Survivors - Jean Lorrah [29]
Like Darryl Adin.
“Tasha?”
“Yes? Do you have our ETA calculated?”
“One hour, seventeen point three minutes.” He paused, then added, “You are concerned. Should we send a message to the Enterprise about what we have observed?”
“Definitely,” she replied, glad he had misinterpreted her introspection. They were not due to report to the Enterprise again until after they had landed … but right now they had the time to compose a detailed message. Data included the two news broadcasts, and they both tried to explain their misgivings.
When they were satisfied, Data dispatched the message. The Enterprise had been warping away from them all this time, so each message would take longer to reach the starship. Thus far they had received two routine “message received” signals to their first progress reports. It would probably take another day before they had a reply to this one, and since they would not be aboard the shuttle by then, the flight computer would simply store it until one of them came aboard.
Then it was time to communicate with the spaceport in Treva’s capital city, and bring the shuttle down. It was quickly directed into a hangar, where Data and Yar emerged to find themselves surrounded by men and women in uniforms of black with large areas of red, blue, or greenish gold. They were not exact attempts to copy Starfleet uniforms-but at a distance, Yar realized, these people would give the impression of a platoon of Starfleet personnel. Were the natives so stupid as to believe they had all come out of one small shuttle?
There was a crowd of people, held back by soldiers, at the edge of the tarmac. Data and Yar, however, were hurried past them at some distance, into a waiting groundcar. They drove through streets from which traffic had obviously been cleared, followed by other vehicles carrying the people who had met the shuttle. Behind barricades, people lined up to stare at the visitors.
The Presidential Palace was a short distance outside the city, set in beautiful parklike grounds. Their groundcar was passed quickly through the security perimeter. Yar automatically took note of the design, one she knew half a dozen ways to circumvent. To her surprise, no one asked for their phasers, either there or when they entered the palace.
Nalavia was waiting for them in a reception room, extending a hand to each in the human manner … before a battery of cameras. It was a showpiece, Yar recognized. She searched her mind for rules of protocol, which had never been of much interest to her except for the military protocol of Starfleet. The Trevans were in transition from a sort of benevolent tyranny to a parliamentary democracy, the change begun two generations ago. As a result, class distinctions were blurring, and so were customs. There was no neat set of rules by which to interpret Nalavia’s behavior.
Except one: hereditary or elected ruler, this woman was the head of her planet’s government. Yet she had been waiting for them, rather than having them ushered into the reception room and then making an entrance. She met them as equals, which they were not. That meant she wanted her people to think they were.
Treva’s President wore a wine-red form-fitting outfit that sketched a tribute to being a military uniform by sporting epaulets and a cluster of gold brooches on the left bodice. It was two-piece, the top tightly belted over a skirt split to well above the knee. With it Nalavia wore knee-length boots with tall, thin heels that brought her to Data’s height but made Yar wonder how she managed not to fall off them.
On a wide ribbon, she wore about her neck a golden badge, the symbol of the Presidency … but the length