Chapter 1 #3
"Are you?" Dana crossed her arms, looking far too much like a concerned friend and not enough like someone I could dismiss with clinical detachment. "Because from where I'm standing, you look like you're about three days from complete collapse."
"I'm functional."
"Functional isn't the same as okay."
"In my profession, functional is all that matters." I turned back to my datapad, hoping she'd take the dismissal. "I have work to do."
But Dana didn't leave. She stood there, radiating that infuriating patience she'd developed since bonding with Er'dox, like she had all the time in the world to wait me out.
Finally, she spoke quietly. "I used to think work was enough too. That if I could just fix one more system, solve one more problem, keep everyone else alive, then maybe I wouldn't have to deal with my own shit. Took me almost dying on that planet to realize I was wrong."
"I'm not you."
"No. You're worse." The words were gentle but uncompromising. "At least I knew I was running. You've convinced yourself you're standing still."
"Bea," she said finally, "you can't keep running forever."
"Watch me."
It came out sharper than I intended. Dana flinched slightly, and guilt twisted in my stomach, but I didn't take it back. Didn't apologize. Just turned back to my datapad and pretended to be absorbed in patient notes.
After a moment, Dana left.
I told myself I was relieved.
The rest of the shift passed in a blur of routine medical care. By 1800 hours, I was back in the rhythm that kept me sane, evaluate, diagnose, treat, document. Repeat. The work had a structure to it. Rules that made sense. Outcomes you could measure.
Unlike everything else in my life, which was chaos pretending to be stable.
I was reviewing lab results for a Zandovian crew member's unusual enzyme levels when Zorn appeared at my shoulder.
"Walk with me," he said.
Not a request. An order.
I saved my work and followed him out of the medical bay, down corridors I'd walked a hundred times, to a destination I didn't immediately recognize.
When we stopped, I realized where we were at the observation deck on the ship's dorsal side.
Floor-to-ceiling transparent panels looked out into space, stars scattered like diamonds on black velvet.
Zorn stood at the viewport, hands clasped behind his back, looking out at infinity.
"Do you know what I see when I look at you?" he asked.
I didn't answer.
"I see a brilliant physician with exceptional diagnostic skills.
Someone who saved three Vex'ali lives this morning before most of the crew had finished breakfast. Someone who's mastered xenobiology faster than anyone I've ever worked with.
" He turned to face me, golden-brown eyes serious.
"I also see someone who's drowning, and refusing every hand that reaches out to help. "
My throat tightened. "I'm not—"
"You are." His voice remained gentle, but the words were steel underneath. "You're working yourself to death, Bea. And I'm not going to stand by and watch it happen."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." He moved closer, and I fought the urge to step back.
"I understand that you lost everything when the Liberty was destroyed.
I understand that you're stranded in an unfamiliar galaxy, surrounded by aliens, doing work that requires you to constantly adapt to new species and new challenges.
I understand that you use work as medication to avoid processing trauma. "
Each word landed like a physical blow.
"But here's what you need to understand," Zorn continued. "Avoiding pain doesn't make it go away. It just makes it fester. And eventually, it will consume you."
The observation deck was empty except for us. No witnesses to this conversation. No escape routes except past him, and he was positioned between me and the door.
Trapped.
"What do you want from me?" The question came out rougher than intended.
"I want you to stop destroying yourself." He held my gaze, wouldn't let me look away. "I want you to accept that healing others doesn't require sacrificing yourself. I want you to take the help that's being offered instead of pushing everyone away."
"I don't need help."
"Everyone needs help, Bea. That's not weakness. That's being human."
The word hung between us, human. As if it explained everything. As if being human meant being vulnerable, being broken, being incapable of handling my own existence without external support.
Maybe it did.
"I'm scheduling you for mandatory therapy sessions," Zorn said. "Twice weekly with Dr. Senna. Non-negotiable."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I remove you from active duty until you're psychologically cleared to treat patients.
" His expression stayed gentle, but his tone was absolute.
"You're too valuable to lose, Bea. To this ship.
To your patients. To—" He stopped himself, but something flickered in his eyes.
"I won't watch you destroy yourself. Not when I can prevent it. "
The words sat between us, weighted with meaning I wasn't ready to examine.
My comm unit chimed with an emergency tone. Dana's voice cracked through: "Medical to transport bay, immediate. We've got incoming casualties from the Veridian Station rescue. Sixteen critical, ETA eight minutes."
I was already moving before she finished, muscle memory overriding exhaustion, professional instincts burying everything personal.
But Zorn's hand caught my arm, brief contact, barely a second. "This conversation isn't over."
Then he released me, and we were both running toward the transport bay, toward the work that never stopped, toward patients who needed us more than we needed answers to questions neither of us knew how to ask.