by Dave Stern
It was starting to sound like one of those old Elvis Presley songs her mother always used to play.
“Ensign. Ensign Sato. Are you with us?”
Hoshi looked up. T’Pol stood next to her, wearing the closest thing to a frown she’d ever seen on the Vulcan’s face. She’d obviously been talking to Hoshi for quite some time now.
“I’m sorry ma’am—what?”
“I asked if you had searched the database for alternative Thelasian dialects—we’ll want to program those into the handheld translators in anticipation of any contact with the Confederacy.”
“No, ma’am, I haven’t done that yet. I’ll get on it right away.” Hoshi felt herself blushing. T’Pol had asked her to do that a few minutes after the captain, Commander Tucker, and Travis had left the bridge. Half an hour ago now, she saw. And what had she done in that half hour? Nothing, except sit and think, and listen to the signal in her head. She should blush.
She should also, Hoshi realized, have taken the initiative and done what T’Pol had suggested on her own. That was part of her duties, after all—facilitate interspecies communication. Not a job she was doing particularly well at the moment, either.
Time to get back to it, Hoshi thought, and swiveled to the UT substation to do as T’Pol had suggested.
The Vulcan was still standing over her.
“Commander?”
T’Pol lowered her voice. “Are you quite all right, Ensign?”
“All right?” Hoshi frowned. “I’m fine. Frustrated, but fine.”
T’Pol continued to look at her. Hoshi felt like a specimen under a microscope.
“I noticed you came on shift early this morning.”
“I did. I came on early yesterday too. Stayed late last night, and the night before that as well.” Hoshi kept her voice calm as well—as calm as she could, anyway. “I just want to get that signal translated, Commander.”
“So do we all. And I’m sure you will succeed at that task—I fully share the captain’s confidence in your abilities. When, that is, you are functioning at the full extent of those capabilities. I do not believe that you are doing so at present.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are frustrated, Ensign. I understand.”
Hoshi nodded. Of course she did. T’Pol had been right there with her for most of the last seventy-two hours, working not only on the alien signal but on several versions of Enterprise’s standard hail message—greetings, we come in peace, we have no designs on your territory/resources/personal possessions—for broadcast to the aliens. T’Pol had worked with Hoshi and Carstairs on translating that greeting into every language in Enterprise’s database, and even a few that weren’t, ones that the Vulcan and Doctor Phlox knew only smatterings of. The team had made looped greetings of those messages that cycled every eight point six minutes, that had been broadcasting ever since 0100 ship’s time last night, ten and a half hours. The aliens never responded to any of them.
“However,” the Vulcan continued, “you must allow your body and mind to recuperate so that you can function optimally. You have already been on duty for the length of standard shift—an hour beyond that, in fact. Mister Carstairs.” T’Pol motioned him forward. “Please take over for Ensign Sato.”
As he rose from his seat at the aux station, T’Pol lowered her voice again so only Hoshi could hear.
“I suggest you take a break from this particular task for the next few hours. If you wish to return with the third-shift crew and work then you are free to do so.”
“I don’t want to take a break.”
T’Pol nodded. “I understand. I am not offering you the option.”
The Vulcan turned her back and returned to her station.
Hoshi took a deep breath.
Temper, she told herself. Temper temper temper.
Carstairs was standing over her.
“Hoshi?” he asked tentatively.
Hoshi tapped the console in front of her with her fingertips. Tap, tap, tap.
“Take over,” she said quickly, standing and heading for the lift.
The second the doors closed behind her, she drew back a hand and made ready to punch the wall. She barely—just barely—held herself back. Instead, she started counting to ten—always a good calming technique. Center herself, regain a sense of equilibrium. Maybe she should hit the gym as well—get the blood flowing again. Except what would she do once she got it flowing—go back to her room and sit? Maybe she should rest instead; even though she didn’t feel it now, she knew she was tired. Maybe she should do what T’Pol had suggested—nap until third shift, hit the gym, and then hit the bridge. Get the best of both worlds then, mind clear, body relaxed, refreshed and ready to work. She might even be able to work straight through third shift and into her own regularly scheduled tour…unless T’Pol got it in her head again to put a limit on the number of hours Hoshi worked. Which she just might—actually, what she would probably do would be to tell the captain that Hoshi was pushing herself too hard and let him set those limits. So never mind the gym, Hoshi thought. What she needed were results.
Maybe she should go back to the UT lab and work there.
The lift doors opened.
“Ensign?”
T’Pol stood in front of her, and for a second Hoshi thought that somehow the Vulcan had beaten her down to the crew deck.
Then she realized that she hadn’t even left the bridge yet, that she’d just stood there in the lift without moving for the past—what, half minute?
A wave of exhaustion swept over her.
“What are you doing?” T’Pol asked.
Hoshi smiled—even to her, it felt forced. “Didn’t mean to hold up the lift. I was just trying to decide where to go.”
“Your quarters. You are obviously exhausted.”
“I’m a little bit hungry.”
“The mess hall then would seem an obvious destination.”
Hoshi opened her mouth to protest again—what exactly she was going to say, she wasn’t sure of—but T’Pol spoke first.
“I shall accompany you there.”
“No,” she said quickly. “That’s not necessary.”
“Perhaps not. But it is necessary you rest, and regain your strength. Your focus. We agree on that, do we not?”
Hoshi nodded reluctantly. “Yes.”
“Good. Then I trust you will make either the mess or the crew deck your destination, and not return to the UT lab to continue your work.” Without waiting for a response, T’Pol took a step backward, allowing the lift door to shut again.
Hoshi glared at the space where the Vulcan had been, then started the lift toward crew deck.
Okay, so T’Pol was right. She needed to rest before tackling the alien signal again. But translating that signal, that wasn’t the real problem, that was only a symptom. An ungodly difficult symptom, perhaps, but a symptom nonetheless.
The real problem, she was afraid, went deeper then that.
The real problem was in her mind, or rather, with her mind. What had been done to it.
The real problem was the Xindi.
Archer frowned. “You said there was nothing wrong.”
“Physiologically, there is nothing wrong. There was no damage to the underlying brain structure.” Phlox, who in between relating his recent conversations with Hoshi had decided to eat lunch, took a bite of his sandwich before continuing. “My instruments recorded no loss in synaptic firing efficiency, no measurable deficiencies in either short- or long-term memory function.”
“But…”
“But psychologically…Captain, what Ensign Sato went through was a highly traumatic experience.”
“Of course it was a traumatic experience. Those Xindi bastards put parasites in her brain. How could it not be a traumatic experience? But it hasn’t affected her performance in the slightest. She’s still…”
Archer’s voice trailed off as he saw the expression on Phlox’s face.
“Has it affected her performance?�
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“She worries that it has.”
Archer frowned. “Is this just over the last few days, or…”
“Mostly over the last few days, though there have been other occasions.”
“She’s said nothing about this to me.”
“Well. For one thing, she did not want to worry you.”
“If it’s affecting how she does her job, she should have told me. You should have told me.”
“As I am now doing. Though I must tell you, Captain, in my opinion her performance has not been compromised in the slightest. However, my opinion is not what matters in this instance. Ensign Sato’s does, and she has…concerns.”
“Go on.”
“We have had numerous discussions recently on the nature of her work. What exactly is involved in successfully translating an alien language. Fascinating discussions, though I must admit much of the material is beyond my comprehension.”
“You’re not alone there.”
“In the course of those discussions, I came to the realization that for Ensign Sato, translation is as much an art as a science. It involves intuitive reasoning as well as the collation of a learned body of knowledge. And her fear, quite simply, is that when the Xindi infested her brain, they somehow damaged her ability to reason in that manner.”
“You’ve told her that isn’t the case though. That there was no damage to her brain.”
“I told her I believed that to be the case, yes.”
“And what did she say to that?”
“She asked if I was certain.”
“And you said…”
“ ‘Fairly certain’ was, I believe, my exact response.”
Archer’s exasperation must have shown on his face. Phlox hurriedly continued.
“The fact is, Captain, that for all we know about how the human brain functions, there is still a great deal that remains a mystery. The parasites may very well have damaged Ensign Sato’s ability to synthesize knowledge in certain ways. I frankly have no way of knowing for certain.”
“You’re not helping me here, Doctor.”
Phlox frowned. “I thought I was being very helpful.”
The com sounded. “Bridge to Captain Archer.”
That was T’Pol.
“Excuse me a minute.” Archer walked to the nearest companel. “Archer here. Go ahead.”
“We have been contacted by the Thelasian Trading Confederacy.”
“What?”
“We have been contacted by the Thelasian Trading Confederacy.”
“How…I thought you said they couldn’t find us.”
“I was wrong. Their sensors are obviously more sophisticated than I allowed for.”
“They contacted us specifically?”
“Yes, sir.”
Archer sighed. So much for leisurely planning. “All right. Is Trip up there yet?”
“He is just now coming on duty.”
“Have him and Travis brief you on what we just talked about. I’m on my way.” Archer shut the channel and turned back to Phlox. “We’ll have to continue this discussion later, Doctor.”
“Yes, of course.”
He turned for the door, hesitated, then turned back to Phlox. “You think I should talk to her? Hoshi?”
“I’m not certain. The problem really is one of self-confidence—the ensign doubting her own abilities. And the best way, of course, for her to cure those doubts is to successfully solve the problem before her.”
Archer nodded. It was up to him, of course, was what the doctor’s answer (or lack thereof) really meant, which was fine, but he really didn’t have time at the moment to decide. Right now, he had to get up to the bridge, and talk with Travis’s old friend Governor Sen. Should be interesting.
“Captain.”
Archer, halfway to the door, turned around again.
“The Thelasians,” Phlox said. “Remember. Garkohuda. Teyaneema Garkohuda.”
This time, the captain didn’t laugh.
“Yes, Doctor, I got that,” he replied, and left the mess hall.
Four
Enterprise was the ship’s name, painted in ridiculously large letters on the primary-hull surface alongside a group of numbers that represented some further kind of identification specific to the species homeworld, a Minshara-class planet on the outer rim of the quadrant called Earth. That name had rung some kind of bell with Sen, and after perusing the records Roia had found for him, detailing the Confederacy’s previous encounters with the species, he realized that he himself had, years ago, been involved in several transactions with them. Said transactions had occurred on some of the more remote bazaars, Karrus Prime, Prex Morianna, X-17, none of which had made any sort of lasting impression on Sen, probably because none had been especially profitable. Worth more attention were Enterprise’s recent whereabouts, in particular an extended trip into the D-4853 anomaly, referred to in several databases by the unlikely name of the Expanse, as well as (and here Sen took special notice) its involvement in the ongoing Vulcan-Andorian conflict, which indicated to the governor that despite their relative youth as a species and lack of technical sophistication, these humans, as they referred to themselves, bore watching.
Jonathan Archer was the captain’s name, and that too rang some kind of bell with the governor, but there was nothing beyond that name in the primary database. Sen had Roia forward the query to some of the more specialized information brokers, and then sat back at his desk.
The humans had still not responded to his signal.
“Roia,” he said, and the voice—or, rather, what his brain perceived as a voice, thanks to the simulation program—came back immediately through the implant:
Governor.
“They are receiving us?”
Undoubtedly, sir.
“They have a reason for not responding, then.” Sen wondered what it was; most likely, they were busy searching their own databases for information on the Confederacy. Just taking them longer, he thought, and no wonder. Humans had nothing like Roia; at their current rate of technological development, it would take them a good hundred years to build something similar.
Roia was a software agent Sen had designed for his use on becoming viceroy of the Coreida Sector. The agent was named after a female who had never, ever done as he requested, and so it gave Sen particular pleasure to be able to have this avatar, which he’d given the voice of that same female, at his constant beck and call. Childish behavior, he knew, but then Sen had a problem when it came to people who refused to do as he said. He wanted to grind them into dust.
“Let’s send a second transmission, Roia. Open channel.”
Open.
“Enterprise, this is Governor Maxim Sen of the Thelasian Trading Confederacy. Repeating our previous message—we have fixed your position, estimate your course parallels that of a vessel similar to those that have attacked ships traveling this sector of space. Be advised you exercise extreme caution in any encounters with said vessel, also ask that you forward any records of said encounters to Procyron for analysis and collation. Please respond Enterprise. Message ends. Loop that, Roia. Continuous signal till they do respond.”
Yes, sir. A reminder, sir, the Defense Council is awaiting your presence in the Upper Solarium.
“Of course.” The weekly meeting. Normally he hated this part of his job—meeting with the military commanders, most of them mercenaries hired to protect shipping routes, with little loyalty to the traders who paid them—but he had been pleasantly surprised by the speed and efficiency of their response to this crisis. They had not only set up convoys to escort the most valuable shipments through the areas of space in question, but today were proposing a further refinement of the armed offensive they had presented to Sen last week. An offensive that would involve not just Confederacy ships, but vessels from over a dozen other worlds that had been affected by the unwarranted, unprovoked attacks on Confederacy trade routes. Representatives of those worlds were in the Solarium now as well, making Sen’s own p
resence there necessary.
But there were things he had to do first.
He had Roia instruct the steward to prepare his lunch and bring it to the meeting room, estimating his arrival there in nine minutes. Then he had her cause a short in the automated system feed, which disabled the government recording systems, thus providing complete and total anonymity to his actions. He quickly reviewed the status of his personal accounts and then shifted funds into those accounts from several trading consortiums he’d set up under the authority of the governorship. Wholly legal consortiums.
Wholly illegal transactions.
He was seconds away from completing his work when the implant sounded.
Governor.
“Roia.”
Enterprise is responding.
Sen thought a moment. Talk to the humans first, he decided. That would be brief, and perhaps germane to the Council meeting. “Tell the Defense Council they’ll need to wait—five to seven additional minutes. Is my lunch ready?”
Yes, sir.
“Have it brought here.” Sen finished transferring the money—now his money—and had Roia bring the systems feed back on-line. There would be a gap in the records, but he’d already had Roia circumvent the security protocol so it would never be noticed. Not until it was too late to matter, at least.
“Open a channel to Enterprise.”
Open. Visual and audio are available.
“Give me both.” Sen enlarged the viewer, and positioned his chair so that Enterprise’s captain would see not just him, not just the governor’s office, but the whole of Tura Prex’s skyline behind him. The scale of the megalopolis, the sophistication and beauty of the construction. It would impress upon the humans their relative unimportance in the scheme of things.
The viewer activated. The bridge of a spaceship appeared. Several figures were visible, some sitting, some standing. Humans. Now he remembered the race. Bipedal, large eyes, very expressive faces…