Here ya go. This entry is NOT guaranteed to be free of spelling and grammatical errors. (It's always harder to proofread your own work, isn't it?) I wrote it pretty quickly the other day, after seeing the contest announcement. If you need a title, it's called "Mind Games." Hope you enjoy!
=================
The captain sat on the comfortable sofa as if sitting there was some kind of punishment, hands clasped firmly together in his lap, back straight. The tension in his body was palpable. And contagious.
“Would you like to lie down,” the ship's counselor asked, fighting her own subconscious response to his nervousness. The question had become a ritual for them. He replied, as always, with an abrupt shake of his head. The red dot of light projected from his eyepiece--the last visible remnant of his time with the Borg Collective--zipped from side-to-side across the bluish-gray bulkhead opposite him.
Counselor Jun Felnar brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her traditional earring. She examined the PADD in her lap, not because she needed to review her notes from their last session, but because it gave her another moment to relax her own body and mind. Her years—decades, she mentally corrected herself—of counseling on Star Fleet ships had taught her that if she couldn't relax, her patients couldn't, either. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a second, and allowed her mind to drift back to the birth of her son. Her body immediately responded to the memory, and a wave of relaxation flowed through her.
“When we left off last time,” she spoke softly but distinctly, “you were telling me about your dreams.” She looked at the captain again, her gaze intent but not aggressive. Her eyes swept over his face in a practiced pattern, from right eye to left eye—or in his case, right eye to left eyepiece—to mouth. Her eye movements were orchestrated to convey interest without judgment.
The captain nodded slightly; the red dot on the wall bounced up and down. Jun restrained herself from saying anything to fill the silence. Eventually he would speak. Silence was another tool in her repertoire.
“There's not much more to tell,” he said, after a long pause. “Dreams are dreams. They don't mean anything.”
“You never dreamed when you were part of the Collective.” She watched for a reaction.
A flicker of pain appeared on his face, but only for a fraction of a second. A less-trained eye would have missed it, but Jun wrote her dissertation on micro-expressions. Very little escaped her notice.
“They don't . . .” he started, then paused, his face a twist of confusion. “They don't make any sense,” he concluded with exasperation, as if his dreams were a personal affront to him. He looked at her for some indication that she understood. She nodded and tilted her head slightly to one side. “I mean, why would my brain show me things that never happened—that never could happen? What possible survival application could there be for dreaming?”
After a suitable pause, to make sure he was done talking, she answered. “Not everything serves a purpose.” His human eye darted to her face, checking for any indication that she was joking. She consulted her PADD again. “You dreamed that you were walking in space, among starships. You dreamed you were a starship, flying through the corridors of Earth Space Dock. You dreamed of gigantic, room-sized tribbles.” She looked at him again. “What do you think these mean?”
He held her gaze for a moment, then looked out the window at the passing streaks of stars. It made him uncomfortable, giving control to her. This was his ship. He had earned it, serving Star Fleet well since that fateful day when the damaged Borg attacked. He knew from the start that his crew mates had been watching him for any sign of reverting to the Collective. Their scrutiny did not offend him. Not exactly. He would not have trusted himself, either. But their scrutiny did keep him on edge. A part of him wondered if he would ever be able to prove his loyalty to the Federation.
“I think they mean I've been getting too much sleep,” he ventured, allowing himself a slight grin. Jun raised a questioning eyebrow, but smiled at his joke. “Aren't you supposed to tell me what they mean?” he said, more seriously.
“I'll let you in on a little secret,” she replied, leaning forward and lowering her voice. “We don't really know, either,” her eye gave a practiced twinkle. He smiled at her candor. She mentally ticked the box next to “use revelations to build trust.”
“Well,” she said, putting on her professional demeanor again, “the dreams aren't why we started having these sessions.”
A storm cloud rolled over the captain's face. “No,” he replied, looking uncomfortable again.
“Are you still having those . . . episodes?”
He nodded. The red dot moved up and down on the wall. Jun internally chastised herself for being distracted by it.
“When was the last time?”
He took a breath. “Just before coming here.” Jun watched him and waited. “On our last away mission. Rescuing Lieutenant-Commander Paris from the Klingons.”
Before she could ask for more, he continued. “And before that, when our fleet confronted the planet-eater.” His words came quickly now. “I could hear them, even though I was on my own bridge. Even though there was nothing coming through the comm channels. The voices would say to do something, and then it would happen.” He paused to watch for any change in her expression, but she kept her face completely neutral. His voice became more desperate as he spoke. “And the other captains—I think they could hear the voices, too. Because sometimes a voice would say something like, 'Watch out, it's going to attack!' and the other ships would move away. And then the blast would come.” He shook his head at the memory. They had barely escaped with their lives.
Jun discreetly double-checked his test results on her PADD. No measurable psychic ability. “What else do the voices say?”
He looked confused as he searched his memory. It was fuzzy, like trying to recall a dream. “Everything. Nothing. I don't know.” He turned his head away, exasperated. Then he tried again. “They talk about music, sometimes. And they tease each other and make jokes.”
Talking about the voices, putting his thoughts into words, seemed to help him remember. “There's one voice, someone called 'Zep,' who seems to be a revered elder. And one called 'Brandon,' and 'Veeb.' And their leader is named 'Nick.' But there are different voices every time.” As he spoke, Jun quietly entered the names into a personnel query. The computer found no links. “And sometimes they say words that don't make sense, like 'put an ex in chat for peeveepee,' or 'anyone for the cure?'”
Jun felt her neutral facade slip for a moment, but she recovered quickly. She glanced at his face, but he did not appear to notice. “And what do you think they mean?” she asked calmly.
“I don't know,” he said, clearly frustrated. He met her gaze defiantly. “And before you ask, it's nothing like the Collective. These voices are disjointed. Unorganized. Chaotic, even.” He paused to consider. “But at the same time, they can be very driven. Like they are working together to accomplish . . . something.”
“And what do you think that is?”
He glared at her for a split-second, taking care not to shine his beam directly into her eyes. Then he shrugged, and for the first time in her memory, his whole body sagged, exhausted from carrying the weight of the universe. “I don't know.”
She watched him for a moment, waiting. It occurred to her that he was not much older than her own son. She fought back a welling maternal instinct, promising herself to process that emotion at a more convenient time. She could not afford clouded judgment. Not with so much at stake.
After a respectful pause, she spoke again. “I get the feeling there's more. Something you aren't telling me.” He looked at her sharply, and from his reaction she knew she was right. When he did not speak, she decided to push him. It was dangerous, but she had to find out. According to her contact, they were running out of time.
“Captain,” she said, her voice becoming official, “I don't have to remind you that
Admiral Quinn requested these sessions, and specifically ordered you to cooperate.” The young captain sat up straight again, his body automatically coming to attention at the sound of authority.
“Lately, I've been getting this sense . . .” he trailed off, grasping for the correct words. Then he started over. “You know how we go on missions? And sometimes we go to a star base or back to Earth?” Jun watched him as impassively as she could while holding her breath. Noticing her shoulders had tensed up, she forced herself to drop them a fraction of an inch into a more relaxed posture.
“Well, sometimes, between missions, I feel like,” he paused, uncertain of his ability to vocalize the thought, “like we don't even exist.”
Jun leaned forward. “What do you mean, exactly?” she said, hoping he didn't notice the crack in her voice.
He shook his head. “I can't describe it any other way. It's like, when we're doing missions, we exist. And for brief periods, like now, when we're on our way to a mission, or to star base. But then, when we finally get a moment to catch our breath, there's just,” he paused, searching for the right word, “nothing.” He shook his head and shrugged.
It took the counselor's last ounce of self control to prevent her from displaying any emotion. Part of her wanted to scream and bolt from her office. Instead she remained sitting, expressionless, watching the man she had served under for several months, and realizing he had become the most alien being she had ever encountered. Her PADD emitted a gentle beep.
“That's all the time we have,” she said, standing. Usually she waited for her patient to stand first, but she needed—desperately needed—him to leave. He stood, gave her a nod of acknowledgment, and departed. As the doors whooshed shut behind him, she stumbled over to her desk and collapsed into the chair, her whole body trembling.
The console on her desk beeped. Glowing purple text appeared on its screen.
DStahl: How much does he know?
“Enough,” she spat. Her words appeared on the screen as she spoke them. “He has all the pieces. He just hasn't put them together. Yet.”
DStahl: We're working on a patch.
Her eyes grew wide as she read the words. After a short pause, she spoke in a whisper. “Will I . . . remember?”
There was a moment before the reply appeared.
DStahl: No.
“Good,” she breathed. The connection closed; the screen went black. She was alone in her office. The office she had decorated (hadn't she?) to help her patients feel at home. Her eyes darted around the room, from the rug (her mother's) to the wall hangings (her son silk-screened them for her) to the ambient lighting system she designed to project warmth and security. For Jun Felnar, this was the most familiar place in the universe.
A shiver ran down her spine. She whipped her head quickly toward the door, then to the window, looking for some sign of . . . she didn't know what. Her eyes and mind raced, trying to catch the world in a lie.
She looked up at the ceiling. It seemed real enough. Was the light getting dimmer? Something caught her eye outside the window. Didn't we already pass that star cluster? She wrapped her arms around her own shoulders, hugging herself against the chill in her heart. And she waited, not knowing if the next moment would bring another mission, or . . . nothing at all.
