Not that he didn’t enjoy the perks.
* * *
The colony vessel loomed larger. It was not overwhelmingly vast—it looked like the living quarters, work areas, and supply sections formed by the six interconnected globes were spacious.
I must remember to ask exactly how many colonists there are, Kirk reminded himself as Spock maneuvered the shuttle into the welcoming open bay of the Eparthaa.
As the science officer set the shuttle down and the bay doors closed behind them, the three visitors had their first opportunity to examine aspects of Perenorean engineering. It was, Kirk decided as he peered out the shuttle’s forward port, oddly indistinct. In place of the usual highly visible conduits and instrumentation one would expect to find on any other starship, there were only a few ivory-hued bumps and ridges. Perhaps for aesthetic reasons, he thought. The Perenoreans might prefer to conceal their engineering works. The absence of in-your-face material did not necessarily mean a lack of skill.
Leaderesque Taell was there to greet them. As the three Starfleet visitors made fine adjustments to their translation earbuds and the translator systems woven into their uniforms, the Leaderesque alternated speaking with a pair of dignitaries who accompanied him in spilling a stream of embarrassingly effusive praise on the Starfleet officers. By the time the last of the formal welcome speeches had concluded, the translator algorithms had both the guests and their hosts conversing without difficulty.
Their grammar is pretty straightforward and simple, the Enterprise’s communications officer had explained earlier, but their vocabulary will take some time to process. It’s quirky.
Essential communication would not be a problem, Uhura had assured them. She was confident in the ability of the ship’s science officer to make any necessary on-the-spot corrections.
They were led through a corridor and onto an internal conveyor. Unlike the turbolifts aboard the Enterprise, the Perenorean lift seemed to follow a variety of curves. Was this too a decision driven by aesthetics? Kirk wondered.
Expecting to be transported to the Eparthaa’s bridge, or its engineering section, or perhaps a conference chamber of some kind, the visitors were surprised to find themselves in a sickbay.
Not a sickbay, McCoy thought. A triage area.
In line with the Perenoreans’ slightly smaller stature, the ceiling was low, though not claustrophobically so. The large room, the original purpose of which remained obscure, was filled with what appeared to be a variety of inflatable pads or cushions. Administering medication or treatment as needed, Perenorean medical technicians moved among the dozens of wounded. Interrupted by the occasional soft, whistling cries of injured younglings, the dominant sound in the chamber was a persistent collective mewling around the visitors.
Taell’s multijointed arm rose and fell like a dancer’s as he pointed out individual survivors. “You see before you the consequences of relentless Dre’kalak pursuit and attack. If not for your timely intervention, my friends, all you see receiving treatment here would likely be dead.”
McCoy looked to Kirk. “Jim, if you and our hosts don’t mind, I’d like to help. Certainly I can learn something.”
Taell’s ears folded forward and down in the doctor’s direction: the Perenorean equivalent of a polite bow. “As you wish, noble physician. Any assistance you can render will be welcomed, even if it is no more than a thought or a suggestion. We are always eager to learn from our betters.”
McCoy flushed. “Hey now, nobody said anything about anyone being better than anyone else. I’m just hoping to learn a little about your physical makeup.” He held up the tricorder he had brought with him. “I’d like your permission to take some readings.”
“Do as you wish, physician.” Taell’s remarkably flexible ears folded forward a second time. “We will provide you with an escort suitable to your expertise. You will be welcomed wherever you go and may ask whatever questions you wish.” The small mouth pooched slightly forward, like a human blowing a kiss. “But be warned. You will likely have to suffer many questions in return.”
McCoy smiled. “I’m not shy. Happy to share information.”
The Enterprise’s science officer was less enthused. “Stay within visual range, Doctor.”
“Relax, Spock.” McCoy was already wading in among the closely packed patients and their solicitous attendants. “If an unforeseen problem should develop, Mister Scott has a transporter lock.”
While McCoy immersed himself in the rudiments of Perenorean medicine as they waited for his special guide to arrive, Kirk and Spock were given a more formal tour of the expanded hospital sector. Just as in the shuttlebay, there was a notable paucity of visible instrumentation: only a great deal of what appeared to be white-clad conduits and apparatus buried in the walls, deck, and overhead. When queried, Taell was quick to explain.
“The equipment and mechanisms are present; it is just that we prefer to keep such things out of sight.”
“Is it a matter of aesthetics?” Spock asked, precisely echoing Kirk’s previous thoughts.
Once again, Taell gestured with his ears. “Yes, that, and also of practicality. The smooth surfaces that you seem to find so remarkable everywhere exist because they are difficult to bump into or trip over.”
Kirk nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense. Can’t trip over a pipe or cable that’s been subsumed into the body of the ship.”
A new Perenorean approached, halted, and ear-bowed. His face was the narrowest of any they had seen thus far. It was matched by the solemnity of his attitude and voice. There was about him the suggestion of great age.
“Most honored guests, I am Founoh. As masteresque physician in charge of colony well-being, I have been asked to solicit the advice of your own ship’s doctor.”
“That’d be me.” Stepping forward, McCoy extended a hand. Founoh studiously regarded it.
“Thank you for your kind offer, but I already have a sufficiency of my own.”
“Excuse me?” McCoy did a double take, then chuckled. “Well, well; right off we learn that the Perenoreans have a highly developed sense of humor.”
“Your pardon, Doctor,” commented Spock, “but the reply struck me as a perfectly logical response to your straightforward offer.”
“Yeah, it would.” Smiling, McCoy gently reached out to take the elderly Perenorean’s more delicate seven-fingered, double-jointed hand in his own and carefully moved it up and down. “Among my species, this is a common method of extending a friendly greeting. We call it a handshake. Do you have an equivalent?”
Founoh acquiesced to the contact. “One might lick the ear of another.”
McCoy flinched slightly. “Why don’t we stick to the human method for a while? I can always try yours later.”
“Perfectly satisfactory.” Turning, Founoh gestured into the interior of the vast chamber. “If you would care to accompany me, I will try, in my wholly inadequate way, to acquaint you with some details of Perenorean physiology. It may be that our internal systems are not so different, and you may be able to offer some assistance. At the moment, we are a bit overwhelmed with the number of injuries. Any suggestions you might have will be greatly appreciated.”
“I’ll do what I can and learn as I go.” In the face of broken bodies and crushed bones, too many of them belonging to younglings, McCoy activated his tricorder, eager to start.