Walking in Memphis

Posted on Mon Aug 22nd, 2016 @ 12:10am by

Mission: Zero Week
Location: Troop Transport Sinensis/Starbase 329 - Promenade

Briggs only let out a sigh as he shook his head. He'd already been over this and he didn't feel like arguing about it anymore. What had to be done had to be done. Gently he set the corporal's leg back on the singular biobed. "I done told ya that I can use the dermal regenerator to repair the damage from the sprain but that don't mean ya get to go hoppin right back to doin' tha things that hurt ya in the first place. The orders gonna stand."

"Aw, c'mon, doc-"

"I ain't no 'doc'," Briggs said, flustered at the attempt to sweet talk him. It was irritating after the cussing the Marine gave him when he first told him he was going to put him on medical restrictions. "Doc" was a title that was earned and he hadn't earned it in any of its incarnations. Hell, he still didn't even know if he fully passed the FMF Corpsman testing. He wasn't supposed to get those results for awhile. "And iffin ya don' like it ya can limp over to the starbase medical when we get there and ask them for their 'pinion on tha matter. See iffin they want to go ahead and let ya be a fool and hurt ya'self more."

"Look, I've already been through this a couple months ago. The dermal regenerator healed it up fine and I was able to go right back to PT and training." The corporal looked at him as if this was the end all be all of the argument. "So I don't see why some hyped up nurse thinks he's better than starship doctors."

"I ain't no 'hyped up nurse' neether," Briggs said, trying not to take offense at anything the corporal said. From the time he spent in close proximity with enlisted Marines, he understood the macho, alpha male need to continue proving himself in displays of purely physical prowess.

Too many people saw them as being that and nothing more. A sentiment that Briggs understood as he was often seen as being little more than just a walking bandaid himself. "An I told ya, long as I have a say in it, then ya on medical restriction for a week and then a re-evaluation. Possibly some physical therapy to teach ya how to run and jump without hurtin' ya'self so much. Computer, send orders for medical restrictions on Vatoyva, Christopherp; Corporal."

"Orders noted and sent." The voice of the computer always reminded him of Missus Darlecy who lived in the other side of the building where he grew up with his mother. A bit condescending and disapproving. But she got on well enough with his Ma, well enough that she most times even shared what she had so that Ma didn't have to 'work' for a few days.

"Next," Briggs said, turning to the counter where his pack lie, the front of it opened so that it lay open like a weird butterfly, full of various medical accouterments.

"That's just fungal infection," Briggs said after the Marine took off his boots and socks and Briggs could brave getting closer. "Ya need to change ya socks more often and use the powder they supplied. Ya ain't doin that and wearing ya shower shoes, ya feet gonna tear up." He grabbed his PADD and pulled up the only thing that seemed to actually scare the young Marines into understanding that it wasn't just a 'burning sensation'.

He tapped through the photos of severe fungal infection with blistering or open sores, gouges of blackened and deadened flesh, some photos of toes barely attached to the foot still. It was a collection he started taking up since he started AT training as a corpsman. His own former recruits never took hygiene as seriously as they should. Briggs, since being trained as a medical first responder, was nearly obsessive about it now.

Spending years homeless and infested with various parasites was also a motivating factor.

"I do, I just don't think its working," the lance corporal said, staring at the succession of photos and seeming to go green as his uniform.

Briggs sighed. He'd seen him already, weeks ago when he was in rotation. The problem was the same then. "Alright," he said, turning to his pack and pulling out a tube of ointment. "Try this, rub it in morning and night, always putting on fresh, clean socks. Don't let me hear ya been neglecting ya use of the 'fresher and wearin dirty socks mind ya."

He was just about to vocalize his notes on this case when a corporal broke into the makeshift medical compartment set up on the Sinensis troop transport. "Doc- I mean, HM, you need to come. There's been an accident and Sergeant's out cold. We think he's still breathing but he's not waking up so you need to come right now." The Delivian corporal was out of breathe, his vestigal lung flaps waving madly as he spoke.

"Ya do what ya told," Briggs said as he stood quickly and smashed the two halves of his pack together and zipped it enough that it would stay closed and not spill anything out of it. Shrugging quickly into it he indicated the corporal should lead the way.

He was sure the Marine didn't give it a second thought, he was a Marine after all, but after his most recent training, Briggs had no trouble keeping up, even with the heavy pack bouncing on his shoulders since he didn't take the time to strap the waist belt. He heard the muttered remonstrations and curses as the Delivian raced down the passageways but most of them stopped when they saw Briggs, in his obvious medical uniform, chasing after.

Then the irritation at being nearly ran over changed to curiosity.

"What happened?" Briggs asked as he set the PADD on the ground and reached into his left pocket where he always kept his field tricorder. The Marines surrounding the prone sergeant appeared to be in battle dress. Most still held phaser rifles.

The sergeant, a Terran male, well built and trim, lie on the deck, flat on his back, arms at his side. Briggs suspected he was moved into that position - a common enough one for those who exhausted their very short course in basic first aid. In the lower rightt quadrant of his abdomen was a single phaser burn in his uniform but Briggs didn't spot any visible blood. Which he shouldn't. If protocol were being followed the 'live fire' would be less than a stun setting while aboard the ship.

He looked around him, pegging the PFC who was staring away from the excitement of the injured sergeant. Briggs surmised enough to know what was going on. "What settin ya got on your weapon, Private?"

"It was the proper setting," another corporal spoke up. He was standing near the PFC so Briggs figured he might be the team leader, sticking up for his team member. The results from the scan came back and Briggs let out a sigh of relief.

"Ya can relax, ya misplaced shot did nothing that weren't gonna be done anyway," Briggs said. "Only hastened the burstin of his appendix. He'll be okay once we get it out."

"You're gonna...you're gonna remove it here?" someone asked. Briggs scowled as those around him showed mostly one of two sides to that thought - eagerness to see it or eagerness to get away from it.

"Don't be stupid, ya gonna run to the officer's deck and get Ensign Sloane, he's the doc this voyage and he'll be able to take care of this. Tell'im we got an acute case of appendicitis, strong vitals, loss of consciousness after secondary injury. Ya tell'im as I just told'ya, don't be makin up a story, just acute appendicitis, strong vitals, loss of consciousness after secondary injury." He turned away from the Delivian. "You and you, help me get him back ta the medical room and get him ready."

[Several hours later]

Briggs stepped back away from the biobed as they materialized into the medical facility on Starbase 329. It wasn't the way he expected to arrive on the station - and much sooner than he expected as well. But someone had to be transported over with the injured, which fortunately for this cruise, was just the one sergeant recovering from appendectomy surgery. All indications were that it went well, they were able to get to the appendix and remove it before it had a chance to really get septic in the abdominal cavity.

It was probably a lucky thing the phaser blast hit him, as it caused a neural overload that caused the sergeant to faint from the sudden burst of pain. That happening during a training exercise where several Marines saw him get shot disallowed the sergeant to continue 'toughing it out' with the signs of appendicitis he must have been having for days.

Briggs handed off the PADD along with a verbal report on the patient, including the after surgery care and medications he was provided. The sergeant was conscious now, but still on pain medication so he was only half aware of what was going on around him. But that was okay, what mattered is that he'd make a speedy recovery and would probably be up and about enjoying the few days of leave he was granted, along with the rest of the passengers that were transported by the troop carrier.

Including Briggs himself. His assignment put him off leave half a day before others, but that was okay by him. It just meant he got back to earning his room and board once again. Officially, now that he handed off the patient properly, he was on liberty. He knew he should go to the Quartermaster and arrange a bunk til time came to report to his new assignment but...as he stepped out of Starfleet Medical, the deck reserved for Starfleet personnel, he decided that could wait.

He was sure there'd be bunk space for him whether he went now or if he tallied a bit. Plus, with the troop transport letting out, he was sure the quartermaster was going to be busy so if he gave it a bit of time, then he'd not be adding to their burden.

Instead, through careful questioning of definitely not security personnel, he found his way to a lift that would take him to the Promenade, or shopping district.

Even four years on, there was so much about Starfleet that he found amazing. The sheer size and scope of a starbase, an artificial constructed city in the dead of space, where even now hundreds, if not thousands, of people went about their daily lives as if relatively thin sheets of plasteel wasn't between them and the utter, cold, vast, dark vacuum of space.

But, strangest of all was that, well, he still found it hard to believe what he was told when he mistakenly walked into that recruitment office. He only wanted to see if he could get information regarding a cousin he believed to be in Starfleet somewhere. The deal the recruiter gave him was too good to be true. Yet, here he was, years on and a bit more experienced and wiser and he still had a hard time believing it.

He got free clothing, free food, free boarding (granted, often with as many as seven others depending on the assignment and ship size), they trained him to know what he needed to know to do what they told him to do. He'd been across the quadrant several times and now was gonna go so far away from 'home' that he wouldn't even be able to see the sun around which it revolved at all. They took care of him medically - hell he could do most of the taking care of himself from te training they gave him - and made sure he stayed healthy, and even provided the means to stay in shape as well. Plus, and he couldn't stress this enough, plenty of good food that he didn't have to fight over or dig out of dumpsters or try to scavenge what good little good was left.

All that was fantastic enough. All of that was more of a deal than he could have ever believed possible growing up with his Ma on Turkana. And all he had to do for his part of the deal was what somebody with a better pin on their collar told him to do.

And if that wasn't enough, they also gave him a bit of money each month. Money to spend how he wanted on what he wanted. They didn't make him give it back to 'pay' for his food or clothes, training or lodgings or even health care. It wasn't "we're gonna say we're giving you this money but then take it back because" system. They kept a little bit of it for 'taxes', which he was okay with them having. It wasn't his money in the first place and he understood the 'taxes' went to keeping all of it going.

But...in all the times they were struggling and scraping to get by on Turkana. All the time he watched his Ma do what was necessary so they could have the meager food they subsisted on, or the hovel where they lived. All that time he could only dream of living such a princely live that he had now.

It wasn't all perfect, not by a long shot. The Federation's history wasn't as bright and shiny and pretty as they'd like everyone to believe, but none of that mattered.

He looked at the figure on the PADD. It was supposed to represent how much money was held in account for him. It was surely much more than he ever believed possible. Probably more than his Ma had ever seen the fourteen years he was alive with her, them living on that rathell of a planet with the colony being nothing more than some demented version of hell.

He'd spent very little of the pay they'd started giving him once he reported to basic training, raised his hand and swore to do what he was told when he was told (the oath was something different, something about a Federation constitution, but he hadn't the first clue what that was when he repeated the words he was told to repeat). He didn't need to spend much of it, because as he knew, Starfleet gave him everything he needed to live.

And, to top off the craziness that he was sure was some kind of mistake, every time they gave him a new decoration for his collar, meaning they said he was one step better than he was the day before, they added a bit more to the money they gave him each month.

He'd tried, once he first understood that there was money going into the account they set up for him that first week of basic, to tell them about the mistake that was being made. He didn't want somebody coming back and calling him a thief and then they'd take a good hard look at his history. Once they did that, and they discovered the lie he'd been telling them for years, he was sure it would all go away. He tried to fix it, telling him that they were putting money that wasn't his into the account and he didn't need to have an account set up anyway because he didn't have anything worth accounting for that he didn't keep with him.

It didn't seem right, but he got the feeling that he was being laughed at. Personnel officers said there wasn't a mistake and that he was getting what was alotted for him to receive. It took him awhile to figure out that they thought he was complaining he wasn't getting enough. He tried to clear that up and, in that respect, he thought he did. But they still didn't think it was a mistake that Starfleet gave him everything he needed and then money so that he could buy other things as well.

He finally stopped worrying about it when he found out others were getting paid as well. Some of them were sending most of their pay back home to help take care of families. Briggs only wished he had someone to send money that they needed. Instead, it piled into the account except for the few times he spent a bit of it, splurging on items that were completely unnecessary and frivolous. But nevertheless, he allowed himself the small luxuries so often, reminding himself not to get too used to any of it - because all it took was for him to get noticed to the point where his background was checked and they discovered he wasn't living up to the terms of their bargain in good faith.

It was a constant worry, and one that kept him from interacting much with security personnel, but there were times when it was less worrisome. Such as now.

He entered the shop on the Promenade and eagerly looked for the packaging. They were across the quadrant from where he usually bought the bags of meat jerky, but the Federation was so big and well maintained that he never once considered that he wouldn't be able to find the exact same jerky all the way out here.

And in that, he wasn't disappointed. He grabbed several bags and then considered. What he knew of his new assignment would put him in the Delta quadrant. Which was far away. Now he considered he might not be able to get more for a long time. Not til they came back this way, at any rate. When that would be wasn't known to him, and junior as he was in the ladder of command, he wasn't expecting to be told straightaway. He doubled, then tripled, what he originally thought to purchase, not sure how much he'd really need - or where he could put it all.

That, however, was answered for him. "That what I think it is?" he asked one of the employees as he looked at the small, cylindrical device. A control padd was wrapped around it, the only mar to the otherwise chrome finish.

"Ah, yes, a fine eye the young man has," the worker said, his voice too unctious for Briggs's liking, it reminded him too much of shady, unscrupulous traders that never lived up to their promises and it always cost more to be forced to accept the lies. The worker picked it up in hands that were long fingered, fine boned and appeared extremely delicate...or would once he got past the chitinous outer layer of dermis. "A portable, selfpowered transporter buffer. This will allow you to carry that entire large pack you wear so well on your back in a single pocket."

Briggs scowled at the idea. That he was being sold a "flim-flam" to use Missus Darlecy's term for useless junk. The price on the sticker was as much as Starfleet gave him in two months. But he saw that there was more than one, well, more than just the one box. And this wasn't a small, privately held shop, but one of many that he'd seen across the galaxy.

"You have a guarantee that you're willing to put in writing that this does what it says it does?" Briggs asked.

The creature's face, despite being chitin, still managed to look afronted. "Of course, this is a reputable shop run by a reputable company. You have a full month to test it out and if it doesn't work as promised, then you get a full refund. That's printed on every receipt with every purchase."

Briggs considered. Printing guarantees on receipts? Even getting a receipt for merchandise was also a crazy idea for him. But one crazy enough that he found he liked.

He'd be able to test it out over the next couple days, make sure it actually held everything he needed it to hold and, well if it didn't, he'd come back before the ship left the station and get the money back. Because it was a lot of money, more than he was sure he knew how to get if Starfleet suddenly agreed with him that it was all a mistake and he had to give it all back.

He heard of that happening sometimes.

Still...in the end, after the salesperson gave him a demonstration of how to use the transport buffer, he walked out of the store, carrying several cases of the jerky and the transporter buffer.

Since he now had more than he could reasonably carry in his pack, he decided he needed to head off to the quartermaster and get a bunk assignment. Once there, he'd set about charging up the transporter buffer and then testing it out, to make sure it would work.

But, after seeing there was still a line, most of them faces he recognized from the Sinensis, he decided to get a storage locker to put his purchases and then detour toward the docks and get a rare chance to see the ship where he'd serve from the outside.

He found a nearby bench and sat down, staring at the lines of the ship and wondering where his quarters would be. He didn't bother looking at the viewports all along the side of the ship, wondering behind which of them would be his bunk. His would be more interior and he doubted there would be a window looking out into the great beauty of space and the incalculable stars.

There might be windows looking into Medical, where he was sure he'd do most of his work. Going back from being the only medical crew on a ship that was too small for a crew and the captain's ego to just another 'hyped up nurse' on a starship. Still, he thought as he opened a package of the jerky and propped the PADD up on his lap, it was still a damned sight better than working in the sewage department.

"Computer, begin recording," he said, chewing slowly on a thick piece of the jerky, savoring the spicy, rough texture. "Aityana, I've arrived at Starbase 329. They sent me onna troop carrier carryin mostly Marines. The same platoon I'd done the last bit of mah recent trainin with. it weren't so bad, not much doctorin need doin 'xcept Marines ain't never knowin how to care proper for their feet. Always blisterin or gettin the fungal infections, or spraining, fracturin or breakin small bones in they feet or ankles. Weren't bad mostly. I got to help with a surgery right before arrivin though...that was good. Reminded me of when Doc was alive and I was with him. Ensign Sloan wasn't bad, just full up on his Academy teachin' 'bout how much better officers are than us 'listed folks. Was okay, cause of it, he spent most of his time in Officer Country and didn't bother me hardly none.

"Oh, here's the ship I'm gonna go out on," he said as he turned the PADD around to record the Hammersley for part of the message. "Heard tell I'm gonna go out to the Delta Quadrant, so ya might not hear from me as regular and soon like we do now. Don't worry none, though, ya will be the one told should somethin happen to me. Had to put down a 'emergency contact' in case somethin did happen and, well, ya and Simpson and Brownell 'bout the only persons I know that it would matter if somethin happen'ta me. Ya the only one, though, that knows most about me so I had to make a decision and it was ya. Hope that's okay. I think I can still change if its not.

"Not sure how I did at trainin, they just said they'd notify me and that's not come through yet. Maybe the message just waitin til I check in with my assignment. In the meantime, I got me more of that jerky ya made me like so much..."

He finished up the message, encoded it and set it to send when he connected with the central computer on the ship, right after he checked in and received is clearances. Though it struck him that it was the last message he'd send before entering the Delta quadrant, that information was flat.

He had to be somewhere and he guessed the Delta quadrant was as good a place as any.