The next time they were called up to the replicators for their rations, several humans in uniform waited next to the queue.
Stold examined the table they'd assembled. Three meters long, a meter thick. Four humans stood on the far side, shoulder to shoulder, bent over thin boxes that covered the surface. A couple men at the end stood apart, one tapping away at a PADD, the other bowed over a tricorder.
Stold glanced at Sufi, a question written in the tilt of his eyebrows, only to be met by an unfamiliar wall. Sufi staring straight ahead, studiously avoiding any contact of any kind.
As they drew closer, step by slow, stomach gurgling step, the voices of the humans filled his ears. Questions being called out in halting Vulcan, the pronunciation nasal, grating. The man in the red uniform asked the same thing of each individual, requesting names, birthdates, speaking over the man in blue, who collected medical data. The person being quizzed would then hand over their meal card, which the blue-uniformed officer snapped into a computer at his side, type in something, and return the adjusted card back.
When he drew abreast, Stold looked down a the thin trays covering the table. Human fingers scrolled up and down laminated cards with stunning speed. The man in red called out names, tongue stumbling over the family names with the regularity of someone who'd never lived on Vulcan, and each of the assistants behind the table flipped through the trays before them.
Stold relayed his information, the medic scanned him, he handed his meal card over just as the pregnant woman in front of him did. His name called. He watched while they searched. A thin slip of plastic passed up efficiently. Both of the uniformed men studied this card, then his meal card, before handing both back.
Stold stepped off to the side, examining these items, while Sufi went through the same.
The meal card was the same. Bright yellow, no identifying marks other than its serial number etched in the back.
The other, however, was interesting. An identifying card.
His name printed in horizontal clunky Standard print. He'd written his name in Standard before, when he'd first taken classes in it in primary school. Hadn't thought of it in years.
Residence: Vulcan Rescue Center, Kelvin Stadium, San Francisco, CA; This is considered a rescue center?
Height: 6'1"; Do not humans use metric? I am certainly not six meters tall... unless I misremember the conversion.
Weight: 145 lbs; LBS? What does that stand for? Not kilograms.
Birthdate: April 30th; I do not know who April is...
Age: 22; That's incorrect.
"Pardon me," he spoke up, just as Sufi gained his card. The man in red looked up. "The information on this identification card is incorrect."
He took it back, looked it over, and returned it. "No, it's accurate. We've converted everything to Earth measurements, to ease confusion. Next!"
"Whose confusion? His, or ours?" Sufi asked, examining his own card.