"Cardiac function stabilizing," I reported. "You're clear for extraction."
Bea's hands moved with precision that bordered on artistry. The holographic surgical interface responded to her neuralcommands, micro-manipulators extracting crystalline bone fragments one by one. Each piece had to be removed carefully to avoid further arterial damage. One mistake could cause catastrophic hemorrhaging.
She didn't make mistakes.
"Primary fragments extracted. Moving to arterial repair." Her concentration was absolute. "I need you to manually compress the secondary heart. Her redundant system is overcompensating."
I reached into the surgical field, located the appropriate anatomical structure, and applied gentle pressure. Korvathi physiology was complex, but I'd treated enough of their species to know the critical points.
"Pressure applied."
"Arterial sutures in place. Releasing compression in three... two... one..."
I withdrew my hand. Watched the diagnostic displays as the patient's circulatory system responded to the repair. The numbers stabilized. Her breathing eased. Her triple-heart system found equilibrium.
"She's stable," I confirmed.
Bea stepped back from the surgical field, took a deep breath. Her first deep breath since we'd started. "Next patient."
We moved to the second gurney. Then the third. Then the fourth.
The hours blurred together. Trauma after trauma. Bea and I worked in perfect coordination, she handled the delicate surgical extractions while I managed the systemic complications. We anticipated each other's needs. Moved in rhythmthat required no discussion. Two physicians who'd found professional synchronicity despite personal complications.
More casualties arrived. The rescue team had cleared the damaged freighter, brought everyone they could save. Some were beyond saving. We lost three patients in the first hour. The weight of those losses settled heavy in my chest, but there was no time to process. No time for anything except the next patient, the next emergency, the next life that needed saving.
Bea never faltered. Never hesitated. She worked with the same fierce determination I'd seen at Veridian Station—pure focus channeled into healing, everything else pushed aside until later.
Six hours in, we'd stabilized the critical cases. The medical bay was full of recovering patients, but everyone who could be saved had been saved.
I stepped away from the last patient, and exhaustion hit hard. My hands ached. My shoulders burned. My mind felt scraped raw from the intensity of sustained concentration.
Bea leaned against the nearest wall, her eyes closed, breathing carefully. She looked as exhausted as I felt.
"Good work," I said.
She opened her eyes. Met my gaze for the second time that day. "You too."
The medical bay around us hummed with activity. Pel'vix and the support staff monitored the stabilized patients, adjusting medication, running continuous diagnostics. Everything was under control.
Which meant there was no professional reason for Bea and me to keep standing here, three feet apart, looking at each other like we had things to say we couldn't quite articulate.
"I should—" Bea gestured vaguely toward the monitoring stations.
"No," I said. "You should rest. We both should. The support staff can handle monitoring."
"But—"
"That wasn't a suggestion." I softened my tone, tried to make it less of a command. "You've been working for six hours straight after minimal sleep. Your performance was flawless, but even flawless physicians need recovery time."
Something flickered in her expression. Not quite anger. Not quite gratitude. Something complicated that I couldn't parse.
"You're doing it again," she said quietly.
"Doing what?"
"Taking care of me when I don't ask for it." She pushed away from the wall, straightened her shoulders. "I'm fine, Zorn. I'm always fine."
"No, you're not."
