The soft purring of the monitoring alarm on my watch wakes me, by vibrating. I’m up…
I tell the watch and it recognizes my voice. The command kills the alarm.
Sleeping at the med bay is seldom a good idea, and sleeping at a working station – uh, table – is downright irresponsible. I rub my face into some kind of wakefulness and wish I could rub my back into a painless state.
I wish I would have slept in one of the E-beds, but shake my head at the idea. The beds are semi-autonomous so they can keep an exhausted man in stasis, until he gets all the tiredness out of his system. No matter how long that may take.
In case you are the ship’s doctor, this is a very bad idea. They tell you that in doctor’s school. Don’t get high on E-beds pain or sleep medication. I guess some of my colleagues must have tried, during their long trips to the Kepler System.
I have Lieutenant Decker in one. The screen above his E-bed flashes red.
Let’s check you then.
I download the most recent parameters the bed has measured to my watch. I throw out my thumb and index above its display to activate the tablet function. Blood pressure: 100 to 80. Good, pulse: 110. Almost okay. Oxygen saturation: 85%. Not okay… Breathing frequency dwindling under 10. Bad. I shake my wrist to retract the tablet. The antidote is wearing off.
Load E-bed 2 with enough Naloxone. Doctor Oscar Wellington, authorization 00.01, code 672779-0.
The unconscious man in front of me looks like he just hopped from the grim reapers grasp, with a nearly translucent, pale skin.
What a disappointment… I do not recall Decker to be a genius or even smart. The flashing red on the E-bed monitor stops. His breathing improves visibly, oxygen saturation climbs above 90%. That’s the spirit, Lieutenant.
This bloke finds the most pleasant way to go. Fearless, without the hunger for oxygen, without the hunger for life. I make a mental note to stock every suit – at least mine – with enough morphine to kill an elephant. This is a manageable last resort.
It is a stroke of genius to use morphine to save himself from asphyxiation. The question remains if he’s left with cerebral damage. No one knows how long he was cold out, or even breathing… After all, Rains is not to be trusted with a precise observation of his colleagues. If I recall correctly, he even broke Decker’s nose in a brawl a month ago.
How’s the lieutenant?
The captain’s voice rings through the med bay. The com is in override mode on my watch.
Barely alive. I answer. That’s that.
Any permanent damages?
Can’t tell… Sleeping beauty has to wake up on his own. The morphine still has about two hours to the pharmacological half-life. Ask me again in two hours.
The Captain seems satisfied, and the com dies down. I pull the footage from Decker’s and Rains’ suits.
Color code: Captain Edward Wong; Lieutenant Marius Rains; Lt. Anatol Decker; MD Oscar (Oz) Wellington; Dr. Samara Frazer; Crewman* Proto Septimus;