Crisis of Consciousness

by Dave Galanter

  The Vulcan waited for his captain to nod his approval, and only then did he reply. “I will.”

  She looked at Spock a moment more, smirking again ever so slightly, then left with the security detail trailing behind her.

  The Vulcan offered no expression. Was he being cooler than usual? Did he feel the allure of Zhatan that Kirk had?

  By the look on McCoy’s face, he had clearly sensed it as well.

  After a short but awkward silence, it was the doctor who finally spoke. “You know, I may have to say this is fascinating.”

  Spock pursed his lips a moment, then disagreed. “Not as such, Doctor. There are accounts of more than one group of Vulcan explorers and adventurers who set out for the stars.” He shook his head after seeming to search his memory. “I’ve just no recollection of this one, but their journey may never have been recorded.”

  “Adventurers?” Kirk was curious.

  “Vulcan had its era of exploration and colonization before the time of Surak.”

  McCoy sighed, as if having a discussion with the science officer was exhausting him. “We know that, Spock. But how many colonies were begun and then lost?”

  “Colonies would not be an apt description of such ventures.”

  “The Preservers?” Kirk asked.

  Spock considered that a moment. “Possibly. The time before Surak was one of great dissension and conflict, and a race such as the Preservers may have removed a tribe of early Vulcans in an attempt to ensure the species persisted.”

  “Or,” the captain said, “the Kenisians may share a history with the Romulans. A lost colony of theirs?”

  The Vulcan nodded. “Also a possibility, though not necessarily the case. At different times, many factions, political groups, even entire city-states sought refuge in the stars.”

  “I thought Vulcans were good historians,” McCoy said as Kirk headed into the corridor and they followed.

  “Now, but not in the pre-awakening,” Spock stated. “Wars, large and small, ultimately obscure history. And generally, antiquity is writ by the victors.”

  “THE KENISIAN PEOPLE do not want war with the Ma’abas.”

  In the briefing room, Ambassador Pippenge was seated, plainly nervous, halfway down one side of the table and directly opposite Zhatan. As the Kenisian ambassador had come alone, the captain decided to have only Pippenge join them. Kirk sat at the end of the table, next to Spock who was in front of the computer console. McCoy was next to Zhatan, and Uhura had joined them and was seated next to Pippenge. Scott glowered from the very end of the table, still smarting over what the Kenisians had done to the Enterprise.

  Highlighting the tension, two security guards waited patiently just inside the doors.

  “We are called the Maabas,” Pippenge corrected, his voice much softer than it had been that morning.

  “Mabas,” Zhatan said, not quite right. “However one pronounces it, our point is we, especially, dislike armed conflict.”

  “No more than we.” Pippenge spoke so quietly Kirk could barely hear him.

  Zhatan clearly had—and she smiled. “Good. As ambassador, we are prepared to accept the peaceful surrender of your people.”

  Strange phrasing, Kirk thought. Was she royalty? Referring to oneself as “we” suggested that possibility. Could Zhatan be warlord, ambassador, and queen, all rolled into one?

  McCoy scowled at the arrogance. “Very magnanimous of you.”

  Missing the sarcasm, Zhatan merely nodded her acceptance of the “compliment.”

  “You want us to surrender the entire planet to you?” Pippenge was incredulous. “There are billions of people—”

  Zhatan cut him off. “We counted approximately four billion, three hundred twenty-nine million, five hundred seventy-seven thousand, four hundred thirty-two.”

  “A-a-approximately,” Pippenge stuttered.

  “We’re not factoring in birth and death rates, though it is safe to say the number has at least increased since we scanned the planet.”

  “Must come with the ears,” McCoy muttered, and Kirk cast him a harsh glare.

  Zhatan turned toward the doctor. “We beg your pardon?”

  “You say ‘we.’ ” Kirk drew her attention from McCoy, and Zhatan swiveled toward the captain. “May I ask why?”

  “Us?” she said, seeming to think Kirk didn’t understand the word.

  Kirk and Spock shared a quick glance.

  “Could you define ‘us,’ ” Kirk pressed.

  “Us,” she said matter-of-factly. “Meaning ‘we.’ ”

  “We,” he repeated. “More than you, an individual.”

  Suddenly Zhatan nodded, a smile curling her lips. “Yes, we see your confusion now.” She motioned to Spock. “Those of Vulcan may be able to explain better than we.”

  The captain felt his face tighten. He was becoming annoyed. “Spock?”

  “I’m afraid I’m at a loss, Captain.” He looked to Zhatan. “Please specify.”

  “There is a word you may know: Shautish-keem.”

  In Spock’s eyes, Kirk saw a flicker of understanding. “A very old myth.”

  Zhatan smiled more deeply—almost a grin—which on someone who was of Vulcan descent always looked a bit off. “We are no myth.”

  “You only?” Spock asked. “Or perhaps your caste?”

  “All Kenisians.”

  Whatever it was Spock now understood, he was clearly intrigued. Kirk saw the Vulcan straighten a bit, more focused than usual, even for him. “Care to explain, Mister Spock?”

  “Shautish-keem is a method . . .” He paused and corrected himself. “The myth of a method—”

  Zhatan frowned at that amendment, but Spock continued.

  “—from Vulcan prehistory—of preserving the consciousness of one’s ancestors within the mind of their progeny.”

  Silence weighed down on them for what seemed like a long while, until McCoy finally spoke. “Well, Spock may understand, but I’m not sure I do.”

  Kirk was glad he didn’t have to ask.

  “As an example,” the science officer offered, “the wisdom of a matriarch, before her passing, may be passed on to a selected relative so that her memories would not be lost.”

  “Her consciousness,” Zhatan corrected, sounding a bit annoyed. “Not just her memories.”

  “Some kind of permanent mind-meld?” Kirk asked.

  “In theory, a far more complicated process. Not practiced, if it ever truly was, since antiquity.”

  “We,” Zhatan said proudly, “have always been this way.” She looked to McCoy, whose mouth was a bit agape. “Do you grasp our nature now, Doctor?”

  McCoy took a moment to contemplate his reply. “I think so. Family dinner with your crazy aunt, every moment of every day.”

  “Bones,” Kirk chided, then turned back to Zhatan. “We’re not just talking to you, but to one of your ancestors?”

  “More than one,” she said.

  Spock’s brows shot up. “Not merely a duality, but a true multividual?”

  Uhura gasped, as clearly she understood the implications.

  “The Vulcan word is sha’esues,” Spock said. “A collective of distinct consciousnesses held within one mind.” He looked squarely, even disbelievingly, at Zhatan. “A very unlikely condition.”

  “Our sense is that you deem it unlikely so as not to call it ‘impossible’ and be proven wrong.”

  Nodding, Spock accepted that appraisal.

  “We assure you,” Zhatan continued, “this has been the way of my people for our entire history.”

  Silence settled on that thought. Kirk wondered just how many personalities were within Zhatan. How did they communicate to her? Was she a primary personality, with control over the others, relegating them to mere voices, or did they “possess” her, for lack of a better term? In either case, how large was his audience?

  In reality, it might not matter. Kirk often had to negotiate with more than one person—a council, a prefect on a short leash,
a ship’s commander who answered to higher ranking officials. Perhaps this would be no different.

  Ambassador Pippenge seemed to come to the same conclusion. “If I may, Ambassador Zhatan, you are both intelligent and, most certainly, learned in many areas.” Palms down on the table, he spread his fingers wide and pressed down slightly, releasing his tension physically rather than through his voice. “Why did you attack us?”

  Even though the attack was on the Enterprise, Pippenge said “us,” Kirk noticed.

  So did Zhatan. “Us?”

  “Once in our star system, the Enterprise is our guest,” Pippenge explained.

  True, though with the treaty already signed, Enterprise was an aligned vessel.

  “At the time, we thought it a Maabas warship.” Zhatan dismissed the attack with a wave of her hand, as if her perception that the Enterprise was the enemy justified the attack.

  Pippenge pursed his lips. “We have no warships.”

  At that statement, the Kenisian ambassador and war commander grinned. She seemed to smile a lot, Kirk thought, and he wondered if it was a smile from Zhatan, or if it was a variety of consciousnesses that turned her lips upward. Could he ever know who was behind the ominous grin? How, he wondered, did her . . . condition work?

  “No warships. Isn’t that interesting,” she said, staring at Pippenge, and though it was phrased as a question, it clearly was not.

  “We’re prepared,” Kirk said, pulling their attention back to him, “to negotiate a peace between your two peoples.”

  “What is your interest in this planet?” Zhatan asked the question, but Kirk sensed a different tone than before. Again, he wondered just who within her was doing the asking.

  “Cultural and scientific,” Kirk replied. “The Federation’s treaty with the Maabas fosters that exchange.”

  “One doesn’t need a treaty to exchange ideas. One only needs a method of communication.” Zhatan nodded slightly, as if she’d won some point in a debate. “What else does your treaty cover?”

  Kirk was no fool, and now he smiled to let her know that. “You’re asking if Federation protection is part of the agreement.”

  Still smiling, she nodded.

  “It is,” Kirk said, a bit more coolly, and gave Pippenge the briefest of supportive glances.

  “Protection from?”

  “Threats.” Kirk’s one-word answer hung there, and as Zhatan considered it, her smile faded.

  She leaned back a bit in the chair and steepled her fingers in a manner that Spock often had. “Will you fight a war for them?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary.” Kirk felt his face tighten again, and he knew his smile had long faded as well. “Will it?”

  THREE

  “We do not wish war with you.”

  The captain could see Zhatan was hesitant. The phrasing bordered on equivocation. She might not want war, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t willing to fight one.

  “She” was perhaps an inappropriate pronoun. Were there different sexes within this woman?

  “No one wants war,” Kirk said. “But wars are still fought.” He looked squarely at Zhatan. Her high cheekbones were devoid of makeup, but he noticed a natural, healthy green tinge. “The question isn’t if you want war, it’s will you make war?”

  Zhatan let that question sit for quite a long time, and it was an uncomfortable moment. She blinked at Kirk a few times, then said, “As you might imagine, we are of more than one mind on that question.”

  It sounded like a pun, and Kirk thought he heard Scott snort, but there was no humor in Zhatan’s expression.

  “Some,” she continued, “are strongly in favor of talking with the Maabas—and the Federation.” Zhatan leaned back, frowning. “And some are very adamantly against that course.”

  “How do you balance all those different personalities?” Uhura asked in a gentle, forgiving tone, as if she knew it was a difficult task and was sympathetic to it.

  “There is some effort involved in keeping us all working with each other rather than against,” Zhatan admitted.

  “Since the time of Surak, Vulcans have established certain mental disciplines to control their emotions. The Kenisians may have developed something similar,” Spock said.

  Zhatan—or one of the personalities within her, at least—disagreed, but leveled her comment to Uhura, who’d asked the original question. “Kenisian mental controls do not struggle with the emotions of one mind, but a far higher number. Spock compares the gripping of twigs by a small primate to the intricate construction of a musical instrument by a master craftsman. Hardly apt.”

  Eyebrows arched, Spock looked at Zhatan with some intent. Had he been insulted? If so, he’d not rise to the bait.

  It was difficult to look at the Kenisian and not think “Vulcan,” but that would be a mistake. Whatever genetics they might share, Zhatan’s demeanor was not like that of any Vulcan Kirk had ever met. Culture and philosophy weren’t inherited but learned, and a Vulcan who was without an adherence to reason was a disconcerting thing.

  And Zhatan did unsettle Kirk. Her initial demeanor had been far more thoughtful, he noticed—even somewhat demure at times. Now her voice was anything but.

  “So, you’re not hampered by this? It’s not difficult?” McCoy asked.

  “Not in the least.”

  “The whole is greater than the sum of the parts,” the captain murmured.

  Zhatan seemed pleased with that phrasing, and she nodded her approval.

  “Just how many ‘people’ are in ya?” Scott spoke for the first time during the meeting, and the Kenisian commander paused to examine the engineer before she answered. Was she giving the several different personalities within her enough time to evaluate him and decide their answer?

  “Four hundred thirteen,” she replied simply, and seemed to enjoy Scott’s quiet gasp.

  “That’s . . . almost the crew complement of this vessel.” Kirk tried to wrap his mind around the concept. It was difficult enough commanding that number of people—what if their thoughts were merged with his own? How would he cope?

  Did hundreds of personalities decide what Zhatan said? Who she loved? What she wore? Did one like stripes while another liked polka dots? Was one a rash commander while another was more cautious? Who was “she” and what part did “they” play?

  “Are they all deceased?” McCoy asked.

  She paused, and her expression turned sad for a moment before recovering. “Most are long decayed. Some are merely infirm, however, and unable to abide their physical forms any longer.” Zhatan motioned down her trunk, indicating her body. “Kenisian culture breeds selectively for this purpose.”

  Did Zhatan see her body as her own, or was it given to whatever personality needed to live on through it? What happened if she were struck by disease and there were two possible treatments, and the incorporated minds disagreed as to which course to take? Was there a vote?

  Zhatan seemed amused at his obvious confusion. “For you it is an alien concept, we can see. But this method allows past generations to live on.”

  “Logical,” Spock said.

  “Is it?” Dr. McCoy leveled a sideways glare. There was something in Zhatan’s description that had ruffled McCoy’s feathers.

  The Vulcan’s brow furrowed for a short instant as he explained his reasoning. “The Kenisians reduce their drain on resources while keeping alive the knowledge and culture of a far larger population.”

  “Death, Mister Spock, is a natural part of life. Cheating that could make a person—or a people—arrogant.” McCoy turned to Zhatan and added a softer note. “I mean no offense, Ambassador.”

  There was something to what McCoy was saying, Kirk thought. If an entire people were immortal, they might look down upon beings with one natural life span.

  “We are not offended,” she said, and smiled at the doctor with the same electric connection Kirk had felt leveled at himself and Spock. “There is difficulty, at times, reconciling the values
of the older generations with my own.”

  So was there effort to control her situation, or wasn’t there? She had now offered each a separate explanation.

  “Which of the generations within you,” Kirk asked pointedly, “want Maaba S’Ja back?”

  “All of them,” she replied without hesitation. “We understand that the Maabas have considered this their home for thousands of years, but it was ours far longer.”

  “Then why did you abandon it?” Pippenge’s voice was low and thick with emotion. Since he was hunched over the table, the ambassador’s height wasn’t evident, and he looked like an already defeated man.

  Kirk noticed he didn’t say “leave,” but chose the word “abandon.”

  In contrast to Pippenge’s tone, Zhatan’s was smooth and strong. “We were invaded and driven from our world. But having survived, despite our oppressor’s attempts to end our lives, we are ready to return home.”

  Pippenge looked as if he’d tasted something sour. If the Kenisian vessel was but one of a fleet—or even if it was alone—the Maabas were at an extreme disadvantage. “We are a peaceful people—”

  “As were we,” Zhatan said, but in her eyes Kirk saw no sadness, despite what her voice tried to impart. “The ravages of war transformed us. It’s not a change we care to visit on you, but we want what is rightfully ours.” This last sentence sounded more threat than anything else.

  “Perhaps we . . .” Pippenge began so quietly that Kirk instinctively leaned a bit closer. “We could . . . share this system.”

  Zhatan seemed to consider it, and then, in a flurry, asked Pippenge several questions. “Divided how? What if you’re living on a piece of land that was once ours? Perhaps one of your people now owns a farming valley that belongs to another and that individual wants to see it tilled by his progeny? What if we don’t care for certain technological developments you’ve introduced into our ecosystem? What have you done with our buildings and artifacts? In what museum or under what microscope have you spirited away our culture?”