Multiple alerts. Critical vitals. Patient in distress.
I ran.
The medical bay was controlled chaos when I arrived. Pel'vix and two other nurses clustered around a bed where?—
Where Bea stood performing chest compressions on the Krellian mining accident victim, her face a mask of focused intensity.
"Cardiac arrest," she said without looking up, her voice steady despite the physical exertion. "Sudden onset. No preceding indicators. I've administered three rounds of cardiac stimulants. No response."
I moved to her side, assessing the situation. The Krellian's regeneration field had failed. Systems showed flatline. But Bea kept compressing, kept trying, kept fighting for a life that the monitors said was already gone.
"Bea," I said quietly. "He's?—"
"Not dead until I say he's dead." Her jaw was set, her movements mechanical. Compress, release, compress, release. "Come on. Come on."
I placed my hand over hers, gently stopping the compressions. "Bea. Look at the monitors."
She looked. Saw what I saw. No neural activity. No cardiac rhythm. No respiratory function. The Krellian was gone. Had been gone for several minutes before I'd arrived.
Her hands trembled. Just a small tremor, barely visible. But I saw it.
"Time of death," she said, her voice flat. "Twenty-two forty-seven hours."
"Agreed." I moved to input the official notation, giving her a moment to process.
When I looked back, she was staring at the Krellian's body with an expression I recognized. The one physicians wore when they lost a patient they thought they could save. When the universe reminded them that medicine had limits, that death was inevitable, that sometimes you did everything right and people still died.
"He was stable," she said quietly. "Oxygen saturation holding. Regeneration progressing normally. There was no indication?—"
"Sometimes there isn't." I pulled up the monitoring data, reviewed the timeline. "Catastrophic cardiac failure. Likely genetic predisposition we didn't detect in initial scans. Nothing you could have prevented."
"I should have?—"
"Done exactly what you did. Responded immediately. Attempted resuscitation. Fought for his life." I met her eyes. "You did everything correctly, Bea. His death isn't your failure."
She looked away, but not before I saw the grief flash across her face. Raw and immediate and quickly buried beneath professional composure.
"I'll complete the death documentation," she said. "Notify next of kin if any are registered. Prepare the body for?—"
"Pel'vix will handle that. You're done for tonight."
"I'm not done. There are still two other patients who need?—"
"Who are stable and being monitored by competent staff." Ikept my voice gentle but firm. "You've been on shift for sixteen hours. You just lost a patient. You're done."
Her gray-blue eyes met mine, and I saw the argument forming. Saw her preparing to deflect, to insist she was fine, to bury this death under more work.
"That's not a request," I added before she could speak. "That's an order from your supervisor. You're relieved of duty for the next twelve hours. Pel'vix, please note the time for records."
Pel'vix did so without comment, though her lavender features showed approval.
Bea's expression went carefully blank. "Understood, Chief Medical Officer. I'll return to quarters."
The formal title was deliberate. A reminder that I was her superior, not her friend. That this was professional protocol, not personal concern.
It shouldn't have stung. But it did.
I watched her leave the medical bay, her posture rigid with control. Watched her walk away carrying grief she wouldn't acknowledge, trauma she wouldn't process, exhaustion she wouldn't admit.
