DISCLAIMER: I claim no ownership of any character, plot idea, settings, or even my own socks. All of the above belong to the memory of Gene Roddenberry, in conjunction with J.J. Abrams (I guess?). Except my socks. Those technically belong to my mother. All original characters within belong to me, so there's that small victory. I am a poor college student, please don't sue.


INTRODUCTION: Aha! Triumphant return at last. I never did like the original version of this story, so I took the liberty of tweaking it when I really should have been doing school things. Sue me. Science fiction will forever be my cup of tea, so it was time to change type ribbons and get to work.

Now that that's said, If It Ain't Broke will contain medical inaccuracies (I can only outsource to my pharmacist so many times), violence, and some dark themes. Please keep that in mind, and I'll be sure to post anything heavier in warning up here.

Now, sit back with your nicest cup of tea, enjoy this unseasonably December day, and enjoy.


Chapter 1

"I don't share liquor with someone who tried to kill me."

If Aibhlinn's mama had been around, she would have smacked her daughter upside the head and reprimanded her with a sharp word or so in Mandarin. Xue Pope was a stickler for respect and hospitality, and that sense of righteousness entered her mind whenever she had a patient under her hands. "Offer them a drink, Aibhlinn," she would have said instead, Mandarin spilling from her mouth like snowflakes. "Their ire will go in time, and so will yours." But Xue Pope wasn't anywhere near San Francisco, so Aibhlinn could care to be a little discourteous to someone who tried to kill her.

Twice.

Three months later, whenever Aibhlinn would add a splash of whiskey to her already honeyed tea, Lorelei Jackson would look up at the clink of glass hitting ceramic (probably calculating the resonance of the sound in her head for shits and giggles) and, without pause, Aibhlinn would mutter the same phrase she had spat across the cold floor of Starfleet Academy's Infirm in hot August.

"I don't share liquor with someone who tried to kill me."

It became a mantra of sorts, muttered in passing to a roommate who loved moving parts and theoretical equations more than social contact, or anything living in general. And, quite frankly, Aibhlinn loved their living arrangements.

Room 702, located on the seventh floor of Callahan Square, was a semi-spacious dorm for cadets of a generally more advanced disposition. It was one of the older buildings of the Academy campus, an apartment building repurposed to house instructors for the infantile Starfleet Academy way back in 2099, but with an overly bloated incoming class, certain restrictions were lifted. For the first time in almost 300 years, freshman cadets lived within the walls of Callahan. And Room 702 belonged to Dr. Aibhlinn Pope of the Republic of Ireland and her recalcitrant roommate: Lorelei Jackson of the Federal Republic of Germany.

Didn't there used to be a saying about the Irish and the Germans mixing in closed quarters?

Early into their living arrangements, while Aibhlinn was trying to figure out how to store her baby liquor cabinet safely in her room, Lorelei had cleared her throat and proffered her PADD at Aibhlinn. No words were spoken, and Aibhlinn was forced to translate the roommate agreement (because what else could they call it but that?) from Bairisch (really, who spoke dialects—and, above all, Bavarianof anything anymore, not that Aibhlinn was one to throw stones) into English. Aibhlinn's subsequent addendums in alternating Zhongyuan and Cúige Chonnacht garnered nothing but scorn. Soon some Latin entered the fray, proceeded by Provençal (all Lorelei that time), until the Treaty of Room 702 resembled a multicultural ceasefire between seven separate language groups. It was the longest nonverbal conversation Aibhlinn had ever had with someone, and it was hands-down the most creative.

Kudos to her, the title was in Ancient Greek.

The aforementioned roommate agreement was as legal a document could get (Lorelei even had it notarized by a thoughtful second year assistant in the botany labs). In fact, it was so well thought out, Aibhlinn wondered how far Lorelei's education had gone before she decided to join up with Starfleet. It was a basic divvying of rights, from sections of the couch to controlling the therm regulator. There were joint objects, don't get her wrong. Following commencement and orientation, her and Lorelei had agreed through carefully thought out communiqués to divide their items by subject of priority.

Aibhlinn's alarm clock (a gift given to her by a young resident by the name of Gennifer Newman, who had taken Aibhlinn under her wing almost immediately after seeing the residual handiwork of the last phase of pre-Academy testing) and thermos (not her thermos, but after three months of half-arsed promises of returning it, it was basically hers) were absolutely off limits. Lorelei could not fiddle, touch, nor breathe on them, and if Lorelei was extremely very lucky, on some days Aibhlinn might even let her look at them.

Her collection of books was likewise to be respected. They were haphazardly piled on the floor beside Aibhlinn's bed, categorised by neither genre nor author. Hemmingway lay next to Clarke and Shelley beside Fitzgerald and that was exactly how she liked it, no matter how much Lorelei stroked whenever she so much as looked in their general direction.

Lorelei's requests were far more elaborate and were depicted on a spreadsheet that was taped above her desk and pinged permanently in hers and Aibhlinn's PADD's databank in case Aibhlinn dared to forget anything. Anything on or within one metre of Lorelei's desk was strictly off limits. Her bed was not to be sat on nor touched by Aibhlinn. Lorelei's clothing and boots would always stay on the left side of their shared closet, and not a centimetre over into the right. If Aibhlinn did not shower as soon as she got home from Medical or Infirm, Lorelei would lock her out until she came back clean (it had happened on more than one occasion already).

Everything else was free game. But that wasn't the subject of her ire. It was the violation of a very sacred, and very unencroachable amendment within the roommate agreement that had her storming out of her room at 0020, half in her pyjamas, half in her Medical scrubs, the taste of homicide on her tongue:

No item belonging to Aibhlinn W Pope may be tampered with without probable cause.

It all began with her late class. It was Wednesday and Fridays, 1700 to 2100, a four hour lab designated ME(L)-577: Internal Endobiology and Exobiology. It was a challenging class, with a lab every week and four hours spent in lecturing about the different body systems of vaguely humanoid species. She was so tired of smelling Gorn lungs, but that wasn't why she was so irritated. Well, it was, but Gorn lungs weren't the point.

Endo/Exo (as it was lovingly referred to as by her attentive Hippys) had an additional component required for recertification purposes: an in depth autopsy review, to be performed unsupervised. Hers had been scheduled for 0030. On a Friday night. Now, Aibhlinn had already decided on skipping dinner to catch some sleep before her review. So, that day, she had stumbled back into her room.

Undressing as she walked, Aibhlinn tossed her reds in the sonic unit as she passed it on her way to hers and Lorelei's room. Naked save for her underwear, she dropped into bed, atop her unmade covers, and turned to face the wall.

"Long night?" she grunted at Lorelei.

Lorelei did not grace her with an answer. In fact, it did not look like Lorelei had heard her. That itself was not anything out of the ordinary. Aibhlinn was used to being ignored in favor of Lorelei's Engineering course load, or whatever pet project she had for the week (or even day). Out of grace, and because her mother had managed to instill some manners in her before she left, Aibhlinn would replicate coffee for her roommate (black, two sugar), place it within arm's reach (yet far enough away in case anything spilled nothing was in danger of damage) and, if the noise was continuing into the wee hours with no feasible end in sight, Aibhlinn would gather her uniform, boots, and satchel, and march herself down six flights of stairs and across campus to the fancier housing facilities, where Gennifer stayed as a tenured second year doctor with two doctorates and a third in the works. There, she would sleep on her very comfortable couch.

"Computer," said Aibhlinn into her pillow, "set alarm for twenty-three-hundred."

"Unable to comply with request."

"Computer, set alarm for twenty-three-fucking-hundred hours, please."

"Unable to comply with request."

Aibhlinn groaned and attempted to smother herself in her pillow. "State reason why you are so unwilling to comply with my very simple request."

"Conflicting alarms are set for those times. Please delete previous alarm to set another."

Blinking, Aibhlinn leaned upwards on her elbows and glared into the piercing light haloing Lorelei's desk.

"Did you break the mainframe?" she accused.

"Don't be ridiculous," scoffed Lorelei after a moment's pause. Aibhlinn was happy she was laying down; if Aibhlinn were standing, she was certain she would have fainted in shock. The last time they had spoken was that fateful night in Infirm three months prior. "I have the computer alarm set for twenty-two hundred hours exactly."

Aibhlinn sat up in bed. "Why?" she spat. "I told you I needed the computer alarm if you were going to steal my solar battery with the intent and purpose of upgrading it."

"Already done," came the noncommittal grunt.

Disbelieving, Aibhlinn reached over to her nightstand and grasped for her alarm clock. It, like the motorbike she had forgone in Hawboline Harbour, was plain and neat and served its purpose. It was a generous gift, but with a solar battery that refused to hold charge for longer than three hours at a time, and a propensity for incessantly playing 'Camptown Races' at increasingly unpredictable intervals, it was a frustrating one. After the third occurrence, Lorelei had torn the battery pack from the clock, violating one of the most sacred of rules governing peace in their shared living space. Before forty years of darkness could descend upon the world and the dead had the chance to rise, Lorelei placated Aibhlinn the previous night with a handful of clipped words.

"I can upgrade the schleissen takt by tomorrow. Atomic battery. No round songs."

Possibly it had been the combination of late night double shifts at the Infirm, or the inherent need to get back into bed as quickly as possible. Aibhlinn had found herself agreeing with a nonverbal grunt and nod and barking at the computer to, "Set the fecking alarm for oh-seven-thirty, and don't tell me that me accent's marring me words or'll have yer feckin' throat I will."

Lorelei had muttered something about rooming with an uncultured pirate.

Aibhlinn countered with moving everything five centimetres to the left when she got up the following morning, a full two hours before her alarm went off, just so she could enact her revenge.

"And you're sure it works?" asked Aibhlinn sceptically, turning her alarm clock in hand, expecting it to give off a spontaneous amount of fatal radiation and strike her dead.

"Would not have put it on your table if not," muttered Lorelei.

Narrowing her eyes because she was still suspicious, Aibhlinn set her alarm with little trouble (the display was in fact brighter), and listened with surprise as a monotonous male voice confirmed the time set for oh-twenty-three-hundred hours.

"I think you outdid yourself, Jackson."

Aibhlinn's only response was the soft whirring of a nanolaser charging.

This brings us to the present, to a deserted seating area outside of exam room four on the third level of Starfleet Medical, where Aibhlinn Pope was idly staring at the dregs of her replicated coffee, as if that alone would magically cause more to appear, dressed in yesterday's scrubs and hair thrown up in a loosely wound bun. She hadn't meant to be late, she had stated vehemently to the young Yeoman, who had politely instructed her to wait in one of the very uncomfortable chairs outside of the exam bay while the review board: "Provided her with a fresh cadaver." Now, Aibhlinn knew that was code for "You made us wait, now we're making you wait."; she just wished the cadre would be straight with her.

Aibhlinn groaned and let her head fall back against the cold wall. Damn Lorelei "I'm too perfect and everything I do works perfectly the first time" Jackson to the lowest level of hell possible. Instead of waking up at a reasonable 2300 (which would have given her an hour and a half to dress, make herself presentable, and do some review on the shuttle ride over to Medical), her friend had commend her at exactly 0015. The conversation went something like this:

Friend: "Alby, it's almost quarter after twelve. Where are you?"

Aibhlinn: "No it's not."

Friend: "Look at your communicator."

Aibhlinn: "Jiào nǐ shēng háizi zhǎng zhì chuāng!"

Miraculously, Aibhlinn was able to stretch the fifteen minutes she had left to the very limit; she had just enough time to scream obscenities at her eccentric roommate, clamber back into her dirty scrubs, replicate coffee, and catch a transport shuttle to Starfleet Medical. Even then, she had blown into the Emergency Department at 0035—exactly five minutes late.

With an enormous yawn, Aibhlinn stared blearily at the closed door before her. She knew that she needed another cup to properly wake up, but there had not been time for her to replicate more. In all honesty, there had been barely enough time to replicate a thermos-full. All of her freshly replicated coffee had been drunk on the transport across the Bay. Her thermos (but not really) had been painfully empty for the twenty-five minutes she had been forced to sit penance. In all honesty, she should be thankful the food synthesizer was even working; Lorelei had only just reprogrammed the poor thing to actually produce food when a card was inserted into it, not the viscous, sludge-like liquid that had moved in a frighteningly sentient fashion and had Aibhlinn and Lorelei trapping the creator beneath a plastic bin and chucking it in the rubbish.

"I'm going to kill her," muttered Aibhlinn darkly as she took another swig from her thermos (which wasn't really hers. She needed to return it to it's proper owner eventually). She winced as the very dregs of the coffee trickled down her throat, leaving her coughing and spluttering on the bitter replicated grinds. At the moment, Aibhlinn wanted nothing more but to go to the break room for a refill—or even tea if they had it—but knowing her current standing with the review board was abysmal (in layman's terms), they would probably invalidate her medical license altogether and send her back to medical school.

The one assurance she had from not only Captain Malcolm D'Arcy, but Dr. Xue Pope herself, was that her medical license (which was framed right above her bed in blatant defiance) would indeed remain valid, despite their earlier reservations. So it had been a surprise then when two unfamiliar members of the cadre, dressed in severe grey 'fleet uniforms, had accosted her during the middle her first Advanced Xenovirology lab. At the time, she had been wrist deep in the infected corpse of a Human male (early sixties, showing signs of advanced stage lungworm). She was brought several floors up to a large conference room, forced to stand before a council of doctors and listen to them contemplate the ethics of her unorthodoxly obtained doctorate, the subject of the dissertation she worked so hard on, and whether or not to make her repeat medical school, with lungworm-infested lung tissue staining the sleeves of her undershirt and the microderm gloves she had been wearing at the time. Aibhlinn had no choice but to stand at parade rest and allow Admiral T'Prau—who was introduced as the Surgeon General of Starfleet as a footnote to the proceedings—both congratulate her on receiving her doctorate at such a young age ("Twenty, Cadet Pope. You're your mother's daughter."), and reprimand her for the same thing in the same breath. After three hours of deliberation, judgment was handed to Aibhlinn with the same power and might she would picture God delivering unto the damned. She would be placed on "Medical suspension, pending the review of her medical license from the Royal College of Physicians."—another code for "You obtained your medical license at the age of twenty, therefore it is invalid."

Now, Starfleet wasn't at all unfair with stripping Aibhlinn of the one thing in life she was truly proud of. They did opt to give her a chance at redeeming herself in their eyes; in fact, they went out of their way to detail it. Aibhlinn was asked that the most advanced portions of the traditional medical student's track list were to be repeated before her first year was over. This would be done whilst juggling her mandatory first year classes, and the other Medical track coursework she was expected to undertake. Aibhlinn would have to clock twenty hours of clinic duty, either at Starfleet Medical or the Academy Infirmary, each week. She would need to complete her standard rotations in a time-compacted manner. She needed to complete another dissertation on a separate subject than what she had already written before the year was out. There was no choice on Aibhlinn's part but to suffer through the same courses once more, face the Ethical Board at the end of the school year, and pray they stamped her license with their seal of approval. Until then, however, she needed to do whatever was asked of her, whenever it was asked, and do it however it was supposed to be done. Now, not even two months into their agreement, Aibhlinn had already failed them, all because her amadáin of a roommate didn't understand that her alarm clock was the only thing that made her get up in the morning, or at scheduled periods when wakefulness was required of her.

Sometimes, she really hated Lorelei Jackson.

As Aibhlinn was contemplating making a quick dash to the break room for another refill—review board be damned—the light above the exam room's door clicked on. Aibhlinn blinked a few times in confusion, not fully comprehending the fact that yes, the light had clicked on and yes, the review board had deemed her punishment over. Finally, the fact that the cadre was now ready to receive her dawned over Aibhlinn.

"This is it, Pope," she muttered. "Let's not fuck it up now, shall we."

Stowing her thermos on the chair to the right of the door, she stood, straightened her scrubs, and pressed her identification against the reader. The door yielded to her, sliding open with the slight hiss of compressed air. As she passed through the sterilisation field, Aibhlinn could not help but wrinkle her nose at the rank scent of burned skin and coppery blood. Even with the advances in both technology and operating methods since trauma medicine had been accepted as a valid practice in the field of medicine, the trauma room still remained the bloodiest, goriest, and filthiest room in any medical installation, be it something as grand as Starfleet Medical or a tiny local hospital (both of which she was now intimately familiar with).

Aibhlinn herself had never specialised in trauma medicine like some of the doctors on staff, or those she had studied with at Uni. It was mandatory, however, for any CMO aboard a star ship to perform an autopsy, or triage an away mission gone wrong. Some familiarization with trauma medicine was necessary to achieve a posting that wasn't on a planet (along with some other, more finer details). Whether she liked it or not, Aibhlinn had to perform her first autopsy as a student at Starfleet—and above par.

The exam theatre itself looked like any sickbay aboard a Constitution-class starship, sans extra biobeds and office annexes. One biobed occupied the centre of the room, surrounded by a full wall of detailed readouts. Turning to the lone biobed, Aibhlinn resisted the urge to leap back in shock at the sight of a young cadet sprawled upon it with naught but a clean white sheet spread over his pelvis to protect his dignity. He was blistered purple and black beneath the painted gore that splattered most available skin (which was all of it). Aibhlinn felt her stomach churn in protest, and quickly swallowed bile before the review board could see her distress through the one way window high above her head and mark her down for not behaving like a bloody robot.

"Cadet Pope," a male voice addressed her. Aibhlinn glanced up at the window, face impassive, despite the bitter irritation that flashed at the term "Cadet". She did not expect any of her superiors to address her as 'Doctor'. In fact, she had grown painfully used to being referred to as 'Cadet Pope' repeatedly over her two months at Academy. The contempt in her addressor's voice only served to make her already bad mood worsen quite rapidly. "This is your first autopsy review. Your task is to analyse the deceased and make an accurate cause of death within an hour."

Her face paled. Just an hour? Standard autopsies lasted anywhere between two and four hours—longer if the death was especially traumatic. She didn't even know where to start with the poor cadet, and they wanted her to finish in an hour? "Bear in mind, this is your first autopsy, so we have decided to be lenient with your time allotment, despite your tardiness," the faceless surgeon continued. "Any procrastination, however, and time will be deducted. You must record your findings verbally and textually via PADD for later review. If you violate any of these terms, time will be deducted, and your grade will be marked down a full point. Are there any questions, Cadet?"

Aibhlinn managed to shake her head. "No, sir," she said, impressed that her voice didn't quaver. The stench of death was making her queasy. She was positive that she was as pale as the corpse mere feet before her. An hour, she decided, felt like a lifelong prison sentence on a penal colony in the distant, vastly unknown Delta Quadrant.

"Your hour begins now."

A small chime echoed the reviewer's words. Aibhlinn turned back to the biobed and warily made her way over to it. She was not a stranger to patients dying under her hands (there was a particularly bad memory of a young girl losing her child and succumbing to a massive haemorrhage in her uterus). This death, however, was ten kinds of horrible. The cadet was virtually unrecognisable from the official Academy photo displayed on the viewscreen to her left. His face was swollen three times its size, covered in thick lesions and immense purpura. Any exposed skin not covered in blood was burned an angry red, blisters marring the better part of his neck, chest, and face. Both eye sockets were bruised black, as were many of his ribs, every single one of his fingers, and both of his kneecaps. Thick welts crisscrossed his chest and abdomen. There was a thick trickle of blood crusted to his right ear—Intracranial haemorrhage, diagnosed Aibhlinn immediately.

Steeling herself with a calming exhale, she activated her PADD and accessed Starfleet Medical's trauma reports, directing them to the bank of viewscreens to her left. She could work with this. She could do this.

"The cadet is on file as Victor Huang, aged twenty-four, Cadet First Class," she began. "According to the incident report filed at exactly twenty-two hundred hours today, he was brought to Starfleet Medical at twenty one-forty three hundred hours this evening, the only casualty of a shuttlecraft accident involving the participants of Nova Squadron. The cadet involved was performing mandatory pre-graduation manoeuvres at the Academy Flight Range and is believed to have suffered a fatal navigational malfunction, due to Saturn's massive magnetic field. The cadet's single-pilot shuttlecraft collided with Titan, and he was beamed out exactly four-point-one seconds after the initial collision. The other four members were beamed out of their single-pilot shuttlecrafts to Mimas, and brought back to Starfleet Academy at twenty-two fifty three hundred hours."

Aibhlinn leaned back and shook her head minutely. Poor kid, she thought, height of his cadet career, ready for a posting, only to fall victim to another act of randomness that the Universe flung at him. Briefly, she wondered how her mother dealt with something as traumatic as this.

"Is there a problem Cadet?" one of the cadre inquired, a woman this time.

Aibhlinn cleared her throat uncomfortably, "No, sir," she said. "Just contemplating the variables."

"There will be ample time for contemplation later. Please continue."

Walking to the head of the biobed, Aibhlinn stroked the biofunction monitor with a finger, bringing the screen to life. The monitor kept careful track over every function that the biobed could perform—ultrasound, sonogram, X-ray, chemical and metabolic analysis, and a host of other tests. It certainly was a step up from the small clinics back in Ireland where she volunteered her time. "Internal body temperature was thirty-four-point-four degrees Celsius at twenty one hundred hours, roughly forty minutes before Cadet Huang was pronounced dead."

Keying in for the biobed to run a full blood panel and map each injury, Aibhlinn pulled on a set of sterile microderm gloves. She could feel the eyes of her reviewers analyzing her every move for fault, making her second guess herself as she probed the cadet's body with careful fingers. The cadet's injuries were laid out on the biofunction monitor as they were discovered in close succession.

"Injuries sustained pre-mortem are as follows," she analyzed. "Severe gamma burns to approximately eighty-six percent of exposed tissue. Severe compound fracture of the right and left orbital bones. Compound fractures of the right first, third, and fifth metacarpals on either hand, with substantial bruising on the second and fourth. Severe contusions localized to the marginal zone of the spleen and left lobe of the liver—both are consistent with severe abdominal trauma." Aibhlinn paused in her sermon as she probed the dead cadet's ribs, "Multiple incomplete fractures of the ribcage with corresponding lacerations, most likely created by the cadet's harness upon collision with Titan."

Behind her, the biofunction monitor chimed. Abandoning her physical analysis, Aibhlinn made her way back to the monitor. A message flashed in bright letters: BLOOD ANALYSIS COMPLETEDNA ANALYSIS RECOMMENDED.

Aibhlinn's brows furrowed at that. A full DNA analysis wasn't usually recommended by a monitor during autopsy unless the corpse in question had an underlying genetic disorder that had gone undocumented. Pressing 'ACKNOWLEDGE', then 'PROCEED', the monitor chimed again as the biobed began scanning and analysing the dead cadet's DNA for any unprecedented mutations. While the biobed took its samples, Aibhlinn called up the completed blood analysis.

"Cadet Huang's blood shows no abnormal levels of glucose, sodium, or potassium," continued Aibhlinn. "Liver function was compromised, but not for the long term. Therefore liver function was compromised approximately at the time of collision. Blood count is normal and in range, as are T- and B-cells." Her eyes narrowed at a highlighted selection directly below the immunologic analysis. "The cadet seems to have contracted herpes within the past six months…" The screen flashed again with warning. PARTIAL MATCH 48.6%HERPES SIMPLEX II.

Aibhlinn arched an eyebrow. Partial match? How can there be a partial match to genital herpes? She tapped the herpes analysis and pulled up the normal herpes virus from the database. Both showed similarities with their individual protein layers and lipid bilayers. The strain of virus within the dead cadet, however, contained a complex genetic payload that confounded her at first glance, and at second and third, but she could not waste any time on this.

Carefully, she sent the blood analysis to her PADD. That needed to be looked over in depth at a later time.

"Five minutes remain, Cadet Pope," called out an evaluator. "This will be your last test before you make your conclusion."

Exhaling sharply, Aibhlinn felt her pulse race in response. The DNA analysis still hadn't finished, and there had been no signs of blisters (or scabbing) from what she could see. Faltering, Aibhlinn stared between the viewscreens—which displayed a slowly-twisting double helix with arrows and cross-sections darting in and out of view every second. She already knew that the full analysis would take far too long, and she was fairly certain the cadre wouldn't allow her an extra minute to finish it. There was only one option available to her.

Stowing away her righteous indignity in that cold, clinical I'm the doctor, damn it mindset, Aibhlinn lowered the sheet from the cadet's waist.

There were no blisters, but there was a small grouping of scabs near the head of his penis. She quickly commanded the biobed to take a sample of the scabs to compare to both strains of herpes and forward it to her PADD, and raised the sheet as quickly as possible, praying all the while that her face wasn't as red as it felt.

The DNA analysis completed with a cute chime as the review board announced that she had sixty seconds remaining and to make any final examinations. Aibhlinn quickly made her way over to the biofunction monitor and pulled up the analysis.

"DNA shows no abnormality within the protein chains—" The monitor chirped an alarm and pulled up a cross section of a DNA strand. "However, there seems to be a mutation with the—"

"Time."

Aibhlinn glared up at the window. "But I was in the middle of the final report, sirs," she said, the edge of a snap lingering in her voice.

"Your diagnosis, Cadet Pope, and please make it prompt."

Aibhlinn opened her mouth to argue, but quickly reigned in her temper before it could get the better of her. Most first year cadets did not get sole-performed autopsies until they were commenced to First Class. It was a privilege she had been granted with much trepidation by the Ethical Board, and D'Arcy was fraught to remind her of one very specific fact:

"Your mother called in a lot of favors to get you in here, and I pulled some strings to have your license validated bythe Ethics Board. You're going to bust your arse off for your first year, but you'll be a doctor in their eyes by June. Don't screw it up, Alby, or you won't get another chance."

With a calming breath, Aibhlinn reached for her PADD and reviewed her analysis.

"Cadet Victor Huang suffered severe blunt force trauma that shattered his ribcage and broke many of his extremities," said Aibhlinn. "Bone shards ranging between two millimetres and three centimetres in length were located within his lungs, diaphragm, liver, and gallbladder." Tapping a command into the biomonitor, she directed the cadet's cranial X-ray to the observation room. "The fracture of the right and left orbital bones spiderwebbed outward to encompass the entirety of the skull, resulting in multiple acute subdural hematomas, which compressed his brain from several angles until there was no space left for even minimal life function. Death would have occurred in minutes; however, I am not listing his cause of death as subdural hematoma due to severe blunt force trauma, but as subdural hematoma due to bone fragility brought on by osteogenesis imperfecta."

The review board was silent. "Excuse me?" one asked. It was the first one who had spoken an hour ago.

"I'm sorry if I was unclear. Cadet Huang's cause of death is a subdural hematoma due to bone fragility brought on by osteogenesis imperfecta, sir."

"Your cheek is admirable, Cadet," another said, tone jocular. "However, your diagnosis is incorrect—"

"I beg to differ, sir, but my diagnosis is correct," Aibhlinn interrupted.

Once more, the review board fell silent. Aibhlinn felt her heart contract at the overbearing silence. Goodbye starship posting, she thought half heartedly. Hello tiny clinic in Antarctica.

"You have sixty seconds to explain your reasoning, Pope," the first doctor said, "and it better be good."

Aibhlinn was silent for exactly two seconds before she spoke:

"When I ran the blood work for Cadet Huang, the biomonitor recommended a DNA analysis—which isn't usually recommended unless the body in question has an underlying genetic mutation that may have contributed to his or her death. The cadet's bone fragility is also a marker of the disease." As quickly as possible, she pulled up the cadet's bone scans, explaining as fast as she could in the marginal amount of time she had been allotted. "Bone density was measured at negative three-point-four—far below the norm for a healthy human male in his early twenties. That would explain why his skull shattered like an egg on impact, along with a majority of his other bones. At this point, the bone could have split like this from the pressure of a punch during Advanced Hand-to-Hand Combat Training." She directed the review board's attention to another battery of DNA tests.

"Once the DNA analysis was complete, it recognised an abnormality in the collagen triple helix structure of the cadet's DNA." The double helix magnified on a strand of DNA three-quarters of the way down the strand. "Instead of glycine, bulkier amino acids were used to complete the chain, forming the characteristic bulge in the collagen complex indicative of—"

"We're aware of the minute details of osteogenesis imperfecta, Cadet," a formerly silent doctor interrupted. "Please continue."

"—once the biomonitor recognized the genetic abnormality, I was going to check for the most tell-tale sign of the disease, but I'm afraid I didn't get the chance, sirs."

Finished, Aibhlinn inhaled deeply. It was the first breath she had taken after beginning her rapid-fire diagnostic explanation. She shifted uneasily on her feet, waiting for the review board to deliver judgment. She was going to be banished to the deepest sector of inhabited space. Aibhlinn would rather take Ireland over that fate.

"Please examine Cadet Huang's body for your 'tell-tale sign' Cadet," the nameless doctor continued.

Struck dumb, Aibhlinn couldn't help but stare at the window for a good minute and a half. Shaking out of her daze, she hurried to the very head of the bed and peeled back one of the cadet's eyes. Ignoring the lifeless green iris that stared up at her, she leaned back so the review board could see the faint light blue sclera surrounding the upper part of his iris.

The review board was silent, invisible behind the observation room's window far longer than they had been in the past. Antarctica, was all Aibhlinn thought. Bloody Antarctica with all the other Starfleet rejects.

"Cadet Pope," said one doctor who Aibhlinn could not recall speaking throughout the proceedings. "In your professional opinion, do you believe that Cadet Huang could have survived, if he had been treated with gene therapy?"

Aibhlinn paused, glanced at her readouts, then to the mirrored observation suite high above her head. She was so caught off guard by the inquiry that she had no answer for them, at least a verbal one.

"Yes," said Aibhlinn tentatively after a moment. "Maybe. There are a lot different variables. Perhaps if he had undergone emergency surgery, and his organs had been extracted of bone, and his skull drained before the multiple hematomas set in and crushed his brain, he may have lived. The chances are slim, but they're there."

Again the review board fell silent, longer than the last time. Fuck Antarctica, thought Aibhlinn, ship me off to some backwater snow planet at this rate, they will.

"Thank you, Cadet Pope," the first doctor said. "We will review your autopsy and comm you for review and grading. You are dismissed."

Aibhlinn stood stock still, staring up at the board. They lay faceless and intangible behind their protective casing, passing undue judgment. Their dismissive tone only served to magnify her simmering anger tenfold. Inhaling, she nodded tersely, saluted her invisible observers, and vacated the exam room with an air of unprecedented anxiety and rage. They were going to fail her, Aibhlinn thought vehemently as she stormed down the winding halls of Starfleet Medical. They were going to fail her for thinking about the damn cadet after he became a lump of lukewarm flesh. Luckily, the grandiose building was nearly empty at this late hour. No one would be able to bear witness to her fury.

Pressing her identification against the reader at the end of the hall, she entered the lifeless Emergency Department. The Emergency Department at Starfleet Medical, despite its grand title, was actually fairly small, and usually very quiet. Sure, the facility was staffed with some of the best doctors in Starfleet, but the facility itself was structured around research and advancements in medicine for use on Earth and beyond. Medical only handled the emergency medical needs of staff and visiting diplomats at Starfleet Headquarters, and the occasional cadet with injuries far beyond the capabilities of the Academy Infirmary. Sometimes, cases were rerouted from local hospitals in San Francisco, when doctors were unable to give patients the best care possible. Aibhlinn had learned from a professor that trauma and emergency medical facilities aboard a starship were actually more extensive than what was available to her now.

Aibhlinn pulled at the collar of her scrubs, drew the material away from her neck with an uncomfortable grimace. They reeked of dead man and vomit from yesterday afternoon's rotation, but it was far more bearable than the reds she was expected to wear when not in her scrubs. The mere idea of the uniform had made her—at first—want to find the nearest tree and hang herself. It almost became a reality when the quartermaster had handed it to her, along with the coding for the replicator in her dorm, following commencement and orientation. Consisting of a pressed red jacket and red skirt (which wasn't very practical in the winter months she had begun to learn), the uniform represented everything Aibhlinn despised in Starfleet: uniformity and suffering in the form of a red-dyed monstrosity. She was almost happy that she spent most of her days in her black scrubs and trainers.

"How was review, Alby?" inquired the young resident on staff. Aibhlinn paused and turned to her, offering the young woman a friendly smile as she swiftly changed course from the double doors of the turbolift at the end of the hall to the monitoring station in the centre of the ward. The monitoring station was a squat complex nestled in an alcove, from which the nurses on duty could monitor the conditions of any patient in residence. From what Aibhlinn could see on the crystalline monitors as she approached, only two of the facility's twenty beds were currently occupied.

Must be a busy night for her mate.

"As good as can be expected, Gen," said Aibhlinn, half of her attention dedicated to the two residents. Both normal, she analysed as she leaned over the desk to pull up the patient's respective files. One—a young cadet—had her arm reset thirty minutes ago and was still sleeping comfortably with the help of some mild sedatives and heavy painkillers. The second was wide awake and slightly agitated—an older officer with some minor internal bleeding, placed on mandatory twenty-four hour observation.

Doctor Gennifer Newman smiled at Aibhlinn in return, before turning to focus on her friend's observations. "Should I give Lieutenant Bhren a mild sedative?" she asked, glancing up at Aibhlinn for confirmation.

"In my opinion? No. I'd rather the Lieutenant fall into natural sleep." Aibhlinn watched as the Lieutenant's heart rate sped up, then decreased to normal parameters. Still too high for my liking, she thought. "Which analgesics is he on?"

Gennifer pulled up the medication list and highlighted a section. "Four-hundred milligrams of acetaminophen at ten drips every ten minutes."

"Lower it to ten drips every eight minutes and if that doesn't relax him, push fifty ccs of diazepam." Aibhlinn glared at Gennifer as the woman made the notations. "You're the doctor here, not me. You should be making these sorts of calls."

"Well, forgive me for trying to get a good doctor involved," Gennifer said, returning Aibhlinn's glare. Gennifer could not have been older than Aibhlinn. In fact, she sort of resembled her closely enough to be mistaken for a relative, or Aibhlinn herself from a distance.

"I'm not a doctor," Aibhlinn said.

"Maybe according to Starfleet you aren't," clarified Gennifer. "But to the Royal College of Physicians, you are."

"Is there a difference?"

"There is if you want your bag back."

Aibhlinn, confused for a moment, reached for her satchel, as if just noticing that it's comfortable weight was missing. Miraculously, she resisted the urge to slap her forehead in disgust.

"Honestly, I'd forget my own head if it weren't securely fastened to my neck," she moaned as Gennifer disappeared behind the desk and resurfaced with her old leather satchel. However, she was not forthcoming with it's release, waiting for some unspoken cue with a blithely polite smile on her face.

"You're not going to let me have it back until I say it, aren't you?"

Gennifer smiled benignly and held the satchel by its strap.

Aibhlinn rolled her eyes and held out her hand. "Fine," she snapped, "I know I'm a doctor, and may the Devil tear the cadre if they say anything different."

"Good girl." The young doctor handed the satchel back over to its rightful owner. "I found it in the main lobby, by the way," Gennifer said as Aibhlinn took it and slung it over her shoulder.

"Why did I leave it there?" inquired Aibhlinn.

"You weren't allowed to bring it with you, so you threw it at Nurse Balera and ran for the stairs."

Aibhlinn groaned, remembering the incident, and the angry nurse's remarks as she ran for the stairs—because the turbolift would've been too slow.

"Oh, are you on Emergency rotation tomorrow?" Gennifer inquired. "I'd rather talk to you than those wet behind the ears cadets bowing and scraping and unable to discern a kidney from the bladder on an ultrasound."

"Remember, dear Gen, that we were none too different from those wet behind the ears cadets not too long ago." Flipping the satchel's flap back, Aibhlinn took careful inventory of its contents. As expected, everything was as it should be. "And I'm on rotation right after the training sims at one-thirty."

"I thought you weren't the duty doctor for the training sims this semester," said Gennifer with a knowing smile.

Aibhlinn scoffed. "They wanted me to intern down at Saint Mary's for the semester," she answered. "The good doctor Albara was on duty rotations. So we elected to trade."

"Elected? Or bribed?"

She offered a cheeky grin. "What would be the fun in me telling you that?"

"Doctor Albara and you are on speaking terms outside of this lovely place?" Gennifer asked. Aibhlinn could hear the teasing in her voice. She coughed into her palm to hide her smile. Laughing, Aibhlinn threw a dirty tissue at her, which she batted away; a nurse looked over in mild disgust.

"Robert Albara has got more spines than a porcupine, Gen," laughed Aibhlinn. "There isn't a pleasant bone in his body."

Gennifer planted her hands on her hips and glared menacingly at Aibhlinn. "If he doesn't have a pleasant bone in his body as you say," she griped, "then how come you two are calling each other "Mama" and "Papa" now?"

Aibhlinn smiled at Gennifer's accusatory stare. "We find playing house entertains the other residents."

It wasn't a total lie, thought Aibhlinn with a tiny smile. She and Doctor Robert Albara had met during that fateful night in Infirm; all it took was one mistaken word, than the rest was history. They then moved onto talking over hard liquor in his dorm room, and then graduated to actual friendly banter talk a few weeks later. Occasionally when she was on shift at the Academy infirmary, she and Albara would joke over sludgy replicator coffee and stupid cadets participating in the death trap known as Parisi Squares, allowing themselves to be trained by doctors who thought they knew more. At night, when the heart attacks and assaults happened, when the heartbeat of the Infirm raced out of control, they became "Mama" and "Papa". Next to Gen, Albara was one of her truest friends she had in the Academy.

"So," said Gennifer airily as she spun idly in her chair. "You're monitoring the sims tomorrow with Doctor Albara, or without?"

"Without," Aibhlinn said, groping in her bag for her thermos, "I dunno why though. Usually they only—oh fuck it all!"

Aibhlinn flipped open the satchel's flap again and scanned the contents again. No thermos. She panicked briefly, wondering when she had left it down. She had it while waiting outside…

She let out a soft sigh of realisation. She knew exactly where her tether to sanity lay.

"What?" asked Gennifer, concern furrowing her brows.

"I left my fecking thermos outside of trauma room four," groaned Aibhlinn. She paused, staring pitifully at Gennifer. "Could you run and get it, and drop it by my dorm at the end of your shift?" Gennifer's face soured and Aibhlinn continued before she could say no: "I'll do the coffee run tomorrow—perked coffee, not shite replicator coffee."

Gennifer stared at Aibhlinn as if she had unearthed Atlantis in the scant minutes she had been standing there.

"Percolated coffee?" she breathed, not daring to believe it.

"Percolated coffee," promised Aibhlinn, mentally kicking herself for allowing her mouth to go ahead of her brain.

"I'll have it in your room a little after oh-five-thirty."

Aibhlinn smiled, relief turning her boneless. "You're gorgeous, Gen. Absolutely gorgeous."

Gennifer grumbled and waved goodbye, turning back to her monitoring duty.

With a wave goodbye, Aibhlinn hurried from the Emergency Department to the turbolift at the end of the ward. Keying the 'lift with her identification card, she entered as the doors yielded to her and punched in LOBBY. Already she could feel brief burst of caffeine from her shite replicator coffee wearing off. A headache began to buzz behind her temples like a nest of bees, painful enough to be annoying, but not enough to warrant a painkiller. Massaging her forehead with one hand, she exited the 'lift and turned, passing through the annex and entering the main concourse.

Like the Emergency Department upstairs, the grand concourse was empty, save for one lone security officer positioned between the row of turbolifts and the entrance. The security officer in question drank from a takeaway coffee container—I bet his coffee isn't replicatedand stared at the double doors with a sort of bleak finality. He only broke out of his stupor to observe Aibhlinn as she showed him her badge for him to scan—mandatory practice for any medical officer staying at Starfleet Medical after hours. There was a fabric banner at the bottom with stitched lettering, bright red and declaring her a doctor in white print. Above it was her laminated photo, and her credentials. These the security guard scrutinized with narrowed eye.

"Have a good night," she said, taking back the proffered badge and fitting it back onto the waistband of her scrubs.

The security officer only nodded noncommittally and returned to his coffee.

So much for good manners, thought Aibhlinn sourly as she glared at the security officer. She shifted her shoulder and positioned the strap of her satchel cross-body. With her bag in a more secure position, Aibhlinn swiped her identification in the reader by the main doors and pushed them open as a confirmatory chime granted her access to the outside world.

Immediately she was assaulted by the chilly night air. Fog hung low, obscuring San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. Inhaling deeply, Aibhlinn pulled on the sleeves of her jacket, and speed walked to the transport pickup beyond the gates to Medical. She had been warned by her professors many a time that Academy transport ceased operation at oh-two hundred and began again at oh-five hundred. If she were even a minute late, she'd have to walk the thirty plus kilometres between Starfleet Medical and Starfleet Academy.

That in mind, she hurried into a brisk jog, pulling back the cuff of her jacket to expose the old-fashioned analogue watch fastened around her left wrist.

0215.

Aibhlinn cursed heavily and stopped beneath a streetlight. There were no more transports to the Academy. No way back except for one. Mentally drawing the distance between her current position and the Academy, she groaned. Approximately thirty-two kilometres lay between her and her bed. Not keen on waiting three hours with a shift at Medical and training sims to oversee tomorrow—later today, she corrected—there was no choice but to run.

Somehow, she resisted dropping her bag, leaning back, and screaming her frustration to the uncaring Universe at large.

Successfully reigning in her temper for the second time that night, Aibhlinn hitched her bag higher on her back and broke into a swift jog, pounding off a rhythm on the pavement that sounded reminiscent to her heartbeat. Once clear of the grounds of Starfleet Medical, she pulled her PADD out of her satchel and, while keeping pace, sent a text communiqué to Doctor Albara, attaching Cadet Huang's autopsy report and the strange herpes mutation. She didn't have any theories yet, but hopefully Albara could provide a breakthrough that would avoid the sleepless nights and unavoidable anxiety attack. Usually, it pained her to ask for help, but the good doctor had an eye for exobiology and virology that she lacked. The problem would be solved much faster with an extra set of eyes, and preferably before the cadre got their hands on the report and opened a formal inquiry.

After sending the data packet—jokingly titled 'I seem to have contracted some form of STI and I hope it isn't fatal'—she opened another text communiqué to her roommate.

Lorelei,

Don't wait up for me (not that I doubt you're sleeping with that 'huge breakthrough' you've been muttering about since three thiswell I guess it's now yesterdaymorning in angry German). Apparently the medical cadre doesn't care about the ratio between the duration of autopsy reviews and Academy transport times. I won't be back much before four, so don't have a conniption that I'm not there to scrub my side of the room.

Aibhlinn

Aibhlinn paused before pressing SEND.

Ohdo you know where I can acquisition a percolator and/or real coffee?

Nodding in satisfaction, Aibhlinn sent the second communiqué and stuffed her PADD back into her satchel without breaking stride. What possessed me to bribe my best friend with real coffee? Lamented Aibhlinn as she began to crest the Oakland Bay Bridge, already feeling out of breath. I'd give my left arm and precarious medical license for a cuppa.

"Because you're a buggering arsehole," huffed Aibhlinn sourly, "and at that point, going back for your thermos would have meant encountering your review board. You're already on bad terms with them."

As she crested the bridge, Aibhlinn fell into an easy repetition of left, right, left, right, her satchel bouncing against her lower back with each stride. It was an easy pattern, one that was familiar to her, like an imaginary friend never quite forgotten. Running made it easy for her to focus on a problem and analyse it like the chessboards that had captivated her as a child. Running was a balm on a painful, festering wound that she would rather bandage than sew.

The downward incline was difficult to maintain with her current speed, so she slowed down a fraction. Immediately her calves and thighs screamed in protest. Lactic acid, diagnosed Aibhlinn immediately, which is formed by the increased production of lactate due to an increased demand placed on muscles. Many times lactate does not lead to acidosis, unless the strain placed on the muscles are intense, and are followed by a period of rest. Some power exercises that can lead to lactic acidosis are sprinting

"I need to stop doing that," grumbled Aibhlinn as she pelted off the bridge and started up the main road. She could see the Golden Gate Bridge through the fog in the distance. Realistically, the Presidio was not far off. No more than a few kilometres, she assured herself. Her breaths were coming in ragged gasps. Her lungs were on fire, and she was fairly certain that her heart was reaching that threshold that should have any sane doctor sending her back to Medical for an immediate cardiogram.

No time for a cardiogram, Aibhlinn scolded herself as she turned onto a side street, cut through an alley, and leapt atop a rubbish bin. Vaulting over a rusted chain link fence, she dropped to her feet and groaned as her left knee buckled. The Academy was just up ahead. Cardiograms are for people who are out of shape, and I'm definitely not out of shape.

Oh who am I kidding? Adrenaline was my best friend during those runs. I'm as out of shape as my granddad, may he rest in peace.

Breathing heavily through her nose, Aibhlinn allowed herself to slow, then stop once safely within the perimeter of the Academy. Normally unauthorised entrance to the Academy after curfew resulted in the activation of two separate proximity alarms, alerting Academy Security to the unauthorised trespassing, and another to the Commandant of Cadets. Aibhlinn paused, unclipped her identification with shaking hands, and pressed it against the nearest reader she could find. The chief of security had reminded them time and time again that the alarm could be nullified by an authorised exception to curfew, such as a late class, a transportation malfunction, or a scheduled examination, just by scanning their idents on the closest scanner to them.

Aibhlinn was glad for that now. She was in no mood to explain why she was so late.

After five minutes of continuing assurance that she would not be arrested, Aibhlinn exhaled loudly and bent over and rested her hands on her knees. Sweat stung her eyes and plastered her bangs to her forehead. She hadn't hurt this much after running what had to be twice the distance she just ran, across sandy terrain and a few hills in over thirty-five degrees. Out of shape, she reminded herself. Very, very out of shape.

Sucking in deep lungfuls of air, Aibhlinn forced herself to stand, groaning aloud as her spine protested the sudden movement from horizontal to vertical. Her legs trembled beneath her with exertion. She had half a mind to just lay there until morning, but the disgusting feel of sweat gave her the motivation she needed to walk to her residence hall. Steeling herself for the further exertion on abused muscles, she forced one foot in front of the other, groaning aloud at the pain that shot up her leg.

"Fecking snakes," growled Aibhlinn. "Why did it have to be snakes?"

As she forced her way across the quad, her mind began to wander toward the deceased cadet. She hadn't been acquainted with Victor Huang and the other members of Nova Squadron personally, but their name was legend. Tales of intrigue passed from cadet to cadet like ancient myths, becoming more and more exaggerated as they circulated. The cadets of Nova Squadron were the best of what Starfleet had to offer. It wasn't unheard of for a former member to go on to hold an affluent position in Starfleet following graduation.

Aibhlinn's heart constricted at the thought of graduation. Huang wouldn't be able to enjoy a posting. He wouldn't laugh with his friends, drink with his mates, or snog a girl ever again. For some strange reason, she felt as if she had failed him somehow. A doctor was meant to help people—palliate their pain in any way possible, not wait for them to die and autopsy them like a foetal pig's carcass. Being a doctor did not involve political power play and covering ones ass when the shit hit the fan. Cadet Huang deserved to be treated as a person, not a body the cadre was interested in for their own secret reasons.

"Feckin' Starfleet," she huffed vehemently. "This isn't some backwater town or planet where you can get away with this shite." Aibhlinn groaned as she rounded the darkened Archer Hall. There was still another quad between her and the residence block. Another life sentence, bemoaned Aibhlinn, feet dragging in the dirt. Please, I'd rather the autopsy right now.

"Twenty-four hour transport," she hissed between breaths. "That's what they need. Not thirty plus kilometre runs."

Her communicator broke her out of her half-spoken rant. Pausing beneath the soft glow of the streetlight, she flipped it open and pressed it between cheek and shoulder.

"This is Pope," she said, leaning against the light post.

"Do you have any idea how much you scared the shit out of me?" A gruff voice answered her.

Aibhlinn quirked an eyebrow in amusement. "I thought you didn't—and I quote—"Give two shits what happened to me", Mama."

Doctor Robert Albara sighed audibly. "I don't, but you actually have half a shitting mind, so it'll be a chore to find another doctor like you. Consider your morning coffee privileges revoked, Papa."

"It wasn't that bad," Aibhlinn placated hurriedly. The idea of no coffee in the mornings terrified her more than words could express. She didn't want to wake up earlier than she already had to in order to replicate her own. "The worst I could have done was send you to an early grave."

"Exactly. If I died as a result to your stupidity, who would watch your arse when the cadre's sunk its fangs into it like some little hare?"

Aibhlinn laughed at the doctor's barbed joke. "Comparing me to tiny animals now? I would normally take offense to that, but seeing as you are a Brit, I will have to learn to deal with your...unique wit."

"Bloody hilarious. Do you write your own jokes?"

"And to think I thought you didn't possess a sense of humour." Aibhlinn pulled her bag off of her sore shoulder and switched it to the other. "What are your thoughts on the odd viral strain I found in Cadet Huang's blood?"

Any camaraderie disappeared between them, replaced by that carefully professional mindset that they had easily developed over their three months together. "It's certainly interesting," Albara said. "I'd like to look at it in the labs, but I doubt they'd allow a few first year plebes anywhere near their shiny and extravagantly expensive toys."

"We'll be lucky if we step foot in a lab unsupervised by the time third year rolls around." Aibhlinn tugged out her PADD one-handed and opened the file regarding to the deceased cadet. "I'm sending you the full data packet now," she said, attaching the file to another communiqué. "I have some theories I want to explore before I forward you those as well. I hope I don't have to tell you to keep it between us, as mates?"

"Careful, Pope," Albara warned. Aibhlinn could hear him shifting things around in his dorm. "This can be some serious can of worms you're opening. Are you sure you want to dig into this?"

"Rob, a cadet died with an unknown pathogen in his blood. I'm not going to stand here idly and allow him to be swept under the rug with whatever mad and hairy skeletons Starfleet's got covered up." Aibhlinn glanced over her shoulder, and lowered her voice to a whisper. "I don't like this whole thing, Albara. Not one bit."

Albara was silent for a long while. "I'm just saying that this can cost you your license. Permanently this time."

Aibhlinn felt her stomach drop from existence and replace itself with ice. "You're not going to help me, are you?"

"I'm not saying that," clarified Albara. "I'll look at it tomorrow after Advanced Xenovirology. The annex lab is free for an hour and a half, and Doctor Yvine is on duty there, so I can run the matrix through the Medical database without some nosy professor looking over my shoulder and see if I can find multiple matches. Piece it together."

"Like a jigsaw puzzle." Aibhlinn glanced down at her watch. 0358. She had to be up in a little less than four hours. Six cups of coffee. Minimum, she thought with pained bereavement.

"Fine. Comm me when you have an idea."

"Will do. And you owe me for St. Mary's, still."

"Yeah, yeah."

Without saying goodbye, Aibhlinn flicked her communicator shut and shoved both it and PADD back into her bag. She knew that Albara's interest had been piqued by the pathogen, that the evasion and hesitation had been nothing but a ploy to keep him from outright saying it. The man had a way of angering her beyond words.

Fury radiating, she gave the nearby wall a good kick for measure and stalked across the quad, which succeeding in nothing but leaving her toes smarting. She was too damn overworked to be juggling all of these medical conspiracies as well as her overloaded coursework.

With an angry jerk, she yanked down the zipper of her jacket and licked her thumb, dragging it over a swath of dirt across her cheek. The cold air immediately brought a brief respite from the overwhelming warmth she felt crawling under her skin. Aibhlinn hunched her shoulders and passed from underneath the streetlights, hurrying through the cold to the residence hall on the farthest side of the quad.

She loved Callahan Square on many days of the week. Today, however, was not one of them

Keying the main entrance's door with her ident card, she jogged passed the turbolift and headed right to the emergency stairwell. She paused to swipe her ident once more and entered her medical override. Many times her professors had reminded her that the emergency medical override was only for—as it was specified—emergencies only. Usually she would have opted for the turbolift (she was getting better with it now, but no way in hell was she stepping near the one in Medical. Not yet.), but excess adrenaline still burned through her blood, clearing the haze of exhaustion. It was a shame to let it go to waste.

Once the door clicked open, she slid through the gap and pounded up the stairs two at a time. Halfway up to her floor, she pulled out her communicator and keyed in Gennifer's personal code.

"This is Doctor Newman," Gennifer replied a moment later.

"Gen I need another favour," Aibhlinn panted out. "Pull up Cadet Victor Huang's blood panel and Infirmary records. See if he's been there any time before his death?"

"Sure. I didn't know he was dead."

"Yeah. I just autopsied the poor bastard."

"I'm sorry about that, Alby. Nothing really prepares you for your first autopsy, especially when he's one of us." Gennifer was quiet on the other line for a while. "Why, may I ask, do you need his Infirm and blood records?"

"Call it a hunch. I'll catch you tomorrow afternoon—with the coffee."

"You'd better," Gennifer said with a slight smile in her voice.

Aibhlinn turned off her communicator and placed it back in her pocket. Theory One was being researched. Theories Two and Three would need to wait for further confirmation from Theory One. She smiled banally. The Ethics Board may have stripped her of her license, but that didn't mean she still wasn't a doctor. She could still carry out valid research.

But you don't have a grant or a research team to conduct said research, Aibhlinn reminded herself. All you have is a doctor with a huge malpractice suit, your best friend, and a dead cadet with mutant herpes.

A part of her not occupied with breathing murmured back to the traitorous doubt crawling in her mind: And that's all I need.

Stopping at the seventh floor, she entered her emergency override again and pushed open the door. Making a left as soon as she exited the stairwell, Aibhlinn jogged down the hall, limping slightly, clutching a stitch in her side.

"Bloody…lack of transports," she exhaled sharply through clenched teeth. Swiping her sweaty bangs off of her forehead, she stopped before a room six doors down on the left and punched in her access code. It took her several tries (and a bruised toe when she kicked the door in frustration), but the light above the access panel blinked green once her code was entered. As the door slid open, she hissed:

"I…am going…to kill them!"

Her roommate (who was sitting exactly where she had left her, as if she were carved of solid marble) let out a sound of surprise that Aibhlinn ignored in favour of tossing her satchel to the ground and throwing her ident in the ceramic bowl. Growling, Aibhlinn stormed to their bedroom, glaring at Lorelei, who was perched delicately on her feet, clutching that weird tube—ATP, Aibhlinn reminded herself, the bloody APTin one hand and a fine pair of tweezers in the other.

Lorelei glared at Aibhlinn in silent response, then, as if remembering something important, glanced down at the tweezers in her hand. After a moment of careful contemplation—involving her bringing the tweezers so close to her eyes Aibhlinn was afraid she would poke one of them out—Lorelei let out an angry scream that had Aibhlinn leaping back into the wall closest to her, hands flying up in automatic defense.

"You made me drop it!"

Aibhlinn stammered for a moment. The logical thing would be to inquire as to what Lorelei had dropped and what part Aibhlinn herself had had in it, but Aibhlinn was in no mood for logic at the moment. Bristling, she brought herself up to her tallest before countering with, "You dismembered my alarm clock!"

Lorelei scoffed, placing both ATP and tweezers down on her desk. "How trivial. I offered my services and you accepted. You are at fault, not me!"

"You tinkering with my alarm clock made me late to my autopsy review, and the review board had me wait another hour and a half—though they said they'd be lenient by allowing me a bloody hour to make a formal diagnosis, so that's always a pleasant bit!" Aibhlinn's voice rose, purposely speaking over Lorelei, who had begun to shout in what Aibhlinn assumed was German. "But that isn't the best part—oh not at all my friend. No, do you want to know the best part? I had to touch a dead, herpes infested penis!"

Aibhlinn advanced so that they were practically chest to chest and thrust a finger at Lorelei, whose tirade had stopped abruptly at the last sentence. Her alarmed gaze shifted from Aibhlinn's face to the proffered finger nearly poking her in the chest.

"You made me miss the last transport of the night and had me run from bloody Starfleet Medical to here—which is a little over thirty kilometres, by the way—and hop about four fences—which was the second highlight of my feckin' evening, thank you very much. And to top it off? My thermos is back outside of the trauma suite! There is going to be no caffeine running in my system tomorrow, and it is all. Your. Fault!"

Lorelei was silent for a long moment, eyes wide with shock. Her mouth hung open, as if she had forgotten what she was going to say. Aibhlinn relaxed, glare softening. Maybe she'd finally succeeded in getting the point across for once. As she went to lower her threatening finger, she leapt back once more in surprise as Lorelei let out an ungodly scream. Confused, Aibhlinn watched as Lorelei leapt back, clearing her bed in a feat of athleticism that would have done their Advanced Hand-to-Hand Combat instructor proud.

"Sanitise!" she screeched, pointing at Aibhlinn's outstretched hands. "Sanitise right now before you give me herpes!"

Aibhlinn blinked at her in confusion, then glanced down at her proffered hands. "Pardon?"

Lorelei gestured vehemently at Aibhlinn's hands, all the while backing away from her as if she carried the plague. Aibhlinn shook her head as realisation crashed over her.

"Oh for the love of—didn't you even get sick as a child?"

"I didn't get herpes!"

Aibhlinn resisted bashing her head (or Lorelei's for that matter) into the wall. "For a mechanic wunderkid, you can be pretty thick sometimes." Aibhlinn held up her hands, palms facing forward, fingers spread. Lorelei pressed herself into the wall in response, as if she were attempting to become one with it. "Lorelei, allow me to explain something to you," began Aibhlinn slowly, as if she were speaking to a mentally unfit child. "Trauma rooms—whether they are in a massive ship, a small hospital, or something as grand as Starfleet Medical—are equipped with a sterilisation field. Now, a sterilisation field neutralises any airborne or fluidborne pathogens, reducing the accidental infection risks to the doctors on call to zero."

Lorelei glared at Aibhlinn's hands doubtfully, then back at her. "No herpes?" she echoed.

"No herpes," assured Aibhlinn.

Lorelei paused for a moment, mulling over her roommate's words, before pointing to the bathroom back down the short hallway. "Bathroom. Shower now. Scrub thoroughly. I'll check."

Aibhlinn rolled her eyes. It wasn't worth it to argue. With a sigh, she shed her scrubs and underthings and, without looking over her shoulder, threw both articles of clothing at Lorelei. She entered the bathroom with Lorelei's resulting cry of "Herpes clothes!" echoing through the dorm.

She laughed as the door slid shut behind her. The bathroom was of normal size in relation to the main room, and contained a toilet, sink, and shower. Stripping out of the remainder of her clothes, she turned on the water and sat on top the toilet, probing at her sore calf.

The nerve and skin regen therapy seemed to have been a success, but that didn't explain why Aibhlinn's calf continued to ache absently like an open wound. Every time it rained, the calf would swell and ache as if the snake had bitten it just minutes before. Occasionally, it would hurt if too much was demanded of it, though Aibhlinn couldn't bring herself to care when those occurrences happened. The ache was manageable. She would make certain that it would not affect her posting in the future because she needed to be in peak physical form to be a CMO aboard a starship.

Maybe after her shift tomorrow, she would run nerve response on the area. Just to make sure.

Rotating her shoulders uncomfortably, Aibhlinn entered the shower, wincing as the hot water ran over her already chilled skin. Groaning, she ran both hands through her hair, scrubbing dirt and grime from it.

Again, as she was lathering with some of Lorelei's shampoo, Aibhlinn once more found her mind wandering to Cadet Huang and his mutated herpes.

In usual cases, signs of infection would not appear as fast as they had in Cadet Huang. Scabbing from an old infection would infer that he had the virus for far longer than what was recorded on his initial pathology reports. Two conclusions could be drawn from that fact: Either the pathology report was mistaken (unlikely), or this strain of herpes showed infection symptoms earlier than its cousin (likely).

"Puzzling," she murmured, leaning against the tile wall as she rinsed. The cadet's immune system hadn't been affected by virus, which was another telltale characteristic of herpes. If it looked like herpes, it should be herpes, but how could she explain the different genetic payload within the virus' casing?

The more alarming answer was that herpes had mutated, which would mean a formal inquiry into her autopsy and widespread global panic.

The less alarming answer was that the computers had made a mistake. It was extremely rare, but it did occasionally happen.

With a sigh, Aibhlinn turned off the water and towelled off. There were far too many variables and far too little time to study them. Tucking the corners of the towel around her torso so it wouldn't slip, she gathered up the remainder of her uniform and exited the bathroom, going over complex genetic codes and different infection rates in her mind.

"Lorelei, do you know if Doctor M'Benga is free for a research period tomorrow?" she asked as she chucked her uniform down the laundry chute. Doctor M'Benga was her Exobiology professor—unparalleled in his field. If Doctor Albara couldn't decipher the virus mutation, maybe he could. She could say it was for extra credit for another class. A half-lie, and not a very good one, but it was better than the truth.

"How would I know?" Lorelei shot back. "I do not take Medical classes."

Aibhlinn rolled her eyes skyward. "You memorised my schedule and my teacher's schedules within two weeks of starting classes." She turned to walk back into the main room. "Don't tell me you don't…"

She stopped, mouth half open, and stared at Lorelei.

Her roommate sat on her bed in the far corner of the room, tapping away on Aibhlinn's PADD. Normally that wouldn't have been a problem for her, since the line of possession between mine and our had blurred after the fourth week of their rocky roommate-hood. No, the problem was that Lorelei was sitting on her bed, tapping away on Aibhlinn's PADD whist naked as the day she was born.

"Problem with the clothing replicator?" she managed out after a moment.

Lorelei made a thoughtful sound in the back of her throat as she set Aibhlinn's PADD down beside her. "No," she said, leaning back on her arms. "You were the one who threw herpes clothing at me. I had to strip down to get rid of whatever disease your clothing may have been carrying." She smiled cheekily. "And who could not resist just sitting down with nothing but the gentle breeze caressing their body?"

"And disinfecting for a disease that may or may not even exist," began Aibhlinn sceptically, "and if it did, it would have been annihilated by aforementioned sterilisation field, required you removing all of your clothes?"

Lorelei nodded.

"I was in the shower not even twenty minutes! That's a perfectly reasonable amount of time to go and get a change of clothes."

"I spent those twenty minutes disinfecting," explained Lorelei. "Then your comm began beeping so I decided to answer it, pretending to be you of course. One Doctor Albara sends his regards by the way, and said he'll talk to you tomorrow about your herpes. He's about as interested as you are in highly contagious diseases." She shuddered. "Why do you like microscopic things by the way? It's unhealthy! You could contract Staphylococcus or Y pestis!"

"Of course you would immediately go for Bubonic Plague." Aibhlinn paused, staring at Lorelei intently. "And when exactly did Doctor Albara send this communiqué?" inquired Aibhlinn with a stern pop of the hip.

"Twenty minutes ago."

Aibhlinn rolled her eyes and collapsed onto her bed, wet hair fanning out behind her. "You could've shouted in," she muttered, holding her hand out expectantly. A moment later, her PADD collided with the flat of her palm, and she clenched her fingers around it before it could fall onto the floor. Tugging the stylus out of its place, she pulled up the mutated herpes virus and the normal herpes simplex II.

"Lorelei, look at these two and tell me what's the matter with them?" she asked.

After a pause, Lorelei murmured, "They look the same, but the spaghetti on the inside is different in both."

Aibhlinn snorted. "Someone page the Mayo Clinic. DNA has now been officially redefined as 'spaghetti' by Doctor Jackson"

Somewhere off to her left, Lorelei burst into a fit of deep throated laughter. "Murder me in my sleep then. If it has to do with squishy, breathing things I want no part in it, especially if it can give me an incurable disease."

Laughing at that, Aibhlinn shed her towel and began to change into her pyjamas.

"You also had a communiqué from the indomitable Doctor Xue."

This Lorelei said with hesitation. Aibhlinn paused as she wriggled into her underwear, glaring accusingly at her PADD on her bed. Someone on the review board must be a friend of her mother's.

"Okay," she acknowledged. Quietly, she climbed into bed, sparing a glance at her alarm clock. 0415.

"You owe me so much for this," grumbled Aibhlinn as she pulled the covers over her head.

"Like I am ever going to pay you back," scoffed Lorelei.

"Point. Computer, lights off."