Forty-two hours. The human body could survive seventy-two without sleep, longer with stimulants. But effectiveness degraded long before collapse. Reaction time suffered. Decision-making became compromised. Fine motor control deteriorated.
She was a liability now. To herself and her patients.
I moved through the medical ward, really just the colony's converted storage facility, filled with makeshift beds and portable equipment we'd transported from Mothership. The outbreak had overwhelmed Veridian's small medical center within hours. We'd had to expand.
Most of the medical team had cycled through rest periods. I'd mandated it after the first day, when Pel'vix nearly collapsed mid-treatment. Everyone needed sleep. Everyone complied.
Except Bea.
She'd ignored every suggestion, deflected every direct order, found excuses to stay working. Just one more patient. Just one more check. Just finishing this treatment protocol.
The last critical patient had stabilized an hour ago. All sixty-three colonists were now in recovery, danger passed. The team was celebrating in the other room, exhausted relief, the kind of bone-deep satisfaction that came from cheating death.
Bea was inventorying medical supplies.
I stopped beside her, watched her scan items into the datapad with mechanical precision. She didn't acknowledge my presence, but her shoulders tensed. She knew I was there.
"The team's standing down," I said quietly. "You should join them."
"Just finishing inventory." Her voice was flat. Professionally detached. "We used significant resources. Command needs accurate supply reports for?—"
"Bea."
"—resupply requisitions, and the sterilization protocols require documentation?—"
"Stop."
She continued working, fingers moving over the datapad. Scan. Record. Scan. Record. The rhythm of work, the familiar patterns that kept chaos at bay.
I reached out, gently took the datapad from her hands.
She looked up at me then, and I saw the exhaustion in her gray-blue eyes. The kind of tired that went beyond physical, burrowed into bone and soul. But underneath that—panic.Fear that if she stopped moving, stopped working, something terrible would catch up.
"I need to finish?—"
"No." I held the datapad out of reach when she tried to take it back. "You need to rest. Now."
"The supplies?—"
"Can wait. Your health can't."
Her jaw clenched. That stubborn set to her features that I'd come to recognize as her default response to anything that felt like concern. "I'm fine."
"You're swaying on your feet. Your hands are trembling. Your reaction time has degraded by approximately thirty percent." I kept my voice gentle despite the clinical assessment. "You're in no condition to work."
"I'm perfectly capable?—"
"When did you last sleep?"
The question always hung between us. I watched her calculate, saw her try to remember. The fact that it took effort told me everything I needed to know.
"I slept on the transport," she said finally.
"Two hours. Forty-one hours ago."
"I've functioned on less."
"I don't doubt it. But you don't need to anymore." I set the datapad on the supply cabinet, out of her reach. "The crisis is over. All patients are stable. You saved sixty-three lives in three days. You're allowed to stop now."
