From the ruins of the battered Torash emerged a feeble, pulsating signal. A wavering lifeline amidst chaos. T’Vaan’s skilled fingers danced over the controls as she struggled to bring the erratic transmission into focus.

“This is Kulok of the Torash,” the guttural timbre of the battle-hardened Klingon resonated through static and agony. Behind him, the bridge of the Torash was a shattered mess, “Starfleet, we need assistance to return to the battle”

Without hesitation, Ayres replied, his voice firm, “Captain Kulok, you’ll have it. We’re battered ourselves but will spare what we can”, he considered how to phrase his next question, mindful of their experience with the three monks, “the Sacramento is configured for medical operations. Our doctor is talented at patching up warriors so they can fight again. You would honour me if we can serve your crew?”

Parr was looking at Ayres, tired and curious. He knew what she meant and tried to ignore the look, focusing on Kulok’s image on the viewscreen.

“We will accept your offer, captain”, Kulok grimaced in pain, “I will prepare my crew”, he nodded and cut the transmission.

Parr’s clear, steady voice cut through the haze and sound of broken and breaking equipment in the Sacramento’s bridge, “We’ll be hard-pressed. I don’t have a read on our damage yet, but it’s considerable. If we help them we delay ours”

“I know, Emilia. But this is their planet, their fight. We’re not a battleship, and I bet we have more medical supplies than all of their ships in the sector. It’s what there is”

“That phrase of yours got old. Now it’s annoying”, Parr wiped the grime from her face with her sleeve, smiling, and moved off to consult with Ovindar.

Ayres looked around the bridge, his head throbbed and was damp with blood. Several consoles were a wreck through which he could see wires and broken batteries, burn marks mottled across panels. The bridge crew were busy and professional, seemingly without major injury. He shook his head, realised the mistake, and he gulped down the pain, gripping the chair’s armrest.

“Kincaid, what’s happening out there?”, the captain addressed his tactical officer.

“The bulk of the Klingon force is engaged with the attackers. They’re some way off from our position and I have no hostiles nearby. It’s a hell of a fight, captain,” the older man tapped at his console, “We have a cruiser and three bird-of-prey holding position between the planet, between us, and the main battle”

“Let me know the moment the situation changes. Give Commander Parr a running commentary on the main battle and coordinate with engineering on getting us some shields. I’m guessing our weapons won’t add much to the fight”, Kincaid moved to counter but Ayres interrupted, “We’re better surviving, commander. For now”

“We’re receiving the crew of the Torash, captain,” Ovindar glanced back, Parr standing at her side, “heavy casualties, I’ve routed most of them to the main sickbay. Doctor Vennock is prepared”

“Great,” Ayres delicately poked at his head wound, “I’ll visit her and see how they settle in”.

Medical Centre, USS Sacramento

In a brilliant burst of energy, the first wave materialised on the medical transporter pad. Battle-worn Klingons staggered off the pad, their armour scorched from the Torash’s beating. Some leaned heavily on comrades for support while others fought to remain upright.

Vennock, already organised with trauma teams, assumed command with purposeful efficiency, “Lay them flat! Triage team one with me!” she ordered, striding purposefully toward the worst case, a young warrior whose chest plate had been grotesquely fused halfway into raw flesh. “Biobed three, now. We need vascular regeneration and three units of Klingon-compatible blood”

A tall, formidable Klingon advanced on her, blood streaming from a gash that began on his forehead and seemed to carry on halfway down his back. His hair was matted into a grim, crimson crown. Despite what must have been astounding pain, he maintained his upright posture with indomitable pride.

“I will not be sedated,” he growled, his voice a coarse mixture of pain and defiance.

“You’re bleeding into your skull,” Vennock replied, her attention fixed on the tricorder, her tone brisk and unyielding, “Either you will be sedated or you will die. One way or the other, this bed insists on your unconscious form”

The Klingon’s fierce eyes locked onto hers and, after a pause barely long enough to draw a ragged breath, he let out a wet, hoarse laugh, “You have steel, human!”, before he could mount further protest, he collapsed forward, swiftly intercepted by a vigilant nurse.

Without missing a beat, Vennock issued new orders, her voice crisp: “Scan for spinal trauma, initiate cortical stimulation. Bring in the next group”

Configured for medical operations, the crew and facilities of the Sacramento were experts in their field. Their confidence and skills demonstrable as the Klingon casualties were efficiently triaged, moved to biobeds, or transferred to the other medical facilities across the ship. As the minutes passed, a slick sheen of blood clothed the floor while the air mingled with the crisp sting of antiseptic and the defiant echoes of Klingon cries of pain. Vennock moved with a controlled urgency, her uniform splattered with stains while her eyes darted about with determination.

During a critical surgery, a Klingon warrior attempted to rise, roaring in the guttural cadence of his native tongue.

“I swear by the stars, if one more of you fucking lunatics rises during surgery, I will sedate the entire room,” Vennock snapped, her tone as sharp as a scalpel. The warrior, half-resisting and largely subdued, relented, his pride softened by respect and encroaching unconsciousness.

The main medical centre was quickly at capacity, every inch of the space choked with organised chaos. Wounded Klingons interspersed with the Sacramento’s own injured occupied every biobed, with the ‘walking wounded’ propped up precariously on hastily assembled seating. In spite of the pandemonium, the actions and mannerisms felt disciplined.

Vennock stood resolute over the most obstinate patient so far. With her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, revealing toned arms streaked with the evidence of her ongoing work. Her gloves, darkened with his blood, moved with precise determination.

Marban growled low in his throat as she adjusted the intricate regeneration field device above his shattered collarbone, “You prod like a Targ with broken teeth, doctor,” he spat out, his voice rough as gravel.

“Then quit writhing,” she retorted without diverting her focus, her tone clipped and unyielding, “Unless you fancy letting that fracture puncture your third lung”

His face twisted in a mix of defiance and pain as he bared his teeth, “That would have spared me this indignity”

“You’d be dead, you fool,” Vennock snapped, “You’re haemorrhaging into your chest cavity, you’ve got cracked vertebrae, your heart is failing, and you refuse anaesthesia because you insist on sitting upright to recite poetry?”

A reluctant chuckle rumbled from Marban, “The fire that consumes my heart will scorch the stars themselves,” he declared, his eyes glinting with pride and pain.

Raising a sceptical eyebrow at his poetic defiance, she replied, “Charming. But unless you want your heart to explode, I suggest you lock those metaphors away and stay as still as a statue”
A heavy grunt was his only response.

For a suspended moment, the only sounds were the steady hum of complex instruments and the rhythmic beep of a monitor, each pulse echoing the faltering beat of his eight-chambered heart.

Then, in a quieter voice, he murmured, “You’re more spirited than most humans”

Glancing briefly in his direction, Vennock replied with a wry edge, “You’re not the first Klingon to observe that. One of you tried to bite me when I was young”

Marban tilted his head, his rugged features softening. “And did you accept?”

“Of course not,” she said dryly, “I sedated him”

A deep, throaty laugh escaped him, quickly replaced with a misty spray of blood.

With practiced care, she pressed a hypospray into his neck. “This will keep you from drowning in your own blood, for now, at least”

His eyes glimmered as he caught her hand gently while she retracted the device, his grip unwavering despite the pain, “Had you not saved me, I might have died in battle. That alone would have been enough,” he murmured, his eyes locking with hers in a wordless acknowledgment of fate.

Vennock held his hand a moment longer, neither releasing nor offering further comfort, “You’re angry,” he observed, “Angry that I’m eager to tear apart what you’ve stitched together”

“You’re alive,” she said in a measured, low tone, her voice firm but compassionate, “Your life matters. Even if you dismiss its worth, I care deeply. We both have our duty”

Slowly, he released her hand, his eyes clouded, “I am an old warrior, doctor. What I live for now is to find a glorious battle in which to die. To die well”

“Most species I see, injured or dying, fight like hell to live,” she countered, glancing momentarily at the monitor as one of his vital signs flickered, showing a slight but crucial stabilisation, “I’m not asking you to shun death,” she continued in a hushed tone, “I’m asking, before you succumb to it, to make sure it’s for the right reason”