Surak's Soul - J.M. Dillard [27]
What made your species change so dramatically?
The memory of the white-haired teacher Sklar surfaced in T’Pol’s thoughts, and the day he had posed a question she had not been ready to answer. “We were profoundly influenced by one of our own, a philosopher named Surak. He taught nonviolence toward all beings. For that reason, I do not, as some of the humans do, eat animals. In fact, I recently chose not to wear a weapon to protect myself against more violent species.”
Wanderer’s form turned a paler shade of blue and enlarged as its energy pattern began to swirl more rapidly; T’Pol wondered whether this was some sort of emotional reaction.
Excellent! Perhaps this is why we found it possible to converse with you. Our culture is much the same: we prize peace above all, and feed only off nonsentient energy sources. We judge violence to be the mark of lower beings. The sudden flow of words stopped abruptly as the entity paused in its communication; then it asked pointedly: May we use the ship’s database to study Vulcan culture?
“To some extent,” T’Pol said. “This is a human, not a Vulcan vessel, and as such, it does not have access to the same amount of information about Vulcan culture.”
Had Wanderer been human, she would have judged it to be disappointed. Its sudden surge of brightness dimmed a bit before it replied, Very well. Then we shall study what information about your culture this ship does have. It paused. However, you have not answered my original question: Why have you chosen to be amongst such inferior beings?
With something very like ruefulness, T’Pol once again reflected that Captain Archer’s absence from the tour was fortunate. She answered in the only manner she felt Wanderer would understand.
“I wish—as you do—to observe them.”
While T’Pol was leaving Wanderer to its own devices in front of a computer terminal, Archer sat on his bed, legs stretched out, with Porthos in his lap. He had arrived in his quarters to find the beagle completely unsettled about something and insistent on human contact to the point of ignoring his dinner. Now the dog lay sprawled on his back, haunches against Archer’s stomach, belly exposed, pink ear flaps spread open, reminding Archer of a bat. As usual, Porthos was overdue for a bath, a situation that usually made the captain (and others) complain about the smell; but today, at least, Archer secretly found eau de dog comforting. It smelled like Earth, and home.
What he did not permit himself to think overtly was that, being the small creature that he was, Porthos would probably be first to react to any major dose of radiation.
“What is it, huh, boy?” Archer murmured, scratching Porthos’s stomach. One of the dog’s lower legs thumped in ecstatic reply against Archer’s midsection; he leaned his head back, causing his jowls to fall away from the gums, exposing sharp teeth. “What’s the matter?”
“He just knows you’re upset, that’s what’s wrong,” Trip Tucker said. He sat in the chair next to the cot, sipping from a shot glass of bourbon, neat.
“Maybe now,” Archer said. “He was jittery when I came in. And this dog takes after me. It takes a lot for him to turn his nose up at dinner.”
“You weren’t exactly a member of the clean-plate club yourself. Sure you don’t want a drink?” Trip said, proffering his glass.
“Nah.” Archer leaned forward to scratch the pits at the top of Porthos’s front legs; the beagle stretched his legs straight upward in appreciation. What Archer wanted, and left unsaid, was to remain alert in case any of his people fell ill.
Trip, as usual, read his mind. “You know, if anybody starts getting sick, there’s not a damned thing you or I can do about it, Cap’n.”
“Thanks for the encouragement.” Archer graced him with a small, bitter smile.
Trip shrugged; his tone held no sympathy. “What could any of us do about it? Those people down on that planet couldn’t save themselves, and it sounds to me like they were using some pretty whiz-bang technology.”
“Yeah, but what about our resident radiation-expert guest? It seems that Wanderer ought