Girani decided not to pursue the matter. A few minutes later, the medical scanners emitted a low chime signaling that their sweep of Vaughn’s body was complete. “Good. Now sit up and strip to the waist, please.”
“Is this really necessary? The scanners—”
“Every doctor has her own unique style, Commander. This is mine. I’ll study the results of the master scan later. Now kindly shed your tunic and face away from me, please.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Vaughn did as instructed, shrugging out of the exam tunic and baring his back for Girani. Holding an active medical tricorder in one hand, she used the other to examine Vaughn’s upper body directly. Her attention shifted back and forth from the display to her patient: some scarring all across Vaughn’s back that had obviously never been subjected to a dermal regenerator; a few areas of increased epidermal pigmentation associated with the elderly—what humans called senile lentigines, or “liver spots.” There was also some settling of muscle tone.
She found a large bruise on his left side, over the rib cage. He flinched when she touched it. The tricorder revealed a hairline fracture.
“You’re showing another two percent decrease in bone density.”
Vaughn’s response was immediate: “I’ve been on a regimen of Ostenex-D for the last twelve years.”
Girani sighed. “Ostenex doesn’t prevent your bones from becoming brittle, Commander. It only slows the process down. And after a while, it stops working for some people.”
Silence. According to her tricorder, Vaughn’s heart rate was spiking, but his voice remained even as he asked, “Can you prescribe something else?”
Girani hesitated. “There’s a newer version of the drug you might try, but I can’t promise you it’ll work any better.” She reached for her osteo-regenerator, switched it on, and pressed it gently against Vaughn’s ribs for several minutes. When at last it beeped, signalling that the bone had been mended, Girani put the device away and resumed her tricorder scan.
Girani then noticed a raised line of flesh that started on the side of the commander’s neck and disappeared into the white hair behind his left ear. With his uniform on, she realized, it would hardly be noticeable at all. Upon close examination, however, it was quite obviously the telltale sign of an old and serious injury. “Where’d you get this scar?”
“Back home,” Vaughn answered, shrugging. “When I was a kid.”
Girani held the tricorder up to the scar. “There are traces of foreign DNA under the skin, but I’m not finding a match in the medical database.”
“Expand the search to include class-Q life-forms,” Vaughn suggested, “and you’ll find it belongs to the species Draco berengarius.”
Girani’s eyebrows shot up at that. “The original wound was quite deep, though,” she said, noting that her tricorder was showing a re-fused skull and indications of slight damage to the left hemisphere of the brain. “It looks to me as if you were lucky to have survived. You’ve never experienced any side effects?”
“No.”
Strange as the wound was, if Vaughn had gone this long without suffering any ill effects from it, it was unlikely to make any difference now. Girani redirected her tricorder at Vaughn’s heart. “How often do you exercise?”
“I go swimming for half an hour every morning before my shift. And before you ask, yes, I’m watching my diet.”
“According to your medical file, you had a cardiac episode six years ago.”
“A mild one. Nothing since.”
“What about your energy level?”
Vaughn didn’t answer.
“Commander? I said—”
“I get tired more quickly these days,” Vaughn snapped. “I’m a little slower getting up in the morning. Are you satisfied, Doctor?”
Unfazed, Girani said, “That depends. Are you experiencing any other symptoms Starfleet should know about?”
That’s when he turned and looked at her directly. “I’m old,Doctor. And I’m getting older all the time. Starfleet knows that. Putting a microscope on every creaking bone, every aching muscle, won’t tell them anything they aren’t already aware of.”
“And that means what, exactly? I should simply give you a clean bill of health?”
Vaughn’s eyes narrowed. “Is there any reason you wouldn’t?”
Girani set down the tricorder and came around the biobed to face Vaughn directly. She pulled up a chair and straddled it. “Commander, you’re a hundred and two years old. You’re more than two-thirds of the way to the end of your natural life, and while you’re in good health for a human male of your years, it’s still an age when most of your kind has retired.”
“If you check, you’ll see that many centenarian humans are still on active duty in Starfleet.”
“But few of them are in the field,” Girani countered, “and with good reason. Medical science and proper self-maintenance may have lengthened the human life span over what it was a few hundred years ago, but as you yourself clearly stated, you haven’t stoppedaging.”
“Come to the point, Doctor.”
Girani sighed. “Don’t misunderstand me, Commander. All things considered, your health is excellent. But at some point, perhaps sooner than you imagine, you’ll have to face the end of your ability to continue serving in your current capacity.
“But I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, am I? You’ve already had this conversation with Dr. Bashir.”
Vaughn scowled and looked away for a moment, then turned back to her. “Is it your medical opinion that I’m unfit for duty, or that my current health is a liability to this crew?”
“No, but—”
“Then we’re done here.” Vaughn pushed off the biobed and reached for his gray tank and red uniform shirt, folded neatly nearby atop his jacket and trousers.
Girani stood up and shook her head. “Julian warned me you were an impossible patient.”
“Did he, now?” Vaughn said as he dressed.
“Yes. And I feel no reluctance agreeing with that assessment,” Girani said with rising anger. “For someone of your life experience, I expected a little more wisdom.”
Vaughn slammed his hand on the biobed. His emotions were palpable, but he succeeded in reining them in quickly. Nevertheless, Girani was sorely tempted to recheck his blood pressure.
Finally he said, “I apologize. Doctor. It’s just—” He stopped, struggling for the right words. “I’m simply not ready to give up this life yet.”
The forcefulness—or was it desperation?—in Vaughn’s voice surprised Girani. She remembered a lot of aging resistance fighters who’d expressed similar sentiments when advised to slow down. During the Occupation, it was difficult to argue that anyone should scale back their efforts to help free Bajor from Cardassian control. The Federation, however, wasn’t at war anymore. So what cause was driving Vaughn?
“This issue will not go away simply because you choose to ignore it, Commander,” Girani said gently. “You need to face the fact that the time is coming, whether you like it or not, when you will have to stand down. My hope for you is that you’ll recognize it yourself when it becomes necessary. Otherwise, someone willmake that decision for you, and I suspect you’re the type who would find such a thing undignified, even humiliating. I doubt that’s how you’d want your career to end.”
Vaughn stared vacantly into the middle distance. “No. I can’t say it is.” His gaze refocused, and he looked at her. “Thank you, Doctor. Your candor is sobering. You’ve given me a great deal to think about. Are you sure you can’t be persuaded to join Starfleet?”
Girani laughed. “After the conversation we just had, you still want me to sign on?”
“Yes,” Vaughn said simply. “Integrity, directness, and persistence are qualities that shouldn’t go unappreciated.”
Girani’s smile was genuine. “Thank you, Commander. Truly. But getting back dirtside is what I really want. And besides,” she went on, seeing the dead face of First Minister Shakaar, “there are things about my time here I want to forget.”