Last Full Measure - Michael A. Martin [10]
Enjoy, Trip thought. Now that’s not something I’ve been doing very much of these days. Ever since the attack on Earth and the death of his sister, nearly six months earlier, he’d enjoyed very little. Although he was doing his best to hide the rage that still blazed within him, he discovered that it was finding other ways to manifest itself, most notably via the nightmares that recurred on a nearly nightly basis even now. Only the Vulcan neuropressure treatments he had recently begun receiving from T’Pol had allowed him to sleep peacefully without having to resort to Phlox’s drugs, or some of the Denobulan doctor’s even scarier, many-legged remedies.
After T’Pol’s last neuropressure session with him, however, Trip found that his dreams had begun to take an entirely different direction.
As T’Pol turned to leave as well, Trip reached out toward her, though he took care not to touch her. “T’Pol, would you want to get lunch with me, before the briefing?”
She tilted her head slightly, and he saw the delicate line of her brow shift subtly. “To discuss this mission, or your neuropressure treatments?”
“Maybe a bit of both.” Trip could feel his ears beginning to burn slightly. He was keenly aware that Reed was still standing very close to him, and had probably heard the exchange. “Probably more of the former.”
T’Pol nodded curtly. “Very well, Commander. I shall meet you at thirteen hundred hours in the crew mess.”
As soon as the captain and the Vulcan had exited the docking bay, Reed spoke up. “What was that about neuropressure treatments?”
“Nothing,” Trip said quickly. Too quickly, he realized.
“Then why are you suddenly as red as a hothouse tomato?” Reed asked, his tone gently chiding.
Trip turned and squinted at him. “T’Pol’s just teaching me some Vulcan relaxation techniques to help me sleep better, okay? That’s all.”
“Ummm-hmmm,” Reed said, his smile betraying a hint of incredulity.
Trip spun on his heel and stepped away. “I’m getting out of these clothes. See you at the briefing.”
He imagined that he could feel Reed’s eyes on his back, even as he replayed the last few minutes in his mind. Whatever Reed wanted to think, there was nothing between him and T’Pol except the neuropressure treatments. Strictly professional.
Except in his dream last night.
There hadn’t been much between them at all then.
T’Pol stared across the mess-hall table at Tucker, observing both the sincerity and the slight hint of fear in his eyes.
“I have never heard of the neuropressure treatments affecting other parts of the psyche,” she said after taking another small sip of her plomeek soup. “But they have also never before been used on humans to my knowledge, so perhaps they are exposing or opening new pathways within your body.”
“Emotional pathways?” Tucker asked. He quickly took a bite of his grilled-cheese sandwich, apparently avoiding her gaze.
“Not for Vulcans, of course,” T’Pol said. “Generally speaking, the treatments open pathways of energy and memory. Are you experiencing heightened emotions, or memories?”
Tucker’s face flushed the color of the ShiKahr desert. “Not memories. Definitely emotions.”
T’Pol pressed him. “Emotions you haven’t experienced before?”
“Well, not with—” He paused abruptly, shaking his head, clearly discomfited about something. “Not this way. I’ve felt these emotions before, just not quite like this.”
T’Pol put her spoon down into the soup bowl. She found herself wearying of the hide-and-seek nature of the conversation. How strange that humans criticize us Vulcans for being emotionally reticent, she thought, her keen sense of irony suddenly fully engaged. And yet they never seem able to simply say what they mean.
Aloud, she said, “Perhaps it would be best if you just explained to me specifically which emotions you are experiencing, so that I can better help you analyze them.”
Tucker dipped his head and whispered loudly at her. “Could you be a little quieter, please?