BioWare; killing things with swords, lightsabers, and guns since 1995.
Dig Site Alpha, Therum, Knossus System, Artemus Tau Cluster, May 24, 2183
Author's Note: Happy Birthday, Sara and Scott Ryder. (March 7, one-year anniversary of Andromeda)
Petty Officer (Third Class) Sara Elaine Ryder felt every bump and knock on the drive from Nova Yekaterinburg to the dig site known as Alpha near the north pole of Therum as she tried to ignore how hot it was inside the M29 GRZLY All-Terrain Armored Transport Vehicle despite the air conditioner going at full blast. Her Systems Alliance Navy-Issue Sirta Foundations' Phoenix Light Medic Armor was supposedly suppose to help with such environmental concerns such as heat and cold, but Sara could feel the sweat in her armpits and under the band of her sports bra from the heat. To say that Therum was hot was an understatement; even at night, it was hotter than the hottest place on Earth, and daytime excursions were strongly discouraged. According to an internal temperature gauge, the inside of the APC was at a balmy one-hundred and ten degrees Fahrenheit/forty-three degrees Celsius. The same gauge read the outside temperature as well; sixty-four degrees Celsius, or about a hundred and fifty Fahrenheit. That kind of heat would kill a man in an hour if he didn't have water, and exposure would kill him in four if he did, unable to hydrate fast enough.
Therum. What a shithole.
Sara looked over to the Marine Corporal who was driving the GRZLY, one Corporal Kyle Stannis, who looked like he was soaked to the skin as if he just stepped out of the shower or a pool by the way beads of sweat glistened on his skin. He had talked on and off for the past two hours, normal chit-chat concerning facts about Therum and the Marine unit that she was to be assigned to. As a Navy Hospital Corpsman with the Fleet Marine Force, Chief Ryder was to be assigned to a combat unit to be their medical specialist. She had the primary rating of HM 8404, along with two other designations; advanced emergency trauma care, and surgeon's assistant. While that looked good on her Enlisted Record Brief, what that really meant was that Sara had training and experience in keeping men and women alive even through some of the most ghastly of injuries, hosting the same capabilities as an Emergency Room Nurse, an Emergency Medical Technician, and even able to do some emergency surgical procedures if warranted. Ever since Illyeria, Sara knew what she wanted to do with her life, and she had taken any and every step possible in order for her not only to be proficient, but one of the best there could be. Who amongst Humanity could claim to be a Citadel Paramedic, after all?
"This your first platoon?" Corporal Kyle Stannis asked, still up for the friendly chit-chat. Most in the Systems Alliance Marine Corps saw only two kinds of people; Marines, and useless motherfuckers taking away their oxygen. Marines were hammered since Boot that they were the righteous sword and shield of Earth and Humanity, its guardian and protector, its vengeance and wrath. To them, the Alliance Navy were bus drivers, Colonial Army wannabes, and the Colonial Air Force sissies. When shit got hot and messy, Marines knew who would be sent in to make the motherfucker regret ever stepping on Humanity's toes, and the men and women of the Systems Alliance Marine Corps took that kind of shit very seriously, living and breathing their motto, Semper Fidelis. While a Marine may look at anyone and everyone else as a lower life form, they did hold a few exceptions for certain professions. Navy Orbital Drop Shock Troopers, known as the Hellfighters, were certainly one of them. Marines boarded ships and landed planetside in shuttles. Hellfighters were fired from missilepods in drop pods known as 'Navy Coffins' and went directly to the action in a silver bullet fired from space. Marines gave a healthy amount of respect to the Navy Search and Rescue team, retrieval specialists who would go behind enemy lines during combat to pull men and women out of space. NSAR rescued the stranded from the black while getting shot at, giving men and women a second chance not only to live, but to get back in the fight. There were the SpecOps Warriors known as N Special Forces, whom Marines practically worshiped, many hoping to be selected for the chance to go to Villa Militar in Rio. N's were the very word in lethality and success, and any Marine who thought themselves a tough motherfucker wanted the chance to be one. And all Marines thought themselves tough motherfuckers.
And then there were the Corpsmen, like herself.
Hospital Corpsmen were the basic medical specialist of the Alliance Navy, hosting many jobs and professions as needed to serve not only throughout the Navy, but in many posts and positions throughout the Systems Alliance Government. They ran dispensaries for Sailors with minor injuries and illnesses. One could find them in military hospitals and clinics, acting as nurses and assistants. They could be medical technicians, medical administrators, running Humanitarian aid, giving inoculations. The HM 8404 profession was one of the most venerated and honorable professions in the Navy, harkening back to the days of water Navy in the great World Wars. There were many kind of Corpsmen who filled in the needed positions, and was one of the largest rates in the Navy, its position seen everywhere, from ships to outposts to stations. The joke was that if there were more than five Sailors, four would watch a screen and one would be keeping them alive to do their job.
But there was another form of Corpsman that existed, one above even that. The FMF Corpsman, simply known as the Marine Corpsman.
The Systems Alliance Marine Corps did not have medics like the Colonial Army; theirs were borrowed from the Navy. The Fleet Marine Force Corpsman was a volunteer service in which a Navy Corpsman was expected to achieve the same physical standards and knowledge as the Marine Corps. FMF Corpsmen were riflemen, knowledgeable in tactics and movement, physically and mentally tough. Any Corpsman who wanted to join the FMF were tested in three different ways by a committee of Marines and other Corpsman to make sure that the Corpsman-in-question wasn't substandard. They were expected to do whatever a Marine could do, as well as providing medical and trauma care. The FMF training course was eight weeks long, almost as long as Marine Boot itself save they already knew the basics of formations, drills, and the handling of weapons. Marine Drill Instructors made sure that FMF Corpsmen were ready for the rigors of being in the Marines, drilling into them every single hour of every single day for eight weeks straight that 'these are your Marines; you will look out for them, you will live among them, you will protect them, you will die for them, as they would die for you'. The course was utterly punishing, and yet any who passed was awarded the FMFHM Badge, one of the most coveted awards in the Order of the Hospital Corpsman.
Sara had just earned hers last week.
Ryder had been in the Navy since eighteen, joining on her birthday right alongside her twin brother, Scott Michael Ryder. Scott had join the Marines while she had joined the Navy, and the decision had them realizing that it would be the first time they would be truly separated in their entire lives. Scott so wanted to be a Marine Infantryman, to be that sword and shield. Sara wanted to help people, but after Illyeria, she knew she wanted to serve alongside those who fought in Humanity's name. Marines didn't have medics; they drew theirs from the Navy. So she decided to join the Navy to become a Corpsman, passing through Navy Drill with flying colors and entering the Medical Education and Training Campus along with other Navy Hospital Corpsman, Colonial Army Health Care Specialists, and the Colonial Air Force Aerospace Medical Service Specialist in Lowell City on Mars. Sixteen weeks of training and classes had her coming as a rate of Seaman Apprentice with the primary rating of HM 8404. Sara had been so happy to achieve the first part of her dream, her and Scott visiting their ailing mother in their respective Class A Uniforms, Scott a Marine Infantryman while she was a Navy Corpsman. Doctor Ellen Ryder got to see her children succeed before passing away from ANCD due to her research into Biotics in Human beings.
Sara had spent the past two years in Franklin, a starter colony that was protected by a small Naval detachment that was deployed in-system. She knew that she would have to wait almost two years before she could try to volunteer for the Fleet Marine Force, a requirement to make sure that said volunteer didn't get cold feet and had the necessary experience and training on their side. Her job in the small defense fleet was to aid in dispensary operations, helping run the medical clinic aboard a two-hundred man Corvette along with five other Corpsmen. Her job, seven days a week, was to listen to Sailors whine about whatever illnesses or minor injuries they had, keeping inventory of supplies and pharmaceuticals in the dispensary, updating logs and records of the men and women on the SSV Charger, and keeping the clinic clean. She was the lowest man on the totem pole, so to speak, so she drew all the best details and duties that none of the higher-ranking Corpsmen wanted to do; cleaning, restocking, checking hypochondriac Sailors, and inventory. During her off-time, whenever her twelve-hour shift was over, Sara would working upon herself to train for her dream.
Ryder studied every manual relating to trauma care and emergency care. She did physical training with the Corvette's detachment of Marines, and was even allowed to join them on the vessel's small arms firing range. The detachment didn't have a Corpsman assigned to them, drawing from one of the Corvettes' Corpsman when necessary, and Staff Sergeant John Brennan, the Marines' Commanding Officer, put in the request that Seaman Apprentice Sara Ryder be the go-to Corpsman whenever the Marines were called to the Corvette's Commanding Officer, Captain Sarah Olivier when Sara not only asked him for the honor, but proved to him that she was willing to do it. In eighteen months, the Marines were called for over a dozen times on various missions and calls, and Sara was with them every single time. She wore the same armor as the Marines, carried the same weapons, and walked over the same ground. They never called her Sailor, Seaman, or anything else, proper or derogatory. She was Doc, plain and simple. When one of the Marines got hurt during PT or doing something stupid, they went to Doc, not one of the other Corpsmen (who weren't Doc in the Marines' mind). They trusted her, saw her as one of them, and Sara knew she was heading right towards where she wanted to be.
One day, during an EVA training exercise where the Marines were performing a Visit, Board, Search, and Seizure exercise on a pre-FCW spacecraft. Ryder had been along for the training exercise with the Marines, expected to follow the Marines' code of being a rifleman above all else, performing the exercise alongside 'her Marines'. An unfortunate but unavoidable incident during the breech had a piece of shrapnel pierce through Staff Sergeant John Brennan's suit while in space, compromising his suits' seal and potentially exposing him to the lethal environment of outer space while venting atmo. At the first words of 'suit breech!', Sara went to work. She had a Marine toss her weightlessly towards Staff Sergeant Brennen while another caught her, and she immediately assessed the problem. Ryder discovered that Brennen's airhose had been pierced to a degree beyond salvage, unable to even make hasty repairs. So she told him to take a deep breath, sealed the port where his hose connected at, and removed the punctured hose, almost torn in half by the shrapnel. She then connected her secondary hose to his helmet, and performed an emergency lifeline tactic known as 'Quarian Fucking'; where two suited people shared the same air. She then opened the valve to where the Marine could breath her air, and then proceeded to call for a real-world emergency MedEvac, telling the rest of the Marine Platoon to continue with the training exercise as planned, as if it had been a real operation where one got wounded but the mission would still be expected to be performed. Ryder MedEvac'ed Brennen safely into a Navy Shuttle, disengaging her secondary hose from his suit, and then proceeded to join the rest of the Marines for the exercise in case another emergency were to happen, and at the very least offer her assistance as a rifleman. The rest of the exercise went without a hitch and without any other incident.
This got her a Navy Commendation Medal through the Navy. The Marines simply got Doc rip-roaring drunk from their own personal unauthorized stashes, every single one of them 'buying' her a drink. That touched her just as much as the medal did. They were her Marines, and she was their Doc, tested and proven.
When Sara hit her eighteen month mark, she applied for the Fleet Marine Force, and got three letters of recommendation; one from Staff Sergeant Brennen (along with the report where she saved his life), one from the Chief Medical Officer of the Corvette, and one from Captain Olivier. She was approved without issue.
Field Medical Training Battalion was its own special brand of hell. Stationed in Fort Richardson, Alaska, United North American States, it was eight weeks of sadistic Marine Drill Instructors pushing hard on Navy Corpsman. It involved nineteen hour days, eighteen and a half of them intermixed with yelling, screaming, physical training, more yelling, corrective training, more screaming, medical training, firearm ranges, and more push-ups than anyone could bother to count. Half of the recruits washed out, which was the point; the job wasn't for the weak or the part-time wanna-bes. Those who passed earned the Fleet Marine Force Insignia, one of the most coveted badges in the Naval Hospital Corps, and one that Marines everywhere respected. In made a Corpsman 'Doc', simple as that, that crazy motherfucker who would not only jump into a firefight, serving alongside Marines, but would run through the thick of it to extract a wounded Marine, performing emergency care to help save their lives. The day Petty Officer Third Class Sara Ryder earned her Fleet Marine Force Insignia was the happiest in her life. It meant she would be assigned to Marine units, not Navy dispensaries.
She was going to be doing what she wanted to do.
"I was assigned to the Charger before, working alongside the Marine detachment there." Ryder answered Corporal Stannis, the Marine E-4 grunting in acknowledgment. She had said the magic words, alongside Marines, and that was all that mattered to him. Oh, she didn't doubt that Stannis figured Doc had worked in a dispensary, as most Corpsmen did on boats, even the ones assigned to Marine units for a small portion of the day. But Sara knew how the Marine mind work. She didn't jabber about Navy food, Navy bunks, or Navy bullshit. Marines cared about one thing and one thing only; Marines. Combat was life, and the rest of the time was spent prepping and training for it. Anyone else either stayed out of their way or got ran the fuck over. Doc wasn't some bus driver running tic-tacs out of a dispensary to whiny-ass screenwatchers. Doc was Doc; Doc killed people with one hand while putting pressure on your gunshot wound with the other. "First real dirtside deployment."
The unit Sara had been assigned to was officially Red Platoon, Betelgeuse Company, Third Battalion, Seventh Marine Infantry Regiment (1B3/7). As she understood it, they had been detached and deployed to Therum for Site Security for Dig Site Alpha. It meant that there was something there that the Alliance was interested in, and the Admiralty Board sent Marines to guard it and protect it from looters, pirates, smugglers, and anyone else who wanted to get their hands smacked hard. It wasn't a permanent planetside post, as Marines disdained planetside posting, and anyone who was assigned to one. Marines served in space, period. Planetside postings were for Army pussies. Deployments to planets, on the other hand, meant that was where the action was. Marines loved that kind of thing.
Pity Therum was a hellhole where the greatest excitement was watching lavalanches.
"Buddy of mine serves on the Charger. Marcus Greer, went to Boot together." Stannis provided, perking up. "Said his Doc Quarian Fucked his CO."
"Hose got cut by shrapnel during an airlock breech on a VBSS." Ryder replied. The Corporal nodded, obviously getting the explanation. A Marines' life had been in danger, and Doc jumped in, simple as that. Working EVA in space was dangerous as hell, as even a simple mistake could kill a man. Lance Corporal Marcus Greer was a name that Ryder was very familiar with, a young Marine who was attached to the Charger, having come in after she started working with the Marines on the vessel. She had always been Doc to him, and like the rest of the twenty-Marine attachment, saw her as one of their own. "Marcus should be getting to go to the Board in the next month or so. He's a damn good Marine." There really wasn't a better compliment for a Marine than to say he was a damn good one. Getting promoted to Corporal was seen as a near-holy accomplishment in the Marine Corps, as the SAMC had set-in-stone expectations for their Non-Commissioned Officers in which they did not budge from. Didn't meet them? A Marine would find themselves stuck as a Terminal Lance, getting out of a three- to six-year enlistment as a Lance Corporal. The minimal term of service for being looked at for a Promotion Board for Corporal was eighteen months, and even then one could expect to wait another four to six months before getting their double stripes, completing post-education classes online to meet the necessary requirements. For all the talk on how 'dumb' Marines could be, the Marine Corps itself had a very well thought-out system in expectations and requirements for its Marines, to include even classes in finances and civilian-equivalent applications to boost a Marines' capabilities and understanding. "Told him I wanted pics of him getting blood-ranked. He's got the makings of a fine Non-Com."
"Share 'em when you get 'em?" Stannis asked, and Sara nodded with a chuckle, knowing that Marines saw themselves as a tight-knit community. It wasn't unusual for a Marine to still be close to a Boot Camp buddy, and even a Marine who was a stranger would be a brother or sister, seen as the kind of person who chose to be an ass-kicking motherfucker as oppose to some ass-kissing pussy ass motherfucker. It wasn't a stretch of the imagination to realize that the old Musketeer motto, all for one and one for all, lived tried-and-true amongst the members of the Systems Alliance Marine Corps. It was that kind of camaraderie that had Scott signing up to be a Marine, and Sara busting her ass to become a Fleet Marine Corpsman. "We're almost there, Doc. I'll take you to go see the CO, and then we can flip you a cot and show you where the grub is."
"How do you cook the food? Set it outside and bake?" Ryder asked, making the Corporal laugh as the GRZLY continued on its course towards Dig Site Alpha.
The temporary Marine barracks for Dig Site Alpha ended up being the standard pre-fab GP Medium Habitat that was large enough to facilitate a platoon worth of Marines, a small mess hall and galley, an equipment and storage space, a small armory, and reclamation and disposal facilities. It was set up a few hundred meters away from the entrance of the actual Dig Site itself, where more facilities were located for the archaeologists, paleontologists, and xenosociologists worked and lived. Petty Officer Sara Ryder learned that the Dig Site was actually a joint venture between Serrice University, a very high-end Asari University, and Oxford College, where Asari and Humans worked to uncover the past on the species that predated them all, the Protheans.
Of course, all digs had more than just doctors and researchers; manual laborers and workers were required, and the site teamed with over a hundred individuals working in a recently-discovered Prothean facility that was constructed underground, miraculously surviving five eons and very well-preserved. It was the kind of find that had Protheantologists and associated professions giddy at the prospect, as any discoveries made were generally an advancement in technology or understanding of the hyper-advanced race that built Mass Relays and the Citadel. The protection of such a site was paramount, and Sara didn't need much of an explanation. Her father had lived to see what the Mars Archives had done for Humanity, and Humanity itself understood very well what Prothean tech could bring to the table. Just the previous year, a discovered data disk had been decrypted and analyzed to discover Prothean writings that were pre-Imperial, back before the Protheans ruled the galaxy. The findings had been published and had offered incredible insight to the race before the construction of the Citadel, when they only occupied less than a dozen systems, perhaps only their origin cluster. Sara, like many Humans in her generation, held the Protheans in awe and reverence, seeing a race that forged its own destiny in the stars, much like Mankind had down before '57.
"Sir? Petty Officer Sara Ryder, reporting for duty." Sara stood in the office of the Commanding Officer for Red Platoon, Betelgeuse Company, Third Battalion, Seventh Marine Infantry Regiment (1B3/7), saluting the man who sat in the small office of the platoon area.
"Doc." Gunnery Sergeant Fredrick Halverson stood up and saluted in return, his hand dropping first as Sara did the same, the protocol finished. The Gunny had been expecting her, the Navy Bureau of Personnel sending him an EN-mail to expect the assignment of a Fleet Marine Corpsman, as well as a date/time to pick them up from Nova Yekaterinburg, the nearest settlement being two hours away by vehicle. "Have a seat." Ryder saw three available folding alumnisteel chairs, and picked the nearest one, moving in front of the desk to simulate a more interview-like scenario. It was standard that the CO of a Marine Platoon to interview everyone who came to their platoon, be it a Lieutenant down to a Private. It would be here that Sara would be told her duties and expectations (though she could guess well what those would be) as well as the current mission and orders (which she could guess those, too). "Got your 'Love Me' files?"
"Right here." Ryder handed over a datapad that had been downloaded with all her essential information; her Enlisted Record Brief that had all the information pertaining to her training, classes, and awards, her performance counseling from previous commands, any awards and accommodations she had earned, and any letter of recommendations she had received. It was called the 'Love Me' files because each Marine (and Sailor) was expected to keep their own personal records updated themselves and have it on hand in case of a system crash or mishandling on the Systems Alliance's part. A Marine (or Sailor) who didn't was seen as unorganized and retarded. Gunny Halverson took the datapad and placed it on an inductive plate that would both charge and connect with the information within as he opened his personal terminal and opened up several fields on his OLED monitor, expanding the windows side-by-side to look at several files simultaneously. Sara didn't doubt that her ERB and awards would be first, followed by her performance evaluations, which would come both from her CMO on the Kyoto as well as Staff Sergeant Brennen of the Kyoto's Marine Detachment. Halverson was beginning to review them when a queer look upon his face suggested that he was seeing something odd. Sara could guess what it was.
"What the hell…?" The Marine looked at her, then at her ERB, and then back at her. "You've got a Gold Ribbon?" The tone of his voice was pure disbelief.
"Aye aye, sir." The Alliance Gold Ribbon was one of the highest awards in the Systems Alliance… but it was only awarded to civilians. It was, in fact, the highest award a civilian could earn, not afforded to its military members. Because of that, it was rarely issued. This wasn't the first time Ryder had gotten that look of confusion when it came to her ERB, both Chief Petty Officer Ramirez, her Chief Medical Officer back on the Charger, and Staff Sergeant Brennen looking at her just as oddly when they noticed it. "The award packet is in there too, sir." An award packet was the paperwork involved to award someone; the recommendation that listed the reasons and actions, the approval paperwork, and the official 'award' as well that came with the aforementioned medal or award. It was, in fact, the first one in her files under 'Awards' on her 'Love Me' files, meant to be read first. "Got it in Elysium." That implied what had happened nine years before.
"Holy shit." The Gunny was reading the award, no doubt. The bullets describing the reasons to award one Sara Elaine Ryder were rather memorable. Not to mention that being awarded the Gold Ribbon meant that said person was awarded by none other than the President of the Systems Alliance, the final approval authority for the award. That meant the President signed off on it… and then placed the award around her neck personally. There were fewer Gold Ribbon awardees than there were Star of Terra winners. Sara still ribbed her Auntie on that one from time to time. "At thirteen?"
"It conveniently leaves out the part where I was living on the Citadel at the time and stowed away on an Alliance military vessel to reach Elysium." Ryder explained, a hint of a smile on her lips. Actually, that part of the story was easy to look up for anyone that wished to do so on the ExtraNet. It was splashed upon every major social media site, news network site, and even an interview done by a major news publishing article back in '76. Pretty much anyone with eyeballs had seen the movie, too. They even had a nickname for her.
"No shit, the Angel of Illyeria." That name was usually synonymous with the Lion of Elysium, and with good reason. She had been awarded alongside the Lion on the very same day, on the very same platform, by the President of the Systems Alliance. Sara had, in fact, saved the Lion's life. People tended to remember such actions. "You mean to tell me I inherited the Angel?" Halverson looked at her in disbelief. He wasn't the first to look at her that way, either. Staff Sergeant Brennen had almost shit a brick when he discovered who had volunteered to work alongside his Marines.
"I don't do anything by half-measures, I guess." Ryder smiled with the answer. Most would take that as boasting, but for her it had always been her way. Once she set her mind towards something, she accomplished it no matter what. She got that from both her mother and her father. Scott was like that, too. A good look at her records would likely prove that to Gunny Halverson as well. Her PT scores had always been exemplary, and her marksman scores had always been ranked at expert, the kind of thing that stood out for Marines. Sara had always been at the top of her class, be it in school, as a CitEMS Paramedic, or in any kind of military training. She was born to succeed, and she busted her ass to ensure she did so. Sara wanted to be the best she could be, and she knew that her number one enemy was herself. Just about anyone on the Kyoto could easily confirm that she had been one of the hardest-working personnel on the Cruiser, working in the dispensary and with the Marine detachment during normal shift, and then physical training and medical re-training during her off-shift. It wasn't unusual to find her walking on a treadmill with her medical deployment bag on her back and a Navy Seabag across her shoulders with a hundred kilograms of weight to simulate carrying a Marine off of a battleground, getting herself into both physical and mental condition to do so. Sara knew that if it were a possibility in combat that she needed to perform some action, then she would train on it during the quiet times so there was no question that she could accomplish it if the time ever came. None of the other Corpsmen on the Charger even came close to her level of performance. Or skill and dedication, honestly. That was one of the main reasons why Staff Sergeant Brennen had made a full recommendation for her to be attached to the Marine Detachment to Captain Olivier. He had seen the commitment, and the Marines had helped groom her into being the FMF Corpsmen she wanted to be. While Doc generally didn't get a nickname, Ryder had earned herself one amongst the Marines of the Charger; TBG, toughest bitch in the galaxy. It was touching, really.
"Well, you came to the perfect place." Gunny said, smiling with no humor. "Therum is, by far, one of the worst habitable planets the Alliance has to offer. It's a barely solidified lava planet with some survivability in a suit. Injuries here are pretty common, so you'll definitely be working your ass off keeping my Marines fit and healthy. You'll also be responsible for the Dig Site Clinic as well for the workers and researchers there, keeping them fit and healthy, too. For some reason, no one thought to bring an actual medical doctor, a nurse, an EMT, or anything resembling a health care anything. We've been making do with our Combat Aid Training, but that's really for major physical ailments, and we're sadly under trained for figuring out maladies, minor injuries, and supplies for the common everyday boo-boos. Hope Command told you to pack heavy on the meds and supplies, because there's just over a hundred people working Alpha, and a fair amount of them are sporting the common injuries one gets at work zones, construction sites, cave-diving, and working in the dark." Halverson snorted. "One of the nerds was thrilled as hell when he cut his hand on some scaffolding, requesting stitches, and I handed him a roll of Duct Tape and Super Glue."
"I brought a medium-sized supply locker for a platoon, but not for a work site." Sara frowned, wondering why she hadn't be notified of that particular tidbit. Probably got lost in the transfer, somewhere. While running a clinic wasn't exactly thrilling, running a clinic single-handedly was… different. There wouldn't be anyone else to help her out, meaning she would be doing it all on her own. On the other hand, the challenge of it was certainly appealing, and that kind of challenge would get slapped on her records. Doing something like that would probably pave her way to just about any job or position she wanted, even getting a unit recommendation for the kind of things she'd like to do. While she couldn't exactly perform surgery, she could do some emergency surgery, certainly set bones and splints, and keep a man alive and in fairly good shape for an Evac. Work sites would likely be a bunch of stitches, bone setting, meds, and bandaids. But that was part of the gig of being a Corpsman, and dig site workers were a hearty bunch. Caring for them was a lot like caring for the Marines. "I'll definitely need a request sent up for probably two more medical supply lockers and some other items and meds if I'm looking at essentially sustaining three platoons' worth of people in a hazardous work site. Water and living facilities adequate?"
"Barely." Halverson replied with a snort. "The Habitat isn't exactly rated for this kind of environment, so I had the Marines make improvements to better it. Obviously, most of the work gets done at night, and even then I keep it at a reasonable amount of time to keep my boys from sweating to death at midnight. It's a hellhole." Yeah, Ryder got that. "We've got several generators in a daisy chain to ensure that the water stays purified and fresh, and that the A/C keeps working. Trust me, the A/C is the most important thing here."
"Hour tops?" That's what she was guessing as the survivability rate to full environmental exposure on the surface of Therum. The only reason the Alliance colonized the geologically-active planet was that it was rich in heavy metals, like uranium and plutonium, and rare earths, like iridium and platinum.
"If you sit still in the shade, yeah." Gunny wasn't splitting hairs. "We perform twice-a-day maintenance on the genny's and the A/C, just after dusk and just before dawn. Thankfully, one of our boys is a half-time good ole boy mechanic, and I had him train up a few others to make the work faster and in case anything happened to him." That just made sense. "Civvies over in Alpha got the good stuff, of course, and the clinic they're suppose to have is about the size of a broom closet and probably stuffed to the gills with ass and trash. I'll make sure they clean it out and have the A/C working before you set up shop." Ryder merely grunted at that. Wait, the Dig Site was a joint venture between Oxford and…
"How many species?" Damn, no one told her she might be needing to care for non-Humans. Odd. It wasn't like the Alliance Navy was handing out courses on xeno-medicine and trauma care. Thankfully, she had spent three years in the citadel Emergency Medical Services as a volunteer Emergency Medical Technician, working in a Skybulance along with two Asari, three Turians, and a Salarian. Sara might have been the only Corpsman in the Systems Alliance Military with actual experience with health care coverage upon non-Humans, though likely there might be an actual Doctor or two outsourced in certain circumstances.
"Six." Gunny informed her, and Sara swore to herself. Six different species when she didn't even have supplies? Thankfully, while it had been just over two years since she had worked on anything else other than a Human, Sara strongly doubted she forgot anything, or at least the major things. It wouldn't hurt to pick up some literature and get a few practical manual updates from Senior Emergency Care Technician Shayla Talis, her former Skybulance Crew Chief. Shayla and the others would no doubt get a kick hearing how 'little Sara' was back to patching up non-Humans, the sole member of her species to ever earn her way as a Skybulance Paramedic, mostly out of sheer gall and a willingness to learn. The Asari Senior ECT would probably insist on updates and pics, along with Barber-Surgeon Alixa Trevalis. While she had befriended each member of her eclectic, it had been the Asari Shayla Talis and the Turian female Alixa Trevalis that had given her her chance, teaching her and believing in her.
"What the hell have they been using if they don't have an on-site health care specialist?" The idiocy of it was appalling. Nova Yekaterinburg was at least a two hour drive over rather treacherous terrain that featured landslides, lava pits, and sink holes. While she wasn't exactly aware of the level of care of the clinic there, Ryder knew there to be at least one in No'burg, likely having an actual Medical Doctor on hand, probably even a decently-staffed Emergency Room. But No'Burg was one-hundred percent Human; it was a mining town filled with the bitter and disenfranchised that wouldn't like non-Humans on their turf.
"Us." Halverson grimaced at that. Sara did, too. "Well, there's an Asari who made do a couple of times, but so far stitches have been the worst. No falls, no breaks, and no major injuries. So far." Yeah, they'd gotten lucky at that. Dig sites were notorious for injuries, just like construction sites. "There's two small shuttles that Alpha uses for supply runs and the like that can be used for emergency Evac if needed. Alpha has at least one pilot, Turian, and he seems spot-on." There was no mistaking the Gunny's tone of voice when he said Turian. Then again, he did admit that said Turian was capable, so that was something, too. "That's… about it."
"Fanfuckingtastic." Since Therum was an Alliance Colony, established in 2166, the Alliance would responsible for such things as security and medical care for those who visited the planet. Immigrants and visitors was one thing, but a fully-sponsored endeavor featuring accredited individuals with the title 'Doctor' in their name should have had someone pull out the stops and make sure the necessaries were filled. Security was obviously covered with 1B3/7 there, but no medical care? "What happened to your previous Corpsman? Didn't you deploy with one?"
"No." That had Ryder's jaw drop. Literally. It was one thing for a Marine Detachment on-board a vessel to do without a dedicated Corpsman. Detachments served on vessels that likely had a dispensary with Corpsmen on it, and one would be temporarily assigned for any kind of effort on the Marines' part. It wasn't unusual for one Corpsman on a vessel to push themselves to be a dedicated Corpsman to a Detachment, like Sara had, wanting to earn their way to become a FMF Corpsman. But a Marine deployment was different; they should have had a FMF Corpsman assigned to them even before the deployment, and at the very least when they received their orders. That was the whole point of the Field Marine Force Corpsman and the training involved to become one; to turn a Corpsman into a proper Marine while having the medical skills to serve as a Corpsman. That 1B3/7 had done without before the deployment, and during the deployment? That was alarming. "Believe me, Doc, you ain't thinking anything I haven't screamed about up the chain-of-command about a dozen times over. I kept getting the same message; it's in the works. When I finally got word that we were being sent one straight from the FMTB, I didn't even give a shit that you'd likely be some brand-new wet-behind-the-ears Corpsman. Thankfully, you ain't some half-ass dispensary puke that wanted the extra pay. Saw your CO's letter of recommendation. John Brennen and I worked together a few years back, and when he says someone is a tough son-of-a-bitch, he isn't blowing wind."
Sara had read the recommendation letters on her behalf from CPO Ramirez and Captain Olivier, and they were nice. But the one from Brennen had read like a damn Blasto! flick. All the extra training she had done had been meticulously recorded, from physical training, weapons, to even medical training. The Staff Sergeant had noted it and annotated it, including some of her more extensive prep training like hauling heavy bags to simulate carrying a man off the battlefield. The narrative was nice as well. According to him, Brennen fully expect Sara to be able to keep a man alive in the worst of conditions with a cool head and professional demeanor. Then he explained how she had done just that with him during the VBSS exercise and continuing with the training after he had been evacuated. There really wasn't a better compliment for a Corpsman than to have a Senior Marine Non-Com to say I trust Doc with my life. It was touching, really.
"Well, give me a couple of days to get my routine matched with yours, and I'll go through the prelim check-ups and updates and make sure everyone's up-to-date with their needs and necessary prescriptions." Ryder replied, getting a knowing nod from the Gunny. Her primary function was to keep Marines healthy and in fighting condition. "Point me to a cot and toss me whatever medical records you have, and I'll start getting to work from the bottom up." That meant that the Privates and Private First Classes would be first on the list. Marines were big on making sure subordinates were taken care of first. When she got done with the Marines, then she would head to Alpha and start her work there. That promised to be loads of fun. "Any big glaring issues, Gunny?"
"Didn't happen to bring any vids or music, did you?" Halverson asked, his grin lopsided.
"Please, I'm not a bus driver." Sara jerked her head to her deployment bag, where her personal effects were. "Brought a bunch of OSD's with all the currents. Plus some skin flicks. I take care of my Marines." They were her Marines, plain and simple. She lived with them, ate with them, trained with them, and took care of them. Anyone tried anything? She'd rip their soul out after snapping their spine in half and then check their pulse to make sure they were still breathing so they'd feel it. Nobody fucked with her Marines. Nobody.
"Fucking Semper Fi, Doc."
"Fucking Semper Fi, Gunny."
Petty Officer Sara Ryder's first patient was the lowest man on the totem pole. Private Mikael Holodansk was an eighteen-year old Marine straight out of Boot, a 0300-Series Marine Infantryman who was ego, testosterone, and an advance case of foot-in-mouth disease. Sara had found her cot in the GP Medium Habitat easily enough, the only partitioned cot in the barracks full of Jarheads. Sara knew without being told that it meant she was the only woman in the unit. Being stuck with thirty-seven male Marines as the only girl would certainly be entertaining. Holodansk personified that; he was sitting on her cot while she did a basic check-up on him while reviewing his medical records and updating them. He tried to keep his eyes on her face, but they occasionally dipped towards her chest and her ass. It probably didn't help that she had forgone that Alliance Blue blouse and was rocking her blue Navy-issue moisture-wicking Underarmor short sleeve shirt that was rather form-fitting. Six weeks without being around any women and Sara knew she was immediate eye candy. As long as it stayed that way in the appropriate manner and in limited amounts of time, she'd let them look. They were guys, after all. What she really wasn't looking forward to was all the alpha male posturing and bullshit that would inevitably ensue.
"Looks like you got a clean bill of health your last three check-ups, Private." Sara commented as she worked on the datapad that had all the medical records for the Marines for 1B3/7, reviewing Holodansk's. It had his initial check-up from when he entered Boot, and every subsequent visit, including when he had broken his pinkie in Marine Corps Martial Arts Program training. It had been splinted, but there was no follow up since Red Platoon hadn't had a Corpsman to do an evaluation. Ryder would need access to either an x-ray machine or an ultrasound machine to make sure it healed properly. If there was one to be had. "How's the pinkie?"
"It's good, Doc. No popping, grinding, or pain." The Marine replied, sounding a little surprised that she asked. Sara knew that men liked to tough things out, thinking that mentioning minor problems meant one was a pussy. She could circumvent some ego with proper care and treatment and make the Marine in question get fit and ready without looking like he brought it up. If Doc made him do it, then it was Doc doing her job. No one questioned it, and manliness was pristine.
"Hold up your hand." The Private's left hand went up. "Make a fist." No issues there, all the fingers rolled together at the same time, and Holodansk didn't wince or tried not to wince. "Okay, punch my palm." Sara held out a hand for him to do just that, and the Marine looked a little uneasy at the request, but he did so, giving her palm a decent tap. "I said punch, Private, not bro-fist me." The Private complied, this time giving her palm a meaty smack with her knuckles, her palm stinging for a moment. Again, his face showed no outlying concerns. "Good. There was no further evaluation after your splint came off, so I need to make sure it heals properly. Hold out your hand, fingers splayed." Holodansk held out his hand as Sara put down the datapad and took the pinkie in question in her hands and gently manipulated it. She rubbed the site in question, and felt good ligature movement and muscle alignment, and again there was no winces or signs of pain on the Private's face when she had done so. It had been a very likely case that the job had been done right in the first place, but there was a reason for follow-ups. "All right. Looks good." Ryder picked up the datapad and its stylus and annotated the physical check-up, including the fact that she lacked the necessary equipment for a thorough follow-up. "Open your mouth."
"Ahhhhh." Her otoscope was located at the front of his mouth, illuminating the back of the Marine's through so Sara could check out his throat, tonsils, and uvula. It looked a little dry, with minor white secretions, commonly expected in superdry environments or areas where a great deal of hydration was needed.
"You haven't been taking your pills, Marine." The tone wasn't that of some nurse reminding the Private to be a good boy. Doc sniffed something out, and she was going to lay into his ass. "Three iodine pills a day; morning, noon, and night. Take your pills and increase your water intake by fifty percent for the next three days unless you want to crash from heat exhaustion. Rip-Its don't count, Private."
"Sir, yessir." She got the 'sir' sandwich; the surefire answer for any Marine Private who would comply with an order to avoid getting a boot up his ass from a Non-Com. Sara went through the rest of the routine check-up with ease. She checked his eyes, and ears. She did a reflex test on his elbows and knees with a knuckle. She listened to his lungs and heart with her stethoscope. She watched him blush as she told him to drop his drawers to do the 'turn-and-cough' test that involved her putting a pair of fingers on the root of his scrotum sac to check him for any possible hernia. For some reason, despite guys thinking about nothing else other than sex and showing their junk off, the 'turn-and-cough' always made a man blush whenever a female Corpsman asked them to do it. Oh, Sara got why; the guys were trying to be professional and doing their damnedest not to get an erection in front of a woman who was evaluating them medically. Sara remembered one of the Marines back on the Kyoto trying to stammer his way out of the test when Doc did a check-up on him, mortified that he had a half-mast boner that he didn't want her to know about. She did it anyhow, half-mast and all. Holodansk got the same look on his face as he complied, and sure enough, he wasn't exactly at full rest. Well, he'd been stuck in a hellhole in an all-male unit for the past six weeks, and he was looking at a woman that wasn't on a porn vid or spank mag for the first time in over a month. It was to be expected. Sara did the test regardless, and the Private coughed his way through, his cheeks rosy red as she politely ignored his semi-erect penis. That was certainly a part of the medical field, and no one got away with it, male or female, provider or patient.
"Alright. No worries." Ryder assured the Marine, the test over. "Go ahead and get dressed, Marine." Ryder pulled off her examination gloves and tossed them into a conveniently-place waste receptacle before picking up her datapad and clearing Private Holodansk medically. "When you leave, can you send Private Broussard in? Pills, three times a day, and more water."
"Aye aye, Doc." Privates needed a little more reminder than most; the quintessential Jarheads. "I'll go get Brasserie now." Ryder tried not to chuckle too loudly at that. Ah, Marines and their nicknames. Did anyone realize that 'brasserie' was the real term for a bra? Sara wondered what guy actually might know that. Marine nicknames were tradition; they were often related to either their names, their personalities, or something physical about them. Almost all of them were either sexually-related, intelligence-related, or ethnically-related. She'd likely learn them all before the day was over. The curtain partition that made up the 'walls' of her room in the open bay slid open to reveal another eighteen-year old Marine.
"You wanted to see me, Doc?" Private Louis Broussard asked, his voice heavily accented in French.
"Step to my examination table." She pointed to the cot, which was bereft of any kind of sleeping equipment. They were getting onto a bed, not her bed, and the distinction was clear and evident. Broussard was easily compliant as Sara queued up the Private's medical records, and did a quick review of them. "How are your eyes?"
"Good, Doc." Broussard had come into the Marines needing corrective lenses, and had gotten Lasix surgery to correct his astigmatism. "No headaches or fuzziness." Those were the common post-surgery complaints, and the questions most often asked. It had been a few months, and no complications meant success. "Still find myself reaching for my glasses in the morning."
"Lifetime habit can be hard to quit." Sara replied, nodding her head. She picked up her digital thermometer, slipped a plastic insert over the stick, and the Marine figured out the rest on his own by opening his mouth and letting her stick the instrument under his tongue. While she waited for the thermometer to read out his temperature, Ryder grabbed the sphygmomanometer pressure cuff and her stethoscope and wrapped it around just north of his left elbow, placing the stethoscope in the hollow of the joint where the brachial artery pulse could be located while she began compressing the bulb to increase the pressure in the cuff until she couldn't hear his pulse. She released the pressure slowly until she could hear his pulse as she watched the analog dial tick lower, indicating his systolic blood pressure. She noted the needle's reading as she continued to lower the pressure on the cuff until the pulse 'dimmed' further until she couldn't hear it anymore, indicating his diastolic blood pressure. Satisfied, she pulled off the stethoscope and pressure cuff and annotated the Marines' high and low blood pressure, well within the normal range. She then took the thermometer out of his mouth and looked at his temperature. A little higher than normal, but that could be expected on a hellhole like Therum. Holodansk's temperature was about the same as well. "Drinking plenty of water?"
"Four liters every day. Plus my pills, Doc." The Private answered, and Sara nodded. Holodansk hadn't mentioned his pills at all, and his answer to drinking water had simply been yes. Broussard was obviously a little more intelligent than that. His records were updated, and other than his Lasix eye surgery, he had no injuries or complications of note. Four liters was a shade over an Imperial gallon, which was what was probably required by platoon standard. Now that she was here, Ryder would actually see if that was the necessary amount, or if it needed changing. If Broussard actually was taking his iodine three times a day and drinking four liters a day, he'd make a good baseline.
"Good work, Marine. Show me some tonsils." That got her a smile as the Marine opened up his mouth while she used her otoscope to check the back of his throat for any signs of redness, swelling, mucus, discoloration, or other discharges. Everything looked pink and proper. "Left ear." The Private turned his head, and Sara examined his ear canal, looking for any discolored build-up or obstructions, and finding none. "Right ear." Again, she check, and found everything to be in good order. "Alright. Let's check the peepers, shall we?" Ryder set down her otoscope and picked up her opthalmoscope and turned it on, using the light to illuminate the optical organ to see the fundus of the eye, checking on the health of the optical disk, the retina, and the vitreous humor. She checked the left eye first, and then the right, and found nothing of concern. She annotated all that into Broussard's medical records. "Anything you'd like checked out?"
"I'm… um… getting backne." Back acne wasn't a concern, but it obviously embarrassed the Private. Of course, he could think it was acne, but really was something else. "I shower daily, but it doesn't really go away."
"Alright. Lose the shirt and turn around." Honestly, in such a hot environment like Therum, it was likely heat rash, which showering would only moderate, not fix. Broussard took off his tan Underarmor shirt and turned his back to her, and sure enough he had a good bit of a heat rash along his back, near the arm pits. Sara used the otoscope to illuminate the sites better to make sure it wasn't anything else like sclerosis or a fungal infection. Being on a planet not Earth brought its own diseases and environmental concerns, and it was better to stay on top of such things. Thankfully, it was heat rash.
"Heat rash, due to sweating in a sweatbox like Therum, Private." Ryder reassured the Marine, who looked a little more relieved. "Got some cream that will help clear that up, but you're just one of the unfortunate ones that are a little more susceptible to it. Keep an eye on it, apply the cream before you go to bed, and come back when you need more." Ryder dug through her trunk full of goodies and pulled out a simple epidermal cream that was part moisturizer and part cortisone steroid. "Should clear up nicely in three days. If it doesn't? Knock on my door and I'll give you a different brand. Good job bringing it to my attention." She handed him the small bottle, and Broussard looked happy that he did. She continued through the check-up, testing his reflex response and listening to his heart and lungs. All and all, Broussard was the picture of a young, healthy Marine. "Alright." Sara smiled as she pulled out a pair of disposable latex gloves and snapped them on. "Drop the drawers."
Broussard blushed as he complied. Meekly. Two for two on half-masts.
Thirty-five more to go.
Nighttime had finally come to Therum with its twenty-eight hour and thirty-eight minute day, and Petty Officer Sara Ryder laid in her cot for the first time, the partition wall that secluded her and made her a 'room' pulled back to let the Marines of 1B3/7 know that they could 'knock' on her door, as she was decent and not asleep. The day had been a long one, and she was having to adjust her schedule to the longer-than-normal day that Therum had, more use to the standard twenty-four hour shift that the SSV Kyoto had, as well as that of the Field Medical Training Battalion back in Alaska. The longer-than-normal day honestly reminded her of home on the Citadel, a twenty-seven hour and thirteen minute day that she had lived with for her entire life before joining the Systems Alliance Navy. The 'Noc' shift was on-duty for security purposes, one-half of the Marine Platoon working at stations, on equipment, or in guard towers for their fourteen hour and nineteen minute rotation, exactly one half of the day. Shifts went from midnight (0000 Therum) to noon (1419 Therum), and any kinks or wrinkles in the rotations had long since been ironed out in the six weeks since 1B3/7 had been on-planet. The only two exemptions to the shift rotation was Gunnery Sergeant Fredrick Halverson, who was technically on-call regardless of shift, and herself for the same reason. When she started working the Alpha Clinic, she would likely make up a rotation for the work day for the dig site, and then have some sort of means for someone to call her in case of emergency. On a planet as hot as Therum, it hadn't surprised her to discover that the majority of the work at Alpha was done during the 'cooler' night hours.
It would take some getting use to, no doubt.
At the moment, Sara was on her cot, writing out a message on her datapad. In fact, she had already written a couple, firing one off to Dad and the other to her brother. Alec Ryder (SAN, CPT, N7, ret.) was currently employed with some civilian contract work that involved training up a team geared towards surveying, teaching the group how to identify local resources for exploitation and protect themselves in unknown environments. Surprisingly, her Dad was pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing, as the work involved some heavy Non-Disclosure Agreement that didn't even let him tell his children who the company was, or where he was working at. Sara was pretty certain that it was likely some mercenary company working for either the Systems Alliance or the Human Independent League looking for uncharted resource worlds to exploit under the Citadel's Bureau of Resource and Colonization.
Dad, her message began.
Deployed to Therum in the Artemis Tau Cluster, and it's about as nice as Venus on a cool day. Geologically active with volcanic activity and lava pools; all the attraction sites, of course. Got me a platoon of Marines to mother hen to death, making sure they eat their vitamins and smacking them upside the head when stupidity ensues. Lots of hard work got me here, and it's my first day being what I've wanted to be. Despite the hellish conditions of Therum itself, I'm loving it just the same. I've got thirty-seven Marines who need a Doc, and about a hundred civilians that I'm responsible for now too, the only health care provider in the area. It reminds me a little of the few stories you told us of Shanxi, how a certain man or woman can make all the difference, not necessarily being a hero, just being the person needed at the time. There's a work site going on, which will mean work-related injuries, and I know people will feel more comfortable knowing that someone like me will be around to look out for them. I'm planning on visiting the site and inspecting it for safety-related concerns while setting up a clinic for both the civilians and my Marines. Got my FMF Insignia… and I'm running a dispensary! :O On the other hand, it's only me, and that kind of responsibility? I won't lie, I'm looking forward to being that linch pin, something I've aways kind of wanted. I'll find the time to work with my Marines, not letting all that hard work go to waste, after all. But this deployment? I've got a pretty good feeling about it. It'll make me look good, and it's going to make me feel good about my choices and decisions. Can't beat that.
Take care out there, and don't forget to play Obi Wan Kenobi to your protege. Don't bore her to death with all of your stories; save some for special occasions so you can play the wise mentor shtick for a few more years. When all else fails, just quote Confucius and a few other old-school Oriental deep-thinkers. Never hurts to play it smart.
Your loving daughter,
Sara.
Scott had gotten his Corporal in March, pretty much a few days after their 20th birthday, stuck watching Relay 202 rotate near Arcturus Station in the Stream. Relay 202 led towards some rather contested space thanks to Turian Separatists and Batarian Raiders in the Maltis System, which then had another relay connecting to the system that went into free space; one that no Citadel-authorized government or agency controlled. Silver Medal was a part of the shield that protected Humanity, but in the past two years, hadn't left the Cruiser he was attached to once save for Liberty Passes back to the Arc. Sara could tell without being told that Scott was getting cabin fever, and a good many of her messages to him were words of encouragement and reassurance. She knew that her younger twin brother was getting jealous of her, having gone and done realistic training exercises and the chance to go and prove herself. Her deployment to Therum would have been something Scott would have jumped at the chance for, a chance to show what he was made of and given an opportunity to shine. Scott was of course proud of her, getting her Fleet Marine Force Insignia and being officially assigned to a Marine unit. He knew how much that meant to her, as well as how much she busted her ass for it.
Sara knew; Scott was beginning to lose hope that he'd get that chance.
Silver Medal, the next message began for her younger twin brother,
It's official; I'm a wannabe Jarhead now. I was sent to Red Platoon, Betelgeuse Company, Third Battalion, Seventh Marine Infantry Regiment, to Therum. It's hot as hell here, and midday temperatures are lethal without a proper seal on your suit. If you trip and fall, you might land on lava. Next time you watch that Relay rotate and bitch about it with your battle buddies? Tell them your sister wants you to package up some cold vacuum in a bottle and send it to me so I can remember what cold feels like. Next time I fiddle with the room temperature monitor gauge to bring it up a few degrees because I'm too chilly? Smack me upside the head. You have my permission.
Honestly, though… I'm loving it here. Hell setting or not, I'm right where I want to be. Okay, I could live without Therum, but the position I'm in, what I'm doing… I'm accomplishing, and it feels good. I know you're struggling a little, Scott, I can tell. Just keep hitting up the military correspondence courses, hit up the civilian education credits, and look better than your peers. Someone's going to realize that they goofed and dropped the ball with you, and you're going to find yourself on some Security Detachment Team or a VBSS Unit, and you're going to miss being bored. Work on being the leader you want to be, being the Marine you need to be, and the kind of man you wished you'd be, and you will do fine, bro. I'm proud of you, and I have faith in you. I know you're probably a little jealous of me, but this wasn't handed to me on a silver plater. I went and earned it every day, working harder than everyone else to show what I was made of. Yesterday's success doesn't spell tomorrow's success, so find ways to stride ahead of the pack, impress your leadership, and mold yourself into the next position you really want so that the Marine Corps would be retarded not to let you do it. Keep your chin up, Scottie; I believe in you.
You could always just blow up the Relay, of course. No Relay, no watching duty! Of course, I'm sure the prison sentence for that is like… eternity plus twenty years.
Hey, what was the name of that one girl you dated right before you graduated? You know, the Prom Date that wouldn't stop following you like a puppy dog? Hit her up. At the least you will be amused to find out she's probably twenty kilos overweight and on her second kid. If not her, then one of the few dozen girls you went and ladykilled as a teenager.
Did I ever mention having a player as a brother was exasperating? Only a billion times or so? Just making sure. You could attempt to not crack open every can of tuna you find walking about, of course, but then I remember it's you. I almost wish one of those girls would walk out on you, you know, a point for the home team? But then I remember that practically every single one of those bimbos thought that they tie you down and change you, the good-looking bad boy with the silver tongue and all that charm. Does not leave a lot of encouragement for womankind, let me tell you. Of course, you could date someone with more IQ points than their bra size or waist line. But who am I kidding? The smart ones see you a kilometer coming and steer clear. The stupid one practically trip over themselves gushing all over you. It's almost nauseating.
Know what's worse? Being the only woman in a unit filled with Marines. Imagine like… a dozen of you banging their heads against one another like rams in mating season. I guess I get to see how the other half live, now. I'll keep you posted on the Marine Alpha Male War. At the least it will be good for some laughs.
Stay strong, little brother, and remember; the only way you'll get anywhere is walking forward (-Dad, of course)
Love,
Minute Rice.
The next one went to her Auntie.
So guess who got deployed to Hell?, the EN-Mail began as Sara typed away.
Welcome to Therum. The beaches here are spectacular as they shore up the lava oceans, and the highly-volcanic mountain ranges are all the rage for mountaineers who like poisonous gases along with free-climbing. The plains of razor-sharp basalt rock and chipped obsidian provide ample opportunities for cross-country driving in all-terrain vehicles, and you will never, ever, worry about getting chilly. For a night out on the town, I suggest waiting until 2838 Zulu for the coolest part of the night so you don't immediately dehydrate and fall into heat stroke within fifteen minutes. For local cuisine, place your food on a nearby rock and letting it roast old-school style, letting the planet cook it for you. Just remember to pick out the gravel first to avoid native spices. For nightlife, we have Outside! You can hear the bass-like beat of minor tremors and aftershocks, kept in time with illuminating lightning shows from volcanic gases and rapid ionization, and not to mention slightly toxic gases for pyrotechnics.
I think I might retire here, Auntie. :-p
So I'm assigned to a Marine unit deployed to this cheerful little backwater on the back-end of the Alliance, making sure civilians don't stub their toes or cry too hard. Come to find out that I am literally the only medically-trained person in like a two hundred kilometer area! Someone dropped the ball bad here, and the unit (and civilians) have been going without for several weeks now. That was mind boggling to me, Auntie, Marines are suppose to have Corpsmen on actual deployment! Still, ran through the basic assessments with my Marines, and everyone checked out a-okay, just a few minor dings and frowns. I am, of course, the only female with a parsec or seven, so the boys here are so happy to see me. The turn-and-cough test produced a good many blushes as boys had to drop their drawers in front of a female Doc, the first girl they've seen in over a month. Guess how many were happy to see me? Try all of them, ranging from halfway to a couple who were full-mast. One poor Sergeant almost died of shame on the spot as he tried to will away his boner, blushing so hard I thought he was going to asphyxiate. Still, everyone is in good health, so that's what counts. And thanks for the OSD's; I think we've got movie night covered for the next several months, at least.
Being a real dye-in-the-wool Fleet Marine Corpsman now, it's almost too real to be true. I've been working for this for a few years now, really since about my second year in high school. What I did in Illyeria was amazing, of course, but looking back now? I got lucky, Auntie. I had no idea what I was doing, and I could have made things a lot worse. I'm just glad that I didn't make anyone a lot worse or even accidentally give someone something they might have been allergic to. All I remember was seeing you there, wounded and untreated, and I wasn't going to let that stand. And then I saw all those others who were just like you, and my mind was made up. I know I've probably told you this at least a hundred times, Auntie, but I wanted you to be proud of me. You were doing your part, and I wanted that chance, too. Skipping school and jumping station off the Citadel to stowaway on an Alliance Destroyer heading towards battle-torn Elysium was the best decision I ever made, no matter how stupid and ill-conceived it was. I certainly didn't think that would be the decision that would forever change my life, to become the woman I am today. Seeing those people in the hospital, untreated and suffering from burns and wounds? Seeing you on a stretcher, shot and forgotten? People might have died in that wing if it had not been for me. You would have died. Staff Sergeant Brennan could have very well died if it had been one of the other Corpsmen from the Kyoto, not nearly as prepared or as dedicated as I was. Now I'm proud of me.
Try not to get too fat and lazy up in the Arc, Auntie. And talk to Scott? I think he's going a bit stir-crazy with two years of nothing to show for it.
Love,
Sara.
Sara sent the EN-Mail off through her personal AppleCorps iPad, checking her watch to see what time it was. Evening chow had come and gone (Unified Group Ration, Edible, or UGRE's, made by assigned Marines to heat the water and put the trays in for the necessary length of time) and it was getting to be about the time that sleep really was becoming an option, Sara having decided to try and stay awake longer than necessary to acclimate herself to the longer-than-normal Therum day. Her room was pretty much set up; personal effect locked up in her locker, a few everyday items set under her got for easy access, sleeping pad, pillow, and blanket for her bed, and tomorrow's PT uniform and duty uniform folded and ready to go. She decided that now would be as good a time as any to go hit the showers, getting out of her bed and grabbing her shower gear; flip-flops, shower kit, towel, and a pair of PT's to change into after wards.
She took a longer-than-standard shower of three minutes, having the whole shower facility to herself, and it felt glorious.
Sara came back in her PT's and flip-flops, with her towel wrapped around her hair. She saw that a few of the Marines were playing poker on an ad hoc table that was a foot locker, but that her presence had a slight pause to the game. She ignored the whispered comments of damn and legs for days from the boys, letting them get their looks in as she went back to her cot. None of the comments or looks were inappropriate, so she let them enjoy the show. She wasn't going to be a bitch and sling them for checking out a girl and admiring her. It certainly didn't hurt her feelings to know that, either. Sara wasn't going to step off that diving board, though; that smacked of stupid. She hadn't spent years working towards where she was today just so she could fuck it up by trying to be with, date, or fuck one of her Marines. She had seen where that usually led, and she had no interest in that kind of drama or repercussions. If she got horny, she'd do what the guys did; go somewhere private and solve the problem herself.
When she returned to her cot, Sara saw the notification light blinking, meaning she had a message.
Dear Jarhead Babysitter, the message from her Auntie began, making Sara smile as she read on,
As you enjoy your stay at the luxurious resort of Therum, I will happily inform you that, as of yesterday, I am now officially a 'real' Commander; I am now the Executive Officer of a Frigate, line command and everything. Poppa Bear is the CO, and he selected me as the XO. The vessel in question still has a few tests to pass before its shakedown run slated in the next couple of weeks, and the only thing I can say is that it's top-of-the-line and first-in-its-class. Frigate's still got the new-ship smell to it and everything, and I spent the day doing normal day-to-day drills with the crew, getting a feel for their response times and competency. Pilot's a laugh a minute, but the guy can do the Kessel run in under ten parsecs, I swear! He literally scored off-chart. Most everyone here is an expert in their field, honestly. Navigator's top-notched, and probably should be in a Dreadnaught. Chief Engineer could probably build an engine core out of a coconut, some wires, and an Omnitool. The Surgeon here is actually rated for xenomedicine, if you can believe that. Practically everyone here is A-Game material, and someone went and shoved them all into the same ship.
Spider sense are tingling, Sara. Something's up, and I can smell it.
I know that I've told you that I'm proud of you, and I've meant it every time, but thinking of your messages, I have to say 'proud' doesn't cover it. You didn't just fall into the Navy because you didn't have a direction and it seemed the easy choice. You didn't pick Hospital Corpsman because you thought it would be an easy job, or that it would get you away from doing things. That isn't the Sara I know. You got it in your head that you truly wanted to help people, to be there in their most desperate time of need, to be their salvation whenever things went wrong. It wasn't a snap decision, and you thought it out, seeing where you wanted to be and plotted your course. Seeing you as a Marine Corpsman? I'm in awe, Sara. Really. I remember when you told me that's what you wanted to do when you were in High School, and you wouldn't be talked out of it. What was better was that you had an answer to every question asked and a reason for every concern. That you wanted to do your part is nice, but those are just words. No, I could tell that you truly meant it, that you were going to bust your ass to accomplish what you wanted out of your life at such a young age. The maturity of it was astounding, and I'm not at all ashamed to admit that I took your FMTB Graduation pic of you getting your FMF Insignia pinned on you and showed it to Poppa Bear and anyone else in our crazy family. Poppa Bear got all misty-eyed at the sight of it, of course; you know he sees us as his surrogate kids. Mom was all smiles, remembering her days back on Shanxi being an emergency evac shuttle pilot with her own Corpsman and EMTs, flying your Dad, my Dad, Poppa Bear, and Uncle Jack. Seeing you all grown up? It's… precious, honestly. You've always been like a kid sister to me, and seeing the adult you, successful and proud? Yeah, Uncle Alec has every reason to beam.
Keep this up, and we might have matching N7 stripes ;-)
Stay strong, stay sharp, and keep the Jarheads from clubbing themselves too hard trying to win your hand. If you get bored? Have them build a pool for you outside and insert the word 'bikini'. It'll be done in record time.
Love,
Jannie.
Sara snorted as she finished the message, finishing towel-drying her hair before getting a simple brush and doing her customary one hundred strokes. That finished, she prepared her bed for sleeping before laying down, grabbing her Bible and opening it to where she left off, her bookmark at the Book of Daniel.
Author's Note: Mass Effect: Of Angels And Lions may be an original; Sara Ryder in Mass Effect 1. I don't know if anyone's done it or not. There really wasn't a lot to go off about the twins' Milky Way careers, save that Sara was in love with Protheantology, and Scott watched a Relay spin. Sara and Scott were Alliance, but no mention if they were Sailors or Marines, what their actual job was (Sara might have been a researcher, but she was also a peacekeeper, too). I went with one of the most important profession in the Navy; the Hospital Corpsman. The HM 8404 is the most highly decorated rate in the US Navy (likely the British Navy, too) and the Corpsman are involved with everything medical, from technicians to prescriptions. The Marines do not have Medics like the Army or the Air Force, drawing theirs from the Navy. Much of what I have written is true of the US Navy Corpsman, and I've known a few in my time in service with the Army, and each one of those Combat Corpsmen were badasses, indeed saving your life with one hand while defending you with the other with a firearm. 'Doc' is indeed the term for the Medic or Corpsman, and there are many a great real story about Docs pulling injured men out of combat, even throwing themselves over casualties to protect them. Sara will be one of these noble creatures.
The story's beginning is actually right before the official start of Mass Effect 1; the Normandy hasn't made its legendary shakedown run, yet. So just after Joker steals the Normandy (as seen in the comic 'He Who Laughs Best') but before the intro on the Normandy itself. Technically, Nihlus isn't on board yet.
Sara will have her own background and service history; Cit-Born (as she was born in '63), and Medical as a service history, a history know as 'the Angel of Illyeria'. She also was a volunteer Paramedic in the Citadel Emergency Medical Services (CitEMS) from fifteen to eighteen. Since Turians will be the majority population on the Cit, and they are 'adults' at fifteen, this rule will apply to Humans too, and Sara takes advantage by choosing a field that appeals to her; medical. More will be explained throughout the story. I actually have several chapters written called 'Firstborn' pertaining to Sara Ryder and Skybulance-37.
The Corvette-Class SSV Charger I stole from my own story, Where The Law Stands Tall. It is the vessel that performs a suicide light jump into a Batarian Battleship in Therum, VIII of that story. Corvettes in the US Navy are small fast-attack vessels that normally patrol near the bigger vessels for protection, as well as hunting pirates of the high seas. In my story Mass Effect vs. Aliens: The Siege of Hadley's Hope, Corvettes were known as Knuckledusters; Marine deployment craft meant to fly directly to ground battle to deploy Marines instead of Naval battles. I am still keeping this element, though you will not see much of the Knuckledusters in this story.
The 'turn-and-cough' test is a guy-only procedure where someone indeed puts their hand against your scrotum sac (uncomfortably) and makes you cough. Yes, it's to check for hernias, as there is some sort of muscle band that connects abdominal wall to the testes. And it's fairly embarrassing to drop trough in front of a stranger and show off your junk professionally. While not exactly the same as the female pap smear (which is a great deal more embarrassing and involves a spectulum that… opens things up), it's the same idea; preventative medicine.
The Otoscope is the clinical name for the device Doctors use to check your throat, nose, and ears. The Opthamoscope is the eye one. The sphygmomanometer is indeed the name of the pressure cuff, which the old school ones still use mercury.
I hope it wasn't tasteless to have the 'turn-and-cough' test with a female and the issue of having a boner. I'm sure it comes up, especially with young female nurses and medics. That… was not meant as a joke. Sorry. Done plenty of medical check-ups as an assistant medic myself, and yeah… having to do that professionally was certainly entertaining. And guys blush when you tell them to drop trough in front of a guy, too.
The pool joke is a bit of an inside joke for anyone who ever visited Camp Arifjon (spelling?) in Kuwait, what we in the Army called 'Air Force Heaven'. It was one of the nicest camps in Kuwait, and it had a pool. And then someone authorized the bikini as appropriate swim wear in said pool. Just think about it for a minute; women in bikinis in the Middle East.
I'm sure we know who 'Auntie' is, but this is Sara's story. More details later.
I'm using some current technological concepts with some future-tech for Mass Effect. The SmartPhone isn't the same as a Tablet, so thus the OmniTool and the Datapad will have purposes, advantages/disadvantages, so on and so forth, linear to what we have/do. And yes, there will be apps. And Facebook. And YouTube. If by different names.