1

"...Code called at eighteen-ten. Cause of death: Exsanguination due to multiple lacerations of the descending thoracic aorta. Attach surgical log. End report."

Leonard McCoy switched off the recording, muttered an expletive under his breath, and wearily rubbed his eyes. Hours earlier, the call came from the planet's surface on what was a routine mission. Freak accident. Casualties. Three teams met the landing party at the transporter room, gurneys ready. Two injuries were not life threatening, but the third person had already lost so much blood that the massive chest wound was no longer pumping his life from his body. The unrestrained panic of the landing party was quickly replaced by the ordered triage and tightly controlled effort of the medical team in their frantic race to replace blood volume and stop the massive Class Four bleed. But Ensign Rinehart was dead. McCoy cursed again.

He heard movement in the treatment room, followed by Nurse Chapel quietly entering his office. She was carrying a cup of coffee which she set before him on his desk. Her eyes were bleak, too, mirrors, he thought, of his own. He leaned back and gestured for her to sit, toying with the coffee cup. She pulled up the straight chair and sat on the edge, carefully weighing how much to say, knowing firsthand how difficult and fragile McCoy could be after losing a patient.

"Marian Littlefield has been discharged. Dr. M'Benga says Lieutenant Oates will need a day under the stimulator." She paused. "It could have been worse."

McCoy's eyes flashed. "I guess that depends on your point of view. It couldn't be worse for that dead boy."

"Please don't beat yourself. His injuries were too severe. No one could have saved him."

"No, Christine, it's not that." He rested his forehead on his fists for a moment. "Space is a dangerous place. We all knew that before we signed on. Young people- old people, too - die out here. But we're here because we hope to make a difference. We think our lives matter. But this young man's death was so damned senseless. He didn't die making the Galaxy safe for the Federation. He didn't die for some greater good. He didn't die a hero saving the ship. A stupid containment field accident on a stupid backwater planetoid and he's gone. Not that it really matters. Dead is dead."

McCoy's voice turned hard and bitter. "And now some nicely starched officer from Starfleet HQ is gonna go tell his parents that their boy's never coming home. Instead of their son, they'll get a little package with the Fleet's most sincere condolences and a tape from his commanding officer." His voice cracked a little. "He was twenty, for God's sake. And he's in stasis in my morgue."

"I know," Chapel said simply. "I'm sorry."

McCoy looked up, features softening. "Yes, of course," he said quietly. "Of course you know. I unloaded on you. Forgive me for being such a jackass."

She stood. "I understand." She laid her hand briefly on his shoulder. "Drink your coffee, Leonard, and try to get some rest."

He stared at her morosely. "I don't think this is a coffee kind of night."

Chapel grimaced and patted his arm. "If you need anything, please tell me."

McCoy nodded as she left the room, understanding that they both knew her offer, though sincere, was futile. What he needed, no one could provide.