Night Shift

Posted on Sat Apr 5th, 2025 @ 2:22am by Lieutenant Commander Sam Grant

515 words; about a 3 minute read

The hum of the warp core was a constant comfort—steady, like a heartbeat. In the heart of the USS Horizon’s sickbay, Dr. Samuel Grant sipped a lukewarm raktajino and scrolled through patient charts on a PADD, his blue eyes scanning efficiently.

The night shift was usually quiet, and Sam had grown to appreciate the stillness. The lights were dimmed, the staff fewer, and the quiet gave him time to think. Of course, thinking was dangerous sometimes. It was during these hours his mind drifted toward her—a memory he kept buried beneath surgical precision and Starfleet protocol.

“Dr. Grant?” Nurse Malen’s voice pierced the silence, her antennae twitching. “We have an incoming emergency. Shuttle Odyssey, returning from the nebula survey. Multiple injuries.”

Sam was already moving before she finished speaking. “Triage protocols. Get Trauma Team One ready. Let’s go.”

The double doors to Sickbay slid open moments later, and the chaos walked in.

Lieutenant Korev, half-conscious and burned. Ensign Kalt, bleeding from a jagged piece of hull that had impaled his side. Two others limping, coughing, dazed from a shockwave. The shuttle had hit a subspace eddy—unexpected and violent.

“Plasma burns. Second-degree. Korev—burn table one!” Sam barked. “Let’s go, let’s go! Kalt—he’s bleeding internally. Malen, prep him for surgery.”

He pressed his hands down on the wound with a sterile field generator. “Stay with me, Kalt. Breathe. You’re not checking out on me tonight.”

The ensign nodded weakly. Sam glanced up, catching his reflection in the overhead screen. Messy hair, jaw set tight, eyes focused. This was his element.

Minutes blurred into an hour. The smell of burnt fabric, the beeping of monitors, the clang of equipment being passed. He moved like a dancer through the chaos—precise, practiced. There was sweat on his brow, but his voice never wavered.

“Clamp that artery. Good. Now seal the tear.” He guided the junior med officer with a calm hand. “Nice and easy. Just like we practiced.”

Finally, silence settled.

“They’ll all make it,” Nurse Malen said quietly, her voice part admiration, part relief.

Sam sat back, exhausted but satisfied. His hands were still gloved, stained red. He stared at them a moment before peeling them off and tossing them into the bin.

“Any more surprises tonight?” he asked, forcing a tired grin.

Malen chuckled. “Not unless the universe feels particularly cruel.”

He stood, stretching his back. “Well, tell it I said no. I’m booked up for the next eight hours.”

Later, as he walked the quiet corridor toward his quarters, he paused by the viewport. The nebula shimmered in the distance—beautiful and deadly. He rested his hand on the glass, thinking not just about the crew he saved, but the ones he hadn’t, years ago.

Medicine was never just about fixing bodies. It was about healing people. And sometimes, yourself.

And on nights like this, Sam Grant knew why he wore the uniform. Why he kept showing up, shift after shift, even when the galaxy felt like it was falling apart.

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