T'aral

New Topeka Medical Center T’Aral sat passively in the office of Starfleet’s regional director. He was middle-aged, probably in his late 40’s with a receding hairline. Other than that he was what Humans would consider amiable – pleasant in manner and generally happy despite being buried in administrative work. It was unfortunate, but someone had to sacrifice their time to the bureaucracy for the greater good. If a Vulcan was not available it was better that a person such as Michael Vole. “T’Aral – as a full doctor it is standard procedure to assign you an attendant nurse. I wish I could say that this will be a benefit to you, but given this record I have my doubts.” She accepted a transcript and examined the record of Ensign T’Shia Khora. Initial indications were of a highly intelligent and dedicated nurse, yet she had been shifted between seven assignments in the last year. “Her marks are excellent and there are no reprimands listed; I fail to understand why she has been transferred so many times. Is there a problem with discipline?” “The opposite, actually; her co-workers consistently reply that she’s cold and distant, just short of being hostile. I was about to recommend that she be transferred in-systems when I received a request from her to be transferred to the ‘Creek. Apparently she wants to work for you.” “Indeed …” T’Aral examined the record again. “Curious: her transcript lists her as human, but her given name suggests a Vulcan.” Vole smiled. “She’s human. As for her name, probably best if she explains that.” ------- On board the Comanche Creek, T’Aral gestured for Ensign Khora to sit up while she completed her initial examination. Reaching to the wall, she secured the examination room door. “Medically you are fit, and your transcripts suggest a capable officer and a reliable medical technician. It is, therefore, necessary that an explanation be provided for why you have been unable to maintain a medical post.” T’Shia looked down to the floor. “I was … abandoned as an infant. I was found screaming in a cargo container in DSR-17.” T’Aral nodded, indicating comprehension. DSR-17 also bore the name Tal-svitan; a remote and isolated Vulcan science station where the most dedicated researchers pursue their interests in seclusion. “I am aware of the facility; by your manner, I expect that there is more to be explained?” She nodded. “The Vulcans found me, malnourished and dehydrated. By the time I was nurtured back to health, it was feared that I had bonded to my caregivers. They decided that it would not be ‘emotionally beneficial’ for me to be transferred to an orphanage, so they chose to raise me themselves until I was older so that I would be able to accept such changes. However, a proper age didn’t present itself until I was old enough to enlist in Starfleet.” T’Aral remained attentive, comprehending more than the Ensign was verbalizing. As much as it would pain a Vulcan to admit it, emotional attachment was a constant challenge to their logical ways. She was certain that the scientists on Tal-svitan had numerous logical explanations as to why it was best for T’Shia to stay with them, but the final truth was that they had quickly come to care for the helpless infant. Seeing her put in an institution was unacceptable; it was not enough to save her life, they would see to it that she flourished. “Your records suggest that you have benefitted from this decision. I still do not understand where your difficulties lie.” She nodded. “My parents … all twelve of them … did their best to raise me as a human, but after a while I could tell that expressing my feelings bothered them. As I grew I learned to suppress my feelings; they all said that I shouldn’t, but I had to for their sakes. When I entered Starfleet I was constantly bothered by people who felt I didn’t smile enough, but it just felt … strange.” T’Aral held up a hand, having heard enough. Ensign Khora was inexperienced in expressing emotion; logically she would internalize her feelings rather than making an embarrassing display, which was perceived as hostility by others. “I believe your difficulties will pass, Ensign, given time and an environment where there are no such demands put upon you. As you will be assisting me directly, I believe such an environment can be provided without difficulty.” At that T’Shia did smile – a broad, beaming smile which she covered over immediately. “Thank you Ma’am.” T’Aral nodded. “… and Ensign, do not be afraid to smile should you feel the need to do so. It is a normal human trait.” ----- T’Aral stood in the storage chambers of the Dover Creek. Around her was a gathering of some of the most lethal contagions known, including Vericusian Chromatic Death and Hofarian Resplendent Immolation. The jewel of this collection, however, was RABI-D56 … humorlessly referred to among the medical staff of the ‘Creek as the ‘Zombie Bug’. Upon discovering this virus among the collection being transported, T’Aral insisted that the quarantine precautions be doubled. The mission began to make sense as she learned more about it. The Dover Creek was an ideal vessel for transfer: a vessel consisting of a transport tug and hospital ‘pod’. The pot was isolated from the carrier vessel and had a completely independent life support system. Only two turbolift shafts connected the two vessels, and they were sealed off when not in use. However, the crew of the Comanche Creek were among the few living persons who had real-world experience with the effects of RABI-D56. Captain Calestorm, Commander Wesley, and the others would all bring that experience to the situation; there would be no mistakes. It was understood what was at stake. With canisters secured she stepped out of the hold and sealed it, going through the test protocols three times before contacting the bridge. “Ensign Khora, this is T’Aral. Advise command that the specimens are secure and we are ready to proceed.” On the main vessel’s bridge, T’Shia sat stiffly with only a tapping foot to give away how nervous she really was. Aside from the very real danger of the mission, she faced a more personal crisis. This was to be her last re-assignment; if she couldn’t work with T’Aral, there would be no place for her in Starfleet at all. “Acknowledged, Doctor – please be careful.” Perhaps it was something in T’Aral’s manner or maybe it was just the fact that the voice over the com was a Vulcan, but there was just something reassuring in hearing the reply. “Your concern is noted, Ensign. Advise the Bridge that all safety measures have been triple-checked by multiple individuals to eliminate error.” Ensign Khora nodded, advising the ship’s Captain that all was ready. She watched intently as the ship pulled away from Cold Station 12, wanting nothing more than for this mission to be over and for her to be back on board the ‘Creek.

Lieutenant T’Aral walked steadily through the Caduceus, having grown accustomed to any facility of significance being a carrier or submarine of some form. The planet’s medical vessel was no exception; a submarine of fairly ordinary make, other than being painted a gleaming white and being substantially larger than even most of the research vessels. The enclosed design allowed the ship to ride out the planet’s storms in the relative tranquility of deep sea, which was imperfect but considerably better than being on the surface. As she made her way past the conning tower receiving area, she was met with an attendant. “Thank you for arriving so quickly, Doctor. While our staff excels at dealing with local issues of all kinds, it is preferable to have an expert in xenopathology to examine these patients.” T’Aral nodded. “A pirate crew, I gather?” “No, Doctor – they are best described as ‘illegal immigrants, though beyond that they’re … well, best that you see for yourself.” T’Aral stepped through a bulkhead door to enter the examination room to find herself surrounded with a dozen brightly-dressed young adults of various races. Their elbows were locked together in a clear gesture of defiance, with their fingers templed into an ‘o’ pattern in front of their faces. Their circle was exceptionally tight – their bodies pressed back to back against each other. She stepped around the group steadily, observing their expressions and eye movements until she identified one which stood out; a young male, shorter than the others but with an unmistakable air of capable defiance. Kneeling before him, she nodded in greeting. “I am required to conduct a series of medical examinations on yourself and your associates. It is my recommendation that you all co-operate, as this will make the experience less unpleasant.” “No go, Herbert!” shouted one from the far side of the circle. T’Aral ignored him, her eyes locked with the young man in front of her. He was a minor follower, showing off for his comrades. She needed to reason with the Alpha of the group – his compliance would give her the co-operation of the others. The young man’s gaze matched hers. She could sense his inner strength; if this became a battle of wills she would lose. “You heard our decision, Herbert – no go.” T’Aral’s composure was completely unaffected. This would not be a battle of wills, but a simple exercise in logic. “Allow me to fully explain your situation. You are on this planet illegally …” “We do not recognize your laws or your authority over nature. We recognize only ourselves.” His face was tight and his gaze was firm. T’Aral was impressed with his composure, for the tone of his voice had not raised nor had the volume. His discipline was admirable. “The authority behind the laws you have broken is based on the fact that there are guards around you who currently possess phasers. Whether you recognize their authority or not is irrelevant – it is their understanding that they are in authority, and they will exercise that belief if it is opposed.” The young man’s expression softened almost imperceptibly, but it was enough. “As they have apparently not engaged in such activity as of yet, it is my belief that they have no particular desire to do so. It is my recommendation that you do not encourage them otherwise. There are medical examinations which need to be performed; please co-operate so that they may end quickly and without incident.” His face hardened again. “We do not accept your authority, Herbert.” T’Aral stood, her face passive. “Then you shall be stunned, lifted by strong orderlies, then strapped to a series of gurneys. The examinations will take place – I only sought to spare you discomfort.” She stepped back, gesturing to the guards who promptly took aim. “Wait …” The young man lowered his head slightly, unlocked himself from the others, and stood. T’Aral gestured to a bio-bed for him to approach. As she anticipated, his obedience was reflected in the others. The fact that they were scowling at her was of no interest to her, nor was the fact that they sat cross-legged with their hands in the ‘o’ pattern. The examinations could proceed. “You are a collective of some form?” T’Aral’s initial examinations found no major or minor injuries, which was preferable. It was apparent that the local security officers understood the concept of restraint on many levels. “We are One.” The response was an absolute statement of belief, which carried a tone and manner that T’Aral was familiar with. She proceeded to scan his circulatory flow, which was in satisfactory condition though slightly anemic. “Such statements only convey significance when they are understood.” He sneered slightly. “Of course you do not understand – you are Herbert.” “To convey an insult also requires comprehension. I cannot be insulted by you until we share a common frame of reference.” His skeletal system was in fair condition, though lacking in some nutrients. She closed her tricorder. “You are in reasonable health, and you carry no sign of unacceptable pathogens. I anticipate that your companions will test similarly, as I expect that you have been in close proximity with each other for some time. You also show signs of malnourishment – most likely the result of an underdeveloped vegan diet.” She entered her findings and closed the computer terminal. “I will develop a series of recommendations to improve the effectiveness of your dietary options.” The young man stared at her. “You’re … going to help?” “It is illogical for a medical practitioner to withhold beneficial information. While the most sensible course of action would be for you to reassess your current dietary habits in favor of something more particular to your species, I expect that you will not do so. Therefore I will endeavor to improve your condition through more acceptable techniques.” “That’s friendly of you – maybe you are not Herbert.” He folded himself on the bio-bed with a slight smile, his hands held before him still in the templed ‘o’. T’Aral stepped over to the next bed. The young man’s comments were irrelevant; all that mattered was that there were eleven more subjects for examination … “Hey Herbert – how do you breathe in those clothes?” … and apparently each one was going to provide its own challenges.

T’Aral wandered about the lower levels of the Nautilus X, examining the ship’s extensive zoological garden. There were hundreds of varieties of marine creatures, each kept to their own holding tanks for examination until such time as the science team had satiated their curiosity. At that time the specimens would be returned to their place of origin, assuming they were healthy enough to do so. Those who were not able to do so were returned to the environment in other ways – the most typical being released into other tanks to supplement the diets of the other specimens. Not wishing to be a bother, T’Aral continued on alone until she was stopped. “You are Doctor T’Aral of the Comanche Creek? I am Doctor Moressey – lead investigator of the Nautilus X.” “Live long and prosper, Doctor.” T’Aral nodded agreeably, then paused. “Am I to assume that there are nine other ‘Nautilus’ vessels on Aquarius Major?” “Correctly assumed.” Doctor Moressey began leading T’Aral along a corridor where dozens of transparent tanks cast a luminescent blue glare. “With mobile research laboratories such as this one, we can study the planet’s flora and fauna far more effectively – those of us who aren’t indentured into mining support or material transportation.” “It is the hazard of any vessel – to be used in a manner which it was not intended.” T’Aral stopped next to a tank, gazing into the depths of it while observing the twining tendrils of dozens of jellyfish. The species provided a haunting display, their stranded tentacles forming a kind of marine forest. Yet there was a different feature which caught her attention: a flashing phosphorescence which lined the rim of the creature’s cap. “Doctor – what is the purpose of the illumination?” “Purpose? I don’t believe it has a purpose, other than a neural reflex which happens to draw prey.” Moressey gestured to the creatures. “These are Aquarian Discomedusae, or ‘Disco Angels’ as the locals call them. The light they give off is actually quite intense. Here …” He turned off the tank lighting, allowing the jellyfish light to show properly. “The light attracts all kinds of marine animals, which get snared by the tendrils.” “So it is a deliberate act?” “Doctor T’Aral – Medusae have no central nervous hub. They are non-responsive: to even call them animals is a concession to their physical structure. They have no brain in which to think.” Moressey’s brow furrowed. “Why – do you have some reason to believe otherwise?” T’Aral stared at one jelly in particular, focused on the flashing luminescence. One … two … three … five … seven … eleven … thirteen … “Doctor: I assume that contact with the creatures is not permitted.” “Well, there’s no rule about it - it’s just that they’re poisonous. The crowns are safe, but they’d have to be touched underwater to prevent damage to their membranes.” He turned to her, gazing incredulously. “Are you planning to keep one as a pet?” “No doctor …” T’Aral began to walk down the corridor, seeking a means to the tank’s upper surface. “I wish to determine if it’s appropriate to contain them at all.” **** An hour later T’Aral sat in the ship’s commissary, sipping tea while facing a baffled, slightly babbling Doctor Moressey. “If I hadn’t have seen it myself, I wouldn’t believe it. They’re … sentient?” She nodded. “The ‘neural ring’ you identified is the structure of their brain. They are intelligent – though the nature of that intelligence is unknown.” “But … how do they communicate? How did they speak to you?” “They did not speak … directly, and I cannot verify that I understood them. I noted that one of the creatures was illuminating in a sequence of prime numbers. This suggested deliberate control and intelligence. I simply tapped back its sequence, indicating that I understood that its actions were deliberate. That was how I predicted its actions for you.” Moressey was visibly shaken. “For us to capture a sentient species, to invade their world as we have …” “… would likely be of little consequence to them. They are still Discomedusae, after all. So long as responsible care is taken not to disrupt their environment, I would expect that they would care little about your presence or actions.” She sipped her tea slowly. “I would, however, make a point of improving their containment … perhaps introducing a greater variety of species into their surroundings, generating a more natural state.” The doctor nodded in agreement. “It would take some doing, but it’s better than the alternative. Excuse me, please.” As Moressey left, T’Aral pondered all she had learned and the situation she was in. She could not reveal exactly how intelligent the creatures were; that would bring up a number of uncomfortable questions regarding how she came to that knowledge. There was no word for what they were – they had no word for themselves as individuals or as a race. The closest word T’Aral knew for them was ‘Etwel’ … or ‘We’. They were completely alien in thought: not simply in a fatalistic nature, but their thoughts were entirely existential. As beings without sight, hearing, or any reliable means of outward perception, they had no concept of their own world – much less the influence of beings outside of that world. They were a collective mind, the personality of which was influenced by the individuals within that group. They had no desire for anything until the day of their capture. Sensing the tricorder scans of them as a form of communication, they sought to communicate in reply. She sipped her tea again; they were vastly intelligent, but entirely without purpose. They had no means of perception, and no means to affect the world around them. Their intellect would never develop beyond the metaphysical explorations they were engaged in, nor was it possible for it to. T’Aral had kept her empathic senses limited, and she was confident in her choice to do so. There was no point to a jellyfish knowing what it was to have her senses. It would be an experience it could not relate to, any more than T’Aral could relate to the infinite emptiness of their existences. She had done enough: the colony would be made aware that the ‘angels’ were sentient and were to be respected as such, and Doctor Moressey would increase the variety of food for his subjects. It was the only thing they wanted … the only thing they were capable of wanting. Freedom was a concept that they had no way to understand.

Talaxian ... there were few in the mines. They rarely came this far, and they did not appear to be a hearty species. T'Aral found her contact easy to find; she watched for someone being preyed upon by others. When she came upon an unfamiliar looking female, she deduced that this was the one she was sent to speak with. There was a small matter of two male inmates who seemed to have other intentions for her ... and for T'Aral, once she protested. This was quickly deterred with a suitable application of Suus Mahna and a demonstration which indicated that she knew where most sapien life forms kept their neural junctions. The assailants backed away as quickly as they could, their eyes wide. "You ... you are ... T'Arr?" T'Aral nodded, inwardly surprised that the moniker that Lieutenant Shalin had given her had reached this far. By the looks on her assailants faces, it would prove useful. "I expect that a further demonstration is not necessary?" The assailants shook their heads, backing away respectfully while guards began to step in. T'Aral raised her hands and knelt in immediate deference, a gesture which proved surprisingly effective. Unaccustomed to co-operative inmates, the guards stared at each other in confusion before finally ordering T'Aral to the mines, to which she swiftly complied - gathering up the Talaxian on the way. The girl looked up at her. "I'm Wennit. When we get to the mines, follow me." A single eyebrow raised in curiosity, but T'Aral nodded. When they arrived she complied, eventually finding herself in a deep spur. They eventually came upon a group of prisoners: mostly human, with a few from other Federation races. The girl walked up to a shorter man who was clearly in charge, gesturing for T'Aral to follow. Tugging on the man's sleeve, she gestured to him. "This is Commander Bartlett. Sir - the other prisoners call her 'T'Arr'." He nodded to her. "Welcome; it is wonderful to see you here." T'Aral eyebrow arced higher. "Is it? I would've expected otherwise." "You don't understand: only a few Vulcans have ever entered the caverns of Rura Penthe. Those that do are dead within a day by their own hand. It's logical, you see, to die that way instead of serving Klingon masters for months or years in pain. The fact that you're still alive means that you have something else in mind." "I find your reasoning sound, except for one flaw. This prison is supposedly secure ... that is to say, inescapable." Bartlett laughed. "This place? It is simple to escape. Too many prisoners, too few guards, cracks and fissures in the rock at every turn. Escape is easy. What's hard is the fact that most beings can survive maybe an hour on the surface with the furs we're given. After escaping, a quick way off the planet is needed. With no cities, spaceports, or indigenous life to live off of, this prison is quite inescapable." Bartlett then patted a friendly hand on T'Aral's shoulder. "What we need is someone who already figured out that part." T'Aral looked at his hand calmly, then back at him. "Should such a circumstance present itself, I will advise you of it." She looked about at the group. There were about a dozen and a half in all - considerably more than T'Aral anticipated, and probably quite a few more than Ashton or Starfleet Intelligence would have expected given the circumstances. The matter would have to be discussed before the final phase of the mission was engaged. Almost two dozen people, including the Talaxians: the mission was growing more ambitious every moment. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- At the end of the shift, T'Aral made her way back up the shaft with Wennit. As they turned a corner they found themselves facing a scraggly, smiling female. Dark eyes seemed to scan them as she looked about, shockingly piercing in contrast to almost dead-grey skin. Her head bobbed about, scanning every alcove before finally looking down at Wennit. "Hey kid ... go back and hang with the pinkies. The grown-ups need to chat." A nod from T'Aral sent Wennit back. "Please be brief; it is not my intention to upset the guards." The woman smiled broadly. "Right to the point - I just love Vulcans. Your people don't mess about ... I really do like that." Her head bobbed about again before focusing on T'Aral. "You're getting out of here - I want out too." T'Aral's face was perfectly passive. "You presume much. This planet bears no city or spaceport: there is physically no means of escape." "True ... but you're with the new group: the Vultures. Strange: you stick together, you watch each other ... but you're not like other gangs. You're not carving out a niche for yourself: your own personal space. Looks to me like you're not planning to stick around. Now ... I could tell the guards, or ..." T'Aral was not gifted in the art of such discussions. It needed to be ended quickly. "I see little logic in your informing the guards - it would likely gain you nothing." The woman frowned. "Oh don't act stupid - Vulcans are so much smarter than that. We both know I don't want to tell the guards squat. I'm just desperate to get off this rock, and you're the closest thing I've seen to hope in a long time. Now ..." She wrapped a friendly arm about T'Aral's shoulder. "... as I see it, you need prisoner training. You need to be taught, and fast, how to behave so that the guards relax and stop watching you. I teach you this, and you take me with you when the bus shows up. Simple?" T'Aral considered her words. "What brings you to believe I would carry out my part of your proposal?" "Vulcans never welch on a debt. I do you this favor, and I know that you'll take care of me." T'Aral sighed; her new companion was right, especially when it came to T'Aral. To accept her help and then not help her in return would injure T'Aral's Katra, a fate every Vulcan avoided. Furthermore it was logical to engage her help regardless of whether or not it was of any real value, as that was the most logical step in assuring her silence for the duration of their stay. Ashton was not going to like this further complication, but then things were hardly proceeding according to the plan of Starfleet Intelligence. Fortunately, that was not a surprise. She turned and nodded. "I am called Doctor T'Arr." The smile that was offered in response was heartwarming, even for T'Aral. "I'm Tch'ana. Now - let's start with what you should be doing. You need to pick a set of bunks and kick everyone else out of them, staying together. Having your own turf means everything here." It took an hour to get out of the tunnels, during which T'Aral took in an extensive briefing on Rura Penthe society. Even with no other use, it was a fascinating lecture.

The bar was packed with the dreggs of society. Within it sat two figures: a hooded woman and a leather-clad man. Each wore a few affectations which made race a little more identifiable: the woman bore a Vulcan ahn-woon wrapped about her waist while the man wore an Argelian cloak. Together they sat, waiting for an appointment. As they waited, a heavy-chested Andorian walked up to the table. "Argelian ... you are known as entertainers." Mr. Fether looked up at the Andorian. "My people are. I, however, am not gifted in the entertainment arts." The Andorian looked at the couple crossly. "We came here to be entertained - you can either entertain us, or we can entertain ourselves." Doctor T'Arr looked out from underneath her hood, but Fether raised a hand. Stepping up onto a table, he bid the crowd to be quiet before beginning to sing. "Ich werde in die Tannen gehen Dahin wo ich sie zuletzt gesehen Doch der Abend wirft ein Tuch aufs Land und auf die Wege hinterm Waldesrand Und der Wald er steht so schwarz und leer Weh mir, oh weh Und die Vögel singen nicht mehr "Ohne dich kann ich nicht sein - Ohne dich Mit dir bin ich auch allein - Ohne dich Ohne dich zähl ich die Stunden ohne dich Mit dir stehen die Sekunden - Lohnen nicht ..." By the last verse he actually had the bar reciting the chorus with him ... badly, as none in the bar understood the language being used. Yet as he finished they applauded, allowing Fether to return to his seat. T'Arr looked over to him. "Intriguing. What did it mean?" Fether shrugged. "Ancient Earth song - don't know the meaning, and who cares? It got them off our backs." T'Arr nodded. "Most logical." A wandering Orion sat himself next to them. "And most impressive. I see I will be dealing with interesting individuals." T'Arr looked over. "This is a private table." The Orion nodded. "With people looking to Shogan Torona. That would be me." He gestured to his chest openly. Fether smiled slightly. "If so, then let's get to the point. What's your offer?" "For 'protection'? Your captain is a bold individual to think that she can take on the entire syndicate in this sector." T'Arr stared at the drinks before them. "Yet you are here to negotiate with us." Torona barked out a laugh. "Not at all - I'm here to identify a pair of vermin." T'Arr and Fether reacted instantly, diving below the table as disruptor fire went high. They emerged with their own disruptors, firing wildly into the crowd - injuring some and scattering others before incapacitating their assailants. Within minutes the bar was empty and Shogan Torona found himself squirming under an Argelian boot while an impassive Vulcan looked on. The Argelian knelt down. "Now - let me introduce ourselves. This is Doctor T'Arr. She's forgotten more ways to cause pain than you will ever know. I'm Professor Fether, and I've come to educate you." With that he hoisted the Orion up from the floor and slammed him over a booth bench, causing him to cough violently. "We're in the business of protecting poor unfortunate businessmen like yourself from tragedies such as our captain thinking that she'd like to gut you for fun. "Now, we'd like to help you, but you've made such a bad impression with us that now we have to go back and tell our captain what a bad host you are." He tsk'd in a most lamentable manner. "If I were you, I'd try to find a quick way off this rock. Things go very bad for people who don't respect the Vulture and her crew ... very badly indeed." With that the two departed the bar, leaving the disorder and wreckage for the locals to clean up. Fether looked up to T'Arr. "That went rather well, I think." As they turned a corner T'Arr immediately snapped out a fist into the face of a passer-by before flinging their companion into a wall. Fether grabbed the first one's arms long enough for T'Arr to turn about and administer a nerve-pinch. Inspection of both revealed them both to be Orions with cartel-tattoos and shortened disruptors. T'Arr looked over to Fether. "Events have taken a predictable turn. We should find a discreet route back to the Vulture." Fether nodded. "It's a pleasure doing business with you, Doctor T'Arr." --------------------------- "Ohne Dich" by Rammstein "(The System of ) Doctor Tarr and Professor Fether" by Alan Parsons Project, based on a short story by Edgar Alan Poe

T'Aral sat at the communications console, monitoring signals while Shan maintained a vigil at the control center. All was quiet over channels, which meant that Ashton hadn't been detected. This was all to the good, as T'Aral did not have standing orders regarding what to do if she and her team were apprehended. She was considering the matter in depth when a sound from Shan caught her attention. "Is there a problem, Lieutenant?" Shan sighed heavily. "I don't suppose I could convince you to call me 'Shan'?" T'Aral raised an eyebrow while considering the request. "To do so would seem to be rather ... familiar. Would you be satisfied if I called you Mister Shalin?" Shan chuckled. "As a matter of fact, I would. To answer your question; I've been getting fluctuations from the dilithium chambers lately. It's been stable during flight, but when we stop the output gets unsteady. I don't get it." "As the crystals appear stable in flight, have you considered keeping the engines on standby?" Shan nodded. "The catch is that staying powered up makes it look like we're about to bust outta here. Sure ... that's what we want to be able to do, but we don't want anyone else figuring it out." T'Aral stepped over and examined the readings. "The crystals are de-energizing. If this continues, they will begin to decrystalize. When we are landed, route a low-level energy flow into the chamber from the ship's batteries; recharge the battery cells when the drive is active." Shan shrugged and routed as requested. "Hey ... they stabilized - you're pretty brilliant!" T'Aral shook her head. “Like humans, Vulcans are exposed to a variety of subjects before settling on a profession. We also take interest in topics which do not expressly fit with our vocation. I have an elementary knowledge of starship mechanics.” Shan brightened. “Hey – that’s great! You can help me keep this tub running. This console is great, but we really do need an extra set of eyes in the engineering center.” T’Aral frowned slightly. “Mister Shalin, I said I have an elementary knowledge of starship mechanics. My familiarity is hardly sufficient to provide capable assistance in the operation and maintenance of this vessel.” “Come on, Doc – please?” Shan opened his eyes wide, tipping his head slightly. “I really need the help!” T’Aral remained unmoved. “I am a doctor – not an engineer.” “Catch!” He threw over the tricorder with Commander Chilton’s notes. “Now you’re an engineer!” T’Aral took the tricorder over to the communications station without comment. Plugging it in and activating three screens, she began to review the material. It was quite informative and written on a practical level. While the manual would not give T’Aral an engineer’s understanding of the ship’s systems, it would give her the practical knowledge needed to assist Lieutenant Shalin in operating the vessel. Looking over for a moment, she took in the sight of the young Lieutenant surrounded by screens and controls. A Vulcan could no doubt take in all the data needed to be effective, but Shan needed a far more developed attention span as well as the ability to divide his focus. Vulcans were one of the few races capable of multi-tasking so diversely. A sudden burst over the com channels indicated that Ashton was on her way back. “Energize the engines, Mister Shalin. We can expect to depart soon.” With that she closed out the tricorder files. “Drive systems charging … thrusters online … impulse on standby … we’ll have warp by the time we clear the atmosphere.” Shan looked over to T’Aral with a hopeful expression. “So … are you with me?” T’Aral sighed slightly at his emotionalism. “I will aid you to the best of my ability.” Shan grinned as he turned back to his console, just in time to hear Cale’s voice barking over the com. “Deathwish! Close the ramp and let’s get going!” While one hand signaled the hatch to close the other fired the thrusters for a straight Z-Positive maneuver. Calling up the yoke, Shan set the drive to quarter-power for atmospheric exit while pulling back with a slight twist to arc the Vulture away evasively. Opening the com, he put a general call out through the ship. “Vulture is free and flying!” Meanwhile T’Aral exited the bridge, stepping back to the engineering center. She began to monitor power levels while calling up instructions from the tricorder regarding impulse drive variations and the various causes for warp drive failure. An actual crisis was no time to be familiarizing herself with the manual’s material.

Doctor Leene bent over T'Aral's shoulder, examining the contents of the screen before her. T'Aral turned to him, glaring slightly. "It is customary practice to be invited to a consultation, rather than simply imposing yourself onto a case." "Oh come now, Doctor - every physician appreciates having someone to discuss matters with." Leene pulled a chair next to T'Aral and flopped into it. "By the way - your review of my paper was surprisingly charitable. We aren't growing soft, are we?" T'Aral's eyes never left the screen. "Don't be insulting, Doctor. I have always indicated that I consider your work to be complete at its own level. You simply don't go far enough in your research." Leene's eyebrows bushed upwards. "Why Doctor T'Aral - are you suggesting that you would actually use my techniques, given the opportunity?" "I would, if I had the personnel and facilities to maintain an extensive zoological garden on board a combat vessel. That is why I wish you would study the mechanisms behind your techniques. If we had a better understanding of why your experiments work the way they do, we could simulate them synthetically - which would be far more effective in the limited space of a starship." Leene leaned back heavily, basking in what he perceived of as glowing praise. Looking back at the terminal, he frowned slightly. "So ... a concussion is it? Bad; especially since she seems to have rather a tumultuous record." T'Aral nodded. "The latest of many, and most treated with extended rest periods." She considered the matter deeply. Leene took little notice. "So - time for accupressure therapy, I suppose?" She turned to discuss the matter directly. "Among Vulcans there would be no question. However, the Captain's arrival will not be for several days." Leene's expression became curious. "That matters? I thought accupressure techniques were effective after several years?" T'Aral nodded. "That is true: but if the therapy isn't applied immediately there are consequences. It is the nature of the brain to adapt to neural dysplasia as quickly as possible. As time passes the dysplasia becomes the norm, and realigning the neural pathways to their original stable state becomes difficult. Sessions become increasingly ... invasive." The Denobulan nodded. "So - no fixing the past?" "Correct: however, I should be able to correct the Captain's most recent incident without probing too deeply. It would be beneficial, however, to learn how deep a probe can go without intruding ..." ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- T'Aral gestured to the orderly. "Thank you for volunteering, Mr. Wilkins. Please be at ease." The young man looked about nervously. "Anything I can do to help ... only, this isn't going to hurt, is it?" She rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. "There will only be the sensation of my fingers along your head and neck. Please try to relax and clear your mind." T'Aral's initial gestures went along the orderly's neck - then upwards along the spine. She easily traced the stem structure, locating and lightly stimulating the choroid plexus. The response was encouraging, as was the general response of his vascular system in assimilating the generated cerebrospinal fluid. The technique meant that regenerating and refreshing the fluid media would be a straightforward process. Moving along to an examination of the cortex structure, however, quickly indicated problems with the technique. In addition to confirming that Mr. Wilkins cortex was healthy and stable, she also learned that he was quite at ease with her - seeing her as a gentle, almost motherly figure that he was going to miss terribly once she had to ship out. Releasing contact, T'Aral sighed. "Mister Wilkins - you do appreciate the nature of a neuropressure examination?" "Yes ma'am." "So you understand that it is possible for me to sense what you are thinking about?" Wilkins gulped. "Yes ma'am." T'Aral nodded. "It is quite all right; however, I would prefer if you would refrain from including me in your thoughts. I am not offended, but it does become distracting." The orderly nodded, and T'Aral began again. However, she had barely gotten a sense of his cortex structure when a new image came to her: the orderly, his wife on a beach ... a picnic ... She broke contact again. "Mister Wilkins: it is vital that you clear your mind. I am attempting to perform an examination without intruding on your thoughts and memories. Your co-operation is critical ... I do not wish to learn anything personal or embarrassing." The orderly nodded again, but T'Aral barely began again before her mind was flooded with intense images: a luxury cruise ... a Roman centurion ... a British constable ... azure and satin. Breaking contact again, T'Aral shuddered and backed away, clutching her hands together to keep them from shaking. "Sorry ... sorry ..." The orderly flushed a brilliant crimson. "I ... really didn't mean for that to happen." T'Aral raised a hand. "It is I who need to apologize. You are risking your privacy for the sake of my research. It is appreciated - though that does not sanction what I am doing." She paused, thinking back on what had transpired and examining every action taken. She then looked up. "I must continue, but for my sake I must beg you - whatever you do, do not think of a cross-eyed cat. I find them - disturbing." Mr. Wilkins nodded, and T'Aral proceeded one last time. Within the orderly's mind came the image: a siamese, it's bright blue eyes staring squarely at its nose ... ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- T'Aral accepted a steaming cup of tea from Doctor Leene. The Denobulan smiled. "So - did you learn what you needed to?" She nodded in reply. "... and a great deal more." She sipped the hot liquid, allowing the warmth to ease her. "I know now how to proceed. Be sure to thank Mr. Wilkins; his bravery will protect both myself and my patients."

[Apex Medical Center, New Topeka.] As T'Aral stepped into the doctor's lounge, the hall broke into applause. She paused for a moment, allowing the more emotional species she had to work with to express themselves before she acquired her lunch. It had been four weeks since she had returned from the New Vulcan colony, and the Comanche Creek was still in dock for extended shore leave. Her experience had left her feeling clearer of mind and more acutely focused than she had ever felt before. Among other species it was customary to use such opportunities to develop new hobbies or to catch up on reading. T'Aral used her newfound focus to earn her Field Surgeon certification. While she was not qualified to engage in organ transplants, neural grafting, or other complicated surgical procedures, it did mean that she was fully qualified to perform immediate surgical procedures meant to stabilize a patient until they can be transported to a more suitable facility for advanced care. For T'Aral it would be enough: she was a ship's doctor. Her assignment was to provide immediate care - patients who needed more extensive care would be taken to the nearest starbase or suitable colony. As she settled at a private table to eat, a jovial voice split through the air to grate on her nerves. "Well hello Doctor T'Aral, and congratulations!" Not bothering to look up, she acknowledged the voice. "Thank you, Doctor Leene." The overbearing Denobulan sat across from her. "Now that you're a surgeon, I expect I'll see more of you?" "Unlikely. I am a ship's doctor, and am committed to go where the vessel goes." Leene seemed to pout, but then smiled amiably. "So; have you had a chance to review my latest dissertation on alternative therapies?" "No, I have not. I have had other activities to pursue." She thought that even Leene would have appreciated how much focus was required to obtain a surgeon's certificate - even a basic one - in so short a period of time. Apparently he did not. Again Leene pouted. "Oh T'Aral - you simply must review my work. I so look forward to your incisive critiques!" She looked up. "Really Doctor - you should know by now what my reviews of your techniques will say. I have consistently compared your methods to those to a tribal shaman of a stone-aged civilization." The Denobulan grinned in reply. "... but you've never claimed that I'm wrong!" "Your method is sound; the evidence given through the results you obtain. It is simply a matter that you don't explore why your methods function as well as they do. You seem satisfied that they work, without an explanation." He nodded cheerfully. "The patient's recovery is what is truly important. If I explore further I might have to cause my patients discomfort. I'm rather appalled at the prospect." He finally stood up. "In any case, I would be honored if you would review my work at your earliest convenience." Finishing her lunch, T'Aral stood. "I doubt that I will have an opportunity, as regenerative therapy is not my field of study. I have a full schedule of presentations and dissertations on traumatic injury and first response medicine to review, for that is what is applicable to my work."

A warp shuttle rested in the distance. T'Aral had spent an hour briefing a salvage team regarding the location and risks involved in recovering the Men-Hilsu. They were well prepared - T'Aral was confident that soon the Vulcan colony would have one of their own vessels at their disposal again. She walked through the colony, past the borders and deep into the hills where the Da-Kuv awaited. One matter remained, and while she was determined to prevail T'Aral knew that there were those who sat within the Circle who would not wish her to proceed. T'Aral was of the Kator-Dva ... those who's logic accepted the existence of spirit - of a soul - without the need for proof. The soul was accepted as a given, and their logic proceeded from that assumption. Those who were within the Circle who were also Kator would allow her to proceed without comment. Yet there were also the Yhet, who's logic proceeded only from that which could be proven. They did not accept the soul, and would never accept T'Aral's explanation for her request. No matter - she would proceed. * - They will stop you. T'Aral continued into the hills. ( No ... they will not. ) * - They will deny you access; we see it in your own thoughts. ( To commit to the negative is to fail. We shall succeed. ) T'Aral could sense the concern floating about her. She could not prove that she bore the souls of the Men-Hilsu crew, the Yhet would not approve of indulging a Kator-Dva belief, and the others within the Circle would not wish to cause a disruption of the delicate peace which existed between the various moral factions of the Vulcans. She would have to proceed carefully. Entering through a stone arch, T'Aral passed across a wide circle surrounded by high-backed stone carved chairs. She need only make it across and then she would be allowed to pass; to finish what she had begun light years away. She needed to enter the cave of Seleya, where her light could diminish and the path would be clear for those she carried. She passed the center of the circle, then the third crescent ... ... then Stalaut of the Yhet stood to bar her path. "T'Aral of the Kator - we have heard your request. Why should you be allowed to proceed?" T'Aral maintained her composure. "To meditate in the cave of Seleya is the right of all Vulcans." "You have disclosed the purpose of your meditation. The basis of this is unproven: we consider your situation may be a fabrication of your own belief. Therefore, your request is not logical." T'Aral bowed humbly. "Forgive me, noble Stalaut, but you are in error. Allowing my request is completely logical." Eyebrows arched throughout the room, while Stalaut maintained his stance. "Explain." T'Aral breathed deeply. "There are two possible situations, and two possible actions. The situations are that I either bear the Katra of lost Vulcans or that I am in error and my belief is a delusion. The actions are to allow me to proceed, or to forbid me to proceed. "If I am allowed to proceed and I am correct, then all will be resolved favorably with the release of our brethren's Katra. "If I am allowed to proceed and I am in error, then all will be resolved favorably as my delusion will run its course and cease to be a part of me. "If I am forbidden and I am correct, then I and hundreds of Katra will continue to suffer in our current state of mental conflict and separation from Unity. "If I am forbidden and am in error, then I will continue to suffer within my delusion without resolution." Straightening, she faced Stalaut with gentle tranquility. "Therefore: since allowing me to proceed harbors only positive outcomes while forbidding me harbors only negative outcomes, it is logical to allow me to proceed - regardless of individual points of view." A full half-minute passed with absolute silence ... then Stalaut nodded and stepped aside. "It is indeed logical. You have our leave." ---------------------------------------------- Within the darkness of the cave of Seleya, T'Aral could feel the Katra surrounding her begin to relax. Soon there would be Unity - they would join with those who had gone before. Reaching within the depths, she came upon her own contribution: a stone reminant of Mount Seleya, enshrined and protected. Settling on her knees she relaxed herself in mind and body, allowing the Katra surrounding her to see the path before them. There was no breeze, no mystical lights, yet T'Aral could feel the burden lift from her. Her mind was quieting again - it was once again her own ... almost. * - We thank you for your efforts; you have endured much. ( It was my duty and my honor. ) * - There is nothing we can do for you in gratitude? ( ... nothing. ) Were emotions finally permitted in Unity? The spirit remaining seemed to laugh. * - Your thoughts are as open to us as ever. Steln will know that he is missed. Once the last Katra left her, T'Aral stood and turned about. Her mission was finally done, and now she could return. No doubt the Captain would be curious as to why she didn't remain - to take some leave on Vulcan with her own kind. This would be illogical: when T'Aral needed rest she rested. She could do this just as well at her post than anywhere else. Her business at New Vulcan was done; it was time to return. As she stepped out of the cave T'Aral looked up, noting that it was raining. Rain on their homeworld - it was a new experience for Vulcans. Water washed down her hair and face: within moments it was impossible to tell if her experience had affected her emotionally in any way. It was, after all, impossible to distinguish tears in rain.

* : Our wait has proven to be pointless - the Captain has done what she intended to regardless. + : Success was never the objective - she cannot turn away from her obligations, even for us. ^ : Honorable, but she is clearly wearied from the experience. How much more can she endure? * : She will endure - it is our way. + : Indeed ... it is unfortunate that there is no way for us to alleviate her burden. ^ : To attempt to be silent would be pointless, as thoughts are never silent and thought is all we are. For five weeks it had continued: a cloud of constant commentary and discussion on everything she said, everything she did, and everything going on around her. She was never alone - not for a single moment, and the awareness of this brought a constant stress. It wasn't that the crew of the Men-Hilsu wasn't sympathetic to her situation. Lately they had taken up unifying their thoughts into song to lull her to sleep in the evenings. They had also collectively decided to keep their analyses regarding T'Aral's interactions and activities to a logical level, which at least kept disagreements to a minimum. Still, it had been five weeks. The strain was becoming intense, which was pivotal in her decision not to fight the captain further. She didn't have the strength or soundness of mind to carry out a command conflict. She needed this matter to be over, and for her to be on the path to the Vulcan colony. * : It will be advantageous to rejoin our people as soon as possible. + : Agreed - the position of our ship must be dispatched. ^ : Agreed - we cannot expect the co-operation of this Captain towards her salvage and recovery. * : The technique employed was insightful. Such a technique would have proven effective in our circumstances. ^ : If we were accompanied by a second vessel. * : Agreed - therefore, we can provide our people with the means to salvage our vessel prior to Unification. + : Agreed - assuming our host will co-operate. ^ : Agreed - we shall trust in her dedication. Having assigned the First Response teams and prepared them for dispatch, T'Aral found a corner to lean into and allowed herself to sink under the weight of everything around her. At least her companions were agreeing with each other. Having them constantly speaking within her was difficult enough ... when they argued, T'Aral was in agony.

ST-A ( Star Trek - Alternate, or Star Trek- Abrams, if you prefer ), boldly challenging the Darkness ... Wait - I've seen the video from 'The Darkness' ... they're lame.

“Doc, ah really don’t think you have a verrah good idea there…" T'Aral stood straight and calm. This was not where she wanted to be. She was a doctor, not a tactician or a commanding officer. This was not her place at all, except that she was a Starfleet officer. When questions of the Prime Directive came up, it was the obligation of every Starfleet officer to question authority - at least until a suitable answer could be provided. It did not have to be satisfactory; only suitable. There were many cases for which leniency could be applied to the Prime Directive. Most all of them demonstrated societies which were capable of taking care of themselves - societies which had control of the space around them, and societies which could pose a threat to a Starship. When something could pose an active threat to a Federation starship or crew, that was when one could look aside and deal with a situation. This, however, was different. While the influence of the ship wouldn't 'awaken' this society to anything it didn't already know, they were directly influencing events on this planet - an influence which assumed that the Captain knew what was best for this world. T'Aral was far from certain; on the surface it could seem proper, but who knows what the influence would be for a society to have someone come in and fix their problems rather than facing those challenges themselves? Such things were difficult to determine. It was all happening too quickly, and that had to stop. So there T'Aral stood, noting that she stood alone. She had no choice - someone had to stand against the Captain in this, at least until some solution to this problem would present itself. She stood facing the Captain, waiting. She could not back down - she was a Vulcan. It was illogical to even want to.

T'Aral reviewed her scanner readings. The distributed tricorder system worked well - better than was anticipated, in fact. The readings taken on the planet's dragons ( so identified because it was convenient to do so ) were clear and detailed. They were fascinating creatures: biological life forms which seemed tailored to legend and lore from Earth's past. Was this merely a coincidence? Had someone on this world genetically constructed the creatures? Were they somehow drawn out of the minds of early explorers? All possibilities carried their own appeal, and none could be answered by the data T'Aral had. She only had an instance of 'now'; the past was still a complete mystery. The data did manage to provide one service - it gave T'Aral something to do. After initiating the dialogue successfully with a measure of Vulcan courtesy, she was in no further position to speak for any logical reason. Like all Vulcans T'Aral found being without a purpose to be a most annoying state, and the crew was not being cooperative in this. T'Aral was neither deaf nor blind: she overheard the conversation behind her and saw the injuries that Lt. Belo had received, but like usual the crew of the Comanche Creek was avoiding medical care. Her role on the ship was peripheral at the best of times, but if she were not in control of her emotions the fact that the crew actively avoided her when she could provide the most assistance would be quite painful. As it was, T'Aral made a note to schedule an appointment between Lt. Belo and Ensign Ellis. She was quite capable and would competently tend to any complications from the Science Officer's injuries. There was no thought put towards insisting on providing care: emotional species were difficult in the best of times. If she pursued the matter Belo would become recalcitrant, and no good would come of any examination. It was best to leave the matter alone; the crew would either come to her for help when they were ready, or would not do so at all. In the meantime there would still be sensor readings to take and analyze - it was enough for the moment.

*: The Men-Hilsu is the finest craft constructed. Surely it will be salvaged. +: I consider it illogical to assume that the Captain of this vessel will consider it a priority. ^: That belief is illogical. All evidence suggests that this is a practical human, with practical needs. *: The vessel must be recovered - not simply salvaged, but recovered for the Vulcan people. +: There is concern here: something has happened. *: You believe this? +: I am certain of it; she has closed herself to us - logically there is a reason. ^: Perhaps she finds our presence disruptive, and simply seeks calm. We should not assume. +: We must assume, or we must take action to determine what it is that we are not to know. *: We will do no such thing. Our host acts out of courage and dignity - do not dishonor that sacrifice. ^: We shall not, but should we not inquire regarding what troubles our host? *: If she wished to share, she would. Respect her privacy. +: Indeed - we are losing focus. We must return to considering how to recover our ship. *: We can do nothing; it is up to the humans. +: We can therefore consider the ship lost - the humans are not reliable. *: Perhaps, or perhaps they are more capable than we have come to believe. ^: High Command was never of a mind to test the humans, to see what they were capable of. Perhaps there is hope. +: To place the fate of our ship in 'hope' is illogical. We must take action. *: What 'action' would you suggest? +: Our host can gather the other Vulcans - it would not take many to operate our vessel. *: We could not plot a course to escape; what makes you think they could? ... So it went, on and on within T'Aral's perceptions, and that was only one conversation. She could sense the entire Men-Hilsu crew, with nothing to do for all eternity but to observe and converse with one another, sharing their views. T'Aral sat on the floor of her quarters in a plush robe; relaxed, meditating on a single flickering flame, keeping her thoughts to herself while resting her body as best she could. To attempt sleep would be no help; her mind would have to relax, and if she relaxed the thoughts of hundreds of souls clinging to light would overwhelm her. T'Aral would not be able to sleep again until she accomplished her task. She could only hope that the crew of the Comanche Creek would be able to summon a miracle which eluded her Vulcan kin.

The transport to the Men-Hilsu seemed to take longer than usual. Signals from the Comanche Creek confirmed that compensating for the surrounding space was more difficult than initially anticipated, but obviously not insurmountable. The ship was dark - ominously dark. Yet there were emergency lights illuminating corridor junctures, indicating that the ship's power was not completely depleted. After an initial scan, T'Aral and Crewman Sovok immediately proceeded to the medical bay. The station was in perfect order; every instrument in its place. It was reassuring, in a way - in cases where Vulcan crews experienced madness in one way or another, medical was typically the first function to fall into chaos as it was the most likely source for unconventional weapons. Not here; all scalpels, probes, and other instruments were clean and meticulously stored. T'Aral stepped into a side office to activate a console. The ship's medical log dutifully activated, documenting the last years of the Men-Hilsu. The story was tragic, more than all else because the death of the crew was prolonged. Analysis after analysis proved futile, as the space they were in failed to provide the slightest hint as to its nature or how to escape it. There was data ... endless spools of data for Lieutenant Belo to pour over. Perhaps with the advanced systems of the Creek there would be a new discovery. That hope would have to suffice, for despite the methodical analysis of the Vulcans a venue for exit was never found. Because of this, a dreadful sequence of events transpired. The crew, faced with starvation over time, chose systematic suicide over so painful a death. The first selection identified over half the crew, which resulted in the rations extending out an additional five years. Before those ran out, another lottery claimed half of those left ... then again ... then again until finally there were not enough crew members to effectively pilot the ship. Only then did the last of the crew join their fellow Vulcans. T'Aral left medical, making her way back to the ship's primary cargo bay to confirm what she had read. The bay was a frozen, airless mausoleum - filled with over two hundred lifeless Vulcan bodies. It was fitting and dignified given the circumstances, but no less disturbing. Yet the evidence given offered T'Aral an ounce of calm in facing what would otherwise have been a most distressing ritual. Their deaths, while tragic, were calm, orderly, and logical. This would be far worse if they died traumatically. Returning to medical, T'Aral re-entered the side office and activated her tricorder to download the ship's entire medical record. Giving orders to Sovok that she was not to be disturbed for the next hour, she locked herself in the side office and lit a small candle. Meditating on the flame, T'Aral began to recite a single phrase over and over. "From the darkness to the light ... let the lost be found ... let the wandering follow the light ... let the light lead us home." She continued the recitation for a full v'hral before leaning forward, drawing breath in over the candle quickly - the air flow extinguishing the flame. "The light I draw to myself ... the light is within me ... I and the light are one. From the darkness to the light ... let the lost be found ... let the wandering follow the light ... let the light lead us home." With the ritual over, T'Aral stood and collected her gear. She did not feel different ... had the ceremony worked? Was she now surrounded with over two hundred Vulcan souls, drawn to her as moths to light? That was the way it was supposed to be; she was now the custodian of the souls of the Men-Hilsu crew. She would light their way across the galaxy, away from the cosmic tomb that was once Vulcan to what would be their new home - their own Seleya. T'Aral left the medical bay, making her way back to the midsection where the away team was to regroup. She took a detour, walking along an outer corridor so she could pause by a window to gaze out at the ship's warp ring. It was still intact ... still functional. It seemed a waste to leave a working vessel - to abandon so obedient and faithful a ship ... She paused, then dismissed the thought along with the strange familiarity that went along with it. This was a ship - a thing, nothing more. If it could be salvaged then the Captain would find a way to do it.

The bio-organism residing in the medical bay had been beamed to a nearby derelict vessel. The canister signaled that it had opened, so the 'creature' was now free. It was home, and hopefully that fact would not come back to haunt the Federation or any other worlds in the future. Unfortunately there was no way to predict what the being or its source intended, so there was no way to postulate future events. T'Aral made her way to the outer ring of the Comanche Creek's hull. Gazing out into the darkness, she caught glimpses of the various hulls that occupied this space. So many ships, and were they inhabited when they entered this place? What became of the people; if they died, what became of their souls? If light could not enter or exit, what about less tangible energies? It was a philosophical question which lead T'Aral to despair. Perhaps a place like this was where the souls of Vulcan found themselves: cold, lifeless, and mercilessly absent of light. As she fought to regain control of her emotions, T'Aral caught a flash off of a hull - only a moment, but enough to catch her eye. Needing to satisfy her curiosity, she went to an observation post and adjusted the local sensors. Within moments she had an outline - it was a Vulcan vessel. Quickly she refined the signal until she could identify the vessel. The hull's markings eventually revealed "Men-Hilsu" ... in standard language, the Investigator. Moving to a terminal, T'Aral called up the history of the Men-Hilsu. It was lost a century and a half ago under mysterious circumstances. Vulcan explorers were very methodical when approaching the unknown, so the idea that a ship could disappear without log probes or other signals was unthinkable. Yet the ship was lost ... apparently to the confines of this space. As she gazed at the ship, T'Aral understood the likely fate of her fellow Vulcans. Finding themselves in a region without energy, light, or a frame of reference, if they were in any way disoriented it would be a catastrophe. They would settle, and scan, and wait, and scan again, and wait until they found a reliable course out of the darkness that would not bring them to a greater danger. They would be trapped by their own logic, and would have died from it. For T'Aral and the other Vulcans on the Commanche Creek there was hope, for their captain was not a Vulcan. Humans had a capacity for risk which, in its place, was more effective than years of Vulcan logic. There was, however, one thing that needed to be done before they left. T'Aral would have to board the Men-Hilsu. There were things that needed to be done; illogical things that still needed to be done, but that T'Aral would never speak of. Stepping away from the saucer's edge she began to contemplate her options. She would need to be insightful, and perhaps a little clever when speaking to the Captain. She allowed herself the luxury of a sigh; when preparing for a battle of wits with the Captain, she was admittedly unarmed.

After decades of automobiles ruining the environment ... the environment finally fights back.

Not wishing to pry, Mr. Coyote, but where exactly is that fan cord plugged in?

With four days past since the last submission, I believe the time-out period is sufficient. The winner is STSF_Scooter for the delightful Dr. Who reference. You may proceed, sir.

With her report to the Captain finished, T'Aral stepped over to a station to the right of Communications. It wasn't the first time she had used the location as a dispatch center for Medical, and it probably wouldn't be the last. It was useful to be able to see and hear what was going on throughout the ship - it made for more informed decisions regarding where to route medical personnel. Today, though, she had an additional goal in mind as she sat next to Lieutenant Kvar - nodding to her fellow officer in a non-committal greeting. Hopefully Tifa would realize that she meant slightly more; her promise to stay as long as necessary would be honored. T'Aral sighed inwardly as she thought about Tifa. Her assignment was not an ideal one. Ideally Tifa would have been assigned to a communications station or a research vessel, where fearsome happenings were few and far between. Tifa had been though entirely too much, and was not showing improvement in her ability to face crisis. It was unfortunate, but entirely expected. Starfleet had taken a major blow - it would be decades before the fleet was built back up properly. Until that time, unsuited assignments would end up being the norm, rather than the exception. Still, Tifa was capable of working under crisis if given the proper support. T'Aral had observed that first on Epsilon Scorpii IV and was aware that Tifa could be highly effective in her position if given the proper encouragement. So it was that T'Aral chose to take the station she did, seeking to be the pillar Tifa could lean on until such time as she was no longer needed. Some would see T'Aral as being emotional, and seeking to provide emotional support. For T'Aral, though, it was logical - the kind of logic a Vulcan doctor often needed to engage in when dealing with emotional races. She was a physician, and this was therapy. Or was it? T'Aral turned back to her own panel, suddenly uncertain of herself. It was not a matter that she sought the Commander's place; that at least was of no concern. Yet, on a different level - admittedly an emotional one - T'Aral had come to grow fond of the young lieutenant, and had no desire for her to leave. Ta'hai'la ma shetau ... ta'hai'la dungau-nam'.

Enjoy, everyone.

The room was stark white, the instruments were in place, and Lieutenant Commander Tanya Barron had T'Aral's undivided attention ... apart from Dr. Woodrow Strode, who was currently finishing the physical examination while indulging in a hot steak and cheese sandwich with trimmings. The doctor was far more experienced in pathology than T'Aral; a fact which seemed to bestow an oddly relaxed manner to him. While the sandwich was not against protocol or particularly detrimental to the condition of the subject, T'Aral still found its consumption to be curious. "I must note that you seem particularly at ease, Doctor." 'Woody' simply shrugged. "I had to skip lunch in order to start right away. Besides - it's not like I'm bothering the patient." He smirked cheerfully. "Really, I'm more at ease now than with living patients. She's not going to complain about anything, and it's not like anything I need to do is going to hurt." With that he set aside the sandwich, washed it down with a swig of lemonade, and picked up a tricorder. "Shall we begin?" T'Aral nodded, curiously at ease with Woody's manner. In many ways she sympathized with him: addressing concerns regarding the deceased was so much more straightforward than with living patients. There were, after all, no illogical or emotional complications to contend with. Both T'Aral and Woody could each conduct themselves how they wished, and no one would care. Turning to a computer terminal, she began to enter in relevant data. "Incident Report SFBP-IR-2259.631-2097-d : Re. Lieutenant Commander Tanya Barron, Deceased. Registered Assignment: Observation Outpost R-8, a.k.a. 'North Star'. Incident Location: main cargo bay, USS Comanche Creek" With that she switched the input over to Doctor Strode and nodded. Woody straightened slightly, as if giving a lecture. "The subject was found in a transport pod in the main cargo bay, with a single laceration across the throat. A utility knife was discovered at the scene: examination of the blade pattern finds it to be consistent with the injury inflicted, assuming the knife was wielded by the Lieutenant Commander in a reversed-right handed manner. All physical evidence suggests an unassisted suicide." With that Woody paused the recording, stepped over, and took several more bites of his sandwich before looking at T'Aral sheepishly. "I am so sorry: Vulcans are vegetarians, aren't they?" T'Aral lifted a hand to set him at ease. "My own dietary habits are omnivorous. Like humans, Vulcans have a digestive system indicative of omnivorous species. I consider it illogical to pursue a diet that is contrary to my physical requirements, as indicated by my physiology." Woody smiled broadly, then looked again at his sandwich. "Should I get you one of these?" T'Aral looked at it briefly. "When we are finished with our duties here, I would like to know about this sandwich of yours so that I may obtain one for myself." Washing down his bites again, Woody cheerfully switched off the recording pause. "All organ structures are nominal, with no indications of trauma. All cerebral and cerebellar structures appear undamaged. Remaining blood has been examined and found to be without undocumented pathogens. This includes the newly found X-CC-D6 mutagenic virus; there is no indication of viral infection or mutated physical structure. There is no evidence of additional DNA which cannot be accounted for within the A-4 classification of biological interactive agents." Woody stepped back and faced T'Aral directly. "These facts, along with the absence of contradicting physical evidence, indicates that the Lieutenant Commander committed suicide without the aid or direction of another." T'Aral nodded, switching the recorder back to its terminal receiver. "Psychological review, Lieutenant Commander Tanya Barron. General psychological classification: green-2. M/B Profile type: E/N/T/P. Esper Analysis rating: 098." With that T'Aral paused, switching the recorder off. Woody looked over to her curiously. "Something?" T'Aral shook her head. "The Lieutenant Commander scored surprisingly high in her Esper evaluation, that is all. It is not a significant fact." He looked over her shoulder for just a moment. " '098' ... that's high?" T'Aral nodded. "A normal human's rating ranges from 025 to 075 - a result that can be explained through simple chance. A rating over 100 indicates a positive Esper capable of elementary manipulation." She turned to face Woody. "However: as Esper training regimens have not been developed, a human's Esper rating is little more than an incidental detail." Woody chuckled. "You don't have much regard for this, then?" T'Aral responded passively. "I have no regard for analysis without purpose. The Esper evaluation program was developed by humans primarily for humans, seeking inner abilities which have never been successfully documented as factual." "You don't believe in mind-readers, then? You being a Vulcan, I must admit I am shocked." "I do not believe in undocumented abilities. If one has an ability, it should be observable, quantifiable, and repeatable. That which cannot be examined falls under the category of belief - which may be correct, but is not scientific. It is impractical to expand an issue with unscientific details." Woody smiled and nodded in agreement before turning his attention back to his sandwich. T'Aral proceeded with documenting the psychological profile, her eyebrows tightening slightly. There was nothing in the Lieutenant Commander's profile or recent examinations which would answer the question of why she would take her own life, and nothing to explain her final message. 'I can't help it ... its too dark ...' Fragments of sentences and strange numbers: the only clues left behind to explain why Tanya Barron felt the need to take her own life. T'Aral finished her report and examined it: everything was in place. All the facts were neat and orderly: a simple case of suicide with no loose ends, except that it didn't make sense. There was nothing in the Lieutenant Commander's profile to suggest she would do such a thing. There was nothing in her profile at all that was out of place for a highly successful Starfleet officer. T'Aral ordered Dr. Strode to tend to the body, interring it appropriately until the Captain determined that there would be no further examinations. T'Aral was already satisfied that the body would tell her nothing more. The report would be filed, and her part of the investigation would be completed. She gazed at the monitor steadily, her mind fixed on the one detail that was the slightest bit out of place. ... 098 ...

T'Aral examined the spectral scans of blood samples taken from Officer Paxton and Ensign Black. It seemed that the Ensign was the initial attacker, though the cause was somewhat elusive. The bodies of both crewmen were quarantined in sterile isolation chambers while tests were run to determine what had happened to Ensign Black. While it was probable that simple contamination avoidance protocols would prove effective, it was logical to be cautious until they had established a knowledge base regarding this new threat. The first matter of business was a tightband transmission to Starbase North Star's medical wing. If something had been contracted from their visit, it was logical to assume that North Star had just suffered a spate of odd maladies. If it was something the 'Creek' had brought back from the future, it was possible that the North Star was about to suffer from this new malady. In either case the medical staff of the Starbase needed to be advised, with the caviat of confidentiality. While she differed with the Captain in regards to notifying the crew of this new threat, she agreed with the Captain's overall intent; this was the kind of malady which could lead to wild speculation and hysteria among the general population. She watched cell clusters intently, checking each one in turn for mutinagenic properties. Ensign Black's past medical records demonstrated no predisposition towards blood-related requirements, diseases, or deficiencies. There was no history to support this event, nor was she assigned to duties which would expose her to a mutinagen. For the moment, T'Aral was at a loss to provide an explanation. T'Aral continued he evaluations, preparing test protocols to search for viruses by exposing samples to uncontaminated blood and other cellular materials. While she wrote, a medical technician stepped up behind her. "What is it, Corpsman Farr?" The tech shifted uncomfortably, but only for a moment. "Sorry to disturb you, Lieutenant, but some of us were wondering - shouldn't we put Black and Paxton in restraints?" T'Aral turned to gaze steadily at the technician. "Ensign Black and Petty Officer Paxton are deceased. I do not expect that restraining a corpse will be necessary - unless you believe in vampires?" Farr shifted in his stance. "Well no - not usually, but since this is something new - well, we don't know what we're dealing with. Some of us just thought ..." T'Aral stiffened, then considered. She was certain that the staff's concerns were completely unwarranted. However: the restraints would not complicate post-mortem procedures, and their use would calm the medical staff slightly which would improve their efficiency. There were no logical reasons not to agree, and given this was an unknown situation there was the possibility ( however unlikely ) ... She nodded. "Restrain the corpses securely, and use all protective protocols. At least three staff members should be present wearing full biohazard suits. We seek to stop this infestation here; I want no infections among the medical staff." Farr smiled at her most annoyingly. "At once, Lieutenant!" Waiting until Farr was out of sight, T'Aral sagged and sighed. A deep part of her considered what she was feeling, wondering if this is what humans felt like when they 'needed a vacation'. An eyebrow twitched incomprehension as she turned back to her analysis. If nothing else, she was gaining insight into the lives of those she served with. { S'ek'rasah kup-rom to'ovau }

While Bulregard's effort was impressive, the Scottsdale Community Tennis Championship was not amused.

I was going to let it go the full week, but there appears to be no more takers. All captions were quite enjoyable, but Atragon really embraced the spirit of the image. It is your play, sir.