Log Entry 130518.62

The nine months that I have served in Starfleet have passed by in a flash, unlike today, which has dragged on interminably. Waiting until my appointment with Dr Roosevelt has left me distracted, but finally the time came to go. I tidied my desk shabbily and hastened through the corridors towards sickbay, my nerves frayed. As I entered, I was fully aware how nervous I was, that I was wringing my hands but still I couldn't prevent myself from doing it.
Dr Roosevelt appeared almost instantly and smiled reassuringly at me.
"Ah, Cadet Terran. Come through."
He led me into a consultation room where he removed the neural scanner and set it to download its contents into the medical computer for analysis. While the program was running, he explained his findings so far.
"Well, I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear that physically, I can find nothing to indicate that you are anything other than Terran, Cadet Terran." His brow furrowed at the awkward repetition in the sentence.
It was a relief though, and I felt myself relax and slump.
"As to your psychology, let's have a look at these neural patterns," and he turned the screen around so that we could study them together.
It was all just squiggly lines to me, but Dr Roosevelt studied it with interest.
"All very normal," he finally declared, but his voice betrayed that he still had concerns. I said as much.
"Hmm, yes. As usual Cadet Terran, your perceptions are correct. Tell me about your day yesterday," and he leaned back in his chair waiting for me to recount the details.
I wasn't quite sure what he was getting at but I obliged and told him all about my very ordinary afternoon followed by the evening in Starboard-7. I recounted the evening in detail, and he asked questions, eager to discover my emotional state. Did I laugh? Did I cry? Was I happy or sad? Was I pleased to see everybody? So I told him everything that I could recall. He was particularly interested to hear my trepidation at meeting Karl again.
(I omitted the bit about my silly turn in the corridor afterwards; the one where I thought I wasn't alone. I didn't need him thinking I was batty after all.)
"Why?" I asked at the end, but still he wouldn't answer.
"I'd like to do a psych analysis."
"Okay," I said. I've done one of those before so it didn't worry me.
"A more in-depth one to any you will have done before—more intense."
"Okay," I said, this time a little more dubious, and I was right to be concerned.
A psych analysis consists of looking at a series of images consisting of things as cute as puppies and kittens to more stressful images of people in pain and suchlike. Your reactions to them are recorded and analysed.
What I didn't bank on was the extent of the images Roosevelt was going to show me. Without giving you the same nightmares I will no doubt endure tonight, it was a mixture of the cute and cuddly with the most horrific images you can imagine, as well as some of a perverse or sexual nature. I soon realised what he was doing and began to dread the next image. Would it be nice or nasty, soothing or shocking?
The test seemed to go on forever. I was truly thankful when it was over.
"You okay?" Roosevelt asked, concerned and then I said the most stupid thing.
"Yes thank you, Rosie."
Please do not ask me why I called him Rosie. It just fell out of my mouth and I instantly felt very embarrassed and stupid, but he just looked at me and said nothing for a while. Finally, he spoke.
"Why did you call me Rosie?" he asked.
"I ... I ... I don't know. I'm sorry. It just ... I don't know. I am so sorry," and I blushed as red as a command uniform.
"Tell me, Cadet Terran, have you been looking at my personnel record?"
"No!" I screamed at him. "Why the hell would I do that?"
An uncomfortable smile twitched across his face.
"Because no one has called me that since my Academy days."
"Perhaps I've heard someone else call you it then?" I ventured, desperate to find a reason but he shook his head.
"No. No one here has ever called me Rosie. As I say, no one has called me that in over thirty years."
I was beginning to feel very uncomfortable about myself.
"What does the psych test say?" I asked, eager to change the subject.
He drew a sharp breath, apparently as happy to abandon the topic as I was, and looked at the data.
"The neural scanner is, as before, normal—at least normal for someone reading a very dull maintenance manual, but you weren't reading a book. Yesterday evening, you experienced a mixture of emotions that should have registered on the neural scanner but didn't. There are no highs or lows, just normal sedentary readings.
"During your psych test, your facial expressions and the dilation of your pupils correctly showed your levels of stress, pleasure, surprise or shock. Your neural scans, though, say ... normal. Normal, normal, normal."
I gulped.
"What does that mean?"
He shrugged.
"It either means you're a damned good actress or that these readings are incorrect."
"But how could that be?"
He shrugged again.
"Perhaps you have developed a way to mask your neural patterns."
"But I wouldn't know how to do that! I'm only a Human for goodness sake!"
He scowled at me, turned the monitor back towards himself and worked at it for a moment.
"Hmm," he said.
"What does 'hmm' mean?" I demanded.
He swivelled the monitor back to me.
"You see this?" he asked.
I recognised it as a DNA pattern.
"That's your DNA. All very normal. All very Human and yet ..." he began pointing at the code indicators. "Now I look at it again, I wouldn't expect to see this indicator with this one ... or that one with that one—not in the same DNA strand anyway."
"But I don't understand. You just said it was normal."
"And it is. It's all very normal, but just as you wouldn't expect to find a black African with bright blue eyes, I wouldn't expect to see these particular indicators in the same DNA strand."
"But ..." I stuttered. "What does that mean?"
"I have no idea, Cadet, but I suspect there is more going on here than meets the eye."
As I walked back to my quarters, my mind was in turmoil. I barely noticed the shadows following me.

Log Entry 130511.61

Eager to verify my origins, I headed straight back to my office and accessed my personnel records. Some might say that was an abuse of my position, but the way I viewed it, if I wasn't supposed to access them, I wouldn't be able to. Not unexpectedly though, they state that I am Human.
In theory then, I should have been satisfied with that. It is quite feasible that, just as some Humans show more telepathic ability than others, one Human might be more resistant to a Betazoid's telepathy than another, but I doubted it, not without specialist training as Karl had suggested. I had to confirm my species.
Having taken T'Roc's advice and memorised the ship's schematics, I headed directly to sickbay without diversion. It was only as I ploughed in through the doors that I realised how possessed I was, or rather, the looks on the medical teams' faces told me.
Having plunged through the doors, the three members of the medical team looked up, startled, and I caught sight of my reflection in the glass panel opposite. I hardly recognised myself. My fists were balled, my head thrust forward, my eyes narrow and my stance aggressive with a look of stolid determination on my face. That wasn't like me at all ... or was it? Is this how I look when I have my mind set on something?
"Good morning Cadet."
To the far side of the room, a man had appeared, tall and with hair as white as platinum. He was of mature years, in his early fifties I'd say, and Human. His uniform and insignia told me that he was the Chief Medical Officer, Dr Bertram Roosevelt, and he looked at me with pale blue eyes and deep concern on his face.
"Terran, sir. Jenny Terran."
"Doctor will do, Cadet, and what can I do for you? You seem a little ..." his words trailed off.
"Um, yes ..." I paused. Everybody was still looking at me and I didn't want to do this in public. Suddenly I felt silly. What was I supposed to say?
"Could we talk in private?" I enquired.
"Yes of course," and he swept his hand in a graceful arc indicating the way. I followed his direction, entered his office and took a seat while he claimed his behind the desk, leaning back leisurely.
"So, how can I help you?" he asked, his voice gravelly, yet gentle and tolerant.
My mind began formulating the question into something less dumb than 'excuse me, doctor, but am I Human?'
"Am I Human?" I asked.
My mind had failed miserably and his eyebrows rose in humour. However, he said nothing as he accessed his database and studied the records.
"Well, medicals to date indicate you are Human and you certainly look it to me, but I suspect that you have a reason for asking."
"Might something have changed since my last medical?" I pressed.
With a patience gained from years of dealing with sickly young crewmen, Dr Roosevelt rose with a medical tricorder and began to waft it around my head and torso.
"Not that is immediately evident," he assured me softly. "So what has happened to make you suspect something is amiss?"
I must have stared at him for a while as I debated because he pressed me further. I was wishing I hadn't come. I was feeling rather stupid: behaving like a hypochondriac new crewman, but I knew I had passed the point of no return. If I left his office now and said nothing more, my strange behaviour would be logged as just that. So with reluctance, I told him about the events in Starboard-7. Dr Roosevelt listened intently until I finished my tale.
"Okay, but let's put this into perspective. This is probably nothing," he soothed, and I had to agree with him. "But you'd like to be sure."
I nodded.
"Well, that's not a problem. I'll take some scans and monitor your neural patterns for a day."
"That means wearing a scanner, doesn't it?"
"Yes. Is that a problem?"
"I'd rather people didn't know."
"Didn't know what? That you might be a Human with an unusual ability to avoid telepathic reading?" he smiled. "Or are you thinking something more sinister?"
I baulked because he was right. I hadn't realised it but I was actually frightened about what I might find.
"You can always explain that having heard about your ability, I was the one that approached you about this, if that would make you feel better."
It did, so I agreed.
About forty minutes later, after a barrage of scans and sample taking, I left sickbay with a small neural scanner attached to the side of my temple. I thought it would annoy me, but it didn't. I was hardly aware of its presence at all.
The rest of the day passed without event, although when I got back to my office, I found a communiqué waiting for me: an invitation to join a large group of the former Drakonia crew in Starboard-7.
I was a bit dubious about going at first. I wasn't sure I wanted to meet Karl again, but then thought what the heck. If Dr Roosevelt wanted neural readings, perhaps seeing Karl again would encourage a repeat performance of my telepathic cloaking device.
I was glad I went too. It was the first real opportunity I'd had to see everyone again: Al, Luke, Arcaran, Icarus, Gideon, Midas and most surprisingly of all—Rutter! We did look a hotchpotch of species too, but as we chatted away, my troubles were soon forgotten. Even Karl was 'normal' around me.
So what have the others been up to?
Al, as you know, is part of the Security Team and Luke has got the promotion he so yearned for: Lieutenant, Junior Grade. He is still posted in Engineering, which is his area of expertise, but has more responsibilities which pleases him no end.
Arcaran, our Andorian, who had been reluctant to join the Earhart, was much happier now that he was on board. He had been invited to enrol on a number of training courses to develop his skills, particularly piloting and survival.
Icarus, who had not been posted to the Earhart originally, had applied to join the Science team here. He had joined Starfleet in General Maintenance as it was the only available opening at the time, but it was a waste of his skills bearing in mind his extensive list of scientific qualifications gained in civilian education. He was delighted therefore, when his application was accepted after just one short interview with T'Roc.
Gideon always accepted whatever life threw at him with a cheery smile, so nothing had changed there, but Midas?
Unbeknownst to me, with true Vulcan logic, he had signed up to the PDP too and spent his three months at the Luna Shipyards under the guidance of Doctor Leah Brahms studying warp technology and propulsion. On the Drakonia, he'd also been in maintenance for similar reasons to Icarus, namely that it was his only way in. He had no formal training in engineering, but he was born on board his family's cargo ship. A civilian ship, it was their home as well as their livelihood and from a very early age, he would be found in the engine room with his brothers, keeping the ship moving. He was, therefore, just formalising his qualifications.
As for Rutter, well, it was quite odd seeing him sitting among us all: Klingon, Vulcan, Andorian, and I wondered who had invited him. It turned out he came with Al! That was a turn-up for the books!
The evening passed very quickly and I admit, I was the first to retire. I was shattered and was feeling a bit guilty about leaving Beastie on her own for so long.
As I ambled down the corridors back to my quarters, I was debating the curiosity of deck numbering. Starboard-7 is on Deck 7 but we call it G Deck, so why is it sometimes called Deck 7 and sometimes G Deck? I had just concluded that it was to do with the Designers preferring numbers and the Developers, letters when, without reason, I suddenly stopped.
I turned around and looked about trying to figure out why. Was I expecting to see somebody or find something lurking in the shadows? But I was alone and there were no shadows.
Still, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle and a cool shiver run down my spine for no explicable reason. I brushed the sensations aside as whimsical and carried on my way wondering if the Earhart did have ghosts after all.

Log Entry 130504.60

My first three days aboard the Earhart have passed so quickly. I've not even had chance to get together with Luke, Al or anybody else for that matter. Whenever one of us has been free, the other hasn't. Never mind, we will catch up sooner or later. In the meantime, I've been very busy learning my new role. I had no idea just how much administration was involved in running a starship. Every department completes status reports, and these need to be prioritised and collated ready for the Captain. That sounds simple, but it's a lot more complicated than you'd think.
For example, the Engineering report today mentioned that a minor misalignment in one of the plasma coils caused a defect that required the cleansing and resealing of neighbouring systems. Besides the repair works, an investigation had to be launched to find the cause, a solution proposed and approved as to how the problem could be prevented from recurring, followed by a period of monitoring to ensure the measures taken were working, an order issued to replenish supplies used in the maintenance work, someone then had to follow it up to make sure the order was fulfilled, etc, etc, etc.
In other words, many departments were involved to one degree or another and the Captain needs to know about it all, if only in summary.
While I was going through the various reports though, I noticed a timetabling error on one of the Cadet rosters. That led me to check them all and as a result of that, I found another two such errors—small, granted, but they still needed addressing.
Solution: I arranged an additional meeting between the mentors and cadets affected, so they could correct the problem themselves. It was for that reason that I was on my way to Starboard-7.
Starboard-7 is our equivalent of The Galley or Ten-Forward as it is known on larger ships (it being on Deck 10 and at the very front of the ship). Being a much smaller ship with only fifteen decks, our Ten-Forward is on Deck 7 enjoying views on the starboard side of the ship.
I had suggested that Rutter, Al and I met there, partly because I wanted to check it out, but also because I was a little apprehensive about Rutter and Al. This would be the first time that the two of them had met properly since our squabble, and I wanted it to be an informal meeting.
As it was, my concerns were completely misplaced. Both of them seem to have decided to brush any past incidences aside and start afresh. I think we've all grown up quite significantly over the past few months.
We entered Starboard-7 and took a moment to admire it. Bearing in mind the size of the Earhart, the facilities surprised us, but pleasantly so. It's quite a bit more salubrious than The Galley—much more like a Ten-Forward, and even comes with its own barman, Karl Vernai.
I was very much looking forward to meeting Karl. He's half Betazoid, one of the races I have never encountered. As we approached the bar, Karl had his back to us. He heard our approach and turned to greet his new customers, but seemed a little surprised when he saw the three of us. He even shook his head as though shaking off a moment's confusion.
We ordered some beverages, settled ourselves at a table by the window and began to compare our timetables. I couldn't help noticing that Karl kept casting me sidelong glances though. It was very curious. Al and Rutter both noticed it too.
As for our timetables, there were soon rectified so we finished our drinks, chatting amiably about our impressions of the Earhart so far. Al, we both noticed, kept yawning.
"Keeping you up are we?" asked Rutter. It's funny, I knew he was pulling her leg but Al answered him in all seriousness.
"No," she said, yawning widely again. "Just—what did they used to call it? Jetlag. I'm on a different sleep pattern to the rest of you at the moment."
She went on to explain that on a Marine ship, there were no day and nightshifts, just shifts that ensured there was always a full compliment of crew operating at full capacity at any given time. It's quite sensible really, but it's not a scheme carried over to ordinary starships because Humans—and many other species, in fact—find it comforting that the ship slips into a period to imitate night.
Al was about six hours out of kilter when she came aboard and with the transfer from her Marine contingent to the Earhart's security team (as had always been the plan) she had ended up pulling two double shifts when she came on board.
"It's just a little sleep. I'll catch up soon enough."
Rutter was eager to ensure the problem was sorted, and she assured him it was. He then offered her a few hours off. The look of horror on her face was a picture.
"Ignoring the fact, I'm a Klingon," I never thought I'd hear her say that. "—can you imagine what the Marines would say! No way, Buster! I'll be fine by tomorrow."
We both grinned at that.
Our business concluded, we took our empty glasses back to the bar. Karl still kept giving me funny looks. It was odd, so in true Terran style, I asked him about it. He smiled, a little embarrassed and explained.
"Sorry. It's just that I've never met a Human like you before."
I rolled my eyes, dreading the infamous Jenny Terran drivel again.
"Yes, one I can't read."
I stepped back, treading on Rutter's toes, but he ignored it. We had all balked at what he'd said.
"What do you mean: can't read?" I pressed.
"Well, if I didn't know better, I'd have thought you were a Ferengi."
It's a well-known fact that Betazoids can't read Ferengi, but Humans are a piece of cake for them. The look on my face begged him to explain further.
"I may be only half Betazoid, and true, I've always been a little below average with my telepathic skills but I can still sense people—their feelings and so on. I felt the tension between Ensign Rutter and Cadet Johnson the moment you walked in, and I felt it dispel over the course of your meeting, but you? I sense nothing. You are as blank to me as an android or a Ferengi."
"But I'm Human!"
He shrugged.
"I'd suggest not entirely so. Either that or you've undergone some very extensive mental training."
My mind felt numb as I left Starboard-7.
I am Human. I have always been told that, but what if they are wrong? What if I'm not Human at all? What am I then?
For the first time in my life, I want to know who I am and where I came from.