I'm alive.

I can't be alive because a photon torpedo detonated in my face.

But somehow I am. I'm alive.

Talk about baptism by fire. As it turns out, naming me might be the only good thing my mother ever did for me. I must have nine lives. First I survived my childhood with Daddy, then a Klingon sarcophagus, and now a damned photon torpedo. I'd ask what's next, but I know better.

" … radiation burns to so many layers of tissue that I had to take a DNA sample from her bone marrow in order to make an identification. Meet Vice Admiral Katrina Cornwell." When I finally tune into the nearest voice, it belongs to a man, unfamiliar but possibly in his mid-40s. "She was born at the turn of the 23rd century and died in an explosion on the USS Enterprise in 2257. Sadly, her records seem to have fallen victim to the end of the Federation-Klingon War. What we know about her is fragmentary at best and mostly from the early part of her career."

"I'll take whatever you can give me." The answer belongs to a woman, short and decisive, also somewhere in her 40s. "Start with her age."

"Fifty-eight. According to Starfleet records, her background is in psychiatry and psychotherapy, but she also attended command school and was listed as being part of the command division at the time of her death. Prior to her promotion, she served a tour of duty as a psychiatrist on board the USS Enterprise under Captain Robert April."

"Psychotherapy."

"Obviously, that training could be of great assistance on Voyager, but I'm afraid it's going to be a while before she's in any shape to provide counseling to anyone but herself. Her world has been turned upside down, in more ways than one."

"Of course. More than a century through time and clear across the galaxy. She's missed some of the Federation's most pivotal history. I can't imagine how difficult this is going to be for her."

So I'm somewhere in the mid-to-late 24th century and in either the Gamma or Delta Quadrant. I'm on a Federation ship, Voyager, that has no counselor and what sounds like only a small sickbay. And if they think my training might be useful, I gather they must not have access to Starfleet resources. If that's the case, I know where my future lies.

It seems that the photon torpedo may have killed Admiral Katrina Cornwell. It's Dr. Cornwell who survived. My medical license is obviously seriously out-of-date, but that should be easy enough to correct.

"I was thinking more of her physical condition."

"With hair and a recognizable face now, she's already made remarkable progress. You were able to heal the radiation burns entirely?"

"Regrettably, no. I have, however, been able to greatly minimize the damage—aided, no doubt, by the fact that she suffered full-thickness radiation burns only to her chest. She had second-degree burns on her face, back, arms, and lower body, as well as in the interior of her lungs, and only first-degree burns to her palms. Oddly, the backs of her hands were uninjured."

"That should be impossible. She should have overwhelming amounts of ion radiation everywhere in and on her body."

"I have no explanation. All of the first- and second-degree burns have been healed without scarring or nerve damage, including the burns to the interior of her lungs. The third-degree burns have left permanent scars, although it's minimal and shouldn't restrict her movement in any way. I've also managed to restore sensation to the third-degree burn areas by reconstructing portions of her peripheral nervous system."

"Pain?"

"As usual, the reconstructed skin may be hypersensitive for a few days, but any associated pain should be mild and short-term."

He's wrong about the pain. My lungs feel as though I'm breathing in fire, and my skin feels as though it's burning. Whatever they've dressed me in, it hurts like hell. If there is no neuropathic explanation for the pain, it must be psychogenic in origin. All right. I know how to manage that.

"Captain? You appear to be lost in thought."

"Parade rest."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I was thinking how she could have sustained the pattern of injuries that you described. I'm not entirely sure that it's an explanation, but to have spared the backs of her hands and only minimally damaged her palms, she must have been standing at parade rest. Like this."

"A remarkable display of courage."

Voyager's captain moves to the side of the bed where I'm laying, close enough to my ear that I can hear her body absorbing sound and feel the associated tickle on the side of my face. Even from a third of a meter away, that's enough to set my cheek on fire. I push past the roar of the pain, to focus on the sound and feel of her body standing close beside me.

"I'm certain that any woman with enough courage to meet a photon torpedo head-on can learn to live with scars. Are there any injuries you haven't been able to treat?"

"Two, I'm afraid. Her face and back received only second-degree burns, but they sustained a disproportionate amount of damage owing to her history. Prior to what clearly was a brutal death, our admiral appears to have survived an equally brutal life."

"How so?"

I can't feel my legs again. Damn. So I'm paralyzed again, and this time I have to presume it's permanent. Fine. Based on where I still have proprioceptive awareness of my body, everything above the old injury site seems to be fine. The spinal prosthesis must have been damaged by the radiation.

"Evidently, the admiral suffered a lumbar spinal cord injury at some point prior to her death, which was treated with a technique that isn't included in any of my medical databases." The doctor hasn't joined the captain at my bedside, instead standing a few meters away—at a display, based on the way his voice seems to be reflecting off of something. "It may have been experimental. At any rate, the blast melted the prosthetic neural connections. I can't repair it, and the injury is too old to be treated using modern techniques."

"So she's paralyzed."

"I've already begun designing a custom support chair for her, but naturally I'll wait for her input before I replicate it."

That's a good thing, because I'm damned sure I'm going to have input. There's something wrong with my eyes again. The left eye seems to be gone entirely, and the right can barely stand the glare from the overhead lights even with my eyelids closed. I'm going to have to get up sooner rather than later or I'll develop a glare headache. It's taking every bit of willpower I have not to squint, to just lay here and breathe and eavesdrop.

"That's one injury. What's the other?"

"The intense light and radiation from the photon torpedo blast caused catastrophic damage to both eyes, including complete loss of function in her left eye. I've managed to remove the corneal opacities and heal the damage to the front structures of the right eye, but the damage to her retina and optic nerve are resisting my attempts to repair them. She will have sight, but it will be extremely limited. Functionally speaking, she'll be blind."

"Why aren't you able to make repairs?"

"Optic nerve damage is notoriously difficult to treat even under the best of circumstances, so I'm not surprised by that. The resistance of the retinal tissues is more problematic, but I believe I have an explanation. According to Starfleet records, she had full-globe transplants in both eyes at age 15. Lab-grown organs were a common treatment method in the early 23rd century, but they were phased out in the mid-2220s specifically because of their resistance to treatment and high failure rate."

"What about modern implants?"

"I'm afraid that's impossible. The methods used to connect the transplanted globes left too much scar tissue to make new neural connections. I've taken the liberty of removing the non-functional left eye and replacing it with the next best thing: an inorganic prosthesis designed to match her organic eye exactly, except that it contains a plenoptic microcamera."

"What good will a camera do, if she can't see with it?"

It will give me information. I had cameras when I was a child, one mounted on an eyeglass frame and the other handheld. I love the idea of having a single camera integrated into my own eye socket. This doctor's knowledge base and creativity impresses me.

"The goal, in this case, will be to provide her with data. The new support chair that I'm designing will include a sensor array capable of assisting with obstacle avoidance and negotiating elevation changes, and I'll be integrating an onboard computer capable of receiving transmissions from the microcamera. I'll be able to program the computer to extract information on demand, such as to read print or identify a face. While I understand that it isn't the same as being able to see, with practice she will be able to function independently with it."

"Blind and paralyzed, displaced through time and space, and nearly burned alive. She has a very difficult road ahead of her."

"Agreed."

"But if this is the best we can do for her, given her circumstances, then we'll just have to support her. That's all there is to it. How long will it take her to learn to use a system like the one you've described?"

Finally, the doctor approaches my bedside, standing on the side across from the captain but at closer to waist level. He's far enough away from my face, at any rate, that I can't hear or feel him. "That depends on her."

I suppose that's my cue. I've heard enough to know that I'm among good people and that I'm needed. That's enough. "As long as it's designed well, I should adapt reasonably quickly." I roll my head to the side, finally getting relief from both the glare and the sound-induced pressure on the side of my face. The relief on my skin is palpable. "Turn down the damn lights; I'm getting a headache."

"Computer, deactivate intensive care unit light. Welcome back, Admiral. How long have you been awake?"

The lights directly overhead snap off and I face the ceiling again with my eyes still closed, letting my eye muscles rest before I strain them by using them to look. "Long enough to take inventory, compare my notes against yours, and get my head on straight. I didn't catch your name, Doctor."

"That's quite possibly because I haven't caught it either." He sounds almost apologetic. "The fact is, I'm a hologram. I was designed to be an emergency supplement for the organic medical staff, but they were all killed. I've had to fill in as Chief Medical Officer."

Solid-state holographic environments were in the very early stages of development the last time I visited the Starfleet Research Center. It wasn't nearly this sophisticated, of course, but it at least allows me to understand what I'm dealing with. "I see." Their doctor is an artificial intelligence. "Give me a minute."

"Of course, Admiral. You could never have anticipated being treated by a hologram. Take your time."

Given what I've just witnessed with Airiam and Control, I'm skeptical of artificial intelligences. I'd like to think it's a healthy suspicion, but I'm honestly still too traumatized to judge. The fact is, I thought he sounded impressive and friendly until I realized he wasn't made of flesh and blood, so I have to admit that, at least for the moment, he seems benign. I offer up my hand. "It sounds like you're doing a hell of a job, Doctor."

Fortunately, given how strong his grip is, my hand is the only part of me that doesn't hurt. "Thank you. We're happy to have you on board—surprised, but happy nevertheless."

Shifting my attention, I open my eyes to offer my hand across the bed. "Captain … ?"

"Janeway." My mental image of her comes from her hand: petite build with long fingers and smooth skin, a strong grip. "Kathryn Janeway. Welcome to Voyager, Admiral."

"Thank you." She's standing on my left, but I do have a small field of severely damaged vision in the medial and superior quadrants of my right eye. I roll my head left to bring her into the medial field, not expecting much but hoping to at least color in the picture: black uniform, red shoulders, maybe red hair. "I need specifics. What year is it, and what quadrant? And how did I get here?"

"The year is 2374, and we're in the Delta Quadrant. As for how you got here, that's more complicated. I'm afraid you simply appeared."

"Appeared."

"I assure you, we're as puzzled by it as you are."

"That's—" I start to say it's impossible, but then so is surviving a photon torpedo detonating at point-blank range. Instead, I shake off the whole question of my survival. "My father used to warn me against looking gift horses in the mouth. In this case, I suspect he was right."

"I'm a scientist," Janeway says. "It goes against my nature to write off anomalies as insignificant, but in this case you may be right. We've been looking for an explanation for several hours already, and we've come up empty-handed."

"Don't waste too many of your resources looking for an explanation. It won't change anything."

"No, I suppose it won't."

"And based on what you said earlier, I gather that the Federation must not extend this far. If that's the case, you probably can't afford to waste resources."

The change in Janeway's tone is noticeable, and her stance softens to reflect it. "I'm afraid you're right about that. We are a very, very long way from Federation space."

I try to place the tone. Guilt, maybe? I don't know her well enough yet to be sure.

"I'm sorry we have no way to get you home."

Clear across the galaxy from the safety of Federation space and the support of Starfleet, the last thing I want Janeway doing is worrying about me. I smile at her. "Who says I'm not home?"

Disclaimer: Star Trek: Voyager and Star Trek: Discovery are the property of CBS. I'm just borrowing the characters for a while.