Unresolved Variables
Posted on 29 Jan 2026 @ 5:09am by Lieutenant Jorik
1,713 words; about a 9 minute read
Mission:
Lathira Shoreleave
Location: Sickbay - USS Arawyn
Timeline: Before LtCmdr Dunross's arrival.
Jorik sat alone in the central medical bay, the low hum of the biobed monitors the only sound breaking the sterile silence. Sickbay was pristine—every instrument aligned, every surface disinfected to within a micron of tolerance—but it was also empty. The Chief Medical Officer and the majority of the department were still planetside, enjoying the final hours of shore leave. He had been granted temporary oversight of routine monitoring and standby readiness, a logical assignment given his rank and qualifications.
It was also, at present, profoundly unproductive.
He had attempted meditation. The kolinahr breathing cycle he had been doing in his quarters had been interrupted five times in succession by the same intrusive pattern of thought. Not random. Focused. Centered on Lieutenant Commander Harlan: the guarded acceptance of the provisions on Lathira IV, the brief brush of fingers, the way he had turned away without further comment. These were not significant data points. They were residual echoes of a bond dissolved twelve years, three months, and sixteen days ago. The persistence was inefficient. He had recalibrated his focus three times. The intrusions continued.
He rose from the stool and moved to the central diagnostic console. The screen displayed the current departmental status: 41% staffing, no active patients, no pending procedures. The inventory was complete. The biobeds were calibrated. The hypospray reservoirs were at optimal levels. There was, quite literally, nothing requiring his immediate attention.
This state of limbo was… unacceptable.
He had arrived on the Arawyn more than twenty-four hours earlier. The Chief Medical Officer was still planetside and had not yet returned to conduct the formal departmental handover. Standard protocol required an in-person briefing with the department head before full integration of duties. Until that occurred, he remained in a state of administrative suspension: present, qualified, and entirely superfluous.
Jorik’s hands tightened behind his back, fingers interlocking with controlled force.
He opened the personnel manifest and scrolled to the medical roster. The CMO’s estimated return was still listed as unknown. Unacceptably vague. He closed the file.
His gaze drifted to the transporter biofilter logs from yesterday’s beam-downs. Routine. He opened them anyway. The biometric markers nominal, post-beam vitals within baseline parameters. Nothing anomalous.
He closed the file again.
The tea he had replicated earlier had gone cold on the side console. He considered replacing it. He did not.
Instead he stood motionless in the center of sickbay, staring at the blank main diagnostic screen.
The ship continued its slow orbit around Lathira IV.
And Jorik waited—for something, anything, to require his attention.
For once, the wait felt longer than logic should allow.
“Hello? Is anyone here?” A voice called out from the reception area.
“Please state the nature of the medical emergency,” he called out, the phrase borrowed from the obsolete Emergency Medical Hologram protocol—efficient, direct, and rarely necessary. Yet it seemed appropriate for the moment.
A pause. Then a skeptical scoff.
“A hologram? Really?”
Jorik set the PADD down with deliberate calm and stepped toward the doorway.
“I am flesh and blood, I assure you,” he replied, voice flat and uninflected, suppressing the urge to add that the assumption was both illogical and mildly insulting.
Two figures emerged from the reception alcove. An ensign supported a lieutenant (j.g.) whose uniform sleeve was torn, blood seeping through a hastily applied field dressing. The lieutenant’s face was pale, a fresh laceration across the forehead still oozing, and his gait was unsteady—concussion likely.
Jorik retrieved a medical tricorder from the nearest console and gestured toward the closest biobed alcove.
“What happened?” he asked, tone clinical, already scanning as they approached.
“Checking an EPS junction in jefferies tube twenty-five on deck seventeen, there was an unshielded coupler that didn’t like the EM emissions from his tricorder, it arced and he fell through an open vertical hatch down to deck eighteen.” The ensign replied as he helped his fellow onto the biobed.
“Name?” Jorik asked already scanning with the medical tricorder and eyeing the headwound.
“Uh he’s Lieutenant Nathan Caldwell, I’m Ensign Mike Torres, we both just transferred yesterday.” Mike said as he gave
Jorik another look.
“Hey weren’t you with us when we beamed from the Intrepid?”
Jorik didn’t pause the scan as the ensign helped Lieutenant Caldwell onto the biobed. The tricorder hummed softly, mapping the head wound, the minor plasma burns on the hands, and the telltale signs of a brief loss of consciousness.
“Lieutenant Nathan Caldwell,” Jorik repeated, voice flat and precise. “Ensign Mike Torres.” He finally lifted his gaze from the readings to meet Mike’s eyes—dark, unblinking, faintly assessing. “Yes. I was present during the beam-in from the Intrepid. Your observation is accurate.”
He returned to the tricorder without further acknowledgment, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel deliberate.
Mike shifted his weight, still supporting Caldwell’s shoulder. “So… you’re the new doc?”
Jorik’s eyebrow rose a fraction—the barest indication of mild disdain.
“To put it simply I am one of many,” he replied, tone dry enough to parch the air. “Though I confess the distinction appears academic at present, given the current staffing levels.” He adjusted the tricorder’s focus on the laceration. “Your colleague has sustained a grade-two concussion, superficial plasma burns to both hands, and a 2.3 centimeter laceration to the frontal scalp. The injuries are consistent with an electrical arc followed by a fall of approximately 2.8 meters.”
He set the tricorder aside and reached for a dermal regenerator, already dialing in the settings.
“The burns will require 47 seconds of treatment. The laceration, 19 seconds. The concussion will resolve with rest and a neural inhibitor. Unless you intend to continue providing color commentary, I suggest you step aside.”
Mike blinked, caught between surprise and the urge to respond. Jorik didn’t wait for him to decide—he simply began the treatment, the regenerator’s soft blue light playing across Caldwell’s scalp.
The silence returned, broken only by the low whine of the device and the faint crackle of healing tissue.
Jorik’s expression remained impassive, but there was the faintest tightening at the corners of his mouth—almost imperceptible.
Another human engineer. Another minor injury. Another interruption.
He suppressed a sigh that would have been illogical anyway.
The regenerator chimed completion. Jorik stepped back.
“Lieutenant Caldwell, you will require 12 hours of rest and monitoring. Ensign Torres, you will escort him to his quarters. No further Jefferies-tube excursions for either of you until cleared by medical. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Nathan managed, his voice still rough as he flexed his freshly healed hands.
“Understood,” Mike added, a little too quickly.
“Have either of you undergone your post-boarding medical examination since arrival?” he asked, already moving to a drawer.
“Uh… no,” Mike replied, rubbing the back of his head. “Sickbay was deserted the last time we tried. Figured we’d wait until shore leave wrapped.”
Jorik withdrew a blood sampler and a fresh vial, sliding the vial home with practiced efficiency.
“It is a simple procedure,” he said, tone as neutral as a diagnostic readout. “I am available to perform it now.”
He stepped forward, sampler in hand, and drew the blood from Nathan’s arm in one smooth motion. The lieutenant barely flinched. Jorik withdrew the vial, sealed it, and replaced it with a new one.
Mike’s face paled slightly as he watched.
“Is that really necessary, Doc?” he asked, trying—and failing—to mask the squeamish look creeping across his features.
Jorik didn’t pause. “It is a standard blood draw. Protocol requires comparative samples to match against current scans and your prior medical history. The process is routine.”
Mike swallowed, eyes fixed on the device. “I hate blood draws. They make me feel… a little sick inside.”
Jorik’s eyebrow lifted the barest fraction—almost imperceptible.
“Fascinating,” he said dryly. “Your physiological response is noted. Nevertheless, the sample is required. Extend your arm.”
“Doc, I don’t think I can…” Mike said as his hand twitched.
“Ensign, you must. That is an order.” Jorik replied with more authority.
He waited, sampler poised, expression unchanged.
“Okay.”
Mike hesitated half a second longer, then rolled up his sleeve with a resigned sigh.
Jorik performed the draw in silence—quick, efficient, clinical. When he pulled the vial out of the blood sampler he gave it a little shake. The dark red fluid seemed unchanged, he noted Mike’s eyes were settled intently on it, almost too intently.
After placing both samples into the analyzer tray Jorik picked up the tricorder and ran the standard scan on Mike this exam required. His eyes flicked across the data—nominal for the most part, though one minor variance caught his attention and was immediately filed for later review.
“Results will be available within the hour,” Jorik said, tricorder already closed as he turned back to the console. “You are both dismissed. Lieutenant Caldwell, report to your quarters immediately. Ensign Torres, ensure he arrives without further incident.”
That broke Mike out of his trance and he nodded as he helped Nathan to his feet.
Jorik didn’t watch them leave. The door hissed shut behind them. He resumed his position at the central console, the faint hum of the analyzer the only sound as he opened Torres’s preliminary file, to check the incoming results as the analyzer worked. And then paused. A 1.1% elevation in metafibrin levels. A non-coding nucleotide substitution at 17q21.3. Minor. Statistically insignificant. Except...it confirmed the variance the tricorder had registered. He looked at the data that lingered on the screen like a question he had not yet chosen to ask.
He shrugged it off. It was an oddity, nothing more. He would run a more detailed analysis later, and compare it to the Ensign's medical history. Chances are it was nothing, he'd seen worse afterall. He saved the file then closed it.
Then began recalibrating the analyzer anyway, just in case something was wrong with the equipment and it skewed the results of Caldwell’s sample. Routine maintenance. Nothing more.
Lieutenant Jorik
Medical Officer
USS Arawyn (apb Jeff)
Lieutenant JG Nathan Caldwell
Engineering Officer
USS Arawyn (apb Jeff)
Ensign Michael Torres
Engineering Officer
USS Arawyn (apb Jeff)
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