Naomi was smack dab in the middle. Guilt bled into the fear. In her years of training and in trying to break into a field that wanted to keep her out, it had become second nature to push aside minor discomforts. Don’t show any weakness that meant they’d send a man up to orbit instead. And nothing had seemed worrying until this morning. She should have documented every niggle.

“What do we do?” Naomi asked. She’d heard of pre-eclampsia before, but not HELLP.

Hart grimaced. “I’ll watch you closely for expectant management, but there’s a high chance we’re going to have to deliver your baby sooner rather than later. If we delay and you worsen, the baby can be in distress and you’re at a high risk for seizures, strokes, or organ failure.”

Over the last few months, Naomi had learned Hart was never someone to gloss over the realities of what they faced out here. No sugar-coating or delicate bedside manner. She was gentle, but unflinchingly honest.

Naomi settled into the med bay, a room she’d soon grow distressingly used to. She lay there for four hours, hands rubbing her stomach in soothing circles. She focused inwards. Some deep, primordial part of her knew that the foetus still lived. When she eventually felt the turning and quickening beneath her hands, Naomi went soft with relief. She’d stopped spotting.

Hart monitored her blood pressure every half hour. It held steady, then rose, quickly—too quickly. Naomi felt worse, and she broke out in a nosebleed barely staunched by spare rags.

Hart wasted no time. She checked between Naomi’s legs. Naomi was too afraid to ask if the bleeding had started again. She tried to stay calm but it was impossible. She didn’t need Hart to tell her that this was more dangerous than her miscarriage had been. They were on a ship cleaner than most hospitals, true, but it was just them, alone, with no one who could help if something went truly wrong.

Hart gave Naomi just enough drugs to keep her calm and blur the world about the edges. Hixon left the bridge to help, acting as Hart’s assistant, and Naomi felt the prick of the needle against the crook of her arm. It was as if Naomi had taken a step back from it all, watched it from a distance. As she was put on the autodoc, Naomi tried not to wonder if her liver would rupture or if, even now, her brain was filling with water.

Hart never told Naomi the details of what happened during those reddened hours, and Naomi was grateful for it. She’d filled in the blanks. The epidural pain relief shot right into her lumbar spine. She’d needed blood transfusions, and thankfully she was type AB. Everyone on board ended up donating a little, so as not to overload anyone.

Even Valerie.