Therapy
© 2021 by Walter Reimer


“Stanislaus,” I can almost hear my late companion Ivar Vargsson say, “you emulate your feral forebears by landing on your feet. All that is lacking is your walking away with an air of having planned the entire thing.”

Pity that the wolf hadn’t had the same antecedents, or similar facility in evading his eventual fate.

After my repatriation and my conversation with Commander the MacRuari of That Ilk, aided by helping the deer reduce his stockpile of single malt, I discovered that I had been reassigned to a desk job at the Lodge, doing analysis of various field reports. I’d been a field officer prior to the case of Oliver Wilk, and had once avoided paperwork like a plague.

I found that, after the resolution of the case, I no longer minded reading through reports and compiling summaries quite as much as I used to. It became slightly more agreeable when I learned that I could do the job from my hospital room, which had a magnificent view of the forests and mountains south of Directorate III (Counterintelligence)’s headquarters. I found the view very calming.

Which I needed.

I can still feel it, far in the back of my mind; the same sort of madness that had me under sedation for days while the doctors discussed equipping me with a biocybernetics implant so that the data in my memory could be accessed without having to contend with me, personally. The Commander put a stop to that. As he told me later, he never wanted Intelligence operatives, at any level, to be able to have their brains read by possible enemies.

And yes, he included certain other Terrans in that category, not just the Kashlani.

Much to my surprise, I discovered that I’d been promoted to Captain. Sure, I had been on the list, but very far down in the candidate rankings because I refused to play the political game. My nosepad’s pink, not brown.

I took the opportunity to thank the Commander, at one of our private meetings.

The buck waved this away with a smile. “Times are changing, Captain, and the Directorate has to change with them. We’re at peace now, you know, and ‘M’ has certain priorities.”

This ‘M’ was not the minkess that had stolen my name and slapped it onto a caricature for an entertainment series titled Secret Service Fur. Seeing an episode of that was the trigger for my laughing fit, you know.

“What’s our area of operation now, Sir?” I asked.

The Commander studied his single malt carefully. “The new wisdom from On High is that the State needs to maintain order. Our showing against the Kashlani has enabled a number of elements within our borders to rear their heads.”

“So, lopping the tallest ears of corn in the field?” I asked before taking a sip of my own drink.

“Not quite as indelicate or as blunt as that,” he said while giving me a penetrating look. “Are you all right, Captain?”

“I’m fine, Sir.”

“If you’ll permit me, I disagree. When is your next appointment?”

I lowered my eyes to my glass. “This afternoon.”

“Good.” His expression turned into a sympathetic smile. “Keep seeing her, that’s my advice. Now,” and he set his glass aside, “let’s discuss your latest analysis of what’s going on at Centauri, shall we?”

And you don’t need to know the rest of our conversation. Suffice to say that the MacRuari was satisfied with my analysis, and he appeared satisfied with my progress, both of which were good.

As was the broiled trout I had at the Officer’s Mess for lunch. I finished in good time, and went back to my room/office to relax a little while before my appointment. So far, I reflected, I was doing well.

I caught myself wondering how long that would last.

“Please, come in, Captain,” Doctor Nushaar said in her usual cheerful tone. She was feline, like me, but her fur was a perfect white. Her eyes were a lovely blue, and somewhat beguiling. In other circumstances I might have struck up a conversation, or even entertained a few fantasies about her. Of course, our relationship in reality was kept on a very professional level. She had one affectation: she wore her padd as a pair of eyeglasses, polarized to prevent someone looking at her from seeing the data scrolling before her eyes.

As I sat down on the very comfortable chair she asked, “How are you feeling today?”

“Not too bad today, Doctor. I found myself thinking about young Prince Vladmir yesterday.”

“Oh? The new Emperor?”

I nodded and paused for a moment to take a deep breath. “As you know, I w-watched the K-Kashlani . . . kill Oliver Wilk.” She nodded, saying nothing, but watching carefully as I struggled. Damn, I thought this might be easier. “I c-can only imagine how it must be for him, to see his f-father . . . treated . . . like that.”

And damn the Kashlani for recording it, and broadcasting it. I didn’t have a very good night’s sleep that night, and had ended up surrendering and taking a sleep aid. “I feel some sympathy for him. It’s an awful thing to see up close, even if you’re not related to . . . the victim.”

Again, I paused to get myself back under control. In the early days of my therapy, I’d spend most of the appointment alternately crying and shouting angrily. I have to give Dr. Nushaar a lot of credit for simply listening to me and letting me get it all out before she set to work.

She maintained her silence as I gave a soft laugh when I’d finally recovered and blown my nose, and she asked, “Do you feel as if your laughter may come back?”

I shook my head. “No, I think I have it under control. It started hurting my throat after a while anyway.” I smiled at her. “Sorry for being so flippant.”

“No need to be sorry,” she said. “Your humor’s a little dark, but it’s a coping mechanism. It helps you, rather than hurting you or being a sign of a deeper problem.”

“That’s very good to hear.”

“Tell me,” and she paused to look at what was streaming across her padd, “have you seen the latest episodes of Secret Service Fur?”

She couldn’t help but see that my ears had gone straight back. It was a piece of delicate ground in the landscape of my mind, which demanded a careful, light tread. The feral cat metaphor came back, and I said slowly, “I admit that I haven’t. What’s my doppelganger done now?”

Nushaar looked a bit distressed. “Well, I don’t know how you’ll take this, but the show . . . “

“Killed him?”

She nodded.

“How?”

“I’m sure you recall the plot up until you stopped watching.”

I nodded. “He was busily seducing some pretty little mouse-femme who was defecting from the Colonies, yes?”

“Unfortunately,” and she cleared her throat, “she was a trap.” My ears went up as she added, “The fictional Colonials applied a specifically tailored contact poison to the mouse’s, er, vagina, and – “

“I see.” I thought about it, and actually chuckled, a sound that didn’t have its usual manic edge to it. “I’ll wager that increased its ratings. I wonder how long it took for the mortician to get the smile off ‘my’ muzzle,” and my smile broadened as Nushaar actually giggled. “Dark humor, eh?”

“In this case, entirely appropriate.”

"Well, at least he died on the job," and this time we both laughed. “The show’s not over, is it?”

She shook her head. “They’ve replaced him with a fox, fellow named Fisk. He still has Ingrid with him, though.”

In the back of my mind, I could see Ivar shudder.

“I think I might watch the next episode,” I said. “It’d be interesting to see what has changed apart from the main character. I still don’t like the entire concept of the show, though.”

“Oh?”

I nodded. “Any fur who acted like that wouldn’t survive long in any branch of Intelligence. That was my only objection to it, apart of course from their choice of main character.”

“I see. How do you feel about us having lost the war?”

I found myself leaning forward in my chair. “That’s a hard question to ask. I think that we were doomed to fail from the start.”

“Oh?”

“The Kashlani are an ancient race, so you’d figure that they’ve seen it all by now.” I licked my lips. “W-Wilk mentioned a ‘terrible beauty’ about them, and they made us dance to their tune.” I smiled. “Heh. I’m mixing metaphors, aren’t I?”

Nushaar smiled. She had a pretty smile. “Do what you have to do, Captain.”

“It’s just that I think Wilk knew that, but decided to . . . “ I sighed. “He said that he wanted to be remembered. I can’t see how, apart from being used as an object lesson.”

“And that lesson was?” she asked.

“Don’t provoke the Kashlani. It won’t end well.”

From the way she looked at me as she nodded, I could see that she agreed with me.