At that, the other Pa’haquel ships fired bursts of their own in salute. The processing team gave a cheer of joy. Qui’hibra turned to the other male who had been with his party and made a ritual gesture. “Ieq’hairu, loyal cousin, you have the blessings of the Spirit and your kill. I name you elder of this skymount, a status you have earned through loyal service to the clan. May this mount bring you many more kills, in service to life.”
The others cheered—all save Se’hraqua. From him, Deanna felt resentment and envy directed at the new elder, as though he wished he were the one accepting command rather than being relegated to public relations. Nonetheless, he kept up a stoic front. “You see?” he said to Deanna. “If the hunt were not in balance, it would fail. Their bodies die, but their souls live on in ours. The transition is painful, yes, but birth is always so. A successful reanimation shows that healing has been achieved, the divine balance preserved.”
“There’s no doubt of their sincerity,” Deanna Troi reported to her crewmates as they sat in the forward observation lounge. From where she sat across the table, Christine Vale could see that Troi was harrowed by her experience within the star-jelly corpse; though her tone was level and professional, her eyes were haunted. “The Pa’haquel and their allies clearly believe that their actions are necessary and righteous, not merely for their own survival but for the sake of divine balance. They believe that without this balance, the universe will collapse into chaos. They express a reverence for their prey, of a sort not uncommon in traditional hunting cultures.”
Vale looked down, absorbing her words…but she couldn’t help being distracted by her reflection in the table. She still wasn’t used to seeing herself with black hair. She liked to change her look from time to time; she’d gone through many different lengths and shades over the years, arriving most recently at a short, sandy bob that she’d liked well enough to keep for some time. But once their new mission had begun in earnest, she’d suddenly been struck by the urge to go pure raven, blacker than she’d ever been. The first dye she’d tried had been a bust; although completely black in human-visible light, it appeared a downright ghastly shade to those crew members who saw in ultraviolet. So the ship’s stylist had concocted a dye that was guaranteed to absorb every wavelength of light visible to any Titancrew member, from terahertz microwaves up to high UV. It let her get through the day without the Caitian, Syrath, and Zaranite crew members laughing uncontrollably (or the equivalent) when she walked by. Yet it seemed to her—though it was most likely just her imagination—that all the EM energy her hair now absorbed was making her head unusually warm.
“That may be,” Riker replied, bringing her attention back to the briefing, “but from what you and Tuvok tell me, their prey definitely doesn’t see things the same way.”
“No. The star-jellies are horrified and confused by this. From what we saw, I don’t think they’re even capable of attacking their own kind.”
“Their failure to return fire is not conclusive,” Tuvok said. Now that there were no live jellies in range, Riker had seen fit to return him to duty. “Perhaps, as Mr. Jaza speculated, the astrocoelenterates can only fire while in armored mode. It appears to require significant time and energy to make the transformation—time and energy which they instead chose to focus on generating warpfields for escape.” Vale was amused by his reluctance to call them by such a frivolous name as “star-jellies.” Sometimes she was tempted to ask the Vulcans she met where the logic was in wasting breath on so many unnecessary syllables.
“Tuvok,” said Troi, “you felt what I felt. Did it seem to you that the jellies were even able to contemplate returning fire?”
“The most I can say is that their emotions were dominated by grief and panic rather than aggression. However, I am not as skilled in the interpretation of emotions as you, Counselor.” Though the words were an acknowledgment of deficiency, his voice conveyed it as a point of pride.
“Whatever their reasons,” Riker said, “I’m not willing to just stand by and let them be slaughtered. I think what we need to do is establish a dialogue between the species. Maybe if the Pa’haquel can hear directly from their victims, it’ll shake up some of their self-righteous assumptions. Meanwhile, we should do what we can to defend the star-jellies from further attacks. We won’t destroy any Pa’haquel vessels, but we’ll do whatever else we can to preserve star-jelly lives.”
Vale gave him a sharp look. “But Captain, the Prime Directive—”
“Does not prevent Starfleet vessels from responding to distress calls.”
“But there’s a difference between answering a cry for help and taking sides in a conflict.”
“This isn’t a war between sovereign states. This is the one-sided slaughter of innocent life-forms. Life-forms which have overtly requested our aid. In my opinion, we have not only the legal option, but the moral obligation to intervene.”
Vale looked down, pondering his words. Certainly she sympathized with his desire to help the jellies. She’d been trained as a peace officer, latest in a long line of Izarian peace officers, and it was second nature to her to serve and protect the innocent. And she certainly agreed that the star-jellies were magnificent, awe-inspiring creatures that should be cherished, not killed and gutted.
But her Starfleet training told her to be cautious about even the most well-intentioned interference in others’ affairs. By the letter of the law, Riker was correct. The Prime Directive, as it applied to starfaring powers, only forbade active interference in unaligned cultures’ wars and politics. It didn’t forbid giving humanitarian aid to those who requested it directly, or offering help in negotiating peaceful settlements. It allowed the granting of asylum to political refugees—something that could be construed as political interference, but was allowed under the Directive on the principle that it didn’t actually force any change on the foreign state itself, merely removed certain consenting individuals from that state’s influence. (Indeed, on Titan’s first mission, a Reman named Mekrikuk, who had helped Tuvok escape from a Romulan prison, had sought asylum and was now living comfortably back in Federation space.) Theoretically, protecting star-jellies from the hunters would be a similar act. Still, it felt more complicated than that.
As if confirming her thoughts, Jaza spoke up. “Can we be sure of that? Clearly the star-jellies can’t be entirely natural. Their internal gravity and lights, their warp and replication capabilities…even the shape of their internal passageways, the perfectly smooth floors, is too artificial.”
Riker furrowed his brow. “I always figured the attacking star-jelly we beamed to sixteen years ago was deliberately mimicking a ship, both inside and out, as some sort of protective camouflage.”
“But why would the creature trapped on Deneb have done the same? I read your report—that creature was hoping for rescue, not trying to hide. For that matter, the attacking creature had no reason to mislead you about its true nature. You posed no significant threat to it. And what we’ve seen here confirms that those corridors are part of their normal anatomy. I think it’s clear they’ve been artificially engineered, modified if not created by beings who wanted to use them as starships.”
Vale realized she was smiling at Jaza’s endearingly bookish enthusiasm. She immediately assumed a more detached expression and focused her gaze on the captain. She didn’t want to go down that road with Jaza again. At least, she hadn’t decided yet if she did. After her brush with death in the evacuation of Oghen, she had chosen to seize the moment and taken Jaza to bed. That night, in the warm afterglow, it had seemed so easy—if Riker and Troi could balance career and relationship, then so could she and Jaza. But with the clarity of the next morning had come doubts. Could she really treat the rest of the crew fairly if she had a relationship with him? Could she serve the demands of both her time-consuming job and a blossoming romance without compromising one or the other? And how did she really know Riker and Troi themselves could pull it off? So far they’d managed fairly well, but they hadn’t really faced a test yet, a situation requiring a choice between personal and professional priorities.