Chapter 5 #3
"Your service exemplifies Mothership's core mission," Captain Tor'van said, presenting each of us with a commendation chip, small metallic disc that would be added to our personnel files and service records.
"Rescuing the stranded, healing the injured, providing hope in crisis situations.
You represent the best of what we strive to be. "
Applause filled the hall. Beings of multiple species showing appreciation in various ways, Zandovians with their controlled nods, Krellians with their harmonic calls, humans with traditional clapping.
I stood frozen, a commendation chip in my palm, feeling like a fraud.
Sixty-five lives saved. Three lives lost.
The math should have been triumphant. Should have felt like victory.
Instead it felt like failure.
Zorn's hand found mine again, squeezed gently. Not quite appropriate for a public ceremony, but offering comfort I desperately needed and couldn't ask for.
"Breathe," he whispered.
I breathed.
The ceremony concluded. Crew members approached to offer congratulations. I smiled automatically, thanked them mechanically, maintained the professional facade while inside I was screaming.
Finally, mercifully, it ended. The crowd dispersed. Zorn stayed close, a solid presence that kept me grounded.
"Dr. Senna's office is on deck nine," he said quietly. "I'll walk you there."
"I can find it myself."
"I know. But I'd like to accompany you. If that's acceptable."
It wasn't really a request. More like gentle insistence disguised as courtesy.
I nodded.
We walked through Mothership's corridors in silence. Beings passed us, crew going about their duties, the constant motion of a functioning ship. Everything normal. Everything routine.
Except nothing felt normal. Nothing felt routine when you were walking toward confronting trauma you'd spent months avoiding.
Deck nine was quieter than the main operational levels. Medical facilities, counseling offices, areas designed for privacy and healing rather than efficiency. We stopped outside a door marked with Dr. Senna's name and credentials.
"I'll wait," Zorn said. "Sessions are typically an hour. I'll be right here when you finish."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." His golden-brown eyes held mine. "You're not alone in this, Bea. Even when it feels like you are."
The kindness was almost harder to bear than the medical orders. Kindness implied I deserved care, deserved support, deserved something beyond the relentless self-punishment I'd been inflicting.
I pushed the access panel before I could change my mind.
Dr. Senna's office was smaller than I'd expected. Comfortable rather than clinical. Soft seating designed for multiple species, warm lighting, walls decorated with images from various worlds, including one that showed Earth's moon over a familiar skyline.
Dr. Senna herself was petite for a human, maybe five-foot-three, with warm brown skin and gray-streaked black hair pulled into a practical bun. Her expression was open, professional, utterly non-threatening.
"Dr. Santos. Please, sit anywhere you're comfortable."
I chose a chair positioned where I could see both the door and the entire office. Tactical positioning. Escape routes and situational awareness. Habits from trauma that had become personality.
"Call me Bea. Dr. Santos is too formal for therapy."
"Bea, then." Dr. Senna settled into her own chair, datapad in hand but not actively using it. Presence without pressure. "Thank you for coming. I know this wasn't entirely voluntary."
"Zorn said it was therapy or medical suspension. So here I am."
"Coerced treatment is rarely effective. But sometimes we need external pressure to take steps we know are necessary but can't manage alone.
" Her tone was conversational, matter-of-fact.
No judgment. "Before we begin, I want to establish some ground rules.
Everything you say here is confidential unless you express intent to harm yourself or others.
You control the pace, if something feels too difficult, we can slow down or change direction.
And you can stop attending at any time, though I'd encourage you to discuss that decision rather than just disappearing. "
"You said coerced treatment isn't effective. But you're setting it up like I have control."
"You do. Zorn can order you to attend sessions. He can't order you to engage meaningfully." Dr. Senna's expression was gentle but direct. "So the question is: are you here just to check a box, or are you here because some part of you recognizes you need help?"
The question cut through my defenses like a scalpel through tissue—precise, painful, exposing what lay beneath.
"I don't know," I admitted. "Both maybe. I'm functional. I do my job well. But—"
"But it's killing you," Dr. Senna finished. "Slowly. In ways you can't quite acknowledge but feel constantly."
The accuracy stung. Made tears threaten again. I forced them back.
"I can't fall apart," I said. "People need me to be functional."
"People need you alive. There's a difference."
And there it was. The fundamental truth I'd been avoiding since the Liberty disaster, since Earth, since long before I'd ever boarded a colony ship bound for the stars.
I wasn't living. I was surviving. And there was a massive difference between the two.
Dr. Senna waited, letting the silence stretch. Giving me space to process, to react, to choose what came next.
"Where do we start?" I asked finally.
"Wherever you need to. But if you're open to a suggestion, let's start with the Liberty disaster. With what happened when the wormhole shredded your ship apart and you crashed on that burning planet. With the patients you couldn't save."