Well of Souls

by Ilsa J. Bick

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “I thought it was a good one. After all, Devlin Connolly was your lover…”

  “Was,” she said, “was.”

  “So it stands to reason you’d have contacted him again.”

  “Unbelievable.” Bat-Levi grasped the arms of her chair, and Tyvan saw the fabric pucker as her fingers dug in. “Un. Be. Lievable. Doctor, take a good, hard look. I wasn’t exactly in any shape to go to Pacifica.”

  Tyvan’s eyes traveled over her body, her disfigured features as if seeing them for the first time. “Well, no, but we’ve already established that this is the body you wanted. I don’t see what one has to do with the other. So, did you send for him? I’m sure Devlin…”

  “No,” she interrupted. All the color had bled from her face now—Borg, thought Tyvan, just like the Borg—and this made her scar stand out so pink and taut, it rippled like a worm. “I didn’t send for him.”

  “Ever?”

  “Ever.” Her jaw thrust out, as if daring him to take a swing. “Ever.”

  “Did he call? Did he want to see you?”

  For the first time, he saw uncertainty. Then her eyes grew hooded. “Yes, he called—about a week after. He wanted to know why I wouldn’t let them evacuate me to Starfleet Medical.”

  “It’s a good question. Did you tell him why?”

  She seemed to find something fascinating at the tips of her boots. “We didn’t speak. There was nothing to say.”

  “Nothing to say? Darya, I thought you said that you and Devlin…”

  Bat-Levi threw him a sharp, defiant look. “That was before.”

  “But how did the accident change anything? I would’ve thought you’d need…want Devlin more than ever. He called, so he was willing.”

  Tyvan saw that Bat-Levi’s index finger had stolen to the cuticle of her right thumb. He watched as her nail tore at the skin. “I didn’t need his help.”

  “Why not?”

  She shook her head with a short, irritable gesture. A bubble of red blood welled up along her right thumbnail, but if it hurt, she gave no indication. “Because I didn’t want him to see me like this. Why would any man want,” she held up her artificial hand, “this?”

  “You don’t seem to have had a lot of faith in Devlin.”

  Bat-Levi exhaled something like a laugh. “It doesn’t take faith to know what’s repulsive.”

  “Sure. Appearance is the first thing by which anyone is judged. But you’d think that a man who’d met all kinds of aliens—and some of them pretty ugly by human standards—would look a little deeper into the woman he loved.”

  “Well, I didn’t bother to find out.”

  “I guess I’m interested in that.”

  “And I guess I’m not. Look at me, Doctor. What man would want this, what man could love someone who looks like this?”

  “I don’t know, Darya,” said Tyvan gently. “I don’t know why you never bothered to find out. Then again, I don’t know why you wanted to hurt Devlin Connolly either.”

  “Hurt him…”

  “But that happens. We all lash out at the people we care about, and you’re furious with yourself, sure. And you’re furious with Joshua for going ahead with something you knew he shouldn’t have. Except you can’t get at him. You can’t tell Joshua how angry you are, how much he’s made everyone suffer. So you turn that anger on yourself, and you throw love back into the faces of people who care about you.”

  “Care about me,” Bat-Levi bristled. There was blood all over her thumbnail now. “Care about me? There’s no one who cares about me. I’m a cog in a machine. No, no, I’m a machine within a machine. I do my job; I’m alive because everyone says I ought to be grateful to be. But they don’t know what it’s like.”

  “Yes, you’ve made sure of that. I’ll bet it takes a lot of energy, keeping that armor in place.”

  Then, just as Bat-Levi opened her mouth to reply, Tyvan’s office door chimed. Tyvan felt a quick flash of irritation. Why was someone bothering him? He was with a patient; he shouldn’t be interrupted. Then he glanced at his chronometer and knew exactly why. Halak’s inquiry had convened twenty minutes ago.

  Bat-Levi was already pushing her way to her feet, the servos in her knees squealing a protest. “I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself. I’m gone. I came a day early, we talked about some things, and now I’m gone. There’s no regulation that says I have to sit here and let you goad me.”

  The chime sounded again. “Doctor?” A man’s voice, followed by a knock. “Dr. Tyvan?”

  “Just a moment,” Tyvan called, exasperated. Never rains but it pours. “Darya, I think that it’s valuable for us to look at the way you’re thinking and…”

  “No.” Bat-Levi cut him off. “No. I don’t think it’s valuable. I stayed here way too long. I don’t know why I listen to you, but I’m not interested in finding out why. I don’t have a choice about seeing you. My orders are to report. Well, I reported—a day early, but I did it, and that’s session number four, Doc. One more, and then you get to write your precious report. But for now,” she made an offhand gesture to the door, “it sounds like you don’t have a choice either.”

  Before he could say anything more, she wheeled about, with an alacrity that surprised him. The door hissed to one side and Bat-Levi barreled through.

  “Whoa!” said Ensign Richard Castillo, jumping to one side. He put his hands up, palms out “Sorry, Ma’am. I…”

  “It’s fine, Ensign,” said Bat-Levi. She pushed past, heading down the corridor. “I was just leaving.”

  “Sure,” said Castillo, to her rapidly retreating back. “Ma’am.”

  Bat-Levi didn’t reply. Tyvan heard the thud of her prosthetic legs fade as she rounded the bend of the corridor, and disappeared.

  Castillo turned his puzzled gaze to Tyvan. “Sorry, sir. Honestly, I didn’t know. But you didn’t answer your hails, and Captain Garrett called the bridge and she’s pretty steamed…”

  “It’s fine, Ensign,” said Tyvan, echoing Bat-Levi, but more kindly. “Please let the captain know I’m on my way.”

  “Well,” said Castillo, looking apologetic, “that’s just it. My orders are to escort you down, sir. Ah, see, the captain…”

  “I understand,” said Tyvan. “So, the captain’s hot?”

  “Uh.” Castillo looked startled, and, too late, Tyvan considered that “hot” might have different connotations to a young man. “Well, yessir, you could say that.” A quick smile that flitted on and off, like a light. Castillo had unusually blue eyes set off beneath a full head of light brown curls. If not for an angular jaw, he would have looked almost cherubic.

  “Scorching?” asked Tyvan, annoyed that Garrett thought he needed a babysitter. On the other hand, he hadn’t given her much choice. She’d probably give him a good dressing-down in private. “Or just steamed?”

  “Think supernova,” said Castillo. He hesitated, and Tyvan saw a twinkle of mischief in the ensign’s face. “I think Lieutenant Bulast said the channel melted. Sir.”

  “Well, that sounds unpleasant.”

  “Judging by Lieutenant Bulast’s face, I think so.” Castillo seemed to want to say something more.

  “Yes, Ensign? Something else on your mind?”

  “Yes, sir.” Castillo squared his shoulders. “Two things, actually.”

  Tyvan folded his arms. “Fire away. We psychiatrists don’t bite, and if Captain Garrett’s that angry, a minute more won’t make any difference.”

  “Well, uh, I don’t know you very well, sir, you just having come aboard and all and…”

  “You have a point, Ensign?”

  Castillo straightened a bit, as if Tyvan had chastised him for slouching. “Yessir. Look, you’re not an Academy grad. I understand that, and I’ve heard that, uh, having people…doctors who are civilians come in, well, I know that civilians do things differently. I know that, you know, medicine isn’t the military.” />
  “It’s clear you haven’t spent much time with surgeons,” said Tyvan, with a wry smile. “Or some hardcore nurses. You object to my being late, Ensign?”

  “No, sir. That’s for you and the captain to square. It’s just that, you know, the captain, she’s steamed. But, because of you, Lieutenant Bulast’s gotten an earful, and that’s not right.”

  Now this was a surprise. Not as eager to please as he looks, taking on a superior officer like that. “You’ve got a good point. Tell you what: I’ll talk to Captain Garrett, let her know it was my fault, all right?” Just as soon as she’s done chewing me out.

  Castillo’s head moved in a short nod. “Thank you, sir. I was kind of hoping you might do that. Lieutenant Bulast…well, he’s feeling kind of low anyway.”

  “Why is that?”

  The young ensign moved his shoulders in a negligent shrug. “Could be because of Lieutenant Batra.”

  Tyvan’s eyebrows arched. “They were that close?”

  “They spent time together and…” Castillo fidgeted, looked away.

  “I see,” said Tyvan, though he really didn’t. His thoughts were already wandering ahead to the inquiry, and Garrett. Garrett would really let him have it afterward, and an angry Garrett was trouble he didn’t need. He didn’t have to be a psychiatrist or a Listener to know that she wasn’t exactly thrilled with his being posted aboard the Enterprise.

  Tyvan made a move to gather his materials when he saw that Castillo was still fidgeting. “Something else, Ensign?”

  “Uh,” Castillo took a deep breath, “yes. I was wondering. Could I…could we…”

  Tyvan decided that letting Castillo stew wouldn’t help. “You want to schedule some time, Ensign?”

  “Yes, sir.” Castillo looked relieved, though his neck was mottled with red blotches.

  More surprises. “Certainly. Now’s not a good time, though. How about we schedule something as soon as I’m done? All right?”

  “Yeah, of course, you’re right. Sorry,” said Castillo, and Tyvan was relieved that Castillo had dropped the “sir.” Rank always made him uncomfortable. “We should go.”

  “Right.” Medical boards and inquiries—Tyvan felt a quick spark of disgust—he understood why the military had them, but boarding people out of the military because they might have certain physical or mental problems smacked too much of the twenty-first century, as if medicine hadn’t progressed in three centuries and most illnesses weren’t remediable by accommodation, medication, or intervention.

  “Well, let’s get going, Ensign,” said Tyvan, with more enthusiasm than he felt. “That way, you won’t get blistered by the captain, either.”

  Castillo bobbed his head then stepped out of the way, allowing Tyvan to go first. In the turbolift, Castillo stood behind and slightly off to the left, his hands clasped behind his back. Neither spoke. Instead they stood, staring at a strip of metal above the turbolift doors.

  In the silence, broken only by the whirr of the turbolift, Tyvan’s thoughts drifted to Bat-Levi. He’d taken a risk, again. But it was either break through her armor, or sit back and take the path of least resistance and do nothing.

  The turbolift dinged, and the computer announced their deck. The doors parted.

  But Bat-Levi was right about one thing, thought Tyvan as he walked the corridor to the conference room. She didn’t need to do anything but report. Well, he understood her reactions. Patients were so resistant to change. But change was necessary for a patient to break out of old self-destructive patterns, and that was his mission: to break down resistance.

  Resistance—Tyvan heard the mechanical voices of thousands of drones in his head, a single voice that was many, and one he would never forget—is futile.

  The realization hit him like a thunderbolt. But then he was at the conference room doors and Garrett was waiting, and Tyvan would have to think about what this meant about him later. But, he thought, as the doors hissed apart, how odd that he hadn’t seen the irony.

  Chapter 17

  As it happened, Garrett let Tyvan have it in public.

  “My apologies, Captain,” he said, walking rapidly to a vacant chair at Stern’s left elbow. He registered that, besides Garrett, Stern, and a lieutenant recording the proceedings, there were two strangers: a blonde-haired, brown-eyed female lieutenant sitting directly across from Garrett, and to the blonde’s left, a moderately tall though somewhat stocky Vulcan male dressed in the gray and black uniform of the V’Shar, the Vulcan security agency. The blonde would be the Starfleet Intelligence agent, Laura Burke, and the Vulcan’s name was Sivek, if Tyvan remembered correctly.

  Stern murmured something he didn’t catch. Sliding into his chair, Tyvan bobbed his head at Garrett, who was to Stern’s right. It hit him at the last second that he probably shouldn’t have sat down until Garrett gave him some indication. Bravo, Tyvan. “I was detained by a patient.”

  “I see.” Garrett’s dark brown eyes were hard. “And do you always refuse to answer hails when you’re with a patient, Doctor?”

  “Well,” said Tyvan, trying to defuse the situation with a small smile, “I don’t like to interrupt the flow of a patient’s session.” He almost winced.

  “I see,” said Garrett again, her tone indicating that she didn’t see at all. “Well, let me put it to you this way, Commander. You’re a Starfleet officer who just happens to be a doctor, not the other way around. You wear a uniform. You are given orders, and unless there’s a pretty damn good reason for you to disobey—and offhand, I can’t think of very many—then you obey them. I can appreciate that you felt you had important work to do. Someone’s bleeding to death, you might be late. But you’re a psychiatrist, and none of your patients are likely to bleed to death.”

  Tyvan could have mentioned suicidal or homicidal patients, but thought he ought to just sit and listen. It was, he reflected, what shrinks supposedly did best.

  “So,” said Garrett, “until you can prove to me that a psychiatric session is equivalent to a life-or-death situation, then there is nothing more important than your duties to this ship—not a patient, not this,” Garrett churned the air with her hand, “flow of a session, nothing. When I have you hailed, I expect you to answer. You don’t ignore a hail because then you’re ignoring me, and I get, well, a little unreasonable when a member of my crew doesn’t follow an order. So this is your first and only warning. You read me, mister?”

  Tyvan was numb with embarrassment and shock. Only aboard a couple of weeks, and already he’d managed to alienate the captain. But she was right. This is a mistake. I have no business being here, I can’t function here. For not the first time, he wondered how Stern did it. Doctors needed autonomy; he required a system to be flexible to the needs of his patients. But that’s not what the military was about. So it was either play by the rules, or think up creative ways around them.

  All he said was, “Absolutely, Captain.” The temperature in the conference room was cool, but Tyvan felt an uncharacteristic heat traveling up his face and realized that he was blushing to the roots of his hair, like an errant schoolboy who’d been caught blowing spitballs. “It won’t happen again.”

  “No, it won’t because the next time will be your last,” said Garrett. She turned away, swiveling her chair toward a blank-faced lieutenant who sat across and to her right, making recordings of the proceedings. “Strike all that from the record, please.”

  Stern took advantage of the momentary lull to lean toward him and murmur, “Nice move. See me after.”

  Tyvan didn’t reply. Instead, he played with his padd, scrolled to his reports, and thought, right. Nice move.

  “All right.” Garrett leaned her forearms on the conference table and laced her fingers together. “Where were we?”

  Stern spoke up. “Commander Halak’s toxicological analysis, Captain.”

  Garrett made a go-on motion with her hand. Stern consulted her padd. “As I said, there was nothing, Captain. Commander Halak was clean across the board.
No drugs, nothing illegal. Clean as a whistle.” Stern threw a pointed glance at Lieutenant Burke. “If Commander Halak was involved with red ice, or this Asfar whatchamacallit, it wasn’t as a user.”

  “Qatala.” Burke favored Stern with a frosty brown stare. “The Asfar Qatala.”

  “Right.” Stern grunted, returned her gaze to Garrett. “Like I said, not involved.”

  “With red ice,” Burke added.

  “That’s enough.” Garrett rapped her knuckles on the table. God, she didn’t like this woman. “You’ve made your point, Burke.”

  Burke sat back without a word of protest. Garrett suppressed a sigh. Not fair to be angry: Garrett might hate what Burke did for a living, but Burke was doing her job, and Halak had plenty to explain. Garrett still didn’t understand what had happened, but then again, she hadn’t confronted Halak herself either.

  Stern had argued. “You’re the captain, for crying out loud. More importantly, you’re his captain. Talk to him, Rachel. He’s a decent man, and I’ll bet there’s some explanation for this. I have to admit I don’t have a clue what that might be.”

  “That’s because there isn’t,” Garrett had said. “Jo, you’re the one with the evidence. He’s lying, and he thinks he can get away with it.”

  “And you’re not interested why? You’ve never lied when you’ve been in a jam?”

  Garrett knew what her friend was referring to, and she inwardly cursed that she’d ever told Jo Stern about what had happened on that night long ago, when she was eighteen and scared to death.

  Instead, she’d said, “Don’t start. The situations aren’t the least bit similar.”

  Stern had thrown up her hands in disgust. “Jeez, there it is again. The truth is you don’t want to hear Halak’s story. You’ve already made up your mind about him.”

  And was that true? If Garrett had gone to Halak as his captain—no, his friend, as she would have done for Nigel—would they even be sitting here now? Probably not, and the realization made her feel petty and small. Maybe Stern was right.

  No. Garrett felt her heart harden. Halak was Halak, a man with a history and his own baggage and questions dogging his heels, and he’d taken what trust she’d had—precious little—and betrayed it by getting one of her officers killed and then concocting an outlandish story that leaked worse than a sieve.