The Needs of the Many

[Cmdr JFarrington 0]

Personal Log, Stardate 5009011.8

Cmdr JFarrington, MD

Starbase 9, Alpha Quadrant

 

The Needs of the Many

 

Except for the walls painted in calming blues and greens with a pattern resembling deep ocean currents, the room had the feel of interrogation. Sparse utilitarian furnishings included a physician’s chair and worktable, a visitor’s chair that doubled as a recliner or bed as needed, and one biobed conspicuously placed in the center of the room. Soft music, intended to relax both patient and visitor, came from a lone communication console. A one-way window that allowed physicians to unobtrusively observe the patient ran the length of one wall, and the total absence of monitoring equipment and extraneous sounds completed the package. Though the atmosphere was meant to relax and encourage, it smacked of isolation and added to Jami’s growing agitation.

 

It is said that doctors make the worst patients, and perhaps it could be said they also make the worst visitors. Since Atragon’s transfer from the Manticore to the ICU on Starbase 9, Jami Farrington had been less than compliant probably because the attending physicians had been less than accommodating to her requests for more information, not only concerning Atragon’s condition but his future location. Where were they going to take him? What were they going to do to him? More importantly, what would happen to Adrian Wolfe, who had overstepped his bounds, this time more seriously than ever.

 

For the last five days Jami had been at her husband’s side, watching every attendant’s move and scrutinizing every treatment. During times of stress she habitually twisted her wedding band, and that she had done almost constantly the past few days, until her finger was nearly raw, though the intertwined bands had kept their bond.

 

The light in the room changed suddenly. The door had opened and a young man, less than half Jami’s age, stepped in. His jaw was set but the shift of his eyes betrayed his anxiety. His hair still bore the regulation buzz of Starfleet Academy and his uniform was fresh and almost starched. It was clear this was his first starbase assignment and that he was considerably uncomfortable with his duty.

 

Behind him stood an older man, perhaps Jami’s age. His hair was just beginning to tinge with gray and high cheek bones accentuated an aquiline nose. His eyes, however, were soft, and his manner easy.

 

Two medical assistants followed, guiding a hoverbed – the type used for transporting patients over long distances.

 

Without hesitation the young man took the lead. “Dr. Farrington,” he said in formal greeting, “we’re moving the Admiral to Starbase….”

 

“Oh are you now? And why is that?” Jami placed herself directly between them and Atragon. “And on whose authority?” Since Atragon’s transfer off the ship she had gotten no definitive answers, and by god, before anything more was done she was going to get some answers.

 

The young man cleared his throat and began again, “Dr. Farrington we are moving the Admiral to….”

 

“No, you are not! Not until you give me full disclosure of his condition, why you are moving him, and who ordered it. Is_that_understood, Lieutenant?” She moved towards him, slipping into full defense mode. The young man’s scrubbed, just-out-of-the-academy face paled and he stepped back to allow the other access.

 

In contrast to the brash lieutenant, the elder bore the caduceus of Starfleet Medical and a set of commander’s pips partially hidden by a well-used lab coat. Jami had seen him somewhere before but in the heat of anger she couldn’t place him. He spoke with a gentle but firm authority, a hint of understanding underlying his words.

 

“Dr. Farrington,” he began evenly, his obvious concern fairly begging Jami to listen. She straightened up but crossed her arms in defiance. “Your husband’s condition is grave.”

 

“Tell me something I don’t know,” she countered.

 

“This facility, though adequate for most severe injuries, does not have the personnel or the equipment to treat him.”

 

“So you’re going to further endanger his life by moving him? Why not bring the personnel and equipment here?”

 

“That is not possible.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Dr. Farrington,” he said, putting a hand on her arm.

 

She threw it off. “Don’t patronize me,” she said, her voice intense, just above a whisper as she advanced to within an inch of the doctor’s face. “You think I don’t know what’s happening? You think I don’t realize what Wolfe did, authorized or unauthorized? What the implications of the Admiral’s condition are and how good it would be for everyone except my husband to cover this up? And if you think for one minute that I’m going to stand by and allow it… then you are very mistaken, Doctor.”

 

“Jami.”

 

Someone had slipped in behind. She spun on her heel, ready to attack, to defend the man she loved and protect all she held dear. But what she saw was so totally unexpected that her conjured words stuck in her throat. The back door to the observation room stood open and bathed in a pale light stood Vice Admiral Gren DeJariov, Surgeon General of Starfleet Medical and long time friend of Jami Farrington.

 

“Give us the room,” he said. They withdrew. The doors closed. A long silence ensued while Jami and Gren stared at each other.

 

His face was drawn, as if too many sleepless nights had sapped his strength. His normally energetic stance was labored, and his Russian accent more pronounced than usual.

 

“Tell me you’re not part of this,” said Jami.

 

“We are all part of this,” he said quietly.

 

“Yes,” she said, “we are. We’re all part of this menagerie, this game of chess played by the gods of the Federation.” Her tone was bitter, but Gren’s face remained passive, allowing her to go on.

 

“When did we come to this, Gren? Atragon is valuable to them, isn’t he?”

 

He did not respond.

 

“Isn’t he?” she shouted.

 

“Yes. He is.”

 

“He’s a commodity! Something to be dispatched, used, and repaired if damaged! Gods, even a Mudd android has more rights than he does!”

 

Gren said nothing.

 

“What have we become? When did this happen, Gren? When did officers, by virtue of their knowledge and their expertise, not to mention their position in the military and their ability to command, suddenly become cheap commodities to be sorted, organized, cataloged and then filed, only to be pulled from the drawer when they are needed? Are they no more than the sum of their achievements, no more valuable than the PADDs on which the records of their lives are written? Is this the needs of the many outweighing the need of the one, Gren? Surely that saying has a more lofty meaning, a more noble significance.”

 

Her rant finished, she sank into the chair next to Atragon’s biobed. Another long silence ensued, after which Gren stepped to Atragon and gazed down at his pale, seemingly lifeless body.

 

“He’s dying, isn’t he?” said Jami with an air of resignation.

 

“He’s strong. He’s fighting.”

 

“Will he live? Will he survive this time?” She had lost track of Atragon’s near-death experiences. This one, by far, was the worst, the most frightening. Over the past few days she had faced the very real possibility that she could lose him, that for the second time she would be widowed, and that his two beloved children would be fatherless.

 

“That is up to him. And up to you.”

 

Jami looked up, puzzled.

 

Gren removed the wedding band from Atragon’s finger and held it to the light. “Two cords intertwined, neither one strong in itself, yet bonded, form an enduring structure.” He lowered it and turned to face her. “You told me that not long ago. It’s the extraordinary significance of your wedding bands. Yours and his fit together seamlessly, don’t they?”

 

Jami nodded.

 

Gren handed Jami the ring. “Then bond his ring to yours while you are away. He will need your strength to survive, and you will need his.”

 

“Away? What do you mean away? I’m not leaving him. I can’t….”

 

“Yes. You can. And you will.” He pressed the ring into her palm. “I have placed him in my personal care. Wolfe will be dealt with. There’s nothing you can do for Atragon here, and you are needed there.”

 

“So I’m a commodity, too?” She threw the words in his face, her anger and resentment quickly returning.

 

Unabashed, he replied, “Not a commodity, but an asset. We are all assets. And what sets us apart is that we choose to be. We choose to serve. Atragon chose to serve. He knew the risks and the possible consequences. You chose to serve. I chose to serve. Everyone aboard that ship chose to serve. And they are depending on you.”

 

After a thoughtful minute Jami removed her wedding band – two slender cords, intertwined – and fit Atragon’s over it. Their contact made a firm bond and she slipped the merged bonds onto her own finger. By the time she looked up Gren was gone. She had a few hours before reporting. She would spend every last moment with Atragon, and when she left him she would believe, with him and for him, that he would recover.