Ship's Log: November 21

She forced herself to try to relax. Panicking would help nothing, she cautioned herself, fighting back a growing sense of despair. She focused once again on mentally assessing her situation. I'm still on the ship, she thought. Somewhere. Without sounds or sight to guide her, she could only guess at where she was being held. The Sapphire Night was not large, but there were plenty of places where someone could hide a hostage—or body—where it might not be discovered for some time. Had she been left here to die? she wondered. Why not just kill her? Maybe I'm supposed to be dead, she thought, but the drugs didn't finish the job like they were supposed to.

Feeling was definitely returning to her limbs, she noticed. She could feel the individual movements of her fingers now. There was the rough sensation of straps of some kind binding her arms and legs. She still felt them distantly, but a small sense of relief to realize that she was bound and not paralyzed. It was still dark, though, and that continued to worry her. The pain around her right eye had subsided to an occasional prick of discomfort. She tried to shift position again, but her larger muscles still failed to obey her. Growing frustration and anger were added to her current palette of emotions.

Her mind flashed back to the moments in the corridors before she had lost consciousness: the guard convulsing as he died, the streaks of bright red blood on her fingers, darkness filling her sight. The scenes played back much slower in her mind than they had taken place in reality. The last moments were filled with an encroaching haze of gray. A faint wash of light passed across it and Elizabeth tried to penetrate it, to see beyond the forming clouds of darkness. She felt as if it were a shadowy curtain hiding the identity of the one who had attacked her and killed the Security crewman.

The numbness continued to recede. She sensed her natural hand, wrist, and lower legs. Her attempts to operate her cybernetic one continued to be resisted. Her nose also itched, which annoyed her. The return of sensation proceeded at a frustratingly slow pace. She had expected it to fade in a rush toward the end as her body flushed out the poison.

A sharp noise sounded from somewhere nearby, the clanging sound of metal striking metal. There followed a rough scraping sound and then silence. After a few moments, the sound was repeated, slightly fainter this time, it seemed. Or my ears adjusted to it. She waited for it to return again so she could decide, but after several moments, only silence awaited her.

She could feel nearly to her shoulder now. There were also sensations below and near her waist that she tried to ignore. Her mouth seemed to work now, she thought, and then realized than she had been gagged by a band around it. It felt like the same material that held her arms and legs. It was strong, barely flexing as she tried to strain against it. She relented with a muffled sigh, as she could tell that her muscles were still not responding fully. Which was just as well, she decided, because the one thing she really wanted to do was bang her head against the wall.

#

Hawkes' gaze moved immediately to the main screen.

"Show us," Thompson ordered, also turning his attention toward the screen.

The scene changed as Pyrafox routed the images from the navigational sensors to the bridge's main display. Hawkes glanced down to see the navigator attempting to enhance the images, but they remained hazy and indistinct.

"Are you certain?" he asked, moving toward the navigator's station.

Pyrafox looked up the screen, made an expression that resembled a grimace, and then went back to manipulating the controls. "Cannot be cerrrtain, sirrr," he replied. "Too distant."

Thompson approached one of the sensor stations. "Scan them," he commanded.

"Trying, sir," the crewman at the console said. "They're just out of range, though," he reported. "It's hard to get any good readings."

"Keep trying," Thompson barked.

"Yes, sir," the sensor specialist said, his voice quavering slightly.

Hawkes could see the tension form in the First's shoulder. For a moment, he thought Thompson might actually strike the crewman. He seemed to regain some measure of control, though, and stepped back a pace from the station. Hawkes turned his attention back to the screen.

Is it Captain Devereux? he wondered. Had she already managed to gather forces to help her regain the ship? Or was this a new threat?

"Well?" Thompson's voice boomed out.

The crewman cowered slightly at the question, still frantically working the controls of his station. "There might be four or five ships," he reported, his voice carrying a tone of anxiety and frustration.

"Might be?" The First repeated, his voice hard, with a heavy edge that belied the threat carried in it.

"I can't tell for sure, sir," the sensor specialist tried to explain. "They keep moving in and out of extreme sensor range." He finally decided to stop his futile attempts to push the ship's scanners beyond their capabilities. "There might be more completely out of range," he said. "We just can't tell at this distance." He remained completely still, clearly waiting for the First's retribution for his failure.

"Should we investigate it?" Hawkes asked carefully, stepping near the First.

He looked up at the face of the large, dark-skinned man. It was a pivotal moment in the current chain of authority on the ship. Fear had given specific orders to hold their position until the readings from the Captain's jump to slipstream could be analyzed. Although she had led the mutiny attempt, Thompson was next in line to command. So far, he had deferred to her judgment.

Hawkes waited, watching as Thompson silently assessed his options. It was a delicate decision point. His eyes glanced up at the main screen, uncomfortably aware that was a small fleet waiting out there, just out of sensor range. He had little doubt that those ships knew where they were. Being a larger vessel, with a power signature to match, the Sapphire Night would be much easier to detect.

"Shall I alert Fear?" he asked Thompson, intentionally goading the First into making a choice.

Thompson glared down at him, his sturdy jaw set in a hard line. Hawkes met his gaze evenly, having fully expected it. His hand slid casually down toward his waist. He did not expect the First to attack, but he had seen men driven to for less reason.

"I am in command here," Thompson said. His voice was deep and flat. Something in his tone revealed an underlying uncertainty. Hawkes did not think that anyone else would have detected it. The First straightened, his posture looking to Hawkes as truly commanding in a manner he rarely witnessed.

"Navigator," the First called out. His voice was even and assured. "Plot a course toward those ships." He turned toward Hawkes with a slight, sly smile. "I want a slow, wide course so it doesn't look like we're heading directly toward them," he explained. "I just want us to get into sensor range."

"Yes, sirrr," Pyrafox acknowledged, his mouth opening in an appreciative grin. He turned back to his console and began the calculations for the course change.

"Helm," Thompson continued. "I want a nice, slow course." The predatory smile grew. "I want us to look as non-threatening as possible."

The young ensign seemed mildly baffled by his orders, but turned back to her station, ready to obey them. Hawkes caught a bright flash of alarm in her eyes, but he suspected it had far less to do with the First's orders and much more about further punishment from Fear for following orders she had not given.

Pyrafox turned partway in his seat to look at Thompson. "Courrrse rrready, sirrr."

Thompson exchanged a single look with Hawkes and then stood firmly, staring at the main view screen. "Carry out the course change, helm," he said. "As ordered."

"Yes, sir," came a quiet reply and the young woman put the ship into motion.

On the main screen, Hawkes saw the stars begin to move as the ship slowly changed its heading. After a moment, he returned to his station. Thompson remained standing, his arms crossed over his well-muscled chest as he watched the activity around him.

There may be hope for that boy yet, Hawkes thought. He returned to his work, hiding the hint of a faint smile behind a mask of steel-eyed control.

#

Devereux felt as though she had walked for hours, but a glance at her chronometer told her that it had only been slightly more than an hour. The sky had lightened considerably, but the day had not yet progressed enough for the chill to lift from the air. She had begun to wonder at the wisdom of concealing the shuttle so far from any of the settlements. It was still the right tactical move, she knew, but her feet were informing her otherwise.

She spied a small collection of medium-sized boulders only about ten meters away, just off the side of the road. It took her only a few minutes to reach them and she sat down gratefully, ignoring how the rough stone bit at the back of her flight suit. Once again, she took a long look along each direction of the roadway and then pulled out the portable scanner. It took a moment for it to gather its readings. As before, though, it showed no vehicles moving toward her location.

Sitting the scanner on the rock beside her, she unfastened her landing jacket and removed it. The temperature of the air was finally beginning to move upward. She could feel that thin sheen of perspiration forming that told her that she would be uncomfortably warm soon if she did not remove it. Laying the jacket down on top of the portable scanner, she reached around behind her and removed one of the remaining drink pouches. She looked down the length of road, judging that she should reach the edge of the settlement she had seen on the map well before she ran out of liquids to drink.

She considered taking a mild analgesic for her aching feet, but decided to hold off for now. She might need it even more later, she thought, particularly if she really did have to walk the entire way to the settlement. Based on what she had observed, she had anticipated that she would have encountered at least one of their vehicles on the roadway. They seemed to be numerous everywhere else, and yet she had seen none here. The very remoteness she sought for protection had conspired against her. Much like that treacherous crew . . .

Her darkening thoughts were interrupted by a muffled sound coming for underneath her landing jacket. She heard it again and shoved the jacket aside. It was repeated and she lifted the portable scanner, studying the display. Something was heading toward her from the north. It was not moving quickly, but its course was bringing it in her direction. Buoyed by the hope of that something was on its way that could transport her more quickly than her own boots, she stood up and stared into the distance, watching for a visible sign of the incoming vehicle. It was still too distant for her to see, she knew. Still, she gathered her things, readying herself for its approach.

Ship's Log: November 20

She activated the display and called up a view of the autopsy chamber. It appeared dim and filled with silvery shadows. She enhanced the image, brightening it without actually increasing the ambient lighting inside the room. It appeared empty other than for the ensign's corpse. Everything appeared as she had left it before responding to the Chief Engineer's call. Her anxiety refused to recede, however. She manipulated the controls, cycling the internal sensors through its standard set of scanning modes. They all reported nothing unusual until she reached the results for the infrared heat signature scan.

The room appeared in various shades of blues, with small splashes of brighter color near the ventilation openings. Another, unexpected spot of brightness caught Fear's eye and she enhanced the image again. There was a definite patch of greenish-blue, near the dead ensign's head. Fear stored the image, recognizing its shape. Someone had been the chamber recently. Fear stared at the screen as the faintly glowing outline of a humanoid hand faded into the surrounding darkness.

#

Thompson watched with satisfaction as several crewmen from Security walked onto the bridge and took up a position near each of the entry hatches. They would be doing to same outside in the corridor as well. His palm skimmed the surface of his weapon, comforting him with its presence. The bridge was secured—for now.

He walked a circuit of the bridge, reassuring himself that everyone was performing the tasks that they were assigned to do. Pushing back thoughts that he had essentially made himself a prisoner on his own bridge, he told himself that he could leave at any time, albeit with a Security escort. He finished his quick tour, arriving to stand at his customary station. Once again, he stared at the scene of open space on the main view screen. Here we sit, he mused sourly. A big, floating target.

Sensing the increased tension of the crew around him, he realized that his own had risen as well. He idly noted the young ensign at one of sensor stations. Her dark, chestnut-tinted hair was pulled back into a single, long tail that ran down her back. She had sharp cheekbones, but her face was softened by the line of her jaw and chin. Thompson caught a glimpse of her gray-green eyes as she glanced in his direction. The ensign turned away quickly, but Thompson was certain that he read interest in that brief look. He had only started to take a step toward her console when Hawkes' voice interrupted him.

"First," the Tactical Officer called out. His tone was quiet and respectful.

Thompson felt a small smile form on his lips. Maybe he can be swayed . . . He turned toward the Tactical Officer. "Yes, Lieutenant Hawkes?" He addressed the older man with an even tone of authority.

"I’d like to speak with you, sir," the aged officer said.

Something in his expression troubled Thompson. "Now?" the First asked. He felt both slightly incredulous and more than a little relieved at having something tangible to do.

Hawkes regarded him calmly, looking for a moment like a wise grandfather—wounded and scarred by battle, but insightful nonetheless. "It would be preferable."

Thompson nodded to him and motioned with a tilt of his head toward an empty corner of the bridge. He considered using the command deck, but something in the Hawkes' manner told him that he did not want this conversation that well observed. He walked over to the place he had indicated, the Tactical Officer reaching it first. He took a formal stance, with his hands folded behind his back, and waited the older officer to speak.

"First," Hawkes began. "I'm not certain your orders were the most prudent form of action." He said it as a matter of fact, his tone carrying no hint of accusation. Still, Thompson felt a flush of anger.

He stared at the Tactical Officer, intently studying the scar and eye patch that adorned the right side of the old man's face. "I'm listening," Thompson said. His voice was harsh and clipped.

"Are you certain that no one among the Security division is responsible for these murders?" Hawkes asked him, meeting the First's sharp gaze. "Do you know whether the traitor might not be among their ranks?"

Thompson's ire faded as the realization behind the old man's questions sank in. Through his orders, he had given the Security the free run of the Sapphire Night. There was a chance that the Tactical Officer's concerns were unfounded, but there currently existed no evidence to either support or refute them. He looked around at the guards posted at each of the hatchways. None of them glanced back at him as he surveyed the room. Thompson felt the creeping sense of uncertainty grow within him.

"It has been done," Hawkes concluded quietly.

Thompson looked back at him, thinking that he could not rescind the order so quickly. Not only would it make him look foolish, but might prove as dangerous as maintaining it. Hawkes said nothing, waiting for Thompson to make a decision. Nothing in the old man's gaze told him what choice he was expected to make.

“Firrrst.” A voice penetrated the turmoil of his thoughts.

Thompson managed to focus, and turned his gaze away from Hawkes. He saw Pyrafox switching him expectantly.

“Yes, Ensign?” he said, his voice empty of it usual tenor.

“Sirrr,” the navigator said. “Therrre arrre severrral objects appearrring at long rrrange.” He paused, glancing in turn at both of the officers. “They appearrr to be ships.”

#

Elizabeth perceived that she was slowly regaining consciousness. Thick veils covered her thoughts, rippling away one by one, revealing more and more of her mind. Part of her resisted it, sensing the pain waiting for her on the other end. Awareness suddenly flooded into her, bringing with it a wave of pain and nausea. Her head ached with a kind of pressure that resembled nothing she could remember. She decided she would try to open her eyes anyway and then realized that she already had.

It was dark. Her face hurt around her right eye. She realized that someone had removed her optical implant—forcibly from the raw stab of pain she felt there, the sensation of torn flesh. She tried to reach up to touch it, but found that she could not move. Her legs seemed similarly immobilized. Drugged? she wondered. She knew that Fear had anesthetics that could do such a thing; she had seen them used. Victims paralyzed against movement or escape while they were tortured for information, or just for punishment.

Forcing the images from her mind, she focused on the things she could feel. The ripped skin around her right eye hurt. She worked her jaw, found she could discern the movement of the muscles and bones, but could not find enough control to speak. Next, she attempted to work the fingers of her natural hand. They might have moved slightly, or not, she could not tell for certain. All sensation felt thick and distant. She repeated the attempt with her cybernetic arm, but again failed to know whether she had succeeded. There had been no sensation at all that time, she noted. She knew the arm was still present; she could feel the pressure of one of its supports faintly running up perpendicular to the lines of her ribs. Her hearing seemed equally blunted by whatever had affected her. Faint sounds came to her, but muffled strangely so that she could not identify them.

The nausea waned, but the pain that seemed to come from inside her skull remained. Sensation, she thought, was starting to return. She felt a vague tingling at the ends of her fingers and toes. The area around her remained dark, though. She tried to turn her head again, hoping to find some variation in the shadows, but her muscles still refused to obey her. She could feel herself blink, she realized, and began to wonder if she had also been blinded by whatever had caused the numbness.

Ship's Log: November 19

He felt uncomfortably aware of the weapon at his waist, but also reassured by its presence. His location on the bridge gave him an excellent vantage point of the most likely entry points; he should have ample warning should it be invaded.

The intercom chimed for his attention. It was a report from the team he sent to locate the missing guard in Section Seven.

"Hawkes," he said. "Report."

"We've found Santoro, sir," a male voice sounded over the channel. "He's dead."

Hawkes felt his jaw tighten at the news. "On my way."

#

The landscape held a ghostly blue-gray glow as she examined it through the reticule. The eyepiece was in many ways similar to the one Elizabeth now sported on a regular basis, but Devereux wore solely as an external device. She held no desire to mar her appearance with even the hint of a cybernetic appliance, no matter how potentially useful.

The desert was filled with quiet noises. Many of them ceased abruptly at her approach and passage. She checked the map displayed on the portable scanner, noting that she was less than three hundred meters from the roadway. She planned to follow it to the small settlement she had seen. It was not the most direct path, but would probably get her there more quickly than working her way through the dry shrubs and rocks.

To her left, a thin glow of yellow and pink on the horizon told her that sun was beginning to rise. It should start to warm up soon, she hoped, tucking the jacket closer against her body. The stars looked strange here, she noted, as if blocked by a nebula haze. She realized then how long it had been since she had seen them dulled through the atmosphere of a planet. Down here, they lacked the crystal brightness of deep space. The thought brought a sense of melancholy and a renewed sense of anger.

They have my ship! she raged silently. Between escaping the ship, flying the shuttle, and dealing with the realization of where—and when­­—she had ended up, she had not really taken the time to assess the other facts of her situation. Her crew, led by that Aerian bitch, had attempted mutiny. They had essentially succeeded, she knew, by forcing her to flee. While she remained alive, though, the ship remained hers—if she could get back to it.

Trudging carefully in the darkness, she wondered how likely that really was. In her own era, time travel had remained an unproven myth. Somehow, she was going to need to recreate the same untested conditions, using technology centuries old. It was not a promising start, but she knew she had one advantage. She knew it was possible and had access to, if not the actual technology itself, then the information on how to create it. The names she had found in the shuttle's database brought her considerable hope, though.

The wide black strip of highway lay only a few more meters ahead. She stopped at a barrier made of three parallel bands of barbed metal strands. They were spaced too closely for her to squeeze between them and she was reluctant to attempt to climb over them. Primitive, she thought, but effective. She did not know why the barrier was there, other than that it prevented her from reaching her desired destination. She removed the weapon from her waist and, with three quick bursts, severed the strands. As the sharp sound of the blast faded quickly in the vacant desert, she nodded with satisfaction as the thin spiked cables sagged to the dirt. She stepped through the new opening in the fence and continued to the edge of the roadway.

She looked down both directions of the dark, paved highway, seeing no signs of vehicles coming from either direction. Checking the portable scanner again, she headed south along the side of the road. It showed no indications of anything that might be a moving vehicle for several kilometers in each direction. Breathing a soft sigh, she replaced the scanner at her waist and reached for one of the drink pouches.

The sky was beginning to lighten considerably, forming long shadows where only gray night had existed before. She switched off the reticule and tucked it away. At this point, it was becoming more annoying than useful. In addition, she wanted to conserve its power, not knowing when she might be able to recharge it again. Ahead of her, the sky lightened from indigo to sapphire, the stars fading from view in the growing daylight. As she walked, she hoped that she had not lost the stars as well.

#

Rusty stared down at the guard as Fear made her report to the bridge. His neck bent at an unnatural angle, marking clearly the cause of his death. Fear knelt, her fingers running lightly along the twisted line of the dead crewman's neck. Lifting them, she studied them quickly and then reached for her portable medical scanner. Rusty saw that her fingers had come away clean. No blood, he noted.

"Blunt trauma," Fear reported in her curiously detached tone. "Indications of attempted strangulation."

"Huh?"

At Rusty's puzzled sound, she pointed toward a series of faint purplish bruises along the man's throat. It did not reassure him. Two crewmen had been found dead in less than an hour and each had been killed by a different method. He stepped aside as two medical crewmen arrived with a litter. As they turned the guard's body over onto its back, its head rolled grotesquely to one side. They began to slide it onto the litter when Rusty stopped them.

"Wait a minute," he said, his voice carrying a mixture of authority and curiosity.

The two medics glanced toward Fear, who gave them a small nod of affirmation. They shifted back out of the way as Rusty worked his way past the body, into the narrow space where it had been found and looked around. He then knelt and gingerly checked around the man's waist. Frowning, he looked toward Fear.

"His comm and weapon are missing."

Something subtle changed in her expression and he saw her hand move toward her own weapon. Her dark eyes surveyed the area, moving in wide, sweeping motions. He felt the urge to do the same. He then realized that, as usual, he was not carrying one. Hoping to hide his disquiet, he motioned for the medics to resume their work and backed out into the corridor. He glanced again at Fear and then heard a warning tone issue from the shipwide intercom.

"This is the First," Thompson's deep cadence sounded from the speakers. "The ship is now under Security Level One lockdown. All off-duty personnel are confined to quarters. Crewmembers on duty are to remain at their posts. You are not to leave them without permission or escort. These orders are in effect until further notice."

As if on cue, two guards appeared from around the curve of the passageway. One of them, a thin stringy man who Rusty did not recognize spoke. "You are away from your station, Chief." His eyes carried a bright, predatory gleam, as if challenging Rusty to dispute him. The other guard, a woman of medium build, looked sympathetic, but Rusty noted that her hand remained resting on her weapon.

Rusty glanced over at Fear, who tilted her head slightly, indicating that he should go. He frowned, but realized that there was nothing more he could here. Turning with a heavy sigh, he allowed the pair from Security to escort him back to the main engineering deck.

They followed him the entire way, taking position outside the main hatch as he went inside. Entering the main deck, he noticed the unusual hush that filled the area. He felt the eyes of everyone present on him as he walked through. Forcing a smile, he caught the eyes of the nearest ones and said with an exaggerated shrug, "I'm sure it's just our faithful First exercising his authority."

He grinned at the strained laughter that passed through the small crowd. At the best of times, it was perilous to make such remarks, but he hoped it would help ease the palpable tension. Nervous people made mistakes, and he did not need any mistakes from his people right now. They needed something else to focus their attention on.

"Boris," he called to the engineer at one of the environmental system monitoring stations. "Have teams run a complete diagnostic sweep on both Deck Two and Four. Have the next shift start on the other decks."

"At once, Chief," the broad-shouldered crewman said. He turned to the technicians nearby, his closely-shaved head bobbing slightly as he gave out instructions.

Taking one more look around the engineering deck, he returned to his office. Resting on his desk, forgotten until that moment, he spied the tablet that Fear had given him. Wouldn't hurt to have something to distract myself with either, he thought, and activated the tablet.

#

Fear watched the guards as they escorted the Chief Engineer away. She observed that none had yet been sent for her. Apparently, the First was not yet willing to push his authority quite that far. Stepping into the small space where the guard's body had been found, she scanned for evidence that might indicate who had killed him. The readings were inconclusive; she would need to evaluate them in more detail with better equipment. Falling into step behind the medics, she followed the litter back to the infirmary.

When they reached it, she found two guards there, one posted on each side of the main hatch. She felt a stab of anger, and yet also admiration, at the First's tactics. Rather than force a confrontation in the corridor, he would attempt to secure her here. She gave each guard a single glance, making a note of their identity, and entered the infirmary.

The medics took their load to the autopsy lab without instruction. She stopped to check on the condition of the one remaining patient in the recovery area, noting that she was still sedated, but should recover fully. Part of her wanted to return to the bridge, but she knew that chiefly came from wanting to defy the First's orders. There was no real need of her presence there, but it did give her more of a sense of being in control than being in the infirmary. Still, the infirmary was her refuge. When all else failed, she could bury her mind in her duties.

With that thought, she realized that she had not completed the autopsy of Ensign Niguchi. The Chief Engineer's call had interrupted her work. She did not believe it would require much more of her time. One would have to be completed on the other crewman's body as well. She walked down the short corridor to the chamber that held Niguchi's remains. She paused, seeing a gap around the doorway. Her hand lowered toward her knife, her senses moving into a hyper-alert state. I am certain I secured that door. She frowned, realizing that in her rush to respond to the Chief Engineer's request for assistance that it was possible that she had neglected to do so. No, she thought, replaying the scene in her mind. I remember securing that door.

She glanced quickly down the other sections of the passage, but saw no one else. Stepping closer, her boots made little noise on the metal deck. She stopped outside the room and listened. Only the faint sounds of the cooling and environmental systems came to her. She saw the emergency panel mounted to the left of the hatch. Pressing it would seal the chamber, unleashing a flood of heat, radiation, and paralyzing gas into it. Almost anything living organism known would perish within minutes. Activating the emergency biohazard protocol would also destroy Niguchi's body, along with any evidence it might to his killer's identity. She preferred to avoid that outcome if she could.

As quietly as she could manage, she approached the door, positioning herself next to the emergency panel. With her left hand poised above the large activation switch, she peered into the dim interior of the autopsy lab. From where she stood, everything appeared as she had left it. Giving in to her unease, she tapped the smaller button above the emergency control, securing the door without triggering the other safeguards. The hatch slid closed and she heard the locking mechanism engage. Feeling a hollow sense of relief, she headed back to the main area to check what the surveillance systems showed her about the interior of the chamber.

Ship's Log: November 18

He was in mid-stride when the Chief Engineer’s call for medical aid sounded over the speaker. He heard Fear’s prompt response and exchanged a quick glance with the Tactical Officer. Hawkes seemed alarmed, but it was sometimes difficult to read for certain what the Tactical Officer was thinking.

Thompson stabbed at the intercom control. “This is the First,” he said, a rough edge of command in his tone. “Report.”

“Crewman Higuchi is dead,” Fear’s voice replied. “His security escort is not present.”

Thompson glared at Hawkes. The Tactical Officer stared back, his expression hard. “My men follow their orders,” he told the First, his tone carrying just the hint of accusation.

“Apparently not,” Thompson retorted sharply. He watched as Hawkes consulted his console, trying to locate the missing guard.

“Deck Four, Section Seven,” the Tactical Officer reported. “He’s not responding to communications.”

“Send someone there to find him,” Thompson snapped.

Hawkes regarded him coldly. “Already done.”

The men stared at each other in silence for several long moments. Around them, the bridge grew quiet as the other crewmembers present waited for the silent drama between the two officers to play itself out.

Without taking his eyes completely from Thompson, Hawkes spoke into the intercom. “Remain there for the moment, Doctor,” he said. “Your services might be required again shortly.”

“Acknowledged,” came Fear’s reply.

Thompson turned away with a growing sense of anger. He remained standing, looking down at his station, awaiting the next bit of bad news.

#

Elizabeth heard the Chief’s call for medical assistance, but dismissed it quickly. It was not all that unusual for the Chief to be roaming around the ship, particularly if one of his crew were hurt. Injuries requiring immediate attention were not that uncommon, particularly among the engineering staff. With the large number of systems on board the ship, and the limited number of technicians available to maintain them, dangerous malfunctions occurred with some frequency.

The access plate snapped loose and clanged against the metal deck plates, obscuring the words that came over the communications channel. She had managed to convince the Security ensign to at least hold the plate in place while she finished unfastening it. He could have at least tried to keep it from falling, she thought irritably. She slid it along the deck, leaning it against the next bulkhead. One down . . . she thought, and studied the damaged one still fastened in place.

She noted that it was warped outward slightly, mostly likely from the force of the energy released by overloaded conduit. It’ll probably be more difficult to remove, she warned herself, silently hoping that none of the bolts holding in it place had been melted or fused by the explosion. She repeated the process she had used to release the previous access panel, starting at the bottom and working her way up each side.

Loosening the bolts across the bottom caused her no problems, but she had only managed to unfasten three on the left side before she began having trouble. In addition to the bulkhead, she guessed, the strut underneath must have buckled slight as well. She really hoped that she would not be forced to pry the damaged panel off, as that would mean additional repairs before she was done.

She tried the opposite side of the panel with slightly more success, but still met with the same issue when she had gone about two-thirds of the way up on the seam. With her eyes tracing the path of the remaining bolts, she released a slow sigh, wondering if it was going to take her a lot longer than she had originally anticipated to release the panel. It had to be removed in order to be replaced, she knew. So it was not as though she had a choice in the matter, but she had hoped to spend the remainder of her shift checking through the ruined conduits and cables, not trying to coax a single, recalcitrant panel off a bulkhead.

Glancing at the less-than-helpful ensign, she decided to see which bolts she could manage to work loose and then maybe ask the guard for his help again. Or maybe, she thought with some hope, Niguchi will be back by then. She frowned slightly as she reached up and started on the top row of bolts. I wonder where he disappeared to? This’d be a whole lot easier with some experienced help.

She managed to get about a third of the bolts removed before gave up. Kneeling down in front of her equipment case, she looked for something she might be able to modify to help her. Her thigh muscles complained from stretching up to reach the uppermost bolts. She ignored them as she sorted through the equipment case, seeking inspiration in its depths.

A sudden, muffled noise caught her attention. She looked over to see her unwilling companion from Security fall to the deck, clutching feebly at short knife in the center of a quickly widening crimson stain on his chest. She could tell that the wound was deep and undoubtedly painful, but the weak twitching of his hands as he fell told her something else: poison. Someone wanted to make sure that the wound was fatal.

Keeping low, she moved over to the guard, checking at his neck for a pulse. As she expected, she found none. He had been essentially dead, she knew, before he had even hit the deck. She did not even bother to roll him over, already seeing in her mind’s eye the rictus of death on his face from the fast-acting toxin. Feeling the sticky sensation of drying blood on her fingers, she wiped them quickly on the dead ensign’s sleeve. It left a brownish smear against the dark tan of his uniform.

Glancing around quickly, she looked for signs of the guard’s attacker. She saw no one, guessing that the dagger had been thrown. Activating the other modes of her optical implant, she scanned the area again. Abruptly, a gray fog filled her vision. Jamming signal of some kind? she wondered with a growing sense of panic. She switched back to normal vision to find a dark-clad figure blocking her sight. It was the last thing she saw before her universe faded into blackness.

#

As he switched off the intercom, he observed the contained anger in the First’s posture. He made a note of it, but gave it little other consideration. There was a time to act, he thought, and a time to let events take their course. This was the former. A dead crewman, while not necessarily a cause for major alarm, was definitely worthy of some caution after the events of the past few days. Although he had not finished reviewing the personnel records of Lieutenant Banks, he closed them and began an evaluation of those of Ensign Niguchi.

The ensign’s service record was brief, as this had been only his second posting since graduating with significant honors from the Academy. His first deployment had been a six-month assignment at the monitoring outpost on the Deimos station. He had requested a transfer to the Sapphire Night shortly after mysterious disappearance of his supervisor there. That in itself was not particularly noteworthy, Hawkes noted, for many officers throughout the Coalition desired a position among the crew here. The remaining details of Niguchi’s record were sparse, denoting no meaningful disciplinary actions or associations that might rate him as a security risk. In short, nothing that provided Hawkes with any clues as to why someone might wish to have him killed.

Assassination among the lowest ranks, while it did occur, was extraordinarily rare because of how little might be gained by it in relation to its dangers—perhaps the chance at a choice assignment, or the need for personal revenge, but little else. A young officer seen as too ambitious, too soon, might suddenly find themselves at the wrong end of a knife or the victim of an unfortunate accident. Niguchi did not fit the profile.

Hawkes thought back to the scene in the corridor on Deck Four. Banks had ordered Higuchi to retrieve the sensor logs for that section since the station in that area had been render inoperative in the overload explosion. Higuchi’s body had been found far from the nearest station he could have used. Had his nervousness been more than the presence of superiors? Had he planned to meet someone after he had retrieved the logs? If so, for what reason? Had he managed to complete his assignment before he died?

The Tactical Officer played these questions over in his mind as he brought up the security logs. He scrolled through the results, seeing that Higuchi had accessed the sensor data at approximately the correct time, only minutes after he had left the damaged compartment, and at a station a short distance from Section Four.

Hawkes considered the distance between that station and where the dead ensign had been found. There had been no signs that his body had been dragged across the corridor. He had died there, in Section Eight, or close enough that his body had not needed to be moved far. It did not seem as though whoever had killed the crewman had gone to any effort to hide the location of the body. That meant, Hawkes concluded, that Niguchi had gone to meet his killer. That brought him back to the question of: Why?

There was nothing to indicate that Niguchi was particularly loyal to the Captain. He had performed his duties well, but without particular notice. His off-duty activities were unremarkable: engaging in chess or other contests of intellect. Based on reports, he had not engaged in any relationships—even for a brief time—with any member of the crew. He was new, Hawkes told himself. He hadn’t had time. Yet he also knew of several among the crew—both women and men—who sought out new crewmembers both for sport and allies. Niguchi had, prior to his death, managed to avoid them all. Or had he? Hawkes wondered.

Hawkes looked up from his station, his expression grave. They had a dead ensign and a missing Security escort. Had the guard killed Niguchi for some reason? It was possible, Hawkes decided, but something told him that it was unlikely. Had Niguchi attempted something, the guard would almost certainly have fired his energy weapon first before resorting to using his knife. There had been no evident sign of struggle, but only the autopsy will tell them for sure. Even if that had happened, why would the guard hide as well? With Niguchi dead, he could provide any story for what happened.

His eyes wandered to the chronometer, wondering if Fear had completed the autopsy, Hawkes doubted that it provide him with any more answers, except for perhaps the exact time and cause of death. He considered what he had heard about the way the ensign had been slain. It had been an attack specifically meant to kill quickly, presumably before the Niguchi could call for help. The strange wound on the back of his neck, Hawkes wondered, reaching back to absently rub the spot where his own transponder was implanted. The killer had not particularly tried to hide the body itself, but, by destroying the transponder, had made it more difficult to locate. Section Eight, while not widely traveled, was used by the maintenance technicians several times a day. Secreting a body there might delay its discovery, but it would be discovered, mostly likely by a member of the engineering crew.

Was that the purpose? Hawkes wondered. Some kind of unpleasant message to one or more crew members among the engineers? He knew of the subtle rivalry between many divisions on the ship. Unlike other postings he had held, it had never reached the point of open warfare here. Was this the beginning? If so, it would be an opportune time for a group to attempt to gain control of the ship for themselves.

He made a mental note to increase the security protocols around the bridge. If someone did try to take the bridge, he wanted to make it as difficult for them as possible.

Ship's Log: November 17

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He is dead,” she announced.

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

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

“An efficient kill," she concluded aloud.

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

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

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

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

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

“It was destroyed.”

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

“On purpose?” he asked.

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

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

“Unknown.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ship's Log: November 16

Changes in the command structure often came swiftly—and not always from the direction that one expected.

He had been aware of Fear's plans for mutiny, silently appreciating her cold, calculated efficiency. He had even given her a high chance of success. What he failed to understand was her motive. Her rank and position was not one that typically led to command of a starship. Had she desired that, she would have better off returning to a post in her native Aerian fleet. There were no Aerian commanders in the Coalition fleet, both by design and choice, it seemed. Her current control of the ship was due chiefly to her leading role in the mutiny attempt, but it could not last, he knew. Eventually, Thompson, or some other ambitious officer, would move in to replace her. While she was a formidable opponent, Hawkes conceded with a silent note of admiration, there was only one of her. She could not defend herself alone indefinitely—and many of the crew had personal vendettas against the Aerians in general. Fear would make a tempting target for their retaliation. So why had she done it?

Fear had several members of the crew under her control, he knew. He did not know, however, exactly what her hold was over all of them. Thompson seemed willing to defer to her, but for no other likely reason than he was awaiting his own chance to strike. There was little doubt over how she controlled the Chief Engineer. Hawkes fought down a sharp feeling of disgust and wondered, far from the first time, why Devereux allowed him to remain on board, much less trusted him with the continued operation of the engines. He had to admit that he had been so far been able to find little fault with the quality of Rayna's work. He felt it was inevitable, though, that there would come a time when the engines or another ship's system would not be available at a critical moment—the results would be disastrous. It was only due to the competence of his crew that none of that had yet come to pass.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft signal from his console. The diagnostics he requested had completed. He checked the results, nodding with silent approval. Satisfied for the moment with the readiness of the weapons systems, he turned to the task for which he had genuinely returned to the bridge. Accessing the personnel files, he once again reviewed the service records of Lieutenant Elizabeth Banks.

#

Devereux banked the shuttle carefully, staying to lower altitudes, but trying to remaining out of casual sight from the ground. She had originally planned to fly in at high speed, hoping to reach her destination safely before anyone here realized that something was happening. Thinking back on her initial encounter with the aircraft of the era, she decided to alter her strategy. While she was sure that she could outrun them, she was not nearly as certain that she could withstand a concerted assault if they sent an entire flight squadron after her. The small shuttle was tough—particularly by the standards of this era—but it was not indestructible.

She kept the shuttle's velocity low, below that of most of the aircraft she had seen. If she appeared on any of their scanning devices, she would seem too slow to be an air vehicle. She was also radiating a thin vapor of coolant as she went. If she was picked up by any tracking devices designed to register heat signatures, the shuttle should appear as a fast-moving, water-heavy cloud. Before anyone might think any differently, she should be safely secured out of sight.

Hope had replaced her earlier despair, as well as a tingling sense of curiosity. The names listed on the display were known to almost everyone on Earth in her time, certainly to anyone who had ever served aboard a starship. Devereux found herself smiling, her mind now diverted from its earlier thoughts of conquest. She now had something specific onto which to direct her efforts; she just needed to make contact with the right people: those people.

It was an intricate kind of flying, made more so by her desire for speed. As she guided the controls, she realized how long it had been since she had made an atmospheric landing on her own. She usually had someone else pilot the shuttle when going planetside, preferring to keep her attention and focus on the crew and the upcoming mission. A faint smile danced over her full lips as she realized that she enjoyed it, just enough of a challenge to be interesting, without being so risky as to be wholly dangerous.

She glanced at the display to her right, making sure that the shuttle's systems were recording her passage. Any data should might be able to get might prove useful later in any number of ways. If nothing else, she could sell it to one of the museums or historical foundations upon her return home. That idea brought the thought to her mind: I'll probably need access to whatever passes for money here. If she remembered correctly, physical currency was still being used in this era, but it was well on its way to a digital economy. That should make it a bit easier, she thought.

Shadowy shapes filled the landscape as she prepared to land. The sensors showed that, other than a few fleeing animal lifesigns, the area was as barren and uninhabited as she had predicted. Based of the lack of proximity alarms, she guessed that her approach tactics had been successful. She landed the shuttle slowly, feeling only a mild lurch as one of the landing struts slipped on an unseen rock.

She surveyed the interior of the shuttle. Trying to transport herself everywhere in the shuttle, even if she flew only at night, would eventually draw attention to her—attention she did not want. I'll probably have to get a hold of one of those primitive vehicles. The idea worried her slightly; they appeared quite fragile in construction.

She glanced down at herself, thinking, I'll need some clothing that won't stand out as much in this era. Based on the few images she had seen broadcast, her flight suit might not appear completely out of fashion in some areas, but it did not seem to resemble what the majority of the population seemed to wear. Although the styles of tunics and shirts varied widely, there was a remarkable consistency in the kind of pants they wore. They appeared to be manufactured of a kind of rough, pale blue fabric that did not look very comfortable, Devereux thought with a small frown.

Adjusting the thruster controls, she shut them down and prepared to exit the shuttle. Checking the external sensors, she noted that the temperature had dropped several degrees since she had originally started her approach. It was not likely to get much colder, she thought, as dawn was only an hour or so away. She took the landing jacket anyway, preferring to be caught with too much clothing than too little if the weather suddenly changed. That was one thing she remembered about planetside environments: they tended to change quickly with little warning.

Reaching into one of the compartments, she grabbed an equipment belt. She attached a communications unit, portable scanner, and hand weapon. The knife she left tucked into her boot. Based on the readings on the map, it was about two kilometers to the nearest sign of habitation. With a grumbled sigh, she tucked several food and drink packets into the pouches on the belt. Until she got her hands on some of the local currency, she did not know when she might be able to eat again.

She fastened the belt around her waist and looked around the shuttle, checking to see if there was anything else she might need. If so, she shrugged, it would not be that far away. With a slow breath, she powered down the shuttle, leaving only the maintenance and passive security systems active. Tucking the jacket under her arm, she stepped out of the shuttle, waiting until the hatch sealed itself behind her before walking into the dark desert night.

#

The Chief looked up from the tablet, although part of his mind remained on the puzzle it represented. He wanted to check on Elizabeth's progress before devoting his attention to Fear's request. He headed to his office and activated the intercom.

"How's it going up there, Lizzie?" he asked.

"It's a mess down here, Chief," came her reply, echoed by the sounds of equipment. "I've almost got one panel off. That should make it go a little easier." There was a pause. "Have you seen Higuchi? I sent him to get me the sensor logs, but he's been gone a while."

Rusty peered out toward the main engineering deck. "I don't see him here," he said.

"I wonder where he's disappeared to?" Elizabeth wondered.

Rusty looked out into the small knot of crewmen again. That’s not like Higuchi, he thought. Hiroki Higuchi, while not a very experienced crewman, had consistently demonstrated an acute attention to detail and promptness. All of his assignments so far had not only been completed on time, but with a degree of skill that even Elizabeth had remarked favorably on.

“I’ll find him,” Rusty told her. “You worry about doing what you need to do there.”

“Okay, Chief,” came her response.

Rusty could tell she was troubled by the crewman’s disappearance. He closed the communications and channel and walked out into the main deck.

“Carson,” he called to one of the technicians working at the reclamation monitoring station. “Have you seen Hiroki?”

Carson glanced around the area. “Not since he left with the Lieutenant, Chief,” he shouted back over the background noise.

Rusty frowned and then nodded to Carson, who then turned his attention back to the console. The Chief walked back through the main engineering deck, checking the various consoles and monitoring stations scattered throughout it, but there was no sign of the missing Higuchi.

Ship's Log: November 15

She headed down the corridor in the direction of the infirmary, troubled. Her hand played along the handle of her knife as she walked, her senses on high alert. Things were not at all proceeding as she had planned. Not only had the Captain managed to evade the attempt on her life, but there was evidence of sabotage, and now a mysterious system failure. Ideally, she could monitor the activity more effectively from the bridge, but she felt a need to return to the infirmary—her sanctuary.

As she entered through the hatchway, she felt a tangible wash of relief. Even in her heightened state of awareness, she could sense that the area was quiet. She slowed, walking slowly through the recovery area, seeing only one patient there, sleeping under sedation. An ensign in Medical colors stood nearby, monitoring the diagnostic readouts. He turned at Fear's approach, swallowed nervously and watched her.

The remainder of the area appeared deserted as Fear continued toward the enclosed space that served as her office. Stepping inside, she set the environment for privacy, sealing her in against intrusion or monitoring. No system was perfect, she knew, but it was as secure as could be managed on board a starship. Her hand dipped from the weapon at her waist as the indicator glowed blue, signaling activation of the privacy mode. Murmuring a quiet litany, she sat down at her desk to wait for the reports to come in.

#

Thompson walked with Hawkes back toward the bridge. He found the Aerian's attitude both infuriating and disarming. She was the Medical Officer, after all, not one of the command officers. Yes, she had been the architect of the mutiny action against Devereux, he conceded silently, but he did not understand what she had to gain by the attempt. She was not in direct line for command, regardless of how she had acted since the Captain had fled the ship. In the long term, the crew would not follow her lead. For now, she led through subtle terror and the general uncertainty over the Captain's fate. It could not be sustained indefinitely, he knew. Once it was known that the Captain was dead, he would have his chance.

Fear would not recede again into the background easily, he suspected. He had begun to wonder just how much influence she had held before under Devereux's command. Certainly, there had been that ever-present element of dread among the crew of being turned over to her for punitive action. Where Devereux was direct and brutal in her discipline, knowledge of many of the techniques that Fear employed were as much the subject of rumor as actual experience.

He would need allies, he knew. Loyalties on board a starship—or anywhere in the Coalition—tended to be easily bought and sold, often at the cost of blood. He considered those he had killed during his rise through the ranks. Most had been fools, too comfortable or indebted in their positions to maintain a cautious defense. Here, with Devereux gone, only Fear truly stood in his way of commanding the Sapphire Night as his own. He had seen no others who could likely stand against him. The addiction-addled Chief Engineer? Unlikely. Of them all, only Hawkes gave him reason to be concerned.

His eyes darted toward the Tactical Officer keeping pace beside him. Hawkes remained an enigma to him, even after serving with the aged officer for several months. That he had survived this long, and continued to serve well, indicated he was adept at pleasing his superiors and avoiding his enemies. The source of the eye patch and scar that ran the length of his face on the right side remained a mystery. Nothing Thompson could find in Hawke's personnel records indicated the cause. There was also a noticeable gap in the current Tactical Officer's service, with the explanation again lacking from any official records. Thompson suspected that the two were related, but again had no evidence. Devereux had appeared to trust him though, Thompson considered. Well, as much as she trusted anyone . . .

From what Thompson had witnessed, Hawkes was calm and coolly confident, skilled with both weapons and unarmed combat. They were completely unmatched in size, but Thompson suspected that the Tactical Officer's thin, sinewy form might provide him with a challenge if they ended up on opposite sides. He preferred to have the man as his ally—or at least a favorable neutral party—but he had no idea what bought the man, what the price was for his allegiance. He seemed to exist only to serve—a posture Thompson refused to believe entirely. No one, he thought, is without his own motives and ambitions.

The entered the bridge together, Hawkes parting from to assume his station without a word. Thompson glanced at the command deck, half expecting to see Fear standing there, waiting. It was vacant, but he made no move to ascend its ramp. Instead, he prowled the stations of the bridge, stopping where the helmsman and navigator sat silently at their posts, the idle movement of their hands on their consoles betraying their boredom and uneasiness.

"Report," Thompson barked at them, his voice a low snarl.

The young woman at the helm glanced at Pyrafox, who answered. "We arrre holding position as orrrderred, sirrr," the red-furred navigator responded. "All systems arrre functional."

Thompson's eyes narrowed, feeling that he should order them to do something. The alien navigator continued to look at him, his face unreadable. Thompson found it disturbing, but there was nothing in the navigator's expression that hinted at disrespect or any other punishable offense.

"Carry on," Thompson finally growled, and stalked away toward the other crewmembers at their posts.

He completed a circuit of the small bridge, stopping in front of the Tactical Officer's station. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice carrying a tone mixed with irritation and disinterest.

Hawkes glanced up from the console with his one visible eye. "I am preparing the weapons systems."

A frown crossed Thompson's face. Why? he wondered. Did that alien witch issue new orders and not bother to inform me?

The Tactical Officer seemed to read his silent questions. "If the Captain returns," Hawkes explained. "She will attack." His gaze remained on Thompson. "We must be ready."

"We must destroy her," Thompson stated, a smile forming on his lips at the mental image of her shuttle erupting into short-lived flames in space.

"That remains to be seen," Hawkes offered quietly, his expression betraying nothing of his meaning. The Tactical Officer returned his attention to the console.

Thompson stared the aged officer, now more discomfited by the man than ever.

#

Elizabeth wriggled herself deeper into the crevice of the bulkhead. She fought down the annoyance of having someone from Security out there supposedly watching her every move. Nice, cushy duty if you can get it . . . she thought irritably, grabbing for a melted cluster of optical cable. It remained just out of her reach. She stretched, sensing her fingertips almost brush it, and then gave up, settling back along the edge of torn bulkhead. Even if she could touch, she would not be able to get enough of a grip on it to try to pull it through, to see if enough slack remained on it to prevent her from having to rewire this entire section.

Resting a moment, she took a slow breath through the filter. Her nose had begun to itch, but she was not about to remove the mask to scratch it. Her earlier experience with the fumes in the cramped compartment was enough. She looked down the interior of the bulkhead, mentally counting the number of panels between her and the end of the damaged section. If we remove that one and the damaged one, that should do it, she thought. If nothing else, it'll make it easier to get around in here.

Squirming her way out of the damaged bulkhead, she dropped to her feet on the deck. She gave the guard a quick glance and then knelt next to her equipment case. Kind of cute, she thought. And it wouldn't hurt him to smile. A faint smile danced across her lips. Or maybe it would.

She selected a tool from the case, rose, and looked toward the guard again. "Been posted here long?" she asked, tired of the quiet in the otherwise empty corridor.

The young Security guard seemed surprised by her question, or perhaps even that she was speaking directly to him at all, Elizabeth decided.

"Two months, eight days," he answered.

He said it with an air of enthusiasm and pride that Elizabeth remembered in herself not that long ago. While hardly one of the largest or most formidable ships in the Coalition fleet, the Sapphire Night was still a highly-prized posting. Its reputation was known not only among the other ships in the fleet, but on many of the member worlds as well. What the populations of those worlds thought, Elizabeth mused, depended on their dealings with Devereux and her crew. The common denominator was fear.

"That long, huh?" She responded with a faint chuckle.

"Yes, ma'am."

Elizabeth looked him over again, seeing something hard in his expression that troubled her, and felt a faint wrenching in her heart. All hired killers, she thought sourly, just waiting for the chance to shoot off their guns. With a faint sigh, she approached the seam where the two bulkhead panels were joined.

Her eyes traced the path of the bolts holding it in place, making a quiet, thoughtful noise while she did so. It was too large for her to handle alone, she realized. I can manage the sides and bottom, she judged, but if once the top is loose, it'll come down on my head. Memories of another panel, not that long ago, flashed through her mind. She shoved the thoughts aside, peering down the corridor. It might be a while before he comes back, she considered, thinking of the technician she had sent after the sensor logs. She glanced up at the guard, who was now studiously ignoring her. She crouched at the junction of the bulkhead plates. Well, at least I can get started, she thought. If not, I'll get Ensign Cheerful here to help out. With a smile that she kept to herself, she began loosening the first bolt.

#

Hawkes regarded the First silently as he stalked away from the Tactical station. Although his expression remained unchanged, inwardly he gave a sigh. He had seen this type before, too many times during this long career on board the ships of the Coalition. There was a time for subtlety and a time for brute force, but officers like Thompson seemed to believe that the latter always provided the ultimate solution to any problem.

The status displays on his console showed all of the weapons and other defensive systems were operating and ready for deployment. He had given standing orders to maintain such readiness until further notice. If the Captain returned to reclaim command of her ship, as he expected she would, they would have little warning. She would not want to destroy the ship, he knew, but she might be willing to inflict serious damage on it. At minimum, she would want to disable its offensive systems.

She would not be able to retake the ship alone, he knew, without knowing how many of the crew were still loyal to her. Hawkes suspected that she knew that the majority of them would wait and see how events played out before placing their allegiances on any side. With that knowledge, Hawkes guessed that she would bring troops with her. There were certainly those who would support her outside the ship, colleagues she had served with or led on various campaigns. Those she did not end up having to execute tended to be fiercely loyal to her. Until actually serving with her, he had not known why.

Although her punishments tended toward the brutal, she rarely allowed her anger to take control over her reason. She was a skilled tactician, usually open to opinions from her trusted officers, but often inflexible once her decision was made. The specter of mutiny had haunted every ship, station, or outpost he had ever served on. It had not been absent on the Sapphire Night, he noted, but did not carry the same oppressive weight it had on his previous postings. When the mutiny plot had been conceived, and then carried out, he had observed the proceedings with chiefly a detached disinterest. He had followed orders consistently and well, and he had been careful—very careful—never to display special allegiance to anyone in the command ranks above him.

Ship's Log: November 14

The list it produced was very short. Considering that this period history considered star travel to be a fictional venture at best, she was surprised to find anything listed at all. Except for the one item, they were all educational institutions. The exception, however, caught her attention: a small company that was developing alternative sources of power. It seemed an unusual selection based on what she had requested. She probably would need access to an advanced power system, she realized, but it would be of limited value until her slipstream systems were functioning again.

With a growing sense of frustration, she looked around the interior of the shuttle. All this technology . . . It all worked, except for the slipstream drive. She had access to weaponry and defenses that would not be developed for centuries. I could rule this world . . .

In addition to the destructive capabilities at her command, she also possessed specific knowledge of the future. She knew who would act when and why. Understanding that, she could manipulate events to her advantage. She was accustomed to making others conform to her desires. Doing so in this primitive era should prove to be little challenge, she thought.

A smile crept along her wide lips. A definite fallback plan if I can't get home. She was not ready to give up on that just yet, but images of conquest crossed through her thoughts. If I'm going to be stranded here anyway, she considered, then why worry about happens to the timeline? Commanding a starship is one thing, she thought. Ruling a world, well . . . She smiled at the visions of Earth united under her leadership, beginning an empire that would live on for millennia. The thought of Aerians under her control, rather than associated by the slippery alliance of her time, gave her a pleasant sense of satisfaction.

Her gaze returned to the unusual entry displayed on the computer console. Something continued to prod at the back of her thoughts, distracting her from her daydreams of conquest and glory. There was something familiar about the name of the organization, but she could not consciously place it. She called up the details of the entry and looked it over quickly. Her smile grew as she read it, realization dawning.

Well, she thought, isn't that interesting?

#

Rusty had just entered the main engineering deck when the klaxons began to sound. Almost without thinking, he dashed to the source of the alarms, checking the status displays to learn the cause. Overload. Deck Two. No hull breach. He let out a quick breath of relief at the last. It meant fewer casualties and easier access to the damaged area. Few things slowed down repairs more than having to work in an EV suit.

Crewmen swarmed around him, most seeming bewildered by the blaring klaxons. He was about to shout orders to two of the technicians when he spied Elizabeth enter through the hatchway. He called out to her, raising his voice above the din of alarms and confused shouts of the crewmen, "Lizzie, grab your gear and get up to Deck Two." He tossed her a portable tablet to which he had transferred the damage reports.

He watched as she caught it easily, signaled her understanding, and headed for the equipment storage after speaking to another crewman. Sighing with a sense of relief that his best technician was on the job, he turned to deal with the others crowded around him. The first thing he did was tell them to turn down the alarms; they were giving him a renewed headache. After that, he found other things for each of them to do. He reminded them that dealing with the overloaded conduit was not the only thing on the ship that required their attention.

After several minutes, relative calm was restored to the main engineering deck. There still came the noise of voices and equipment, but they echoed now with a more purposeful sound. A grin crossed his broad face, feeling a warm wash of satisfaction from his efforts. He turned to head for the space that served as his office when he saw a petite, uniformed figure enter. Several crewmen in the immediate vicinity stiffened and moved perceptibly out of her way. Her gaze located Rusty and she headed in his direction. She appeared to ignore the others around her, but Rusty knew that she had noted the presence of each and every one of them.

Feeling his earlier glow evaporate, Rusty watched Fear as approached. Rarely had she been known to visit the engineering deck. It felt like an intrusion. Everyone had a place on this ship. Engineering was his, Devereux's was the bridge, and Fear's was the infirmary. Although, Rusty realized, she had been spending much of her time on the bridge as well lately.

She stopped in front of him, holding out a tablet similar to the one he had just thrown to Elizabeth.

"Explain this."

Rusty stared at the tablet for a moment. He felt a sharp sense of uneasiness and then calmed himself. She came down here, he reminded himself. For matters that she felt required discipline, she nearly always summoned the ones involved to her.

He took the tablet without looking at it, assuming that she wanted a report on the bulkhead rupture. "Fire control teams are already down there," he told her. "I've sent two repair technicians down to evaluate the damage." He checked the chronometer. "I expect a preliminary report from them within the hour."

Fear regarded him coldly. Although he could not identify any particular change in her expression, he had the impression that he had said something wrong.

"I am aware of the situation," she said, her tone filled with icy condescension. Her dark eyes darted toward the tablet. "I require your evaluation of that data."

Rusty felt himself flush with a mixture of chagrin and anger. He activated the display on the pad and began to study it. "What is it?" he asked. "Looks like readings for a slipstream jump."

"It is."

The Chief looked up at her, waiting. She can be so damned enigmatic at times, he growled silently. He looked at the timestamp on the file. "The Captain's?"

"Yes."

Rusty nodded, but really wanting to shake his head in annoyance. "I'll need some time to look it over."

"When can you report?"

Rusty met her eyes again. Although he hated this little game, it did amuse him to a small degree. "Couple of hours," he answered with as casual a tone as he could manage. "Depends on what else explodes around here and what I find in the data."

"Two hours," Fear told him with a sharp tone of command.

Rusty shrugged in response. "Yes, ma'am."

Fear remained staring at him for several long moments. Rusty knew better than to try to outstare her. He allowed himself to blink, but not turn his eyes away from her. She abruptly turned away and left the engineering deck. Alien bitch, he thought, not daring to even whisper the words. He turned his attention back to the information on the tablet, intrigued in spite of himself.

Where have you gone, Captain? he wondered. Where have you found to hide?

#

Fear paused outside the hatchway from the engineering deck. If the Chief Engineer had not both demonstrated his considerable competence on multiple occasions and was under her unquestionable control, she would have likely arranged his disappearance long ago. She knew the feeling would fade, but it was one of those times when she regretted his rescue on Caliban. Devereux had abandoned him there to die with his battalion so that she and her team could make their escape. Although he might have survived his injures unaided, Fear had recognized that he might prove useful—in ways beyond his purported engineering skills.

Although he had failed to adequately perform his role in her assassination attempt, she knew he was likely not entirely at fault. The Captain's desires were often as mercurial as her moods. A small part of her was relieved that he had not succeeded. Otherwise, her current flicker of irritation with him might be ignited into something more dangerous by a spark of jealousy. She needed him for now, she knew. Although there might be other specialists on board who might be able to eventually decipher clues from the slipstream sensor data, the Chief Engineer could do it more quickly. An efficient ship, she told herself, was an effective one.

She had moved only a few meters down the corridor when she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Her hand moved instinctively to the knife hidden in its sheath at her belt. She preferred it over energy weapons, as it was immune to jamming fields and she knew exactly where to use it against most species to inflict the greatest amount of damage—or pain—as the circumstances dictated. The cadence of the footsteps sounded familiar—there were two sets of them approaching—but she never took any chances. Her position, particularly now, was too precarious to relax her guard for even a moment.

The Tactical Officer marched into view, followed closely by the First. The Tactical Officer saluted as he stopped before her. Based solely on rank, it was unnecessary, but she took it as a sign of his current allegiance. The First made no such gesture, but she had not expected him to. His acceptance of her current status, she knew, was based solely on necessity, not loyalty.

“You are not on the bridge,” she said. It was as much an accusation as a statement.

The First looked discomfited by her remark. The Tactical Officer remained calm, unperturbed. Fear relaxed the hand on her belt slightly. Nothing in their posture or expression told of attack.

“You have a report?”

The First passed a glance at the Tactical Officer.

“Little is known at this point,” the Tactical Officer reported. “Lieutenant Banks will provide a report shortly.”

Fear was annoyed, but not surprised, by the meager report. There had not been enough time for anyone to perform an adequate survey of the damage or determine its cause. Why had they come here, then, she wondered, rather than waiting until she returned to the bridge?

“I see,” she said, studying them both for a moment before continuing down the corridor. “Come.”

The two officers fell into step behind her. Neither said a word as they walked. Fear’s hand remained near the knife at her waist, a growing sense of comfort at the twin echo of footsteps behind her. They stopped at a split in the passageways.

“I am returning to the Infirmary,” she told them. “Resume your stations.” She noted barely masked relief on the First’s face.

The Tactical Officer saluted again, but paused, waiting for the First to accompany him. Fear caught the First staring at her, but she could not guess what he was thinking at that moment. He turned away from her, his eyes the last thing to leave her. He took position beside the Tactical Officer as they strode around a corner, out of her sight.

Ship's Log: November 13

Elizabeth watched the Chief with a growing frown as he deposited his tray into the recycler and then left the galley. The Chief had seemed steadier than he had when she had seen him at the end of her shift. There was something about his eyes, though, she noticed. While less dull than before, they appeared hollow, as if he were haunted by something. Bad dreams? she wondered, yet having no illusions as to what the real cause might be. She used to wonder why he would want to numb and destroy himself with drugs. Consciously flexing the fingers of her cybernetic hand, she now understood. It was either escape that way, she guessed, or become someone like Fear or the First . . . or the Captain.

Rising from the table, she gathered up her own tray and headed for the recycling station. Distracted by her thoughts, she nearly collided with a uniformed ensign from the Security division. She looked up, noticing his young, attractive features. She started to smile, but stopped as his eyes caught sight of her optical implant and then her artificial arm. He glanced at her quickly, his expression betraying his revulsion. Moving abruptly past her, he murmured something she could not quite make out. She fought back the urge to strike out at him. For a moment, she imagined her cybernetic hand gripping his chest, watching him fight for breath as she crushed his sternum and the organs underneath.

She blinked sharply, trying to dismiss the vision. Looking ahead, she realized that the ensign had moved out of sight. She shoved her tray into the recycler slot and left the galley. Once out into the corridor, she paused, taking a slow, shuddering breath. She hated those flashes of anger, unable to find a focus for them. In the past, she would harness them in energetic sessions in the training room, but that release was now denied to her. No one wanted to take their chances against a cyborg. Only the First had even remotely expressed interest in pairing himself against her, but she so far managed to avoid such a contest. It was best, she knew, to avoid gaining the First's attention. He would also be disinterested because of her cybernetic enhancements, she presumed, but she did not know for certain. She had heard rumors of some of the pleasures he enjoyed, so it might be possible—and she had no desire to find them confirmed by her unwilling participation.

Making her way through the corridors to the main engineering deck, she wondered what duty assignments were in store for her during this shift. Replacing the damaged regulator had taken more time than she had expected the day before, mostly because of Hawke's sudden interest in it. That had left her with a backlog of unfinished tasks, but she suspected that later shifts had probably taken care of most of them.

She entered to a scene of barely controlled chaos. Several alarms sounded at various points throughout the area. Technicians and other crewmembers milled around the deck. Some were rushing to their stations; others wandered around, clearly uncertain what to do. She pushed her way through, looking for the Chief. She found him issuing orders to the technicians around him, a restrained focus of energy in the maelstrom of swirling crewmembers. A warm sense filled her. This was how he was best: a calm, confident presence in the face of confusion.

He caught sight of her, his eyes reflecting relief at her arrival. "Lizzie," he called out over the voices around him. "Grab your gear and get up to Deck Two." He tossed her a small tablet over the heads of those surrounding him.

She caught it easily, glancing down at it while she moved toward the storage lockers. Conduit overload, she noticed. That alone was not all that surprising. They often pushed the systems well past their safety thresholds—this was usually the result. She hoped that no one was seriously injured—except maybe for the technician who was supposed to have been monitoring that section. She stepped back out into the corridor, trailed by two other crewmen. One continued to follow her; the other headed off down another passageway, apparently with a different assignment.

Exiting the maintenance access hatchway onto Deck Two, Elizabeth hung back and observed while the fire control team completed their work. The ventilation systems were slowing removing the smoke and fire-suppression chemicals from the air. The smell, she knew from experience, would linger for quite a while longer. The three-person crew seemed to be finished, starting to gather their equipment. One of them, an older woman with close-cropped blonde hair, approached her.

"That should do it, Lieutenant," the woman said. "It's all yours."

Elizabeth nodded her understanding and stepped past the crewman, anxious for a look at the damage.

There was a ragged tear where a portion of the bulkhead had blown out. The edges were blackened and, in placed, smeared with a greenish-blue paste. It was a combination of lubricants, coolant, and fire retardants, Elizabeth knew. She stuck her head into the gap and regretted it immediately.

The odor of melted polymers, and other noxious substances, assaulted her, making her gag and almost retch. She pulled herself back quickly, gasping in the somewhat fresher air out in the corridor. Placing her equipment case on the deck, she opened it and withdrew a light ventilation mask, slipping it over her nose and mouth. More properly prepared this time, she tentatively pushed her head back into the gash in the bulkhead. She breathed carefully, noting that the mask kept out of the worst of the smell.

She poked at the charred and melted cables and conduits, watching as pieces of it crumbled and fell to the deck inside. Turning her head, she looked upward and then to each side, looking for any obvious indications of what might have caused the overload.

"Call up the maintenance logs for this area," she called out to the crewman who had accompanied her. "I want to see the readings from before the overload happened."

"Yes, Lieutenant," came the prompt reply.

Elizabeth thought she heard footsteps moving away, but was not certain with the strange acoustics within the bulkhead space. She continued to look around, studying the damage surrounding her, and sighed. This is going to take a while . . .

#

Hawkes strode down the corridors toward Deck Two with Thompson and two Security personnel in tow. He walked quickly, secretly pleased by the First's efforts to keep pace with him. His senses were on high alert, poised in a way they had not been during the Captain's flight from the ship. First, an obvious sign of sabotage, and now, a mysterious overload conveniently located near Devereux's quarters. Someone, he decided, was going to great lengths to damage the ship without critically disabling it. Was it being prepared for the Captain's return? he asked himself. He hoped the surveillance records showed a connection between the two events. He suspected, though, that they would not and that the Captain's collaborator would continue to remain a mystery.

We will find them, he thought with iron determination as they rounded the corner on Deck Two. His hand moved instinctively toward his weapon at the sight of the two people there: one partially hidden within the ruined bulkhead, the other starting to leave in their direction. Behind him, the pair from Security blocked the passage.

"Where are you going?" Hawkes heard Thompson snap. He turned to see the crewman look up at the First in surprise.

"The Lieutenant asked me to bring her the sensor logs for this section," the crewman reported. His voice betrayed a faint quaver of uneasiness.

Hawkes eyed the young man critically and then nodded to one of the Security guards. "Go with him."

The guard saluted and moved aside, allowing the crewman to pass. He then followed closely after young man.

Hawkes moved toward the breach in the bulkhead just as the uniformed figure pulled itself free and dropped to the deck. His visible eyebrow rose with mild surprise as Hawkes recognized Elizabeth. The common connection? he wondered.

"Lieutenant," Elizabeth acknowledged him without looking directly at him. Bending down, she selected a trio of tools from her equipment case.

"Have you found anything yet?" he asked.

Her expression carried a mix of amusement and irritation. "I just got here myself," she told him. "So far," she said, "all I can tell you is that's a real mess in there right now."

Hawkes stared at Elizabeth, but rather than show any uneasiness under his gaze, she only shrugged and climbed back into the ruptured bulkhead. He felt a rise of annoyance, but could think of no appropriate action with which to retaliate. He heard Thompson address the remaining Security guard.

"Remain here," he instructed her. "Observe everything she does."

The guard saluted. "Yes, First."

Hawkes glanced at the visible portion of Elizabeth's torso with a tight, satisfied smile. Nodding to the guard, he turned and started to leave.

"Where are you going?" Thompson asked him, his tone sharp and imperious.

Hawkes turned back and looked at into the First's dark eyes. "Are you planning to stay and help with repairs?"

He nearly laughed at the expression of distaste that crossed Thompson's face. "The good doctor will undoubtedly be awaiting a report," Hawkes said.

Disquiet played across the First's features. Hawkes could understand the man's reluctance. At this point, they had very little to report. Fear, they both knew, was not particularly fond of questions without answers—unless it included her participation in extracting the information from uncooperative sources. For a moment, Hawkes thought Thompson might choose to remain there in the corridor . . . or return to the bridge.

Displaying a true air of command that Hawkes really saw in the First, Thompson straightened and looked down at the Tactical Officer. His voice was low and confident.

"Let's go then."

#

Devereux's euphoria of understanding quickly faded to a renewed sense of despair. Although twentieth-century history was hardly one of her favorite areas of study, she was quite certain that slipstream drives had not yet been invented in this era. She was not even sure if the early prototypes had been developed yet. Judging from the crude state of air travel here, it seemed unlikely.

She turned to the computer console and requested a report of the technological capabilities available as of this date. It took a few moments and then a summary began to scroll down the display. As she had suspected, faster-than-light travel was not among the items on the list. That did not mean, she decided, that it would not be possible to get any components she might need created, but she was not going to find them already in inventory in a local storage depot.

The problem was larger than that, she realized. She still needed to know exactly what needed to be repaired or replaced to get the slipstream drive working again. That kind of knowledge, she knew, was not likely to be found in this century. The theoretical basis for it, maybe, but that was a long way from being able to diagnose and restore an actual drive system. Still, she decided, that was probably her best chance at ever making it home again. She consulted the computer once more, seeking locations where research might be conducted in this era that might prove useful to her.