Blood Impulse

Part 9.3 - TAMPERED DATA

Aragonian Sector, Battleship Singularity

Doctor Macintosh heard the heart monitor's alarm from across sickbay, but he took his time in going to it. He had no desire to look at the Admiral's corpse. If he never saw it, it somehow became less real.

Nevertheless, the dismayed looks of the remaining patients sent him to silence the reminder of their loss. Macintosh parted the gray curtain, but kept his gaze locked on where his shoes met the floor. He was not ready to see the Admiral's dead body. He would need to drink himself far past tipsy before he was ready for that.

The doctor shut the heartrate monitor off with a sigh of defeat. It was time to go call CIC and deliver the news. He turned to leave, only to have his jaw drop open. "Bullshit." This was bullshit. No way in hell.

The Admiral paused for a moment, midway through buttoning his black uniform jacket over his uniform shirt. "Good afternoon, Doctor," he greeted simply.

"You were dead," Macintosh told him. "Dead." But now, not only was he awake, but he was walking around? Not possible. Still, the bed was empty, and the white sheets were stained with a fresh splatter of blood from the Admiral messily ripping his IV out. His arm was likely bleeding, but underneath the long, black sleeves of his uniform, no one would ever know.

Buttoning up the silver buttons on his jacket left his injured hand aching painfully, but Admiral Gives did not let a sliver of that discomfort show. He had suffered worse. "It seems that diagnosis was somewhat in error, Doctor." He was not feeling particularly dead at the moment.

Doctor Macintosh opened and closed his mouth as he searched for an adequate response. It was a special type of disconcerting to be confronted by a patient who had been effectively dead for a week.

Admiral Gives bent to pick up a garment that had fallen to the floor. It was a black glove thoughtfully provided to cover the ugly burns on his left hand. He pulled it on and held up the covered hand, "Your idea?"

"N-no." Macintosh was still too surprised to act like his normal, irritable self. He shook his head, trying to clear it, "Feather must've dropped it off when she brought your uniform." At the time, it had seemed a futile gesture.

The Admiral made a note to thank Ensign Feather for her consideration, but found it odd that Macintosh was being so polite. The man had only cussed once during this conversation. "Is there something wrong, Doctor?" It was strange to find Macintosh with a tolerable attitude, especially when he was sober.

"You're supposed to be dead, but clearly you're not." At the moment, the man seemed perfectly fine, even if logically speaking, Macintosh should be prepping his corpse for cold storage right now.

"Is that a problem?"

"No?" Macintosh answered, uncertain why he was being asked that question.

"Then I do not see an issue," the Admiral said placidly. "Thank you for your services, but I am needed on the bridge." He pushed the curtain aside and strode through the medical bay with purpose.

The crew in the room, patients and staff alike, had all sunk into the lounge chairs in the center of the room, their heads bowed at a low angle. They looked up as someone walked by, expecting to find Doctor Macintosh, and then did a double-take. Many of them blinked or rubbed their eyes and looked again in disbelief.

Macintosh stepped out past the curtain a moment later, unsurprised to find that everyone in sickbay was looking at him, waiting for an explanation. "He just got up and walked out," the doctor told them, "I didn't have anything to do with it." He had no real explanation to offer. It was a damned miracle.