The first thing she became aware of was the pain. Not the sharp, bright pain that it had been in the escape pod when she was impaled by a support strut but the dull, persistent ache she normally associated with too much exercise. She opened her eyes to look around and immediately regretted it. The bright light that surrounded her pierced her eyes and started the mother of all headaches.
A voice she didn’t recognise spoke softly but firmly, “Mariella, you’re safe for now, keep your eyes closed for a moment.”
She picked out the words, ‘safe for now’ and wondered what was going on. Gentle hands moved her into a sitting position which hurt like hell. Mariella grimaced and hissed through her teeth. She felt something press against her neck and then the cool, blessed relief of a hypospray coursed through her body.
“You can open your eyes now, Mariella” the voice said.
Slowly, she opened her eyes and the blurry shapes around her resolved themselves into a sickbay. More importantly, a Starfleet sickbay. The voice belonged to a man in a medical blue uniform, “You’re quite the fighter, Mariella,” he said, “we only had to resuscitate you three times.”
She tried to speak but the words came out as a croak. The doctor brought a water tube to her mouth, “Sip, don’t gulp.” He ordered.
Cold water slipped down her throat and Mariella had never tasted anything so delicious. “What happened?” she managed.
“Your pod was brought aboard the USS Nightingale yesterday and we’ve had you in surgery for four hours repairing the damage. We managed to remove the strut that was sticking out of your abdomen and we’ve fused several cracked ribs and a fractured arm.” He explained patiently.
Sipping more water, Mariella found her voice getting stronger, “I sense a ‘but’ doctor.”
He smiled, “Very astute, Mariella. During the escape your pod was heavily damaged. The drive coolant leaked into the compartment and caused hypoxia as well as damage to your lungs and eyes. We’ve managed to heal the lung tissue but your left eye was badly hurt.”
“What are my options?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
“Relax, Mariella, you don’t need to lose your eye. We can implant components to replace the damaged parts so it will look exactly the same. You’ll even gain a measure of extra functionality although it won’t rival a fully cybernetic implant.”
She nodded slowly, absorbing the information and cataloguing her injuries. “Why am I safe ‘for now’?”
“Ah,” he said, “that will be because the fleet is still engaged with the Borg. We’re picking up survivors as and when we can until the area is cleared. Then we’ll be heading back to Earth Spacedock for repair and to transfer the wounded. The captain says we’ll be making way in a few hours.”
Mariella looked around noticing that the sickbay was especially full of casualties. “How many made it from my ship?”
A shadow passed across his face, “Perhaps when you’re stronger.”
Her voice took on a hardness that could have etched the hull, “Tell . .me . .now.”
He sighed sadly, “Very well Mariella, there were only twelve survivors from your ship.”
The words hit her like a physical blow, knocking the breath from her body. Twelve! Only twelve!
“The Borg fired on the escape pods before any ships could get near them to help.” He explained. “Also some of them didn’t clear the blast radius before the warp core breached.”
She gulped for air. Her crew, her friends, all gone in an instant. Names flashed through her head, little details that were so important. Ensign Martinez’s wife was expecting their second child on Bajor, Crewman Davidson had just gotten engaged to transporter chief Watson, she’d even attended their engagement party. The names kept resounding so strongly through her mind that she didn’t notice the tears streaking down her cheeks or the wracking sobs as they forced their way from her body. She didn’t notice that a gentle pair of arms had wrapped themselves around her shoulders and were rocking her gently until she had calmed slightly.
“Thank you.” She whispered.
“You’re welcome, Mariella.” He reached for another hypospray.
“What’s your name, doctor?”
He placed the hypospray against her carotid artery, “Christopher, Christopher Cushing.”
The name rang a bell in her mind but before she could remember where she knew it from, sleep claimed her
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