Living never wore one out so much as the effort not to live.
(Anaïs Nin)
=/\= Intensive care unit, University Hospital Te'Rashar, Khomi province =/\=
15th Day in the month of et'Khior, YS 9022
The nurses barely had time to scatter when in a twirl of light an unexpected visitor arrived – with considerable luggage, as it were. Stasis field generators took shape in showers of emerald, and if any of the healers was surprised that Rihannsu transporters were depositing a decidedly Vulcan female in their midst, they hardly gave the matter more than a split second of thought.
Casualties had been coming through their doors since the attack had begun – a trickle at first, overflow from the bombarded areas and the places where massive Warbirds had struck populated areas – but thus far, Khomi largely had remained ... peaceful. And if the Chief Surgeon found that an exquisite irony all in itself, few would have understood the inherent joke.
Turning away from the male whose injuries required a watchful eye but little more as he was already mending as well as expected, Kerat gently inserted himself between the healers and nurses beginning to crowd around their new arrival, medical scanners abuzz.
If he were any other race, he might have invoked numerous Deities before unleashing a string of exceedingly colorful metaphors. But since he was a Vulcan he did not even sigh, or let any emotion cross his sharp, aquiline features. Though admittedly the state of their new patient would have warranted a wide array of them.
His tan robes rustling softy, Kerat knelt just next to the field generator closest to him and nodded grimly listening to the nurses' low murmurs. The surgeon needed no mechanical device to tell him this was a body that had sustained injuries not in one fierce battle but over and over again, had been tended to by pitifully inept medics or patched up barely enough to keep her alive so it may all start again. It was the most recent however that would likely prove the lethal one. Ah, whoever had sent the woman down here was certainly … optimistic about the odds. Or perhaps… oh, my.
"T'Mera. Notify…"
"Ha, Ohassu. Genetic scan confirms."
No surprise there. Even if the clear, elegant features of the Kir hill clans had not been a good indicator, the people living by Thanar's endlessly roaring waves had an instinct in recognizing … them.
"Specify the reason for the stasis field."
"USS Charon and V'Shar report possible danger of a mutagenic virus."
Shaking his head slowly, the surgeon cast a glance through the high ceilinged window, out across the calm sea. A velvety black dome of sky, already fringed with tones of copper arched over the city, bathing Thanar in hues of deep violet. "The virus is present?"
Pointless to suffer consequences before they befall, but a Healer's logic tends to fail when it comes to those in their care. If the young one was infected … like a ring of steel closing around his heart, Kerat felt the grief. Acknowledged it, attempted to let it go. And failed, as always.
"Negative, Ohassu. No match with any strands on file by Charon or V'Shar."
"Remove the field."
Hope is illogical, or so the more strident of Vulcans like to say. The healer found that statement a blatant disregard of established facts. Hope, sometimes, was everything.
Stubborn, stubborn woman. It was enough to let Kerat experience a split second surge of pride before he continued his relentless efforts to stop the abused, dying body before him from suffering that last, irreversible breakdown. But it was an uphill battle, and he knew it. She was slipping away … fighting, fighting every step of the way, and losing.
He barely heard the telltale hum of a planet-based transporter nor really would have cared if the two people approaching had not obviously been here for his patient.
"Ohassu."
"Not now."
"Ohassu." Sterner, a deep, even baritone that would have sounded perfectly level if not for the timbre a healer hears all too often and knows like the changes of the sea.
Looking up, he saw the woman with the sword across her back and the belly heavy with child, the gleaming terracotta of her uniform stained with soot and blood. The tall, dark male in black and silver, no less disheveled and now less proud in his bearing.
"It is not yet time. She may still live."
"Yes, ohassu. And you have our gratitude. But if we are to preserve her Katra, we must leave now."
"She will not release it."
For the merest heartbeat, the flicker of a melancholy smile seemed to cross the tall, dark one's features. "You are likely correct. Will you object to our duty?"
Everything Kerat was wanted to yell 'Yes!' Everything he believed in made him shake his head and step back, watch as the tall V'Shar touched his wristband and murmured one word before the red shimmer engulfed the three Vulcans. Slowly, silently, the healer's hands clenched into fists.
=/\= T'Shen monastery, Shi'Al province =/\=
Sihayel could not remember having seen wounds like this in the two centuries since she devoted her life to healing injuries of the body and the soul, though certainly she had seen scars and touched minds that spoke of similar agony. Steady and quiet as a floating whisp of fragrant incense, the healer touched the cool temples, sighing softly at what she found. They young ones had done rightly. There was little time left.
"Se'heik-voh."
"Ky'orsa-voh, oko-mekh."
"Ben vahl navun."
She could sense the grief, the hope, the fear. Knew it all too well. And put it aside.
And then reached… reached … for the spark of life, the mind shrouded in pain. She should not have been surprised at what she found, and was.
Fierce, fierce as Nevasa's heat beating down on the Forge, fighting, struggling, calling …
They had done rightly. When a Vulcan is in this dire a state, they will cling to life until they can lay their Katra into a trusted one's hands, and both Vulcans kneeling by the low bed were ne`ki'ne, closer than blood. All three heard the refusal ringing in their heads as if an A'kweth had risen from the sands to fill the air with its booming, silent voice.
Stubborn, willful child.
Shaking her head slowly, Sihayel retreated. There was no way to force a living Katra to leave if it had no intention to do so.
Unwise.
But then, the young one likely knew, and likely did not care.
All that was left to the healer was aid in any way she could so the fight was not in vain.
=/\= USS-Charon, Sick Bay =/\=
Dematerializing in sickbay was not the first thing that Brent had wanted to do. The second thing that irritated him was that Sakarra was not right there with him. He had just been there, right next to her. He had been considering taking off his glove to touch her hand again... And then the fine quantum mist robbed him of even that little pleasure. After having missed her for so long he was again robbed of simply holding her hand...
The infuriated Marine was immediately besieged by perhaps one of the most annoying sights to any Marine, especially one who is injured. Doctors. Doctors and nurses. Doctors and nurses working together. Before he could object they had already scanned him, and knew about the deep wound on his shoulder. Now his helmet was coming off. He breathed the air in before looking around, almost trying to speak several times but interrupted. Now they were removing the armor plating around his shoulder.
The situation around Brent finally overwhelemed him, and he staggered, being forced to lean against the nearby bed. They insisted that he lay down but he refused to move. Ah, the medical gel had done its job... But unfortunately the rigors of tearing apart the Vaek'Riov seemed to have aggravated the initial disruptor shot to his shoulder. He kept on asking... "Where is she?" "Is she going to make it?" "Where is Commander Tyrax?" "Did she make it up yet? "To hell with me she was worse off!"
Eventually he helped the doctors remove the rest of his armor, if nothing else because they were insufferably terrible at it. Forced down onto the bed after he had his armor removed he demanded to know where the Commander was. One of the doctors apparently realizing that they would either have to sedate the Marine or answer his questions finally replied that he did not know, that Commander Tyrax had not been beamed up to the Charon. He did tell Brent that Vulcan was taking on casualties as well in an effort to help the wounded.
Brent leaned down against the bed, his eyelids growing heavy. He had lost a lot of blood. The doctors immediately began to set up a transfusion and began to repair the tissue and bone on his shoulder, when at last the Marine finally passed out, after almost a week of being up non-stop, living on adrenaline.
He had no dreams. Nothing comforted him the blissful darkness. Perhaps that was what caused him to stir, what made him wake up after only seven hours instead of sleeping away for a day like his body wanted to. He blinked, looking up and warily looking around.
The Marine refused any help as he sat up, and the doctor immediately came by, beginning a basic check up with a few basic scans. His arm was in a sling, forcing him to keep as much weight off of it as he could to allow the wound to heal. Thanks to proper 24th century medicine it would only be sore and painful for a week or two, but apparently he had arrived in the nick of time. As usual the doctor chided him about his headstrong habits and as usual Brent dismissed them off hand.
[To be continued …]
Lt Cmdr Sakarra Tyrax
Executive Officer
Brevet 1st Lieutenant Brent Warren
Marine Commander
USS Charon
& a host of random pointy ears
