Chapter 2 Thresh #3
I stand at the front of the room and go through the morning briefing.
Water recycler status. Meal schedule adjustments.
Work assignments. Routine. The routine is what holds this place together.
When everything else is uncertain, when Helix could appear on the sensors tomorrow, when the supplies might not last, the routine is the thing you can count on.
Breakfast at 0700. Work shifts at 0800. Dinner at 1800.
Briefing every morning. The rhythm of it is what separates a community from a crowd.
"One more item," I say. "We have a new medical officer. Nola Reyes. She'll be conducting health assessments over the next two weeks. Everyone cooperates. This is not optional."
Forty-some faces turn to look at her. She lifts a hand in a wave that's casual enough to seem confident and brief enough to seem professional. "I don't bite," she says. "Mostly."
A few people smile. Fen, sitting near the back with grease still on her forearms, actually laughs. One of the children, a small boy named Salo, waves back with the unfiltered enthusiasm of a five-year-old, and his older sister Mika pulls his hand down with the practiced mortification of a sibling.
I don't laugh. But I notice that the room's tension, the wariness that a new face always brings, eases slightly. She reads a room. That's useful. That's either a medic's skill or a spy's skill, and I'll figure out which.
After the briefing, she approaches me. "Can we talk about the medical situation?"
"My office. Now."
The office is barely bigger than the operations room.
Desk, two chairs, a terminal, and a window that looks out into the corridor.
The desk has nothing personal on it. I don't keep personal things on surfaces.
I sit. She sits across from me and puts her datapad on the desk, angled so I can see it, which is either transparency or performance.
"I reviewed the resident manifest last night," she says. "Forty-six of the seventy-two residents have incomplete medical records. Fourteen have no records at all. I need to see everyone, starting with anyone who has an active health concern."
"Renna," I say. "Leg infection. Six months, worsening."
"I saw her limping in the mess hall. She's my first patient." She pauses. "Anyone else you'd flag?"
I go through the list. Two children with incomplete vaccination histories.
An elderly Vorath named Pahl with joint pain that's been worsening, who communicates through resonance and vibration and hasn't let anyone examine him in months.
A human man named Berec who coughs in his sleep and won't admit it.
A Keth woman named Syl with a skin condition that might be nothing or might be a sign of something worse.
She takes notes. She asks good questions.
Specific, practical questions about symptoms, duration, previous treatment attempts.
How long has Renna's wound been draining?
Has Berec's cough changed character recently?
What's the humidity level in the Keth residential quarters?
She doesn't ask about the station's purpose.
She doesn't ask why there are refugees here. She doesn't ask about Helix.
Either she already knows, or she's smart enough to know that asking those questions right now will get her nothing.
"I'll start today," she says. "Renna first, then the children. I'll need you to introduce me to patients who might be hesitant about seeing a new doctor."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because they trust you. I'm a stranger. If you vouch for me, even briefly, it lowers the barrier."
She's not wrong. And she's asking, not demanding. That matters. Most people who want something from me phrase it as a need or an expectation. She phrased it as a request with a rationale, which suggests she understands the difference between authority and trust.
"I'll make introductions," I say. "But I'm not vouching for you. I'll tell them you're the new medic and they should cooperate. What they think of you after that is on you."
"Fair enough." She stands, takes her datapad, and pauses at the door. "One more thing. The supply situation is bad. I've got enough to handle basic cases for maybe three weeks. Anything serious, anything surgical, I need more. How do supplies get here?"
"Captain Voss runs supply deliveries. Next one is in nine days."
"I'll have a list ready in two."
She leaves. The door seals behind her with the faint hiss of the pneumatic closer, and the office feels marginally emptier, which is irrational because it's the same size it was before she entered.
I sit in my office and think about the fact that she asked about trust dynamics and supply chains before she asked about anything else.
Not about her quarters. Not about her schedule.
Not about the station's politics or her own safety or any of the things that most new arrivals prioritize.
She asked about patients and supplies. She asked about the tools she needs to do the work.
Either she's very good at her job or very good at appearing to be.
I'll find out which. I always do.