In principio: Cor Novum

Posted on Mon Jul 27th, 2026 @ 4:16pm by Master Chief Petty Officer Julian Trent

1,694 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: Starfleet Medical, San Francisco, Earth
Timeline: 2375

Starfleet Medical, San Francisco, Earth, 2375

The first thing Julian heard was the faint undertone of a machine. It was not an alarm. The sound was too measured for panic, a soft pulse repeating at regular intervals somewhere beside his bed. He listened to it without opening his eyes, trying to place the rhythm and becoming irritated when his thoughts moved too slowly to catch it.

The pulse came, paused and returned with identical precision. His chest hurt, though not sharply. The pain sat deep beneath the sternum, heavy and diffuse, threaded through with the pulling ache of healing tissue. Julian tried to breathe more deeply and discovered a limit halfway through.

“Do not do that yet,” a woman said from somewhere to his left, her voice calm enough to suggest she had been waiting for him to make exactly that mistake.

Julian opened his eyes. The room was bright in the particular way medical rooms always were, clean white surfaces softened by daylight coming through a window he could not quite turn far enough to see. A physician stood beside the bed with a PADD tucked against one hip, her dark hair tied back and the blue of her uniform almost aggressively tidy.

Julian looked at her, then towards the monitor. The pulse continued with a regularity which felt wrong.

“Where am I?” he asked, his throat rough enough to make the words scrape.

“Starfleet Medical in San Francisco,” the physician replied, moving closer as she checked the display above his bed. “You were transferred from the Murmansk after emergency stabilisation aboard ship.”

Julian closed his eyes for a second as fragments returned. The corridor. Velez. The shrapnel. A hand against his chest.

“What happened to Crewman Velez?” he asked, opening his eyes again.

“She survived without serious injury,” the physician answered, watching his face as the tension eased slightly. “She has sent three messages asking whether you are awake and one formal complaint that nobody will tell her enough.”

“That sounds like Engineering,” Julian said, though the attempt at dryness weakened when pain moved beneath the words.

The physician adjusted the analgesic level before looking at him again. “Petty Officer Trent, my name is Commander Asha Noort. I led the reconstructive team.”

Julian’s attention returned to the monitor, where the pulse continued at the same measured interval.

“What exactly did you reconstruct?” he asked, already knowing the answer was not going to be small.

Noort set the PADD down beside the bed. “The shrapnel penetrated the left ventricle and damaged the interventricular septum,” she said, keeping her voice even and direct. “There was also extensive trauma to the surrounding vascular structure. The medical team aboard the Murmansk maintained circulation long enough to transfer you, but the damage could not be repaired through standard regeneration.”

Julian looked down towards his chest. A medical garment covered the incision, and beneath it he could feel the pulse continuing with mechanical patience.

“What did you do instead?” he asked, though the answer was already beginning to form.

“We replaced the damaged organ with a biomechanical cardiac implant,” Noort replied, one hand resting against the edge of the bed. “The implant uses biological interfaces and adaptive synthetic tissue. It is fully integrated with your nervous and vascular systems, and the early readings are excellent. You may still be sore. We have not completed the deep-tissue regeneration yet. We needed to know your body would accept the implant first.”

“You replaced my heart,” Julian said, lifting one hand towards his chest before letting out a shallow breath. That explained the pain. Usually, Starfleet medicine would have had him moving by now, but this was not simply damaged tissue waiting to heal. His body was learning a new organ.

Noort’s expression remained steady as she inclined her head. “Yes, we replaced it.”

Julian looked back at the ceiling. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The room held only the monitor, the quiet environmental system and footsteps passing somewhere beyond the door. He lifted his hand the rest of the way towards his chest. The movement was slow, his arm weak from sedation and recovery, but Noort did not stop him. His palm settled against the medical garment above the implant. There was a heartbeat beneath it. Firm. Even. Nothing like the last rhythm he remembered. His fingers moved slightly, searching for the chain.

“It is in the bedside drawer,”Noort said, noticing the movement. “The medallion. It was removed during triage but has remained with you.”

Julian turned his head towards the cabinet beside him. “Could you get it for me?” he asked, though his voice nearly failed before the request finished and irritation passed across his face.

Noort opened the drawer without drawing attention to the weakness. The Saint Luke medallion lay inside a small transparent effects pouch, the chain cleaned but still bent where it had caught beneath the shrapnel.

She placed it carefully in his hand, and Julian closed his fingers around it before resting his fist against his chest. The heartbeat continued beneath both. She watched him for several seconds before lifting the PADD again. “The implant is functioning normally,” she said, and there was something cautious in her voice now, as though normal had become a dangerous word. “We will spend the next few days regenerating the damaged tissue around it. The remaining surgical scarring can be treated once the integration is stable.”

Julian let out a breath which stopped before it could become a laugh. His thumb moved over the shape of the medallion inside his palm. “At least some part of me is functioning normally.”

Noort’s mouth tightened, not quite in amusement. “You nearly died, Petty Officer.”

“I figured,” Julian replied, keeping his eyes on the medallion closed inside his hand.

“You will need several weeks of rehabilitation and monitoring,” she continued, drawing the chair closer before sitting beside the bed. “The implant has to adapt to exertion, stress response and your neurological patterns. You will not be returning to active duty until Medical clears you.”

Julian looked towards her, his hand still pressed against the artificial rhythm beneath his chest. “How long will that take?”

“That depends on your recovery,” she replied, settling the PADD across her knee.

Julian closed his eyes briefly, too tired to argue properly. “I was hoping for a number.”

“I know,” Noort said, and there was no apology in the answer. “It will also depend on your psychological evaluation. Organ replacement is a traumatic event.”

His fingers tightened around the medallion as the monitor continued counting something he no longer entirely trusted. A psychological evaluation. Well, he could deal with that. “What happened to the Murmansk?”

She lowered the PADD slightly before answering. “The war is over.”

Julian stared at her, and the words took longer to reach him than the news of his own heart. “When did that happen?” he asked, his voice gone quiet.

“Eleven days ago,” Noort said, studying him carefully. “You were sedated through most of the medical evacuation with the other wounded.”

Julian looked towards the window he could not properly see. Somewhere outside the room, people had celebrated. Ships had stood down. Orders had changed. The thing which had taken Nico and half the people Julian remembered had ended while he lay unconscious with somebody else’s engineering inside his chest.

“The Murmansk survived the final action,” she said, giving him the information before he had to ask. “She is undergoing major repairs. Your Department Head submitted a report commending your conduct and Crewman Velez’s work. The restored relay kept the port array operational long enough to cover the ship’s withdrawal. It made a difference.”

Julian’s eyes closed as the corridor returned in fragments. The popping in his ears. The explosion. Velez beneath him. Nico’s chain caught against blood. “She should not have been there,” he said, the words leaving him before he could decide whether they were fair.

“She was assigned to the repair detail,” Noort replied, her voice remaining calm. “One could argue that nobody should have been there.”

“I volunteered to go,” Julian said, opening his eyes again and looking at her.

She was quiet for a moment before glancing towards the PADD in her hands. “Your record suggests you volunteered for a great deal over the last several months. That will also need to be discussed during the evaluation.”

Julian looked at her and recognised what sat beneath the statement. Not accusation. Not quite. Recognition.

Noort rested the PADD against her knee. “You ensured the repair was completed,” she said, her voice remaining calm. “That does not make the decision to place yourself in danger meaningless.”

“I was doing my job,” Julian replied, though the certainty had gone out of the answer.

“Yes,”she said, allowing the silence to remain rather than providing the rest.

The monitor continued its steady pulse. Julian looked down at the medallion in his hand and felt the implant working beneath it, tireless and precise. Nico had once pressed his palm to Julian’s chest because the heartbeat reassured him. Now the heart was gone, replaced by something designed never to become frightened, exhausted or uncertain.

“The surgeon aboard the Murmansk said the shrapnel did most of the damage,” she said eventually, checking a notation on the PADD. “You were fortunate the emergency team maintained circulation and placed you on bypass for the evacuation.”

Julian’s mouth moved before his brain had decided whether it was a joke or a truth. “The heart was damaged before the shrapnel got there,” he said lightly.

Noort looked at him, and for one second Julian thought she might smile. She did not, but the silence which followed was not uncomfortable. It was simply honest.

Julian turned his face towards the window again, the medallion still closed inside his hand and the new heart beating beneath it with perfect mechanical patience. The war was over, Nico was still dead and Julian was still alive. For the moment, that was all the machine required of him.

---

 

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