The Assignment

Star Trek – Animorphs

Soundless. Untouched. Free of inertia, velocity and ensuing entropy. The mind is a tool to be mastered.

The flesh obeys the mind.

Respiration occupying the smallest part of vulcan consciousness, degraded function responded at the expected 2.5%, increasing, to newly cycled restrictions. Visual form did not benefit required process past the point of infancy. Therefore, Spock did not visualise the deliberate neural clusters encouraging his chosen behaviours. Instead, a mantra. Familiar.

Breathe in. No friction in the void.

Chosen, as was his wont. Spock set a great deal by matters of choice. It seemed a deficiency of the as-yet unstudied universe to be constantly addressing the natural consequence of preference.

Such consequences appeared to occur at every conceivable moment.

A breath did not require exhalation to the point of an increased oxygen consumption rate over time. It concerned Spock, at times a focus for meditation such as this, to note such inefficiencies within his own behaviour. It seemed most illogical.

The Captain would claim to agree. And still encourage it.

For another sixty standard units within the hours allocated for meditative recourse Spock dwelled upon that. Resolving, for the future, another approach involving additional intuitive appeals to Captain Kirk's interest in vulcan traditions, he began the process of emergence.

He folded the matt, exchanged a soiled uniform for one appropriate to shift work and surveyed the room.

"My quarters. Proficient, for one used to human predeliction for abrupt and oft-uninvited interruption."

Spock waited for the sweet-smelling aroma of incense to be drawn in and nullified by the climate control. Black boot squeaking on the doorframe, a lively step marched past two women in uniform, their nods replied in kind.

A man truly living with two perspectives on existence - 'a foot in two camps'. In the human fondness for endlessly quoting themselves, Spock occasionally bowed to the inevitable and acknowledged the usefulness of such metaphorics. Brevity had a way of communicating feeling. Understandable, for humans. For the crew. He therefore bowed, for the first of many times in a single standard day, to the truth.

Contamination of an ill kind, unreached by modern medicine.

Amusing, perhaps, to note the typical of his chosen mantra could fall so far from his reality. Untouched as an atom in space is untouched. Yet marked, irrevocably changed, by elements beyond his comprehension. A form of dark energy. Existing outside of observable space.

Spock wondered if the Vulcan Science Academy would ever choose to write a thesis on such romantic inclusions. More likely upon the dangers of travelling many years on a purely human vessel.

An empty turbolift provided the form of travel preferred after rest-cycle meditation. Only the hum of rapid transit accompanied his deeper introspection. Settled, a tug to realign his tunic, Spock emerged. He tucked his hands behind his back to walk.

No. To stroll. The ease of his passage, a pause to observe a panel here or the rare window to outside space, caught more than one prolonged glance. Spock paid the crew no mind.

"Travel throughout the cosmos," as if to himself, not quite watching the sensible routes of distant star systems, "both endangers and enriches those enlisted in its study. While I do not find myself taken by the opined beauty of such a view, I do find it - relaxing."

Spock glanced through the window and swept past a blatantly staring yeoman. He stepped swiftly to the side to avoid the laden food tray balanced on her hip.

Entry into the dining hall, the 'Mess', met a level of sound quite equitable.

His meal card provoked soup, warm through the heatproof bowl. A single strand of greenery drifted on the surface. Spock did not comment, not until seated and suitably prepared for the enjoyable flavours of home. Spoon dipped into pulped vegetative material, he stirred. The scents rose the swifter for it.

"I suspect this form of sustenance would not satisfy beings incapable of taste." Plucking the green strand to sniff, delicately, Spock placed it to the side. Amusing. Access to his meal card restricted those who might try their hand at piquing his intellect with such a diversion.

A pity, to choose so lacking a pun. Terran herb thyme only enriched a true bouquet of sensory input in his traditional post-rest cycle meal of plomeek soup. "But I digress."

"Mr. Spock, am I interrupting?"

Shaken from a new direction towards the less pleasing concepts hidden by terran flora in a vulcan dish. Spock had indeed been interrupted. "Mr. Scott," seemed an acceptable compromise.

Rather pallid for the typically ruddy second officer, a veritable crash lingered in ringing ceramic some moments after a volatile seating across the table.

Spock's spoon remained within his bowl. He released it to scratch, languid, below the collar.

"Well, I cannae deny it." Splayed fingers dipped in view and below, the slap on knees audible. "Please don't raise that look at me, Mr. Spock. I just..." The engineer bulged behind what must be a turgid flow of language.

Spock chose not to engage his experience of human linguistic interpretation.

Arched fingers over which to observe instead marked an attentive air. A useful technique for 'conversations' such as these. Silence and an air of sympathy. The chief engineer responded wonderfully.

Mr. Scott collapsed against the back of his chair. A sheen on his brow mopped dry under a disposable napkin clutched in his hand. "It's mad," muttered under his breath. "Mad!" Louder and effusive. A widened eye, pressed between brow and flushed cheek.

The stern attentiveness did not falter. "Mr. Scott. Please be more specific."

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir." A ruffle through admittedly unkempt hair. Presumably another extended Beta shift from the human's extended approach to Mess Call. Spock personally recognized such reluctance to eat immediately after the physical work required in Engineering.

Finely honed and controlled musculature very nearly flinched from an afloat dead skin cell.

"Yes?"

"It's just - look, sir." Upended, a shower of possibly alien dust and stones of coarse grain crumbled before his eyes. The engineer made a show of shaking the holding pouch and tucked it away.

He did not blink.

Yes, an infringement on quarantine, but contained to the appropriated table of high officers. Spock discreetly moved cooling plomeek to his left. He did not wish to imbibe debris upon the completion of Mr. Scott's demonstration. "Samples from the planet." And among those he had not personally come into contact, or study. A piece fit comfortably between thumb and forefinger. Shattered at some point, sharp edges revealing the speckled grain.

The engineer's face came into focus at rest in his chair. A tricorder lay waiting by the dumped materials. Spock acquiesced and gathered the device in a free hand, scanning in base mode first the broken piece and proceeding to the pile.

The Enterprise's fine instrumentation had, on occasion, proven false. But under the keen attention of an engineer of Mr. Scott's quality, the conflicting data should not have raised Spock's rate of information processing.

In particular, at so early an hour.

"Fascinating."

"Y' see, sir? I've calibrated this here scanner, recalibrated, six times!" Mr. Scott threw a particularly venomous glance at the innocuous rock pile.

"Composed primarily of silicate materials, rich in sodium, accompanied by a number of accessory minerals. A marked orbicular structure; similar, if not identical, to Corsite. Quite a remarkable radial arrangement; and herein lies your problem if I am not mistaken, Mr. Scott?"

The full bluster had long since stopped drawing attention. It did not become a man or woman aboard the Enterprise to find amusement in the idiosyncrasies of their commanding officers.

"Aye!"

"Hmm," Spock hummed, head bent to observe the crystalline spheres imbedded in igneous rock.

"The Napoleonite registers as it should," Mr. Scott said between gritted teeth, finally addressing his fried porcine and substitute egg roll. Chewing, eyes distant, he muttered. "But that lattice - the structures simply refuse to be defined. No, I'm sure of it, Mr. Spock." The vulcan closed his mouth. "Consider me emotional, for I am truly vexed."

He set the sample down. "Please put aside your vexations, Chief Engineer, while we eat. I am afraid," a slight twinkle suppressed before it could take root and disturb an otherwise peaceful morning, "that I cannot abide a meat-based addition to my diet, although your appeals to share are most acceptable."

Mr. Scott gaped. The chief science officer averted his gaze.

There are some boundaries, after all, that simply cannot be crossed. Professional courtesy could take so much.

Remembering himself, the jaws slammed shut to chew. Thoughtful.

The soup required attending to, without haste. In the tradition of vulcans at the very threshold of war, Spock raised it to his lips and drank.

A pity to not have time to savour and remember again a time of plomeek made by warm hands. But this, indeed, was Spock's battlefield. And Mr. Scott his beleaguered comrade. "Let us approach from another angle, Mr. Scott. I am aware that your area of study involves the use of dilithium, a crystal with unique properties."

"O' course. We wouldn't be flying on antimatter without those little miracles."

"Indeed." Configuring the tricorder to recapture lost data took Mr. Scott the time to consume his roll. A quick test of new settings found readings to confuse the corsite as an erratic compound. The test may have worked. Spock focused the device on the orbicular crystals.

No clear data. A vulcan does not allow observable, even expected results to affect his or her emotions. Spock laid the scanner down, gaze focused somewhat paradoxically on nothing.

The engineer, face easily drawn in terran-standard gravity, had little patience left for moody scientists. "Sir? Did you get anything?"

"Only in proximity, Mr. Scott. It would seem that the Eirine crystals, opaque to the eye, contain similarities to our pre-mentioned dilithium. Not," a hand held against the shock of waking to truly awesome news, "in a usable state. I doubt it could ever be used in a starship; the manner of reflection, of 'spraying energy' if you will pardon the obscure terminology, would make it quite infeasible."

A drum of fingers on the table. "So if I'm hearin' you correctly... This is a form of napoleonite, containing orbs of crystal that reads as somewhat close to dilithium - but in the opposite sort of way? It reflects energy?"

"Perhaps." The tricorder, inert and now inoperable until reconfiguration, sat innocently by the rock samples. "An intriguing find."

And one he would address, to the full extent of his scientific authority, once the current issue had been addressed. Spock bid the engineer a smooth farewell.

The turbolift did not arrive empty. He paused.

Giving in to the multiple questioning stares, including one of whom had caught his moment by the viewing portal, Spock entered and made his peace. Each to their station, Spock had only the space of .25 minutes to himself.

"Upon exiting the turbolift," rapid, short breaths communicated at speed, "the bridge is the true nerve centre of the ship. The captain of this vessel commands from the bridge; the helm, weapons, communications and science stations -"

Shutting down stream of thought speech required an interval of .01 minutes.

The bridge staff acknowledged Spock's return to shift as he assumed command. No messages from the planet; a simple check-in from the captain, two hours past.

The First Officer of the Enterprise settled in as best his heritage allowed. To wait.

To consider. To believe. A crooked finger beneath his chin.

Spock scratched beneath his collar.

The soft beep of the intercom, forwarded to the arm of his chair, moved that waiting mind. Calm as the night over endless desert, Spock poised for immediate action.

"Kirk to Enterprise."