Iskander al-Kwaritzmi’s personal log, supplemental: after coordination with the Romulan Republic fleet, a first batch of tasks has been communicated to the Sternbach. I am to lead a small team — Diran Koli, Ensign Pasteyr, and Ensign Limkas — and go to a settlement in the desertic south of Norborhann-3A. There are reports that an engineering repair pack has been lost in that region.

As the transporter beam’s light effect faded, Iskander’s first feeling was that of heat. The air was warm, and the light bright, the overwhelming smell was of rich, ripe vegetation: a wet vegetation, green and purple and dark blue in colour, grew in abundance around the Upper Fanitë, which flew slow and pacific just a hundred meters to Iskander’s right.

Beyond that, the vast orange desert of the Ceaseless Dust; above them, the large and reddish glow of Norborhann.

The sound, of the lively activity of plentiful insects.

“So there’s really no risk of rain, right?” asked Diran, nervously. They were presenting very butch on this day, with a thin mustache and beard.

“Not until the sun starts setting and the temperature lowers” answered Iskander. He didn’t know more than Diran, but he had more trust in what the ship’s climatologist had explained.

“We are in the late afternoon — they call this hour the Scorcher — and the sunset is coming in three days thereabouts” said Ensign Limkas. Iskander had never worked with her, nor even had met her, and had been for a moment surprised to find a Xindi Reptilian working as a communication officer. Limkas was hard to decipher, he scaly skin always giving an aggressive air, but in Iskander’s experience so far she had been polite and extremely knowledgeable about language and cultures.

Iskander knew that, as the evening would come to a close, the air would cool down and the large amounts of air vapor would condensate and rain down, feeding the river and making it swell well above its current state. Then would come the long cold night, away from the sun.

Unlike Diran, he hoped that he could see the evening rains, as they sounded absolutely majestic in their power and abundance. Born on a space station, as a child he had devoured books about his ancestral place of origin (or, at least, one of the thousand of them), the Nile valley: was what happened on the Upper Fanitë comparable to what had happened on Earth?

“There! There!” screamed a voice from up above.

The Starfleet team looked up: a native was flying above their heads, maybe a hundred of meters east, graceful and small: the voice had been shrill and high-pitched, maybe because that was what their voice sounded like, maybe because of the alarm. It wasn’t like Starfleet had notified that they’d be sending a team.

The native flew eastward, where Iskander knew was the closest village. No surprise there.

He turned to Pasteyr. “Any energy trace of the repair kit?”

Pasteyr had been quietly scanning and shook her head. “I can’t get a lock, Lieutenant.”

“Then we go to village and ask” he said.

They started, walking through the shrubbery and the wetland. Iskander realized only now that the natives being avian had several consequences he hadn’t thought of: they didn’t walk, so they didn’t leave nor maintain footpaths between their settlements as land-dwellers would consciously or unconsciously. This made the flora and fauna all the more beautiful and well-preserved, but did substantially slow down the four Starfleet personnel.

As they approached the village, they saw more and more natives, flying high above their abode. They didn’t seem hostile, which was a good sign.

“What do they call themselves?” asked Iskander to Limkas.

“The Limitöe in the local dialect” answered Limkas. “The planet is called Nidöe. Etymologically, it refers to the open sky. It’s a beautiful word.”

Iskander studied the Xindi’s face. Not that he could detect much, but the words had been spoken with a certain wistfulness.

“Are you acquainted with the story of my people, Lieutenant?” asked the Xindi.

“Not in particular. Not further than our brief conflict two centuries ago. Why?”

“We Xindi are a community of species, made orphans by the death of our planet” said the Xindi. “One of our brethren didn’t make it out of the planet.”

Iskander didn’t have to remember much. “There was an avian Xindi species.”

“Aye” said Limkas.

“Do you think they’d have looked like the Limitöe?”

“I know they didn’t, Lieutenant” answered the Xindi. “In size, anatomy or culture, they are most unlike. Yet they manage to awaken my… regret for what happened. And my hunting instinct.”

Iskander felt a slight shiver. “Did you just say hunting instinct?”

The Xindi nodded. “In our defence, we learned to control our instinct to hunt fellow sapient species more than a hundred thousand years ago. But we still have a small voice in our head telling us to… pounce.”

Ensign Pasteyr interrupted the discussion by getting their attention and pointing in the direction of some trees. “Lieutenant. Ensign. Look there. Do you see the reflection?”

Iskander looked. Very sporadically, from the crown of some trees, one could see flashes of light. “Either metal or glass. Diran?”

Diran took out their tricorder and scanned quickly. They had been extremely silent so far. “Binoculars, I’d say. But it could be the aiming system of a weapon.”

“They’re checking us out” said Limkas. “They do not have much in terms of long-range weapons such as bows or spears, and guns are quite rare and expensive.”

“Lieutenant Koli” said Iskander. He disliked calling his friend with their family name, but he felt he had to, especially when filling the role of a superior with a critique. “Please refrain from adducing hostile motives to the natives. They have all the rights to be apprehensive and to want to spy on us.”

Diran breathed deep. “You are correct, Lieutenant.”

“Besides, you are an empath. Can’t you read some feelings? Do you detect any aggressiveness?”

Diran shook their head. “We’re too far away.”

As they kept approaching the village, its buildings came into view. Limitöe architecture was, like most things, deeply influenced by their avian nature: their buildings were roundish, like brick igloos, like eggs, and their main entrance was a hole on the top, far from the ground, so that their abodes were quite protected from most sorts of floor-dwelling invasion. Iskander had somewhat expected that the space between buildings would be teeming with plants and grass, but it was not so: the ground there was naked and muddy and cluttered, a clear sign that they used it to work in any sort of artisanal endeavor. There were however quite a number of tall trees between the buildings, which Iskander imagined served as social spaces.

The natives had by now probably all heard that the Starfleet team was coming, and they were observing them, perched atop of trees and buildings alike. It was the first time that Iskander had seem them in real life: they were surprisingly small, maybe eagle-sized, but the low gravity of the moon allowed them big heads and brain masses comparable to a human. They were covered in fur — Iskander knew them to be warm-blooded, and somewhat similar to Earth mammals — and dressed functionally. They were capable of precise digitation and articulation, but it was at the end of their hind limbs — they had precise, six-fingered hands at the ends of their legs. Anyone who expected their faces to be somewhat avian or saurian would have been disappointed: they were round, with big and expressive eyes and mouths, probably more similar to sloths than any other animal Iskander could think of.

The Starfleet team arrived to the village from the river, and as such the first thing that presented itself to them was the dock region: a large square of dirt and cut rock pavement, encumbered with crates and cranes and wooden piers, free of other buildings. Normally this might have been a place teeming with activity, but currently a frozen piece reigned, as the Limitöe looked at the intruders nervously.

There was a tremendous distance between the two groups.

“Good evening” said Iskander, trying to have a calm and reassuring tone. He had had as much training in Prime Contact protocols as any other engineer — that is to say, not much — and he couldn’t shake the impression that he was doing something unspeakably bad by addressing a pre-Warp group of villagers. “We come in peace and friendship.”

A Limitöe, probably the best-dressed in a purple fitting complet, took on flight and landed on a crate a few meters away from the four Starfleet people. Their gender was impossible to tell, but something in their movement suggested they were quite old. They had, nonetheless, flown gracefully, but once landed they seemed a little embarrassed.

“I am Syndic Rizör of the town of Zaminakö” they greeted in a melodic voice. “The winds have brought you here.”

Limkas looked quickly at Iskander and intervened. “The winds have been clement. We seek a quick repose, and have no wings.”

The Syndic nodded, then seemed thoughtful, then they started laughing. “Oh, this! This!,” they laughed. “I finally meet the aliens, and they greet me in the customs of my people, and the only thing I manage to think is that you have no wings! Forgive my hilarity.”

Iskander looked at Limkas, who shrugged. He then looked at Diran, who seemed rather unconcerned. He took comfort. “May we find more to laugh about together, then?” he tried.

The Syndic had another bout of laughter and that seemed to relax the rest of the Limitöe, who approached with a certain curiosity. This wasn’t First Contact — that had been done almost one week beforehand by a falling Warbird — but, for a Second Contact, things were going ok.