10 is Better Than 01 Page 3
Quinteros wasn’t the first person to make that observation—my senior officer was, when he’d interviewed me for the position. I’d often wondered why I enjoyed my job as much as I did. “My job is to identify and evaluate potential candidates for Starfleet. I assess their intellectual abilities, their emotional health, physical stamina—whatever Starfleet requires in a candidate to fill a position.”
“You’re plugging people into vacant slots? How different is your process from the Bynars who run their society similarly by assessing who best can do a job and assigning them to do so?” he said, offering a bemused smile.
I chose to ignore Quinteros’s gentle poke at my hypocrisy. “There are many factors to consider. But in the case of staffing engineers, I think because I have so little aptitude for the discipline, it makes me that much more curious about why these people gravitate to what they do.”
“Opposites attract?”
“I suppose.”
Quinteros and I continued our genial conversation into the turbolift. Upon arrival in the lobby, I discovered that a Bynar pair was waiting for us.
“Lieutenant Brewster, these are the representatives from Citizen Services who will advise you during your time here. They will help you navigate the process of sharing your mission with the Bynars.” Quinteros turned and greeted the pair, then introduced them as 110 and 111.
I blinked, wondered if I should extend my hand, but settled on a polite shoulder bow instead. I loathed feeling like a typical greenhorn, but here I was, blundering around like I’d just gotten out of the Academy last week. Maybe taking this on as my first travel assignment was a mistake. I should have gone someplace easier—like Cardassia!
As I rose back up to my full height, I looked at them once again, trying to remember if Quinteros had indicated which one was 110 and which one was 111. I didn’t have a clue. I hate it when people say they can’t tell two or more individuals apart—it sounds lazy. As if they don’t care enough to pay attention to the details that make a difference, such as vocal intonation, eye expressions, and other subtle variances. I know the Bynars aren’t clones—they’re not genetically engineered any more than humans are these days. Scientists may tweak for genetic diseases or congenital defects, but otherwise they allow nature to take its course. The Bynars conceive their offspring in labs; they are gestated in birthing chambers. I knew this intellectually. Logic struggled to overcome my eyes’ insistence that the Bynars were identical.
“Hello,” I said hesitantly. “110, 111. Thank you for your assistance.”
“We have—”
I focused on the Bynar I believed to be 110.
“—arranged for a slot—”
Shifted my attention to the other—
“—on the planetary network.”
—and back again.
“Is your statement—”
“—prepared?”
It took me a moment to realize that the dual-channel audio had stopped and that the pair now stood as still as robots. “Yes. I’ve prepared my stump speech,” I said, offering them a friendly smile. “I’m hoping to convince some of the Bynars that it is their patriotic duty to join Starfleet.”
“Stump—”
“—speech?”
“Patriotic—
“—duty?”
I’d forgotten—the literal-minded Bynars had difficulty translating idioms. “My recruitment statement that I hope will persuade your fellow Bynars that they have a vested interest in helping Starfleet prevail in the current conflict.”
“The Dominion—”
“—War.” 110 and 111 cocked their heads in opposite directions, apparently satisfied by my explanation, and indicated that I should follow them.
As we walked out into the open, I attempted to follow 110 and 111’s rapid-fire explanation of the day’s schedule, rules, and procedure. In an effort to be polite, I looked from side to side each time the conversation switched speakers, but I lost track of what was being said. I gave up trying to know who they were individually and kept my eyes focused on the pathway through the city, consciously ignoring the sea of seemingly identical faces scurrying around me. My mission gave me purpose. I couldn’t allow myself to be sidetracked by the white noise of the Bynar world.
Citizen Services Employee Report
Agent Unit 110/111
Assignment: Starfleet Recruiting Visit on Behalf of Starfleet Corps of Engineers
Lieutenant Brewster’s statement was delivered over the interplanetary communications network at 22:46:07. Potential recruits will meet in Building C81 Quadrant 4 at 34:05:29. Citizen Services will tally responses and provide them to Lieutenant Brewster. CS agents will be in attendance at recruiting meeting to advise Starfleet on Bynaus protocols. Response over the network indicates that the message was received by those eligible to participate. This unit can conclude that the requirements set out by the Equality Protocol have been met.
Personal Log, Lieutenant Temperance Brewster
I can’t talk about it now. I can’t. I think I may have to throw up. Or scream.
Citizen Services Employee Report
Agent Unit 110/111
Assignment: Starfleet Recruiting Visit on Behalf of Starfleet Corps of Engineers
We ended the meeting after one hour elapsed and those in attendance received the information they had come for. This unit had some discussion with Lieutenant Brewster regarding appropriate social protocols within Bynar society. We sensed she did not fully understand our statements because she wanted to go through them multiple times. We are uncertain whether she is satisfied with our explanations. We will review them with her in the morning after we have had a chance to check the suitability of our statements against the information in the human database. This unit believes it can aid Lieutenant Brewster in attaining rational understanding on this issue.
Personal Log, Lieutenant Temperance Brewster
Three pairs showed up. Three pairs. On a planet of millions, only six people think that Starfleet is worth their time. As it turns out, after one of the pairs consulted with 110 and 111, they weren’t eligible to join Starfleet because they hadn’t acquired some skill certification or what-have-you that they needed to be eligible for offworld assignments. The pair had known this, but they had never seen an offworlder before and they were “curious.”
“Curious.” I travel across the quadrant asking those who enjoy safety and freedom from tyranny if they will stand up and offer assistance to those who put their lives on the line every day so that they can continue to enjoy said freedom and safety. And what am I met with? Curiosity. I’m a sideshow, not a representative of the organization that assures their ongoing existence. They continue on, oblivious to the plight of the rest of the Federation family, pressing their buttons, chattering away in their high-pitched fast-forward whirs and chirps, pondering little of significance beyond whether the entryway should be situated five centimeters further to the left or whether it’s fine where it is. How can Quinteros stand it?! I’ve come all this distance for what? Does anything I do or say matter? I didn’t even bother to call up my message account or check out the news nets. I don’t want to see the latest casualty list or know how many setbacks the fleet has had because no matter what I do, I am incapable of making a difference.
So this is how the non-meeting meeting went. Maybe if I talk through it I’ll settle down and realize I’ve done my best.
Maybe not. But it’s worth a try.
Alban and I are sitting there in a conference room with a stack of padds loaded up with all the best of Starfleet’s recruiting literature sitting on the table. 110 and 111 take a spot near the back of the room, presumably to keep track of who shows up and who doesn’t. I have my multimedia presentation ready to go. And this one’s special—showing a 3D virtual representation of the inside of a starship’s main engineering, prominently displaying computer banks with enough power to run a major metropolitan area, even one on Bynaus. I’m confident that if I can have their undivided attention for even half an hour, I can persuade them or at least seduce them with promises of the coolest tech toys they’ve ever seen.
Twenty or so seconds before the hour, the room is empty save the four of us. Less than a minute later, there are six Bynars seated at the table. I tell 110/111 to give us a few more minutes to allow time for latecomers to arrive. The Citizen Services agents look at me as if I’m speaking in some obscure Pelapusian tongue and not Federation Standard. It’s not possible, their expressions say, for Bynars to be late. But my brain refuses to accept that I’ve come this far just to face a room of empty chairs. 110/111 don’t start looking tense until a few more minutes have elapsed. They hand me a padd containing the attendees’ personnel records, stating again that these are all the records that have been transmitted so I shouldn’t expect any late arrivals. I thank them politely but continue to wait.
When 110/111’s chatter becomes high–pitched and fast enough to make my head hurt, I start the meeting. I know that I’m talking too fast—that I may be skipping over the majority of periods and commas in my speech, but hey, the Bynars are used to fast–paced patter. The multimedia presentation begins and ends. I clasp my hands together and ask for questions.
A room of blank, barely blinking faces gaze at me.
So I start running through the list of the usual questions—once I join, what kind of training will I have, can I choose my assignment, and so on.
And still, the blank faces remain.
After the longest two or three minutes of silence that I can recall in a lifetime, I let the group know that I’m finished and that I’m available to answer personal questions.
A pair of Bynars hurries up to the front of the conference room to chatter with 110/111. I later find out that this is the pair that wanted
to ogle me like a zoo animal.
I stand by myself, tapping my foot a little too compulsively, telling myself to calm down and that this disaster of a meeting was a fluke. Tomorrow will be better—I cling to that mantra. When the fog of anger lifts a bit, I realize that another Bynar pair remains at the table, engaged in a focused—dare I say—heated conversation. I move in closer, blatantly eavesdropping, catching a word here and there that leads me to believe they’re talking about Starfleet. A pause in their discussions allows me to insert myself. Having nothing left to lose, I say it straight out: “You interested in Starfleet?” Two pairs of eyes turn on me.
I may have little to no experience dealing with Bynars, but I sense—something in the face, an expectancy—that one of them is interested. I direct my words to this Bynar. Body language is a funny thing. With very few exceptions (intelligence operatives and Vulcans, to name two) most species are incapable of repressing their involuntary physiological reactions to external stimuli. And this Bynar I’m talking to—this Bynar is listening to what I have to say. I believe I have a chance to set up, at the very least, a second meeting. A fast back-and-forth round of talk begins between the mates.
At one point, the less interested Bynar asks me about the phaser I have strapped to my thigh. This strikes me as an odd question but not completely unexpected. I’ve found that quite a few species—especially those on worlds who eschew any form of personal, self-defense weaponry for whatever reason—are fascinated by the idea of phasers. I unsheathe the weapon, hold it out in front of me (using proper Academy firing range stance), and offer it to the interested Bynar.
Before the phaser leaves my hands, 110/111 appear at my shoulder and inform me that the meeting is over. The CS agents dismiss the remaining pair. Whatever cue 110/111 have given is taken and run with. The Bynars practically flee the room.
If I were a violent person, I would have been sorely tempted to turn that phaser and point it at those meddlesome Bynar agents. Use a little firepower as a way of telling them to back down. But I don’t. I’ve never hurt anyone, even in training.
Hands on hips, I challenge my Bynar handlers, who respond with the explanation that all the parties who want information, have information. The time has come to end the meeting, they say (of course in dual-channel sound). I don’t believe it, and I don’t think they believe it either. What I think is that this Bynar I’ve been talking with is interested in Starfleet but the mate isn’t, so 110/111 are shutting me down. I did manage to get the Bynar pair’s designations before they left—1010 is the one I’m going to follow up with. The mate is 0101. I announce my intention to follow up with 1010.
“Not—”
“—possible. We work—”
“—in pairs. All else—”
“—is unacceptable among—”
“—our people.”
I still hear their words ringing in my head.
Of course, at the moment, I didn’t accept their statement. “Fine then,” I said. “Set up appointments for me at work sites, with supervisors who might point me to those with an aptitude or interest in Starfleet.”
“As you requested we—”
“—set up the meeting. Those—”
“—who are interested attended. All—”
“—Bynars had a chance to come.”
“Your efforts are now—”
“—terminated.”
“You will not—”
“—recruit independently—”
“—at any other venue.”
Their words flew at me so fast that I barely had a chance to process them. So I lit into them both. Told them that they’d hardly assisted me in helping me tailor my message to the Bynar population and that I held them—at least partially—responsible for the dismal failure that had been the result.
“We did—”
“—as we were—”
“—instructed.”
“All citizens had a choice and—”
“—they rejected what you offered.”
“You must—”
“—accept this.”
What a cop-out.
What became clear is that these Bynar babysitters had no intention of letting me do my job.
I vented to Alban the whole way back to my quarters. Poor guy. Probably wishes he’d drawn another assignment.
There has to be a way around that. I will not return to headquarters having failed the fleet so spectacularly. I know the rules about respecting the cultures of every species in the Federation, but I cannot in good conscience allow this world to remain in isolation without at least trying to make them see the truth of what is out there.
Sitting here in my visitor’s quarters, staring at my bed with its sheet creases running at perfect parallel lines along the top, inhaling air that is so sterile and dry that it sticks in my throat like spun cotton. I hate this place.
A soundless night has fallen outside. I stare out into the purple-gray darkness at the flashing lights, at the Bynars going to and from their work and their quarters, their focus so narrowly on the path before them that they fail to see the galaxy under siege beyond their small lives. The more I’m lost in the scene outside my window, the more my mind succumbs to the rigid, hypnotic rhythms that define this environment, lulling me into a sense of confinement. I shiver, irrationally imagining that the surrounding walls will squeeze me into a narrow box. I will scream for release only to have my terrified protests muffled by the relentless, regular pulse of this world. No one will hear me over the drone of progress. Once upon a time the Bynars were slaves to an AI race. Their isolationism will guide them surely into bondage again.
Wadding up the sheets in my hands, I destroyed any evidence of the perfect creases, of the smooth surface, and exuberantly I ripped the cloth from my bed and threw it on the floor. And this brought me such satisfaction that I started in on the night-stand and then the dresser, until every surface in the room was wiped clean and the room was strewn with clutter. Anger spent, I sprawled on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
Now I’m lying here talking to my personal log, hoping that maybe by talking this through out loud, it will make more sense. Unfortunately, that doesn’t appear to be the case. Out of desperation, I disregarded 110/111’s orders and sent a private message to the pair I met at the meeting. Can’t hurt, can it? My dad always told me that quitting was a sign of a weak will. No way I’m going to go back to headquarters and have to explain that I failed to bring any Bynars into S.C.E. because I was too much of a coward to follow through.
Sleep is far away, so I pick up the padd that has the personnel files on it. I skip over the ineligible unit and move straight to the one who seemed interested. I peruse their stats, medical history, interpersonal evaluations once, then again. I’ve spent enough years evaluating seemingly impersonal data that I’ve learned to look beyond the dry facts. The more I read, the more curious I become. Definitely some irregularities in here that warrant further exploration. And they say Bynars are only about yes and no.
The comlink beeps. Can’t think of who would want to talk to me at this hour. Not Alban, who could barely keep his eyes open due to travel lag. Funny, I’m not expecting anyone. It’s not a visual or an audio message—just text. Odd. What’s it say—I CAN HELP YOU.
So who sent it?…Hmmm…Now that’s interesting. And there’s a quadrant designation for the sender so I can actually track the sender down and see them in person. Where are my shoes—and that damn planetary locator too? Maybe I should copy that personnel data. Didn’t Quinteros say I could back it up on the planetary locator? I’m going for a walk.
Citizen Services Employee Report
Agent Unit 110/111
Assignment: Starfleet Recruiting Visit on Behalf of Starfleet Corps of Engineers
We returned to our quarters after the meeting requested by Lieutenant Brewster of Starfleet. Lieutenant Brewster’s unwillingness to accept the outcome of the meeting may require further involvement by CS. We recommend that the matter be referred to Captain Quinteros for discussion and clarification. We believe that repeated announcements on the planetary news nets will not yield different results. We could not advise Lieutenant Brewster as to why so few Bynars attended her meeting. Further study and analysis of this issue may be recommended, as Brewster’s assertion that Bynaus could make a larger contribution to the war effort is legitimate and is, as yet, unsettled. A planetary study of the matter may be an effective use of resources. All citizens should have a say on the matter, so we will refer it. We will go offline until start of shift tomorrow.