During the next couple of days, I make every effort to rein in my automatic distrust. I can't – and don't – dismiss it altogether, but where queries about security have to be made, I do my best to phrase them as though I'm simply carrying out my necessary-but-dull duties as the Head of Department. And when others talk about the possibilities of shore leave, if the Sotoaret should prove as friendly as their name suggests, I grit my teeth and remain silent rather than interject acerbic comments about 'caution' being a good idea, at least to begin with.
Not that I intend to forgo or even moderate caution when we arrive. There's still that proviso about 'threats to life and limb', and neither life nor limb of any member of the ship's crew will be placed in hazard if I can prevent it. But it can't be denied that it's rather pleasant to take a rest – if only a temporary one – from being the resident prophet of doom; and even I have to admit (if only to myself) that our soon-to-be hosts certainly gave a most convincing show of pleasure at the prospect of entertaining new guests, and that if this hid dark intentions it certainly hid them extremely well.
There is nothing in the protocols to give me any cause for concern. Certain of the Sotoaret cultural traditions might seem somewhat old-fashioned – for instance, women are expected to wear 'modest' clothing in public, which includes covering the legs right to the ankle – but this doesn't seem to betoken any sinister indication of them being considered as second-class citizens in any way. They have the same legal standing as men, can own property and run businesses, and can hold positions of authority if they have the capability of exercising them effectively.
"The quartermaster has put together appropriate clothing for our visit," remarks T'Pol, addressing the early morning meeting in the Situation Room. "Although standard uniforms may be considered suitable for men, it is possible that they would be considered offensively revealing for women. As a compromise, Ensign McLeish has suggested that a wrap-around skirt could be worn over the uniform." She'd placed a folded piece of cloth on the table, and now shakes it out to reveal a single piece of grey fabric attached to a long waistband. "It can simply be tied around the waist, thus providing the required modesty without compromising freedom of movement."
"Couldn't we just wear long skirts?" asks Hoshi.
"Once cordial relations have been established, that would probably be perfectly acceptable," the Vulcan answers. "But the first meeting is considered a formal occasion, and uniforms would be in order. The quartermaster will produce garments of the appropriate length for each female member of the landing party, when the captain has designated them."
"I guess it'll be just you and Hoshi," Archer says cheerfully. "Maybe you can put in a word for Vulcan while we're there, and Hoshi can do her stuff with the language."
"It's already programmed into the matrix, sir." Hoshi is justifiably proud of this achievement, which will make the initial meetings on the planet far simpler for everybody. "There were some resemblances to Rigelian syntax, so I'm hoping to get to talk to some linguists while we're there to explore the influences on their language's development."
"I'm sure they'll be happy to discuss it with you."
"I may find the opportunity to discuss opening a relationship with Vulcan at some point," T'Pol admits, rather as if she was confessing an intention of indulging in some illicit activity in a gambling den.
"So Vulcan may have to find a 'gregarious' ambassador, hey?" Trip's eyes twinkle.
"As every ambassador knows, there are times when the unpleasant habits of other species simply have to be endured."
Ouch. I look down at the Situation Table with entirely spurious interest, trying to hide my grin. Captain Archer is far less successful, but then he doesn't try as hard.
"We've been invited to a meeting with the Supreme Planetary Council," the captain goes on, after rubbing his mouth a bit in the rather unsuccessful attempt to rub the smile off it. "After the introductions, there's a celebratory meal, then we'll have a less formal get-together. That'll probably include the families and the people who didn't quite qualify for the formal meeting."
"You mean like a party!" Trip, irrepressible as a geyser, is fairly sparkling with anticipation.
O, joy. A whole bloody evening poodle-faking. When only this morning the latest updates from Starfleet R&D weapons research landed in my inbox, and I've been looking forward all day to a whole evening blissfully perusing them instead, PADD at the ready to note down any observations of my own.
Happy Thoughts, Malcolm. Must think Happy Thoughts.
"I'm sure it will be most enjoyable, sir," I manage to get out.
I have no idea why everyone stops in mid-gabble and looks at me as though I must be sickening for something. I'm being optimistic, aren't I?
"I'm sure it will, Malcolm." Captain Archer eyes me with undisguised wonder.
Even one of T'Pol's eyebrows goes up.
This optimism lark is bloody overrated, if you ask me.
