The Risks of the Job
Two days is never enough to get over a week of sleep deprivation and overwork, but it helped. The only bad part of having a break is that when you're forced to go back to work it seems worse than it was in the first place. But the work hasn't changed; not in the year since the Cylons destroyed the world. A shift starts with report, moves on to maintenance, and from there goes into patrol. It's not a new system. I tend to be assigned to the longer patrols and the training missions, so you can add at least two days a week of managing the simulators for that purpose. We lost most of our flyers in the first wave of attacks, and putting the Galactica's defenses back together has been a long and arduous process. That explains why I get so little sleep.
Of the original Galactica pilots, we had only twenty-three who lived. Thankfully we picked up another ten from various disabled ships, and almost thirty reported in from other areas of the fleet – retired, on leave, and those who had cross-trained to other areas of the service. As difficult as that was, the pilots were the easy part. Our Chief, Tyrol, had put together my squadron from ancient Vipers with no existing replacement parts and no current training in either function or repair. That made for an interesting few weeks as we tried to piece the old Vipers together with new parts, and salvage what new Vipers we'd been able to scrounge before the hyper-light jump. In all, it wasn't a successful endeavor. We did the best we could, and the Chief got less sleep than any of us, but somehow we managed to get a makeshift defense field set up with a skeleton crew. Those were the worst days.
I can't even express what the flight deck was like in those first horrible days. Half the crew was in shock, and the rest was in Life Station. As the kids – mostly straight out of secondary school – finally realized what had happened and edged out of the shock, the work got even harder. I was one of those who just worked a little harder, a little longer, and the less I thought the better. Lee was mostly the same, because he was so overwhelmed with learning a new ship, new crew, and new way of life that it was all he could do to breathe. The crews though – they were something else. Way too many of them had been lost in the initial attack, and way too many more had died afterwards in Life Station. It wasn't just a lack of morale, but a total lack of hope. We're still working on the hope, despite the Old Man's rousing speech which most of us only take half-seriously. The thing is, the same vastness of space that we rely on daily to protect us from Cylon detection is the same vastness that all but eliminates the possibility of finding one planet in one solar system in one tiny corner of space. Any gambler knows that odds working for you can also work against you; you just have to recognize what they are.
But those of us who see it don't make an issue of it. We can't. The edge of hope that the rest of them need is as vital to them as our Vipers are to us. We need to know that we can protect the fleet, and the fleet needs to know that there's a reason to be protected. It doesn't make a lot of sense, but if we lose that balance and people stop caring, then there just won't be a point. We had enough suicides following our initial jumps; we don't need any more. The human race is small enough.
I have to smack myself as I realize what a cynic I've become. Always practical, always reasonable, and usually ready for a fight. That's me. But never in all my years has anyone called me a cynic. Hell, I was the fun one at the party; the one they called to get the sticks out of the mud. I still show them that, but reality has a way of slipping in when you least expect it. I guess that's growing up. I don't like it.
Report today came from Bell – Jerry Bellton – who is our Deputy CAG. He's got me working with team five on the deck, and flying a six-hour patrol towards a possibly habitable planet. Sharon is going to fly the Raptor, which in turn carries the scientific team to get their samples and such to make their proclamation from. I'm flying opposite Docks, who is my usual wingman. Now Docks is a character. He has one of those goofy names – Mortimer or Montington, no one's sure – and lives by his call sign. I can't blame the guy. I probably would, too. Actually, I mostly do. Lee calls me Kara – and the Old Man – but my friends call me Starbuck and my co-workers call me Lieutenant Thrace, sometimes just Thrace when I've pissed someone off. I try to do that less now. It isn't that I'm any more inclined to take shit from anyone, but I can't back Lee or defend the fleet from behind the bars in the brig. What was it I'd said about growing up? It happens to the best of us. "Haul ass, Docks," I call out as I make a final check on the electronic checklist that is demanded from every flight. It's a simple thing – proof that we've checked out all the primary systems, and not exactly a failsafe, but the railing out you get from Bell when you forget it just isn't worth the time. Then there's that damned disappointed look from Lee on top of it. No, I'd rather do the frakking paperwork.
"Almost got it," Docks calls back, a muffled sound at best. His head is tucked up under his Viper, so I take a walk over to see what the problem is. "Damned release valve is sticking," he mutters as I come up behind him. Boots aren't silent on metal flooring. Preferring the view of his Viper's underbelly to a view of his ass, I tuck in next to him and reach for the offensive valve myself.
"Frak," I mumble as I push his fingers out of the way and try to finagle my way into position. It's a tight fit because my hands aren't much smaller than the guys'. If I was a wimp, I wouldn't have made it as a pilot. Still, I get my hand in there and wedge a nail beneath the seal of the valve. Stuck is an understatement. I'd rather have a screwdriver, but I can't think of one small enough to fit. This seal is going to have to be replaced, if or when I get it open. The release valve is what makes sure Tylium byproducts don't gas up the cockpit; it's not something you want sticking during a patrol, and that's why it's on the checklist in the first place.
While Docks goes to get a replacement – or as near as Tyrol can come up with – I finally wedge a thumbnail into the miniscule space between seal and metal, and I pull. "Shit!"
"Starbuck?"
I barely hear Cally as she tucks up under one arm to check on me. I got the damned seal off, but that wasn't all that came loose. Blood is streaming down the underside of my arm from where thumbnail and skin parted company, and frak nothing has ever hurt this much! I probably would have stood there shaking blood all over everyone for half the day if Cally hadn't had some good sense. She reached for a grease rag, grubby though it was, and wrapped it tightly around my hand. It didn't do a thing for the pain, but the sharp throb was easier to take with the majority of blood out of view. "Call the Chief!" Cally screams out, and I hear a scuffle of feet as they rush to obey. I've got quite a vocabulary when I'm hurting, and I have to say that Cally's braver than most when it comes to hanging around when I let loose.
"Shit! Frakkin' stupid valve in the damned…" I go on… and on. I have a fairly high pain threshold, or so I've been told, but this is something else altogether. To make matters worse, I'm feeling really light-headed. Not dizzy – not exactly – but not steady. Shit, if I pass out on the deck I'll never live it down.
"Get her to Life Station," Chief Tyrol proclaims as he walks up and takes a look at the blood on the deck as well as still dripping from my elbow where Cally had wrapped the injury rather than cleaning up the mess. The girl had her priorities straight, even if it does hurt like hell when she squeezes that towel tighter. She's also got a thumb on my wrist, pushing down with a bruising strength that comes from manhandling heavy equipment all day, and she's holding my hand up around shoulder level.
Lords, I want to argue. I can think of nothing good that has ever happened to me in a hospital. I hate doctors with a fiery passion, and techs aren't much better. But shit this hurts, and it's worth the indignity of tiny gowns and sharp needles to make this hurting stop. Cally keeps a both of her hands on mine as she starts walking, and then Bell is there. Who the hell knows where he came from, but I can't help but be glad it isn't Lee. That thought takes my mind of the pain for an instant – just an instant – as I try to remember the rotation and where he might be. My mind is a little too fuzzy though, and they're shuffling me along like I'm going to bleed to death in the next five minutes. I think it's overkill, but if there's a narcotic involved I can deal with speed. Pain is not all it's cut out to be.
It surprises the hell out of me when Bell shifts one arm beneath my legs and puts the other behind my back to lift me up like a kid and dump me on a gurney. Cally still has that frakking tight hold on me, and she's got my arm up in the air like some morbid mummy coming to life.
"What happened?" asks a deep voice which is rapidly accompanied by a tall man with serious eyes and a strangely comforting manner.
It takes a minute before I realize he's talking to me. He seems to be a long ways away. "It's not a big deal," I finally say. "I tried to loosen a valve and I think I cut myself."
"Any body parts on-site?" he asks as he calls for some medical sounding stuff and starts unwrapping my hand. Body parts? Holy shit, did I cut it off?
"Nothing I saw," Cally says, and a wave of gratitude washes over me. She's the little nurse of the deck – it comes from being one of the few women there, and a natural caring that goes beyond her skill with leverage and tools – and she would have noticed. It's damned hard to fly a Viper without a thumb, or I imagine it would be.
"You still with me, Starbuck?" the doc asks as he finally gets the towel untangled from my hand.
"Present," I say on a gasp. The towel is off, the blood is flowing albeit not as much, and that light-headed feeling is headed towards nausea. Lords, I really hate blood.
"Cass, get an IV in," he tells the woman who's come up on the other side of the gurney. "Lactated ringers; this one is headed for the OR. Get a type and cross-match it when you put it in, and pull me enough for a CBC and Lytes. Call Doctor Salik, too. I want her to give me a second opinion."
"You're going to feel a pinch," the blond woman – Cassie – says as she inserts an IV into the bend of my elbow. "Fourteen gauge, I went antecubital," she says casually. If that means she just forced a hosepipe into my arm, then she's more honest with him than with me. Pinch my ass; that damned-well hurt!
"Open it up for now," he told her. She's sweating, and her heart-rate is around one-twenty."
What happens next is anyone's guess. I don't know if they put something in the IV, or if I was just so out-of-it that I can't remember. In any case, the images I have are mixed and painful. Doctor Salik was there, pushing around on that sore hand and making me want to kill her. Cassie talking softly, although I don't remember any of her words. And then I remember that the gurney started moving and I was just sure that my breakfast was going to make a quick return. And then I don't remember a thing; not a blessed thing.
I'm laying here, and I'm wondering if I'll ever fly again. Who would have thought I'd be worried about that when I woke up this morning? Lee should be back in a minute, and hopefully with something to take away this constant pain. Well, the physical pain anyway. The emotional battering isn't going to get better with a little pill or shot.
Waking up hurt almost as much as going to sleep did. My hand was throbbing dully, and my head was splitting with a sharper version of the same rhythm. Every heartbeat seemed to make every part of me hurt. I squeezed open one eye, and of course the first thing I saw was my hand – or rather, the cast on my hand. Cast? Did I break something?
I turned my head, got dizzy as hell, and still didn't see anyone around. I was in Life Station; that much was certain. "Anyone home?" I called out, and my voice was gravelly and hoarse.
"She lives," came the dry reply. I would have looked back over my shoulder at Lee, but I didn't think my stomach could take that much movement. "How are you feeling?" He had stood up so that he entered my field of vision, then walked down the side of the bed so that he could take my hand – my good hand. Well, aside from having a hosepipe sticking out of the arm, it was my good hand. At the very least it wasn't throbbing in time with my heart.
I thought about making some dumb joke, or just telling him the truth: I felt like shit. But this was Lee, and I could see the worry in his eyes, feel it in the way he traced the veins of my hand as he held it in both of his. "I've been better," I finally said, which was the truth but definitely not all of it. "How bad was it?"
Lee gave me a shrug that took a serious glare to get through. "You'll be okay," he told me. It didn't answer my question and he knew it.
"Good to know," I told him. "So how bad is it?"
A sigh. Blue eyes that wouldn't meet mine. Another sigh. "It was bad," he admitted in his own good time. "The doc said that anything on hands is a concern. But she got it all put back together and she thinks it will heal just fine. So, like I said, you'll be okay."
Somewhere in the explanation he had totally lost me. I catch a thumbnail on a washer and he's talking about how the doctor thinks it will be fine? "What did I do?"
My confusion must have been pretty evident in either my voice or expression, because Lee reached back to get the chair he'd apparently been using earlier. He was settling in for the long haul, and that was not likely a good thing. "The best we can tell," he began, "when you popped the valve open you also popped the washer off. The edge of the valve was sharp, you were putting on a lot of pressure to do it, and the damned thing cut the hell out of your hand."
"I just thought I caught the nail," I mumbled. It had hurt, but it hadn't felt that bad.
He gave me half a smile. "From what the doc tells me, the nail is gone. I'll grow back, but for now it's history. She put in over forty stitches down the thumb and almost to your wrist. If your hand had been turned just a little bit, you could have hit a vein or artery or something. As it was, there was a lot of blood, but not nearly as much as they thought you'd lost."
I lifted the cast up from the two pillows it was propped on. The damned white thing went from my hand, completely covering my thumb, and half-way up my arm besides. "Forty stitches?" I asked him. None of it seemed real.
"She said some were inside and some were outside. She could have used staples on some of it, but she wanted to keep the scarring down."
"Great," I muttered. "So, how long am I out of the cockpit?" It was my right hand – my right thumb. That meant thrusters and weapons weren't going to get touched until the cast came off.
"She says a week or two while it heals, then they'll start therapy to see how much motion you lost to scarring. We'll go from there, Kara. It's too early to say when you'll be back on the job."
The look on his face was downright scared, and I wasn't sure if it was for him or me. It wasn't good news. I was more than just a pilot on the squad; I was a teacher, a guardian, and some days a drill sergeant. From the way he was talking, it was going to be a hell of a long time before I could do what I did the best – the one thing that kept me sane when the world closed in around me. Lee had sat down, his elbows resting on the edge of the bed while his hands still held mine. He set his chin on top of our joined hands and just watched me. Was he waiting for the explosion? Was he waiting for me to break down? For all the time we've known one another, Lee really hadn't been close when something in life went really bad; well, not counting when it went bad for all of us. When Zak had died, I had managed to get past the initial crap and into a numb shell before Lee made it to town for the funeral, and that was the only really traumatic thing I'd been through if we didn't count the beginning of the war. He couldn't know what to expect. Hell, I didn't know what to expect. How in hell did I feel? I wasn't even sure I could feel, except for the dull throb of my heartbeat in both my head and my hand.
"Do you think I can get anything for pain?" I ask him, not letting go of his hand.
He nods with more than a little relief. I guess he was scared that I'd go off like a rocket. I want to, but I just can't see a point. It won't take away the pain, and it won't put me in the pilot's seat.
My hand feels cold as he lets go and takes off around the curtain. With his absence I notice that it's quiet here. The Life Station is usually a hub of activity, but at the moment it's nearly silent. It bothers me; it's one more thing that isn't as it should be.
Lee is quick, and he comes back with Cassie in tow. She's tall and blond, with curves in all the right places. She's got a wide smile, a cute little laugh, and a nice, feminine profession. It occurs to me that Lee's eyes are on me, and not on her, and for some reason that pleases me. I'm not going to analyze why.
"Good to see you awake again," she says in that bright and sunshiny voice. "You look a little better than the first time."
"This isn't the first time?" I ask.
She shakes her head as she inserts a needle into this rubber knob in the hosepipe. I watch as she squeezes in something, and immediately my arm stings and my face feels warm. "The first time was from the anesthesia. I have to tell you, you're not real chipper when you wake from that. Not real clean, either. I think you puked on everyone in the room."
She's laughing, and it's all I can do not to be mortified. I hate being sick; I hate anyone to see it. Thank the Lords I don't remember it. "My head hurts," I tell her. That can't have anything to do with my hand.
"Anesthesia," she tells me again. "We wanted to just knock you out and use a local, but once you went under you had a tendency not to breathe. The doc decided you'd be better off with a supported airway, and of course you fought that, so we would up going general. I guess you can say that you shook up the whole Station for a while."
"Sorry," I tell her, but I'm really not. Well, I'm not thrilled that I'm the one who made things so difficult, but I am reassured that they were equipped to deal with it. There's a lot to be said for a state-of-the-art medical facility. I guess the Galactica is as good as it gets.
That warm, flushed feeling has spread from my face down my arms, and thankfully both headache and throbbing hand are now comfortably numb. I try to look around and see Lee, but he's out of view. Maybe he's gone back to work. The last thought I had before I go out is that I am never helping Docks check his bird again.