THIRTY: Lost In Translation

Dagmar didn't know how long she had been sitting on the edge of her bed – a low-bearing but raised bed in the Terran fashion, instead of the den of cushions, fabrics, and sometimes furs that Andorians often preferred- just staring at the comm. terminal in her bedroom. Probably a while, given the stiffness of her back and the way the spots just above her knees where her elbows rested had begun to hurt from an extended period of constant pressure.

She didn't know what to say.

Above all else, Dagmar desperately didn't want to disappoint her friend and mentor – but she couldn't do anything. She wasn't permitted to step off planet without losing her job, falling into disgrace and dishonour, and probably alienating all of her friends on Andoria.

It was scary how much those things mattered to her, after so many months on the frozen planet.

And that was the key to the whole dichotomy, wasn't it? What did she value more – her friendship with Varek, or her friendship with Thelen, and Shral, and – hell, even Thelus and Thoris, a little bit? …To say nothing of her tentative place in Andorian society, too. Varek and T'Lar, or everyone she cared about on Andoria?

The more objective side of her wondered if she was exaggerating the scale of the issue. It was entirely possible that Varek and T'Lar would understand her dilemma entirely, and would hold no grudge… But what if they didn't? What if the whole thing – the egg donation and all that- was really, really important to them?

She agonized for what felt like years, sitting in a rapidly darkening room as the lights cycled into the night-time setting – a technological necessity for an underground society, even if Andorian circadian rhythms were completely different from hers. She pondered and wondered and tormented herself with uncertainty. Logic did not help her – she did not have enough data.

A headache blossomed behind her eyes, a sharp stabbing pain that got worse the longer she thought about it.

Tomorrow, she put off, dropping her head into her heads with a defeated sigh.

Tomorrow.

She'd tell them tomorrow.

With a groan as her muscles protested, stiff and decidedly unhappy with her, Dagmar stood and staggered over to the kitchen unit in search of something to drink. Ideally something with a very high alcohol content…

Just as Dagmar had located a bottle of familiar blue ale, the Andorian equivalent of a door-bell rang, a muted chirp echoing through the otherwise silent home.

Dagmar glanced uncertainly at a nearby time-device, having to take a moment to translate the Andorian characters into something comprehensible because of her fatigue. It was late. Very late. Dagmar couldn't think of too many people who would bother her past midnight . Then again, Andorians had shorter sleep cycles than Humans, so perhaps the time was not so odd?

Cautiously – she wasn't stupid- Dagmar approached the door and activated the small terminal and touch pad beside the front door. A few quiet beeps later, and the Human translator accessed the security camera. She was surprised (and, frankly, a bit puzzled) when she saw Shral on the other side of the door. He was carrying a box of some sort. It was brightly coloured –orange and green and yellow- and almost looked like some kind of gift box.

What the devil was Shral doing there? Perhaps, the redhead thought with a frown and no small amount of chagrin, he was reacting to her comment from a little while back about never visiting.

Suddenly, she felt pretty bad about saying all of that.

Wiping the frown from her face –it wouldn't do to greet a friend like that- Dagmar pressed the appropriate keys on the pad to unlock and open the door.

"Hello," She greeted, offering a smile that was mostly friendly and just a tad uncertain.

"Dagmar," Shral nodded in greeting, his antennae pointing at her in that familiar, vaguely disconcerting way. Whatever the gesture meant, Dagmar was honestly too tired to wonder about it for the umpteenth time. "May I enter?"

"Of course," Dagmar acquiesced readily enough, moving to the side and fighting to suppress a yawn as Shral stepped into her home.

Dagmar closed and locked the doors behind Shral almost automatically – even in this supposedly safer age, she didn't trust the world enough to sleep with unlocked doors or windows. It seemed too much like tempting fate, even if several of her fellow students and colleagues assured her that it was perfectly safe. In most areas, at least. Shral noticed, but did not comment, turning to face her and presenting the brightly coloured box to her.

Brow furrowing, Dagmar tentatively took the box – small, square, shallow in depth- from the aide's hands, her fingers brushing against his accidentally. Looking from the box to the aide curiously, the translator asked, "What's this?"

"A gift." Shral answered, as if that should have been obvious. Perhaps it was, Dagmar admitted, but that did not explain the motive behind it. "It is a Terran custom to give "house-warming" gifts upon one's first visit to a person's new home, is it not?"

I'll be damned, she thought wryly. Out loud, the redhead thanked the Andorian aide with a tired, but genuine, smile, and there was warmth in her voice as she did so. "Thank you, Shral. That's very kind of you."

Shral seemed pleased with her response. Belatedly, Dagmar realized she had yet to offer the customary hospitalities. "Oh! May I offer you something to eat or drink? I was just about to open a bottle of ale."

"Ale is fine."

Dagmar set the box down on the kitchen counter as she passed it, withdrawing the very same bottle she'd been after before from what she referred to as her Alcohol Cupboard. She had a couple bottles of ale, a bottle of a pale, thin blue drink with an oily-yellow sheen to it that was like a bitter whiskey, and the Andorian equivalent of a particularly sweet sort of rum – a dark and murky liquid with the consistency if thick syrup and the potency of about a case of Terran rum in a single bottle. Needless to say the Human translator expected the bottles to last for quite a while.

She set two glasses on the counter next to the box and opened the tall glass bottle. Or, rather, she tried to. The caps were always stiff, and the Human woman usually couldn't open one without an accompanying monologue riddled with no small amount of cursing. That was probably why she didn't drink much on Andoria, aside from the potency of Andorian liquor – the bottles were pretty damned difficult for the average Human to open.

It was after her third attempt that Dagmar eventually sighed. She was about to turn to Shral and make a joke about the whole thing, if only to pass off her embarrassment, when the bottle was suddenly plucked from her hands from behind. Startled, Dagmar turned and found that Shral had come up beside her while she'd been distracted.

The bottle came open easily with a crack and a hiss, and Shral offered a faint, vaguely condescending razor-thin smile.

"Oh, shoosh." Dagmar mumbled, not quite able to keep the snarky tone out of her voice as she swiped the bottle back from the tall Andorian and pouring them both three fingers of ale. She paused for a moment, the bottle tilted in her hand, and then added a fourth finger on a whim.

Accepting a glass from her with a polite nod, the aide gestured to the box on the counter and inquired, "Will you not open it?"

Dagmar smiled. "Sure."

The box contained a tray of familiar delicate pastries – shev'tak- and a few that she did not recognize, which contained darker custards or appeared to have something sprinkled on top of the tiny desserts.

Astute as ever, Shral explained, "The ones you do not recognize are variations of the traditional recipe; one is flavoured with katheka, and the other uses Terran cloves."

Dagmar nodded, intrigued. She hadn't been aware that trade exports between Earth and Andoria had progressed far enough along for Terran spices to be available on the Andorian market; last she'd heard, both parties were still nattering and bickering about tariffs.

"I had thought you might still be fond of shev'tak, despite…" Shral trailed off, verdant eyes and antenna drifting to the side as he remembered the events which had prompted her exodus from Earth. Dagmar pre-emptively grimaced, not wishing to be reminded of the tabloids and the public humiliation. Shral caught the look before she could mask it, and offered with a vaguely apologetic look, "…I suppose it does not need to be said."

Dagmar offered a smile in response, slightly strained in the wake of the grimace but genuine nonetheless. With a touch of humour creeping into her voice, she conceded, "I still like them – I just don't miss the fuss that came after."

"Understandable."

This was nice, Dagmar thought to herself as a comfortable silence settled over them, each nursing their ale. Peaceful. Quiet. Not awkward.

Blue eyes glanced up at the pointed antenna and amended that – not completely awkward.

"You were disappointed with the Ambassador's decision." Shral stated suddenly, and Dagmar wondered if he had been mulling over the idea for a while; he had that look about him. "Why?"

The redheaded translator sighed, leaning against the counter. She wasn't sure how to explain. "Because… They came to me for help."

Shral's antennae wiggled in confusion. "A request is not an obligation."

Dagmar shook her head. "You don't understand. They didn't ask anyone else – so they came to me. The whole infertility thing is awkward for Vulcans,too, you know. It's not taboo, like it is here, but it's not something you go see a physician about unless you've already found a solution. And, from what little I know of Human genetics and recent developments in that area, a Human stem cell such as an egg would be perfect for their needs."

The tall, green-eyed aide seemed to ponder that for several long moments, nursing his ale almost absent-mindedly as he thought.

At length, Shral asked a rather interesting question. "You understand that you were forbidden to have the procedure done on Vulcan?"

"Yes," Dagmar agreed, openly frustrated and caught between duty and friendship. She passed a hand over her face, feeling the fatigue and her earlier headache returning in full force. "And I don't know how to tell them! They're going to be so disappointed in me."

"They're Vulcan." Shral stated flatly.

"Then they'll be Vulcanly disappointed!" Dagmar retorted angrily without even thinking, and, internally, she was almost surprised at how upset she was becoming.

Shral raised an eyebrow, and flicked his antennae. His voice was low, calm, and just faintly disapproving. "Vulcanly is not a word, and you are not listening."

Dagmar raised her head from her hand and looked at Shral with narrowed eyes. "Well, what more is there to listen to? I'm not allowed to help my friends!"

The Human woman didn't know if she should have been insulted or not when Shral glanced at the ceiling in a universal gesture of exasperation. Setting his ale down on the counter, the Andorian settled his hands on her shoulders, looked her directly in the eye, and spoke very slowly. "You are not permitted to have the procedure done on Vulcan."

Dagmar blinked, and it took a long moment for the anger to fade enough for comprehension to dawn. In the wake of understanding, Dagmar felt incredibly stupid.

"Oh."

"Yes," Shral agreed emphatically, looking vaguely relieved. His antennae curved together in mild amusement. "Your work as a translator is flawless, but you have a remarkable inability to listen."

Dagmar felt extremely foolish. Beyond foolish, even. She'd spent hours agonizing over something that was completely unnecessary! Hours! She could still help Varek and T'Lar, but just not on Vulcan – the procedure would have to be done here on Andoria. She'd gotten all worked up about absolutely nothing!

"I'm a moron." The redhead lamented, equal parts relied and self-depreciating humour as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "I am a total and absolute moron."

All she had to do was to figure out how to get the extracted ova from point A to point B. How hard could that be?

"Such a moron." Dagmar reiterated for good measure, shaking her head.

The aide scoffed and, retrieving his drink, snagged her elbow, guiding the pair of them over to the couch she'd woken up on that very morning with Thelen. Dagmar grabbed the now-open box of Andorian pastries as they went by. "No, but you do not always pay attention to what is said and what is meant."

After a moment, the aide added ruefully, "And even less to what is not said."

Dagmar had no idea what that was supposed to mean. That wasn't even sarcastic. She had no idea what he was referring to. "Sorry?"

Shral shook his head and smiled a razor thin smile.