IMBALANCE Page 6

  “That was most intriguing,” Riis said when he finished playing. “But it was so simple, so like a child just finding the first register of its voice.”

  Simple? Riker struggled to hold back a groan of dismay until he realized what Riis meant. Most of the Jaradan instruments were designed to play chords, echoing the multitonality of Jaradan speech. Therefore, no matter how complex the melody line, to the Jarada it would always sound simple. “Sometimes human music tries to emphasize the simplicity of a single melodic line, such as the piece I just played. More often, though, groups of musicians work together to create complex patterns such as your instruments play. For example, several trombones playing together can produce the same chords as your—” He pointed toward the harplike instrument, unable to remember its name.

  “Zheelsray,” Riis said.

  Riker nodded. “And the zheelsray could produce music the way we humans do, if you plucked one string at a time.”

  The mottled brown Jarada sitting at the zheelsray rubbed the base of his antennae in puzzlement. “But that would be inefficient, requiring several players and instruments to do what I already do.”

  “True. I was using that only as an example, because many of our instruments produce only single notes. Even on instruments that can play chords we often emphasize the melody by playing it louder than the chords.”

  “This is an interesting concept.” Riis ran her claws along her keyboard, calling forth a series of chords. “Would you be willing to play with us and demonstrate what you mean?”

  For a moment Riker considered refusing. So far these musicians had shown none of the cultural inflexibility the Enterprise crew had expected, based on their previous dealings with the Jarada, but he wondered how far he dared push them. Musical traditions were among the most conservative in any society, depending as they did on a strict consensus of acceptable tonality, rhythm, and harmony. On the other hand, the invitation was courteously offered and could not be politely declined.

  Diplomacy! Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, Riker thought in disgust. However, if he ever left Starfleet, he could put this on his résumé as one of the greatest of all improvisational sessions. Reaching for a smile, Riker nodded his agreement. “But, please, do me a favor—pick something simple so I can keep up.”

  Riis glanced at the other musicians, her antennae waggling. The harpist suggested a selection. One of the drummers countered with a different title, and then other people offered their favorite pieces. A lively discussion followed as the val’khorret debated which piece of music would be most suitable. Finally they reached a consensus and Riis turned back to Riker. “We have chosen a karbrey, which we can repeat as many times as we wish. We will start and you may join us when you understand the essence of the music.” She reached for a scriptboard resting on top of her instrument. “I assume that you read musical notation.”

  Riker glanced at the board and shook his head. “I read music, but I don’t know your notation. I’ll have to play it by ear.”

  A rasping sigh went through the room. Riis bobbed her head in approval and left the scriptboard in its place. “It is not often one finds a musician good enough to work with an exotic ensemble without copying their notation slavishly. We approve.”

  Riis struck a run of chords, signaling the tempo to the other musicians. She paused for the space of two breaths, then nodded. The group began to play. The karbrey was a happy, lively piece that reminded Riker of an Alsrayven folk dance. At first he just listened, trying to sort out the different instruments and their roles. The glockenspiel seemed to dominate, its bright tones filling the place in the composition that Riker considered the property of the brass section. The drums carried the complex rhythm in an interwoven patter that echoed the dominant chords in the music, and the stringed instruments, tuned to a scale based on eighth tones, wove complex and shimmering patterns around the glockenspiel.

  After the second chorus Riker felt he understood the karbrey well enough to try a simple counterpoint. At first he kept it uncomplicated, holding to the standard scale. His notes, sweet and legato, blended into the Jarada composition better than he had expected, and several of the musicians wagged their antennae in approval. On the next chorus Riker picked up his tempo and even attempted a few quarter tones.

  He was beginning to relax and enjoy the improvisation when a commotion, much like the sounds that Zarn had told him were a vrrek’khat drill, erupted in the corridor outside the room. Immediately the Jarada quit playing and jumped to their feet. Their claws clattered against the floor as they scrambled toward a door on the far side of the room. “Hurry,” Zarn said, tugging on Riker’s sleeve. “We must get out of here before they breach the lock on the door!”

  Chapter Five

  DR. BEVERLY CRUSHER fiddled with her medical tricorder as she watched Riker leave the Council Chamber with Zelmirtrozarn. The two made a strange pair—the tall human in his black-and-cranberry uniform and the deep brown Jarada who barely came up to Riker’s chest. A smile flickered across the doctor’s face, momentarily erasing the slight frown that wrinkled her forehead.

  “It’s all right, Beverly,” Troi whispered. “These are routine diplomatic courtesies.”

  “I know.” Crusher exhaled sharply. “We’ve done this dozens of times, but for some reason I feel edgy today. Are you sure everything’s all right?”

  “I sense nothing.” Troi’s face tensed with concentration as she tried to read the Jarada’s emotions. After a moment, with no more success than before, she relaxed and shook her head. “I think you’re suffering from stage fright because you aren’t familiar with insectoid physiology and are afraid they will laugh at your ignorance.”

  Crusher chuckled softly. “I hope that’s all it is.” Her face went sober as Zelbrektrovish crossed the room and stopped in front of her. The tiny ochre Jarada projected such an aura of command that Crusher found herself starting to curtsy before she realized it. With an effort she turned the movement into the brief nod that they had been told was the appropriate greeting between equals.

  “Crusher-Doctor,” the Jarada said in a soft, high-pitched, multitonal voice. It returned Crusher’s nod and then gestured toward the doorway. “Our research facilities are on the outskirts of the city. If you will accompany me, our transportation is waiting outside.”

  “Of course.” As she followed Zelbrektrovish from the room, Crusher wondered what would happen if she tried to disobey the tiny Jarada. She felt like a first-year medical student, awed by the wisdom and authority of her department chair. With that comparison, Crusher’s perspective shifted and she relaxed. Undoubtedly, Zelbrektrovish dealt constantly with the Jaradan equivalent of starry-eyed freshmen and had perfected its command aura for them. Also, given the differences in their height, Crusher realized the Jarada was probably as intimidated as she was. Crusher had not felt so gangling and outsized when she was with another sentient being since Wesley had turned ten.

  They left the building by the side entrance, and a small teardrop-shaped groundcar pulled up to the curb. Zelbrektrovish tapped a coded pattern against the window and the vehicle’s door slid opened. Crusher climbed into the back and struggled to find a comfortable position on the Jarada-shaped seat. The contoured cushion left awkward gaps where her human anatomy needed support, and several odd-shaped pillows did not completely solve the problem.

  Zelbrektrovish fastened its acceleration harness and entered their destination into the vehicle’s computer, then swiveled around to face Crusher. “The harness fastens like this,” it said, demonstrating the unfamiliar catches. “I always find it advisable to wear it, even when I have a priority lane with no cross traffic.”

  “Thank you.” Crusher pushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead. Ground travel had always made her nervous, even when she was younger and living on Earth. High-speed vehicles moving in close formation, and the injuries that occurred when something went wrong, had convinced her that transporters were by far the safest way to get where she
wanted to go. She had been in space too long to ever change her mind, but at least the harness gave her a minimum of reassurance. “I’m never completely comfortable with groundcars.”

  The Jarada clacked its claws together in amusement, and its command aura slipped away, replaced by a focused warmth that was almost as frightening in its intensity. Crusher remembered one or two humans that could pull off the same trick, most notably the High Commissioner from Dalraydy, Sri Janda.

  Just after she and Jack had been married, a group of Federation Commissioners had toured the medical research facility where she was working. Crusher had watched Janda work her special magic on the hospital’s chief administrator, a man noted for his aversion to outsiders. Janda was a petite woman, barely taller than a half-grown child, but when she concentrated her charm on the administrator, he had been unable to deny her anything, particularly not the in-depth tour she requested.

  Janda’s twinkling, impish smile and deep, dark eyes were backed by an intellect that would keep a Vulcan on his toes, and most of the researchers she met during that inspection also surrendered to her spell. Finding the same magnetism in a Jarada made the insectoids seem both more and less alien.

  “If we agree on the subject of groundcars, Crusher-Doctor, then I am certain we will find other things to share. You must call me Vish if you are to be my hive-partner.”

  “And I’m Beverly.” Crusher wondered what the Jarada meant by “hive-partner,” but decided to postpone the question. If the computer was having difficulties interpreting the Jaradan world view, it would help to give it more data before asking it to decipher that conceptual cluster again. They had hoped that having the Jaradan translating devices would give them better data on the insectoids’ language and culture, but so far she could not see any improvement over the Enterprise’s universal translator. Both societies needed more information about the other to obtain good translations.

  “Bev-er-ly,” Vish said, testing the unfamiliar name. “I hope you don’t mind if we do not take the shortest route to the research center. It was thought that you might appreciate a tour of the city to see the landmarks that you would otherwise miss.”

  When in Rome, Crusher thought. She was not a good tourist, caring little for architectural styles or heroic statuary, but it didn’t seem polite to say that to her host. The Jarada were recent settlers on Bel-Minor, and Crusher supposed they had every right to be proud of their accomplishments on their new world. Still, if allowed her choice, she would gladly give Picard her share of the city tours, since he appreciated the artistry that went into designing and constructing beautiful and functional urban zones. However, the gods were not listening to her wishes, so she accepted the invitation with a diplomatic pretense of enthusiasm. “If you’re sure we have time, I’d love to see your city. It’s not often I get the opportunity to go sight-seeing in the line of duty.”

  “I’am not sure that ‘having the time’ is the precise term I would use.” Vish ducked its head apologetically. “This is our season for repairing the roads and, unfortunately, the bridge on the direct route is closed while its center span is being refurbished. I fear that you will find I am barely adequate as a tour guide in the city, since I spend most of my time in my laboratory.”

  “I’m sure I won’t notice,” Crusher said with a warm smile. “My son makes the same observation about me—all work and no play. Why don’t you tell me about your research?”

  Vish clacked its claws in laughter. “Gladly. Remind me to point out the main buildings to you, in case someone asks what we saw, but meanwhile we can discuss more interesting matters.”

  While they talked, the car traveled through a residential area. The earth-toned buildings were circular complexes made of bulbous units similar in style to the Governance Complex. Except for color, each unit was identical to its neighbors, down to the placement of the doors and the spacing of the windows. On any world and in any style of architecture, low-budget housing was always identifiable by its mind-numbing uniformity. For a moment Crusher wondered if the interiors were as absolutely bland and uniform as the exteriors, but she pushed the thought aside. Vish’s discussion of its favorite project, research into the link between Jaradan nutrition and genetics, was much more interesting.

  “You mean nutrition alone determines whether an individual will be fertile?” Among Earth’s insects, fertile female bees developed when the workers fed the larvae a substance called royal jelly. However, Crusher could not remember reading any studies on intelligent insectoid societies that used a similar process for determining which individuals would perpetuate the species.

  “Not completely. The Jarada have a tetraploid genome, and only those individuals with a full, uninhibited complement of chromosomes have the possibility of being fertile. In some cases, even when both the genetic and the nutritional factors are present, the individual develops as sterile or as neuter. What my group is trying to determine is the specific nutritional factors that trigger one path of development over another.”

  “Fascinating. How far are you from producing definitive results?”

  “Oh, we’ve just begun.” Vish clacked its claws in amusement, as if Crusher’s question had come from a very young child. It pointed out the window, where the housing units had given way to fields of low bushes. The plants were loaded with brightly colored flowers—reds, yellows, blues, and a deep purple that was nearly black. “Actually, this plantation is part of our project. The breveen plant is extremely sensitive to the nutritional content of the soil it grows in, which we can monitor by the color of the flowers. By controlling what we feed the plants, we know the composition of the nectar we are supplying to the newly hatched larvae. It’s a very fragrant little project and I’m extremely grateful to the young student who designed it. That one will make a worthy successor to lead our studies when I am ready to retire.”

  Crusher looked at the bushes with more interest, marveling that the wide variety in colors was produced by adding different chemicals to the soil. Did the trace elements produce the colors, she wondered, or did they control the expression of the genes which made the pigments? In a similar vein, how did nutrition control the expression of the Jaradan genome? “If it’s not too delicate a question, Vish, how many genders are there in a normal Jaradan population?”

  “Is this a philosophical or a scientific question?” Vish’s central eye-facets shifted from greenish to yellow, and Crusher had the feeling she was being examined like a specimen under a microscope. Before she could answer, however, the Jarada waved a claw to dismiss its own question. “For you, it would be the scientific question. You do not know enough of our society to realize that the other viewpoint exists.”

  “Then I’d be interested in both answers, so I can understand you better.”

  “Ah.”

  Vish fell silent, apparently in no hurry to answer. Rather than pressuring the Jarada, Crusher concentrated on the view outside the window. The road they were following through the breveen fields had turned back toward the city, and they were approaching it from a more southerly direction. To their right, in the middle distance and near where the buildings began again, Crusher saw the spidery structure of a bridge. To their left, a gray smudge hung over the sector of the city they had bypassed. Smoke? It seemed to be coming from a large area, probably several blocks in diameter. With a puzzled frown Crusher turned toward Vish.

  Before the doctor could ask her question, the Jarada anticipated it and brushed Crusher’s concern off with a careless flick of a true-hand. “Some types of trees that came with us from the homeworld have become diseased in this climate. That district was scheduled for sterilization this morning.”

  Crusher looked back out the window, trying to guess how many trees it would take to produce so much smoke. She was no expert on such things, but a small forest would have to burn to create that dense blanket of smoke. She shivered involuntarily, wondering if Vish’s explanation was truthful. For the first time she was conscious of how isolated she was
, how cut off from the Enterprise and all her crewmates.

  “You were asking about our gender divisions,” Vish said in such a smooth tone that Crusher wondered if the switch back to the original topic was intended as a diversion. “It is a complicated question, because so much of our society is controlled by our caste system, which is directly linked to our genetics. Therefore, if you ask about gender in a philosophical sense, the pure traditionalist will tell you that each caste represents a distinct gender.”

  Vish paused expectantly, so Crusher asked the obvious question. “How many castes are there?”

  “By the latest accounting, there are five hundred forty-three documented trait-packages that are reproducible and distinctive enough to be accepted as formal castes. Of course, some of these groups are very small, since there is little use for their abilities in most situations.”

  “Five hundred forty-three?” The number was staggering. Any research into the genetics of such a system would require an almost incomprehensible number of controls. That meant some simpler order had to underlie the apparent chaos of the caste system or Vish had no better chance of obtaining answers from its research than the ancient human theologians had of determining how many angels could dance on the head of a pin.

  Vish lifted all four arms upward in a “you asked” gesture. “If one works on the genetic level and uses the most basic definitions, the answer reduces to six. The females are tetraploid and the males are diploid, with only a few of each group developing as fertile individuals capable of reproduction. By tradition, the sterile females and males are considered as separate genders from the fertile. Interestingly enough, some of our research supports the traditional view of how deeply the differences run between fertile and sterile individuals. Then there are the neuters, those with inhibited genomes who fail to develop any sexual characteristics even though they have the chromosomal signature for either male or female.