Among soldiers of the Romulan Fleet, the received wisdom was that Starfleet held women in subtle contempt and that it was impossible for female officers ever to rise to command level. This of course earned Starfleet and the Federation in general our deep scorn. To the Romulan way of thinking, genital configuration mattered as little as eye color or skin tone when it came to such things as commanding a ship or drafting a law; we preferred to acknowledge our sexual differences in more private and creative ways. Fully half the Fleet's ships were commanded by women, just as the Senate and the Praetorate were equally divided by sex. That was the natural order of things on our worlds, and it seemed bizarre that other supposedly advanced cultures didn't conduct themselves similarly. I had never seen or heard of a Starfleet ship that had a female command officer--until now. Lieutenant Uhura's presence on the bridge had roused my curiosity, and I was looking forward to dining with her.
I had already called up the food-dispenser menu on the computer so that we could order our meal as soon as she arrived. A carafe of water stood ready on the table; I regretted that I had no wine to offer with the meal, but forced confinement on a Federation ship made it rather difficult to fulfill one's obligations as a host.
Uhura was punctual. She was appropriately dressed for dinner in a long, loose-fitting garment patterned in a rich purple and blue geometrical design; a heavy wrought-gold pendant hung from a silken cord around her neck, and gold hoops decorated her ears. The security guards gazed at her in appreciative awe.
"Come in, Lieutenant," I said. "I've already looked at the menu, and--"
"Commander, put your shoes on. I have a surprise for you."
"A surprise? I don't understand--"
"I promise you you'll like it." She led the way along the corridor and into the lift. The guards hurried to keep up with us.
* * *
Seated in a comfortable high-backed leather chair, I watched Uhura skillfully lift and turn a large, thin round of bread over the blue flame of a portable cooker. My senses were reeling from the visual and olfactory stimuli. Her quarters were as exotic and opulent as the clothing she wore, and the tantalizing smells that were escaping from the covered dishes on the candlelit sideboard were almost too much to bear. I wanted to dismiss the whole spectacle as further evidence of Starfleet decadence, but I probably looked even more awestruck than those poor security guards.
"I don't often get a chance to prepare food from scratch," she was saying, "but I love to cook when I have the time. I have tonight and tomorrow off, thank goodness. My duty shifts have been averaging seventeen hours without a break." She reached across to her desk and toggled a switch on the computer terminal. "And I'm going to shut this little bugger down. Anyone who wants me will just have to wait till we've finished our dinner." She extinguished the cooker and slid her handiwork onto a platter already heaped with the quarter-folded rounds. "Anyway, I talked Lieutenant Geraci into letting me use the galley facilities. I've made us a Terran meal--a real Ethiopian dinner. This is the finishing touch. It'll just take me a minute to arrange the tray."
While she assembled the food she sang softly to herself in a clear, true soprano. I looked around at the paintings and wall hangings, at the carved wood and stone figures that occupied the rare empty spaces on the bookshelves, at the strange musical instruments that rested on stands and in open cases. "Are you a musician, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, my whole family is musical. I've made a hobby of collecting some of the more unusual instruments I come across. That one there"--she pointed at something that vaguely resembled a Vulcan lyrette--"is a kora, a twenty-one-string harp lute. It comes from Gambia, on Earth. And that, the thing that looks like a transverse clarinet, is a Barolian voicewind. And I have some interesting double reeds from Andor. Maybe we'll have a little music after dinner. Do you play an instrument, Commander?"
"No. My sister is the musical one in our family." In my mind I pictured Torryn seated at the chimeboard, playing one of her own compositions for the assembled guests--my parents smiling proudly, my brother Darius and I watching, fascinated, as Torryn's hands and feet moved swiftly, expertly, over the keys and pedals--
"Your sister? What does she play?"
I was on the point of replying that I didn't want to discuss personal matters any further, but something made me answer differently. "She plays a number of instruments, but her specialty is the Remish chimeboard. She's a composer as well. Our family is very proud of her." I hesitated. "We don't see her often. She's the procurator of Acthariet, a colony system in a sector far from the homeworld. My parents hope she'll be posted somewhere nearer Romulus when her term is finished."
"Sounds familiar." Uhura carried a large round tray, heavily laden with food, to the table in front of the sofa. "My sisters and I consider ourselves lucky if we can get together every five years." She pulled two cushions up to the table. "For this meal we sit on the floor, Commander. And we don't use cutlery. Just the utensils we were born with." Smiling, she wiggled her fingers at me.
"That presents no problem, Lieutenant. I've eaten many meals in this fashion in the Cingula system. The Cingulans believe you can't taste your food properly unless you can feel it." I settled myself on the cushion. "Everything looks delicious. You'll have to tell me what we're eating." The tray was lined with overlapping layers of the delicate bread; various colorful foods were mounded in the center.
"This is injera," Uhura said, lifting a corner of the bread. "It's your plate and your napkin and your spoon. You just tear off a piece and use it to pick up some food." She demonstrated. "And this is yedoro wat, which is Ethiopia's national dish, or should be if it isn't. It's just chicken and egg cooked in a sauce, but the whole is definitely greater than the sum of the parts. This is yegomen kitfo, which is collard, a green leafy vegetable, with a spiced soft cheese. And this is yataklete kilkil, spiced mixed vegetables. It really should have pumpkin in it, but even Geraci couldn't get me any of that from ship's stores. Oh, well. Maybe when we're on Earth I'll be able to do it right."
"You're looking forward to returning to Earth, of course."
"The Enterprise is on a five-year mission of deep-space exploration. I never expected we'd be heading home at this point." Her smile disappeared. "I'm sorry that we're going home in these circumstances, Commander. Truly."
I studied her face. "I believe you, Lieutenant." Though I don't know why. A change of subject was in order. "Tell me--what seasoning have you used in this meal? It's very similar to a Romulan spice that I'm fond of."
"Berbère. You can buy it ready-made, but I like to make my own. It's a mixture of spices and shallots, along with a lot of other ingredients that aren't easy to obtain offworld, never mind on a starship. And that reminds me--here's something else that isn't easy to get." She reached into a metal cooler and withdrew two pale green half-liter bottles. The gold labels bore a complicated calligraphy.
"What is that?"
"Kenyan ale, and it's the perfect beverage to accompany this meal. You know what they say--the drink should always come from the same region as the food. I bought two cases of this when I was on leave on Wrigley's, and it was worth every extortionate credit the importer charged." She opened the bottles and handed one to me.
I tasted it cautiously. "Why, it's good!"
"You sound surprised," she laughed.
"When I heard the word 'ale' I was prepared for the worst. Unlike almost everyone else in our two quadrants, I can't abide Romulan ale. I've never understood why it's in such demand."
"I guess it does the job efficiently when somebody wants to get drunk. I've sampled it, and to me it tastes like phaser coolant. No offense."
"None taken. I agree with you completely. But this--this is wonderful. So smooth. And it really is delicious with the meal." I couldn't seem to stop sipping the ale or eating the food.
"Mmm. Have some more chicken."
"Mmm."
* * *
I'd thought that I might discover something about Uhura's career and how she'd risen to a command position, and I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd tried to elicit information from me on behalf of her superiors. But we never touched on our respective professions. Instead, we talked about the music and food and drink of our own worlds and the many worlds we'd visited, which between us we calculated at a figure well over one hundred. Sometime during dinner I realized that I was unsettlingly close to enjoying myself.
When the table was covered with the wreckage of our meal and there was no morsel of food left to eat, we stood up, groaning and stretching. "That was a superb meal, Lieutenant," I told her, and sank into the sofa. "I'm too full to move."
She sat down next to me and sighed with satisfaction. "Well, I hope you saved enough room for dessert."
"Dessert?" My brain was fogged with strong ale and good food, and I was having trouble accessing the meaning of the Standard word. All that came to mind was desert, which didn't seem appropriate in the context.
"Not just any old dessert. Tiramisu. It isn't an Ethiopian dish, but it's Italian, so I suppose there's a tenuous connection. It's heavenly. And don't ask what's in it--you'll stay as slender as you are if you don't know how many kilojoules it's got." She giggled. I wondered if her words made any more sense to her than they did to me. I looked down at the table and began to count up the empty bottles. I stopped at seven, suspecting that I'd counted a few of them twice. Then again, I might have missed one or two.
With an effort, Uhura pushed herself up off the sofa, walked over to the food dispenser, and touched the control pad. She must have preprogrammed the machine, for I didn't see her give any commands. The transporter sparkled briefly, and she withdrew a crystal bowl filled with a delectable-looking layered confection. The bowl was followed by an oddly shaped pot, two small cups, two plates and spoons, and two liqueur glasses.
"Darn it! I asked for brandy snifters." She held up the little glasses and looked at them accusingly. "Dr. McCoy gave me a bottle of Saurian brandy for my birthday last May, and I haven't opened it yet. I thought we might have some with our coffee. Do you like brandy, Commander?"
"Saurian brandy is a rare delicacy, Lieutenant. I would guess that it accounts for at least ten percent of the contraband that comes across the Neutral Zone--in our direction, that is. Your people get the Romulan ale. I'd say we have the better part of the bargain." I began to stack the used dishes. "Let me clear the table. Where is your cycler?"
"Just through the door over there. Thanks, Commander. I'll get this dessert organized while you're doing that." She watched me for a moment. "And Commander? Please--if it doesn't offend you--please call me Nyota."
I weighed my options no more than a few seconds; then, sighing inwardly, I conceded defeat. What did it matter? None of the rules I'd lived by seemed to apply to the predicament I was in. "It doesn't offend me, Nyota. You--"
You do know I have a first name.
I was beginning to wonder.
Well, I do. Would you like to hear it?
I pushed the memory away, not quite fast enough to escape the knife-twist of pain in my heart. "You honor me by speaking your personal name and by inviting me to your home," I told her in Romulan. "And I ... I would be pleased if you would call me Aerlyn."
* * *
I attempted to give Uhura a coherent description of Romulan naming customs, and I would have succeeded if I hadn't had so much ale--and if the brandy hadn't tasted so good that I kept mindlessly refilling my tiny liqueur glass. Uhura tried her best to follow my discourse, but she was matching me glass for glass, and she wasn't focusing any better than I was. Finally we agreed that we would use each other's first names only when we were alone; that compromise seemed to satisfy everyone's conventions. We turned our attention to the coffee.
"These are demitasse cups," Uhura said, pouring a steaming black liquid into them, "and they're a bit of a nuisance. They hardly hold a mouthful. But this coffee is espresso, which is very strong, so you wouldn't want a whole mug of it."
"Coffee ... McCoy said it makes him 'twitchy.' What does that mean?"
"Oh, nervous, excitable--overstimulated. He used to drink a dozen cups a day. And given the quality of the Enterprise's coffee, I'm amazed he's still got a steady hand for surgery." She offered me one of the cups. "The espresso beans are from my own private stock, not from the galley."
A single taste of the aromatic, bitter drink was enough to tell me that I liked it very much indeed. I thought of Wol, Eidolon's food-service officer. If he were here he would be taking copious notes and asking countless questions about Terran cuisine, for he prided himself on his collection of offworld recipes. He was especially proud of his ability to create traditional Rigelian and Vulcan meals. Not that I'd given him many occasions to do so ...
The dessert plates were filled with generous servings; Uhura, talking and gesturing, dropped one large spoonful of whipped cream on her gown. She swore in a manner that made me think she'd been socializing with McCoy too much, excused herself, and went into the other room to change. I, having no expensive dress to worry about--my black jumpsuits extruded themselves in an endless and identical procession from the cycler--went on methodically spooning up tiramisu until she returned. She had changed into a shimmering green and gold caftan.
"You do have the most beautiful clothes, Nyota," I said through a mouthful of cream.
"Thanks. It's an extravagance, but it's fun. I hardly ever get a chance to wear these things in public unless there's a party or a reception, but I make it a point to change out of my uniform as soon as I'm off duty. Helps keep my life neatly compartmentalized."
"Do you know, I do the same thing. On a starship you sometimes forget who you are." I wasn't sure what I meant by that, but it sounded right when I said it.
* * *
Sadly, Dr. McCoy's gift was nearly gone. With great ceremony Uhura divided the last of the brandy evenly between us, and raised her glass in a toast. Before she could speak, the door signal sounded. It was after 2300, but apparently neither of us thought it unusual that someone should call so late in the evening. I didn't know about Uhura, but I was becoming accustomed to doors opening unexpectedly on this ship.
"Whoever that is, their timing's bad," she said. "They've missed out on the brandy." I nodded in agreement, running my fingers around the edge of the dessert bowl to capture the remnants of the whipped cream. "Come on in!" she called.
If the first officer of the Enterprise was shocked to see his senior communications officer drinking brandy with a Romulan political prisoner, he concealed it well.
"Mr. Spock!" Uhura got to her feet, holding on to my shoulder for support. "I didn't expect--come in, sir." She looked at me helplessly. I held out a sticky hand and she pulled me up.
"Good evening, Lieutenant. Good evening, Commander. I regret the interruption. Lieutenant Uhura, Captain Kirk has been trying to reach you, but your terminal is not responding." He glanced over at Uhura's desk, where the computer's message light was blinking furiously. How could we have failed to notice it?
Uhura's horrified gaze followed his. "I--I'm sorry, Mr. Spock. I was off duty--I--we were having dinner. I disabled the whistle." She looked guiltily at the brandy bottle. "I must have forgotten to turn it on again."
"Perhaps you should call the bridge now, Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir--yes, of course." She sat down at the desk and began speaking quietly to the computer.
Spock stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking past me--or, more accurately, through me. "I am glad to know that you have recovered from your illness, Commander," he said. His voice was low and uninflected. "Dr. McCoy told me that the chengha virus can be most unpleasant."
I didn't answer his pointless remark. I was trying to keep my face as impassive as his, hoping he couldn't detect the storm of emotions that the sight of him had called forth--cold anger, remembered humiliation, and something else I didn't want him to identify, now or ever.
He looked away and spoke to Uhura: "If you are needed on the bridge, Lieutenant, I will ask the guards to escort the commander to her quarters."
"Thank you, Mr. Spock." She came over to me and took my right hand in hers. "I'm sorry, Commander, but I've been called back to duty."
"No apology is necessary. Thank you for inviting me here."
"I hope we'll be able to do it again." She released my hand. "I'd better go change. I'll talk to you tomorrow."
"Goodnight, Lieutenant." I turned to Spock, who stood between me and the shoe tray. "Excuse me," I said, looking down at his booted feet, as much to avoid meeting his eyes as to suggest that he had better shift to the left a bit. He immediately moved close enough to the door to cause it to open, then stepped into the corridor and stood there watching while I put my shoes on. I had a strong feeling, based on no evidence whatsoever, that he was surprised to see that Romulans practiced some of the same rules of courtesy as Vulcans--and that a Romulan prisoner abided by those rules, while a Vulcan Starfleet officer appeared to have forgotten them entirely.
© 1996, 1999 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.