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How important is it, Zetha wondered, to make this human accept me? More to the point, why is it necessary when the others have?

Uhura accepted me almost too readily, because she believed I was sent by Cretak. Tuvok needed to ask his questions but, once satisfied with the answers, he no longer questions me. As for Selar, her passion-and yes, I know, Vulcans are reportedly lacking in passion, but as the distant brothers, we know better-Selar’s passion is medicine, her focus narrow, and if whenever we are planetside I play to the cover story that we are kin, and emulate her behaviors, and if when we are on the ship I make myself useful by volunteering to do small, unskilled chores in her lab, she in her quiet way will accept me.

As for the other humans, the flame-haired one and her son all but apologized for being human in my presence, something I still don’t understand…

“Jolan tru,” Wesley greeted her when his mother, her hand proprietarily on Zetha’s shoulder, introduced them. At only eleven, he was already taller than Zetha. “I hope I’m pronouncing that right.”

“You are.” Zetha said. He is a child, she reminded herself, shaking his proffered hand as she had observed other humans do. Do not judge him.

“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Beverly said, heading for the kitchen.

It was after he’d shown his guest around and she had repressed her reaction to the sheer wealth of things that one child could possess that Wesley, running out of small talk, suddenly blurted:

“I’m glad you’re here. I’ve never met a Romulan before. I get to meet new people a lot, but never a Romulan. My mom’s always bringing home stray kittens and people with nowhere else to go…”

“Very nice, young man!” came Beverly’s voice from the kitchen, though Wesley seemed to know he’d blundered as soon as he’d spoken.

“Oops. I didn’t mean-“

“I know exactly what you mean,” Zetha said without inflection, and Wesley had excused himself as if to find a hole big enough to crawl into, even though she hadn’t seemed to be offended. If anything, she had wanted to laugh at his ingenuousness. But then it made her angry, that he should have the freedom to be so ingenuous, when even at his age she-Not his fault, she reminded herself, her sharp ears picking up the heated discussion in the room beyond.

“But, Mom, I didn’t mean it that way-!”

“Well, what exactly did you mean? Because from what I could hear, it sounded like-“

“I mean-I don’t know-maybe because she’s like a kitten? She’s small, and she seems gentle, but I bet if she got mad, she’d have claws, that’s all.”

“That’s very glib, Wes.”

“I’m sorry.”

Is this because of me? Zetha wondered, marveling. She could hear Beverly sigh.

“I’m not the one you should apologize to, but if Zetha has the good grace not to be offended, I’ll let you off the hook. But try to think before you open your mouth from now on, please? Remember the one about walking in someone else’s shoes?”

The boy didn’t say anything then; perhaps he merely nodded. Zetha treated him with caution for the rest of the evening.

At the dinner table, she watched how they used their utensils and emulated them, and waited to be asked if she wanted seconds, because she was beginning to understand that humans, at least these humans, always had more than enough food. She thought of Aemetha’s foundlings fighting over the last scrap, the last drops of soup in the pot, thought of the House and the rows of refectory tables, the bowls full of the same gray slop whatever the meal, and, having guessed that Dr. Crusher’s medical instruments would assess her past as readily as the Tal Shiar healer’s had, ate with gusto, but slowly, knowing she was watched.

She endured their efforts to entertain her, uncertain of the rules. No one had ever singled her out for such attention before, unless they wanted something in return. Assuming Crusher was monitoring her as much as Tuvok had been, she watched and waited for cues. Did she want to watch a video with Beverly, or play a game with Wes? She would