[Write about a gift that you were given by a species during a first contact meeting. Maybe it is a memento that is important to their culture, or a bottle of their finest liqueur, or maybe even something that if not taken (no matter how much you wanted to leave it there) would be offensive. Let us know about it and it's importance to the species.]
Personal log: Tylha Shohl, officer commanding, USS King Estmere NCC-92984
"Damn," Anthi Vihl says. "I left my PADD on the console."
She sighs wearily and starts to scramble up the slanting wall of the King Estmere's bridge. She reaches the top of the wall, does a neat forward roll... and now, from my perspective, she is sticking out from the sloping ceiling overhead, walking up and along it. She retrieves her PADD from the glowing bridge console, walks back down the ceiling, does another roll onto the wall, and scrambles back down to meet me. Just another one of those everyday moments spent dealing with Tholian ship design.
King Estmere is a prestigious assignment, a powerful ship... but it's weird. And hot. The environmental settings are cranked up as high as we can stand, and even so, there are continual problems with thermal stresses on the structure. The Recluse carrier was designed, after all, for a Tholian atmosphere. Part of one deck still has it; the Tholian cadre officers are comfortable there. The rest of us... have to deal with the heat, and the confusing layout, and those insane icosahedral displays on the pop-out consoles. We used to twit Dr. Beresford about her ever-present data monocle, but now most of us are wearing headsets or earpieces of our own, using as much help as we can get to interpret the control setup. My ear aches from my earpiece, and I'm far too hot, and too tired, at the end of a long watch. I think we all are. I nod to Commander Sirip. "You have the bridge," I tell him.
"Affirmative," says the assault team commander, looking crisp and efficient and generally very Vulcan. Damn him. I'm going to my quarters, where I can crank the temperature down as far as it'll go, and maybe catch a few hours' sleep. The earpiece is chattering at me, and in my other ear there is a noise that sounds like a catfight, and very possibly is. The Caitian flight deck officers are in a tight huddle around a console, and they are too far away for the universal translator to kick in and let me know what they're saying, but there is much bristling of fur and switching of tails over there.... Well, let Sirip deal with it. Damn efficient Vulcan.
I make my way along the twisty-turny corridors of the Tholian ship. By now, at least, I know my way between my own quarters and the bridge. And my quarters have, at least, been set up in a sensible configuration; if you ignore the pop-out console on one wall and the data stalagmite in the corner, they look almost like they belong on a Starfleet ship.
I almost make it to the door, when I hear a voice say, "Felicitations upon this auspicious encounter, my venerated Admiral!"
I turn around. Commander Thirethequ is standing in front of me, looking hideously cheerful, or possibly just hideous. A Jolciot from the recently-joined Federation world of Magamba, Thirethequ is short, with a massive barrel-shaped body, thick stumpy legs, and prodigiously long, muscular arms. Some Jolciots shave their facial hair and prune their keratinous forehead ridges, but Thirethequ has let his grow into a truly impressive beard and crest. And he talks - well, like most Jolciots. Flowery language is part of the culture. There are times when I rather like it... but not now.
"Hello, Commander," I say. "Settling in well?"
King Estmere has already cost me one officer, though not in a bad way; after supervising the refitting work, Shrin Izini has gone on to Starbase 193 with a long-overdue promotion to Captain of Engineering. His assistant Dyssa has taken his place... and, to fill her place, Starfleet has sent me Thirethequ. Well, it could be a lot worse. The Jolciots are nothing if not inventive. They are the only species I ever heard of who managed to get a warp engine running off a fission power plant - which was how they came to be found. The humans were discovered when a Vulcan ship happened to come within detector range of their Phoenix; half the quadrant was in detector range of the Jolciots' Efflorescence of Technological Ingenuity when it - somehow - went to warp.
"Magnificently well, I do assure you, my valorous leader," says Thirethequ. "The crew, ah! noble comrades in arms! have been the very quintessence of hospitality, and as to my quarters -" he makes a sweeping gesture with those incredibly long arms "- positively palatial in their scope and amenities! I bless the day that Starfleet accepted my unworthy presence into its august ranks."
Despite my tiredness, I raise a smile. "I'm glad," I tell him.
"Though, if I might make one inquiry?" Thirethequ adds. "A minor matter, perhaps so trivial that I hesitate to bring it to your attention. But the issue nags and prickles at the back of my mind, like a burr. Is it a Starfleet custom of which I am unaware? Is it a human cultural tradition, of which I am still so woefully ignorant? Or is it simply a defect in the otherwise estimable universal translator? I refer to the vocalisations - 'ook ook ook' - of some of the human crew, in my presence. I hear the phrase repeated, and yet its significance remains the darkest mystery to me."
Oh, damnation. My lips thin with anger. "I regret to tell you," I say, "that it's probably derogatory. I suppose, in a way, it is a human tradition... they do like what they call their 'hazing' rituals. Nonetheless, it's not acceptable in a Starfleet ship, and you'd be well within your rights to make a formal complaint."
"Ah!" says Thirethequ. "I think my poor fogged brain begins to comprehend... the initiation rite, yes? The teasing and testing of the newcomer until he or she gains full acceptance into the band? It is not unknown on Magamba. And I do assure you, my most noble commander, that I shall endeavour to take it in good part. After all, am I not a stranger, from a backwards, almost primitive, world, allowed by sufferance to take my place in your awe-inspiring fleet?"
"You're a Federation citizen and a Starfleet officer," I say, "and that entitles you to the same respect I get myself, or any other of my crew." All too true, I reflect. The phrase "psycho smurf" still gets bandied about from time to time. "As for backwards - well, I've visited your world, and I certainly wouldn't call it that."
Thirethequ slaps his forehead, producing a terrifying rattling sound from his keratinous ridges. "I abase myself for my obtuseness!" he cries out. "I prostrate myself before you as the most abject and impercipient dullard! How could I have failed of recognition? You are that Tylha Shohl!"
"I'm sorry?"
"Of the USS Aquitaine! The Starfleet vessel that came to enlighten our ignorance and set us upon the path to true galactic citizenship! Every schoolchild on Magamba learns all the names of that munificent crew!"
"I was only a very junior ensign at the time," I mutter. Am I famous? On Magamba? I suppose there are worse places to be famous....
"But destined always for greatness!" Thirethequ positively capers on the deck in front of me. The anthropoid resemblance is, actually, quite marked. Of course, the humans might be more cautious with their 'ooks' if they realized that those long Jolciot arms have all the superhuman strength of an anthropoid ape - if Thirethequ ever loses his temper with his tormentors, they're going to be in sick bay for weeks. But he's a good-humoured sort... but everybody snaps sometimes, even Vulcans....
Maybe it's time I got to know him, I think. See what he's really like, under that Jolciot grandiloquence. And I guess I have a pretext, of sorts. "Actually," I say, "that reminds me. Perhaps you can help me with something?"
"You are my commander, and a member of the Aquitaine crew," says Thirethequ, "so my very life is at your disposal, o admirable Admiral. Say the word, and I leap to obey."
"Step into my quarters for a moment, please," I say, waving my hand at the sensor so the door hisses open. "It's something that came from the first contact at Magamba, actually." I step through the doorway, but Thirethequ hesitates on the threshold. Oh, damn, I'd forgotten Jolciot sexual mores. "Please remember, Commander, I'm not actually a female."
"And yet you are the epitome of feminine charm," says Thirethequ, but he steps into the room. That, at least, is pure flattery; I'm too tall, too thin and too blue even to approximate Jolciot female attractiveness. I look around. My souvenir from Magamba is, at least, out in plain sight, standing on a table by the Tholian data stalagmite. "We were all presented with mementoes of the occasion," I say. "I received this from your college of engineering studies."
The memento is a squat, hollow, metal cylinder, elaborately engraved and decorated with fluting and abstract curlicues on the outside, mirror-smooth on the interior. "And you have retained it ever since?" says Thirethequ. "You do us such honour!"
"It was an honour to receive it," I say. "But... well, I was only a very junior ensign, as I said - and I never had the nerve to ask. What, actually, is it?"
"Ah!" Thirethequ jumps forward to inspect the piece. "Let me see... yes! Allow my feeble luminance to enlighten your perplexity, o my Admiral. It is an item apt for your career; a drive component from one of our earlier, unsuccessful, endeavours to transcend the limitations of the light barrier." He traces a fingertip over the decorative designs. "A coolant booster nozzle from the Effulgence of the Application of Knowledge. Not, of course, from the ship itself - a spare, I fear, though the interior surface shows it has seen actual usage at some point. The Effulgence of the Application of Knowledge, alas, became... excessively effulgent shortly after takeoff. Indeed, at one point six two gigatons, it was the largest nuclear explosion to take place on Magamba. Something of a setback for our space programme, in fact."
"Well, thank you," I say. "You can tell all that from the surface decoration?"
If Thirethequ has an answer, it's lost in the screaming of a red alert.
---
I reach the bridge at a run, tiredness and heat forgotten. Sirip points to the angry red spot on the triangular screen. "Tholian vessel, Orb Weaver class," he says crisply. "We will be within its weapons range in one minute thirty-seven seconds."
I turn to F'hon Tlaxx at the comms station. "Are they answering hails?"
F'hon shakes his head. "Sorry, skipper. I'm trying every channel, but -"
But the Tholian is in no mood to talk. And there are plenty of Tholian commanders who know King Estmere used to be one of theirs... and take the whole thing very personally. My gaze sweeps the battle displays as my bridge crew take their stations. "Launch fighters."
"Aye, aye, sir." Anthi Vihl is all professionalism, as always. "Launching." All eight hundred and seventy-one metres of King Estmere shudder as the Widow fighters slam out of their launch bays. "Alpha flight, clear. Bravo flight, clear. Prepping Charlie and Delta flights."
"Confirm Orb Weaver's weapons hot," says Zazaru from the sensor console.
"Hostile engagement authorized," I order. For the record.
The Orb Weaver is a smaller, lighter vessel than ours... but still nothing to mess with, and the Tholian commander seems confident. Perhaps he thinks we don't have the expertise to work our ship effectively, yet. He's about to find out he's wrong, the hard way.
Space glitters with deadly blue Cherenkov light. "Tetryon fire incoming," says Anthi. "Minor damage to forward deflectors. Alphas one and three engaging." Tetryon beams stab out from the fighters. Anthi is nudging King Estmere into a shallow curve at low impulse speed, bringing her round for her main armament to bear. The light turrets, though, are opening up already, flashes of disruptor light sparkling on the Tholian's shields. The Orb Weaver is firing, but damage is minimal so far... which means most of his power is being diverted from weapons to other systems... which means....
"Web nodes inbound!" yells Zazaru. My lips pull back from my teeth in a mirthless grin.
On the main screen, orange lines gleam in a precise, geometrical arrangement. The Tholian web.... The Orb Weaver is trying to trap us, wall us off, so he can finish off our fighters and then pour fire into us while we hang helpless in the web's spatial inclusion. It's the classic Tholian tactic. And one for which we have our own answer.
"Prep for maximum fire," I tell Anthi. "Subspace jump - now!!"
Tholian technology isn't all we've mastered, or incorporated into King Estmere. The subspace jumper, "borrowed" from the Klingons under circumstances best not described, gives us all a yawning, lurching sensation in the pits of our stomachs, as it flips us, the whole massive ship, across a subspace discontinuity and across several kilometres of space -
- and we are comfortably tucked in behind the Tholian's stern, as the web hangs gleaming in space; imposing, threatening, and now completely empty.
"Launching Charlie. Launching Delta. Firing," Anthi reports.
The Orb Weaver has reinforced its forward shields to cope with the fire from Alpha and Bravo flights; now, under a tachyon pulse and the concentrated rapid fire of King Estmere's forward polarized disruptor cannons, its rear shields shatter like glass. The next two flights of Widows howl out of the launch bays. The Tholian ship seems to stagger - the commander has realized his peril, is trying to fight clear and escape.
"Tetryon grid," I order.
Tholian technology, this time, unique to the Recluse carrier; impalpable blue lines reach out from my ship to its swarming fighters, reflect off them, reach out to savage the Orb Weaver. Its much-abused shields fail completely, and it hangs there, naked, in space, as the Widows fire their torpedoes and their tetryon bolts, and a heavy disruption torpedo from our thermionic launcher crawls towards them... crawls up to their port nacelle, and doesn't stop, ploughing through alloys and superdense ceramics and leaving devastation in its wake. The disruptor cannons, too, are still hammering away, raking the Tholian from stem to sterm with darts of sick green light. The Orb Weaver yaws wildly, glowing clouds spilling from its ravaged hull; red-orange Tholian atmosphere, and brighter, greener lights of warp plasma now -
"Hard to port!" I shout. "Scatter fighters! Full power to starboard screens!"
The Tholian ship is about to die; the red and the green glows are washed out in the eye-hurting brilliance of an incipient core breach. The Widow fighters break for safety; two of them are in flames themselves, their structural integrity fields barely holding them together. King Estmere rolls, presenting her strongest shields as we make for safety range, outside the blast radius -
- and suddenly those crazy Tholian controls turn even crazier, as warning messages spawn over their surfaces and alert symbols flash, and the lights flicker ominously, and for one heart-stopping moment my feet leave the floor as the gravity fails.
The Orb Weaver blows up. White-hot debris scatters through space, flailing into King Estmere's hull through shields which aren't there any more. The blast wave of the explosion picks up the whole enormous ship and shakes it like a child's toy.
My earpiece is screaming at me, but it's just telling me things I already know. Warp power offline; weapons offline; deflectors and shields offline. "Engineering, report!" I snap. What the hell just happened to my ship?
---
"It's the main plasma manifold for the EPS," Dyssa D'jheph tells me glumly.
We are standing, a group of us, on a triangular platform in the cubist nightmare that is Main Engineering. Above us, or possibly below us, depending on which way the gravity plating is set up, King Estmere's warp core is throbbing with lurid light. Off to one side, the central distribution point for the electroplasma system... it's here that Dyssa is pointing, and even her antennae are drooping with fatigue and dejection.
"How long to fit the replacement?" I ask. Dyssa's face turns even more woeful. "Let me guess," I say. "That was the replacement."
"Our last spare," says Dyssa. "Sir, it's the same problem every time - the thermal stress on the tubing is just too much; microcrystal fractures open up, they spread, and then -" she waves one listless hand in the air "- all of a sudden, bang."
When the thing fails, it fails catastrophically. And the specialist parts include materials we can't produce with our general-purpose replicators. Plasma manifolds are one of the many things in short supply across Tau Dewa - I remember, not fondly, the endless haggling and horse-trading for parts around Nequencia Alpha. "So what are our options?" I ask.
"Evidently," says Sirip, "we must send a subspace message to Starbase 234 requesting a tow."
Evidently. "There'd better be something else we can try first," I say.
"Andorian pride, Admiral?" Sirip quirks his eyebrow at me. Damn stereotypical efficient Vulcan.
"Not so much that," I say, "as a concern that, if we send a distress message out, Starfleet might not be the first to respond. There are a lot of Tholians out there, and we just saw they're pretty keen to take King Estmere back. Before we announce we're helpless, we'd better make sure that's our only option. Besides, we can figure that the Orb Weaver got a distress call off with its escape pods." We've picked up two hundred and two Tholian survivors in pods; the Orb Weaver's complement is around 1200... that's a big butcher's bill for wounded Tholian pride. "My best guess is that Tholian patrols will be here before a repair crew from Starfleet. So we need to get moving, fast." I've seen Tholian prison cells from the outside, on Nukara. I don't fancy getting any closer to one.
"Your pardon, my esteemed superiors," Thirethequ speaks up for the first time. "May I be excused, a moment, to make a visual inspection of certain details?"
"If you think it'll help," says Dyssa. Her face is screwed up in a frown. "We still have the original Tholian manifold... but it won't hold up to the temperature gradient. So... we could convert the engine room back... replace the control sets and flood it with Tholian atmosphere."
"Our people can't work in EV suits," Anthi objects.
"We can rig the same sort of focused environmental support we use for the Tholian crew," says Dyssa. The Tholians, here and aboard the Sita, move in a sort of force-field bubble that enables them to wander the crew decks freely, without using EV suits of their own; it works, provided you don't go barefoot on a deck a Tholian's just walked over.
"It'll take too much time," Anthi says. "We'd have to get into all sorts of odd nooks and crannies, in here, it's not like simply charting a path from A to B on the mess deck. We'd need to set up constant adaptive algorithms, and test them in detail...."
Thirethequ, meanwhile, appears to be getting into odd nooks and crannies of his own. Reaching up with those long arms, he swings from stanchion to stanchion across the engine room, dangling now at a strange angle, where the local gravity plating is different from mine. He hangs by one arm over the wrecked plasma manifold, studying it with a tricorder in his free hand. It looks precarious; I hope he's not hanging over a fall that might kill him.
"We can get the Tholian crewmen to run the engine room, then," Dyssa suggests.
"Are they qualified?" asks Sirip. The answer, of course, is no; the Tholian cadre officers are combat specialists, not engineers. And there is no chance the survivors from the Orb Weaver will help... or is there? I don't know what motivates Tholians, how their politics work, even how their minds work....
"Serendipity!" Thirethequ yells from his perch. "O most felicitous fortune!" He tucks his tricorder into his belt and starts to swing back towards us with a worrying disregard for gravity. "Our troubles," he announces, as he drops heavily onto the platform beside us, "are at an end! That is, if our valiant Admiral will consent to the use of her prized possession for such a simple and mundane purpose."
I stare at him for a moment before the penny drops. "My, um... my memento?"
"The diameter of the ruptured tubing," says Thirethequ, "is within seven millimeters of that of the booster nozzle. That is also, by happy chance, within the tolerance range specified by that most sacrosanct Starfleet engineering manual. To fit the Admiral's memento in place of the damaged component will be the most trifling of technical challenges, the work of mere moments. And, once it is in place, the power will flow once more!"
"Wait a moment," Dyssa protests. "Are you telling me we can use some - some antique -?"
"Positively!" says Thirethequ. "My confidence is unbounded."
"But -" Dyssa stares wide-eyed at him. "But we don't know how this - this thing - will handle the stress, or the temperature gradients -"
"No," I say, "we do. It's a component from an early Jolciot warp drive, and they were engineered to stand insane physical and thermal stress levels. The difference between our atmosphere and the Tholians' is... barely noticeable, by comparison. If the thing fits, physically... this will work."
"And I know the physical dimensions of all our components to a nicety," says Thirethequ. "Moreover... I have files, should my noble masters care to peruse them, regarding the specialist alloys used in the construction of our components. Thermal stresses, as our illustrious Admiral has elucidated for us, were always in the forefront of the minds of their developers. Should such information prove of benefit, it is yours for the asking."
"Thermal stress has always been our biggest issue," says Dyssa reflectively. "If we had components made of stable alloys to handle that... we could upgrade the whole electro-plasma system, we could boost the structural integrity...."
"We could sneak the onboard temperature down to something liveable," adds Anthi, with feeling.
"Indeed," says Sirip. "That alone would improve crew morale, I estimate, by a factor of at least fifty-seven per cent, with concomitant increases in overall ship efficiency." Vulcans, who can figure them? Not me, that's for certain.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," I say. "Before we make any plans for the temperature, let's get this ship moving. Mr. Thirethequ -" I turn to him "- you know where my souvenir is; I would esteem it a signal honour if you could bring it to us."
"I hasten to obey!" says Thirethequ. And he does, brachiating away out of main engineering as fast as his stumpy legs and long arms will take him. The rest of us watch, in what seems a bemused silence.
"Anthi, Dyssa," I say, finally. "Pass the word among the crew, will you? My compliments... and the next person who goes 'ook' around Commander Thirethequ is going to have to walk to Starbase 234."
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