by Jim Rudnick
"Would you mind repeating that, Doctor?" he said, stalling for time.
The doctor shook his head no.
He wasn't going to play that game.
After all, Tanner thought, it was a pretty simple question.
Why did he kill Tibah on Halberd, the RIM prison planet?
There had been no other mitigating part questions—no way to duck the question.
Why indeed.
Tanner didn't sigh or try to equivocate or sidestep the issue.
He knew the answer. It was just that it made such little sense or reason in an office light-years away from where it had occurred.
"I looked down at the carbine—it was a Merkel, which I knew was a superior weapon, then my eyes tracked back to the trigger, and yes, there was s forefinger on the trigger, and finally to the face of the shooter. It was Tibah al-Rashid, a Countess of the Caliphate, cousin to the Caliph himself. She was aiming at the Caliph—her cousin, and she meant to kill him from just twenty feet away. I had literally less than a second to take this all in—yet I saw in her eyes a look—a fire behind her violet eyes that was death itself.
She was going to pull the trigger—so I shot her with my Colt. Point blank from less than ten feet away. Right in her left temple. And she was gone in an instant. I did that. I had killed her brother Nusayr, the leader of the Olbia rebels, only moments earlier as he also was trying to kill the Caliph with his stunner. And I mourn for neither. I did what I had—"
He choked back a sob then and a second later burst out into a bout of tears and more sobs as he leaned over in his chair and couldn't hold it back anymore.
He cried. He cried and cried and said her name over and over a few times, his tones of longing and sorrow.
He wiped his face with a hand as the doctor jammed a clean tissue into his other hand. He couldn't stop crying.
He stood to try to walk it off, but he couldn't take the first step and fell back into the soft chair as his eyes streamed tears.
He wiped again and again, but the flow was ongoing.
The doctor said nothing but watched and waited very quietly.
Tanner sobbed and after a few minutes more, it seemed to lessen, and he jerked in breaths of air as he attempted to get a hold of himself.
The doctor put a box of tissues on the table in front of him and then sat back again.
Tanner nodded as he snorted and blew his nose, wiping the final few tears away from his face. He nodded once more and only then could he look at his doctor.
"Tell me, Doc—do we all cry when we go back to the event itself?" he said.
His psychiatrist nodded.
"Yes, Tanner, just about everyone who faces the event—at least the first time—ends up in tears. Men, women, aliens—even the DenKoss aliens cry. So no shame in that—plus as you've told me, you had the beginnings of a relationship with that woman too, did you not?" His voice was low and yet there was a tone of importance to that question.
He shook his head and then shrugged. "I guess so, Doctor—but we'd been out on what one might call one date. We went to the Andros Stadium to watch an Avengers—that's rugger, Doctor—a sporting game. One date is all, but yes, I did get to know her a little, and she was a smart, intelligent, businesswoman, who I'd have to admit I did like somewhat. Well, like a lot would be perhaps more honest—and we want to be honest, right, Doc?" he said with a slight tone of cynicism.
Doctor Etter nodded but his face said spare me.
Tanner nodded one more time. "I killed her. It was my job as the head of the RIM Navy on the planet at that time—it was my job to protect the more than a couple dozen of the RIM heads of states from around the RIM. I was armed. There was a riot and people were trying to climb the stage to get their hands on the Caliph and others, so I did what any Navy man would have done—and I did it well, I believe."
The sob that followed caught him by surprise, and he choked it back down.
Another wipe of the eyes with a brand new tissue seemed to help, and he looked up finally at the doctor.
"So, Doctor—am I going to be okay? Is this—this—this thing going to haunt me for the rest of my life?"
"What do you think, Tanner?" was his answer.
The doctor's glasses were perched precariously on the very tip of his nose, but they didn't appear to be going to slip off. He had his tablet in front of him and only by looking could Tanner even tell that he was always updating some file on him.
What do I think?
That stopped him as he had always thought psychiatry meant the doctor asked questions and got the patient to think about what the issue was and that he'd then offer how to handle it. The doctor would tell him what to think, to do, and how to handle these awful memories.
Wasn't that his job? Tanner thought.
But he knew the answer himself.
"Doctor, yes, I know the answer—it will haunt me for as long as I let it do that—is that not correct?" he said and his voice was tremulous but still sure.
The doctor nodded. "Good, Tanner—that is the exact right answer—for as long as you let it. PTSD can be caused by many traumas and what we're trying to do—with the treatment you're undergoing—is to keep you feeling calm and safe. To try to teach you how to cope with the symptoms you just engaged with—to learn how to reduce your anxiety and fear and take back control of your life.
The doctor leaned forward in his chair behind his desk and pointed at Tanner.
"We know that trauma can leave you feeling powerless and vulnerable—just like a few minutes ago. Trauma-focused cognitive-behavioral therapy, which is what you're undergoing, involves carefully and gradually 'exposing' yourself to thoughts, feelings, and situations that remind you of that trauma. Of those few minutes in the Andros Stadium while you protected those heads of state to the best of your ability. You did your job—and that was a good thing, Tanner—no matter how you feel about it now—you did your job. Lives were saved—even though you had to take some lives to do your duty."
He looked down at his tablet, swiped, made some further selections, and then noted something.
"Our therapy involves identifying upsetting thoughts about that traumatic event–particularly thoughts that are distorted and irrational—and replacing them with a more balanced picture. And to do that, we'll use the EMDR treatment.
"That's Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing which means we incorporate elements of cognitive-behavioral therapy with eye movements or other forms of rhythmic, left-right stimulation, such as hand taps or sounds. These work by 'unfreezing' the brain's information processing system, which is interrupted in times of extreme stress. This works. It will take about a month more of treatments, but we're ready for them now—your breakdown of a half hour ago shows me that, Tanner," he said and made more notes on his tablet.
Tanner interrupted him. "Wait, Doc? Am I sane? Isn't this whole ninety-day sojourn thingy up here just for that alone?" he said, his voice only wavering once.
His doctor nodded and then held out his hands with his palms up.
"Oh, you're sane, Captain. Sent that report down to Neres City courts about three weeks ago. But getting you healthy is what we're here for now—and that comes directly from the Lady St. August. She seems to have taken an interest in you, Tanner ..." the doctor said but was careful not to load any kind of tone into that sentence.
Tanner shook his head. "Doc, I'm sane? For the past three weeks then what the hell have I been doing up here? I want to go back to the captain's chair, Doc!" he said, his voice plaintive.
The doc shook his head too. "No can do, Captain. You are here for the ninety days in full—so let's use that time, shall we—and we cannot forget that the Lady St. August has ordered that to be our path. One more month is about it, Captain—then you will have your chair back, I assume.
Tanner shrugged. One more month and he'd be back on the Atlas. He could live with that.
####
Holding his PDA closer to his eyes, he realized it wasn't the res
olution of the hologram display above it, but the simple fact that his eyes were in their seventh decade and he might need the new laser shaping of his corneas.
But that was for another day to think on, Kahil thought and he re-ran the message and watched it fresh.
His message was from Neria; it contained EYES ONLY content about recent purchases by the secret labs here on the Hospital Ship over the past two months and the list of items was interesting. He saw there had been some new additions after the recent addition of the liver expert, Professor Bill Chapman, and that stuck out to him.
The labs had had nothing but failure on vaccine strains from the start, and changing their focus to these new artificial Kupffer cells—ones that were cloned according to new specs supplied by the labs—intrigued him. He thought about the PET items that were sitting on his consciousness from last month's M&M meeting—perhaps there had been a contaminant in the recent shipments. The message noted the company that supplied these new Kupffer cells was the same one that had supplied the PET media too.
That was worrisome, and he looked away at the far wall in his office and the view-port there. Rising, he picked up his plas-glas of chal and ambled over to the room-width port. He stared out first inwards, as that was what one could see right now, as the Hospital Ship slowly rotated in its orbit. From here over Neres, he could see ITO and Roor and all the way to Pentyaan space as well, just beyond the RIM border. Almost ninety planets were now in the Confederacy and each waiting to find out if they will get a vaccine to lengthen our lifespan.
Rumors abounded about the Ikarians, but he had it on good authority that the oldest living Ikarians were more than 300 years old right now. And each it was stated plainly looked like middle-aged aliens. Not old aliens but middle-aged aliens.
He snorted at the new thought that perhaps he might live to be 600 years old himself. Would play with one's life, he knew, if you could have that kind of longevity after taking a simple pill or a shot. He shook his head.
All he needed to do was stay on top of the secret labs and their vaccine status until they solved the problem—until they came up with a vaccine that would work. There'd be testing on mice, of course, which would be the final stage—but then they'd also need to test it on humans and aliens too.
His time would be in between—if he could get the vaccine out between the mice and the human-alien trials that would be best.
How I'll know is the issue. He would need as much help as he could find, persuade, or yes, even threaten others to do his bidding.
It wasn't going to be easy, and he was going to have to start with Ward and his gambling. He'd already had his EYES ONLY with the Caliph who would wash away the young man's Caliphate Casino debts for his help, and that would be his first chip to play.
Even with what little he knew about the addiction of gambling, he knew if an addict was offered a clean slate with no debts, he might do anything he was asked.
####
The Baroness looked at the far gardens and almost smiled, as today they looked acceptable.
It had taken yelling once again at the head gardeners who were in charge of that small plot of plants from Gazaya. Each of the gardens out this southern side of the personal tower of the Palace was named after one of the Barony planets, and the ones from Gazaya were the closest here. She had often looked out on the gardens and wondered who in the world had cut those shrubs so they were always brown and looked like they were dead. It had taken a bark or two at her aides to find the right gardener to berate, but doing so had seemed to work. He had approached her and looked like he was going to pass out, but she had tried to tell him that no matter what color the plants were over on Gazaya, she wanted them green here. Gazaya was the Barony planet that was the breadbasket for the realm, as Olbia had been for the Caliphate. Its job was to be a planet-wide farm able to produce huge crops of various foods as well as raise animals of all kinds. All was harvested or slaughtered and then exported out to the Barony.
On Gazaya, the shrubs were brown, but this was not acceptable to her.
She wanted green—so green they were.
She had another sip of the Quaran Pinot Noir. This vintage—what, four years ago—is very good.
I must have a talk with the sommelier so that he has a better idea of what I like—because I like this one very much. She licked her lips and enjoyed another large sip.
She looked farther down the squares of each of the ten Barony planets, and from here, she could barely see the new one from Throth. Not knowing much about plants, she had agreed to the request from the Ikarian Ambassador that perhaps they could add some of their own Ikarian plants to her gardens, as they were busy doing on their new planet. From here, the blue large leaf trees looked interesting, and she made a mental note to take a walk down there to see them up close tomorrow.
But today there was no time.
She had already held consular meetings with three of her realm planets—Tarvos, Ishtar, and Zadra—on issues concerning the new threats on trading sanctions and tariffs from the Leudies. The damn Leudies were once again playing hell with interstellar trade, and the tariffs they were charging were atrocious. She had handled it as well as she could at this point—but there would be more fine-tuning needed, and she again made a note to arrange for the Leudi Ambassador to pay her a visit. She'd make sure to put that meeting deep, deep within the Palace so the sheer size and posh surroundings would be a good way to remind the alien she was a Royal.
She nodded to herself and made notes on the tablet on the large coffee table in front of her, to remind herself of all of these items, and as she did, it vibrated and buzzed at her.
She quickly punched a few buttons and an EYES ONLY came up on the screen, and she quickly punched in her authorizations and the screen faded to black. She waited only a moment, and then Dr. Sam Etter came on screen from up on the Hospital Ship in orbit.
He looked at the screen from his point of view and seemed to steel himself—at least that's the impression she got right off the bat.
"Doctor," she said kindly, "why have you messaged me would be the question of the day—well, of the morning, perhaps?"
He nodded and cleared his throat. "Baroness, it is with some degree of humility that I message you today—but your strict orders were that when I had a working diagnosis of Captain Scott, I was to contact you forthwith, I believe, 'Ma'am," he said solemnly.
She nodded but did not interrupt him. If he was ready to make that diagnosis, then no time like the present as it'd already been two months.
"After careful testing and with all the diagnostic results carefully tabulated—he is fine. He does suffer from PTSD, which we are still facing some issues on—but the alcoholism is gone. It was a simple gene therapy treatment—and we have tested and it's fine. He can still drink, but the alcohol has no effect on him whatsoever. I just wish we could do that with all dependency issues. But Captain Scott is fine and can be returned to duty after his ninety days are up," he said and smiled at her.
It was a fair diagnosis and that she realized was a start.
The fact that her captain was ready for duty was more important than everything else was—but the ninety-day upcoming release date was a bit worrisome.
"And I believe that you will also," she said with a slight burr on her tone, "need to sign off on his 'compos mentis.' Am I correct there too?
That was the real issue—well, only if she allowed it. If there were going to be any issues with his being found "un-sane," then she'd just have to relieve those judges from their robes. While that was happening, Captain Scott would be back on the Atlas, and that was a simple fact of being a Royal.
He looked down at the paperwork in front of him, nodded, and then looked up.
"That report was sent two days ago, Ma'am. He was found sane, yes, as we all knew he would be. The fact that he appears to have gone berserk and badly mauled more than eight other Caliphate marines is not our worry. He did that. He has no memory of that happening, but it did occur, a
nd that's for sure. The PTSD will eventually be conquered—our work using the latest therapy techniques—EMDR it's called, seemed to have gotten some traction with the captain. He drums his fingers as a coping mechanism more than I'd like—but it does as it's supposed to do.
"During the reprocessing phases of EMDR therapy, Baroness, the captain focuses on the disturbing memory in multiple brief sets of about fifteen to thirty seconds. Simultaneously, the captain focuses on the dual attention stimulus, which consists of focusing on the trauma while I initiate his tapping of his fingers on his knees."
He shook his head.
"It is new, yes. It is tried though, and it appears to have gained some leverage with the captain. So over the next few weeks—in the time that we have—we will work on that, Baroness. And Captain Scott will improve."
He looked at her with what she felt was a need to be stroked, so she did that.
"Doctor—that is very good news. Congratulations—and yes, do work hard on getting our captain healthy. I'll look after the courts, and as always, the Barony treasury will make the Caliphate marines sign off.
####
Nathan double-checked the table in his small kitchen and wished he had something a bit bigger, but the apartments for Hospital Ship staff were all small unless you were a department head. "And that's not me," he said to himself as he straightened out the fork at Nancy's place and mentally checked off the dinner settings.
He had spent an hour last night alone using Gallipedia to find the correct dish to prepare and serve as tonight was his confession night. He shrugged that off again for now as he still didn't know how to broach this, but he knew it had to be done tonight. Their relationship had grown so strong that he felt like he was being more than unfair with Nancy—he was being dishonest, and that was something he never wanted to do again. Tonight, he thought, would either cement their relationship or end it.
