How's Eva?

[Cmdr JFarrington 0]

How’s Eva?

 

We all knew him as Tang, the classically educated engineer who craved Brahms and Mozart, who had flipped a coin to choose between a career as a classical pianist and one in Starfleet. He had chosen Starfleet. He had been trapped in time, escaped death, and now had been thrust into null space while on a routine mission to retrieve obsolete probes left behind in the Badlands.

 

Pale. Oxygen levels down. Frostbite. Evidence of physical trauma. Prepare for possible post traumatic...

 

Her patient showing signs of consciousness for the first time, Jami Farrington shifted her full attention from the biobed readouts to the engineer... the person she was tending in Manticore’s ICU. ““Hello, Tang,” she said quietly, unsure of his reaction to a human voice. “You’ve had quite an experience.”

 

“How’s Eva?”

It took her a minute. My head hurts, or where am I are usually the first things a patient says after an experience like his. Yet, he was more concerned about a fellow crewman, about Eva.

 

“She’ll be fine,” said Jami softly, reassuringly. “How are you? How’s your head?”

 

“Its. . .fine. My concussion was minor.”

 

“Fine?”

 

“I'm light headed, but I think that’s from the lack of air. How's Eva?”

 

Jami pressed on, remaining lighthearted. “Lack of air? You’re probably right. There’s not much oxygen in space. And Eva will be fine, but we need to concentrate on you. Any pain?”

 

“My neck, no. . .Just above my neck....”

 

“What kind of pain? Sharp? Dull? Pulsing?”

 

His breathing became labored as he reached his hand to the back of his neck. “Dull and throbbing.”

 

Moving his arm hurt. Moving his neck and head seemed to hurt even more. Not surprising, but still not a good sign. “I'll consult Dr. Chalice, but my best guess would be oxygen deprivation and a slight concussion thrown in for good measure. Not a good mixture, but it'll give you a headache every time. I can give you a mild analgesic, if you feel it would help.”

 

“That sounds good. How's Eva?”

 

Even as he faded in and out of consciousness, he continued to ask.

 

“How long will my stay be?”

 

“That depends on how long it takes you to heal. How long do you think that will be?”

 

He shrugged. “I don't know, a day or so. . . .I hope. I could use the rest.”

 

“Then rest, already.”

 

The analgesic took hold and he drifted off. Jami placed a gentle hand on his arm, knowing he craved the reassurance of personal contact. Solitude, especially the solitude of space, with its impersonal cold too close to entombment, works its worst on the physical, mental, and spiritual. It calls a physician to go beyond the technical to the personal, to revert to ancient methods of healing, especially touch, its gentle pressure, its comforting warmth.

 

And he continued to call.

 

“Eva?”