwing arms out, their Yrythny escorts turned their backs on their Starfleet charges, shielding them from whatever was going on. Blocked by the wall of tall Yrythny, Ezri ducked down to look beneath their linked arms.
Up winding staircases, through ornate doors and elaborate archways, panicked Yrythny fled, tossing aside whatever they carried. But as many Yrythny swarmed out of the plaza, others streamed in through adjacent streets wielding anything from crude metal bars to beam weapons.
A mob. Heading directly for the away team.
More weapons fire. An escort next to her went slack, tumbled to his knees and toppled to the ground. Then another. Then still another. Whipping out his tricorder, Julian went to work. Vaughn shouted. Ezri couldn’t understand him over the din. She heard another of the escorts trying to reason with the rioters, screaming, “Stop! These are our guests, not our captives!” But his appeals were ignored as one of the rioters clubbed him across the head with a pipe. The escort fell, whether unconscious or dead, Ezri didn’t know.
So it’s a lynch mob, Ezri thought. These people are so eager for Cheka blood, they’ll do anything for a taste of it, even turn against each other.
She spotted one of their attackers making a beeline for Shar.
“Shar, watch out!” she shouted, spinning around and reaching instinctively for her empty holster. Damn diplomatic protocols. Weaponless, she charged forward. A Yrythny forearm hooked around her neck, yanking hard against her throat.
Complying with the beam weapon pressed against his temple, Shar swallowed hard and dropped to his knees, clasping his hands behind his head, his antennae tensed. Fury and the smells of fear stimulated his senses. The click of safeties being released seemed unnaturally slow and loud in his ears.
A guttural exclamation. The metallic sound of weapons fire. More screams. Blue gray smoke obscured his view.
Several Yrythny off to his side argued. “—reports said our defense perimeter was compromised—”
“—Cheka sending their spies—”
“—our chance to make an example—”
“—say we kill them now—”
Shar fought not to be sickened by the dull thud of metal against tissue and cracking bones. Senses threatening to overload, he fought to ignore the scent of singed flesh, the sweat-sour clothes worn by assailants, the bioelectric surges of pain.
Shar looked around him. The away team’s escorts had suffered a brutal assault. Vaughn and McCallum appeared uninjured. He glanced behind him to check on Julian and Ezri, but his assailant swung the butt of his weapon across Shar’s face. Blood, warm and sticky, drizzled down his cheek. His breathing became a hiss.
“Move again and I’ll blow your head off,” his assailant said, pressing the weapon into Shar’s wound.
A companion grunted approvingly.
His emotions intensifying toward violence, Shar’s eyes panned up to his assailant’s face. The Yrythny was slow, clumsy. Shar’s antennae spread wide, triangulating on his target—
“Fire that weapon, U’ndoh,” a new voice rang out, “and I vow you’ll never see the light of day again. The same goes for anyone who harms these innocent people.”
His assailant paused. Shar remained still. The gun fell away from his cheek, and his assailant abruptly ran off. Slowly, Shar’s need for violence receded and his breathing returned to normal. He searched the nearby crowd for his rescuer, but it seemed she had departed.
“Listen to me, Wanderers!”
Shar jerked toward the now-familiar voice, distinctive among the angry rumblings.
A Yrythny, about his height, hair twisted into a topknot, shoved authoritatively through the crowds. Ignoring their taunts, she slapped away hands and shrugged off any who dared try impede her. When she reached a pillar near the plaza’s center, she flattened and rubbed her palms against the pillar’s smooth surface to attain adhesion, and without a backward glance, shimmied up, kicking away a rioter who grabbed at her ankle. When a solid meter separated her from the tallest Yrythny, she anchored her legs around the pillar, tightly linking her ankles. Her coarsely woven skirt rucked up around her knees.
Cupping her hands in front of her mouth, she shouted, “Listen to me or suffer the consequences! As your Lower Assembly delegate, I speak as the law. This gathering is illegal!”
One by one, the mob turned their gazes upward. Pottery and fruit hurtled through the air, smashing against the pillar. Rioters shouted protests; others watched warily.
“Wanderer caste caught bearing weapons may be subject to punishment by death,” she continued, ignoring the
glass shattering above and below her.
In response, some Yrythny cast aside weapons; pieces of pipe, tools, and sidearms fell like stuttering raindrops. A few rioters disbanded, but others persisted in catcalls.
From her high perch, Shar’s defender surveyed the remaining agitators haughtily. “Disperse now if you wish to avoid arrest!” she cried. “An armed patrol is on its way and is prepared to take all of you into custody. Save your energies for actions that will change our world for the better, not ones that will doom your cause and yourselves.”
Her pronouncements ignited quarrels, both with her and among themselves. Primitive, hivelike contention heated the plaza as Yrythny fought with Yrythny. Head swimming, Shar saw coal eyes dark with rage; knobby fingers, grabbing, scratching; wide, gaping mouths rimmed with glistening teeth. Fevered chaos spun faster and faster around him…
The distant, rhythmic thud of boots thundering toward the plaza proved their leader’s claim. Panicked, the crowd pushed and shoved every which way, stampeding over the fallen. Terrified shouts drowned out cries for help.
Fear reigned.
Holding her post on the pillar, the Yrythny leader watched closely, waiting for the ground situation to stabilize. Slowly, the mob dispersed, leaving only the injured and infirm. She eased her way back down, waiting, her eyes turned toward the patrol pounding slowly closer, ever closer. The mob retreated. Shar discovered that, like Vaughn and McCallum, Dax and Bashir had survived, unharmed.
Rushing down the stairs with weapons drawn, the patrol peeled out of formation to secure each arched entrance into the plaza.
“No one move!” the patrol leader bellowed. “You there,” he pointed. “Stop what you’re doing!”
Shar followed the gesture to Bashir, who crouched beside several of their fallen escorts. Pale, but unscathed, Ezri sat close by, monitoring one of the wounded Yrythny with the doctor’s tricorder.
This Gray Spirit Page 5
