Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
BEA
The emergency klaxon cut through the medical bay's sterile quiet like a knife through flesh.
I was elbow-deep in a Krellian's thoracic cavity, figuratively speaking, since the regeneration field did most of the actual repair work, when the alert sounded. Three sharp bursts that meant all hands, immediate mobilization, no exceptions.
Pel'vix's lavender skin paled to almost white. "Colony distress call. Outbreak protocol."
My hands didn't shake. They never did during a crisis. That was the beautiful thing about emergencies, they required nothing but competence, no emotional bandwidth wasted on introspection or self-doubt. Just problems and solutions, cause and effect, diagnosis and treatment.
"Stabilize him," I said, already moving toward the supply cabinets. "Increase cellular acceleration to compensate for reduced monitoring. He'll be fine for six hours."
"You're volunteering." Not a question. Pel'vix knew me well enough after two months.
"Someone has to." I pulled open the storage unit containing quarantine gear, started mentally cataloging what we'd need.
Unknown pathogens meant full isolation protocols, aggressive treatment options, potentially experimental therapeutics if standard approaches failed.
"Get word to Zorn. He'll want to coordinate teams before—"
"I'm already here."
His voice came from behind me, deep and steady as bedrock.
I didn't turn around, kept pulling equipment from shelves with methodical precision.
Hazmat suits, portable scanners, emergency medications, sterilization fields.
The familiar ritual of preparation, turning chaos into order through sheer organizational will.
"Colony outbreak on Veridian Station," Zorn continued, moving into my peripheral vision.
His forest-green skin looked darker under the medical bay's harsh lighting, gold healing markings tracing the powerful muscles of his forearms. He'd rolled up his sleeves already—he always did before mobilization, claimed it was practical but I suspected it was psychological preparation.
Battle readiness for a different kind of war.
"Unknown pathogen. Sixty-three confirmed infections, symptoms progressing rapidly.
Respiratory distress, neural inflammation, three critical. "
"Fatalities?"
"Not yet. But without intervention, projections are grim."
I pulled down another case of medical supplies, stacked it with the others.
My mind was already running through differential diagnoses, treatment protocols, triage categories.
Unknown pathogens with respiratory and neurological involvement suggested either viral hemorrhagic fever analogue or possibly a parasitic infection affecting multiple systems. We'd need broad-spectrum approaches until we could isolate the specific—
"Bea."
Zorn's hand appeared in my field of vision, gently taking the supply case I'd been about to add to the growing pile.
I looked up, had to, given our height difference, and found his golden-brown eyes fixed on me with that particular expression I'd learned to recognize.
Concern mixed with determination mixed with something softer that made my chest tight.
"I'm assigning teams," he said quietly. "You're with me."
The words should have been professional. Supervisor assigning personnel based on optimal skill distribution. But the way he said it, the slight emphasis on me, the careful neutrality that suggested deliberate choice—made it clear this wasn't random selection.
Every instinct screamed to object. Working closely with Zorn was dangerous, not because he was incompetent but because he was the opposite.
Because he saw too much, pushed too hard at boundaries I'd spent years fortifying.
Because when he looked at me like he was looking at me now, I felt exposed in ways that had nothing to do with professional evaluation.
But objecting would reveal exactly what I was trying to hide. Would admit that proximity to him affected me, that I needed distance for reasons unrelated to medical efficiency.
So I did what I always did when cornered: defaulted to pure professionalism.
"Fine. What's our departure window?"
Resignation flickered across his expression before the professional mask slid back into place. "Twenty minutes. I'm taking Pel'vix and Dr. Ko'rath as well. Four-person team, maximum flexibility."
"I'll prep the transport medical equipment." I moved past him toward the larger storage area, putting physical distance between us because it was the only control I had left. "We'll need redundant systems if infrastructure on the station is compromised."
"Already arranged." He followed me, because of course he did. Zorn had this infuriating habit of not taking hints. "Bea, about the team assignments—"
"Twenty minutes doesn't leave time for discussion." I pulled out the portable regeneration unit, started the diagnostic sequence. The familiar hum of technology powering up was soothing, mechanical and predictable. "I assume you've already coordinated with Captain Tor'van?"
"Yes."
"And confirmed transport logistics with Kex'tar?"
"Yes."
"Then we're set. I'll meet you at the shuttle bay in fifteen minutes."
I could feel him watching me, could sense the conversation he wanted to have pressing against the professional boundaries I kept erecting.
The unspoken questions about why I'd been avoiding him since our confrontation about therapy, about whether I'd actually attended my session with Dr. Senna, about the careful distance I maintained whenever we worked together now.
But Zorn, whatever his other qualities, understood timing. Understood that right now, with sixty-three beings depending on us, personal matters had to wait.
"Fifteen minutes," he agreed, and left me alone with the machines.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
This was going to be a disaster. Not the outbreak, I could handle medical emergencies in my sleep.
But being trapped in close proximity with Zorn for however long this crisis lasted, unable to maintain the professional distance I'd carefully cultivated, forced to interact in ways that might crack the shell I'd built around myself—
My hands trembled.
Just once. Just for a moment.
Then I shoved the weakness down where it belonged, finished prepping the equipment, and headed for the shuttle bay.
The transport vessel was smaller than Mothership's main cruisers, built for speed and maneuverability rather than comfort.
Pel'vix was already aboard when I arrived, running system checks with her characteristic efficiency.
Dr. Ko'rath, a Zandovian physician with deep amber skin and a reputation for innovative xenobiology, nodded acknowledgment as I loaded the medical equipment.
Zorn boarded last, moving with that peculiar grace large beings develop when navigating spaces not quite built for their size. His presence seemed to fill the entire shuttle, or maybe that was just my hyperawareness of him, the way I'd become attuned to his proximity despite every effort not to be.
"Departure in three minutes," Kex'tar's voice crackled through the comm system from the pilot's compartment. "ETA to Veridian Station: forty-seven minutes."
I secured my equipment, double-checked the restraints, and focused on the comforting routine of preparation. Forty-seven minutes. I could maintain professional distance for forty-seven minutes. Then we'd be dealing with the outbreak, too busy for personal complications.
Except Zorn sat down beside me.
Not across from me, where Dr. Ko'rath had taken position. Not near the cockpit where Pel'vix was reviewing patient files on her datapad. Beside me, close enough that I could smell whatever Zandovians used for cleanliness, something herbal and clean that made me think of rain on stone.
"You've been avoiding me," he said quietly, under the rumble of engines powering up.
"I've been busy."
"You've been avoiding me," he repeated, without accusation. Just fact, stated with the same calm certainty he brought to diagnoses. "Since I mandated the therapy sessions. Bea—"
"We're launching." I pointed at the illuminated safety indicator. "Not the time."
"Then when? Because you've made sure there's never a time. You take shifts when I'm off duty. You route communications through Pel'vix instead of contacting me directly. You've turned avoidance into an art form."
He wasn't wrong. I'd been extremely deliberate about limiting our interactions, finding excuses to work separately, and maintaining maximum professional distance.
Because the alternative, admitting how his observation had cut through every defense I had, how his insistence that I get help had felt like both betrayal and terrifying care, was unthinkable.
The shuttle lurched as we detached from Mothership's docking array. Through the viewport, the massive bulk of our home ship receded, its lights glittering against the infinite dark of space. We accelerated toward Veridian Station, toward crisis and chaos and work that would keep my mind occupied.
"Did you go?" Zorn asked. "To the session with Dr. Senna?"
My jaw tightened. "That's confidential."
"Your attendance is on record. The content of your sessions is confidential.
There's a difference." He shifted slightly, and his shoulder brushed mine as casual contact that sent electricity through my nervous system in ways that had nothing to do with medicine.
"I'm not asking what you discussed. I'm asking if you went. "
I stared at the viewport, watched stars blur into streaks as we hit cruising velocity. Thought about lying. Thought about deflecting. Thought about all the ways I'd learned to avoid uncomfortable truths.
"Yes," I said finally. "I went."
The relief in his expression was almost painful to witness. Like my compliance with medical orders, with his orders, meant something beyond professional obligation.