Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft - The Deaf Elephant Protocol
Carter Schimpff
(( Main Mess Hall, Deck 3, USS Artemis-A ))
Bancroft: The prototype – well, what’s left of it – is currently residing in exile on Deck 11. ::grinning:: Field trip?
Roy was trying to sound breezy. Like this was nothing. Like the phrase ‘residing in exile’ was just a bit of whimsy and not, in fact, the official classification some junior Operations Department functionary had stamped on the log after The Incident.
Tho’Bi: ::nodding:: field trip.
The way Tho’Bi said it – mouth half-occupied by the partially-masticated remains of a structurally questionable sandwich – reminded Roy of an overenthusiastic substitute teacher trying to keep field trip energy from spilling into full-scale mutiny.
Still, the gesture was appreciated. Both of these lunatics had shown up for him, and that meant a lot.
Tho'Bi: ::chunky chews:: One or two? ::chunky swallow:: Cargo bay?
Roy frowned, his shoulders slumping slightly.
Bancroft: No, not in one of the cargo bays. Ops decided, against my passionate and wildly logical protests, to store it in the ::sighing:: Hazardous Materials Lab. Apparently ‘the risk of spontaneous combustion’ would trigger too much PADDwork.
Which, to be fair, was probably the most efficient sentence anyone could have used to describe both Starfleet bureaucracy and much of Roy Bancroft’s general reputation away missions.
Imril: Am I the only one who remembers that power cells and combustible materials can be removed from an item before storing it away? I mean, there are procedures for that sort of thing.
Roy winced. Not because Imril was wrong – Imril was never wrong, a trait Roy alternately respected and wanted to throw a lunch tray at – but because Roy had, in fact, made a similar argument to the officer on duty in the Hazardous Materials Lab just before saying, “oh no, it’s on fire again.”
Tho'Bi: ::Recitative:: In the event of the removal of power cell and/or combustible materials proving too dangerous or impractical, the piece of equipment/technology in question should be stored as one…. Eh…. unit… piece…. …section 12, subsection 4, paragraph 9? …no, 7. …4? …11?
Bancroft: ::dryly:: I was hoping something like Section Twelve, Subsection… whatever… would have helped my case. ::long pause:: Truthfully, I think they were terrified to touch it.
He tucked his hands into the front pocket of his Artemis Medical Department hoodie, the remains of his breakfast left behind on the table. It was poetic, he thought – particularly the spoon, left standing stuck in the now-congealed oatmeal like a tiny, shining monument to failure.
Imril: It seems to me that what you’ve come up with here is a variation on a psychotricorder. One that maps and translates a person's nervous system rather than the part of their brain that stores short-term memories. That could be gear to look to as a guidepost for refining and streamlining your prototype. ::teacherly voice:: And streamlining is very important if you want to get approval for expanded production. R&D honchos always want to read about how efficient a tool is going to be, and help others to be. Oh, and lots of little blinking lights that don't readily appear to do anything but blink. They love those.
Roy listened while walking, his stride slowing just a bit as he absorbed Imril’s words. This wasn’t an offhand comment – a comparison to the psychotricorder was no small thing.
It also implied, however loosely, that Roy had built something almost functional, which was a frankly ludicrous accusation given the prototype’s tendency to scream.
Tho'Bi: ::chunky chews:: Blinking lights, check.
Bancroft: ::mock insulted:: I’ll have you know that I did put lots of blinking lights on it. ::thoughtfully:: In the end, they were probably the only element of W.H.I.M.P.E.R. that worked on purpose.
Imril: Might I suggest a rename, though? ‘W.H.I.M.P.E.R.’ doesn’t set a soothing impression in the mind of a patient of what the device is going to do to them. You don't go around calling laser scalpels Stabby Burny Sticks, do you?
There was a sudden, wet splortch. Roy flinched.
A missile of partially-chewed sandwich had just launched itself from Tho’Bi’s mouth and detonated against a nearby control panel.
Tho'Bi: ::through chunky chews:: Uh Oh.
Tho'Bi: ::calling after the Bajoran:: Sorry! ::chunky swallow:: Fixed it!
Bancroft: ::good naturedly:: Right. That’s what’s keeping us out of mass production. Not the combustion or the screaming. It’s the branding. ::sighing:: Your point is well taken. We’ll rebrand it. Something elegant, like “The Device Formerly Known as a Cry For Help” maybe.
He paused for a second and watched as Tho’Bi recalibrated himself – for a moment wondering which was more accident prone: his prototype, or one of the two engineers he’d brought along to try and fix the infernal thing.
Bancroft: You… gonna make it, Thobes?
Tho’Bi: It was Imril's fault… they made me laugh ::shrugs:: Stabby Burny Sticks ::grins and chuckles::
Bancroft: ::dryly:: Just wait until I introduce you two to the Zappy Slicy Forceps. They’re a real crowd-pleaser in obstetrics. Just ask Dr. Richards.
Imril: You know engineers. We love to change things.
(( Turbolift from Deck 3 to Deck 11 ))
The doors hissed closed, the three officers inside the turbolift brimming with the kind of hopeful energy typically reserved for haunted houses and mandatory training seminars.
Tho'Bi: ::chunky chews:: Def eff-leff-un
Computer: Please Repeat.
Tho'Bi: ::chunky chews:: Deff eeff-leeff-uunn
Computer: Deaf Elephant. Unknown designation.
Roy exhaled and closed his eyes. Somewhere, in a parallel reality, a deaf elephant had just been pinged. He hoped it was having a better morning than he was.
Bancroft: ::looking to the ceiling:: We’ve all lost arguments to the turbolift, buddy. The key is to pretend you were trying to say ‘Deaf Elephant’ all along, and it’s the computer’s fault it doesn’t understand.
Imril: Responses
Tho’Bi: What about psycho-corder?
Bancroft: ::snorting:: I’ll add that to the list of possible new names, right next to “Probably Won’t Spontaneously Combust 3000.”
Imril: Response
Tho’Bi: Psycorder?
Bancroft: The psycho-tricorder was mostly for mental health professionals. Brain-wave analysis, memory continuity checks, that sort of thing. ::voice dipping:: They fell out of favor a while ago. Too many operators wound up with what the incident reports charmingly called ‘sticky ends.’ ::shrugging uneasily:: Possessed murder entity, sudden corporeal manifestation… you know… occupational hazards.
Imril: Responses
(( Deck 11, USS Artemis-A ))
The hallway outside the Hazardous Materials Lab felt colder, somehow. Not in temperature – climate control aboard the Artemis was superb – but in vibe. Like the corridor knew what kind of nonsense had been banished to the lowest depths of the ship.
Tho'Bi: How many evil super computers do you think they have in there?
Bancroft: ::confidently:: Three. One for banter, one that speaks only in riddles, and one for a backup. Always important to have a backup.
Imril: Responses
Roy snorted. Leave it to Imril to view potential murder-AIs through the lens of workplace structure.
Tho’Bi: We should ask them ::nodding::
Bancroft: They’re going to be disappointed enough to hear the word “W.H.I.M.P.E.R.” – maybe we should leave inquiries relating to evil supercomputers for another time.
Imril/Tho’Bi: Responses
(( Hazardous Materials Lab, Deck 11, USS Artemis-A ))
Large double-doors slid open to reveal the inner foyer of the Hazardous Materials Lab, a lone crewman hunched over a console near the entrance. As the doors slid open, she froze in a way that reminded Roy uncomfortably of a woodland creature who’s just spotted a predator.
Crewman: Oh. Uh. Sirs. ::a pause:: Doctor Bancroft. ::haltingly:: Welcome to… um… Hazardous Materials.
Roy didn’t miss the way the crewman clearly remembered him and desperately wished that she didn’t.
Bancroft: My associates and I are here for the ::clearing his throat, too casually:: W.H.I.M.P.E.R. prototype.
Crewman: ::too quickly:: Never heard of it.
Bancroft: ::eyes narrowing:: It’s the one that screams at random intervals.
Imril/Tho’Bi: Responses?
The crewman’s shoulders fell comically.
Crewman: Oh. That one. ::exhaling in surrender:: Alright, alright. This way, sirs.
She led them deeper into the lab complex with the posture of someone being marched toward a firing line. Roy swore she slowed down as they walked, possibly trying to buy time to develop an escape plan.
The complex itself was surgically clean – but scars abounded. A scorched DOT sat behind a transparent panel. A nearby sign read:
DO NOT TAP ON GLASS.
IT FEEDS ON FEAR.
REPORT ALL SHOUTED ACRONYMS TO YOUR SHIFT LEAD.
Imril/Tho’Bi: Responses?
A few more steps and they reached a sealed door with the following words “DO NOT ENTER” stenciled across it in red. At a very reluctant command from their erstwhile guide, the door slid open.
Inside, a shimmering high-grade containment field pulsed in gentle waves of blue. Suspended within it like some sort of mysterious relic was W.H.I.M.P.E.R. – or what remained of it.
Roy’s stomach sank. It was worse than he’d remembered.
The casing was dented on one side. Several pieces were half-melted. The blinking lights flashed in no understandable rhythm, like morse code being tapped out by a schizophrenic.
He held up a hand, palm out, and pressed it against the transparent aluminum separating them from the containment field.
There you are, he thought, a mix of pride and despair tightening behind his ribs. We’ll get you out of here and turn you into the brilliant device you should have been all along. I’ve brought people who can help.
The lights blinked in a different rhythm now, the device humming as though it recognized its maker. It couldn’t, of course.
Hopefully.
Bancroft: Well, here she is, in all her glory.
Imril/Tho’Bi: Responses
TAG/TBC!
===
Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1