“DR. CRUSHER? Dr. Crusher?”

Beverly Crusher turned away from the prostrate form before her and looked for the source of the voice calling her name from somewhere in the depths of cargo bay four.

“Over here!” she called out.

“Another group is coming,” the voice replied, which Crusher now recognized as belonging to Alyssa Ogawa, her typically unshakable head nurse and a valued member of the Enterprise medical staff for more than a decade. Still, even she sounded as though she might be rattled at the prospect of more injured boarding the starship.

Sighing, Crusher shook her head at the news. The cargo bay had been turned into an emergency field hospital, helping to screen roughly one hundred Dokaalan requiring varying degrees of treatment. However, the evacuees were coming at a rate that she knew threatened to overwhelm the ship’s medical personnel, or at least overrun the physical space of the large room. Other cargo bays were being converted and would be ready soon, but that did not aid her immediate situation.

There’s nothing you can do about that, she reminded herself. So worry about the problems you can fix.

Brushing a lock of red hair from her face, Crusher moved to the next emergency treatment bed and activated its array of diagnostic sensors. The Dokaalan lying on the small bed was having difficulty breathing and was holding his abdomen, though there did not appear to be a great deal of blood. An internal injury, most likely.

“Temperature is 29.4 degrees Celsius,” she said. “Is that even normal for you?” She was not surprised when the Dokaalan merely looked at her in confusion, and she patted him gently on the arm. “Don’t worry,” she offered in her best bedside-manner voice, “we’re going to take good care of you.”

“Dr. Crusher,” Ogawa called out again. “The next group is arriving.”

Without looking up from her work, Crusher replied, “Resume triage protocols and I’ll be right there.” Ogawa and the rest of the medical staff were more than capable of assessing injuries and quickly assigning treatment priorities in emergencies, even while under attack. Still, coordinating triage involving beings heretofore unknown to Federation medical science would have tested the mettle of even Starfleet’s best physicians.

Using the peripheral scanner from her medical tricorder to examine the young man—she assumed he was young, anyway—Crusher compared the unit’s readings with those of the dozens of patients she had already treated. This was most definitely not the way she preferred to practice medicine, knowing that everything they were doing to help these people was, for the moment at least, based purely on instinct.

While she and the rest of the medical staff continued their efforts down here, data about Dokaalan physiology was streaming constantly into the ship’s computer with each patient they examined. Once the analysis of that data started to yield results, she would be able to determine what pharmaceuticals might be medically effective in stabilizing her new patients and easing their pain. For the moment, however, she was depending entirely on her own abilities, experience gleaned from years of treating new and exotic alien species, and a generous helping of good luck.

I guess it was too much to ask that the probe carried data files on Dokaalan anatomy and physiology.

Studying her tricorder’s readings, Crusher now knew that her initial diagnosis of the wounded Dokaalan was correct. The sound of the patient’s labored breathing was unmistakable. A lung had collapsed and what looked to be the equivalent of the spleen in a human had been lacerated. Those, at least, were injuries she understood and which could be treated quickly, here and now.

Retrieving a hypospray from her medikit, she set it to deliver a mild sedative that would let the Dokaalan sleep through his pain. The effects were immediate as she saw her patient’s pale blue features relax.

He struggled to speak. “Th-th…thank…youuu….”

“Of course,” she said, leaning in as the Dokaalan closed his eyes again. “Be still, now.”

Crusher gave silent thanks for the only advantage she truly enjoyed at this moment: a crumbling communications barrier. The Dokaalan probe’s recording and other data files stored in its small onboard computer had provided enough of a language sample that Federation linguists were able to construct a competent protocol for the ship’s universal-translation subroutines. Those programs were getting a workout now and being given the opportunity to improve with each passing moment as they sifted though the reedy, nasal tones of Dokaalan vocalizations and extrapolated them into a semblance of Federation Standard.

She did not need any of that, however, as she saw the smile on the Dokaalan’s face before he slipped into unconsciousness, his anxieties eased at least a small bit at the realization that he was among friends.

As she gave the necessary treatment instructions to an assisting medic, she grabbed her gear and made her way toward the triage operation’s makeshift staging area. Stepping past the small line of cargo containers that had been arranged to mark off the staging area, Crusher felt a sudden tug on her entire body, her legs wobbling in momentary disorientation.

Forgot about that, she realized as her legs took the extra second to reacquaint themselves to carrying her full weight. To accommodate the recovering Dokaalan, artificial gravity throughout the main section of the cargo bay’s triage area had been reconfigured for one-sixth that of Earth, while remaining normal in the staging area so as not to disrupt the workings of the rescue teams and medical staff. Therefore, transitioning to and from the separate gravity fields always came as a bit of a shock.

At least we didn’t have to change the air mix, too.

As she steadied herself and resumed her pace to the entrance of the bay, she saw the first of what appeared to be dozens of Dokaalan shuffling through the hatch, some not under their own power. As they entered the bay, they passed through a series of arches that had been juryrigged to act as emergency bioscanners. The sensors were in turn providing preliminary readings that aided the medics with their initial diagnoses.

Denizens of the outpost seemed so far to be adults of two genders, Crusher noted, with none of them appearing particularly youthful or elderly. By their attire and demeanor, it was obvious that these people were used to living in nothing resembling the lap of luxury.

“Anything unusual?” Crusher asked Ogawa, who was busily tapping information into a padd.

The nurse’s normally well-groomed hair was disheveled. She looked up and shook her head. “A few injuries, but unless someone’s keeping something from us, these are all greens.”

Following triage guidelines, medics were grouping the Dokaalan by the extent of their injuries and coding them by color: green for evacuees needing no treatment and who could be quickly moved to temporary berthing areas, yellow for those who suffered from injuries that did not threaten their lives, red for those who would die without immediate treatment—and black. Crusher had coded three Dokaalan as black so far, and that was three too many so far as she was concerned.

“Sounds great, Alyssa,” Crusher said. “We could use the break. Make sure you get some rest and something to drink before the next group comes. You look like you need it.”

“We all may need it,” Ogawa said over her shoulder as she started toward the row of emergency bioscanner arches. “According to Lieutenant Vale and Commander Riker, we’ve only seen about a third of the Dokaalan on the outpost.”

Crusher turned away to hide her grimace. It would not do for her subordinates to see her frustration at the current situation. Instead they had to see that she was in control and would continue to work no matter the difficulties that lay ahead. The Dokaalan were counting on them, after all.

She was moving from the reception area to inspect the status of their medical supplies when she saw Dr. Tropp, one of her three fellow physicians on board the Enterprise. “Hello, Doctor,” she offered as he approached.

“Dr. Crusher,” the Denobulan replied, holding up a dermal regenerator. “While treating our guests I have discovered that our regenerators aren’t working as efficiently as I would like. I am trying to take advantage of our slight lull to see if I can recalibrate one of them, but I admit to having little success.”

Since his arrival on the Enterprise, Tropp had shown an unwavering drive in his practice of medicine, and she quickly had come to appreciate his opinions and diagnoses. Additionally, he had demonstrated a keen interest in working with the younger and newer members of her team. Tropp seemed to enjoy functioning as the Enterprise medical staff’s own continuing-education program, something that she welcomed considering that his people had served as biologists and healers even on the earliest of Earth’s deep-space exploration vessels.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Tropp,” she said, “but it might not even be possible to accelerate their healing. Let’s hold off on that now, and focus instead on stabilizing the wounded.”

“Oh, I heartily agree, Doctor,” Tropp replied. “I’m just trying to anticipate what we might see later, given the circum—”

“Hey! We need some help here!”

Both doctors turned at the sound of the voice. Craning to see past the lines of Dokaalan at the bioscanning arches, Crusher spotted a pair of Starfleet crewmen ferrying between them what appeared to be a tarp—supporting a body. As the two physicians sprinted across the deck toward the new arrivals, she caught sight of another such makeshift stretcher, this one carried by a Dokaalan and an Enterprise crewman. Crusher peered into the tarp and saw that just what Tropp had anticipated was starting to come to pass.

“What happened?” Crusher asked as she activated her tricorder.

“Coolant pipes ruptured,” said one of the rescuers. “These two got doused with the stuff. There were others, but…”

“I understand,” Crusher said as she got a better look at the extent of the victims’ burns. Swaths of their pale blue skin had turned a pallid gray. Wounds that should have been bleeding were cauterized. One of the Dokaalan was shuddering noiselessly, while the other was deathly still.

Tropp appeared at Crusher’s side with the steering pads for an antigrav gurney in each hand. “Use these,” he instructed as he passed the pads to a pair of medics. “It will help ease the pain from the burns.” As the two victims were maneuvered onto the gurneys, the Denobulan produced his own tricorder and scooped out its handheld scanner.

“I cannot tell whether these are chemical burns or scaldings,” he said as waved the scanner over one of the Dokaalan. “They may be both. Are there open beds in the red area?”

“Forget that,” Crusher said. “We can’t handle this down here.” She tapped her combadge. “Crusher to sickbay. Activate emergency medical hologram.”

A second later, a cool, reserved voice responded through her communicator. “Please state the nature of the medical emergency.”

“This is Dr. Crusher,” she said as she tapped commands into her tricorder. “I’m in cargo bay four leading a triage team, and I’m transferring the medical information for two patients that are being taken to you now. I need you to prepare sickbay for use as a burn unit. I need…”

“Wouldn’t it be simpler to beam them directly to sickbay?” the hologram asked.

“Transporters are not cleared for use,” she said. “Please just listen and don’t second-guess me.”

“Affirmative,” came the hologram’s crisp reply.

“Thank you,” she snapped, trying to remind herself that the EMH was a valuable asset in situations such as this, when time was of the essence. The holographic doctor could instantly access the ship’s medical database and retrieve all the information on the Dokaalan, allowing him to begin work immediately. Further, he would be able to work indefinitely without the need for rest, a unique advantage considering the extensive and likely time-consuming treatment he was about to provide to the three inbound patients.

Unlike many starship medical officers, who had opted for more advanced versions of the emergency medical hologram, Crusher had decided to keep the Mark I model EMH program after a test period to evaluate its successor. Though the newer Mark II version was unquestionably a superior product of computer software engineering, she had grown accustomed to the Mark I’s personality and felt it better served her as well as her medical staff and, ultimately, the rest of the Enterprise crew.

That’s not to say its bedside-manner subroutines still couldn’t stand some additional adjustments, she thought.

“I need you to prepare beds as dermaline gel baths for burn treatment. Attune the support frames to monitor for signs of infection and also to continuously cycle the gel for debriding.” She paused, unsure that the course of treatment even would work on the lanky beings.

“I am aware of the protocols, Doctor,” said the EMH. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes, you can reduce the gravity in sickbay to one-sixth normal,” Crusher said. “Dr. Tropp and a nursing team are on their way with the patients. I want you to make their stay as comfortable as possible.” She actually thought she heard the EMH huff before responding.

“I’m a doctor, not a concierge.”

Crusher bit her lip to stay an equally terse reply, then said, “I know you’ll do your best. Crusher out.”

As she helped a pair of nurses maneuver the gurneys toward the closest turbolift, Crusher’s attention was drawn back to the scene of organized chaos unfolding around her. Seeing the steadily growing number of Dokaalan patients as well as Enterprise medical staff as every other crew member who had heeded her call for extra assistance working to maintain order and continue to the triage process, she could not help the silent plea that screamed in her mind.

Now, if we can just do our best….