Admiral Emily Henderson
NY Mercy Military Hospital
Geosynchronous orbit
NYC - Earth
Sol
Her eyelids felt heavy, a weight that seemed to pull her deeper into her chair, and the only sound that penetrated the thick silence of her office was the faint hum of the computer system, a constant reminder of the work that awaited her. She slumped further into her desk chair, her posture betraying her exhaustion. It was the third night in a row that she found herself drowning in paperwork. For a military hospital that was ostensibly designed to cater exclusively to military personnel, the influx of civilian patients during a time of peace was astonishing. But of course, this was a decision made by Congress—a puzzling choice to maintain such a large, floating, and costly asset when humanity had finally found itself enjoying an unprecedented period of tranquility.
As the Admiral for medical needs and Chief of Medicine, she had worked tirelessly to reach this point in her career. Yet, there was a part of her that longed for the days when her focus was on treating soldiers. Did that make her a bad person? She wondered, wishing for the ailments of those who fought valiantly for their nation, rather than the maladies of civilians. A distraction was desperately needed to pull her away from such troubling thoughts. Mark was off aboard the Independence with Admiral Briggs, poised to announce the commencement of his political career. 'Yuck!' she thought bitterly. Politics was an aspect of life she had always hoped to avoid. Technically, she still could steer clear of it. Although Mark was roughly eight years her senior, he appeared at least fifty years younger. She had opted out of the slow-aging medical advancements, believing him to be dead at the time and not wanting to impose the decision on John. She could always choose to pause her age at fifty or sixty, allowing her to enjoy a long life alongside her son if he ever chose to be with her.
Her thoughts spiraled into dark corners, impossible scenarios she wished to escape. But there was one familiar refuge she could seek—the world of military triage. Level seventeen remained dedicated to treating military injuries and illnesses, and she felt the urge to take a trip down there, to immerse herself in the realities of those who served.
"Dr. Henderson!" called out a nurse, stopping her just before she reached the lift. "I was hoping to get a quick consult here. I know you're busy, but I'm seeing [Insert medical jargon here]. I'm thinking [More medical jargon here]."
The Admiral felt a flicker of annoyance but also a sense of satisfaction at being needed, at the prospect of being useful. She glanced at the datapad the nurse held, which displayed a full spectrum of imaging. The Medical A.I. had done an impressive job pinpointing the problematic areas. There were multiple tumors in the patient's lungs, liver, and kidneys, but none in the stomach, spleen, or other organs. "Survivable," she concluded, her voice steady. "If they opt for regenerative treatment. I would recommend a full organ regrowth on the affected organs; those tumors appear aggressive. Also, pump them with a full spectrum of [Medical Jargon] and keep them in ICU in the meantime."
"Thank you, Admiral."
As she resumed her journey toward the lifts, Admiral Henderson couldn't help but smile, observing her staff as they diligently executed their duties with the utmost precision. Just as she approached the lift, her comm unit buzzed, indicating a message waiting for her—a request from Admiral Briggs to arrange a meeting. Perhaps he intended to nominate her for a cabinet position. Head of the FDA? She considered it briefly. The current administration had not made significant strides in the realm of medical research. George Hammond had been an exceptional leader, one of the Federation's finest presidents, but some of his cabinet members seemed little more than puppets for entrenched corporations, including the FDA.
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Finally, the lift reached her destination: the one floor still dedicated to military personnel. The cases there were mostly minor—sprains, broken bones, bruised muscles. 'Bruised egos more like it,' she thought wryly. The one thing more dangerous than a Federation marine was a Federation marine who was bored.
"What do we have here, doc?" she inquired, stepping into the treatment area.
"Just a simple sprain, Admiral. I think Tweedle Dumb here thought he could fly in the zero-g training sim," the nurse replied with a sarcastic tone.
"That’s Corporal Tweedle Dumb, ma’am, and I did fly, thank you very much!" the young marine protested, his face flushed with indignation.
The Admiral couldn’t stifle her smirk as she read the report. "Well, it appears that halfway through the…" she hesitated, suppressing laughter, "someone decided to increase the gravity to 2.3g."
"It was that shit-fuck Dennis, probably payback for doing his laundry in jet fuel."
Unable to contain herself any longer, Admiral Emily Henderson burst into laughter at the absurdity of wearing a uniform that reeked of fuel. "Corporal, what would we ever do without marines?" she quipped, handing the report back to the nurse. "Make a note of this, and send it to all the COs. We need to ensure they are less bored."
"Yes, ma'am!" the nurse replied, a smile creeping onto her face.
Just as the Admiral handed over the datapad, she noticed a commotion a few rooms down the hall. Curiosity piqued, she moved to investigate, recalling the names of the individuals involved. Four years prior, Commander Charles O'Connell and Major Audrey Zeigler had been killed in action at Wolf 359, their lives extinguished by the cruel force of a plasma bolt. What was strange about the aftermath was that once the battle had concluded, their skulls had fully regenerated. By the time their bodies were transported to NY Mercy for burial, they exhibited full vital signs and brain activity, yet they remained unconscious.
"Report," Admiral Henderson commanded as she entered the room, her attention drawn to the monitors that were buzzing, humming, and beeping in a chaotic orchestra of alarms.
"Ma'am, we aren’t quite sure. Vitals just started increasing; Alpha and Delta waves are going through the roof. Something is happening, but we don’t know how to treat this," a nurse stammered, her eyes wide with concern.
Before anyone could utter another word, every monitor in the room emitted a loud, flatline sound, a shrill and disconcerting alert.
"Code blue! Code blue!" one of the nurses shouted, rushing to press a series of buttons on the wall panel.
"Bring me the cerebral regenerator!" Admiral Henderson commanded sharply, her gaze fixed on the monitors, which now displayed flat zeroes—no Alpha waves, no Delta waves, no blood pressure, no pulse. In every sense of medical terminology, both O'Connell and Zeigler were effectively dead.
Without hesitation, she placed one of the cerebral regenerators on Commander O'Connell's forehead, activating the device and charging it. "Thirteen G's," she yelled. "Three, two, one!" Just before she could activate the unit, it exploded in her hands, searing her flesh. Suddenly, O'Connell's and Zeigler's eyes flew open wide, and they gasped, taking in their first breaths in four years.
In disbelief, she stared at them. They had just been declared dead, yet somehow, their brain activity had remained a mystery. The best doctors from the Federation, the Republic, and the Sumerian Empire had examined them, and no one could provide a reasonable explanation for what had just transpired.
"Do you know who you are?" one of the nurses asked as she examined Major Zeigler closely.
"I... I'm..." she hesitated, taking in the unfamiliar room surrounding her. "I don't know."
"I'm unsure as well," Commander O'Connell replied, confusion etched on his face.
"Isolate them. Strict quarantine protocol until we ascertain nothing is contagious. I want a full psych evaluation—throw the book at these two. This is your top priority, Commander. I want to know what the hell is going on!" Admiral Henderson ordered firmly.
"Yes, ma'am," Commander Tiffany Belor responded, her focus never wavering from the bewildered patients before her.