Alpha quadrant
Zeva system
Peretal, Zeva V

"Dr. Paris," Dr. Rex Jackson said with a nod as he walked by, headed for the supply crates in the emergency field hospital the team had erected upon landing hours before. "How are you doing?"

"I've had better days," Dr. Abbey Paris admitted, running the osteoregenerator over the leg of a small Zevian boy.

Dr. Jackson watched silently as she worked for a minute before speaking again. "What's your MOT?" he asked, referring to the maximum operational time, the number of hours a physician could work, taking only short meal and bathroom breaks, before losing the ability to make good medical decisions and provide effective treatment. Working beyond an individual's MOT put patients at risk; if caught, a physician could have his or her license suspended. Every five years, Starfleet physicians had to report to Starfleet Medical for MOT testing to maintain their certifications.

"Twenty-eight hours," she reported, smiling down at the young boy before moving on to the next patient. A few cots down, Dr. Alex Kellogg gave a low whistle.

"Must be nice to be young," he commented. "Mine's eighteen. I have MOT testing next year, they'll probably decrease it again. What's yours, boss?"

"Fifteen," Dr. Jackson admitted. "Mine was never anywhere near twenty-eight."

"Klingons don't need as much sleep as humans," Dr. Paris said. "We had a Vulcan in my class. Her MOT was seventy-three hours. Would be nice to have her here now."

"We had a Tyrellian in my class," Dr. Kellogg offered. "His MOT was seven and a half hours. I'm glad he's not here."

Paris chuckled. "What kind of field do you go into if you can't even work eight hours before risking killing a patient?"

"Psychiatry," Kellogg replied, moving on to another patient. "At least, that's what Werin went into. He could see three patients for an hour each, take three hours off, work another three hours, take another three off, for days in a row. In times of crisis, he'd work for seven hours and take four off. Doesn't sound like a bad system, actually."

"Not for me," Paris declared. "I'd much rather be doing this. I don't think I'd make much of a psychiatrist." Kellogg smiled widely at her words. Paris guessed he was imagining a part-Klingon psychiatrist and how that would go, but he kept his mouth shut.

"Regardless of how much you're enjoying this, Dr. Paris, don't over do it. I know you can work effectively for twenty-eight hours, but try to keep it below twenty-four. We don't know how long we're going to be down here, and I don't want you burning out," Jackson said.

She nodded, knowing better than to argue. "Sure," she replied. She smiled thinly at him before moving on to the next patient, a Zevian male who looked like he would have been in his early to mid twenties had he been human, making him around sixteen or seventeen in Federation Standard years. "Hi," she said with a smile, scanning him with a tricorder. "I'm Dr. Abbey Paris from the U.S.S. James T. Kirk. What's your name?"

"Anuj Saime Peretal," he said weakly, grimacing and holding his side in pain.

"So you're from here," she said conversationally, focusing her exam over his abdomen.

"You're familiar with Zevian names," he said appreciatively.

She smiled and nodded, loading her hypospray with a local anesthetic. "My first roommate at the Academy was Zevian. Ezera Isquis Taru."

"Taru is on the northern continent," Saime said. "That's a long way from here. I have never been, but I've heard it's beautiful." He said it with a note of hopefulness, as if trying to please her with his knowledge of the region her roommate hailed from. Paris remembered that, likely related to their different brain anatomy, Zevians seemed to have an almost child-like need for acceptance. When she first met Ezera, she confused that willingness to please for lower intelligence, which was far from the truth. She, like many Zevians, had a nearly eidetic memory, remembering almost everything she had read or been told; she just didn't always think well for herself.

"She used to talk about the waterfalls in the mountains," Paris commented, still scanning his abdomen. "She said they're the most beautiful pink in the summer." She grinned, remembering what might have been the only good conversation she had with her freshman roommate. "Most people on Earth don't understand Zevian names. She was called Cadet Taru more often than not in the beginning. Almost a year went by before her official file was changed to reflect that Isquis was her family name."

Saime nodded, his purple eyes finally clearing as the pain eased. "There aren't many Zevians in Starfleet. I can understand why they were confused. What is she doing now?"

Paris paused, the hands holding medical equipment stilled over his abdomen. "She died during the Nygleian attacks on Earth," she said quietly.

"I'm sorry," Saime said. "Were you friends?"

"We were roommates and teammates," Paris said. "But I wouldn't say that we were friends." Her work on his abdomen complete, she decided it was time for one of her quick meal breaks, grabbing a ration bar from the supply container and pulling up a chair next to Saime's cot.

"Teammates? What sport did you play?"

"It's an Earth sports, gymnastics. Have you heard of it?" Saime shook his head. "It involves aerobatics—flips and twists on various pieces of equipment. It helps to be small, but you also have to be strong and flexible. Ezera was good. I underestimated her at first, but Zevian physiology proved me wrong."

He nodded. "We may not be as tall as many other species, but Zevians are highly agile. We're stronger than we look. I'm not surprised your teammate excelled at the sport. Athletics are an important part of our culture. I may not know much about your gymnastics," he said apologetically, "but I have played several sports throughout my life. There was a Vajhaq game here at this stadium, the collegiate championships. I'm a forward on my team. At least, I was. I don't suppose there's enough left of my team to compete again." He sighed deeply, a sad expression on his small face. "My fiancée was watching the game. Her brother was on the opposing team. We had laughed about which team she would cheer for. She said she would cheer for both." He smiled slightly at the memory before turning to Paris. "Is there any way of finding her, or at least, finding if she is still alive? Savin Colbee Peretal?"

Paris took a deep breath to try to compose herself before standing. "I'll go look into it," she said, forcing what she hoped resembled a smile. Before he had the chance to notice the change, she excused herself, moving quickly away from his cot.

"Hey, Paris, do you have a minute?" Dr. Salvon asked, seeing the petite physician move hastily away. Paris raised her hand slightly, her index finger extended, indicating that she needed a minute.

There was a small area to the side of the emergency field hospital that was all but deserted. Abbey stood there, leaning against the building, the knuckle of her thumb between her clenched teeth, her breath coming in shaky gasps. "Kahless," she breathed, sliding down the wall until she was crouched on the ground, hot tears escaping from tightly closed eyes, her body wracked in silent sobs.

After a few minutes, she took a couple of deep breaths and opened her eyes, focusing on the skyline just outside the stadium. She wiped her cheeks dry with the heels of her hands and stood. "Enough of that," she whispered. "You're a doctor, a Starfleet officer. Start acting like one."