The Battle of Betazed Page 4

  Deanna sensed a steel core beneath the man’s amiable facade, a toughness she was certain his job as overseer of violent criminals often required. “Thank you, Director. I came to work and to learn.”

  “If you do as well as I’m expecting, I’m hopeful you might find a permanent place on our staff when your internship is completed.”

  Deanna smiled, but made no commitment. She was keeping her options open, including the possibility of joining Starfleet, like her father.

  Lanolan had no more to say on the subject of Deanna’s internship, however, until after lunch, when Mistress Lanolan, his plump and pretty wife, served them nectar beneath the spreading branches of a teskali tree in the rear garden, then left them alone.

  Lanolan took a quiet sip of his nectar, then set his goblet aside. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss your assignment.”

  Excitement coursed through her. She had studied and trained for this opportunity to put what she’d learned into practice. “You’ll find me more than ready, sir.”

  “You’ll work very hard here, Deanna, and you’ll experience a great deal of frustration.”

  “Frustration?”

  Lanolan spread his hands wide. “We’re a prison facility, but not the average rehabilitation center. We have ample numbers of those on Betazed. As you know, we treat primarily the criminally insane.”

  “That challenge is one of the reasons I requested this assignment.”

  Lanolan steepled his long fingers and gazed at her over their tips. “We’re able to cure many through psychopharmacology, a few through counseling, others through behavioral conditioning, many with a combination of all three approaches.” He dropped his hands and shook his head, and his overpowering sadness flooded her senses. “But too many we are unable to help at all.”

  “The psychopaths, sir?”

  Lanolan nodded. “Over four centuries of Betazoid research, combined with the best scholarship Earth and Vulcan have provided us on the subject, and we are still at a loss to correct this disorder.” He paused, watching a small yellow bird land in a nearby bush. When he turned to Deanna again, he had assumed a teaching mode. “Give me your best definition of the psychopathic personality.”

  “There are several types, but the one you are most likely to encounter here is the aggressive type.”

  “And its characteristics?”

  She felt she was back in school again, being grilled by the head of the psychology department at the university. “A complete disregard for right and wrong.”

  “You mean an incapacity to tell the difference?”

  “No, sir. The psychopath knows the difference. It is simply of no consequence to him. He is centered on self-gratification, no matter how many laws or rules he must break to achieve it.”

  “But he suffers remorse?”

  “None, sir. That is another of the psychopath’s major characteristics. A lack of remorse as well as a refusal to assume responsibility. Whatever wrong he commits, someone or something else is always to blame. And this attitude is not a mere rationalization in the subject’s mind. He truly believes himself blame free.”

  Satisfaction at her responses emanated from the director. “Tell me, Deanna, what causes psychopathic behavior?”

  She suppressed a smile. He had thrown her a trick question, but she was ready for it. “No one knows for certain. Despite, as you said, the long years of study of this particular personality disorder, scholars still disagree. Some believe the cause lies in the brain, either in a genetic predisposition or some kind of damage, or the failure of the central nervous system to develop adequately and at the proper rate.”

  Lanolan nodded. “And the opposing viewpoint?”

  “Others believe the psychopath is created, molded by the experiences of early childhood.”

  “Negative experiences, such as abuse?”

  “Yes, sir. But, oddly enough, spoiling a child, giving him too much attention or too many possessions, causing him to think too highly of himself in relationship to others, is also considered a possible cause.”

  “And you, Deanna, which side of these causal arguments do you come down on?”

  This question was much more difficult, and she sensed much was riding on her answer. She thought for a moment.

  “I believe it’s possible that all are correct, Director. It depends on the individual and what forces of both nature and nurture have shaped him.”

  Lanolan nodded with satisfaction. “It’s good to see you have a grasp of the fundamentals. You’ll need to keep them at the forefront in order to handle your first assignment.”

  Eagerness bubbled inside her. “When do I start?”

  “Tomorrow morning. We’ve received a new prisoner, a serial killer. I want you to do the background workup and initial evaluation on him. You will have several sessions with him and offer your diagnosis and recommendations for treatment.”

  Deanna frowned. “Is he Betazoid?”

  The director nodded.

  “Why haven’t I heard of him? A serial killer is a rarity on Betazed. Why wasn’t he in the news?”

  “His name is Hent Tevren, and his name will never be known on our planet. After you’ve read his file, you’ll understand why.”

  Before she had been allowed to read Tevren’s file that first night in Lanolan’s guest house in Jarkana, the director personally had unsealed and decrypted the information. What she had read had both sickened and terrified her.

  The morning she arrived on Darona, Deanna had felt as if she could meet any challenge, that with her superior training and perseverance, no case was too daunting. The next day, trudging up the path behind the director’s house toward the maximum security facility, she wasn’t so sure.

  Resembling a group of vacation villas more than a penitentiary, the prison sat on a low hill. To the east, it overlooked Jarkana. To the west, the mountains. A shield wall, invisible to the naked eye except as an occasional shimmer in the air, surrounded the compound, whose only access was through a barred entrance manned by guards. Director Lanolan was waiting at the gate, where Deanna presented her credentials. He escorted her through the arched portal into the gardens that lined the front walkway. In the heat of the summer morning sun, the fragrance of frangipani and crystilia lay heavy on the air.

  “Those feathery red plants lining the walk are Diomedian scarlet moss,” the director explained with enthusiasm as they made their way toward the administration building. “The delicate ground cover over there in the shade of the poinciana tree is Draebidium calimus, similar to Terran violets, and those unusual flowers to your right are Zan periculi, native to Lappa Four.”

  “A Ferengi world?” Deanna didn’t have to be an empath to sense the director’s fascination with what was obviously his pet project.

  Lanolan nodded. “We’ve gathered specimens from all over the quadrant. Not only does our garden furnish a tranquil atmosphere for our inmates, but tending it provides them with fresh air and exercise. It’s recreational therapy.”

  “Will Tevren be allowed to work in the garden?” she asked.

  “Of course, if he wishes. The surrounding force field isolates him from other prisoners and blocks his escape. The psionic inhibitor implanted in his brain when he was convicted suppresses all his telepathic abilities. The man is harmless as long as the implant is functioning.”

  They reached the entrance to the administration building, and Lanolan motioned Deanna inside. “Tevren is waiting for you in counseling room two. Please report back to my office after you’ve completed your interview.” His firm expression softened. “And don’t worry, Deanna. He’s a challenging patient, but I’m certain you can handle him.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Straightening her sand-colored tunic with its red-and-gold prison emblem on the sleeve and clasping her padd tightly for reassurance, Deanna marched down the hallway.

  A guard at the entrance to the counseling room opened the door for her. “I’ll be right here if you need me, Counselor.”
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  With butterflies of apprehension dive-bombing in her stomach, Deanna stepped inside. Sunlight from floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the simply furnished room and shone through the force field that divided the space in half. On the other side of the shield, a short, nondescript man sat calmly facing Deanna, his hands folded on a table.

  She had seen his holo in his file, but Tevren’s was an eminently forgettable face, the kind that would never stand out in a crowd. Although he was only eight years her senior, his dark hair was already receding at his forehead and thinning at the crown. At first she found it hard to reconcile the milquetoast appearance of the man before her with that of a mass murderer.

  Until she looked into his eyes.

  The dark Betazoid irises glittered like chunks of black ice, and the pinched smile on his face seemed insincere.

  Most disquieting of all, however, was the man’s total lack of emotion. Unlike the effect created when a Betazoid shielded his thoughts and feelings from another—a phenomenon similar to what Terrans described as “white noise”—the psionic inhibitor implanted in Tevren’s brain created an impression of emptiness within the man. Instead of the familiar reassurance of white noise, Deanna faced a forbidding yawning abyss, a black void that chilled her to the core.

  Suppressing a shiver, she sat at the same table bisected by the force field and made herself meet Tevren’s gaze.

  “I’m Counselor Troi.”

  Tevren’s smile broadened, although it never reached his eyes. “I wasn’t aware that I’d be given special treatment. You’re very pretty.”

  “My appearance is irrelevant. I’m here to help you.”

  “Really?” He blinked as if in amazement. “And how do you propose to do that?”

  She mustered a smile. “I’d like to begin by asking you questions.”

  He leaned back in his chair, amusement flitting across his unremarkable face. “What kind of questions?”

  “You do understand why you’re here?”

  His mouth widened in a sly grin. “They’re afraid of me.”

  “They?”

  “Everyone.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I enjoy killing people.”

  Deanna suppressed her instinctive revulsion and forced herself to stay focused. “Tell me about yourself. Start with your childhood.”

  Tevren heaved a bored sigh. “Oh, must we play these psychobabble games?”

  “Not at all,” she replied evenly. “You can return to your cell anytime.”

  He appeared to consider her for a moment. “You’re much prettier than those four walls. I suppose I’d rather stay here.”

  “You may stay if you cooperate with me.” Why doesn’t he blink? she wondered. His stare was distracting and unnerving. She breathed deeply in an attempt to loosen the knot of tension beneath her ribs. She had to be careful here. According to his file, Tevren was more than brilliant. His intelligence quotient was off the scale, and he seemed willing and able to play with her head—if she let him.

  “Your childhood?” she persisted.

  “It’s all there in my file, which I’m certain you’ve already studied.”

  She pushed back her chair, stood, and headed for the door.

  “Please wait,” she heard him say.

  Deanna turned and faced him with a sympathetic look. “I have better uses for my time than subjecting myself to your evasions.”

  She turned back toward the door.

  “I was an only child,” Tevren began. “My parents had almost given up on having children when I was born.”

  Deanna took another step toward the exit.

  “They spoiled me terribly.” Tevren’s words came in a rush. “Everything I wanted, they gave me. They were trying to make up for—”

  He stopped as if he’d said too much, and Deanna half turned around. “What were they trying to make up for?”

  “Sit down and I’ll tell you.”

  “Tell me and I’ll sit down.”

  “I was born with telepathic ability.”

  Deanna worked to keep her expression blank. That significant piece of information hadn’t been in Tevren’s file, possibly because the only other people who knew it were his parents, who had been among his early victims. For the first time, she experienced a pang of sympathy for Tevren. The vast majority of Betazoid children developed their telepathic skills at puberty. Only a fraction of a percent were actually born with the ability, and without special guidance, these telepathic prodigies suffered incredibly debilitating psychological and social damage. Deanna had met and treated one, Tam Elbrun, when she was at the university. Tevren’s premature telepathic skills were possibly a contributing factor to his personality disorder. That might also explain why he, of all people, is my first case here. Lanolan must have known about Tevren’s developmental aberration and my work with Tam.

  She resumed her seat at the table. “That must have been difficult for you.”

  “On the contrary.” His tight little smile returned with an illusion of warmth, giving his unremarkable face a semblance of charm. “It put me at a tremendous advantage, always knowing what my parents and others were thinking. It made the adults around me much easier to manipulate.”

  Her sympathy evaporated, and her objectivity returned. “Would you say you had a happy childhood?”

  He shrugged. “It was the only one I knew. What could I compare it to?”

  “Did you have many friends?”

  “Several children wanted to be my friends. I am able to exert a certain charm when I wish to, but no, I didn’t have friends.”

  “Why not?”

  “People bore me.”

  “Why?”

  “Most are stupid.”

  “Stupid?”

  “Compared to me. I have four university degrees. I could have earned more, but what was the point?”

  “Four degrees, yet the only job you’ve held is as a government researcher. With your intellectual capacity, shouldn’t you have advanced further in your career?”

  “You’re stupid, too, you know.”

  Troi refused to be baited. “I’m smart enough to realize you’re insulting me because you don’t want to answer my question.”

  This time his grin split his face, gracing his ordinary features with a certain attractiveness. “I like you, Counselor Troi.”

  “Then talk to me.”

  He pushed back from the table, retreated into his half of the room, and stood before a window. Sunlight streamed down on his upturned face, its bright light accentuating the pallor of his skin, the thinness of his hair. A pink scar glowed at the base of his skull where the inhibitor had been inserted. He continued to stare out the window as he spoke. “My position as a government researcher gave me the highest clearance to the official records of Betazoid history. I became privy to secrets only a handful of people on our world have ever known.”

  “And you liked this feeling of power?”

  He pivoted quickly on his heel, rushed to the table, and leaned across it with his palms spread, his face within a millimeter of the force field. “It’s more than a feeling, Counselor. The power is quite real.”

  Real enough that only the psionic implant in his brain protected her from it, she reminded herself. “Tell me about it.”

  He yawned, as if bored, and drew back from the force field. “It’s all in my file.”

  “Fine.” She called his bluff and rose to leave.

  “But if you’d rather hear it in my own words . . .”

  She bit back a sarcastic reply. The director was recording the interview. She wanted no record of her losing her control on the first day of her internship. She slid back into her chair and nodded. “Your own words.”

  Looking very pleased with himself, Tevren sat and leaned back in his chair. “Several hundred years ago, a small, secret society arose on Betazed. Members of this cult dedicated themselves to developing their telepathic skills in creative ways. I found this classified informatio
n fascinating and amused myself for a time by attempting to develop some of their simpler skills on my own.”

  “What kind of skills?”

  “Harmless little amusements, such as amplifying and projecting intense emotions into the mind of another. The ability was useless, really, except for its potential to make others either extremely uncomfortable or to appear foolish in their reactions to the unwanted feelings.” He frowned with distaste. “Besides, the physical and mental effort I had to expend to project the emotion wasn’t worth the fun I received from the results.”

  “So, in essence, you became a telepathic practical joker,” Deanna observed.

  He nodded solemnly. “A situation far beneath my intellectual dignity. So I decided to accept a greater challenge.”

  Deanna waited, knowing and dreading what she was about to hear.

  “The classified records of this secret cult,” Tevren continued, “indicated that they had stumbled onto the ability to kill telepathically. That discovery, however, was their downfall. When several members availed themselves of the opportunity to kill with their minds, they were discovered by the authorities. When the authorities realized what the cult had uncovered—a lethal potential in every Betazoid but unknown to all but the members of this cult—the government moved in. They arrested the entire movement, imprisoned them for life, destroyed the instructions for their special skills, and sealed the records of their activities, even of their very existence. For the next four hundred years, only Betazoids with the highest security clearance knew such a group had existed.”

  “So you taught yourself to kill.”

  Tevren nodded, obviously pleased with his accomplishment. “It was relatively easy, really, once I reasoned it out and practiced a few times.”

  Like the majority of Betazoids, what Deanna found most disturbing about the man before her—about any criminal—was his lack of empathy. Because her people were so attuned to the thoughts and feelings of those around them, crime on her planet was rare. Internalizing the pain, fear, and emotional damage his actions would cause often stopped the would-be criminal in his tracks. Tevren obviously suffered no such restraints.