Princess Snowflake
by T.S. Taylor
"How are you enjoying the party, Mr. Chekov?"
Chekov struggled to swallow the morsel of Xmposian pastry he unfortunately happened to have in his mouth. Finding this impossible, he had to content himself with merely nodding pleasantly to the ambassador.
"It is such an honor to have the most highly decorated ensign in Star Fleet with us," she said, unsmiling.
The pastry stuck in his throat like it was made of glue. Chekov wasn't supposed to be here. Captain Kirk was. The captain had been called upon to serve as Star Fleet's official witness to the wedding about to take place between the powerful Cxiqulie and Mjamalian clans. Kirk probably would have been present if he had been required to attend only the wedding. This, however, was not the case. Xmposian custom for the culture of this region called for great pomp and circumstance to accompany state weddings. Official public ceremonies had been going on for well over a week now and the actual wedding was still another five days away. The Enterprise had received a call to investigate a reported Romulan intrusion into the Neutral Zone. Feeling that he was more needed to see to that crisis, (Chekov reflected that it hadn't taken a great deal to persuade the captain his presence was required elsewhere) Kirk had sent the ensign in his place.
The Xmposians didn't seem to notice the difference. They weren't very familiar with Humans and were not apt at distinguishing between individuals. Chekov was a member of the same species as Kirk, in the same uniform, and – most importantly to the Xmposians - wearing the same number of medals.
The Ambassador, however, was neither fooled nor amused by the ruse. She coldly watched the ensign struggle to clear his throat.
"I'm so glad you're having a good time," she said, turning away just as he was finally ready to reply. "Have another pastry, ensign."
"I..." Chekov began, but the ambassador was already engaged in another conversation.
"Don't mind her." Havner St. Michael, the ambassador's assistant, handed him a cup of fruit juice. "She's in a mood. Three solid weeks of state functions can put anyone in a mood."
Chekov accepted the juice gratefully. The cup, like everything else in the hall, was richly painted and extraordinarily beautiful. "I hope I've done nothing to offend her," he said. "I'm sure that if the situation in the Neutral Zone not arisen..."
"...Then Ambassador Long would be here making catty remarks to Captain Kirk instead of to you," St. Michael replied, breaking off a tiny piece of pastry for himself. "Understand, Ensign, she is an ambitious person and sees this posting as a setback. Her specialty is negotiation. The Cxiqulie and Mjamalians had already resolved the bulk of their differences by the time we arrived. Her position here is ceremonial - and as you see, we have an excess of ceremony to attend to on Xmpos."
"Yes, I had noticed that." In the forty-six hours he'd been here, Chekov had already attended three receptions, two gift-opening ceremonies, a luncheon, two banquets, and a formal breakfast. He looked around at the same room full of elaborately-garbed Xmposians who had been at all the other functions making polite conversation to each other and wondered what they could possibly have left to say.
"I think she views it all as a punishment." St. Michael smiled and broke off a piece of his pastry and handed it to Chekov. "I suppose that's hard for you to imagine, isn't it Ensign? Being used to life on a starship - the constant duty, the constant danger - it seems rather odd to look at going to parties all day as a punishment, doesn't it?"
Chekov could see that St. Michael was subtly tutoring him again. If he took only small bites of food and kept a beverage at hand, as St. Michael did, he could always be prepared to speak in a matter of seconds. "I can see that one might tire of it quickly."
"Yes." Without breaking his pleasant external facade, St. Michael gave a sigh that betrayed a great weariness. "I must admit, Mr. Chekov, I was somewhat surprised that a young man like yourself would volunteer to stay here rather than accompanying your ship to the Neutral Zone."
"Well..." the ensign began uncomfortably. "I..."
"I'm so sorry," St. Michael quickly dismissed the matter. "That wasn't a very diplomatic question on my part, was it?"
"No. It is just that..." Chekov looked around cautiously for the ambassador. "As far as my volunteering to be here..."
St. Michael looked as if he already knew what the ensign was going to say. "Yes?"
"I happened to be standing near the captain when the order came in," Chekov explained, keeping his voice soft. "I needed his signature..."
"And instead you got a week-long vacation on Xmpos," the attaché‚ finished for him. A genuine grin spread over St. Michael's face. He quickly hid it behind two fingers. "I had suspected as much. I hope this is also not an indelicate observation, but I must say that I am unfamiliar with some of the orders who have honored you."
That was quite possible. Knowing the value Xmposians placed on display, the bridge crew had augmented his meager collection of medals with awards of their own devising. No one was likely to be familiar with the Scottish League's award for good conduct or the Iowan Union's one for meritorious attitude. There was even the Southern Cross of Valor - which McCoy had award him for volunteering to wear a dress uniform for eight days running.
"Some of them are somewhat obscure," he admitted cautiously.
The arrival of the Dxinqul of the Cxiqulie saved Chekov from the danger of revealing any further information. Dxinqul was the title of a sort of an official herald or chamberlain for the Cxiqulie - Chekov wasn't quite sure which. St. Michael had prepared a set of tapes for the ensign on Xmposian custom and protocol, but Chekov had been too enmeshed in Xmposian custom and protocol thus far to review them. The main duty of the Dxinqul at these functions seemed to be announcing the arrival of the bride elect.
A respectful silence fell over the crowd as the Dxinqul made her slow formal procession to the main dais in the center of the room - at least Chekov assumed it was "her". The Xmposians were humanoid and mammalian, but in formal garb it was hard to make the distinction between male and female. There was not a great difference in size between Xmposian men and women. Adults of both sexes tended to be around five feet tall. Their jaws and noses protruded from their faces almost in the manner of a dog's muzzle. Their noses were shaped a little like a dog's. For state occasions, they wore heavy multicolored robes and high headdresses. Their faces were painted with wild stripes of green, red, gold and black. The great domed reception hall they stood in was painted in great swaths and swirls of those same colors.
The Dxinqul mounted the central dais. Reaching up, she tapped the ceremonial speaking bell suspended from the ceiling with one of her long, curving fingernails. Into the already silent room, she announced, "Mxinai J'ai'Han is indisposed. The cycle of ceremony is delayed until sunrise."
An audible murmur ran through the crowd even before the Dxinqul tapped the bell to signal that they were again free to speak.
"Oh, dear." St. Michael got himself another drink from a nearby cart. "Princess Snowflake must have thrown another tantrum."
"Princess... who?"
"The Mxinai J'ai'Han," St. Michael explained, handing the ensign another drink as well. "Princess Snowflake is my private nickname for her Serene Delicacy. She's really a wretched little brat."
"Then why 'Snowflake'?"
"Because hopefully she is one of a kind."
Chekov was surprised to find the drink St. Michael had handed him was alcoholic. He sipped it cautiously thinking of the instructions Captain Kirk had given him.
"Ensign," his commanding officer had said. "Stay reasonably sober and keep your mouth shut. If you find you can't do the former, be sure you do the latter."
"What do you think has happened?" Chekov asked the attaché.
"Nothing for you to worry about." St. Michael smiled wryly. "But perhaps a chance for Ambassador Long to exercise those diplomatic skills she's so proud of." The attaché‚ paused to watch the Ambassador pass by deep in conversation with a gaudily decorated Xmposian. "Yes, I'm afraid I'm going to be quite busy. But it looks as though you've lucked into some free time, Chekov. What use are you going to make of it?"
"I'm scheduled to take the lieutenant's exam soon." The ensign surrendered his glass to a passing servant. "I have been studying for that during the few breaks we've had. Also there are the tapes you prepared for me..."
"Studying? On a fine evening in the midst of the most temperate season of this climate zone?" St. Michael rolled his eyes. "My dear boy, is that any way to misspend your precious youth?"
Chekov shrugged. "What else can I do? I'm not supposed to leave the grounds of the Ceremonial Complex. I'm supposed to limit my contact with the natives..."
St. Michael smiled. "Oh, come now, Chekov. You're not that likely to cause a diplomatic incident, are you?"
The ensign shook his head. "It would not be right for me to go against my instructions, Mr. St. Michael. Besides, when I think of the ship in the Neutral Zone..."
"And your comrades possibly in danger," St. Michael finished for him. "Yes, that would tend to put a definite damper on things... All right, do your studying and then tonight after the Ambassador and I have finally done enough placating spoiled princesses for one day, I think I can come up with an acceptable diversion for you."
"What sort of diversion?" Chekov asked, not sure how far he trusted St. Michael in this sort of mood.
"If you are anything like any of the rest of your countrymen that I have met, I'd wager that you are a fine judge of what constitutes a truly exceptional bottle of vodka."
That wasn't a bad bet. "Well..."
"I happen to be in possession of three bottles of that marvelous elixir on which I'd like to have the opinion of an expert."
"Three bottles?" Chekov repeated.
"There's a roof that joins the balconies of our respective apartments," St. Michael said. "Meet me there at the second moonrise. While we sample some of that fine nectar of your homeland, I will personally tutor you in the strange ways of this strange land - thus doing away with the need for you to listen to those tedious tapes of mine - and you can look at the stars and thus review for your astronavigation exam. What do you say?"
"Well... I suppose," the ensign agreed slowly. "But I don't know if three bottles is wise... After all, we will both have to be in proper condition to attend another round of functions tomorrow morning..."
"My boy," the attaché‚ said, grimacing politely at a passing stream of dignitaries. "If what I think happened has actually happened, the condition either of us is in tomorrow will make no difference to anyone at all."
Chekov woke with a start when St. Michael laid a cold hand on his shoulder. The ensign had climbed up to the flat roof over the balcony of his quarters at the appointed time but had fallen asleep while he was waiting for his companion to arrive. "Mr. St. Michael.."
"Shhh." The attaché‚ moved his hand from the ensign's shoulder to his mouth.
Chekov got the strong impression something was terribly wrong. St. Michael was pressing his other hand to his side. His face looked strange in the moonlight.
"They've killed the Ambassador," St. Michael whispered.
Fully awake now, Chekov struggled up to sitting. "Who has?"
"The Cxiqulie." St. Michael sat back painfully. He now wrapped both arms around his side.
In the dim light, the ensign could see dark stains on the attaché's tunic. "You're hurt."
"Oh, yes," St. Michael agreed with a little laugh. "I'm very hurt. They left me for dead, then went on to search for you. The Mxinai has been abducted or been killed... They intend to blame it on us."
Chekov unhesitatingly stripped off his tunic and ripped it into bandage-sized strips. "Why?" he asked, gently pulling the attaché's hands away from the oozing wound in his side and quickly wrapping it in the shreds.
"Probably because one of them did it." St. Michael's voice sounded very thin. "No bride. No wedding. No peace agreement. That is, unless, a suitable culprit can be found."
"So they mean to blame her disappearance on us?" He carefully helped the attaché lie down on the bumpy roof tiles.
St. Michael nodded weakly. "And kill us so we can't refute the charge. That's the way things work with the Cxiqulie."
"What can we do?"
"I brought a tricorder and communicator from my room." St. Michael gestured feebly in the direction he'd come. "Get as far away from here as possible and wait for your ship to return."
"I cannot do that," Chekov refused firmly. "I will not leave you, Mr. St. Michael."
"My dear boy." St. Michael gave a half-laugh as he reached out and squeezed the ensign's hand. "I'm afraid I'm about to leave you."
"Mr. St. Michael..."
It was already too late. The attaché's hand slid away from his lifelessly leaving Chekov alone on a suddenly hostile alien planet.
*** Continued ***