Crusher grinned at his reaction. “The tricorder is a little better at such things than the human eye. It reports that Zelfreetrollan is male, although the readings seem to indicate that he is sterile. The guards are neuter, with no sign that they were ever anything else. With the required females to produce offspring, that gives a minimum of three sexes.”
“A minimum?” Picard asked. “Do you have reason to suspect there might be more?”
“Insect physiology is extremely complex, Captain, even among the lower orders found on most planets. We have so few examples of intelligent insectoid races that it’s almost impossible to draw a general conclusion. The most extreme case known is the Tal’rekswee of Naks!zray Four. They have six sexes—fertile and infertile males and females, plus neuters derived from each gender.”
Keiko leaned forward, glancing briefly at the doctor’s tricorder. “Most insect societies are extremely hierarchical, with the function of the individual determined by what is good for the society as a whole. This is particularly evident in the area of reproduction, where the capability of propagating the species is concentrated in a very few individuals. All the resources of the society are focused on protecting and providing for the few fertile members of the insect colony.” Pausing for breath, Keiko saw that her speech, on a subject so far outside her specialty, had caught the others off guard. She squared her shoulders, her posture challenging anyone to question her expertise. “Many species of plants are fertilized by insects. I became interested in how they functioned.”
“Very good, Ms. Ishikawa.” Picard glanced at each of his officers. “Does anyone have something besides speculation to contribute?”
“I do, Captain.” Worf took a step forward. “This structure is built like a fortress. The walls are very thick and made of nonflammable materials. Also, the leading between the panes in the windows is structural, not decorative. The bars are sturdy and firmly anchored in the surrounding masonry.”
“Indeed? That is useful to know.” In his mind, Picard replayed their walk through the corridors, taking conscious note of details he had seen along the way. With its multiple levels and twisting corridors, the Governance Complex would make a formidable stronghold, almost impenetrable to anyone who did not have an accurate map. “Is such defensive architecture a recent development, or are we looking at a long-standing societal characteristic?”
“Impossible to say, Captain.” Crusher gave him an apologetic smile. “The insectoid societies for which we have information are exceedingly traditional and maintain their cultural patterns for millennia when not perturbed by outside influences.”
Riker rubbed his hand across the dark bristles of his beard. “In other words, we’re going to have to study the Jarada in detail to learn what makes them tick.”
Crusher nodded, a rueful smile spreading across her face. “I’am afraid so, Will. It’s almost impossible to extrapolate anything about a conservative society. And since all the examples we have of insectoid races are highly conservative, we must assume that this is the appropriate model to use until we obtain contradictory information. Furthermore, we need to remember that, in general, insectoid behavior is extremely formalized and incorporates a large numbet of ritualized behaviors.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Riker muttered under his breath. The volume was carefully gauged, loud enough for everyone to hear but soft enough for the captain to ignore.
Picard stood, bringing the discussion to a close. “In that case, we’ll all have to keep our eyes and ears open for every possible bit of information. The more we know about the Jarada, the greater our chances of maintaining friendly relations with them.”
As if in answer to Picard’s words, someone rapped on the door. After a moment the intricately carved panel swung inward. A small copper-colored Jarada crouched to greet them, then said, “I am called Zelnixcanlon. If you are ready, I am assigned to you as Protocol Officer to counsel you in the Ways of our Hive. Is there any information you wish from me before I conduct you to the Council Chambers to begin the negotiations?”
Picard returned the Jarada’s bow. “We thank you, Zelnixcanlon. Since we are new to your world, we would be honored if you would tell us exactly what to expect and how we should respond.”
Zelnixcanlon’s antennae fluttered like a pair of stalks in the wind, but the Jarada bent its legs until its abdomen touched the tiled floor. “This is my function, to instruct you in That-Which-Is-Needful.” And for the next hour the Jarada did, describing in detail the ritual exchange of greetings and how the negotiations would proceed afterward.
The Jarada honor guard led them on an even more convoluted course to the Council Chambers than their original path to the Meditation Chamber had been. First the corridors led upward and twisted into the interior of the building, at one point passing through a gallery near the highest part of the structure. The small round windows looked down on the dense foliage that crowned the trees in the courtyard where they had beamed in.
At least Crusher assumed it was the same courtyard, although the perspective was so different from above that it could have been any of the five courtyards that their scans had told them were included within the complex. The combination of interconnected buildings and enclosed courtyards turned the Governance Complex into a convoluted maze.
From the upper gallery their path worked its way downward, through corridors and galleries that changed from lighter to darker colors and then back to lighter colors. The smells also changed, from the heavy spicy odor they had first noticed, to the sweet, fruity nectar of an orchard littered with windfall peaches, to a mixture of all the previous odors combined with other, less definable scents. Crusher, who was recording their journey with her tricorder, was the first to realize that the odors shifted near each major intersection.
She had noticed the scents much as she would another woman’s perfume, but it wasn’t until the third or fourth time her tricorder registered a major cross-corridor that she recognized the significance of her discovery. The Jarada used smells as markers for defining different areas within the building. Her tricorder gave her no clues to further explain the puzzle, but she resolved to keep her eyes open for anything that correlated with the variations in the odors. Instinct told her that the answer was important, but what it meant, she was not sure.
Crusher started to explain her theory to Troi, then changed her mind. Until they knew more, she might violate some Jaradan taboo by discussing the subject. It would be better to wait until she knew they could not be overheard. Deep in thought, she was surprised when the party reached the massive and ornately carved door that blocked the entrance to the Jaradan Council Chambers.
Chapter Three
THE DOOR TO THE Audience Chamber was a massive black object built to a scale that dwarfed everything else they had seen of Jaradan architecture. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here, Picard thought, acknowledging the irony. No matter how many times or on how many worlds he recognized the pattern, it never failed to amaze him that so many governments for so many diverse societies resorted to blatant displays of power when designing their state buildings. It was as if the rulers could not conceive of governing without intimidation, of authority without domination. Even in societies where the rulers were chosen by the consent of all members of the group, the oppressive architecture often persisted as a reminder that a few individuals exerted disproportionate control over the destinies of everyone.
As they approached the door, Picard got a better look at the ornate carvings incised into every square millimeter of the surface. Some sections were engraved with symbols, writing perhaps, and told the captain very little. Other panels were pictorial—scenes of Jarada fighters in combat with other Jarada. The poses were highly formalized and the style reminded Picard of a pleasant week of shore leave many years earlier that he had spent exploring the ruins of al-Karnak in Egypt. The Jaradan carvings were similar to the stone reliefs that celebrated the triumphs of the pharaohs, and, once the thought occurred to him, Picard co
uld not shake it.
The Egyptian civilization had been very structured, very regimented, very traditional—similar to the insectoid societies Troi had offered as possible analogs to the Jarada. Looking at the massive black door, Picard realized that they all had overlooked another word that described many such cultures—militaristic. He shivered from an unpleasant premonition, not at all happy with the thoughts conjured up by the scenes on the door.
At Picard’s signal Keiko stepped forward with her tricorder and swept it across the carvings, recording them for later analysis. This door would tell them more about the Jarada than the total of everything the Federation had previously known. As if taking Keiko’s action as their cue, two small copper-colored Jarada stepped to the center of the door and swung it open for the away team.
A broad aisle paved with brilliantly colored geometric mosaics opened before them. Stationed along the walkway at designated points was a ceremonial unit of mahogany-colored Jarada, each wearing a wide, heavily decorated sash across its thorax. Flickering torches provided the main illumination, giving the scene a timeless, barbaric atmosphere at odds with the technological sophistication displayed in other parts of the Jaradan complex. The arching barrel vault of the room soared overhead, its upper reaches lost in flickering shadows. The effect was deliberate, Picard thought, with the dim, uneven lighting calculated to make the room seem cavernous and any petitioner tiny and insignificant. It was another way of showing the governed their relative position in the scheme of things, and even though Picard understood how the psychology worked, he had to acknowledge that it was effective.
The away team advanced up the aisle. At the far end was a raised dais, its details obscured by the uneven light. The away team reached the first pair of guardians, who crossed both sets of arms over their thoraxes and lowered their torsos almost to the floor. A faint woody scent, like sandalwood or cedar, swirled around them. Picard paused, dipped his head in a marginal acknowledgment, and continued down the aisle. Behind him the others copied his actions, but inclined their heads slightly farther to establish their status relative to the captain’s—as they had been instructed to do by the Jaradan protocol expert Zelnixcanlon.
The next pair of Jarada crouched deeply but remained upright, with their clawed hands extended outward toward Picard. The captain knelt, his arm sweeping forward and down in a chivalrous gesture reminiscent of the court of Louis XIV. Again, the rest of the away team mimicked his bow, although a hiss of indrawn breath from Worf told Picard that, for the Klingon, this part of the Jarada’s mandatory ceremony went against his warrior’s instincts.
As the Federation team continued up the aisle, each pair of Jarada in turn gave them a ritual greeting. Some postures were highly formal or extremely submissive, while others were just short of an arrogant dismissal of the away team’s presence. After the fifth or sixth exchange, Picard felt the beginnings of a tension headache throbbing behind his eyes. He drew a deep, calming breath, pushing his anxiety—and the headache—away. This was just another gambit in the war of nerves the Jarada played with everyone outside their own hive. Picard’s job was to prove that he was as adept at the game as any Jarada.
Two dozen sets of Jarada flanked the walkway as he knew they would from Zelnixcanlon’s briefing, and each set required a different reaction. In some cases he was required to match the greeting with equal courtesy, while at other times the responses were asymmetrical, extreme formality paired against abrupt rudeness. Zelnixcanlon had told them that this precessional was a reenactment of historical events, but none of them, not even Troi, had been able to make much sense of the Jarada’s explanation.
The ship’s translation algorithm was consistently missing a few critical concepts, and Troi was still unable to decipher the emotional responses of the Jarada they met. Until they corrected those deficiencies in their knowledge, all Picard could do was to treat the ritual as another complex test of protocol. If he could remember all the responses in the proper order, the Federation would have completed yet another trial in their struggle to deal with the Jarada on equal terms.
The farther they proceeded down the aisle between the ranked Jarada, the warmer the room seemed to get. Sweat from the effort to keep everything straight beaded Picard’s forehead and trickled down his back.
At times like this, confronting an almost unknown and decidedly touchy race, he wondered why he had accepted this last promotion. The captain of a Galaxy-class starship was more often a diplomat and a politician than anything else. Picard had been an explorer all his life, and he would have been happy to finish his career as he started, scouting beyond the edges of known space. It was a job he did superbly and he knew its value to the Federation.
His ego did not need the power and prestige that came with the captaincy of the Enterprise, but he had found the challenge of commanding Starfleet’s premiere starship irresistible. The scope and the potential of his current assignment were awe inspiring, and at times he still could not believe his good fortune at being chosen as captain of the Enterprise. Even so, when he was forced to admit it, he confessed that diplomatic assignments were his least favorite duty.
However, Starfleet had not asked him if he wanted to negotiate with a demanding race like the Jarada before they gave him the job. Reminding himself that responsibilities always went hand in hand with glory, he projected more confidence into the ritual greetings, hoping the Jarada would read his self-assurance as an emblem of strength and competence.
Finally they reached the last pair of guards, who flanked the stairs leading up to the dais. Zelfreetrollan was seated on a broad black marble bench draped with a hive-standard of deep crimson edged with gold. Looking up at the Jaradan leader, Picard wondered if he had gotten every greeting correct. For him, the walk down the aisle had been almost as long as the spiritual journey the ceremony represented for the Jarada.
He imagined how a Jarada diplomat from another hive would feel, waiting for an acknowledgment from the local potentate to tell him that he had successfully proved he was an intelligent individual and a worthy representative of his own hive. It had to be nerve-racking to be a diplomat among these exacting and temperamental beings.
The task was difficult enough, Picard thought, although he knew he could have Transporter Chief O’Brien beam him and the away team back to the ship if things went too far awry. That, of course, would not complete their mission, nor would it promote better relations with the Jarada, but it would save their necks. After seeing the martial scenes carved into the door to the Council Chambers, Picard wondered how often the Jarada executed one of their own for failing to remember every detail of their complex protocol.
Zelfreetrollan stood and descended the steps, his clawed hands extended to Picard. “We bid you welcome,” he said in his multitonal voice. Even though the words were in English, Picard’s communicator buzzed as the translator function attempted to cope with what it interpreted as multiple voices speaking at the same time. Behind him Picard heard a grunt of displeasure from Worf and realized the worst of the feedback must be in the lower frequencies, in the range where the Klingon was far more sensitive than most humans. Data was supposed to be monitoring their communications to prevent such difficulties. Picard hoped the android would catch the problem quickly and direct the computer to recognize this peculiarity of Jaradan speech.
At the bottom of the stairs Zelfreetrollan folded his arms across his thorax and gave Picard the ritual crouch. “Your Federation honors us with your presence. May our association be a long and profitable one for both our hives.”
Picard bowed, a deep formal bow from the waist. He could not remember being required to be so formal for so long since he had led the Starfleet contingent to the Federation Games held on Yokohama IV thirty years before. Yokohama had been settled in the early years of the Federation by a sect of Japanese traditionalists, and they had insisted on conducting the games according to the exquisite etiquette of sixteenth-century Japan.
Straightening from his
bow, Picard extended his empty hands to Zelfreetrollan. “First Among Council, your greeting honors us. We hope this visit may be the beginning of a long and mutually beneficial relationship between your people and ours. The Federation is always delighted to welcome new members into our community. The exchange of ideas and cultures makes all of us the richer.”
“This is an idea my people are finally coming to accept.” Zelfreetrollan bobbed his head in what Picard took to be an approximation of a nod. As he did so, the side facets of his eyes shimmered in the flickering light.
Picard bowed again and then gestured toward the rest of the away team. “First Among Council, may I present the other members of my party. Commander William Riker, a valued advisor. Counselor Deanna Troi, Chief Medical Officer Beverly Crusher, Ship’s Botanist Keiko Ishikawa, and Lieutenant Worf, the commander of our honor guard.” As they were introduced, each person gave Zelfreetrollan a deep bow. Picard might have imagined it, but he thought he again heard Worf growl in protest, as though the Klingon did not like taking his eyes off the Jarada for a single moment. Picard suppressed a grin. Worf was a good security officer, but he would never make a diplomat; the skills required were mutually exclusive.
“The Prime Council Chamber is this way,” Zelfreetrollan said. “Some of my principal advisors will be joining us there.” Turning away from Picard, Zelfreetrollan led the way to a door on the side wall, his claws clicking against the mosaic floor.
Picard followed, still trying to figure out whether the negotiations were being conducted by Federation protocol, Jaradan protocol, or some ill-defined combination of both. He was starting to suspect the last and did not find the idea reassuring. Conducting such an important meeting according to rules being made up on the spot by beings known for their strict standards and their intolerance of error put him at a severe disadvantage. It was almost as bad as playing Fizzbin without a chronometer in the caverns of Marel Five, where the locals could tell the time by the smell of the air, and the day and season from the flow of water in the underground springs and rivers.
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