USS Sanctuary
In orbit of Arandis IV

Sandhurst started awake for the fifth time in as many hours. The quiet of the medical ward with its soft beeps and the chimes of various diagnostic equipment was in stark contrast to the bedlam of his troubled dreams. Whenever he closed his eyes, all he could see were explosions and exchanges of searing fire, the snap and whine of weapons competing with the screams of the wounded.

The images seemed to replay as if on a loop, regardless of how hard Sandhurst tried to focus on other, less troubling things as he drifted off.

The large, semi-circular ward was but a sole treatment compartment, a portion of one deck among several aboard the Starfleet hospital ship Sanctuary. The ship was filled with survivors of the fighting on Arandis IV, Starfleet and civilian alike. It was even rumored that one whole deck had been dedicated to the treatment of wounded Cardassian prisoners, under heavy Marine guard, of course.

Sandhurst looked down at his shoulder, admiring the synthiskin graft that was helping the wound to heal. He had been shot. The very idea of it still boggled his mind. As a boy he’d always imagined that he would have time to dodge such an attack, but that had been mere youthful fantasy. The reality was that he had been hit and flung over the railing and into the containment pool before he’d even had time to realize what had happened.

The doors to the ward swooshed open to admit Doctor Cavanaugh. Despite her participation in the bloody surface battle, she had insisted on treating the surviving Sagan crew herself. She made her way down the row of biobeds ringing the outer bulkhead, checking charts and conversing with those who were awake.

She arrived at Sandhurst’s bed, referencing her padd and checking his vitals on the headboard monitor. “I’d ask how you’re doing, but these readings say you haven’t been sleeping much.”

Sandhurst shook his head. “Can’t.”

“Nightmares?” she asked.

“Can you call them nightmares if they really happened, Doctor?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, nodding. “Those are flashbacks. That’s your mind trying to process those experiences. Because they’re so traumatic, it’s having difficulty categorizing and filing them away, so they continue to run like a background program, regardless of whether you’re sleeping or awake.”

Sandhurst digested that. “Can you give me something to sleep dreamlessly?”

“I can, but only for one sleep-period per day. That’s only treating the symptom, not the underlying problem. I’m going to have Doctor Regnard meet with you daily until the ship returns to Starbase 287. He’s a counselor, and quite a good one. He can teach you some relaxation techniques and take you through a trauma incident reduction series that will help you to process what you’ve experienced in a safe environment.”

He glanced up to meet her gaze fully. “Are there, Doctor? Truly safe environments?”

“I know in this moment that’s difficult to believe, Cadet, but yes, there are.”

“I keep thinking of Cadet Waller,” he said suddenly, surprising himself. He hadn’t intended to speak of it. “She was wounded… lost her arm, and I couldn’t find my med-kit. I tried to find it, but I couldn’t. By the time I remembered she had one of her own I could have used, it was too late.”

Unbidden tears streamed down his cheeks. “How could I be so stupid? I was digging in the dirt for something she had on her own belt!”

Cavanaugh sat on the edge of his biobed, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You were in shock, Donald. Your emergency response training so far hasn’t prepared you for anything like what you experienced down there. When confronted with the unthinkable for the first time, Humans often freeze or can’t think clearly. Hard as it may be for you to believe, your reaction was perfectly normal.”

He pulled himself together, trying to put on a brave face that didn’t fool either of them. “Did… did Captain Morozov survive?” Sandhurst asked hesitantly.

Cavanaugh nodded soberly, though the corners of her mouth hinted at the smile she was keeping in check. “He most certainly did. He very nearly had a dropship crash right on top of him, but the man’s luck is legendary.”

Sandhurst dropped his head. “Would that we could all have had such luck.”

* * *​

Morozov found him in Sanctuary’s physical rehabilitation gymnasium.

The El Aurian strained atop a bench under the high-g weight bar, completing a series of chest-presses, his shirt soaked with perspiration.

The doctor who had summoned the captain stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. He inclined his head towards Lar’ragos, then shook it in disbelief. “He’s in no shape to be doing any of this. His wounds have just begun to heal, especially the internal injuries.”

Morozov nodded to the physician. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll take it from here.”

Lar’ragos had rolled off the bench and nearly doubled over from exhaustion and pain before gathering himself and staggering over to a leg-press station to begin using that apparatus.

“Proving a point, Cadet?” Morozov asked as he approached.

“Cor—correcting… deficits,” Lar’ragos huffed between reps.

“Your doctors are worried you’re doing more harm than good,” Morozov said patiently.

Lar’ragos finished a set and paused, looking up at him. “One of them beat me,” he said in a low voice.

“It happens,” Morozov opined.

“Not to me,” Lar’ragos countered.

“That’s dangerously arrogant,” the captain observed, “and dare I say, you’re old enough to know that.”

Lar’ragos finished another set, scowling at Morozov. “In my prime, I could have killed that man without much effort at all.”

“And that’s a point of pride with you?” Morozov asked, voice tinged with disdain.

“Those Cardassians would have butchered our colonists,” Lar’ragos countered. “So, yes, I believe my ability to defeat a lethal threat quickly is desirable. That is why you wanted me down there, isn’t it, sir?”

Morozov sighed and leaned against the bulkhead, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “Mister Lar’ragos, you are training to become a Starfleet officer. Take it from someone who’s served twenty-five years, as horrible as this situation was, it’s a rarity. Combat is only a small percentage of Starfleet’s mission. I’d much rather have a science officer who can scrutinize a threatening stellar phenomenon than one who can cut a swath through hostile forces.”

The El Aurian stood shakily from the apparatus, toweling off. “No, not sciences. Not anymore. I’m changing my focus to security and tactical.”

Morozov felt a pang of regret, knowing that he had forced Lar’ragos into battle despite the man’s objections. “Don’t be too hasty, Mister Lar’ragos. You still have three more years at the academy. You needn’t decide this now.”

“I won’t… I can’t allow myself to be that vulnerable again. You can’t know the things I endured to reach the Federation, the sacrifices I made. I’ll be damned if I’ll allow all of that to be snatched away from me in a moment because I wasn’t strong enough or prepared enough to meet the challenge.”

“That’s paranoia,” Morozov argued.

“Yes, sir, it is. Paranoia has kept me alive for four centuries.”

Morozov dropped his head, issuing another sigh. He himself had nearly died during the attack. He had lost friends and comrades closer to him than family. He had been forced to sacrifice cadets, barely more than children, to stave off a merciless enemy. Morozov was emotionally and spiritually exhausted and had no more energy to give this troubled man.

“So be it, Lar’ragos. I wish you good fortune and safe journeys.”

Lar’ragos moved unsteadily towards another exercise apparatus. “And to you, sir.”

* * *​