“So you all conspired to return to Andor without talking to me about it,” Thriss said softly. “When was this decided? You and Anichent have a little pillow talk, Dizhei? Or was it your idea, Zhadi?Trying to control us, as usual.” Thriss jerked around to face zh’Thane, tipping over a mug filled with Orion ale; liquid drenched the table.

Flustered, Dizhei jumped up. Thriss sat fixed, unbending, ignoring the disturbance she’d caused.

“We hadn’t decided anything without discussing it with you, Shathrissía,” Anichent said. He draped an arm around her shoulder and hugged her reassuringly. “We had to make sure the proposal was feasible. All is well, zh’yi.”

“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.”