Go To Part Three
"Ah, Pavel.” The head of the Psi Department at Star Fleet’s Academy called out to the young man exiting Lab 3.
“Dr. Braily, sir.” The cadet came to attention, but smiled as he did so.
Braily headed up the corridor to join him. “Thank you for participating in Dr. Chenowith’s research project.”
“It was no problem, sir.”
Braily found the contrast between these two young men endlessly fascinating. In the general population falling into the normal distribution curve of psi abilities, those having the low ratings for empathic potential usually corresponded with higher incidences of anti-social tendencies. High scores for empathy correlated to higher ratings for compassion and attribution of positive motivations for others. Following that trend would lead one to predict that a psi null would be a virtual sociopath and a true empath would approach saintliness in their concern for others.
In the current case, the reverse was true. The null, Chekov was gregarious and well-liked by his peers – despite the fact they typically rated him as being or appearing to be very naïve. He had a highly developed sense of justice and displayed deep concern that others were treated fairly and considerately.
The telepath, despite having one of the highest ratings for empathic sensitivity Braily had ever recorded, was hyper-sensitive, hyper-critical, and adamantly anti-social. Although he also possessed a strong sense of justice, the telepath was suspicious, withdrawn, and easily angered.
Braily thought it did not speak well of the human race that the individual who had the most insight into people’s true feelings imputed the most base motivations to their actions.
“You have a new roommate, Pavel?”
The cadet sighed deeply. “Yes, sir.”
“You don’t sound pleased.”
“Not very, sir,” the Russian replied honestly.
“Is there some problem?” Braily asked, intrigued.
Because the null’s skepticism about psychic phenomenon enhanced his desirability as a control subject in research projects in that area, the staff had agreed that they would not speak to him directly about his new roommate’s giftedness unless confronted with unavoidable questions. Despite his agreement with that decision, Braily wished he could be more direct when questioning the cadet about his impressions. How would a null perceive a powerful tel-empath? Would he be able to distinguish any differences between a gifted person and his non-gifted acquaintances?
“He is…” The cadet paused to consider. “… Very rude.”
That was admittedly one way Noel DelMonde was distinguishable from the general population.
“Oh?” Braily said, hoping for more.
The cadet nodded adamantly. “Yes, sir.”
“What form does this “rudeness” take?”
The Russian frowned disapprovingly. “He uses a great deal of impolite language.”
That was also inarguable.
“And this offends you?” Braily probed.
“He calls me some very insulting names.”
“Does he?”
The cadet’s cheeks reddened with remembered anger. “Yesterday he spoke to me in the rudest possible manner.”
Braily tilted his head to one side. “Why do you think he did that?”
“He said he wanted to see if I had real emotions or if I was a robot,” Chekov reported in aggrieved outrage.
The doctor tried not to smile. “Do you think he is now convinced that you have real emotions?”
“Yes, sir.” The cadet smiled grimly. “If not, I will be quite willing to convince him again.”
Braily tapped his lip with thoughtfully. “Is impolite speech the only thing he does that seems rude to you?”
The null considered for a moment. “He stares a great deal.”
“At you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And why do you think he does that?”
“Because he is very rude,” the cadet concluded. “He takes things too, without asking me.”
“Takes things?” Braily frowned. “What sort of things?”
“The bottom bunk,” the Russian listed readily. “Styluses. The shelf nearest to the sink...”
“And these things are important to you?” the doctor asked, letting a little gentle chiding enter his tone.
“No,” the null admitted. “But it would be polite to ask. It was my cabin first.”
“And that is important to you?”
“No,” he conceded with a guilty sigh. “But it would be more considerate to ask.”
The doctor crossed his arms in what he knew the null would identify as a disapproving paternal gesture. “And have you expressed this feeling to him?”
“No,” the cadet confessed.
Braily gave the young man an encouraging pat on the arm. “Clear communication makes for more harmonious relationships.”
“Yes, sir,” the Russian agreed dutifully.
Braily was in the midst of congratulating himself for dispensing this timely pearl of wisdom when he remembered who he was talking about. “On the other hand…”
“Sir?”
“Your new roommate may feel that you are being too critical – judging his actions too harshly.”
“Possibly,” Chekov conceded, then muttered half to himself, “He never seems to feel that he does anything wrong.”
“It may be best to simply be patient with him,” Braily advised. “Evaluate whether or not the subject at dispute is truly important to you before engaging in confrontation. Don’t be carried away by your emotions.”
“So I should be more unemotional?” the Russian repeated dubiously.
“Yes.”
The null lifted an eyebrow. “Like a robot?”
“Yes.” Braily nodded, thinking of the telepath’s enthusiasm for machinery. He patted the cadet on his shoulder again before turning to leave. “Try that.”
Chekov sighed deeply as he continued up the corridor. “This is going to be a wonderful relationship…”
Noel DelMonde guessed that this Vulcan meditation shit might be useful if one had an ample supply of time and patience. Just at the moment, he was running low on both.
“Cadet,” Dr. Salme corrected. “Your hands must be in this position.”
Del had been trying to copy the exact interlacing of each finger and precise placement of each knuckle for over ten minutes now. “Why?” he challenged at last.
“It helps focus the mind,” the Vulcan replied serenely, just as he had several times before.
“Bullshit,” Del muttered quietly.
They were sitting on the floor of Salme’s darkened therapy room on mats. A glowing orb-thing sat between them – all of which would have seemed more natural if they were about to smoke a bowl of good Rigellian instead of preparing to think about different frequencies of thought waves for an hour… Although a good bowl of Rigellian would have surely helped with that.
Dr. Salme lifted an eyebrow.
The thing Del kept forgetting about Vulcans was that they had freakishly good hearing.
“It help focus the fingers,” he mumbled as a non-apology. “But that about all.”
“The posture is designed to quiet the body and provide a focal point for concentration,” Salme explained once again.
The skull-fuckers in the Psi lab had promised Del that these sessions would help him learn to block out other people’s thoughts and exert far greater control over what they termed “his gifts” – which would be a very good thing if it were really possible. So far today, however, he hadn’t even been able to exert sufficient control over his fingers.
“It a damn ritual,” he grumbled. “That all.”
This earned him another eyebrow shot.
“I growed up Catholic,” he replied defensively. “I know ritual when I see it, son.”
Salme gave him one of his cold, fish-eyed looks. “It is inappropriate and inaccurate for you to address me in such a manner.”
Del supposed that he shouldn’t be so hard on old Salmon-face. He wasn’t a bad guy. On the other hand, he wasn’t a good guy either. Like a lot of the Vulcans Del had met here, Salme was just a guy. A Vulcan guy. A Vulcan guy who was just doing his job…or at least trying to.
Del sighed and got back into his best approximation of the appropriate meditative positioning. “Sorry.”
“Is the gesture offensive to you?” the Vulcan asked.
“No.” Del shrugged. “Just sayin’. That all.”
Salme looked down his long Vulcan nose. “If we could proceed?”
What Vulcans said about themselves in all their travel brochures wasn’t exactly true. They did have emotions. They just held a tight rein on them. Sometimes they used other emotions to squash their emotions down to a nub. It annoyed Del. Sometimes it made him want to grab them by their long-assed ears and yell, “Give it up! Be pissed! Be scared! Be horny! Just quit lyin’ to yourselves!!”
“You know what do bother me?” he finally burst out.
“No,” Salme said, his growing impatience muted but as clear and readable as any Human’s.
“You act like I a leper or somet’ing,” Del complained.
“Leper?” the Vulcan repeated. “One who suffers from a chronic disease caused by the bacterium Mycobacterium leprae?"
Del shook his head in exasperation. “It a metaphor.”
Salme gave a small sigh. “Of course.”
“You dread bein’ ‘round me,” Del accused, finally naming the emotion overlay he’d been sensing for some time now.
Surprise rose up and was pushed back down in the Vulcan. “Dread is an emotional response.”
“C’est vrai,” the Cajun confirmed defiantly.
“Vulcans do not engage in emotional displays.”
Del lifted an amused eyebrow. “Yeah, sure.”
“Your tone suggests disbelief,” the Vulcan replied stiffly.
“What I suggest is that you not like bein’ near me.”
Salme drew in a deep breath. “Cadet, you are projecting an emotional coloring to my actions which does not exist.”
“Really?” Del challenged. “Right now, I holdin’ my hands wrong again, non? If I was a Vulcan, you reach over an’ put my fingers right. You not wanna touch me.”
The Vulcan was silent for a moment. “Verbal instructions should be sufficient,” he said, instead of admitting to anything.
“I read that Vulcans are touch telepaths,” Del informed him, his senses taking in the brutal suppression of a grassroots uprising of emotion taking place in the mind his teacher. “Maybe it my brain, not my fingers you afraid to touch.”
“Your thoughts are disordered and your emotions are chaotic,” Salme conceded slowly and carefully. “Until you learn control and discipline, mental contact would be disturbing.”
“Disturbin’, huh?” Del couldn’t help scoffing, despite the hurt this comment caused. “That sound pretty emotional to me.”
“Human language has an inherent overlay of emotionality,” the Vulcan asserted, straightening back into position. “If we could continue?”
Del snorted as he followed suit. “It not contagious,” he muttered.
The Vulcan lowered an eyebrow. “To what do you refer?”
“My disturbed mental state,” the Cajun replied with bitter mocking. “You not gonna catch it, y’know.”
“No,” Salme replied, his concealed emotions giving lie to his outward calm. “That I do not know.
Del was having a dream about a blue, blue Christmas. It was set in a storybook European village with a big snow-covered Santa Claus castle in the background. All the villagers were wearing blue and white outfits and calling out, “Noel! Noel!” to each other.
There was a line of teddy bears dressed up in toy soldier uniforms marching down the street. One of them turned to him and shouted, “Noel! Noel!”
Suddenly someone put something under his nose that made his nostrils burn and his eyes sting.
“Noel! Noel!” His roommate was shaking him by the shoulder. “Noel, you must wake up!”
“What the hell?” he asked, pushing him away and blinking the tears out his eyes.
“You are going to be late for class,” Chekov warned, putting the stopper back on a small bottle. “You took too many sleeping pills.”
“Too many what?” Del asked, disoriented.
“Your blue sleeping pills.” The Russian handed him his uniform and boots. “You took too many. Your alarm kept going off, but you did not wake up. I called sickbay. They said to call back if this didn’t revive you.”
Del blinked uncomprehendingly first at the bottle of smelling salts, then at his roommate, then at the boots in his hands, then finally at the wall chronometer. “Shit! I gonna be late…”
“Hurry!” Chekov urged, taking the boots from him, so he could concentrate on getting into his tunic and pants. “If you run, you may be able to still make it.”
“Grounded,” Del realized, as he pulled on the shirt. “I as grounded as dirt.”
Damn Salme and whatever had crawled up his cold Vulcan ass. Del had taken an extra hit of sapphire to get that session out of his mind. Apparently the extra hit had been more than he’d needed.
“Hurry!” The Russian handed him his right boot and then started to push his foot into his left.
Del’s hands were practiced at moving with minimal initial supervision from his brain. Although this was not a desirable situation, since he had balanced intermix formulae while in worse condition, getting through class grounded seemed do-able.
He blinked at his roommate. “This damned decent of you,” he had to admit, as the little Russian helped him to his feet.
“What?” Chekov asked, turning to grab a stat board off his desk.
“You coulda let me sleep,” Del pointed out, as the Russian folded his hand around the board. “I be kicked out an’ out your hair.”
“I am a decent person,” Chekov informed him firmly as he pushed him towards the door.
“Maybe,” Del conceded, taking off at a run. He called over his shoulder. “I still like you better if you was a robot!”
Del was laying on his bunk reading his textbook on Interplanetary Law when Chekov got back from class that afternoon.
The little Russian didn’t say anything other than to give the grunt both of them recognized as mutually acceptable alternative to saying, “Hello.” Del thought, however, that he did detect a hint of a smug smile playing about Chekov’s lips.
The Cajun replied with the snort both of them recognized as a mutually acceptable alternative to saying, “Fuck you.” He narrowed his eyes as he watched his roommate go through his normal routine of putting away things he’d taken to class and getting out things he needed for studying. Although Chekov didn’t have the courtesy to project his emotions like a normal person, Del had the distinct impression the little chipmunk was pleased with himself for having saved the Cajun from near-to-certain expulsion this morning. He could not fathom why.
“We not gonna hafta be friends now, are we?” he asked forbiddingly.
Chekov looked up from his astrophysics text and considered for a moment. “That does seem a lot to expect.”
Del scowled and speculated that the little dumbfuck could just be proud of having made the quota of good deeds for the week recommended in his Super Junior Space Man manual.
“But,” Chekov began, with a sweet, you-owe-me-and-I-know-it smile. “We could be civil to each other...”
Del frowned. “You gonna want them groundrules, non?”
The Russian gave a one handed shrug to indicate he was open to negotiation. “Perhaps a gentleman’s agreement?”
The Cajun’s frown deepened. He had to revise his previous conclusion. Chekov had not given him a I-know-I’ve-got-you-where-I-want-you smile. The little dumbfuck never knew things like that. He had just been smiling because he assumed that under everything Del really wanted to be a Super Junior Space Man as much as he did and now had an opportunity to demonstrate this desire.
“I can’t promise I never cuss at you again,” the Cajun replied obstinately.
“But no more experimenting to see if I am a robot,” the Russian requested firmly.
Del snorted. “Next time I jus’ take a laser wrench to your head.”
“That might prove less painful,” Chekov agreed nicely.
“I not count on it,” Del promised grimly. “An’ as far as my takin’ your stuff goes…”
“Yes?”
“You not own this room. You not th’ king o’ the cabin,” Del informed him. Although in his mind, he could very easily picture the Russian in a little crown inscribed with Star Fleet insignia, seated at a throne/desk, flanked by two bare-breasted blonde Valkryries in charge of cooling his brow and handing him slide-rules.
Chekov crossed his arms. “I do own some things in this room.”
“Fuck.” Del could immediately tell this assertion was connected to a specific complaint. “What now?”
“My vodka.”
To this, the Cajun had no option other than to innocently reply, “Oh, that was yours?
“It was in the compartment under my bed.”
“Which put it in a compartment above my bed.” Del pointed out. “If you not want me to drink it, you shoulda hid it somewhere.”
“It was in a compartment under my bed,” the Russian repeated.
“That the first place I look,” Del replied unapologetically. “Mais, this were jus’ a case of reckless endangerment.”
“Oh?”
Del shook his head and took back up his Interplanetary Law textbook, sure that his assertion would be backed up there. “You leave a bottle of liquor alone in a room wit’ a Cajun – What you t’ink gonna happen?”