Chapter 15: Contact and Confrontation
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Chapter 15

 

Clinton was uncomfortable, which wasn’t a spectacular feat. Clinton was always uncomfortable. But something about Petri just gave him that extra jolt of discomfort that was a lot harder to ignore than the normal base-level he was so accustomed to. He worried that this was a kind of discrimination he was guilty of -- species-ism? -- and he wanted to examine it, but there was no real precedent for something of this magnitude. So he stood there and tried to be as accommodating as he could to a being that had looked like him, had confronted Clinton with himself, and had then shed that skin like an old suit. It made his teeth tingle. But Clinton knew his duties, so he tried not to think about it.

Instead, he had patiently given Petri an extensive tour of the ship, and had then explained to them the ins and outs of their quarters, what those entailed and, of course, what everything was for. A lot of it was easy to explain, of course. Unity seemed to have similar physiologies to that of humans and required food, sleep and hygiene to stay happy and healthy, so explaining what the shower was and how it worked actually turned out to be easier than he’d expected. The bed was another matter altogether. Sure, Merilim needed sleep, but that apparently meant something very different to both of them. 

“You mean to say every room has at least one emergency station?” Petri asked. Clinton frowned and looked around. The quarters definitely had a first aid kit in the bathroom, but he hadn’t gotten to explaining those yet, and he doubted that the people responsible for prepping it had just left it lying around.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” he said, having just finished showing the bedroom-area. “There might be something lost in translation, could you elaborate?” For the most part, these kinds of things had been avoided, because Petri was curious but quiet, seeming less interested in the technical aspects of the ship than human interactions and culture. For Clinton, it was weird to be on the receiving end of questions that seemed obvious to him.

Petri pointed at the bed. “Does complete exhaustion happen so often that every room needs a station for rest?” they repeated. “That is indicative of a culture of labour I have not seen displayed throughout the ship. Could you explain?” Clinton looked at the bed and then at Petri. 

“I think this might be a biology thing,” Clinton said. “How does sleep work for you, exactly?” Petri cocked their head and looked at him.

“When tired, our metabolism slows down and the parts of our nervous system that require rest or maintenance are put into a semi-conscious state,” they explained. “In this state, we are able to perform our duties by allowing our higher consciousness to rest and letting the Unity help us with coordination.”

“You’re saying you let others drive you around while you’re asleep?” Clinton didn’t know whether to be appalled or amused. The idea was so strange to him, letting someone else pilot him like a remote controlled car when he wasn’t awake, just so he could do his job.

“Well, not exactly. It is entirely possible to simply wake up at any point and to resume cognitive function, although that is ill-advised,” Petri pointed out as they walked around the room, looking curiously at a lamp. 

“It’s… different for humans. The consciousness thing, anyway. We sleep by… uh…” He realized he’d never had to explain the concept of sleep to someone. He’d never met someone who didn’t know what sleep was, after all. “Essentially, we… hmm… lie down, have our brain go into maintenance mode where we catch up on rest, and after that we’re in good shape to continue going.”

“But that is…” Petri started, and then seemed to change their mind. “It seems more dangerous, in the face of predators, especially when you do not have the connection of the Unity to rely on.” They pondered for a moment. “How long does sleep last for you?”

“Ideally, seven or eight hours,” Clinton said. “Although we can also interrupt our sleep cycle and function on, oh, three to six for a few days. We’ll suffer reduced cognition the longer we stay awake if we do. A good long sleep, ten hours or so, gets rid of that though.” He suddenly realized that Petri was staring at him, and he got the feeling that, if Petri had had a mouth, it would have dropped open. 

“Eight hours?” they asked, and Clinton realized that the translation device had done a pretty good job of conveying a strong tone of incredulity. “A full emergency rest, like the kind you describe, takes a week, at least.” They shook their head, a little slowly, in disbelief. “We spend half our time in the restful state, one of semi-consciousness. We do not require a full rest unless we’ve not gone into that state for two days. The idea of… working on three hours of sleep for days on end and then only needing ten hours to recuperate is…” They paused, waving their hand as if trying to pick the right word out of the air. “...almost inconceivable.” Finally, they nodded with what seemed like satisfaction. “I see the evolutionary advantage, now. Increased vulnerability to predators and cessation of cognition for… unprecedented efficiency of rest.”

Clinton blinked. He hadn’t expected sleep to work differently for other species, but it made a degree of sense. Not all brains would work the same, of course. Still… He clasped his hands behind his back. “I’m sorry for the confusion, Petri. There’s a lot we still need to learn about each other.”

“Agreed,” Petri said, and walked over to him. He felt dwarfed by the Merilim, their graceful movements adding a sense of scale and gravitas to their presence he’d have no chance of replicating. “This would be easier if we had a Connection, First Officer Blake. I wish your species could experience it.”

For a brief moment, Clinton considered the possibility of sharing his thoughts, his feelings, his entire being, with everyone around him, and he did his best not to let the part of him that recoiled in horror show on his face. “I think us humans might be better off like this,” he said with a hint of a smile. “I wouldn’t want to inflict this noise on others.”

“Noise?” Petri asked, missing the context for what Clinton was talking about and simply advancing with child-like curiosity. “Do you experience consciousness through interference of some kind?”

Clinton almost laughed out loud. Technically, no. Practically, yes. He’d trained himself over the years to quieten the loud, easily distracted part of his brain and to focus on the practical part, but that didn’t mean the little brain-gremlins weren’t present or didn’t exist at all. Sometimes, it really was like trying to get his own voice heard in a crowd of distracting information. “Not… quite. But our thoughts can meander a lot, and these mental tangents could be a detriment to any kind of collective consciousness.”

“I see,” Petri said quietly. “It sounds… difficult. I am sorry.”

“It’s… fine,” Clinton said, doing his best to really believe it. He hadn’t exactly made peace with his anxiety, but he was aware of it and worked on it as best he could. He did his exercises for a reason, and Andromeda was also a big help, of course. Regardless, he didn’t want to keep talking about the subject indefinitely, and he found his saviour in Captain Durand, who pinged his communicator. After a quick back and forth of messages, he turned to Petri. “I have to speak to the Captain; would you like to join us?”

“Of course, First Officer Blake,” Petri said, bowing their head slightly, “I would be honored.” Clinton smiled a little bit. He forgot sometimes that the Merilim was -- apparently -- quite young. While they were an ambassador for their own species, they probably felt as much out of their depth as Clinton did. 

“You don’t have to keep calling me that, Petri,” he said. “I think there’s no need for those formalities at all times anymore, especially if we’re going to be liaising all the time.”

“What would you like me to call you then, Officer Blake? I do not wish to make you uncomfortable again.” Clinton was about to leave the room to walk Petri to the elevators when he paused. 

“What do you mean?” He hated to think that Petri had picked up on his discomfort, that he’d been a bad host. He wanted to like the Merilim, but the alien’s presence, their less than static appearance was like a cheese grater to the brain, ever since Petri had essentially turned into him. Petri didn’t seem at all disturbed, however.

“Whenever a member of the crew addresses you by anything other than your title, your body odour changes.” Petri cocked their head. “Like you are doing now. I am worried that this is an indicator of stress, anxiety or discomfort. I would like to avoid this, if at all possible.”

Clinton didn’t know what to say. How was he supposed to respond to someone pointing out to him that he smelled stressed out? And how was that related to his name? Sure, it wasn’t his favourite feature, but still, he wasn’t really aware of tensing up or anything like that. “I…” he started. “This is all very new to me, Petri. I’m not sure how to… talk to you, I don’t know how different you are from us and what you understand and what you don’t, and I… I admit that I’ve been uncomfortable.” He took a deep breath. “I’m examining where these feelings are coming from, and I’m doing what I can not to let them influence my behaviour and move past them. I hope I didn’t cause any offense, or give you a bad impression of my species. We’re all new to this.”

“You cause no offense, Officer Blake,” Petri said. “It was only an observation. Your species is as uncomfortable around me as I am, I must admit, around you. I believe this is only normal, and I hope that continued interaction will allow all of us to… move past it.” Their tone was reassuring. Maybe that was just Clinton reading into things, of course. “Still, you are the only one who reacts like this to other names or titles.”

“Other titles? What do you mean?” Clinton asked. He was genuinely confused now.

“You dislike it when people call you Mister Blake or Sir,” Petri said, matter-of-factly. “So what would you prefer I call you?” Petri waited patiently as Clinton steadied his breathing, which had accelerated despite himself. He didn’t even know why this was stressing him out so much. 

“You’re… I…” he stammered. “You’re not… wrong…” he said. “I guess First Officer Blake is fine for now, I guess.” Clinton took a deep breath and finally began leading Petri out into the hall and towards the elevators. There were a lot of questions bouncing around in his head, and not a lot of answers, and he resisted the urge to try and smell himself somehow. He’d heard the expression ‘to smell fear’ before, but he’d never expected someone to be able to smell his social anxiety. That was a step beyond. And he had no idea as to the cause of that anxiety. Was there a trigger attached to his name he wasn’t aware of? Therapy over the years had ruled out traumatic events. 

“I hope you feel better soon, First Officer Blake,” Petri said as they waited for the elevator. “You have been very receptive to my stay here, and I think I am lucky that you have been the one to guide me around.”

“I… thank you,” Clinton said, smiling politely. “I do my best.”

“You succeed, First Officer Blake,” Petri said. “Now, for our meeting with the Captain, I did have one question.” Clinton turned to him. He prayed, deeply and profoundly, for a change in subject. 

“Of course, go ahead.” As he looked at Petri, a slim, thin-lipped mouth formed below their large, expressive eyes. However, when they spoke again, it was still through the translator. 

“I would like to practice smiling. What do you think, mouth or no mouth?” Petri said, and Clinton almost -- but not quite -- screamed. 

With this, welcome to "episode 3" of Among Brighter Stars, the episodic sci fi serial about uhhhhhhhhhhh

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