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About Sam_SemaJ

  • Rank
    ...and how does that make you feel...?
  • Birthday 08/16/1970

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  • AIM
    sam semaj
  • Website URL
  • ICQ

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    USS Arcadia NCC-1742-E
  • Interests
    Interesting stuff.
  1. <<Captain’s Log. USS Half Moon Bay. Beta Quadrant. Cpt Alice Delise>> Tactical has detected a cloaked ship trailing us. Cloaking technology is old, it didn’t take us long to suss out the anomaly. They must have gotten up close when we stopped for diagnostics on on the experimental computer core. Tactical advantage is ours, after repeated hails we’re engaging. Expect investigation of occupants after we apprehend. <<log ends>> There were few things Shindoe hated more than an EVA suit. All humanoids are NOT created equal, and his Caitian body fit awkwardly into the one he wore. “Tail attachment my…tail”. He muttered absently. A small beep from his suit’s computer diverted him from this frustration. He looked down at the device in his hands. The compound was primed, it had worked as promised, so far. And good thing too, it had cost a pretty penny. Of course he and Bud had good support on this little quest of theirs, so he wasn’t necessarily on the hook. Turns out a lot of people with a lot of latinum felt the same way their group did. Shindoe carefully reached around the edge of the panel he had just torched mostly off the hull of the ship. He checked his gear in paranoia, exhaling slightly as he confirmed the damper was still knocking out local sensors. Bracing himself against a hull strut, he took the panel firmly and wrenched it from the ship. He could feel the scrape of metal vibrating through the panel, though no sound eeked out into the quiet dead of space. Still, years of experience coerced him into checking over his shoulder to see if someone had heard. He groaned in frustration again trying to handle all of his equipment while wedged into this tiny corner. This Norway Class ship was blasted small…barely a show of force; but a long journey starts with a single step. Gingerly holding the primed compound in his hands he slowly reached up into the wound he had torn in the ship’s skin. The angle was infuriatingly awkward and he had to be careful not to tear his suit on the cauterized edge, but eventually he felt it. A solid, cylindrical structure, pulsing with energy…he could feel the ship’s life as he touched it. He sneered as he considered this inane fuel delivery system as proof positive that the Federation had become weak and foolish. This might be the easiest ship ever to be destroyed, though certainly not the cheapest. He carefully pushed the container of volatile compound against the antimatter delivery tube until he was sure it was secure, relaxing and exhaling fully as he eased back out of the hole. Raising his wrist up to his faceplate, Shindoe’s slitted eyes went wide as he saw the blinking alarm there. Comms with his ship were severely compromised. “Blast it all!” He slapped the comm on, “Fellas where are you, what’s going on?” “___etected ____ iring on us . __Los___tenna. ____ com ___ around ___dezvous point” Well it wasn’t much, but it was enough to know what was next. The rendezvous point was 500 meters straight down from the ship…in other words, backwards from where he was positioned on the hull. If those dullards on his ship, having got themselves caught, were going to buzz to the rendezvous and then try to bug out…there was only one thing to do. Shindoe pushed off firmly from the small underside of the Norway class and prepared to slow himself again with suit thrusters. 500 meters isn’t all that far in the vacuum of space. He looked sideways and saw the glint of his ship speeding toward him in a tight evasive arc around the Federation ship. But suddenly something was following it. Burning hot pure energy cutting through the emptiness…far faster than a ship could ever fly. Shindoe flung his arms up in front of his faceplate in shock and against the blinding flash of the small craft exploding in a fiery ball of fuel and interior atmosphere. His arms blocked the bright flash, but not the hunk of debris that tore through the side of his suit a millisecond later. His mind was fuzzy, pardon the Caitian joke, and was having trouble with numbers. How long did the compound take to start a chain reaction with the warp core? It was certainly south of a half hour, right? They’ll never find it in time. He only hoped Bud and his team would be so lucky with their decidedly larger target. Shindoe wasn’t sure if the bright white light he saw next was his brain asphyxiating or the brilliant flash of a warp core detonation. The federation wasn’t prepared for this…they’re not prepared for anything…we’ll show them. <<DS17 Intership Black Box System>> …anomaly logged. Registry NCC-58291 Half Moon Bay. …lifeline check in signal cut. sending diagnostic ping. …ping failed. Critical logs retrieved. …alerting station commander, forwarding logs… <<anomaly ends>>
  2. (For the TL;DR of original sam’s biography, he was once a test pilot in the private sector on Earth. The death of his wife in an industrial accident led him to pilot for starfleet, aboard Arcadia. From there he finished academy coursework in psychology, eventually earning his PhD and changing posts to be Arcadia’s counselor. He is generally a humble and thoughtful individual, and through a lot of plot, has come to peace with the loss of his wife) Once upon a time in % Sam Sema’J had always been sharp…always seen to the core of things. He wasn’t sure if it was all genetics or if it came from observing his talented parents, one a crack engineer, the other a studied psychologist. As he left childhood, one of the things he saw to the core of was the inherent hazardousness of the work his father did. Who would choose such a crude and dangerous path as being an engineer…a mechanic. Machines could work on machines, why even be involved? He grew callous toward his father, a proud man who worked expertly with his hands. The harsh attitude pushed Nnamdi Sema’J to work even harder to prove himself…he became a workaholic…and became somewhat estranged from his family. Sam followed in the academic footsteps of his mother. What could be a purer expression of someone who can so clearly interpret the world around him then peering into the depths human beings. He dove headfirst into his studies, having time for neither pastimes nor relationships. The values of Starfleet or the Federation weren’t really of import to Sam as he sought to understand the experience of humans. The reality was, however, that their academic facilities and resources were second to none, and it was the institution where his mother had made her mark. The brilliant and perceptive Dr. Sema’J burned through the academy. He soon exceeded the accomplishments of the elder Dr. Anna Sema’J and had produced several influential studies and taught most of the upper level courses. While he spent some time in individual instruction of to-be ship’s counselors, Sam found their approaches to be limited in their practicality: namely they were only interested in how they could improve the efficacy of the deep space crews that were at the heart of Starfleet. Sam kept this distraction to his purer science at a minimum and focused on his research. All this led to something completely unexpected for the now reclusive academic, and those of high intellect and perception don’t find much to be unexpected. A fateful communique was sent to him one day informing him that, much to his dismay, his position, tenure and research support rode on one final stipulation of his having been involved with the Starfleet Academy. ____________________ To: Samuel Sema’J Ph.D. - Starfleet Academy Department of Psychology From: R. Admiral James Kaggan, Dean of the Faculty Subject: Tour of Duty Requirement Dr. Sema’J, it has been brought to my attention that your administrative records show you have not completed a tour of duty aboard a Starfleet vessel in ongoing deep space operations. This is a requirement of all research program students and resulting staff of the Academy. You have been in tenure for 10 years and your records further show that you have been granted deferment of this requirement 5 times during that period. I’d like to impress upon you, Dr., the importance of this requirement as all of Starfleet works together to support our exploratory and peacekeeping endeavors throughout the galaxy. Any remaining refusal of this duty will result in your removal from our institution and the cessation of existing research support, tenure notwithstanding. I am now informing you Dr. Sema’J that your completion of this requirement will begin one month from today. You are being granted a field commission of Full Lieutenant due to your considerable academic accomplishments. On the date in the attached roster paperwork, you will report to the U.S.S. Arcadia under the command of Captain Arizhel and Commander N’Dak. During the ships voyage to Deep Space 27 for the commencement of it’s next exploratory tour, you will complete evaluations of the senior staff, and then counsel the ship’s entire crew as you see fit for the remainder of that tour. Please direct any questions or concerns to the Assigning Office at the Starfleet Port Authority in San Francisco. R. Adm Kaggan ____________________ Sam stared blankly at the screen for a full minute. He then quickly searched for the file on this captain Arizhel. A quick skim of the file revealed a capable and decisive commander…who accomplished such through an uncompromising, aggressive leadership style…being a Klingon. This was going to be hell.
  3. [note: this log takes place immediately before Arcadia's departure for the "nebulans" plot.] Dr. Samuel Sema'J gazed out the window at the starfield. It rushed past in streaks of brilliant white with the occasional sparkle of color. "That sight never gets dull does it?" Sam blinked as he was called back into his surroundings. He looked across the small table in the cramped mess compartment. His daughter, Rose, smiled back at him expectantly. She was eating and engrossed in reading something on a padd, he must have been gazing for some time for her to notice his inattention. He glanced briefly back out the window. He had to admit it was a sight, though he had always preferred the ground rushing by, inertia, g-force; the more visceral effects of travel in gravity. He turned back to her and returned the smile. "It's just been a while since I've travelled at warp." A long time indeed. Two years? Something like that. The recommendation had come through a colleague of his mother's. Dorai was a planet that had quite recently achieved warp and joined the Federation. One of the planet's sentient species, the Dorai-So, were sympathic (the ability to know what someone is feeling, while not feeling it oneself). Given their sympathic abilities and history, much of the Dorai-So's academia were drawn to the studies of psychology, therapy, and psychoanalysis, some more specifically to it's application in the military, and Starfleet found itself with a massive influx of very smart, very sympathic people interested in their mental health and counseling division. While the question of whether empaths and sympaths make the best counselors might have previously been asked in passing, it seemed a worthwhile topic for hands-on study at this point. It was from this series of events that Dr. Sema'J received a recommendation for a new teaching fellowship at Starbase 541, near Dorai, to not only help set up a special academy for new counseling division recruits (while they would receive the rest of their Fleet training from military personnel on the base), but begin a research program on the effectiveness and strategies of counselors with sympathic abilities. The irony of simultaneously studying students while teaching them to study others was not lost on Sam, but given the strong recommendation and the other accomplished scholars with whom he'd be setting up this new research/training area, he had accepted. While the shift into the gear of full-blown teaching and research had somewhat jarred Sam after many years in the structured world of the military, he found he settled quite nicely into the environment, and, with his colleagues, set up a dynamic new research and education facility. A facility which turned the influx of gifted students into a significant contribution to the discipline at large, both in and out of Starfleet. Rose's eyes darted out the window at the stars, then drifted back down to her padd, "Well I haven't had nearly enough of it yet." Her father chuckled. "What's got you so entrapped there?" She mocked an authoritative voice, "An Inverted Polaric Approach to Warp Field Dynamics; Changing The Game of FTL Efficiency." That sounded familiar to Sam…it really shouldn't...but then it came to him, he had read it in the Academy a decade ago…where it had been standard reading for decades. "That's quite old, you know." She returned her gaze to him with that particular look that can only result from a teenager regarding their parent. "Well ship's engineers need to know this kind of stuff like that!" Her fingers snapped next to her temple. Sam leaned back in his seat and smiled broadly. "I don't know where you could have possibly gotten the bug for engines…I can't abide them myself…" He held his two hands in the air in front of him and made loose fists, "…was always much more comfortable with control handles and the like." This of course hadn't stopped him from getting shuffled into Arcadia's Chief Engineer position 3 or 4 years ago…but he had quickly handed this off, promoting someone who was quietly pointing out errors in his own work. Rose pushed the pad aside and returned to her meal, talking between bites, "Well mom was an engineer, right? She helped build ground cars." Rose, as someone who barely knew her mother, was quite comfortable talking about her, even about her passing at times. It had taken Sam years and an immensely unhealthy amount of sleeplessness to achieve this, and still he gave a slight pause and averting of the eyes before answering. But when he did, he did so with the kindly and assured tone which he so loved to use with his only child. "Your mother…was an artist…she was a designer by trade…but in her heart she was an artist. Whatever drove you to what you are and want to become, one thing is for sure. You, Rosie, are special." Her face flushed as she fought the grin with every bit of teenaged self-consciousness she could muster…quite unsuccessfully. "Dad, you don't have to call me that…" "Well you have no say in the matter," came his short reply. Rosie was two years into secondary school, a few classes ahead of the curriculum. This was not especially rare, it was designed as sort of a low median, flexible enough for the wide range of talents and opportunities. One of those opportunities, available once you reached your third year, was to do part-time work study in a military speciality while finishing your schooling at a qualified program joined with that military outfit. Arcadia was of more than adequate size to have such a school, and the squeal of delight which accompanied the announcement that Rose could join Sam in his return to duty aboard the ship was quite piercing. Sam was actually quite excited about this too, though he was not the squealing type. Six years ago, then Ensign Sema'J had shuttled his daughter back to earth to live with his sister, feeling that a ship in the tumult of deep space missions was no place for a 9 year old. Now the timing of his return coincided with the option of this engineering internship. Not only was he glad timing worked out, he was extremely glad to be back with her full time. At the time of his departure, Arcadia's counselor had only had a brief opportunity to look over the CV of his replacement, a graduate student named Terban Cor. At this point in his career, however, Sam only needed a brief look. Research and papers focused on treatment efficiency. A level more psychopharmacology and neural therapy courses than are needed. Extra clinical work to replace the requirement of some of the diplomatic and sociology courses that go with counselor certification. To Sam, this all distilled to one conclusion: Mr. Cor wanted to cycle patients and officers through his office as quickly as possible, and wanted to be known for it. Not only did Sam quite enjoy sitting and listening to those entrusted to his care, he was fully convinced that his doing so, and doing it well, had a profound impact on the well-being of the crew and passengers of a starship - a social environment quite unique unto itself. Nevertheless, Sam had an amazing teaching opportunity, and the Academy had determined his now-open post to be the right place for Terban Cor to do his field work. Sam bade farewell to his closest shipmates and embarked on something wholly new and different. Cor must have been significantly worse in person than even his (in Sam's opinion) egocentric research record would suggest. A message from none other than Captain Arphazad Lo'Ami had come to Sam which, in significantly more measured and professional tones, had in its subtext stated: please get rid of him and come back to us. For all his skill and his comfort with the crew, Counselor Sema'J and Captain Lo'Ami were not all that well acquainted. And about all they shared in common was the apostrophes in their names. The two had spoken on a number of occasions, from private evaluations to staff meetings to bridge banter…and that was it. All of these interactions seemed to have served their purpose at the time and not required much else. Sam had reflected on their somewhat closed relationship often, but had never felt a need to call attention to it. It was thought among many that joined Trill tended to be much more emotionally self-reliant than most, having a number of (usually) self-actualized personalities to intimately draw upon for emotional stability. This was often negated during times of new host/symbiont bonding, but the Captain had long been Arphazad Lo'Ami by the time Sam knew him. Given this relationship between the counselor and his commander, it struck Sam all the more how rocky the situation must have been to warrant a personal request for the return to his post. He had all but been absorbed into the life of an academic, shaggy hair, beard and all; and yet…he felt static. The ever-divergent life of a Starfleet officer must have changed him in some fundamental way, so that the moment he read Lo'Ami's message, he was thoroughly convinced that for all the love he had for his courses, his students and advisees, and his research, he was no longer bound to them. He was quite bound to the beard though…that would stay. The program up and running solidly enough for someone else to jump in, Sam renewed his commission, met up with his daughter, and boarded a cramped transport for rendezvous with Arcadia. Reflecting on all of this, his beloved daughter engrossed in her reading again, Leiutentant Senior Grade Sema'J's eyes were drawn back to the streaking starfield. One could get used to it…but certainly never sick of it.
  4. Dr. Samuel Sema'J was not an anthropologist. His last class in anything like field anthropology was at Starfleet Academy. That seemed a lifetime ago. It was - he was an entirely different person now. Since that time he had come to grips with the loss of his wife, established a military career and established an even more fruitful academic career. While psychology ran somewhat parallel to anthropology, they were quite distinct. So it was not necessarily with a trained eye that the newly re-commissioned Lieutenant scanned the scene around him, but it was certainly with a trained mind. While the clues of a society's inner workings might be readily apparent to an anthropologist, Sam had to work from the inside out, observing individuals' interactions and behaviors. In most circumstances, Sam tended to squint when looking at something far away. This is, of course, not necessary when one has ocular implants, however the ocular muscles are designed for such a thing, and social cues tend to make them habitual anyway. In this instance however, Arcadia's counselor let the tiny mechanisms do the work, trying to observe as many things in as short a time as possible, without appearing to look at anything in particular. Aside from the non-human crew from Arcadia, a Mithraan, a Bajoran and a Trill, none of the humanoids in the densely packed trading area seemed to have traits that deviated from human physiology. Was that a more protruding brow? That hairline seems quite low. Blasted anthropology, this was getting him nowhere. In glancing back at the trading matters directly at hand, the locals did not seem phased at all by the non-humans among them. Currency…that could be it…the implants darted and focused on a transaction, then another, and a third. Different currencies all. The purveyors of goods exchanged them as if it were the work of a child's math class…and the values didn't seem constant. Though who knows when comparing handfuls at a distance? That wasn't conclusive in itself, different colonies among the nebula…different currencies. But still all human? The eyes snapped to another booth. A man trying a piece of furniture. He looked quite uncomfortable…it took Sam a moment to realize it, but the chair was not meant for a human…it bent and curved in all the wrong places. The man's…wife? Who could tell, but she had a knowing look…Sam had seen it long before. I told you so. Sam's view broadened out and he tried to achieve the mental blur necessary to see patterns in such an amalgam of activity. As he suspected, non arose. The art, food, goods, clothes…all distinct, unique. And not all looking…humanish, if such a thing could be defined. This was only the edge of this territory, Sam realized, would one find more or less variety when continuing further into this strange region. One thing was for sure…a vast variety of peoples, whether divided by species or simply culture he could not tell, trafficked through this ever-peculiar nebula. It was enough variety for one to wonder if it could all be contained within. Sam had seen much larger nebulas with much less-varied cultures. Everyone here was abundantly comfortable with the variety, this was business as usual. The other places Sam had seen this were places where people from far apart crossed paths and there was nothing to be done about it, mostly hubs of transit to the many Federation worlds. The culture of trading made sense…the technology didn't. Development seemed to have stopped at a very certain point, everything built up around the very singular properties of this nebula. Were it's residents completely unperturbed by anything outside the gaseous cloud, this could be fitting…but Sam was not yet ready to buy that story. The genetic picture showed a much longer history for these people than Ariom's story, or the scene around him seemed to paint. Sam had visited places where a very alien culture seemed to make complete sense in its own way for its own sake. This was not one of them. A vendor in a stall was shouting at the group and he turned his attention to this.
  5. Current In Residence Staff Name: Vin'Ji Rank: CPO Species: Vulcan Gender: Female Height: 1.5m Weight: 45kg Hair: Brown Eyes: Dk Blue Education: Pre-Medical High School of the Vulcan Science Academy Starfleet Academy Medical School Degree/Specialization: MD: Clinical Care, Surgery -- Name: Torra Czing Rank: PO1 Species: Trill (unjoined) Gender: Female Height: 1.75m Weight: 50kg Hair: Brown Eyes: Green Education: Southern Province Preparatory School Southern Province Medical College Starfleet Academy Medical School Degree/Specialization: MD: Clinical Research -- Name: Teth Beilyn Rank: PO2 Species: Bajoran Gender: Male Height: 1.9m Weight: 80kg Hair: Black Eyes: Brown Education: Hill-Area High Level School New Capitol Medical School Starfleet Academy Medical School Degree/Specialization: MD: Clinical Care, Physical Therapy
  6. Blast you, Beilyn, he silently cursed himself. Dr. Teth Beilyn scrunched his already-ridged nose as he pushed the padd away. As he did, he reflected on math never having been his strong suit. Being a child and coming of age on post-occupation Bajor was a strange thing. The older generation, of course, had fierce pride and believed wholeheartedly in their people. But their life experiences were somewhat skewed, their perspectives into living one's life had trouble focusing on much else than mere survival, preservation of themselves as a people. How had his civics teacher put it in mid-level? "In this new era, we need to show this planet, this Federation, and this galaxy that Bajorans are capable of so very much more than freedom fighting, which we've already proved our prowess at." For this reason, Teth had strived to be the best doctor he could, and he was indeed quite accomplished, save for mathematics. "Computer" he said defeated, please graph these results against the normal results for humans. The computer beeped and with an instantaneity his padd work could only dream of, a statistical curve popped up on the screen. Teth stared for a moment uncomprehendingly. If only being a doctor involved solely the care of patients. He was certainly smart enough to deal with all the surrounding scientific work, it just didn't draw his love or attention. He had failed one board exam on account of this and would be Petty Officer First Class had it not been for that. But he had this residency, saw more than his fair share of patients with the skeleton crew that ran this sickbay, so he couldn't much complain. He drew a faint conclusion from the data, but it was with the timidity of a student, desiring vindication from those with more experience. "Vin'Ji, can you come look at this, please?" Quick and sure feet made their way to the console where he stood. Sharp eyes regarded the data and then craned their way up to his face. Teth Beilyn was tallish for a Bajoran, and Vin'Ji was fairly petite. Still, for their height difference, her eyes regarded his with the stark confidence that so often correlates with pointed ears. "Strange," came the brief reply. "It doesn't follow the curve…but it's not exactly outlier data. This is from a reflex test, correct?" Teth nodded "Yeah, this is from my physical on Ariom, our guest from the nebula. Torra wanted me to do some comparative analysis on this test after some kind of discussion with the new…well I guess the old counselor. She probably could have done it, but she was obsessing over DNA analysis, so she pushed it off on me. Vin'Ji gave a single nod, "Yes…Dr. Czing's love for research is admirable…even if sometimes carried to distraction." She pulled up another few screens and flipped through them. "This subjects muscular and reflexive anatomy does not deviate genetically from the normal human model…I would say any statistical anomalies are the product of acquired traits." "Like…adaptations? To the way he uses his muscles…walks?" Teth had the point of this on the tip of his mind…he just couldn't complete it. "Well. The reason this graph is spread as such," she indicated the data on the screen, "is because of the vast variety of gravities experienced on the many worlds from which these data are taken. However, intensity is the only factor that changes, among planets gravity functions the exact same way." Teth nodded…mostly because that's what you do when someone smart is talking. For all her genius though, she was a medical care-giver through and through. It kind of amazed Teth about Vin'Ji. She had one of the most fantastic bedside manners he had ever seen. Somehow, he had not yet figured it out, she could put a patient completely at ease with neither a smile or a reassuring touch. Despite her emotionless lack of these tools, she was amazing with patients. That didn't mean she didn't nail it when it came to this kind of stuff…he listened intently. "I suspect, and perhaps prematurely," she continued, "that the gravity on this individual's homeward works in some fundamentally different way than it does on a regular planetoid, leading their populace to develop somewhat different ways of coping with balance and muscular systems." She looked at him with finality. "Alright, I see where you are going. I won't take up any more of your time, I can write up the report for Torra…thanks" With another single nod, Dr. Vin'Ji was headed back to her own work. Dr. Teth prepared himself to begin writing the report, but a message popped up on the screen before he could. [Ops>Teth, Beilyn Dr.: Please report as medical attachment to away team. Report to cargo bay 2 for assignment of special medical equipment.] Teth rested his head against the console and sighed. He then pushed himself off and made his way for the turbolift. Blasted away mission.
  7. Sam Sema'J walked from the turbolift toward the main entrance to sickbay. He had been called back from the away mission aboard the Flying Trapeze for who knows what reason. It was unlikely that it was bad news, though, seeing as it removed him from an EVA suit and Zero-G, something he hadn't been exposed to in many, many years, and was not enjoying in the least. As he crossed the threshold into sickbay, a young woman looked up from the console at which she was working. Her chestnut hair was pushed behind her ears, revealing two wide trails of grayish green and blue spots that ran from her forehead down the sides of her neck, disappearing into her collar. The pip on her collar showed she was a PO 1st class, common for enlisted doctors. The grey stripe down the sleeve of her lab-coat denoted her as a resident, not uncommon on a ship this size, but almost always accompanied by attending or administrative medical staff, and most certainly by an officer. None of these appeared to be posted here currently, something Sam would have to ask the still-unfamiliar XO about. She was not the same doctor who had taken Ariom for a physical, so there must be a few of such residents. The young Trill doctor stood as he approached, "Sorry to bother you, Counselor…er…Doctor." Sam was familiar with this grasping for the right title, so many in academia had their demands of "doctor", professor", etc…he was just content with "Sam", but this young graduate seemed insistent on bestowing him with a salutaion. "Either is fine." he said dismissively. "I don't believe we've met, Doctor…?" "Torra," she said with a brief smile and curt professionalism. "I was looking over all of the records from Dr. Teth's physical on a Mr. Ariom, and I got caught up on his DNA profile, particularly the species identification. Teth, he must be the young Bajoran man who did Ariom's physical. As for Torra, he wasn't sure if that was her first or last name, if she was joined or not. Possibly still too young...these questions would have to be answered at a later time. Sam tried to commit the two names to memory as he walked around the desk and joined Torra at the monitor, a DNA molecule filled the screen with various unintelligible markings and notations surrounding it. "The transporter scanner flagged him as human when we brought him on board, and I believe a tricorder scan confirmed that." She nodded quickly. "Yes, well Homo sapiens has a very high level of genetic diversity, those scanners are calibrated to take a lot of genetic drift into account and still identify someone as human. That type of variation shows up as adjusted values in a small percentage of very isolated genes which mainly have to do with personal traits. This however is spread more widely; extremely minute, but uniform changes across the whole genome. The usual scanners are not really capable of pulling something like that out of context and accurately labeling it as something human…but…not. Sam gave a few nods as he listened closely, but towards the end she was stretching the limits of his genomic understanding. "So if it's "not"…then what is it? She smiled a little more freely at her own vagary. "Well, think about the isolated racial backgrounds of humanity. If someone with completely asian DNA and someone with completely Caucasian DNA procreated, you'd get someone "half-Asian", and they would likely look mostly Asian because of the dominance of those physical traits. Sam nodded, following her. She continued, "With a few generations of staying in a Caucasian gene pool you might have someone who you'd call 1/16 asian, and the dominance of the asian traits would have faded considerably by that point. The picture I'm getting from this genetic model is of someone who is very far removed from, but still a descendant of cross-propagation between human and another species. You might say that Mr. Ariom is 127/128ths human, and his human traits are for all intents and purposes, completely dominant." Sam looked at the model (not that it gave him anything past what her explanation had) and regarded her words thoughtfully. "So what is the 128th?" Dr. Torra tapped a button and changed screens, isolated fragments of DNA came up. "Well, I think I have enough here to do a comparative analysis against a complete model of the original species, however, this has not matched anything in our current database. That doesn't mean we can rule them all out, this is just a fairly small bit of data to work with." Sam regarded the situation carefully. "Well, I'm afraid that the only way you will get more information than this is for us to dig into the history of these people, get more genetic samples, find out what drives their culture and society. It's already looking to be something totally unique. But we won't get any of that data till we head into the nebula with Ariom." He looked at her apologetically. "I think you're going to have to put your analysis on hold. Is there anything else that sticks out from his physical?" She flipped through a few screens of medical records. "Well…in terms of his health, he's fairly physically fit. He's not sick with anything particularly, not right now. However his immune system does show a greater propensity toward bacterial and viral infections than we're accustomed to seeing, as well as his skin showing evidence of some fungal damage." Seeing Sam's raised brow of concern, Dr. Torra shook her head quickly. "Oh, sorry, Doctor, I'm making it seem like he's disease ridden. What I mean is…his immune system is not as far built up or not nearly as boosted as ours are…it's almost as if" Sam took this opportunity to cut her off, understanding where she was headed. "This makes perfect sense. Ariom comes from what you might describe as an early maritime culture. We're not entirely sure of the nebula's specific properties yet, but it appears that they live in a pre-industrial society, in colonies throughout the nebula. That's really as much as we know, but it explains his state of hygiene and health. His labor aboard a ship accounts for his fitness. Is there anything else?" Torra continued looking through the data. "Well, his reflex test numbers were a little outside the curve we expect to see….but they're not exactly outliers. Truthfully I'd have to analyze them much more closely to get anything concrete. I can let you know." She looked back at him with an apologetic smile. Sam thought for a moment and then nodded. "Please do, I'd be very interested in what you come up with. In the meantime, I'm going to have to do some digging in the field to answer our DNA question. Thank you very much for bringing all of this to my attention, it's all very…interesting" The young doctor nodded with a smile, "No problem, I thought you'd want to see. We didn't really interact with Terban much, he kept his appointments and kept to himself. Even kept the door blacked out most of the time, even when he wasn't meeting with people." Sam turned and looked toward the glass door leading to his counselor's office, which could be blacked out for privacy via a button on his desk, "Well…I keep it open as often as possible, lets more light in. And especially given your small staff, you can run anything by me you need to. For the moment I'm going to head back to the bridge and see what the away team is up to. It was nice to meet you Dr. Torra, let me know whatever else you find." Torra gave a more comfortable nod this time, "I'll be sure to, thanks Dr. Sema'J." As Sam turned to exit sickbay he almost instinctively corrected her with "Sam", but thought better of it…while being on a first name basis with his colleagues and civilian students had produced a great learning environment, Sam was also well aware of what chain of command could do to help provide structure where it was needed. This vast sickbay run by a handful of interns definitely fit that description. "See you later, Doctor," Sam said as he exited into the corridor and headed toward the turbolift.
  8. Sam Sema'J stepped into his office after dropping Ariom in sickbay for a checkup. He had been back on ship for about a week and a half now, but he hadn't yet cleaned it up. A few boxes of his personal effects littered the floor, and he couldn't comfortably walk around it anyway because of the way its interim occupant had re-arranged the room. All of this would have to continue waiting as Sam sat at the desk to make use of the few minutes he had. "Computer, begin report, file in miscellaneous interviews." "beep" "Counselor's preliminary report, informal interview with guest known as Ariom. This individual was rescued as the soul survivor of a ship stuck in the nebula near our current position…computer, fill in necessary astrometric data." "beep" "The ship appears to be a maritime vessel, likely from a pre-warp, possibly pre-industrial society. Any details of how this ship came to be in deep space are completely unknown to me at this time. "Subject has been recounting the events prior to our rescue for me, vaguely a cargoing, trading voyage, interrupted by assails from hostile vessels, ultimately leaving Ariom, the ship's cook as the only remaining crew member aboard his ship, left with scant supplies. From his recounting, subject does not seem to be in any duress or trauma, however, his calmness in reporting recent events could point to evidence of mild shock. More conversation is needed. Further suspicion of this on my part is due to Ariom's casual avoidance of whatever event led his vessel to be in deep space. It is also entirely possible that he is a cook who spent all his time below decks and has a somewhat unfocused personality…and has no idea what is going on. "Subject is currently undergoing a minor medical examination by one of the sickbay residents. Interview will resume afterward, possibly in my office or perhaps during an informal tour of the ship. Guest quarters were a stuffy location and I need him to open up a bit more. "Computer, end log and file, leave a marker to attach later related documents." "beep" Sam got up from the desk and walked toward Sickbay, on the way he wondered at Arcadia's continued lack of administrative medical staff on Arcadia, difficult when on deep space missions for so long. It was something he was going to have to get used to after running an academic department for the last year and a half. He shook the concerns away as he neared the bio bed.
  9. "Out of the Loop" Personal Log -- S.K. Sema'J SD 11103.25 <begin> It had been a while since Sam Sema'J had woken up bleary eyed staring at the ceiling of Sickbay from a bio-bed. It had not been so recently that the frequency of such a situation bothered him, so he had to rack his brain a bit to piece together how he had gotten there this time... An image of the large desk in his office heading quickly toward his face started to jog his memory. That desk had filled his memory for at least the past three months. About that long ago, Sam had decided to completely catch up on all crew-related work, and then bury himself in his dissertation and finish his doctorate. He had first set to work seeing absolutely every crew member on board, whether he had seen them recently or not. He had filed them through his office for 5-10 minute (some longer) follow-ups to make sure everything was squared away on everyone's file, and then had scheduled no office hours save for emergencies until further notice. This had of course been cleared with the senior staff, as had a reduction of his bridge duty shifts and other more administrative duties. Fortunately word had come in that the CMO position would finally be filled, as it had been long vacant and the papers (or padds) had been piling up. "Positive and Productive Approaches to Individuals and Societies Under Duress from Technologically, Socially or Otherwise Superior Parties". Since becoming exceptionally caught up in his work as counselor, this dissertation had consumed his life. The research had been done periodically over the last year or so. The original work began with situations he had worked closely with, such as Arcadia crew member [OMMITED]'s crippling inferiority complex after being coerced into cooperation by an imperialistic galactic government, and the members of a sentient race called the Hammarians who were essentially farmed by a giant corporation for mass produced foodstuffs, being completely oblivious to the situation and indirectly rewarded for their unknowing participation. These situations were used as case studies, along with previous work and accounts to form a philosophy of coping for general situations where inferiority and coersion were involved. Sam had gone on to show how this approach and these types of situations were relevant to a number of areas, from shipboard social situations and individual counseling to application of the Prime Directive (about which there was a wealth of work to draw from). When his interest had originally been piqued while working with crewmen [OMITTED], he had not seen the whole scope of the project, but it had completely drawn him in. Why did he see this flash of his desk, followed by a white flash? As Sam reached to his bandaged head it became clear to him. He had fallen and hit his head on the desk. In his hand he had held his framed Doctorate, recently replicated and ready to hang. He wasn't really one for vanity to have his credentials hanging on his office wall. But he had invested an immense amount of time in this, and had on several occasions in the past corrected people who mistakenly called him "Dr. Sema'J". Well now they could, and for this reason, when the message came from the academy that his dissertation had been accepted and his doctorate granted, he felt a great sense of accomplishment, and so had replicated the framed copy of the official document included with the message. It was during the short walk from the replicator to the wall that he had fallen into the desk. Why had he fallen? Were this half a year or more ago, a dizzy spell, blackout or lapse in balance would have been commonplace, remnants of a serious brain injury that had put him back at SF headquarters in a coma a couple of years ago. But physical and neural therapy had all but vanquished these complications and he was to the point of being able to take research breaks with long runs or bike treks on the holodeck. It must have been something that happened to the ship. What had been going on? Heck if he knew. About a day had passed between his submission of the dissertation and the message confirming his completion of the doctorate. Luckily he had finished everything else, and had submitted right in sync with the board's meeting (A board which his mother was a part of, and had sent her praises and pride shortly after reading the dissertation). The board had had the day to read the work, met to confirm it's acceptance, and messaged him immediately. What had he done that day? Whatever it was, he had been OFF DUTY, so as maybe a few shudders and a few yellow alerts...or red?...had occurred around him, he tried his best to nonchalantly go about his business. He had apparently succeeded, as he had no idea as to what was going on and what could have knocked him off of his now-steady feet. Sam looked at a console and confirmed a yellow beacon still blinking. He shook away any sleep that was still in his head and swung his feet down from the bio bed. Seeing a flash of white scrubs in the corner, he knew this was a mistake. "Sam, lie back down, what do you think you're doing? Why didn't you ring when you woke up, I need to look you over!" The flood of reprimands was instant, if well-meaning, as Nurse Ratchet's 6th sense caught him in the act of sickbay escape (which honestly never succeeds) and was bustling her way over to him, tricorder at the ready. "How long have I been out? And was it anything besides a head injury?" "You've been out for about 10 hours, and no, it was just your head. But Dr. Steele wanted to keep you under observation when you woke up, based on your history. I know you've been doing fine, but she was unfamiliar with your progress, and she's the boss now." Dr. Steele....who? Sam turned the name over in his head. It sort of came to him, a memo had flashed across his screen about a month ago...which he had obviously seen fit to ignore. From what he could remember she was the new CMO...realizing this skipped memo was actually a crew member he would be working closely with, Sam took a moment to cringe at the fact that he had actually let a whole month pass without so much as seeing her face. That would have to be remedied...but for the moment, he had had quite enough down time. He had to figure out what was going on and get back into the thick of it, he at that moment decided he would not sit at his desk again for as long as he could stand it. He looked down at himself and saw he was wearing an undershirt and uniform pants. Had they taken his uniform jacket off? No, he had not been wearing it, why wear a full uniform if you're not planning on having contact with anyone? Sam put a hand up to the nurse's prodding tricorder. "I'm sure I'm fine, and I will come back in a while". He stood before words could exit her mouth and made a bee line for his office door. "But...just let me-" But Sam was in his office already. Something crunched under his foot. He looked down and saw the shattered frame that must have fallen from his hands as his head approached the desk. That would have to wait. His uniform jacket was slung over his desk chair, he seemed to remember tossing it there about 250 pages ago. Sam grabbed the jacket and slipped his hands through the sleeves as he walked briskly into the hall and toward the turbolift. He stepped inside and spoke a word he had not dared utter for months..."Bridge". <end>
  10. I think you all just wrote season 4 of TOS... very funny chart, Rosetto
  11. after spending an abundance of my time watching episodes of TV shows, many of them sci fi...I've come to notice the trend of stock plots (especially in sci-fi) to the point where I ocasionally see an episode of something and say Oh...this is going to be the token "main character has baby with special powers" episode, or something like that. I think many would agree that TOS shows are 1)cheesy and 2)a source for a lot of these episode archetypes. However....my personal feeling is that the trekness and roddenberry idealismyness of TOS is enough to overcome the horrible production values and sometimes terrible writing/acting. ::transmits two hundredths of a credit to the "bucket" account::
  12. Haha. So when I read this topic title, I thought it was in regards to being drunk in RL while simming. I have played once of twice after a big glass of wine or a couple of beers, and I have to say it's not all that much fun. It's really hard to sit and pay attention to all that text and concentrate on what's going on. So, for anyone who thinks this is a good idea, it takes the fun out of it (imo). So there's your PSA brought to you by the Federation Ad Council.
  13. speaking of pot. A friend and I went to visit a different friend, and when we got into his hallway we were like "wow this whole place smells like pasta. when we got into his apartment, he had made turkey noodle soup for us to eat! The smell was good food for US! awesome.
  14. Looks good! If you wanted to attempt a neatened up/updated version of mine that would be cool. I made it using sims body shop, but the export didn't end up looking all that great, somethign funky with graphics. You can base the face/hair (close shaved hair, slight scruff) etc off of what the current one looks like and put him in a post-voy era med/sci color. Grey eyes per geordi-type ocular implants. He's just under 40 years old of average hight/build.