Taking Wing - Michael A. Martin [63]
“Wonder what’s wrong,” he said.
“Perhaps they ate something that didn’t agree with them,” Troi said, keenly aware that something had truly bothered the engineers. She gestured toward the buffet. “It certainly all looks good.”
As they made their way over to the buffet, Troi saw that Will was making eye contact with everyone he could. Since this was his first meal there in two weeks, it made sense that most of the people present were surprised to see him. She was happy to note that several crew members were already feeling increased respect for their captain because of his appearance here.
After serving themselves—she taking an Andorian tuber root salad with Betazoid oskoid fronds, he assembling something he described as an improvised Lycosan Reuben sandwich—they began looking about the room for seating. They saw several empty tables in one corner, although Akaar’s trio of Vulcan advisers was seated nearby. At another table only a little farther off, Dr. Ree squatted, his long, thick tail partially coiled beneath him, his chair pushed to the side to accommodate his long frame. His back was turned to everyone in the room.
“Let’s sit with Dr. Ree,” Will said.
Troi smiled, feeling a surge of triumph. Will had really warmed up to his CMO—as had many aboard Titan—though there were still some among the crew who remained almost viscerally troubled by his fearsome look.
As they neared the table, Ree looked up at them, his nested double eyelids blinking in alternation, first vertically, then horizontally.
“Mind if we join you, Doctor?” Will asked.
“If you can stand the gruesome sight,” Ree said. As Will and Troi sat down, he added, “I seem to have scared a few of the more sensitive diners away.”
“Nonsense,” Troi said, then cast her gaze onto the meal Ree was eating.
On a large platter was a bloody pile of raw meat, still attached to a long, curved bone. Mottled, bile-colored gobbets of fat and gristle festooned the edges of his plate.
“What is that you’re eating?” Will asked. Troi sensed no serious discomfort coming from Will; as a survivor of many a Klingon meal, very few things could turn his stomach.
Ree gestured at his repast with a single long, sharp foreclaw. “Freshly-killed targ. The Klingons have been most hospitable in sharing their comestibles. I had to convince our chef that he should not cook it before serving it to me.”
After lustily tearing off, chewing, and swallowing another large bite, Ree cocked his head to one side, then swiveled it to take in all the other faces in the mess hall. Troi did likewise.
Though the people in the room were the products of perhaps a score of distinct worlds and cultures, they had achieved an unprecedented degree of emotional unanimity. Troi also noticed that most of them were looking in Ree’s direction.
They were staring. Some were plainly horrified. But most were making a heroic effort not to let their revulsion show. Good. We’re making some real progress here.
Ree looked back at Riker and Troi. “I believe that I shall finish this in my quarters later,” Ree said, standing. “Thank you for sitting with me.”
Turning, Ree carried the platter of meat with him as he crossed the room and exited into the corridor. The room was utterly silent until the doors hissed closed behind him.
Ree’s sadness hung in the room like a cloud of smoke. Clearly, he was becoming sensitive to those who had not succeeded in hiding their distaste.
Maybe that constituted some sort of progress as well. Bridges, after all, had to be built on both sides of any biological or cultural divide.
“Damn,” Will muttered.
“What’s wrong?” Troi wanted to know.
“Looks like we picked this table for nothing,” he said, simultaneously radiating disappointment and mischief.
“It’s all right, Will,” she said very quietly. “Integrating this crew is