Ship's Log: November 17

He glanced upward, to one of the wide catwalks above. “Cheung,” he shouted. “Have you seen Hiroki?”

“No, Chief,” came the reply as a dark-haired crewman looked down over the edge. “Not since I’ve come on shift.”

Rusty’s frown deepened. He moved to the nearest vacant station and activated the intercom. “Crewman Higuchi,” he said. “Report to main engineering. Confirm.” He stood, waiting for a response. After several long moments, he repeated the order. “Crewman Higuchi, report to main engineering. Confirm.”

Silence answered him again. He switched off the intercom and returned to his office. Sensor logs, Elizabeth had said, he thought. There were several locations where Niguchi could have accessed the data Elizabeth had requested. There would have been no real need for him to return to main engineering to get it.

Entering his security code, he told the computer to show him the missing technician’s location. Rusty’s upper lip curled slightly in a snarl. He hated doing this, for it seemed to him to be an ultimate invasion of privacy. Still, it was required that every crew member have a transponder implanted under their skin, purportedly for reasons of security and safety. This was only third time that Rusty could recall ever making use of it, but it was the quickest way to locate his wayward crewman.

The computer reported quickly: Niguchi’s transponder was not transmitting.

Rusty fought down a growing sense of alarm. Being new to the ship, it was possible that it had somehow been overlooked that he had not received a transponder. Rusty thought it unlikely, though, as he was certain that it would be one of the key items Fear would look for during a new crewman’s medical evaluation. It was more likely that his transponder had malfunctioned. It was just a piece of equipment after all, Rusty told himself.

Bringing up a mental schematic of the ship, the Chief mapped out the routes from Elizabeth’s location was to the nearest stations where Niguchi might have gone to retrieve the logs. There were at four stations within relatively close proximity. None of them should have been affected by the overload. Shutting down his console, he headed for Deck Two.

#

Fear sat in her secured office, replaying the events of the past two days in her mind. If everything had gone had planned, the Captain would be dead and command would have been delegated to the First. She had no real desire to command the ship; she had only wished the Captain gone. It had only fallen to her only because she had been the architect of the mutiny attempt and it had remained with her, because it had failed. Until it was proven that the Captain was dead, no one—particularly the First—would be willing to place themselves into the line of fire for possible retaliation.

Someone had warned the Captain, and she had escaped. Four crewmen had been critically injured near the flight deck—one of which still remained in the infirmary. That her shuttle had been prepared for launch told of a traitor among them, someone more loyal to the Captain than to the others. Recent events—the damaged regulator, the false accusation of Ensign Diaz, the as-yet-unexplained overload on Deck Two—had served only to make things more confusing.

The intercom sounded with a shrill signal. The Chief’s voice sounded over the channel.

“Infirmary,” he called. “Medical emergency on Deck Three . . . Section Eight.”

Before answering, Fear confirmed that the voice signature matched that of the Chief Engineer. Feeling a sharp crest of relief, she answered. “Acknowledged. En route.”

Releasing the privacy override on her office, she left, stopping to gather a medical kit from the storage area. She exited the infirmary into the corridor, all the time uncomfortably aware that her hand never strayed far from the knife resting in its boot sheath.

She ascended the passageway to Deck Three, remembering that Section Eight primarily consisted of maintenance access to other decks. Reaching that area, she found the Chief kneeling with another engineering technician standing beside him. The young woman appeared pale and shaken; the Chief’s expression was hardened, but his eyes betrayed his disquiet.

As Fear approached, she could see the outstretched arm of someone with Engineering colors laying next to the Chief’s boots. Her first thought was a maintenance accident of some kind, but the lack of urgency in the Chief’s posture told her otherwise. Reaching the Chief, she saw a dark-haired crewman with his back toward her, the back of his uniform tunic soaked with blood. Even before she removed the portable medical scanner from it pouch, she knew what it would tell her.

“He is dead,” she announced.

The Chief looked at her with a look that carried both sorrow and mild disbelief at her obvious conclusion.

She passed the portable scanner over the crewman’s body again, taking note of the other readings. His injuries were not the result of an energy weapon or physical assault. He had been stabbed, several times in the chest and abdomen. The placement of the weapons told her that the assailant had been precise in his attacks, knowing exactly where to place the blade for the most effect. There was an additional wound to the back of the neck that she did not understand, unless it had been the initial attack, intended to paralyze and disable the victim. The formal autopsy might provide her with those answers.

“An efficient kill," she concluded aloud.

The Chief looked at her with a sour expression. “So glad you approve,” he remarked, almost snarling in his anger.

Fear regarded him evenly. She understood his anger and unease. This was one of his crewmembers. He would need to find a replacement, having to rebuild loyalty and trust. It was both unfortunate and inconvenient. Despite her dispassionate evaluation of the situation, something still troubled her. Deaths among the crew, while not frequent, did occur with sufficient regularity as to not cause general alarm. The reasons for them varied. From rank advancement to unpaid debts, blood was often the coin with which such things were paid. After recent events, though, this particular death unsettled her. Then she realized something.

She had been referring to the dead crewman in the abstract. The portable medical scanner should have provided a name and accessed comparable data from the medical database for this crewman. It had not, which meant that it had not received a signal from the crewman’s implanted transponder providing that information. Her unease grew as she recognized the placement of the attack to the crewman’s neck. It had been intended to pierce the transponder, disabling it. Someone had wanted to make it difficult to locate this crewman.

Looking over to where the Chief still knelt beside the dead crewman, she said, “His transponder is not functioning.”

The Chief only nodded, as if that explained something. “It was Hiroki,” he murmured softly. “Hiroki Higuchi.” He did not seem to understand the implications of her statement.

“It was destroyed.”

The Chief looked at her, but it still took several moments before realization became evident on his features.

“On purpose?” he asked.

“I believe so,” she answered, eager now to perform the autopsy.

“Why would someone do that?” he asked, looking down at crewman’s body. He seemed to regard the brutality of what had been done to be sufficient.

“Unknown.”

The frown deepened on the Chief’s face. “He was a good worker,” he said. “He didn’t have any enemies.”

“You are certain?” Fear asked him, meeting his eyes.

The Chief stared back at her and then looked away, back down at his crewman’s still form. She could tell from his expression and the slight change of his posture that he did not know for certain.

Fear straightened and stood. “I will conduct an autopsy immediately.”

The Chief nodded slowly, whispering something she could not quite hear, and then added. “You do that.” He looked up again, fire returning to his eyes. “I want a guard watching over Elizabeth,” he commanded. “Now.”

“The Tactical Officer has already assigned one.” She noted his expression relax somewhat. Her eyes returned to the crewman’s body as she remembered the Tactical Officer’s report. “One was assigned to this crewmember also.”

The Chief looked at the technician and then into the small access chamber where the dead crewman’s body lay. “There’s no one else here.” He turned to the technician. “Did you see anyone else?”

“No, sir,” came the quick response. A faint quaver in her voice told of her anxiety.

“I think,” the Chief said. “We’d better find that security guard.”

#

The problem, Thompson realized, was that Hawkes was absolutely correct. Devereux would return. She had not stayed in command for this long to just go hide and live out the rest of her life in exile somewhere. This was her ship and would remain so until she was dead. Although Fear had been the architect of the mutiny, Thompson held little doubt that more than the Aerian would suffer if Devereux somehow managed to regain control of the Sapphire Night.

When Devereux was dead, the Aerian would have to be removed, he determined. She was incredibly useful, he knew, but she held control over far too many members of the crew. That was dangerous and, having tasted victory once, she might decide at some point that he was unworthy of command as well. He needed the complete loyalty of the crew, not have it tempered by the manipulations of some alien witch.

He looked at the main viewscreen, staring at the point where Devereux’s shuttle had disappeared into slipstream. He understood why they waited here, but he felt exposed, knowing this would be the first place Devereux would start hunting for them. Hawkes preparations helped ease his mind somewhat, but he felt the need to do more. Devereux knew her ship; she would come armed with that knowledge. He glanced toward the command deck, remembering the caution with which even Fear had approached it. If she can disarm us even in her absence . . . he thought.

He crossed to the station that served as his main center of operations on the bridge and activated the intercom, signaling for whoever was on duty as the head of Security.

“Awaiting your orders, First” sounded a voice. He recognized it as coming from Lieutenant Ventana. He felt a mild wash of relief. Ventana was good, capable, and a solid soldier. His combat record was second only to Hawkes’ in terms of major campaigns on which he had participated.

Pitching his voice loud enough so that the Tactical Officer could hear it, he told the Security head, “I want regular drills of your men, Lieutenant.” He paused, casting a sideways glance at Hawkes. “I want the crew ready in case there’s an attempt for board us.”

“Yes, First,” Ventana’s voice acknowledged. “I’ll have them begin immediately.”

“Excellent,” Thompson said. “I want to see the reports.” He saw the Tactical Officer’s head nod almost imperceptibly. Thompson felt a faint glow of satisfaction, but glanced away quickly. Why do I need his approval? He switched off the intercom without waiting for Ventana’s response.