Chapter 4 #3
"Weeks, more likely." I withdrew my hand slowly, feeling oddly reluctant to break the contact. "How's the situation in the main ward?"
"Under control. All colonists stable. The medical team is preparing for transport back to Mothership tomorrow." Er'dox glanced at me. "Dana mentioned you'd probably stay here overnight. She was right."
"Someone needs to monitor her."
"Pel'vix could handle it."
"I'm CMO. My responsibility."
"Zorn." Er'dox's tone carried the weight of years of friendship, all pretense stripped away. "We both know this isn't about professional responsibility."
I didn't answer. Couldn't without lying, and Er'dox would see through lies.
He sat in the other chair, settled his large frame with that economic grace all Zandovian engineers developed. We sat in silence for a moment, watching Bea sleep.
"Dana's worried about her," Er'dox said finally. "All the human women are. They see Bea destroying herself but she won't accept help. Won't even acknowledge there's a problem."
"Trauma response. Classic avoidance patterns."
"Can you force her into counseling?"
"Medical orders can mandate many things. But therapy only works if the patient wants to heal." I studied Bea's face, the slight furrow that remained between her brows even in sleep. "I can keep her alive. But I can't make her want to live."
The distinction mattered. Surviving and living were fundamentally different states, and Bea was firmly in the former category.
"What are you going to do?" Er'dox asked.
"Help her. Whether she wants it or not."
"That's going to make you the villain in her story."
"Better the villain than an accomplice to her self-destruction."
Er'dox made a sound of understanding. He'd faced similar choices with Dana—watching someone brilliant damage themselves, having to intervene despite knowing it would create conflict.
"The bonding ceremony was beautiful," he said after a moment, changing subjects. "Jalina and Zor'go looked happy."
"I saw the recordings. Glad it went well."
"Bea missed it. Dana hoped she'd come."
"She was monitoring patients." The excuse sounded weak even to me. "Or that's what she claimed."
"She's terrified of connection. Easier to save lives than build relationships."
I looked at my friend, saw understanding in his expression. "When did you become an expert in human psychology?"
"When I bonded with one." Er'dox's markings flickered with affection. "Dana taught me that humans process trauma differently than Zandovians. They internalize, isolate, convince themselves that needing others makes them weak. It's exhausting and beautiful and frustrating."
"Sounds familiar."
"Because you're falling for one." Not a question. A statement of observable fact.
I didn't deny it. Couldn't, really. "I'm concerned about a colleague. That's all."
"Zorn. You're sitting vigil beside her bed. You confiscated her work materials. You're monitoring her sleep cycles like she's in critical condition." Er'dox leaned forward. "That's not a professional concern. That's personal."
The accusation, if it was an accusation, hung between us.
"I can't be personal," I said finally. "She's under my supervision. The power dynamic makes anything beyond professional care inappropriate."
"Then stop supervising her."
"She needs medical oversight. She's self-destructive."
"She needs someone who cares about her beyond her utility as a physician." Er'dox stood, moved toward the door. "Think about it. Because right now, you're doing exactly what she does, using professional duty as an excuse to avoid emotional vulnerability."
He left before I could respond. The door closed with a soft hiss, leaving me alone with Bea's sleeping form and the uncomfortable accuracy of his observation.
Was I avoiding? Using my role as CMO as armor against feelings that felt dangerous and complicated?
Maybe.
Probably.
I looked at Bea, at the way her hands still clutched the blanket like she was holding on through a storm. At the vulnerability she'd never show while conscious. At the evidence of someone so desperate to maintain control that she'd destroy herself before admitting she needed help.
I understood that impulse. Understood the fear that needing others made you weak, made you vulnerable, made you potentially disposable.
But I also understood that isolation was its own kind of death. Slow, cold, inevitable.
Bea's vitals remained stable. Her sleep deepened, body finally taking what it desperately needed. The nightmares stayed away, for now at least, held at bay by exhaustion and medical intervention.
I stayed in the chair, monitoring her through the night. Professional duty, I told myself. CMO responsibilities.
But when her hand moved restlessly across the blanket, searching for something even unconscious, I caught it gently in mine. Felt her fingers relax, curl slightly around my palm.
Professional duty, I told myself again.
The lie felt thinner each time I repeated it.
Outside the small window, Veridian Station's artificial lights mimicked planetary day-night cycles. The colony was settling into evening routines, celebration over, normal life resuming after crisis passed.
In the medical bay, life continued at its own rhythm. Patients healing. Staff rotating through shifts. The eternal work of medicine marching forward regardless of individual drama.
And in this small room, I sat beside a woman who'd saved sixty-three lives in three days while slowly killing herself. Watching her sleep like it was the most important thing in the universe.
Because maybe it was.
Bea's comm unit chirped softly. She didn't stir, too far into exhausted sleep to hear it. I checked the display, a message from Elena.
Is she okay? Dana's worried.
I typed back one-handed, keeping hold of Bea with the other.
Exhaustion-induced collapse. Stable now. Sleeping.
The response came quickly.
About damn time someone made her stop. Keep her there. We'll handle things on Mothership.
I smiled slightly. The human women had formed their own support network, looking out for each other in ways the Liberty crash had forged. Bea might resist help, but her friends weren't giving up.
Neither was I.
Another message appeared, this time from Captain Tor'van.
Medical team returns to Mothership at 0800 tomorrow. Exception granted for Dr. Santos if additional rest required. Your discretion.
Which meant the Captain understood the situation and was giving me authority to keep Bea grounded until she was actually fit for duty.
I sent confirmation, then silenced her comm unit. She needed uninterrupted rest, not the constant ping of messages and demands.
The hours passed slowly. Bea's sleep remained deep, healing. I monitored vitals, adjusted the IV when it ran low, scanned for any signs of complications. Professional tasks that required attention but not deep thought, leaving my mind free to circle the problem of what came next.
Because this was just forcing a pause. When Bea woke, she'd resist. She'd argue that she was fine, that I'd overstepped, that she didn't need intervention or care or anything beyond permission to return to work.
And I'd have to make a choice. Back down, let her resume her self-destructive patterns. Or push harder, force the confrontation that would either break through her defenses or shatter what fragile working relationship we had.
The healer in me knew which choice was correct. Saw the long-term trajectory if she didn't address the underlying trauma. Watched her heading toward catastrophic burnout or worse, and understood that intervention now—however unwelcome—was mercy.
But the part of me that was becoming personally invested? That part wanted to protect her from the pain that confrontation would bring. I wanted to make everything easy and safe and comfortable.
Except healing was never comfortable. It was painful and messy and required tearing open wounds that had scarred wrong so they could heal correctly.
Bea would hate me for it. Probably already hated me for forcing this rest, for seeing past her defenses, for refusing to let her destroy herself in peace.
And I'd have to accept that. Accept being the villain in her narrative if it meant keeping her alive long enough to heal.
Better hated than mourned.
My wrist unit chimed softly at 0600 hours. Morning was arriving on Veridian Station's artificial schedule. The medical team would be preparing for transport soon. Decisions needed to be made.
Bea stirred slightly, making a small sound. Her eyes moved beneath closed lids, REM sleep, dreaming. Hopefully something peaceful this time, though her expression remained guarded even unconscious.
Her hand tightened in mine, and I realized I'd been holding it for hours. The contact felt natural now, comfortable. Like my palm belonged wrapped around her smaller hand, providing warmth and stability.
Dangerous thoughts. Unprofessional thoughts.
But I didn't let go.
Because right now, in this moment, she was letting someone care for her. Even if she didn't know it. Even if she'd never admit needing it.
And that had to be enough.
The door opened again. Pel'vix entered carrying a tray with food and stimulants. "Shift change," she said quietly. "You should eat. Rest. I'll monitor her."
"I'm fine."
Pel'vix gave me a look that said she knew exactly how fine I was—which was to say, not at all. "You've been awake for forty-eight hours. Physician, heal thyself."
"In a few hours."
"Now. That's an order from your senior medical staff.
" She set the tray down, fixed me with those unsettling vertical pupils.
"You can't help her if you collapse from exhaustion.
And given how you're hovering, you're not leaving her side anytime soon.
So eat. Rest. Let me handle monitoring for the next four hours. "
She was right. Medical personnel were useless when exhausted. I'd just told Bea the same thing.
Hypocrite.
I looked down at where my hand still held Bea's. Gently withdrew, felt oddly bereft at the loss of contact.
"If anything changes—"
"You'll be the first person I contact." Pel'vix moved to the chair I'd vacated, pulled up Bea's vitals on her own wrist display. "Go. I've got her."
I stood reluctantly, every instinct screaming to stay, to maintain vigil. But Pel'vix was capable. Bea was stable. And I was no use to anyone if I couldn't think straight.
I grabbed the stimulant drink from the tray—wasn't ready for actual rest yet—and moved toward the door.
Paused.
Looked back at Bea's sleeping form, at the vulnerable curve of her body, at the face that remained guarded even in rest.
"She's going to fight this," I said quietly. "When she wakes. When I tell her she needs counseling, needs proper rest, needs to stop destroying herself. She'll resist every step."
"I know."
"I'm not backing down."
"Good." Pel'vix glanced at me, something knowing in her expression. "She needs someone who won't give up on her. Even when she gives up on herself."
I left before I could analyze that statement too closely. Before I could examine what it meant that everyone seemed to see something I was trying hard not to acknowledge.
The corridor outside was quiet, most of the medical staff still sleeping or preparing for transport. I walked to the observation deck overlooking the colony—a small room with viewports showing Veridian Station's biodomes, the careful balance of atmosphere and agriculture that kept the colony alive.
Similar to what Bea was doing, really. Maintaining careful balance, keeping everything functional, never addressing the underlying damage.
My comm unit buzzed. Er'dox.
Dana says thank you for taking care of Bea. Also says you should actually rest before she sends me to physically drag you to quarters.
I sent back a brief acknowledgement, drank the stimulant, felt artificial alertness flood my system. Not real rest, but enough to function for another few hours.
Long enough to have the conversation that needed to happen when Bea woke.
Long enough to become the villain she needed me to be.
Outside the viewport, Veridian's sun began rising over the biodomes—artificial dawn painted in shades of gold and amber, beautiful in its manufactured precision. A new day began, the crisis passed, normal life resuming.
But in that small medical room, nothing was resolved. Nothing was fixed. The real crisis, Bea's trauma, her self-destruction, her desperate need for help she wouldn't accept, was just beginning.
And I was walking straight into it, eyes open, knowing exactly how badly this could end.
Because someone had to.
Someone had to refuse to let her drown.
Even if she hated me for it.
My comm unit buzzed again. This time from Zorn—wait, that was my name. I looked at the display, confused by exhaustion, and realized it was Captain Tor'van.
Report on Dr. Santos's condition when available. And Zorn? Don't let her leave that bed until she's actually fit for duty. However long that takes. Understood?
I sent confirmation, feeling something like gratitude that the command understood the situation.
Then I turned away from the viewport, from the artificial dawn, from the illusion of peace.
And headed back toward the room where Bea slept.
Because when she woke, the real battle would begin.