Chapter 8 #2
"Unknown. Their medical officer was killed in the initial attack. Communications are sporadic." Tor'van pulled up trajectory data. "They're drifting into Kalmar territory. If the Kalmar find them before we do—"
He didn't need to finish. The Kalmar were territorial isolationists who responded to border incursions with extreme prejudice. Eight hundred refugees wouldn't be seen as victims needing rescue but as invaders requiring elimination.
"How long until we intercept?" I asked.
"Two hours if we push the engines. But Zorn, the raider signatures indicate they might return to finish the job. This isn't just a rescue. It's potentially a combat situation."
I met his eyes. Tor'van was asking whether medicine was prepared for mass casualty scenarios in a hostile environment. Whether I was willing to take my staff into active danger.
"We're equipped. We're ready. And those people need us." I turned to my console, already pulling up personnel rosters. "I'll need a full medical deployment. All available staff, emergency surgical stations, maximum supply loadout."
"Vaxon will provide security escort. Armed teams at all medical stations."
"Understood. What's our tactical situation?"
Vaxon's voice cut in from the tactical station, sharp and professional: "Unknown number of raiders. Ship class indicates mercenary operation rather than organized military. They'll return if they think there's profit in salvage."
"So we extract the refugees fast and disappear before they come back."
"That's the plan."
I began making rapid assignments on my console, tagging personnel for the operation. Dr. K'shav for triage coordination. Nurse Pellen for emergency stabilization. The entire surgical wing was on standby.
And Bea.
I hesitated over her name in the personnel list. Her trauma surgery skills made her essential for an operation like this.
She'd been trained on Earth to handle mass casualty scenarios, and had experience I couldn't replicate with Zandovian-trained staff alone.
But she was also still recovering, still fragile beneath the competent surface, still learning to function without using work as self-punishment.
Taking her into a situation this dangerous, this traumatic, could undo months of progress.
Leaving her behind when her skills could save lives went against everything I believed about medical duty.
The choice paralyzed me for three seconds. Then I made the only decision I could live with. I added her name to the deployment roster with a note flagging her for my direct supervision. I'd keep her close, monitor her condition, pull her out if she showed signs of breakdown.
And pray I wasn't making a catastrophic mistake.
"Medical teams assigned," I reported. "We'll be ready for deployment when we intercept."
"Good. Prepare for full combat readiness." Tor'van's expression was grim. "This is going to be ugly, people. Eight hundred refugees in a dying ship with raiders potentially inbound. We get them out fast, we get them out safe, and nobody dies on my watch. Understood?"
A chorus of affirmatives echoed through the bridge.
I left to prepare medical, my mind already running through supply checklists and personnel deployment and surgical protocols. But underneath the professional focus, anxiety gnawed at me.
I was about to take Bea into the kind of situation that had probably caused her original trauma. Into chaos and death and impossible choices about who lived and who didn't.
She'd volunteered for this. Would volunteer the moment I told her about the mission, because that's who she was, someone who ran toward danger to save others regardless of personal cost.
I just had to trust she was strong enough to handle it.
And be there to catch her if she wasn't.
The medical bay transformed into organization within thirty minutes.
Staff assembled with practiced efficiency, gathering equipment and supplies into modular transport containers designed for rapid deployment.
I moved through the organized confusion checking preparations, correcting errors, answering questions.
Bea arrived fifteen minutes into prep, already changed into field medical gear, her expression set in that familiar mask of professional competence.
"I heard," she said, moving directly to supply organization without waiting for an assignment. "Over eight hundred potential casualties. We'll need maximum surgical capacity and at least triple our usual trauma supplies."
"Already allocated." I watched her work, noting the steady hands, the focused efficiency, the absence of hesitation. If she was anxious about the mission, she hid it flawlessly. "Bea. You don't have to—"
"Don't." She didn't look up from securing medical containers. "Don't tell me I don't have to go. Don't suggest I'm not ready. Don't treat me like I'm fragile."
"I was going to say you don't have to prove anything. Not to me, not to anyone."
That made her pause. She finally looked at me, those gray eyes searching my face for something. "I'm not proving anything. I'm doing my job. People need help. I'm a trauma surgeon. This is what I do."
"Just promise me something."
"What?"
"If it becomes too much, if you start to spiral, you tell me. Immediately. No pushing through, no pretending you're fine when you're not."
Her jaw tightened. For a moment I thought she'd refuse, would dig in and reject any suggestion she might need support. Then something in her expression softened microscopically.
"I promise," she said quietly. "But Zorn? I need you to trust that I know my limits. That I'm not the same person who collapsed in your arms three months ago."
"I do trust you. That doesn't stop me from worrying."
"Good. Because I'm worrying about you too." She moved closer, dropped her voice so only I could hear over the organized chaos surrounding us. "Stay safe out there. Come back to me. Because I'm not ready to lose something I just started letting myself want."
The words hit like physical impact. I wanted to pull her close, wanted to kiss her properly instead of that brief morning touch, wanted to promise everything would be fine even though we both knew better than to make promises in dangerous situations.
Instead I touched her hand briefly, a moment of connection, of shared understanding, of everything we couldn't say in a room full of staff preparing for potential combat.
"You too," I said. "Stay safe. Stay smart. And Bea? No unnecessary heroics."
"Says the man who once performed emergency surgery during a hull breach without pressure suit backup."
"That was different."
"How?"
"I didn't have someone waiting for me to come back."
Her breath caught. Her hand squeezed mine once, hard, before she released it and returned to equipment prep with renewed focus.
I forced myself back to coordination duties, checking personnel assignments and reviewing surgical protocols. But part of my attention remained on Bea, watching her move through preparations with the kind of competence that came from years of emergency medicine experience.
She was ready for this. I had to believe that.
Even as fear whispered that I was about to watch her break all over again, and this time I might not be able to put the pieces back together.
"All teams report ready," Dr. K'shav announced from the coordination station. "Awaiting deployment authorization."
I checked the chrono. Ninety minutes until intercept. Time to brief the teams on what we knew and what we were walking into.
"All medical personnel, gather for a mission briefing," I called out. The controlled chaos stilled as staff assembled, their expressions ranging from excited to apprehensive to grimly determined.
I pulled up the tactical display showing the Veritaxis and began explaining the situation.
And tried not to notice how Bea stood at the front of the group, her gray eyes fixed on the damaged ship with an intensity that spoke of both determination and carefully controlled terror.
This was going to change everything.
I just didn't know yet whether that change would heal us or destroy us.
But we were about to find out.