Enterprise By the Book

by Dean Wesley Smith

  “There,” Phlox said. “I think that’s it.”

  T’Pol stared at the screen for a long time. Finally she said, “Very good, Doctor.”

  Phlox grinned at Hoshi, who didn’t smile back. T’Pol looked at all three patients, a slight frown creasing her forehead. Then she nodded once and turned to Archer.

  “Captain,” she said, “these readings confirm my theory that the aliens are telepathic.”

  From her interest alone, Archer had suspected as much. Still, he needed to know the reason for her conclusion. “What makes you think that?”

  “There are as many types of telepathy as there are cultures who have traces of it,” T’Pol said. “Vulcan scientists believe that even humans—who do not use most of their brains—have rudimentary telepathic abilities. Untouched, of course.”

  “Of course,” Archer said, unable to resist the sarcasm.

  She ignored his comment. “We know that some forms of telepathy use different types of psionic energy. For such energy to even register on Dr. Phlox’s instrument, it must be a very strong and very concentrated beam.”

  “Oh.” Hoshi breathed the word. “Of course.”

  Her “of course” was not sarcastic, as Archer’s had been. Hers showed a realization.

  “Of course?” Archer asked.

  Hoshi nodded. “These aliens communicate underwater. Of course they’d have to use a strong and concentrated energy beam.”

  “Of course,” Archer muttered.

  Then he looked at his men, unconscious and restrained. Edwards had grabbed his head, Daniels had continued to scream, and Pointer had rolled into a fetal ball. Archer tried to imagine a concentrated beam of psionic energy entering his mind and found he couldn’t do it.

  Or maybe he didn’t want to, given what had happened to the three crewmen.

  “What kind of effect would this beam, directed at a human mind, have?” he asked Phlox.

  “I am not certain,” Phlox said. “But I am certain the human brain would not be able to handle it.”

  “At this strength, Doctor,” T’Pol said, “a Vulcan brain would also have difficulty.”

  Archer was surprised. It wasn’t often that a Vulcan admitted a weakness. He said nothing. No point in discouraging such comments from T’Pol.

  Hoshi was studying the wave pattern of psionic energy on Dr. Phlox’s screen.

  “Would it be possible to duplicate this wave pattern?” she asked.

  “In theory, yes,” T’Pol said.

  “Why would we want to?” Archer asked.

  “To communicate with them,” Hoshi said.

  “Okay, I’m lost,” Archer said. Which rather annoyed him, considering that they were talking about communication and using the same language. Even when people spoke the same language, they weren’t always clear. “I thought these creatures are telepathic.”

  “They are,” Hoshi said.

  “But if they are telepathic,” Archer said, “do they use or need language?”

  “Of course,” Hoshi said. “Just not in the way we are used to it.”

  “This is why thoughts need to be controlled,” T’Pol said. “To use telepathy as a communications device means eliminating other random thoughts and feelings. A being must be able to keep her innermost thoughts private while using telepathy to communicate. It’s a difficult proposition, and it is the reason that many telepathically gifted races often turn to spoken language.”

  That made sense, Archer supposed. Although he really preferred to have his brain remain untouched by any other thoughts but his own. Maybe that was because he’d never experienced telepathy.

  Of course, if the experience of telepathy caused the reaction his crewmen had had, it was certainly something he never, ever wanted.

  Hoshi turned to T’Pol. “Would it be possible to develop a device using these wavelengths and have that device amplify your thoughts to them carried on a psionic energy band, and then reduce the power of the energy in their thoughts to you to a level you could comfortably deal with?”

  “An adapter?” Archer said. “Using the same principle they used for electric currents.”

  “Exactly,” Hoshi said.

  Archer, Hoshi, and Dr. Phlox stood watching T’Pol as she thought.

  “It might be possible, yes,” T’Pol said after a long moment.

  “Do it,” Archer said. “But I want this thing to work from a distance. I don’t want to take any more chances with my crew. If there’s even the slightest possibility that anyone will get hurt, T’Pol, I don’t want to do this.”

  “I am willing to take the risk,” T’Pol said.

  “I am not,” Archer said.

  She studied him for a moment, then inclined her head once, like a queen granting a subject’s request.

  “Doctor,” Archer said, “how much damage do you think these thought beams had on the minds of my crewmen?”

  Phlox shook his head. “I have taken scans,” he said. “It seems that Edwards has suffered more than the others. But whether there is damage and whether or not it is permanent, I cannot tell you.”

  Archer sighed and looked at them once more. They hadn’t moved. They looked peaceful, even though he suspected they were not.

  Then he nodded, and headed out of sickbay. He needed to check in with Reed and make sure that the alien stayed out cold until T’Pol and Hoshi figured out a way to talk to it.

  He didn’t want to see another member of his crew strapped unconscious to a biobed.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Captain’s log.

  It has been over twenty hours since T’Pol and Hoshi suggested the idea of creating an adapter to communicate with the alien from the southern continent. They both assure me they are making progress, and since I understand nothing about what they are attempting, I have to believe them. How they can come up with a device that will allow T’Pol to communicate telepathically with the aliens is beyond my science skills. I have asked both of them to carefully record every detail of their work for future scientists of both cultures to study.

  Dr. Phlox has reported that the three crewmen are resting easily now. Edwards, the first one the aliens tried to talk to telepathically, seems to be slowly recovering, but Dr. Phlox says it is too early to tell. Dr. Phlox believed that Edwards suffered more damage than the others because he was in closer proximity and the psionic attack, if that’s the phrase we want to use, lasted longer. Also, he was surrounded by four aliens, when Daniels and Pointer only faced one.

  Dr. Phlox is not allowing any of them to regain full consciousness yet. He believes their brains will heal best without inflicting the real world on them at the same time. The less they have to process the better, or so he says. He also says that sleep, whether natural or artificial, is restorative for humans no matter how healthy they are. He used that moment to lecture me on making certain the rest of my crew got enough rest.

  I know that Hoshi is not getting enough. I suppose I could order her to her quarters, but I confess that I need her working right now. She and T’Pol are bearing the burden of these last few days. The rest of us seem to be reacting more than acting.

  That’s an unusual position for me. I like to take the initiative, but there isn’t much initiative for a captain to take in this situation. I have decided not to contact the Fazi yet, and they haven’t tried to contact us.

  I hope they wait a little while longer, to give us a better understanding of both the Fazi culture and the alien culture that shares their world.

  Waiting. I hadn’t realized there was so much of it in this job. When Starfleet debriefs me after this mission is over—whenever that will be—I’m going to have to ask them to find ways to help the crew deal with downtime. Yes, they need sleep as Dr. Phlox said, but we can only sleep so much.

  Because the Enterprise is so streamlined, we did not bring a lot of entertainment with us. Everyone brought favorite books, excellent recordings, and a few other items that could be digitally stored, and I know there’s a lot of swappi
ng of items going on among the crew. But I get the sense that’s not enough distraction.

  We don’t really have a place for organized recreation. The mess hall is too small to accommodate most of the crew at one time, and a person’s quarters are barely big enough for two. Hell, I feel cramped with Porthos, and he doesn’t take as much space as another person—most of the time.

  I hear that a few of the crew are playing a game in the mess hall. I wish others would do the same. It might take their minds off their duties long enough to help them remain creative and refreshed.

  CUTLER MADE NOTATIONS IN HER PADD AS ANDERSON rolled his newest character. She listened with half an ear as the bolts hit the towel. Mayweather rocked on the back two legs of his chair, and Novakovich finished the last of the cabbage soup he’d eaten for dinner.

  His face was clearing up, and he looked more comfortable than he had when they started playing the game, nearly a week before. His attitude was improved as well. He smiled more. Maybe that was a function of the clearer skin. It might have been painful to smile through all the sand pimples.

  The mess was crowded on this night. A lot of people had gotten off their duty shifts late. Cutler had. She had spent the day studying the files that Phlox had sent over on the alien. She had asked for permission to visit the brig to see the creature and had been denied. So she had to content herself with 3-D images and the results of someone else’s scans.

  Those provided a lot of information, but there was a lot she would have done differently as well. She longed for a time when she could see the alien up close and personal.

  “You got a name for this one?” Mayweather asked Anderson.

  “Abe,” Anderson said. Even after an entire night’s sleep and a full work shift, Cutler could tell that Anderson was still upset about losing his third character in the Martian canal.

  “Why Abe?” Novakovich asked.

  “Figured I’m going to die so many times in this silly game, I should name my characters alphabetically. So Abe it is. The next one is named Benny.”

  “The point is to keep the characters alive,” Mayweather said.

  “Oh, really?” Anderson asked. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Cutler laughed along with the rest of them, but it was clear Anderson wasn’t really happy about the death of all his characters.

  Mayweather, still leaning back in his chair, studied Anderson. From that angle, Anderson couldn’t see the contemplative look on Mayweather’s face. Contemplative and full of sympathy. After a moment, Mayweather’s gaze met Cutler’s.

  “You know,” he said, “why don’t we just let Anderson’s new character join us?” Mayweather suggested as they got ready to start.

  “I have no problem with that,” Novakovich said.

  Novakovich and Mayweather stared at Cutler, waiting for an answer. She didn’t know what to say to them. In the games she had played as a kid, you always had to start over when your character was killed. But now she was in charge and making up the rules and she could do what she wanted.

  “No,” Anderson said, “Abe can catch up with you.”

  Cutler nodded. “That is the traditional way to play,” she said.

  “Can he at least swim?” Mayweather asked, laughing.

  “I don’t know if it matters,” Anderson said. “The other guys could swim and they still died.”

  “We don’t know if Dr. Mean could swim,” Novakovich said. “After all, he made it farther than the first two.”

  “Well, I don’t really like Abe’s prospects,” Anderson said as he gathered up the bolts and put them into the cup.

  Neither did Cutler. Of all of Anderson’s characters, Abe had rolled the lowest scores. He had an intelligence of four, a strength of three, charisma of six, dexterity of eight, and a luck of two. In other words, he made friends easily, was good with his hands, and had nothing else to recommend him.

  Sounded like a few guys Cutler had dated in school. She smiled at her own private joke.

  “Okay,” Cutler said, “where do you guys want to start?”

  “The beginning is always good,” Mayweather said.

  “And in this case, the beginning is Anderson,” Novakovich said.

  “Abe,” Anderson corrected. “Anderson has been to the beginning three times already.”

  He grabbed the cup with both hands. “You’re going to let me get to the bridge with no problem, aren’t you?” he said to Cutler.

  She nodded. “The bridge over the canal is just like it was before. The plank is even still there.”

  “Thank heavens for small miracles,” Anderson said. “I doubt Abe is smart enough to figure out that trick on his own.”

  So did Cutler, but she didn’t say that. “He needs more than two red bolts to get across.”

  “More than,” Anderson said as he shook the cup. “What happens if he only gets two?”

  “He totters on that plank, trying to catch his balance, until you roll again.”

  “Gee, you’re mean,” Anderson said.

  “But she’s not Dr. Mean,” Novakovich said.

  “He’s dead,” Mayweather said, and chuckled.

  “Not funny,” Anderson said as he tossed the bolts on the table.

  The group stared at them. For a moment, Cutler thought he’d rolled no red bolts at all. Then she saw the red ones at the far end.

  “Three!” Anderson shouted. “I rolled three!”

  People at nearby tables looked up as if Anderson had lost his mind. He was jumping up and down and screaming, “Three!”

  “All that means is that you made it across,” Mayweather said, looking slightly embarrassed at the display.

  “Do you know how hard that is?” Anderson asked.

  Mayweather shrugged. “Unk thought it was a piece of cake.”

  Anderson grimaced at him and sat down. Novakovich smiled and set his soup bowl on the table behind them.

  “Okay,” Cutler said to Anderson, “Abe is entering the city. The building where Unk and Rust are waiting is two blocks ahead, but the street is blocked by debris. You can go up into buildings on either side of the street, or take the subway.”

  “Which side of the street are they on?” Anderson asked.

  “The right,” Cutler said.

  “Is there sky bridges between the buildings on that side?”

  “There are,” Cutler said.

  “Then I’ll skip them,” Anderson said. “I really hate bridges.”

  “You’re going through the debris?” Mayweather asked, sounding alarmed.

  “I’ll have better luck there.”

  “You might flush out green Martians with pointy teeth,” Novakovich said.

  “So what?” Anderson said. “I have a new character waiting in the wings.”

  He sounded flip, but didn’t look that way as Cutler led him through the debris, roll by roll. The other two players waited patiently for him to pick his way across the two blocks, disturbing Martian rats and Martian red slugs, but not doing any serious damage.

  Each roll of Anderson’s was close. A couple of times, Cutler thought he’d failed, and then Mayweather would point out a bolt that Cutler could have sworn was unpainted a moment before. She had a hunch Mayweather was helping Anderson, and in this case she didn’t mind.

  In the future, she’d keep her eye on Mayweather.

  “All right,” she said after a torturous twenty minutes, “you’ve joined the others.”

  They let out a large cheer. The remaining diners in the mess hall stared, but didn’t come over. They’d learned early in the game that RPGs were not a spectator sport.

  Cutler made a notation in her padd that Anderson’s trek through the debris-covered street had alerted the Martians to the players’ position. She wasn’t sure how she would use that, but she knew she would eventually.

  “All right,” she said, “let’s see what Unk and Rust are going to—”

  At that moment the intercom crackled. “Ensign Cutler, report to Subcommander T’Pol on
the bridge at once.”

  For a moment, the word “bridge” blended in her mind with the bridges in the ruined city. She frowned, wondering what that meant, then grinned at herself. She had gotten very deep into the game this evening.

  And now she was being summoned to work. Work. If they were calling her for an extra duty shift, that only meant one thing: she was going to be able to see the alien.

  Cutler jumped to her feet and moved over to the wall of the mess and tapped the intercom button. “Ensign Cutler here. On my way.”

  She didn’t feel she even had time to take the game pieces back to her room. She picked up the padd containing her notes. “Travis, would you take care of the towel and stuff until tomorrow?”

  “Glad to,” Mayweather said.

  “Thanks,” she said, and headed for the exit. As she did, she heard Novakovich say, “You know, Anderson, you have to stop dying, or we’ll never get a chance to play.”

  Cutler smiled. Eventually they’d figure out the little twists and turns of the game. She could only give them so many clues—and the largest one was in the structure of the game itself. They still hadn’t figured it out, and that was to her credit. That was one secret she hadn’t let out, even in her inexperienced early days.

  Then she got on the lift and her thoughts turned to work. She had been hoping that her studies of the alien locked in the brig would bring her more into the main action, and it seemed that now they had.

  It was time to gather information on her own.

  It was time to face the alien.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE LIFT OPENED AND ARCHER SWIVELED IN HIS CHAIR. Ensign Cutler got off, a padd tucked under her arm, and purpose in her walk. It was amazing how fast his staff reported for duty when something unusual was happening. Cutler looked thrilled to be up here.

  He hoped she could help them. She hadn’t been able to study the creature in person. She’d only been able to use the information that Phlox had gathered. But Cutler and the other two exobiologists on the crew had been focusing on the aliens of the southern continent and their strange buildings ever since Cutler had gone on the away mission with Edwards. Archer hoped the exobiologists would have something he could use.