***
Dr. Miller lay in the guest crew quarters on board Captain Gault’s ship now bound for Alpha Centauri. She had mixed feelings. On the one hand, she was miffed to be picked up and moved like a piece of baggage. On the other hand, she was excited to be part of Dr. Gault’s team. The doctor had a reputation for putting together the best and brightest to attack whatever scientific problem was being studied. Attack was the right word, too. She approached research with a single minded purpose that left most people exhausted. She let no one or no hurdle get in her way, so Dr. Miller shouldn’t have been too surprised that she’d been uprooted from her current station and moved to a location that was more convenient to Dr. Gault and not her. What did she expect, really? Did she think the doctor was going to just drop what she was doing and travel ten light years to a naval station on the edge of human-occupied space to join her little research group? That would hardly have been in character. No, Dr. Gault was the center of this universe and she, Dr. Miller, was simply one of the many celestial bodies circling her immense gravity well.
While being miffed about the sudden and unexpected re-assignment, she was excited at the prospects. In the psychology field she was a nobody, really. She had published a few papers here and there in the scientific data journals, but nothing of any significance to warrant the coveted position on Dr. Gault’s newly formed team. She could think of half a dozen psychologists in their five-system area that had similar qualifications. She was no slouch by any means, but if she were picking a team and needed a psychologist, she wouldn’t have put herself on the list. She could only guess at Dr. Gault’s reasons. Perhaps she wanted to give a relative unknown a shot at following up on her own discovery. If that was the case, she was grateful. The doctor certainly had enough influence to simply pull the project completely from her grasp and leave her nothing without a second thought. The other possibility that occurred to her was that she would be playing some less important role in the project, and her inclusion was simply an afterthought, personal qualifications notwithstanding. If that was the case, she would have to prove herself to be more than just a bystander or decoration. She would have to prove she was capable of adding meaningful content to the discussion.
To that end, Dr. Miller had spent an enormous amount of time going over her scans and notes from her subject’s examination. She had developed a number of theories from a number of different approaches. She knew the material backward and forward, or as much of it as had been made available. None of the biographical background had been included with the subject’s file. When she had been brought into the station, the subject had been labeled as a Jane Doe. There had been no identification chip giving military rank or branch designation as would be typical of military personnel and she could think of no reason why a T80 pilot would be without one. Special operations maybe? She seemed a little young for that, but maybe it was experimental. Regardless, the chip should have given her a reference file number that would have supplied her with a full biographical and mental health history that would have allowed for a full treatment plan. Instead, what she had been given was an essential unknown and trying to develop a coherent psychological assessment was impossible without it.
Dr. Miller had made attempts to access the information via the ship’s data terminals, but none of that information had been forthcoming from Captain Gault or from his ship’s data files. Any time a ship made dock, its database was automatically synced with that of the station. What was in the ship’s database was automatically transferred into the station’s database. What they knew, she should know, which was in the best interest of the patient when they came in for treatment. But nothing had been available on the girl except the details of her rescue. She had attached those files to her other research data, but she did not want to show up in Dr. Gault’s office with incomplete information. She’d done a little teaching before being assigned to the station and there was nothing more unimpressive than a student who hadn’t done their homework. She did not intend to be that person.
During the weeks the ship had been in port, Dr. Miller had made multiple trips to see Dr. Little. The captain had said she wouldn’t be allowed to treat the girl, but he had said nothing about coming on board to speak with his ship’s doctor, who would take part in any medical dealings with the girl. The doctor had been annoyingly unhelpful. The captain had obviously ordered him not to share any information with her and his shipboard files were encrypted. She’d caught him looking at a couple of scans she guessed belonged to the girl on a number of occasions, but as soon as he found her looking, whatever was on the screen was taken down and she was politely rebuffed.
That left Dr. Miller observing from a distance. Again, the captain’s orders had not prevented her from coming onboard the ship, and making observations and taking notes. She had been astonished at the captain’s choice to place the girl with the marines, unsecured and basically untreated. In her opinion, a subject with that kind of trauma needed a secure environment with daily treatment and medications. The girl appeared to be given none of this, and to place her in the middle of a bunch of knuckle-dragging marines seemed unconscionable. However, after seeing the marines interact with her, she had to grudgingly admit the choice, while unorthodox, might well have been a stroke of genius. The subject had by no means reached anything attaining normalcy, but the progress was notable.
There were several times throughout each day that the subject appeared on the verge of a total psychotic break down, but each time the same female marine took control and provided a stable platform for the girl to ground herself to, while the rest of the marines cleared the area in case she completely broke down. The regular exercise was obviously beneficial and seemed to be a good outlet for the test subject to work out her aggression, which was good because the doctor had experienced firsthand that the girl contained quite a lot of that. But even that seemed to have its risks. It appeared from Dr. Miller’s perspective that any activity that got the girl physically active also had the tendency to draw out anger and hostility as well, and it was her expert opinion that avoiding physical activity, at least for the short term, would be the best course of action.
However, over the two weeks Dr. Miller had been observing, the subject had begun to relax and gain more control of the rage so obviously trying to get out. The near psychotic breaks became less and less frequent. She’d also noted the subject's affect had shown some margin of improvement. On their first meeting, the subject had looked at her like a piece of meat, as if deciding whether to kill her or leave her for the carrion eaters to pick her clean. There had been no warmth or recognition in her expression, and it had raised the hackles on the back of the doctor’s neck. Her face lacked much of any expression, but after two weeks with the marines, Dr. Miller caught the hint of what might be called a smirk from time to time. She noted the subject still communicated very little and only in short, one or two-word responses. The only exception seemed to be with the female marine that walked her through her near-psychotic breaks, and who obviously had been assigned as her tender. The two were never more than a few feet apart and there were times when the subject would whisper into the marine’s ear. There was no way to know what was being said, but the length indicated it was something more than the one to two word answers she gave everyone else.
Dr. Miller had been particularly distressed when the subject had been included in the hand-to-hand combat drills. What were they thinking, including the subject in something like that in her condition? It was combat that had done this to her, and here they were, having her participate in the same kind of activity that had caused her psychosis. If that wasn’t a recipe for disaster, she didn’t know what was, and she waited for disaster to strike. Dr. Miller hoped for the psychotic break to open the possibility of re-visiting the girl’s treatment with the captain, but it never came. The subject seemed on the verge almost constantly the first few sparring sessions, but the female marine, with
infinite patience, would stop and walk her back to sanity. While the doctor thought it was an incredibly stupid and risky thing to do, she had to admire the marine’s sharp eye and easy hand. The marine watched the subject like a hawk and immediately terminated any activity when she saw the girl was on the verge of losing control. Dr. Miller was too far away to hear what was said, but the calm, reassuring tones and posture seemed to have the right effect on the subject. In fact, she noticed after several days the female marine was the only one who touched the subject and the only one the subject touched in return. It was plain after two weeks they had formed some type of bond. Dr. Miller had to admit she was a little jealous. Had she been given the opportunity, that could have been her and she could have been well on her way to getting the data she would need for her research.
The doctor also couldn’t help but notice the fluid grace and speed with which the subject moved that made everyone else look clumsy. After two weeks, the subject had progressed to a new level in their hand-to-hand combat training, where she could go for nearly a five minute round of sparing before her tender would have to stop the action until the subject regained control. Before that time, the subject moved with such speed and fluidity her partner, always the female marine, never laid a hand on her. The opposite was not true and the girl landed frequent blows. They were obviously not going full out, but the strikes looked painful. The marine seemed to take it in stride, and, in fact, seemed to be enjoying the interaction. Dr. Miller would never understand the masochistic tendencies of marines. There were obviously some deep- seated issues with all of them, but she supposed the human race needed people like them, even if they were a bit difficult to manage.
One other thing the doctor had noticed over time was the change in the subject’s physical appearance. The black, obsidian-like skin had begun to lighten incrementally, until she had attained an ash-colored hue. It was a welcome change for the doctor, personally. She hadn’t cared for the alien look in combination with the dead-pan stare. It was just creepy and unsettling and it would be nice to deal with the subject when she looked a little more on the human side. Dr. Miller also observed the girl's hair had begun to grow back. That had to be a significant morale boost for the subject. Most injured patients she dealt with that had some kind of disfigurement responded positively to a restoration of their original condition. For a young, pretty girl, being bald had to be a hardship the subject was glad not to have to deal with.
Dr. Miller shifted her attention back to her notes and frowned. She was as familiar with the data currently available to her as she was going to get. What she needed was more information, which she wanted desperately before reaching Alpha Centauri. And not just information. She did not want to start from scratch with the subject when they reached their destination. She needed to find some way to establish some kind of rapport with the girl. Nothing too intrusive, at least not to start, but eventually she would have to take the place of her current tender. She had two weeks to make some kind of start before they reached their destination, and she thought intently on the matter as the ship sailed through the darkness of space.
***
Rayne sat with her back against the bulkhead, looking out the view port at the end of the maintenance access. Her boots sat in a disordered heap across from her, along with the socks. It was to her fortune the air was circulating away from her, and she didn’t have to throw them further down the hall to escape their smell. She rested her bare feet on the smooth metal and enjoyed the sensation of having air circulate around them once again. She sat in the full light of the fading suns streaming through the window as they continued to exit the system. It would be another several days before they were far enough out to punch a hole through folded space, and cross the system to their new destination without causing danger for other incoming vessels.
The corridor in which she sat was a dead end; the view port serving no real purpose but to give its passengers a view of the space outside. It was quiet and secluded, and with Lena guarding the access, the chances of being interrupted were low. It was exactly what she needed. It had been a busy day and the close proximity of so many people had been pushing her further and further toward her breaking point. She needed the quiet, if only for a little while before having to face her dreams.
It was the end of their cycle and everyone was either sacked out or passing their time quietly before preparing for sleep. Rayne was just a short distance from the barrack’s hatch where she knew Lena was keeping watch. She could hear the sound of mumbled conversation, but didn’t make any effort to understand what was being said. She didn’t want to think right now and just let her mind drift as she watched the stars. The static in her head was a persistent hiss, occasionally skipping and fading, but never truly going silent. From time to time she thought she heard voices and wondered if she was going truly crazy or if she was just hearing memories of her T80 interface. She couldn’t make out what was being said and was too tired now to even try. Whatever it was, whether a memory or not, it was too distorted to make out.
Rayne’s feet were getting cold and she moved them into the suns’ light, hoping they still had enough energy at this distance to provide some warmth. She swung her face toward the window, closing the secondary lids on her eyes as she did. Getting them to do it without closing the others took concentrated effort, but it was becoming easier as she practiced. The lids were colored the same as the T80 bio gel and transparent, providing her with protection from the bright glare of the lights and sun in the same way the sunglasses sitting next to her right hand did. Rayne hadn’t been aware of them until she’d noticed people giving her odd looks when she wasn’t wearing the sunglasses. She’d been shocked herself to find that every time she blinked, the shiny black secondary lids slid horizontally across them as well. She hadn’t touched them directly, but through the skin of her regular lids they felt hard, like the transparent composites they used on optics, data screens and visors used by the marines. They didn’t seem to serve any purpose other than to shield her eyes from the light. She corrected herself. They had blocked debris from getting into her eyes during training. She’d been doing some stick work and one of the batons they’d been using had shattered, sending debris flying in every direction as it exploded. Several small pieces had hit her directly in the eye and been deflected by the protective coating. Convenient, but disturbing to everyone that saw them, including her.
Rayne kept the sunglasses on as much as possible to keep those around her from freaking out. She heard enough whispers behind her back and didn’t want to give them another reason for seeing her as different. It was nothing bad or mean-spirited. The marines had treated her well. She was just tired of the comments on her strength and speed, and didn’t want to give everyone something else to talk about. She’d actually dialed back on what she was capable of, so she’d fit in better with the rest.
Rayne watched the slow spiral of the nebulae outside the window. The system’s two suns lay at the heart and lit the dark, cloudy mass from within. The sight was spectacular and epic in its proportions. The nebulae shown like giant clouds colored in reds, blues and greens, as they churned slowly in the suns’ energy. She gave up heating her feet in the sun and pulled them back to a spot on the floor that was moderately warm from the machinery laboring beneath. She turned her face away from the spectacular scene as she heard laughter from the barracks. She liked the sound. Again, she was reminded of her mother. She smiled at the memory and imagined she could feel a brush through her long hair. She put a hand to her head and the image was ruined by the feel of coarse, stubbled hair. Tears sprung unbidden to her eyes and she closed both lids to hide them away. She angrily choked back the sob that threatened to escape her lips. She’d lost everything; her mother and her father, and now the only thing that had given her purpose…her enemy. Her rescue had taken the last of what she could call hers. She turned her face back toward the churning nebulae outside an
d felt herself drift. She stoked the anger in her heart to life in an effort to feel something other than the emptiness that threatened to consume her. She felt nothing. No joy or happiness. Laughter was forgotten. She was barely capable of a smile. But she remembered anger and hate and killing, and silently wished for it again.
Rayne reacted before the sound registered. Her iron grip grabbed firmly onto a soft neck and slammed the helpless figure onto the ground. She screamed in rage and raised her other hand to strike, blindly thinking the choking figure in her grasp was a threat. She registered the sound of pounding feet and yelling, but ignored it as she brought her fist down toward the now unconscious figure. Before the blow landed Rayne was knocked to the ground. She found herself in a choke hold, and lashed out at the figures swarming to grab her arms and legs. Screaming in anger, she kicked and struggled to pull herself free. Someone shouted in her ear as they maintained the tight hold on her neck. She tucked her chin down to protect her throat, but the pressure did not increase. Whoever was holding her wasn’t trying to kill her, but she thrashed frantically anyway because the thought of being held or touched at that moment was unbearable.
“GET OFF ME!” she screamed.
“Not until you calm down,” came the calm, but strained response, as the person struggled to maintain their hold.