THERE WERE MANY "firsts" in Dr. Metcalfe's career in which he could take genuine pleasure. The first operation he performed … the first life he saved … the first child he delivered …
But now he had to pronounce the first death aboard the Enterprise.
Oh, certainly, the ship was associated with calamitous death and destruction. But Metcalfe hadn't been there for any of it. He, along with the rest of the medical personnel, had not come aboard until after the debacle of the ship's launch. Technically many had died, but it hadn't happened under Metcalfe's watch. Indeed, he felt a small degree of guilt (nothing major—he was too old a hand at this—but small nonetheless) over not having been there at the time of the ship's first crisis. Perhaps in some way he might have managed to save some lives.
But there was no great point in contemplating the past. Only the future at this point was of any interest to him. Unfortunately, it was a future that did not include the young woman laid out on the table in front of him.
Metcalfe was an older gentleman, with a salt-and-pepper beard and a gleaming bald head. He was studying the readouts that his instruments were making, speaking softly and for the record that was automatically entering his words into his medical log. Standing nearby was a stone-faced Captain Harriman, his arms folded resolutely across his chest. His forehead had been cleaned and a thin layer of plasticskin had been applied against it to seal the wound.
"Deceased died from catastrophic cellular disruption caused by a series of phaser blasts in increasing grades of intensity," Metcalfe said tonelessly. "One in the small of the back … shot from behind," and he glanced at Harriman with eyebrows raised in apparent reproof. Harriman met his gaze levelly and said nothing. Metcalfe continued, "One in the side positioned squarely between the third and four ribs … and the third, the most intense blast, in the solar plexus. Blood flow was halted in—"
Harriman couldn't stand there and listen anymore. He turned and strode out of the lab area of the sickbay, into the main area. Thompson was lying there, still unconscious, but breathing steadily. Her injuries had likewise been attended to and her condition had been stabilized. Tobler was looking over readings and noticed Harriman looking on.
"She's going to be fine, Captain," Tobler offered tentatively.
Harriman nodded once, briefly, and then started for the door. He stopped and turned as Tobler said to him, "Captain?"
"Yes?" His arms were still folded resolutely across his chest. Clear body language telling anyone who might be looking on to keep their distance.
Nonetheless Tobler said rather gamely, "Sir, maybe I'm out of line, but … I just want you to know, you saved Lieutenant Thompson's life."
Harriman said nothing for a moment. Then he asked flatly, "Is that it, Tobler?"
"Yes, sir. I guess it is."
The sickbay doors slid shut behind Harriman's retreating figure.
* * *
Commander Dane entered Harriman's quarters, taking immediate note of the fact that it was rather dim. She could barely make him out. "Captain?" she said with just a trace of uncertainty.
"Yes," came Harriman's voice from the darkness.
Dane straightened her shoulders a bit, mentally remonstrating herself for slouching. "We're still in orbit around Askalon Five. Awaiting your orders on how to proceed." He said nothing at first, and Dane continued, "I have another landing party selected, if you wish to continue exploring the planet surface."
"That's easy enough, I suppose," Harriman said after a moment. "A crewman dies, at the hands of her captain. So bring in another crewman to fill the slot. That's all they are, after all. Slots to be filled. Life goes on, doesn't it, Dane."
"Yes, sir. It does."
"Except for Demora Sulu. Life isn't exactly going on for her, is it."
Dane paused a moment. "I'll take that to be rhetorical, sir."
Harriman laughed softly, and it was not a pleasant sound. "God, you are a cold one, aren't you, Dane. They offered me a Vulcan first officer, you know. It was down to you and him. I went with you. Vulcans … fine people. Brilliant minds. I admire the hell out of them. But, provincially, I felt more comfortable with a human at my side. And you know what? You give me the creeps sometimes."
She looked down.
"I'm sorry," he said softly after a moment. "I've spent the past hour tearing at myself. Now I'm starting on you. It's not fair and it's not appropriate."
"It's understandable, sir. Losing a crewman under any circumstance is difficult."
"I didn't lose her, Dane. That makes it sound like she was misplaced and might turn up if I check under the seat cushions. I killed her."
"You had no choice."
"That doesn't exactly mollify it, does it."
"No, sir. It doesn't."
He said nothing for a moment and once again Dane prompted, "The planet, sir? Askalon Five. How shall we proceed?"
"You want to know if I'm interested in risking more of my people in the exploration of a world that turned one of them into a homicidal berserker … all in the hope of rescuing nonexistent people in distress."
"I wouldn't have phrased it in quite that way, but yes, sir. That's basically the question before us."
"No, I am not interested in doing that. Slap a quarantine on Askalon Five, inform other ships to keep away, and have done with it."
"With all respect, sir, the ruins down there shouldn't be made off-limits to—"
"Which is more important to you, Dane? Ruined buildings? Or ruined lives?"
She opened her mouth with an immediate answer, but then thought better of it and instead simply said, "Yes, sir. I'll order course set for Starbase Nine. We can transfer the … Ensign Sulu … to them, and proceed from there to the Donatti system."
"Take us home."
She blinked. "Pardon?"
"The statement seems self-explanatory, Commander. Set course for Earth."
"Sir … we're due in the Donatti system. You're scheduled for a reception with the—"
"Set course … for Earth."
"As you wish, sir. I feel constrained to point out that Starfleet's orders as to our expected arrival date in—"
And Harriman rose from his chair, his body trembling with barely contained fury. His jaw set, his voice a low growl, he said, "I don't give a damn about what Starfleet's orders are. I don't care if they came via subspace, or appeared on the main monitor screen in flaming letters two feet high! Demora Sulu was the daughter of Hikaru Sulu, and I killed her, and I will show her the respect that both her parentage and the circumstances of her death dictate! I don't care if the only way we have of setting course for Earth is having you go outside and push! If that's the case, then the only question I have for you is, How long can you hold your breath?!"
"Actually, sir, holding one's breath in a vacuum would hasten the …" Then she saw his expression and cleared her throat. "I'll give the orders, sir."
"You do that."
She walked out, leaving Harriman behind with his grief.
At Starfleet Academy, they had tried to mentally steel trainees on the command track for that inevitable day when people under their command went down and didn't come back up. The decisions that had to be made which might sometimes result in the death of crewmen.
But there were some things that somehow didn't quite make it into the curriculum. Things such as how you deal with it when a living legend dies on the maiden voyage of your greatest command.
And how you deal with informing one of the oldest, most dedicated associates of that selfsame living legend that you killed his daughter.