"This is the day!" Princess Amy's voice crackled across my mental intercom from the imaginary command console on the bridge of GSS Wind Horse. "The day a future documentary will record as 'The Beginning of the End for Mindfleet.'"
"I don't want to hear it, Amy!" I pulled back the curtains for morning salutations. "It's not a big deal. It's a simple procedure that will be over before you know it."
"Simple procedure?" Princess Amy's voice rose with the authority of a Starfleet commander facing the Kobayashi Maru. “Ambassador, let me inform you of the most recent systems reports from my senior staff."
"I don't want to hear it. I'm greeting the morning and expressing gratitude for the gift of another day," and without hesitation, I began, "Thank you for this day, its beauty and its light..."
Minutes later, I was cranking the self-starter in Wind Horse, backing out of the driveway, and heading toward the dermatology clinic for Mohs surgery, an outpatient procedure to remove a small carcinoma from the tip of my nose.
"Shut up, Amy," I muttered, focusing on my driving, while Communications Officer Lt. Joy tuned SiriusXM to 80's-on-Eight where Bobby McFerrin sang Don't Worry, Be Happy. My sentiment exactly, I thought.
But Captain Amy, true to her commanding nature, continued with military precision. "Science Officer Reason's research indicates that these 'simple procedures,' as the Ambassador calls them, are often performed repeatedly until laboratory analyses achieve negative results.”
Chief Medical Officer, Dr. Downer, chimed in. “Statistical probability suggests that the more tissue layers removed, the more reconstruction is required to restore the nasal apparatus to full functionality and aesthetic standards, if the original proboscis can be said to have aesthetic standards."
I imagined Mr. Reason looking up from his post at the Science station, with characteristic Vulcan-like calm, when he said, “Captain, my analysis of medical literature shows Mohs surgery has a 97-99% success rate for primary basal cell carcinomas. The procedure is considered the gold standard for this type of cellular abnormality."
“Excellent work, Number One. What's your engineering assessment, Chief Anxiety?"
From the engine room came the worried voice of Anxiety, his Scottish accent thick with concern. “Lt. Reason is correct, Captain, but what if we're in that 1-3% failure rate? What if the wee beastie on the Ambassador’s nose has deeper roots than the medical tricorders detected? It could threaten the success of the mission. I'm showing fluctuations in the confidence generators, and the worry-dampening systems are working overtime!"
I was at the wheel, navigating toward Magnolia Greens while the conversation took place. Hoping to change the topic of conversation, I announced in my most diplomatic voice, "I’ll let the GPS decide which route to take."
Amy's reply came back quickly and crisply. "Negative, Ambassador. Anxiety has calculated the optimal route to be Brunswick Drive, due to superior probability distribution for avoiding traffic anomalies."
Lt. Joy, monitoring crew morale from her position at the communications console, chimed in with characteristic optimism. "Now, now, everyone. I've reviewed the medical databases, and Mohs surgery is actually quite elegant—like precision engineering for biological systems. It's really quite remarkable!"
But Chief Anxiety wasn't convinced and he addressed Dr. Downer, hoping to get support for his concerns. “Dr. Downer, are we overlooking the possibility of post-operative complications? Infection rates? Scarring possibilities? Permanent nerve damage? What if—"
“Chief!" Princess Amy interrupted the Chief Engineer, exercising her command authority, "Attend to your station. We need those engines running smoothly. Especially now that the Ambassador has made an unauthorized course change."
The dermatologist's office appeared ahead, the clinic gleaming in the morning light like a Federation starbase. As we entered, I took the point position as crew ambassador, interfacing with the medical staff while Captain Amy maintained tactical oversight.
"Any concerns about the procedure?" The surgeon made small talk while using his medical tricorder to map out the area for the incision.
I can’t say that I’d completely ignored the concerns voiced by Engineer Anxiety on the ride over. But I put my trust in Lt. Joy’s optimistic outlook and attempted a little joke to lighten the mood.
"The only concern I have is that the pants I'm wearing are too short. Don’t you agree? High-waters is what I call them."
The surgeon smiled. "Those are actually quite stylish today. We seldom entertain such fashion-forward patients as you."
I mused on his choice of words, wondering if 'entertain' was the correct word for an appointment with a surgeon.
Meanwhile, the surgical assistant prepared her instruments with the precision of a Starfleet engineer, while making time to joke that she would need all her "arts and crafts skills" to properly bandage my nose after the procedure. Maybe entertain was the right word after all.
New Mission Parameters
As we departed the medical facility, Amy called the senior staff together for debriefing.
"The primary mission has been accomplished successfully; however, new operational parameters are now in effect. For the next fourteen standard days, Ambassador Genome is restricted from solar exposure and outdoor activities."
Lt. Joy added, in her usual cheerful manner, "Think of all the books and podcasts you'll enjoy, Ambassador. You can finally get started writing your theory of foundational consciousness for Science Magazine!"
I could sense Princess Amy's satisfaction with the mission and with her crew. "The Ambassador's nose may currently resemble a Frankenstein creation," she said, "but our mission was successful. We faced our fears, trusted in medical expertise, and emerged victorious."
Amy would later record in the Captain’s Log Supplemental-- final entry for Mission Mohs: "The mission proceeded with remarkable efficiency. Only one tissue layer required removal, and the procedure duration was significantly shorter than anticipated.
Everything considered, the mission was a resounding success, and it was accomplished without violating our Prime Directive--non-interference with established protocols."
“Aye, maybe so,” Anxiety admitted grudgingly, "but the anesthetic made his nose feel like a big rubber ball. That can't be normal, and what if it turns out to be permanent?"
Two weeks later, the stitches would be removed to reveal a nose that looked perfectly normal—no Frankenstein resemblance whatsoever. The crew learned once again, that it's often best to trust the experts, follow the treatment plan, and let science do its job. However, it's a good idea to have Anxiety continue running preventive diagnostics on all systems, just in case.
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