“Did you see that?” I asked him. My new psychiatrist was sitting at my conference table, in my ready room, staring at me, his overly educated face glowing with persistent, intrusive, interest. He held a large cup of coffee in his right hand, noisily sipping at it once every ten seconds. Other than the thing with the coffee, he was exactly the same as the previous shrinks. With calm, professional concern, he replied, “Do you think you see something Captain Pike?” “Yes... maybe. Just a brief glimpse of... I don't know.” “Is it there now?” “Of course it's not there now,” I snapped at him. “You can see the window as well as I can. Do you see it there now?” The shrink took a noisy sip of his coffee and turned his head towards the window. “No. I don't see anything. Just the peaceful blackness of space. Some stars. The usual things everyone sees through the windows of a starship.” I sneered at these words. But his head was turned away, so he didn’t see my disgust. He was still looking out the window, admiring the panorama of all that peaceful black space, a petite smile widening his rigid lips. It had been clear to me when I first saw him that he was not Starfleet, because his every word and every gesture had told me so. He was just another earth bound psychiatrist who could never comprehend the life I had lived and the person I had become. “‘Just the peaceful blackness of space,’” I said, slowly dragging each word from my reluctant lips. “What a phrase. I must have that little sentence framed and put on the wall. Right here in my Ready Room. I'll point to it when people like you visit.” “Why would you do that?” “Do you really think the blackness of space is peaceful?” I answered. “Or safe? It's not. Every nightmare you can imagine. More than you can imagine. It's out there. It's only a matter of time before some of those nightmares emerge from that peaceful blackness and devour us all. If you really want to hear the truth… I think about being devoured all the time.” This confession inspired the psychiatrist to reach over to his data pad that was lying on the table and start enthusiastically tapping something into it. He then looked back at me. “Do you feel danger is always present?” he asked, his hand eagerly hovering above the data pad in expectation of additional useful information. “That you must be on permanent alert? Constantly vigilant against hostile enemies?” “You ask a lot of questions,” I replied sharply. “But stupid ones. Pointless, annoying inquiries. You're giving me a headache.” “I'm a psychiatrist. I'm not here to give you my opinions. I'm here to encourage you to talk and help you clarify your own thoughts.” “Well then, as your patient I am requesting that you ask some better questions. I don't feel clarified by our conversation.” The psychiatrist finished his coffee with one last slurp, placed his empty cup on the table, and then stared at me, as deep in thought as was possible for him to be. After a few shallow seconds of thought he said, “Ok. How many places do you think you see these things?” “Only here in the Ready Room. And only briefly in the window. I never get a good look at it. It's shiny and sort of slithers across the window.” “But you do understand that nothing could possibly be slithering across the window?” “Yes. I understand. But I still see it every day. And hear it tapping. For eight weeks now. Look… I’ve told the other shrinks all this stuff. I don’t want to talk anymore. I need an explanation. If you don’t have that… then we’re both wasting our time.” The psychiatrist’s neutral expression didn’t change, but he did shift a little in his seat… to indicate that he was about to say something of importance. “It is a common occurrence for people who have been through years of battle to have heightened senses,” he said, steadily staring at me with professional concern. “For someone with your lengthy war experiences, hearing and seeing with acute sensitivity has often been a matter of life or death. It's understandable that your senses have become excessively magnified.” “So my problem is one of sensory magnification, not hallucination? You think I'm battle hardened to the point of insanity? What looks like a star to other people becomes a monster on the window to my hyper vigilant senses? So what's the treatment?” “Time,” the psychiatrist replied with certainty. “Keep reminding yourself that the war is over. There are no more dangers. Your ship is docked in the safest place in the galaxy. You are surrounded by the most efficient and powerful equipment. Starfleet protects you, everywhere and at all times. You can relax completely and just enjoy a safe, serene, life. Keep saying these things to yourself, and, over time, your problems will be reduced.” After hearing this little speech I rose from my chair, walked over to the window, and looked out at the expanse of peaceful blackness that was so beloved by my helpful friend still sitting at the table. After some time I turned and asked him, “How long, in your professional opinion, do you think I should relax like this? Forever maybe? Because, I suspect, that as soon as you leave this room you’re going to call Starfleet and advise some Admiral that I’m too battle hardened and emotionally damaged to ever command a starship again.” “I’ll give Starfleet my professional opinion about our consultation, yes.” “And I’ll spend the rest of my days here on Starbase 15… if they let me even do that… discussing the maintenance of the life support systems with low level, never good enough to be promoted to any interesting position, no imagination, dull people, who all agree, as they frequently like to tell me, ‘that boredom is the price we pay for safety.’ Every day safe… every day dull. Endless, mind-numbing boredom. Because I’m too impaired to do anything else? Is that my new life?” As soon as I’d said these words I saw his hand lift and start hovering over his data pad again. He looked up at me and asked, “Do you believe life can only be interesting when we are at war?” “Not for everyone,” I replied. “I’ve thought about this for a long time. A long time. And after all that tortured thinking I’ve finally realized that for me… war is necessary. I need some conflict. Some danger. I’ve been in Starfleet all my life. I’m a captain on a military vessel. It’s what I do. It’s all I do.” “Perhaps your hallucinations are an extreme form of wishful thinking,” the psychiatrist suggested. “You want so desperately to see monsters at the window that you convince yourself that every passing star is some exciting new enemy to fight?” “I desperately want to see some more stripes and medals on my uniform. But when I look in the mirror I’m still dressed like a captain. With no medals. I don’t imagine things… doc.” The psychiatrist gave me a long, skeptical look, and then finally said, “Have you considered the sporting activities available here on the starbase? Fencing, for example, has helped many of my previous patients. Shadot is always exciting to the players. And of course there are many more options on earth. You may enjoy mountain climbing. It can be quite dangerous. I’ve been mountain climbing myself, and I can assure you… it’s very thrilling.” Disgusted at these suggestions, I turned back towards the Ready Room window and stared at the numerous clusters of stars that were unevenly scattered across the black infinity of space. Many people had recently entered this room and informed me that this was a beautiful view of space. Perhaps it impressed them, but it bored me. It was a static view through the window of a starship that had long been docked in port. I preferred the view when it featured some stars streaking past the window as we travelled at warp speed. “Just leave… and write your report,” I told the psychiatrist. I was suddenly jolted by the sound of a thud. And then a muffled scream filled the room. A scream that sounded, just a little, like the voice of the psychiatrist. I turned towards these sounds, and saw that my supposition was correct. It was the psychiatrist who was screaming. Because a thick, shiny, slimy, tentacle was wrapped around his neck. Another tentacle was sliding across his face, covering his mouth. His hands had reached up, attempting to grab the tentacles as he struggled and kicked to free himself. But the tentacles were too thick and too strong, and so he could only erratically slap at them as they tightened their grip. A third tentacle rose up and enveloped the top of his head. This tentacle quickly and efficiently twisted around, roughly pulling his head back and then down as it dragged him to the floor. I then witnessed a creature, somewhat like an octopus, but with eyes of evil intelligence and malicious intent, slide the main part of its body across the floor and rapidly envelop his face. The psychiatrist kicked his legs for a few seconds more, and then he was still. Its malevolent eyes then turned and focused on me. I recognized it immediately. It was the creature that I had been seeing at the window. I didn’t know how it could have entered the Ready Room. I didn’t know how it could have lived, undetected, for so many weeks on the hull of the ship. I only knew that it was now in my Ready Room, and that it had violent intent. I knew that I had to reach the weapons locker. It was three meters from where I stood, so I started very slowly moving my feet, quietly inching towards the salvation of my weapons, hoping the creature did not understand the purpose my actions. Its ugly eyes followed me as I moved, but it otherwise remained motionless. When I was one meter from the weapons locker I reached out, opened the door, and grabbed a phasor. The creature did nothing. It just intently stared at me as I set my phasor to kill, aimed, and then fired. The next thing I was aware of was a tentacle wrapped tightly around my neck. Another one was squeezing my chest in an ever constricting grip. My phasor was no longer in my hand. The creature dragged me to the floor, and I struggled helplessly as it squeezed… * * * * “Captain Pike… Captain Pike.” I turned my head and looked at the man who was speaking to me. His face was dismal, as were all the other faces of the officials seated at my table in the Ready Room. Those faces were now turned towards me, their eyes carefully examining me with disapproving, angry stares. Apparently, I noted to myself, the previous three hours of discussing maintenance, rosters, procedures, regulations, recommendations, etc., had not drained any of those eyes of their enthusiasm for this lengthy meeting. “You’ve been staring out that window for the last ten minutes,” the face said. “You looked like you were in some sort of daydream. Is this discussion too dull for you? You seemed a million miles away. There’s nothing interesting out there you haven’t seen before, so I think you need to pay attention and then we can finish the meeting. You still have duties you know.” I smiled at all the faces, and replied, “I admit I do daydream quite often. I find some fantasy can make the most boring parts of life less boring. But I always fulfill my duties and, be assured, my attention during this meeting has always been focused on events happening right here… in the Ready Room.”