“That’s a given,” she told him. “Doctor-patient confidentiality is a core principle of human medicine.”
“Good.” He didn’t seem any less nervous, though. Was this really a Trill taboo or just a personal phobia about doctors?
Once in the medical compartment, he remained sullen and silent as she ran her scanner over him, and he visibly flinched when she leaned in closer to examine the anomalous structure she detected in his midsection. “What’s this?” It was some sort of vermiform organ wrapped around the digestive tract, with its narrow end extending to connect to the spine. “This extra organ in your abdomen. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“Hmm?” She showed him the readout. “Oh. Oh, that. I’m, I’m not really, ah, well versed in biology. I think it’s part of my endocrine system.”
“Then why is it in some kind of marsupial pouch? And is that . . . some sort of neural connection to the spinal column?”
“I, I really don’t think . . . isn’t the radiation scan more important?”
“Hold on . . . I’m detecting neurological activity!” She looked up at him. “Where do you keep your brain, Doctor?”
“That’s a rather personal question, isn’t it?”
More convinced than ever that Dax was hiding something, she intensified her examination. Oddly, he just sat there and let it happen, even as she grew more horrified at what she found. “That . . . that thing doesn’t just have its own brain circuitry pattern, it has entirely separate DNA. It’s an independent life-form. And it’s intelligent!” She took a step back from him, her mind filling with possibilities. Some kind of alien parasite that had taken over this man’s body? More alarming still was Dax’s behavior. “You knew about this. This isn’t something that’s . . . infected you without your knowledge. Are you . . . is it controlling you?” She realized with dismay that, to this day, no one knew what Romulans looked like. Were they actually these slug things, taking over the bodies of hapless victims, using them to infiltrate their enemies even now? Was Dax responsible for the wormhole accident all along? And if so, did that mean she’d just made the stupidest and last mistake of her life, revealing to this enemy creature that she’d discovered it?
But after a moment, one undeniable fact penetrated her fear: namely, that Dax looked even more frightened than she felt. She took a few deep breaths, gathering herself. “Doctor Dax . . . what are you?”
He winced. “All right. Just . . . please hear me out before you judge.”
Liao stared for a moment. “I . . . I’m listening.”
“I’m . . .” He gestured to himself, his whole body, in a sweeping gesture. “This is Tobin.” His hands went to his midriff, over the thing inside. “This . . . is Dax.”
Her eyes darted from his midsection to his face uncertainly. “Which one am I speaking to?”
“Both of us. Of, of me. It’s . . . we used to be separate. Now we’re one. One mind.”
“It’s a parasite.”
“A symbiont. An equal partnership.”
“Really. And what does the, um, Tobin part get out of it?” The benefits to the vermiform creature were obvious. It had no manipulative ability, no defenses, little evident sensory capability.
“The host. The host gets . . . a lot. Higher intelligence. The wisdom of lifetimes. A new perspective, new skills. And . . . we get to live on.”
“Meaning?”
“When a host dies . . . the symbiont preserves our memories, our . . . essence. Part of us lives as long as the symbiont does.” He gave a breathy laugh. “I’m actually kind of relieved you found out, Doctor. If anything . . . does happen to me—well, if the ship survives, that is, and the symbiont lives—I need someone I can rely on to ensure the symbiont is returned to Trill as quickly as possible. Under the circumstances, it probably won’t be possible, but if there’s any way to get it back in time to be implanted in another host before it dies . . . before the last of me dies . . . then it’s urgent that, that the attempt is made. Can, can I count on you for that, Doctor?”
“My duty is to protect my patient. If it comes down to a choice between you and the symbiont—”
He shook his head. “I am the symbiont, as much as I’m the host. And neither half of me can live without the other. Well, the symbiont can, but only if it gets another host in time.”
“That doesn’t seem a very fair trade-off.”
“Is your way any better? Dying totally and permanently?” He looked around, shaking his head as if at his general situation. “I’ve been so terrified this whole time. I’m, I’m only Dax’s second host, you see. It’s a very young symbiont—only a hundred forty-five years old, less than ninety spent joined. It would be . . . well, it would be dreadfully embarrassing if I let my symbiont get killed so young.”
“So the symbiont matters more than the host?”
“We can both live on in the symbiont. Neither of us can live if we lose it.” He shrugged. “It’s how we evolved, Doctor. I know it must seem hideous to you. That’s why we keep it secret—to protect the symbionts from aliens who’d see them as parasites, threats. But it’s natural for us. It’s just who we are.”
Liao struggled with the concept. She’d been trying to broaden her horizons, to accept the aliens who were part of the Federation now. But it was one thing to learn to like a guy who looked like a pig and thought rudeness was polite, or a woman with elf ears and a logic fetish. This was a far bigger leap. The idea of what Dax described—having one’s identity blended with another creature’s, subsumed as a part of it—it nauseated her. It was the most intimate violation she could contemplate—even worse than a Vulcan mind meld, since it never ended.
But there was one thing she couldn’t deny: Tobin Dax was simply far too neurotic and timid to be a spy or a mind-rapist. If anything, he was one of the gentlest souls she’d ever met. And if the symbiont was half of what made him who he was . . . what did that tell her?
She turned off the scanner. “I’m detecting no radiation damage, either to you or . . . your other you. I’m clearing you to return to duty.”
“So . . . so you won’t tell anyone?”
“As I said, my oath forbids it. As long as I’m convinced you don’t pose any harm to anyone else, I’m honor-bound to keep your secret.”
He smiled, sagging as the tension in his body relaxed. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“I do think you should confide in the captain, at least. I’ll back you up if you do.”
“I don’t know. Unless . . . unless he really needed to know it, I’d rather not.”
“Better if you control the situation than have it come out by accident.”
Dax pondered. “I’ll think about it.” He headed for the exit, then paused. “Thank you again, Doctor Liao.”
“Hey, it’s self-interest. We need all the brains we can get to think our way out of this mess, and you’ve got a spare in your pocket. So who am I to complain?”
The Trill—both of him—smiled and left. Liao smiled back.
Then the polite façade faded and she breathed hard for a while. Then she made herself study the scans of the symbiont, trying to train herself to stop feeling revulsion at the thought of it.
U.S.S. Endeavour
Following a precedent discovered by Vinakthen’s medical staff—who were somewhat less reluctant to experiment with their Mute prisoners than he was—Doctor Phlox had adjusted the atmosphere in the decon chamber to proportions that would sedate the aliens, making it safe for T’Pol to enter and attempt the meld. “I must say,” the Denobulan physician told his captain as they stood outside the chamber with Thanien, Sato, and Kimura, “I have my concerns over the matter of consent.”
“You know that is not a matter I take lightly, Phlox,” T’Pol replied. “I do not intend to force my way into the subject’s mind . . . not if it can be avoided. Hopefully conveying the intent and ability to communicate will be sufficient.”
“It never has before,” Thanien pointed out. “Why would you ex
pect it to now?”
“If Hoshi is correct, these beings are driven by a rather aggressive curiosity. The mind meld may be a sufficiently novel form of communication to engage their interest.”
“And maybe a closer one to their own,” Sato added. “They can understand our verbal communication well enough to send messages with it, but they may not think of it as real language. They communicate with magnetic fields and infrared—they can literally sense what’s going on inside each other’s bodies at any moment. That’s a little like telepathy.” She shrugged. “Okay, it’s not a great theory, but it’s what we’ve got.”
Thanien found it a tenuous basis for such a risk. “Captain, I still question the wisdom of risking a senior officer—especially one with classified knowledge of fleet deployment and capabilities.”
“I doubt anything so detailed will be transmitted through the meld, Commander. We are dealing with a highly alien neurology and perceptual framework. What comes across will most likely be basic, universal concepts or rough analogies—our own brains’ best approximations for what we sense from one another.”
“If so, will it even be possible for you to learn anything meaningful from them? Such as the location of their homeworld?”
T’Pol pondered. “We occupy the same physical space, so I might be able to recognize astronomical landmarks even filtered through their perceptions. However, my primary goal is not to interrogate but to establish a framework for dialogue.”
“Captain—”
“As long as our only basis for communication is physical force, the possibility of peace, or even a negotiated surrender such as the one we imposed on the Romulans, does not exist. That leaves only the options of unending conflict or total annihilation—neither of which is acceptable to me. Therefore, an alternative form of communication must be found. Do you disagree?”
Thanien studied her. “I concede that point. But I cannot endorse my captain risking herself.”
“Unfortunately, there are as yet no Vulcans serving aboard Andorian ships, and no others on Endeavour. Nor am I aware of any telepathic adepts among the Malurians or Rigelians. I am, as the humans would say, the only game in town.”
The captain left Thanien with that odd metaphor and his own thoughts. He watched as she donned her breathing mask and entered the chamber after a final go-ahead from Phlox. Kimura, wearing his own mask, accompanied her inside, ready to defend her if the Mutes proved more awake than they appeared. T’Pol approached the motionless aliens with caution despite their sedation. She looked between them, then chose one for reasons Thanien couldn’t guess. She closed her eyes, moving her hands over the alien’s bulbous head as though searching for something. “What is she doing?” Thanien asked.
“I suppose she must be trying to find the right nerve clusters to access the alien’s brain,” Phlox said with enthusiasm. “I tried to narrow it down for her, but apparently it’s as much an art as a science.”
Finally her hands came to rest upon the creature’s transparent hide . . . and there was only silence. “Isn’t there some sort of mantra?” Thanien asked.
“The aliens don’t speak,” Sato replied. “I guess she’s trying to get into their way of thinking. Make the connection easier.”
“Then how will we know—”
T’Pol stiffened, and the medical scanner in Phlox’s hand began to beep. “That’s how,” he said. “A spike in both their neural activity.”
The captain’s body trembled, her head twitching. “Is she in pain?” Sato asked.
“I don’t dare to guess what she’s experiencing,” Phlox said, “but I doubt connecting with a mind so alien is going to be a walk in the proverbial park for her. I’m concerned too, Hoshi, but my instructions are not to intervene unless there’s a clear danger to one or the other subject.” The beeping began to slow. “There . . . she seems to be stabilizing.”
For a long moment, there was no movement within the chamber. “Now what?” Thanien asked.
“Now . . . we wait,” the doctor replied. “As long as it takes.”
Minutes later, Thanien found himself pacing the corridor like an expectant father. He forced himself to stop, resting against a bulkhead out of the immediate line of sight of the tableau within the chamber. Phlox wandered over to him a few moments later, leaving Sato to keep watch at the chamber door’s porthole. “It’s natural to be worried, Commander. Nothing to be ashamed of.” He glanced backward. “I’m worried too.”
“I’m not . . . simply concerned,” Thanien answered. “I’m . . . confused.”
“Hm. What about, if I may?”
“What the captain is doing . . . I think it’s a foolish chance to take in the name of some ill-founded hope for peace.” Phlox waited patiently. “But it’s also . . . one of the most courageous acts I’ve ever seen. An act of deep conviction and . . . and integrity.”
“And that surprises you?”
His antennae sagged. “I’ve spent most of my life in conflict with the Vulcan High Command, and had my share of run-ins with their Ministry of Security as well. I know what they were capable of. And T’Pol was in service to them both. I’ve been forced to wonder . . . What crimes against my people might she have been complicit in?”
“I’m sure those organizations did their share of harm to your people, as your equivalents did to theirs,” Phlox said. “But I have never known T’Pol to be anything but a woman of profound conscience. A conscience that compelled her to leave the Ministry of Security almost as soon as she’d joined, and eventually to resign from the High Command when it refused to help Earth against the Xindi. A conscience that ultimately helped bring down the corrupt regime that was responsible for provoking conflict with your people. I daresay the peace between Vulcans and Andorians would never have happened without T’Pol.”
Thanien considered his words. “I have no reason to question you, Phlox. But . . . it’s a difficult thing to accept, with so much history. Kanshent . . . she urged me not to forget the ones we mourned, and the acts responsible for their loss. How can I . . . how can I honor her memory, how can I mourn her, if I let go of those she was determined to honor? If I don’t demand some kind of recompense for those old wrongs?”
Phlox was silent for some moments. “My people have faced similar questions,” he said, the words not coming with his usual ease. “The Denobulans were at war with the Antarans for generations. Countless millions were killed, atrocities were committed on both sides . . . the hatred was so intractable that our two races refused to speak to one another for three centuries after the fighting ended.” He looked down at his hands. “I think perhaps we both felt as much loathing for our own ancestors’ actions as for the others’, and avoiding our old enemies let us avoid facing those painful truths about ourselves.”
“What changed?” Thanien asked.
“We . . . began to speak to one another again. Rather, a pair of us were forced to by circumstance. Reluctantly at first, not without anger . . . but we talked, and after a while we started to listen. And that paved the way for more of us to be willing to talk, and to listen. And both our peoples began to understand that what we hated each other for was far in the past, no longer relevant to the present.
“There were some who demanded reparations for old war crimes, even though none of the victims of those crimes were still alive. But our governments both decided that a demand for war reparations would just re-ignite old tensions—possibly destroy a peace that was still tenuous. Far from healing the wounds, it would simply reopen them, worsen them.”
“Our dead deserve to be honored, Phlox.”
“But do we really honor them by using them as an excuse to add to their numbers?” Phlox shook his head. “Sometimes, Thanien, you simply have to stop letting the past define your life and live for the future instead. After all, nothing we do can change the past—barring time travel, which in my experience causes more problems than it solves.” Thanien stared, but the doctor didn’t elaborate on what experience that might have
been. “The only thing our choices can affect or change is the future. So it seems to me that the future is where our attention can be most usefully directed.”
The Denobulan directed his gaze back toward the decon chamber. “And that’s why T’Pol is in there. Because her focus is not on the lives already lost, but the lives she can still save.”
“Doctor!” Sato called before Thanien could fully process his words. “She’s coming out of it!”
They rushed to the hatch. T’Pol staggered, seemingly unsure of her perceptions. Kimura caught her and guided her gently to the exit. Once they were out, Phlox helped her into a seated position on the deck and removed her breathing mask. “Captain?” he asked, holding his scanner beside her head. “Are you all right? T’Pol!”
After a few more moments, her gaze came into focus. “Doctor. Commander,” she said, looking up at him.
“How are you feeling?” Thanien asked.
She reached a hand up to him—and he reflexively took it, supporting her as she pulled herself to her feet. “I am . . . disoriented. But improving.”
“Did you make contact?” Sato asked. “Did you learn anything?”
“I gained . . . considerable information,” the captain replied, sounding as if she were slightly inebriated. “However, I am not yet sure what it means. I need to meditate on it. After which you and I will need to discuss what I learned, Commander.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Thanien’s first impulse was to question T’Pol, to remind her that they were surrounded by an alien fleet and didn’t have time for quiet contemplation. But he found himself holding back.
He realized, at last, that he had no reason not to trust her.
13
Rigel V
“I MUST SAY, ADMIRAL,” Orav Penap said as he showed Archer into his place of business, “I’m gratified that you’ve chosen to take me up on my standing invitation at last. I assure you, my ladies are wonderful at relieving stress. Just the thing to keep you at your peak during these tense times.”
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