Through the viewport, I could see the colony settlement growing larger. A small outpost clinging to a barely habitable moon, vulnerable and isolated. The kind of place that attracted refugees and optimists in equal measure with beings trying to build something new far from established civilizations.
The kind of place that needed exactly what we offered: hope and healing and the knowledge that they weren't alone in the dark.
"Medical teams, prepare for landing," Captain Tor'van announced. "Initial scans show the colony medical bay is functional but overwhelmed. Critical patients have been stabilized but need immediate advanced care. Security teams will establish perimeter. Medical staff will operate under armed escort at all times."
The transport touched down with barely perceptible impact, Dana's engineering improvements to the landing systems had made approach smoother than I'd thought possible. The ramp lowered, admitting cool recycled air and the smell of stressed beings and medical antiseptic.
Bea was moving before I fully processed the environment. Her trauma surgeon instincts kicked in immediately, scanning the situation and making rapid assessments. I followed, trusting her judgment and years of emergency experience.
The colony medical bay was chaos barely controlled. Local medical staff looked exhausted, patients filled every availablesurface, and the air carried that particular tension that meant beings were dying and everyone knew it.
A Lethari physician approached, small, multi-armed, obviously stressed. "Thank the stars. We've been trying to keep them stable but we're not equipped for this many critical injuries."
Bea was already moving, her trauma surgeon instincts taking over. She crossed to the nearest critical patient, a Krellian with severe chest trauma, monitors screaming, staff struggling to maintain airway.
"Regeneration field?" she asked, hands already assessing injury depth.
“Failed twenty minutes ago. We're out of backup units." The Krellian's breathing was shallow, rapid. Oxygen saturation dropping. Without advanced equipment, he had minutes. Maybe. Bea's jaw set with that determination I knew meant she was about to do something impossible.
"Then we improvise. Zorn, I need your med kit, the portable neural stabilizer, and everyone to give me exactly three feet of space."
She met my eyes across the patient's body, and I saw it clearly: this was going to be close. Too close."Show me your most critical cases. Zorn, take secondary triage. Dana, check their medical systems for damage or inadequate power supply."
Everyone scattered to assigned tasks, and I felt the familiar rush of emergency medicine settle over me like comfortable armor. This was what we did. This was who we were—healers diving into chaos and creating order through sheer determination and skill.
The next six hours blurred together in a cascade of surgical procedures and critical interventions. Bea operated with hands that never wavered, saving lives through brutal efficiency and medical expertise honed over years of trauma work. I coordinated teams, managed resources, kept everyone functioning at peak capacity despite exhaustion creeping in.
We lost two patients, a young Orveth whose injuries were simply too severe, and an elderly Kethari whose cardiovascular system couldn't handle the necessary procedures. Each loss hit hard, the sharp pain of failure that never quite dulled no matter how many beings we saved.
But we saved thirty-eight others. Pulled them back from death through skill and determination and refusal to give up even when success seemed impossible.
As the final patient stabilized, Bea swayed on her feet. I caught her automatically, steadying her while medical staff cleaned up around us.
"You need rest," I said.
"I need five more minutes to confirm everyone's stable."
"They're stable. I've verified it personally." I guided her toward a quiet corner, away from the organized chaos of post-surgical cleanup. "Sit. Drink water. Let someone else take over for ten minutes."
She complied without argument, a testament to her exhaustion. Bea pushed herself hard but usually maintained better awareness of her limits. Something about this mission had drained her more than standard emergency response.
"Talk to me," I said quietly.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're shaking and barely staying conscious."
She looked down at her hands, and seemed surprised to find them trembling. "I thought I was past this. Thought I'd healed enough that emergencies wouldn't trigger—" She stopped, breathed out slowly. "The young Orveth we lost. She was the same age as some of the Liberty survivors I couldn't save. Same kind of injuries. Same desperate family watching me try to fix what couldn't be fixed."
Understanding clicked into place. "It reminded you of the crash."
"Yeah. And for a minute, just a minute, I was back there. Helpless and failing and watching people die despite everything I tried." Her voice had gone small, vulnerable. "I froze. Right in the middle of surgery, I froze."
"For how long?"
"Maybe three seconds. Then training kicked in and I kept going. But those three seconds—" She met my eyes, and hers were full of old pain and new fear. "What if it happens again? What if next time it's longer? What if I get someone killed because I can't handle my own trauma?"
I pulled her close, let her rest against my chest. "You didn't freeze. You had a momentary trauma response and then recovered immediately. That's not failure. That's success."
