Observation

Posted on Sun Jul 5th, 2026 @ 8:38am by Taryn Rook

2,387 words; about a 12 minute read

Mission: Between The Orders
Location: Shuttlebay/Medical Bay, USS Wayfarer
Timeline: Immediately after “Routing Active”

Taryn objected to the antigrav stretcher on principle.

She objected to the restraint field even more.

“It’s not restraint if you call it stabilisation,” one of the medics said, in the same mild voice people used when they wanted injured people to stop making creative legal arguments.

Taryn stared up at him from the stretcher, pale under the shuttlebay lights, one eye narrowed because opening both made the overhead gantry split into two badly aligned versions of itself.

“That is exactly what someone with restraints would say.”

Her voice was rough and slightly blurred at the edges. Not enough to make the words unintelligible, just enough to annoy her every time she heard herself. She tried to lift her head, and the shuttlebay immediately tilted with spiteful precision. A hand steadied her shoulder before she could make things worse.

She flinched before she meant to.

The medic noticed. Of course he noticed. Medical people noticed everything except when someone very clearly wanted to be left alone.

“I can walk,” she said.

“No, you can’t.”

“I didn’t ask for peer review.”

The stretcher glided across the deck with a quiet hum, carrying her away from Foxglove. That was the part she hated most. Not the blood drying at her temple. Not the strap bruising across her chest, or the ache deep under her ribs every time she breathed wrong. Not even the thick, sour headache pulsing behind her eyes.

They were moving her away from her ship.

Taryn turned her head, too fast, trying to look back. The motion sent nausea rolling through her so sharply that she had to close her eyes and breathe through it. When she opened them again, Foxglove was still there in the docking cradle, battered and stubborn under the shuttlebay lights, one running light blinking unevenly as though refusing to be embarrassed in public.

“Someone needs to check the starboard service hatch,” Taryn muttered. “And the coolant bypass. Not the main one, the ugly one behind the panel that says don’t open unless you enjoy regret.”

“We have engineers.”

“That is not comforting.”

“They are qualified.”

“So am I. I qualified by not exploding.”

The medic at her side adjusted the scanner over her head. It gave a soft, irritating chirp.

Taryn squinted at him. “Did Remy tell you to be this calm, or do they grow you in jars?”

No answer. Just another scan.

That was worse.

Her gaze drifted toward the shuttlebay doors as they approached. “He used the override.”

The words slipped out quieter than the others.

No one answered that either.

Taryn blinked slowly, jaw tightening. “He acts like it’s for emergencies, but really it’s just because he likes being impossible from a distance.”

The stretcher passed through the doors and into the corridor. The air changed, cleaner and cooler, with that shipboard medical smell already waiting ahead. Sterile surfaces. Controlled lighting. People who knew where everything belonged. Taryn hated that too, because it made her feel messier by comparison.

“He’s going to do the thing,” she said.

“What thing?”

“The Remy thing.” Her hand shifted against the side of the stretcher, fingers searching for an edge she could grip. “Where he’s all reasonable and warm and disappointed, and somehow that’s worse than shouting. Shouting at least has the decency to be loud.”

One of the medics glanced at her, not unkindly. “You’re very talkative for someone who was unconscious ten minutes ago.”

“I’m a complicated case.”

“You also contain elevated carbon dioxide levels, mild hypoxia, a concussion, blood loss, and at least three contusions.”

Taryn frowned at him.

“That was private.”

The medical bay doors opened.

She immediately tried to sit up.

It was not a good attempt. It was barely an attempt with ambition. The restraint field held her gently but firmly, and her body supplied the rest of the argument by sending pain through her shoulder and temple in bright, unpleasant waves.

“Don’t,” the medic said.

“I was adjusting.”

“You were escaping.”

“I was adjusting toward the door.”

They transferred her from the antigrav stretcher onto a biobed with practised care. Taryn still hissed through her teeth when her shoulder moved, one hand clamping down on the edge of the mattress. Her jacket was gone. Her boots were still on, which she took as a small victory until someone started removing them.

“No,” she said at once, sharper than before.

“We need to check circulation and peripheral oxygenation.”

“My feet have nothing to do with this.”

“Your body disagrees.”

“My body is overreacting. It does that when it wants attention.”

The senior medic, a woman with calm eyes and the sort of expression that suggested she had survived worse patients, stepped into Taryn’s line of sight. She held a neural scanner in one hand and a cortical imaging module in the other.

“Taryn, I’m going to run a neurocortical scan. I need you to keep your head still.”

“I’m excellent at still.”

The medic gave her a look.

Taryn looked away first.

The scanner passed over her skull, slow and precise. The display above the bed filled with layered readings: neural activity, vascular response, oxygen saturation, blood chemistry, respiratory load. Taryn tried not to look at any of it. Looking made it real, and real things had a way of becoming other people’s business.

The scanner paused at her temple.

“Moderate concussion,” the medic said. “No intracranial bleed. Some swelling around the impact site, but nothing requiring surgical intervention. CO2 is still elevated. Blood gases show respiratory acidosis trending down since you were moved into clean air, but you were compensating for a while.”

“Sounds very educational.”

“It means your body was working too hard to keep your brain supplied with oxygen.”

Taryn stared at the ceiling. “Rude of it to complain.”

“You also have a scalp laceration, deep tissue bruising across the right shoulder and upper ribs, restraint compression across the sternum, and strained intercostal muscles. No rib fractures.”

She should have felt better about that last part.

She did not.

The medic reached for a hypospray. Taryn’s hand came up before it touched her neck, catching weakly at the woman’s wrist.

The room went a little quieter.

Taryn looked at her own hand as if it belonged to someone else. Then she let go, slowly.

“Don’t sedate me.”

The words were low, clearer than the rest had been.

The medic held still. Not pulling away. Not pushing forward.

“This is not a sedative. It’s an anti-inflammatory and neuro-stabiliser. It will help with the swelling and nausea. You’ll stay awake.”

Taryn watched her for a long second, trying to read the lie that did not seem to be there. Her head hurt too much to do it properly.

“Promise?”

It came out before she could make it sound less small.

The medic’s face did not change, and that was probably kind of her.

“I promise.”

Taryn looked away and let the hypo press to her neck.

The hiss was quiet. The effect was not immediate, but after a few seconds the sharp edge behind her eyes dulled enough that she could breathe without wanting to bite someone. Another hypo followed, this one for oxygen uptake and the lingering carbon dioxide load. A cool mask settled near her face, not sealed, just feeding enriched air close enough that she could draw it in without feeling trapped.

“Don’t put that over my mouth.”

“We won’t. It’s a flow hood, not a mask.”

“Still looks masky.”

“It can look however it likes from there.”

Taryn gave her a suspicious look but did not move away.

The dermal regenerator came next. She held mostly still while it sealed the cut at her temple, though her fingers curled against the biobed whenever the device hummed too close to her eye. Then the deeper tissue stimulator, low power, coaxing damaged muscle fibres and ruptured capillaries toward something less angry. That hurt in a different way, dull and hot under the skin, and she hated that too because it made her eyes sting for no reason she was willing to name.

“You’re doing well,” the medic said.

Taryn shut her eyes.

“I’m doing terribly. I’m just too tired to make it interesting.”

“That may be the most medically helpful thing you’ve said.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

They worked around her with efficient gentleness. That was almost worse than roughness. Roughness gave her something to fight. Gentleness just made the fight look sad.

Her wrist unit had been cleaned but not removed. Someone had left it on. She noticed that and said nothing for a while.

When the medic moved to scan the old pale mark around her forearm, Taryn pulled her hand back.

“Not that.”

The medic paused, then shifted the scanner away without comment. “I only need current injuries.”

Taryn did not say thank you.

Her fingers relaxed anyway.

Time moved strangely after that. Maybe minutes. Maybe longer. Medical bays had their own kind of time, measured in scans, soft beeps, and people saying nearly done when they were absolutely not nearly done. Her headache settled into a heavy pressure. Her breathing came easier. The room no longer leaned as much unless she tested it by moving, which she obviously did because learning from experience was for people with fewer plans.

Eventually, the senior medic straightened and checked the display one more time.

“CO2 levels are coming down. Oxygenation is improving. Pupillary response is sluggish but better than when you arrived. No sign of worsening neurological pressure.”

Taryn opened her eyes.

“So I can go.”

“No.”

The answer came too quickly.

Taryn stared at her.

“I don’t think you listened to your own good news.”

“I listened. You’re stable. Stable isn’t discharged.”

“That feels like semantics.”

“That feels like medicine.”

Taryn pushed herself up on one elbow before anyone could stop her. She managed it this time, barely. The room shifted, but not as badly. Victory sang a very small, unconvincing song.

“I need to check on Foxy.”

“Who? There’s no one on the ship by that name…”

“My girl. My ship,” Taryn said.

“Engineering is checking on your ship.”

“That is exactly why I need to check on Foxy.”

The medic moved closer, careful not to crowd her. “You have a concussion several hours old, recent hypercapnia, mild hypoxic stress, and a history of losing consciousness after head trauma. You are not leaving this bed.”

“I’m not passing out now.”

“You almost did when we took your boots off.”

“That was different.”

“You’re staying for observation.”

The word landed exactly where she did not want it.

Observation.

Taryn’s face changed. Not much. Just enough that the medic saw it. The stubbornness stayed, but something colder moved underneath, old and fast. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the biobed.

“For how long?”

“At least twelve hours. Longer if your neuro readings fluctuate.”

“No.”

“Taryn.”

“No, don’t do that. Don’t say it like I’m being unreasonable.” Her voice rose, then thinned when the effort made her head pulse. She swallowed hard and tried again, quieter. “I’m not staying here all night.”

“You are.”

“I have a ship.”

“You have a concussion.”

“I have responsibilities.”

“You have abnormal blood gases and a bruise pattern that suggests you were thrown hard enough to lose motor control.”

“I got motor control back.”

“Not enough to walk out of here.”

Taryn swung her legs toward the edge of the bed.

This time the room did not just tilt. It dropped.

Her hand shot out, catching the side rail. The medic caught her shoulder at the same time, steadying without forcing, and Taryn hated the relief that went through her. Hated that her body leaned into the help before pride could object.

For a few seconds she said nothing.

Her breathing was careful. Too careful.

“I don’t like medical bays,” she said finally, looking at the floor.

It was not an explanation. It was not an apology. It was just there, plain enough that she could not take it back.

The medic’s hand eased away from her shoulder.

“I know.”

Taryn glanced up sharply. “You don’t.”

“No,” the medic said. “I don’t. But I can see you don’t.”

That was harder to argue with.

Taryn looked toward the door. Somewhere beyond it, Remy was probably reading logs, getting quieter by the second. Somewhere beyond the bay, Foxglove was full of strangers with tools, and Taryn was on a biobed being told her own body had become a scheduling problem.

She was so tired she could barely hold the anger properly.

“Can someone at least tell me if they open the starboard hatch?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And the coolant bypass?”

“Yes.”

“And if Remy comes back with the face, you can tell him visiting hours are cancelled.”

The medic’s mouth almost moved. Almost.

“I’ll make a note.”

Taryn sank back against the pillow, defeated by physiology, which felt particularly unfair. She stared at the ceiling for a moment, then turned her head slightly toward the wall as if that made the whole thing less humiliating.

“I’m not sleeping.”

“No one said you had to.”

“I’m just resting with hostile intent.”

“That’s fine.”

Taryn closed her eyes.

For a while, the only sounds were the soft pulse of the biobed and the steady flow of enriched air near her face. She was still angry. Still sore. Still frightened in ways she had not given anyone permission to notice.

But the bed was warm.

The air was clean.

And no one had taken the wrist unit from her arm.

After a moment, barely audible, she muttered, “Twelve hours is stupid.”

The medic adjusted the monitor beside her. “Standard concussion observation protocol. You lost consciousness, your blood gases were off, and your neuro readings are still stabilising. Twelve hours is the minimum window to make sure nothing worsens.”

Taryn’s eyes stayed closed.

“I hate this ship.”

The words lacked conviction.

The biobed chirped softly, recording a steadier rhythm than before.

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