Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [13]
“Don’t say another word,” Troi told her. “At least not by way of apology.” Her smile broadened. “If the ship’s counselor can’t be forgiving, who can?”
“Right,” said Crusher, assuming a somewhat more professional demeanor. “Then let’s get down to business.” She activated another monitor, which resided on the bulkhead nearest her. “Why don’t we start with Mukhurjee in engineering? She gave birth to twins recently. I think there’s a little postpartum depression setting in.”
“Yes,” said Troi. “I think you’re right.”
“What do you think?” asked Lyneea.
The dark tavern was packed full of simply dressed laborers, men and women puffing on nohnik pipes or tossing back mugs of korsch. Imprima’s working class, whether native or offworld-born, favored nothing but the gloomiest of colors in their garb, so only their faces threw back the lurid light of the hanging i’ekra lamps. Loud, wild music reverberated from wall to wall, punctuated by the cries of some rowdy patrons seated deeper inside the low-ceilinged chamber.
But the sense that took the greatest beating was that of smell. The odors of nohnik and perspiration made a potent combination, to say the least.
Back in the days when they were negotiating the trade agreement, Teller would have looked down his nose at a place like this. His taste was for amber-toned parlors where everyone dressed in the gaudy hue of his or her madraga and where power wafted on the air even thicker than the perfume.
Riker had always been a little uncomfortable in those establishments. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed the soft music and the rich light and the velvety skin of the madraga-dzins’ daughters—because he had.
But the power part hadn’t intrigued him as it had his friend. Which was probably why Teller had been so much better at negotiation with the leaders of Imprima—he was more in tune with their way of looking at the world… .
The reception hall was Impriman through and through, right down to the thread of gold in the furnishings. The tall open windows on the east wall let in the cold, crisp air and provided a glimpse of the stars.
But even an offworlder could find warmth here. In the subtle potency of the drinks. In the gentle intimacy of the music. And in the company.
Teller stared at a trio of young ladies as they made their way across the room. They wore yellow, signifying their kinship with Madraga Alionis; the color seemed all the more vibrant against the paleness of their perfect skin.
“I’m in heaven,” he said.
“No way,” said Riker. “Not unless they’ve lowered the entry standards considerably.”
“Well, then, a reasonable facsimile thereof I mean, if these aren’t angels, I’ll eat my communicator.”
“Which is back on the ship, thanks to the high-tech ban. Try again.”
Teller shrugged. “You get the idea.”
Riker nodded. “Don’t forget, though—these are the daughters of the people we’re trying to impress. Let’s not offend anyone, shall we?”
His friend looked hurt—but he wasn’t very good at it. The twinkle in his blue eyes gave him away.
“Will, old sod, if I’m not the picture of propriety, who is?”
Riker never got a chance to answer that, because Norayan answered it for him. It was as if she’d appeared from out of nowhere, tempting in the dusky blue of Criathis.
“I’d sooner trust an isak with a newborn muzza,” she said, “than turn you loose in a place like this.” She took Teller’s arm. “How did you get them to let you in? Either of you? Obviously they haven’t heard about your exploits as I have.”
Teller blushed. “Come on,” he said. “That was just a line of malarkey. We were trying to impress you back then.”
“And now?” asked Norayan.
“Now you’re on to us. You know how harmless we are.”
Riker grinned sheepishly in support of his friend’s claim.
Norayan shook her head, smiling too. “Whatever will I do with you?”
Teller tilted his head in the direction of the bar. “You could introduce us to those young ladies.”
“Which?” asked Norayan. “The ones in yellow?”
Teller looked