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Post TNG: Father I love You. (Reconstruction.)

Guy Gardener

Fleet Admiral
Admiral
(I went to post a brand new chapter a little while ago, and it seems my story had been cropped after the server changed which forced me into another depressive funk. Enjoy the recap.)

Part One.

It had been generations since anyone really had to have dealt with a truly unexpected and unwanted pregnancy that they couldn’t do much about. A palm scanner could record aberrations in the menstrual cycle and it could be turned off with a pill completely if the needs and convenience of the unmother felt so inclined. Religion used to have a heavy say in the actions of ordinary people sweeping their will under an iron curtain of superior morality with hundreds years old spent tired dogma, into bearing children that were not really wanted or couldn’t at all being taken care of. Not that a persons own beliefs in the modern world can’t control their own actions to abide by backwardness if they didn’t feel so inclined, it’s just that religion no longer controls the state when the state still controls the people with an iron fist that it’s good that everything is scientific and sensible rather than quasi-mystical.

“That prick! That fucking prick! I’m going to rip his nuts off and stuff his face with them till I fist them out his ass ring!” The young lady was in a trepid state being told that the abortion had failed; that short of baking her insides with microwaves it was unlikely the “child” in her belly could be sanctioned. Even attempts at transporter extraction failed thinking that possibly the “child” could be farmed to an Orphanage after being maturated extra-virtually because the “mother” in question had planned no part of her life to be burdened with “child” as well as having numerous obligations to the state owing to justify the investment they’d made towards her character. “I’m stuck with this fucky fucky fucking parasite feeding off me for the next 8 months? You’re a Doctor! A scientist! Just slice me open and pull it out! PULL IT OUT! It can’t be real! It’s not a person. You can experiment on it all you want just get it out of me. You can have it! It’s yours! Just get it the hell out of me!”

The Doctor looked down on her with some sympathy that the situation was too impossibly scientifically fictional for her emotions to cope with… “Overreacting is not good for your charkas. It’s important to stay calm if you are going to carry the child to term, because... ” The Doctor is trying to console this lady on the edge ready to take out some bloody vengeance on anything that looked like a man for trying to deform her tight little all too attractive figure, which the Doctor just happened to be. Manly enough to be a stress-releasing punching bag and useless enough to not be a waste of resources. She kicked him in the nuts hard enough to crack a teste into something flattened and leaky. “I want a second opinion! I want a real Doctor! I want this thing out of me! I will not be patronized by some idiot too simple to even… ”

Flailing on the floor, this Doctor can’t hardly summon the breath to call out for Security to tie this heated Latino spitfire up so as he can medicate her into another personality and hopefully another decade so distant she wouldn’t be lucid and free till well after he’d retired and settled down with a few Tellerite concubines. This wasn’t the sort of tipsy psychology rubbish his education prepared him for, he was a pediatrician god damn it, learned and esteemed! Though it wasn’t just a Doctor he’d spent all his life learning to be, He didn’t have to put up with this sort of abuse… Squealing 5 octaves higher than he’d have any ability to usually without being victim to a hormonally ruggard woman’s predisposed clichéd place kicking, this hurt and mad-onned Doctor fellow replies “I’ll give you a second bloody opinion!

Our Doctor punches her knee hard enough to dislocate the patella while he’s still scuttling towards and up on top of the felling glowing expectant mother brandishing a dermal regenerator as if it were a ice spike you’d use to cull a seal so that then in a single deft movement he’s able to weld her legs together, an act any decent lawyer would be able to classify as “self-defense” after he’d had his balls stamp flattened into pennies. Her arms were next, flesh knitted through her red and black Uniform, pits to wrists, recreating her body shape into that of a limbless screaming swearing worm. In his youth this Doctor had served his time in Star Fleet and had to deal with all sorts of violent situations that would make most of the shy retiring sorts in the inner enclosures of the Federation weep for a month. So this? Nothing to write home about.

Part Two.

For the broken few that defied sanity there was only one recourse, Elba II, home of Garth of Izar once self-proclaimed Master to the Universe. Keep them all in one place otherwise it might spread a little like some stigmatic illness. It took a bit to go completely starkers in the modern galaxy that some sort of telepath couldn’t reasonably drag you back from the mouth of madness. At any one time there were maybe only 12 clinically irrecoverably insane people in known space who were not Klingon. Going bonkers qualified you as a celebrity in the UFP as all the over qualified Councillors clambered to invent the new radical process that would affix their immortality in the medical journals by curing the last of the mad unfortunately assuring the certain redundancy of their science as creative and artistic. The new girl to go soft in the head had discovered a child inside her that it was “entrenched” and that “it’s” father was dead near simultaneously skewed by a matter of a hand full of hours.

The cell door opened with the usual noises, but he barely made it past the threshold as the patient used her huge beautiful eyes made as much contact as possible possibly magically keeping him at bay with a force field her mind was building. He wasn’t sure he should be put on so edge by just a reputation, when the longer he said nothing its obvious the more power she had over him.

“Sonya, my name is Rutherford, I was wondering if you would like to talk?” This slight man (not literally) successfully pulling off a purple cat suit enquires of Elba II’s newest resident. He doesn’t have a PADD or even a clipboard, just an honest concerned face mindful that he is coming into the reach of a woman with a history of violence that once survived Captain Picard’s orders to engage the Borg hand to hand.

They’ve been working her over for a month, she’s bored, and she’s on the offensive. “Well it’s your turn. Pull up a seat. Fix my head. I dare you.”

He’s not threatened by her adversarial tone, it’s expected when you’re shuddering someone’s grip on reality till it re-moores somewhere less remote. “I would like to help you.”

“Then get me a knife, stick it in my stomach and shake it all about.” Reversing her stance she mutters, hardly thinking that whatever today has to bring will brighten her prospects of ever- serving on a Star Ship again. She’s doomed. Even if somehow she becomes sane again there’s no telling that they’ll believe her and continue on with doing whatever they’re doing till they push her back into crazy-land.

“I don’t think I want to do that Sonya.” Rutherford knows there’s a transporter lock on him at all times, there’s a limit to the damage this highly trained citizen soldier can do to him before he incollates into a beamed matter stream. “You know that no one wants to see you a danger to yourself.”

“I could make it worth your while.” She pushes her huge hair about as if it were singles night at Ten Forward. Then, when wasn’t it singles night at ten forward? “When was the last time a beautiful woman kissed you?”

“I have dinner with my mother once a week.” He re-tracks the conversation to something formative.

“My good friend “Rutherford” if your mother was willing to follow through with half the things I was offering, then you’d deserve my cot in this sanatorium a damn sight more than I do.”

It’s easy to suppress the itch in his brain that controls his groin. The woman is sick and needs help and it’s not his intentions to abuse her or be abused by her. “How much do you deserve of what you’re going through?”

Sonya isn’t clear inside herself that this person is an enemy but… “Aren’t you going to ply me with some miracle wonder drug to pick up my spirits and make me chipper? Because if you’re just some analyst who thinks he can “talk me better” I’ll be late to sculpture where I am half way towards creating something special with macaroni pasta. Don’t think you can compete with my desires to complete what I create.”

This stops the little man’s thoughts in his tracks, is she intentionally creating Freudian slips seeding disinformation enough to muddle his research? What she said then, was too close to what the crux of her plight was that she can’t be toying with him but… “Are you trying to say something without saying “something”.”

“If you were smarter you wouldn’t have to ask that question.”

Rutherford’s beginning to realize he doesn’t like being goaded. “I don’t have a miracle drug. I’m only smart enough to be here to do what I’m doing and if you think you have to be that much smarter than me to stop me doing things I am not doing and you only think I am doing then you are going to exhaust yourself prematurely.”

“Then what good are you?”

“I’m just here to monitor you Commander Gomez. A little bookkeeping, find out how the experience of Elba II is impacting on your new lifestyle. Nothing devious or duplicitous or… I’m not even any sort of clinical scientist. I’m just an office administrator whose only lasting effect on Elba II will be to change the decor.”

“So you don’t want to “talk” therapeutically?”

He’s not sure she believes him. “I’m the control.”

“The control?”

“I’m a normal person you can talk to about normal things so that all the many people who are trying to help don’t drown you with their never ending attempts at innovative therapy. I swear I heard some one talking about leaches yesterday.”

“A control?”

“Yes.” He smiles as 200 watts-ly as possible but nothing is going got take the edge off this woman.

“Which in itself is a therapy.”

“After a fashion, but I’m a scalpel and not the hand that guides it. I can leave or stay. Would you like to talk about anything?”

“We’re obviously being monitored?” She doesn’t look about nervously.

“Obviously.”

“For your safety or my re-education?”

“You and me, we’d calculate the percentages differently, but it’s a little of both.” He tries to laugh but she doesn’t join him.

“You want to talk?”

“There’s not much to do here Sonja. Not that many people to talk to. A fresh mind to dissect is a relished dish.”

“A poor choice of words.”

“You think that was Freudian?”

“No. I know it was a threat.”

“Given the coldness of your attitude, it’s hardly pre-emptive rather than defensive. After all, you are scaring the crap out of me. I did read your file before they let me in here so we can be honest about who is a threat to who really?.”

“If I’m so dangerous then why are you here?”

“I loved the zoo as a child.”

Finally she smiles.

“Curt. Ask some questions, have your way with me or just my mind.”

“What sort of lies do you enjoy telling people?”
 
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