Every morning when Elyas Sark awoke aboard Caelum Station, he wondered if it should be for the last time.

Sark’s acceptance to Starfleet Academy had been so terribly gruelling, so awfully arduous, that it could only mean he was destined for greatness.  For what other reason would the universe have scalded him with failure after failure?  He was being smelted into something strong, of course.  There was no other answer.

But if that were so, why would his medical education be relegated to the backside of the Federation in the provincial Deneb Sector?  Surely, the chief medical officers of tomorrow’s great explorers would never be plucked from out of a Starfleet Medical annex on a Jupiter-class station.  They would be educated on Earth or Vulcan or Psi Epsilon.

It wasn’t until 0920 hours that Sark found a reason not to flee from Caelum Station in a stolen escape pod.

That reason stood almost two metres tall, even when he was leaning against the doorframe of a patient’s room. Stretching his arms above his head, Romal Nnekin made no polite effort to mask his long yawn during Ensign Parze’s rounds presentation about her patient.

Nnekin possessed the enlarged cranium and the golden eyes of a Rhandaarite, and the angle of his eyebrows always made him look a little despondent.  Sark feared those eyes had the power to mesmerise him, even when Nnekin was bleary-eyed and struggling to stay away.  In the exaggerated expression of his yawn, the lines of Nnekin’s weathered face became all the more visible, despite Nnekin being an ensign just like all the other medical students in Cygni Squadron.  Unlike the rest of those cattle, Nnekin never preened for the approval of Doctor Weld.

In the deepest arc of Nnekin’s stretch, his sleek uniform jacket rode up, revealing he wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath it.  Sark didn’t blink.  He folded his hands behind his back and wondered what that might feel like.

From over Sark’s right shoulder, Trojet taunted, “The patient is over there, remember?”  Her voice was soft enough to reach his ears only, Sark hoped.  Keeping her hand close to her chest, Trojet gently pointed at the biobed.  For all her subtlety, she smirked knowingly at Sark and cocked an eyebrow.

“What’re you looking at?” she asked.

“The salmon upholstered wall panels and hardwood fixtures,” Sark retorted.  He exaggerated the sullen lilt of his words to change the subject more effectively.  “We’re going to be the very first graduating class of doctors from Caelum Station, but instead of reaching for the future, I feel like a victim of time travel.”

When Trojet stifled a snort of a laugh, Sark took it as an encouragement to go on.  Because Parze was still presenting, Sark spoke more quickly and kept his voice low.

“It’s like they took the worst of the Ambassador– and Galaxy-class aesthetics and blended them in a transporter accident,” he whispered.

Snickering again, Trojet shrugged at him.  

She said, “I think that’s what they did.  After the Jem’Hadar killed all those people here, the station was completely refitted.  I hear the corps of engineers scraped out the wrecks of starships that fell at the Battle of Farpoint and used them for Caelum Station’s parts.” –Her voice sounded tighter– “Starfleet officers are nothing if not resourceful.  They make use of whatever is to hand.”

“So they gave it a new name?” Sark asked, unimpressed.  “Fresh coat of paint over rotted bones.”

Trojet winced, and she crossed her arms over her chest.

“New isn’t always better,” she whispered. “Sometimes, our perspectives need a change.”

“But carpet?  Carpet on the walls?” Sark scoffed, incensed.  “I understand nostalgia, but this is a hospital.  I’m not cleaning blood out of any carpet.”

From the patient’s bedside on the other end of the room, Parze interjected, “That’s what the DOTs are for.”  Sark heard the dryness in her deadpan statement before fully recognizing that he’d raised his voice loudly enough to be heard by all.  While looking him right in the eyes, Parze snapped her Saurian jaw twice.

“DOTs love eating carpet crumbs,” Parze said sardonically.  “Yum, yum.”

From Parze’s side, Doctor Weld puffed his chest up, and he interrupted with a bit of a stutter-start.  “Ah, yes, well,” he said; “In that case, Mister Stark, what should this patient love eating next?”

A wave of dizziness came over Sark, disoriented at being dragged into the entirely different conversation happening on the other end of the room.  Sark cleared his throat and he stalled for time.

“Pardon me?” Sark asked.

“The patient,” Weld quickly clarified.  “What would you prescribe?”

Before Sark could finish reading the biofunction monitor mounted over the patient’s biobed, Parze raised her hand.  Most every head in the room turned to Parze, already accustomed to her quick answers, no matter who had been asked to speak.  In that brief moment, Nnekin leaned in Sark’s direction.

“Oxygen deprivation,” Nnekin whispered.  His voice rumbled like a warp core at a comfortable cruising speed.

By the time Weld returned a pointed gaze in Sark’s direction, Sark replied, “Pulmozine.  Forty milligrams.”

Weld nodded briskly.  He pivoted on his heel and moved towards the corridor.

“It’s lucky you’re an expert, Mister Sark,” Weld said. “You’re all being loaned to the epidemiology department. We thought the outbreak of Cartalian Fever was limited to two colonies, but this patient hasn’t travelled to either of them. Epidemiology needs your help with tracking the disease transmission: incident rate, contact tracing, medical geography…”

Parze followed Weld into the corridor like an obedient fenza duckling.  She only paused at the doorway to snap her jaws at Sark one more time.  As soon as she marched out of the doorway, Sark saw Nnekin staring at him.

Nnekin was staring right at him.  And then he squinted.

“You talk a lot,” Nnekin said to Sark.

“Oh, uh… thank you?” Sark said.

Nnekin nodded back.  “…Sure,” he said, and he walked out too.