The Quiet Casualty

Posted on 29 Mar 2026 @ 5:03am by Lieutenant Jorik

1,245 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Arawyn’s Itchy Trigger Finger
Location: Deck 16 Medical Annex

The Annex Sickbay on Deck 16 had quieted into a low, weary murmur. The initial surge of casualties had slowed; the most critical cases were either stabilized or transferred to the main complex on Deck 7. Red emergency lighting had been replaced by softer amber panels, but the air still carried the sharp tang of scorched circuitry, coolant vapor, and blood.

Lieutenant Nathan Caldwell sat slumped against the bulkhead in a dimly lit corner, knees drawn up, left arm tucked protectively against his side and hidden beneath his less-injured right. He had waved off two different technicians already, insisting others needed help more urgently. He was conscious. Breathing. Cognitively aware. That was enough. He could wait.

His mind kept replaying the moment: Commander Harlan shouting a warning, stepping forward to yank him back, then the junction exploding in his face. Only the instinctual raise of his arms had saved him from taking the full brunt. Harlan hadn’t been so lucky.

Nathan shivered. The room felt colder by the minute, even though sweat still clung to his skin. His left arm had gone completely numb—an eerie, terrifying absence of sensation. He didn’t dare look at it. Not yet.

“Lieutenant.”

The voice was calm, measured, and unmistakably Vulcan.

Nathan opened his eyes. Jorik stood over him, uniform sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, hands still damp from a portable sterilizer. The doctor’s dark eyes swept over him with clinical intensity.

“I’m fine, Doctor,” Nathan murmured. The words came out thicker than intended, slightly slurred.

“You are not fine.” Jorik knelt smoothly beside him and activated a medical tricorder. The soft whine of the scan filled the small space between them. “Your body is in severe hypovolemic shock. Blood pressure is critically low. Show me your arm.”
Nathan lifted his right arm instead.

“Your other arm, Lieutenant,” Jorik said, voice firmer and clearer this time.

Nathan grimaced and slowly withdrew his left arm from beneath the right. The sight was grotesque. The uniform sleeve had melted into the skin; charred fabric fused with blackened, blistered flesh. In places the burn went deep enough to expose muscle, and on his ring finger he could see a glint of white bone. The smell of cooked meat and singed synthetics hit him anew.

Jorik’s expression did not change, but his scan lingered on the worst areas for a fraction longer than necessary.

“Third and fourth-degree thermal burns to the left forearm and hand,” he stated evenly. “Significant tissue necrosis, possible tendon and nerve damage. You are fortunate the bleeding has slowed, but you have lost too much fluid and are sliding into shock. This requires immediate treatment.”

Nathan gave a weak, tired smile. “Just patch me up enough to get back on my feet, Doc. There are still people who need—”

“You will be of no use to anyone unconscious or in cardiac arrest,” Jorik interrupted, tone calm but brooking no argument. He reached for a hypospray on the nearby cart, loaded a vial with practiced efficiency, and pressed it to Nathan’s neck.

“Ten cc’s of vasopressor and electrolyte replacement,” he said as the hypospray hissed. “This will stabilize your blood pressure and counteract the early stages of shock. You will remain here until I have debrided and dressed the burns properly. Resistance is illogical and will only delay your recovery.”

Nathan exhaled shakily as the medication hit his system, a faint warmth spreading through his chest and limbs. The shivering eased slightly. Jorik helped him to a biobed.

“…Yes, Doctor,” he muttered, too exhausted to argue further.

Jorik set the hypospray aside and began preparing the dermal regenerator and surgical tools with precise, economical movements.

“Rest, Lieutenant Caldwell,” Jorik said quietly, almost gently, as he continued working on the worst of the burns.

Nathan closed his eyes again. The steady beep of the tricorder and the low murmur of the annex gradually blended into a distant, comforting hum. For the first time since the explosion, he allowed himself to stop fighting.

After a long moment, Nathan’s voice emerged, soft and distant.

“Is Commander Harlan dead?”

Jorik’s hands paused for the briefest instant above Nathan’s charred arm. When he spoke, his voice remained level, but there was a faint tightness beneath the usual calm.

“Commander Harlan is currently in neurosurgery. He is in critical condition… but he is still alive.”

Nathan swallowed, eyes still closed. “He was right behind me when the junction exploded. He tried to warn me.” A pained wince crossed his face as the memory replayed. “He got injured because of me.”

That gave Jorik pause—longer this time. The reinforced node in his lattice pulsed once, warm and unignorable. He set the dermal regenerator aside for a moment and met Nathan’s gaze directly.

“Commander Harlan would not agree with that assessment,” he said, tone measured but carrying an uncharacteristic undercurrent of quiet conviction. “I have served with him before. I have known him personally for many years. Elias… was doing what he does best. No more, no less.”

Nathan looked up, mouth already opening in protest, but Jorik raised a hand slightly—cutting him off with calm authority.

“Was it not you who told me that engineers often face danger without regard to the injuries they may sustain in the course of their duties?” Jorik continued, one eyebrow lifting fractionally. “That the choice is frequently between limited harm to the individual and far greater harm to the ship and crew?”

Nathan sighed, wincing again as sensation began creeping back into his burned arm like fire returning to dead nerves.

“Yes, but—”

“No, Lieutenant.” Jorik’s voice was firm, yet quieter than before, almost gentle in its insistence. “There is no ‘however’ in this matter. Commander Harlan is the Chief Engineering Officer aboard this vessel. His will is to be obeyed by those who serve under him. Do not burden yourself with guilt over an unavoidable incident. Elias will see no blame in it. None.”

Nathan’s shoulders sagged. “Okay…” he croaked, voice hoarse.

Jorik studied him for another moment, then reached for a fresh hypospray. He loaded it with a sedative-analgesic compound, his movements precise and unhurried.

“Lieutenant, the damage to your limb is severe. It will require extensive debridement, regeneration, and reconstructive surgery. I must sedate you now.”

Nathan gave a small, exhausted nod and bit his lip as Jorik pressed the hypospray to his neck. The hiss was soft. Within seconds, the pain, the guilt, and the exhaustion began to fade into merciful blackness.

Jorik remained kneeling beside the biobed for a few seconds longer, watching Nathan’s breathing even out. His own fingers tightened once around the empty hypospray before he set it aside.

His combadge chirped as Doctor Amberlyn’s voice crackled over the comline. “Doctor Jorik. The patient you brought in with the cranial injury, Commander Harlan, is going to make it. He’s doing well in recovery.”

Jorik raised an eyebrow. “Acknowledged.” Then tapped the badge to close the channel.

Elias will see no blame in it.

The words echoed in his mind, carrying the weight of both truth and the fragile new lattice he had only just begun to trust.

He looked at the sedated form of Lieutenant Nathan Caldwell who was still pale, but stable. There was still work to be done.

--

Lieutenant Jorik
Medical Officer
USS Arawyn

&

Lieutenant Nathan Caldwell
Engineering Officer - Systems Analyst
USS Arawyn

 

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