“Pretty much,” Kim said. “We’re working on expanding our conversations, but it’s slow going.”
“I don’t think they mean to keep us here,” Velth said. “I didn’t at any time sense even a hint of hostility from them. It was more like when I was a kid visiting my grandmother’s house. She had this collection of small ceramic chickens. She used to name them. And every time I came to visit, she took me to those shelves and introduced me to each of the new ones. I know that’s not a great analogy, but that’s what it felt like. They wanted me to see them, to know them. I think if they could help us, they would.”
“If you’re right, we just have to figure out how to ask,” Kim agreed.
Ensign Michael Drur had a theory. This was unusual for him. Galen had been his first starship post following graduation from the Academy and he had spent most of his first year of duty trying to keep his head down, do his job, and avoid attracting attention to himself by doing anything that might garner unwarranted notice, like having theories.
There were lots of different kinds of people at the Academy, but they all had one thing in common: they were the best of the best. Many of them had done notable things, excelling as athletes, mathletes, musicians, artists, inventing things—hell, his roommate had published his memoirs of his childhood spent on Cygnia Minor creating new variants of their version of a tomato, which he claimed he had done out of sheer boredom. This was the essence of the problem. Boredom drove Cadet Vynott to greatness. If greatness lay anywhere within Drur, it was well hidden.
As a child, Drur hadn’t dreamed of attending the Academy. He’d been reasonably proficient in math and one of his counselors had suggested he apply. His parents had been more enthusiastic about it than Mike, and so, to make them stop asking, he had completed the application and tests. To everyone’s surprise he had been accepted. Upon arrival he had been told by his advisor that his test results indicated great potential for abstract mathematical constructs. One day, he would accomplish great things with this skill, he had been assured. Thus, his long, slow journey inward had begun. Put a problem in front of him and ask him to solve it, he was fine. Better than fine. Ask him to talk about how he had done it, that’s when the challenges began.
Competence bred confidence, at least in Drur’s peers. For him, it had been a source of satisfaction, even small bits of pride, but never a bridge upon which he could travel to reach everyone around him.
But he had accepted this about himself. He could stand in a crowded room, or on a fully staffed bridge, and feel completely at home in his loneliness. Knowing he was different and apart was almost his superpower. He didn’t need to change it. He wasn’t sure it was possible, even had he desired to do so. All he asked was an uneventful duty shift during which he could perform his assigned tasks flawlessly, and individual quarters where he could spend his off-duty hours. This would have been true had he accepted an assignment at a starbase or colony. He had no idea why he had been chosen for Galen, but at least out here, the constant change of scenery was interesting and gave him plenty to think about.
In the first few months of the fleet’s journey, every member of the bridge crew and other departmental staff had made a point of trying to get to know him. Some had even seemed to recognize the agonizing torment their efforts created and acknowledged it by leaving him be. Those were his favorite fellow officers. His least favorite were those like Commander Glenn, who seemed to take his clear discomfort with interpersonal interactions as a challenge to be overcome—or worse, Velth, who clearly harbored a deep desire to shame Drur into opening up.
Even the light ribbing Velth had administered occasionally on the bridge had become tolerable. Only Drur knew that each time Velth failed to receive a response of any kind from him, the ensign celebrated this as a small victory. His walls remained intact. His ground was secure. No one else needed to know or understand how important that was to him.
Harry Kim had caught him off guard. Without warning he had somehow breached Drur’s defenses, coming in completely under the radar. That was the only way Drur could explain the odd kinship he now felt for the lieutenant. Part of it had been the skill with which Kim had approached the initial communications problem with the Edrehmaia. Drur could learn from Kim, and that was valuable. The rest had been Kim’s admission to being teased as a new officer. Kim did not share Drur’s challenges in conversation or connection. He treated everyone as if they were a dear friend of long acquaintance and had almost immediately gained the respect and admiration of the rest of the crew. For Drur, Kim was the first officer in a long time—perhaps ever—whose approbation he desired, and with whom he felt no discomfort when they were working together.
Perhaps this desire to be of use to Kim was responsible for Drur’s new theory. It was also possible that it was derived from the endless complexity of the problem they were both attempting to solve—building an entirely new language upon which their survival might depend. But testing his theory required a guinea pig and it wasn’t until Velth’s unexpected return to the ship an hour ago that an appropriate test subject had appeared.
Drur was alone on the bridge. He assumed the rest of the crew was busy tending to Velth or probably celebrating his return. He spent many of his current shifts alone lately. Lawry and Selah were only present when they relieved him at the conn or when Commander Glenn took
