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The Captain's Heart CH 90
🕑 Added 2025-04-01 13:00:06 +0000 UTCFour intersections. That was how far he made it before voices and general sounds of people, of them, made him turn back. It was an
Four intersections.
That was how far he made it before voices and general sounds of people, of them, made him turn back.
It was an intersection further than the previous two weeks’ attempts, so an improvement, but nowhere near what he wanted. Anger had let him push through many obstacles in his life, but it didn’t help against the fear that had been programmed into him. He focused on the small victory, as he returned to his apartment, to keep from feeling depressed.
There, he headed for the food prep area and the tools set on the counter. The stress had made him hungry, so he printed a chunk of raw meat and cut slices to grill them.
He’d started doing that a week before because, with the weight machine working properly, and no work to do, he’d had too much time on his hands. Kelsirian ballads were over too quickly to be enjoyed, and after what Omar had done to him, enjoying one of the movies from the collection of human ones that was in the ship’s database was proving difficult.
So he’d found himself looking for something to do, and as he was printing a meal, he’d remembered the cooks.
Making his own food was a way to fill time.
He could get any of the ingredients printed, and recipes were available, so starting had been simple enough.
Sauces to go with the grilled, or fried, or roasted chunk of meats, had led to the creamy fillings, and the realization that he was craving something else. He realized what it was when it registered there was an entire category of foods missing from Kelsirian menus.
Breads.
No matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t find them. They didn’t even have a word for it, or pastries.
They had a grain flour, but it was used in making the jelly-like flavored fillings they wrapped slices of meat around. By itself, it was more pasta than bread.
But that meant flour, and flour was the main component of bread. He remembered that from his grandfather’s baking. Yeast, he got by searching through the alcoholize drinks. There was another way. His grandfather had a container on the counter he used to make his breads, but Jeremy couldn’t remember what he’d said about it. But he knew yeast was part of it.
The rest was water and flavorings. Flavoring could wait until he was able to make something that resembled the dough he remembered.
*
“Tell me about the fire,” she asked, looking at him without judgment.
His face burned at the memory. That was one thing he’d rather never talk about, but she wouldn’t let him wave that one aside.
“It was an accident. The bread needed to bake for an hour, and I couldn’t think of just sitting there, waiting. So I decided to go over ideas and projects on my drafting table while I waited.”
“You didn’t set a timer?”
“I wasn’t planning to be at it that long. There’s little I can in the field of anti-matter without access to larger scale printers than fit in my quarters, or anti-matter.”
“And yet?”
He shrugged. “Had this thought about wave frequencies that results from the anti-matter reaction. I’d built a couple of theorems before, but those stayed on Einstein. I hadn’t thought about them until now. I lost track of time. Then I smelled something burning, remembered what I had baking. Black smoke filled my quarters when I opened the door.”
“You wouldn’t let Emergency in.”
He shuddered as they called to him through the intercom. The realization there were a lot of them on the other side of his door, about to barge in. “There was no point. I’d dealt with it by the time they arrived. Threw it in the sink, doused it with water, and all that was left was the smell.”
“What is this bread to you?”
“Just—” he remembered the laughter as his family gathered in his grandfather’s kitchen. Him, his mother, and siblings, helping as best as they could for the age they were. The delight in his eyes, anytime one of them made something for him, no matter how bad it had to be. He was the only one in his family who cooked seriously. His mother did the occasional dish, for special occasions, otherwise it was printed meals all around.
“It’s laughter, family. Peace and pleasure. The comfort of home.”
“You miss your home?”
He nodded, then tensed as he thought of him and his mind crashed him through the horrors he’d suffer if he ever gave into the cravings. How he would leave nothing but a husk after he was done using him, taking everything that made Jeremy who he was and perverting it.
“Jeremy,” the Psychologist’s voice cut through the horrors despite the softness of the tone. “Remember what I taught you.”
“The casing is titanium,” he whispered as he took a breath. “Etched so I can run the wires.” He let the breath out. “The magnetic field generator is bound to the titanium.” He breathed in. “With Coldero’s bounding agent double-x three sixty-eight.” He breathed out.
This way, he went through the fabrication of an anti-matter containment system. His mind steadying with each breath.
“Sorry,” he whispered, his ears burning.
“This isn’t something you need to feel shame for. You are making progress, but the programing, as you call it, is deeply ingrained. That you fall victim to it is not an indication of your worth, but that you are still fighting this war. That you are progressing toward a victory.”
“It feels hopeless sometimes.”
“War feels like that for those in the middle of it. You can’t know you are advancing toward a victory, because all you see is its wreckage around you. The casualties. When someone outside gets a message through, encouraging you, saying that you are advancing. You look around and can’t help question them.”
“Sound’s like you know how it feels first hand.”
“This is a hunter ship. All hunters start on the front lines. And while wars on the scale of ballads stopped being a thing when the price the Kersosterans imposed on us to be shepherded within the Federation was that we shed many of our more barbaric ways, we are not the united people the Federation likes to portrait the species that are part of it are. So hunters find themselves fighting wars, and those like me tend to them afterward. Being a mentalist gives me a more direct appreciation of what they went through.”
“Are all Psychologists mentalists?”
“It is one of the requirement to reach this rank. We are called on to tend to the worse, so must have the most tools at our disposal.”
“Which means that the counselors don’t have a hope of being one?”
“Do your friends in engineering hope to become Engineers?”
“No, but if I’m being honest, I don’t get it. Every tech I’ve known from the moment I graduated saw their time doing that as the price to pay to advance toward something more.”
“I lack the experience with Earthers to explain it in a way I can be certain you’ll understand. It may be that we have a better system for those aiming for higher rank to reach them, or Earther might think differently than we do and not be able to find fulfillment in a lower position. Or your field lends itself to people who don’t find that satisfaction. All I can say is that the counselors who work under me are satisfied where they are. If that changes, they move on to a different position, or someone other than me to work under. Those who have some level of mentalist ability might seek training to hone that, and it might be enough they can become Psychologists too. But most of us accept that Thuruksamian made us as we are, and that is enough.”
He smiled. “Most of you?”
“As I said, we aren’t the unified people the Federation projects. Living in space lends itself to people who know who they are and what they are capable of. On Kelser, you will find those who feel they deserve more, who will scheme to get what they want, but you are on the Bane, and that is less common here.”
“But it happens.”
She smiled. “When you feel up to it, walk among the civilians. You might find behaviors that are familiar to you.”
*
He could do one more.
He breathed and told the fear that the voices in the distance weren’t threats. It didn’t shut up, but he forced his foot forward. Twenty of them and he’d reach the sixth intersection away from his quarters. Two intersections in one week was a definite improvement.
One of the voice rose.
He was at the door to his quarters, cursing himself for giving into the fear. He’d almost made it. He rested his head on the metal and fought not to give into the defeat.
He was winning; he told himself, even if he wasn’t seeing it.
*
If you receive this, don’t reply.
The only way I’m managing to write this is by convincing myself it’s only an exercise and that I won’t send it. And I might not. I’m avoiding thinking about that right now. But if I do, a reply will shatter the illusion, and I don’t think I’ll be able to get myself to write another one.
I figure you’re being kept up to date, but I thought I’d give you one myself.
It’s not good.
I don’t care what the Psychologist tells you. What anyone else reports to you.
I’m not in a good place right now.
I miss you so much it hurts, and then that’s twisted to make me hate you and the things the programing tells me you’ve done to me, or will do. I know it’s not true, but it doesn’t care and when the programing takes hold, the truth no longer matter, just what it tells me.
I’m terrified at the idea I can’t beat this. That I’ll never feel your fur against me.
Sorry. Fuck, that was a bad one. I need to avoid mentioning anything that’s specifically you.
I manage a pretty decent…you need the English alphabet on this thing. You have no word for what I made, and a mass of hot, fluffy wet grain flour doesn’t convey the treat that it is. I could record it and attach that, but I can feel the programing waiting to pounce on something I’d only do if I planned on sending this to you.
I’ll—
No, I’m not—
Fuck.
I know, I could erase those almost attacks, but I want this exercise to be a representation of why my life’s like at the moment. Plenty of normal stuff, for a male who pretty much has to stay locked in his quarters, with the occasional descent into paranoid terror.
The Psychologist taught me breathing exercises, mixed with forcing myself to think about something concrete, as a way to get through them. The problem is that in the middle of an attack, it’s hard to think.
I wish she’d help me rebuild the mental box. That was so easier to deal with, but she says that it wouldn’t help with my current situation. The box let me put what I felt in it because the ultrasonic only created a response system. As much as I called them not my emotions, in a concrete way, they were, and that’s why they could go in the box.
This, on the other hand, isn’t mine. It’s an alien that’s buried, no, that was planted deep in my mind and sometime takes control. As intense as it all feels, none of those are mine.
So the box would be useless.
I hate this.
I hate being alone.
I miss
Well, this exercise is over. I guess I’ll delete all this and go to bed.
Outline section
The other hurdle to overcome is cooking. In human Society, Jeremy relied a lot on others to cook. On Vipers Bane, Gral always made them simple breakfasts and supers, but complex meals were made by the galley. As such, Jeremy knows about as much about cooking as a gardener knows about the engine room of a ship.
It is in the struggles to try and make bread, that Jeremy realizes that he’ll late for one of his sessions if he waits for it to be done. He’ll check the time, and is fairly certain if he adjusts down the tempt he’ll be back in time for it to be ready. After all, it’s just math.
The session goes well, but this is also when they started introducing kelsirian’s to the corridor to ease Jeremy into being around their presence. There is some talking... and then Jeremy remembers his bread and has to run off...
The kelsirian’s might be a bit saddened as they misinterpret why Jeremy ran away... and then panic when the door to Jeremy’s room opens and there is smoke. Any orders not to follow Jeremy into his room is forgotten right away, but thankfully as that is discovered is some burnt flatbread.
Jokes will be made, along with some serious discussion about giving Jeremy privacy in his room by disabling all sensors shouldn’t have included the fire sensor.
Addition
Jeremy teaches himself cooking out of pure boredom.
Another session.
Braving corridors.
this was in part taken from the outline, but it would have happened elsewhere. not sure anymore if it was before or after the 'now' as it became in the writing.
establishing Jeremy knowing how to cook is because well down the line, it is something he does for his family. having introduce food printing complicated how to get him to teach himself to cook. why would anyone do that when they can just print food? because he's bored is the reason I came up with.
Jeremy's progress and failures in his healing aren't going to happen at 'big points.' I'm less interested in his victories in more in his working at it.
Comments
Marcwolf
Poor Jeremy. Atleast the letters to Gral will give him hope that Jer still loves him. But Jer is fighting back
