The fatalities from the flare strike on Mizuki City and the other L5 colonies had mercifully been few, no more than several dozen, thanks to the advance preparations and the quick response of the emergency fleet. It would have been a considerably larger death toll if not for the hard work of the fleet’s medical teams.

Malcolm had been struck by all the different ways the tiny, searing wormholes could injure people. Only a few had suffered internal punctures or burns from microflares manifesting inside them or passing through them. Many had suffered thermal or radiation burns from their proximity, or had their organs damaged by the overpressure shock from flares bursting in small, enclosed compartments, instantly superheating and expanding the air. Many had ruptured eardrums or retinal burns. Quite a few had been poisoned by noxious gases leaking from blown conduits or toxic compounds from vaporized structural materials. There had been a fair share of straightforward cases of thermal burns and smoke inhalation when leaking fluids had been ignited by microflares or by sparks from damaged electrical circuits. And inevitably, some had been crushed or trampled by crowds too panicked to follow instructions for an orderly evacuation.

Most of the injuries had been well within the means of modern medicine to cope with. Individually, they would have been fairly simple. But there had been so many of them all at once. Sometimes the difference between life and death came down to the brutal question of whether doctors had the time or resources to devote to a patient. Malcolm was grateful he had not had to make that kind of triage decision today. It had been arduous enough as it was.

“You did well, though.” Doctor Christine Chapel sat beside him and handed him a cup of coffee, which he grasped as a lifeline. “You’re a hard worker, like your sister.”

He let out a small chuckle. “Ironic. Just a week or so ago, I considered my sister a lost cause, a nonfactor in my life. Now I’m the one being treated as an extension of her life.”

Not that he hadn’t been thinking in similar terms when he’d volunteered for the emergency program Starfleet was organizing in the Sol system to prepare for the vacuum flares. If this crisis was somehow connected to his sister, or aimed at her, then it was a matter of an elder brother’s pride to stand against it. So it had been as Nyota Uhura’s brother that he had signed on. He should not have been surprised that a colleague of hers had spotted his name and requested his assistance aboard her hospital ship. But it had been surprising to hear the glowing terms in which Doctor Chapel described his sister’s brilliance and dedication, as well as her warmth and kindness. It wasn’t normal for an eldest child to think of his annoying second-born sibling in such terms, even without twelve years of estrangement.