T'aral

Disappointing to win by default. Still: life goes on.

T'Aral drew out her Ahn-Woon, tying it about her waist as a belt. A black cloak and hood obscured the red jumpsuit she had changed into - a complete transformation from a Federation doctor to a free and displaced Vulcan. Gathering the satchel containing her disassembled Lurpa, she made her way down the ship's corridors to the transporter room. As she walked, she considered what she would be doing once she was on-world. She would have preferred to assist Lieutenant Kvar in her inquiries, but circumstances ruled that out. The tickets were for 'Sally Sugarsweet' and her mother, and T'Aral would qualify for neither role. With that out of the question, she couldn't assist. The very idea that a Vulcan would be attending an entertainment show was alien to most species, and T'Aral was trying to be discreet. She couldn't assist Tifa, so she had no real alternative. She would assist the mission via reconaisance, minding her own business in various locations while listening for word of the Black Kris or Litasha. Perhaps there would be opportunities for menial labor ... she could hire herself out as a dishwasher or take time bussing tables. Of all beings Vulcans didn't mind menial labor: dirty jobs had to be done, and it was illogical to avoid them. The idea gave her a moment to pause - perhaps she could help Tifa after all. Surely this "J'bba's" required menial laborers. She padded her satchel with a field medical kit, taking the time to transfer all materials so that the contents would be untracable as Starfleet issue. She took a small, non-descript com unit along so that she could contact the ship if necessary. There was nothing else to take: phasers and the like were out of the question, and would not be useful in her hands anyway. With nothing more to prepare, she entered the transporter bay and spoke to the technician. The transporter field shimmered, and T'Aral blinked to find herself in an abandoned alley. Pulling her cloak over her satchel while drawing her hood far over her head, she walked out into the alleys and streets of T'tooine, seeking the cantina known as J'bba's Palace.

"Oh sure ... what are you going to say this time, that I 'jacked my shoes?"

T'Aral noted the activation of the ship's engines with a slight interest. The crew would be busy with initial maneuvers, system checks, and other miscelaneous tasks. Being so recently re-fitted, the chance for dramatic system failure was slight. She would not be needed for a while, the crew would be busy, and the tactical members would be stowing their gear. She had a brief window of time, which she intended to put to good use. Taking up her satchel, T'Aral moved down to the inner cargo hold of the lowest part of the ship. Confirming that no one was about she secured the door, then proceeded to methodically remove the contents. There was a heavy cylinder, its outer surface bearing two-inch diamond-shaped studs. There was a crossed blade, one foot long and wide at the end in somewhat of a shovel-shape. Finally there were staves ... six connecting spars which attached the two ends together. Within minutes it was assembled, and T'Aral had her Lurpe assembled. It was a more refined weapon than what was usually used in the kal-if-fee, which was in some ways the point. Those were brutal weapons from a barbaric time, meant strictly for the purpose of killing one's opponent. T'Aral's weapon was also meant for intimidation, with the hope that it would not actually need to be used. Intimidation, however, depended on the ability of one to carry out a threat. This was true for Vulcans more than most. She began a series of training maneuvers, swinging the lurpe about in several tactical arcs meant to bring either the blade or the counterweight to bear on an opponent. The Lurpe's blade was primarily a slashing weapon, stabbing only if one had enough thrust behind it to dig into an opponent deeply. The weight was meant for bludgeoning and to give the blade greater reach. T'Aral examined and practiced every aspect of the weapon thoroughly, for she knew that in this mission her life just might depend on it. Phasers would be discouraged in many places: she would need an alternative means to protect herself. She practiced a full hour with the staff, finally satisfied that with repeated practices she would be completely refreshed in her weapon's use when it would be needed. She dismantled it and returned it to the satchel, not wishing to explain to the Captain why a pacifistic Vulcan priestess would be carrying around a seven-foot killing staff. With the task accomplished she then loosened and removed her belt. Letting the weights fall free, she began the long and elegant practice routines of the Ahn-Woon. She needed to be ready for any possibility, and the weighted sash was far easier to conceal - not to mention it was far more versatile.

I would not concern myself, Captain. I do not believe the Starfleet Medical Corps would approve of me inflicting physical harm upon my patients in response to schedule delays.

T'Aral's own ...

T’Aral walked through the ship’s corridors calmly. She was off to visit the Captain for a long-overdue discussion. It was not that she was afraid of it, nor that she expected it to even be unpleasant. It was simply that Humans so easily misunderstood Vulcans. The very idea that Vulcans could have a spiritual side was all but unthinkable to many Humans, and Vulcan spirituality was a very sensitive subject - not easily spoken of even by those like herself who were trained in it. As she came upon the Captain’s office, she paused to collect her thoughts. The Captain was neither harsh nor unreasonable. She would hopefully understand, and if she did not it would still be sufficient for her to know that T’Aral was not in any way conflicted: her duties as a Medical Officer and as a Vulcan priestess had blended smoothly, so much so that she had no trouble moving between priorities. She would assure the Captain of this, answer any questions she may have, and all would be well. At least, that was T’Aral’s intention. Chiming the door, she looked in. “Captain: are you busy?” ‘Busy’ was indeed the term to describe the current state of the Ready Room; set off the main bridge control center, the normally well kept CO’s main office looked like a plasma bomb had hit. Report flimsies and hard copy data slates were scattered across the desktop, and several old school paper style galaxy maps, charts and graphs had been tacked on a cork board. Was she busy? Say more along the lines of a jackrabbit trying to stay ahead of a Coyote. The Admiral had been popping off wireless updates to her line captain steadily for the past few days; it was a wonder Crash’s inbox hadn’t been maxed out to the limit, and she had spent a good portion of the travel time to Earth handling damage control on her end of the situation. The Starfleet admiralty was in scramble mode to contain and remedy the recent and long range damage caused by the rogue group within Intelligence. The Intel division chief was doing her part, though her resolve was flagging. The Federation council was in an uproar over the problems within Intel as well as the Neural Incident as it had now become known, and the trans-galactic press companies were as bloodhounds on a scent. Calestorm glanced over towards her CMO at the chime and query. The elder woman’s features were drawn and tired, though not alarmingly so. She cracked a ghost of her normal devil may care smirk. “Busy? Nope. Come on in and have a seat Doc. T’Aral stepped in as the door closed behind her and sat; tall and proper as was Vulcan custom. “I shall not take up too much of your time: I have come to explain the ‘prayer meetings’ you mentioned the other day. To put it simply, I am a Priestess-Adept among those Vulcans who are Deists. We believe that the universe includes one or more gods, or some other spiritual component.” She paused briefly before continuing. “I do apologize for not bringing this to your attention earlier, but Deism among Vulcans is a sensitive subject. While we do maintain a logical foundation to our lives and most certainly to our religious approach, it remains a most sensitive subject to us. Matters of the Vulcan heart are not spoken of openly.” Cale had sat back in her office chair. Perpetually slouched, she clasped her fingers together and rested her hands on one crossed knee. “What I’d like to know is why you felt the need to worship in secret? Sensitive I understand, but I also don’t patrol the corridors looking to stamp out religion. We have a ships chapel that services several beliefs among the crew - why not ‘logically’ employ it for your own groups activities and beliefs?” T’Aral almost smiled … almost, but didn’t. “Because such an act would be public. Vulcan religion struggles with one fact: it seeks to address the one thing Vulcans suppress - their emotions. There is no logical reason for one to seek out an experience of faith or spirit, other than one wishes to. Such experiences nurture the soul, improving harmony and balance. The price for this is to turn away from a solely logical path, allowing one’s self to experience rather than to just observe. “It is not forbidden, nor is it discouraged among us. However: Vulcan society is very closed. We are uncomfortable with such matters even among ourselves; opening our ways to people of other races would be most painful. To speak of matters of the heart openly - desire, affection, guilt, and the like - is difficult under the best of circumstances. To have others aware of any part of ourselves that could be perceived as a weakness or a loss of absolute control would be unendurable.” She settled back in our chair. “Some would see it as arrogance, others as a flaw, but it is what it is. The face of any Vulcan that you see is the face we wish you to see. Our real face - the one which bears our inner thoughts, which you humans wear openly - that is kept well hidden. We do so because our history is mired with the consequences of open Vulcan aggression. Part of that is keeping our personal lives to ourselves. That is what it means to be Vulcan.” “Being Vulcan does not imply that you need to or should hold your services in a closet or a cargo bay,” Calestorm waved a gentle hand to forestall any comment; the gesture wasn’t cutting, merely a ‘let me finish’, “...with that said, the decision of location decided on by yourself and your congregation will be respected. All I ask is that on this ship, you don’t keep secrets.” “I admit I can be a royal pain in the ass when I set my mind to it, as can some of our crew. Especially when we’re all confined to this metallic puddle jumper for months at a time.” The comment was blunt, and held a no nonsense edge to the tone and words; you needed to consider the source, of course. Not to say it wasn’t completely true though. T’Aral sat patently as the Captain talked, not even minding the ‘cutting’ gesture. It was completely unnecessary as she had no intention of interrupting. However: the Captain was accustomed to dealing with humans, who often felt that speaking first was more important than speaking well. She waited until Caelstorm spoke her peace. As she did so, she considered what was being said. The Captain didn’t understand: with Vulcans, it wasn’t about rights or equality. It was about maintaining appearances and a level of personal decorum that was above and beyond any Starfleet expectation. It was not, however, worth arguing over. The Captain was trying to be nice and the emotion, however misplaced, was well meant. “Thank you for your concern, Captain. I will share your views with the others.” T’Aral knew how the discussion would go: they would not use public facilities. Indeed: they would have to be more discreet about their activities in the future, and cease using Medical Bay rooms. That was problematic, as she had no doubt that having gatherings in her quarters would raise still more attention. Yet it was merely a problem to be solved. There was one other concern - not one that the Captain raised, but one that was very important to address. “I wish to ask if you have any concerns regarding my service or obligations. I would not wish you to feel that you cannot trust me to serve effectively and loyally.” “Not even a concern Lieutenant. Myself and the Ex Oh are perfectly aware of your service and loyalty. And we all have obligations that we balance with our duties. And if you and the others wish to keep your worship activity private for now, so be it.” T’Aral nodded. “I will not take up your time any further, sir. Good day.” With that T’Aral rose and left the Captain’s office. As the doors slid closed behind her, she looked about to see that no one was in the immediate vicinity. Spying no onlookers she took a moment to set a spread palm against the Captain’s door, her fingers spread in a gesture every Vulcan knew by heart. “Mene sakkhet ur-seveh.”

In this age rose Conan - destined to rule Cymeria with a troubled brow ...

T'Aral leaned against a bulkhead in a side room where the Captain had shoved her. Outside in the corridor it was chaos: the mechanical wasps were everywhere, making steady progress through the ship in a constant invasion. Soon they would be everywhere. She shook with the thought: an uncontrollable shaking that seemed to build despite every effort she made to stop it. This wasn't T'Aral's first encounter with giant wasps. She had developed an abiding interest in the Japanese culture during her time in Starfleet. She had visited the country to examine the culture further, and while there she ran afoul of an Asian Hornet's nest. While managing to escape quickly she was stung three times. She was in a hospital for two weeks in an ICU ward recovering from anaphylactic shock, and was considered on the edge of death for the first five days. The experience left her shaken, with an abiding fear of insects despite her training in logic. These machines - these things - were twice as large than the insects which had stung her, and had brought out something deep inside T'Aral that she was not used to at all; terror. She curled against a bulkhead, trying to control the shaking even as her will was giving in to it. It was all too much: a phobia on top of everything else. She always tried so hard to be what everyone needed her to be: a proper Vulcan, a CMO, a Starfleet officer, and anything else anyone needed. To be a help to others was her singular calling and she pursued it with a singular focus, but many times it was draining. As the Neural incident was coming to a close she was tired and really needed to rest, but instead they were under attack and she was struck down with an illogical reaction to an illogical situation. There was one mercy in this situation, however: she was completely alone. The situation may have rendered her emotionally crippled, but at least she wasn't humiliated - there was no one there to see her shame. Closing her eyes she closed her mind on the situation around her, just for a moment. In that moment she focused on all her training, allowing the clear need for logical thought to fill her mind. The philosophy of Sevek came to her, calling her into focus: The time that it is most difficult to follow the path of logic is the time logic is needed the most. The ancient teachings had never failed T'Aral before, and they did not fail her now. They called her mind to focus with the same gentle persistence that she had become accustomed to from them. Of course they were correct: the situation needed her to be clear of mind and focused in action. There was not time for her to react the way she was: her crewmates needed her. Examining the room, she determined it to be a utility storeroom. There were a variety of tools and implements about: no phasers, but several stiff items. She selected an oversized spanner designed for bulkhead fasteners; one with a haft a meter long for leverage. With that she returned to the hallway. Seeing that many of her crewmates were injured but not yet dead, she began to deal with the surrounding invader machines. Her Suus Mahna training and mastery of the Navorkot served her well in avoiding the machine's attacks as well as keeping herself aware of what was behind her. The spanner's service in disabling the machines was immediate and highly effective, as the needed lightness of these machines prevented them from being sturdy enough to tolerate a blow from a fifteen-pound spanner. T'Aral's attacks were smooth and continuous, and soon the immediate corridor was free of machines. There were others throughout the ship, but she could not address that matter. She could only manage the situation in her immediate vicinity, and within her immediate vicinity the invaders were quickly dispatched, with any units simply damaged receiving follow-up blows to properly disable them. With the corridor secure, she fell into more familiar patterns as she opened her medical kit and began a proper triage for her fallen crewmates.

It was so that the series could include kinky cyborg sex, since nothing is any good without kinky cyborg sex. I didn't watch the new series, because I believe that if a show makes a point of being 'sexier', it's because the show is otherwise without sufficient merit.

I am less concerned about the loss of technologies than I am with the loss of less tangible values. No one would expect the Pony Express to be working today - certainly not in the same manner. We don't write with dip quill pens except for artists who engage in the craft of calligraphy. Free television would be more of a loss, though the way news is managed today it is less of a loss than one would think. The loss of music, books, private ownership of one's own data and materials, and privacy would be far more tragic.

New music will always exist - perhaps not as it is today, but it will continue to exist and improve. People, however, need to learn that it is up to us to support the artists we appreciate. *Purchase* their work if you enjoy it. Often it can be done directly, meaning the money doesn't go to greedy execs, but to the artists themselves. Especially these days, that is harder and harder to justify not doing so. As for the loss of books, I will fight that tooth and nail. I don't care that maintaining a library requires more space - it is a price I gladly pay. Besides, screens hurt my eyes after a while. ... and I don't want my data in 'the cloud', precisely for the final reason. My rights and freedoms are based in my privacy. My rights and liberty isn't based on how highly I am taxed or on whether or not my health care is provided by the government - my rights and liberty are based in the premise that my business is my own and no one else's. When my data is held by others I lose that privacy, and THAT is when I lose my rights and freedom. If someone else holds my data and my books are all in that data, then works that 'people' consider unacceptable can convienently disappear. As long as I hold it in my hand, it is safe.

Such excellent replies, though I am suprised that no one considered "It's ok, I'm just having that dream about being naked in front of my graduating class. I just have to wake up ... wake up ... WAKE UP!!!!" Third place: Sovak, for recognizing the Ultramen. Second place: Ethan Neufeld, for cross-referencing Dr. Who ( which I love ). First Place: Zaphod the Spacebum, for bringing the image into a Star Trek context. Zaphod: you may reply when ready.

T'Aral sat in her quarters, struggling with relaxation. It was most illogical for her to consider the matter of the staff meeting further, yet taking a wider view perhaps it did need analysis. There were matters about the meeting which did not present themselves with any reason - the chief of which being the nature of the meeting itself. As T'Aral sat through it, she noted no suprises, no hidden information, no analysis, and very little consideration put to suggestions. The Captain had already decided on a course of action - as was her right. T'Aral had no concerns regarding the direction of their actions, and what few reservations she maintained were irrelevant. The Captain had decided, and that was all there would be to the matter. However: as this was the case ... why was a meeting called? At the very least, why was she included? It wasn't that she had a particular desire to be excluded from ship's functions, but T'Aral had always felt a need for a purpose - as illogical as that was. In any situation she sought to be useful and effective, and was always disturbed when she was neither. At the officer's meeting she was at best redundant, and at worst irrelevant. Her protests to the idea of arming the hill people had gone largely unnoticed. All other considerations she had brought were mirrored in the views of others, which meant her input was unnecessary. Remembering that they were, at that moment, bringing more arms and weapons down to Neural shook T'Aral's concentration, which she tried to balance through new observations. It was curious how little humans learned from their own history - arms races never ended well, for neither side would ever respect the concept of balance. Each would begin to seek to out-perform the other, creating either arms in greater numbers, or with greater accuracy ... improved firing rates ... or some other feature. The opposition would react in kind, and the situation would continue to spiral. The rationale of the situation was that there would be little else they could do: the contamination that existed could not be undone without abandoning the Prime Directive - which brought the directive itself under scrutiny. What good was the Directive if all it did was to prevent other races from benefitting from humanity's mistakes? While it is true that Vulcans disapproved of any mandating their way upon others, there was not a Vulcan in Starfleet who did not at one point or another encourage their peers to a greater calm. Some lessons were meant to be shared. Yet instead of guiding the Neural inhabitants towards a safer development, it seemed that Starfleet supported the idea that they needed to make the same mistakes that humans did, at the same cost. Admittedly T'Aral was not able to formulate an alternative without applying unacceptable levels of influence, which would in turn make the Federation responsible for the outcome. That, however, was an acceptable formula for T'Aral - though one which would never come to pass. For better or for worse the Federation tended to follow the lead of the humans, and humans as a race tend to do all that they can to avoid responsibility. Reaping the benefits of a situation always, but always careful to avoid any suggestion that they should be held responsible for negative outcomes which their actions created or contributed to. T'Aral decided to end her musings, and activated a series of Sudoku games on her monitor. While she wasn't the fastest analyst, the simple exercise of logical analysis was soothing.

Very well ...

As Sumo has not replied with a post, I request permission to submit an alternative.

( The following log takes place during our fifteen minute TBS... ) ................................. At the conclusion of the senior staff meeting, the CMO had asked for a private moment with Calestorm; the captain waited patiently as the last stragglers filed out of the briefing room, and then turned her attention to the Vulcan officer."Something on your mind Doc?" Cale easily fell into the use of the call sign the CMO had been tagged with. T'Aral said nothing at first, but instead walked about the Captain and began pressing on her back gently. She quickly found several tension spots, which she began to address through neuropressure. With one leg perched on a corner of the briefing room table, most of her weight leaning, the captain was already in a position conducive for the medical officer to begin treatment. With TAral not in her line of sight, Calestorm allowed a small smile to show in gentle amusement as the CMO immediately went about working on her back. "Captain - we really need to discuss your stress level at some point. While I can understand that you do not have control over the circumstances you find yourself in, too much tension will prove detrimental to your health." Finding a particularly stubborn knotted muscle, she pressed three fingers firmly about it to convince it to release. The Captain's smile dropped while she grunted as one of the larger tension muscles were worked over. She hissed through her teeth. "Also, while there is no need for a formal medical as I have had ample chance to evaluate your overall health during your recovery, I haven't asked about your knee in a while. Speaking informally … how are you doing?" The captain glanced over her shoulder. "To be honest, our little field trip at Epsilon Scorpii did not help. My range of motion has been limited. More limited, I should say. Though I note improvement each day that I complete my daily workout routine." T'Aral nodded as she worked, noting both the improvement mentioned and the improvement in the Captain's back. "Should the routine not provide satisfactory progress, let me know and we will see what can be done to improve matters more expeditiously." This was precisely why she had taken the time to apply care now. Her instructors in Starfleet noted that command officers rarely sought medical care or review on their own, placing medical officers in difficult situations. It was recommended that medical officers learn to take a discreet initiative, allowing their commanders to respond and thereby open up if there is a problem. It was a technique based in the psychology of command officers - a difficult subject at the very least. The Captain's attention remained fixated on the observation window, watching as several flight squads would zoom sporadically into view. Then, Calestorm spoke again, the statement abrupt. "I've been considering taking you up on that suggestion as soon as we have extended leave coming." T'Aral paused briefly at the Captain's reply. "I assume you are speaking of reconstruction? Considering the amount of Away Team command you have taken on it is highly recommended." She paused momentarily to consider options, then continued. "You may wish to consider not waiting for an extended leave. The surgery itself is brief, and the first week of rehabilitation is the most difficult. By the third week you would be effectively ambulatory. This could be arranged during a supply or transportation assignment." Calestorm made an answering murmur of agreement. "I'll touch base again with you when I receive orders for those specific missions." Crash rolled a shoulder tentatively, then broached another subject. "You did well during the Epsilon Scorpii mission Lieutenant. Or should I say, you performed within the expected parameters. It's unusual for a medical officer to be placed in a command position, but it does happen." A small, quiet part of T'Aral initially tensed when the Captain suggested that she had done 'well'. She had hardly done well at all. Vulcans took pride in managing their affairs in an orderly manner, and the E. Scorpii incident was anything but orderly. Her inner core relaxed slightly as the Captain corrected herself; '... as expected …' would be much more accurate. T'Aral was hardly a forceful individual except in the most clear of circumstances. While she would forever remember E. Scorpii as an utter failure on her part, her sense of self was unharmed. Her performance met every expectation. "Have you ever considered commanding a medical response ship?" The captain was probing, but doing so gently; it was her job to know the limitations and expectations of her senior officers. "No, Captain - I have not." T'Aral's response was flatly monotone. "It is a mis-application of skills to establish an officer as a ship's captain simply because she is a doctor. Command of a ship requires command skills, not medical skills. My skills are medical - I am content where I am." It was the absolute truth, and hardly surprising among Vulcans. In order for T'Aral to take an interest in a command, even a medical one, there had to be a logical reason. There was little logic to her assignment on E. Scorpii, and even less to suggest that she should have a command for any length of time. She paused momentarily, finishing work on the Captain's lower back. "Are you still going to pursue the use of shuttlecraft for the rescue mission? Transporters, used in conjunction with ship's sensors and a tactical analysis of the terrain, would prove far more discreet." T'Aral had a mixed opinion of the Prime Directive. Ideally it would be preferable to have more advanced races guide the less developed ones, helping them avoid the mistakes which were made. A great benefit could be encouraged if benevolent guidance could be applied to developing peoples. Yet she also saw the numerous disadvantages: to guide a race often meant dismantling their individuality. The diversity of the galaxy would be lost under such a plan, no matter how well-intentioned. Further, to guide a civilization suggested that one knew what was best for that civilization. As every species and culture is based in a unique set of circumstances, such insight was virtually impossible. Vulcans referred to such situations as Action Without Cognition, Humans referred to it as 'playing God'. In either case, the intended statement was the same: developed races should not meddle in the affairs of others, as none are suitably qualified. "The transporter will be employed for our initial on site survey of the situation Lieutenant. Shuttles will be held as secondary transport." The captain patiently waited as the CMO applied a final set of pressure points to her back muscles; she gently disengaged from the contact and turned to face T'Aral. "Thank you Lieutenant. I do feel much better." Crash rolled her neck and continued speaking. "Chances are, those of the senior staff and crew who resemble the Neural inhabitants with a minimal amount of cosmetic applications will be called on for away team duties. I can count on you Lieutenant?" T'Aral's eyebrow cocked curiously. Vulcans rarely resemble the native populations of any planet, and cosmetic changes were challenging. Humans were a far easier matter - they bore no distinguishing characteristics which stood out unnecessarily, and prostetics went a long way to creating an illusion. Vulcan features were far more prominent. Still, T'Aral was a committed Starfleet officer, and she trusted that the Captain knew what she was doing at least reasonably well. "Both myself and my department are at your disposal, Captain. I assumed you were aware of this." The CO's lips quirked in a ghost of a smile. "Of course. My mistake El Tee. If you'll excuse me, I have some matters to attend to on the bridge." With a respectful nod to the ship's CMO, Calestorm excused herself and exited the briefing room.

General: Neural is a class M planet: oxygen rich, with only minor eliptical variation in its orbit. The planet's upper atmosphere is unusually effective in detering harmful levels of ultra-violet radiation. The resulting effect is a population which is largely Caucazoid ( see notes regarding Khan-ut-tu below ). A single defining feature of the Neural people is that they are cranially hirsute, which develops into a disorganized plumage if not managed. Facial hair is largely absent, but can develop in some cases. There are a small number of individuals who bear a darker skin tone. These tend to be desendants of Khan-ut-tu healers, suggesting that the healing arts developed in the equatorial regions then moved outward in a polar manner. Tribes have in many cases divided into 'Hill People' and 'Village People'. This division is established, and has resulted in a minor genetic variation between the two cultures. Except in rare cases, hill people bear albinoid hair while villagers develop hair which is starkly black. Affectations / tattoos / markings: Adult males of both tribes bear a mineral tattoo consiting of a four-pointed mullet with central coloring. The mark of the Hill tribes is silver with a sapphire-blue center, while the villagers bear a golden mark with a ruby center. Khan-ut-tu exceptions: As noted above, the Khan-ut-tu healers of Neural tend to be dark of skin tone. They also have developed a cosmetic art in addition to their herbal healing abilities, which they apply to increase their advantage in social interactions ( e.g. 'sex appeal' ). Their hair is a black shade akin to the village tribes, and they tend to apply additional affectations using the same metalic technique used for the tribal markings noted above.

I have seen most of Cinemassacre's Godzilla movie reviews ... good ( semi-)clean fun.

Leutenant T'Aral returned to the medical bay, entering her office and closing the door. Activating her terminal, she adjusted Leutenant Belo's medical record based on what little she acertained. Empathic abilities - transmittable and receivable - a proximity factor has been suggested, but cannot be confirmed. She paused after the entry, staring at the screen. She had much higher expectations for their encounter: not just in gathering information, but towards positively resolving the increasing rift between herself and the Chief Science officer. The outcome of the conversation was far from satisfactory, yet as T'Aral considered her assumptions she quickly concluded that her expectations were without merit. Leutenant Belo treated her this time no differently than she had before - it was illogical for T'Aral to assume that she would not have spoken as she did, and any further effort on her own part to improve matters would no doubt prove equally fruitless. She then turned her attention to new duties: there were the new crew additions to review. Warrant Officer Granger had a colorful record, along with a standard Marine's general profile. As with all new crew members T'Aral would need to run her own physical on the Warrant Officer, which did not please the Vulcan. Marines were difficult to prepare for: some were content to accept that orders were orders, while others tended to be obstinate for no appreciable reason. It was the natural personality variations which were to be expected in emotionally-driven species, which periodically made T'Aral question the wisdom of remaining in Starfleet. To transfer to the New Vulcan colony ... to be surrounded by beings who were not driven by emotion ... T'Aral shook off the thought quickly. Such thoughts were too near to desire, which was emotional and illogical. She had her assignment, and she would remain committed to it. Ensign Shan Shalin was another interesting entry: an Argelian. While his record was nothing like Warrant Officer Granger's - certainly not as colorful - the lone fact that he was Argelian made him stand out. After their Great Awakening, the Argelian people abandoned most forms of enterprise along with their hostility. All creative pursuits involved art, music, or cuisine. The idea that an Argelian had enough initiative to make it through Starfleet was exceptional, and warranted close observation. Given that his psychological profile was atypical for an Argelian the probability of more pronounced neuroses, or even psychotic behavior, could not be discounted. It was possible that he simply had a level of initiative which was not suited to his native environment, but it was good practice to verify. T'Aral sat down and began to prepare for her encounters with the two officers. As she did so she calmed her mind and spirit, wiping away the past and looking forward. It was illogical to use her past experiences as any predictor for future encounters with different beings. Every sentient being was unique, especially among emotionally involved races.

( Part 1 : The Morning After ) Leutenant T'Aral walked the halls of Ginkay Bayouen, a facility which ( if Leutenant Kvar interpreted correctly ) represented the best medical care in the region. It certainly did appear so, but the Vulcan was gratified to have a Federation shuttlecraft parked in the back lot. Medical supplies and equipment had been sent down from the Comanche Creek, allowing T'Aral to care for the other officers much more effectively. She sipped at a cup of water as she paced between rooms, reading charts and updates. A small salad was all the food she had taken in since they had arrived - meager, but more than enough to keep her going for a little longer. Commander Wesley was recovering rapidly from her injuries. The Wei were actually quite remarkable; although they did not have a suitable blood match for the Commander they were able to produce a compatible plasma in extremely short order, allowing T'Aral to maintain the Commander's blood pressure long enough to seal the injured arteries. She would be anemic for a week or so while her body replaces the lost blood cells, but she was out of danger and resting comfortably. Leutenant MrKath was also recovering well. Finally having a skeletal regenerator was quite helpful, but even moreso was the arrival of Dr. Farrell and Ensign Khole. They performed the actual surgery, with T'Aral assisting to gain surgical experience. MrKath would be in therapy for quite a while; the regenerated muscle tissue needed to be re-trained and strengthened. Hopefully coming assignments would be less taxing on the Leutenant. Cellular regeneration for the Captain's latest injuries was progressing favorably, though her improvement would be far more steady if she would accept medical advice. That, however, was something T'Aral wrote off under Command Perogative. She had yet to meet a Starfleet officer of significant rank who considered a physicians directives to be something that should be followed. It was no matter: the Captain would recover. The speed of her recovery was the only thing in question, and that would affect only her. Leutenant Tauariki also improved rapidly once he was resting. T'Aral frowned very slightly as she read Ensign Khole's report on the Leutenant. It seemed that he was suffering from headaches for the latter half of their journey - a fact he had failed to report. T'Aral found the reluctance of the ship's officers to confide in her increasingly irritating. The tasks of a medical officer are difficult enough - when patients withhold needed information the tasks are all but impossible. Fortunately the Leutenant's headaches were based in minor complications of his head injury due to the stress of their situation. Once the stress was gone, he recovered steadily. Ensign Akade was also up and about with a clean bill of health. T'Aral found a place to sit while contemplating the last few days. So much was still left unfinished ... matters that needed to be followed up, but not now. They were all tired, including herself. Tired beings make mistakes and handle matters poorly, and things needed to be handled well. She settled into the couch she had sat on, bringing her legs up while shifting over. She would meditate on the matter ... meditate, consider her options, ... consider the best way ... A few minutes later a passing nurse saw the Vulcan on the couch. Stepping away for a moment, she returned with a blanket to tuck about the tired medical officer to keep her warm. If T'Aral was awake enough to notice anything, she gave no indication of it. It was over twenty hours before she moved again.

( Part 2 : The Return Voyage ) T'Aral looked about the deck where she was on, scanning every surface meticulously. She was searching for leaks in the system ... leaks which would develop into a bio-hazardous zone just above the warp engine. Technically what she was doing was unnecessary: the system had been recently maintained and had received certification for ten months of standard operation before another inspection was necessary ... and the engineering inspections were much more thorough than T'Aral's scan. However: disciplinary duty was required, and what better way to punish a medical officer than to have her personally inspect the ship's entire waste management system? The challenge in the matter, though, was not the inspection or having it on top of her regular duties. It was doing both while seeking to comply with the directives of her elders. She had reported her actions honestly; requesting guidance regarding methods to address her ethical lapse. While showing some amount of understanding, the elders were not at all pleased with her. While their words suggested that she did not require discipline seeing as though she already recognized her actions to be in error, their directives suggested otherwise. She was forbidden to eat meat for the next forty days, and she was to spend two hours a day meditating on the writings of Selnek. Some would see that as strict enough, but the elders had went further with a directive which clearly indicated that they had been keeping a closer watch upon her than she realized. She was forbidden all forms of Asian cuisine. T'Aral had developed a taste for Chinese during her time in the academy. There was a great deal of variety to it, ranging from bland to spicy. There also were several vegetarian dishes which would have made her fasting much less burdensome, which was no doubt why they were forbidden. Vulcan foods only, and only vegetarian - that meant preparing them herself - a task she had very little time for. She continued to scan, continuing to log section after section as free from contaminant. Perhaps ... just perhaps ... if she finished early the Captain would show some amount of lienency. Forgiveness was, after all, an emotional trait. She was surviving on five hours of sleep a night, but if this ran too long there would be problems. The best outcome would be if the Captain was merciful and understanding. Perhaps she would be, if T'Aral explained ... No - there would be no explainations. Explainations required divulging certain facts, which would lead to more questions, which would require more explanations, which would complicate matters more than simplify them. She would endure - it was what Vulcans did in intractable situations. She would endure until endurance was no longer necessary, for that was the Vulcan way.

After reviewing James Kirk's performance against the Romulan Nero, Starfleet decided to assign him a ship which was more suited to his personality.

The moment of chaos which an apparent mortar burst created had managed to disrupt T'Aral's train of thoughts. Like all well-disciplined Vulcans, however, her mind immediately went to task - analyzing the situation on several levels simultaneously. The explosion had apparently sent shrapnel about, some of which had managed to catch the Captain as well. Visually, it appeared to be flechette ... an anti-personnel weapon. This made the next course of action clear: the away team needed to move into the Domani encampment. Her concerns aside, anti-personnel weapons were extremely effective against lightly armored groups but they sacrificed effectiveness against stronger structures to do it. The officers needed the harder cover the village would provide. On another level, T'Aral prepared assignments. Sakura would be sent forward to collect the Captain and Leutenant Kvar before moving them onwards. Leutenants Tauariki and Belo would continue to move Leutenant MrKath a little longer, while she would collect Ensign Akade to aid her. The commander went down - hopefully her injuries weren't severe, but if they were T'Aral would prefer having an assistant while performing medical duties. A deeper, hidden part of the Vulcan's mind was allowed to be concerned - the Commander was now injured. Hopefully not seriously, for if she was incapacitated Command would then fall to T'Aral. This would be catastrophic, as she lacked both combat and diplomatic experience. T'Aral was a Nurse Practitioner ... here she could be effective as a medic, but that was all. For her to attempt to be more was extremely ill-advised. Yet it was entirely possible that she was in command, and even if she wasn't there were concerns she needed to address. A more logical part of her mind had already determined that Sakura needed to be warned against engaging their attackers with phasers. Epsilon Scorpii Four was neither part of the Federation nor an interplanetary power, and as such it fell fully under the jurisdiction of the Prime Directive. Interference was to be minimal and defensive only - a single phaser could have drastic effects on the planet's balance of power, and she was not inclined to be responsible for such an incident. The decisions had been reached: the team to the shelters, phasers to stun only, with Akade to assist with the Commander. T'Aral stiffened and moved to give direction - the seconds she had allowed herself to consider the matter were over; now it was time for action.

T'Aral sat under the Vulcan sun, her body sheathed in dark robes. In a tendency which frustrated many of her teachers the young girl focused much of her personal meditation into spirituality, settled in the mindset that as the existence of the Vulcan Soul could neither be proven nor disproven it was illogical to abandon the potential for its existence. Given that a spiritual essence could potentially exist, it was therefore only logical that it be nurtured to the benefit of the Vulcan as a complete person. T'Aral spent hours in mental seclusion seeking her own soul; believing that she had found it on many occasions. This occasion found her placed before a marble oblisk outside the Shi'oren Kesek'Um - an academy for the best and brightest of Vulcan's children. T'Aral was under no illusions about it: she had been accepted primarily due to her father, just like many of the children who attended the school. There were most likely better students among the Vulcan people, but even among Vulcans prejudices existed. Many of the students had parents on the High Council, or in other important societial roles. She was just one of the fortunate to have been born to privilege - just like the boy who sat next to her. She recognized him: stoic, a bit anti-social, and in every visible way the ideal of the proper Vulcan. Everyone was sure, however, that it was all an act - and more than a few were determined to prove it. He sat quietly, his hands locked together as he faced the oblisk that was before them. His body was a statue, and his face was placid stone. T'Aral doubted that he wanted to talk, but her mother always said the same thing on such matters: when people didn't want to talk - that was the time when a companion was needed the most. Not lifting her hood or looking upwards, she decided to forego the usual formalities. "You have had another difficult day." The boy did not look at her. "This has been the one hundred and twenty-seventh consecutive ... 'difficult day'. I admit that I find it increasingly tiring." Beneath her hood, T'Aral nodded. "That is the intention: to wear your defenses down and exhaust your temperance." He turned to her. "It is not logical. There is no beneficial outcome to this conflict. If I maintain my composure, they fail. If I lose my composure, they gain nothing from it." "That is not true: in defeating you, they prove that they are superior." T'Aral did not look out from her hood, but she did turn to face him. "My parents have taught me the need for complete honesty with one's self; therefore, I do not harm myself when I share truth with you. Your opponents believe themselves superior because of their heritage - that somehow being Vulcan sets them above others. I accept the truth: I gain nothing from my heritage. Each generation of Vulcans must re-learn the lessons of Sarek and apply them. Our ancestry does not help us: a Vulcan child raised in the wild would be a feral beast. "Your heritage is a gift, not a curse. If biology affects you, then it benefits you - makes your emotions less extreme than ours, and therefore easier to control. You find it easier to focus, and therefore easier to learn. This is evidenced by your accomplishments." She turned back to face the pillar. "They are jealous of you, and wish to prove that they are superior when they are not." The boy turned back to the statue. "I do not feel superior - my human half is not strong." At last T'Aral looked at him from beneath her hood. "That is because you do not have a 'human half'. Many will look upon you and seek to divide you, but you should not let them. You are not half-human and half-vulcan: you are a single being, which makes you the same as all of us. Accept yourself as you are and guide your thoughts where you wish them to go, and you will accomplish great things." There was a long pause before the boy finally stood; still upright, but in a way more relaxed than when he arrived. "I must go; live long and prosper." T'Aral offered the traditional honors. "Live long and prosper." She then left the pillar and began her journey home. It was a long path but one that was familiar and lonely, which gave T'Aral time to think and meditate on her day. Today that was not the case, though: within ten minutes her mother had joined her. "I was beginning to wonder if he would ever come. I take it the conversation went well?" T'Sarla had come from an upper floor to join her daughter, having observed the entire encounter. "I related all which you instructed." T'Aral had been made aware of the boy's plight from her mother, and had been given strict instructions regarding how to approach him and what to say. This 'chance encounter' had been weeks in preparation. "I do not understand, however: why did you not speak with him yourself? He is attentive - he would have listened to your advice." T'Sarla shook her head. "Daughter: children listen to their elders with tainted ears. They listen to their peers clearly, and right now his peers are telling him that he is inferior. What he needed to hear, he needed to hear from one of his own. In time you will understand." T'Aral raised an eyebrow. "Is it your intention that I become his friend?" A slight breath came from T'Sarla, almost reflecting a soft laugh. "If you befriend Spock then you make enemies of those who antagonize him. Your choice is not easy, but I am sure that you will know what is best."