The Two Doctors
Posted on Mon May 4th, 2026 @ 1:09pm by Lieutenant JG Jade Petracca & Lieutenant Sylar
2,220 words; about a 11 minute read
Mission:
Friends and Traitors
Location: USS Thunderbird, Sickbay
Timeline: Mission Day 1, 1830 Hours
Cardio support units were online. Respiration support systems were ready. Medication was prepped. A placid evening in sickbay had given way to a flurry of preparation.
In they came, two young men, their faces sooty and bloodied, their uniforms charred and distorted. Their anti-grav stretchers carried them across the sickbay, behind them, a team of medics communicating in shorthand, triaging and supporting what they could.
"Okay, let's get them onto the biobeds," Petracca called, cutting through the sickbay, pulling her hair into a ponytail. The orderlies, who'd waited like catchers, took the men by the shoulders and feet and transferred them to the surgical beds. Sensor clamshells closed around the burned men's bodies, providing readings that had alarms wailing.
As the nurses and medical technicians prepared for emergency treatment, Petracca felt calmed for just a moment by a stilled, steady presence. A Vulcan officer joined the fray. "Are you the Doctor on duty, sir?"
"I am here," Sylar said, flatly, obliquely answering and ignoring the fact that he had been onboard for twenty-one minutes. He stalked to the two prone figures, assessing the story that the data was telling him. While the beds began their assessment he conducted his own visual assessment: dermal trauma was evident, burn patterns irregular, consistent with an uncontrolled energy or thermal exposure rather than weapons fire. He turned to the more severely injured patient. "Second-degree and emerging third-degree burns across thirty-three percent of the body,” he said calmly, but not without authority. None of the medical staff were known to him, but they all appeared to be looking to him for direction. He raised an eyebrow, dispensing with unnecessary pleasantries, and addressed them all, so that they would act as they were trained, each performing to their own skills and roles. "Initiate dermal regeneration sequence at level three. Increase analgesic delivery by 0.5 milligrams, pain will impede recovery.”
He moved to the other, less urgent case. He noticed that although the patient's eyes were closed, there was movement beneath the eyelids; an elementary level of consciousness, he concluded. “Your injuries are serious,” he said, in a deep, measured tone, “but they are treatable. You are receiving appropriate care. You will remain still. Movement will complicate tissue repair.”
The medical staff responded to his direction, so he approached the human female with a curious expression. He observed the dark eyes darting from patient to patient, and the frustration suggested by her tightly held jaw and frequent sighing. "The triage efforts, Doctor, were most satisfactory," he said slowly. In a low voice he gave his prognosis. "I assess that the first patient has a thirty-three to thirty-six percent likelihood of survival. The second patient has an eighty-seven percent likelihood, the variable being the response to the dermal regenerator. Do you concur, Doctor?"
"I agree," Petracca nodded. "They were both in a shuttle when an EPS relay exploded. Our more severe case is Ensign Chris Jolley, twenty-two years of age, technician. Airway burns, extensive external plasma burns. Defibrillation unsuccessful. No medication administered. The other is Ensign Orfil Dara, twenty-three, pilot. Low dose of analgesic administered to avoid collapsing the airway. How should we proceed, Doctor?"
“We proceed with Ensign Jolley as the priority. Your restraint in administering analgesic was logical,” he said evenly. "Prepare for immediate airway intervention. Initiate assisted respiration. Begin aggressive dermal regeneration at maximum tolerable threshold." Silently, he placed a neural stimulator on the bed, readying for what he had calculated was likely. "The percentage chance of the Ensign's survival would be greater if two physicians attended in concert. Prepare for airway intervention, doctor," he said quietly, "and then we will administer the dermal regeneration." He saw, again, her frustration. "Your attention, so far, has been commendable," he said with a hint of warmth. He knew that humans instinctively felt as much as they analysed. The human doctor was fighting for her patient, so Sylar would fight for her by providing emotional steadying and support. The pair of them, despite having never worked together, began to work in tandem, working to save the airway while behind them the medical staff attended the stabilised Ensign Dara.
There was something else, of course, that Sylar assessed that he had to say. "The Ensign's response to treatment indicates that the scale of burn shock is greater than anticipated. It is more likely than not that our endeavours will not succeed." Sylar worked the console, suggesting that while that might have been the case, he was proceeding regardless. He placed a hand on Jolley's head. "I propose to support Ensign Jolley with neuropressure. It is imprecise, but may regulate his functions. It will require my complete focus, and I will be disoriented when the connection between us severs."
"Are you sure that's wise, Doctor?" A hint of shock washed over Jade's face. "I'm not well versed in that sort of procedure, and I know our options are limited. Isn't that risky for you and the patient?"
"If I do not, Doctor, then this patient will die. The second order effects of his burns are beginning, he has cardiac failure, and cannot regulate basic phsyiological functions. An attempt to control that is logical: from what I have seen, you are a credible physician and can support the Ensigns if I become incapacitated. Please, have a member of the staff monitor me; you are looking for signs of neural shock."
And so he began; this wasn't a mindmeld, but something lower level. He placed his fingers on Jolley's temples, finding the nerve endings and slowly finding his way into his mind. There was one vulnerability, he knew, USS Seraph, Wolf 359. He visualised the sealing of those memories, of the trauma of losing Lieutenant Chaudry on the biobed as the Borg tore the ship apart. Being summoned to the Bridge to be ordered by Lieutenant Commander Russell, who considered him a friend, to evacuate whomever he could. The deaths in the escape pods. For a second he allowed those thoughts to surface, like an unruly pet or child interrupting a solemn occasion. And then firmly, forcefully, they were suppressed. And then he focussed purely on this one task, feeling his way into Ensign Jolley's mind. Unlike a mindmeld, he would not access, nor seek access to, the young officer's thoughts and feelings. Instead he offered a 'backup' to the regulation of bodily functions. Steeling himself, he knew he was close.
The pain hit him, the agony of being burned striking him almost physically. He was aware that, in what seemed like another world, he was screaming in the Sickbay. He felt, in that world, someone's hand touch his arm. The impulse, the instinct, to withdraw was overwhelming. He persisted, visualising walking along a tunnel, with doors to Jolley's cardiological, respiratory and other systems before him. He saw, clearly fragmented impressions as the human's mental control failed. There was a sense of an unfinished joke with Orfil Dara, the physical trauma, the panic, the shock. Ensign Jolley kept recalling a female face, young, human, light brown hair, with freckles and what to Jolley was an infectious grin; was she a sister, a friend, a lover? There was a vague sense of deep affection, a bitter realisation that he would never see her again. Again, in another world, as if recalling a dream, he noted that he, Sylar, was sweating, his breathing shallow. A tear fell from Sylar. Back with Ensign Jolley, he maintained his firm, persistent pressure. Your condition is being treated, we will reestablish your breathing. You will remain.
Jolley was frail, Sylar realised, he was fading. There was strength, enough, to push back against Sylar, a plea to end the suffering. It was too late, and Sylar began to disengage. He slowly began to release his control of Jolley's failing functions, and to allow to his own thoughts to flood across his imagination. Seril, of all things, Seril, dominated. Seril the pugnacious trade specialist, Seril his intended, Seril whose message acknowledging his survival at Wolf 359 was detached even by Vulcan standards. And there was anger, frustration, at the unavoidable conclusion that this young officer, with a life ahead of him, would surely die. The pause between the severing of the connection and the reestablishment of his own emotional control was exhausting, and he suspected that he screamed again. He closed his eyes, adjusted consciousness, and then.
He opened his eyes. He was drenched in sweat. "Doctor," he said in an empty, exhausted voice. He stumbled.
Crewman Short caught the Vulcan. Jade too had her hand on Sylar's arm, steadying him as he came to. Her eyes flicked to the screen to see if anything had changed. Then she looked back to her colleague. "I'm here. It's okay."
On the biobed, Ensign Chris Jolley, the temporary support of the Vulcan removed, slowly lost his final battle. The stats on the biobed seemed to understand this and decline slowly, almost imperceptibly. Above him, Sylar, recovering from the ordeal of his efforts, turned again to Petracca. "There is a sister," he said in a rasp. "There is a strong bond between them. It is logical," his voice failed.
The sickbay fell silent, every medic, orderly and nurse watching as the readouts gave their final call. Ensign Chris Jolley was dead. Jade felt her heart sink, for Jolley, for Sylar. She held the Doctor for a moment, then allowed Short to take over. Tapping a nearby console, she took in a shallow breath. “Time of death, 1837 hours.”
Sylar, dishevelled and weak, staggered to Ensign Orfil Dara. "You will make a full recovery, Ensign," he said with as much reassuring strength as he could muster. "Remain still, cooperate with the instructions of medical staff. You are responding satisfactorily to treatment." He led Petracca out of earshot. "I require rehydration and a measured electrolyte solution as I calculate that my levels have declined below optimal parameters; a modest replenishment will suffice." He raised an eyebrow. "I am Lieutenant Sylar, Chief Medical Officer. You are?"
“Jade Petracca.” She led Sylar to a nearby bench, then accessed the replicator to order the hydrating beverage. She knelt by him and offered him the glass. Her hand trembled slightly. “I’m… uh, I’m your Assistant Chief Medical Officer.”
The Vulcan metabolism works more swiftly than the human and produced a not unpleasant 'buzz' as Sylar's body absorbed the drink. He nodded in acknowledgment of her comment. "Your performance," he sighed as his body equalised, "most satisfactory. Ensign Jolley was unlikely to survive and respond to treatment and you acted professionally and with competence." He paused, taking more of the solution. "I will notify the Captain," he stopped, thinking. "I have to notify the Captain of the death of a member of the crew before I have even reported for duty as part of that crew." He stared at Petracca. "It would be agreeable, Doctor, to learn more about you."
"I've just come from the Starfleet hospital on Caldik Prime, which was my first posting since joining Starfleet. I'm a paediatric specialist, however I have experience in trauma relief and humanitarian medicine. The Thunderbird is my first starship assignment." She pursed her lips as she fought back tears, not even reading her service record was helping her. "And yourself, Doctor?"
Sylar observed his colleague silently; the strain that she was attempting to contain was obvious. He noted her tightened posture, the careful control of her expression, the pain in her voice. He chose his response with deliberate care.
“I began my career on Vulcan,” he said evenly. “Within a family medical centre. I have served onboard the the Madagascar and," he paused, "I was the Medical Officer on the USS Seraph at Wolf 359." For a second, the control that had been reestablished after the attempt to save Jolley wavered, and his mind was flooded was the memories of that day. "For the last two point four solar years I have been on Earth, working as an advisor to the Wolf 359 Inquiry." He inclined his head slightly; a brief pause followed, his tone softening by a small but perceptible degree. “Your experience in paediatrics and humanitarian medicine will be of utility here,” he continued. “Such environments require a degree of patient management and understanding, and an adaptability under uncertain conditions. You are a logical addition to this department, Doctor. You possess qualities that translate directly to service aboard a vessel such as the Thunderbird.” He held her gaze a moment longer. “You are not unprepared for this assignment.”
"Thank you, Doctor Sylar." Jade returned his gaze, her composure wavering before she steadied it. There was so much to learn, and much, she realised, could be learned from this doctor. Petracca drew a breath and straightened slightly. "I would like to prepare Ensign Jolley to be moved to the morgue, Doctor. It is the least I can do for him now. Would you like to rest, or would you like to join me?"
"We shall do it together, Doctor," Sylar said in a voice that did not invite dissent. "And then you, Doctor, will retire to your quarters for rest. I will report this to command."
Lieutenant Sylar
Chief Medical Officer
USS Thunderbird
Lieutenant JG Jade Petracca
Assistant Chief Medical Officer
USS Thunderbird
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