McCoy was so engrossed in his reading that he barely acknowledged my arrival in his office. Not until the security guard coughed discreetly did the doctor look up from the screen. "Sorry," he said. "Could you wait outside for a minute, Mike? I need to talk to the commander."
He gave me a look that reminded me of my history tutor at the lyceum. Whenever I had seen that expression on her face I had known that she was preparing to single me out for one of her rapid-fire question and answer sessions, in which I always came off second best.
"Commander, how much do you know about your people's history?"
Is he reading my mind? I tried to hide my astonishment. "Why, more than you know about yours, I daresay."
"Well, I'm glad you know a lot, because I've got a lot of questions. And there sure aren't any answers in these so-called learned monographs"--he jabbed a finger at the screen--"all written by damned equivocating Vulcans who couldn't say shit if they had a mouthful."
I must have looked bewildered; that was fast becoming my normal condition whenever I had an encounter with McCoy, whose mental state seemed to change minute by minute. I'd expected him to apologize for Kirk's calling me by name, but he seemed to have forgotten all about that. "I don't know what you mean," I said, understating the case by a factor of ten.
"Do you know what these are?" he demanded, picking up a sheaf of printouts in each hand and shaking them at me.
"No," I answered, feeling in spite of myself like an unprepared student.
"This one here is the preliminary report on your biochemical assays, encephalogram, genscan, all the tests from this morning. And this one here is a summary of the results of the same tests on one of M'Benga's Vulcan patients, same age, same sex, comparable medical history, which he used as a referential norm because we don't have any medical databases for Romulans." He made it sound as if that was my fault.
"And?"
"And," he said, drawing out every word. "No. Material. Difference." He sat back, waiting for my reaction.
"Why is that surprising? Surely you must know that the two races are distantly related, that we had the same forebears. Why shouldn't our physiology be superficially similar?"
He rubbed his eyes, then glared at me. "I'm not talking similar, Commander. I'm talking identical. Or so close to identical that any differences aren't worth a damn." He transferred his glare to the terminal. "And all these brilliant articles by all these brilliant Vulcan biologists and geneticists state categorically that our test results are impossible. Period."
"But Romulan scientists would agree, Doctor. Everyone knows that there has been significant genetic drift--"
"What genetic drift? There isn't any damned genetic drift! Genetic drift doesn't occur in two thousand or three thousand or five thousand years--they don't even agree about when you all left, can you believe it?--regardless of what convoluted hypotheses anybody dreams up!" He swung the screen around to face me, as if he expected me to read from it. "Look. They're blathering about augmented speciation and punctuated equilibrium and selective adaptive transgenic splicing and God only knows what else, just like you all were snail fossils or sea turtles or vat-grown organs. But you know what? At the end of the day they've got to admit they're only guessing. It isn't like they've had a chance to examine many honest-to-goodness Romulans over the last X number of millennia, for Christ's sake. They don't know diddly about you. Or if they do, they're keeping it to themselves while they try to palm off hundred-proof disinformation on the rest of us."
"But it's true that our species have diverged radically since we were separated," I said. "Genetic drift is a fact, Doctor."
"Oh, really? And how do you know that, Commander? Completed your doctorate in comparative evolutionary biology, have you?"
"Why are you attacking me? I may not be a scientist, but like everyone else I've studied biology and history. Many noted researchers--"
"Bullshit. Pardon me. I don't mean to snap. But I'm sitting here looking at the results of extensive physiological and neurological testing on three live, healthy, adult Romulans, so I've got the empirical evidence right on this desk, not to mention perched on the chair across from me. By God, M'Benga and I are going to get a paper out of this that will fix those 'many noted researchers' on both sides of the Neutral Zone so that they won't be able to hold their--well, never mind. I'll get Chapel to repeat the lab analyses to make sure the results are reproducible. I just wanted to see what you had to say about all this." He moved the screen back to its original position.
"I would say that Romulan scientists are likely to have reasonably authoritative information on Romulan biology, wouldn't you? It's well established that the Romulan brain structure differs from the Vulcan, for example. And that interbreeding between the two races could never take place without extensive technological intervention. We're simply too different, as different as Terrans are from Reticulans or Saurians from Klingons. I have no idea why your tests suggest anything else."
"Well, I could walk you through the comparisons, but maybe we'll just agree to disagree until I verify these results. Remember, Commander, a lot of races have used scientific or pseudoscientific research to shore up some fashionable or expedient political position. I don't think either Vulcans or Romulans are permanently immune to that particular disease, no matter how offended they might be to hear me say so."
"Pseudoscience has also been used by demagogues to support a revisionist version of history," I said. "By your own genocidal Colonel Green, for one."
"No argument there, Commander, I'm sorry to say."
His honesty was disarming. "You know, Doctor, I've never encountered a Terran quite like you. You don't seem to be a typical military or diplomatic type."
"Well, I'm not a soldier, and I sure wouldn't last long in the diplomatic corps. I guess that's obvious." He smiled at me.
"Nor would I. Odd that you and I appear to have something in common, isn't it? In the circumstances."
"Yeah, I know. Our governments are probably at war with each other right about now." He turned off the screen. "Time we got you settled back into your original quarters. And then we'll do something about lunch."
* * *
Doing something about lunch proved complicated. McCoy, seated at the computer in my cabin, struggled to describe the items that were named on the food-dispenser menu, but without much success. Sweat glistened on his face; the enviro controls were working properly at last.
"Really, Doctor, you don't have to do this. I've eaten meals stranger than I could have imagined on any number of planets. I'm sure I can deal with Terran food."
He ignored me. "Curried rice, now, that's a grain, but it's not like wheat, at least not like wheat when it's made into pasta. It's small, less than a centimeter long, and thin, and it's cooked with spices ... coriander ... cumin ... I'm not too sure ..." Frowning at the menu, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
"That sounds fine. I'll order that. And if I can't identify something I can always consult the dictionary, now that I have access to it." I was looking forward to investigating the sections of the library computer that had been opened to me. I had some rather specific research in mind.
"Okay, if you're sure. I've never tried to describe food to anyone before. Not in this kind of detail, anyway. If Uhura was here she could tell you in Romulan exactly what everything was." He looked up at me. "In fact--maybe you'd like to meet her? She's the resident expert in your language. If it hadn't been for her linguistic research, Starfleet wouldn't have been able to program the implant Captain Kirk wore when when he was on your ship." He probably would have liked to call those last words back.
"Indeed," I said coldly. "Then I'm impressed by the lieutenant's command of the language. The captain's fluency was apparently sufficient to get him past several antecenturions on his way to the cloaking device."
"Commander, I--"
"I'm in no position to accept or decline visits from my captors, am I? She may see me or not, as she wishes."
He nodded, looking uncomfortable. "I told you I wasn't cut out for diplomacy. I'd better go. I've got a couple of patients to check on. Captain Kirk will probably be by to talk to you sometime this afternoon. The guard's out here if you want anything. See you later, Commander."
As soon as he was gone I entered my food order; then I began to explore the library computer indexes. I requested a printout of the files in a directory entitled "Scientific Research and Experimental Development in the United Federation of Planets," retrieved my lunch from the dispenser, and sat down to eat and read. The curried rice was good. The library files were even better.
* * *
An hour later I stood, stretched, and carried the plate and cutlery to the cycler. While washing my hands and face at the fresher basin, I caught an unwelcome glimpse of my reflection in the mirror: eyes rimmed with dark circles, skin sickly pale, hair untidy. Once more I searched unsuccessfully for a comb. I'd have to do something about that, and about the problem of clothing. I began to make a mental list. Kirk had said that we would arrive at Starbase Four in just over three days. For the duration, then, these quarters were my home. So I had better treat them as such. I removed my shoes and placed them by the door, then instructed the food dispenser to supply a carafe of ice water and a tray of glasses. No civilized person would enter anyone's living quarters, including her own, while wearing shoes, and no householder would fail to have water available for guests who might call. Not that I'm likely to be entertaining any guests. Still, there was something almost comforting about making these small homely gestures towards tradition. I arranged the carafe and glasses on the table.
As if on cue, the door signal sounded.
I made no attempt to respond to it, thinking that whoever wanted me would open the door by security override. When the signal sounded again, I called out, "Enter," wondering whether that was the proper protocol. The door opened.
A Terran woman dressed in a bright red uniform stood at the threshold. "I am Lieutenant Nyota Uhura, communications officer of this ship," she said in formal and nearly accentless Romulan. "I greet you, Commander." She held out a small box wrapped in silver paper. "I hope you will accept this."
Oh, she was good. Not only did she put me under a reciprocal obligation by voluntarily speaking her personal name before entering my quarters, but she compounded that obligation by offering a ritual visiting-gift. How had she learned the rules of courtesy that governed a stranger's intrusion into another's privacy? I stood there like an idiot while she waited patiently for me to reply. Why, why were these people constantly putting me at a disadvantage by treating me as if I weren't their enemy? There was no way out. She'd won the first engagement.
"I greet you, Uhura. I am Tayva." Courtesy or no, I wasn't going any further than that. And I wouldn't go that far if Kirk hadn't forced the issue. "Forgive me. I seem to have lost my footing in social situations, and apparently this is a social situation. Please come in." The words of apology came hard, but I was determined that I would maintain my dignity. I held out my hand to receive the little package while she removed her boots and lined them up neatly next to my shoes.
We sat down on the sofa. I reached for the water carafe, which was already beginning to drip condensation. "Does the heat in this room bother you?" I asked, not caring whether it did. "McCoy was here earlier, and he seemed to find it uncomfortable." I filled two glasses and set them in the middle of the table so that she might choose which one she wanted.
"No, not at all. I grew up in a region of Earth where temperatures often reach forty degrees. The town where I was born is annexed to a wildlife preserve, so no weather modification systems are permitted. My sisters and I played outside the dome whenever we could." She sipped her water. "Everything smelled better out in the open. More natural, more interesting, not so--sanitized." She used the Standard word. "Dr. McCoy was born on the other side of the planet, but the weather is sometimes hot there too. Perhaps he has been away too long."
"Your command of the Romulan language is remarkable, Lieutenant," I said in Standard. I had no objection, for the moment, to indulging in this kind of idle chatter. It gave me an opportunity to study my visitor. "May one ask how you learned it?"
Her dark eyes were grave as she replied in kind. "Probably much the same way you learned Standard, Commander. I took a course at the Academy when I was on leave last year. The class was taught by someone ... a trader ... who had lived for a while on your planet. The lessons were supplemented with neural implants. We didn't get many chances to practice conversational Romulan, so we had to do the best we could. It wasn't very pleasant."
"How well I know that," I agreed, remembering the dizziness and nausea that had accompanied the insertion of my own language implants. "But no other method is as effective when a basic lexicon has to be acquired. Except, as you've suggested, regular conversation with a native speaker. Not too likely for either of us, I should think." I drank from my glass. "As for your bilingual 'trader,' or spy, for that's surely what you meant, I needn't tell you that both our governments are rich in that commodity."
Tactfully, she let that pass. She pushed the silver-wrapped package towards me. "I hope you'll enjoy this. I bought a few of these when I was on Wrigley's. I've given them before as gifts, and my friends seem to like them."
"Wrigley's?"
"Everyone calls it the pleasure planet, because the only industry is tourism. They have every kind of resort and recreation imaginable, and the biggest restaurant and shopping precincts in the sector. It's overdone, really, but when you've been waiting six months or a year for shore leave--well, you can imagine."
No, that was something I couldn't imagine. Her description confirmed what I'd heard about the decadence that permeated the Federation's Starfleet. I considered telling her so, but remembered that she was my guest, of a sort, and held my tongue.
I was careful to fold and save the fragile wrapping paper. When I opened the box I didn't bother to repress a gasp of surprise. Uhura's visiting-gift was a comb and a set of matching hairclips, all made from a lightweight silvery metal and decorated with delicately colored flowers and leaves. "Why, these are lovely," I said, meaning it. "Your timing is admirable, as you've probably noticed. A comb is exactly what I need just now." I didn't have to use a mirror; I combed my hair until it was smooth, then pinned it back with a clip at each temple.
"I'm glad you like them." She looked pleased.
"I do. Thank you, Lieutenant. One never appreciates such things until one is deprived of them." That reminded me of something else. "The captain thinks I'll be on this ship for about three days." And then ... I put the thought aside. "I haven't a change of clothing. Lieutenant Chapel said that she used your code to obtain this jumpsuit. I wonder if you would show me how to--"
But she was already moving towards the cycler. By the time we had worked out a code for me and waited for the machine to produce its output, I had somehow agreed that she could visit me again. "I'm on beta shift today, but I'll be free all day tomorrow," she said cheerfully. "Maybe we could have lunch or dinner together?"
I nodded assent, surprised but inwardly pleased. If I managed things carefully, I might be able to obtain some useful information from her; no doubt she was thinking the same thing. We said a courteous goodbye.
* * *
I went back to my reading. From time to time I looked up to gaze absently at the bland and blameless pastoral triptych that now hung on the wall above and to the left of the cabinet. I judged that, on the whole, the room's decor had been vastly improved.
© 1996, 1999 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.