The Sound of Silence

Posted on 31 Jan 2015 @ 9:52pm by Lieutenant Olsam Mott & Ensign Arandon Khnailmnae Ph.D.

1,909 words; about a 10 minute read

Mission: Episode 07 - Sojourn
Location: USS Galileo - Deck 3, Quarters 03-1305 JO
Timeline: MD43: 2200hrs

[ ON ]

Olsam emerged from the bathroom after spending the past 37 minutes utilizing the waste extraction unit and going through his nightly routine of getting ready for bed, including a ten minute dental hygiene regimen designed specifically for him by his dentist brother. His evening ensemble could only be described as a muumuu, though it may very well have been a repurposed emergency parachute. The billowing yellow dress had a lovely tropical fruit pattern, displaying everything from passion fruit and papaya to mango and pineapple; the jarring pattern and loud color seemed to clash with his blue skin tone though if there was a fashion violation in the outfit then Olsam was completely unaware of it. He'd chosen to top off the wardrobe with a traditional Bolian sleeping cap, which amounted to an enormous orange woolen knit cap that presumably kept his bald head warm at night.

"Are you ready for night-nights?" Olsam asked Arandon.

Arandon sat on the couch, doing Punnett squares of the plants he had planted in the arboretum earlier in the evening. It was a pretty basic exercise and could easily be done electronically but Arandon liked the feel of pen and paper for these 'mundane' pieces of science. Plus, then they went into a very lovely book that Arandon's father had given him, and he didn't have much else to put in there, so notes and charts on various flora did well enough. Not prying his eyes away from his work he didn't see the colorful display Mott had on, and spoke softly, almost in a mumble. "Not yet."

Olsam started to make his way past the young man toward the bedroom but stopped in his tracks; the billowing muumuu seemed to continue forward movement for a few moments before finally coming to a rest as well. The first gasp was mild, but the second one seemed to suck at least 47% of the oxygen out of the room. It was full of horror and surprise, sounds of which seemed to be getting caught in the Bolian's throat. His mouth gaped, worked up and down, and then finally he seemed to recover his ability to speak (for it was never gone for too long): "Is that...paper!?"

Arandon looked up at Mott to respond to his question but was first blinded by the utter fashion war crime he had on. The muumuu, the hat, the Bolian underneath, dear Great Goddess it was too much. "I..." he couldn't form words with what he saw before him. "...think...yes."

"Can I touch it?" Olsam asked, cautiously easing toward Arandon. The size of the muumuu seemed to make him much larger than life, a giant floating cloud of tropical fruit hovering over the young botanist.

Arandon could only nod his head, a bit meekly, letting out a small affirmative sound. He was still quite speechless from the travesty Mott had on. It was as if all the tacky tourist outfits he had seen as a child had been compartmentalized into the Bolian Doctor's single garment. He tried to look away but he couldn't and kept his eyes on the Doctor as he leaned down to touch Arandon's papers.

Olsam picked up the papers in his hands with extraordinary reverence, as if he were taking hold of the Lissepian crown jewels. He turned it over in his hands and then worked the sheet between his thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back and continued the motion, breaking it only long enough to bring the sheets of paper up to his nose to inhale deeply of their fragrance. It seemed like a deeply...personal...experience for him.

"It smells so good," he said, finally opening his eyes. He looked down at Arandon, but seemed reluctant to return the papers. "We didn't really develop paper on Bolarus. There are very few trees, and even fewer plant species with a suitable cellulose content. We tried using seaweed, but as you can imagine that didn't work out very well. So paper is a rarity for us. It's just so beautiful. You can feel every imperfection, every bump and groove, when you glide your fingertips over it. It's just... It's a wonderful feeling, isn't it?"

Arandon's shock over fashion, began to subside with Mott's words. Unusual as he was, Arandon found it difficult to disagree with the Bolian man's appraisal of paper. It was a bit sensuous, especially parchment like this, crafted from pulp and made traditionally, instead of out of recycled matter and material. "I've always thought so," he said in a soft and musing tone.

Olsam shuffled through the short stack and with great delight, like a child opening presents on a holiday morning, he plucked a blank one and cradled it close while handing the others back in Arandon's direction. "Do you think maybe I could keep one sheet? Please? I just... I never get to have any paper. My mum always told me I wasn't responsible enough to use it, so all my brothers and sisters would get paper for the Ninth of Saltspray and I just got some pod fruits. I only wanna hold it for a little bit, maybe just for a night? I could rent it from you. I've got some gold-pressed latinum to pay for it. Or I could give you one of my Bolian hand juicers, from out of storage. I'll take good care of it, I promise. Not even one wrinkle or crease, just like new!"

Arandon honestly did not know what to say. Never having used paper? It was an interesting notion. Arandon had seen many cultures or at least, individual representatives of many cultures, but never had he encountered one that desired paper as a commodity. "Sure," he said with a certain look in his eye, one of utter confusion. "free of charge Mott. All that is ours is yours." Arandon repeated the Risian mantra for emphasis.

Those words might some day come back to haunt the poor man, but for the moment there seemed to be little in the universe that could have made Olsam happier. His eyes lit up. He drew in a sharp breath. Even a little squeal eked its way past his lips. "Really? All of it?" Suddenly, he seemed to be overcome with guilt. "No. No, no, I couldn't. It's too much." But then a darker look passed over his face, one that seemed self-serving in nature. "Then again, one should never decline a gift. It's terribly rude." In the end, he seemed to settle on keeping the papers, taking great care not to disturb them too much while pressing them against his chest. "I'll find some way of repaying you, honest."

Arandon was teetering the line between regretting his previous words and appreciating the Bolian's now somewhat sensitive attitude. "So how have your people recorded things? Is your language entirely oral?"

Olsam shifted on his feet once or twice, causing corresponding ripples to flow through his evening muumuu. "We are excellent verbal communicators, but no. We were fortunate enough that Bolarus provided for its people, as it always does. We used flatrokks, which come from these rock formations created by the vast seas that cover the planet. They produce very thin but very strong flakes of rock that are almost like a sheaf of paper. So we have, like, rock paper. And special pens that go with them. But we invented computer systems very early on. Believe it or not, we're one of the most technologically advanced civilizations in the Federation. We, uh, just had a few global wars that set things back a bit, as wars tend to do."

Arandon gave a small huff of a laugh. "I suppose they do. People on my world used to think that the constant earthquakes were signs from the Gods, only there was no rhyme or reason to it. It took millennia to get where we are today."

Olsam grinned as the Risian laughed; his new mission in life, should he choose to accept it (and he did), was to make Arandon like him. He knew it would be difficult as he wasn't as qualified as he'd hoped to reach out to a shy sex cultist but with time and patience he was confident he could crack the shell. It had been easier with Teth because they were both on Earth for an extended period of time where he could just invite himself to Miir family functions and slowly but surely ingratiate himself to them.

"Yes, everyone's ancestors were quite stupid," the Bolian agreed, nodding his head. He fidgeted with his hands and the paper, unsure what to do or say next. "I, uh, suppose I should go to sleep. Will you stay up working? Sometimes Teth stayed up working, too. That was my old roommate. He was a cat. Don't worry, though, it won't disturb me. I can't hear or see anything when I fall asleep." His brow creased momentarily, and he opened his mouth to correct himself. An open-ended statement like that to someone who kept one of those sex things in the bedroom might be too much of an invitation. "For the most part, I mean. I'm sure I'd still wake up if there was a lot of loud noise and movement."

Arandon nodded, he rarely made noise or drew any kind of attention to himself so Mott wouldn't have to worry about his sleep being disrupted. And unless Mott was as loud of a sleeper as he was a dresser, Arandon shouldn't have any problems either. It was certainly an experience, rooming with the Bolian Doctor, but at the moment, it was a bearable one, even if it did make Arandon question if he could find another roommate. Going back to his squares and charts, Arandon said quietly to Mott, "Goodnight Doctor."

"Night-night," Olsam said cheerily, taking one last look at the young man's work. He seemed like a dedicated worker, and the Bolian appreciated that in another person.

Humming to himself, the moving mass of tropical fruit print disappeared into the bedroom. And then, a few moments after the lights went out, it started. At first it must have sounded like a low vibration that could have easily been chalked up to a misalignment in the ship's navigation system or maybe a malfunctioning ODN junction. But its intensity grew larger and louder so that after a few moments it sounded like a localized quantum singularity was ripping the bedroom apart at the subatomic level. With every inhale and exhale it seemed as if there were minute, almost imperceptible changes in atmospheric pressure in the room as air masses circulated in and out of the living area like storm fronts, drawn by the power of Bolian lungs.

Arandon sighed softly. His cynical mind had foreseen this, hadn't it? "Computer, isolate the frequency of the radiating sound coming from the Bolian lifesign and erect a dampening field, modulate it to the specifications of program Khnailmnae: Cohabitation." The computer beeped in response and the field hummed as it came online, before fading into nothing, as did the sound of Mott's snoring. Arandon didn't turn up from his work during the entirety of this process and he merely muttered to himself, "I've had roommates before Doctor."

[ OFF ]

Lieutenant Olsam Mott, M.D.
Assistant Chief Medical Officer
USS Galileo

&

Ensign Arandon Khnailmnae, Ph.D.
Botanist
USS Galileo

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