Chapter 6 #3
"Korvathi crystalline skeletal structure means fractures will be our primary concern," she said quietly.
Professional observation, not personal communication.
"Their bones don't break cleanly. They shatter.
Fragments can damage surrounding tissue, create internal bleeding their redundant circulatory systems will try to compensate for but can't sustain indefinitely. "
I nodded. "Which means we'll need precision extraction rather than traditional splinting. Have you worked with Korvathi trauma before?"
"Once. Medical rotation during my training on Earth. We had a Korvathi ambassador who'd been injured in a shuttle accident. Similar fracture pattern." Her expression remained carefully neutral. "I can handle it."
Of course she could. Bea's competence had never been in question.
Vaxon's voice crackled through the comm. "Medical bay, we have visual on casualties. Multiple critical. Preparing for emergency transport."
"Transport authorization granted," I said. "Bring the critical cases directly to trauma bay three. Secondary injuries to bay one."
"Understood. First wave incoming in ninety seconds."
Ninety seconds. I turned to the assembled medical staff. "Positions. This is going to be intensive. Standard rotation protocols are suspended. We work until every patient is stabilized. Pel'vix, coordinate supply distribution. Dr. Santos, you're with me on primary trauma."
Bea's eyes widened fractionally. Working together meant close proximity. Meant trusting each other in high-pressure situations. Meant setting aside personal complications for professional necessity.
"Understood," she said.
The medical bay doors opened.
The rescue team transported the first casualties through on emergency gurneys.
Korvathi beings, tall, angular, their skin textured like polished stone, their crystalline bones visible through partially translucent flesh.
The injuries were immediately apparent. Shattered limbs.
Crushed torsos. The kind of trauma that required immediate intervention or the patients would die.
"Trauma bay three!" I directed the transport team.
Bea was already moving, her hands pulling up the holographic diagnostic displays. She moved with that economy of motion that came from years of emergency medicine, no wasted movement, no hesitation.
I joined her at the first patient. A Korvathi female, her right arm completely shattered, crystalline fragments visible throughout the limb. Her breathing was labored, her triple-heart system struggling.
"Arterial damage," Bea said, her hands already moving to stabilize the limb. "The bone fragments have lacerated the primary circulatory pathway. We need to extract the fragments and repair the artery before blood loss becomes critical."
I pulled up the surgical interface. "Agreed. But we can't remove the fragments until we've stabilized her cardiac function. Her redundant hearts are compensating, but the strain will cause systemic failure."
"Then we work simultaneously. You stabilize cardiac, I'll prep for fragment extraction." Bea's voice held absolute certainty. "On my mark."
We moved in perfect synchronization. I administered the cardiac stabilizers while Bea prepared the surgical field. Her hands were steady, steadier than they'd been three days ago, when exhaustion had made them tremble. Whatever else she was avoiding, she was at least sleeping now.
"Cardiac function stabilizing," I reported. "You're clear for extraction."
Bea's hands moved with precision that bordered on artistry.
The holographic surgical interface responded to her neural commands, micro-manipulators extracting crystalline bone fragments one by one.
Each piece had to be removed carefully to avoid further arterial damage.
One mistake could cause catastrophic hemorrhaging.
She didn't make mistakes.
"Primary fragments extracted. Moving to arterial repair." Her concentration was absolute. "I need you to manually compress the secondary heart. Her redundant system is overcompensating."
I reached into the surgical field, located the appropriate anatomical structure, and applied gentle pressure. Korvathi physiology was complex, but I'd treated enough of their species to know the critical points.
"Pressure applied."
"Arterial sutures in place. Releasing compression in three... two... one..."
I withdrew my hand. Watched the diagnostic displays as the patient's circulatory system responded to the repair. The numbers stabilized. Her breathing eased. Her triple-heart system found equilibrium.
"She's stable," I confirmed.
Bea stepped back from the surgical field, took a deep breath. Her first deep breath since we'd started. "Next patient."
We moved to the second gurney. Then the third. Then the fourth.
The hours blurred together. Trauma after trauma.
Bea and I worked in perfect coordination, she handled the delicate surgical extractions while I managed the systemic complications.
We anticipated each other's needs. Moved in rhythm that required no discussion.
Two physicians who'd found professional synchronicity despite personal complications.
More casualties arrived. The rescue team had cleared the damaged freighter, brought everyone they could save.
Some were beyond saving. We lost three patients in the first hour.
The weight of those losses settled heavy in my chest, but there was no time to process.
No time for anything except the next patient, the next emergency, the next life that needed saving.
Bea never faltered. Never hesitated. She worked with the same fierce determination I'd seen at Veridian Station—pure focus channeled into healing, everything else pushed aside until later.
Six hours in, we'd stabilized the critical cases. The medical bay was full of recovering patients, but everyone who could be saved had been saved.
I stepped away from the last patient, and exhaustion hit hard. My hands ached. My shoulders burned. My mind felt scraped raw from the intensity of sustained concentration.
Bea leaned against the nearest wall, her eyes closed, breathing carefully. She looked as exhausted as I felt.
"Good work," I said.
She opened her eyes. Met my gaze for the second time that day. "You too."
The medical bay around us hummed with activity. Pel'vix and the support staff monitored the stabilized patients, adjusting medication, running continuous diagnostics. Everything was under control.
Which meant there was no professional reason for Bea and me to keep standing here, three feet apart, looking at each other like we had things to say we couldn't quite articulate.
"I should—" Bea gestured vaguely toward the monitoring stations.
"No," I said. "You should rest. We both should. The support staff can handle monitoring."
"But—"
"That wasn't a suggestion." I softened my tone, tried to make it less of a command. "You've been working for six hours straight after minimal sleep. Your performance was flawless, but even flawless physicians need recovery time."
Something flickered in her expression. Not quite anger. Not quite gratitude. Something complicated that I couldn't parse.
"You're doing it again," she said quietly.
"Doing what?"
"Taking care of me when I don't ask for it." She pushed away from the wall, straightened her shoulders. "I'm fine, Zorn. I'm always fine."
"No, you're not."
The words came out more intense than intended. Bea's eyes widened slightly.
"You're not fine," I repeated, more carefully this time. "You haven't been fine since Veridian Station. Possibly longer. And pretending otherwise doesn't make it true. It just makes it easier to avoid dealing with it."
"And forcing me into therapy makes you feel better about your inability to fix me?" Her voice stayed controlled, but I heard the edge underneath. The anger she kept locked down. "I don't need fixing, Zorn. I need to be left alone to do my job."
"Your job isn't destroying yourself."
"My job is saving lives. Which I've been doing. Effectively."
"At what cost?"
The question hung between us. Around us, the medical bay continued functioning—patients recovering, staff working, life persisting despite the trauma and chaos. But in the small space between Bea and me, everything had narrowed to just this conversation.
Just this moment where I had to decide: push further, or let her retreat again.
"The cost doesn't matter," Bea said finally. "The results do. Those patients survived because I did my job. Because I stayed focused, stayed controlled, stayed functional. Everything else is irrelevant."
"You're not irrelevant."
"I didn't say I was—"
"You did. Just now. You implied your well-being doesn't matter as long as the work gets done. That's the definition of treating yourself as irrelevant."
Bea's jaw tightened. "This conversation is over."
She turned to leave. I didn't stop her. Couldn't stop her—she was right that I'd been pushing too hard, forcing interventions she hadn't requested. If I kept pushing now, I'd drive her further away.
But I couldn't let her leave thinking I viewed her as a problem to be fixed.
"Bea."
She stopped. Didn't turn around. Waited.
"You're right," I said. "I've been overstepping. Forcing you into therapy because I thought I knew what was best. That was wrong. I apologize."
She turned then, surprise evident on her normally controlled features. "You're apologizing?"