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“Metis, full report.” My gaze never waivers from Azalea’s as the AI replies.

“All systems still online with ship’s interior pressure holding. Engines four, five, and seven on tier two sustained structural damage upon impact. Ninety-four percent of passengers stationed in their quarters and accounted for. Outside temperature is five degrees celsius. Current positioning four hundred meters from target land sight.”

Not bad, I think to myself, applauding Captain Millard’s work. She flew us through a dust storm and still landed near our target location. Some stretches of the planet are still barren desert and unforgiving rocky terrain, but we are fortunate to have landed in an area rich with life.

“What does she mean, ‘ninety-four percent?’” Azalea asks, concern showing in the lines by her eyes. She likely has friends she worries over. And Robert, of course.

“Only that some persons did not make it back to their suites,” I answer. “It is not cause for alarm, there are plenty of seats and harnesses throughout the ship where Metis could have directed passengers.”

I hesitate before asking my next question, worried about what the answer might be and how much it will upset Azalea. “Metis, any fatalities?”

“One passenger no longer has vital readings.”

My stomach knots and I reach for Azalea’s hand which she readily offers.

“Who?” Azalea asks, before I can.

“Nicolette Larsen,” the AI responds. “She is unrestrained on level four.”

A pang of sorrow swells in me for the young woman. Unfortunate enough to be paired with Buddy Fischer, and now gone forever, without ever getting a chance to set foot on Mars.

I always knew we would suffer casualties as a community at some point. Such is the nature of life, that death is assured. But to experience it now, at the onset of our arrival on this planet… it is an ugly smear on such a momentous occasion.

“Metis, ask Dr. McCoy to put together a medical team immediately. Someone should be sent to Ms. Larsen to further assess her state. Others should triage any injured passengers or crew and treat accordingly.”

“Contacting Dr. McCoy now.”

Water pools in Azalea’s eyes and I can tell she is feeling what I am, though on a much deeper level. While cold calculations pilot my decisions, she takes cues from her unwavering compassion. Whatever her relationship was with Nicolette, I expect Azalea will be harder hit by Ms Larsen’s passing than I am.

“We should go to her,” Azalea says.

I take her face in my hands and place a gentle kiss on her forehead, one that I hope is comforting. Seeing her sad is almost more than I can bear.

“Go to your room to check on Robert and change,” I say. “I will visit the bridge to confer with Captain Millard, then we can meet on level four.”

Azalea gives a dubious look, and I worry she thinks I am uncaring, unflustered by the death of a passenger. Really, it is quite the opposite. I take responsibility for each person’s well-being aboard this ship. Once everyone is accounted for and our next steps are determined, I will spend hours replaying what I could have done differently to keep Nicolette alive.

Not now, though. This is not the time, not when there are others who might be injured, others who will need aid.

I worry my words lack the empathy I wish to communicate, but she nods and then brings her face to mine, kissing me again and blurring out all the troubles that surround us. I wrap an arm around her, pulling her against me, pressing our bodies close as I sink the fingers of my free hand into her hair, deepening our kiss. She still wears a skin-tight ballroom gown and I have no doubt she can feel the arousal she stirs in me. It was only a few minutes--and one dramatic space shuttle crash--ago that her mouth was engulfing me, the slick wetness of her tongue offering a tantalizing prelude to what sinking into her body would feel like.

I groan into her mouth, my pants straining from the pressure of my arousal as she teasingly rubs herself against me. I desperately wish we could both shed the confines of our clothes and become one.

Alas, that can not happen.

Not yet.

Azalea pulls back a few inches, putting a painful distance between us. “I should go,” she says, though the way her eyes wander over me tells me she shares my desire to stay together.

I begrudgingly release her and she heads for my door, turning back to look at me with a smile before leaving. “Meet me on level four?”

I smile back, relishing the freedom to communicate that I have so longed for these past six weeks. Our relationship is complicated at best, undeniably problematic, and yet…what we share is real. It no longer exists solely in my head, causing sleepless nights and feverish showers. Technically, logically, Azalea is matched with another.

As a matter of the heart, she is--and always will be--mine.

“I shall see you there, Azalea.”

She pauses, a new thought shining in her eyes. “You know, you’re the only person I let call me Azalea. It was always my grandmother’s name for me. Everyone else calls me Zae. But… I like that you call me Azalea. I like hearing my name spoken by you.”