Page 20 of Starlight, Starbright
“Captain.” She's breathless. “Communications array is fully operational. No permanent damage. We're good.”
“Acknowledged.” Our eyes meet. Hold. I'm aware of the entire bridge watching this exchange. Aware of what they heard over the comm. What they saw in my markings. “Well done, Chief.”
She nods. Starts to leave. Pauses. Turns back.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For talking me through it.”
“You didn't require assistance.” The words feel inadequate. “You never do.”
Her mouth curves in that genuine smile that does something to my cardiac rhythm. Then she's gone, and I'm left standing on my bridge with the absolute certainty that everyone present now understands exactly how I feel about my chief engineer.
Tanaka approaches my station once the bridge has returned to standard operations.
“'Captain. Your markings were visible during the EVA.”
I don't pretend to misunderstand. “Yes.”
'The crew noticed.”
“I'm aware.” I meet her eyes directly. “Is there a concern?”
She's quiet for a moment. “Some might question whether your judgment regarding Chief Martin remains objective.”
“My judgment is based on her exceptional performance. She designed those coupling specifications. She completed the repair in record time despite equipment failure. She saved our communications systems.” I keep my voice level. “If my biology responds to competence and courage, that's not something I can change. Nor would I want to.”
“And if it's more than professional admiration?”
The question hangs between us. I could deny it. Should deny it, perhaps. But I'm tired of suppression. Tired of pretending my markings don't broadcast what my training says I should never feel.
“Then the Council will have to add it to my growing list of failures on this mission.”
Tanaka's expression shifts to something like respect. “For what it's worth, Captain, I don't think you're failing. I think you're adapting.”
She returns to her station, leaving me with that assessment.
Later, in the privacy of my office, I review the sensor logs. The radiation surge that knocked out her magnetic boots was not random. It coincided perfectly with a momentary drop in the tertiary shielding—too brief to trigger alarms, long enough to allow a focused energy burst through. I pull up the authorization logs for that exact timestamp. The override code belongs to Security. To Hale.
When I question him, his explanation is logical. “I was running a diagnostic on shield response times, Captain. Standard procedure after solar events. The timing was a terrible coincidence.” He is calm, professional, and entirely convincing. But the statistical improbability of that “coincidence” is astronomical.
PAIGE
The decontamination shower runs cold at first, then scalding hot.
I stand under the spray longer than necessary, letting the water wash away residual radiation particles and the lingering adrenaline that makes my hands shake. The medical scan cleared me. No dangerous exposure levels. No permanent damage. Just standard post-EVA protocol and a clean bill of health.
My body doesn't seem to believe it yet.
The water pounds against the tile, echoing in the small decon chamber. I close my eyes and see the moment the surge hit. See the hull falling away as my magnetic boots failed. Feel the sickening lurch of free-floating tethered only by a safety line I had to trust wouldn't snap.
And I hear his voice. Zoric's voice, breaking as he told me not to let go. As he said things I'm not sure he meant to say.
Because I need you. Because we need you.
The correction had been too late. Too obvious. I'd heard what he started to say. What he stopped himself from saying.
I turn off the water and dry myself quickly, pulling on a clean uniform. My hair is still damp when I step out of the decon chamber into the medical bay corridor.
He's there. Waiting.
