A Quiet Night on the Thunderbird

Posted on Tue Dec 17th, 2024 @ 6:29pm by Lieutenant Patrick Ryan M.D.

907 words; about a 5 minute read

Mission: A Silence of Friends
Location: USS Thunderbird – Chief Medical Officer’s Office

Doctor Patrick Ryan sat in the quiet solitude of his office, the faint hum of the ship’s warp engines thrumming beneath his feet. The glow of the terminal reflected off his glasses as he leaned over the desk, studying the most recent diagnostic reports. PADDs were scattered across the polished surface, each filled with crew evaluations, treatment plans, and research notes.

It was late, and most of the crew were already resting, but Patrick found comfort in the quiet hours. The responsibilities of being the Chief Medical Officer weighed heavy, especially on a new posting like the Thunderbird, but he thrived on the challenge.

The screen flickered as a new set of results scrolled into view—Lieutenant Harris’s follow-up scans. Patrick frowned slightly, his sharp blue eyes narrowing behind his glasses. There it was again: elevated enzyme levels. It wasn’t critical, but it was persistent. A lingering anomaly like this could be nothing—or it could hint at something bigger.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, absently reaching for a cup of tea he’d forgotten hours ago. The liquid was cold, but he sipped it anyway, too focused to care.

A soft chime broke the silence.

“Come in,” Patrick called, his voice calm but edged with fatigue.

The doors hissed open, and Ensign Mira Khora stepped in, clutching a medical tricorder against her chest. Mira was young, perhaps no more than twenty-four, with bright eyes and an eagerness that reminded Patrick of himself when he first donned a Starfleet uniform.

“Doctor Ryan,” she started, her voice polite but hesitant. “You asked me to double-check the results from Lieutenant Harris’s scans. I’ve uploaded the tricorder data for you.”

Patrick gestured for her to approach, a small smile softening his normally serious expression. “Let’s have a look then.”

She placed the tricorder on the desk and watched as Patrick linked it to his terminal. The data transferred quickly, and the screen lit up with detailed bloodwork, cellular scans, and enzyme charts. Mira shifted nervously as Patrick leaned forward, scanning the information with a practiced eye. The silence stretched for several minutes, broken only by the faint hum of the terminal.

Finally, Patrick sat back and exhaled slowly.

“Still elevated enzyme levels,” he murmured, half to himself. He tapped the screen lightly as if to conjure more answers. “It’s not critical, but it’s stubborn. This could still be a lingering response to that viral infection he picked up on Galla IV.”

Mira tilted her head. “But we cleared the infection weeks ago, didn’t we?”

Patrick nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. “We did. But sometimes the body holds on to its fight a little longer than it needs to. Call it overcompensation.”

“Should I prep another round of antivirals?” she asked, eager to act.

Patrick smiled faintly and shook his head. “Not yet. There’s no point overloading his system unless we’re sure it’s necessary. The enzymes are elevated, but not dangerously so. Let’s monitor him for another 48 hours, then reassess.”

Mira nodded, clearly filing the information away. Patrick watched her for a moment, appreciating her sharp mind and quick learning. Training junior officers had always been one of the most rewarding parts of his career, and Mira was proving to be a bright spot.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the hours catching up with him.

“Doctor, if I may,” Mira ventured cautiously. “You’ve been here since the start of Gamma shift. Maybe you should take a break?”

Patrick glanced up, one brow arching in mild amusement. “If I take a break, I’ll just end up thinking about enzyme levels from my quarters. Might as well keep at it.”

She grinned. “Well, sir, you’ve also got three crew evaluations first thing in the morning. If you don’t sleep, you’re going to end up falling asleep during Crewman Patel’s physical.”

Patrick groaned theatrically, sitting back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “Patel talks non-stop about his pet tribble. I might fall asleep anyway.”

Mira laughed, her nervousness finally fading. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t bring pictures this time.”

Patrick chuckled softly, the sound deep and genuine. “I appreciate that, Ensign. Fine, you win. I’ll stop for the night.”

As Mira turned to leave, Patrick added, “Good work today. You’ve got a sharp eye. Keep it up.”

Her face lit up with pride as she nodded. “Thank you, sir. Good night.”

The doors hissed shut behind her, and Patrick was left alone again. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the now-dark terminal screen. He ran a hand through his slightly graying hair, the fatigue finally settling into his bones.

Standing, Patrick stretched his arms over his head and let out a quiet groan as his shoulders popped. He wandered over to the viewport, his gaze drawn to the streaking stars outside. The Thunderbird was at warp, hurtling toward its next destination, and while the ship never stopped, neither did its crew.

“Another day, another challenge,” Patrick murmured to himself, a quiet mantra to keep him going.

He glanced back at his desk—at the scattered PADDs and unfinished reports—before turning off the lights and heading for his quarters. Tomorrow, the work would begin again, but for now, even Patrick Ryan had to admit that sleep could wait no longer.

 

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