Author's Note: The next four chapters deal with serious issues of which I have personal experience. If you stay with it, you'll find both pathos and humor – which seeks to both enlighten and entertain. While further developing the characters, my intent is to treat the subjects with sensitivity. However, please be warned, while they are learning, they don't always speak in a PC way. In Chapter 9, you are introduced to another new, but troubled character – Cadet Joseph Michael Moretti. I'm definitely taking a risk by including these topics, but I hope it will add to the rich tapestry of life I have sought to create for the Star Trek universe. As always, your comments are welcome.

Coming inside her dorm after saying good night to Spock, Uhura felt good . . . she felt damn good as she walked to her room. Being with him, meeting Diarmuid, savoring the tea together, sharing a quiet moment and . . . Wait a moment . . . I don't actually recall him ever having any of the tea . . . he just watched me . . . now, that's a little kinky. Her laughter as she entered the dorm room turned to surprise as she found Kirk and Gaila huddled around the computer screen at a desk.

Still turned toward the computer screen, "Hello, roomie."

"I don't know what surprises me more . . . Gaila actually in our dorm room before me or Kirk in a woman's dorm room after curfew." He turned to her in anticipation of her a punch line. "No, wait . . . it would only have been a surprise if Kirk wasn't breaking curfew." She sets her bag down on top of her dresser.

"I'm crazy about you, too, Pippi."

"Pippi? Pippi Uhura? Come on, James . . ." she moves to him, "that's really quite . . . " she playfully slides her finger down his nose, " . . . uninspired." Still on a high from her evening, she touched Kirk in a way she would never do with Spock.

Kirk did not question the reason for her mood. He would ride this wave as long as possible. "Well, if you're looking for another use of that finger, I've got an itch . . ."

"Look you two," Gaila turned to them in exasperation, "I'm really frackin' tired of that lame name game you two have been playing for the past three years. And your tired sex talk makes me want to take a vow of celibacy. So, give it a rest!" Silence. Three beats. Then, the silence is finally broken by their laughter.

"All right . . . All right." As Uhura attempted to regain her composure, "Sr. Gaila may stay, but James T. Kirk it's time to go." Gaila turned back to the computer.

Showing no signs of moving, he teases her. "You weren't so eager to throw me out the other night."

"That's because you fed me when I was so very, very hungry. Feed me and I'll put up with just about anything . . . even you."

"Is that right, Consuela?"

On edge, Gaila tried not to raise her voice, "I'm warning you two."

Kirk rises, "All right, I better go for Gaila's sake." He moves toward the door, while Uhura watches him warily. Then, Kirk swiftly turns back around. "However, before I do, Uhura I want you to see some pictures I brought over on the data crystal."

Gaila offered, "Baby pictures."

Uhura quipped, "I didn't even know the two of you were expecting."

Gaila quickly arose from her seat, "I believe that's my cue for a really long shower." She headed for the bathroom.

Speaking to Uhura, he told her, "They're pictures of Moretti's baby daughter."

Two beats. "Moretti's wife gave birth? And, it's a girl?" She sat down at the computer and eagerly began to scroll through the images.

Kirk joined her. "There must be over a hundred photos."

"Oh, James . . . she's lovely!" Three beats. "What's her name?"

Proudly, "Jimena Leona Uhura Moretti."

"Oh, my . . . poor baby. Hello, Jimena Leona Uhura Moretti. Sorry, about the name. But, you are beautiful . . . so very beautiful."

Two years ago when they were first year students, Cadet Joseph Michael Moretti was in trouble.

A student in his military history course, Captain Pike could sense Moretti was in trouble. Not that he behaved inappropriately or proved to be a distraction. He just seemed to be existing . . . taking up space . . . blending into the back of the classroom. He was just there . . . just there.

Reviewing his record, Pike noted Moretti had started off as an average student. A few B's, but mostly C's. However, he excelled in military training – phaser weaponry, hand to hand combat, and wilderness survival skills being his specialties. Until reading his file, Pike had not realized Moretti had been married for three years and had one child . . . A son born two years ago . . . Strange, although there was not mention of the couple being separated or divorced, Moretti's wife and son still lived on cadet's home planet, Earth Colony 419. Why didn't they live together in family housing?

Moretti had never been an out-going man. He was never one to make things happen for it was enough to allow life to happen to him. However, in recent months, he seemed to be numb to even this stimulus. Pike could tell . . . Moretti was in trouble. One day, he asked the cadet to meet with him in his office.

"Cadet Moretti, are you aware you are failing my course?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you also aware midterm scores indicate failing marks in all of your courses?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is there an explanation for the decline in your performance?"

"None that I can think of, sir."

"Do you understand that if your performance remains unchanged by the end of the semester, you could be released from service?"

Impassively. "Yes, sir, I am aware of the consequences."

Trying to find a way past the deadpan exterior, "Then, Cadet, why wait for the inevitable? Why not leave the Academy now and stop wasting our time and resources?"

His eyes cast downward. Three beats. Then he looked back to Pike, "I'm sorry, sir. I did not mean to seem indifferent. The Academy . . . the Academy was the one thing that was going right in my life."

"Then, what is not going right?"

Three beats. "It's personal, sir."

"Little is personal in Starfleet, especially, when it starts affecting your future as an officer."

"I understand, sir."

Two beats. "How's the family?"

"Fine, sir."

Noting a tenseness in Moretti's voice, "Your son's a toddler now, must be quite a handful for your wife. My understanding is they get into everything at that age."

"My wife doesn't have to worry about that, sir. The boy has Heidegger Syndrome. He does not do much, but just lie in his bed."

Compassionately, "I'm sorry. I did not know."

With an edge. "That's the problem, nobody knew. After we found out my wife, Katarina, was pregnant, we went through genetic testing. All results were within a normal range. Throughout the pregnancy, my wife had regular checkups and the doctor always told her . . . I wish all my patients were as healthy as you. As we had planned, I was in the delivery room when she gave birth. You should have seen the nurses marveling over the fact the boy did not cry. One of them even said, I can tell he's going to be a good baby." Bitterly, "He's good, all right. He lays around like a vegetable . . . he's no bother at all."

"I understand the mental capacity is not affected by the condition. The prognosis for these children is much better than it was thirty years ago when Heidegger Syndrome was first identified."

"I'll tell you what the prognosis is, Captain. Surgeries and physical therapy for the rest of his life. Next month they will fit him with a voice box . . . some sort of mechanism doctors will connect to his brain. Like a ventriloquist, he'll learn to speak through this gadget, but his mouth won't move. Then, when he's five, they'll cut off those useless limbs. He'll be fitted with bionic devices, which will have to be resized as he grows. After they finish cutting him up, what's going to left?! What's going to be left of him?!" As tears fall from his face, Pike places a hand on his shoulder. For a moment, Moretti finds comfort in his touch.

"As parents, we worry about our children. We want everything to be right for them. And when it's not right, it tears us up inside." Two beats. "I don't know all of what you are going through, but you're not alone. Remember . . . you're not alone."

Trying to regain his composure, Moretti withdraws from Pike and wipes his face with his hand. "Thank you, sir."

"Children are stronger than we think. In the years to come, I'm sure Joe Jr. will find ways to surprise you."

"Sir, we don't call him Joe, Jr."

"In your file, I thought I read your son's name is Joseph Michael Moretti, Jr."

"We named him before we knew there was a problem. My wife has taken to calling him, Fedya."

"Fedya? I'm not familiar with that name."

"It's Russian . . . my wife's ancestors were Russian. She told me it means gift from God. If there was a God, he obviously had a warped sense of humor."

Taken aback by Moretti cool tone, Pike knew it would be futile to continue the discussion. With so little time left in the semester, it may have been too late to change Moretti's fate at the Academy. Still, Pike was deeply concerned for the young man. He knew Moretti was in trouble.

"Cadet Moretti, you are to report to the Medical Treatment Facility in one hour for a full exam."

"But, sir, I have already taken my annual for this year."

"That is an order, Cadet. I will make the arrangements, so they will be expecting you."

"But sir, I'm scheduled for phaser rifle training at that time."

"Cadet Moretti, this appointment takes precedence over anything else. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

The last place where he wanted to be stuck that afternoon was at MTF. However, he reasoned, If I just play the game, I'll be out of there in no time.

On duty that day, Dr. Leonard "Bones" McCoy knew an order for a full medical exam was code for a suspected "head case." Despite his credentials – like all first year Medical Corps nurses and doctors – one of his assignments at MTF was to serve as an intake specialist. With Moretti, the doctor's task was to provide the initial diagnosis of the cadet's mental state and refer him, if necessary, to the appropriate department for treatment.

In a small office, Moretti waited patiently in a chair, while McCoy sat on the edge of a desk as he reviewed the results of his physical and hastily completed patient's questionnaire. The cadet could not figure out what was taking the doctor so long to release him.

"So, what's the verdict, doc. Did I pass?"

"I'm not sure. There are two things that are bothering me. I'm trying to figure out how you've nearly lost 9 kilos (about 20 lbs), since you last were here only about six weeks ago.'

"Maybe you doctors don't have to eat at the cafeteria. Having to eat there on a regular basis is enough to make any man lose his appetite."

"But on your questionnaire you did not indicate you are experiencing a loss of appetite." Coming around to him with the I-Tablet. "See here, question #5. In the last 30 days, have you experienced a loss of appetite? You checked the box next to the response, Not at All." Two beats. "So, which is it? You've experienced a loss or appetite or you didn't?"

Caught. Two beats. "So, what do I have to do to get out of here?"

McCoy resets the form erasing Moretti's previous responses. "Take the survey, again." Handing him the tablet. "And actually read each of the questions this time."

Moretti scanned the survey.

In the last 30 days, have you experienced:

A feeling of sadness

A feeling of anxiety and worry

Unexplained aches and pain

A sense you are unable or afraid to get things done

A loss of appetite

A feeling of anger or irritability

An inability to concentrate

Too much or too little sleep

A sense you are no longer in control of your life

Feelings of worthlessness or guilt

A sense of hopelessness

Thoughts of suicide

In response to these questions, he could choose one of the following answers: 1) Not at All; 2) Occasionally; 3) Sometimes; 4) Often; or, 5) All the Time. But, Moretti knew that if he were to be truthful, the answer to most of the questions would be "Often" or "All the Time." How could I expect to remain in the Academy if I told them how I really feel?

After the Cadet completed the survey, McCoy examined his responses. He had indicated that he sometimes experienced a loss of appetite and occasionally experienced too much or too little sleep. For all other questions, he chose the response, Not at All. Although the doctor noted the Cadet appeared to carefully deliberate on each question before marking his response, McCoy still viewed the survey with a skeptical eye. He had a gut feeling that all was not well.

"So, doc, how did I do, this time? Am I free to leave?"

Writing notes on the I-Tablet, "You're free to leave, but on your way out I need for you to set up an appointment to speak with one of our counselors."

Rising, "With my schedule, I probably won't have time to come back until next week."

"I didn't ask you when you had the time. You'll set the appointment for tomorrow."

Quick to anger, "Tomorrow! Have you looked at my schedule? Between classes, military training modules, and studying – just when do I have time for someone to go poking around in my head?!"

Two beats. McCoy looked at him sternly. "I'm not your enemy, Cadet. I'm trying to help you." A softer tone. "Go on, now, and make your appointment."

Moretti knew he had to improve his performance the next day or he would have little to look forward to than numerous counseling sessions that would be a frackin' waste of my time . . . just like they were on my home planet.

It was easy to find a cadet who could sell him the right drug to ensure a good night's sleep. Cadet Donavan kept a well stocked, but illegal pharmacy. Unlike others who found their meager stipend exhausted well before the monthly pay day, Donovan found Academy life to be highly profitable.

With his purchase and a good night's sleep, Moretti was determined not to make the same mistakes he made with McCoy. I'll be well-rested, pleasant and have all the right answers. He could not afford to be washed out of the Academy. He could not go back home and be with them.

If Moretti had only known the reality of the Academy's mental health care system, he would not have needed to put so much thought into his strategy. And, if McCoy had not been relatively new to the Medical Corps, he would have prescribed a different route for the cadet's treatment.

In a cost cutting move, Starfleet privatized the counselor positions. Although they had the appropriate educational background – usually a master's degree in social work or psychology - they were usually recent graduates or, at best, only had a few years of experience. Overworked with a heavy caseload, the counselors' main task became to serve as gatekeepers to higher cost mental health care.

Although it was 4:43 PM, Rebecca Stein hurried to straighten her desk and log off her computer to head out the door. She reasoned she had worked through her afternoon break, so why couldn't she leave early? Her supervisor would be at a meeting across campus until 6 PM, so she would not even know she had left a few minutes early. Just as she grabbed her purse and started to leave, McCoy filled the doorway.

"Going somewhere?"

"Just to get a drink of water."

"I didn't know security was so lax in the building that you feel the need to take your purse with you."

"May I help you with something, . . ." Seeing his name badge on his chest, "Dr. McCoy?" Although not her supervisor, she knew she had to deal with him. She had not previously met McCoy, but heard he was a physician, as well as, an experienced psychiatrist. She could not afford to cross him.

"If your name is Rebecca Stein, you can."

"Yes, I'm Rebecca."

"I understand you were assigned to counsel Cadet Joseph Moretti."

She went back to her desk and logged back on to her computer. Does he really expect me to remember everyone who walked through that door?

"He had an appointment with you this afternoon."

Bringing up the record, "Yes . . . right. Moretti." Looking at her notes. "Arrived promptly, at the scheduled 1:45 PM time. I read his responses to the mental health survey, as well as, your intake notes. After he arrived we chatted, for a while."

"You chatted?"

"He answered all of the standard questions within normal parameters of any first year student faced with the daily rigors of the Academy."

"Normal parameters . . ." noting her youth, ". . . based on your many years of experience dealing with such cases?"

"I saw no need for further treatment."

"How long did it take for you to come to that decision?"

Two beats. "He was out by 2:03 PM."

"18 minutes?! You had a counseling session with him for an entire 18 minutes?! Did you even give him a chance to sit down?!"

"Don't you raise your voice to me!" She closes the door and turns to confront him. "You don't know what kind of pressure we are under. There are six mental health counselors available for nearly 5,000 cadets, campus staff and faculty, as well as, their families. You and the other intake specialists send us referrals without any regard for our ability to handle all of these cases. It's not fair. It simply is not fair!"

"I thought the patients were our priority, Ms. Stein."

"Patients like Cadet Moretti? So he sometimes doesn't get enough sleep and lost a little weight. What's wrong with that? I wish I could lose a few kilos, myself. Please doctor, do us all a favor. The next time you are assigned to intake, before you write your next referral make sure he has some real problems." The words were out of her mouth, before she could take them back. Suddenly, she regretted her admission, but it was too late.

"Get out of my way, Ms. Stein."

"Dr. McCoy . . . you're not going to make trouble for me, are you? I need this job." His glare provided her answer. Helplessly, she stepped from the door and watched him leave.

Author's Note: I took some time off from work this past week, so I was able to write more than usual. As a result, I should have Chapter 10 up shortly. The first two sections of the chapter are much lighter in tone, while the third section deals with an issue Pike is having with his son. I hope you continue following this series. As always, your comments are encouraged and highly appreciated.