IMBALANCE

by V. E. Mitchell

  Troi rubbed her knuckles across her cheeks. “I was imagining myself doing that to Chief O’Brien and wondering if it would have any effect on that thick Irish head of his. You know, I’m not sure it would make any greater impression than talking, but the idea made me feel better.” She tackled the ice cream with greater cheer and decided that Guinan was right. The chocolate did taste better now that her mood had improved.

  Guinan gave her a knowing grin. “I thought that might be the case. And maybe he’ll start listening, if enough people quit telling him he’s right.”

  Troi smiled at Guinan over another large bite of her brownie. “You know, this sundae is one of your better prescriptions, ‘Doctor’ Guinan.”

  “Yes, I have been told that recipe was rather good.” Guinan’s expression was smug, like a cat licking out the cream pitcher. “That’s why I keep it in reserve for emergencies.”

  By the time she finished the sundae, Troi was almost purring with contentment. She was still enjoying the feeling when her communicator beeped and the captain summoned her to the bridge. Glancing at her chronometer, she realized it was almost time to transmit the Jaradan agreement to the Federation. She wondered what Data had discovered from analyzing the documents.

  By the time Troi reached the captain’s ready room, Picard and Data were seated at the table. The android was fidgeting through the draft agreements the Jarada had given them, looking impatient to give his report. The humanness of the action amused Troi, and she wondered where he had found his model for that particular habit. If she asked, he would no doubt tell her—in detail. Troi promised herself she would not ask.

  “Counselor, have a seat.” Picard’s tone carried more than a little relief. Clearly, he was fighting his own battle to ignore Data’s latest experiment. “Mr. Data, would you tell us what you found?”

  “Certainly, sir.” The android aligned both stacks of paper, as if to refer to them, even though they were recorded in his memory down to the stroke weights of the pen used to make the Jaradan characters and the crossouts in the English translation. Another mannerism he was testing, Troi was sure.

  Data straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. “My first observation is that the Jaradan written language is ideographic, like the ancient High Vulcan texts or the traditional Japanese forms of Earth. However, many of the symbols seem to be contextually determined, so that in one place an ideograph will mean one thing, while in another place the meaning is completely unrelated.”

  Troi slid her elbows forward, cupping her chin in her hands. “Are you sure, Data? In most languages where the symbols change meaning, there are modifiers to indicate the differences. Particularly in legal documents, where neither side wishes to have any ambiguity in the wording of their agreement.”

  “I have checked the Jaradan ideographs against all forty-seven known styles of modulating the significance of a written communication. I found no correspondence between those methods and the Jaradan version of the document. Given the wide tonal values of each word in their language, I had expected some such system for indicating those values in the written language.”

  “Yet you did not?” A slight frown creased Picard’s forehead as he tried to remember the more esoteric studies of linguistics he had read over the years. Verbal systems as complex as the Jaradan often had a simpler written language and, in the most extreme instances, the written symbols were little more than mnemonics for the spoken word. In that case, however, he would have expected the Jaradan version of the agreement to be significantly shorter than the English translation, which it was not. Something was not right. Before Data could answer, the message light in front of him lit. Picard touched his communicator to acknowledge the signal.

  “Captain, we just received a message from Commissioner T’Zen requesting to know if you have relayed the agreement with the Jarada yet,” Lieutenant Chang’s voice said.

  Picard suppressed a groan. With a twenty-seven-hour transmission lag between here and Earth, T’Zen had sent that message while the Enterprise was still approaching the Beltaxiyan system. “Relay my compliments to the commissioner,” he told Chang, fighting to keep his annoyance out of his voice. “And tell her the draft agreement will follow shortly. Picard, out.”

  “Why is Commissioner T’Zen so anxious to receive this agreement?” Data tilted his head to the side and twisted his face into a caricature of a puzzled frown. “She could not have known how our negotiations would proceed when she sent that message. Therefore her request for transmission of the draft agreement is illogical.”

  Troi ducked her head, her mouth twitching in amusement. That left Picard to field the android’s question. “The logic of avoiding a war, Mr. Data, outweighs such minor inconsistencies. Commissioner T’Zen wished to hurry us in the negotiations if we were not getting results as fast as she would like.”

  “That, too, is illogical, if I understand what I have been told about diplomatic proceedings. Am I not correct in saying that negotiations ‘take as much time as they take’?”

  Picard hid a momentary grin, wondering where Data had found that particular quote. “Yes, Mr. Data. You are correct, but the commissioner has concluded that we must negotiate this treaty quickly or our irrational natures will lead us into fighting with the Jarada. However, back to the agreement. Can you tell us if the English version is an accurate translation of the Jaradan document?”

  Data squirmed in his chair, reminding Picard of a schoolboy who had just been caught passing messages to a friend. As a visual demonstration of the concept of “guilt,” Data’s act was effective, but—guilt about what? As usual, the android had chosen an inappropriate model.

  Fortunately for the captain’s patience, Data dropped his affectation as he began speaking. “No, Captain, I cannot draw any definite conclusion about the accuracy of the translation. In spite of the progress we have made on the Jaradan language, thanks to the recordings transmitted by the away team, our knowledge is too fragmentary for me to determine what the document actually says. I had hoped that it would provide a Rosetta stone and that I would see correlations between both versions which would add considerably to our Jaradan vocabulary. This has not been the case.”

  “Data, what can you tell us about the documents?” Troi’s voice held a note of urgency, as if she were on the verge of solving the mystery. “How many explanations have you considered for the problems you’re having?”

  “I have examined three major hypotheses. If we assume that the documents are an exact translation, then the Jaradan language is written using a completely unknown system of grammar and syntax. A system, I should add, which is in no way a reflection of their spoken language. A second possibility is to assume that the translation is imprecise, with the words chosen to convey similar meanings without necessarily using identical ideographs each time a specific concept-cluster is discussed. This would be closer to what the document appears to be, but there are still difficulties with this interpretation. Working from the second hypothesis, I am still unable to determine a consistent grammar for the written Jaradan language.”

  “And all languages must have structure,” Troi murmured, thinking aloud. “How a society perceives its surroundings is reflected in their language, and the grammar and vocabulary of the language in turn influence what an individual will notice in his environment.”

  Picard looked from Troi to Data, not liking the direction his own thoughts were taking. The problem was that none of their explanations made any sense. “Mr. Data, you said you had a third hypothesis.”

  “Yes, Captain.” The android refused to look directly at Picard, again inviting comparison to a guilty schoolboy. If that were the case, the captain decided, he would have to speak to Data about this particular experiment in human behavior. But he would do it later, when they had less pressing matters on the agenda.

  “My other hypothesis is that the Jaradan document is a random collection of words with no apparent meaning. This would explain why I have been unable to discover
a reasonable correspondence between the two documents, since there is none. However, this would raise fundamental questions about the underlying reasons for this mission.”

  “Indeed.” Picard drew a deep breath to give himself time to think. If the Jaradan document was meaningless, why was the Enterprise here at all? “Counselor?”

  “There are several explanations, of course.” She ran her hand through her hair, fanning the dark curls across her shoulder. “The first is that we do not have sufficient information to analyze the written Jaradan language and that the fault is in our translation. It’s also possible that for similar reasons they were unable to translate the agreement into their language. However, this seems highly unlikely, since they are able to communicate verbally with us and they have provided our away team with translators that seem to function adequately.”

  “And your perceptions of them, Counselor? Are they dealing honestly with us?”

  Troi twisted her fingers through a lock of her hair. The reflection of Data’s pale face, his brow wrinkled in another exaggerated frown, stared at her from the polished surface of the table. “I have sensed no deception from them, certainly nothing deep enough to cover a spurious agreement. However, I must admit that I have not sensed any clear feelings or reactions from them. It’s almost as if something is blurring their emotions, spreading them out so far that I am unable to read them.”

  “In that case, could they be hiding something from you, Counselor? Putting up some kind of screen to keep you from sensing their emotions?”

  After a moment Troi nodded. “It’s possible. At the moment I cannot tell you how likely it is, but we should give the idea further consideration.”

  “And, Mr. Data, how long would you estimate that it would take you to establish an accurate translation of the Jaradan version of our agreement?”

  “I am unable to determine that, Captain. With the information I currently have available, I consider it unlikely that I can improve upon the work I have already done. However, we should anticipate that the crew members on the planet’s surface will provide additional information when they return.”

  “While Commissioner T’Zen sends us hourly requests to transmit the draft agreement.” There was no one Picard found more difficult to reason with than a Vulcan who “knew” she was about to prevent a war, however shaky the logic she had used to reach that conclusion. Reluctantly, he concluded there was only one thing he could do. “Computer, summarize the preceding discussion and append it to both versions of the Jaradan agreement. Transmit the documents to the Federation Council along with my recommendation to study everything carefully before agreeing to the terms.”

  “Working,” the computer answered, then paused briefly before concluding, “Transmission sent to Federation Council, Stardate 44840.8.”

  “Anything to add?” Picard asked, looking at Data and Troi. Both shook their heads. “Then the meeting’s adjourned.” He stood, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders as he realized the next step in the diplomatic process was not his responsibility.

  He had just settled into his command chair, looking forward to a few hours of uneventful duty, when O’Brien called the bridge. The transporter chief sounded upset. “Captain, I was trying to talk to Keiko and she won’t answer her communicator. The computer keeps telling me she’s not on the planet’s surface. I can’t seem to reach anyone else either.”

  Deciding to ignore the fact that O’Brien’s personal call would have interrupted the botanists’ work, Picard glanced upward to tell the computer to relay his answer. “We’ll look into it. Picard, out.

  “Computer, contact Ensign Tanaka and Keiko Ishikawa immediately.”

  “Unable to comply. Neither Ensign Tanaka’s nor Keiko Ishikawa’s communicator registers on the ship’s sensors.”

  A surge of anger, quickly replaced by apprehension, swept through Picard. “Then get me Commander Riker.”

  “Commander Riker’s communicator does not register on ship’s sensors.”

  “What about Dr. Crusher and Lieutenant Worf?”

  “Their communicators also do not register on the ship’s sensors.”

  Picard shot the computer an angry glare, realizing that O’Brien must have also been through this sequence and had obtained the same results. He turned to the crewman at Ops. “Mr. Chang, why weren’t those communicators being monitored constantly as I ordered?”

  Chang touched a control to replay the communications log. “Ship’s log reports locations were recorded for all away-team members until Chief O’Brien attempted to initiate contact with Ms. Ishikawa. I would surmise the signals we received were spurious.”

  Picard scowled at the report. If the signals had been falsified, then the Jarada were definitely up to something. “Open a channel to the Jaradan Council of Elders. I want to speak to Zelfreetrollan at once.”

  After a few moments Mendosa reported, “The Jarada are not acknowledging our transmissions. I can’t get a positive fix on their receiver, but I think their equipment’s been taken off line.”

  Picard glanced at Troi, who rose and headed for the turbolift to tell O’Brien what had happened. Five malfunctioning communicators and the jamming, plus the Jaradan refusal to answer their message, were not a coincidence, and O’Brien would not take the news calmly. For a moment the captain wished he could throw a temper tantrum because their worst suspicions had just been confirmed, but he knew it wouldn’t get his away team back. “Data,” he ordered, “begin a full-scale sensor sweep of the Jaradan city and the surrounding countryside. I want our people located and beamed up immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Picard settled himself into his chair, trying to look calm and in control. He felt neither, but the illusion would increase morale considerably. For him, it was going to be a very long search, while his mind replayed the events that led up to it and he tried to see what he could have done differently.

  “Damned bugs!” Chang muttered, his tone just loud enough to be overheard. “Can’t trust an insect as far as you can throw its chitin-armored hide!”

  He should lecture Chang on tolerance, Picard thought, but the volume of the remark had been carefully gauged to let him pretend he hadn’t heard it. Chang wanted his opinion known, but had chosen a method that avoided confrontation. Besides, Picard was feeling less charitable toward their hosts than he should. The Jarada had maneuvered him into separating the away team, a danger he had discussed with the others after Zelfreetrollan had proposed the guided tours. Still, given their orders to learn more about the Jarada, accepting the invitation had been a calculated risk that should have paid off handsomely.

  The malfunctioning—no, sabotaged, he corrected himself—communicators were the factor that changed the equation. Why? That was the key question. If they knew why the Jarada had set this up, they would understand everything that had puzzled them about the situation from the beginning. Unfortunately, Picard realized, the answers to his questions lay with his missing crew members.

  Chapter Nine

  RIKER FOLLOWED the Jarada musicians through the narrow door and onto another of the spiraling ramps. This one led only downward, in tight curves that disappeared into darkness below them. The walls were damp and the floor slippery with what Riker guessed was the local equivalent of slime mold or perhaps a form of algae capable of growing in dim light. The enclosed shaft smelled damp and musty, as if it were rarely used.

  Despite the poor illumination from the irregularly spaced glowstrips, Riker saw narrow ridges running across the ramp, wide enough to act as steps for Jaradan claws but too small to do him much good. Grimacing in distaste, Riker started after his hosts. Most of the Jarada were scrambling downward at top speed and were drawing ahead of him despite the obvious stiffness of their movements. Zarn lagged back, slowing his pace to match Riker’s.

  “Do you want to tell me this is another vreek’khat drill?” Riker asked, his tone colored with more than a little irony. In spite of the chill and the dampness, sweat tric
kled down his back.

  “Yes, I would tell you that,” Zarn answered in a perfectly level tone, “if it would get you to move faster.”

  “I see.” From the clattering of their claws, the Jarada musicians were at least two levels below them. And they’re the “senior citizens,” Riker thought in disgust, realizing just how efficient Jaradan locomotion was. Above them, loud bangs echoed down the shaft, as though someone were taking a battering ram to the door where they had entered. Perhaps Zarn had good reason for his concern. Riker grunted and tried to move faster down the slick, uneven, sloping surface. “However, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you again when I have more time to hear the answer.”

  “While it is not my intention to insult a distinguished visitor from another hive, if you do not travel faster than a youngling in its first shell, we will not have the luxury of discussing anything later.” Zarn quickened his pace, moving a quarter turn ahead of Riker.

  A loud thud, followed by a splintering sound, reverberated down the shaft. Without looking to see if Riker was keeping up, Zarn broke into a trot and disappeared around the curve of the ramp. Another loud crash and the screech of tortured wood chased the fleeing Jarada downward.

  From the sound, Riker thought the door might withstand another dozen blows, but he knew he didn’t want to meet whoever was trying so hard to get on his side of the barrier. He lengthened his stride, keeping to the middle of the ramp and putting his feet where the musicians had scraped away the slippery organic carpet with their claws. It was risky to hurry too much, but from the silence below him, Riker guessed that an exit lay only a few turns farther down. If he could reach that door soon enough, he would be safe.

  Riker kept his footing for the first turn, although his feet and hands were sweating from the nervous tension. The second turn seemed easier, with less slime on the ramp. He guessed there was an entrance somewhere along the wall, letting drier air seep into the shaft, but he didn’t see any markings to show him where it was. From several levels farther down, he heard the clatter of Zarn’s claws against the stone. Above him the tortured wood of the door shrieked in protest as the attackers struck it again. Riker realized it was going to last only another minute or so.