The number of injuries among the Remans beaming to Arcturus was relatively small and limited to things like broken bones and burns sustained during the rough crossing on Cardinal 7. Hundreds of them required immediate and intensive respiratory therapy from spending too much time in the holds, which were coated in pulverized dilithium fragments. The worst cases resulted in patients who could barely take in enough oxygen to remain conscious. Nanite therapy was able to repair most lung damage within 24 to 48 hours, but those patients had to be actively monitored throughout the treatment, which was enough to put a strain on Arcturus and her medical staff.

Beyond that, they were also beaming aboard critically hurt and ill Romulans from other ships in the flotilla, meaning that the surgeons were kept busy with a stream of patients that had injuries up to and including disruptor wounds. Thankfully, the two types of care didn’t use the same personnel or resources, but a real crisis was starting to develop over another issue that divided the two groups: lighting.

“You can’t seriously be suggesting that we segregate our patients by species!” Sheppard exclaimed, tossing down his napkin onto Dr. Anjar’s coffee table in irritation. “The Federation doesn’t do that.”

“Our Cetacean and Medusan colleagues are segregated from the rest of the crew, are they not? I’d offer that comparison if only to highlight the… reactiveness of your position, Doctor. Different species have different environmental needs,” Dr. Tenesh replied, rolling her eyes.

“The easiest solution would just be to lower the lighting in all of our medical facilities to a range that the Remans can tolerate,” Sheppard retorted. “Surgical bays can use standard lighting with sedated patients.”

“Long-term convalescence in non-standard lighting can be extremely detrimental for circadian rhythms and mental health. By separating the groups, we can optimize care for everyone,” Tenesh insisted. “Patient care shouldn’t be compromised out of a misguided but well-intentioned attempt to heal two-thousand years of racial animus.”

“No one on this ship should have to read a sign on the door that says ‘this isn’t the place for you,’ Hertane,” Sheppard said.

“You know, I am familiar with that sensation of being an Orion in Federation space. And having been an Orion in Klingon space. Out of uniform, do you realize how many times I’ve been questioned as a possible pirate?” she said with a chuckle.

“That’s different. You actually served on a pirate ship,” Sheppard reminded her.

“Privateer ship. We had a letter of marque from the Klingon Empire. Any piracy was… minimal,” the Orion said, making a show of checking her nails. “And anyway. That’s not the point. I know what real discrimination feels like, and it’s not a medically necessary temporary separation of different groups based on their individual needs.”

Before Sheppard could say anything else, Doctor Anjar walked back into the office. He’d left them in the middle of their dinner together to have a brief meeting of the minds with The Inner Circle, i.e., the other three high-and-mighty captains. 

“They’re cute, right? The perfect couple,” Anjar noted, glancing over at Commander Vircar, their Head of Nursing. 

“Absolutely. The sexual tension is palpable,” the Risian woman laughed. 

Sheppard had almost forgotten that Vircar was there since she had stayed out of the back-and-forth between him and Tenesh. That was her general modus operandi, though: to avoid interposing herself between the stronger personalities among the senior medical staff. He didn’t usually consider himself to be among those himself, though, but this particular issue had him fired up. 

The two arguing doctors looked at each other and then at Anjar in complete agreement that they couldn’t dignify his comment with a response. 

“So, Hertane, you want to set all illumination to one thousand percent of standard in every compartment, and Luca, you want to plunge the ship into darkness for this day and all future days? I was only half-listening to your spirited discussion on my way back, but I could hear most of it down by the dispensary,” Anjar said.

“That’s not what we—,” Tenesh and Sheppard said in uniform.

“Yeah, yeah. Save it for the jury,” Anjar chuckled as he sat back down to his chicken soup. “All right. We have two groups of patients with very individualized needs, but we also have the challenge of managing arrivals from 20 separate transporter rooms and the shuttle bay. Both sickbays need to be able to handle anyone who comes in.”

Sheppard and Tenesh both started to voice their opinions, but Anjar held up his hand.

“Melandis, I’m sure you’ve already sorted it out, right?” he asked.

Vircar laughed. “Not quite, but I say we split the difference: a light and a dark ward in each sickbay. We can also make sure that any Reman who wants one has a set of light-filtering goggles. We’ll designate wards by illumination level, and ambulatory patients can choose where to be treated,” she suggested.

“Do either of you have objections to that?” Anjar asked.

“That really isn’t that different from what either of us said,” Tenesh noted.

“Yes, and we would have reached that compromise eventually,” Sheppard agreed.

“So that’s a ‘yes,’ then. Good,” Anjar replied. “And, you know, being Bajoran, I can’t say that I’d be super thrilled to be in a ward full of Cardassians, especially in my younger days, but I also wouldn’t want to see a sign that said ‘Cardassians Only,’ either, so, I get both sides.”

“I’ll go distribute those orders,” Vircar said as she stood up and headed out of Anjar’s office.

“Good. And then I want all three of you to take off until alpha shift. I can’t have my core team exhausted,” Anjar said.

All three of them made a noise of collective protest.

“Nope. I have one more pip, so I get to make edicts like that. Get some rest,” Anjar insisted.

While Sheppard was in the mood to argue, he was also dead tired. They had been prepping for a solid 24 hours before arriving on the Romulan border, and then he’d been carried through their first waves of treatment on adrenaline alone. Even still, his first stop after sickbay wasn’t his quarters but one of the holosuite. He usually worked out in the actual gym, but he wasn’t in the mood for any company nor having to wait for any of the equipment. 

After thoroughly putting himself through his paces, Sheppard finally entered his shared quarters with Lancaster at around 0130, ready for a shower and bed. He found Lancaster with a glass of wine in his hand and three holoPADDs spread around him at the dining table. 

Lancaster glanced up and smiled. “So, when he said ‘rest,’ you took that to mean ‘fuck yeah, it’s chest day, bro!’” he noted.

“I’m not Austin. I don’t talk like that,” Sheppard scoffed, referring to their mutual friend Austin Carver. “You know me. Without my gym time, I’m no fun,” he added, slipping into the seat next to his husband.

Sheppard saw that there was some decanted wine, though a wooden ball was sitting in the mouth of the decanter to stop the aerating process. Lancaster took the last sip of his glass and then nodded towards the dark red substance.

“I saved you half,” Lancaster noted.

“I can see that. I’m not drinking half a bottle before bed,” Sheppard said before splitting what remained between the fresh glass Lancaster had left out and Lancaster’s own glass. He leaned over and kissed his husband firmly on the lips. “I’m sorry I kept you up.”

“I have lots of reasons to be awake,” Lancaster demurred. “Though… I did want to avoid going to bed without seeing you,” he admitted. 

The captain took a drink from his glass. “I know I can never compete with a bench press, but I’m happy being a silver medal,” he teased, squeezing one of Sheppard’s pecs.

“Stop,” Sheppard said as he took a deep drink from what turned out to be a smooth but slightly piquant shiraz. It was probably one of the bottles the two of them had obtained during their weekend in Madrid. “Feel me up all you want, but don’t put yourself in second place to anything.”

Lancaster laughed. “Noted,” he replied, swirling the wine in his glass around. “I feel bad, though. We have over 4,000 refugees on board already and we’re up here living in luxury. It just doesn’t seem—,” he started before being interrupted by a bang.

Over in the corner of the room, the access panel concealing a Jefferies tube hatch popped off and hit the deck plating. Moments later, a young man emerged: a Romulan with a raven’s nest of black hair and a slender, lanky build. Sheppard guessed that he was around 20 to 30, but Romulans were tricky to pin down at that age. 

“Wrong deck?” Lancaster wondered aloud.

“Captain, my name is Oban. My father was Zadan, the imperial military governor of my homeworld. I am here to present vital intelligence to the Federation and to seek asylum as a political refugee,” the young man said after brushing himself off and standing tall. “I apologize for interrupting your private time.”