She headed down the corridor in the direction of the infirmary, troubled. Her hand played along the handle of her knife as she walked, her senses on high alert. Things were not at all proceeding as she had planned. Not only had the Captain managed to evade the attempt on her life, but there was evidence of sabotage, and now a mysterious system failure. Ideally, she could monitor the activity more effectively from the bridge, but she felt a need to return to the infirmary—her sanctuary.
As she entered through the hatchway, she felt a tangible wash of relief. Even in her heightened state of awareness, she could sense that the area was quiet. She slowed, walking slowly through the recovery area, seeing only one patient there, sleeping under sedation. An ensign in Medical colors stood nearby, monitoring the diagnostic readouts. He turned at Fear's approach, swallowed nervously and watched her.
The remainder of the area appeared deserted as Fear continued toward the enclosed space that served as her office. Stepping inside, she set the environment for privacy, sealing her in against intrusion or monitoring. No system was perfect, she knew, but it was as secure as could be managed on board a starship. Her hand dipped from the weapon at her waist as the indicator glowed blue, signaling activation of the privacy mode. Murmuring a quiet litany, she sat down at her desk to wait for the reports to come in.
#
Thompson walked with Hawkes back toward the bridge. He found the Aerian's attitude both infuriating and disarming. She was the Medical Officer, after all, not one of the command officers. Yes, she had been the architect of the mutiny action against Devereux, he conceded silently, but he did not understand what she had to gain by the attempt. She was not in direct line for command, regardless of how she had acted since the Captain had fled the ship. In the long term, the crew would not follow her lead. For now, she led through subtle terror and the general uncertainty over the Captain's fate. It could not be sustained indefinitely, he knew. Once it was known that the Captain was dead, he would have his chance.
Fear would not recede again into the background easily, he suspected. He had begun to wonder just how much influence she had held before under Devereux's command. Certainly, there had been that ever-present element of dread among the crew of being turned over to her for punitive action. Where Devereux was direct and brutal in her discipline, knowledge of many of the techniques that Fear employed were as much the subject of rumor as actual experience.
He would need allies, he knew. Loyalties on board a starship—or anywhere in the Coalition—tended to be easily bought and sold, often at the cost of blood. He considered those he had killed during his rise through the ranks. Most had been fools, too comfortable or indebted in their positions to maintain a cautious defense. Here, with Devereux gone, only Fear truly stood in his way of commanding the Sapphire Night as his own. He had seen no others who could likely stand against him. The addiction-addled Chief Engineer? Unlikely. Of them all, only Hawkes gave him reason to be concerned.
His eyes darted toward the Tactical Officer keeping pace beside him. Hawkes remained an enigma to him, even after serving with the aged officer for several months. That he had survived this long, and continued to serve well, indicated he was adept at pleasing his superiors and avoiding his enemies. The source of the eye patch and scar that ran the length of his face on the right side remained a mystery. Nothing Thompson could find in Hawke's personnel records indicated the cause. There was also a noticeable gap in the current Tactical Officer's service, with the explanation again lacking from any official records. Thompson suspected that the two were related, but again had no evidence. Devereux had appeared to trust him though, Thompson considered. Well, as much as she trusted anyone . . .
From what Thompson had witnessed, Hawkes was calm and coolly confident, skilled with both weapons and unarmed combat. They were completely unmatched in size, but Thompson suspected that the Tactical Officer's thin, sinewy form might provide him with a challenge if they ended up on opposite sides. He preferred to have the man as his ally—or at least a favorable neutral party—but he had no idea what bought the man, what the price was for his allegiance. He seemed to exist only to serve—a posture Thompson refused to believe entirely. No one, he thought, is without his own motives and ambitions.
The entered the bridge together, Hawkes parting from to assume his station without a word. Thompson glanced at the command deck, half expecting to see Fear standing there, waiting. It was vacant, but he made no move to ascend its ramp. Instead, he prowled the stations of the bridge, stopping where the helmsman and navigator sat silently at their posts, the idle movement of their hands on their consoles betraying their boredom and uneasiness.
"Report," Thompson barked at them, his voice a low snarl.
The young woman at the helm glanced at Pyrafox, who answered. "We arrre holding position as orrrderred, sirrr," the red-furred navigator responded. "All systems arrre functional."
Thompson's eyes narrowed, feeling that he should order them to do something. The alien navigator continued to look at him, his face unreadable. Thompson found it disturbing, but there was nothing in the navigator's expression that hinted at disrespect or any other punishable offense.
"Carry on," Thompson finally growled, and stalked away toward the other crewmembers at their posts.
He completed a circuit of the small bridge, stopping in front of the Tactical Officer's station. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice carrying a tone mixed with irritation and disinterest.
Hawkes glanced up from the console with his one visible eye. "I am preparing the weapons systems."
A frown crossed Thompson's face. Why? he wondered. Did that alien witch issue new orders and not bother to inform me?
The Tactical Officer seemed to read his silent questions. "If the Captain returns," Hawkes explained. "She will attack." His gaze remained on Thompson. "We must be ready."
"We must destroy her," Thompson stated, a smile forming on his lips at the mental image of her shuttle erupting into short-lived flames in space.
"That remains to be seen," Hawkes offered quietly, his expression betraying nothing of his meaning. The Tactical Officer returned his attention to the console.
Thompson stared the aged officer, now more discomfited by the man than ever.
#
Resting a moment, she took a slow breath through the filter. Her nose had begun to itch, but she was not about to remove the mask to scratch it. Her earlier experience with the fumes in the cramped compartment was enough. She looked down the interior of the bulkhead, mentally counting the number of panels between her and the end of the damaged section. If we remove that one and the damaged one, that should do it, she thought. If nothing else, it'll make it easier to get around in here.
Squirming her way out of the damaged bulkhead, she dropped to her feet on the deck. She gave the guard a quick glance and then knelt next to her equipment case. Kind of cute, she thought. And it wouldn't hurt him to smile. A faint smile danced across her lips. Or maybe it would.
She selected a tool from the case, rose, and looked toward the guard again. "Been posted here long?" she asked, tired of the quiet in the otherwise empty corridor.
The young Security guard seemed surprised by her question, or perhaps even that she was speaking directly to him at all,
"Two months, eight days," he answered.
He said it with an air of enthusiasm and pride that
"That long, huh?" She responded with a faint chuckle.
"Yes, ma'am."
Her eyes traced the path of the bolts holding it in place, making a quiet, thoughtful noise while she did so. It was too large for her to handle alone, she realized. I can manage the sides and bottom, she judged, but if once the top is loose, it'll come down on my head. Memories of another panel, not that long ago, flashed through her mind. She shoved the thoughts aside, peering down the corridor. It might be a while before he comes back, she considered, thinking of the technician she had sent after the sensor logs. She glanced up at the guard, who was now studiously ignoring her. She crouched at the junction of the bulkhead plates. Well, at least I can get started, she thought. If not, I'll get Ensign Cheerful here to help out. With a smile that she kept to herself, she began loosening the first bolt.
#
Hawkes regarded the First silently as he stalked away from the Tactical station. Although his expression remained unchanged, inwardly he gave a sigh. He had seen this type before, too many times during this long career on board the ships of the Coalition. There was a time for subtlety and a time for brute force, but officers like Thompson seemed to believe that the latter always provided the ultimate solution to any problem.
The status displays on his console showed all of the weapons and other defensive systems were operating and ready for deployment. He had given standing orders to maintain such readiness until further notice. If the Captain returned to reclaim command of her ship, as he expected she would, they would have little warning. She would not want to destroy the ship, he knew, but she might be willing to inflict serious damage on it. At minimum, she would want to disable its offensive systems.
She would not be able to retake the ship alone, he knew, without knowing how many of the crew were still loyal to her. Hawkes suspected that she knew that the majority of them would wait and see how events played out before placing their allegiances on any side. With that knowledge, Hawkes guessed that she would bring troops with her. There were certainly those who would support her outside the ship, colleagues she had served with or led on various campaigns. Those she did not end up having to execute tended to be fiercely loyal to her. Until actually serving with her, he had not known why.
Although her punishments tended toward the brutal, she rarely allowed her anger to take control over her reason. She was a skilled tactician, usually open to opinions from her trusted officers, but often inflexible once her decision was made. The specter of mutiny had haunted every ship, station, or outpost he had ever served on. It had not been absent on the Sapphire Night, he noted, but did not carry the same oppressive weight it had on his previous postings. When the mutiny plot had been conceived, and then carried out, he had observed the proceedings with chiefly a detached disinterest. He had followed orders consistently and well, and he had been careful—very careful—never to display special allegiance to anyone in the command ranks above him.
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