But Qui’hibra’s hunting fleet had already left by the time Riker learned of this. Shortly after their fourth kill, they had wrapped their trophies in their tentacles and warped away, even taking the remains of the one they couldn’t use as a ship (for scrap parts, perhaps—or was “allografts” a better word?). Deanna had guessed that they were taking a risk by striking so close to a breeding world, not wishing to chance scaring them away from it, and thus had chosen to process their kills away from the jellies’ sensory range.
Yet Riker had chosen to set off in pursuit. Jaza still hadn’t figured out how to track star-jellies at warp beyond a certain distance, but Riker ordered Lavena to set course based on their warp-entry vector. It was necessary, he had resolved, to inform the Pa’haquel of exactly what had happened, and to offer what assistance he could in dealing with the consequences.
“Is that such a good idea?” Vale had asked in the privacy of his ready room. “Maybe we’ve already done enough damage with our good intentions.”
“So we just walk away? Wash our hands of the consequences? You can’t really believe that, Christine.”
“I don’t know. You’re right, I don’t want to leave our mess for someone else to clean up. Of course I want to help fix it if we can. But it was wanting to help that started this in the first place. That’s why there’s a Prime Directive.”
He had paused, considering her words. It had been the horrors on Tezwa, as well as Delta Sigma IV and Oghen, that had led him to reject the idea of the Prime Directive as an excuse for turning a blind eye to suffering. But Tezwa’s horrors had resulted from President Zife’s abandonment of the Prime Directive, his self-serving interference in the planet’s political affairs. Did Riker run the risk of becoming the very thing he was trying so hard to fight against?
No—he wouldn’t accept that. He’d forced nothing on anyone. He’d gone to help where he’d been specifically asked, and had tried to engage in a dialogue with the other side, imposing nothing on them. His decision to tow away the jelly’s corpse may have been damaging to relations with the Pa’haquel, but not to their way of life. His mistake had been in failing to anticipate the influence the jellies would have over members of his crew. That had not been a Tezwa-sized mistake, and it was one he was willing to do his best to remedy.
“I stand by what I said before, Christine,” he had declared. “The Prime Directive isn’t an excuse to avoid responsibility. Responsibility means being aware that you can and will make mistakes, and should do everything you can to minimize and correct them. It doesn’t mean being so afraid to make mistakes that you avoid taking on any responsibility at all. Mistakes happen. They’re a part of the process of getting anything done. So they’re no excuse not to try.
“In a case like this, the Prime Directive means that we can’t impose our values or solutions on the Pa’haquel. We can’t dictate to them how to solve the problem we’ve helped bring about. But that doesn’t mean we can’t assist them in finding their own solutions.”
It was now the next day, and the Pa’haquel fleet had tracked Titan down, coming up alongside them at warp and surrounding them in a formation that said “pull over” in no uncertain terms. As Riker gave the order to drop to impulse, he decided that they probably wouldn’t be all that interested in his “assistance” right about now. But at least they deserved answers.
Moments later, Qui’hibra appeared on the main viewer. “Riker of Titan,” he said. His tone was calm, quiet, coldly furious. He stood utterly still, his hawklike eyes fixated on Riker, unblinking, unwavering, like a raptor studying a field mouse. Will felt a flash of gratitude that there was a viewscreen, raised shields and dozens of kilometers of vacuum between them. “I know that what has happened is somehow your doing. You will explain to me precisely what you have done.”
“Elder Qui’hibra. That’s exactly what I’ve been meaning to discuss with you. If you’d care to beam aboard, we can—”
“Understand something, Riker. Thousands of Pa’haquel have died in the past day. Our hulls no longer shield us from the skymounts’ senses. They are teleporting entire crews into vacuum. We cannot retaliate because they suddenly have shields like yours, and can suddenly sense us coming and be ready for us before we exit warp. The word to suspend hunting skymounts has been spread as fast as it can be, but the Pa’haquel are spread wide and many did not get the warning in time. You have murdered whole clans, Riker. My desire for an explanation from you is the only reason you are not currently a cloud of atoms dissipating into space. You will give me that explanation now, and if you wish to have any chance of avoiding that fate, you will include the means of reversing what you have done.”
Riker was horrified. He had expected that the jellies would simply flee from the hunters, leaving them unable to make new kills, forcing them to gradually give up their nomadic lifestyle, or at least switch to constructed starships, as their “skymounts” wore out or were lost. Since the jellies were incapable of firing on their own kind, he’d assumed that retaliation would not be an option. He hadn’t considered that they would target their attacks against the crews inside. And he was so accustomed to combat in the age of deflector shields that he hadn’t considered the use of teleportation as a weapon. In retrospect, it seemed obvious—the jellies would not want to leave the bodies of their dead to be further desecrated. They would want to cleanse them of infestation and return them to their native soil at long last.
“Elder Qui’hibra…” He hesitated. “I assure you, I had no knowledge or intention that anything of the kind would happen. What’s taken place here was an accident, not a deliberate act.”
“You are still not explaining.”
“Very well. We were able to use our sensors to scan inside your ships and detect your presence. We also found a way to distinguish your warp signatures from those of live, er, skymounts.”
“There are no such ways. We shield our inner hulls specifically to preclude detection.”
“Our sensors are a prototype design. And it was difficult even for them to detect you.”
“Go on.” His voice remained level, yet the fury in it was deeper than ever.
“We had no intention of sharing this information with the skymounts. We did not take sides. However, the skymounts are powerful telepaths, and they were able to influence those members of our crew with similar abilities. We attempted to repress our crewmembers’ telepathic senses, but when you attacked near the breeding world, the sheer quantity of terrified emotions was overwhelming. Two of our crewmembers, acting under the creatures’ influence, gave them access to our sensor information and shield calibrations, and the specifications for replicating the necessary components for themselves.”
Qui’hibra’s stare still didn’t waver. “And as a result we can no longer approach the skymounts without losing an entire clan and its homes.”
“Let me convey my deepest regrets for the loss of life. If there is anything we can do to help—”
“The first thing you can do is to deliver those telepaths of yours to us for retribution.”
Riker took a step forward. “That’s not going to happen, Qui’hibra. I alone am responsible for what happens aboard this ship. And will vengeance accomplish anything? Will it help your people survive? Think about it. My people had the technology to scan through your hulls. Maybe we have technology that can protect you as well. For instance, do you have any sort of shield technology which can block transporters?”
Qui’hibra growled, but he seemed to be contemplating Riker’s words. “They have been able to compensate for our existing shielding methods. Our allies are already at work on devising alternatives. But even once we gain such shielding, the skymounts will still be able to flee from our attacks. The Hunt will end, the balance will be broken, and chaos will overtake us all.”
“With all respect to your beliefs, Elder…surely there are other species you can hunt. We’ve seen that you already do. And if necessary, you could travel in ships like ours. It would be an ad
justment, I know, but—”
“Hrrha! You have not the slightest comprehension of what is at stake, do you? That will teach me to give an idiot like Se’hraqua the task of explaining it to you. But who knew a tiny pest like you could topple the whole balance?” Qui’hibra hissed to himself, thinking. “Then you should know. You will follow us, Riker, and we will show you the full magnitude of what you have wrought. I would not destroy you before you knew the full anguish of your guilt. You will follow, you will see, and you will know my horror and my sorrow—not merely for the Pa’haquel, but for all who live within the balance. And then you will either show me technical miracles to repair it all—or you will embrace your death in the knowledge that it is richly deserved.”
Deanna hated having to bring the latest news to Orilly Malar. The cadet was already devastated enough by her participation in the data theft, but before, her guilt had been mollified by the belief that at least she had helped save lives. Now she had to learn that the lives she had saved had in turn taken thousands of others using the knowledge she had helped give them. It was not something Deanna wanted to burden her with. But she was bound to find out, and Deanna wished to break it to her as gently as possible, and to be there to help her cope with it.
Indeed, the news hit the gentle Irriol hard. Even though Deanna strove to soften the blow as much as possible, Orilly swiftly broke down and curled herself up into a pineconelike ball, shuddering gently. If Deanna could have found a soft spot to stroke, she would have done so. As it was, she had to settle for projecting a soothing empathic aura. She had been afraid this would happen. Confinement to quarters was unduly arduous for one of Orilly’s gregarious species, and Deanna had urged Will not to impose it, but he had seen no other choice under the circumstances. He had granted her broad visitation rights, though, and Deanna had made a point of checking in on her two times a day. After this news, she decided, she would have to add another daily visit.
Finally Orilly reached a point where she was able to speak again, though she remained mostly curled up and her voice was muffled. “It has happened again. Once again I acted on impulse to help someone, and many more have paid the price for it. I curse everything I touch.”
“No, Malar. No one can predict the long-range consequences of their actions. All you can do is choose what seems right in a given situation.”
“But I did not even do that!”
“Yes, you did. You were motivated by compassion, by the desire to save lives.”
“At the cost of my duty, Counselor. My duty to my ship, to my crew. My duty to my people! After this they will never let me return to Lru-Irr,” she wailed. “I will never feel the embrace of the Whole again. I will be doomed to live as one forever.”
“I don’t believe that. If the rest of your people are anything like you, Malar, then they’re a kind and compassionate people. They will understand that you were controlled by an outside influence.”
“That does not matter. My people have few exiles to represent them offworld. Few commit crimes as hideous as mine. We must serve their interests perfectly if we ever wish to return home.”
Deanna frowned. “Perfection is an impossible standard. Malar, tell me—how many exiles do you know of that have been allowed to return home?”
A moment’s silence. “I do not remember. Very few.”
“Do you know of any for sure?”
“I am sure there have been some.”
She spoke carefully. “Has it ever occurred to you…that if you do serve your people that well offworld, and if there are so few of you to do it, that it’s in their best interest to keep you in exile indefinitely? How do you know they will ever let you return at all?” This could be a risky path to take—undermining her faith in the one thing that kept her going. But if that were a false hope, a fixation that kept her from finding other things to live for, it would be best to wean her from it.
“I have wondered that, yes,” Orilly said. “But they would not do that to a sister Irriol. They would not condemn one of their own to live in solitude any longer than she deserved. If they were capable of that, then they would be the ones in exile. No, Counselor—if I am doomed to exile forever, it will be my own fault.”
Deanna had her doubts. If they considered her a heinous enough criminal to exclude her from the gestalt at all, that implied they were able to see her as less than Irriol, not deserving of the compassion they would extend to others—much as cultures possessing capital punishment thought of those they executed. Orilly’s deep and instinctive need for the gestalt might be blinding her; the idea that it might be unattainable, that she might not be allowed to return home no matter what she did to earn it, would be too unbearable to contemplate. Many species had such irrational blind spots when it came to the pursuit of their instinctive needs and passions. (Which explained some of her mother’s choices in husbands, she thought wryly.)
But perhaps Orilly was right. As Deanna had just said, she had trouble believing that the race which had spawned this gentle soul could be prone to such callousness. Maybe they could be persuaded to let her rejoin them after all. Maybe, after what Orilly was going through now, they could be persuaded that she’d suffered long enough. Deanna would certainly do what she could to argue that case to them, she decided—even if it meant depriving Starfleet of a promising young scientist. For now, though, there was little more she could do to comfort the cadet. Orilly needed to work through her guilt and grief; Deanna simply had to make sure the process did not become self-destructive. The suicide rate among Irriol exiles was disquieting.
Deanna’s concerns about Tuvok were different. Although he was unlikely to become suicidal, his resistance to dealing with the personal consequences of his actions was troubling. It was not just a “Vulcan thing;” she understood that counseling Vulcans required a distinct approach, and she was trained in their therapeutic techniques. She also understood that Vulcans generally preferred to manage their psychological issues in private. This was not necessarily unhealthy, since Vulcans were well-trained in self-contemplation and behavior management. The goals they aspired to differed from the ones she valued, since rather than seeking to reconcile with their emotions, they sought to minimize them, to emphasize systemizing behavior over empathizing and approach a cognitive state that in most species would approximate high-function autism. (Indeed, she sometimes wondered if Surak might have had the Vulcan equivalent of Asperger’s syndrome, and turned it to his and his people’s advantage.) But it was not her place to reject the validity of that approach.
However, she was unconvinced that Tuvok was managing to cope with his actions even in a healthy Vulcan way. She sensed turmoil in his mind, a shame as intense as Orilly’s, and it did not seem to her that his meditative efforts to process it were gaining any ground—at least, not based on the disordered jumble of keethara blocks and kal-toh sticks which she glimpsed over his shoulder when he declined to invite her into his quarters. She did not know Tuvok that well; although she had spent time with many of Voyager’s crew as they adjusted to their return home, Tuvok had remained aloof. But it was clear enough that he was as stubborn as any Vulcan she had ever met. In this case, though, she feared that his stubbornness was being applied to self-recrimination. She needed to find a way to help him redirect that obstinacy in his favor, use it to drive his recovery process rather than hindering it. But for now she couldn’t even get in the door.
Attempting to recruit Tuvok’s wife to help gained her little. “He has not spoken to me about it,” T’Pel told Deanna when they met in the latter’s office. “Indeed, we have spoken of little in recent days. He prefers his solitude.”
“You’re his wife, T’Pel. He can’t shut you out if you don’t let him. And he needs you to be there for him.”
T’Pel gave no outward reaction. “Tuvok has always been self-reliant. We have spent many years apart, and he has done well enough without my presence.”
“Maybe,” Deanna said. “But he asked to be allowed to have you join him o
n Titan. His acceptance of a post on this vessel was contingent on that request. Doesn’t that suggest that he wants to change that aspect of your relationship?”
The older, chocolate-skinned woman pondered for a moment. “Perhaps. But what he has been subjected to…what we have both been subjected to…it is a distasteful matter. And Tuvok is a proud man. He does not wish to be seen in his…compromised state.” Deanna almost smiled. Tuvok had just been reunited with his wife after a long absence, had invited her to join him in a part of his life she had not shared before. She imagined that even a Vulcan would wish to be appealing to her in those conditions. To be made to appear weak, emotional and unVulcan would have been an embarrassment indeed. But she didn’t want to add to his embarrassment by saying as much to T’Pel.
“Besides,” T’Pel went on, “there is nothing I can offer him. I am not a healer. I know no mental discipline techniques with which my husband is not already familiar; indeed, I know far fewer, for I have not required the mental training of a Starfleet security officer.”
Underneath T’Pel’s words, Deanna sensed an undercurrent of mild frustration, or at least uncertainty. T’Pel not only felt that she had nothing to offer Tuvok; she seemed unsure what she had to offer anyone. Deanna could deduce the reason easily enough. T’Pel had spent most of her adult life raising her children and managing the affairs of her household, and had never studied for any other career. But now all her children were grown, and joining her husband on Titan had meant leaving her household’s affairs in the hands of her eldest. It had also meant coming into an environment which did not require any of her particular skills. After being so invaluable to her family and household, it must have been quite a step down to feel so superfluous.
Titan, Book Three Page 17
