Madison came out of darkness slowly, to a pounding pain
in his head and the dull ache of his muscles. That can't be
fucking right, he thought. Death isn't supposed to fucking
*hurt*, surely!
He moved one hand cautiously, felt sheets that were cool
and clean away from the heat of his body. Opened his eyes to a dim
lighting, a bulkhead above him that didn't look quite right. The
wrong colour. Too clean. He turned his head
and saw the room he was in was clearly someone's personal
quarters - the furnishings and ornaments made that clear,
although they had been pushed to the side to accommodate
half a dozen stretchers and the room was, anyway, too big even
for a captain's quarters on any of the ships Madison had ever
been on.
He was the only one awake. Off to one side he could see
the little red-headed boy, Brand, Brandy the others called him,
curled up and sleeping the way only the truly young can -
without dreams. That pretty little security officer,
Shimona, the one the other crew told him was a ball-buster
(well, not that any fucking Starfleet officer would use such
*coarse* language) was there as well. Others he didn't
recognise. And a chair, a chair Madison would never have
expected to see in space, a rocking chair of the same
simple design that he might have chosen himself, back in the days
on Meteran when he had been the sort of man who might
make furniture. In the chair, chin resting on his chest, a slight
figure with blood on his clothes, chest rising and falling in
the even rhythm of sleep.
Madison was not used to feeling safe, and he wouldn't
have ever thought that a rangy old man in a blood stained
Starfleet uniform would give him any sense of security,
but something about that sleeping figure let him know that it
was, at least temporarily, all right. That nothing very bad
could happen to him, to any of them, while that man was
there. Madison lay and watched the other sleep, and after
a moment (although Madison would have sworn he hadn't
moved, hadn't made a sound) the man took a longer breath, and
raised his head, and opened his eyes.
"How do you feel, son?"
Caught in the bluest, fiercest gaze he'd ever seen, Madison
said cautiously: "I'll live, I think. Bit of a head." His
throat hurt when he spoke.
"That's oxygen starvation." the man told him, getting up
with the slow care of one whose body had, just recently, gone
its limit. "I'm Dr McCoy. You didn't have any ID on you, but
Brandy here told me your name was Madison."
"That's right."
"No first name, Mr Madison?"
"No mister, either. Just Madison."
"Well, just Madison, I'll get you something for your head.
And then, when I've checked you over, you'll be moved to
somewhere more comfortable now you've finished giving
us a scare. Hold still, now. You aren't afraid of hypos, are
you?"
Madison snorted. "Doctor, there are too damn many other
things in the universe to worry about."
"You'd be surprised how many otherwise brave men don't
think that way." The hypospray hissed. "That should work in a
minute. You can sit up now, if you want."
Sitting up was better, Madison thought. It's hard for a man
to be in control of the situation when he's flat on his back.
Something was wrong, though, something was odd- he
identified it. There was no thong on his neck, no amulet sliding over
his chest beneath his shirt when he moved. A moment of
panic, and he surged to his feet only to have the doctor take his
arm.
"Sit up, I said, not stand up." McCoy pushed him back to
the bed. "There's no need for you to do anything. The
Enterprise intercepted the Lady Grace and brought off everyone
aboard her. We have her in tow now, or so they tell me - I'm a
doctor, not a space tug pilot, and I wouldn't know tow
from tractor. But everything's all under control and you are
under doctor's orders to have a nice, long rest. Brandy and
the others tell me you've all been performing heroic feats
of engineering and I'm sure you'll get a vote of thanks from
the Fleet at some point, but in the meantime you've got
something you need more, which is firm instructions to take it easy."
"My ship -"
"Is perfectly safe for the moment and there's nothing you
can do about her anyhow."
Madison touched the empty space at his neck. "Did you
get everyone off?"
"All the crew. They aren't all here, of course, because
there's only so many stretchers you can fit in one person's
quarters. John Lim is down in sickbay proper, too, he had
a stress fracture we needed to take care of. The rest are all
over the place."
"Uh huh." Madison took a deep breath. "Well, I surely
thought we were fucked for good and certain."
McCoy looked at him, eyes narrowed, and Madison
couldn't look away. For a moment he thought the doctor was going
to say something like - You didn't have an oxygen mask
on when they brought you out, sonny. Or - What is that thing
you hung around Lieutenant Larssen's neck? And he
would have to answer, not just any short answer but he would
have to tell all of the truth, all of it, in the light of those
eyes like lasers. Those eyes that stripped away every
defence he'd built and saw him as he was.
And if that happened, it would make it meaningless that he
had finally, after years of seeing her name come and go on
the shipping lists, always (no matter how fucking hard he
tried) not quite at the same time, the same place as him. It
would make it meaningless that he had given up ten years,
ten years that included the last five years of his father's life
and the last nine years of his mother's. It would make it
fucking *meaningless* that the gods had finally smiled
down on him after a decade of shitting on him from a great
height, and he was finally here, on board the Enterprise, where he
most needed to be.
Madison set his teeth and met that stare.
"I'll have you moved to crew quarters." McCoy said, and
turned away.
Christine Chapel heard a thump from the other room and
got wearily to her feet. Lord, she was tired. She'd insisted Len
go off shift for a few hours when she got back from her
own break, but knowing the doctor, and knowing that his
quarters held half-a-dozen of the less seriously injured, she
doubted he'd get any more rest than she was, cat napping in her
chair here in the briefing room that had been stripped out to
serve as an additional sickbay.
Before she could reach the door, there was another thud,
and then Corrina Larssen appeared. She fetched up against the
door-frame and stared at Chapel.
"What time is it?"
"Nineteen hundred hours." Chapel said automatically.
"Larssen, you aren't supposed to be up."
"No, what *time* is it?" Larssen asked urgently. Chapel
went to her and took her arm but Larssen shook her off, staring
at her. "What *time* is it? What *time*?"
"It's nineteen hundred, Larssen. Come on, lean on me."
"No, what time is it? What *time*? What *time*?"
Larssen grabbed Chapel's arm. "What *time* is it?"
Chapel realised that Larssen wasn't asking *her* that
question, wasn't seeing *her* at all. The lieutenant's eyes
were blank, a slight frown on her face.
"Larssen." she said. "Larssen, you're safe. Wake up.
Larssen, it's me, Chris. Wake up."
"What *time* is it?" Larssen begged. "What *time*?"
"It's nineteen hundred hours, Stardate 1649.2." Chapel
said. "Larssen, you're on the Enterprise. Larssen, wake up.
Wake up."
"1649.2 -" Larssen said distantly. "No, that's wrong.
That's wrong, dammit, it's wrong! We don't *have* that much
time? How many hours? How many hours? What *time* is it?"
Chapel took her by the shoulders, shook her gently.
"Everything's over." she said. "We picked you up. We
picked you up. Come on, now. It's okay. You're safe."
Larssen looked at her then, coming out of her waking
nightmare. "Christine?" she asked. "What -?"
"The Enterprise intercepted the Lady Grace yesterday.
We got you off. You're safe."
"Got us - got who? Who, Chris?"
"All of you." Chapel said. "All the crew. Every one of
you."
"And the refugees?"
"Not all of them." Chapel said. "There were - injuries - I
don't know if you knew, but the section seals had closed.
Life support was going. One section had been vented to
vacuum. We brought off just under four hundred."
Sagging against the doorframe, Larssen rubbed her face,
and then her hand went to the thong around her neck. Chapel
saw a brief glimpse of a small wooden ornament on the
necklace, and then Larssen's hand closed tightly over it.
"There were more than us as crew." Larssen said. "Did
they - there were civilian crew. Did they make it?"
"All I've been told," Chapel said, "is that we got all the
crew off."
"I have to go and see." Larssen said.
'You have to lie down, right now, or I'll sedate you."
Chapel said.
"When I check-"
"Larssen, I am not Dr McCoy. I am not bluffing you. Lean
on me and let me help you back to bed."
Then Larssen did give in, and let Chapel help her back
across the room to lie down. She didn't need sedation: as
Chapel pulled the sheet over her Larssen was already out.
Chapel stood for a moment and watched her. Moments
like these were her favourite, despite the weariness that made
her eyes ache. A patient, on the way to healing, out of danger.
The Lady Grace had been a nightmare when they beamed
aboard: there had hardly been a single person on her who hadn't
needed medical attention. Even the three hundred or so
refugees who hadn't joined the riot and who had been safe
in cargo with priority on life-support had been suffering
oxygen deprivation, mild CO2 poisoning, by the time the
Enterprise had picked up that distress signal and changed
course to intercept. Changed course so hard and fast Scotty's
squawk had been heard for three decks, and lunged across the
remaining light-years that separated the two ships, while
Chapel and McCoy and M'Benga and Lia Burke had
brought the emergency medical teams up from 'stand-by' to 'full
ready'. They hadn't needed the EVA suits, and that had been a
mercy, for hard shells were clumsy to work in and cost precious
time on every action.
Fastening the oxygen mask with steady fingers, Chapel
had waited her turn to be beamed aboard, and had been with
the third party in. A corridor, unconscious bodies on the
floor, a sealed door and her tricorder reading life-signs on the
other side - one steady, one fading even as she looked.
"Get it down." she had snapped to Kevuthi, grateful that
the Sulamid had been included in her team. Kevuthi had not
bothered working on the door controls, trying to override
the lock. His main handling tentacles had ripped it straight
out of its housing, for even doors designed to resist
decompression and explosions were no match for a
Sulamid in a hurry.
The sight of a starfleet uniform - barely recognisable as
such, torn and dirty as it was- on one of the figures had
taken Chapel across the room at a run. She hated to admit
it, because she wanted to believe that she was a healer
before she was an officer, but the sight of one of their own
in trouble always managed to call up greater speed and
greater strength than she'd thought she had. Recognising
Larssen under the oxygen mask had been a shock, but one
she'd managed to override when her tricorder told her that the
fading life reading was not coming from Larssen but the
figure beside her.
Not Starfleet, not even Starfleet in civilian clothes, Chapel
knew on the instant, a thousand tiny clues like dirt
ingrained in calluses that had mounted up over years and a
tiny scar by his eye that a Fleet surgeon would have erased
in minutes telling her she was dealing with one of the
merchant fleet here. His eyes had been open, eyes so blue
they seemed out of place in his face, eyes the colour of the
summer sea and nothing like any colour you saw in space.
His eyes had been open, and he had tried to speak, and then
she had seen the muscles of his face go slack all at once, the
intelligence fade from his eyes, heard the dull rattle in his
throat.
The mask had fought her like it was alive as she pulled it
away from her face and bent down. She had forced all the
air in her lungs through his slack lips and then taken one
quick gasp of clean air before clamping the mask over his face.
Kevuthi had been there, getting a spare mask over her face
and fastening it with the tender grace his minor tentacles
were capable of.
"Respirator." he had said, offering it, bracing the
convulsing body between them with one tentacle and
slipping the mask clear for Chapel to get the
respirator's tube through the man's lips. "Got it."
Freeing her to turn away and snatch the hypospray
from her kit, dialling the dosage with the
professional speed Chapel always surprised herself
with, slapping it against her patient's neck and
reaching for her comm. even as she pressed the button
and the drug hissed in.
"Evac, Kev plus one, now!" she snapped through the
muffling mask, and watched the two figures fade into
glitter before turning to Larssen.
Larssen had been no emergency. Larssen had been out,
deeply, but she had a mask on and she was in no
immediate danger. Chapel had been uneasy about that,
had not understood how it happened that a Starfleet
officer was in no danger with a civilian dying by her
side, and had buried it in her report so deep in
medicalese she hoped it would not be noticed. They
had got Larssen out, evacuated the unconscious bodies
from the corridor, and Chapel had called the bridge
to tell them there were Enterprise crew aboard the
Lady Grace. Triaging the injured on deck 4, she had
heard the good news that Janice Rand had been found
safe and well and the rest of the Enterprise crew on
the Lady Grace were conscious and talking to their
rescuers over the comm. In the middle of the
desolation that was Beta 9 section, deck 3 - the
walls charred with fire, bodies mutilated by
decompression on the floor - someone had thought to
tell her that the man she had beamed out of
engineering was the Lady Grace's chief engineer and
third mate, that Janice Rand had identified him in
sickbay, and that he was going to live.
~Most of them had lived.~
Chapel leaned against the corner of Larssen's sickbed
and watched over her patient until her own eyes
closed with weariness and she slept, standing with
her arms folded, her head nodding to her chest.