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.