The captain is obviously keen for us to make a good impression, so we're ordered to wear dress uniforms for the reception.
I don't, per se, object to wearing dress uniforms. Although I wouldn't go so far as to say so, I think mine rather suits me. The standard uniforms are certainly practical, but nobody is ever going to claim they were made to flatter; and the grey silk matches my eyes, which Maddie always used to say was attractive, though I'm sure I never understood why – perhaps it's just another of those arcane 'woman things' that have perplexed the opposite sex since time immemorial.
So, after covertly making sure that security is as tight as it possibly can be without the captain becoming aware of it, I duly turn up at the shuttle bay, hanging on to my 'optimism' like a climber suspended above a vertical drop clutching a slipping piton. Certainly the exchanges since our arrival have confirmed the amiable nature of our hosts, and if promises are anything to go by, it should be a memorable visit. If we can give a good account of ourselves, this may prove a valuable ally for Starfleet. So it's smiles all round and 'play nicely', and off we jolly well go to the party.
I can't bloody wait.
The flight down is uneventful. About four-fifths of the planet is covered by water, and a good half of the land mass is concentrated at the poles, which are perpetually entombed in ice. So there isn't a lot of habitable land, but what there is, is covered with vegetation. The shuttle sweeps down across verdant plains towards the city where the reception is to be held, and it's immediately apparent that the Sotoaret elegance of design isn't confined to their ships. The city too is beautifully put together, its scores of tall, slender silver spires giving it almost the look of a crown sitting on an emerald velvet cushion. Clearly, it makes no pretence of defensibility; it's surrounded by lakes and gardens, while further out what are clearly fields are laid out in a lush patchwork. As we peer out across this admittedly lovely landscape, everyone comments on its beauty – Hoshi isn't that far off the mark when she describes it as 'fairytale'. But though I resolutely refrain from commenting, personally I've never had any time for fairies. Modern depictions of them tend to focus on the cute and twee angles, but historically the Fair Folk were known to be no friends to humankind…
'Optimism, Lieutenant! Optimism!' The admonition's so clear in my ear that for a moment I almost look around for Phlox, who would be the first to applaud my unwonted venture into the delusional. Our good doctor, however, is currently absorbed in a particularly delicate experiment that requires all his attention, and he'll make one of the second tranche of visitors that will follow if this first one goes according to plan.
Still – 'Optimism' it is; and stifling a sigh, I keep my hands from the weapons console, contenting myself only with a small sideways glance to make sure that all the 'Standby' indicators are glowing. I have no intention of admitting that I set my alarm for unearthly hours this morning to creep down and check that everything was working perfectly. Not that I have any lack of confidence in Trip and his engineers, but where weapons are concerned, there's nobody I trust to be quite as paranoid as I am.
The shuttlepod curves down to the courtyard where the reception party is waiting, and settles down lightly on the paving. The sun is shining brilliantly in a cloudless sky, the trees that surround us are smothered in bright yellow flowers, the faces of the welcoming party are wreathed in smiles, and we're all dressed up to play the gracious guests for all we're worth.
Doubtless with the intention of promoting conversation, after the initial introductions to dozens of dignitaries of whom I retain little but vague impressions, each of the visitors is seated at dinner beside their opposite number in the regime. In line with the requirements of protocol, I sent details of the landing party to the planetary Head of Security, a woman named Konthater'amleen Yayaveri; having carefully memorised the spelling, I got Hoshi to teach me the pronunciation. Considering that the species prides itself on its friendliness, her approach up to now has been strictly businesslike, and I'd got the distinct impression that if ever we met up in the flesh, she probably wasn't going to be a shining example of amiability.
Still – 'Optimism, Lieutenant!' – I give it a go. Without making the slightest suggestion that I'm either offering to disclose Starfleet's technical information or showing undue interest in the Sotoaret's, I open negotiations with a perfectly neutral observation on how sophisticated their ships appear, combining functionality and beauty. Secretly, of course, I think Enterprise is the most beautiful ship I've ever seen, but I'm probably just a little biased; and in my experience, opening a conversation with a compliment is usually fairly sure to result in at least a few minutes of good-natured exchange.
Well. That was the idea. Konthater'amleen Yayaveri gives me a look that fairly drops a duranium portcullis between us and says that it's entirely improper to discuss technology with aliens.
"I wasn't attempting to discuss technology, Ma'am," I reply, keeping my voice even. "I wouldn't be so rude or so stupid as to attempt it. I was simply complimenting your ship design."
"Then let us leave it at that, Lieutenant."
You can tell the UT was programmed by an American. Most of the time nowadays I hardly notice it any more, even from Trip, but for some reason the oddly-emphasised 'Loo-tenant' provokes me.
"I'm more than happy to leave it at that, Ma'am. If and when you feel willing to continue the conversation, please feel free to introduce a topic you feel will be appropriate." And, my tone undoubtedly implies, you can take your chances with how hard you get slapped down.
Maybe she doesn't rate her chances as that high, or maybe she never wanted to sit beside an alien anyway. She starts eating, and so do I, and from that point onward we studiously ignore one another. Which suits me down to the ground actually, because conversation has never been my strong point, and even though I'm willing to obediently 'play nice' when the captain tells me to, it's a relief when my playmate clearly doesn't want to play at all.
Still, for all that it's a relief, I won't deny I'm still a bit pissed off. Manners cost nothing, and these people are supposed to be friendly; and after I've gone to all the bother of being optimistic, it's irksome to have all that highly unnatural effort completely wasted. When the dinner finally crawls to its close – helped on its way by speeches to which I listen with one ear, praying that gazelles never get a mention, which fortunately they don't – we visitors are shown to our guest quarters, where we are supposed to rest and recruit our energies for the next and thankfully final part of the day's events. I part from my table-companion with the curtest of nods, basically hoping that I don't even see her during the wearisome festivities that are scheduled to follow.
Parties. O God, I hate parties. Casting myself on my bed, which is admittedly extremely comfortable, I think longingly of that unbelievably alluring update awaiting me back on the ship. Instead of enduring hours of drinking strictly non-alcoholic beverages and trying not to let Captain Archer spot that I'm keeping an eye out for suspicious characters and assessing the venue for potential escape routes, I could be snug in my quarters reading up on fascinating developments in Starfleet armaments.
I wonder if the captain would believe me if I said I thought something I'd eaten had triggered one of my allergies and I had to get a shot of something from Phlox straight away?
He probably would, actually, but then as soon as he got back on board he'd comm Phlox for confirmation that I hadn't developed complications and died of them, and then things would get somewhat awkward.
Besides, if there's one thing I can pretty well guarantee it's that our genial Denobulan has done his homework as regards my allergies. He was a bit cheesed off with himself after that hallucinogenic pollen lark, and as much as I'd like to be able to sneak back to the ship with a case of the unconquerable sniffles, I genuinely wouldn't want to make him worry that he'd missed something else that might have had tragic consequences – I mean tragic apart from making me sneeze a lot, which from my point of view is pretty damn tragic when it happens; how's a fellow supposed to hit a barn door with a phase pistol blast when he can't see the bloody barn to begin with?
Oh, well. Party it is then. An hour's kip and then it's back to the grind.
'Optimism, Lieutenant! Optimism!'