Ship's Log: March 19

He stepped into the corridor, seeing immediately the destruction of the isolation chamber's hatchway. Two engineering technicians were just starting to remove the debris. They looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps, seeming surprised to see him. They wore expressions of cheery relief as they recognized him, not fearful dread. That pleased him.

"Hey, Chief," one of them said, a young crewman named Vincente.

Rusty smiled at them, continuing to move into the corridor. "Quite a mess, huh?" he offered, studying the scorch marks and ragged edgeways of the bulkhead.

The other technician, a female ensign named Choy, her dark hair pulled back into a long ponytail, nodded in agreement. "Combat munitions at close range tend to do that," she reported sourly.

Combat munitions? Rusty thought. They must have wanted to get in there pretty badly. He peered through the open hatchway into the chamber. Power to the room remained shut off to facilitate repairs. He caught sight of a shrouded body, realizing that it must be one of the dead crewmembers. The interior of the room appeared untouched.

"The doc said it was a malfunction of the containment protocols?"

Vincente nodded in confirmation. "Seems she was trapped inside when it happened," he said. "Looks like she only had a few second left before the system activated."

And then deep-fried Aerian, Rusty mused, and tried not smile. He dared not speak the thought aloud. One never knew what might give their medical officer offense, and he rather preferred not to discover first-hand.

He wondered whether Fear had actually been the intended victim, or if she had simply been unlucky enough to be in the chamber at the time. There was certainly no shortage of crew who would like nothing more than to see the petite alien meet with a fatal accident. If the goal had been to destroy other evidence inside the chamber—the as-yet-unautopsied body?—then Fear's demise might have been an unexpected bonus.

Swallowing back his growing sensation paranoia—and not at all certain whether it driven by recent events or augmented by his imminent withdrawal—he examined the damage again. Although messy, it looked like a straightforward enough repair job. Having the Aerian peering impatiently over their progress would no doubt be unnerving, but unlikely to be fatal. They could call if they needed him.

Rusty felt suddenly very tired, drained of emotional and physical energy. "I'll leave you to it," he said, only partially successful in hiding the weariness from his voice. "You know where to find me."

"'night, Chief," the technicians said, almost in unison.

After giving the damaged hatchway one more look, he turned and walked back into the main area of the infirmary. He had hoped to avoid another encounter with the Aerian medical officer. To his relief, she appeared nowhere to be seen.

Passing by Elizabeth's bed, he paused, seeing that she remained at rest. A small frown formed on his face as he studied her, seeing her too-young features marred by the thin lines of cybernetic connections. He fought back a small wave of anger at the memories before whispering, "Sleep well, Elizabeth."

With that, he stepped back into the corridor, not at all certain where he was headed next.

Ship's Log: March 18

Rusty slowed to a quick walk when the klaxon stopped. His could feel his heart continuing to race, but he was not certain whether it from the exertion or anxiety over the source of the alert. He had heading to his quarters when the alarm sounded. His first thought had been: Elizabeth! She had seemed to be resting comfortably when he had left the infirmary, but he also knew how suddenly a patient's condition could change.

The infirmary appeared deserted when he entered, hardly seeming the location of a recent containment alert. Rusty continued into the recovery area to find Elizabeth holding herself upright against the edge of one of the beds.

"Lizzie!," he called out. "What the hell do you think you are doing?"

Her head turned slowly in his direction, but her eyes lacked clear focus. He was not certain that she even heard or recognized him.

A small smile formed on her lips. "Chief . . ." Her voice was whisper. Her legs suddenly failed to support her. Rusty caught her just before she hit the deck. Her head lolled slowly, as if her neck had turned elastic. She was still conscious, but seemed unaware of her surroundings.

Rusty lifted her, surprised at how light she felt in his arms. It took him little effort to support her, but he found that his muscles still trembled. He ignored them, placing her gently back on the recovery bed. He turned at a sound at the opening to the aft corridors. Fear stood there, staring at him. Rusty swallowed tightly, even knowing that he had done nothing wrong.

Some about the Aerian seemed unsettled. He would have said disheveled, but there was nothing he could point to in her appearance to support that impression. She continued to stare at him, as if he were the focus of her unease. He doubted that it was so, but still felt the almost unbearable urge to flee from her dark gaze. Only his concern for Elizabeth fixed him there.

"She fell . . ." he said, the words sounding weak and flat. It felt like he was offering an inadequate excuse, but it had been the truth.

"She has not recovered," Fear stated, moving to the platform. She adjusted something near one of the monitors and then stepped back, examining Elizabeth for a long moment.

"What happened?" Rusty asked, his eyes moving in the direction of the open hatchway.

"Containment failure," Fear said, her eyes not quite meeting his. "Malfunction."

Rusty frowned. There were just too many unexplained failures lately. His teams were just not that careless in their duties.

"Repairs in progress," Fear reported. This time her eyes did meet his.

Although there was no change in her expression, Rusty felt himself being closely scrutinized. He was aware of a fine sheen of perspiration that broke out along his skin. He looked down at Elizabeth. She appeared to be resting comfortably again, some of the color returning to her face.

"Maybe I'd better go check on them," Rusty offered, more eager to be away from the Aerian's presence than any concern over the technicians' abilities—and he was curious as to what had actually happened. Anything that could ruffle the normally aloof and unreadable alien's proverbial feathers was worth noting.

"If you wish." Fear stared at him for a moment longer, as if reading his more subtle motives. She then turned away, checking the displays above Elizabeth's bed.

Rusty felt some relief that her attention was no longer directed on him. He moved quickly through the hatchway and into the corridor before she changed her mind. Still, he was certain that she watched him once more after his back was turned.

Ship's Log: March 11

Hawkes stepped forward, stopping before the medical officer. Fear stared at him, her wide eyes bright with barely restrained anger.

"Sabotage," she stated sharply. "Malfunction of containment system."

Hawkes peered inside the chamber. Other than the wreckage of the hatchway, the interior appeared untouched. "Was there any damage inside?" he asked. He spied the uncovered body of the dead crewman. "Did you lose any evidence?"

Fear's gaze followed his. "No." Her eyes moved to the damaged hatchway. "Containment is no longer attainable."

Nodding once in agreement, Hawkes considered the situation. If the dead ensign's body had been harboring any biological agents, they had been released into the ship's environment now. He considered the likelihood of it as low, as Fear would already have scanned for such contagion and reported it. She would also have ordered a complete lockdown of the deck. The usage of the containment chamber for autopsies was usually done as much to prevent contamination of the corpses as for the reverse.

Hawkes turned toward the security officer. "You will remain here until relieved."

The officer seemed surprised, but acknowledged the order quickly. "Yes, sir."

Fear stared at him, apparently displeased at having an assigned bodyguard. Hawkes matched her gaze for a moment, silently indicating his determination before looking away.

"Proceed with repairs," he told the engineering technicians and then turned back to Fear. "You will continue the autopsy?"

The Aerian's expression was unreadable. "Yes."

Hawkes nodded his approval. He looked around once more, but decided that there was little else he could accomplish. Until they received detailed damage reports or the long-delayed results of the autopsies, they could only wait. He saw no reason not to continue with his off-duty activities. The duty officer could inform him if his participation was required.

"I'll be most interested in the results," he said. He paused a moment, but Fear's expression revealed nothing further. He turned and headed out of the infirmary.

Although the atmosphere in the corridor had eased considerably with the crisis over, Hawkes could sense a heightened air of unease. The recent murders and this latest act of purported sabotage were taking a serious toll on the morale and attention of the crew. He recognized a certain degree of uncertainty even within himself, but it had his companion for so long that he knew how to deal with it. Staying to his routine was his usual, best defense. Other actions could also be taken, if needed.

After returning to his quarters, he once again removed his uniform and dressed for his fitness routine. He found the exercise area deserted other than for a dark-skinned ensign he recognized from the engineering section. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight bun. Hawkes noted a thin scar along her right cheek, but more interesting were the thicker, rope-like lesions that crisscrossed her shoulders and upper arms. They were nearly the same color as her skin, which told him that they were quite old. He could tell that she knew that he was watching her by the careful way she avoided his gaze, but gave no other obvious sign.

Hawkes leaned against a bar that ran the length of the starboard bulkhead, stretching to warm up his muscles before to commencing his workout. After years of following the same routine, the motions were automatics, requiring only a minimum of his conscious attention. This freed his mind to consider other concerns.

Completing his warm-up, he positioned himself under a set of lifting weights. He gripped the metal shaft tightly, took a deep breath, and prepared to lift. He had barely begun to feel the strain on his arms when his vision went abruptly dark.

Ship's Log: March 10

Hawkes had just stripped down to his shorts, preparing to dress for his daily exercise routine before having dinner, when the klaxon sounded. He recognized its distinctive cadence immediately. It had never before sounded on the Sapphire Night outside of training drills, but he had heard it ring out on other vessels. The results unvaryingly ran from unpleasant to devastating.

Although off-duty, Hawkes pulled back on his uniform and sidearm. Glancing at his chronometer, he then rushed into the corridor. The majority of crewmembers he encountered were heading the direction away from the source of the alarm: the infirmary. Most of them got out of his way. The few who did not invited a sharp jab in the mid-section as he passed.

He reached the infirmary quickly, but slowed more than he would have liked by the press of crewmembers in the passageways. The alarm abruptly silenced. He glanced at his chronometer again. By his estimate, there were still eight minutes remaining before the end of the two-minute countdown. That meant that either the crew had managed to contain the situation or he had been off on his approximation of the time by several seconds. He seriously doubted the latter.

Thompson passed him suddenly, moving quickly. The First's jaw was tight in a way Hawkes recognized. He was given him only the briefest glance before Thompson exited into the corridor. Hawkes held grave concern over the next crewmember that got in Thompson's way.

He slowed his gait considerably. The emergency was apparently over, but continued through the infirmary. He noticed Lieutenant Banks leaning on one of the recovery beds. She seemed to look in his direction, but her eyes were dulled by sedation. Hawkes doubted that she recognized him—or much of anything in her surroundings at the moment—and resumed his way toward the corridor at the other end of the infirmary.

He found Fear, along with a security officer and two members of the engineering staff, outside one of the containment chambers. The hatchway had been forced open, with high-yield weapons fire from the look of it. There was considerable scoring on the outer bulkhead as well. Fear, despite her typically expressionless demeanor, appeared mildly shaken. There was something he could not immediately identify in her stance that told him that she had been directly involved in whatever had happened here. More sabotage? Another murder? he wondered. If so, the list of suspects was endless. Any number of crewmembers had reason to want Fear dead, but few he suspected held the nerve or ingenuity to attempt it. The price of failure would simply be too high.

Ship's Log: March 7

The deck seemed to shift beneath her bare feet. Steadying herself against the bed, she waited a moment until her vision cleared again. She glanced at the faces of the crewmembers rushing by, but recognized only a few of them immediately. Those she could identify she knew typically worked other shifts than she usually did. How long have I been out? Hours? Days?

She caught sight of the unmistakable figure of the First entering the infirmary. He regarded her for only the briefest moment before following the others into the corridor. Elizabeth noted that he was still in uniform, unusual if this really was the evening shift. A lot must be happening, she realized, if the First hasn't had time to "play".

A chorus of agitated voices echoed to her from the small corridor. She slowly made her way toward the sounds, frustrated by her own shuffling steps. Even as the last of sedation faded from her system, her body felt very slow to respond. She heard the sound of heavy pounding and then weapons fire. Elizabeth froze. There was a very brief moment of silence and then the cacophony of voices returned, sounding—if anything—even more imperative.

Had they located an intruder? she wondered. Or cornered the person—or persons—responsible for the murders and the attack on her? What was happening, there was little doubt as to the urgency in the tenor of the voices she heard.

She had nearly made it to the open hatchway that led to the corridor when she heard another, much louder, noise. It sounded like a barely contained explosion. Her ears, still not functioning correctly, rang. The klaxons squealed loudly for a moment in protest and then went silent. Ahead, the voices slowly returned, but they were not nearly as loud or numerous. Crewmembers began to file past her, moving with less immediacy, but their faces bore expressions of heavy concern.

The short flow of people ended. Elizabeth could still hear voices coming from down the corridor, so she continued on. She found the First and Fear engaged in conversation while a security officer and two engineering technicians waited almost at attention nearby.

"Sabotage." Elizabeth heard Fear say. Something in the alien's tone told her that Fear had repeated the word, this time more firmly.

Elizabeth looked beyond the two officers. The hatchway into one of the chambers had been blasted away. The rough, charred edges told her that it had been a rushed job. It would be a while before that chamber could be used for its original purpose again.

"Malfunctions happen," Thompson replied with forced casualness. Elizabeth could tell that he did not completely believe his own words.

"Frequently of late," Fear responded, her wide, dark eyes focused on Thompson's. "You will investigate."

Thompson was silent for a moment, and then a strange smile played quickly across his face. "As soon as I can free up someone to do," he said. He turned, glancing quickly around them. "Looks like you're going to be busy cleaning up for a while." He left without looking back at Fear. Passing Elizabeth, his eyes moved just enough to indicate that he was aware of her presence, but she received no further acknowledgment of her existence.

Elizabeth watched Fear. The alien's face remained mostly impassive, but Elizabeth saw something in the movement of her eyes that provoked a faint sense of uneasiness. Fear looked in her direction, apparently realized for the first time that Elizabeth was there.

"Return," Fear said. Her voice seemed even more cold and flat than usual. "You are not recovered."

Elizabeth remained still, considering whether to argue when a sudden wave of weakness passed over her. She nodded slowly, breaking contact with the Aerian's dark gaze. "Probably a good idea," she murmured, and began moving slowly back to the recovery bay.

Ship's Log: March 6

Elizabeth rested, not truly asleep, but in a deep sedated haze that blunted her physical senses and those for the passage of time. She knew that she would probably hurt—probably quite badly—otherwise. Yet, the small part of her coherent awareness was frustrated by the tantalizing bits of sound and feeling that managed to work their way through the sedation-induced fog.

Something in the quiet and regular cadence of the ambient noise changed abruptly, pierced by a sharper sound, clearly a klaxon of some kind. She struggled to identify it, hindered by slowed and cloudy thoughts. Finally, recognition came, along with a spark of fear: biohazard containment alert. Her body flushed with adrenaline in an instinctive reaction to danger, clearing some of the fog from her mind. She became aware of voices, many of them, shouting in alarm. There was also the muffled sound of movement, as the people belonging to the voices hurried past and around her bed.

Elizabeth fought to open her eyes and, with considerable effort, managed it. She saw only blurs of motion, as people moved more quickly than her mind could manage to process at the moment. Her hand moved toward her head, fumbling to remove the sedation control. Her fingers felt thick and unbelievably clumsy. It took her several attempts—she was not certain how many—but finally managed to knock the device free. She expected an orderly to appear and replace it immediately, but everyone seemed far more concerned with the immediate crisis.

Her mind began to clear quickly, colors and objects fading into sharper focus. She gasped, feeling suddenly the pain the device had suppressed. It hurt nearly everywhere, but she tried to concentrate past it. Raising herself on one arm, she felt strangely off-balance. At first, she attributed it to the lingering effects of the sedation, and then realized that her artificial arm was missing. She glanced around quickly, but failed to find it. She caught a few curious glances in her directions, but no one stopped to bother her, more intent on dealing with the more urgent situation.

She watched where the crewmembers headed, noting that the corridor led back to the sealed examination chambers, used for treating infectious patients or conducting autopsies. The bodies must be back there, she thought. She wondered what they had been found that had forced them to engage the containment protocols. Something in the way everyone moved, though, suggested that something more was happening here.

Elizabeth managed to get herself into a seated position on the platform. The room swirled slightly, so she held herself very still, fighting back the vertigo. She considered trying to stand, but felt still too weak and unsteady to attempt it. As one of the security guards moved quickly past, she called out to her, but all she could muster was a dry croak. She swallowed, trying to generate enough moisture in her mouth and throat to speak.

"What's happening?" she asked, her voice just barely above a whisper. Her throat felt burned and raw, the act of moving air through it felt like pouring acid on it. No one heard her. With a frustrated sigh—which she immediately regretted—she dropped her feet to the deck.

Ship's Log: March 5

He had been certain that the Chief Engineer had been somewhere involved with the recent murders, but his presence and reaction at Banks' disappearance and subsequent discovery quickly dissolved most of Thompson's suspicions. Thompson considered that the young lieutenant was probably quite attractive, were it not for her cybernetic prosthesis and additional, self-affected enhancements. He had not known her prior to the accident, and had actually given the matter very little thought. With so many other, whole women on board, why bother with imperfection?

While the Chief's addictions and other weaknesses were well-known, Thompson doubted that they would drive him to endanger one of his own people. Himself, perhaps, Thompson considered, but he was undeniably protective of the people under his command. More than once, the First had used that to his advantage. Of late, though, he had not taken much interest in casually tormenting the Chief Engineer, as the pattern had become too predictable and unrewarding.

Thompson's eyes moved away from his tray, catching sight of many other eyes suddenly darting away. He could sense the apprehension in the room, but he suspected that not much of it was due to his presence. There seemed to be a general unease that he normally would have quietly reveled in, but which he now shared as well. Their crewmates were being murdered or abducted and they each feared they might be next. There was also a subtle sense of expectation, as though they expected him to do something to ease their worry. Thompson fought back most of a feral grin. Good, let them be uneasy. Better for me.

His gaze went back to his food, while his thoughts returned to considering the current situation. The attacks had all seemed somewhat random, other than involving engineering staff or their security escorts. Thompson had little doubt that the sabotaged malfunctions were somehow related to the murders, but there was as yet no solid evidence to support his theory. Was that what Banks had found? he wondered. If so, why not just kill her like the rest. Why leave her alive? It was just one more in a maddening list of inconsistencies regarding the assaults. He frowned, recalling that he had not yet received a report from Fear on the autopsy results from the first victims.

A chime sounded from the communications unit at his waist. He pulled it free with a scowl. "Yes? What is it?"

"First," a voice said from the other end. He did not recognize it, but assumed it was the evening shift Comm officer. "The biohazard containment alert has sounded from the infirmary. Communications appear to be out." The voice carried a definite edge of barely contained alarm.

"I'm on my way," he acknowledged. "If Engineering and Security teams have not been dispatched, do so—immediately."

"Yes, First," came the compliant reply, the tone echoing relief that someone had provided some clear action. After a moment, the channel went silent.

Thompson rose, leaving his meal behind. He left the galley without looking around, headed for the infirmary.