‘What’re you doing here?’ Kharth looked suspicious as she opened the door to her quarters to see Logan standing there. That in itself wasn’t the problem, but he wore hard-wearing civilian clothing, the like of which she’d seen him in when they’d first met. He’d been undercover on the Romulan refugee world of Teros, after years out on the frontier on behalf of Starfleet Intelligence.

‘Can’t a guy drop by just ‘cos?’ He smirked. ‘Get changed. We’re going out.’

She rolled her eyes and waved him in. ‘Do I get a clue what to prep for?’ she asked, heading for her wardrobe.

‘I think you’ve got enough info already to make the right decision.’ He waited politely in the middle of the room, even the XO not granted a separate bedroom in their quarters on a ship as compact and utilitarian as Endeavour’s living conditions could be.

‘You’re annoying,’ she said, knowing to match his level of clothing, and pulled her uniform jacket off. ‘Anyone ever tell you that?’

‘You. Often.’ Logan gave a toothy grin.

‘You’re also in a good mood. I didn’t know it went that well on the Suv’chu.’

‘Klingons didn’t try to show off who’s bigger and meaner at each other. I didn’t have to fend off death threats against my captain. I’d say it’s a pretty good day.’

She hesitated as she pulled a canvas jacket to toss on the bed before pulling off her undershirt. ‘You’re feeling better about the opera,’ she surmised, deciding it was better to mention it than sit on it all evening.

‘Is what it is, ain’t it?’ Logan shrugged, hands in his pockets as he watched the window, with the gentle rolling hues of Rencaris III’s atmosphere below. She didn’t know if she liked the gentlemanly approach; he’d seen her naked countless times by now, and didn’t need to be coy. Even if she was just changing her shirt. ‘Saves me havin’ to listen to some opera.’

Kharth hid her expression by turning away to pull on her jacket. ‘Let’s have this surprise, then.’

They beamed down from the transporter room into fresh, cold air and a gathering dusk. Kharth drew a sharp breath at the sudden drop in temperature, and with it came the taste of smoke and spices on the air.

Before them rolled sprawling fields, the rays of the dying sun casting gold across tiered plots of crops punctuated by the shining specks of agricultural buildings and equipment. Turning showed their true destination: the bustling hub of a rural settlement of Rencaris III. Rather than some isolated village, this was a town, the streets wide enough for drones and transport skimmers to zip between fields and processing centres. But the sleek buildings lining the roads still bore dark stone facades adorned with intricate latticework, arched doorways and curved rooms framed by warm lighting, markers of traditional Romulan architecture.

‘Berinen is one of the central townships of this region,’ Logan explained in a low voice that still carried through the gloom. ‘Which has got a big enough agricultural network to feed a quarter of the system. An’ it’s the end of the harvest. Which means it’s time for…’

‘The Rihan-kholva festival,’ Kharth breathed. ‘Jack, what are we doing here?’

‘Relax, I did some reading.’ He’d put on a wide-brimmed hat before they’d beamed down, enough that his cortical implant wouldn’t be noticed at a mere glance. Now he stuck an arm out to her in a silly, self-aware manner, and she was too dumbstruck to do anything but take it. ‘Berinen’s big enough that their festival draws in all sorts of tourists. We ain’t intruding on nothin’. Thought it’d be nice.’

Indeed, on their approach to the town they were falling in with a growing trickle of visitors, mostly Romulan, many of whom woere clothes that set them apart from the locals. Kharth felt her back tensing, but Logan’s head was up, soaking in the lantern-lit streets, the hum of people, the distant sound of music and more voices.

‘Fascinating, ain’t it, how so many cultures do something like this? Back home, it ain’t like the end of the harvest really means much, but we still do something a bit like this. Though it does include racing transport skimmers, all painted up an’ decorated, bit of inter-farm pride ‘n all…’

Kharth said nothing, letting Logan’s nostalgic musings on how this reminded him of Kentucky wash over her. Approaching the town square meant approaching the thickest knot of the crowd and, in the centre, a towering bonfire. Only the locals approached its flickering flames, visitors kept at a distance by a barricade and lured there by the stalls the periphery. These burst with commemorative trinkets she thought might be a little tacky, but also sold fresh produce and served food for the evening: spiced meats and vegetables, roasted in open pits before being laid out on platters on the stalls. An elevated platform hovered in the distance, musicians playing haunting chimes and stringed instruments in a melody that kept an exuberant beat but an undercurrent that was eerie to her ears.

‘What’re the masks?’ Logan asked, leaning in and dropping his voice. He nodded to the locals in the centre, dancing before the fire, each wearing an ornate mask etched with unique geometric symbols and sleek metallic details.

‘Do you know what Rihan-kholva means?’ Kharth pressed, sharper than she intended, and tried to pass it off as needing to enunciate to be heard over the music. ‘It’s like “the lowering of the veil” or “the descent into shadows.” Winter is a time where you turn inward, to your closest community. The celebration’s about enjoying the connections of the wider community one last time, but also about shutting the door. The masks represent different families, communes.’

‘Oh.’ Logan’s lips thinned. ‘That’s a bit more sinister.’

She looked away, to the crowd. The Romulans near her were undoubtedly tourists, too, and likely from the city, with soft leather shoes and lapelled jackets that made even her look like she fit in better. Near the fire, a group of tourists stood in an entranced semicircle around a child in a rough-spun tunic she suspected wasn’t everyday wear for a local, watching her recite a lyrical poem about the land and the gathering dark. A parent stood over the girl, a hand on her shoulder occasionally tensing every time the child hesitated or faltered in her recitation, a rumbling undercurrent completely missed by the crowd too enchanted by local rustic custom.

‘I want some roast rhevet,’ Kharth said, turning on her heel to push through the crowd for the periphery. Logan had to walk swiftly to catch up as she approached a stall with a spit turning slow over an open flame, the vendor – a middle-aged Romulan with a glint in his eyes – caught her approach.

‘Rhevet,’ he offered, gesturing to the roasting meat, its skin crisped to a golden hue. ‘Fresh off the fire, as it has been for centuries – a true local delicacy -’

‘I could replicate that in the capital,’ Kharth spat before she could stop herself. ‘But I’ll have a cut.’

‘You’ve never tasted it prepared like this, I promise you.’ The vendor’s lips curled into a smile, unperturbed by her sharpness. He carved a thick slice, juices fizzing as they dropped into the flame, and handed it to her on a wooden platter. ‘Enjoy.’

Logan appeared at her shoulder and peered at a set of clay flasks. ‘What’s the drink?’

‘Only the finest gellhek,’ the vendor said, already pouring a glass.

‘It’s like whiskey,’ sighed Kharth. ‘You’ll enjoy it.’

He did, smacking his lips when he had a savouring sip once they’d walked away from the stall. ‘Smoky. Feels like home. Except for the masks an’ all.’

‘Enjoying your authentic Romulan experience?’ This time, she couldn’t fight the sharp edge to her voice, and he couldn’t miss it. In the centre of the square, around the fire, drummers were beating a steady thud to dictate the pace of the masked dancers.

Logan’s brow knitted. ‘I just thought this would be nice. How long’s it been since you were around your people doin’ something normal?’

‘Normal? As opposed to “being miserable on a refugee world?”’

‘Uh. Yeah?’

Kharth ripped off a mouthful of rhevet. It was annoyingly delicious. ‘What, you thought I needed help from you to reconnect with my roots?’

He held the beaker, stunned. The thud of the drums soared behind them, and there was a cheer from the crowd, the dancers likely making more impressive moves for the audience. ‘I thought we’d – hold on. Why’re you pissed at this?’

‘I grew up on Romulus. In the city. This is like me taking you to, I don’t know, a founding festival on fucking Archer IV and thinking it resonates with you!’

‘I didn’t think it were gonna resonate! I thought we’d have a night off!’

The thud of the music and the hum of the crowd were enough to smother their fight, but enough to smother her. For all her words, the smell of the spices and cooking filled her nostrils, just as they might have on a street market on Romulus. The music had the rustic edges, but it was played with real instruments by people who spent a lifetime sharpening their craft, with an aching care she hadn’t heard in a lifetime. She would never have danced before a bonfire in the masks, but they had hung from the walls at home, etched with markings of her family. It was all so close and yet too far. Light-years away, decades away, lifetimes away, and filling her head and senses all the same.

‘It’s… it’s just fake,’ Kharth said, shaking her head as she looked away.

‘It’s performative,’ Logan agreed. ‘We don’t race skimmers everyday in Winchester, but that don’t mean it don’t mean a lot to us to blow off steam an’ be proud of what we got.’ His gaze softened, and he stepped in. ‘It’s okay for this to feel a bit weird, you know? Being back on a Romulan world -’

She stepped back. ‘If you think this is so great, enjoy the rhevet.’ She shoved the platter in his hands as she went to push past him. ‘I’ll see you back aboard.’

A part of her expected him to stop her, to come after her. But he’d always let her set the beat, be the drummer in their dance dictating tempo and intensity just as much as the musicians at the heart of this performance. So she was free to push through the crowd, free to storm away from the thudding music and roaring firelight and cheers and shouts, performance and tradition swirling and blending together.

At the edge of the square, she passed the same local parent and child she’d seen near the fire, the parent now scolding the girl in a hissing, low turn for mistakes in her poetry recital.

‘…people come a long way for this… embarrass us in front of the city…’

A long way. A long way to travel and feel connected to one’s roots, to an older Romulan tradition, to perform being Romulan at a time when being Romulan was harder and harder to define by what you did. Kharth didn’t linger, storming down the streets, heading for the outskirts of the town so she could beam out.

She didn’t have a performance in her anyway.