Zoric #2
I don't care. I'll suppress the response later. Right now, maintaining her safety takes priority over maintaining appearance.
Four minutes.
“Almost done with point three. This one's stubborn. The fuse goes deeper than the others.”
“Can you complete it in time?” My voice remains steady despite the tension building in my chest.
“Yeah, just need to—”
The surge hits without warning.
The camera feed whites out momentarily. Chief Martin's audio cuts to static. Suit telemetry spikes across every parameter.
“Chief Martin!” I'm on my feet before conscious thought. “Status report. Paige, respond!”
Two seconds of static. Three. Four.
Gold light floods my markings. She's not responding.
“Paige! Status!”
Five seconds. Six.
“Holding on.” Her voice returns, strained but present. “Barely. The surge knocked out my magnetic boots. I'm on the tether.”
The camera feed stabilizes. Shows her floating away from the hull, connected only by the safety line. The damaged array looms above her, sparking with residual energy.
I should assess the situation logically. Calculate probabilities. Make the efficient choice.
All I can think is that she's out there, alone, holding onto a tether that might fail.
“Listen to my voice.” The words come from somewhere deep. Somewhere that doesn't calculate odds. “You're strong. You're brilliant. You're going to make it because I—” I stop. Breathe. “Because we need you. The ship needs you.”
The correction is too late. Too obvious. Everyone on the bridge heard what I almost said. What I stopped myself from saying.
“Don't you dare let go,” I say, and my voice breaks on the words.
“Wasn't planning on it.” She's gasping. Fighting. But there's humor underneath. “Though this sweet-talking is new. Keep going. I like it.”
Despite everything, I feel something in my chest loosen. “Paige.”
“I'm pulling myself back. Give me thirty seconds.” Tools clatter. Her breathing is harsh over the comm. “Twenty seconds. Ten. Got it. Magnetic boots re-engaged.”
The camera feed shows her hands securing to the hull. My oxygen intake resumes normal function. My heart rate begins decreasing from the dangerous elevation it reached.
My markings remain gold. Everyone can see.
“Status?” I manage.
“Fine. Mostly. A little shaky.” More tool sounds. “But I'm finishing this repair. Less than a minute left. I can make it.”
“Be certain.”
“I am.” Her voice steadies. “Connection point three complete. Testing the array. Signal's coming through. We have communications.”
Relief floods through me. “Confirmed. Return to airlock immediately.”
“Already moving.”
I watch the camera feed as she traverses the hull back toward the airlock. Each step feels like an eternity. Each second stretches until she's finally through the outer door, then the inner door, then removing her helmet in the airlock chamber.
She's safe. Inside the ship. Alive.
“Communications restored, Captain.” Morris reports what I already know. “External arrays are fully functional.”
“Noted.” I force my attention back to standard bridge operations. Pretend I don't feel every eye on me. Pretend the last eleven minutes didn't reveal things I've spent weeks trying to hide. “Resume normal operations.”
“Sir.” Tanaka's voice is carefully neutral. “Chief Martin is requesting to report to the bridge.”
“Granted.”
She arrives still in her EVA suit base layer, face flushed from exertion and residual adrenaline. She looks alive. Vibrant. Real. And the relief of seeing her here, solid and present, nearly breaks my control again.
“Captain.” She's breathless. “Communications array is fully operational. No permanent damage. We're good.”
“Acknowledged.” Our eyes meet. Hold. I'm aware of the entire bridge watching this exchange. Aware of what they heard over the comm. What they saw in my markings. “Well done, Chief.”
She nods. Starts to leave. Pauses. Turns back.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For talking me through it.”
“You didn't require assistance.” The words feel inadequate. “You never do.”
Her mouth curves in that genuine smile that does something to my cardiac rhythm. Then she's gone, and I'm left standing on my bridge with the absolute certainty that everyone present now understands exactly how I feel about my chief engineer.
Tanaka approaches my station once the bridge has returned to standard operations.
“'Captain. Your markings were visible during the EVA.”
I don't pretend to misunderstand. “Yes.”
'The crew noticed.”
“I'm aware.” I meet her eyes directly. “Is there a concern?”
She's quiet for a moment. “Some might question whether your judgment regarding Chief Martin remains objective.”
“My judgment is based on her exceptional performance. She designed those coupling specifications. She completed the repair in record time despite equipment failure. She saved our communications systems.” I keep my voice level.
“If my biology responds to competence and courage, that's not something I can change. Nor would I want to.”
“And if it's more than professional admiration?”
The question hangs between us. I could deny it. Should deny it, perhaps. But I'm tired of suppression. Tired of pretending my markings don't broadcast what my training says I should never feel.
“Then the Council will have to add it to my growing list of failures on this mission.”
Tanaka's expression shifts to something like respect. “For what it's worth, Captain, I don't think you're failing. I think you're adapting.”
She returns to her station, leaving me with that assessment.
Later, in the privacy of my office, I review the sensor logs.
The radiation surge that knocked out her magnetic boots was not random.
It coincided perfectly with a momentary drop in the tertiary shielding—too brief to trigger alarms, long enough to allow a focused energy burst through.
I pull up the authorization logs for that exact timestamp.
The override code belongs to Security. To Hale.
When I question him, his explanation is logical.
“I was running a diagnostic on shield response times, Captain. Standard procedure after solar events. The timing was a terrible coincidence.” He is calm, professional, and entirely convincing.
But the statistical improbability of that “coincidence” is astronomical.