Blood Impulse

Part 41.3 - MEDICAL ATTENTION

Cardioid Sector, HR-14 System, Battleship Singularity

Doctor Macintosh rushed onto the bridge with one of his most experienced nurses, a stretcher carried between them. He cursed upon seeing the state of the bridge. It was riddled with holes. Display screens had been impacted and cracked, and a light had been shot out and left flickering on the ceiling. A few of the padded chairs behind the console had holes where the white stuffing was now popping out. The smell of gun power was still laden in the air, slowly being whisked away by the air filters. Aside from the buzz, buzz, of the flickering light, it was quiet.

Admiral Gives stood in the center of the room, focused on the radar readouts, an equally focused weapons officer and tensed pilot in front of him. They weren't untouched by the carnage. Jazmine's ordinarily perfect hair was out of place, Gaffigan's fiery orange beard looked more unkempt than usual and the Admiral's hands were positively stained with red. Even from the door, Macintosh could see that the black glove covering his burned hand was soaked. Red smeared many of the nearby controls, and blood pooled below a body that the doctor didn't recognize – presumably the attacker. There was no question of the body's status as a corpse given what Macintosh could see of its neck.

Laying at the base of the radar console, Kallahan was fighting to bandage his own leg, a splatter of blood around him. Macintosh rushed over to him, but Kallahan just waved him off. "Not me," he pointed over to a body that hadn't been visible from the doorway.

"Stars," Macintosh cursed. Robinson was pale as a ghost, two of her comrades kneeling beside her. Owens had a fistful of bandages pressed to Robinson's front, and Galhino was beating upon her chest in sorry condition, sweat damping and plastering her curly hair to her forehead. Yet, it was apparent from the way she lay and from the volume of blood around her that Robinson was dead. "Make room," Macintosh commanded, shoving himself into place along Robinson's side. He wasted no time and tried to take vitals, failing because Robinson had none to take. She was, in that moment, very dead, even as Galhino leaned forward to push new air into her lungs. "Get the defibrillator," Macintosh ordered his nurse.

Nurse June began yanking the defibrillator from the supplies they'd brought, and stringing the wires together. She worked quickly, giving the doctor just enough time to glance back to the Admiral. Admiral Gives' stocky form didn't look injured, tired perhaps, but not wounded. His cold blue gaze was simply focused on something else, doing as the commander was meant to: commanding. In some ways, Macintosh admired him for that. His ability to disregard the bodies, blood and turmoil strewn around him made him a force to be reckoned with. Few could maintain his calm control, but the mathematics of command required it. Before the Admiral could concern himself with any single member of the crew, he had to ensure the safety of the ship as a whole. Knowing that, Macintosh didn't bother asking the situation, he simply did his own job and focused on the patient.

Grabbing shears from the pocket of his white coat, Macintosh watched Galhino perform rescue breathing once more, then pushed her and Owens away. "Move!" He dove in with the shears, and cut the front of Robinson's uniform open. He pulled the fabric away so that Nurse June could lay the defibrillator's pads directly on her bare chest. This was no time to concern himself with Robinson's privacy, but Owens averted her eyes. Whether that was out of respect, or because of the gnarled scars that covered Keifer's chest and torso, Macintosh didn't know.

Those lumpy scars cut across her body horizontally. Some rose as mountains and some sunk as canyons carved into her skin. The fleet's uniform concealed them on the daily, but Macintosh could never have forgotten them. They were some of the most severe scars he'd ever seen: reminders of a cruel man's cruel deeds. The cuts that created them had gone untreated for weeks, just shallow enough not to kill her, but deep and wide enough to have desperately needed stitches. They were permanent memoirs of Robinson's prior assignment to the Flagship Ariea, hurt carved so deep that even time could not heal it.