Lieutenant Dhae’s official log, officially mandated entry, stardate [REDACTED]: my activities are within the norm and the parameters thereof are within reason.

Iskander had given him many Earth classical novels to read, and few had struck Dhae’s imagination as much as the cozy bouduoire tomes of the XIXth century.

The idea that you could just open a “salon” and then people would willingly come to it and reveal secrets — “gossip” — had struck his Romulan imagination. In Romulan society, secrets had to be paranoically kept and obsessively discovered: creating a setting where people would just blurt out any sort of juicy info was, to Dhae, akin to discovering an hitherto untheoretical sort of heaven.

“Your imagination has been captured by Anna Karenina?” had marveled Iskander with a hint of skepticism in his voice.

“And so many other books!” had confirmed Dhae. “But Anna Karenina was excellent.”

Of course, a small voice in his head told him that, maybe, this should put a dent in his absolute Romulan belief that secrets were absolute power: how could the humans, with their spongy, leaky society, have resisted the steely, guarded Romulan society, if it was true that secrets were, at the end, the only thing that mattered? Yet he decided not to think about that. He was a scientist, after all, not a societal revolutionary.

So he told Iskander that he wanted their quarters to become a salon of juicy gossips.

Iskander had looked at him in that you-are-such-an-alien way that he had. “You mean… seeing people?”

“Of course, Iskander!” had replied Dhae. “Tell me you want to!”

Iskander had contemplated the request for a moment. Dhae already knew that he wasn’t a great socialite, and that he was happier in small circles of well-known friends, of which he however didn’t have many on this new ship. “I’d be lying if I said I burn at the desire to.”

“Well, tell me that you wouldn’t entirely be opposed to the idea!”

“Our quarters are too small.”

Dhae had flinched. Iskander was doubtlessly correct on this.

Starfleet vessels had, in the past, had a reputation for luxury and decadent space. The Galaxy class, for instance, was an extravagant collection of large quarters featuring carpeting and wood finishes. The Romulan had been slightly surprised, thus, getting assigned to an Echelon-class ship and finding it cramped, functional and essential — just like a Romulan vessel. Apparently the uneasy times since the Dominion war had made Starfleet reconsider their decadent ways.

Even though Dhae and Iskander had applied to get a shared quarter, and had managed, and their living space was thus slightly more generous than otherwise, it wasn’t enough to feature a fully functional late XIXth century salon.

“Well” said Dhae, “we can go to the bar and entertain guests there, forgetting we don’t own the place.”

“Fine, fine. I need to challenge myself to see more people anyways.”

Dhae had kissed him. “Do you think we could cook for our guests to facilitate the revealing of secrets!”

“Cook? The point of a bar is that someone cooks.”

“Yes, Iskander. The someone is the two of us. We cook for our guests, to induce them to be generous in their intelligence-dispensing! We want to know everything against them!”

“About them, Ishvenyal, not against them.”

“Surely that’s what I mean to say. Food.”

The thought of food, of course, had brought a certain joy in the Romulan’s gray heart.

So tonight was the night. A scarce twenty days after Iskander had been transferred to the Sternbach, and a scarce nine after Dhae’s request to enter the officer exchange program and be admitted into Starfleet, they had invited a couple of friends for an elegant dinner party.

“Do we have to call it an elegant dinner party?” had grumbled Iskander, clearly struggling to keep his moroseness in check. Dhae loved him regardless, and found his slight pessimism to be endearing and surprisingly Romulan. It was a quality of which Dhae himself was sorely lacking.

“Of course!” had said Dhae. “What would you have us call it?”

“An informal get-together at the bar?”

“We can do that. But can I convince you to call it an elegant dinner party instead?”

The human had grumbled.

Iskander had invited Diran Koli — an unsurprising choice, and a potentially useful presence if Dhae could convince him to use his empathic powers — and Lieutenant JG Reema Gwa, one of his new colleagues in the engineering department. Dhae had invited two people from Astrometrics: Lieutenant JG Tinnis Frobenius and Chief Peeris Nolen.

Cooking had been an interesting experience: Dhae had manage to cajole someone at the bar to give them some space — it had been much easier than he had expected: he had just had to explain why he wanted to cook. The choice in menu, a fusion of his brand of Romulan cooking and Earth middle-eastern kitchen, was a bit too ambitious. The hummus, the nherraxshu cream, the aubergine roast and the ch’Tunemshu julienne had come out reasonably well, and the rest had been saved by the intervention and help of one of the bartenders, a Caitian who had skilfully intervened. She had also strongly suggested they put some meat in everything, but Iskander had been able to stop her there.

Dhae had dressed in a tight brown outfit embroiled with green Romulan writing on the rim — a couple of his favourite lines from The Secret Secret — while Iskander had picked his favourite Capri pants and a nice, blue-and-green floral shirt. Dhae looked at the human and, as he often did, thought that he looked really good, especially around his lower backside.

“Isn’t it a bit miserable that we have to organize this in a common space?” he asked Iskander. They had taken a large table next to the windows, from which they could see the stars: thanks to a series of small walls and columns, while it wasn’t intimate, it was at least somewhat private.

Iskander visibly tried not to sigh. “It is the norm on this ship, Dhae. Nobody invites people to their quarters.”

“But –“

“You are not Anna Karenina, Ishvenyal. Diran certainly doesn’t expect late Zarist levels of decadence. They are going to love us.”

Dhae felt himself raising both of his eyebrows. “Iskander — I never took you for an optimist!”

“Oh” said the human, trying to look as wistful as possible, “they’re going to love us despite me, because you compensate my faults away.”

Dhae felt himself greenen a little bit. His previous lover, [REDACTED], had been very guarded with and reticent to give compliments, especially when [REDACTER] in [REDACTED]: having a partner who was more forthcoming with them was, for Dhae, a novel and pleasant experience. “Aw” he said. “I do not appreciate that you insult thusly my beloved. Besides, you know it is false. Diran is completely charmed by your black moods.”

Iskander smiled. “I’ll try not to darken too much, though. We do not really know our other guests.”

Soon they arrived. Lieutenant JG Tinnis Frobenius was a very skinny and noodly human from what Iskander had described as the northern region of Earth — not that this information really did much for Dhae. He was pale, awfully pale: he had been very friendly and was working at a very interesting virtual tachyon mapping system. He wore a sleeveless peach-colored top and black trousers.

“Tinnis Frobenius, Iskander al-Kwaritzmi” introduced Dhae, trying simultaneously not too produce too Machiavellian a smile.

“Frobenius like the norm?” asked Iskander while shaking hands. Dhae cringed internally.

“Yes, but like the discoverer of the Lp-norm. Our branch of the family doesn’t talk with the branch that discovered the Frobenius norm” answered Tinnis, and Dhae cringed even more. Sad thing was, he had even understood the joke. Would he, in the future, have to vet dinner party guests for their knowledge of topology and measure theory? He hoped not.

Lieutenant JG Reema Gwa was a dark blue and blocky alien from a species that Dhae was fully unfamiliar with. She had four eyes, mushy hair, and wore a very elegant red gown: she looked fabulous, reminding Dhae of [REDACTED], when he [REDACTED]. She was apparently the hull expert, and one of the chiefs of Delta shift.

“Who is ready to mingle?” said Reema Gwa, sitting down. “I am. Mingle me away.”

Iskander had picked well, thought Dhae.

Then Chief Peeris Nolen arrived. An old Bajoran woman who had served in Starfleet since the end of the Dominion Wars and was already quite old when she enrolled, her wrinkles attested how often she smiled: she was somewhat corpulent, a trait that Dhae found relatable, had bright brown hair, and wore, for some reason, no Bajoran earring. Dhae had had the feeling that she was quite strongly anti-theist, as she had mentioned some inscrutable story concerning James T. Kirk and Apollon or something like that. She wore a comfortable-looking checkered tunic.

“Thanks for the invite” she said. “Color me surprised and intrigued.”

The last to come was, of course, Diran Koli, whose role was probably to provide Iskander with some measure of emotional comfort and stability. The Betazoid, who had apparently a somewhat rare genetic trait that prevented full telepathy, was in one of their non-binary modes: they had perky little breasts, but also a thin black moustache. Dhae found them to be rather attractive both while serving male and while serving female, although he’d never admit it to Iskander.

“Am I the last one?” they asked.

“Yes” said Iskander, who was gifted with succinctness.

“‘pologies” said the Betazoid sitting down. They sounded rather demure, which was in total contrast with the aggressive bubbliness they usually exhibited, at least in Dhae’s recollection.

The ch’Tunemshu julienne was brought by the Caitian. Drinks came without any need to order. Dhae had of course already provided the barmen with a list of drinks that was appropriate to accompany the flavour of the course: this was fresh and zesty.

“So” said Dhae, “the only rule is that talking about work is forbidden.”

“You… cooked this? With your own hands?” asked Paris Nolen taking a slice of rhumirhu.

“From replicated ingredients, sadly, but yes.”

“This is amazing” said the old Bajoran, and she launched on a story about her childhood on Bajor. She had lived through the Occupation, when replicators were unheard of. Her story, while tinged with unpleasant implications of child slavery, proved to be a good icebreaker, and soon the discussion started flourishing.

As the julienne had been decimated and the aubergine roast and hummus were being brought, along with the new selection of drinks, Dhae felt triumphant. They were all talking with such freedom! Peeris Nolen was wise but also an old adept at reading people; Reema Gwa knew quite well the Chief of Security — had they dated? — and tried unsuccessfully to hide how many small secrets of the senior staff she knew; Tinnis Frobenius was a massive nerd but had all the info about the beef between the Lieutenant Sbyrbyr and Commander Tonius Skalgeery of the Astrometric Station 49.

Iskander seemed to enjoy himself well enough, but he kept being worried by Diran Koli, who looked more and more distraught. They were distract, and progressively unable of following the discussion.

Midway through the aubergine roast, Reema Gwa seemed took a couple of deep breathes.

“What is it that I’m smelling now?” she asked.

“It’s probably the aubergine” answered Tinnis Frobenius, who had been listening with fascination to Peeris Nolen’s retelling of last week’s disagreement between Lieutenant Corzander Bloom (“Corzy”) and Lieutenant Minturinis Huulper (“Turny”) concerning the beta shift organization. Dhae was also captured — simultaneously aghast and delighted by the idea of a squabble inside the security section. It showed that the Federation didn’t have the [REDACTED] to impose [REDACTED].

“No, it’s something else” she said, and sniffed around again. “Something… a bit rotten maybe?”

“All the ingredients were replicated as fresh” said Iskander.

The dark blue alien smiled faintly. “It’s probably just someone else’s drink in the bar. Certainly not the food — which is excellent, compliments to the both of you.”

Dhae couldn’t wait. “So how have they solved the phaser situation?”

“Ah!” answered Peeris Nolen. “That’s when it gets really byzantine.”

Slowly, however, as they finished the aubergine roast, Dhae found himself enjoying the food less and less. Peeris Nolen was slowly losing the plot of her story, and Diran Koli seemed not to be able to control himself. Iskander kept and kept doting on them, asking them whether they were doing ok, and the thing bothered Dhae. Had Iskander and that weak Betazoid ever had anything together, he wondered? Was that why Iskander cared so much? They did spend an awful amount of time together.

“And then –” was saying Tinnis Frobenius, when he was interrupted by a very loud bang.

Everyone turned. The Caitian at the bar had dropped a large bottle that had shattered on the floor. Dhae found himself quite angered by that: what was the brilliant idea of taking breakable glass on a starship? Make all bottles out of invisible aluminium and be done with it! Why were these Federation fools so incompetent? Would they be the death of him?

Everyone in the bar stared at the Caitian for a moment, then the discussion resumed, nervous, loud, as if the event had started something.

Diran Koli decided that this was the moment to produce some sort of whine and fall off the chair.

“Diran!” said Tinnis Frobenius, shocked.

“I’m — fine! I’m fine! Don’t touch me!” said the Betazoid, ineffectively moving their little limbs trying to stand. “I’m fine.”

“Diran — you are clearly not fine. Why do you lie?” asked Iskander.

This was bad, thought Dhae. This was very annoying. This never happened in Anna Karenina. People should know how to behave during an elegant dinner party. Everything had been good until now, but this — this felt like sabotage, like someone was willingly trying to — to —

“Dhae” said Iskander, and his voice woke the Romulan from his reverie. He looked at his human lover. “I think we should bring Diran to the medbay.”

Dhae couldn’t believe his pointy ears. “But — the nherraxshu cream?”

Iskander started rising. “I am really sorry. I’m going to bring them and come back as soon as possible. You stay here and enjoy yourselves. Just leave me some cream.”

Dhae didn’t like the thought of Iskander walking with Diran all the way to the medbay. They had been already cozying up the whole evening while Diran’s affliction grew.

The Romulan stood, feeling restless. “No, I’m going to bring him. This is my social event and I’m going to take responsibility. It might have been something they ate.”

Iskander looked almost a bit hurt. “Your social event?”

The Romulan walked over to where Diran was still ineffectively endeavouring to stand. He offered them his hand. “Come, Diran, let’s bring you to some nice Federation doctor.”

“Don’t touch me” meekly said the Betazoid.

“Can you walk?”

Diran tried to walk, which first required trying to stand, which proved a tad too complex.

Dhae shook his head at the result. “Right. Me not touching you is a luxury that we do not have. Chop chop. And you lovely people — leave some cream for me.”

Before Iskander could protest again, Dhae had already grabbed Diran Koli by the shoulder and propelled the two of them through the door, leaving the bar whose noise had grown, to Dhae’s ears, almost intolerable.