Chapter 10
Haid
The medical scanner beeps in my peripheral vision. Steady. Regular. Proof that her heart still beats, lungs still fill, neurons still fire in the complex organic dance that separates living tissue from cooling meat.
I adjust the chair. The metal legs scrape against the deck plating, loud in the enforced quiet of the med-bay.
Around us, the station hums with post-crisis activity.
Repair crews welding compromised bulkheads, engineers rerouting power conduits, miners relocating families to structurally sound sections.
The efficient choreography of survival in the void.
But here, in this sterile room with its antiseptic smell and blue-white illumination panels, everything sits suspended. Waiting.
She lies motionless on the diagnostic bed, skin too pale against the dark thermal blanket someone draped over her.
Her hair fans across the pillow in shades I still can't name, somewhere between gold and bronze and the color of sunlight through the atmosphere I've only seen in archived footage.
One hand rests on her stomach, fingers curled loosely.
The other hangs off the edge of the mattress, close enough to touch if I were the kind of man who allowed himself such indulgences.
I am not that man.
I shift in the chair again. Cross my arms. Uncross them. Settle for gripping my knees, gauntlets scraping against armored thigh plates. The suit feels heavier than usual. Confining. Like wearing a prison instead of protection.
Nyx offered to take the first watch. So did Thanatos, with that peculiar intensity he gets when he thinks I'm making tactically unsound decisions based on emotion rather than strategy. Both of them received the same response. A flat stare and orders to focus on damage assessment.
Because I need to be here. Need to see the proof that she still breathes, still exists, still takes up space in the universe despite coming dangerously close to erasing herself through sheer stupid heroism.
The scanner beeps again. Heart rate holding steady at sixty-two beats per minute. Respiration normal. Core temperature stabilized after the dangerous drop that had the med-tech muttering about shock and cellular exhaustion and metabolic processes I didn't fully understand but recognized as bad.
Very bad.
She could have died. The thought circles my mind on repeat, a mantra of rage and fear I can't quite suppress.
Could have burned herself out completely, turned all that vibrant life into ash and memory and one more name I carry in the dark.
All to save miners. Workers. People she doesn't know, doesn't owe anything, people who looked at her with suspicion barely two hours before she threw herself between them and oblivion.
My jaw clenches. I force it to relax. The movement pulls at the scar tissue on my left cheek, a familiar ache I barely register anymore.
Outside the med-bay, footsteps approach then retreat. Someone checking on their Lord, making sure I haven't finally cracked under the weight of keeping everyone alive. I don't turn to look. Don't acknowledge the intrusion. They get the message and leave.
Good.
I lean forward, elbows on knees, and let my head drop. Just for a moment. Just to ease the pressure building behind my eyes, the tension in my neck that has nothing to do with the suit's weight distribution and everything to do with the woman lying three feet away.
When did I get old? When did sitting in a chair become exhausting? When did keeping vigil start feeling like penance instead of duty?
Stupid questions. I know the answers. I know exactly when exhaustion became my default state, when responsibility turned from purpose into burden, when I stopped sleeping because rest means lowering defenses and lowered defenses mean people die.
The scanner beeps its steady rhythm, three-point-two second intervals, perfectly measured, perfectly mechanical.
I close my eyes against the harsh overhead lighting, shutting out the sterile white of the med-bay walls, the flickering readouts, the pale stillness of her face.
Listen to that sound instead. Focus on its predictability, its constancy, its complete indifference to the chaos churning in my head.
Let it anchor me against the spiral of thoughts that lead nowhere productive, nowhere safe, nowhere I can afford to go while wearing this suit, sitting in this chair, keeping watch over someone who shouldn't matter this much.
She's alive. That's what matters. The rest we'll deal with when she wakes up. When I can yell at her properly for being reckless and stupid and brave in ways that make my chest tight with emotions I refuse to examine.
Time passes. Could be minutes or hours. The void plays tricks with perception, strips away the natural rhythms that regulate organic consciousness.
But eventually the chair's discomfort fades to background noise.
The suit's servo-assisted joints lock in position, holding me upright even as muscles relax.
My breathing slows. Deepens. The rhythm of it matches the scanner's patient beeping, syncing with that mechanical heartbeat until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. Three-point-two seconds in. Three-point-two seconds out. Perfectly measured. Perfectly controlled.
The tension in my shoulders eases fractionally. Not much. Never much. But enough that the servo-motors in the suit's joints hum softer, adjusting to the slight relaxation of the muscles beneath. Enough that the headache pounding behind my eyes dims to something almost bearable.
Just for a minute, I tell myself. Just to rest my eyes against the relentless fluorescent glare.
Not sleep. Never sleep. Just a momentary respite from the assault of stimuli, the too-bright lights, the clinical white walls, the endless parade of readouts tracking every biological function of the woman lying motionless three feet away.
My eyelids drift closed despite my best intentions.
Darkness floods in, blessed and cool against the burning dryness of eyes kept open too long.
I can still see the scanner's readouts through closed lids, the after-image of green numbers burned into my retinas.
Still hear its steady rhythm anchoring me to the present.
Still feel the suit's weight around me like armour, like protection, like the shell I wear to keep the universe at bay.
Just a minute. That's all.
Something changes.
I don't know what pulls me back. No alarm sounds, no sudden movement, no external threat assessment pinging through my HUD. But awareness returns in a rush, consciousness slamming back into my skull with the disorienting lurch of a ship dropping out of warp too fast.
My eyes snap open.
She's awake. Watching me. Head turned on the pillow, eyes that impossible shade of green tracking my face with an expression I can't interpret. Curiosity maybe. Or assessment. Or just the blank observation of someone trying to orient herself after unconsciousness.
For three seconds neither of us moves. A frozen tableau. Lord and captive. Warlord and flower. Monster and miracle.
Then panic hits. Sharp and sudden and completely inappropriate for someone who faces down pirates and politicians with equal indifference.
But it floods through me anyway, cold spike of adrenaline that has nothing to do with external danger and everything to do with the sudden realization that I fell asleep.
That I lowered my guard. That she saw me vulnerable and unmasked and human in ways I don't permit anyone to witness.
I straighten. Too fast. The chair scrapes backward, metal shrieking against deck plating. My hands come up automatically, checking systems, verifying threats, running through combat protocols before higher brain function catches up and reminds me there's no enemy here. Just a woman. Just her.
Just Ksara, looking at me with those too-knowing eyes.
I lock down the panic. Bury it beneath layers of control and carefully constructed walls. Slide the mask back into place. The cold one. The one that keeps people at arm's length where they can't see the cracks.
"You're awake." My voice comes out rougher than intended. I clear my throat, modulate down to something more neutral. "How do you feel?"
She blinks. Slow and deliberate. Her tongue touches her lower lip, wetting it. "Tired." The word sounds thin. Fragile. Like it costs her something to produce. "Hungry. My head hurts."
"Normal." I move to the diagnostic panel, give myself something to focus on besides her face.
The readouts scroll past in familiar patterns.
"You depleted your reserves. Pushed too hard too fast. The body needs time to recalibrate.
" I tap a command sequence, request a nutrient infusion from the automated pharmacy.
"The headache should fade in a few hours.
Until then, stay hydrated. No sudden movements. "
"How long?"
"Six hours." I don't need to check the chronometer. I know exactly how long she's been unconscious. Every minute of it. "You collapsed in the infirmary. I brought you here."
Silence. She’s watching me. Dissecting my responses, looking for cracks in the armor. Smart. Too smart. Most people take me at face value, accept the image I project and never look deeper.
She's not most people.
"The children?" Her voice gains strength. Urgency. She tries to sit up and I turn, hand already moving to press her back down before conscious thought approves the action.
"Don't." The command comes out sharp. I gentle my tone.
Soften the edges. "They're fine. All of them.
Minor injuries, nothing critical. Because of you.
" My hand rests on her shoulder, palm flat against the thermal blanket, keeping her horizontal through pressure alone.
"Because you turned yourself into a living shield and nearly killed yourself in the process. "
Her jaw sets. Stubborn. Defiant. "I saved them."