A ritual of remembrance. An acknowledgment of grief. Permission to move forward.
When it ended, Bea felt lighter. I could see it in the way she stood, the ease in her expression. Like she'd been carrying weight for so long she'd forgotten what it felt like to set it down.
That night, back in my quarters, she turned to me with that fierce determination I'd fallen in love with.
"I want to bond with you," she said. "If you'll have me."
"In my culture, I would have asked you. But I find I prefer your directness." I pulled her close, breathing her in. "Yes. Absolutely yes."
"When?"
"Whenever you're ready."
"I'm ready now." She smiled, full and genuine and beautiful. "I'm ready to stop surviving and start living. With you."
"Then we'll begin preparations." I kissed her forehead. "Fair warning: Zandovian bonding ceremonies are elaborate. Multiple days. Rituals and celebrations and family involvement."
"I don't have family here. Just the survivors. Just—" She gestured vaguely. "This found family we've built."
"They're enough. More than enough." I cupped her face in my hands. "Dana and Er'dox will stand for us. Jalina and Zor'go. Even Vaxon, if we ask. The family we've chosen."
"The family that saved us."
"In more ways than one."
We began planning immediately. The Zandovian bonding ceremony required extensive preparation, ritual exchanges, family approvals, and ceremonial decorations. But Dana and Jalina threw themselves into helping, determined to make it perfect. Er'dox consulted on traditional protocols. Even Captain Tor'van offered his quarters for the ceremony itself, a significant honor from Mothership's commander.
But before any of that could happen, an emergency call came in.
I was in the medical bay, reviewing patient files, when the alert sounded. Priority rescue. Multiple casualties. All available medical personnel mobilized immediately.
Bea appeared at my office door within minutes, already suited up.
"Where?" she asked.
"Mining colony. Structural collapse. Unknown number of injured." I pulled up the mission brief. "They need trauma surgeons. We're both going."
Fear flickered in her expression as she remembered the last rescue mission that had nearly killed us. But she nodded.
"Let's save some lives."
We suited up together. Checked equipment. Ran through protocols. The routine was familiar now, comfortable. Two medical professionals preparing for crisis.
But before we left the medical bay, Bea caught my hand.
"Be careful," she said. "Come back to me."
"Always." I squeezed her fingers. "You're my home now. I'll always come back."
She kissed me, quick and fierce, then pulled away.
"Let's go save some people."
We did.
The mining colony rescue was brutal. Three hours of surgery in unstable conditions, treating injuries that would have killed the victims without immediate intervention. Bea worked with that focused intensity I'd fallen in love with, her hands steady, her voice calm, her mind processing a dozen variables simultaneously.
We saved fourteen lives that day. Lost three we couldn't reach in time.
