IMBALANCE Page 2

  A light started blinking on the console in front of him. He acknowledged the incoming message from the Jaradan Council of Elders and then summoned Picard from his ready room. Whether Worf liked it or not, the negotiations were about to begin.

  “On screen,” Picard ordered as he strode down the sloping ramp. He crossed the space in front of the command area and stopped between the forward stations, tugging the waist of his dress uniform jacket into place. The screen switched from a view of the approaching planets to a flickering gold and green pattern. After a moment this faded to show the torso of a being seated in a dimly lit room.

  Picard gestured for Worf to adjust the controls, and the picture brightened. The triangular face was all planes and angles, making Picard think of an ebony mantis enlarged to human size. The Jarada had a narrow pointed snout and a hooked jaw with sharp, shearing teeth in the front. Interference patterns sent every color of the rainbow flickering across the flat central facet of the large compound eyes, and the Jarada’s long, feathery antennae vibrated at the smallest sound. When the alien realized that Picard was watching, he began speaking.

  “Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Federation starship Enterprise. We of the Jarada greet you.” The voice was reedy and sounded as if several people were speaking at once.

  “Kk-hegg-ra’lesh bre-feg’ra leth c’fre!let ji!” Picard answered, hoping he had gotten the proper inflections into the nearly unpronounceable sentence. The pronunciation key that had come with this greeting— “We of the Federation are honored to serve”—had not been as detailed as the previous message he had been required to deliver to the Jarada. For a moment after he finished speaking, Picard held his breath, waiting.

  The Jarada lowered his head in acknowledgment, the light gleaming off the smooth black planes of his cranium. Chitin or chitin-analog, Picard thought, wondering if Beverly Crusher would get a chance to examine these creatures in detail. The Federation needed to learn so much about these people.

  As if reading Picard’s eagerness to begin their talks, the Jarada raised his head and responded to the greeting. “Your Federation honors us with your presence. We will be ready to begin our discussions in ten of your minutes, if you and your workmates can arrive at our Council Chambers then. We will consent to conduct the negotiations in your language if you prefer, because we have learned that the tonal values of our language are difficult for your race to reproduce.”

  “You honor us with your gesture.” Picard was surprised, and more than a little puzzled, by the offer. After almost a century of making other beings dance to their tune, the concession was incredible. Either he had misunderstood the Jarada completely or the alien wanted something so desperately that he was willing to do anything to get it. Neither possibility boded well for the mission, but Picard had no way to choose the correct explanation as long as he remained on the Enterprise. The only way to find out was to beam over to the planet. “We shall arrive in ten minutes.”

  The Jarada bowed his head again, this time bending so far over that his face and antennae nearly touched the console in front of him. “The honor is ours entirely. We shall await your arrival.”

  The screen faded back to the green and gold pattern, and Picard turned to his command crew. “You all know your assignments. Mr. Data, you have the conn. Away team, with me.” He started for the turbolift without checking to see that Worf, Riker, and Troi fell in behind him. The doors closed on the sound of Data ordering Crusher and Keiko to report to the transporter room.

  Chapter Two

  PICARD AND THE REST of the away team—Riker, Troi, Crusher, Worf, and Keiko—materialized in a courtyard near the center of the Governance Complex. They were walled in by a dense grove of trees, the thick trunks and twisting branches making it impossible for them to see more than a few meters in any direction. The temperature was warmer than Picard had expected, with the building around the courtyard blocking off any breeze and the walls and brick walkways holding in the sun’s heat. A heavy resiny scent, like a mixture of cedar and olive oil, wrapped itself around them.

  Through gaps in the dense blue-green foliage, Picard caught glimpses of earth-toned walls, muted browns and reds and ochres that refused to coalesce into an organized pattern. Behind him something skittered against the rough bricks of the walkway. Worf whirled to face the sounds, reaching for his phaser before he remembered this was a diplomatic mission.

  Riker was only a moment slower than the Klingon, but relaxed almost immediately when he saw that the four Jarada approaching them were unarmed and wore ceremonial sashes of brightly colored, knotted cords across their thoraxes. By the time the rest of the away team had finished turning, the Jarada were crouched in a ritual greeting posture.

  The insectoids had four pairs of limbs, with the lowermost set, the thick and sturdy strong-legs, used to support most of the body’s weight and to provide the power they needed when they moved. Immediately above the strong-legs were the longer and more slender balance-legs, which served to steady their bodies after a long leap or to hold their torsos in a prescribed orientation, as now, when they were tucked close together beneath their abdomens in the formal crouch.

  The Jarada had barrellike segmented torsos that gleamed with an almost metallic luster, as though each Jarada had polished its carapace until it glistened. Two sets of arms were attached to the upper end of their torsos, the lower pair larger and the top pair almost vestigial. The Jarada extended their larger true-arms toward their guests, holding their three-clawed hands facing upward, while crossing their tiny feeding-arms over their upper thoraxes.

  Their heads, Picard noted again, were all planes and angles with narrow snouts and broad foreheads. Large compound eyes with broad central facets surrounded by smaller side facets were set on the sides of their heads, and their faces were framed by long, feathery antennae that quivered at every sound.

  The largest Jarada, a space-black individual who wore a heavily ornamented sash and was about as tall as Keiko, took one step forward and repeated the formal crouch. Behind him, the other three Jarada bent their legs to bring their bodies still closer to the ground. “Greetings, Picard-Captain and esteemed guests. I am Zelfreetrollan, First Among Council for those of the People who dwell on this planet. Your presence honors our lowly Hive.”

  Picard bowed and extended his palms outward in the closest approximation he could make to the Jarada’s gesture. From the corner of his eye he could see the rest of the away team copying his movements. “First Among Council, your invitation honors my people, both those that accompany me on my vessel and those on the hundreds of worlds that belong to our Federation. It is our fondest hope that we can reach an agreement that will enable you to join us in a full partnership which will enrich all our people.”

  Zelfreetrollan flexed his legs, briefly dipping into a deeper crouch. “Our people, too, share that wish. We will conduct you now to a Meditation Chamber, where you can prepare yourselves for the beginning of our discussions. When you have recovered sufficiently from your journey, we will require that our Protocol Officer attend upon you and instruct you on the Way of our Hive.” After another deep crouch he turned and started down the walk in the direction from which he had come. The other three Jarada, all smaller than Zelfreetrollan and with russet- or chestnut-colored exoskeletons, stepped aside until the away team had passed them.

  A spicy odor, like cinnamon or nutmeg, hit Picard as the three Jarada fell in behind the away team as an honor guard. Suddenly he was seven years old again, watching his mother grate nutmeg for gnocchis, the shell-like dumplings she had made for family dinner every Sunday of his childhood.

  Shaking off the memory, Picard focused his attention on the Jarada. Zelfreetrollan moved quickly in spite of his height, with his strong-legs reaching out in wide arcs that covered the ground more easily than a human’s and his balance-legs catching his weight to extend his stride. His chitin-covered feet clicked against the bricks like the mechanical tapping of an intake controller putting its valves through
a diagnostics sequence.

  The thick trees opened out before broad, shallow stairs that led to the entrance of a building that seemed thrown together from a random collection of bulbous shapes, each a different color of earth-hued plaster. The upper stories sprouted from the lower at odd intervals, as if the structure were a vital entity with a will of its own, and the top level sprouted a central tower that could have been transplanted from Angkor Wat. The building’s windows were round and had been placed without reference to any architectural theory that Picard had ever encountered. In fact, the captain thought as they approached the steps, the structure seemed more organic than constructed, almost as if it had grown from the seed of a building plant.

  They entered the building and Zelfreetrollan turned left, leading them down a low, wide corridor that smelled strongly of spices—a mixture of cinnamon, cloves, and other things less identifiable. After the brightness of the courtyard, the dim lighting inside made the ceiling seem even lower than it was. Picard noticed that Riker, after bending to get through the doorway, kept ducking his head as though he were fighting against the feeling that he was about to strike his head against the rough plaster above him. In contrast to the uneven finish on the walls and ceiling, the floor was an exquisite mosaic of brightly colored tiles deeply set into mortar to give the floor an uneven surface.

  Some of the designs were geometric, sharp outlines and precise shapes of saturated color so brilliant that even in the subdued light they seemed to glow with an inner radiance that made Picard’s eyes water. Other segments of the floor seemed to depict realistic scenes, possibly events in the history of the Jarada, but without more time he could not interpret what he was seeing.

  When they passed one of the windows, Worf paused for a moment. The glass was set back on the interior edge of the wall, which was nearly half a meter thick. Decorative leading divided the window into small panes, each one a structurally isolated unit. Worf grunted and leaned forward to study the construction more closely. Behind him the skitter of the Jarada’s claws against the tile floor reminded him of their mission. The Klingon straightened abruptly, almost banging his head against the ceiling. Half a dozen quick strides brought him even with the rest of the away team.

  Picard lifted an eyebrow when Worf caught up with them, but the Klingon’s only answer was a deepening of his normal scowl. The captain shrugged and turned his attention back to their course, trying to memorize the various branchings and turnings. Worf would tell them what he had seen when he was ready, and in the meantime, the random appearance of the building’s exterior was carried through to the layout of its interior.

  Although they were on a diplomatic mission where they should not need to worry about making rapid escapes from enemy territory, long-standing habits were hard to ignore. Away team leaders who became lost could get both themselves and their teams killed, and Picard had no intention of letting himself be caught in such a situation. He had chosen good people, and he was sure the rest of the team were also taking notes on where they were going, but Picard did not want to have to depend on someone else to guide him out of the maze of the Governance Complex. This mission contained enough unknown dangers without inviting trouble by so obvious a mistake.

  After several minutes of climbing and turning, Zelfreetrollan stopped before an ornately carved door. Two of the Jarada following the away team hurried forward, their claws clicking against the tiles. The odor of cinnamon grew stronger as they approached. Both Jarada crouched before Picard, then the smaller one opened the door for the away team.

  “Refreshments await you inside, Picard-Captain, and a place to rest from your journey.” Zelfreetrollan dipped his head in an abbreviated bow. “The honor guard will remain outside, if there is anything more that you require. Unless you request otherwise, our Protocol Officer will arrive in one-half of one of your hours, and our discussions will begin shortly thereafter.”

  Picard bowed in acknowledgment. “Your arrangements are most satisfactory, First Among Council.”

  “Then I will send an escort for you at the proper time.” Zelfreetrollan crouched in response to Picard’s bow. He held the position until the away team had filed through the door, each one bowing to him as he or she passed. Finally, the door swung shut, leaving the away team by themselves.

  Worf pulled out his tricorder and began scanning the room, pausing every few steps to sweep the walls from floor to ceiling. Like the corridors, the walls were rough-finished plaster, a soft beige near the door that darkened to ochre on the outer wall near the windows. The color scheme made the room seem light and airy, even though the low ceiling had been designed to accommodate the shorter Jarada. Unlike the corridor, the air contained only a hint of spiciness, a memory of the much stronger smells outside.

  The room was furnished with a long, narrow table, two low couches, and several short, four-legged stools with padded, oddly shaped seats. Riker examined one of the stools, prodding the ribbed fabric to feel how the scat was built. From the shape and from the location of the padding, the stools appeared to have been designed to support a Jarada’s abdomen while the insectoid rested one or both sets of feet.

  “Not built with humans in mind, Number One?” Picard’s voice held a trace of amusement. Given the Jarada’s body form, the design was elegant and eminently practical.

  “I’m afraid not.” Riker continued his examination, as if the stool might tell him more about its creators. The legs were of a smooth dark wood, strongly braced and fastened with wooden pegs. In contrast to the room’s door, the stool’s legs were undecorated.

  Picard lowered himself into the nearest couch, thinking how strange it was to seat himself on furniture that was barely off the floor. The honey-colored upholstery was smooth and cool to the touch, but the cushions were indented, the padding shaped to accommodate a Jarada’s body form. Picard shifted position, feeling a bit like a schoolboy squirming at his desk, but after a moment he found a comfortable spot.

  Crusher walked over to the table, which held a fluted pitcher and several flared glasses. She passed her tricorder over the pitcher and waited for the results. The device whirred and clicked to itself, taking so long to answer that a frown appeared on the doctor’s face. She was reaching for Riker’s tricorder to repeat the analysis when the readout appeared. The drink was a concentrated fruit nectar, almost as sweet as pure honey. “I wouldn’t recommend drinking this stuff straight,” Crusher told them. “But if anyone is thirsty, we can cut it with water to make a reasonable punch.”

  Picard glanced around, spotting a door on the far wall which led to a small washroom. “Perhaps we should, Doctor. We would not want to offend our hosts by refusing their hospitality.”

  With Troi’s help, Crusher diluted the fruit syrup and handed the glasses around. One by one the away team took seats on the couches. Worf was last to join them, coming to stand opposite the captain when he finished scanning the room.

  “Comments, anyone?” Picard asked.

  “There are no obvious listening devices.” Worf’s voice, like the grumble of distant thunder, was a warning of possible trouble ahead. “However, the acoustics of this room are such that the ventilation ducts could reflect our words to a detector that does not register on my tricorder.”

  Riker’s eyebrow rose in surprise. He looked around the room again, his face showing new respect for the building’s designers. “I assume you’re suggesting that we act as though we are being monitored, then?”

  “I assume that we are being monitored.” Worf straightened to attention, his head brushing the ceiling. “An enemy commander will use all means at his disposal to learn our plans.”

  “This is a diplomatic mission, Mr. Worf.” Despite the words, there was a twinkle in Picard’s eye. The Klingon’s adversarial approach to life underscored the potential for conflict that underlay any diplomatic mission, especially one where they had so little information about the beings with which they were dealing. While the Enterprise team would do everything possible to p
romote good relations with the Jarada, they could not ignore the possibility that the Jarada might have other ideas.

  “Yes, Captain.” Worf’s tone conceded nothing.

  “Counselor?”

  Deanna Troi shifted position, a thoughtful look on her face. “I am having difficulties interpreting what I sense about the Jarada. Everything is very confused and—distorted. Almost as though something were blocking me.”

  “Do you mean—deliberately?” Crusher asked, looking up from her medical tricorder. Absently, she brushed a lock of her coppery hair away from her face and reached for her glass. Diluted, the fruit nectar was not bad, its flavor similar to a mixed fruit beverage available from the ship’s food service.

  Frowning in response to the doctor’s question, Troi cocked her head to one side and tried to sort through her impressions. Finally, she shook her head. “I don’t think so. But there is a lot of background noise, almost like static. Perhaps because the Jarada are so different from us, I am having difficulty sensing the patterns to their emotions.”

  “Doctor?”

  “I got low-quality scans of all the Jarada who met us. It was the best I could do with the tricorder on automatic.” Crusher flicked her gaze back at the tricorder’s screen for a moment. “I will, of course, need a larger sample before I can make any definitive statements about Jaradan biology. However, they have at least three sexes and display a certain amount of sexual polymorphism.”

  “Three?” Riker’s voice registered surprise. “I didn’t see any obvious differences.”