Ship's Log: February 4

Seeing a tablet in the hand of one of the technicians reminded him of the one he had left on the bridge. With the recent rush of activity in finding Elizabeth, he had forgotten that they were facing yet another mystery. The Captain was still out there . . . somewhere. Or was she? he wondered. Had she managed to get herself back on board somehow? Another thought struck him. Or had she ever really left?

He knew, from experience, that Devereux was more than capable of murder when it suited her. Only the first one came close to matching her usual style. Certainly, she might leave more of a mess if she was in a rush, but something told Rusty that was not the case here. Could it be the Captain along with one or more allies? It was difficult to know.

Returning to his office, he brought up the report again on the readings from the Captain's shuttle. He downloaded them to a new tablet, intending to study them later. It was beginning to feel more and more like an academic exercise. The Captain would return—or not—one way or the other, regardless of whether they determined how she had managed her escape. At best, they might be able to prevent her from using the same method again. There was also the possibility that they might even be able to use it to their advantage.

The data copied to the tablet, Rusty turned it off and looked up at the chronometer display. He was intrigued by the challenge of deciphering the mystery. What use they might make of it, he did not know yet. The Captain had found it useful enough, he considered with wry amusement. She must have discovered it somehow . . . The system access logs would have a record of what data she had accessed, so they might be able to piece together what research she had done. It might lead nowhere, but it was worth looking into.

He did not have the security clearance required to access those logs, so he would have to talk to Hawkes to get it. While he did not exactly dislike the man, he was not overly fond of the old officer either. Rusty understood the need to keep a distance from those around you, but he thought the Tactical Officer carried it to an unnecessary extreme. Rusty considered that he was glad he had not had to face the man in a poker game. While he could imagine Hawkes playing poker—his normally impassive visage a natural advantage—Rusty had never seen or heard of him sitting in on a game. Probably good, Rusty thought. He tried to imagine the older man losing a hand he should have won . . .

Rusty reached for the intercom and then stopped, watching as his hand began to shake. He closed his eyes, forming his fingers into a tight fist, and willing the tremors to cease. It took an incredible effort to make his fingers obey him. Even with his hand clenched tightly, he could feel the spasms of the muscles down to his wrist. It would spread from there soon, he knew. Had last night's ampoule really been the last one? He had lost count and, unwilling to confront his own guilt, had not checked again.

With deliberate care, he placed the tablet back on the desk. His shift was over. For the moment, he had something more critical and immediate to deal with.