Tough Love

[JFarrington 0]

Tough Love

Starfleet Medical, San Francisco, Earth

 

Jami followed Mark Murphy as he maneuvered awkwardly through her office toward the door. His prosthetic legs, though state-of-the-art, were still clumsy, a reflection of his state of mind, his inability to cope with “the life he’d fallen into without his permission” as he put it.

 

The young Starfleet SpecOps Petty Officer had seen too much for one lifetime and his last mission left him the only survivor. Dealing with that along with post traumatic stress and a merciless media that was now kept at bay only by the protection offered on this campus and other Starfleet installations had withered him to a shadow of his former self. She’d been working with him for six months, but it would take several years to overcome his most prominent disability: his attitude. And she knew just the person who could help.

 

The Academy faculty lounge, located on the top floor of the office complex, was quiet this time of day, so after making a call Jami wandered in that direction. It was the lull between noon and dinner when food service personnel cleaned and rearranged the tables, preparing for the next onslaught. They’d set up several tables together in a far corner, as though for a meeting. Someone was working overtime in the name of whatever discipline.

 

Jami had grown beyond that. She’d intentionally scheduled her graduate seminars and private sessions - with the exception of emergencies like Mark’s - to allow her to dine in relative privacy, to give her the space she needed since Manticore's departure.

 

She missed Atragon, of course, and she missed the crew. They’d become her extended family; bonds had formed that would never be broken, some even going deeper than family ties.

 

But she didn’t miss the rest: the destruction, the politics, the suffering of a population under fire, and a myriad of other situations that came with working in SpecOps. She especially did not miss the moral and ethical tradeoffs associated with the decisions that boiled down to kill or don’t kill. Removed from that theater of operation, she was dealing with the theater of the mind, the aftermath that so many, young and old, faced when they either left the service or were forced out because of physical or mental disability.

 

Putting those thoughts aside, Jami chose a table in a private alcove against the main windows where she could look out on the mall that stretched from the office complex to the main education building. In the distance a group of students huddled together in discussion; to the right of them and toward the office complex a few spread out, enjoying the early spring sun and the absence of San Fran’s trademark fog; just beneath the window a few played Frisbee-keepaway with their class’s yellow lab mascot, Bongo, dubbed Master of the Air by all who knew him for his ability to leap and grab anything at a moment’s notice. She watched a while, quietly cheering Bongo on every time he gained points for his team: himself.

 

This time of day it was the perfect place to meet someone whose presence would draw too much attention had he appeared an hour earlier. Hidden within the noontime crowd always lurked someone begging a question, asking for an opinion, or wanting a quote for some such. It happened especially with adjunct professors who didn’t always adhere strictly to protocol...

 

“Hey, J.” The soft voice of SpecOps tactical instructor Greg Patterson broke Jami’s concentration on the game below. She turned just in time to see him quietly pull out a chair and settle into it. He’d come in clad in blue jeans, identification pinned low on a black T-shirt, the gray shadow image of a phoenix splayed across its front. As he folded his arms across his chest and leaned back, his signature tattooed biceps stretched the tee to its limit while his boyish grin softened what would otherwise be an imposing presence.

 

“Greg.” Jami smiled, but it came out worn, her session with Mark having been more intense than she imagined. “Quiet and sneaky as ever.”

 

The Starfleet Marine MSgt dropped his chin to his chest and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Didn’t intend to do that,” he said, eyes peeking sheepishly through his lashes.

 

“The hell you didn’t,” Jami shot back, flicking a dismissive hand at his expression. “And keep that for your girlfriends. You know better than to pull that crap with me.”

 

Greg’s unabashed laugh echoed in the empty room, drawing the attention of a few servers. “Day-m, girl, guilty... as charged,” he said, his accent thick, one fist slamming down to rock the table. “And I even got ya to spit out one o’ them bayd words y’always talkin’ ‘bout.”

 

Jami eyed him for a minute, her worn smile brightening before the shadow of Starfleet’s newest fighter drifted across the mall. Jami, Greg, and everyone below stopped to watch and admire its silent, stealth passage, the first of a series of Peacekeepers due to enter service within the year.

 

“Damn sweet, that ride,” said Greg as it disappeared over the Santa Cruz range. “Let’s hope it lives up to its name.”

 

A few moments of silence passed before Greg leaned forward to clasp his hands on the table, ready to discuss the situation at hand. “Hear you have someone for me?” The accent had mostly disappeared.

 

“I do,” said Jami. “It’s taken him six months, but he’s ready.” She locked eyes with Greg and he finally gave a slow nod, lips pursed as he considered all the implications of his next move.

 

Besides being an instructor within Starfleet’s clandestine/covert operations corps, Greg headed a group that extended the Wounded Warriors* program that began in the 20th century. Known for tough love, they were specialists in attitude change, and those who came never left without it. There was a period of psychological assessment - which was Jami’s side of the coin - followed by a period of camp adjustment, after which the specialists in situ threw the person into what amounted to an intensive mental boot camp. They were no longer patients, they were candidates, and treated as such, all under the watchful eye of medical personnel. Candidates for attitude adjustment, they said, which ultimately led to accelerated physical healing. Their rate of recovery often astounded the candidates’ former physicians, and sometimes the candidates themselves.

 

“He has to come over by himself,” Greg continued, the direct, no-nonsense tone he was known for creeping in. “You’re aware of that. No assistance. No company.”

 

“He knows. He’s ready. He asked for you by name today.”

 

“And you said...?”

 

“I said I’d look into it.”

 

Greg continued to stare, his eyes fixed on hers as though he were making a decision.

 

“He’s hurting, Greg. And he’s falling. If he’s not given this chance, it may be his last.”

 

Another long moment of staring and Greg nodded, relaxing in his chair after one knock on the table. “You know where to send him. I’ll be there when he arrives. Keep ya posted.”

 

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*This log in no way illustrates techniques used today by the Wounded Warriors or any of its affiliates. It is pure fiction and is intended to be read as such. For the real story on Wounded Warriors see woundedwarriorproject.org.