Day of Honor - Michael Jan Friedman [43]
Janeway smiled a sober smile. "Trust me. It'll be easier to explain once you're here."
The Caatati smiled back as best he could. Then he turned to some off screen technican and gave an order. A moment later, Lumas returned his attention to the captain.
"Our shields are down," he said. "That is, what's left of them."
Janeway nodded. "Transporter room one. Lock on to the coordinates of the Cataati with whom I've been speaking and beam him aboard."
"Aye, Captain," came the response from the transporter room.
Janeway glanced at Tuvok. "See to it our friend Lumas is escorted to the briefing room. And ask Mr. Neelix to join us there as well. He knows our food supplies better than anyone."
"Acknowledged," said the Vulcan.
The captain turned to the viewscreen again. After a moment or two, Lumas was surrounded by the shimmering aura of the transporter effect. Then he vanished from the screen altogether.
Janeway heaved a sigh. This wasn't going to be easy. She could cope with subspace anomalies and hostile life-forms. But a people who needed more help than she could give?
That was a different story entirely.
THE DOCTOR STOOD IN A DRY RIVERBED IN THE MIDDLE OF the Phaelonian Wasteland and gazed at the native Phaelonians amassed all around him.
Tall, graceful beings with golden eyes and scaly, purple skin, they wore black breeches, shirts, and headbands to commemorate their holiday, the Vemal Processional. Having had his fill of costuming traditions after his Betazoid experience, the Doctor wore his uniform instead.
Thanks to some tinkering he had done with the program, no one noticed that he was dressed any differently. For that matter, no one noticed that he was a human instead of a Phaelonian. That was one of the advantages of a holographic simulation-one could diverge from the norm and get away with it.
Most of the Doctor's fellow observers were gazing upriver, the direction from which the processional
was to arrive. They seemed excited by the prospect, despite the oppressive waves of heat that rose from the riverbed.
The Doctor admitted that he was excited, too. The thought of a parade appealed to him. No doubt, it would have its share of well-dressed Phaelonians and festively decorated carriages. Maybe even a juggler.
After all, this event was an important one to the Phaelonians. In ancient times, it was considered an inducement for the gods to flood the riverbed with snowmelt from nearby mountains-and, in the process, make fertile the land all around it.
As with so many other holidays, it had outlived its original intent. However, one couldn't deny its prominence in Phaelonian arts and culture. There were, for instance, some seventy-two metaphors in the local tongue that focused on the processional, though the Doctor had bothered to read only a couple of them.
In fact, he had done in this case pretty much what he had done in his study of the Wedding of Riw. In other words, very little-even though, in the Betazoid program, the Doctor's minimal scholarship had proven his undoing.
But how could he judge the full value of a celebration if he knew in advance everything that would happen? How could he be spontaneous? Indeed, how could he have a good time?
Turning to a Phaelonian who seemed even more eager than the others, the Doctor said, "It should be a good one this year."
It was an innocuous enough remark, he thought.
And yet, it was calculated to initiate a conversation.
The Phaelonian smiled. "It depends on the abendear."
Ah yes, thought the Doctor. The abendaar-a Phaelonian beast of burden. He had learned that much, at least.
Long ago, abendaar had pulled the Phaeloniang, carts and carriages. It was only logical that they would figure prominently in a ceremonial march.
"I take it you've done this before?" the Doctor asked.
"Once," the Phaelonian told him. "My sibling did it three times."
"Oh?" said the Doctor. "Is he here?"
The Phaelonian's enthusiasm seemed to dim a bit. "No, though I wish he were. No one enjoyed the processional as much as he did."