Ensign Roy Bancroft - Ensign, Junior Failure
Carter Schimpff
(( Hazard Suite - Primary Sickbay, Deck 7, USS Artemis-A ))
Sadar: I-I, uhh... I-I wanted to address something with you.
Sadar: I-It’s... A-About your conduct with the injured Grunden beneath the shelter. Th-The injured mother and child.
Bancroft: ::quietly, without hesitation:: Yes, Doctor Sadar. I remember the incident… distinctly.
Sadar: Y-You admit that, initially, they were injured?
Bancroft: ::nods, steady:: Yes ma’am. They were injured. The mother sustained a deep shrapnel laceration along the left flank, extending from the lower ribs to the iliac crest. Hemorrhaging was significant, respiration was considerably labored, and signs of impending hypovolemic shock were evident. The child was… physically unharmed.
Sadar: You admit that you administered standard crisis care to them both?
Bancroft: Correct. I treated the wound; stabilized the mother. And before you and Ensign Cole came down into the cellar, I told the girl not to speak of what she saw. ::Slow, deliberate breath::
Sadar: ... You recall that I specified we had a non-interference order issued by Fleet Captain MacKenzie?
This was it.
Roy had already admitted to treating the woman – but not, yet, to knowingly breaking the rules to do it. Not out loud. Not in a way that would forever etch the confession into official record, with all its career-altering consequences.
And he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t known. Doctor Sadar had reminded him of those orders only minutes before he’d knelt beside that bleeding mother. The directive had been crystal clear.
Now his options narrowed to two.
He could lie – say he didn’t recall the order, or that the moment had overwhelmed him, or whatever else might float in a pool of plausible deniability. But they’d both know. Immediately. Instinctively. Sadar would know. And worse – he would know.
Or he could say it plainly. That he’d heard the order, understood it, remembered it, and chose to act anyway.
His collar suddenly felt tighter, the pip on his neck hot against his skin like it had just been welded there – a tiny, glowing emblem of rank and integrity.
Would this be it? A fast-track to disgrace? Maybe there was a rank between Ensign and ‘out on your ass’ that no one talked about – Ensign JF, perhaps. Junior Failure.
He’d spent his entire life trying to prove he was enough. That his name, his work, his choices – all of it – added up to something worthwhile to society and worth being proud of. And now, after only one mission, he was going to have his commission stripped and mailed home in a commemorative shadow box of shame.
But through the flood of emotion, one stubborn truth remained: Bancrofts don’t lie. They own their choices, come what may.
He lifted his chin.
Bancroft: Yes, Doctor Sadar. I was aware of the non-interference order from Fleet Captain MacKenzie, and I recall your reminder of those orders as we walked the streets of Breetia.
Gila sighed slightly as she wrung her hands together.
Sadar: A-As, uhh, D-Doctors, we graduate the Academy swearing to, mh, do no harm, a-and, uh, to preserve life. Healing and protecting is our, lifeblood..? ::shakes her head slowly:: However, following the Captain’s orders will sometimes force you to, uhh, disregard that. And b-before we are healers, we are... Officers. The two aspects won’t always conflict, but sometimes they will. A-And when those times come, we look to our senior officers to point the way forwards. ::sad smile:: It’s our duty to follow those orders, even if we know we could make a difference by disregarding them.
Roy fought the urge to frown.
What was this? A sermon? A eulogy for his brief career?
He didn’t know Lieutenant Sadar well – not yet – but she didn’t strike him as the type to play with her food before eating it. So why the gentle “we,” the collective “our”? She was still a commissioned officer. He, on the other hand, was shortly to be little more than a disgraced civilian in a very convincing Starfleet costume.
Maybe this was her way of softening the blow. A kindness before the axe. He appreciated it, in theory. But in practice? He wished she’d just rip the damn bandage off already.
Bancroft: Understood, Doctor Sadar.
He supposed he’d do it for her. Maybe that’s what she was waiting for.
She was clearly uncomfortable – and really, this was his mess. He’d put her in this position. The least he could do, as a sort of apology, was land the final blow himself.
He cleared his throat, tugged once at his collar – still itching, still hot – and delivered his own fatal diagnosis.
Bancroft: Shall I report to the brig to await my court martial, or will I be confined to quarters until the service decides which airlock to toss me out of?
Sadar: No... W–Well, yes... I-I mean. ::clears throat:: I-I’ve not put you in for a disciplinary. However! I-I’ve given you some extra shifts. A-And until we reach DS224, L-Lieutenant Meyers will be monitoring your work.
The emotional whiplash nearly knocked Roy flat.
I’ve not put you in for a disciplinary.
Wait–what?
He wasn’t being written up. He wasn’t being court-martialed. He wasn’t being escorted to a nearby airlock for a swift goodbye and a brisk decompression.
Against all odds – he was still in Starfleet.
Why?
No idea. Perhaps Doctor Sadar didn’t want to do the paperwork. But he knew better than to ask questions when the cosmic scales suddenly tipped in your favor. In those rare, bewildering moments where the universe decided to go easy on you, the only acceptable response was to smile, nod, and absolutely not draw attention to the glitch in the quantum probability field.
Bancroft: I– ::clears throat:: Yes. Thank you, Doctor Sadar. I don’t take this lightly – your decision, or your words. I heard you. I won’t forget. I’ll carry it forward.
END SCENE
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Ensign Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1