Portrait of the Sternbach as a Paranoid Starship

The USS Sternbach is travelling through space back to Federation territory when people start acting suspicious -- and being suspicious.

Part I

USS Sternbach, Romulan Republic Territory
October 2401

Lieutenant Dhae’s official log, officially mandated entry, stardate [REDACTED]: my activities are within the norm and the parameters thereof are within reason.

Iskander had given him many Earth classical novels to read, and few had struck Dhae’s imagination as much as the cozy bouduoire tomes of the XIXth century.

The idea that you could just open a “salon” and then people would willingly come to it and reveal secrets — “gossip” — had struck his Romulan imagination. In Romulan society, secrets had to be paranoically kept and obsessively discovered: creating a setting where people would just blurt out any sort of juicy info was, to Dhae, akin to discovering an hitherto untheoretical sort of heaven.

“Your imagination has been captured by Anna Karenina?” had marveled Iskander with a hint of skepticism in his voice.

“And so many other books!” had confirmed Dhae. “But Anna Karenina was excellent.”

Of course, a small voice in his head told him that, maybe, this should put a dent in his absolute Romulan belief that secrets were absolute power: how could the humans, with their spongy, leaky society, have resisted the steely, guarded Romulan society, if it was true that secrets were, at the end, the only thing that mattered? Yet he decided not to think about that. He was a scientist, after all, not a societal revolutionary.

So he told Iskander that he wanted their quarters to become a salon of juicy gossips.

Iskander had looked at him in that you-are-such-an-alien way that he had. “You mean… seeing people?”

“Of course, Iskander!” had replied Dhae. “Tell me you want to!”

Iskander had contemplated the request for a moment. Dhae already knew that he wasn’t a great socialite, and that he was happier in small circles of well-known friends, of which he however didn’t have many on this new ship. “I’d be lying if I said I burn at the desire to.”

“Well, tell me that you wouldn’t entirely be opposed to the idea!”

“Our quarters are too small.”

Dhae had flinched. Iskander was doubtlessly correct on this.

Starfleet vessels had, in the past, had a reputation for luxury and decadent space. The Galaxy class, for instance, was an extravagant collection of large quarters featuring carpeting and wood finishes. The Romulan had been slightly surprised, thus, getting assigned to an Echelon-class ship and finding it cramped, functional and essential — just like a Romulan vessel. Apparently the uneasy times since the Dominion war had made Starfleet reconsider their decadent ways.

Even though Dhae and Iskander had applied to get a shared quarter, and had managed, and their living space was thus slightly more generous than otherwise, it wasn’t enough to feature a fully functional late XIXth century salon.

“Well” said Dhae, “we can go to the bar and entertain guests there, forgetting we don’t own the place.”

“Fine, fine. I need to challenge myself to see more people anyways.”

Dhae had kissed him. “Do you think we could cook for our guests to facilitate the revealing of secrets!”

“Cook? The point of a bar is that someone cooks.”

“Yes, Iskander. The someone is the two of us. We cook for our guests, to induce them to be generous in their intelligence-dispensing! We want to know everything against them!”

“About them, Ishvenyal, not against them.”

“Surely that’s what I mean to say. Food.”

The thought of food, of course, had brought a certain joy in the Romulan’s gray heart.

So tonight was the night. A scarce twenty days after Iskander had been transferred to the Sternbach, and a scarce nine after Dhae’s request to enter the officer exchange program and be admitted into Starfleet, they had invited a couple of friends for an elegant dinner party.

“Do we have to call it an elegant dinner party?” had grumbled Iskander, clearly struggling to keep his moroseness in check. Dhae loved him regardless, and found his slight pessimism to be endearing and surprisingly Romulan. It was a quality of which Dhae himself was sorely lacking.

“Of course!” had said Dhae. “What would you have us call it?”

“An informal get-together at the bar?”

“We can do that. But can I convince you to call it an elegant dinner party instead?”

The human had grumbled.

Iskander had invited Diran Koli — an unsurprising choice, and a potentially useful presence if Dhae could convince him to use his empathic powers — and Lieutenant JG Reema Gwa, one of his new colleagues in the engineering department. Dhae had invited two people from Astrometrics: Lieutenant JG Tinnis Frobenius and Chief Peeris Nolen.

Cooking had been an interesting experience: Dhae had manage to cajole someone at the bar to give them some space — it had been much easier than he had expected: he had just had to explain why he wanted to cook. The choice in menu, a fusion of his brand of Romulan cooking and Earth middle-eastern kitchen, was a bit too ambitious. The hummus, the nherraxshu cream, the aubergine roast and the ch’Tunemshu julienne had come out reasonably well, and the rest had been saved by the intervention and help of one of the bartenders, a Caitian who had skilfully intervened. She had also strongly suggested they put some meat in everything, but Iskander had been able to stop her there.

Dhae had dressed in a tight brown outfit embroiled with green Romulan writing on the rim — a couple of his favourite lines from The Secret Secret — while Iskander had picked his favourite Capri pants and a nice, blue-and-green floral shirt. Dhae looked at the human and, as he often did, thought that he looked really good, especially around his lower backside.

“Isn’t it a bit miserable that we have to organize this in a common space?” he asked Iskander. They had taken a large table next to the windows, from which they could see the stars: thanks to a series of small walls and columns, while it wasn’t intimate, it was at least somewhat private.

Iskander visibly tried not to sigh. “It is the norm on this ship, Dhae. Nobody invites people to their quarters.”

“But –“

“You are not Anna Karenina, Ishvenyal. Diran certainly doesn’t expect late Zarist levels of decadence. They are going to love us.”

Dhae felt himself raising both of his eyebrows. “Iskander — I never took you for an optimist!”

“Oh” said the human, trying to look as wistful as possible, “they’re going to love us despite me, because you compensate my faults away.”

Dhae felt himself greenen a little bit. His previous lover, [REDACTED], had been very guarded with and reticent to give compliments, especially when [REDACTER] in [REDACTED]: having a partner who was more forthcoming with them was, for Dhae, a novel and pleasant experience. “Aw” he said. “I do not appreciate that you insult thusly my beloved. Besides, you know it is false. Diran is completely charmed by your black moods.”

Iskander smiled. “I’ll try not to darken too much, though. We do not really know our other guests.”

Soon they arrived. Lieutenant JG Tinnis Frobenius was a very skinny and noodly human from what Iskander had described as the northern region of Earth — not that this information really did much for Dhae. He was pale, awfully pale: he had been very friendly and was working at a very interesting virtual tachyon mapping system. He wore a sleeveless peach-colored top and black trousers.

“Tinnis Frobenius, Iskander al-Kwaritzmi” introduced Dhae, trying simultaneously not too produce too Machiavellian a smile.

“Frobenius like the norm?” asked Iskander while shaking hands. Dhae cringed internally.

“Yes, but like the discoverer of the Lp-norm. Our branch of the family doesn’t talk with the branch that discovered the Frobenius norm” answered Tinnis, and Dhae cringed even more. Sad thing was, he had even understood the joke. Would he, in the future, have to vet dinner party guests for their knowledge of topology and measure theory? He hoped not.

Lieutenant JG Reema Gwa was a dark blue and blocky alien from a species that Dhae was fully unfamiliar with. She had four eyes, mushy hair, and wore a very elegant red gown: she looked fabulous, reminding Dhae of [REDACTED], when he [REDACTED]. She was apparently the hull expert, and one of the chiefs of Delta shift.

“Who is ready to mingle?” said Reema Gwa, sitting down. “I am. Mingle me away.”

Iskander had picked well, thought Dhae.

Then Chief Peeris Nolen arrived. An old Bajoran woman who had served in Starfleet since the end of the Dominion Wars and was already quite old when she enrolled, her wrinkles attested how often she smiled: she was somewhat corpulent, a trait that Dhae found relatable, had bright brown hair, and wore, for some reason, no Bajoran earring. Dhae had had the feeling that she was quite strongly anti-theist, as she had mentioned some inscrutable story concerning James T. Kirk and Apollon or something like that. She wore a comfortable-looking checkered tunic.

“Thanks for the invite” she said. “Color me surprised and intrigued.”

The last to come was, of course, Diran Koli, whose role was probably to provide Iskander with some measure of emotional comfort and stability. The Betazoid, who had apparently a somewhat rare genetic trait that prevented full telepathy, was in one of their non-binary modes: they had perky little breasts, but also a thin black moustache. Dhae found them to be rather attractive both while serving male and while serving female, although he’d never admit it to Iskander.

“Am I the last one?” they asked.

“Yes” said Iskander, who was gifted with succinctness.

“‘pologies” said the Betazoid sitting down. They sounded rather demure, which was in total contrast with the aggressive bubbliness they usually exhibited, at least in Dhae’s recollection.

The ch’Tunemshu julienne was brought by the Caitian. Drinks came without any need to order. Dhae had of course already provided the barmen with a list of drinks that was appropriate to accompany the flavour of the course: this was fresh and zesty.

“So” said Dhae, “the only rule is that talking about work is forbidden.”

“You… cooked this? With your own hands?” asked Paris Nolen taking a slice of rhumirhu.

“From replicated ingredients, sadly, but yes.”

“This is amazing” said the old Bajoran, and she launched on a story about her childhood on Bajor. She had lived through the Occupation, when replicators were unheard of. Her story, while tinged with unpleasant implications of child slavery, proved to be a good icebreaker, and soon the discussion started flourishing.

As the julienne had been decimated and the aubergine roast and hummus were being brought, along with the new selection of drinks, Dhae felt triumphant. They were all talking with such freedom! Peeris Nolen was wise but also an old adept at reading people; Reema Gwa knew quite well the Chief of Security — had they dated? — and tried unsuccessfully to hide how many small secrets of the senior staff she knew; Tinnis Frobenius was a massive nerd but had all the info about the beef between the Lieutenant Sbyrbyr and Commander Tonius Skalgeery of the Astrometric Station 49.

Iskander seemed to enjoy himself well enough, but he kept being worried by Diran Koli, who looked more and more distraught. They were distract, and progressively unable of following the discussion.

Midway through the aubergine roast, Reema Gwa seemed took a couple of deep breathes.

“What is it that I’m smelling now?” she asked.

“It’s probably the aubergine” answered Tinnis Frobenius, who had been listening with fascination to Peeris Nolen’s retelling of last week’s disagreement between Lieutenant Corzander Bloom (“Corzy”) and Lieutenant Minturinis Huulper (“Turny”) concerning the beta shift organization. Dhae was also captured — simultaneously aghast and delighted by the idea of a squabble inside the security section. It showed that the Federation didn’t have the [REDACTED] to impose [REDACTED].

“No, it’s something else” she said, and sniffed around again. “Something… a bit rotten maybe?”

“All the ingredients were replicated as fresh” said Iskander.

The dark blue alien smiled faintly. “It’s probably just someone else’s drink in the bar. Certainly not the food — which is excellent, compliments to the both of you.”

Dhae couldn’t wait. “So how have they solved the phaser situation?”

“Ah!” answered Peeris Nolen. “That’s when it gets really byzantine.”

Slowly, however, as they finished the aubergine roast, Dhae found himself enjoying the food less and less. Peeris Nolen was slowly losing the plot of her story, and Diran Koli seemed not to be able to control himself. Iskander kept and kept doting on them, asking them whether they were doing ok, and the thing bothered Dhae. Had Iskander and that weak Betazoid ever had anything together, he wondered? Was that why Iskander cared so much? They did spend an awful amount of time together.

“And then –” was saying Tinnis Frobenius, when he was interrupted by a very loud bang.

Everyone turned. The Caitian at the bar had dropped a large bottle that had shattered on the floor. Dhae found himself quite angered by that: what was the brilliant idea of taking breakable glass on a starship? Make all bottles out of invisible aluminium and be done with it! Why were these Federation fools so incompetent? Would they be the death of him?

Everyone in the bar stared at the Caitian for a moment, then the discussion resumed, nervous, loud, as if the event had started something.

Diran Koli decided that this was the moment to produce some sort of whine and fall off the chair.

“Diran!” said Tinnis Frobenius, shocked.

“I’m — fine! I’m fine! Don’t touch me!” said the Betazoid, ineffectively moving their little limbs trying to stand. “I’m fine.”

“Diran — you are clearly not fine. Why do you lie?” asked Iskander.

This was bad, thought Dhae. This was very annoying. This never happened in Anna Karenina. People should know how to behave during an elegant dinner party. Everything had been good until now, but this — this felt like sabotage, like someone was willingly trying to — to —

“Dhae” said Iskander, and his voice woke the Romulan from his reverie. He looked at his human lover. “I think we should bring Diran to the medbay.”

Dhae couldn’t believe his pointy ears. “But — the nherraxshu cream?”

Iskander started rising. “I am really sorry. I’m going to bring them and come back as soon as possible. You stay here and enjoy yourselves. Just leave me some cream.”

Dhae didn’t like the thought of Iskander walking with Diran all the way to the medbay. They had been already cozying up the whole evening while Diran’s affliction grew.

The Romulan stood, feeling restless. “No, I’m going to bring him. This is my social event and I’m going to take responsibility. It might have been something they ate.”

Iskander looked almost a bit hurt. “Your social event?”

The Romulan walked over to where Diran was still ineffectively endeavouring to stand. He offered them his hand. “Come, Diran, let’s bring you to some nice Federation doctor.”

“Don’t touch me” meekly said the Betazoid.

“Can you walk?”

Diran tried to walk, which first required trying to stand, which proved a tad too complex.

Dhae shook his head at the result. “Right. Me not touching you is a luxury that we do not have. Chop chop. And you lovely people — leave some cream for me.”

Before Iskander could protest again, Dhae had already grabbed Diran Koli by the shoulder and propelled the two of them through the door, leaving the bar whose noise had grown, to Dhae’s ears, almost intolerable.
 

Part II

USS Sternbach, Romulan Republic Territory
October 2401

Lieutenant Dhae’s official log, officially mandated entry, stardate [REDACTED]: my activities are within the norm and the parameters thereof are within reason.

Diran and Dhae walked quite silently all the way from the bar to the turbolift. The Betazoid seemed to have regained some spirit, although they were still horrendously pale.

“I’m doing a bit better now” said them, licking their lips.

“To the medbay we go anyway” answered the Romulan, awaiting for the turbolift, still extremely irritated that he had had to take a break from the elegant, and so far very productive, dinner party. What would Kitty have done in such a situation?

“It’s just — the thoughts — everyone was so –” tried to explain Diran.

Dhae stared at them.

“It’s difficult to express in words to non-empathic species” said them. “I always pick some traces of what everyone is feeling. For a moment, when that glass fell, the emotions were — a sea, dark — and –“

“You were doing quite bad even before that bottle fell, Diran.”

“Yes. I don’t know why, since one hour I’ve been feeling restless. Maybe it’s just stress.”

“Stress is suspicious” answered Dhae. “I’m sure the medbay people will study you with great interest.”

“You mean the doctors?”

Dhae stared at Diran and then the door of the turbolift opened.

The way from the turbolift to he medbay wasn’t long — the medbay had been, rationally, built next to a turbolift door — but while walking there Diran seemed to again lose his nerve.

“I’m — not sure I want to go in there” they said.

“I’m sure you don’t” agreed Dhae trying to sound conciliatory despite his growing annoyance at the whining Betazoid. “That’s why I’m bringing you in.”

Just to make sure that he was communicating this clearly, he put his hand on Diran’s shoulder: not forcefully, but with some resolution.

The medbay door opened and a choir of complaints and whines came out of it. It wasn’t quite full — the medbay of a starship with humanitarian capabilities had quite a good capacity — but it was busy, with medical personnel moving fast from one side to the other.

A medical Lieutenant approached Diran and Dhae and looked at them.

“I’d rather we leave” said Diran, now struggling against Dhae’s grip.

“I’ll let you argue with the nice medbay person” answered Dhae.

The doctor, a middle-aged Antedian, looked at Diran and then at Dhae. “A Betazoid?”

Dhae raised his eyebrow. The Antedian had been a crew on this ship before the arrival of the Redding personnel, so she probably had never met Diran Koli. “Correct. Are you very good at guessing species?”

The Antedian smiled sourly. “Every single Betazoid, and other empaths, are reporting signs of distress. You can hear them.”

That explained the complaints and moans that bombarded Dhae’s poor ears.

“And you? Any distress?” asked the Antedian to Dhae.

Dhae felt suspicion. He had just brought a patient to the medbay, and there was no reason to think he himself was unwell. Were Federation doctors always this aggressive? “Why should I?”

“Forgive me. We have heard nothing from our Vulcan crewmates so far, but you are also telepaths.”

Dhae felt ashamed to have been so defensive so quickly. He had exposed himself, he had over-shared. He tried to sound genial to hide the magnitude of his mistake. “I’m Romulan and I’m doing fine.”

“Ah! You’re our new Romulan.”

“Please, I need to get out of here” said Diran Koli.

The doctor smiled nervously and took Diran by the arm, forgetting about Dhae. “Now, let’s get you to a bed. We’re going to give you an empathic dimmer, that’s going to help.”

Dhae, not able to stand the sickbay any longer, exited.

He walked to the turbolift. While he had tried to remain polite, he couldn’t deny that he was very annoyed. Diran’s inexplicable crisis of whining had ruined his elegant dinner party. Could Diran have faked it to spite him? Could Diran be jealous of Dhae for his newfound relationship with Iskander?

He stopped in front of the turbolift door. Iskander was far from blameless, on the other hand. He had been doting on Diran and encouraging him to play the role of the sick person. Iskander didn’t take much pleasure in social gatherings: had he planned to slightly sabotage the dinner party, so that Dhae wouldn’t try again? That wasn’t a thing that a romantic partner would do, but what security did Dhae have that Iskander really loved him?

After all, Dhae had told him — to that morose human — his true name. Sure, he had thought they were going to die, and he — a romantic at heart — was absolutely repelled by the idea of dying without another person knowing his true name. The revealing of the true name was, for a Romulan like Dhae, one of the most significant acts that could be undertaken. Had Iskander done anything even remotely equally important? Stupid humans who didn’t have true names, who insisted on using their personal name after ten minutes of chatting, stupid humans incapable of grand actions.

Sure, Iskander’s could be an act. Why not? Starfleet had much to gain by studying and exploiting a Romulan. Were they observing him? Were they studying him to get secrets about the Romulan Navy? Was Iskander their most sophisticated method of control, their sneakiest agent? Would at some point the gilded cage slip to reveal its bars?

Dhae’s communicator chirped. “al-Kwaritzmi to Dhae.”

He had to avoid saying anything suspicious. “Dhae here. I’ve brought Diran to the medbay and I’m coming back.”

“Sorry — we can’t stay in the bar. I’m going back to our quarters.”

The Romulan almost choked. They were interrupting the social gathering? Without asking him? How dared they? But he couldn’t act like this affected him, he couldn’t give Iskander this piece of information, he couldn’t let his rage speak. “I understand. Dhae out.”

And then, just while he touched his communicator, Dhae realized what was happening to him. He had been standing next to the turbolift door — he had even forgotten to call the damn thing — for maybe one or two minutes, drowning in negative thoughts.

He was experiencing unconstrained paranoia.

The Romulan psyche was, to some extent, built on paranoia, on secrets, on concealing. Paranoia was normal, paranoia was good, paranoia was to be used. The Romulan dialect that he used distinguished between the normal, healthy paranoia that a Romulan is encouraged to carry, and the unconstrained paranoia that is the sign of a degrading mind. Sadly this linguistic distinction couldn’t be carried over to Standard.

This was unconstrained paranoia. He was even suspecting and accusing Iskander, his beloved. That was not supposed to happen. If there was something resembling an unforgivable sin, especially for a romantic like Dhae, was being paranoid towards a beloved to whom he had given his true name. Dhae realized that he was almost out of control.

He sat on the floor and started rheolanexshu breathing, not caring that he was doing so in the middle of a corridor. Nothing mattered, if his mind was clouded.

At [REDACTED], he had, like all Romulans on his home planet, had courses on emotional balance. His home planet had created amongst the best psychically self-controlled minds of the old Empire. Dhae himself had been good at it — at the end of the seminar, he had withheld a psychic attack of a level 7 Reman telepath without as much as a wince.

He decoupled from his emotions, retreating into his meditative abstract core, and studied his fears and paranoia. The meditation was simple: he had to distinguish his good paranoia from his bad paranoia, and eliminate the bad by strengthening the good. There were five steps, a meditative parkour through the forest of the mind.

“My fears will serve me. I am master of my fears. My fears will destroy my enemies” he whispered. This was the mantra that worked for him.

And, within two minutes of meditation, he felt his mind quieten, the sea of emotions unstir, the paranoia retreat to its normal parameters.

He knew.

Something was happening to the ship. It affected first the telepaths, but he realized that he had been, like Diran, experiencing enhanced anger and fear for quite a while. So, presumably, everyone was hit. Iskander had claimed that he couldn’t stay in the bar, and Dhae could assume that his human lover had been overwhelmed by paranoia and had fled in response.

“Computer” he called, unknotting his legs and standing. “Are we under attack?”

“Negative.”

“Is there any other ship in range? Are there any unexplained life signs aboard this ship or in its vicinity?”

“Negative.”

Useless machine.

Dhae suspected that not many people on board had the required paranoia training to resist a psychic attack like this. But —

“The Vulcans!” he said. The only telepaths who hadn’t yet reported to sickbay. They didn’t have specific paranoia training, but were experts in broad emotional control — good generalists whereas Romulans were excellent specialists. If this was a telepathic attack, a Vulcan would be able to find the culprit, to tell Dhae where to strike. Dhae needed a Vulcan, and he knew the one.

“Computer, locate the whereabouts of Counselor Sakar.”

“Counselor Sakar is in the Counselor office.”

That wasn’t a long way from the medbay. It was time to pay the ship psychologist a visit, thought Dhae.

Part III

USS Sternbach, Romulan Republic Territory
October 2401

Lieutenant Dhae’s official log, officially mandated entry, stardate [REDACTED]: my activities are within the norm and the parameters thereof are within reason. I have elected to willingly visit Counselor Sakar for motivations that are plausible and conceivable.

Finding Counsellor Sakar’s office wasn’t that difficult, even not knowing where it was or having to ask the computer. Two crewmen were trying to break down its door using a long crate as a ram.

The taller one was a woman, probably human, redhaired, with a teal uniform. The other was a male with a wrinkled forehead who didn’t look human but escaped Dhae’s recognition, dressed in yellow.

They were ramming the door screaming.

“Why do you need to know how we feel?” was hollering the woman.

“What do you do with what we tell you? What do you REALLY do?” was hollering the man.

Dhae looked at them from afar, only his head peeking into that corridor. These two were clearly out of control, so reasoning or talking would be certainly futile.

“It was just a cigar!” screamed the woman, ramming.

“It was never about the cigar!” screamed the man, ramming with her.

In another context, Dhae would have loved to unpack those statements and acquire, in so doing, a lot of secrets.

They were, of course, Dhae’s colleagues, although he didn’t know them personally. Killing them was clearly out of question, although it would have been the most direct option. He could have tried to bypass them by using a Jefferies tube, but probably Counselor Sakar would have locked or controlled them.

“I AM NOT INSECURE!” boomed the woman, making the ram clang on the door.

“MY MOTHER WAS A SAINT!” boomed the man, making the door creak with the ram.

They were so deep in paranoia that probably changing their state of mind from fury to terror wouldn’t have been very difficult.

“The Mugato” whispered Dhae to himself. The Mugato was also famous amongst Starfleet people, right? They must remember the Mugato, Dhae thought to himself. They would recognize a Mugato scream.

He didn’t have his tricorder on him — he wasn’t even dressed in uniform, but rather in his cute brown outfit embroiled with one of his favorite Romulan literature lines. But he did have his commbadge on him.

He approached a wall monitor. A commbadge also included, clearly, a loudspeaker: Dhae just had to find in the database a recording of the Mugato battle scream, and sound it through his commbadge. He quickly found the file he needed.

Usually a Starfleet commbadge was set not to produce too loud a sound, but fortunately Dhae hacked and jerry-rigged his commbadge on a regular basis. It was a long-standing habit, started years ago, when he had started suspecting that regular Romulan commbadges were being used to spy. (Which they explicitly were, but Dhae suspected that they spied much more than they were supposed to).

And now finally his sane, good paranoia was coming in handy. His jerry-rigged commbadge wouldn’t have a problem in producing a really loud Mugato scream.

AAARRRHOOUUUUUUURRR” screamed the commbadge. What sound was that? Not the combat cry. Wasn’t it the love call? Dhae cursed the mislabelled database file and hoped that the two furiously paranoid rammers wouldn’t pick this time to be rational enough to distinguish their Mugato vocalizations.

He heard the ram falling on the floor and then the sound of running. He peaked in the corridor and it was empty. That was good.

He approached the door and sounded to be admitted.

Of course he didn’t expect the door to open, but nothing. He sounded again.

Then Counselor Sakar spoke through the interspeaker. “I am afraid that I have suspended my office hours for today. If it is for a discussion of my professional methods, ethics or goals, I’d be glad if you could write them on a PADD to be discussed at the earliest convenience.”

“Counselor? I am Lieutenant Dhae.”

Silence for a moment. Dhae felt quite exposed in that corridor: this was good paranoia, as at any time someone else might have walked through.

Sakar finally cleared his throat. “It is agreeable to talk to you, Lieutenant. The Mugato love call was your doing, I presume, although I’d have personally picked the battle roar.”

“I picked the wrong file out of the database and while your patients were using a crate as a ram. I’m having a better day than you so far. Can we talk?”

“Can this wait?”

At least the Vulcan sounded rational, if not reticent to open the door.

“The ship is experiencing some sort of psychotic crisis” said Dhae. “A mass psychosis. I suspect that Vulcans are immune.”

“We are not immune” said Sakar’s voice. “But I maintain control. Are Romulans immune?”

“I am doing well enough. I would like your help.”

The Vulcan seemed to consider that. It wasn’t easy to have this discussion through the speakers of the door. “My help? Do you have a plan?”

“Fine, I want to offer you my help. We are both rational and in control and I think the ship needs us to put our energies together.”

“You mean that you want us to collaborate.”

“Yes. As equals. That’s it. That is, if you can trust me.”

To Dhae’s moderate surprise, the door opened.

Dhae set carefully foot inside. The counselor’s office surprised him for its weirdness: half of it looked like a Vulcan room, minimal and spartan, decorated only with a water sculpture, an IDIC at the wall, an elegant bookshelf and a large desk; the other half resembled an overgrown greenhouse and instead of a chair or a sofa it featured a hammock.

Lieutenant Sakar was standing next to his desk, looking controlled and cautious.

“That half is holographic, isn’t it?” asked the Romulan pointing at the greenhouse half.

“Yes” answered the Vulcan calmly. “I try to host in an environment that is simultaneously familiar, relaxing and therapeutic to my guests.”

“I am a little bit surprised that you opened the door. It would be very rational to suspect of the Romulan.”

The Vulcan opened his arms. He was an uncharacteristically thin Vulcan, elegant and sinewy, with a large mouth. Dhae knew him to be over a century of age.

“It wouldn’t” answered the Vulcan. “We serve together, and thus I trust you implicitly.”

“Is it really this simple?” wondered the Romulan.

“Are you suggesting I should be more paranoid?” pondered the Vulcan cocking his head.

“Not today, Counselor, there’s enough of that going around.”

The Vulcan nodded deeply and walked to a side of a desk. He pressed a button on its surface and part of the wall became a screen.

Dhae looked at the screen and the text that had started scrolling. “A comprehensive list of causes of mass hysteria, mass psychosis, and mass delusions?”

“Correct” nodded the Vulcan.

“There must be thousands.”

“Seventeen thousand, nine hundred and seven known to Federation science. I have managed to winnow them down to six.”

He pressed a button and the text reconfigured, only showing six entries.

Dhae felt triumphant. “The first item on the list is a telepathic attack. It was my same thought precisely. I thought that maybe you, a Vulcan, would manage to detect our assailer.”

Sakar shook his head. He pressed a button and the first option vanished, leaving five. “There is no assailer.”

“But Betazoids, who are telepaths, were clearly attacked.”

Sakar shook his head. “Betazoids reacted to the fact that everyone around them started having strongly paranoid thoughts. I need you to run a scan, Lieutenant Dhae.”

Dhae opened his arms, still a bit annoyed at the dismissal of his preferred theory. “You can see that I have no tricorder. I am dressed for an elegant dinner party.”

The Vulcan looked the Romulan from head to toes. “Yes, your dress is very tight-fitting, especially around the waist. The citation is a line from The Secret Secret.”

“You are familiar with Romulan literature.”

Sakar walker to his desk and picked up a tricorder. “Vulcans hold that if you read a single Romulan book you’ve read all of them. Were that true, which I’m sure you’ll contend it isn’t, I’d be familiar with the whole of Romulan literature. You may use my tricorder.”

Dhae took the tricorder that was offered to him, having to concentrate very hard not to be provoked by that unacceptable snub of the supremely rich Romulan literature. “What am I to look for? Vulcan snark?”

The Vulcan sat on his chair and pointed at a spot on his head. “Scan me for an inflammation of the gymnocortical membrane.”

Dhae noticed that it was a medical tricorder, and as such had one of those small cylindrical scanning devices that he had already observed doctors using. He assumed that any Starfleet officer would have been trained to use it correctly, but he, as a two-week exchange officer, hadn’t. He did have a crash course on all Starfleet things — he was learning so much — but this hadn’t yet come up.

But he said to himself that, on the other hand, he could find Bragg peaks in reciprocal space, so pointing a cylindrical scanning thingie in the right direction shouldn’t be a problem. He pointed and the data started flowing in the tricorder.

“Do you know where the gymnocortical membrane is?” asked Sakar.

Dhae felt himself suspicious and angry at the question, but calmed himself quickly. “Please do not irritate me when I’m trying to keep my paranoia in check. And, to your question, you do know that the Romulan brain and the Vulcan brain are too close, evolutionarily, to have developed substantial differences. Unless you have a spastic brain, I’ll find your gymnocortical membrane where I’d find mine.”

“Apologies.”

Dhae looked at the data. “Like me, the membrane is highly irritated. I think I detect some swelling too.”

The Vulcan nodded, inscrutable. “Accumulation of liquids?”

“Slight.”

“Can you isolate any chemical that shouldn’t be there?”

Dhae, for this task, had to type a bit. The commands of the tricorder were a little alien to him, but soon he managed to filter out anything that wasn’t supposed to be in the Vulcan biochemistry, and found only one compound. He identified it.

“Oh” said the Romulan, recognizing the only life form that the abnormal chemical could come from, and what it meant. “It is Astrolisomyces paranoosferos.”

“Fear is an irrational attitude” expounded Sakar, “but I feared you would say that.”

Part IV

USS Sternbach, Romulan Republic Territory
October 2401

Lieutenant Dhae’s official log, officially mandated entry, stardate [REDACTED]: my activities are within the norm and the parameters thereof are within reason.

Dhae had sat in the hammock on the non-Vulcan side of the counsellor office, and had closed his eyes. This side of the room, altered to look like a congenial environment to whomever Sakar’s patient was currently supposed to be, came together with a slight noise of alien chirping and a vague smell of vegetation.

His eyes closed, the Romulan was repeating his meditative exercises to keep his mind clear. He had done so far an excellent job of keeping this extraneous paranoia in check, but he needed to strengthen his defences regularly: was he being too paranoid? Too little paranoid? He separated from his mind, looked at his paranoia, and dissected it like a biologist with an insect.

At the other end of the room, Counselor Sakar had been having no success contacting the Captain, and was now trying to reach the First Officer.

“This is Counselor Sakar. Please respond, Commander. It is very urgent.”

Dhae breathed deeply. His fears would serve him. His fears would destroy his enemies.

“Commander, come in.”

Finally, the communicator spoke back: the First Officer’s voice, in hushed tones. “Be quiet, Lieutenant! THEY are surely listening. THEY cannot know where we are.”

Sakar raised an eyebrow. “Commander, there is no ‘they’ to speak of. It is –”

The commbadge chirped again, communicating that the call had been abandoned.

Dhae opened his eyes. “Our senior staff isn’t in the position of doing something, are they?”

Sakar looked at him coldly. “They seem to be affected adversely by the circumstances.”

“This is bad. What works against Astrolisomyces is methane, right? Flushing the ship should kill it. But it is ineffective against the spores that have already been released.”

“Federation medicine does know a drug that can inhibit the effects on the mind” said Sakar. “It can be administered airborne. I am surprised this method is unknown to Romulans.”

“We do not need a drug” remarked Dhae dryly. “Can you administer it from here? You are a medical crew.”

“We’d need to replicate a canister of the drug and bring it to atmospheric control.”

Suddenly, the yellow alarm rang. Lights dimmed just slightly.

The ship-wide intercom sounded. “This is the First Officer. All of you, just — please stay in your quarters or something. Nobody does something unwise. THEY can’t know. THEY are watching.”

Sakar looked somewhat displeased at the intercom announcement. “It is countereffective to reinforce everyone’s paranoia in this fashion.”

“If the drug isn’t administered, what happens to the crew usually?”

“For the first hour, plus or minus twenty minutes, the paranoia and fear tend to have a paralyzing effect on almost everyone” said the Vulcan. “After that, the response becomes a hysteric rage.”

“So we have less than an hour before someone decides to take their hysteria out on a vital ship component, right?”

“We are to assume so.”

Dhae stood. “Should we also assume that it should be the two of us to administer the cure?”

Sakar didn’t need to think long. “We might be ill-equipped for that, but logics dictates we should.”

The Romulan didn’t want to admit to himself that they were ill-equipped, but it was probably true. They had to travel to a biological-grade replicator, synthesise a drug he didn’t know, bring a canister to atmospheric control he had never operated, and disperse it within a useful time. He himself was an astrophysicist: he brought basically zero qualifications in any of these very specialized fields. He hoped that the Vulcan would bring some more relevant experience.

“Sakar to Lieutenant T’Vylin” said Sakar tapping on his commbadge.

No response.

“Lieutenant T’Vylin, please come in.”

Dhae looked at the Vulcan quizzically.

Sakar looked at him. “There are other Vulcans on board. They should be as unaffected as I am. Their help should be invaluable.”

“They are not responding, though.”

“My communicator isn’t transmitting.” Sakar went to his wall monitor and typed. The output, seen from Dhae’s position, was a lot of red and alarm symbols. “It is no surprise. Someone has locked most functions of the ship. Communications, transporters, turbolifts. I assume they wrongly assume that the ship is being invaded. This is disagreeable.”

Dhae looked at the door. They had wasted enough time, although it had been necessary. “Then we go by foot. How bad can it be? Two of us against a ship of psychologically impaired people!”

“Please do not describe my job in such an unkind way” said Sakar dryly, and opened the door.

Part V

USS Sternbach, Romulan Republic Territory
October 2401

The corridors of the Sternbach were still rather empty. Dhae imagined that most crew was wallowing in their quarters, shivering at every shadow, desperate in their paranoia. Counselor Sakar’s estimate of about one hour of paralysis seemed to hold for now, and was definitely useful for their activities.

“That way” said the Vulcan, pointing at one end of the corridor. They’d have to climb through the maintenance tubes instead of taking the turbolift, due to these being inactive. While the replication of the drug was possible in the sickbay, they had decided to avoid it, reasoning that the situation there would have been quite tense: they could use the wetlabs, which were usually used by the science personnel and would be rather empty right now.

With a bit of worry, Dhae thought about Iskander. He hoped that he was doing well. They had parted in the bar, leaving him in the company of Tinnis Frobenius, Reema Gwa and Peeris Nolen. The Romulan expected that Iskander, just as he had announced, would have retired to his quarters: his beloved was very courageous in his own ways — usually when the idea of self-sacrifice loomed like Damocles’ sword upon his head — but this sort of social paranoia would do him absolutely dead. He’d probably be in their shared quarters, and possibly would be booby-trapping the door or something silly like that. He was a skilled engineer: he for sure had the skill necessary to explode the door.

The Romulan and the Vulcan had debated on whether to arm themselves. Phasers could be found in abundance on a Starfleet vessel — the thought still boggled Dhae’s mind — and they might come to be in danger; however they had reasoned that, in these times of paranoia, the two of them being unarmed could avoid dicey situations. Sakar seemed unbothered by this decision, but Dhae felt uneasy. That was healthy paranoia, though.

“You seem to be unbothered by the spores” remarked Sakar as they started walking, side by side, watchful.

“Not unlike you.”

“Vulcan emotional control is effective at suppressing external influences” said Sakar.

Dhae smiled. “Well, not all emotions, but paranoia is one of our specialties. I had [REDACTED] at [REDACTED].”

Sakar arched not one, but both his eyebrows. “You had a paranoia class at the Romulan Navy Academy?” he repeated, almost incredulous.

“[REDACTED]” confirmed Dhae. “Although it was more of a prolonged-seminar-boot-camp sort of situation, more than a class.”

“A paranoia class” said Sakar a second time.

“Well, it was a seminary was called [REDACTED].”

Mastering the psychosocial challenges of life in military service of the invisible Romulan State” repeated Sakar. “That sounds quite generic as a topic.”

Dhae thought about that. Did it sound generic? What other psychosocial challenges were worth discussing? “Oh, no, it was almost exclusively about paranoia: how to cultivate it, how to induce it, how much is too much, and how much is too little.”

Sakar seemed for a moment to contemplate the notion. “How much is the right amount?”

“That depends on your talent and training” replied Dhae. This was obvious to him.

They walked silently for a bit. The Sternbach was surprisingly large, but still pleasantly empty for now.

“So” the Romulan said to the Vulcan, trying to ease his mind, “what can you tell me about Iskander?”

The Vulcan didn’t slow his pace in any way. “Noting, logically.”

“But you’re his psychologist. Surely you know a lot against– a lot about him!”

“I’m not going to confirm that I am Mr al-Kwaritzmi’s therapist.”

Dhae raised his finger. “You betray yourself, Vulcan! How did you know that Mr al-Kwaritzmi’s name is Iskander, if he isn’t your patient? You have confirmed that you are his therapist!”

The Vulcan showed no emotional response. They had arrived at a corridor junction, they looked to the right and to the left, and proceeded straight ahead. “I am Vulcan. It took me three minutes and forty seconds to commit to memory the entire crew complement of the ship.”

“Do we have a Tinnis on board?”

“Tinnis Frobenius, born in 2371 in Tallin, Earth.”

Damn, thought Dhae, the Vulcan was good. Tinnis Frobenius had been already on board the Sternbach, so Sakar couldn’t have known him from the Redding.

“Anyway I know that you are Iskander’s therapist because he told me” said Dhae. “I don’t see why you’d deny it.”

Sakar didn’t look at him, nor did he seem bothered. “If you already are sure, I don’t see why you want me to confirm.”

“Because it would be the first step in you telling me all sorts of secrets ag–about him, logically!” exclaimed Dhae.

“It is a first step I’m not going to take” said Sakar carefully.

They arrived at junction J31-0R. Sakar pointed at the maintenance access port. “There, and then two decks down.”

Dhae opened the access port and peered inside. He had wondered whether they’d find someone hiding in there, but it was empty. For a moment he entertained the thought of Iskander finding refuge in such an engineer’s sort of place, but he discarded the idea: his beloved was a transporter expert, not a Jefferies tube guy.

“Do we have to deactivate the security systems?” he asked. Jefferies tubes had not been covered yet in his Starfleet acclimation course.

“Security systems? Do I have to understand that you Romulans place make your maintenance corridors lethal?”

“Forget I said anything” said Dhae.

He climbed into the shaft and started descending.

Soon they were standing outside of the biolab of the Sternbach. Dhae had already been there a couple of times, although he didn’t expect to have to serve there so often: he was an astrophysicist, and his possible contributions to biology were limited in scope, depth, or accuracy.

He picked up his tricorder and ran a scan for lifesigns. “I’m reading two lifesigns in there” he said. “A Denobulan and a Xirrimite.”

“Lieutenant Feezal Rhonnox is the Chief of Biology and, of the three Denobulans on board, the logical candidate to be found here” said Sakar. “The Xirrimite must be Chief Xintirenki Jibolranki, security section.”

Dhae nodded, secretly appreciative that the Vulcan had memorized the crew manifest. He had already met Lieutenant Rhonnox several times. She was a genuinely nice woman, which Dhae found suspicious.

They opened the door and entered.

The biolabs were, of course, actually a set of a dozen rooms, all coordinated by a central one — in which Dhae and Sakar had just entered. The first room was very much a meeting and planning room, with scores of monitors and displays and lounging space, and almost no scientific material.

Lieutenant Rhonnox was standing in the middle of this room, a PADD in her hand, and looked startled when they came in. She looked dishevelled. If someone had claimed that a Protovillian racoon had just played with her hair, Dhae wouldn’t have believed it, but just out of the absence of raccoons: the hair was terrible.

“Lieutenant Dhae? Counselor?” she said when the two came in. “You shouldn’t be here.”

A voice came from a door, from one of the labs, unseen, screaming. “Is anyone there?”

“Silence” screamed Rhonnox, and then looked at the newcomers. “Speak quietly. Chief Jibolranki is extremely touchy.”

“No I’m fekking not, I’m mightily annoyed!” screamed the Xirrimite from wherever he was.

“Silence!” said Rhonnox again. “Please leave before he gets nervous.”

To Dhae’s eyes, she did look nervous: slightly twitchy hands, tense mouth, unquiet eyes. However, she was standing in front of them, rather in control.

“We’ll be gone soon” said Dhae, trying to produce a reassuring smile. “We just have to replicate something and we’ll be on our way.”

“That’s not going to happen” she said. “You can use another replicator.”

“We need to use a high bio-fidelity industrial replicator” insisted Dhae. “We won’t bother you.”

“You can’t get to it. You should leave” said she, again. Her hand was nervously clutching her chin.

“Heeeelp!” screamed Jibolranki.

“Silence!” said Rhonnox.

Sakar intervened, calmly. “You erected a force field, isn’t it?” he said.

Dhae looked carefully and also saw it: a very slight glimmer, cutting the entrance of the biolabs from the rest of it. That explained why Lieutenant Rhonnox was so calm: she felt protected by the force field.

“It is merely for my protection” said Rhonnox. “Please leave now. I’m not going to lower it.”

“You can replicate the material for us and bring it here, if it is more comforting to you” suggested Sakar. “We need roughly two point three seven kilograms of acetodestroteraphtalbenzoic acid.”

“Acetodestroteraphtalbenzoic acid” she repeated. “You know it is Astrolisomyces paranoosferos.”

“We are sure of it” nodded Sakar. “You can easily confirm our analysis.”

“I already have, almost a quarter of an hour ago” she said.

Dhae studied a bit the room, trying to see the emitters of the force field. He had already studied in depth the layout of the astrometrics laboratories, but hadn’t yet extended the same courtesy to the biolabs — in which he was projected to work very little. He didn’t know where the security weaknesses were, or how to attack them.

He wished this had happened on the Koruba, which he knew perfectly well. But then again, the Koruba wouldn’t have been susceptible to mass paranoia.

The Denobulan was scrutinizing them. “And you wouldn’t have anything to do with that fungus, Lieutenant? Odd that it appears on the ship just after we accept a Romulan on board.”

“It is a spaceborne fungus” said Dhae. Her suspicion wasn’t entirely unwelcome on a personal gratification level, but was definitely a hinderance. “A spore probably just stuck to the hull.”

“Conveniently untraceable to you, right?”

Dhae could feel his paranoia rising. He should have done breathing exercises, but this wasn’t the place. “Fine. How about first we give the cure to everyone, and then we can discuss this? Certainly the cure should take precedence.”

Rhonnox made a grimace.

“Lieutenant Dhae is correct on this” intervened Sakar. “You know what Astrolisomyces paranoosferos can do. It is imperative that we administer a cure. If we can’t be allowed in here, please replicate the amount and bring it to us.”

“I can’t” said the Denobulan.

For a moment the three people stared at each other.

“You can” affirmed Sakar, in a perfectly logical tone.

Rhonnox turned, shaking her head. She was clearly losing her temper.

“No, you don’t understand, Counselor. I can’t be sure that the formula in the replicator hasn’t been tampered with. If this is someone’s plan, then that someone would know that we’d replicate acetodestroteraphtalbenzoic acid. So an attacker would corrupt the database and make sure that the substance that gets replicated isn’t the cure, but… a POISON!”

Dhae tried very hard not to sigh. Like most paranoid thoughts, it didn’t lack internal logics or purpose — it lacked connection with reality. This was unrestrained paranoia. Romulans, in their wisdom, knew how to distinguish them.

“Did you think you were giving me poison?” screamed, unseen, from another room, Chief Jibolranki.

“Silence!” screamed Rhonnox.

“Wait — you are using the Chief as a guinea pig?” asked Dhae. He had just skimmed them, but this broke an enormity of Starfleet rules and regulations.

“I have to be sure that the output of the replicator is what it should be” said Rhonnox. “I have to be sure. It was the only way to be sure.”

“Yes and it worked like a charm” screamed Jibolranki. “I’m not feeling paranoid at all!”

“You’re screaming!” screamed Rhonnox.

“You bloody tied me to the medbed!” screamed the Chied. “I’m bloody mad! You’re not even finishing yer experiment! Fekkin’ come here and scan me and see if the darned mushroom has disappeared from me brain or if I’m actually fekkin’ dead of poison!”

“He’s being extremely paranoid” whispered Rhonnox to Dhae and Sakar. “Don’t pay attention to what he’s saying. He could want to deceive you.”

“Lieutenant, I need to believe me. There is no attacker” said Sakar. “The database hasn’t been corrupted.”

Rhonnox looked at him with unease. “That’s exactly the sort of thing that a saboteur would try to convince me of. Now that I think of it, is it a coincidence that you’re working together with the Romulan?”

Dhae looked at the Denobulan and noticed that not only had she closed her hands into fists, but the knuckles were bone-white: she was clearly in much more distress than she managed to appear.

“We are losing time we don’t have” whispered Dhae to Sakar. “Can you… shock-therapy her or something? Something about… mothers? Or cigars?”

“Cigars?” repeated Sakar.

“I don’t know how Denobulan psychology works!”

And, right at that point, the Jefferies tube at the other end of the room opened. From it emerged slender legs, followed by the rest of a diminutive Vulcan female.

“What!” screamed Rhonnox. Now she was definitely terrorized, suddenly realizing that her force field was also a cage that impeded her escape.

“Good evening” said the Vulcan woman. “Can Lieutenant Rhonnox be reasoned with, Counselor Sakar?”

“Not in useful times, Ensign T’Vylin” answered the psychologist.

“Stay away!” screamed Rhonnox.

T’Vylin, efficiently, Vulcan-pinched the Denobulan to the floor.

Part VI

USS Sternbach, Romulan Republic Territory
October 2401

Lieutenant Dhae’s official log, officially mandated entry, stardate [REDACTED]: my activities are within the norm and the parameters thereof are within reason.

Once the force-field had been efficiently removed by the Vulcan security officer, things improved markedly. She and Sakar went to free Chief Jibolranki, whose mood turned from deep irritation to deep concern; in the meantime Dhae found the replicator and got the amount of drug they needed. Sakar had been clear that they needed two point three seven kilograms, but Dhae, in his Romulan wisdom, knew that the scientifically adequate amount was the correct amount plus twenty per cent: add oh point four seven kilograms, the amount was two point eight oh kilograms. Simple.

The biolab, being nicely stocked, also had hyposprays. Dhae loaded two with an additional cartridge of acetodestroteraphtalbenzoic acid and joined the others.

In the biocontainment unit, Chief Jibolranki was being freed by Ensign T’Vylin. He had been tied with ropes which had left red marks.

“Friggin ropes” he was commenting. “Where does one even find ropes on a starship.”

Sakar was standing beside them. “I’d like to schedule a meeting with you to discuss this experience, Chief.”

“Ah sure I guess” said the Xirrimite. He had an odd, flaky white skin, and black liquid eyes.

“How long does one need for the effects of the drug to be perceivable?” asked him Dhae.

The Chief looked embarrassed. “A couple of minutes, I reckon. I can’t be precise because I was mighty pissed and I reckon that might have skewed the results.”

Dhae nodded and injected himself with a dose. He was in control of his paranoia, but there was no point in testing fate. He looked at the two Vulcans. “I guess you don’t need any.”

“It would be illogical to refuse” said Sakar, volunteering his neck. T’Vylin followed suit, and Dhae got them both.

Dhae looked at the Vulcan security officer. “Your arrival was very fortuitous, Ensign” he said.

“Not at all” said she. “As the crisis started I was monitoring the security feeds. I became aware of you as you left Counselor Sakar’s office, as the visual feed wasn’t blocked. I interpreted your body language as signifying that you had a plan, and I interpolated your likely destination as this laboratory.”

“That was a good use of logics” approved Sakar.

“I appreciate you saying that” replied T’Vylin, and Dhae wondered if Vulcan interactions ever got warmer than this perfectly unemotional sharing of appreciation. “I tried to remove the force-field remotely but the lockdown on computer systems is almost complete. I predicted that you’d need my help.”

“It was adequate” said Sakar.

Jibrolranki was doing some stretching. “What do we do now?”

“We need to get to the atmospheric control and diffuse the acetodestroteraphtalbenzoic acid” said Dhae. “That said, diffusing a heavy particle like this would need some very precise use of the atmospheric systems.”

Sakar nodded. “Would you have the skill required?”

“My Starfleet career is one week old” said Dhae. “Was this a Romulan ship, I’d have no issue.”

Sakar raised an eyebrow; he looked at Jibolranki and T’Vylin, who gave no sign, and said: “It seems we need to recruit an engineer.”

Dhae smiled. He knew just the person. He said it.

Both Sakar and T’Vylin had protested that Dhae’s choice of engineer as illogical.

“I’m being perfectly logical” replied Dhae, a bit miffed.

“And perfect logics led you to decide that your boyfriend, a transporter expert, is the ideal choice to operate the atmospheric systems” said, quietly, Sakar.

“He is certainly qualified enough. I expect that any engineer is.”

“Granted” agreed T’Vylin. “The logics in his selection still eludes me. The responsible for the atmospheric system, or the chief engineer, are more reasonable choices.”

Dhae raised his finger. “But we do not know where they are, right? Iskander did call me and tell me he was going to our quarters. Do you know where the chief engineer is? Plus, isn’t she a Klingon? Do we want to confront a Klingon driven insane by paranoia? Iskander is probably just being morose and sad. At most he’s booby-trapped the door.”

The two Vulcans looked at each other. “While your selection of Lieutenant al-Kwaritzmi still strikes as not entirely rational” pondered finally Sakar, “the reasons you offer are compelling. Time is of the essence and we can find the Lieutenant in your quarters.”

Dhae felt a bit victorious. “Well, there you go. I have irrational motives, you have rational motives, and we agree to go and fetch Iskander. I’m happy with that.”

And they moved out of the biolab.

Part VII

USS Sternbach, Romulan Republic Territory
October 2401

Lieutenant al-Kwaritzmi’s personal log, supplemental: I can’t write. What is happening. They are

Iskander had rushed to his quarters — his shared quarters, to be fair — and barricaded himself inside.

He had, of course, booby-trapped the door to explode in the case that someone was to try attack him. As he had, he had felt a world of guilt at the thought that Ishvenyal could fall into his trap: he had tried contacting him but communications were down ship-wide; at the end he had elected to write, on the outside of the door, a warning (“Dear Dhae: danger, do not come in”). Of course that had required deactivating the trap and opening the door and exposing himself to the corridor, which had been almost intolerable, but he had survived.

He had turned off the lights and was currently sitting on the floor in the corner of the small sleeping room, holding his knees and trying very hard to ignore the voice in his head that reminded him that the posture he had assumed was called “fetal position”.

He didn’t know or understand what was happening to the ship, but everyone had started acting threatening and suspicious. The dinner had been pleasant enough even to Iskander — even though he had found the discussion topics to be somewhat frivolous and forgettable, very much to Dhae’s liking — but after Doran’s attack, and especially after Ishvenyal’s departure, the tone had quickly gone wrong: people would give each other the side-eye, their movements brusque, their sentences hesitant. Iskander knew that those people weren’t his friends — he wondered why he had friends at all, he who had so little to offer in terms of entertainment or chitchat — and it had become clear to him, after Ishvenyal had left, that they’d never be. It was Freema Gwa who had suggested interrupting the dinner, and Iskander had gladly accepted.

Now, in the darkness of his quarters, he wondered what he was doing here. People didn’t like him. Except Dhae, of course, which puzzled him. That Orsos had loved him was somewhat easier to understand — Orsos and Iskander had been childhood best friends, they knew each other intimately, they had few secrets and a great complicity: but what had Dhae found in him? Did Ishvenyal really like him — or, thought forbid, love him? Was Ishvenyal even his real true name? What proof was there of that? Saying any name would have had the same effect and would have been as unfalsifiable.

Sitting in the womb of his sleeping room, Iskander pondered on what to do. He couldn’t tolerate staying on this ship any longer, surrounded by people who didn’t like him, who despised him, who judged him — or, even worse, who condescended to him. The only rational thing was to leave. If he made a dash now, he could get to the shuttlebay and steal a shuttle; he could then fly to some uninhabited moon — any rock would do — and spend a long life building a habitat for himself and putting his engineering skills to good use. Yes. No one would ever again terrorize him, no one would brutalize him anymore.

Why was he even in Starfleet? He knew, in his heart of hearts, that no one liked him — but did he even like anyone back? Had he liked the engineering personnel of the Redding with whom he had spent years of his life? Mir Durbus, Sirti-nei-Plex, and the rest? He always had thought that Diran was a very good friend, and he liked the big spider, but — did he really? What good had they done for him? He had risked his life — almost died — for Starfleet several times: and what for? That had bought him not even a shred of appreciation.

Bastards, all of them. He probably should have run to the shuttlebay and fled. But probably someone would have tried to stop him. And if that was the case —

The door rang.

Terror gripped Iskander. Who could that be? One of them? Someone who wanted to — what? Would they go away? They’d die if they came in, so they’d better go away.

The door rang again.

For the person who came in to die was a horrible thought: their entrails disseminated in all the living room of the tiny quarters by the surprising force of the detonation, and maybe their head still intact, its dead eyes glazed in astonishment. But the more terrifying thought was, of course, if they didn’t die, if they got past the trap, if their rage —

The door rang again.

“Go away” screamed Iskander. Why wouldn’t they leave him alone?

The voice at the door intercom spoke. “Iskander, it’s me. Can I come in? I need you.”

That sounded like Ishvenyal’s voice, but how to be sure? Voices were easy to fake.

“Go away, Dhae” he said. “I’m sorry — I know these are also your quarters — but I need to be alone.”

“This can’t way, beloved. We need you.”

“Listen, I can’t speak. Please go away.”

“I’m coming in, then” said Dhae.

On the off-chance that this was the real Dhae, the thought of him dying was horrifying. It gripped Iskander’s heart and clouded it in a shroud of the darkest despair. Orsos had died and it had been nobody’s fault; the thought of Iskander murdering Dhae was even more horrifying. He couldn’t decide whether he loved that silly Romulan or distrusted and hated him, but he knew for certain that he needed him alive.

“NO!” he screamed with urgency.

There was a pause and — fortunately — no noise of a door swooshing open.

“Did you build a trap in the door, Iskander?” asked Ishvenyal. He sounded amused. “Is that the danger you allude to in this crudely written warning?”

“… no. I just want the door to stay closed.”

A long silence.

“I have a tricorder. I can detect the trap.”

His trap had been found! That was terrible — how had he not thought of that? How had he not toiled at his trap until it eluded tricorders? “… no you can’t?”

“Don’t worry about it, Iskander. I can disable it remotely” said Dhae. “Give me one minute and I will be with you.”

Iskander’s first thought that disabling it remotely wasn’t possible. He had made sure of it. It was a good trap — powerful, yet almost completely analogical, impossible to hack remotely, sensitive to its triggers. But it was a Romulan he was speaking to — a creature of subterfuge and secrets. Had Dhae, for instance, left a tiny spy drone in their quarters, maybe the drone could be used to attack the trap and dismantle it.

On the other way, if this wasn’t Dhae — if it was, say, a Changeling pretending to be Dhae, a creature capable of liquefying their body and passing in the interstitial molecule-wide space under the door and thus elude the trap, or a telekinetic creature capable of dismantling the trap with their mind, or — or —

Terrorized, he got out of his fetal position and peered into the living room, at the door. Nothing was happening to the open panel next to it, where the trap was located. NOTHING WAS HAPPENING.

“It’s almost disabled” said Dhae from outside..

But Iskander’s eyes could tell him something different. How could it almost be disabled if nothing was happening to it? HOW? What dark magic did he have? Would he die of not having deactivated the trap?

The tension in Iskander’s mind became intolerable. In either cases — no matter whether Dhae succeeded or failed in deactivating the trap — he didn’t want to be in the quarters.

“Do not come in” he screamed. “You will not find me! I’ll be gone. Please just leave, let the door be!”

In the back of the sleeping quarters was a Jefferies tube access. It was bolted from the inside and quite difficult to get into from the outside — the designers of the ship hadn’t wanted to give everyone an easy way to get into other people’s private space — but easy to unbolt from the inside. The history behind that was quite interesting: the designers had reviewed the missions of the USS Enterprise-D and of the USS Voyager and discovered that the crew had been locked into their quarters with a certain regularity — sometimes on a weekly basis: they had decided that on an Echelon-class starship it should be reasonably easy to escape one’s quarters. Gone would be the days where three plucky Kazon could confine everyone on board to a prison in their quarters (or some equally implausible history — the Voyager files were in equal parts embarrassing and redacted).

He ran to the tube access panel, unbolted it quickly, and slid inside, into its dark silvery cave-like emptiness. Where was he going? He didn’t know, but he just had to be out of his quarters.

He reached the first Jefferies junction — JJ02/4E1 — and as he was about to take a breather a hand came out of a converging Jefferies tube.

The hand, and the arm it was attached to, easily grabbed Iskander by the arm and shoved him effortlessly — not that it would have taken much force to shove the panicking human. A second hand emerged, holding a hypospray, which went straight to Iskander’s neck.

The human engineer felt himself losing his force as a pleasant numbness started emanating from the locus of the injection. He slid to the floor of the Jefferies junction and, in a much more relaxed state of mind, saw a face emerge above him. It was Counselor Sakar.

“I have been ambushed in a Jefferies tube by my analyst” he mumbled. He wondered why this wasn’t an absolutely terrifying idea.

“Yes. I do hope that this does not aggravate the trust relationship we have built” commented dryly the Vulcan as Iskander temporarily lost contact with reality.

Part IX

USS Sternbach, Romulan Republic Territory
October 2401

Lieutenant Dhae’s personal log, mandated supplemental entry, stardate [REDACTED]: the situation is [REDACTED].

Sakar and Dhae extracted Iskander from the Jefferies tube. The human could crawl and walk if guided, but looked stunned otherwise.

“Iskander!” exclaimed Dhae when the human emerged into the corridor.

“Heeh” answered Iskander, slumping somewhat to the floor. He was still wearing his quite sexy evening attire, which Dhae of course appreciated but that was of course out of place for an engineering task.

Dhae looked somewhat suspiciously at Sakar. “What did you do to him?”

“I added one milligram of dniepertzalatine to the hypospray” said the Vulcan, emerging himself from the Jefferies tube now that the human was out. “You need not to be concerned. It is a strong and quickly-metabolized neural dampener and it will wear within a couple of minutes. As its effect weakens, it will give time to the acetodestroteraphtalbenzoic acid to act and neutralize the paranoid effect of Astrolisomyces.”

“Hmph” grumbled Dhae. The method was logical and sound — Jibrolranki had said that the cure had required some five minutes to act, and Iskander would have consequently been still panicking for that time — but he didn’t like at all seeing his boyfriend reduced to this tuber-approximating mental state. “You might have told me.”

Sakar was packing the hypospray into a pocket. “I am the medical officer amongst the two of us and qualified to take such decisions, Lieutenant. Would you have argued against my expertise?”

Dhae grumbled again as he helped Iskander to stand. “I’m not saying I would have.”

Sakar helped him propping Iskander up on his legs. “Had you not, we would have gained nothing by discussing it. Had you, it would only have shown that your emotional attachment was clouding your judgement, and I would have gained nothing by putting my decision out for a debate. My course of action was logical.”

“I so understand why my ancestors left Vulcan instead of staying there and arguing” mumbled Dhae. “Iskander, can you walk?”

“Rhuu” answered Iskander. He was leaning quite heavily on Dhae, but seemed to have a modicum of balance.

Dhae holding him on the left side, and Sakar on the right, Iskander managed to move his feet in the correct configuration. They started moving in the direction of Atmospheric Control.

T’Vylin and Jibrolranki should have already have been there, and hopefully have secured the room. The task now was simple: get there, enter, and have a much sobered-up Iskander set the correct diffusion mode for the cure to paranoia.

“Skoooo” chirped Iskander.

“You are certain that this is temporary?” asked Dhae to Sakar. “He sounds like a vegetable.”

The Vulcan didn’t give any answer more explicit than a tiny movement of the eyebrow. Dhae realized in that moment that, despite their fame, Vulcans were as expressive as anyone else: but their expressivity was entirely eyebrow-based.

“Your paranoia is unwarranted” said Sakar. “I wouldn’t turn permanently Mr al-Kwaritzmi’s into a vegetable.”

They walked.

The corridors of the ship had been, until now, blessedly deserted, most likely because most people had been cowering inside their quarters. But, as Sakar had said, at some point the effect of Astrolisomyces would shift from paranoia to fury, as the affected humanoids would want to do something about their fears.

Dhae knew that this was a necessary step of the lifecycle of Astrolisomyces: the psychological effects of its spores would grow in intensity until someone, prey to a mindless paranoid rage, would destroy the ship. Everyone would die and the mushroom would calmly, over a period of years, consume the dead bodies and let the solar or galactic winds spread its spores, renewing its lifecycle.

It was, for sure, a method to eliminate competition, developed under untold aeons of evolution. In a non-destroyed starship, a body would have been disposed in efficient ways. In a warm atmosphere, other mushrooms and insects would have consumed dead matter faster than Astrolisomyces noosferos could. But in the dead of empty space, exposed to vacuum, Astrolisomyces and its slow temperature-insensitive metabolism reigned alone, and hence reigned supreme.

Usually Dhae would have felt a strong kinship to Astrolisomyces noosferos. With its capacity to induce paranoia and to exploit a softer specie’s weaknesses, it was possibly the most Romulan of the fungine kingdom. It, just like the Romulan, had evolved to exploit fear and anguish to a full logical extent.

But of course Dhae’s life was now threatened. It was personally inconvenient, and Dhae lived by the hard rule that he did not extend any spiritual kinship to things that inconvenienced him to death.

All of this meant that by now the angrier members of the crew, having stomached about as much anguish as they could, were starting to get out of their safe places, nervously looking for an enemy they could blame for all the fear.

The corridor they were walking in led to a large junction where they happened upon four of their shipmates, whose names Dhae couldn’t remember in any way. The four — two women and two men, one of which recognizably an Efrosian — turned to stare at Sakar, Dhae and Iskander held by them.

For a moment nothing moved and nothing happened.

“Good evening” said Sakar finally, very calmly. He nodded in one direction for Dhae’s benefit. “That way.”

“What — what are you doing with him?” asked one of the two women, looking at Iskander.

“Aor moor” said Iskander, unhelpfully.

“You– you–” tried saying one of the two men, starting to get angry, “WHAT IS HAPPENING?”

“Please, Lieutenant Stribilizt” said Sakar, “surely you can trust me.”

Lieutenant Stribilitz seemed to consider the notion, then he went very pale, made a displeased face, cried and charged against his psychologist.

Sakar let loose of Iskander in order to avoid a punch. Iskander swayed quite a bit having been so let loose.

“Lieutenant! We have a year-long therapeutic relation!” protested Sakar as Stribilitz tried to punch him again. “I beseech you to consider some self-control!”

“AAAAAHHH!” screamed Stribilitz.

Sakar seemed to have enough and, elegantly, used the next punch to take the arm and move his other hand to the shoulder. Vulcan-pinched to unconsciousness, Stribilitz fell to the floor a bit ungracefully.

“I do hope that this doesn’t damage the trust relation that we have built so carefully” said Sakar to the unconscious lieutenant.

The man and two women who had been with Stribilitz, who had looked at the scene with astonishment, seemed to take the fall of their companion to be a direct signal to attack.

Sorry, my love, thought Dhae as, pressed by the close-quarters attack, he had to let loose of his engineering human to answer some punches. Iskander swayed even further but seemed to fall back unto a wall.

The two women had picked Dhae as a target. They charged with great enthusiasm, but with a definite lack of coordination — the mushroom and its paranoid effects probably were already overruling the strategic parts of the brain.

Dhae wasn’t a good melee fighter. He had many skills: he was an excellent supernovae astrophysicist, a solid plasma physicist, an exquisite linear algebrist, an insightful group theorist, a passable science generalist and a workable repairman. He had repelled the psyonic attack of a class-3 Reman telepath and no one had yet discovered his deathly secret. But he was a terrible ranged fighter, quite hopeless with a phaser, and a celebratedly bad melee fighter.

So he tanked the attacks. He had discovered that this was his only good move if his opponents were unharmed: steel himself and take the punch.

He did, and had to make himself a mental note that Starfleet hand-to-hand and muscular routines were really good: the two women punched him quite well.

And, after only four or five punches, both women stopped. Dhae opened his eyes and Sakar was standing in front of him, his hand still in the form of the Vulcan pinch, a perplexed expression in his eyes.

“Is it that you are not a good fighter, Lieutenant, or that you wanted to unimpress me?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m much worse than bad” said Dhae massaging his side, where a particularly sneaky punch had landed. “But I knew you’d Vulcan-pinch me out of my predicament.”

“Dh–Dhae” said Iskander.

The two turned. Iskander seemed to be quite concerned.

“Iskander! You speak!” rejoiced Dhae. That was maybe the first good news all evening. He jumped to his human boyfriend and kissed him. “You speak!”

The human’s eyes didn’t seem to be quite able to focus. “What –”

“Take it easy, Mr al-Kwaritzmi” said Sakar. “You still need a moment to recuperate. My guess is that the adrenaline has quickened the recovery.”

“What can you feel?” asked Dhae.

“Nothing” said Iskander.

“That must feel quite novel for you” said Dhae.

“Please do not chide your partner while he’s still under the effect of an emotional dampener” requested Dhae. “We should get going.”

As they walked, faster and faster, the mood in the corridors got progressively worse. More and more crewmembers would exit their quarters — or whatever place had served as a panic refuge for the last half an hour — and be easily provoked by people just passing by.

So the march towards Atmospheric Control slowed to a crawl as they started to encounter a progressive number of crewmembers. Dhae and Sakar had silently converged to a good working partnership: Dhae would take care of Iskander, keeping the pace as high as possible, while Sakar would Vulcan-pinch any aggressor.

Dhae was surprised at how talkative Sakar was, for a Vulcan. He was the sort of guy who talked to himself: or, at least, he talked to the senseless people he had just neutralized, which amounted to the same as having only himself as a public — unless he somehow directed his words to Dhae, which would also have been illogical.

But he did, indeed, keep saying things like “This is not representative of my therapeutic approach” or “I do trust that you’re not going to cancel our meeting in three days, Ensign” or “I will notify my colleague about this very interesting anguish you have just expressed”.

Iskander was slowly getting back to his senses. “Dhae?”

“Yes, Isk?”

“I was… very afraid.”

“It’s not your fault. There’s spores of a paranoia-inducing mushroom in the air.”

Iskander nodded slowly.

“Did I try to kill you?”

“No, certainly not. You booby-trapped the door of our quarters, though.”

“Does that not count as trying to kill you?”

Dhae pondered for a moment. Booby-trapped doors were quite normal for a Romulan, but he guessed that for Iskander the gesture was a little more dramatic than that. “You were trying to kill anyone.”

“Still feels bad.”

“You should try to see it from my point of view” said Dhae.

Iskander was looking at him quizzically. In front of them, Sakar was Vulcan-pinching a large human and a red-haired Bolian, both wielding a phaser.

“The home I grew up into had two doors: a main entrance, which was booby-trapped and deadly, and a secret door which was the only safe way” explained Dhae. “This was quite nostalgic for me.”

“IT’S THE ROMULANS!” screamed a Chief seeing Dhae. Sakar Vulcan-pinched him too.

“Counselor” said Iskander to Sakar. “Am I wrong in recalling that you ambushed me in the Jefferies tubes?”

Sakar had a scratch on the chin and a bit of green blood had smeared it. He looked at Iskander calmly. “Are you distressed by the thought of your analyst ambushing you, Lieutenant?”

“Honestly, a little bit.”

Sakar intercepted and Vulcan-pinched a sword-wielding Andorian scientist, who fell to the floor. “I understand and respect this emotional response” he said. “Would you accept an apology? I hope we can salvage our therapeutic bond.”

They arrived at the door of Atmospheric Control. It was locked. Sakar rang and, after having confirmed his identity, the door opened.

“There you are” said Jibrolranki, in the doorway. He sounded relieved. Past him, T’Vylin was standing at a table, the canister of replicated chemical with her. “Everything is secure.”

Atmospheric Control was a very large room filled with any sort of large machinery: gas generators, heat pumps, filters, recyclers, humidifiers, chi-rho exchangers, pressurized recatalysts, osmotic balancers, and even some of the diagnostic systems, such as a gas chromatographer and a Dowjerty-Klie. The sound was of overwhelming pumping.

Iskander cleared his throat. He had been explained the situation and what was needed of him. “Has a diagnostic been run?”

“Yes, Lieutenant” said T’Vylin, calmly. “All atmospheric systems are within parameters.”

Iskander advanced and took the canister. For an instance, incongruously, Dhae was again struck by how attractive his partner was when he was concentrated and on the job: he exuded a sort of natural, low-key charisma, a subdued authority that came from being competent rather than having to fight for it. Of course, he would have found this description absurd: in his perennial underestimating himself, he’d probably have been confused by the thought of others thinking him charismatic.

But it also helped that he was still wearing the rather sexy Capri pants and floral shirt he had donned for the dinner. He wasn’t even wearing his commbadge — he had maybe discarded it in a fit of paranoia. It wasn’t an appropriate attire for the engineering work, but was good for the morale.

Well, for Dhae’s morale at least.

“The nebulization unit is there” said Iskander, pointing at a shining, metallic machine. “Ensign T’Vylin, please bring the canister. Lieutenant Sakar, I need you to assist me for a couple of calculations.”

“Of course, Lieutenant” answered Sakar. There was something odd, for Dhae, in seeing Iskander give orders to the Vulcan, despite Sakar being equal in rank as him, and also his analyst. But, realized the Romulan, there was something to be said for Starfleet professionalism: the hierarchy wasn’t as marked as it would have been on a Romulan Republic Navy ship, but it was as fast to emerge as it should have been.

“We’ll be starting the infusion soon” estimated Iskander. “The whole process will require then a couple of minutes.”

“Can’t it be sped up?” asked Jibrolranki.

“That is the sped-up version of the process” grumbled Iskander. “Any more liquid per unit of volume and the molecule will undergo condensation.”

T’Vylin, Jibrolranki and Dhae retreated a couple of meters, leaving Iskander and Sakar to their calculations — something about the air flow and the optimal air humidity to carry the heavy molecule. As they reached a conclusion, signalled by each of them nodding to the other, Iskander attached the canister and started inputting settings and parameters on a command panel.

And that was the point at which the door of Atmospheric Control was breached by the sharp tip of a bat’leth.

Part X

USS Sternbach, Romulan Republic Territory
October 2401

Z’Xak sneezed.

They had been sneezing for almost half an hour now. It wasn’t a bad sneeze nor an unpleasant sneeze, but Z’Xak knew that it was a biological reaction that did mean something, and as such it should have been addressed.

It was technically not a sneeze, as Z’Xak lacked lungs as much as the standard language did an appropriate word to represent a violent push of air through their spidery gills. Their language of origin, a language without a self-given name if not for the one that Z’Xak had invented when the Federation bipeds had asked him to put a name on something that didn’t need one, wasn’t fully translated.

Z’Xak didn’t really understand the social bipeds. They got being a biped — he had observed them for many long hours, and was now relatively convinced that despite looking precarious and unstable, those two silly legs were enough to maintain an upright position — but they didn’t get being social. Z’Xak’s species, the Ukarimi wasn’t social. They did speak to each other — they had developed, over their hundred-thousand year history, many languages — but they didn’t rely materially or emotionally on anyone but themselves.

These were the reflections going on in Z’Xak’s mind as they pondered the fact that, roughly twenty minutes ago, someone had been very scared of them and had hit them by throwing contundent objects.

That hadn’t hurt Z’Xak: not physically, as their exoskeleton hadn’t been pierced in any way, and not emotionally, as they didn’t experience the feeling of rejection. They knew what rejection was — they had read about it, avidly, with incredulity, with amazement, with full alienness. They could intellectually understand that a social biped would feel bad when their emotional needs were not fulfilled by the social bipeds they had elected to be providers of the gestures and words to ease the emotional turmoil; but they couldn’t emotionally connect to this feeling. The idea of having emotional needs that someone else needed to help you with struck Z’Xak as the epitome of meaninglessness: why were the bipeds built like this?

But, if Z’Xak hadn’t been hurt by the hurling of suppellites, they had been confused. They thought that the bipeds believed this aggression to be, at least, uncouth.

It had started roughly around when Z’Xak had started wheezing. That had given them a clue that something was not right with the air — the only way for both them and a biped to share a biological input. They had started a scan, studying their own breathing system, and found an accumulation of an unknown fungine spore on the fine barbs of the second valves. They were sneezing as a physiological attempt to rid the barbs of the spores, of expelling the foreign agent.

Looking at the tricorder, they had sneezed.

Z’Xak had known that they should have reported it, but the new Chief Engineer under whom they worked — an aggressive Klingon — had shouted something about … petards?… and stormed off out of engineering. Z’Xak had decided to take care of this themselves.

They needed to go to Atmospheric Control. The spore was being distributed ship-wide, and all air was cycled through Atmospheric Control. They had to get there and have a look at the filters. They hadn’t a relevant working experience in those systems, but they were confident that a couple of minutes with the manual would be enough for them to master it well enough to allow the removal of the spores.

Suspecting that someone would again want to pellet them with assorted items, Z’Xak had decided to go via the Jefferies tubes. They preferred those tubes anyway: they had something familiar, something very spidery. They were comfortable and cozy. Z’Xak was always surprised to see that so few people used them to move through the ship. Probably a consequence of the bipeds being maladapted to non-bipedal movement.

They had finally arrived at Atmospheric Control. They scanned and saw that there were life signs inside.

They opened the access panel of the Jefferies tube and peered inside, hesitant, but immediately reassured. They recognized Lieutenant Sakar — who often helped them with translations, as well as giving invaluable insights in the emotional affairs of bipeds — and Lieutenant al-Kwaritzmi — who was probably one of Z’Xak’s favourite co-workers due to the fact that they were clever, quick, taciturn, and didn’t require any emotional labour from Z’Xak’s part. The curly-haired one… they were new. They were the Romulan, Dhae, Lieutenant, science. Diran Koli had tried to explain that some sort of bonding had happened between Iskander and Dhae, and that they had formed a stable, coupled system of mutual emotional need, but Z’Xak had been thoroughly puzzled because at no point Diran had mentioned eggs, and Diran had not even managed to understand Z’Xak’s questions about eggs or alternative surrogates (Z’Xak knew that most bipeds didn’t lay eggs).

There were two other bipeds in the room — Z’Xak didn’t recognize them, so they probably belonged to the Sternbach‘s original crew — but the situation seemed stable. They seemed to know what they were doing and their body postures hinted at a certain tenseness and determination. They were about to diffuse something in the atmosphere. They were aware of the fungus, weren’t they? Z’Xak didn’t find any other explanation.

Then a big knife cut through the door of Atmospheric Control. The door was pried open and Lieutenant Commander Kornatuv, the chief engineer, entered.

“LOOK AT YOU MAGGOTS!” she screamed. “I KNEW SOMEONE WAS BEHIND THIS!”

In one hand she held an Klingon wrench and in her right hand her big knife. She waved both with some significance that escaped Z’Xak.

They had invested much time trying to understand the concept of a weapon. Of course, Ukarimi had knives and similar technical utensils — they needed to cut all sort of things. But they had, as far as Z’Xak knew, never built a device with the purpose of hurting someone else. Someone had suggested to Z’Xak that this reflected a certain privileged position in their ecosystem: the Ukarimi had no natural predator, being too large and too well-armoured in their exoskeleton to invite any sort of predation, but they were also plant-eaters and didn’t need to create hunting equipment.

If the need really arose, on the other hand, they had quite a powerful bite.

So, they suspected that the really large knife that Commander Kornatuv was waving with such enthusiasm was a weapon, which certainly had a specific name which didn’t matter to Z’Xak.

“I should have known that the Romulan would be behind this!” she was saying. “And his boyfriend isn’t a surprise. But the councilor and T’Vylin? Wait – ARE YOU ROMULANS TOO? YOU POINTY-EARED BETRAYERS!”

“Romulans being behind every single sneaky plot is a very unproductive cliché” screamed Dhae back.

The context and content of that exchange went entirely above Z’Xak’s head. It was like hearing two Chinese rooms talking to each other.

“You are behind all the weirdness that’s happening aboard the ship” proclaimed Kornatuv, “pumping whatever dishonourable toxin in our air system. Well, THIS STOPS NOW! DIE WITH HONOR, YOU BITS OF GAGH!”

Confirming Z’Xak’s suspect that the big knife was to be used to harm other beings, she charged at two bipeds who were unknown to the Ukarimi — a Vulcan of the one gender that performed the egg production and a biped with big liquid eyes. They seemed to be unarmed but assumed fighting positions and coordinated their defense.

But it was for naught. The Klingon looked furious and irresistible; she hit the male biped with the hilt of her big knife. The Vulcan managed to kick the big knife out of the Klingon’s hand, but Kornatuv stunned her with a massive blow of her massive wrench.

“Commander, you are being paranoid!” was saying Sakar. “This is the effect of Astrolisomyces paranoosferos! We are diffusing a cure!”

Sakar, Dhae and Iskander were still standing. Sakar and Dhae had assumed a protective stance around Iskander, as if to create a last line of defense.

“LIARS!” screamed she. “I’m going to stop you and everything is going to go back to normal. BUT NOT FOR YOU!”

Paranoia, as a concept, had fascinated Z’Xak as being, simultaneously inconceivable and undesirable. Ukarimi knew fear, of course, and they knew terror; but they didn’t establish trust or mistrust towards one another. The most they felt for each other was a sort of mild indifference: they lacked any instinct for harming each other, and had not constructed any social one to contravene their nature; at the same time they failed to have positive feelings for one another except for some vague intellectual recognition of mutual prowess and some interest in a successful reproduction — they were hermaphroditic, but performed sexed reproduction. Helping each other was unknown, requesting help was an impossibility, and in their literature the question of whether it was moral to save a fellow in deathly danger was a sort of provocative canard.

So, Z’Xak didn’t feel any compulsion to help any of the bipeds who were now skirmishing in Atmospheric Control.

They had come to solve a problem with the air, though, and knew that either Commander Kornatuv or the trio of Sakar, Dhae and Iskander, was aligned with the Ukarimi’s purpose. Z’Xak’s long years in Starfleet had taught them, at least on an intellectual level if not an emotive one, that having co-workers sped tasks.

“GET YOUR ISOLINEARS REALLIGNED, ROMULAN SCUM!” screamed Kornatuv bludgeoning Dhae with her Klingon wrench. The Romulan flew to the side, stunned.

“Please, Commander, if you do not let us diffuse the cure, everyone is going to become increasingly paranoid!” said Sakar, holding a martial art stance. “The ship is going to get destroyed.”

“I’LL DIFFUSE YOU!” she said. She threw a blow, but Sakar caught the wrench and held on it. Each of them started pulling on the Klingon engineering tool. “LET GO OF MY WRENCH, YOU VULCAN TOOL!”

“That would really be illogical” evaluated Sakar holding very tightly.

Iskander had remained next to the atmospheric diffuser unit, monitoring and adjusting the release of a material that Z’Xak couldn’t recognize from the canister. “Commander, please. You need to trust us.”

“I TRUST YOU TO STOP WHEN YOU’RE ON THE FLOOR!”

Those words woke something in Z’Xak. Iskander had just claimed that Kornatuv needed to trust him. But wasn’t that potentially true for Z’Xak too?

Had they ever trusted anyone in their life? They hadn’t. For them to intervene now, to pick a side, required trust. They didn’t know whether Iskander was to be trusted, whether what he was doing was really helping or was causing the problem.

But they also knew that Kornatuv as about to physically prevail upon Iskander and Sakar, two bipeds whom Z’Xak… whom they… whom… they liked?

And, before even knowing why exactly they were doing it, Z’Xak threw themselves out of the Jefferies tube and shot themselves at Commander Kornatuv, levying all the force added to their muscles by the Starfleet exoskeleton they wore. The impact was strong enough that they felt it through their chitinous layer. The Klingon and her stupid wrench flew to the side.

“THE SPIDER IS A ROMULAN TOO!?” screamed Kornatuv.

The Ukarimi had no weapon. If the need really arose, on the other hand, they had quite a powerful bite.

In the first feat of trust in their life, Z’Xak bit really hard.

Part XI

USS Sternbach, Romulan Republic Territory
October 2401

Lieutenant Dhae’s personal log, mandated supplemental entry, stardate [REDACTED]: the situation is returning to normal. [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] have been delivered. I am going to ask Lieutenant Sakar to minimize my actions in this affair when he writes his report. Now I have to [REDACTED].

Some twenty minutes later, Dhae finally felt like he could breathe. The Romulan equivalent of adrenaline was wearing down and the whole exhausting affair was coming back to him. His side hurt where he had been hit by the Klingon wrench, but he could feel that nothing was broken.

Lieutenant Sakar, as it turned out, had some medical training, but he was mostly concerned with reattaching Kornatuv’s fingers. Iskander was communicating with the Commander, who had come back to their senses, and explaining what had happened. T’Vylin and Jibrolranki were at the door of the room, doing the same to anyone who came asking.

The canister of acetodestroteraphtalbenzoic acid had been discarded to the floor, now empty. Their adventure had been a success, the mushroom rendered ineffective. During the next days, he expected, they’d decontaminate the ship.

Z’Xak, the big spider who had unexpectedly saved everything, had remained for a couple of minutes in Atmospheric Control. Interpreting their expression was impossible, and they had said absolutely nothing. They had gone to the atmospheric sensor monitors, they had looked at what Iskander was doing, and had gone back into the Jefferies tube from which they had come. Dhae respected how they kept their mysteries, although he suspected that the Ukarimi didn’t even know that they were doing so. Did Dhae feel kinship with them? Probably not — weird untalkative big spider that they were — but he was highly appreciative of what they had just done.

Dhae decided to sit for a moment on the floor, and as he did his side hurt. He groaned, but started a small meditation exercise to ignore the pain, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, Sakar was standing there, waving his cylindrical tricorder-thingie.

He smiled. “Am I going to make it, Counsellor?”

“The blow to your side was strong and the liver has been compressed” said the Vulcan. “I’m administering 3cc of nopratashu solution, which will ensure a good tissue decompression and regeneration. If the pain doesn’t subside within four hours, please report to sickbay.”

Dhae was suddenly too tired to be suspicious or paranoid. He let the Vulcan inject him with a hypospray solution without protesting.

Then Iskander sat next to him, side to side, their arms touching. Dhae for a moment relished this warmth.

“Are you good?” asked Iskander, quietly, his voice barely audible above the sound of pumping that pervaded Atmospheric Control.

“Now, at this moment, I’m only relieved” he answered. “Tomorrow I’ll be fine. What about you?”

Iskander smiled faintly. “I’m shaken that I have the capacity for so much paranoia in me.”

Dhae stirred. “When I left the bar, I did imply that the dinner party was my idea and that you weren’t as participative as I wanted. You looked hurt and I want to apologize.”

“There is no need. We all said and thought things we regret.”

Dhae breathed deeply. “You know what, Iskander? We’ll discuss that in bed. After you have removed the deadly booby-trap from our door.”

Iskander laughed tiredly, and they stood, helping each other.

“You know” admitted Dhae. “I didn’t enjoy paranoid Starfleet officers nearly as much as I’d have thought I would.”

Iskander nodded. “I’ll trust you on that.”