The Battle of Betazed - Charlotte Douglas [20]
Physical proximity was not the worst hardship for the residents of the stronghold. In a telepathic society, complete privacy was practically an impossibility, but at least before the war, all had lived in houses or farms set spaciously apart to allow some psionic elbow room. Here, true privacy was even more rare than water now, and as a result, tempers often flared.
Especially that of Sorana Xerix, daughter of the Third House. Her protests reached Lwaxana even before she entered the cavernous common area where women gathered during the day.
My best robe, Sorana whined, and it’s ruined with soup stains.
Be thankful the stains are food and not blood, Lwaxana shot back, drawing herself to her full height and fixing Sorana with a withering stare. With so many of our people dead and dying, my dear, your complaints are becoming a royal pain in the ass.
Sorana’s blast of offended pride and righteous indignation washed over Enaren and Lwaxana at the entrance to the chamber, and its other occupants glanced up in expectation. Damira, her ailing baby clasped against her breast, cried out in anguish when she realized Enaren’s failure to obtain more ryetalyn.
Don’t despair, he reassured her. I’ll try another village tomorrow. The doctor has enough to keep the boy comfortable until then.
Barin broke from Chaxaza and raced across the room toward his mother, his chubby legs pumping, his arms spread wide, his delicious giggle balm for her aching heart. She scooped him up in her arms and hugged him tight.
“No bug bites?” she asked.
He shook his head, brown eyes shining, and patted her cheeks with his plump hands. “Cha’za looked.”
Sorana glared at Lwaxana across the room, but Lwaxana for once was in no mood for an extended confrontation. After another fierce hug, she handed Barin back to his caretaker. “Call the resistance leaders together in the meeting room,” she instructed in a voice ringing with authority. “We have decisions to make.”
She spoke aloud, recognizing that not all inhabitants of the stronghold possessed the same degree of telepathic abilities. Some projected and read thoughts with more ease than others. When matters of communal concern were discussed, Lwaxana insisted on the spoken word. “The better informed, the less likely people were to panic” had always been her maxim. Today she wasn’t so sure. All the news pending before the council was bad.
At the chiming of the sacred bell that signaled a meeting, people streamed in from other common rooms and private alcoves, where a blanket or quilt hung across the opening afforded the only privacy available. Most of the tiny cubicles were furnished with only the barest of necessities, items the occupants had grabbed in haste and carried on their backs as they fled the Jem’Hadar.
In spite of efforts at shielding, a multitude of thoughts and emotions jammed the air in the great chamber that served as the council hall. From her place on the dais at the end of the room, Lwaxana watched the others arrive, sensing fear and despair in some, renewed hope and determination in others, and a guarded watchfulness in a few.
Their backgrounds were as varied as their emotions. Many of the leaders came from the cities, where they’d previously held high government office or venerable professorships at the universities.
Just as numerous were farmers and craftspeople and their families from Betazed’s outlying villages. Diverse in profession, wealth, and knowledge, they shared one common goal—to drive the Jem’Hadar from Betazed soil, even if each of them must sacrifice her life to do it.
When the group had first fled the Dominion invasion and entered the stronghold, they had elected Enaren as their leader. Eleven other members of the ruling body, including Lwaxana, joined him on the dais, and he stood to address the other leaders and the crowd, which had assembled