“The yellow-alert status. It’s my understanding that all starship departures and arrivals require a day, sometimes longer, for clearance,” she said, perusing a padd she’d apparently had tucked inside her sleeve.

“That’s correct. We felt that we needed to screen for potential security risks, biohazards or other illegal activities that might threaten the various diplomatic goings-on.” And her staff—already putting in extra shifts since Akaar’s arrival—felt burdened by the pressure of their added responsibilities. Councillor zh’Thane had better not add to their load,Ro thought defensively.

“A plan must exist to accommodate emergencies. Something involving Admiral Akaar or First Minister Shakaar, for instance.” Her antennae curled slightly forward.

“Not going to happen. The same rules that apply to the lowliest scrap scow apply to the admiral and the first minister. Barring full on military assault or medical emergency—”

Zh’Thane pounced. “I require a medical exception for my vessel, Lieutenant.”

“Why?”

“That’s a private matter.”

Ro refused to budge. “Without signed medical orders, your ship will have to queue up behind everyone else.”

“I’m a Federation councillor, Lieutenant,” zh’Thane said quietly, though the warning in her tone was implicit. “You can take me at my word.” The councillor leaned forward as she regarded Ro challengingly across the desk.

Placidly, Ro met zh’Thane’s stare. Tough talk and aggressive body language never phased her. “If I had a bar of latinum for every VIP who asked for special privileges, I’d be retired on Risa by now. We’re in a state of heightened alert.” Why was it that important people always assumed the rules didn’t apply to them?

“The war’s over. I think we’re reasonably safe. Aren’t you being overly cautious?” zh’Thane snapped.

“If I hadn’t experienced an unprovoked Jem’Hadar attack fairly recently, I might agree with you. Our known enemies might be accounted for—it’s the unknown enemies we need to guard against.” The casualties, the damage to the station’s primary systems, and the ensuing panic all loomed large in her recent memory; none of it would Ro want to experience again. If safety required inconvenience, she would happily be the enforcer.

“Perhaps I should speak with Colonel Kira,” zh’Thane said.

“That’s certainly your privilege. But if you have a genuine medical concern that may require bypassing our security measures, the colonel will require the same answers I do.”

Zh’Thane appeared to waver indecisively. “This isn’t—” she began, then started again. “Lieutenant, believe me when I tell you I’m not insensitive to the station’s security concerns or your responsibilities. But the situation—” She cut herself off again and closed her eyes, then took a deep breath as if to calm herself. When her eyes opened again, they seemed pleading. “Please don’t require this of me.”

“With respect, Councillor,” Ro said gently, “I can help you only if you can help me to understand the situation.”

“I know,” zh’Thane said. Hands squeezing the armrests, the councillor’s upper body and antennae tensed, until she exhaled deeply. “It’s simply that I’ve been trying to convince myself that taking an outsider into our confidence wouldn’t be necessary. I realize now how foolish that was. But you must understand that that level of trust doesn’t come easily to many of my people, Lieutenant. If I am open with you, can you assure me that what I say will remain between us?”

Ro stared at zh’Thane, a little stunned to see how fragile and powerless she suddenly seemed. Whatever’s going on, it’s obviously mortifying her to do this.“I have no desire to violate your privacy, Councillor. Perhaps you shouldspeak with the colonel directly—”

“No,” zh’Thane said firmly. “It’s my understanding that you’re Thirishar’s friend. He admires and respects you. That will make this easier for me, but I need to know that you’ll keep this in confidence.”

With a deliberate move of her hand, Ro tapped in the commands engaging her office’s privacy shields. She rarely used the shield, saving it for interrogations or clandestine informants reporting in. “I will, unless doing so somehow compromises the safety of this station.”

Zh’Thane nodded. “Acceptable…. You’re aware of Thirishar’s bondmates being aboard the station?”

“Yes,” Ro said. “I was the one who arranged for their stay in Shar’s quarters during his absence, per his request.”

“For which I know they’re most grateful. Having any small aspect of his life to cling to has been a great comfort to them these past weeks. You see…by accepting his current assignment, Shar has put his well-being, and that of his bondmates, at risk.”

Ro frowned. “In what way?”

“He was supposed to come home!” zh’Thane hissed. “I don’t speak of a cultural obligation that’s at odds with his Starfleet career, although that aspect of it certainly can’t be overlooked in all of this. I speak now of biological necessity.”

Ro tried to intuit from zh’Thane’s hints what she might be implying, and became alarmed. She knew that some life-forms had an imperative to return to their place of birth in order to continue the reproductive cycle of their species, only to die if they failed. “I’ve heard that Vulcans—”

“This isn’t like that,” zh’Thane said. “You’re perhaps imagining that Shar has put himself in danger by denying an inner drive to procreate, but that isn’t the case. In fact, the situation is, in many ways, far more grave than that, with potentially farther-reaching consequences.

“The Andorian species, you may know, has four sexes, none of which is truly male or female as you define them. Our interactions with the many two-sex species that comprise the majority of sentients with whom we traffic has led us to accept male and female pronouns for simplicity’s sake, and because it helps us avoid unwelcome questions about our biology.

“Because our procreative process requires chromosomes from four parents, it is, as I’m sure you gather, a very complicated matter for four individuals who are compatible—genetically and emotionally—to come together to produce a child.”

Complicated is an understatement,Ro thought. It sounds damn near impossible.“Councillor, forgive me, but…I don’t understand how such a biological system could sustain itself.”

“It doesn’t,” zh’Thane said quietly.

That was when Ro began to understand what the Andorians were facing, even as zh’Thane continued to spell it out.

“Our species is dying, Lieutenant. It wasn’t always this way, but certain…changes…have led to our present dilemma, which neither Andorian nor Federation science has been able to solve. The best we’ve been able to do is adjust ourselves to our circumstances. Our culture is now defined by the need to do whatever is necessary to ensure the survival of our species. Successful conception requires careful planning. As many variables as can be controlled, are. But matching together the most viable quads is difficult undertaking. This is so much more complicated than…Do you know that within minutes of Shar’s birth, his DNA map was entered into our master files with the express purpose of being matched to those he was most compatible with, genetically? He belonged to something bigger than he was before he even had a self-concept!

“Thirishar believes we are simply delaying the inevitable. And he’s right. We take our obligation to produce offspring more seriously than any other aspect of our lives because our species is headed toward extinction. We have to do all that we can to assure our kind’s survival until a solution can be found.”

Ro watched zh’Thane’s antennae twitch sharply with her every word, the councillor’s agitation palpable.

“That’s why you needed Shar to return home,” Ro realized. “To join his bondmates in producing a child.”