Exploding science labs aside, the day proved light for the medical department. By lunch time, the head nurse, who understood the toll waiting for no news from his ex-wife yesterday extracted from McCoy, began dropping hints their beloved but cranky CMO might benefit from a long walk.
"In other words, you want me out of your hair," he grumped.
"Precisely," she said, gesturing her hands in a shooing motion. "Go find another to plague and let me get back to running your Medbay."
Once in the hallway and to his surprise, McCoy warmed to the idea. He automatically started in the direction of deck ten without questioning his choice of destinations.
The small observation lounge overflowed with people moving in a well-choreographed intricate dance. Starfleet personnel traded PADDs and conferred. Technicians scrutinized their equipment, performed light checks, and called out directions and warnings. In a corner, near the floor to ceiling viewport, Cara sat in a director's style chair reading a PADD and periodically typing notes as a tall man touched up her makeup and combed his fingers through her brown hair now blown straight from this morning's damp waves.
Not simply brown, dark brown, like just turned rich soil shinning from morning dew, with strands of cinnamon and expresso mixed in, McCoy noted in his thoughts. She was dressed as he imagined a journalist portrayed in a movie from the 1940's Hollywood era would be costumed, high-waisted, wide-legged khaki-colored pants that draped fetchingly around her ankles, a silk ivory blouse with a demure oval cutout topped by a tiny button just below the center of its neckline. A pair of navy closed-toed slingback shoes completed the outfit. Deducting their two-inch heels his experienced physician's eye pegged her height barefooted as five feet seven inches. Perfect for slow dancing with me, he mused. Where did that come from? Oh no, Leonard, don't even go there. Lonely is better than having your heart twisted from your chest, stomped into bits, and incinerated.
He heard one of the civilians call out, "We're live in 10, 9, 8 …" An ensign with Starfleet public affairs beckoned him out of the camera's range. The tally light opposite Cara changed from green to red. The junior officer whispered to McCoy, "Please wait here sir, until the light is green again. Then you'll have two minutes to speak with Ms. Aguirre before the next interview begins. I'm Torres, by the way."
McCoy fidgeted and then clasped the unruly hands behind his back; the doctor started to explain his visit was curiosity and nothing more, and certainly not to speak with Cara. He thought, Oh hell, that'll never wash. Even the kid here knows it. He said, "Ms. Aguirre is under my care, I'm simply checking in."
The ensign's eyebrow rose. "Of course sir."
Obviously one of Spock's students, McCoy groused in his head.
Only Cara's side of the conversation was audible to others in the room. "That's right Mark. Enterprise launches in four days for an eighteen-month mission under a new Captain, repaired from the damage inflicted during the battles with the Narada." She nodded while listening to the next question broadcast through her ear bud receiver.
"My role is documenting their journey … the unknowns they explore, the phenomena they study, the beings they meet, the dangers they face."
"This is a first for Starfleet, including an embedded journalist in the crew," she answered the next inquiry.
"I attended the eight-week basic training required of all recruits." Cara tilted her head slightly and then said firmly, "I wasn't an observer there, I completed the same work, classroom study in addition to physical training, and passed. As well as subsequent courses in first aid, basic self-defense, and first contact procedures."
She shook her head. "Am I frightened, no."
"There's a new question," Torres whispers to McCoy. "That's rare. Mostly the morning show anchors all ask the same things."
Cara continued, "Every day those who serve in Starfleet put themselves between us and a multitude of hazards." She paused. "No Mark, I do not believe I am romanticizing the fleet. In rebuttal I remind you of the crews who perished in the battle to save Vulcan. Nor do I accept your characterization my work will simply be, as you said, 'singing their praises.' I document what is real and leave the interpretations to others as well as to history."
McCoy noticed her slight hesitation before the next response.
"Yes," Cara answered, "I'll be on board for the entire mission."
After a cue from the director Torres motioned McCoy across room. "There are a few minutes to go; the camera's angle will widen.
"How long are these interviews?" McCoy asked.
"It's a fifteen-minute cycle. Eight minutes live, five minutes of additional questions taped for B-roll. Then a two-minute regroup before the next one begins."
"That's …" McCoy starts.
"Brutal." Torres finishes. "I know. But having an embed on a Starfleet vessel, especially this ship which carries such a prominent legacy, is news. Most member planets are clamoring for face time. We have more interviews scheduled at different hours of the day and night to accommodate as many of the requests as we can before you leave port."
"How many? So far today?"
"Let's see, we started at eight this morning, this is the seventeenth, with three more to go. Then straight into the longer sit-downs with the well-known broadcast anchors. There are two of those this afternoon. We had to postpone a third after Captain Kirk added dinner to the packed schedule."
McCoy harumphed. "And when, precisely, is our embed permitted to eat and sleep?"
"We have an hour's break between this morning's last spot and today's first prime-time anchor. That is if nothing prior runs late. Which is rare. As for sleep," the junior officer tried a feeble joke, "after Enterprise launches?"
"Not acceptable," McCoy retorted in the tone he reserved for interns during their first week on rotation. His eyes narrowed as he glared at the ensign.
"Those are my orders sir, and I can't help the complexities of live broadcasts across multiple sectors," Torres replied in a defensive tone. "Starfleet needs the goodwill of the media, especially now."
"So your superiors would have us believe. I'm not convinced."
When the indicator flipped from red to green, Cara blinked rapidly clearing the dark spots in her vision caused by the camera and its peripheral harsh lighting. Remembering the makeup she resisted rubbing her eyes.
After a brief stop at the replicator, McCoy crossed the room with long purposeful strides coming to a halt in front of her. The physician scowled at the makeup artist until he gave in and moved away.
Cara looked up, "Hello Doctor. And thank you for that. Not having someone fussing with my face and hair every few minutes is welcome."
"Do you do this often?" McCoy asked as he waved his hands at the room, the equipment, and the other occupants. He handed her a thermos of tea with honey. "Your throat sounds dry. Drink this."
"Not really, no. I'm not that interesting," Cara said between grateful sips. "But Enterprise is and always has been during her multiple incarnations." She held up a finger before he could respond. "Eric?"
Ensign Torres hustled over.
She continued, "I need more background information on the WWII aircraft carrier christened Enterprise, the first United States space shuttle orbiter named Enterprise after public appeals, and President Archer's early missions on the NX for this afternoon's sit-down. And on his chief medical officer Doctor Phlox, I'm certain the Denobulan anchor will reference their most famous Starfleet officer."
"Yes ma'am, and we pushed the Denobulans back two days," Torres responded before rushing in a different direction.
"Oh and," she called after him, "did you have any luck finding a physical copy of Dr. Phlox's book? It contains passages omitted from the edition in the ship's library."
The ensign turned long enough to respond, "No ma'am. And both of today's afternoon sit-downs are live to tape since they declined submitting their questions in advance." Torres then resumed his errand.
McCoy spoke up. "I have a copy. In my quarters. You can read it if you like." He frowned. "I mean … you don't have to read it in my rooms, but you can borrow it." He quickly added to divert her attention from his rambling, "I require all my medics serving on board the ship read it. And I'd be happy to point out the deleted sections."
"Thank you."
"I'll drop it by your quarters." He smiled. "If you like, I could walk with you to dinner. The Captain's dining room is at the end of a maze of corridors."
"Your offers are appreciated, and I accept both," she said returning the smile.
"Ma'am, we're twenty seconds out," the makeup artist said impatiently.
Cara beckoned him over. As he worked, she remarked to McCoy "I'll never get used to all the siring and ma'aming in Starfleet. It makes me feel ancient, like they are speaking to my grandmother."
"Ancient is good," McCoy winced as the words exited his mouth. Cara suppressed a grin. "I mean, having a few years on you … oh good grief."
Her amusement broke through. "I hate to leave you dangling without a lifeline, but unless you want to be part of the next interview …" she pointed at the camera.
"Hell no. I'm a doctor not a media darling! My face is most definitely not photogenic." McCoy quickly stepped out of camera range.
Oh but you're wrong Doctor, Cara thought.
The tally light switched from green to red.
Cara nodded and said, "Thank you Angela for having me. Yes. Enterprise launches in four days …"