Triage and Hope

Posted on Mon Feb 24th, 2025 @ 7:39pm by Lieutenant Richard Pierce MD

754 words; about a 4 minute read

Dr. Richard "Popeye" Pierce sat in his office aboard the USS Jane Addams, the only sound the faint hum of the ship’s systems and the distant murmur of voices filtering through the bulkheads. He exhaled heavily, rubbing his temples as he stared at the blank PADD in his hand. The list. Just get the damn list together, Pierce.

The Jane Addams had been pushed past its limits before, but this was something else. The ship was already crowded from its year-long patrol, and now, after responding to a Borg attack, they had taken on a flood of refugees—scared, wounded, and traumatized. The medical bay was overflowing. People were crammed into corridors, temporary triage stations set up wherever space could be found. It was organized chaos, but barely.

Pierce rubbed his temples and exhaled. Alright, one thing at a time. Pierce leaned forward and started tapping on the PADD, forcing himself to focus. He had to prioritize. They had limited supplies, and if Starfleet Command couldn’t get them reinforcements soon, they’d be rationing basic medical care.

Regenerative tissue grafts – Burn victims, blunt force trauma, shrapnel wounds—the usual nightmares that followed Borg encounters. They’d already gone through most of their stock.

Broad-spectrum antibiotics and antiviral meds – Some of these refugees had been hiding out for weeks before they were rescued. That meant infections, untreated injuries, exposure to who-knew-what. They needed more medicine, and soon.

Cortical stimulators – Some of the rescued officers had been pulled out of wreckage, their bodies barely holding on. Their brains needed a jolt to keep them from slipping away.

Neural suppressors – This one made his stomach turn. They had people—people, not Borg—who were still linked to the damn Collective. Not enough implants to fully assimilate them, but enough that they could hear it. Enough that they flinched at voices that weren’t there. If they didn’t suppress the signals, these people wouldn’t last. Either the connection would drive them mad, or—worse—they’d answer it.

Expanded quarantine facilities – This was non-negotiable. Some of the refugees still had active nanoprobes in their systems. They weren’t fully assimilated, but they were at risk. If they didn’t keep them isolated, they could have an outbreak of assimilation right here on the ship.

Extra bio-beds and portable medical scanners – The medbay was already beyond capacity. He’d resorted to triaging people with nothing but a tricorder and instinct, and that wasn’t going to cut it for long. They needed more equipment, more diagnostic tools, more everything.

Nutrient packs and IV fluids – A lot of these people had gone without food and clean water for days. Some of them were too weak to even eat properly. If they didn’t replenish their strength soon, no amount of medical treatment would matter.

Emergency trauma kits – Triage stations had been set up all over the ship, with engineers clearing out storage rooms and cargo bays just to make space. Every one of those stations needed supplies, because sickbay couldn’t handle the overflow alone.

Counseling personnel or at least a plan for PTSD treatment – He wasn’t a counselor, but he knew trauma when he saw it. The haunted stares, the flinching at shadows, the way some of them froze at the sound of comm chatter. The Borg didn’t just kill people. They took them. They changed them. Even the ones who escaped were never truly free. If they didn’t start dealing with that now, this wouldn’t just be a medical crisis—it would be a mental health one, too.

Pierce stared at the list, his thumb hovering over the PADD’s controls. He’d seen disasters before, but this? This was something else. This was a warzone inside a starship, and he was just one doctor trying to hold it together.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. His eyes flicked to the stack of unused hyposprays on his desk, then to the half-empty cup of coffee he’d abandoned hours ago. He should probably eat something. Maybe even sleep. But there were too many people who needed help, and time was running out.

He tapped the screen and sent the list off to Lieutenant Commander Reeves. Supplies, reinforcements, something—they needed it, and they needed it yesterday.

For a moment, Pierce just sat there, listening to the ship around him. Then, with a sigh, he pushed himself up from his chair and grabbed his medkit. He had patients waiting.

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