and the prognosis is extremely good.”
“Can I see him?” she asked, waggling her fingers absently to make certain that the irritation was gone.
“Absolutely. He’s in recovery, but he’s certainly well enough to have visitors. In fact, the Caitian is already in with him.”
“M’Ress?” said Mueller.
“She’s the only Caitian on Bravo,” said Shelby. “Unless you know of another?”
“No. Right. Of course not. Sorry,” said Mueller, feeling uncharacteristically tentative. “I’m not quite on my game today.”
“We all have our off days,” Shelby said in a neutral tone.
Moments later they were approaching the recovery room. They could see, through the observation window, Arex lying beneath the confines of the cellular stasis field. If the operation had gone successfully—and there was every reason to believe it had—Arex’s third arm, severed by the Brethren during their attack, had been reattached and was in the process of healing in the stasis field. With any luck, he would wind up with full mobility of the appendage.
M’Ress was not without injuries herself. She had been badly burned in the altercation with the Brethren as well, when her attempt to attack one had gone terribly wrong thanks to the superheated surface of their armor. The skin itself had been healed, but only time would enable the fur to grow back. It was in the process of doing so, and M’Ress was idly scratching one of the patches on her bare leg where the new fur was coming in.
M’Ress was talking to him, and even though they were on the other side of the glass, Mueller could tell that she was speaking gently to him, softly, and reassuringly. She was holding one of his hands in hers and stroking it. Apparently he had only recently come out of surgery. There was exhaustion on his face, and yet he seemed pleased that M’Ress was with him, listening to everything she had to say and basking in her presence. They were so caught up with each other that neither had noticed the captain standing on the other side of the glass.
“You can go on in,” said Shelby.
Mueller stood there for a moment, struggling inwardly. Then she turned away and said briskly, “Maybe later.”
“Captain—”
Mueller kept walking, her long, efficient strides carrying her quickly out of sickbay. Shelby had to run to keep up with her. “Kat, slow down—”
Mueller did the opposite, picking up speed, and Shelby, who didn’t feel like running, snapped out, “Captain, halt! That’s an order.”
Mueller moaned low in her throat even as she skidded to a halt. By all rights she should have kept going, but the bottom line was that Shelby outranked her. Mueller turned and glared at her. “What?”
Shelby came up close to her and then glanced about. There was no one else around and she said in a low voice, “It wasn’t your fault, Kat. Stop blaming yourself.”
“I’m not blaming myself—”
“The hell you aren’t. You’re too damned honest to try and lie to me, Kat, but if it’ll make you feel better, go ahead. Look me in the eyes and tell me you’re not beating yourself up over what happened.”
Mueller tried to do so, but she couldn’t hold Shelby’s gaze. Instead she looked away and once again growled in frustration. “Of course it’s my fault. I’m the captain. Everything that happens on the ship begins and ends with me.”
“Your crew didn’t get hurt or killed because of you. They got hurt or killed because they chose the life they did, and because invaders attacked them. Whether it had been you, me, Mac, or James Freaking Kirk at the helm, it doesn’t matter. The first rule of space exploration is that there are going to be casualties. And the second rule is that captains can’t change the first rule. Do you get that?”
“Yes. Of course I get that. But getting that isn’t going to spare Arex, M’Ress, and the others all the pain they’ve suffered. Getting that isn’t going to bring Mick or Doc Villers back from the dead.”
“You did everything you should have, everything you could have…”
“Do you seriously think that makes me feel any better?” Mueller shot back. “There are only two possible responses to that: Either you’re right or you’re wrong. If you’re right, then how much greater should my frustration level be, knowing that even though I made all the correct moves, my people still died? If you’re wrong, then I get to spend the rest of my career—hell, the rest of my life—reviewing everything that happened and second-guessing myself. And God only knows