Christopher Pike sat in the Captain's chair; monitoring his ship's status as well the stream of information he was receiving. They were less than an hour away from Earth and naturally, the crew were restless with anticipation. Pike's mind wondered to Jim Kirk. He had been making relatively good progress; his weight had increased so that he now looked considerably underweight instead of starved. The lacerations on his body were still prominent, though many had scarred and the number of red, unhealed wounds was few. The same could not be said for his personality however as he continued to treat anyone who wasn't Pike or his kids with stony coldness and wary suspicion. To J.T every, and any person was a potential enemy and therefore a threat regardless, who they were. Pike's thoughts were brought back to reality when his helmsman alerted him to the fact that they had been granted permission to make port.
They were about to return back to Earth and Pike knew if would also be the beginning of a new set of problems and questions for Jim Kirk. He hoped the youngster would be ok; he wouldn't be able to visit him for a while due to his responsibilities and duties as a Starfleet Lieutenant but after all the paperwork and meetings were done he'd visit the scruffy blonde, blue eyed boy.
The nurses smiled, the doctors smiled, the workers smiled, the adults smiled.
Everyone smiled.
J.T found it sickening.
How could they be so happy, when thousands of people had died? He wondered this as he was transported through a hospital with a group of other survivors – those who required medical had been split into small groups and admitted into different hospitals so as not to burden one facility with an overload of patients. Another perfume drenched nurse beamed as she herded the survivors into a large room full of beds neatly arranged in rows. Home sweet home thought JT, better than living with Frank anyway. He was assigned to a bed and scanned with a tricorder to ensure that he didn't require urgent attention, then attached to an IV, which pumped him full of nutrients and other supplements that struggled to raise his pitifully low weight. JT leaned against the headboard of his bed, eyes constantly darting around his surroundings. Missing nothing.
There were roughly thirty beds in the room. J.T knew that their group had been split in half so it was safe to assume that sixty survivors had been relocated to the hospital he was in. He wondered whether any of them were his kids; he hoped so.
Leonard McCoy fidgeted nervously as he waited in the hallway with a handful of other volunteers. They had all offered their ranging medical skills to help the local hospital with a group of people who had recently arrived from Tarsus IV. As of last week, everyone on Earth knew of the massacre and famine that had raged that fateful planet and everybody was doing the best they could to support Starfleet and the survivors of Tarsus IV.
A Starfleet medical officer entered the hallway and lectured the volunteers of their specific instructions. Once he was finished and confirmed that everybody understood, he led them down the hallway and into a spacious room. McCoy's mouth opened slightly agape as he swept his gaze around the rows of hospital beds occupied by broken looking people – all who were school-aged children and teenagers. Most had physical injuries and all were extremely underweight. He estimated that there were at least four patients to every medically trained person in the room.
As numerous as the people were, the room was eerily quiet. Of course, there was the usual low hum of noise as few people conversed but not the typical roar you would expect from a crowded hospital ward.
Nyota Uhura followed the Starfleet Linguistics officer through the corridors of the medical clinic, bubbling with anticipation. She was still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that she had been asked to aid one of the hospitals sheltering the survivors of Tarsus IV. At first she was hesitant; she was still young, only a teenager really and she questioned the authenticity of the offer but once she was assured that she had been favored because of her young age as well as her exceptional talent for languages she accepted the opportunity to practice her skill – most of the survivors at this hospital were teenagers and Starfleet decided that it would be easier for the patients if they conversed with someone of similar age.
Language was a metaphorical border; it caused friction and confusion. Not all survivors from Tarsus IV spoke a common language, which had proven to be extremely problematic for Starfleet when they rescued the remaining inhabitants of the planet. Hence, Linguistics or Exolinguists were a crucial resource to Starfleet and required still, even on Earth.
'Uhura – yes?'
Nyota looked up at the Linguistics officer.
'My first name is Nyota, sir,' she corrected.
The officer nodded, understanding her statement.
'I hope you won't mind me referring to you as Uhura; in Starfleet we acknowledge each other by out last, not first names'.
Uhura quickly nodded.
'Of course, sir,' she replied hastily.
The officer's smile widened in gentle amusement. He glanced at the door they were standing beside and it suddenly grew serious.
'Ok, Uhura – here's what we need to do. Behind this door is a room full of patients suffering from injuries inflicted on Tarsus IV. We only need to make verbal contact with those without English as their native language. Be extremely careful of what you say – ensure that it is not a trigger or offensive in anyway to what these patients have endured. Do you understand what I am telling you?'
Uhura nodded again. Important instructions delivered – the officer's face softened once more.
'Good, we'll go inside now and you can converse with the patients – answer any of their questions and translate their statements or questions for the doctors and nurses'.
The linguistics officer entered the activation code and the door slid open. He gestured inwards and Uhura timidly entered the room, followed by her supervisor.
Spock trailed beside his mother, observing the environment of this new room he had just entered – more so a hall due to it's large size. Amanda Greyson had been temporarily employed by the local hospital to educate the children residing in this ward. Her son, Spock had been allowed entry to help his mother or socialize with the other children should he choose to do so. Normally, unauthorized teenagers weren't allowed to see the survivors of the Tarsus IV massacre but Spock was a Vulcan and so the hospital had easily agreed to Amanda's inquiry when Spock had expressed his interest of the human education system to his mother. He hoped to learn more of the emotional race the other Vulcan's teased him of and the logical age group to observe were adolescents – the most emotional life stage of a human being – or so his research suggested.
'Mummy, look! He's got pointy ears!'
A wide-eyed toddler tugged on the elbow of his mother's sleeve. His embarrassed parent was quick to hush her child and throw a sympathetic expression to Spock's mother. It was ironic; on Vulcan he was shunted for his human half but on earth, his Vulcan side was his social downfall.