Written for Whumptober No. 08: Overcrowded ER (Sickbay), even though it's not really much whump
He's still picking himself up off his office floor when the shaking finally stops. Every light on the wall is flashing bright red, there's a siren going off somewhere down the corridor, and he can hear the explosive noise of half-a-dozen comm channels bursting into life just outside the door, indicating the immediate need for Medical attention in multiple parts of the ship.
Hauling himself to his feet and taking two precious seconds to ascertain that nothing hurts other than his elbow where he slammed it into the desk on the way down, he heads out into the outer ward and stops dead for a second at the sight of the barely restrained chaos erupting like a detonation with the main doors as the epicenter. There's a dozen crewmen on the floor in varying expressions of pain and/or vomiting into the nearest receptacle, ten of his nursing staff are trying to triage more serious injuries on the fringe, every bed he can see is already full, and it looks like there's a line forming in the corridor, good god.
"Bridge to Sickbay," the high-priority channel screeches into life behind him with a jarring, shrill whine of interference. Something's obviously affecting their comms.
"Someone comm the on-call staff and get them down here!" he bellows at the top of his formidable lungs, and he sees a scrubs-clad arm wave at him in acknowledgment somewhere in the knot of chaos slowly untangling ten meters away. "Bridge, this is McCoy. What's going on up there?"
"Doctor." Uhura's voice is alarmingly breathless, although the words are still calm and clear. "Medical's needed on the Bridge."
"Specifics, please, Lieutenant." He waves dramatically to get the attention of the nearest nurse, who in turn gestures toward the two vomiting crewmen at their feet with an Are you serious, sir? look, and then promptly ignores him in favor of caring for the patients.
The noise in the corridor is growing, and that's never a good sign, especially on the Sickbay deck.
"We're not sure what happened yet, Doctor. We…ugh."
"Easy, Lieutenant." That's Jim's voice, and he sounds equal parts pissed-off and worried, which is an even worse sign. "You gonna pass out on me?"
"No, sir. I'm fine."
"Bullshit. At least put your head down for a second and breathe, half the channels are jammed anyway. Bones, is that you?"
"I'm here. Jim, what happened?"
"I don't know yet, and we can't reach Engineering. We got hit by a pulse of some kind and it knocked us clear out of the warp corridor. We're lucky the forced exit didn't just snap the nacelles off the ship. I – Spock, sit your ass back down, right now! Jesus." His voice calms slightly, nearer now to the comm. "I need someone up here ASAP, Bones. The whole bridge crew's either unconscious or probably should be, and we have a few injuries. What do we look like below decks, do you know?"
"I'm guessing the same. Already way beyond capacity in Sickbay and it looks like it's getting worse by the minute. It could be a few before I can get someone up there for medical attention. Give me a symptom rundown."
"I…it's what?" A beat of scratchy static before he returns. "Spock says it was a low-frequency sound pulse, but at an intensity we've never seen before. Came from a nearby star system and broadsided us."
"That explains the vomiting and dizziness, it'd wreak havoc on the inner ear in most carbon-based lifeforms. Hold on a second while I grab a portable comm, Jim." He heads back to his office, grabs the communicator, straps it to his wrist and returns to the outer ward, talking on it as he picks his way through the chaos toward medical storage. "Okay, go ahead. Unconsciousness and dizziness, nausea?"
"Or some combination of them, yeah. Nobody seriously hurt yet, I don't think, although Sulu cracked his head on the console when he passed out. He's conscious now, not bleeding or anything. The Engineering station kind of…overloaded. Lieutanant Mirala says she's fine, only minor burns. But we need help, Bones."
"My entire staff is either unconscious or in the middle of immediate triaging, Jim. If it hit the whole ship, we have upwards of eight hundred fifty people in need of treatment, and 90% of them won't be able to make it down to Sickbay. Unless there's someone in need of serious attention, I need to stay here. I can send someone up with a medical scanner and anti-nausea or painkiller for everyone, though."
"Understood. We can hold out if need be, we're dead in space right now anyhow. Not – not going anywhere."
That last was a little breathless, and followed by a not quite distinguishable noise like a painful swallow. "Jim, are you all right?"
"As much as anyone else up here, yeah," is the quiet response, though McCoy can hear the steely thread of command determination that never fails to frighten him, just a bit. He tosses a medical scanner into a container along with a dozen hyposprays.
"Are you lying to me?"
"No. I puked on my chair, though. That's not exactly helping anyone." McCoy hears a very distant rumble of voices, and then a low laugh. Good, that does seem to indicate it's not critical, at least. "Just toss a case of stimulants in the turbolift and send it up, take care of the crew below. Don't worry about us."
"Nobody up there is getting a stimulant without a medical exam first, but I can send you all a dose of prochlorperazine to help with the vertigo. One per crewman only, Jim."
"Bones, someone has to stay on their feet up here. That pulse was too intense to be naturally occurring. It could be a weapon of some kind, and even if it's not, we have no idea where we are until navigation comes back online."
"Fine, I'll see what I can do. But I'm trusting you to be sensible, here. If something changes, let me know immediately."
"Copy that."
"And have Spock send me the information on the pulse, I need to know exactly what we're dealing with in case the frequency affects any species aboard differently. If he has anyone to spare in the labs, I'm probably going to need them to head to Bio-Replication to get a head start on producing synthetic prochlorperazine, we don't keep that much stock on hand."
"Yes, I got it, sir." That's Uhura's voice, and she sounds slightly steadier than a moment ago. "He's sending it now, Doctor, and telling the labs to divert any available personnel to replication immediately and wait for further instructions from you. What do you want me to tell the rest of the crew? The emergency shipwide is the only broadcast channel still functional."
"Unless they're seriously hurt, they need to stay put and manage the symptoms. Lie down, take it easy if they can, stay hydrated if they're vomiting, and we'll send someone out deck by deck, starting with Engineering and working our way forward. Hold on a second."
He snags a harried-looking but relatively steady blueshirt by one arm as they move past him toward the door, and shoves the carton into their startled hands. "You feeling all right now, Ensign?"
Surprised to be so addressed by the CMO, the young man stammers for a second but soon snaps to attention. "Yes, Doctor! Just needed a shot and I'm back to my post, sir."
"You got any medical or first aid training?"
"Beta level Search and Rescue on Sol III, yes, sir."
"That'll do. Take this up to the Bridge, override all other stops." He points at the medical scanner sitting on one side of the box. "Scanner, just turn it on and it'll do the rest. Make sure nobody up there's seriously hurt, and if they are, call me."
"Aye, sir."
"Anti-nausea for humanoid," he points at the majority of the marked hyposprays, "and non-humanoid. They're labeled, read 'em before you hand them to anyone. And these," he points to the two odd ones out, "stimulants for the captain and first officer only. Understood?"
"Yes, sir. Understood."
"Report back to me when you're done, your post is in Medical now. Okay, someone from Microbiology is on their way to you," he says into the comm, as the young ensign scurries from the room, a look of determination on his face. "If the number of patients I have right now is any indication, we're going to need to turn every room on this deck into triage and recovery. Anyone with first aid training can help by taking control of their deck and sending me a list of casualties, serious or otherwise. Keep the corridors as clear as possible."
"Yes, sir. I'll tell them to clear the comm channels too, unless they're in need of immediate assistance. I haven't seen any damage reports yet, but I'll forward those to you when I get them."
"Good. Hopefully I'll have a better report in a couple hours."
"Understood." She sounds tired. "Thank you, Doctor."
"And take it easy, Lieutenant."
A hum of half-amused agreement. "There's not much else for us to do, right now. The captain really does seem to be fine," she adds, in a much quieter tone. "He's working out a reverse trajectory for the pulse with Chekov now. We'll be all right."
"Thank you. I'll still feel better when I can see for myself." An alarm starts ringing on a bio-bed in the inner ward, and he sighs. "I got work to do. Call me if something changes."
"Understood. Bridge out."
Almost ten very long hours later, he's dumping another batch of used hypospray cartridges into the recycling chute when the outer door opens for the twentieth time in the last hour, despite the fact that it's after ship's midnight. The fact that this is a drastic improvement on the rest of the day, is not really encouraging at this point.
When is it going to end?
Praying for patience, if not a second wind, he turns around to see Jim Kirk staring around the disorganized outer ward, eyes wide and bright blue against a gold shirt torn at the shoulder seam. He's half-supporting one unsteady Vulcan, who looks at the same time a little too pale and way too green, even for him. His eyes are half-closed against the light, though they open fully when Jim stops moving.
"Holy shit." The captain looks down the bustling side corridors and still in-use recovery rooms, then back at him. "This is ten hours after impact? What did it look like when it happened?"
"You can tell time, congratulations. Spock, you look like hell, what's going on."
"Thank you, Doctor." Well, the eyeroll and corresponding sass is at least situation normal, even if the motion seems to immediately exacerbate the obvious nausea. "I would appreciate a medical evaluation at your convenience."
That's a little alarming. If it wasn't serious enough to come down before now, it must not be critical, but it's not encouraging to see this particularly stubborn crewman actively seeking out medical treatment.
"You all right with it being in my office? It's that or no privacy in a shared cubicle, right now. We're still at full capacity and 8% overflow."
"The office would be preferable. However, it is certainly not urgent, if you have more pressing patients to attend to."
"You haven't stopped dry heaving for the last four hours and you just about passed out in the turbolift, this isn't 'minor discomfort due to disturbance of the tympanic membrane'," Jim snaps, clearly at the end of his patience with Vulcan understatement. "Go lie down in the office and wait for him."
Spock looks indignant at what he clearly sees as a betrayal of his own physiology and his commanding officer, but after a moment, seems to see something in Jim's face which shuts him up completely. McCoy's a little impressed.
"Lie down, put your feet up and I'll be there in a minute," he calls unnecessarily, as Spock wobbles toward the office door unsupported. "It probably is just an inner ear thing," he then says in reassurance. "The stimulant I gave you two cancels out the effectiveness of the vertigo treatment, but it's the only thing I had on hand that doesn't react badly against copper-based blood. Probably why it got worse a few hours ago. I'm sure he's fine."
Jim nods, though he still looks uneasy.
"Anyone else up there I need to worry about, other than Sulu and Mirala? They got released about an hour ago."
"I don't think so. Everyone's been rotated out and should be recovering in their cabins, unless they came down here. Most of them seemed to be fine after a few hours. Vertigo wore off and we didn't get hit again, thank goodness."
"You know Engineering finally came back online just before 2200, right?"
"Yeah, they let us know immediately. No serious damage to anything but comms and sensors, but because it was comms and sensors, we still have no precise idea where that pulse came from or if we can communicate with whatever created it. But nothing else has happened, so hopefully that means it was just a freak accident on our end, and not a weapon on the other. Damage reports?"
"Every crewman has been seen or accounted for, the two of you were the last I hadn't got confirmation on. Seven hundred and four required medical assistance, thirty-eight serious injuries due to dizziness, mostly broken bones and head injuries from falling. The fact that it wasn't worse is basically a miracle, given how many people were on catwalks in Engineering at the time. Nothing critical, and we should be done with the last surgery in…ten minutes, thereabouts."
"Geez, that's still like, the whole ship to examine in that amount of time. How are you still standing?"
"I'm fine, Jim. My office is medically soundproofed, so the pulse never really registered with me." He slams the door of the recycling chute a little harder than intended, and a blonde eyebrow crawls up its owner's forehead. "Don't start. I'm just ready for this day to be over."
"Technically, it is," Jim points out, indicating the chronometer on the wall. "And you've been up for what, almost forty hours straight? Can you even hold a hypo steady right now?"
"Would you like me to demonstrate on you? Because I can."
"Easy. I'm just asking."
"Why do you think one of my surgical staff is finishing in there and not me, Jim. No, I can't." He sighs, and tosses the dead scanner he only now realizes he's been carrying around into the charging cabinet, making an absent note to come back later and make sure it hit its magnetic charger properly. "But I got a Vulcan to go examine, and then I need an hour before I'll have a full report for you. You got to wait for a full debrief."
"Like hell I'd debrief you before you get some sleep. That's not happening."
He snorts, amused despite the exhaustion threatening to tow him under. "This isn't the Bridge. You're not in charge in here, Jim."
"No, I'm not," Jim agrees cheerfully. "Yo, Christine!"
"Oh, come on!"
Chapel peers around the corner of a Sickbay cubicle, and favors Jim with terrifying glare. "You called, sir?"
The captain beams angelically in response. "He's about tapped out," he says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder in McCoy's direction. "Can you do the honors?"
Her annoyance fades into slightly more mollified amusement. "I've been trying to boot him for an hour," she replies, looking pointedly over Jim's shoulder at the disgruntled CMO. "It'd be a pleasure, Captain. We have this under control."
"Traitor," McCoy mutters.
He'd originally been a little wary of accepting Chapel's application for posting on the Enterprise, given that she has history with Jim and remains friends with Carol Marcus (who also has history with Jim), but they'd apparently settled any awkwardness long before the five-year-mission actually started, and in a very weird reversal of McCoy's expectation, have since formed a small party of two to gang up on him whenever the situation calls for it.
They seem to think that's the case far more often than they should, but in this instance it isn't worth the effort to fight it. He's about asleep on his feet as it stands.
"There, see? I do know where the chain of command is. Now go make sure Spock's not dying. I'll wait."
