Star Trek_ A Choice of Catastrophes - Michael Schuster [25]
Taking a deep breath, McCoy surveyed the room. It wasn’t often that it was so full of people in need. From the look of it, Chapel and Odhiambo had gotten to some of them, but not all. To be fair, the two of them did their best, but even so, they were only human. They needed assistance. Where were the med techs?
Ah, yes. Messier sped about like the tiny whirlwind she was, taking notes about the patients’ injuries, while Abrams was at the far end of the room, peering intently at the monitor readings of… who? If he wasn’t mistaken, the person lying on the bed looked uncannily like Brent. What had happened here?
“Doctor?” said Leslie, breaking in on his thoughts. “Do you need any help?”
McCoy turned around to face the lieutenant. “Do I?” he said. “Lieutenant Leslie, you’re damned right I do. I need somebody out there with the necessary experience. First thing I want you to do is go back to the rec room. Get those casualties—especially the Saurian fellow and the internal bleed—in here immediately. Find someone to help you.”
Leslie nodded, his face serious. “I’ll get on it right away, sir.” And with that, he was gone.
McCoy cleared his throat. “Abrams.”
The med tech looked up to see who had called him. Displeasure was etched into his face deeper than normal. “Sir?”
“What happened?”
“Brent was looking after a patient during the last disruption. Lost his balance and hit his head on the bed.” Abrams almost sounded angry, but McCoy knew it wasn’t directed at him. “Can you take a look, sir?”
Moving over, McCoy saw that the man’s vitals were safely in the normal range. Thankfully, this was not another coma case. A simple head wound like this was easy to treat.
Resolved to get the injured med tech back on his feet, McCoy inspected the wound. It wasn’t severe, and most of the repair work had already been done—probably by Chapel. McCoy would finish it up, and then Brent would have to rest for a few hours. Afterward, however, he’d be perfectly healed, which was a big relief; with M’Benga gone, McCoy needed every pair of hands he could get.
Directing Abrams to get back to work, McCoy made the rounds to familiarize himself with the injured and start triage. There were people with broken bones, crushed hands, major cuts, head abrasions, burns, and everything else he could think of.
Life-threatening injuries first. Second, injuries requiring treatment that could be delayed. Third, minor injuries that did not require immediate and extensive care.
From what he could tell, most of the patients fell into the second category, and he and his staff would tackle them one at a time. Almost all of the rest were in the third category.
However, there were two patients that needed to be treated instantly. Odhiambo was already working on one, a man with a severe skull fracture, while Chapel was trying to stabilize a woman in obvious pain. Biobed readings told him enough: the woman, Ensign Haines, had three broken ribs and a collapsed lung.
Chapel was about to deal with the pneumothorax, ready to treat the affected lung to let the trapped air escape. She was doing her best to look confident and unflappable, but to McCoy’s practiced eye she looked dead tired. “Christine,” he said, giving her an encouraging smile. “Let me help you.”
She returned the smile, but up close, the tiredness was even more evident. “Thank you, Doctor. Are you all right?”
“Of course. Why—” Oh. He looked down at himself, noticing for the first time since the lights went out in the rec room how bedraggled he looked, covered as he was with blood spatters and a variety of other stains. “Yeah, I’m okay. You?”
She said nothing. The look she gave him spoke volumes, however. Quickly, he grabbed a bone knitter off the well-stocked