Log entry begins.
There’s a rhythm to starship medicine—moments of calm wrapped around bursts of chaos. I’ve lived in both. But today… today feels different.
There’s no calm this time.
There are whispers—nothing official yet. Rumors filtering through the comms, quiet mentions in passing between departments. Some say the Vaadwaur are behind this. Others talk about a breakdown in subspace itself. No orders have come down, and I haven’t seen a full briefing.
But I’ve been in the field long enough to know that when people whisper, it’s rarely good news. And when Command hasn’t spoken yet… it means the worst of it, is still forming.
Our launch from DS4 was fast, efficient, almost clinical. The kind of thing that looks clean on a report but leaves knots in your stomach once the adrenaline wears off. And now that we’re en route to Changxi IV, I’m standing in Sickbay taking stock of just how thin we are stretched.
We’re not at full staff. Some of my people are new. Others—good people—were reassigned to stay behind. My surgical bays are stocked, but only just. We’re relying on secondhand medical units that DS4’s engineers patched together in a rush. Half my biobeds still flicker if we overload diagnostics. And our best trauma scanner? It hums like it’s held together with tape and polite optimism.
And still—we go.
Because we’re Starfleet. Because those people on Changxi IV may not have anyone else. Because even if we’re not ready, we have to act like we are.
I’ve ordered triage protocols to shift. We’ll treat crew first if there’s a hit. If evacuees start coming in, they’ll go through isolation filter Alpha and push through the mobile units on Deck Four. I’ve tagged Vait and Durell for mobile response. They didn’t flinch. I wouldn’t want anyone else out there.
I don’t know what’s coming. None of us do. But I’ve seen what panic looks like. I’ve seen what happens when people break down in the middle of a crisis. That won’t happen here. Not if I can help it.
We’re not warriors—but we go to war all the same.
End log.