Post by Scribe on May 14, 2011 10:00:32 GMT -5
THE BATTLE OF AZATI PRIME
DECEMBER 2169
“ALL HANDS BRACE FOR IMPACT!” The voice belonging to Captain Patterson echoed through the air, fighting to be heard over the sound of klaxons screaming as the ship’s proximity detectors warned of the incoming fire from enemy ships.
Throughout Deck 3, more commonly known to the crew of the SS Livingstone, as ‘the Workshop’, the announcement of inbounds did little to disrupt the furious pace of work that was taking place across the floor. From one end of the deck to the other, doctors were working frantically to treat broken bodies, moving in and out of bio-beds like some gruesome conveyor belt as the fiercest battle of the war raged beyond the hull.
The floor was covered with burnt and bloody strips of uniform, cut away from limbs suffering burns so extreme, it was the only way to remove them from flesh. Horrifying burns even worse than this required the removal of the dermal layer as fabric fused to skin. Underfoot, doctors and nurses trampled over dropped instruments, discarded bandages and in some instance the detritus of wartime surgery. Yet despite the sharp, shrill sound of emergency sirens crying out their warning throughout the ship, a more potent and jarring sound could be heard and that was the screams of the wounded.
Covered in sweat and blood that wasn’t all his own, Dr. Tennyson Stark looked up as the announcement was made, ignoring it to bark an order at his nurse. “Carlson, whatever you do, maintain the setting of the thrombic modulator, I’m almost done repairing the left atrium, we can begin the suction to drain the excess fluid!”
“Yes Doctor,” she nodded, keeping her grip on the instrument pressed against the patient’s jugular.
Across the deck, this dance was played repeatedly over each bio-bed as doctors and nurses fought to keep patients alive, trying to ignore the battering against the hull from enemy blasts. Another shudder echoed through the ship, causing them to stagger as they fought to maintain their balance when inertial dampeners wavered in their task momentarily. Overhead, the lights of the deck flickered in the wake of the blast however, auxiliary systems raced immediately to the rescue, restoring power almost instantaneously to prevent vital medical equipment from being compromised.
Looking up, Stark let out a sigh of relief when auxiliary power activated Resuming the work on the organ in his hands, Stark used the auto suture to repair the thick wall of muscle that had been pierced a jagged piece of metal during a firefight. Nearly finished, Stark thought the worst was over when suddenly the ship lurched violently and no amount of preparation could keep him from falling. In fact, almost every one on the deck was thrown off their feet. Anything that wasn’t bolted down went flying. Instruments clattered to the floor, trays tipped over, medical bioscanners smashed on the floor.
“THE FIELD IS CONTAMINATED!” Dr Bevins three beds down shouted as the steri-field generator around his patient lowered, letting in the air they’d been breathing in and out. Stark would have gone there to help him but like ants regrouping after some kid had thrown a rock at their nest, Bevins was soon converged upon by helpers to help him deal with his troubles.
“JESUS CHRIST!” Stark hissed, having troubles of his own as he grabbed the edge of the bio-bed and struggled to keep his patient from falling off it. Across him, Nurse Carlson did the same but the bio-function monitor indicated the worst as the patient’s heart rate began to plunge. “We got to stabilize him! What the hell was that?”
“Its the Saratoga,” somebody shouted back and Stark looked over his shoulder to see it was Dr. Sanders, a kid straight off the boat, who looked a little green around the gills and scared shitless. “She just blew up!”
“The Saratoga....” Nurse Carlson stared at Stark blankly and it took a moment for him to realize why she had gone white. Oh Jesus. “Oh no...no...” she started to break down in front of him before stumbling away from the bio-bed, distraught.”Oh Jimmy..!.”
Stark blinked remembering about a younger brother who served on the Saratoga and felt his heart going out to her but he couldn’t allow her the time to grieve. Not now. The man beneath them needed them both and Stark couldn’t save his life without her. “Carlson! Jenny, I need you to focus. We need to stabilize this patient or he will die too!” He felt like a bastard, a monster for doing things so starkly (no pun intended) and wished he did not have to do this but he had no choice, not when there were so many around them that could be saved.
She stared at him, eyes filled with tears and he felt her hate, felt her anger for putting such responsibility on her now. Stark accepted her resentment if it meant that she’d do her job. This was what it meant to serve on the front line. It was worse than fighting because they had to put back bodies each side had tried to destroy. For hours they’d been here as the battle outside was fought so that they could be on hand for the inevitable flood of wounded to come. And come they did in numbers that required every doctor, nurse, orderly, med tech to be on hand to deal with the deluge.
She wept openly but somehow through her tears, understood the stakes and reached for the thrombic modulator to continue what she was doing as Stark used the cardio stimulator to breathe life part into the damaged organ that had been repaired mechanically but need a kick to remember its function to begin pumping again. A number of seconds later, after the bio function monitor chirped their success with beeps and clicks on its readout revealing stable vitals, Stark took a breath and stepped away from the table.
“This one is done!” He called out to an orderly who was helping one of the nurses who had fallen earlier to her feet. The man hurried over as she hobbled back to the side of the doctor she’d been assisting. The Bolian, one of the newer races to join the Alliance pushed an anti-grav gurney towards him.
“Take him down to the Recovery Deck and make sure that his vitals are monitored every 30 minutes for the next six hours.” He said as he jotted down those same instructions on info pad that could be slotted into the side of the bed.
As their patient was being taken away to Recovery, Stark turned to Nurse Carlson who was leaning against the bio function monitor stand, trying not to cry and failing. “Jenny," Stark said gently, "Get out of here half hour. Take a walk...get some coffee or something."
She looked up at him with a tear stained face and nodded, barely able to contain her sobs. She'd worked with Doctor Stark long enough to know that he was trying to be kind and that he'd be within her rights to demand that she stay. The current conditions certainly overrode anyone's personal issues, even if that issue was her dead baby brother. With a nod, she stepped away from the table and walked towards the main entrance, to take those thirty minutes she could.
Stark wished he could say more as he saw her leave but unfortunately, he was not in the position too. While he could give her thirty minutes to recover from her grief, he could take no such respite for himself. With another wounded person being brought to him even as he stood next to the vacated bio-bed, Stark’s time was not his own.
“Here’s another one Dr. Stark,” the orderly named Jankowski pushed another gurney towards him. “They’re backed up all over the 3D (what they'd called Triage and Diagnostic) out there. The word is thirty five ships were destroyed by the Planet Killer before the Saratoga rammed into her, damaging the bastard thing's deflectors. Rescue ships are picking up life pods from all over the system."
Thirty five ships, the number was staggering. They'd been so busy down here dealing with the incoming wounded; they hadn't even had a chance to pay much attention to the progress of the battle. However, Stark didn't think in terms of winning or losing, he thought of how many lives were in those ships, what the statistics were for survival by crew on a starship that was lost.
"This one looks pretty banged up too," Jankowski interrupted his thoughts with that statement causing Stark to take a look at his latest patient.
Banged up was an understatement. Stark winced at the near open chest cavity in front of him. The patient, a security officer whose uniform had been burnt clear through to his flesh and then bone, had been struck dead centre by a deadly reptilian bio rifle. Without even using his medical scanner, Stark could tell that his organs were a ruined mess of charred meat. That he was still alive was a miracle. That he was unconscious was a mercy.
“Jesus,” Stark whispered as he used the medical tricorder to get a clearer accounting of the damage done. It more or less confirmed his visual findings. Lowering the instrument, he met Jankowski’s gaze, having reached the inevitable conclusion.
“Its going to take me five, six hours to fit him with artificial organs, with someone needing to maintain his neural pathway during that time so they don’t degrade and he won’t survive cryostasis. Blinking slowly, Stark knew what he had to do even though every fiber of his being hated himself for it. Even if he was willing to try. There was no guarantee that this patients life could be saved and the time that Stark expended trying to do so would mean death to someone who could be helped, waiting to be treated.
“Put him in the hospice section,” Stark said finally not meeting Jankowski’s gaze. How could he face someone else, when he could face himself what he was about to do. He was giving up on a patient, letting him fallow but if he didn’t he’d lose others and sometimes, being a doctor being able to make such clinical judgments. “Tell them to make him comfortable. That’s all we can do.”
Jankowski nodded saying little because he knew that the difficulty that came with making such choices. Jankowski had been stationed on the Livingstone since the beginning of the war and he’d seen doctors wrestling with unimaginable choices. . It was no wonder that doctors sometimes thought they had to play god. How could they not when they were faced decisions like these? Dr. Stark was one of the better doctors on board but even he had his limitations it seemed.
“Yes Sir, I’ll do that.” Jankowski nodded and started moving.
Stark sucked in his breath, feeling his chest tighten as he watched Jankowski pushed the gurney away, wishing hating the unfairness of it but around him, his colleagues were making the same decisions, choosing who was to live and who was to die. Amidst the pounding against the hull which saw instruments falling off trays, bio-beds shaking on the floor, people trying not to slip on blood soaked floors or discarded medical waste and energy sparking from overloaded scanner, they had to practice medicine. His situation wasn’t unique and he had to get back to work.
Shoving it all in a deep dark place within himself, Stark called out. “I’m free!”
******
THE STAR SYSTEM OF AZATI PRIME
THIRTY MINUTES AGO....
Eject.
Eject!
EJECT!
The last logical thought Lieutenant Commander McCulloch had and carried out was that a crippled Xindi fighter was on a Kamikaze mission, firing on his Tiffany and taking out her response to controls and commands. Tiffany’s ability to be steered was dead in the water and at top combat engaged flight speed, there was only once choice left. I’m hit! I’m hit! Maxy down. Eject, eject eject!
His panicked screams were heard only by one of his team: Daniel Redding. The last survivor from the USS Endeavor besides himself and as Maxy pounded on the eject panel, breaking the protective glass and smashing the button, his thoughts flashed on how this was it. Danny would be the sole member from the Endeavor as it was his turn to die in this war.
Tiffany’s only response to his emergency evacuation was to grant him that last wish, rocketing his body and seat out of the cockpit, bursting through the windowed hatch that had been pre-released but had failed to clear the entire way. In slow motion, he saw himself propelled outward into the battle ground field of debris and unconsciously began to gasp for breath. A light show occurred behind him, Tiffany and the Xindi fighter going head to head, the explosives in space sending him spinning in their wake. He couldn’t move, couldn’t air swim or lightly jet himself still strapped to the last of Tiffany so with powerful tugs, Maxy released the harness and felt the seat tumble one way.
The fighting continued and a different explosion sent the wayward pilot backwards at a speed of twenty klicks, heading right into the side of a starship. Bones cracking on impact, head dizzy and still gasping for air, the last Maxy remembered was reaching up out of habit to clutch at his helmet, to ensure it was still on before the biggest flare of light blazed before him. God? No time was afforded the XO of the Endeavor Gryphon Squad for the explosion of two nearby enemy fighter ships sent wings and tail and body and the rest of the exploding vessel parts all throughout immediate space. Shrapnel of the sky decorated this immediate battle field of Azati Prime and the last part of the active Great War that Lt. Commander McCulloch remembered was Xindi combat fighter parts coming straight for him. The heavy debris crushed his legs against the starship with a pain so intense; it was merciful in causing the pilot to black out. Floating in space.
Later he would learn that Daniel Redding’s girlfriend saved him, catching a faint life sign and grapple hooking around one of the shattered feet to drag him in. How the Lt. Commander ended up from space to an anti-grav gurney was unknown to him. Blood collecting on the inside of his helmet, draining mostly from his mouth, which hadn’t allowed for easy removal. Unable to remain awake for more than a few seconds, he wasn’t alert. While Maxy could open his eyes to see the intense bright light overhead, it caused his pupils to dilate more than normal. A hand feebly would reach up now and then, trying to tug on the helmet. Heart rate over 180 and partly gasping for breath.
*******
SS LIVINGSTONE
NOW...
“His leg is crushed,” Doctor Alfred Rosen stated, declaring the obvious as he and Stark moved the wounded pilot lying on the anti-grav gurney to the vacant bio-bed in front of them.
“One thing at a time,” Stark retorted, more interested in removing the helmet the pilot was wearing than anything else at present. He could see the blood sloshing inside of it, smearing the cracked plexiglassed face plate. That kind of bleeding could only be the result of a severe head wound and if they did not get to it immediately, his leg would the least of the man’s worries.
The pilot had been brought into the Workshop during the thirty minute interval where he was without a nurse. As a result, Stark was forced to accept the presence of Doctor Alfred Rosen assisting him with this particular patient. Honestly, Stark would have preferred to have Jenny back.
From what Stark had been able to gather from the Bolian orderly who brought him in, the pilot had been cut out of the ejection seat of one the new Gryphon Class fighters that Starfleet had been extolling since the onset of the war as the second coming. As Stark prepared to remove the pilot’s helmet, he didn’t think this guy looked like he wouldn’t be resurrecting any thing any time soon.
“Hold him steady,” Stark instructed Rosen, even though the man technically outranked him. Stark never really cared much for protocol no matter how much it rankled Rosen. The man was a Park Avenue fat cat who survived Earth and realized that practicing medicine was no longer what it used to be. “I don’t want him to move any more than necessary. He might have neck injuries.”
“We should scan with a tricorder first,” Rosen started to say when Stark cut him off.
“No good,” Stark quashed that suggestion immediately. “I don’t want his helmet to interfere with the readings.”
Rosen bristled; his annoyance at being ordered about was almost on par with his suggestion being dismissed so summarily. Nevertheless, under the circumstances, he obeyed. As insufferable as Dr. Tennyson Stark might be, there was no denying his brilliance as a surgeon and a doctor. Holding the patient steady, Rosen watched as Stark carefully removed the helmet causing blood to spill out onto the bio-bed as soon as he freed the man from his head wear.
“Jesus, he was lucky,” Stark commented once he lifted the helmet off the patient’s head and took a moment to examine it briefly. The plexiglass had cracked but not enough to shatter and had somehow maintained its integrity. Had it shattered while the pilot was still in space, there would not be enough left of his skull to fill a thimble. Discarding the helmet, Stark picked up the medical tricorder and began scanning.
“He’s got a basilar skull fracture of the occipital bone,” Stark declared. “He’s bleeding into his brain.”
There were words moving around him, or people, maybe even Xindi. Heart rate increasing again with the helmet free, McCulloch reached up and took hold of his own throat, hand shaking as if trying to steady himself but the opposite occurred as his rapid breathing returned. As if he couldn’t mentally get enough air.
“Woah, woah,” Stark reacted immediately when he saw the patient coming to life and reaching for his neck. Taking the man’s hand away, he continued to speak but with this level of injury, suspected his patient was not capable of understanding him well. In this instance however, it was tone that was more soothing than words. “Steady there, you’re okay,” Stark said trying to keep the man still. “Rosen get the neural caliper ready, we’re going to need to put him under. I’ve got to go in now.”
Studying the man’s flight suit, he saw a name stenciled in black and hoped the frantic movements made by the pilot could be calmed by some explanation of where he was. The man was disorientated and had just come in from a battle, it stood to reason that he was not only suffering the effects of major head trauma but was anxious to understand where he was at present. Cupping the patient's face between his hands, Stark forced the pilot to focus on him.
"McCulloch, you're safe. You're on board the SS Livingstone. I'm going to have to put you under, you’ve suffered severe head injuries and you need surgery immediately."
There seemed to be stillness, as if McCulloch was listening. Instead of comprehending, he seemed to try and speak. Blood sputtered out, spraying up to then land back on his own face and part of Stark's hand. Still disoriented, he tried repeatedly to talk.
"He's got contusions and inter cerebral lacerations as well," Stark continued, remembering what he’d seen in the tricorder as he explained for Rosen’s benefit. The man was a mess. He was lucky to still be alive. "He's hemorrhaging and I’ve got to bring down the swelling. Step back, I’m generating the steri-field so I can get in there to release the pressure before he dies."
Die. It sounded very nice, serene and an overflow of warmth beckoned him. With a slow trickle of blood that exited his nose to dribble down to his upper lip, McCulloch could taste it. A different, less salty taste than what he'd been half coughing, trying to comprehend the Livingstone. Seemed like it was time to be on the Dyingstone, so he closed his eyes. Body relaxing and heart rate dipping to a nose-dive.
"His vitals are dropping," Rosen retorted preparing the neural caliper for use.
"I know," Stark snapped, grabbing the caliper from Rosen and placing it over McCullough’s forehead. Picking up the sub dermal scalpel as the device placed his patient into a sedative state; Stark sucked in his breath and set to work, delving in between the fissure of bone to repair the damaged cerebellum beneath.
For all he knew, there was pressure on his face and McCulloch once more passed out.
*******
Statistically speaking, he should have died if not in space then on the med table. A different miracle was at work and forty minutes later, after being stabilized, two red soaked circles outside blue iris' opened and stared up at Stark. He didn’t move nor try to speak.
Stark hadn't noticed that McCulloch had woken up. At the moment, he was checking the hyper encephalogram he had taken following the osteo-regeneration of McCulloch’s fractured skull. The sub dermal scalpel had done its work, releasing the pressure of the swelling inside his occipital lobe and the osteo-regenerator had repair the cracked bone. McCulloch’s neural activity was also returning to normal and for now, for now, the most immediate danger was over.
"You're going to have to amputate this leg," Rosen stated, taking a closer look at the ruined appendage now that the patient’s cranial injuries had been attended to.
A blink, the blood taste was still present but resembled stale copper in his mouth. The voices were talking again and he tried to understand. McCulloch closed his eyes to concentrate on the words. A groan soft and wet gurgled from his throat.
"He's conscious," Stark noted, moving over to the man’s leg to see for himself what Rosen was talking about. The older physician was a bleed by the numbers type of military doctor. Two decades older than Stark, Rosen had been in a cushy private practice on Earth before it was destroyed. He'd never been a war time surgeon until now and his method was to take the fastest route to a cure, even if that cure was worse than the injury.
"Hmmm...the damage is bad,” Stark had to admit to that, “the tibial and popliteal arteries beneath the knee is shredded so is the tibialis anterior, gastronemius and gracilis muscle.” Rosen was technically right. The easiest thing to do was to take the leg. He had patients backed up on the 3D; he couldn't afford to expend the time to attempt to repair this level of damage.
They were talking about him. That had to be it and the Lt. Cdr. opened his eyes to see two dark, human looking shapes against bright white. "Urrrgh," he needed to know what they were saying. Something in his subconscious desperately needed the conscious to know something.
McCulloch grunted again, as if seeking them out.
The man was trying to talk and as far as Stark was concerned that was a good sign but he also didn't want his patient over exerting himself either. Checking the insignia on McCulloch's uniform, Stark moved up to the head of the table and spoke directly to the man, wanting to check his cognitive processes to ensure the head injury hadn’t left any unforeseen damage.
"Lt. Commander McCullough, can you hear me?" Stark spoke loud and clearly.
There was a pleading behind his eyes and McCulloch whimpered again. What did they just say? What were they talking about? He tried to talk again but it hurt and felt so raw and hoarse. His eyes began to water at the corners and drain.
Pressing a hypospray against his arm, Stark hoped the dose from neural stimulator would help the man articulate the words the man’s mouth kept trying to form without success. Clearly McCullough was trying to say something and before Stark took anyone's leg, he'd at least want to let the patient know.
"Give yourself a minute," he said patiently, seeing Rosen's frustration building because the older physician clearly thought that he was wasting time with all this. Stark ignored him and waited for Lt. Commander McCullough to return to the land of the comprehensible.
His breath hitched thanks to the steroid but it also gave him better control. "Wha.a.aat are you doo.o.oing?" McCulloch's hand reached up, clutching Stark's own. A vice tight grip.
"We'll I've just dealt with your head injury," Stark replied, accustomed to the grip around his hand from newly awakened patients who were often, frightened and agitated when coming out of the black. “We’re about to treat your leg but I’m going to be honest with you Commander, its not in good shape.” Not meeting Rosen’s gaze because the gloating in the older man’s eyes would have just pissed Stark off, he continued speaking to McCulloch. "Commander, we're going to have to take it off." Damn.
Eject. Eject.... McCulloch barely could remember what happened and further looked shit shared at what was making sense. "nnno," he voiced weakly and arched his head back as if in pain, his throat exposed to his redeemer. Pawing down with his broken hand, toward the leg, he cried out, "noooooh, no..." His head wretched from side to side, helpless to get off the gurney and escape this fate. While he wasn't thinking straight, there was a part of McCulloch that knew deep down what became of veterans in wheelchairs. Some claimed it was a fate worse than death and to die would be more noble.
It wasn’t even the violence of his reaction to the possibility of losing his leg that took Stark by surprise; it was the fear in his eyes. The sheer jaw dropping terror of what was being proposed that struck the doctor most. Like the world was going to end, like McCulloch would die even if his heart was still beating. Stark thought of what it meant to be a pilot with one leg and knew without hesitation there were no pilots with one leg.
If McCulloch lost his leg, he’d also lose the sky.
Stark had been staring at broken bodies all day, so many that he couldn’t save, so many maimed beyond his ability to repair, not to mention the ones he had to give up on for expediency, because time wasn't on their side or his. McCulloch’s eyes screamed louder than words ever could. The fact that he was trying to get out, get away from the doctor trying to keep him alive to save his leg, spoke volumes.
"I’m putting him under,” Rosen declared, reaching for the calipers again.
Sheer hopeless terror struck the Lt. Cdr. When Rosen said to put him under. Take it just like that and end his life all the same. He closed his eyes, stopped fighting and lay on the slab. He couldn't get free.
Stark blinked and would never know what it was that had reached him so deeply that it had the power to move mountains but reach him it did. That look. That desperate plea for help than no real healer could ever refuse, no matter how illogical it was. Almost without realizing it, Stark spoke.
“No.”
“What do you mean, no? ” Rosen demanded, staring at him like he’d gone mad.
“I said no,” Stark repeated himself. “We stabilize him and put him into cryo. That will halt any further deterioration of the leg. We can keep him in there for at least 24 hours and by then I should be able to take another look. There are advanced techniques on Vulcan, muscular and vascular regeneration techniques. I’ll search the database myself but I'm not taking that leg, not unless I have to."
"Are you out of your mind?" Rosen shouted at him incredulously. "We have wounded backed up to hell and back and you want to waste time with ONE patient?"
A fight broke and for the life of him, he swore he was dreaming. Perhaps they had already taken the leg and he was sleeping. McCulloch reached down to paw again with a busted hand towards his leg. It itched.
"I don't give a flying fuck if we have the entire Alpha Quadrant out there!" Stark fairly roared, the day’s work finally getting to him and he exploded, unafraid of any damn thing, not even the consequences of telling a jackass what he thought. "I AM NOT TAKING HIS LEG, not without even considering the possibility of whether we can save it! You want to write me up, go the fuck ahead but right now get out of my way." Stark warned menacingly.
Laying back in exhaustion, his grip on Stark's hand weakened but gave a final, thank you squeeze. McCulloch wasn't a man who yelled or threw his weight around, but he was damn glad Stark was fighting for him. If he lived through this, he'd be eternally grateful.
Rosen had stomped off and Stark was glad to see him go when he felt the squeezing around his hand. He looked down at his patient, this one Lt. Commander McCulloch and nodded in acknowledge of the silent thanks, uncertain how much of that promise he could keep. He'd do what he could but just looking at the leg told Stark it wasn't going to be easy.
McCulloch’s thanks could be premature.
*****
TWO DAYS LATER
A swift, sharp and quick pain pricked his neck and Lt. Cdr McCulloch slipped into deep sleep. He had intense dreams but the drugs and cryo state kept him quiet and still. Forty-seven hours later his eyelids lazily lifted in a heavy state. Mason stared across the room feeling good as if high yet almost hung over all at once. There was little pain.
He didn't know where he was and after closing his eyes again to rest, he vaguely recalled the light. A fight. His leg.
Eyes popping open, McCulloch reached down and his fingers landed on a cylinder type casing around his entire leg. Hip to ankle. He could see his toes, but could not wiggle them. Other parts of his body were in similar devices, including his other hand. He was lying down, but not horizontal to the floor. Rather a forty-five degree angle to assist the blood to slow, not flow, in cold, constricted spaces. "Hell-lo?" He called out to the empty space unsure where he was.
********
Stark needed to sleep, he'd been up for almost 36 hours straight and he was finally comfortable enough to go off duty. Like so many other surgeons on the Livingstone, Stark was no different, feeling the need to hover around their patients to check their progress as they lay in the Recovery Deck, scattered around scattered through a dozen rooms.
At present, the Livingstone was on route to Gaia. Although there were clean up operations remaining post the battle of Azati Prime, for the Livingstone the war was over. The last of the wounded had been treated and were now in wards like this one across the wards. Relief staff had come in from the rest of the fleet, giving the physicians of the Livingstone a well needed break.
Stark had opportunity to sleep hours ago but he had spent his time in front of a communications terminal, speaking to Dr. Vreen of the Vulcan Science Academy, one of the leading physicians on the planet as well as a teacher when Stark had attended the institution. He’d been given all the information that could be provided to him regarding cellular regeneration techniques. With the help of the Livingstone’s chief engineer, he’d mapped out a prototype design for a biosynthetic wrap that would be programmed with the DNA coding of stems cells that would be tailored to rebuild Commander Mason McCulloch’s destroyed muscles. The actual development of the wrap would need to take place on Gaia, where there was access to stem cells for the work.
As promised, Stark had begun work almost as soon as McCulloch had exhausted the amount of time he could spend in cryosleep, much to the consternation of Dr. Rosen who actually written him up (prick). Fortunately, the reprimand was dismissed by Chief of Starfleet Medical, Dr. Phlox who was more impressed by technique Stark had developed on the fly to save the leg. Besides, the Denobulan had a reputation himself for pushing the envelope when treating his patients.
Stark was in the process of pouring his fifth cup of coffee in the last two hours when he heard a voice calling out. He wanted to make a last round of his patient before withdrawing for some well earned rest. He was running on adrenalin and dry fumes and eventually those would run out. Besides, there came a point when it became dangerous for him to keep awake, his mental acuity would suffer and by extension so would his patients.
"Well at least your vocal chords work," Stark retorted emerging from around the corner to peek in the small room that Mason McCulloch had called out from.
That voice, Mason recognized it and while he couldn't remember much after making the decision to eject from Tiffany, something deep sung "Are y.you good?" It was a strange question to ask and it made no more sense once heard. He didn't know the man, hadn't seen him before in his life and took in by his attire that he was a doctor. Probably around his own age. "S.sorry Drugg.ged up." At least he better be. He closed his eyes and leaned back, "I think. I dreamed... Amputation."
"Not a dream," Stark said bluntly, his bedside manner non-existent at the moment. "Saner heads wanted to remove your leg but I disagreed. You seemed to take exception to me removing the thing so I decided to hold off until I could figure out what to do with it." Stark replied, pulling up a chair and lowered himself into it wearily still nursing his coffee. As he did so, he glanced at the bio monitor next to McCulloch’s bed and was pleased at the readings. Satisfied that everything was where it should be, he faced McCulloch again. "So its still in one piece, even if it looks like its been through a meat grinder."
That took the drugged pilot by surprise, "It's not fixed?" He blinked and looked at the doctor. His throat became dry and he began to feel cold.
"Not yet," Stark replied, seeing the panic and almost rolled his eyes. "Just keep your panties on," the doctor retorted. "I think I can save your leg but I need to a build a biosynthetic wrap that’s not been invented yet. I need to be on Gaia to develop it and you need to be on Gaia for the rehab that’s going to come after I finish the treatment. When I’m done developing the wrap, it will be able to map out your DNA structure to regrow the lost muscles and arteries."
That was a lot of words and sounded too complicated to understand. Instead, McCulloch nodded and leaned his head back, feeling like he was shaking all over even though his body was still. "Okay," he felt weak and tired, once more a retired vet image struck him and he tried not to think on that. Rather be glad it seemed he was going to live. "Can I? Have some. Thing. To drink?"
"Water only, I’m afraid," Stark said as he got up to pour the man a glass of water from the jug next to his bedside before handing it to him. "The technique has never been done before but I've been talking to experts on Vulcan and I think there’s a good chance it will work. If all goes well, I estimate that in about three to four months, you should regain full use of the leg."
The thin cup of cool water burned his fingers and he listened, trying to follow the doctor before him. “Rather, haave.” The Lt. Cdr. instead of drinking let the cup slip to the floor, fingers limp. “Vod.ka.” He was slipping back to sleep, his eyes closed and head turning relaxed to one side.
“Who wouldn’t?” Stark sighed and retrieved the cup from the floor and decided a glass was too much for the man. Stepping outside the room since his patient didn’t know one way or another where the he was still there, Stark went to the storage cabinet and retrieved a straw before turning to the dozing McCulloch.
“Alright,” he said mostly to himself, “let’s try this again.”
Lifting the back of the man’s head up, he held the cup with the straw dangling over the edge. “Come on Commander, take your medicine so I don’t have to order you an IV.” He prompted.
Something touched his lips and Mason suckled four times before deciding that was too much and stopped. Cool trickled down and he coughed only slight before going in for another round. He didn’t know why he was thinking on vodka but that got him thinking of beer and ale and being at Beasts. Surely there would be a big victory once the Great War was done. If it was done. “Thankkkyou,” he slurred before falling back to sleep.
“Don’t mention it,” Stark said quietly, almost to himself and set the glass back on the bedside table. Checking the readings on the bio monitor one last time, Stark went back for his coffee and headed out, leaving the man to rest.
******
ONE WEEK LATER
"I don't see the problem Stark...."
"Well I do," Stark said to Doctor Wong, the Chief Administrator of Starfleet Medical on Gaia, a small petite woman, with a flawless porcelain complexion who reminded him way too much of his ex-wire Vera and had a personality of a rabid badger. From the minute, they had drifted into each other’s orbit, she’d made it clear she didn't want him trolling the halls of her hospital.
"Look Martin's on board the Vanguard,” Stark continued, ignoring the look of impatience on the woman’s face. “Quinn's too busy with teaching baby doctors and civilian services and I wouldn't trust Rosen to sit the right way on a toilet seat. McCulloch’s my patient, the technique to heal his leg is mine so I’m not leaving. I promised him I'd fix his leg, I plan on keeping that promise."
Penny Wong glared at the man, abhorring his arrogance and at the same time admiring the loyalty to his patient. Everything about him infuriated. He was just this side of rude, arrogant and had a temper that made even the most seasoned nurses run away in tears or sheer frustration with a few short words. He'd been here but a week but the nursing staff was ready to burn effigies of him in front of his office.
She wondered if he was dating anybody...
"Tennyson," she tried to remain calm as she stared at him. "The Captain of the Nemesis wants you as Chief Medical Officer. When the Enterprise is decommissioned some day. Its going to be the flagship. Every other doctor in Starfleet would kill for that assignment. That he's asked for you personally is quite a feather in your cap. You shouldn't just discard it for one patient."
One patient, Stark stiffened at that. There was no such thing as one patient but if he had to explain it to Penny, it wouldn’t matter anyway.
"What?" Stark looked at her, all innocence. "You don’t think that when I told the Tellerite Ambassador that perhaps the rash on his penis might have something to do with him screwing his Andorian secretary, that wasn’t a feather in my cap?"
Penny growled. "Not in front of his wife... no."
"Who knew," Stark shrugged and started to walk away. "I'm did prescribe a cream for that rash after she was done yelling at him though."
"You're insufferable," the woman threw her hands up in defeat. "Just...just...go."
"Going Penny," Stark said sweetly, treating her to his most charming smile, "and I might I say you do look quite lovely today."
Scowling at him through narrowed eyes, she hissed, "Just get going..."
******
Andorian rash. That was something Mason knew he’d never get, a disease from an Andorian. Or an Orion. When he lived on Andor for two years, after Earth blew, there was nothing about the skin color that turned him on or caught his fancy. Since joining Starfleet and becoming rather promiscuous, Lt. Cdr. McCulloch got himself tested every six months, just to be safe. It was the only responsible thing he tended to do, having a soft spot for the ladies who fancied him.
Slowly he opened his eyes and blinked back what little light was in the room. White. Clean. Sterile and reminded him of sickbay on the Endeavor only the air felt different. Fresher. He looked about and found that he was swallowing it with greedy gulps.
Penny. Who was Penny? His head was cloudy, did he know a Penny or Penelope? She looked lovely today. McCulloch didn’t recall anybody he had seen or been with, in fact, it had been a pretty good dry spell once the war started in full. Unless you counted those times he and Margaret snuck into the locker stalls where they had a good release shag now and then. She hated his guts and he thought she was a total bitch but in times of desperation, they used one another to make it through. She was one of the first Gryphon fighter pilots to be killed in the final battle and Mason felt kind of bad that he didn’t miss her as much as he missed his mentor and CO.
Suddenly it hit him, the memory and his eyes shifted quickly to the left and then the right before repeating. Where am I? The voices sounded like human voices, the bed he was strapped to and the writing on the equipment seemed human. It was English. Sitting up fast, he reached to grab the blankets covering his body, but couldn’t move his right arm. Looking down, he could see it sealed under medical wraps and strapped to the side of the bed. Am I in an insane asylum? Why else would he be contained?
No, his other hand was free and sitting up, he looked down when he felt the tingling in his chest. His side. In trying to move the rest of his body, he couldn’t manage to swing his legs over the side so Mason whipped back the covers to show the horror. Both legs were wrapped in biomedical skins, the left one wrapped from ankle to hip. “Jesuschrist,” he swallowed and saw they too were strapped down. Not that it mattered, while he felt no pain, when his brain thought to lift one of the legs, there was no response. Just that strange tingling spreading throughout his lower body and part of his chest. A glance over at the wrapped hand, he thought on moving his fingers and the sensation began there too. Only nothing moved.
Laying back on the bed, McCulloch swallowed and tried to think where he was. What happened. Why the hell he was three-fourths of the way strapped down. Straining his neck, he looked up and over behind him. “Thank you.” With every effort, he used his good hand and reached up and over, grabbing the call button and activating. I’m not a POW, at least, I don’t think so. There were many questions on the Lt. Cdr’s mind, and he felt anxious and alone, hoping one of those voices would come.
Stark had been on his way to make his usual periodic check on his patient when he heard the beep of the call button ringing at the nurse’s station further along the hall. Gesturing at Nurse Watkins that he’d deal with the patient, Stark stepped into the small space that had been Mason McCulloch's room since he'd been transported off the Livingstone under Stark's care to Gaia.
“You’re looking a lot better,” Stark announced himself as he strode over to the biobed as he’d done habitually for the last week, to check on the man’s vitals. Heart rate, check. ECG, check. Neural pathway, check. Metabolic rate, check. Without meeting McCulloch’s eyes, Stark shifted his attention to the leg and lifted the sheet long enough to ensure the biosynthetic wrap was working as per his specs. Also check.
"Hi?" Mason raised a curious brow, guessing this was the doctor on call or someone who had been taking care of him. Seeking out the man's face for answers, he held back the flood of queries. "Where am I?"
"Starfleet Medical," Stark replied, still checking out the leg. "Gaia. You were brought on board the Livingstone after you were injured. You had massive head trauma which I took care off and you seemed quite partial to keeping your leg, so I had you put in stasis until I could figure out how to let you do that."
Gaia. I’m on... “My leg?” The pilot blurted it out and then recalled the wrappings on both legs, especially the one that went from ankle all the way up. Wide-eyed, he pulled off the blankets again and looked down to ensure he didn’t dream staring at what looked to be still in tact. “Is it...”
"Its still there," Stark looking up and meeting McCulloch’s gaze and was suddenly reminded of that desperate plea in the man’s eyes that had prompted Stark to take extraordinary steps to ensure McCulloch’s worst fears were never realized. "There was a lot of damage and your recovery isn't going to be easy but I'm confident you'll have full use of it back...in a few months." He wasn't going to pad that truth. What Stark had done was revolutionary, using stems cells overwritten with McCulloch's genetic material to grow new muscles and arteries. It had simply never been done before. Fuck, someone wanted him to write a paper about it no less.
Flashes and thoughts raced to when could have been and Mason leaned back on the bed, relieved. “Thank you,” he didn’t know why, but then looked at Stark again. “I talked to you about my leg?” The Lt. Cdr couldn’t recall any of that. “The last thing I remember... was the Xindi bearing down on me. Ejecting and Tiffany blown to bits.”
"Well that's not surprising," Stark shrugged, pulling up a chair and sitting down if he was going to be answering a lot of questions. McCulloch had been in and out of a drug induced stupor for the last ten days, it was understandable that he had gaps in his memory. "Not surprising, you cracked your skull open on the ejection. When I first saw you, you were bleeding into your helmet. However, if it makes you feel better, the war is over, we won. The Xindi are presently running back to their space, tail between their legs."
Hearing that news, Mason sunk back into the pillow, eyes shut as his body tingled from various places. “Thank god mother fuckers,” he breathed light, saying it more for himself than the doctor. Taking a minute to think on that, he turned back to the doctor, “Do you know if anyone else from my squadron survived? A Daniel Redding? Callsign Red? Or a friend of ours from Tobin’s group, Aideen McKenna? Callsign Phoenix?”
"Sorry no clue," Stark said shaking his head, “but I'll have someone look up the information for you if you like. At the time, we were a little busy to be taking stock of who survived and who didn’t. The Livingstone is a hospital ship and every body looked the same to us."
He could understand that and nodded, feeling a gut wrenching twist if Danny didn’t survive. Red was Mason’s best friend and tended to take on the role of keeping McCulloch in check. He didn’t know what he’d do if Danny didn’t make it. “Thanks.” Everything was a lot to take in and the Lt. Cdr stared at the ceiling, quiet for a while.
"Are you okay?" Stark asked, finding his concern for the man already past the usual boundaries he had with patients, probably because of how much he had invested in saving that leg. That damn look, Stark hated to admit, it had gotten to him. "I'm sorry, its been fucked up...sorry crazy since the end of the war. I haven't been keeping up on much aside from work.”
“I think I lost my squadron.” His chest heaved up slow and steady before releasing at a more rapid rate. “My CO died in battle and I was in charge, but not for long. One by one, everybody died except possibly for Red.” What if Danny died? “We’ve been together since flight school... it just.” He couldn’t do that and swallowed back whatever it was that wanted to surface. “Damn drugs,” Mason complained, reaching up to scratch near his eye. “A lot of people died out on the battlefield.”
Stark shared his sense of loss for the faceless thousands who had died, some who he had known, some who little more than names on a report. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that they'd lost 35 ships. The number was staggering. The lives even more so. For a moment, they were both silent, dealing with that and Stark who was never good with dealing with loss, was to first to snap out of the melancholic mood.
"You look like you need a drink," Stark sighed, "You up for a field trip?" He asked. The man's vitals were okay and Stark knew just how much he could handle or not.
“A field trip?” Mason wasn’t sure what that entailed but looking down at his legs, he was pretty certain it didn’t mean walking. The man said it would take, ech, months. “What do you have in mind, Doc?”
"How about a ride on a hospital wheel chair? Probably not as fast as you’re used to but it gets the job done,” Stark replied with a smirk. He stepped out of the room and returning a few seconds later with a wheel chair he’d liberated from storage. "One ride per customer." He said coming over to the man to help him into the contraption.
His expression balked a bit when the wheelchair came around the corner. Not used to being put down or unable to move about as he pleased, the reality of what he was up against hit home. Mason swallowed and eyed the thing, half wanting to stay in the bed out of pride. Stupid... A nod, he reached over to unstrap his medi-wrapped hand and watched Stark do the same to his legs. “You know,” he tried to play off his unease about the chair with a joke, “When I first woke up, I thought I had been checked into an insane asylum, eh?”
"Why's that?" Stark asked as he carefully helped the man out of his bed, doing most of the work as he lowered McCulloch into the chair, adjusting the elevation of the foot rest to ensure that his injured leg be propped up for his comfort. "I have dreams that I wake up in a harem but then its usually the outpost with three women who think doctors are the 'living end'." He said sardonically.
“That sounds like a nice reality,” he looked down at his legs, wondering if any woman would ever look at him again. As Stark went behind him and began the tour, Mason realized he didn’t even know what he looked like. All beat up looking? Was his teeth brushed or hair somewhat cleaned or groomed? How long had he been out and how many days since he ejected from Tiffany? For a rare moment in his life, he propped his head on a hand and looked down. What if I can’t walk again. This was starting to really bother him.
Stark could read the subtle shifts in the man's body language, the anxious look at his leg, the slight tension in his shoulders. McCulloch was clad in hospital greys, modified for his injuries but Stark took pity and dumped a robe across his lap before wheeling him out.
"Don't look so scared flyboy," Stark replied as he pushed the man out onto the hallway which wasn't all that busy except for a few nurses going about their business. "Your leg is fine. It looks like crap now but its fine, its healing. The thing around your leg is a biosynthetic wrap. I designed the thing so that it will rebuild your muscles and arteries. Right now, its hard at work growing you all the pieces that got burnt off in the big fight. In four months...six at the most, you'll be up in your bird, shooting the shit out of stuff again. At least if I have anything to do with it. Hey I wouldn't give up a transfer to the Nemesis if I wasn't confident about your FULL recovery."
"You turned down a position... Because of me?" He couldn't quite fathom doing that. "You don't even know me." It further dawned on Mason, "I don't even know your name."
"Stark," the doctor replied. "Well you were pretty insistent on keeping that leg and I figured anyone that wanted to keep a leg that badly, should have a doctor willing to try to help him." He said shrugging it off that it was any big thing. Telling the man his desperation and terror was the winning argument in convincing Stark to save his leg, didn't' seem appropriate.
"Wow," Mason shook his head. "I don't even remember... " He thought for a few more feet of being rolled. "McCulloch, by the way, Mason "Maxy" McCulloch. SS Endeavor, or at least, was before she blew." That he had seen first hand during battle. Before his CO lost his mind and crashed.
"Nice to meet you Max," Stark said with a little smile, "we're going to my office where I've got a bottle of something stashed. Not vodka unfortunately but close enough. Since I've been working here, I've had to deal with a pain in the ass hospital administrator who wants me to be nice to everyone, something I can only do if I've got ready access to liquor."
"I like your style Stark." He was a doctor, right? "You're sharing with me, a patient? Is that... Okay?" Mason chuckled, "I mean, I'm all for working in and outside the lines and all. Just... Never knew a doctor to offer archaic and old school medicines. I'm all for it of course. Kind of a nice refresher."
"Thanks," Stark remarked smoothly, "I'm a believer in alternate forms of treatments. However, to set your mind at ease, you don't have any abdominal injuries, you've recovered from your head wound. Any residual sedatives wore off 13 hours ago. So you're good for ONE drink. Don't worry, I'm not going to get you drunk and leave you on the street or anything."
Just the idea of a drink, no matter what it was, sounded good. Due to the thick of war, he hadn't been in a position to do so given that he could be called to be behind Tiffany all around the clock. And with him, one would lead to two and Mason knew he had little tolerance for the stuff when it came in multiples. "One drink sounds mighty fine." He reached up and touched his scruff of a face. Yeah, he'd been out for a while.
"Don't worry," Stark noted the man's hands on his face, "cute little nurse Lisa has been volunteering to give you a sponge bath since you've checked in. Think how happy she's going to be now that you'll be awake while she's doing it." He grinned as they stepped into a turbo lift.
"Huh?" Mason looked over his shoulder. Was the man a mind reader? Damn, he's good. "Feeling a little gross is all. Glad to know somebody's been taking care of me a bit." Not missing a beat, as if he'd been awake and alert for a long time, Maxy asked, "She cute?"
"Great tits, not a brain worth keeping around for more than an evening. Get her drunk and she'll go like a locomotive," Stark smirk was wicked until the lift doors slid apart and the nurse who stood on the other side waiting to step in, gave him a look of pure contempt before turning on her heels and headed for the stairs instead. The glare she gave him screamed 'asshole'.
When the doors closed again and no one else stepped in, Stark replied completely unrepentant. "Guess I forgot to call her."
He hadn't seen a look like that in a long, long time. Mason preferred a more gentle approach to ignoring, but then again, there was something about non-committing that worked too. "Damn, guess you did." A smirk, he felt the lift continue on. "You're my kind of guy Stark." The patient blinked, "Meant in the most non-sexual way possible."
"Oh damn," Stark declared with a perfectly straight face. "And here I was thinking that if I got you a drink and all you’d put out."
Not that he knew the man well enough, but Stark seemed like someone who could take and dish, so Mason let him have it, "So there was another reason for those bed straps back there. Man, I thought that numbing agent seemed to be a bit overkill."
Uttering a short laugh Stark replied, "yeah usually I don't have to work that hard but you know how it is." He suspected Maxy might very well know how it was exactly. "I can barely remember that nurse's name. Sindy or something..who knows?"
He felt a bit of a kindred spirit in Stark that was always vacant in Danny. Red was your typical good guy, couldn't talk to girls, got freaked out or at least shy if one came up and talked to him. Hell, it took Mason to threaten to go up and talk to Aideen to get Redding to admit he liked her. Stark, on the other hand, didn't seem to have that problem. He seemed to understand. "Sounds like you appreciate the finer things in life Doc. I can totally respect that." God knew Danny and many others didn't.
"Thanks," Stark replied, mildly surprised by the fact that talking to the pilot didn't suck. The doors opened and he pushed Maxy onto the administration floor of the hospital. As he did so, Penny Wong made her appearance in the hallway and stopped short at the appearance of the two men.
"Stark..."
"Penny," Stark gave her a look. "This man is a war hero and he's been stuck in bed for the last week. The least I could do is give him a tour."
The woman, a petite, slip of a woman in her thirties, pursed her lips and made a sound of frustration before disappearing into her office. "Just don't have him out too long."
"Jeez," Stark rolled his eyes. "Because I wouldn't know from treating him all week Penny, but thanks for keeping me on my toes." He said grinning as he wheeled Max away. "I'm sure she wants me."
“Probably,” he couldn’t help himself, wanting and needing to feel some resemblance of his former self and ego, “Although she did say she’s concerned over me.” He glanced back the way Wong went before looking up at Stark. “I don’t know Doc, I’ve got that injured, scruffy puppy-look going for me Nightingale style.” Leaning back in his chair, needing this dialogue to feel normal, Mason added, “How long before all my parts start working again?”
"Oh the parts are working as of now," Stark grinned, getting the gist of Maxy McCulloch right there and then. "But just because your thrusters are working, don't mean your ship can fly. Give it a month or two. Feel free to request all the hand cream you want. I'll even get Lisa to deliver it." He smirked.
Most guys didn’t flat out talk about this shit, which at times made Maxy feel like an asshole or demented jerk. Stark, a doctor, put it all out there. “The cream... or the assistance?” He’d always heard about sick guys getting lucky with a hand jobber in the hospital. It was like a myth or a mean untruth that never really happened. Hell, if I’m going to be stuck for weeks on weeks... He was not above needing the attention.
Fortunately, they were at his office, which was really the best place for them when the talk had degenerated into the subject of Nurse Lisa becoming Nurse Handjob. "Both." Stark retorted, pushing him through the doorway of his office before the doors closed behind him.
Stark's office was Spartan, indicative of the fact that he hadn't been here for long. Leaving Max in front of his desk, Stark stepped behind it and reached for the bottle of Romulan ale he had hidden in one of the drawers.
His mind wandered on what this big-titted, dim-witted but hand-jobber nurse might look like. Lisa. Sadly, it didn’t even matter on some level but if Stark did her, he guessed she couldn’t look that bad. Sloppy second buddy rule? Not when the man offered. Even if the hand job was pity, Mason could justify that. Hell, in a way, with the war and the leg and the future confinement in a wheel chair, a hand job would be the least of his stress and he deserved a reliever. “Is that what I think it is?” All thoughts on assisted masturbation went out the window. “Aww Doc, first you save my life, then my leg and now this?” It had been years since he had Romulan ale. “You’re too good to me.”
Stark poured him a glass and pushed it within the man's reach. "Well truth be known my life was getting kind of dull, banging nurses, mediocre practice," staring at Max's leg, "but now thanks to that leg, I have a hobby. So do you want to hear any further details about your injury or you happy to take my word for it."
“Talk away,” he took the drink and found a pavlovian reaction as his glands watered. A new drinking buddy, what luck. Before he took a taste, it hit him and the pilot lowered the drink. “Do my parents know I’m here?” If he was on Gaia, surely they would come see him. “They know I’m alive, right?”
"Oh yeah," Stark nodded. "Talk to them myself, explained to them what the situation is. You should be seeing them in a few hours. Your dad's been here every day, waiting for you to wake up," Stark's expression grew almost serious at that. "I told them that you'd be fine. You've lost quite a bit of muscle in your leg, including arteries. The wrap you're wearing is regulating the arterial flow to keep the leg healthy. I couldn't start the repair work until we got back to Gaia. I designed the wrap with the Chief Engineer of the Livingstone, it uses stems cells that are coded with your genetic material to grow replacement parts specifically designed for you. As it's a prototype, I have to keep an eye on you to see what it does, that's why I'm not going anywhere until the leg is healed."
There was additional relief that his parents knew and rather happy that his mother managed to make it, possibly a first visit, with promise of Tony tomorrow. He hadn’t seen his parents in a very long time.