Chapter Fifteen: Monstrous First Aid
A moan from the boy drew Dr Bashir's attention, and in an instant every trace of his own anxiety vanished into his best soothing bedside manner as he laid a reassuring hand on his forehead. "Shh, easy, son." He didn't imagine the boy could be anywhere close to fully conscious, but perhaps the comforting tone of his voice would get through.
The boy moaned again, turning his head slightly.
"Easy," Bashir murmured again. "Just lie still; you're going to be fine." With every part of his being, he willed the words to be more than a comforting lie.
Brown eyes flickered open for an instant, staring at him with such pain-filled appeal that he longed for a hypospray of one of the stronger pain relievers to give him; barring that, he wished the boy could have remained unconscious and unaware. "Lie still," he told him again, his thumb rubbing gently over the boy's temple. "Just rest; the medics will be here soon."
The boy's mouth opened, his lips moving as if he was trying to say something, but he only coughed, harshly and painfully, blood spilling from his mouth. Then his head lolled back once more in unconsciousness.
Bashir quickly turned his head to the side so he wouldn't choke, again clearing his airway and bending to listen at his chest before using a corner of the cloak to wipe the blood from his face.
He wouldn't be breathing for more than another minute or two, Bashir realized grimly, and breathing for him again would be useless with his lung so full of blood it couldn't accept the air.
He resisted the urge to demand again why he didn't have a medteam yet; the villain didn't know any better than he did, and could do nothing to get them there any faster.
If this boy died, Bashir thought grimly, he didn't care what his own status in the Federation legal system was; he would file a suit of negligence against the restaurant himself.
Even as the thought passed through his mind, he heard at last the sound of people entering the building; hurried footsteps, and as they drew closer the barely perceptible humming buzz of a grav stretcher.
"Thank the prophets," he breathed, unconsciously adopting the phraseology of the many Bajoran members of his staff on the station.
"Get this man five cc's of trioxe, stat!" he ordered as the medteam ran up to them. "And whatever you do, don't try to move him without stabilizing his chest!"
"What's his status?"
"Severe chest trauma and moderate concussion, with a high likelihood of further internal injuries. His ribcage is basically crushed; the right lung is completely collapsed; the left punctured and filling with blood." He spoke with clipped rapidity, at the same time shifting back to allow the medteam room to work, though it went against his instincts to relinquish the care of such a critically injured patient. "He was in complete cardiac arrest; the broken ribs contraindicated chest compressions, so I restarted his heart with two shocks from a phaser and gave him mouth-to-mouth until he started breathing on his own. He briefly regained partial consciousness a little under a minute ago."
The medic who had been engaged in scanning the boy's heart looked up sharply at Bashir. "Cordrazine, sir?" It was standard for any medteam to carry, though they could not administer it except at a doctor's orders.
Reading the tricorder over the medic's shoulder, Bashir hesitated an instant, then shook his head. "No; the effective dose would be too high to risk with a concussion."
The medic didn't question him, instead injecting a less powerful but safer stimulant.
Bashir felt a certain freedom in knowing he had spoken the exact truth, that his hesitance had been to run through all the possible effects in his mind, and had had nothing to do with the fact that he currently had no right to prescribe anything, least of all a highly restricted drug like cordrazine. Had he felt it was indicated, he would have named a dose and hoped the medic didn't find out about his suspended license until after it was injected.
Assured that the medics were fully competent, Bashir stood and moved back to join the one who stood by the grav stretcher.
"Sir…why a phaser?" he asked; the information was needed for the medical log, Bashir knew, but he also detected a note of plain curiosity in the man's voice. "Didn't you notice the defibrillator over there?"
"Yes," Bashir said shortly. "But I also noticed the serial number — 61636."
The medic looked at him blankly, not comprehending.
"Do you remember the recall five years ago?" Bashir prompted.
The medic's face paled. "You mean — they missed one?"
Bashir merely nodded.
"This whole theater would have blown sky high," the medic whispered. "If you hadn't remembered the serial number…or thought to check it…"
Bashir said nothing; there was no need to mention his photographic memory or better than perfect vision.
The medic shook himself, obviously forcing his mind from the memory of horrific newsvids to the task at hand. "What's your name for the records?"
Bashir hesitated a bare instant. He could insist on remaining anonymous — but there was no true anonymity in the technology of the Federation, and he thought wryly that the security cameras were probably the only thing in this building that were up to code.
Besides…he was done hiding.
"Dr Julian Bashir," he answered quietly, forcing himself to speak in the same tone of voice he would have used to introduce himself in the past.
The medic was obviously up on current newsvids; the near worshipful admiration in his eyes turned to an expression of horror, and he took an involuntary step back as if Bashir had suddenly sprouted fangs and claws in front of him.
"But you…you're an augment — you're not supposed to be —"
"Saving people's lives?" Bashir finished sarcastically, hurt more than he would admit by the fact that the medic cared more about what he was than what he had just done. "I suppose you think I would have been less of a monster if I had sat back and watched him die!" Spinning on his heel, he yanked the phaser from his belt and tossed it to the ground before striding from the restaurant without looking back.
He paid no attention to the direction he went, wandering aimlessly through the streets. He had known all his life of the prejudice against augments, but to experience it firsthand stung more deeply than he had even expected.
It was not that he had especially wanted honor or even thanks. He had not been thinking of himself at all, but of saving the boy's life, and the satisfaction of having done so would have been enough; if he could have slipped out without giving his name he would not have demanded credit.
But to have his heroic efforts brushed aside as actually unwanted…
Given the gravity of the boy's injuries and the slim chance of successful resuscitation, he would have been justified in pronouncing him dead at the scene — except for the fact that he currently didn't have the authorization to pronounce anyone. But instead he had fought and won — and the medic had appreciated his efforts only until he found out who he was.
Then, instead of acknowledging that perhaps Bashir's enhancements were what had given him the quick thinking necessary to save the boy's life, he had implied that it would have been better for the boy to die than to be treated by an augment.
The thought of it spoiled even Bashir's satisfaction at having saved the boy's life — though part of him acknowledged he would have felt even worse if he had failed. And then they would have said being enhanced should have given him the ability to save him, he thought bitterly.
It was late by the time his feet took him back to the hotel, and he more than half expected Shan to have gone to bed. But when he saw him curled drowsily on the sofa with a datapadd, he was in no mood to tease him about waiting up.
Shan looked up on hearing Bashir walk in. "So, how did it go with your parents?"
Bashir groaned, sprawling onto the other side of the couch and burying his face in his arm.
"That bad?" Shan asked sympathetically.
"I guess…I don't know…I barely even remember what we said. But you can go ahead and add practicing without a license to my list of crimes."
Shan sat up, alert at once. "What happened?"
"A chandelier fell on one of the actors," Bashir said wearily, his voice still muffled in his arm. "His chest was crushed, and no one else in the whole damn theater had enough medical training to know what to do until the medics got there."
"So you gave him first aid," Trystmar said reasonably. "You don't need a medical license to give a man first aid."
Bashir snorted, turning his head enough to look at Trystmar with one eye. "Pretty extensive 'first aid.'"
"Extensive injuries require extensive treatment," Shan agreed. "But you didn't administer any regulated drugs or perform any surgical procedures?"
"No — though I would have if I'd had the equipment, license or not."
"It doesn't matter what you would have done," Shan dismissed. "What you did do is perfectly legal and right for any bystander. The only difference is, with your training you did all the appropriate procedures, and performed them correctly."
Bashir closed his eyes, picturing the damage if some half-trained layperson had naïvely attempted chest compressions to start the man's heart. "Yes…" he murmured. Rolling to sit up, he buried his face in his hands. "But they won't see it that way, Shan; you know they won't."
"They're supposed to rule tomorrow based on the evidence of the hearing, not on anything you may have done in the meantime. I'll prepare a defense just in case one of them does bring it up, but don't worry about it."
"No; why bother worrying?" Bashir asked a little hysterically. "They're already taking away everything I care about; what's a few months in prison on top of that?"
"You're not going to prison," Shan said firmly. "I suppose you did save the man's life?"
"Oh, unquestionably — assuming he does survive the surgery."
"And the medics could testify to that?"
"Probably they could — but they won't testify for a 'monster.'"
"If I subpoena them, they have to testify to the truth, regardless of their feelings, and the truth is that no 'monster' could be as dedicated to saving lives as you are. But even if the judges do rule in your favor tomorrow, I think there's still one person we have to convince that genetic enchantments don't make a man into a monster — and that, my dear doctor, is you."
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