Operation Arrakis Epilogue: Sci-ch by scifantasy Doctor Alana du Irais knocked on the threshold to Sci's door. "A moment?" Sci looked up and nodded, gesturing to a chair. She took it smoothly. "I just wanted to let you know, I've been settling in comfortably. Getting my security clearance boosted was fun, but the gag order was rather disconcerting...but after reading the planetary psychological profile, I have to agree." "Why do you think I've dedicated my life to Terra Group?" Sci gestured, with a small wry smile, at the piles of paperwork before him. "I wanted to talk to you about that. I've spoken to most of the team by now, in some sort of professional capacity. Not all of them need the full treatment, but many of them at least find it worth it to talk to somebody. I was wondering--" "No." She sat back. "That was fast. Don't you think--" "No." "Are you--" "Yes." "...All right. If you ever want--" "I won't." With that, she shrugged and stood. "Thank you for your time." ------ A few days later, she knocked on the threshold again, this time noticing the small object nailed to it. "What's this?" "Nothing," he said, probably too brusquely. He took a deep breath. "Sorry." "That's all right. You're under a lot of stress." She took a seat again. Sci gave her a flat look. "Yes. I am. And before you even ask, I'm not interested in talking about it." She nodded slowly. "Look, I don't want to pressure you. And it's entirely understandable that you don't want to talk to someone. But..." "I should." "Well, yes." "I get the message. But I really would rather not talk about it with you." He turned to his work again. "All right." ------ A few days passed and she stopped by again. Sci looked up and rolled his eyes. "Fine, come in," he said. "Look," she said, sitting down, "can I at least know why you don't want to talk?" He gestured again to his piles of paperwork. "Do I look like I have the time to see a shrink?" "A what?" "Psychiatrist." "Odd term." "Odd planet. Which I spend twenty hours a day trying to keep from dying by thermonuclear suicide or worse forms of homicide. So you'll forgive me if I don't feel inclined to spill my guts to an outsider with no idea how it goes around here." He stared at her, eyes hard. Alana reflected on what she'd been told by the others about Sci: the distance he kept, the quiet, the frightening control. None of that was apparent now. He was angry, edgy. He was frayed, coming apart at the seams. And she didn't know what would happen. For now, however, she would leave. She stood slowly. "All right." ------ Alana tapped softly at the door. Sci looked up, his face schooled to perfect emotionlessness. "Yes?" She looked at him sideways. "I was wondering whether--" "No." She blinked. This sounded like the Sci from a week ago, not the one she'd seen three days before. "Are you--" "Yes." "Look, I know that you don't want to talk to a 'shrink,' and who knows what that means--" "Short for 'headshrinker,'" he explained. Still no heat in his voice, just cool, clear ice. "Oh. Well, no matter. I just want to make sure that you do have someone." "With due respect, that's none of your business." She frowned. "All right." She slowly stood. As she left, she thought she heard a sigh--and possibly a sob--from behind her, but she didn't turn around. ------ Alana appeared in the doorway. Sci sighed and tossed his datapad onto the desk. He stood up and walked to face her. "What do you want?" "I want to help you." He snorted. "Right." "You think I have an ulterior motive?" "I think you're chasing a lost cause. Help me? Hah!" He began pacing the length of his office. "Help a nineteen-year-old kid suddenly taking responsibility for one of the most collectively screwed-up planets in the explored galaxy. Commanding a team of lunatics with a whole host of psychological issues. "And to make matters worse I had to practically cut my life off to do it. The last time I saw my parents was before I took command of the group. I don't know if they know I'm even alive. I've managed to hold on to about three of my friends, but I can only contact them on official business, and making new ones is next to impossible when everybody is either a subordinate, a formal ally, or angling for position. The last relationship I had, I had to break off because I couldn't talk about what I did during the day. The next one, I'm scared to go into." He flopped into his chair. "There's maybe one person in the country I can talk to without some adverse effect down the line. I can barely show emotion to my team, because they desperately need a strong center or they'll go flying apart like a William Butler Yeats poem or a Chinua Achebe book. And the person I might be able to talk to has a country to run, so he has enough problems of his own, thank you very much. "I am far beyond help. Far beyond saving. This--" he picked up the datapad again and waved it at her--"is my life, and that's it. Dive into work, because it's all I have left, and at least it's worthwhile. Of course, it's likely I'll be long dead before it comes to fruition." He dropped the datapad back on his desk. "So, no, I will not be consulting you. I will not be availing myself of your services any time soon. And I would appreciate your not stopping by every few days to remind me what I'm not doing." She nodded slowly, stood, and started for the door. "Wait." She paused, hand on the doorframe, back still turned. His voice was muffled, as if his head was on his desk. "Yes?" "It's called a mezzuzah." She blinked, then looked at the object next to her hand in surprise. "Is it?" He didn't respond at first. But finally, he spoke again. "...Tuesday. 1500 hours. Tell no one."