“How is she?” Devereux demanded.
“I . . . I don’t know yet,” Ramsey replied. The uncertainty in her voice was also reflected in her gestures. “I’m trying to remember how to re-calibrate this . . .”
Hope lay limply on the diagnostic bed. She pale complexion appeared waxen, her large eyes dull. Her thin, nearly lipless mouth hung open, but Hawkes could not tell whether or not she was breathing.
Something hummed and a familiar faint green glow emanated from the bed’s surface. Several of the monitors came to life. The readings they showed, particularly those related to heart rate and respiration looked nothing like what Hawkes expected to see for a human being. Whether they were correct, or even normal, for an Aerian, he did not know.
Ramsey adjusted something on the console and the audio indicators became less insistent. The colors on the real-time physiological charts settled into the customary spectrum.
“There,” Ramsey said, releasing a long breath. “That should do it.”
“How is she?” Devereux repeated.
Ramsey frowned and studied the displays. “According to this,” she said, “if I’m reading it right, she suffered a cerebral hypoperfusion episode.”
“Is that serious?”
Ramsey looked up, clearly trying hard not to smirk as she answered the Captain. “She fainted.”
Devereux stared back at Ramsey, clearly not amused. “Why?”
“For getting out of bed,” Ramsey replied, with only the faintest hint of reproach. “She was more banged up than the Chief was,” she explained. “She needed rest, and time to heal, but didn’t.”
An audible breath sounded from Hope. Her eyes quickly regained their normal bright sheen. The waxy texture was slower to leave the surface of her skin.
“She’s coming around,” Ramsey reported, somewhat needlessly, Hawkes thought.
“Hope?” Devereux asked, moving closer to the diagnostic bed.
“Captain.”
“What the hell did you think you were doing?”
Hope was uncharacteristically silent for a moment before she answered.
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