The Sky's the Limit - Marco Palmieri [15]
Clearing her throat, Crusher said, “This is Doctor Beverly Crusher. Is Ialona Daret aboard?”
“Indeed he is, Doctor,” Edal replied, “and he sends his regards. However, he is occupied in our infirmary with your patients. You will see him shortly. Follow your landing instructions without deviation. Kovmar out.” With that, the transmission ended.
“Warm welcome,” Yar said, her attention focused on the helm. Crusher watched her enter a string of commands, and a moment later the Jefferies dropped out of warp.
“Could just be that renowned Cardassian efficiency,” Crusher offered.
Yar shrugged. “Efficient at being inhospitable, maybe. Like I said, he’s the one I’ll be watching.”
As an orphan living amid the turmoil gripping the failed Federation colony on Turkana IV, Tasha Yar had seen more than her share of carnage and death. As such, she considered herself at least somewhat hardened to the callous brutality that could be inflicted by supposedly intelligent beings upon one another, either in battle or in the simple withholding of urgently needed medical assistance.
That strength, forged and honed within an environment of incessant chaos and cruelty, was shaken by the scene unfolding in what passed for the Kovmar’s infirmary.
“You can wait outside,” said Doctor Ialona Daret, the elderly Cardassian waving with one hand to the pair of security guards who had escorted Crusher and Yar from the ship’s hangar bay.
One of the guards—the higher-ranking of the pair if Yar’s interpretation of their uniform insignia was correct—shook his head. “Gul Edal’s orders are for us to remain with the humans at all times, Doctor.” Yar noted the derision in the soldier’s voice as he addressed the physician.
Daret pointed to a far corner of the room. “You can remain with them just as easily from over there and out of my way.” To Yar’s surprise, the guards appeared relieved at the prospect of maintaining some distance from Daret and his patients.
Not that she could blame them.
It was the smell that caught her attention as she and Doctor Crusher were escorted into the room. A sharp sting assailed her nostrils from what she guessed was disinfectant, trying yet failing to cloak the stench of festering wounds and expelled body waste. Breathing through her mouth, Yar found it easy to ignore the fetid smells as she focused instead on the sight of the wounded Starfleet officers.
“It’s good to see you again, Beverly,” Daret said as he gripped Crusher’s hand in his own. “I only wish it was for better reasons. I would have met you when you came aboard, but I did not want to leave them any longer than absolutely necessary.”
“Have their conditions changed since your last report?” Crusher asked, opening the trauma kit and extracting a medical tricorder and diagnostic scanner.
Daret shook his head. “No, thankfully. They’re stabilized, but as you can see, my resources here are limited.”
“His lung damage is even worse than I thought,” Crusher said, studying her tricorder’s display as she waved a diagnostic scanner over Weglash. “Third-degree burns along the primary bronchi.” She nodded toward the obviously makeshift breathing mask suspended over the ensign’s face. “That doesn’t look like standard Cardassian medical equipment.”
“It’s not,” Daret replied. “His original breather was damaged, but I was able to synthesize an approximation of the gas mixture, combining it with an inhalant to help with the damage to his lungs.”
“What about these?” Yar asked, pointing to the status monitors mounted above each patient’s bed. They appeared rudimentary compared to those in the Enterprise’s sickbay, though the equipment’s relative capability did not seem to be an issue as none of it was activated.
“They were useless,” Daret said, his voice laced with guilt as he indicated the monitors with a wave of his hand. “The ship’s medical database is out of date when it comes