Enterprise By the Book

by Dean Wesley Smith

  Then, at the last minute, that plan had changed. Only Mayweather and Reed would be going to the surface, as escorts for their Hipon guests. Mayweather would fly the Hipon back and Reed would be along in case something went awry.

  Trip was finishing the adjustments to Mayweather’s environmental suit—with Mayweather in it. The engineer wanted to make sure that the shield surrounded Mayweather’s face completely, leaving no part of his head unguarded. It was trickier than it sounded.

  They stood in engineering, underneath the cat-walk. The warp engines throbbed beside them, the sound muffled by Mayweather’s helmet. He hated the environmental suit. It was uncomfortable in the best of circumstances—and this wasn’t the best of circumstances.

  Mayweather squirmed, trying to ease a spot that felt like it would chaff.

  “Hold still,” Trip said. “You’re jumpier than a June bug on hot concrete.”

  “That’s a new one for you,” Mayweather said. “You decide to take up reading again?”

  “Yeah, like you’ve been doing heavy lifting,” Trip said, “sitting there in the mess playing with make-believe Martians.”

  “Trust me,” Mayweather said, “they are tougher to beat than you might expect.”

  Trip snorted and continued making adjustments. Mayweather felt the way he had when he was best man at a friend’s wedding. The friend had insisted on old-fashioned morning coats, which had to be specially fitted. Mayweather had stood in some San Francisco tailor’s fitting room for nearly two hours while the guy fussily poked and marked and pinned everything.

  Once Mayweather had asked if he could use a holographic image like other fashion designers, and he got poked with a pin. He still thought that was deliberate.

  “Stop moving,” Trip said from behind him.

  “I’m not,” Mayweather lied.

  He wanted to ask how long this would take. He was still toying with talking to the captain about seeing those cities.

  Mayweather had seen the scans of the cities and the transports that had brought the Hipon to the Fazi homeworld so long ago. They were magnificent. Long, elegant buildings that looked as if they were made of sea coral. To the untrained eye, the buildings seemed to have grown out of the sea bottom.

  Cutler had shown him all the various features that proved they were assembled, not grown, and as she did, Mayweather noticed how similar parts of the Hipon cities were to the Martian city she had been describing. He asked her if that was intentional, and she had blinked.

  “Of course not,” she had said. “We hadn’t even known that these existed.”

  That wasn’t entirely true. They had been taking scans of the planet all along. They just hadn’t been processing the information.

  A bang at the other end of engineering caught his attention. Something clattered behind him, and Trip cursed.

  “Don’t move,” Trip said again as he stood up, the tool he had dropped in his hand.

  That kind of command always made Mayweather want to move. But he didn’t.

  Within a moment, Captain Archer strode into view. He looked directly at Trip as if Mayweather weren’t there at all.

  “Are you almost ready?” Archer asked. He sounded grumpier than Mayweather had ever heard him.

  “I’ve got the shuttlepod standing by,” Trip said, “and Mayweather here all protected inside his suit.”

  A bead of sweat ran down Mayweather’s cheek. All packed into his suit would have been more accurate. Like a giant sardine.

  Archer turned to face Mayweather. “I appreciate you volunteering to take our guest back to the surface.”

  “I felt partially responsible that he was here, sir,” Mayweather said. “It’s the least I could do.”

  Archer nodded. He clearly understood that. “I want you to just drop him off and get back here. I don’t want to test that shield too much.”

  “Aye, sir,” Mayweather said. He wasn’t thinking of the shield as much as he was thinking about the stink he’d noticed since the alien arrived. If the shield failed while they were flying in—well, they were all dead then. But if the environmental suit’s filters failed in that tiny shuttlepod, Mayweather had a hunch he was going to wish he was dead.

  “In five minutes,” Archer said, “escort our guest to the shuttlepod. The halls should be cleared by that point.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Too bad we can’t take a look around that underwater world of theirs,” Trip said. “From what we’re picking up on the scans, it must be something.”

  “Next time,” Archer said. His tone was the same as Mayweather’s dad’s when he wanted to get Mayweather off his back. In that instance, “next time” usually meant “never.”

  Still Mayweather was going to ask when they’d get a next time, but Archer was already striding out of the room.

  “What’s eating at him?” Mayweather asked.

  Trip just laughed. “He’s just having problems dealing with certain truths from his past.”

  “What?” Mayweather asked, trying to turn and look at Trip.

  Trip yanked him back into position and kept working on the suit. “Stand still. You screw this up and the captain will have both of our heads. And don’t worry about him. He’ll be just fine.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE STENCH HAD DECLINED. EITHER THAT OR ARCHER had gotten used to it, a thought he really didn’t want to contemplate.

  He had returned to the alcove where the Hipon had been since their conversation. Archer felt sorry for the alien; it was on another race’s ship and it couldn’t even explore for fear of harming the people around it.

  In that circumstance, Archer, of course, would be pacing. The alien looked like it hadn’t moved.

  Archer stepped up to his spot behind the posts that formed the psionic energy screen and nodded to the spiderlike alien in front of him. “I will have someone who is protected from the psionic energy come and escort you to our shuttlepod.”

  “Thank you—Captain,” the alien said.

  Archer almost left then. But he didn’t. He owed the Hipon an explanation of his upcoming actions. Archer had been thinking about this since his discussion with T’Pol and he had finally come to a decision.

  He took a deep breath and forced himself to say words he had never expected to come out of his mouth. “I have considered your request to go slowly in giving information to the Fazi. I will honor that request, even though I will meet with them one more time before we leave.”

  The alien pulled all of its legs under itself and bowed, or what Archer thought was a bow. “Again Captain—the intelligence—of your race—is clear. I hope for—a long relationship—between our two races.”

  “So do I,” Archer said. He had a hunch humans could learn a lot from the Hipon.

  The Hipon rose. “One request—Captain.”

  “Yes?” Archer said, surprised.

  “This device that allows us—to communicate—is fascinating—and would be useful—in our dealings—with the Fazi.”

  “I will consider your request,” Archer said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Until next time.”

  “Until that moment,” the alien said.

  Captain’s log.

  I never expected to have such difficulty with how much to tell a race that is not as advanced as ourselves. I had always thought that full disclosure would be the only policy, that the complete sharing of information was the only way to true friendship. But now, after witnessing the fine balance that exists on this world between the humanoid Fazi and the more advanced Hipon, I am questioning everything.

  From what we have learned both from exploring Fazi records and from our Hipon guest, the Hipon have been helping the Fazi develop slowly for more than two thousand Earth years. The reason for the rigid social and language structure of the Fazi seems to stem directly from early disastrous attempts at direct contact between the Fazi and the Hipon.

  It had never occurred to the Hipon that their very thoughts were what had cau
sed the damage. By informing them of that simple fact alone, I have altered the future of this planet in ways I can’t begin to dream about.

  And by coming from space and talking with the Fazi, I have given them dreams of larger worlds. What they do with those dreams is up to them, as it was up to humanity. But for humans, there was never a question we would go outward. For the Fazi I am not so sure. So much of their culture seems to be based on fear and control because of relationships over centuries with an alien race. Why should I expect a different reaction to humans?

  In a short time I will be talking with the Fazi for the third time. T’Pol has said that the best I can hope for from the conversation is to do no more damage. I don’t agree. I still hope to establish a communication that can be used to grow a friendship between the Fazi and Earth.

  I will also continue to work with the Hipon for the same end.

  It is amazing that decisions I was so sure of while back on Earth have now become difficult and unclear. We do have a lot to learn, but this particular lesson is a hard one for me.

  I still don’t want to think that T’Pol is right. I don’t believe that humans are reckless. We simply make decisions differently than the Vulcans do. Even though they consider us an inferior race, we have more tools at our disposal. Our heads and our hearts work together and often work quicker than the studied analysis that Vulcans practice.

  Because the Vulcans distrust emotion, they perceive us as reckless. But we are not. If I had listened to T’Pol, we might never have discovered the Hipon at all. And our lives would have been poorer for it.

  But her thoughtfulness has shown me something too. Her people’s experience with other races is extremely valuable. I expected all first contacts to be alike. These two—on the same planet—have been very, very different.

  I have a hunch that no first contact will be alike.

  T’Pol of course would tell me that I’m only following logic, but I think there’s more going on here than logic. I think the first contacts will differ not only because the aliens we meet will be different, but because we will be different after each new experience. We might have fewer preconceptions—or perhaps we will have more.

  But if we keep our minds and hearts open, we will learn more than we can imagine.

  Perhaps this experience has changed me more than it has changed the Fazi. Perhaps they were not the most rigid thinkers at that very first meeting.

  Perhaps I was.

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIS TIME THE SHUTTLEPOD WAS SILENT AS IT CIRCLED over the Fazi main city. Archer leaned over in his seat and looked down.

  The patterns still amazed him. The Fazi were so precise. Buildings with the same shapes, roads carved at exact angles, no longer looked mysterious to him.

  In some ways, they looked sad, like a fortress built to withstand an enemy that could walk through walls.

  On this mission, he had brought Hoshi, Trip, and Reed, just as he had the first time. Mayweather piloted, claiming this was an easier job than flying to the southern continent. Apparently they’d had some trouble with the alien in the shuttlepod. It had trouble finding a way to be comfortable—and when the Hipon got nervous, they did the human equivalent of sweating.

  That was where the slime came from and the slime was what stank.

  Archer was very glad he hadn’t been on that trip.

  He was ready for this one, though. He still couldn’t bring himself to include T’Pol on what he considered to be a first contact. Maybe the next first contact that they did at some planet they hadn’t discovered yet, he would include her.

  The shuttlepod landed in the same spot. This time, there was no discussion of proper landing times and extra circling. The entire crew was aware of the Fazi need for punctuality. Such things no longer had to be discussed.

  Nothing had changed on the ground. The patterned walkways still went through large expanses of green, and the plants still grew in the same pattern. The huge brick mall was empty, just as it had been the first time they landed, and this time, Archer was prepared for that.

  He even waited inside the shuttlepod with great patience while everyone exited in the order dictated by Fazi protocol. He still couldn’t get used to going last, but he understood it a lot better than he had the last time.

  Understanding did help a lot. This too he was not going to admit to T’Pol.

  As Archer stepped out of the shuttlepod, he took a deep breath. The jasmine scented air no longer surprised him, but that spicy undertone—the one he couldn’t identify—still gave him a slight thrill. He was on an alien planet. This was not Earth, and never could be.

  His team waited for him, as they had been instructed to do. He led them toward the Fazi High Council building, walking across the bricks with a sense of purpose that he really felt this time.

  When he reached the square columns outside the building, the main doors opened as they were programmed to do. He strode inside, noticing that this time his stomach didn’t twist the way it had the last time. Part of that was because he knew what to expect, but part of it was because he felt more confident in his ability to deal with the Fazi.

  Knowledge was power, dammit. He didn’t like it when T’Pol was right.

  The great room was just as impressive as it had been the first time, maybe more so because it had dimmed in his memory. The bright light was just as surprising as it had been before, and just as hard for his eyes to adjust to.

  There was one surprise, though. The air inside did not smell of jasmine. Instead, the incense burners seemed to be perfuming the air with something like vanilla. It wasn’t vanilla, though. There was a peppery bite to the sweet odor, which made it seem less cloying than straight vanilla would have been.

  He stopped in the half circle as he had done before. This time, though, his team spread out around him. Hoshi had learned that this was more acceptable behavior to the Fazi. She had also made sure that their suits’ translators were programmed with every type of nuance she could find about their language. The only thing she had cautioned him about was making sure he did not speak out of turn.

  As if he would forget about that.

  As Archer and his team reached their final position, the Fazi council members stood as a unit. Archer’s heart stopped for a brief second. Had he offended them again? Were they going to leave, this time without even giving him a chance to speak?

  Then the Fazi walked around the end of their high bench and down to the floor where he stood. It was clear it was not a route they had taken often, if ever before.

  A new pattern. The hair rose on the back of his neck. They had changed—maybe because of the first contact.

  Hoshi touched his arm and whispered, “Say nothing until they speak.”

  He wanted to remind her to be quiet, but instead he nodded so minutely that he doubted the Fazi had noticed. The Fazi themselves seemed concerned with the precision of their movements. This was new to them, and they had to watch each other instead of staring straight ahead.

  Finally, they reached their assigned positions. Councilman Draa, the head of the Fazi council, stood directly in front of Archer. Their eyes met, and for a moment Archer wondered if he was breaching protocol. Then the Fazi leader bowed slightly. “We would like to welcome you and your kind to our planet.”

  Archer bowed in the same fashion, at the same speed. “It is an honor to be on your wonderful world. I bring greetings from my planet Earth.”

  They had been through much of this before, but this time it felt right. Apparently they were both going to ignore the previous meetings and pretend this was the first time.

  Then Councilman Draa surprised him by saying, “I am sorry for our actions during our first two meetings. We have much to learn about the ways of other cultures.”

  “As do we,” Archer said.

  Beside him, Hoshi let out a small sigh of relief. The Fazi council members seemed more relaxed too. Councilman Draa started a long speech on hopes that he had for their two cultures, and Archer f
ocused on it so that he wouldn’t miss a detail. He wanted to be able to respond properly when his turn came.

  Twenty minutes later, Archer led his people back out of the Fazi High Council chamber, this time with an agreement that Earth and the Fazi would remain in contact and try to learn from each other. He had promised them nothing, given them no new information, and they had asked for nothing. And not once had he mentioned the Hipon. T’Pol would consider the first contact a complete success.

  As he stepped into the jasmine-scented air, the giddy feeling returned. This was what he had imagined a first contact to be: quick, simple, and successful. The beginnings of a new relationship that brought out the best in both cultures.

  The failures had been worthwhile; they had taught him something. He wasn’t sure if he had acquired patience yet, but he did value the research his team had stressed more than he had before.

  He wanted to run back to the shuttlepod, to burn off some of this jubilant energy, but he did not. He forced himself to follow Fazi protocol.

  After all, protocol, as he had told T’Pol, had its uses. So did pattern, and structure, and control. He didn’t want to destroy the structured aspect of Fazi culture. He didn’t want to drop a bomb in the middle of this city, to use T’Pol’s metaphor.

  He just wanted to do right by these people, and he hoped that in turn, they would do right by Earth.

  This afternoon’s meeting was a great first step.

  Archer waited until the shuttlepod was far above the central city and the translator devices were off his clothes before letting out a whoop of joy.

  THIRTY

  ARCHER HADN’T BEEN ON THE BRIDGE FOR MORE THAN fifteen minutes when T’Pol said, “Captain, I am unclear on the protocol as you described it to me. Is this the point at which I request an audience in your ready room?”

  Archer suppressed a smile. He had just conducted the debriefing on his meeting with the Fazi and had turned the discussion to the Hipon’s request for the translator devices. Apparently, T’Pol was just about to disagree with something that he’d said.