The corridor blurred with motion as a security officer hustled Emilia Parr toward sickbay. Her teeth were clenched, her arm cradled tight to her chest, every step sending a new jolt of pain spiraling up to her shoulder. She had gone down hard in the bar, Captain Ayres’ weight crashing into her as chaos exploded around them.

Parr was not one to cry out. She let out a low hiss, steady, controlled. Pain she could endure, particularly after their experiences in battle on Boreth. Still, the humiliation and frustration burned almost hotter than the break itself. For those crew not transferred with them from the Sacramento – and that was many given the Farragut was so much larger – their first meeting with the new executive officer was her squashed beneath their captain. That irritated the hell out of her.

The doors to sickbay parted with a hiss. Vennock was already there, surrounded by boxes and clearly in the middle of directing her new staff toward a reorganisation that better suited her designs. The doctor glanced at Parr, her expression cool, eyes narrowing with clinical calculation before she moved to meet them. “Set her down on biobed two,” she said crisply. Her tone carried the practiced authority of someone who had done this too many times to waste words.

Parr sat herself, jaw tight, refusing to be manhandled. “It’s just the arm,” she said, trying to brush off the security officer who had helped her in. “I’m not dying.”

Vennock’s brows flicked upward as she scanned Parr with the tricorder. “No, but you’d be surprised how much more complicated you make our job if you sever the brachial artery. You’ll forgive me if I treat it as more than just the arm.”

Parr exhaled through her nose. “Still lecturing while you work, doctor. Comforting that the Farragut will sound similar to the Sacramento.”

The doctor’s lips tugged in the faintest suggestion of a smile. “And some people still manage to get themselves broken before we’ve even been here for, what, hours. You have set the first new record for my new sickbay.”

Parr let her head fall back against the biobed, eyes closing for a moment. “You can blame another member of our so-called senior staff for that. Elkader. Fighting in their weird cowboy bar.”

“Kasrin Elkader.” Vennock’s tone was neutral, but her eyes flicked to the monitor as she guided the regenerator along Parr’s arm. “Shall I expect her to come through the door next?”

“That or visiting her in the brig. She’s fire and chaos rolled into one person,” Parr muttered, watching the bone knitting process on the display. “And if she doesn’t learn where to draw the line, I think the captain will toss her out an airlock. Metaphorically.”

Vennock did not look up. Her hands moved with steady precision. “You not so metaphorically.”

Parr snorted, then regained her composure. “I’m just frustrated, Merry. I’d have preferred a better introduction to our new crew.”

Vennock glanced at her, eyes sharp and searching. “Why? You’re now memorable. You can make jokes – you like those – and there’s value to having a more unique story about you than every conventional executive officer.”

There was a long beat. The bustle of the sickbay staff opening boxes, the pulse of machinery, the steadying presence of the doctor beside her. Parr smiled. “Alright, I’ll concentrate on thinking up the jokes. Still. Mike is pissed off. I’ve not seen him like that with another member of the crew.”

The bone knitted itself whole under Vennock’s care. The pain dulled, fading to a ghost ache.

Vennock set the regenerator aside, wiped her hands, and fixed Parr with that level, precise look of hers. “You’ll be fine, reputationally and physically,” Vennock said. “But if Elkader keeps spiraling, we won’t have a medical fix for what she’ll break next.”

Parr sat up carefully, flexing her fingers, testing the limb. She looked at the doctor. “Then we’d better find a way to rein her in,” Parr said. “This ship, it’s not the Sacramento. Different rhythm. Different expectations.”

Vennock tilted her head. “Clearly.”

“Whatever Mike may have worried about, the Sacramento was still a disciplined ship. A small, tight crew. Nobody needed reminding where the line was.”

Vennock’s expression softened, though her tone stayed clinical. “And here?”

Parr gestured with her mended arm toward the door, toward the chaos they had left behind. “Here, we’ve got bar fights spilling into command staff. It feels loose. Like the crew think they’re on shore leave until a real fight comes.”

Vennock’s eyes narrowed slightly as she considered that. “Different command culture. Ayres runs hot, and our crew knew that. He tolerates a bit of edge in his officers, as long as they perform, but stamps out bad attitudes early. With perhaps an unnecessary degree of unconscious intimidation.”

Parr’s jaw tightened. “And Elkader is edge personified.”

“So can you and the captain turn that from a flaw to a feature?” Vennock said evenly.

Parr looked down at her hand, flexing it again, and for a moment her face betrayed a flicker of doubt. “Most of the senior staff came with us. We’re the ones setting the tone now. If this crew learns chaos is acceptable, that’s on us.”

Vennock stepped closer. “Emilia. You were and are a new executive officer. That’s your strength. The Farragut is not the Sacramento. This crew needs stability, yes. But they also need room to breathe. There are hundreds more people here. Let’s learn their culture and be surgical in adjusting it.”

Parr met her gaze. “So what, just let people start fistfights and call it morale while we observe?”

“No. But perhaps find out why she fights before you decide how to stop her.”

Parr slid off the biobed, steadier now, her arm whole. She gave Vennock a nod. “You always do know how to make me think harder than I want to.”