Chapter Six
The Healer’s Routine
Rygnar
Eight years since the last fleet fell silent, and the war still breathed in the cracks of this planet.
Even here, inside the Colorado basin, where the air smelled of pine resin and hot stone, you could feel it—how the land had not yet decided if it belonged to life again.
Valleys carried ghosts of firestorms; forests grew around skeletons of machines.
Humans built their new enclaves on top of old bones, hoping the past would hold still long enough for crops to root.
We had built ours under the mountain. It seemed safer to live where the sky could not find us.
The infirmary sat in one of the mid-level caverns, a long room of polished stone and glassine panels salvaged from crashed ships. The colony’s air hummed with faint power drawn from the thermal vents below. I liked the sound; it reminded me that even wounded things could generate heat.
I was working my regular rotation.
When I entered, Mara—the human healer who had once worked triage for the Civil Restoration Enclave—was already sorting bandages. Her hair was streaked silver, her eyes sharp.
“You’re late.” Mara didn’t look up. “Your new shadow kept you busy?”
“Lina is helping in the hydro tunnels,” I said, setting a crate of medical supplies on the counter. “She learns quickly.”
“She’s brave,” Mara said. “And curious. Both will get her in trouble.”
“She reminds me of you.”
Mara’s mouth twitched. “Then she’s doomed.”
She handed me a list etched on thin slate. “We have more infection cases from the lower mines. I’ll handle sutures. You take the burns.”
I worked in silence, cleaning and sealing wounds with Mesaarkan gel, explaining to the younger aides how to spread it without wasting the compound. Their human hands shook; I remembered when mine had, too. The gel shimmered faintly green, like the scales on my arm when sunlight struck just right.
By midday, the infirmary smelled of antiseptic and mountain herbs. The last patient—a miner with a twisted ankle—limped out with a grateful nod. I stripped off my gloves and flexed my fingers, letting the stiffness ease.
“You should rest,” Mara said. “The council keeps watching you like you’re about to start a second rebellion.”
“They fear what they do not know,” I said. “It keeps us careful.”
She glanced toward the corridor. “And the human girl? She doesn’t fear you?”
“Not anymore,” I said.
Mara’s gaze lingered on me a moment longer than necessary. “Others do,” she said. “Or they will.”
The truth of it settled heavier than I expected.
I found Lina at the hydro channels, sleeves rolled, hair tied back, helping divert water through a row of translucent pipes. The sound of running water filled the chamber, echoing off stone and glass.
She looked up as I approached, her face flushed from the humid air.
“Hey—your timing’s perfect. We just stopped flooding half the level.”
Her grin was tired but proud. She wiped her hands on her trousers, leaving streaks of mud. “I think I’m getting the hang of your alien plumbing.”
I leaned against the wall. “It’s not alien. It’s efficient.”
“Efficient,” she repeated, amused. “You Mesaarkans really love that word.”
“It keeps us alive.”
“So does laughter,” she said lightly.
I did not know how to answer that.
She turned back to the channel and tightened the valve seal, then straightened, testing her balance on the mended ankle. It held. Her satisfaction warmed the space more than the heat lamps ever did.
At the far end of the channel, one of the Mesaarkan workers paused longer than needed, his gaze lingering in our direction before he returned to his task.
“How’s your shoulder?” Lina asked.
“Healed.”
She nodded, pleased. “Good. I was afraid I’d tied that scarf too tight.”
“It was… effective,” I said, and realized belatedly that my tone had softened.
Lina’s eyes met mine, bright with that human humor that always seemed to find cracks in the dark.
For a long heartbeat, the sound of water became the only thing between us.
Then she cleared her throat. “You should see what they’ve built below this level. The kids are teaching the hydro crops to grow in light tunnels. One of them said, they’ll make the mountain bloom.”
“The mountain already blooms,” I said. “You just have to look closer.”
Her gaze lingered. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
“Yes. The war burned what it could. But the roots stayed.”
Something shifted in her expression—a soft recognition, or maybe respect. She smiled, small and real, then brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead. The gesture left a smear of dirt across her temple.
Without thinking, I reached out and wiped it away with the back of one finger.
She froze—startled, but not afraid.
Her skin was warm beneath the touch, her pulse steady.
I withdrew my hand at once, but the moment had already marked itself.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“You are welcome,” I said, and heard the thickness in my own voice.
She studied me for a long moment, as if mapping what she found there—the scaled ridges, the lines where laughter might someday live.
“You don’t look like a monster.”
I smiled, careful and slow. “Neither do you.”
That drew another laugh, lighter this time. The echo of it filled the tunnel.
When evening came, the colony lights dimmed to twilight hues that mimicked sunset. I walked with Lina toward the upper terraces, the air cooling as we climbed.
The world outside the basin had forgotten how to heal.
Inside, we were teaching it again—one small repair at a time.
At our door, she paused. The corridor was quiet now, the hum of the vents low and steady.
“Tomorrow, I’d like to see the gardens.”
“I’ll show you,” I said. “But they’re not what you expect.”
She tilted her head. “You mean they grow underground?”
I considered that, then nodded. “Everything worth keeping does.”
Her smile turned thoughtful. “Good night, Rygnar.”
“Rest well, Lina.”
She hesitated a heartbeat longer than necessary, then stepped inside ahead of me, favoring her ankle.
I followed and sealed the door behind us. The latch settled with a soft click that sounded more like shelter than confinement.
I slid the spare pallet into place near the door and drew the partition halfway across the room—not to close us off, just enough to grant privacy. The vent breathed warmth toward the alcove, and I watched her notice it before she looked away, giving me space to do the same.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then she crossed to the alcove and eased herself down, careful and composed.
“Thank you,” she murmured—not for the bed, but for the safety I offered with it.
“You’re welcome,” I said, and meant more than the words.
When the lights dimmed further, I rested my hand briefly against the stone wall. The warmth where I had touched her earlier still lingered—a small, human heat that felt like proof the war might finally be over.
At least here.
At least tonight.
Outside the door, something shifted in the corridor—footsteps that did not pass.