"Pilot": 05-09-08

INT. CONFERENCE ROOM

Medium reaction shot of Devereux.

DEVEREUX
(uncertain, but thoughtful)
And you're proposing that we go down and make contact with them?

RUSTY
Why not? They have what we need.

DEVEREUX
(skeptical)
It's the first prototype.

RUSTY
But it works. And we only need it for one trip.

Devereux looks very dubious, but also realizes that they do not have a lot of options.

ELIZABETH
It's worth a try, Captain.

Devereux rises from her seat and begins to slowly pace the room.

DEVEREUX
I can't even begin to imagine all of complexities . . . tampering with history, interfering with the past . . .

HAWKES
We would have to be most careful, Captain.

Devereux turns and stares at Hawkes in barely controlled disbelief.

DEVEREUX
You agree with this plan?

HAWKES
(evenly)
It's the only one we currently have that offers us any hope of returning home.

Devereux sits back down and looks at Rusty.

DEVEREUX
There's no way we can create what we need ourselves.

RUSTY
(meets her gaze)
Maybe. (beat) Eventually.

HAWKES
The longer we remain, Captain, the greater the chance that we will affect history.

DEVEREUX
I know. (looks away) But to deliberately go down there and . . . (looks up, serious) If something goes wrong, they might never develop the FTL drive. The effect that would have on history . . .

RUSTY
(grins)
Then we'll be very, very careful . . .

ELIZABETH
Do we have any other options, Captain?

Devereux looks over at Hawkes, who regards her placidly.

DEVEREUX
(quietly)
No. I guess we don't.

Devereux looks around the table. The others regard her with anticipation, awaiting her instructions.

HAWKES
Captain, the ship is vulnerable.

Devereux looks at Hawkes, not immediately understanding his statement.

DEVEREUX
You think they might actually be able to damage it?

HAWKES
(with the barest hint of smile)
That's most unlikely, Captain. We would detect any incoming attacks long before they were within range. (beat) But we will be--and likely are—visible to the people of this era.

Reaction shot of Devereux. She looks like she would like to swear, but maintains control.

DEVEREUX
Okay, we'll need to find somewhere to hide until we get the drive systems repaired.

ELIZABETH
(tentatively)
The far side of the moon should work.

RUSTY
Yeah. But brr . . .

DEVEREUX
(to Rusty)
Chief? Can we make it there?

RUSTY
(thoughtful)
I can coax some power out of the main thrusters, Captain, but not for long. It should be enough to get us there, but it'll slow going.

DEVEREUX
How long?

RUSTY
(considers)
About an hour or so.

Devereux nods and then looks at Hawkes. He returns her look, not seemingly entirely pleased, but accepts the answer.

HAWKES
I'll start an active scan for signs that we might have been detected.

RUSTY
(derisively)
And if we are?

HAWKES
(regards Rusty evenly)
Then we will know and can take appropriate precautions.

DEVEREUX
Good idea. (beat) What about communications?

ELIZABETH
(stares at her tablet, thinking)
We can set up a relay. There's so much junk floating around out here, they won't notice one more thing. (looks toward the screen) We could also mount it in something that's already out there . . .

DEVEREUX
(nods approvingly)
Chief, you two get on it. And then continue repairs. We need to get those done regardless of what we do next. (to Elizabeth) Lieutenant, after you're done with the relay, start researching more about this era that we might need to know: clothing, transportation, general technology . . . that sort of thing.

ELIZABETH
(brightly)
At once, Captain.

Devereux pauses a moment before turning to Hawkes.

DEVEREUX
Lieutenant, I want a full analysis of our tactical situation. I also need a report on our long-term survival options based on our current supplies, including food and power.

HAWKES
(nods)
Yes, Captain.

Devereux looks around the table once more.

DEVEREUX
(quietly)
Dismissed.

Rusty, Hawkes, and Elizabeth exit the conference room. Devereux and Hope remain seated. Devereux stands, staring toward the viewing port.

DEVEREUX (CONT'D)
(with quiet frustration)
I must be out of my mind.

HOPE
Do you wish an analysis?

DEVEREUX
(stares at Hope as if considering it)
No. It might show that I am sane. (weak laugh)

Devereux settles into a chair.

DEVEREUX (CONT'D)
I don't suppose there's any of your people flying around these parts?

HOPE
There are not. Official records state contact with humans does not occur for one hundred and twenty-seven years.

DEVEREUX
Long time to wait. (beat) (sighs) Even if there were, we'd risk altering your history as well.

HOPE
Yes.

DEVEREUX
Then you think we should try this?

HOPE
You have few options.

DEVEREUX
(sighs, but smiles)
I wonder if they can court-martial me for this.

HOPE
A possibility. There is no precedent.

DEVEREUX
(quietly)
There is now.

FADE TO:

"Pilot": 05-08-08

INT. NIGHTCLUB – NIGHT – THE PRESENT

Establishing shot of a fairly typical night club: dark interior, bright flashing lights, loud music, and lots of people in various states of dress and inebriation.

We see Thad out on the dance floor, keeping the attention of a dark-haired woman, KENDRA.

Scott is seated at a nearby table with a fairly attractive young lady, ALLISON, who alternates between trying to get his attention and looking around for better prey.

Thad approaches the table with Kendra in tow. He picks up one of the shot glasses and then hands a second one to Kendra. He downs it and sighs. He turns to Kendra and waits while she downs her, smiling at her.

THAD
Dancing's thirsty work. (eyes Scott) You might want to try it. (looks toward the girl) Who's your friend, bro? Not going to introduce us?

SCOTT
(mildly uncomfortable)
Her name's Allison. Allison, this is my brother, Thad.

Thad makes an exaggerated bow over Allison's hand. She giggles in response. Scott barely hides rolling his eyes. His eyes move to Kendra, and then back to Thad with a questioning look.

THAD
Oh . . . OH! (looks at Kendra) This is . . . umm . . .

KENDRA
(smiles at Scott, not at all fazed)
Kendra. But almost everyone calls me Kit.

Scott stares at Kendra for a moment. There is something he sees there, something more than mindless dancing bimbo. He does not notice Allison noticing him noticing Kendra.

ALLISON
(a little roughly)
Excuse me. I think I see a friend of mine.

Allison exits the frame.

THAD
Nice move there, Scotty-boy. You let another one get away.

SCOTT
(distractedly)
What? Oh.

Scott looks in the direction where Allison headed, shrugs, and loses interest.

SCOTT (CONT'D)
Not really my type anyway.

THAD
(mock surprise)
You have a type?

Kendra laughs, but it is not a derisive, unfriendly sound.

Thad drains one of the glasses of water.

THAD
(to Kendra)
Tired out yet?

KENDRA
(smiles widely)
Hardly. (turns back) Nice meeting you, Scott.

Scott smiles at her and nods as Thad pulls her back toward the dance floor. He leans back, sipping slowly at his beer, and looks around the club.

A few girls check him out as they walk by, but Scott does not make direct eye contact, so they move on.

FADE TO:

"Pilot": 05-07-08

INT. CONFERENCE ROOM

Medium shot of the room.

Hawkes and Elizabeth are seated at the conference room. Rusty stands, leaning against one of the bulkheads between two viewing ports. They are silent and look both stricken and uncomfortable.

Devereux and Hope enter the scene.

DEVEREUX
(as she walks in)
Well, the good news it looks like we suffered no serious casualties among the crew. (looks toward Rusty) The ship, however, seems to be a different matter.

Devereux and Hope seat themselves at the table.

RUSTY
(oddly subdued)
Other than the slipstream core, there's nothing that we can't be or hasn't already been repaired.

DEVEREUX
(pleased smile)
Good, work, Chief . . . Lieutenant.

She notes that Elizabeth does not respond as expected to the praise.

DEVEREUX (CONT'D)
(frowns)
There's something you're not telling me.

Elizabeth looks down at the table. Rusty meets her eyes, but says nothing. After a moment, Hawkes hands her a data tablet.

HAWKES
(expressionlessly)
I thought it unwise to transmit this over the ship's systems, Captain.

Devereux takes the tablet, but looks at Hawkes. His expression betrays nothing. She looks down and begins reading the information on the tablet. Her expression grows more and more controlled.

Her gaze remains fixed on the tablet for a moment, even though it's evident that she is through reading it. Finally, she looks at Hawkes.

DEVEREUX
(tightly, quietly)
You're certain?

HAWKES
Yes, Captain. The readings have been confirmed by several departments.

ELIZABETH
Everything checks out, Captain. (sighs) The lack of orbiting stations, no lunar colony, no recognition codes, no space dock . . . And all the transmissions we're picking up further confirm it. (leans back) We can even tell you the exact date.
Reaction shot of Devereux as she looks mildly stricken.

DEVEREUX
How . . . ?

Hawkes looks over toward Rusty and Elizabeth, deferring to their expertise.

ELIZABETH
(quietly, with some hesitation)
It's only a theory, Captain.

DEVEREUX
Seems like a fact now to me . . .

Elizabeth looks mildly abashed.

Devereux looks toward Rusty.

DEVEREUX (CONT'D)
I'm listening.

Rusty and Elizabeth exchange a quick look.

RUSTY
Well, Captain, you know that FTL travel messes with the Einsteinian laws a bit. The gravity wells of the slipstream corridors essentially bend time as well as space . . . we just don't normally notice it because we end up arriving at the time we expect to.

DEVEREUX
Except this time . . .

RUSTY
(nods)
Except this time.

DEVEREUX
I got the basics, Chief. (weak smile) I did take the required courses at the Academy.

This elicits a quick smile from Elizabeth and a scowl from Rusty.

RUSTY
Something went wrong this time . . . that "bump" we felt in transit, probably.

DEVEREUX
(frowning)
Any idea what caused it?

RUSTY
(shakes head)
We're still checking it out. It might take a while.

Devereux rises and walks to the window and stares out.

DEVEREUX
Which means we can’t get home until we do know.

RUSTY
(nods)
We could try and end up home. Or we could end farther away, but still in this time. Or in some other time entirely.

DEVEREUX
I don't like either of those options, Chief.

RUSTY
(strained grin)
I think you'd like a core explosion even less.

Devereux fixes Rusty with a stare, but his cheery expression does not fade much.

DEVEREUX
Can we manage to make repairs?

RUSTY
Not a chance, Captain. Some of our systems aren't even theoretical yet. We're lucky only the slipstream system has to be repaired.

DEVEREUX
(mildly puzzled)
I'm afraid I don't follow you, Chief.

RUSTY
(casually smug)
You tell her, Lizzie.

Elizabeth reacts with a mixture of surprise and reluctance.

ELIZABETH
The news isn't entirely bad, Captain.

DEVEREUX
(listens intently)
I'm glad to hear it. (weak smile)

ELIZABETH
(glances uncertainly at Rusty)
I checked the records, Captain. We've arrived about six months before the first successful FTL drive experiments.

Reaction shot of Devereux as the realization sinks in.

DEVEREUX
(softly)
The Raynes brothers?

Elizabeth nods, but it is Rusty who answers.

RUSTY
The same. (grins) They're probably running wires and tightening screws right now.

CUT TO:

"Pilot": 05-06-08

INT. ENGINEERING DECK

The camera follows Devereux as she walks through Engineering toward where Rusty and the others wait near the slipstream core.

DEVEREUX
What did you find, Chief?

Rusty holds out the burned-out component in a single hand.

Devereux takes with one hand and then with both as she realizes how heavy it is. She looks it over carefully.

DEVEREUX (CONT'D)
Overloaded?

Rusty looks at her for a moment before he answers. Something in his expression seems uncertain.

RUSTY
Maybe.

DEVEREUX
(stares back at Rusty)
Maybe?

Rusty holds out his hand for the component. Devereux places it in his open palm. His arm does not waver from the weight.

He turns the component over with both hands, but not really studying it.

RUSTY
Never seen one blown out like this. (looks at Devereux) They usually just crack.

DEVEREUX
(uncertain)
But no one's ever put this kind of strain on one before. (beat) Could it have been some kind of sabotage?

RUSTY
(studying the component)
Could be. (looks at Devereux) It doesn't matter, though.

DEVEREUX
(puzzled)
Why not?

RUSTY
We don't have any spares.

Camera pulls back to show the group at the slipstream.

Reaction shot of Devereux.

FADE TO:

"Pilot": 05-05-08

INT. BRIDGE
Devereux stands at one of the console, working its controls. After a few moments, it comes back to life. She steps back, looking over the status displays with a careful frown before nodding with satisfaction.

She kneels down in front of the station and snaps a panel back into place. Without rising, she turns.

DEVEREUX
I think that's it.

She surveys the bridge, checking on the condition of everyone there. Satisfied, she returns to the command deck.

She is just starting to sit down when the intercom sounds. She activates it.

DEVEREUX
Bridge.

RUSTY'S COMM VOICE
Captain.

There is a pause while Devereux waits for Rusty to continue.

DEVEREUX
You have an update?

RUSTY'S COMM VOICE
Of a sort. (beat) You might want to come down here.

Reaction shot of Devereux.

DEVEREUX
On my way.

Devereux closes the channel and stares down at the console, frowning. After a moment, she steps down from the command deck and approaches the Tactical station.

DEVEREUX
(to Hawkes)
Lieutenant, you have the bridge.

HAWKES
(straightens formally)
Yes, Captain.

Devereux exits.

Reaction shot of Hawkes watching her leave.

Medium shot of bridge showing Pyrafox still working at his console. He seems agitated.

Hawkes secures his station and steps down from its platform. He walks slowly around the bridge, as if making a casual inspection, but clearly making his way toward the navigation station. He pauses behind Pyrafox.

HAWKES
Something the matter, son?

Pyrafox leans back, raising his hands in clear frustration.

PYRAFOX
I don't know, sirrr. These rrreadings make no sense.

Hawkes comes nearer, peering at the readouts over Pyrafox's shoulder.

HAWKES
Explain it to me.

Pyrafox leans forward and works a few controls before pointing to one of the displays.

PYRAFOX
Accorrrding to these rrreadings, we ended up about thirrrty thousand kilometerrrs away from wherrre we expected. (beat) Not bad, considerrring . . .

Hawkes nods his understanding.

PYRAFOX (CONT'D)
(gesturing toward another readout)
But these make no sense. (leans back, partly turning to look at Hawkes) I checked and rrre-checked the systems. They'rrre functioning prrroperly.

Hawkes studies the displays. His frown deepens.

Pyrafox turns toward Hawkes, his expression betrays alarm and worry.

HAWKES
(calmly, tightly)
I'll inform the Captain.

CUT TO:

"Pilot": 05-04-08

INT. ENGINEERING ACCESS

The repairs to the conduits are partially completed. Elizabeth works quickly, but methodically on the damage. She handles her tools with a competent assuredness.

She talks to herself quietly as she works, sometimes humming.

After a few moments, she snaps the final piece back into place and examines her work. She nods with a faint smile, seeming pleased.

She pulls out her communications unit again.

ELIZABETH
Okay, it looks like I'm done here. Go ahead and restore power to this section.

TECHNICIAN'S COMM VOICE
Twenty-four Baker?

ELIZABETH
Yeah. All lines.

There is a brief delay and then the lights in the previously damaged section are restored to normal brightness.

Elizabeth checks the readings on the monitoring device, smiling as they all now show the proper status.

ELIZABETH (CONT'D)
Chief, we're all set here. The fluctuation should be fixed now.

CHIEF
(beat) Looks good from here. Good work, Lizzie. (beat) Now get back down here so I can find something more challenging for you.

ELIZABETH
(grins, chuckling)
On my way, Chief.

CUT TO:

INT. ENGINEERING DECK

Establishing shot of Engineering Deck.

Things are a bit less than chaotic than before, but there is still evidence of a lot of activity still going on.

Camera moves in on a team repairing a section of the slipstream core. There is a highly visible band that marks a section of it: RAYNES INDUSTRIES.

One of the technicians (WAYNE) reacts energetically and the other activity around him stops for a moment.

WAYNE
(shouting)
Chief! I think we found something!

Wide area shot showing Rusty assisting and advising with another repair. He hands a tool to a nearby technician, motioning toward the system he was helping repair.

The camera follows Rusty as he walks past the slipstream core to the section under repair.

RUSTY
(lightly)
What'd you find, Wayne?

Wayne slides out from beneath the section he was working under. He sits up, offering Rusty a blackened component with both hands.

NIGUCHI
Looks pretty fried, Chief.

Rusty nods, taking the badly scorched component and studying it. He then looked beyond Wayne into the recess where the component was removed.

RUSTY
Shouldn't be that much power going through there . . .

Wayne shrugs.

RUSTY (CONT'D)
(frowns)
Check out the rest of the system.

Medium shot of Rusty holding the damaged component, studying it with some concern.

CUT TO:

"Pilot": 05-03-08

INT. BRIDGE

Devereux is walking the lower deck of the bridge, checking the status at various stations. She stops at the Tactical station.

DEVEREUX
What's the tactical situation?

Hawkes glances down at the displays at his station. His eyes move only; he does not lower his head. He is an older officer, clearly a veteran.

HAWKES
(evenly)
All tactical systems are online. The weapons systems are operative.

DEVEREUX
(smiles)
Good news!

HAWKES
(far too seriously)
Yes, it is.

Devereux turns away, her back to Hawkes, and looks at the screen again.

DEVEREUX
(raises voice slightly)
Any luck on navigation?

Camera on Pyrafox. He is still working busily at the controls at his station.

PYRAFOX
Almost therrre, Captain. (turns to face Devereux) I think we have a fix on ourrr position, but some of the rrreadings are still confusing. (beat) We'rrre checking for malfunctions.

Devereux nods, clearly not satisfied with the report, but knowing better than to push.

DEVEREUX
Keep on it, Ensign.

PYRAFOX
Yes, Captain.

He returns his attention to his console.

INT. CORRIDOR

Hope is moving down the corridor. She walks quickly and with purpose. She is carrying a small white medical case.

Portions of the corridors are darkened where power has evidently failed. A few of the crewmembers she passed cast quick glances her way, but they provide no other acknowledgment of her presence.

The camera follows her as she rounds a corner. A few meters ahead is a destroyed section of bulkhead. Two crewmembers are there, one kneeling before the other one who is sitting with her back against the bulkhead. She holds one of her arms in obvious pain.

Hope walks to them and stops. The kneeling crewmember looks up at Hope and rises, backing away. Hope crouches to examine the injured crewmember, placing the case flat on the deck.

Close shot as Hope takes the crewmember's hand in hers. She begins running her fingers along the back of the hand and upward along the crewmember's forearm.
Reaction shot as the injured crewmember winces, her eyes alternating between Hope's hand and face.

HOPE
First- and second-degree burns. Dislocated shoulder. Minor contusions. (looks up at crewmember) There is pain?

Reaction shot over Hope's shoulder as the crewmember nods wordlessly.

Closeup as Hope positions her hand at a point on the crewmember's upper arm.

Closeup on Hope as her expression changes, becoming serenely empty. Her eyes close.

Closeup on the crewman's injured arm as a faint glowing halo emanates from Hope's hand, spreading out along the length of the arm.

Reaction shot of the crewmember's face. It relaxes as the pain lifts and then the eyes widen.

POV shot over Hope's shoulder. Her hand now rests against the crewmember's shoulder, where she had positioned it back into place.

The crewmember swallows, still startled.

Hope releases her hold and reaches for the medical case. She withdraws an injector.

She then removes a ampoule from a another location inside the case and snaps it into place.

She looks into the eyes of the injured crewmember.

HOPE
Remain still.

The crewmember nods, her head barely moving.

Hope injects several places along the arm. She pauses, watching the crewmember's expression before replacing the injector in the case.

She then removes a small folded piece of shiny fabric. It quickly unrolls into a long, narrow tube. Hope slides it over the crewmember's injured arm, placing it carefully. She then touches it lightly and it shrinks to snugly fit over the crewmember's arm.

Hope closes the medical case and stands.

HOPE (CONT'D)
Report to Infirmary for further treatment.

The sitting crewmember exchanges glances with the one who remained standing throughout the entire incident. She then stares at Hope before getting to her feet.

CREWMEMBER #1
(quietly, but audible)
Yeah . . . sure.

With the other crewmember by her side, she heads down the corridor out of scene.
Hope remains, watching them depart. Close on her expression . . . or lack of.

CUT TO:

"Pilot": 05-02-08

INT. ENGINEERING DECK

Establishing shot of Engineering Deck.

There is general chaos. There is the sound of various klaxons and the shouts of crewmembers.

Camera closes on a small knot of crewmembers. Closer shot on face of RUSTY calling out orders.

RUSTY
Lizzie!

He looks for ELIZABETH in the crowd, finds her.

RUSTY (CONT'D)
Check the power lines running to Sections 33 through 37. Some are still showing yellow.

ELIZABETH
(nods)
On it, Chief.

Elizabeth grabs a tool case and heads out of sight.

RUSTY
Niguchi!

Medium shot of Rusty looking through the small crowd for the next technician.

INT. CORRIDOR

Elizabeth moves quickly, not quite running, down the corridor. She passes a few other crewmembers in an equal hurry to get where they need to be.

She slows, checking the small signs until she reaches an access door. She stops, placing the tool case down on the deck, leaning against the bulkhead. She unfastens the hatch, pulls it free, and places it flat on the deck. She picks up the tool case and climbs inside the access passage.

INT. ENGINEERING ACCESS

Narrow shot from inside showing Elizabeth climbing inside. It is a tight fit, but not so snug that she cannot turn around.

She inches her way inside, stopping before a discolored section of conduits. She places the tool case on the deck and opens it, withdrawing a monitoring instrument.She attaches it near the discolored section and activates it.

Several indicators on the device show that it is operating far below expected levels.
Elizabeth frowns, looking over the damaged section. She removes her communications unit.

ELIZABETH
I found an overload in junction twenty-four Baker. Can you shut down or re-route these lines?

TECHNICIAN'S COMM VOICE
Twenty-four Baker?

ELIZABETH
(double-checks)
Yeah. Better bypass all the lines in the lower section.

TECHNICIAN'S COMM VOICE
Confirmed. Stand by.

Elizabeth waits. After a few moments, the lights dim along that section of the bulkhead.

ELIZABETH
Looks good. I'll let you know when I'm done.

TECHNICIAN'S COMM VOICE
(cheery)
Have fun, Lieutenant.

ELIZABETH
(laughs quietly)
Right.

Elizabeth begins working, removing the discolored conduits, exposing cables and circuits.

CUT TO:

"Pilot": 05-01-08

INT. STARSHIP BRIDGE

Dimmed lighting. Alert klaxons. Vague wisps of smoke. Shorted consoles.

Establishing shot of crew scattered around the bridge. Present are DEVEREUX, HOPE, PYRAFOX, HAWKES, and a few others. They all seem shaken, most have managed to maintain their seats. None are more than superficially injured.

Medium shot of Devereux pulling herself upright, clutching at the edge of her command station.

DEVEREUX
(shouting over the noise)
What the hell happened?

RUSTY'S COMM VOICE
One moment, Captain. We're still trying to figure it out.

Devereux steps down from the command deck to the navigational stations. PYRAFOX does not turn as she approaches.

We can see from the back of his head that Pyrafox is not human. Short, brown-red fur covers his head and wolf-like ears are visible. From the side, short fangs are definitely visible. He also possesses a large wolf-like muzzle.

PYRAFOX
We'rre where we'rrre supposed to be, Captain. (pauses, working controls) Standarrrd propulsion systems arrre all worrrking, but the slipstrrream drrrive seems to be offline.

Devereux turns to face the stations on the other side of the bridge.

Medium shot of HOPE'S FURY (nicknamed "Hope" for short) as she checks displays. She is clearly alien, but reasonably humanoid in appearance.

HOPE
(with utter calm)
Life support and environment systems function normally.

Devereux nods, meeting Hope's alien eyes for a moment, and then returns to the command deck.

DEVEREUX
(into intercom, sounding mildly impatient)
Chief, I'd like that report now.

RUSTY'S COMM VOICE
All the main systems are working as expected. (long beat) But the slipstream drive is shot, Captain.

DEVEREUX
(tightly calm)
What the hell happened?

RUSTY'S COMM VOICE
(sounding rushed and distracted)
I don't know yet. We're still trying to figure it out.

DEVEREUX
(with a quiet sigh)
Okay. Let me know as soon as you find out something.

RUSTY'S COMM VOICE
(obediently, but with a hint of sarcasm)
Of course, Captain.

Medium shot of Devereux on command deck with Hope in close background.

HOPE
Casualties are reported. Deck Two. Section Eight.

The lights brighten to normal illumination. Devereux looks around quickly, a sense of growing relief evident on her features. She nods to Hope.

DEVEREUX
Go. It looks like we have things under control here.

Hope responds with a slight nod.

HOPE
Yes, Captain.

Hope exits the bridge.

Devereux looks down and works a control on her console.

DEVEREUX
Okay, then. Let's at least find out where we are.

Wide shot of the main viewscreens from Devereux's POV. They show a starfield.

DEVEREUX (CONT'D)
Ensign, what's our position?

PYRAFOX
Worrrking on it now, Captain. (checks console displays) Many systems arrre still malfunctioning orrr offline, Captain. Coorrrdination is difficult.

Devereux gives him a quick smile.

DEVEREUX
Keep at it, Ensign.

Devereux looks back at the starfield on the display. Medium shot as she frowns slightly.

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.

Ship's Log: February 28

She glanced toward the environmental ducts. There was nothing visible to indicate whether they were functioning or not. Her eyes turned toward the status panel on the wall near the door security access. It was blank. The chamber was fairly large, so Fear knew that she would not run out of breathable air soon. She was troubled, though, by the sudden failure of both the environmental and communications systems. While system malfunctions were hardly a rare event aboard the ship, this particular incidence gave her concern when taken in line with recent events.

Moving away from the sealed door, Fear considered her options. She had neither the strength nor equipment to attempt to override the door mechanism. It was possible that some of the medical tools might be used, but she lacked the expertise of how the system worked. Air would not be a problem for some time and she noted that there were two portable systems stored in the room. She considered simply returning to the autopsy in the hope that the malfunctions might be corrected, given the lack of almost any other alternative.

She was deliberating over this when the quiet of the chamber was suddenly pierced by an alarm. The lights dimmed and green lights began to strobe in warning. She recognized that distinctive cadence immediately. The emergency containment protocol had been initiated. In slightly more than two minutes, she would be dead.

#

Thompson waited, staring at the unchanging scene on the main viewscreen. The shift had ended several minutes before, but he was not yet ready to leave the bridge. He sensed Singh waiting with barely concealed impatience but ignored, even feeling a small spark of satisfaction at keeping the officer on edge.

The discovery of Lieutenant Banks had pretty much put an end to his suspicions of the Chief. While he could conceive of a series of events and motives to implicate the Chief as the source of the recent murders, Thompson had to admit that he could not imagine the man deliberately harming the young lieutenant. His careful attention to her was hardly a secret, even if it seemed to go unnoticed by the two of them. That left Thompson, once again, without any apparent suspects. While he was certain that he could handle any direct threat to his own person, he could not deny that they could not continue to lose crewmembers without impacting not only morale, but the basic operation of the ship.

After several more moments, his mind leading him down endless dead-ends and ridiculous scenarios, he surrendered to his fatigue and turned command over to the Second. He left the bridge without a backward glance, his mind still far yet from the potential pleasures of the evening. What he wanted, he decided, was a good meal and a period of relative quiet. It was a rare desire, and he recognized it for what it was—a sign of just how unsettled the situation had become. Maybe after some dinner, he thought, he might be in a more receptive mood for some companionship.

He did not bother stopping at his quarters to change out of his uniform before heading to the galley. Several crew members started at his arrival; a few rose to attention. He ignored them all and headed for food dispensary. The crowd there parted quickly, giving him immediate access. With only scant attention to what was being offered, he quickly loaded his tray and moved off. He had intended to return to his quarters, but suddenly felt unwilling to carry his meal down the corridors to his cabin. He wanted it hot and he wanted it now.

His eyes searched for an empty seat. The crewmembers present watched his gaze, ready to move quickly if it settled on their table. He found a partially vacant table, one that emptied itself quickly as he approached. He did not bothering glancing at the crewmembers that scrambled away, seating himself at one end and starting at once on his meal. No one bothered him as he ate, nor had he expected that anyone would—and it gave him time to think.

Ship's Log: February 27

The scanner recorded the basic details, indicating the deep stab wounds that had precisely pierced Niguchi's heart and then severed his spinal cord at the neck. Two attacks, made quickly one after the other. The attacker might have been carrying two blades; it would require further analysis of the injury sites to make certain. There was another, smaller wound at based of the back of the where the assailant had removed the transponder. By the time that had been done, though, Niguchi was already dead.

Fear continued her examination without yet actually invading the dead ensign's body. That would come later. For now, she focused on capturing the exterior details. The torso was still covered with blood, now quite dry and almost brown. There was little doubt that the chief cause of death was probably sudden, traumatic blood loss. That happened when a hole was opened in the human heart that way. It was unlikely that the slicing of the spinal cord had been immediately fatal. More likely, it had served to paralyze the victim to prevent them from either defending himself or calling for help. Even if Niguchi had managed to raise an alarm, Fear thought it unlikely that she could have saved him before significant damage had occurred from the loss of blood alone.

The wounds appeared to be clean, revealing no obvious traces of who might have owned the weapons that took the ensign's life. The precise lines of the injuries told Fear that the blades had been well-cared for. That in itself was not unusual. Most personal weapons were kept in good repair. A dull or otherwise poorly-maintained blade was usually an invitation to failure in one's defense against a sudden attack.

Nothing in the initial readings showed anything that Fear was not expecting to find. The composition of the blood on the body showed minute traces that indicated that Niguchi had recently indulged in at least one recreational substance. Again, hardly surprising, and the concentration indicated that he had not been impaired while on duty or nor had been injected with them just prior to the attack.

Her preliminary examination concluded, Fear placed the scanner aside and took a treated towel from the container next to the platform and began to wipe away the congealed blood. She worked slowly, concentrating on the area around the chest wound. Frowning slightly, she studied the area carefully. As the scanner had indicated, the opening was neat and precise. Based on the slight deviation in the width of the slash, she judged that Niguchi's attacker had been about the same height as the ensign or slightly taller. She found nothing unexpected around the wound or in the opening that had been Niguchi's right ventricle. She moved aside and allowed the camera a clear angle before proceeding to the wound at the base of the neck.

Although she could probably have managed it alone, she called for the orderly to assist her in turning Niguchi's body over. While waiting for a response, she stripped off her stained gloves and reached for a fresh pair. She busied herself with looking over the initial scans again, but quickly realized that the orderly should have arrived by now. The Lieutenant should still be under deep sedation and Fear had heard no urgent calls to the infirmary that should have delayed the orderly.

She tapped the intercom again. "Come. Assistance required."

Silence answered her. She paused a moment to see if the orderly might enter, having been already on his way. He did not arrive, so Fear pressed the controls on the door panel to go find him. The door did not respond. The indicator lit green, but the door did not open. She pressed the panel again, with the same result.

Assuming a minor malfunction, she gripped the door with her palms, attempting to slide it open manually. It remained stubbornly closed, clearly still locked. Eyes narrowing slightly with annoyance, she pressed the intercom control again, this time calling to the Engineering section.

"Infirmary. Engineering respond."

There was no answer. She repeated her request. "Infirmary. Engineering respond."

Again, she heard nothing.

Ship's Log: February 26

Fear watched the Chief Engineer leave the infirmary. She found his continuing concern for the Lieutenant curious, considering the leverage it gave others over him. The Chief was prone to such weakness, she had observed. Still, she found it interesting that it could be used to manipulate his actions often more effectively than his physiological addictions. He was protective of nearly all members of his engineering team, but the Lieutenant seemed to earn his particular attention. She suspected that his interest might be far more than professional, but she had gathered no evidence to support her hypothesis. As her superior, he was permitted special privileges with members of his staff. As far as she could tell, he had never exercised that prerogative.

The one orderly present stepped quickly out the way as Fear moved toward the Lieutenant's sleeping form. Her expression was at ease in sedated sleep. Fear checked the status readings, noting that nanites she had injected into young officer were performing an acceptable job of repairing the radiation damage to her body. Even with the enhanced treatment, her recovery would take some time. Several of her organs would still need significant regrowth after the sub-microscopic machines completed their work.

She made a small adjustment to the flow of antibiotics flowing into the Lieutenant's systems and then moved away from the treatment bed. Giving the orderly a quick glance, she headed back toward the autopsy labs. She had been distracted from completing that work too many times, for too long.

As she made her way down the short corridor, she felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature. She suddenly recalled the image on the surveillance monitor, showing that someone had been present in the chamber with Niguchi's body. Stopping to check the security controls, she noted that no one had attempted to access the chamber since she had sealed it. Pressing her palm against it, the door unlocked and slid open. Fear stepped inside, pausing for a moment as the lighting system activated. The shadows faded from the chamber, leaving it bright, at least to her Aerian eyes.

Fear stared at Niguchi's dead form for several long seconds before reaching over and deactivating the stasis field. The faint flickering of the purple-blue light faded, revealing only his naked corpse. During her medical training on Earth, she had noted that humans often covered their dead with a large piece of fabric. It was, she supposed, some kind of demonstration of respect for their dead or yielding to their weak constitutions involving visual evidence of the end of life. It did not, however, at the same time explain their predilection for athletic competitions were death, or at least serious injury, was a likely occurrence. Nor did it provide insight into their taste for violent drama. Individual humans she could understand and, to an extent, control. As a species, though, they were contradictory and unreasonable.

After rolling the raised equipment tray closer to the platform, she checked to make sure the camera was set to record the autopsy for later review. She picked up a small general-purpose medical scanner, passing it over the area of the platform where Niguchi's head rested. It chimed softly as it registered the remnants of cells other than those belonging to the dead ensign. Fear felt a mild wash of relief that the scanner had confirmed what the surveillance recording had shown. Her relief was mixed with a sharp sense of curiosity. What had they been doing here? From what she had been able to discern so far, Niguchi's corpse had not been tampered with.

She fed the results into the main medical computer, but it failed to find an immediate match for the cells among the crew. It would need several hours to extrapolate possible matches from the remaining viable fragments. Annoyed, but knowing there was little she could do to hurry the process along, she picked up the scanner again and began the formal autopsy.

Ship's Log: February 25

Leaning slightly, she peered at the lever and the markings beneath it. It was numbered from 1 to 5 with the addition of the letters "R" and "N". The numbers were probably related to one of the measurements on the main status console, but the two letters held no meaning at all for her. It was currently in the positioned marked with a "1", which struck her as odd since the vehicle was not moving. Perhaps, she reasoned, the lever had little to do with the vehicle's motion, but served some other purpose. Very little about this archaic conveyance, she decided, made much sense.

She gripped the level by the obvious handle and pushed, first one direction and then another. She wanted to see what changes, if any, happened to the functioning of the vehicle. The level remained stubbornly in place, although it wiggled just tantalizing enough that Devereux suspected that it would move if done properly. What might happen if she actually got it to move, though, she had no idea.

Looking over the main status console again, she looked for something that might be large enough to be a small screen. On a shuttle, the on-board computer could provide operating instructions if they were needed. In this ancient vehicle, there was evidently no such assistance. Her frustration level was rising, along with the heat inside the vehicle. She knew there must be environmental controls, as their earlier travel had been comfortable, she also had no idea where they were located or how to work them. Giving in to her growing displeasure, she slammed her open hand against the handle of the lever. Although the mechanism vibrated sharply, she succeeded only in it making a sharp metallic sound and bruising her palm.

Ship's Log: February 22

Well, that's definitely progress.

Her gaze swept over the various dials and gauges on the front panel. She noted which ones appeared to be active. Although several were now faintly illuminated, only two showed any activity. There was nothing, though, to indicate what she needed to do next. She was fairly certain, though, that it would require some complex usage of several of the controls.

She tapped the large pedal again, lightly. The sound of the engine increased and then diminished as she eased the pressure of her foot. She saw that the indicator on one of the dials moved noticeably when she did so. Although she guessed that RPM stood for revolutions per minutes, she had no idea how that related to the functioning of the vehicle's engine. She hoped that once she had the vehicle actually moving it might become clear.

Looking down at the floor, she tried the other two pedals. Other than for generating mechanical-sounding noises, they did not seem to have any apparent effect on the operation of the vehicle. She looked around at the other controls. Nothing seemed obvious for setting the vehicle in motion. She felt like she was in shuttle all prepped for launch, but still held by docking clamps. The problem was, she knew there were no such obvious restraints. Something else held the vehicle in place.

She tried to recall what the pilot had done while operating the vehicle and particularly what he had done when he had brought it to a stop. Frowning, she wished she that had paid more attention, but then she had not considered at the time that she might have to operate the vehicle herself so soon. Shifting herself in the seat, she positioned her hands on the circular steering control, closed her eyes and tried to remember the position of the pilot as he had handled the vehicle.

Most of his motions, she recalled, involved small course adjustments using the main control. The pedals must have been involved as well, but she had not noticed them in the shadows of the lower compartment. Occasionally, although she did not know for what reasons, his right hand had moved to the lever in the center section between the two seats. He had made a sharp motion and then returned his hand to the circular steering control.

Ship's Log: February 21

The seemingly meaningless lettering indicated something, but she had no idea what. Different engine modes? Tentatively, she attempted to turn the small dark handle protruding from the cylinder. It did not move freely, so she used more force, at this point figuring that she probably could not do any real damage to the vehicle. If she did, how much worse off would she be?

With a distinct click, it rotated to the next labeled position. A peculiar grinding noise issued from the front of the vehicle. Startled, she released her hold and the sound ended abruptly. Progress? Devereux wondered. Either that or she had managed in her ignorance to critically damage the vehicle's engine. Maybe the wrong setting? she considered. There are several. Figuring she had little to lose at that point, she turned the small handle again in the opposite direction. The engine made a more promising noise before fading into silence.

Releasing a slow breath, she considered the situation again. The vehicle still seemed operational if she could just determine the proper sequence for manipulating the various controls. It must take them years to become trained to operate these archaic things. The ridiculous complexity of the controls sparked an insight. These people were not all that technically sophisticated, she reasoned, so the basic operation of the vehicle to be something that could be easily learned and remembered. The inherent complexity might be a result of limitations of design rather than purposeful.

The side of her boot tapped against the large pedal of the right. Based on its relative size to the others, she reasoned that it was either the one most used or most important, if not both. No harm in trying it . . . I hope.

She pressed the pedal down as far as it would go and turned the small handle again. The engine roared, startling her once again. She released the pedal. The noise faded considerably, but engine continued to operate. Devereux grinned with satisfaction.

Ship's Log: February 20

Devereux glared at the control panel of the accursed vehicle. While a large part of her anger was focused on the vehicle's unwillingness to respond to her wishes, a portion was also aimed at herself for failing to understand the operation of this primitive machine. Even if she was back at on her ship—her ship—or even at the shuttle, she doubted its data library contained the necessary procedures. Taking a slow, calming breath, she considered the situation again.

Although elements of the vehicle's front displays appeared somewhat sophisticated, she realized that it was probably not automated. Unlike nearly all of the craft she had ever piloted, there was no computer system to handle routine procedures. Everything required manual direction. She smiled at the realization, now relishing the challenge.

With this new perspective, she analyzed the various displays in front of her, also considering the arrangement of the three pedals on the floor near her feet. Based on what she had managed to observe, the circular wheel was definitely the main steering control, leaving the narrow pedals below to provide some kind of auxiliary support. She tapped the one of the right, hearing a faint click as she depressed it, but nothing else happened. She repeated the experiment with the remaining two, with equally unresponsive results.

Her attention returned to the main dashboard, realizing that unless she could get the vehicle's engines engaged, nothing else she did would likely have any effect. Her knee brushed the dangling chain of small objects, drawing her attention. She stared at the silver circle again, still mystified as to its purpose.

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.

Ship's Log: January 29

Rusty watched Elizabeth lower her head back against the pillow and close her eyes. He found it reassuring to the see the slow movement of her chest with deep, regular breaths. He looked up as Hope entered the recovery area. She glanced at him with her dark eyes. He felt a familiar chill . . . and then he remembered the empty ampoule. Rusty thought he saw her lips move slightly, as if reading his thoughts. He looked away, back down at Elizabeth's sleeping form.

"I'll be back later, Lizzie," he whispered, and then rose and left the infirmary. He ignored the slight tremor in his left hand.

He made his way back to Engineering. Having less than an hour left in his duty shift, he briefly considered simply heading for his quarters. He dismissed the idea quickly, wanting to distract himself with activity from worrying over Elizabeth's recovery or about what happened to her. He itched to watch the investigation, but suspected that his presence would neither welcome nor helpful. Either Thompson or Hawkes would let him know if they found anything of interest—he hoped.

As he entered the main Engineering deck, he relaxed immediately, feeling a relief akin to arriving safely home after a difficult journey. Several of the crewmembers and technicians looked up as he walked by them. Several gave him quick smiles as he passed. There was the quiet hum of ordinary activity, nothing to indicate that it was any different from any other day on the job in the engineering section. He tried not to think of Elizabeth and how it had been anything but an ordinary day for her. He sighed quietly, thinking that she had endured her share of unpleasant experiences since coming on board.

Rusty wandered through the main deck, heading in the general direction of his office, but with no particular urgency to get there. It felt comforting to just roam for a bit, like a benevolent ruler canvassing his domain, mingling with his loyal subjects. Yet, he found himself studying their faces, wondering which of them might have been involved with recent events. He despised himself for even entertaining such suspicions, but he could not ignore the reality of the situation. Someone (or more than one) had killed other crewmembers—and then had attempted the same with Elizabeth.

A practical consideration did enter his thoughts. Someone would need to complete the repair work that Elizabeth had started; it would be some time before she would return to full duty. Rusty frowned, filled with a growing concern over placing another engineer in possible danger. He could assign a pair of them, and also ask Hawkes to place a guard to watch over them. It was decision that, for the moment, could wait. No one would be permitted in that area until the Tactical Officer was satisfied that they had learned all they could from the site before he allowed repairs to be continued.

Ship's Log: January 18

Hawkes looked over toward Thompson. The First stood silently, but small movements of his hands and jawlines betrayed his frustration and impatience. His eyes kept returning to the Chief, but his earlier determination to accuse the Chief Engineer of involvement with the murders had faded noticeably. Hawkes held little doubt that the Chief's concern over Bank's condition was genuine. He could not see the Chief harming anyone under his authority, except perhaps in self-defense.

"This must end," Thompson growled, turning his eyes toward Hawkes. "Now."

Hawkes could only agree. He nodded slowly, but said nothing. Other than another check of the personnel records and further analysis of the reports from the other assaults, he was as much at a loss as the First was to explain the reasons behind the sudden rise in murderous violence. Something to do with the mutiny . . . ? he wondered.

His gaze moved toward the ventilation screens. Quite literally something in the air? He frowned, but did not voice his suspicions. He would ask for analysis of the environmental systems, particularly in the areas of the ship where the attacks had taken place.

The two officers stood in silence while the security team examined the area. After several minutes of activity, but no results, the First began to fidget noticeably.

"I'm returning to the bridge," he announced. His eyes turned questioningly to Hawkes.

"I'd like to watch over things here for a bit," Hawkes said.

Thompson shot him a mildly annoyed look. "As you wish." He turned and headed down the corridor.

Hawkes felt a small wave of relief. For a moment, he thought he might be ordered to return with Thompson to the bridge. While the First had not been particularly pleased by his request to remain, Hawkes had seen no hint of his potentially dangerous temper. The Tactical Officer did, however, hold grave concern over whoever might find themselves the subject of the First's amusements that evening.

Knowing that there was little that he could do on that matter, he walked over and observed the security team's efforts. They acknowledged his presence and he took a step back as to not crowd them too closely as they worked. He suspected that their inspection would yield little new information, but he wanted to be there if it did.

Ship's Log: January 9

Beside Hawkes, Thompson moved forward and then stopped. The scene apparently had not at all what he had been expecting. To the First's credit, Hawkes admitted silently, he recovered his composure quickly.

"Report!" Thompson snapped. "What happened here?"

The Chief looked away from Bank's still form, glaring at the First. "Another murder, sir." The Chief swallowed. "But this one didn't quite succeed." The Chief's lips moved again, but Hawkes could not make out what he said.

Hawkes studied the scene in silence. The young woman was clearly unconscious. Her hair was plastered wetly against her head. Her uniform was equally damp and smeared with dark stains. None of them appeared to be blood. The movements of the medical team told him that her condition was serious, but not critical.

Thompson's jaw tightened. Hawkes was not certain whether it was due to the new assault or the Chief's attitude; he suspected both. The First turned toward the pair of security guards.

"Investigate the area," he told them. "I want to know how this happened." He motioned to the security escort who already been present. "Someone brought the Lieutenant here from her repair station. Check the surveillance logs of all of the corridors and access passages between there and here."

The guard saluted. "At once, First." He turned and moved quickly down the corridor.

The medical team has transferred Banks to a stretcher. "We're to move her, sir," one of the medics told the First.

Thompson nodded. "I want a report on her condition and injuries immediately."

"Yes, sir," the medic acknowledged. She and her companion began carrying the stretcher toward the infirmary.

Hawkes watched them depart and then turned his attention to the security team examining the site for evidence. He was anxious for their report, but he expected that it would provide him with no additional clues as to the possible identity or motives of the Lieutenant's assailant. Someone—or more than one—was killing off crewmembers. To make the matter more complex, each murder had been committed in an entirely different way. The first ones had indicated a kind of precision, carefully planned and executed. The others seemed rushed and, while not random, less carefully completed. Hawkes was not yet certain which category Bank's abduction fell into. The overall pattern—or lack of one—did concern him, though. It seemed indicate that more than one person was involved, and not necessarily working together.

Determining the motive—or motives—behind the assaults would go a long way toward explaining them and very likely lead to those involved. So far, only the first two murders had any hint of commonality, but not enough to suggest a specific pattern. The others . . . Hawkes made a note to review the security reports again when he returned to the bridge. Fear's autopsy results might also provide additional clues—should she find time to actually complete them any time soon.

Ship's Log: January 8

Devereux leaned back in the pilot's chair, arms crossing her chest. As she surveyed the instrument panel as a whole, her foot tapped idly against the large pedal on the floor. She fought back an urge to pound at the circular steering control. In that moment, she might have forgiven Rusty or Elizabeth for any part they might have had in the mutiny if they could tell her how to operate this damned machine.

#

Hawkes ordered an additional security team to the Chief's location. His console reported that a medical team had already been requested. He looked toward Thompson to see the First already heading for the hatch. His hand went automatically to his side, checking for the presence of his weapon, and he followed the First into the corridor.

His quick strides brought him quickly to Thompson's side, despite the First's more powerful gait. The First cast a sharp, somewhat annoyed glance in his direction, his lips turned in a determined sneer. He said nothing, though. He was prepared to take action, not necessarily before careful thought to the consequences, based on the Tactical Officer's experience with the First.
As the pair descended onto the deck, Hawkes caught the distinctive odor of burnt metal.

Whatever had happened, someone had cut into one of the bulkhead—or there had been another malfunction and bulkhead breach. The tenor of the voices ahead seemed to indicate the first, as did the lack of warning klaxons. Rounding the corner, Hawkes saw the Chief kneeling beside a limp figure in a violet-tinged uniform. His face betrayed deep concern and, Hawkes was surprised to see, barely controlled anger.

Ship's Log: January 7

There was a myriad of round dials of varying sizes. Devereux guessed that the two largest ones were the most important—or at least the ones most frequently needed. She knew, from practical piloting experience, that in cases of a system malfunction any of the status indicators could be the most important. Of the two dials, the left one seemed to indicate velocity, based on its greater range of numbers than the one on the right. Both sat at zero, as she expected, since the vehicle was not in motion. That was the key issue, she mused: how to get the vehicle moving. She had little desire to remain here in the desert until another vehicle appeared. Not only was she growing impatient, but it might lead to awkward questions about the vehicle's original occupants.

She noted again the object inserted into a slot toward the lower right of the throttle column. An array of objects dangled from a chain attached to it; she had no idea of their functions. Many appeared to be solely decorative. Silently, she studied the entire assembly, deciding that it was some kind of security device, intended to keep unauthorized personnel from operating the vehicle. Not a problem, she hoped, as the device remained intact. As long as it doesn't also require a fingerprint or retinal scan . . . Gingerly, she touched the dark end of the object, relieved when no alarms sounded and she did not receive any kind of warning shock.

The odd labels around the circumference seemed to indicate various operational modes. She had no idea what any of them might be, but she felt reasonably confident that none of them were self-destruct. It seemed unlikely, she decided, that a vehicle like this, in this era, would have such a capability. She reached out and gripped the small device more firmly, attempting to turn it in the direction of one of the other markings. It did not move at once, she applied slightly more pressure until she felt a reassuring movement as it turned downward toward the next marking.

She jumped back against the seat, releasing her hold on the device as a loud grinding sound issued from the front of the vehicle. It was silenced at once. Devereux felt her heart race at the sudden noise, forcing herself to calm down. Nothing had exploded. She only hoped that she had not managed to damage the vehicle.

Her eye caught a trio of levers on the floor. The one on the right was largest, so again probably the most-used. Another security device? she wondered. Devereux released a quiet sigh. Operating one of these primitive vehicles was a lot more complex than she had anticipated. Well, she chided herself, it is primitive. For a moment, she wished she had not been forced to kill the pilot and his passenger, but she somehow doubted either would have made this process much easier. In addition, her ignorance of how to operate the vehicle might likely have raised suspicions and questions.