Ambling farther on, Joanna peeked at the main display of a bookstore specializing in the most recent Verillian and off-world fiction. She’d grown up an enthusiast of contemporary novels, no doubt inspired by the voracious reading habits of her mother. She perused the titles in the window jealously, looking forward to the end of her schooling so that she would have more free time and could then return to reading for pleasure.
Why not just quit now? she thought, and she realized that her problem would not go away by ignoring it. Joanna wouldn’t abandon her undertaking to become a nurse—she couldn’t, not and be true to herself—but she would have to deal with what had happened at the clinic last night.
Not just with what happened last night, she thought. She would have to learn how to cope with what would happen, again and again, throughout any career in health care.
The rich, piquant scent of brewing jenli suddenly wafted through the air. Joanna turned from the bookstore window and looked about the area. A little farther down, she saw, a Verillian street vendor had settled an antigrav cart near the median. A glass pot sat over an open flame, the dark liquid within obviously the source of the sumptuous aroma.
Joanna, a self-described jenli devotee, started toward the cart, more out of habit than from a conscious decision. The popular Verillian beverage—much like Earthen coffee, but with the flavor of bittersweet chocolate and a powerful ability to keep both Verillians and humans awake—had seen her through all-night study sessions in the library and through many a graveyard shift. As she approached the vendor, she could almost taste the hot, silken drink flowing across her tongue and down her throat. A cup now would—
Would keep me up for hours, she thought, and in a burst of self-reflection, added, And it would keep me from dreaming.
Joanna strode past the jenli cart and kept walking. At the next crossroads, she saw that she had come quite a distance from Naker Square, almost all the way to the next tube station. She headed for it, and for home. She would not run from her problems. She had learned many things from her parents, but one of the most important lessons they had taught her—her mother by example, her father by counterexample—had been that fleeing your troubles did not resolve them.
As Joanna rode in the sleek tube car on the way to Avenue Valent, her fatigue renewed itself. She felt tired not just because of her long night at the clinic, and not just because of what had happened there, but because of her attempt this morning to put off dealing with it. She hadn’t wanted even to think about the unexpected emergency she’d faced, and she’d feared the dreams—the nightmares—she would experience when eventually she did sleep.
The Andorian whose care she had observed last night had been admitted to the clinic before Joanna had arrived. According to the admittance records, Thraza suffered symptoms typically associated with influenza, including fever, vomiting, and dehydration, and viral infection had been confirmed. A routine examination had also revealed, among other things, a slight, apparently unrelated contusion on her abdomen, which she had sustained during a parrises squares competition. The attending physician had ordered her hydrated intravenously and had dosed her with an antiviral, as well as with medication intended to lower her fever and stem her vomiting.
Early in Joanna’s shift, Thraza had begun to complain of stomach pain. The doctor had been informed, but before he’d been able to respond to what he’d believed a reaction to the medication, the patient had thrown off her bedclothes and pulled up the tunic she wore. Where before she’d had a bruise, a hole had now opened in her flesh, about five centimeters in diameter. The wound seeped the indigo of Andorian blood, and its edges had become an intense violet. Within the gruesome cavity, the underlying fat and soft tissue had dissolved, leaving muscle and a section of the woman’s ileum visible.
Thraza had screamed and had started to paw at the lesion, perhaps in some mad attempt to mend her injured flesh. Joanna had frozen, horrified both by the grisly sight and by the woman’s extreme distress. A nurse had entered the room almost immediately, and had moved to restrain Thraza. He’d had to call more than once to Joanna before she’d come out of her stupor and moved to assist.
The doctor had arrived soon after, immediately identifying the necrotizing fasciitis, a rare Andorian bacterial infection that the scanners had missed. He’d sedated Thraza and had her prepped at once to undergo surgery. A specialist had been contacted, and before Joanna’s shift had ended, the infected tissue had been removed from the woman’s body, and she’d been treated with antibiotics and immunoglobulin in order to kill the bacteria that had caused the infection. Artificial tissue and a skin graft would later be used to repair the wound. Her prognosis had been for a full recovery.
The nurse had said nothing to the doctor about Joanna’s performance, about her initial inability to act during the onset of the event. To Joanna, he had said nothing at first, but before her shift had ended, he’d pulled her aside. “It’s all right, it happens,” he’d told her, clearly referring to the incident even though he hadn’t mentioned it. “You just need to become inured to it all.”
The tube arrived at the subterranean Avenue Valent station, and Joanna climbed the steps to the street. She crossed to the skyscraper she currently called home and entered one of the turbolifts. As the car ascended, she thought about what the nurse had said to her. Afterward, she’d thanked him, grateful that he hadn’t said anything about her to the doctor, and also for his advice. On the way home, she’d tried to put all of it out of her mind, but she’d also been unwilling to risk whatever dreams her next sleep might bring. Now, she considered the nurse’s counsel that she needed to habituate herself to the suffering of patients, and to their sometimes ghastly illnesses and injuries. As the lift reached the twenty-second floor, Joanna realized that she didn’t have to ask herself whether she could do that, but whether she wanted to do it?
She held her hand flat against the reader beside her door, then recited her entry code. Within the door itself, she heard the familiar snick of the locking bolts disengaging and then the faint hum as they withdrew into the wall. She reached for the doorknob, turned it, and entered her apartment.
Inside, it looked like it always did: as though ten people lived here, rather than only two. Clothes littered the living room as though a laundry had just exploded. Slacks, skirts, blouses, socks, underwear, sweaters, coats, and jackets lay in piles all over the gray carpet and scattered over the few pieces of secondhand furniture that she and Tatiana had acquired before moving in together. Dirty glasses and dishes—most of them empty, fortunately—filled the counters in the small kitchen, as well as the dining table tucked into a corner of the living room. Book data cards, as well as actual books, also contributed to the clutter.
Joanna slipped the strap of her bag from her shoulder and dropped it onto the easy chair sitting near the door, right next to her green blouse, which she couldn’t remember wearing any time recently. Embarrassed as always by the mess, she vowed, as she often did, that she would clean later in the day. She knew herself well enough, though, to know that wouldn’t happen. The disorder hadn’t quite reached that threshold yet at which she and Tatiana would finally do something about it.
She thought about making herself something to eat, but then decided that, dreams or no, she needed to sleep. In her bedroom, she found no reprieve from the disarray. Her bed sat unmade, the sheets, blankets, and pillows rumpled all over the mattress. The clothes, tapes, and books that hadn’t made it out into the living room covered many of the flat surfaces, including the floor, and she even saw some tableware here and there. Three of the four drawers in her dresser had been left open, with a pair of stockings hanging from the top one. Even Tatiana’s bedroom had never looked quite so bad.
Joanna carefully stepped over and around it all as she headed for the ’fresher. As she passed her computer terminal, she spied a data slate sitting atop it, one of the device’s lights blinking red. She picked it up, recognized Tatiana’s handwriting on the display, and read it:
Back from class late afternoon. Rory’s offered to make us dinner. Tatiana had signed it with an ornate capital T.
Joanna smiled. For all of Rory’s faults, Tatiana’s boyfriend knew how to prepare a meal. She looked forward to whatever tonight’s repast would be.
As she set the slate back down on the terminal, she saw a red button on the panel flashing, indicating that she’d received a message. Probably Mom, she thought. With Joanna’s birthday less than two months away, her mother probably wanted to talk about coming to Verillia to celebrate. Great, she thought. If Tatiana and I start today, maybe we can finish cleaning the apartment by then.
Joanna went into the ’fresher, stripped off her scrubs, tossed them on the floor, and slipped into her robe—which, remarkably, she found hanging on the back of the door. She performed her end-of-the-day ablutions, then headed for bed. Before she threw herself down onto the mattress, though, she decided to check the message. She went back over to the computer terminal, activated it, and touched a control. Unexpectedly, her father’s face appeared on the display.
“Hi, Joanna. It’s Dad,” he said. She hadn’t seen him in quite some time, as his Starfleet duties kept him occupied and often far from Federation space. “I wanted to…” he started, and then he glanced away from the monitor before looking back. “We haven’t talked in a while, so I wanted to send you a message and…” Again he hesitated. “…and ask how you’re doing.”
As Joanna listened to her father speak, she began to think that he had something else on his mind, something he wanted to tell her. She pulled out the chair from in front of the computer terminal and sat down, searching his visage for clues as to why he had sent her this message. “I hope your classes are going well, and your shifts at the clinic,” he continued. “You know how proud…I hope you know how proud I am of you.”
Joanna closed her eyes and dropped her head. She felt humiliated—not because of what her father had said, but because right now she felt unworthy of his praise. She also recalled something he had said to her when she’d grown serious about entering the health care field. “Care, but not too much,” he’d said. “You’ll be a better nurse that way.” At the time, she’d thought his advice about maintaining emotional distance had been simply a function of his character, not as a physician, but as a man. At least according to Joanna’s mother, his detachment had been a major cause of the end of their marriage. Now, though, in light of what had happened last night at the clinic, she wondered if he hadn’t been trying to provide her sound guidance after all.
Looking back at the screen, Joanna realized that she’d missed some of her father’s message. She quickly touched a control and queued it back to where she’d stopped listening. As she did, she noticed a transparent bottle on a shelf behind her father, in which had been constructed a set of staffs of Aesculapius, an ancient symbol of the medical profession. She had given that to him as a birthday gift years ago.
“Life on board the Enterprise is, uh, as interesting as ever,” her father went on. “I’ve started making some notes for a reference book I’ve been considering writing, on comparative alien physiology.” He seemed for a second to hunt for what to say next, but then he smiled. “You might not believe this, but not that long ago, I actually performed—this sounds ridiculous when I even think about it—I performed a brain transplant.” Joanna felt her eyebrows rise involuntarily on her forehead. “I’m not kidding. I could never do it again, the circumstances were unique. I still remember standing there and using these amazing tools, executing these impossible surgical techniques…I remember doing it, but I can’t remember how I did it.” She believed her father, but couldn’t imagine the situation that would have allowed him to perform such an operation. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it when…when I see you.” His voice seemed to catch.
“Anyway, honey, I wanted to talk to you because…” Once more, her father’s words trailed into momentary silence. He brought his hands together before him and twisted them together nervously. “…because I miss you,” he said at last. “Listen, I’d like to come and see you soon.” Again, his words surprised her, though this time on a personal level. As long ago as it had been since they’d last exchanged messages, it had been far longer since they’d actually seen each other. “I know your birthday isn’t all that far off, and that your mother will probably visit you then, but maybe sometime before or after that. I know that you’re busy with school and everything, but…I won’t take up much of your time. Really, I just want to see you, honey.” He touched a hand to his lips, and then to the screen. “I love you, Joanna.” The display went dark, replaced an instant later by the confused geometric emblem of the Verillian communications network.
Joanna keyed off the terminal, but remained sitting before it for a few minutes, thinking about her father’s message. She didn’t know quite what to make of it—his continual hesitation seemed strange to her—but it pleased her immensely that he wanted to come see her. She’d have to find out exactly when he wanted to visit, and she’d have to check her class and clinic schedule, but she would make it work out.
Happy that she’d chosen to listen to the message, Joanna got up from the terminal, took off her robe, and crawled into bed. She touched the control to render the windows opaque, and in the darkness, lay on her back with her hands behind her head. Though still very tired, she couldn’t help but feel excited that she would soon get to see both of her parents. She’d grown up with her mother, while her father had been an absent stranger for much of her childhood. As she’d become a young woman, though, as she’d begun to understand life more and to view her father from a perspective independent of her mother’s, she’d learned to like him and love him very much. She missed him and looked forward to seeing him soon.
When she slept that night, Joanna did not dream of the Andorian patient and her terrible infection. Instead, she returned to her youth, as a girl of ten, living in the beach house on Cerberus with both of her parents. That had never really happened—she’d lived on Cerberus, but with only her mother—but in her dreams, she lived a joyful life in that imagined time.
McCoy trod out of his office and into Christine Chapel. He moved backward a step, startled, as did the nurse. The black medical pouch he carried flew from his grasp, though he managed to hold on to the tricorder, phaser, and belt also in his hands. “Nurse Chapel,” he said, and then, feeling badly about how their earlier conversation had developed, he added, “Christine.”
“Doctor McCoy,” she said, “I wanted to apologize about what happened before.”
“There’s no need,” he told her. “It was my fault. The shock of the news…” He didn’t quite know how to finish the thought, but didn’t think it necessary. He still felt numbed by M’Benga’s diagnosis of xenopolycythemia, but he really didn’t want to discuss the situation with anybody.
“I know. I’m so sorry,” said Chapel. “I should have been more sensitive.”
“Not at all,” McCoy said, attempting to minimize the nurse’s distress and move past the subject. “You were just being a friend, watching out for me. I appreciate it. And so you know, I did tell the captain.”
“I’m glad,” Chapel said.
In his quarters a few minutes ago, McCoy had also tried to tell his daughter, sending Joanna a subspace communication that she would receive in he didn’t know how many days. He could never keep track of the Enterprise’s location in the galaxy, and therefore of the distance to Verillia. As McCoy had recorded the message, though, he’d found himself unable to tell Joanna about his illness. He had failed her as a father in so many ways throughout her life, and dying prematurely would be another one. He couldn’t tell her about it from afar; he would have to take leave and go see her.
Chapel bent and picked up the black medical pouch that he’d dropped when they’d run into each other. She noticed the tricorder and phaser in his hands and asked, “Where are you going?”
“An asteroid,” he said. “And actually, I’d better get to th
e transporter room.”
“I’ll walk with you,” Chapel said, and she started down the corridor toward the turbolift. McCoy wanted to tell her not to accompany him, that he’d rather be by himself, but worried that doing so might trigger her to verbalize her obvious concern for him. To avoid that, he walked beside her. “So why an asteroid?” she asked.
“From what I understand,” he said, pleased by the change of topic, “it only looks like an asteroid, but it’s really a spaceship.” After McCoy had gone to his quarters and sent his message to Joanna, Uhura had contacted him from the bridge. As part of the Enterprise’s standard operating procedures, she’d informed him, as the ship’s chief medical officer, that personnel were about to leave the ship. She’d also detailed what had led up to the captain’s decision to form a landing party. Half a dozen chemical, sublight missiles had been launched at the Enterprise, which Jim had ordered detonated by phaser fire before they could do any damage. Chekov had then tracked the missiles back to their point of origin: the asteroid—or rather, the spaceship—which, traveling just below warp speed, would collide with an inhabited planet in approximately thirteen months. McCoy told Chapel all of this as they boarded a turbolift and rode it toward the transporter room. “Sensors show no life-forms aboard, meaning that it must be automated,” he said, “so I assume that the captain and Mister Spock are beaming over to search for a control room in order to alter its course.”
Although McCoy didn’t much care for traveling by transporter, particularly with no prospect of encountering alien life-forms, he usually accompanied Jim on landing parties, and so he wanted to be a part of this one. Recording his message to Joanna had reconfirmed his initial reaction to the news of his xenopolycythemia, namely that he wanted as much as possible to live out a normal life in the time left to him. For right now, that meant joining Jim and Spock on this landing party.
Crucible: McCoy Page 24
