“No,” he said, and his voice carried conviction. “I’ve never seen them before in my life.”
Her heart sank. She watched his face to see if there was anything that gave away the lie but saw nothing. Or, maybe, technically, he was telling the truth—he’d never seen them.
“But I heard you,” she said. “Why else would they attack us?”
“Money.”
“No, that’s too simple. You rob someone, you don’t stick around to bully them. And they talkedto you, I heard…”
Dalal cut in. “That’s enough of that.” She squared the basin on the small side table then opened the metal box containing bandages and other medical supplies. “We have enough to worry about without you plaguing him with unnecessary questions.”
“Unneces—”
“Ani.” Halak squeezed her hand. “Dalal’s just a crabby old woman used to bossing people around.”
“Crabby.” Dalal’s withered fingers stirred the box’s contents then plucked out a selection of antimicrobial packs and pressure rolls. “Can’t see that my bossing you around did you any good.”
“Of course, it did. I’m in Starfleet, aren’t I?”
“Exactly what I said.” Dalal’s eyes drilled Batra. “You going to help, or just sit there?”
“Of course, I’ll help,” said Batra. Did the old woman think a little blood bothered her? “Tell me what you want me to do.”
Dalal directed her to open three of the antimicrobial packs and to stand ready with a pressure roll. Halak’s skin flinched when Dalal removed the wet cloth from his back. The old woman had packed the wound with coagulant gauze, and she fished this out now, teasing an end free then pulling out the long bloody ribbon.
“It’s bad,” she said, by way of commentary. “I can’t see that it cut any deeper than the muscle, but I’m no doctor. You’ll need a good one, though, to piece this skin back together. Use those fancy autosutures they’ve got. Muscle’s cut clean through, and that’ll take special equipment. You get this taken care of when you get back to your ship.”
“What about a hospital here?” Batra asked. She saw that Halak’s features had twisted, and his skin jumped with every pull of the gauze ribbon. A tear leaked from the corner of his left eye. He pressed his forehead into the divan, burying his face, and said nothing.
“Wouldn’t be good for him,” said Dalal, in a tone that said the matter was closed. Dalal sprayed a dermal anesthetic over the wound, and then together they laid the three antimicrobial pads along Halak’s left flank. Then Dalal had Batra help Halak sit up so she could pass the pressure roll around Halak’s middle.
“That should keep you,” said Dalal, binding the pressure roll in place with an autoseal. “That anesthetic spray will last about five hours. After that, it’s going to hurt like the dickens. And don’t make too many sudden moves, or else you’ll rip that right open again.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Halak. His face had more color, but there were dark smudges under his eyes, like bruises. When he moved, he splinted his left side, not moving the muscles much. Gingerly, he reached around and worked a kink in his left shoulder with his right palm. “I don’t suppose you have any clothes.”
“No trousers your size, but I’ll wash what you’ve got, and I might have another tunic you can use,” said Dalal. She turned and seemed to really see Batra for the first time. “I’ll probably have something for you, too. No fancy britches or chadors, though.”
“Whatever you have is fine.”
“Well then, get yourself cleaned up. You know where the bathroom is.” Dalal made that harrumphing, old-woman sound again. “Frankly, I’m surprised you weren’t jumped long before. That costume practically screams tourist.Wouldn’t survive long here, I can tell you that.”
Batra felt the color rise in her cheeks. “Dalal,” Halak began.
“No, Samir, it’s all right,” said Batra. Pushing to her feet, she squared her shoulders and glared down at the little woman. “You’re right, Dalal. My clothes do scream tourist,but that’s what I am, and I’m not ashamed of that. I serve in Starfleet, and I’m not ashamed of that either. I’m not an addict. I don’t live in a slum. I haven’t known the type of poverty that exists here, but I’ll tell you something: simply surviving is nothing to be proud of. You survive, Dalal, but you lock your door and screen your windows. Your neighbors all survive, but not one of them came to help us. Survival isn’t so hard, you know. It’s being compassionate that is. It’s remembering that those are people dying out there—human or not—and helping someone takes more courage than hiding or simply surviving. Frankly, this planet’s the ass end of the galaxy, and you can keep it.”
She stopped talking, not because she didn’t have more to say but because she knew she’d said too much. She was breathing hard, and the heat in her neck let her know that her color must be close to mahogany.
Dalal didn’t say anything. She sat, her hands folded, her wrinkled visage as still as cut stone.
It was Halak who broke the silence. “Well, Dalal?”
There was another beat-pause, and then Dalal snorted, a horsey sound. “Got a mouth on her. Bring you nothing but trouble, Samir, mark my word.”
She rose, pulling herself to her full height of one and a third meters, meaning the crown of her head just brushed Batra’s chin. Tilting her head back, she pinned Batra with another of those glares.
“Get washed up,” she said. “I’ll bring you clothes. Then I expect the two of you are hungry. I know I am. Anyway, it’ll be safer for you to leave well after dark. Won’t attract as much attention that way.” And with that, Dalal shuffled out.
Batra expelled her breath in a laugh. “Was that a test? I feel like I just passed a test.”
“Probably,” Halak said.
When she stepped out of the shower, Batra saw that Dalal had left her a pile of clothes: a V-necked copper-colored tunic, a pair of off-white pyjama pants with button ankle cuffs, and black, thick-soled slippers. The shower made her feel almost human again, and the clothes gave her a lift. She dressed, knotted her long hair, still wet, into a thick, black braid, and followed her nose.
The meal was simple: fresh-baked khbouz markouk done in Dalal’s tandoor; whipped minted yogurt with chunks of crisp, fresh-cut Morellian cucumber; piping hot Kalo root stew; and cinnamon-spiced Yridian tea. She and Dalal sat cross-legged on a brightly colored linen cloth spread upon the floor before the divan, their backs propped by firm orange and rust-colored bolsters while Halak reclined on the divan, his back and left side supported by large, fluffy pillows. He ate from a smaller plate she’d prepared and placed upon the small round table, within easy reach.
A transport rumbled overhead. The building shook. They ate in silence for several minutes, using their fingers.
“Well,” said Halak. He tore off a bit of thin, brown-speckled khbouz markouk and used it to spoon up a mouthful of stew. “I don’t know when I’ve had a better meal, Dalal.”
Dalal grunted. She folded a piece of bread into her mouth and chewed. “Replicator food. It’s a wonder you have any meat left on you, boy. Anyway, I suspect that anything tastes good after being cooped up in a can, warping from planet to planet.”
“You’re a fine cook, and you know it.” Halak grinned over the old woman over the rim of a gray ceramic mug. He made a great show of inhaling his tea’s aroma before tipping the mug to his lips. He took in a mouthful, rolled the tea around his tongue, and then swallowed. “Now, speaking of being cooped up, Dalal, we were on our way for a week’s R and R: rest and relaxation. Actually, we should be on our way now,” he softened this with a smile, “but you called me, and I’ve come. Granted, I’ve gotten here more flamboyantly than I expected. Now, tell me what’s going on.”
Dalal’s face got a pinched, displeased look Batra was getting to know well. For an instant, Dalal’s eyes slid to Batra’s face then back to Halak’s, but Batra could almost see the wheels turning, the old woman debating just how much she should, or could, say.
“It’s about Arava,” said Dalal then. “She’s gotten herself in very deep, Samir.”