ANOTHER WAY: CHAPTER 7
The Gathering Dark
Sharon, Doral, Leoben, D'Anna and Six all stood around the centre console, star charts and navigational components arrayed around them.
He had told them it was time, and he – Number Two – was ready.
Holding hands, head bent in prayer, all five thanked Him for His blessings and that His will be done before all others.
In turn each looked up and shared a gleam of anticipation that could almost be considered cruelly cold.
It was the voice over the comm, comfortably ensconced in his Heavy Raider with a compliment of eight Centurions, which sealed the fate of Kara Thrace.
Number Two closed the communal prayer with a caustic benediction.
"So say we all."
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In the small hours between the third shift and first shift, sickbay was quiet. Most of the patients were asleep – either naturally or sedated – and the pared down staff spent the time making one last sweep of rounds and filling out end-of-shift paperwork at isolated work stations.
A lone figure slipped past cubicle after cubicle, silent and determined. What he wanted was safely secured in Cottle's office and Cottle's office was where he was going to get what he needed.
A swiftly entered sequence of letters and numbers punched into the key pad to the right of the door, and he was inside. A few quick, efficient strides had him sitting behind the doctor's desk. Considering the short, desktop lamp just inches from where the chair he was sitting in abutted the desk, his problem was solved when he spied a tall medical reference book on a wall-mounted shelf. Reaching for the tome, he spread the bound pages wide and set it between the edge of the desk and the lampshade. It was a perfect screen; he had enough light to read by at the same time it kept his presence to a minimum.
With that done he went to the file cabinet and scanned the labels on each face. The drawer that was second from the bottom he jimmied open. Thumbing through the tabs, he stopped only when he found the file he was looking for before sliding the drawer home.
Taking the file was one thing, but it would only tell him what he already knew – or at least suspected. What he needed to fully understand, to decipher what had been eluding him, was going to be found in Doc Cottle's personal logs. Logs that was very similar to what he and the Commander filled out on a daily basis. Logs that told the human side of every event that happened and allowed personal feelings and thoughts to be given the opportunity to be put to paper rather than bottled up or spoken in the dead of night to a dark room when the possibility of being overheard was slim-to-none. He needed to know more beyond the 'whom', 'what', and 'where'. The Doc's speculations were going to give him the ability to find out 'why', 'how come', and, 'I think this is because…'
He was working with layers, figuratively and literally. The file from the cabinet was layered against the larger log books and on top of those were his pad of paper and pen he was using to take notes.
Taking care to turn the oversized pages as silently as possible, he started with the most recent entries.
Age: twenty-seven: four broken ribs, deflated right lung, dislocated right shoulder, moderate concussion, temporary swelling of the brain, separated stomach lining, non-life threatening contusions spread over twenty-three percent of patient's body. All life saving procedures taken and performed at surgical facility on Battlestar Galactica; Major Cottle was attending. Prognosis: doubtful of survival. If patient is still alive by the end of the week, then it would not be unreasonable to expect full recovery with minimal internal scarring. If patient pulls through and if internal infections do not set in, patient could be returned to flight status in as little as seven weeks, perhaps earlier if all physical therapy and medical protocols are adhered too.
Pulling the log book closer to him, he flipped through the pages until he found a corresponding entry that matched the same time frame as Kara was in sickbay. He was not surprised to see her name in several places over the course of the three weeks she was confined to a bed. He focused on only the sentences that had to do with his mission.
Personal Note: Never a dull moment. Starbuck is back and is in fine form and does not have to be conscious to make her presence known. Not sure she is going to make it this time. She keeps toning and needing to be re-opened.
Personal Note: outbreak of ptomaine poisoning on the Geminon Traveller. No deaths. Just lots of sick people; left instructions for prevention, treatment and will return in thirty-six hours for follow-ups. Found out that the decision to teach both Adamas, Agathon and the young deck specialist how to jump-start Thrace's heart was the right choice to make. If they had waited for me to get back, we would be fitting her for a coffin. Still not sure she is going to make it. She is still bleeding somewhere, and I have not found it yet. Good news is that the antibiotic regimen is working. No sign of infection so far.
Personal Note: Third surgery for Thrace. No time to call Bill or anyone else. White blood cell shot through the roof but I could not find any trace of infection in any of her sutures. Nurse told me that she noticed Thrace's left hand pressing against her left side during one of her agitated states. Followed up and discovered that there was kidney damage I had no idea to look for – looks like a bullet wound. Damn fine work by who ever sewed her up, but the crash separated the barely knit scar tissue. Must keep eye on patient – there is potential for dialysis being required if she ever decides to conceive. Lords help us if Starbuck becomes pregnant. There is no way I am going to subject my staff to a hormonally challenged Starbuck. Speaking of which, must have a conversation with her about the ribbon of scar tissue I found hovering over one of her fallopian tubes and why she only has one ovary.
When did Kara get shot? Why didn't she tell anyone?
Tapping the end of his pen against the pad of paper, the image of Kara limping slightly as she stepped free of the air-lock on the Astral Queen materialized. He had always chalked up to her tweaking her knee while she was on Caprica. A little voice, sounding a lot like Zak, asked him if perhaps what he saw and what was reality could be two different things. The same voice asked why Helo insisted on carrying Kara's pack while they were on Kobal, leaving her with only having to trek through the terrain with the Arrow and her weapon strapped across her back.
Addendum: Patient came back within days of release asking for medication to aid in sleep. Upon being pressed, patient grudgingly admitted to taking it upon herself to sleep in other areas of the ship as to not disturb others as her nightmares were growing more and more uncontrollable. Patient alluded to the possibility of being fired out of a gun turret of the primary batteries as she was running out of places to go. Also, patient hinted that it would be a shame if the stethoscope that hung around my neck somehow found its way up my rectum if I found myself too caught up in rules and regulations to pull my head out of my ass and help her get a little sleep. I had to laugh at that. Ended up giving patient a three week supply with the stipulation that she seeks out someone to talk too as post-traumatic stress is better resolved sooner than later. Also advised that script was non-habit forming – patient seemed particularly adamant that there had to be a non-narcotic option.
He frowned at that entry. She did not like to take anything. For her to seek out the Doc and essentially ask for help would be something she would do to protect others from herself. The only thing that nagged at him was the math: a three week supply from Doc Cottle would have run out by now, unless she was going more than one day at a time without sleep. Considering the rumours of a black-market being in operation within the fleet, Kara would be just the person who could get in, get what she needed and get out without anyone putting Lieutenant Thrace and Kara together. Drawing his eyebrows together, he tried to think like Kara. That did not work. Switching gears, he tried to think like Starbuck. Starbuck could easily justify spreading one nights sleep over two days if it meant that she would keep her secrets and protect those she viewed as her responsibility – which amounted to everyone who flew into battle with her and those she trained – he included.
Age: twenty-seven: right patella restabilization, dehydration, contusions and abrasions associated with ejecting and crash landing at a low altitude. Minor surgery required to clean up damaged cartilage, Major Cottle was attending. Prognosis: after immobilization and pain-management protocols followed by physical therapy, patient is expected to make a full recovery and be returned to flight status. I advised that there was a distinct possibility for general weakness and discomfort in her knee if recommended adequate rest and exercise were not adhered to on a regular basis. Patient informed me that pain told her she was alive.
Personal Note: on pretext of scanning her injury, performed a full body M.R.I. Suspicions confirmed. Test showed many long healed wounds and injuries dating back to childhood. Patient's behaviour is consistent with one who is a survivor of child abuse. I would not be surprised if mental abuse was inflicted during formative years.
Reading Cottle's personal notes about Kara coincided a bit with what he already surmised. There was nothing he could do about her past. That part was up to her. What made him pause was the fact that Cottle made it a point to differentiate between mental and physical abuse. He would have to think about that one, preferably while in close proximity of the punching bag so that when the helplessness and guilt at not being able to protect her swelled to overflowing, there would be a place for those emotions to go.
Closing the log book and putting it back where it came from, Lee picked through the file folder that was still open on the desk. There were more entries, dating all the way back to her stint as an instructor. Facial contusions were probably from fist-fights. A couple of hair-line fractures along her ribs. Moderate concussion from an emergency ejection where the canopy of her bird did not completely break away – that one had him remembering the first time he had to bail from a craft.
The only thing that seemed odd was the fact that she was treated in a Picon military facility at the same time he knew she was teaching Basic Flight on Caprica. It was quite a stretch to travel between the two colonies to the extent that one did not do so on a twenty-four hour pass.
The last pages caught him by surprise. Frowning as he looked over the attached paperwork, the reason why it was included made sense but it was still an irregularity for a civilian medical file to be incorporated into an official military dossier.
Age nineteen: ACL transplant to right knee, complete cartilage transfer as well as patella reconnection. Gross materials obtained from cadaver. Procedure done in Delphi; prognosis for recovery is seventy-three percent. Advised patient that if she continued to play Pyramid, and had another accident to extent of the one she was just operated for, then she could be impaired, to a certain level, for the rest of her life.
Concentrating on the entry, he flipped the page and scanned the back side of the file entry.
Addendum: Patient recovery modified to ninety-five percent. Am very surprised with the results of the physical therapy and must give credit to the patient's tenacity. It is very possible that patient might achieve recovering ninety-eight percent of her mobility and range of motion.
Personal Note: She will never play Pyramid professionally, but there is very little she will not be able to do. Patient asked an interesting question today. She asked if my orthopaedic specialties extended to hands. I told her yes. That is when she asked for an evaluation of her hands and alluded to a series of injuries involving broken fingers. I asked how many, and she said that over time, every finger, including thumbs, had been broken at one point or another. She clarified that playing Pyramid was not a sport for those who wanted to avoid ending up at a Life Station or in a sling at the beginning, middle or end of a game. Performed the tests patient requested; told her that the fractures healed without any long term side affects. Disclosed that there was damage done to the ligaments and tendons that run the length of her fingers and that because of that damage that was why she had an unnatural range of motion in her fingers. Also, tests came back with conclusive evidence of patient being ambidextrous. I explained that the body is a wonderful, thinking machine and that it has a means of self-protection; her body taught her how to be just as right-hand oriented as she was left-hand oriented to keep pain at bay, maintain day-to-day functions and encourage self-preservation. With that kind of skill, being able to switch hands unconsciously, there was very little she would not be able to do and that her response time for anything that required manual dexterity would be maximized because she was not dependant on one hand carrying the burden of whatever it was she would be doing. However, I did explain the caveat: if she pushed herself too far without adequate rest and recovery time, her hands could turn on her and claw up as the ligaments and tendons retracted from over use. I like this woman. She is hell of a player – her game is as cerebral as it is physical. It is a shame to loose her from the college Pyramid circuit. From what the team coach shared, her scholarship was dependant on her playing capabilities.
Lee turned over the last few lines of that doctor's notes in his mind. Sitting back and steepling his fingers, he looked at Starbuck's battle plans and formation deployments from a different point of view. In War College, tactics was a science where needs and objectives were balanced by assets and pre-established outcomes based on prior encounters with the enemy. In sports, tactics was a science where needs and objectives were balanced against assets and previous encounters with the opposing team, but there was a third element that gave depth and a complexity to strategizing for a game: the human factor. War College taught him to use soldiers, pilots and machinery as instruments to create a successful mission. Planning game strategy, it is the players who are the factor in whether victory is won or lost. Where their heads are at – both the opposing side and your own – sets the stage for confrontation. And one player can make a difference. He had seen it himself when going to a game: one player can make the winning shot, one player can set up another to make a shot and the same player can make a sacrifice, take themselves out of play, in order for the over all strategy to work. But also, the players are not locked into one approach; they can adapt with the ebb and flow of a game and make adjustments when necessary. Military exercises are not that flexible, he mused. Sure troops can be redeployed, but only to a certain degree. Ground troops cannot become an air-group if the need arises, where as a Pyramid game can switch up from a running game to an air-dominated game. Starbuck's plans would never have the finesse of what he could pull together in a war room with unlimited resources and proper planning time. But her ability to see into the heads of the enemy and use their own strengths and weaknesses against them while applying military assets full force while keeping the situation elastic made her his peer – without having graduated from War College.
Looking back at the times they spent in the air together, he was only more convinced that he was onto something. She flew – not with a recklessness that others perceived – but with a confidence worthy of the cockiness she belted around her hips that she wielded with the same precision she hefted her side arm. She was the best pilot in the fleet and could probably have been the best pilot in the fleet before the worlds ended for the same reasons. She thought while she flew – she was not locked into one plan of attack or defence. She adapted and changed her tactics as the need arose. She was not confined by power, pitch, roll and yaw. Those were what set her free. Those were the cornerstones of her emancipation. That was how she could fly with only one wing, a blown engine or locked landing gear. And that was why she was such a good flight instructor. And, that was why she was such a self-destructive person. She could lead a group into battle; galvanize pilots and those in authority just by her being in the air or on the other end of the comm system speaking into someone's helmet. But get her on the ground, out her plane, off the Pyramid court, away from being Starbuck or Lieutenant Thrace and Kara was beautiful disaster of her own making. No. Scratch that. A beautiful disaster made of what was done to her and fuelled by making decisions based on how she perceived herself rather than who she could be.
A sudden flash of insight had him sucking in a sharp breath: imagine what Kara would be like if she had Starbuck's confidence? That would be a glitteringly dangerous combination but in the best of ways.
Shaking his head free of that thought but with the promise to re-visit it later, he shuffled through the file, past the medical scans of her nineteen year-old knee and was stopped cold.
Juvenile Records sealed at Patient's Request. Notification of inquiry will be sent to patient for consideration and final approval.
Slouching back in Cottle's chair, he tucked his pen into his jacket pocket and looked at the materials spread out around him. While the documents shared a lot of what went wrong in Kara's life, the sheaf of paper in front of him barely touched the surface of what is good and interesting about her, what makes her an insubordinate officer when having to deal with someone who has not earned her respect, a brilliant pilot, a loaded weapon, or the myriad of other facets that make her the only person he would trust with his life.
The quietness of sickbay made the subtle alarm on his chronometer seem like a ship-wide klaxon sounding.
Sitting up, he gathered up Kara's file and slid it back into place and tucked his notes into the same pocket as his pen. Turning off the light and then putting back the reference book, Lee took one last look around to make sure every was set to rights.
Slipping out of the office and out of the medical wing with all the skills he came away with from a Silent Manoeuvres class, he headed towards the brig on D level.
Someone should be waking up right about now and wanting a morning run before coffee.
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