Dr.
Stan has used a psychic connection on Captain Hank Connor. The
effects should only last a few hours, but weeks later, they still can
read one another's emotions and thoughts. It's disconcerting, to say
the least.
"What
are you thinking about?" Hank blurted out.
Stan
looked guiltily at the major source of his annoyance, the man who was
becoming a friend despite his personality glitches. "Nothing."
"Liar.
You spent too much time in my mind, Doc. I can sometimes guess what
you're thinking." Hank spoke harshly, tapping his temple
adamantly. "Believe me, it's as disconcerting for me as it is
for you."
Stan
frowned, squinting at Hank to see if he might be kidding, one look in
the man's eyes told Stan he wasn't.
"Tell
me what I'm thinking now." Stan's blue eyes bored into Hank's,
unblinking, penetrating, he concentrated all his telepathic energy on
one thought.
Hank
recoiled, blushing furiously, hanging his head. "That's not
right, Stan. Damn low a blow." He refused to look at the doctor
for several minutes, wondering how the hell he'd seen what had been
in the other man's mind—a picture of himself copulating like a
marionette with Marine precision, while some unseen hand pulled his
strings.
"Is
that what you really think of me?" The hurt refused to be
contained, his tone was closer to a whine than he would've liked.
Despite
his age and having been a Marine for so many years, he still cared
what someone, whose opinion he valued, thought of him. Any other
schmoe, he wouldn't have minded, but Stan was different. They were
connected, that link they shared at Committee Home Base had never
really gone away. There were plenty of times that Hank still felt
Stan in his mind and was sure that his own touched Stan's from time
to time. He couldn't explain the connection. According to Stan, the
process wasn't supposed to last more than a few hours.
"No.
No, I'm just frustrated. We're all feeling the tension of the last
few weeks. I apologize, it was really unforgivable, but I had to be
sure."
Hank
continued to look hurt and dubious. "Be sure of what? That I
know you think I'm some damn mechanical puppet? Thanks a whole hell
of a lot, Dr. Savolopis. If I want to feel my manhood shrink to
nothing again I'll be sure to call you."
Connor
rose to leave the room, still thinking in old fashioned terms, he got
to the door before Stan could stop him. With a thought, Stan kept the
doors to the ready room shut. Hank smacked his face painfully on
them.
Rubbing
his nose, Hank stopped, turning around slowly. "Adding injury to
your insult now. Thank you. I don't think you broke it for me."
Stan
walked over, felt the bone of Hank's nose with long, strong,
practiced fingers.
"No,
but I think you've a deviated septum. One too many bar fights."
Stan smirked as Hank knocked his hand away. "You saw that
though, right? Did you hear it?"
"Hear
myself clicking like a wooden man? Yes, thanks. Now that I've been
humiliated, I'd like to go."
"Hank,
come on. Would you just get over it and think about what this means!"
"It
means you think I'm a mindless puppet."
"No,
Henry, it means you have telepathic powers we didn't know you had."
Connor
sat stiffly in the seat Hecate
provided for him. "I'm not telepathic." He shook his head
disbelievingly.
"What
other proof do you need? You're a receiver, a strong one too, if I'm
any judge. Helen could tell us better, but barring her expert
diagnosis, you'll have to take my word."
"How
does this in any way pertain to the conversation we were trying to
have earlier?"
"It
doesn't, but it's important just the same."
Hank
shrugged. "Except for giving me a headache and making me feel
about as important as a mote of dust, I can't think of what. Not,"
he held up a restraining palm, "that I care. Just—don't
explain."
Stan's
lips parted, he thought better of it and closed his mouth.
"That
was wrong, Stan," Hank said quietly, still not looking at the
doctor. "It was wrong in so many ways and on so many different
levels."
"I
know." Stan lit a cigar and smoked without speaking for some
time. "We're driving one another crazy."
"Ya
think?" Rubbing his scalp through his short hair, Hank leaned
elbows on knees, eyeing Stan conjecturally. "Sometimes I don't
know if I like you, Old Man."
"I
know. On occasion you hate me, now for instance."
Hank's
lip twitched upward, eyes twinkling. "Naw, I just don't know
what to make of you. One second you're all friendly, the next you
make me feel insignificant. Takes a special individual to do that."
Stan
laughed loudly. "It's a gift! If being completely irritating
could be inbred, it must have come from my dad."
©
2017 Dellani Oakes
Coming Soon from Pennywise Press
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