Shore Leave Blues

Posted on Fri Feb 7th, 2025 @ 4:50pm by Lieutenant Richard Pierce MD

885 words; about a 4 minute read

Dr. Richard "Popeye" Pierce sat at his desk in Sickbay, staring at the bottom of his now-empty coffee mug. The replicator had been broken for the last three days, meaning he was down to whatever dregs of caffeine he could scrape from a pot in the mess hall. He debated whether it was worth the trip for another cup but quickly dismissed the thought. The Jane Addams was only an hour away from shore leave, and the last thing he wanted to do was waste even a minute standing in line.

One more hour.

Just sixty more minutes, and after a year—twelve long, exhausting months—of patrolling the Cardassian border, the crew would finally be off duty. For two glorious weeks, there would be no skirmishes, no emergency surgeries, no last-minute evacuations of stranded colonies, and—most importantly—no one getting shot, stabbed, concussed, or otherwise inconveniencing him with medical emergencies.

He stretched his arms, feeling the stiff pull of muscles that had spent far too much time hunched over biobeds and medical consoles. It had been a hell of a tour. Not the worst he’d ever seen, but long.

The Cardassian border was still a volatile place. The official peace held, but tension simmered just beneath the surface. The crew had been put through their paces—responding to distress calls from outposts caught in territorial disputes, assisting civilian ships that had wandered too close to hostile space, and treating injuries from the occasional skirmish with pirates or rogue Cardassian factions still unwilling to let old grudges die.

His medical staff had been run ragged. Some days, it felt like Sickbay had turned into a revolving door of burns, fractures, concussions, and exhaustion cases. There had been long nights when Popeye had barely made it to his quarters before he was called back, and longer days where he’d downed more cups of coffee than he cared to count just to keep going.

But all of that was in the past now.

Popeye exhaled slowly, glancing around Sickbay. The biobeds were all empty, lined up neatly in perfect order. The overhead lights were dimmed just slightly, giving the place a rare sense of calm. His staff had already finished the final inventory checks and had been dismissed, leaving him alone with the familiar, sterile scent of disinfectant and the hum of medical equipment on standby.

He tapped a few buttons on his console.

"Computer," he said. "Initiate shore leave protocol."

A soft chime confirmed the command, and the Sickbay lights adjusted to their lowest setting. Officially closed.

A slow smile tugged at the corners of his lips. It was finally happening.

He pushed himself up from his chair, rolling his shoulders as he left Sickbay behind. The corridors of the Jane Addams were livelier than they had been in months. Crew members moved with a noticeable energy, a spark that had been dulled by the monotony of border patrol. Conversations buzzed around him—people talking about their plans, debating the best spots on Pacifica, making last-minute arrangements for their leave.

Popeye had his own plans, and they were refreshingly simple.

A beachfront suite. A hammock under the shade of a palm tree. Fresh seafood. And drinks—plenty of drinks—served in absurdly elaborate glasses with tiny umbrellas sticking out of them.

No medical scanners. No late-night emergency calls. No one barging into his quarters with a sprained ankle and a sheepish look.

He passed by a trio of junior officers standing near a viewport, watching the warp field streak by.

"Think we’ll get lucky with the weather?" one of them mused.

"Pacifica’s always nice," another said. "It’s practically a paradise planet."

"I heard the surfing there is unreal," the third added.

Popeye smirked as he walked by. Sun, sand, and surf. Sounded like a dream after a year of ship-bound monotony.

Finally reaching his quarters, he palmed the door control, stepped inside, and immediately peeled off his uniform jacket. The rigid fabric felt like a second skin he was all too eager to shed. He dug through his personal belongings until he found what he was looking for—his old Hawaiian shirt, bright red with ridiculous yellow flowers.

He pulled it on, looking at himself in the mirror.

"Now that is a man ready for vacation."

Grabbing his travel bag, he flopped onto his bunk and pulled up his itinerary on his PADD.

Pacifica Resort & Spa – beachfront accommodations, full-service dining, complimentary massages.

Confirmed reservations: Richard Pierce – two weeks, single occupancy.

He sighed contentedly. Heaven.

His commbadge chirped.

"Bridge to Dr. Pierce."

He groaned, slumping against the bed. He was so close.

Tapping his badge, he answered, "Pierce here. If this is anything less than a full-blown medical catastrophe, I swear—"

A chuckle came through the comm. "Relax, Doc. Just a heads-up. We’re dropping out of warp in an hour. Start packing your sunscreen."

Popeye grinned. One hour.

One hour, and for the first time in a year, he wouldn’t be "Doctor Pierce, Chief Medical Officer."

For the next two weeks, he was just Richard Pierce.

A man with nothing to do but relax, drink, and pretend he didn’t know a thing about triage.

At least, that was the plan.

----
Dr Richard Pierce
CMO
USS Jane Addams

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