The Count of Casualty

Posted on Sat Jan 15th, 2011 @ 5:54pm by Lieutenant Commander Andreus Kohl

801 words; about a 4 minute read

Mission: Looking for the Future in all the Wrong Places
Location: Transporter Room Two, USS Ranger
Timeline: Current

Particle by sub-atomic particle, something coalesced within the silvery column of the annular confinement beam. Where there was nothing more than an indistinct matter stream in one heartbeat, a body emerged from the flickering transporter effect in the next. A pair of black boots were stood atop the glossy white transporter pad at a parade-rest stance. The man's boots were paired with a fitted, black Starfleet uniform. Aside from the metallic arrowhead commbadge on his chest, the solid black of the uniform was only broken by grey ribbing across the jacket's broad shoulders, and an indigo tunic underneath, only revealed at the collar. The Argelian man's hair, the shade of raw cocoa, had been cut military short, and he was narrow in the face, with a jawline that was probably neatly shaven a day or two earlier. Andreus Kohl looked out at the transporter room from behind crystal blue eyes. He stared at the transporter operator, a Deltan, in the control booth. Kohl stared right at him.

Languid lids fell over Kohl's eyes, as he parted his lips and drank in litres of sterilized Starfleet air. He held the breath. It tasted sweet. Overwhelmed by sense memory, Kohl surmised the Ranger was using G57-type air filters, and then he let the air out of his lungs slowly. All was good. Beamed across kilometres of space, and his lungs still worked.

"Crewman," said Kohl, and there was a winsome drawl to his delivery. Moving from the hips, Kohl stepped slowly across the hexagonal pattern of the transporter platform. He stared at the Deltan. They had a reputation, Deltans, but then so did Argelians. Raising both hands to chest level, Kohl touched the pads of his fingertips together. His hands formed a wedge he used to indicate the Deltan Crewman across the room. "What do they call you?" Kohl asked.

The Deltan blinked at Kohl, and his lips twisted into a shape resembling a question mark. He had prepared a speech in his head, the speech he always gave to visitors and new crewmembers. He had been practicing it, silently, in the minutes before he had transported Kohl aboard Ranger. The speech had never begun with introducing himself. Not ever, but it probably should have done. Starting anew, the Deltan shook his bald head briefly, and forgot about the speech. "I'm Viraj," the Deltan said.

"Viraj..." Kohl said, and he echoed the intended pronunciation. Standing in place on the trasporter platform, Kohl offered a smile to the Deltan, but it came out crooked. "Thank you," Kohl said, "for conveying me here, solid and whole."

Tipping his head down slightly, Viraj considered the LCARS display on his transporter console. His fingers idly tapped at the controls, cycling the transporter down to a power-saving mode. "You are welcome," Viraj replied, and because it was custom, he fished for a name by saying, "Commander...?"

"Kohl," he said as simply as he could. His hands came to rest by his sides. "I didn't bring any personal effects with me, but I'm going to need guest quarters arranged." --Kohl's smile turned sheepish and tight, as he tilted his head to the right-- "If you don't mind. Captain Northcutt's transfer orders didn't specify how long I would be here..."

At the mention of orders, Viraj waved a hand at the indigo highlights to Kohl's uniform. "Are you a doctor?" he asked.

"I am, uhh..." Kohl's eyes lost their pinpoint focus even before his words trailed off into fraught silence. His gaze shifted to the middle distance, somewhere over Viraj's shoulder, but his eyes still wouldn't focus. His voice quivering with alarm, Kohl said, "Oh, hell." His abdomen lurched inwards, and the partially-digested contents of his stomach heaved up his esophagus. Heaping gobs of vomit pooled between his lips and splattered down the front of his uniform jacket. His body lurched to the left, as his legs took on the consistency of half-boiled noodles. Grunting in frustration, Kohl shrugged his shoulders roughly, but his hands wouldn't work, wouldn't catch him. His arms could only flail like a flag buffeted by harsh wind.

Between dry heaves, Kohl hissed out the words, "Deindum pylori!" Even before the words escaped him, his legs crumpled down. His knees collided with a transport pad, driving blinding sharp pain up his lower extremities. Kohl pitched forward, and his left shoulder crashed into the hard edge of the transporter platform, and his head slapped against the first step and then bounced back hard. Anything else Kohl tried to say was drown out by another expulsion of vomit, which was mashed into transporter room's carpet by Viraj's booted feet.

---

Lieutenant Commander Andreus Kohl
Chief Medical Officer
USS Ranger

 

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