Return to Part Two
“What are you doing here?” Lian Rendell asked the person who was at the center of all the sudden, feverish attention in her sickbay.
Noel DelMonde gave a pained, squint-y smile with side of his face that wasn’t scratched up. “I got tired o' standin' upright an' thought I' come see what you doin' wit' the mornin'.”
“Two fractured bones in the wrist,” Rajana Blake reported to her, while handing hypos and bone mending tools to the med techs. “Sprained ankle, torn rotator cuff, as well as contusions and abrasions.”
“What did you do?” Rendell asked, picking up a scanner to confirm the report. “Fall off your robot?”
“Not in the robot.” The Cajun winced as one of the med techs gently lifted his abused arm so that the other could better apply the bone mender to it. “Jus' took a tumble off a stack o' packin' crates.”
A pair of engineers stood by looking pale and anxious, still gripping the stretcher they’d used to rush their chief to the medics.
“What were you doing up there?” Rendell queried, checking the Cajun’s vitals and adding another hypo to the mix Blake was feeding to the med techs.
The engineer blew out a deep breath as the painkillers started to kick in. “Standin' 'round in a pair o' skin-tight silk pajamas designin' a demolition derby fo' go-bots an' wonderin' what th' hell had gone wrong wit' my life fo' me t' be doin' such a damn fool t'ing that early in th' day.”
DelMonde was clad in the racquetball jumpsuit instead of the standard uniform. As the med techs finished up emergency care procedures and Blake moved in to wipe the smears of blood off his face and arms with towelettes treated with antiseptics, the doctor noted how the close-fitting bodysuit served to emphasize how thin the engineer was becoming.
“I suppose we all have to have our hobbies,” the Haven commented as one of the techs returned with therapeutic casings to wrap around the engineer’s wrist and ankle.
“Some dumber than others,” the Cajun acknowledged, as the med techs immobilized his arm and leg in protective translucent packing material.
“All right everybody,” Rendell dismissed the crew. “We can take it from here.”
After the nurse and the techs had finished their ministrations and the engineers had bade a reluctant farewell, the Haven doctor consulted her chart and asked, “Still on your nutrient shot
diet?”
“These here bicycle togs show every extra ounce,” the Cajun admitted jokingly.
“So nausea gets a check mark,” Rendell said, moving to the next item on her list. “I think we can posit a little dizziness this morning as well.”
“Yeah, jus' a bit.”
“Sweating and chills?”
“Some o' each, sure…”
“Tingling or numbness in the fingers?’
“Well….now, definitely.”
“And before now?”
“I dunno.” The Cajun closed his eyes wearily. “Maybe sometimes my hands been hurtin'… I guess I been feelin' weak… I dunno.”
“And chest pains?”
“My stomach been hurtin',” the engineer admitted. “Awful bad headaches… Sometime my heart feel like it goin' a million miles an hour…Sometimes I hurt all over… You t'ink I comin' down wit' somet'ing?”
“I think that you came down with a small mountain of packing crates this morning,” Rendell concluded lightly.
“I am painfully aware o' that much.”
“And,” the Haven added seriously, “despite all the ice water and bourbon that flows through your veins, I think you had a panic attack, Mr. DelMonde.”
The Cajun gave a small half-laugh. “Oh, they not no ice in my veins, cher. That'd dilute the bourbon.”
“You’ve had panic attacks before?” Rendell asked, broadly interpreting his lack of surprise.
“When I was a li'l boy… well, not so li'l… after my mama died.”
The Haven drew in a deep breath. “At this point I would normally hand you over to the tender mercies of our ship’s psychologist. But we don’t have one.”
The engineer did not look displeased. “Non?”
“No.” Rendell frowned at the memory. “Von Hels, in a move that was completely consistent with the crazy bastard that he was, drove off our last one and quite strategically refused to replace him. Our current captain, though lovely in all ways, has just not got around to righting that particular wrong so far.”
“So it jus' down t' you fo' any head shrinkin' that gotta be done?”
“Yes.” Rendell gave the uninjured portion of the engineer’s leg an encouraging pat. “So let’s feed your swollen head some sapphire and put it into a sensory deprivation tank for a few days, shall we? Let’s get some real sleep and solid food in you and let the demolition derby take care of itself for a little while.”
“God knows I would surely love to, Li,” DelMonde replied, shaking his head sadly. “But then I jus' gonna have that many days o' robots an' paperwork piled up waitin' fo' me. An' I not t'ink I could take it.”
“You have some very well trained and capable assistants don’t you? They can manage the robots,” the doctor rebutted firmly. “And as far as the paperwork goes… As Chief Medical Officer, I do have some pull with Mr. Courtland and am sure I can get some temporary relief for you under these circumstances.”
“That would be…” The engineer had to stop to roughly wipe away tears of relief before he thought she could see them. “But tell ‘em that it 'cause o' my arm. All right?”
“Well, of course,” Rendell granted easily. “I just diagnose arms not heads. I’m not a psychologist. We don’t have one of those. We’re just trying to make sure that wrist is completely healed before you go jumping around in a robot suit, aren’t we?”
“Yeah.” The engineer’s eyes apparently began to bother him again. “I really owe you fo' this one, Lian.”
Rendell smiled and gave his leg another pat. “Yes, you do.”
“Oh, Sweet Mary!” the Cajun groaned. “Put me under now 'fore I start t'inkin' 'bout that one an' really set off into a panic…”
When Sulu walked into Lian Rendell’s office, the doctor was sitting at her desk with her chin propped against her hand. On the viewscreen on her desk, two hideous creatures in a jungle landscape were locked in mortal combat.
“What are you watching?”
“Oh, I’m supposed to be doing yet another comparative sentience evaluation for Beth Arista,” she said, apologetically deactivating the volume. “This is the only way I can get through them without screaming.”
“You’ve got a bet on the outcome,” the captain concluded as he took a seat opposite her.
“With Singh in Bio-Chem,” the Haven confirmed. “Mine’s the purple one.”
He couldn’t tell if it was winning or losing… or even exactly what it was… but the purple thing did seem to have a good mouthful of the red thing at this point. “It’s a sim?”
“Yes.”
“I still don’t think it would pass Beth’s standards for Cruelty to Sentients….”
“Oh, they do it to themselves.” The Haven hit pause and deactivated the display. “We just put a frame around it.”
Sulu drew in a deep breath. “I’m here to check on your patient,” he announced, sure that he would not have to specify to which patient he was referring.
“He’s asleep,” the doctor answered.
“How long are you anticipating he’s going to be out of commission?”
“Don’t know yet,” she replied with uncharacteristic brevity. “Not going to try to wake him up for two or three more days.”
“That’s a long time to sleep for a broken wrist,” the captain observed.
Rendell raised a reproving eyebrow at him. “Yes, that would be a long time for a broken wrist.”
“Courtland said something about nervous exhaustion…”
"You are from Earth, aren't you?" the Haven interjected, changing topics abruptly as she offered him a cup of the pot of hot coffee that always seemed to be stationed at one side of her desk. "One of the North American, West Coast cities?"
"Los Angeles - yes." “And are of… Is it Chinese or Japanese heritage?”
“Japanese… mostly.” “Yes." Rendell smiled. "The lost angel city. Whenever I am there, I always like to go to a place called Little Tokyo for lunch. Do you know it?”
Sulu nodded. “Of course.”
“There’s a place near a theater with the most wonderful posters…”
“The Kabuki-za?”
“Yes. But I’ve never seen a performance. They say it’s too difficult to follow.”
“No. It’s very stylized, though. Everything’s symbolic. There’s a lot of posturing and acrobatics…” Sulu abruptly halted mid-description. “Oh, I see… You think we’re having a Kabuki-style conversation here because I know perfectly well what’s wrong with Del.”
“You know how it is.” Rendell shrugged apologetically. “You can speak the language for years. Visit the planet. And still the metaphors are difficult…”
Even if the Haven had never seen a Kabuki drama, she still would have been able to correctly identify the look on her commander’s face as being consistent with that of a daimyo who was greatly displeased with his loyal retainer.
“I’m not taking sides,” she assured him, moving to re-fill his cup. “DelMonde is ill. I believe this illness could possibly turn into something quite serious if we don’t intervene. He needs a… a time-out. There. That’s a sports metaphor. I’m better at those.”
Sulu frowned as he chewed through this information. “And two or three days will be enough of a time-out for a broken brain?”
“Don’t know.” Rendell shook her head. “This is all very much outside my specialty. On a Haven ship, psychiatry is more of a sales position...”
“You seem to be doing fine so far.”
“The computer looks at heart rate and blood pressure and tells me to ask questions. I input the answers to questions and a lot of red lights go off.” The doctor made an exasperated gesture. “I’m a lot better at cutting out things the computer tells me don’t belong. I really don’t know that much about telempathy – except how to turn it off temporarily… and hope that works.”
“He could have just written the damned apology,” Sulu observed bitterly, rising. “Maybe if you can get him to do that when he wakes up…”
Rendell gave a little humorless laugh. “I’m hoping this time in sensory detox will get him back to normal, but it will only be back to what is normal for him. If I had the power to radically sweeten people’s personalities, do you think I’d be stuck wasting my time on twenty credit red lizard versus purple monstrosity bets?”
“You might,” her captain replied, matching her remorse-filled humor with his own. “You’d still be a Haven.”
Lian Rendell watched Noel DelMonde’s sleeping form float weightlessly in the sensory deprivation chamber and thought of Xaxbi Shakz.
Xaxbi Shakz was not a real person. Xaxbi Shakz was the ludicrous name of the ridiculous protagonist of a story written during the height of tensions between the HTE and the Federation. The narrative claimed to be a cautionary tale for children, but was much more popular among adults for its acidic satire.
In the beginning of his story, the dubiously dubbed Xaxbi proved himself to be such an obstreperous toddler that his exasperated parents were finally driven to trade him to an Orion broker (at a handsome profit) who in turn enterprisingly passed him off as a Human and “reunited” him with a family on Earth (for a very substantial fee). For the remainder of the tale, the hapless Xaxbi repents of his disobedience to his parents at his wretched leisure as he then suffers through indignity heaped upon even more outrageous indignity as he is forced by his foster family to conform to the most miserably gauche Human customs the discreetly anonymous author could dream up.
It was all terribly droll… until the Powers That Be made peace with the Federation and some perfectly innocent Haven citizens who had been dutifully minding their own business were exiled to Star Fleet…
Lian herself had resignedly signed off many a missive back to the homeworld with the familiar snippet, “Xaxbi Shakz must face facts…”
DelMonde looked particularly Haven as he floated under the weak pastel lighting the computer was using to display the interior of the chamber. Inside the chamber, of course, it was actually pitch black, but for aesthetic reasons of its own, the computer was choosing to display the engineer’s form illuminated by soft shades of yellow, pink, and blue, giving his skin an almost golden hue.
The Cajun’s perpetual scowl and infamously obstinate attitude made him a wonderful candidate for a real life counterpart to the fictional Xaxbi. Rendell had to smile as she mentally re-cast some of the engineer’s misadventures as karmic retribution for infantile misbehavior on her home world. Her amusement faded however, when the reason for these musings circled back to the central thought that had inspired them – DelMonde’s brain was not behaving like a normal Human brain. And if a Haven brain ever started to think of doing the sort of things his was starting to do then, well…
Rendell closed her eyes and sighed. It was all getting out of hand…
She was very fond of Sulu. Not besotted with him. Not like some people she could name. Very fond, though. It was very easy to be very fond of him. She hated to conceal things from him when it wasn’t necessary. More than that, she hated to make him angry.
His anger was a particularly fearsome thing. At times, it could almost seem as if his anger was not a part of him. It sat on his shoulder like a dire resha and stared through your soul with black knife-eyes…
Rendell shuddered involuntarily. No wonder poor Xaxbi the Cajun was dangling on the precipice of insanity …
She blew out a long breath as she watched him float in simulated pastel darkness and sincerely hoped that he was not going crazy… And that he was not secretly a Haven with an amped-up brain that some Orion had foisted on some unwitting Human family… And that there was good reason for her to take comfort in comparing him to the silly parody of children’s story she’d heard as an adult rather than matching his symptoms to the ancient tales of madness and death served among those too gifted that had terrified her in her own childhood…
Because that could get very messy… very fast…
And it was all very, very, very far above her pay grade.
It would involve calling in…. specialists… which wouldn’t make anyone happy…
...Perhaps -- and especially -- not the specialists who would have to be called...
Lian roused herself from the contemplation of such disquieting possibilities with a good shake, squared her shoulders, and decided it might be time to adjourn to her quarters for a nice, calming pipe of Rigellian.
“We’re not going to let it come to that, though, are we?” she asked her unconscious patient encouragingly before taking her leave. “No, we are not. It might be bad, but we’re not going to allow it to continue to grow worse. We’re going to stop this nonsense right here and start making the best of it. Time to face facts, Xaxbi Shakz…”
“Did you see Del, sir?”
Sulu was not surprised that Dylan Paine was the first person he encountered when entering Work Bay One which had been converted to the primary workshop for the exoskeltons. The ensign’s presence at this ungodly hour was mute testimony not only to his devotion to DelMonde and worry about his lover’s health, but also to his determination to milk the engineer’s temporary absence for every extra second of crew-time that could be devoted to Paine’s pet weaponry projects.
“No,” the captain answered, crossing to where the ensign had one of the droid laid out on its back like a recumbent giant. “He was asleep.”
Paine frowned and shook his head as he knelt back down in front of the exo’s hands with the little tray of parts he was installing, looking a bit like a cyber-manicurist. “Dr. Rendell wouldn’t even let me near him.”
“She has him in isolation.”
The ensign looked up and lifted an eyebrow. “That seems pretty extreme for a broken wrist and a sprained ankle, doesn’t it, sir?”
“She’s being simultaneously vague and ominous about his mental state,” Sulu agreed, crossing his arms. “Do you know anything about that?”
There was a bit of an awkward pause before the ensign answered, “He’s not been himself. Everybody’s aware of that.”
The captain frowned and sighed. His old friend had never been known for being secretive about his bad moods. “Yes.”
“He’s been upset about fighting with you,” Paine said, carefully not making eye contact as he used a tool to pry open the robot’s fingernails. “He doesn’t talk about it, but… He’s been worried for the last week that you would kill him if he pulled ahead of you in the rankings.”
Sulu blinked. “The performance stats?”
“Yes. Well, he does design the courses. We come in and practice the new moves ahead of everyone. It gives a pretty big advantage….” The ensign rolled his eyes ruefully. “Or it least should…”
The captain frowned. The idea that the Cajun might be intimidated by him in any way seemed ludicrous. “You think he fell on purpose?”
“It didn’t seem that way,” Paine hastened to correct. “It seemed like he got dizzy and fell. He’s not been eating. I don’t think he’s sleeping either…”
Sulu tactfully refrained from commenting on how he assumed the engineer was spending his nights. “No…”
The ensign made a sour face and shook his head. “I know he’s screwing Zoe. I mean, it’s pretty obvious…. If that’s what he wants, then fine… If he wants us both, then fine… I just… I just can’t figure out why he keeps trying to hide it from me.”
This was another surprise. Sulu supposed it shouldn’t be. After all, Paine might be as over-enthusiastic as a puppy, but he wasn’t stupid. And if Cajun was being careless enough for the captain to be aware of his indiscretions, then Paine, who dogged his every step, could not be unaware.
“Maybe,” Sulu began gingerly, “he’s trying to… spare your feelings?”
The young man gave a goofy/hopeful/resigned/bitter laugh that immediately put the captain in mind of the days when his friend Kevin Riley was struggling with overwhelming task of being in love with Ruth Valley.
“Do you really think he does things like that?” the ensign asked sincerely.
They were running out of places to hide – she was sure of that much. It was difficult to be certain of more since their perceptions were being actively altered. It seemed they’d made it back to Sickbay, but it was hard to be sure of even that.
“Just rest for a moment,” she ordered Rajana Blake as they crouched behind a wall near the equipment locker gasping for breath.
“I think I can just reach that medikit, Doctor,” the nurse said, rising.
“No, no!” Rendell tried to warn.
“But you can’t go on much further with your ankle in that condition,” Blake scolded as she hurried across the open space between the shelter of the wall and the medi-cart.
“No!” the Haven whispered urgently. “Don’t you see? It’s not my ankle that’s hurt. It’s his!”
But it was already too late. As she turned back from the cart, the nurse was suffused in a weird golden glow. The medikit clattered to the floor. “My God… He’s beautiful…”
“You see him?” Rendell asked, heartsick as she readied her phaser. It was too late for Blake now, but she needed to prepare herself for the thing that was coming.
“Yes,” the nurse answered like a person in a trance. “More beautiful than a god…”
“What does he look like?” she asked, as her eyes desperately sought an escape route.
“Like a god,” Rajana reported distractedly. “In robes of crimson and amaranthine, trimmed in gold. His hair is black flame shot with threads of scarlet, silver, and cerulean. His eyes are obsidian. All black. They shine like the sun with sparkling rays of gold and aubergine…”
“And his skin?” Rendell asked, grimly checking the setting on her phaser. She knew that she could not kill the thing that pursued them. She could only deny it one more “worshiper” from which he could vampirize emotional energy.
“White gold etched with fine veins of crimson, ianthine, cerulean, and gold.” Tears now streamed from the nurse’s eyes, although her face remained impassive. “The music of his presence breaks my heart…”
“Then break away!” she urged desperately as she aimed the phaser at her associate. “Break away, Rajana! While you still can.”
“He will not harm me.” A passive smile settled on the nurse’s face as her hands gracefully floated into positions reminiscent of a temple dancer’s as she slowly began to move towards the hellish golden glow. “He needs me. His heart calls to mine. I come, my lord! I…!”
“Doctor?”
Lian Rendell’s eyes fluttered open. “Yes? Yes?” she asked a little too loudly, her heart thumping in her chest.
Rajana Blake was leaning over her, looking calm – but not preternaturally so. They were in Rendell’s office – which was looking very solidly real… as real as it had when she had lain down for a short nap on the small couch next to the far wall a half hour ago.
“You said that if you didn’t make it to rounds by 09:30, I was to come wake you,” the nurse reminded her gently.
“Yes, thank you, Blake.” Rendell straightened her uniform and smoothed her hair. She blew out a long breath and shook her head to clear it of the nightmare. “Thank you. I needed a little help to get out of that one…”
“If the Journal of the Blatantly Obvious doesn’t publish this,” the captain of the Drake said, gazing at the display of charts and graphs laid out for him by his first officer in the ship’s briefing room admiringly, “I’m canceling my subscription immediately.”
“We may not have uncovered anything of significance, but we did make some…” Courtland paused as if carefully considering and discarding multiple descriptors before finally settling on, “…interesting observations.”
“It looks like you had fun,” Sulu commented, taking a seat. Every display at the table seemed to be showing a different graphic representation of numerical data.
“It was an unexpectedly absorbing data set with which to work,” the Equian acknowledged.
Since he himself was part of this “data set,” the captain lifted an eyebrow. “Really?”
“As we expected, tel/empathic abilities did have an impact on performance scores,” Courtland reported, gesturing to the color coded graph on the main screen. “We controlled for several other significant factors as well such as size, reflexes, coordination, and relevant past experience…”
“…But none of them were as good a predictor of success as tel/empathic ability?” Sulu guessed.
“No,” Courtland confirmed, moving on to his next slide. “And, as you know, such abilities come in a variety of forms. There exists a spectrum of manifestations of…”
“These numbers represent the psi-ratings of our team?” the captain interrupted, his eyes widening in surprise.
“Yes.”
“Almost everyone has a fairly good psi rating in at least one area.”
“Yes.” The Equian nodded at the unusually high numbers, then turned to him. “Given the way the data turned out, the statisticians wanted me to ask if tel/empathic ability was a factor in choosing personnel for this mission?”
“No, it was our usual process,” Sulu replied, shaking his head. “I got input from department heads, including you, and just picked who I thought was going to be best for the mission. You know that.”
“That was my answer to them,” Courtland confirmed. “Given the data, they were also interested in your… process.”
“That has to be Del…” The captain pointed to the highest psi ratings marked in red labeled Team Member 5. The next most impressive scores belonged to Team Member 1 whose ratings were recorded in purple. “Who’s that?”
“Those are your numbers, sir,” his first officer informed him.
Sulu gave a disbelieving snort. “I’m no telepath.”
“Your psi ratings are quite high in a number of areas,” Courtland said, carefully rewording his answer to make it more understandable.
The captain frowned forbiddingly. “I’m not a telepath.”
“As I was saying,” the Equian began slowly, seeing that he had reached some sort of impasse that he did not quite understand, “there exists a broad spectrum of tel/empathic abilities. Telepathy is only one – rather rare – example of a manifestation such giftedness. Some areas that we have testing to measure did correlate to a significant advantage in performance in operating the Calumbrian-style exoskeltetons. This advantage was magnified in certain pairings…”
As the slide changed, the captain’s expression morphed into a smile at the degree of his first officer’s understatement. “Oh, yes. I see.”
“Unsurprising, given the design of the machinery,” Courtland granted. “The statisticians are pleased that your team has tried almost all the possible pairings of individuals…”
“…Except the one they project would be most optimal,” Sulu said, noting the blank spot waiting for data on a match-up of Team Members One and Five.
“…Except for that one, yes,” the Equian agreed delicately. “As I was saying, these results confirm that the designers seem to assume they will be able to pull from a pool of psi-gifted operators. However, here is the most recent data we have on the psi-potential of the inhabitants of Sagron IV….”
Sulu shook his head at the uninspiringly flat-line graph. “Unusually low.”
“Yes. Notably low.”
The captain drummed his fingers on the tabletop contemplatively. “The population has been decimated. Psi-gifted warriors would have been high-risk for fatalities…”
“Yes. However, we’re still dealing with a very short time span for a racial characteristic to completely die out on a planetary scale.”
“So the Calumbrians designed vehicles that work best when piloted by individuals with abilities that they generally do not posses… or at least do not possess at this time?”
“So it would seem,” the Equian granted, moving to his next slide. “However, in other Federation races…”
“The Havens, for example?”
“This chart overlays the general distribution of psi-abilities of Havens – from the data that we have on those who are currently serving in Star Fleet – which, of course, may not represent the entire population at large -- with the data we have for the current population of Sagron IV…” Courtland pressed a button and a new layer of bar graph rose from the ashes of the Sagronites’ numbers to more closely rival those of the Haven’s. “Now with the abilities of our entire team…” The Equian clicked again and two twin bar graphs towered up in tandem. “And now a selection of Haven officers chosen for commiserate physical ability and relevant experience as well as psi-potential compared against the statistician’s optimal pairing of our personnel …”
The rankings were nearly identical, but apparently Courtland’s assistants couldn’t resist including the motto “Drake Optimus Vincit Omnia” as a label for their favored projected data set.
The captain crossed his arms. “Tell our statisticians that…” His sour retort was belayed mid-sentence as Sulu’s mind suddenly went back to a time when as a junior officer he had been asked to crunch numbers on an occasion on which a senior officer’s psychic abilities had suddenly gone wildly out of control.
“He said he wasn’t sleeping…” he murmured to himself.
Courtland’s large eyes were blinking at him. “Pardon me, sir?”
“Dylan Paine told me that DelMonde wasn’t sleeping,” Sulu replied, pointing at Team Member Five’s numbers on the viewscreen in front of him that were glowing like a Red Alert in his brain. “That’s doesn’t make any sense. Del sleeps. That’s what he does. He’s a…” Sulu closed his mouth on the slang term for sapphire addict that came to mind. No need to complicate things with that right now. “… He likes his sleep. Saying he’s not sleeping is like saying he’s decided to start drinking water instead of bourbon.”
“Perhaps he’s too upset to sleep,” the Equian suggested reasonably.
“Not Del.” Sulu shook his head. “When he’s stressed, he sleeps more. Nothing stops him from sleeping. He used to have a bedroom right off a hangar bay with ships taking off and landing all the time. I’ve seen him sleep in the middle of a party where people were…” Again, the captain decided the description he almost launched into would unnecessarily complicate the conversation. “Well, a very noisy party. I’ve seen him fall asleep in the middle of a sentence. He sleeps. If he’s not sleeping…”
“Trouble,” his first officer concluded.
“Par for the course with Del,” the captain confirmed. “I think I need to go have a conversation with Dr. Rendell.”
“What was it you wanted me to tell the statisticians, sir?”
“Tell them I appreciate all their hard work and…” As Sulu rose, a devilish notion hit him. “While Mr. DelMonde is not there to raise any objections, let them come down and take a stroll in the exos.”
Courtland tilted his head in surprise. “I’m sure they’ll be very grateful, sir.”
“Until they hit deck for the fifth or sixth time, they will be.” Sulu grinned. “Just tell them, I see them when they’re sleeping. I know when they’re awake.”
The first officer lifted an eyebrow. “And they’ll know what you mean?”
The captain exited with a laugh. “Their numbers will tell the story.”
“You’re still playing?”
Lian Rendell sighed as she looked up from the viewscreen on the wall opposite the desk in her office where another scaly monstrosity was locked in mortal combat with some sort of heavily fanged creature. “We Havens always play,” she informed her captain, hitting pause on the display. “We just don’t always win.”
“I’m here for Act II of our Kabuki Drama,” Sulu announced, setting into the chair opposite her desk.
“Oh,” the doctor replied with appropriately indecipherable ease.
“So, Del is sick?” the captain began, deciding to take them immediately back to the unexplored sections at the heart of their last discussion.
“Yes.”
“He literally has a mental illness.”
Rendell nodded. “To be very literal.”
Sulu frowned and lifted an eyebrow. “Because I am being mean to him?”
“Not entirely. I think the… current unpleasantness is just an additional incident randomly triggering a cumulative…”
“The straw that broke the camel’s back?” the captain suggested.
“Yes, that one.” The Haven smiled and snapped her fingers gratefully as if she’d been searching for the phrase. “Do you think Vulcans sound the way they do because they’re just not very good at metaphors?”
“That is part of it,” he confirmed from experience. “So, Del is having some sort of a nervous breakdown?”
“He’s suffering the unpredictable effects of a chemical imbalance in his brain brought upon by several episodes of extreme emotional stress – some of his own creation…” Rendell spread her hands almost apologetically. “That’s the problem with using chemistry as a moral arbiter -- its judgments tend to be blind as well as harsh.”
Sulu frowned. “What you’re doing to try to cure him -- 'turning off' his telempathy for a few days – it’s more than just putting him in a sensory deprivation chamber, isn’t it?”
There was a pause during which he could feel the Haven weighing her divided loyalties before she decided it was permissible for her to inform him, “I’m feeding him a certain chemical cocktail.”
“Sapphire?” he pressed. Another pause. A slight gesture of her hand that seemed to say, 'Use your imagination, Kam' and then, “Among other things.”
“And it’s working?”
She gave a miniscule, 'don’t hold me to this' shrug. “His numbers are pointing in the right direction at this moment.”
As angry as he was at DelMonde, Sulu discovered that he still had enough love left for the Cajun for his stomach tighten at how thin the doctor’s confidence was at this point. “And if your cure doesn’t work?”
Lian didn’t look like the situation was making her any happier than it was making him. “We’ll have to seek assistance.”
“From whom?” This was another question that she was apparently very reluctant to answer directly. “From individuals with greater expertise in these matters.”
He thought again about Gary Mitchell who had started out with less than a twinkling of Del’s gifts and ended up having to be marooned on an uninhabited planet. And Del… There had never been any one who could come near to matching his power… except maybe… “What about Ruth Valley?”
“Your Antari friend?” Lian brightened, as if she’d never previously considered the option. “That’s an excellent thought.”
“You have other ideas?” Sulu asked, although as the words left his mouth, he knew she was not going to reveal her emergency backup plan if she hadn’t done so already.
Per his conjectures, the Haven gave him only an enigmatic smile. “If you’re fond of metaphors,” she said, “Havens have dozens about how discussing difficult or awkward potentialities gratuitously is always bad for business…”
Sulu was equally divided between being comforted and thoroughly chilled that Lian Rendell seemed fairly assured that she had contacts who were capable of either curing or killing a rogue telepath.
Another unsettling possibility struck the captain. “What if your cocktail works too well and Del wakes up with his telempathy permanently turned off?”
A slow smile of genuine amusement lit the doctor’s face. “Then the Hero of the Federation prize that I will undoubtedly win after your and his enthusiastic nominations needs to come with a substantial raise and an office with a bigger viewscreen and much more comfortable couch.”
Sulu shook his head and gave a mocking laugh as he rose to leave. “And here I thought you were motivated only by purest devotion.”
“Don’t underestimate the depth of my feelings about that couch,” the Haven warned, reactivating her viewscreen.