conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a plot for a book about Vulcan, Federation, Warrantors entitled Dwellers in the Crucible
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Dwellers in the Crucible: On the planet Vulcan, several representatives of each Federation world are kept as "Warrantors of the Peace".\nAs close relatives of the leaders of their worlds, they serve as hostages against the actions of their planetary governments, and are immediately killed if their world attacks another Federation planet.\nSix of these Warrantors - an Andorian, a human, a Vulcan and three Deltans - are kidnapped and held by the Romulan Empire.\nThe Andorian is killed during the kidnap, and the three Deltans are tortured to death by their Klingon captors, acting for the Romulans.\nThe plot focuses on the cultural differences and eventual friendship between the two surviving captives, T\'Shael and Cleante.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: \nThe plot focuses on the cultural differences and eventual friendship between the two surviving captives, T\'Shael and Cleante.\nAs close relatives of the leaders of their worlds, they serve as hostages against the actions of their planetary governments, and are immediately killed if their world attacks another Federation planet.\nSix of these Warrantors - an Andorian, a human, a Vulcan and three Deltans - are kidnapped and held by the Romulan Empire.\nThe Andorian is killed during the kidnap, and the three Deltans are tortured to death by their Klingon captors, acting for the Romulans.Dwellers in the Crucible: On the planet Vulcan, several representatives of each Federation world are kept as "Warrantors of the Peace".
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Dwellers in the Crucible
  T'Pei her mother froze her with a glance. Whatever else might be said of T'Pei—that she was among the most brilliant scientists in her field, that she was efficient, logical, in short a model Vulcan—it could also be said that she was as cold as she was beautiful. Plainly her offspring drew no resemblance from the maternal side.
  T'Shael said nothing. She took a cloth from a basin on the bedstand, wrung it out in cool scented water, touching it to her father's temples and wrists in turn. She took a flagon of mineral water from the wall servitor and poured some into a cup which she held to his lips; when the acute phase of the sickness was at its worst it was the only sustenance he could take. In a day or two, when the transfusions had taken their temporary effect, Salet would be up and about, hobbling a little on painful knees, but pretending he could block the pain, resume his work, his passion, his music.
  Were her father not Vulcan, he might have smiled. As it was, he found himself better able to control the wracking pain in the presence of the small one. That she visited him with a different kind of pain—the knowledge that she too might one day succumb to his illness—he did not speak of.
  The musician was gratified. How quietly animated this bright child was, before the events of her life began to envelop her in ever deepening levels of silence! Salet felt some of his elusive strength returning.
  She barely rested her head upon his shoulder, determined to add no pressure to his inflamed joints, though it made her neck ache to remain in so unnatural a position. But the incense and her father's labored breathing, the safety of his embrace lulled her, and soon she was asleep.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Vulcan, fever-glazed, fixed.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Dwellers in the Crucible
  T'Pei her mother froze her with a glance. Whatever else might be said of T'Pei—that she was among the most brilliant scientists in her field, that she was efficient, logical, in short a model Vulcan—it could also be said that she was as cold as she was beautiful. Plainly her offspring drew no resemblance from the maternal side. 
  T'Shael said nothing. She took a cloth from a basin on the bedstand, wrung it out in cool scented water, touching it to her father's temples and wrists in turn. She took a flagon of mineral water from the wall servitor and poured some into a cup which she held to his lips; when the acute phase of the sickness was at its worst it was the only sustenance he could take. In a day or two, when the transfusions had taken their temporary effect, Salet would be up and about, hobbling a little on painful knees, but pretending he could block the pain, resume his work, his passion, his music. For now, only his fever-glazed eyes moved, and they fixed upon his small daughter with a more than Vulcan fondness. 
  Were her father not Vulcan, he might have smiled. As it was, he found himself better able to control the wracking pain in the presence of the small one. That she visited him with a different kind of pain—the knowledge that she too might one day succumb to his illness—he did not speak of. 
  The musician was gratified. How quietly animated this bright child was, before the events of her life began to envelop her in ever deepening levels of silence! Salet felt some of his elusive strength returning. 
  She barely rested her head upon his shoulder, determined to add no pressure to his inflamed joints, though it made her neck ache to remain in so unnatural a position. But the incense and her father's labored breathing, the safety of his embrace lulled her, and soon she was asleep.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She had not said a single word to T'Shael since her recovery, not knowing how to break the silence. Would T'Shael hate her for breaking her promise, for seeking help? It was a chance she had had to take. Anything to save her friend. Anything.
  The human was startled to find the Vulcan contemplating her from across the room with an expression of uncharacteristic warmth. T'Shael's eyes no longer burned with their febrile incandescence; that had been replaced with a deep and possibly ineradicable sadness. But where Cleante had expected reproach she instead found acceptance, even—affection?
  She felt suddenly euphoric. They were both alive, T'Shael's crisis was past, and there was hope that they would soon be freed. Most of all, T'Shael was not angry with her. If only Kalor were somewhere across the galaxy instead of only across the compound! She would not think about that.
  Cleante had no answer for this. Would T'Shael do the same, withdrawing from all she'd hungered to learn in their time together? Was the human responsible for this? A long and fragile silence ensued.
  The first thing he did in his new role as commander of the prisoners' encampment was to leave their cage unlocked.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last five paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Cleante had insisted that T'Shael accompany her; T'Shael had as adamantly refused. It might have become a fullfledged quarrel if Cleante hadn't remembered McCoy's saying about winning an argument with a Vulcan.
  How to explain that the levels of meaning of mother and daughter, dimensioned by human emotion and contrasted with her own Vulcan rootlessness, might be more than she could comfortably encompass? Yet she did arrive after a time, after the embraces and the tears and the catching-up-on-what-they'd-missed—not only for the six months of Cleante's captivity but for a lifetime of strained relations—were over, and mother and daughter sat contemplating the blue tranquility of the planetoid looming large below them. The quiet shush of the door to the VIP lounge seemed a fearful racket in contrast to the silence of the Vulcan who crossed its threshold.
  Cleante came and took T'Shael's hand, bringing her into the room. Jasmine stood and almost locked into her diplomatic mode from sheer habit—Vulcans had always made her feel artificial, she supposed rightfully so. She had also, always, disliked Cleante's friends on principle. But Cleante's talk had been filled with this one, and the changes Jasmine could see in her butterfly of a daughter, now grown deep and thoughtful and mature, could only have had one catalyst. The High Commissioner put her arm around her daughter's waist and held out her other hand to the introverted one, drawing her into the circle as if she had suddenly acquired a second daughter.
  She studied her mother's face closely for the first time and saw the months of strain and worry, the gray streaks in the jet black hair that had never been there before. Jasmine took her hand and squeezed it.
  What place was there for her on Vulcan now? The crafters' shop was her place to mourn the Gifted One, the place of the Masters for mourning Master Stimm. A return to her ancestral lands meant mourning the proud and unfortunate Stalek. The settlement was for mourning Resh and Krn and Jali, the Old City for mourning the savage past of her race. All of Vulcan was her mourning ground. No, not this, not now. Perhaps another, later time. Spock had said the universe was vast. What could Cleante offer as an alternative?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: What could Cleante offer as an alternative? It might have become a fullfledged quarrel if Cleante hadn't remembered McCoy's saying about winning an argument with a Vulcan.
  How to explain that the levels of meaning of mother and daughter, dimensioned by human emotion and contrasted with her own Vulcan rootlessness, might be more than she could comfortably encompass? Yet she did arrive after a time, after the embraces and the tears and the catching-up-on-what-they'd-missed—not only for the six months of Cleante's captivity but for a lifetime of strained relations—were over, and mother and daughter sat contemplating the blue tranquility of the planetoid looming large below them. The quiet shush of the door to the VIP lounge seemed a fearful racket in contrast to the silence of the Vulcan who crossed its threshold.
  Cleante came and took T'Shael's hand, bringing her into the room. Jasmine stood and almost locked into her diplomatic mode from sheer habit—Vulcans had always made her feel artificial, she supposed rightfully so. She had also, always, disliked Cleante's friends on principle. But Cleante's talk had been filled with this one, and the changes Jasmine could see in her butterfly of a daughter, now grown deep and thoughtful and mature, could only have had one catalyst. The High Commissioner put her arm around her daughter's waist and held out her other hand to the introverted one, drawing her into the circle as if she had suddenly acquired a second daughter.
  She studied her mother's face closely for the first time and saw the months of strain and worry, the gray streaks in the jet black hair that had never been there before. Jasmine took her hand and squeezed it.
  What place was there for her on Vulcan now? The crafters' shop was her place to mourn the Gifted One, the place of the Masters for mourning Master Stimm. A return to her ancestral lands meant mourning the proud and unfortunate Stalek. The settlement was for mourning Resh and Krn and Jali, the Old City for mourning the savage past of her race. All of Vulcan was her mourning ground. No, not this, not now. Perhaps another, later time. Spock had said the universe was vast.Cleante had insisted that T'Shael accompany her; T'Shael had as adamantly refused.