Personal log: Tylha Shohl, officer commanding USS King Estmere NCC-92984
The face on the viewscreen is humanoid, hairless, golden-skinned and impossibly beautiful. "Welcome, King Estmere." The voice is a liquid, fluting contralto, as beautiful as the face itself. "Welcome, Ambassador Starel."
"Thank you, Minister Ajaris." Starel steps out in front of the viewer, raises his hand in the traditional Vulcan salute. "Live long, and prosper."
Ajaris raises one perfect hand in response. "Peace and long life. You have, of course, permission to approach the docking port. Our traffic control is sending the requisite information to your data channel now." I glance at Dgy-Coosh, the Rigelian who's at the helm station today. He nods to confirm. "An appropriate reception has been arranged at 1900 hours - we will be gratified to make your acquaintance, Ambassador." Ajaris smiles. "And, please, bring your fascinating military advisor with you. We should like to make you all feel welcome."
"Thank you, Minister," says Starel. "We shall begin our final approach now, and will join you as you request."
"Until that time, then, Ambassador. I shall go, now, to ensure all is in readiness." Ajaris's eyes are brilliant green, like jewels; their gaze rests on me for a second. Then the screen goes blank.
Starel does the Vulcan eyebrow-quirk thing. "Interesting," he says.
"I'm not sure why I'm so fascinating," I say. "The Antosians are pacifists, mostly, aren't they?"
"Indeed. I do not envisage any particular difficulties in the coming negotiations, but it would be appropriate to accede to requests of this nature. Would your duties prohibit you from accepting this invitation?"
"No, sir. My orders are to facilitate your mission as much as I'm able. I'll be happy to help out." I consider for a moment. "Military advisor, she said. I'd better wear dress whites, then."
---
Antos IV. It's one of those worlds on the fringes of the Federation mainstream; a nominal Federation member, these days, but with deliberately restricted contact. Starel's trade and cultural exchange mission represents a chance to open things up, to see more of the Antosians' science and art, maybe to get more Antosians into the galaxy as a whole in exchange. I doubt I'll see Antosians serving in Starfleet any time soon, though.... Well. The Federation is not a conquering empire, cultures get to join it on their own terms. And the Infinite knows, the Antosians have reason enough to be wary.
Though there is no sign of wariness at the diplomatic reception. Starel is in full Ambassadorial uniform; he is tall and saturnine and rather handsome by Vulcan standards. He looks quite dowdy, though, by comparison with the Antosians. They are graceful people, almost ethereal; they are all flawlessly beautiful, but in different ways; their hairless skins gleam with metallic or pearlescent lustres, and their eyes are jewels.
"Admiral Shohl. Welcome."
Minister Ajaris is wearing a floor-length golden gown that seems almost a continuation of her golden skin. She smiles at me; her teeth gleam, perfect as the rest of her. "Minister Ajaris. Thank you. I'm delighted to be here."
"We are delighted to see you," she says. "You are Andorian, yes? We have had little contact with your people. I hope you will forgive any errors of etiquette or protocol I might make in addressing you."
"We're guests in your system, Minister - we should be the ones to watch our steps! Though it's hard to imagine that being a problem. Everyone here seems so friendly... I'm sure no one will let any trivial misunderstandings spoil that."
"That is my hope, certainly. It is the feeling of many that we should have more outreach into the wider Federation. Your people were among the original founders of the Federation, yes? It may surprise you, how exotic you seem to us."
"Well, Andorians are a little outside the normal humanoid biological spectrum, it's fair to say."
"You have four genders, I understand? That must be... complex."
"It makes family life, umm, a matter of negotiation, certainly. But I think that's true of a lot of species!"
She gives a little tinkling laugh. "And the antennae - sense organs, yes?"
"Sensitive to variations in air pressure and electromagnetic fields. It's - well, it's something I've known all my life. It's hard for me to imagine living without that sense."
"Intriguing," says Ajaris. "I could wish to know how to see the world as you do. It has advantages, yes? Your people are famous as artists, as well as warriors. You must live your lives with a great... intensity, yes?"
It's my turn to give a little laugh. "I don't normally think of it that way. But when I think back, over all the things I've done recently - well, I guess it's fair to say I keep myself busy!"
"No doubt. I hesitate to raise the matter...." She seems almost shy, all of a sudden. "But curiosity compels me. Is this intensity... the reason behind your fascinating asymmetry?"
For a moment, I don't understand what she means, and then it hits me. I raise a self-conscious hand to the looping scars on my right cheek. The Antosians... they're all beautiful, with smooth, gleaming skins, unscarred and flawless. Symmetrical. Quite. "This? It's the... relic of an old injury."
"A trophy of some desperate struggle?"
"I wouldn't call it a trophy, exactly." I take a deep breath. "The Nausicaans invaded the colony planet where I was borne. I took a stray disruptor shot to the head, was spacelifted off." I grimace, acutely aware, now, of the stiffness of the right side of my face. "Disruptors make a mess. By the time the medics had rebuilt my head, well, this was the best they could do."
"Surely not?" Minister Ajaris looks genuinely troubled, now. "We know mainstream Federation medical technology is less advanced than our own, but even so, their techniques must be adequate to restore you wholly."
"Eventually, maybe. The whole of my cheekbone was destroyed - it's a ceramic replacement, now, with a titanium core. The nerve damage and the residual scarring from the deep-tissue disruptor burns left - well, this." I brush my fingertips over the scar tissue again. "It'd take a vat-grown cloned-tissue replacement to fix it, and then integrating it into my neural body picture would take months. If it worked at all - a friend of mine had to have a similar procedure done, and she's still having trouble with it."
"So sad," Minister Ajaris breathes. She looks into my eyes.
Then her face, her whole body, blurs.
It happens instantly. One second, I'm looking at a bald, gold-skinned humanoid - then her skin is blue, and she has long white hair, and antennae rising from a ridged forehead. It takes me a moment to realize I'm looking at an exact copy of my own face. Exact - except for the scars.
"Cosmetic only," she says, in my voice. "These -" she flicks one antenna with her finger, and I can't help but wince "- are just decoration, they do not show me the world as you might see it. That would take a somewhat more involved procedure. But even the cosmetic change - well, it is both rapid and complete."
I find my voice. "I've heard of your cellular metamorphosis technique, obviously. But this is the first time I've actually seen it...."
"A demonstration, only." She blurs again, and resumes her original form. "My point is this. The cellular metamorphosis process includes all the necessary modifications to what you call the neural body picture. Instantly. The process would be of little value if it did not - we could not stumble like infants, taking days or months to adapt to each new form." Her emerald eyes are very sober, now, as they gaze into mine. "Our medical techniques could replace your damaged tissues, heal your wounds, remove your scars... in mere seconds, Admiral Shohl. If you wished it."
---
"So," I say later, "do I wish it?"
We're in my ready room, holding the post-mortem on the reception - me, and Starel, and one other.
"It would be tactful to accept, certainly," Starel says. "The offer is clearly meant in good part, and acceptance might make a contribution towards the general warming of relations between ourselves and the Antosians. I understand, of course, that this may not be the only factor in your decision, and I certainly cannot oblige you to undergo a medical procedure. I merely suggest that your acceptance would not be unwelcome."
"My feelings aren't the only point at issue, though." I turn to the other person in the ready room, a dark-haired human female wearing a data monocle. "Doctor Beresford?"
"We have precisely one previous case of someone being taught the Antosian cellular metamorphosis technique," Samantha Beresford says crisply. "That wasn't an Andorian, of course - but it didn't exactly turn out well. Opinion is still divided on the question of how much the Antosian technique contributed to Garth of Izar's mental breakdown -"
"The cases are surely dissimilar in all important aspects," Starel protests politely.
"Garth might have had a pre-existing brain injury, which Tylha doesn't have," says Samantha. "And the Antosians have made progress with their techniques - I gather they're suggesting just a one-off session, guided by an expert in the metamorphosis technique. Even so, there is a risk."
"It is hard to see how the removal of facial scarring might turn Admiral Shohl into a megalomaniac," Starel says.
"You'd think," I say. "But I met my mirror universe duplicate, once."
Starel does the eyebrow-quirk thing. "Is that a factor?"
"Apart from quantum signatures, she was different from me in two ways. She had no facial scars - and she was a megalomaniac." I can still see that smooth-skinned face looking at me from the viewscreen; proud, arrogant, exultant.
"That is a function, surely, of the cultural influences of the mirror universe, not any innate character flaw," says Starel.
"You'd think that. I'd like to think that. But how can I be sure?"
---
How can I be sure? I pace up and down my living quarters, considering.
Probably, though - thinking realistically - the Antosians will get it right. They probably know better than we do what went wrong with Garth of Izar. And they've had a couple of centuries to improve their techniques. If they say they can do this, they probably can.
In which case, the question comes down to... do I want this?
Why should that be a hard question to answer? Who would want to be scarred, when they could be... whole?
I leave off pacing, and stop to look at my face in the wall mirror. It's not a bad face... I suppose. A bit too stern and severe to be attractive, even without the scars. I cover my right cheek with my hand, then take it away again. Pointless. I know what it would look like, I don't have to imagine.
I sigh, and go to sit down at my desk. I drum my fingers on the desktop, five-four time, the rhythm for "Mars".
"Computer. Music. Holst, 'At the Boar's Head', Interworld Academy of Music recording dated 2275."
The first chords sound from the speakers. It's an interesting production, this one. Something tells me that the role of Falstaff was just made for a Tellarite. At any rate, it should take my mind off things -
There is a discreet chime from the door, so discreet I almost don't hear it through Falstaff's blustering. "Computer, pause recording. Come in."
The door slides open, and Anthi Vihl comes in. "Flag Captain. Good to see you." I like to remind Anthi of her new rank. The Infinite knows she's earned it, ten times over. And it's made surprisingly little difference to our working relationship - she is, still, my right arm, as she has been for... so long, now.
"Sir. Sorry to interrupt you. I just need you to sign off on some passes for the station - Ambassador Starel wants the crew on best behaviour, I thought I'd better run this past you."
"Right, fine. Though I'm not expecting any problems. The Antosians seem like a pretty friendly bunch." I take the proffered PADD, scan the list of names, try to remember if any of them's likely to cause a diplomatic incident. "Thirethequ and Jeroequene? Well, if you reckon the Antosians can cope with Jolciot language...." We both smile. I am acutely aware of how lopsided my smile is. "Anthi, have you heard about my, um, offer? From the Antosians?"
"I have, sir."
"So what do you think?" Anthi, among her many virtues, is a clear thinker. I hate to think how many times over I'd be dead, if I hadn't listened to her advice.
Now, though, it seems she has none to give. Her mouth opens for a moment, then shuts tight, and her antennae writhe, as if she's in the grip of some strong emotion. Finally, "I think it has to be your choice, sir. It's your face, after all," she says, in dead-level, neutral tones.
I stare at her. "Well, I know that. But you don't have a suggestion?"
"It wouldn't - it wouldn't be proper, sir."
Anthi is descended from generations of pure Imperial Guard military. It looks like I've hit on some part of Andorian military etiquette even I didn't know about. "All right," I say mildly. I hand her back the PADD. She salutes formally, and positively marches out. Her antennae are still twitching violently. I stare at the door as it closes behind her. Now what was that about?
---
The Antosian space station is as beautiful as its occupants: a work of art, hanging above the blue-green gem that is Antos IV itself. The planet is half-full, visible through the windows of the arboretum where I find Ambassador Starel and Minister Ajaris.
"I've given a lot of thought to your suggestion, Minister," I say, once the initial pleasantries are over.
She gives me another of those dazzling smiles. "And you have reached a decision, yes?"
"I have. And I hope I won't offend you if I decline your kind offer."
Starel says absolutely nothing, doesn't move a muscle, doesn't change his expression one iota. I have never before seen anyone signal absolute disapproval that way. Ajaris merely inclines her head a little. "May I know your reasoning?"
"I'm not sure it's well-organized enough to qualify as reasoning, Minister. But this -" I raise my hand to my scars "- is too much a part of me, now. We are the sum of everything that happens to us, and everything we do, in this life, Minister. This... is something that happened to me. I find I can't just - erase it."
"I see." Her face and body blur again. Now, she is human, with short dark hair and deep brown skin. "We make something of a virtue of our plasticity, Admiral." Another blur, and she is some reptilian creature, slit-pupilled yellow eyes and shining blue-grey scales. "We can be almost anything we want to be. It is interesting that you think otherwise. That you make a virtue of constancy, of stability." And she blurs back to her golden-skinned Antosian form. Is this her real shape? Does she even have a real shape? She turns to Starel. "Your people, I think, have a philosophy, yes? The IDIC?"
Starel is wearing a small gold IDIC pin on the breast of his tunic; now he raises his hand to touch it. "That is correct," he says.
"So, today, we have a demonstration, yes? My values, and Admiral Shohl's. Neither is better than the other, I think - but, though they are different, they need not be in conflict. There is room in the Federation for Antosian plasticity and Andorian constancy, yes?"
Starel blinks, once. "Indeed. An admirable demonstration of the principles of IDIC, and of the Federation," he says. I have a feeling he'd talk about Andorian obstinacy, rather than constancy. But he is far too much of a diplomat to say so. And so, I find, am I.
---
I run into Anthi at the docking tube to King Estmere. She looks at me, a little apprehensively. "I made my decision," I tell her. She says nothing. "I'm not taking the Antosians' treatment. You'll have to live with me the way I am, I'm afraid."
The stiff line of her shoulders relaxes slightly. "I'm - actually, I'm glad, sir."
I look at her curiously. "Glad?"
"I've... always thought your face looked - distinguished, sir. Like a warrior. In the Guard's tradition... warriors wear their scars proudly. Sir."
"I see. Makes sense, I guess." I frown. "Why couldn't you just say that, though? It wouldn't have... offended me, or anything."
"Not my place, sir," says Anthi firmly. "I had no right to influence your decision. One way or the other."
"I see." Well, I don't see at all, actually. Some things, you can't perceive, even with Andorian antennae. And Anthi's are twitching like anything, again. I decide to give up and leave it. "Well, in any case, the decision's made now. Come on, Flag Captain Vihl. Let's get back to work."
