His eyesight, unremarkable by Roylan standards, was considered exceptional on the ship. From his seat on the catwalk's guardrail, he could see the entire bay, the reactors, half decks, tubes, tunnels, engines, generators, consoles, and screens that made up the great ship's engine room. He wondered, which is more lovely, the machines' power or the precision of their layout? He shook his head, amused by his own whimsy. It was impossible to separate one from the other; the totality made the Enterprise beautiful, and no matter how often he saw it, he never tired of the view.
If only the staff were half as orderly, he thought and watched as far below, crew members skittered about, rushing to finish assignments or get to their positions. He glanced at the chronometer. Nearly shift change, and the apprentice has not appeared. It will whine that the captain detained it on the bridge, but I will not be swayed this time. I warned it I would assign its work to some other if it were late again, and I will.
He scanned the deck for possible candidates and recognized the lanky frame of the human he called Silent strolling across the bay. It was one of his favorites, not actually silent but consistently quieter than many other department members. Ironically, he could pronounce its human name, but he'd given descriptive titles to most of his subordinates and feared it would feel slighted if not included. Silent it had become.
Silent continued past the cooling tubes and positioned itself by the division's primary entrance. It stood, hands behind its back, nodding to the enlisted as they arrived for the beta shift. Why are humans incapable of maintaining a schedule, he wondered; at 15:00, the chief welcomes the workers, and Silent supervises the transporters. Surely they realize predictability optimizes function? If the captain required emergency teleportation, a delay would reflect poorly on the division.
He looked more carefully, hoping to spot their leader rushing to rectify the mistake. But the chief was nowhere in sight. Where could it be? It was fine this morning. At the base of his thorax, his vestige spiracles tightened with anxiety. No, he remembered, it was not.
At 09:00, he'd reported to the chief's lair for tea as usual. He'd found the commander at its desk, staring pensively at nothing. The kettle had been cold, and the biscuit tin closed. He had looked pointedly at their empty mugs but instead of one of its usual witticisms, 'stop swinging about like a monkey,' or 'hungry again, you great bug?' the chief had said, "Help yourself, Keenser, I don't have much of an appetite today."
He'd been stunned. In the many cycles of their acquaintance, the chief had never before failed to prepare tea. He had stared his concern, but the commander had waved dismissively and grunted that everything was fine.
And I believed, he thought angrily. Once again, I allowed human words to lull me into ignoring my own eyes. When will I learn? He gazed unhappily at the silent one far below for several subcycles, trying unsuccessfully to imagine a reasonable explanation for the chief's absence. No, he decided, I will not enjoy the next shift with this mystery unexplained. Throwing himself to the nearest conveyor support, he slid to the bottom, then hurried across the deck to investigate.
As he approached, Silent nodded politely and said, "Lieutenant Keenser."
He stared a request for help. Silent, predictably, missed it. He tightened his vocal tube and piped, "Chief?"
"Mr. Scott is in his office, sir," the lieutenant replied. "He plans to remain there for the beta shift."
His hearts fluttered. He thought, the chief would never willingly work through the largest meal of its waking cycle. Something is wrong. Now profoundly concerned, he started toward the lair.
Silent called after him, "Sir, Mr. Scott asked not to be disturbed."
If his service among humans had taught him anything, it was how to ignore another's attempt at communication. Pretending not to hear, he hurried across the deck to the chief's lair; office, the others called it.
At the hatch, he took out a communicator and hit the correct code. "What?" the chief's voice barked.
"Here," he said.
"Not now, Keenser; I want some peace," the chief growled.
"Here," he repeated firmly.
After a several subcycle pause, the chief said, "Fine, don't respect my privacy," and the hatch slid open.
He peered into the dimly lit room and saw the chief behind its desk, grasping a half-empty glass of homebrew. Instead of one of its usual diverting observations about climbing on the furniture, it said, "Secure that. I don't want the whole division seeing me like this."
As the hatch slid shut, he shuffled over to the desk and climbed up, surreptitiously examining the human as he did so. While he acknowledged he'd failed to develop much appreciation for the species' physiology, the chief's flat little face appeared typical to him. There was certainly nothing about it that might disturb the division. You would do well to be less concerned about your appearance and more about the suitability of drinking alcohol while on duty, he thought, squinting disdain at the cup.
The chief said, "I'm off, you daft bug. Just because I usually work longer than required doesn't make it an obligation. A man's entitled to a break."
What is wrong with the creature! Engineering is a calling; one does not require breaks from joy. Confused, he peered a request for more information.
Noting his concern, the chief said, "I told Kyle to stay on the floor until Chekov comes down. I just don't have it in me today." The chief took another long pull, smacked its lips, and then reached under the desk for a bottle. "Do you want some? It's not bad, kind of a rough start, but it finishes smooth. Not that you'd care."
That at least sounds typical, he thought with some relief. Unusually preoccupied with its food, even for a human, the chief regularly expressed pity for Roylans' physiological inability to taste. It was one of their regular arguments and great fun. He'd start by suggesting fermentation was a great deal of effort exerted to create a weak degreasing fluid. Then, the chief would insist his entire species were numb-tongued bugs, incapable of understanding a good drink. They could go on for hours. Reassured, he replied as he usually did, with a glare of disgust, eyes narrowed for emphasis. But instead of rising to the bait, the human filled a glass, pushed it toward him, and asked, "Why are you here?"
Good mood squashed, he decided to be truthful and gazed his concern. The chief nodded, eyes soft. "You're a good friend, Keenser. I appreciate it, but you can't understand; you've nothing to blame yourself for."
The chief was correct, but it seemed an odd time for a compliment. He stared fake interest and waited for the commander to ramble to the point.
Instead, the chief held its drink up and said, "Join me in a toast?"
When drinking together, humans occasionally paused to knock the dirt from their glasses. He had participated in the ritual before and knew what to do. He raised his cup.
"Never forgotten," the chief said and tapped his cup.
He drank, wondering what he was supposed to be remembering.
The chief sagged lower into its chair and muttered, "I can't believe it's been a year. You lose track out here. Time means nothing on a starship," and rubbed at its face. A drop of clear liquid leaked from its eye and oozed slowly to its mouth.
Eyerot, he thought with horror and, jumping down, ran from the room. As he rushed across the bay, he thought, the chief is already leaking, it may be too late to prevent the melting of its optic nerve, but I must try.
Silent was still standing where he'd left it, near the main entrance to the department. He hurried over, staring an entreaty. The lieutenant smiled non-committedly, clearly not understanding. Then, as he prepared his vocal tube to explain, the hatch opened, and his apprentice rushed through.
The apprentice flushed guiltily, came to attention, and said, "Mister Keenser, Mr. Kyle, I'm sorry to be late. I had a difficult day; that is not an excuse, but..." It paused and asked, "Is something wrong, Mr. Keenser?"
Grateful, he shared an entreaty stare.
"You've got the watch, Chekov," the silent one interrupted.
He felt the apprentice's heart rate jump. "Me?" it squeaked, turning to Silent.
The lieutenant replied stolidly, "Mr. Scott's orders."
"I don't think that is a good idea, sir," the apprentice stuttered. "I can't supervise the floor, not today." Its eyelids fluttered as it spoke-its usual stress display.
"You'd need to take that up with the chief, and unfortunately, he doesn't wish to be disturbed. I'm overdue in the transport bay, so I'll just leave you two to chat," Silent said and ambled off, hands clasped behind his back.
The apprentice looked up at the compartment overhead, murmuring distractedly in its home language. Frustrated, he grabbed its uniform and tugged, glowering a request for self-control. Whatever bothers you can wait, he thought. This is important.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Keenser," the apprentice said, with a few more blinks. "What were you saying, sir?"
He repeated his gaze and, since his tube was already prepared, added, "Chief."
The apprentice's eyes widened in alarm. "Is Mr. Scott hurt?" it asked.
"Leaking," he replied.
"Leaking? Do you mean bleeding? Was there an accident?"
"Uncertain."
"Show me," ordered the apprentice and, pulling out a communicator, added, "I will notify medical."
His apprentice was often quite distractible, but it focused and stayed with him for once, going over and under obstacles appropriately, never stopping to debate the possibility of going around. Consequently, they arrived quickly at the chief's lair. Before he could even reach for his communicator, the apprentice rapped on the hatch.
"Go away," the chief yelled, sounding, he thought, remarkedly vital for someone with melting eyes.
The apprentice leaned against the hatch so that its mouth was nearly flush with the transmitter. "Mr. Scott, sir," it called softly, "could I please come in?"
The door slid open to reveal the chief, standing behind the desk and holding a now emptier bottle. "Ahh, Pavel," it said. "Did Keenser fetch you? I wondered what he was up to; he scurried out of here like a rat from a sinking ship."
"Are you alright, sir?" the apprentice asked urgently, trotting into the lair and leaning over the desk.
"Fine, fine," the chief replied. "Have a drink?" Then, reaching for another glass, it tried to pour but missed and spilled homebrew on the desk.
"Scotty, what's wrong?" the apprentice asked.
"Nothing's wrong. I'll just clean that up," the chief said. It patted the desk then murmured, "There's never a bloody towel about." Reaching for its duty jacket, their leader lost its balance and staggered. The apprentice lunged forward and caught it.
"I don't think you are quite fine," the apprentice said, settling the chief back in its seat. It instructed the hatch to close, then capped the bottle and tipped it upside down. It watched the bubbles move in the liquid. "Did you check the sugar content in the mash? I think this batch has a higher proof than you may have assumed."
"Does it matter?" the chief asked belligerently.
"It will matter tomorrow if you keep drinking tonight," the apprentice replied.
The chief made a snorting noise. "Why don't we just find out?" it asked, grabbing for its glass.
The apprentice gave him a sideways glance; the closest the gentle thing would ever come to a knowing leer. "Mr. Scott is not ill, sir. He is drunk."
"I'm not drunk," the chief said irritably, gulped more of its brew, and added, "but I'm trying."
The apprentice sat in a chair by the desk. He jumped onto the desk, arranging himself between the humans. Smiling, the chief announced, "Now, about that drink," and, carefully filling two glasses, slid them their way.
"I am on duty," the apprentice demurred, shaking its head.
"You're not on duty. You just served eight hours on the bridge. I don't know what you're doing here, to be honest," the chief said.
His apprentice drew back, showing hurt with its eyes. For a human, it was remarkably capable of expressing itself like a normal being.
"Not that I'm not glad to see you," the chief said hurriedly and nudged the drink forward.
The apprentice shook its head.
The chief snarled like a frustrated vernat, grabbed its communicator, and yelled, "Kyle!'
"Yes, Mr. Scott?" Silent replied calmly.
"Chekov's going to help me with some research. Take him off the roster. You're the ranking officer. I don't want to be disturbed." The chief closed the communicator without waiting for an acknowledgment. "There," it said, shoving the cup across the desk to rest against Larva's hand. "You're off duty. Drink up."
The apprentice shook its head sadly, tapped the glass, and said, "This will not help."
"It won't hurt," the chief growled and emptied its own in a single swallow.
"I know what this is about," the apprentice replied quietly, "and it will not help."
The chief's body sagged, and its face softened. "I suppose you would," it said quietly. "You were at ground zero for all of it."
His apprentice looked away quickly, blinking diffidence like a hatchling. "It's the oddest thing," the chief said. It refilled its drink and asked, "Do you remember that song of Ropner's?"
He studied the chief's face, trying to understand the non sequitur. Ensign Ropner had no songs. Ropner was gone, one of the dozens murdered by the traitor Alexander Marcus.
"You know," the chief insisted, "the tune Ropner used to hum while he worked?" then began to emit a peculiar whine, quite unlike its usual sounds.
Instead of answering, the apprentice softly repeated the tones. The noise sounded somewhat less tortuous coming out of it.
"That's it," the chief said. "How many times did I tell him to shut up? It's haunted me all day."
"It must have been a favorite of his," the apprentice said. "They played it at his memorial service. Did you go?"
The chief shrugged. "To be honest, I don't know. I went to as many as I could, so many that I don't really remember the specifics of any of them."
The apprentice said, "I went to three that day. I did fine until afterward. I was walking across campus, and it started to rain. I thought about the new graves getting wet, and suddenly, I started to cry. I couldn't stop. I just stood there on the parade grounds and sobbed like a child."
"No shame in that," the chief said. "I got a mite weepy myself just now."
"Weepy? Does that mean you cried?" the apprentice asked. The chief shrugged. The apprentice turned to him and said gently, "Mr. Scott is not leaking, Mr. Keenser. Sometimes when humans experience strong emotions, their eyes water. This is called crying. It is not dangerous."
His relief was profound enough to be embarrassing. His hearts fluttered, and his neck ridges expanded. To keep the others from noticing, he took a long drink of the degreasing fluid.
"Leaking?" scoffed the chief, "and here I was giving you credit for being sensitive. I should've known better. Great bloody insect! How the hell would a Roylan show sad anyway?"
He was pleased by the chief's use of the endearment and decided to encourage it with a demonstration. He fixed the humans with a gaze of melancholy, eyes wide for emphasis.
"Sir," the apprentice said, clearly distressed.
"Give it a rest," the chief snapped, then added, "For God's sake, man."
He flicked his nictating eyelids to dispel the mood but could not withhold a glance of superiority. Humans and their leaking lack depth.
The hatch opened, and the chief medical officer entered. His apprentice jumped to attention. "Sit," snarled the doctor, then turned to the chief and demanded, "Why is it, Mr. Scott, that whenever I get called to engineering for a medical emergency, no one ever seems to know anything about it?"
The chief said, "I'll thank you for knocking when you enter my private office, McCoy."
"Does the term medical emergency mean anything to you?" asked the healer.
Rather than reply, the chief snorted and took another drink.
The doctor asked suspiciously, "Are you drunk?"
"Not yet," the chief replied, "soon, hopefully, as I keep explaining."
The apprentice said, "This was my fault, Dr. McCoy. I forgot I called. There is no emergency. I'm sorry, sir."
The CMO dropped his kit on the desk. "Chekov," it said. "Do you see this blue shirt? It means I don't get to spend my days gazing out view screens and playing with phasers. I may be just a simple country doctor, but I'm far too busy to jump every time you panic over nothing. Do you understand me?"
He wondered, not for the first time, why the physician thought anyone could understand it, but the apprentice replied gravely, "Yes, sir. I apologize, sir."
"Calm down, Len. There is no emergency," the chief said, "but there's a nearly full bottle and an empty glass. Unless, of course, you're too busy."
The doctor twisted its mouth in the way it did when interested. "I'll have one. Since I'm here anyway," it replied, "leastways, then I won't have wasted the trip."
The chief poured another drink and said, "Don't be so hard on the lad, Len. Keenser led him to believe I was ill."
"Are you ill?" asked the doctor.
"Not at all," the chief replied, "just a little sad."
"Ah," the doctor said. "I think we all are today."
His apprentice glanced up, then quickly down, blinking again as it settled deeper into the leather chair.
"I thought everyone else forgot," the chief said.
The doctor snorted. "I don't know about everyone, but this morning when I finished my log, I checked to see what I was doing at this time a year ago and saw several paragraphs about an experiment I'd just done on a tribble." It grimaced and shook its head, then added, "Quite a kick in the gut."
The chief nodded. "I could think of nothing else all day. It doesn't seem right that we're going about our lives like it never happened."
The doctor replied, "Continuing to function doesn't mean we don't care. You can't think about it every day."
The apprentice glanced up again, saying, "I do," very clearly with its eyes. He noticed, but the others, concentrating on being next to speak, missed it. Uncertain what he was empathizing with, he nonetheless widened his gaze sympathetically. The apprentice quickly looked away, refusing comfort.
The doctor continued, "You're division chief of largely inexperienced staff, Scotty. We haven't been out long enough for you to know who's any good yet. Your focus has to be on them."
"I've got a new staff because a quarter of my old one was murdered a year ago today," the chief said. "That deserves some attention. We should have had a memorial, something."
Finally, he understood. They are ruminating about the sabotage. One of their Terran time cycles has completed since the event. He had observed before humans managing grief by congregating to explain their emotions to favorite others, whom they called friends, and knew they tended to repeat the ritual at regular intervals. On Royla, mourning was quieter, more task-directed, and had a conclusion.
The physician said, "I'm sure there were services in San Francisco. But there are problems with doing anything on the ship. It would scare the new crew." The chief snorted. The doctor shrugged and added, "Alright, but it's also the anniversary of Jim's," the doctor searched for the right word, "condition. It's hard to acknowledge one without mentioning the other, and he's sensitive about surviving." It sipped its drink, then added, "Sometimes I think he feels guilty."
"We all feel guilty," the chief said.
The doctor snorted. "Why would you feel guilty? It didn't happen on your watch."
"Maybe not," the chief began.
"No," he said firmly, interrupting the chief. The two older humans gave him a quite well-done ogle of surprise.
"What's that?" the chief asked.
He replied by looking deliberately at the apprentice, who was toying with its glass and would not meet his eyes.
"Chekov," said the doctor, rubbing at its forehead as it spoke, "I didn't mean that the way it sounded." He had always considered the doctor insensitive and was surprised to see how well it could use its eyes to express remorse.
"It is alright, Dr. McCoy," the apprentice said, setting his drink down carefully.
"Pavel," the chief said quietly, "of all the things I regret about that day..." The chief leaned across the table and said, "It never occurred to me he would tap you to replace me, laddie. I would never have done that to you."
Shaking his head, the apprentice said, "It wasn't your fault."
He could tell from its expression that the apprentice did not wish to continue the conversation. The chief, wits slowed by degreasing fluid, blundered on, "No, but after everything he went through, I can't blame the captain."
The apprentice sat up quickly, eyes narrowing with displeasure, "The captain saved us."
"Aye, of course," started the chief, but stopped, gazed at the apprentice, and said, "You can't blame yourself?"
The apprentice looked away, blinking again. "Blame himself?" the doctor said contemptuously. "Why would he? It wasn't his fault. It was Marcus. Khan too, but Marcus was worse. He was one of us."
"That is what the captain says," the apprentice murmured.
"Exactly," said the doctor.
But the chief wrinkled its brow and studied the apprentice through nearly closed eyes for several subcycles, finally asking, "And what do you think?"
Rather than answer the question, the apprentice replied, "He says I was acting on his orders, and I can't blame myself unless I blame him."
"He knows you'll never do that," the chief said.
The apprentice replied quietly, "You don't blame the hero."
The chief snorted, but the doctor nodded and set down its empty cup. "No one blames Jim, and no one blames you, Chekov," he said, "because it wasn't your fault."
"It sure as hell wasn't," the chief said.
He copied the chief's tone and said, "Obvious."
The chief raised one eyebrow. "You're very talkative today," it said.
He ignored the insult, satisfied that he had offered support to his apprentice in the manner it was most likely to appreciate, as any decent master would. He said as much, with a squint and a decisive nod.
The older humans laughed, but the apprentice once again demonstrated exceptional communication skills by saying, "Thank you," with its eyes.
The chief shook its head and took another drink. "Well, we've cleared that up. Are you feeling better?" it asked.
"Yes, sir," the apprentice replied. Its posture declared it was lying, but the words satisfied the others.
"I told you," the chief said, raising its drink, "and you said it wouldn't help."
The apprentice smiled, "I liked what you said, sir, not your horrible drink."
The humans laughed. Somehow, the grating sound seemed less annoying than usual.
"Let's have a toast," the chief said, raising his cup. "To our crewmates, never forgotten."
He joined the others in the ritual, tapping nonexistent dirt away.
The chief finished his drink. "Do you ever wonder what they would be doing if they were here?" it asked. "If it hadn't happened?"
"Probably this," the apprentice said wistfully.
"This?" asked the doctor.
His apprentice nodded. "When anything interesting happened, sometimes when nothing interesting happened, after our shift, we'd find someplace to drink and talk. Do you remember Martinez? He could do an excellent impression of," it stopped, glanced at the chief, and finished uncertainly, "Never mind."
The chief smiled. "At least we're celebrating them correctly then," it said, taking another drink.
The doctor studied its glass dubiously. "I'd prefer to celebrate them with something that didn't taste like turpentine," it said. "Why don't you pry open the doors of your locker and get us a decent drink, Chekov?"
His apprentice flushed, "Those bottles are an investment, doctor, not for drinking."
"An investment?" asked the chief.
"Bought where it is available, then sold where it is not. An investment," the apprentice said firmly.
"That's illegal," the chief snorted.
"So is having a still behind the secondary cooling tube," the apprentice replied.
"He's got you there, Scotty," the doctor replied. "It's a special occasion, Chekov; share."
Larva said, "If I am opening a good bottle, we must finish it; that is the Russian tradition."
"Then," said the doctor, "we should move this memorial to the officers' club. There will be more people to help us."
"Fair enough," the chief said, rising slowly.
The humans stacked their cups but did not clean them, a delay of labor tactic very typical of their species. He contributed his nearly full one and followed them out of the lair, barely listening as they discussed their plans. He walked with them to the turbolift, then turned to go to his quarters, congratulating himself on having solved the chief's leaking problem.
"Mr. Keenser," the apprentice called. "Sir?"
He turned. The humans were staring at him with varying degrees of concern.
"Where are you off to, you daft bug?" the chief asked. "The officer's club is this way."
"Didn't you hear Chekov? We've got a bottle to empty," the doctor agreed.
He blinked. It had not occurred to him that they would wish him to attend. Mourning rituals are for favorites, for friends. They include me only to be polite, he decided and widened his eyes, preparing to gaze a dismissal.
"Please," added his apprentice, staring a wide-eyed entreaty. He paused; verbal expression could be easily manipulated, but it was difficult to pretend eye-speak, and Larva's expression bellowed sincerity. Perhaps it would be rude to refuse? He squinted at the humans, trying to decide. We serve together, he decided. The chief is closer than a hatchmate to me, and Larva is perhaps even dearer. I will join them. Feeling honored and a little nervous, he started down the passageway.
Together, they entered the lift. As usual, the humans immediately began to fill the small space with noise.
"When did you realize it was the anniversary, Chekov?" asked the doctor, "Did Scotty tell you?"
"I have known it was coming for some time," the apprentice replied. "While I enter the stardate into the navigational logs, I always convert it to Terran Standard in my head."
"Why? Seems like an awful lot of work for nothing," said the doctor.
The apprentice shrugged. "I can't help it," it said. "It is one of my math things."
"Good Lord," the doctor muttered. "How about you, Scotty?"
The chief replied, "I always know the Terran date. In my quarters, I have what's called a yearly calendar. It's a graph full of numbers; they were quite common at one time. Every morning I hop out of bed and scratch off a day."
"You scratch the display?" the apprentice asked.
"No, the calendar. It's paper. It came with a little stylus made of wood and graphite to make notes on it. I use that. It works excellently well."
"Really?" the apprentice asked. "Paper? Made from plants?"
The chief nodded. "I've had one since I was a boy. Of course, I couldn't afford a paper one then. But I don't treat myself to much, and I figure, why not?"
"I never pictured you as the vintage type," the doctor said.
"I'm a complicated man, Len. I have facets," the chief replied. The doctor, unaccountably, laughed again.
"Sir, could I see it sometime?" asked the apprentice. "I think it would be fascinating."
The chief swung a single arm around their apprentice, roughly jerking it closer. He had observed the interchange before and assumed it to be some sort of dominance display. He considered it a testament to the apprentice's excellent self-discipline that it never challenged their leader. "I'll tell you what," the chief replied, "I'll let you see it, but only if you agree not to refer to it as fascinating."
"I'll drink to that," the doctor said, and the humans laughed again. The noise echoed in the tiny space but bothered him less than usual. He looked up at those who had declared him friend and was struck by how well their eyes expressed their pleasure. They are learning.