Tuvok sighed, and for a moment was almost nostalgic for Mr. Neelix.
Captain’s Log, Stardate 57148.2
Repairs to the ship’s major systems are now completed, without requiring assistance from the Pa’haquel hunters. On recommendation from Commander Jaza, Titan has set course for the Vela OB2 Association. The star cluster is over two weeks distant at warp seven, but Jaza advises that if one star-jelly school was found this far from it—not to mention the hunters who follow their migrations—we are likely to encounter others as we draw nearer. He also considers it likely that we will encounter other forms of what he calls “cosmozoan” life, and I have authorized him to use our high-resolution wideband sensor net in his search for such organisms. Perhaps we may discover some nonsentient relative of the star-jellies which the Pa’haquel could be persuaded to hunt instead.
Ranul Keru was a big man, big enough to be intimidating. That was something he did his best to downplay in his personal life, but readily made use of in his security work. And right now, as he loomed over Torvig Bu-kar-nguv—one of the four Academy seniors serving their work-study tours on Titan—he wanted to be intimidating. It should’ve been easy; the Choblik was diminutive in comparison, a meter-high biped built something like a short-furred ostrich with an herbivore’s head, a short neck, and a long, prehensile tail. If not for his bionic arms and sensory organs, the joint enhancements on his legs, the small bionic hand at the tip of his tail, and the polymer-armor plating over his vital areas, Torvig would’ve looked like the kind of small woodland creature who would dart for the under-growth at the first sign of a big, bearish omnivore like Keru. Instead, despite all of Keru’s best looming and glowering, the engineering cadet merely studied him with the same wide-eyed, analytical curiosity he seemed to apply to everything. If anything, Keru found himself intimidated by that stare—or by the cyber-enhanced eyes that did the staring.
Abandoning the staring-contest idea, Keru went for a more overt confrontation. “The access logs clearly show that your codes were used to tamper with the replicator. Do you know what we found?”
“No, sir,” the Choblik said in his flattish, synthetic voice.
A likely story. “We found it had been infested with nanoprobes. That it had been programmed to infuse those nanoprobes into the crew’s food. Nanoprobes that were designed to latch on to their intestinal walls and remain there indefinitely, doing who knows what once they got there.”
“I know what, sir.”
Keru did a double take. “You do?”
“Oh, yes, sir. After all, I did design them.”
A pause. “Then you admit that you did put them in the replicator.”
“Of course, sir. It was the best delivery system for the test.”
Test? All in due time. “So why did you just say you didn’t know what we found?”
Torvig tilted his head querulously. “I didn’t, sir. I knew what was there for you to find, so I hypothesized that they were probably what you found; but I didn’t know for a fact that you had found them until you told me—nor did I know how you might have interpreted the discovery. I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions, sir.” His words didn’t have the pedantic tone a Vulcan might have used; rather, he sounded more like an eager student reporting on his research methodology.
“All right, then,” Keru went on. “What exactly was it that you were testing for?”
“Exactly, sir? Would you like me to retrieve my detailed notes from my quarters?”
Keru winced at the Choblik’s literalism. “All right, approximately, then. What were you testing?”
“Gut feelings, sir.”
“Gu—what?!”
“Last week Ensign Panyarachun suggested that I was too analytical in my approach to engineering problems, and told me that humans and other species tend to rely instead on their gut feelings. I didn’t understand what relation the gut would have to cognitive decision-making, so I decided to investigate the question.”
Keru blinked a number of times. “Um…Cadet…you do know that’s only a figure of speech, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, sir, but I was curious about its origins, and I wondered whether it might have a factual basis. The nanites were designed to monitor for neurochemical activity in the humanoid digestive tract.”
It would’ve sounded like a ridiculous excuse to Keru if the cadet didn’t already have a habit of formulating such cockamamie hypotheses and means of testing them. He was a devout empiricist, taking nothing for granted, giving fair consideration to any idea no matter how bizarre, and ruling nothing out until he’d tested it for himself. It would be an admirable trait in an explorer, if only he could focus it better. “But why nanoprobes, Cadet? Why break half a dozen regulations to deliver them in secret? Why not just, I don’t know, ask for volunteers?”
“I figured that since I was investigating the cognitive process, it might contaminate the results if my subjects were aware of the investigation. For all I knew, sir, that could’ve been the reason why a correlation between intestinal activity and problem-solving had not been verified in earlier studies.”
Keru glared at him. He just wasn’t getting it. “Didn’t it occur to you, Cadet, how people might feel about being contaminated with nanoprobes? After all the Borg have inflicted on us over the years, all the grief they’ve caused,” he went on, his voice rising, “did you really think people would take that in stride? That they wouldn’t feel outraged, violated, if these probes of yours had actually managed to get into their systems?”
“They would’ve done no harm, sir. They were made of biodegradable polymers and carbon—”
“That’s not the point! This isn’t about cold facts and analysis, it’s about people’s feelings! Can’t you understand how much people still fear the Borg? How upsetting it would be for them to discover something like this had been done to them, especially by—”
He broke off. Torvig gazed at him for a long moment, then nodded to himself. “I see. By a cyborg like me. Thank you for confirming my secondary thesis, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s clear that you’ve been uncomfortable with me since I came on board, sir. I’ve found that such reactions are often due to prejudice arising from my species’ coincidental similarity to the Borg. Many of us have faced that kind of prejudice, and we’re curious to understand the mechanisms behind it. So intolerance is an area of study in which I have an ongoing interest.” Keru was aware that Torvig had engaged in discussions and debates about humanoid chauvinism with other members of the crew, including a wager with Lieutenant Eviku that Titan would be given a human motto—a wager he’d lost when Riker had chosen the Vulcan creed of “Infinite diversity in infinite combinations” to grace the ship’s dedication plaque. But Torvig’s eager-student mien rarely wavered, so it was hard to tell whether it reflected a genuine fear of persecution or a simple intellectual curiosity. Keru found himself realizing that, in some odd Choblik way, it might be both. “Aside from their other advantages, the use of nanoprobes allowed me to test how you and/or the rest of the crew would react to their discovery—and therefore what factors shape your reaction to me. Sir.” The cadet’s voice, while slightly more subdued than before, hadn’t wavered from its matter-of-fact tone.
But Keru paused before answering, trying to keep his own tone under control. “You mean you deliberately did this…in order to experiment on me? To gauge my reactions, my feelings about the Borg, like some amoeba in a test tube?”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way, sir. For one thing the methodology for examining an amoeba would be completely different.”
“Shut up! Just—just tell me why. Why experiment on me?”
Torvig looked up at him. “Because you are a crewmate of mine and I want to get to know you better, sir.”
Keru’s anger deflated, and embarrassment threatened to take its place. But luckily a modicum of irritation remained, though it was more tempered now. Stepping away from Torvig, he took a moment to
formulate his words. “Look. I appreciate your interest in learning about your crewmates. But I don’t appreciate being learned about by being experimented on, and I doubt anyone else around here does either. If you want to learn about us, there are better ways. Talk to us, socialize with us.”
“Better in what sense, sir? I assume they’re more comfortable for species like yours; but I’m more comfortable with a practical, empirical approach, with hard, codifiable data. It’s what I’m good at.”
“But not everything can be codified or empirically explained. Gut feelings, for example. Relationships, for another.” Or fears and resentments.
“I disagree, sir. You can never conclusively say that something can’t be explained—only that it hasn’t been explained yet. Well, there is the Incompleteness Principle, of course, but that allows a system to be fully explained within a broader system.”
Keru rubbed his temples; this was giving him a headache. “Look. The bottom line is, you broke regulations. You admit it, and you’re unrepentant. There will have to be penalties, and there will be a mark on your record for this.”
Torvig nodded. “Of course, sir. I anticipated that as a probable outcome. I’m curious to find out what form my discipline will take. There are so many interesting ways of going about it—I hope the captain or Commander Vale will choose one I haven’t experienced yet.”
Keru couldn’t think of a single thing to say to that. “Look. Just…for now, you’re confined to quarters until further notice. Dismissed.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
The Choblik turned and strode gracefully from the security office on his long runner’s legs, his bionic joints working without a sound. His tail deftly shot forward to avoid the closing door behind him. Keru just stared at the closed door for a moment, then shook his head. I guess I can’t fault him for his enthusiasm, at least, he thought. Still, he found himself giving a shudder of relief now that the cyborg was gone. He knew, of course, that the well-meaning young Choblik had nothing to do with the monsters who’d killed his beloved Sean.
But how could he convince his gut?
Dr. Huilan Sen’kara, assistant counselor on the U.S.S. Titan, reached up to signal at Crewman K’chak’!’op’s door and waited. Then that door opened, the Pak’shree emerged, and Huilan still waited. K’chak’!’op—whom most people on the ship called “Chaka,” more as a phonetic convenience than an endearment—looked around her and made a rising creak sound with her stridulating mouthparts, which her voder interpreted as “Hello?”
“Down here,” Huilan said patiently.
K’chak’!’op moved back a bit, lowered her large round head until the lower pair of her black cabochon eyes could see him, and then began waving the squidlike tentacles which extended from the sides of her head, six on each side. “Oh, Counselor Huilan, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you!” Or so her voder interpreted her tentacular motions, plus the quick stridulation she added to represent his name. The Pak’shree used audible stridulations as their animal forebears had done, to convey things like names, greetings, emotional expression, danger calls and the like, and had later evolved the use of sign language for more sophisticated communication. Huilan’s xenoethology studies had shown that many sentient species, including most humanoids, had gone through a similar phase in their evolution, only to shift to spoken language later on. He supposed the Pak’shree had retained their dual system owing to the limitations on stridulation as a form of speech, or simply owing to the sheer versatility of their tentacles.
But none of that was what he was here to discuss. Evolutionary behaviorism was his specialty, but he had come to counsel K’chak’!’op, not to study her. “That’s quite all right,” he said. “It happens all the time.” It was indeed a common occurrence for a not-quite-meter-tall S’ti’ach on a ship full of giants.
“No, it was my fault entirely, you poor dear. Please, please, come in! Make yourself at home! Can I get you anything, sweetie?”
Huilan blinked his large black eyes, amused at being called “sweetie.” The S’ti’ach weren’t exactly known for their sweet disposition—at least, not by the prey animals of S’ti’ach’aas.
Still, he graciously followed K’chak’!’op into her quarters, noting how extensively she had personalized them. Indeed, with help from the deceased Chief Engineer Ledrah, she had essentially transformed them into a replica of the earthen architecture of her homeworld. The walls, floor, and ceiling were almost totally covered in replicated clay, wood, and stone, held together by a secretion of her own body, which the humans liked to call “silk” by analogy with their arachnids but which was really more of an organic cement. The only openings left were for the doors, wall console, and replicator, and there was no furniture save for a couple of low, wide mounds of earth. Yet the walls were intricately textured, a loving exercise in Pak’shree tactile art, although Huilan was not qualified to judge whether the patterns represented actual talent or mere enthusiasm. Still, it was a striking space to occupy. “Your quarters are lovely. It’s no wonder you like to spend so much time here.”
“Aha,” she stridulated. “I expected that was why you came, Counselor. Everybody’s so kind with their concerns about me, holed up here in my quarters all the time. But I’m fine here, really I am. Please, have a seat,” she added, lowering her four-segmented, six-legged body onto one of the mounds, and brushing some padds off of it with some of her tentacles while she spoke with the rest. Pak’shree language was structured to allow them to “talk with their hands full.”
Huilan just let his middle pair of limbs rest on the ground, assuming the centaurlike stance which was his equivalent of sitting, at least in this ship’s low gravity. Actually K’chak’!’op’s quarters maintained a higher gravity than the rest of the ship, but it was still a bit light for him. “Oh, I know you are. Everyone’s been so concerned about you staying in here all the time, wondering if you’re agoraphobic or xenophobic or something. Although of course they know you couldn’t have gotten through Starfleet training that way, so they wonder if something’s happened recently to traumatize you, and they’re just ever so concerned,” he said with a touch of mischief.
His dark-adapted eyes picked up the HUD images in her contact lenses, which were translating his speech into simulated tentacle motions. “Yes,” she signed back, “it’s so very sweet of them to worry. I hope you can reassure them, dear.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly, Chaka. It’s not about phobias or antisocial tendencies or anything like that.” He ambled closer, looking up at her with his eyes wide, flattening out his dorsal spikes and wagging his short, wide tail, doing everything he could to maximize his blue-teddy-bear cuteness and put her at ease. “The simple fact is that it’s just too small for you out there, isn’t it?”
K’chak’!’op twisted her tentacles together, the equivalent of clamping her mouth shut. Huilan went on. “The doors are too narrow, the workspaces too cramped, the ceilings too low. And the turbolifts—”
“Ohh, don’t talk to me about the turbolifts,” she replied, though her voder rendered it in a light-hearted tone. “Don’t misunderstand, dear, I’m not a claustrophobe; it’s just so uncomfortable. I can’t let myself stretch out, and there’s so little room for my tentacles that I don’t feel free to express myself. I have to keep my words all small and cramped, and there’s no music in that! Besides, in such a tight space with endoskeletal people, I’m afraid to move around for fear I’ll crush somebody.”
“It’s not easy for me either,” Huilan commiserated. “You’re the biggest one on the ship, I’m the smallest—except for little Totyarguil, of course.” That was the baby of Olivia and Axel Bolaji. Born four months prematurely, he’d spent the past two months in an incubator in sickbay, and had been essentially adopted by the whole crew as they followed the tiny, helpless creature’s development toward viability. It amazed Huilan that something human could be so small. “I’m constantly having to strain upward to reach things, get special chairs to sit o
n, even ask for help sometimes—which isn’t easy for a S’ti’ach. On our world we’re top of the food chain, undisputed. It’s an ocean world, all islands. Resources and room are limited, so life stays small. It was quite a shock to the S’ti’ach ego to discover the galaxy populated by giants, let me tell you.” The process had been eased somewhat, Huilan reflected, by the Federation’s sensitivity in its choice of ambassadors. The first UFP representative to their world, Alexander, had been a humanoid no taller than a S’ti’ach, as well as a man of great wisdom and sensitivity. A member of an extraordinarily long-lived (and generally humansized) race, he had been a Federation diplomat for over a century, since a Starfleet crew had rescued him from the persecution he’d faced on his own world, Platonius. He had been pivotal in convincing the S’ti’ach that they could participate in the Federation as equals.
“Ohh, you poor dear,” K’chak’!’op signed, with a commiserating crackle of her mouthparts. “I hadn’t thought that it could be hard for you too.”
“But what I don’t understand,” Huilan went on, “is why you wouldn’t just tell anyone. Why have you dodged the issue every time it’s been raised?”
Her tendrils twirled, but no translation came; it must have simply been a nervous gesture. “Well,” she finally said, “it’s just that…well, Captain Riker and Dr. Ra-Havreii, they’re both so proud of this ship of theirs, and I just…I didn’t want to hurt their feelings. Especially that charming young Dr. Ra-Havreii—he did design the ship, and it was very clever of him, and I don’t want him to be disappointed.”
Huilan suppressed a snicker. “Now, Chaka. You know perfectly well that humanoid males are fully grown adults. They don’t expect to be coddled, and they don’t need to be.”
“Yes, I know that. And I know they’re my superior officers, I respect the chain of command and all that. But males just bring out the mother in me. Especially males who actually act, well, responsible and adult! It’s just so charming to see a male with something on his mind other than sex.”
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