T'aral

I am beside myself with glee ... I have a 2-D CAD program from the makers of SolidWorks!

As much as I hate to admit this ... I think I know that guy!

When Terra Cotta soldiers attack!

"Every other time this sort of thing came up, there was that hot Ripley babe. How the * did I end up with you?"

Front wheel drive - 4x4 - now this. When is enough finally enough?

I ... don't know how to tell you all this, but I can't go on in these clothes - I'm a 'Summer'.

Bruce: "Hey - at least you're dressed. The airline lost my luggage - this is my third day in these pants, and my shirt is unwearable!"

T'Aral watched the shuttlecraft carrying the Comanche Creek staff officers leave without comment. While it was true that the medical supplies she was monitoring would most likely be shipped to the surface without delay or difficulty, there was no reason for her not to stay with the supplies either. All other things being equal, it would be just as well if she kept with her assignment. Once everything was loaded and tallied, T'Aral stepped into the cargo shuttle's command pod where a suitably quiet Ensign waited patiently for her to strap in properly. "You don't mind if I play a little music during the trip, do you?" "No." T'Aral settled in to the seat quietly, seeking the oblivion of meditation which unfortunately eluded her in this place. There was a residue to this space: a spectre of the scream shared by every Vulcan mind who died the day their planet was devoured. It remained as a ghostly echo - unnoticable by most, but unmistakable to Vulcans. T'Aral already had to councel two of her kin on the Creek to help them maintain their own stability, but leaving the confines of familiar surroundings left her disoriented and vulnerable to the residual cry. Without any outward sign, she abandoned the attempt at meditation and allowed herself to listen to the music the pilot was playing. Don't want your help - don't need your help - don't want your help - don't need your help! Find a way - to make me say - "Help me please, someone!" Helpless! She pondered the chorus of this song and its curiously ambivilent nature. The insistence of not wishing help, while being unable to help one's self, all the while apparently hoping for someone to break them down from the outside ... it was all very inconsistent, very illogical, and so very human. T'Aral wondered if she would ever understand humans or any race even similar to them, and whether or not that was necessary. For the time being it was enough to perform her function in Starfleet when she was allowed to; perhaps that was all that would ever be needed. T'Aral's ponderings were suddenly stopped as the shuttlecraft lurched awkwardly. Turning to the pilot, she observed as his hands dashed about the controls trying to regain some amount of even flight. "We just got spiked by an ion discharge - it'll take the controls a moment to reset ... no problem." The board, however, seemed to have a different opinion. While the controls did reset, the ship was off course and diving down hard towards the planet. "We've got steering, we've got thrusters, and there's plenty of space between us and Vega ... no problem!" To his credit, the Ensign was a capable pilot. Even with minimum operation he leveled off the shuttlecraft's flight, but without sensors they were blind and far off course while cruising at hypersonic speeds across Vega's landscape. "Ok: best thing to do is to find a flat spot to set down, and the sooner the better ... no problem!" The Ensign's 'flat spot' only appeared so from above. Like most of Vega it was cracked glacier which arced upwards and downwards, tossing the shuttle about as it decelerated hard while skidding for miles. The Ensign's piloting was again above reproach as he managed to avoid any jutting shards of excessive size until finally the ship was slow enough to be stopped without killing the both of them. Still, the front crumple zone of the shuttle was used to its maximum limits as it bore the brunt of their stop. With the shuttle finally stationary, T'Aral turned to the Ensign. "What is your name, and are you hurt?" Gathering a deep breath, he looked back at her. "Raden, Ma'am, and I'm not hurt - at least not badly ... just a few bruises." T'Aral nodded as she drew out her tricorder to scan him, just to be sure. Once she was certain that he was correct in his assessment, she stepped out to check the cargo, then managed to pry open an emergency hatch to examine the outside. The view was grim: they were a white shuttlecraft sitting on a white backdrop, having broken through broken terrain to crumple their ship in a crumple of ice. "Well, Ensign Raden - I believe we may have a problem." ------------------------------ Song: Faith No More - "Helpless"

One word: YAO!

I'm going to go with Karo Veras on this one. Congradulations; please show us something interesting.

T'Aral examined the incoming message from the Captain. Two missions at once: apparently Starfleet was attempting to be efficient. There was no reason not to be, as the two missions would be using vastly different resources and entirely different locations. Her first consideration was the upgrade of Vega's medical facilities. Until now the outpost's medical facility was a closet with a cot. There was no need for anything more, as the facility was all but abandoned. Now it would have to be upgraded to an actual bay - that would require negotiation with the technical team to locate a room with a side storage closet; that, or have an addition built on which will no doubt receive the title of "medical wing" to glorify a partitioned quonset hut attachment. T'Aral didn't care, so long as a location with at least three examining beds would be provided. There also would need to be storage space, as well as an analysis lab. This was, after all, going to be a functioning facility. Even as the task force would need support, the training mission would also need to be assisted. The memo didn't mention oversight assignment; it was possible that they didn't even have a medical officer, logically assuming that the Comanche Creek would provide that support. That would not be a problem, assuming all the officers and cadets involved were suitably prepared. If not, they suddenly were faced with sixty liabilities. T'Aral simply noted the potential complications and prepared for them. There was one additional matter: T'Ael, Sakur, Shylin, and Torak. T'Aral examined their records: all suitably impressive, with the cadet's evaluations including the obligitory comments regarding challenges when interacting with other species. She would have to make a point of introducing herself properly, or perhaps have Sasin contact them discreetly. She made some final notes before preparing the medical requirements list. A CMO's work was never done.

Very well.

I'll wait until you're sure you're done.

"Spock - what Vulcan idiocy are you up to now?" "I would be better able to provide a logical answer if you could first help in getting this oblisk off of me."

The Captain had asked T'Aral about her 'call sign' ... the reference everyone was using for her. She understood that people were referring to her when they spoke of 'Doc', even though she was not a doctor. For some reason emotional humanoids enjoyed giving professionals pet names. She did not understand it, nor did she try. She simply accepted it. Calestorm offered a slight smile to the CMO. “Lieutenant, you serve on a ship with two former full time flight jockeys in command; the entire senior staff will be tagged, it’s tradition.” The two officers were in a private alcove off the main medical bay; she remained sitting on the stool that had been indicated by T’Aral, and skimmed the strap of the sports bra off her left shoulder to completely expose the skin area. Ashton kept herself in pretty good shape, or at least she tried to; the muscles of her arms and stomach were taut without being prominent. A few battle scars here and there marred the skin surface, but the most prominent thing that stood out on her white skin was the tattoo inked on her left bicep. Like the undead wizard adorning her right calf, the ink on her arm was military oriented as well – a grinning skull variation on the symbol of the Starfleet starfighter branch. Hindsight was a wonderful thing. After these years, while the captain didn’t necessarily regret the tattoos, she did regret the visual content choices of her youth. As she applied the gel, T'Aral's fingers examined the Captain's shoulder. Aside from residual injury, there was a considerable tightening of several muscle groups. As she applied the gel she also began neuropressure: gently pressing on specific muscle and nerve groups to neutralize the subtle tension impulses the Captain's cerebellum was sending to her shoulders. The source of the problem, however, was not something that T'Aral could cure with a gel or hypospray. The Captain had entered a 'fight or flight' situation and had left it unresolved. If such unresolved stress was left unattended, the problem would come back. The pain from the old trapezius injury wasn’t necessarily debilitating, just a constant soreness when it was aggravated and the muscles knotted; as the CMO applied the topical ointment to the shoulder, the touch contact against the skin hurt and Cale’s breathing hitched slightly. After finishing the application and pressing a few final nerve junctures to completely relax Cale's shoulder, T'Aral cleaned her hands and began to call up a memory file. "I recommend you take the rest of the shift off, assuming no further emergency presents itself." She handed the memory file to the Captain. "This is an entertainment presentation from Earth's early Twentieth Century; '1938' as they recorded time. It is titled 'Bringing Up Baby', and features Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn - noted performers in their media. "For a Vulcan patient I would recommend meditation to clear the mind of stressful thoughts. For humans, however, I have noted that distraction is a more effective technique to alleviate stress - at least temporarily. I have taken the time to view a number of recordings from Earth history to gain a perspective on the subject, and I believe that you will find this presentation suitably ... distracting." The captain could appreciate old school Earth entertainment, and cocked her head to one side as she spoke to the chief medical officer with a curious tone; she couldn't recall ever having been exposed to 'Bringing Up Baby'. “A 2D film from 1938 is quite a ways back Doc; watching a movie as prescription?” T'Aral simply nodded. "For needs such as this, the earlier 1900's presentations are better choices. Without the ability to create lavish visual effects, film crafters depended on more intricate stories and capable presentation to entertain. As the purpose of the recommendation is to distract you from the complications of work, something is needed that will draw your attention. A simple visual spectacle would prove inadequate - you need a good story.” "There are, of course, other options. The ship's library can be scanned for performers. If you are willing to consider my recommendation I would suggest searching under Cary Grant, James Stewart, or Spencer Tracy. Another actor popular among Cinema patrons is Humphrey Bogart, though his films tend to be under a far more serious vein. If you have time, however, I would recommend a visual adaptation of James Clavel's 'Shogun' ... though if you have the time, I would more earnestly recommend reading the novel. It has far more material than the nine-hour presentation." Crash studied the small, colored rectangular data card that held the recommended prescription. “I’ve always been more of a James Stewart fan – his later film work in westerns such as ‘The Naked Spur’ or ‘Shenandoah’, or the occasional foray into his Hitchcock adaptation years.” T'Aral turned to face the Captain properly, with her hands folded neatly behind her. "I am recommending relaxation - as complete as possible. The method you choose is up to you, of course - but it is important that your mind be totally occupied with an enjoyable pursuit, so that no thought would come to interrupt your relaxation." She lifted the card to eye level, held between thumb and forefinger, and smiled. “Thank you for the suggestion Doc; I’ll be spending the night with Crewmen Hepburn and Grant.”

Seriously, Batman - get off that dorky phone and drive us to the Gap ... I NEED PANTS - NOW!

( Most likely, but no harm in having some fun. ) "... and do you, Victoria Edwards, take Mr. Fuzzymuffins to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

My son wishes to give you all "Happy Things" ... :mellow: :huh: ^_^ :o ;) :P :D :lol: B) ;) -_- :) :) :wub: :angry: :( :unsure: :wacko: :blink: :ph34r:

;)

"I want the #7 without spam." "You mean you want spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, and spam ... without the Spam?" "That's right - I don't like Spam!"

** Applauds ** Well earned, Grom.

It is nice, though, to see an actor/ex-wrestler who clearly does not take himself too seriously.

My rubber crown is bad enough ... these poor boys are going to need years of therapy.

Lt. Baliss reported to T'Aral within minutes with the bad news: Lt. Tauariki had come across something that didn't agree with him. Based on his earlier records he was going to be fine, but his physical would need to be delayed for at least two weeks while his system cleaned out whatever he got into. T'Aral nodded and dismissed the Leutenant, noting the delay in the daily medical log. These things happened occasionally, and was nothing to worry about. Of greater concern, however, were the disparaging remarks she overheard from the main bay. It seemed that Leutenant Tauariki believed that it was her intent to 'bleed' him, as if the most advanced medical technologies of Starfleet could not acertain fundamental medical data without inflicting pain. T'Aral hadn't had a chance to consult with other physicians on other starships, but the trend she was observing on board the Creek was undeniable - and it was getting worse. The crew had no faith in Starfleet regulations, or in her in particular. She was clearly seen as some kind of pest - a malignance among the crew with no useful purpose until someone becomes injured or deathly ill. The concept that regulations had a purpose, or that a medical officer would have a reason for wishing to review the physical condition of those they were responsible for either didn't occur to any of the crew, or they just didn't care. The rationale for Starfleet's regulations regarding entry physicals was clear: each physician was to examine crew members in their care to familiarize themselves with the crewmember's physical responses under optimum condition. If there were any eccentricities ( which there almost inevitably were ) the physician would be able to familiarize themselves with the condition, ask any needed questions, and note them in their own records. The result was improved care through opimum attention. T'Aral knew that the crew would not understand - they would not understand because emotional beings had a trait of picking and choosing what they understood. If it was something they agreed with, they understood instantly. If it was something they did not agree with, understanding would never come. Seeing a matter from a perspective other than their own was not within their capacity. It was disappointing in many ways; she had spent a great deal of effort over the years seeking to promote understanding of others among her fellow Vulcans, encouraging the concept of Kol-Ut-Shan among those who served with other races. Yet if other races rejected Vulcans because of their logic, was seeking t'traih-ve advisable? Perhaps it would be better if Vulcans did isolate themselves, seeking their own serenity while allowing the emotional races of the galaxy to pursue their interests undisturbed by logic. There were no clear answers; T'Aral didn't assume that there would be. She paused a moment to collect herself; re-directing her thoughts to more productive venues. There was nothing that could be done, and so there was no point in considering the matter further. If her thoughts did not order themselves soon, she would write to Steln.

After waiting a full hour without hearing from Ensign Tauariki, it was clear that once again an emotional being had chosen to forego regulations in favor of whatever pursuits suited him. This was becoming a pattern - she would have to consult with her collegues on other vessels to determine if such behavior was considered normal among humans and other emotional races, or if Comanche Creek was an exception. The latter would be most disturbing, as that would indicate that the crew had a problem with a Vulcan medical officer. If this continued to be the case, it would reflect poorly on the ship as a whole and on her in particular. She pondered this question - perhaps she should turn primary care of all crewmembers to Leutenant Baliss and focus on administrative duties. The ship did have a staff that was capable of operating without her. Doctor Farrell was an excellent surgeon, Leutenant Baliss had a manner which was much more accepted by the crew, and Ensign Khole's bedside manner was beyond reproach. They were an excellent staff, and were all far more accepted by the crew than T'Aral was. It was a good plan, but she would ponder it longer to confirm that she was making a logical response to the emotionalism she encountered, rather than returning negativism with negativism. She considered consulting the Captain or the XO, but decided against it. They had enough troubles already; the management of the medical deptartment was her responsibility. She would observe further, contemplate the issue, and decide on a course of action. The Captain need not be bothered; the decision wouldn't even require a formal filing - it could all be handled internally. As she pondered this, T'Aral finished her review of the Proxima pathogen report. There were hundreds of thousands of local pathogens to be noted in the ship's database, though the vast majority were of the N-4 category - nuisance viruses. The galaxy was literally overrun with little things that would make one sick, but biological systems were remarkably resilient. Most were dealt with using normal immune responses, with only minimal cases requiring medical intervention. There would be a few cases of viral infections in the next seven to ten days, each requiring the same response - light duty or bedrest. Finishing her review, T'Aral stepped away from Sickbay for a break. Moving through the hallways, she located the ship's kitchen - a holdover from the days before food processors. There were a few occasions, even on board a starship, which merited a cooked meal. When they weren't having one, the mess hall could be used by personnel who liked to cook. T'Aral prepared a simple meal for herself: eggs scrambled with diced green onions, and a side of reconstituted orange juice. As she did so, however, she soon became aware that she had gained the attention of passers-by. It was curious: a small grouping had paused to watch her cook, and the comments whispered among them seemed to indicate their amazement that a Vulcan was cooking. T'Aral lifted an eyebrow at these comments - apparently the other races assumed that because one chose to be logical one didn't eat. They seemed to have the opinion that Vulcans didn't cook, leading T'Aral to wonder in curiousity how they assumed Vulcans took in nourishment - perhaps through osmosis? Even the leutenants who broke up the crowd and sent everyone back to work paused to stare; they seemed to view T'Aral's cooking as one would observe a zoo attraction. The Federation ideals were those of tolerance: a feature which was extended to every race which would accept it ... except for Vulcans. All other races expressed their emotions, which allowed others to overlook physical differences. Vulcans, however, were psychologically different, which made them the butt of countless jokes and the recipients of hostility wherever they went. The Federation tolerated them so that they could be used as biological computers, while individuals continued to shun and mock them at every turn. It was rare for Vulcans to have friends outside of their own species, for finding an emotional being willing to accept others as they were was as unusual a happening as discovering refined dilithium lying about in a flowered meadow. T'Aral sat to eat her meal while she accepted the situation with a Vulcan's typical silence. If she was accepted by the crew, that would mean that she would've failed as a Vulcan. To be a Vulcan was to be mocked, hated, and derrided by others. It was the way things were, and acceptance of these facts was the only logical solution.