Chapter Text
Part Four
Starbase 218, Callax Sector
Stardate 50893.2
Natasha Kinsen was at peace.
The medical basis for the five stages of grief had been hotly debated ever since it had first been proposed on Earth in the late 20th century, and the current prevailing medical opinion was that the entire concept was too simplistic and reductive.
Firstly, centuries of research had failed to uncover any real empirical evidence to back up the existence of such a theoretical process, from denial, through anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Nor had any psychological studies suggested that such a process happened organically in grieving individuals.
And then there was the wider issue that such a rigid model simply no longer made sense in the context of the wider universe.
Space exploration had uncovered a myriad of differing approaches to grief. From the Klingon Death Howl, to the Ferengi ritual of pre-selling one’s own remains, through to the Rakahki people of Rakhar VII, whose best psychiatrists had developed a theory that grief was actually a thirty-nine stage process, meaning that it was common among the Rakahki for one to pass away from old age while still in the middle of grieving one’s great-grandparents.
All of which rendered the Terran-centric five stage model somewhat archaic in the modern day Alpha Quadrant.
Still, some therapists made use of the old system from time to time, as a jumping off point if nothing else. The ship’s counsellor onboard the Navajo had helped Natasha to get over her father’s death some months ago by using the five stage model as a framework for their sessions.
And right now, Natasha was using it herself. And she felt that she had definitely reached acceptance. Both inside this particular memory, and in the wider context of her plight. She wasn’t disorientated, even though it felt like only moments ago she had been in Jirel’s bed. Or in her family home on Earth. Or any number of other places. She knew what was happening.
She was dying. And, as she told herself, she had reached a point of acceptance with that.
She also knew what was happening in this particular memory. The latest trip that her brain had sent her on as she had somehow steered herself away from the Navajo. And she remembered that when she had been here in reality, she had reached acceptance as well.
She sat alone, at a table in one of Starbase 218’s outer lounges. Along the inner wall was a bank of self-service replicators, while the main floor area of the lounge was filled with tables and chairs, as well as some more casual sofas in various orthogonal arrangements.
Next to her, the outer wall of the lounge was one huge curved sheet of transparent aluminium, offering an unimpeded view of the inky blackness of space. The Navajo was out of sight of the lounge, the Excelsior-class ship ensconced on one of the base’s spindly docking arms towards the bottom of the main cylindrical structure.
But she could see another Federation ship from here, tethered to the end of another of the base’s docking arms. The unmistakable shape of the Cheyenne-class USS Ticonderoga.
Her husband’s ship. And also, as it turned out, the ship of Lieutenant Gina Ramirez.
He’d be here soon. She’d arranged to meet him right here, in this very bar, once the Ticonderoga had docked and he had been cleared to head station-side.
Or, at least, that was what had happened when this had happened in reality. What was happening now wasn’t actually happening.
And that was fine. She had accepted that as well.
Still, as far as Lt Commander Cameron Kinsen was concerned, he was heading for dinner with his wife, who he hadn’t seen for several months. And then he was planning to take her back to the executive quarters on the base he’d managed to wrangle for the duration of their layover.
It had been a typical Cameron move. On the face of it, thoughtful and romantic, getting both of them away from their stuffy starship accommodation to turn this frustratingly rare crossing of paths into something memorable. But there was something else that she could now see underneath that thoughtfulness. It was also a chance for him to show off. The newly-promoted second officer of a Federation starship pulling rank to score the fanciest quarters available to underline his status.
As she contemplated this particular memory, she had to admit that, had everything been equal back on Starbase 218, she’d have gone along with it. That was the man she had married, after all. The red flags had been there all along, and she’d chosen to ignore them.
They had even been there when he had proposed. He hadn’t chosen a personal or private moment to pop the question, or chosen a specific location with any personal meaning to them. Instead, he had gotten down on one knee in the middle of his own brother’s birthday party, during shore leave back on Earth. In front of his extended family, while she had been wearing the little black dress and the Folnar jewel necklace he had bought for her just days before.
The whole thing had been as much an exercise in him showing off in front of everyone, and stealing his brother’s thunder, than it had been about the two of them.
And, in fairness to him, it worked. The proposal, and her saying yes, had delighted everyone present at the party. With the possible exception of his brother. And she had accepted it all. She had said yes. Because she loved him.
Even as she had felt like she was being shown off to everyone, with her elegant dress, her dazzling necklace, and now an engagement ring topped off with a gemstone the size of a small asteroid on her finger, she had accepted it all. Because she was sure that people could change. At least, that was what she had told herself.
Except Cameron hadn’t really changed. And neither had she. Looking back around at this particular memory after so many years had passed, she could now see that she had never really fully trusted him. Which, in an odd way, had proven fortunate.
In front of her was a small padd, containing the evidence that was going to end her marriage.
Because, while Cameron was expecting dinner and a night in the executive quarters, he was actually heading for something quite different.
As she stared at the padd, she wondered if Sunek had given her the cordrazine yet.
She had first become suspicious about Cameron and Lt Ramirez some weeks ago, and it hadn’t taken much digging to confirm those suspicions. It turned out that Cameron’s healthy ego seemed to give him a zealous amount of overconfidence in everything he did, to the point that he had barely even bothered to cover his own tracks.
The final piece of the puzzle had been delivered via one of her old Academy friends onboard the Ticonderoga, who had let slip the fact that she had seen Cameron and Ramirez spending more and more time together onboard.
Apparently, things had come to a head when a holodeck malfunction had forced a team of engineers to spend hours rescuing the pair from what had turned out to be a couples massage program. The malfunction, precipitated by a spatial anomaly that the Ticonderoga had been studying, caused the holomatrix to fuse that program with one designed for advanced tactical training.
And while she had gained some small amount of amusement at the mental image of Cameron and Ramirez, clad in little more than paper-thin towels, suddenly finding themselves having to spend several hours fending off a hoard of armed Gorn soldiers with massage oil and seaweed wraps, the story merely served as confirmation of what she already suspected.
He was cheating on her. Their marriage was over.
Still, for some reason, she hadn’t informed him via subspace, or sent him a simple message. Instead, she had carried on as normal, waiting for their rendezvous at the starbase.
She winced slightly as she felt another headache starting up, wondering what carnage the extra boost of stims were wreaking on her physical body right now.
In the distance, she heard a red alert siren.
Trying to keep her focus on this memory, she focused back on the padd. Remembering why she had decided to handle Cameron’s infidelity in person.
In truth, she had done it for the irony. After he had proposed in such a public manner, and spent most of their relationship favouring performative actions over genuine ones, she had decided to at least take satisfaction in finishing things in a similar way.
Still, even though the look on his face when she had calmly, but firmly, explained what she had found out had been particularly priceless, it hadn’t satisfied her as much as she had hoped. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, it always felt like part of her had died on that day. And now, she thought with a hint of irony, the rest of her was joining it.
She felt another surge of pain in her head. The alert siren was becoming persistent.
She heard footsteps approaching from behind her. Just as she had heard them back when this had really happened. She looked up to see Cameron’s reflection in the window as the smiling second officer of the Ticonderoga reached her table.
Part of her had almost been expecting to see Sunek’s face instead of Cameron’s. But the Vulcan was nowhere to be seen. She recalled what he had said about it being harder to ‘find her’ with the last meld, and suppressed a shudder as she contemplated whether or not she was now completely cut off. All alone, inside her own memory.
Cameron leaned down and kissed her cheek. She didn’t react.
The red alert siren grew in intensity. Her head began to pound.
Her husband sat down opposite her at the table. He began to talk.
“Warning. Structural integrity failure in progress.”
And she knew she couldn’t hold back the sirens any longer.
* * * * *
“It’s not working, is it?”
Jirel didn’t direct the question at anyone else in particular. His focus was on the freshly loaded hypospray in his hands. Another shot of stims. On standby. In fact, the tiny vial of liquid inside the hypospray represented the remains of the cordrazine supply on the entire Bounty. That was all they had left from the Bounty’s meagre supply.
Elsewhere in the medical bay, Denella stood over the computer, waiting on the synthesis of the antidote, while Sunek watched the readings from Natasha on a separate screen. Klath had temporarily left the room, returning to the cockpit to get the Bounty back to maximum speed towards the medical facility on Beta Ramis.
It was far too late for them to get there in time now. They were entirely reliant on the supplies they had taken from the Son’a. But still, they had to fly themselves somewhere, and that seemed as good a place as any.
After a moment, Jirel looked up, and repeated his question.
“Is it?”
Denella didn’t answer, keeping her focus on the progress on the screen in front of her. Sunek glanced up from his own screen and shrugged.
“She’s getting worse,” he reported glumly, “The stims don’t seem to have given her lifesigns the same boost that they did before.”
“Why?”
Sunek bit his tongue before offering a more productive answer than the sarcasm that his brain had initially planned to opt for. He didn’t need to remind Jirel that anything he told him was mostly going to be guesswork. “Dunno,” he shrugged apologetically, “But I’d assume it’s got something to do with the toxin spreading further after we gave her the promazine. The stims aren’t controlling the situation as well, now there’s more to deal with.”
The Trill looked down at the hypospray in his hand, then back up at the Vulcan, who picked up on the details of the unspoken question.
“If we give her another shot, I have no idea what that might do to her.”
“If the toxin has spread,” Jirel countered, “A bigger dose might help to fight it.”
“True,” Sunek shrugged, “It might also completely overload what’s left of her systems. Still not a doctor, but my honest advice would be to maybe save that shot until her lifesigns really start to flatline.”
Jirel grimaced and chewed his cheek, looking over at Denella. “How long on the antidote?”
Denella decided against reminding him that it had only been a few minutes since he’d last asked her that question. Like Sunek, she could tell that it wasn’t really the time. “About an hour, give or take.”
Jirel fixated on the hypospray again, as he considered how much the crew had come together in this particular crisis. How quickly Natasha had become such a vital part of the crew as a whole, for everyone on the Bounty.
As he thought about that, and Denella and Sunek returned their attention to their respective screens, the door to the medical bay opened and Klath returned.
“We are sixteen hours away from Beta Ramis,” he announced.
None of the others took much visible solace from that news, with good reason. Klath acknowledged the silence, and then stood awkwardly in the doorway, not entirely sure what else he could offer the current situation. Eventually, and more than a little reluctantly, he stepped across the room, over to Jirel and the hypospray.
“The remaining stimulants?” he asked, gesturing at the device in the Trill’s hand.
Jirel nodded back, forcing himself to look up at the hulking Klingon. “We were just…debating whether to give them to her or not.”
Klath considered the matter in silence for a moment. Another of those silences that he didn’t realise held such power over the rest of the Bounty’s crew.
And then, something curious happened. The least medically-minded person on the entire ship, possibly in the entire quadrant, offered a diagnosis.
“You should give them to her.”
Jirel stared back at the looming face of the Klingon, even as Sunek turned back from his screen with an edge of displeasure.
“Hey, Doctor Bat’leth MD, maybe now isn’t the best time to start your pitch for the chief medical officer vacancy?”
Klath didn’t look over at the Vulcan, keeping his attention on Jirel, though he did acknowledge his general point. “I cannot offer a medical opinion,” he conceded, “But I can offer that of a warrior.”
“Yeah, cool,” Sunek’s sarcasm persisted, “Don’t tell me, we should try to hit the toxin with really sharp objects.”
“I do not understand a great deal about medicine,” Klath continued, in what was a strong contender for the understatement of the century, “But I do know plenty about how to fight. And that seems to be what the doctor needs to do with this…toxin. We should give her every chance to win.”
“This shot,” Jirel half-whispered, twirling the hypospray around in his hand, “Could also kill her, Klath.”
“Any warrior knows that is a possibility in battle. She is no different.”
Klath looked over at the human woman on the bed, as Jirel regarded his Klingon confidante. After a thoughtful second, he turned back to Denella and Sunek, who had both looked up from their respective screens.
“He does know his battles,” Denella pointed out, “And we need to buy ourselves at least an hour.”
“Just FYI,” Sunek offered as a counterpoint, “If I’m ever in a dire medical emergency, I do not want Klath operating as my primary physician. And I will put that in writing.”
Jirel considered the range of opinions he’d been offered. And then he looked down at Natasha’s still-prone form on the bed.
And he prayed he wasn’t about to make a big mistake.