Текст книги "This Gray Spirit "

Автор книги: Heathe Jarman

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“I am not some addle-minded child you can lie to,” she snarled. Prying his arm from around her shoulder, Thriss scooted away from her bondmate. He caressed her cheek; she slapped his hand away. “Don’t. Touch. Me.”

Uh-oh. Looks like we might have a situation here,Ro thought. She needed to turn down the heat before it became a meltdown. “How about we take this to the holosuite? You can talk privately, work through—”

“What’s this ‘we’? And why are you still here?” Thriss turned on Ro, eyes blazing. “Oh I see. You’re one of zhadi’slackeys doing her dirty work.”

“Watch your impertinence in public,” zh’Thane warned.

Ro shot zh’Thane a look, discouraging her from speaking further, and addressed Thriss and her bondmates. “As station security chief, I answer to Colonel Kira, not Councillor zh’Thane and certainly not you. When I suggested you take this to the holosuite, that was a polite way of asking you to resolve your disagreement elsewhere,” Ro said evenly. “If you intend to use your holosuite time, I suggest you do it now. Otherwise, there’s the door.” Pushing her chair back from the group, Ro made it halfway to Quark and Natima’s table when the sound of shattering glass caught her attention. She spun around in time to see Thriss brandishing half a broken drinking glass, the razor sharp edges within centimeters of Anichent’s face. Ro started back toward the Andorians at a brisk clip. Dammit!

“You push and you push, but I’m not giving in this time,” Thriss threatened, loud enough to be heard at the surrounding tables. “I’m not leaving the station without Shar!”

Ro watched, horrified, as Anichent grabbed at Thriss’ arm, trying to wrest the makeshift weapon away from her with his free hand. She threw an elbow into his stomach; he grunted, released his grip on her wrist and toppled into her. In lifting her weapon-arm out of Anichent’s way, Thriss caught her gown on a chair and her arm fell reflexively, thrusting the jagged glass edge into his shoulder. Shaking uncontrollably, Thriss gasped, stumbled backward.

Raising his hand to his wound, Anichent’s face blanched gray. He teetered, tipped, his eyes rolled back into his head and his hand, smeared in dark blue, hung limply.

Dizhei screamed, bracing her weight on the table. Startled, she threw up her hands, bits of glistening glass embedded in her palm.

Ro slapped her combadge, “Security, send a team to Quark’s! And alert the infirmary to expect company!” Shoving past zh’Thane and Dizhei, Ro hastily examined Anichent. He drifted in and out of consciousness, his clammy skin shone with sweat. Not being familiar with Andorian physiology, she could only guess he was in shock.

“Councillor!” Ro ordered. “Snap out of it, I need you to help him to the infirmary.” Zh’Thane regained her composure, slid her arm around Anichent, and with him propped against her, helped him away from the table. Dizhei followed after zh’Thane, quaking with each step. Within minutes, medical help would arrive to tend to Anichent, but her job wasn’t done yet. Ro turned to face Thriss.

Agitated, Thriss, in her blood-spattered dress, huddled against the wall, thrusting the broken glass out in front of her. Upper body hunched, she jerked toward each sudden movement in the crowd.

Her voice low and steady, Ro said, “Put down the weapon.” She walked slowly, focusing her energy on capturing Thriss’ attention. “Put it down and we’ll talk.”

“No,” she whispered. “I won’t.”

7

Vaughn plunged his sticky fingers into the washbasin, swishing them around until the remains of the nut-syrup pastries washed away. A servant standing at his shoulder snatched the basin and replaced it the instant he finished. And I thought Starfleet brass were pampered.The Yrythny military chieftains, if J’Maah was representative, had a lot in common with feudal lords with their rugs and embroidered couch cushions. Vaughn had vacationed at luxury resorts whose accommodations paled in comparison to these.

“Excellent dinner, Chieftain J’Maah. I enjoyed the roasted shellfish especially,” Vaughn said. The Defiant’s replicators were good, but having a fresh-cooked meal was definitely appreciated.

Chieftain J’Maah stretched out on the floor, rubbing his full stomach with satisfaction. “Myna is a good cook. She served my House when I was growing up. I took her off Vanìmel when the promotions began. My consort consented to letting Myna come on this journey because of you, Commander Vaughn.” He closed his eyes, breathed deeply and relaxed.

Vaughn wondered if this was some kind of mealtime ritual the Yrythny followed and waited to see if M’Yeoh, First Officer Meltoh and Navigator Ocah dropped to the floor. J’Maah’s officers remained seated, sipping at goblets of wood wine. Vaughn followed their lead. “My best wishes to your consort, then,” he said. “And my compliments to Myna.”

A servant had brought J’Maah pillows for his head and feet. Another combed and braided his hair, interweaving crystal beads and ribbons as she worked. She hummed softly.

“Not the rinberry oil, Retal,” J’Maah backslapped the servant’s cheek. “Takes the color out of the headdress.” He shook his braids, his face puckered in resentment. “Go on now, find the right one.”

Vaughn was finding it increasingly difficult to stomach the scene playing out before him.

Murmuring apologies, the servant’s yellow-green skin blanched; she crawled away on hands and knees. She huddled in the corner, rubbing ointment into the scrape she’d received from the chieftain’s chunky rings.

Vaughn wanted to ask if she required medical assistance, when J’Maah explained, “Very loyal, that Retal. But not smart. Can’t expect too much from a Wanderer.”

Without a word, Retal returned to her ministrations, dabbing J’Maah’s scalp with oil, her long graceful fingers deftly weaving the strands.

Vaughn watched, his chest tight. I think I’d like to be excused from the table.

Minister M’Yeoh materialized in the chair beside him. “Tell me Commander, how are the repairs on your ship going?” he murmured. Seated at the foot of the table, he had said little during the meal.

Turning away from his view of J’Maah’s pedicure, Vaughn sipped from his wood wine. “The extra hands from the Avaril’s engineering staff have helped tremendously.” After his concerns about the Defiant’s security, he’d reviewed a list of all non-Starfleet personnel allowed to access the repair bay and requested that their bioscans be entered into the security identification system. If he had Yrythny coming and going with Nog’s crew, he wanted to keep track of them.

“We’ve received word from Luthia,” J’Maah said. “Your Lieutenant Dax did an excellent job at the Assembly Chamber today.”

Perhaps luck hasn’t completely eluded us,Vaughn thought, relieved. Or maybe this Other of the Yrythny is watching out for our mission.

J’Maah burbled contentedly. “I should have asked you Vaughn, but Retal here has an excellent way with hair. You’re welcome to have her attend to that—that hair on your chin even.”

“Thank you for the offer,” Vaughn said politely. “Another time, perhaps.” Watching this slavish attention to J’Maah was setting Vaughn’s teeth on edge and he hoped he’d be given leave to return to his crew shortly. Too bad Quark wasn’t here—he would love all this decadence.

“As you wish,” J’Maah wheezed, his barrel stomach rising and falling in a relaxed rhythm. “We have the whole way to the Consortium and the whole way back to Vanìmel.”

Here comes the part where I might provoke animosity,Vaughn thought. “Chieftain, a point of clarification. The Defiantshould be spaceworthy by the time we reach the Consortium. Once we obtain our matter load, we plan on flying back to pick up Lieutenant Dax and her team.”

“Of course, of course. The needs of your crew come first. I’m sure they’re anxious to get on their way,” J’Maah said.

“We still hope to explore a great deal of territory before we return home.”

“Whatever we can do, Commander. We’re here to help.” The chieftain’s breathing deepened, his body relaxed and finally his membranous lids dropped over his eyes.

The senior staff sat quietly, watching their captain’s still figure for a few minutes. Finally, First Officer Meltoh whispered, “This is when we go. You first, Commander.”

Hastily, Vaughn made for the exit, grateful for tinny replicated food and sleeping on the deck—without the services of a head masseuse.

“A pillow is a legitimate bet,” Tenmei protested.

Julian examined her more closely and determined she was being sincere. “Fine then, I’ll take a look at it, decide what it’s worth.”

Without sitting up, she reached back and grabbed the pillow from where it sat at the foot of her sleeping bag. “Can you put a price on a non-Starfleet issue pillow at a time like this?” she asked tossing the pillow at Bashir. “Besides, if Cassini can bet his slippers—”

“They’re self-heating!” came Cassini’s muffled protest. He’d tunneled into the sleeping bag two across and one down from Tenmei, having retreated there after being soundly thrashed one round back.

“—then I can bet my pillow,” Tenmei concluded.

Since Nog, the commerce expert, was otherwise occupied, assigning value to crew members’ bets had fallen, by default, to Julian. He preferred to play poker; running the statistical probabilities and plotting strategy was very entertaining. His crewmates, however, determined there wasn’t a way to handicap him in cards and none of them enjoyed losing every single round. Either Julian dealt the cards or he watched. “Take it or leave it,” Tenmei had told him.

It wasn’t fair, really—he didn’t consciously choose to win every contest he’d entered—he just did. During their first week into the mission, engineering sponsored a casino night in the mess. Any game that wasn’t random, Julian won. After that, it became an unwritten rule that the advantage bestowed on Julian by his genetic enhancements required handicapping or elimination. No one resented his abilities, but no one would play cards with him either. In this round of poker, Julian represented the house. He sat cross legged on the floor between Chao and Lankford and knew, from his glimpses at their cards, that they’d be joining Gordimer in the “broke” department very soon. Chao might figure out that Tenmei was bluffing—there was no way she could have better than three of a kind—but he doubted it.

When they were on the Defiant,the crew usually bet whatever personal items they’d brought with them that didn’t exist in the replicator database. Ezri, swearing she had a sure thing, had begged him to loan her Kukalaka after she lost her last bag of jumjachews to Bowers. Their present resource scarcity required they be even more innovative.

Gordimer offered his sleeping spot in the darkest, least trafficked corner of the room for the night. Bashir wanted to play for that bet alone. Chao threw in a headset that emitted wave frequencies that improved REM sleep. After coming up empty, Rahim raided Leishman’s candy supply, reasoning that Nog wouldn’t give his engineers long enough breaks to come back to quarters and takea candy break. For her part, Tenmei had a Tholian silk nightshirt Chao and Lankford coveted. Bowers, who won the last hand, currently had possession of the best sleeping spot in the room, the headset, Leishman’s candy and Prynn’s nightshirt. If Julian didn’t sign off on Tenmei’s pillow, she was out of the game.

Bashir punched and hefted it, rested it in his lap, raised it to his nose to take a whiff. “Ah! Lavender. Very nice.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Prynn said hopefully.

No one made any cracks about Tenmei’s relationship to Vaughn earning her Julian’s favoritism. Her fellow crewmates were smart enough to know they’d be talking to Julian about mending a deviated septum if they did. Squeezing Prynn’s pillow, Julian had to assess its value under the present circumstances.

“Fine. The house agrees to accept Ensign Tenmei’s pillow as a raise,” Bashir said. “Lieutenant Bowers?”

“Fold,” Bowers said with a sigh, tossing in his cards.

Tenmei chuckled contentedly and gathered up her winnings. Cassini emerged from his sleeping bag, retrieved her cards and looked at them. “Two pair? I gave up my self-heating slippers for three of a kind and I could’ve beaten you.”

Tenmei shrugged. “Take my advice, Cassini, stick to dabo. Poker’s not your game.”

Before Cassini could fire off a retort, the door slid open, admitting the two Yrythny technologists who’d been helping the Defiantcrew, Tlaral and Shavoh. “We finished our shifts and wondered if there was anything—” Shavoh began. Puzzled, he looked back and forth over the unoccupied dining area and computer station, which blocked their view of the poker game.

“Over here,” Bashir called out.

Grabbing Tlaral’s arm, Shavoh guided his friend to the rear of the room where the cots and sleeping bags were laid out. Both Yrythny engineers looked confused.

“You’d better have a seat before Lieutenant Nog notices you’re here,” Tenmei said, patting the spot on Senkowski’s mattress pad next to her. Like Leishman, Senkowski wouldn’t be back any time soon to use it. The redshirts and blueshirts had begun their joking predictions as to what the yellowshirts would do when Nog finally eased up. While everyone did what they could to help, Nog allowed only the nonengineers to leave at shift’s end.

“We’re here to help,” Shavoh offered. “To work on the Defiant.”

“Of course you are, but we’ve all been ordered to mix and mingle. Cultural exchanges and all that. Consider sitting for part of your duty,” Tenmei said. “Right, Doctor?”

“Absolutely,” Julian confirmed. “We’re glad to have you, especially since I think several of our players are going to be tapped out in a minute. Are you interested in learning to play cards?”

Tlaral and Shavoh exchanged glances and Tlaral said, “You’ll teach us?”

“Happy to,” Tenmei said with a small smile.

Julian winced, knowing Defiant’s conn officer was eager to teach their “green” alien friends a thing or two about Alpha Quadrant gambling. That, and to further line her coffers.

The two Yrythny engineers cautiously eased down on the floor, trying to situate their legs comfortably. Both settled for lying on their sides and draping their legs out behind them.

“I believe it was your turn, Ensign Lankford,” Julian said.

Wrinkling her nose, she shuffled and reshuffled the cards in her hand, allowed Tenmei to cut the deck, then dealt. “First bet goes to Mr. Bowers,” she said after everyone anted.

“I’ll open with Burning Hearts of Qo’noS.”

Chao groaned. “The Klingon bodice ripper? I’ll fold.” She threw her cards into the pile.

“I take exception to the characterization of that novel as a bodice ripper, Chief,” Bowers said with a wink.

“What would you call it? A face biter? I just can’t believe someone finally pried it away from Nog.”

“Lieutenant, Chief,” Julian said, holding up a hand in the direction of each woman, “by the end of this journey, I suspect everyone on Defiantwill have read Burning Hearts of Qo’noSso I’d advise you both to—Tlaral? Are you all right?”

The Yrythny technologist swayed where she sat, her lashless eyelids flickering. “I’m sorry—I feel a little unwell.”

Grabbing the tricorder beside him, Julian performed a quick scan. “Obviously, I’m not well versed in Yrythny physiology, but I doubt the level of fluctuation I’m seeing in your readings is normal. Electrolytes, pulse, temperature, hormones…”

Tlaral tipped again, this time forward. She threw down her hands to prevent a fall. “I think I need to lie down,” she whispered.

Shavoh helped Julian ease Tlaral onto her back. Prynn shoved the pillow beneath her legs, elevating her feet. Bashir ordered Bowers to retrieve his medical bag while Chao doused a cloth in water and draped it over Tlaral’s forehead.

“I probably haven’t eaten enough today and I’ve worked a double shift,” Tlaral said weakly. Her eyes rolled, her lids dropped and she went limp.

Julian scanned Tlaral with his tricorder. “Prynn, help me examine her for any external injuries.”

While Tenmei went to work removing the Yrythny’s tunic, Bashir rechecked his tricorder readings before turning his attention to Tlaral’s back. “What’s this on her shoulder—a birthmark, an old injury?”

Shrugging, Shavoh covered his eyes, worried. “I don’t know. She had an accident in engineering last spring, but I think she broke her foot.”

“Her heart is racing—I think it’s related to the hormonal surge I picked up with my tricorder.”

“Wait!” Shavoh said suddenly.

“Is there something I need to know?” Julian asked.

“Check her palms, Doctor.”

Tenmei lifted Tlaral’s arm and turned over her hand. Her palms bore the faint imprint of a blue starburst.

Relieved, Shavoh sighed. “She’s ready to go into the waters! It’s her time to mate. This is her first time and I’m sure she didn’t know what to expect. But she’ll be fine. I’ll fetch her consort. Minister M’Yeoh will be pleased.” Shavoh sprang to his feet and ran out the door.

Julian dropped back on his heels as Tenmei eased Tlaral back into her tunic. “Learn something new all the time. Today it’s Yrythny fertility.”

After a few minutes, Tlaral’s lids flickered back, her eyes darting anxiously around the room. “What happened—I was sitting and then it all went black.”

“As your colleague Shavoh put it, you’re ready to go into the waters. She’s gone for your consort.”

She pressed her hands to her temples. “Oh. That’s unexpected. I didn’t think it would be for another year,” she said nervously.

“Breathe a little more slowly. You might hyperventilate.” Julian rubbed her shoulder, hoping it would calm her down. “The scar on your back—it’s directly behind your heart and your pulse is highly irregular. Did you have an injury?”

Slowly, she relaxed, taking a proffered blanket from Prynn, tucking it up around her chin. “As a child, Doctor. I was caught in a coral tunnel near my House. Nothing to worry about.”

Shavoh appeared with Minister M’Yeoh in tow. He waddled across the room and squatted down by his consort. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said, taking Tlaral’s hand in his.

“Congratulations are in order. You’re going to be parents, I think?”

M’Yeoh didn’t have time to follow up with Bashir; an announcement boomed over the comsystem, announcing the Avaril’s approach to the Consortium.

When Vaughn arrived on the Avaril’s bridge, he saw what looked like a frozen spray of brilliant white gold exploding on the viewscreen. For a moment, he questioned whether they’d actually dropped out of warp, though the warp-engine pulse had been replaced with the static hum of impulse. He looked more closely.

Geyserlike eruptions of a giant-size gas particle fountain spread slowly with spindly, chrysanthemum grace.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Minister M’Yeoh gurgled, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

Absorbing the spectacular vista, Vaughn simply nodded.

“Our scientists have postulated it’s a ruptured singularity,” M’Yeoh said.

“A white hole?” Vaughn ventured, wishing Shar were here.

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that term, Commander. Nevertheless, I think you’ll agree it is a glory to behold by any name.”

The navigational sensors were recalibrated. Chieftain J’Maah barked an order to raise shields and increase stabilizers in response to the ebb and flow of gravitational winds originating from the fountain, but not soon enough. Forceful gusts slamming into the starboard side sent the massive Avarillurching and swaying. Yrythny crew and guests alike grabbed onto the closest fixed rail, chair or terminal to avoid being thrown to the floor.

“These straits before we reach the Consortium are the worst, storm-wise,” J’Maah explained to Vaughn. “We’ll be rocking for a few more minutes and then it’s steady traveling until we dock.”

The Avarilheaved with drunken equilibrium until she passed into a dome-shaped debris field created when matter spewing from the fountain coalesced and cooled, leaving hard, pitted asteroids behind. Nearer the fountain, hot particulate globs glowed white, gradually darkening to invisibility as the vacuum of space cooled them. It was for these nondescript space rocks that they had traveled so far, motivated by the hope of obtaining material resilient enough to manufacture femtobots.

Because the Avarilmoved slowly, using her tractor beams to move the larger space rocks (some the size of starships) blown into the shipping lane, Vaughn had time to watch the small mining pods flitting around the debris field closest to the particle fountain. He admired the ingeniousness of the mining pods utilizing small ramscoops to gather in the cooling particle matter. As J’Maah had explained, the total matter collected by a pod on a single trip to the particle fountain was called a “load.” Each Consortium member was entitled to a fixed percentage of loads. Once the member quotas were satisfied, loads became available on the open market. Tomorrow, Vaughn anticipated that one of those mining pods, now flitting about like pollinating insects, would be bringing back a load with Defiant’s name on it.

Full pods flew back to their launch bays in the heart of one of the larger asteroids. Rimmed with flashing lights, silver doors rised open and the pods skimmed along narrow octagonal tunnels drilled inside. Hints of the asteroid’s internal structures emerged on the surface: glittering domes, needle towers, tunnelways, and massive, reinforced support struts linked to other inhabited asteroids.

One asteroid linked to another and another, and still others beyond Vaughn’s sight creating a massive, asymmetrical structure resembling a complex molecular model or the frame of a geodesic dome. Here, a surface glowed with radiant lights where architects had burrowed deep into rock; there, derrick-style living space perched on the surface of an asteroid. J’Maah had shown him a Consortium map more akin to a molecular model than any city state Vaughn had familiarity with. He had counted more than eighty-five “suites” (as inhabited asteroids were called) before J’Maah clicked to the next screen.

The Avaril,because of her size, would dock at a publicly held platform. Such a location facilitated better access to the Core, host to the Consortium’s primary business operations, the matter collecting operation, and public facilities.

Vaughn’s task was straightforward. A small Starfleet contingent would go with Minister M’Yeoh to the Member Business Offices. The necessary permits would be acquired, a trade negotiated, and once the matter load was safely ensconced in the Defiant’s storage bay, the Avarilwould return to Vanìmel. Vaughn expected to see Dax’s away team six days from now, even anticipating a few bumps along the way. Rare was the plan that proceeded without some complication. Consequently, he decided to hold off contacting Dax until the deal had been settled. That way, she’d have a better idea of how much time she had to work with the Yrythny assemblies. Reassurance that a critical component of the Defiant’s upgraded defense system had been acquired would put her mind at ease. If luck smiled on them, they might be able to establish a subspace link early enough in the evening that Julian and Ezri could exchange good nights before retiring for the day.

All in all, a workable plan,he thought, and left his observation post to set the gears in motion.

“File these,” Lieutenant Dax ordered, offloading a shoulder bag and passing it to Shar as they walked down a winding streetway in one of Luthia’s upscale residential districts.

Taking the bag, Shar studied his commanding officer quizzically. What exactly was it he was filing, where was he supposed to file it, and how was it, after four years at Starfleet Academy where he’d won a shelf full of awards, published several well-received articles and graduated with honors, he was filing at all? Mostly he was unsure how moving padds, tomes and isolinear chips from conference room to conference room would help resolve Yrythny civil unrest. “Yes, sir,” he said neutrally. “Is there anything else you need?”

Lieutenant Dax seemed not to notice his uncertainty. She’d hardly looked at him this morning. Earlier, she’d walked past him to her desktop terminal, pulled up her daily meeting schedule, and brewed a hot seaweed tea before saying “hello.” Not that her preoccupation wasn’t understandable: the Yrythny committees she worked with had a tendency to change their minds almost hourly.

“Breaking down the historical precedents for establishing Wanderer rights—” she said, “—have you written the summaries yet?” Dax absently waved to an Assembly official Shar remembered meeting during yesterday’s padd and data shuffling. Attended by servants and clerks, the official cocked his head in their direction, looked down at his hand, clearly wondering what Ezri meant by wiggling her hand in the air.

“They’re in your database, filed under ‘representation issues,’” Shar answered. “Delegate Keren signed off on them late last night. She will join us at the Aquaria.”

“With Vice Chair Jeshoh following shortly after, I suppose?” Ezri said, rolling her eyes.

“Yes, sir.” The morning argument between Jeshoh and Keren had become part of the daily routine. Keren would arrive with her agenda; Jeshoh would arrive with his and the two would quarrel until the next meeting. Whenever they entered the room, Shar’s antennae tingled with the kinetic energy they exuded. He found them more stimulating than most of their colleagues.

Dax suddenly stopped. “Let’s eat. Once the Assembly members start arriving, they’ll keep us talking nonstop.”

Chasing after her, Shar cut in front of a pushcart loaded with bushy, orange flora, past several apartment courtyards to a merchant window where a line of Yrythny waited for shmshucheese and leaberry pastries. Ezri ordered one for each of them, using her Assembly meal card to pay the vendor. She took a few bites and crooked her finger at Shar, pointing them in the direction of a crescent-shaped bench. Between nibbles, Shar determined the time had arrived to present a suggestion to Dax.

“Lieutenant,” Shar said, hoping he looked authoritative, but respectful; he strove to avoid the just-beneath-the-surface insolence that his zhaveyaccused him of when he was determined to make his point. Insincerity would not help his case with Dax. “I have a request.”

Without interrupting her breakfast, she mumbled something about his continuing, put down her pastry, made a notation in her padd, and returned to her eating.

Maybe while she’s distracted, she might agree without thinking too hard about it…“Sir, while I agree that an understanding of historical and social precedents provides context for your work with the committees, I think we’re neglecting a critical area of research.”

“Go on.” She dabbed at the corners of her mouth.

“The Yrythny conflict is based on the supposition that the Wanderers are biologically inferior to the Houseborn,” Shar struggled to keep the excitement out of his voice. “But what if the Houseborn supposition is wrong and we can prove it scientifically?”

“That the inequities between Houseborn and Wanderer biological programming are perceived, rather than actual? My guess is that it’s mostly perception,” Ezri agreed, throwing her legs out in front of her. “At least I haven’t noticed much difference between the groups I’ve been working with. I think they’ve built a complex social culture of castes and customs based on suppositions and preconceptions, regardless of any basis in actual fact.” Dax wadded up her paper refuse and held it in her fist. Looking at Shar, she smiled indulgently. “Perception is nine-tenths of reality, and in the perceptions of the Houseborn, the Wanderers are inferior. I doubt scientific proof would change that perception. Besides, sometimes even the most absurd traditions and customs evolve as a way to preserve a species or protect a planet.”

Shar agreed with Ezri in principle, though he didn’t say so. Over the years, he’d learned from Charivretha how the seemingly illogical customs of many worlds had legitimate roots. For example, many religious dietary codes emerged from pragmatic realities. How avoiding a forbidden food because it would make one “un-holy” before the divinity sounded more meaningful than saying it was forbidden because it would make the follower hallucinate, foam at the mouth and die. Still, not all customs and codes were so well intended. Prejudice and fear still allowed for cultures to rationalize bad policy. From his own studies, Shar had discovered that the Wanderers had emerged as the artisans, architects, and scientists among the Yrythny. The Houseborn’s insistence that the Wanderers “lacked proper instincts” wasn’t logical in the face of such clear, measurable evidence of superior intellectual abilities. He was surprised Dax didn’t raise the point herself. “In most circumstances, a species is better protected by developing a quantifiable strategy,” Shar reasoned. “Such as resource management or environmental restoration.”

“Since the Yrythny didn’t evolve naturally, it’s possible that whoever augmented Vanìmel’s primordial soup intended these instincts to play out.” She shrugged. “Maybe there are chromosomal mutations or weaknesses in the helices.”

“Maybe there aren’t,” Shar argued.

“For example,” Ezri went on, “what would happen if every Yrythny were allowed to reproduce? Could the planet sustain that kind of population explosion?”

“It may not,” Shar conceded. “On the other hand, perhaps it can. I’ve seen no evidence that anyone has yet attempted to answer the question. But even if it can’t, science might solve that problem, too.”

Ezri sighed. “Maybe these social customs, as repulsive as they may seem to us, serve a purpose not immediately obvious to the outsider. That’s why examining their history is crucial. Tracing the origins of this social order might help them course-correct. If you pull out a weed without killing the root, the weed will grow back.”

“Yes, sir,” Shar said. He set down his pastry, his appetite withering.

“You should know something of restrictive social customs and how they relate to physiological and biological realities from your own experiences.”