Chapter 9 #3
"Medical adhesive." I was already moving to the pod's emergency kit, pulling out supplies. "It's designed to seal organic tissue, but the basic chemistry should work on metal if we modify the application."
We worked in coordination. Me preparing the adhesive compound, him identifying the exact location of the fracture.
The pod's interior was so cramped we kept bumping into each other, his elbow in my ribs, my knee against his thigh, an awkward dance of bodies trying to occupy space never designed for two.
"There," he said, highlighting a hairline crack spreading across the inner hull. "And there. Multiple fracture points radiating from a central impact."
I applied the adhesive carefully, working the compound into each crack with surgical precision. The material set almost immediately, hardening into a seal that was temporary but functional. Not perfect, but enough.
Maybe enough.
"That should hold," I said, checking my work. "For a while, anyway."
"Long enough." Zorn pulled me back against him, away from the sealed fracture. "We just have to survive long enough for Mothership to find us."
Just. As if survival was ever simple. As if we didn't both understand that every passing hour reduced our chances, that debris fields were massive and scanning was difficult and rescue operations took time we might not have.
But I'd learned something important over the past months. Something Zorn had taught me through patience and stubbornness and refusing to let me self-destruct.
Sometimes survival wasn't about knowing the odds would work in your favor. Sometimes it was about refusing to give up even when the odds said you should.
"Tell me something," I said. "Something I don't know about you."
He looked surprised by the request. Then thoughtful. "I hate medical dramas."
I laughed, couldn't help it. "Seriously?"
"Seriously. They get everything wrong. Diagnostic procedures that would take days happen in minutes.
Ethical violations presented as heroic choices.
Don't even get me started on their depiction of surgical technique.
" He shook his head. "Dana told me about some Earth show called Grey's Anatomy once.
I listened as she described three episodes before I had to stop for my own sanity. "
"That show was a guilty pleasure. Terrible medicine, great drama."
"Terrible medicine is correct. Great drama is debatable." His expression softened. "But I understand the appeal. Sometimes we need stories where the diagnosis is simple and the cure is straightforward and everyone gets to be heroic."
"Because real medicine is messy and complicated and you don't always win."
"Yes."
We fell into a companionable silence. Just the hum of life support and our breathing and the occasional ping of debris against the hull. Waiting. Hoping. Holding each other.
"Your turn," Zorn said. "Tell me something I don't know about you."
I thought about all the things I'd kept hidden. All the parts of myself I'd locked away behind professional distance and emotional control. The person I'd been before the Liberty disaster, before displacement, before Mothership.
"I wanted to be a veterinarian," I said.
"When I was a kid. Loved animals more than people.
Thought I'd spend my life treating dogs and cats and being happy.
" I smiled at the memory. "But then I did a volunteer shift at a hospital emergency room when I was sixteen, and something clicked.
The chaos, the pressure, the weight of someone's life depending on my choices.
It terrified me. And I wanted more of it. "
"So you chose trauma surgery."
"I chose the hardest path I could find. Thought if I could handle that, I could handle anything." I laughed without humor. "Turns out trauma surgery prepares you for a lot of things. Doesn't really prepare you for intergalactic displacement and falling in love with an alien."
"No?" His voice carried gentle humor. "That wasn't covered in your medical training?"
"Surprisingly, no. Though maybe it should have been. Seems like relevant information."
His arms tightened around me. Warm and solid and absolutely real despite the impossible situation. Despite everything.
The distress beacon continued its automated signal into the void. Hoping someone was listening. Hoping rescue would come.
And in the cramped darkness of a failing escape pod, I hoped too. Not with desperate panic, but with something quieter. Something that felt like trust.
We'd survive this. We'd make it back to Mothership. We'd have more than just these few stolen hours in the dark.
We had to.
Because I'd finally admitted what mattered most. Finally let myself care about someone despite the risk of loss. Finally chosen connection over control.
And I wasn't ready to lose that. Not yet. Not after just finding it.
"Zorn?"
"Yes?"
"Don't give up on me. On us. Whatever happens."
His hand found mine in the darkness, threading our fingers together despite the size difference. "Never," he said. "I'm patient, remember? I can wait however long it takes."
The life support console beeped again. New alert. But this time, when Zorn checked the readings, his markings flared bright with sudden hope.
"Signal," he said. "Faint, but there. Someone's scanning this sector."
"Mothership?"
"Has to be." He was already working the communications array, trying to boost our distress beacon. "They're searching. They haven't given up."
Neither had we.
I helped him reconfigure the beacon, pushing its range beyond safe parameters, burning power we couldn't spare. Because being found mattered more than conserving resources. Because rescue was possible if we could just make ourselves visible through the debris and interference.
The signal strengthened. Grew clearer. Became directional instead of omni-directional—someone was homing in on our position.
"They found us," Zorn said, and his voice cracked slightly on the words. Relief and exhaustion and hope all tangled together. "Mothership found us."
I sagged against him, feeling tension drain from muscles I hadn't realized were locked tight. Found. Not abandoned. Not left to die in the dark.
Rescued.
Through the viewport, I saw movement in the debris field. A shape resolving out of the chaos, sleek and powerful and bearing Mothership's identification markers. A rescue shuttle, maneuvering carefully through the wreckage toward our tiny pod.
"They're matching our trajectory," Zorn said, watching the approach. "Preparing to dock and extract us."
The rescue was professional, efficient, and achingly welcome. Docking clamps locked onto our pod. The hatch opened to reveal a rescue team in full environment suits. Strong hands helping us into the shuttle, medical scanners checking our vitals, warm blankets despite the artificial environment.
Safe.
I looked at Zorn across the shuttle's interior—both of us battered and exhausted but alive, and saw the same fierce joy in his expression that I felt building in my chest.
We'd survived.
And somewhere between the trapped medical bay and the failing escape pod and the declaration of love in the darkness, everything had changed.
No going back. No more running. No more using work to avoid feeling.
Just forward. Together. Whatever came next.
The shuttle pilot's voice crackled over the comm. "Mothership Control, this is Rescue Seven. Both survivors recovered. Medical status stable. Returning to base."
Captain Tor'van's voice responded, carrying unmistakable relief despite its professional tone. "Acknowledged, Rescue Seven. Well done. Dock directly at Medical—priority clearance granted."
I closed my eyes, let exhaustion finally catch up with me. Zorn's hand found mine, squeezed gently.
"Rest," he said. "You've earned it."
For once, I didn't argue. Didn't fight. Just let myself lean into the safety of rescue and the promise of tomorrow.
We were going home. Until the screeching sound had everyone screaming. A bright flash of light, and then nothing.