Wandering the Corridors with a Mission
Jul. 11th, 2023 04:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lydamorehouseAnother Star Trek Adventure's: RPG fic to scroll past.
I've explained before that our game runs a LOT of NPCs (non-player characters) as though they are full players. I really like this approach with a starship, because it feels more like an episode, where you might wander away from the main folks and, say, hang out with Chekov or Sulu. Or, you know, get to meet the ship's historian...
One of our players,bcholmes is especially good at running random characters that we need on an away team and imbuing them with That One Trait that makes them perfectly memorable. In the fic below the cut, I must give her all the credit creating our Vulcan Sociologist, Shoval, who is obsessed with spreadsheets. BC is also our captain, so in a way this fic is my NPC interacting with all of her creations.
None of these characters appear in any of the zillion Star Trek shows. But, if you've been reading these since I first started posting them, this is a return to our Vulcan Counselor, Sular.
*
As Counselor Sular walked the largely empty corridors of the USS Alan Turing, he thought that, perhaps, he had complained to Captain Tyran a bit too stridently about being underutilized.
Her orders were clear and direct, however. He was to wander the halls and make himself available to any crew member who might be experiencing time travel-related trauma.
On the surface, this seemed like a very reasonable command.
The Turing had recently jumped back in time a hundred years. In that past, they’d gone through a very harrowing series of battles--some details of which Sular was only vaguely aware of himself, though he’d heard that the ship’s Engineering section had been boarded by hostile Klingon soldiers at one point. Although the ship had successfully made the jump back, they found themselves in a “now” that was completely unlike the time they’d left. He'd even heard rumors of people disappearing, seemingly ceasing to exist in this timeline, thanks to some kind of temporal disruption.
The likelihood that crew might be suffering some emotional distress due to all of these effects was, in fact, quite high
However.
Turning the corner, Sular faced yet-another nearly empty passageway. A human yeoman hurried past him to the turbolift, a Padd clutched close to her chest. They exchanged nods, but nothing more. He turned to watch the yeoman retreating and stifled a sigh.
Sular didn’t know this captain very well yet at all, but he was beginning to suspect that Alya Tayrn’s order was actually a clever, subtle reprimand.
Walking the halls was awkward. No one knew what he was doing, why he was suddenly randomly strolling around. Even if, by some miracle, he ran across someone in need, a random encounter in a corridor was not the optimal place to have a heart-to-heart.
The captain was clearly telling him that it was his responsibility to find ways to make himself more available. This order was a push--a hint that it was time to stop whining about how being a Vulcan put him at a disadvantage as a counselor and to go out and show the crew that he could be of service to them.
She was right, of course.
But he still had no idea how to overcome the obstacles facing him.
Turning around, Sular headed to the Aft Lounge.
#
Since they had not yet gotten permission to debark to this timeline’s version of Narendra Station, the Aft Lounge was nearly filled to capacity.
Sular’s entry caused a bit of a hush to fall, as curious heads turned to inspect the newest arrival. He was sure he made quite the sight. Before heading out on his ordered walkabout, Sular had opted to forgo his usual Starfleet uniform in the hopes that civilian clothes might make him at least somewhat more approachable. However, his particular clan favored many, flowing layers of painted silks in lavish, sometimes even quite outlandish colors.
He’d chosen his closet’s most subtle option, but, as his clan’s hereditary trade route took them from shore to shore of Vulcan’s rare small seas, his robes were a riot of ocean colors, from white, sky-blue, turquoise, to deep blue. The hems at sleeves and cuffs had been painted with an array of cavorting shelled creatures. The back of the outermost pointed-shoulder overcoat featured a detailed image of a largely dark purple, many tentacled, gold-spotted shell-dwelling cephalopod, with what would be terrifying pinchers if the creature ever grew larger than 26 centimeters.
Several eyes continued to check Sular out as he made his way to the replicator, where he ordered a simple green tea. When he turned around thinking to find a nice place to sit by himself, he discovered Lieutenant Junior Grade Shoval standing in his way. Worse, Shoval had his infamous Padd out, fingers hovering over the keypad, no doubt ready to add something to his seemingly endless spreadsheets.
Unaware that he needed no introduction, Shoval dipped his head slightly. “Greetings. I am Lieutenant Shoval. I was not informed that there was an honorable member of the K'vek Clan aboard the Turing.”
Ah, of course.
Sular should have anticipated that the ship’s sociologist would be instantly fascinated by the potential significance of Sular’s dress. With a slight straightening of his spine, Sular steeled himself for dealing with a fellow Vulcan. “That is because there is not. My clan is not officially recognized as a branch of the esteemed K’vek, as our blood connection is quite distant. We are allowed a trade route by them, but our historical matriarch was little more than a by-blow from a right-line.”
Oh dear, notes were being taken. Sular probably should have been a bit more circumspect in his language, even if what he’d said was essentially true--his clan’s connection to the merchant K’veks was just that: their founder was some spare of a spare to an heir’s bastard love child. Subtly, Sular strained his neck a bit to try to determine which spreadsheet his family’s lineage was being recorded into.
Shoval glanced up. “Does your clan have a name?”
Sular met his gaze. “It does.”
Shoval waited expectantly.
“Can I get you tea?” Sular offered. “Perhaps we can adjourn to the table next to the chess players?”
“That is acceptable,” Shoval agreed, though his hand stayed poised over the entry on his Padd. “Your clan name?”
After getting a second cup of tea, this one a more traditional spice tea, from the replicator, Sular made his way to the table he’d spotted. “Sular. Please record me simply as Counselor Sular.”
“But this is not your clan’s name”
“It is not.” Sular set the two cups of tea on either side of a small table.
Shoval remained standing, radiating his best unemotional disapproval. “You show an unusual hesitation to divulge your clan’s name. If you were not a Vulcan, I would assume you were ashamed.”
“Your assumption is not incorrect,” Sular said. “Please, sit.”
Shoval continued to hesitate. It was clear that Sular’s response had flummoxed him, but he was unable to express it. Raising a single eyebrow, he slowly took his seat. Setting his Padd aside deliberately, he said, “Explain.”
Sular took a sip of tea in order to compose his thoughts. Ugh, he hated this game he had to play when talking to other Vulcans. Most other species would be satisfied with a veneer of calm expressionlessness. But his own people? They instantly spotted how unnatural he was. He might as well have V'tosh ka'tur Cultist tattooed on his forehead. So, perhaps that was the answer. Just confess to it.
Setting down the cup, Sular met Shoval’s gaze. “I was raised among heretics, V'tosh ka'tur.” Sular raised his hand to forestall any reaction from Shoval. “Be at peace. I was able to escape the cult. I officially renounced my connection to my clan when I entered the Science Academy. As you well know, I could not be a Starfleet officer otherwise.”
He stopped there. There was, of course, far more to this story.
Shoval broke Sular’s gaze to stare at his Padd for a long moment. It was impossible to tell if Shoval itched to make a note of all this, or if he were simply attempting to digest this information and organize it into logical sense. His eyes jumped back to Sular. “You have partaken in the Kolinahr.”
It was not a question. It was a statement, an assumption. Sular could let it stand. Say nothing and let silence imply consent. No, it would be a lie. “I have not.”
“How then are you certain you have recovered from your time among the…” for a species so supposedly in control of their feelings, Shoval’s disgust was evident in the length of his pause, “... illogical?”
“I’m not,” Sular said simply. With that, he turned his gaze to the chess players to his right and went back to his tea. In the parlance of his dead, cherished friend, fuck this. He owed the Vulcans on this ship no explanation as to why he wouldn’t give up laughter, tears, or rage. They had no idea what he’d forsaken. They’d never known it. Unlike any of their families, he was well aware of how much his had suffered heartbreak at his betrayal.
A betrayal he now regretted.
A betrayal that had cost him the love of his life.
The silence stretched, but Shoval made no move to leave. Sular, having finished his tea, set the cup down. Entwining his fingers, he rested his firearms on the table. "You have something further you wish to speak with me about, Lieutenant. What is it?"
"Logic dictates that your heresy must be continuing. How else could you be an effective counselor?"
It was difficult for Sular to keep the wan smile off of his face, but he managed it. Barely. It was nice to be imagined to be effective, even though he clearly wasn’t. "You presume too much, perhaps. Isn’t it also a logical assumption that I'm simply not good at my job?"
Shoval shook his head, clearly affronted. "Starfleet does not graduate poor students. If you have been appointed a starship counselor, then you are an excellent starship counselor."
Sular allowed a slight lift to his shoulders in a shrug. "And yet, I'm a counselor without clients. Too suspect for the Vulcan crew, and too Vulcan for the rest."
Even though Shoval’s expression didn't change, it was clear that he was considering something. Sular knew better than to press him, so instead they sat in silence. There was a heaviness to the way Shoval stared at Sular and it would be awkward, except that Sular had perfected a personal meditative technique to keep from fidgeting at the Vulcan Science Academy.
They sat like that for a long time, until Shoval stood and declared. “No one believed a Vulcan would make a good sociologist, but science is science, whether it be ‘soft’ or ‘hard.’ Psychology is a science like any other.’’
Sular found himself rising to his feet. It was the only way to keep the surprise off of his face. Could it be that Shoval was on his side, after all--and not judging him for his heretical past?
Shoval continued, “Of course, there is no such thing as a Vulcan rumor mill. However, if there were, word might get out that you are an excellent ship’s counselor. If this does not persuade people, there is no problem that can not be solved by a spreadsheet.”
Sular held his breath, but managed a dignified nod.
Shoval nodded a goodbye in return, “Perhaps I will see you in your office, Counselor Sular of the Unrecognized Branch Family of the K’vek Traders.”
Sular wanted to gush, to say how honored he’d be! But, instead, he nodded in return and said flatly, “That would be most acceptable, Ship’s Sociologist, Lieutenant Shoval.”
#
It was unclear to Sular whether Shoval had much luck with the non-existent Vulcan rumor mill, but, in the days following, he noticed a decision-tree spreadsheet appearing in various turbo lifts. On it was a kind of logic puzzle that seemed to “prove” that psychology was a science and that Starfleet officers were good at science.
Or something.
Honestly, Shoval’s spreadsheets were kind of a mystery. Perhaps that was something they could discuss at their next session.
I've explained before that our game runs a LOT of NPCs (non-player characters) as though they are full players. I really like this approach with a starship, because it feels more like an episode, where you might wander away from the main folks and, say, hang out with Chekov or Sulu. Or, you know, get to meet the ship's historian...
One of our players,
bcholmes is especially good at running random characters that we need on an away team and imbuing them with That One Trait that makes them perfectly memorable. In the fic below the cut, I must give her all the credit creating our Vulcan Sociologist, Shoval, who is obsessed with spreadsheets. BC is also our captain, so in a way this fic is my NPC interacting with all of her creations. None of these characters appear in any of the zillion Star Trek shows. But, if you've been reading these since I first started posting them, this is a return to our Vulcan Counselor, Sular.
*
As Counselor Sular walked the largely empty corridors of the USS Alan Turing, he thought that, perhaps, he had complained to Captain Tyran a bit too stridently about being underutilized.
Her orders were clear and direct, however. He was to wander the halls and make himself available to any crew member who might be experiencing time travel-related trauma.
On the surface, this seemed like a very reasonable command.
The Turing had recently jumped back in time a hundred years. In that past, they’d gone through a very harrowing series of battles--some details of which Sular was only vaguely aware of himself, though he’d heard that the ship’s Engineering section had been boarded by hostile Klingon soldiers at one point. Although the ship had successfully made the jump back, they found themselves in a “now” that was completely unlike the time they’d left. He'd even heard rumors of people disappearing, seemingly ceasing to exist in this timeline, thanks to some kind of temporal disruption.
The likelihood that crew might be suffering some emotional distress due to all of these effects was, in fact, quite high
However.
Turning the corner, Sular faced yet-another nearly empty passageway. A human yeoman hurried past him to the turbolift, a Padd clutched close to her chest. They exchanged nods, but nothing more. He turned to watch the yeoman retreating and stifled a sigh.
Sular didn’t know this captain very well yet at all, but he was beginning to suspect that Alya Tayrn’s order was actually a clever, subtle reprimand.
Walking the halls was awkward. No one knew what he was doing, why he was suddenly randomly strolling around. Even if, by some miracle, he ran across someone in need, a random encounter in a corridor was not the optimal place to have a heart-to-heart.
The captain was clearly telling him that it was his responsibility to find ways to make himself more available. This order was a push--a hint that it was time to stop whining about how being a Vulcan put him at a disadvantage as a counselor and to go out and show the crew that he could be of service to them.
She was right, of course.
But he still had no idea how to overcome the obstacles facing him.
Turning around, Sular headed to the Aft Lounge.
#
Since they had not yet gotten permission to debark to this timeline’s version of Narendra Station, the Aft Lounge was nearly filled to capacity.
Sular’s entry caused a bit of a hush to fall, as curious heads turned to inspect the newest arrival. He was sure he made quite the sight. Before heading out on his ordered walkabout, Sular had opted to forgo his usual Starfleet uniform in the hopes that civilian clothes might make him at least somewhat more approachable. However, his particular clan favored many, flowing layers of painted silks in lavish, sometimes even quite outlandish colors.
He’d chosen his closet’s most subtle option, but, as his clan’s hereditary trade route took them from shore to shore of Vulcan’s rare small seas, his robes were a riot of ocean colors, from white, sky-blue, turquoise, to deep blue. The hems at sleeves and cuffs had been painted with an array of cavorting shelled creatures. The back of the outermost pointed-shoulder overcoat featured a detailed image of a largely dark purple, many tentacled, gold-spotted shell-dwelling cephalopod, with what would be terrifying pinchers if the creature ever grew larger than 26 centimeters.
Several eyes continued to check Sular out as he made his way to the replicator, where he ordered a simple green tea. When he turned around thinking to find a nice place to sit by himself, he discovered Lieutenant Junior Grade Shoval standing in his way. Worse, Shoval had his infamous Padd out, fingers hovering over the keypad, no doubt ready to add something to his seemingly endless spreadsheets.
Unaware that he needed no introduction, Shoval dipped his head slightly. “Greetings. I am Lieutenant Shoval. I was not informed that there was an honorable member of the K'vek Clan aboard the Turing.”
Ah, of course.
Sular should have anticipated that the ship’s sociologist would be instantly fascinated by the potential significance of Sular’s dress. With a slight straightening of his spine, Sular steeled himself for dealing with a fellow Vulcan. “That is because there is not. My clan is not officially recognized as a branch of the esteemed K’vek, as our blood connection is quite distant. We are allowed a trade route by them, but our historical matriarch was little more than a by-blow from a right-line.”
Oh dear, notes were being taken. Sular probably should have been a bit more circumspect in his language, even if what he’d said was essentially true--his clan’s connection to the merchant K’veks was just that: their founder was some spare of a spare to an heir’s bastard love child. Subtly, Sular strained his neck a bit to try to determine which spreadsheet his family’s lineage was being recorded into.
Shoval glanced up. “Does your clan have a name?”
Sular met his gaze. “It does.”
Shoval waited expectantly.
“Can I get you tea?” Sular offered. “Perhaps we can adjourn to the table next to the chess players?”
“That is acceptable,” Shoval agreed, though his hand stayed poised over the entry on his Padd. “Your clan name?”
After getting a second cup of tea, this one a more traditional spice tea, from the replicator, Sular made his way to the table he’d spotted. “Sular. Please record me simply as Counselor Sular.”
“But this is not your clan’s name”
“It is not.” Sular set the two cups of tea on either side of a small table.
Shoval remained standing, radiating his best unemotional disapproval. “You show an unusual hesitation to divulge your clan’s name. If you were not a Vulcan, I would assume you were ashamed.”
“Your assumption is not incorrect,” Sular said. “Please, sit.”
Shoval continued to hesitate. It was clear that Sular’s response had flummoxed him, but he was unable to express it. Raising a single eyebrow, he slowly took his seat. Setting his Padd aside deliberately, he said, “Explain.”
Sular took a sip of tea in order to compose his thoughts. Ugh, he hated this game he had to play when talking to other Vulcans. Most other species would be satisfied with a veneer of calm expressionlessness. But his own people? They instantly spotted how unnatural he was. He might as well have V'tosh ka'tur Cultist tattooed on his forehead. So, perhaps that was the answer. Just confess to it.
Setting down the cup, Sular met Shoval’s gaze. “I was raised among heretics, V'tosh ka'tur.” Sular raised his hand to forestall any reaction from Shoval. “Be at peace. I was able to escape the cult. I officially renounced my connection to my clan when I entered the Science Academy. As you well know, I could not be a Starfleet officer otherwise.”
He stopped there. There was, of course, far more to this story.
Shoval broke Sular’s gaze to stare at his Padd for a long moment. It was impossible to tell if Shoval itched to make a note of all this, or if he were simply attempting to digest this information and organize it into logical sense. His eyes jumped back to Sular. “You have partaken in the Kolinahr.”
It was not a question. It was a statement, an assumption. Sular could let it stand. Say nothing and let silence imply consent. No, it would be a lie. “I have not.”
“How then are you certain you have recovered from your time among the…” for a species so supposedly in control of their feelings, Shoval’s disgust was evident in the length of his pause, “... illogical?”
“I’m not,” Sular said simply. With that, he turned his gaze to the chess players to his right and went back to his tea. In the parlance of his dead, cherished friend, fuck this. He owed the Vulcans on this ship no explanation as to why he wouldn’t give up laughter, tears, or rage. They had no idea what he’d forsaken. They’d never known it. Unlike any of their families, he was well aware of how much his had suffered heartbreak at his betrayal.
A betrayal he now regretted.
A betrayal that had cost him the love of his life.
The silence stretched, but Shoval made no move to leave. Sular, having finished his tea, set the cup down. Entwining his fingers, he rested his firearms on the table. "You have something further you wish to speak with me about, Lieutenant. What is it?"
"Logic dictates that your heresy must be continuing. How else could you be an effective counselor?"
It was difficult for Sular to keep the wan smile off of his face, but he managed it. Barely. It was nice to be imagined to be effective, even though he clearly wasn’t. "You presume too much, perhaps. Isn’t it also a logical assumption that I'm simply not good at my job?"
Shoval shook his head, clearly affronted. "Starfleet does not graduate poor students. If you have been appointed a starship counselor, then you are an excellent starship counselor."
Sular allowed a slight lift to his shoulders in a shrug. "And yet, I'm a counselor without clients. Too suspect for the Vulcan crew, and too Vulcan for the rest."
Even though Shoval’s expression didn't change, it was clear that he was considering something. Sular knew better than to press him, so instead they sat in silence. There was a heaviness to the way Shoval stared at Sular and it would be awkward, except that Sular had perfected a personal meditative technique to keep from fidgeting at the Vulcan Science Academy.
They sat like that for a long time, until Shoval stood and declared. “No one believed a Vulcan would make a good sociologist, but science is science, whether it be ‘soft’ or ‘hard.’ Psychology is a science like any other.’’
Sular found himself rising to his feet. It was the only way to keep the surprise off of his face. Could it be that Shoval was on his side, after all--and not judging him for his heretical past?
Shoval continued, “Of course, there is no such thing as a Vulcan rumor mill. However, if there were, word might get out that you are an excellent ship’s counselor. If this does not persuade people, there is no problem that can not be solved by a spreadsheet.”
Sular held his breath, but managed a dignified nod.
Shoval nodded a goodbye in return, “Perhaps I will see you in your office, Counselor Sular of the Unrecognized Branch Family of the K’vek Traders.”
Sular wanted to gush, to say how honored he’d be! But, instead, he nodded in return and said flatly, “That would be most acceptable, Ship’s Sociologist, Lieutenant Shoval.”
#
It was unclear to Sular whether Shoval had much luck with the non-existent Vulcan rumor mill, but, in the days following, he noticed a decision-tree spreadsheet appearing in various turbo lifts. On it was a kind of logic puzzle that seemed to “prove” that psychology was a science and that Starfleet officers were good at science.
Or something.
Honestly, Shoval’s spreadsheets were kind of a mystery. Perhaps that was something they could discuss at their next session.