IMBALANCE

by V. E. Mitchell

  With a start Riker pulled himself back to the present. “If you are not in charge of the val’khorret, Councillor Zelmirtrozarn, then perhaps I misunderstood First Among Council Zelfreetrollan’s explanation yesterday. Could I ask you again what your function in the government is?”

  Again Zelmirtrozarn clacked his claws together in the Jaradan equivalent of laughter. “To ask that question suggests that you do not understand our naming rules, Riker-Commander. Does your translating computer not tell you how our names are constructed?”

  Riker reached for his communicator, clipped inside his sleeve to keep it out of sight, but stopped when he realized the Jaradan unit strapped around his wrist had done no better. Last night Data had said nothing about Jaradan names, although he had supplied them with speculations on most of the information they had gleaned during the day’s activities. On a hunch Riker decided that admitting imperfect knowledge might be a good strategic move. So far the Federation’s best information suggested that the Jarada were about a century behind the technological mainstream of the Federation. That hundred years had produced dramatic changes for many Federation worlds, improving the quality and style of life almost immeasurably. To the Jarada, the Enterprise’s technology must seem almost magical, a wondrous and infallible power that they could comprehend dimly and that they could hope to command only in the far distant future.

  A little imperfection, Riker reasoned, might lessen the perceived disparity. “No, Councillor. Our computer hasn’t given us any translations for your names. So far it’s had enough trouble coping with the tonality of your language, without working on such finer points as naming rules. I’d appreciate an explanation, if you don’t mind.”

  They approached a cross-corridor, the first Riker had seen since they reached the bottom of the ramp. From the left came loud noises—the clashing of metal on metal and a loud buzzing, like the sound of the antique chain saw his grandfather’s best friend had used to carve totem poles for the Talkeetna Heritage Park. Wondering what was happening, Riker turned toward the noise. Zelmirtrozarn tapped his arm with a clawed true-hand and pointed in the opposite direction. “I had forgotten. The hive guardians are holding a vrrek’khat drill in this sector. We had best move quickly, or we shall get caught in their maneuvers.”

  “Vrrek’khat?” Riker stumbled over the word, puzzled. His translator gave him no clue about its meaning. From behind them Riker heard the clatter of a group of Jarada running in unison. When he paused to see what was happening, Zelmirtrozarn grabbed his wrist and jerked him into the side passageway. A dozen large chestnut-colored Jarada charged past them and headed toward the noise without missing a stride. The odor of cinnamon washed over Riker, almost overpowering him with its intensity.

  “Vrrek’khat are vicious predators native to our homeworld. They attack in swarms, often in the season when the larvae emerge from the eggs. If they breach the Hive’s defenses, they will destroy both the queen and the larvae in their chambers. When the guardians are fighting vrrek’khat, they will attack anything that is not-Hive.”

  Something in Zelmirtrozarn’s tone told Riker that the Jarada was lying. Why or about what he was not sure, but he decided to test the insectoid. “I would be very interested to watch the drill, Councillor Zelmirtrozarn. Would that be possible?”

  The large central facets of the Jarada’s eyes shimmeted from pale orange to greenish-yellow to lemon yellow. Watching the changing interference colors, Riker realized that Zelmirtrozarn was scanning the intersection, checking all four corridors without moving his head. The shifting colors meant the lenses in the central elements of his compound eyes could change their orientation, much like the focusing element in a platform scanner. Thinking that fact might be useful, Riker filed the observation along with everything else he’d learned about the Jarada.

  The sounds from the opposite hallway grew louder, and Zelmirtrozarn started away from them, gesturing for Riker to hurry. “If you wish, we can arrange for you to watch a drill at a later time, Riker-Commander. However, these passageways have no observation galleries and it is unsafe for you to remain unless you have been marked as a member of the Hive. I apologize for the oversight, but it was not brought to our attention that you would wish to observe this aspect of our society.”

  “Marked?” Riker shook his head, trying to clear it of the reek of cinnamon. How did the Jarada stand being bombarded by such overpowering smells? He could not remember when he had been assaulted by so many concentrated odors.

  “Of course, Riker-Commander. Each individual emits a characteristic marker scent determined by one’s genetics and role in our society. That way, one always knows the status and relationships of each person one encounters. Under unusual circumstances one may wish to subdue one’s scent, but this can create disorientation in the strangers one meets.”

  They reached a split in the corridor, and Zelmirtrozarn chose the downward fork. Riker suppressed a moment’s uneasiness, envisioning a network of tunnels and dungeons beneath the Governance Complex which could swallow him without a trace. To take his mind off that thought, he asked, “How does this relate to what you started to tell me about naming rules?”

  Zelmirtrozarn clacked his jaws together sharply. “You are very perceptive, Riker-Commander. You have almost the intelligence of a hive-brother. With proper training, perhaps your people may be worthy to be adopted into our hive.”

  How am I supposed to answer that? Riker wondered. He thought the Jarada intended his remark as a compliment, but his wording was such that Riker could not guess an appropriate response. Fortunately for him, Zelmirtrozarn continued talking as though he did not notice Riker’s dilemma.

  “Our language constructs personal names so that the listener will know the place of each individual in our society. Doesn’t your Federation do the same for its citizens?”

  With an effort Riker focused his attention on the immediate subject. “There is no one set of rules in use throughout the Federation. Each world has its own customs and traditions.”

  Zelmirtrozarn bobbed his head to the side. “That is odd. It must be very difficult not to know an individual’s position in his hive. I cannot conceive of how your people could function with such uncertainty.”

  The corridor bent to the left and turned sharply downward. Moisture beaded on the walls and pooled in the low spots on the uneven floor. Riker shifted his trombone case to his other hand so he could wipe the cold sweat from his palm. He told himself that he had no cause for alarm, but the signs of disuse were so obvious that it was difficult to convince himself.

  He wondered if anyone knew where he and Zelmirtrozarn were, and he had to struggle to keep from calling Data on the Enterprise just to hear a familiar voice. That thought brought him back to the Jarada’s question. “When you deal with beings from other worlds and other cultures, you generally must ask what their titles and functions are. We’ve concentrated on developing rules for dealing with the uncertainties, because there is no way to avoid them when you step outside your own culture.”

  “This is a concept with an intensely exotic aroma. It will require much contemplation before I can encompass it.” The Jarada was silent while the tunnel twisted deeper underground. Finally they passed through a massive undecorated door and into a cylindrical shaft that disappeared into darkness both above and below them. Dim greenish glowstrips dotted the walls at apparently random intervals. Zelmirtrozarn started to climb upward.

  “When you decompose the elements of a Jaradan name, the words will tell you the individual’s place in our society. The first syllable is always the name of the Hive, for without the association and support of our hive-mates, we are nothing. Everyone on this planet belongs to Hive Zel, because this is a recent settlement. When our population becomes too large, so that the fabric of hive life is severely distorted, the Hive will divide and new units will coalesce from the segments of the old.”

  “How often does this happen?” For the hives to subdivide when they became too big was a simp
le thing, and logical, too, but none of their information on the Jarada had suggested such an event might occur.

  “It is a variable thing depending on the resources available to the hive and on the quality of offspring produced. In a new world where we have abundant resources, we can expect the fission to occur in perhaps twenty of your years. On the older worlds the queens produce fewer eggs and the hives grow more slowly. However, you asked about our naming rules, and I should not allow myself to become distracted.”

  Riker shrugged, then realized the Jarada might not understand what the gesture meant. “I’m interested in learning everything I can about your hive. Please continue, Councillor.”

  “You are most gracious, Riker-Commander. My caste-mates often claim that my calling is for an instructional function rather than an administrative one. At times I fear my explanations do follow as convoluted a path as this diversion we were forced to take.”

  They had reached a level space on the ramp and Zelmirtrozarn paused, running his claws over the outer wall. Riker noticed the faint outline of a door. A small click sounded, loud in the enclosed shaft, and a moment later a control panel lit beside the door. Zelmirtrozarn fitted his claws into the proper indentations and tapped out a coded pattern. With a grinding protest the panel retreated into the wall. They stepped through, onto the landing of a well-lit shaft similar to the one they were leaving. After closing the door, Zelmirtrozarn started upward again. “We rarely use the old passages anymore, because they collect too much moisture in the damp season. She who designed them for us was from a different hive, and one has to suspect the motives of those who sent her to work for us.”

  Riker started to ask if interhive rivalries were common, but remembered the battle scenes carved into the Audience Chamber door. Instead, he returned to the earlier topic. “You were explaining about Jaradan naming rules.”

  Zelmirtrozarn clacked his claws in amusement. “Yes, I do seem to have trouble staying on the subject. As I was saying, the first syllable of a name indicates our hive affiliation. The second syllable is the name of the caste to which the individual belongs. One’s caste is very important, since it is determined by one’s genetic inheritance and in turn governs how one serves one’s hive. My caste, the Mir, are the keepers of our hive’s traditions, rituals, and values. The Nyen raise and train the young, and the Free are the administrators and rulers.”

  They reached another level stretch of the ramp and the Jarada faced toward the wall, sliding his claws across the surface until they activated the control panel. The invisible controls were a formidable security precaution, and Riker shivered at the thought of what could force a society to so thoroughly hide the locks to their doors. With an effort he shoved the thought away and searched for a less martial topic. “You said that everyone’s caste was genetically determined. Do you mean—you’re born into your position and can’t change it?”

  “Of course.” As the door opened for them, Zelmirtrozarn clacked his claws together in amusement. “You would have to get a Brek—a scientist—to explain the mechanisms to you, but I infer that our genetics have a much greater influence on our abilities than among your people. Of course”—he curled his feeding-arms and true-arms upward to his shoulders, which Riker now recognized as the Jaradan equivalent of a shrug—“we have a larger genome to work with. Our genetic inheritance is a tremendous advantage in building a stable and efficient society.”

  “I see.” They passed through a second door and into a wide corridor. Sunlight poured through a row of skylights overhead. The walls were a pale golden color and the abstract mosaic on the floor was done in various earth tones. Riker blinked, trying to adjust to the brilliance after the subdued artificial light in the tunnels. A short distance away, from behind a closed door, he heard what sounded like someone torturing a small cougar.

  “You do not believe me, I think.” Zelmirtrozarn clacked softly. “Later we will show you that we are right. Now, however, I must finish one lecture before I begin the next. The third syllable in a name indicates one’s function—leader, worker, teacher. As you may guess, individuals may wear distinct functions at different times in their lives, and their naming will change to reflect this. Finally, the last syllable is an individual name, which can be used by itself when one is not fulfilling a formal role. It is such a logical system that I cannot believe your society can operate without it.”

  Riker drew a deep breath, wondering why he had wanted any part of this diplomatic mission. Is it too late to convince the captain to leave me in charge of the Enterprise? There were a staggering number of wrong responses to Zelmirtrozarn’s last statement. If the Jarada had been deliberately setting him up to commit a diplomatic faux pas, if he had been trying to create the justification for an interstellar incident, he could scarcely have laid a better trap. Riker shook himself, trying to dismiss that thought. After a moment he answered in what he hoped was a neutral tone. “Our system isn’t quite so formalized, but it functions in a similar manner.” The sounds of the dying cat rose to a crescendo and then were lost in the hollow pounding of an army of what sounded like bongo drums. Riker shivered with the awful premonition that the sounds were being produced by the val’khorret, the musicians he was supposed to be visiting.

  They stopped outside the room where the noises were being made, and Zelmirtrozarn reached for another of the hidden control pads. “I hope you will explain your naming rules to me after the val’khorret makes their presentation for you. I would be fascinated to learn more about your people,” Zelmirtrozarn said. He entered the combination into the panel and the door slid aside.

  The room was bright and airy, with wide, unbarred windows filling the outer wall. They were on the upper story of the tallest building in the city, and Riker was immediately drawn to the view. He crossed to the window, trying to orient himself. A broad river meandered across the foreground, and the misshapen wheel of the Governance Complex sprawled across the opposite bank. Beyond, partly obscured by the thick foliage of various trees, lay the bulbous earth-toned structures that housed the city’s population. In the far distance the serrated edge of a mountain range shadowed the horizon.

  Behind him Riker heard the subdued clacking of a dozen sets of claws. “We thought you would be impressed with the sight of our city,” Zelmirtrozarn said. “We’re gratified that our judgment was correct.”

  “Very impressive.” Riker turned away from the window. The city’s major structures were on his side of the river, he remembered, and he decided to ask to see the corresponding view after the musical session was over. “But forgive me for ignoring you.”

  “Not at all.” Zelmirtrozarn dismissed Riker’s concern with a wave of his true-hand. That gesture, at least, was common to both humans and Jarada. “Anyone who does not respond to the first time they meet this view has no music inside his cephalon. Consider it an initiation, and welcome to the inner ranks of the val’khorret.”

  Riker studied his surroundings more closely, noticing that the room was large enough to hold a small orchestra. Even spread out, the dozen Jarada facing him seemed lost in the space. Before he could pursue that thought, Zelmirtrozarn began introducing the musicians and letting each demonstrate his instrument for Riker.

  All the musicians had mottled carapaces and moved with the stiffness of extreme age. Also in contrast to most of the Jarada he had met, their scents were subdued, faint enough that he was not overwhelmed by a surfeit of aromas. From their names Riker was able to identify individuals from at least eight separate castes and he noticed wide differences in size and color. Genetics again? he wondered, making himself a note to ask later.

  “And please, call us by our personal names,” said the leader of the group, Riis. She was a diminutive female with a primrose-splotched carapace. “When the music starts, we are all equals.”

  “That is an excellent idea.” Zelmirtrozarn extended his arms in apology. “I will take a lesson from my esteemed colleague Riker-Commander. From now on you must call me Zarn.” />
  The instruments were a surprise, although if he had thought about it, Riker would have realized that their rigid mandibles prevented the Jarada from playing wind instruments. Instead, they had a variety of string and percussion instruments—a plucked string instrument similar to a harpsichord, various sizes of drums, bells, xylophone- and glockenspiellike arrays of tuned wooden or metal bars, a harp that required six hands to play, a tabletop instrument that resembled a cross between a guitar and a violin. A large organlike instrument that needed two Jarada to operate it occupied the back wall of the room.

  Riis demonstrated the organ briefly but explained that her usual partner had been called away suddenly. She pulled the cover over the keyboard and sat at the harpsichord. “Now, Riker-Commander, would you honor us with a performance of your instrument?”

  “Of course.” He lifted the trombone case onto a table. “But if we are all equals, you must call me by my personal name, Will.”

  “It will be our privilege,” Riis answered with great dignity. She inclined her head in an abbreviated bow, and Riker noticed again how stiff her movements were, reinforcing his conclusion that the Jarada in the val’khorret were quite old.

  The trombone was a novelty, its basic principles unknown to the Jarada. He had to demonstrate how the instrument worked—how he formed a tone by blowing air from his lungs through his lips into the mouthpiece of the instrument, how he could vary the tone by modifying the way the air flowed through the mouthpiece, how moving the slide changed the length of the resonating column of air.

  Finally Riker played them a brief solo, choosing a piece by the pre-Reformation Vulcan composer, Karbrésh. He had never mastered the micro-tone scales of modern Vulcan music, which the Jaradan music strongly resembled, but the quarter-tone scales of the Karbrésh piece were at least within his reach—as long as no one counted his errors. Fortunately, the Jarada had nothing against which to compare his performance.