Margeret Bonanno - Probe

"And this is. .?" Riley smiled at the young woman.

"Hm? Oh, uh, my protege, Anneke." Penalt dismissed her without so much as glancing at her; he turned and set his sights on Riley. "Riley. . Riley. . Always considered Irishmen to be common drunks, myself. Even wrote an operetta about it once."

Kirk shot a concerned glance in Riley's direction, but Riley's gracious expression never wavered. "The Drunken Irishman; I'm familiar with it. Understand the critics panned it," Riley supplied smoothly. "Have to do our diplomatic best to disprove the theory this voyage, sir."

"A lot of history to overcome there, Mr. Riley." Penalt turned to the two waiting ensigns, zeroing in on the woman, a pretty brunette. "Now, I wouldn't object if someone were to show me to my quarters."

"Ensign Smith will be happy to oblige," Kirk said, nodding at the male of the pair. "Ensign Carver," he added to the other, "you can report to Commander Scott on the shuttle deck. I'm sure he could use some help with the archaeology shuttle that just came in."

,Kirk-"

"Yes, Mr. Penalt-Andy?" Kirk's most disingenuous tone coated the requested short-form name. "Is something wrong?"

Penalt scowled for a moment, then shrugged and seemed to relax. "No, nothing. I look forward to working with you. This has the makings of an interesting tour of duty, wouldn't you say, Captain?" Touching two fingers to his temple in a jaunty salute, he turned from Kirk and strode into the corridor, his "protege" and Ensign Smith hurrying after him.

Kirk shook his head wonderingly as he and Riley exited the transporter room and headed for the nearest 'lift. "What have we done to deserve `Andy' Penalt?" Kirk asked rhetorically. "Is he at least a good conductor, Kevin? Not that it will make any difference if he insults the Romulan diplomats to their faces."

"We'll have to make sure that doesn't happen," Riley said, but his expression was none too confident.

At least, Kirk thought, the musicians wouldn't be mixing with the Romulans the way the archaeological team would. Though God knows what Penalt might say from the stage by way of introduction to whatever he decided to perform.

Just then the turbolift doors hissed open to reveal Uhura.

"Captain, Commander." Distracted by her work, she looked up briefly from a datapad as they entered.

Kirk acknowledged her with a nod, and glanced over her shoulder at what she was jotting down. "Busy?"

"Oh, um, instrument status," Uhura said vaguely, jotting again. "Musical instruments, that is. Seems the Steinway got a little cranky going through the transport-

er, so the tuner's given me specific instructions for getting the other pieces up safely. I'm on my way down to the cargo transporter room now to supervise."

Kirk wondered what a Steinway was, but wasn't about to ask. He was having enough trouble thinking of schemes to keep Penalt under control without offending — too greatly-whatever Federation officials were responsible for Penalt being on the mission in the first place. And hoping that the conductor didn't have an opposite number in the Romulan delegation.

"Imagine it, Little Sister," Dajan exulted as the Galtizh sped toward its rendezvous with the Federation ship. "Not only are we permitted to see each other freely again, we have actually been selected for this voyage together! Rehabilitated, washed clean, deemed pure and Orthodox exemplars of our race, worthy to face the Earthmen and shame them with our brilliance. We have five years' worth of gossip to catch up on. Do you think we shall grow sick of looking at each other?"

"Once we arrive at this desolate rock, I doubt we shall see each other at all," Jandra said bleakly. She and Tiam had quarreled again this morning; the very engine room, several levels below, must have reverberated with it. It was humiliating to have one's private life bruited about the entire vessel, but the bulkheads were not soundproof and Tiam would shout. Naturally, when he shouted, she was obliged to shout as well. Now she was hoarse and irritable, and Tiam was off sulking, or telling his troubles to that provincial Hiran. She couldn't even remember what had started the quarrel, but then, she rarely could anymore. Anything would suffice, it seemed. Once she had merely asked the source of a computer recording she had heard him playing in his quarters one day, a

cacophonous blend of thousands of seemingly disparate sounds, yet some of which had seemed to bind themselves to her mind. "Never speak of them again!" he had shouted, almost apoplectic, and she never had, though the sounds still persisted in her mind when she would allow it.

"Surely you shall not be that busy," her twin protested. "You must pause at least to allow the Federation players to perform."

But she was not to be comforted. "Then I shall be locked in some makeshift practice hall, playing my fingers to the bone, not because of necessity but because those who watch over us still do not trust in my abilities. It was the same, always the same, during my years of atonement in the Provinces. And you shall be grubbing about in your precious Lihalla ruins, searching for gods know what."

He put a chiding smile on his face. "Temaris, not Lihalla. We have agreed to abide by the Federation designation for simplicity-Temaris."

"Whatever!" Jandra said indifferently, her mind on other things. "I wonder if there will be a piano aboard this Enterprise?"

"Tell me what it is and I'll tell you if they're likely to have one," Dajan offered, keeping his mood as sunny as his sib's was gloomy. "Is it one of those un-Orthodox instruments you involved yourself with in the Provinces?"

"More un-Orthodox than you know. From Earth, I was given to understand, a trophy of the early days of the war. The marvel is that it now seems to have been restored to Orthodoxy as quickly and easily as you and I.

>, Dajan laughed. "They wish to flaunt you, I suspect. It

would not cause me great surprise to learn that this once-illicit ability of yours was high among the reasons you suddenly find yourself once more in favor, once more allowed-even ordered-to perform for your loving public. What better proof of superior Romulan culture than a Romulan who can outperform humans on an instrument of their own design-as I have no doubt you could do, Little Sister. None of this, however, tells a cultural dunce like myself what type of instrument this piano is."

Jandra turned to the terminal, wondering if the computer library was as "restructured" as the society they now lived in appeared to be. She accessed "Music: Alien" and tried to call up piano on the screen. The computer balked; Jandra sighed.

"A keyboard instrument," she said, struggling to be more specific, to limn the size and shape of it, perhaps to conjure it in the rarefied air of the bird-of-prey's cabin. "Similar to a tra'am, yet not."

"Ah!" Dajan said, his monosyllable of choice whenever he would not admit that he did not entirely understand a subject. "But if it is, as you were told, a common Earth instrument, there will almost certainly be at least one among the assemblage of Federation musicians this Enterprise is bringing to us who will be expected to perform upon it. Therefore they will just as certainly bring one."

"Perhaps," she said, but her voice was lined with pessimism.

Dajan sighed. "After all that has happened, you still persist in gloomily expecting the worst. I know Tiam can be a trial, but he is not here. Only you and I, Little Sister, only you and I and a chance to dazzle the Federation musicians."

"It is not only Tiam," Jandra replied.

Dajan recognized the look. "Still grieving, after all this time?"

Jandra's eyes were baleful. "As should you, unless your loss is somehow less than mine."

"Will grieving bring them back?" Dajan dismissed it. "Life is for the living, Little Sister. While we live, we strive to restore their honor, and that will be done only through deeds, not through endless, unproductive brooding."