News of the chaos on the lower decks was, of course, completely muted by the time it reached the Bridge. As Captain Praxas walked the corridors, all he saw was an unusual uptick in exaggerated salutations. Officers who usually offered a professional nod were now practically bowing; praise for his leadership was offered up with an uncanny, desperate fervor.
It wasn't respect. It was fear.
When Anzyl finally retreated to his quarters, he felt the weight of every one of his five hundred years. He shed his uniform jacket and tossed it onto a growing pile of laundry, collapsing into his favorite chair. With a heavy sigh, he activated the data padd Qiln had handed him.
He scrolled through the names at the bottom—the ones languishing beneath the glowing red "Cutoff Line."
"Nurse Tessa Palmer," he read aloud, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "Reason: Underperformance due to excessive patient visitation times." He scoffed, throwing his head back against the headrest. "The man failed to mention that no one in this quadrant has a better bedside manner. She doesn't just heal the body; she mends the spirit."
His eyes drifted to a small, hand-crafted trinket on his bookshelf—a wooden carving she had made him for Praxas' five-hundredth birthday. It was a reminder that on a ship this size, someone still cared about the man behind the rank.
He returned to the list. "Ensign Tyson Thomas. Productivity significantly below Starfleet Engineering standards. Extended completion times on routine tasks."
Anzyl's face twisted into a grimace. "Well, perhaps if we only had Starfleet technology, Tyson would be on time! Has a Zakdorn ever tried to recalibrate a Nausicaan relay using a Talaxian power conduit? I think not!"
In a sudden burst of frustration, Anzyl hurled the padd across the room. It clattered against the bulkhead, the screen flickering.
"Gah!" He stood up, pacing the small cabin, his hands buried in his hair. "This is ridiculous. It's like he's trying to judge a Klingon's heart by a Vulcan's logic."
He looked at the cracked padd on the floor and sighed. He had six lifetimes of experience—six lifetimes of seeing civilizations rise and fall because they forgot the value of their people. He wasn't going to let it happen to the Nexus.
"There has to be a way," he whispered, plopping onto his bed and staring at the ceiling. "Think, Anzyl. Use all of them. Every life you've lived. Find the solution."
—
The following morning, an unrested Captain Praxas stepped onto the Bridge. He was immediately bombarded by a dozen chirpy, high-anxiety "Good morning, Captain!" from the crew. He didn't have the heart to tell them how much it unsettled him.
He marched into the conference room. Qiln was already there, looking rested and clinical, surrounded by a fresh array of charts.
"I see you are finally ready to join me, Captain," Qiln stated, not looking up from his padd. "Are you prepared to proceed with the elimination process?"
"No," Anzyl said. The word was a solid block of granite. He stood at the head of the table, arms crossed. "I'm not going to do this."
Qiln paused, finally looking up. He wasn't angry; he was merely unamused. "Might I remind you, Captain, that I am here with the full mandate of the Alliance Council to improve the efficiency of this vessel."
"Efficiency is not the same thing as effectiveness," Anzyl retorted.
Qiln leaned back, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "That statement is logically inconsistent. In any strategic model, efficiency is the measure of effectiveness."
"Only by your standards, Qiln. You are missing the most vital factor: you are comparing living, breathing beings to data points on a spreadsheet." Anzyl sat down, leaning forward. "Can you rightly judge a Klingon, born and bred for the glory of the Empire, by the same work-metric as a Vulcan raised on the path of pure logic? Can you judge a Vulcan's skill at hunting how a Klingon hunts their prey? Of course not!"
"Your vessel does not have hunting parties, Captain," Qiln said dryly.
"No, but the principle is the same! Look at Nurse Palmer." Anzyl highlighted her name on the display. "She has the single best bedside manner of any medical professional I have ever encountered. Yes, her 'turnaround time' is longer, but that's because she doesn't just prescribe a hypospray. She prescribes comfort. She stays until the patient is well, not just 'stable.' And she is the heartbeat of this crew. She knows every birthday, every anniversary. There is a reason they call her Nurse Heart."
Qiln remained silent, his expression unwavering.
"And Ensign Thomas," Anzyl continued, his voice rising with passion. "He takes longer than any engineer on the ship. But he has zero rework requests. None. When Tyson fixes something, it stays fixed. He tuned my convection range in my quarters months ago, and it has worked flawlessly ever since. He's the only engineer I trust when things get complicated."
Anzyl sat back with a frustrated huff. "So yes, these people are 'inefficient' according to your data. But they are profoundly effective at their jobs. They provide the stability that allows your 'high performers' to function."
Qiln shifted uncomfortably. For the first time, the Zakdorn looked like he was actually processing a variable he hadn't considered.
"A machine is made of parts that are replaceable," Anzyl concluded, his voice low and steady. "A crew is made of people who are indispensable. If you want a machine, Qiln, go build a probe. If you want a flagship, you keep the people."
Qiln sat with his arms crossed for a long, agonizing minute. Finally, he turned back to the Captain. "Are you formally refusing an order from the Alliance?"
Anzyl took a slow breath, his mind clicking into place. "No. I am proposing a superior tactical alternative. I'm not going to give you a list of people to fire. I'm going to give you a Strategic Asset Map."