Gauntlet - Michael Jan Friedman [16]
Jiterica’s presence in Starfleet was therefore something of a trial run—an attempt to see if Nizhrak’a and humanoids could establish a mutually beneficial relationship. To this point, the experiment hadn’t gone very well.
The ensign’s previous commanding officer, Captain Cepeda of the Manitou, had observed that the ensign was unhappy under his command. Worse, he projected for the record that she would be unhappy on any ship in the fleet. He said that Jiterica hadn’t sought a discharge for one simple reason—her enduring belief that her people would benefit from Federation membership.
Apparently she was willing to suffer a great deal of hardship to see that happen.
For the time being, Greyhorse decided to dispense with the idea of identifying Jiterica’s vital signs. That was a problem he would have to work on when time allowed.
“You may sit up,” he said.
The ensign swung her legs around—another awkward motion, thanks to her containment suit—and did as the doctor suggested. Then she fixed her ghostly gaze on him and waited.
“I’ve familiarized myself with your personnel file,” Greyhorse told her, producing a handheld padd from the pocket of his lab coat. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t tell me everything I need to know—for instance, what diseases your species is prone to, and how your body is equipped to fight them.”
“I understand,” she said in the same tinny voice.
Jiterica went on to inform him about the parasites of her world, which came in two basic varieties. Greyhorse likened them to the bacteria and viruses that plagued solid life-forms.
According to the ensign, her species’ defense against these parasites was to create a tiny gas bubble around the offending organism, effectively isolating it from the rest of their systems. Deprived of nourishment, the parasite eventually withered and died.
“Interesting,” said the doctor, making a note of the information in his padd. “And what about other forms of injury? Say, from an impact? Or exposure to radiation?”
“Only my skin can sustain injury,” Jiterica told him. “When it is compromised, I reform it.”
“Consciously?” he asked.
Her features fuzzed over as she concentrated on the doctor’s query. “If the injury is bad enough, I do it consciously. Otherwise, my body repairs itself in due time.”
He asked her several other questions in the next few minutes, and she was able to answer all of them to his satisfaction. But it wasn’t just the substance of her responses that enlightened him.
The more she was compelled to speak, the shorter and blunter her sentences became. What’s more, her facial features fuzzed out for longer and longer periods of time.
Apparently, the effort required to converse with Greyhorse was taking its toll on her. Not wishing to cause her any more discomfort than necessary, he said, “We’ll continue this another time. For now, you can return to your duties.”
Jiterica looked at him, her features still in the process of reforming behind her transparent faceplate. To his mind, they didn’t create an impression of contentment. Her expression looked strained, as if she were carrying a burden much too heavy for her.
Of course, Jiterica wasn’t humanoid, so her expression wasn’t necessarily a window on her feelings. It might simply have represented her best attempt to look like someone else—Greyhorse himself, perhaps, or one of her trainers at Starfleet headquarters.
“Thank you,” she told him.
He nodded. “You’re welcome.”
Then he watched as the ensign slid off the biobed and walked away. Her movements were stiff, mechanical, almost painful to watch. But Greyhorse watched anyway.
He couldn’t help admiring Jiterica. As difficult as it was for her to exist under these circumstances, she never made the slightest complaint. That took courage . . .
If not a great deal of common sense, he added inwardly.
Frowning deeply, Greyhorse returned to his enclosure and prepared for his next examination. But every now and then, he thought he saw a poorly defined face in the depths of his computer