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Here it is Melting Pot, Season Three It's a joy to write, hooray for me! I hope that all of you Enjoy reading this, too If not, well at least it is free! Copyright 2006. "There are more things Horatio, than are dreamt of by your Philosophy..." by Paul Cloutier There is no statement so absurd that no philosopher will make it. - Cicero Official Archives of the Vulcan Institute for Meditative Studies - Stardate 58493.3 Today we solemnly welcome back to this Institute the Vulcan who had led us for some time, before duty and Starfleet recalled him to active status as the Captain of the USS Menagerie. Of course, we do everything solemnly, so that is no surprise. If we didn't do it solemnly, we would not be Vulcans, now would we? Where was I now? Oh yes. He has returned to our fold bringing with him another noted figure, the former Starfleet Admiral, Sontak, whom we will also soon be welcoming to this institute in the capacity of Xeno-psychology expert. Of less impressive credentials and, to be quite frank, less interest to this Institute, is another officer he has brought with him, a former junior officer from under his command, a man by the name of Gisech. This Gisech is a Graaken, a species known far and wide for their barbarous, borderline insane violence. Even more surprising is the reason that Seetamyn has brought along this creature... "I must not have heard you correctly," said Soupçon, the current Leader of the Vulcan Institute for Meditative Studies, replying to Seetamyn's request. And, at the same time, delivering one of the most inflammatory insults possible to a Vulcan. Of course, being Vulcans, even the deadliest of insults was usually answered by nothing more severe than a raised eyebrow or two. "Then perhaps you should pay less attention to the holovision soap operas and more to what is happening around you," Seetamyn responded with the traditional Vulcan counter-insult. "What I said was - 'I wish to present Gisech, here, for consideration for a position on the faculty of this Institute.'" "Why on Vulcan would we wish to include a psychotic killer on our faculty?" "I was not asking you to do so," Seetamyn calmly replied. "Gisech is no more psychotic than you are." (For those of you who have never witnessed a Vulcan debate, a few points of order should be brought up and/or amplified. First of all, the participants in these debates present their arguments in perfectly calm and reasonable voices at all times. There is never any histrionic wailing or gnashing of teeth. No flailing of arms or jumping up and down, just two (or more) pointy-eared speakers taking turns talking with all the animation of a couple discussing the comparative merits of two different brands of toothpaste. So this debate, which on Earth would have already degenerated to a shouting match (or worse), was the most polite and calm exchange that you could imagine.) "This Gisech is a Graaken, is he not?" "That is correct." "And Graakens are known throughout the Sector as vicious, violent killers, are they not?" "Actually, while their torcs remain in place they are as placid as any other humanoid," Seetamyn corrected. "Very well then," Soupçon allowed, "they have the /potential/ to be violent psychopaths, correct?" "Yes, but remember, so do Vulcans." This point was met with a great deal of murmuring by the other faculty members. The fact that they were all Vulcans indicated that they all shared a common history in which their ancestors had nearly destroyed the planet until Surak had shown them all the path of logic and emotional control and repression. Seetamyn had broken with protocol by reminded them all of this, but they were forced to admit that his comparision was a logical one. "Very well. Tomorrow Gisech will be tested before this Faculty to see if an appointment will be offered to him. Debates on comparative philosophy and deep meditative proficiency will be the order of the day. This meeting is adjurned. I urge all faculty members to return to their chambers and meditate on what has been discussed here, today. And to further meditate on their questions and tests for tomorrow's interview." Official Archives of the Vulcan Institute for Meditative Studies - Stardate 58496.2 After a delicious catered breakfast of oatmeal soup, the faculty has taken their positions in the Examination Room. For those not privileged to have been present at one of our Examinations, the room consists of a stone bench for the examinee placed in its center, while tiers of imposing desks march around the room's perimeter. The examinee thus feels that he is surrounded by enemies and under attack from all sides. Just surviving the interview process shows remarkable meditative prowess... Gisech faced the assembled members of the faculty of the Vulcan Institute for Meditative Studies with grace and aplomb. In point of fact, he was was rather bored with all of the theatrics and brinksmanship on display. There was no need to attempt to intimidate him with all of these elaborate preparations, the setting for a debate was of vastly secondary importance to the content of that debate. The gongs which rang out the changing hours at the Institute had just finished announcing 09:00. The tinny reverberations still echoed down the ancient corridors and Gisech quickly did a head count, not surprised at all to see that all 42 faculty members had reached their seats and were sitting quietly. As the echoes finally died away, Soupçon rose from his Grand Inquisitor (umm, make that 'Head of Faculty') chair and stared down at the impassive Graaken. Satisfied that today's exercise would be over quickly and that it would serve to further solidify his position as the Leader of the Institute (and, hopefully, even silence those who had been calling for Seetamyn's reinstatement to that position after news of his dismissal from Starfleet had reached Vulcan.) Today's battle had been thoroughly planned out by Soupçon and his cronies. If he won, the grim Vulcan was seriously considering upgrading his cronies to lackeys. Maybe even to henchmen! Now there was a thought he could savor! Henchmen of his very own! But first things, first. Time to deal with this impertinent Graaken and that multi-colored menace of a Vulcan once and for all. He had calculated this opening very carefully, first he would but this arrogant upstart in his place, then he and his cronies would slowly build a picture of the uncontrollable ferocity of these Graakens. A corner of Soupçon's mouth twitched oh so slightly as he fired his first slavo, "If the Applicant would be so kind as to tell of the history of his people before they came to join the United Federation of Planets..." Gisech nodded his head and began to recite a passage that all of his people knew by heart... "A reading from the Good Book of the Good Sons of the Good SON. This is the gospel according to Father Ezekiel Faazuh, April 14 2153: We have been in orbit of this lovely little planet for three weeks while we have worked on learning the language and customs of the people who live upon it. The inhabitants of this planet seem incredibly war-like and violent. Praise be His name who has led us here to deliver these poor, benighted souls unto the path of righteousness. While the Council, back on Earth, argues about creating some 'Federation' and making non-interference the overwhelming rule of the day, we few have taken up the task of bringing enlightenment to the heathen aliens. We believe that we have come up with a plan for converting these new children to the true Path. While some of the methods that I fear that we will have to employ are rather distasteful to me, this is definitely a case of the end justifying the means. After we break our fast this morning I shall lead a legion of the soldiers of God down to the planet to begin the long missionary work ahead of us. The shuttle touched down in the center of the largest village on the planet. The inhabitants had known it was coming long before they could see it, since Father Faazuh had been broadcasting Handel's 'Messiah' at full volume through the external loudspeakers. He had been toying with the thought of using Wagner's 'Ride of the Valkyries', but had finally decided on the Handel since the Oratorio was considerably calmer than the exuberant Opera. The natives had come from all corners of the village to see this strange, noisy bird come swooping down from the sky. The people of the village were clad in rough fabric and furs. Everyone carried a crude, stone knife and all of the men were armed with either spears or a bow and arrows. Nearly 3000 Graaken lived in this village and just about all of them had gathered in the village square by the time that the shuttle had touched down. Faazuh allowed the last strains of the music to die away before leaving the shuttle. He walked out, flanked by 3 armed laymen on either side of him. These men had orders not to shoot unless specifically ordered to do so. The priest had considered completely disabling their phasers so that there could be no accidents, but had decided that, in the end, a couple of extra dead aliens was a superior outcome to one dead Father Faazuh! The priest calmly surveyed his new flock as a vision of the transformed planet shimmered in front of his eyes. Temples dedicatd to the Father! Modernized buildings and infrastructure! Pastoral parks and pristine cities! Spears thrown into the chest of one of his men! Wait a minute! There shouldn'd be any spears in paradise! Faazuh quickly snapped his focus away from the beautiful movie playing in his head back to the more gritty reality show going on all around him. Two of his men were down. The other four, back-to-back in a defensive cluster. At least they had obeyed orders and not fired upon the crowd. The natives were angrily waving their spears and bows around. Father Faazuh sighed. As was so often the case, it looked as though the cross could come only after the sword. So be it then. Faazuh pulled a hand phaser out from under his cassock and calmly vaporized several natives. As the last 'zaaap' faded away, a hush fell over the crowd. Faazuh knew that now that he had everyone's attention, his moment had come. "People of Graak! Hear my words! Do you think that violence and killing make you strong! I tell you that you are wrong! It takes no strength, no purity of spirit to kill! The greatest strength that a man might possess is to have the ability to kill another BUT TO CHOOSE NOT TO USE IT!" With that Faazuh threw his phaser on the ground. The entire village stared at the odd light-shooting spear on the ground. This man had just flown out of the sky in a bird like none ever seen before. He had, with barely any effort at all transformed six of the strongest men into wisps of smoke such as a dying campfire might make. Then he had dropped his weapon and told them that this was strength. Never had such words been spoken. Never had such actions been taken. The people, the Graaken, looked around at each other then their chief, the great Gr'inch stepped forward. He balanced his spear lightly in his right hand, the pointy end aimed directly at Faazuh's chest. He shifted his balance slightly, as he moved his hand forward -- and let the spear roll from his fingers, onto the ground. "We will listen to your words, dark one." Faazuh smiled. It was a start. Months passed and Faazuh and his companions taught the village about philosophy, religion and technology. Most of all they taught them the value of self-restraint. The villagers took to calling the leader of these strange men Father Phaser, since many of his lessons, especially early on, included very definite object lessons. The village houses slowly transformed into more comfortable, modern structures. A primitive mining/smelting/smithing industry sprang up and bronze began to tip the men's spears. Swords suddenly became the newest fashion and shields and defensive armor soon followed. Many of the men who had accompanied Faazuh on this missionary work were concerned by this apparently violent turn in their flock, but Faazuh wasn't worried. He knew that his teachings could only be spread to the other villages of the planet via conquest and blood. Everything was proceeding according to his plan. In fact, the religious and philosophical training was advancing even faster than he had originally projected. It was this fact that prompted him to activate phase two of his plan a little earlier than expected. The ceremony was dark, scary and very, very secret. Faazuh had drawn upon his knowledge of the Graaken mythology to make an appropriately impressive Rite of Ascension. The village chief was tonight being ordained into 'Adulthood'. Faazuh had finally convinced the village that their violent, destructive tendencies were perfectly natural - for children. Adults should be beyond that kind of nonsense. The Rite of Ascension would forevermore mark a true Graaken adult. The ceremony culminated with a sacred Oath, a pledge on the part of the new adult to his elders (in this case, Father Faazuh as the village's spiritual elder) that from this point on the individual would henceforth commit themself to spiritual and philosophical pursuits. Faazuh knew that this Oath would need to have some sort of physical manifestation to allow the new adult to keep focussed and pure, so he had created an ornamental torc with a medieval dragon encircling a cross motif. These duranium torcs were fitted around the new adult's neck and their great weight symbolized the new weight of responsibility that each adult would now shoulder. The village held its collective breath as their chief entered the small hut with the priest. It wasn't long before he returned to them, not as the child who had enetered, but as an adult. Over the next week, Faazuh selected eight more men and three women to under- take the Rite of Ascension. Twelve was a significant number to the priest, after all. The twelve adults now started training exclusively with Father Faazuh. Advanced philosophical debate, comparative theology and English lessons were eagerly absorbed by the adults, but, perhaps, the most eagerly anticipated course was phaser marksmenship. Each of the adults was given a hand phaser and detailed instructions in its use. It was now time for phase three. The morning mists were still curling around the huts of the Tribe of the Wet Water when the thirteen came striding into the village. They wore clothes such as no one in the village had ever before imagined and they carried neither spear nor bow, just some really big brownish knives. There was a kind of serenity about them as they marched into the village square and just stood there while the population of the village surrounded them. The Wet Water Tribe's chief snorted at the newcomers and then made a sharp motion with his hand. Immediately over a dozen spears came arcing from the gathered crowd. By some lucky coincidence, not a one struck its target! Two thoughts went through Father Faazuh's mind. The first was a fierce pride that his Disciples hadn't even flinched or made any move to draw their weapons. The second was that the Tribe of the Wet Water were really lousy shots! Faazuh stepped to the fore of the invading group, and with a great sigh, began to speak, "We come before you bringing news of great joy and rejoicing, and you greet us with spears and fear and anger. Again I come across more frightened children. Children whose simple minds are amazed by the simple miracle that water is wet! Great is the glory of the Lord who givest onto me new souls to save. Mine eyes shall weep for the cleansing that is to come, while my soul singeth with the magnificence of Jehovah!" Faazuh drifted back among his Disciples and with a dramatic show of great reluctance, reached over and yanked the Oath torc from the neck of Gr'inch. With a huge smile, Gr'inch drew his phaser from beneath his bronze cuirass and began to teach the Wet Water Tribe the error of their ways. From there, the proselytizing Graaken swept across the planet, bringing the word of God to their neighbors. By the time the United Federation of Planets was formed in 2160, all of Graak was also united under the firm leadership and inspired guidance of Father Ezekiel Faazuh. Their spiritual growth and philosophical interests continued alongside their technical developments until, nearly 200 years after Father Phaser first stepped foot on Graak, we were invited to join the United Federation of Planets. Gisech looked up at the rows of faces observing from their perches along the walls of the examination room. Soupçon, who had remained on his feet after asking Gisech for the history lesson, merely nodded and said, "They say that one man can make difference. And so, there goes your proof. Next question." An extremely elderly Vulcan rose to his tottering feet and requested, "If the Applicant would please give us his views on the virtues of normal plomeek soup versus spicy plomeek soup..." One after another, robed Vulcans called for discourse and debate on a plethora of subjects. Gisech was pulling no punches. His biting barbs of logic were cutting all opposing arguments to conversational ribbons. Soupçon saw his carefully laid plans turning to dust as the Graaken spoke on and on. Finally, in desperation, he pulled out his last dirty trick. Holding up his hand to interrupt Gisech's oratory, Soupçon announced, "Fascinating observation, my good man. But I must, regrettably, cut short this last debate for the moment in order to announce the lunch break. This examination will re-convene at 13:30." Nodding to Gisech, then to the assembled faculty members, Soupçon departed. Soon the examination room was nearly empty. Seetamyn and Sontak had been observing the proceedings from a visitor's alcove and they came down to congratulate Gisech on his impressive display. A good number of the faculty joined them, many of them Seetamyn's old companions from his days as Leader of the Institute. The group also congratulated the Graaken on his encyclopedic knowledge of esoteric philosophy as everyone made their way, /en masse/ to the dining hall. Delicious, warm soup was waiting for them when they arrived, and everyone was soon slurping away. It had been proven, several centuries ago, by one of the planet's most reknown logisticians at the time, that slurping was, by far, the most logical way of consuming one's soup. While 'slurp-a-pa-looza' 2380 was going on in the dining hall, Soupçon and his cronies had retired to his private quarters for their lunch. Not to mention to attempt to brainstorm a new battle plan. Not that they weren't also easting. A balanced diet was equally as important to nefarious ne'er do wells as it was to the good guys. But, rather than being focused solely on their slurping, Soupçon and his cronies (hopefully, soon to be lackies) where deep into plots and plans. "So far, my plans have not bourne the fruit that I had expected," Soupçon admitted. "We must, therefore..." "Could you please pass the grated lupta root?" interrupted Samhain. "What?" Soupçon asked. "The grated lupta root. Could you please pass it down?" "We're in the middle of plotting and planning here. Have you not been following the narration?" "Sure, I have. But I still need the grated lupta root. It is not logical for you to keep all of the condiments down at your end of the table." Fighting down the urge to physically insert the grated lupta root into one of Samhain's orifices that wasn't usually associated with the /intake/ of food, Soupçon passed the bowl of spice down the table. "Now then," started Soupçon watching Samhain scoop a generous spoonful of the zesty spice into his soup, "if there are no other culinary-related requ..." "Excuse me, but could you send down the cherka seeds, next?" another Vulcan at the other end of the table requested. Soupçon paused and very slowly and deliberately picked up the bowl of cherka seeds and walked down the table. With great care and attention, he slowly upended the bowl and dumped the seeds over Sputnik's head. The light, puffy seeds scattered everywhere, although a great number of them did find their way inside Sputnik's robe. the distinctive 'pop pop' of the bursting seeds could be heard as the Vulcan tried to dislodge the irritating spice from himself. It sounded like he was walking around on Pop Rocks, a tasty candy treat from 20th century Earth that fizzed and exploded when you ate it. Of course, the Vulcans knew little about ancient Terrestrial junk foods, so to them it just sounded like someone who was crushing cherka seeds. Soupçon made his way back to his place at the head of the table. "I trust that no one else has any requirements regarding the taste, texture temperature or any other aspect of their lunch?" Soupçon surveyed the table, finding his cronies silent. "Excellent. Now this is my new plan. We will allow the debates to continue. If this Graaken fails to persist in his level of responses, we will have no problems. If, on the other hand, he continues to be impressive, we must take drastic steps. In this event, after he has won over the support of the examiners, Samhain, you will go down into the Examination Room and make a show of being the first to welcome him into our midst. You must extend your hand to him in the Human style of welcome and, as he reaches to grasp your hand, rip off that torc that he wears. This will unleash the killing machine inside him and reveal the true face of this creature to the others. They will then have no choice but to disqualify him and this will reflect so badly on Seetamyn that he will never be able to challenge me for Leadership." "Ummm, excuse me, but is it not likely that he will rip me to pieces?" Samhain asked. "That is a distinct possibilty and an added bonus," Soupçon confirmed. "But why me?" Samhain whined. "Because you interrupted me," Soupçon placidly replied. "Well so did Sputnik," Samhain was nearly shouting by this time. "Yes, but I have already punished him. Remember this is for the good of the Instutute. And the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one." "Damn that Spock! Why does everyone always bring up that quote when they want someone else to do something suicidal?" "Tradition," Soupçon solemnly answered, the rest of his cronies gravely nodding in agreement. What they were mostly agreeing to was the fact that none of them were the ones having to carry out his orders. The rest of the meal passed by without any further discussion. Samhain glumly regarding his miserable luck. No only was he likely to be painfully assaulted, but now there weren't any more cherka seeds for his soup! Official Archives of the Vulcan Institute for Meditative Studies - Stardate 58496.6 After the midday repast, the Faculty members, along with Seetamyn, Sontak and Gisech returned to the Examination Room. The surprisingly adept Graaken had impressed everyone during the morning's debates. If he could continue with his remarkable presentation, it seemed sure that he would become the first non-Vulcan to be granted a position on the Institute's Faculty... "I welcome all of you back to our Examination, today," Soupçon graciously acknowledged the return of his fellows and their guests. "What is that Human phrase again? Oh, yes - 'We now return you to your regularly scheduled debate, already in progress'." Gisech stood up from his bench and returned to the precise point in his argument where Soupçon had previously interrupted him to announce lunchtime. "... without any empirical evidence or natural consequences, there can be no physical occurances. Therefore, by logical extrapolation and interpretation of natural history the conclusion to your question is absolutely obvious - 'If a tree falls in the forest and kills a mime, does anyone care?' - categorically 'NO'." For three more hours, Gisech was bombarded by riddles, conundrums, enigmas and puzzles of syntactic inconsistency. Each was hurdled by the mental gymnastics of the talented Graaken. His performance was so amazing that a quiet murmur of awe and appreciation was soon circulating throuhout the assembled Faculty. This was an almost unheard of occurance. The normally 'reserved to the point of catatonia' Vulcans were whispering amongst themselves like excited Human schoolboys! Soupçon knew that the time to act had come. With a barely perceptible nod to Samhain, Soupçon stood as Gisech was concluding a particularly effective refutal of the ages-old Earth axiom 'you can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar'. His imagined high-pressure vinegar-spraying apparatus had been proven conclusively to capture at least 38% more flies than any similiar honey-spewing device. "I must say that this has certainly been a most impressive display, young man," Soupçon congratulated the former lieutenant. "Furthermore, I believe that for the first time ever we may find ourselves with a non-Vulcan member being added to our Faculty." The gathered Vulcans behind Soupçon stood at these words and started to make their way down from the tiers of desks where they had been seated during the Examination. Samhain had already quietly made his way to the floor. Offering up a quick, silent prayer to whatever Vulcan gods might be listening in, he stepped forward towards Gisech and raised his hand as if to welcome the young Graaken aboard. Gisech smiled and reached out towards Samhain, recognizing the gesture from his time at Starfleet Academy. Before anyone could react, Samhain struck! His hand darted in and ripped the heavy torc from Gisech's neck! Silence deeper than the depths of space itself seemed to stretch for all eternity. Then, Gisech acted! Opening his mouth, he offered this further discourse on honey and vinegar; All men are agreed to call vinegar sour, honey sweet, and aloes bitter; and as they are all agreed in finding these qualities in those objects, they do not in the least differ concerning their effects with regard to pleasure and pain. They all concur in calling sweetness pleasant, and sourness and bitterness unpleasant. Here there is no diversity in their sentiments; and that there is not, appears fully from the consent of all men in the metaphors which are taken from the sense of taste. A sour temper, bitter expressions, bitter curses, a bitter fate, are terms well and strongly understood by all. And we are altogether as well understood when we say, a sweet disposition, a sweet person, a sweet condition, and the like. It is confessed, that custom and some other causes have made many deviations from the natural pleasures or pains which belong to these several tastes: but then the power of distinguishing between the natural and the acquired relish remains to the very last. A man frequently comes to prefer the taste of tobacco to that of sugar, and the flavour of vinegar to that of milk; but this makes no confusion in tastes, whilst he is sensible that the tobacco and vinegar are not sweet, and whilst he knows that habit alone has reconciled his palate to these alien pleasures. Even with such a person we may speak, and with sufficient precision, concerning tastes. But should any man be found who declares, that to him tobacco has a taste like sugar, and that he cannot distinguish between milk and vinegar; or that tobacco and vinegar are sweet, milk bitter, and sugar sour; we immediately conclude that the organs of this man are out of order, and that his palate is utterly vitiated. We are as far from conferring with such a person upon tastes, as from reasoning concerning the relations of quantity with one who should deny that all the parts together were equal to the whole. We do not call a man of this kind wrong in his notions, but absolutely mad. Exceptions of this sort, in either way, do not at all impeach our general rule, nor make us conclude that men have various principles concerning the relations of quantity or the taste of things. So that when it is said, taste cannot be disputed, it can only mean, that no one can strictly answer what pleasure or pain some particular man may find from the taste of some particular thing. This indeed cannot be disputed; but we may dispute, and with sufficient clearness too, concerning the things which are naturally pleasing or disagreeable to the sense. But when we talk of any peculiar or acquired relish, then we must know the habits, the prejudices, or the distempers of this particular man, and we must draw our conclusion from those. * The assembled Vulcans seemed stunned. Only Seetamyn seemed to have any idea of what was happening. Quick as a flash, he snatched the torc from Samhain's senseless fingers and thrust it back against Gisech's throat. The Graaken seemed to emerge as if from a daze. Shaking his head slightly, he reached up, and with praticed fingers, deftly fastened the Oath torc around his neck. In addition to Seetamyn, there were two other Vulcans who were not stunned by the sudden attack of verbosity displayed by Gisech. The first was Samhain who seemed rather pleased that his assault had resulted in nothing worse than a barrage of Human philosophy. Considering the fact that he had been expecting injuries which would have far exceeded his FederCare coverage, he would gladly take the philosophy. Even though Vulcans weren't supposed to ever be glad! The second un-stunned Vulcan was far, far from pleased. Soupçon bulled his way into the Examination Room (he had been observing what he had hoped to be a massacre of epic proportions from the safety of the back of his pack of cronies). His eyes flashed with un-characteristic anger as he surveyed the total lack of destruction and carnage. Nearly frothing with ire he finally managed to speak, "What is the meaning of this? What nonesense was this creature babbling? What happened to the great Graaken killing machine...?" Soupçon trailed off as he realized that his chagrin was making him careless. Switching tactics, he quickly reversed his apparent position, "That is to say, how wonderful that no one was injured when Samhain accidentally caused that decorative necklace to be removed. Yes, that's what I meant to say." "You seem to be rather upset," Seetamyn observed. "Oh, not all. Whatever could cause to think such a thing? I think I'd like an apology," Soupçon decided to play the indignant, innocently accused role. "What causes me to think that is the fact that you have used two contractions in the last 48 seconds," Seetamyn responded coolly. "As for an apology, I believe I will hold off on that until such a time as it is determined that my observation was, in fact, inaccurate." <> thought Soupçon to himself. Then caught himself. <> Then caught himself, again. <> This time he had to admit to himself that he had definitely gone beyond the bounds of Vulcan decorum. <> This internal struggle went on without the other assembled Faculty being any the wiser. Soupçon's face maintained the expected Vulcan mask of expressionlessness. Meanwhile, the revelations that Soupçon had been demanding were being provided by Gisech. "In the ten or so generations which have passed since Father Phaser first came to Graak, we have undergone many changes as a people. Our very natures have evolved. Our forefathers' propensity towards violence has been replaced with an almost divine respect and need for philosophical discussion and debate. We no longer give a toddler a spear and tell him to go and get something for supper. Now we hand him a thesaurus and tell him to find ten synonyms for supper." Gisech explained. "But you still wear those, those torc-things!" Soupçon's attempts to regain control over his emotional state were failing miserably. "Well, yes, of course," Gisech seemed amazed that this was even an issue. "They still symbolize our passage from childhood into adulthood." "But why bother?" Soupçon demanded. "If you no longer transform from warriors to philosophers, what is the point?" "The Rite of Ascension is the most important ceremony performed on Graak," Gisech answered, not bothering to hide the contempt he felt for the man who would question his heritage. "During the Rite we learn of the great power and skill of brevity!" "You mean when your torc is removed, you ...? Soupçon trailed off, unable to complete the terrible question. Gisech finished it for him, "When our torcs are removed, it is an invitation for us to declaim... forever!" This awful image was too much for Soupçon's already overtaxed mind. With an anguished cry he collapsed to the floor, curling into a fetal position and sticking his thumb in his mouth Official Archives of the Vulcan Institute for Meditative Studies - Stardate 58497.7 Our former Leader Soupçon has been sent to a school for remedial meditative studies and Seetamyn reinstated as our new Leader. The Graaken, Gisech, has proven his value to us and has been given the first-ever Faculty Chair for Non-Vulcan Perspectives. His selection to this position was not unanimous, however. This, along with Soupçon's disturbingly illogical bias against the new candidate has opened up some rather disturbing possibilities among the more thoughtful and introspective, here... "I had not thought it possible that Human bigotry could have made its way to Vulcan, and certainly not to the Institute," Sontak announced quietly. He, Seetamyn and Gisech were sharing a late-night glass of carrot juice as well as a discussion of the day's events. Each of the three had been rather disturbed by the irrational behavior of Soupçon. That a man could rise to such a lofty position while still harboring unreasonable prejudices was unthinable to them. But still, it had happened. The three had encountered bigotry and predijudice many times amongst the Humans of Starfleet, but Seetamyn and Sontak, at least, had not expected to find it here on Vulcan. "If nepotism is giving preferrence to one's relatives, what do you call giving preference to one's own species?" Seetamyn mused. "Had you asked me that question yesterday, I would have replied, without any hesitation, 'Humanism'. Today, my answer would be far more complicated," Gisech admitted. The thoughtful trio discussed many things that night. Nothing was really resolved, but that hadn't really been the point of the discussions. Sometimes you just wanted to be with your friends, enjoying those things that you all did, together. ************************************************************************************ ************************************************************************************ "Fogged In" It is not the clear-sighted who rule the world. Great achievements are accomplished in a blessed, warm fog. - Joseph Conrad It was a beautiful day in the geostructure of Belachrontis on the planet Benzar. This was true in more ways than one. On the one hand, the sun was shining brightly as birds sang merry songs in their trees. One or two adventurous clouds puffed their way across the otherwise completely clear sky. A scent of springtime danced on the rich Benzar atmosphere. M'Dral couldn't help feeling that this wonderful day had been presented to her and her alone. Free from those silly Federation inhalers, she breathed deeply of the native air and relished the freedom. She knew that more and more of her people were being transformed by the newest birthing chamber technology to be able to breathe both the natural atmosphere of their planet and the artificial oxygen/nitrogen mixture that the Humans called 'air'. Her techniques would be useless to them, but there were still a number of her fellow Benzites that, either by choice or because of the customs of their geostructure, required the inhalers while on Human ships and worlds. In order to help these people she knew that she would soon have to re-enter that artificial atmosphere, this time of her own choice. This was the other reason that today was such a beautiful one. Today was the day that her first class was being held. After she had popped back into space over Benzar, she had guided the Marlin Perkins down to the surface, near one of the largest geostructures, Belachrontis. Hirthnole had been surreptitiously beamed down near the Breen Circus as the shuttlepod had made its way towards the city. M'Dral had requested and received sanctuary from the leaders of the current Andragov. Starfleet had been furious, demanding that she remand herself over to the Federation Consul for extradition back to Earth, but, after being told of her plan to help other Benzites to better integrate themselves into Federation society, the Andragov leadership had refused and granted her immunity. She had been given a suite of rooms which included several offices, a small hover-car garage and a gymnasium. Above the offices was a small, one-bedroom apartment where M'Dral was living. Soon there would be secretaries in the offices, but for the time being, she was easing her way into this new endeavor, slowly. So far she had accepted six candidates for the class. Hopefully, some of her first graduates would become new teachers and the techniques that Seetamyn had taught her while they had been together on board the Menagerie would soon spread to help anyone on Benzar who needed them. Sealing the gymnasium and filling it with Human air and then installing a full holosuite had taken several designers and engineers the better part of a month, but now everything was ready. Even though M'Dral had heard rumors and innuendoes concerning the Zenedron Construction Group, they had seemed to perform the work, quickly and efficiently. M'Dral ducked back from her balcony into her apartment, draining her morning glass of carrot juice. (It had been the only beverage that she had ever been offered while visiting Seetamyn, and she had gotten moderately addicted to it during their meditation sessions.) She had dressed in a Benzite version of one of Seetamyn's robes and the medium blue fabric flowed about her, creating a serene and relaxed appearance. At least she /hoped/ that it was serene and relaxed. For all she knew it might just look depressing, or maybe even like she just liked the color blue! Quickly turning her focus inward she closed her eyes and searched for her center. Finding it,she focussed on clearing her mind of these silly thoughts. As long as she thought she was calm, then she was calm. As long as she thought she was serene, she was serene. Slowly her mind and body responded to the now-familiar techniques and calmness and serenity indeed fill her. Much better. She was now ready to greet her students. Calmly and serenely, she made her way down the stairs towards the front of the office suite. So calmly and serenely was she walking, that she completely missed one of the steps and calmly and serenely tumbled down the stairs, eventually landing painfully on her bottom. Dammit! Calmly, serenely and WITH OPEN EYES! For some reason she always forgot that last part. No matter. She picked herself up and made her way outside and around the back of the building to the rear entrance to the gymnasium. An airlock had been installed here to allow the class' participants to be able to enter easily, without losing the specialized atmosphere, inside. She found two of her new students already waiting for her, chatting with each other. The pair stopped talking at the approach of M'Dral. Seeing the odd, blue robe, they immediately decided that this must be the class teacher, so they respectfully held their tongues. M'Dral calmly and serenely told them to take their hands out of their mouths while they waited for the rest of the class to arrive. Dutifully, the two complied and then went back to talking quietly between themselves. M'Dral was delighted to see that the old customs of respect had not been overwehlmed by Federation values, yet. After another few minutes, three more of her new students arrived. After politely greeting their new teacher, the newcomers joined the two students already present in quiet discussion. M'Dral nervously checked her watch. Class was supposed to begin in under two minutes and the last student had yet to arrive! She had wanted to have everyone meet outside before beginning the first class so that she could instruct them in how to use the Federation inhalers that were stored inside the airlock. Rather than explain the procedure multiple times, she had hoped to save time and effort by simply demonstrating the process one time, to all of her students. This last, now tardy, student was jeopodizing that plan. M'Dral resolved to wait a further few minutes for the laggard, but then she would have to proceed. It just wouldn't be fair to delay those students who had been on time. Finally, M'Dral's mental deadline was passed. She turned to the five students and quickly gathered them to her. It took only a few moments to show them how to open the outer door of the airlock, since it had been designed to resemble most normal, non-automatic doors. Inside the airlock, she shut the outer door, telling her students that the inner door wouldn't open with the outer door open. That was, after all, the whole purpose of an airlock. Inside the airlock, behind a sterilization field, were six standard Federation-style inhalers. M'Dral withdrew her own, personal inhaler from a pocket in her robe. M'Dral's inhaler was a slightly more robust model, since, as a member of a Starfleet Bridge crew, she might have been called upon to perform away team duties under who knew what kind of conditions. Furthmore, Ustrano had actually plated her inhaler with polyiridichromnium, making it virtually unbreakable. Since she was the only one who would be using her inhaler, she simply kept it with her and sterilized it in her apartment. M'Dral indicated to the five students that they should each retrieve one of the standard inhalers. After everyone had one, M'Dral went through the standard 'Starfleet Introduction to Your Inhaler - It could Save Your Life' speech that she had heard on her first day at Starfleet Academy. Then she demonstrated the little tricks that she had learned about using the inhalers, effectively. When she was sure that each of her charges wouldn't be suffocating once she opened the inner door, she opened the inner door. The gymnasium had been completely remodelled. The only thing that had remained from the original room had been the spongy mat on the floor. The walls had been painted a soothing bluish-grey and hidden speakers piped in restful music mixed with peaceful natural sounds. The lighting was subdued, but not dim. All-in-all, M'Dral had created an entirely relaxing environment for this first lesson. After all, she had decided, they have to learn the techniques before they can apply them. As for that future application, she had inflight recordings of Bridges under attack and other stressful situations with which to test her students' depth of concentration, but those tests were a long way off, yet. She showed them over to the Lesson Chart that she had drawn up and stuck on one of the walls. This chart would track each student's progress throughout their classes and allow the competetive nature of the Benzites to be satisfied. The old ways were coming back to her after being off-planet for ten years, and M'Dral had carefully created flow-charts, efficiency guidelines, gantt charts and other tracking tools to aide her in her teaching. M'Dral had each of her students sit down in a circle and, in the age-old custom which had seemed to develop on nearly every humanoid world, asked each of them to introduce themselves. The two students that she had first met out side turned out to be T'mas and T'na, a couple from the Belazamis geostructure. M'Dral knew that this was one of the geos that had was still having trouble with its birthing centers and which still had not been able to transform any of its adults to the new respiratory systems. Newly birthed Belazami were fully multiple-atmosphere compatible, but adults from the geo still needed inhalers in Human air. Next up were Fn'Ria from the Belaversian geo and G'Spode from Belameasis. M'Dral new that while both of these geos had successfully converted their birthing chambers, there were huge waiting lists to have the conversions. While waiting for their numbers to come up, both Fn'Ria and G'Spode had chose to take steps to be more successuful NOW! This was not uncommon among the success-oriented Benzites. Finally, Br'Ndon came from the Belaklapia geo. This geostructure, like M'Dral's own, had forbidden adults from being transformed. Their reasons went somewhat along the lines of 'if Pure Benzar air was good enough for your grandfather, then it is good enough for you!' Most of the other geos, while fully supporting the Belaklapians' beliefs, secretly believed that the real truth was much closer to 'we'd do it if we could only figure out how to'. Whichever the case, M'Dral was more-or-less certain that, eventually, most of her clientel would come from geostructures with the alteration restriction. The missing sixth student, Br'Tee, was also from the Belaklapia geostructure. Almost as if thinking of her caused her to magically appear, a loud thumping started coming from the airlock. Looking through the transparent aluminum viewport was the last student. M'Dral quickly jumped up and moved over to the inner airlock door. "You have to close the outside door before you can open the inside one!" she shouted. "This stupid door won't open!" yelled Br'Tee, completely ignoring the instruction M'Dral was shouting. After ten minutes it had become apparent that the late student was either unable or unwilling to follow any of M'Dral's directions, so, quickly begging the rest of the class' pardon, she tapped the custom commbadge that she still wore. This was another of Ustrano's little creations. This one masked thought waves so that a surface scan from a telepathic species would return scrambled information. The custom commbadges had been created to help the crew against the Black Queens, months ago. M'Dral, and most of the rest of the crew, had simply continued to use them even after the final defeat of the Queens. "Benzar Civilian Transport Authority," she requested. "BCTA!" came the prompt, cheerful reply. "BCTA - I have a student stuck in my building's airlock. Could you please transport me to just outside of this building so that I could retrieve her?" "Certainly! Have a nice day! And thank you for using BCTA!" M'Dral dissolved in the customary sparkle of lights and re-materialized in front of her front door. Hurrying around back, M'Dral made sure her tardy student had the last inhaler and then shut the outer airlock door. As if by magic, the heretofore recalcitrant inner swung open! Before the pair had even joined the rest of the class, Br'tee had started complaining. "You should do some maintenance on those doors! Not opening like that was really lame!" "That isn't a normal door," M'Dral explained patiently, bring some of the meditative techniques she wished to teach the class into play. "It is an airlock. There can be only one door open at a time. That is by design, a fact that you would have been aware of if you had been to class on time." M'Dral reminded Br'Tee. "Hey I got here when I got here," Br'Tee seemed unconcerned by her lateness. "You have delayed and disrupted this class and I will not have that," M'Dral retorted. "If it happens again, I will have to dismiss you from the class." "Ha! It doesn't matter if I get to class late! I'm from Belaklapia! We're so much better than everyone else, that I'll only need half the time to learn your stupid meditations!" "I am gratified to hear that," M'Dral worked on keeping her voice and her breathing level, "but the fact remains. The next time that you are late, will be the last time." Br'Tee took her place in the circle with her classmates, but it was obvious to everyone that she was paying more attention to her sulking than to anything that M'Dral was saying. Ignoring her, using techniques learned, not from Seetamyn's tutelege, but from having a younger brother, M'Dral carried on with the first lesson. Class after class slipped by and, overall, M'Dral was quite pleased by her students' progress. With one notable exception, everyone seemed to be learning the techniques that she was teaching quite well. That one exception, however, was noteworthy. "So you're teaching us how to fall asleep? Just listening to you drone on and on about this stupid stuff does that! M'Dral was tempted several times to just dismiss Br'Tee, but she reasoned that the annoyances would actually help the others in the long run. At least that was what she kept telling herself. Of course the abuse that was aimed at her, was nothing when compared to what she sent towards her classmates. "Fn'Ria! You must have the slimyest barbels that I've ever seen! "G'Spode! Your nasal lobe is so big that it enters the room five minutes before you do!" "T'Mas and T'Na! I hope you two don't get married! Your children would be uglier than a Horta!" Oddly enough, Br'Ndon seemed to escape her observations. Perhaps his being from the same geostructure made him immune to her nastiness. M'Dral had scheduled three classes a week for eight weeks. She felt that this would be enough time to give a small class a solid foundation in the meditative techniques that would be of most use to them for controlling their breathing. It was during the Q&A section of class number 22 that G'Spode made an interesting observation. "Excuse me, M'Dral, but I couldn't help but noticing that commbadge that you wear..." "Yes, G'Spode, what about it?" "Well, there isn't really any need for it is there? Except for that first class there has been no call for it." "That is quite true. I wear it mostly as a momento and remembrance of some very dear friends of mine." "But haven't you been teaching us that centering and focussing on internal matters is the path to true acheivement. Doesn't that make outside decorations unnecessary?" "The commbadge isn't really a focus for meditation," M'Dral answered, "but I do see your point. I will refrain from wearing it in class, from now on. Now, I want you all to know that I am proud of your progress. But, remember! Next class is the final exam. It will be the ultimate test! So I suggest that each of you go home and practice. I'll see you Wednesday!" Class 23 was to be the most grueling test that M'Dral had yet devised. So far, simulated emergencies, holding their breath while finding lost inhalers and other sorts of challenges had determined whether or not her teaching of Seetamyn's techniques had been successful. Happily enough, with one exception, the students had demonstrated a great calmness and grace. Hardly any repirant vapor ever fogged the gym. Except for Br'Tee. She consistently puffed away, misting over everything. M'Dral wasn't particularly concerned by this failure, however. It was apparent that Br'Tee's attitude would ban her from any sort of Starfleet career and it was even more obvious that she wasn't even attempting to follow any of M'Dral's instruction. M'Dral wondered why anyone would commit the time to take a course when they had no intention of actually doing the coursework. The morning of the class final dawned slightly grey and hazy. M'Dral bemusedly thought that it looked like the entire population of Benzar had been puffing away in Human air and filling it with respirant vapor. She walked back inside from her balcony mediating as she made her way into the kitchen - where she banged her knee into the table. OPEN EYES! OPEN EYES! She seemed to be as nervous as she expected her students to be, today. Of course, her advanced knowledge of meditation would allow her to conceal her excitement. At least she hoped it would. Dressing quickly, she headed outside to the back of the gymnasium to greet her students, fifteen minutes early. She didn't have long to wait. Everyone, even Br'Tee, showed up early for today's test. She herded her proteges through the airlock, and they all sat down on the gym's padded flooring for a centering, calming guided meditation. M'Dral opened her eyes again to see her students ready and even eager to prove their prowess. They listened with rapt attention as M'Dral described this penultimate exam; "Today we will be simulating a serious disaster..." "What as opposed to a frivolous one?" Br'Tee piped up. M'Dral continued as if not even hearing, "...on a starship Bridge. There has been a warp core breach. Main power has failed and emergency power conduits have been compromised. You need to get to the emergency inhalers and then remain calm while awaiting further instructions from your captain or the engineering crew." M'Dral went over to the holosuite controls and activated the scenario. A smallish Bridge seemed to materialize around them and the six students each took a seat at one of the Bridge stations. After making sure that each of her charges had taken everal deep breaths from their inhalers she quickly gathered the devices and stored them away in the airlock. She then commenced the test - "Computer! Begin program!" The room was immediately plunged into complete darkness. Terrible ripping and crashing noises accompanied jarring bounces and twisting spins. Screams echoed throughout the room, mostly coming from the holoemitters as the students tried pretty sucessfully to remain calm. A phaser blast sizzled through the air and the sound of the airlock door opening and then closing could be heard. M'Dral was pleased. At least one of the students had made it to the airlock to retrieve the inhalers. She wasn't really sure why they had shut the door behind them, but she was sure that they would be coming back in a minute with the inhalers for the rest of the class. She was proud of the final test. Having been on the a starhip's Bridge during any number of crises, she had drawn from personal experiences to heighten the test's realism. She hadn't remembered programming any phasers, though. Soundly concerned that something was seriously wrong. M'Dral called out, "Computer! End Program!" The scene that greeted her as the lighting was returned to normal levels was all too real. Br'Tee was down on the ground with a phaser blast in her chest while the rest of the class stared about wild-eyed and gasping. No that wasn't quite right. There were only four others in the gymnasium with her. Br'Ndon was missing. Quickly moving over to the airlock door, M'Dral could just make out the distant figure running away from the building. He was clearly visible through the wide open outer airlock door! Whirling quickly, M'Dral took her inhaler out of her mouth and handed it to G'Spode. "Quickly! Everyone gather together! We will have to share this one inhaler!" "Ewwwww!" "Gross!" "Yuck!" "No way!" "It's either that or suffocate!" M'Dral reminded them. Amid grumbling and gestures of acute disgust, the inhaler was passed around the circle. M'Dral feverishly tried to come up with some sort of way out of this mess. Somehow they needed to get out of this room and track down Br'Ndon. While she turned the possibilities over in her head, she knelt to examine Br'Tee. There was really no need for an in-depth examination. The girl was obviously dead. While her death was a tradgedy, M'ral doubted that there would be many to mourn her passing. Br'Tee had always gone out of her way to be unlikeable. M'Dral wondered if she had gotten to know the girl better if she could have somehow prevented this. <> she decided. Standing back up, she realised that the time spent examining the girl had, in fact, been well spent, for she now had a plan. Quickly taking a turn with the inhaler, she outlined her idea, "There used to be a door between the offices and the gymnasium. It was covered over when the artificial atmosphere was put in. All we have to do is chip away where the door was covered up and we can get to the normal air in the office. Once we're breathing normally, again, we can chip out the rest of the doorway and go after Br'Ndon. "Yeah! I want to shake his hand for killing that pain in the butt!" T'Mas declared. Similar sentiments were shared by the rest of the class but G'Spode went to the heart of the problem, "What are we going to use to chip away the wall?" "We can use the inhaler!" M'Dral declared. "What breathe throught it AND chip away the wall with it, too?" "Yes. This model is specially reinforced. It should be able to take down that wall." "OK then," G'Spode agreed to the crazy plan. "Guess it's a good thing I convinced you to give up that commbadge, huh?" "You better believe that I'll be wearing it from now on!" M'Dral assured him. And so, the arduous task of removing the huge wall with the tiny inhaler began! chip-puff-pass-puff-pass-puff-pass-puff-pass-puff-pass. chip-puff-pass-puff-pass-puff-pass-puff-pass-puff-pass. chip-puff-pass-puff-pass-puff-pass-puff-pass-puff-pass. It was going to be a loooong day! Morning turned into afternoon. Afternoon turned into evening. Evening turning into full night. Five weary Benzites made their dusty way out of a nonedescript office suite into the misty, drizzly natural air. "Good work!" M'Dral praised her class. "Did we pass?" G'Spode asked. "Pass what?" M'Dral wanted to know. "The final test!" G'Spode and the others clarified. "Oh! That! I had nearly forgotten about that!" M'Dral admitted. She thought about the past several hours. All the time the class had been working, their vision had remained remarkably unhindered by respirant vapor. Whether that was because the five of them were sharing the same inhaler, or because the class had actually been practising the techniques that she had been trying to teach them was unknown. M'Dral decided that the point was most likely moot. Whatever the reason, her four students had gone through an extremely trying time and not hyperventilated at all. Her decision reached, she announced, "Yes, of course you all passed! Well, except for Br'Tee and Br'Ndon, anyway." "Great," enthused G'Spode. "In that case, I'm going home!" The rest of the newly graduated voiced similar thoughts as they started to scatter. "Wait!" M'Dral called out. "What about Br'Ndon?" "Not our problem," T'Mas spoke the words which all of them seemed to be thinking. "Technically, he's not even your problem. Just report the murder to the authorities and let them handle things." M'Dral could see the logic in that. She waved her class goodbye and headed upstairs to her apartment to contact the authorities. Switching on her living room light, she nearly jumped out of her skin when Br'Ndon was revealed sitting on her couch! "What are you doing here?" M'Dral demanded "I really couldn't think of anyplace else to go," he admitted. "Well, I have to call the police and report the murder of Br'Tee! You just sit there and wait for them to get here!" "OK," came the meek response. "Here, you probably will want this, too." Br'Ndon handed over the small phaser he had apparently used to kill Br'Tee. M'Dral quickly took the weapon and made her way over to her comm-console. Contacting the appropriate authorities was only the matter of a few minutes and she sat down in a chair across from Br'Ndon to await their arrival. Br'Ndon, for his part seemed rather unconcerned about his actions. He simply relaxed on the couch, humming a snazzy little tune to himself. Finally, M'Dral could take the humming no longer. Besides, there was something thet she just needed to know. "Br'Ndon, she never even bothered you that much. Why would you go and kill her?" "Did your birthing chamber have those yearly picnics?" Br'Ndon asked, by way of replying. "Of course. They all do," M'Dral answered. "Well, we were on our year eight community picnic. Everyone was having fun. There were games to play. There were songs to sing. It was the most wonderful day of my life," Br'Ndon confided. M'Dral considered telling the young man that he really had needed to get out more, but she finally decided that discretion was the better part of valor. "Anyway," Br'Ndon had continued his cathartic reminiscing, oblivious to M'Dral's mental wanderings, "there we all were, gathered around the campfire that evening. Each of us had gotten a stick to roast marshmallows on. I had spent /hours/ finding just the right stick. Sharpening the point. Stripping the bark off. It was perfect, just perfect. The marshmallows were handed out and I could tell that my perfect stick would be the absolute best marshmallow roasting stick that anyone had ever seen. Then, the impossible happened. My marshmallow caught fire! I was stunned. All of my perfect planning, literally up in smoke! Then, to make matters even worse, Br'Tee started laughing! The entire birthing group was soon laughing at my poor marshmallow! I swore then that I would get my revenge! Its taken me thirteen years but finally vengeance is mine!" Br'Ndon's soliloquy degenerated into the mad laughter of the best of cinema's insane villians. M'Dral quietly eased up out of her chair and put as much furniture as she readily could between herself and the marshmallow maniac on her couch. Thankfully, a knock came at the door signalling the arrival of the police. Gratefully turning over custody to the authorities, M'Dral promised to visit the precinct house the next morning and sign a statement. Right now she just wanted a shower and a good night's sleep. Tomorrow she would have to see about getting the gymnasium repaired and see to replacing the oxygen/nitrogen mix. While that was being done, she would have to figure out where to hold Friday's graduation ceremony. But these were jobs for tomorrow. For right now, all of her work was done, and all was right with the world. Up Next: So, what's been happening with the USS Aikido during the crises on the Menagerie? Find out on 10/2 with the kick-off of a new series! Star Traks: Hunters premieres with; "A-Hunting, we will go!" I welcome Reader Feedback! Please let me know what you've thought of Melting Pot so far, and, in particular this story! Contact me at: meltingpot@khobrah.net * On Taste Edmund Burke (1729–1797) The Harvard Classics. 1909–14. Second half of Paragraph Five