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  Cutler walked to the science station. T’Pol didn’t acknowledge her—at least not right away. Neither did Hoshi, who was sitting at her communications station, one hand cupping an earpiece as she worked on the problem she and T’Pol were facing.

  Cutler waited beside the science station. T’Pol finally looked up.

  “Ensign,” she said. “The captain and I have a request.”

  Archer got out of the chair and walked to the science station. He was trying to keep his pacing to a minimum, but it wasn’t working. He was so restless that sitting still was a chore.

  “Anything, Subcommander,” Cutler said.

  Archer grinned. “You should never make that offer to a Vulcan.”

  Cutler’s eyes widened when he spoke. “S-Sorry, sir. Captain. Sir.”

  It always surprised him that he made the crew nervous.

  “It is certainly not inappropriate to offer one’s services at one’s job to a Vulcan, Captain,” T’Pol said with such stiffness that Archer knew he had offended her.

  “It was a joke, T’Pol,” Archer said.

  “It was a poor one,” T’Pol said. “I believe jokes should have an element of humor.”

  “Really?” Archer allowed himself to be distracted for a moment. “Tell me a Vulcan joke.”

  “Vulcans do not waste their time with such trivial things,” T’Pol said.

  “You mean Vulcans have no sense of humor so they see no point in joking,” he said.

  “That would be one interpretation,” T’Pol said.

  “Is there another?”

  “Vulcans can be amused, Captain,” she said.

  Cutler watched this exchange with interest. She seemed shocked at T’Pol’s free commentary on Archer’s statements.

  “I thought amusement was an emotion,” he said.

  “Amusement can be an intellectual response to certain stimuli,” T’Pol said. “In that, it is akin to curiosity, which is also a Vulcan trait.”

  “If you say so,” Archer said. “Although I do recall a Vulcan subcommander telling me she’d spent weeks in San Francisco without visiting any of the local attractions.”

  T’Pol straightened. “I was there to work.”

  “All work and no play—”

  “Puts off needed tasks,” T’Pol said, facing Cutler. “Ensign, we have discussed some of your studies of the culture of the southern continent. How up to date are you on the latest developments in our contact with the alien aboard this ship?”

  Cutler shrugged. “I, um, know that it’s telepathic. I know that it uses psionic energy to communicate, and I know that the communication is harmful to humans. Other than that, I’m not sure what you mean, Subcommander.”

  “Do you find these traits unusual?” T’Pol asked.

  “In spiderlike creatures or in general?”

  “Either will do,” T’Pol said.

  “In some ways, I think it’s inaccurate to call this a spiderlike creature. This creature has no arachnid traits beyond the hairy legs.” Cutler’s voice sounded more certain now.

  Archer leaned against the station, watching. He was always amazed at the diversity of intellects within his crew.

  “This creature has more in common with crustaceans,” Cutler said. “It has a hard shell, like most crustaceans, and it is primarily aquatic, although it can survive in the air as well, like some kinds of crabs. But even that analogy isn’t the best, since most Earth-based crustaceans need to return to the water after a certain period of time. From what I can tell, this creature does not. It can survive on land long enough to build structures, and it has certainly had no problems here—unless no one’s told me about them.”

  “It’s been unconscious most of the time,” Archer said.

  “I’m referring to breathing problems, sir,” she said. “Or problems with the shell—flaking, drying out, that sort of thing. This is an amphibious creature, but not an amphibian.”

  Archer’s head was beginning to spin. “What’s the difference?”

  “It can survive on land or in water,” Cutler said, “but to be classified as an amphibian, it must have vertebrae. This creature most definitely does not.”

  “Okay.” Biology was never really his strong suit. He got through it, but not because it held any special interest for him. Astronomy, engineering, spaceships—that was where his interest was.

  “Just to be cautious,” she said, “I had my team investigate arachnids, crustaceans, and amphibians of various types to see if any of them showed signs of telepathic communication. I found nothing credible.”

  “Does that agree with the Vulcan experience, T’Pol?” Archer asked.

  “We are not familiar with any such creatures that have telepathic powers,” T’Pol said. “Indeed, the telepaths we are familiar with have powers that are much more generalized—gentler, if you will.”

  Archer nodded. “The problem we’re facing, as I understand it, is a dual one, of both language and communication method. Ensign, in your study of these creatures, have you seen any sign that they spoke once in their distant past? Or maybe still do make any form of verbal communication?”

  “No, sir,” she said. “They do not.”

  He was surprise at the swiftness of her answer.

  “And you can be sure of this, Ensign?” T’Pol asked.

  “Yes, I can,” Cutler said.

  Archer held up a finger for her to wait a moment, then went over to Hoshi. He tapped her on the shoulder. “I think you should be involved in this conversation.”

  She looked surprised, but she took her earpiece out and joined them.

  “Go ahead, Ensign,” Archer said to Cutler. “Explain why you’re sure that these aliens never spoke to each other.”

  Cutler gave Hoshi a nervous glance, then said, “From what I can tell from the scans I’ve been given, these aliens breathe through a type of gill/lung combination on the sides of their necks. It allows them to function in both atmosphere and water.”

  “Is this unusual?” Hoshi asked.

  “No,” Cutler said. “Earth has a number of species who have this ability, and I have heard of many others found on other planets.”

  Archer glanced at T’Pol, who was nodding.

  Cutler went on. “This alien takes in nutrients through a small suction area just under the eyes. To us, that suction area looks like a round mouth. However, from the scans that I have taken, it’s clear that this mouth is only hooked up to the digestive track and not to the lung/gill apparatus. In order to speak, at least as we understand speech, sound must move through air. If we don’t breathe, we can’t talk. It’s as simple as that.”

  “And as complicated,” Hoshi said. She was clearly thinking of all the languages she’d learned—and all the ones she was going to learn on this trip.

  Archer was beginning to feel discouraged. If the aliens didn’t have speech, then perhaps Hoshi’s assumption about language was incorrect.

  “Are there vestigial remains of a larynx?” T’Pol asked.

  “Or something similar to a larynx?” Hoshi added. She seemed excited by the prospect.

  “Huh?” Archer asked.

  “Your tailbone,” T’Pol said, “is the vestigial remains of the tail that your species used to have.”

  She said that with such disdain that for a moment, Archer wondered if she was comparing him to his tail-bearing ancestors and finding him lacking. Then he smiled. She simply hated explaining things that she believed should be obvious.

  “I didn’t do the scans myself,” Cutler said. “I wasn’t allowed near the alien.”

  “Surely something like a vestigial remains of a larynx would show up on Dr. Phlox’s scans,” T’Pol said.

  Cutler shook her head. “Nothing did. I looked. The structure for any type of vocal cords just isn’t there, even morphed through time, and there is no ability to concentrate the air in any fashion. I believe these creatures evolved with no need to speak aloud.”

  “Language doesn’t have to be verbal
to be understood,” Hoshi said. “American sign is done by gesture alone.”

  “It is possible that they once communicated like that,” Cutler said, “but I doubt it. If they had the telepathic abilities from the beginning, they would develop those, not a complex series of gestures.”

  “Yet,” T’Pol said, “there are dozens of other ways to make oneself understood. They could have clicked their claws together or rubbed their legs like your crickets.”

  “Sure, they could have.” Cutler shrugged. “But they didn’t. In those cases, the body parts become instruments. These aren’t. Besides, communication like that would be inefficient underwater.”

  “Good point,” Archer said, finally feeling like he could contribute.

  “Damn,” Hoshi said softly to herself. “I was afraid of that.”

  Archer frowned at her. She shook her head. T’Pol looked frustrated as well.

  “What’s the problem with telepathy?” Cutler asked, glancing at Hoshi, then back at Archer.

  “Language, Ensign,” Archer said. “Language. We were hoping to build a device that would translate our language into psionic energy they could hear.”

  Cutler nodded, clearly understanding. “But if they had no language to start with, then such translation would be impossible.”

  “Correct,” T’Pol said. “So I am going to have to be present to speak with the alien telepathically.”

  Archer had been fighting that idea for the past twelve hours, and he still didn’t want her to try it. Even with a device that would reduce the strength of the alien psionic energy, and boost T’Pol’s thoughts through psionic energy in return, it was just too dangerous. One misdirected alien thought, and T’Pol might die. Or that thought might make her insane for the rest of her long Vulcan life.

  “I’m not ready for that yet,” Archer said.

  Hoshi bit her lower lip. “Sir, direct mind contact is going to have to be the only way. It is not possible to translate a language that does not exist.”

  Archer paced down the step to his chair and looked at the planet, which was still on the large screen. He had always assumed that first contact was easy, that the Vulcans had blown it out of proportion and made it into an ordeal. The human-Vulcan first contact was easy compared with this; their bodies, while different, weren’t that different, and they communicated through speech.

  This was feeling impossible.

  It looked like it was time to let this one go, give the information to all the scientists on Vulcan and Earth to study. They had the time. Let them come up with a solution and the next ship past here would deal with the mess he made of this first contact.

  But he wasn’t ready to give up. He never gave up. There had to be a way to communicate without sacrificing another member of his crew.

  “Sir,” Cutler said, breaking into the dark silence of the bridge. “There might be a way.”

  Archer spun around and stared at the young ensign. She was looking nervous and worried, but clearly determined. Both T’Pol and Ensign Hoshi were watching intently.

  “Go ahead,” Archer said.

  “Well, sir,” Cutler said, “you know that Crewman Novakovich has been on light duty since the transporter accident a few weeks ago.”

  Archer winced. He hated thinking about that moment. At least Novakovich had survived. When Archer had first seen him, the man looked like one of those tree-creatures of English folk literature.

  “Novakovich has been, um—” Cutler flushed.

  “Playing a game in the mess hall with you and Travis Mayweather and James Anderson,” Archer said.

  Cutler’s eyes widened.

  “I keep track of my crew, Ensign,” Archer said, amused by her surprise. “You can go on.”

  “Then you probably know this, sir.”

  “I’m not sure what you think I know, Ensign.”

  “Um, well, in the downtime, he decided to make himself useful,” she said, clearly uncomfortable. “He had an idea about a shield against the psionic energy. He’s been working with Crewman Williams in engineering to see if they could make it work.”

  Archer stared at her for a moment. His smugness at knowing everything his crew was doing vanished. He was too astounded by her news to be annoyed that he wasn’t being kept informed.

  He reached over to the intercom link on his chair. “Crewman Novakovich, Crewman Williams, Chief Engineer Tucker, report to the bridge.”

  Archer glanced up at T’Pol, but she had already returned to her science station. Her fingers were dancing over her board as she worked calculations. Clearly the idea of shielding from the psionic energy had not crossed her mind either. Sometimes it was the most obvious solutions that were the best.

  Archer smiled at Cutler. “Thank you, Ensign. You may have just told us about the key we needed to make this work.”

  Twenty minutes later, the discussion between Crewman Novakovich, Crewman Williams, Cutler, Trip, T’Pol, and Hoshi was raging, filling the bridge with ideas, arguments, counterarguments, and theories as to what would be the best way to shield humans from the alien psionic energy thought waves.

  Archer stood back, his arms crossed, watching as some of the best minds he had ever had the pleasure to be around struggled to solve the same problem. Sometimes he felt very lucky to have surrounded himself on this first mission with such a great crew. This was one of those times.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Captain’s log.

  I have decided that I will talk to the alien first.

  T’Pol disagreed. We had to take the argument to the ready room. She was quite strident for a Vulcan. She’s worried that my puny mind won’t be able to handle an errant alien thought wave. I reminded her that she had said she wouldn’t be able to handle one either.

  That didn’t quiet her for long. She believes that a captain should never risk his life for his crew. The captain, she says, is the most important person on the ship. Crew should be sacrificed before the captain takes a risk.

  I wonder what she would have thought about all those old navy captains who went down with their ships while their crews escaped. Clearly we have some cultural differences here too.

  Although I must admit, Starfleet does suggest that the captain take fewer risks than I do. The entire idea amuses me. This trip is risk enough; whether or not I face an alien who could kill me with a thought isn’t going to add much to the risk factor that already exists.

  Besides, I’m not going to have my staff do something I’m unwilling to do myself.

  That’s my justification and I’m sticking to it. Besides, this is an Earth ship and it is up to me to make first contact for Earth.

  Once I got T’Pol to stop arguing, she went back to work. She and Hoshi are trying to create a voice/psionic energy translator that will allow me to talk to the alien. Assuming, of course, that the psionic shield Trip and the others were working on actually protects me from the alien’s thoughts. Both teams feel they can be ready in five hours.

  Five hours. Five hours seems like an eternity when I’m having trouble surviving through seconds.

  More waiting. This is something I know I will have to adjust to, but in situations such as this one, it is difficult.

  Looks like I’ll have to find something besides pacing to fill the time.

  THEY HAD MOVED THE ALIEN TO AN ALCOVE OFF A corridor, an enclosed space that kept it isolated and yet allowed a relatively large group of people to work nearby. It had taken Archer a while to determine the best place to deal with the alien. He hadn’t wanted to place anyone in danger except himself. That had taken some doing—and a bit of rearranging of equipment—but he believed they had found the right location.

  Unfortunately, this tiny area of the ship did not have the same sophisticated environmental controls that sickbay had. Nothing they did could keep the smell down. The alien’s stench was so thick here that Archer’s eyes were watering. One of the guards that Reed had posted down the corridor was wearing a mask because, Reed said, she was afraid she’d p
ass out.

  The smell—salty rotted oily and fishy mixed into one—was truly another presence in the room. If the aliens decided to stop communicating with telepathy, they could probably communicate with their odor alone.

  Only on land, though.

  He pressed the back of his hand against his nostrils, but that really didn’t help much. The mask would have been a good idea if he weren’t trying to communicate. He didn’t want his voice muffled or his appearance altered. He wanted everything to go as smoothly as possible.

  Trip was making the final adjustments to the psionic energy shield. The shield Trip, Ensign Cutler, Crewmen Williams, and Novakovich had invented seemed rudimentary. They put two pole-shaped machines on either side of the brig. The poles, used in unison, would create a clear energy barrier that would act like an invisible wall between Archer and the alien.

  This energy wall couldn’t even be felt and wouldn’t hurt anyone who walked through it, because it was finely tuned to the psionic-wave frequency the alien used for telepathic communication. When the alien psionic waves passed through the energy, they were scattered and theoretically rendered harmless.

  “It should work,” Trip had told Archer. “But there’s really no way to really test it without waking up our friend.”

  “So what happens if the psionic energy varies slightly?” Archer had asked.

  “The shield won’t block it,” Trip had said.

  “So I have to make sure I don’t get the alien to raise his voice at me,” Archer had said.

  Trip hadn’t laughed, which was probably the proper response. Archer felt amused, however. He was living a life he had never imagined he could live, filled daily with incredible risks. This was just one of them.

  Dr. Phlox stood just inside the energy barrier, waiting to inject the alien with a stimulant and wake it up. Archer’s greatest concern was that the alien wake slowly. He didn’t want Phlox to get caught by any alien attempt at communication.