Lt. Commander Yogan Yalu — Planet Cat
Yogan Yalu
(( Promenade, Cait Spacedock ))
Yogan descended a curious, ultra modern-looking, almost condo-shaped structure that doubled as a staircase, linking the promenade’s upper and lower levels. Through the large viewports, a waltz of starships, shuttlecraft and workbees played out in the blackness of space. Inside, the promenade was quieter than Yogan might have expected in the middle of the day. A handful of customers from all corners of the Federation milled about the several dozen retail establishments ringing the central walkway. This was Yogan’s kind of place, as each business had a jauntier name than the last: Amy’s Winehouse and Spirits. Freddy MerCurry, home of the fish tikka masala. Avril Living, transforming your interior space from a Damn Cold Night into Springtime in Paris.
Few of the shops appealed to him, but he made a mental note to come back later and patronize the Hindenburger. According to the sign in the window, if you could finish a one-kilogram burger, the bun, fixings, and a double order of fries in four hours, you got to keep the plate it was served on. Yogan peered through the windows and watched a Human diner struggling to choke down the massive meal as her Bajoran dining companion looked on with awe and nausea.
Yalu: Oh, the humanity.
Cait Spacedock was the region’s primary point of interstellar commerce and Starfleet operations, and thus offered an eclectic mix of influences from the Caitian civilization planetside and those of the wider Federation that transited the facility. The architecture was of particular note, with high, almost perch-like viewing areas near the ceiling, from where visitors could survey the entire promenade in comfort.
Yogan, eager to get boots on terra firma after the disorientation of Artemis’ artificial gravity malfunction, had beamed down to the planet’s surface at the earliest opportunity. With only a few hours to kill before a meeting with the Strategic Operations Sector Commander, Yogan decided to play tourist in a small, obscure city in the northern subpolar region, the only part of the planet whose climate wasn’t intolerably hot for the chill-loving Trill. Woaim, the city in question, hosted a traditional artisan’s market that got 3.6 out of 5 stars on TrillAdvisor.
(( Flashback — Artisan Market, Woaim City, Cait — Earlier that day ))
As the only non-Caitian in the place, Yogan felt as alien as he looked. The locals bartered and scratched, hissed and purred, pounced and bumped heads. The process of making a sale overwhelmed Yogan. Each time he found a bauble or trinket he liked, another market goer would get interested and bat it out of his hands.
It was chaos, but ordered chaos, and the more he observed the hubbub, the more he felt he could comprehend the logic behind it. Still, he wasn't quite prepared to participate with gusto in the market's goings-on,
And then, of course, there was the scent. Having spent most of the last decade either at the Academy or serving on starships, Yogan understood that every species had its own olfactory quirks and signatures. A Bardeezan once told Yogan that, to her, Joined Trills smelled like dirty lettuce while unjoined Trills smelled like burnt ham, and a Smort ambassador told the FNS that the Federation at large smelled “like the end of a long, difficult day.” Such was the reality of living in a pluralistic society—everybody smells.
Yogan didn’t find the collective scent of the large number of Caitians particularly unpleasant, just strong. Like apple skin and woodsmoke with a hint of something he couldn’t quite identify. Stepping out of the market center, where fewer Caitians had congregated, gave him a breath of fresh air, but in his retreat, he made the mistake of treading on the toe of a vendor.
M’Algru: ::gasps:: A customer!
Yogan looked up at the Caitian business owner. She had just affixed a sign to the outside of her stall that read “Distractions By M’Algru.” He backpedaled and put out his hands apologetically.
Yalu: Oh, I’m sorry, but no thanks. I’m just browsing.
Yogan turned and walked away from the stall, but M’Algru refused to lose a sale. She pursued him with (heh) almost catlike precision.
M’Algru: Wait! What’s your rush? What’s your hurry?
(( End Flashback ))
M’Algru refused to lose a sale, indeed. Yogan stopped at a “sidewalk” cafe in the Promenade’s central walkway and deposited his market purchase on the table. It reminded him of the mobiles that parents put in a newborn’s crib, only this was far more colorful. And feathery. And it smelled vaguely… minty. He mentally flipped through the Artemis crew manifest, trying to think of to whom he could regift the knickknack. Talos, maybe? Yogan was just in the middle of practicing his sales pitch when he saw Genkos approaching from further down the Promenade.
Yalu: oO Perfect. Oo
None of Yogan’s past hosts had been salespeople, but Eira, the seventh Yalu, was a lifelong politician. Judging by his memories of her oratory prowess, flogging a piece of crap bore striking similarities to speaking on proposed legislation in the Trill Senate. He waved Genkos over and slid the bibelot to the center of the table.
Yalu: Genkos! Glad to see you’re back up and about.
Adea: response
Yogan pushed the unoccupied chair out from the table with his boot and offered Genkos a seat.
Yalu: I, erm—— ::beat, gestures to the Caitian bauble:: I got you something?
Adea: response
Yogan laughed and conceded that his efforts to pawn the tchotchke off on Genkos was doomed from the outset to fail. It was only then that Yogan noticed his Betazoid friend was dressed in a teal uniform, as opposed to the expected red. He took one of the mobile’s spindly, feathery arms and gestured at Genkos’ uniform with it.
Yalu: ::re: the uniform:: What’s with this? Lingering colorblindness?
Adea: response
Tag / TBC
Lieutenant Commander Yogan Yalu
Second Officer & Strategic Operations Officer
USS Artemis NCC-81287
D238804DS0